A/N: Two chapters from completing this monster; I decided the plot was lazy and way too linear. Not to mention, I was being a jerk to every country I cast. If you're expecting a brand new story, you're going to be disappointed, but if you're in the mood for the same package with neater wrapping, that's exactly what I aim to accommodate!

New material begins chapter 3 if you want to skip ahead. Now go forth and enjoy!

Denmark just returned from a weekend with the Netherlands. It was an unusually good trip so he was in an unusually generous mood. Sunday afternoon, en route from Amsterdam, he contacted Sweden and Norway and told them to convene at Formel B, one of Copenhagen's most modern, innovative, and expensive restaurants for a late lunch- his treat. Initially, his two best buddies couldn't be more thrilled. Formel B had fantastic repute and a Michelin Star. In their zeal, they managed to forget one of the principle laws of economics- there's no such thing as a free lunch.

The meal had an agenda. Denmark didn't tell them that though. He waited until they ordered. Norway picked Dover Sole, a lemony flavored flatfish that didn't appear on too many menus anymore and Sweden found spiced rock shrimp. Denmark hardly looked at the offerings before making his selection and ended up with some type of stew and a round of drinks for them all. It was a promising start.

Denmark wasn't interested in food; he was after a captive audience and people, as a rule, once seated somewhere comfortable with good food and beverages, were reluctant to move. It was more humane than Finland's strategy, which involved chaining people in a basement and involving them in a complicated and deadly game of charades. Many times, they had been in that exact situation, a knife or axe to their throats until they guessed through excruciating trial and error just what he wanted. Denmark preferred his own approach.

As such, he spent little time eating, but did devote some of it to drinking (there were two bottles of wine and two pitchers of beer between the three of them to start) and more of it to talking. Sweden and Norway were honored to listen.

"Netherlands made his special brownies. This time though, he had to have put in extra hash and you guys already know he's a tri-sexual."

"Tri-sexual?" Sweden raised an eyebrow.

"Yup. Try anything sexual."

Norway tolerated it with polite indifference. He'd gotten text updates as it happened, so he knew how the story ended. This exact scenario, with few variations, played out every time Netherlands and Denmark did anything. Nevertheless, Denmark treated it like a new experience at each familiar turn. He enjoyed that Denmark was enjoying himself. Plus, Dover Sole was really good and the seats were comfortable. Those forces combined meant he planned to go nowhere fast.

"So we make plans to go to the Red Light district that night. He told me there was this brunette there that was way hotter than your sister, Sweden." he paused to contentedly to take a sip of wine. It was a sip far bigger than what fine wine warranted. In fact, it was more of a chug. He should've stuck to beer. "We rode our bikes through Amsterdam and got caught at a stop sign, but were so baked we sat there for an hour waiting for it to turn green. We missed our appointment with the prostitute and decided to just go back to his place…" Whereas Norway didn't care, Sweden looked as though he was about to spit out some ale and turned a lovely shade of fuchsia. Through it all, Denmark continued.

"I asked him if I should be paying him, but he refused. But it worked out well because I saved that money and we can eat –BLACK RAMBO!" Just like that, Denmark came to an abrupt and inappropriate pause and grinned expansively. Norway decided earlier that his meal was far too delicious to eat with utensils, but quit licking his fingers to watch Denmark. He followed his best friend's line of sight and beamed too.

Sweden pertly adjusted his glasses. He'd seen those looks twice before. "Norway, not that I'm not dying to hear the rest of Denmark's sexcapades," he deadpanned, "but please tell me what 3rd world nation is behind me this time."

Norway sucked in a deep breath and admired his half-demolished plate. There was most certainly a country glowering at them. To make matters infinitely tenser, he was armed with bullets, a machete (with dried blood on the blade and ivory handle), and a machine gun slung over his back. Norway glanced at this country and battled his own ignorance for an educated guess. If Norway had done more research, he'd have known he sat facing the burly, surly, curly-haired Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly known as Zaire, formerly known as the Belgian Congo, formerly known as the African Congo Free State. Norway would know this was a country that gave him a lot of coffee. Norway would know his flag symbolized peace and hope, the blood of the martyrs, wealth and prosperity, and a brilliant future for the country. Norway would know this country really knew how to pick a fight. Norway would know the correct answer to Sweden's prompt was an enthused 'Monsieur Democratic Republic of the Congo! My brother from another mother! So kind of you to brave your way this far north. We want to discuss potential business partnerships! Have a seat, s'il-vous plait.' Norway would know… actually, never mind. This joke is dead.

All these subtleties floated farther over his head than the northern lights. "I um, I can't see the flag." He lied lamely.

Democratic Republic of the Congo didn't like that answer. In one singular motion, he seized his machete and cleaved the table in two. "You know," he said, sneering, "All of you would die from Ebola if you visited me." He leaned in close to Denmark. "You call me by my name or I will cart you down to Africa and throw you in the jungle to be eaten by my gorillas!" Democratic Republic of the Congo could've meant guerrillas, too. They lived all over his jungle and probably wouldn't shirk our Scandinavian boys as a food source, if offered. This is especially true if they were braised with pumpkin and served with a side of palm nuts.

"Don'tsayanything don'tsayanything don'tsayanything," Sweden mumbled like a mantra.

"What was that you frail, pasty worm?" He flexed his bicep, easily as thick as Sweden's thigh.

Sweden inhaled irregular gulps of air. Going on sound alone, it wouldn't be far-fetched to believe that his water broke and he was headed into labor. That was what? The third time Denmark's unintentional racism had brought them within a hairsbreadth of being flayed? He had a way to diffuse the situation though, one Denmark would deplore.

