"Cold Comfort"
Title: Cold Comfort
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "You see, Sasha? There is nothing wrong with her. She is very beautiful."
(Reposted from the Kink Meme)
+++
It stood to reason that the Russian Federation would send someone over to congratulate America’s new leader. It did not stand to reason, however, that Russia himself would linger in that ridiculous wedding cake of a house for any longer than he had to. So while his travel companion scraped and simpered in the Oval Office, Russia went for a walk.
The back lawns are impeccably groomed. A low concrete curb bends in a half-moon, shaping beds of some red flower Russia’s never seen before. Thick stem, odd, pointed petals. He leans down to examine them, straightening rapidly as a shout splits the afternoon air.
“Alfred, wait!”
Three figures burst from one of the side doors of the mansion, sprinting over the grass. Russia identifies America instantly, leading the other two, much smaller than he. Children. And, he squints, the President’s children at that.
Makes sense. His people are probably thrilled to have young ones in the White House again.
America is as fast as he is strong, but Russia has only seen him tap into that speed once or twice in a hundred years. He’s taking it easy with the girls, matching his pace to theirs and letting their little hands come within an inch of his sleeve before he tears off again.
“Alfred!” The smaller one finally manages to corner him behind a tree, fingers grasping at the hem of his jacket. “You’re way too fast.”
Russia can’t see his face, but America’s laugh rings across the lawn. “You’re the fast one, little lady. You caught me, didn’t you?”
The girl doesn’t respond, a tiny frown crossing her face. “I don’t want you to leave tomorrow,” she says suddenly. She pulls America down to sit on the grass beside her, and hangs on to his hand. “You can stay here with us, right? Mom says you can.”
“Thanks for the invitation, sweetheart,” America says as the older sister runs up and throws her arms over his shoulders. “But I’ve got work to do. I told Malia all about it last night at dinner. Weren’t you listening?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You gotta pay more attention,” Malia remarks, her chin resting on the top of America’s head. “He’s going to England, because his family lives there.” She pokes his shoulder with her finger. ‘Right?”
America smiles wryly at no one in particular. “Something like that. Anyway, I’ll be back to visit. Me and your dad are going to be working together for a long time.”
“See, Sasha?” Malia shrugs. “You don’t have to worry.”
Russia stiffens, and the flowers seem to dissolve, a sea of red before his eyes. Sahsa. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that name. Such a very long time...
“You see, Sasha? There is nothing wrong with her. She is very beautiful.”
The Empress falls back against the pillows, wan and exhausted. “I know, I know. It is just that the birth was so terribly painful, it made me wonder if something was wrong.” She gazes imploringly at the man sitting on the edge of her bed. “You mustn’t tell Nicholas, Ivan. I do not want him to worry.”
Russia nods, once, “As you wish.”
The tiny bundle in the Empress’ arms begins to whimper, and a tiny pink hand peeps out from it’s wrappings. “Shhh,” the new mother soothes, “it’s all right, Olga darling.” She gives Russia a shy smile. “Would you hold her, please? Only for a moment, if you like. I want her to meet her country.”
He takes the child carefully and nestles her in the crook of his arm, touching the back of his index finger to her cheek. Small things fascinate him; they always have. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be so tiny, so helpless. Perhaps he knew once, but that was a long time ago, and best forgotten.
Wide, unfocused eyes look right through him, and the Nation smiles. “Welcome to Russia, little duchess.”
They came like clockwork after that, one every two years, Russia remembers. He’s vaguely aware of America’s voice mixing with the girls’, closer than before. The sun shines through a tear in the overcast sky, winking dully on the long rows of trees.
The youngest girl, high in the branches of a winter-worn tree. “Ivan, must I come down?”
“I’m afraid so, Tsipotchka.”
He holds out his arms, and she leaps...
His hands shake, and he hates to think of it, hates to.
“But it’s boring! I would learn much better if you were to read it to me.” The boy heaves a sigh and his book’s pages flutter.
Russia reaches out to ruffle the child’s hair. “Somehow I doubt that, Alexei.”
It’s nightmarishly warm all of a sudden, much to hot for January; his scarf tightens like a noose.
“Maria. Tatiana,” he calls them both sharply, looming in the doorway of the nursery. The girls look up and run to him, all wide smiles and silk hair ribbons.
