Excuses
Title: Excuses
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: America/Russia.
Premise: During the Crimean War, hundreds of American doctors and nurses traveled to the front lines to treat the Russian wounded. On a related note, America plays doctor, and Russia turns out to be amazingly permissive when he can blame his behavior on an opium-based painkiller.
Fort Viapori, Finland - The Russian Empire. August 7, 1855.
Hours of smoke and fire. The distant roar of cannons, the sea. The shell whistling through the air had been deceptively slow, as though daring him to sidestep it.
He hadn't.
Now, God knew how much later, the fort still vibrated beneath him, shocked tremors into his hands and shoulders. Russia let a wet breath claw its way out of his lungs. Something was pushed into his face--smelling salts, nothing else was awful quite like that--and he choked on the pungent stink.
Someone knelt over him, just a hazy silhouette pressed into the glow of the sky. He felt fingers press to the side of his neck, and tried to draw away. His attacker--no, not an attacker, he blinked some of the haze out of his mind and focused, and then he could make out a noncombat uniform, an armband--the medic steadied his head and touched the join of his neck and jaw again.
Another barrage from the French and British fleet which sat in the harbor, bombarding the dockyard at Fort Viapori, tore open the air. The medic crouched over him as if he could shield Russia from the wall of sound. He was close, then, and Russia's eyes were clearing, and he could make out a nimbus of yellow hair, and that cool, slim pressure against his cheek must be from a pair of spectacles--
When the barrage passed, the silence hurt almost as much as the noise. He thought the medic was speaking, but his ears only stopped ringing in time to catch, "--Fucking sucks here. Are you injured?"
"I..." His voice was weak, and he snapped his teeth down on the syllable. The medic's accent had been unfamiliar. Not one of his own men. He squinted, and his eyes burned. "Not hurt," he managed. His throat was raw. "A shell dropped." He waved his hand weakly to the left before the medic pressed it down with a murmured
"Easy, now."
It was the tone, more than anything else, that made him struggle to sit up.
The medic pushed him gently back down and looked over his shoulder. "It should be all right, they're moving north to try another part of the line. The shell that hit you must've been a stray." He glanced back at Russia and nudged his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with the side of his thumb. "Don't move, okay? You're stunned, you might not know even if you're hurt. Let me take a look at you."
Those glasses caught the light, what little of it there was, and Russia recognized the eyes behind them. The only blue on that beach not dimmed by smoke.
"What are you doing here?" His shoulders ached, and he knew he must have been hit somewhere. Blood was trickling down his side, sliding across his ribs. He instantly decided not to mention it.
"Hey, is that any way to talk to someone who's about to give you laudanum?" America reached into his medicine box and pulled out a stoppered glass bottle. He twisted off the cork and cupped the underside of Russia's chin. "Drink."
Russia parted his lips grudgingly, took a mouthful. "'M all right," he insisted against the glass. He shook his head and pulled back, grimacing as he ran his tongue over his lips to catch the last few drops. Vile.
America started unfastening the buttons down the front of his jacket. Cannonfire roared in the distance.
Russia stiffened and snarled his fingers around America's hands, then sucked in a breath at the motion. Damn it. The blood on his side was hot, now, and clung wetly to the inside of his uniform. "What," he rasped, and fixed America with a red-eyed glare, "Do you think you are doing?"
America clasped his hands and gave him a look of exasperation. "How am I supposed to see if you're wounded through this fucking coat?"
"I told you," Russia shifted against the cobbled ground, "I'm all right. Isn't there someone else you could be attending to? Someone who needs it?" His lungs felt like they were full of glass. He put his hands clumsily (the laudanum must be working) on America's shoulders and tried to push him off. America caught his wrists and pinned his hands to the ground on either side of his head. He opened his mouth to speak, and then the thunderous drumroll of the Russian cannon retort rolled over them both.
They remained fixed as they were, staring at each other, for a slow count of twenty seconds, until the last gun on the northeastern line fell quiet and disappeared into the background din.
America sat up again and wiped his palms on his thighs. "No, actually." His voice caught. "Most of your men were smart enough to stay the fuck inside."
Russia pulled his arms back into his body, slower than he would have liked. The world was going misty at the edges. "'Most' is not 'all,' America. If we can...can talk like this, I obviously don't need your help." His eyes narrowed, and his head lolled back against the ground. "I'm not hurt. And...even if I was, I could take care of it. You do not belong here. This is not your battle. ...And I would like for you to stop staring at me like that."
