Proper Waiter-Customer Etiquette

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Haha Got the idea from a part in Silent to the Bone (very good book; by E.L. Konisburg). Page 179 of the hardback edition, from 2000. Connor and Margaret are at a restaurant, and their server (her name was Tammi) walks up and introduces herself, then asks how their day was before taking their order. I sat for quite a while, mulling that over. (I am actually very philosophical when it comes to things I read or hear.)

I thought, Well, naturally they'd simply say 'good, thank you' and then give their order.Oh! But then, what would it be like if someone actually explained their day in detail? I bet Russia would do that, just to mess with someone, and then bam! Instant inspiration!

So! I might—exaggeration on the might—make this into a chapter-fic. But it's been so long since I've written a oneshot (since the last one was Blessing in Disguise) and that was my first one…So, I'm not sure. I'll make a deal. If at least ten of you want me to continue this, and if I have finished three of my current chapter fics, then I'll continue this. (I mean, I have ideas for it and everything, but I'm not too sure I want to drag it out.)

But I digress. R&R! Enjoy! :D

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Alfred scowled. He did not need this job. Couldn't he find another job? Had he checked everywhere?

Yes, yes, he'd done it all. And yet he was still stuck as a waiter at a sucky English (England English, because apparently there's a difference) restaurant serving dubious food to unsuspecting customers who didn't even breath while placing their humongously extensive orders.

How can anyone expect him to write down a fifteen word request in five seconds? Sorry, Alfred didn't have super-speed—his hand constantly throbbed after each order, and there had been several times when that questionable French chef told him to rewrite it because he couldn't read the illegible scrawl.

However, Alfred's determination and all-around bright attitude wouldn't let him linger on those facts.

"Yo, Al, table six is ready to order!" Gilbert yelled as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, balancing several trays filled with dirty dishes.

Alfred immediately hopped down from his spot on the counter next to the sink, where his half-friend Toris was scrubbing at dishes, and quickly waltzed over to the albino, taking three of the trays into his own hands.

Gilbert grumbled something about being too awesome to need help, and they set the trays where Alfred had been previously sitting.

Toris suppressed a moan as he saw that more work was to be done.

"Hey, I can stick around and help you, if you need," Alfred offered.

Toris shook his head and made a shooing motion. "No, go take table six's order, okay?"

Al looked doubtful, but said no more and walked to the counter by the owner, Arthur, which had typical waiter aprons, order books, pencils, and each server's name badge. Arthur scowled at the American. "If you kept everything with you and didn't change out of the apron every time you finished serving, it wouldn't be such a hassle to come over here every time."

Despite Arthur's obviously sour mood (usually he'd wait for Alfred to say something before he complained), Alfred kept that grin on his face as he slipped the black apron on and pinned his nametag in the upper right-hand corner of his chest. "It's only such a hassle because I have to listen to you, Arty,"

Alfred ignored the glare he received and quickly slipped out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

If Alfred hadn't known where table six was, he could've very easily guessed. The customer had pale, but creamy hair, the strands covering his ears and the bangs resting on his eyelashes. Eyelashes that rimmed very vivid, very pretty, very intimidating amethyst eyes. The man had a large build, and, while he looked like someone that would probably make a good mall Santa, Alfred could tell that it was not fat but pure muscle underneath the sand-colored coat.

Despite how most others would instantly fear the man (if Toris was this man's server, he'd probably bust down into a hyperventilating mess on the floor), Alfred was not scared.

He easily sidled up to the table and tapped his pencil on the hardwood surface. "Hello! I'm Alfred F. Jones; I'll be your server tonight. How are you this evening, and what can I get you?" The words slid off his tongue as if he had said it a million times over, but with a tone that made it sound like he loved it every time.

The burly man (who was named Ivan, but he was not about to tell this obnoxious server that) wrinkled his nose. He despised Americans and their false cheer. They made every little gesture of kindness look as if they were meaningless. However, Ivan knew that most servers would have been rendered speechless, paralyzed with fear; American heritage or not. But the fact that this one, this Alfred F. Jones, had not…well, that didn't slip Ivan's notice.

Ivan loathed people like that. People who weren't intimidated by anything, always trying to be the best person they could be. But he knew that everyone had a breaking point.

He wondered how long it would take for this little hero to reach his.

He smiled coolly at the boy as an idea bloomed in his head. "Actually, my evening has been quite lousy. Of course, the reason for that is because of the rest of my day, and naturally I would have to tell it to you for you to understand."

Alfred opened his mouth to say something, but Ivan wouldn't let him even attempt it.

"Normally I am content with my days, da? They usually slip by without notice, and nothing horrible ever occurs. But today, nyet, I woke up to find that I was stuck to watch over my younger sister, Natalya, while our older sister departed to go to a job interview."

Alfred shut his mouth, half because he knew fully well that he'd probably not get a word in edgewise. (And half because he was curious to see how watching a little sister could be bad.)

"Now Natalya is a high school girl, very mature, almost ready to graduate, da? I knew she was perfectly capable of minding herself, even if she were to be left alone in the house. However, I knew I would not be able to escape from her. She has an extremely vicious, insanely impossible infatuation with me." He paused to take a breath, and looked closely at Alfred.

Alfred looked confused. "I'm sorry…?"

"Her fascination is not that of a little sister to her older brother, or a little girl to her father, nor a reader to a comic book hero. Nyet, her obsession is that of an insane, psychotic woman to a man that will never love her no matter what happens, yet she insists on their marriage anyway."

Ah, now the story made sense to Alfred. Pieces were beginning to fit together in his brain.

