We are alive.

Okay, here's the problem. Vilnius is in her senior year of college (cheer for her!) and Warsaw started a double major a year late, so she has to take 18 hours (most of which are reading and/or writing intensive) every semester until her senior year to catch up. So, yeah, we've been busy. We lost track of things. But we're gonna make it work.

Disclaimer: We Do (Not) Own

Chapter 30: Much to Nobody's Surprise

January 10, 1941
Klisura Pass, Southern Albania

Much to nobody's surprise, the Italy brothers' badly planned invasion was not going very well. It wouldn't quite be accurate to say that it was getting nowhere, because it was getting somewhere; it's just that the somewhere it was getting was not the somewhere that the Italy brothers had hoped: rather than heading further into Greek territory, the Italians had been pushed back, not just in the direction of the border but all the way past the border and into Italian-held Albania.

And Greece was proud of that. He really was. Sure, he was fighting the Italy brothers, and sure, their invasion wasn't exactly a masterpiece of planning, but the Italy brothers were still backed by an army, and an army is always a thing to take seriously, no matter how childish and generally nonthreatening the attached national personifications are, and that goes double when that army has numerical superiority. Greece was proud of himself, and even more than that, he was proud, so proud, of his people and of everything they had accomplished so far.

That being said, Greece was also nervous. The war was going great at the moment, but sooner or later Italy was going to go running to Germany for help, and that was going to be a problem. Italy already had more men than Greece, but with the added strength of Germany's military—Germany's rather terrifying military, which had already kicked down the doors of some pretty tough countries and made them all into German territory faster than anyone would have thought possible—well, Greece was pretty darn proud of his military, but he wasn't too keen on the idea of fighting two armies at once, especially not when one of them was Germany's.

Because of Greece's concerns about his chances if—or rather, when—Germany got involved, he'd set to work securing his positions as quickly as possible, which was why he had spent the past several days working to take the strategically important Klisura Pass. He really, really hoped that today's would be the last attack needed to take the place because four straight days of intense fighting was really starting to take its toll. Greece knew that it had to be affecting Romano at least as much as it was affecting him. After all, Italy was in Africa getting beaten up by England, so Romano hadn't had someone to switch places with when he needed a rest, not to mention that the Italian army's shiny new tanks had recently been introduced to the Greek army's artillery, which couldn't possibly have been a particularly enjoyable or restful experience for Romano. Still, it didn't quite feel to Greece like Romano was getting equally tired and equally beaten up from all the fighting, which sucked, since Greece was exhausted enough that he would have liked nothing more than to fall over right where he was and just sleep for a week, never mind that the ground was freezing cold and stained with blood and gore and other unpleasant things.

As going to sleep in the middle of the battlefield wasn't at all an option, Greece gritted his teeth, mentally told yesterday's bullet wound in his right arm to shut up and stop bothering him, and did his best to line up a decent shot at Romano and end this latest fight before it could really get started. Maybe it was the pain from yesterday's injuries that made him miss, or maybe it was the soreness in just about every part of his body that could be sore (and a few that he was pretty sure couldn't) or the bitter cold freezing his fingers and throwing off his aim. Whatever the cause, Greece's bullet sailed past its intended target without so much as a graze and ended up hitting who-knew-what behind him. Romano cursed and shot back at Greece, who dodged while racing forward as fast as he could get his aching legs to carry him, closing the distance between the two of them—a gunfight without any decent aim or split-second dodging reflexes (as by this point, both Greece and Romano were far too exhausted for such things) would likely come down to pure luck, but he was reasonably sure that he could beat an equally exhausted opponent at close range, no matter how unappealing hand-to-hand combat was at the moment.

Romano, seeing what Greece was trying to do and determined to use his rifle as much as he could while it was still at a range to be reasonably effective, fired again. Greece tried to dodge, but wasn't quite fast enough to keep from acquiring a new graze on his left arm and, almost as bad, a new bullet hole in his coat for the cold to get in through. He grimaced but kept moving, finally getting within punching range, where he was greeted by Romano's rifle being swung at his head. Greece ducked under it, slamming the butt of his own rifle into Romano's gut and knocking his opponent to the ground, winded. Greece spun his rifle around to fire, but Romano kicked Greece's feet out from under him before he got the chance, and Greece went down, landing on his left arm and causing the pain from his latest injury to promptly triple. He tightened his grip on his rifle, pushing himself up into a firing position only to have to jerk as far to the side as he could in his current position when Romano, still gasping to get air back into his lungs, fired at him, evidently hoping to finish the battle early.

