[Fanfic] - Knowing Me, Knowing You
Title: Knowing Me, Knowing You
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Rampant idiocy, crossdressing, second-hand embarrassment.
Summary: Denmark shows up at Sweden's, drunk, dressed as a woman. A very familiar woman. Well then.
Notes: Belated Birthday present for Bice, and the first day of Ficmas!
He’d ignored - twenty-four calls, and he turned the phone off with the twenty-fifth - not long after, the doorbell chimed. He sighed and made his way to the door, because it was Denmark and maybe a slam to the face would get him out of his life for the night. He hoped.
With a grunt he opened the door, saw Denmark dressed as -
Slammed the door closed and tried to wipe that image from his mind.
It didn’t work, on either count. If nothing else Denmark was persistent, and his doorbell was probably going to break if he let it go on long enough. Plus, it sounded like a horrible rendition of Denmark’s national anthem.
He sighed again and opened the door to Denmark cradling his nose and his beer, dressed as - hm, he wasn’t sure. Or rather, he didn’t want to be right, if his guess was right.
“Whatcha wearin’?”
“Sver!” Denmark brightened and stepped right on in, still cradling both nose and beer with a huge grin on his face.
Sweden sighed (again) and stepped aside, closed the door, resigned himself to another night of babysitting.
---
He didn’t ask why Denmark was dressed in a white tunic and silver boots. Definitely didn’t ask about the wig. He wasn’t about to ask about the makeup. Denmark bounced on the couch and grinned between griping about his nose and something about how Sweden should get a better doorbell, maybe one of those with a song like blah blah blah - he tuned it out, but all said Denmark wanted him to ask about the outfit. So he didn’t. Didn’t even comment on it, even though he wanted to tell Denmark he looked hideous.
“Sit there. I’ll getcha water.”
“No!” Denmark leaped up from the couch and stumbled right into him - Sweden pushed him back down to the couch.
“Y’need water.”
He shuffled to the kitchen, filled up a glass of water, and came back wondering why Denmark was dressed like that despite himself - got hit in the face with a wig.
Re-adjusted his glasses and glared down, picking a fake blonde hair out of Denmark’s water.
“See, Sver - “ Denmark took the glass and gulped it down, then grinned up and kicked at him - Sweden backed away and regretted it when he nearly got flashed.
“I was thinkin’!” Sweden groaned, Denmark continued, “Yer too serious! Got that stony face, it’s gonna get stuck -”
“Don’t see why that means yer here.”
“Glad ya asked!” Denmark stood up and clapped him on the back, nearly falling into him.
“I did-“
“So put this on!”
Sweden looked down at the bundle in his hands. Shook it out to reveal another tunic-dress-thing.
“Mm. No.”
“C’mon, Sver!”
“Mm.” Still a no.
“I know ya like ABBA - “
“Mm.” That, too, was a no.
“An’ I thought, hey, we can sing along - “
“Dressed as th’ women.”
“‘Course! They’re th’ ones what usually sing.”
“No.”
“I’ll be the one from Norge’s place, an’ you can be th’ one from yours! S’perfect!”
“S’stupid.”
“Nah, Anni-Frid married a German! S’perfect!”
Sweden rolled his eyes and mumbled something about how Denmark would want to be a German princess as Denmark shoved his case of beer into his arms.
“Start drinkin’ an’ we’ll have a great time, just singin’, you an’ me, Sver!”
…
“No.”
Denmark apparently heard a “yes” and stumbled to the stereo, rummaging around - Sweden yanked him back by the collar and Denmark squawked that he was ruining the outfit, c’mon Sve, don’t be a spoilsport -
ABBA came on.
“I’ll watcha dance.”
“If it gets ya t’smile!”
“Mm.”
That was a yes.
---
For a while, it was funny - Denmark stumbled along and sang off-key, Sweden drank and smiled on the inside - the longer he kept a straight face, the harder and stupider Denmark danced, but eventually it started bugging Sweden.
“Yer gettin’ it wrong.”
“Yeah?” Denmark lurched into the couch and threw something at Sweden. “Show me!”
Sweden glanced down at the dress-thing, back up at Denmark - “No.”
Denmark grinned and leaned back, crossing his arms with that smirk. The one where he’d won, and soon would be laughing and saying something stupid that made Sweden want to whack him over the head.
“Knew it! Too much of a wimp t’wear it, eh, Sver?”
“…” He knew it. He wanted to whack Denmark over the head.
