Disclaimers: Hetalia is not mine. The cover isn't mine either (just so you know).
The prompts I worked with were: "Pregnancy, snails, and a beach party." I have no idea what the requester was thinking while she was PMing me *coughalanacough*, but I tried my best with this. (Snails...? Really?) So, um, pregnancy is in abundance, there is a mention of a beach party; and snails... well, you'll see ;)
WARNINGS: pregnancy, fem!Canada (because I cannot/do not write M-preg - ever), and poor attempts at British insults. Not a lot of romance, actually.
Bun in the Oven
America walked through the halls of the White House, whistling merrily. For some reason, his boss called and demanded to see him in the office as soon as possible. He sounded really freaked out, so of course the hero wasted no time in speeding through the roads and coming to the President's rescue.
A couple of stops at McDonald's totally didn't slow him down.
Disregarding the proper etiquette England tried to teach him so many years ago, he flung the doors open and grinned at his frazzled President. "Hey boss! S'up?"
And then he noticed the other occupants of the room.
England was sitting in one of the couches, glaring at him with undisguised rage. To his left was Canada, who was sporting a dazed and worried expression while fiddling with her beret. France took the spot on Canada's other side and gave America a slightly lecherous grin. Canada's Prime Minister was sitting in one of the armchairs, looking very much like Canada – that is to say, dazed and worried.
England was the first to yell. "You bloody wanker! How dare you! How dare you!"
"I dare what?"
"Don't you 'I dare what?' me! You know perfectly well what you did, and if you don't take responsibility for it right now, God help me, I will – "
"Ohonhon, l'Angleterre, calm down. Your shrill voice might just deafen everyone in the room."
"Oh, shut up, frog! If you're not going to take this seriously – "
"I am taking this seriously." France grinned again. "I am very happy for her."
England let loose a string of curses. "Gah!"
The President cleared his throat. "Please take a seat."
"Yes, boss." He sprawled onto the remaining armchair, all the while trying to think of what he had done to piss off England and get Canada's boss involved.
"America," the President said carefully, "do you remember what you did about three months ago?"
"three months ago?" America hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I got those new video games from Japan – "
"Anything significant?" the President prompted.
"I don't know..." He brightened. "That beach party in Hawaii!"
A look of understanding (and even more rage) dawned on the Englishman. "So that's where you two were..."
The President shot him a look and turned back to America. "Go on."
"Well, um, a lot of things happened. I taught the Netherlands how to surf; I stole Hungary's pan and blamed it on Prussia; me and Russia had a drinking contest..." He frowned at the looks everyone was giving him. "What?"
England let loose yet another round of curses. "Twit! Do you not remember – " It seemed England was, surprisingly, too angry to continue. He just sat there, trying to calm himself down by mentally castrating America over and over and then throwing in the frog for good measure.
Canada buried her face in her hands.
"I really don't know what you're – " And then it clicked. "Oh! You mean that night I finally took Canada's vital regions?"
The still-silent nation let out a small squeak behind her hands.
France laughed. "Congratulations, l'Amérique! And another one for – "
His former colony elbowed him in the stomach – hard. He winced. "Ah, it seems she wants to stretch this out for as long as possible."
America frowned. "Stretch what out?" He studied his northern neighbour, who looked like she might die of shock and embarrassment. "What? Was the sex really that bad? I thought you enjoyed it!"
England rolled his eyes. "Idiot..."
Canada frantically shook her head. "It's not that."
"So the sex was good?"
"... Yes."
"Ha." America beamed. "Knew it. I am awesome."
England couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and got into America's face. "You dimwitted prat! You sodding git! I thought I told you to stay away from my Commonwealth! But nooo, you had to satisfy your carnal needs by banging Canada, out of all the nations invited to your bleeding party. But! You didn't stop there! No, you had to make everything even more complicated by not thinking through the damn consequences and just going right at it like hungry rabbits!"
"Whoa, Iggy, take a chill pill – "
"I'm not done yet!" he screamed. "Did you stop and think about all the things I told you when you were younger? No!"
"I try not to remember what you told me about sex when I was younger..."
"I told you to be careful, but did you listen? No!"
"But condoms weren't even invented back – " America cut himself off, eyes widening. Ah, it seemed he was finally getting it. "Wait, you don't mean that – "
"Of course I bloody mean that! Canada. Is. Pregnant. And you – you, Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America – are the father."
America took a moment to take it in.
Canada looked at him nervously.
Their bosses glanced at each other cautiously as if trying to confirm that indeed, this was happening.
"I blame your country," the Prime Minister muttered to the President.
"Me too," he sighed back.
"In seven months, there will be another America running around," England mumbled to himself, finally spent. "Dear God help us all."
France winked at him. "Ah, but at least the blessed child will also have Mathilde's genes, non?"
"I... I..."
"Think of it this way, l'Angleterre: we're going to be grandfathers!"
That seemed to have done it for England. He fainted.
America followed shortly after.
Canada unconsciously rubbed her tummy, trying to find any signs of the upcoming bump showing. According the pregnancy book France had recently gifted her, it took about three to four weeks after her, um, last menstrual period, for her to actually become pregnant. She had now been carrying the... child... for about eight weeks.
Eight weeks.
There had been a living thing growing inside of her.
For eight weeks.
The thought nearly made her pass out, but that wouldn't be very productive. America and England were still out and France had taken it upon himself to cook for all of them after driving them to America's nearest house when they got kicked out of the President's office (apparently, the President and the Prime Minister had to talk about how the current situation could affect their nations).
England stirred.
Canada jumped to her feet and knelt beside the British man lying on the living room floor.
Canada would have taken both of them to the rooms upstairs, but France had insisted on carrying both of them.
"You are pregnant, ma chérie," he scolded. "Do not strain yourself more than you have to."
