Chapter Text
May 1990
The Cold War was nearing its end, but instead of being cooped up in the Pentagon like he was supposed to be, America found himself staring at a strange letter he had found by the entrance of his D.C. apartment.
Usually, America didn’t bother to read his mail; it usually consisted of junk and angry letters from his boss (doesn’t he know that it’s the age of email now? Geez… keep up…). But this particular letter caught his eye; there was no address on the envelope.
“Huh.. Must’ve been hand-delivered,” he thought to himself. He guessed that whoever sent it must’ve slipped it through the side of the door while he was still asleep. That’s not creepy at all.. He shivered a bit at the thought that someone might’ve followed him. He then quickly shook his head to rid his nerves. “It’s just a dumb letter, nothing a hero can’t handle!!” He then quickly ripped through the top envelope to look at its contents.
“Dear America,
There are a few matters that we must discuss privately.
Meet me at…”
There was a pause before America muttered, “That’s it? Just an address and a vague sentence? That’s the most obvious trap I’ve ever seen. The gall...” His face darkened for a moment. He knew exactly who sent this. “That damn commie. And in Germany? Does he think I’m stupid?”
Unfortunately for America, he has never been known to think through his decisions, and that is how he found himself on a plane to Berlin, Germany, the next morning.
There was no hassle when he arrived because of the fake passport and visa he had prepared to minimize questioning by both the American and German governments. It had not been long since the Berlin Wall fell. America remembered watching and celebrating the USSR's weakening influence. Despite the Soviet being in a bad spot politically, he still feels a bit uneasy as he walks toward the meeting spot.
The address written in the letter belongs to a nice hotel; one with a gorgeous lobby and multiple conference rooms that he walks past to reach the elevators. Once in, he reached for his pocket and looked down at the letter again. “402.. So the 4th floor.” America quickly pressed the corresponding button and waited.
After what felt like forever, the elevator doors opened, and he made his way to the front door of the room. He stood there for a bit longer than what would be considered normal before placing his hand on the doorknob. He could feel his pulse in his head when he finally pushed the door open.
The room was spacious and comfortable, not that it mattered. He was not planning on staying long. There, the USSR was already sitting in the chair in the far-off corner. America wondered how long he had been waiting there until USSR broke the eerie silence.
“Hello, Amerika.” America stared at him for a moment, a red flag immediately raised in his head at the atmosphere. This entire ordeal felt much too casual for his tastes; after all, it was him and USSR. He noticed that USSR looked worse for wear. Has he slept at all recently?
“You look like shit.” “Do not start,” USSR retorted. America knows that he doesn’t look the best right now, but it’s hard to rest easy with a nation like the Soviet Union constantly working to bring you down. America disregarded the comment, choosing instead to ask the one burning question that had been stuck in his mind since he first opened the letter. So with a faint unease, he opened his lips and stared straight into the other’s eyes, “Why did you call me here?”
America watched as USSR’s face darkened. He was right! There was no way this wasn’t an elaborate setup to catch him off guard. As the hero, he saw this coming. Almost reflexively, his hand twitched towards the pistol he often kept in his waistband. It would be naive to think that USSR would not bring weapons of his own, which is why he smuggled his own weapons onto the plane here. Suddenly, USSR’s demeanor flipped almost 180 degrees. The malice on his face was replaced by a polite smile, as if he were having a chat over coffee with a friend, something he and America would never be.
“You seem happy lately,” USSR commented. “What?” America muttered, dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure if he had heard him correctly; it was too random- what brought this on?. “The wall falls. Lithuania leaves. Everyone celebrates.” He couldn’t be serious. Is this his plan? USSR continued, “You think you have won, da?” America interrupted him, “I never said that.” “You didn’t have to.”
With a shrug, he stood up from his chair and took a few steps towards America, who never broke eye contact. USSR spoke. ”You are making things difficult again.” Though taken aback, America stood his own ground. “Geez, did you invite me here just to complain? Lithuania left on his own accord; I had nothing to do with it.” USSR’s smile became strained for a moment before the almost doll-like smile returned. He quickly corrected him. “He is only confused. He will realize his mistake soon enough. However, you should stop filling everyone’s heads with ideas.”
America knows he tends to poke his nose in matters that don’t involve him, but this was not his doing. He is well aware of the conditions that led to this separation. Lithuania just happened to be the first country to do something about it, and now that he has, the other countries in the union are bound to follow.
