A/N : YAY. :D I tried to talk myself into NEVER writing this EVER, but, damn, it just kept calling to me.

Warnings! : AU. Human characters. Violence, language, war, sabotage, spies, Nazis, Spanish soap-opera drama, and more drama, and more clichés than you can shake a stick at. A really bad action movie. Think James Bond!Alfred, which would make it Bond Girl!Ludwig. Only, you know, not literally. Only in conniving spirit! XD In no way meant to be historically accurate, and not really meant to be taken seriously. Just more of a 'sex, lies, and alibis' kinda thing. Shorter chapters in this one, since a loser like me can only handle so much fun at once.

Pairings : America x Germany. Other characters featured are : England, Prussia, Canada, Austria, Hungary, France, Spain.

Dude, if you couldn't tell just from the title, this is meant to be totally dramatic and totally cheesy. Emphasis on cheesy.


Chapter 1

Blah, blah, blah.

That was what he usually heard when being addressed by others.

He'd been told by nearly everyone he'd ever known that things went in one ear and right out the other, and that maybe he was a little 'self-centered', and that maybe he was a terrible listener, and sometimes they'd called him an 'inactive listener' when he just bobbed his head up and down and stared off into space, and maybe sometimes he'd been called 'a great goddamn jerk', but even so...

Blah, blah, blah. That's what he usually heard.

At least, anyway, when his boss was talkin'.

Okay. Especially when his boss was talkin'.

Yada, yada, yada.

"—completely unprofessional, complete disregard for the safety of your comrades, no respect for your superiors, no restraint, no looking before leaping, no thinking about the consequences of your actions, absolutely no sense of caution—"

Blah, blah, blah.

"—as happy to jump into bed as you are into a fight, stopping a mission dead cold to sneak off and—and—philander, no ability to stop when you're ahead, and you get distracted so easily, and for God's sake, stop walking out into the middle of fuckin' Berlin and Munich and Bucharest and Budapest to look for blondes!"

Without thinking, Alfred finally opened his mouth in the face of his irate boss, and said, with a hint of pride, "You forgot Vienna and Oslo."

"And Vienna and Oslo—!"

"And Copenhagen."

"A-and Copenhagen!"

He smiled.

His boss was not impressed.

"Alfred, I mean it!" Arthur cried, as he slammed his palms down onto the desk angrily, "I really mean it this time! There's no time for your damn international romances—and I use that word lightly—and it's too dangerous this time. You need to be more careful. Stop. Think. I know that's asking a lot from you, but think. I mean it."


Arthur really meant it every time. He got this same damn speech every single time.

Okay, well, maybe he kinda deserved it. Just a little.

Maybe he'd accidentally missed a vital drop-off of military codes because he'd been distracted by a sauntering Kriegsmarine who hadn't really minded being tailed and winked at and who had only flashed his pearly-whites when Alfred had caught up to him and brushed a careless hand against his arm, and well, military codes or no, it had certainly been a fun night.

And besides, he had fixed the problem by stealing the Kriegsmarine's uniform while he'd been asleep and sneaking onto the ship, getting the codes his damn self anyway, with the skill that he prided himself on, although he'd certainly never frolic with that marine again. Not after the way he'd come bursting out into the street later in only his underwear, shrieking and cursing and nearly catching Alfred wandering off down the block, papers in hands, and despite earning himself a lifelong scorned lover, the chase through the streets had been pretty goddamn fun. For him, at least. The marine hadn't had such a good time once his commanders had gotten a hold of him.

Oh well.

Alfred had been able to add a uniform to his collection for his distraction.

Blondes. Blonds. Didn't matter. As long as they were pale-haired and gave pretty smiles, it didn't really matter.

Munich was a particular favorite of his. In the bars that were still open for the better-off members of the community, there was plenty of beer and dirndls and lederhosen all around. God knew he'd spent many a night in drunken stupors in Munich pubs, scoping the scenes for possible company and very rarely leaving disappointed.

His on-and-off partners of sorts, Matthew and Francis, had even given him with the nickname Dirndl-Jäger (which he didn't consider entirely fair, since Francis was no one to judge, and he only spent half of his time hunting for dirndls—the other half was devoted entirely to other appealing articles of clothing).

He always had a ball in Munich.

Which was probably why Arthur refused to send him to Munich anymore.


"And further more," Arthur was quick to add, before he could open his mouth and try to defend himself, "Stop putting those goddamn accents into your German! You're not supposed to have an accent, you're supposed to walk amongst them without bringing attention to yourself! Stop trillin' your fuckin' 'r's, and stop putting on that stupid Scandinavian 'ooh'ing...thing. Just stop it!"

