A New Deal
Title: A New Deal
Author: pyrrhiccomedy. Thanks to myxxym for taking a look at this for me!
Rating: PG.
Characters: America, Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Premise: Heartbroken, depressed, and under fire from all sides, America gets a pep talk from the master of giving America pep talks.
Washington DC - The White House. November, 1934.
"Alfred? …Alfred?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Did you hear a word of what I just said?"
America tilted his chin down in a nod and stared into the middle distance. The Oval Office hung heavy and sedate before his eyes, but he felt like he could blink it away. "Yes. There was a…a conspiracy."
"That's right. A fascist conspiracy."
"And they…wanted to, uh, wanted to overthrow you."
"Something like that," Roosevelt grinned.
"Fascists, this time."
"Corporate fascists, that's right."
"Not communists?" he glanced up.
Roosevelt clapped him on the arm as he rolled past him to the liquor cabinet. "Believe it or not, not every threat we face comes from communism," he replied dryly. The cabinet door creaked open, glasses clinked together. "Besides, they've pretty much given up on all that…you know," he paused, unfocused, with a bottle of scotch half-withdrawn from the cupboard. "Inciting," he finished.
"Who, the Socialist Party of America? I hear them protesting all the--" America started across the office to help his boss, and got waved back. He subsided, shifting from foot to foot.
"Oh, I meant the Soviets, funding the SPA. Like they said they would, last year." He set two short glasses out onto the counter and poured.
"Oh." America chewed his lip. "They'll just start up again."
Roosevelt sighed. "There's no need to worry about that now. And try to be optimistic--people can surprise you, sometimes."
America looked away and tugged at his opposite cuffs. "Russia's not people."
"Don't split hairs," the President admonished him.
"I'm not. He's just a jerk."
"Well, jerks are people, too. Have a drink, Alfred." Roosevelt held a glass out to him. America came out from behind the President's desk and took it, stared down into it. "What I was trying to say is that there's no need for you to worry. We found out about it, that's all that matters."
"What, about the…Soviets funding the…?"
"…No, the--the fascists." Roosevelt gave him a strange look.
"Oh. Right."
"You've really got your head in the clouds, don't you. It seems like ever since we recognized the Soviet Union last year, you've been…" he trailed off.
America mustered up a smile and offered, "You can say 'depressed,' sir, I won't think you're making fun of me."
"Whatever you want to call it," he went on. Then, after a beat, "And you're a little fixated on the communists."
"Shouldn't I be? They want to overthrow democracy!" America's fingers tightened around his glass.
"That's still the fascists."
"The Reds, too! Everyone's saying the Depression is my fault--"
"Alfred--"
"And m-maybe it is, but--they're saying how, like, how if I had some other system, communism or, fascism or whatever, that none of this would have happened." That note of desperation crept beneath his voice. "If--they think that if I was just different--"
"We're working it out," Roosevelt soothed. He set a hand on America's forearm. "We'll pull out of this, wait and see."
"But they won't wait!" he protested. "The communists and the--the--they just keep…keep picking at me, and if they take away democracy, sir, I don't know what I'll be--"
"All right, Alfred, calm down--no one's going to take democracy from you. But let's talk about the communists, if that'll make you feel better." Roosevelt nudged the bottle of scotch back into its nook in the liquor cabinet. "There's only half a million American Socialists, you realize. I wouldn't really call that a threat."
"Half a million is enough!" He raised his glass to his lips, brought it back down, and said, "The fascists had 'only' half a million troops to march on the White House, didn't they?"
"Oh, so you were listening--"
"My own troops!"
"They only said--"
"I thought they were proud of me!" America's voice cracked. He put the glass down. His hands shook with useless energy.
"They only said they had half a million troops. And--if we're still talking about the SPA--are we still talking about the--?" Roosevelt examined him with a half-smile hung from the corner of his mouth. "They're not soldiers. A lot of them are just…college kids."
