56 - Almost There
Title: Almost There
Characters: England/America.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1963 - President Kennedy is buried, and England does his best to be the kind of friend America needs.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Arlington National Cemetery. November 25th 1963.
A long line of glossy black cars bordered the edge of the cemetery, and dignitaries and ambassadors made their way towards them like flocks of ravens in the greying light. England watched them go; listened, as engines purred to life amid the rustle of the silent crowd. He lingered behind. After a time, the crowd thinned enough that his gaze could settle on the former First Lady--and on the hill of freshly-turned earth beside her.
America stood off to the side, hands in his pockets. England approached. His fingers closed gently around America's elbow.
America's hand rose and covered England's. "Hey." His voice was hoarse.
England gave him a very small smile. "Let me take you home."
America's eyes fell away to the flame over Kennedy's grave. A few seconds later, he nodded.
They made their way down the gravel path towards the gate; neither of them spoke. The Secret Service met them there and brought them to America's car. When the driver opened the doors for them, England's mumbled thanks seemed strange and loud.
America was hunched over in the back seat, his glasses tugged off and his face covered. England only hesitated for a second as he slid in beside him. He laid a hand between America's shoulders. "I'm sorry."
America nodded. A few seconds later, fragile: "He was something special, you know that? You don't...guys like him don't end up in office every day."
"I know," England murmured. His fingers shifted, a small attempt to soothe the tension out of America's spine. It was--clumsy; England had never been any good at this.
America relaxed an inch anyway. He blew out a sharp breath and snapped his gaze up, stared at the back of the driver's seat. "H-he didn't deserve this. God, his wife--those kids--"
A heavy silence filled the car. Jacqueline Kennedy had cried only once during the service, during the Ave Maria. England had learned at the gravesite that it had also played at their wedding. The younger of the Kennedy children--his son, three years old--had saluted his father's casket as it passed in the procession.
A few minutes later: "It was nice for everybody to show up." America turned his glasses over and over between his hands. He looked through England's window over his shoulder. "There were a lot of important people. I don't think I remembered all their names right. I hope nobody got upset about it."
England wondered if something had just…buckled, in his chest, because his arm slipped around America's shoulder and squeezed; almost an embrace. "I'm sure no one minded."
America tipped his head onto England's shoulder.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. England rested his cheek in America's hair, and watched the sky change colors through the window.
---
It was after midnight, and America still didn't want to sleep.
England sat beside him on America's living room couch: quiet, listening, they'd gone through half a dozen beers between them and the bottles lay rolled across the carpet, dull green and gleaming. America had loaned him more comfortable clothes--the sweater was at least three sizes too large, and dropped open down to England's collarbone.
America's head rested on England's shoulder again, and England allowed it.
"It's been a rough year." America gave a thready laugh. "Just...kind of a rough year."
"I know," England replied. He fingered a loose thread on his too-long cuff. "But you've made it through thus far."
America's breath stuttered on a half-suppressed unhappy sound. He turned his head on England's shoulder. "I guess."
There was a quiet interval. England could feel America breathing.
"Do you ever just..." America stopped. Wet his lips. "Do you ever...have you ever felt like you just...weren't going to, anymore?" Quicker, louder-- "Or is that, just--is that dumb."
England flicked a glance down at America; saw him staring straight ahead. And so he closed his eyes. "Yes," he exhaled. A heartbeat, and he settled deeper into the couch. "It has been...a temptation, at times."
"Really?" There was a pinprick of curiosity in America's voice. His temple rocked on England's shoulder. "I mean--you do, really? Because you always come off like--you know...you're fine, and you're in control, and even when you lose your temper, it's all, why yes, two-fifteen to two-thirty--" America switched into an English accent, an--actually rather good English accent. "--lose temper, followed by biscuits with jam and cream...Or are those scones, I can never keep straight what you call biscuits..."
"Cookies," England said absently. He draped his right arm along the back of the couch. America's weight pinned his left at his side. "America, I am always on the verge of losing my temper. My ability to control it doesn't change the fact that it's there in the first place. The same goes for this urge to simply...give up, for a time."
