Nation Porn
Or, why the Prime Minister should consult Arthur before he leaves books lying around.
It was that time of year again. The time in which the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would gird his loins and weather the oncoming storm. A storm that went by the name of France – but was more commonly referred to as, 'That Bastard'.
That day, as England called it in his head, was some cockamamie scheme cooked up by some half-mad, half-dead, crusty politician who was less than impressed upon seeing the results of one of England's little tussles with France. In between wails of mourning over his hapless hydrangeas and threats of revenge for his ravaged roses, the crazy old codger had somehow managed to make an appeal to the queen, who seemed to be quite fond of the barmy coot.
From then on, France and England were required to spend a day in each other's company, making polite conversation and forgetting some 1000 years of tension (which was not sexual, no matter what France had to say about it) between the two. Unfortunately, it was England's turn to host.
He hurried down the halls of Buckingham palace, straightening his tie and blazer. The new Prime Minister trailed behind his nation, somewhat short of breath – as England tended to be a brisk walker – taking notes and checking that everything had been arranged according to plan.
"...and the chef has made the scones, and are ready to be served," he finished, ticking off the last box on the list. He almost barged into England when the country stopped abruptly, but sidestepped at the last second. England began tucking his shirt-tails into his pants and gazed at the Prime Minister thoughtfully.
"Has anyone warned you about the Frog yet?" He queried, stuffing the last bit of shirt into his trousers.
"Warned me?" The Prime Minister could hardly think of what he needed to be warned of. From what he had heard, France sounded positively charming.
"Yes, warned you." England answered brusquely. "Are you married?"
"No, but I don't see - "
"Keep out of France's reach," England cautioned. Satisfied that he was properly dressed, England turned about face and hurried off in a different direction, the Prime Minister trailing after, puffing.
"Have you done anything else?" The nation asked, as though he didn't expect an answer. Obviously his predecessors were a lazy bunch.
"Yes, I took the liberty of putting some books on the coffee table-" For the second time in less a minute, the Prime Minister found himself inches from his countries back. When he spoke, dread and horror seemed to soak themselves into every word.
"Which books?" The Prime Minister quirked an eyebrow at his tense companion and replied breezily,
"Photography books, you know the sort – English countryside. A couple of maps of England too, now that I think about it." He tapped his chin in thought, and almost missed England turning as white as a redhead and darting around the corner. The Prime Minister darted after.
"Wait, why are you hurry -" England skidded to a halt in front of the door that was to be the meeting room and pressed his ear against the door. After listening for a few moments, he cursed. The Prime Minister mimicked the action, surprised to hear a faint, "Hon hon hon~ Mon cher, you have hidden so much from moi~"
The Prime Minister didn't even have enough time to mutter as much as a 'Say what?' before England burst through the door like an action hero, but with slightly less philanthropic ideals in mind, and more of the 'lets blow everything up smashy smashy' sort. The Prime Minister rushed in after, hoping to somehow prevent an international incident. He paused however, at the sight of a very enraged Brit, standing over a laughing Frenchman and tugging at a book safely ensconced in France's arms.
"Give it to me you git!" England screeched, giving the book another vicious tug. France merely laughed oddly (the 'hon hon hon' was a bit too stereotypical for the Prime Minister's tastes) and said gaily,
"But mon cher! I have yet to discover what else you have been hiding from me, under all those stuffy clothes. It wouldn't take long~"
Amongst all the hullabaloo, it wasn't a surprise that the Prime Minister missed the presence of the French President.
"'Allo. I do not believe we 'ave met yet," he said, smiling as the Prime Minister jumped.
"Oh, hello, lovely to meet you. Uh, not to sound too ignorant, but, uh, shouldn't we be stopping them?" He gave the other man's hand a quick shake and gestured to the pair, who were now rolling on the floor, shouting what sounded suspiciously like names of famous people.
The President just chuckled heartily and patted the Prime Minister on the shoulder.
"Zey 'ave been like zees for as long as I 'ave known zem. My country is razzer... free wiz 'is affections. 'E simply says 'e 'as too much love, and must share eet wiz everybody."
Suddenly, England's warning made sense.
"Yes, and Arthur is, well. Yes. Very British I suppose," the Prime Minister added on. "But, I'm not quite sure why he is acting like this." The President simply shrugged and turned to watch an irate England kick France's head a little too viciously and rip the book from his hands.
Standing to his full height, England bowed stiffly at the President.
"Wonderful to meet you again, sir. I think I'll go now." He paused awkwardly for a moment and then nodded sharply. The Prime Minister shook the Presidents hand quickly, promising to call another day and hastened after his country. He found England in his office, putting the book through a paper shredder.
"What on earth are you doing!" The Prime Minister exclaimed, watching in despair as the expensive book was sliced to ribbons.
"Getting rid of this disgusting thing," England muttered. "England Uncovered indeed."
The Prime Minister sighed and went to sit next to England. He pinched his nose briefly and turned his country.
"I'm still not quite sure what just happened. It's only a book." The look England shot him spoke volumes. It was a rather effective mix of 'Bitch, please' and 'For real?'. The Prime Minister could only shrug sheepishly.
"I am Britain," he began. "Britain is me. My body represents Britain. It is Britain. So, what do you think other nations see, when they see these, these, books?" England gestured roughly at the last vestiges of paper being chewed by the shredder. The Prime Minister answered with a blank look. England flushed a brilliant red and said,
"You gave France nude photos. Of me. You asked me why I don't look at maps? That's why."
The Prime Minister 'oh'ed quietly and simply handed England another book.
Fail ending I know, but that's the way the scone crumbles I suppose.