"He doesn't care," America muttered. He took up his drink and rolled it between his palms, watched the golden liquid shiver up the sides of the glass. "He would--"
"He--? Oh, Russia."
"--Would give them guns and point them all straight towards us, if he could, he hates me--"
"I'm sure the situation isn't that bad--"
"But it is, he does, he hates me!" America suddenly realized that he was almost shouting. He fell back a step in confusion, then gulped down his drink.
Roosevelt watched him with raised eyebrows, and used the little silence to sip his scotch. He offered, "You've had bad relations with other countries before, and it hasn't been the end of the world."
"This is different," America mumbled. He stared down at his shoes so he wouldn't have to look at the President. "Everyone thinks I've failed. I mean, failed big, at like, everything. And me and Russia used to be friends!" he looked up sharply.
Roosevelt clasped America's arm, held his eyes, and insisted, "I don't think you've failed."
America blinked against the sudden heat behind his eyes.
"And as for being friends…well, sometimes people just change, son."
"But he…" his voice trembled, and he gave up.
Roosevelt canted his head and smiled up at his country. "And maybe you'll be friends again, someday. Who can say?"
America sucked in a breath and pushed his free hand onto his hip. "I don't think so. Not after what he said."
"All right, and maybe you won't…but, Alfred; you've got to believe in yourself. Forget Russia," he waved a hand derisively; "You know you haven't failed, don't you?"
America glanced back at him, and gave a cautious nod.
"Good. Then let me hear you say it."
He swallowed. "I-I haven't failed." Roosevelt gave him a grin, so he went on: "Democracy hasn't failed--and capitalism hasn't failed, either. This is just a…a…"
"It's a slump," Roosevelt acknowledged. "It's a depression. But--listen--" and that grin cocked a little wider. "Everybody gets depressed sometimes."
America gave him a wan smile. "Do you, sir?"
"Of course. But you won't catch it slowing me down."
America nodded back, and his fragile smile firmed up around the edges.
Roosevelt squeezed his arm. "And what about these fascists--and the Soviets?"
"They're…they're wrong."
"That's right. They're dead wrong about you." Roosevelt spoke with so much life. With humorous scorn, then: "You don't need them."
"No," America managed, and ignored the cold flinch in his heart. "I don't."
The President tipped back the last of his drink, and set down his glass with a happy sigh. "You're going to come out of this thing stronger than ever. I promise you that."
America chuffed and scratched the side of his jaw, but he felt it, all the same--a little quickening under his ribs, a lighter air inside of him, lifting him up. "Yeah," he drawled, and he was only half-kidding, "Top of the heap."
"Don't you ever doubt it. Understand me? Don't you ever doubt yourself."
"I--I'll try not to, sir."
"Good. I know you're the best country in the world--" and at that, America laughed, but he flushed, too, embarrassed and pleased. "--You'll show all of them," Roosevelt finished.
"You're right." America made himself stand up straight, made himself square his shoulders.
"Naturally. Now go on, I have work that won't wait anymore. And remember what I said!" he added over his shoulder as they both turned away.
"Which part of it, sir?"
"All of it!"
He closed the door gently behind him. America's smile lingered all the way back to his room.
There, he shut the door, rucked a hand through his hair, and slumped back against the wall. He dragged off his glasses and buried his face in the crook of his arm, then gave a short, humorless laugh, which nobody heard but himself.
God, he was glad he had a good boss, right now. He didn't think he could deal with another Harding.
Best country in the world, huh. Well, sure. Why not. Nobody had said anything like that about him for a long while, but--FDR believed it, so America would try to believe it, too. He dropped his arm and went to the mirror, scrutinized himself. He--didn't make for an inspiring image. He looked tired, pale and underweight and a little lost.
What the hell did Russia know about it, anyway?
He drew himself up.