America struggled to sit up an inch. "Wait, no, what I call cookies are what you call biscuits, and what I call biscuits is what you call scones...do you have a word for what I call...scones..." America's voice faded out. If England listened for it, he could actually hear America's train of thought changing tracks. He waited.
"I-I just--"
Right, there it was--
"I thought being more powerful was supposed to be nice," America pleaded. "And--and it is, I mean, don't get me wrong, but...but I don't...know what I'm doing. Anymore. I mean...I'm just trying to do what's right, and what's good for my people, and, and work hard, and that's the same as always, but--now--"
America fell silent. He worked his jaw, and one of his arms twisted around England's; his fingertips curled into England's sleeve.
"Now 'doing my best' keeps...I mean..." America huffed out a short breath. "I almost killed Russia. A-and you, and--everybody...and I don't know why and I'm trying so hard and I--it's not--I just keep--" His voice went tear-stung.
England watched his arms twine--barely touching--around America's shoulders. It felt--warm and numbing and strange, all at once.
America shifted under the caress--closer, not recoiling. He nudged his temple against England's shoulder. "I-I'm just scared that something bad is gonna happen and I'm not gonna know how to stop it. And a lot of people are gonna get hurt, and--and, I mean--Kennedy was..." America swallowed thickly. "H-he was special. And he'd call me on it if I started sounding kinda too-intense about stuff, and that's not normal, I mean, I-I haven't had that since Roosevelt...I could trust Kennedy. To--to keep me out of trouble."
A little silence. "And now he's dead."
"If you admired him so much, then surely you learned from him." England ran the backs of his fingers, gentle, down America's arm, and stared at the low gleam of the entryway light across their scattered beer bottles. "Despite the occasional--" A twitched smile. "--Lapse in judgment, I think you are capable of policing yourself."
America was silent for a few seconds. "I can take care of myself, sure. I mean--I totally can. It's just..."
England felt America's fingertips curl soft against his side. "It's--it's still nice to have people you can count on."
England frowned, blinked. A curl of warmth went through him, spreading out from that touch. "Of course it is," he mumbled.
America studied the too-wide collar of England's sweater and took a deep breath. "Do you ever stop feeling like you're just…I don't know, making it up as you go along? I mean...there was a little while there in the fifties when I was like 'oh, sure, I know how this whole superpower thing works, I'm pretty good at this,' but then McCarthy drank himself to death, and Khrushchev got into office and was like 'hey sport lighten up,' and I kinda...kinda...forgot what it felt like. And everybody told me I'd been acting like an asshole anyway," he added.
"You were a delight that Christmas," England said dryly. America had stared him down in his own home, and it still made England's blood boil-- He let out a sharp breath, felt his fingers unknot on America's arm and begin to drift again. "It depends, I think," he went on. "Look at a nation like--" Oh, he's loathe to bring him up. "Like Russia. He was one of the largest empires in the world, but none of us ever had the impression he was doing anything but fumbling plans together at the last moment." He smirked. "Whereas the trappings of imperialism fit, say, Prussia and I like they were tailor-made for us."
"There's a little bit more to being a world power these days than imperialism, England." America's gaze flicked up to him with a frown.
England's lips tightened, but he--swallowed his first response. It burned, going down. "Of course," he managed. "But then, no one has ever quite had the power you do. You are as--as new to me as you are to yourself."
America watched him for a few more seconds, then exhaled. His eyes dropped to England's knee. "No; I know what you mean. The--it's--how comfortable you are with being able to just make things happen, right? How--how right that feels. Whether it's--conquering some other country, or pitching camp in some new colony, or..." His voice faded.
"Have I ever told you how I felt when I got the bomb?"
England shook his head. The collar of his borrowed sweater slipped an inch lower.
America kept his gaze fixed down. "It was--I mean, it was a rush, yeah, I knew--I knew I was a superpower, right then and there. That was a pretty amazing feeling." A flush filled his cheeks. "But afterwards...I mean, on the plane home, mostly...I was scared shitless."
