Just a bit of silliness for a prompt at comment_fic.

"No, no, no. You're going to get us killed!" Prussia shifted the rolled up paper napkin (the soldiers of their IV and V Corps) back to their original position. He was the human embodiment of the great nation of Prussia, famed the world over for its military prowess, and there was no way he was losing this battle.

"Think with your head for once," was the dismissive response from Pierson. "An encirclement can't work if we don't cut off their reserves." He pointed to the enemy ketchup bottle from where he was leaned back and sprawled across his chair.

Cursing under his breath and taking a large swallow of his beer, Prussia wiped his mouth with his hand and huffed. "That leaves our attacking force short. The whole trap will fail."

Pierson gave a non-committal noise and leaned forward to study the table intently, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth. By this stage in the campaign, Prussia recognized his strategy face, as opposed to his I'm-ignoring-you-because-you're-stupid expression. With a satisfied hum, hazel eyes snapped out of it and long fingers reached decisively for a clump of sugar packets arranged in a loose arc around the north end of their target, plucking out a handful from the pile.

"Look," Pierson began. "III Corp is up against their weakest point. We spread them out wider," he scattered the borrowed packets, extending the arc until it reached the salt and pepper shakers, "and then…"

They both reached for the napkin at once, hands colliding in midair. "Split IV and V Corp." Prussia finished with a wide smirk.

A mercenary grin was his only answer.

"I could get to like you Pierson." Withdrawing his hands, Prussia gestured at the mock battle. "You can even do the honors."

He'd been coming to Joe's bar for weeks, taking an extended break from things back home in Germany. Earlier in the day, Joe had introduced him to Adam Pierson, linguist, and he still wasn't sure how they'd gone from bonding over a mutual love of beer to staging an invasion. It'd been ages since he planned a battle, and even though this wasn't real, it was the most fun he'd had in a while.

Half of the napkin was placed near the ketchup bottle, leaving the remaining half to support the sugar packets. "And voila!" Pierson exclaimed with a flourish, following up with a long sip of his own beer.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Prussia cocked his head in thought. Back in the days when he led armies into battle, he would have traded entire divisions for a mind like Pierson's. "You're damn good at this, for a linguistics nerd."

Pierson gave an abashed smile. "A lot of the documents saved for posterity are old military correspondence. Guess I picked up a few additional talents in the translation process. Oh, also receipts. I can discuss archaic trading practices at length, if you'd prefer." His brow furrowed in mock contemplation. "There were a suspicious amount of goats changing hands."

Prussia laughed. "If you start listing livestock and shit, I'm out of here."

"A general never leaves in the midst of battle."

"I'll drink to that." The sentiment was punctuated by the clink of glass bottles.

Lowering his bottle, Pierson returned the searching stare. "You've got quite a head for military strategy yourself, for an unemployed runaway backpacker."

Prussia ignored the unflattering description. It was pretty much what he told Joe that first day he wandered into the bar, so there wasn't much room for protest (it wasn't like he could have introduced himself as a nation wandering around in human form). But he made a note to eventually get back at Pierson for the insult, anyway. He didn't mind waiting - he'd been around for centuries and had no problems playing a long game. "My brother says I spend too much time playing video games in the basement." Prussia shrugged. "Shows what he knows. Kid should learn to respect his elders."

It didn't look like Pierson was convinced by the lame explanation (but really, it was no worse than his own bullshit. Translating military correspondence? Please, if that was true then all bureaucrats would be tactical geniuses which clearly wasn't the case), but his lips did quirk slightly at the elders remark. Which was strange; the man couldn't have been more than mid-thirties.

The subject was pushed aside when Joe emerged from the storeroom and ambled over to their makeshift command center. His eyes skimmed the table in amusement. "So, who are we invading?"

"We haven't gotten that f—" Pierson started.

"Paris," Prussia announced simultaneously, leaning back in his chair and bringing the beer back to his lips.

Both Joe and Pierson stared at him like he'd said something strange.

He swallowed the beer. "What?" he asked.

"Not that I'm objecting," Pierson replied, "but why exactly are we attacking Paris? Isn't that a bit ambitious for a first campaign? Probably best to start small. Also, they have crepes."

Prussia hadn't thought of that. Crepes were delicious. But sometimes sacrifices must be made. "Friend of mine is pissing me off. I like to invade his capital when he's being an ass."

"You might want to run that by Mac. He's pretty attached to that barge of his." Warning given, Joe headed back over to the bar to pour himself a drink.

"He can't be too attached," chimed in Pierson with a wolfish grin. "He gave it to me that one time."

"That was blackmail!" The voice echoed from the floor behind the bar, where MacLeod was busy making repairs. "I was under duress."

"Revisionist history!" Pierson volleyed back. Sotto voce, he leaned in towards Prussia and confided, "MacLeod's just bitter because I got it fair and square." He finished off the statement by downing the last of his beer and waving the empty in Prussia's direction. "Go get us another, runaway."

Prussia gave him the finger instead. Then he got the beer.