Fill #2: "Phases" [3a/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 04:02:37 UTC
And yet more!
-- Phase 3: Waste Management Protocol
Russia gazed with trepidation as America deposited several objects on the dining table. First came a few disposable diapers, then wipes and powder formulated for newborns, followed by a small cloth, and finally an already diapered plastic baby doll. America stood at his side, his hands on his hips. “Can you guess why I've gathered all of this stuff together?”
Russia's brow furrowed in confusion. “You said you were going to teach me about changing diapers...”
“I am! But why did I gather everything together first, instead of getting started right away?”
“Convenience?”
“Well, yes,” America said. “But there's something more important than that. Step One: gather everything you'll need beforehand, because once you start you can never leave the baby alone even for a second.”
“Why?”
“Babies are wiggly little things. Most of my kids started to figure out the whole 'rolling over' concept when they were around three months old,” America paused. “And when you combine an unattended, flailing baby with the height from a changing table...”
Russia paled and winced visibly, trying to force the terrible image from even forming in his head. “H-has that... ever happened to you before?”
“No, thank goodness,” America sighed. He opened his mouth to reveal the countless minor bumps and bruises his states had acquired when they were infants, but quickly thought the better of it. He clapped a hand against Russia's back and continued, “Anyway, don't worry about it. I never thought for a second you'd leave the baby unattended. You're already crazy about the little thing. Hell, if anything, you'll probably be hovering over it more than its mobile will.”
Russia relaxed slightly and nodded. “I don't ever want to leave the baby alone,” he said with determination.
“Good!” America said, grinning. He grabbed one of the diapers and opened it, laying it flat on the table. “The next step is pretty much a no-brainer. Make sure your hands are washed or sanitized with a baby wipe before you start. For now we'll just pretend that our hands are clean. Before you even remove the baby's current gross diaper, you want to set out an opened, clean one like so. Do that once the baby's laying safely on the changing table.” He lifted the doll by its ankles, and then slid the open diaper beneath the doll. “So you can do that. See? Now, I want you to try.” He picked the doll up and offered it to Russia.
Fill #2: "Phases" [3b/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 04:06:31 UTC
The taller nation nodded and accepted the doll. However, the moment his large hands closed around its midsection, its left leg popped off and landed on the floor with a soft 'thump'. Both nations stared at the chubby leg on the ground, slightly slack-jawed.
Eventually, Russia looked up at his lover with a look that seemed to cry out, Oh God, I've killed the baby!
America laughed awkwardly as he stooped to pick up the leg. “H-hey, don't look like that! It's not your fault at all. The doll is just totally crappy, that's all! And I bet it was made in a totally crappy, no-good place! That's definitely it. Let's see who's to blam-” There, stamped on the soul of the fallen foot in small letters, were the words 'MADE IN U.S.A.'
Light reflected dangerously off of America's glasses as he took the doll from his lover's slackened hands and tossed it aside. “Forget where the doll came from,” he muttered.
“But now how will you show me how to change a diaper?”
America frowned for a moment before inspiration seemed to swing his mood back to the positive. “I just had an idea. Hang on a sec,” he said. He strode out of the room and towards the kitchen, where Russia heard him rummaging around. “And don't get psyched out by that... that. The real baby won't fall apart when you pick it up! ... Probably."
“I didn't catch that last part.”
“What last part?” America said in singsong tone as he reentered. “I present to you: the makeshift baby.”
“It's a bag of flour.”
“What is a baby if not a living, limbed bag of flour?” America asked. When Russia's only response was a dubious look, America sighed and continued, “So it's a bad analogy. Work with me here.” Russia marveled as America dressed the bag with the opened diaper. It took seconds, and he made it look completely effortless. Following that, the younger nation pulled a black marker from a back pocket and drew a sloppy pair of eyes and a smile on the bag. “Better?”
“Not... really,” Russia said. “Now it just looks creepy.”
America peered at his creation. “Ew, you're right. So let's get this walk through over with fast. Here,” he said, handing the bag to Russia and spreading a new diaper open on the table. “Remember what I said before we were interrupted?”
Fill #2: "Phases" [3c/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 04:10:57 UTC
“Da,” Russia said as he laid the bag, creepy-face side up on the table and slid the new diaper beneath it. “Now what?”
Over the next few minutes, America walked him through the finer details of diaper changing. The proper way to wipe, how much powder or ointment to use and when to use them, and other such steps were expounded upon and then pantomimed with their horrible flour-baby. It took some time, but eventually Russia had successfully diapered the ersatz baby and had a reasonably solid idea of how to replicate the action.
“Great job!” America crowed, leaning to drop a quick kiss on Russia's jaw. “Now, last minute quiz-time. Why do you clean the baby's hands when you finish?”
“To prevent illness and contamination.”
“I believe my words were, 'Because they're little germ-machines', but I'll take it. Why did we need the cloth?”
“To prevent... disasters... if it is a little boy.”
“Right. They are indiscriminate as newborns and outright dastardly as they get closer to potty-training. How do you wipe a baby?”
“From front to back.”
“Correct! And that'll be especially important if my hunch is right.”
Russia turned to America, his brows drawn together in confusion. “Hunch?”
America nodded, a little grin on his face. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “I think it's going to be a girl.”
That statement rattled around Russia's head for the rest of the day, more often than not driving him to distraction. Images of a little daughter ran through the corridors of his mind, giggling and peeking around corners every time he tried to concentrate on his work. Would she be a rough little tomboy, with a face freckled from the sun and knees gritty from making mudpies and rolling down hills? Would she be dainty and feminine, with a closet full of frilled dresses and an almost supernatural knowledge of tea party etiquette and the social hierarchies of porcelain dolls? Or would she be somewhere in the middle?
