Night of the Living Foodstuff
Title: Night of the Living Foodstuff
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This would be why you never ever ever ever ever ever let England cook, okay? NEVER.
Timeframe: Um... it's a Christmas, not this upcoming one, but other than that... sometime in the future?
Word Count: 8770, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents, crossover, CRACKY AS HELL TO MAKE UP FOR THE LAST FIC'S ANGST dear god what happened with this fic?
Long ago the family learned that England was not to be allowed to cook Christmas dinner. Either the goose would be reduced to charcoal -- which while useful to cook the replacement goose, was not good for eating -- or the pudding would be a slimy mess. Far too many Christmases had ended in the family ordering takeaway and subsisting on tea until it arrived. After one year where England actually attempted to make good on the old “four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie” routine, he was promptly banned from bringing any food whatsoever to any family gathering.
Thankfully after that year they all moved on to Ireland’s house for family gatherings since she and Connor both actually had something resembling cooking skills. Well, there was a small bump in the road where they spent a couple of years at Scotland’s, where he somehow found a recipe for haggis stuffing, which had resulted in Douglas being banned from bringing things to Christmas dinner as well as setting foot in France’s kitchen.
Still, once things moved on into Ireland’s house that meant that the only ones cooking would be Connor, Brigid, Francis, and Matthew (Unless someone was brave and let Llewellyn into the kitchen), so the food would be nine times out of ten actually edible. The one exception would be if Connor hadn’t sobered up enough to figure out the difference between milk and orange juice and accidentally mixed the latter into the bread roll batter. Those had been… interesting rolls, to say the very least. The fae certainly didn’t mind them, though the rest of the family promptly spat out the bites they’d taken. Other than the occasional mishap, however, Christmas time in the British (And Irish, Brigid would insist) Isles was a time of good food, actually peaceful family gatherings of all ninety plus members (Everyone had long ago given up keeping track of the exact numbers, especially when France’s lot got factored into matters), and a lot of gifts passed around after dinner.
However, there was always the threat that someone would slip up and let England back into the kitchen one night whilst in the midst of drunken revelry or sheer jackassery. Macau even had a special betting pool in place for the rest of the world to take bets on what exactly England’s next Christmas dinner disaster would be and when exactly it would occur.
Finally, one year, it happened. No one really knew how it happened, or who was stupid or drunk or spiteful enough to do it, but it happened. Somehow, some way, England wound up in the kitchen long enough to make… well, something.
“Íosa Críost agus Padraig Naomh!”
“Who was lettin’ Sasana in me feckin’ kitchen?!”
“Mon Dieu, smells worse than tourtereaux’s haggis!”
“Oi!”
“Man, even I wouldn’t touch this!”
“Is this… normal here?”
Now, most of the family was used to England’s complete inability to cook. They’d been dealing with it for over two thousand years, three of them in unfortunate quite close contact to it for several centuries. However… Ireland now, she had this terrible habit of collecting people and making them family members before they even knew what had happened. And this year was the first year those people had ever seen England’s… cooking skills. So most of them had no idea what the proper procedure was to deal with such a situation. The Dylandy Twins, Lyle and Neil, were clustered around the stove, along with Jack and the Doctor. The rest of he family, especially the Commonwealth Nations and the ones Luís had brought along were looking at them as though they had completely taken leave of their senses.
East Timor tugged on Ireland’s skirt, drawing the redhead’s attention. “Shouldn’t we… save them?” she asked timidly, glancing at the lot poking and prodding the mysterious food substance. The Doctor had even pulled out that odd glowing and humming metal thing he called a “sonic screwdriver” and seemed to be analyzing it. Canada privately thought he wouldn’t have any luck figuring out what it was now, much less what it was supposed have started out as.
Brigid sighed and turned to the mass of Nations -- and Ianto, who was apparently the only non-Nation with enough intelligence to stay out of a room with an unknown substance that was England’s food -- and looked sternly at them.
“Aye, I’ll be declaring me kitchen a hazardous area due to an unknown and,” and here she raised her voice, hoping the ones in the kitchen would pay attention “potentially radioactive substance. Everyone into the living room while the idiots and I figure out what we’re to be doin’ ‘bout it! Shoo, shoo.” She made the universal shooing motions with her hands and bodily pushed the more daredevil inclined members of their number into said room. She caught a flash of blond try to sneak by her and shot out her arm, snatching his collar. She had to admit, it was quite satisfying to hear him choke for a split second. “Except you. You’re one of the idiots. Get your arse in there with the hazardous material and the other four dumbarses.”
“Oi, I take offense at that!” Brigid rolled her eyes and growled softly under her breath.
“You’re a bloody idiot, Doctor. Even Spain’s knowin’ to stay out of a kitchen England’s set foot in.”
“Hey!” Ireland ignored the offended Spaniard.
“I’ll be gettin’ the lot in there settled and be back in here to be showin’ you lot how to properly handle this shite.”
England grumbled and straightened his collar, taking a step in before turning half around. “At least I didn’t explode your stove this time.”
It was probably the first time Arthur had ever had Ireland’s kitchen door slammed in his face with him being on the inside portion of the door.
-----
“Aye, now let’s be dealing with this properly.” She smacked the back of one wandering hand with her own gloved one. “Lyle, hands off. You’re not knowin’ what’s in it or where it’s been.” Lyle at least had the grace to look scolded, but Jack and the Doctor apparently ignored every warning, the Doctor even picking part of it up.
“So England,” he started, cheery even in the face of almost certain death, “What was this supposed to be?”
England, also gloved up and wearing one of Japan’s face masks, shrugged. “Just a Sussex Pond pudding.” Everyone slowly looked up at him, Brigid rolling her eyes over her own mask. “What?”
“Sussex Pond puddin’ isn’t supposed to be crunchy Sasana!”
Jack was poking at his wrist remote while the Doctor continued scanning it. “Is it alive?” he asked quietly, poking at the substance that apparently was supposed to be a pudding.
“’Tisn’t now,” Brigid snapped, smacking Jack’s hand, “but if you keep insistin’ on pokin’ it, could well be!” Jack frowned, but pulled his hand back.
“Doesn’t a Sussex Pond pudding have a lemon in it?” Neil asked, wisely not poking at it, having learned from Jack and his twin’s examples. “Smells more like… a pomegranate?”
A long silence fell over the room, quickly followed by Ireland all but exploding at her brother.
“What in bloody feckin’ hell were ye thinkin’? A feckin’ pomegranate?! Where did ye even get a pomegranate?! I don’t have pomegranates! And Sadiq is here, so feckin’ Greece isn’t and didn’t bring ye any!” It was finally enough for Jack to abandon his examination of the desert item to hold his sometimes lover back from disemboweling her brother, as she had already drawn two of her knives and looked well on the way to discovering how to tri-wield, slipping his arms under hers and pulling her back against him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Gorgeous! Remember, no more fighting your family?” She growled viciously at him, one that only made him raise an eyebrow. “Hey, you’re the one who got sick of it and said it.”
She glared at him but slowly settled down, shifting her glare back to her brother. The Doctor, to his credit, had ignored the sudden -- though admittedly expected -- temper tantrum and remained focused on the food. “There’s two pomegranates in it,” he said mostly to himself, “But other than that, I’m stumped, and to be able to stump someone as brilliant as me, that’s an achievement.”
“Can we stop pokin’ at it?” Brigid yanked her arms free and put one of her knives up. “Last time England cooked and the family insisted on pokin’ it, France appeared.”
“Now that is just cruel, mon soeur! I have nothing to do with dear Angleterre’s abuse of the culinary arts!” France’s voice drifted up from behind the door.
“I’m not your sister!”
“He’s dating yer twin, Half-Pint, he’s close enough.” Everyone looked up to see Turkey’s half-masked face grinning over the half wall between the kitchen and the living room. Brigid simply huffed and glared at her friend.
“Call me Half-Pint again and I’ll be feedin’ you this sad excuse for a puddin’.” It shouldn’t have been possible, but along with the exposed skin of his face Sadiq’s mask paled and he ducked back down behind the wall. “Aye, so I was thinkin’.” After that Prussia poked his head over the wall.
“Hey, Beautiful, can we crack into the booze yet? Or are your idiots still trying to figure out what that Scheiße is?” The thud that reached the living room was Ireland hitting her head against the wall. “Is that a “ja” then? Oh, and Francis wants to perform a funeral for the Scheiße.” Brigid sighed and hid her eyes in her hand.
“Aye, fine, whatever! Preußen, you know where the box of whiskey is under me bed, get into that. Make sure you’re wavin’ the bottle of sherry in Spain’s face (“Hey!”) and keep the whiskey away from Sealand.”
“Oh come on sis! I’m old enough! Please?!”
“Who invited Sealand anyway?” grumbled England, pulling the mask off his face and tossing it in the trash.
“He’s still family, Sasana, he’s comin’ to the family Christmas gatherin’s as much as Luís gets to.” Brigid waved England off and ignored Peter. “Doctor, could you be tossin’ that in the trash? ‘Tis nothin’ that can be done to be savin’ it, might as well toss it and let France do his usual funeral thing for it.” The Doctor looked up at her with a kicked puppy expression on his face.
“You’re sure I can’t keep it?”
“Nay, because you’ll be pokin’ at it and God only knows what’ll happen with people pokin’ this one, especially since France is already here.”
America poked his eyes over the half way just as Prussia laughed that signature laugh of his and dashed off to fetch the booze. “Might summon Russia this time…” he said, just the tiniest bit of fear inching into his voice. Ireland blinked at him, a small pout on her face as she removed her own mask.
“What’s wrong with Russia?”
There was a mad stampede of all one hundred eight plus feet dashing towards the half wall to stare in utter shock at the island Nation. The ones in the kitchen were divided between staring at Ireland or staring at the huge family. The Dylandys in particular were staring at the herd, the first time either of them had seen any Nations, especially Llewellyn spooked. Arthur was staring at his sister, unable to believe ever that she was on good terms with Russia. Brigid just looked at the half of the world that had come over for Christmas.
“What? He’s just a child nay one ever thought to be sayin’ nay to, even if he is havin’ a child’s cruelty to him.” They continued staring at her and she just sighed and shrugged, taking the chance to poke the Doctor in the side. “Just be tossin’ that thing, please. I’ll be needin’ to call the hazardous material team to be decontaminatin’ me kitchen after this.”
The Doctor pouted but did as he was asked, dropping the concoction that was somehow wobbly, crunchy, oily, and watery all at once in the rubbish bin. That action quickly earned him a chaste kiss on the cheek and a bright smile.
“Aye, ‘tis more like it,” she murmured, pulling off her gloves and dumping them in with the vile concoction. “Alright, everyone out of the kitchen!” She started shooing everyone out, dragging England by the collar. “No one goes in until I can be gettin’ me hazmat people over in the next couple of days.”
Connor peered his head into the kitchen as everyone filed out, taking a pull from his flask. “Should I call the English division Monday? They’ve got more practice dealing with this.” Ireland peered back in over his shoulder, tilting her head back and forth a few times.
“Mm, how quick would they be gettin’ here? Would like to be havin’ me kitchen by Wednesday.”
“Should be here quick enough, we’re not that far across the Irish Sea, helps that Waterford is on the coast. They’d have to go through Wales though.”
“Now see here! My cooking isn’t nearly that bad and you both know it!”
“Then why are you havin’ a hazmat team dedicated to cleanin’ up after specifically you?” The rest of the siblings had a good chuckle over England’s cherry red face and indignant sputters, and the mystery food in the garbage was quickly forgotten.
