4 - A Slice Of The World
Title: A Slice Of The World
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG.
Summary: 1823 - America goes to talk to Russia about his Pacific coast colonies after President Monroe issues his new foreign policy tenants that would later be known as the Monroe Doctrine. Sensitive issues are insensitively addressed, America is easily distracted by flying machines, and most of the emotional subtext goes over his head.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Fort Ross, California. Winter, 1823
America didn't get out to see the Pacific Ocean much. It always looked bluer, warmer, wilder somehow than the grey water that hemmed his eastern states, but by the time he made it back home, he always wondered if he had only imagined the difference. This whole region had been uncharted only twenty years ago, and America knew that he loved the unknown more than he really should. None of this was his, yet, but--someday. According to President Monroe, already.
He trotted past a scattering of wood walls and small outbuildings, down towards the beach. Right on the edge of the water, he saw who he had expected to see.
America stopped beside him. After a moment of silence, he offered, "Gorgeous, isn't it?"
Russia turned, gave America a once-over, then fixed his gaze back on the water. "Very. Your waters are much brighter than mine. And warmer, too."
They watched the foam lap up against the sand.
"I find it difficult to believe that you'd come all the way out here to stand by the ocean with me." Russia shoots his companion a sidelong look. "And you seem a bit...excited."
America smiled in admission, but said, "It's not that strange for me to drop by just to talk." A sea breeze blew his forelock into his face. He flushed happily and pushed it aside.
"Much to my dismay." But his shoulders shifted, and America knew he was laughing, just a little. The wind picked up, and Russia squinted at America through his hair. "And what would be the purpose of this particular visit? It's not another flying machine idea, is it?"
America's eyes widened. "No, but did you hear about those balloons France is making? I hear he can almost steer them, now. I've got to get the plans off him, I bet I could figure it out."
"I'm sure you could. It is France, after all. He'll get distracted three months into it, and then act as though he was never interested in the first place." Russia took a few steps forward, dragged his feet in damp sand. The little furrows filled in behind him.
"Harsh," America grinned.
"You know it's true."
"I remember when I was the thing he was really interested in for all of five minutes, and now he won't give me the time of...oh, wait, right, what am I doing here." America dragged himself back on subject. He fell silent. He had been practicing a little speech for hours, all the way down from the hill country, but now it sounded stilted. He wet his lips and tasted Pacific salt. He regarded Russia, a few feet ahead of him, the surf lapping over the toes of his boots and his hair ruffled by a warm wind. He winced over a little pang of guilt. "Um," he tried.
Russia glanced back over his shoulder at him. His eyes were amused. "Yes? It's not like you to be so tongue-tied, America." He gestured minutely, beckoned America to join him. "This is going to be either extremely important, or absolutely ridiculous, and I don't think I can wait any longer to find out which." The left side of his mouth quirked upward again, something America had come to recognize as a sign of genuine amusement. "Out with it."
America dropped his eyes and trudged up next to Russia. His scuffed and faded boots kicked up little splashes in the oncoming tide. "It's just..." he stalled. He wanted to say, Look, forget it. You seem like you're in a good mood, for once. Let me tell you about this amazing bear-looking thing I saw on my walk over here. Instead, he managed, "Um, have you heard about this thing my boss said? About, uh. About this continent."
Russia's expression didn't change, but he looked back out to the horizon, where the blue of sea and sky were indistinguishable. "You are cutting a slice out of the world, correct? Keeping Europe from making claims on your land." He shifted his weight, leaned heavily on the foot furthest away from America. "And England supports you."
"To hell with England," America replied immediately. "It applies to him, too." He grimaced on a reflexive, unpleasant smile. "Which I don't think he realizes, yet."
"Does anyone quite realize what this is yet?" Russia asked, and wiped sea-spray of his cheek with the back of his hand. "France must be furious." He turned on his heel and walked a ways up the beach, then sank down to sit in the sand. He rested his arms on his bent knees. "And what will Spain think of you? I'm sure he had ambitions of reclaiming Mexico."
America stayed on his feet, not quite hanging back. He shook his head a little. "No one's really angry about it, so far. No one thinks I'm serious."
"Oh?" Russia's fingers tapped out an absent rhythm on his leg. "That's odd. They didn't think you were serious about revolution, either. I'd hope they would have learned something from that. Ah, well," he shrugged languidly, the rhythm of the waves finally seeming to affect him, "I'm sure you'll make them remember this time."