It took several moments, and America's look of absolute confusion, for him to realize that he'd been speaking in Russian.
America shook his head a moment later and gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, you're doing just fine." He went back to unsticking Russia's buttons. "Didn't you remember I was going to be here? I talked to the Tsar about it last year. Hundreds of my doctors and nurses have come out here to help you. Hell, when we heard about what the conditions were like..." he opened Russia's coat and pushed it over his shoulders. Blood made the right side of his shirt glisten from shoulder to hip. America sucked in a breath through his teeth. "God damn it, Russia," he muttered.
Russia's eyes skittered downwards. There was more blood than he'd thought there would be. "Not that bad." He dragged his fingers across the wound. America snatched at his wrist, but Russia pulled away, and stared at his stained hand. "It's not."
America whipped a pair of scissors out of his medicine box and started to cut away Russia's shirt. "Stop arguing with me," he snapped. "Hold still."
Russia breathed slowly. He thought he could hear the shears slicing fabric over the shelling of the harbor, but that was impossible. The metal was cold on his skin. He watched America through lidded eyes and wondered suddenly, dazedly, if he could get America to cut him.
He felt his collar separate, and the sticky fabric peel off his skin. America unscrewed his hip canteen and upended it over Russia's shoulder; water gurgled out and splashed on his neck and face. He shuddered. America snatched up a pair of forceps, and his face was all angles and concentration as he caught the tip of something stuck through Russia's shoulder. He glanced once into Russia's face, then pulled the thing out, sudden and sharp.
The world went grey. When it cleared, America held a twisted and blackened sliver of metal, three inches long, in front of Russia's face. "This was a stupid thing to lie about," he informed him.
"Didn't. Lie," Russia grunted. He watched the blood trickle down the corkscrew of shrapnel. "Said I was fine, and I was. I--" He hissed as America poured another trickle of water over the wound. He gave his shoulder an experimental roll, and regretted it. He swallowed a whimper, and hated himself.
"Hold still," America hissed. He jerked open a bottle of iodine. "Why don't you take better care of yourself? Why don't you have more nurses on the field?" He spilled the tincture of iodine over the ragged wound. It seared down to the bone. "And why won't you hold still? I'm trying to help you!"
Because I don't want you to sounded petulant, childish, even through the sticky blue haze of opium. Russia contented himself with jerking his wounded side out from under America's hands.
America flung the bit of shrapnel to the ground, swung one leg over Russia's hips, and bolted Russia down with his left hand. He twisted a roll of bandages out of his kit. "Knock it off, or I'll get out the chloroform. Don't think I won't."
"You'd be left with a deadweight to drag inside," Russia snarled. "So why don't you wrap those around that mouth of yours, instead?" He clamped his hand around the join of America's neck and shoulder and dug his fingers in.
America crumpled away for a moment, then lashed his head to the side and bit Russia's hand, hard, and wrenched his shoulder away. He pinned the tail of the bandage to Russia's chest and shoved the roll under his shoulder. He reached over Russia--his body blocked the whole heavy white mass of the sky--caught the wad of the bandages and dragged it around. He cinched the first pass of cotton cloth too tight. "I guess I would just have to carry you, dear," he spat.
Russia stared vaguely at the raw ring America's teeth had left on his hand. He'd drawn blood. "Doing..." he paused, let his eyes close, tried again. "Doing more harm than good, now."
America ignored him. The bandages tightened around Russia's arm, and he could feel the gauze spreading, flattening out against the entry wound. He waved his injured hand under America's nose. His knuckles bumped the bottom frames of his glasses. "Will you fix that, too?"
"Yes, I'll kiss it better, damn it," America muttered. He knocked Russia's hand gently aside with his cheek. "Stop distracting me."
Russia let out a weak puff of laughter. His head rocked back and hit the ground with a thump. He gazed heavenward for a while, at a sky streaked with smoke and fire. "The glasses are new."
America pinned the bandage in place and sat back. His knees still framed Russia's hips. "Couple years old," he replied. He cut a new length of bandage and laid it over his knee, then spilled more iodine onto a cotton wad and pressed it to Russia's hand. A fierce sting sparkled from his fingertips to his wrist. America held him fast and raveled the shorter bandage in place. "I think they--"
His lips kept moving, but the words were drowned out under a new barrage from the Russian guns. He actually rolled his eyes at the interruption, and leaned in close to speak against Russia's ear. "I think they look good on me, don't you?"
