FIC: dub the frequencies of love (Chapters 4-5)

[transemacabre.livejournal.com]

Title: dub the frequencies of love
Author: Mipp
Characters/Pairings: Russia, America (with past Russia/America), OC!Alaska, with General Winter in a supporting role
Rating: T for Teen, to be on the safe side.
Warnings: This fill contains implications of past mpreg, little kid OCs, a General Winter cameo, and misuse of top-secret government phone lines. This is actually about as safe and heartwarming as I come.
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. Chapters 1-3. Little Alaska has run off to find Russia, America makes an important and long overdue phone call, and General Winter makes his presence felt.



Russia awoke with a start and breathed out frost. He'd fallen asleep sitting up in his chair again. He rubbed his eyes, weary and bewildered, then tapped at his chest. Hollow. He remembered what he had been dreaming, the words General Winter had told him once, not so long ago:

Vanya, you have not carried your heart within your body for years now. Not since...

No, he would not think on that.

The phone to his left rang wildly; had it been ringing all this time? Had it awakened him? Russia snatched up the phone and growled, "Amerika."

Silence on the other end. Russia would've hung up, thinking this some foolish prank, but he could hear America breathing over the line. At last, "Russia, just listen, okay?"

"Always I am listening," Russia reminded him in a cheerful tone that he in no way felt. "But you are saying so little of consequence, Amerika. You do not even tell me hello."

"Russia --" America's voice had a note of panic. Alarm flared through Russia's body. What had America done? Was this it? Would today be their last day beneath the skies? His body tensed in anticipation of America's next words.

"Russia, it's our son. Alaska."

Alaska. Russia griped the phone tighter. "What is being wrong with Aleksei?"

"He left home last night. To come find you." Something like a dam broke inside America, and the words came pouring out now. "I tried to catch him but I couldn't, and he'll be there soon, and he's coming to see you, and and and -- he's so little, and if anything happens to him, or if you --" and America choked, as though too afraid to finish the sentence.

If you don't give him back to me.

"He is coming here? To Moscow? When?"

"ETA is about four hours." America sounded miserable. "I'm getting on a jet and heading your way in a few minutes."

"My boss will not be happy about this," Russia said.

"Damn your boss! This is our child we're talking about! I need to be there t-to explain things to him. Tell your boss whatever he needs to hear."

Russia twisted his scarf with his left hand. "My boss... he is not knowing about Aleksei."

Stony silence, followed by a flat, "What."

Russia sighed. "Of course he knows there is state of Alaska, the history of Russian America. But I did not tell him about the child. There is no need for him to know, da? It is making things so... complicated."

Hesitantly, America said, "So, this is between us for right now, right? I'll slip in nice and quiet, and you'll give Alaska back to me."

"How shall I be finding him?"

"I always just know," America admitted. "I close my eyes, try to sit still, and feel for them. And then I know right where they are. Maybe you'll feel him, too."

Russia abruptly hung up on him, then sat shock-still in his chair for a minute, his hands clasped before his face like a devotee praying to relics. Aleksei had been the only thing unspoken between them since the day of his birth. America had made it clear that Russia wasn't to come near him, and Russia knew it was safest not to involve the child in any of their struggles.

"But you have come to me, little one," he murmured to himself.

***

Alaska fell back asleep as he glided over Europe, gently rocked to and fro, curled in his coat with Ivan-bear tucked under his chin. He was dreaming dreams of rich golden fields and blue glaciers and arms always outstretched in welcome when his stomach lurched and he awoke to find the balloon was pitching wildly.

Alaska stuck out his arms and legs, bracing himself against the walls to prevent being flung around, but he could only watch helplessly as the balloon's instruments blinked and whirred. He was losing altitude.

Out the porthole he could see only grey, and Alaska knew his balloon had flown right into a snowstorm. He held his breath, shut his eyes, and hoped for a soft landing.

The storm sat him down in a snowdrift, gently as a mother laying her baby in the cradle. Outside the wind howled, but Alaska stayed snug inside and resolved to wait out the storm. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he had to have made it to Russia by now; he'd been in the air for hours.

