Red Potatoes

[historize]

Title: Red Potatoes
Author/Artist: historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Prussia and America, with sides of France and England
Rating: PG-13 for some language and for France's dirty mind
Warnings: I have never written for Prussia before. So, I might have killed him. He's crazy-fun to write as completely nuts though.
Summary: Baron von Steuben was a Prussian who came to assist America in the Revolutionary War. He was given the thumbs up when Franklin ran into him in Paris in 1777 because Prussian officers were regarded as awesome. So, just for fun...I thought I would see what it would be for Prussia to meet America. Because, c'mon, seriously. Prussia is always going on about how he's awesome. America is always going on about being awesome. I have to wonder. (And I realize I made Prussia pretty crazy but it was fun. But I am kind of uncertain about it.)

Also, I am not an expert on muskets. I used two different sources to find info on them.

Originally posted here.





America had never met Prussia. He’d only heard of him, so he didn’t know what to expect when Franklin sent Washington a letter from Paris regarding a certain man called Baron von Steuben. But America trusted Franklin, he’d won over the French so easily, after all. So, there had to be something to it.

The man arrived to train his military and Prussia arrived with him.

“AH! AMERICA!” yelled a man, who was still standing on a ship in a tri-corner hat. He hopped onto the railing and jumped off, running full-tilt at the younger nation.

America yelped and ran backwards a few steps, raising his musket.

Prussia stopped, mud sopping his boots. “You can’t shoot me! The bullets would never get through!” And he started to laugh.

There was an edge to it that America had never heard before. He tilted his head to the side. He’s insane. We’re doomed. For some reason, that struck America and he started to laugh faintly. Oh, man.

Prussia instantly stopped laughing and crept closer. “Hallo, America. Let us call each other by first names! Do you see me as I am?”

“What are you?”

“Awesome! Look at my profile! Alone, yes?” He jumped back to stand in a little circle, turning to the side.

America bit his lip, trying to decide whether to be amused or afraid. “But…you’re not alone.”

“I am! But now I am alone with you! I am Gilbert! Who are you!”

“Alfred.”

“Fitting!” He yelled, making America jump, clenching his fists into the air. “Let’s get started, boy!”

“Um. Okay?” America squeaked.

“Oh yeah, my Baron can’t speak English. I can though!”

“Then how will he—“

“French!”

“Okay,” said America, staring up at the nation. He was trying so hard to stand up straight and not feel as small as he was but….Prussia was….well.

He watched Prussia go to one of his horses and talk at it.

“He’s got red eyes,” America murmured. “He’s nuts. That’s kinda...well, awesome.”

He tensed a little. It was at if ‘awesome’ were a flash-word for the guy because he was peering at America now with those glittery red eyes.

“Um,” said America.

“Alfred!” yelled Prussia.

“What?”

Prussia’s mouth became a thin line. He pointed at him. “I can’t hear you, boy! You have to yell! You’ll never get anyone’s attention if you’re a huge wimp! Where’s your dick! You rebel against one of the biggest empires in the world! I expect to meet some clutzy stupid badass!”

America stared, wide-eyed. “Oh. Um.” He drew himself up.

“Like me!”

“Huh?”

“Who are you!?”

“I’m, I’m America.”

“No, no, no! You stupid nerd! Worthless waste of flesh! You’ll never win at this rate!”

“Hey, shut up,” America snapped. He blinked when he’d realized he’d said it.

“What was that?” Prussia asked, sidling closer.

America wrinkled his nose and drew himself up again. “Sh-shut up! I rebelled against England! You’re just small potatoes to me!”

“I like potatoes. But yes!” He grabbed America’s collar. “Potatoes! English potatoes. With red jackets. Red potatoes.” He looked up to some point past the top of America’s head. “We’ll be good friends. For now.”

He thumped America on the back so hard that the other stumbled but that didn’t matter because Prussia was grabbing America by the arm and pulling him away.


Prussia stayed in the shoddy house America was building for himself and he criticized it constantly. It didn’t take long for him to get on America’s nerves, which were already frayed.

“If you don’t like it, why don’t you sleep outside,” America growled.

Prussia put his feet up on America’s chair. “You have no barn, boy!”

“The neighbor does.”

“I like this spot,” Prussia said instead, looking down at the chair he was sitting in and the chair he was resting his feet on in the dining room. “You can never sit here.”

“What?”

“Never ever. This is my spot.”

“It’s my house!”

