"The Things We Must Believe In" [The Chosen End]
Title: "The Things We Must Believe In"
Author:pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1943: The Tehran Conference. Russia extends an invitation, and America asks a question.
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.
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Tehran, Iran. November 29, 1943.
They'd been in Tehran for almost four hours. America was starting to wonder if he was going to have to unpack. He'd checked in with security, recovered his luggage, made sure the President was comfortable (and God, he looked thinner every day; it made America feel queasy, whenever he let himself think about it), wandered around the grounds--and the American litigation was actually pretty nice, kind of run-down, but not bad. It was a shame he wouldn't be able to see more of it, assuming Russia ever got off his ass and invited him over--and finally collapsed by the reception desk with a huff, to drum his fingernails and stare out the window in distracted discontent.
When the phone finally rang, he waited for a slow count of ten seconds before he answered it, a sugar smile in his voice. "Hi! This is the American litigation, Alfred Jones speaking."
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then: "America."
His smile broadened. Take a little longer next time, asshole. "Oh, hi," he repeated, drawled it out. "Hey, how was your trip down?"
"Tense," Russia said dryly. "My boss doesn't like to fly."
"That's so weird," America replied without thinking. A small fleet of diplomats sailed in, dark trunks hiked up between them. America pitched back in his chair and kicked his heels up onto the windowsill. "So what can I do for you? Things are super busy here right now. Unpacking, you know."
"What you can do for me, America, is leave that place before your boss is killed."
Russia gave him a moment to consider that before he went on.
"We've just been wired some, ah, covert intelligence that suggests that Roosevelt is the target of an assassination plot. From Germany, of course."
America took a few seconds to school his expression. In his best Serious Tone, he answered, "Oh--that's very serious news. Thank you for telling us. Do you have any details I could give to our security team here?" A beat. "Or a plan for how we can best keep the President safe?"
"My boss anticipated something like this. He had our liaisons prepare a separate wing for your party here, at the Soviet litigation. I believe it would be safest if you slept with m--with us, ah, here, for the duration of the conference." A tiny pause. "Stayed with us."
America covered his mouth with his free hand and fixed his eyes out the window. It was in a tone of almost unreal calm that he managed, "That sounds like a great idea."
That was followed by one of the best awkward silences America had ever experienced.
Russia cleared his throat. "We'll send some of our people over to help with everyone's luggage. I'm glad you're going to be sensible about this."
"Aren't I always sensible?"
Russia had a few things to say about that, and so they exchanged a few more barbed pleasantries, and then America hung up. He tugged off his glasses, put his head down in his arms, and giggled for a few minutes.
When he looked up, Roosevelt was watching him, eyebrows raised. He straightened and wiped the corners of his eyes with the side of his hand. "Um. Sorry."
"Was that the Russians?" Roosevelt inquired.
"Ah, yes, sir."
"Did they invite us to stay with them after all?"
"Yes, sir. I knew they would." His lips twitched. "They have our safety in mind."
Roosevelt looked nonplussed for a moment, then offered, "Well, good work, Alfred."
"Thanks. Oh, and apparently there's some assassination attempt on for you," he remembered.
Roosevelt smiled. "That is certainly something to keep in mind."
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"I don't remember giving you free rein to explore."
America started and turned to find him in the dim hallway. The sounds of the last guests filtering out of the party drifted up through the floor around them as Russia tightened his scarf--white, spotless--and approached. "Oh--sorry, am I intruding?" That was rhetorical. Of course he was intruding. "I just figured you guys might not have bugged your side of the building."
"Don't be too sure. I know how much you love to meddle in things that don't concern you. I might have assumed you'd poke around here sooner or later, and bugged the entire place." Russia gave him an even smile.
"Who's meddling?" America did his best to sound wounded. "I just didn't want anyone to overhear me humming. That's so embarrassing."
"Humming? I'm surprised you weren't singing." The low light cast warm and faded shadows over Russia's face. He wandered closer. "You do so like the sound of your own voice."
"To be fair," America returned, "You like the sound of my voice, too." He propped a shoulder against the wall.
Russia crossed his arms, leaned against the paneling a foot away from him. "Why so snippy, America? Aren't you happy to be here?"