The storm gave him time to think. His dad America must know he was gone by now; Alaska hoped he wasn't too mad. America didn't really get mad at them or spank them like human dads did, but Alaska knew he certainly wouldn't be happy about this. But it wasn't fair, thought Alaska, that all his brothers and sisters got to know their papas and he didn't. America had to understand that. And how would Russia know that Alaska loved him and missed him very much if he didn't tell him in person? Santa carried his letter every Christmas, but Alaska knew something had to be wrong because Russia never wrote back.

He dozed until the weak blueish light of dawn woke him again. The storm had lifted. Alaska clambered out of the balloon and stood blinking, looking for the first time upon his papa's country. Everywhere he looked he saw dark trees covered in snow, but heard not a sound in the world.

It was cold, blistering cold, but Alaska was of the North and the cold was a friend to him. He slipped on his mittens and knapsack and began trudging through the snow. Moscow was supposed to be a big city, wasn't it? There had to be people around somewhere. As he trotted to the top of a hill, Alaska's heart sank. Maybe his balloon hadn't made it to Moscow. Maybe it had landed in the wilderness, far from civilization, far from his papa.

"Ah, vnuchek, my little wanderer."

Alaska cried aloud and whirled, only to look up at the stern face of an old -- ancient -- man. He wore a strange helmet, and a cape that was blacker than any black Alaska had ever seen. His face and his hair were nearly colorless, and tiny icicles dangled from his mustache.

Alaska jerked so hard that he tumbled down onto his bottom and his feet peddled uselessly in the snow as he tried to push himself backwards. The stranger in the black-black cape watched him but made no move to touch him.

"I know who you are, winter's child," said the stranger. "Aleksei Ivanovich. Do not be afraid."

"How do you know my name?" Alaska blurted out.

"I have always known your name," the stranger told him solemnly. "I knew your lands long before your birth, and I know those that came before you, who inhabited your lands before it ever bore the name Alaska. Inuit. Aleut. Yupik. Haida. Tlingit. And the others. I know all winter's children."

Alaska knew that his dad was very old, much older than any human could ever hope to live. He also knew that England was much older than America. But he knew, in the deep part of himself that was not entirely human, that this stranger was primordial, that he had been old before England was born. His body shook from his legs to his ears.

"Who are you?"

"Your father calls me General Winter. You may call me Dedushka." And he offered a hand to Alaska.

Hesitantly, Alaska reached up to take his hand, and General Winter pulled him to his feet. Although his knees shook a little, Alaska tried to put on a brave face. "You know my papa?"

"All the days of his life," said General Winter somberly.

"Will you take me to see him?" After a moment Alaska added, "Please, Dedushka?"

The General knelt on one knee before him, and gently tapped his fist under Alaska's chin. "You will come to know him, vnuchek. And you may stay with us, forever."

Alaska gasped. "No! I can't! I have to go home."

General Winter furrowed his brow. "By all rights you are home. Are you not winter's child? Are you not the land of the polar night?"

Tears prickled in Alaska's eyes. His dad had warned him about this -- could General Winter keep him here forever? Would he ever see his dad and his brothers and sisters again? Almost as bad, would America think that he had run away and never came back on purpose? He drew in a shakey breath and said, "But I-I love my family and I want to see them again. And I am the land of the midnight sun, too."

General Winter narrowed his eyes, but he did not look so much angry as sad. Slowly, he stood, his cape billowing and surrounding them both with its darkness. "So you are summer's child as well," he said. "This is so. Come with me, Aleksei Ivanovich, and I will take you to your father."

Alaska wiped at the tears that had frozen on his face. "And after that, can I go home?"

The General nodded. "But remember that I will walk beside you always, even when you cannot see me."

"So I'll never be alone?"

"You have never been alone. Your kind have never known loneliness. You can grow weak, yes, and become crippled, and even die. But you will never be alone."

General Winter led him through the forest, with Alaska following behind, walking in his footsteps. They walked in silence for some time before coming to a little clearing and finding there an icy grotto next to a small frozen stream.

"Remain here," the General told him, wrapping his cape around himself. "Your father will be along shortly to fetch you."

"You aren't going to stay with me until he comes, Dedushka?" Alaska asked him.

"This is something... he needs to do himself," General Winter told him, and his black cape covered his face and he disappeared into the shadows.

***

Russia was leaning with his back against the wall of his office, eyes closed, head tilted back. Listening. Feeling. But all he sensed was emptiness, like peering into a well long gone dry and straining for a glimpse of light and listening for the whisper of water.

