{FIC} Dinner at 8
Title: Dinner at 8
Author: prismpayne
Word Count: 1,500ish
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: America/England, HUMANSSSS
Prompt: America/England, a fancy dinner, both of them in suits , bonus if it includes dancing of some sort afterward, and they're both awkward over it, but in the end, cute.
Notes: Gosh this is SO LATE AND LAME I AM SO SORRY RL is crazy, don't get me started but this prompt totally called my name. There may also be some potential fail in this, I like italics a lot, so I apologize for that, too.
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March 7th, 2010 7:34 PM
For the nth time this evening, after fussing with his tie for more than five minutes, England examines his appearance. His countenance is expectant, and he flashes a reserved grin-until his shoulders sag and his face falls, completely withering.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, brushing off his vest. “It’s just dinner.” He recalls last week, wherein he’d received a call from America. So I heard your PM is coming over here! And my boss heard, and they’re having this dinner over in Washington. NotD.C., the one on the west coast! You should… you should really come, too! That’d be awesome.
What a stupid proposition. Naturally from the biggest idiot of them all. It hardly mattered to England.
Then why are you acting so flustered?
England shoos the thought away and gives himself one last look and sighs, pulling on his black suit jacket. He looks fine. Dinner will be typical, there’s nothing special to worry over. That’s England’s final thought as he grabs his hotel card key and leaves the room.
--
March 7th, 2010 7:54 PM
America is so excited for tonight’s dinner, it feels like forever since he’s been in Spokane. When was the last time? 1974, maybe? Yeah, definitely then, with the world expo and stuff. It’s probably been a month at the most from when he last saw England, though. For some reason, he’s pretty stoked to see him, too. He’s never been to the Davenport, neither has Obama. Bush stayed there, though, a few years back. He’ll finally realize how much class I have after he sees it, right?. The limo comes to a stop in front of the hotel, and the door at the side opens, and America and his boss step out into the breezy pink evening and onto the sidewalk. People are crowded around outside. America rakes his fingers through his hair and smiles. Showtime.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:00 PM
England is right on time, at Cameron’s side between the bodyguards. They walk briskly through the front doors and the lobby, beautifully crafted, restored recently, England can tell. He approves, however, lush chairs and carpeting, marble tile on the walkways, an exquisite fountain in the center, and look, a Starbucks, too. With a smirk, England is escorted into the Palm Court grill, a long table set for maybe 30. A positively blissful aroma is blooming in the air, fresh and warm, just like-
America is wearing a suit. A Hugo Boss suit. Tailored delicately to his broad shoulders and waist and topped off with a steel grey tie. His hair is slicked back, crisp and clean with that golden glow that makes it appear soft and new. Sans for Nantucket, of course, free as a bird. America is conversing with another man in a suit until he sees Cameron, lighting up and shaking his hand. England watches them talk and sees America’s eyes flicker towards him quickly, and then once more with a more intimate air as it registers that hey, England is over there, gonna go over and say something stupid in slang like “legit’ to see u hear 2nite”.
He approaches and reaches for England’s hand, shakes it firm with confident, calloused hands.
“Evening, England,” he says, in actual English. Those blue eyes are perfectly crystal clear tonight, eager and jovial, picture-perfect behind black frames. “I’m really glad you could make it! It’s so great when everyone gets together like this.” England searches for a reply, still enraptured in America’s appearance, how silly of him, it’s only America.
“Hrm, yes,” England mentally slaps himself. “This hotel is grand, America, great choice. Have I perhaps been to this part of Washington before?” He says, sparking conversation with this excited America, this version of him that’s fun and so youthful.
“Maybe, I think you have. It’s an awesome city, I’ll take you around tomorrow, if you want,” he offers, becoming deeply interested in showing England everything about Spokane, Washington. England would love that, it would actually be great fun, but--
“I’m terribly sorry America, I have a flight out that leaves early in the morning,” he tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry after seeing the bummed expression on America’s face.
