Countryhumans Oneshots

The Gardening Accident

This was written for @universal-casey on Tumblr. This is her AU (In which America loses the Cold War and becomes a part of the USSR), but she was gracious enough to let me write something for it. Check her out.

America enjoyed pissing Soviet off. It was one of the few things he could do nowadays as an act of rebellion, to show Soviet that he wasn't going to roll over and accept his rule. Soviet might have branded him, but America wasn't one to back down from a fight.

Many of his states were still fighting, or at least they were the last America had heard, so America resolved to do all he could to piss off Soviet in an attempt to help. It wasn't like he could do much to help from where he was, trapped in Soviet's home listening to the man taunt him, belittle him, and act as if America was beaten.

America wasn't going to be beaten, especially not by that damned commie. He was America, and his country would regain its freedoms someday. America knew it would. He would ensure that his country regained its independence.

However, there wasn't much America could do right now. He had tried to escape a few times—all of them failing. He needed to wait between his escape attempts for Soviet to lower his guard, allowing for a gap in which America could escape.

Until then, America was just doing his best to avoid the other country.

Like now.

America was hiding out in the small guard shed on Soviet's property. It kept him out of that suffocating air of that house but gave him some degree of privacy where he could think, but alone, pretty for a few faint selfish minutes that he was back at his home, back in his land, independent like he should be.

His fantasy was broken by the door slamming open. America sighed.

Seems like that peace was short-lived.

"What did I say about leaving my home?" Soviet asked, his voice harsh. America rolled his eyes.

"I never left your property." He snarked back, not willing to play nice with his occupier.

"You are still supposed to stay in my house," Soviet said. America turned around, looking the man in the eye.

"I don't have to do anything you tell me," he snapped. Soviet's expression grew darker and angrier, and America felt a swell of satisfaction well up inside him.

"I own you and your land. Yes, you do," Soviet said. America scoffed, crossing his arms.

"You don't own me. I"m my own damn country! You got lucky. That's all it was. Luck. Not skill or power or planning. Luck."

"I don't own you? I just got lucky?" Soviet snarled back, his face red with anger as his fingers slowly began twitching and closing into a fist.

America continued ranting, voice full of anger and visceral hatred, "A brand doesn't mean shit! None of this means anything! I'll get out of this, and I'll—"

America looked up at his conqueror just in time to see Soviet grab a rake from the shed. A borderline animalistic snarl escaped him as he swung the rake towards America, too fast for him to react. The second the rake made contact with his eye, America was consumed by blinding pain. It overwhelmed his senses and his mind, turning everything into pure, undiluted pain.

It must have only been a few seconds, but it felt like hours, and the next thing America knew, he was on his knees, body swaying as he looked up at Soviet through blurred and bloodied vision, seeing an eye—his eye—hanging off the rake.

America was screaming. When did he start screaming? Everything felt distant; everything was being consumed by pain. America had never felt anything like this before.

America collapsed to the side, the pain overwhelming him as his vision faded away. America lay there, barely conscious. He wasn't screaming anymore but sobbing, pain wracking his body. Blood slid down his face, mixing with his tears, coating his mouth with the sickening taste of iron.

"Remember this day. Remember, you lost. The great United States lost both his eye and his dignity." Soviet hissed as America's consciousness faded, darkness overtaking the pain.

• ───────────────── •

Awareness returned to America slowly.

First, it was the dull, throbbing, aching pain coming from his eye. Then, the sterile smell of a hospital. Then, it was sounds and sensations.

Then, it was the memories. America lurched upwards, eyes flying open as he reached for his face, freezing as he touched the bandages there. America fought to keep the bile down, shaking slightly as he tried to come to terms with what he was feeling.

His eye was gone.

His eye was gone.

For one fleeting moment, he had convinced himself that it was all just a terrible dream, that he...that he...

America felt sick. This was worse than the brand, worse than the invasion and takeover, worse than all of that.

"It was about time you woke up."

The sound of Soviet's voice jolted America out of his thoughts, fear surging through him as his hand went to cover his injured eye. America turned his head to the side, realizing that Soviet had been standing in his blind spot the entire time.

His blind spot.

Oh god, he had really lost an eye.

America opened his mouth to say something, to spew out his hatred and vitriol, but stopped, his voice catching in his throat as an all-consuming wave of fear crashed into him.

Soviet could have killed him. Soviet has had America at his mercy for god knows how long, and Soviet could have killed him. America's poking and prodding and insults and taunts and jeers had don't nothing to change that.

Soviet could have killed him.

Soviet very nearly did.

America wanted to say something, but the fear stifled him and warned him of the death and pain that was bound to follow anything he said.

Choking on fear and pain, America closed his mouth, feeling his ever-cracking pride break further under the humiliation. His last way of fighting back was gone.

Why couldn't he just speak?

Soviet seemed amused by his silence, and America's hatred for the man burned fiercely in his chest.

"I hope this is an important reminder for you, a reminder that you belong to me now, and I can do with you as I please. You're alive because I want you to be. You live because I let you. Next time you forget it, you'll lose more than an eye." Soviet hissed, his tone deadly and enraged.

America's mouth was dry, hands shaking. It seemed like every part of his body was working against him, making his fear painfully obvious for the other to see.

He hated it. He hated feeling weak and beaten.

But that was the thing. He was beaten. Soviet could have killed him at any time. Soviet was right in the fact that America was only alive because Soviet wanted him to live. If America continued to fight and resist like he had before, he would be killed.

America couldn't die. He needed to be alive for his people, for his states. Seeing him...seeing him like that would hurt, but America would be alive. Isn't that what mattered most?

"I understand," America muttered, trying to keep his voice quiet, trying to keep the hatred he felt in every inch of his body from seeping into his words.

Soviet smiled, a cruel and demeaning thing, and America looked away, staring down at his shaking hands.

He still felt sick.