Later that night, when America lay relaxed and pliant against his bare chest like a cat that had gotten into the cream, Russia reached around and lay his hands against America's belly. “You really think it's going to be a girl?” he asked softly.
America hummed, tilting his head back to rest against Russia's shoulder. Russia watched the vibrations in America's throat with half-lidded, appreciative eyes. “Yeah... it's just a feeling I've got.”
“Did you have that hunch with your states?”
“Sometimes,” America answered. “More often than not, I'm right when I get that feeling. But a couple of them have surprised me. Why?”
Russia was silent for a moment, simply rubbing his hands in small, slow circles over America's stomach. Finally, he quietly said, “If it is a girl... I have a request for her name.”
“Oh?” America said. “Let's hear it.”
Russia moved them slightly, adjusting their positions until his back was pressed more firmly against the headboard as they sat. From there, he brought his lips close to America's ear, and whispered the name on a long breath. He then bent his head forward, resting his forehead in the crook of America's neck.
For a few seconds the room was quiet and still, save for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. “It's a beautiful name, Ivan,” America said, his voice careful and even. “Are you sure?” He felt the tickle of Russia's hair against neck as the older nation nodded. A small smile spread across America's face. “Then I'd be glad to name her that.”
America felt Russia's arms twitch and then tighten gently around his midsection. A drop of something warm and wet hit America's shoulder and then ran down his back.
“Spasibo, Alfred.”
--
omg, why are these things always so bipolar emotionally? I will never understand. You can probably guess what name it is, because IIII looooove clicheeees. One day, cliches and I will be happily married. You are all invited to the wedding.
Re: Fill #2: "Phases" [3c/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 04:58:17 UTC
Well if we're going cliche then that can go one of two names if we're talking Russian names... one of them is my iddle name the other is one of my sister's middle name :]
I totally know what the name is. :D If you and cliches get married, then me and Russia's bittersweet relationship with the Romanovs are getting hitched too. We can have a double wedding. ...I am right, aren't I? I'm going to feel stupid if I got that one wrong, lol.
And the whole diaper changing crash course was too funny and cute. :D I love how Russia is trying to be so professional about it. And panicking over the doll breaking, aaaaah, why is he so adorable? This is my favorite fill ever, anon. No lie.
Kamikaze Filler Anon
anonymous
March 9 2010, 05:22:57 UTC
You are indeed correct. Our double-wedding shall not be in vain!
Haha, this won't be the last time I'll be playing around with Russia's SRS BB BSNS, so I'm glad you're enjoying it. I've got bits and pieces of several other parts written, so it's just a matter of picking whichever one is next chronologically and going to town. Lord, I cannot wait to get to the baby shower part, since I get to bring several other boneheads into the mix.
Re: Fill #2: "Phases" [3c/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 05:34:54 UTC
You probably know this already, but the name Anastasia means resurrection... now naming the new baby that would be even more cliche :D
Russia breaking the doll's leg... poor guy, he is horrified lol And the part in which he tries to imagine what his daughter is going to be like is so beautiful...
Kamikaze Filler Anon
anonymous
March 9 2010, 05:40:19 UTC
I did, in fact! I believe my reaction upon seeing that meaning was, "Ohohohoho, goooood." Possibly accompanied with steepled fingers and a maniacal glint in my eye.
Re: Fill #2: "Phases" [3c/??]
anonymous
March 9 2010, 11:52:39 UTC
I really want the baby to be a girl now! I think I know what the name was, but I'll wait 'til the end to be sure.
I laughed so loudly when I read the part about the leg falling off the doll and how it was made in the US. Also how the flour baby looked creepy, I could totally imagine that. All of that was just too funny!
Fill #2: "Phases" [4a/??]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 03:03:48 UTC
Back again with one hilariously untimely chapter! --- Phase 3: Mission Conflicts
“You don't seem to understand the... severity of the things I forgot thanks to my case of pregnancy brain,” America had said, eyes slightly wild as he busied about setting out various gaudy decorations. “I need salted cod! I have to make lutefisk! Do you have any idea what Minnesota will do if he gets here and that vile garbage isn't here to great him? There will be a reckoning. I think I've got some lye under the sink... oh God, it takes over a week to make that stuff. I have to get started today on that nightmare food for it to be ready in time...”
Russia had opted to simply nod and take down a list of things America needed from the store as he buzzed around in his flurry of activity. A few minutes later, he was ushered out the door with a grateful kiss and was sent on his way.
On the return trip, eyes fixed on the gray, cold clouds high in the December sky, Russia had found himself lost in thought. He was slightly baffled by the way America's moods had begun to sway between 'yuletide exuberance' and 'panicked stress' only days after his Thanksgiving celebration. Perhaps this confusion stemmed from the fact that Russia felt Christmas was coming a full two weeks too early.
He stopped and watched as fat snowflakes began to fall, sticking to the ground and the bare limbs of trees. His contemplation was interrupted when he heard a peal of high, excited laughter nearby. Looking back, he noticed that the joyous noise was coming from a small child exiting a nearby store with his mother.
“Mama! Snow!” the little boy cried, tugging at his mother's coat with one mitten-covered hand while waving the other excitedly in the air. Russia smiled fondly as the two made their way down the street, with the little boy babbling about making a snowman and his mother chiming in once or twice during her toddler's monologue.
Russia glanced at the store they had left. It was a bookstore, and he found himself looking at the stacks of books displayed in its storefront window. His eyes widened as he read the title of a book in a stack labeled 'Practical Presents'.