"Older," Russia said softly, forcing America to tip his head even closer. Russia's hand was trapped between them; his knuckles were pressed against the rough fabric of America's uniform. A warm flare passed through him--the opium, again--and the weight on his hips was abruptly distracting. "You look older." He curled his fingers; America's buttons were sharp. America's fingertips folded between his knuckles as Russia's hand closed over his.
"Any other injuries you feel like telling me about?" America's breath was warm on his ear and the side of his neck. "I don't think you want me to cut off the rest of your clothes to check myself," and was there the quietest, sweetest emphasis on that 'think?' The line of cannonfire swept past them; the masonry beneath them trembled.
Russia blinked heavily, trying to focus on America's face. Injuries. Oh. "My hip," he managed. "Might have been clipped. Left side." He guided America's hand to the spot in question, let go, then folded his good arm carefully beneath his head. He wet his lips.
America glanced up into Russia's eyes and pushed himself a few inches down his body. "If you were uncomfortable with me sitting like this, you should have said." His fingers spread out, firm and warm. "I don't feel any blood. Might've been an impact." His thumb crested the swell of Russia's hip and slid down the curve of bone. Another flicker up into Russia's eyes, and the softest grin. "Does this hurt?"
No. But it did, in a way. The light warm pressure of America's hand felt likely to leave bruises. Russia gave a rare honest answer. "A bit." All at once there was more smoke in his lungs; he imagined it spiraling around inside him. He coughed, once, and held America's gaze. Look at that. Clouds there, too.
America dug his thumb in a bit and traced another line, up. His fingers curled gently in the channel of Russia's hip and caught in the fabric of his pants. "This?"
Russia's breath didn't catch, and he didn't reach down to grab America's hand. "Yes," he murmured. He squinted his eyes against the smog, and struggled not to shake from--from exhaustion. He let his head drop back into his left hand. The line of his throat dipped as he swallowed.
America's gaze dropped to his work, if 'work' could really be used to describe what he was doing. The left half of Russia's shirt survived; America ran his hand under it and, and caressed down his side. His fingertips pressed in and found the small spaces between his ribs whenever Russia took a shallow breath. It was almost a tickle down his side, from his lowest rib to the waistband of his pants, and there, a lingering hesitation. America's fingers walked over his belt, his ammo pouch, and then his hand was flush against him from the round swell of his hip bone to mid-thigh.
"I don't feel any swelling," he said lightly. He left his hand in place and pushed his glasses up his face with his shoulder. "Do you think you can walk?"
Russia's eyes snapped open. For a moment, the world had tipped off-balance. He lifted his head and sat up gingerly; his hip arched into America's hand. The other nation was still straddling his thighs, and Russia's movement brought them almost nose to nose. "If you can manage not to try and help me."
The hand on his hip tightened. America gave him a challenging smile from an inch away. "Are you sure you don't want me to carry you?" He appraised Russia through veiled eyes and drawled, "You'd make a beautiful bride."
"You couldn't carry me if you tried," Russia mumbled. Everything in him wanting to drop his head onto America's shoulder and sleep. The constant roar of the cannons had started to fade into the distance, swallowed up by the sound of the sea. It was too quiet, now--their breathing was too evident, too similar. Russia held his breath for a beat to desynchronize them, but America might have noticed, his eyes lingered on Russia's mouth, and that was worse.
America's smile softened a little. "Sure I could. It's just leverage." He climbed off of Russia and slid next to him on one knee. He put an arm around his back and shrugged Russia's uninjured arm over his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside. I'll let you pretend you can walk on your own."
"Svoloch'." Bastard, but America probably assumed it meant thank you. Russia let himself be led across the battlements, his hand curled around America's upper arm. Half of any battle was knowing when you've been beaten, and he had. America's fingers dug into his right hip, propelling him forward. He only stumbled once.
America guided him into the main edifice of Fort Viapori and found him a bedroll in a corner. He helped Russia to the floor, crouched next to him, threw a blanket over his shoulders. When he spoke, there was something--fond, in his voice. He murmured, "Sleep it off, you uncooperative son of a bitch."