Greece cursed as the bullet hit him in the side, but managed to swing his rifle into the side of Romano's knee just as the other Nation finished getting to his feet. Romano fell with a cry of pain and Greece pushed himself up to his knees and fired while Romano was busy registering the damage to his leg. His first shot wasn't exactly his best ever, but a hit to the shoulder was better than nothing, and it kept Romano busy just long enough for Greece to aim quickly and fire off another shot at the other Nation's head. This one hit, sending blood and brain gunk and bits of bone flying, and Greece, wincing at the pain in his side, got up and quickly examined first his opponent, who he quickly decided was either dead or some sort of medical miracle, but certainly no longer a threat, and then the injury in his side. It didn't seem life-threatening, but it was bleeding enough that Greece set to work wrapping it in bandages as best he could with his fingers half-frozen. He figured that it probably qualified as bad enough to justify sitting out for a bit, but now there was too much adrenaline pumping through his system to make that option seem as appealing as it had a minute ago, so despite his soreness and against his better judgement, Greece set off to continue the battle.

-o-

February 14, 1941
Berlin, Germany

Germany was more than ready to get out of this house full of crazy people, thank you very much, so he hadn't exactly been thrilled when he'd been forced to stay behind an extra day or two to deal with an onslaught of new governmental meeting nonsense which could easily have been over in a couple of minutes had the people involved not wasted valuable time playing politics. Of course, the thing about politicians was that it was their job to play politics, and Germany knew that and usually accepted it; today had just been particularly annoying because people kept trying to drag him into their political posturing and petty squabbles.

Germany was extremely ready to get to Africa. Rescuing Italy from England had to be better than sitting around listening to a bunch of blabbing politicians all day. The only really bad thing about having to go to Africa to rescue Italy was that while Germany was gone, the paperwork was just going to pile up because there would be nobody around to deal with it. Well, there was Austria, technically, but Germany was fairly certain that pigs would fly and Italy would defeat England entirely on his own before Austria would even consider making any meaningful effort to help out with the paperwork while Germany was off fighting.

With this in mind, when he got home from his meeting, Germany immediately shut himself in his office to try and at least get the preexisting paperwork done before he left. But apparently, the chances of him getting some uninterrupted time to get a bit of work done were about as good as the chances of Austria deciding to pitch in, because Germany had only just sat down at his desk and picked up a pen when the phone rang.

Germany sighed, hoping that it wasn't Italy calling for the millionth time to ask when Germany would be arriving in Africa, because Germany had already repeatedly told Italy that he would be leaving tomorrow and that if it was up to him, he'd have left already, but it wasn't up to him, and his boss had needed him to stay behind for a couple days, and there wasn't anything either of them could do about it, and it was only a couple days; surely Italy could survive a couple more days without him.

"Hello, this is Germany," Germany said, trying to keep that ugh, why is someone interrupting my day with a phone call tone out of his voice, although he wasn't quite sure he entirely succeeded. Fortunately, his caller didn't seem to notice, having much more pressing matters to deal with.

"Germany, it's Erwin Rommel. I just wanted to let you know that I got to Africa, and…" he paused for a second. "When are you getting here again?" he asked, his voice going from carefully controlled and businesslike to something that sounded suspiciously close to panic.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Germany said, becoming extremely concerned that he'd underestimated the severity of the situation in Africa. "I'm sorry I couldn't get there sooner, there were some last minute things that came up. Is everything okay?" Because you really don't sound like you right now.

"Well…I met Italy," Rommel said slowly, in that tone of voice that people always seemed to use in that situation; that very distinctive please tell me he's not always like this voice, with a note of panic to hint that they already knew better.

Germany really didn't want to crush Rommel's last desperate hope for sanity, but he supposed he didn't really have much choice. "Yeah," he said. "He's always like that."

Germany could just see Rommel trying desperately to keep himself from making any sort of sound of disappointment. "Oh," he finally said in a sort of this is going to suck way that was not dissimilar to the way he'd sounded when he'd met Prussia in the middle of the Austro-Prussian Pillow War fiasco. "This…this is going to be interesting."

"That's one way to put it," Germany said, knowing that Rommel had probably been thinking of a less tactful description than interesting. "I'll be there as soon as I can, and once I'm there he might calm down a bit."

"That would be very nice."

"Do I want to ask what he's been doing?"

