A/N: Okay! This is for that dealio in New York with that housekeeper and Dominique Strauss-Kahn. It was too perfectly French for me to ignore. It's like, Really, France? Do you have to excrete stereotypical Frenchmen all the time? Seriously, knock it off!
This is a poor homage to a perfect real-life Hetalia moment, and I imagine that poor woman wouldn't find it very funny. But nothing's sacred and all that.
If you can name my author-hero-influence using my borrowed (read: stolen) lines, I will grant you the prize of your choice. I'm interested to see how many people can guess.
I don't own Hetalia. If I did, Poland would take over the world.
The sun went down over New York with the air of someone who had just saved the world and was still ignored by that cute girl two cubicles down from them. Just like it always does in the City that Never Sleeps. And as much as the sun hated that the cute girl never looked at him except to ask him to please move, he's blocking the copier, and always seemed to hang off that Bad Boy, Neon's, arm, it knew that in a couple hours it would have to buck up and get the courage to say 'Hi' to her again, fruitlessly, in a few hours.
So with a resentful sigh, the sun sank behind the Atlantic Ocean, blushing with frustration. Alfred Jones watched it happily and went back to his coffee. The sun meant very little to him, being both on his own insane biological clock and very bad at basic science. He just grinned and sipped his Joe, walking along the pleasant Manhattan evening boulevard.
America smiled at a few passing New Yorkers and shot the bull with a Pakistani hot dog vendor who had been very nice to him once. Though the sun was officially set, the streets of New York looked very much the same, thanks to billions of volts of electricity and the dull glow of a nearby insurance fire.
Or was it arson? It's a little difficult to tell from far away.
Alfred came to his hotel building and paused to appreciate the architecture. Unfortunately, he wasn't fully qualified to do so and was left giving a thumbs up.
"Pretty," he grinned intelligently and walked in.
The lobby was large and sumptuously decorated. "Welcome back, Mister Jones," smiled a pretty blonde manager wearing a bit too much makeup.
"Hi, Ralph," Alfred smiled back. "Lovely evening, huh?"
"Is it really? Wow, my shift ended hours ago!" Ralph ran off and Alfred shrugged. He pressed the "UP" button for an elevator and thought about what he was going to wear tonight.
Alfred assumed he would be going to Brunch. They always went to Brunch when England and France and everyone came for G8 meetings to New York. The eerie way the city ignored logic and time, coupled with severe jet-lag on Europe's part, seemed to make Brunch a favorite with them at nine at night.
The elevator landed and Alfred stepped in, singing softly under his breath.
"Cal. Li. For. Nia girls, we're undeniable..."
The dolled-up-deathbox, as England liked to call it, stopped swiftly. Alfred looked up at the floor-teller-thing, as he liked to call it, and realized that it wasn't his floor. The doors opened.
For a second, nothing happened.
After that second, nothing continued to happen and Alfred stared, confused, at the empty wall in front of him. The doors closed and the deathbox restarted itself.
At the next floor, the same thing happened. The elevator stopped and Alfred stared at a garish but probably very expensive painting for three seconds and the doors closed again. He swam up in the box and was stopped again, abruptly, at the next floor.
"Alright," Alfred said, stepping out. "Who's there?"
The hall was empty.
"Hello? Who pushed the button thing? I'm starting to get annoyed! Are you coming on the elevator or not?"
As if on cue, the elevator doors closed behind him with a well-intentioned "ding!" and he sighed in exasperation. He pressed the button to go back up, but the elevator was already gone.
Alfred puffed out his cheeks and waited, tapping his foot impatiently. He thought he heard chuckling.
And then he continued to think he heard chuckling. Distinctive chuckling. Familiar chuckling.
He poked his head back into the main hall. "Hello? Francis, is that you?"
"Oh honhonhon!"
"Francis?"
And then Alfred saw that which he cannot unsee.
At the end of the hall, France appeared wearing nothing but a hungry smirk. His pale body glared in the florescent light and highlighted the Eiffel Tower, a closely shaven and clearly primped-out eyesore. He caressed a rose between his fingers and he chuckled again.
"Francis, what are you doing? Go get some clothes on!"
France let out a sound a stomach makes when it remembers how awesome chocolate oranges are and wishes it could have some now, please. And then he started running.
Toward Alfred.
"GAH!" Alfred punched the button repeatedly to no avail and finally started running in the same direction, but, hopefully, faster.
"CRAZY NAKED FRENCH GUY! GAH!" Alfred tried every doorknob he passed, but it seemed the occupants were both deaf and dumb and couldn't help him. He twisted and pounded and yelled, but the doors all stubbornly remained closed.
Finally, the very last door before the hallway's dead end yielded, happily, to his fist. He cried out in relief and slammed the door, panting.