“Ivan, you have just missed prayers!” Maria’s head is almost level with Russia’s chest. He doesn’t remember when that happened, but right now he doesn’t much care. Without ever taking his eyes off the man before him, he presses a kiss to each of their foreheads and sends them out into the hall.
He doesn’t even wait for the door to shut. “What are you doing in here?”
The man steeples his fingers and fixes Russia with a dark-eyed stare. “I believe Maria just told you. I was instructing them in the ways of the Lord, something I am sure you would not be interested in.”
“‘Way of the Lord’? Is that what they are calling it now?” Russia snarls, doing his best to keep his trembling fists at his sides. The Empress would lose her mind if he laid a finger on the bastard. He settled for grabbing him by the collar and tugging him forward, close enough to kiss. “You can hide behind Her Imperial Majesty for as long as you please. I can wait.”
“I am sure you can.” The man twists out of Russia’s grasp, and makes a great show of dusting off the front of his robes. “But I am doing more for this family than you ever have.”
“Come near those girls again, and I swear I will kill you.”
His eyes burn.
Russia winces at the gunshots, blinking rapidly as acrid smoke fills the small basement. It’s just possible to see bodies, curled into themselves on the dirt floor, unlike any corpses he’s ever seen... And then, movement. Olga, he thinks, or Tatiana. The gunmen curse and begin to reload. Russia’s own rifle is heavy in his hand. He knows he should hate them, he does hate them, just as his people do. But he can’t bear to watch the men attach bayonets to the end of their barrels, can’t bear to hear the muffled shrieks (one of them, he’s sure, he’s so sure, called his name), can’t bear that final revolver shot to the head.
All he remembers are those jewels, gleaming like a pirate’s horde in the dull light, and wanting to gather the bodies of his poor, clever, beautiful children into his arms.
“Ivan?”
Russia’s head snaps up, and America is standing less than a yard away, watching him with narrowed eyes. His eyes are so blue, even from this distance. Hard, yes, but so blue. He puts no thought into the steps he takes, closing the space between them in long strides.
“Ivan?” he tries again. “What the hell are you doing?” A look of embarrassed surprise settles suddenly on his face. “You’re, uh, you’re...” he gestures vaguely to his own eyes.
The other Nation touches his face, mildly surprised when his hand comes away wet. “Crying, it appears,” Russia finishes, and stares at his fingers like he’s never seen a drop of salt water in his life.
America’s face is very near now; Russia feels his breath ghosting across the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Why?”
Russia wants to pull away, take a step back from America and his maddening pity, but he doesn’t move: the girls linger on the edge of the lawn, watching both of them. They look as though they’d be fond of tree-climbing.
“I’m remembering,” he finally answers.
He doesn’t think America knows what he’s talking about. The fool can barely recall his own history, let alone century-old events in others’. And yet that doesn’t stop him from leaning in, tangling his fingers in Russia’s scarf, and brushing their lips gently (much too gently) together. “Sorry,” he whispers, although what he’s apologizing for Russia isn’t sure. His ignorance, perhaps.
America rests his forehead against the other Nation’s, and nods minutely towards his boss’ children. “Don’t worry, Ivan, I’ve got this. Nothing’s gonna happen to those girls.” He kisses Russia again, lightly. “I wouldn’t let my people touch ‘em.”
He grins like the Devil, and Russia barely staggers back in time to vomit into the bushes.
+
“Sasha” is a diminutive form of the Russian name “Alexsandra”, the Russian Orthodox name of the wife of Nicholas II.
The Russian Imperial family consisted of five children, daughters Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia, and son Alexei.
Tsipotchka is a Russian term of endearment, meaning “little bird”.
History shows us that the mystic Rasputin’s close relationship with the Romanov children was entirely appropriate. However, that wasn’t the pervading opinion of the citizens of the time, and Ivan reflects that distrust.
The Romanov family was famously murdered by the Bolsheviks in the basement of the Ipatiev House. The children (all of whom were in their teens to early twenties) had sewn the family jewels into the lining of their clothing, in hopes of keeping them hidden. These gems acted as bulletproof vests, keeping the executioners from doing any terminal damage. They were then attacked with bayonets, and the survivors were shot in the head at close range.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "You see, Sasha? There is nothing wrong with her. She is very beautiful."
