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Author's Note: Just a WIP I thought I'd upload in two or three parts, based on Gibbs' Rules from NCIS, in which Arthur, being a principled country, has approximately twenty rules of courtship which he is firm about following.
Will maybe update these notes after this is actually finished.
Making Exceptions.
The first rule of romance – one which Arthur is proud (maybe even smug) to have never broken – is never date a frenchman. He has a few principles in his life, but this is one he has always stood by, and will always continue to stand by. Regardless of situations, there is no mitigating circumstance for this crime, and England will be drawn, quartered and hung before he breaks this rule. As for the rest of his principles, well things only go downhill from there;
1. Never date a Frenchman (or woman, or dog, or zebra, or anyone from that bloody country; especially not Francis.)
2. Don't drink before a first date.
In his defense, he wouldn't have actually called it a date. Or a drink. Just a bracing gulp of port. Maybe two for luck. Three for the excellent judgment given to him by the drinking pixie (she called herself Tonic, the Bottle Fairy). Eighth to calm his nerves. Second bottle for solidarity over the loss of his legs, which had curiously disappeared sometime ago.
Now, as already mentioned, England would not have called this a date, simply because of the number of rules broken already in the set-up, namely eight, twelve and fifteen. In his right mind, he could not call this a date, because it violated too many of them. Unfortunately, Tonic had neglected to tell him he wasn't in his right mind. With a sigh, he yanked at his collar, loosening it slightly. Now, rule eight;
8. If you are asked out on a date, this must be done face to face.
(PS: They're welcome to try again, as per rule three – second chances are the mark of a true gentleman)
That had been ruined by the answering machine message (Quoting: "Hey England! I'm in London next week, how about you and I meet up? My boss got me some ballet tickets, and you'd probably like something sissy like that. Otherwise I'll be so totally bored! Thank you for agreeing to come with, see ya!") and Arthur had replayed the message several times, face screwing up from simply perturbed, to self-conscious and finally annoyed.
He seized his phone to call Alfred – that absolute fool – back and to deny him without any shame, when as it happened, he glanced down at his desk. Where amidst his usual paperwork was a ticket to the Nutcracker, marked as being sent from the US. Arthur's own boss had thoughtfully scrawled a memo of encouragement to England, telling him to go enjoy the play ("Have a night off, you old fool. –The Prime Minister) and paper-clipped it to the ticket.
(12. Rule Number Three can be ignored if they have a habit of going back on their word.)
This was hurriedly scrawled out in England's memory, and instead, the new form glittered defiantly.
12. Americans are not to be given second-chances. Or first-chances for that matter.
Rule number twelve had been decided after the revolution, a considerable time after, but it was linked to it. In original form, twelve had been In fact it had most accurately been decided after World War I, where America had turned up extremely late for the war. Nonetheless, when Alfred had suggested they go for a day-trip, England had accepted. It had not been a bad day-trip, apart from that unfortunate incident with the ducks.
(Rule thirteen was actually, "Don't mention the ducks" in memory of the event.)
It wasn't a date, no, but it was a second-chance (he'd more than proved himself in the war, hadn't he? Late though), and many of these rules could be adapted for general use. Such as the first rule. England never failed to take that one into account. (Late though, can't forget rule number four…)
However, when America had suggested cheerily that everybody pull together into a fantastic league of nations, and everything would be sunshine, lollipo- and would you look at that, Alfred's new foreign policy was putting his fingers in his ears whilst yelling lalalala. The lad had turned up late to the war, only to all but vanish after it. Then there was that matter about the cotton, but England could forgive bad weather, even if it did pull the entire economy down the toilet. Then, America was late to the second war; Foreign policy or not, Arthur had been feeling extremely low, mildly abandoned and when Alfred had the gall to drop by in passing (just to let them know that really, Alfred couldn't join the war effort) rule twelve had undergone the necessary alteration.
Second-chances? Hah. America had only been an associate of the first war, after-all. Bloody tosser wasn't even going to officially join the allies. Hah. Hahaha.
Yet, here Arthur was, agreeing to ballet. Granted, there'd been some coercion (intended, unintended; regardless!) and that violated rule fifteen, succinctly;
15. Only on your terms.
England didn't see what part of this hostage-taking situation could be called his terms, but he knew he was being forced into this situation, so, there went rule fifteen, and here went another glass of port.
