Family Ties [Part 7]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): England, Wales, Scotland and about 300 people he found in a pub somewhere.
Rating: 18 for some icky implications and bad language.
Warnings: Liberal application of headcanon, Babelfish translation.
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.
“I’m not coming out.”
“Arthur.”
“I haven’t had a hangover this bad since V-day. Screw off.”
“Arthur, if you don’t get out of bed, I’m driving us both to London and throwing you in the Thames.”
“I’ve survived before. And it’s not even frozen over like it was that one time.”
“Yes, I remember. That was your own fault for jumping on the ice to prove it was still thick enough for the fair.”
“Fucking global warming killing off the Thames fair.”
“I’m going to count to three, and then you better be upright, or…” A dangerous pause. “Or I will call Israel and tell him you’ve decided to give Palestine all his old land back.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
After a few moments of tense silence, Arthur sat up in bed, glaring at his brother.
“It is utterly cruel and unfair of you to wake me up this early on a Sunday when I have a hangover.” He said, shuffling into his slippers like a sulky child rather than the millennia old Nation he was.
“It’s stupid and irresponsible of you to get so drunk when you don’t need to be.” Wales pointed out in return.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Three months had passed since it had become just England and Wales in the house, but neither of them were quite used to it. Wales occasionally made toast that was just the slightest bit burned, like how Scotland preferred it, and England occasionally glanced at the other empty chairs and sighed in such a forlorn way you’d have thought his brothers had died rather than left. But life had to carry on, Wales decided as he went into the study to check his emails. New bosses were elected, countries rose and fell, alliances were made and broken and-
Why was there a picture of France and Scotland buggering sitting quite cheerfully on his desktop?
Apparently Wales must have said this out loud, because England immediately choked on his bacon.
“WHAT?!” he screeched once the blockage had been removed. France being naked was nothing new or exciting, and both brothers had been witness to Scotland’s vital regions due to the Strip Poker Incident of 1973. Regardless, Wales was frantically trying to get rid of the picture that had somehow ended up as his background, all the while wondering how the hell it got there. Once he finally had, he noticed the file name.
DontYouWishYourAllyWasHotLikeMine.jpg
Wales groaned. England made a quiet sort of retching sound.
“At least, from the vodka bottles in their hands, they’ll have one hell of a hang over today.”
“Fuck you too.”
Gears processed in both the brother’s heads, until an almost audible click was heard.
“Wait, if they’re the ones- you know-ing - who took the picture?” said England, tone suggesting he already knew and dreaded the answer.
“Judging from the fact they’re holding vodka bottles, I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess Russia had something to do with it.” Wales deadpanned, feeling a chill seep into the room at the very mention of the name. “He probably got Estonia to put the picture on my computer in the first place.”
“Does- does that mean that Russia’s working with them?” England had turned paper-white, and was beginning to look a little green even.
“Most likely.” This wasn’t what Wales needed this early in the morning. It wasn’t. “How the hell did he even manage to persuade-”
“Shh!” England suddenly hissed, eyes widening. There was silence in the country house. They weren’t near any busy roads, and had in fact come out here for some peace and quiet in the first place. “Do you hear that?” Wales frowned. Supernatural creatures were still visible to him, but he wasn’t as sensitive any more like Arthur was.
“No I-”
“Shhhhh!” he said again, creeping over to the window. “It’s… there!”
There was sound.
There was sound, getting closer and louder. Yelling, and screaming, and marching, and running and chanting and it was in Gaelic and it was old and Wales remembered-
- Rome was so tall, shoulders so wide that they eclipsed the sun from Cymru’s viewpoint. Albion- Britannia, Rome called him, as though he was all of them- was clinging to his arm, mumbling something like “stupid stupid should have stopped him now he has you too” and glaring at the ground. As they stood on the newly built wall that Rome had taken them to see, Cymru gazed out at his brother’s lands, his other brother’s fields stretching out at his back. He hadn’t seen Alba in years, not since Mother died.
Something-blue moved on the horizon.
“Wales, Darren, it’s-!”
“Caledonia.” muttered Rome, a nasty grin working it’s way onto his face, like a wolf presented with a lame deer. Cymru almost corrected the name, because who was this Nation, this Empire, to barge in to their lives and rule them and change them and-
A shout went up that echoed thrice off the hills.
