Family Ties [Part 9]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): Ireland, England, Scotland, France, Russia, America, PRUSSIA, Romano, the World Meeting.
Rating: 15
Warnings: They see me kol-in'. They hatin'.
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.
“That,” said Ireland, catching England’s attention as he entered the room. “was cruel and unusual punishment.” She didn’t seem angry, per se, but half-amused and half disapproving. “Talk about your disproportionate vengeance aye?.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” England breezed by, unpacking his stuff once he got to his seat. Ireland followed him, arms folded and plucked eyebrows raised incredulously.
“You can’t tell me you’re blind to that poor man’s suffering over there. It’s rolling off him in waves.” She jabbed a thumb over at the other side of the semi-circular table. England spared it a glance.
Scotland was slumped over in his chair, burying his face in his arms, vibes of misery and unhappiness hanging all around him in the air. Sealand was poking him to check if he was still alive. He didn’t even bat the pest away.
“His economy’s plummeted with the loss of his alcohol revenue. He’s been sniffing and coughing all mornin’ and it’s really bloody irritating.” Ireland explained. “And on top of that, he’s probably got the worst hang over since VE-day.”
“Good.” The younger sibling sniffed, organising his papers.
“Also, America showed up today looking like that one time he saw Bloody Mary. What’s that about?” she continued. England actually looked at her this time, forgetting to pretend like he could make all the problems go away if they just didn’t talk to each other.
“That was Wales, not me.”
“Bollocks.”
“I’m serious, he summoned the Dragon Mother.”
“What’d he do, insult the rugby-”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Well, okay, that figures.”
“I’ll get ye fer this.” Grumbled Scotland, raising his head and pointing vaguely in England’s direction. “Ye see if I don’t. This has only jus’ begun.”
At this point, France walked in and surveyed the entire situation. His eyes landed on Scotland’s hung over, unshaven, glaring face, and he recoiled slightly. “Mon Dieu, Scotland. You look-”
“Like shit, I know.”
“What happened?” Russia materialised from nowhere, making everyone (minus Scotland, who didn’t have the energy for much right now) jump. “I have seen gulag prisoners who look better, da.”
“Ta for that.” Scotland muttered. “He stole my alcohol.”
“Hm? Then buy some more.”
“No, I mean, every single drop in my entire county and every time I touch a bottle it vanishes.”
“I see…” there was a drop in temperature. “Even the vodka?”
There was a pause. Scotland slowly turned to look at Russia, took in the dark expression and stiff smile, then looked over at England’s carefully not-terrified-at-all face. A small smirk wormed its way onto his face. A smirk that stuck it's middle finger up and yelled "Triple Entente, bitch".
“Especially the vodka.”
England paled. “Oh fuck.”
------------
Wales was quietly enjoying a re-run of Doctor Who (filmed in one of his quarries, again), when the doorbell rang.
“One second.” He called over his shoulder, searching for the remote to pause the program. Once found, he picked his way around the slightly untidy room to answer the door.
“Hey Wales!”
It was the last person he’d expected.
“Prussia?” he said incredulously. The albino Nation grinned at him. Upon further examination, it seemed he’d dragged Romano with him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The German puffed out his chest. “We’re inviting you to join our ‘It’s cool to be in the same country as our younger brother’ club!”
“All we do is go out drinking, damn it.” Grumbled Romano, folding his arms and glaring at the flowerbed like they were personally insulting him. Wales raised one eyebrow.
“Huh.” Darren glanced back into the dark house, the housework that needed to be doing, the various TV programs he had saved to be played, and the humming computer for emergencies. “Well, it is kind of boring here.”
“That’s the spirit!”
--------------
Darren could only wish for the day when it would be a rare thing for Arthur to come home from a meeting with a black eye.
The pub call with the “club” was surprisingly enjoyable, with Romano becoming alarmingly civil and flirting with everything that moved, Prussia singing loud but unusually in-tune German songs and all three of them discovering a similar hatred for the Eurovision song contest. (It was just passive-aggressive war anyway. “If you’re going to fight, do it properly like men: with giant ass swords.” Insisted Gilbert.) Wales woke up on the sofa in his house the day after with a blinding headache and a mysterious potted plant sitting on the table that hadn’t been there before, but thankfully knew Arthur wouldn’t be home from Geneva (where the meeting was being held this time) for another day. He’d done a mad clean up once the Neurofen kicked in, and before long was sipping tea on the sofa with a re-run of Buffy. Guilty pleasures.
There was a scraping of the key against the lock, and Wales wondered idly if they’d ever taken the house keys back off Northern Ireland and Scotland. Might have to change the locks.
“You’re home early.” He called over his shoulder, turning off the TV. There was a grunt in reply, and Wales turned curiously to see his brother. Both eyebrows rose at the purple ring around Arthur’s eye. “Phew, that’s going to turn all sorts of colours.”
