Breakfast at Wales's

[starsandauras]

Title: Breakfast at Wales's
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia/Torchwood
Rating: PG
Summary: Breafast at Wales's goes... about as well as you would expect when you get the five oldest British Isles together and food is involved. Kid!canon
Timeframe: Second week in April, 2011
Word Count: 9148, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents, references to the Irish Revolution, a few slurs but nothing very serious I should think, strange breakfast foods.


Wales yawned, stretching his arms as he walked into the kitchen. He heard the sound of cutlery and crockery in there all the way from his bedroom as he was waking up, and knew the sound meant either very good things or very bad things. But with his little sister in the house, he decided this was the sound of very good things. Which was why he took his time getting out of bed, still a bit chilly of a morning and there really wasn’t any reason to rush. Why would there be? It wasn’t as though England or Scotland had beaten Ireland to the kitchen, they never did. In fact, the only people who ever had were Connor or himself.

Which was why, when he saw a blond head standing in front of the stove instead of a mass of red waves, it was like a fist to the stomach. The impossible had happened: England had beaten Ireland to Wales’s kitchen and was cooking breakfast. Best to approach this cautiously, as the end of the world had to be nigh. “Bore da,” he said as neutrally as possible, setting a kettle on for tea.

“Morning,” England grumbled back, spatula poking at… something in the frying pan in front of him. Wales didn’t want to hazard a guess at what it was supposed to be nor what it actually was. “You’ve got milk, right?”

“Ie, of course,” Wales managed, taking cups out of the cupboard, getting them ready for tea. “Woke up early?”

“Eh,” was the intelligent response from his younger brother. “Not really.”

“Ah.” He chanced a look into the pot that was sitting on another heating element, glad that the contents of that at least looked like food. Cockles, in fact. “Connor up?”

“No, he’s still passed out last I saw.”

That wasn’t anything unusual, Connor hadn’t been a morning person… well, nearly ever in his whole life. Which was why it was so rare for him to beat their sister to the kitchen. And thinking of that, he sighed, modulating his voice so it wouldn’t sound too accusatory. “And Brigid?”

“Bathroom.” As though on cue, the sound of retching could be heard down the hallway. “She’s been like that for the past hour or so.”

At England’s blasé tone of voice, Wales narrowed his eyes, the picture of elder brother annoyance. “And you’re leaving her like that?”

England waved his hand -- thankfully not the one holding the spatula, which had bits of… it almost looked like what once was scrambled eggs stuck to it -- and kept his face blank. “Douglas is with her, not my problem.”

“Oi, runt! We can hear ya!”

Well, at least Douglas sounded angry on behalf of his twin. “Bore, chwaer,” Wales called down the hallway.

“Dea-maidin, deartháir mhór,” came a choked voice back. One that still tore at Wales’s heart, no matter how many times he heard it. He was slightly mollified when he saw England flinch out the corner of his eye, however.

“Very much dislike Harkness right now,” he muttered under his breath, England smirking as he caught it. “Think you can handle some tea, chwaer?” he called, eyebrow raising as Connor stumbled into the room, hand running through sleep mussed hair.

“Wha’s wit’ all th’yellin’?” he asked, accent thick in his voice. He blinked when he heard the muffled sound of sick. “Douglas go drinkin’ las’ nigh’?” he asked, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“That would be our dear, never hung over or seasick or having a stomach upset sister,” England grumbled, all but stabbing the charred eggs. Connor blinked at him again, eyes wide and fully awake now, turning them on the eldest sibling of the lot.

“Seriously?”

Wales shrugged, glancing back down the hallway. “Chwaer?”

“Aye, jus’ a mo…” came the scratchy voice, making Connor’s eyebrows jump up.

Over the sound of weak scuffling (“Nay Dubhghlas, nay carryin’ me!” “Like hell!”) he walked over to the other brothers, wrinkling his nose at England. “Give me that,” he grumbled, dumping the pan into the sink and ignoring England’s indignant squawk. “Go make toast or something,” he added, gesturing vaguely towards the cabinets. “Llewellyn, still got that laver bread?”

“Ie.”

“Heat some up.” Grumbling at the mess England had made he started cracking fresh eggs into a fresh pan. “Fucking Harkness,” he added, looking towards the hallway.

“Here here,” England agreed, plugging the toaster into the wall. Wales shook his head, thinking that his brothers were far too vicious -- Especially Connor -- in their hatred for him.

And then Ireland and Scotland walked in, Ireland leaning against Scotland as though he was the only thing keeping her upright and paler than even ghosts or water, hair hanging in scraggly tendrils down her back, some sticking to her face. And looking at his sister like that, knowing why she looked like death warmed over, he found himself rethinking that, that maybe his brothers were right in calling for the American’s blood. “You should have let him carry you,” he murmured softly, resisting the urge to do so himself as he joined them on Ireland’s other side, especially when she felt like she weighed nothing when she leaned into him.

“Nay that bad,” she insisted, letting them guide her to the dining room table to sit down. “Still able to be walkin’.”

“Ye’re lookin’ like shite, Erin,” Douglas groused, glaring at Ireland for effect and at Wales for the amused smile he wore at Douglas’s attitude.

“Douglas, go get her tea,” he instead said softly, running his hand through Ireland’s hair, frowning at how clammy her face felt. “And a damp dishcloth.”

“Don’ be fussin’ over me,” she muttered, leaning into Wales’s hand. “Jus’ be bringin’ me tea, ‘twill be passin’ soon.” Wales shot Scotland a look over Ireland’s head that sent him off to the kitchen. “’Tis fine I am, honest.”

“You look like you’re halfway back to the Famine, chwaer,” Wales murmured, frowning when she didn’t even glare at him. “Shouldn’t you be past the nausea stage?”

She made a little noise that sounded negative, only just remembering not to shake her head. “Not havin’ to be,” she whispered, smiling weakly up at Douglas when he set her tea in front of her. Her hands were halfway to the cup when suddenly her head shot up, forcing a whimper out of her. “Who’s in the kitchen?”