What made Russia so fucking sure (and such a fucking bastard), when his people were starving, and he was dragging out his dissidents and shooting them like animals, and his boss was some built-up maniacal tyrant--America would have helped him, if he'd asked, but he hadn't, he'd hit him in his own home and he'd said--said--
Well, fuck Russia. America was right. It was a...strange sensation, deciding to be right, but he thought that he liked it; it made something stiffen in his chest, go all hard and ringing like cooling metal. He studied his reflection in the mirror and imagined that bruise again, pale purple and half-speckled on his cheek, and those welts all across his jaw, with their crusty little fingernail gashes--and his red eyes, and that look on his face, that pathetic look that he had never seen there before, and--he suddenly decided that he just didn't care.
You don't need them.
No, he fucking didn't. This time, that hard iron feeling blocked out his customary flinch.
Whoever they were--whatever they wanted from America, whether they were fascists or communists or England or Russia, fucking Russia, that son of a bitch, did he think he could just, just spit on America, attack him in his own home and stand alone against the whole world with nothing but that goddamned lopsided smirk and some harsh language to make it stick--
He was breathing too fast. He took in a long, deep breath, held it, and let it out.
Russia was wrong, and America was right.
He turned away from the mirror, rubbed his eyes, and shrugged out of his jacket. It dropped soft and solid to the floor.
And even if he was wrong, he whispered to himself, and Russia was right--to hell with him anyway.
+++
--The Business Plot was an alleged political conspiracy which involved wealthy businessmen plotting a coup d’état to overthrow Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was extremely unpopular in the corporate world for the perceived socialism of his New Deal reforms, and to reshape the US government into a fascist dictatorship, which they felt was the best way to weather the economic crisis of the Great Depression. Whether or not the conspiracy was actually close to execution when it was discovered, or if it presented a genuine threat to American democracy, remains unclear to this day.
--FDR is famous for giving informal, friendly, inspirational addresses to the American people during the Great Depression and World War 2, in a series of radio speeches called the fireside chats. His attitude towards the Soviet Union and communism was far more relaxed than was the widespread sentiment among Americans at the time. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest presidents the United States has ever had.
+++
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: pyrrhiccomedy. Thanks to myxxym for taking a look at this for me!
Rating: PG.
Characters: America, Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Premise: Heartbroken, depressed, and under fire from all sides, America gets a pep talk from the master of giving America pep talks.
Washington DC - The White House. November, 1934.
"Alfred? …Alfred?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Did you hear a word of what I just said?"
America tilted his chin down in a nod and stared into the middle distance. The Oval Office hung heavy and sedate before his eyes, but he felt like he could blink it away. "Yes. There was a…a conspiracy."
"That's right. A fascist conspiracy."
"And they…wanted to, uh, wanted to overthrow you."
"Something like that," Roosevelt grinned.
"Fascists, this time."
"Corporate fascists, that's right."
"Not communists?" he glanced up.
Roosevelt clapped him on the arm as he rolled past him to the liquor cabinet. "Believe it or not, not every threat we face comes from communism," he replied dryly. The cabinet door creaked open, glasses clinked together. "Besides, they've pretty much given up on all that…you know," he paused, unfocused, with a bottle of scotch half-withdrawn from the cupboard. "Inciting," he finished.
"Who, the Socialist Party of America? I hear them protesting all the--" America started across the office to help his boss, and got waved back. He subsided, shifting from foot to foot.
"Oh, I meant the Soviets, funding the SPA. Like they said they would, last year." He set two short glasses out onto the counter and poured.
"Oh." America chewed his lip. "They'll just start up again."
Roosevelt sighed. "There's no need to worry about that now. And try to be optimistic--people can surprise you, sometimes."
America looked away and tugged at his opposite cuffs. "Russia's not people."
"Don't split hairs," the President admonished him.
"I'm not. He's just a jerk."
"Well, jerks are people, too. Have a drink, Alfred." Roosevelt held a glass out to him. America came out from behind the President's desk and took it, stared down into it. "What I was trying to say is that there's no need for you to worry. We found out about it, that's all that matters."
