Christmas made me write some weird things.
Title: [Dumb title needs revising]
Character(s): America, England, Japan, Russia
Rating: PG
Warnings: Tangential involvement by a for real and rather contemporary historical person; fluff.
Summary: A sappy little story about one of the cuter moments of the Cold War. Oh, those wacky precocious American kids and their letter writing, what will they do next?
Dear Mr. Andropov,
My name is Samantha Smith. I am ten years old. Congratulations on your new job. I have been worrying about Russia and the United States getting into a nuclear war. Are you going to vote to have a war or not? If you aren't please tell me how you are going to help to not have a war. This question you do not have to answer, but I would like to know why you want to conquer the world or at least our country. God made the world for us to live together in peace and not to fight.
Sincerely,
Samantha Smith
America nearly scalds the inside of his nose as he chokes up his coffee.
Between bouts of coughing and sputtering, he rereads the letter, eyes wide in horrified shock. Colombian roast drips unheeded onto the desk, soiling the rest of his now entirely forgotten work for the day.
"What," he finally gargles out, as he tears up from the strain.
"Uh, yeah," someone answers him. "We were pretty surprised ourselves."
America waves the page frantically, still floundering for words. "Wha--I--Well, we can't let this be mailed!"
"Ah, about that. It already was."
"Oh, God."
"Some time ago, in fact. They, uh, they printed it in the newspaper over there, actually."
"Oh, God."
"Well, some of us are trying to be a little optimistic about this. I mean, the media at least is getting pretty interested--"
"--Aaww geeze, you know he's never going to let me hear the end of this!" And America is out the door and halfway down the hallway before he finishes, leaving his jacket and coffee-stained responsibilities far behind.
- - -
"Now that you mention it, the name does ring a bell," says England, as he stirs his tea thoughtfully. "She wrote a letter to the Queen once, I believe."
America lifts his head briefly from his slumped position at the opposite end of the couch. "The Queen. Really," he says flatly.
"Oh, yes. It was really rather charming, as I recall. Hullo, lovely work you're doing, awfully glad you're the Queen or some such chatter." England rests his spoon on the saucer in his hand with a faint clink. "Though I'm sure her rhetoric has since improved," he adds, after a meditative sip.
"Andropov wrote back."
"Did he, now?" England raises his eyebrows, but his son-rival-brother is apparently too absorbed in the fine details of his parlor carpet to notice the considerably impressive gesture. "Well. That rather changes things, doesn't it?"
"He's invited her to visit."
"Oh." The teacup stops halfway back to his lips. "That does change things." A muffled groan is all he receives in reply, so he continues: "I presume she's accepted, then?"
America looks up again to glare. "Of course she has, just my luck, and now there's a damn media circus so it's too late to go back and you know I can't just stay at home while she's, she's--"
"--Being brainwashed by Communists?" England supplies, smiling archly.
"Shut up." And while his tea cools unattended on the table before him, America is not above nabbing another biscuit from the tray beside it. "I'm telling you, this is exactly the kind of thing they've been waiting for over there," he says, perhaps deliberately speaking with a full mouth to rile his former mentor. "Looks real pretty in the papers, doesn't it, oh look, here's a cute little American girl making friends with the Soviets, gosh, guess they aren't so bad after all..."
"And then somehow the world as we know it crumbles and all hope is lost forever." England nods understandingly. "Good job we've got you to watch out for the rest of us like that."
"Don't give me that!" America cries, spraying crumbs. He waves the other half of the biscuit reprovingly at England. "Russia's up to something, again. Admit it, you're just as suspicious of this crap as I am."
"I suspect that you causing a stink about whatever Russia's up to, again" (he gives a rather pointed look, and America glowers in answer), "won't do us any more good than the last few decades of bickering and paranoia have done." England sets his teacup down on the table and rests his hands on his knees, shaking his head slightly. "Honestly, America, you can't keep up with this grudge of yours forever. None of us can. Now, I know you don't trust Russia, and I know enough about this new fellow in office to know that you probably won't start to for a while yet, but please"--he leans forward and rests one hand on America's shoulder imploringly--"please try to be civil while you're there. For all of our sakes. Surely it can't hurt to at least make an effort?"
America starts to protest, but then he feels the weight of the hand on his shoulder, hears the weary note in England's voice, sees the fine cracks hiding beneath that practiced placid smile, and suddenly it's his turn to be the support again. "All right, fine," he says, sitting up straighter and grinning brightly. "I mean, what's he gonna do, right? 'S'not like I'm afraid of him or anything."