“Ya are! ‘Fraid I’ve got better thighs, aren’t ya?”
“S’weird.” By that he meant Denmark was weird.
“They’re your music, why not?”
If that was supposed to be a convincing argument, it wasn’t. “I jus’ said.”
Denmark shot him a confused look and ruffled his own hair, knocking his wig off.
“So ya want me to sing th’ whole album by m’self?”
It was ABBA: Gold - they still had ten more songs and six more beers to go. Sweden frowned over at him, weighing it in his mind. There was no way Denmark would give up, and Denmark was doing it all wrong. He could do it better. And judging by the way Denmark was swaying around to “Money Money Money”, Denmark wouldn’t remember much tomorrow. Fine.
“Stay there.”
Another hand clapped over his shoulder as Denmark all but fell onto the couch and crowed. “That’s more like it, Sver!”
He shrugged Denmark off - Denmark finally did fall face-first into the couch - and crept to the bathroom to try on his... tunic. He spent a half second wondering how Denmark knew his size, and came out. He was only going to stay in this long enough to prove him wrong, because if anyone knew ABBA, he did. Not Denmark. They were his.
Denmark looked him over and cat-called. He sent over a glare. He was doing this, kicking Denmark out, and going back to bed. Or perhaps knitting. Probably knitting. Maybe even knitting in bed. His thoughts on knitting by lamplight were brought to an abrupt halt by, who else, Denmark.
“Bet you’re off-key!”
He rolled his eyes because Denmark had been off-key all night, knelt down to scroll to his favorite track - right now, it was one near the end of the disc - felt Denmark run his fingertips down the back of his neck.
“Dan.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop touchin’ me.”
“But ya look nice like that, Sve.”
Then Denmark ruined it all by blabbering about tunics and how it was a damn shame a man couldn’t wear a tunic anymore, y’know? Everyone called ‘em dresses and sometimes a guy just wanted to let it all hang out -
Sweden shoved him over and nearly cracked a smile as Denmark yelped and fell into the couch again.
“Hush. Gotta sing.”
And then he was kicking Denmark’s tunic’d ass back out into the cold.
---
It didn’t work like that, and he should’ve known it wouldn’t. But it wasn’t too bad - Denmark was drunk off his ass, and soon Sweden was feeling buzzed enough not to care too much. He even smiled once.
Denmark saw it and tripped, landing face-first on the floor - and that was enough to make him chuckle.
---
Sweden was just thinking, as one track began to fade away and they caught their breaths for the next, that this wasn’t bad at all - and then he heard it.
“What th’ hell is this?”
“Norge!” Denmark’s face lit up and he started frantically waving to something behind Sweden. “Hey, Norge!” Uh oh. Someone behind Sweden.
The last track started as he turned around and cringed, already blushing because - oh no, it was Norway.
And he could tell Norway was laughing at them. His face was as straight as ever - in fact, he looked annoyed - but he had that look in his eyes - he was laughing his ass off at them.
If he noticed, Denmark didn’t mind in the least. He stumbled over to Norway and clapped him on the back, loudly slurring that he was surprised Norway’d come, after all.
Norway shot him a glare that went unheeded. “Y’like t'have told me ta come over fifty-two times.”
“Huh? That many? I swear I only sent ya - “
Norway elbowed Denmark in the ribs, and that was enough to make him wheeze for breath instead of talk until he was out of breath.
Sweden was trying to shuffle away to the bathroom, but Norway stopped him just by asking where he was going.
“M’changin’,” he mumbled back.
“Y’only got one more track,” Norway pointed out. Sweden could feel Norway holding back a smile when Denmark chimed in that it was true, c’monnn, Sver, they’ve gotta finish!
“Mm.” Sweden didn’t turn around, but crossed his arms anyway. That was a no.
“Denmark’s gotta point. Jus’ the one song, s’all there is now.”
He heard Denmark cheer out his victory, and heard his “oof” as he was elbowed again.
Norway didn't miss a beat. “Won’ even take no photos.”
Sweden began shuffling away. No.
“An’ I’ll buy ya a case-a beer.”
“Hey, Norge! Do I getta beer?”
Another “oof!” from Denmark and Norway muttering “That ain’t even what I said.”
Sweden stopped. Frowned. Considered.
“Two cases, an’ yer a right fool if y’don’t take that.”
A sigh from Sweden, which was as good as an agreement.
“An’ y’won’t take video?”
“Won’t take no video, either.”
