[Fic fill] Tails Wagging
Oct. 11th, 2009 09:40 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
tea-for-you.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hetaliasunshineTITLE: Tails Wagging
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tea_for_you
RECIPIENT: immerwurst
PAIRING: France/Germany and an assorted variety of native canines.
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Germany is good at disciplining dogs. France approves.
Tails Wagging
.
"Dogs," said France in what wasn't disbelief as much as it was incomprehension.
"Yes," said Germany, and held out the leash of the smallest one, "they're good company."
"Three of them," said France, and Germany's answer was to nod as they started walking.
"My brother taught me they're good for practicing dicipline."
"I can imagine," France muttered, his free hand in the pocket of his coat as they strolled down the empty street of an early Sunday morning in Bonn. Too early, if you wanted his personal opinion, but this informal meeting as evidence of the goodwill between the nations had taken weeks to fit into Germany's schedule as it was, and getting up at six was not the greatest sacrifice France had made for his people, his economy, or his reputation among his peers.
"The weather's good," he offered after several minutes of silence that was only disturbed by an occasional car passing and wilted leaves rustling around six pairs of paws.
"Yes," Germany agreed and paused to let the labrador do its business against a hedge, "it has been better than usual for this time of the year."
And if France had ever been told to carry out boring diplomacy, this was unquestionably the worst instance of it yet, and - just to top it off - quite possibly also the most awkward one. But they would be shaking hands and posing for photos and their bosses would be talking, and it was only suitable that he at the very least knew Germany a bit better for it. He had tried to explain what a horrible idea it was for him to have to put up with someone with a stick so far up his ass that not even Prussia's half-remembered, half-improvised drinking songs could make him crack a smile; it hadn't gone through. France had resigned himself to being a gentleman and suffer it in polite silence.
It was an extraordinarily charming morning, though.
"Why are they all different breeds?" he asked as they sat down on a bench in a corner of a park as deserted as the rest of the city at this ungodly hour of the week.
"It wasn't that I planned on taking them all," said Germany, watching the dogs rolling around in the grass, "I only got Berlitz myself. Then Italy came with Blackie because his brother wouldn't let him keep it - that's the mutt. And then Sweden gave me the elkhound. I think he was looking for a way to get rid of it."
"But why would you keep all of them?" France asked, and something in his voice must have gotten to Germany who turned around to look at him for the first time since they had shaken hands outside the the hotel were France had spent the night.
"There was no reason not to. They go well together," he answered, and France might have said something about how it was no wonder that Germany was a busy nation if that was the case, but he didn't. Because it was so evident that Germany knew, and it was the first time that France had seen him as anything else than angry or exasperated or professionally distanced.
As far as diplomacy went, it had not yielded much except for ending on a note as good as it began which wasn't at all a bad result considering how France's professional meetings with England normally went. But the Swedish dog answered to the name "Aster", and France had had enough dogs up through the centuries for it to be almost an instinct to crouch down to scratch its ears when they had circled back to the hotel with another three hours to pass before the first train to Paris.
"He takes well to strangers," he said, and felt a pang of something that wasn't quite like mere relief when Germany agreed and probably didn't realize that he was smiling.
.
"I could help you find a dog," Germany offered on a Saturday evening when the rain had only let up as France had been about to go home.
"Why?" France asked, looking up at him as he refrained from pulling Berlitz away from a puddle.
"You keep coming over to walk mine."
"It's easier than keeping my own," said France with a disinterested shrug, and the topic was left forgotten as he suggested they went somewhere for the dogs to run around for a bit. Germany spent twenty minutes throwing a chewed-up red frisbee, and France spent twenty minutes watching Germany smile as he praised his dogs and ruffled their fur when they brought him the disc.
It had never surprised him that Germany's dogs were exceptionally well diciplined, and the reason he liked them had not been the seemingly endless number of tricks that Germany had taught them - none, of course, of enough novelty to bring in money in street performances or otherwise be of use for anything else than drilling them. They were sweet dogs, well-behaved and properly groomed and always playing carefully, never fighting. But the reason he couldn't imagine having them replaced was of a rather more disconcerting nature.
Germany was still smiling as he walked over to where France waited and held onto the leashes, and France thought that Germany was terribly endearing when he forgot that he was supposed to be keeping up apperances.
.
It was nearly another year gone when he finally decided to take that for what it probably meant, and pulled Germany down to kiss him in the middle of a sentence as the dogs were yapping around their feet, leashes and paws all getting tangled up around their legs in the narrow space of Germany's entryway as Germany didn't pull away, but didn't exactly breathe either when France's toes started threatening to give in.
"Please don't make me spell this out to you," he admonished when Germany failed to respond in a satisfactory manner, "that's so terribly unromantic." But he had counted on that reaction, and used Germany's shoulder for leverage as he rose to press his mouth to Germany's one more time, closing his eyes and almost, almost managing to ignore the shuffling of muddy dogs against his dry-clean only trousers.
"They're going to dirty the carpet," Germany said when he pulled back this time, but the way his hands had somehow come to rest around France's waist did not move, and France knew that Germany wouldn't be Germany if he wasn't, above all, a pragmatist.
"I'll help pay for the cleaning," he said, and when they pulled apart the third time, the dogs had stopped fussing, Germany's hand was in his hair, and France showed him the mercy of pretending that he didn't see smile that Germany couldn't keep entirely at bay.