“The babbies,” Scotland said, running his hand up and down Ireland’s back and passing the cloth to Wales. “Connor’s doin’ most of th’cookin’ though, nay need to be worryin’.”

“Don’t worry,” came Connor’s voice. “I tossed Arthur’s attempts at eggs in the bin.”

Slightly reassured, Ireland reached out for her tea and took a sip, Douglas’s jaw clenching at her shaking hands. “How hung over are you?”

“Not enough to matter, thank you very much!” was the indignant response.

“Enough to tell England to make toast,” Wales whispered mischievously, more to Scotland than the other twin. He regretted it instantly when Ireland stood up, a little wobbly on her feet.

“I’ll be in there in a moment,” she called back, before squeaking in surprise as Douglas pulled her into his lap. “Dubhghlas! What are you doin’?!”

“Pesterin’ me twin sister,” he grumbled, tightening his arm when she tried to pull away. “Now listen t’me, Erin! Yer in nay shape t’be standin’ in there!”

“Don’ you be telling’ me what I cannae be doin’, Douglas Allaway!” She squirmed, trying to pull away from him, sputtering when Wales started dabbing at her face with the cloth. “Be puttin’ me down, you haggis eatin’ French lover!”

“And bein’ proud o’it!” he retorted, grinning widely, even when she jammed an elbow into his chest. “Wee bit harder, sis, ye dinnae e’en wind me!”

“And that’s why you’re not in any shape to cook right now, chwaer,” Wales soothed, running the cloth over her eyebrows. “Standing for that long, in that heat when you can’t even knock the breath out of Douglas?” He smiled kindly at Ireland, her glaring at him weakly through her mess of hair. “We just don’t want you falling or passing out because of it.”

“Like you nearly did when you pulled the cockles out of the refrigerator,” England pointed out, poking his head through the door. Wales blinked at Ireland while Scotland frowned at her. “Stubborn fool,” England grumbled, coming more fully into the room and crossing his arms. “Still trying to do things you shouldn’t when you’re not in any shape to.”

“’Tis capable I am of puttin’ some blasted seafood on to be cookin’!” she spat, green eyes aflame. “’Tis fifteen weeks pregnant with twins I am, not a helpless idiot like blasted Italy! And we’re still lettin’ him boil a pot on a stove!”

“Because as idiotic as your dear Germany’s boyfriend is, he’s not clumsy enough to fall in!” England spat back, clenching a dishtowel in his fist.

“Like you’re bein’ or Conchobhar’s bein’ when the two of you have been havin’ ‘nough to drink?”

“Oi!”

“Stay out of this Connor!” England called towards the kitchen, not taking his eyes off of his still struggling sister, which was something Ireland found far too uncomfortably familiar.

“I will when she’s not bringing me into it!” Connor called back before making a hissing noise and the sound of clattering pans rang out. “Everythin’s okay!”

“He’s going to destroy my kitchen,” Wales muttered, sighing slightly.

“That babby’s less likely t’do it than this babby,” Scotland returned, grinning evilly at the scowl that passed over England’s face. “Ah ah, Erin, pullin’ hair is th’lasses’ way of fightin’, yer better than that.” He took hold of her hand and held it tightly but gently in his.

“Be lettin’ me go blast you!”

“Getting a bit more color in her face,” England observed, eyebrow raising at Wales.

Wales gently felt at her face, frowning slightly. “Forehead’s still clammy,” he replied, shaking his head.

“Not in any bloody mood to be dealin’ with you lot like this! I’m nay an invalid!” She shot a glare at Wales. “You’ve seen me worse.”

And wasn’t that just a sword to the chest? Because she was right, he had seen her worse, that week she’d stayed with him after she told him about it. Nights and several mornings of sitting on a cold tile floor holding his little sister as she either retched into the toilet or cried and shook like a kitten that had never had an upset stomach before. Once she’d gotten sick in the sink because she hadn’t made it to the toilet in time, in fact. His little sister, paler than snow and eyes glassy from a combination of lack of sleep, frustration, and tears, curled up tight against his chest trying not to move for fear of sparking off another round of sick. His little sister, who he had seen grow up since she was a bump in Mother Britannia’s stomach that he didn’t understand, from a tiny thing helpless in his arms to a proud woman who could and would protect anything and everything she cared about, to the point of warfare if that was needed and she would relish in it.

And it was because of that, because she was his little sister and it tore at everything in him, that he pressed a kiss to her temple and pressed the cloth to the back of her neck. “Ie, I have, and I’m not interested in seeing that again.”

Both the Isles Twins’ jaws dropped, Ireland’s because she’d probably expected that to work on him, and Scotland’s… well, almost immediately after that he growled and glared at his sister. “Ye’ve been worse than this?”

“Only was havin’ to be sleepin’ in the bathroom one night,” she mumbled, suddenly jerking forward when she felt Scotland’s arms go lax. He only just barely tightened them in time to keep her firmly in place.

“And that only proves my bloody point!” England crowed, frowning at her. “You can’t do this, not today!” Perhaps it was only clear to Wales, but from the way his cheeks flushed it was easy to see that he was more concerned than he was pleased about being proved right.

“Arthur get your bloody arse back in here, the toast is burning!” The smoke coming from the kitchen proved that statement true, and Wales flinched at it. England rolled his eyes and finally turned around and stalked back to the kitchen.

“Then why don’t you deal with it I’d like to know…”

“Because I don’t happen to have four arms!”

Wales sighed, but relaxed when the smoke thinned out and eventually disappeared. “Going to have to air out my kitchen,” he mumbled, raising a bushy eyebrow when he turned back to Ireland and found that she’d gone limp in Scotland’s lap. Even Scotland looked a little confused by it. “Chwaer?”

“Be lettin’ me go,” she whimpered, head bowed. “Ceadaigh dom an dul,” she repeated, somehow looking even smaller than her five foot nothing frame usually made her look. “Please.”

All was still a moment, then Scotland suddenly opened his arms wide and up into the air, as though touching his sister was suddenly as lethal or more than a faerie touching cold iron. She only sat there, perched on his lap. “Shit, shit, was I touchin’ yer wrists?” he asked, panic clear in his voice and his eyes. “Bloody fuck, I’m sorry Erin!”

