Hello! So, this is my first fanfiction I've posted in a long time. It was partly inspired by several stories all involving capitals of some sort and so I decided I'd go ahead and post this while I'm working on my more canon (in some ways) story. I can't give you all an update schedule, but I do hope to update this at least bi-weekly. Hope you enjoy!

Capitalists?

Chapter 1: Introduction

D.C. POV

"What the hell London? Get off me, git!" The brunette folded her arms as best as she could and glared at the smirking blond who had given her a surprise hug. Never mind that said hug had come from in front of her, this chica was still pissed that he had done that for no reason at all.

"Ah, has England been around you too much? I thought that was our catch phrase." He still backed off, holding her at arm's length and looking her up and down. "It's been too long. You've grown to be so big!" He laughed at her distraught expression. Apparently he was enjoying it. She, however, was not.

"Let. Go. Of. Me. This is unprofessional, and the President of the United States is only in the next room. Would you rather explain to him just why you suddenly developed a black eye and bruises?" She smirked back at his fearful expression, though he had yet to let go of her. Oh well. She couldn't go off like America and not give any time for things. Besides, it had been years since she had seen the Brit, and she was also glad to see him. She, however, had not been expecting his out there attitude or general outgoingness. She had met Britain several times before and though the two looked similar (all London needed was slightly lighter hair, green instead of blue eyes and to grow out his eyebrows and he'd be good to go) Arthur was much more professional acting… when he wasn't tsundere. She snorted slightly to herself. She'd have to thank Tokyo for that reference- and the mangas he had left behind. He probably hadn't noticed that due to the sheer number he kept but she couldn't be sure.

She heard footsteps and talking and both of the capitals whipped their heads toward the double doors that served as the entrance to the room. London suddenly loosened his grip, smoothing out his suit and trying to pat down his hair. She leaned against a wall, checking over her own suit for any noticeable wrinkling before turning her smirk towards him. Self-conscious, was he? Now that could be interesting, but she'd have to save that for another time. Now was the time for business.

Six figures walked through the doors, though three quickly peeled off and moved to their respective positions outside the room and one positioned by a door to a storage closet on the right side of the room. Secret service- gotta love them and their completely shut mouths. The only leaks of the existence of a nation or capital had come from the ranks of newly initiated CIA members and Benedict Arnold, which were both easily contained. Then again, Benedict had left the country soon after and the British army as a whole was informed of just who they were protecting (whether he was a member of the Royal Family or not was disputed amongst themselves) so of course they hadn't given a damn. She hadn't been around to witness this but she remembered many bedtime stories involving that very tale over and over again. America wasn't creative all the time.

The three remaining to move further into the room were distinctive enough, though they were forced (well, in one case at least) to wear identifying name tags when on business. The first was the President himself, the confident and smiling Barack Obama. He continued on to his desk as the other two continued to argue about something or another. Poor thing looked a little nervous under his casual exterior. D.C. had learned very quickly to judge emotions on more than facial expressions, and the ever popular President was walking a little too quickly and lightly for supposedly being calm. She nodded curtly at him, saying a curt "Hello, Mr. President," before turning to look at the last visitors to the Oval Office.

The first had a slim frame, well trimmed and cared for suit, and overtly large eyebrows. Unfortunately or not his hair refused to lie flat and so stuck up at odd angles, though it was short enough to not cause a problem. Unlike the Brit she had met previously his eyes were a light green of some sort and his voice was slightly more accented, with more 'git's and 'bloody hell's and the like interspersed throughout his speech. He also corrected the other's language much more than London did to hers. Then again, she actually felt a need to bother to keep up with good grammar when in the presence of either of the two, as Brits were infamous for their hatred of American spelling and grammar.

Mentioning American spelling, the very personification of the superpower was being berated on his use of the words 'ain't' and 'yo'. He, of course, wasn't phased at all by this and only continued to smile and deliberately use more of the slang in his speech. This of course was not appropriate for a political meeting, but anyone who got to know Albert knew that there was no good way to completely sober him up in terms of being actually serious. He hadn't needed the other kind of 'sobering up' for years, and the capital dearly hoped that would stay the case.

