Present Arms
Title: Present Arms
Character(s): Prussia, America
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language. I think that's a default warning for most of my stuff.
Summary: Winter at Valley Forge, with a little help from some unexpected (and awesome) sources.
"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, what am I doing? Right now, you mean? BLEEDING. Asshole."
"Well, stop it. It's bad for morale." In one clean, decisive jerk, Prussia hauled America bodily to his feet, beating the snow off his jacket with more force than was strictly necessary. "My god, farm boy, show a little backbone, can't you?"
America bristled and started forward. "I've got plenty of backbone, you controlling psycho--"
"--Then how can I keep pushing you down?"
"That doesn't ma--"
"Yes it does," snarled Prussia, shoving America in an already-bruised shoulder and forcing him to stagger back a step. He pressed on relentlessly, punctuating his words with further painful jabs. "It matters because of what it means about you, that you are fumbling and unprepared and weak, and why do you think that is?"
For a brief moment, America considered trying another headlong assault on Prussia just to wipe that damned condescending look away, but his aching joints advised him against it, so he drew his too-thin coat more tightly about him and focused his remaining energy into his best glare. After a moment, he broke eye contact, glowering instead off to his left, where the soldiers still stood assembled in the distance. "Because they are," he said at last, sullen.
"Exactly. You are weak because they are, and they are weak because you are."
"That doesn't make any--"
"--Look, it's all a bit philosophical, alright? Just shut your goddamn mouth and try to learn something."
"I still don't get why you're here," muttered America, still watching the men (the men, thought Prussia, for they were not yet troops). "I mean, it's just that ONE guy, and he's not even your boss, hell, I doubt he even KNOWS your boss as well as they all seem to think he does..."
"Oh, and he doesn't," Prussia answered cheerily, turning to watch the far-off form of the general berate another luckless victim. "But old Fritz's quite keen on what you idiots are up to over here at the moment, so I thought it'd be a good idea to oversee some of this business myself. 'Sides, I always did want to see your place. Is it nicer, when everybody's not freezing to death?"
America wanted to grab Prussia, shake him, scream in his smug heedless face that this was not a vacation home, this was his home and someone was trying to deny him of it and it was not a joke--but he didn't. Even this casual, Prussia was not unguarded. "So why the sudden interest, anyway?" he said instead, sullen. "I thought you kind of liked England."
"I like a lot of things," said Prussia serenely. "Right now, you're almost one of them ."
"Almost?"
"Yeah, well, if you'd learn how to fucking organize your camps so people aren't shitting on the same side as where they're eating, I might be a little more enthusiastic. Now come on, I wanna show you something."
He turned and walked away without a further word, leaving America to stand, bewildered, in the wake of his trailing overcoat. It was with some disgruntlement (and perhaps just the slightest bit of trepidation) that America followed. The wind threatened to batter him back more than once and his feet sank deeply into the fresh snow, making every step a skirmish in itself. At least he had shoes, he reminded himself, and pressed on grimly. At last they reached their destination; Prussia approached the wide sawed-off tree stump and picked up one of the objects lying on it with an easy flourish. America hung back a few paces and observed warily.
"This," said Prussia, holding the blade up appraisingly to watch the cold metal glimmer in the failing light, "is a bayonet."
"Yes," said America slowly. "Good job. I've got loads of 'em. I've had them for ages."
"So why is it that you still don't know how to use one?" said Prussia, the edge to his voice rivaling the one in his hand.
"I--What--"
"--Shut up. I've seen how your men use these. This is a weapon, you heathen, not some cooking implement or common tool. It's a fuckin' sophisticated instrument of warfare, alright, so show a little fuckin' respect." As he spoke, he idly twirled the sophisticated instrument in question in his hand, but America refrained from commenting on this discrepancy.
"Alright, fine. I respect it, whatever the hell that means. So what now?"
Prussia halted the bayonet's lazy rotation sharply and held it in front of him, absently pressing the tip into the palm of his other hand and looking very much as though he would like to do the same thing with considerably more gusto to certain portions of America's person. "Pick up your gun," he said, after a long moment. He jerked his head toward the stump, and only then did America notice that that was his own musket lying there, far outside the boundaries of camp and very much not where it should have been. Grudgingly, he walked over and picked it up, flashing Prussia the least overtly challenging accusatory look he could manage. Prussia paid it no mind.