He laughs, bold and confident, and England squeezes his shoulder briefly before letting go and picking his teacup back up again. The conversation turns to other things, to packing and jet lag and ways to endure a long flight. America takes another biscuit from the tray, but finds he cannot stop the churning in his stomach long enough to eat it, so he slips it in his pocket for later and keeps smiling.
- - -
In the end, he doesn't need the books England recommends to him on the flight (boring, stuffy things anyway, most likely). He spends the majority of the time staring straight ahead and clutching the armrests until he can no longer feel his fingers. Occasionally, he looks out the window and expects to see the world below him fade gradually into red. Once, he almost swears it does, but he bites his tongue and hums the national anthem until the feeling subsides.
When they land in Moscow, he is there, standing just slightly apart from the crowd and looking fairly perplexed himself. But he brightens up just a little when they exit the plane, even waves hesitantly. Not at him, America knows, because for once the attention and camera flashbulbs are trained not on him but on something newer, stranger, smaller, standing just about at the level of his chest in front of him, so he folds his hands behind his back and tries to look at once immovable and diplomatic.
Meanwhile, the reporters press closer, eager to share in a moment of reality suspended before the pretense can drop away.
- - -
"Alright, but seriously, what the hell are your guys up to with all of this?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea," says Russia delightedly.
They are walking--not together, not side by side, per se (for they would die before admitting to as such), but within a hospitable distance from one another, just along the beach at Artek a few meters down from where the children are swimming. (They should be resting, just as the rest of the campers must at this hour of the afternoon, but her little group seems to get away with such things. Much as she resists special treatment, she is still special, and part of him takes secret pleasure in knowing this.) America tosses a pebble in his hand distractedly, kicking up sand as he shuffles forward.
"C'mon, man, don't play dumb with me. This, this is all some sort of creepy propaganda scheme, isn't it? You're using her."
"I am attempting to be a gracious host," Russia replies. "Would you care for some berries?" He holds the small parcel in his hand out in offering, then shrugs when America waves it away sternly and takes a few for himself. "I think it's going well so far, don't you?"
America hurls the pebble fiercely out over the water, not bothering to track its course as it skips across the surface of the waves. "Oh yeah, just peachy," he grumbles. "Wish I could stay here forever."
"It seemed that she enjoyed Leningrad, at least," Russia muses.
"I guess." America's jacket, useless in the July sun, is tied loosely around his hips; Russia, meanwhile, has not brought his coat along for the entire trip. It's strange to see skin and muscle there now, real living flesh coming out of short sleeves, and he has to remind himself that the blood beneath is cold and metallic and too, too red. "It's nothing like Maine, though."
"No, I suppose not."
America stops, swivels to face Russia with his hands planted firmly on his hips. "I'm not buying this, comrade" he says. "Any of it."
Russia halts as well and smiles back, but only with his mouth. "I was not aware I was selling anything."
"You're still wrong."
"And you are still insufferable."
"Have fun in Afghanistan."
"Have fun in Lebanon."
They stare each other down for another moment, neither daring to blink. A faint strain of laughter drifts down to them from further along the beach, multiple voices intermingling, muffled in the breeze. Wordlessly, Russia holds out the package in his hand again. Wordlessly, America takes a few berries. He turns to face the water again and Russia steps forward to join him.
At a hospitable distance, naturally.
America breathes in the clear sea air. Before them, the sun glimmers off the water, light shattered into a myriad facets by the choppy motions of the waves. His skin is pleasantly warm.
"It's...alright here, in the summer," he says, grudgingly.
"Yes," Russia agrees.
"Didn't really know you had a summer."
"I sometimes nearly forget, myself."
More laughter reaches their ears from nearby. America shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"These berries are pretty good."
Russia merely nods.
- - -
Too soon, not soon enough, the trip is over, and America boards the plane with the others for the journey home. Russia waves again, this time with much more enthusiasm, and though America knows it is not directed at him, he feels his own hand raise in acknowledgment before he can quite stop himself.
- - -
By December he has forgotten the taste of those berries, the warmth of the sun's rays as he stood there in the archfiend's domain...but if he closes his eyes he can still see the waves and the dancing, sparkling light, so he keeps them open and concentrates on the speech instead.
Japan, sitting beside him, listens with polite interest. When she speaks to him in his own language, he smiles graciously.
"Your people can be quite remarkable, America," he murmurs, though they both know the audience will pay them no mind.
America shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Yeah, we're a pretty cool bunch, aren't we?" His brow furrows. "Too bad she'll have to figure out she's wrong one of these days."
"Must she?"
"C'mon, Japan, it's Russia. The only thing you can trust him to do is be untrustworthy." He crosses his arms over his chest and hunkers down grimly in his chair. "How's Korea doing?" he asks after a minute.