He was also not dressed very professionally, and his hair needed to be combed. In their home or casual visits were one thing, professional meetings with the president quite another. As had become characteristic of the blond his hair was thoroughly messed up with Nantucket sticking up from the top of his head. He was wearing Texas, or at least what he called Texas, and his trademarked (quite literally) 50 states bomber jacket. He was also wearing jeans, which really ticked both his capital and his former parent of sorts off. The bomber jacket and hair was one thing- after all, he just wasn't America without them- but the pants quite another. He could've bothered to at least wear decent pants but instead had strode in with dirtied blue jeans that needed repairs and washing. Why was it that she seemed to be the only politically sane one of the two? Then again, he was the very nation that she called home and though his political whiplash wasn't as bad as hers he had been dealing with it and the opinions of other nations longer than she had.

She looked back at London, still smiling, and he stuck his tongue out at her. How immature of him. She didn't react beyond rolling her eyes at him, straightening up from the wall as the man who represented the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland approached her. She shook his outstretched hand, noting that his handshake was firm. She would have been surprised if it was less.

He nodded at her. "Nice to see you again, Miss Clark."

Her smirk still hadn't left her face. "The same, Mr. Kirkland. But you know that I prefer Washington D.C., or even D.C. I tend not to use that name unless I'm in public, and it's quite the private setting compared to what awaits President Obama outside." She chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised if they broke into the front hall again. Between the current crisis in Egypt and the stir being caused by the House he doesn't have any private time to himself." She frowned slightly. "Speaking of which…" the capital murmured to herself.

"I wouldn't be worried about Egypt. Besides, he never voices his opinions or emotions, so we'll be quite clueless for a while yet. It shouldn't be of any concern in that respect." The older chuckled.

"Says the man whose company spilled oil all over the Gulf of Mexico." D.C. muttered to herself, glaring for a moment at his back, which had been turned towards her. She looked to her right, pushing her shoulders back as she looked at the latest president to grace this room. London was acting similarly, having shifted so he was standing by England's side. Indeed, that boy cleaned up his act when it was time for business. She noticed America walk over and stand by her left side, still grinning. At least he hadn't brought a hamburger this time.

"So," The President started out, nodding and smiling to each personification in turn before leaning slightly back into his seat. "What is our first topic of discussion?"

Berlin POV

"What the hell are you doing now, Königsberg? Is that vodka you're holding? That is not as awesome as bier. You're not even legal age to drink that stuff!"

"I can drink whatever I wish to, брат. Besides, in your country it's perfectly legal for someone my age to consume alcohol. This is not counting the fact that I'm much older than any of my teenage 'peers' I may bump into. Now shut up and let me drink my водка in peace." The platinum blonde tipped back her head, taking several swallows of the clear liquid while watching the other out of the corner of her eye.

Prussia, as was expected, did not take it well. His face reddened in anger and his eyes narrowed. "How dare you speak that unawesome language in this house. The arschloch kept me and my people in his f***ing house for fifty years and Berlin still hasn't gotten over being split in half by that hurensohn." He pointed at the yellow blonde standing behind the formal capital, who was watching the proceedings nervously. "See? You've scared her!"

Said blonde was about to speak in protest but was interrupted by the other female. "I don't even know why I come here! All I want to do is talk to my sister, who I almost never see, and instead I'm insulted by the likes of you. I may not be a fancy-pants capital any longer but at least I'm not a basement dweller, drinking bier-" She slurred the word, sneering at the albino opposite from her, "-and leeching off of my family!"

Silence. The two were now standing, facing off in a staring contest pitting blood red against pale blue. Berlin fought between the urge to roll her eyes and panicking, so she stayed still where she had been standing. After a couple of seconds Prussia's frown lightened slightly and he pulled back, muttering to himself about "that damn Russian." Berlin noticed the hint of a smile on her sister's lips before it deepened into a disgruntled scowl. She turned and stomped slightly towards the door, grabbing her coat as she went. She quickly reached the door and was starting to turn the handle when she seemed to think of something.

"And it's Kaliningrad, sooka." She turned as she walked out the door, looking at the darker blonde now staring at her. "If you need me сестра I'll be at Россия's place, so give a call there. If you're not comfortable with that you can always call Lithuania's cell phone and he'll be able to leave a message for you. Love you!" She gave Prussia one last glare before slamming the door shut behind her.