They’d forgotten. So intent on making sure she was kept safe and they’d forgotten. Wales tucked a strand of hair behind Ireland’s ear, keeping his touch light and quick. “Maddau i ni, chwaer,” he said softly, not doing anything else for fear of how she would react.

“Please don’ be doin’ it ‘gain,” she whimpered, still perched on Scotland’s lap, almost as though she was afraid to move.

“Nay, ‘course not Erin,” Scotland murmured, a hand reaching out for her hair before jerking back from it without making contact. “I won’t be, promisin’ ye that.”

Taking a chance, Wales reached out to cup Ireland’s cheek -- which England had been right on, she was starting to get a bit more color in them -- and was pleased when, after a moment, she leaned into his hand instead of pulling away from it. “Dim cadwyni,” he whispered, resting his other hand lightly on her arm just above her wrists. “Dim heyrn.”

Ireland finally looked up at them, eyes gone wide. So wide that the emerald iris of her eyes was only a faint ring of green around large, dark black pupils, and it made Wales wince inwardly and a bit glad that Scotland couldn’t see them. “You’re promisin’?” she whispered, a slight tremor running through her. “Nay iron or stone?”

“No, none of that,” he whispered, glad that when he said that she slid from Scotland’s lap to his and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He tucked her head under his chin and loosely wrapped his arms around her in return, throwing a sharp look at Scotland over her shoulder. “We’re both so sorry, chwaer.”

“Stupid,” she mumbled into his chest, and he had to smile at that, that little sign that she was starting to come down the other side already.

“Not stupid at all, just a bad memory,” he soothed, rubbing her back gently. “You’re not the only one to have them.”

“Miss me drink.”

At that Wales had to sigh, seeing that Scotland was shaking his head. “I’ll find you some whiskey candies soon,” he promised, puling back enough to lean down and bump her forehead with his. “People will understand why you’re so frazzled once you tell them.”

“Then ‘tis the public curiosity I’ll be for them,” she grumped, curling up loosely in Wales’s lap. “Bein’ pestered with questions whether I’m feelin’ up to them or not.”

Scotland snorted, eyes flicking to the side. “If they are I’ll be beatin’ th’shit out o’em for ya.”

She laughed at that, making both brothers relax. “You’ll be gettin’ seconds, dependin’ on who’s doin’ the askin’,” she replied with a grin, though it was a tired one. “Not so helpless I cannae be handin’ Feliciano bits of himself if he’s askin’ the wrong questions.”

“Not that hard t’be handin’ either o’th’Italies their arses,” Scotland joked, pulling Ireland over for a hug, relieved that she didn’t stiffen up against him.

“Oh aye, but ‘tis always satisfyin’.” She rubbed at her eyes and arched her back like a cat, stretching a bit. “Goin’ to be headin’ back to the bathroom,” she started, pulling herself out of Scotland’s arms. “Just soakin’ me head a bit, and I’ll be back. And I’m makin’ meself a fresh cup of tea when I do, you’re not sayin’ nay to that.” The glare she sent both of them clearly ended that sentence with “’Cause I won’t be lettin’ you.” Pressing a quick kiss to Wales’s cheek, she headed off.

Once she was out of earshot, Wales sent another of his “Big Brother is Annoyed” looks at Scotland. “Already told France, didn’t you.”

Scotland grinned sheepishly. “’Least ‘twasn’t Terra?” he offered, rubbing the back of his neck. And Wales had to agree with that, of the two, Terra Australis really was the bigger gossip.

He still didn’t have to like it. “She will be furious with you once she realizes, you do know that?”

Scotland waved a hand, rolling his eyes. “Oh aye, but ‘twill be more furious with Francis she’ll be.” He grinned again, this one just a little bit evil. “Th’daft bastard’s been a perfect target for her temper ‘fore, she’ll be forgettin’ ‘bout me completely.”

Wales shook his head fondly, running his fingers through his hair. “You really do know your sister too well, Douglas.”

“Well I should,” he retorted without heat. “Been knowin’ her since ‘fore we were born.” He grinned up at Brigid when she came back into the room. “Feelin’ better Erin?”

She smiled at him, looking like she always did, eyes bright and smile real, and some color in her face that was actually there or she’d slapped into her cheeks while in the restroom. “Oh aye, much better.” She ruffled his hair as she passed by on her way into the kitchen.

“Oi, what are you doing in here?!” squawked England, unseen but obviously with a scowl on his face from the way his voice was pitched.

“Makin’ meself some blasted tea, what’s it lookin’ like, England? I can be doin’ that, you’re knowin’!” There was a clatter, one that sounded of silverware being dropped. “Oh for the love of all the saints Conchobhar, don’ be lookin’ at me as though ‘tis risen from the grave I have!”

Scotland slid a glance over to Wales. “Sounds excitin’ in there, doesn’t it?”

Wales pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to shove Arthur and Connor out of there after the first few explosions.”

“’Tis Erin, how many explosions c’n there be bein’?” he asked, confused look fixed on his face.

In answer, Wales only held up a finger. Almost on cue, there was the sound of a heavy bag hitting the floor. “Bloody hell, Brigid, how do you knock over the flour from all the way across the room like that?!” was the indignant yell from the youngest of the brothers.

“That would be how,” Wales said simply, resisting the urge to just drop his head to the table and leave it there until they brought out the food of varying edibility. He winced at the sound of eggs hitting the floor, followed quickly by twinned screams of “Brigid!”

“…’Tis a wonder how she’s able t’be cookin’ half the damn time,” Scotland agreed, eyebrow raised at the commotion. “’Specially when all she’s doin’ is makin’ a cup of tea.”

“Just be glad she can cook, I suppose,” Wales sighed as a stream of Gaelic curses and several English ones came from the kitchen. “Otherwise we might have all starved after Mother died.”

“Or poisoned ourselves,” Scotland nodded in agreement, wincing at a particularly painful Gaelic swear. “Oi Erin,” he called out, “’Tis our mother yer insultin’ there too, when you’re callin’ the babby that!”

