Chapter Text
November 1962 — Nevada, United States of America
America lit her Pall Mall and inhaled the smoke. It filled her chest with warmth that counteracted the icy glare of Belarus which, somehow, managed to look more frightening than the knife at her throat. If looks could kill, America thought, amused. The dark ash from her cigarette fell onto the flat edge of Belarus’s blade. Every dropping particle tainting the polished edge made Belarus’s glare darken.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking a smoke,” America said. She gave Belarus a shining smile, which was more than he deserved, the dirty fucking communist, but a guest was a guest, even if the guest had turned up uninvited. America would send Belarus’s boss a bill for her broken door after she had resolved things here. She’d been planning to renovate her Las Vegas apartment—perhaps she could tack those renovations onto the bill while she was at it. America couldn’t decide whether living in a home funded by commie cash would be satisfying or infuriating. “It’s been a rough few months. You know, that business in Cuba took a lot of time out of me—everyone and their mama was calling, or the equivalent of that, since our kind have no mothers—I’d never heard so many panicked voices. Even Wang sounded upset! Wang! That she-devil can be scared! Imagine! It was only the end of the world. And there’s so much crap going on, so many shouts and screams and things to be taken care of that and so much fucking noise, that I’d had half a mind to give the order and let the world explode. I really wanted to. I’m really not someone who hates easily, but I hate communists, and the worst one I’ve ever met is that bitch at your border—”
Belarus’s knife cut into her throat. “Keep talking,” Belarus said, “and I will cut out your tongue.”
America chuckled. “Like you have the guts.”
Belarus’s grip on the knife tightened, but, as America suspected, he didn’t cut off her tongue. He wanted her to speak. America didn’t mind obliging. The trouble was that even if America spoke, she didn’t have the answers Belarus wanted. She knew why Belarus was here: if anything happened to Maddie, America would have done worse than threaten. Not that it was fair to Belarus to compare them. America was one of the only two superpowers in the world. Only one other could match her.
“Where is she?” Belarus asked coldly.
America exhaled smoke. “Don’t know.”
“You do,” Belarus said, and he sounded angry. Not even his anger could match his sister’s. America almost felt disappointed. “You were the last one to see her. And the last time you did, you almost killed her. How long did you have those missiles pointed at her back?”
“That,” America said, “is the business of Russia and myself.”
“It becomes my business when my sister walks into a meeting with you and no one sees her after. The missiles are gone, and with them, Anya has gone, too. I am not a fool. What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t lay a single finger on her,” America said.
“Lie to me one more time, Amerika—”
America didn’t feel like smiling. She hadn’t for decades, but she smiled now because America knew it would irritate Belarus. As she expected, Belarus’s expression became stonier. America hadn’t known that was possible. “Anya used to like my smile,” America said. “When we were friends, a long time ago, she told me she liked how often I smiled, how the nations on her continent rarely smiled, and how she liked that I always smiled for her. Do you know that even now, when we hang our bombs over each other’s heads, I always greet her with a smile?”
“I do not care about your past. Tell me where she is.”
“Anya hates my smile now. She calls me a clown. Always performing. A beautiful clown.” America smiled wide, showing off her teeth. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”
“No,” Belarus said.
“Since I’m a clown, I’ll tell you a joke.” America leaned into the knife. “Anya hates my smile so much she’ll knock boots with me to make me stop.”
America was almost disappointed when Belarus dropped the knife and punched her instead. It felt feather-light. Belarus’s anger had no weight behind it. Nothing to make her stop and listen, nothing to make her still with fear or rage. America had entertained Belarus because of Russia, but America’s good-will had limits, and America had derived all the amusement she could from Belarus. America was already starting to feel guilty for her last comment; she’d been poking at Belarus all evening, taking out her frustrations of being hounded after the Cuban Missile Crisis on a nation she never even exchanged pleasantries with. America really could sympathize. Belarus was concerned; Russia really should feel lucky to have inspired such devotion from her brother. America liked to imagine that Canada would feel this worried if she went missing. Belarus’s concern was touching, but completely unwarranted. The only person who could harm Russia was America, and as far as America knew, she hadn’t caused Russia true, lasting harm in the last month or so.
“Your sister’s strong,” America said. Belarus’s blow had made her drop her cigarette, so she took out another one. “So what if she went on sabbatical? She’s stressed. Leave the woman alone. Russia will come back when Russia wants to come back. Just because she took off doesn’t mean it had anything to do with me.”
“You are still saying you had nothing to do with her disappearance,” Belarus said.
“Nothing, other than maybe being the primary cause of her stress.” America shrugged. “She’s a real problem for me, and you don’t see me complaining, do you? I didn’t do anything to her. Now, get. If you’re that worried, go find her yourself. I’m done playing nice for you. You’re messing up my flooring with all that dust you tracked in.”
Belarus wouldn’t budge, so America hauled him out of her house by force, dumping Belarus on the porch with a cheery, “Goodbye!” before spiriting herself to Washington state for some peace and quiet. America notified the feds; they could handle Belarus themselves. She hoped.
And that was that—America smoked cigarettes in the Washington woods and wandered among her people and tried not to think about why Anya Braginskaya had decided to disappear after the resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was probably to sabotage her by making the globe think America had locked Russia in the basement of an off-share military base to violate her rights. Probably.
Whatever. Russia’s personal plans didn’t affect America in the slightest. Belarus would feel silly when Russia returned. America would demand an apology, Russia would rebuff her attempts, they would fight, and Russia’s blows would feel much more satisfying against her skin than any other nation’s touch could be.
———
November 1963 — Leningrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Russia never came back.