OKAY, SO MAYBE I'M A LITTLE BIT SPECIAL IN THE HEAD WHEN IT COMES TO MY SEASONS. LAST CHAPTER, I SAID IT WAS FALL. I LIED. IT'S BEEN CHANGED TO SUMMER. JUST THOUGHT YOU GUYS SHOULD KNOW, KTHNXBYE

A Perished Sun

By: The DayDreaming

Warnings: Language. A bit of angst and OOC-ness? I can't quite get these characters spot on, but it's intentional on America's part.

This chapter has not been beta'd or checked for mistakes. If you feel there are any glaring errors besides my poor vocabulary and grammar, feel free to point it out and I'll do my best to assuage the situation.

Chapter 2: What the Hell is Going On?

~o.O.o~

He finds himself walking into the kitchen by the time he catches up to his alien guide, the overhead lights casting a gleam around the room that bounces off linoleum and chrome alike; enough to create an almost cheerful atmosphere despite the rest of the home's darkness. The creature moves ahead of him, over to a stove with a barstool propped against the oven door. He tries to resist snickering at the thought of the alien being scrambling up the platform, until the alien begins to levitate off the ground of its own volition, hovering above the stool with an ease most birds would envy. Prussia doesn't allow his jaw to drop too much.

As the creature settles, Gilbird flutters over, a ball of highlighter-yellow in the shine, and settles atop the alien's head. It pauses in its ministrations of turning on one of the burners. Gilbert is almost afraid that it might decide to try something on the chick, and that he'll have to step in to teach the celestial visitor a harsh lesson in beating on awesome chicks like Gilbird, when the being merely tilts its head and pulls a tall pot onto the stove-top without apparent effort.

From there, it begins to stir what smells like some sort of beef stew, already in the process of being made when his knocking must have distracted the alien. He looks around, trying to spot a sign of the house's owner, but sees neither hide nor hair. In fact, besides the dirty slip-on sneakers in the foyer and the ticking of a Kit-Cat clock set over the garbage bin in the corner (1)(objects so distinctly America it almost hurts), the representative of the United States doesn't seem to live in the house at all.

"Oi, fremd, where's the bumbling hero?" he tries to say it casually, not unnerved at all when the alien twists its head around and stares at him with its bulging red eyes, contempt evident in its gaze. It blinks, then goes back to stirring the pot. He growls, "OI! Don't ignore the awesome me!"

The alien still doesn't say anything, and Prussia is just about to make a grab for its large and protruding head when it begins to hover once more, over to a high cabinet, and remains in the air as it opens the door and pulls out four large bowls. It gives a cursory glance to the nation standing in the middle of the floor; deeming it fine, it promptly tosses the bowls at Prussia's head, "Catch, you fucking kraut."

His protest is cut off when the glass bowls thud into his chest and his arms knock together in a semblance of a net (cause hell no would he have dropped them; he was like a fucking ninja). He's not quite sure what to do with them, and is contemplating throwing them back at the alien's face (the problem of Gilbird's current residence is of course a main concern) when the creature hovers to the ground and walks to a wooden drawer by the kitchen sink, small feet tapping a light tempo on the tiled floor. As it fingers through what sounds like various metallic implements, it hisses, "Don't just stand there, fucking kraut. Fill them up, pupu."

He sneers and sets the bowls on the counter with a clatter, loud enough to catch the other's attention, "The awesome me is no one's maid, fremd. Remember that."

