After a New Year's Eve spent celebrating with Prussia, England woke up sprawled on his dining room floor next to a sticky pool of spilled beer. He groaned and squinted his eyes against the piercing afternoon light. Even with his pounding headache and the gaps in his memory, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what had happened. Judging by the unusual collection of empty bottles of various shapes and sizes scattered across the room, they had plundered his liquor cabinet, and then when that ran out (because even England didn't keep an endless supply of alcohol), they had moved on to his collection of potions in the basement.
Some of those potions had rather strange effects, but England wasn't too worried. It took more than magic to hurt a nation and he didn't seem to have cat ears or anything silly like that. He groggily climbed to his feet and wobbled to the bathroom, swearing for the millionth time that he would never drink again.
Sadly, despite all his magical research over the centuries, he had never figured out how to brew a cure for a hangover. England took a couple ibuprofen instead. He also wished that he could do something about his country's proclivity for binge drinking. Surely his nation's high drinking rate was what compelled him to agree to drinking contests with Prussia.
Determined to clean up the mess before any government official came to visit, he grabbed a trash bag and started picking up the empty bottles. An expert of German brews could have identified most of the brands, but England just tossed them into the bag so he could take them out on recycling day. Once the recyclables were packed away, he cleaned up the sticky spill with a wet paper towel, hoping that the beer hadn't stained the antique hardwood. Next time he would insist on drinking at Germany's house, even if Ludwig did glare at them the entire time.
Before he had finished returning his furniture to its proper upright position, the sound of a ringing phone pierced England's skull. He winced and set the full bag of bottles to the side. With any luck, it was someone he could ignore.
Unfortunately, the caller id showed Buckingham Palace. America always called him a technological neophyte, but England adapted quickly to useful technology. Caller id allowed him to ignore annoying calls from American idiots, and thus ranked higher than electric kettles and bagged tea on his list of useful inventions.
"Good morning, your majesty," England mumbled as he answered the phone.
"It's afternoon, my dear country," the Queen responded, her voice a soothing balm.
"Ah. I was… up late," England replied.
"I'm sure you were." She chuckled. "It's okay that you want to celebrate the new year, love. Perhaps this would even be a good time for a little holiday."
England shook his head. "It's never a good time." The Queen always told him that he worked too hard and that his country would prefer he take a break instead of suffering from exhaustion. She grew particularly insistent around the holidays. He wondered if she had heard about the drinking binge or if she had just assumed based on the date. Either way, it fit her style to press him in a moment of weakness—like when he was suffering from a pounding headache.
"England, I insist. Take off a fortnight. You more than deserve it," she said with her characteristic brand of soft persistence.
"All right," England promptly agreed, surprising himself almost as much as he surprised the Queen. He wondered what had overcome him. Perhaps the hangover had addled his brain more than he thought.
"Lovely! I'll send Wales to the next conference," she replied, moving quickly to iron out the details before England could change his mind. "Take care, my dear."
England opened his mouth, intending to tell the Queen that he had far too much work and couldn't take a break, but the words refused to leave his mouth. He wished her a happy new year and set down the receiver with a look of confusion.
It seemed that he unexpectedly had two weeks of free time on his hands.
After a little nap and a bit more cleaning, England's first stop was the grocery store. For one, he needed more alcohol. And second, if he was going to be spending some free time around the house, he wanted a chance to test out some new recipes.
As he walked down the store's narrow aisles, a salesman offered him a sample of sausage. "Try some!" he said. England meant to decline (his stomach was still a little delicate), but he found himself accepting a piece anyway.
He decided that he must have just wanted to be polite and thought nothing of it.
Later that evening, as England was flipping through the channels while working on a piece of embroidery, he heard a woman in an infomercial selling some gaudy necklace for 'only' £19.95. He scoffed when she claimed that the necklace contained genuine red garnets. England could recognize inexpensive amethysts when he saw them. "Buy now!" she said and England instantly reached for the phone and placed an order. As soon as he hung up, he sat there dumbfounded by his impulsive decision.
He knew that commercialism was a terrible blight (one of the many evils he blamed on America and China, those twats), but he wondered if it had spontaneously become a disease and infected his brain. Three times in the past few hours he had done something he didn't want to do simply because someone had told him to.
England caught his breath as a terrible suspicion entered his mind. Perhaps it wasn't a disease, perhaps it was magic.
He dashed into the dining room and dumped the bags of empty bottles onto the floor. They weren't all beer bottles and this time he checked the labels. Eventually, he found the small bottle he was looking for.
An extremely old obedience potion.
And the bottle was completely empty.
For the next week, England refused to go outside or answer the phone. He searched through his magical grimoires, desperate to find an antidote. Every spell had a counterspell, and every potion had an antidote. He just had to find it.