(Reposted from the Kink Meme)
+++
It stood to reason that the Russian Federation would send someone over to congratulate America’s new leader. It did not stand to reason, however, that Russia himself would linger in that ridiculous wedding cake of a house for any longer than he had to. So while his travel companion scraped and simpered in the Oval Office, Russia went for a walk.
The back lawns are impeccably groomed. A low concrete curb bends in a half-moon, shaping beds of some red flower Russia’s never seen before. Thick stem, odd, pointed petals. He leans down to examine them, straightening rapidly as a shout splits the afternoon air.
“Alfred, wait!”
Three figures burst from one of the side doors of the mansion, sprinting over the grass. Russia identifies America instantly, leading the other two, much smaller than he. Children. And, he squints, the President’s children at that.
Makes sense. His people are probably thrilled to have young ones in the White House again.
America is as fast as he is strong, but Russia has only seen him tap into that speed once or twice in a hundred years. He’s taking it easy with the girls, matching his pace to theirs and letting their little hands come within an inch of his sleeve before he tears off again.
“Alfred!” The smaller one finally manages to corner him behind a tree, fingers grasping at the hem of his jacket. “You’re way too fast.”
Russia can’t see his face, but America’s laugh rings across the lawn. “You’re the fast one, little lady. You caught me, didn’t you?”
The girl doesn’t respond, a tiny frown crossing her face. “I don’t want you to leave tomorrow,” she says suddenly. She pulls America down to sit on the grass beside her, and hangs on to his hand. “You can stay here with us, right? Mom says you can.”
“Thanks for the invitation, sweetheart,” America says as the older sister runs up and throws her arms over his shoulders. “But I’ve got work to do. I told Malia all about it last night at dinner. Weren’t you listening?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You gotta pay more attention,” Malia remarks, her chin resting on the top of America’s head. “He’s going to England, because his family lives there.” She pokes his shoulder with her finger. ‘Right?”
America smiles wryly at no one in particular. “Something like that. Anyway, I’ll be back to visit. Me and your dad are going to be working together for a long time.”
“See, Sasha?” Malia shrugs. “You don’t have to worry.”
Russia stiffens, and the flowers seem to dissolve, a sea of red before his eyes. Sahsa. It’s been a long time since he’s heard that name. Such a very long time...
“You see, Sasha? There is nothing wrong with her. She is very beautiful.”
The Empress falls back against the pillows, wan and exhausted. “I know, I know. It is just that the birth was so terribly painful, it made me wonder if something was wrong.” She gazes imploringly at the man sitting on the edge of her bed. “You mustn’t tell Nicholas, Ivan. I do not want him to worry.”
Russia nods, once, “As you wish.”
The tiny bundle in the Empress’ arms begins to whimper, and a tiny pink hand peeps out from it’s wrappings. “Shhh,” the new mother soothes, “it’s all right, Olga darling.” She gives Russia a shy smile. “Would you hold her, please? Only for a moment, if you like. I want her to meet her country.”
He takes the child carefully and nestles her in the crook of his arm, touching the back of his index finger to her cheek. Small things fascinate him; they always have. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be so tiny, so helpless. Perhaps he knew once, but that was a long time ago, and best forgotten.
Wide, unfocused eyes look right through him, and the Nation smiles. “Welcome to Russia, little duchess.”
They came like clockwork after that, one every two years, Russia remembers. He’s vaguely aware of America’s voice mixing with the girls’, closer than before. The sun shines through a tear in the overcast sky, winking dully on the long rows of trees.
The youngest girl, high in the branches of a winter-worn tree. “Ivan, must I come down?”
“I’m afraid so, Tsipotchka.”
He holds out his arms, and she leaps...
His hands shake, and he hates to think of it, hates to.
“But it’s boring! I would learn much better if you were to read it to me.” The boy heaves a sigh and his book’s pages flutter.
Russia reaches out to ruffle the child’s hair. “Somehow I doubt that, Alexei.”
It’s nightmarishly warm all of a sudden, much to hot for January; his scarf tightens like a noose.
“Maria. Tatiana,” he calls them both sharply, looming in the doorway of the nursery. The girls look up and run to him, all wide smiles and silk hair ribbons.