America wet his lips. He risked a glance at England. "And I wasn't scared about how I'd just changed war forever, or anything. I wasn't thinking that far ahead, to be honest. I was...I was just..." He tugged his feet up onto the couch and looked down at the floor. "It crossed my mind, you know; I could just kill everybody. I mean, just--kill everybody. For like, whatever reason. You know. It was an option. I didn't want to, it's not like I sat there on the plane thinking 'hmm, you know, that'd fix my steel industry competition problems' or something, even though it would, but I mean, that's not the point--but I could. I was the first person who could ever say that they could."
A hot, closed-in silence. "God, I'm putting this really badly, aren't I, I'm just trying to--get across, I mean...that was the scariest moment of my whole life, England."
England didn't know what to say. He knew he didn't envy America that moment...but he wondered what it would have felt like, had he been the one to first call down that fire.
He rubbed a hand through his hair; it stuck up all over. "That's comforting, in its own way," he ventured at last. "The fact that you feared it."
America shot him a look. "Look, I know this whole Cold War thing is a little worrying from the outside, but it's not like I'm installing missile silos all over the place like a kid running around in a candy store, okay? I do think."
"I know you 'think,'" England rejoined. "But the same could be said of anyone who found themselves in your situation. You had the power to turn us all to ash--I hope that you would have understood what that power meant, and yes, been afraid of it." He shifted aimlessly against the cushions. "It was nearly a compliment, for God's sake."
America stared at him, his brow knit together--and then he laughed, sudden and bright, and dropped his forehead onto England's shoulder. "Nearly a compliment, huh." His arm draped around England's waist.
England let their bodies go gentle against one another as he exhaled. It was good to hear America laugh, even if England wasn't--entirely sure how he'd made it to that point. "Yes," he replied. "Nearly. It's the best you'll get."
"Yeah, well." America blew out a breath and settled in close. "Half a compliment from you is like, two compliments from anybody else...I think it's an exchange rate thing, I'm not too sure how that works. Compliment inflation or something." He kissed England's shoulder.
England went very still.
It was...He...oh.
He felt, faintly, like a fool. Of course he'd suspected-- But there had been no reason to ever assume-- An empty room would be just the thing, at the moment. Somewhere quiet and dark and on his own, where he'd be able to sort out what to--what to feel, how to react, to--to-- But America shifted against him, sighed. England swallowed.
His hand hovered just above America's head, then dropped, inch by careful inch, to settle in his hair.
America turned his head against it. His eyes slid closed. "Thanks, for keeping me company today."
"My pleasure," England murmured. He brushed down that single, wayward lock of hair. His sleeves hung off his arms. "You weren't especially troublesome."
America exhaled on another laugh. "That's another almost-compliment, huh?" He nudged his temple against England's shoulder. "You've...you've changed, you know that?"
England raised his eyebrows, tipped his head and peered down at America. "Have I?"
America nodded and fixed his arm tighter around England's hips. "You used to be kind of a bastard. Now you're...just...a bit of a prick."
"I will take that as a compliment," England chuckled. His fingertips rubbed into the spur of bone at the base of America's skull. "Whether or not you meant it as one."
"It was!" America stretched his neck against England's touch and smiled a bit. "...You know. Almost."
England tangled his fingers in the ends of America's hair; tugged, just a bit. "Well, then thank you. Almost."
America sat up and let him go. His gaze cast across the floor and the minefield of glass bottles, and then he stood.
"I'm gonna...I'm gonna get some sleep. Um. You know your way to the guest room, right? If you want to sit up for a while. I mean if you don't, I can show you back to the--"
"America," England broke in. "It's late. Go to bed, I'll be all right."
"Yeah," America exhaled. He wavered on his feet for another moment, then gave England a nod and a miniature wave and made for the staircase. A few seconds later, the door to his bedroom opened and closed.
The calm in England's expression melted away before the sound had faded. He propped his elbows on his knees and pushed his face into his hands. It was--It had been bound to happen. He knew that. But that kiss had caught him--off guard, and he couldn't quite--understand why he didn't find that fact objectionable.
He thought of how America's hair had felt between his fingers...and how long had it had been since he had touched it.
Something would come of this. England was sure. And in some small, silent corner of himself...God, he was looking forward to it.
+++
--John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. Representatives from over 90 countries attended his state funeral on November 25th, including 16 heads of state. Great Britain sent both its Prime Minister and the Duke of Edinburgh (as the representative of the Queen).
