The Battle (for) Britain [1b/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 01:07:53 UTC
“England,” Northern Ireland said from the doorway, darkly as well, her eyes trained dangerously on America’s wobbly form. “You have ten seconds, or the lad gets worse than a bloody nose.”
“Siobhan, I swear to God, if you touch him-”
“Nine seconds.”
“H-h’es-he’s over for the weekend, you slapper! All right? If you would kindly let me up, brother, I would be better willing to explain.”
The room froze for an agonizing moment, and finally Scotland levered back off of England and stood up. In a second England was on the floor next to America, helping him to sit up and wiping at his gushing nose with his handkerchief. America pushed him away gently, assuring that he was fine, while warily eyeing the siblings for any sudden movements.
When he was sure the bleeding in America’s nose was somewhat quelled, England turned on his siblings, the lot of which were giving extremely dirty looks to America-Wales included, one smoldering eye peeking from under his long, tousled, dark hair.
“Now listen, you lot,” England growled. “You’ve no right to come bursting into my home without so much as a ring, and interrupt my-ah, p-privacy. If you would kindly leave now, I won’t make more trouble than necessary.”
“Not until you tell us why he’s here, Lloegr,” Wales muttered, his lip curling up in a slight sneer around the pronoun. England stared for a moment in disconcertion-Wales was the quiet brother, it wasn’t like him to be so bitter.
“Well… he’s-he’s come to-”
“Why don’t we let the lad explain?”
All eyes turned to Northern Ireland, who leaned her weight onto one foot, a small, dirty smirk curling over her mouth. “Go on, then,” she said, lifting her chin in America’s direction. “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
America looked for a moment like a deer caught in a headlight’s beam, his eyes wide and flicking nervously between the siblings and England. He wetted his lips nervously, his tongue catching the blood left there, and sat up a bit, holding himself a bit taller.
“I came to ask the Queen for England’s hand in… uh… dating.”
He only faltered a moment at the odd wording, before puffing himself back up, looking daringly at Northern Ireland, who was back to sneering.
Before the sound could even register, there was a great crash, and America was on his back again, his hand covering a cheek that was quickly turning an angry red color.
England gave a loud shout and tackled Scotland onto his back, perching himself on Scotland’s chest and driving his tightly-balled fists, again and again, into Scotland’s eye and jaw and nose. Scotland’s hands grabbed and fisted violently around England’s arms, dragging them away as they came back to hit him. It was Northern Ireland who finally pried England off of him, and she tossed England to the side, his head colliding with the floor. He retreated slightly, going to crouch in front of America, who was alert again and staring at the brawl as if he couldn’t believe England was capable of such a thing.
Scotland pressed the heel of his hand to his bleeding nose as he sat up, and he and England glared at each other, in a stalemate. For a moment the only sound in the room was that of heavy breathing.
“Get out,” England muttered, his voice quiet and threatening. “Get out of my house.”
“Sorry, bràthair,” Scotland said, standing up. “But I’m afraid we’ve come to stay.”
“Uh, England, I can come back later, if it’s not-”
“No,” England said, placing a firm hand on America’s knee as he attempted to stand. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t let them think they’ve won.”
America sat back down reluctantly, looking as if he might’ve preferred to leave, his pride be damned.
“Siobhan, I swear to God, if you touch him-”
“Nine seconds.”
“H-h’es-he’s over for the weekend, you slapper! All right? If you would kindly let me up, brother, I would be better willing to explain.”
The room froze for an agonizing moment, and finally Scotland levered back off of England and stood up. In a second England was on the floor next to America, helping him to sit up and wiping at his gushing nose with his handkerchief. America pushed him away gently, assuring that he was fine, while warily eyeing the siblings for any sudden movements.
When he was sure the bleeding in America’s nose was somewhat quelled, England turned on his siblings, the lot of which were giving extremely dirty looks to America-Wales included, one smoldering eye peeking from under his long, tousled, dark hair.
“Now listen, you lot,” England growled. “You’ve no right to come bursting into my home without so much as a ring, and interrupt my-ah, p-privacy. If you would kindly leave now, I won’t make more trouble than necessary.”
“Not until you tell us why he’s here, Lloegr,” Wales muttered, his lip curling up in a slight sneer around the pronoun. England stared for a moment in disconcertion-Wales was the quiet brother, it wasn’t like him to be so bitter.
“Well… he’s-he’s come to-”
“Why don’t we let the lad explain?”
All eyes turned to Northern Ireland, who leaned her weight onto one foot, a small, dirty smirk curling over her mouth. “Go on, then,” she said, lifting her chin in America’s direction. “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
America looked for a moment like a deer caught in a headlight’s beam, his eyes wide and flicking nervously between the siblings and England. He wetted his lips nervously, his tongue catching the blood left there, and sat up a bit, holding himself a bit taller.
“I came to ask the Queen for England’s hand in… uh… dating.”
He only faltered a moment at the odd wording, before puffing himself back up, looking daringly at Northern Ireland, who was back to sneering.
Before the sound could even register, there was a great crash, and America was on his back again, his hand covering a cheek that was quickly turning an angry red color.
England gave a loud shout and tackled Scotland onto his back, perching himself on Scotland’s chest and driving his tightly-balled fists, again and again, into Scotland’s eye and jaw and nose. Scotland’s hands grabbed and fisted violently around England’s arms, dragging them away as they came back to hit him. It was Northern Ireland who finally pried England off of him, and she tossed England to the side, his head colliding with the floor. He retreated slightly, going to crouch in front of America, who was alert again and staring at the brawl as if he couldn’t believe England was capable of such a thing.
Scotland pressed the heel of his hand to his bleeding nose as he sat up, and he and England glared at each other, in a stalemate. For a moment the only sound in the room was that of heavy breathing.
“Get out,” England muttered, his voice quiet and threatening. “Get out of my house.”
“Sorry, bràthair,” Scotland said, standing up. “But I’m afraid we’ve come to stay.”
“Uh, England, I can come back later, if it’s not-”
“No,” England said, placing a firm hand on America’s knee as he attempted to stand. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t let them think they’ve won.”
America sat back down reluctantly, looking as if he might’ve preferred to leave, his pride be damned.
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