“Oui, we are gathered here today for the death of something Angleterre apparently killed in his attempt to make an edible dish…”
Well, once France finished eulogizing the supposed pudding, anyway. Once that happened, the drink ran freely -- except for Canada, who stuck to the tea. Well, someone had to stay sober tonight and it wasn’t going to be any of his uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, “father,” or aunt. He knew that “new” lot would most certainly not stay sober, he remembered the first Christmas with the Dylandy boys; how the two of them and Uncle Connor had gotten amazingly drunk on some combination of Guinness Stout and Bushmills whiskey and belted out a shockingly in key rendition of Girl With The Black Velvet Band. It hadn’t been helped that they had something resembling accompaniment by way of Auntie Brigid drunkenly plucking the tune out on her harp. It really had been an interesting Christmas that year, especially since it was one of the first times in a century he’d seen his cousins on Portugal’s side.
…Portugal was the mum, right? Nations and families, the trees tended to get a bit tangely once you sat and thought about them too long.
Still, the drink was flowing steadily from that crate Prussia had dug out from under Ireland’s bed, and even Germany was allowing himself a few smiles and not getting frustrated at either of the Italies or his brother.
“Wait, you step dance?”
“Aye, ‘course I step dance! What, you’re thinkin’ I’m completely unaware of one of me biggest cultural exports or me halftime show at the Eurovision?”
“Stupid Eurovision…”
“Oh hush now, Antonio, ‘tis not me fault me people are so fantastic that we’ve won the most or won three years in a row and we’re bein’ just so wonderful we’re havin’ to throw the whole thing because we cannae afford to be hostin’ it and like hell I’m gonna be passin’ it over to Arthur just because of that.”
“…Did you even breathe--”
“But aye, ‘course I’m knowin’ how to step dance! Even tried to be teachin’ me laoch beag centuries ago, didn’t I me dear?”
“Aah… Tantchen… wait, what are you doing?!”
“Oh, c’mon, me laoch beag! May have been all feet you were as a child, but I’m sure you’re rememberin’ a little!”
“Tantchen!”
“Aye, you’re nay fun even when you’ve had a few drinks. Well, I know one Germanic still remembers a proper step dance, aye you do, don’t you?”
“Get off of his lap damnit Brigid!”
“Hush now, Kinder~ The grown ups are talking.”
A laugh. “Shall we be givin’ them a show, me Preußen?”
“Ja, I think so.”
With that, Ireland slid off of Prussia’s lap (to the relief of her brothers and nephews, who thought the way she was straddling him was far too obscene for a family gathering) and pulled him up off the couch for an impromptu step dancing display -- which looked rather ridiculous for Prussia to be doing, so it quickly morphed into some of the older Irish folk dances, then some German before Brigid managed to dance her way over to her eldest brother and they began some traditional Welsh dances.
It wasn’t long before Luís, either drunk or just being silly, pulled her away from Llewellyn with a less than innocent smile on his face. “Have you been keeping up on your samba practice?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
Suddenly Brazil’s head perked up from where he was in a bit of a drunken tangle with Chile and Argentina, apparently only just now paying attention with the mention of “samba.” “Samba? Pai’s trying to teach you samba, Irlande?”
“Emphasis on the ‘try’, aye.” Luiciano made a pfft noise and attempted to make his way out of the tangle of himself and the girls.
“C’mon, you know I’m the one to teach someone that dance! The real one, not that stupid Latin ballroom dancing version.”
Argentina just glared up at him, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Right, you ignore the Irish step dancing, as loud as it is, and you suddenly notice samba, che. Damn samba machine.”
Brazil’s eyes narrowed at the A in the “ABC Alliance” and snorted. “At least I’m not some tango twit like you!”
Chile rolled her eyes and scooted away, just in case of a fight. “Please, the two of you wouldn’t know a proper dance if it came up and performed the cueca on your feet.”
“Shut up Cande!” Brigid and Portugal sighed.
“Romano! Control your daughters!”
“Spanga, get off your lazy ass and do something about ‘Tina and Chile!”
“Hermano should control his son first!”
And so things went, with the Iberians running herd on their Latin American children -- well, one Iberian and one Italian -- Brigid slowly teaching the Dylandys, Jack, and even Ianto the starting steps of the step dance, and Luís quietly pulling a blushing and sputtering like a dying engine England into a more or less private alcove for his own dance lesson.
France had long ago claimed his own place on Scotland’s lap -- no one ever said anything, as drawing attention to it would mean acknowledging it existed and had been existing for the past seven hundred years and only encourage the two to act up anyway -- and they were sharing a glass of wine between them, looking at each other as though the world was in each other’s eyes.
And then New Caledonia promptly climbed up into her parents’ laps and demanded their attention. And really, who could say no to the territory’s bright blue eyes? Well, other than mean old uncle England, anyway. So her papas happily cuddled the territory between them, France occasionally sneaking the tiny one a sip of wine when Scotland wasn’t looking. It wasn’t often the tiny Nation showed up for family Christmases so she was eventually stolen by her uncles for cooing over purposes -- Including Prussia, who really couldn’t get enough of the cute -- and keeping her up far past her bedtime, leaving her papas alone to stare at each other for a little while longer.
Besides a sudden showing of Latin dances from the ABC Alliance kids, trying to prove which of their three dances was the better, which promptly devolved into bickering over where shoulders should go and then one of their usual rough and tumbles, the night went smoothly.
Finally though, people started to drop off, starting with New Caledonia getting tucked into bed with Canada after being passed around the family for last minute snuggles and a quick hair braiding from her Scottish papa so it wouldn’t tangle -- rather like her French papa’s if left too long, really -- and then handed off to her big brother, who was starting to come down with a bit of a headache due to Quebec.
After that more and more finally fell asleep, ending with Ireland shooing Italy to bed with the admonishment “Don’t be doin’ anythin’ I wouldn’t be doin’, aye?” as she winked at him and turned him towards Germany’s room.
A few hours later, in the dark that was Ireland’s off limits kitchen, the trash bin started to twitch. And then shake. And then start wobbling back and forth, finally falling to the floor and spilling all the garbage… including the supposed pudding.
As it oozed out of the bin, it seemed to have grown, from taking up a three liter pudding dish to… well, being three feet across and about a foot high with the pomegranates situated almost perfectly to serve as eyes. It slowly oozed out completely, and halted for a moment.
Then suddenly… the pomegranates moved. Just slightly, to the right, and then to the left, almost as though they were actually working as eyes. It inched forward a bit, not quite like the oozing it was doing earlier. As though it was moving under its own power, not just the oily coating helping it slide over the stone of Ireland’s kitchen. It inched forward a little more, the lump the pomegranate eyes were sitting on turning around slowly, like a head turning and taking in the surroundings. It made a little noise, sounding almost like a curious two year old, before moving faster, leaving an oily trail not unlike the slime trail of a snail behind it.
It didn’t appear capable of taking a particular amount of control over its surroundings, not having anything that resembled hands or fingers, but it did seem rather… moldable. As was evident by the way that it fit quite snuggly around the corner of her refrigerator, even seeping a little into the cracks between it and the cupboards. It made that little curious noise again and attempted to slide its way up the stainless steel of the refrigerator, which of course ultimately failed, sliding down several times until the pomegranate eyes actually looked frustrated and it gave up. It slid away, leaving an awful oil slick on the surface in its wake. It passed over some of the garbage that it had spilled in its attempt to get out of the bin, absorbing it as it went.
It spent a fair amount of time exploring the kitchen as best it could until it found that the molding around the kitchen door was rough enough to let it crawl upwards and over the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room. It made the curious noise again, this time rising in pitch and volume as it unceremoniously fell over the edge, landing with a thud on the floor… right next to the TARDIS. If it was possible for pomegranate eyes to widen -- and let’s face it, dear reader, they are already acting as eyes to start with, so it must not be too far outside the realm of possibility -- they did so when confronted with the big blue box.
And that was when everything happened. There was a high pitched, tinny scream suddenly, too high for most people to be able to hear, startling the pudding creature, which then apparently activated some sort of security protocol, the lights in the living room suddenly flaring to bright life. This only served to further terrify the pudding creature, sending it slipping backwards to crash into Ireland’s rocking chair, which predictably was knocked over with a loud bang.
And that was only the start of the poor creature’s woes, as following the bang of the heavy wooden rocking chair came the sound of an interNational stampede -- as much noise as a stampede can make when no one has shoes on, at least -- lead up by a slightly disheveled looking Ireland, somehow still decked out in her knives even in her nightgown. Behind her quickly came Jack, the Dylandys, Ianto, her younger brothers, France, Prussia, and America, all of them toting raised guns. Behind them were Luís with his own set of knives, the ABC Alliance with their artillery, and Spain with his huge halberd, guarding the lot behind them that either didn’t own weaponry, hadn’t thought to grab them before rushing out -- which Ireland privately thought showed a terrible lack of parenting -- or in the case of Wales, were pacifistic. The Doctor was bringing up the rear, armed… with the glowy screwdriver thing.
“The hell is that?!”
“Are those pomegranates?!”
“Oh Lord, ‘tis leavin’ oil everywhere! Arthur, ‘tis you who’s cleanin’ up after it!”
“Is it alive?!”
“This is why we don’t let Brows cook, goddamnit!”
“Aw, I think it’s kinda cute.” Everyone stopped dead in their tracks, a silence deader than a graveyard falling over the group as they all turned towards the Doctor. “What?”
Even faced with a strange pudding creature -- which was currently trying to hide behind the upended rocking chair -- Ireland had to smile and shake her head fondly. “Aye, but you’re a strange lad, Doctor.”
Meanwhile Jack shifted his weight on his feet and adjusted his grip on his gun. “So Gorgeous,” he started with a bit of a smile. “Does this happen often and how do we take it out?” The pudding creature just made that curious cooing noise, head-like lump perking up.
“Perhaps holy water,” murmured Luís from the back, “Or perhaps it's like a vampire and allergic to a crucifix.”
“Arthur’s had a couple come to life, but it’s not been this bad before,” Connor offered, eyes trained on it as the pudding creature started inching forward, curious of all these new and varied people. Of course, not being inside the pudding creature’s head as you and I are, dear reader of this incredibly cracky NaNoWriMo project -- and do you think I’ve broken the Fourth Wall enough? It’s going quite like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail with the girls in Castle Anthrax and yes, yes, “Get on with it” -- this curiosity was of course misinterpreted as a malicious advance. Everyone scooted back to avoid being touched with it, not knowing what it would do if it did.
“Elliot,” Douglas growled, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on his gun, “Get Jeanne out of here.”
Orkney blinked, jaw dropping slightly. New Caledonia was busy clinging to Canada, staring wide eyed at the mass, this her first experience with any of the Isles siblings’ (That weren’t the Irelands) cooking. “What?! C’mon Da, why me?! She’s already stuck to… whoever he is!”
“Elliot Allaway, ye know damn well that’s yer brother Matthew, don’t ye be playin’ around now! Matthew can fight better than ye if he’s needed, get yer sister out of here and don’t ask questions!”
Jerking slightly at the sudden sharp tone from his father -- and the glare from France that promised swift invasion and conquering that was not of the enjoyable sort, step-son or not, if even the slightest harm came to his little princess -- he groaned and extricated Canada from New Caledonia’s grasp. “C’mon, Jeanne, Da wants you somewhere safe.”
