Gift fic for ask-navy-america for the RusAme Secret Santa 2017. Happy Holidays!

Carbon Black

~1863~

The light call of seagulls traveled with the damp breeze across the harbor, lapping with the waves against boats and barges and buoys alike, audible even over the multilingual chatter of the amassing crowd. Clouds of an almost blinding whiteness drifted lazily across the sky, causing the sun's light to blink on and off, its rays glinting off the insistent, splashing waves. Men and women talked with noble attempts at refinement, though too easily dissolved into excitement, eyes wide with intrigue as guests and hosts alike grew acquainted.

Already well acquainted themselves, Russia and America were among the few who maintained some decorum as they strode side-by-side along the harbor, Russia tall and straight-backed, his pressed uniform showing off the strength that dwelled beneath the fabric, and America looking drained and especially gray beside Russia's stately appearance, though no less pleased.

"You actually did it," America said, shaking his head, throwing a glance at the ships docked nearby. The sails and tricolor flag rippled noisily in the salty breeze.

Russia smiled. It was a clear smile- steady, plaintive, sincere. "I said I would."

"I know, but…you actually did it." A shaky laugh escaped America as he once more faced forward. Russia watched as America's shoulders sagged, the pleased look becoming tinged with sadness. Unconsciously, America's hand drifted to his waist, just left of his navel, and Russia did not miss the shadow of a grimace crease America's face.

"America." Russia delicately reached out. "You-"

Russia's hand had barely clasped his shoulder when America swayed beneath the weight.

Except Russia had barely applied any pressure.

In a flash, Russia retracted his hand, instead reaching with both to support America, grabbing below his arms just in time to feel the thinned man's weight. And just in time to feel the shaking beneath the pads of his fingers, a delicate, tremulous ripple that seemed to emanate from America's very core.

For that is precisely where it came from. Such was the nature of civil wars. Battles between rivaling countries left marks primarily on the outside and burrowed in, the effects of war penetrating from the outside. But civil wars festered from within, the effects burning and ripping and slowly clawing their way out. The damage was felt before it was ever seen on a country's body- at least, the injuries.

But by even this point, America was showing clear signs of being locked in a battle with himself.

"I'm fine." America groaned as he glanced up, catching the unamused look Russia sent him, the kind that plainly told America not to insult either of them with such a lie.

America sighed, deflating in Russia's hold. "I'm…not fine." Again, that tremble, as the admission wracked through America's body as a defeat all of its own. He shook as Russia's hold grew more firm, almost fully supporting his weight as he America close. America would not meet his eye, instead seeming to curl in on himself more, head bowed, eyes to the ground. Along the harbor they walked, the empire and the country still green from independence, close physically, even as America tried in vain to create some distance. With every attempt, Russia's frown deepened, and by the time they found a bench, he had acquiesced America's silent request for space, but always a hand remained resting against America's weary body.

Hunched in his seat, America's breath came in long, ragged pants as he attempted to ground himself. And always, looking anywhere but at Russia. A hurt frown creased Russia's brow, tugging at his lips as he regarded the man beside him. The blue eyes seemed over-bright when they flicked in his direction, widening for a heartbeat before glancing quickly away, prompting America to purse his lips in frustration.

"America." There was something empowering in an independent country hearing their name. A few short syllables could be a vast reminder of who they were, and one step farther from what their existence had been. Now, however, the name was a fresh wound, half of a puzzle piece with the other half kept aloft, out of reach, lashing out to rip at its companion. And the other piece fought right back.

"America."

He had clasped at his chest again, could feel his own ribs through fabric and flesh alike. Realizing his moment of weakness, America withdrew his hand.

"Alfred?"

It came back red.

A broken laugh tore through America, tore through all pretense, all the marrow in his bones and blood in his veins, spilling from a wound that began from the inside out, clotted and dying the moment it left him, draining all charades and betraying everything Russia already knew he felt.

When America spoke, his voice quavered unlike anything Russia had heard from him before.

"Take me home."

Something warm and aching settled in Russia's chest. He nodded, gingerly securing America in his hold once more. He winced with America, cursing his large build, his calloused hands, every movement feeling like it could snap America in two. With every hitch in America's breathing, Russia was sure he was the cause, that his hold had knocked the wind right out of him, that he was not supporting America enough, that he simply was not enough.

So lost in his worries, Russia started when he felt America's hand on his arm, patting him gently. A gesture of gratitude? Reassurance? A warning he was being too rough? Or-

"Thanks, big guy."

