47 - Cobwebs
Title: Cobwebs
Characters: Russia/America, with guest appearances by France, Italy, England, Japan, Belgium.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1960 - The U2 incident, and the ensuing altercation, makes a very public splash in France's living room.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Paris, France. May, 1960.
Glasses tinged together, on serving trays and onto tables and the sideboard. The house smelled like sherry and cigars: all French. Dinner had been over for an hour, and France's lounge was still too crowded.
"So, uh...funny story."
Russia blinked up from the depths of his sherry; the fragile little glass looked too tiny in his hand. He gave America one of his first real smiles of the evening. "Go on."
America shifted from his right foot, to his left, a smile nailed onto his face like an eviction notice. "Well, uh. Well, I uh, I guess you haven't heard about it yet. There was sort of a...a bit of a, a thing? ...How're you, by the way?"
A thing. Russia sighed, raised his eyebrows. "I am fine." There was an upsweep on the end of the sentence, a blank for America to fill.
That hesitation lasted just a second too long. "That's great! I mean--fine is great, yeah? Like, it isn't as great as...great, or something, but--" America shifted on his feet and adjusted his smile. "I'm pretty good too! And it's...you know. There's been some stuff. Nothing bad! But like...I'm glad to get a chance to talk to you about it, you know?" America looked at him expectantly.
"What are you talking about, America?" Russia's voice was mild, and he had a guess. He added, "Should we go outside? This is not a private setting."
America forced a wooden laugh. He kept turning his glass between his hands. "Oh, it's not, like. Something that has to be, uh. Discussed privately. I mean. It's not. It's not a thing."
England and Germany and Ireland were murmuring to each other over glasses of scotch near the doorway; France had caged Belgium into a conversation on the sedan in front of the fireplace. Italy and Japan were looking at a picture book together. Others milled between them, flowing from room to room.
"Would it be too difficult for you to try and be specific?" Russia tried to smile. There was too much space between them, somehow; America held himself stiff and back.
Another false, hollow little laugh. "Right, uh, yeah. Well, I'm just kinda--kinda nervous, you know? 'Cause...well, I don't want you to get the wrong idea."
Russia took a sip of his sherry. "America."
It came out in an unpunctuated gush. "Well see the thing is I kinda had a plane crash in your air space." America's fingers tightened around his glass.
There was silence for two seconds.
"A weather plane."
Russia blinked at him, once, slow.
They were in public.
America had chosen to do this in public.
"Is that so?" Russia managed.
America stared down at the join of the baseboard and the floor and said, "Yeah."
And now that silence was--too silent; others were listening.
America cleared his throat and went on, "It was, uh, a weather research plane, and we lost contact with it north of Turkey. It was...it's kind of a funny story. See, the pilot must've fallen asleep while the autopilot was engaged? Or, something...he reported over the emergency frequency that he was having oxygen problems, anyway."
Russia could feel a roomful of eyes drilling into his spine. "I certainly hope he is all right."
"Yeah, me too, but like--" And couldn't America at least try to keep the vacant relief out of his voice? "--There's been no contact with him since the plane went down, so there's not much hope there. Anyway, not important. I mean--that sounds bad; I'm sure it's important to his family and everything, but..." his voice faded out.
He blinked up into Russia's eyes. "Anyway, the point is, I didn't know if you knew about it. So I wanted you to know about it. From me. Um, I mean, hear about it from me first. Because it's not like I was trying to violate your airspace, but I can see how you might've gotten the wrong idea if you'd seen the plane go down or something and I figured I could just straighten all that out..."
Russia kept his face carefully expressionless. "The pilot: his name wouldn't be Powers, would it?"
America went rigid.
The hush that had blanketed the room spread into the corners, broken one last time by Italy's "Ahh, but Japan, do you think--" before he was elbowed into silence. In the doorway, England half-turned to face them, his eyes locked on America, his expression shifting to grey neutrality.