Several minutes later, Russia stood at the counter, handing the book to the check-out clerk. The young woman scanned the book and smiled at him as she looked at its cover. “So, do you need a gift receipt?” she asked cheerfully.
“Nye-ah, no. This is for me.”
“Aw, congratulations!” the clerk exclaimed. “How far along is your wife?”
Russia had to muster nearly all of his impressive will to keep himself from bursting into laughter. Good thing America wasn't there to hear that. “Ame-ahem, excuse me. Slight cold,” Russia said as he covered up a giggle with a cough. “Amelia is almost six months pregnant.”
He was congratulated again, and soon Russia left the store. As he continued the walk back to America and his bustling Christmas plans, he flipped through the pages of his acquisition: a book titled “Expectation Without Exhaustion: 101 Tips for the Panicking Parent”.
Fill #2: "Phases" [4b/??]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 03:08:45 UTC
-
Seven days and the creation of one horrific-looking vat of lutefisk later, Christmas Eve had descended upon America's house along with his states. They had trickled in over the course of the week, and as the crowd grew larger and larger by the day, Russia was finding it harder and harder to have quality alone time with America. Every time they'd get caught under mistletoe, America would be whisked away by a gaggle of boisterous states to settle some inane argument like how to properly pronounce 'pecan'. Or America would proclaim that the baby was kicking, and before Russia could get his hand on the rounding stomach and feel the little bumps that had made him almost deliriously giddy for the last couple of weeks, he'd be crowded out by a flock of cooing half-siblings. Even mornings held no snuggling guarantees, as Russia had woken up five times this week to find America out of bed well before himself, greeting early-arriving states, covertly wrapping presents, or making fine adjustments to the placement of decorations on the enormous Christmas tree.
As a result, Russia had lost count of the number of times he'd seen America's face pout in sympathy for their situation this week. He had poured himself into reading the book he had picked up in order to nurse the bruise of having America's attention divided among his 50 visitors. And, for whatever reason, he couldn't seem to bring himself to tell America that he had bought the book. He worried that America might take it as a betrayal or as a distrust in his knowledge of baby lore.
But even only read in paranoid secrecy, the book had been interesting so far. Curiously, nearly all of the advice was identical in tone and content to what America had been telling him over the last few months. Although he had heard much of this advice before, it was nice to have it all down in writing.
However, there was one chapter that addressed a problem he had not considered, but now seemed to constantly hover in his mind like a troublesome fly. And that was chapter 7, “A House Divided: When Your First Bundle of Joy Becomes a Bundle of Jealousy”.
Given that Alaska and Hawaii, America's youngest states, now physically looked like they were in their mid-teens, Russia hadn't even considered adding sibling rivalry to his seemingly miles-long list of things to worry about. But over the course of the week, Russia had seen plenty of little squabbles amongst the states. Coupled with his own... troubled... relationship with Belarus, he felt a fool for forgetting that sibling dysfunction wasn't just a childhood problem.
“Are you guys sure? You've got it all under control?” Russia's attention perked up when he heard America ask these questions from the large kitchen, followed by several voices chiming in that it wasn't a problem. America and some of his more culinary-talented states had bustled into the kitchen around an hour earlier to begin the arduous task of cooking Christmas Eve dinner for fifty states, two nations, and one unborn lunar colony.
“Okay, then. If you're sure you can handle making dinner, I'm going to the living room. I want to get off my feet for a while.”
Russia quickly looked around before shoving the book under the sofa cushion he was sitting on. A few seconds later, America entered, looking quite tired. Russia quickly stood, mouth opening with the intention to say something about how he was happy that they had some time to be alone together at last.
“What are you wearing?” was what came out instead.
America frowned and put his hands on his hips. “Nice to see you too, buddy,” he said.
“I'm sorry,” Russia said, waving his hands apologetically in front of him. “It's just... I was overwhelmed.”
Fill #2: "Phases" [4c/??]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 03:11:07 UTC
“Well... I guess you weren't awake when I got dressed this morning. And I did forget to warn you about the Ugly Sweater family tradition,” America muttered. And it certainly was an ugly sweater. It was a bright, take-no-prisoners red color with several green bows, a Santa face with cotton ball beard at chest level, and 'ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS TO SEE MY FEET' in yellow letters across his swollen belly. He smiled fondly as he fingered the stitched letters. “I found it laid out on the edge of the bed when I woke up this morning. None of the states have admitted to making it, though.”
“I really am sorry about what I said. I'm very glad to see you,” Russia said as he moved to join America's side and helped him to the sofa. America sighed with appreciation as he sat down, leaning heavily against Russia. He wriggled for a moment before laying down entirely, his head resting on Russia's lap and his feet propped up by the arm of the sofa. “The holidays are tiring, da?”
“And then some,” America groaned, closing his eyes. “But I've had worse. There were a few times where I was terribly close to being due during Christmas. Hell, Iowa's birthday is in three days. I'll let that sink in for a minute.”
“If it's any consolation,” Russia said softly as he began to weave his fingers through America's hair. “My Christmas is on January 7th, and I would like nothing more than a quiet celebration with you.” He paused for a moment, moving his hand from America's head to his belly. “And you, of course.”
America hummed happily. “Sounds nice.”
They basked in silence for a few minutes before the sounds of a slamming door and heavy footsteps stomping downstairs broke their peaceful bubble. Russia turned his head towards the noise to see Alaska steadily heading down the stairs, his violet eyes slitted in anger and a very sour expression on his face. If Russia had doubted America's claim that ugly sweaters afflicted the whole family at Christmas, Alaska's outfit would have been confirmation in and of itself. The boy was wearing a dark blue sweater which prominently featured an incredibly lopsided, grinning caribou with tinsel wrapped around its horns.
