Title: Matters of Some Small Complication
Character(s): Belgium, Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: Extremely hazarded characterization for a character who (as far as I know) has not yet appeared in a strip.
Summary: Belgium's kitchen. 1962, rainstorms, and the kind of minor diplomatic crisis that cannot be remedied with waffles. There are still waffles, naturally.
Belgium's house sits alone but not lonely at the edge of where Brussels stops being a thought and starts being a city, on top of a smallish hill dotted with more types of flower than she remembers ever planning on growing. Not that she minds it. She takes care of all of them pretty much the same, since they're there and they seem happy enough with the whole arrangement, and they don't have anything smart to say back if she complains to them on her way to work in the mornings. Besides, the colors are nice to look at.
There are flowers in the kitchen today too, freshly-cut on the windowsill in an old glass vase Belgium had to dig out of storage. Daffodils, not tulips, since she has plenty of those as it is. Not poppies, either; Germany wouldn't give her poppies. Once, a long time ago, Prussia brought her cornflowers and told her stories about how important they were, how they were Queen Luise's favorites and the best shade of blue in God's kingdom and how they could beat France's sissy roses any day of the week. Germany's daffodils don't come with that kind of story, but the yellow looks better next to Belgium's new curtains anyway.
In fact, most colors look better and brighter next to an overcast sky like the one outside. Which is sort of the problem. Clouds mean rain, and rain means a lot of good things, but today it mostly means Belgium's Sunday morning gone completely off-plan.
According to those plans they should be at a cafe in the city already, one of those quiet perfect little ones that even people of their kind have to stumble onto instead of deliberately seek. Those are nice, open places to work. Instead the first thunderclaps came just before Germany showed up, with his flowers and his frown and his jacket up over his head to keep dry. Alright, you can't buy me breakfast in this, she'd said, with her shoulder to the door frame and her briefcase curled up against her hip. Then come in already and I guess I'll let you make something for me instead. Two steps back and then she'd turned, keeping an eye over her shoulder while she walked. At least now it'll be easier to call people up and yell at them together if we need to.
So now she's in the kitchen with her papers and his all laid out before her on the table, and instead of watching other people come and go and fill a room with lighter conversation she's listening to the rain patter against the window and watching Germany negotiate with a bowl of waffle batter while his coat dries on the back of the empty chair across from her. He's using one of his people's recipes, since Brussels and Liège style both take too long to prepare properly. There are ways you could make them without the yeast, yes, but Belgium thinks it may as well not be worth it then. In a way it's more interesting to watch Germany from the corner of her eye and see all the little ways he gets it wrong.
"Still not enough vanilla, I'd say," she yawns now, flicking through some industrial statistics. Germany takes the jar of vanilla sugar next to him and measures some more out so precisely she wonders if he counts the grains. It wouldn't surprise her. He's already washed his hands between every egg like it's surgery and not breakfast he's preparing for. "You were saying something about France?"
Germany nods, stirring. "I was saying that I believe France is going to oppose England's entry."
--He says that like it's some shocking revelation. Belgium sits back, cradles her second cup of coffee like a dear thing and decides that there should be something in it. Possibly rum, but then it's a little early for rum. Amaretto? There's a bottle of it that Italy gave her in one of the cupboards somewhere. Both Italys. Romano blushes enough for the two of them. She takes a thoughtful sip, listens to the roof beams rattle, then says, "There goes the neighborhood."
"It's his president again." Germany isn't the sort of person to test an iron by touching it, these days. His hand hovers a few centimeters above it, trying to gauge if it's hot enough yet. "Apparently he has expressed more doubts about England's commitment as of late," he continues, ever thorough. "They may prove difficult to dispel."
Which, again, isn't allowed to surprise anyone. Of course France won't want England in the EEC that easily, as long as it's something that England wants. Belgium can see it now, all bickering and finger-pointing and Luxembourg checking his watch at the next meeting while France weaves poetry of all the reasons he would rather pull out England's eyebrows than share an office with him. So that will slow things down again. And if she knows how these things work, and she's getting pretty good at that now, that means they might as well shelve Ireland's application too while they're at it. And Denmark's. Plus Norway, since he just worked up the interest to apply a few months ago, and good luck getting Norway to be excited for anything twice. Once is hard enough.
Belgium props her chin on her hand and watches droplets streak down the windowpane while the kitchen starts smelling like breakfast. "Well," she decides. "That bites."
"Mm." It's the kind of Mm Germany gives when he's too busy worrying to say something more useful, but that's not all that new. He lifts the iron to check his progress, pokes it blandly with a fork where Belgium can see the batter bled over weird. "This is not how Bergische Waffeln traditionally look," he informs her, for the record.