There was a pause. "Well... he made pasta," Rommel finally said, in a way that implied that this was the only positive thing he could think to say about Germany's ally. "And then he panicked whenever I mentioned England and asked when you were getting here about fifty times…and I caught him trying to mass-produce white flags out of handkerchiefs and sticks…"

Germany groaned. "Why am I not surprised," he said, not quite sure whether he was talking to himself or to Rommel. "Okay, tell him—" and then he paused, listening carefully. "Um, hang on just a second," he said, then put the phone down and, as quietly as he could, crept out of his office, down the hall, and into the foyer where, sure enough, everyone in the house was clustered around the phone desperately trying not to laugh at Germany and Rommel's problems. "I knew I heard muffled giggling," he said. "Prussia, Hungary, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you're listening in, but is there some reason you decided to let everyone else join you?" he asked, snatching the phone away from them.

Prussia and Hungary looked at each other, silently trying to convey that the other should be the one to answer Germany's question. "It was his idea," Hungary finally said.

"I told you to come listen; you're the one who let everyone else join in," Prussia retorted.

"You're the one who started eavesdropping in the first place!"

"Yeah, but it was you who decided it was okay to let everyone not on our side listen in, and that's the real issue here," Prussia protested.

"Well it's not like they're discussing military secrets; everyone already knows Italy and England are fighting in Africa and Germany's going to go back Italy up."

"By which you mean that England's attacking Italy, Italy's running away screaming for help, and Germany's going to try and make Italy do something," Norway said in a stage whisper.

Germany smacked Norway upside the head as punishment for badmouthing his ally, but didn't do it all that hard because he couldn't exactly argue with his assessment of the situation. "Everyone not on my side, get out, get back to work and don't let me catch you eavesdropping on my phone calls again," he said. "Prussia and Hungary, stop bickering, go find something constructive to do, and don't let me catch you eavesdropping either."

"Okay, West, we won't let you catch us," Prussia promised, grinning. Germany gave him an unamused look and made a mental note to pay closer attention to the possibility of eavesdroppers in the future. Prussia, meanwhile, suddenly lunged forward and grabbed the phone out of Germany's hand. "Hey, it's the awesome Prussia! Did you miss me?" he said cheerfully into it. A pause, while he listened to Rommel's response. "What? I'm his brother. Eavesdropping on his phone calls and driving him nuts is in the job description." Another pause. "No, it totally is; the function of a brother is to annoy all other siblings to the point of insanity and then go ballistic if anyone else looks at them wrong. This is just me doing my job."

Germany took the phone from him again. "Sorry about that," he told Rommel while fending off Prussia's attempts to take the phone back. "Um…look, can I call you back after I kick Prussia out the house? Or maybe just lock him in a closet?"

-o-

February 14, 1941
Berlin, Germany

Officially, the room had been named the Room of War. About half of the house's residents used the official name; the other half called it a glorified coat closet, which was a much more accurate description of the small storage room where military equipment was kept. The actual weapons were kept in a safe, of course, but Germany insisted on keeping the door to the room locked too, just in case—backpacks, cold weather gear, and other assorted supplies weren't overly dangerous, but could be useful for someone running away.

At the moment, however, the door was unlocked and Germany and Prussia were inside, finishing packing their things for tomorrow's trip to Africa. "So, are you excited?" Prussia asked as he stuffed equipment into a backpack pocket.

"Not as excited as you are, I'm sure."

"Obviously. But are you excited?"

Germany thought it over. "I don't know if excited is the right word, but I guess I am looking forward to fighting England again, since he got away before we could finish him off in France."

"Yeah, I can't wait for that," Prussia agreed. "Just this time, don't randomly stop everything and give him time to escape again, okay?" he said, smirking.

"That wasn't my idea!" Germany protested. "I was just as frustrated by that order as you were, maybe more." Prussia gave him a skeptical look. "Don't look at me like that; you weren't even there," Germany pointed out. "You didn't have to sit there and know that England was getting away while you were in a position to stop him."

Prussia scowled, but shrugged in a fair enough sort of way and went back to packing. "Not that it'll matter here," he said. "Rommel's too awesome to stand for that kind of nonsense. He'll just—"

"—let you sabotage his radio so he can't get orders he doesn't like?" Germany cut in.

Prussia very nearly pointed out that Rommel hadn't actually known about his plan to sabotage the radio until after he'd done it, but he remembered at the last second that he was still supposed to be denying all involvement in the incident. "Nobody can prove that was me," he said.

"Yes, because you fixed the radio afterward."

Prussia just grinned in response. "Someone fixed the radio afterward," he agreed.

Germany gave him a Look. "Everyone knows it was you, Prussia, and nobody is really complaining. Just don't do it again, okay?"

Prussia was saved from having to make any promises by the arrival of Norway. "A messenger from your government just dropped this off for you. Apparently, it's important," he said, holding up a thick envelope.

