April, 1988

Gilbert comes to half-consciousness on a firm, giving surface, swaddled thick in woolen and knitted blankets. He had been sleeping on his back, which is currently being taken advantage of: cool, firm hands press along the thin planes of Gilbert's shoulder, chest; the hollow of his stomach.

The rise from sleep isn't rude, but squinting sleep-blurred eyes toward the balcony proves that light has barely touched Moscow's skies with a hazy smudge. "Russia, what the fuck," Gilbert mutters, though his head tips back reflexively when wide, calloused fingers gently pinch at his nipples and his exhale is shaky.

"Good morning," Russia says from somewhere above him, a dark, faceless lump at this godforsaken hour. One of those calloused hands trails lower to where Gilbert's torso starts to give way to his legs; a blunt fingernail teasingly scrapes along the path of hair pointing the way to an erection Gilbert knows is already there.

Gilbert groans, his eyes slamming shut like heavy weights had been applied. "Russia, it's too fucking early-" his protests end as a gasp when slick, wet digits start to tease at his ass; however, he's laying on his back and his legs aren't spread so Russia isn't able to penetrate without force.

Russia, surprisingly, doesn't use force that often. Only when drunk does he try; Gilbert isn't foolish enough to refuse General Winter's scion when fueled on vodka, however, so violence doesn't occur. When sober, though, Gilbert was somewhat amused to learn Russia had a far softer touch than expected.

"But you don't have to do anything," Russia says, sounding pleased, those slick, wet digits probing and promising along his backside, leaving cool licks of feeling wherever they wander. "And afterward, can go back to sleep."

Gilbert shifts in the mess of blankets - even in the superheated apartment complexes of Russia's heart, he sleeps swaddled, he will never be cold again, never ever - and groans. "Fucking fine," he acquiesces, and is rewarded by Russia's large hand brushing along his cock. A breath escapes Gilbert at the feeling that shivers up his spine.

Russia makes another pleased noise as Gilbert's legs spread, and those teasing, wet fingers gently reach up and massage at Gilbert's opening while Russia's dry hand just barely tweaks his nipples, causing sharp, fleeting sparks of pleasure to roll over Gilbert's skin.

Breath escapes Gilbert's body faster; his lips part even as his eyes stay closed. This does feel heavenly; eventually one of Russia's cool fingers slides inside Gilbert's sleep-relaxed body and it starts to move, in and out, in and out… the finger at Gilbert's nipples moves lower and starts to toy lightly with his cock, soft little strokes with fleeting fingertips.

"Ahnn," Gilbert groans after a few moments of this, sleep-hazed and aroused, feeling his body starting to flush pink from cheeks to chest, a blush of arousal as clear and obvious as daylight starting to overtake the night outside.

"Mmm," Russia rumbles in response, voice like ice cracking in the thaw. The teasing touches continue, and Gilbert's body starts to thrust up for more.

It's early, yet. Gilbert figures that any off-hand comments about enthusiasm later can be blamed on lack of sleep. One finger becomes two, and Gilbert sighs into the burn.

Pleasure lances up and down his body in lazy loops as the fingers scissor and stretch - a touch of cold as Russia adds more lubricant to make it easier. Gilbert arches up with a sigh to let the Russian's fingers work him deeper.

Russia takes him slow, and Gilbert opens his eyes to watch this part. Russia is rarely, rarely shirtless or even without his coat, but in the sanctuary of the greenhouse-hot apartment, it's worth the effort to see the alabaster skin, the defined muscles, the patchwork of scars.

In fact, Gilbert thinks that out of all the nations he's the one that's seen this the most, and isn't sure what that means. He puts it out of his mind as his head drops back on the lumpy, heavy pillow. Russia lifts Gilbert's legs, Gilbert lets him, and Russia's hips rock him in the familiar, slow pattern of careful intercourse. It feels good, and Gilbert lets it take him to completion, where his pleasure spills over Russia's hand. Russia hums, pumps himself a few more times, and Gilbert can feel Russia's pleasure rush inside him, as well.

As promised, once finished, Russia lowers Gilbert's legs, and Gilbert can feel the other's bulk move from the bed, allowing him to doze off once more.

