32 - The Bitter Vintage
Title: The Bitter Vintage
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1946 - America approaches Russia in the hopes of ending the danger of nuclear warfare forever.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. June, 1946.
Russia became aware of America when his garden gate creaked shut.
America fiddled with the latch for a few seconds, then gave up. It clattered against the wrought iron bars.
"Nice day," he commented, and stepped over a little clump of posies.
Russia made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. He pressed his finger to the spine of the book he was reading, and flipped the cover shut, marking his place. The low slat bench creaked as he uncrossed his legs and regarded the other nation. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
America smiled. "Nice of you to admit it." He came around the bench and leaned his shoulder against the side of Russia's house, a foot away. "Good book?"
"One of yours, actually." Russia felt something turn in his gut. It was like being caught with that Zippo all over again. "Steinbeck." He had spent the better part of the afternoon staring up at the birches that arched against the cloudless sky, wondering what a Dust Bowl would be like.
America tipped his head and examined the cover; his smile broadened. "That's one of my favorites," he observed. Then a frown flickered--not on his lips, America's smile was a more persistent thing than that, but between his eyebrows. "Though I'm not sure I'm so thrilled about you reading a book about how wrecked I got during the Depression for your own entertainment."
Russia shrugged. "Ancient history, America. For you, at least." The empty spot next to him on the bench made him want to stand up. "I can't imagine ever seeing you laid so low again. Not after...." He let his voice trail off.
America was silent for a few seconds; an uncertain expression hung up on his face. And then he shrugged, and stood up straight, and pushed his hand through his hair. "Anyway. I came to talk to you about something."
Russia's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a social visit, then? I'm disappointed."
"It's about the atom bombs." America squinted off to the side, towards the little vegetable garden.
Russia dug his nails into his palms. "I'm listening."
America looked back at him and nodded once, firmly. "I want to get rid of them. I think that'd be a really good idea."
There was a moment of silence. A bird rustled in the branches of the nearest tree. Russia took a long breath. He was distantly aware of his heartbeat thundering in his neck and wrists.
America would. Oh, he would. Stupid child.
"Why, exactly?" He managed to keep his words steady.
"Because they can wipe out humanity," America said impatiently. "Look, but I can't just dump them into the ocean or something. I'm gonna need everybody's cooperation, you know? Some kinda atomic energy commission, attached to the UN, I guess, that'd be a good place to--"
"No." Russia's hand twitched in his lap, curled into a fist. Four red crescents stood out briefly against his skin. "You can't do that."
America frowned again--this time it touched his whole face--and scrutinized Russia. "Huh? --Do what?"
"You can't destroy them." He stood, brushed splintered fibers of wood off the legs of his pants. "It's a stupid idea, and to be honest, I expected better of you."
America shifted back on his heel to give Russia space, and looked up at him. "It's not a stupid idea." He nudged up his glasses. "These bombs could kill everybody."
Russia's lips thinned. "Not 'could.' Can. That's the whole point."
America shook his head. "I don't get the--"
"--Distinction? You have a bomb that can turn an entire city into ash--burn people until their shadows are the only things left behind." Each word felt leaden. He watched America's face. "You can't possibly walk away from that."
"Who wouldn't?" America countered. "You're right. They're horrible. So that's why I'm thinking, let's get rid of them! We get some inspection process in, some safeguards, and I'll tell the UN everything I know about how the bombs are made, and then nobody will have to be scared that--"
"Scared that what? That someone else will use them in the interests of keeping their country safe?" He took a step closer, and in a few more feet, he could cage America against the wall. "You've had your turn. Maybe it's time to let someone else have a ride."
America scowled and didn't withdraw. "What are you talking about? It's not a fucking game, Russia. Don't talk about 'rides' and 'turns.' The only question here is whether or not anybody should have the power to just wipe out the human race. And I'm thinking 'no' isn't a real controversial answer."
Russia let some of the heat fade out of his eyes. He didn't want to destroy the world, of course. He didn't want to end the human race. What he wanted was that bomb. He altered his stance, made himself look smaller. He waited.