"Just put it on my desk; I'll look at it when we finish up here," Germany said and set to work putting the last of his things in the bag. "Prussia, are you almost done? We need to get everything packed in the car, ready to go tonight so we can get up early tomorrow and get out of here as quickly as possible."

Prussia didn't complain about this out loud, but he did stuff the last of his extra bandages in his pack a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary—getting up early to fight a war was fine, but getting up early to travel to a war didn't have quite the same charm. "I'm done," he announced, gathering up his things and leaving the room, looking around for someone he could order around. "Hey, Denmark, put this in the car for me. Germany's stuff too," he said, shoving his bags into Denmark's hands. World domination did have its perks, first and foremost among them being the ability to make other people do the things he didn't feel like doing. "If anything's missing, I'll know it was you who stole it," he added, just to be safe.

Germany rolled his eyes at his brother's laziness, but didn't say anything, putting his things on the floor for Denmark to pick up when he finished putting up Prussia's, and locking the door of the Room of War behind him, then heading off toward his office to go look through the documents Norway had left there. Prussia followed after him, wanting to get any last minute paperwork they had been sent out of the way as quickly as possible because there was little to no chance here that leaving it until later would result in Germany doing part of it.

They quickly glanced through the documents, which did indeed involve a bit of last-minute paperwork for them to do before leaving, much to both of their dismay. The paperwork was probably a considerable part of the reason that when Germany noticed the music being inexpertly played in the next room, he immediately dropped the mail back onto the desk and stormed out of the office. Prussia followed him, mostly out of interest, although a little part of him was hoping that he wouldn't have to do damage control.

"Poland, if I hear one more note of Für Elise, you're going to spend the rest of the day scrubbing your blood off of every surface in this room."

Yeah, it was starting to look like he was going to have to do damage control.

Poland froze, one finger still holding down D sharp. His other hand tapped nervously on the keys, not quite pressing any of them hard enough to make a sound, and he watched Germany with wide green eyes, his expression one part nervous and one part calculating as he tried to work out whether Germany meant it. Germany raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to press another key.

Slowly, Poland lifted his finger off of D sharp, hesitated a second, then tentatively pressed down on E. The instant Germany moved toward him, Poland scrambled back off the piano bench and backed across the room, cursing under his breath as his expression shifted from nervous to angry, the way it always did when he was in trouble.

"Do you have a death wish?" Germany demanded, looking more incredulous than angry.

"What exactly is your problem with my piano playing anyway?" Poland asked, ignoring Germany's question.

Germany went to respond, but Prussia beat him to it. "His problem—and mine, for that matter—is that you suck and that you always play the same songs because you can't be bothered to learn new ones. And don't look at me like that, West; you know you were thinking the same thing."

"Actually, the main problem I have is that he's disobeying orders," Germany said.

Poland looked like he didn't know which of them he was angrier at, but it was Germany he responded to. "I don't take orders from you. I never have and I never will."

Prussia, who had rather hoped to distract both of them from picking the sort of fights that ended with blood everywhere, looked around for another distraction, and was more than a little relieved to find one. "France!" he exclaimed, loudly enough to catch Germany and Poland's attention before anything could escalate to violence. "What do you want?"

"Er…is now a bad time to tell you that dinner is ready?" France asked, eyeing Germany and Prussia warily and giving Poland a concerned look.

Germany looked like he was considering telling France to get lost, but he evidently decided against it. "It's fine," Germany said, giving Poland one last warning glare before moving past France and into the hall. "Let's go eat, everyone."

Prussia breathed a sigh of relief as Germany headed off to the dining room. "You'd better thank France for saving you," he said to a stunned-looking Poland.

"I can't believe he let France, or, like, anyone, distract him from this," Poland responded, looking both shocked and extremely relieved.

"I can't believe you were stupid enough to play that next note," Prussia said as he headed off after his brother. When he reached the dining room, he froze in horrified shock. "You have got to be kidding me. How did…what…why is this happening?"

Germany, who had gone back to normal in record time, gave him what was evidently meant to be an innocent look. It didn't work; he couldn't have pulled off that look of wide-eyed innocence if his life had depended on it. "Ever since you brought it up last year, I've been wanting to try escargot, so I had France make it," he said in, again, what was evidently meant to be an innocent way.

"No. No, this is not funny, West. This is not okay. Why would you do this to me?"

Poland, coming into the dining room behind him, saw what was on the table and promptly collapsed into a fit of giggles. Prussia kicked at him until he moved himself and his giggle fit out of reach. "How could you do this to your own brother?" he demanded of Germany, who responded with a look that seemed to indicate that Prussia should know the answer already.