Prussia was suddenly up and in America’s face. “My Baron is training your military and I am training you. And.” He reached up and pinched America’s face. “I’ve got your nose!” He started to laugh again.

“But I’ve only got two chairs.” America's voice came out nasally and weird.

“Then you will sit on the floor where you belong!” Prussia tweaked his nose and pinched his cheek, then let him go.

America was at a loss. England had never treated him like this. No one had. Not even in the last tense days before America declared independence. England had taken to smacking him around and trying to get him under control but this was a strange sort of logic that he couldn’t seem to fight with. He didn’t know how to counter it.

Prussia was watching him think, those red eyes narrowed and pleased. “The reason that you cannot counter my logic is because there is a part of you that believes it. Do you think that England cares that you believe this is your property? Your house?” He chuckled. “Maybe you think you are below me in some way and should follow my orders. Maybe you do think you belong on the floor.” His grin widened. “Did England treat you like such a dog?”

America stiffened. There had been times….

America was able to look at eyelevel on England now and for some reason he found that a little disturbing. “You can’t tax them more! It’s—“

“You are mine! You have no say, boy!” England struck him, grabbed his collar and threw him to the floor, putting his boot on his chest. It was as if he couldn’t stand to have to look at him. He needed to look down on America.

Prussia stood, leaning close to America. “Poor America-puppy. If you have so little confidence, you will lose. God does not always favor the just. In fact, most often, He spits on them.”

America scanned through his knowledge of Prussia’s history. “What did you do when you started off so small and everyone thought you would fail?”

Prussia cackled. “I reminded myself of how awesome I was. And the victories fell before me.” He poked America in the chest. “You just have to tell yourself that you’re awesome. And what else are you?”

America looked at him blankly.

“Well, c’mon, stupid.” Prussia thumped him in the forehead. “What do your people consider you?”

“A rebel.”

“And what are rebels generally considered by the rest of a population that hates their situation?”

America blinked and hesitated. “A…a….hero?”

Prussia threw his hands up, laughing. “Are you one of those?”

“I…yes.”

“So when I tell you that you can’t sit on these chairs. What do you say in return?”

“I say to fuck off because they’re my damn chairs.”

“Wrong!” Prussia whacked him over the head. “You will not sit in these chairs. You are supposed to be independent! I’ve claimed these chairs. What do you want them for?”

America paused. “That…doesn’t make any sense.”

“You need more chairs.”

“So…you just want me to build more chairs?”

“What would England say?”

“That he wants my land back.”

“Should you just get more land?”

America did a double-take and stared at him. He smiled a little. “Yes.”

“There you go.”

America laughed. That didn’t make any sense at all. But that was pretty awesome.




That day, Prussia took him out in the yard, wanting to check how America handled his musket.

America had been trained by England on how to handle the weapon but he was slow and a little clumsy with it. It wasn’t efficient at all. Prussia railed at him all day, yelling out an eight-count firing drill until America could do it instinctively.

“Prime and load!”

His fingers moved quickly along the weapon as he made a quarter turn to the right and brought the musket to the priming position. The pan popped open and discharged the previous shot.

“Handle cartridge!”

He drew a cartridge, twisting off the paper sealant and tossed it away, keeping the main end with the bullet in his right hand.

“Prime!”

America pulled the dogshead back to half-cock and poured a small pinch of the powder from the cartridge into the priming pan. He then closed the frizzen so that the priming powder was trapped.

“About!”

He jumped up, placing the butt of the musket on the ground and poured the rest of the powder from the cartridge, followed by the ball and paper cartridge case into the barrel.

“Draw ramrod!”

His fingers were less clumsy. It was almost automatic now. He drew his ramrod from below the barrel, first forcing it half out before seizing it backhanded in the middle, drawing it entirely out simultaneously turning it to the front and placing it one inch into the barrel.

“Ram down the cartridge!”

He used the ramrod to firmly pack bullet and powder down to the bottom and tamped it with two quick strokes. He returned the ramrod to its hoops under the barrel.

And finally, “Return!”

The butt was brought back up to his shoulder. America pulled the cock back.

“Fire!”

He did.


America could not question Prussia’s skill. It was said that under Frederick the First, his soldiers could fire a shot from a musket every fifteen seconds. That was unheard of anywhere else—where an experienced soldier was good if he could manage three shots per minute.

By the end of the day, he was covered in powder and dirt and Prussia kept him up still, long into the night, yelling at him for his sloppy march. America was not good at marching. England had attempted to teach him and America had resented him so much for it that he’d run off and claim one of his people called him. So he never got it down to disciplined precision but Prussia did not relent and did not let him go into the house until he was exhausted.