It worked, like it always worked on America. That stiffening passed out of him; America's shoulders relaxed and dropped, and the nearly-imaginary lines between his eyebrows lifted away. He let out a breath. "Come on. Nobody wants to be scared of these things for the rest of our lives. If we work together...it's the best way forward, you know it."
"I know." Russia smiled, soft and crooked, and looked at America through his lashes. He wanted to be kissed, suddenly, and hated himself for it.
America smiled cautiously. "So...we can make this work, you figure?" His fingertips drifted forward, touched Russia's palm. "I know you're not too psyched about the UN, but...it's the only game in town, so. I know you just want to keep everybody safe, Russia, same as me."
Russia decided that he counted in that everybody. "Of course," he murmured. He took a few more inches off the gap between them. Getting America to kiss him was abruptly the only thing on his mind. It would be a victory. He didn't know why--but somehow, he would have won. "So let's hear your plan."
Their fingers threaded together: a mutual act. America smiled again, and that little light went on in his eyes. "Well, I think the key thing is setting up those safeguards, you know? We've gotta make sure we can catch people when they break the rules, and punish them. So no vetoes. I mean, you and me. We've gotta agree on that right off. No excusing ourselves or our allies from this thing, if we all decide somebody's fucked up. This is gonna be the biggest part, I mean, there's gonna have to be inspections, tons of inspections..."
"Inspections?" The word was sharper than Russia meant it to be, and he distracted America by leaning into him. He let their breathing synchronize. When he spoke again, his voice was low and gentle. "And these will be UN inspectors, I assume." Cold fury knotted beneath his ribs.
"Well yeah, I mean," America laughed. "Unless you have a better idea." The line of his body gentled.
"Mmm..." Russia nudged his hair out if his eyes with the back of his hand, and began nipping at America's earlobe. The very idea that America thought UN inspectors would be fair made him want to howl. "The UN is full of your allies. Don't you think that's a bit unfair?" A kiss, in the hollow of America's jaw.
America drew back an inch, looked at him. "Russia, give me a break. If I was out to fuck anybody, I wouldn't be offering to get rid of my nuclear weapons in the first place."
Russia gave him another smile, cupped the side of his neck. Kiss me, kiss me... He didn't know why this mattered so much. "Maybe that's what you should do," he breathed. "Get rid of yours first, as a gesture of goodwill. Then everyone else can follow your example."
America drew back a little more and grimaced. "What, do I really look that naive?" His hand loosened in Russia's. "Yeah, why don't I just...bury the nukes in my backyard, and see if they'll grow into daisies! Because this is an awesome, magical world, where things like that happen, and nobody would ever try to shank me the second they're the ones with the nuclear advantage--"
"Could you blame them?" Russia snarled. His facade wilted away like wet tissue paper, and something ugly sparked in his eyes. Their hands felt too heavy, still barely twined together. "You're--you're trying to absolve yourself, and everyone is just letting you get away with it! You got to play with fire, America, because you got lucky! You can't expect me to ignore the sheer potential of what you've created, when in the right hands--"
America jerked a step away. "Right hands? You mean Stalin's?"
"To hell with Stalin!" He felt ill the second the words came out of his mouth, and his back went rigid. He pressed on anyway. "My hands, America! Mine!"
"And what would you do with them?" America cried. "You know, other than turn them over to your psychopathic fucking boss--"
"I'd use them to keep you out! To keep everyone out!"
America stared, fists tight at his sides. "In case you didn't notice, we won the war. Nobody's going to attack you! Shit, Russia, you've got half of Europe in your pocket as a fucking buffer zone. And the odds of me attacking you are--are--"
"Substantial." A furious, smokey glaze surged into his vision. "Because you're strong, you're something that I can't touch anymore, and you can do whatever you damn well please!" Russia's breath scrambled through his lungs. "What's stopping you?"
"What's..." America braced his elbow against the wall, steadied himself. "Because I--care about you, and I don't want to hurt you. I hate seeing you get hurt."