America tucked his hands into his pockets. "It's better than getting assassinated by Germans," he conceded with a private smile.
"I thought it might be."
"Although you guys could give it a rest, about the second front," he added.
"It's very stubborn of us, I know," Russia replied sympathetically, "To always act like it's important to fight your enemies to win in war."
America scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You know, it's not like I'm not fighting. I'm fighting a war in Italy. And there's the whole naval thing going on around England and the Mediterranean--"
"Italy is very intimidating, I agree--"
"I don't know how you expect us to invade Europe when we can't even land any fucking ships; I mean, it's not like we have a huge, awesome, totally undefended border like you do--"
"As you have reminded me, many times--"
"Plus there's the Pacific War; you're not even involved in that!"
"Which means my contribution is only slightly less than yours."
America gave up. "Forget I mentioned it," he muttered.
Russia seemed content to let the matter rest. He traced his hair back from his face. His elbow brushed against America's arm, and neither of them recoiled. "How is your boss feeling? He looked a bit grey at dinner."
"He's fine." America's stomach clenched. Time to change the subject. "He and your boss seemed to get along okay."
Russia peered up at the ceiling. "Your boss gets along with most people," he said quietly. There was strange slant to his shoulders. "And my boss is very interested in getting to know him."
America's eyes crept across him. "Do you think Stalin'll go for this whole United Nations thing, after the war?" A cold flurry kicked through him as he said, "It'd be kind of nice to work together with you on something."
Russia kept his gaze on the light bulb, head tilted back the slightest bit. A inch of pale skin--and the thick, ragged edge of a scar--showed above the sweep of his scarf. America wondered, like he always did, what had made those scars, and if he would ever get the opportunity to ask. "It would be a change, wouldn't it?" Russia's voice was thin, somehow. "But I couldn't tell you what my boss thinks of the idea. We haven't...discussed it yet."
America watched him. "Well, what do you think about it?"
"It's a wonderful idea--in theory." He didn't look at America. "We could all cooperate, negotiate peace, if we only had some common ground on which to do it. Very idealistic. Very foolish." Russia shook his head. "I don't have the same faith in my fellow nations that you do."
America leaned back against the wall, his shoulders hunched. He inspected the carpet. "Would you even want it to work?"
"Maybe." Russia sighed. "For your sake."
America didn't know exactly what he felt, at that moment; he was concentrating too hard on not looking at Russia, not moving, or twitching, or making a response of any kind. Over the deep, heavy thump of his heartbeat, he thought, So I guess this corridor really isn't bugged.
Russia's words hung between them, clear and fading, and he didn't say anything else for a long while. Then: "Why didn't you stay with England?"
America shut his eyes for a second. A warm flush rose up the back of his neck. "What makes you think he invited me?" God, he was shit at direct lies.
Russia shot him a look. "Because he's England. And you're you. Don't be coy with me."
When America spoke, it was barely audible. "I wanted to stay with you."
Russia's arms dropped to his sides, and he let out a harsh breath. There was something very close to fear in his eyes. "Why?"
"I..." He curled in on himself a little more, and how the fuck could Russia expect him to say it? "Because we should...talk. We should be able to talk to each other." His voice trembled. He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. "We...we're both important countries, and--we have to cooperate on a lot of stuff, these days..."
"I suppose all alliances need attention," Russia murmured. He didn't look like he'd even heard himself speak. He traced his index finger over the gleaming curl of scar tissue that peeked out over his scarf. "And our bosses should get to know each other..."
America didn't know where it came from when he asked, "Russia, what is he doing to you?"
Russia blanched. His shoulders went rigid, and his hand spasmed shut on his neck. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
"Look at you," America breathed. He started forward, hesitated, then closed the distance between them and lay his hand light over Russia's. "--Can't I do anything to help?"
"I don't need your help," Russia snarled. He shook under America's touch like a frightened animal. "You don't--you don't know anything."
"I...no, but..." He raised his hand to cup the line of Russia's face. The way he flinched broke America's heart.
My boss can never hear about this. The way he'd said it kept America up at night.
"I-I just want..." America searched his eyes. "I mean, I know about some stuff, the--the purges, and the work camps, but--to you...why are you...?"