"Korea mourns, and I do not blame him," answers Japan calmly. "The pain of such loss is not quickly forgotten."
America glares ahead. "Or forgiven."
"That I cannot say. I merely believe that the echoes of such misfortune whisper back to us all over the passage of time." Below them, the speech continues; Japan listens and inclines his head thoughtfully. "Then you do not think these exchanges will continue?"
"Not if I've got anything to say about it," America snaps. And yet even before he finishes saying it his mind is alight with half-formed itineraries, D.C. and Chicago and New York, everybody has to see New York at least once, obviously--"What was that, what did she say?" he asks, shaking his head quickly when she again speaks in Japanese.
"She expresses a desire for peace and understanding in the world," Japan translates serenely.
America blinks dully. "Oh." He scratches at his head. "Kids are funny like that, huh?"
"The very young often have the most intriguing world views," says Japan.
Before America has the chance to fully register the words, the speech is over, and any reply he would have made is forgotten as they both join in the applause.
It's silly, part of him wants to think. How can 2001 possibly be so perfect when 1983 looks the way it does? But the other part is there too, the part that fueled his dreams and opened his doors and existed long, long before red was such a dirty color; and that part, he knows (he hopes), will not go away so easily.
Los Angeles, too, he privately decides. It simply wouldn't be a proper visit without Los Angeles.
- - -
Notes: Samantha Smith was a schoolgirl from Maine who actually sent the letter at the opening of this fic to Yuri Andropov in late 1982. Andropov replied several months later, inviting her to visit the Soviet Union herself, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Smith greatly enjoyed her trip overseas and became a sort of goodwill ambassador and celebrity both in her own nation and in the Soviet Union. She also visited Japan and gave a rather touching speech at the Children’s Symposium on the Year 2001 in Kobe. Tragically, she and her father died in a plane crash in 1985 when she was just 13. The loss was greatly mourned on both sides of the Atlantic.
Relations between the US and USSR did not actually improve that much during Andropov's reign. The incident America and Japan briefly discuss was just one of several factors contributing to this.
(By the way, the exchange was reciprocated, in 1986, when 11-year-old Katya Lycheva visited and toured several American cities. She got a hug from Reagan and everything. What a world.)
Addendum: Rereading this gave me a cavity or two. Whut.
Character(s): America, England, Japan, Russia
Rating: PG
Warnings: Tangential involvement by a for real and rather contemporary historical person; fluff.
Summary: A sappy little story about one of the cuter moments of the Cold War. Oh, those wacky precocious American kids and their letter writing, what will they do next?
Dear Mr. Andropov,
My name is Samantha Smith. I am ten years old. Congratulations on your new job. I have been worrying about Russia and the United States getting into a nuclear war. Are you going to vote to have a war or not? If you aren't please tell me how you are going to help to not have a war. This question you do not have to answer, but I would like to know why you want to conquer the world or at least our country. God made the world for us to live together in peace and not to fight.
Sincerely,
Samantha Smith
America nearly scalds the inside of his nose as he chokes up his coffee.
Between bouts of coughing and sputtering, he rereads the letter, eyes wide in horrified shock. Colombian roast drips unheeded onto the desk, soiling the rest of his now entirely forgotten work for the day.
"What," he finally gargles out, as he tears up from the strain.
"Uh, yeah," someone answers him. "We were pretty surprised ourselves."
America waves the page frantically, still floundering for words. "Wha--I--Well, we can't let this be mailed!"
"Ah, about that. It already was."
"Oh, God."
"Some time ago, in fact. They, uh, they printed it in the newspaper over there, actually."
"Oh, God."
"Well, some of us are trying to be a little optimistic about this. I mean, the media at least is getting pretty interested--"
"--Aaww geeze, you know he's never going to let me hear the end of this!" And America is out the door and halfway down the hallway before he finishes, leaving his jacket and coffee-stained responsibilities far behind.
- - -
"Now that you mention it, the name does ring a bell," says England, as he stirs his tea thoughtfully. "She wrote a letter to the Queen once, I believe."
America lifts his head briefly from his slumped position at the opposite end of the couch. "The Queen. Really," he says flatly.
"Oh, yes. It was really rather charming, as I recall. Hullo, lovely work you're doing, awfully glad you're the Queen or some such chatter." England rests his spoon on the saucer in his hand with a faint clink. "Though I'm sure her rhetoric has since improved," he adds, after a meditative sip.
"Andropov wrote back."
