39 - Contempt
Title: Contempt
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1952 - Russia goes toe-to-toe with America's newly-acquired crazy. McCarthyism, blackmail, climbing on tables, and threatening of civilians. Also gun kink.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
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Omaha, Nebraska. May, 1952.
Russia had never been to Nebraska before. He'd always relegated it to the same category as South Dakota and Arizona: probably good for something, but absolutely forgettable, when you got right down to it. But now he was discovering what a pleasant place it was; Omaha, specifically. It was just a pity he had to be in America to see it.
He took a sip of his coffee and watched the rising sun gleam over the smooth surface of the Missouri River. The cafe was a small, dingy place, but its coffee was decent, if bitter, and the pretty girl who poured it had only made him repeat himself twice.
He disliked that the Midwest made him reconsider just how well he spoke English.
A hand entered his field of vision, over his shoulder, and braced against the lip of the table. Presence, all across his back and shoulders. "I knew I'd find you if I just kept looking," America murmured close to his ear.
Russia's neck prickled, but he set his mug down slowly, casually. Ceramic collided with wood with a soft thunk, and he turned over his left shoulder to find their faces nearly touching. He smiled. "And I knew you'd find a way to ruin my morning if I just waited long enough."
America stretched back, opened up a gap between them, although it made his forearm rest against Russia's shoulder. He wore a black suit, polished shoes, and his gun. He smiled at Russia, all teeth. "What are you doing here?"
Russia twisted out from under the other nation's arm, didn't bother to be subtle about it. A bit of warmth lingered through his clothes. "Drinking coffee. Sit?" That with a hint of challenge.
"Coffee." America withdrew, squeezed Russia's shoulder, and slid into the chair across from him. He propped his elbows on the round wooden tabletop and rested his chin on his laced-together fingers. "Three miles from Offutt Air Base."
"Yes, I believe I've heard one or two things about the place." Like how it was packed with pilots ready to scramble to their bombers at the first sign of Soviet aggression.
He'd met several of them on his walks around the city, and he was annoyed at how cheerful they were about all of it: their mission, the defense of their country, their amiable hatred for the Reds.
Only one of them had recognized his accent. He took another mouthful of coffee.
"Hey, miss?" America tipped back in his chair and reached out to the pretty waitress. She stopped, looked him over, and blinked. "Can I get a coffee?"
She fidgetted an auburn curl over her ear. "Sure thing, sweetie, you want milk or sugar with that?"
He flashed her a big smile. "No milk, I'll do my own sugar. Thanks."
She left. America thunked forward in his chair and swiveled that smile around on Russia. It wasn't as pleasant as it had been for the waitress. "Yeah, it wasn't that hard to track you down," he went on, as if he were continuing some previous thought, "You've been making yourself real visible to the locals. Just so like anybody could find you, if they wanted to have a little chat."
The sun shivered higher over the far shore. It fell across Russia's clothes, the long pale plunge of his scarf, and threw America's face into tepid shadow under a halo of glowing golden hair. "Why would I want to hide?" Russia asked, wide-eyed. "Surely taking in the Heartland isn't illegal?"
"I think you've done more than enough of that." America watched him, eyes steady, smile never changing. "You're not welcome here."
"You're certainly hostile this morning." Russia kept smiling back, resisted the urge to throw the rest of his coffee in America's face. "Paranoid too. It doesn't suit you."
"It's not paranoia when I actually find you here. Oh, thanks, honey, you're a gem." Clear, bright eyes as the waitress returned and set his coffee and sugar bowl down in front of him. She smiled and flushed and twirled her skirt as she left again.
Russia watched as America dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.
"And I'm hostile with most people I can't stand, yeah," he finished.
"Your people have been far better hosts than you ever were." Russia tapped his fingers on the handle of his mug, listened to the soft ring, and the sounds of the city waking up around them. "I've even discussed my 'poisonous ideologies' with them," he smirked. "It turns out that Americans very much like the idea of Communism, as long as it's not called Communism."
"I'll bet." America stirred his drink, and stretched his other arm out across the table. His hand rested too far inside Russia's personal space. "You can be very convincing. Especially when you're full of shit."
Russia glanced down at America's hand--he'd forgotten how big they were, as big as his, nearly--and decided to ignore it. "I haven't been spreading insurrection. I've just been making conversation. I don't believe I'm breaking any laws." He raked a hand slowly through his hair; it shone in the light glowing off the river. America looked, just like Russia knew he would.