The wood paneling creaked as Russia shrank back against the wall. "You...I don't..." He twisted his fingers in his scarf, hard; it drooped open around the base of his throat. America couldn't tell if Russia had meant to show him, or if he was just too panicked to remember them, but there they were--a string of overripe bruises across his neck, a collar of them, a dark and swollen handprint.
America stared. A horrible light feeling swept up from his stomach, and he wondered if he was about to be sick. His gaze floated back to Russia's eyes. America cupped his face gently between his hands. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "My poor Russia."
Russia's hands shot up, wrapped tightly around America's wrists. "Don't say that." He winced his eyes shut, and a humiliated flush flared across his face. "It's--It's nothing. I-I mean...it's not nothing, but I'd made a mistake, and--" His voice cracked. "Please," he managed. "It's not...not important. I don't even mind, anymore..."
America blinked back a scald of tears. "How can you...say that...?" He stroked the cool skin of Russia's cheek with his thumb, and Stalin had made him promise not to interfere in Russia's affairs just this evening, had walked right up to him and smiled and made him acknowledge that Russia's business wasn't any of his... "H-he's supposed to look out for you. He...you're going through...through so much, with this war..." His voice went fainter and fainter, and then surged up again: "He's supposed to protect you!"
"He--he is," Russia whispered. "We're winning now...He--" His fingernails dug into America's skin. "--He...broke my ribs. After Kiev. But I deserved it! I needed--need the discipline!" He gave America a wretched, nightmarish smile. "He's a great leader, America. Don't you understand?"
America sucked down a breath and clung to him.
Russia was stiff in his arms, motionless, like a doll. But his hands trembled madly against America's back. The bruises were much worse from close up, running to a raw, bloody purple, fading a bit into the pale stretch of Russia's neck. America turned his lips in towards Russia's ear. "Tell me if you want us to go to war," he whispered. "When this is over. To get rid of him. I just--I don't know--I would try--" he hitched his fingers into Russia's clothes. "For you, Russia, is that--what do you need?"
"I need..." Russia swallowed and dropped his head onto America's shoulder. The back of his neck was bare, and America could see that the marks went all the way around. "I-I need you to forget this ever happened."
"Why?" he pleaded. He grazed back a few strands of Russia's hair, cradled him in.
"I don't want you to know what I've done..." His voice shivered on the last syllable. "...Or what he's had to do to me."
"But--I want to help you..." America felt heavy and useless. "I--want you to be happy...a-and I want us to...Why can't I help?"
When Russia finally looked up, his eyes were...lost. A child's eyes. "Help?" He gave a soft, unhappy laugh. "You can't beat up all the monsters, America."
"You're wrong," America said. But it was just empty words, and they both knew it. He tipped his forehead against Russia's shoulder.
After a minute, he mumbled, "When I saw you again, after that--when you came to Washington, and my government recognized you. The things you said."
Russia pressed a feather light kiss against America's hair. "I meant them," he breathed. "I had to. It--it hurts if I don't."
America flinched. He drew away enough to meet Russia's eyes. "So, you hate me." Russia's arms were still crossed around his back, secure; they were pressed against each other from knee to sternum. "Even after--I mean--"
"After Casablanca?" Russia looked down, cringed his hands tighter into America's shirt. "I-I..."
An agonizing pause.
"Yes. I do." And with that, Russia leaned down and kissed him.
America tangled his fingers into a trailing end of Russia's scarf, into his hair, and whimpered into his mouth. When it ended--and it took a while for it to end--he snapped off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't understand," he managed, "At all."
Russia caught his hand, kissed his wrist. "I'm sorry." He gave America a painful, crooked smile--his real smile.
America nuzzled into the curve of Russia's jaw, then reclaimed his hand and gently fixed Russia's scarf. He tucked the ends together, the way he always saw Russia do it, and turned his eyes up towards him. Is that right? he wanted to ask, but his throat wouldn't open.
"Perfect," Russia murmured. He cradled America's face in his hand. "You need sleep, I can tell."
America nodded and stepped away. "I...I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, I guess."
"Unless you want--" Russia stopped, shut his eyes, and didn't say another word.
