All Together Now [15b/18]
anonymous
March 2 2011, 04:28:24 UTC
"I'm not sure it can be taught," Wales offers solemnly. "You may just have learn to get by with insulting people directly, England." He sighs, looking mournful.
England's blush deepens, as it always does when they score a particularly fine combined point like that. "You're a pair of complete arseholes, you know that?"
"Yes, just like that - perhaps with more adjectives would be preferable."
The realization that he is digging himself deeper with each sentence blossoms across England's face like seafoam on a breaking wave. "I'm going - out," he declares, and turns firmly on his heel to stalk into the kitchen. A little bit later, the door slams.
It takes about two seconds for Scotland to put his feet up on the sofa, grinning broadly and unrepentantly. "Anything else good?"
"What?"
"In his mail. Perfect chance to read it, while we were having our scrap."
Wales rolls his eyes, this time. "I only had enough time for the subject lines. Nothing too odd. Look, I know his password, I read it all the time. Mostly it's MPs asking idiotic questions, and America gossiping, and his garden club trying to work out how he gets his roses so nice. Which he never tells them, since it does involve magic."
"An he tells you?"
"He has subjected me to hour-long lectures on the topic. I think he hopes I'll take up gardening. Look, d'you fancy a drink?"
They amble slowly down to Ireland's local, which means that by the time they got there, England is deep in a glass of whiskey. Wales wonders vaugely if they should try to get England to cut back. Then he stomps on the thought; his brother isn't a violent drunk, and of all the coping strategies their kind develop, alcoholism is one of the more harmless. At least it's legal, and often done in company.
In fact, perhaps it should be encouraged: Ireland is sitting beside him, and rather than having yet another round of their perpetual argument, they're laughing. Scotland and Wales look at each other in confusion. Then Scotland shrugs, and they elbow their way through the crowd and over to the corner table.
" - and then Spain says, no, this is a compliment to your host - Hey, Ireland, nice elbow-work! I think you got the solar plexus dead on. South Italy has that look, you know, like he can't decide whether to laugh or hit someone. So he grabs him by the elbow and starts cursing. At least, I think it's cursing. He's going so fast, and I think he was hitting a high C. Wonder his voice didn't crack."
"What a piece of work that man is," England declares, and roughly wipes his face. "This isn't going to cause a diplomatic incident, is it?"
"I doubt it. Everyone who saw was our kind, or one of mine. And I think he'll be too bloody embarassed to ever bring it up. Still." She sighs. "There's a reason we keep the humans away from us, to be sure. Oh, hello." She waves at Scotland and Wales to sit down.
Scotland thumps into the chair beside her. "Hard time at the summit yesterday?"
"I'm beginning to think Poland had the right idea."
"She even wore a suit yesterday," England offers with a sigh, and takes another gulp of whiskey. He seems to have completely forgotten their argument.
"Huh. Wise enough, around humans. More so humans who forget what century it is. D'ye think there's that many more?"
"Likely. Switzerland's running a book."
There follows a brief contemplative silence, and then Scotland blandly asks, "Still open?"
A few minutes later, they all have fresh drinks, Wales has nicked a spare pen from the jar by the register, and the names of most of Europe are scrawled on an unfolded napkin spread out beween them. Wales frowns, and carefully finishes underlining the names of the ones they know to be female. Ireland squints at the remainder. It's a fairly large remainder. "Are we counting Albania?" she asks, tapping the unmarked name. "Or would Switzerland not take the bet?"
"I doubt it. Has to be comings-out, and Albania's, well." Wales shrugs, and puts a squiggly line beneath it.
England's brow furrows. "This would be easier if most of us weren't so androgynous. Most," he adds with a roll of his eyes. Scotland grins the unrepentant grin of a man who gets five-o-clock shadow as early as noon.
England's blush deepens, as it always does when they score a particularly fine combined point like that. "You're a pair of complete arseholes, you know that?"
"Yes, just like that - perhaps with more adjectives would be preferable."
The realization that he is digging himself deeper with each sentence blossoms across England's face like seafoam on a breaking wave. "I'm going - out," he declares, and turns firmly on his heel to stalk into the kitchen. A little bit later, the door slams.
It takes about two seconds for Scotland to put his feet up on the sofa, grinning broadly and unrepentantly. "Anything else good?"
"What?"
"In his mail. Perfect chance to read it, while we were having our scrap."
Wales rolls his eyes, this time. "I only had enough time for the subject lines. Nothing too odd. Look, I know his password, I read it all the time. Mostly it's MPs asking idiotic questions, and America gossiping, and his garden club trying to work out how he gets his roses so nice. Which he never tells them, since it does involve magic."
"An he tells you?"
"He has subjected me to hour-long lectures on the topic. I think he hopes I'll take up gardening. Look, d'you fancy a drink?"
They amble slowly down to Ireland's local, which means that by the time they got there, England is deep in a glass of whiskey. Wales wonders vaugely if they should try to get England to cut back. Then he stomps on the thought; his brother isn't a violent drunk, and of all the coping strategies their kind develop, alcoholism is one of the more harmless. At least it's legal, and often done in company.
In fact, perhaps it should be encouraged: Ireland is sitting beside him, and rather than having yet another round of their perpetual argument, they're laughing. Scotland and Wales look at each other in confusion. Then Scotland shrugs, and they elbow their way through the crowd and over to the corner table.
" - and then Spain says, no, this is a compliment to your host - Hey, Ireland, nice elbow-work! I think you got the solar plexus dead on. South Italy has that look, you know, like he can't decide whether to laugh or hit someone. So he grabs him by the elbow and starts cursing. At least, I think it's cursing. He's going so fast, and I think he was hitting a high C. Wonder his voice didn't crack."
"What a piece of work that man is," England declares, and roughly wipes his face. "This isn't going to cause a diplomatic incident, is it?"
"I doubt it. Everyone who saw was our kind, or one of mine. And I think he'll be too bloody embarassed to ever bring it up. Still." She sighs. "There's a reason we keep the humans away from us, to be sure. Oh, hello." She waves at Scotland and Wales to sit down.
Scotland thumps into the chair beside her. "Hard time at the summit yesterday?"
"I'm beginning to think Poland had the right idea."
"She even wore a suit yesterday," England offers with a sigh, and takes another gulp of whiskey. He seems to have completely forgotten their argument.
"Huh. Wise enough, around humans. More so humans who forget what century it is. D'ye think there's that many more?"
"Likely. Switzerland's running a book."
There follows a brief contemplative silence, and then Scotland blandly asks, "Still open?"
A few minutes later, they all have fresh drinks, Wales has nicked a spare pen from the jar by the register, and the names of most of Europe are scrawled on an unfolded napkin spread out beween them. Wales frowns, and carefully finishes underlining the names of the ones they know to be female. Ireland squints at the remainder. It's a fairly large remainder. "Are we counting Albania?" she asks, tapping the unmarked name. "Or would Switzerland not take the bet?"
"I doubt it. Has to be comings-out, and Albania's, well." Wales shrugs, and puts a squiggly line beneath it.
England's brow furrows. "This would be easier if most of us weren't so androgynous. Most," he adds with a roll of his eyes. Scotland grins the unrepentant grin of a man who gets five-o-clock shadow as early as noon.
"Switzerland," Ireland says suddenly.
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