Russia fought back a flicker of--of something, deep in his chest. He wanted to hit America, but America's back was to the wall, and Russia loomed over him, and the scene was entirely too familiar and he couldn't. He moved in close, until they were inches apart. "Then why do you hurt me?"
America raised serious summer eyes upon him. "When do I hurt you?"
Gentle, openmouthed kisses, fingers tangled in his hair, a warm body pressed against his back--
Sheer agony.
"All the time," Russia growled, and stared into that beautiful blue gaze. "And I don't trust you."
A blade of hurt: because America expected to be trusted, he couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't trust him. "I'm just trying to do the right thing." His tone added, like always. "I'm not out to get you, so can we please, just...? Please?"
"No," Russia snarled. "No, we can't."
Neither of them said anything for a long time. They watched each other.
More than a minute later, America managed, "Are you breaking up with me?"
Russia raised an eyebrow, arch, condescending. His throat ached. "That's one way of putting it."
The birches swayed above them, scratched at the roof.
America began to smile, twitching and cracked. "I...can't believe you..." His voice had wandered into some faint and distant cul-de-sac. "You're doing this to me again?"
An awful silence. It was too warm and bright for this to happen today.
"...Again?"
"Maybe this time you'll stay away," Russia said.
A little laugh bubbled out of America. He eased off the wall. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, why did I ever trust you?" His teeth showed through that smile, straight and white.
Long stalks of grass broke under Russia's feet as he shifted his weight. He forced himself to meet America's eyes. "I'm sure you won't make that mistake again."
"No kidding," America marveled. He switched his gaze from some incalculable inner part of himself back up to Russia. "...Why? Because I asked you to submit to UN inspection?" It was incredulous: a joke.
Russia didn't dignify it with a response. He did, however, reach up and draw his first two fingers across America's lower lip. It was brief, just a touch, and he wondered if America would bite him. He hoped so.
America grabbed his hand, jerked it away. Didn't let go. "Why," he repeated.
Because you got there first. Because it's not fair. Because you can't possibly want me anymore. "Because I hate you."
"That's a lie."
America still held his hand. Russia tried to jerk away, but America wouldn't let go. He felt a black rush of fury spill into his chest, into his lungs, his stomach, his throat. "Then why, America? Why do you think? If I don't hate you, then what? Have you convinced yourself that I love you?" His voice dripped sarcasm.
America blinked, once. His face never changed. A significant moment passed.
It was the first time that word had been spoken between them, in any context.
"Well?" He bit out. There was some uncontainable pressure behind the word. His fingers felt numb in America's hand.
America wore a slight, strange smile. "Well, what?"
He had heard him. He was just trying to get Russia to repeat it. Russia set his jaw. "Do you think that I love you?" He felt off-balance, somehow.
America hitched, still smiling. He took a step forward, and Russia braced against it, against that invisible force carried before America that tried to shove him back into the shadow of his birch trees.
America murmured "No, Russia, of course not," and tangled his free hand into Russia's hair and kissed him.
His mind whited out, but his lips parted, and his tongue pressed against America's out of habit. Out of habit. Then he wrenched back and clapped a hand around America's neck to bar him away. His breath came in sharp gusts. "Did you not understand what I just said to you?"
America closed his eyes, wet his lips, pressed them together--tasting their kiss, tasting him. He let go of Russia, at last, and brushed Russia's hand away from his throat. "I understood you just fine," he sighed. They made eye contact. "So, you hate me, and this bomb thing--there's no way we're gonna reach an agreement on that. And you probably want me to get out of your backyard, too."
"You know where the gate is," Russia said flatly. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, raked into disarray by America's fingers. The sun sank lower in the sky, and the shadows of the trees had nearly swallowed Russia up.
America didn't leave. He peered off into the vegetable garden again, and pushed up his glasses. "You know what's gonna happen. If we can't agree to get rid of the bombs, then...I'm gonna have to start dumping money into developing them. Gotta hold on to my edge. And--you're gonna be right behind me, from the sound of it."
