There was three things that Alfred F. Jones loved: he loved the hell outta video games, he loved the hell outta hamburgers, and he loved the hell outta legs. Oh boy, did he love a fine pair of legs.

It didn't matter which gender the legs belonged to, he loved the differences between men's and women's legs. Shapely, sculpted, subtle legs were his thing. While he preferred the bed company of men, he had been on adventures with women solely because she had possessed a truly stellar pair of legs. He liked asses, sure, and he occasionally like chests and arms and everything other normal turn on for a person, but if he could just have a pair of killer legs, he was happy.

And that was exactly why he had decided to prowl around the local gay bar, named The Tower. A good friend had informed him that the bar had a new employee with legs to die for and a spunky attitude to match them.It was a bar with decent taste, nothing too shabby and nothing too sparkly (honestly, he'll never understand why people associate sparkles with gay).However, Alfred noted that the only thing that the servers wore was a pair of bright orange shorty shorts. He definitely didn't mind, some of them had nice legs, and the shorts certainly accentuated them.

Alfred snickered as he remember Francis telling him how the new server smacked him across the face when he suggested they 'get to know one another better' ("That saucy little Brit, how dare him ruin moi's beautiful face?!").

Of course, the American couldn't turn down a chance to meet this man with great legs and with the ability to turn down the Frenchman. Unfortunately, he had been here for a few hours and he hadn't caught a single glimpse. Maybe he wasn't working tonight...?

"Oh, bloody hell, I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic here is terrible, bastards can't drive to save their lives." A thick British accent cut across the room to where Alfred was sitting, making him note absently that he rather liked the accent.

"No, no, Arthur, it is fine. I understand." Antiono, the bar's Spanish owner and long time friend of Francis, answered. "Amigo, you're usually always on time, so now and then I can forgive."

"Well, thank you, but still, it won't happen again."

Not wanting to be noticeable about it, Alfred had been taking his time to move his line of sight over to the Spaniard and Brit. When he finally reached his goal, he scanned the British man from head to toe. He was a head shorter than himself and a few years older, with messy blond hair and bright emerald eyes that were framed with thick eyebrows. His face had a rather sour look on it, and Alfred was amazed that it was still attractive despite that. Unfortunately, the Brit was wearing street clothes, several covering layers of it, so he had no idea what his legs looked like.

Oh well, he would just have to wait til he changed into uniform.

He watched the man disappear into a backroom, and then immediately became bored of waiting. It wasn't too long before he all but forgot about the man in question and started to make a game of counting the beer bottles left on the tables of customers past. He had been on 69 (heh, 69, what an appropriate name for a gay bar, he mused) when something stole his attention.

Oh say can you see, by the bar's florescent liiiiight...

If he had seen a better pair of legs in his life before this, he couldn't remember them now. In front of him were the greatest damn legs he had ever laid eyes on. His eyes traveled up and down them, admiring the curves of the calves and the muscle stretching under taunt skin. They looked like they went on for miles, smooth and shapely miles. He could gaze at their perfection for hours.

"Oi, you staring at my arse?!"

"Uh, whut - ?" The angered voice snapped him out of his trance, being vaguely aware the voice had a British accent.

His eyes finally went up to the legs owner's face. Oh, Francis had been right - that new Brit did have killer legs. Alfred was hooked, he wanted him. Badly.

He grinned his trademark grin, the one that everyone fell for. He knew he was good looking, and a real charmer. He shouldn't have too much trouble getting out of trouble and getting the Brit out of those shorts and into his bed.

"Nah, doll, I was staring at your legs. Real nice looking." Alfred winked for emphasis. "What say you come home with me tonight, after your shift?"

The Brit looked at him blankly for a minute, before his face turned red and the American swore he heard teeth grinding together. However, he didn't have time to see and hear much else after being throughly and forcefully slapped across the face.

"You fucking wanker, sod off! I'm a waiter, not some goddamn hooker. Go find one in the alley way, I'm sure you know a few of them working tonight!" And with that, the Brit with amazing legs stormed off.

Blinking, Alfred could feel a grin cross his face again.

He always did enjoy a challenge.

A/N: First off, I want to apologize for my pun on The Star Spangled Banner, it was awful, I know x.x I couldn't help myself. Second, I want to thank SR for another amazing idea. I hope everyone will enjoy reading this as much as I will writing this ;3