Alaska finally finished moodily descending the stairs and proceeded towards the back door.
“Where are you going, Alek?” America asked.
“Out,” Alaska replied, gloved hand on the knob.
“For?”
“Hockey.”
“With?”
“Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, and... one of the Dakotas. Probably North.”
“Then why is it just you?”
Alaska sighed heavily and growled, “Because when we were deciding to play hockey, they pulled seniority on me and said that the youngest has to get the pool ready to serve as a rink and gather up the supplies.”
Russia and America exchanged glances. The older nation tilted his head towards their son, as if asking a question. America smiled and nodded, curling up slightly with a grunt to allow Russia to stand up. “I shall help you, da?”
America stretched out further and wiggled around on the sofa in an effort to find the most comfortable position. “Okay, have fun. I'm going to have a bit of a rest before dinner. It should be ready in around 2 hours, so don't forget!”
Russia and Alaska nodded, and as the two moved out to the backyard, Russia failed to notice the confused look on America's face as his hand dipped between the cushions and landed on something unusual.
Fill #2: "Phases" [4d/??]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 03:13:10 UTC
--
For several minutes, Russia helped his son remove the large protective tarp from the swimming pool in the yard and test out the thickness of the ice while they engaged in idle talk. Following that, they made their way to the nearby storage shed to acquire hockey sticks, a puck, and the small portable nets which would serve as goals.
As they began to pile the items outside the shed, Russia asked, “Are you upset about the new baby?”
“Huh?” Alaska asked, turning to give Russia a confused look. “Why would I be?”
“Your older brothers bossing you around seemed to bother you, and I was reading a book which said children may resent becoming older siblings...”
“Ha. Don't worry about that. I have 48 older siblings and one younger sister. Not only that, I was just shy of nine months old when Dad had Hawaii. I have literally no recollection of not being surrounded by siblings.”
“Does that... bother you?”
Alaska was silent for a moment as a look of concentration settled on his face. “It's... complex,” he began. “I'd be lying if I said I'm always okay with it. My brothers and sisters can be huge jerks sometimes, but I'm sure I'm a jerk to them just as often. And it's kind of nice to know that, even though we don't always get along, they'll always help out if something goes wrong.”
Russia's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if an unseen weight had been lifted from them. “So, you won't be upset when it's born?”
“Only if I get stuck on diaper duty,” Alaska said, grunting as a soccer ball rolled off an upper shelf and bounced off his head.
“Even if it's a boy? You wouldn't be the youngest boy anymore...”
“Good! I hope it IS a boy! Maybe then the other guys will stop making fun of me for being the 'baby', even though I'm taller than all of them. Especially Rhode Island. He comes up to here,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the area of his sternum. “Here! And that inaccurately-named, bushy-browed jerk calls me 'Li'l A-last-a',” Alaska said. Partway through his tirade, he had picked up a hockey stick and had begun to grip it in a way Russia found quite familiar. Funny how inheritance works.
Just as they were finishing setting the nets on the ice, they heard the loud, laughing voices of hockey-eager states entering the yard. A dangerous glint lit up in Russia's eye. “Wait here a moment,” Russia said to Alaska. “I would like to have a word with your brothers.” Alaska shrugged in confusion and continued to wrap up the preparations.
The happy din coming from Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, and North Dakota died away as they watched Russia approach them with a wide, welcoming smile on his face.
“Privyet!” Russia called as he continued to approach. “My son has informed me that you shall be playing hockey with him. How fun!”
The young men looked nervously at each other.
Russia finally stopped alarmingly close, and managed to loom over the now nervous Midwestern states despite the fact that they were all strong and tall themselves. “However, I have gathered that you may have been... less than brotherly today.”
“We just-”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Russia chastised, waving is index finger in a scolding motion. “I believe I was talking. Now, you may have noticed that Alaska resembles me in some ways. He has my eyes. He has my nose. He has my height, my build.”
He positioned his hands in such a way that it looked like he was clutching a long, invisible object. “However, just recently I noticed that he also has my grip,” he said, his voice lowering into an uneasy hush. The welcoming smile had never left his face, though now it was oddly sharp at its edges, and a strange shadow seemed to darken his eyes. “I could teach him how to fully exploit that grip if I continue to hear... how shall I put this... less than savory stories about his treatment. Are we clear?”
The five states nodded quickly in unison, clear fear written on their faces. “Good. Spread the word,” Russia said, leaning back. Immediately, the eerie atmosphere evaporated, and he made his way towards the door, waving cheerfully. “Have fun, boys!”
Fill #2: "Phases" [4e/??]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 03:17:00 UTC
--
“How'd it go?” America asked as Russia entered.
Russia, his back facing America as he closed the door, responded, “Quite well, I think,” He turned around and froze when he saw America lying on the sofa, a small grin on his face as he flipped through the book he had bought. “I...”
America turned his head toward Russia and pointed at the book. With a hearty laugh, he said, “Interesting!”
Russia hung his head slightly, shuffling his feet. “I know you wanted to be the one to teach me about babies,” he said. “I'm sorry I looked at outside sources.”
America laughed again. “No, no. I'm not mad. Get over here,” he said, beckoning. Russia obliged and joined America on the sofa, where they repositioned themselves with America's head on Russia's lap. “Mostly, I think it's funny that, of all the books in the world, you pick this one.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn't get any outside info at all,” America said. He closed the book and presented it, cover first, to Russia. “I wrote this!”
Violet eyes widened with shock as Russia pointed first at America, then at the book. “You...?”
