The Heartbreak
Title: The Heartbreak
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Russia, America.
Premise: The time comes to recognize the Soviet Union, and nothing is like it was.
Washington DC - The White House. November, 1934.
America had so much nervous energy that he'd assembled and taken apart three consecutive towers made out of all the spare stationary spread across the conference room. Then he'd gotten up, made more coffee, found the press secretary's spare business cards, and started on a fourth. It looked neat. Kinda Chrysler-esque. Nobody else was supposed to arrive for another fifteen minutes. America treated that data point as relevant, in that he was pretty sure he shouldn't be using the Russian delegation's binders as foundationals by the time they turned up. He'd already been in there for half an hour.
Across the room, the door handle shifted, clicked against the mahogany of the jamb. He sat up straight. Footsteps shifted in the hallway for a few seconds before--before Russia stepped in, holding the door open with his hip as he studied a thick manila file in his right hand. The ends of his scarf trailed down the front of his dark suit, a familiar little touch. America smiled instantly.
"Russia!" He dropped a pen. The top section of his tower clattered in on itself. He blinked down at it, then looked back up. He beamed. "This is so--God, I'm sorry I didn't make it down to greet you when you got in last night, you know how it is with these state visits, huh? It's like, everything's happening all over the place, and everybody knows where everybody else is, except that they're all wrong, and none of their room assignments agree with each other--but this is so great! We're gonna recognize you finally! God, I can't tell you how much I've missed being able to go over to your place. My new boss is such a class act, I think you'll really--"
Russia looked at him over the top of his papers, face blank. His eyes swept over the gleaming tabletops, taking in the scattered remains of the previous towers, and dropped his folder in front of the nearest chair. It was seven seats away from America.
"Hey," America tipped his head. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, thank you." Russia began sorting through the tabs of a file, his lips pressed into a flat line.
America rose out of his chair, caught at the lip of his tower when he bumped the edge of the table and it started to tilt. "Oh--good, then. You sleep okay and everything? God, fucking jet lag, I hate it when they want us to travel with them--"
Russia slapped an open hand down on the tabletop. The sound rang through the empty room, and the stationary tower trembled. "America. I'm fine. Don't make me repeat myself."
America paused, then raised his eyebrows at him. "Yeah, you seem...totally normal, and like, in a great mood, too. I can't imagine why I asked."
"I can't either," Russia snapped, and turned his back on America.
Well, America thought, in what he called his fussy England voice. He scrutinized the back of Russia's head and resorted his thoughts. "Coffee?"
"No. But I'm sure you've already gone through at least a pot on your own." That almost sounded normal--but then America saw the line of Russia's back stiffen.
America squinted one eye shut at him, then shrugged and picked up his cup. "What's your point? I like coffee. I'd ask if you were sure, but apparently I'm not getting bonus points for asking for clarification today."
"No point. I'm just filling the silence. You understand. After all, you've always been fond of inane, useless conversation." Russia smiled coldly. "So, let's play. Should I ask about your health first, or how you've managed to survive the embarrassment of wiping out half the world's economy?" The chair seven seats away creaked softly as Russia sat down, threw one leg casually over the other. "You decide."
America turned slowly back to face him. He set his cup back down with a soft click. "Wow, do I really get a choice?" he marveled. "Because both of those conversations sound like so much fun."
The other nation's foot tapped lightly against the leg of his chair. "Don't they, though? And yes, you get a choice. I'm being generous...I can afford to be."
America grimaced. A cold little knot started in his stomach. "Seriously, what's the matter with you? I thought you'd be happy about this."
"Oh, I am. Overjoyed. It's wonderful that you can find it in your heart to recognize us the moment you need to improve your trade connections." Russia cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. After a moment, he let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. "You're disgusting."
America flinched.
He stood in front of his chair and began methodically taking apart his tower of pens and folders and business cards, sorting the detritus into neat piles. It gave him something to look at that wasn't Russia. "It's not like trade is the only reason we're doing it," he muttered.