"Did he, now?" England raises his eyebrows, but his son-rival-brother is apparently too absorbed in the fine details of his parlor carpet to notice the considerably impressive gesture. "Well. That rather changes things, doesn't it?"
"He's invited her to visit."
"Oh." The teacup stops halfway back to his lips. "That does change things." A muffled groan is all he receives in reply, so he continues: "I presume she's accepted, then?"
America looks up again to glare. "Of course she has, just my luck, and now there's a damn media circus so it's too late to go back and you know I can't just stay at home while she's, she's--"
"--Being brainwashed by Communists?" England supplies, smiling archly.
"Shut up." And while his tea cools unattended on the table before him, America is not above nabbing another biscuit from the tray beside it. "I'm telling you, this is exactly the kind of thing they've been waiting for over there," he says, perhaps deliberately speaking with a full mouth to rile his former mentor. "Looks real pretty in the papers, doesn't it, oh look, here's a cute little American girl making friends with the Soviets, gosh, guess they aren't so bad after all..."
"And then somehow the world as we know it crumbles and all hope is lost forever." England nods understandingly. "Good job we've got you to watch out for the rest of us like that."
"Don't give me that!" America cries, spraying crumbs. He waves the other half of the biscuit reprovingly at England. "Russia's up to something, again. Admit it, you're just as suspicious of this crap as I am."
"I suspect that you causing a stink about whatever Russia's up to, again" (he gives a rather pointed look, and America glowers in answer), "won't do us any more good than the last few decades of bickering and paranoia have done." England sets his teacup down on the table and rests his hands on his knees, shaking his head slightly. "Honestly, America, you can't keep up with this grudge of yours forever. None of us can. Now, I know you don't trust Russia, and I know enough about this new fellow in office to know that you probably won't start to for a while yet, but please"--he leans forward and rests one hand on America's shoulder imploringly--"please try to be civil while you're there. For all of our sakes. Surely it can't hurt to at least make an effort?"
America starts to protest, but then he feels the weight of the hand on his shoulder, hears the weary note in England's voice, sees the fine cracks hiding beneath that practiced placid smile, and suddenly it's his turn to be the support again. "All right, fine," he says, sitting up straighter and grinning brightly. "I mean, what's he gonna do, right? 'S'not like I'm afraid of him or anything."
He laughs, bold and confident, and England squeezes his shoulder briefly before letting go and picking his teacup back up again. The conversation turns to other things, to packing and jet lag and ways to endure a long flight. America takes another biscuit from the tray, but finds he cannot stop the churning in his stomach long enough to eat it, so he slips it in his pocket for later and keeps smiling.
- - -
In the end, he doesn't need the books England recommends to him on the flight (boring, stuffy things anyway, most likely). He spends the majority of the time staring straight ahead and clutching the armrests until he can no longer feel his fingers. Occasionally, he looks out the window and expects to see the world below him fade gradually into red. Once, he almost swears it does, but he bites his tongue and hums the national anthem until the feeling subsides.
When they land in Moscow, he is there, standing just slightly apart from the crowd and looking fairly perplexed himself. But he brightens up just a little when they exit the plane, even waves hesitantly. Not at him, America knows, because for once the attention and camera flashbulbs are trained not on him but on something newer, stranger, smaller, standing just about at the level of his chest in front of him, so he folds his hands behind his back and tries to look at once immovable and diplomatic.
Meanwhile, the reporters press closer, eager to share in a moment of reality suspended before the pretense can drop away.
- - -
"Alright, but seriously, what the hell are your guys up to with all of this?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea," says Russia delightedly.
They are walking--not together, not side by side, per se (for they would die before admitting to as such), but within a hospitable distance from one another, just along the beach at Artek a few meters down from where the children are swimming. (They should be resting, just as the rest of the campers must at this hour of the afternoon, but her little group seems to get away with such things. Much as she resists special treatment, she is still special, and part of him takes secret pleasure in knowing this.) America tosses a pebble in his hand distractedly, kicking up sand as he shuffles forward.
"C'mon, man, don't play dumb with me. This, this is all some sort of creepy propaganda scheme, isn't it? You're using her."
"I am attempting to be a gracious host," Russia replies. "Would you care for some berries?" He holds the small parcel in his hand out in offering, then shrugs when America waves it away sternly and takes a few for himself. "I think it's going well so far, don't you?"
America hurls the pebble fiercely out over the water, not bothering to track its course as it skips across the surface of the waves. "Oh yeah, just peachy," he grumbles. "Wish I could stay here forever."
"It seemed that she enjoyed Leningrad, at least," Russia muses.
