Moonbeams (2/?)
Title: Moonbeams (2/?)
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (In this part) England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales,
Pairing(s): None
Warnings: None
Date: 1965; London, England
Word Count: 1896
Summary: England, Scotland and Wales have shared their beds with many different people over the centuries.
___________________________________________
25th December, 1965; London, England
When the last of the colourful wrapping falls away onto the living room floor, and the Thing lurking within is finally revealed in all its terrible glory, Northern Ireland flinches back from it in automatic revulsion.
“Well,” England says, shuffling forward in his chair and leaning closer to the Thing. Northern Ireland is impressed by his bravery, even though he has no wish to emulate it. “Isn’t that delightful.”
Northern Ireland has been told time and again that he should be thankful for all gifts he receives, no matter how hideous or unwanted they might be, and even more often that ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’.
He keeps his mouth shut.
“Let’s have a proper look,” Scotland says. He plucks the woollen monstrosity out from the crumpled pile of paper surrounding it, holds it up close to his face, and then squints at it quizzically. “What the fuck do you think it’s supposed to be?”
England’s scowl is as fierce as if it were his own handiwork which had just been insulted. “Your eyesight must be failing in your old age, Scotland. It’s clearly a sheep.”
“Sheep don’t have pointed teeth, England,” Scotland says.
“I only glanced at it briefly.” England’s cheeks begin to pink. “I suppose it might have been a lion.”
“That wouldn’t explain why it’s purple. Or why it has horns.”
“It could be a dragon.”
“When was the last time you saw a purple dragon?” Scotland asks, quirking his eyebrows. “And they generally have tails.”
“A Manx dragon, then,” England growls. “For heaven’s sake, can’t you just -“
“Whatever it is,” Wales cuts in smoothly, his tone bright and cheerful, “I think we can all agree that it was very nice of New Zealand to make it for you. Right, North?”
Northern Ireland will doubtless tell New Zealand exactly that in the thank you note he’ll be cajoled into writing on Boxing Day morning, but truthfully and secretly, he’s not sure that he agrees in the slightest.
Whether it’s a sheep, lion, dragon, or simply a fantastical creature born from some dark corner of New Zealand’s imagination that he really should have left well alone, the soft toy is hideous.
As Scotland rightly pointed out, it does have fangs; yellowing ones bared in an angry-looking snarl. Its plump, purple body bulges unnaturally in random spots here and there, which makes it look as though it’s suffering from a bad case of boils, and one of its horns is sprouting out of the middle of what passes for its face.
The worst thing about it are its eyes, which are lopsided, protruding, and seem to glitter with an unnerving sort of intelligence that something made solely from wool and buttons should not be able to possess.
He tells Wales, “Yes,” regardless, because it’s easier than arguing, and, besides, he just wants to move on from the subject of the Thing entirely and forget about it as soon as he can.
After England has read Northern Ireland the next chapter of The Hobbit, and tucked his blankets suffocatingly tight around his neck, he gives him a beatific smile.
“Wasn’t Father Christmas kind to you this year, North?” he says.
If the contents of his stocking were an example of Father Christmas’ benevolence, Northern Ireland would hate to see what he’d get gifted if he ever ended up on the naughty list. He’d only requested one item in the letter he'd sent to the North Pole (otherwise known as England's desk drawer) - one he had thought would be suitably educational to pass muster with his brothers, and not greedy at all - and still been punished with nothing but books, socks, and frightening knitting in the end, anyway.
His lack of an answer doesn’t seem to dishearten England. In fact, his expression grows even more indulgent. “I noticed you forgot something downstairs when you came up to brush your teeth. But don’t worry,” he continues, “I remembered to bring it up for you.”
He reaches into the voluminous pocket of his dressing gown, and for one wonderful, breathless moment, Northern Ireland thinks he might actually be about to get the Etch A Sketch he’d asked for, after all. That his brothers might just have been pretending to have forgotten all about it to heighten his anticipation.