America gave the other nation a quizzical look. "Uh, Russia?"
There was a silence, and it seemed to take a million years for Russia to blink. "I certainly hope you're going to change the subject. For your sake."
America took half a step back. His heel made eddies that vanished into the sand. "Well, I was going to say that you don't seem too upset about this, but I guess I won't now."
"I guess not," Russia said evenly. There was a hard line of tension in his shoulders, and his fingers stopped and laid limp on his knee like dead things.
America retreated from the water's edge and sat down beside him, one leg propped up, the other folded beneath him. He rested his elbow on his knee and tugged at the ends of his hair. He regarded Russia. "What is it?"
"You know, America." Russia planted his right hand in the sand, leaned back on it. "I should not have to explain myself. My people are happy here. They can trade, they have access to the sea. There aren't many, but they have done nothing to merit being uprooted. And yet you seem to think that partitioning off half of the globe for yourself is not only your right, but should be supported by those who have everything to lose." He inched his arm closer to his body, and America could see where the grains of sand had left marks in the pale skin of his forearm.
America stared at him for a few seconds, and then gave an incredulous little burst of laughter. "Russia, what are you talking about? I'm not going to make anybody leave."
"Why not?" The water had followed them up the beach, lapping against both their feet like some kind of animal. Russia inched his knees closer and wrapped his free arm around them loosely. "They aren't doing you any favors."
"What...? You are so strange sometimes, you know that?" America twisted so that he sat cross-legged facing Russia. "They're not doing me any harm, either. The President just wants to stop any more European colonization. I don't have any problems with people who are already here. What kind of asshole do you think I am?"
Russia swallowed and dragged his gaze up from the surf at his boots. "I wasn't attempting to cast any doubt on your character. I simply assumed you would take the most reasonable course of action." He paused, eyes flicking over to America's as though he'd just remembered something. "'Strange'?"
"Yeah, I mean..." America gestured broadly back up the hill, towards the serene complex of Fort Ross. "These people are just trying to live their lives. They're farmers and trappers, not...spies, or soldiers. Why would I have any problem with them?"
More wind, and Russia pushed back his hair with an open palm. "I couldn't say. But given how you've treated your native people recently, I don't think my supposition was too far fetched." The smile on his lips was even and cold.
America flushed as if he had been slapped. Nonetheless, he muttered, "That's all been legal."
"Of course it has. Because you say it is." Russia watched the color rising in America's face intently. "And, unless I'm mistaken, they're hunters and trappers too."
America's fist knotted in the sand. "What the hell do you care about it, anyway?" he demanded.
Russia's own hand twitched reflexively, inches away from the other Nation's. "I'd just hate to see you turning a blind eye to hypocrisy. After all," he said mildly, "We should never be afraid to examine ourselves. Don't you agree?"
America scowled at him and leaned forward. "I'm not afraid of anything," he declared. "And I'm not going to move your colonists or take your damned fort. After all, we're friends, aren't we?" He clenched his teeth on the hurt in his voice.
A splash of surf washed over Russia's boots. He gave America a long, level look, then reached out carefully and tilted his chin up with the tips of his fingers. "Are we friends, America? Perhaps we’ve simply been backed into the same corner." His words were slow, measured, almost inaudible over the roar of the tide.
America felt a dull pulse in his chest. He turned his face aside and snatched away Russia's hand as the other Nation started to withdraw. He held it tightly at ear level, and when Russia gave a gentle tug, he did not let go. "I think," he held Russia's gaze, "That if we're not friends, it's because you don't want to be." A trickle of hurt reentered his voice. "And I don't know why."
"Neither do I." Russia's mouth was set in a hard line, and he didn't look as though he'd heard a word he just said. He flexed his fingers against the other Nation's palm. "I --I'm not trying to antagonize you."
America's brows drew sharply together. There was something in Russia's tone that made him --just for a second--want to run. He lowered their joined hands and tried, "I know, I just...we've always dealt fairly with each other, haven't we? Why can't you give me the benefit of the doubt?"
Russia's fingers started jittering on his knee again. "I have," he said quietly. His eyes darted to America's hand, almost the same size as his own.