When the sun was at a better position in the sky, Gilbert opened his eyes and went to the window, looking down at the foot traffic of Kitai-Gorod; by the amount, it was yet mid-morning.

"Awake, at last."

Gilbert turned around to see Russia wrapped in a red flannel robe, leaning against the door, in garish blue house slippers. One hand rested casually in a pocket, while the other delicately pinched a teabowl between thumb and forefinger; the china almost looked comical, so delicate and fine, laced with flowers, held expertly by a giant.

Gilbert snorted, still entirely naked. "You're the one that goes around waking people up in the middle of the night to fuck them," he pointed out, bending down to pick up a threadbare towel from the floor.

"And yet still manages to get up at a decent hour," Russia replied, sipping delicately at his steaming bowl of be-flowered tea, completely unlike the bloody butcher he was.

Not that Gilbert had room to talk, not really. "I'm going to shower," Gilbert announced, stepping toward the doorframe the Russian was blocking.

Russia moved easily, like a giant door swinging open to let him through. "Hot water's in the samovar," he said, lumbering back toward the kitchen.

One of the better aspects of communism, Gilbert mused, was the endless hot water. Of course, it didn't work everywhere (in these days, it didn't work in most places not Moscow), but the Soviets weren't going to let their nation personification languish in a cold-water apartment and Gilbert took full advantage of it. As he scrubbed his hair, the scent of blini wafted through the house; this prompted Gilbert to leave the decadence of unlimited hot water behind, wind the towel around his waist, and follow his nose.

Predictably, Russia was making the thin pancakes in one pan on the stove, while another pan was toasting completed, stuffed blini. "Tvorog," Russia told him, seemingly oblivious to the huge puddles Gilbert was creating on his floor on the way to the samovar and instant coffee.

"Preserves?" Gilbert asked, spooning so much sugar into his coffee it probably would candy his intestines.

"Plum," Russia responded, jerking his head toward the table where a jar sat. Prussia nodded, and helped himself to the entire pan of completed, stuffed blini, dumping them onto a plate and replacing the pan; Russia rolled five more tvorog-filled blini into it to toast with butter.

Silence, then, and this could almost be normal; Gilbert spooned copious amounts of runny preserves over his cheese-stuffed breakfast and had half of it down his throat before Russia sat down with his own plate, similarly loaded. Gilbert looked up in time to see the other pouring sweet plum juice into his tea.

This could almost be normal. He paused, red eyes searching along the tired-etched lines in Russia's face, the circles under the eyes only appearing dark when focused on.

The unspoken question had been floating in the back of Gilbert's head for a while; when Russia looked up, one cheek bulging with half-masticated breakfast and raised an eyebrow, Gilbert put voice to it.

"How does it feel?" Gilbert asked, carefully spearing a curd of tvorog onto a fork tine and examining it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Russia swallowed and reached for his plum-laced tea. "How does what feel?"

Gilbert's eyes flicked away from the fork. "How does it feel to be falling apart?"

The unspoken question. Pravda said otherwise, but everybody knew it was a lie. Everybody with a television and a hacked antenna channeling CNN knew it was a lie.

Even Gilbert knew it was a lie; Gilbert without a nation, without a name.

Thirty years ago Gilbert wouldn't have dared ask the question - not so soon, not after stepping out starved and disoriented from a Black Maria - but things had changed. In fact, things were changing so rapidly that it was hard to know which way was up any longer.

If there's one thing that could be said for prison, Gilbert thought as Russia blinked at him, at least things made sense. Bloody sense, terrible sense, but you knew what to expect.

Not any longer. Nothing made any damn sense.

Russia was still staring at him, but the tension snapped when he put down his teacup and started to laugh, uproariously.

Gilbert tensed; this was normally not a good sign, but he knew for a fact that Russia, for the moment, was sober.

When Russia managed to calm his yelps of glee - ? - he wiped his eyes and stood, sidling over to the window of his apartment, looking down into the traffic on the street. Gilbert was silent; the only thing that moved in the apartment for a few slow movements was the steam dancing on top of Gilbert's coffee.