“Mm. ‘Kay.”
Pairing: None.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Rampant idiocy, crossdressing, second-hand embarrassment.
Summary: Denmark shows up at Sweden's, drunk, dressed as a woman. A very familiar woman. Well then.
Notes: Belated Birthday present for Bice, and the first day of Ficmas!
He’d ignored - twenty-four calls, and he turned the phone off with the twenty-fifth - not long after, the doorbell chimed. He sighed and made his way to the door, because it was Denmark and maybe a slam to the face would get him out of his life for the night. He hoped.
With a grunt he opened the door, saw Denmark dressed as -
Slammed the door closed and tried to wipe that image from his mind.
It didn’t work, on either count. If nothing else Denmark was persistent, and his doorbell was probably going to break if he let it go on long enough. Plus, it sounded like a horrible rendition of Denmark’s national anthem.
He sighed again and opened the door to Denmark cradling his nose and his beer, dressed as - hm, he wasn’t sure. Or rather, he didn’t want to be right, if his guess was right.
“Whatcha wearin’?”
“Sver!” Denmark brightened and stepped right on in, still cradling both nose and beer with a huge grin on his face.
Sweden sighed (again) and stepped aside, closed the door, resigned himself to another night of babysitting.
---
He didn’t ask why Denmark was dressed in a white tunic and silver boots. Definitely didn’t ask about the wig. He wasn’t about to ask about the makeup. Denmark bounced on the couch and grinned between griping about his nose and something about how Sweden should get a better doorbell, maybe one of those with a song like blah blah blah - he tuned it out, but all said Denmark wanted him to ask about the outfit. So he didn’t. Didn’t even comment on it, even though he wanted to tell Denmark he looked hideous.
“Sit there. I’ll getcha water.”
“No!” Denmark leaped up from the couch and stumbled right into him - Sweden pushed him back down to the couch.
“Y’need water.”
He shuffled to the kitchen, filled up a glass of water, and came back wondering why Denmark was dressed like that despite himself - got hit in the face with a wig.
Re-adjusted his glasses and glared down, picking a fake blonde hair out of Denmark’s water.
“See, Sver - “ Denmark took the glass and gulped it down, then grinned up and kicked at him - Sweden backed away and regretted it when he nearly got flashed.
“I was thinkin’!” Sweden groaned, Denmark continued, “Yer too serious! Got that stony face, it’s gonna get stuck -”
“Don’t see why that means yer here.”
“Glad ya asked!” Denmark stood up and clapped him on the back, nearly falling into him.
“I did-“
“So put this on!”
Sweden looked down at the bundle in his hands. Shook it out to reveal another tunic-dress-thing.
“Mm. No.”
“C’mon, Sver!”
“Mm.” Still a no.
“I know ya like ABBA - “
“Mm.” That, too, was a no.
“An’ I thought, hey, we can sing along - “
“Dressed as th’ women.”
“‘Course! They’re th’ ones what usually sing.”
“No.”
“I’ll be the one from Norge’s place, an’ you can be th’ one from yours! S’perfect!”
“S’stupid.”
“Nah, Anni-Frid married a German! S’perfect!”
Sweden rolled his eyes and mumbled something about how Denmark would want to be a German princess as Denmark shoved his case of beer into his arms.
“Start drinkin’ an’ we’ll have a great time, just singin’, you an’ me, Sver!”
…
“No.”
Denmark apparently heard a “yes” and stumbled to the stereo, rummaging around - Sweden yanked him back by the collar and Denmark squawked that he was ruining the outfit, c’mon Sve, don’t be a spoilsport -
ABBA came on.
“I’ll watcha dance.”
“If it gets ya t’smile!”
“Mm.”
That was a yes.
---
For a while, it was funny - Denmark stumbled along and sang off-key, Sweden drank and smiled on the inside - the longer he kept a straight face, the harder and stupider Denmark danced, but eventually it started bugging Sweden.
“Yer gettin’ it wrong.”
“Yeah?” Denmark lurched into the couch and threw something at Sweden. “Show me!”
Sweden glanced down at the dress-thing, back up at Denmark - “No.”
Denmark grinned and leaned back, crossing his arms with that smirk. The one where he’d won, and soon would be laughing and saying something stupid that made Sweden want to whack him over the head.
“Knew it! Too much of a wimp t’wear it, eh, Sver?”
“…” He knew it. He wanted to whack Denmark over the head.