His head fell forward and his eyes snapped open. "General," Russia said softly.

Obligingly, General Winter stepped forward from the shadows; as he walked, frost spread across the floor, scrawling intricate patterns on the walls. "Vanya, you are wasting time."

"Not now, General." Russia dragged his hands through his hair. "My son is missing. My heart is missing. I -- I am feeling nothing."

"Ah, Vanya," sighed General Winter. "Always you are thinking I know nothing of fathers and sons. Your heart has not been wholly yours since the day Lyoshka was born. It has been walking around outside your body for more than eight years now. And he is waiting for you. Go to him."

Russia gaped at him, still braced against the wall as though needing it to hold him up. At last he managed to ask, "Where is he?"

"Think, Vanya. Where would your heart be?"

Russia almost tore the door down in his haste to leave his office. His feet pounded down the hall like his long-missing heartbeat. Bursting out the main entrance into the cold and wind, Russia ran up to the first vehicle he saw, wrenched the door open, and pulled out the officer driving it by the nape of the neck. He left the human sitting bewildered on the curb and climbed into the vehicle himself, barely pausing to growl, "I am not to be followed!" before speeding off.

Russia sped out of Moscow, down the highway, leaving the city far behind before turning off down a little used road, and then following that to a path used only by logging trucks. For the first time in a long time, Russia drove with purpose.

The car became mired down in the deep snowdrift, so Russia got out and ran the last quarter-mile. The snow reflected the dim light all around him, making the world glow softly. Bare trees waved their skeletal hands at him, while other trees groaned under their burdens of snow. Ahead of Russia was a little dacha he'd had built near the place where his sisters and he had lived, untold centuries before. In this little forest lived all his best memories of his past.

Russia slowed as he approached the little clearing. He could see a little figure, a spot of color in the whites and blacks and greys of the clearing, standing beside the iced-over stream and grotto. Now wading through snow up to his knees, Russia found he could go no further. For several long moments he stood, barely remembering to breath.

The little figure turned towards him, and Russia clearly saw the outline of a boy, and the boy's pale face surrounded by a hood. Having spotted Russia, the child began running towards him.

And for the first time in years, Russia felt his heart pound and blood rush to his face. "Aleksei," he cried weakly, and then with more force, "Aleksei!"

The child ran towards him, his arms held out to be picked up, calling, "Papa! I made it! I'm here! Papa!" He fought his way through the thick snow, but Russia was able to stumble forward and gather him into his arms.

Russia clutched him tightly with one arm, and with the other pulled back Alaska's hood, touching his hair, his face, his chin. Alaska's own two hands gripped the lapels of Russia's coat tightly. "Oh, my brave boy," Russia said, stroking his hand through Alaska's hair. "What are you doing here? How are you getting here?"

Although Alaska was smiling, tears ran down his cheeks. "I came by balloon!"

"By balloon?" Nothing seemed real anymore, so Alaska's reply only seemed mildly odd, as opposed to ridiculous. Russia couldn't tear his eyes away from the boy. His hair was ice-blond, like Russia's own, and fell long to his shoulders. Russia searched his face for familiar features, and recognized his nose, something of America in his mouth and chin. His eyes were blue, and Russia realized with a start that he'd been subconsciously hoping that Alaska would have inherited America's blue eyes.

He began carrying Alaska back to his dacha, the boy chattering away in his arms the entire way.

"And then I flew across the sea, and then I met Mr. England and squashed his flowers -- it's okay though, I apologized -- and then I got here, and met Dedushka, and--"

"Dedushka?" Russia marveled at this.

"Yeah! And then I saw you, and I was so excited--"

Russia fumbled with the door but managed to unlock it one-handed, and they stumbled into the musty dacha. He sat Alaska on a couch as he went to turn on the heat, keeping one eye on the boy at all times as though Alaska might disappear if he didn't watch him.

Alaska was still talking, pouring everything out at once, as though this might be his only chance to tell Russia what he needed to say. "And I love you so much! I know it's hard because the Commies won't let you be free, but my dad has told me all about how hard you're working to get away from them."

"Your... dad has told you this?" Russia asked, falling on his knees beside the couch. "What has Amerika been telling you?"