Oh.

Oh, but it was said too softly, with too much gentleness, almost like handling glass. That was not the tone of the America he knew, the United States of America whose energy was tangible, whose defiant determination reverberated across borders.

Because the United States of America was not unified at the moment. This Civil War of north and south, it changed what it meant for Alfred to be America.

"I just…I need to be home right now." Perhaps it was wishful thinking alone that made America's voice sound just a bit stronger. But it was enough for now to drag Russia from his reverie, and once more support his ailing friend one step at a time.

America passed out twice on their trip to his home. Fortunately, it was not a long journey. Unfortunately, the excitement and delight and hope his people felt upon seeing the Russian Navy arrive to support them did not revitalize Alfred. It touched him, warmed his heart, kindled his hope. Yet he remained ripped in two, and it was this shattered half of a man that Russia supported through the doorway and straight to the couch by the fire.

The instant he was laid down upon the cushions, America curled tight into himself, shivering in spite of himself. Already, Russia was piling blankets above and more pillows below, spending just enough time to get America into a comfortable position before turning his attention to the hearth. As he worked, Russia heard the sounds of shuffling as America moved achily into a different position. Now on his back, America glared up at the ceiling, lips pressed in a thin, determined line.

It did not take long for the crackling of a fire to pierce the heavy silence weighing between the two countries, mingling with Alfred's tired, ragged breathing. Turning back to America, Russia regarded the look of frustration and exhaustion shadowing his brow.

"We should tend to that wound," Russia said evenly, hoping for nonchalance. The change in atmosphere bothered him, the stark contrast between the incredulous joy America had shown when he first saw Ivan now felt like a distant dream.

America's only answer was to turn his head away. Russia barely saw the small nod he gave as he peeled back the blankets.

Failing to fight back his own grimace, Russia once more set to the task at hand, not bothering to ask where America kept his medical supplies, opting instead to use this extra time to wonder and worry over this sudden detachment from his host. In the short time it took him to find supplies, Russia's doubts had plateaued, heightened with time only to reach a dull, continuous churning in his gut.

That seemed nothing, however, to the gash seeping blood through America's shirt. A small patch was visible even on the blanket he had pulled aside, and his palm was stained a shining crimson. The shadows of similar injuries littered America's chest, tinted a dull golden-brown in the light of the fire as Ivan opened Alfred's shirt. Most looked to be only recently closed, and barely healed. Without even really willing himself to do it, Russia reached down, fingers pressing beside one of the old wounds.

Dark skin twitched beneath his touch, and at last America's gaze snapped to him, shimmering eyes wide, lips parted in a silent gasp. Their eyes locked, the many shades of America's eyes reading a spectrum of emotions for the breath of a lifelong heartbeat.

"Alfred-"

"I wish you weren't here."

The suddenness of it struck Russia like a slap to the face. Reeling, he opened his mouth, not even sure what he intended to say-

"You're the last person I wanted seeing me like this."

Confusion, relief, guilt, remorse, realization. Each and every sensation slammed into Ivan simultaneously, rocking him to his score more than Alfred's previous admission. Though he dared not believe, Russia held fast to this chance at such a reprieve.

"Fedya…"

Again, America cut across him. "After all you're doing for me, all your support, all the things you said…believing in me…refusing to accept anything less than my reunification-"

"Because I want to only see you whole and happy again-"

"All of that, and I'm falling apart like this!"

America pressed clenched fists to his eyes, teeth grit as a pained moan escaped between them.

Russia's shoulders sank, and the relief that washed over him was not guiltless; such an admission should not soothe him, yet it sounded so much better than the alternative, that America genuinely did not want to see him.

"You are surviving." The wood creaked slightly as Russia knelt down beside the couch. "Every day you live is another victory."

"I don't feel like myself," America whispered. He dragged his hands away from his eyes, which looked more red and swollen than before, and looked down at the wounds littering his body. "I feel empty. And…" He closed his eyes. Swallowed audibly. "Scared."

Russia's smile was laden with a tenderness too heavy for words. Skilled fingers carefully unraveled bandages, and his gaze shifted between America and his injuries as he worked.

"That is part of it," he explained, voice steady even as he worked. "To feel all of this, any of it, means you are living, that still the United States marches on. If it were not, you would not be feeling any of this." The physical and the emotional.

