[Fanfiction] Drabble- Scotland and France
“...Christ, did you get the number of the trolley that hit me?”
“I think, mon coeur, the only thing to hit you was the better part of a Bowmore whisky.”
“What?” Scotland blinked blearily and winced as a stray beam of sunlight assaulted his eyes. There was a throbbing behind his eyes that he found familiar (practically a good friend by now) but a strange pressure in his temples.
France was sitting across the room, deftly peeling an apple with a small paring knife and humming an old tune quietly that Scotland vaguely recognized as a slow rendition of "Aux Marches du Palais". The soft sound of the blade cutting through the fruit’s flesh was accompanied by the ticking of an unseen clock and-
“Francis, you’re upside down.”
“Non, Écosse. That would be you. I would suggest you right yourself before Angleterre herniates his brain seeing the shoemarks you've left on his upholstery."
There was a brief pause while France lifted his gaze to look at Scotland thoughtfully.
"Actually, never mind. As you were."
It took a few moments (several false starts as his stomach threatened to secede or die trying) to eventually pull himself upright, but eventually Scotland was reclining on his younger brother's lounge properly (though his legs proceeded it by several inches).
"...so," he began slowly, "what-"
"Angleterre placed a call to me quite early this morning," France interrupted calmly, "informing me that you had broken into his house and were doing your best impression of Luxembourg in his sitting room. Apparently you refused to unlock the door for anyone who was not me."
Scotland coloured slightly and cleared his throat. "That's not-you ken that's not really-"
"Je sais."
--Side note! That particular version of Aux Marches Du Palais can be heard here!
“I think, mon coeur, the only thing to hit you was the better part of a Bowmore whisky.”
“What?” Scotland blinked blearily and winced as a stray beam of sunlight assaulted his eyes. There was a throbbing behind his eyes that he found familiar (practically a good friend by now) but a strange pressure in his temples.
France was sitting across the room, deftly peeling an apple with a small paring knife and humming an old tune quietly that Scotland vaguely recognized as a slow rendition of "Aux Marches du Palais". The soft sound of the blade cutting through the fruit’s flesh was accompanied by the ticking of an unseen clock and-
“Francis, you’re upside down.”
“Non, Écosse. That would be you. I would suggest you right yourself before Angleterre herniates his brain seeing the shoemarks you've left on his upholstery."
There was a brief pause while France lifted his gaze to look at Scotland thoughtfully.
"Actually, never mind. As you were."
It took a few moments (several false starts as his stomach threatened to secede or die trying) to eventually pull himself upright, but eventually Scotland was reclining on his younger brother's lounge properly (though his legs proceeded it by several inches).
"...so," he began slowly, "what-"
"Angleterre placed a call to me quite early this morning," France interrupted calmly, "informing me that you had broken into his house and were doing your best impression of Luxembourg in his sitting room. Apparently you refused to unlock the door for anyone who was not me."
Scotland coloured slightly and cleared his throat. "That's not-you ken that's not really-"
"Je sais."
--Side note! That particular version of Aux Marches Du Palais can be heard here!