The alien, three spoons in hand, immediately flips him off, eyes narrowing enough to be giving a noticeable glare. Gilbert can feel a distinct sense of discomfort, almost as though the air around the being is darkened and roiling, but plays it off as a trick of the light. America sure hangs out with some interesting people, he can't help thinking (and really, he does; who else could possibly stand to hang around nut-jobs like a sober England and Japan?). Still giving off an unnerving air, the creature taps over and opts to crawl up the barstool this time (Prussia almost can't hold in his snicker at the alien's shimmying form). It quickly ladles out large, steaming portions of a thick beef stew, cuts of potatoes and carrots prominent in the brown broth, before shoving two of the hot bowls into Prussia's hands with little regard to the scalding temperature. He tries to keep a straight face, even as his stiff form steps away from the volatile alien, willing himself to not drop the shivering bowls (he's too awesome for pain, and he definitely isn't shaking). Meanwhile, the alien hops down from its perch with the other two bowls and briskly walks out of the kitchen, back into the darkness of the hallway, Gilbird chirping a quick goodbye to him as the pair falls out of sight.

"What the hell is up with this place," he mutters, ambling into the dark, "Crazy. Everyone who lives in America is fucking crazy."

Moving through the darkened halls, light spilling past semi-closed blinds and creating a fanciful fluorescent trail by which to see the alien host and his passenger, Prussia can't help but feel discomforted, like this is a bad horror movie from Japan, or some creepy psychological shit thriller. Was America being held hostage in his own basement, and he was about to be lead to this alien's secret lair, where the other nation would be hatching aliens for the grey creature? Was he going to get probed?

"My vital regions are too awesome to be probed!" he shouts to himself. This statement is met with the now-customary 'fucking kraut' from the alien walking ahead of him.

At last, the duo (trio! Gilbird was just as important as the next person, thank you!), comes to a staircase situated against the back of an empty room, ambient light from large windows criss-crossing the hardwood floor and casting ribbed shadows from the banister. His alien companion certainly doesn't seem to think the room is strange (though the fact that there is absolutely nothing there raises Gilbert's hackles; almost like a too-clean room in Austria's house, but in this circumstance, he can't 'attend' to the problem), and stops at the foot of the stairs.

"Where the hell are we going? You are taking me to America, right? 'Cause if you aren't, the awesome that is me is gonna have t—" Gilbert's rant is interrupted by a harsh clicking sound from the alien.

He would have gone to America himself, if he wasn't concerned about Gilbird's well-being; for her part, Gilbird looks perfectly content atop the alien's cranium (look! Practically the same color as Prussia!). The alien turns its head to him again and grouses, "Shut up, pupu. Don't make a fucking sound."

Prussia promptly makes to yell out his defiance when the alien begins to hover up the stairs; he grudgingly follows, not wanting to get lost in the vast emptiness that is America's abode (the place is huge, with absolutely no sign of inhabitance besides the odd knick-knack tacked to a wall or placed on a shelf). At the top of the steps, the alien falls to the ground again and swiftly moves to a door a little ways from the stairwell. He's surprised when the alien knocks on the door (by now, he figures that the alien is as rude as they come, especially to awesome people such as himself), then opens it with little preamble, the creak of unoiled hinges grating to his ears.

Inside, a floor lamp casts a soft orange glow around a sparsely decorated room, fighting with the deep hues of a sunset outside one of the room's two windows for dominance. A couch with a blanket and pillow is placed haphazardly in the room's center, a glass coffee table steeped in official-looking white documents and manila folders settled reverently before it. In front of the only other window in the room is a desk, also stacked with documents, alongside the latest model of flat-screen computer technology. An ergonomic mouse and keyboard sit in front of this; a festoon of wires and cables sprouts from the back of the desk and meets with an overloaded power strip, not-so-subtly hidden by a sputtering printer, spitting out paper in quick succession.

Most important is the room's resident, a tall blond in spectacles, typing furiously away at the aforementioned keyboard, creating a constantly streaming line of text on a Word document. He doesn't seem to acknowledge their presence until he holds up a hand and waves, calling out, "Hey, Tony! Dinner already?"

As though it's what it's been waiting for, the alien, presumably 'Tony' from what he can gather, sidles into the room, the two (still extremely hot!) bowls of stew held out like a gift. The handle of a spoon leans against the side of one, slowly making a descent into the broth. The computer chair America has been sitting in swivels, finally revealing the blond in all his glory, though, somehow, it seems a bit anti-climactic; the final boss in one of Japan's video games turning out to not be so badass after all (unless America suddenly decides to mutate into a twenty foot tall monster, just for the hell of it). He looks surprisingly underdressed, donning only a loose t-shirt and even looser lounge pants decaled in tiny yellow stars on a swirling, blue backdrop. Prussia almost feels like he's invading someone's privacy, seeing the nation so, for a lack of better words, exposed. In all of their encounters, he has never once seen America wear less than a shirt of some sort and a pair of pants or shorts (that one Christmas spent with half the world flashing the other half didn't count).

Just as America takes the bowls in his hands and grimaces in discomfort, he decides it's about time he got some damn recognition in this hellhole, and so pushes past the door.

"Yo, America, the awesome me has come to complete your empty and meaningless life with my awesome presence," he says as way of greeting, the type of thing that would have West shaking his head in dismay and Austria reprimanding him for such poor grammar.

America looks startled at his appearance, almost dropping the bowls as he sets them on his over-crowded desk, and then quickly glances over to Tony, whom merely stares at America with its depthless gaze.

"I thought I said no visitors," tumbles from the American's lips, and Tony tilts his head with a tiny shrug. America bites his cheek, then proceeds to take his glasses off and rub them on his shirt, before saying, "So he just came in and wouldn't leave? That why that thing is on your head? 'Kay, fine. Thanks, Tony."

And like that, the problem seems to be resolved. America gives him a lop-sided grin before turning around to grab the bowl on his desk with the spoon in it, blowing across the surface of the thick soup. Tony ambles over to Prussia and grabs one of the bowls from his hands, another spoon protruding from its surface (when did that get there?), and then walks over to the room's couch, sitting atop the plump pillow propped in the corner. Unsure of what to do, as it seems America is enthralled with simply blowing on soup and Tony is stalwartly ignoring him, Prussia is left to stand in the doorway with the last bowl scalding away at his hand.

He's not sure whether to be pissed off or fed up. So far, he's been on his best behavior here, just as Ludwig has been begging him to be to people for the last century or two. And here, in America, where so far everyone has just been a right douchebag (he might have incited some of this behavior, but that's beside the point), the nation that he's so graciously sought out is (of all things!) pegging him as an unwanted distraction, then brushing him aside (for goddamn soup!). The last time he checked, this was how England or West might act, not the blundering idiot of a nation sitting across from him. It creates an odd feeling in his chest, the knowledge that even the self-proclaimed hero doesn't want to talk to him; he quickly shakes off that thought. Haha, just kidding, America's apathy is probably because he hasn't soaked in the fact that the mighty Prussia has come to him for, well, for…

For what, exactly? Why had he thought coming to America would make such a difference?

While he's thinking this, America has finished blowing on his stew, and has begun spooning it into his mouth at a lightning-quick pace. He looks up for a second to see where Tony's gone, and then catches sight of Prussia still haunting the room's entrance like a ghost. "You're…Prussia…right?" he stumbles over the name, hoping that he's recalled it form his foggy memory bank correctly.

"Damn right," Gilbert replies, snapping to attention from his intense scrutiny of a slowly rotating ceiling fan he hadn't noticed before.

"Right, Prussia," he smiles and spoons some more soup into his mouth, "Go sit and eat. Tony made you a bowl, right?"

At this, Prussia looks down at the singular bowl of stew in his hand, another unnoticed spoon swirling along the rim. Oh. Right. He wanted to ask, 'Really?' but refrains when he looks over to the couch and the alien is giving him that creepy look again.

"Yup! Don't let it get cold, or Tony'll be angry. Tony makes really awesome food, too, so eat it!" America's grin grows wider, and Gilbert almost thinks he hears a cracking noise coming from the teen's face.

He sighs, "Whatever." Flopping onto the couch and resting his meal on the arm to let it cool down (it might do so within the next century, with how hot it is, and by the angry red blisters forming on his palms, who knows), takes another cursory glance of the room. As soon as he's settled, America finishes his first bowl and sets it aside, stretching his arms and back afterwards with an incredibly large yawn. He starts typing again, fingers clacking on keys the only sound permeating the room, fast and efficient. Prussia's slightly surprised; he always figured that America was the type to push his work aside or doodle on the margins of important documents (at least, he was fifty or sixty years ago, from what he could tell; it had been a long time since he had paid attention to the blond abomination for more than a few lapsing seconds, when his and England's arguments reached super-sonic levels). Tony makes another harsh clicking noise, the same as when he and Prussia were on the stairs, to which America raises a placating hand and replies, "Yeah, I know. I'm almost done, so I can't stop. By the way, I finished that other report I've been working on; could you go over it for me? Thanks."

Tony releases another click, then spoons more stew into his mouth, as if expressing anger (Prussia feels it odd that he's starting to understand the odd little alien's gestures in such a short span of time). Gilbert can't help but notice how Tony never talks to America, but America seems to be able to understand Tony perfectly fine anyways. What does it call him when he actually speaks, something like 'Fucking yank'? Yet another thing to add onto the list of why he'll never come to America's house again. Not only is there no appreciation of awesome, but there's also a blatant lack of normality anywhere within the realms of this country (and usually this isn't a bad thing, but somehow America reaches Twilight Zone proportions).

He eyes a sizable stack of paper on the coffee table, the top page blatantly claiming it as some sort of report on a session of Congress addressing several bundled bills. The stack has to be at least a foot tall, and held together in several small piles by black clips. He takes the top stack, and opens past the title page, only to be greeted by a table of contents, and then, of all things, a legal disclaimer. Not bothering to look, he thumbs over to the next page, only to be slammed with a solid wall of text. He reads the first sentence. Then reads it again. And again. On the fourth try, he tries to go over it in sections, because, really, what the hell kind of sentence takes up over half the page?

Okay, so it's talking about…the House of Congress? On June 26th. And they're talking about a bill to…standardize…something. Along with something else. Followed by something else again. Right. Next sentence.

Something. Something something something. Session for the day came to order. What? They haven't even started yet?

Prussia quietly closes the report, then sets it back on the pile which seems to have magically doubled in size since the last time he looked. He glares at it stonily.

Wishing he could stab the report, he instead opts to look over at America, still industriously tapping away at his desk. This is so lame, he thinks. Isn't America supposed to be all fun-loving and shit? He should have jumped at the chance to have a visitor as awesome as him. He can kinda understand not jumping at England, but seriously, it's him! Prussia! The guy that helped him win his little revolution! Which, now that he thinks about it, is the exact reason he came here.

"Hey, America," he asks, noticing that the other has taken to eating soup with his left hand while simultaneously typing on his right (kinda amazing, in all honesty), "What's with all this crap here? Did you write it?"

America acknowledges him with a muffled 'yeah' as he tries to speak and swallow at the same time. He grows quiet again as he blindly places his bowl off to the side, then starts working full speed, eyes zombie-like on the screen. With little preamble, the American starts spouting off, "Most of it I type and then Tony proof-reads, stuff in the folders is from my boss' aides. Some of it is bills for congress, too..."

The sentence trails off, America going back to fully focusing on typing what must be three million words per minute by how fast black letters are filing across the screen. Not wanting the finally attentive nation to stop conversing now that he'd started, Prussia plows ahead, "What's with all the legal jargon? Looks like a load of bullshit, if you ask me. Never took you for the type."

"That's how everyone writes in the government," America replies, stopping for a second to sweep his eyes over to the printer, which has finally ceased spewing out paper, "Everything has to follow the proper parameters to be submitted to my boss. Didn't used to have to write that way, but ever since it started becoming impossible to submit anything without the media butting in, all my bosses tell me to write like this.

"Fucking annoying, but it's easy enough, I guess," he wheels his chair over to check a blinking light on the printer, curses, then wheels back to the desk. Tugging a ream of paper from a little cubby hole on the side, he tears away the wrapper and sticks the entire stack into the paper holder. The printer immediately starts spewing out paper again. "They haven't been asking me to do as much lately, so it's been alright, but I'm still way behind on everything."

"Do you even understand what it is you're putting down? How the hell can you make heads or tails of it?" Prussia can't help but shout a little. It really pisses him off, America acting like working like a robot is no big deal (and practically ignoring him!).

At this, America pauses, looking thoughtfully to the ceiling. Coming to a conclusion, he grins brightly at the Prussian, "I dunno."

Gilbert slaps his forehead.

"Anyways, why are you here?" America asks, back to tapping away on his sparking keyboard.

"Well, duh," Prussia replies, leaning back into the couch and propping his feet on top of the Congress report, an action which immediately earns a 'Fucking kraut!' from Tony, "I came here to be awesome! You know, give you the chance to finally hang out with someone cool. Also to ask where my invitation to your party is, and I guess, West's invite, too."

"I can't," America says, hunching his shoulders and squinting at the moniter when a red squiggle appears on the screen, "What's another word for 'immolate'?"

"I don't know…uh, emulate?"

"…"

America quickly taps on the backspace key and pulls up an online thesaurus.

"So, y'know, when I said that I came all the way over here to be awesome and hang out, I MEANT get your ass up so we can go out and get smashed. Like, now." Prussia glares at the back of the other nation's head.

"Can't," is the reply again. With a decisive tap and a smirk of triumph, America clicks save and pulls up the print screen, "I'm busy."

Prussia almost sputters, "With what? This shit? You've got to be kidding me!"

America looks back, mouth tightened in an unfamiliar smile, thin-lipped and small, "Sorry."

He almost wants to tell him to wipe that stupid smile off his face. It's so stupid, like someone else's lips pasted onto the American's face; because in over 200 years of knowing the brat, never has he seen such a self-depreciating smile on someone everyone knows is more full of himself and egotistical than Prussia (there might be some slight discrepancies with this statement, as could be voiced by various nations such as Austria and Hungary and West and…). America had no right to look like that, like someone trapped in a corner with no way out, desperation and acceptance; insincerity and warm, honest veracity.

Gilbert doesn't realize he's scowling until Tony shoves his legs off the coffee table and upsets his position on the couch. The little alien grabs the entire report on Congress and various bundled bills full of shit, and settles back into the cushions, flipping pages like a madman with a red pen, stopping every now and then to make tiny notations or corrections.

He gets up and makes to leave the room, the house even. He needs air and space; despite the vast desert that is America's house, having only the barest hints of the usual vivacious spirit of the American, it's almost claustrophobic. Just watching someone work like that, hints of deep purple bags under bloodshot eyes and clothes too loose for someone so tall; it's sickening. He had seen West like that before, after the first World War when Germany had needed to pay so much back. Endlessly working and signing documents, reading and speaking; it was painful to see Ludwig, the little boy he'd taken in, fall so hard, and then even harder at his second loss. And sure, he still feels bitter towards him, towards Ludwig who is the base cause of the split of Prussia the country, the reason why Prussia the nation no longer holds a place or purpose within the ever-shrinking world.

Even as he hates Ludwig, he loves him more, because they are brothers and comrades no matter what. He wonders if this must be how England feels towards America, this same hate and love; though more than anything it's turned to an acerbic loathing towards the once bright-eyed youth, as far as Prussia can tell. Then he wonders if America knows it too, behind his stupid smiles and babbling mouth, just how much the world resents and abhors him, how much they wish he would just disappear and never come back. There is an intelligence to the nation that is like a well-kept secret, something only he and that blasted Russia have seen, back when the Cold War was in full swing. Russia can terrify even the most stalwart of soldiers, bite into their minds like a cold, rabid dog and rip it to shreds. But, America. He is the only one to have ever shaken Russia to the core, and the only one to ever be treated like an equal.

America knows, he thinks to himself, standing out in the dark of the hallway; a phantom in an empty house. America has always known what the world thinks. The thought makes him grit his teeth.

"Leaving already?" America doesn't sound particularly sad about it, but neither does he sound happy; the neutrality of his voice alerts Prussia to the knowledge that this has happened before, and is perhaps a thoroughly scripted play.

"Yeah," he grunts. "This place is lame. I'll come back another day."

"Awesome," and already the typing has resumed. Prussia still holds his back to the open doorway.

"About your birthday…," he starts, hating how…well, not defeated, but disappointed? his voice is, "When are we going to get our invitations? People have been asking around, and I personally want to make sure you're not serving any of your shitty beer. It's in two days, right?"

The typing in the other room slows, a few hesitant clicks and clacks falling flat to the floor.

America takes a minute to answer, staring intently at the screen in front of him, filled with words and statements that he'd never utter in a thousand years; dead words from dead fingers. He keeps his voice neutral, because really, he's not sure what he feels on the matter. Sad? Not really. Happy, no. If anything, he's relieved.

"I'm not having a party this year."

Prussia grits his teeth harder, the ache in his jaw solidifying, "Why not? Don't you always have one to celebrate your independence?"

"Not this year," America says, voice slick with simple words, and a kind of giddy joy (because isn't this just like rebelling again? Look at them, look at them; so upset over something he finally didn't overdo). "Tony and I are going to make a cake and maybe swim in the pool. It'll be nice, just the two of us. That's why I have to get this work done; so we can have a day off."

Prussia can practically hear that little self-deprecating smile on the blond's lips. It makes his heart pound the beat of a drum in his ears.

"Fine," he mutters, and unclenches his fists, the imprints of his nails imbedded like red scars into his palm. He whistles, and Gilbird comes to him, flopping onto his head like a loyal dog. He turns at last, staring into the rectangular doorway, viewing a cold and desolate world entirely different from his own. The setting of the sun is visible from that one window and casts a silhouette on everything, a blanket of purple and orange. It almost makes the room look pretty.

As he glances to where America rests in his chair, opening and closing his hand in an attempt to stretch the cramping muscles, Gilbert can't help but think it is the vision of a man trapped in a never-ending dream. Even though he's beautiful in the ruins of a utopia, America continues to decay. He wonders if one day, America really will become nothing but a dream; a fleeting vision glimpsed in only the darkest and most hopeless of nights; starlight and constellations.

Prussia turns away, because he can't stand the thought.

That evening, even as he tosses and turns in the uncomfortable chair in third-class, the only seat available for a last minute ticket to Munich, Prussia can't help but think about America.

The vision won't fade; the idea of America, the seemingly invincible nation that had stunned the world in his quick ascent to power, and self-proclaimed hero of the universe, just…falling away. In someone's arms, or alone in that singular chair, bathed in the evening sun; he could envision the pale skin and gold hair, cracks and fissures along the roads of veins and arteries, form greying with each staggering breath. He'd smile, reaching his arm up to the sky, the only place that could ever hold him. And then…he could imagine that someone like America would go out in light, shattering into a million fireflies or a storm of stars headed heaven-ward.

He has never witnessed the death of a nation, but he imagines it would be different for everyone. What lies beyond the oppressive confines of the world? Does it hurt? Could you see the nations that had come before you, your mothers and fathers and brothers, slain in battle or soul? Sometimes he's tempted to assuage his curiosity, but something always stays his mind, like West smiling at him even a little, or Italy absent-mindedly handing him flowers; listening to Austria play Beethoven or Hungary singing while hanging the laundry; France or Spain, calling him for a get-together at an unfortunate pub.

He wonders what stays America's mind, keeps him rooted to the world and its agonizing torment. He has few, if any, friends left; not even his brother can really stand him.

"I am so fucked," he hisses, curling up in his seat and praying for a swift unconsciousness.

When he staggers into the house, he can see that Ludwig has fallen asleep in the living room recliner, a thin folder propped open in his lap, most likely some statistics on the economy. He must have noticed Gilbert's disappearance the day before, had probably called every country in Europe to find a lead on him.

He sighs tiredly; the plane had gotten in on time, but it's still extremely early, and he's only managed a very fitful rest.

He walks to Ludwig's room and pulls a quilt from the other's immaculate closet, accidentally upsetting several hanging suits. He drags it back out to the living room, draping it over his brother's sleeping form, making sure to cover the shoulders and bunch the ends under Ludwig's bare feet. Damn, he's an awesome brother.

Once in his room, Gilbert doesn't fall to his bed and rest like he'd love to do. Instead, he places Gilbird aside and pulls an old, army-issue duffel bag from under his bed. The ticket to Virginia in America burns a hole in his pocket.

(1) Kit-Cat clocks are real clocks. :) How many of you guys thought it was like a Kit-Kat bar? It's that clock you always see in old shows and cartoons, the cat with moving eyes and tail. Created in America in the 1930's, it was supposed to bring a little joy to people suffering in the Great Depression. Here's a link to the website (remove the spaces): http: /www. kit-cat. com/ kitcathistory. htm

Fremd: Supposedly 'alien' in German, though probably not at all accurate. I'm sorry to anyone who knows German and is crying in anguish! I shame my ancestors. D:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALFRED! May you continue to be awesome and heroic for another year! :)

It…wasn't supposed to go on for this long, b-but, it's Alfred's birthdaaaay! I wanted to give a good gift. Anyways, hope it's okay. So, you guys probably have a lot of questions (I *know* you're out there; this story got 77 views in one day!). To be honest, so do I! I mean—wait, uh. Of course I know where this story is going, silly of you to ask! All shall reveal itself. Maybe. I dunno.

WARNING: COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY INFORMATION

A couple interesting things go on in this chapter: Alfred being a super-fast typist. I always figured he'd be able to do things on the computer fast, just like he's probably a super-texter and a wiz on Photoshop (Alfred is such a dork!). I also imagine he'd be able to spew BS lawyer jargon from his mouth and fingers with no problem. In the U.S. you can't trip over your own feet without a lawyer running up to you and saying that there's a lawsuit for that, and that lawyer actually winning the case in court. It's really annoying and scary. Lawyer jargon is also why many Americans are incapable of reading proposed bills in Congress; because, in reality, even the people who wrote the bill have no fucking clue what it actually means, nor do they really pay attention.

About the Cold War: Something that always really annoys me in Cold War stories (I love RussAme!) is how everyone portrays Alfred as being a bumbling idiot, and also being incredibly terrified of Russia, and also having never ever known Russia on a more intimate level in his entire life. This is a lie. First and foremost, America and Russia were playing fucking mind games with each other. You can't be stupid for that to occur. And yes, America was afraid and paranoid of Russia and Communism in the Cold War, but you'll also be amazed to find that the Soviets were in fact just as afraid and paranoid of America. Why? Because we're about as fucking insane as them. Finally, most amazing of all, is the fact that America and Russia used to be extremely buddy-buddy with each other, before, y'know they turned on each other (did you know one of the main reasons this happened is because of Winston Churchill's Iron Curtain speech? England totally cockblocked America and Russia. XD).

So, yeah. There you go. I hope you guys are enjoying this story. I don't think I'll write another long chapter like this for a while. Sorry for the angst-buckets and meaningless beginning. I just love Tony, though, and the fandom always seems to forget he exists, along with America's whale. Also, sorry for the rough writing; present-tense always kicks my ass, since I forget which tense I'm in and slip into past-tense.

Thank you all very much for the alerts and faves. :) I mighty appreciate it. But, I'd also like some critiques on my work, if it's not too much trouble. Please tell me if my characterization strays too far or if I have a blatant error. A beta probably wouldn't be a bad thing for me, either. Thank you for reading; I'll end this too-long A/N here. HAPPY 4TH OF JULY/INDEPENDENCE DAY/BIRTHDAY ALFRED!