"I can't tell you what it feels like because it hasn't happened yet," Russia said, voice calm again, his back still to Gilbert in the small, warm kitchen.

Gilbert blinked. "…yet?" he prompted.

"Yet," the Russian confirmed, and turned around, leaning against the window, crossing his arms, still looking amused. "But I can tell you what it will taste like."

This got an incredulous look from Gilbert, who reached forward to grab his cup of coffee'd sugar. "Ash? Blood? Steel? Rust? Gunpowder? Nuclear fallout?" he asked, voice dry.

Russia hummed, but waved his hand at Gilbert's suggestions. "A Big Mac and order of fries."

What. Gilbert raised an eyebrow. He knew what those things were, of course; he wasn't an idiot. "The downfall of the Soviet Union is going to taste like McDonalds," he repeated in a bland tone. (Thirty years ago, this would have been more than enough to get one locked away, but things had changed…)

"Just last week my bosses said it was okay for McDonalds to build a restaurant here," Russia said, tipping his head, looking amused. "I hear they make apple pie."

Gilbert stared at Russia as if he were insane - which, after all this time, Gilbert still wasn't entirely sure about. "They're putting in a McDonalds?"

Russia nodded, standing from the window to go collect his ridiculously-tiny teacup once more. "Yes, on Pushkin Square. It's going to be the biggest McDonalds in history, even. Seating for 700." He sipped.

Gilbert stared.

"So it's over," Russia said with a shrug.

"Just like that," Gilbert said, still not entirely sure this conversation was happening - he was half-expecting to wake up and find himself with Russia's cock buried balls-deep in his ass at 4 in the morning.

"I suspect it will take a couple of years," Russia went on, like he was discussing the outcome of a minor-league hockey game he didn't really give a shit about.

"For the Soviet Union to fall apart?" Gilbert asked.

Russia snorted. "No, for them to build the McDonalds. The Soviet Union won't end until a bit after that. People are going to have to have time to eat the McDonalds first and decide they want more of it before it all goes to hell."

Prussia crammed another blini in his mouth just to stall for time. God, talking with Russia was such a mindfuck, and he'd been doing it almost daily for 30-freakin-years. "So does this mean I can go-"

Russia stepped forward, which made Gilbert slam his mouth shut and swallow on blini that could have stood a bit more chewing. "Not yet," Russia said, and went to put his empty teacup down. "You clean up. I have to go to work."

Gilbert's mouth was sealed together with cheese and sticky preserves, but it didn't stop him from scowling at the Russian's back as he retreated to the bedroom to dress. "Not yet" had been Russia's perfectly placid response for thirty years. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

But Gilbert wasn't an idiot. And he hadn't been fucking Russia for 30 years for nothing. Things were changing. Gilbert reached forward and grabbed his now-lukewarm coffee, taking it down in quick drafts to clear his mouth of blini.

Not yet had been the constant chorus, two words that Gilbert had come to despise.

Can I go home?

Not yet.

Not yet, not yet, not yet. Gilbert had started to believe in the 1970s that was code for 'not ever.' But the change was afoot. Gilbert-no-longer-Prussia could still feel it in his bones, old nation bones not sure if turned mortal. Change was afoot, and finally, finally, confirmation was coming in the form of fucking hamburgers and a stupid-ass clown.

It wasn't not yet anymore.

Soon.

# # #

February, 1947

The 25th of February, 1947 started off as any other day, with Gilbert waking up locked in his basement room.

For nearly two years, nothing had changed. All things considered, Gilbert had thought, things could have been far, far worse. He was still incredulous that it hadn't been, frankly.

Sure, if given his own free reign he wouldn't have spent most of his time in a plain, windowless room, but it could have been worse. He was let out for some time each day. He was given books to read, paper to write on, food to eat. Russia had been… civil.

The main thing about it, Gilbert mused, was that it was just dull. Dull and somewhat stress-inducing. Far too much time to think. A holding pattern. The other shoe would drop, Gilbert was sure of it.

On the 25th of February, Gilbert opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling and knew. He just… knew.