Then his gaze flicked back to Russia's eyes. "I'm not saying you're breaking any laws. I'm not here to arrest you. I'm just telling you to go the fuck home."
Russia finished his coffee, set his cup down. He'd finished with Omaha nearly a week ago, but suddenly he was willing to stay another month, a year, even. "And if I don't?"
"There's a lot worse things that can happen than getting arrested." America's voice rang dull inside his coffee cup.
Russia waited. Nothing else appeared to be forthcoming. He sighed. "Such as?"
America gave him an irritated look between swallows. "Imagination's never been your strong suit, has it."
"If I'm being threatened, I'd like to know what's at stake." He toyed with the idea of stretching out under the table, planting his foot on the lip of America's chair, and shoving him down the embankment into the river.
America set down his cup. "I have photographic evidence that you were sucking me off in a hotel room in Tennessee six months ago. It could be on your boss's desk tomorrow morning." He patted his napkin to his upper lip, then glanced at Russia. "So, you tell me. Are you being threatened?"
Something caught in his gut and wrenched.
Russia blinked. He saw red.
He blinked again. It didn't change.
He crossed his arms on the tabletop and leaned forward a few inches. He kept his face blank. "And how did you come by these photos? I've never even seen Tennessee."
"Does it matter?" America was smiling again. "Does it even matter if you can convince him that they're not real? Will he care?"
Russia thought of his left shoulder, how his boss had dislocated it six months ago after he had had a minor dispute with China. How it still ached.
His lips thinned.
"So why don't you--" America laced his fingers together and leaned over his hands. Their faces were only a foot apart. "Go home, do a bit of...what's it called...a bit of soul searching. Think about how much it really means to you, to infest these nice folks' heads with your disgusting ideas."
Russia's right hand closed into a fist. He inched nearer. "It's a bit rich of you to talk about my 'disgusting ideas' when you have that McCarthy lunatic organizing witch hunts."
"I don't give a shit about McCarthy. He's useful." America flicked his fingers. "He's telling people about the threat, that's good. In a few years nobody will care about him anymore. But the men who are responsible for hunting down you and all your little friends over here--they'll keep going."
"I'm sure they will," Russia snarled. America's eyes were painfully blue, and the river slid along behind his shoulder. "Should I be flattered by this level of obsession?"
"If you want. You're the one sneaking around my land. I guess you've got nothing better to do? Than try and make my people forget all the awful bullshit you've done, and love you." America propped his chin in his hand and batted his eyelashes.
Russia snorted, crossed his arms harder. His back was beginning to ache from the way he was arching over the lip of the table. "I don't expect them to love me," he replied. "I can't throw that word around the same way you do."
Because America did: he loved everything. Blue skies and bright days and chocolate and cola and pretty girls with auburn curls. And so, in a way, it made his love mean less.
"You're right," America straightened, folded his napkin flat. "I do say it about a lot of things I don't mean, don't I."
"You do," Russia bit out. "And that makes you a liar." There was a pause, and he filled it before it could yawn open any further. "Not that I'm surprised, by any stretch of the imagination. I just thought I'd mention it."
"Telling your boss you're putting out for me makes me a liar, too." America finished his coffee. "But I'm still right."
"No, you're not." Russia sat back, crossed his legs. The side of his foot brushed America's calf as he did so; his whole body tightened. "You're deluded," he managed.
"I am right! I was born right!" America jerked half out of his chair, braced forward, on one elbow and an outstretched hand. A wild light surged in his eyes, but his face, his mouth, the line of his shoulders--those were all hard. "So what if the facts go against me sometimes, I'm right in life, Russia. The world goes my way, not your way, and I'm gonna make you feel every inch you lose, until you're nothing."
Russia stared. He hadn't--hadn't expected this, although he realized distantly that he should have. He tipped his head to the side, regarded the other nation's blazing eyes. "I have bled for every inch of what I have now. Every inch, since before you were born. If you think that you're going to be able to just rub me off the map with this," he waved two fingers, indicated America's rigid body, "Then you are greatly mistaken. You can't bully me, or terrify me into trotting along behind you." His lip curled. "I've seen you writhing and moaning beneath me more times than I can count...You won't ever be able to intimidate me."