“Please don’t destroy my kitchen, brodyr, chwaer,” Wales pleaded, even though he knew it would probably go unheeded.

“If he wasnae actin’ like one I’d not be callin’ him that,” Ireland called back, more falling cutlery echoing through the house. “And if ‘tis gettin’ destroyed ’twill be the fault of the blasted Tan!”

Scotland snorted at that, eyes twinkling. “Haven’t been hearin’ that one in decades,” he chuckled, broad smile on his face.

“…She’s certainly better, no questioning that,” Wales agreed, eyes wide and eyebrows well into his hairline.

“…Looked like she was ‘bout t’snap in two this mornin’,” Scotland grumbled suddenly, making Wales glance at him. “Paler than one o’America’s ghosts, honestly.”

“And then we go and make it worse by setting off her Tower memories,” the elder agreed, frowning at himself as another clatter, this one resembling a pot lid falling. “Can’t even blame Harkness for that one.”

“Brigid! No, you cannot have raw cockles!”

“Can’t have cockles at all!”

“By all the Old Ones, one mornin’ ‘tis hardly goin’ to be doin’ anyone any harm!”

Wales winced again while Scotland ran a hand across his face. “Erin, listen to them! Ye can be puttin’ vinegar on yer laver bread!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ne’er tell that one o’yers she’s likin’ this happened.”

“Ie, if you won’t I won’t.”

“Make your bloody cup of tea and get out of here!”

“Goin’ t’kick them out yet?” Scotland asked, drinking from Ireland’s first cup.

At the crash of what sounded like a box of oatmeal, Wales groaned and stood. “Ie, probably should.” Scotland only chuckled and shook his head as Wales braced himself for whatever he would find upon walking in.

What he found… was a bag of flour square in the middle of the floor with the remains of three eggs dotting the white powder, rings from where he assumed the pot lid had fallen. Brigid had a white stripe running through her hair from the flour, Connor’s shoes were covered in it, and it looked like Arthur had broken part of the oatmeal’s fall judging from the fact that he was shaking grains out of his hair. “Arthur, you’re cleaning this up after we eat.”

“Bloody hell, why me?! She made half the mess!”

“Bloody Tan, cannae be takin’ responsibility for your own idiocy, ‘tis your own fault the oatmeal fell on your head!” Ireland stood next to the tea kettle, proving the saying that a watched water containing vessel never boils. Connor looked like he was two minutes from slamming his head against the wall and never stopping. And the food… well, at least it looked edible, if not appetizing, save for the laver bread, which Brigid must have rescued. And the cockles… well, it was hard for even England to ruin a shelled bivalve. He moved over to them and started searching the pot for ones that hadn’t opened during cooking, pleased to see that Connor had managed to save a handful of uncooked ones for Wales. “You were the one pokin’ through that cupboard.”

“Your fault for the flour and the eggs!”

“Brigid needs to eat more than she needs to clean,” Wales said firmly, in a tone that said “I’m the oldest, this is my house, what I say goes, and you will not argue with me or I’ll get the dragon.”

England, of course, didn’t listen. “What are you doing taking her side?!”

“Llewellyn’s always taken her side when it comes to you, remember?” Connor said almost happily, the contrary boy. “Really think he’d stop now?”

“My house, I make the decisions,” he intoned, deciding that apparently the tone needed spelling out for them, ignoring the laugh that came from the dining room. “Even if Arthur’s in it.” The kettle chose that moment to finally whistle, making Ireland wince slightly. She hummed happily enough though, as she made her cup of tea -- mint from the smell of it, he supposed her stomach was still a little topsy-turvy even if she didn’t let it show if she was going for that one. “Connor, help me carry all this out, and keep an eye out for eggs.”

“I can be helpin’, least carryin’ out the toast!” Ireland offered, and with eyes that hopeful, Wales felt his resolve melt.

“Ie, that will do.” He dumped the cockles into a large plate, glad that from the smell of it Connor hadn’t used white wine in cooking them. “Arthur, you get… whatever that is on the back burner.”

“Blood sausage,” Ireland offered up, wrinkling her nose at how burned the toast had ended up. “Thinkin’ least ‘tis what ‘tis supposed to be bein’.”

England’s face turned scarlet and he started to sputter. “It’s bacon rashers, as you should know, bog-trotter!”

“Ah, that was me, remember Arthur?” Connor piped up, smiling condescendingly and patting England on the head. It was a good thing he did as well, as Ireland looked close to yanking the knife she kept in her hair out and stabbing England someplace vulnerable and sparking off another Anglo-Irish War. “C’mon, it’s not worth it.”

England glared at the Northern Irish Nation suspiciously. “What’s got you taking your sister’s side all of a sudden?”

“Not taking Brigid’s side, I just know to behave myself when in the house of the brother with *a dragon* at his disposal.” Connor pat England on the head again and shot him a “will you shut up already” look while he balanced a plate of sausages in his other hand. “Let’s just eat, alright?”

England just puffed up and huffed at the younger one, but he picked up the plate of laver bread and followed the rest of them into the dining room.

Now, it had been said… frequently… that the Isles with the exception of the Irelands could not cook, and that sadly they’d passed this on to America. Even Connor’s cooking ability depended on how much blood he had in his alcohol system, so really it was just Ireland herself that could cook. Still though, that meant one thing: All six siblings had stomachs of steal and could digest nearly every sort of food that could be set in front of them. Well, Sealand had a stomach of iron, but that really was a semantics issue.

There was no ceremony, no hesitation, just four brothers and one sister jumping into the food, as of course everyone had to beat everyone else to the food before it all got snatched up.

“Someone pass the oatcakes, please.”

“Be tossin’ o’er the white puddin’, babby.”

“Ah, you lot were cookin’ bubble and squeak! ‘Tis wantin’ some of that I am!”

“Chwaer, pass the vinegar over.”

Ireland did and then reached over Scotland’s side to nick a piece of toast, only to find mostly burned pieces left. “Oh aye, I’m seein’ what you lot are doin’, gettin’ all the good toast to yourselves.”