France hadn't been feeling particularly generous to the two nations and so had decided to dump them on the living room floor.
At least it was carpeted.
"England?" she whispered.
England moaned.
She shook him lightly and was rewarded with a pair of green eyes staring at her blearily.
"... Where is the twit?"
"He's still unconscious." She waved a hand at the man beside him.
"Good." He stood up and kicked America. "Oi! Wake up, wanker." When that didn't work, he snatched a nearby newspaper and whacked him on the head – painfully.
"Oww!" America shot up and rubbed his head. He glowered at England. "Iggy! What the hell?!"
"You deserved it."
"I – Okay, maybe I did." He turned to Canada, who was still kneeling on the floor with them with an unreadable expression. "Canada, I'm really sorry. Well, not sorry for you getting pregnant – that's awesome! I mean, not awesome if you don't want it..." He trailed off.
"Bloody idiot."
America continued, "I thought it was a one-time thing – "
"One-time thing!" England stood up and punched America in the head. "One-time thing! Premarital sex is bad enough, and now you're telling me – "
"England," Canada sighed. "I – It's okay. We we're drunk. Um, well, he was drunk – "
"For the love of – " England rounded on America. "Have you no shame?"
"Most nations are shameless," came the reply.
"That's not what I mean!"
"Then what do you mean?"
"Pregnancy before marriage! That is unacceptable," England scolded him. "Girls these days are getting pregnant more and more and without husbands to help them through it. You better take responsibility and marry her before – "
"What?!" came the response from the North American nations.
"Are you insane?" America said in disbelief. "We're not going to be a joint empire like Austria and Hungary used to be, you know."
"Not like that," England said in frustration.
"Good. 'Cause even though it'll be fun seeing Russia's face if we tell him we're the biggest country now, I don't think my boss – and Canada's boss – will be all that happy."
"My citizens are still wary of you 'Americanizing' them," Canada put in.
England threw his hands. "Fine, fine. Don't get married. Just... Just help each other out, okay?"
"C'mon, England, of course we'll do that! We're really tight anyway."
"Food is ready~" France called from the kitchen.
"The frog is cooking?!" England shrieked. "No! I am not eating anything he cooks!"
"We're not eating anything you cook," America pointed out.
"I made des escargots~!"
"Snails!" England looked green. "And you say my cooking is bad..."
"Snails aren't that bad," Canada objected. "They taste like chicken."
"Good enough for me." America stood up and rushed to the kitchen.
England and Canada followed, with the former grumbling about "damn French delicacies" and "don't know what the meaning of 'normal' is."
"It does taste like chicken!" America exclaimed in amazement, examining the glob of snail on his fork. "Hey, where'd you get snails, anyway? I don't think they sell those at the groceries."
France winked. "I have my ways."
England had refused to touch his plate on the grounds that "there are snails in there, for God's sake!"
"So," America said, "how does this pregnancy thing work?" He sounded like he didn't just faint from hearing that his now-lover was pregnant.
"I'm on my eighth week," Canada whispered. She consulted the book. "Um, common discomforts become very noticeable..."
"No no!" America put his hands over his ears. "No details, please! Not right now. How is this going to work? Like, do you have to stay at my house? Am I supposed to be doing anything? Are you supposed to eat snails? Oh my god, you ate snails, the baby's gonna turn into a snail and then it's gonna die and – " Cue hyperventilation.
Father America mode has been activated.
"Shut up!" England slapped him on the head. "The baby is not going to turn into a snail. My God, is there something wrong with your educational system?" He took a deep breath and turned to Canada and America. "Here is what you will do: America, you will stay with Canada for the duration of her remaining seven months. You will treat her appropriately and no stupid behaviour. I know it's hard, but do try your best."
France took over. "Canada will not be going to any meeting – "
"Papa!"
" – and l'Amérique will be taking over her work. By that, I mean representing Canada during meetings – yes, that includes La Francophonie, l'Amérique, so start learning French – and doing all of her paperwork."
"What?" America cried. "She can do her own paperwork; it's not like she can't move her hands – " He cut himself off at England's glare.
"This is all your fault," England growled. "So you will do everything to make sure it goes as smoothly as possible."
"But – "
"America!"
"Fine," he said sullenly. He shot an apologetic look at Canada. "Sorry. I'll do all the work, I promise."
"I can help you," she mumbled back. "It's not like I can't move my hands. England, I can still travel, so I can attend a few more meetings until I take, um, ah, a m-maternity leave."
"Oh, everyone will be so overjoyed," France sighed.
It was extremely rare for a nation to get pregnant. Most of the time, they just pop into existence when their countries form, but there were very, very few actual countries that were born with parents. The Italian brothers were one example.
"Everyone will be so nosy," England sighed.
Naturally, pretty much everyone will stick their noses into where it shouldn't be. England was contemplating on putting wards around Canada's house to keep intruders – and Russia – away from the house. And the country, for that matter. Hm, he might need help for casting a spell that big. Norway might help him, and he could ask some of his brothers –
Or America and Canada could just increase their security.
Yeah, that should be good enough.
And so, the rest of their impromptu family meeting went on and ended as expected: England and France trying to strangle each other and America and Canada trying to pull them apart.
"Don't worry about our baby," America assured Canada while holding onto England's collar, "it'll be fine. I promise I'll do everything I can to – "
"Damn right you'll do everything you can!" England yelled.
" – make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Thank you," Canada murmured, her arms still wrapped around France's torso.
A certain red-eyed nation peered through the window, all the while muttering, "Damn American bastard, invading her vital regions before the awesome me..."
END
Yep, l'escargots do taste like chicken. Trust me, I've had it before. They're not all that bad once you got over the fact that you're eating snails.
Really sorry for the crappy ending; I couldn't think of a way to finish it off nicely.