One of Russia's blank sheets of paper swished softly over the smooth, polished wood as he guided it with his index finger. He never took his eyes off of America's demolition project. "Everyone else has recognized us." The paper caught on the grain, but Russia dragged it on anyway. It scraped and stuttered. "You're just upset because you're coming in last. I imagine that's confusing, for someone who comes out on top as often as you do. Actually," he smirked, "I imagine these past few years have felt like that."
A slow flush climbed the back of America's neck. He glanced up, and caught Russia's cruel smile, and then went back to what he was doing because he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He felt something echo inside of him, a sort of hollow orange sound, and it was getting louder.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Russia went on conversationally, "but didn't I once say that capitalism would fail you?" He nodded to himself. "I did, didn't I? I predicted your opulent little fantasy world would crumble apart, but you brushed me off. You said...something about rivers of blood, I think."
America didn't look up.
"And then one of us mentioned England...Was that me? I said he wouldn't be the one to help you, of course. And now look at what's happened." Russia's voice dripped with satisfaction. "He's furious at you. Because it's not enough for you to ruin yourself: you have to take everyone with you."
It wasn't worth it to take apart the folders and notecards and pens anymore. America's fingertips lowered to the edge of the table to steady himself. He wet his lips. His voice was weak. "...Why are you saying this?"
Russia stared at him with wide, innocent eyes and a smirk on his lips. "Because it's true. And honesty is so important to you, isn't it?"
"Capitalism hasn't failed," America snapped. He glared up at Russia and adjusted his glasses. "It's just...this is just a, a thing. I'll get better. And don't even try to act like you haven't ever had trouble with your system, when the last time I saw you--"
"--Was more than a decade ago," Russia snorted. He planted his hands on the tabletop and got to his feet. "I'm not interested in defending our system to you anymore. It speaks for itself. We are the only country who remains relatively unaffected by your stupidity. Things for us have only changed for the better."
America swallowed back cold bile and heard himself say, "Yeah--how is your sister?"
There was a sudden silence. Russia's fingers twitched on the cover of his file folder. Then, blandly, "Ukraine or Belarus? They're both well, why do you ask?"
America flushed and lowered his eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm not trying to...just, sorry."
"Spare me," Russia snarled. "We both know you've never been sorry for anything in your life. And why would you? You've been pampered and praised since you were a child. It's left you selfish. Spoiled and self-centered."
America's head jerked up, and he advanced around the table towards Russia. "Where--is all of this coming from--" He stopped a foot away, and his eyes swept over the other nation. "Russia...we're friends. I thought we were..."
Russia's lip curled. "What you thought isn't any of my concern. But I don't care to hear your stammering, half-realized little protests, so shut that mouth of yours until you have something useful to say. I'm aware that it may take some time."
America blinked, and blinked again. A tight red feeling crawled up his throat, and his heartbeat hurt, in his chest, in his ears, his fingertips. He pressed his lips together for an instant, hard, and then reached out a hand for Russia's sleeve. "Why…"
"Don't you dare touch me." Russia jerked his arm away. His breath hissed between his teeth, and his entire body tensed. His hands shook with some terrible energy. "I won't expose myself to your filth."
For the first time in his life, America understood what people meant when they said that they wanted to die. Held him...he had held him and kissed his face when he had nightmares, and when he kissed him it tasted like frost and old stone, and America never minded how cold Russia felt, not even a little, not even in winter, he, he thought it felt nice... He managed a dim "I think it's kinda late for that," because they were the first words that mustered into a line behind his mouth, and he had to fill that silence or he didn't know what he would do.
"Oh. That." Russia leaned back against the table. His suit shone dully under the lights; it made him look even paler, sick, almost. He shot America a mocking little smile. "What about it?"
"What about it," America echoed. Then, "Nothing--you just said." The room looked sort of blurry--had he put his glasses back on? His eyes flicked around his peripheral vision, and there were no edges, and he curled his fingers and, oh, right, there they were, so no he hadn't, but even so, the room looked--looked awfully blurry.
Russia made a soft, sympathetic noise. "America..." He straightened up again, took a step towards him. Russia's lips twitched into a pitying grimace. "Think of it like this: it's not that I don't want you anymore--it's that I never did."
America stared. Another, smaller oasis of confusion opened inside the roaring ocean of the first, and he took an odd refuge inside it. This was a--a data point. "That's not even true, though," he wondered.