The sherry sang up the sides of the glass as Russia shifted it to his other hand. "He's perfectly safe, so you can stop worrying. We're taking good care of him." That sounded more sinister than he had intended, but it was really all he could do to keep from letting a glimmer of laugher show in his eyes. Oh, America was caught. "We have his plane, as well. Intact. My scientists even managed to develop some of the pictures he had taken."
America opened his mouth. Closed it.
Russia smiled. "You've never been a particularly good spy, America." This last with a note of fondness.
Belgium cleared her throat, quiet and awkward; the second hand on the clock clicked across the spaces between the numbers.
America found his voice, dry and too thin from wherever it had been. "I wasn't spying."
France leaned back against the sedan and massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
"Then you were admiring the scenery?" Russia smirked. He twitched one of the tails of his scarf more securely over his shoulder.
"I..." That was it; America had nothing else. His gaze slammed to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut, and he flushed.
Russia had told him to wait with this. He listened to the fire pop, enjoying the excruciating silence, and he wondered if America would let him kiss that blush off his cheeks later, or if--America would need some time by himself.
At last, his expression gentled. "And now that this has been sufficiently embarrassing for everyone, why don't you just apologize and let France serve dessert?"
"I-I...no!"
Russia saw the whole room cringe.
America drew himself up an inch, although he still couldn't get his gaze off the floor. "You can't expect me to just--apologize!"
"I can, and I do. You've been caught, America."
"No!"
France exchanged a look with England and rose from his seat.
Russia's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly make a bigger fool of yourself by apologizing than you have already."
"Don't talk to me like that!" America was clinging to a feeble anger, riding it up, allowing it to carry his eyes upwards until they met Russia's. There was something black and cringing hidden underneath his expression.
"Or what," Russia growled, as another part of him scrambled through their conversation, to some earlier part of it, trying to catch it, bring it back-- France was moving towards them.
America tightened his fists. "I'm not saying I'm sorry! This isn't--you spy on me all the time!"
It wasn't about the spying, and they both knew it. Russia took a step nearer, into America's personal space. "But I'm not stupid enough to get caught! And even if I was, I wouldn't have the gall to lie to your face!"
"That is bullshit, Russia, you lie to me constantly--" America braced forward on the balls of his feet, shoved his glasses up with the blade of his hand.
("Are they going to fight?" Italy whispered, his knees huddled up behind the hardcover picture book.
"Italy-san--"
"But, ve, there's so many nice glass things in here--")
"Do I? Please, elaborate." Russia spread his hands, an abrupt, bitter gesture. A trickle of sherry slopped onto the carpet. "As long as you're set on making a scene."
England had cut away from the group next to the door at some point, and now stood behind France, his eyes and mouth set in stone.
America clacked his glass onto a side table. "How about your so totally generous present from the end of World War 2? Huh? Do you remember what you got me? As a 'gesture of friendship?'" America flung it down like a glove.
The seal. Russia worked his jaw. "That wasn't a lie," he said at last. "I just never mentioned it."
"You had a bunch of adorable little Soviet kids give it to me, Russia. You were like, 'hey, take this awesome seal, put it in your office, it'll go great with the curtains, hey, don't mention it, we're allies.' Then you used it to spy on me for seven years! Don't start with me about the plane--the weather plane; your nose is just as dirty mine is--not that mine is dirty--" America was stiffening up, winding back.
"I'm sorry about the damn seal, all right?" Russia couldn't remember the last time he had been less sincere "There. I apologized. Do you see how simple that was?"
"Oh, is that all there is to it?" America shot back. "In that case, I'm sorry my fucking plane got shot down!"
"My dears," France said clearly, interposing himself between them, a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Don't," Russia snarled, and jerked back. He refused to be calmed down in the middle of a crowded room, like some frothing, angry dog.
"This is my house." France raised his voice a notch. "I would ask that you both be civil."
"Sure, I can do civil." America backed up a step, raised his hands spread apart. "The subject's fuckin' dropped, right, Russia?"
No. No, he wasn't going to do this. He would not spend the rest of the evening trying to act like this never happened, or pretending not to notice everyone looking at him as though he'd come in through the servant's entrance.
