Family Ties [Part 6]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): France, England, Wales, an assortment of people trying to holiday in Brittany.
Rating: 15 for Iggy's mouth.
Warnings: Pirate England now owns your eyes.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
It was a beautiful May morning across the channel. The sun was bright and warm, the flowers were blooming right on time, and the French had indeed won the football match against Portugal. All seemed right in the world, as Francis Bonnefoy relaxed on the balcony of his Brittany holiday home. It was no co-incident he'd come here, however. He'd received a somewhat cryptic message from Wales that the British would be paying a visit. This meant France had an opportunity to tease Angleterre, something he wasn't about to pass up.
He was just thinking of a greeting that would piss the big-browed Nation off the most, when black sails appeared on the horizon.
Choking on his morning coffee, he almost fell off the balcony edge with the speed he stood up. There was no way, surely, that England would as mad as to-
BOOM
France ducked instinctively at the sound of canon fire. Only a warning shot, fired out to sea, he re-assured himself. England wanted his attention, and he had it. He had it, and much more.
-----
The coast guard ships were much faster than England's old vessel. It appeared he'd somehow commandeered the HMS Victory out of Portsmouth dockyard (wasn't she beached?). On it were two dozen British sailors, dashing around deck as they turned to stop before the waters got too shallow. Everyone looked as though they'd sailed straight out of the 1700s. But no sign of Angleterre yet-
... France hadn't seen that tricorn hat for a long time, except in his nightmares.
"Haul out of my way, Frog, or I'll blast you out of the water!" bellowed England, laden with pirate regalia, from the dual plumed tricorn, to the scarlet coat flapping impressively in the sea breeze, to the ruffled cravat at his neck. Wales was at the helm, hair caught back under a bandanna, waistcoat in pristine condition despite its age. When France caught his eye, he shrugged mouthed something like "warned you", though France was still a little far to see.
"Arthur, you're going to cause an international incident!" he called up, bracing himself against his own, much smaller boat's side as the wake from England's craft rocked it. Said Nation laughed. He hadn't heard that laugh in nigh on 70 years.
"I would think that an invasion would!"
"You have one ship! With old canons, and only two dozen sailors! “
The boats bumped edges, and without warning, England leapt off the deck of his own, hands on a rope to steady him as he slid down the side to land with a thud on the nose of Francis' dinghy. The coastguard wisely stepped back, as the madman rose, and dusted the rope burn off his hands. France tried to keep himself from backing away too, even as England approached with a predatory grin. He grabbed France’s wrist, jerking it closer. Over the salt of the sea, France could smell alcohol. Drunk. England was drunk again. He wasn’t sure if that was a relief, or more of a worry.
“Plenty enough to ensure that I own this-” he tightened his grip, and France swallowed a pained gasp. “- by sundown.”
-----
By the time Francis had been frog-marched (England had laughed at that one) back onto his own soil, Wales was sorely regretting sobering up mid-way across the ocean.
His younger brother was still inebriated, though that might have had something to do with the bottle of rum clenched in his other hand currently, being swigged from every other minute as the other hand gripped both of the Frenchman’s wrists together behind his back.
“Angleterre, be reasonable-”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need a tongue to survive, Frog. Shall I liberate you of it?” Arthur hissed, grinning wide and poisonous. Darren rolled his eyes as Francis gulped and stopped talking, at least until his next attempt in approximately five minutes.
The rest of the sailors waded onto the land behind him. Their eyes were suspiciously deadened, and Wales pondered exactly what England had meant when he’d grabbed his spell book and mentioned he’d “be back with reinforcements”. Wales hadn’t forgotten the smell of Old Magicks. They reeked of it.
Arthur signalled Darren, and with a resigned sigh, he unfurled the flag he’d carried ashore and planted it in the ground.
“I claim this land in the name of the British Empire!” crowed England triumphantly.
The other people on the beach were staring. France gave Wales a Look. ‘You will get me out of this, because this is no longer funny.’ it said. Wales gave him another helpless shrug. The Look turned into a glare. ‘Oh, I see, you’re in on this too aren’t you.’
Wales blinked slowly at him. ‘Okay, maybe I’m not quite sober yet..’
A policeman approached, looking wary. “Monsieur, vous n'êtes pas permis-”
How England had got his hands on a cutlass in this day and age, Wales couldn’t fathom. It should have been rusted to pieces by now, but the blade looked like it was fresh out of the forgery yesterday. And now it was pointed at the poor policeman’s neck. Some of the beach-goers started running.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak frog.” England sneered, and Wales wondered idly if this was starting to get out of hand. “You will speak English, or never speak again.”
Threatening civilians. Definitely time to intervene, before England had yet another regret for when he was sober. “Arthur-” he caught the look his brother gave him, and quickly corrected himself. “Cap’n. Threatening the locals will not bring us any friends.” The two Britons stared at each other for a while, before the once-empire lowered his sword. The Frenchman let out something between a sigh and a whimper and backed away as slowly as he dared, before turning tail and belting it.