"You really can't think of a reason I might want to watch you squirm a bit?" Germany asked.

"What…no. No! This is completely unfair, this is inhumane, it's…you can't do this! What is wrong with you; I'm your brother!"

"My brother, who recently ambushed Austria with the garden hose and chased him into the house with it and got water all over the foyer."

"Snails, West. Snails, intended to be eaten. Nobody deserves that, no matter how much water they sprayed in the house."

Germany ignored him. "Besides, I thought you liked French food. You certainly seemed to have enjoyed all those restaurants you went to in Paris last year."

"I went to French restaurants because we were in France! It was what was there. And even if I did like French food, there's a huge difference between liking it in general and wanting to eat snails!"

"Okay," Germany said agreeably. "Going to a French restaurant doesn't mean you want to eat snails. I can see how that makes sense." He smirked. "Then I'll say that this just is to watch you squirm after what you did the other day."

Prussia gave his brother a furious death glare and stalked over to his chair, muttering vows of revenge under his breath. He seized a piece of bread and set to work slowly but surely mutilating it one bit at a time as everyone else sat down. Prussia carefully avoided looking at the table and everyone sitting around it, instead staring resolutely at his plate and the bits of bread he was tearing up and depositing there. "You're all disgusting, and I hate you," he reminded everyone, in case they had somehow not picked up on it yet. More than one person cracked up laughing, which really wasn't fair because he wasn't the only one who seemed a little squicked out by the idea of eating snails, so really, he should have had someone on his side here.

Everyone sat down and started eating, some more reluctantly than others. When Prussia finished mutilating his piece of bread, he joined in, taking some of everything that was fit for human consumption. "Seriously people, I cannot be the only one here who's not willing to eat snails," he muttered. Nobody bothered to answer him. One of the dogs came up and looked at him hopefully. Prussia scowled. "Go see Germany if you want food," he snapped.

Germany glared at him across the table, and Prussia smirked back. "Go see Prussia," Germany told the dogs. "He'll give you food."

Oh no you don't. You started this with your stupid snails; you're at least going to have to deal with the dogs wanting your food. When the dogs—all three of them now—arrived and started giving him hopeful looks and little whining sounds, Prussia petted them for a minute, then sent them back to Germany.

"Stunningly mature, both of you," Hungary commented. She was duly ignored, at least by Germany and Prussia. Everyone else seemed highly amused by the whole thing.

Germany sent the dogs back to Prussia, who was beginning to wonder why they were still bothering to go back and forth like this. He sent them back at Germany, who glared at him and returned fire.

By this point, most of the Nations at the table were either laughing or pulling weird faces trying to avoid doing so, with the inevitable exception of Austria, who looked personally offended by his allies' antics. Prussia glanced at him, then looked over at Germany and grinned, cocking his head to the side, using all the brotherly telepathy he could muster to suggest a new target.

"Go see Austria," Prussia told the dogs.

"Go on, go see Austria," Germany joined in.

"What? No, don't send them to me!" Austria protested.

"He'll give you all his food," Prussia promised, making little shooing motions to direct the dogs toward his rival.

"No I won't!"

The dogs eagerly crowded around Austria's seat, waiting expectantly to be fed.

"I hate you," Austria muttered in Prussia's direction.

-o-

February 16, 1941
Tripoli, Libya

"Aren't you glad now that we didn't drop everything to invade Russia like you wanted?" Germany asked. "Imagine if we were on our way to Moscow right now in the freezing cold."

Prussia scowled at him. "Don't you know by now that just because I say we should invade someone, it doesn't mean that I think we should actually seriously do it?"

"I don't know," Germany noted, "you seemed pretty serious about that one."

"Germany, do you really think I'm so impulsive that I'd invade Russia in the middle of the winter?" Prussia demanded. Germany started to answer, but Prussia cut him off. "Getting dragged along when France tried it sucked; why would I want a repeat performance? And even France didn't start his invasion in the middle of winter. That would just be stupid. I mean, yeah, I want to beat up Russia, and the sooner the better, but I do know that we have to wait until it'll actually work. Bugging you to do it sooner is just my way of complaining about having to wait. That being said…yeah, I'm glad we're not invading Russia right now. I'll take February in North Africa over February in Russia any day." He laughed. "So, where're we supposed to be meeting Rommel, anyway?"

"Just up here," Germany began. "He said he'd—"

But what exactly Rommel had said, Prussia never found out because it was at that point that Germany was interrupted by a loud "GERMANY! GERMANY! OVER HERE!" Before Germany could actually look for the source of the voice, Italy came flying out of nowhere, barreling into Germany with a flying tackle hug that knocked the bigger Nation off his feet and sent them both to the ground.