He ignored the calls from government officials on Tuesday. They were undoubtedly wondering why he had stopped responding to their emails and phone messages, but Buckingham Palace would clue them in soon enough.
On Wednesday, he enjoyed blessed silence.
Thursday, he started to receive a number of calls from America. The other nation was either prank calling him (again) or had dreamt up some cockamamie scheme that he wanted to share, like the time he was convinced that he could teach aliens how to make hamburgers and spread McDonald's throughout the galaxy. England turned a deaf ear to the ringing phone. He also ignored the flashing red light on his voicemail, afraid that even America's recorded voice could order him to do something.
By the weekend, America had stopped calling. England relaxed, though he should have realized that his problem was about to become much worse.
Oblivious to his impending doom, England spread out all of the books he had ever collected on potions across the floor of his library each day and flipped through them, hoping to find an answer. He kept reading through the night and into the early morning, taking a break only to make a fresh pot of tea. He fell asleep reading a book and woke up around noon covered in dusty pages and scrawled notes.
As he tossed aside what had turned out to be another useless spell book, England heard a sound from his driveway. He climbed slowly to his feet and peered out the window overlooking his front yard. A cold chill ran down his spine as a taxi cab pulled up the driveway.
The taxi came to a stop and for a few tense seconds, nothing happened. England held his breath. As much as he hoped it was someone with the wrong address, the lead weight in his stomach suggested otherwise. The car door flung open. He gulped and watched a golden-haired figure climb out.
It was his worst nightmare. It was proof that Murphy's Law controlled the universe. It was America.
England turned on his heels and ran, hoping to get out of earshot. If he couldn't hear America, he wouldn't have to obey his unintentional commands. He ducked into his bedroom, buried himself under the sheets, and clapped a pillow over his ears.
Of all the countries who could possibly come to visit, America was the worst possible option. Half of America's comments were commands ("England, stop being so stodgy!" - "Geez, old man, loosen up!" - "England, don't cook or you'll burn down the whole house!") and he was so oblivious he would never realize what was happening.
After a moment's thought, England decided that France was actually the worst possible option. France was clever enough to recognize the effects of the obedience potion and he would use it to his advantage. And perhaps Russia, Prussia, Hong Kong, India, and China were all terrible options as well. He suspected that China had never forgiven him for the Opium Wars. But if England wrote a list of "countries I don't want near me while I'm under the influence of an obedience potion," America would definitely be in the top ten.
Even with his head buried under the pillow, England could hear the doorbell ring once… twice… three times. Each time the bell rang, he buried his head deeper beneath the pillow and tried to block out the sounds. America was persistent, but even he would give up eventually… right?
The third ring was the last and for a few minutes, blessed silence reigned. Maybe the entire universe wasn't plotting against him. As the silence continued to drag out, England started to relax and loosened his grip on the pillow.
And that's when he heard the crash of exploding glass. A second later, several loud thumps in the foyer were followed by the sound of America shouting.
"Hey, England, I've brought hamburgers!" the younger nation yelled, his voice echoing in the foyer and the stairwell. Footsteps pounded up to England's bedroom and the door slammed open. "There you are!" America strode over and shook England's shoulder. When he got no response, he shook a little harder. "Come on, Iggy, talk to me."
"I told you not to call me that ridiculous name," England mumbled into the mattress, unable to resist the direct command. "Not even Japan uses that name and it's his bloody language." He sighed and lifted the pillow off his head. Since he couldn't avoid America, he might as well stop cowering under the sheets. He would try and face the other nation with dignity. England took a deep breath and rolled over. As soon as his eyes faced the ceiling, America plopped a burger on his forehead.
So much for dignity.
England shoved the burger onto a nearby pillow. He would have thrown it into the rubbish bin by the side of his bed, but America always whined and pouted when he did that. "Why did you break into my house?" he demanded instead.
America shrugged and sat down next to him on the mattress, causing the springs to protest at the extra weight. "You didn't answer your phone so I figured you were sick and in need of hamburgers. Canada suggested that I should come check to see if you were dead or anything." He rested a hand on England's forehead. "So, what's up? Bird flu? Bad economy? Global warming?"
England pushed the hand away. "None of the above. And if you really want to help, you could start by fixing the window you broke."
"Hey, don't get angry. I had to bust in because you weren't answering the door."
"I'm not angry," England reassured him. With the spell in place, the anger simply melted away. He was just annoyed. And tired. And worried about what would happen if America started issuing even more orders. The obedience potion threatened to give America total control over England's emotions; as if he didn't have a dangerous level of control already.
Pushing aside the America problem in favor of his more immediate physical issues, England pulled himself out of bed, determined to see how bad the damage was. He walked downstairs with America following close behind. From the base of the stairs, he could see a gaping hole in the front window of the parlor and broken shards spread across floor. At least America had chosen to break one of the plain glass windows instead of the lovely stained-glass panels on either side of the front door.