It took the introduction of a blanket for Russia to realize just how cold he was. He pulled it over his shoulders, then rolled haltingly over on his stomach. His breath hitched when he tugged his shoulder. His wrapped hand darted out from the warm recesses of the coverlet and grabbed America's knee. "This," he mumbled, nodding at the circular stain seeping through the bandage, "We'll talk about this...later." He buried his face in the crook of his arm.
There was a pause, and he knew the other nation was smiling. America slid his hand through Russia's hair, once, then stood and moved off.
***
One week later.
Russia surveyed the chaos on the docks: soldiers lining up halfheartedly, marching in rows, village girls thronging after them, shouting goodbyes and darting forward for last kisses. Crates thumped and crashed as they were loaded belowdecks. Above it all, the serene slap of the sea against the hulls of their ships.
"Finally, getting off this miserable fucking island," America announced cheerfully as he materialized at Russia's side. He glanced over him. "Hey, you're looking better."
"I am feeling better," he replied, and pretended to examine his right hand. The skin around America's bite was raised and purple. "Although I worried about this for a while. You'll have to remind me to give you something equally painful," he paused, stared at the algae growing on the wet stones nearby. "To remember me by."
"Count on it," America assured him. He shifted his medicine box on its long strap from one shoulder to the other.
"I hope you're not planning to use that laudanum on any other helpless victims," he smirked. "I would have been fine, you know. There was no reason to go to such--lengths."
The corner of America's mouth twitched. "It was my job to make sure you got proper treatment."
"I know I've always felt that 'proper treatment' should include biting your patient."
"Yeah, I've heard that about you."
Russia's bark of laughter turned heads clear across the docks. He winced, hand flying to his right side. "Damn." He raised an eyebrow at the Nation beside him. "Are you are trying to open my wound? --Are you troubled by the fact that I would not put that past you?"
America looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I'm devastated. I'm just here to help, after all."
"That was all 'help,' then?" Russia imitated his emphasis, and dropped his rucksack heavily onto the docks. "I'm unsure of the nature of your...excuse, for your behavior. I was drugged, after all."
America appraised him for several seconds, one eyebrow slightly cocked. Then he grinned, flipped open the lid of his medicine box, and plucked out an empty bottle. He pressed it into Russia's hand.
It was labeled 'LAUDANUM.'
I've been out since June," he was saying. "The stuff I gave you couldn't cloud your mind any more than sea water." His grin turned crooked. "What was your excuse, again?"
Russia flushed for the first time in two hundred years. He looked at the tiny bottle in his hand, glass winking in the morning light, and then, without a word, flung it as hard as he could into the ocean. "If my hand gets infected," he snarled, "You will be the first one to know."
"Hey, or maybe it was laudanum. Maybe I ran out during the siege." America kept grinning. "I guess you'll never know." He clasped Russia's forearm for a second. "Good luck on the Turkish peninsula. Take care of yourself out there, all right?"
He shrugged his case higher on his shoulder and sauntered down towards the docks. Russia gaped at his retreating back.
For a wild instant, he wondered if he wouldn’t be justified in shooting the smart-mouthed son of a bitch.
+++
-- The Battle of Viapori took place from August 7-9, 1855. 80 British and French warships with more than a thousand guns shelled the Russian-controlled Finnish dockyard at Fort Viapori for two days, but were unable to break the Russian cannon line, and eventually retreated without sending a single soldier ashore. Estimates from the time suggest more than twenty thousand shells were fired before the Allied retreat. While the fort was badly damaged, there were few Russian casualties.
-- The Crimean War was complicated; I'm not gonna get into it. Suffice to say that American political opinion favored Russian interests over the British and the French. While America maintained its longstanding policy of military neutrality, the Americans still found ways to support the Russian war effort. Among other measures, hundreds of American doctors and nurses traveled to the front lines to tend to the Russian wounded.
This isn't related to the fic, but I thought it was pretty clever: Great Britain was harassing Russian shipping throughout the war, because they're pirates, and that's what they do. So the Americans arranged for the fictitious sale of Russian ships to American private industry so that the Russians could carry on with their naval activities under the flag of American neutrality. Isn't that neat?
-- Iodine is an alcohol-based topical antiseptic.
-- Laudanum, of course, is an opium and ethanol-based painkiller that was widely used and prescribed during the nineteenth century. It fell out of use on account of it being, you know, opium, but is still sometimes prescribed for severe pain.
