"You're Gonna Do Wonders..."
Title: You're Gonna Do Wonders
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "And when Jackson or Lincoln or Taft or whoever asked who the hell this boy was supposed to be, well, that’s when some aide would lean in and whisper the news. They took some convincing, of course..." (Reposted from the Kink Meme)
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He’d left his bomber jacket in the apartment, folded sloppily over the back of a recliner. Exuding an air of effortless cool was all well and good, but D.C weather got downright unlivable in January. Cool is hard to exude when you’re freezing your balls off. Wool’s not exactly his kind of fabric, but what the hell. It’s warm, and you do things for your boss. Especially your new one.
America heaves a sigh and scans the lawn around the Washington Monument, his breath hanging like white smoke in the air. Years ago, when he was just a kid, he used to do this in the White House, striding into the Oval Office and offering his hand to the boss. “Alfred F. Jones, nice to meet you. You’re gonna do wonders with this place, I know it.” And when Jackson or Lincoln or Taft or whoever asked who the hell this boy was supposed to be, well, that’s when some aide would lean in and whisper the news.
They took some convincing, of course. Teddy Roosevelt’s response (“Bullshit.") pretty much summed up every one of his bosses’ initial thoughts on the matter. He can hardly blame them; there’s not really a protocol for delivering the news, so all they got was some variation on what Washington had been told: “He’s, ah, he’s the country. America. No sir, I am most certainly not ‘taking the piss’, and I’m insulted that you would think so! ...Yes, yes, you’re forgiven. Look, we don’t know exactly how it works, but every other nation has one too. You’ll meet them soon enough...” America always shakes their hands carefully, flashing that easy grin of his as he watches realization dawn in their eyes. It has something to do with touching him, he’s sure.
The tradition changed sometime during Vietnam. It couldn’t be helped; he got sick of people introducing him and then adding their own commentary. “America, murderer of a half-million innocent Cambodian civilians” doesn’t have the right sort of ring to it. And besides, Ford didn’t need any more shit to deal with when he took office. So “Hi, I’m America, I’m your country, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, and don’t you have some Nixon-related thing to be working on?” became the norm. It’s better like that, he thinks. Much more personal.
“Excuse me, Alfred?”
America turns, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand (God, he is tired), and comes face to face with his new boss. He’s not alone, obviously; dark-suited men lurk just beyond the treeline, touching their ears with alarming regularity. America has to resist giving them a little wave. Security hates him. They’ve never been able to figure out if they should protect him or not, and it drives them crazy.
“Yep,” America loosens his scarf and smiles. “That’s me.”
The boss offers a gloved hand. “I was told to meet you here. Sorry for keeping you waiting, it’s been a crazy day.”
They fall into step beside one another, making their way toward the end of the reflecting pool. America casts a sidelong glance at the man next to him. He seems like a good guy. Granted, the Nation likes to believe the best about everyone, but he can’t imagine his boss taking advantage of that trust. No way. Not this time. Of course, he’d liked the last one too...
“So, there’s some information you need to give me?” The boss breaks the silence, and America blinks behind his glasses. He’s losing track here. Focus, Al. He pauses, licks his lips. Jesus, he always forgets how hard this is, like being on a first date or something.
The president laughs, and the sound echoes across the empty lawn. “Don’t tell me this is the part where I find out about Roswell?”
America thinks guiltily of Tony for a second. Maybe he should...No, definitely not. He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know this is going to be a little hard to swallow, but I’m, uh, I’m your country.”
A long pause.
“My what?”
“Your country. Like, America and stuff.” America shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and wishes the rest of him could follow. “England told me we’re ‘anthropomorphic’ or something. Personally, I think he’s full of it, but you know, I can’t tell him that.”
“Hold on just a second, Alfred.” The boss pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s say that somehow what you’re saying is true. How can you possibly be a country? A country’s just lines in the ground, and arbitrary lines at that.”
“How are you a person?” America counters. “I have no idea. I just am.” He lets a small, uneasy smile cross his lips. This is getting pretty existential pretty fast, and if there’s one thing America likes to avoid, it’s self-examination. So instead he takes the president’s hand, tugs the glove off in one swift movement, and slaps their bare palms together. They stand for a moment, staring at one another while the men in black rustle in the bushes behind them.
Finally, the boss takes a step back, blinking as though he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh.”