Alfred backed up and sat on the owner's bed, trying to get his bearings. France was on the other side of that door. Naked. He was on the other side of the door and he was naked and he was chasing Alfred.
Why was he naked and chasing Alfred?
It's important to note, at this point, that although he is awesome and filled with more win than a DDR scoreboard in Tokyo, Alfred is incredibly dense. He ran from France purely on instinct, not out of fear or anything. In fact, part of him still thought Francis was playing some weird European game that Alfred didn't know the rules to.
Alfred pulled out his phone and called England.
After five rings, a grouchy voice greeted him.
"Alfred, I have the mother and father of headaches and they're a little busy making more little headaches right now. What do you want?"
"Hi, Iggy! Quick question: Why is Francis naked and trying to chase me around the hotel?"
"...what?"
"Yeah, I don't understand European games very well. Is this Cricket?"
"Shit," Arthur murmured. "God damned frog. Where are you right now?"
Alfred could hear Francis' chuckles at the door. "In a room."
"Which one?"
"I dunno, it's at the end of the hall."
"Which hall?"
"The one with the ugly painting."
"Alfred, that's all of your damned building's halls! Which level are you on?"
"I don't- Oh, wait!" Alfred said as the door creaked open with an "oh honhon" "Francis is coming in! This must be his room!"
"Alfred, whatever you do, don't-"
"AMERIQUE!" France said, loud enough to cut Arthur off. Alfred looked up at the still-naked Frenchman and blushed. "Mon ami, it is so nice to see you! Please, have a drink with me before you go back up to your room, yes?"
"Francis," Alfred said coolly. "Why are you naked?" The phone in his hand screamed at Alfred to not move, goddammit, it would be right down.
"I was looking for the shower, dear, Alfred!"
"There's a shower in your room. You're standing two feet from the door."
Francis looked at it in feigned astonishment. "Is that how you do it in America? The things you learn, oh honhonhon!"
Alfred stood up and coughed pointedly. "Well, I should be getting back to my- why are you locking the door?"
Francis grinned as it clicked. "Because I am terrified, Alfred! What if a pervert comes, huh? I am all alone in this room, and I am no good at fighting off invaders! Stay with me, please? I have champagne."
Alfred tried to step around Francis to get to the door. "You'll be fine. We're all going out in, like, half an hour anyway. We can see you in a little bit."
As Alfred closed his fist around the doorknob, he felt France's arms close around his body. "Quel beau cul," he hissed in Alfred's ear.
"Francis! Ew! You're getting all your naked germs on me! Get off!"
"Oh honhon, mon cher. I like the way you think."
"No, not like that! No, don't get off like that! Help! Help!" Alfred managed to unlock the door as Francis wrestled him to the ground and sat on his back.
"It will only hurt for a second, Amerique," France cooed, expertly undoing Alfred's pants with the floor. "After that, it feels wonderful. You will love it."
Alfred continued to yell and kick, thrashing and panicking. He managed to land an elbow on France's nose and Francis yelped in pain.
"Get-off-me-you-fucking-frog!"
"You ungrateful son of a... That's it! I was going to be gentle, but you just ruined that!
"NOOOOOO!"
The door chose the perfect moment to snap in half at the middle. Alfred and Francis looked up in surprise as a British boot cleaved its way into the room.
"Francis, I will MURDER you if you don't get off of America RIGHT NOW." England stepped into the room, exuding fury and rage and violent hatred and pretty much every other synonym for "anger" you can think off. Alfred nearly sobbed in manly relief.
"Iggy!"
Francis jumped off of Alfred's back and ran past Arthur out the door with his tail between his legs.
Well. Not exactly a tail. But it almost fits.
Arthur offered a hand to Alfred, who took it gratefully.
"Are you alright?" England asked.
"Yeah, thanks. You know the door was unlocked, right?"
"Eh. They'll charge it to that bloody frog's account. What on Earth were you doing with him, Alfred?"
"Nothing! I swear! He just chased me into his room and tried to feed me wine!"
"Oh, lord. Why is it every time I come to America I end up babysitting you at some point or another?"
"Hey! This totally wasn't my fault! You damn Europeans are just weird!"
"Lady Gaga."
"...touche, douchebag."
Crappy ending is crappy, but tired author is tired.
"Quel beau cul:" French for, "Nice ass." Reportedly Strauss-Kahn's catchphrase or something.
Sorry, guys, but was I the only one who saw this story break and was like "EEEE! Hetalia! France IS real!"? Or am I a heartless fangirl for thinking that? Ach, it is what it is.
Again, if you can guess my author-hero from this, I will love you so much I will grant you any wish you desire. I'm part leprechaun.
LOVE!