“Oh belt up.” Grumbled the other Nation, flopping down onto the other sofa.
“Want a cuppa?” Wales asked, already half out of the doorway to the kitchen. All he got was another groan, so he took it to be affirmative. He flicked the kettle switch on and pressed. “France again? Scotland? I don’t imagine America will be trying it on any time soon.”
“Russia.”
Wales peered back through the door, scrutinising his brother. “Are you hiding any broken limbs from me that I aught to see?”
“I’m fine.”
“Rubbish you are.” He plopped the icepack he’d fetched in addition to the tea on top of England’s head, ignoring the flinch. “He get a rib? Your arm? God, he didn’t do what he tried to do to Lithuania that one time with the pipe did he-”
England shuddered, pressing down on the ice bag. “Oh god, no. I can still walk straight if you didn’t notice.”
Two cups of tea later, Wales ran a hand through his hair and mulled over his brother’s story.
“So they just walked out of the meeting, all three of them, after America finally recollected his spine and told them to?”
“He kept checking the shadows for the Dragon Mother.”
“Shit. That backfired.”
“Fantastically. Thing is, I saw them all talking later. And Russia had this grin, you know the one, like he did when he was apologising about Georgia.”
“The one that says ‘I have nasty things planned and you can’t stop me puny weaklings bwahaha’?” Wales droned. England paused and looked at him.
“Have you been watching Buffy again?”
“No.” Darren was the picture of innocence. “You think they’re up to something all together.”
“At the risk of sounding like America; duh.”
The two sat in thoughtful quiet, growing more and more tense as their minds conjured up terrible things. The sunshine and birdsong outside contrasted sharply with the descending cloud of doom and gloom inside the living room. Finally, both spoke at once.
“Do you think-”
“They could be-”
“You go first.”
“No, no, you. I can’t articulate it yet.”
“Well… I’ve lost it now.”
“Bugger, so have I.”
Bloody British politeness.
Notes:
The Triple Entente: basically an old Alliance between France, Russia and the United Kingdom. If someone declares war on any of the three countries, the other two are obliged to help out. War within the countries, probably not so easy, but let's just say Scotland got this bit sorted out while checking if the Entente Cordial (you know, that one treaty that says England and France aren't allowed to fight anymore because everyone was sick of their shit?) applied to him as well.
Part 10
Characters (in this chapter): Ireland, England, Scotland, France, Russia, America, PRUSSIA, Romano, the World Meeting.
Rating: 15
Warnings: They see me kol-in'. They hatin'.
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.
“That,” said Ireland, catching England’s attention as he entered the room. “was cruel and unusual punishment.” She didn’t seem angry, per se, but half-amused and half disapproving. “Talk about your disproportionate vengeance aye?.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” England breezed by, unpacking his stuff once he got to his seat. Ireland followed him, arms folded and plucked eyebrows raised incredulously.
“You can’t tell me you’re blind to that poor man’s suffering over there. It’s rolling off him in waves.” She jabbed a thumb over at the other side of the semi-circular table. England spared it a glance.
Scotland was slumped over in his chair, burying his face in his arms, vibes of misery and unhappiness hanging all around him in the air. Sealand was poking him to check if he was still alive. He didn’t even bat the pest away.
“His economy’s plummeted with the loss of his alcohol revenue. He’s been sniffing and coughing all mornin’ and it’s really bloody irritating.” Ireland explained. “And on top of that, he’s probably got the worst hang over since VE-day.”
“Good.” The younger sibling sniffed, organising his papers.
“Also, America showed up today looking like that one time he saw Bloody Mary. What’s that about?” she continued. England actually looked at her this time, forgetting to pretend like he could make all the problems go away if they just didn’t talk to each other.
“That was Wales, not me.”
“Bollocks.”
“I’m serious, he summoned the Dragon Mother.”
“What’d he do, insult the rugby-”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Well, okay, that figures.”
“I’ll get ye fer this.” Grumbled Scotland, raising his head and pointing vaguely in England’s direction. “Ye see if I don’t. This has only jus’ begun.”
At this point, France walked in and surveyed the entire situation. His eyes landed on Scotland’s hung over, unshaven, glaring face, and he recoiled slightly. “Mon Dieu, Scotland. You look-”
“Like shit, I know.”
“What happened?” Russia materialised from nowhere, making everyone (minus Scotland, who didn’t have the energy for much right now) jump. “I have seen gulag prisoners who look better, da.”
“Ta for that.” Scotland muttered. “He stole my alcohol.”
“Hm? Then buy some more.”
“No, I mean, every single drop in my entire county and every time I touch a bottle it vanishes.”
“I see…” there was a drop in temperature. “Even the vodka?”