“Just scrape the char off, it’s fine!” insisted Connor, reaching across the table for the extra crispy bacon. “Eaten enough of that toast to know.”

“They’re sayin’ charcoal’s good for yer nausea, aren’t they?” Scotland added, about to steal an egg off of Ireland’s plate, only to smile innocently and back his hand away when Ireland sent him a glare and clenched her fist purposefully around the handle of a fork.

“’Twould be scrapin’ the char off if ‘twas more to the bread than char,” Ireland said pleasantly, with a smile as thin as a razor’s edge. “As ‘tis, ‘tis lookin’ more like ash in the form of bread.” With that, she reached over and stole one of Scotland’s pieces, biting into it triumphantly.

“Oi! So ye c’n be nickin’ me own food but I cannae be nickin’ off with yers, ‘tis that what’s goin’ on here?!” Scotland growled, fierce scowl on his face.

Ireland looked down at the toast with a sort of clearly faked innocence, and then back up at her brother, that evil grin back on her face. “Well, I am eatin’ for three, and you’re me brother, you’re havin’ to be helpin’ take care of me, aye?” She reached over for some clotted cream and dumped a generous dollop on the bread before biting into it again. “’Sides, you should be bein’ happy I’m eatin’ ‘tall, aye? Specially after this mornin’?”

Scotland only grumbled, poking at his food. She was right and he hated it. Hated when he didn’t come out on top. But… well, he did have to admit it was nice seeing his sister acting like herself again, screaming at England and threatening to crack one of the plates over his head if he didn’t give up that last piece of farl, and England screaming back that he bloody well would not, just because she was eating for three he was in no way going to let her steal his food! Connor just rolled his eyes and nicked the farl off England’s plate and handed it to Ireland, Ireland grinning brightly at her littlest brother.

That of course devolved into England screaming at Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland poking back, Ireland trying to nick a cockle and Wales lightly swatting her hand. Connor reached out, this time grabbing a bit of toast. He grinned widely, a smile that everyone knew but no one would say he got from Prussia, and took a solid bite out of it before putting it back on England’s plate all casual as you like.

Both twins laughed brightly, leaning on each other’s shoulders as England’s face passed through various shades of red before settling on a violent shade of vermilion tinged with puce and started sputtering, never seeming to settle on any one thing to say. “Speaking English there, Arthur?” Connor asked coolly, buttering his own piece of toast and then coating a bit of marmite on it before taking a bite out of it.

“I hate you in your soul…” he muttered under his breath, sullenly cutting the bitten part of his bread off and slathering his own helping of marmite on it, grimacing as he ate. This only made Ireland and Scotland laugh more, Ireland sharply cutting it off with a hacking fit. Scotland sighed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and let her muffle it in his chest.

“’Tis alright I am,” she choked out, coughing again before clearing her throat and shaking her head. “Just me lungs decidin’ they’re wantin’ the attention me stomach’s takin’ from them.” Her hands shook, Wales noticed, as she reached out for her cup and drink from it. “Honest and true, only a wee bit tight in me chest and a wee tickle in me throat.”

Connor huffed, spearing one of his tomatoes with a fork and sandwiching it between two tattie scones. “Sure and those kids love the constant bouncing, must be like driving over one of Alfred’s gravel roads.”

“You’re well knowin’ I’m nay likin’ it either.” She nibbled on her own tomato, shaking the vinegar container over her laver bread generously. Doctors are tellin’ me I’ll be gettin’ me own back when one or both are havin’ hiccups.” A drop of vinegar landed on her hand and without a thought she licked it off, making a pleased sound that made England’s cheeks go even redder and made Connor’s eyes go wide either in shock or disgust. She blinked at them, obviously completely unaware that she had done anything. “What’s botherin’ you lot? Actin’ like Terra’s just run through the room utterly and completely starkers.”

England scowled and grabbed the vinegar from her, drizzling it over his helping of cockles. “Do us a favor? Keep that sound in your bedroom.” Ireland blinked at him for a long moment before flushing brightly and covering her face with her hands.

“Sorry, ‘tis sorry I am,” she mumbled, face still scarlet. “Wasnae realizin’ how ‘twas soundin’ like… just… I’m really likin’ vinegar now, specially on chips.” She suddenly stuffed a piece of laver bread in her mouth, probably to keep herself from rambling. Scotland raised an eyebrow at her.

“Cravin’s already?” he asked, a touch of disbelief entering his voice, reaching over to steal a tomato off of Connor’s plate, just barely avoiding having the other Ireland stab his hand with his fork.

Brigid tilted her head as she looked at the vinegar bottle, tongue darting out to catch the oatmeal crumbs around her lips. “You’re thinkin’ ‘tis what ‘tis?” she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, having forgotten to tie it back that morning after pulling out the braid when she woke up. “Would that be happenin’ yet?”

England huffed. “You’re the one with the books, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you know?”

“Hadnae been thinkin’ to be lookin’, you blasted Tan!”

“Making up for lost time with that one, chwaer?” Wales asked mildly, cutting off any response England might have dredged up from the years of the Irish Revolution and Irish Civil War. It had the added benefit of making Ireland step back and calm down, and thankfully she didn’t look anywhere near as… cowed as she did when they’d been holding her down.

“’Tis a good insult, ‘tis sad I am ‘tis fallen out of use in both me people and in me daily life. Thought ‘twould be a fine day to be brinin’ it back, since he’s such the carin’ wee brother, carin’ so much ‘bout me he’ll be lettin’ me be sick alone for ten minutes ‘fore he finally gets me twin, or carin’ so much that he’ll be insultin’ someone that, as much as he may be dislikin’ it, I’m carin’ ‘bout. Such a wee carin’ blasted Tan!”

At the glare that Wales proptly shot t him, the way his expression morphed from “Big Brother is Very Annoyed” to “Big Brother is About to go Call the Dragon, You Have Ten Minutes to Live” England winced and backed down from whatever tirade he was going to unleash or any thoughts of violence that popped into his head. “Don’t hurt me, I’m getting married to Portugal tomorrow!”