"Yes." America snatched up Russia's hand. After an aching moment, he used it to draw himself back to Russia's side.
"All right, then." Russia exhaled. He curled his fingers in America's. "My...my bed is bigger than yours, but--my boss..."
America squeezed his hand. "Well, I only found fourteen bugs in my room." He gave him a weak smile. "I guess if we go in quietly, you can help me find the rest? Unless I got them all. But I give you more credit than that."
"And I haven't given you enough." Russia didn't say what for, but his fingers were gentle against America's palm as he led him up the hall.
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-The Tehran Conference was the meeting of Joseph Stalin, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill between November 28 and December 1, 1943, most of which was held at the Soviet Embassy in Tehran, Iran. It was the first World War II conference among the Big Three (the Soviet Union, the United States, and the United Kingdom) in which Stalin was present. The chief discussion was centered on the opening of a second front in Western Europe. At the same time a separate protocol pledged the three countries to recognize Iran's independence. Several other issues were discussed, including Roosevelt's plan for a United Nations Organization, and Stalin's desires to redraw the borders of post-war Poland.
-The American diplomats, Roosevelt included, ended up staying at the Russian litigation. How? Well, funny story. Roosevelt and Stalin were circling each other, trying to strengthen their relationship without being too obvious. Before the conference started, the British diplomats called up the Americans, asking if they wanted to stay in the British litigation with them, because it was closer to where talks were taking place. Roosevelt didn't respond. However, when the Americans started moving into their rooms, the Russians call, just, "So. Assassination plot. Seriously. Ya'll should stay with us, for safety's sake. And it just so happens that we've got a whole wing decked out for ya'll in advance. What are the odds?" The official American response was something like, "Yeah, cool." And so they ended up sharing a building.
-The Tripartite Dinner Meeting was held the evening of November 29, the first night of the conference.
-Notes on Stalin: The Soviet Union had really started to come into its own in the war against Germany, winning many key victories in the months before the conference. All that extra confidence saw Stalin pretty much being a total dick at Tehran, demanding and full of himself. But he held all the cards, so most of the time, Roosevelt (and Churchill, to a lesser extent) gave him what he wanted.
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Author:pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1943: The Tehran Conference. Russia extends an invitation, and America asks a question.
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.
+++
Tehran, Iran. November 29, 1943.
They'd been in Tehran for almost four hours. America was starting to wonder if he was going to have to unpack. He'd checked in with security, recovered his luggage, made sure the President was comfortable (and God, he looked thinner every day; it made America feel queasy, whenever he let himself think about it), wandered around the grounds--and the American litigation was actually pretty nice, kind of run-down, but not bad. It was a shame he wouldn't be able to see more of it, assuming Russia ever got off his ass and invited him over--and finally collapsed by the reception desk with a huff, to drum his fingernails and stare out the window in distracted discontent.
When the phone finally rang, he waited for a slow count of ten seconds before he answered it, a sugar smile in his voice. "Hi! This is the American litigation, Alfred Jones speaking."
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then: "America."
His smile broadened. Take a little longer next time, asshole. "Oh, hi," he repeated, drawled it out. "Hey, how was your trip down?"
"Tense," Russia said dryly. "My boss doesn't like to fly."
"That's so weird," America replied without thinking. A small fleet of diplomats sailed in, dark trunks hiked up between them. America pitched back in his chair and kicked his heels up onto the windowsill. "So what can I do for you? Things are super busy here right now. Unpacking, you know."
"What you can do for me, America, is leave that place before your boss is killed."
Russia gave him a moment to consider that before he went on.
"We've just been wired some, ah, covert intelligence that suggests that Roosevelt is the target of an assassination plot. From Germany, of course."
America took a few seconds to school his expression. In his best Serious Tone, he answered, "Oh--that's very serious news. Thank you for telling us. Do you have any details I could give to our security team here?" A beat. "Or a plan for how we can best keep the President safe?"
"My boss anticipated something like this. He had our liaisons prepare a separate wing for your party here, at the Soviet litigation. I believe it would be safest if you slept with m--with us, ah, here, for the duration of the conference." A tiny pause. "Stayed with us."