She wriggled a little, though it was unclear if she was trying to go back to Canada or make her way over to her papas. “Be safe, Papa!” she called back, gaining a small smile and a bit of a wave from France.
“Of course, le caillou, I always am, non?”
And that was when Ireland suddenly stiffened, visibly jerking back. “Iron,” she whispered, in the same way that a person would whisper “anthrax.” She snapped around, nearly hitting England in the face with her hair as she did so. “Someone’s brought iron into me house! Who’s got it?!”
Most of the other Nations and the non-Nations looked at her as if she’d gone mad, her brothers’ -- save England, who was sputtering from his near brush with certain doom at Ireland’s hair -- eyes widening.
“Ye’re thinkin’ iron can defeat it, sis?” Scotland asked, assured now that his little girl was safe. Ireland, however, shook her head and started going through the group.
“Nay, someone’s brought iron into me house and ‘tis killin’ me fae!” She ignored the slight twitch from Jack at the mention of the word fae and the rolling of the eyes from all the other Nations. “Who’s got it so I can be kickin’ their arse right out me door?!”
“Ah, Brigid?” started Luís in that “Ireland’s gone off the deep end, time to try to sound calm and rational” voice. “Don’t you think the fact that Inglaterra’s cooking has miraculously come to life (“’Cause Captaen was pokin’ at it.” “It was research!”) and is attempting to take over your house is a little more important than something killing your… fae?”
The glare Ireland shot at him could have killed fae on its own. “Luís Afonso Santos Valdez, you’ll be shuttin’ your mouth now before I’m sewin’ it shut with me knitting needles. The plastic ones.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“So who’s got it? Who was feckin’ idiotic enough to be bringin’ in something killin’ me security system?!”
Near the back of the group, a hesitant hand came up, holding a cross in the palm. “Um… me, Irlande.” Portugal, Chile, Argentina, and the rest of Portugal’s lot instantly facepalmed, the sound echoing through the room.
“You are such an idiot, che,” grumbled Argentina as Brigid marched her way towards the poor Brazilian. “You know there are rules about iron with this family!”
“Oh shut up, Arianna! It’s hard to tell steel from iron in the dark!”
“I’m not carin’ if ‘tis a cross, be gettin’ it out of me house. Now.”
“Sim, Irlande…” And so Brazil sulked his way out of the house, presumably heading for the rental car the Latin Americans had driven from Dublin Airport.
“You have faeries for security?” Finally, Ianto asked the question that was swirling in everyone who wasn’t just dismissing it as the usual hallucinations of the siblings’ minds. Brigid shrugged as she took up her position at the front of the group again.
“They like me, aye. Llewellyn there, he has a dragon.”
Everyone took that moment to stare at the quiet, mild-mannered Canada-prototype of a Nation, who only smiled mischievously back at them.
“Now that the metaphysical crisis is over,” England grumbled, rolling his eyes but privately glad that no one had called him further on this being his fault, “can we get back to the actual crisis?”
“Yes, get on with it!”
“…Did you guys hea--”
“No Spain.”
“Just like the time you reduced the goose to charcoal, aye Arthur?” Connor asked, ginning as he cocked his gun, making the poor pudding creature, who was hopelessly confused by this point -- not that anyone could tell the poor thing was feeling anything, as having pomegranates for eyes does not make one terribly expressive -- inch closer to the TARDIS as though looking for protection. France just looked at England in horror.
“Mon Dieu, how could you ruin such a delicacy, mon ami?”
England of course started sputtering and cursing again. “You eat snails your argument is invalid!”
“Oui, but at least snails are edible, mon cher. Your cooking is not.”
“Belt up France.”
“Can we just kill the bloody thing?” Scotland and Connor asked in unison.
“Oi, you can’t just kill it!”
“Now is not the time for the ‘It’s genocide’ argument, Doctor,” grumbled England, barely sparing a glance for the put out Time Lord, watching the pudding monster continue towards the TARDIS. “It’s not some brand new species, it’s a mucked up Sussex Pond pudding that thanks to my sister’s… whatever Harkness is… poking and prodding at it, it’s come to life!”
“Can we stop blaming this on me when you’re the one who apparently can’t cook, huh?!”
“And Lyle and the Doctor were poking it too!”
“Yes, that’s very helpful, Connor. The point is, it’s not like it’s important or anything, it was a mistake, pure and simple, and it’ll be handled just as we always handle things like this.”
“So you admit your cooking keeps coming to life.”
“Belt up Connor!”
“He is right, England.”
“Belt up Spain!”
“You know, Neil and I are snipers,” Lyle suddenly offered, apparently quite tired of either the bickering or not sleeping. Really, it was sometimes difficult to tell.
“Yeah, I can get it right between the… pomegranates… and we can all go back to bed.”
“But we can’t kill it! It’s a whole new creature!”
“It’s one of Brows’s cooking failures.”
“Belt up Prussia!”
“It’s still alive! It’s the only one of it’s kind!” The Doctor gestured at it, having put away his glowy screwdriver thing, manic as always. “Poor thing, he’s overwhelmed; it’s all these people running around with swords and bright shiny things… no, wait, that’s Lord of the Rings. Who said that… younger of the Hobbits, big blue eyes…”
“Elijah Wood!”
“Yes! That’s it, thank you America!”
“Fuck yeah!”
“Aillil! East Timor’s still in the room!”
“…Oops.”
“Still, my point stands, new creature, can’t kill it!”
“Ah… Doctor?”
“Yes Neil?”
Neil just pointed at the pudding creature, which by this point was snuggled up as tight as it could get against the side of the TARDIS, and somehow looking quite content doing so. Everyone followed his finger, eyes widening at the sight.
“Doctor? What’s it doing?”
“…It appears to be… cuddling the TARDIS,” offered Ianto after the Doctor just seemed to stand there, rather slack jawed.
The silence was as sudden as if Russia had stepped into a room. A few eyes drifted from the highly content pudding creature to the Doctor, as though afraid of what he might do.
“Well,” he finally said, scratching his head. “First time that’s happened.” He tilted it to the side, sizing up the situation. The pudding creature -- which was probably going to end up with a name at this rate -- just further settled in, making a very pleased cooing noise.
“…Then we are not killing Angleterre’s latest culinary abomination?” Around France, everyone started slowly lowering their weapons, though America and Jack kept a steady eye on the creature.
“Apparently not,” grumbled Connor, glaring at the creature. The creature, of course, paid no mind, content as it was. In fact, it seemed to be about to fall asleep, bored of the humans and Nations with the guns and the bright shinny things and really, it could absorb garbage and use it to make itself larger, did it really need to fear them? Well… they were a rather loud bunch, and that did bother it a bit.
Portugal felt a tugging on the hem of his shirt, glancing down to see the wide eyes of East Timor. “Sim, Fatima?”
“Can… I name it?”
Silence was going to start charging the Nations a flat rate, expenses, plus hazard pay at this rate with as much as he was showing up tonight. And under the conditions he was showing up at that. Really, was it too much to ask that he be allowed to sleep at night like everyone else? When Silence was starting to feel like he’d overstayed his welcome and was bloody glad of it, Brigid made a choked off screaming sound and resheathed her knives hard enough a few people worried that they might have left bruises.
“Fine! So we’re nay killin’ it! I’m gettin’ me tea and me whiskey then, someone be startin’ the fire and then we are goin’ to be sittin’ here until we figure out what we are goin’ to do about the livin’ puddin’ that is in me house!” With that she stormed off -- rather impressive for a lass barely past five feet tall and probably didn’t weigh much more than one twenty soaking wet -- for the kitchen, muttering about how her “whole feckin’ house is contaminated now” and some rather vicious Gaelic that the Doctor, Douglas, and Connor had to wince at.
Most of the Nations took that as their cue to be going back to bed, the Italies leading the pack on that one, Romano beating Venenziano over the head with the white flag he’d brought with them and Germany pinching the bridge of his nose, knowing better by now than to get involved in their fights. Argentina and Chile at least hovered around until Brazil got back in, draping their arms around his shoulders on either side of him, glaring at anyone who looked at them funny for it. France set the safety and handed his gun to Scotland.
“I’m going to check on Jeanne, ma princesse is likely worried.” Scotland chucked, holstering his own.
“Don’t be surprised if she’s clingin’ ta ye, she does that after a fright.” France only smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek before going off in the direction of the guest room.
It was with an evil glare at the few remaining Nations and a tea cup that was far more whiskey than tea that Ireland returned. She also shot a glare at France when he came back in the room but softened it when she realized he was carrying New Caledonia with him, who was quickly tucked in between her papas in the nearest armchair.
It was also her reminder to check her temper, if the looks her brother and his… boyfriend… were sending her meant anything. So she only sipped at her whiskey-tea and tried to calm back down, failing each time she glanced at the creature.
“So we cannae be killin’ it,” she said at last, glaring now at the Doctor. “Since ‘tis you who’s sayin’ such foolishness, what do you suggest we be doin’ with it? ‘Cause ‘tis now I’m sayin’ it, ‘tis not stayin’ here.”
“And I’m not making another pudding so you can just forget about that idea right now.”
“So ye admit that yer cooking is vile enough ta do it twice in a night.”
“Belt up, Douglas.”
“Torchwood can’t take it, and I’m pretty sure it’s not in UNIT’s jurisdiction.”
“I can’t take it either, it’d be put in Area Fifty One and that’d be just be a death sentence. Also I think Tony would have a fit if I forced a roomie on him in the basement.”
“You’re actually thinking intelligently about this, America. I’m surprised.”
“H-hey! Shut up England! I can do things right by your standards -- which are way too high by the way, you really should rethink them -- sometimes!”
“I think it needs a name!” piped up New Caledonia. “Can we name it Napoleon?”
There was a moment of everyone staring at the little girl, though a few amused chuckles could be heard. For the first time since waking up Ireland smiled and promptly stole her niece from her papas. “Ooh, I’m thinkin’ we can be comin’ up with a better name than that, aye?”
“…We’re going to name it instead of discussing what to do with it?!” squawked England, looking like he’d just been informed that his sister was converting to Protestantism. Brigid laughed and tucked New Caledonia closer to her.
“Aye, and why not? ‘Tis lookin’ as if ‘twould be the easier thing to be doin’, aye?” She furrowed her brow, thinking. “Needs to be somethin’ East Timor would be likin’ as well, since she was wantin’ to be namin’ it as well.”
New Caledonia’s brow furrowed as well, looking for all the world like a girl version of her Scottish papa. “Well, I think he’s a he!” Brigid nodded, a serious expression on her face.
“Aye, I’m thinkin’ so as well.”
England rolled his eyes at the two, ignoring France who was starting to look rather twitchy at the thought that Ireland had effectively stolen his daughter right from under his nose. “Does anyone have anything even approaching useful to contribute?”
“Could always let New Caledonia keep it as a pet,” Connor piped up with, a smirk on his face.
“Of course not!” France insisted, a horrified expression on his face. “Ma ange deserves far better than some anglais culinary atrocity!”
“Like a pony?” New Caledonia asked, eyes bright and hopeful and temporarily distracted from the naming conversation.
“Oui, oui, of course Jeanne!”
She made a delighted little squeal and bounced a little bit in her aunt’s arms. “Thank you Papa!”
“Francis…” Douglas grumbled quietly, “Do ye have any idea what ye’ve just promised her?” France blinked a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up with the exact details of the conversation.
“…Ay.”
“The sheep would be too spooked by it so I can’t keep it.” Llewellyn frowned a moment. “Ceinwen would probably try to eat it.”