A dry, quavering laugh sounded. "Great. Just…great. So- ah- winning feels like losing."

"Yes." The cut cleaned and tended to, Russia guided America up so he could wrap it properly.

"That doesn't seem possible, to feel so defeated and be winning." America cast Russia a doubtful look, one that Russia met unwaveringly.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

America frowned but nodded without hesitation.

Russia cupped America's face between his two hands, the warm, rough palms framing America's hollowed cheeks, focusing all his attention on the empire before him. "Then trust that I know that you are doing beautifully. And do not worry about feeling these things in my company. I am here because of those things- while I am here, it is my job to help you heal from all that, without the others pressuring you to stay divided."

"And- and I can't thank you enough for all that." America smiled, and there was a warmth there Russia had worried might have been extinguished. "This is hard enough without France and Britain telling me I should give it up."

"Hmmm. Interestingly similar to what I told Britain when he tried to keep you from becoming independent. And now what I am telling him and France about their involvement."

"I still can't believe you're here. You and these ships and all those sailors here for us."

Russia's thumb rubbed a single sweeping circle below America's eye. "For you."

America chuckled, wincing and clutching at his side. Russia's eyes followed his hand.

"You need to rest for that to heal properly," he instructed, straightening, and heading off to make some tea.

"Yes, mother," America said wryly, lying slowly back down, glad Russia did not see the pain twisting his face.

But the pain had not subsided even when Russia returned with drinks, and there was no escaping his searching glances, looking for every sign of discomfort.

It took some effort to convince Russia he would be up for joining the festivities that evening; the Russian sailors were to be given a warm welcome as thanks for their support of the Union, and for multiple reasons America insisted his presence was important. Both of theirs were.

And so, though he resembled a ghost, America was right beside Russia as they joined the American hosts and their Russian guests. America's dried lips stretched into a smile, and he did seem a bit brighter amidst all the excited babbling and toasts being made, witnessing the handshaking and fascinated introductions and grateful embraces.

"I'm glad you're here, big guy," America said softly, earnestly.

Russia smiled gladly, but raised an eyebrow. "I recall you saying I am the last person you wanted here."

Another grimace, a mixture of pain and disapproval. "Because I don't exactly want someone so important to me seeing me fall apart, and after all the support you've shown," he reiterated. He snatched a glass from a marauding waiter's tray and downed the contents.

"Well, all the more reason for me to be here." Russia's steady hand maintained a reassuring pressure on America's back as he felt the other sway slightly. "America?"

Once more, America was clutching at his side.

"Is the cut not closing?"

America shook his head. "No- I mean, yes, it is closed, I'm sure of it. It just…hurts."

Russia looked doubtful. Carefully, but purposefully, he shepherded America over to a nearby loveseat, close to the festivities yet shadowed enough from prying eyes. America did not protest as, once more, Russia unbuttoned his shirt to inspect the bandages, changed just before they had departed. They looked as clean as they had before they left.

"See?"

Russia's frown persisted as he experimentally pressed around America's torso.

"H-hey now, cut that out." America batted at Russia's hand, his own chuckle drawing more laughter from the both of them. Still, Russia's worry did not subside.

"Come on, enough with that look."

Russia shook his head. "You should at least be healing when the wounds are tended to," he said slowly. He sat back, rummaging through the pockets of his uniform. From it, he produced a long mass of rock, black as pitch and shining in the light from nearby sconces. He pushed it into America's hands, beaming.

"What's this?"

"Shungite." Russia leaned back, looking approvingly at America as he inspected the black mass. "Last century we found quite a bit near Lake Onega, and my boss had it collected in great quantities. It has healing properties."

America turned the lump over and over with his fingers, tired eyes nearly crossed as he held it close. "Th…thanks, Ivan. Really."

"You seem doubtful."

America gave a dry laugh. "Well…no offense, but your navy inspired a bit more confidence."

Russia seemed unfazed. "I have always carried some with me. The shungite spas in Karelia are medical wonders, Alfred. When all of this is over, you can come and experience it for yourself, but in the meantime you have this to always carry with you. If your wounds do not stop reopening-"

"They're not reopening!"

"Then this will surely help you."

"Ivan, I appreciate it, really. But haven't I ever told you you're a superstitious old man?"

"It has come up at least once, yes." Russia's laughter was a rumbling purr of contentment. "Humor me, Fedya? Carry this with you to always be able to heal, so you can be looked after even when I go back home."