It was a lie. It was such an obvious lie, and everyone knew it. If the two of them really were getting married Ireland would probably know about it before either of *them*. Still, somehow it was enough to have Ireland pause in her tracks and even drop her fork onto her plate with a loud, echoing clatter. “Aye?” she asked, eyes twinkling and smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “’Tis true then, you’re makin’ honest lads of each other?”

“W-well,” England sputtered, reflexively straightening his shirt before going back to his food. “We’re thinking of trying. If we can keep Spain away, you understand.”

Ireland waved a hand and popped another bit of laver bread in her mouth. “Oh ‘tis hardly a difficult thing to be doin’, we’ll just be makin’ it a triple weddin’ is all, hardly any trouble ‘tall.”

England choked on his sausage, Scotland went pale, Connor started cackling as well as any stereotypical witch, and Wales only smiled fondly and started whacking his younger brother on the back as he choked. “Tr-triple?!” England finally managed to get out, voice hoarse and scratchy before taking a long drink of tea. “What daft idea are you spinning around in that clearly addled brain of yours?!”

“Well,” Ireland started, spearing a bit of tattie scone on her fork and pointing at him. “We’ll ‘course be handlin’ you and Portugal, ‘tis obvious. We’ll also be dealin’ with Spain and Romano, ‘tis too long they’ve been dancin’ ‘round each other, well past time for that tango to be stoppin’ and another to be startin’.” She pointed her fork at Scotland. “And then ‘tis the matter of a certain alliance ‘tis older than even yours and Port’s, me dear wee brothers. Time to be makin’ a certain Frenchman do as ‘tis proper and be makin’ a more solid commitment.” To punctuate that statement, Ireland ate her tattie scone with a bright smile on her face.

“Not going to make it a quadruple ceremony and marry Harkness?” Connor asked, nicking one of the raw cockles from Wales’s plate, frowning.

Ireland made a scoffing sound, waving her hand again. “Hardly, ‘tis hardly somethin’ I’m doin’ ‘gain, as you’re well knowin’. And ‘tis not somethin’ that’s needin’ to be done by any meanin’, ridiculous ‘tis.”

“A certain Latin speaking bastard in priestly clothing will have something to say about that,” England grumbled, pushing around his pudding link before stabbing it viciously, as though imagining a certain wrinkled Nation there.

“Oh aye, and?” Ireland asked easily, taking a drink of her tea. “You’re thinkin’ I’ll be listenin’ to him? Nay, ‘course I won’t be. Just be walkin’ in and tellin’ him where he can be shovin’ the very idea, as Ailill would be sayin’.” She rose, heading for the kitchen, putting a hand at her back. “Already been discussed as ‘tis, he’s agreein’ with me.”

“Well what are ya knowin,” Scotland grumbled, reaching over to steal an egg from Ireland’s plate before Wales stared him down. “Th’bastard is havin’ a brain after all.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” England muttered, earning an empty salt pot thrown at his head. Scotland ducked away from the pepper pot that was sent flying in his direction. While Scotland laughed at him, England growled and rubbed his head, turning towards the kitchen… only to earn a flour covered cloth thrown smack in the middle of his face.

“Be lookin’ paler for that weddin’ of yours,” came Ireland’s voice as she ducked back inside, thankfully no crashing noises coming from it while she was in there. “Gettin’ used to wearin’ white.”

Scotland only laughed more, only stopped when England threw the cloth at him. “Out of the two of you,” he grumbled, “you’re the one better qualified for white.”

“Nonsense,” Ireland said as she brought a fresh pot of tea out to top off her cup. “Douglas here’ll be wearin’ his tartan and all ‘tis goin’ with it. France can be wearin’ the white, showin’ his commitment to honor.” She sat down and smiled at her twin, who was wiping the flour off with a thunderous look on his face.

“Thinkin’ I’d be gettin’ some input int’me own weddin’, Erin,” he grumbled. “Nay ‘tis happenin’ anyway.”

“Oh ‘tis sure I am that Francis would be listenin’ to a few knives at his back, wouldn’t you be thinkin’ too?” The way Ireland said it, so innocent and without malice or any sense of hostility for everything that France stood for, and simply because she only wanted what made her twin brother happy and she knew, as much as she disliked him that France was one of those things… Scotland sighed and put an arm around his sister.

“Yer givin’ Francis far too much credit, dear sister,” he murmured. “Nay thinkin’ marriage ‘tis for him, same as ‘tisn’t for ye.”

“Aye, but you’re wishin’ so, aren’t you me brother?” Ireland asked, pressing her forehead against his, looking up at him. “Bein’ with him so long and all.”

“And ye’ve been havin’ o’er five hundred years with that Prussia, ye’re nay thinkin’ o’marriage t’him, are ye?” he asked in return, apparently forgetting about the rest of the family at the table, Connor making disgusted faces at them while they weren’t looking. England suddenly found his bacon quite fascinating and Wales pointedly looked away from them.

Ireland chuckled and shook her head. “Aye, I’m not. ‘Tis neither of us suited for it. But you… you’re suited for it. You’re the marryin’ sort, so I’m thinkin’.” She put her arms over Scotland’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. “When Francis is bein’ good to you, you’re happier than I’m ever seein’ you any other time.” She reached up and took Scotland’s cheek. “All I’m ever wantin’ for you is you bein’ happy. ‘Tis all I’m ever wantin’ for any of us.”

Scotland chuckled and tightly hugged Ireland in return. “Me dear sweet sister,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Better than most people, aye ye are.”

“Considerin’ some of the company we’re keeping that’s hardly difficult,” England groused, well past done with the sentimental shite. “Prussia, Germany, Harkness, Turkey…”

Ireland laughed and shook her head as the twins pulled apart, Scotland’s cheeks aflame, him mentally cursing his skin tone. Ireland went back to her tea, smiling at it. “Any chance or excuse you’re gettin’ to be insultin’ me Captaen or me Preußen, aye me wee brother?”