“Finally kill that bloody thing…” England grumbled, thankful that no one heard him.
“Well,” the Doctor finally said, scratching his head, “I could take it--”
“André!” Everyone turned towards New Caledonia. “His name is André! It’s French and Portuguese like Fatima would like and it’s the name of Papa’s saint!”
“André?” France murmured, confused. “But mes saints are Jeanne and Denis…”
“She means mine, Francis.”
“Oh, oui, oui, Andrew, of course!” Douglas rolled his eyes and retrieved his daughter, tucking her back between himself and Francis, ruffling her hair as he did.
“Good choice, daor.”
“André’s a good name, yes. I could take André with me, he seems fond of the TARDIS as it is.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Doctor?” Neil asked, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at the pudding creature, now named André, who was sleeping quite contentedly next to the TARDIS. “It -- I mean, he might get lost in there.”
“He might like that, though,” murmured Lyle, also looking at him.
“If you’re takin’ him with you, he’s stayin’ with you, Doctor. I’m not havin’ him back in me house ever again. Fec-- darn place is contaminated as ‘tis, probably goin’ to have to stay in Dublin while England’s hazmat people are takin’ care of it.”
“Oi, why my hazmat crew?!”
“’Cause you’re the one that cooked him!”
“Right! Then all that’s settled!” The Doctor stood and walked over to André the Pudding Creature -- and that would be his title because that gives me more words is it obvious yet that I’m down to the wire on this thing? -- and knelt down, which drew the creature’s attention. “Hello André, I’m the Doctor and you’re going to be traveling with me now.” André the Pudding Creature made a curious noise (“He sounds like WALL-E!” cheered New Caledonia) and tilted his head-lump. “Yes, and you’ll be with the TARDIS here as well.”
André the Pudding Creature made an excited little sound and started slinking for the front door of the TARDIS, only to be stopped by the Doctor. “Oh come now, we’re not leaving yet! There’s still Boxing Day breakfast to wait for!”
And yet again, Silence paid the Waterford House a visit, this time thinking that maybe he should just move in, it’d be cheaper at least, before Brigid glared at the Doctor. “And ‘tis that supposed to be meanin’ then? Thinkin’ after all this that I’m goin’ to be cookin’ for you lot in me contaminated kitchen?”
“You’re already sitting in your ‘contaminated’ living room,” grumbled England, wincing and grumbling again when Douglas reached over and cuffed the back of his head.
“Well… yeah, kinda,” replied the Doctor, scratching behind an ear.
“…Aye, ‘course I am. Hostess and all that, takin’ care of me family and assorted bits.” Brigid shook her head, but from the tone and weak smile it was fondly. “Aye, now that ‘tis settled, I’m thinkin’ we can all be goin’ back to bed. ‘Tis five now, I’ll be makin’ breakfast ‘round nine for anyone willin’ to be gettin’ up then.”
After that, the family swore to never ever ever again allow England near a kitchen. As for the betting pool Macau had running? Well, Canada made out with a nice check written out for five million Canadian dollars.
Footnotes:
Hetalia: The only fandom where the crack and the porn comes with footnotes. Footnotes, by the way, are the saving grace of the NaNo writer desperate for a word count.
…Which is why this crackfic is 18 pages long. Right. Off we go!
A note about pudding: I’m using this word in the British English sense, meaning any kind of a dessert. Not the wobbly custard-y thing that comes in cups that the Americans call pudding.
Four and twenty blackbirds: Apparently this was a real thing to do. But the thing was, it’d basically be a two layered pie, with the live birds on the top layer and the real pie beneath. Your main challenge would be, of course, to keep the birds from doing their business on the pie below. England… forgot the second layer.
Milk vs. Orange juice: …Sorry Iddy. Needed an idea and that… worked, really.
Ninety plus family members: Hey, do you wanna go through the lists of the Former British, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and probably a few other Empires I’ve forgotten about? Because I’ll tell you right now… good luck. Really.
Íosa Críost agus Padraig Naomh!: “Jesus Christ and Saint Patrick” in Irish.
Sasana: Irish for “England,” apparently meaning “land of the Saxons.” Whereas England itself means “Land of the Angles.”
Fecking: Irish slang for “fucking.”
Tourtereaux: French for “lovebirds,” France’s nickname for Scotland. See the Auld Alliance for more information on France and Scotland’s relationship.
Sussex Pond pudding: A pudding with a whole lemon at its center. See the wiki article for more details. Clearly… England done fucked up good.
Angleterre: French for “England.”
Scheiße: German for “shit.”
Preußen: German for Prussia, Ireland’s name for him.
Russia and Ireland: Headcanon states several things about these two. One: Ireland is one of the few Nations not scared to tears over him. Two: Russia is scared of her, and who can blame him since she’s effectively a sane Belarus. Three: Ireland taught Connor to not fear him as well. See, Ireland and Russia have rather friendly trading terms (Though really, Ireland’s friends with about ninety percent of the bloody world in real life so this really isn’t much of a shock) and in Nineteen Eighteen Russia was the first nation to recognize Ireland as a nation separate from the United Kingdom. Note that this was before Nineteen Twenty Two, when Ireland actually got independence of any sort from the United Kingdom. Headcanon further states that Russia did it half out of fear of Ireland and half to troll England because let’s face it, it’d piss him off so bad.
When Russia’s not terrified out of his mind of her, they have drinking contests. :D
Girl With the Black Velvet Band: A traditional Irish folk song about transportation to Australia during the 19th Century. Sometimes called the Black Ribbon Band, hear the version sung by the Wolfe Tones here.
Irish Step Dance: No guys, it’s not really called Riverdance. That was one show, though a really good show, that was first performed as a halftime show for the Eurovision Song Contest in Nineteen Ninety Four, which Ireland was hosting that year. Riverdance… is actually a colloquial term for committing suicide in the River Shannon. Supposedly it was developed after the Sixteen Hundreds conquest of Ireland (Hi there Cromwell, you fucking bastard) which outlawed music. The form of the dance, with the feet doing all the work and the upper body remaining stationary was created to fool any onlookers from outside the house. How exactly the noise didn’t tip anybody off I have no idea.
Eurovision Song Contest: Exactly what it says on the tin, it’s a song contest open to all the participating members of the European Broadcasting Union. Famous past winners include Celine Dion (she performed for Switzerland, despite being French Canadian) and ABBA.
She’s not bragging, the girl really has won the most out of any participating nation. Seven times. She’s also really won three years in a row, Nineteen Ninety Three, Ninety Four, and Ninety Five. She won again in Ninety Seven, making the record best of any nation in any decade at the Eurovision. Also the record holder more than one win in the perfomer section is Johnny Logan, who also hails from Ireland and has two wins as a songwriter and one win as a performer. The most common second place winner to Ireland? The United Kingdom. I tell you, every year that girl walks into wherever it’s being held that year like she fucking owns the place.
In Two Thousand and Eight, Ireland entered the contest with a puppet turkey by the name of Dustin the Turkey singing “Irelande Douze Pointe.” Some people, I forget where I read this, considered this entry Ireland “throwing” the contest as Two Thousand and Eight was the year the economy started tanking and Ireland would be unable to host due to costs if they won. Generally if a country cannot afford to host the competition (Which has happened only three times) it gets handed over to one of the “Big Four” countries, which are the four countries that provide the most funding for the competition and thus are always guaranteed a place. The United Kingdom is usually the one that takes on the job.
…After the loss of the turkey he returned to Ireland to campaign against the Lisbon Treaty that the European Union was seeking at the time to ratify, saying “They didn't vote for us. Get them back. Vote 'No' to Lisbon.” Yeah. It was a weird year.
Tantchen: “Auntie” in German, Germany’s been calling this since she was the main female figure in his childhood, where she wrote letters to him and effectively raised him alongside Prussia. Can’t tell, can ya?
Laoch beag: Irish for “Little Warrior,” Ireland’s nickname for Germany.
Pai, Irlande: Portuguese for “dad” and “Ireland” respectively.
Ballroom Samba and street Samba are two very different things, obviously. ^^;
The ABC Alliance: This would be the alliance of Argentina, Brazil and Chile. Original name, huh? I honestly don’t know much about it beyond it actually existing since, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Wiki has apparently never heard of it and the only source I can find for it charges twelve freaking bucks for access. Yeah, no fucking way. So, sorry guys, can’t go much into it.
Argentina: Full name, Arianna Martínez. Arianna due to her Italian heritage. Argentina is pretty much… completely lacking in natives? So the majority of the people there claim Italian or Spanish background there, and it’s also interestingly one of the Irish Diaspora nations, and has Welsh listed as the third most common spoken language there. Of course, Romano is her mama. :> Hetalia OC, belonging to later_days.
Brazil: Full name, Luciano . This one’s all Port’s, though the argument could be made for England to be the other parent due to the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance and all that. Hetalia OC, belonging to tinfoiltennis
Chile: Full name, Candelaria “Cande” Contreras Pérez. Named after both a famous female sergeant from Chile and a shout out to candesceres. All Spain’s, but Romano’s also the mama because… well, it’s Spain and Romano. Lord knows Romano would have done most of the raising anyway since Spain was out doing conquistador-y things. Hetalia OC, belonging to tinfoiltennis.
Samba, tango, and ceuca: Brazilian, Argentinean, and Chilean dances. The samba and tango have Latin Ballroom dancing equivalents. The ceuca is a Chilean folk dance, often seen at religious outings.
Spanga: Italian for “Spain.”
Hermano: Spanish for “brother.”
And now, introducing New Caledonia, who I discovered and promptly made a Nation-tan for in the course of writing this fic. I’m still working out the kinks on her, but her full name is Jeanne Caoimhe Bonnefoy-Allaway. Jeanne after Jeanne d’Arc, of course. Caoimhe comes from the Scottish Gaelic word for “beautiful.” Le calliou is the real world affectionate term for the islands, meaning “the pebble.” Hetalia OC, I claim her.
Elliot: Representing the islands of Orkney, which originally belonged to Norway and were given to Scotland as part of a dowry along with Shetland, who I couldn’t manage to work in. Full name being Elliot Allaway, Hetalia OC, belonging to jaffacakes_mine.
He doesn’t like France. Obviously.
Iron: Do you guys have any idea how hard it is to work out exactly what kind of iron constitutes “cold iron?” Believe me, it’s hard. But yes, iron plus fae equals bad for the fae, I think we all remember this bit of folklore. Ireland refuses to have it in her house or anywhere near her body.
Captaen: Irish for “Captain,” Ireland’s nickname for Jack.
No, you see no Monty Python and the Holy Grail jokes here, where did you get that idea? /shifty eyes Also I must thank tinfoiltennis and kyahryorin for that lovely France and England exchange.
Cienwen: Derived from the Welsh elements cain "lovely" and gwen "white, fair, blessed." Given that the Welsh dragon is red, this is probably some form of irony on Wales’s part. What England refers to is the story of the Red Dragon and the White Dragon, where the white dragon is said to represent the Saxons and the red the people who would become the Welsh. The red dragon kicked the white one’s ass something good. The red dragon is also said to be a harbinger of King Arthur.
Daor: Irish for “dear.” It’s very hard to find Scottish Gaelic so I try not to use it at all, or substitute what I hope won’t be a too different Irish word.
Macau: The Portuguese equivalent to Hong Kong, basically. He’s a bit of a gambler… as an understatement, the casinos in Macau do better than Vegas a lot of the time. Considered “none more loyal” by Portugal, a bit of a daddy’s boy spoiled brat. Answers to either Raul or Jin.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This would be why you never ever ever ever ever ever let England cook, okay? NEVER.