America's shoulders sank, but not, this time, from weariness. Instead, now, he simply found himself basking in the fondness he felt for this man before him, this beautiful oddity who had snubbed the major powers of Europe to be here today, to let America- Alfred- have some breathing room while he fought to put himself back together. Eccentric, stubborn, passionate- it was Ivan who was sitting beside him now, while the country was ripped in two, Ivan who had offered his ships as wardens of the coast against intervention, and Ivan now bestowing his token of protection to him.

And that was enough for Alfred.

If Ivan was sharing with him something he believed in, then Alfred would accept and believe in it too.

"Thank you, Vanya."

With that acceptance alone, the presence of the shungite clutched in his fist felt like a warm comforting hand resting in his palm, a presence that may not be able to shield him from all the world's horrors, but would be there to stitch him up from them.

When America rose, his back felt just a bit straighter, head held just a bit higher, fingers just a bit stronger as he reached out to Russia in an invitation to dance. Looking delightfully surprised, Russia accepted.

And together the two allies danced, every gentle movement another jab of fear in the heart of the European powers who feared their combined strength, who wanted the Russian bear and American eagle to be chained and tethered, or at least to never join forces. And yet here they danced, Russia a steady presence before him and beside him, through a steady grip on his waist and a steady weight in his pocket. Both Ivan and his trinket were there for Alfred, simply rooting for him to heal.

"Thank you, Vanya…"

~1865~

The war was over. The United States was unified once more. America rebuilt, repaired, and regrouped. He learned to heal, and stumbled along the way. He missed the company of Russia like a missing limb when the empire returned home. Through persistent weariness and aches, America carried the shungite in his pocket, but more often than not it sat clutched in his hand, a warm fluttering weight not quite unlike the feel of Russia's hand resting in his.

When things resembled some valiant imitation of calm, America took time for himself on weekends, recalled the fresh crispness of the air, listened to the melody of rainfall, enjoyed talk not laden with worries of tomorrow. He asked around about this shungite, or carbon black as it was also known, and though particular knowledge was scarce, others echoed what Russia had preached: it was worshipped for miraculous healing and medicinal properties. Russia carried it around for luck and protection; America honored those superstitions, even if he would tease Russia about them later. It was nice to have a constant reminder of the lumbering oddball of an empire, the one who travelled around the globe just to keep others from interfering and undermining America, to hold him while he fell asleep, to show under no uncertain terms that he believed in him.

~1871~

Russia had visited once more in 1867, but had enjoyed a prolonged stay in America four years later when accompanying his Grand Duke Alexei on a tour of North America, in celebration of the flourishing relations between the two countries. The revelry with which they celebrated was not double but triple that of when Russia had arrived to support the Union, for now America needed no aid to stand up straight. It was with a twinkle in his eye and a smile that lit the world that he showed Russia the dark cord he now wore around his neck, on which hung the shard of shungite Russia had gifted him.

"It looks like this superstitious old man was right," Russia said graciously.

America's smile grew. He nudged his elbow playfully into Russia's ribs, laughing when the gesture was returned. "You have your moments. I think just thinking I had a little token of luck with me at least kept my spirits up." He paused, fingers gently fiddling with the stone pendant. "Do you want this back? I don't want to keep your luck from you."

Something tender shimmered in Russia's eyes as his own fingers closed America's hands around the shungite. "No. Keep it, please. I know it is what helped heal you, maybe not outside this time, but from within. I feel better knowing you have some part of me protecting you like that." He stood back, assessing the much more healthy-looking country. "Besides, I do not need it."

The shungite always felt warm, whether clasped in his hand or resting on his chest. And always it seemed to emanate some reminder of Russia, Ivan. His firm presence. His stubborn resilience. His support.

Keep it close to your heart, Russia had requested as they sat before a crackling fire in the hearth, his entire being swathed in gold.

That was exactly where America wanted to keep him.

~1917~

Russia did not communicate much with others, and when he did, he never seemed entirely there. His eyes were either wide distant, or else narrow and dark with suspicion. Often his thin, chapped lips were in constant motion as he muttered, but not often to anyone around him, but with a start he would pause, blink in mounting fearful realization of the state he was in, and tug at his hair, as if physically trying to pull himself apart at the seams as the land he represented did the same.

Allies were no longer trusted companions; no one was entirely trusted, but everyone was met with the same look of fearful pleading. The one time America had seen it had been a punch to the gut. Ivan was fading, but unable to let go, did not know how. And so he was being chipped away bit by bit, lashing out at any who so much as brushed against his battered icy shards.

