Chapter Text
April 25, 1945 — Near Torgau, Germany
The Soviet Union…
For a name so masculine sounding, she sure was a looker.
Well, if you could look past the blood, mud, soot and whatever else covered the tall woman’s face, uniform and greatcoat.
America smiled around his half-smoked Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses as he looked up at her.
And he did have to look up.
She stood around six-foot-one, maybe a little more.
A worn Soviet ushanka sat atop her head, a few strands of almost silk-like white hair escaping from underneath it. The rest had been pulled tightly into a bun.
Her face was pale and sharp, covered in old scars alongside several much newer scratches and cuts.
For some reason, America thought they made her look pretty.
Not that he’d be stupid enough to say that aloud.
Probably.
A black eyepatch covered her right eye, a small hammer and sickle embroidered across its surface.
Her remaining eye stared directly at him.
Cold.
Tired.
Piercing.
America removed his cigarette from his mouth.
“Вы говорите по-английски?”
The Soviet Union remained silent for a moment.
“You speak good Russian.”
America’s eyebrows rose.
“For an American,” she added.
His mouth curled into a grin.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You speak English!”
“Yes.”
“Could’ve told me that.”
“Your Russian is…good, strange but good. Where you learn?”
“Eh, here and there, enough to hold a 10 second conversation.”
“It’s more then ten second now.”
America laughed.
“Got jokes now, do you?”
Around them, American and Soviet soldiers continued celebrating the linkup.
Men who only hours earlier had been advancing toward one another from opposite sides of a dying Germany were now shaking hands, trading cigarettes and photographs, examining one another’s equipment and attempting conversations through broken English, broken Russian, hand gestures, and increasingly questionable amounts of alcohol.
America looked up at her.
“So…”
She waited.
“…United States of America.”
“I know who you are.”
“Figured.”
He extended his hand anyway.
“Still polite.”
Her eye dropped toward his out stretched hand.
She hesitated.
Then took his hand.
Her grip was firm.
Very firm.
America’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“Soviet Union.”
“Pleasure to finally meet you.”
She let his hand go.
When he thought she wasn’t looking—America flexed his hand.
The Soviet Union wasn’t sure what she’d expected America to look like.
She knew what his propaganda looked like.
Factories stretching toward the horizon. Skyscrapers. Automobiles. Movie stars. Cowboys. Soldiers with perfect uniforms and perfect teeth.
Everything excessive.
Everything American.
Everything she hated.
The man standing before her looked considerably less impressive.
His uniform was filthy.
Mud covered his boots and trousers. Dried blood stained one of his sleeves with more staining the front of his uniform—although she couldn’t immediately determine whether it belonged to him or some Nazi.
His helmet hung loosely from one side while he held a Thompson in one hand and a .45 pistol rested at his side.
His face needed shaving.
There were scratches along his jaw and a small cut above his brow.
And yet—
He was still smiling.
She looked him over again.
He was shorter than her.
Broad-shouldered.
Strongly built.
Young-looking, although she knew perfectly well that appearances meant very little for beings like them.
Blondish brown hair, dirty from days in the field with dirt and leaves clinging to it, messy and unkempt.
Then there were the sunglasses.
She disliked them.
They prevented her from seeing his eyes.
Eyes told her a lot of things—he did not allow that.
She pointed toward his face.
“Your glasses.”
“What about ’em?”
“Goofy.”
“I like ’em, they look good.”
Soviet shook her head.
“Americans…”
America took another drag from his Marlboro.
“So what’s with the—”
His eyes flicked toward her eyepatch for a moment, catching Soviets immediate attention.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
She narrowed her remaining eye.
“You were going to ask about my eye.”
America hesitated.
“Was thinking about it.”
“Then ask.”
He studied her.
“German?”
“Finnish.”
America nodded.
“Alright.”
America’s smile gradually faded.
“You know…you’ve come a long way.”
The Soviet Union looked at him.
“Moscow’s a hell of a ways from here.”
Her expression hardened, listening to him.
“Stalingrad, Kursk, Ukraine, Belarus, Poland…”
“You're well informed.”
America looked at her.
For once there was no grin.
“Yeah.”
That surprised her.
He looked toward the Soviet soldiers celebrating nearby.
“Guess what I’m trying to say is…”
He paused.
Apparently America occasionally had difficulty talking after all.
He glanced at his men also celebrating along with them.
“It’s been a Hell of a fight…for all of us.”
Soviet said nothing. Only looming towards the sky, the pillowing black smoke from hundreds of fires billowing upward.
After several moments, her eye moved toward his cigarette.
“What brand?”
America looked down.
“Marlboro.”
“American?”
“Of course it’s American.”
She extended her hand.
America looked at it.
Then at her.
“You smoke?”
The Soviet Union stared.
America felt stupid.
“Right.”
He reached into his pocket.
“Stupid question.”
He offered her the pack.
She took one.
America struck a match.
The Soviet Union leaned toward the flame.
America watched the fire illuminate her face.
Her pale skin.
Her scratches.
Her scars.
The black patch covering her right eye.
The loose strands of white hair beneath her ushanka.
Her.
Then she looked up.
Directly at him.
America realized he’d been staring.
Clearing his throat he looked away.
The faintest hint of a smile curled at her lips.
For a man, he acted like a schoolboy.
Snorting, she began walking away in no particular direction.
She took a drag from the Marlboro and continued walking.
America watched her for a second.
Then started to follow.
A few steps later, the Soviet Union spoke without looking at him.
“Your cigarettes are good.”
America’s grin returned.
“Damn right.”
“They are still inferior to ours.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
The Soviet Union continued forward, perfectly straight-faced.