Timeframe: Um... it's a Christmas, not this upcoming one, but other than that... sometime in the future?
Word Count: 8770, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents, crossover, CRACKY AS HELL TO MAKE UP FOR THE LAST FIC'S ANGST dear god what happened with this fic?
Long ago the family learned that England was not to be allowed to cook Christmas dinner. Either the goose would be reduced to charcoal -- which while useful to cook the replacement goose, was not good for eating -- or the pudding would be a slimy mess. Far too many Christmases had ended in the family ordering takeaway and subsisting on tea until it arrived. After one year where England actually attempted to make good on the old “four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie” routine, he was promptly banned from bringing any food whatsoever to any family gathering.
Thankfully after that year they all moved on to Ireland’s house for family gatherings since she and Connor both actually had something resembling cooking skills. Well, there was a small bump in the road where they spent a couple of years at Scotland’s, where he somehow found a recipe for haggis stuffing, which had resulted in Douglas being banned from bringing things to Christmas dinner as well as setting foot in France’s kitchen.
Still, once things moved on into Ireland’s house that meant that the only ones cooking would be Connor, Brigid, Francis, and Matthew (Unless someone was brave and let Llewellyn into the kitchen), so the food would be nine times out of ten actually edible. The one exception would be if Connor hadn’t sobered up enough to figure out the difference between milk and orange juice and accidentally mixed the latter into the bread roll batter. Those had been… interesting rolls, to say the very least. The fae certainly didn’t mind them, though the rest of the family promptly spat out the bites they’d taken. Other than the occasional mishap, however, Christmas time in the British (And Irish, Brigid would insist) Isles was a time of good food, actually peaceful family gatherings of all ninety plus members (Everyone had long ago given up keeping track of the exact numbers, especially when France’s lot got factored into matters), and a lot of gifts passed around after dinner.
However, there was always the threat that someone would slip up and let England back into the kitchen one night whilst in the midst of drunken revelry or sheer jackassery. Macau even had a special betting pool in place for the rest of the world to take bets on what exactly England’s next Christmas dinner disaster would be and when exactly it would occur.
Finally, one year, it happened. No one really knew how it happened, or who was stupid or drunk or spiteful enough to do it, but it happened. Somehow, some way, England wound up in the kitchen long enough to make… well, something.
“Íosa Críost agus Padraig Naomh!”
“Who was lettin’ Sasana in me feckin’ kitchen?!”
“Mon Dieu, smells worse than tourtereaux’s haggis!”
“Oi!”
“Man, even I wouldn’t touch this!”
“Is this… normal here?”
Now, most of the family was used to England’s complete inability to cook. They’d been dealing with it for over two thousand years, three of them in unfortunate quite close contact to it for several centuries. However… Ireland now, she had this terrible habit of collecting people and making them family members before they even knew what had happened. And this year was the first year those people had ever seen England’s… cooking skills. So most of them had no idea what the proper procedure was to deal with such a situation. The Dylandy Twins, Lyle and Neil, were clustered around the stove, along with Jack and the Doctor. The rest of he family, especially the Commonwealth Nations and the ones Luís had brought along were looking at them as though they had completely taken leave of their senses.
East Timor tugged on Ireland’s skirt, drawing the redhead’s attention. “Shouldn’t we… save them?” she asked timidly, glancing at the lot poking and prodding the mysterious food substance. The Doctor had even pulled out that odd glowing and humming metal thing he called a “sonic screwdriver” and seemed to be analyzing it. Canada privately thought he wouldn’t have any luck figuring out what it was now, much less what it was supposed have started out as.
Brigid sighed and turned to the mass of Nations -- and Ianto, who was apparently the only non-Nation with enough intelligence to stay out of a room with an unknown substance that was England’s food -- and looked sternly at them.
“Aye, I’ll be declaring me kitchen a hazardous area due to an unknown and,” and here she raised her voice, hoping the ones in the kitchen would pay attention “potentially radioactive substance. Everyone into the living room while the idiots and I figure out what we’re to be doin’ ‘bout it! Shoo, shoo.” She made the universal shooing motions with her hands and bodily pushed the more daredevil inclined members of their number into said room. She caught a flash of blond try to sneak by her and shot out her arm, snatching his collar. She had to admit, it was quite satisfying to hear him choke for a split second. “Except you. You’re one of the idiots. Get your arse in there with the hazardous material and the other four dumbarses.”
“Oi, I take offense at that!” Brigid rolled her eyes and growled softly under her breath.
“You’re a bloody idiot, Doctor. Even Spain’s knowin’ to stay out of a kitchen England’s set foot in.”
“Hey!” Ireland ignored the offended Spaniard.
“I’ll be gettin’ the lot in there settled and be back in here to be showin’ you lot how to properly handle this shite.”
England grumbled and straightened his collar, taking a step in before turning half around. “At least I didn’t explode your stove this time.”
It was probably the first time Arthur had ever had Ireland’s kitchen door slammed in his face with him being on the inside portion of the door.
-----
“Aye, now let’s be dealing with this properly.” She smacked the back of one wandering hand with her own gloved one. “Lyle, hands off. You’re not knowin’ what’s in it or where it’s been.” Lyle at least had the grace to look scolded, but Jack and the Doctor apparently ignored every warning, the Doctor even picking part of it up.
“So England,” he started, cheery even in the face of almost certain death, “What was this supposed to be?”
England, also gloved up and wearing one of Japan’s face masks, shrugged. “Just a Sussex Pond pudding.” Everyone slowly looked up at him, Brigid rolling her eyes over her own mask. “What?”
“Sussex Pond puddin’ isn’t supposed to be crunchy Sasana!”
Jack was poking at his wrist remote while the Doctor continued scanning it. “Is it alive?” he asked quietly, poking at the substance that apparently was supposed to be a pudding.
“’Tisn’t now,” Brigid snapped, smacking Jack’s hand, “but if you keep insistin’ on pokin’ it, could well be!” Jack frowned, but pulled his hand back.
“Doesn’t a Sussex Pond pudding have a lemon in it?” Neil asked, wisely not poking at it, having learned from Jack and his twin’s examples. “Smells more like… a pomegranate?”
A long silence fell over the room, quickly followed by Ireland all but exploding at her brother.
“What in bloody feckin’ hell were ye thinkin’? A feckin’ pomegranate?! Where did ye even get a pomegranate?! I don’t have pomegranates! And Sadiq is here, so feckin’ Greece isn’t and didn’t bring ye any!” It was finally enough for Jack to abandon his examination of the desert item to hold his sometimes lover back from disemboweling her brother, as she had already drawn two of her knives and looked well on the way to discovering how to tri-wield, slipping his arms under hers and pulling her back against him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Gorgeous! Remember, no more fighting your family?” She growled viciously at him, one that only made him raise an eyebrow. “Hey, you’re the one who got sick of it and said it.”
She glared at him but slowly settled down, shifting her glare back to her brother. The Doctor, to his credit, had ignored the sudden -- though admittedly expected -- temper tantrum and remained focused on the food. “There’s two pomegranates in it,” he said mostly to himself, “But other than that, I’m stumped, and to be able to stump someone as brilliant as me, that’s an achievement.”
“Can we stop pokin’ at it?” Brigid yanked her arms free and put one of her knives up. “Last time England cooked and the family insisted on pokin’ it, France appeared.”
“Now that is just cruel, mon soeur! I have nothing to do with dear Angleterre’s abuse of the culinary arts!” France’s voice drifted up from behind the door.
“I’m not your sister!”
“He’s dating yer twin, Half-Pint, he’s close enough.” Everyone looked up to see Turkey’s half-masked face grinning over the half wall between the kitchen and the living room. Brigid simply huffed and glared at her friend.
“Call me Half-Pint again and I’ll be feedin’ you this sad excuse for a puddin’.” It shouldn’t have been possible, but along with the exposed skin of his face Sadiq’s mask paled and he ducked back down behind the wall. “Aye, so I was thinkin’.” After that Prussia poked his head over the wall.
“Hey, Beautiful, can we crack into the booze yet? Or are your idiots still trying to figure out what that Scheiße is?” The thud that reached the living room was Ireland hitting her head against the wall. “Is that a “ja” then? Oh, and Francis wants to perform a funeral for the Scheiße.” Brigid sighed and hid her eyes in her hand.
“Aye, fine, whatever! Preußen, you know where the box of whiskey is under me bed, get into that. Make sure you’re wavin’ the bottle of sherry in Spain’s face (“Hey!”) and keep the whiskey away from Sealand.”
“Oh come on sis! I’m old enough! Please?!”
“Who invited Sealand anyway?” grumbled England, pulling the mask off his face and tossing it in the trash.
“He’s still family, Sasana, he’s comin’ to the family Christmas gatherin’s as much as Luís gets to.” Brigid waved England off and ignored Peter. “Doctor, could you be tossin’ that in the trash? ‘Tis nothin’ that can be done to be savin’ it, might as well toss it and let France do his usual funeral thing for it.” The Doctor looked up at her with a kicked puppy expression on his face.
“You’re sure I can’t keep it?”
“Nay, because you’ll be pokin’ at it and God only knows what’ll happen with people pokin’ this one, especially since France is already here.”
America poked his eyes over the half way just as Prussia laughed that signature laugh of his and dashed off to fetch the booze. “Might summon Russia this time…” he said, just the tiniest bit of fear inching into his voice. Ireland blinked at him, a small pout on her face as she removed her own mask.
“What’s wrong with Russia?”
There was a mad stampede of all one hundred eight plus feet dashing towards the half wall to stare in utter shock at the island Nation. The ones in the kitchen were divided between staring at Ireland or staring at the huge family. The Dylandys in particular were staring at the herd, the first time either of them had seen any Nations, especially Llewellyn spooked. Arthur was staring at his sister, unable to believe ever that she was on good terms with Russia. Brigid just looked at the half of the world that had come over for Christmas.
“What? He’s just a child nay one ever thought to be sayin’ nay to, even if he is havin’ a child’s cruelty to him.” They continued staring at her and she just sighed and shrugged, taking the chance to poke the Doctor in the side. “Just be tossin’ that thing, please. I’ll be needin’ to call the hazardous material team to be decontaminatin’ me kitchen after this.”
The Doctor pouted but did as he was asked, dropping the concoction that was somehow wobbly, crunchy, oily, and watery all at once in the rubbish bin. That action quickly earned him a chaste kiss on the cheek and a bright smile.
“Aye, ‘tis more like it,” she murmured, pulling off her gloves and dumping them in with the vile concoction. “Alright, everyone out of the kitchen!” She started shooing everyone out, dragging England by the collar. “No one goes in until I can be gettin’ me hazmat people over in the next couple of days.”
Connor peered his head into the kitchen as everyone filed out, taking a pull from his flask. “Should I call the English division Monday? They’ve got more practice dealing with this.” Ireland peered back in over his shoulder, tilting her head back and forth a few times.
“Mm, how quick would they be gettin’ here? Would like to be havin’ me kitchen by Wednesday.”
“Should be here quick enough, we’re not that far across the Irish Sea, helps that Waterford is on the coast. They’d have to go through Wales though.”
“Now see here! My cooking isn’t nearly that bad and you both know it!”
“Then why are you havin’ a hazmat team dedicated to cleanin’ up after specifically you?” The rest of the siblings had a good chuckle over England’s cherry red face and indignant sputters, and the mystery food in the garbage was quickly forgotten.