America nods. “Oh.”
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Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "And when Jackson or Lincoln or Taft or whoever asked who the hell this boy was supposed to be, well, that’s when some aide would lean in and whisper the news. They took some convincing, of course..." (Reposted from the Kink Meme)
+++
He’d left his bomber jacket in the apartment, folded sloppily over the back of a recliner. Exuding an air of effortless cool was all well and good, but D.C weather got downright unlivable in January. Cool is hard to exude when you’re freezing your balls off. Wool’s not exactly his kind of fabric, but what the hell. It’s warm, and you do things for your boss. Especially your new one.
America heaves a sigh and scans the lawn around the Washington Monument, his breath hanging like white smoke in the air. Years ago, when he was just a kid, he used to do this in the White House, striding into the Oval Office and offering his hand to the boss. “Alfred F. Jones, nice to meet you. You’re gonna do wonders with this place, I know it.” And when Jackson or Lincoln or Taft or whoever asked who the hell this boy was supposed to be, well, that’s when some aide would lean in and whisper the news.
They took some convincing, of course. Teddy Roosevelt’s response (“Bullshit.") pretty much summed up every one of his bosses’ initial thoughts on the matter. He can hardly blame them; there’s not really a protocol for delivering the news, so all they got was some variation on what Washington had been told: “He’s, ah, he’s the country. America. No sir, I am most certainly not ‘taking the piss’, and I’m insulted that you would think so! ...Yes, yes, you’re forgiven. Look, we don’t know exactly how it works, but every other nation has one too. You’ll meet them soon enough...” America always shakes their hands carefully, flashing that easy grin of his as he watches realization dawn in their eyes. It has something to do with touching him, he’s sure.
The tradition changed sometime during Vietnam. It couldn’t be helped; he got sick of people introducing him and then adding their own commentary. “America, murderer of a half-million innocent Cambodian civilians” doesn’t have the right sort of ring to it. And besides, Ford didn’t need any more shit to deal with when he took office. So “Hi, I’m America, I’m your country, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, and don’t you have some Nixon-related thing to be working on?” became the norm. It’s better like that, he thinks. Much more personal.
“Excuse me, Alfred?”
America turns, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand (God, he is tired), and comes face to face with his new boss. He’s not alone, obviously; dark-suited men lurk just beyond the treeline, touching their ears with alarming regularity. America has to resist giving them a little wave. Security hates him. They’ve never been able to figure out if they should protect him or not, and it drives them crazy.
“Yep,” America loosens his scarf and smiles. “That’s me.”
The boss offers a gloved hand. “I was told to meet you here. Sorry for keeping you waiting, it’s been a crazy day.”
They fall into step beside one another, making their way toward the end of the reflecting pool. America casts a sidelong glance at the man next to him. He seems like a good guy. Granted, the Nation likes to believe the best about everyone, but he can’t imagine his boss taking advantage of that trust. No way. Not this time. Of course, he’d liked the last one too...
“So, there’s some information you need to give me?” The boss breaks the silence, and America blinks behind his glasses. He’s losing track here. Focus, Al. He pauses, licks his lips. Jesus, he always forgets how hard this is, like being on a first date or something.
The president laughs, and the sound echoes across the empty lawn. “Don’t tell me this is the part where I find out about Roswell?”
America thinks guiltily of Tony for a second. Maybe he should...No, definitely not. He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know this is going to be a little hard to swallow, but I’m, uh, I’m your country.”
A long pause.
“My what?”
“Your country. Like, America and stuff.” America shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and wishes the rest of him could follow. “England told me we’re ‘anthropomorphic’ or something. Personally, I think he’s full of it, but you know, I can’t tell him that.”
“Hold on just a second, Alfred.” The boss pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s say that somehow what you’re saying is true. How can you possibly be a country? A country’s just lines in the ground, and arbitrary lines at that.”
“How are you a person?” America counters. “I have no idea. I just am.” He lets a small, uneasy smile cross his lips. This is getting pretty existential pretty fast, and if there’s one thing America likes to avoid, it’s self-examination. So instead he takes the president’s hand, tugs the glove off in one swift movement, and slaps their bare palms together. They stand for a moment, staring at one another while the men in black rustle in the bushes behind them.
Finally, the boss takes a step back, blinking as though he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh.”
America nods. “Oh.”
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Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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