“That's right, under a clever pseudonym,” America said, running his finger under the author's name. “Ulysses Simon Adams. Get it? Cute, huh?” He grinned. “Obviously I had to change pronouns around a bit, though. 'Names have been changed to protect the innocent', that sort of thing.”
“Ulysses?”
“Oh shut up, U-names are hard.”
“It is surprising,” Russia conceded. After a moment, a small, teasing smile began to appear on his face. “I do have one question, though.”
“What's that?”
“According to chapter 6, it's much healthier for the baby, so... do you intend to breastfeed?”
Meanwhile, halfway across the world, Yong-Soo suddenly glanced around wildly, feeling as if he had somehow just missed something of the utmost importance.
Head-canon funtime! 1) The state of Minnesota has really been dubbed “the lutefisk capital of the world”, and I think he embraces this to a truly alarming/embarrassing degree. 2) North and South Dakota are completely identical twins, and they freaking haaaate thaaaat shiiit. 3) It's pronounced pih-CAHN and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. A liar! 4) Oh Aleksey. You were such a cute little thing, and now you're a cranky pants teenager who can't catch a break. Sorry! D:
Actual fact funtime! 1) Christmas for the Russian Orthodox Church is January 7, in accordance with the Julian calendar. 2) 'Privyet' is 'hi!' in Russian
The last line made me laugh out loud, for real. And America writing a book for parents, that's too perfect! XD Well, he would have more experience than anyone.
--
Phase 3: Waste Management Protocol
Russia gazed with trepidation as America deposited several objects on the dining table. First came a few disposable diapers, then wipes and powder formulated for newborns, followed by a small cloth, and finally an already diapered plastic baby doll. America stood at his side, his hands on his hips. “Can you guess why I've gathered all of this stuff together?”
Russia's brow furrowed in confusion. “You said you were going to teach me about changing diapers...”
“I am! But why did I gather everything together first, instead of getting started right away?”
“Convenience?”
“Well, yes,” America said. “But there's something more important than that. Step One: gather everything you'll need beforehand, because once you start you can never leave the baby alone even for a second.”
“Why?”
“Babies are wiggly little things. Most of my kids started to figure out the whole 'rolling over' concept when they were around three months old,” America paused. “And when you combine an unattended, flailing baby with the height from a changing table...”
Russia paled and winced visibly, trying to force the terrible image from even forming in his head. “H-has that... ever happened to you before?”
“No, thank goodness,” America sighed. He opened his mouth to reveal the countless minor bumps and bruises his states had acquired when they were infants, but quickly thought the better of it. He clapped a hand against Russia's back and continued, “Anyway, don't worry about it. I never thought for a second you'd leave the baby unattended. You're already crazy about the little thing. Hell, if anything, you'll probably be hovering over it more than its mobile will.”
Russia relaxed slightly and nodded. “I don't ever want to leave the baby alone,” he said with determination.
“Good!” America said, grinning. He grabbed one of the diapers and opened it, laying it flat on the table. “The next step is pretty much a no-brainer. Make sure your hands are washed or sanitized with a baby wipe before you start. For now we'll just pretend that our hands are clean. Before you even remove the baby's current gross diaper, you want to set out an opened, clean one like so. Do that once the baby's laying safely on the changing table.” He lifted the doll by its ankles, and then slid the open diaper beneath the doll. “So you can do that. See? Now, I want you to try.” He picked the doll up and offered it to Russia.
Reply
Eventually, Russia looked up at his lover with a look that seemed to cry out, Oh God, I've killed the baby!
America laughed awkwardly as he stooped to pick up the leg. “H-hey, don't look like that! It's not your fault at all. The doll is just totally crappy, that's all! And I bet it was made in a totally crappy, no-good place! That's definitely it. Let's see who's to blam-” There, stamped on the soul of the fallen foot in small letters, were the words 'MADE IN U.S.A.'
Light reflected dangerously off of America's glasses as he took the doll from his lover's slackened hands and tossed it aside. “Forget where the doll came from,” he muttered.
“But now how will you show me how to change a diaper?”
America frowned for a moment before inspiration seemed to swing his mood back to the positive. “I just had an idea. Hang on a sec,” he said. He strode out of the room and towards the kitchen, where Russia heard him rummaging around. “And don't get psyched out by that... that. The real baby won't fall apart when you pick it up! ... Probably."
“I didn't catch that last part.”
“What last part?” America said in singsong tone as he reentered. “I present to you: the makeshift baby.”
“It's a bag of flour.”
“What is a baby if not a living, limbed bag of flour?” America asked. When Russia's only response was a dubious look, America sighed and continued, “So it's a bad analogy. Work with me here.” Russia marveled as America dressed the bag with the opened diaper. It took seconds, and he made it look completely effortless. Following that, the younger nation pulled a black marker from a back pocket and drew a sloppy pair of eyes and a smile on the bag. “Better?”
“Not... really,” Russia said. “Now it just looks creepy.”
America peered at his creation. “Ew, you're right. So let's get this walk through over with fast. Here,” he said, handing the bag to Russia and spreading a new diaper open on the table. “Remember what I said before we were interrupted?”
Reply
Over the next few minutes, America walked him through the finer details of diaper changing. The proper way to wipe, how much powder or ointment to use and when to use them, and other such steps were expounded upon and then pantomimed with their horrible flour-baby. It took some time, but eventually Russia had successfully diapered the ersatz baby and had a reasonably solid idea of how to replicate the action.
“Great job!” America crowed, leaning to drop a quick kiss on Russia's jaw. “Now, last minute quiz-time. Why do you clean the baby's hands when you finish?”
“To prevent illness and contamination.”
“I believe my words were, 'Because they're little germ-machines', but I'll take it. Why did we need the cloth?”