AUTHOR:
tea_for_youRECIPIENT: immerwurst
PAIRING: France/Germany and an assorted variety of native canines.
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Germany is good at disciplining dogs. France approves.
Tails Wagging
.
"Dogs," said France in what wasn't disbelief as much as it was incomprehension.
"Yes," said Germany, and held out the leash of the smallest one, "they're good company."
"Three of them," said France, and Germany's answer was to nod as they started walking.
"My brother taught me they're good for practicing dicipline."
"I can imagine," France muttered, his free hand in the pocket of his coat as they strolled down the empty street of an early Sunday morning in Bonn. Too early, if you wanted his personal opinion, but this informal meeting as evidence of the goodwill between the nations had taken weeks to fit into Germany's schedule as it was, and getting up at six was not the greatest sacrifice France had made for his people, his economy, or his reputation among his peers.
"The weather's good," he offered after several minutes of silence that was only disturbed by an occasional car passing and wilted leaves rustling around six pairs of paws.
"Yes," Germany agreed and paused to let the labrador do its business against a hedge, "it has been better than usual for this time of the year."
And if France had ever been told to carry out boring diplomacy, this was unquestionably the worst instance of it yet, and - just to top it off - quite possibly also the most awkward one. But they would be shaking hands and posing for photos and their bosses would be talking, and it was only suitable that he at the very least knew Germany a bit better for it. He had tried to explain what a horrible idea it was for him to have to put up with someone with a stick so far up his ass that not even Prussia's half-remembered, half-improvised drinking songs could make him crack a smile; it hadn't gone through. France had resigned himself to being a gentleman and suffer it in polite silence.
It was an extraordinarily charming morning, though.
"Why are they all different breeds?" he asked as they sat down on a bench in a corner of a park as deserted as the rest of the city at this ungodly hour of the week.
"It wasn't that I planned on taking them all," said Germany, watching the dogs rolling around in the grass, "I only got Berlitz myself. Then Italy came with Blackie because his brother wouldn't let him keep it - that's the mutt. And then Sweden gave me the elkhound. I think he was looking for a way to get rid of it."
"But why would you keep all of them?" France asked, and something in his voice must have gotten to Germany who turned around to look at him for the first time since they had shaken hands outside the the hotel were France had spent the night.
"There was no reason not to. They go well together," he answered, and France might have said something about how it was no wonder that Germany was a busy nation if that was the case, but he didn't. Because it was so evident that Germany knew, and it was the first time that France had seen him as anything else than angry or exasperated or professionally distanced.
As far as diplomacy went, it had not yielded much except for ending on a note as good as it began which wasn't at all a bad result considering how France's professional meetings with England normally went. But the Swedish dog answered to the name "Aster", and France had had enough dogs up through the centuries for it to be almost an instinct to crouch down to scratch its ears when they had circled back to the hotel with another three hours to pass before the first train to Paris.
"He takes well to strangers," he said, and felt a pang of something that wasn't quite like mere relief when Germany agreed and probably didn't realize that he was smiling.
.
"I could help you find a dog," Germany offered on a Saturday evening when the rain had only let up as France had been about to go home.
"Why?" France asked, looking up at him as he refrained from pulling Berlitz away from a puddle.
"You keep coming over to walk mine."
"It's easier than keeping my own," said France with a disinterested shrug, and the topic was left forgotten as he suggested they went somewhere for the dogs to run around for a bit. Germany spent twenty minutes throwing a chewed-up red frisbee, and France spent twenty minutes watching Germany smile as he praised his dogs and ruffled their fur when they brought him the disc.
It had never surprised him that Germany's dogs were exceptionally well diciplined, and the reason he liked them had not been the seemingly endless number of tricks that Germany had taught them - none, of course, of enough novelty to bring in money in street performances or otherwise be of use for anything else than drilling them. They were sweet dogs, well-behaved and properly groomed and always playing carefully, never fighting. But the reason he couldn't imagine having them replaced was of a rather more disconcerting nature.
Germany was still smiling as he walked over to where France waited and held onto the leashes, and France thought that Germany was terribly endearing when he forgot that he was supposed to be keeping up apperances.
.
It was nearly another year gone when he finally decided to take that for what it probably meant, and pulled Germany down to kiss him in the middle of a sentence as the dogs were yapping around their feet, leashes and paws all getting tangled up around their legs in the narrow space of Germany's entryway as Germany didn't pull away, but didn't exactly breathe either when France's toes started threatening to give in.
"Please don't make me spell this out to you," he admonished when Germany failed to respond in a satisfactory manner, "that's so terribly unromantic." But he had counted on that reaction, and used Germany's shoulder for leverage as he rose to press his mouth to Germany's one more time, closing his eyes and almost, almost managing to ignore the shuffling of muddy dogs against his dry-clean only trousers.
"They're going to dirty the carpet," Germany said when he pulled back this time, but the way his hands had somehow come to rest around France's waist did not move, and France knew that Germany wouldn't be Germany if he wasn't, above all, a pragmatist.
"I'll help pay for the cleaning," he said, and when they pulled apart the third time, the dogs had stopped fussing, Germany's hand was in his hair, and France showed him the mercy of pretending that he didn't see smile that Germany couldn't keep entirely at bay.
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