Author's Note: I found the scone recipe on several websites because I haven't actually made scones myself, so...I apologize in advance if something's really wrong.
Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers/World Series Hetalia.
England in the Kitchen
America knew there would be a problem when England saw the plastic container of store-bought scones in his hands. The older nation's face became an unhealthy—but very amusing—shade of red, and his fists were shaking at his sides. America couldn't help but smile; it was so easy to piss England off sometimes.
"What are those?" England demanded, jabbing a distasteful finger at the container.
"Scones," America said, tactfully hiding his sly grin behind an innocent smile. He pushed the container closer to England's face. "I brought them with me for the meeting tomorrow. Scones are one of your favorite foods, right? And I really didn't want you to go to the trouble of trying to make any yourself."
"What do you mean, 'trying to make any'? I don't have to try! I do make good scones!"
America's smile shifted from cherubic to mocking. Even England himself didn't seem convinced by his own words.
The older nation promptly responded to America's silent laughter by grabbing the plastic container of store-bought pastries and kicking it to the ground.
"You might as well just bring a box of your stupid hamburgers!" England said, still bristling. "Actually…I'm surprised you didn't do that in the first place."
"It was just a box of scones! And I was totally serious when I said you shouldn't make any yourself. It'll save us all a lot of trouble."
"The ones you brought weren't even handmade! You just went out and bought the box! That's lazy!"
"It's not lazy! Someone made them at some point...or it was a machine, who knows..."
"Scones are only good if they're made by hand. Traditionally."
America scowled. "I still remember the time I came to your house and you gave me one of your handmade scones... They were awful."
"You used to like them when you were young!"
"I lied."
"You-!" England reached out to choke America by the neck, but he carefully restrained himself. There would still be a chance to get back at him...later, perhaps.
"Listen, America," he started tentatively, despite his better judgment, "why don't I teach you how to make scones the right way?"
America blanched. The only thing worse than having to eat England's scones was being taught how to make the dreadful, lumpy things.
"I'd rather not."
England grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside, never giving the younger nation a chance to protest. America did all he could to break away, but it was no use—there was no stopping England when he had some sort of plan in mind.
England finally stopped and let go when they were in the middle of his kitchen. America quickly noted how nice and clean it was—shining countertops, spotless floors. Probably because he never uses it, he thought with another quiet laugh.
"First things first," England began. "How often do you cook?"
America began ticking off a list with his fingers. "I grill hamburgers, I make apple pies, I barbecue from time to time, I-"
"No, real food, you dolt."
"Hamburgers are real food, stupid. So are apple pies. What else could you possibly need?"
"Food that doesn't have absurd amounts of sugar or grease?"
"Scones have sugar."
"Scones have class. They're more sophisticated than a greasy hamburger."
"Who cares about class? It's all about taste. Hamburgers taste better than scones, hands down."
England took a long, slow breath. His nerves were already beginning to fray and they hadn't even started cooking yet.
"Do you have any decentrecipes for scones?" he asked, exasperated.
"I saw one on the Food Network once."
"No, an actual recipe! One passed down through generations or given to you by a good friend!"
America's mind wandered to the traditional scone recipe England had given him when he was much younger. At the moment it was stuffed somewhere in his abysmal storage closet, probably never to be seen again.
"Nope," America said after an expectant pause.
"I'd expect no less from you," England said with just a hint of sarcasm. "All you eat are things like those hamburgers, after all..."
America smiled, decidedly ignoring the insult while England pulled ingredients and cooking utensils from one of the cabinets lining the kitchen walls. He set the objects out on the gleaming countertop and gestured to them one by one.
"Okay. First we're going to start by preheating the oven. Do you think you can do that without blowing it up?"
"Duh." America reached over and twisted the knob. "How hot?"
"About 180 degrees...Celsius," England added before he remembered the metrics difference between the two. America and his stupid Fahrenheit.
"Got it. Why do you have to make your temperature thing so difficult, anyway? Just use Fahrenheit like I do!"
"No." England carefully lined a flat pan with a layer of parchment paper and grabbed the bowl of flour. "Watch carefully. We're going to mix this flour with some cream of tartar, and-"
"Isn't tartar that stuff you dip fish in?"
"Just shut up and watch! I'm not going to explain this twice!" England spun around before America could fire off another round of stupid questions and threw the ingredients in another bowl. He mixed them furiously with a wooden spoon, wishing that he could just hit America with the utensil instead. It would probably save him a lot of misery and frustration later.
America traced a smiley face in an abandoned pile of flour while he waited for England to finish fuming. "Is there anything I can do? Just watching you is getting old," he said.
"Mix in butter, sugar, and some milk," England replied as he set the bowl back on the counter.
"How much?"
"Check the recipe card I left over there. Learn to read!"
"I know how to read." America picked up the card and looked it over. "I need a pinch of salt? How big of a pinch?"
"...What?"
"Like, a big pinch or a small pinch?"
England put the palm of his hand to his forehead. He could already feel the tender beginnings of a migraine forming in the back of his mind. "Just a pinch! A regular pinch!"
America nodded and turned back to the ingredients, keeping the card in his hand for quick reference. England wanted to go find aspirin—he knew his headache would get painful fast if this kept up—but he was afraid to turn his back on America for longer than five seconds; anything could happen. He was already half-expecting the kitchen to violently combust under all the tension they'd built up by now.
"We're going to knead it now that you're done mixing," England said after a long silence. He watched with subdued dismay as America turned the bowl over and dumped its contents on the parchment paper.
"You know how to knead, right? Don't pound it," England said helplessly as America raised a fist over the dough.
"I know how to knead. Come on, I'm not a kid!" America protested, lowering his clenched hand softly to the soft lump. "See? You can stop lecturing me now."
England took another forcefully calm breath. Any more of this and he might just hit himself with the spoon. What had possessed him to think that teaching America to bake scones was a good idea? Why was he doing this in the first place? Something in the back of his head was telling him that he wasn't doing this just for payback.
He thought briefly of the America he had raised—the small, innocent, bright-eyed child with a thirst for knowledge. That America would've been happy to cook. In fact, he would've been eager to simply learn something new.
But this America, on the other hand... Well, he was still eager, but not in the right ways.
"Done!"
England moved closer to get a better look America's handiwork, his expectations already low. Instead his face was met with a handful of dough.
"Hey!" England threw out one fist to smack America and used the other to wipe the white, gently oozing mixture from his eyes. America stepped backward, his lips turned upward with another sly smile.
"That's what you get for kicking the scones I bought you to the ground!" he teased. "I spent a five good dollars for them, you know!"
"Five dollars wasted!" England took the remaining dough and rolled it into an uneven ball. "Just like the time I wasted here trying to teach you how to cook!"
America caught the lump before it hit his face and hid it behind his back.
"Let's go out for hamburgers instead," he offered quickly. "I've been craving one since you mentioned them earlier."
"Oh, no-"
"My treat!"
"Only if you clean my kitchen. It's a mess now."
"…On second thought, maybe I'll get lunch by myself."