The Battle (for) Britain [3b/?]
anonymous
May 11 2010, 00:51:45 UTC
England fantasized.
He could go down and begin a fistfight with those three arsewipes-Scotland would be the challenge, being almost double England’s weight, but Wales had never been a fighter, and Northern Ireland had a weak knee that he knew he could take advantage of if he needed to. But he was very nearly weak with hunger now-having refused to risk going to the kitchen lest he need to put up with seeing those wankers again-and two hours of sleep could only get a bloke so far in a three-to-one matchup.
He could crawl down the drainpipe and make a break for it-he had been a delinquent, after all, and had broken out of far worse places than his own house-but he didn’t even know where America was, and the dolt wasn’t picking up his mobile.
He could go down and demonstrate to them just how far up their arses his foot could really go if he gave it a good old college try, but that would inevitably result in his first option becoming reality, and he wasn’t exactly up for dealing with that.
Just then, his stomach gave a decisively angry rumble, and he winced, setting down the book he hadn’t really been reading to rub at it. He wouldn’t go down there and face those sodding idiots again just for a bite of food. If he starved to death on their watch, then it would be their funerals once America came back to get him.
America would be back to get him. He had promised. This wasn’t the kind of challenge America backed down from-England reckoned there wasn’t a challenge in the world America would back down from-and really, in the end, this was America’s battle. England knew that America needed to prove himself, needed to prove he was serious about all this-this relationship business. He knew America would burst in at any moment now, that fierce, foolhardy determination thrumming in every fiber of his being, ready to take on whoever dared challenge him. America-his America-would never back down.
Though he was loathe to admit it, the only thing he had left to do was wait for his stomach to stop growling, and for his knight to come for him.
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Northern Ireland practically pranced to the front of the house when, late that night, a knock sounded at the door.
“Someone call for backup?” Ireland said when the door was opened, his hair-red, like his baby sister’s-mussed under his cap and his eyes half-lidded but alight with determination.
Northern Ireland flung her arms around him, pulling him inside out of the chill of the night. “Thanks for coming so soon, Fergus,” she chirped. Ireland grinned, and it was very nearly demonic.
“Anything for our dear brother,” he cackled. “I hope it’s all right that I brought reinforcements.”
Sealand popped out from behind Ireland right on cue, pulling a giant swirl lolly from his mouth to shout “reinforcements! That’s me!”
“Very good, laddie,” she giggled, scooping the squealing boy into her arms and scampering into the living room where Scotland and Wales were watching a football game on television.
“Ah,” Scotland said with a grin. “Fergus.”
“Did you call the fae yet?” Fergus asked, taking his cap off to reveal the entirety of his untamed hair.
“We did,” Wales nodded, a slight smile curving over his mouth. “They’re in.”
He could go down and begin a fistfight with those three arsewipes-Scotland would be the challenge, being almost double England’s weight, but Wales had never been a fighter, and Northern Ireland had a weak knee that he knew he could take advantage of if he needed to. But he was very nearly weak with hunger now-having refused to risk going to the kitchen lest he need to put up with seeing those wankers again-and two hours of sleep could only get a bloke so far in a three-to-one matchup.
He could crawl down the drainpipe and make a break for it-he had been a delinquent, after all, and had broken out of far worse places than his own house-but he didn’t even know where America was, and the dolt wasn’t picking up his mobile.
He could go down and demonstrate to them just how far up their arses his foot could really go if he gave it a good old college try, but that would inevitably result in his first option becoming reality, and he wasn’t exactly up for dealing with that.
Just then, his stomach gave a decisively angry rumble, and he winced, setting down the book he hadn’t really been reading to rub at it. He wouldn’t go down there and face those sodding idiots again just for a bite of food. If he starved to death on their watch, then it would be their funerals once America came back to get him.
America would be back to get him. He had promised. This wasn’t the kind of challenge America backed down from-England reckoned there wasn’t a challenge in the world America would back down from-and really, in the end, this was America’s battle. England knew that America needed to prove himself, needed to prove he was serious about all this-this relationship business. He knew America would burst in at any moment now, that fierce, foolhardy determination thrumming in every fiber of his being, ready to take on whoever dared challenge him. America-his America-would never back down.
Though he was loathe to admit it, the only thing he had left to do was wait for his stomach to stop growling, and for his knight to come for him.
----------------------------------------
Northern Ireland practically pranced to the front of the house when, late that night, a knock sounded at the door.
“Someone call for backup?” Ireland said when the door was opened, his hair-red, like his baby sister’s-mussed under his cap and his eyes half-lidded but alight with determination.
Northern Ireland flung her arms around him, pulling him inside out of the chill of the night. “Thanks for coming so soon, Fergus,” she chirped. Ireland grinned, and it was very nearly demonic.
“Anything for our dear brother,” he cackled. “I hope it’s all right that I brought reinforcements.”
Sealand popped out from behind Ireland right on cue, pulling a giant swirl lolly from his mouth to shout “reinforcements! That’s me!”
“Very good, laddie,” she giggled, scooping the squealing boy into her arms and scampering into the living room where Scotland and Wales were watching a football game on television.
“Ah,” Scotland said with a grin. “Fergus.”
“Did you call the fae yet?” Fergus asked, taking his cap off to reveal the entirety of his untamed hair.
“We did,” Wales nodded, a slight smile curving over his mouth. “They’re in.”
Ireland’s grin twisted evilly.
“That Yank is going down.”
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