“Ya are! ‘Fraid I’ve got better thighs, aren’t ya?”
“S’weird.” By that he meant Denmark was weird.
“They’re your music, why not?”
If that was supposed to be a convincing argument, it wasn’t. “I jus’ said.”
Denmark shot him a confused look and ruffled his own hair, knocking his wig off.
“So ya want me to sing th’ whole album by m’self?”
It was ABBA: Gold - they still had ten more songs and six more beers to go. Sweden frowned over at him, weighing it in his mind. There was no way Denmark would give up, and Denmark was doing it all wrong. He could do it better. And judging by the way Denmark was swaying around to “Money Money Money”, Denmark wouldn’t remember much tomorrow. Fine.
“Stay there.”
Another hand clapped over his shoulder as Denmark all but fell onto the couch and crowed. “That’s more like it, Sver!”
He shrugged Denmark off - Denmark finally did fall face-first into the couch - and crept to the bathroom to try on his... tunic. He spent a half second wondering how Denmark knew his size, and came out. He was only going to stay in this long enough to prove him wrong, because if anyone knew ABBA, he did. Not Denmark. They were his.
Denmark looked him over and cat-called. He sent over a glare. He was doing this, kicking Denmark out, and going back to bed. Or perhaps knitting. Probably knitting. Maybe even knitting in bed. His thoughts on knitting by lamplight were brought to an abrupt halt by, who else, Denmark.
“Bet you’re off-key!”
He rolled his eyes because Denmark had been off-key all night, knelt down to scroll to his favorite track - right now, it was one near the end of the disc - felt Denmark run his fingertips down the back of his neck.
“Dan.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop touchin’ me.”
“But ya look nice like that, Sve.”
Then Denmark ruined it all by blabbering about tunics and how it was a damn shame a man couldn’t wear a tunic anymore, y’know? Everyone called ‘em dresses and sometimes a guy just wanted to let it all hang out -
Sweden shoved him over and nearly cracked a smile as Denmark yelped and fell into the couch again.
“Hush. Gotta sing.”
And then he was kicking Denmark’s tunic’d ass back out into the cold.
---
It didn’t work like that, and he should’ve known it wouldn’t. But it wasn’t too bad - Denmark was drunk off his ass, and soon Sweden was feeling buzzed enough not to care too much. He even smiled once.
Denmark saw it and tripped, landing face-first on the floor - and that was enough to make him chuckle.
---
Sweden was just thinking, as one track began to fade away and they caught their breaths for the next, that this wasn’t bad at all - and then he heard it.
“What th’ hell is this?”
“Norge!” Denmark’s face lit up and he started frantically waving to something behind Sweden. “Hey, Norge!” Uh oh. Someone behind Sweden.
The last track started as he turned around and cringed, already blushing because - oh no, it was Norway.
And he could tell Norway was laughing at them. His face was as straight as ever - in fact, he looked annoyed - but he had that look in his eyes - he was laughing his ass off at them.
If he noticed, Denmark didn’t mind in the least. He stumbled over to Norway and clapped him on the back, loudly slurring that he was surprised Norway’d come, after all.
Norway shot him a glare that went unheeded. “Y’like t'have told me ta come over fifty-two times.”
“Huh? That many? I swear I only sent ya - “
Norway elbowed Denmark in the ribs, and that was enough to make him wheeze for breath instead of talk until he was out of breath.
Sweden was trying to shuffle away to the bathroom, but Norway stopped him just by asking where he was going.
“M’changin’,” he mumbled back.
“Y’only got one more track,” Norway pointed out. Sweden could feel Norway holding back a smile when Denmark chimed in that it was true, c’monnn, Sver, they’ve gotta finish!
“Mm.” Sweden didn’t turn around, but crossed his arms anyway. That was a no.
“Denmark’s gotta point. Jus’ the one song, s’all there is now.”
He heard Denmark cheer out his victory, and heard his “oof” as he was elbowed again.
Norway didn't miss a beat. “Won’ even take no photos.”
Sweden began shuffling away. No.
“An’ I’ll buy ya a case-a beer.”
“Hey, Norge! Do I getta beer?”
Another “oof!” from Denmark and Norway muttering “That ain’t even what I said.”
Sweden stopped. Frowned. Considered.
“Two cases, an’ yer a right fool if y’don’t take that.”
A sigh from Sweden, which was as good as an agreement.
“An’ y’won’t take video?”
“Won’t take no video, either.”
“Mm. ‘Kay.”