“Oui, we are gathered here today for the death of something Angleterre apparently killed in his attempt to make an edible dish…”
Well, once France finished eulogizing the supposed pudding, anyway. Once that happened, the drink ran freely -- except for Canada, who stuck to the tea. Well, someone had to stay sober tonight and it wasn’t going to be any of his uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, “father,” or aunt. He knew that “new” lot would most certainly not stay sober, he remembered the first Christmas with the Dylandy boys; how the two of them and Uncle Connor had gotten amazingly drunk on some combination of Guinness Stout and Bushmills whiskey and belted out a shockingly in key rendition of Girl With The Black Velvet Band. It hadn’t been helped that they had something resembling accompaniment by way of Auntie Brigid drunkenly plucking the tune out on her harp. It really had been an interesting Christmas that year, especially since it was one of the first times in a century he’d seen his cousins on Portugal’s side.
…Portugal was the mum, right? Nations and families, the trees tended to get a bit tangely once you sat and thought about them too long.
Still, the drink was flowing steadily from that crate Prussia had dug out from under Ireland’s bed, and even Germany was allowing himself a few smiles and not getting frustrated at either of the Italies or his brother.
“Wait, you step dance?”
“Aye, ‘course I step dance! What, you’re thinkin’ I’m completely unaware of one of me biggest cultural exports or me halftime show at the Eurovision?”
“Stupid Eurovision…”
“Oh hush now, Antonio, ‘tis not me fault me people are so fantastic that we’ve won the most or won three years in a row and we’re bein’ just so wonderful we’re havin’ to throw the whole thing because we cannae afford to be hostin’ it and like hell I’m gonna be passin’ it over to Arthur just because of that.”
“…Did you even breathe--”
“But aye, ‘course I’m knowin’ how to step dance! Even tried to be teachin’ me laoch beag centuries ago, didn’t I me dear?”
“Aah… Tantchen… wait, what are you doing?!”
“Oh, c’mon, me laoch beag! May have been all feet you were as a child, but I’m sure you’re rememberin’ a little!”
“Tantchen!”
“Aye, you’re nay fun even when you’ve had a few drinks. Well, I know one Germanic still remembers a proper step dance, aye you do, don’t you?”
“Get off of his lap damnit Brigid!”
“Hush now, Kinder~ The grown ups are talking.”
A laugh. “Shall we be givin’ them a show, me Preußen?”
“Ja, I think so.”
With that, Ireland slid off of Prussia’s lap (to the relief of her brothers and nephews, who thought the way she was straddling him was far too obscene for a family gathering) and pulled him up off the couch for an impromptu step dancing display -- which looked rather ridiculous for Prussia to be doing, so it quickly morphed into some of the older Irish folk dances, then some German before Brigid managed to dance her way over to her eldest brother and they began some traditional Welsh dances.
It wasn’t long before Luís, either drunk or just being silly, pulled her away from Llewellyn with a less than innocent smile on his face. “Have you been keeping up on your samba practice?” he asked, a twinkle in his eyes.
Suddenly Brazil’s head perked up from where he was in a bit of a drunken tangle with Chile and Argentina, apparently only just now paying attention with the mention of “samba.” “Samba? Pai’s trying to teach you samba, Irlande?”
“Emphasis on the ‘try’, aye.” Luiciano made a pfft noise and attempted to make his way out of the tangle of himself and the girls.
“C’mon, you know I’m the one to teach someone that dance! The real one, not that stupid Latin ballroom dancing version.”
Argentina just glared up at him, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Right, you ignore the Irish step dancing, as loud as it is, and you suddenly notice samba, che. Damn samba machine.”
Brazil’s eyes narrowed at the A in the “ABC Alliance” and snorted. “At least I’m not some tango twit like you!”
Chile rolled her eyes and scooted away, just in case of a fight. “Please, the two of you wouldn’t know a proper dance if it came up and performed the cueca on your feet.”
“Shut up Cande!” Brigid and Portugal sighed.
“Romano! Control your daughters!”
“Spanga, get off your lazy ass and do something about ‘Tina and Chile!”
“Hermano should control his son first!”
And so things went, with the Iberians running herd on their Latin American children -- well, one Iberian and one Italian -- Brigid slowly teaching the Dylandys, Jack, and even Ianto the starting steps of the step dance, and Luís quietly pulling a blushing and sputtering like a dying engine England into a more or less private alcove for his own dance lesson.
France had long ago claimed his own place on Scotland’s lap -- no one ever said anything, as drawing attention to it would mean acknowledging it existed and had been existing for the past seven hundred years and only encourage the two to act up anyway -- and they were sharing a glass of wine between them, looking at each other as though the world was in each other’s eyes.
And then New Caledonia promptly climbed up into her parents’ laps and demanded their attention. And really, who could say no to the territory’s bright blue eyes? Well, other than mean old uncle England, anyway. So her papas happily cuddled the territory between them, France occasionally sneaking the tiny one a sip of wine when Scotland wasn’t looking. It wasn’t often the tiny Nation showed up for family Christmases so she was eventually stolen by her uncles for cooing over purposes -- Including Prussia, who really couldn’t get enough of the cute -- and keeping her up far past her bedtime, leaving her papas alone to stare at each other for a little while longer.
Besides a sudden showing of Latin dances from the ABC Alliance kids, trying to prove which of their three dances was the better, which promptly devolved into bickering over where shoulders should go and then one of their usual rough and tumbles, the night went smoothly.
Finally though, people started to drop off, starting with New Caledonia getting tucked into bed with Canada after being passed around the family for last minute snuggles and a quick hair braiding from her Scottish papa so it wouldn’t tangle -- rather like her French papa’s if left too long, really -- and then handed off to her big brother, who was starting to come down with a bit of a headache due to Quebec.
After that more and more finally fell asleep, ending with Ireland shooing Italy to bed with the admonishment “Don’t be doin’ anythin’ I wouldn’t be doin’, aye?” as she winked at him and turned him towards Germany’s room.
A few hours later, in the dark that was Ireland’s off limits kitchen, the trash bin started to twitch. And then shake. And then start wobbling back and forth, finally falling to the floor and spilling all the garbage… including the supposed pudding.
As it oozed out of the bin, it seemed to have grown, from taking up a three liter pudding dish to… well, being three feet across and about a foot high with the pomegranates situated almost perfectly to serve as eyes. It slowly oozed out completely, and halted for a moment.
Then suddenly… the pomegranates moved. Just slightly, to the right, and then to the left, almost as though they were actually working as eyes. It inched forward a bit, not quite like the oozing it was doing earlier. As though it was moving under its own power, not just the oily coating helping it slide over the stone of Ireland’s kitchen. It inched forward a little more, the lump the pomegranate eyes were sitting on turning around slowly, like a head turning and taking in the surroundings. It made a little noise, sounding almost like a curious two year old, before moving faster, leaving an oily trail not unlike the slime trail of a snail behind it.
It didn’t appear capable of taking a particular amount of control over its surroundings, not having anything that resembled hands or fingers, but it did seem rather… moldable. As was evident by the way that it fit quite snuggly around the corner of her refrigerator, even seeping a little into the cracks between it and the cupboards. It made that little curious noise again and attempted to slide its way up the stainless steel of the refrigerator, which of course ultimately failed, sliding down several times until the pomegranate eyes actually looked frustrated and it gave up. It slid away, leaving an awful oil slick on the surface in its wake. It passed over some of the garbage that it had spilled in its attempt to get out of the bin, absorbing it as it went.
It spent a fair amount of time exploring the kitchen as best it could until it found that the molding around the kitchen door was rough enough to let it crawl upwards and over the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room. It made the curious noise again, this time rising in pitch and volume as it unceremoniously fell over the edge, landing with a thud on the floor… right next to the TARDIS. If it was possible for pomegranate eyes to widen -- and let’s face it, dear reader, they are already acting as eyes to start with, so it must not be too far outside the realm of possibility -- they did so when confronted with the big blue box.
And that was when everything happened. There was a high pitched, tinny scream suddenly, too high for most people to be able to hear, startling the pudding creature, which then apparently activated some sort of security protocol, the lights in the living room suddenly flaring to bright life. This only served to further terrify the pudding creature, sending it slipping backwards to crash into Ireland’s rocking chair, which predictably was knocked over with a loud bang.
And that was only the start of the poor creature’s woes, as following the bang of the heavy wooden rocking chair came the sound of an interNational stampede -- as much noise as a stampede can make when no one has shoes on, at least -- lead up by a slightly disheveled looking Ireland, somehow still decked out in her knives even in her nightgown. Behind her quickly came Jack, the Dylandys, Ianto, her younger brothers, France, Prussia, and America, all of them toting raised guns. Behind them were Luís with his own set of knives, the ABC Alliance with their artillery, and Spain with his huge halberd, guarding the lot behind them that either didn’t own weaponry, hadn’t thought to grab them before rushing out -- which Ireland privately thought showed a terrible lack of parenting -- or in the case of Wales, were pacifistic. The Doctor was bringing up the rear, armed… with the glowy screwdriver thing.
“The hell is that?!”
“Are those pomegranates?!”
“Oh Lord, ‘tis leavin’ oil everywhere! Arthur, ‘tis you who’s cleanin’ up after it!”
“Is it alive?!”
“This is why we don’t let Brows cook, goddamnit!”
“Aw, I think it’s kinda cute.” Everyone stopped dead in their tracks, a silence deader than a graveyard falling over the group as they all turned towards the Doctor. “What?”
Even faced with a strange pudding creature -- which was currently trying to hide behind the upended rocking chair -- Ireland had to smile and shake her head fondly. “Aye, but you’re a strange lad, Doctor.”
Meanwhile Jack shifted his weight on his feet and adjusted his grip on his gun. “So Gorgeous,” he started with a bit of a smile. “Does this happen often and how do we take it out?” The pudding creature just made that curious cooing noise, head-like lump perking up.
“Perhaps holy water,” murmured Luís from the back, “Or perhaps it's like a vampire and allergic to a crucifix.”
“Arthur’s had a couple come to life, but it’s not been this bad before,” Connor offered, eyes trained on it as the pudding creature started inching forward, curious of all these new and varied people. Of course, not being inside the pudding creature’s head as you and I are, dear reader of this incredibly cracky NaNoWriMo project -- and do you think I’ve broken the Fourth Wall enough? It’s going quite like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail with the girls in Castle Anthrax and yes, yes, “Get on with it” -- this curiosity was of course misinterpreted as a malicious advance. Everyone scooted back to avoid being touched with it, not knowing what it would do if it did.
“Elliot,” Douglas growled, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on his gun, “Get Jeanne out of here.”
Orkney blinked, jaw dropping slightly. New Caledonia was busy clinging to Canada, staring wide eyed at the mass, this her first experience with any of the Isles siblings’ (That weren’t the Irelands) cooking. “What?! C’mon Da, why me?! She’s already stuck to… whoever he is!”
“Elliot Allaway, ye know damn well that’s yer brother Matthew, don’t ye be playin’ around now! Matthew can fight better than ye if he’s needed, get yer sister out of here and don’t ask questions!”
Jerking slightly at the sudden sharp tone from his father -- and the glare from France that promised swift invasion and conquering that was not of the enjoyable sort, step-son or not, if even the slightest harm came to his little princess -- he groaned and extricated Canada from New Caledonia’s grasp. “C’mon, Jeanne, Da wants you somewhere safe.”
She wriggled a little, though it was unclear if she was trying to go back to Canada or make her way over to her papas. “Be safe, Papa!” she called back, gaining a small smile and a bit of a wave from France.