“Holy bollocks, he’s still got the lungs for that after the chain smoking from the 1920s?!” Arthur’s eyes were wide and panicked and his mouth babbled nonsense. Wales couldn’t respond, not seeing the present but the past-
Red hair, like fire, blue skin like the sky. Not a scrap of armour or even clothes on any of them, a symbol of bravery and what Rome called stupidity.
“He’s lucky it’s the middle of summer, he’d freeze his balls off in winter-”
“Arthur, shut up and run.”
”Do you whimper in fear, little Britannia?” Rome asked, smiling down at them like some benevolent spirit that they knew he wasn’t. “Will you run away? Run then, I will guard this place.” Albion stayed rooted to the spot by Cymru’s side, clinging all the same but eyes determined to keep the tears of terror at bay.
“I not fear you.” He replied in broken Latin. “O-or Caledonia. He does not scare-” his voice was drowned in the clash of swords and shields and spears, the cries of felled men and the curses of their comrades. The Scots were chaos incarnate, whirling blue and orange and skin and metal and wood, a maelstrom battering against the wall solid shields and rigidness and crimson and gold of the Romans, square and straight and a perfect defence.
“- the fuck does he think he’s doing!” They both ran out the back door and the garden gate, watching the naked horde swarm through the windows and side gates and doors of the house, Scotland himself armed with a crude spear and a wild grin, skin stained blue like the sky had painted itself on him.
“Oh, I don’t know, invading?!” Wales, shouted back, entering the edge of the forest and darting around the trees. Arthur moved swiftly, faster than Darren, because he knew every one of these trees, and their names. He could afford to look back when Wales couldn’t, and the magnitude of the swear words he uttered indicated how close their pursuers were. It petered down from “fuck” to “damn” and then to nothing, at which point both Nations stopped and stared back into the forest behind them.
The young boy couldn’t be older than ten by the looks of him. His wildly bright hair and emerald sharp eyes stood defiantly against any order or attempt to restrain. There was more red on him that blue, and all around him were the groaning or deadened bodies of his people. Rome stood on top of the wall, and Alba grinned, feral and untamed despite attempts.
“Taigh na Galla ort, drùisire!” he shouted. Rome raised one eyebrow inquisitively at Albion.
“He say ‘fuck you, dirty old man’.” He translated, slightly red from the rude words.
“Slapag.” Alba growled at Albion, who turned an even more violent shade of red.
“Hornungsunu!” Cymru kept the smaller Nation from leaping off the wall to attack his brother, but the red head spat at him anyway, and before Cymru could protest that he hadn’t even said anything, Alba was nothing more than and orange and blue dot in the distance.
“W-well, we lost him.” Panted England, eyes scanning the trees like he expected the Scots to emerge out of the wood itself. A faerie landed on England’s head and started nibbling at his ear affectionately, but the Nation waved it off.
“Should we go back and look?”
There was a long pause.
“I suppose…” Arthur allowed.
The two Nations made their cautious way back to the house. Arthur waited for the smell of acrid smoke to hit him, or the heat from his burning home to light the trees up. Darren waited for the cries of men, the clash of spears being beat against shields. But the morning air stayed pleasantly warm, smelling of summer flowers, and silent. The faerie on England’s head was chattering at him, pulling and playing with his hair, while another flittered curiously around Wales. At any other time, this could have been a normal morning stroll in the woods.
There was a small intake of breath from England as they cleared the edge of the trees. Wales bit his tongue.
The house was perfect.
Pristine, untouched, sitting in the morning sunshine without a care in the world. A gnome ran across the lawn, dragging a fish bigger than it was from the garden pond. Normally, England probably would have freaked and given chase, because those were prize koi, damn it, gifts from Japan. Instead, he heaved a heavy sigh.
“He got us.” He grumbled, batting at the faerie as it tried to chew on his ear. “He wasn’t trying to hurt us, he was trying to freak us out.”
“For his own amusement, no doubt.” Added Wales, taking steps toward the house as his younger brother followed him. “Psychological warfare. First the photo, now this. God only knows what next.” A pause. “I should never have let you try to conquer Brittany again.”
“Hey! That was your idea in the first place!”
The inside of the house was just as untouched, not even a rumple in the rugs. It was as though they’d been chased from the house by ghosts. Maybe they had, because where else would Scotland find 300 men who would voluntarily strip to nothing, paint themselves blue and charge at a total stranger’s house?