America covered his mouth with his free hand and fixed his eyes out the window. It was in a tone of almost unreal calm that he managed, "That sounds like a great idea."
That was followed by one of the best awkward silences America had ever experienced.
Russia cleared his throat. "We'll send some of our people over to help with everyone's luggage. I'm glad you're going to be sensible about this."
"Aren't I always sensible?"
Russia had a few things to say about that, and so they exchanged a few more barbed pleasantries, and then America hung up. He tugged off his glasses, put his head down in his arms, and giggled for a few minutes.
When he looked up, Roosevelt was watching him, eyebrows raised. He straightened and wiped the corners of his eyes with the side of his hand. "Um. Sorry."
"Was that the Russians?" Roosevelt inquired.
"Ah, yes, sir."
"Did they invite us to stay with them after all?"
"Yes, sir. I knew they would." His lips twitched. "They have our safety in mind."
Roosevelt looked nonplussed for a moment, then offered, "Well, good work, Alfred."
"Thanks. Oh, and apparently there's some assassination attempt on for you," he remembered.
Roosevelt smiled. "That is certainly something to keep in mind."
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"I don't remember giving you free rein to explore."
America started and turned to find him in the dim hallway. The sounds of the last guests filtering out of the party drifted up through the floor around them as Russia tightened his scarf--white, spotless--and approached. "Oh--sorry, am I intruding?" That was rhetorical. Of course he was intruding. "I just figured you guys might not have bugged your side of the building."
"Don't be too sure. I know how much you love to meddle in things that don't concern you. I might have assumed you'd poke around here sooner or later, and bugged the entire place." Russia gave him an even smile.
"Who's meddling?" America did his best to sound wounded. "I just didn't want anyone to overhear me humming. That's so embarrassing."
"Humming? I'm surprised you weren't singing." The low light cast warm and faded shadows over Russia's face. He wandered closer. "You do so like the sound of your own voice."
"To be fair," America returned, "You like the sound of my voice, too." He propped a shoulder against the wall.
Russia crossed his arms, leaned against the paneling a foot away from him. "Why so snippy, America? Aren't you happy to be here?"
America tucked his hands into his pockets. "It's better than getting assassinated by Germans," he conceded with a private smile.
"I thought it might be."
"Although you guys could give it a rest, about the second front," he added.
"It's very stubborn of us, I know," Russia replied sympathetically, "To always act like it's important to fight your enemies to win in war."
America scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You know, it's not like I'm not fighting. I'm fighting a war in Italy. And there's the whole naval thing going on around England and the Mediterranean--"
"Italy is very intimidating, I agree--"
"I don't know how you expect us to invade Europe when we can't even land any fucking ships; I mean, it's not like we have a huge, awesome, totally undefended border like you do--"
"As you have reminded me, many times--"
"Plus there's the Pacific War; you're not even involved in that!"
"Which means my contribution is only slightly less than yours."
America gave up. "Forget I mentioned it," he muttered.
Russia seemed content to let the matter rest. He traced his hair back from his face. His elbow brushed against America's arm, and neither of them recoiled. "How is your boss feeling? He looked a bit grey at dinner."
"He's fine." America's stomach clenched. Time to change the subject. "He and your boss seemed to get along okay."
Russia peered up at the ceiling. "Your boss gets along with most people," he said quietly. There was strange slant to his shoulders. "And my boss is very interested in getting to know him."
America's eyes crept across him. "Do you think Stalin'll go for this whole United Nations thing, after the war?" A cold flurry kicked through him as he said, "It'd be kind of nice to work together with you on something."
Russia kept his gaze on the light bulb, head tilted back the slightest bit. A inch of pale skin--and the thick, ragged edge of a scar--showed above the sweep of his scarf. America wondered, like he always did, what had made those scars, and if he would ever get the opportunity to ask. "It would be a change, wouldn't it?" Russia's voice was thin, somehow. "But I couldn't tell you what my boss thinks of the idea. We haven't...discussed it yet."
America watched him. "Well, what do you think about it?"
"It's a wonderful idea--in theory." He didn't look at America. "We could all cooperate, negotiate peace, if we only had some common ground on which to do it. Very idealistic. Very foolish." Russia shook his head. "I don't have the same faith in my fellow nations that you do."