Three rules were already thrown out the window, and so some bracing drink couldn't entirely hurt. Especially as America was making mincemeat of rule four. That wasn't exactly news though; the ass had never put much stock in rule four, despite England's misgivings for it. Maybe because of them, he insisted on breaking on one major rule, that being:
4. If late, then just don't date.
Alfred was over an hour late, and Arthur had no doubt the ballet tickets would be soon approaching the point of no-return. The event would very quickly become pointless unless that overbearing, clumsy and forgetful sapling of a boy turned up. Scarcely a date really, except for the sledgehammer genre picking up lines America had used on him when they last spoke about the "not a date". England put it down to America's getting rid of the don't ask don't tell policy, and perhaps liberal California influencing him (Arthur knew exactly what sort of things the states got up to anyways). That and his teasing streak, making fun of Arthur, as usual, just plain old laughing at his expense.
It wasn't the nicest courting, being told he had a fine ass (an ass was a donkey, and yes, Arthur did have a decent arse, but it just wasn't working in America's mouth). Hadn't America had puritanical ancestors? It was ridiculous.
Actually, it made sense, just looking at his television. Alfred liked to joke about it, but he had no serious bones in his body about the actual matter of romance, so that was rule eighteen.
18. Don't play with anybody's feelings, least of all your own.
So, was it a date or not? Since it was hedging for an hour and a half in the late bucket, probably not.
Arthur undid and redid his top button, humming to himself and pretending he wasn't bothered. Not a date, so you couldn't be stood up. Maybe he should go talk to Tonic some more, because obviously he wasn't nearly "relaxed" enough. That was what he was doing, after-all, relaxing, for his not-date, that he was still managing to get stood up for.
The sharp, wincing lash of a car horn being beep-beep-beeped forced him to reconsider exactly how drunk (and let's be honest here) he was. That boy was unbelievable! Beep-beep-beeping at him when Alfred, himself, was already late, and Arthur stumbled up to his feet and all but threw himself at the door.
"'ucking hell…" Arthur scrabbled at the latch, and eventually the door swung open with a resounding crack. Lurching forward, England eyed the boy who had finally gotten out of his car and jogged over to him, only for England to fall flat into his chest.
10. Go to the door and pick them the hell up.
"Hey England! You smell awful!"
14. Compliment your date, and don't say careless things that can be hurtful.
England was too pissed off to be hurt by it, but he was nicely tipsy enough to forget his own rules. "You git! You're almost two hours late!" Well, 97 minutes late actually (he totally had not been counting). "You really have no regard for anyone except yourself, don't you?"
Alfred winced. "Love ya' too."
"Hmph." Arthur pushed his palms flat on Alfred's chest, shoving himself away from the taller nation. However, such an act was better when sober, and America (struggling to contain his laughter; the fucking twat) obliged by helping him shove-America-away-in-anger.
"Have you been drinking?" Alfred sniffed at England's hair as he helped Arthur pull-away-from-America-in-anger.
"No." He replied a bit too quickly, and the slight leftward stagger wasn't very convincing.
"Oo-kay, then." America ran his hand through his hair, chuckling lightly. "In that case, you look like you feel a bit, er, 'tired' yeah?" Alfred, in all his elegant gentleman-ly, gentleman manners, used air quotes, and England glared with unashamed irritation at him. "So, maybe we should give the ballet a miss, huh?"
"Bit late for that." Arthur planted his hands on his hips and glanced up and down Alfred, and narrowed his eyes. "Thought you stood me up, you twat." He ground it out furiously. "Especially after I emptied my schedule for you. Plain ungrateful, you fucking prat. You just don't give a damn, do you?"
"So," Alfred hummed. "I should be taking you out somewhere tonight, then?"
"You should bloody well explain why you're so late." Arthur growled. "It better be good."
"Flight delays." America admitted with a huff. "Hope that's good enough, old man." He gave a half-sigh, and winced theatrically. "You too 'tired' to go somewhere?"
"What do you take me for? A fucking invalid." Arthur snapped.
Alfred threw his hands up placatingly, "Woah woah, cool it, dude." He pushed Texas up his nose, and restrained his obnoxious grin, careful not to invite England's temper to stay. "You're a bit lushed-" England tried to cut over him, and America waved his hand in slight frustration, "No, listen to me, right, you're a bit lushed, and it's making you a total bitch-" Arthur choked on his tongue, and flushed. "-right now. Okay?"
"I am not being a total bitch!" England couldn't help himself with such a shameless attack on his character delivered by the punk who was (goddamn, fucking, bloody, damn, damn, goddamn) late.
"Okay, just a bit of a bitch. I just think maybe we should try tomorrow night; I'm here for a few days, s'yeah, we can reschedule if you want. Or we can go somewhere. I'm all yours, at your disposal," Alfred gave a languid, clumsy (and yet far too graceful, Arthur knew he'd taught Alfred grace once but the brat wasted those lessons away) mock salute. "Yes sir."
England shuffled on the spot, moving his hands from his hip to cross them over his chest, and frowned, face turning a light scarlet. He tossed his gaze to the side, and refused to make eye-contact, swallowing his words.