That night, he dreamed about England. His resentment against England burned in him. It wasn’t something he could just pass off. But the peace he felt….

….when his eyes lit up at the musket, England smiled, watching America take the gun reverently.

“Can I really?!” America looked up at him, eyes adoring.

“Yes, you may.” England mussed his hair. “Be careful with it. You could hurt yourself.”

“Are you going to teach me to fire it?!”

“Yes,” England said and then held up a hand, “but it will have to wait. I have to go back for awhile.”

“What! Not fair! You’ve been here for two weeks and now that you’ve given this to me you’re leaving! What was the point!” America’s lip was trembling.

England sighed and knelt down, touching his arms. “I’ll be back. You just have to learn to be patient, all right?”

“But—!”

“Now, stop whining. I have to go. I’ll be back. If you have kept the gun safe and not fired it then when I return, I’ll know that I can trust you.”

America sighed. “Okay.” He looked down, little arms wrapped around the gun. “I don’t want you to go…”

“You never do.” England mussed his hair again.

And then he was suddenly older, standing in his kitchen. England had shown him how to build and America had maintained the little structure. It had been easier over the past year, as America found himself suddenly bigger. He was taller. He could get into the cabinets now. He could build wagons and grease the wheels and he had read up on the musket and he carefully took it apart and put it back together.

He heard a sound behind him and turned, face lighting up.

England’s eyes went wide, staring at a boy who now nearly his own height. “A-America…”

“England! Hi! Nice to see you! Want some eggs?”


America was kneeling, arms braced against a stand England had set up. England touched his shoulder and, step-by-step, showed him how to load the musket. England brought it to his shoulder. “Be prepared for the bang, Alfred.”

He fired and the sound made America jump. Then England was handing the musket to him, constantly offering little words (“Not too hard, it’s live ammunition, Alfred.”) and when America got it to his shoulder, still kneeling, England stood. The elder put his hands on America’s shoulders and turned them a little. “Relax,” England told him. “You’re too stiff.”

America tried.

England was making little adjustments to his body, moving his fingers away from the barrel. “It’ll burn you if you touch the barrel after it’s fired.”

And suddenly, England changed into Prussia. Prussia was gently moving his hands, adjusting his shoulders, correcting his line of sight. He pointed out with that mad grin and red eyes, to England, who was standing not in America’s yard but on a field somewhere. There were bodies everywhere. The cries of the dying filled the air.

“Fire!” Prussia commanded.

It was automatic now. America did.

America jumped, falling right out of bed. He put his forehead in his hand, panting for breath.




When he got his bearings back and had cleaned up, he shook away the faintly ill feelings his dream had left him with and went to the mirror. He smirked at himself, pointing at his reflection and winking. “You, Alfred Jones, are fucking awesome. You’re awesome. You’re a hero. You’re an awesome hero. That’s a double-wammy!”

When he strode out into the dining room, he made to sit but someone had put tacks down on the chair. America yelped and jumped off, rubbing his backside. “Oh, dammit, Gilbert!" He cursed softly to himself. "I’ll build my own chairs and then, when I have built more chairs then England I will take his chairs because they might as well be mine anyway.” He paused, listening to the silence. “I wonder where Gilbert is...?”

America went outside to take care of his animals and found Prussia in his chickenhouse, making faces at the birds. There was something ridiculous about Prussia. He was adorable in a crazy sort of way. America couldn’t bring himself to dislike the guy—even though he was basically insane. He was probably the type that even when he lost a war, he won. Because what was the point of seeing a loss? This made sense to young America in a very non-England way.

America made breakfast, which Prussia declared he hated and started flicking his bacon at America, who was leaning against the wall, rather then sit below Prussia. Why did I think I thought he was all right again? “Stop it, Gilbert.”

“Or what?” Prussia threw his tin cup of milk at him.

America’s eye twitched. He looked down on the milk on his clothes. Looked up. Looked down. With a growl, he ran at Prussia and tackled the other nation. The chair flipped and they both crashed to the floor. Prussia was laughing as he wrestled with him. America managed one excellent, solid hit that seemed to daze Prussia for a moment but then those red eyes focused again and his smile turned sinister.

Did I go too far? America decided he didn’t care.

Well, until Prussia lifted him up by the front of his shirt and threw him through his window. America hit the porch and rolled out into the front yard. Prussia jumped onto the table and came leaping out the broken window after him. He kicked America in the gut. “Get up, boy! Hahahahaha!” He started to dance.