Prussia, perhaps inevitably, cracked up laughing at his younger brother's ineffective attempts to escape from Italy's enthusiastic greeting long enough to get to his feet.

"Maybe we could tell him to hug England," Rommel suggested, coming up next to Prussia to watch the madness unfold. "If it works this well against Germany, it should work on England too."

Prussia thought it over. "You know, you might be onto something," he said. "And just picture the look on England's face if he was defeated by a hug." He promptly did so and cracked up laughing once more.

"I don't know what England looks like, so I can't exactly picture it, but I'll take your word for it that it's sufficiently amusing."

"It is," Prussia promised. "I'll have to introduce you when we capture him so you can properly picture it too."

"It's nice to know you have your priorities in order," Rommel remarked sarcastically as he offered Germany a hand up. This might have helped had Italy taken the incredibly blatant hint that it was time to let go. As Italy was not exactly known for his ability to pick up on hints, blatant or otherwise, however, Germany ended up having to drag his ally around as dead weight for several more seconds after getting up before he and an exasperated Rommel finally succeeded in prying Italy off of him.

The whole time this was going on, Prussia helpfully provided obnoxiously loud laughter in the background, ensuring that as many passers-by as possible stopped to stare at the scene. This was probably why he was on the receiving end of two death glares by the end of it, and why nobody bothered to help him when he got his own greeting hug from Italy, although fortunately the hyperactive Nation wasn't able to build up enough momentum to knock him down like he had with Germany.

"Hey, Italy," Prussia said as he tried to get free. If this were a fight, he wouldn't have any problem, of course, but doing actual damage was out of the question here, so there was a lot of struggling and squirming involved before he managed to extricate himself. "So," he said, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes and trying to look like nothing had happened. "When do we start beating up England?"

"Well, since he's not likely to come here and meet us, I think you'll at least have to wait until we reach the front lines," Germany noted. Prussia shot him a quick glare and then turned to Rommel for a proper answer.

"Soon," Rommel promised. "A few days at the most; we just need to finish getting everything organized and get out there. Of course, the more you're willing to help out with the organizational side of things, the faster it'll go."

Prussia could only assume that Germany had been talking about him to Rommel behind his back, because no way had Rommel (or anyone, for that matter) figured out on his own that Prussia could be enlisted in the organizational efforts without disaster ensuing. Prussia was entirely capable of being serious and organized; in fact he was quite good at being serious and organized. That being said, due to his usual personality, most people didn't realize this until they actually saw firsthand that being organized and being obnoxious and occasionally a little bit insane are not actually mutually exclusive.

"Great. What do we need to do?" Prussia asked with far more enthusiasm than he ordinarily gave to such matters. It had been far too long since he'd gotten to do something in this war, and even helping to organize an invasion was an appealing prospect because he'd finally be accomplishing something—occasionally bombing England didn't really count, since he didn't get to see the results and it didn't seem to be getting anywhere anyway—and his work would directly lead to the actual fighting starting up sooner.

"At the moment, we're working on getting troops moved up to the front and organizing the transportation of supplies. Just jump in on either project. We've also got some dummy tanks being produced to make it look like there are more of us; hopefully it'll make England more hesitant to attack. It's probably going to be a few days before any fighting happens, so you don't have to worry about missing out on anything interesting because you're working on something else."

"I'll work on anything that doesn't involve paperwork," Prussia declared. "Germany and I had a massive paperwork party before we left, trying to get as much done in advance as we could—which was totally unnecessary, might I add, since Austria's going to be at home keeping an eye on things, so there's no reason he can't just do all the paperwork."

Germany got a look on his face like he'd heard this a thousand times already, which he probably had by this point.

"With the number of people Austria has to keep an eye on, it might be difficult to find time to do a ton of paperwork," Rommel suggested.

"Also, it's Austria. He probably won't do it anyway," Germany pointed out.

Prussia considered this. "You're probably right," he agreed. "So I guess this brings us to the question of why we changed around that treaty with Russia and let him take Lithuania, because it seems to me that we gave up a perfect solution right there—Austria could boss everyone around like the freeloading noble he is, and Lithuania could do all the paperwork like the hyper-organized freak he is. All our problems would be solved. Plus then Russia would have to do his own paperwork, which would suck for him, so added bonus right there."

