APH - Healthy Debate
Title: Healthy Debate
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Alfred F. Jones, Arthur Kirkland, Barack Obama (...!)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,030
Warnings: This got super-political, and I'm super-leftist, so if that's going to offend you, please just don't read it! Also beware a few slightly obscure historical references, wtflol.
Prompt: Obama being awesome; an England cameo (I forgot to get Christmas in, but two out of three isn't bad...?)
Summary: He isn't going to let this go.
Author's Note: A Christmas present for the_gabih! Be aware that I know virtually nothing about Hetalia, hence the fact that I don't even have an icon for it... And that this is basically just a flaming-liberal political treatise disguised as fanfiction, OTL.
HEALTHY DEBATE
America is in a lousy mood.
He just feels downtrodden-like he was riding high, or high enough, and then the soft rug went out from under his feet. He didn’t even have a cushion to fall on, because China owns his ass, which is a whole new level of discouraging.
It’s not that he necessarily wants to go back, or not in such reductive terms. America believes in progress, believes in moving forward even when the path slants sharply uphill, and he’s going to fight his way out of this one. He sucked it up in ’29, after all-and he’s been to Normandy and back; he’s stood on the Berlin Wall and held his head high in the leering face of injustice; he’s made his voice heard, and the whole world has listened.
But this is hard. This is demoralizing. He feels the eyes on his back, sees the told-you-so smirks-he knows what they’re saying about him now. And that’s part of why he’s going to beat this: to prove to them that they are always wrong about America. America is more than the flag, more than the purple mountains and golden plains; America is the hope and the will and the refusal to back down, even when the battle’s long since lost.
But things are getting tougher now, he’ll be the first to admit. His people are suffering, and he feels it, feels their aching in his bones, their anxiety prickling in his chest. He isn’t going to let this go.
Also, some of his favorite fast-food places are shutting down because of the recession, which is really not what he needed on top of all this melancholy stuff.
Such it is that he stands before the forty-fourth president of the United States, ensconced in the Oval Office, with two hundred and thirty-three years of damned impressive history built into the walls around him.
(He’s speaking metaphorically, so the 1814 incident doesn’t count.)
(…for the record, he still hasn’t forgiven Arthur for that.)
Barack Obama blinks at him.
“I’m working on it,” the President promises.
Alfred knows he’s probably almost unrecognizable when he’s not smiling, but he’s not backing down this time.
“You don’t ‘work on it,’” he explains slowly. “You do it, Mister President. That’s what you’re here for-doing things. Establishing things. I’m the spirit, and you’re the letter, and that’s how this has to be. I can’t enact legislation. All I can do is tell you what I know, and I know that people are hurting. I know that people are sicker than ever right now, and I know they can’t afford fancy premiums and special insurance with pages of fine print and loopholes. I know they can’t wait in emergency rooms while they’re out job-hunting, and I know I can’t sit back and hope for the best anymore.”
“Alfred,” Obama says patiently, in the deep, deliberate tones that have enchanted millions; “I’m fully aware of your position, and I completely understand.”
Alfred moves forward and plants his hands on the President’s desk.
(He wonders if he’s going to get shot by the Secret Service men lurking in the hedges outside. Would that create some kind of rip in the fabric of the time-space-geography continuum?)
(…he’ll investigate that later.)
“I don’t think you do understand, Mister President,” he replies. “I don’t think you understand that we can’t wait any longer to care for the very thing we’re composed of-people. Human beings. America is nothing without Americans, and Americans are nothing if they can’t get vaccinations, get broken bones set, get surgeries, get stitches-what are we if we don’t mend them, Mister President? What are we if we close our hospital doors to anyone who can’t pay for entry? What are we if preventing tax hikes is more important than saving lives?” He sets his jaw. “We’re a corporation, Sir. We’re a profit-based entity. And we’d better tear down that statue in New York Harbor, because the huddled masses aren’t welcome here if that’s what America has become.”
Obama spreads his hands. “I assure you, I’m doing everything I can to get the bill through Congress.”
Alfred leans in until their noses aren’t far apart. Obama really ought to be taking the hint to lean back; this is kind of awkward.
“Do more,” Alfred says. “I don’t care about policy. I don’t care about red tape. I care about people, Mister President. My people should have the right to health.”
“We’re making headway,” Obama insists, placidly staring him down. “I’ve actually brought in a consultant-someone with a great deal of experience, whom I’m hoping we can learn from now.”
“Consultants,” Alfred repeats, lip curling, drawing back from the desk to pace the room. “Consultants, committees-don’t you get it? The more layers of legislation, the less space there is to move.”
Obama presses a button on his telephone. “Will you send my healthcare consultant in, please?”
“Bring him on,” Alfred mutters, arms folded tightly across his chest, one foot tapping despite him. “Bring the bastard on; let’s see him; let’s see his Ph.D in public health; let’s read his articles. Let’s watch him outline some kind of pipe-dream plan with even more hoops to jump thr-”
Arthur Kirkland steps into the room, closes the door delicately behind him, looks up, and pauses. He gives Alfred a blank look, all faint bewilderment and overactive eyebrows, and then commits his attention to the President.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
Obama smiles contentedly. “I just wanted to make sure Alfred knows I’m serious about the healthcare plan,” he remarks. “Maybe you could update him on some of the things we’ve spoken about.”
“Certainly,” Arthur agrees, turning to give Alfred another glance. “What do you want to know?”
Alfred isn’t sure whether the blood in his cheeks is more because he’s been outmaneuvered or because Arthur is five feet away and doing the Eyebrow Thing.
Pretending he doesn’t know how pink his face must be, Alfred looks at his President levelly.
“You are a sneaky bastard, Sir.”
Obama grins. “Thank you, Alfred. I do try.”