“I don’t need a chance or an excuse. Prussia’s been horrible since the moment he appeared, and especially horrible for you, encouraging you and your already bloody ways.” England frowned, eyebrows somehow not as bushy as his sister’s knitting together. “And as for Harkness… well. You hardly know him, he’s worse than France most of the time, and he’s just simply insufferable.”

“Mm, I was sufferin’ him just fine,” Ireland said easily, a certain grin coming to her face as she quirked an eyebrow at England, grin getting wider as England flushed brightly and started sputtering. “English, me brother, sure I am you can be managin’ that.”

“Keep your filthy mind to yourself! That’s hardly proper breakfast conversation!”

“Are you really thinkin’ so? Seemed proper ‘nough when I was discussin’ such things with Preußen or Sadiq over… oh, tea. Maybe ‘twas ‘cause we were takin’ it naked.” That only served to send England into another round of sputters, Connor half joining him, half gagging and turning the slightest bit green around his ears. “Quite enjoyable really, Arthur you really should be tryin’ it with Port, leadin’ to such interestin’ times.”

Wales smiled indulgently and gently placed a hand on Ireland’s, drawing her attention. “Not to agree with Arthur,” he chastised lightly, still smiling, “but he is right. Better said at a different time.”

Ireland tilted her head at Wales a moment, then shrugged. “Aye, alright then, I’ll be stoppin’ if you’ll be lettin’ me have one cockle. One ‘tis hardly doin’ any damage, and ‘tis sure I am Mother was eatin’ them just fine when she was carryin’ the lot of us and she wasnae havin’ any doctors tellin’ her what she could be eatin’.”

Wales sighed, shaking his head. “Chwaer…”

“Please, deartháir mhór?” She widened her eyes, turning on her old puppy dog stare that she hadn’t used in years. She hadn’t needed to, Wales would nearly always let his little sister get away with nearly anything she wanted. And if he didn’t she went ahead and did it anyway.

So he sighed again and took one of the cooked ones to set on her plate. “Just the one,” he agreed, setting the vinegar in front of her as well. “But not any more than that.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Since you shouldn’t be having any at all.”

She sat up further and pressed a return kiss to Wales’s cheek. “Best deartháir mhór,” she said brightly, pulling the meat out with a fork and effectively drowning it in vinegar. Wales shook his head and started piling the empty plates next to him on the table, half just in case tempers flared again, that way there would be less ammunition, and half to make cleaning easier. “Aye but I’ve missed these,” she said, with a look on her face as though she’d just taken a bite of cheesecake.

“Shellfish at breakfast,” Scotland muttered, shaking his head. “Only th’three o’ye.”

“Ah, there’s nothing wrong with cocos,” Wales said offhandedly, eating the last of his raw ones while Ireland looked at him with thinly veiled jealousy. “Cocos and bara lafwr, a very satisfying part of breakfast.” With that, he ate the last of his laver bread and added his plate to the pile of dirties. “Connor, Arthur, are the two of you done?”

Connor hurriedly scrapped the last of his eggs and bacon onto his piece of farl and handed the plate to Wales while England, always trying to show up his siblings, daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin before dropping it on his plate and taking half of Wales’s pile himself. “I’ll take part of that for you.”

“Don’t forget,” sang Ireland, voice lilting up and down, “you’re havin’ to be cleanin’ all that flour, eggs, and oatmeal.” She laughed at the murderous look on England’s face, nothing like how she’d started the day, eyes bright and color in her face. She added her plate to Wales’s pile. “I’ll be helpin’ you with the washin’ up. And we can be draggin’ Douglas ‘long to be dryin’ and puttin’ everythin’ up, as all he’s been doin’ is eatin’ today.”

“Oi!” Scotland started, after scraping his plate into his mouth. He swallowed quickly and glared mildly at Ireland. “I was sittin’ with ye while ye were bein’ sick for near on an hour! ‘Tis doin’ somethin’!”

“Oh aye, ‘tis true! Then Conchobhar can be doin’ the puttin’ everythin’ up, Everythin’ ‘tis bein’ fair. Now be comin’ ‘long, scoot.” Ireland waved them all towards the kitchen. “Oh, and Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Even the twins are thinkin’ your cookin’ ‘tis terrible.” She laughed brightly as she caught the plate England sent towards her head. “As is your aim, dear brother. ‘Tis your eye still weak from wearin’ that eye patch from your piratin’ days?”

Footnotes:

Headcanon says that Ireland is the only one of the family that can consistently cook well, Northern Ireland is around as good as his sister but tends to screw up more often than not because of his drinking. Wales can get a few things right (mostly laver bread and some soups and stews) but always screws up Welsh Rarebit. England’s cooking we all know, and Scotland... well, this is the guy that invented haggis you know. Figure that Scotland and England are the worst cooks of the family.

Bore da: “Good morning” in Welsh, according to Google Translate.

Ie: “Yes” in Welsh

Cockles: Often cooked for breakfast in Wales, they’re also rather well known in Ireland in part because of the song Molly Mallone. “In Dublin’s fair city where the girls are so pretty... She rolled a wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow crying cockles and mussels, alive alive-oh.” It’s a bit of a Shoot the Shaggy Dog song thanks to the ending. They’re heart shaped shellfish and considered to possibly be the origin of the phrase “warms the cockles of my heart.” They can be eaten raw or cooked, usually by boiling or steaming with vinegar.

Chwaer: Welsh for sister

Dea-maidin, deartháir mhór: “Good morning, big brother” in Irish.

Headcanon also states that Ireland doesn’t get drunk all that often and when she does there’s usually no hangover. She also doesn’t get motion sickness (Sea sickness, for those unaware, is just the ocean version of it, it’s possible to get sick like that in a car) and as Nations don’t get sick unless it’s economy related and I’ve yet to see stomach upset as part of that, Ireland’s never had stomach flu or food poisoning. This is part of why her morning sickness is so bad, she’s simply not accustomed to hanging over the side of a toilet and having her guts squeeze like this. Also the fact that it’s twins and they tend to make such things worse.

Dubhghlas: Irish variant of Douglas.