“You and I aren’t done here, wine-bastard.” England hissed in France’s ear, as two of the sailors grasped the captured Nation’s arms, allowing England to stalk over to his brother.
“What.” The shorter Nation grumbled like a scolded child. Wales held down the urge to roll his eyes.
“I’ve just recalled that Alfred will be rather opposed to our reboot of the Empire.” As expected, England sneered at him.
“America is not my nanny, Wales.”
The older country tried not to let his amusement at the mental image show on his face. “I’ll grant you that, but he does have a lot of nukes. More than we do. And an extreme aversion to expansionist policies.”
“Nukes?” England’s eyebrows came together in a confused way. “What are- oh.” And the transition between the 18th century and the present day clicked into place “Oh.” Wales waited for the next 200 years of information to catch up with his younger brother, keeping an eye on the still-drawn sword in his hand. England looked down at himself, then at the sand, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Ew. French ground.”
France was never, ever going to let England live this one down.
England had half-sobered up and dismissed the sailors, who turned into smoke and ash and leaves that simply blew away on the breeze, much to the shock and confusion of anyone not used to England’s magic. However, soon after the fact, France pointed out that there was no way for England to get the ship back home now that there was no crew, and could he please have it as a souvenir or compensation for all the trouble the Britons had caused? And after he was finished eating sand from where England had decked him, the chuckling Nation pointed the way to the ferry.
Needless to say, they were kind of an odd sight.
France waved them goodbye, then flicked out his mobile phone and jammed a number on speed dial.
“You will never guess what just happened.” France smirked into the phone, dusting a little more sand off his slacks. “No, I didn’t swear a vow of chastity, don’t be a fool, cher.” He explained the whole situation, carefully leaving out the occasional bouts of terror that had rushed through him at the sight of England in those clothes again.
“So, I think I just got a declaration of war. Only fair if we return it, oui?” after a pause, he chuckled. “Oh, nothing so overt, mon ami. The weapon of today is psychological warfare, non? You are no stranger to fighting dirty either. We’ll let them think it’s all forgotten and done with. And when they least expect it…” he purred.
Notes:
- The HMS Victory: I know it's not actually a pirate ship, it was a battle ship that fought in the battle of Trafalgar (hence why France recognises it. HAHAHA). It's big and impressive and retired. I've also been on it, but I don't know how large a crew it takes to man it. I estimated high just in case.
Part 7
Characters (in this chapter): France, England, Wales, an assortment of people trying to holiday in Brittany.
Rating: 15 for Iggy's mouth.
Warnings: Pirate England now owns your eyes.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
It was a beautiful May morning across the channel. The sun was bright and warm, the flowers were blooming right on time, and the French had indeed won the football match against Portugal. All seemed right in the world, as Francis Bonnefoy relaxed on the balcony of his Brittany holiday home. It was no co-incident he'd come here, however. He'd received a somewhat cryptic message from Wales that the British would be paying a visit. This meant France had an opportunity to tease Angleterre, something he wasn't about to pass up.
He was just thinking of a greeting that would piss the big-browed Nation off the most, when black sails appeared on the horizon.
Choking on his morning coffee, he almost fell off the balcony edge with the speed he stood up. There was no way, surely, that England would as mad as to-
BOOM
France ducked instinctively at the sound of canon fire. Only a warning shot, fired out to sea, he re-assured himself. England wanted his attention, and he had it. He had it, and much more.
-----
The coast guard ships were much faster than England's old vessel. It appeared he'd somehow commandeered the HMS Victory out of Portsmouth dockyard (wasn't she beached?). On it were two dozen British sailors, dashing around deck as they turned to stop before the waters got too shallow. Everyone looked as though they'd sailed straight out of the 1700s. But no sign of Angleterre yet-
... France hadn't seen that tricorn hat for a long time, except in his nightmares.
"Haul out of my way, Frog, or I'll blast you out of the water!" bellowed England, laden with pirate regalia, from the dual plumed tricorn, to the scarlet coat flapping impressively in the sea breeze, to the ruffled cravat at his neck. Wales was at the helm, hair caught back under a bandanna, waistcoat in pristine condition despite its age. When France caught his eye, he shrugged mouthed something like "warned you", though France was still a little far to see.
"Arthur, you're going to cause an international incident!" he called up, bracing himself against his own, much smaller boat's side as the wake from England's craft rocked it. Said Nation laughed. He hadn't heard that laugh in nigh on 70 years.
"I would think that an invasion would!"
"You have one ship! With old canons, and only two dozen sailors! “
The boats bumped edges, and without warning, England leapt off the deck of his own, hands on a rope to steady him as he slid down the side to land with a thud on the nose of Francis' dinghy. The coastguard wisely stepped back, as the madman rose, and dusted the rope burn off his hands. France tried to keep himself from backing away too, even as England approached with a predatory grin. He grabbed France’s wrist, jerking it closer. Over the salt of the sea, France could smell alcohol. Drunk. England was drunk again. He wasn’t sure if that was a relief, or more of a worry.