America cast a quizzical look from Russia, to his fidgeting, and back. "Well...good," he allowed. Belatedly, he released him. He felt like he had just missed something important.
The tide was coming in, pouring into the spaces their boots had left near the water. Russia stood briskly, brushing sand off his trousers. "Yes," he repeated, "it is a good thing." He cocked his head and looked down at America. "Are you all right?"
America rose as well. He ran a hand through his hair and went over the last minute of conversation in his head. Russia had gotten on his case about the Indians--then he asked if they were friends--then Russia had given him a look and asked him if they were friends...and then something had happened and he couldn't pinpoint what it was, but Russia had gotten nervous, he was sure of it. And now he was--America stopped and scrutinized Russia. Now he was trying to change the subject.
Even though it never worked with Russia, America tried the direct approach anyway. "What is your problem?"
"Problem?" Russia dusted his hands together, refusing to break eye contact. He flicked his hair out of his face. "You aren't very good at holding onto the the reins of a conversation, are you?"
"Not with you, no; is anybody? I mean, do you usually count on people to not really pay attention when you talk? Or is that just for me?" There was no humor in his expression, but America was almost smiling.
Russia's lopsided smile was back. "America, if I discover that I don't have your undivided attention every time we speak, I'm going to be extremely hurt."
America sighed and gave up. "I really don't know why I like you as much as I do. Do you have anything to drink back up there?"
"Not for everyone," Russia shrugged. "But I will make an exception for you. Perhaps."
"Maybe that's the reason. Your peerless generosity of spirit." He glanced at Russia as they put the beach behind them and headed towards Fort Ross. "So, um, about my having sort of claimed the entire continent. Are we all right on that, for now?"
"For now," Russia chuckled. "But there's always later, yes?"
+++
-At the urging of the Russian America Company, Ivan Kuskov founded a Russian colony at Fort Ross, California in 1812.
-In his annual message to Congress on December 2, 1823, President James Monroe outlined the set of principles that would later become known as the Monroe Doctrine. These tenets essentially demanded that Europeans stay out of Western Hemisphere affairs, and refrain from further colonization on the American continents.
-The official Indian Removal Policy was not put into effect by the American government until 1830, but even before that time, their treatment of the Native Americans was inhumane, to say the least.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG.
Summary: 1823 - America goes to talk to Russia about his Pacific coast colonies after President Monroe issues his new foreign policy tenants that would later be known as the Monroe Doctrine. Sensitive issues are insensitively addressed, America is easily distracted by flying machines, and most of the emotional subtext goes over his head.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Fort Ross, California. Winter, 1823
America didn't get out to see the Pacific Ocean much. It always looked bluer, warmer, wilder somehow than the grey water that hemmed his eastern states, but by the time he made it back home, he always wondered if he had only imagined the difference. This whole region had been uncharted only twenty years ago, and America knew that he loved the unknown more than he really should. None of this was his, yet, but--someday. According to President Monroe, already.
He trotted past a scattering of wood walls and small outbuildings, down towards the beach. Right on the edge of the water, he saw who he had expected to see.
America stopped beside him. After a moment of silence, he offered, "Gorgeous, isn't it?"
Russia turned, gave America a once-over, then fixed his gaze back on the water. "Very. Your waters are much brighter than mine. And warmer, too."
They watched the foam lap up against the sand.
"I find it difficult to believe that you'd come all the way out here to stand by the ocean with me." Russia shoots his companion a sidelong look. "And you seem a bit...excited."
America smiled in admission, but said, "It's not that strange for me to drop by just to talk." A sea breeze blew his forelock into his face. He flushed happily and pushed it aside.
"Much to my dismay." But his shoulders shifted, and America knew he was laughing, just a little. The wind picked up, and Russia squinted at America through his hair. "And what would be the purpose of this particular visit? It's not another flying machine idea, is it?"
America's eyes widened. "No, but did you hear about those balloons France is making? I hear he can almost steer them, now. I've got to get the plans off him, I bet I could figure it out."
"I'm sure you could. It is France, after all. He'll get distracted three months into it, and then act as though he was never interested in the first place." Russia took a few steps forward, dragged his feet in damp sand. The little furrows filled in behind him.
"Harsh," America grinned.
"You know it's true."