His hands were trembling in his lap, just barely, and he forced them to be still.
America kept leaning forward, until he had a knee propped on the edge of the table next to his coffee cup, until he had one hand pressed tight on the back of Russia's chair. Other patrons were staring. America's eyes were six inches from his. "Well, now it's your turn to get fucked," he breathed. "You're gonna enjoy it a lot less than I did."
"I'm sure," Russia murmured. "You never did seem to know quite what you were doing." The words were an afterthought, and he lifted his chin, glared into America's eyes, felt the other nation's breath over his lips. He wasn't threatened, or afraid. Just...intrigued, down to his core. He'd never, ever seen this side of America before. He reached out and placed his hand on the table, inches below America's thigh.
America gave a soft laugh, brushed off the insult. He tilted his head down and whispered against the turn of Russia's jaw: "Go home."
A rush of warmth bit all the way down Russia's jaw, slid under his scarf and across his collarbone. He wet his lips, exhaled an answering laugh, and lifted his other hand to brush a speck of lint off America's shoulder. His fingers lingered. He could choke him right now, in front of all these people. He said nothing.
America drew back an inch, enough to meet his eyes again. He had a funny smile. "You know what I'll do to you if you don't." He canted his head the other way, and the ends of his hair brushed the backs of Russia's fingers. "Do you think I'm bluffing?"
"A-ah--" A tremulous voice. The waitress, her blue skirt swinging around her legs. "Is--there a problem, here...?"
America didn't start. He didn't even break eye contact. He stayed half on top of the table as he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small leather wallet. He flipped it open and showed something to her. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, miss. This man is a known communist. Please don't interfere."
She stared at it, then cleared her throat, and tugged at her skirt, and managed, "It's...but you're disturbing the other diners, a-and--"
America slid the badge back into his jacket. "I'm sorry, miss." That little smile never faded. America's eyelashes trembled around that punishing light. He drew his gun and held it at his side. "But I am authorized to use deadly force against anyone who interferes with my duty."
In the corner of Russia's eye, the waitress blanched.
"Tell everyone the restaurant is closed." America clicked off the safety.
Russia registered that the unfortunate waitress gaped for a moment longer, and then turned and fled inside. Around them, the other customers scraped back chairs in their haste to leave. But he only had eyes for the smooth, cool lines of America's gun. His blood pounded in his ears, and he still wasn't afraid.
He wanted to touch it.
America didn't move until they were alone on the veranda, and the river breeze blew abandoned napkins across the flagstones. Then he put the muzzle of the gun against his saucer and pushed. Cup and saucer smashed to the ground. America climbed up onto the table, kneeling, one hand on the back of Russia's chair; the younger nation towered over him like this. America held the gun light in his hand, his forefinger floating around the trigger guard.
Russia's gaze flickered from the barrel, to America's eyes, and back again. They were both breathing harder than they should have been, with a rasping end to each inhalation. America swung the gun around, brought it to rest against the plane of Russia's cheek. The barrel made a cool line of just-barely-touching.
America issued no ultimatum, but his smile had evaporated.
Russia turned his head. The gun slid across his skin until the edge of the muzzle rested against the corner of his parted lips. His hands curled on the edge of the table. He waited. Wanted, he wanted to taste it.
America watched him, with that violent light in his eyes. He traced the muzzle back over Russia's cheek, then up, over the soft dip of his temple, a gunmetal caress, a tickle. America brushed a few strands of hair to the side, the way he used to do with tender fingertips. He angled the gun so it pointed at the center of Russia's forehead, and pressed in.
Would you? Russia didn't say it, refused to break the spell. He could smell him from this close, that clean soap-and-water scent. America had never worn cologne in all the time Russia had known him.
America smiled at him with narrowed eyes, and that light wasn't dimming, it didn't diminish, but it was going...cold. He pushed harder. The muzzle bit against Russia's skin.
Russia understood what he wanted. And his scarf was tight. It was on tight, it wouldn't gap, he knew it wouldn't. And he wanted for feel more of that--that cool sweep of the gun, all over his face. The line of his shoulders tensed, and he tipped his head back, just a few inches.
