14th November, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
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Normally, France would not object to Scotland grabbing him by the lapels and shoving him up against a wall – quite the contrary, in fact – but, then again, Scotland didn't normally just stand there afterwards, leaning all of his not inconsiderable weight against France and crushing him into the brickwork at his back.
"Mon coeur." France placed both hands flat against Scotland's broad chest, and pushed as hard as he could. "Much as I appreciate your spontaneity, I am finding it a little difficult to breathe."
Eventually, Scotland did move back a step, but instead of kissing France, he rested a forefinger against his lips and whispered, "Be quiet. We don't want to attract its attention."
Well, this was new, but France was nothing if not flexible.
"What's attention?" he asked, playing along. He swirled his tongue around the tip of Scotland's finger with the intention of drawing it into his mouth afterwards, but Scotland pulled it back before he could.
"I've never seen one this far south before, but it's a Cait Sith," Scotland said, so quietly that he was little more than mouthing the words. "Vicious buggers. But don't you worry, mo cridhe, I'll deal with it."
Judging by the anxious cast of Scotland's expression, France deduced that this wasn't actually intended to be a game, and that he honestly believed that there was some mythical beast strolling through Edinburgh.
"Really? A Cait Sith? I didn't see anything."
Scotland rolled his eyes. "Well, you wouldn't, would you? You don't have the Sight. But it's right there –" he gestured towards the street behind them – "bold as brass."
France lifted himself up on his toes so he could peer over Scotland's shoulder at the spot he'd indicated. There was nothing there save a couple of empty crisp packets blowing around in the breeze, skipping lazily across the pavement, and a small black and white cat, which was watching them warily with wide golden eyes.
"That," he said, "is a cat."
Scotland shook his head vigorously. "Naw, it's a Cait Sith. You can tell because it's got a spot of white, right here." He tapped the centre of France's chest, just below his collarbone, and then frowned, eyes crinkling at the corners as he narrowed them. "Hey, how come you can see it?"
"Because it is a cat, Scotland," France said slowly, a little worried now that Scotland might have taken a nasty blow to the head. "A perfectly normal, ordinary cat."
"That's no ordinary cat, France. It's huge, and –" Scotland blinked a couple of times, and then squinted at the cat, closing one eye and then the other as his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "And it's a hell of a lot closer than I thought it was."
France sighed, and held three fingers in front of Scotland's face. "How many fingers?"
Scotland squinted at them too. "Is this a trick question?" he asked after a moment.
"You had two glasses of lager with dinner. Two." France folded down one finger to emphasise the number. "How can you possibly be this drunk?"
Scotland grinned, loose and sloppy, and France wondered how on earth he'd failed to realise that he was far from sober. "Well, after we'd eaten, and you, Ruth and Sarah went off to talk about shopping –"
"Nineteenth century French literature," France corrected sharply, folding his arms across his chest. "But I can understand how easy it is to confuse the two."
"When you went off to talk about shopping," Scotland continued, undeterred, "me, Duncan and Steve went to out to Duncan's garage to look at his new motorbike, scratch our balls, drink Steve's fucking lethal home-brew, and other awesomely manly things."
"Awesomely manly things?" France repeated, lifting one eyebrow questioningly. "I think you've been spending entirely too much time with Prusse of late, mon cher."
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Notes:
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- The Cait Sith (fairy cat) is said to haunt the Highlands, be ferocious, as big as a dog and completely black, apart from one white spot on its breast.