A pause. "Isn't it?" Russia raised an eyebrow. His hand tightened infinitesimally.
America tilted his head and gave him a quizzical look. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "No," he reflected. And he knew it wasn't.
America switched off the outside world and cleared the mental decks, felt his brain start and turn over, and gather and sort and compare things--everything that stood out, all the little details since Russia had walked into the room: this lie, the way Russia had tensed for a moment when he had teased him about the coffee, the way his hand was flexed, right now...if he could, if he could assemble it into a picture...
...Russia's eyes narrowed, fixed on the movement of America's face, tracking the the little twitches at the corners of his eyes, the sides of his mouth.
And then Russia hit him.
Not with the flat of his hand, either, but with a fist, and the stony peaks of his knuckles slammed into America's cheek. America hit the wall with his shoulder. Whatever he had been thinking about flew apart. He raised a hand to his aching face and whispered, horrified: "Russia."
Russia wrung out his hand as he stalked towards him, loomed over America. He lunged, grabbed America's chin with cold, clawed fingers, and slammed his head back against the wall. Picture frames rattled across the room. He shoved his face in close.
"You know who else fucked you and left you?" he whispered. "England. What's the common thread, here, America? It's not me. It's not him." Tiny crescents broke into America's skin under Russia's nails, and beads of blood clung to the ends of his fingers. "Think about it."
America felt his knees bend, and for a moment, all that was keeping him upright was Russia's hand on his jaw. He couldn't think about anything at all. His stomach felt ripped open and torn out, and the gaps stuffed with coal, grimy and crumbly and filthy and working its way inside him. He looked back at Russia, empty and unblinking, and then his eyes dropped in simple defeat.
Russia smiled, then turned his head at the sound of voices down the hallway. His fingers tightened for a moment, and he looked back at America, at the utter misery informing every line of his body. He jerked his wrist, and the shock forced America to look at him. "Now," Russia murmured, "Why don't you go ahead and finish your paperwork? Our diplomats are coming."
America nodded, without really hearing, because something in there had suggested that Russia would let him go if he agreed, and that was all he wanted. And then Russia did let him go, but he wasn't ready for it, and he slid to the floor with his knees tucked against his chest. He buried his head in his arms and shuddered.
Russia didn't move away.
America rose, shaking, back to his feet, both hands braced against the wall, and right then he hated Russia's proximity, hated him for not even granting him an instant of privacy while he struggled to compose himself. He'd only just made it upright when the door nudged open beside him, and he looked down into the face of--his boss--
"Alfred?" Roosevelt sat up in his wheelchair. His gaze flicked from America to Russia and back.
The words tumbled out on their own. His voice trembled. "I'm sorry, sir," America stammered. "I mean--no--nothing happened. I'm sorry. I can't, I can't...be here…help with the...I'm not feeling well--" More footsteps. Others were coming. "I, I--I'm sorry--"
He pivoted on his heel and fled the room. He couldn't look back, at the President or at Russia.
+++
--President Franklin D. Roosevelt, realizing that non-recognition had not stopped communism from taking hold in the Soviet Union, and that the United States faced international economic and diplomatic challenges that required Soviet cooperation, invited Soviet Foreign Minister Maxim Litvinov to Washington in November 1933 for negotiations as one of his first major foreign relations acts in office. On November 17, 1933, the United States and the Soviet Union signed an official agreement establishing formal diplomatic relations.
Ironically, the recognition of the Soviet Union marked the beginning of the worst relations between the two nations in history, as Soviet hostility, American suspicion, and Stalin's astounding foreign and domestic policies combined to create an atmosphere which was absolutely incompatible with diplomatic progress. Russia and America would not manage to find common cause on any meaningful issue until they became allies in World War 2.
If you would like to read the records of the Roosevelt-Litvinov conversations, which detail most of the obstacles that had until then blocked formal recognition (and most of the promises on which the Soviets later reneged), they're available here.
--"Yeah, how is your sister?" - "They're both fine, why do you ask?" America's reference and Russia's response, which were current events at the time. It was every bit as much of a tasteless thing for America to say as it sounds like it was.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Russia, America.