An approving flicker on America's lips. Russia was rewarded for--for his obedience: America drew the gun down, light again, down the bridge of Russia's nose. The muzzle pushed cold and gentle into the hollow of his eye socket; he could feel the beveled edge through his eyelid. Down, more, down that sensitive channel between his cheek and the upangled sweep of his nose, and then it...rested, again, at the corner of his mouth. Stopped right there. America waited: to see what he would do.
Russia waited, too. Waited, and waited, and watched America watch him back. His lips tugged up the slightest bit on the left side. A pause, and then he touched the very tip of his tongue to the bitter rim of the muzzle.
America jerked the gun away, frowned at him. Mine, his eyes said. The gun is mine, it's a part of me; you had no permission to do that.
It was the closest he'd come to tasting America in seven years. His stomach clenched. It was revulsion. It was.
He lowered his gaze, a silent apology.
Do it again...
A long, hot, awful pause, as America stared down at him with cold eyes, a hard mouth. They were endless seconds, too long and too quiet, in which it felt like America might leave; he might push off the table and walk away. Russia couldn't bear it.
And then the gun returned, flush against his lips: it was a test.
He was being patronized. Russia knew, and he didn't care. Not now. He looked back up into America's face, held his mouth still and soft against the metal.
"Tilt your head back more," America murmured.
Russia did. He wasn't exposed, really, but that didn't stop a black little flutter from dancing to life in his chest. He forced it down.
America grimaced a smile, sharp and sudden. "I'll let you taste it. You'll go home, of course." It was not an offer of an exchange: he was not saying 'agree to go home and I'll allow this.' His voice was cold and clear: all he was asking was for Russia to confirm two separate facts.
"Of course," Russia breathed. The edges of the muzzle bit into his lips as he spoke. Down the embankment, the river slapped against the shore; traffic hummed in the distance; people chattered down on the docks. But the whole world had narrowed down to the faint taste of metal still staining his tongue.
"Open your mouth."
Russia obeyed. America slid an inch of the gun barrel past his lips and watched him with those veiled, hostile eyes.
It was heavier than it had looked, warming in his mouth as he traced his tongue around the blunt end of the thing. He breathed heavily through his nose and held America's gaze: every bit as hostile, not half as icy. There was heat in his eyes now.
The heat fed America's contempt, and America's swelling contempt fed, somehow, back into the heat. It felt like a very long time passed, although it couldn't have, because his jaw didn't hurt, and his neck didn't hurt, before America twisted the gun half a turn against his tongue--a sleek, acid- and oil-flavored drag--and then pulled it out. He wiped it on the sleeve of Russia's coat, then holstered it and climbed to the ground.
"Get out of here." America was already walking for the veranda gate. He didn't look back as he said it.
Russia swallowed--he could still taste it--and got to his feet.
Sunlight sprawled across the flagstones now, spilling over his hair, his neck, his shoes, in a wide, honey-colored rush. He stared into it over the river, watched it burn and gleam until his eyes watered. The sounds of the city bloomed back into existence, and Russia let them swallow him up, drown out his breathing. He ran his tongue across the slick ridges of his teeth, and when America's footsteps had finally faded, when the gate stopped shrieking on its hinges, he crossed to it, nudged it open, and walked out into the street.
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--Offutt Air Force Base (Offutt AFB) is a U.S. Air Force installation near Omaha, and lies adjacent to Bellevue in Sarpy County, Nebraska. It is the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Command, the Air Force Weather Agency, and the 55th Wing of the Air Combat Command, the latter serving as the host unit. Offutt's legacy includes the construction of the first two bombers to drop atomic bombs and over 40 years as the headquarters for the former Strategic Air Command (SAC) and home for its associated ground and aerial command centers for the U.S. in case of nuclear war during the Cold War.
--Joseph Raymond McCarthy was an American politician who served as a Republican U.S. Senator from the state of Wisconsin from 1947 until his death in 1957. Beginning in 1950, McCarthy became the most visible public face of a period in which Cold War tensions fueled fears of widespread Communist subversion. He was noted for making claims that there were large numbers of Communists and Soviet spies and sympathizers inside the United States federal government and elsewhere.
--America here is demonstrating Hooverism rather than McCarthyism, so named for J. Edgar Hoover, the first director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. McCarthy was, essentially, Hoover's catspaw. Hoover is notorious for using blackmail and intimidation tactics to silence his critics, and his covert campaign against communists and far left-wingers still has an effect on America today.