“Any pub in the highlands.” England replied, and Wales realised he’d said that out loud. “There’s magic everywhere.” the former Empire muttered, running his hand over the windowsill. The window itself was open, fresh summer air floating in, along with a few fae. England shooed them out with uttered spells. Can’t have them being trapped when the windows and doors shut. “The fae are being attracted to it.”
“Smells like James’ magic. Just James.” Wales commented, wrinkling his nose slightly. Scotland’s magic smelled like crisp, cold air and ashes; it burned the nose if one got too much of a smell of it. Capturing the faerie that seemed to be fascinated in him with cupped hands, Darren released it outside the window before closing it.
“Naturally. France has long forgotten his spells and fair folk.” England snorted, spinning on his heel and marching towards the study. His special study, not Wales’ one.
“England…” Wales said in a warning tone, following. “What are you up to.”
“Just disinfecting the house.” England called behind him, pulling on his magician’s cloak with a slight flourish. Arthur enjoyed using magic, especially when there were so few opportunities to do so these days. “And cursing Scotland’s house to the third pit of hell.”
“Third? You’re being merciful today.” Wales droned sarcastically.
“Trust me, Darren. I’m not going to kill him.” His eye twitched, a creepy grin spreading. “Just make him suffer.”
Notes:
- Arthur's translation of Scotland's Scot-Gaelic ("Taigh na Galla ort, drùisire!") is correct, but the phrase literally means "Go to the house of the Bitch, perverted old man". He then proceeds to call England a whore ("slapag"), to which England (who was just as foul mouthed back then) calls him a bastard son ("Hornungsunu!").
- Alba is the oldest recorded name for Scotland, while Caledonia is the Roman name for the tribes of the highlands. Cymru doesn't have an old recorded name, so I went with the Gaelic word for Wales. Albion, as is known by anyone who stalks England fanfiction, is the oldest name for England.
- On the topic of magic, all the Brits at least acknowledge magic. On the scale of magical prowess, Ireland and England are nicely tied, with Scotland, then Wales, then N. Ireland following last (if only because he's youngest and hasn't had time to learn it all yet).
Part 8
Characters (in this chapter): England, Wales, Scotland and about 300 people he found in a pub somewhere.
Rating: 18 for some icky implications and bad language.
Warnings: Liberal application of headcanon, Babelfish translation.
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.
“I’m not coming out.”
“Arthur.”
“I haven’t had a hangover this bad since V-day. Screw off.”
“Arthur, if you don’t get out of bed, I’m driving us both to London and throwing you in the Thames.”
“I’ve survived before. And it’s not even frozen over like it was that one time.”
“Yes, I remember. That was your own fault for jumping on the ice to prove it was still thick enough for the fair.”
“Fucking global warming killing off the Thames fair.”
“I’m going to count to three, and then you better be upright, or…” A dangerous pause. “Or I will call Israel and tell him you’ve decided to give Palestine all his old land back.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
After a few moments of tense silence, Arthur sat up in bed, glaring at his brother.
“It is utterly cruel and unfair of you to wake me up this early on a Sunday when I have a hangover.” He said, shuffling into his slippers like a sulky child rather than the millennia old Nation he was.
“It’s stupid and irresponsible of you to get so drunk when you don’t need to be.” Wales pointed out in return.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Three months had passed since it had become just England and Wales in the house, but neither of them were quite used to it. Wales occasionally made toast that was just the slightest bit burned, like how Scotland preferred it, and England occasionally glanced at the other empty chairs and sighed in such a forlorn way you’d have thought his brothers had died rather than left. But life had to carry on, Wales decided as he went into the study to check his emails. New bosses were elected, countries rose and fell, alliances were made and broken and-
Why was there a picture of France and Scotland buggering sitting quite cheerfully on his desktop?
Apparently Wales must have said this out loud, because England immediately choked on his bacon.
“WHAT?!” he screeched once the blockage had been removed. France being naked was nothing new or exciting, and both brothers had been witness to Scotland’s vital regions due to the Strip Poker Incident of 1973. Regardless, Wales was frantically trying to get rid of the picture that had somehow ended up as his background, all the while wondering how the hell it got there. Once he finally had, he noticed the file name.
DontYouWishYourAllyWasHotLikeMine.jpg
Wales groaned. England made a quiet sort of retching sound.