“Of course, le caillou, I always am, non?”
And that was when Ireland suddenly stiffened, visibly jerking back. “Iron,” she whispered, in the same way that a person would whisper “anthrax.” She snapped around, nearly hitting England in the face with her hair as she did so. “Someone’s brought iron into me house! Who’s got it?!”
Most of the other Nations and the non-Nations looked at her as if she’d gone mad, her brothers’ -- save England, who was sputtering from his near brush with certain doom at Ireland’s hair -- eyes widening.
“Ye’re thinkin’ iron can defeat it, sis?” Scotland asked, assured now that his little girl was safe. Ireland, however, shook her head and started going through the group.
“Nay, someone’s brought iron into me house and ‘tis killin’ me fae!” She ignored the slight twitch from Jack at the mention of the word fae and the rolling of the eyes from all the other Nations. “Who’s got it so I can be kickin’ their arse right out me door?!”
“Ah, Brigid?” started Luís in that “Ireland’s gone off the deep end, time to try to sound calm and rational” voice. “Don’t you think the fact that Inglaterra’s cooking has miraculously come to life (“’Cause Captaen was pokin’ at it.” “It was research!”) and is attempting to take over your house is a little more important than something killing your… fae?”
The glare Ireland shot at him could have killed fae on its own. “Luís Afonso Santos Valdez, you’ll be shuttin’ your mouth now before I’m sewin’ it shut with me knitting needles. The plastic ones.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“So who’s got it? Who was feckin’ idiotic enough to be bringin’ in something killin’ me security system?!”
Near the back of the group, a hesitant hand came up, holding a cross in the palm. “Um… me, Irlande.” Portugal, Chile, Argentina, and the rest of Portugal’s lot instantly facepalmed, the sound echoing through the room.
“You are such an idiot, che,” grumbled Argentina as Brigid marched her way towards the poor Brazilian. “You know there are rules about iron with this family!”
“Oh shut up, Arianna! It’s hard to tell steel from iron in the dark!”
“I’m not carin’ if ‘tis a cross, be gettin’ it out of me house. Now.”
“Sim, Irlande…” And so Brazil sulked his way out of the house, presumably heading for the rental car the Latin Americans had driven from Dublin Airport.
“You have faeries for security?” Finally, Ianto asked the question that was swirling in everyone who wasn’t just dismissing it as the usual hallucinations of the siblings’ minds. Brigid shrugged as she took up her position at the front of the group again.
“They like me, aye. Llewellyn there, he has a dragon.”
Everyone took that moment to stare at the quiet, mild-mannered Canada-prototype of a Nation, who only smiled mischievously back at them.
“Now that the metaphysical crisis is over,” England grumbled, rolling his eyes but privately glad that no one had called him further on this being his fault, “can we get back to the actual crisis?”
“Yes, get on with it!”
“…Did you guys hea--”
“No Spain.”
“Just like the time you reduced the goose to charcoal, aye Arthur?” Connor asked, ginning as he cocked his gun, making the poor pudding creature, who was hopelessly confused by this point -- not that anyone could tell the poor thing was feeling anything, as having pomegranates for eyes does not make one terribly expressive -- inch closer to the TARDIS as though looking for protection. France just looked at England in horror.
“Mon Dieu, how could you ruin such a delicacy, mon ami?”
England of course started sputtering and cursing again. “You eat snails your argument is invalid!”
“Oui, but at least snails are edible, mon cher. Your cooking is not.”
“Belt up France.”
“Can we just kill the bloody thing?” Scotland and Connor asked in unison.
“Oi, you can’t just kill it!”
“Now is not the time for the ‘It’s genocide’ argument, Doctor,” grumbled England, barely sparing a glance for the put out Time Lord, watching the pudding monster continue towards the TARDIS. “It’s not some brand new species, it’s a mucked up Sussex Pond pudding that thanks to my sister’s… whatever Harkness is… poking and prodding at it, it’s come to life!”
“Can we stop blaming this on me when you’re the one who apparently can’t cook, huh?!”
“And Lyle and the Doctor were poking it too!”
“Yes, that’s very helpful, Connor. The point is, it’s not like it’s important or anything, it was a mistake, pure and simple, and it’ll be handled just as we always handle things like this.”
“So you admit your cooking keeps coming to life.”
“Belt up Connor!”
“He is right, England.”
“Belt up Spain!”
“You know, Neil and I are snipers,” Lyle suddenly offered, apparently quite tired of either the bickering or not sleeping. Really, it was sometimes difficult to tell.
“Yeah, I can get it right between the… pomegranates… and we can all go back to bed.”
“But we can’t kill it! It’s a whole new creature!”
“It’s one of Brows’s cooking failures.”
“Belt up Prussia!”
“It’s still alive! It’s the only one of it’s kind!” The Doctor gestured at it, having put away his glowy screwdriver thing, manic as always. “Poor thing, he’s overwhelmed; it’s all these people running around with swords and bright shiny things… no, wait, that’s Lord of the Rings. Who said that… younger of the Hobbits, big blue eyes…”
“Elijah Wood!”
“Yes! That’s it, thank you America!”
“Fuck yeah!”
“Aillil! East Timor’s still in the room!”
“…Oops.”
“Still, my point stands, new creature, can’t kill it!”
“Ah… Doctor?”
“Yes Neil?”
Neil just pointed at the pudding creature, which by this point was snuggled up as tight as it could get against the side of the TARDIS, and somehow looking quite content doing so. Everyone followed his finger, eyes widening at the sight.
“Doctor? What’s it doing?”
“…It appears to be… cuddling the TARDIS,” offered Ianto after the Doctor just seemed to stand there, rather slack jawed.
The silence was as sudden as if Russia had stepped into a room. A few eyes drifted from the highly content pudding creature to the Doctor, as though afraid of what he might do.
“Well,” he finally said, scratching his head. “First time that’s happened.” He tilted it to the side, sizing up the situation. The pudding creature -- which was probably going to end up with a name at this rate -- just further settled in, making a very pleased cooing noise.
“…Then we are not killing Angleterre’s latest culinary abomination?” Around France, everyone started slowly lowering their weapons, though America and Jack kept a steady eye on the creature.
“Apparently not,” grumbled Connor, glaring at the creature. The creature, of course, paid no mind, content as it was. In fact, it seemed to be about to fall asleep, bored of the humans and Nations with the guns and the bright shinny things and really, it could absorb garbage and use it to make itself larger, did it really need to fear them? Well… they were a rather loud bunch, and that did bother it a bit.
Portugal felt a tugging on the hem of his shirt, glancing down to see the wide eyes of East Timor. “Sim, Fatima?”
“Can… I name it?”
Silence was going to start charging the Nations a flat rate, expenses, plus hazard pay at this rate with as much as he was showing up tonight. And under the conditions he was showing up at that. Really, was it too much to ask that he be allowed to sleep at night like everyone else? When Silence was starting to feel like he’d overstayed his welcome and was bloody glad of it, Brigid made a choked off screaming sound and resheathed her knives hard enough a few people worried that they might have left bruises.
“Fine! So we’re nay killin’ it! I’m gettin’ me tea and me whiskey then, someone be startin’ the fire and then we are goin’ to be sittin’ here until we figure out what we are goin’ to do about the livin’ puddin’ that is in me house!” With that she stormed off -- rather impressive for a lass barely past five feet tall and probably didn’t weigh much more than one twenty soaking wet -- for the kitchen, muttering about how her “whole feckin’ house is contaminated now” and some rather vicious Gaelic that the Doctor, Douglas, and Connor had to wince at.
Most of the Nations took that as their cue to be going back to bed, the Italies leading the pack on that one, Romano beating Venenziano over the head with the white flag he’d brought with them and Germany pinching the bridge of his nose, knowing better by now than to get involved in their fights. Argentina and Chile at least hovered around until Brazil got back in, draping their arms around his shoulders on either side of him, glaring at anyone who looked at them funny for it. France set the safety and handed his gun to Scotland.
“I’m going to check on Jeanne, ma princesse is likely worried.” Scotland chucked, holstering his own.
“Don’t be surprised if she’s clingin’ ta ye, she does that after a fright.” France only smiled at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek before going off in the direction of the guest room.
It was with an evil glare at the few remaining Nations and a tea cup that was far more whiskey than tea that Ireland returned. She also shot a glare at France when he came back in the room but softened it when she realized he was carrying New Caledonia with him, who was quickly tucked in between her papas in the nearest armchair.
It was also her reminder to check her temper, if the looks her brother and his… boyfriend… were sending her meant anything. So she only sipped at her whiskey-tea and tried to calm back down, failing each time she glanced at the creature.
“So we cannae be killin’ it,” she said at last, glaring now at the Doctor. “Since ‘tis you who’s sayin’ such foolishness, what do you suggest we be doin’ with it? ‘Cause ‘tis now I’m sayin’ it, ‘tis not stayin’ here.”
“And I’m not making another pudding so you can just forget about that idea right now.”
“So ye admit that yer cooking is vile enough ta do it twice in a night.”
“Belt up, Douglas.”
“Torchwood can’t take it, and I’m pretty sure it’s not in UNIT’s jurisdiction.”
“I can’t take it either, it’d be put in Area Fifty One and that’d be just be a death sentence. Also I think Tony would have a fit if I forced a roomie on him in the basement.”
“You’re actually thinking intelligently about this, America. I’m surprised.”
“H-hey! Shut up England! I can do things right by your standards -- which are way too high by the way, you really should rethink them -- sometimes!”
“I think it needs a name!” piped up New Caledonia. “Can we name it Napoleon?”
There was a moment of everyone staring at the little girl, though a few amused chuckles could be heard. For the first time since waking up Ireland smiled and promptly stole her niece from her papas. “Ooh, I’m thinkin’ we can be comin’ up with a better name than that, aye?”
“…We’re going to name it instead of discussing what to do with it?!” squawked England, looking like he’d just been informed that his sister was converting to Protestantism. Brigid laughed and tucked New Caledonia closer to her.
“Aye, and why not? ‘Tis lookin’ as if ‘twould be the easier thing to be doin’, aye?” She furrowed her brow, thinking. “Needs to be somethin’ East Timor would be likin’ as well, since she was wantin’ to be namin’ it as well.”
New Caledonia’s brow furrowed as well, looking for all the world like a girl version of her Scottish papa. “Well, I think he’s a he!” Brigid nodded, a serious expression on her face.
“Aye, I’m thinkin’ so as well.”
England rolled his eyes at the two, ignoring France who was starting to look rather twitchy at the thought that Ireland had effectively stolen his daughter right from under his nose. “Does anyone have anything even approaching useful to contribute?”
“Could always let New Caledonia keep it as a pet,” Connor piped up with, a smirk on his face.
“Of course not!” France insisted, a horrified expression on his face. “Ma ange deserves far better than some anglais culinary atrocity!”
“Like a pony?” New Caledonia asked, eyes bright and hopeful and temporarily distracted from the naming conversation.
“Oui, oui, of course Jeanne!”
She made a delighted little squeal and bounced a little bit in her aunt’s arms. “Thank you Papa!”
“Francis…” Douglas grumbled quietly, “Do ye have any idea what ye’ve just promised her?” France blinked a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up with the exact details of the conversation.
“…Ay.”
“The sheep would be too spooked by it so I can’t keep it.” Llewellyn frowned a moment. “Ceinwen would probably try to eat it.”
“Finally kill that bloody thing…” England grumbled, thankful that no one heard him.