"I guess." America's jacket, useless in the July sun, is tied loosely around his hips; Russia, meanwhile, has not brought his coat along for the entire trip. It's strange to see skin and muscle there now, real living flesh coming out of short sleeves, and he has to remind himself that the blood beneath is cold and metallic and too, too red. "It's nothing like Maine, though."
"No, I suppose not."
America stops, swivels to face Russia with his hands planted firmly on his hips. "I'm not buying this, comrade" he says. "Any of it."
Russia halts as well and smiles back, but only with his mouth. "I was not aware I was selling anything."
"You're still wrong."
"And you are still insufferable."
"Have fun in Afghanistan."
"Have fun in Lebanon."
They stare each other down for another moment, neither daring to blink. A faint strain of laughter drifts down to them from further along the beach, multiple voices intermingling, muffled in the breeze. Wordlessly, Russia holds out the package in his hand again. Wordlessly, America takes a few berries. He turns to face the water again and Russia steps forward to join him.
At a hospitable distance, naturally.
America breathes in the clear sea air. Before them, the sun glimmers off the water, light shattered into a myriad facets by the choppy motions of the waves. His skin is pleasantly warm.
"It's...alright here, in the summer," he says, grudgingly.
"Yes," Russia agrees.
"Didn't really know you had a summer."
"I sometimes nearly forget, myself."
More laughter reaches their ears from nearby. America shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"These berries are pretty good."
Russia merely nods.
- - -
Too soon, not soon enough, the trip is over, and America boards the plane with the others for the journey home. Russia waves again, this time with much more enthusiasm, and though America knows it is not directed at him, he feels his own hand raise in acknowledgment before he can quite stop himself.
- - -
By December he has forgotten the taste of those berries, the warmth of the sun's rays as he stood there in the archfiend's domain...but if he closes his eyes he can still see the waves and the dancing, sparkling light, so he keeps them open and concentrates on the speech instead.
Japan, sitting beside him, listens with polite interest. When she speaks to him in his own language, he smiles graciously.
"Your people can be quite remarkable, America," he murmurs, though they both know the audience will pay them no mind.
America shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Yeah, we're a pretty cool bunch, aren't we?" His brow furrows. "Too bad she'll have to figure out she's wrong one of these days."
"Must she?"
"C'mon, Japan, it's Russia. The only thing you can trust him to do is be untrustworthy." He crosses his arms over his chest and hunkers down grimly in his chair. "How's Korea doing?" he asks after a minute.
"Korea mourns, and I do not blame him," answers Japan calmly. "The pain of such loss is not quickly forgotten."
America glares ahead. "Or forgiven."
"That I cannot say. I merely believe that the echoes of such misfortune whisper back to us all over the passage of time." Below them, the speech continues; Japan listens and inclines his head thoughtfully. "Then you do not think these exchanges will continue?"
"Not if I've got anything to say about it," America snaps. And yet even before he finishes saying it his mind is alight with half-formed itineraries, D.C. and Chicago and New York, everybody has to see New York at least once, obviously--"What was that, what did she say?" he asks, shaking his head quickly when she again speaks in Japanese.
"She expresses a desire for peace and understanding in the world," Japan translates serenely.
America blinks dully. "Oh." He scratches at his head. "Kids are funny like that, huh?"
"The very young often have the most intriguing world views," says Japan.
Before America has the chance to fully register the words, the speech is over, and any reply he would have made is forgotten as they both join in the applause.
It's silly, part of him wants to think. How can 2001 possibly be so perfect when 1983 looks the way it does? But the other part is there too, the part that fueled his dreams and opened his doors and existed long, long before red was such a dirty color; and that part, he knows (he hopes), will not go away so easily.
Los Angeles, too, he privately decides. It simply wouldn't be a proper visit without Los Angeles.
- - -
Notes: Samantha Smith was a schoolgirl from Maine who actually sent the letter at the opening of this fic to Yuri Andropov in late 1982. Andropov replied several months later, inviting her to visit the Soviet Union herself, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Smith greatly enjoyed her trip overseas and became a sort of goodwill ambassador and celebrity both in her own nation and in the Soviet Union. She also visited Japan and gave a rather touching speech at the Children’s Symposium on the Year 2001 in Kobe. Tragically, she and her father died in a plane crash in 1985 when she was just 13. The loss was greatly mourned on both sides of the Atlantic.
Relations between the US and USSR did not actually improve that much during Andropov's reign. The incident America and Japan briefly discuss was just one of several factors contributing to this.
(By the way, the exchange was reciprocated, in 1986, when 11-year-old Katya Lycheva visited and toured several American cities. She got a hug from Reagan and everything. What a world.)
Addendum: Rereading this gave me a cavity or two. Whut.