~1918~

Imperial Russia was dead.

~1922~

"Thanks for making this easy." Frustration dripped from America's glare and laced his every syllable. The narrowed eyes behind his glasses were like chips of ice, of frozen sky sealing away any warm caress of the sun. The man seated before him indeed looked like he was cloaked in winter, the very aura of the season clinging to his clothes and skin. Russia did not deign to look up from his fingers, laced atop his desk. His silence only further agitated America.

"Russia, come on. This is your own country we're talking about."

"You want to undermine me."

It took several seconds for the words to register to America. When they did, his face twisted in confusion. "Undermine- no! I'm trying to give you guys food to eat. Just make this simple and agree to my boss's terms so this can run nice and smoothly."

Russia still did not meet his gaze; if anything, his head dipped further still. Even in the dim light of the office, it was easy to see the deep hollows of his cheeks, how his clothes clung to a frame that was too small for them.

"Listen. You need to-"

"I don't need to do anything." Even Russia's voice sounded thin, the halfhearted scraping of leaves driven by a feeble breeze, exhausted before it even began.

"Russia, your own officials were asking for help. If this is a pride thing, shelve it. If this is one of your other bosses demanding otherwise, shelve that too."

Apparently, he had struck a nerve. In a flash, Russia was on his feet, violet eyes wide and wild, hands pressed to his desk, shoulders rising and falling with barely suppressed agitation.

"You came for my people, then go. Figure things out yourself. My hands are tied." It was the most emotion Russia had voiced since America had entered the room. Above the bags under his eyes and below the furrowed brow and unkept hair, America saw someone else, calling out to him something else than the exhausted venomous dismissal he was hearing.

Maybe it was horrible, treacherous, wishful thinking, but America thought he saw his old love calling for help.

Except he and his love had closed their embassy doors to each other, for his old love was not there to welcome him with open arms anymore.

Instead, his old love's emaciated shadow stood before him, this one's voice much louder than the faint pleas America wanted to think he heard, a bellowing punch to the gut meant to knock him from the room, from the building, from the continent, far away from the sight of the new Russia's misfortune.

"I'm here to help." Hear me.

Russia's eyes narrowed. He shook his head. Winced. Clutched at his temple, as if feeling some invasive presence pressing against him. He did not look at America as he said, "Then go help them, America. You have nothing to offer me."

America could no longer hear Ivan's dying pleas.

All he could feel was his blood boiling in his very veins, heart hammering the scalding crimson through him even as he cursed the color for swathing Russia's heart so thoroughly in it.

"I will," he said fiercely, fist slamming down on the desk. Russia did not even flinch. "I'll help and then I'm gone- I have no reason to be here, there's no one here I care about. Not you and not your stubborn people. None of you."

America wheeled round just as his eyes began to burn, just as the contents of his stomach burned like acid, and the twisting in his chest was dimmed only when he clutched the stone hidden in his coat pocket.

Russia did not watch him leave. Only the pounding of America's footsteps indicated his departure…

There's no one here I care about.

And with each footfall Russia heard again and again…

Not you.

Not your stubborn people.

Not you.

Not your stubborn people.

Not you.

Not your people.

Not you.

None of you.

~1945~

No one could have anticipated how the stench of battle would worsen over the centuries of man devising ways to kill other men. At least, not when those grim machinations began. But, looking back from the present, it made sense that as the brutality increased, so too would the suffocating stench of humanity's physical and moral death throes.

Yet through the torrent of sensations- the cracking of stone, flash of grenades, pounding heartbeat of gunfire, piercing wails…there was…there was…

What a pyrrhic victory.

It happened near Torgau, at the Elbe River, the convergence of east and west, Soviet and American soldiers clawing their way across Europe, sites locked on the Reichstag. News reverberated not just across the continent, but across the world, as the two divisions united.

War had changed them all- humans and their country's immortal embodiments- not just the territorial battles of the past. The hardness of the spirit that had calloused over with this war was exponential. America knew himself well enough to realize he would never be the same, knew he was forever altered from the things he had seen. He felt his men's excitement, their joy and mounting relief, their trepidation and anticipation to return home. He was aware of the existence of the whole spectrum of human emotion.