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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.
Characters: Russia, America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1952 - Russia goes toe-to-toe with America's newly-acquired crazy. McCarthyism, blackmail, climbing on tables, and threatening of civilians. Also gun kink.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Omaha, Nebraska. May, 1952.
Russia had never been to Nebraska before. He'd always relegated it to the same category as South Dakota and Arizona: probably good for something, but absolutely forgettable, when you got right down to it. But now he was discovering what a pleasant place it was; Omaha, specifically. It was just a pity he had to be in America to see it.
He took a sip of his coffee and watched the rising sun gleam over the smooth surface of the Missouri River. The cafe was a small, dingy place, but its coffee was decent, if bitter, and the pretty girl who poured it had only made him repeat himself twice.
He disliked that the Midwest made him reconsider just how well he spoke English.
A hand entered his field of vision, over his shoulder, and braced against the lip of the table. Presence, all across his back and shoulders. "I knew I'd find you if I just kept looking," America murmured close to his ear.
Russia's neck prickled, but he set his mug down slowly, casually. Ceramic collided with wood with a soft thunk, and he turned over his left shoulder to find their faces nearly touching. He smiled. "And I knew you'd find a way to ruin my morning if I just waited long enough."
America stretched back, opened up a gap between them, although it made his forearm rest against Russia's shoulder. He wore a black suit, polished shoes, and his gun. He smiled at Russia, all teeth. "What are you doing here?"
Russia twisted out from under the other nation's arm, didn't bother to be subtle about it. A bit of warmth lingered through his clothes. "Drinking coffee. Sit?" That with a hint of challenge.
"Coffee." America withdrew, squeezed Russia's shoulder, and slid into the chair across from him. He propped his elbows on the round wooden tabletop and rested his chin on his laced-together fingers. "Three miles from Offutt Air Base."
"Yes, I believe I've heard one or two things about the place." Like how it was packed with pilots ready to scramble to their bombers at the first sign of Soviet aggression.
He'd met several of them on his walks around the city, and he was annoyed at how cheerful they were about all of it: their mission, the defense of their country, their amiable hatred for the Reds.
Only one of them had recognized his accent. He took another mouthful of coffee.
"Hey, miss?" America tipped back in his chair and reached out to the pretty waitress. She stopped, looked him over, and blinked. "Can I get a coffee?"
She fidgetted an auburn curl over her ear. "Sure thing, sweetie, you want milk or sugar with that?"
He flashed her a big smile. "No milk, I'll do my own sugar. Thanks."
She left. America thunked forward in his chair and swiveled that smile around on Russia. It wasn't as pleasant as it had been for the waitress. "Yeah, it wasn't that hard to track you down," he went on, as if he were continuing some previous thought, "You've been making yourself real visible to the locals. Just so like anybody could find you, if they wanted to have a little chat."
The sun shivered higher over the far shore. It fell across Russia's clothes, the long pale plunge of his scarf, and threw America's face into tepid shadow under a halo of glowing golden hair. "Why would I want to hide?" Russia asked, wide-eyed. "Surely taking in the Heartland isn't illegal?"
"I think you've done more than enough of that." America watched him, eyes steady, smile never changing. "You're not welcome here."
"You're certainly hostile this morning." Russia kept smiling back, resisted the urge to throw the rest of his coffee in America's face. "Paranoid too. It doesn't suit you."
"It's not paranoia when I actually find you here. Oh, thanks, honey, you're a gem." Clear, bright eyes as the waitress returned and set his coffee and sugar bowl down in front of him. She smiled and flushed and twirled her skirt as she left again.
Russia watched as America dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.
"And I'm hostile with most people I can't stand, yeah," he finished.
"Your people have been far better hosts than you ever were." Russia tapped his fingers on the handle of his mug, listened to the soft ring, and the sounds of the city waking up around them. "I've even discussed my 'poisonous ideologies' with them," he smirked. "It turns out that Americans very much like the idea of Communism, as long as it's not called Communism."
"I'll bet." America stirred his drink, and stretched his other arm out across the table. His hand rested too far inside Russia's personal space. "You can be very convincing. Especially when you're full of shit."
Russia glanced down at America's hand--he'd forgotten how big they were, as big as his, nearly--and decided to ignore it. "I haven't been spreading insurrection. I've just been making conversation. I don't believe I'm breaking any laws." He raked a hand slowly through his hair; it shone in the light glowing off the river. America looked, just like Russia knew he would.