"Behind you?" Russia echoed. He crossed his arms; his fingers itched for a cigarette. He smirked, and there was something spoiled in the uneven curve of his lips. "Not for long."
America glanced at him. "Then what?"
"Then I have what I want. I don't give a damn what happens after that."
America inspected the ground in silence for a little while. Then he offered, "So, this is what you want. With me over there, with the bomb, and you over here, with the bomb, and the two of us never agreeing on anything or trusting each other about anything. ...This sounds like a good idea to you."
It sounded like a nightmare. But... You over here, with the bomb. That was going to make it all worth it.
He looked at America, at the long, lean lines of his body, that golden skin, those clever, gentle hands-- And he wondered what it would be like to touch the smooth shell casing of the bomb, to feel it purring under his hands, and to know that Russia would always belong only to Russia, for as long as this miracle was his.
"Yes," he answered.
America's lips thinned. He whisked back his hair with two fingertips, looked straight at Russia, and bit out, "Fuck you."
Russia's face was blank, eyes dark. "Get the hell out of here."
"You're gonna deserve this." America jerked straight his sleeves. "Everything. If you were less of a fucking coward--"
"Oh, shut up," Russia's lip curled. "Go right ahead, America. Level threats at me. Insult me. It doesn't change anything. Only one of us is going to come out on top. And for once in your fucking life, it's not going to be you."
"You're the one who made this a competition!" A flare went through America's eyes. "You could have--we could have been together--"
"I don't want to be together!" The words tore out of his chest. "I want to be alone!"
"You sad, sorry, son of a bitch! Why did I ever waste my time with you!"
"How the hell should I know? I never asked you to!"
America made an angry, cross-body gesture, a backhanded snap; one of England's gestures, a holdover. "No fucking kidding! Every inch of the way, it's been a fight, with you. And I just put up with your bullshit, and put up with it, and put up with it--and I give you another chance, that's what I do, always another fucking chance--and you're not worth it!" His volume jumped, on those last few words, his voice rang between the trees.
Russia flinched like he'd been slapped. The last tinge of color drained out of his face.
He knew he wasn't worth it, knew he'd never been worth anything, really, since he was quite small. He was the one they had played with, had burned and cut and torn apart, just because he hadn't been worth keeping intact.
But to--but to hear America say it---
America flushed, clenched his teeth, looked away. He took a few audible breaths. "Fine," he muttered. "Have it your way." As he put his back to Russia and put his hand on the gate, he snarled, "I always let you have it your way."
Russia watched America swing the gate open. He--he wanted to hurt him. "If that was true, this would have happened a long time ago."
"Go to hell." The gate banged shut behind him.
Russia waited until America's footsteps faded around the front of the house. Warm, late afternoon light soaked through the branches of the trees, sent speckled shadows across the lawn. He dropped a hand to the slats of the bench, dragged his thumb over the splintered wood. Then he reached down, picked up his book, and threw it across the garden.
+++
-- The Baruch Plan was a proposal made by the United States to the United Nations Atomic Energy Commission at its first meeting in June of 1946. The US offered to dismantle its entire nuclear arsenal, and share all of its information about atomic energy, provided that the other nations consented to refrain from developing atomic weaponry of their own, and allowed UN inspectors to verify that no nation was using the technology for anything but peaceful purposes.
In presenting the plan to the UN, Bernard Baruch stated: "We are here to make a choice between the quick and the dead. That is our business. Behind the black portent of the new atomic age lies a hope which, seized upon with faith, can work our salvation. If we fail, then we have damned every man to be the slave of fear. Let us not deceive ourselves; we must elect world peace or world destruction..."
The Soviet Union, deeply opposed to the notion of foreign inspectors, and well aware that it could almost always be outvoted in the UN, which was dominated by the US and its Western allies, rejected the proposal. Immediately afterwards, the United States embarked on a massive nuclear weapons testing, development, and deployment program.
As the first sign of atomic competition between the US and the USSR, the rejection of the Baruch Plan is often considered to be the first definite act of the Cold War.