But all he could express was a dulled gray rendition of that spectrum. Gray like the wane face of Russia, who he had seen once from a distance and once up close before they entered the city proper. Amidst the tenuous safety of his own men, America could hardly forget his declaration of disregard for Russia and his people all those years ago. Here, now, with worry for his own soldiers' wellbeing filling his heart, America could not help but be frightened of that old statement becoming true.

Within the limits of the crumbling city, dust fogged the air. Boots hammered across broken stone paths. Shattered glass glinted like fallen stars between huddled figures. And traps riddled every corner.

Each country marched on, flanked by a few soldiers dedicated to their protection. Both made a concerted effort not to meet the other's gaze, though America sent fleeting looks toward Russia's ragged frame as they took careful steps through the rigged alleys and buildings, and once, during one such look, he glanced up to see Russia fixing him with an intense amethyst stare, eyes dancing even in the cloudy air with a light he had not seen for some time.

America's stomach churned, and he looked away promptly, and did not focus his attention on Russia again. It was not his Ivan marching beside him. There was nothing for him to feel anything for.

0o0o0

Russia paused, signaling for the others to do the same. A distant part of him, the miniscule fragment not screaming for victory once and for all, was grateful for America's renewed indifference; it made it easier to concentrate, easier to simply get the job done. Which was fortunate, as his own renewed concentration had let him spot the explosives rigged around the doorframe of their destination. Deftly, he nodded towards a nearby alley, marshaling the others to adjust course.

They had all funneled into the wide, long, empty space between two abandoned buildings when chaos erupted. Gunfire blared to life from rooftops and balconies, bullets ricocheting against and burrowing into the stone beneath their feet. Grotesque wet splats sounded as a rain of bullets connected with flesh, blood spraying, soldiers falling. Several men collapsed immediately; their brethren ducked, scrambling to grab the fallen and drag them through shadowed doorways. Others still grouped themselves around Russia and America, returning fire and shielding their countries even as their charges raised their guns.

But they were obviously outnumbered, piled into a hole for the enemy to pick off at their leisure. Ears ringing, Russia clasped a soldier's elbow, yelling over the din that they needed to move. No one needed telling twice.

Stumbling, Russia clambered further down the alley, eyes set on an empty doorway.

Just then, a figure slid into view. Took a single step. Raised a gun. Fired.

The heat surprised Russia more than anything else. A scalding wetness slashed across his face as blood began trailing from the new gash across his cheek. But the gunman's aim had not been true, and what could have surely shattered his skull would likely only need stitches-

A cry of fury sounded from behind him, and for a moment Russia was sure they were facing another ambush as he was roughly jostled aside. He straightened just in time to see America, gun already firing as he tore after the gunman, who had time only to register with shock what was happening, before retreating further into the building. America pelted right after him, bellowing a tirade of threats and jeers.

"America!" Russia roared, scrambling upright and after them both, the remnants of their protective units attempting to regroup. He ignored the protests of them all as he charged off, dazed mind barely remembering to be mindful of traps.

America was not so careful.

Russia barely saw the heels of America's boots as he pounded up the stairs opposite the dilapidated doorway after the gunman.

"America!"

A few echoing shots from a gun. Deafening silence.

Footsteps.

America marched grimly down the stairs, face and uniform smeared with dirt and a dark, glistening liquid. He did not look at Russia as he descended the stairs, stood at their base, eyes far, far away.

He was not looking when a single grenade was thrown down the stairs, the last futile attempt at revenge by a man already at death's door.

Russia, however, was looking, as his feet propelled him forward, launching himself toward America. Russia was looking as slowly, slowly, America's gaze returned to the present, as those blue chips of ice thawed and flooded with naked surprise, as his body struggled to figure out what to do. Russia watched as he himself made that decision for America, shoving America with all his might, not satisfied until he saw America fly, landing in a heap away from the stairs, away from the danger, heard the shocked call of one of his guards.

And America watched as Russia turned. Took a step. Two. Three.

BOOM.

The world came to a screaming, agonizing, wailing halt, all sound and sight ceasing and playing at once with excruciating vividness and distortion. The small space contained the ear-shattering blast of the grenade, bottled up the dying world's cry for death at last, held fast the blazing heat and piercing shrapnel. Its walls of peeling wallpaper and ceilings of crumbling plaster greedily drank up the blood splattered there.

Two figures lay huddled on the floor, one a huddled mass of torn, bloodstained fabric, the other a writhing, screaming form of unchecked agony.