“Nah, it’s fine. Some other time!” And then America bounces away to talk more with his people.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:24 PM
So America and England are sitting next to each other, which they didn’t exactly expect, but they don’t particularly mind. America nudges England frequently, addressing the names and life stories (or random ones that America miraculously knows) of the senators, governor, and mayor all here tonight with their respective husbands and wives, etc.
“The couples here are all pleasant, all good people” he happily explains. England barely seems to care, so America decides to poke some fun at him. “Sooo why didn’t you bring a hot date tonight, England? Or maybe you’re hiding her?” He rests his head on England’s shoulder, whose face flushes completely, and he shrugs America off.
“Well maybe I didn’t want to bring anyone, it’s just one night, one dinner, stupid git,” England tosses out these words like old socks, he just wants to get rid of them and onto a new subject. America allows. For now.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:58 PM
Appetizers bedeck the table, each giving off a different aroma with flavors that don’t seem to clash. England and America avidly pick at the various starters, trying each. After finishing those, England watches America polish off his glass of some light beer and nearly wipes the corners of his mouth on his brand new, beautiful suit, but rather grabs his napkin at the last second. England sighs, relieved.
“I’m really glad you could make it, England,” America stresses. England nods and looks at him with a fond smile, something he’s been wearing this whole evening, something that America’s been staring at this whole evening.
--
March 7th, 2010 9:43 PM
America’s dinner is the square root of pure awesome. It’s the Ahi Tuna Steak, and it’s perfect, tangy and sweet. England’s got some filet thing, it had a long name, and there were a ton of mushrooms which America was sure to stay far away from. He seems pretty happy with his meal, too, so America continues to chow down, which probably isn’t the best way to eat in front of the president.
Defeated, England drops his hand on the table after accidentally spilling some sauce onto his jacket.
“Brilliant,” he says, scornful, reaching for his napkin with his left hand. America notices and inadvertently places his hand on top of England’s so that he can try to be helpful and clean up, too. He doesn’t expect England to withdraw immediately after touching him. “Er, sorry, you surprised me,” their eyes didn’t make contact. “I can get it.” He turns away, and America blinks, feeling useless.
--
March 7th, 2010 11:08 PM
Dinner is over, handshakes and hugs are being exchanged. England has been standoffish after the sauce thing. America is sad.
He decides to walk England out.
“So did you like it?” He prods, hopeful. England crosses his arms and looks up at the night sky, surprised that he can see stars.
“It was fun. I’m glad I was invited.” America sighs and puts his hands in his pockets, searching for conversation topics other than the weather and cars. An idea comes to mind.
“Did you see the Marie Antoinette ballroom?” England shoots America a quizzical look.
“Why on earth would you name a ballroom after one of France’s biggest twits in history?”
“Hey, I read on a Snapple cap once that a twit is the scientific name for a goldfish.” England’s eyes are narrow and skeptical, and he starts to leave, but America grabs his arm instead and pulls him back into the hotel. “Sorry, but you gotta see this room, England. It’s awesome,” America explains, nearly dragging England through the lobby and up a couple stairs. “Here…”
England breathes sharply. Dimmed lights ignite a romantic atmosphere, yet the room is still completely visible. And it’s beautiful, grand, with white walls that have gold panels and ornate woodwork. There’s a balcony that encircles the room, with a gilded railing and graceful chandeliers on the ceiling. Lace curtains veil the various doorways. “It’s beautiful…”
“They use it for receptions and stuff. And dancing. Which I feel like we should’ve had more of this evening.” England doesn’t seem to notice America’s implication, so instead America acts on impulse and oddly enough, pulls England close and clasps their hands together. “So let’s dance!” It sounds like a question. England doesn’t have words, just silence as his mouth opens and closes like a fish as America waltzes with him. The music is faint, but clear. An old instrumental jazz tune, Moonlight in Vermont, America thinks.
As they dance a little longer, it gets easier, and their fingers tangle.
“I really am glad you could make it,” America says again. He looks at England’s lips; he waits for them to part and move. Instead, a red-faced England hums in agreement and nuzzles into America’s shoulder; this dancing thing is weird and lame but whatever. The song finishes and neither of them knows how to let go and really stop, but they do and it’s okay, and somehow they both feel like they’re a step closer to something.