Premise: The time comes to recognize the Soviet Union, and nothing is like it was.
Washington DC - The White House. November, 1934.
America had so much nervous energy that he'd assembled and taken apart three consecutive towers made out of all the spare stationary spread across the conference room. Then he'd gotten up, made more coffee, found the press secretary's spare business cards, and started on a fourth. It looked neat. Kinda Chrysler-esque. Nobody else was supposed to arrive for another fifteen minutes. America treated that data point as relevant, in that he was pretty sure he shouldn't be using the Russian delegation's binders as foundationals by the time they turned up. He'd already been in there for half an hour.
Across the room, the door handle shifted, clicked against the mahogany of the jamb. He sat up straight. Footsteps shifted in the hallway for a few seconds before--before Russia stepped in, holding the door open with his hip as he studied a thick manila file in his right hand. The ends of his scarf trailed down the front of his dark suit, a familiar little touch. America smiled instantly.
"Russia!" He dropped a pen. The top section of his tower clattered in on itself. He blinked down at it, then looked back up. He beamed. "This is so--God, I'm sorry I didn't make it down to greet you when you got in last night, you know how it is with these state visits, huh? It's like, everything's happening all over the place, and everybody knows where everybody else is, except that they're all wrong, and none of their room assignments agree with each other--but this is so great! We're gonna recognize you finally! God, I can't tell you how much I've missed being able to go over to your place. My new boss is such a class act, I think you'll really--"
Russia looked at him over the top of his papers, face blank. His eyes swept over the gleaming tabletops, taking in the scattered remains of the previous towers, and dropped his folder in front of the nearest chair. It was seven seats away from America.
"Hey," America tipped his head. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, thank you." Russia began sorting through the tabs of a file, his lips pressed into a flat line.
America rose out of his chair, caught at the lip of his tower when he bumped the edge of the table and it started to tilt. "Oh--good, then. You sleep okay and everything? God, fucking jet lag, I hate it when they want us to travel with them--"
Russia slapped an open hand down on the tabletop. The sound rang through the empty room, and the stationary tower trembled. "America. I'm fine. Don't make me repeat myself."
America paused, then raised his eyebrows at him. "Yeah, you seem...totally normal, and like, in a great mood, too. I can't imagine why I asked."
"I can't either," Russia snapped, and turned his back on America.
Well, America thought, in what he called his fussy England voice. He scrutinized the back of Russia's head and resorted his thoughts. "Coffee?"
"No. But I'm sure you've already gone through at least a pot on your own." That almost sounded normal--but then America saw the line of Russia's back stiffen.
America squinted one eye shut at him, then shrugged and picked up his cup. "What's your point? I like coffee. I'd ask if you were sure, but apparently I'm not getting bonus points for asking for clarification today."
"No point. I'm just filling the silence. You understand. After all, you've always been fond of inane, useless conversation." Russia smiled coldly. "So, let's play. Should I ask about your health first, or how you've managed to survive the embarrassment of wiping out half the world's economy?" The chair seven seats away creaked softly as Russia sat down, threw one leg casually over the other. "You decide."
America turned slowly back to face him. He set his cup back down with a soft click. "Wow, do I really get a choice?" he marveled. "Because both of those conversations sound like so much fun."
The other nation's foot tapped lightly against the leg of his chair. "Don't they, though? And yes, you get a choice. I'm being generous...I can afford to be."
America grimaced. A cold little knot started in his stomach. "Seriously, what's the matter with you? I thought you'd be happy about this."
"Oh, I am. Overjoyed. It's wonderful that you can find it in your heart to recognize us the moment you need to improve your trade connections." Russia cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. After a moment, he let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. "You're disgusting."
America flinched.
He stood in front of his chair and began methodically taking apart his tower of pens and folders and business cards, sorting the detritus into neat piles. It gave him something to look at that wasn't Russia. "It's not like trade is the only reason we're doing it," he muttered.