Alfred opened his mouth, and fell still when Arthur held up a hand.

"Don't. Just don't."


He was going to say that he only slipped accents into his speech when he needed an extra dash of charm and charisma, because some people were just suckers for accents, even stuffy Germans.

He used it when he needed an extra boost.

...but not for reasons that Arthur would have condoned anyway, so maybe it was best to stay silent.

Reaching up with a weary hand, Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, squinted his eyes, and breathed, heavily, "So. In conclusion. Just do what I tell you to do this time, and nothing more. Keep focused. Don't let your eyes wander. Just stop. And. Think. Can you do that?"

"Sure can," Alfred was quick to chirp, tucking his hands into his pockets and rolling back his shoulders in what might have been a bit of arrogance.

Arthur heaved a great, beleaguered sigh.

"You're going to Berlin again."

Alfred was glad, for a moment, that Arthur's eyes were squinted closed so that he wasn't able to see the sloppy grin that spread across his face.

Berlin was almost as good as Munich. A little more guarded and a little drearier, but loaded with handsome soldiers and their pretty secretaries.

Why couldn't Arthur understand that espionage just wasn't the same without a little excitement on the side? Christ almighty, the last thing he ever wanted was to turn into a carbon copy of stuffy, droll Arthur.

He'd keel over dead before he let that happen.

"There's a gathering tomorrow night. A party. A ball of sorts, if you will. We're getting some blueprints for a few of the official buildings in the middle of the city, and you'll get the rest of your instructions there. All you have to do is walk in like you're one of them, don't draw attention to yourself, and keep an eye out for your checkpoint. He knows what you look like, so he'll accost you. Just go upstairs with him, take the papers, listen to what he says, and leave in the morning like everyone else. Don't crawl out of the window in the middle of the night, don't piss the checkpoint off by trying to stay in his room, and do not, under any circumstance, lay a hand on any other person in that building. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"


But, business was business.

Reaching up and flipping his collar in a fit of confidence, he brushed off Arthur's concerns with a flippant, "Hey, have I ever let you down?"

Arthur only sent him a foul look, but stayed silent.

Because he never had.

All of his 'faults' and the ease with which he was distracted were just minor hindrances, but, in the end, he always got his man and always got his papers and always met his goal, no matter how long it took or how many rules he had to break along the way.

The great thing about being a spy for hire—while working for Arthur and his men, he followed their orders and rules, but he wasn't bound to any organization or held accountable to any punishments.

He called Arthur boss, but only because he wanted to.

The only things he was in it for were the money, the excitement, the benefits, and the knowledge that he was (in his own little way) helping the cause and forcing the war to a faster end. He'd tried to offer his services back home, but he'd only wanted to fly. Things hadn't turned out like he'd wanted.

His eyes were too bad to be a pilot?

Fuck 'em.

He'd do things his own way.

And so, he'd jumped on a ship and sailed straight for London, not fearing the constant bombings by air and sea, and had worked his way here and there, squirming his way up into underground fame by using what he was good at :

Charm, charisma, fearlessness, aggressiveness, tenacity, persistence, and, above all, self-confidence.

It had been working well for him so far.

To work for Arthur, a trained spy of the MI6, and to know that Arthur trusted him with special tasks, to know that Arthur had known who he was when he'd come up and shaken his hand on the street, all of it was a dream come true.

A dream.

The best times of his life had been stuffed inside of a Wehrmacht uniform and walking amongst the enemy.

Better than flying. By far.

Maybe Arthur regretted him a little bit. Just a little.

"Just go get dressed and get out there. And no fuckin' accents, remember? In, out, fight another day. Get it?"

"Yes, sir!"

With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, already preparing a map in his head of how he'd fix his hair and tighten his collar.

So many people to impress!

High-class. High ranks. High brows.

Somewhere along the line, he'd become as concerned with how the German soldiers saw him as he was with how he was going to keep them from seeing him.

...which was kind of hard to balance.

Appearing impressive without appearing suspicious.

He pulled it off pretty well. He'd never been caught, not until it was far too late.

Well, he was just that goddamn good.

As he reached the door, he heard Arthur mutter under his breath, "Fuckin' showboat."

Showboat? Yeah.

"I'll give you that one," he called back, as he slipped out, and even Arthur's groan of what could have been misery could not dampen his excitement.

He was going to a party in Berlin.

Time to be a lion in a pit of snakes.

He didn't need to be up in an airplane anymore.

Walking amidst the wolves was just like dancing in the clouds.