He dug his teeth into the inside of his lip, hard, until he tasted copper. He shook his head. "I'm not doing this with you, America." He slammed his glass down onto the nearest end table; the sound rang through the room like a gunshot. The nations shrank out of his way as he crossed the room, came up behind Belgium and plucked his coat off the back of the settee. She flinched. It made everything worse, somehow. As if he were the one--
He took a deep breath, and met France's eyes. "Thank you for dinner."
America stared at the patch of wall where Russia had been, jaw locked. France took a deep breath to compose himself. "I...of course; ah...do have a safe trip home..."
Russia nodded, too sharp. He didn't look at America.
He hoped that silence would cling around them like a cobweb.
+++
--On May 1, 1960, an American U-2 spy plane was shot down over the Soviet Union. President Dwight Eisenhower immediately issued a cover story, insisting that the downed aircraft had been a weather plane that had gone off trajectory over Turkey, not knowing that the Soviets had recovered both the plane and the pilot, intact. Khrushchev waited until after the American announcement to make his revelation. The U-2 Incident was a disaster for US-Soviet relations, and a public humiliation for the United States, which had been caught in a blatant lie.
--Tensions came to a head at the Paris Summit two weeks later, when Khrushchev demanded an apology from Eisenhower, which Eisenhower refused to give. In response, Khrushchev stormed out of the Summit. It collapsed immediately afterwards.
--On May 23rd, the Soviet Union convened a meeting of the United Nations Security Council, seeking to condemn the illegal flights (and the United States by extension). The US responded by revealing the Great Seal bug, which proved that the USSR had been spying on the US since at least 1945. The Soviet attempt to have America's espionage efforts condemned were overwhelmingly voted down.
--Yeah, we know. The first chapter back from hiatus is called "Cobwebs". As in BRUSHING THEM OFF, AMIRITE? Well. We already made that joke. At 2:30 am Wizzard's time, no less. And it wasn't even funny then. So hush.
+++
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: Russia/America, with guest appearances by France, Italy, England, Japan, Belgium.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1960 - The U2 incident, and the ensuing altercation, makes a very public splash in France's living room.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Paris, France. May, 1960.
Glasses tinged together, on serving trays and onto tables and the sideboard. The house smelled like sherry and cigars: all French. Dinner had been over for an hour, and France's lounge was still too crowded.
"So, uh...funny story."
Russia blinked up from the depths of his sherry; the fragile little glass looked too tiny in his hand. He gave America one of his first real smiles of the evening. "Go on."
America shifted from his right foot, to his left, a smile nailed onto his face like an eviction notice. "Well, uh. Well, I uh, I guess you haven't heard about it yet. There was sort of a...a bit of a, a thing? ...How're you, by the way?"
A thing. Russia sighed, raised his eyebrows. "I am fine." There was an upsweep on the end of the sentence, a blank for America to fill.
That hesitation lasted just a second too long. "That's great! I mean--fine is great, yeah? Like, it isn't as great as...great, or something, but--" America shifted on his feet and adjusted his smile. "I'm pretty good too! And it's...you know. There's been some stuff. Nothing bad! But like...I'm glad to get a chance to talk to you about it, you know?" America looked at him expectantly.
"What are you talking about, America?" Russia's voice was mild, and he had a guess. He added, "Should we go outside? This is not a private setting."
America forced a wooden laugh. He kept turning his glass between his hands. "Oh, it's not, like. Something that has to be, uh. Discussed privately. I mean. It's not. It's not a thing."
England and Germany and Ireland were murmuring to each other over glasses of scotch near the doorway; France had caged Belgium into a conversation on the sedan in front of the fireplace. Italy and Japan were looking at a picture book together. Others milled between them, flowing from room to room.
"Would it be too difficult for you to try and be specific?" Russia tried to smile. There was too much space between them, somehow; America held himself stiff and back.
