The Battle (for) Britain [1a/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 01:05:36 UTC
“Graham, would you kindly turn that rubbish down before I nick you in the gob?”
Scotland grinned widely, a deep laugh rumbling in his throat as he reached down to tap the volume knob, turning the car radio down a single notch. “There, it’s down,” he said, tauntingly, his smile deceivingly pleasant. Northern Ireland, in the back seat, looked unamused, reaching forward to turn it down herself only to be slapped away by her brother.
“My car, my rules,” he said.
“Yr Alban,” Wales murmured quietly from the passenger seat, his thumb pointing absently in the other direction. “I think you missed the turn.”
“Let ‘im drive around again,” Northern Ireland cawed from the back seat, sitting back with her arms crossed. “It’s not like we even want to go.”
Scotland huffed from the front, looking in the rearview mirror for the turn he had in fact missed and turning the wheel to steer them sharply down a side-street. Northern Ireland shrieked as she was thrown across the back seat.
“What the bloody fuck, Albain?!”
“You know our Arthur,” Scotland growled. “If we show up half a second past tea, he’ll throw us out.”
This time, the brakes were applied as England’s house came into view, and Scotland turned into the driveway swiftly, his little electric car fitting nicely next to England’s pristine Bentley. The three unloaded, the only sounds those of car doors slamming and feet pounding up the walk to England’s front door, which was torn open without warning or ceremony.
“Hey, shrimp!” Scotland bellowed. “Come out here and help with my bags, like a gentleman!”
“I hear the telly,” Northern Ireland said, and strode in the direction of the living room, Wales following slowly behind.
Northern Ireland’s indignant cry had Scotland in the living room door in an instant, his toothy grin slipping off his face like a lead weight.
England was lying flat on his couch, curled up into himself with fury and embarrassment, giving a wide-eyed glare to his siblings that clearly threatened physical violence. Underneath him, with his hands wrapped around England’s waist, was America, a dumb smile slipping over his face.
“Hey! England, you didn’t tell me your brothers were coming over! Long time no see, you gu-”
There was a sickening crash as America was suddenly propelled across the room and into the opposite wall. Scotland stood next to where he’d ripped America from underneath England, his face red and nostrils flared.
“Graham,” England screamed, sitting up from where he was awkwardly dumped on the cushions and attempting to stand. Scotland’s arm held him firmly down. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”
Across the room, America gave a small, weak groan and rolled over into his back on the floor. The wall above him bore a great hole where it had been knocked in by his skull.
At the sight of it, England gasped slightly, and in immediate reaction took Scotland’s arm in both his hands and ripped it away. Scotland turned to push England down, leaning the entirety of his weight on England as the smaller struggled to upend him. England tore free only briefly enough to send a square fist into the underside of Scotland’s jaw, but Scotland remained stolid. He held both England’s wrists tightly in one hand, sending the message with a heavy palm across England’s chest that he was not to get up.
“No one moves,” Scotland said darkly, dangerously, “until I know why you were laying with that gormless mug.”
England’s mouth imitated that of a fish for a moment, and he fruitlessly pulled against Scotland’s grip, trying desperately to sit up. “Why I was laying with-don’t be an arsehole, Graham, he’s m-my-God and the Queen, America, are you all right?”
America gave another mild groan and rolled onto his side, running a hand under his bleeding nose.
Scotland grinned widely, a deep laugh rumbling in his throat as he reached down to tap the volume knob, turning the car radio down a single notch. “There, it’s down,” he said, tauntingly, his smile deceivingly pleasant. Northern Ireland, in the back seat, looked unamused, reaching forward to turn it down herself only to be slapped away by her brother.
“My car, my rules,” he said.
“Yr Alban,” Wales murmured quietly from the passenger seat, his thumb pointing absently in the other direction. “I think you missed the turn.”
“Let ‘im drive around again,” Northern Ireland cawed from the back seat, sitting back with her arms crossed. “It’s not like we even want to go.”
Scotland huffed from the front, looking in the rearview mirror for the turn he had in fact missed and turning the wheel to steer them sharply down a side-street. Northern Ireland shrieked as she was thrown across the back seat.
“What the bloody fuck, Albain?!”
“You know our Arthur,” Scotland growled. “If we show up half a second past tea, he’ll throw us out.”
This time, the brakes were applied as England’s house came into view, and Scotland turned into the driveway swiftly, his little electric car fitting nicely next to England’s pristine Bentley. The three unloaded, the only sounds those of car doors slamming and feet pounding up the walk to England’s front door, which was torn open without warning or ceremony.
“Hey, shrimp!” Scotland bellowed. “Come out here and help with my bags, like a gentleman!”
“I hear the telly,” Northern Ireland said, and strode in the direction of the living room, Wales following slowly behind.
Northern Ireland’s indignant cry had Scotland in the living room door in an instant, his toothy grin slipping off his face like a lead weight.
England was lying flat on his couch, curled up into himself with fury and embarrassment, giving a wide-eyed glare to his siblings that clearly threatened physical violence. Underneath him, with his hands wrapped around England’s waist, was America, a dumb smile slipping over his face.
“Hey! England, you didn’t tell me your brothers were coming over! Long time no see, you gu-”
There was a sickening crash as America was suddenly propelled across the room and into the opposite wall. Scotland stood next to where he’d ripped America from underneath England, his face red and nostrils flared.
“Graham,” England screamed, sitting up from where he was awkwardly dumped on the cushions and attempting to stand. Scotland’s arm held him firmly down. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”
Across the room, America gave a small, weak groan and rolled over into his back on the floor. The wall above him bore a great hole where it had been knocked in by his skull.
At the sight of it, England gasped slightly, and in immediate reaction took Scotland’s arm in both his hands and ripped it away. Scotland turned to push England down, leaning the entirety of his weight on England as the smaller struggled to upend him. England tore free only briefly enough to send a square fist into the underside of Scotland’s jaw, but Scotland remained stolid. He held both England’s wrists tightly in one hand, sending the message with a heavy palm across England’s chest that he was not to get up.
“No one moves,” Scotland said darkly, dangerously, “until I know why you were laying with that gormless mug.”
England’s mouth imitated that of a fish for a moment, and he fruitlessly pulled against Scotland’s grip, trying desperately to sit up. “Why I was laying with-don’t be an arsehole, Graham, he’s m-my-God and the Queen, America, are you all right?”
America gave another mild groan and rolled onto his side, running a hand under his bleeding nose.
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