"But-" America waited until Arthur looked up and met his gaze, despite clearing trying to avoid it. Finally, having obtained the attention of those green, grouchy, but still jittery eyes. "You need to tell me. Right. So I know which you want. Right?"
"Right." There was a long, uncertain, and heart-thumpingly terrible pause. "Oh, right!" Realization dawned on Arthur with a physical force that almost bowled him over. "Right. Let's go out. Let me just…" England indicated his disheveled shirt awkwardly, and flurried in his doorway for a few seconds. "Come in." He finally managed, politeness reclaimed. England gestured America into his house, and promptly dug around the reception area couch for his tie-
Amidst an incriminating group of empty, or mostly empty bottles.
America whistled and surveyed the pile, picking one up. "Port, huh?" England could hear the man repress another grin, but he could still hear it, damn it. "So you thought I'd stood you up, and decided to drink yourself to death? Aw gee, I feel flattered."
England whipped round, tie still not found. "Poppycock, you pompous, arrogant ass. I didn't drink all that this night." The urge to hit America was only tempered by rule seven.
Alfred wrinkled his nose. "Sure smells like you did." He rattled the bottle, and the dregs sloshed noisily inside. "Why's it on the couch though, like, still?"
"Whatever do you mean." England gritted out, finally fishing his tie out from beneath a hand-stitched cushion. With an almost violent sharpness, he lashed the tie round his neck and with tight, controlled movements began to tie it.
"You kept the bottles for more than a day." Alfred prompted with a smile. "Why?"
"Because…." Arthur trailed off into a series of mumbles which America recognized from England's boss and his latest comment on some scandal. Very British. England finished it off with a hearty, disguising cough.
"Kay." America accepted with a light snicker.
England pulled at his shirt, adjusting the cuffs nervously, and grabbed his jacket quickly. "Shall we go?"
This was going far too well, in Arthur's opinions, America's snideness aside, he'd yet to break another rule, so by the time they'd got into America's car, it was about time for it come crashing down. "Hungary and Austria were going to meet us at the ballet, so I let them know we'd see them afterwards." England fought not to groan, reminding himself that this was not a date, and so, rule six didn't really apply. Except rule six was so very applicable.
6. Beware of Hungary.
Strike god-knows-how-many-by-now. Strike ten, actually. Over half the rules had been broken, this was just unbelievable.
"Hey? You 'right?" Alfred glanced over at England, concern slipping on his face.
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm fine, thank you." Actually, he wasn't really. A man has principles, and holding to them was a matter of utmost- oh, for the Queen's sake. Alfred, however, had not started the car, and was now staring at England.
"Yeah?" America leaned his arms on the steering wheel, and smiled wryly at England. "You're pretty as hell when you lie, so I can always tell." England wasn't very pleased with himself and his inability to hold to some very simple values. Next thing he knew, he'd probably be dating Francis. "Hey." Alfred snapped his fingers at Arthur until they made eye-contact. "Hey, I'm sorry about being late, you know, if that's what's pissing you off."
"Eh?" Arthur glanced at Alfred, and shrugged. "Yeah, a bit." Not really, he was much angrier with himself.
"Well I didn't mean to be late, it's all this plane safety. I shoulda' hopped one of my own planes but," Alfred paused. "Just wasn't going to happen. But I didn't want to be late for you." Alfred looked forward out the window again. "We cool, then?"
"Yeah, yeah." England waved dismissively. "We're fine Alfred."
"Then don't be so cold, alright?" America pressed a kiss to England's cheek, and England snapped out of his thoughts with a sharp flash! America was courting hi- "Ow!" Alfred yiped, and pressed his hand against his own cheek. "Owowow."
Arthur stared down at his tingling palm, with the dull realization that he'd slapped America.
7. Do not strike your date, even if they are being an absolute tosser and therefore deserve it.
He quickly buried his face in his hands. That was eleven rules broken, but really the last one had been his fault. "Oh god!" Alfred winced and pulled his hand away from his face.
"Wow. I didn't even tongue you, old man."
"I'm sorry! Oh god, Alfred." England snapped out of his flailing, and latched onto America, and rubbed at his face, his own flushing in embarrassment. "I didn't mean to slap you."
"Really?" Alfred raised an eyebrow, sarcasm tight in his voice. "Hey, got off me." America brushed England away. "It's fine, I'm fine, you crazy old coot." He managed a laugh, and turned back to the window, one hand tapping at the steering wheel and the other rubbed at his cheek ruefully. "Whew! You sure pack a punch."
"I'm sorry- I-I just didn't expect-" Arthur cut off, fumbling for words.
"I said it was fine, Art." America continued to rub the side of his face, laughing lightly to himself.
May your quills be ever sharp.