Georgia on My Mind
Title: Georgia on My Mind
Character(s): Russia/America, England
Rating: R-ish. Ohohoho.
Warnings: Sexual content, albeit more ridiculous than explicit.
Summary: America confronts Russia. Russia is cordially enraged. It gets a little out of hand from there.
Sometime around four in the morning, Russia discovered that the samovar was broken.
This, of course, would have been regrettable under any circumstances; that it had to happen today, of all days, was particularly discouraging. He'd only just gotten back from the last of the meetings (a torture made only less bearable by France's incessant nagging), he was irritated, confused, and utterly exhausted, and right now what he desired more than anything else in the world (except perhaps for all the other things) was a hot, steaming, traditional cup of tea.
But no, the samovar was broken; damaged, perhaps, in some thoughtless bookshelf-clearing sweeping gesture of demonstrative frustration. He'd been prone to more of those again lately, which was worrying enough in itself. And as he glared at the irreparably cracked antique on the floor and clutched the bag of tea leaves protectively to his chest, he reflected that just about the only, only conceivable thing which could possibly make this morning any worse would have to be--
"Hey, Russia!"
Several leaves exploded from a tear at the top of the bag as he squeezed.
"Russia? Russia! Damn it, Russia, where're you hiding?"
"Office. In my office, America," he called, as loudly and cheerily as he could through gritted teeth. He heard the footsteps pounding up the hallway (tracking dirt on his carpet, no doubt) and the rapid click-whoosh of someone opening a door in far too much of a hurry, but did not turn around until he was sure his face did not look noticeably pained.
"Ah, America," he began, oozing sincerity. "What brings you to visit me at such a...such an unconventional hour?"
America, arms still dramatically outstretched in the doorway, glowered. "You know damn well what I'm doing here, Russia." He dropped his arms and whipped a sheet of paper out of his back pocket, waving it furiously. "I want an explanation for this Georgia thing, pronto."
He smiled until his face hurt. "Is that right?"
"Yeah, that's right." America strode into this office, closing the space between them to just a few paces as he continued to wave that damned scrap of paper about. Russia was briefly tempted to snatch it from his hand and eat it out of pure spite. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, trying to--"
"--Had you been paying any attention these past few days," Russia interjected, sweetly, " you would remember that I've already spoken to some of other nations' representatives and yours, at length, America, and we've all managed to resolve the immediate conflict, so there's really no need to--"
"--Yeah, maybe you have talked to my bosses, Russia," America snarled, drawing himself up on tip-toe and leaning forward dangerously far into Russia's personal space, "but now you're gonna have to answer to me, and I want a goddamned explanation."
Russia tightened his grip on the bag of tea leaves and tried, half-heartedly, to stop imagining somebody's trachea in its place. "Why? Does it threaten you?" he said, softly, dangerously. "Does it toy with your crude notions of empire, little America?" He leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched and stared unwaveringly into America's fuming eyes, his voice now little more than a hiss. "All your precious planning gone to waste, your clumsy bullying alliances, your NATO--"
Quite suddenly, America broke the stare-down and dropped back to the balls of his feet. "NATO? The hell's this got to do with NATO?" he asked, bewildered.
Russia paused, blinked, and straightened up himself. "What does it have to do with NATO?" he repeated, in confusion of his own.
"Uh, yeah, that's what I said."
Russia searched America's face for a moment and wondered whether sleep deprivation hadn't already got the best of him. "You are..." He spoke slowly, perhaps for their mutual benefit. "You are aware of the political background to the issue, are you not?"
America snorted derisively. "Look, I don't need to hear your clever little spin stories, buddy, all I know is you can just back the hell off and get your filthy vodka-smellin' mitts off my land."
"...Your land."
"That's right."
"Georgia."
"Yeah."
Once, twice, Russia opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, still staring at America, whose fiercely determined expression wavered just slightly under the scrutiny. Then, without a word, he turned and walked over to the desk at the back of the room, laying the bag down absently on its corner as he opened the drawer underneath and began rummaging through its contents.
"America, come here a minute, please," said Russia, not looking up from his search. Baffled, America complied, but he carefully maintained a bit of distance between the two of them as he joined Russia on the other side of the desk.