"I remember when I was the thing he was really interested in for all of five minutes, and now he won't give me the time of...oh, wait, right, what am I doing here." America dragged himself back on subject. He fell silent. He had been practicing a little speech for hours, all the way down from the hill country, but now it sounded stilted. He wet his lips and tasted Pacific salt. He regarded Russia, a few feet ahead of him, the surf lapping over the toes of his boots and his hair ruffled by a warm wind. He winced over a little pang of guilt. "Um," he tried.
Russia glanced back over his shoulder at him. His eyes were amused. "Yes? It's not like you to be so tongue-tied, America." He gestured minutely, beckoned America to join him. "This is going to be either extremely important, or absolutely ridiculous, and I don't think I can wait any longer to find out which." The left side of his mouth quirked upward again, something America had come to recognize as a sign of genuine amusement. "Out with it."
America dropped his eyes and trudged up next to Russia. His scuffed and faded boots kicked up little splashes in the oncoming tide. "It's just..." he stalled. He wanted to say, Look, forget it. You seem like you're in a good mood, for once. Let me tell you about this amazing bear-looking thing I saw on my walk over here. Instead, he managed, "Um, have you heard about this thing my boss said? About, uh. About this continent."
Russia's expression didn't change, but he looked back out to the horizon, where the blue of sea and sky were indistinguishable. "You are cutting a slice out of the world, correct? Keeping Europe from making claims on your land." He shifted his weight, leaned heavily on the foot furthest away from America. "And England supports you."
"To hell with England," America replied immediately. "It applies to him, too." He grimaced on a reflexive, unpleasant smile. "Which I don't think he realizes, yet."
"Does anyone quite realize what this is yet?" Russia asked, and wiped sea-spray of his cheek with the back of his hand. "France must be furious." He turned on his heel and walked a ways up the beach, then sank down to sit in the sand. He rested his arms on his bent knees. "And what will Spain think of you? I'm sure he had ambitions of reclaiming Mexico."
America stayed on his feet, not quite hanging back. He shook his head a little. "No one's really angry about it, so far. No one thinks I'm serious."
"Oh?" Russia's fingers tapped out an absent rhythm on his leg. "That's odd. They didn't think you were serious about revolution, either. I'd hope they would have learned something from that. Ah, well," he shrugged languidly, the rhythm of the waves finally seeming to affect him, "I'm sure you'll make them remember this time."
America gave the other nation a quizzical look. "Uh, Russia?"
There was a silence, and it seemed to take a million years for Russia to blink. "I certainly hope you're going to change the subject. For your sake."
America took half a step back. His heel made eddies that vanished into the sand. "Well, I was going to say that you don't seem too upset about this, but I guess I won't now."
"I guess not," Russia said evenly. There was a hard line of tension in his shoulders, and his fingers stopped and laid limp on his knee like dead things.
America retreated from the water's edge and sat down beside him, one leg propped up, the other folded beneath him. He rested his elbow on his knee and tugged at the ends of his hair. He regarded Russia. "What is it?"
"You know, America." Russia planted his right hand in the sand, leaned back on it. "I should not have to explain myself. My people are happy here. They can trade, they have access to the sea. There aren't many, but they have done nothing to merit being uprooted. And yet you seem to think that partitioning off half of the globe for yourself is not only your right, but should be supported by those who have everything to lose." He inched his arm closer to his body, and America could see where the grains of sand had left marks in the pale skin of his forearm.
America stared at him for a few seconds, and then gave an incredulous little burst of laughter. "Russia, what are you talking about? I'm not going to make anybody leave."
"Why not?" The water had followed them up the beach, lapping against both their feet like some kind of animal. Russia inched his knees closer and wrapped his free arm around them loosely. "They aren't doing you any favors."
"What...? You are so strange sometimes, you know that?" America twisted so that he sat cross-legged facing Russia. "They're not doing me any harm, either. The President just wants to stop any more European colonization. I don't have any problems with people who are already here. What kind of asshole do you think I am?"
Russia swallowed and dragged his gaze up from the surf at his boots. "I wasn't attempting to cast any doubt on your character. I simply assumed you would take the most reasonable course of action." He paused, eyes flicking over to America's as though he'd just remembered something. "'Strange'?"
"Yeah, I mean..." America gestured broadly back up the hill, towards the serene complex of Fort Ross. "These people are just trying to live their lives. They're farmers and trappers, not...spies, or soldiers. Why would I have any problem with them?"