"What, about the…Soviets funding the…?"
"…No, the--the fascists." Roosevelt gave him a strange look.
"Oh. Right."
"You've really got your head in the clouds, don't you. It seems like ever since we recognized the Soviet Union last year, you've been…" he trailed off.
America mustered up a smile and offered, "You can say 'depressed,' sir, I won't think you're making fun of me."
"Whatever you want to call it," he went on. Then, after a beat, "And you're a little fixated on the communists."
"Shouldn't I be? They want to overthrow democracy!" America's fingers tightened around his glass.
"That's still the fascists."
"The Reds, too! Everyone's saying the Depression is my fault--"
"Alfred--"
"And m-maybe it is, but--they're saying how, like, how if I had some other system, communism or, fascism or whatever, that none of this would have happened." That note of desperation crept beneath his voice. "If--they think that if I was just different--"
"We're working it out," Roosevelt soothed. He set a hand on America's forearm. "We'll pull out of this, wait and see."
"But they won't wait!" he protested. "The communists and the--the--they just keep…keep picking at me, and if they take away democracy, sir, I don't know what I'll be--"
"All right, Alfred, calm down--no one's going to take democracy from you. But let's talk about the communists, if that'll make you feel better." Roosevelt nudged the bottle of scotch back into its nook in the liquor cabinet. "There's only half a million American Socialists, you realize. I wouldn't really call that a threat."
"Half a million is enough!" He raised his glass to his lips, brought it back down, and said, "The fascists had 'only' half a million troops to march on the White House, didn't they?"
"Oh, so you were listening--"
"My own troops!"
"They only said--"
"I thought they were proud of me!" America's voice cracked. He put the glass down. His hands shook with useless energy.
"They only said they had half a million troops. And--if we're still talking about the SPA--are we still talking about the--?" Roosevelt examined him with a half-smile hung from the corner of his mouth. "They're not soldiers. A lot of them are just…college kids."
"He doesn't care," America muttered. He took up his drink and rolled it between his palms, watched the golden liquid shiver up the sides of the glass. "He would--"
"He--? Oh, Russia."
"--Would give them guns and point them all straight towards us, if he could, he hates me--"
"I'm sure the situation isn't that bad--"
"But it is, he does, he hates me!" America suddenly realized that he was almost shouting. He fell back a step in confusion, then gulped down his drink.
Roosevelt watched him with raised eyebrows, and used the little silence to sip his scotch. He offered, "You've had bad relations with other countries before, and it hasn't been the end of the world."
"This is different," America mumbled. He stared down at his shoes so he wouldn't have to look at the President. "Everyone thinks I've failed. I mean, failed big, at like, everything. And me and Russia used to be friends!" he looked up sharply.
Roosevelt clasped America's arm, held his eyes, and insisted, "I don't think you've failed."
America blinked against the sudden heat behind his eyes.
"And as for being friends…well, sometimes people just change, son."
"But he…" his voice trembled, and he gave up.
Roosevelt canted his head and smiled up at his country. "And maybe you'll be friends again, someday. Who can say?"
America sucked in a breath and pushed his free hand onto his hip. "I don't think so. Not after what he said."
"All right, and maybe you won't…but, Alfred; you've got to believe in yourself. Forget Russia," he waved a hand derisively; "You know you haven't failed, don't you?"
America glanced back at him, and gave a cautious nod.
"Good. Then let me hear you say it."
He swallowed. "I-I haven't failed." Roosevelt gave him a grin, so he went on: "Democracy hasn't failed--and capitalism hasn't failed, either. This is just a…a…"
"It's a slump," Roosevelt acknowledged. "It's a depression. But--listen--" and that grin cocked a little wider. "Everybody gets depressed sometimes."
America gave him a wan smile. "Do you, sir?"
"Of course. But you won't catch it slowing me down."
America nodded back, and his fragile smile firmed up around the edges.
Roosevelt squeezed his arm. "And what about these fascists--and the Soviets?"