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Author: prismpayne
Word Count: 1,500ish
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: America/England, HUMANSSSS
Prompt: America/England, a fancy dinner, both of them in suits , bonus if it includes dancing of some sort afterward, and they're both awkward over it, but in the end, cute.
Notes: Gosh this is SO LATE AND LAME I AM SO SORRY RL is crazy, don't get me started but this prompt totally called my name. There may also be some potential fail in this, I like italics a lot, so I apologize for that, too.
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March 7th, 2010 7:34 PM
For the nth time this evening, after fussing with his tie for more than five minutes, England examines his appearance. His countenance is expectant, and he flashes a reserved grin-until his shoulders sag and his face falls, completely withering.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, brushing off his vest. “It’s just dinner.” He recalls last week, wherein he’d received a call from America. So I heard your PM is coming over here! And my boss heard, and they’re having this dinner over in Washington. NotD.C., the one on the west coast! You should… you should really come, too! That’d be awesome.
What a stupid proposition. Naturally from the biggest idiot of them all. It hardly mattered to England.
Then why are you acting so flustered?
England shoos the thought away and gives himself one last look and sighs, pulling on his black suit jacket. He looks fine. Dinner will be typical, there’s nothing special to worry over. That’s England’s final thought as he grabs his hotel card key and leaves the room.
--
March 7th, 2010 7:54 PM
America is so excited for tonight’s dinner, it feels like forever since he’s been in Spokane. When was the last time? 1974, maybe? Yeah, definitely then, with the world expo and stuff. It’s probably been a month at the most from when he last saw England, though. For some reason, he’s pretty stoked to see him, too. He’s never been to the Davenport, neither has Obama. Bush stayed there, though, a few years back. He’ll finally realize how much class I have after he sees it, right?. The limo comes to a stop in front of the hotel, and the door at the side opens, and America and his boss step out into the breezy pink evening and onto the sidewalk. People are crowded around outside. America rakes his fingers through his hair and smiles. Showtime.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:00 PM
England is right on time, at Cameron’s side between the bodyguards. They walk briskly through the front doors and the lobby, beautifully crafted, restored recently, England can tell. He approves, however, lush chairs and carpeting, marble tile on the walkways, an exquisite fountain in the center, and look, a Starbucks, too. With a smirk, England is escorted into the Palm Court grill, a long table set for maybe 30. A positively blissful aroma is blooming in the air, fresh and warm, just like-
America is wearing a suit. A Hugo Boss suit. Tailored delicately to his broad shoulders and waist and topped off with a steel grey tie. His hair is slicked back, crisp and clean with that golden glow that makes it appear soft and new. Sans for Nantucket, of course, free as a bird. America is conversing with another man in a suit until he sees Cameron, lighting up and shaking his hand. England watches them talk and sees America’s eyes flicker towards him quickly, and then once more with a more intimate air as it registers that hey, England is over there, gonna go over and say something stupid in slang like “legit’ to see u hear 2nite”.
He approaches and reaches for England’s hand, shakes it firm with confident, calloused hands.
“Evening, England,” he says, in actual English. Those blue eyes are perfectly crystal clear tonight, eager and jovial, picture-perfect behind black frames. “I’m really glad you could make it! It’s so great when everyone gets together like this.” England searches for a reply, still enraptured in America’s appearance, how silly of him, it’s only America.
“Hrm, yes,” England mentally slaps himself. “This hotel is grand, America, great choice. Have I perhaps been to this part of Washington before?” He says, sparking conversation with this excited America, this version of him that’s fun and so youthful.
“Maybe, I think you have. It’s an awesome city, I’ll take you around tomorrow, if you want,” he offers, becoming deeply interested in showing England everything about Spokane, Washington. England would love that, it would actually be great fun, but--
“I’m terribly sorry America, I have a flight out that leaves early in the morning,” he tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry after seeing the bummed expression on America’s face.
“Nah, it’s fine. Some other time!” And then America bounces away to talk more with his people.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:24 PM
So America and England are sitting next to each other, which they didn’t exactly expect, but they don’t particularly mind. America nudges England frequently, addressing the names and life stories (or random ones that America miraculously knows) of the senators, governor, and mayor all here tonight with their respective husbands and wives, etc.