-o-

March 11, 1941
New York, United States of America

America gnawed impatiently on the end of a ballpoint pen. It was an expensive pen—at least, he assumed it was, going by its appearance—and it would have made him look at least ten percent more impressive if it wasn't…well, chewed. He had found the pen the day before, buried in a drawer beneath a pyramid of paper clips, rubber bands, and important-looking folders with colorful scratch marks and notes-to-self on them.

Only a little over twenty-four hours after its rescue, the pen no longer looked expensive, nor did it make him look ten percent more impressive. In fact, if you were close enough to see the bite marks, he looked at least ten percent less impressive. Probably more like fifteen percent. At least.

America checked his watch, hummed a remarkably flat rendition of "Yankee Doodle" until he noticed the well-dressed young man a table over giving him a death glare over a battered Virginia Woolf paperback. America slumped down in his seat and grumbled into his by-now cold cup of coffee. If I was the one running late for a meeting, he thought, distractedly blowing bubbles in his drink, I'd never hear the end of it. War or no war, bombs or no bombs.

"That's disgusting. How old are you, two?"

America looked up from his drink to see England, shaking his head. The older Nation was wearing a slightly oversized green sweater; England had owned it for at least thirty years, and it showed. He looked exhausted and more than a little battered, but not too terribly worse for the wear overall.

America rolled his eyes. "More like two centuries, dude."

England sat down across from him, easing himself into the chair. Despite his youthful appearance, America thought, the war sure was making England's very real old age clear. "Absolutely not," England scoffed. "You're thirty-five short. One hundred sixty-five years is a long way away from two centuries."

America wrinkled up his nose. "Why do you know that off the top of your head?" he demanded. "Even I don't know that off the top of my head?"

"That's because you're terrible at maths." England looked around at the table. "How many coffees have you had?" he asked worriedly.

Downing the rest of his cup with a slight shudder—cold coffee would never suit America's tastes, unless it was heavily sweetened and smothered with whipped cream—, America shrugged. "Two."

"There are three cups here," England pointed out.

"Okay, well, I got one for you, but you were way late, so…"

England frowned. "So you drank it?"

"It was getting cold!" America complained, waving his newly-emptied cup and splashing a few stray drops around in the process.

"That's not what I meant," England said, leaning out of the danger zone with practiced ease. He caught the cup mid-wave and guided it back down onto the table. America made a face at him. "Did you not count my coffee?"

"I didn't get it for me," America said innocently, as if that made sense. "And technically it's espresso."

"You've had three espresso shots." England inhaled slowly, and then exhaled even slower. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about you falling asleep." Not that anyone ever had that problem with America, of course. "Just give me the papers to sign so I can get out of here and get a cup of decent tea."

America snorted. "Typical." He reached down onto the chair next to him, and then tossed England a box of Salada tea. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

England caught the box with an expression of almost childlike delight. "I say, that's very thoughtful of you. I'll tell you what—next time you're over at my place, I'll make you some biscuits or something." And then, with the air of one sucking on a lemon, he amended, "Er, cookies, I suppose."

America blanched. "Yeah, no, don't," he said urgently. "Rationing and all, you know." It was a smooth cover up, if he did say so himself.

"I suppose you're right," England sighed. "There's hardly enough butter and sugar to satisfy your sweet tooth."

"It's a cultural sweet tooth," America protested, but he was inwardly just relieved to have dodged the baked goods bullet. "It's not my fault."

England hummed disbelievingly, but good-naturedly. "All right," he admitted. "Maybe it isn't. But you have brought the paperwork? You didn't drag me to a coffee shop just to make some sort of pro-American political statement, did you?"

"You used to like coffee houses," America sighed, retrieving the paperwork in question from the chair which had also held the tea.

"Yes, and then you happened," England countered. "You've ruined them. They simply aren't places of intelligence anymore."

"That man is reading Virginia Woolf!" America pointed out the man who'd glared at him for whistling earlier, clearly stung. The man glanced up from his book again, glanced back and forth between the two Nations, and returned to Orlando with a particularly unsubtle sigh. "This is the thanks I get for trying to help you out? I got you tea, you grumpy old man!"

"Yes, yes, all right." England said. "Pipe down." He pulled the stack of papers out from underneath the younger Nation's hand and began to skim it. "I must say, this lend-lease thing will be a big help."

"Because Germany broke all your stuff, yeah." America was still upset about the intelligence jab. "Don't wreck my planes, dude."

"I'm not going to wreck your planes," England huffed, focusing a little more intently on the paper in front of him.

"Okay, don't let Germany wreck my planes. Same deal." America crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and contemplated another espresso. "Don't wreck the other stuff, either. Like my ships. I like my ships. You'll completely destroy the food, of course, but that's not your fault." He grinned devilishly. "It's a cultural thing."