“It’s not my problem that they aren’t scared of you anymore.” “Don’t speak about my family like that,” USSR retorted venomously as he clenched his fist. America sensed that he struck a nerve. His instinct told him to double down, so with a smile he struck while the iron was hot. “Family? Is that what you call that?”
For a moment, the room went silent. USSR stared at him, the pleasant expression still intact. The longer America looked at it, the more uncanny it felt, just like everything else about him. “Of course,” USSR replied carefully.
America let out a laugh of disbelief. “That’s rich.” “I don’t see how this is funny,” USSR blankly stated. “Why are you acting surprised anyway?” America folded his arms and chuckled, amused. “Lithuania leaves and suddenly you’re dragging me to a hotel to whine about it.” USSR interrupted, “He did not leave.” America raised an eyebrow at this. “Uh. Pretty sure he did.” USSR corrected, “This is only temporary. He is upset, but he will calm down.”
“See that?” America pointed his index finger in USSR’s direction. “That’s why everybody is getting sick of you.” USSR paused before replying, “You enjoy this too much.” America shrugged, “Can you blame me? The big scary Soviet Union is on the verge of collapse, and now everybody is in a panic.” “Nobody is panicking,” USSR assured. “Oh, please,” America laughed and made no effort in hiding his annoyance. “Why else would you invite me here? You aren’t the type to complain about your own messes.”
There was a pause before USSR took another step towards America. He noticed, but stayed in place. The last thing America would do is look like a scared, caged animal. “You think you know everything about us,” USSR said at almost a whisper. “I know enough.” “No. You do not,” USSR replied. “They belong with me.” “That’s exactly the problem!” America threw his hands up in frustration, eyebrows now furrowed with an exasperated look. “You talk about them as if they don’t have a choice, Ivan!” USSR’s expression darkened immediately at the mention of his name. America kept going anyway. “They aren’t yours to have. The second you loosen your grip on them, they will leave you.” He finished with a jab to USSR’s chest, glaring straight into the other’s darkened gaze.
USSR’s knuckles are white now from him clenching his hands at his sides, his jaw aching at how clenched he had it, only opening his mouth to confidently say, “They are not leaving.” America laughed and rolled his eyes, bored of the conversation, “Keep telling yourself that. They have been waiting for you to get weak. You already lost one, now it's only a matter of time until–.” The next thing America saw was USSR’s fist flying at his face. It happened so fast that he could barely register the movement.
Crack.
His fist connected with America’s nose, instantly breaking it. America’s vision flashed white. He didn’t have time to react to the pain flaring through his nose before he was grabbed by his collar and slammed hard against the wall beside the door.
“The hell is your problem?!” America snapped, before harshly shoving USSR’s chest. He barely budged. “Do not speak of things you do not understand,” he sneered. USSR reeled back his fist to strike him again. This time, America barely avoided the attack, dodging to the left before he swung at him instinctively.
His fist smashed USSR across the jaw and sharply forced his head to the side. This only seemed to make him angrier. USSR gripped his jacket again, while America grabbed a fistful of his hair. Despite the chaos, USSR still had a smile on his face, though it felt menacing now. The floor creaked under their weight as they wrestled to the far side of the room.
The two of them stumbled into the table, knocking a few pens and advertisements onto the floor. America could taste the blood running into his mouth from the broken nose now, and his side ached from where the table jabbed him.
Remembering the gun in his waistband, America quickly reached for it. The second his fingers grazed the grip of the pistol, USSR noticed, slamming his hand against America’s wrist, pressing it painfully against the edge of the table before he could free the weapon. Without warning, USSR harshly yanked the captured wrist and twisted him around, slamming the side of America’s face into the table and shoving his body harshly against the edge of it.
The impact of the assault knocked the breath out of him. He hissed as pain shot through his ribs. USSR wrenched the wrist uncomfortably behind America’s back. “Don’t even think about it, Amerika,” USSR scolded, using his bodyweight to further pin him in place. It still felt like the world was spinning. Despite this, America twisted violently.
He wrestled an arm free from the taller man’s grasp and drove his elbow straight into his stomach. USSR staggered back a step, arms wrapping around his core. America immediately reached for his gun again, but before he could fully turn around, he reflexively ducked, eyes wide.