There was a pause. Scotland slowly turned to look at Russia, took in the dark expression and stiff smile, then looked over at England’s carefully not-terrified-at-all face. A small smirk wormed its way onto his face. A smirk that stuck it's middle finger up and yelled "Triple Entente, bitch".
“Especially the vodka.”
England paled. “Oh fuck.”
------------
Wales was quietly enjoying a re-run of Doctor Who (filmed in one of his quarries, again), when the doorbell rang.
“One second.” He called over his shoulder, searching for the remote to pause the program. Once found, he picked his way around the slightly untidy room to answer the door.
“Hey Wales!”
It was the last person he’d expected.
“Prussia?” he said incredulously. The albino Nation grinned at him. Upon further examination, it seemed he’d dragged Romano with him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The German puffed out his chest. “We’re inviting you to join our ‘It’s cool to be in the same country as our younger brother’ club!”
“All we do is go out drinking, damn it.” Grumbled Romano, folding his arms and glaring at the flowerbed like they were personally insulting him. Wales raised one eyebrow.
“Huh.” Darren glanced back into the dark house, the housework that needed to be doing, the various TV programs he had saved to be played, and the humming computer for emergencies. “Well, it is kind of boring here.”
“That’s the spirit!”
--------------
Darren could only wish for the day when it would be a rare thing for Arthur to come home from a meeting with a black eye.
The pub call with the “club” was surprisingly enjoyable, with Romano becoming alarmingly civil and flirting with everything that moved, Prussia singing loud but unusually in-tune German songs and all three of them discovering a similar hatred for the Eurovision song contest. (It was just passive-aggressive war anyway. “If you’re going to fight, do it properly like men: with giant ass swords.” Insisted Gilbert.) Wales woke up on the sofa in his house the day after with a blinding headache and a mysterious potted plant sitting on the table that hadn’t been there before, but thankfully knew Arthur wouldn’t be home from Geneva (where the meeting was being held this time) for another day. He’d done a mad clean up once the Neurofen kicked in, and before long was sipping tea on the sofa with a re-run of Buffy. Guilty pleasures.
There was a scraping of the key against the lock, and Wales wondered idly if they’d ever taken the house keys back off Northern Ireland and Scotland. Might have to change the locks.
“You’re home early.” He called over his shoulder, turning off the TV. There was a grunt in reply, and Wales turned curiously to see his brother. Both eyebrows rose at the purple ring around Arthur’s eye. “Phew, that’s going to turn all sorts of colours.”
“Oh belt up.” Grumbled the other Nation, flopping down onto the other sofa.
“Want a cuppa?” Wales asked, already half out of the doorway to the kitchen. All he got was another groan, so he took it to be affirmative. He flicked the kettle switch on and pressed. “France again? Scotland? I don’t imagine America will be trying it on any time soon.”
“Russia.”
Wales peered back through the door, scrutinising his brother. “Are you hiding any broken limbs from me that I aught to see?”
“I’m fine.”
“Rubbish you are.” He plopped the icepack he’d fetched in addition to the tea on top of England’s head, ignoring the flinch. “He get a rib? Your arm? God, he didn’t do what he tried to do to Lithuania that one time with the pipe did he-”
England shuddered, pressing down on the ice bag. “Oh god, no. I can still walk straight if you didn’t notice.”
Two cups of tea later, Wales ran a hand through his hair and mulled over his brother’s story.
“So they just walked out of the meeting, all three of them, after America finally recollected his spine and told them to?”
“He kept checking the shadows for the Dragon Mother.”
“Shit. That backfired.”
“Fantastically. Thing is, I saw them all talking later. And Russia had this grin, you know the one, like he did when he was apologising about Georgia.”
“The one that says ‘I have nasty things planned and you can’t stop me puny weaklings bwahaha’?” Wales droned. England paused and looked at him.
“Have you been watching Buffy again?”
“No.” Darren was the picture of innocence. “You think they’re up to something all together.”
“At the risk of sounding like America; duh.”
The two sat in thoughtful quiet, growing more and more tense as their minds conjured up terrible things. The sunshine and birdsong outside contrasted sharply with the descending cloud of doom and gloom inside the living room. Finally, both spoke at once.
“Do you think-”
“They could be-”
“You go first.”
“No, no, you. I can’t articulate it yet.”
“Well… I’ve lost it now.”
“Bugger, so have I.”
Bloody British politeness.
Notes:
The Triple Entente: basically an old Alliance between France, Russia and the United Kingdom. If someone declares war on any of the three countries, the other two are obliged to help out. War within the countries, probably not so easy, but let's just say Scotland got this bit sorted out while checking if the Entente Cordial (you know, that one treaty that says England and France aren't allowed to fight anymore because everyone was sick of their shit?) applied to him as well.
Part 10