America looked up, watching Prussia gleefully wave his arms around. America jumped up, grabbed for him—which Prussia neatly sidestepped and kicked his legs out from under him. America fell but whirled around, scissoring his legs. Prussia jolted and went down. He grinned at America as they both lay on the ground. “Did England show you that?”

America blinked. “Shut up!”

“You learned everything from England. No one will take a little upstart so seriously. You’re just a little rebel.”

“Shut UP!”

Prussia gave him a maniacal grin. “The other, older countries, brought themselves up but you. Everything was given to you.”

America was started to shake. He wasn’t aware of anything but rage and he wasn’t aware he was attacking Prussia until his fist connected with a narrow chin. America pounded again and again, until his fists were red with blood.

And then Prussia retaliated.

It came so fast that America had no time to prepare. The hit to his gut was short but powerful and all the air left America’s lungs. He collapsed on top of Prussia. Prussia grinned. “Don’t attack unless you’re desperate or you’re sure you can win. You were just angry. That was stupid.”

“What is going on?”

Prussia looked up and waved as France came striding across the yard. “Hello, erotic boytoy of the English.”

France shot him a dark look. “What have you done to America?”

“You are too soft. I am training him.” He grinned.

France leaned down to pick him up but Prussia grabbed his wrist. “You will not interfere. This is my part.”

France argued with Prussia but doing so was sort of useless. Prussia never gave up when he thought he was right. He drug the unconscious America around by his collar while France tried to reason with him and eventually took the boy into the stables and left him there.

Then Prussia came out and threw mud at France’s head.


America woke up covered in cow shit. He sat up and looked down at himself. “Oh! Son of a bitch! Dammit! That asshole! That’s it!”

America stomped out into the yard, climbed up into his broken window and scooted across the chipped dining table. “Prussia!”

“Good evening, Alfred! I am glad you have come to see the performance!”

America whirled around to look out the broken window. There was Prussia with—

“Is that gunpowder?!” America voice went into a high-pitched squeak.

Prussia laughed and threw the small barrel of it into the dining room, tossing a wooden match after it to light the quick.

The only thing America was aware of next was heat. His house exploded and America was thrown through the wall and into the back yard.



When he woke up, everything was fuzzy. He blinked when he felt a wet cloth touch his forehead. There was a blond head above him and he felt a stab of fear. “Arthur!”

“What? No! It’s me. Rub your eyes, boy. It’s Francis. My eyebrows are quite normal.”

America reached up, rubbing his eyelids. “Francis…” He coughed a little. “Did Prussia blow up my house?”

“Yes,” said France, tight-lipped. “You’re at my residence. He was pretty adamant about me not taking you. I had to have some of my officers interfere. Training with Prussia is like holding a snake by the tail, Alfred.”

“He’s such a jerk…” America sighed and sat up, rubbing his forehead. “He’s…good though.”

“Yes,” France said and he didn’t look happy about admitting it. He wiped the cloth down the side of America’s throat.

“I don’t suppose any of my clothes made it?”

“No,” France said, suddenly smiling slyly. “You can wear some of mine.”

“But yours are really flashy. Prussia will make fun of me.”

“If you go naked, I’m sure he would find more fun with that.”

America snorted. “Fine. Thank you. I’ll make myself something more later.”

“Well, if you’d like to be naked, I wouldn’t mind.”

And that’s when America suddenly realized that he was naked. He looked down at the sheets and peeked underneath. “Why did you take my clothes off?”

“They were in rags anyway and they smelled like cow shit.” France ran the cloth down his chest.

“France…” This was still fairly new to America. This alliance business and he shuddered a little when France leaned in, nosing and nipping at his throat. “France. Um.”

“Oh, you’re not that badly hurt are you? Prussia just wanted to scare you, I think.” He breathed in America’s ear and then paused. France suddenly got a telltale prickle on the back of his neck. He glanced to the side and jumped. “Prussia!”

Prussia was standing there at the foot of America’s bed, just watching.

America tensed, feeling his cheeks heat up. When did he....how...

“Voyeur,” France spat.

Prussia grinned. “I’ve taken your musket, Alfred.”

He blinked. “What?”

France thought, Is that an euphemism?

“You never use your bayonet. You need to learn. Come on. I’ll let you stay with France for now. So long as he’s not going to distract you.”

“The boy and I have an alliance,” France interjected.

Prussia barked a laugh. “Well then, best include me too.”

