Through a cool blue eye, Alfred Jones surveyed Kirkland's from behind the counter, absently wiping a whiskey glass with a well-used white towel. It was nearly 9:30, and as of yet, it was quiet. Patrons never piled in before 10 on principle, and within 30 minutes the doorman refused anyone else entry, as the bar became filled to maximum capacity.
Alfred set the clean glass among the row of others on the mahogany bar counter and picked up another. Under his breath he began to hum a little tune, something he'd heard on the radio this morning. The name escaped him; perhaps Mr. Kirkland would know. His boss, the proprietor, still remained in his office. At 9:45, like clockwork, however, he would emerge, cleanly pressed and serious, walk to the bar, and demand a drink. Honey scotch on the rocks. Always. By now, Alfred had his routine down to a T.
A woman tittered from one of the center tables. François Bonnefroy, the beautiful French escort at the top of local society. And at the top of Mr. Kirkland's list of enemies. She hung around in the bar not only because it was good for her business, but it also chapped Kirkland's hide something fierce. She slipped the olive from her martini between red painted lips elegantly, twirling the small wooden toothpick between her fingers as she listened to her companion. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, energetic Spanish native and long-time friend of François. He dramatically waved his hands, and a few seconds later, both he and François erupted in laughter. She threw her head back, hand pressed to her chest as she laughed, while Antonio pressed a hand to his stomach and guffawed loudly. When the humor had subsided, François leaned in toward Antonio, and whispered animatedly. Gossip, from the eager look on their faces.
Elsewhere, the gentle tones of music drifted from the grand piano in the corner. Roderich Edelstein, Austrian pianist extraordinaire, swayed rhythmically at the bench, beautiful hands flowing over ebony and ivory as he played something smooth and jazzy. Elizaveta, his Hungarian accomplice, leaned against the black lacquered piano top and gazed adoringly as he played. The sparkles of her red dress shimmered in the warm stage light and cast tiny crimson beams onto the side of the piano. She was a singer, much adored by the patrons of the bar and quickly becoming a growing name in music. People loved her energy, the lovely way she danced around on stage to the beat of big band swing music. Together, with Roderich and Gilbert Beilschmidt, rowdy cellist and self-proclaimed "Prussian", they made up heart and soul of the Kirkland's.
Alfred stopped humming and listened to the piano. He smiled: he adored both Roderich and Elizaveta, and he knew Gilbert through is younger brother Matthew. They were a strange, wonderful bunch.
Somewhere behind him a door creaked and he turned. Out walked Arthur Kirkland, the young Brit with too much money after whom the bar was named. He was dressed in a suit the color of rain clouds, a black shirt, and red tie, dirty-blonde hair pushed off his face, eyebrows looking as much like charcoal caterpillars as they ever had.
"Drink," he muttered as he approached the bar. Alfred pushed the gold liquid across the counter. Arthur took a sip, scanned the bar, and frowned. "Who let him in here?"
"Who?" Alfred asked, attempting following his boss's gaze.
"Antonio. The Spaniard sharing a table with that bloody battle axe."
Al furrowed his brow. "What's the matter with him? He seemed like a nice guy!"
Arthur took a seat and swirled the ice around in his drink. "Well, for starters, he's Spanish. Additionally, he's directly linked to those damned Vargas brothers."
"The Italians?"
Arthur grunted and took another drink. "Messy business, that is. Still prefer them over that hulking Russian, Braginski. Wanker."
"If ya'd keep your nose clean, Artie, y'wouldn't have so many enemies. Nice guys finish last, but at least their black book doesn't span into triple digits."
Arthur drained his glass and pushed it back to Alfred. "Stuff it and get back to work. Guinness, if you don't mind."
"'Guinness is good for you'," Alfred smiled, quoting the sign in between the shelves. Mr. Kirkland had brought it back from Ireland. He filled up a tall mug from the draft, checked the froth, and passed the black beverage to his boss.
"Guinness is good, indeed. Cheers." He drank liberally, then peered at the clock. It was 5 till 10. "It looks like it's about that time, Jones. Er…what's that American phrase you're always saying?"
Alfred beamed and slapped the white rag over his shoulder. "Saddle up, boys!"
Whew! First time writing for Hetalia, holla! Inspired by a picture of bartender!America I happened to see on tumblr, I've accidentally fallen in love with this AU. Oops. That said, I may continue this in the future; if you like it, let me know!