+++
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: America/Russia.
Premise: During the Crimean War, hundreds of American doctors and nurses traveled to the front lines to treat the Russian wounded. On a related note, America plays doctor, and Russia turns out to be amazingly permissive when he can blame his behavior on an opium-based painkiller.
Fort Viapori, Finland - The Russian Empire. August 7, 1855.
Hours of smoke and fire. The distant roar of cannons, the sea. The shell whistling through the air had been deceptively slow, as though daring him to sidestep it.
He hadn't.
Now, God knew how much later, the fort still vibrated beneath him, shocked tremors into his hands and shoulders. Russia let a wet breath claw its way out of his lungs. Something was pushed into his face--smelling salts, nothing else was awful quite like that--and he choked on the pungent stink.
Someone knelt over him, just a hazy silhouette pressed into the glow of the sky. He felt fingers press to the side of his neck, and tried to draw away. His attacker--no, not an attacker, he blinked some of the haze out of his mind and focused, and then he could make out a noncombat uniform, an armband--the medic steadied his head and touched the join of his neck and jaw again.
Another barrage from the French and British fleet which sat in the harbor, bombarding the dockyard at Fort Viapori, tore open the air. The medic crouched over him as if he could shield Russia from the wall of sound. He was close, then, and Russia's eyes were clearing, and he could make out a nimbus of yellow hair, and that cool, slim pressure against his cheek must be from a pair of spectacles--
When the barrage passed, the silence hurt almost as much as the noise. He thought the medic was speaking, but his ears only stopped ringing in time to catch, "--Fucking sucks here. Are you injured?"
"I..." His voice was weak, and he snapped his teeth down on the syllable. The medic's accent had been unfamiliar. Not one of his own men. He squinted, and his eyes burned. "Not hurt," he managed. His throat was raw. "A shell dropped." He waved his hand weakly to the left before the medic pressed it down with a murmured
"Easy, now."
It was the tone, more than anything else, that made him struggle to sit up.
The medic pushed him gently back down and looked over his shoulder. "It should be all right, they're moving north to try another part of the line. The shell that hit you must've been a stray." He glanced back at Russia and nudged his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with the side of his thumb. "Don't move, okay? You're stunned, you might not know even if you're hurt. Let me take a look at you."
Those glasses caught the light, what little of it there was, and Russia recognized the eyes behind them. The only blue on that beach not dimmed by smoke.
"What are you doing here?" His shoulders ached, and he knew he must have been hit somewhere. Blood was trickling down his side, sliding across his ribs. He instantly decided not to mention it.
"Hey, is that any way to talk to someone who's about to give you laudanum?" America reached into his medicine box and pulled out a stoppered glass bottle. He twisted off the cork and cupped the underside of Russia's chin. "Drink."
Russia parted his lips grudgingly, took a mouthful. "'M all right," he insisted against the glass. He shook his head and pulled back, grimacing as he ran his tongue over his lips to catch the last few drops. Vile.
America started unfastening the buttons down the front of his jacket. Cannonfire roared in the distance.
Russia stiffened and snarled his fingers around America's hands, then sucked in a breath at the motion. Damn it. The blood on his side was hot, now, and clung wetly to the inside of his uniform. "What," he rasped, and fixed America with a red-eyed glare, "Do you think you are doing?"
America clasped his hands and gave him a look of exasperation. "How am I supposed to see if you're wounded through this fucking coat?"
"I told you," Russia shifted against the cobbled ground, "I'm all right. Isn't there someone else you could be attending to? Someone who needs it?" His lungs felt like they were full of glass. He put his hands clumsily (the laudanum must be working) on America's shoulders and tried to push him off. America caught his wrists and pinned his hands to the ground on either side of his head. He opened his mouth to speak, and then the thunderous drumroll of the Russian cannon retort rolled over them both.
They remained fixed as they were, staring at each other, for a slow count of twenty seconds, until the last gun on the northeastern line fell quiet and disappeared into the background din.
America sat up again and wiped his palms on his thighs. "No, actually." His voice caught. "Most of your men were smart enough to stay the fuck inside."
Russia pulled his arms back into his body, slower than he would have liked. The world was going misty at the edges. "'Most' is not 'all,' America. If we can...can talk like this, I obviously don't need your help." His eyes narrowed, and his head lolled back against the ground. "I'm not hurt. And...even if I was, I could take care of it. You do not belong here. This is not your battle. ...And I would like for you to stop staring at me like that."