“Plenty enough to ensure that I own this-” he tightened his grip, and France swallowed a pained gasp. “- by sundown.”
-----
By the time Francis had been frog-marched (England had laughed at that one) back onto his own soil, Wales was sorely regretting sobering up mid-way across the ocean.
His younger brother was still inebriated, though that might have had something to do with the bottle of rum clenched in his other hand currently, being swigged from every other minute as the other hand gripped both of the Frenchman’s wrists together behind his back.
“Angleterre, be reasonable-”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need a tongue to survive, Frog. Shall I liberate you of it?” Arthur hissed, grinning wide and poisonous. Darren rolled his eyes as Francis gulped and stopped talking, at least until his next attempt in approximately five minutes.
The rest of the sailors waded onto the land behind him. Their eyes were suspiciously deadened, and Wales pondered exactly what England had meant when he’d grabbed his spell book and mentioned he’d “be back with reinforcements”. Wales hadn’t forgotten the smell of Old Magicks. They reeked of it.
Arthur signalled Darren, and with a resigned sigh, he unfurled the flag he’d carried ashore and planted it in the ground.
“I claim this land in the name of the British Empire!” crowed England triumphantly.
The other people on the beach were staring. France gave Wales a Look. ‘You will get me out of this, because this is no longer funny.’ it said. Wales gave him another helpless shrug. The Look turned into a glare. ‘Oh, I see, you’re in on this too aren’t you.’
Wales blinked slowly at him. ‘Okay, maybe I’m not quite sober yet..’
A policeman approached, looking wary. “Monsieur, vous n'êtes pas permis-”
How England had got his hands on a cutlass in this day and age, Wales couldn’t fathom. It should have been rusted to pieces by now, but the blade looked like it was fresh out of the forgery yesterday. And now it was pointed at the poor policeman’s neck. Some of the beach-goers started running.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak frog.” England sneered, and Wales wondered idly if this was starting to get out of hand. “You will speak English, or never speak again.”
Threatening civilians. Definitely time to intervene, before England had yet another regret for when he was sober. “Arthur-” he caught the look his brother gave him, and quickly corrected himself. “Cap’n. Threatening the locals will not bring us any friends.” The two Britons stared at each other for a while, before the once-empire lowered his sword. The Frenchman let out something between a sigh and a whimper and backed away as slowly as he dared, before turning tail and belting it.
“You and I aren’t done here, wine-bastard.” England hissed in France’s ear, as two of the sailors grasped the captured Nation’s arms, allowing England to stalk over to his brother.
“What.” The shorter Nation grumbled like a scolded child. Wales held down the urge to roll his eyes.
“I’ve just recalled that Alfred will be rather opposed to our reboot of the Empire.” As expected, England sneered at him.
“America is not my nanny, Wales.”
The older country tried not to let his amusement at the mental image show on his face. “I’ll grant you that, but he does have a lot of nukes. More than we do. And an extreme aversion to expansionist policies.”
“Nukes?” England’s eyebrows came together in a confused way. “What are- oh.” And the transition between the 18th century and the present day clicked into place “Oh.” Wales waited for the next 200 years of information to catch up with his younger brother, keeping an eye on the still-drawn sword in his hand. England looked down at himself, then at the sand, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Ew. French ground.”
France was never, ever going to let England live this one down.
England had half-sobered up and dismissed the sailors, who turned into smoke and ash and leaves that simply blew away on the breeze, much to the shock and confusion of anyone not used to England’s magic. However, soon after the fact, France pointed out that there was no way for England to get the ship back home now that there was no crew, and could he please have it as a souvenir or compensation for all the trouble the Britons had caused? And after he was finished eating sand from where England had decked him, the chuckling Nation pointed the way to the ferry.
Needless to say, they were kind of an odd sight.
France waved them goodbye, then flicked out his mobile phone and jammed a number on speed dial.
“You will never guess what just happened.” France smirked into the phone, dusting a little more sand off his slacks. “No, I didn’t swear a vow of chastity, don’t be a fool, cher.” He explained the whole situation, carefully leaving out the occasional bouts of terror that had rushed through him at the sight of England in those clothes again.
“So, I think I just got a declaration of war. Only fair if we return it, oui?” after a pause, he chuckled. “Oh, nothing so overt, mon ami. The weapon of today is psychological warfare, non? You are no stranger to fighting dirty either. We’ll let them think it’s all forgotten and done with. And when they least expect it…” he purred.
Notes:
- The HMS Victory: I know it's not actually a pirate ship, it was a battle ship that fought in the battle of Trafalgar (hence why France recognises it. HAHAHA). It's big and impressive and retired. I've also been on it, but I don't know how large a crew it takes to man it. I estimated high just in case.
Part 7