America leaned back against the wall, his shoulders hunched. He inspected the carpet. "Would you even want it to work?"
"Maybe." Russia sighed. "For your sake."
America didn't know exactly what he felt, at that moment; he was concentrating too hard on not looking at Russia, not moving, or twitching, or making a response of any kind. Over the deep, heavy thump of his heartbeat, he thought, So I guess this corridor really isn't bugged.
Russia's words hung between them, clear and fading, and he didn't say anything else for a long while. Then: "Why didn't you stay with England?"
America shut his eyes for a second. A warm flush rose up the back of his neck. "What makes you think he invited me?" God, he was shit at direct lies.
Russia shot him a look. "Because he's England. And you're you. Don't be coy with me."
When America spoke, it was barely audible. "I wanted to stay with you."
Russia's arms dropped to his sides, and he let out a harsh breath. There was something very close to fear in his eyes. "Why?"
"I..." He curled in on himself a little more, and how the fuck could Russia expect him to say it? "Because we should...talk. We should be able to talk to each other." His voice trembled. He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. "We...we're both important countries, and--we have to cooperate on a lot of stuff, these days..."
"I suppose all alliances need attention," Russia murmured. He didn't look like he'd even heard himself speak. He traced his index finger over the gleaming curl of scar tissue that peeked out over his scarf. "And our bosses should get to know each other..."
America didn't know where it came from when he asked, "Russia, what is he doing to you?"
Russia blanched. His shoulders went rigid, and his hand spasmed shut on his neck. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
"Look at you," America breathed. He started forward, hesitated, then closed the distance between them and lay his hand light over Russia's. "--Can't I do anything to help?"
"I don't need your help," Russia snarled. He shook under America's touch like a frightened animal. "You don't--you don't know anything."
"I...no, but..." He raised his hand to cup the line of Russia's face. The way he flinched broke America's heart.
My boss can never hear about this. The way he'd said it kept America up at night.
"I-I just want..." America searched his eyes. "I mean, I know about some stuff, the--the purges, and the work camps, but--to you...why are you...?"
The wood paneling creaked as Russia shrank back against the wall. "You...I don't..." He twisted his fingers in his scarf, hard; it drooped open around the base of his throat. America couldn't tell if Russia had meant to show him, or if he was just too panicked to remember them, but there they were--a string of overripe bruises across his neck, a collar of them, a dark and swollen handprint.
America stared. A horrible light feeling swept up from his stomach, and he wondered if he was about to be sick. His gaze floated back to Russia's eyes. America cupped his face gently between his hands. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "My poor Russia."
Russia's hands shot up, wrapped tightly around America's wrists. "Don't say that." He winced his eyes shut, and a humiliated flush flared across his face. "It's--It's nothing. I-I mean...it's not nothing, but I'd made a mistake, and--" His voice cracked. "Please," he managed. "It's not...not important. I don't even mind, anymore..."
America blinked back a scald of tears. "How can you...say that...?" He stroked the cool skin of Russia's cheek with his thumb, and Stalin had made him promise not to interfere in Russia's affairs just this evening, had walked right up to him and smiled and made him acknowledge that Russia's business wasn't any of his... "H-he's supposed to look out for you. He...you're going through...through so much, with this war..." His voice went fainter and fainter, and then surged up again: "He's supposed to protect you!"
"He--he is," Russia whispered. "We're winning now...He--" His fingernails dug into America's skin. "--He...broke my ribs. After Kiev. But I deserved it! I needed--need the discipline!" He gave America a wretched, nightmarish smile. "He's a great leader, America. Don't you understand?"
America sucked down a breath and clung to him.
Russia was stiff in his arms, motionless, like a doll. But his hands trembled madly against America's back. The bruises were much worse from close up, running to a raw, bloody purple, fading a bit into the pale stretch of Russia's neck. America turned his lips in towards Russia's ear. "Tell me if you want us to go to war," he whispered. "When this is over. To get rid of him. I just--I don't know--I would try--" he hitched his fingers into Russia's clothes. "For you, Russia, is that--what do you need?"
"I need..." Russia swallowed and dropped his head onto America's shoulder. The back of his neck was bare, and America could see that the marks went all the way around. "I-I need you to forget this ever happened."