Something terrible had happened. A faint nausea rose from within, and it felt like every hair was standing on end.

Something… something…

A breath- a breath-

No. No.

He sat up, purposefully slowly, and let his fingers curl against the side of the cot, breathing sharply and evenly, trying to think.

Where was he?

In Russia's basement.

Who was he?

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Wasn't there something else?

There was something else. But Gilbert couldn't remember-

It was difficult to think, when every beat of his heart sent another wash of fear through him, as if his heart splashed not in mortal blood but in emotion-

Was he mortal?

Disorientation added to the fear, and Gilbert simply gripped the edge of the cot, trying to ride through this, whatever this was-

What is my name-?

Some indeterminable amount of time later, the door at the top of the stairs swung open, and Gilbert's head shot up.

"Come out," Russia ordered, and Gilbert could hear footsteps retreating away. Gilbert gulped in air, stood up, brushed his hair back, and stepped forward, climbing meticulously up the stairs, each creaky step, until he emerged.

The door to the basement room led up to the kitchen, which currently smelled of the tea Russia perpetually was making when he wasn't drinking vodka. There was, of course, a bottle of vodka sitting on the table with a single shot glass. Russia was busy setting up the samovar.

"Sit," Russia said, pointing to the kitchen table. Gilbert looked at him for a moment, and then sat, the fear starting to rise in his throat, again, hard enough to choke.

What is my name-?

Russia sat down at the table with a delicate tea bowl, patterned with pink and yellow flowers on scalloped porcelain.

"The vodka is for you," Russia said, reaching forward to take the thin, delicate sugar bowl with the gold-carved handles and the tiny silver spoon.

Gilbert had his hands resting in his lap, and his eyes flicked over to the full bottle of vodka with the single shot glass. "I don't want it," he intoned flatly. There was something, there was something-

Cool purple eyes moved from the delicate, elegant tea accoutrements that those brutal hands held so lightly up to Gilbert's face, and another sharp lance of debilitating fear as the wind blew, the door creaked on its hinges and somebody was screaming in Königsberg-

"Drink," the Russian ordered, the syllable as inarguable as a dropped bomb.

Gilbert swallowed, eyes shifting back over to the vodka bottle before reaching out to undo the cap. He poured the shot full, reached forward, and down the hatch it went, burning liquid.

"Again," Russia said, amusement in those purple eyes as he lifted the scalloped teacup to chapped lips.

"I don't-"

"Again."

Gilbert poured another shot. And another. And another. And another.

Five shots later, and Gilbert thought he was going to vomit, but Russia allowed him to stop. Not having eaten since the day prior, the world was starting to spin.

Twinned Russias lifted twinned teacups to their mouths, and Gilbert grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling off the surface of the earth. "You've been dissolved," the Russian twins said in unison.

"What?" Gilbert asked stupidly.

Twinned Russias chuckled. "Drink," the voice said, amused.

Gilbert shook his head, afraid, disoriented, and what. "No, I can't-"

"I tire of repeating myself," twinned Russias said, completely disregarding the irony of Gilbert's double-vision.

Shakily, Gilbert poured another shot and down the hatch it went, like poison. Gilbert's stomach roiled.

"Prussia is no more," Russia went on, and Gilbert could have been sick.

That is my name-

But it wasn't. It no longer existed.

As Gilbert floated in a vodka-soaked ether, twinned Russias hummed and leaned back in their chairs. "This wasn't my idea, of course," he said idly. "My boss actually wanted to keep you around, but he was overruled." Twinned Russias raised twinned shoulders in a twinned indifferent shrug.

Gilbert's eyes floated up like bubbles in champagne: aimless and buried in alcohol.

Twinned Russias chuckled, and Gilbert leaned back in his chair when they stood and walked around the table, his neck tipped up and up and up at the twinned mountain of Red Army might before him and then fingers in his hair trapped him there, neck exposed, mouth slung half-open-

Twinned Russias lifted twinned bottles of vodka but only one bottleneck was shoved down Gilbert's throat and he gagged as hot, burning liquid drowned him and he swallowed, he swallowed, it spilled-

The chair was kicked out from under him and Gilbert sprawled on the floor, choking and stinking of vodka.