Then his gaze flicked back to Russia's eyes. "I'm not saying you're breaking any laws. I'm not here to arrest you. I'm just telling you to go the fuck home."
Russia finished his coffee, set his cup down. He'd finished with Omaha nearly a week ago, but suddenly he was willing to stay another month, a year, even. "And if I don't?"
"There's a lot worse things that can happen than getting arrested." America's voice rang dull inside his coffee cup.
Russia waited. Nothing else appeared to be forthcoming. He sighed. "Such as?"
America gave him an irritated look between swallows. "Imagination's never been your strong suit, has it."
"If I'm being threatened, I'd like to know what's at stake." He toyed with the idea of stretching out under the table, planting his foot on the lip of America's chair, and shoving him down the embankment into the river.
America set down his cup. "I have photographic evidence that you were sucking me off in a hotel room in Tennessee six months ago. It could be on your boss's desk tomorrow morning." He patted his napkin to his upper lip, then glanced at Russia. "So, you tell me. Are you being threatened?"
Something caught in his gut and wrenched.
Russia blinked. He saw red.
He blinked again. It didn't change.
He crossed his arms on the tabletop and leaned forward a few inches. He kept his face blank. "And how did you come by these photos? I've never even seen Tennessee."
"Does it matter?" America was smiling again. "Does it even matter if you can convince him that they're not real? Will he care?"
Russia thought of his left shoulder, how his boss had dislocated it six months ago after he had had a minor dispute with China. How it still ached.
His lips thinned.
"So why don't you--" America laced his fingers together and leaned over his hands. Their faces were only a foot apart. "Go home, do a bit of...what's it called...a bit of soul searching. Think about how much it really means to you, to infest these nice folks' heads with your disgusting ideas."
Russia's right hand closed into a fist. He inched nearer. "It's a bit rich of you to talk about my 'disgusting ideas' when you have that McCarthy lunatic organizing witch hunts."
"I don't give a shit about McCarthy. He's useful." America flicked his fingers. "He's telling people about the threat, that's good. In a few years nobody will care about him anymore. But the men who are responsible for hunting down you and all your little friends over here--they'll keep going."
"I'm sure they will," Russia snarled. America's eyes were painfully blue, and the river slid along behind his shoulder. "Should I be flattered by this level of obsession?"
"If you want. You're the one sneaking around my land. I guess you've got nothing better to do? Than try and make my people forget all the awful bullshit you've done, and love you." America propped his chin in his hand and batted his eyelashes.
Russia snorted, crossed his arms harder. His back was beginning to ache from the way he was arching over the lip of the table. "I don't expect them to love me," he replied. "I can't throw that word around the same way you do."
Because America did: he loved everything. Blue skies and bright days and chocolate and cola and pretty girls with auburn curls. And so, in a way, it made his love mean less.
"You're right," America straightened, folded his napkin flat. "I do say it about a lot of things I don't mean, don't I."
"You do," Russia bit out. "And that makes you a liar." There was a pause, and he filled it before it could yawn open any further. "Not that I'm surprised, by any stretch of the imagination. I just thought I'd mention it."
"Telling your boss you're putting out for me makes me a liar, too." America finished his coffee. "But I'm still right."
"No, you're not." Russia sat back, crossed his legs. The side of his foot brushed America's calf as he did so; his whole body tightened. "You're deluded," he managed.
"I am right! I was born right!" America jerked half out of his chair, braced forward, on one elbow and an outstretched hand. A wild light surged in his eyes, but his face, his mouth, the line of his shoulders--those were all hard. "So what if the facts go against me sometimes, I'm right in life, Russia. The world goes my way, not your way, and I'm gonna make you feel every inch you lose, until you're nothing."
Russia stared. He hadn't--hadn't expected this, although he realized distantly that he should have. He tipped his head to the side, regarded the other nation's blazing eyes. "I have bled for every inch of what I have now. Every inch, since before you were born. If you think that you're going to be able to just rub me off the map with this," he waved two fingers, indicated America's rigid body, "Then you are greatly mistaken. You can't bully me, or terrify me into trotting along behind you." His lip curled. "I've seen you writhing and moaning beneath me more times than I can count...You won't ever be able to intimidate me."