"Sit down," he said curtly. America did so without protest, and Prussia joined him on the stump. "Now," he began, patting his knees decisively. "Load it."
"But...but I thought we were going to talk about bayonets."
"England's coming and he's PISSED. You have less than thirty seconds. Go!"
America, spurred into action, fumbled furiously in his jacket pockets for a round, balancing the musket precariously on his knees. He primed and loaded in increasingly desperate haste, Prussia barking commands at his side the whole way through.
"Come on, come on, you wasted time in the beginning and now he's closing in! Handle cartridge! Good! Steady, idiot, steady, shaky hands are inefficient hands! He'll overrun us at this rate, hurry up! Ram cartridge, ram it down! Faster! Oh, oh, and there he is, he's gaining fast, nothing to do now but present and--"
America sprang to his feet, swiveled to take aim at some imaginary point in the vast white empty expanse, and fired with an inarticulate yell. The shot echoed hollowly across the open plain. Alight and trembling with adrenaline, he collapsed back onto the stump, where Prussia promptly stabbed him in the arm.
"OW! What the hell, Prussia?!" He jerked back, clutching the assaulted limb indignantly.
"You see? Not enough time to reload and fight that one off, was there?"
"Well, NO, 'cause you just fucking--"
"--Knives don't need to be reloaded, colonist. Knives are always ready, even when you're taken by surprise. And that is why we have bayonets."
America rubbed sulkily at the fresh injury, knowing that it would be sore for days now. "It's not that big a deal. England's gotta reload sometime, too."
"Exactly. You have to learn how to use that. You don't expect him to sit around and wait for you to be ready before he makes his move, do you?" He ignored it when America paused just a bit too long to consider this, leaning forward and clasping the would-be nation's unhurt shoulder supportively, conspiratorially. "So are you ready to learn something useful?"
"Y-yes."
"Lovely." And he took the musket from America's unresisting hands and began affixing the bayonet to its end. "You know, they used to have this kind that you just sort of plugged into the barrel?" he mused, testing the attachment carefully. "Which was just completely missing the point, of course, 'cause then the poor bastards couldn't shoot at all while it was in, and that was no good."
America raised his eyebrows, expression far too open (as always). "How'd they figure out a mistake like that?"
"The hard way, I imagine." Satisfied with his work, Prussia swung the musket back into America's grasp, steering the hold with his own arms which had now somehow found themselves around either side of the odd ignorant child beside him. "Alright now, feel that?" he said, coercing America to lift the weapon in a firing position. He rested his chin on America's shoulder and shut one eye in concentration, trying to match his gaze to what America would be viewing along the sight. "The heft is a little different with that extra weight on the end, so you've gotta adjust to that, but that shouldn't take too long to learn...Hey, what's your problem?" he added, frowning, when he felt the sudden tension in the body under him.
"Nothing," said America, far too hastily (as always). "It's nothing." But saying it could not make him believe it, could not halt the chills edging up and down his spine, could not block the long-unfelt sensation of arms around him, guiding, teaching, arms which suddenly were not Prussia's but somebody else's, somebody--somebody who was no longer his teacher, he reminded himself, but his shoulders stayed knotted.
They stayed like that a moment longer, America holding the gun and Prussia holding America, both staring down the barrel towards what Prussia now began to suspect were two entirely different points. He withdrew with a soft, noncommittal sort of noise, and America lowered the musket at last.
"Funny way of rebelling you've got in the new world," he said dryly.
America shrugged. "But you're right. He won't just stand around and wait anymore. And neither will I."
Prussia rose to his feet and shot a long-suffering look heavenward. "Perfect, maybe you'll kill each other and leave the rest of us some damn natural resources. Come on, then, let's find some people for you to practice stabbing."
"Er, you mean straw people, right?"
"Whatever. Pansy."
So America got up and ran after Prussia (had to run, because Prussia neither waited nor slowed for him) and listened, learned, trained, worked for the sake of his people; and meanwhile at the camp his people worked for his sake, and Prussia worked for nobody's sake except perhaps his own, but still the Winter was not quite as cold as he had expected it to be and suddenly America felt very, very ready for Spring.
---
...So basically I just wrote a hell of a lot of Prussia in the beginning. It's getting hard to date all of these things properly.