To his disappointment and horror, however, England simply produces the Thing, which Northern Ireland had hoped he’d hidden well enough that it could essentially be considered lost.
“It was stuffed behind one of the bookcases in the library,” England says. “I have no idea how it could have got there.”
With a great deal of patience. It had been difficult to get the angle right to make the throw, and the Thing had spent a large portion of the afternoon richocheting off the light fittings and windows until Northern Ireland finally perfected his aim.
“There you go,” England says, gently placing the Thing on Northern Ireland’s pillow.
Northern Ireland eyes it warily. It seems to eye him right back. “Can you put it on top of my chest of drawers, instead?” he asks.
The chest of drawers marks the farthest point of Northern Ireland’s small room from his bed. It would probably be at a safe distance there. And as soon as England leaves, Northern Ireland can drape something over its misshapen head so it can’t stare at him throughout the night.
“Why?”.
Northern Ireland can’t tell him he’s scared of the Thing. England would doubtless call him silly for worrying about such things before launching into a lecture about his lack of gratitude for New Zealand’s hard work.
“I think I’m too old to sleep with toys now,” he says.
England looks both thoughtful and understanding, and Northern Ireland would be quite proud of his subterfuge if his brother didn’t then immediately pick up his teddy bear.
“I suppose you’ll want Mr Bear to move to your chest of drawers, too?” England says.
“No,” Northern Ireland barks out, quick and desperate.
Mr Bear had been a present from Portugal, and his stalwart bedtime companion for decades; a soft and fuzzy comfort after countless nightmares.
Northern Ireland doesn’t think he would be able to rest without him.
England’s eyebrows knot in confusion. “I’ll leave them be, then,” he says.
He presses a dry kiss to Northern Ireland’s forehead, says his good nights, and then the second he closes the bedroom door behind him, Northern Ireland grabs hold of the horrible, scratchy Thing with the very tips of his fingers and hurls it under his bed.
Northern Ireland wakes in the depths of the night, stretches, and then turns onto his side. Black button eyes glare at him across the pillow, glittering malevolently.
Northern Ireland screams. He screams long and hard, and within moments, he can hear unsteady footsteps pounding along the hallway outside, racing towards his room.
Wales bursts through the door, and immediately flicks on the overhead light. “What’s happened?” he says, sounding breathless and terrified. His round cheeks are crimson, his hair a rat’s nest of tangled curls, and there’s sweat beading on his brow. “Are you okay?”
“It can fucking move!” Northern Ireland wails.
“Language, North,” Wales chides distractedly as he perches on the end of Northern Ireland’s bed. “Now,” his voice gentles, “what is it you think you’ve seen? If it had wings, it -“
“That.” Northern Ireland points at the Thing, which had been launched halfway across the floor when he lurched up into a sitting position in his desperate attempt to get as far away from it as possible. “It must have climbed out from under my bed!”
Northern Ireland thinks that should serve as a clear warning not to touch the Thing, for fear of what else it might be able to do, but Wales bends forwards and grabs hold of it , nevertheless.
He studies it closely and then pronounces that: “It’s just a toy.”
“Are you sure?” Northern Ireland asks, shuffling a little closer towards his brother’s warm, reassuring bulk.
Wales’ fingers flutter in a complicated dance over the Thing’s head. He nods in satisfaction. “Quite sure. You must have been imagining things. Sometimes, when a dream’s particularly vivid, it might -“
“I didn’t imagine it, Wales,” Northern Ireland protests. “I put it under my bed, but then when I woke up, it was right next to me on the pillow!”
“Oh.” Wales’ lips twist into a sympathetic grimace. “I think I see what must have happened. England was saying earlier that you were adamant that this had to stay in bed with you. He must have come in to check on you, seen it wasn’t where it supposed to be, and then gone looking for it so he could put it back again.”
Northern Ireland takes several long, deep breaths, hesitating as he wonders how much he can tell Wales.
