[Fanfiction] "Baker's Dozen"
“Baker’s Dozen”
Rating: PG for language
Characters: England/America, Northern Ireland
Summary: Ashley’s fault. For a prompt involving biscuits. It’s fluffy and ridiculous.
It was a quiet, drizzly Sunday in and England was doing the crossword in the morning paper.
Normally, this was no cause for alarm; peace and quiet was apparently quite a commodity in these modern times and one must take a moment of tranquility where one could find it. However, this particularly normal Sunday scene was rendered surreal by the fact that England was doing his crossword on the ancient (“vintage”, he would disagree. “Fucking old and ugly as sin,” North would comment before promptly dodging a swat to his hindquarters) chintz sofa with America pressed up against his side, shoulder to knee and seemingly content with being silent and digging his sock-clad toes into England’s thigh with an absent smile just barely touching his lips.
It was surreal because America was not being overly rambunctious, loud, whinging about the dreary weather, or even complaining that he wanted to go out on his last full day in London before he had to catch a plane back to DC in the morning.
It was surreal because England was fully secure in the knowledge that North was upstairs in that cave he called his room and hadn’t made a peep in over an hour. (Though that was less surreal and more overtly suspicious, but England was going to let it go. Just this once, mind.)
Though America’s silence could be attested to, in part, England’s compromise about food on the furniture and therefore being allowed to tuck into his American “cookies” all he liked as long as he minded the crumbs.
There was a soothing ambiance cocooning the parlour; the nearly inaudible sound of America chewing, the scratching sound of England’s pen as he filled out the crossword, the patter of the rain outdoors with singular droplets beading along the edges of the geraniums’ petals and slipping away to drip down onto the doorstep, the rustle of the newspaper rubbing against America’s jeans as he shifted to get more comfortable and to rest his chin on England’s shoulder, skimming through the crossword’s clues and blinking slowly in time with England’s pulse.
England’s only acknowledgment of this new arrangement was a quick glance in America’s direction and a twitch that was not-a-smile at the corner of his mouth. America wrinkled his nose in response and repeatedly poked England’s cheek with one of his biscuits until England turned his face just slightly to bite into it.
It was a touch too sweet, as he’d expected. There was the smooth texture of the creme filling against his tongue before it was overwhelmed by the darkly chocolate flavour of the biscuit. Too sweet, he decided, but nothing too horribly unpalatable.
They fell into an odd rhythm; England would write in the answer for one the puzzle’s many spaces, America would reward him wordlessly with a biscuit, and England would give an idle hum of thanks.
“Well, this one’s got me,” he remarked finally. “Four letter word for an American biscuit. Cor.”
America’s lips spread into that wide, slow smirk that England found endearing and completely irritating in equal amounts.
“Really,” America drawled. “Yeah, that’ll be a tough one. Dunno how you’re gonna get that one without a legitimate American sitting around to give you the answer.”
“Oh, I know the answer. If it was me writing this, the answer would be ‘shit’, but that’s not really appropriate for the Sunday paper,” England replied innocently.
America rolled his eyes and fed England another biscuit.
“Four letter word for an American biscuit,” England mumbled around his mouthful, “…hm. ‘Cookie’ is six letters, and it’s not ‘cake’ because not even Americans are daft enough to mistake cake for a biscuit. Ah…ginger snaps-snap? No, doesn’t work with the other solutions.”8
America’s smirk grew wider and more smug as he watched England puzzle over the crossword, obnoxiously leaning more of his weight against England’s side.
“…stop making that face at me,” England muttered darkly, hunching his shoulders just slightly. “For as much junk as you have parading as edible food back in the States, I doubt you know either.”
America puckered his lips and whistled one unbroken descending note as he turned in place and slid down to rest his head on England’s leg. His grin twisted to one side as he raised a hand aloft, rolling one biscuit between his thumb and forefinger.
“Oreo.”
England paused, checked his solutions, and then silently wrote down the answer, reaching over to snatch the oreo out of America’s hand when he finished. The loud sound of America’s laughter didn’t quite cover the din of North finally condescending to leave his room and mingle with the mere (im)mortals.
Or not.
“Christ,” North grit out, staring at them with poorly veiled revulsion. “I’ve only just finished second breakfast and you lot are so fucking nauseating that I can feel it coming back up. I’m going to turn bulimic at this rate.”
“The thought of you willingly vomiting up something you’ve eaten,” England commented wryly, “is so laughable as to border on completely absurd and profoundly improbable.”
North opened his mouth immediately to protest, paused to consider Arthur’s words and then shrugged, turning to tromp back upstairs to his cave. America was still grinning maniacally in his lap, so England folded the newspaper in half, then into careful fourths, and then he smacked America over the head with it just to hear him yelp in protest.