"Uh, what's up?" he asked, with as much authority as he could still muster.
Russia found what he was looking for and pulled the wide paper sheet out of the drawer with a flourish; he laid it on the desk and smoothed it out dutifully with both hands.
"You see, America," he began, drawing a deep, calming breath, "there are two Georgias."
Beside him, America stared doubtfully at the map. "Two?" he repeated.
"Yes, two. Yours and mi--and the other one. Surely you've not forgotten about Georgia the country, America." Who could forget him, the whiny little upstart, he nearly added, but suppressed with an effort.
"O--oh! Georgia the country!" America's laugh, bright and counterfeit as the rest of him, made Russia grit his teeth. "Of, of course I know where that is!"
"Ah! Then do point it out for me, America." Russia gestured towards the map laid out before them with a gracious smile, and for the first time America noticed that the countries on it were not labeled by name.
"Uh, yeah, sure thing," he faltered. "W-well. Um."
"I share a border with it," said Russia, ever merciful.
"Right, right, I knew that," America blustered, leaning closer to the map. He managed, at least, to pick the right continent. "So, er, which one is Russia again?"
"The big one. The biggest one, America."
"Really? Huh! I always kinda thought that one was China!" Fortunately for him, Russia smothered the rising urge to seize him by the back of the neck and smash his face into the desk until one of them broke. "So I guess it's, um, over here in this general area or something, right?..."
Unable to watch America vaguely point in the direction of Kazakhstan any longer, Russia muttered something darkly under his breath and closed the space between himself and America, throwing an arm around him and seizing his hand in his own. Forcefully, he directed it to the right point on the map.
"There. That is Georgia the country."
America stood stock-still, highly aware of the hold he was now in. But then, hauling back and elbowing Russia in the gut would probably have been the absolute least diplomatic thing to do (and he'd been told lately that he needed to work on that), so he focused instead on the tiny nation under his finger.
"...Oh," he finally said. "So you invaded them."
"Yes," said Russia. "Them; not Georgia the state."
"Well. Guess that would have been a little silly, actually, wouldn't it?" America laughed weakly and tried to pull his hand away. Russia did not let go.
"America," he began, with a kind of dull fascination, "do you even know where your own Georgia is?"
"W-what? Of course I do! How could I possibly not know--"
"Then show me." And suddenly he had forced America's hand over to North America on the map, effectively drawing them even closer together.
America cleared his throat and pointed uncertainly. "Yeah, no problem. It's just, I mean, right over..."
"I believe that's Alabama," said Russia helpfully. America shuddered just slightly at the breath on his ear, and he smiled.
"R-right. What I really meant was, it--it's gotta be over here..."
"Connecticut. Connecticut, America."
Again, America made to pull his hand away, more forcefully this time. "Ah, who cares, Russia, it's not like it matters if it's all still a part of m--"
He didn't get a chance to finish as Russia lunged forward and cleared the desk of everything on it in one swipe. Then, with a growl that went back several decades at least, he seized America and hurled him back-first onto the flat surface, leaning heavily over him and pinning him.
"Of course it matters, you pompous, overbearing little halfwit," he snarled, shaking America's shoulders in both hands. "You were stupid enough to think I was invading your territory, but you didn't know where? How can you possibly--" He paused, and his face briefly slackened before shifting, slowly, into a grin that was just as bad as the menacing look that had preceded it.
America winced and glared up from under him on the desk. "Russia, whatever the hell you're thinking, you should just know that Russia what are you doing get away from my neck get away from my--" the words trailed off into a stifled gasp as Russia leaned down and nipped him ever so gently, just where neck and shoulder met.
"It's simply impractical, America," he cooed, "not to be aware of your own geography." The nip turned into a kiss; America squirmed. "Why, just imagine if I did ever invade. How could you possibly be prepared to defend against me without knowing where to defend? Do stop me when I've hit Georgia," he added, moving on to a collarbone.
America moaned grudgingly. "R-russia. That's not. Not. Nnh."