Berlin sighed, brushing some of her bangs back behind her ear and making sure that her ponytail was still in place. "Prus-" The German capital had stopped upon seeing the expression on the Prussian's face as he stared at the wall opposite him. She took a deep breath. She needed to stay calm for the moment, then she could panic as much as she wished and call up her sister or her friend. She needed to be calm.

"I'll- I'll be upstairs if you're looking for me." Seeing that his expression hadn't changed at the comment she went to plan B. "Deutschland restocked the bier in the fridge, in case you were wanting to know. Now, I'll be upstairs in my room." She turned towards the staircase, noticing that a slightly manic gleam had seemingly come to the former nation's eyes and a spring to his step as he rushed to the kitchen. However, no one was more aware of the pain he was hiding and would be attempting to drown than her.

Paris POV

This was an awkward conversation.

The two representatives of their respective land groups, one a city, the other an entire nation, were sitting silently side by side. He had greeted her upon her return, she had responded in kind, and now they hadn't said another word for ten minutes. She looked straight ahead, specifically avoiding any glance of him or of his expression, while he seemed to be looking down at his lap. She hadn't seen him like that, oh no; she was just guessing that was how he was. No one could know him better than her, of course.

Merde.

This was not the way things were supposed to be going between them. She should've been closer to him than this, even as a friend or cousin, but even his occasional human flings knew more about him than she did. Sure, she had only met him sixty-five years ago when others had known their nations since childhood but that didn't excuse this. Hell, he talked to Russia and Switzerland more than she talked to him or him to her. Where was the whole "feel bonded with your nation" thing when she needed it?

"Paris?" She jumped slightly at the word, but maintained her position even at the French being spoken. "Sont vous bien Paris?"

She sighed, not turning her head to look at him. "I'm fine, Francis." She held her hands still in her lap, glancing out the window and noting that it was later than she had thought. No wonder why France was speaking up now.

"Are you sure, mademoiselle? You seem upset." He sounded like he was purring, and it quite frankly annoyed the long haired blonde. However, he was correct- she was upset. Specifically she was upset about him and their relationship, or better yet their lack of one. Not that she wanted to be involved with him in that way- far from it. He was a pervert around people he knew well and she frankly didn't look forward to the idea of getting groped by his wandering hands. He'd be one hell of a scary Santa. However…

She glanced at him sideways to find that he was staring at her expectantly- and did he really look worried? She did a double take before sighing and turning towards him. Well, if he was worried that meant he wasn't prone to go into horny mode, so maybe she wouldn't have to worry about talking to him. The act of talking, however, took her a little longer to get to, involving some thought and brushing back of her hair. Though straight as a rod it tended to get into her face if she didn't keep it back with some sort of clip and it still managed to get on her nerves even then.

"I guess," She said, taking her time to convey her thoughts, "It's that we're so cold towards each other. That does not mean grope me, Francis Bonnefoy." She stopped the nation from his shady intentions with a glare. "What I mean is that we never talk. This is not the first time we've spent-" She looked at the clock and revised her statement. "-okay, maybe it is the first time we've spent an hour not talking to each other, but it's not the first time that we've avoided discussion for any period of time. I don't even know when you were born, or why you're such a fierce rival with England, or even what Seychelles's real name is. I'm your capital. I'm supposed to know more about you," She took a quick breath, glancing out of the window. "And you're supposed to know more about me. And not in that way, pervert."

France reluctantly took his hands once again off of her and she took the opportunity to back towards the other end of the couch. Damn, France just did not stop being France, did he?

The Frenchman looked down at his lap, actually looking chastised for once. He must be faking it, the capital thought to herself. No way can France, from what I know of him, actually feel regretful or sorry for groping someone.

"Je suis désolé."

"Que?"

Okay, so translations (according to various sites and my brother, who is not very adept but still a help with French)-

брат- brother (Russian)

водка- vodka (Russian)

Arschloch- a**hole (German)

Hurensohn- son of a b***h (German)

Sooka- (roughly) b***h (Russian)

Сестра- sister (Russian)

Россия- Russia (Russian)

Merde- sh*t (French)

Sont vous bien?- are you okay? (French)

Je suis désolé- I'm sorry (French)

Que?- What? (French)