Rating: PG for language
Characters: England/America, Northern Ireland
Summary: Ashley’s fault. For a prompt involving biscuits. It’s fluffy and ridiculous.
It was a quiet, drizzly Sunday in and England was doing the crossword in the morning paper.
Normally, this was no cause for alarm; peace and quiet was apparently quite a commodity in these modern times and one must take a moment of tranquility where one could find it. However, this particularly normal Sunday scene was rendered surreal by the fact that England was doing his crossword on the ancient (“vintage”, he would disagree. “Fucking old and ugly as sin,” North would comment before promptly dodging a swat to his hindquarters) chintz sofa with America pressed up against his side, shoulder to knee and seemingly content with being silent and digging his sock-clad toes into England’s thigh with an absent smile just barely touching his lips.
It was surreal because America was not being overly rambunctious, loud, whinging about the dreary weather, or even complaining that he wanted to go out on his last full day in London before he had to catch a plane back to DC in the morning.
It was surreal because England was fully secure in the knowledge that North was upstairs in that cave he called his room and hadn’t made a peep in over an hour. (Though that was less surreal and more overtly suspicious, but England was going to let it go. Just this once, mind.)
Though America’s silence could be attested to, in part, England’s compromise about food on the furniture and therefore being allowed to tuck into his American “cookies” all he liked as long as he minded the crumbs.
There was a soothing ambiance cocooning the parlour; the nearly inaudible sound of America chewing, the scratching sound of England’s pen as he filled out the crossword, the patter of the rain outdoors with singular droplets beading along the edges of the geraniums’ petals and slipping away to drip down onto the doorstep, the rustle of the newspaper rubbing against America’s jeans as he shifted to get more comfortable and to rest his chin on England’s shoulder, skimming through the crossword’s clues and blinking slowly in time with England’s pulse.
England’s only acknowledgment of this new arrangement was a quick glance in America’s direction and a twitch that was not-a-smile at the corner of his mouth. America wrinkled his nose in response and repeatedly poked England’s cheek with one of his biscuits until England turned his face just slightly to bite into it.
It was a touch too sweet, as he’d expected. There was the smooth texture of the creme filling against his tongue before it was overwhelmed by the darkly chocolate flavour of the biscuit. Too sweet, he decided, but nothing too horribly unpalatable.
They fell into an odd rhythm; England would write in the answer for one the puzzle’s many spaces, America would reward him wordlessly with a biscuit, and England would give an idle hum of thanks.
“Well, this one’s got me,” he remarked finally. “Four letter word for an American biscuit. Cor.”
America’s lips spread into that wide, slow smirk that England found endearing and completely irritating in equal amounts.
“Really,” America drawled. “Yeah, that’ll be a tough one. Dunno how you’re gonna get that one without a legitimate American sitting around to give you the answer.”
“Oh, I know the answer. If it was me writing this, the answer would be ‘shit’, but that’s not really appropriate for the Sunday paper,” England replied innocently.
America rolled his eyes and fed England another biscuit.
“Four letter word for an American biscuit,” England mumbled around his mouthful, “…hm. ‘Cookie’ is six letters, and it’s not ‘cake’ because not even Americans are daft enough to mistake cake for a biscuit. Ah…ginger snaps-snap? No, doesn’t work with the other solutions.”8
America’s smirk grew wider and more smug as he watched England puzzle over the crossword, obnoxiously leaning more of his weight against England’s side.
“…stop making that face at me,” England muttered darkly, hunching his shoulders just slightly. “For as much junk as you have parading as edible food back in the States, I doubt you know either.”
America puckered his lips and whistled one unbroken descending note as he turned in place and slid down to rest his head on England’s leg. His grin twisted to one side as he raised a hand aloft, rolling one biscuit between his thumb and forefinger.
“Oreo.”
England paused, checked his solutions, and then silently wrote down the answer, reaching over to snatch the oreo out of America’s hand when he finished. The loud sound of America’s laughter didn’t quite cover the din of North finally condescending to leave his room and mingle with the mere (im)mortals.
Or not.
“Christ,” North grit out, staring at them with poorly veiled revulsion. “I’ve only just finished second breakfast and you lot are so fucking nauseating that I can feel it coming back up. I’m going to turn bulimic at this rate.”
“The thought of you willingly vomiting up something you’ve eaten,” England commented wryly, “is so laughable as to border on completely absurd and profoundly improbable.”
North opened his mouth immediately to protest, paused to consider Arthur’s words and then shrugged, turning to tromp back upstairs to his cave. America was still grinning maniacally in his lap, so England folded the newspaper in half, then into careful fourths, and then he smacked America over the head with it just to hear him yelp in protest.