“Ivan, you have just missed prayers!” Maria’s head is almost level with Russia’s chest. He doesn’t remember when that happened, but right now he doesn’t much care. Without ever taking his eyes off the man before him, he presses a kiss to each of their foreheads and sends them out into the hall.
He doesn’t even wait for the door to shut. “What are you doing in here?”
The man steeples his fingers and fixes Russia with a dark-eyed stare. “I believe Maria just told you. I was instructing them in the ways of the Lord, something I am sure you would not be interested in.”
“‘Way of the Lord’? Is that what they are calling it now?” Russia snarls, doing his best to keep his trembling fists at his sides. The Empress would lose her mind if he laid a finger on the bastard. He settled for grabbing him by the collar and tugging him forward, close enough to kiss. “You can hide behind Her Imperial Majesty for as long as you please. I can wait.”
“I am sure you can.” The man twists out of Russia’s grasp, and makes a great show of dusting off the front of his robes. “But I am doing more for this family than you ever have.”
“Come near those girls again, and I swear I will kill you.”
His eyes burn.
Russia winces at the gunshots, blinking rapidly as acrid smoke fills the small basement. It’s just possible to see bodies, curled into themselves on the dirt floor, unlike any corpses he’s ever seen... And then, movement. Olga, he thinks, or Tatiana. The gunmen curse and begin to reload. Russia’s own rifle is heavy in his hand. He knows he should hate them, he does hate them, just as his people do. But he can’t bear to watch the men attach bayonets to the end of their barrels, can’t bear to hear the muffled shrieks (one of them, he’s sure, he’s so sure, called his name), can’t bear that final revolver shot to the head.
All he remembers are those jewels, gleaming like a pirate’s horde in the dull light, and wanting to gather the bodies of his poor, clever, beautiful children into his arms.
“Ivan?”
Russia’s head snaps up, and America is standing less than a yard away, watching him with narrowed eyes. His eyes are so blue, even from this distance. Hard, yes, but so blue. He puts no thought into the steps he takes, closing the space between them in long strides.
“Ivan?” he tries again. “What the hell are you doing?” A look of embarrassed surprise settles suddenly on his face. “You’re, uh, you’re...” he gestures vaguely to his own eyes.
The other Nation touches his face, mildly surprised when his hand comes away wet. “Crying, it appears,” Russia finishes, and stares at his fingers like he’s never seen a drop of salt water in his life.
America’s face is very near now; Russia feels his breath ghosting across the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Why?”
Russia wants to pull away, take a step back from America and his maddening pity, but he doesn’t move: the girls linger on the edge of the lawn, watching both of them. They look as though they’d be fond of tree-climbing.
“I’m remembering,” he finally answers.
He doesn’t think America knows what he’s talking about. The fool can barely recall his own history, let alone century-old events in others’. And yet that doesn’t stop him from leaning in, tangling his fingers in Russia’s scarf, and brushing their lips gently (much too gently) together. “Sorry,” he whispers, although what he’s apologizing for Russia isn’t sure. His ignorance, perhaps.
America rests his forehead against the other Nation’s, and nods minutely towards his boss’ children. “Don’t worry, Ivan, I’ve got this. Nothing’s gonna happen to those girls.” He kisses Russia again, lightly. “I wouldn’t let my people touch ‘em.”
He grins like the Devil, and Russia barely staggers back in time to vomit into the bushes.
+
“Sasha” is a diminutive form of the Russian name “Alexsandra”, the Russian Orthodox name of the wife of Nicholas II.
The Russian Imperial family consisted of five children, daughters Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia, and son Alexei.
Tsipotchka is a Russian term of endearment, meaning “little bird”.
History shows us that the mystic Rasputin’s close relationship with the Romanov children was entirely appropriate. However, that wasn’t the pervading opinion of the citizens of the time, and Ivan reflects that distrust.
The Romanov family was famously murdered by the Bolsheviks in the basement of the Ipatiev House. The children (all of whom were in their teens to early twenties) had sewn the family jewels into the lining of their clothing, in hopes of keeping them hidden. These gems acted as bulletproof vests, keeping the executioners from doing any terminal damage. They were then attacked with bayonets, and the survivors were shot in the head at close range.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+