This is a birthday gift and a France/America fic
In honor of tricolores ' 20th birthday, April 16th, which I am NOT late for because it's still the 16th where she is, I've written a short FrUS fic. Enjoy!
“What do you mean you’re not going to support my efforts in the War on Terror?!”
“I mean what I said, mon cher.”
“But why not? Those filthy terrorists had no business attacking me like that!”
“Of course they didn’t, but how is this going to solve anything?”
“Do I mean nothing to you?!”
“What does-“
“Even after I’ve been sleeping with you for the past five years?!”
“That has nothing to do with-“
“I hate you! I hate you so much that I don’t want your name in my McDonald’s! From this day on, French fries will now be called FREEDOM FRIES!”
If France had anything to say about that, America didn’t hear it. He’d already stormed out of the room and slammed the door. The fact that it was a hotel room in New Orleans, several hours away from his New York City apartment, and he hadn’t brought his room key with him hadn’t dawned on him yet. Let alone the fact that he was stuck with France for the remainder of this vacation, freedom fries or not.
Despite everyone else telling him how stupid the whole thing was, America stuck to his guns. French fries were dead and freedom fries were born. It was exasperating, however, that this didn’t seem to faze France one bit. He had no idea why, either. At least, not until he got a very angry phone call from Belgium. When he answered the phone, he was greeted with a feminine voice that started off resembling a gunshot, shrieking -in French- about…something. It took him a while to figure it out, but it was something along the lines of insisting upon attributing things to “that perverted wine addict French bastard” that never belonged to him in the first place and not giving credit where credit is due. He didn’t even get the chance to say he was sorry before she’d hung up, and he still wasn’t sure what was going on. Once his ears stopped ringing, he ran a few search keywords through Google. About an hour later, he came to the conclusion that French fries were Belgian. Oops.
That didn’t stop him from insisting upon calling them freedom fries, however. At least, not for a while. It didn’t take long, however, for his citizens to realize how utterly stupid the name change was. It didn’t take long for fast food chains to take down their signs advertising “freedom fries”. It also didn’t take long after that for his own citizens and government officials to start saying exactly what France had said to him in regards to the War on Terror; it wouldn’t solve anything, it wouldn’t undo the damage the terrorists had done, and it wouldn’t stop them from doing this sort of thing in the future. The best course of action was to up security within the country.
So he figured an apology was in order. Sighing in defeat, he dialed France’s number.
“Bonjour?”
“Ah, France? It’s me. America”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to me?”
“I wasn’t. Not until now”
“And what brought this about?”
“My citizens…actually agree with you”
Obnoxious French laughter assaulted America’s ears from the phone.
“Stop that”
“Sorry”
“So uh…I’m sorry?”
“That tone isn’t very convincing, mon petit, but I’ll accept it this time”
“Ah…merci”
“Your pronunciation is still terrible”
America chose to ignore that.
“So uh…can we pick up where we left off?”
“You mean at Le Richelieu?”
France’s tone was unmistakably seductive. America liked that.
“You’ve read my mind. And I promise we won’t eat at McDonald’s this time.”
A/N: Le Richelieu is a hotel in the French Quarter district of New Orleans. http://www.lerichelieuhotel.com/
“What do you mean you’re not going to support my efforts in the War on Terror?!”
“I mean what I said, mon cher.”
“But why not? Those filthy terrorists had no business attacking me like that!”
“Of course they didn’t, but how is this going to solve anything?”
“Do I mean nothing to you?!”
“What does-“
“Even after I’ve been sleeping with you for the past five years?!”
“That has nothing to do with-“
“I hate you! I hate you so much that I don’t want your name in my McDonald’s! From this day on, French fries will now be called FREEDOM FRIES!”
If France had anything to say about that, America didn’t hear it. He’d already stormed out of the room and slammed the door. The fact that it was a hotel room in New Orleans, several hours away from his New York City apartment, and he hadn’t brought his room key with him hadn’t dawned on him yet. Let alone the fact that he was stuck with France for the remainder of this vacation, freedom fries or not.
Despite everyone else telling him how stupid the whole thing was, America stuck to his guns. French fries were dead and freedom fries were born. It was exasperating, however, that this didn’t seem to faze France one bit. He had no idea why, either. At least, not until he got a very angry phone call from Belgium. When he answered the phone, he was greeted with a feminine voice that started off resembling a gunshot, shrieking -in French- about…something. It took him a while to figure it out, but it was something along the lines of insisting upon attributing things to “that perverted wine addict French bastard” that never belonged to him in the first place and not giving credit where credit is due. He didn’t even get the chance to say he was sorry before she’d hung up, and he still wasn’t sure what was going on. Once his ears stopped ringing, he ran a few search keywords through Google. About an hour later, he came to the conclusion that French fries were Belgian. Oops.
That didn’t stop him from insisting upon calling them freedom fries, however. At least, not for a while. It didn’t take long, however, for his citizens to realize how utterly stupid the name change was. It didn’t take long for fast food chains to take down their signs advertising “freedom fries”. It also didn’t take long after that for his own citizens and government officials to start saying exactly what France had said to him in regards to the War on Terror; it wouldn’t solve anything, it wouldn’t undo the damage the terrorists had done, and it wouldn’t stop them from doing this sort of thing in the future. The best course of action was to up security within the country.
So he figured an apology was in order. Sighing in defeat, he dialed France’s number.
“Bonjour?”
“Ah, France? It’s me. America”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to me?”
“I wasn’t. Not until now”
“And what brought this about?”
“My citizens…actually agree with you”
Obnoxious French laughter assaulted America’s ears from the phone.
“Stop that”
“Sorry”
“So uh…I’m sorry?”
“That tone isn’t very convincing, mon petit, but I’ll accept it this time”
“Ah…merci”
“Your pronunciation is still terrible”
America chose to ignore that.
“So uh…can we pick up where we left off?”
“You mean at Le Richelieu?”
France’s tone was unmistakably seductive. America liked that.
“You’ve read my mind. And I promise we won’t eat at McDonald’s this time.”
A/N: Le Richelieu is a hotel in the French Quarter district of New Orleans. http://www.lerichelieuhotel.com/