One of Russia's blank sheets of paper swished softly over the smooth, polished wood as he guided it with his index finger. He never took his eyes off of America's demolition project. "Everyone else has recognized us." The paper caught on the grain, but Russia dragged it on anyway. It scraped and stuttered. "You're just upset because you're coming in last. I imagine that's confusing, for someone who comes out on top as often as you do. Actually," he smirked, "I imagine these past few years have felt like that."
A slow flush climbed the back of America's neck. He glanced up, and caught Russia's cruel smile, and then went back to what he was doing because he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He felt something echo inside of him, a sort of hollow orange sound, and it was getting louder.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Russia went on conversationally, "but didn't I once say that capitalism would fail you?" He nodded to himself. "I did, didn't I? I predicted your opulent little fantasy world would crumble apart, but you brushed me off. You said...something about rivers of blood, I think."
America didn't look up.
"And then one of us mentioned England...Was that me? I said he wouldn't be the one to help you, of course. And now look at what's happened." Russia's voice dripped with satisfaction. "He's furious at you. Because it's not enough for you to ruin yourself: you have to take everyone with you."
It wasn't worth it to take apart the folders and notecards and pens anymore. America's fingertips lowered to the edge of the table to steady himself. He wet his lips. His voice was weak. "...Why are you saying this?"
Russia stared at him with wide, innocent eyes and a smirk on his lips. "Because it's true. And honesty is so important to you, isn't it?"
"Capitalism hasn't failed," America snapped. He glared up at Russia and adjusted his glasses. "It's just...this is just a, a thing. I'll get better. And don't even try to act like you haven't ever had trouble with your system, when the last time I saw you--"
"--Was more than a decade ago," Russia snorted. He planted his hands on the tabletop and got to his feet. "I'm not interested in defending our system to you anymore. It speaks for itself. We are the only country who remains relatively unaffected by your stupidity. Things for us have only changed for the better."
America swallowed back cold bile and heard himself say, "Yeah--how is your sister?"
There was a sudden silence. Russia's fingers twitched on the cover of his file folder. Then, blandly, "Ukraine or Belarus? They're both well, why do you ask?"
America flushed and lowered his eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm not trying to...just, sorry."
"Spare me," Russia snarled. "We both know you've never been sorry for anything in your life. And why would you? You've been pampered and praised since you were a child. It's left you selfish. Spoiled and self-centered."
America's head jerked up, and he advanced around the table towards Russia. "Where--is all of this coming from--" He stopped a foot away, and his eyes swept over the other nation. "Russia...we're friends. I thought we were..."
Russia's lip curled. "What you thought isn't any of my concern. But I don't care to hear your stammering, half-realized little protests, so shut that mouth of yours until you have something useful to say. I'm aware that it may take some time."
America blinked, and blinked again. A tight red feeling crawled up his throat, and his heartbeat hurt, in his chest, in his ears, his fingertips. He pressed his lips together for an instant, hard, and then reached out a hand for Russia's sleeve. "Why…"
"Don't you dare touch me." Russia jerked his arm away. His breath hissed between his teeth, and his entire body tensed. His hands shook with some terrible energy. "I won't expose myself to your filth."
For the first time in his life, America understood what people meant when they said that they wanted to die. Held him...he had held him and kissed his face when he had nightmares, and when he kissed him it tasted like frost and old stone, and America never minded how cold Russia felt, not even a little, not even in winter, he, he thought it felt nice... He managed a dim "I think it's kinda late for that," because they were the first words that mustered into a line behind his mouth, and he had to fill that silence or he didn't know what he would do.
"Oh. That." Russia leaned back against the table. His suit shone dully under the lights; it made him look even paler, sick, almost. He shot America a mocking little smile. "What about it?"
"What about it," America echoed. Then, "Nothing--you just said." The room looked sort of blurry--had he put his glasses back on? His eyes flicked around his peripheral vision, and there were no edges, and he curled his fingers and, oh, right, there they were, so no he hadn't, but even so, the room looked--looked awfully blurry.
Russia made a soft, sympathetic noise. "America..." He straightened up again, took a step towards him. Russia's lips twitched into a pitying grimace. "Think of it like this: it's not that I don't want you anymore--it's that I never did."
America stared. Another, smaller oasis of confusion opened inside the roaring ocean of the first, and he took an odd refuge inside it. This was a--a data point. "That's not even true, though," he wondered.