"They're…they're wrong."
"That's right. They're dead wrong about you." Roosevelt spoke with so much life. With humorous scorn, then: "You don't need them."
"No," America managed, and ignored the cold flinch in his heart. "I don't."
The President tipped back the last of his drink, and set down his glass with a happy sigh. "You're going to come out of this thing stronger than ever. I promise you that."
America chuffed and scratched the side of his jaw, but he felt it, all the same--a little quickening under his ribs, a lighter air inside of him, lifting him up. "Yeah," he drawled, and he was only half-kidding, "Top of the heap."
"Don't you ever doubt it. Understand me? Don't you ever doubt yourself."
"I--I'll try not to, sir."
"Good. I know you're the best country in the world--" and at that, America laughed, but he flushed, too, embarrassed and pleased. "--You'll show all of them," Roosevelt finished.
"You're right." America made himself stand up straight, made himself square his shoulders.
"Naturally. Now go on, I have work that won't wait anymore. And remember what I said!" he added over his shoulder as they both turned away.
"Which part of it, sir?"
"All of it!"
He closed the door gently behind him. America's smile lingered all the way back to his room.
There, he shut the door, rucked a hand through his hair, and slumped back against the wall. He dragged off his glasses and buried his face in the crook of his arm, then gave a short, humorless laugh, which nobody heard but himself.
God, he was glad he had a good boss, right now. He didn't think he could deal with another Harding.
Best country in the world, huh. Well, sure. Why not. Nobody had said anything like that about him for a long while, but--FDR believed it, so America would try to believe it, too. He dropped his arm and went to the mirror, scrutinized himself. He--didn't make for an inspiring image. He looked tired, pale and underweight and a little lost.
What the hell did Russia know about it, anyway?
He drew himself up.
What made Russia so fucking sure (and such a fucking bastard), when his people were starving, and he was dragging out his dissidents and shooting them like animals, and his boss was some built-up maniacal tyrant--America would have helped him, if he'd asked, but he hadn't, he'd hit him in his own home and he'd said--said--
Well, fuck Russia. America was right. It was a...strange sensation, deciding to be right, but he thought that he liked it; it made something stiffen in his chest, go all hard and ringing like cooling metal. He studied his reflection in the mirror and imagined that bruise again, pale purple and half-speckled on his cheek, and those welts all across his jaw, with their crusty little fingernail gashes--and his red eyes, and that look on his face, that pathetic look that he had never seen there before, and--he suddenly decided that he just didn't care.
You don't need them.
No, he fucking didn't. This time, that hard iron feeling blocked out his customary flinch.
Whoever they were--whatever they wanted from America, whether they were fascists or communists or England or Russia, fucking Russia, that son of a bitch, did he think he could just, just spit on America, attack him in his own home and stand alone against the whole world with nothing but that goddamned lopsided smirk and some harsh language to make it stick--
He was breathing too fast. He took in a long, deep breath, held it, and let it out.
Russia was wrong, and America was right.
He turned away from the mirror, rubbed his eyes, and shrugged out of his jacket. It dropped soft and solid to the floor.
And even if he was wrong, he whispered to himself, and Russia was right--to hell with him anyway.
+++
--The Business Plot was an alleged political conspiracy which involved wealthy businessmen plotting a coup d’état to overthrow Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was extremely unpopular in the corporate world for the perceived socialism of his New Deal reforms, and to reshape the US government into a fascist dictatorship, which they felt was the best way to weather the economic crisis of the Great Depression. Whether or not the conspiracy was actually close to execution when it was discovered, or if it presented a genuine threat to American democracy, remains unclear to this day.
--FDR is famous for giving informal, friendly, inspirational addresses to the American people during the Great Depression and World War 2, in a series of radio speeches called the fireside chats. His attitude towards the Soviet Union and communism was far more relaxed than was the widespread sentiment among Americans at the time. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest presidents the United States has ever had.
+++
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.