"Why?" he pleaded. He grazed back a few strands of Russia's hair, cradled him in.
"I don't want you to know what I've done..." His voice shivered on the last syllable. "...Or what he's had to do to me."
"But--I want to help you..." America felt heavy and useless. "I--want you to be happy...a-and I want us to...Why can't I help?"
When Russia finally looked up, his eyes were...lost. A child's eyes. "Help?" He gave a soft, unhappy laugh. "You can't beat up all the monsters, America."
"You're wrong," America said. But it was just empty words, and they both knew it. He tipped his forehead against Russia's shoulder.
After a minute, he mumbled, "When I saw you again, after that--when you came to Washington, and my government recognized you. The things you said."
Russia pressed a feather light kiss against America's hair. "I meant them," he breathed. "I had to. It--it hurts if I don't."
America flinched. He drew away enough to meet Russia's eyes. "So, you hate me." Russia's arms were still crossed around his back, secure; they were pressed against each other from knee to sternum. "Even after--I mean--"
"After Casablanca?" Russia looked down, cringed his hands tighter into America's shirt. "I-I..."
An agonizing pause.
"Yes. I do." And with that, Russia leaned down and kissed him.
America tangled his fingers into a trailing end of Russia's scarf, into his hair, and whimpered into his mouth. When it ended--and it took a while for it to end--he snapped off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't understand," he managed, "At all."
Russia caught his hand, kissed his wrist. "I'm sorry." He gave America a painful, crooked smile--his real smile.
America nuzzled into the curve of Russia's jaw, then reclaimed his hand and gently fixed Russia's scarf. He tucked the ends together, the way he always saw Russia do it, and turned his eyes up towards him. Is that right? he wanted to ask, but his throat wouldn't open.
"Perfect," Russia murmured. He cradled America's face in his hand. "You need sleep, I can tell."
America nodded and stepped away. "I...I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, I guess."
"Unless you want--" Russia stopped, shut his eyes, and didn't say another word.
"Yes." America snatched up Russia's hand. After an aching moment, he used it to draw himself back to Russia's side.
"All right, then." Russia exhaled. He curled his fingers in America's. "My...my bed is bigger than yours, but--my boss..."
America squeezed his hand. "Well, I only found fourteen bugs in my room." He gave him a weak smile. "I guess if we go in quietly, you can help me find the rest? Unless I got them all. But I give you more credit than that."
"And I haven't given you enough." Russia didn't say what for, but his fingers were gentle against America's palm as he led him up the hall.
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-The Tehran Conference was the meeting of Joseph Stalin, Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill between November 28 and December 1, 1943, most of which was held at the Soviet Embassy in Tehran, Iran. It was the first World War II conference among the Big Three (the Soviet Union, the United States, and the United Kingdom) in which Stalin was present. The chief discussion was centered on the opening of a second front in Western Europe. At the same time a separate protocol pledged the three countries to recognize Iran's independence. Several other issues were discussed, including Roosevelt's plan for a United Nations Organization, and Stalin's desires to redraw the borders of post-war Poland.
-The American diplomats, Roosevelt included, ended up staying at the Russian litigation. How? Well, funny story. Roosevelt and Stalin were circling each other, trying to strengthen their relationship without being too obvious. Before the conference started, the British diplomats called up the Americans, asking if they wanted to stay in the British litigation with them, because it was closer to where talks were taking place. Roosevelt didn't respond. However, when the Americans started moving into their rooms, the Russians call, just, "So. Assassination plot. Seriously. Ya'll should stay with us, for safety's sake. And it just so happens that we've got a whole wing decked out for ya'll in advance. What are the odds?" The official American response was something like, "Yeah, cool." And so they ended up sharing a building.
-The Tripartite Dinner Meeting was held the evening of November 29, the first night of the conference.
-Notes on Stalin: The Soviet Union had really started to come into its own in the war against Germany, winning many key victories in the months before the conference. All that extra confidence saw Stalin pretty much being a total dick at Tehran, demanding and full of himself. But he held all the cards, so most of the time, Roosevelt (and Churchill, to a lesser extent) gave him what he wanted.
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