"All throughout the day, she barely left my side. When I answered the phone, she always hurried off to one in another room so she could listen in on the conversation. She rarely let me do anything of the entertaining variety; instead, forcing me to listen to 'our' wedding plans. I can not describe with words how sick I am of hearing the words 'rose,' 'honeymoon,' 'invitation,' and, of course, 'wedding.'

"I was just barely able to get away from her when my boss called to tell me that an emergency arose at the office, and that I was needed to direct the solution. I would have had to take my sister with me if the call had been placed a few minutes earlier, for just as we were heading out the door, our older sister arrived and insisted that Natalya stay and help prepare dinner. I quickly left for the office, and after a very brief hour of going through papers, I was dismissed. Seeing the perfect chance to stay away from my sister for as long as possible, I called home and informed them that I would have to stay at work for the rest of the night, and that dinner would be provided for me."

Alfred was speechless. A thought had just sprouted in his head: Why the hell is this customer venting their anger out to him? Couldn't he call a friend or something?

"So here I am after a very lonesome walk around the city, and I had to wait nearly thirty minutes for my server to finally arrive, and who is it to be but an obnoxious, loud-mouthed, careless American by the name of Alfred F. Jones."

It took a few moments for Alfred to notice the insult. But he did not blow up like he wanted to, since he knew he would be in trouble with Arthur for yelling at a customer. (That, and he wasn't certain which was a longer charge: pre-meditated murder or heat of passion.)

He held his tongue and puffed his cheeks in anger. "Asshole," he hissed. "Now, in case you forgot during your annoying and unnecessary tangent, let me ask again: what would you like to order?"

"I believe your words were 'what can I get you,' da?" While Alfred fumed over this snarky remark, Ivan continued. "And, besides, why would I want to order any of this disgusting English food? I do not know how this restaurant continues to stay in business—the food is quite hazardous, and most likely lethal. Now, if the Russians had known of the high casualty levels the British food would bring if they fed it to the Americans, we would have easily won the Cold War."

Alfred sucked in his breath and said through clenched teeth, "Then why did you even bother coming here?"

Ivan shrugged and lounged against his seat, slinging an arm over the back of it. "I felt like it."

He smirked as the American broke his pencil in half.

Ivan, however, did not know what brought on the thoughtful look that spread across Alfred's face soon after.

Alfred did.

The hero part of Alfred immediately spoke up. It told Alfred that, obviously, the customer needed someone to hang out with him. He had, after all, said that he had walked around the city "lonesomely," or whatever adjective it was he had used. Maybe if Alfred gave the number to the grouch and an invitation to hang out—who knew? Maybe Alfred's usual cheer would rub off on the jerk and he'd be a nicer person.

Alfred sighed deeply, then fixed a steady look at the Russian. "Stay here."

Ivan looked incredibly smug, assuming that the American was probably going to go complain to the manager or whatever and get Ivan kicked out. No worries, he'd just head off to another restaurant.

Alfred quickly hurried to the kitchen and walked up to Gilbert.

"Gil, there's a total jerk out there who's quite possibly a psycho mental patient but needs someone happy to hang around with him. I want to help him. So, how much info do I give him?"

Gilbert blinked. He had taken over doing the dishes, and Toris had switched to bringing dirty plates in. "Well, how much does he know?"

Alfred pressed his finger to his lips in thought. "Well, he knows my full name."

Gilbert scoffed. "How many times have all of us told you? They only need to know your first name."

"That's all he knows, though. Oh, and he totally called me out on being American." Alfred snorted. It was kind of racist, almost, being able to so easily pinpoint that he had no European heritage in him.

Gilbert chuckled. "Well, since you like giving out information so much, why don't you tell him your number and address? I seriously doubt you wouldn't be able to handle it if he turned out to be a serial killer or something."

Alfred laughed loudly, then grinned at his friend. "Okay, thanks for the advice Gil! You're awesome!"

Gilbert smirked at the man. "And don't go and forget it!"

Alfred quickly threw together a plate of already cooked food that didn't smell particularly unappetizing, (read: a steak, cooked medium well; a glass of Coke; mashed potatoes; and a roll) and quickly scrawled out his cell phone number and apartment address on his order pad, then tore off the sheet and folded it a few times. He dashed out of the kitchen and made his way to the table.

He set the plate and paper down in front of the baffled Russian, as well as silverware wrapped in a napkin, which he snatched out of the bucket that was full of them.

"I did not ask for food—" Ivan began to protest.

Alfred simply winked and slid the paper towards him, so he'd know to read it. "On the house, since you have had such a bad day. Tell anyone who works here when you're done with your food, and I'll make sure to come out and gather up the plate, okay?"

Ivan was struck dumb by the sheer idiocy this American seemed to emit.

Alfred left then, running into the kitchen. He took a seat on the counter by the sink (which the kitchen staff had easily learned was his territory, and they rarely put things there.)

Gilbert eyed him curiously. "So, how'd the crazy customer take it?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno, I didn't stick around for his reaction."

Finally, at closing time, Alfred was disheartened to find the meal still at the table, untouched.

However, the customer was nowhere to be found—as well as the paper.

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:D Love it? Like it? Think it's okay? Hate it so much you want to claw my eyes out because of the sheer loath you hold for the story? Tell me in a review! :)

(However, if you are just going to tell me that you hate it because the idea seems generic, or because you think I'm an "arrogant asshole" for thinking it worthy enough to upload it, then I'd rather you not review. Of course, if you truly think I need to know of how much you hate me, then I suggest PMing me, where at least others do not have to suffer by seeing such a tacky statement.)

This only took me about three hours to write, which is actually kind of surprising since it's only #,### words long. Such length usually only takes me about forty minutes. But then again, I'm going off all that I've written for Curse This Sexist World! (Which, by the way, contains a variety of pairings, one of them being fem!AlfredXIvan.)