"Ah, you're right," said Russia softly, without looking up. "This must be somewhere around the Northwest, mustn't it? Oregon, perhaps, or Idaho." His hands moved from America's shoulders to begin unbuttoning his shirt collar, and he was pleased when he met no resistance. "Let's see, then..." America's chest rose and fell deeply; he savored the uncertain, erratic movements for a moment and moved down and to the right just a little, still alternating between teeth and tongue as he saw fit. "Upper Midwest, I think. Michigan, Illinois. Do you know, America, that they call your midwest the Heartland?"
"You're a bastard," answered America, without much conviction. His hands gripped the edge of the desk now, white-knuckled in frustration.
"But no, no, that's still not the right region, is it," Russia continued, ignoring him. The last of America's shirt buttons gave way under his fingers and he brushed the fabric to either side, exposing the skin beneath. "Great Plains," he murmured, tracing a downward path with one finger. "Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma. So easy to ignore, just flat open prairie, really." He spoke now from somewhere around America's navel, and America fought the urge to tangle his fingers in Russia's hair. "They still matter, of course. Where would we be, after all, without a strong center?" He looked back up at America's face at last with a predatory smile. "But Georgia is a southern state, America."
He was glad he'd chosen that moment to look up, because the instant his hands started to inch down lower was also the instant America chose to strike, launching himself forward off the desk and forcing Russia back with an unskilled wrestling maneuver. They overbalanced and crashed to the floor together, struggling up immediately to engage in a frenzied battle for supremacy on the underpadded carpet of Russia's office. For a moment, America seemed triumphant, and he pinned Russia's wrists above his head with a diplomatic grin, but Russia cut off any opportunity for bragging administrative discourse with a headbutt that sent his foe reeling. He wasted no time in pressing the advantage, and soon America was on his back again.
"You're so full of yourself," America snapped, struggling vainly to push Russia off and regain the higher ground. "This won't--You'd never be able to--"
"Who'd stop me, then, Canada?" Russia snickered from on top of him. "I'd go through him first, of course." He straightened America's glasses (which had been knocked askew in the fray) and tweaked his nose playfully. "So you'd do well to remember that I am not to be trifled with, America. Now lift your hips a little; I have to unbuckle your Bible Belt."
"God, shut up already."
"You know, America," he said over the faint clinking of metal, "there is something about all this terminology of yours I've never quite understood. Just how deep,"--a sudden rustle of fabric--"precisely, is 'Deep South'? Is there a definite divide there, or...?"
"Gahh! R-Russia!"
"Yes, America?"
"Russia. Russia, I think you've found Florida instead."
"Ah! You see, you can be taught!"
- - -
Several days later, England dropped by to visit and found Russia in unusually high spirits, sitting at his desk and looking over some documents with every sign of satisfaction.
"Why, good morning, England!" He chirped, inviting him forward with a friendly beckoning hand gesture. "Have a seat! Would you care for some tea?"
"Good morning, Russia. And no, thank you," replied England, sitting down somewhat cautiously in the chair offered to him. "Er, Russia. I had a chat with America earlier this morning, and he said he'd been over to see you..."
"It's only an electric samovar, I'm afraid," Russia continued obliviously as he cradled his own cup of tea, "not very traditional. But it gets the job done, I must say."
"Yes, but Russia..."
"The old one was broken, you see, such a shame. It was so beautiful, too, 19th century craftsmanship at its best..."
"But Russia."
"Yes, England?"
"Russia, why does America have all those marks on his neck?"
Russia took a sip and considered England sunnily over the rim of his cup. At last, he set it down and folded his hands on the desk.
"I was establishing buffer zones."
"Is--is that right?" said England weakly.
"Oh yes." Russia's smile did not waver. "We had a little disagreement, America and I, but we managed to forge a negotiation before either of us did anything too rash. I simply thought it prudent to leave a small...reminder of my presence should he try to meddle in my affairs again. "
"Ah. Of course." England regarded Russia rather blankly for a moment. "Russia," he eventually said, "do you think we've taken a step or two back from where we were a few years ago?"
"I cannot say," Russia answered cryptically, lifting his cup again. "I suppose that depends on all of us. But are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?" he said, rising to pour some even before England answered. "It's quite bracing."
"Yes, bracing, sounds good," England said, waving a hand vaguely. As Russia prepared the tea and hummed dreamily to himself, he sighed.
It had started out looking to be such a lovely quiet century, too.
---
In my defense, I always thought the Bible Belt joke was much funnier than the Florida one.