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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-13.
Summary: 1946 - America approaches Russia in the hopes of ending the danger of nuclear warfare forever.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. June, 1946.
Russia became aware of America when his garden gate creaked shut.
America fiddled with the latch for a few seconds, then gave up. It clattered against the wrought iron bars.
"Nice day," he commented, and stepped over a little clump of posies.
Russia made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. He pressed his finger to the spine of the book he was reading, and flipped the cover shut, marking his place. The low slat bench creaked as he uncrossed his legs and regarded the other nation. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
America smiled. "Nice of you to admit it." He came around the bench and leaned his shoulder against the side of Russia's house, a foot away. "Good book?"
"One of yours, actually." Russia felt something turn in his gut. It was like being caught with that Zippo all over again. "Steinbeck." He had spent the better part of the afternoon staring up at the birches that arched against the cloudless sky, wondering what a Dust Bowl would be like.
America tipped his head and examined the cover; his smile broadened. "That's one of my favorites," he observed. Then a frown flickered--not on his lips, America's smile was a more persistent thing than that, but between his eyebrows. "Though I'm not sure I'm so thrilled about you reading a book about how wrecked I got during the Depression for your own entertainment."
Russia shrugged. "Ancient history, America. For you, at least." The empty spot next to him on the bench made him want to stand up. "I can't imagine ever seeing you laid so low again. Not after...." He let his voice trail off.
America was silent for a few seconds; an uncertain expression hung up on his face. And then he shrugged, and stood up straight, and pushed his hand through his hair. "Anyway. I came to talk to you about something."
Russia's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a social visit, then? I'm disappointed."
"It's about the atom bombs." America squinted off to the side, towards the little vegetable garden.
Russia dug his nails into his palms. "I'm listening."
America looked back at him and nodded once, firmly. "I want to get rid of them. I think that'd be a really good idea."
There was a moment of silence. A bird rustled in the branches of the nearest tree. Russia took a long breath. He was distantly aware of his heartbeat thundering in his neck and wrists.
America would. Oh, he would. Stupid child.
"Why, exactly?" He managed to keep his words steady.
"Because they can wipe out humanity," America said impatiently. "Look, but I can't just dump them into the ocean or something. I'm gonna need everybody's cooperation, you know? Some kinda atomic energy commission, attached to the UN, I guess, that'd be a good place to--"
"No." Russia's hand twitched in his lap, curled into a fist. Four red crescents stood out briefly against his skin. "You can't do that."
America frowned again--this time it touched his whole face--and scrutinized Russia. "Huh? --Do what?"
"You can't destroy them." He stood, brushed splintered fibers of wood off the legs of his pants. "It's a stupid idea, and to be honest, I expected better of you."
America shifted back on his heel to give Russia space, and looked up at him. "It's not a stupid idea." He nudged up his glasses. "These bombs could kill everybody."
Russia's lips thinned. "Not 'could.' Can. That's the whole point."
America shook his head. "I don't get the--"
"--Distinction? You have a bomb that can turn an entire city into ash--burn people until their shadows are the only things left behind." Each word felt leaden. He watched America's face. "You can't possibly walk away from that."
"Who wouldn't?" America countered. "You're right. They're horrible. So that's why I'm thinking, let's get rid of them! We get some inspection process in, some safeguards, and I'll tell the UN everything I know about how the bombs are made, and then nobody will have to be scared that--"
"Scared that what? That someone else will use them in the interests of keeping their country safe?" He took a step closer, and in a few more feet, he could cage America against the wall. "You've had your turn. Maybe it's time to let someone else have a ride."
America scowled and didn't withdraw. "What are you talking about? It's not a fucking game, Russia. Don't talk about 'rides' and 'turns.' The only question here is whether or not anybody should have the power to just wipe out the human race. And I'm thinking 'no' isn't a real controversial answer."
Russia let some of the heat fade out of his eyes. He didn't want to destroy the world, of course. He didn't want to end the human race. What he wanted was that bomb. He altered his stance, made himself look smaller. He waited.