“At least, from the vodka bottles in their hands, they’ll have one hell of a hang over today.”
“Fuck you too.”
Gears processed in both the brother’s heads, until an almost audible click was heard.
“Wait, if they’re the ones- you know-ing - who took the picture?” said England, tone suggesting he already knew and dreaded the answer.
“Judging from the fact they’re holding vodka bottles, I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess Russia had something to do with it.” Wales deadpanned, feeling a chill seep into the room at the very mention of the name. “He probably got Estonia to put the picture on my computer in the first place.”
“Does- does that mean that Russia’s working with them?” England had turned paper-white, and was beginning to look a little green even.
“Most likely.” This wasn’t what Wales needed this early in the morning. It wasn’t. “How the hell did he even manage to persuade-”
“Shh!” England suddenly hissed, eyes widening. There was silence in the country house. They weren’t near any busy roads, and had in fact come out here for some peace and quiet in the first place. “Do you hear that?” Wales frowned. Supernatural creatures were still visible to him, but he wasn’t as sensitive any more like Arthur was.
“No I-”
“Shhhhh!” he said again, creeping over to the window. “It’s… there!”
There was sound.
There was sound, getting closer and louder. Yelling, and screaming, and marching, and running and chanting and it was in Gaelic and it was old and Wales remembered-
- Rome was so tall, shoulders so wide that they eclipsed the sun from Cymru’s viewpoint. Albion- Britannia, Rome called him, as though he was all of them- was clinging to his arm, mumbling something like “stupid stupid should have stopped him now he has you too” and glaring at the ground. As they stood on the newly built wall that Rome had taken them to see, Cymru gazed out at his brother’s lands, his other brother’s fields stretching out at his back. He hadn’t seen Alba in years, not since Mother died.
Something-blue moved on the horizon.
“Wales, Darren, it’s-!”
“Caledonia.” muttered Rome, a nasty grin working it’s way onto his face, like a wolf presented with a lame deer. Cymru almost corrected the name, because who was this Nation, this Empire, to barge in to their lives and rule them and change them and-
A shout went up that echoed thrice off the hills.
“Holy bollocks, he’s still got the lungs for that after the chain smoking from the 1920s?!” Arthur’s eyes were wide and panicked and his mouth babbled nonsense. Wales couldn’t respond, not seeing the present but the past-
Red hair, like fire, blue skin like the sky. Not a scrap of armour or even clothes on any of them, a symbol of bravery and what Rome called stupidity.
“He’s lucky it’s the middle of summer, he’d freeze his balls off in winter-”
“Arthur, shut up and run.”
”Do you whimper in fear, little Britannia?” Rome asked, smiling down at them like some benevolent spirit that they knew he wasn’t. “Will you run away? Run then, I will guard this place.” Albion stayed rooted to the spot by Cymru’s side, clinging all the same but eyes determined to keep the tears of terror at bay.
“I not fear you.” He replied in broken Latin. “O-or Caledonia. He does not scare-” his voice was drowned in the clash of swords and shields and spears, the cries of felled men and the curses of their comrades. The Scots were chaos incarnate, whirling blue and orange and skin and metal and wood, a maelstrom battering against the wall solid shields and rigidness and crimson and gold of the Romans, square and straight and a perfect defence.
“- the fuck does he think he’s doing!” They both ran out the back door and the garden gate, watching the naked horde swarm through the windows and side gates and doors of the house, Scotland himself armed with a crude spear and a wild grin, skin stained blue like the sky had painted itself on him.
“Oh, I don’t know, invading?!” Wales, shouted back, entering the edge of the forest and darting around the trees. Arthur moved swiftly, faster than Darren, because he knew every one of these trees, and their names. He could afford to look back when Wales couldn’t, and the magnitude of the swear words he uttered indicated how close their pursuers were. It petered down from “fuck” to “damn” and then to nothing, at which point both Nations stopped and stared back into the forest behind them.
The young boy couldn’t be older than ten by the looks of him. His wildly bright hair and emerald sharp eyes stood defiantly against any order or attempt to restrain. There was more red on him that blue, and all around him were the groaning or deadened bodies of his people. Rome stood on top of the wall, and Alba grinned, feral and untamed despite attempts.
“Taigh na Galla ort, drùisire!” he shouted. Rome raised one eyebrow inquisitively at Albion.