"Forget it," says Belgium. "The first one always looks funny." Not for Belgium, hers always come out fine, but she doesn't have to say that. She could if she wanted to. Instead she closes her eyes, blocks out the pages on the table for a second and tries to remember all the reasons why they are supposed to be what will save the continent. That's probably why she has to sign half of them in triplicate. "Okay, so we deal with that. Any ideas?"
Germany knows exactly how long to sigh about something and still be diplomatic. He probably ran studies on it. "I can speak with France," he starts, sounding almost surprised to hear himself say it. Like an afterthought, he shrugs. "Perhaps. But it guarantees little."
She snorts between her fingers. "It guarantees paperwork, I'll bet. We'll have to draw up a whole trade agreement just to make sure everyone has enough paperclips."
"Surely there is some provision for that already," Germany murmurs. He goes to the cabinet--plates, the little round ones Spain gave her a few Christmases ago. (More than a few, honestly.) The door doesn't shut all the way again when he closes it, so he frowns and tries it a second time. Third. Finally he's just standing there pushing it back and forth a hair, listening to the hinges creak and trying to see where something doesn't quite fit right. "Has it always done that?"
Only since I put your head through it. "Leave it," Belgium says, "and come sit with me."
He does, after fixing both of their plates and waiting patiently for her to move enough paperwork out of the way to set them down. "And you?" he asks, settling in his chair. "What would you suggest in this situation?"
Belgium ignores the silverware beside her and picks the waffle up in her hand instead, tears one misshapen corner off in her fingertips to judge the texture. "Well...it's France and England. Of course they're going to find a reason to bicker over everything." Loudly, stupidly, artfully. "That's sort of their job, I think," she adds, once her mouth isn't full anymore.
"They are uncommonly skilled at it," says Germany, who does use knife and fork.
"No kidding." Something's missing here. Powdered sugar--there, behind the coal export graphs. A little white cloud drifts from the container when she waves the hand holding it back and forth irritably. "Just watch, the next thing you know England will be saying that the whole thing's stupid anyway and he never wanted in in the first place." So you can choke on your veto, frog,, says the England-in-Belgium's-head. The exact wording of France's please die, Angleterre escapes her, but then France's rhetoric was always trickier.
Meanwhile, Germany seems to be paying a lot of attention to his plate. Belgium can't possibly imagine why. "What about you? Do you truly believe that this community will work?" he asks her, so carefully.
Yes, stupid, is what she would like to say, because she knows that he will probably expect her to have to think about it. Yes I believe in what I am doing, or what I am trying to do. Yes I believe that making this work is important. Yes I believe that sooner or later Europe is going to have to stop being a thought and start being something better, and yes, I'm pretty sure that I even believe that England and France can stop plotting each other's murders long enough to try it. On weekdays at least if nothing else.
She doesn't say any of that, obviously, and maybe for some of the same reasons. What she does do is lean back, pick up a pen and a financial report and tell him, eye to eye, "If I didn't, you wouldn't be sitting here."
And Germany nods and knows better than to smile at that. So it does work, doesn't it.
Outside the window Belgium's lawn is an artful blur, green mottled with all the flowers that she can't make out individually anymore from here. Later, once the storm has cleared, she'll walk all the way to Holland's house in her business suit and slip-on shoes and they can wander around ankle-deep in the mud talking about how silly it is that peace should be such hard work. He'll agree, or maybe say something terribly bland and deep about conflict about from one of his dead philosophers. She'll still throw a mudball at him since it's her right as a sister.
But that's all later. For now Germany clears away the dishes and starts brainstorming aloud about Possible Contingency Plans Should Herr de Gaulle's Esteemed Judgment Alter Existing Expectations for Progress. He makes a point of not asking about the waffles. Too much flour, for the record, if Belgium is being totally honest. It's alright. She's pretty sure she's tried worse before.
Thunder again, closer this time. Yellow really does stand out next to grey on the windowsill.
--
Quick notes; no Wiki link spree!
One: Germany and Belgium's 20th-century relations did not get off on the right foot, to say the least. That's not the kind of fic I wanted to write.
Two: Charles de Gaulle totally NON'd the UK's initiative to join the proto-EU in January of 1963. It, Ireland and Denmark reapplied and officially joined in 1973. Norway, not so much. ALSO COMPLICATED HAHAHAHA.
Yeah whatever this is total nonsense but I needed to write it, or something like it. On the bright side I think I finally remembered a bit of how to write prose again. :'D