“The couples here are all pleasant, all good people” he happily explains. England barely seems to care, so America decides to poke some fun at him. “Sooo why didn’t you bring a hot date tonight, England? Or maybe you’re hiding her?” He rests his head on England’s shoulder, whose face flushes completely, and he shrugs America off.
“Well maybe I didn’t want to bring anyone, it’s just one night, one dinner, stupid git,” England tosses out these words like old socks, he just wants to get rid of them and onto a new subject. America allows. For now.
--
March 7th, 2010 8:58 PM
Appetizers bedeck the table, each giving off a different aroma with flavors that don’t seem to clash. England and America avidly pick at the various starters, trying each. After finishing those, England watches America polish off his glass of some light beer and nearly wipes the corners of his mouth on his brand new, beautiful suit, but rather grabs his napkin at the last second. England sighs, relieved.
“I’m really glad you could make it, England,” America stresses. England nods and looks at him with a fond smile, something he’s been wearing this whole evening, something that America’s been staring at this whole evening.
--
March 7th, 2010 9:43 PM
America’s dinner is the square root of pure awesome. It’s the Ahi Tuna Steak, and it’s perfect, tangy and sweet. England’s got some filet thing, it had a long name, and there were a ton of mushrooms which America was sure to stay far away from. He seems pretty happy with his meal, too, so America continues to chow down, which probably isn’t the best way to eat in front of the president.
Defeated, England drops his hand on the table after accidentally spilling some sauce onto his jacket.
“Brilliant,” he says, scornful, reaching for his napkin with his left hand. America notices and inadvertently places his hand on top of England’s so that he can try to be helpful and clean up, too. He doesn’t expect England to withdraw immediately after touching him. “Er, sorry, you surprised me,” their eyes didn’t make contact. “I can get it.” He turns away, and America blinks, feeling useless.
--
March 7th, 2010 11:08 PM
Dinner is over, handshakes and hugs are being exchanged. England has been standoffish after the sauce thing. America is sad.
He decides to walk England out.
“So did you like it?” He prods, hopeful. England crosses his arms and looks up at the night sky, surprised that he can see stars.
“It was fun. I’m glad I was invited.” America sighs and puts his hands in his pockets, searching for conversation topics other than the weather and cars. An idea comes to mind.
“Did you see the Marie Antoinette ballroom?” England shoots America a quizzical look.
“Why on earth would you name a ballroom after one of France’s biggest twits in history?”
“Hey, I read on a Snapple cap once that a twit is the scientific name for a goldfish.” England’s eyes are narrow and skeptical, and he starts to leave, but America grabs his arm instead and pulls him back into the hotel. “Sorry, but you gotta see this room, England. It’s awesome,” America explains, nearly dragging England through the lobby and up a couple stairs. “Here…”
England breathes sharply. Dimmed lights ignite a romantic atmosphere, yet the room is still completely visible. And it’s beautiful, grand, with white walls that have gold panels and ornate woodwork. There’s a balcony that encircles the room, with a gilded railing and graceful chandeliers on the ceiling. Lace curtains veil the various doorways. “It’s beautiful…”
“They use it for receptions and stuff. And dancing. Which I feel like we should’ve had more of this evening.” England doesn’t seem to notice America’s implication, so instead America acts on impulse and oddly enough, pulls England close and clasps their hands together. “So let’s dance!” It sounds like a question. England doesn’t have words, just silence as his mouth opens and closes like a fish as America waltzes with him. The music is faint, but clear. An old instrumental jazz tune, Moonlight in Vermont, America thinks.
As they dance a little longer, it gets easier, and their fingers tangle.
“I really am glad you could make it,” America says again. He looks at England’s lips; he waits for them to part and move. Instead, a red-faced England hums in agreement and nuzzles into America’s shoulder; this dancing thing is weird and lame but whatever. The song finishes and neither of them knows how to let go and really stop, but they do and it’s okay, and somehow they both feel like they’re a step closer to something.
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