...I really, really hate my internet connection right now. So sorry about that. Also, you gave me lots of ideas! Hopefully this is one of the decent ones.
There were still holes in the roof when he first made the move to Bonn, so of course Germany took one of the apartments on the top floor as his own; but that was over a decade ago and now he has as much roof over his head as the family below him, even if the carpet does show spots here and there where rain once slipped through the tarp. What matters is that he has a ceiling now, and a couch, and even a bookcase in the corner that looks a little less empty each time he revisits it. Presently there is a hole on one of the shelves, somewhere between Mann and Tieck. Germany fills the couch uneasily and sets out to reacquaint himself with an old, old friend in the absence of a more productive occupation this afternoon.
Occupation, and there is a knock at the door. Even now there is something eerie about that timing.
"Come in, America," says Germany around the book cover, knowing full well that the knob is already halfway turned. America does not quite slam the door behind him and makes a beeline for the couch while he tugs at his tie to loosen it.
"--Came as soon as I could get away," he mutters. Germany shifts wordlessly to grant him a seat on the far end next to his knees and feels the cushion dip where America collapses on it. "Had to deal with everyone still flipping out about Cuba, you know, that whole thing, which by the way would have totally turned out differently if more of the guys not kissing Castro's rear had just...aahhh, forget it." He shakes his head ruefully, then slips impressively into an easy smile. "So how're you holding up?"
Germany tilts his book to glance up over its edge. "The fence is a wall now."
Quickly, America swipes his glasses off and starts dabbing at the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. "I know, I know." He shakes his head again while Germany despairs inwardly at the least efficient spectacles-cleaning in history. "God, I mean, okay, so it's definitely not like I would have put it past that psycho to do it, but I still kinda can't believe he went ahead and did it, you know?" His breath fogs up one of the lenses when he breathes on it. "More screws missing there than you could count right? I swear, guy might as well be even crazier without Stalin nowadays."
"That is a distressing thought," says Germany vaguely. He turns his attention back to the book and searches for the point where he left off reading. Some line of dialogue, he recalls; Franz? Or Karl? He cannot seem to recall.
America scoffs and returns his glasses to his face. "You're telling me. I spent about an hour looking for you at the office, by the way," he chides, shoving playfully at Germany's shins. "Why the sudden interest in learning to relax?"
"It was recommended to me that I take the rest of the day off today," Germany replies. Several times, he does not add, and in various instances by different people. Under ordinary circumstances he would value such astuteness in the workplace very highly. Under ordinary circumstances.
...He has read this sentence before, two or three times by now. Where is his concentration? Perhaps it would be better if he had something to work on instead.
"Seriously?" The worry on America's face is completely genuine and therefore all the more exhausting. "Geez, you're not still pulling stitches when you move, are you?" He moves suddenly; one hand hovers imminently close to a mostly-healed ribcage. "'Cause I'll get someone to take a look if you think--"
Germany stiffens and brandishes the book like a shield until America backs down, nonplussed. "My physical well-being is not a matter of concern at present, thank you." His tone remains blessedly even. With great care, he turns a page. "Though I appreciate your concern, as always."
1/2
There were still holes in the roof when he first made the move to Bonn, so of course Germany took one of the apartments on the top floor as his own; but that was over a decade ago and now he has as much roof over his head as the family below him, even if the carpet does show spots here and there where rain once slipped through the tarp. What matters is that he has a ceiling now, and a couch, and even a bookcase in the corner that looks a little less empty each time he revisits it. Presently there is a hole on one of the shelves, somewhere between Mann and Tieck. Germany fills the couch uneasily and sets out to reacquaint himself with an old, old friend in the absence of a more productive occupation this afternoon.
Occupation, and there is a knock at the door. Even now there is something eerie about that timing.
"Come in, America," says Germany around the book cover, knowing full well that the knob is already halfway turned. America does not quite slam the door behind him and makes a beeline for the couch while he tugs at his tie to loosen it.
"--Came as soon as I could get away," he mutters. Germany shifts wordlessly to grant him a seat on the far end next to his knees and feels the cushion dip where America collapses on it. "Had to deal with everyone still flipping out about Cuba, you know, that whole thing, which by the way would have totally turned out differently if more of the guys not kissing Castro's rear had just...aahhh, forget it." He shakes his head ruefully, then slips impressively into an easy smile. "So how're you holding up?"
Germany tilts his book to glance up over its edge. "The fence is a wall now."
Quickly, America swipes his glasses off and starts dabbing at the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. "I know, I know." He shakes his head again while Germany despairs inwardly at the least efficient spectacles-cleaning in history. "God, I mean, okay, so it's definitely not like I would have put it past that psycho to do it, but I still kinda can't believe he went ahead and did it, you know?" His breath fogs up one of the lenses when he breathes on it. "More screws missing there than you could count right? I swear, guy might as well be even crazier without Stalin nowadays."
"That is a distressing thought," says Germany vaguely. He turns his attention back to the book and searches for the point where he left off reading. Some line of dialogue, he recalls; Franz? Or Karl? He cannot seem to recall.
America scoffs and returns his glasses to his face. "You're telling me. I spent about an hour looking for you at the office, by the way," he chides, shoving playfully at Germany's shins. "Why the sudden interest in learning to relax?"
"It was recommended to me that I take the rest of the day off today," Germany replies. Several times, he does not add, and in various instances by different people. Under ordinary circumstances he would value such astuteness in the workplace very highly. Under ordinary circumstances.
...He has read this sentence before, two or three times by now. Where is his concentration? Perhaps it would be better if he had something to work on instead.
"Seriously?" The worry on America's face is completely genuine and therefore all the more exhausting. "Geez, you're not still pulling stitches when you move, are you?" He moves suddenly; one hand hovers imminently close to a mostly-healed ribcage. "'Cause I'll get someone to take a look if you think--"
Germany stiffens and brandishes the book like a shield until America backs down, nonplussed. "My physical well-being is not a matter of concern at present, thank you." His tone remains blessedly even. With great care, he turns a page. "Though I appreciate your concern, as always."