It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
this is what we talk about [alfred side] - 1/2
It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
continues next