"Of course, now that you no longer exist," Russia's voice said, coming from above, from everywhere, echoing from far away, "there was the slight issue of what, exactly, to do with you."

Gilbert's eyes rolled open absently, but the world had been reduced to sickening blurs and a voice. There was odd silence for a moment.

"This also wasn't my choice," Russia said, and Gilbert was confused; it sounded like regret. "But I am sure you, of all people, will understand the necessity of following orders."

Movement, then: Gilbert couldn't see, but he could feel a tug around his neck, somebody removing a necklace, something being-

"No!" A single syllable, but legible, clear - Gilbert's hand shot out and though he could see nothing, the hand found its target… the smoothed over points of an iron cross that was not to be taken from him, was not-

Lips, low, against his ear. "I will hold it for you until you return."

Before Gilbert could even begin to process that in his sodden state, other voices entered the room, not familiar ones, rough hands, rough hands around his arms, dragging - Gilbert kicked, his heel landed in something soft-

Somebody backhanded him and out the lights went.

He awoke later and the floor was moving, covered in vomit; a small cell, no light, hard floors, a headache like an ice pick lodged in the back of his skull. A vague memory made him put his hand to his throat: no necklace.

The Black Maria ambled on, and Gilbert gave himself to darkness once more.

# # #

October, 1949

"I'm not interested."

"Germany-"

"America."

Germany found it was easier to be assertive with America when he wasn't looking at him, so he was studiously staring out the window down at the street below.

"Germany."

Germany's eyebrows twitched. "America," he responded, voice flat and banal. This was childish, but it was far better than the situation at hand.

"If you're not there, it's going to make all of us look bad, including you." America's voice was getting tight with frustration. "There's no reason not to go."

"There's plenty of reason not to go," Germany said. "I have no desire to meet… whomever this is." His arms crossed.

America, uncharacteristically, was silent for a few moments. Germany's eyes flicked up the window where he could make out America's blurry reflection: the other nation was looking off to the side, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"You say he's still alive," America said slowly.

There was only one 'he.' Germany's mouth worked. "He is," Germany affirmed quietly. Dissolved, maybe, but Germany could sense that heart still beating. He knew.

Germany didn't want to meet this so-called German Democratic Republic. He didn't want to see what Russia had done, he didn't want-

"The… Soviet Occupation Zone…" America started off, still slowly, his eyes floating over to catch Germany's in the window reflection, "…isn't him."

Germany turned around. "What?"

"Prussia," America said bluntly. "Ex-Prussia. The new representative of the Soviet Occupation Zone isn't him." He cleared his throat. "I've seen… her."

"Her," Germany said flatly, turning around. "This so-called German Democratic Republic is a her."

America nodded, expression troubled. "And it's not… I can tell it's not a reincarnation of Prussia or whatever. It's a completely new representation. A child."

Germany fixed America with a blank stare while he processed this. "A child."

America nodded. "Yes." He reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose. "One that doesn't look a thing like Prussia did."

"So where is he?" Germany asked, bracing his hands against the table. "I know he's alive, I know it."

A troubled look crossed America's features again. "Germany, I have no fuckin' idea. It's not as if Ivan tells me shit, and, to be honest, the whereabouts of an ex-country are not at the top of my current list of pressing worries." He took a breath and shook his head. "If you say he's alive, he's alive. Nobody would know better than you. However, there's nothing anybody can do about it at the moment so would you please come help me the fuck out here before I have to order you to do it like a total asshole?"

Germany snorted. "Threatening to order me if I don't do it of my own volition doesn't exactly give me a lot of freedom of choice." His voice was softer, though, and he sighed.

"No, but it makes me feel better about myself," America said with a crisp nod, tipping his lip up at him. "Look. It'll just be you and her in the room. Expect the whole thing will be bugged and videotaped."

"I don't understand the point of putting us both in a cage to be examined like zoo creatures," Germany muttered. "What are you expecting us to do, circus tricks?"

