"An' what about those little magic ceremonies you have? That is some freaky deeky stuff right there." Alfred accused.
"You... You don't know the half of it. Not even." Arthur made a chopping motion with his hand, dividing the air before him in half.
"I bet you use all kinds of bogus ingredients."
"Try me."
"Like, like puppy tears. Whole gallons of 'em!" Alfred spread his arms wide, nearly knocking Arthur from his chair. "This much."
Arthur hunched clumsily over the table, speaking into his drink as if it were an oracle. "That is not such a bad idea."
"What?"
"Shut up, git."
"Fine," Alfred huffed, "We'll see if you're singin' that same tune when I stop exporting puppy tears. It'll be gone, just like that!" He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Total puppy tear market will bottom out."
"In its entirety?"
"The whole shebang." Alfred nodded solemnly.
Arthur brought the mouth of his glass to his lips and held it there, taking small sips as he attempted to cobble together an appropriate response.
"I won't lie," Alfred ran his index finger around rim of his drink. "I don't know if there even is a puppy tear industry. That would be kinda bad if there were."
"I s'pose so."
"You suppose so? No. That is cold, hard, fact."
"Maybe I should get into this puppy tear business. Could be pretty lucrative." Arthur couldn't help but goad Alfred.
"You're awful, and as a hero is it my occupational duty to exact justice upon you." The moment Arthur had set his drink back upon the counter, Alfred immediately grabbed it and finished the rest of the amber liquid off.
"Uncouth little mealy mouthed grub! Stealing my booze; completely uncalled for!" Arthur attempted to exact an eye for an eye by reaching for America's glass, but the younger man had already anticipated the action and easily pushed his own glass out of harm's way.
"How would you get them to cry, anyway?"
"Dunno. I'd think of something." England lowered his head and smiled to himself. "I could show them your stupid git face. Then they wouldn't be able to stop crying."
"What?" America blinked confusedly, swaying slightly in his seat. "What are you trying to say?"
"Your face makes puppies cry."
"Yeah, well sometimes your face makes me cry." America gazed intently at the spot where the ceiling and wall met, his glazed blue eyes glistening in the low light of the bar.
"My face makes you cry? My face?"
"I never said that!"
"You just did. I was sitting here, almost listening to you whinge."
"Look, buddy. I said, 'Obama is a beautiful man, a soaring bald eagle amongst a sky of flying pigs."
"Fine." England leaned to the side and rested his cheek against America's shoulder. "I'm sure he is."
FIN.
A/N:
I have no words for this fic. They have all flown off with Obama, amongst the sky of flying pigs.