Cold War Wedlock (Russia/Fem!America) 2a/?
anonymous
January 9 2011, 23:33:10 UTC
Here is Part 2. I hope readers are enjoying the story so far. I want the fluff to come but some realism needs to come first. Please comment if you want me to continue. Author-anon would be very happy. I wonder if OP is still out there. July 1, 1958
“Shit. Aw shit.” America’s voice came out loud and strong as she paced her bedroom clearly distraught. She ran both hands through her hair, mind not on the fact that she had just messed up the hair she had spent the passed thirty minutes to fix. The nation currently had an urgent thought racing through her head as she walked from one end of the room to the other before making her back to the calendar nailed to the wall at the entrance of the bedroom. Her cerulean eyes fell upon the dates again, and biting her bottom lip as her eyes fell on the date for the umpteenth time within the last fifteen minutes, she spun around in frustration, “Bullshit!”
She was late. A single week that signaled something far more dreadful than the monthly red wave itself.
She was never late. It was a given fact. Emily F. Jones, practically the United States of America, was never late with her monthly cycle. Normally she would have been able to predict it as soon as the time of the month came around, but with the all the work that had been going on, on Capital Hill, she had let the thought slip. She had completely forgotten, and now she was looking at seven days with no sign of the red flag. Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowned. Why had she missed her period? Stress? Exercise? No, she’d been late forty-eight times before, and always, she’d not see any blood until eight or so months later, and it wouldn’t just be blood sliding out of her.
America dared to look at the calendar again, hoping to anything in the world that she had miss counted, that she had skipped a week and was looking at the wrong date.
But no.
Her luck just wouldn’t cut it.
She was late one week.
Late, a sorry equivalent to being the oh-so-happy mother to be.
The nation sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Her mind was still battling with the thought, the truth, but the more she resisted, the more it came at her. “This can’t be happening…” Falling to a squat she buried her face in her arms, “This is not happening.”
While wallowing in her denial, the sound of the doorbell broke through her arms. Peeking out, she glared at nothing in particular, yelling a half-hearted, “Go away!” Before collapsing on her backside, her arms now encircling her knees. Emily sat there for a few moments, the doorbell persisting once, twice, three times, before she grudgingly dragged herself to her feet and downstairs to the front door.
“Hello?” The country greeted, before giving her trademark smile that seemed to make many a men melt in their places. It was returned by the young human man standing before her, as he held up a manila envelope.
“Morning, Ms. Jones. I do hope I’m not disturbing anything.” The man replied, his voice warm with hints of his Southern descent.
Emily widened the gap of the door when she recognized the familiar face of one of her favorite members of the president’s aid. The young man had been in the business of politics for only a few years, but already he had captured the nation’s praise as well as her secret. It wasn’t unusual for the higher government officials to know of Emily’s existence, but the aid before her was different. Young as he was, Emily could feel an unusually high level of patriotism, a love for his country even after he found out it was embodied by a woman. It attracted the nation, forming a connection between them only a citizen and a country could have. Unfortunately, unbeknown to her, it would later be shattered when Larson failed to return from Vietnam after willingly turning in his suit and tie for an army uniform. “Edward Larson, I was wondering where you ran off to?” She crossed her arms, but continued to smile, “What’s buzzin, cuzzin?”
July 1, 1958
“Shit. Aw shit.” America’s voice came out loud and strong as she paced her bedroom clearly distraught. She ran both hands through her hair, mind not on the fact that she had just messed up the hair she had spent the passed thirty minutes to fix. The nation currently had an urgent thought racing through her head as she walked from one end of the room to the other before making her back to the calendar nailed to the wall at the entrance of the bedroom. Her cerulean eyes fell upon the dates again, and biting her bottom lip as her eyes fell on the date for the umpteenth time within the last fifteen minutes, she spun around in frustration, “Bullshit!”
She was late. A single week that signaled something far more dreadful than the monthly red wave itself.
She was never late. It was a given fact. Emily F. Jones, practically the United States of America, was never late with her monthly cycle. Normally she would have been able to predict it as soon as the time of the month came around, but with the all the work that had been going on, on Capital Hill, she had let the thought slip. She had completely forgotten, and now she was looking at seven days with no sign of the red flag. Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowned. Why had she missed her period? Stress? Exercise? No, she’d been late forty-eight times before, and always, she’d not see any blood until eight or so months later, and it wouldn’t just be blood sliding out of her.
America dared to look at the calendar again, hoping to anything in the world that she had miss counted, that she had skipped a week and was looking at the wrong date.
But no.
Her luck just wouldn’t cut it.
She was late one week.
Late, a sorry equivalent to being the oh-so-happy mother to be.
The nation sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Her mind was still battling with the thought, the truth, but the more she resisted, the more it came at her. “This can’t be happening…” Falling to a squat she buried her face in her arms, “This is not happening.”
While wallowing in her denial, the sound of the doorbell broke through her arms. Peeking out, she glared at nothing in particular, yelling a half-hearted, “Go away!” Before collapsing on her backside, her arms now encircling her knees. Emily sat there for a few moments, the doorbell persisting once, twice, three times, before she grudgingly dragged herself to her feet and downstairs to the front door.
“Hello?” The country greeted, before giving her trademark smile that seemed to make many a men melt in their places. It was returned by the young human man standing before her, as he held up a manila envelope.
“Morning, Ms. Jones. I do hope I’m not disturbing anything.” The man replied, his voice warm with hints of his Southern descent.
Emily widened the gap of the door when she recognized the familiar face of one of her favorite members of the president’s aid. The young man had been in the business of politics for only a few years, but already he had captured the nation’s praise as well as her secret. It wasn’t unusual for the higher government officials to know of Emily’s existence, but the aid before her was different. Young as he was, Emily could feel an unusually high level of patriotism, a love for his country even after he found out it was embodied by a woman. It attracted the nation, forming a connection between them only a citizen and a country could have. Unfortunately, unbeknown to her, it would later be shattered when Larson failed to return from Vietnam after willingly turning in his suit and tie for an army uniform. “Edward Larson, I was wondering where you ran off to?” She crossed her arms, but continued to smile, “What’s buzzin, cuzzin?”
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