America barely heard his own clumsy footsteps as he tripped forward, body tipping, stinging, hands aching in protest as he fell to his hands and knees, crawling forward.

Russia's broken form was caked in dust, the dull palette of his form only making the brilliant deep crimson of his blood stand out with lurid clarity. Even as America crawled dazedly closer, the shades of red gradually overtook the tones of gray; he could barely make out Russia stirring faintly, face twisted, eyes shut tight, teeth gritted, body twitching.

America nearly collapsed beside him. Slowly, he raised a hand, feeling before he saw just how badly he was shaking. Russia surely felt it too, when America gently, very gently, touched a lock of matted hair. Eyes fluttered open for a moment, and in that eternal heartbeat of an instant, America saw one brief glimpse of color that did not set his stomach churning.

Russia drank in that single sight of America, hunched over him, for the moment not welcoming him with disgust, and left it at that. Claws burrowed deeper into every inch of his flesh, raked across his bones, ripped through every nerve of his broken body. The air felt hot. He himself felt cold. Every movement sent his head swimming, vision blurring-

And then Russia realized he was not even moving.

Beside him, he felt America shift. Stomach roiling, Russia forced his eyes open, dragged his entire charred being across oceans, fought his own suffocating weight, all to meet America's eyes… And then to look toward the other figure on the ground, the one emitting the shuddering sobs and groans of agony. Russia did not know how, could not muster even the will to want to ask, but somehow, some-blessed-how, America understood.

Russia felt a gentle presence against the palm of his hand. A reassurance.

"Wh- what's his name?" America asked shakily, as he drew away from Russia, and towards his fallen soldier.

"S…" He convulsed, tongue feeling heavier than lead. "S…a…sha." The syllables were sluggish, as rhythmless as his hammering heartbeat.

America nodded, not turning. "Sasha?" he said consolingly, panting heavily, apparently willing his hands to stay steady. He reached down at the affected area, a deep, lurid gash cut deep into the soldier's leg. The soldier, Sasha, shook his head, hands fumbling weakly against America's.

He's afraid to lose his leg, Russia thought he said, wanted to say. America, he is scared of amputation-

"Sasha, hey- v…vsyo horosho," America said, shakily at first. "Vsyo horosho, Sasha- pazhalusta, smatri?" With a steady firmness at odds with his quivering shoulders, America eased Sasha fully onto his back. From the slight angle America was situated, he saw America pull out his canteen, rip open his pockets containing medical supplies, and fumble with something at his neck.

That water was from the river. America, you cannot…it's not clean.

America had set to work, focused wholly on his work, yet somehow always offering words of comfort to the soldier, his words disjointed but always said in a soothing, almost parental tone. When one hand was available, it clasped Sasha's comfortingly, or else wiped the hair from his sweaty brow.

Passed the lingering ringing in his ears, Russia heard America give a gasp of victory as he tended to Sasha's leg. With a distracted flick of the rest, America discarded the thing he had pulled from his neck, and Russia blearily saw the empty cord America had attached the shard of shungite to almost a century ago.

Sasha was still highly shaken, but the cries of pain had subsided to broken gasps of gratitude and disbelief. Russia's sight blurred, doubled, darkened, flashed as he processed it all. The darkened shapes of his soldier and America bled into one, until part of the undefined mass broke away, drew closer to him. Russia's head fell back, for the moment fixing his gaze at the ceiling until even that was blocked by-

Blue.

Sparkling blue.

Lively blue.

Sky blue.

Hopeful blue.

Weeping blue.

Loving blue.

Caring blue.

There was warmth at the side of his face, at his uninjured cheek. There were fingers carding his hair gently. The careful pressure of fabric was draped over his shuddering body. The gentleness he had heard for his soldier was now murmured into his ear as he was cradled close to a fluttering heart, every convulsion and hiss of pain met with renewed caresses and words almost intimate with their tenderness. Russia was carried off into darkness gently, rocked not by the tremors of explosions but by the gentle hold of America, not by splintering rock but by America's gentle murmurs, not by ripping at his flesh, bones, hair, eyes, heart- but a touch too gentle to be done without a care.

0o0o0

Returning to the world was a hard matter, a harsh matter, the whole ordeal done with protests Russia had not chosen to make. The cot he had been laid in was, he noted vaguely, less comfortable than the arms he had fainted in. But he could no longer feel his life bleed out onto the ground and into America's careful embrace, and that was progress at least. His body still ached in protest when he tried to sit up, and a hand at his chest alerted him to the presence of another.