Eventually, he decides that he doesn’t much care if Wales thinks he’s being ridiculous. No doubt he’s had plenty of occasions to do so in the past, but, unlike England, he’s never once told him so.
He definitely wouldn’t laugh.
“I didn’t want it near me at all,” Northern Ireland says. “I tried to hide it in the library before, but England just found it again then, as well.” He pauses again, gathering his courage, and then adds in a sudden rush, “I think it’s scary.”
“Really?” Wales says, eyebrows arching in obvious surprise. “I think it’s quite endearingly ugly. New Zealand obviously knitted it with love, if nothing else.”
He might well have done, but he clearly then stuffed it full of evil afterwards.
“I know, but… But I still don’t like it,” Northern Ireland admits in an undertone, stuffed equally full of guilt.
He’s aware that New Zealand must work very hard to knit them their Christmas presents every year, and normally he can appreciate that even though the jumpers that result are practically unwearable.
He still can’t bring himself to appreciate the Thing.
Wales looks at him for a quiet moment, sidelong and considering. “And I do,” he says eventually. “So much so, in fact, that I don’t think I want to give it back to you. If England asks you where it is in the morning, you can tell him that I couldn’t resist taking it with me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Northern Ireland agrees, the tight, anxious feeling in his chest finally receding. “Thank you, Wales.”
“No, thank you for giving me your toy,” Wales says solemnly. “It was very generous of you.”
They share a brief grin at that before Wales makes one of his sporadic, abortive sallies towards giving Northern Ireland a hug. He leans forward, arms opening wide, but at the very last moment he drops one hand and just squeezes Northern Ireland’s shoulder as he usually does.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep now?” he asks as he gets to his feet.
Northern Ireland honestly believes the nod he gives his brother, but after Wales has turned off the light again and left, he doesn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would.
He might be safe from whatever malicious tricks the Thing’s cotton wool mind could have dreamt up, but in the cool, silent darkness, he begins to worry that Wales might not be.
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): (In this part) England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales,
Pairing(s): None
Warnings: None
Date: 1965; London, England
Word Count: 1896
Summary: England, Scotland and Wales have shared their beds with many different people over the centuries.
___________________________________________
25th December, 1965; London, England
When the last of the colourful wrapping falls away onto the living room floor, and the Thing lurking within is finally revealed in all its terrible glory, Northern Ireland flinches back from it in automatic revulsion.
“Well,” England says, shuffling forward in his chair and leaning closer to the Thing. Northern Ireland is impressed by his bravery, even though he has no wish to emulate it. “Isn’t that delightful.”
Northern Ireland has been told time and again that he should be thankful for all gifts he receives, no matter how hideous or unwanted they might be, and even more often that ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’.
He keeps his mouth shut.
“Let’s have a proper look,” Scotland says. He plucks the woollen monstrosity out from the crumpled pile of paper surrounding it, holds it up close to his face, and then squints at it quizzically. “What the fuck do you think it’s supposed to be?”
England’s scowl is as fierce as if it were his own handiwork which had just been insulted. “Your eyesight must be failing in your old age, Scotland. It’s clearly a sheep.”
“Sheep don’t have pointed teeth, England,” Scotland says.
“I only glanced at it briefly.” England’s cheeks begin to pink. “I suppose it might have been a lion.”
“That wouldn’t explain why it’s purple. Or why it has horns.”
“It could be a dragon.”
“When was the last time you saw a purple dragon?” Scotland asks, quirking his eyebrows. “And they generally have tails.”
“A Manx dragon, then,” England growls. “For heaven’s sake, can’t you just -“
“Whatever it is,” Wales cuts in smoothly, his tone bright and cheerful, “I think we can all agree that it was very nice of New Zealand to make it for you. Right, North?”
Northern Ireland will doubtless tell New Zealand exactly that in the thank you note he’ll be cajoled into writing on Boxing Day morning, but truthfully and secretly, he’s not sure that he agrees in the slightest.