More wind, and Russia pushed back his hair with an open palm. "I couldn't say. But given how you've treated your native people recently, I don't think my supposition was too far fetched." The smile on his lips was even and cold.
America flushed as if he had been slapped. Nonetheless, he muttered, "That's all been legal."
"Of course it has. Because you say it is." Russia watched the color rising in America's face intently. "And, unless I'm mistaken, they're hunters and trappers too."
America's fist knotted in the sand. "What the hell do you care about it, anyway?" he demanded.
Russia's own hand twitched reflexively, inches away from the other Nation's. "I'd just hate to see you turning a blind eye to hypocrisy. After all," he said mildly, "We should never be afraid to examine ourselves. Don't you agree?"
America scowled at him and leaned forward. "I'm not afraid of anything," he declared. "And I'm not going to move your colonists or take your damned fort. After all, we're friends, aren't we?" He clenched his teeth on the hurt in his voice.
A splash of surf washed over Russia's boots. He gave America a long, level look, then reached out carefully and tilted his chin up with the tips of his fingers. "Are we friends, America? Perhaps we’ve simply been backed into the same corner." His words were slow, measured, almost inaudible over the roar of the tide.
America felt a dull pulse in his chest. He turned his face aside and snatched away Russia's hand as the other Nation started to withdraw. He held it tightly at ear level, and when Russia gave a gentle tug, he did not let go. "I think," he held Russia's gaze, "That if we're not friends, it's because you don't want to be." A trickle of hurt reentered his voice. "And I don't know why."
"Neither do I." Russia's mouth was set in a hard line, and he didn't look as though he'd heard a word he just said. He flexed his fingers against the other Nation's palm. "I --I'm not trying to antagonize you."
America's brows drew sharply together. There was something in Russia's tone that made him --just for a second--want to run. He lowered their joined hands and tried, "I know, I just...we've always dealt fairly with each other, haven't we? Why can't you give me the benefit of the doubt?"
Russia's fingers started jittering on his knee again. "I have," he said quietly. His eyes darted to America's hand, almost the same size as his own.
America cast a quizzical look from Russia, to his fidgeting, and back. "Well...good," he allowed. Belatedly, he released him. He felt like he had just missed something important.
The tide was coming in, pouring into the spaces their boots had left near the water. Russia stood briskly, brushing sand off his trousers. "Yes," he repeated, "it is a good thing." He cocked his head and looked down at America. "Are you all right?"
America rose as well. He ran a hand through his hair and went over the last minute of conversation in his head. Russia had gotten on his case about the Indians--then he asked if they were friends--then Russia had given him a look and asked him if they were friends...and then something had happened and he couldn't pinpoint what it was, but Russia had gotten nervous, he was sure of it. And now he was--America stopped and scrutinized Russia. Now he was trying to change the subject.
Even though it never worked with Russia, America tried the direct approach anyway. "What is your problem?"
"Problem?" Russia dusted his hands together, refusing to break eye contact. He flicked his hair out of his face. "You aren't very good at holding onto the the reins of a conversation, are you?"
"Not with you, no; is anybody? I mean, do you usually count on people to not really pay attention when you talk? Or is that just for me?" There was no humor in his expression, but America was almost smiling.
Russia's lopsided smile was back. "America, if I discover that I don't have your undivided attention every time we speak, I'm going to be extremely hurt."
America sighed and gave up. "I really don't know why I like you as much as I do. Do you have anything to drink back up there?"
"Not for everyone," Russia shrugged. "But I will make an exception for you. Perhaps."
"Maybe that's the reason. Your peerless generosity of spirit." He glanced at Russia as they put the beach behind them and headed towards Fort Ross. "So, um, about my having sort of claimed the entire continent. Are we all right on that, for now?"
"For now," Russia chuckled. "But there's always later, yes?"
+++
-At the urging of the Russian America Company, Ivan Kuskov founded a Russian colony at Fort Ross, California in 1812.
-In his annual message to Congress on December 2, 1823, President James Monroe outlined the set of principles that would later become known as the Monroe Doctrine. These tenets essentially demanded that Europeans stay out of Western Hemisphere affairs, and refrain from further colonization on the American continents.
-The official Indian Removal Policy was not put into effect by the American government until 1830, but even before that time, their treatment of the Native Americans was inhumane, to say the least.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.