Author's note: Russia/fem!America human AU, 1950s with a guest appearance from Hungary.
White Picket Fence
Amelia had truly believed she could have the perfect American family. Her father was a farmer, her mother the daughter of a preacher. She was the most popular girl in school and everyone always loved her. Her hair was naturally blonde, her eyes a soft blue. Amelia kept up with fashion, always wore her strand of pearls, and never had a hair out of place.
Then one day visiting her brother at college she saw him across the grass. Ivan Braginski blew into her life like any one of her fantasies that surely aren't meant to come true but had for her. He was tall like she loved, and broad shouldered, and unbelievably strong. He was sweet with a soft Russian accent that was both chilling for the Cold War she knew little of and exciting for the places he must have seen. By the third date Amelia knew it was love.
Two years into marriage and Amelia had a nice suburban house in Virginia with a white picket fence and a dog her husband loved to play with. He had his precious car and had even tried to teach her how to drive, though she was admittedly no good at it. Ivan had settled nicely into his job; children would of course be the next logical step.
But there was little that was logical to Amelia's life anymore. Because he loved her he told her the truth, a month after their wedding. None of it mattered though, because Amelia loved Ivan Braginski. Who had said you couldn't have the perfect American family married to a Soviet spy?
Amelia had truly believed she could have it all.
She's packing his suitcase for a trip to Berlin when the doorbell rings, Vanya rising slowly from his favorite seat to get it. He had tried to prepare Amelia for this but she knows he'd still laughed when she put on her new dress this morning, wearing both the strand of pearls her father had bought her and the one her husband had as well. This Soviet spy may be going off to pretend to be Vanya's lover in Germany, but Amelia was going to be damn sure the woman would know not to think about trying to make pretend reality.
In the kitchen the woman is introduced solely as "my Hungarian companion" by Vanya, the brunette reaching out a hand to shake. She's dressed in the height of city fashion, her hair brushed back like a working woman's might be. Yet when the Hungarian turns her head she immediately starts speaking in Russian and the illusion that this was all perfectly normal vanishes.
And so in its place, Amelia makes a pitcher of lemonade.
Around December he gets another assignment, informing his wife the Hungarian would be traveling with him to Czechoslovakia.
"But what about Christmas?" Amelia begs, throwing herself on their bed. Her husband simply raises an eyebrow at that.
"Christmas was a different day in Russia," Vanya replies calmly, "and now we are atheists."
"This is why you're never allowed to meet my grandpappy," the American says strongly which earns her a laugh and a kiss.
With spring they take a trip down to Louisiana. On the drive back to Virginia Amelia hears the news report on the radio say some high-ranking American official had been found dead in his hotel room, not far from where they had been staying.
"Pity," is all Vanya says before turning the knob to change stations.
Memorial Weekend Amelia finally asks. "What exactly do you do?" Vanya across the table raises an eyebrow over his newspaper.
"I can't tell you, you know that."
"But like–" She searches for some vague notions to throw out there in the hopes that maybe her husband will give her something. "Do you gather information, do you contact people, do you– well, you know."
"I do." The Russian turns the page of his paper, and that's that.
The Fourth of July they get to spend in Williamsburg. The pretty young wife is so excited because her love had promised this was not about work, until half-way through fireworks when suddenly it is. She sees her first, across the field, but it doesn't take long for Vanya to notice Amelia's gaze.
Leaning in close, his lips at her ear, he whispers, "I promise I don't know why she's here."
And so after fireworks Amelia is dropped off at the hotel room, Vanya driving out again to go find the Hungarian.
Maybe, the blonde thinks, she should tell somebody. Vanya is very calm about his espionage and treason and so it's yet to really freak Amelia out, but maybe that was on purpose. Having a blonde-haired, blue-eyed wife must be helpful for blending in she knows, so maybe she should reach out to… the government? But that just lead back to the problem of telling them what exactly?
Why yes, hello? My name Amelia Braginski, I'm married to a Soviet spy employed by the State of Virginia. What? Why yes, I've known for a little over three years now but finally decided to let you guys know. You're going to what? Arrest him? I'll go let him know and pack his socks.
Vanya had told her that if she never said anything, life would carry on. Being a spy was a part-time job, that's how he'd put it; his pretty little wife need never worry about the implications.
Alone on that hotel bed, Amelia thinks maybe she should worry.
When Vanya gets back from his latest trip Amelia is waiting at the door with a packed suitcase. "Are you… leaving me?" he asks slowly, confused, curious. The American takes a deep breath before shaking her head.
"My mother is sick. I didn't want to leave until you came home, but my father is worried and so I–"
Two strong arms pull her to that strong chest and the blonde simply sighs in relief. She cries tears she hadn't known she was waiting to cry and once she's finished, her Russian husband drives her to the train station.
"Send your mother my love," Vanya whispers before stealing a quick kiss, and with that the train sets off. "And call when you're heading home!"
Instead of calling Vanya to have him pick her up, Amelia splurges on a taxi home so that she can surprise her husband. She rolls her suitcase quietly inside the front door before running to their bedroom only to find Vanya laying in his briefs with the Hungarian spy half-dressed in his arms. The blonde watches her husband kiss the other woman in shock for what seems like hours before either of them notice her, the Hungarian pushing herself away from Vanya. Ashamed the woman gathers up her clothing, quickly leaving the room and Vanya to Amelia.
Vanya's smooth-talking immediately kicks in. "Любимая моя," he starts but she's having none of it today.
