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[personal profile] pyrrhiccomedy
Title: Brunnhilde: The Legend Begins
Originally posted: Here, for a secret prompt.
Length: 2,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: Germany, Prussia.
Premise: Why is Prussia such an irresponsible dickbag? And where did that chick come from, anyway?
Time period: Cracky modern.
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 7/10
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Yes, I still write fic, shut up. Happy (belated) German Unification Day! Have some cute German brothers fic.



"--So then I said to France, fuck you and your prissy fucking wine drinking--"


"The lager back home would give your liver a fuckin' rupture--"

"So I take it that you--"

"And then he got up in my face about cheese, and bouquets, like he fuckin' does, even though--since when do I care about flowers, am I right?" Prussia grinned.

Germany massaged the bridge of his nose.

"So anyway, then it was like, well fuckin' come on, then, and we drove out to the--"

"And this is why you didn't fix--"

"--Liquor store--I'm gettin' to that, sprout--and he picked up like fifteen bottles of pinot-somethin', and I grab a couple cases of lager, you know, the good stuff, and we come back here an' we trade, and--fuck me, West, I got the worse end of that bargain, because after about two bottles of that pinot shit it feels like sticking your head between a fat chick's thighs--"

"Prussia, please…" Germany set his teeth.

"Well it does. And then a little bit after that, I blacked out," he finished.

Germany waited a few seconds, but that did seem to be the end of it.

"And that's why you didn't fix the sink," he said at last.

"That's why I didn't fix the sink," Prussia agreed.

"And…why you didn't drop our paperwork off with our boss…"

"Oh, damn, I was gonna put it in the mail slot? But we were drivin' by, right, and France was like, bet you can't make it through that light--that next intersection, you know? And I was like, you're fuckin' on, and--"

"You violated traffic laws?" Germany asked in a tone of dim horror, his eyes fixed on nothing. Close by, the stack of dishes in the sink crowded lower for protection.

Prussia's expression folded into mechanical surprise. "Oh, no. I would never do that. …That's a crime, you know?"

Germany's shoulders unclenched an inch.

Prussia resumed with his usual animation. "But anyway, I totally fuckin' made it and that fuckin' frog owes me five bucks. But by then we were three blocks past the building. And then on the way back, I--kinda forgot."

"You're so irresponsible," Germany sighed.

"What? Oh, come on, I am responsible as shit--"

"I ask you to do a few simple errands--"

"Those were boring errands, though--"

"What did you accomplish yesterday?" Germany interrupted.

"…I made a quiche!"

Germany looked at his brother. Prussia shifted from foot to foot and scratched the back of his neck.

"I thought about making a quiche," he amended.

"Prussia," Germany began, indistinct, as he set a tea towel down on the counter. "You are my brother, and I love you."

Prussia rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and mouthed 'here we go again.'

"But I think we need to find some way to reinforce your innate sense of accountability--"

"Oh, okay, no--" Prussia's hands jerked up.

Germany studied the doily edging of the table cloth. It was stained with wine. He flicked away a crumb. "To reinforce," he repeated, "Your commitment to your duties--"

"This is gonna end up just like that thing when you made me do volunteer work, West--West--and I wallpapered that old lady to a bookcase. Not on purpose. But it was wicked late, and she wouldn't get out of my way, and--"

His voice sped up, but it couldn't catch Germany, who had picked up Prussia's napkin, folded it carefully, smoothed it down beside his placemat, and collected his jacket from the back of one of the kitchen chairs. "Come with me, Prussia."

Prussia sighed and dragged himself to his feet. He trudged after Germany down the hallway. "I won the drinking contest, though. Doesn't that count for something?"

"You didn't win the drinking contest." Germany plucked the car keys from the end table on their way out the front door.

"What? What are you talkin' about? He passed out like an eight year old girl tryin' to stay up for New Years Eve--"

"Then explain the curly mustache someone has drawn on your upper lip."

Prussia lurched to a halt on the porch and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Mmhat fugghing frog--"

"Come with me, Prussia…"


"This is the animal shelter, West."