Character(s): Russia/America, England
Rating: R-ish. Ohohoho.
Warnings: Sexual content, albeit more ridiculous than explicit.
Summary: America confronts Russia. Russia is cordially enraged. It gets a little out of hand from there.
Sometime around four in the morning, Russia discovered that the samovar was broken.
This, of course, would have been regrettable under any circumstances; that it had to happen today, of all days, was particularly discouraging. He'd only just gotten back from the last of the meetings (a torture made only less bearable by France's incessant nagging), he was irritated, confused, and utterly exhausted, and right now what he desired more than anything else in the world (except perhaps for all the other things) was a hot, steaming, traditional cup of tea.
But no, the samovar was broken; damaged, perhaps, in some thoughtless bookshelf-clearing sweeping gesture of demonstrative frustration. He'd been prone to more of those again lately, which was worrying enough in itself. And as he glared at the irreparably cracked antique on the floor and clutched the bag of tea leaves protectively to his chest, he reflected that just about the only, only conceivable thing which could possibly make this morning any worse would have to be--
"Hey, Russia!"
Several leaves exploded from a tear at the top of the bag as he squeezed.
"Russia? Russia! Damn it, Russia, where're you hiding?"
"Office. In my office, America," he called, as loudly and cheerily as he could through gritted teeth. He heard the footsteps pounding up the hallway (tracking dirt on his carpet, no doubt) and the rapid click-whoosh of someone opening a door in far too much of a hurry, but did not turn around until he was sure his face did not look noticeably pained.
"Ah, America," he began, oozing sincerity. "What brings you to visit me at such a...such an unconventional hour?"
America, arms still dramatically outstretched in the doorway, glowered. "You know damn well what I'm doing here, Russia." He dropped his arms and whipped a sheet of paper out of his back pocket, waving it furiously. "I want an explanation for this Georgia thing, pronto."
He smiled until his face hurt. "Is that right?"
"Yeah, that's right." America strode into this office, closing the space between them to just a few paces as he continued to wave that damned scrap of paper about. Russia was briefly tempted to snatch it from his hand and eat it out of pure spite. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing, trying to--"
"--Had you been paying any attention these past few days," Russia interjected, sweetly, " you would remember that I've already spoken to some of other nations' representatives and yours, at length, America, and we've all managed to resolve the immediate conflict, so there's really no need to--"
"--Yeah, maybe you have talked to my bosses, Russia," America snarled, drawing himself up on tip-toe and leaning forward dangerously far into Russia's personal space, "but now you're gonna have to answer to me, and I want a goddamned explanation."
Russia tightened his grip on the bag of tea leaves and tried, half-heartedly, to stop imagining somebody's trachea in its place. "Why? Does it threaten you?" he said, softly, dangerously. "Does it toy with your crude notions of empire, little America?" He leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched and stared unwaveringly into America's fuming eyes, his voice now little more than a hiss. "All your precious planning gone to waste, your clumsy bullying alliances, your NATO--"
Quite suddenly, America broke the stare-down and dropped back to the balls of his feet. "NATO? The hell's this got to do with NATO?" he asked, bewildered.
Russia paused, blinked, and straightened up himself. "What does it have to do with NATO?" he repeated, in confusion of his own.
"Uh, yeah, that's what I said."
Russia searched America's face for a moment and wondered whether sleep deprivation hadn't already got the best of him. "You are..." He spoke slowly, perhaps for their mutual benefit. "You are aware of the political background to the issue, are you not?"
America snorted derisively. "Look, I don't need to hear your clever little spin stories, buddy, all I know is you can just back the hell off and get your filthy vodka-smellin' mitts off my land."
"...Your land."
"That's right."
"Georgia."
"Yeah."
Once, twice, Russia opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, still staring at America, whose fiercely determined expression wavered just slightly under the scrutiny. Then, without a word, he turned and walked over to the desk at the back of the room, laying the bag down absently on its corner as he opened the drawer underneath and began rummaging through its contents.
"America, come here a minute, please," said Russia, not looking up from his search. Baffled, America complied, but he carefully maintained a bit of distance between the two of them as he joined Russia on the other side of the desk.
"Uh, what's up?" he asked, with as much authority as he could still muster.