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.
Characters: England/America.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1963 - President Kennedy is buried, and England does his best to be the kind of friend America needs.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Arlington National Cemetery. November 25th 1963.
A long line of glossy black cars bordered the edge of the cemetery, and dignitaries and ambassadors made their way towards them like flocks of ravens in the greying light. England watched them go; listened, as engines purred to life amid the rustle of the silent crowd. He lingered behind. After a time, the crowd thinned enough that his gaze could settle on the former First Lady--and on the hill of freshly-turned earth beside her.
America stood off to the side, hands in his pockets. England approached. His fingers closed gently around America's elbow.
America's hand rose and covered England's. "Hey." His voice was hoarse.
England gave him a very small smile. "Let me take you home."
America's eyes fell away to the flame over Kennedy's grave. A few seconds later, he nodded.
They made their way down the gravel path towards the gate; neither of them spoke. The Secret Service met them there and brought them to America's car. When the driver opened the doors for them, England's mumbled thanks seemed strange and loud.
America was hunched over in the back seat, his glasses tugged off and his face covered. England only hesitated for a second as he slid in beside him. He laid a hand between America's shoulders. "I'm sorry."
America nodded. A few seconds later, fragile: "He was something special, you know that? You don't...guys like him don't end up in office every day."
"I know," England murmured. His fingers shifted, a small attempt to soothe the tension out of America's spine. It was--clumsy; England had never been any good at this.
America relaxed an inch anyway. He blew out a sharp breath and snapped his gaze up, stared at the back of the driver's seat. "H-he didn't deserve this. God, his wife--those kids--"
A heavy silence filled the car. Jacqueline Kennedy had cried only once during the service, during the Ave Maria. England had learned at the gravesite that it had also played at their wedding. The younger of the Kennedy children--his son, three years old--had saluted his father's casket as it passed in the procession.
A few minutes later: "It was nice for everybody to show up." America turned his glasses over and over between his hands. He looked through England's window over his shoulder. "There were a lot of important people. I don't think I remembered all their names right. I hope nobody got upset about it."
England wondered if something had just…buckled, in his chest, because his arm slipped around America's shoulder and squeezed; almost an embrace. "I'm sure no one minded."
America tipped his head onto England's shoulder.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. England rested his cheek in America's hair, and watched the sky change colors through the window.
---
It was after midnight, and America still didn't want to sleep.
England sat beside him on America's living room couch: quiet, listening, they'd gone through half a dozen beers between them and the bottles lay rolled across the carpet, dull green and gleaming. America had loaned him more comfortable clothes--the sweater was at least three sizes too large, and dropped open down to England's collarbone.
America's head rested on England's shoulder again, and England allowed it.
"It's been a rough year." America gave a thready laugh. "Just...kind of a rough year."
"I know," England replied. He fingered a loose thread on his too-long cuff. "But you've made it through thus far."
America's breath stuttered on a half-suppressed unhappy sound. He turned his head on England's shoulder. "I guess."
There was a quiet interval. England could feel America breathing.
"Do you ever just..." America stopped. Wet his lips. "Do you ever...have you ever felt like you just...weren't going to, anymore?" Quicker, louder-- "Or is that, just--is that dumb."
England flicked a glance down at America; saw him staring straight ahead. And so he closed his eyes. "Yes," he exhaled. A heartbeat, and he settled deeper into the couch. "It has been...a temptation, at times."
"Really?" There was a pinprick of curiosity in America's voice. His temple rocked on England's shoulder. "I mean--you do, really? Because you always come off like--you know...you're fine, and you're in control, and even when you lose your temper, it's all, why yes, two-fifteen to two-thirty--" America switched into an English accent, an--actually rather good English accent. "--lose temper, followed by biscuits with jam and cream...Or are those scones, I can never keep straight what you call biscuits..."
"Cookies," England said absently. He draped his right arm along the back of the couch. America's weight pinned his left at his side. "America, I am always on the verge of losing my temper. My ability to control it doesn't change the fact that it's there in the first place. The same goes for this urge to simply...give up, for a time."