“Well,” the Doctor finally said, scratching his head, “I could take it--”
“André!” Everyone turned towards New Caledonia. “His name is André! It’s French and Portuguese like Fatima would like and it’s the name of Papa’s saint!”
“André?” France murmured, confused. “But mes saints are Jeanne and Denis…”
“She means mine, Francis.”
“Oh, oui, oui, Andrew, of course!” Douglas rolled his eyes and retrieved his daughter, tucking her back between himself and Francis, ruffling her hair as he did.
“Good choice, daor.”
“André’s a good name, yes. I could take André with me, he seems fond of the TARDIS as it is.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Doctor?” Neil asked, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at the pudding creature, now named André, who was sleeping quite contentedly next to the TARDIS. “It -- I mean, he might get lost in there.”
“He might like that, though,” murmured Lyle, also looking at him.
“If you’re takin’ him with you, he’s stayin’ with you, Doctor. I’m not havin’ him back in me house ever again. Fec-- darn place is contaminated as ‘tis, probably goin’ to have to stay in Dublin while England’s hazmat people are takin’ care of it.”
“Oi, why my hazmat crew?!”
“’Cause you’re the one that cooked him!”
“Right! Then all that’s settled!” The Doctor stood and walked over to André the Pudding Creature -- and that would be his title because that gives me more words is it obvious yet that I’m down to the wire on this thing? -- and knelt down, which drew the creature’s attention. “Hello André, I’m the Doctor and you’re going to be traveling with me now.” André the Pudding Creature made a curious noise (“He sounds like WALL-E!” cheered New Caledonia) and tilted his head-lump. “Yes, and you’ll be with the TARDIS here as well.”
André the Pudding Creature made an excited little sound and started slinking for the front door of the TARDIS, only to be stopped by the Doctor. “Oh come now, we’re not leaving yet! There’s still Boxing Day breakfast to wait for!”
And yet again, Silence paid the Waterford House a visit, this time thinking that maybe he should just move in, it’d be cheaper at least, before Brigid glared at the Doctor. “And ‘tis that supposed to be meanin’ then? Thinkin’ after all this that I’m goin’ to be cookin’ for you lot in me contaminated kitchen?”
“You’re already sitting in your ‘contaminated’ living room,” grumbled England, wincing and grumbling again when Douglas reached over and cuffed the back of his head.
“Well… yeah, kinda,” replied the Doctor, scratching behind an ear.
“…Aye, ‘course I am. Hostess and all that, takin’ care of me family and assorted bits.” Brigid shook her head, but from the tone and weak smile it was fondly. “Aye, now that ‘tis settled, I’m thinkin’ we can all be goin’ back to bed. ‘Tis five now, I’ll be makin’ breakfast ‘round nine for anyone willin’ to be gettin’ up then.”
After that, the family swore to never ever ever again allow England near a kitchen. As for the betting pool Macau had running? Well, Canada made out with a nice check written out for five million Canadian dollars.
Footnotes:
Hetalia: The only fandom where the crack and the porn comes with footnotes. Footnotes, by the way, are the saving grace of the NaNo writer desperate for a word count.
…Which is why this crackfic is 18 pages long. Right. Off we go!
A note about pudding: I’m using this word in the British English sense, meaning any kind of a dessert. Not the wobbly custard-y thing that comes in cups that the Americans call pudding.
Four and twenty blackbirds: Apparently this was a real thing to do. But the thing was, it’d basically be a two layered pie, with the live birds on the top layer and the real pie beneath. Your main challenge would be, of course, to keep the birds from doing their business on the pie below. England… forgot the second layer.
Milk vs. Orange juice: …Sorry Iddy. Needed an idea and that… worked, really.
Ninety plus family members: Hey, do you wanna go through the lists of the Former British, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and probably a few other Empires I’ve forgotten about? Because I’ll tell you right now… good luck. Really.
Íosa Críost agus Padraig Naomh!: “Jesus Christ and Saint Patrick” in Irish.
Sasana: Irish for “England,” apparently meaning “land of the Saxons.” Whereas England itself means “Land of the Angles.”
Fecking: Irish slang for “fucking.”
Tourtereaux: French for “lovebirds,” France’s nickname for Scotland. See the Auld Alliance for more information on France and Scotland’s relationship.
Sussex Pond pudding: A pudding with a whole lemon at its center. See the wiki article for more details. Clearly… England done fucked up good.
Angleterre: French for “England.”
Scheiße: German for “shit.”
Preußen: German for Prussia, Ireland’s name for him.
Russia and Ireland: Headcanon states several things about these two. One: Ireland is one of the few Nations not scared to tears over him. Two: Russia is scared of her, and who can blame him since she’s effectively a sane Belarus. Three: Ireland taught Connor to not fear him as well. See, Ireland and Russia have rather friendly trading terms (Though really, Ireland’s friends with about ninety percent of the bloody world in real life so this really isn’t much of a shock) and in Nineteen Eighteen Russia was the first nation to recognize Ireland as a nation separate from the United Kingdom. Note that this was before Nineteen Twenty Two, when Ireland actually got independence of any sort from the United Kingdom. Headcanon further states that Russia did it half out of fear of Ireland and half to troll England because let’s face it, it’d piss him off so bad.
When Russia’s not terrified out of his mind of her, they have drinking contests. :D
Girl With the Black Velvet Band: A traditional Irish folk song about transportation to Australia during the 19th Century. Sometimes called the Black Ribbon Band, hear the version sung by the Wolfe Tones here.
Irish Step Dance: No guys, it’s not really called Riverdance. That was one show, though a really good show, that was first performed as a halftime show for the Eurovision Song Contest in Nineteen Ninety Four, which Ireland was hosting that year. Riverdance… is actually a colloquial term for committing suicide in the River Shannon. Supposedly it was developed after the Sixteen Hundreds conquest of Ireland (Hi there Cromwell, you fucking bastard) which outlawed music. The form of the dance, with the feet doing all the work and the upper body remaining stationary was created to fool any onlookers from outside the house. How exactly the noise didn’t tip anybody off I have no idea.
Eurovision Song Contest: Exactly what it says on the tin, it’s a song contest open to all the participating members of the European Broadcasting Union. Famous past winners include Celine Dion (she performed for Switzerland, despite being French Canadian) and ABBA.
She’s not bragging, the girl really has won the most out of any participating nation. Seven times. She’s also really won three years in a row, Nineteen Ninety Three, Ninety Four, and Ninety Five. She won again in Ninety Seven, making the record best of any nation in any decade at the Eurovision. Also the record holder more than one win in the perfomer section is Johnny Logan, who also hails from Ireland and has two wins as a songwriter and one win as a performer. The most common second place winner to Ireland? The United Kingdom. I tell you, every year that girl walks into wherever it’s being held that year like she fucking owns the place.
In Two Thousand and Eight, Ireland entered the contest with a puppet turkey by the name of Dustin the Turkey singing “Irelande Douze Pointe.” Some people, I forget where I read this, considered this entry Ireland “throwing” the contest as Two Thousand and Eight was the year the economy started tanking and Ireland would be unable to host due to costs if they won. Generally if a country cannot afford to host the competition (Which has happened only three times) it gets handed over to one of the “Big Four” countries, which are the four countries that provide the most funding for the competition and thus are always guaranteed a place. The United Kingdom is usually the one that takes on the job.
…After the loss of the turkey he returned to Ireland to campaign against the Lisbon Treaty that the European Union was seeking at the time to ratify, saying “They didn't vote for us. Get them back. Vote 'No' to Lisbon.” Yeah. It was a weird year.
Tantchen: “Auntie” in German, Germany’s been calling this since she was the main female figure in his childhood, where she wrote letters to him and effectively raised him alongside Prussia. Can’t tell, can ya?
Laoch beag: Irish for “Little Warrior,” Ireland’s nickname for Germany.
Pai, Irlande: Portuguese for “dad” and “Ireland” respectively.
Ballroom Samba and street Samba are two very different things, obviously. ^^;
The ABC Alliance: This would be the alliance of Argentina, Brazil and Chile. Original name, huh? I honestly don’t know much about it beyond it actually existing since, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, Wiki has apparently never heard of it and the only source I can find for it charges twelve freaking bucks for access. Yeah, no fucking way. So, sorry guys, can’t go much into it.
Argentina: Full name, Arianna Martínez. Arianna due to her Italian heritage. Argentina is pretty much… completely lacking in natives? So the majority of the people there claim Italian or Spanish background there, and it’s also interestingly one of the Irish Diaspora nations, and has Welsh listed as the third most common spoken language there. Of course, Romano is her mama. :> Hetalia OC, belonging to later_days.
Brazil: Full name, Luciano . This one’s all Port’s, though the argument could be made for England to be the other parent due to the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance and all that. Hetalia OC, belonging to tinfoiltennis
Chile: Full name, Candelaria “Cande” Contreras Pérez. Named after both a famous female sergeant from Chile and a shout out to candesceres. All Spain’s, but Romano’s also the mama because… well, it’s Spain and Romano. Lord knows Romano would have done most of the raising anyway since Spain was out doing conquistador-y things. Hetalia OC, belonging to tinfoiltennis.
Samba, tango, and ceuca: Brazilian, Argentinean, and Chilean dances. The samba and tango have Latin Ballroom dancing equivalents. The ceuca is a Chilean folk dance, often seen at religious outings.
Spanga: Italian for “Spain.”
Hermano: Spanish for “brother.”
And now, introducing New Caledonia, who I discovered and promptly made a Nation-tan for in the course of writing this fic. I’m still working out the kinks on her, but her full name is Jeanne Caoimhe Bonnefoy-Allaway. Jeanne after Jeanne d’Arc, of course. Caoimhe comes from the Scottish Gaelic word for “beautiful.” Le calliou is the real world affectionate term for the islands, meaning “the pebble.” Hetalia OC, I claim her.
Elliot: Representing the islands of Orkney, which originally belonged to Norway and were given to Scotland as part of a dowry along with Shetland, who I couldn’t manage to work in. Full name being Elliot Allaway, Hetalia OC, belonging to jaffacakes_mine.
He doesn’t like France. Obviously.
Iron: Do you guys have any idea how hard it is to work out exactly what kind of iron constitutes “cold iron?” Believe me, it’s hard. But yes, iron plus fae equals bad for the fae, I think we all remember this bit of folklore. Ireland refuses to have it in her house or anywhere near her body.
Captaen: Irish for “Captain,” Ireland’s nickname for Jack.
No, you see no Monty Python and the Holy Grail jokes here, where did you get that idea? /shifty eyes Also I must thank tinfoiltennis and kyahryorin for that lovely France and England exchange.
Cienwen: Derived from the Welsh elements cain "lovely" and gwen "white, fair, blessed." Given that the Welsh dragon is red, this is probably some form of irony on Wales’s part. What England refers to is the story of the Red Dragon and the White Dragon, where the white dragon is said to represent the Saxons and the red the people who would become the Welsh. The red dragon kicked the white one’s ass something good. The red dragon is also said to be a harbinger of King Arthur.
Daor: Irish for “dear.” It’s very hard to find Scottish Gaelic so I try not to use it at all, or substitute what I hope won’t be a too different Irish word.
Macau: The Portuguese equivalent to Hong Kong, basically. He’s a bit of a gambler… as an understatement, the casinos in Macau do better than Vegas a lot of the time. Considered “none more loyal” by Portugal, a bit of a daddy’s boy spoiled brat. Answers to either Raul or Jin.