Russia found what he was looking for and pulled the wide paper sheet out of the drawer with a flourish; he laid it on the desk and smoothed it out dutifully with both hands.
"You see, America," he began, drawing a deep, calming breath, "there are two Georgias."
Beside him, America stared doubtfully at the map. "Two?" he repeated.
"Yes, two. Yours and mi--and the other one. Surely you've not forgotten about Georgia the country, America." Who could forget him, the whiny little upstart, he nearly added, but suppressed with an effort.
"O--oh! Georgia the country!" America's laugh, bright and counterfeit as the rest of him, made Russia grit his teeth. "Of, of course I know where that is!"
"Ah! Then do point it out for me, America." Russia gestured towards the map laid out before them with a gracious smile, and for the first time America noticed that the countries on it were not labeled by name.
"Uh, yeah, sure thing," he faltered. "W-well. Um."
"I share a border with it," said Russia, ever merciful.
"Right, right, I knew that," America blustered, leaning closer to the map. He managed, at least, to pick the right continent. "So, er, which one is Russia again?"
"The big one. The biggest one, America."
"Really? Huh! I always kinda thought that one was China!" Fortunately for him, Russia smothered the rising urge to seize him by the back of the neck and smash his face into the desk until one of them broke. "So I guess it's, um, over here in this general area or something, right?..."
Unable to watch America vaguely point in the direction of Kazakhstan any longer, Russia muttered something darkly under his breath and closed the space between himself and America, throwing an arm around him and seizing his hand in his own. Forcefully, he directed it to the right point on the map.
"There. That is Georgia the country."
America stood stock-still, highly aware of the hold he was now in. But then, hauling back and elbowing Russia in the gut would probably have been the absolute least diplomatic thing to do (and he'd been told lately that he needed to work on that), so he focused instead on the tiny nation under his finger.
"...Oh," he finally said. "So you invaded them."
"Yes," said Russia. "Them; not Georgia the state."
"Well. Guess that would have been a little silly, actually, wouldn't it?" America laughed weakly and tried to pull his hand away. Russia did not let go.
"America," he began, with a kind of dull fascination, "do you even know where your own Georgia is?"
"W-what? Of course I do! How could I possibly not know--"
"Then show me." And suddenly he had forced America's hand over to North America on the map, effectively drawing them even closer together.
America cleared his throat and pointed uncertainly. "Yeah, no problem. It's just, I mean, right over..."
"I believe that's Alabama," said Russia helpfully. America shuddered just slightly at the breath on his ear, and he smiled.
"R-right. What I really meant was, it--it's gotta be over here..."
"Connecticut. Connecticut, America."
Again, America made to pull his hand away, more forcefully this time. "Ah, who cares, Russia, it's not like it matters if it's all still a part of m--"
He didn't get a chance to finish as Russia lunged forward and cleared the desk of everything on it in one swipe. Then, with a growl that went back several decades at least, he seized America and hurled him back-first onto the flat surface, leaning heavily over him and pinning him.
"Of course it matters, you pompous, overbearing little halfwit," he snarled, shaking America's shoulders in both hands. "You were stupid enough to think I was invading your territory, but you didn't know where? How can you possibly--" He paused, and his face briefly slackened before shifting, slowly, into a grin that was just as bad as the menacing look that had preceded it.
America winced and glared up from under him on the desk. "Russia, whatever the hell you're thinking, you should just know that Russia what are you doing get away from my neck get away from my--" the words trailed off into a stifled gasp as Russia leaned down and nipped him ever so gently, just where neck and shoulder met.
"It's simply impractical, America," he cooed, "not to be aware of your own geography." The nip turned into a kiss; America squirmed. "Why, just imagine if I did ever invade. How could you possibly be prepared to defend against me without knowing where to defend? Do stop me when I've hit Georgia," he added, moving on to a collarbone.
America moaned grudgingly. "R-russia. That's not. Not. Nnh."
"Ah, you're right," said Russia softly, without looking up. "This must be somewhere around the Northwest, mustn't it? Oregon, perhaps, or Idaho." His hands moved from America's shoulders to begin unbuttoning his shirt collar, and he was pleased when he met no resistance. "Let's see, then..." America's chest rose and fell deeply; he savored the uncertain, erratic movements for a moment and moved down and to the right just a little, still alternating between teeth and tongue as he saw fit. "Upper Midwest, I think. Michigan, Illinois. Do you know, America, that they call your midwest the Heartland?"