Another false, hollow little laugh. "Right, uh, yeah. Well, I'm just kinda--kinda nervous, you know? 'Cause...well, I don't want you to get the wrong idea."
Russia took a sip of his sherry. "America."
It came out in an unpunctuated gush. "Well see the thing is I kinda had a plane crash in your air space." America's fingers tightened around his glass.
There was silence for two seconds.
"A weather plane."
Russia blinked at him, once, slow.
They were in public.
America had chosen to do this in public.
"Is that so?" Russia managed.
America stared down at the join of the baseboard and the floor and said, "Yeah."
And now that silence was--too silent; others were listening.
America cleared his throat and went on, "It was, uh, a weather research plane, and we lost contact with it north of Turkey. It was...it's kind of a funny story. See, the pilot must've fallen asleep while the autopilot was engaged? Or, something...he reported over the emergency frequency that he was having oxygen problems, anyway."
Russia could feel a roomful of eyes drilling into his spine. "I certainly hope he is all right."
"Yeah, me too, but like--" And couldn't America at least try to keep the vacant relief out of his voice? "--There's been no contact with him since the plane went down, so there's not much hope there. Anyway, not important. I mean--that sounds bad; I'm sure it's important to his family and everything, but..." his voice faded out.
He blinked up into Russia's eyes. "Anyway, the point is, I didn't know if you knew about it. So I wanted you to know about it. From me. Um, I mean, hear about it from me first. Because it's not like I was trying to violate your airspace, but I can see how you might've gotten the wrong idea if you'd seen the plane go down or something and I figured I could just straighten all that out..."
Russia kept his face carefully expressionless. "The pilot: his name wouldn't be Powers, would it?"
America went rigid.
The hush that had blanketed the room spread into the corners, broken one last time by Italy's "Ahh, but Japan, do you think--" before he was elbowed into silence. In the doorway, England half-turned to face them, his eyes locked on America, his expression shifting to grey neutrality.
The sherry sang up the sides of the glass as Russia shifted it to his other hand. "He's perfectly safe, so you can stop worrying. We're taking good care of him." That sounded more sinister than he had intended, but it was really all he could do to keep from letting a glimmer of laugher show in his eyes. Oh, America was caught. "We have his plane, as well. Intact. My scientists even managed to develop some of the pictures he had taken."
America opened his mouth. Closed it.
Russia smiled. "You've never been a particularly good spy, America." This last with a note of fondness.
Belgium cleared her throat, quiet and awkward; the second hand on the clock clicked across the spaces between the numbers.
America found his voice, dry and too thin from wherever it had been. "I wasn't spying."
France leaned back against the sedan and massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
"Then you were admiring the scenery?" Russia smirked. He twitched one of the tails of his scarf more securely over his shoulder.
"I..." That was it; America had nothing else. His gaze slammed to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut, and he flushed.
Russia had told him to wait with this. He listened to the fire pop, enjoying the excruciating silence, and he wondered if America would let him kiss that blush off his cheeks later, or if--America would need some time by himself.
At last, his expression gentled. "And now that this has been sufficiently embarrassing for everyone, why don't you just apologize and let France serve dessert?"
"I-I...no!"
Russia saw the whole room cringe.
America drew himself up an inch, although he still couldn't get his gaze off the floor. "You can't expect me to just--apologize!"
"I can, and I do. You've been caught, America."
"No!"
France exchanged a look with England and rose from his seat.
Russia's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly make a bigger fool of yourself by apologizing than you have already."
"Don't talk to me like that!" America was clinging to a feeble anger, riding it up, allowing it to carry his eyes upwards until they met Russia's. There was something black and cringing hidden underneath his expression.
"Or what," Russia growled, as another part of him scrambled through their conversation, to some earlier part of it, trying to catch it, bring it back-- France was moving towards them.
America tightened his fists. "I'm not saying I'm sorry! This isn't--you spy on me all the time!"
It wasn't about the spying, and they both knew it. Russia took a step nearer, into America's personal space. "But I'm not stupid enough to get caught! And even if I was, I wouldn't have the gall to lie to your face!"