America struggled to sit up an inch. "Wait, no, what I call cookies are what you call biscuits, and what I call biscuits is what you call scones...do you have a word for what I call...scones..." America's voice faded out. If England listened for it, he could actually hear America's train of thought changing tracks. He waited.
"I-I just--"
Right, there it was--
"I thought being more powerful was supposed to be nice," America pleaded. "And--and it is, I mean, don't get me wrong, but...but I don't...know what I'm doing. Anymore. I mean...I'm just trying to do what's right, and what's good for my people, and, and work hard, and that's the same as always, but--now--"
America fell silent. He worked his jaw, and one of his arms twisted around England's; his fingertips curled into England's sleeve.
"Now 'doing my best' keeps...I mean..." America huffed out a short breath. "I almost killed Russia. A-and you, and--everybody...and I don't know why and I'm trying so hard and I--it's not--I just keep--" His voice went tear-stung.
England watched his arms twine--barely touching--around America's shoulders. It felt--warm and numbing and strange, all at once.
America shifted under the caress--closer, not recoiling. He nudged his temple against England's shoulder. "I-I'm just scared that something bad is gonna happen and I'm not gonna know how to stop it. And a lot of people are gonna get hurt, and--and, I mean--Kennedy was..." America swallowed thickly. "H-he was special. And he'd call me on it if I started sounding kinda too-intense about stuff, and that's not normal, I mean, I-I haven't had that since Roosevelt...I could trust Kennedy. To--to keep me out of trouble."
A little silence. "And now he's dead."
"If you admired him so much, then surely you learned from him." England ran the backs of his fingers, gentle, down America's arm, and stared at the low gleam of the entryway light across their scattered beer bottles. "Despite the occasional--" A twitched smile. "--Lapse in judgment, I think you are capable of policing yourself."
America was silent for a few seconds. "I can take care of myself, sure. I mean--I totally can. It's just..."
England felt America's fingertips curl soft against his side. "It's--it's still nice to have people you can count on."
England frowned, blinked. A curl of warmth went through him, spreading out from that touch. "Of course it is," he mumbled.
America studied the too-wide collar of England's sweater and took a deep breath. "Do you ever stop feeling like you're just…I don't know, making it up as you go along? I mean...there was a little while there in the fifties when I was like 'oh, sure, I know how this whole superpower thing works, I'm pretty good at this,' but then McCarthy drank himself to death, and Khrushchev got into office and was like 'hey sport lighten up,' and I kinda...kinda...forgot what it felt like. And everybody told me I'd been acting like an asshole anyway," he added.
"You were a delight that Christmas," England said dryly. America had stared him down in his own home, and it still made England's blood boil-- He let out a sharp breath, felt his fingers unknot on America's arm and begin to drift again. "It depends, I think," he went on. "Look at a nation like--" Oh, he's loathe to bring him up. "Like Russia. He was one of the largest empires in the world, but none of us ever had the impression he was doing anything but fumbling plans together at the last moment." He smirked. "Whereas the trappings of imperialism fit, say, Prussia and I like they were tailor-made for us."
"There's a little bit more to being a world power these days than imperialism, England." America's gaze flicked up to him with a frown.
England's lips tightened, but he--swallowed his first response. It burned, going down. "Of course," he managed. "But then, no one has ever quite had the power you do. You are as--as new to me as you are to yourself."
America watched him for a few more seconds, then exhaled. His eyes dropped to England's knee. "No; I know what you mean. The--it's--how comfortable you are with being able to just make things happen, right? How--how right that feels. Whether it's--conquering some other country, or pitching camp in some new colony, or..." His voice faded.
"Have I ever told you how I felt when I got the bomb?"
England shook his head. The collar of his borrowed sweater slipped an inch lower.
America kept his gaze fixed down. "It was--I mean, it was a rush, yeah, I knew--I knew I was a superpower, right then and there. That was a pretty amazing feeling." A flush filled his cheeks. "But afterwards...I mean, on the plane home, mostly...I was scared shitless."
America wet his lips. He risked a glance at England. "And I wasn't scared about how I'd just changed war forever, or anything. I wasn't thinking that far ahead, to be honest. I was...I was just..." He tugged his feet up onto the couch and looked down at the floor. "It crossed my mind, you know; I could just kill everybody. I mean, just--kill everybody. For like, whatever reason. You know. It was an option. I didn't want to, it's not like I sat there on the plane thinking 'hmm, you know, that'd fix my steel industry competition problems' or something, even though it would, but I mean, that's not the point--but I could. I was the first person who could ever say that they could."