It worked, like it always worked on America. That stiffening passed out of him; America's shoulders relaxed and dropped, and the nearly-imaginary lines between his eyebrows lifted away. He let out a breath. "Come on. Nobody wants to be scared of these things for the rest of our lives. If we work together...it's the best way forward, you know it."
"I know." Russia smiled, soft and crooked, and looked at America through his lashes. He wanted to be kissed, suddenly, and hated himself for it.
America smiled cautiously. "So...we can make this work, you figure?" His fingertips drifted forward, touched Russia's palm. "I know you're not too psyched about the UN, but...it's the only game in town, so. I know you just want to keep everybody safe, Russia, same as me."
Russia decided that he counted in that everybody. "Of course," he murmured. He took a few more inches off the gap between them. Getting America to kiss him was abruptly the only thing on his mind. It would be a victory. He didn't know why--but somehow, he would have won. "So let's hear your plan."
Their fingers threaded together: a mutual act. America smiled again, and that little light went on in his eyes. "Well, I think the key thing is setting up those safeguards, you know? We've gotta make sure we can catch people when they break the rules, and punish them. So no vetoes. I mean, you and me. We've gotta agree on that right off. No excusing ourselves or our allies from this thing, if we all decide somebody's fucked up. This is gonna be the biggest part, I mean, there's gonna have to be inspections, tons of inspections..."
"Inspections?" The word was sharper than Russia meant it to be, and he distracted America by leaning into him. He let their breathing synchronize. When he spoke again, his voice was low and gentle. "And these will be UN inspectors, I assume." Cold fury knotted beneath his ribs.
"Well yeah, I mean," America laughed. "Unless you have a better idea." The line of his body gentled.
"Mmm..." Russia nudged his hair out if his eyes with the back of his hand, and began nipping at America's earlobe. The very idea that America thought UN inspectors would be fair made him want to howl. "The UN is full of your allies. Don't you think that's a bit unfair?" A kiss, in the hollow of America's jaw.
America drew back an inch, looked at him. "Russia, give me a break. If I was out to fuck anybody, I wouldn't be offering to get rid of my nuclear weapons in the first place."
Russia gave him another smile, cupped the side of his neck. Kiss me, kiss me... He didn't know why this mattered so much. "Maybe that's what you should do," he breathed. "Get rid of yours first, as a gesture of goodwill. Then everyone else can follow your example."
America drew back a little more and grimaced. "What, do I really look that naive?" His hand loosened in Russia's. "Yeah, why don't I just...bury the nukes in my backyard, and see if they'll grow into daisies! Because this is an awesome, magical world, where things like that happen, and nobody would ever try to shank me the second they're the ones with the nuclear advantage--"
"Could you blame them?" Russia snarled. His facade wilted away like wet tissue paper, and something ugly sparked in his eyes. Their hands felt too heavy, still barely twined together. "You're--you're trying to absolve yourself, and everyone is just letting you get away with it! You got to play with fire, America, because you got lucky! You can't expect me to ignore the sheer potential of what you've created, when in the right hands--"
America jerked a step away. "Right hands? You mean Stalin's?"
"To hell with Stalin!" He felt ill the second the words came out of his mouth, and his back went rigid. He pressed on anyway. "My hands, America! Mine!"
"And what would you do with them?" America cried. "You know, other than turn them over to your psychopathic fucking boss--"
"I'd use them to keep you out! To keep everyone out!"
America stared, fists tight at his sides. "In case you didn't notice, we won the war. Nobody's going to attack you! Shit, Russia, you've got half of Europe in your pocket as a fucking buffer zone. And the odds of me attacking you are--are--"
"Substantial." A furious, smokey glaze surged into his vision. "Because you're strong, you're something that I can't touch anymore, and you can do whatever you damn well please!" Russia's breath scrambled through his lungs. "What's stopping you?"
"What's..." America braced his elbow against the wall, steadied himself. "Because I--care about you, and I don't want to hurt you. I hate seeing you get hurt."