America hummed, tipping his head. "Not exactly," he said slowly, looking over at him with an expression that told Germany America had more information that he was letting on. "There's mutual curiosity as to how you'll react to each other, mostly."

So both America and Russia wanted to stick Germany and whoever-this-was in a viewing pen so both could better play their own chess game of West-vs-East. "Of course," Germany said stiffly.

America sighed. "Humor me," he said, as if Germany had any real choice in the matter. "Come on."

"Now?" Germany said, leaning back, eyes widening. "She's here now?"

"Yes, she's here now," America said, turning around and motioning Germany to follow him. "I didn't want to give you time to figure out how to use bureaucracy to make you too busy for the meeting."

On one hand, Germany was nailed to the spot with indignation, and on the other hand he was privately impressed. For a moment he clenched his fists helplessly before loosening them and obediently following America down the hall to one of the other offices.

America opened the door. "Not in here yet," he said with a shrug, motioning Germany inside. "Go on. I'll make it up to you later with real coffee and not-shitty beer."

Germany snorted. "Your idea of not-shitty beer isn't exactly-"

"Fuck off," America said cheerfully, before shutting the door in Germany's face, making Germany chuckle low in his throat. He was in the office of one of the secretaries: small, with two chairs in the room. One of the chairs was behind the desk and it seemed far too intrusive to sit at somebody else's desk, so he sat in the other one.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

Finally, the door opened, and Germany's head turned to see-

Himself.

No. Wait. Incredulity filled him, and he had to rub his eyes. All right. It wasn't himself. Not exactly.

Before him was a young female, perhaps seven in human appearance, clearly a nation - he could sense it - staring as boldly at him as he at her. Dressed in a plain blue frock most would have glanced over her but for the golden blonde hair pulled back rather severely in a tight plait, the ice blue eyes, the broad shoulders-

Germany did vaguely remember what he looked like as a youth - he'd spent plenty of time frowning at his reflection. This girl could have been that young boy's fraternal twin.

"…hello," he said, once he managed to locate his vocabulary again.

Hello, his identical-girl-twin visage said, in Russian.

"…don't you speak German?" Germany asked, a bit affronted despite himself.

The girl opened her mouth and then closed it, blue eyes darting around the room as if looking for something.

She knows the room is bugged, Germany realized. There was a few moments pause, while Germany tried to figure this out. Is she not supposed to know German?

How does that make any sense? Germany wondered.

So you speak Russian, Germany said carefully, switching over.

Yes, the girl said, nodding, the relief clear in her voice.

…now Germany was irritated for an entirely different reason. But you're German, he went on. You don't speak the language of your people?

The girl nodded. I'm Soviet, she said, a childish note of pride in her voice. With a little smile, she started to rock back and forth from her heels to her toes and back.

This… was confusing. Germany nodded slowly. I see, Germany said, though he most certainly didn't and was going to need a lot of time to think about this. What's… what's your name?

The German Democratic Republic, the girl replied, another smile lighting up her face.

She was indeed a very pretty child, but there was something off about all of this. Germany nodded. I'm the Federal Republic of Germany, he said. Ludwig Beilschmidt. Do you have a human name?

The girl nodded again. Veronika, she said.

…okay, a name that could either be German or Russian. Interesting. He nodded in response. Do you have a surname?

The girl looked at him, and stopped her rocking.

"Name," the white-haired red-eyed giant asked - demanded - in the terrifying hall as Ludwig looked up and up and up into silks and brocade and a human-god of unimaginable power with the blood-well eyes.

"L-Ludwig," the child had said, barely able to get the syllables out, neck tipped back and shoulders hunching up in intimidation. Of all the states to pledge their allegiance, Prussia was by far the most frightening.

"Hm," Prussia had said, seemingly unimpressed. "Surname?"

There wasn't one. The child stared, mute.

"Just Ludwig?"

The child looked down, and winced when the blade came up, an insistent pressure beneath his chin, forcing his head back up to meet those demon-eyes… which had softened into something like amusement.

"You can't go through life with just a Christian name," the demon-Prussia said, the amusement in his eyes bleeding into his voice. "You'll need a house name to go with it. Beilschmidt. There. Say your name."