His hands were trembling in his lap, just barely, and he forced them to be still.
America kept leaning forward, until he had a knee propped on the edge of the table next to his coffee cup, until he had one hand pressed tight on the back of Russia's chair. Other patrons were staring. America's eyes were six inches from his. "Well, now it's your turn to get fucked," he breathed. "You're gonna enjoy it a lot less than I did."
"I'm sure," Russia murmured. "You never did seem to know quite what you were doing." The words were an afterthought, and he lifted his chin, glared into America's eyes, felt the other nation's breath over his lips. He wasn't threatened, or afraid. Just...intrigued, down to his core. He'd never, ever seen this side of America before. He reached out and placed his hand on the table, inches below America's thigh.
America gave a soft laugh, brushed off the insult. He tilted his head down and whispered against the turn of Russia's jaw: "Go home."
A rush of warmth bit all the way down Russia's jaw, slid under his scarf and across his collarbone. He wet his lips, exhaled an answering laugh, and lifted his other hand to brush a speck of lint off America's shoulder. His fingers lingered. He could choke him right now, in front of all these people. He said nothing.
America drew back an inch, enough to meet his eyes again. He had a funny smile. "You know what I'll do to you if you don't." He canted his head the other way, and the ends of his hair brushed the backs of Russia's fingers. "Do you think I'm bluffing?"
"A-ah--" A tremulous voice. The waitress, her blue skirt swinging around her legs. "Is--there a problem, here...?"
America didn't start. He didn't even break eye contact. He stayed half on top of the table as he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small leather wallet. He flipped it open and showed something to her. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, miss. This man is a known communist. Please don't interfere."
She stared at it, then cleared her throat, and tugged at her skirt, and managed, "It's...but you're disturbing the other diners, a-and--"
America slid the badge back into his jacket. "I'm sorry, miss." That little smile never faded. America's eyelashes trembled around that punishing light. He drew his gun and held it at his side. "But I am authorized to use deadly force against anyone who interferes with my duty."
In the corner of Russia's eye, the waitress blanched.
"Tell everyone the restaurant is closed." America clicked off the safety.
Russia registered that the unfortunate waitress gaped for a moment longer, and then turned and fled inside. Around them, the other customers scraped back chairs in their haste to leave. But he only had eyes for the smooth, cool lines of America's gun. His blood pounded in his ears, and he still wasn't afraid.
He wanted to touch it.
America didn't move until they were alone on the veranda, and the river breeze blew abandoned napkins across the flagstones. Then he put the muzzle of the gun against his saucer and pushed. Cup and saucer smashed to the ground. America climbed up onto the table, kneeling, one hand on the back of Russia's chair; the younger nation towered over him like this. America held the gun light in his hand, his forefinger floating around the trigger guard.
Russia's gaze flickered from the barrel, to America's eyes, and back again. They were both breathing harder than they should have been, with a rasping end to each inhalation. America swung the gun around, brought it to rest against the plane of Russia's cheek. The barrel made a cool line of just-barely-touching.
America issued no ultimatum, but his smile had evaporated.
Russia turned his head. The gun slid across his skin until the edge of the muzzle rested against the corner of his parted lips. His hands curled on the edge of the table. He waited. Wanted, he wanted to taste it.
America watched him, with that violent light in his eyes. He traced the muzzle back over Russia's cheek, then up, over the soft dip of his temple, a gunmetal caress, a tickle. America brushed a few strands of hair to the side, the way he used to do with tender fingertips. He angled the gun so it pointed at the center of Russia's forehead, and pressed in.
Would you? Russia didn't say it, refused to break the spell. He could smell him from this close, that clean soap-and-water scent. America had never worn cologne in all the time Russia had known him.
America smiled at him with narrowed eyes, and that light wasn't dimming, it didn't diminish, but it was going...cold. He pushed harder. The muzzle bit against Russia's skin.
Russia understood what he wanted. And his scarf was tight. It was on tight, it wouldn't gap, he knew it wouldn't. And he wanted for feel more of that--that cool sweep of the gun, all over his face. The line of his shoulders tensed, and he tipped his head back, just a few inches.