"You're a bastard," answered America, without much conviction. His hands gripped the edge of the desk now, white-knuckled in frustration.
"But no, no, that's still not the right region, is it," Russia continued, ignoring him. The last of America's shirt buttons gave way under his fingers and he brushed the fabric to either side, exposing the skin beneath. "Great Plains," he murmured, tracing a downward path with one finger. "Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma. So easy to ignore, just flat open prairie, really." He spoke now from somewhere around America's navel, and America fought the urge to tangle his fingers in Russia's hair. "They still matter, of course. Where would we be, after all, without a strong center?" He looked back up at America's face at last with a predatory smile. "But Georgia is a southern state, America."
He was glad he'd chosen that moment to look up, because the instant his hands started to inch down lower was also the instant America chose to strike, launching himself forward off the desk and forcing Russia back with an unskilled wrestling maneuver. They overbalanced and crashed to the floor together, struggling up immediately to engage in a frenzied battle for supremacy on the underpadded carpet of Russia's office. For a moment, America seemed triumphant, and he pinned Russia's wrists above his head with a diplomatic grin, but Russia cut off any opportunity for bragging administrative discourse with a headbutt that sent his foe reeling. He wasted no time in pressing the advantage, and soon America was on his back again.
"You're so full of yourself," America snapped, struggling vainly to push Russia off and regain the higher ground. "This won't--You'd never be able to--"
"Who'd stop me, then, Canada?" Russia snickered from on top of him. "I'd go through him first, of course." He straightened America's glasses (which had been knocked askew in the fray) and tweaked his nose playfully. "So you'd do well to remember that I am not to be trifled with, America. Now lift your hips a little; I have to unbuckle your Bible Belt."
"God, shut up already."
"You know, America," he said over the faint clinking of metal, "there is something about all this terminology of yours I've never quite understood. Just how deep,"--a sudden rustle of fabric--"precisely, is 'Deep South'? Is there a definite divide there, or...?"
"Gahh! R-Russia!"
"Yes, America?"
"Russia. Russia, I think you've found Florida instead."
"Ah! You see, you can be taught!"
- - -
Several days later, England dropped by to visit and found Russia in unusually high spirits, sitting at his desk and looking over some documents with every sign of satisfaction.
"Why, good morning, England!" He chirped, inviting him forward with a friendly beckoning hand gesture. "Have a seat! Would you care for some tea?"
"Good morning, Russia. And no, thank you," replied England, sitting down somewhat cautiously in the chair offered to him. "Er, Russia. I had a chat with America earlier this morning, and he said he'd been over to see you..."
"It's only an electric samovar, I'm afraid," Russia continued obliviously as he cradled his own cup of tea, "not very traditional. But it gets the job done, I must say."
"Yes, but Russia..."
"The old one was broken, you see, such a shame. It was so beautiful, too, 19th century craftsmanship at its best..."
"But Russia."
"Yes, England?"
"Russia, why does America have all those marks on his neck?"
Russia took a sip and considered England sunnily over the rim of his cup. At last, he set it down and folded his hands on the desk.
"I was establishing buffer zones."
"Is--is that right?" said England weakly.
"Oh yes." Russia's smile did not waver. "We had a little disagreement, America and I, but we managed to forge a negotiation before either of us did anything too rash. I simply thought it prudent to leave a small...reminder of my presence should he try to meddle in my affairs again. "
"Ah. Of course." England regarded Russia rather blankly for a moment. "Russia," he eventually said, "do you think we've taken a step or two back from where we were a few years ago?"
"I cannot say," Russia answered cryptically, lifting his cup again. "I suppose that depends on all of us. But are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?" he said, rising to pour some even before England answered. "It's quite bracing."
"Yes, bracing, sounds good," England said, waving a hand vaguely. As Russia prepared the tea and hummed dreamily to himself, he sighed.
It had started out looking to be such a lovely quiet century, too.
---
In my defense, I always thought the Bible Belt joke was much funnier than the Florida one.