“To prevent... disasters... if it is a little boy.”
“Right. They are indiscriminate as newborns and outright dastardly as they get closer to potty-training. How do you wipe a baby?”
“From front to back.”
“Correct! And that'll be especially important if my hunch is right.”
Russia turned to America, his brows drawn together in confusion. “Hunch?”
America nodded, a little grin on his face. “Mm-hmm,” he said. “I think it's going to be a girl.”
That statement rattled around Russia's head for the rest of the day, more often than not driving him to distraction. Images of a little daughter ran through the corridors of his mind, giggling and peeking around corners every time he tried to concentrate on his work. Would she be a rough little tomboy, with a face freckled from the sun and knees gritty from making mudpies and rolling down hills? Would she be dainty and feminine, with a closet full of frilled dresses and an almost supernatural knowledge of tea party etiquette and the social hierarchies of porcelain dolls? Or would she be somewhere in the middle?
Later that night, when America lay relaxed and pliant against his bare chest like a cat that had gotten into the cream, Russia reached around and lay his hands against America's belly. “You really think it's going to be a girl?” he asked softly.
America hummed, tilting his head back to rest against Russia's shoulder. Russia watched the vibrations in America's throat with half-lidded, appreciative eyes. “Yeah... it's just a feeling I've got.”
“Did you have that hunch with your states?”
“Sometimes,” America answered. “More often than not, I'm right when I get that feeling. But a couple of them have surprised me. Why?”
Russia was silent for a moment, simply rubbing his hands in small, slow circles over America's stomach. Finally, he quietly said, “If it is a girl... I have a request for her name.”
“Oh?” America said. “Let's hear it.”
Russia moved them slightly, adjusting their positions until his back was pressed more firmly against the headboard as they sat. From there, he brought his lips close to America's ear, and whispered the name on a long breath. He then bent his head forward, resting his forehead in the crook of America's neck.
For a few seconds the room was quiet and still, save for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. “It's a beautiful name, Ivan,” America said, his voice careful and even. “Are you sure?” He felt the tickle of Russia's hair against neck as the older nation nodded. A small smile spread across America's face. “Then I'd be glad to name her that.”
America felt Russia's arms twitch and then tighten gently around his midsection. A drop of something warm and wet hit America's shoulder and then ran down his back.
“Spasibo, Alfred.”
--
omg, why are these things always so bipolar emotionally? I will never understand. You can probably guess what name it is, because IIII looooove clicheeees. One day, cliches and I will be happily married. You are all invited to the wedding.
Also 'spasibo' = 'thank you'.
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I love this fill it's so cute.
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And the whole diaper changing crash course was too funny and cute. :D I love how Russia is trying to be so professional about it. And panicking over the doll breaking, aaaaah, why is he so adorable? This is my favorite fill ever, anon. No lie.
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Haha, this won't be the last time I'll be playing around with Russia's SRS BB BSNS, so I'm glad you're enjoying it. I've got bits and pieces of several other parts written, so it's just a matter of picking whichever one is next chronologically and going to town. Lord, I cannot wait to get to the baby shower part, since I get to bring several other boneheads into the mix.
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Russia breaking the doll's leg... poor guy, he is horrified lol And the part in which he tries to imagine what his daughter is going to be like is so beautiful...
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I laughed so loudly when I read the part about the leg falling off the doll and how it was made in the US. Also how the flour baby looked creepy, I could totally imagine that. All of that was just too funny!
I can't wait for more!
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---
Phase 3: Mission Conflicts
“You don't seem to understand the... severity of the things I forgot thanks to my case of pregnancy brain,” America had said, eyes slightly wild as he busied about setting out various gaudy decorations. “I need salted cod! I have to make lutefisk! Do you have any idea what Minnesota will do if he gets here and that vile garbage isn't here to great him? There will be a reckoning. I think I've got some lye under the sink... oh God, it takes over a week to make that stuff. I have to get started today on that nightmare food for it to be ready in time...”
Russia had opted to simply nod and take down a list of things America needed from the store as he buzzed around in his flurry of activity. A few minutes later, he was ushered out the door with a grateful kiss and was sent on his way.
On the return trip, eyes fixed on the gray, cold clouds high in the December sky, Russia had found himself lost in thought. He was slightly baffled by the way America's moods had begun to sway between 'yuletide exuberance' and 'panicked stress' only days after his Thanksgiving celebration. Perhaps this confusion stemmed from the fact that Russia felt Christmas was coming a full two weeks too early.
He stopped and watched as fat snowflakes began to fall, sticking to the ground and the bare limbs of trees. His contemplation was interrupted when he heard a peal of high, excited laughter nearby. Looking back, he noticed that the joyous noise was coming from a small child exiting a nearby store with his mother.
“Mama! Snow!” the little boy cried, tugging at his mother's coat with one mitten-covered hand while waving the other excitedly in the air. Russia smiled fondly as the two made their way down the street, with the little boy babbling about making a snowman and his mother chiming in once or twice during her toddler's monologue.
Russia glanced at the store they had left. It was a bookstore, and he found himself looking at the stacks of books displayed in its storefront window. His eyes widened as he read the title of a book in a stack labeled 'Practical Presents'.
Several minutes later, Russia stood at the counter, handing the book to the check-out clerk. The young woman scanned the book and smiled at him as she looked at its cover. “So, do you need a gift receipt?” she asked cheerfully.
“Nye-ah, no. This is for me.”
“Aw, congratulations!” the clerk exclaimed. “How far along is your wife?”
Russia had to muster nearly all of his impressive will to keep himself from bursting into laughter. Good thing America wasn't there to hear that. “Ame-ahem, excuse me. Slight cold,” Russia said as he covered up a giggle with a cough. “Amelia is almost six months pregnant.”