"Actually," Sweden said, recomposing himself, "I asked if you'd to sit with us." Denmark had vacated his seat and taken it upon himself to wrap around Norway's legs, effectively binding him to his chair and killing them both if it came time to run. To return the favor, Norway ground his nails into Denmark's shoulders.

"Sweden," Denmark said, his voice soaked with trepidation, "What the fu- OW!" Sweden dealt him a swift kick under the table.

"Can you tell me more about Ebola? I've never heard of it." Sweden glared pointedly at Denmark. "My friend just got back in town and was sick all last week. That's how it starts, right? With a cold?" That part was true. Denmark did have a cold last week and didn't bother covering his mouth when he coughed.

"But of course," Democratic Republic of the Congo re-sheathed his weapon insofar as it was possible. There was no sheath per se, but he did shove it back into his belt. "Ebola has a high mortality rate. First, it starts off as a rash and a cold."

"Just like my friend had, when we hung out at the beach." Sweden pressed on. Denmark also had gotten sunburned earlier. A vengeful sadist hid behind those nerdy glasses.

"Then you get a sore throat."

"Hm, he had that too." Sweden said. Denmark fidgeted against Norway.

"Stomachache sometimes," Democratic Republic of the Congo mused.

"Sweden," Norway said, "what the-"

"OW!" It should be noted the 'ow' came from Denmark again. Sweden aimed to kick Norway's shin to silence him and nailed Denmark's kidney instead.

"How you feeling down there, Denmark?" Sweden asked.

"Actually," Denmark made a terrified moan, "I feel a like I'm gonna throw up a little."

"Tell me," Sweden stood up so quickly his chair fell backwards, grinning a perfectly evil grin "what happens next!"

"You bleed out of every conceivable orifice- your nose, ears, mouth, eyes… then you collapse and die while fully conscious! High five!" Democratic Republic of the Congo jumped up too, wafting his open palm between Norway and Sweden. Neither took the bait.

Under the table, Denmark shaded whiter than a Siberian winter. "Guys," he whimpered, "Do you think I have Ebola? I don't wanna bleed out of my eyes."

Democratic Republic of the Congo gripped Denmark's throat. "Hm, your skin feels clammy and your pulse is high. Your blood pressure may already be dropping. Don't bother going to a doctor," he laughed, "there's no cure!"

"Do I have time to go home and make a living will?"

Sweden caught himself wringing his hands in utter glee. One trait of Denmark's he truly appreciated was his ability to trust. For example, he many a time had considered pointing out to Denmark that the word gullible was scrawled somewhere on his ceiling just to watch him try to find it. Norway was significantly less amused and tried to stand. When that failed, he tried prying Denmark off his legs. When that failed, he glared at Sweden. When that failed, he played with his fish.

"I should say you've got a few hours." Sweden said and extended a hand to Democratic Republic of the Congo. "Thank you, sir! It's been a pleasure."

In turn, Democratic Republic of the Congo clapped Sweden's back hard enough to knock him forward into the mess of a table. "No problem! Now, could you direct me to Belgium? He and I are going to have a calm, diplomatic talk." He loaded a road of bullets into his machine gun and panned it over the Scandinavians. Two hands in tandem pointed southwest. Denmark had finally released his grip on Norway and mopped the sweat collecting on his brow.

"Guys," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm going to go home. No way I'll have you both bleed to death 'cause you got Ebola from me."

Norway pursued him successfully for a few meters before Denmark wrenched out of his grasp and sprinted through the streets of Copenhagen. By the time he returned, Sweden had bid farewell to Democratic Republic of the Congo and sat slumped in his chair, positively drained.

"You're a dick," said Norway.

"No, Denmark's an idiot." Sweden retorted.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Norway replied. "I understand you fight. The same way I understand that we're going to his house to tell him that there's no way he has Ebola." Sweden screwed his eyes shut and pinched his forehead. "Don't be like that, you started this."

"Clearly," Sweden said, " but Denmark was going to pay. Now he's gone. I only have a few hundred Kronor on me."

Norway dropped his shoulders in defeat. "I only brought my keys. What do you think we should do?"

"Dine and dash like delinquent teens?" He ventured, gauging Norway's reaction.

Norway peered around for a few tense seconds, waiting, just waiting for a literal answer to fly in his face. It was a wonder he was surprised and appalled when one came. The irate Maitre'd finally responded to the disturbance our heroes inflicted upon his prestigious clientele. He charged them, cursing liberally in Danish with a vicious looking butcher knife aimed right at their rapidly beating hearts. Sweden and Norway shared a moment, giving the other a dull look. They had already gone through this once today with Finland. People could get used to anything, apparently.

"I'll race you." He finally said. Norway attitudinized a running stance hoping, praying his long stride could move him out of harm's way all over again. Then, with the speed of a whip crack, he was off. Sweden sprinted not far behind, closing the gap. Through many travails and much gnashing of teeth, he matched Norway's pace.

"Listen," he panted to Norway, both of them flagging after minutes of running. "Before we go talk to Denmark, I need to run something by you. I've been doing some thinking and need your opinion."

"Okay," Norway tilted his head, curious. What harm was listening? Denmark had run wee wee wee all the way home and only suspected he was tainted with one of the most unholy, horrible diseases to ever be identified with no one around to abate persistent visions of his own demise. Nope, there was absolutely no drama whatsoever inherent in this situation. Everything was going to be just fine.