"What is it with you and breaking windows?" England groused. He walked over to the phone intending to call a maintenance company to repair the window.
"C'mon, old man, relax," America breezily replied. "I'll fix it. Don't worry about it!"
"Oh… okay." Veering away from the phone, England plopped down onto his sofa. America was right, there was no point in stressing over a broken window. Feeling calm and carefree, he slumped against the back of the sofa and gave America a loose smile. The Queen wanted him to enjoy his holiday, and what better way than dozing on the sofa on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Not even the slightly worried expression on American's face could ruin his state of total relaxation.
"Uh, England?" America waved a hand in front of his face.
England blinked lethargically. "Mmm?"
"You haven't taken up smoking with Mattie, have you? Or maybe Denmark?"
"What…?" England gently shook his head. "No… I'm just… relaxing."
"Sure you are." America grinned slyly. "Tell you what: you nap and I'll fix the window."
"O… kay." England yawned as the effects of his sleepless night hit him like a truck. He wasn't sure why he'd been so worried about finding an antidote. It seemed like a minor concern now. He stretched out on the sofa, touching the far end with the tips of his toes. With one final, ear-splitting yawn, he rested his head against the sofa pillows and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Hours later, England woke to the sound of America moving around in his kitchen. He blinked and stretched, returning to full wakefulness as slowly and gradually as the tide coming in. Feeling much less stressed after his nap, he pushed off a lovely quilted blanket that he didn't remember grabbing as he fell asleep and padded over to the newly repaired window.
The new pane of glass sparkled in the afternoon light. At least America had kept his promise. But there was still a problem, wasn't there? His sense of carefree relaxation slowly turning to unease, England continued on to the kitchen, where he found America busy putting away enough groceries to feed an army. Most of it was processed and packaged and sugary and fatty and completely unhealthy.
"Good grief, what's all that for?" England asked from the kitchen doorway.
America stuffed the remaining ice cream cartons in the freezer and grinned. "I think this should last us a week, but I might have to get more."
"What makes you think you're staying?" England demanded. As tempting as it was to ignore the problem, he knew he wouldn't be safe until he got the other nation out of his house. Letting America putter around while he tried to find a cure for his obedience potion was a recipe for disaster.
America gave him an exasperated look. "Because you're sick and I'm not going to let you die of oldtimer's or something uncool like that."
"Alzheimer's, America, it's Alzheimer's." England crossed his arms. "And I'm not sick. I feel fine."
"Pfft. You don't sleep during the day unless you're sick."
"I do when I'm on holiday."
America gaped and nearly dropped a jar of peanut butter on the floor. "You're on vacation? But you never go on vacation!"
"The Queen insisted."
"Dude, that's even better! We can do all sorts of fun shit. I've been wanting to visit Disney London for weeks!"
"No. Absolutely not. Go home and work on your bleeding healthcare system! It's a national disgrace."
"But that's boring," America whined. "Come on, I fixed your window for you."
England sighed and rubbed his temples. "America, for the thousandth time, you don't get credit for fixing something when you were the one who broke it in the first place. That's why no one cares what you've done for the economy lately."
"Oh." America glanced down at the kitchen floor. "I see."
"Speaking of which, you should go home and work on your economy too." Even as he said it, a wave of guilt washed over England's conscience. It wasn't fair of him to blame America for wrecking the world economy. Many countries had played a role. But it was still too dangerous to let America stay with him given America's penchant for ridiculous plans and his extremely suggestible state.
Eyes bright and wide, America lifted his gaze and gave England a pleading look. He gestured toward the refrigerator and pantry. "But I've already unpacked all the food!"
England took a deep breath and braced himself against the beguiling influence of America's puppy-dog eyes. "You can pack it up again."
"The hotel won't have a big enough refrigerator."
"Not my problem."
"I'll do all the cooking," America offered.
"That's not an enticement."
"I'll let you do all the cooking."
"That's..." England opened and closed his mouth, resolve weakening in the face of an unexpected culinary victory. "Really? And you won't complain?"
America wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't go that far. C'mon, dude. Let me stay."
Unable to resist the direct command, England relented. "Fine," he muttered. He turned on his heels and walked out of the kitchen, hoping that America would assume he gave in because of the cooking, not for any other reason. Come hell or high water, he couldn't let America know the incredibly dangerous power his words held at the moment.
He could see it was going to be a very difficult week.
Little did England know, it would actually end up being an incredibly difficult year.
...
A/N
This story is dedicated to 2017. God, it's going to be an awful year. I'll try to make it a bit better the only way I know how: with magic spells, delicious angst, and good ol' USUK.
As you can probably guess, the premise is based on Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine.