Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Warnings: Slash, AU, swearing, sub-par writing, wonky plots, appallingly slow updates, and Hitler jokes.
I don't know what I'm doing.
Unbeta'd.
[Chapter 4]
So a secret agent, an out of work programmer, and the Anti-Christ in GPS format went screaming down the back roads in a beat-up old car.
The agent turned to the programmer and said "Do you have any idea where you're going?"
Alfred didn't say anything. If this was the joke that it looked like, Alfred would be leading into the punch line. But he had no idea what the punch line was. Probably because there was no punch line. This wasn't a joke, no matter how much Alfred wanted it to be.
And Alfred really, really wanted someone to send in the damned clowns.
It'd been three days. He'd like it if the crazy stopped now.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"It's not like I can listen to anything else." The radio had been out for the last six miles, and showed no signs of coming back anytime soon. Not that Alfred blamed it. He didn't want to be here either.
"Then, if you can hear me, why aren't you answering?"
At the moment, he wasn't responding because he was testing out the theory that if he pretended hard enough, maybe Arthur would go away. Little kids did it all the time with blankets and boogiemen. Hide under the blanket and pretend the monster's not there and, lo and behold, the monster goes away. Alfred might not have had a blanket, but Arthur was definitely shaping up to be one hell of a boogieman.
"We're lost, aren't we?" Arthur pressed.
Damn it, the Brit was still there. Maybe the blanket approach really did need a blanket. But then he wouldn't be able to drive. Why couldn't Arthur just disappear?
"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" Alfred wasn't whining. Nope, totally wasn't whining.
"Ask for directions." Arthur suggested, breaking man code in doing so. Men don't pull over and ask for directions. It simply wasn't done. Surely Arthur should know this by now.
"And who the hell am I supposed to ask for directions?" Alfred asked in response to Arthur's frankly ridiculous advice.
Right on cue, Hitler began to act up again.
"You will arrive at your destination in two point five three zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero-"
"Your bloody machine's on the fritz again." Arthur's tone was accusatory, as if Alfred somehow had control over Hitler's actions. Which he didn't.
"It's fine, just evil."
The sooner Arthur accepted this fact, the better. Maybe then he could call some super-secret organization or another so they could send an exorcist to expel the demon from Alfred's TomTom. Or maybe Arthur could call ninjas. Ninjas might work.
"It's an inanimate object." Arthur argued.
"An evil inanimate object." Alfred argued back.
"Zero zero zero-" Hitler droned.
It should be noted that both Alfred and Arthur had the capacity to be charming and considerate people. Just not when they were stuck in a car together. Then they became insufferable clusters of stress spewing forth rage and generally obnoxious behavior.
"I don't care if it's the Dalai Lama." Arthur snapped "I'm not going to listen to it blather on for who knows how long. Turn it off, or fix the stupid radio, or- or- Something! I can't take much more of it."
Arthur looked fit to shoot something. Hitler had that effect on people.
Alfred considered his options.
"Ninety-nine bottles of-"
"You sing that bloody song, and I'll shank you with the broken ends of all ninety-nine fucking bottles." came Arthur's almost immediate threat.
"The bottles don't actually exist, dude. They're, like, a metaphor or something."
Arthur actually looked pained at this point.
"How are you even literate? You lack an understanding of even the basic mechanics of English. The evidence suggests that that you should be incapable of speech, little more than a blithering, incomprehensible, unevolved primate."
"Wh-Huh?" was Alfred's intelligent response.
"My point exactly."
"Are you calling me a monkey?"
Never let it be said that Alfred wasn't quick on the uptake.
"No, I'm calling you American. Same thing really."
"Hey! We're intelligent!"
That pompous, foreign- How dare he! This was America! Oh, he'd better take that back.
"I'll believe that on the day that you learn what a metaphor is."
Diss a man all you wanted, but leave his country out of it. This was another one of those man rules that Arthur apparently didn't know. You didn't insult a man's country, you didn't insult a man's woman, and you certainly didn't insult his mother. Depending on where you were, you also might not want to insult his dog, his car, his choice in beer, his hat, his musical instrument, his gun, or his favorite song. All of these were grounds for retribution.
Usually in the form of a right hook. A mean right hook.
Alfred couldn't punch Arthur right now, what with the driving and Arthur being a secret agent and libel to kick his ass. But there was something he could do. Something that would probably get Arthur just as riled up as a punch to the face. If not more so.
Arthur realized what Alfred was about to do seconds before he started doing it.
"Don't you dare." Arthur warned.
Alfred's eyes narrowed in challenge behind his glasses. Too late British dude, it was on.
On like fucking Donkey Kong.
"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall." he began.
"Alfred-"
"Ninety-nine bottles of beer." Alfred raised his voice.
"Alfred-"
"You take one down." he sang even louder.
"Git, do you have any idea who you're messing with?" Arthur's eyebrows twitched, glare going from 'stun' to 'kill'.
"YOU PASS IT AROUND!" Alfred all but screamed.
"I WILL END YOU!" roared the Brit, grasping across the gap between their seats to claw at his unfortunate companion.
"NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE- Arrgh! Get off me you- Fuck! Stop! Arrgh! That hurts damn it!"
"It bloody well better!"
"Zero zero miles." finished Hitler.
After some swerving and an embarrassing slap fight, it was decided that a rest stop was needed. They could both use some time away from each other. At the first opportunity that presented itself, they would rejoin society and pretend to be normal and unassuming.
The slap fight was, of course, never to be mentioned to anyone.
Also, by mutual consent, hair pulling was added to the list of 'Un-Gentlemanly and Un-Heroic Activates'. The list was quite long considering they'd only known each other for three days.
It was pathetic that after only three days such a list had become necessary.
Alfred found a town that was more rest stop than town, and got out of the car as fast as he could. His knees popped in bliss. Oh yeah, he'd totally needed a stretch break. He brought his hands over his head, listening to his shoulders and spine crackle with relief. That was the stuff.
The post-stretching bliss lasted until the moment he realized Arthur had ditched him without so much as a word of warning.
This could be a problem. Arthur had his keys. He took them any time they stopped to make sure Alfred wouldn't drive off without him. Alfred could make do without Arthur, but he needed his car.
Fortunately, Alfred found his secret agent a few minutes later. But only after wandering past the same storefront several times. The store owner was probably ready to call the cops.
Arthur was around the side of a nearby Seven-Eleven. He had located a payphone. An impressive feat in and of itself. If the World Wildlife Federation were to accept the payphone into their roster of species, it would be listed as 'critically endangered'. And Arthur kept finding them.
Alfred didn't know if it was some skill of Arthur's or if Illinois just possessed a plethora of payphones.
If it was the latter, they might consider changing their license plates from 'Illinois: Land of Lincoln' to 'Illinois: Land of Payphones'.
Upon locating one, Arthur would immediately sequester himself away between the laughable barricades meant to keep away eavesdroppers. He would spend his time talking in hushed tones to whoever was on the other end of the line, scribbling notes on pads of paper. Alfred would be told, in no uncertain terms, to go the hell away.
Which was fine by Alfred, except for the fact that Arthur had made off with all his spare change.
So much for catching a quick game of Tekken on the console outside the Seven-Eleven. He missed video games. Tetris quickies on his phone weren't cutting it. If he didn't catch a break soon he was going to go into withdrawal.
He resolved to comfort himself with beef jerky and Mountain Dew. And maybe some Chex Mix. Or maybe-
Alfred had this problem. Gas stations and convenience stores were so filled with junk food that he often went into overload at the mere thought of them. There was so much stuff to choose from, and only a set amount of cash to shell out.
What would he do? What would he buy? Fanta? Milky Ways? Pork rinds? Mixed nuts? Cheetos? Root beer? Klondike bars? Gum? Twinkies? Fritos? Cookies? Coke products?
So many choices.
The best way to temporarily incapacitate the American was to give him five dollars and shove him into a convenience store.
In fact, Alfred had been staring uninterrupted at a Doritos display for a good ten minutes before anyone bothered to snap him out of it.
"Um. Excuse me?" someone behind him asked.
"Yeah? What can I-"
Alfred stopped mid-turn and mid-sentence.
"Ah! Moi-moi, Mr. Jones." said Tino Vainamoinen "I thought it was you. If I could borrow a bit of your time, I think we need to talk."
[End Chapter]
You all seem to have a fever, and the only prescription is more Hitler.
You know, the GPS Hitler. Not the real Hitler.
Continue?