It took several moments, and America's look of absolute confusion, for him to realize that he'd been speaking in Russian.
America shook his head a moment later and gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, you're doing just fine." He went back to unsticking Russia's buttons. "Didn't you remember I was going to be here? I talked to the Tsar about it last year. Hundreds of my doctors and nurses have come out here to help you. Hell, when we heard about what the conditions were like..." he opened Russia's coat and pushed it over his shoulders. Blood made the right side of his shirt glisten from shoulder to hip. America sucked in a breath through his teeth. "God damn it, Russia," he muttered.
Russia's eyes skittered downwards. There was more blood than he'd thought there would be. "Not that bad." He dragged his fingers across the wound. America snatched at his wrist, but Russia pulled away, and stared at his stained hand. "It's not."
America whipped a pair of scissors out of his medicine box and started to cut away Russia's shirt. "Stop arguing with me," he snapped. "Hold still."
Russia breathed slowly. He thought he could hear the shears slicing fabric over the shelling of the harbor, but that was impossible. The metal was cold on his skin. He watched America through lidded eyes and wondered suddenly, dazedly, if he could get America to cut him.
He felt his collar separate, and the sticky fabric peel off his skin. America unscrewed his hip canteen and upended it over Russia's shoulder; water gurgled out and splashed on his neck and face. He shuddered. America snatched up a pair of forceps, and his face was all angles and concentration as he caught the tip of something stuck through Russia's shoulder. He glanced once into Russia's face, then pulled the thing out, sudden and sharp.
The world went grey. When it cleared, America held a twisted and blackened sliver of metal, three inches long, in front of Russia's face. "This was a stupid thing to lie about," he informed him.
"Didn't. Lie," Russia grunted. He watched the blood trickle down the corkscrew of shrapnel. "Said I was fine, and I was. I--" He hissed as America poured another trickle of water over the wound. He gave his shoulder an experimental roll, and regretted it. He swallowed a whimper, and hated himself.
"Hold still," America hissed. He jerked open a bottle of iodine. "Why don't you take better care of yourself? Why don't you have more nurses on the field?" He spilled the tincture of iodine over the ragged wound. It seared down to the bone. "And why won't you hold still? I'm trying to help you!"
Because I don't want you to sounded petulant, childish, even through the sticky blue haze of opium. Russia contented himself with jerking his wounded side out from under America's hands.
America flung the bit of shrapnel to the ground, swung one leg over Russia's hips, and bolted Russia down with his left hand. He twisted a roll of bandages out of his kit. "Knock it off, or I'll get out the chloroform. Don't think I won't."
"You'd be left with a deadweight to drag inside," Russia snarled. "So why don't you wrap those around that mouth of yours, instead?" He clamped his hand around the join of America's neck and shoulder and dug his fingers in.
America crumpled away for a moment, then lashed his head to the side and bit Russia's hand, hard, and wrenched his shoulder away. He pinned the tail of the bandage to Russia's chest and shoved the roll under his shoulder. He reached over Russia--his body blocked the whole heavy white mass of the sky--caught the wad of the bandages and dragged it around. He cinched the first pass of cotton cloth too tight. "I guess I would just have to carry you, dear," he spat.
Russia stared vaguely at the raw ring America's teeth had left on his hand. He'd drawn blood. "Doing..." he paused, let his eyes close, tried again. "Doing more harm than good, now."
America ignored him. The bandages tightened around Russia's arm, and he could feel the gauze spreading, flattening out against the entry wound. He waved his injured hand under America's nose. His knuckles bumped the bottom frames of his glasses. "Will you fix that, too?"
"Yes, I'll kiss it better, damn it," America muttered. He knocked Russia's hand gently aside with his cheek. "Stop distracting me."
Russia let out a weak puff of laughter. His head rocked back and hit the ground with a thump. He gazed heavenward for a while, at a sky streaked with smoke and fire. "The glasses are new."
America pinned the bandage in place and sat back. His knees still framed Russia's hips. "Couple years old," he replied. He cut a new length of bandage and laid it over his knee, then spilled more iodine onto a cotton wad and pressed it to Russia's hand. A fierce sting sparkled from his fingertips to his wrist. America held him fast and raveled the shorter bandage in place. "I think they--"
His lips kept moving, but the words were drowned out under a new barrage from the Russian guns. He actually rolled his eyes at the interruption, and leaned in close to speak against Russia's ear. "I think they look good on me, don't you?"