That made France blanch a little, getting a picture in his head of Prussia holding America down while France opened up his trousers…

“Now!” yelled Prussia. “Get dressed, Alfred! We have pointy objects to train with!”

The thought of being anywhere near Prussia with a pointy object made America laugh weakly. “Great,” he said. He gathered the sheet to himself and stood while France seemed to come out of some deep train of thought, made a strange face and got him some clothes.

America wouldn’t take the pale coat, just the breeches and a white shirt. His feet were too calloused and rough for France’s shoes so he came outside barefoot.

Prussia laughed at him and handed him an unloaded gun. Prussia was a believer in learning by doing and so after he explained the basics, he attacked America. He was driven down instantly and earned a stab to his side.

No, I’m not failing again. I’m…I’m…I’m awesome! Right! This guy has been pushing me around because I let my anger get ahead of me. Well! I’ll show him.

And it took a couple days of hard pushing, barefoot on the gravel but he managed it. At the end of the week, when Prussia attacked, he sidestepped and clobbered him in the face with the butt of his gun and then stabbed the bayonet into his shoulder.

It made Prussia grin and then he allowed America to go get himself a new uniform.




“There you go. Now you almost look official. Don’t you feel awesome in that?”

America looked at his uniform, patting down the dark blue coat. “It’s pretty nice, eh?”

“No! No! No, dammit! Repeat! Repeat! It’s awesome! The fuck—are you deaf?”

“It’s awesome!”

“What do you feel like!?”

“A hero!” He grinned. “Hell yeah!”

Prussia cackled and pumped a fist into the sky. “Hell yeah!”



When America went out with his men the next evening, heading for Stony Point, he waved to Prussia and then gave his men a rousing cheer. And when they returned, exhilarated with victory, America jumped up on a wagon and waved his bayonet, cheering. The men responded with gusto. And America whooped and jumped and waved for Prussia to join him.

Prussia was fast to do so, running up and leaping onto the wagon. “We’re awesome!”

America laughed and shook his whole arm. “Hell yeah!”



And that, France would note later, was when America changed permanently. He’d been unassuming and sort of awkward and uncertain—though determined—when Prussia showed up with his Baron but by the time the war was over, America was always yelling. He was loud and always telling himself he could do whatever he pleased. Prussia had given him confidence….and that was a very dangerous tool. It was double-edged and France had to hope, for America’s sake, that the boy saw what confidence had done to England and take it to heart.

Not that France gave a whit for England, which he was all too quick to rub it in his face the next time he saw him.

The last large-scale battle was Yorktown. America took the land and France blocked the sea. Prussia was around, mostly just watching, only getting involved when a Red Coat was silly enough to attack him. He swore gleefully and drew his sword, eyes glinting.

America and England met in the middle and it was there that England surrendered.

He’d stabbed with his bayonet and America had blocked it, the force busting his musket. It fell into the mud and England pointed his gun at America again.

For a split second, despite Prussia’s training, he froze. He was staring down the barrel at England’s wet face. His blood whooshed in his ears. He’s really going to do it.

But then England lowered it. The weapon fell from his hands into the mud. “You fool,” England said, eyes darting away. “As if I could shoot you.”

America stared at him, trying desperately to pretend that that was rain on England’s face. “England….” He hated how his voice trembled. “You were so…” He looked down, trailing away.


And with that, the war was over.

France met America and Prussia in America’s house after England left. Prussia was already quite drunk and getting America to that point very fast. That boy had almost no tolerance anyway. Something they would have to remedy and, France thought, if their alliance continued, that would certainly be an option.

France noticed first that there were several new chairs sitting about, sanded to a silk-smooth finish. He sat in one, watching America laugh and talk and drink with Prussia, perhaps a little too close to him and that image didn’t make France blanch anymore. He found it oddly intriguing but decided against telling them.

“Fuck yeah! America! That’s me! I’m a hero! I kicked his ass!” America yelled, slopping his drink onto himself.

“Fuck yeah!” Prussia roared. “Awesome!” And then he burst out laughing.

“Prussia, how long are you staying?”

Prussia slung an arm around America. “My Baron is staying here, I think. I will have to return soon.”

“Awwww,” America whined, face flushed with drink.

“Shut up,” said Prussia, cackling. “You’re taking my baron. I want something besides corn and bread to eat. I want potatoes. So fuck off.”

“Red potatoes.”

“Hell yeah!” Prussia jumped up on the table.

On second thought, maybe he would tell them. France tilted his head to the side, watching them, and smirked.

This would be fun.