Germany glanced at him. It wasn't, yet, but they were idling at the intersection, and Germany had his turn signal on, and the only other shops in this little row with the animal shelter were a furrier and a butcher shop, which was a rather alarming conjunction, now that Germany thought about it. He frowned. Germany's frowns were sturdy, well-designed things that could operate with very little maintenance or oversight for most of the day.

Prussia didn't notice. "Oh my God." Then, "Oh my God--"

He flapped his hands in blossoming excitement, and smacked the windshield wiper on by mistake. Germany hastily flipped it back off.

"Oh my God," Prussia cried, "Are we getting a pet?"

"You are getting a pet." The light changed. Germany pulled into the one-row parking lot.

"I'm getting a pet?"

"I think it would help you to attach some significance to your responsib--"

"I'm gonna get a big fuckin' dog," Prussia declared. "And give him a badass collar, like the kinds with spikes all over'em, and feed him red meat, and call him Killer--"

"No, Prussia." They parked and got out.

"Oh come on!" Prussia skipped along in Germany's wake as they cut across the lot. "You said I could get a pet!"

"To reinforce your sense of responsibility. A pet that you will have to take care of; not something you can use to terrorize our neighbors. If it can eat mailmen in order to survive, then it is not--"

"But you have dogs--"

"I also have a job--"

"Good afternoon!" The girl behind the counter in the blue cap chirped, as the glass doors whumped behind them. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, we wanna see your dogs," Prussia explained.

"Small dogs."

"Like, your biggest fuckin' dogs--"

"Small dogs," Germany raised his voice.

Volume and a pressed shirt won, like always. The girl brought them around back to see the small dogs, while Prussia trailed behind them, grumbling to nobody.

The brothers eyed the cages with frank dismay. Prussia said it first.

"These are girl dogs."

Germany surveyed the lap poodles and pomeranians pressed against the cage doors like dandruff stuck to a lint screen, and sighed in admission.

"They are dogs for girls," Prussia elaborated.

The shelter attendants--they had a pair of them, now--exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Something…else," Germany allowed.

"Bigger." Prussia coldly turned his back on a growling chihuahua.

"Different," Germany corrected him.

The shelter girls withdrew to the end of the hall and held a whispered conference. Germany and Prussia leaned back by the grey walls.

"Whatever we get," Germany straightened a button on his shirt. "You are going to be the one to feed it, and clean up after it, and--"

"Yeah, yeah." Prussia stuck his fingers between some bars and roused something high-pitched and snarling. He whapped it on the nose. "And I'll sharpen its teeth, and train it to attack on command--"

"If you can train anything," Germany sighed, "To do anything on command, I will be surprised."

"I could train a flea to drive a race car, are you kidding me--"

"They have those--"


"--They're called flea circuses."

"Why would fleas go to a circus?"

"I don't--"

"Excuse me," one of the girls cleared her throat. The two brothers gave her distracted looks. "We…don't know if any of the dogs will be what you're looking for, but we do have, ah…"

The other girl came back down the stairs with a cardboard box. Prussia went over to her, looked in, and then his eyes went round, and his hands clenched at the sides of his head, and his smile widened into a rictus. His squeal could have shattered glass.


"No cats!" Germany snapped.

Prussia and both shelter attendants looked crestfallen. There was a sad assortment of mews from the box. The collective disappointment in the room would leave it with a karmic debt for days.

Germany cleared his throat. "Excuse me…let me explain our situation. My brother--"

"Oh, you're brothers?" one of the shelter girls broke in.

"…What did you think we were?" Prussia asked suspiciously.

The shelter girls looked at each other. After a few seconds, one of them suggested, "…Friends?"

A few seconds passed while everyone decided how best to move on with their lives.

"My brother," Germany resumed, in a tone of great reserve, "Is irresponsible."

"He's lying," Prussia explained. The box started to purr. The girl shifted it in her arms.

"He needs…I don't know how to put this…something helpless."