England signed a page with enough force to tear through nearly the entirety of the bottom half of the sheet of paper.

"I'm gonna have to tape that," America noted, barely suppressing a snicker.

England closed his eyes for a few moments, during which America suspected he was counting to ten or mentally singing his national anthem or something, and then said coolly, "I'm sure the arsenal of democracy can stand to lose a few weapons." There was something mocking in his tone that America just couldn't pass up.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but who is it arming your sorry ass? Who is it who goes around talking about how the sun never sets on his empire?"

"That," England spluttered, flushing slightly, "is a physical description!"

America snorted loudly. The man with the Virginia Woolf book got up and left. "Besides, I basically invented democracy anyway."

England gave him a blank stare. "No," he said bluntly, "you didn't."

Feeling a bit like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, America sunk down a bit in his chair again. "Modern democracy, I mean?" he tried.

Setting down his pen, England considered this. "Define modern," he said. "Define democracy."

America groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Come on, man. The Constitution. My Constitution!"

"Which was heavily inspired by the Magna Carta, and either way, that doesn't make you the inventor of anything-"

"Sign the papers," America interrupted, grabbing England's pen and throwing it at him. The last thing he wanted was a history lesson—particularly not an English history lesson, unless England was drunk when giving it. Those always turned out particularly interesting, and were a great way to learn embarrassing secrets. "Just sign the papers."

Author's Notes

Historical Jargon

-What's really disappointing is that the original draft of the first scene started with: "Cats were flowing out of Greece's tent like endless rain into a paper cup or perhaps, more relevantly, like endless snow into the nearby river Aoös." And then it just talked about Greece and cats for over three hundred words. Unfortunately, that got lost in the finishing of things. This is a shame, because "Across the Universe" is one of Warsaw's favorite Beatles songs. Anyway, Greece fought off Italy and captured his strategic pass, even though the weather was crappy and their logistics and roads were wonkier than the Italians'. Hooray!

-Regarding the three middle scenes: Erwin Rommel arrived in Africa on February 14, along with a bunch of German troops, and set to work preparing to properly fight England, while also having a bunch of dummy tanks (mounted on Volkswagens, if anyone was wondering) produced and generally trying to make it look like there were more troops than there actually were in order to make England more hesitant to attack before the preparations were finished. The fighting will start up in a few days, and I'm sure Prussia will enjoy himself immensely. Also, the thing about Lithuania that Prussia mentions is referring to the spheres of influence set up in the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Initially, Germany was going to get Lithuania, but he and Russia later changed it around so that Russia would get Lithuania and Germany would get more of Poland's territory.

-*ahem* The Lend-Lease policy basically ended America's neutrality by letting him lend the Allies lots of stuff, like food, oil, planes, ships, and weaponry. In return, he got leases on Army and Navy bases on the Allies' land during the war. Good deal, right? Right. Greece invented democracy. Teabags were patented in 1896, but "teabags" weren't really manufactured until the thirties, and didn't catch on until at least the seventies. In 1905, a man named Desiderio Pavoni bought the patent for Luigi Bezzara's improved version of the steam-powered espresso maker, and began producing them in bulk. (Apparently, despite making quick, bulk coffee, the product wasn't very good because the steam was too hot, making it bitter. Heh.) In 1927, one of these machines was installed in Caffe Reggio in New York, making it the first espresso machine in America. This original espresso machine is still there today, although not in service, of course! They're quite proud of it. (Warsaw apologizes for the irrelevance of all this; she is fascinated by the history of random things, particularly coffee, despite not liking coffee at all.)

People Talkin'

Vilnius' Note: So, I wrote a draft of an honors thesis about resistance in concentration camps. My thesis adviser is reading it to see what needs changing, but I know that it probably sucks because it was written at the last minute, and mostly in the middle of the night. When I finished that draft, I said that I never wanted to read or write another word about WWII resistance, and that if I even heard Poland's name, I'd probably strangle someone. That lasted maybe a week, and then I started rereading Stefan Korbonski's Fighting Warsaw.

Warsaw's Note: I can't talk to you about Age of Ultron, because if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all. So I won't. (I've never had a least favorite movie before.) Not a thing. (I'm going to send these people some Hawkeye comics and feminist essays.) And that's all we're going to say about that. Instead, I'm going to take this time to tell you how if I see another Duel Monsters card for, like, a solid month, I'm going to flip every table within a three mile radius. I mean I'm going to hunt down every table and I'm gonna flip it like I'm doing some kind of performance art or something. Gosh.