"Older," Russia said softly, forcing America to tip his head even closer. Russia's hand was trapped between them; his knuckles were pressed against the rough fabric of America's uniform. A warm flare passed through him--the opium, again--and the weight on his hips was abruptly distracting. "You look older." He curled his fingers; America's buttons were sharp. America's fingertips folded between his knuckles as Russia's hand closed over his.
"Any other injuries you feel like telling me about?" America's breath was warm on his ear and the side of his neck. "I don't think you want me to cut off the rest of your clothes to check myself," and was there the quietest, sweetest emphasis on that 'think?' The line of cannonfire swept past them; the masonry beneath them trembled.
Russia blinked heavily, trying to focus on America's face. Injuries. Oh. "My hip," he managed. "Might have been clipped. Left side." He guided America's hand to the spot in question, let go, then folded his good arm carefully beneath his head. He wet his lips.
America glanced up into Russia's eyes and pushed himself a few inches down his body. "If you were uncomfortable with me sitting like this, you should have said." His fingers spread out, firm and warm. "I don't feel any blood. Might've been an impact." His thumb crested the swell of Russia's hip and slid down the curve of bone. Another flicker up into Russia's eyes, and the softest grin. "Does this hurt?"
No. But it did, in a way. The light warm pressure of America's hand felt likely to leave bruises. Russia gave a rare honest answer. "A bit." All at once there was more smoke in his lungs; he imagined it spiraling around inside him. He coughed, once, and held America's gaze. Look at that. Clouds there, too.
America dug his thumb in a bit and traced another line, up. His fingers curled gently in the channel of Russia's hip and caught in the fabric of his pants. "This?"
Russia's breath didn't catch, and he didn't reach down to grab America's hand. "Yes," he murmured. He squinted his eyes against the smog, and struggled not to shake from--from exhaustion. He let his head drop back into his left hand. The line of his throat dipped as he swallowed.
America's gaze dropped to his work, if 'work' could really be used to describe what he was doing. The left half of Russia's shirt survived; America ran his hand under it and, and caressed down his side. His fingertips pressed in and found the small spaces between his ribs whenever Russia took a shallow breath. It was almost a tickle down his side, from his lowest rib to the waistband of his pants, and there, a lingering hesitation. America's fingers walked over his belt, his ammo pouch, and then his hand was flush against him from the round swell of his hip bone to mid-thigh.
"I don't feel any swelling," he said lightly. He left his hand in place and pushed his glasses up his face with his shoulder. "Do you think you can walk?"
Russia's eyes snapped open. For a moment, the world had tipped off-balance. He lifted his head and sat up gingerly; his hip arched into America's hand. The other nation was still straddling his thighs, and Russia's movement brought them almost nose to nose. "If you can manage not to try and help me."
The hand on his hip tightened. America gave him a challenging smile from an inch away. "Are you sure you don't want me to carry you?" He appraised Russia through veiled eyes and drawled, "You'd make a beautiful bride."
"You couldn't carry me if you tried," Russia mumbled. Everything in him wanting to drop his head onto America's shoulder and sleep. The constant roar of the cannons had started to fade into the distance, swallowed up by the sound of the sea. It was too quiet, now--their breathing was too evident, too similar. Russia held his breath for a beat to desynchronize them, but America might have noticed, his eyes lingered on Russia's mouth, and that was worse.
America's smile softened a little. "Sure I could. It's just leverage." He climbed off of Russia and slid next to him on one knee. He put an arm around his back and shrugged Russia's uninjured arm over his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside. I'll let you pretend you can walk on your own."
"Svoloch'." Bastard, but America probably assumed it meant thank you. Russia let himself be led across the battlements, his hand curled around America's upper arm. Half of any battle was knowing when you've been beaten, and he had. America's fingers dug into his right hip, propelling him forward. He only stumbled once.
America guided him into the main edifice of Fort Viapori and found him a bedroll in a corner. He helped Russia to the floor, crouched next to him, threw a blanket over his shoulders. When he spoke, there was something--fond, in his voice. He murmured, "Sleep it off, you uncooperative son of a bitch."