Alaska held out his stuffed bear proudly. "This is Ivan, we named him after you. He was my Christmas present this year. Oh yeah, dad's told me everything. I know you have to pretend to play along, or else they might hurt people. It's okay, papa, really it is." Alaska's eyes were very large and sincere, as though he was trying to comfort Russia.

Russia's head swam. "Aleksei, I am n--" He cut himself off. "I am so happy for you to be here. I am wishing it was under other circumstances. But you are not imagining how long I have dreamed of this day."

Alaska wrapped his arms around Russia's neck and clung to him. "It was worth it," he sobbed. "It was all worth it to see you!"

***

Alaska's papa helped him pry off his shoes, and then tucked them underneath a table piled high with Alaska's coat, mittens, knapsack, and bear.

Finally freed of his shoes, Alaska wiggled his toes and asked, "Is this where you grew up, papa?"

His papa paused in the act of sheding his own coat, and stood for a moment with the coat half on and half off. "Da," he said, and then added, "Yes, not in this house of course, but near here. I lived here for many years with my sisters." He hung up his coat but kept his scarf on.

Alaska peered around curiously at the furnishings, a shelf of books with the titles in Russian letters, the faded and chipping paintings of sad-eyed people hanging on the walls. When Alaska looked back to his papa, Russia was watching him and plucking at his scarf.

"What do you think, Lyoshka?"

"It feels like home," Alaska told him. When he heard this, Russia's shoulders slumped a little, as though breathing a sigh of relief. Alaska felt a little bad; he had spent so much time imagining what Russia would think of him that he hadn't even once thought that Russia might be afraid of what Alaska thought of him. Quickly, he asked, "What does that word mean? Lyoshka?"

Russia sat beside him again, brushing Alaska's hair back from his face. Alaska leaned into his father's touch. "Lyoshka is a nickname for Aleksei. Does Amerika call you by a nickname?"

"Sometimes he calls me Alek," Alaska said, smiling brightly up at his papa. "But usually just around humans. He says its weird for them if we call each other by our nation names in public."

"And he is letting you keep your hair so long?" Russia asked, playfully ruffling Alaska's hair as he said so.

Alaska giggled. "I don't want it cut! It's the Aleutian Islands."

Russia chuckled along with him, but his chuckle faded and he said, very softly, "You arrived almost in time for my Christmas. But I was not knowing you were coming. I have no gifts for you here."

"Christmas..." Alaska's eyes went wide. "Oh! Did Santa bring you my letter?" He grabbed at Russia's sleeve. "He promised he would! He promised!"

"I have your letter, Lyoshka," Russia assured him. "I am having all your letters."

Alaska's face suddenly felt very hot, and there was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow. "B-but why didn't you write back?" Alaska's mouth twitched as he tried to hold back his old hurt. "I never got any letters."

Abruptly, Russia lept to his feet, and Alaska flinched back, thinking that he had said something wrong and made his papa angry. But instead, Russia took his hand and led him down the hall. Russia stopped, knelt to the floor, and pried up a piece of wood, revealing a secret compartment hidden under the floor. Inside was a box, which Russia presented to Alaska to open.

Mystified, Alaska popped off the lid, and found tied envelopes. He recognized the first few as his letters, the ones Santa had carried to Russia for him every Christmas, and there were even a couple of letters in his dad's handwriting (America's handwriting was unmistakeable; he wrote in a big loopy scrawl with lots of extra exclamation points). But underneath those were more letters, all addressed to Alaska, not just eight for the eight Christmases he'd seen come and go, but more, much more. There were dozens of letters, some dated this year and some dated back to 1958, before Alaska was even born.

"You wrote to me?" Alaska stared up at his papa. "Why didn't you send them?"

"I... did not think it was being desired," Russia admitted. He avoided his son's eyes. "Amerika and I were not speaking to one another. So I saved them... for a time when you and I would be able to meet. I was not hoping it would be so soon."

Alaska sat cross-legged with the letters in his lap, his head swimming with so many thoughts and emotions that he didn't know what to do. He didn't realize he was crying until teardrops began falling onto the paper, and he cried out in dismay, thinking he had smudged them. He began frantically wiping away the tears.

Russia sat beside him and put an arm around Alaska, pulling the boy closer to him. Alaska snuggled into his side, letting his tears soak into the soft fabric of Russia's shirt.