He was congratulated again, and soon Russia left the store. As he continued the walk back to America and his bustling Christmas plans, he flipped through the pages of his acquisition: a book titled “Expectation Without Exhaustion: 101 Tips for the Panicking Parent”.
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Seven days and the creation of one horrific-looking vat of lutefisk later, Christmas Eve had descended upon America's house along with his states. They had trickled in over the course of the week, and as the crowd grew larger and larger by the day, Russia was finding it harder and harder to have quality alone time with America. Every time they'd get caught under mistletoe, America would be whisked away by a gaggle of boisterous states to settle some inane argument like how to properly pronounce 'pecan'. Or America would proclaim that the baby was kicking, and before Russia could get his hand on the rounding stomach and feel the little bumps that had made him almost deliriously giddy for the last couple of weeks, he'd be crowded out by a flock of cooing half-siblings. Even mornings held no snuggling guarantees, as Russia had woken up five times this week to find America out of bed well before himself, greeting early-arriving states, covertly wrapping presents, or making fine adjustments to the placement of decorations on the enormous Christmas tree.
As a result, Russia had lost count of the number of times he'd seen America's face pout in sympathy for their situation this week. He had poured himself into reading the book he had picked up in order to nurse the bruise of having America's attention divided among his 50 visitors. And, for whatever reason, he couldn't seem to bring himself to tell America that he had bought the book. He worried that America might take it as a betrayal or as a distrust in his knowledge of baby lore.
But even only read in paranoid secrecy, the book had been interesting so far. Curiously, nearly all of the advice was identical in tone and content to what America had been telling him over the last few months. Although he had heard much of this advice before, it was nice to have it all down in writing.
However, there was one chapter that addressed a problem he had not considered, but now seemed to constantly hover in his mind like a troublesome fly. And that was chapter 7, “A House Divided: When Your First Bundle of Joy Becomes a Bundle of Jealousy”.
Given that Alaska and Hawaii, America's youngest states, now physically looked like they were in their mid-teens, Russia hadn't even considered adding sibling rivalry to his seemingly miles-long list of things to worry about. But over the course of the week, Russia had seen plenty of little squabbles amongst the states. Coupled with his own... troubled... relationship with Belarus, he felt a fool for forgetting that sibling dysfunction wasn't just a childhood problem.
“Are you guys sure? You've got it all under control?” Russia's attention perked up when he heard
America ask these questions from the large kitchen, followed by several voices chiming in that it wasn't a problem. America and some of his more culinary-talented states had bustled into the kitchen around an hour earlier to begin the arduous task of cooking Christmas Eve dinner for fifty states, two nations, and one unborn lunar colony.
“Okay, then. If you're sure you can handle making dinner, I'm going to the living room. I want to get off my feet for a while.”
Russia quickly looked around before shoving the book under the sofa cushion he was sitting on. A few seconds later, America entered, looking quite tired. Russia quickly stood, mouth opening with the intention to say something about how he was happy that they had some time to be alone together at last.
“What are you wearing?” was what came out instead.
America frowned and put his hands on his hips. “Nice to see you too, buddy,” he said.
“I'm sorry,” Russia said, waving his hands apologetically in front of him. “It's just... I was overwhelmed.”
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“I really am sorry about what I said. I'm very glad to see you,” Russia said as he moved to join America's side and helped him to the sofa. America sighed with appreciation as he sat down, leaning heavily against Russia. He wriggled for a moment before laying down entirely, his head resting on Russia's lap and his feet propped up by the arm of the sofa. “The holidays are tiring, da?”
“And then some,” America groaned, closing his eyes. “But I've had worse. There were a few times where I was terribly close to being due during Christmas. Hell, Iowa's birthday is in three days. I'll let that sink in for a minute.”
“If it's any consolation,” Russia said softly as he began to weave his fingers through America's hair. “My Christmas is on January 7th, and I would like nothing more than a quiet celebration with you.” He paused for a moment, moving his hand from America's head to his belly. “And you, of course.”
America hummed happily. “Sounds nice.”
They basked in silence for a few minutes before the sounds of a slamming door and heavy footsteps stomping downstairs broke their peaceful bubble. Russia turned his head towards the noise to see Alaska steadily heading down the stairs, his violet eyes slitted in anger and a very sour expression on his face. If Russia had doubted America's claim that ugly sweaters afflicted the whole family at Christmas, Alaska's outfit would have been confirmation in and of itself. The boy was wearing a dark blue sweater which prominently featured an incredibly lopsided, grinning caribou with tinsel wrapped around its horns.
Alaska finally finished moodily descending the stairs and proceeded towards the back door.
“Where are you going, Alek?” America asked.
“Out,” Alaska replied, gloved hand on the knob.
“For?”
“Hockey.”
“With?”
“Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, and... one of the Dakotas. Probably North.”
“Then why is it just you?”
Alaska sighed heavily and growled, “Because when we were deciding to play hockey, they pulled seniority on me and said that the youngest has to get the pool ready to serve as a rink and gather up the supplies.”
Russia and America exchanged glances. The older nation tilted his head towards their son, as if asking a question. America smiled and nodded, curling up slightly with a grunt to allow Russia to stand up. “I shall help you, da?”
America stretched out further and wiggled around on the sofa in an effort to find the most comfortable position. “Okay, have fun. I'm going to have a bit of a rest before dinner. It should be ready in around 2 hours, so don't forget!”
Russia and Alaska nodded, and as the two moved out to the backyard, Russia failed to notice the confused look on America's face as his hand dipped between the cushions and landed on something unusual.