Russia fought back a flicker of--of something, deep in his chest. He wanted to hit America, but America's back was to the wall, and Russia loomed over him, and the scene was entirely too familiar and he couldn't. He moved in close, until they were inches apart. "Then why do you hurt me?"
America raised serious summer eyes upon him. "When do I hurt you?"
Gentle, openmouthed kisses, fingers tangled in his hair, a warm body pressed against his back--
Sheer agony.
"All the time," Russia growled, and stared into that beautiful blue gaze. "And I don't trust you."
A blade of hurt: because America expected to be trusted, he couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't trust him. "I'm just trying to do the right thing." His tone added, like always. "I'm not out to get you, so can we please, just...? Please?"
"No," Russia snarled. "No, we can't."
Neither of them said anything for a long time. They watched each other.
More than a minute later, America managed, "Are you breaking up with me?"
Russia raised an eyebrow, arch, condescending. His throat ached. "That's one way of putting it."
The birches swayed above them, scratched at the roof.
America began to smile, twitching and cracked. "I...can't believe you..." His voice had wandered into some faint and distant cul-de-sac. "You're doing this to me again?"
An awful silence. It was too warm and bright for this to happen today.
"...Again?"
"Maybe this time you'll stay away," Russia said.
A little laugh bubbled out of America. He eased off the wall. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, why did I ever trust you?" His teeth showed through that smile, straight and white.
Long stalks of grass broke under Russia's feet as he shifted his weight. He forced himself to meet America's eyes. "I'm sure you won't make that mistake again."
"No kidding," America marveled. He switched his gaze from some incalculable inner part of himself back up to Russia. "...Why? Because I asked you to submit to UN inspection?" It was incredulous: a joke.
Russia didn't dignify it with a response. He did, however, reach up and draw his first two fingers across America's lower lip. It was brief, just a touch, and he wondered if America would bite him. He hoped so.
America grabbed his hand, jerked it away. Didn't let go. "Why," he repeated.
Because you got there first. Because it's not fair. Because you can't possibly want me anymore. "Because I hate you."
"That's a lie."
America still held his hand. Russia tried to jerk away, but America wouldn't let go. He felt a black rush of fury spill into his chest, into his lungs, his stomach, his throat. "Then why, America? Why do you think? If I don't hate you, then what? Have you convinced yourself that I love you?" His voice dripped sarcasm.
America blinked, once. His face never changed. A significant moment passed.
It was the first time that word had been spoken between them, in any context.
"Well?" He bit out. There was some uncontainable pressure behind the word. His fingers felt numb in America's hand.
America wore a slight, strange smile. "Well, what?"
He had heard him. He was just trying to get Russia to repeat it. Russia set his jaw. "Do you think that I love you?" He felt off-balance, somehow.
America hitched, still smiling. He took a step forward, and Russia braced against it, against that invisible force carried before America that tried to shove him back into the shadow of his birch trees.
America murmured "No, Russia, of course not," and tangled his free hand into Russia's hair and kissed him.
His mind whited out, but his lips parted, and his tongue pressed against America's out of habit. Out of habit. Then he wrenched back and clapped a hand around America's neck to bar him away. His breath came in sharp gusts. "Did you not understand what I just said to you?"
America closed his eyes, wet his lips, pressed them together--tasting their kiss, tasting him. He let go of Russia, at last, and brushed Russia's hand away from his throat. "I understood you just fine," he sighed. They made eye contact. "So, you hate me, and this bomb thing--there's no way we're gonna reach an agreement on that. And you probably want me to get out of your backyard, too."
"You know where the gate is," Russia said flatly. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, raked into disarray by America's fingers. The sun sank lower in the sky, and the shadows of the trees had nearly swallowed Russia up.
America didn't leave. He peered off into the vegetable garden again, and pushed up his glasses. "You know what's gonna happen. If we can't agree to get rid of the bombs, then...I'm gonna have to start dumping money into developing them. Gotta hold on to my edge. And--you're gonna be right behind me, from the sound of it."