It took the introduction of a blanket for Russia to realize just how cold he was. He pulled it over his shoulders, then rolled haltingly over on his stomach. His breath hitched when he tugged his shoulder. His wrapped hand darted out from the warm recesses of the coverlet and grabbed America's knee. "This," he mumbled, nodding at the circular stain seeping through the bandage, "We'll talk about this...later." He buried his face in the crook of his arm.
There was a pause, and he knew the other nation was smiling. America slid his hand through Russia's hair, once, then stood and moved off.
***
One week later.
Russia surveyed the chaos on the docks: soldiers lining up halfheartedly, marching in rows, village girls thronging after them, shouting goodbyes and darting forward for last kisses. Crates thumped and crashed as they were loaded belowdecks. Above it all, the serene slap of the sea against the hulls of their ships.
"Finally, getting off this miserable fucking island," America announced cheerfully as he materialized at Russia's side. He glanced over him. "Hey, you're looking better."
"I am feeling better," he replied, and pretended to examine his right hand. The skin around America's bite was raised and purple. "Although I worried about this for a while. You'll have to remind me to give you something equally painful," he paused, stared at the algae growing on the wet stones nearby. "To remember me by."
"Count on it," America assured him. He shifted his medicine box on its long strap from one shoulder to the other.
"I hope you're not planning to use that laudanum on any other helpless victims," he smirked. "I would have been fine, you know. There was no reason to go to such--lengths."
The corner of America's mouth twitched. "It was my job to make sure you got proper treatment."
"I know I've always felt that 'proper treatment' should include biting your patient."
"Yeah, I've heard that about you."
Russia's bark of laughter turned heads clear across the docks. He winced, hand flying to his right side. "Damn." He raised an eyebrow at the Nation beside him. "Are you are trying to open my wound? --Are you troubled by the fact that I would not put that past you?"
America looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I'm devastated. I'm just here to help, after all."
"That was all 'help,' then?" Russia imitated his emphasis, and dropped his rucksack heavily onto the docks. "I'm unsure of the nature of your...excuse, for your behavior. I was drugged, after all."
America appraised him for several seconds, one eyebrow slightly cocked. Then he grinned, flipped open the lid of his medicine box, and plucked out an empty bottle. He pressed it into Russia's hand.
It was labeled 'LAUDANUM.'
I've been out since June," he was saying. "The stuff I gave you couldn't cloud your mind any more than sea water." His grin turned crooked. "What was your excuse, again?"
Russia flushed for the first time in two hundred years. He looked at the tiny bottle in his hand, glass winking in the morning light, and then, without a word, flung it as hard as he could into the ocean. "If my hand gets infected," he snarled, "You will be the first one to know."
"Hey, or maybe it was laudanum. Maybe I ran out during the siege." America kept grinning. "I guess you'll never know." He clasped Russia's forearm for a second. "Good luck on the Turkish peninsula. Take care of yourself out there, all right?"
He shrugged his case higher on his shoulder and sauntered down towards the docks. Russia gaped at his retreating back.
For a wild instant, he wondered if he wouldn’t be justified in shooting the smart-mouthed son of a bitch.
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-- The Battle of Viapori took place from August 7-9, 1855. 80 British and French warships with more than a thousand guns shelled the Russian-controlled Finnish dockyard at Fort Viapori for two days, but were unable to break the Russian cannon line, and eventually retreated without sending a single soldier ashore. Estimates from the time suggest more than twenty thousand shells were fired before the Allied retreat. While the fort was badly damaged, there were few Russian casualties.
-- The Crimean War was complicated; I'm not gonna get into it. Suffice to say that American political opinion favored Russian interests over the British and the French. While America maintained its longstanding policy of military neutrality, the Americans still found ways to support the Russian war effort. Among other measures, hundreds of American doctors and nurses traveled to the front lines to tend to the Russian wounded.
This isn't related to the fic, but I thought it was pretty clever: Great Britain was harassing Russian shipping throughout the war, because they're pirates, and that's what they do. So the Americans arranged for the fictitious sale of Russian ships to American private industry so that the Russians could carry on with their naval activities under the flag of American neutrality. Isn't that neat?
-- Iodine is an alcohol-based topical antiseptic.
-- Laudanum, of course, is an opium and ethanol-based painkiller that was widely used and prescribed during the nineteenth century. It fell out of use on account of it being, you know, opium, but is still sometimes prescribed for severe pain.
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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.