Whether it’s a sheep, lion, dragon, or simply a fantastical creature born from some dark corner of New Zealand’s imagination that he really should have left well alone, the soft toy is hideous.
As Scotland rightly pointed out, it does have fangs; yellowing ones bared in an angry-looking snarl. Its plump, purple body bulges unnaturally in random spots here and there, which makes it look as though it’s suffering from a bad case of boils, and one of its horns is sprouting out of the middle of what passes for its face.
The worst thing about it are its eyes, which are lopsided, protruding, and seem to glitter with an unnerving sort of intelligence that something made solely from wool and buttons should not be able to possess.
He tells Wales, “Yes,” regardless, because it’s easier than arguing, and, besides, he just wants to move on from the subject of the Thing entirely and forget about it as soon as he can.
After England has read Northern Ireland the next chapter of The Hobbit, and tucked his blankets suffocatingly tight around his neck, he gives him a beatific smile.
“Wasn’t Father Christmas kind to you this year, North?” he says.
If the contents of his stocking were an example of Father Christmas’ benevolence, Northern Ireland would hate to see what he’d get gifted if he ever ended up on the naughty list. He’d only requested one item in the letter he'd sent to the North Pole (otherwise known as England's desk drawer) - one he had thought would be suitably educational to pass muster with his brothers, and not greedy at all - and still been punished with nothing but books, socks, and frightening knitting in the end, anyway.
His lack of an answer doesn’t seem to dishearten England. In fact, his expression grows even more indulgent. “I noticed you forgot something downstairs when you came up to brush your teeth. But don’t worry,” he continues, “I remembered to bring it up for you.”
He reaches into the voluminous pocket of his dressing gown, and for one wonderful, breathless moment, Northern Ireland thinks he might actually be about to get the Etch A Sketch he’d asked for, after all. That his brothers might just have been pretending to have forgotten all about it to heighten his anticipation.
To his disappointment and horror, however, England simply produces the Thing, which Northern Ireland had hoped he’d hidden well enough that it could essentially be considered lost.
“It was stuffed behind one of the bookcases in the library,” England says. “I have no idea how it could have got there.”
With a great deal of patience. It had been difficult to get the angle right to make the throw, and the Thing had spent a large portion of the afternoon richocheting off the light fittings and windows until Northern Ireland finally perfected his aim.
“There you go,” England says, gently placing the Thing on Northern Ireland’s pillow.
Northern Ireland eyes it warily. It seems to eye him right back. “Can you put it on top of my chest of drawers, instead?” he asks.
The chest of drawers marks the farthest point of Northern Ireland’s small room from his bed. It would probably be at a safe distance there. And as soon as England leaves, Northern Ireland can drape something over its misshapen head so it can’t stare at him throughout the night.
“Why?”.
Northern Ireland can’t tell him he’s scared of the Thing. England would doubtless call him silly for worrying about such things before launching into a lecture about his lack of gratitude for New Zealand’s hard work.
“I think I’m too old to sleep with toys now,” he says.
England looks both thoughtful and understanding, and Northern Ireland would be quite proud of his subterfuge if his brother didn’t then immediately pick up his teddy bear.
“I suppose you’ll want Mr Bear to move to your chest of drawers, too?” England says.
“No,” Northern Ireland barks out, quick and desperate.
Mr Bear had been a present from Portugal, and his stalwart bedtime companion for decades; a soft and fuzzy comfort after countless nightmares.
Northern Ireland doesn’t think he would be able to rest without him.
England’s eyebrows knot in confusion. “I’ll leave them be, then,” he says.
He presses a dry kiss to Northern Ireland’s forehead, says his good nights, and then the second he closes the bedroom door behind him, Northern Ireland grabs hold of the horrible, scratchy Thing with the very tips of his fingers and hurls it under his bed.
