[fic] More Cold War...; America, Russia
Night had already descended by the time America pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the trucking depot, though darkness had long since been chased off by the buttery glow of security lights placed with efficient regularity in the bay beyond the chain link fence and parking lot. Impatient fingers plucked at the cords of an iPod, pulling the buds out of his ears, spraying the strains of an old seventies song.
Nervously, he extracted his service pistol (newest model, brand new, though America had a fondness for his old pistol- it was as if seeing it was a constant beratement; he never saw it and didn’t think of that instant Japan choked blood), checked to see if it was loaded, that nothing would freeze, that it was properly clean, and when he’d exhausted the list of menial tasks he could perform on the gun, reluctantly extricated himself from the car.
He hitched his bomber jacket closer around his neck as he walked briskly to the sickly-illuminated wiring, and letting himself into the fence with a set of keys. And though America would have denied it, it was unmistakable that he was approaching the depot with a certain amount of reluctance. Why was relatively simple; the reports that had come filtering in had been more than a little disconcerting. Entire tankers of gasoline were simply disappearing. IN the middle of the night, no less, with everything properly locked, checked and double-checked. Though America had it on good confidence they would resurface somewhere in Eastern Europe, how they got there was another matter entirely.
It was almost spooky.
He came abruptly to himself halfway down the line of tankers, stopping in a puddle of light cast from a fluorescent high above him, upon the realization that one of the trucks was idling. He drew in a breath and held it unconsciously, readjusting the grip he held on his gun, and renewed his approach, walking swiftly and silently, one foot over the other, to the driver’s side.
He wasn’t expecting anyone there; or, at the least, he was expecting someone with filed teeth, eyes completely black, and a thirst for human flesh (he had stopped to wonder, briefly, if he should stop watching re-runs of the X-Files before going out on missions, which was quickly obliterated by the next episode starting). So he was surprised, to say the least, when he’d circled around the grill of the truck, and found nothing of the sort.
In fact, he’d already leveled his gun at the driver’s window, shouting in what was a commendably arresting way, “Freeze!”, before he’d realized what this was all about.
Russia jumped in the seat, pale eyes widening until Alfred could see the whites past that rare lavender, and his hand flying to his chest to press his heart in an involuntary gesture.
“Ah!” The youth said, as if completely missing Alfred’s shocked expression, his mild voice just louder than the strains of country music that filtered down to the pavement where America stood (why hadn’t he heard it earlier? He wondered slightly detachedly). “America, you scared me!”
“Russia?” Alfred sputtered, trying not to expire immediately on the spot in mixed shock and relief.
But Ivan was already unfolding his long, lanky body from the cab of the truck, and stepping down (and America really tried very, very hard not to notice the exemplary fit of Russia’s jeans, especially around his ass) from the steel steps, motorcycle boots grinding in the grit of the bay, kissed America in greeting.
He’d barely had time to register the kiss before it happened, Ivan’s lips, cool and smooth, pressing to each cheek, hands closing firmly and familiarly around Alfred’s upper arms, and the briefest scent of old cologne, and Ivan was stepping back again.
As America tried to recollect himself (he realized, with a sick sort of simultaneousness, from the sudden lack of resistance on the barrel of his gun, that Ivan had stepped into the piece seemingly unthinkingly, and that Ivan’s hands had all but encircled his biceps), Ivan seemed to gaze on him with the fondness one would bestow a lover, shaking Alfred back into a semblance of reality.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He finally found the voice to ask. And then, having more of a grasp on the situation. “No, never mind, don’t answer that. What are you doing, stealing my gas?”
Russia looked up, gazing around at the veritable field of tankers, while he responded. “Boshe moi, America really is a land of plenty; all these will certainly go for quite a bit. They always do on the black market.”
“You can’t just take off with them.” The younger nation resumed, a tic in his jaw starting. Russia turned to look back at him in surprise, plucking his scarf over his mouth, lavender eyes deepening with worry, ivory face fixed in a suddenly shy expression.
“I can’t?” He said softly, pulling a set of keys from his front jeans pocket. “But I have the keys.”
“To one of them.” America reminded, and wondered why he’d even said something as stupid in the first place. The truck was idling, he must have hotwired it. Or it was a different set to a different tanker. For that matter, did he have the keys to them all? America felt a migraine spring to life above his left brow.
“Then I’ll just take this one. I’ll be back for the others later.”
“The fuck you will.” Russia glanced at him, with some surprise, and then burst into a sudden fit of laughter.
“America, you never fail to surprise me.” He wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. “I thought you’d know by now it’s really impossible to stop me. I’ve had experience with far more strict dictators than you, America, and I’ve had a long, long time to work around them.”
America looked at him grimly, reminding himself that he was the one with the gun leveled between them. “What’s stopping me from shooting you?” He asked, his voice raspy with the sudden surge of adrenaline that brought Ivan’s face into clear focus.
“Oh, America!” Ivan leaned forward, as if America were the small, truculent child he suddenly felt, and kissed him again, this time on the lips, and in what was unmistakably a farewell. “You can’t shoot me.” And, laughing again, Ivan swiftly mounted the steps, and settled himself again into the driver’s seat.
“Dos vedanya, Comrade Jones!” He tossed cheerily from the window as he kicked the truck into gear and pulled expertly around Alfred and out the gate Alfred had left open. In the wake of the trailer’s diesel in his mouth, America still felt a chill. He knew, abruptly, what this was all about, blinking his eyes rapidly past the grit that had settled past his glasses, and smoothing his hair into some semblance of order. He turned, walking slowly back to his government-issue sedan.
The next day, he made sure to have the entire depot relocated, and still had the sick sensation that Ivan would not only find it, but continue to steal from it. Just more Cold War bullshit.
Notes:
I laughed when I read that a big problem in Texas today is Russians stealing gas tankers to sell on the black market, and this popped into my head.
Russia’s comment about dictators: It seems that to merely survive in Russia, you have to break the law, because they’re so convoluted, and they don’t make a lot of sense.
Also, some scholars argue that, though it’s well past Nixon, we still feel repercussions from the Cold War.
Thank you for reading!