WARNING: THIS CONTAINS MPREG, TALK OF ABORTIONS, AND ISN'T TECHNICALLY A SHIPPY FIC. UNLESS YOU SQUINT AND LOOK REEEAL HARD.


It was a day like all others. The countries were gathered for another round of just who could piss everyone in the room off more. Least, that was what America liked to lovingly refer to World Summits as. Usually he pioneered the shit storm and this time was no different. After waking with a nasty case of upset stomach and having just figured it was one too many Big Macs, America was back in the game and riling up the other countries as no other could.

"You prat! Insult my tea one more time!" England bellowed. He was livid.

America grinned, "Tea tastes like horse piss and you're got a couple of nasty bushes on your face."

Canada looked less than enthused with America's childish games. He leaned over and tugged on his brother's sleeve, silently pleading for Alfred to just stop before things went too far. As usual, he went unnoticed. That is, unnoticed by everyone but Russia.

The larger nation just oozed misplaced mirth as he pinned Matthew with a small smile, "This is amusing, Canada. Aren't you excited waiting for them to rip each other apart?"

The sickly sweet tone and unnerving smile made the Canadian shiver as he slouched over in his seat and did his best imitation of a ghost. The ruse seemed to work well enough because, even as America continued arguing overhead, he melted into the background and became a figurative enigma. Times like these, that suited him just fine.

"Would you two shut up!" Germany pleaded rather loudly. "This is supposed to be a professional and diplomatic meeting!"

"Ve~, Germany! I thought Alfred's idea about genetically altered treemen to clean up the air was a good idea!" Italy called out from beside his fair haired friend.

It was in that moment Germany found himself rather jealous of Canada's ability to melt into nothingness. He couldn't even find the North American sibling. Perhaps his sight was going or the headache pounding within his skull was just too distracting. No matter the case, he could not focus and even he lost the will to try and salvage the meeting.

From there, things only deteriorated. Italy kept nagging at Germany, demanding pasta and trying to tug them both from the conference room even as Germany was trying to will away the hammering in his head. For one reason or another - did they ever even need a reason?- the Nordics were having a swell time arguing amongst themselves. Denmark was being especially loud and things looked about ready to go to blows as Sweden glowered at him and hugged Finland close.

America's tactful ways reared their head after he directed a rather smooth comment towards Israel and Jordan. Then the Middle Eastern nations were off in an argument. Switzerland looked about ready to pull a gun and mow down the occupants of the room, if only Lichtenstein wasn't tugging on his arm insistently. All the while, England and America still argued near the head of the table.

"Brazil will back me, won't cha bud?" America piped up, slinging an arm around a rather reluctant looking nation.

Brazil did not look pleased to have been brought into the middle of everything. Any protest the nation was going to form died. In the brief moment he had spaced out, trying to figure out just how to disengage with minimal damage, he had missed something important. Something very important because the next thing he heard made most of the conference room quiet for a moment.

"Venezuela," America rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, "that was some mean bush."

The innuendo was not lost on the room nor the nation it addressed. Venezuela rose, face flushed, as she pointed an accusatory finger at America and sputtered. She was livid but too embarrassed to think of something good enough. Instead, she settled for a string of curses in her native tongue and wild arm movements. Some looked rather threatening.

The room soon sprang back to life as a whole new wave of arguments arose. All those present were now discussing the less than appropriate alliances, agreements, unions, and the such. There were blushes worn all around as things were dragged from the closet. More than just a few of the nations were red with embarrassment. France seemed the only one not affected as he rattled off on his numerous exploits and just how wonderful French love really was and how the aforementioned parties could confirm that fact.

America and England were still arguing, even after Brazil managed to worm away.

"Your president is an oaf!"

"Your queen's a hoe."

"Your culture is subhuman!"

"Your music sucks!"

"You're fat!"

Russia chose then to interject. He loomed just over England's shoulder, standing tall and still wearing that alarmingly sweet smile, "Da, it's true, Alfred. You have gotten quite fat."

"Hey! It's the suit!" America defended haughtily. Last he had checked, there was no extra weight hanging from his midsection or otherwise. That was saying something, considering he often found himself standing before a mirror least once a day. "Seriously, I'm legit when I say that."

"I'd sooner slap on a top hat and begin doing my rendition of 'Dancing in the Rain' than believe that," Arthur shot back quickly.

"Well, fuck ya then!" America answered cheekily.

Just to prove a point, he lifted the hem of his dress shirt to show off the smooth plains of his stomach. As it were, when the shirt came up and a triumphant grin worked its way onto his features, England began to cackle madly. For a moment, he was confused. Then France decided to come see what the spontaneous stripping was for and decided to comment on the apparent fat on his belly.

America looked down, rather distressed, only to discover that he did indeed have an apparent excess of fat clinging to his belly. His face flushed quickly and he yanked his shirt back down, thoroughly embarrassed. Just when did that get there? Heroes don't get fat! he thought feverently.

"Your diet has obviously failed you," England jeered cruelly. He jabbed a finger into America's midsection and froze.

His finger stayed poised there, just barely pressing into the material of the shirt. America was taken aback by the move and slapped England's hand away when the nation didn't remove it in a timely manner. With a pout, he aimed another insult at both England and France for making fun of his misfortune. So what if he had forgotten about working out for the past few days. Weeks. Alright, months. It wasn't his fault things had gotten so hectic.

Arthur did not take the bait and his gaze merely traveled up to meet Alfred's eyes. The younger of the two quirked a brow and put on another grin, "Cat got your tongue? Or did my awesome heroness overwhelm you?"

Still no response. It was rather frightening. Moments passed as Arthur just stared at Alfred. His gaze did not waver. Hell, the shorter nation didn't even blink. The room was still roaring all around them. No one really noticed the odd turn of events aside from the small circle involved in the engagement. Namely, that included Russia, France, England, America, and, unknown to the others, Canada.

England snatched up France's straying hand, which had been making a beeline for Arthur's behind while he was distracted, and redirected the appendage to America's stomach. France was about to protest, something about not wanting to touch the little mound of fluff and that he was not a chubby chaser of any sort. That protest died down as soon as his palm lay flat against America's belly.

The American was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. He again swatted away France's hand and was about to make a showy and angry exit from the room when England nearly roared, "Lunch!"

On cue, the volume of the conference room dropped as it was replaced by the thundering of feet. All the nations were scrambling to leave, America included. He shrugged off the bad feeling bubbling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling nearly made him sick and he placed his own hand on his upset middle. Something fluttered within his chest and the sickness subsided, grin soon back in place as he made a show of getting to the nearest McDonald's.

England and France lingered within the conference room, Canada seeming to manifest himself from beside France despite his having stood there the entire time. The two eldest of the three jumped before calming themselves. They had long ago gotten used to such things. The moment their hearts had slowed from the sudden scare they looked to Canada.

France seemed to have adopted a pitying gaze. England looked more worried than annoyed despite the near hour long confrontation with America just moments before. Canada couldn't really decipher just what was going on. He looked between the other two, trying to figure it out. Then something clicked. A sudden thought entered his mind.

He fought down a horrified gasp. "A-Alfred's. . . Pregnant?" the Canadian squeaked.

The other two nodded solemnly.

A/N: Just something that went click in my head. Why? Good question. It's not necessarily meant to be serious, though it probably will at times, and is supposed to be. . . Dryly humorous. Don't maim me. ORZ I have the first chapter already done, that will be up soon. This story isn't really supposed to be about couples either, but just watch, I'll get some gay love in there SOMEWHERE. It's how we queers roll. Read, review, do what you please. I haven't much to say this time.