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For several minutes, Russia helped his son remove the large protective tarp from the swimming pool in the yard and test out the thickness of the ice while they engaged in idle talk. Following that, they made their way to the nearby storage shed to acquire hockey sticks, a puck, and the small portable nets which would serve as goals.
As they began to pile the items outside the shed, Russia asked, “Are you upset about the new baby?”
“Huh?” Alaska asked, turning to give Russia a confused look. “Why would I be?”
“Your older brothers bossing you around seemed to bother you, and I was reading a book which said children may resent becoming older siblings...”
“Ha. Don't worry about that. I have 48 older siblings and one younger sister. Not only that, I was just shy of nine months old when Dad had Hawaii. I have literally no recollection of not being surrounded by siblings.”
“Does that... bother you?”
Alaska was silent for a moment as a look of concentration settled on his face. “It's... complex,” he began. “I'd be lying if I said I'm always okay with it. My brothers and sisters can be huge jerks sometimes, but I'm sure I'm a jerk to them just as often. And it's kind of nice to know that, even though we don't always get along, they'll always help out if something goes wrong.”
Russia's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if an unseen weight had been lifted from them. “So, you won't be upset when it's born?”
“Only if I get stuck on diaper duty,” Alaska said, grunting as a soccer ball rolled off an upper shelf and bounced off his head.
“Even if it's a boy? You wouldn't be the youngest boy anymore...”
“Good! I hope it IS a boy! Maybe then the other guys will stop making fun of me for being the 'baby', even though I'm taller than all of them. Especially Rhode Island. He comes up to here,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the area of his sternum. “Here! And that inaccurately-named, bushy-browed jerk calls me 'Li'l A-last-a',” Alaska said. Partway through his tirade, he had picked up a hockey stick and had begun to grip it in a way Russia found quite familiar. Funny how inheritance works.
Just as they were finishing setting the nets on the ice, they heard the loud, laughing voices of hockey-eager states entering the yard. A dangerous glint lit up in Russia's eye. “Wait here a moment,” Russia said to Alaska. “I would like to have a word with your brothers.” Alaska shrugged in confusion and continued to wrap up the preparations.
The happy din coming from Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, and North Dakota died away as they watched Russia approach them with a wide, welcoming smile on his face.
“Privyet!” Russia called as he continued to approach. “My son has informed me that you shall be playing hockey with him. How fun!”
The young men looked nervously at each other.
Russia finally stopped alarmingly close, and managed to loom over the now nervous Midwestern states despite the fact that they were all strong and tall themselves. “However, I have gathered that you may have been... less than brotherly today.”
“We just-”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Russia chastised, waving is index finger in a scolding motion. “I believe I was talking. Now, you may have noticed that Alaska resembles me in some ways. He has my eyes. He has my nose. He has my height, my build.”
He positioned his hands in such a way that it looked like he was clutching a long, invisible object. “However, just recently I noticed that he also has my grip,” he said, his voice lowering into an uneasy hush. The welcoming smile had never left his face, though now it was oddly sharp at its edges, and a strange shadow seemed to darken his eyes. “I could teach him how to fully exploit that grip if I continue to hear... how shall I put this... less than savory stories about his treatment. Are we clear?”
The five states nodded quickly in unison, clear fear written on their faces. “Good. Spread the word,” Russia said, leaning back. Immediately, the eerie atmosphere evaporated, and he made his way towards the door, waving cheerfully. “Have fun, boys!”
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“How'd it go?” America asked as Russia entered.
Russia, his back facing America as he closed the door, responded, “Quite well, I think,” He turned around and froze when he saw America lying on the sofa, a small grin on his face as he flipped through the book he had bought. “I...”
America turned his head toward Russia and pointed at the book. With a hearty laugh, he said, “Interesting!”
Russia hung his head slightly, shuffling his feet. “I know you wanted to be the one to teach me about babies,” he said. “I'm sorry I looked at outside sources.”
America laughed again. “No, no. I'm not mad. Get over here,” he said, beckoning. Russia obliged and joined America on the sofa, where they repositioned themselves with America's head on Russia's lap. “Mostly, I think it's funny that, of all the books in the world, you pick this one.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn't get any outside info at all,” America said. He closed the book and presented it, cover first, to Russia. “I wrote this!”
Violet eyes widened with shock as Russia pointed first at America, then at the book. “You...?”
“That's right, under a clever pseudonym,” America said, running his finger under the author's name. “Ulysses Simon Adams. Get it? Cute, huh?” He grinned. “Obviously I had to change pronouns around a bit, though. 'Names have been changed to protect the innocent', that sort of thing.”
“Ulysses?”
“Oh shut up, U-names are hard.”
“It is surprising,” Russia conceded. After a moment, a small, teasing smile began to appear on his face. “I do have one question, though.”
“What's that?”
“According to chapter 6, it's much healthier for the baby, so... do you intend to breastfeed?”
Meanwhile, halfway across the world, Yong-Soo suddenly glanced around wildly, feeling as if he had somehow just missed something of the utmost importance.
Head-canon funtime!
1) The state of Minnesota has really been dubbed “the lutefisk capital of the world”, and I think he embraces this to a truly alarming/embarrassing degree.
2) North and South Dakota are completely identical twins, and they freaking haaaate thaaaat shiiit.
3) It's pronounced pih-CAHN and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. A liar!
4) Oh Aleksey. You were such a cute little thing, and now you're a cranky pants teenager who can't catch a break. Sorry! D:
Actual fact funtime!
1) Christmas for the Russian Orthodox Church is January 7, in accordance with the Julian calendar.
2) 'Privyet' is 'hi!' in Russian
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