Hey, look, a new drabble! Actually, an old drabble, but it was very shiny once I blew the dust off and touched up the paint a little. :) Enjoy.
Star Wars
Notes: Space is awesome.
The not-too-distant future . . .
"I hate you so much right now," America said sourly, glaring at his no-longer-frosted bottle of Bud Light. It had started out frosted. Then he took it out of the fridge and kept passing it–not nervously, thank you–from hand to hand as Russia broke the news and gloated. So it got all warm and sweaty from his hands and it wasn't the most pleasant thing to be holding, so he figured he might as well knock it back and get it over with.
Oh, right. Russia was still had a goddamn twinkle in his eyes–he wasn't even smiling, not even the creepy smirky thing he did back last century–he was twinkling! Freaking twinkling. At America. What the hell.
"I do not think you mean that," Russia said.
"Nope," said America, stalking into the living room. He'd been stalking across the ground floor of his house for the past ten minutes, and now he had decided to stop. "I definitely do. I absolutely hate you. Go away." He took a swig, smacked his lips aggressively, set the bottle down on the side table with a thunk, and put his feet up on the green ottoman. He slouched down on the couch and reached for the TV remote.
Russia followed him in and stood in front of the TV, which was tuned to CNN, which was blaring the news that the Russian space program's initial tests of the Akunin engines had–
America changed the channel to Fox, which was blaring the statements of some senator about the new threat to America's longstanding supremacy in space technology. The New Red Menace, he called it. "What?"
"You are funny when you are disappointed."
"Laugh your fat ass off."
Russia blinked. His eyes got a little darker, a little colder, a little pissier. Pissy Russia, he could handle. Not smug Russia. Because smug Russia meant he'd lost.
Russia said nothing. The senator on Fox said, ". . . be at stake here, and let's not forget their stalling of those so-called disarmament treaties last year. I'm tellin' you, folks, they do not mean us well. If they get out there before we do, we're sunk. It was a bad idea to agree to further reductions in . . ."
The twinkle vanished like a photon across the event horizon of a black hole. The old creepy smirk reappeared. This was familiar, safer ground, sort of. For the definition of "safe" that only really applied to two old superpowers who'd spent way more time hovering over big red buttons than was healthy.
Russia sat down next to him on the sofa.
Shit.
He also stole America's beer, tasted it gingerly, and grimaced. He set it back down. "Alfred. Why do you do this to innocent hops? It is a crime against nature."
"I dunno. Why are you such a creep?"
A breathy sigh tickled his ear. "You didn't let me finish what I was saying, earlier."
"I don't wanna hear it, Ivan. They work. That's just awesome-"
"Would you be interested in a joint program?"
He closed his mouth. He looked at Russia. He frowned. "What's the point? You've already gotten the big stuff done, you and your goddamn Akunin guy–"
"Big stuff? They went from Mars to Neptune in six minutes. They are not ready for anything further than that. And communications are still sub-light. There is plenty of room to improve."
"–pointing at the homes of American families! These guys are dangerous, John, I don't know if we can trust 'em with this kind of technology," said Fox News.
America scowled. "Improve," he repeated.
"Yes. That's what you do. You take what others have done and make it your own." Russia's smile lost its sharp edge. "Your entire system of government is based on the writings and philosophies of stodgy old Europeans. But you were the first to successfully put them into practice, even if that practice is a bit . . . flawed. If you can do it in politics, why not in science?"
"You're trying to flatter me into agreeing. And you're not doing a good job of it. You want my taxpayers' money so you can burn it on those stupid engines–"
Russia rolled his eyes at America. "You," he said, "are acting like a stubborn child. I will let you think it over. My boss will be in contact with yours. Do svidaniya." He stood up and walked away, out of the living room, out of the house, closing the door behind him.
America stared glazedly at the TV screen, only snatches of the unfolding dialogue–diatribe–registering in his mind.
". . . Russian scientists . . . threat to security . . . Second Space Race . . . our country . . . what can we do?"
Not because it is easy, but because it is hard.
Because they say you can't. It'll never work. What do you know, child-nation?
Because fuck them.
America threw the remote down and ran to the door. He could just see the flicker of a pale scarf disappearing down the street. "Hey! Ivan!" he shouted. "Ivan, hang on a sec!"
When he caught up to Russia just outside the coffee shop with the blue awning, breathless, Russia didn't say anything. He just smiled. And against his better judgement, America smiled back.