A hot, closed-in silence. "God, I'm putting this really badly, aren't I, I'm just trying to--get across, I mean...that was the scariest moment of my whole life, England."
England didn't know what to say. He knew he didn't envy America that moment...but he wondered what it would have felt like, had he been the one to first call down that fire.
He rubbed a hand through his hair; it stuck up all over. "That's comforting, in its own way," he ventured at last. "The fact that you feared it."
America shot him a look. "Look, I know this whole Cold War thing is a little worrying from the outside, but it's not like I'm installing missile silos all over the place like a kid running around in a candy store, okay? I do think."
"I know you 'think,'" England rejoined. "But the same could be said of anyone who found themselves in your situation. You had the power to turn us all to ash--I hope that you would have understood what that power meant, and yes, been afraid of it." He shifted aimlessly against the cushions. "It was nearly a compliment, for God's sake."
America stared at him, his brow knit together--and then he laughed, sudden and bright, and dropped his forehead onto England's shoulder. "Nearly a compliment, huh." His arm draped around England's waist.
England let their bodies go gentle against one another as he exhaled. It was good to hear America laugh, even if England wasn't--entirely sure how he'd made it to that point. "Yes," he replied. "Nearly. It's the best you'll get."
"Yeah, well." America blew out a breath and settled in close. "Half a compliment from you is like, two compliments from anybody else...I think it's an exchange rate thing, I'm not too sure how that works. Compliment inflation or something." He kissed England's shoulder.
England went very still.
It was...He...oh.
He felt, faintly, like a fool. Of course he'd suspected-- But there had been no reason to ever assume-- An empty room would be just the thing, at the moment. Somewhere quiet and dark and on his own, where he'd be able to sort out what to--what to feel, how to react, to--to-- But America shifted against him, sighed. England swallowed.
His hand hovered just above America's head, then dropped, inch by careful inch, to settle in his hair.
America turned his head against it. His eyes slid closed. "Thanks, for keeping me company today."
"My pleasure," England murmured. He brushed down that single, wayward lock of hair. His sleeves hung off his arms. "You weren't especially troublesome."
America exhaled on another laugh. "That's another almost-compliment, huh?" He nudged his temple against England's shoulder. "You've...you've changed, you know that?"
England raised his eyebrows, tipped his head and peered down at America. "Have I?"
America nodded and fixed his arm tighter around England's hips. "You used to be kind of a bastard. Now you're...just...a bit of a prick."
"I will take that as a compliment," England chuckled. His fingertips rubbed into the spur of bone at the base of America's skull. "Whether or not you meant it as one."
"It was!" America stretched his neck against England's touch and smiled a bit. "...You know. Almost."
England tangled his fingers in the ends of America's hair; tugged, just a bit. "Well, then thank you. Almost."
America sat up and let him go. His gaze cast across the floor and the minefield of glass bottles, and then he stood.
"I'm gonna...I'm gonna get some sleep. Um. You know your way to the guest room, right? If you want to sit up for a while. I mean if you don't, I can show you back to the--"
"America," England broke in. "It's late. Go to bed, I'll be all right."
"Yeah," America exhaled. He wavered on his feet for another moment, then gave England a nod and a miniature wave and made for the staircase. A few seconds later, the door to his bedroom opened and closed.
The calm in England's expression melted away before the sound had faded. He propped his elbows on his knees and pushed his face into his hands. It was--It had been bound to happen. He knew that. But that kiss had caught him--off guard, and he couldn't quite--understand why he didn't find that fact objectionable.
He thought of how America's hair had felt between his fingers...and how long had it had been since he had touched it.
Something would come of this. England was sure. And in some small, silent corner of himself...God, he was looking forward to it.
+++
--John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. Representatives from over 90 countries attended his state funeral on November 25th, including 16 heads of state. Great Britain sent both its Prime Minister and the Duke of Edinburgh (as the representative of the Queen).
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.