"I don't know where he gets these ideas," Prussia went on. He braced an elbow against the wall and leaned in a bit towards the girl with the box of kittens. "I like companions with a bit of fight in'em, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Cats are not helpless," Germany elaborated. "Cats do not even need to be fed."

"Man, get a load of this guy. I mean, that's sounds seriously inhumane," Prussia marveled. "I'd feed the shit out of a cat, though. Because I'm like that. A caring, sensitive kinda guy. Who likes cats."

"You cannot ask the girl with the kitten box on a date," Germany rumbled.

Prussia fired him an ugly look. The girl with the kitten box blushed, took, a step back, and stammered something as she turned back to the stairs.

"Now the kitties are gone," Prussia complained.

"Can you please assist us?" Germany finished, with lumbering tranquility.

The remaining shelter girl hesitated. "Well…we do have one animal, but…it's not even the kind of thing people usually keep as a pet…"


Germany took one look at it, and said, "I don't think this is going to work."

Prussia took one look at it, and said, "Oh, fuck yes."

Germany looked at Prussia. "It's a chicken."

"She's a chick! Look at her!"

They both looked. The chick looked back, and waggled its wings. A few seconds later, it peeped.

Prussia thrust a triumphant finger at it. "See?"

"It's a chicken," Germany repeated, weaker.

"She's fucking adorable, is what she is. I'll take her," Prussia looked up at the shelter attendant. "Gimme the paperwork, or whatever. She's coming home with me."

"How do you know it's a…girl chicken." Germany wasn't sure about that sentence.

Prussia stared at him. "Of course she's a chick. She's a chick."

They were silent for a few seconds, and then Germany made a strategic retreat from that line of thought. "Do you have any idea how to take care of a chicken? Do you even know what they eat?"

"Millet and shit, right?" Prussia sounded indifferent. He whisked the chick up in his hands and held her rapturously up towards the ceiling. She peeped again. "I will name her Brunnhilde," he declared. "And she will ride with me into battle!"

"What battles--"

"Come, Brunnhilde!" Prussia deposited the chick on his shoulder and bounded for the staircase. Brunnhilde dug in her tiny claws and flapped her wings to steady herself.

"Prussia--Prussia, we need to wait to fill in the--" Germany ran after him, caught the railing.

"Destiny will not wait, West! Hurry the fuck up, you have the keys!"

Germany sighed, and decided that destiny would wait for the keys. He made Prussia wait by the door for fifteen minutes while he arranged everything else.

They emerged into the parking lot to a misty dusk. Prussia heaved a satisfied sigh. The shelter girl had transferred the chick from his shoulder to a little carry box, but Prussia took Brunnhilde back out and plopped her on his head.

"Let's get some roast chicken on the way home," he announced. "For dinner."

Germany gaped. He recovered himself. "Why?"

Prussia turned towards him and gave him a grim stare. "Because I want Brunnhilde to look into the face of death, so she will never again know fear."

Brunnhilde puffed up and started preening herself.


Two weeks later, Germany wasn't sure if he should classify his experiment as a complete failure, or an unintended success.

"So, you still haven't fixed the dish washer," he proposed.

"Well, no," Prussia admitted. Then he brightened. "But I made Brunnhilde a battle harness, look! See, she can put her little feet in there, right, and then I can strap the whole thing to my shoulder, and, and look--"

"There's a fork stuck through it."

"That's her polearm," Prussia insisted. He flicked his hair out of his eyes. "And I listened to the first two operas of Der Ring des Nibelungen with her this morning, 'cause she's gotta learn about her namesake, right--"

"Hopeless," Germany sighed.

But as Prussia went off to put on Siegfried, Germany cautiously categorized their new family addition as a success. True, the errands still weren't getting done, and that morning Germany had found a sprig of millet in his suit jacket pocket, but…

Prussia was happy.

It was with a smile on his face that Germany went and found the toolbox, and set to repairing the dishwasher himself, while Mime's tenor drifted up the stairs from the basement.

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