Character(s): Prussia, America
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language. I think that's a default warning for most of my stuff.
Summary: Winter at Valley Forge, with a little help from some unexpected (and awesome) sources.
"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Oh, what am I doing? Right now, you mean? BLEEDING. Asshole."
"Well, stop it. It's bad for morale." In one clean, decisive jerk, Prussia hauled America bodily to his feet, beating the snow off his jacket with more force than was strictly necessary. "My god, farm boy, show a little backbone, can't you?"
America bristled and started forward. "I've got plenty of backbone, you controlling psycho--"
"--Then how can I keep pushing you down?"
"That doesn't ma--"
"Yes it does," snarled Prussia, shoving America in an already-bruised shoulder and forcing him to stagger back a step. He pressed on relentlessly, punctuating his words with further painful jabs. "It matters because of what it means about you, that you are fumbling and unprepared and weak, and why do you think that is?"
For a brief moment, America considered trying another headlong assault on Prussia just to wipe that damned condescending look away, but his aching joints advised him against it, so he drew his too-thin coat more tightly about him and focused his remaining energy into his best glare. After a moment, he broke eye contact, glowering instead off to his left, where the soldiers still stood assembled in the distance. "Because they are," he said at last, sullen.
"Exactly. You are weak because they are, and they are weak because you are."
"That doesn't make any--"
"--Look, it's all a bit philosophical, alright? Just shut your goddamn mouth and try to learn something."
"I still don't get why you're here," muttered America, still watching the men (the men, thought Prussia, for they were not yet troops). "I mean, it's just that ONE guy, and he's not even your boss, hell, I doubt he even KNOWS your boss as well as they all seem to think he does..."
"Oh, and he doesn't," Prussia answered cheerily, turning to watch the far-off form of the general berate another luckless victim. "But old Fritz's quite keen on what you idiots are up to over here at the moment, so I thought it'd be a good idea to oversee some of this business myself. 'Sides, I always did want to see your place. Is it nicer, when everybody's not freezing to death?"
America wanted to grab Prussia, shake him, scream in his smug heedless face that this was not a vacation home, this was his home and someone was trying to deny him of it and it was not a joke--but he didn't. Even this casual, Prussia was not unguarded. "So why the sudden interest, anyway?" he said instead, sullen. "I thought you kind of liked England."
"I like a lot of things," said Prussia serenely. "Right now, you're almost one of them ."
"Almost?"
"Yeah, well, if you'd learn how to fucking organize your camps so people aren't shitting on the same side as where they're eating, I might be a little more enthusiastic. Now come on, I wanna show you something."
He turned and walked away without a further word, leaving America to stand, bewildered, in the wake of his trailing overcoat. It was with some disgruntlement (and perhaps just the slightest bit of trepidation) that America followed. The wind threatened to batter him back more than once and his feet sank deeply into the fresh snow, making every step a skirmish in itself. At least he had shoes, he reminded himself, and pressed on grimly. At last they reached their destination; Prussia approached the wide sawed-off tree stump and picked up one of the objects lying on it with an easy flourish. America hung back a few paces and observed warily.
"This," said Prussia, holding the blade up appraisingly to watch the cold metal glimmer in the failing light, "is a bayonet."
"Yes," said America slowly. "Good job. I've got loads of 'em. I've had them for ages."
"So why is it that you still don't know how to use one?" said Prussia, the edge to his voice rivaling the one in his hand.
"I--What--"
"--Shut up. I've seen how your men use these. This is a weapon, you heathen, not some cooking implement or common tool. It's a fuckin' sophisticated instrument of warfare, alright, so show a little fuckin' respect." As he spoke, he idly twirled the sophisticated instrument in question in his hand, but America refrained from commenting on this discrepancy.
"Alright, fine. I respect it, whatever the hell that means. So what now?"
Prussia halted the bayonet's lazy rotation sharply and held it in front of him, absently pressing the tip into the palm of his other hand and looking very much as though he would like to do the same thing with considerably more gusto to certain portions of America's person. "Pick up your gun," he said, after a long moment. He jerked his head toward the stump, and only then did America notice that that was his own musket lying there, far outside the boundaries of camp and very much not where it should have been. Grudgingly, he walked over and picked it up, flashing Prussia the least overtly challenging accusatory look he could manage. Prussia paid it no mind.