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Alfred F. Jones, Arthur Kirkland, Barack Obama (...!)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,030
Warnings: This got super-political, and I'm super-leftist, so if that's going to offend you, please just don't read it! Also beware a few slightly obscure historical references, wtflol.
Prompt: Obama being awesome; an England cameo (I forgot to get Christmas in, but two out of three isn't bad...?)
Summary: He isn't going to let this go.
Author's Note: A Christmas present for the_gabih! Be aware that I know virtually nothing about Hetalia, hence the fact that I don't even have an icon for it... And that this is basically just a flaming-liberal political treatise disguised as fanfiction, OTL.
HEALTHY DEBATE
America is in a lousy mood.
He just feels downtrodden-like he was riding high, or high enough, and then the soft rug went out from under his feet. He didn’t even have a cushion to fall on, because China owns his ass, which is a whole new level of discouraging.
It’s not that he necessarily wants to go back, or not in such reductive terms. America believes in progress, believes in moving forward even when the path slants sharply uphill, and he’s going to fight his way out of this one. He sucked it up in ’29, after all-and he’s been to Normandy and back; he’s stood on the Berlin Wall and held his head high in the leering face of injustice; he’s made his voice heard, and the whole world has listened.
But this is hard. This is demoralizing. He feels the eyes on his back, sees the told-you-so smirks-he knows what they’re saying about him now. And that’s part of why he’s going to beat this: to prove to them that they are always wrong about America. America is more than the flag, more than the purple mountains and golden plains; America is the hope and the will and the refusal to back down, even when the battle’s long since lost.
But things are getting tougher now, he’ll be the first to admit. His people are suffering, and he feels it, feels their aching in his bones, their anxiety prickling in his chest. He isn’t going to let this go.
Also, some of his favorite fast-food places are shutting down because of the recession, which is really not what he needed on top of all this melancholy stuff.
Such it is that he stands before the forty-fourth president of the United States, ensconced in the Oval Office, with two hundred and thirty-three years of damned impressive history built into the walls around him.
(He’s speaking metaphorically, so the 1814 incident doesn’t count.)
(…for the record, he still hasn’t forgiven Arthur for that.)
Barack Obama blinks at him.
“I’m working on it,” the President promises.
Alfred knows he’s probably almost unrecognizable when he’s not smiling, but he’s not backing down this time.
“You don’t ‘work on it,’” he explains slowly. “You do it, Mister President. That’s what you’re here for-doing things. Establishing things. I’m the spirit, and you’re the letter, and that’s how this has to be. I can’t enact legislation. All I can do is tell you what I know, and I know that people are hurting. I know that people are sicker than ever right now, and I know they can’t afford fancy premiums and special insurance with pages of fine print and loopholes. I know they can’t wait in emergency rooms while they’re out job-hunting, and I know I can’t sit back and hope for the best anymore.”
“Alfred,” Obama says patiently, in the deep, deliberate tones that have enchanted millions; “I’m fully aware of your position, and I completely understand.”
Alfred moves forward and plants his hands on the President’s desk.
(He wonders if he’s going to get shot by the Secret Service men lurking in the hedges outside. Would that create some kind of rip in the fabric of the time-space-geography continuum?)
(…he’ll investigate that later.)
“I don’t think you do understand, Mister President,” he replies. “I don’t think you understand that we can’t wait any longer to care for the very thing we’re composed of-people. Human beings. America is nothing without Americans, and Americans are nothing if they can’t get vaccinations, get broken bones set, get surgeries, get stitches-what are we if we don’t mend them, Mister President? What are we if we close our hospital doors to anyone who can’t pay for entry? What are we if preventing tax hikes is more important than saving lives?” He sets his jaw. “We’re a corporation, Sir. We’re a profit-based entity. And we’d better tear down that statue in New York Harbor, because the huddled masses aren’t welcome here if that’s what America has become.”
Obama spreads his hands. “I assure you, I’m doing everything I can to get the bill through Congress.”
Alfred leans in until their noses aren’t far apart. Obama really ought to be taking the hint to lean back; this is kind of awkward.
“Do more,” Alfred says. “I don’t care about policy. I don’t care about red tape. I care about people, Mister President. My people should have the right to health.”
“We’re making headway,” Obama insists, placidly staring him down. “I’ve actually brought in a consultant-someone with a great deal of experience, whom I’m hoping we can learn from now.”
“Consultants,” Alfred repeats, lip curling, drawing back from the desk to pace the room. “Consultants, committees-don’t you get it? The more layers of legislation, the less space there is to move.”
Obama presses a button on his telephone. “Will you send my healthcare consultant in, please?”
“Bring him on,” Alfred mutters, arms folded tightly across his chest, one foot tapping despite him. “Bring the bastard on; let’s see him; let’s see his Ph.D in public health; let’s read his articles. Let’s watch him outline some kind of pipe-dream plan with even more hoops to jump thr-”
Arthur Kirkland steps into the room, closes the door delicately behind him, looks up, and pauses. He gives Alfred a blank look, all faint bewilderment and overactive eyebrows, and then commits his attention to the President.
“Can I help you, Sir?”
Obama smiles contentedly. “I just wanted to make sure Alfred knows I’m serious about the healthcare plan,” he remarks. “Maybe you could update him on some of the things we’ve spoken about.”
“Certainly,” Arthur agrees, turning to give Alfred another glance. “What do you want to know?”
Alfred isn’t sure whether the blood in his cheeks is more because he’s been outmaneuvered or because Arthur is five feet away and doing the Eyebrow Thing.
Pretending he doesn’t know how pink his face must be, Alfred looks at his President levelly.
“You are a sneaky bastard, Sir.”
Obama grins. “Thank you, Alfred. I do try.”