An approving flicker on America's lips. Russia was rewarded for--for his obedience: America drew the gun down, light again, down the bridge of Russia's nose. The muzzle pushed cold and gentle into the hollow of his eye socket; he could feel the beveled edge through his eyelid. Down, more, down that sensitive channel between his cheek and the upangled sweep of his nose, and then it...rested, again, at the corner of his mouth. Stopped right there. America waited: to see what he would do.
Russia waited, too. Waited, and waited, and watched America watch him back. His lips tugged up the slightest bit on the left side. A pause, and then he touched the very tip of his tongue to the bitter rim of the muzzle.
America jerked the gun away, frowned at him. Mine, his eyes said. The gun is mine, it's a part of me; you had no permission to do that.
It was the closest he'd come to tasting America in seven years. His stomach clenched. It was revulsion. It was.
He lowered his gaze, a silent apology.
Do it again...
A long, hot, awful pause, as America stared down at him with cold eyes, a hard mouth. They were endless seconds, too long and too quiet, in which it felt like America might leave; he might push off the table and walk away. Russia couldn't bear it.
And then the gun returned, flush against his lips: it was a test.
He was being patronized. Russia knew, and he didn't care. Not now. He looked back up into America's face, held his mouth still and soft against the metal.
"Tilt your head back more," America murmured.
Russia did. He wasn't exposed, really, but that didn't stop a black little flutter from dancing to life in his chest. He forced it down.
America grimaced a smile, sharp and sudden. "I'll let you taste it. You'll go home, of course." It was not an offer of an exchange: he was not saying 'agree to go home and I'll allow this.' His voice was cold and clear: all he was asking was for Russia to confirm two separate facts.
"Of course," Russia breathed. The edges of the muzzle bit into his lips as he spoke. Down the embankment, the river slapped against the shore; traffic hummed in the distance; people chattered down on the docks. But the whole world had narrowed down to the faint taste of metal still staining his tongue.
"Open your mouth."
Russia obeyed. America slid an inch of the gun barrel past his lips and watched him with those veiled, hostile eyes.
It was heavier than it had looked, warming in his mouth as he traced his tongue around the blunt end of the thing. He breathed heavily through his nose and held America's gaze: every bit as hostile, not half as icy. There was heat in his eyes now.
The heat fed America's contempt, and America's swelling contempt fed, somehow, back into the heat. It felt like a very long time passed, although it couldn't have, because his jaw didn't hurt, and his neck didn't hurt, before America twisted the gun half a turn against his tongue--a sleek, acid- and oil-flavored drag--and then pulled it out. He wiped it on the sleeve of Russia's coat, then holstered it and climbed to the ground.
"Get out of here." America was already walking for the veranda gate. He didn't look back as he said it.
Russia swallowed--he could still taste it--and got to his feet.
Sunlight sprawled across the flagstones now, spilling over his hair, his neck, his shoes, in a wide, honey-colored rush. He stared into it over the river, watched it burn and gleam until his eyes watered. The sounds of the city bloomed back into existence, and Russia let them swallow him up, drown out his breathing. He ran his tongue across the slick ridges of his teeth, and when America's footsteps had finally faded, when the gate stopped shrieking on its hinges, he crossed to it, nudged it open, and walked out into the street.
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--Offutt Air Force Base (Offutt AFB) is a U.S. Air Force installation near Omaha, and lies adjacent to Bellevue in Sarpy County, Nebraska. It is the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Command, the Air Force Weather Agency, and the 55th Wing of the Air Combat Command, the latter serving as the host unit. Offutt's legacy includes the construction of the first two bombers to drop atomic bombs and over 40 years as the headquarters for the former Strategic Air Command (SAC) and home for its associated ground and aerial command centers for the U.S. in case of nuclear war during the Cold War.
--Joseph Raymond McCarthy was an American politician who served as a Republican U.S. Senator from the state of Wisconsin from 1947 until his death in 1957. Beginning in 1950, McCarthy became the most visible public face of a period in which Cold War tensions fueled fears of widespread Communist subversion. He was noted for making claims that there were large numbers of Communists and Soviet spies and sympathizers inside the United States federal government and elsewhere.
--America here is demonstrating Hooverism rather than McCarthyism, so named for J. Edgar Hoover, the first director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. McCarthy was, essentially, Hoover's catspaw. Hoover is notorious for using blackmail and intimidation tactics to silence his critics, and his covert campaign against communists and far left-wingers still has an effect on America today.
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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.