“He say ‘fuck you, dirty old man’.” He translated, slightly red from the rude words.
“Slapag.” Alba growled at Albion, who turned an even more violent shade of red.
“Hornungsunu!” Cymru kept the smaller Nation from leaping off the wall to attack his brother, but the red head spat at him anyway, and before Cymru could protest that he hadn’t even said anything, Alba was nothing more than and orange and blue dot in the distance.
“W-well, we lost him.” Panted England, eyes scanning the trees like he expected the Scots to emerge out of the wood itself. A faerie landed on England’s head and started nibbling at his ear affectionately, but the Nation waved it off.
“Should we go back and look?”
There was a long pause.
“I suppose…” Arthur allowed.
The two Nations made their cautious way back to the house. Arthur waited for the smell of acrid smoke to hit him, or the heat from his burning home to light the trees up. Darren waited for the cries of men, the clash of spears being beat against shields. But the morning air stayed pleasantly warm, smelling of summer flowers, and silent. The faerie on England’s head was chattering at him, pulling and playing with his hair, while another flittered curiously around Wales. At any other time, this could have been a normal morning stroll in the woods.
There was a small intake of breath from England as they cleared the edge of the trees. Wales bit his tongue.
The house was perfect.
Pristine, untouched, sitting in the morning sunshine without a care in the world. A gnome ran across the lawn, dragging a fish bigger than it was from the garden pond. Normally, England probably would have freaked and given chase, because those were prize koi, damn it, gifts from Japan. Instead, he heaved a heavy sigh.
“He got us.” He grumbled, batting at the faerie as it tried to chew on his ear. “He wasn’t trying to hurt us, he was trying to freak us out.”
“For his own amusement, no doubt.” Added Wales, taking steps toward the house as his younger brother followed him. “Psychological warfare. First the photo, now this. God only knows what next.” A pause. “I should never have let you try to conquer Brittany again.”
“Hey! That was your idea in the first place!”
The inside of the house was just as untouched, not even a rumple in the rugs. It was as though they’d been chased from the house by ghosts. Maybe they had, because where else would Scotland find 300 men who would voluntarily strip to nothing, paint themselves blue and charge at a total stranger’s house?
“Any pub in the highlands.” England replied, and Wales realised he’d said that out loud. “There’s magic everywhere.” the former Empire muttered, running his hand over the windowsill. The window itself was open, fresh summer air floating in, along with a few fae. England shooed them out with uttered spells. Can’t have them being trapped when the windows and doors shut. “The fae are being attracted to it.”
“Smells like James’ magic. Just James.” Wales commented, wrinkling his nose slightly. Scotland’s magic smelled like crisp, cold air and ashes; it burned the nose if one got too much of a smell of it. Capturing the faerie that seemed to be fascinated in him with cupped hands, Darren released it outside the window before closing it.
“Naturally. France has long forgotten his spells and fair folk.” England snorted, spinning on his heel and marching towards the study. His special study, not Wales’ one.
“England…” Wales said in a warning tone, following. “What are you up to.”
“Just disinfecting the house.” England called behind him, pulling on his magician’s cloak with a slight flourish. Arthur enjoyed using magic, especially when there were so few opportunities to do so these days. “And cursing Scotland’s house to the third pit of hell.”
“Third? You’re being merciful today.” Wales droned sarcastically.
“Trust me, Darren. I’m not going to kill him.” His eye twitched, a creepy grin spreading. “Just make him suffer.”
Notes:
- Arthur's translation of Scotland's Scot-Gaelic ("Taigh na Galla ort, drùisire!") is correct, but the phrase literally means "Go to the house of the Bitch, perverted old man". He then proceeds to call England a whore ("slapag"), to which England (who was just as foul mouthed back then) calls him a bastard son ("Hornungsunu!").
- Alba is the oldest recorded name for Scotland, while Caledonia is the Roman name for the tribes of the highlands. Cymru doesn't have an old recorded name, so I went with the Gaelic word for Wales. Albion, as is known by anyone who stalks England fanfiction, is the oldest name for England.
- On the topic of magic, all the Brits at least acknowledge magic. On the scale of magical prowess, Ireland and England are nicely tied, with Scotland, then Wales, then N. Ireland following last (if only because he's youngest and hasn't had time to learn it all yet).
Part 8