"Sit down," he said curtly. America did so without protest, and Prussia joined him on the stump. "Now," he began, patting his knees decisively. "Load it."
"But...but I thought we were going to talk about bayonets."
"England's coming and he's PISSED. You have less than thirty seconds. Go!"
America, spurred into action, fumbled furiously in his jacket pockets for a round, balancing the musket precariously on his knees. He primed and loaded in increasingly desperate haste, Prussia barking commands at his side the whole way through.
"Come on, come on, you wasted time in the beginning and now he's closing in! Handle cartridge! Good! Steady, idiot, steady, shaky hands are inefficient hands! He'll overrun us at this rate, hurry up! Ram cartridge, ram it down! Faster! Oh, oh, and there he is, he's gaining fast, nothing to do now but present and--"
America sprang to his feet, swiveled to take aim at some imaginary point in the vast white empty expanse, and fired with an inarticulate yell. The shot echoed hollowly across the open plain. Alight and trembling with adrenaline, he collapsed back onto the stump, where Prussia promptly stabbed him in the arm.
"OW! What the hell, Prussia?!" He jerked back, clutching the assaulted limb indignantly.
"You see? Not enough time to reload and fight that one off, was there?"
"Well, NO, 'cause you just fucking--"
"--Knives don't need to be reloaded, colonist. Knives are always ready, even when you're taken by surprise. And that is why we have bayonets."
America rubbed sulkily at the fresh injury, knowing that it would be sore for days now. "It's not that big a deal. England's gotta reload sometime, too."
"Exactly. You have to learn how to use that. You don't expect him to sit around and wait for you to be ready before he makes his move, do you?" He ignored it when America paused just a bit too long to consider this, leaning forward and clasping the would-be nation's unhurt shoulder supportively, conspiratorially. "So are you ready to learn something useful?"
"Y-yes."
"Lovely." And he took the musket from America's unresisting hands and began affixing the bayonet to its end. "You know, they used to have this kind that you just sort of plugged into the barrel?" he mused, testing the attachment carefully. "Which was just completely missing the point, of course, 'cause then the poor bastards couldn't shoot at all while it was in, and that was no good."
America raised his eyebrows, expression far too open (as always). "How'd they figure out a mistake like that?"
"The hard way, I imagine." Satisfied with his work, Prussia swung the musket back into America's grasp, steering the hold with his own arms which had now somehow found themselves around either side of the odd ignorant child beside him. "Alright now, feel that?" he said, coercing America to lift the weapon in a firing position. He rested his chin on America's shoulder and shut one eye in concentration, trying to match his gaze to what America would be viewing along the sight. "The heft is a little different with that extra weight on the end, so you've gotta adjust to that, but that shouldn't take too long to learn...Hey, what's your problem?" he added, frowning, when he felt the sudden tension in the body under him.
"Nothing," said America, far too hastily (as always). "It's nothing." But saying it could not make him believe it, could not halt the chills edging up and down his spine, could not block the long-unfelt sensation of arms around him, guiding, teaching, arms which suddenly were not Prussia's but somebody else's, somebody--somebody who was no longer his teacher, he reminded himself, but his shoulders stayed knotted.
They stayed like that a moment longer, America holding the gun and Prussia holding America, both staring down the barrel towards what Prussia now began to suspect were two entirely different points. He withdrew with a soft, noncommittal sort of noise, and America lowered the musket at last.
"Funny way of rebelling you've got in the new world," he said dryly.
America shrugged. "But you're right. He won't just stand around and wait anymore. And neither will I."
Prussia rose to his feet and shot a long-suffering look heavenward. "Perfect, maybe you'll kill each other and leave the rest of us some damn natural resources. Come on, then, let's find some people for you to practice stabbing."
"Er, you mean straw people, right?"
"Whatever. Pansy."
So America got up and ran after Prussia (had to run, because Prussia neither waited nor slowed for him) and listened, learned, trained, worked for the sake of his people; and meanwhile at the camp his people worked for his sake, and Prussia worked for nobody's sake except perhaps his own, but still the Winter was not quite as cold as he had expected it to be and suddenly America felt very, very ready for Spring.
---
...So basically I just wrote a hell of a lot of Prussia in the beginning. It's getting hard to date all of these things properly.