"Behind you?" Russia echoed. He crossed his arms; his fingers itched for a cigarette. He smirked, and there was something spoiled in the uneven curve of his lips. "Not for long."
America glanced at him. "Then what?"
"Then I have what I want. I don't give a damn what happens after that."
America inspected the ground in silence for a little while. Then he offered, "So, this is what you want. With me over there, with the bomb, and you over here, with the bomb, and the two of us never agreeing on anything or trusting each other about anything. ...This sounds like a good idea to you."
It sounded like a nightmare. But... You over here, with the bomb. That was going to make it all worth it.
He looked at America, at the long, lean lines of his body, that golden skin, those clever, gentle hands-- And he wondered what it would be like to touch the smooth shell casing of the bomb, to feel it purring under his hands, and to know that Russia would always belong only to Russia, for as long as this miracle was his.
"Yes," he answered.
America's lips thinned. He whisked back his hair with two fingertips, looked straight at Russia, and bit out, "Fuck you."
Russia's face was blank, eyes dark. "Get the hell out of here."
"You're gonna deserve this." America jerked straight his sleeves. "Everything. If you were less of a fucking coward--"
"Oh, shut up," Russia's lip curled. "Go right ahead, America. Level threats at me. Insult me. It doesn't change anything. Only one of us is going to come out on top. And for once in your fucking life, it's not going to be you."
"You're the one who made this a competition!" A flare went through America's eyes. "You could have--we could have been together--"
"I don't want to be together!" The words tore out of his chest. "I want to be alone!"
"You sad, sorry, son of a bitch! Why did I ever waste my time with you!"
"How the hell should I know? I never asked you to!"
America made an angry, cross-body gesture, a backhanded snap; one of England's gestures, a holdover. "No fucking kidding! Every inch of the way, it's been a fight, with you. And I just put up with your bullshit, and put up with it, and put up with it--and I give you another chance, that's what I do, always another fucking chance--and you're not worth it!" His volume jumped, on those last few words, his voice rang between the trees.
Russia flinched like he'd been slapped. The last tinge of color drained out of his face.
He knew he wasn't worth it, knew he'd never been worth anything, really, since he was quite small. He was the one they had played with, had burned and cut and torn apart, just because he hadn't been worth keeping intact.
But to--but to hear America say it---
America flushed, clenched his teeth, looked away. He took a few audible breaths. "Fine," he muttered. "Have it your way." As he put his back to Russia and put his hand on the gate, he snarled, "I always let you have it your way."
Russia watched America swing the gate open. He--he wanted to hurt him. "If that was true, this would have happened a long time ago."
"Go to hell." The gate banged shut behind him.
Russia waited until America's footsteps faded around the front of the house. Warm, late afternoon light soaked through the branches of the trees, sent speckled shadows across the lawn. He dropped a hand to the slats of the bench, dragged his thumb over the splintered wood. Then he reached down, picked up his book, and threw it across the garden.
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-- The Baruch Plan was a proposal made by the United States to the United Nations Atomic Energy Commission at its first meeting in June of 1946. The US offered to dismantle its entire nuclear arsenal, and share all of its information about atomic energy, provided that the other nations consented to refrain from developing atomic weaponry of their own, and allowed UN inspectors to verify that no nation was using the technology for anything but peaceful purposes.
In presenting the plan to the UN, Bernard Baruch stated: "We are here to make a choice between the quick and the dead. That is our business. Behind the black portent of the new atomic age lies a hope which, seized upon with faith, can work our salvation. If we fail, then we have damned every man to be the slave of fear. Let us not deceive ourselves; we must elect world peace or world destruction..."
The Soviet Union, deeply opposed to the notion of foreign inspectors, and well aware that it could almost always be outvoted in the UN, which was dominated by the US and its Western allies, rejected the proposal. Immediately afterwards, the United States embarked on a massive nuclear weapons testing, development, and deployment program.
As the first sign of atomic competition between the US and the USSR, the rejection of the Baruch Plan is often considered to be the first definite act of the Cold War.
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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.