"Don't you try and sweet talk me Mister," the American cuts in with all the strength she can, the sound of the front door opening and closing reaching her ears. "I– you– what–" At a lost for what to say, Amelia turns and walks out of the house, turning right at the end of the driveway and walking all the way down to the park where she intends on planting herself on a bench to wait for her husband to come get her with flowers and chocolates and jewelry and excuses. What she finds instead is the Hungarian, now fully dressed, sitting on a bench smoking.
When their eyes meet the Hungarian nods solemnly, moving down the bench. Amelia sits beside her.
In a quiet voice she asks, "How long have you and my husband… you know."
"Five years," the answer comes in that perfect English both this one and Vanya have. Too perfect, once you've heard it enough times.
"Did it ever stop?"
"No."
"Were you the only one?"
"No."
The wind blows the smoke in front of them, its light coloring twirling before vanishing.
"I'm married, by the way," the Soviet beside her volunteers. "My husband lives in Austria."
"That's far from here," Amelia points out, not quite sure why she was hearing this.
"I like to keep my business and personal lives separate, even if the one is what gives me free passes to see the other." The Hungarian drops the cigarette to the ground, rubbing it in with the toe of her shoe. "I do what Vanya wants because without him I don't get to see the man I love."
"And does that make it ok?" the blonde challenges, but when green eyes meet hers she knows that that was a mistake.
In that same slow manner as her husband's, the brunette raises an eyebrow. "And is what you've done, or haven't done, ok? Simply because you love him?" Without waiting for an answer the Hungarian walks away.
Vanya gets angry when she won't talk, won't look at him, won't kiss him. He starts breaking things in the house but Amelia doesn't care. How many Americans died so he could get the money that bought her that coffee table he just threw a book through? The television he just tipped over? None of it answers the Hungarian's question of was it all ok.
After days upon days of the antics her husband finally throws some clothes into his bag and gets his keys. "I will return in three days," he says in accented English, Amelia looking further away from him. The silence that follows is his threat before he storms out the front door.
Returning to the house after having visited a friend two days later, the Hungarian woman is sitting in her front room. Amelia drops her keys on the table, their eyes meeting, but says nothing. The other woman laughs.
"You've changed, Mrs. Braginski," she observes. "This look suits you much better."
"What look?" the American challenges. "I– I have been jaded, cheated on, lied to by my husband–"
"It didn't matter," the spy counters, rising slowly, "when he was simply spying on your country."
"He loved me." There, she's said it now, started to explain to the rest of the world why the pretty little Amelia Braginski allowed the United States of America to be infiltrated so fully by a man not worth spit. Perhaps it's the beginning of her answer. "Now I see that that too was a lie."
"It may not have always been a lie." Now the woman is standing on the other side of the kitchen table. "But yes, it is now, you are quite right."
"Why– why are you here?" The pretty Soviet grins.
"I was sent to clean up a mess, like one might clean up after a child. I think though, perhaps you would like to clean up this mess?" Slowly from the back of her skirt the woman removes a gun, placing it on the table and sliding it down. Shot guns were one thing; Amelia had grown up with those. But this, a hand-held that has killed people, actual people, is quite different as she picks it up.
"You knew what I would decide." If she's learned one thing from being married to Vanya, it's that a spy never risks something they don't have an escape plan from. He had always said this one, the Hungarian, was one of the best he'd ever seen.
"I had figured, yes, that I would be leaving without my gun." Holding her hands out before her (Amelia knows, though, the only weapon the spy had brought had been the gun she now holds) and moving around the table, the Hungarian says, "I am sorry for any pain I have caused you but I need one last thing from your husband's office before I leave is all."
"What– what do you want?"
"He'll think I came for my file," the Hungarian admits, leaning against the chair beside Amelia, "and maybe I would have taken just that. But I know that strength in your eyes, Mrs. Braginski, and I know you're going to take care of this in a much better manner than I would have." As she continues speaking her accent slips up. "What Ivan has is a file of blank papers that would allow me to slip back into Austria to get my husband, and then allow me to leave with him without fear of being found."
"And where would you go?" Amelia's hands are shaking as she holds the gun. The other woman smiles.
"I've always liked the south of France," she muses. "From there we could take a boat, see some islands. Disappear. I've often fantasized about it but–" and here the Hungarian laughs "–I guess by now you'll understand when I say, I can't really tell you everything."
"Because you're a spy, and spies have secrets."
"Oh no, Mrs. Braginski. Because I am a woman, and women have an understanding."
Making up her mind Amelia nods, pointing the way. She follows the brunette with the gun still held in front of her, watches the Soviet spy take the file, then walks her to the door. Without turning around the Hungarian finally speaks.
"There's a strength to you I've always admired; it had to be what drew Ivan in. But it was always going to end badly for him, whether from me or you or from another. I wish you luck." The woman leaves quietly down the driveway, out the white picket fence, and turns left to walk the road.
Vanya comes home, his calm façade restored, but his wife is already waiting for him in his favorite seat. "Amelia," he sighs lovingly, walking to stand in front of her.
"Answer me this Vanya, and it is a yes or no question." Her eyes barely take him in, her whole being dead on the inside, but it would be better that way. "Did you ever love me?"
He mulls the question over for a few minutes, blinking slowly. "I think I did, for a little-"
The sound of a gun being fired rings through the house, cutting off his words. Immediately the tall Russian staggers back, falling to the floor. Amelia slowly rises to stand over him, taking him in and fingering her two strands of pearls around her neck: one from her father, and one from her husband.
"Sorry Vanya," she sighs, "but I said it was a yes-no question, and I meant it." All her husband does is blink up at her from the ground, struggling to breath from the hole she's put through his lung. Moving to pick up the phone Amelia takes a deep breath. "Hello, operator? I'd like to report a Soviet spy to the United States government and ask for an ambulance as well."