"That is bullshit, Russia, you lie to me constantly--" America braced forward on the balls of his feet, shoved his glasses up with the blade of his hand.
("Are they going to fight?" Italy whispered, his knees huddled up behind the hardcover picture book.
"Italy-san--"
"But, ve, there's so many nice glass things in here--")
"Do I? Please, elaborate." Russia spread his hands, an abrupt, bitter gesture. A trickle of sherry slopped onto the carpet. "As long as you're set on making a scene."
England had cut away from the group next to the door at some point, and now stood behind France, his eyes and mouth set in stone.
America clacked his glass onto a side table. "How about your so totally generous present from the end of World War 2? Huh? Do you remember what you got me? As a 'gesture of friendship?'" America flung it down like a glove.
The seal. Russia worked his jaw. "That wasn't a lie," he said at last. "I just never mentioned it."
"You had a bunch of adorable little Soviet kids give it to me, Russia. You were like, 'hey, take this awesome seal, put it in your office, it'll go great with the curtains, hey, don't mention it, we're allies.' Then you used it to spy on me for seven years! Don't start with me about the plane--the weather plane; your nose is just as dirty mine is--not that mine is dirty--" America was stiffening up, winding back.
"I'm sorry about the damn seal, all right?" Russia couldn't remember the last time he had been less sincere "There. I apologized. Do you see how simple that was?"
"Oh, is that all there is to it?" America shot back. "In that case, I'm sorry my fucking plane got shot down!"
"My dears," France said clearly, interposing himself between them, a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Don't," Russia snarled, and jerked back. He refused to be calmed down in the middle of a crowded room, like some frothing, angry dog.
"This is my house." France raised his voice a notch. "I would ask that you both be civil."
"Sure, I can do civil." America backed up a step, raised his hands spread apart. "The subject's fuckin' dropped, right, Russia?"
No. No, he wasn't going to do this. He would not spend the rest of the evening trying to act like this never happened, or pretending not to notice everyone looking at him as though he'd come in through the servant's entrance.
He dug his teeth into the inside of his lip, hard, until he tasted copper. He shook his head. "I'm not doing this with you, America." He slammed his glass down onto the nearest end table; the sound rang through the room like a gunshot. The nations shrank out of his way as he crossed the room, came up behind Belgium and plucked his coat off the back of the settee. She flinched. It made everything worse, somehow. As if he were the one--
He took a deep breath, and met France's eyes. "Thank you for dinner."
America stared at the patch of wall where Russia had been, jaw locked. France took a deep breath to compose himself. "I...of course; ah...do have a safe trip home..."
Russia nodded, too sharp. He didn't look at America.
He hoped that silence would cling around them like a cobweb.
+++
--On May 1, 1960, an American U-2 spy plane was shot down over the Soviet Union. President Dwight Eisenhower immediately issued a cover story, insisting that the downed aircraft had been a weather plane that had gone off trajectory over Turkey, not knowing that the Soviets had recovered both the plane and the pilot, intact. Khrushchev waited until after the American announcement to make his revelation. The U-2 Incident was a disaster for US-Soviet relations, and a public humiliation for the United States, which had been caught in a blatant lie.
--Tensions came to a head at the Paris Summit two weeks later, when Khrushchev demanded an apology from Eisenhower, which Eisenhower refused to give. In response, Khrushchev stormed out of the Summit. It collapsed immediately afterwards.
--On May 23rd, the Soviet Union convened a meeting of the United Nations Security Council, seeking to condemn the illegal flights (and the United States by extension). The US responded by revealing the Great Seal bug, which proved that the USSR had been spying on the US since at least 1945. The Soviet attempt to have America's espionage efforts condemned were overwhelmingly voted down.
--Yeah, we know. The first chapter back from hiatus is called "Cobwebs". As in BRUSHING THEM OFF, AMIRITE? Well. We already made that joke. At 2:30 am Wizzard's time, no less. And it wasn't even funny then. So hush.
+++
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.