A pause. "Isn't it?" Russia raised an eyebrow. His hand tightened infinitesimally.
America tilted his head and gave him a quizzical look. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "No," he reflected. And he knew it wasn't.
America switched off the outside world and cleared the mental decks, felt his brain start and turn over, and gather and sort and compare things--everything that stood out, all the little details since Russia had walked into the room: this lie, the way Russia had tensed for a moment when he had teased him about the coffee, the way his hand was flexed, right now...if he could, if he could assemble it into a picture...
...Russia's eyes narrowed, fixed on the movement of America's face, tracking the the little twitches at the corners of his eyes, the sides of his mouth.
And then Russia hit him.
Not with the flat of his hand, either, but with a fist, and the stony peaks of his knuckles slammed into America's cheek. America hit the wall with his shoulder. Whatever he had been thinking about flew apart. He raised a hand to his aching face and whispered, horrified: "Russia."
Russia wrung out his hand as he stalked towards him, loomed over America. He lunged, grabbed America's chin with cold, clawed fingers, and slammed his head back against the wall. Picture frames rattled across the room. He shoved his face in close.
"You know who else fucked you and left you?" he whispered. "England. What's the common thread, here, America? It's not me. It's not him." Tiny crescents broke into America's skin under Russia's nails, and beads of blood clung to the ends of his fingers. "Think about it."
America felt his knees bend, and for a moment, all that was keeping him upright was Russia's hand on his jaw. He couldn't think about anything at all. His stomach felt ripped open and torn out, and the gaps stuffed with coal, grimy and crumbly and filthy and working its way inside him. He looked back at Russia, empty and unblinking, and then his eyes dropped in simple defeat.
Russia smiled, then turned his head at the sound of voices down the hallway. His fingers tightened for a moment, and he looked back at America, at the utter misery informing every line of his body. He jerked his wrist, and the shock forced America to look at him. "Now," Russia murmured, "Why don't you go ahead and finish your paperwork? Our diplomats are coming."
America nodded, without really hearing, because something in there had suggested that Russia would let him go if he agreed, and that was all he wanted. And then Russia did let him go, but he wasn't ready for it, and he slid to the floor with his knees tucked against his chest. He buried his head in his arms and shuddered.
Russia didn't move away.
America rose, shaking, back to his feet, both hands braced against the wall, and right then he hated Russia's proximity, hated him for not even granting him an instant of privacy while he struggled to compose himself. He'd only just made it upright when the door nudged open beside him, and he looked down into the face of--his boss--
"Alfred?" Roosevelt sat up in his wheelchair. His gaze flicked from America to Russia and back.
The words tumbled out on their own. His voice trembled. "I'm sorry, sir," America stammered. "I mean--no--nothing happened. I'm sorry. I can't, I can't...be here…help with the...I'm not feeling well--" More footsteps. Others were coming. "I, I--I'm sorry--"
He pivoted on his heel and fled the room. He couldn't look back, at the President or at Russia.
+++
--President Franklin D. Roosevelt, realizing that non-recognition had not stopped communism from taking hold in the Soviet Union, and that the United States faced international economic and diplomatic challenges that required Soviet cooperation, invited Soviet Foreign Minister Maxim Litvinov to Washington in November 1933 for negotiations as one of his first major foreign relations acts in office. On November 17, 1933, the United States and the Soviet Union signed an official agreement establishing formal diplomatic relations.
Ironically, the recognition of the Soviet Union marked the beginning of the worst relations between the two nations in history, as Soviet hostility, American suspicion, and Stalin's astounding foreign and domestic policies combined to create an atmosphere which was absolutely incompatible with diplomatic progress. Russia and America would not manage to find common cause on any meaningful issue until they became allies in World War 2.
If you would like to read the records of the Roosevelt-Litvinov conversations, which detail most of the obstacles that had until then blocked formal recognition (and most of the promises on which the Soviets later reneged), they're available here.
--"Yeah, how is your sister?" - "They're both fine, why do you ask?" America's reference and Russia's response, which were current events at the time. It was every bit as much of a tasteless thing for America to say as it sounds like it was.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.