A lamp smashed against the wall beside his head, spreading sharp ceramic pieces across the carpet.
“What the fuck?!” America thought out loud. Earlier, while he was distracted with his gun, USSR grabbed the lamp sitting on the table and hurled it toward him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” America screamed. USSR remained silent, and his face stiffened.
The smile from before was long gone. America finally ripped his pistol free, but USSR grabbed his wrist before he could properly raise it.
BANG.
The gun discharged with a deafening crack, and they both froze for half a second. The shot landed somewhere along the ceiling. USSR was the first to move; he ruthlessly wrung the wrist holding the gun until the fingers loosened.
The gun clattered against the table and then fell to the floor. America swore loudly as he grabbed USSR’s scarf, yanking him down and meeting him halfway with a headbutt. USSR shoved him away, watching as America’s shoulder slammed into the wall.
“You’re wrong about them,” USSR proclaimed. His breathing was uneven. America wasn’t sure if it was due to the fighting or the emotions that came with it. Did it matter anymore? America shoved him back. “Jesus Christ! Do you hear yourself–?!”
Before America could finish, USSR lunged at him again. They crashed into the side of the dresser, almost knocking the television over. America pulled the other’s head down by his hair, to hit it against the dresser corner. USSR paused for a moment to hold his head, and America watched as the blood began to drip down his face.
Taking the opportunity to create some space, America stepped back, trying to ignore the pain he was in. He stumbled backward, hardly catching himself before he succumbed to gravity, dragging USSR down with him.
“Ow.. Fuck,” America mumbled under his breath. He had hit the ground hard. He winced in pain before reminding himself of his current situation and forcing his eyes open. He saw USSR hovering over him, holding himself up with his hands and knees.
America’s ears were ringing so loudly now that the room felt muffled. In a daze, he watched as USSR sat and straddled him. Suddenly, USSR pinned him by the throat, though not squeezing hard enough to choke him. America paled, his breathing rapidly quickening as he scrambled for release.
“Shit shit shit shit shit–,” America repeated to himself in his head. He grabbed blindly at whatever was in arm's reach. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears now, the ringing in his ears, and the world spinning. His hand got caught on the loose cord from the lamp that USSR threw at him earlier. Without thinking, he wrapped the cord around USSR’s neck and tugged it tight.
USSR immediately flinched backward in surprise, tightening his grip around America’s neck for a moment before opting to grab at the cord around his own neck. America pulled harder, the cord digging further into his palms, hard enough to break his skin. He was panting, unable to breathe past the blood that was pouring out of his nose, but pulled tighter nonetheless. USSR’s nails dug into America’s arms, leaving marks as he grabbed at him, his movements becoming rougher and more desperate, almost animalistic. America held on stubbornly.
The bruising grip USSR had on America’s arms became a fragile hold before his hands went limp on his sides at last. America remained stuck in place for several moments, still clutching the cord as if it were his lifeline.
When he finally allowed the cord to slip out of his hands, USSR collapsed on top of him, the weight grounding him for a moment. He almost enjoyed it, then he realized that USSR still wasn’t moving. All he could do was stare. USSR looked impossibly pale, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes still wide open, almost shocked. America’s stomach twisted violently.
“Oh shit.” He finally mustered the energy to push USSR to the side, lying next to him for a beat before sitting up to take in his surroundings. There was shattered ceramic, jostled furniture, blood on the carpet, and his gun obscured by one of the legs of the table. Almost robotically, America stood up to walk towards the table, crouching to grab the pistol from the floor before returning it to his waistband. As he stood back up, he straightened his collar and made his way to the attached bathroom. There was no satisfaction, nor was there a swell of pride in his chest; only unease lingered.
With trembling hands, he cleaned the dried blood that stuck to his skin, an awful reminder of what had just happened. He reached for his glasses before realizing that he wasn’t wearing them; they must have been knocked off at some point, he noted. He quickly tidied his tousled hair before returning to the main room.
When he glanced at the ground in front of the door, he found his glasses shattered. He picked it up after carefully folding it and placed it in his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Checking through the peephole first, he was met with an empty hallway.
Against his wiser judgment, he glanced back at USSR’s corpse, which lay unnaturally still. His stomach churned again. Then he turned away, opened the hotel room door, and left. It was an eerily silent walk home, as if the world knew what he had done. A part of America wished it didn't.