Ludwig Beilschmidt swallowed. "Ludwig Beilschmidt," he repeated obediently, his eyes darting off to the side nervously before he dare question the demon. "But I haven't a house."

Prussia laughed and lowered the blade. "You just stepped into the awesomeness of mine. Prussia at your service, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Now, Germany looked down at the blond haired child before him.

"Beilschmidt," he said, looking down with conviction.

Veronika looked up, strangely motionless.

It almost felt like an incantation. A name. The gift of a name.

"Your name," he said, and there was a strange feeling of finality in the air, "is Veronika Beilschmidt."

The little girl blinked, but before she could speak the door opened. Veronika, come here, a voice ordered crisply and Veronika gasped. A blonde-headed blur quickly left the room.

Germany was left staring at the closed door for another few moments before it opened once more, admitting America. Germany stared at him and opened his mouth, before America quickly put a finger over his lips and motioned him out.

Oh, right. The room was bugged. Germany stood and followed America back into his own office.

"You're sure it's not bugged here?" Germany said, voice a little tight.

"It's not," America said, shaking his head. "We checked."

There was silence for a moment. "What was that?" Germany asked, voice low, trying to control it from shaking.

America raised an eyebrow. "You tell me."

"That is a puppet state," Germany bit out.

America, at this point, was grinning, in sharp opposition to Germany's ire. "A puppet state that you just gave your own name to."

Germany's eyes flicked up. "She had to have something that isn't Soviet," Germany grumbled. It figured, though. The best way to put America in a good mood was to thumb one's nose at the Soviet Union.

"You can help her," America said with an encouraging nod. "And him."

Germany was quiet for a moment, looking to the side in thought. "You wanted me to meet her because you knew it would upset me," he said.

"I can order you around all night and day if I wanted to," America said with a shrug, still grinning. "But it's less work to light a fire under your ass."

Germany's gaze shifted back to America. "You're more manipulative than anybody gives you credit for," he said.

The corner of America's mouth wobbled in amusement before he turned for the door. "Stick with me, kid, we're goin' places," he said with a put-upon Texan drawl before disappearing out the door.

# # #

THE FIRST MCDONALDS IN RUSSIA: In April of 1988, the communist government allowed the McDonalds Corporation to open its first franchise in the Soviet Union, in Pushkin Square, Moscow. It didn't open until 1990, and it took about 14 years of negotiations to do. At the time of its opening it was the biggest in the world, and the day it opened it served over 30,000 customers. It is still the busiest McDonalds in the world.

THE DISSOLUTION OF PRUSSIA: On February 25, 1947, the Allied Council dissolved Prussia. The officially stated reasons for dissolution were due to Prussia's 'military influence' on German culture. Winston Churchill delivered a speech about 'Nazi Tyranny and Prussian Militarism' basically equating the two. In the aftermath of WWII, the Allied Council decided that it was in the world's best interest for Prussia to be no more, and thus dissolved it. (Russia was the one member of the Allies that actually vaguely advocated for it not to be dissolved, since it had overall quite fond historical relationships with Prussia. However, Russia was overruled by the other Allies and it wasn't in Russia's interest enough to drive a hard bargain over.)

Outside of the militarism reasons… Prussia as a state was not practical for the Cold War era, as it couldn't be neatly divided between the occupation zones due to its location and size.

THE BLACK MARIAS: 'Black Marias' (also called 'Black Ravens') were specially-designed vehicles that transported gulag inmates. They had individual cells inside and were designed to look like normal delivery vehicles.

EAST GERMANY: I have elected to make East Germany a separate character from Prussia since it… makes more sense to me. I know in the anime it's heavily implied that the Germany character becomes West Germany and the Prussia character becomes East Germany, but Prussia/East Germany aren't the same landmass and I wanted to try something a bit different.

Also, obviously, they spoke German in East Germany, and the Veronika character also speaks German perfectly fine. Be patient with me; I'm developing her.

MY GOD, HELP ME TO SURVIVE THIS DEADLY LOVE: Name for this story is from the famous painting on the Berlin Wall depicting the 'fraternal kiss' between Brezhnev and Honecker.