Laver bread: A bread like object made of purred or minced laver, a sort of seaweed mostly found near Wales, which is mixed with oatmeal or other binding agent and fried. Said to be a delicacy and at least one person has called it “Welsh caviar.” One of Ireland’s favorite foods.

Babby/Babbies: Scottish slang for baby/babies.

I have seen a kitten get a stomach upset for the first time, and trust me, it’s not pretty. Poor girl started howling and tried to run away from it when she started getting sick and was shaking like a leaf in the wind for around half an hour afterwards.

Ceadaigh dom an dul: “Let me go” in Irish.

Due to Ireland’s time in the Tower of London, not only does she have scars from the iron manacles burning into her skin and from when she would fight them and rub her wrists to the bleeding point, she also has distinct issues with being restrained or anyone touching her wrists. She also refuses to wear shirts that don’t cover her wrists, though this has lessened ever since Prussia gave her a pair of silver bracelets for her birthday last year. At any rate, a touch of post traumatic stress is in play.

Maddau i ni: “Forgive us” in Welsh.

Dim cadwyni: “No chains” in Welsh

Dim heyrn: “No irons” in Welsh

Terra: Our Australia, as played by Ichi. At the time she made Aussie, there wasn’t a canon (male) one. We’ve continued to use her simply because we like her. Her name comes from the original name for Australia, Terra Australis. She’s pretty quick to spread secret and happy news, as we learned in Fel’s fic “The High Sea for Which No Compass has Yet Been Invented”.

Conchobhar: Irish version of “Connor,” the name Ireland gave Northern Ireland when she found him.

As always, the price of Ireland’s ability to cook is to make a huge bloody mess of any kitchen she steps into. The eggs are pretty much a running gag with us now.

Brodyr: Welsh for brothers. Honestly I rather wonder just how much our English word for brother is influenced by the Welsh. Brawd (the word for the singular form), near as I can tell is pronounced very close to “bro” and let’s face it, the plural looks very close to brother.

Tan: A derogatory Irish name for the British, dating back to the post-Easter Rising, Irish Revolution era, taken from the khaki uniforms of the British military. This is in part where the drink “Black and Tan” got it’s name, from the half-military half-police force brought over from England who wore half military uniforms (the Tan) and half police uniforms (the Black) and were considered very ruthless in dealing with the Irish.

Doctors will tell you pregnant women can’t have any shellfish at least during the early stages of pregnancy (I’m not totally sure about the later stages though it’s probable that they still can’t) due to foodborne illnesses and mercury levels. Tuna is another seafood they can’t have, though if I remember right salmon in small amounts is allowed. And yes, seaweed is safe.

Astute readers with good memories will catch the blink and you miss it reference to the day the twins were conceived (Hint: Flour).

Blood sausages: Just as it says on the tin, this was sausage (Also called black pudding) made from a filler that was usually oatmeal, and animal blood. The sausage was cooked until the blood congealed... yeah, I don’t know how anyone eats it after knowing all that either.

Bog-trotter: Derogatory name for the Irish on the British side. Comes from the amount of bog lands in Ireland. Connor technically qualifies for a literal interpretation of the slur as he was found crawling along a peat bog.

Bacon rashers: The British way of saying bacon strips.

Bubble and squeak: A part of the traditional English breakfast made from leftover vegetables, potatoes, and sometimes meat left over from a roast dinner made the night before. A common way to use up leftovers, and very popular during the Second World War. Named from the noise it makes as it cooks.

White pudding: Similar to black pudding but without the blood. Still kinda gross as pre-1990s it would commonly use sheep brains as a binding agent. Generally used in traditional Scottish or Irish breakfasts, also popular in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland (Areas of Canada with heavy Irish and Scottish immigration).

Farl: A triangle shaped piece of soda bread (or at least it is here, generally refers to any sort of flat bread or cake), usually made by cutting something round into quarters. Commonly used in Northern Irish breakfasts (Called Ulster fries) and some Scottish ones.

Marmite: Ah, marmite. Either you hate it or you love it, made from yeast from brewing beer. A sticky, dark brown paste, I’m told by my English friends who do like it that it’s best eaten on a piece of bread that is already buttered and you have to spread the marmite thinly, due to the saltiness of it. Don’t eat it straight out of the jar. The Aussies have something similar called Vegemite, but it’s not as intense a flavor.

Tattie scones: Scones made from mashed potatoes (no milk) and salt, to which flour is added and the dough is then cooked on a griddle or baked. Very common in Scotland and Isle of Man and usually served in the traditional Scottish breakfast.

Vinegar, in general and on fries (UK: chips) is one of Ireland’s cravings here. The others are two flavors of pocky: the Milk and Honey and the Sweet Potato flavors.

“the matter of a certain alliance ‘tis older than even yours and Port’s”: Ireland references the Auld Alliance here, one of the oldest alliances in the world, beating out the Anglo-Portuguese one by a century or two. Of course France boasts about this (both Nation and country) to this day, celebrating the anniversary of the Auld Alliance on the same day as Bastille Day, when the Storming of the Bastille took place, starting the French Revolution.

Kilts are generally reserved for formal occasions now in Scotland, mostly weddings and funerals, that sort of thing. John Barrowman wore a kilt for his wedding (Raised in America but born in Scotland), and it’s the TV Tropes page image for Man in a Kilt. And he’s looking quite good in it if I dare say so. The tartan Douglas would wear is more than likely the Carrick District plaid, but I’m not totally sure, Allaway is a hard name to pin down, especially considering all the spellings. Of course by being a Nation he could probably wear any tartan he damn well pleased, but that’s beside the point.

I know it seems like a lot of food here, but you have to remember this is feeding five (seven if you count the babies) people, one of whom is effectively a teenage/early twenties male, and combines elements of traditional English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, and Northern Irish breakfasts. Big family, lots of food.

Cocos: Welsh for cockles and I hunted down the Welsh wikipedia to confirm this one, I know it’s right.

bara lafwr: Welsh for laver bread. Also confirmed by wikipedia.

The bit at the end: Sorry Miri, I had to.