Northern Ireland wakes in the depths of the night, stretches, and then turns onto his side. Black button eyes glare at him across the pillow, glittering malevolently.
Northern Ireland screams. He screams long and hard, and within moments, he can hear unsteady footsteps pounding along the hallway outside, racing towards his room.
Wales bursts through the door, and immediately flicks on the overhead light. “What’s happened?” he says, sounding breathless and terrified. His round cheeks are crimson, his hair a rat’s nest of tangled curls, and there’s sweat beading on his brow. “Are you okay?”
“It can fucking move!” Northern Ireland wails.
“Language, North,” Wales chides distractedly as he perches on the end of Northern Ireland’s bed. “Now,” his voice gentles, “what is it you think you’ve seen? If it had wings, it -“
“That.” Northern Ireland points at the Thing, which had been launched halfway across the floor when he lurched up into a sitting position in his desperate attempt to get as far away from it as possible. “It must have climbed out from under my bed!”
Northern Ireland thinks that should serve as a clear warning not to touch the Thing, for fear of what else it might be able to do, but Wales bends forwards and grabs hold of it , nevertheless.
He studies it closely and then pronounces that: “It’s just a toy.”
“Are you sure?” Northern Ireland asks, shuffling a little closer towards his brother’s warm, reassuring bulk.
Wales’ fingers flutter in a complicated dance over the Thing’s head. He nods in satisfaction. “Quite sure. You must have been imagining things. Sometimes, when a dream’s particularly vivid, it might -“
“I didn’t imagine it, Wales,” Northern Ireland protests. “I put it under my bed, but then when I woke up, it was right next to me on the pillow!”
“Oh.” Wales’ lips twist into a sympathetic grimace. “I think I see what must have happened. England was saying earlier that you were adamant that this had to stay in bed with you. He must have come in to check on you, seen it wasn’t where it supposed to be, and then gone looking for it so he could put it back again.”
Northern Ireland takes several long, deep breaths, hesitating as he wonders how much he can tell Wales.
Eventually, he decides that he doesn’t much care if Wales thinks he’s being ridiculous. No doubt he’s had plenty of occasions to do so in the past, but, unlike England, he’s never once told him so.
He definitely wouldn’t laugh.
“I didn’t want it near me at all,” Northern Ireland says. “I tried to hide it in the library before, but England just found it again then, as well.” He pauses again, gathering his courage, and then adds in a sudden rush, “I think it’s scary.”
“Really?” Wales says, eyebrows arching in obvious surprise. “I think it’s quite endearingly ugly. New Zealand obviously knitted it with love, if nothing else.”
He might well have done, but he clearly then stuffed it full of evil afterwards.
“I know, but… But I still don’t like it,” Northern Ireland admits in an undertone, stuffed equally full of guilt.
He’s aware that New Zealand must work very hard to knit them their Christmas presents every year, and normally he can appreciate that even though the jumpers that result are practically unwearable.
He still can’t bring himself to appreciate the Thing.
Wales looks at him for a quiet moment, sidelong and considering. “And I do,” he says eventually. “So much so, in fact, that I don’t think I want to give it back to you. If England asks you where it is in the morning, you can tell him that I couldn’t resist taking it with me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Northern Ireland agrees, the tight, anxious feeling in his chest finally receding. “Thank you, Wales.”
“No, thank you for giving me your toy,” Wales says solemnly. “It was very generous of you.”
They share a brief grin at that before Wales makes one of his sporadic, abortive sallies towards giving Northern Ireland a hug. He leans forward, arms opening wide, but at the very last moment he drops one hand and just squeezes Northern Ireland’s shoulder as he usually does.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep now?” he asks as he gets to his feet.
Northern Ireland honestly believes the nod he gives his brother, but after Wales has turned off the light again and left, he doesn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would.
He might be safe from whatever malicious tricks the Thing’s cotton wool mind could have dreamt up, but in the cool, silent darkness, he begins to worry that Wales might not be.