"Whoa, there, big guy, slow it down a bit."

"America." Letting himself fall back against the pillow, Russia regarded America's sorry state. The two stared at each other's haggard, broken, weary, utterly spent appearances. Identical smiles of equal weight and instability crossed their faces.

"How is Sasha?" Russia asked.

America nodded to the field bed next to him. In it was his soldier, explaining delightedly to the nurse that his leg would heal and be healthy without amputation.

"Sasha's going to live."

"Thank you," Russia said immediately, turning back to America. His chest pulsed with pain. "How? You used water from the river- that cannot have been sanitary, there was no time to clean anything."

America bit his lip, looking suddenly sheepish. Dropping his gaze, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing once more the band he had secured his piece of gifted shungite to.

Russia's mind sluggishly registered its presence now and before he had passed out. He blinked owlishly.

"You kept it."

America's grimy face merely turned a slight pink.

"All this time."

He would not look Russia's way.

"And used it now, during all this fighting, not on yourself, but on one of my men?"

America turned somewhat away.

"Alfred."

Perhaps the shock of hearing his name alone was enough to rouse America, for a second later he was looking, startled, at Russia with widened eyes.

"I- yeah." He shrugged, fidgeting in his seat.

And perhaps Russia himself was shell-shocked, for his shoulders rose and fell in a single dry bark of laughter, eyes sliding shut.

"So you do care."

Silence greeted his jab. Russia opened his eyes, brow furrowed as he regarded America, whose own face was unusually somber.

"Yes."

The two stared, for once neither looking to break their gaze. Russia pursed his lips as America, apparently unconscious he was doing so, let his eyes slowly rove over his battered body.

"You need to rest. Sasha's gonna be off his feet for a bit, so you sure as hell need to take it easy." He took a step back.

Two.

Three.

"Alfred."

Russia did not recall willing himself to speak. Suspended, now, in the waiting maw of the infinite possibilities of the next second, he knew he had to march on.

"Stay. Do…what you did before…again."

His fogged mind knew he was babbling, worried he must sound mad, winced as he prepared for America to leave-

And closer America drew, slowly and carefully leaning against the thin mattress, gaze downcast, but still so very present.

They jumped faintly at the slightest touch. Even with contact, the space between them was splintered, fractured, clumsily and hastily fitted haphazardly together in the scarce time they had together the past few days, hours, instances. But the space was warm, the shattered pieces glittering with a beauty of their own, as the springtime sun ignites morning dew across a world breathing deep its first breath of life after a long winter.

The space between them was riddled with wounds. But the space between them was also dyed a persistent carbon black of everything good and bountiful and healing, working tirelessly against their own fortunes to patch in the holes.

They were allowed this brief reprieve before resuming their journey through the city. In that time, Russia and America lay beside each other, unsure what to do yet, deep down, certain they knew what they wanted to do. Russia drifted off, head lolling gently against America's shoulder, and America waited for the steady rise and fall of Russia's shoulders to indicate sleep before running the backs of his fingers across Russia's uninjured cheek, the cord to his shungite pendant wound around his fingers.

THE END

Author's Notes: Once again, most happy of holidays to you, ask-navy-america! I hope the winter season shows you nothing but fun and joy and relaxation, and that you enjoyed this gift! I honestly had a blast writing this; the prompt was very unique and I learned quite a bit while researching for it.

Shungite is a black mineraloid also called carbon black, and predominantly found in Karelia, Russia, named for the Shunga village where the ore deposit is located.

Though direct foreign intervention was limited during the American Civil War, France and Britain were strongly supporting a treaty between the Union and Confederacy, which would have meant acknowledging independence of the South. Except their push for this could not gain traction because the Russian Empire would accept thing short of total American reunification. To show how much they meant it, they sent fleets to American harbors on the east and west coasts, to essentially act as sentinels so the other Europeans could not try anything, or at least knew where Russia stood.

Spring 1945 marks Elbe Day, when divisions from the Soviet and American armies converged at the Elbe River, where together they would march upon Berlin and soon mark an end to the European front of World War II.

Eternal thanks to my many friends, including but not limited to, Dere, Tini, Vae, Skye-Walker, Chip, Patch, Dasha, Orang3lover, Yantiskra, cherryliquor, and Impossibilitygirl for their immense support, being the world's best cheer squad, and helping with editing. Any remaining mistakes are my own fault.

Comments very much welcome!