Author's Note: So, I had a follower on my Tumblr once jokingly say they would read any of my fics-even if I wrote a fic about McNuggets. Well, challenge accepted. Hahaha. Here's a dumb, little one shot that I wrote to recover from the trauma of NaNoWriMo. I'll be posting a few one-shots before I get back to my other stories.
Sorry about this. Hope you enjoy this trite anyway and leave a review! :D
"Hello, sir. May I take your order?"
"America, as I was saying, this is getting quite out of hand. Australia was absolutely livid when I spoke to him last night, and what's this I'm hearing about collusion with the Russians again? If you don't do something to reel in your president, we may very well have another war on our hands, and I for one, will not be dragged into another conflict simply because your executive branch lacks class and wants to satiate their masculinity by instigating North Korea to—"
America scratches at an itch on his arm and holds his cellphone a few inches away from his ear. England's getting worked up again, as usual, and boy, he sure can talk when he's upset. "Yeah, I'll have a double quarter pounder with cheese, a ten-piece box of McNuggets, large fries, and a large Coke."
"Is that all?"
"You know what? Throw in some of that apple pie, too."
"America? Are you even listening to me?"
America sighs and balances his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he rummages around in the pockets of his blue jeans for his wallet. "Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, Artie. Don't worry, okay? I'm taking care of it. No need to freak."
"Oh, really, now? You've done nothing thus far to prove to me that you're taking any of this seriously! This could lead to a global catastrophe! Can you not comprehend that through your thick skull? At the very least, take a good look at your economy because while your stocks may be skyrocketing now, that bubble won't last forever, and when it bursts, I don't want to have to face the consequences of your incompetence yet again!"
Ugh, so much for having a relaxing Saturday afternoon when England is constantly barking at him. "Listen, there isn't a bubble, okay? And besides, don't tell me about global economic consequences, Mr. I-Left-The-European-Union-And-Now-I-Regret-It."
"Don't try to change the subject! My matters are—"
"Okay, sir, your total is going to be twelve dollars and sixty-five cents."
America fishes a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and is about to hand it over, when suddenly, something dawns upon him…
"Wait a sec? Why so steep? Almost thirteen bucks? What's up with that?" he asks, leaning across the counter to see the price listings on the cashier's computer to find out how much each item costs. "Hang on! Four dollars and forty-nine cents for the ten-piece nuggets? That's so expensive!"
"Sir…I apologize, I don't decide the price listings."
"Nah, I know it's not your fault, sweetheart, but there's no way in hell I'm paying that much for chicken nuggets, even if it means I have to talk to Ronald McDonald myself."
"America! Are you at McDonald's? Are you honestly ordering food while I'm trying to have a civil discussion about the enormity of the issues facing us at the moment?"
"Don't have a cow, Artie. I'm listening. I'm just grabbing some grub because I'm starving,"
The cashier nervously wrings her hands and asks, "Would you like to speak to my manager?"
"Nah, just take the nuggets off my order. I'll send a strongly-worded tweet to the CEO later," America decides, finally handing over the money he owes. "Thanks, hun."
He takes his change and waits on the "pick-up" line, and unsurprisingly, England is still yapping on and on about manners and how rude it is to be partaking in a separate discussion when they're supposed to be having one of the most important conversations ever—blah, blah, blah.
"Okay, dude. Listen, I'm gonna call you back in like an hour. I've gotta have my lunch or else I'll be hangry. I promise the world isn't gonna fall apart until then, so stop getting your panties in a twist," he tells England, bracing himself as he expects to get shouted at some more.
"No, I have plans later, and we're going to have this talk now because if you don't nip this in the bud—!"
"Crap, you're breaking up, man. I didn't catch that last part," America drones, feigning a sorrowful tone before crinkling his receipt in his hands to make it sound like there's static on the line. "Artie? Artie you still there? Art—!"
He hangs up the call and lets his shoulders slump, relieved that's over with.
"Order fifty-three!"
He takes his bag of goodies and his drink with a short "thanks" and heads back to his car, dejected. If McDonald's keeps trying to rip him off like this, he may have to boycott them. Who do they think they are? He's the United States of America, and he deserves to have access to affordable chicken nuggets, damn it!
He'll have his revenge, sooner or later.
America is such a twat.
England certainly didn't raise him to be this way. All of that time spent disciplining him and teaching him common courtesy seems to have been wasted on him. If he thinks back far enough, he can remember a few rare moments when America was actually an obedient child, but even then, he had a horrendous knack for trouble. At least then, he was cute. Now, there's nothing to mitigate his stupidity and immaturity.
Furthermore, for god's sake, why does he still feel as though he is responsible for the boy? If there's anything he should have learned in the last few decades, it's that the best course of action would be to cut off all ties with America and watch from a distance as he collapses in on himself from either economic downturn, political instability, or an excess consumption of grease. Then, England could go back to his solitary life of only having to worry about his own borders while the next superpower inevitably rises up.
"Angleterre, come quick!"
He snaps his head around to see France running toward him, looking deathly pale and terrified. Something's not right…
"What's happened?" he demands, grabbing both of France's shoulders and feeling the need to shake an answer out of him. Was there a nuclear attack? Did someone die? Did Russia hack someone's elections again? He's always on edge now.
"It's America."
England clicks his tongue in irritation. Of course, something is wrong with America. What isn't wrong with America these days? He's surprised the boy is still able to function on a day-to-day basis. Nonetheless, reluctantly, he starts following France toward the conference room where they're having their G-7 summit. No matter how many times he tells everyone he doesn't give a damn what America does anymore, he's always the first one to be called upon when the boy is causing a racket.
"You brought him up after all," Germany and the others always say, but that was years ago, and America is an adult now.
Well, all right, that's being a little generous. He's forty percent adult, sixty percent man-child.
"What is it now?" he asks France as they're walking.
"You should see for yourself…"
Now, he's worried. It's rare for France to sound this serious, and if he's this rattled, America must truly be out-of-sorts.
Needing no further prompting, England bursts through the double doors of the conference room and immediately lets his eyes scan the perimeter for the boy that has been driving him to the brink of madness lately—he's near the middle of the table, sitting quietly and picking at some sort of plastic container of food before him.
Well, at least he's seated upright and not lying in a heap, so he can't be too ill. Picking at his food like a bird though—that is worrisome, and a clear sign something is amiss.
"America?"
The boy lifts his head and blinks two owlish blue eyes at him. "Yeah? 'Sup, England?"
England narrows his gaze, searching for clues that might give him a better idea as to what's wrong with America. He looks him up and down, but he seems all right—maybe he's a bit thinner, which is odd, but not that alarming. Then, he notices what America is eating and turns pale.
He's having a kale salad.
"Lad, are you feeling all right?"
"Ehh, I'm as good as I can be. Still trying to figure out if I can apply for Canadian citizenship. Why do you ask?"
Still cracking jokes—a good sign.
"Well…I'll put this bluntly. You're eating a fucking salad. I don't think I've seen you consume a single vegetable in centuries."
"I've turned over a new leaf. Hah, get it? 'Cause I'm eating a—never mind," America sighs, sticking a forkful of kale into his mouth and swallowing it painfully. "Added some almonds, olive oil, garlic, and apples to it to make it taste better, but I guess it's an acquired thing that I'll just have to get used to."
England can feel his hands starting to shake. This is awful. He's never seen America act like this before, and he's not sure what to do to remedy it. Should he go out and buy him some fast food? No, that would be encouraging poor eating habits, and there isn't anything necessarily bad about America trying to eat healthy—it's just daunting to witness.
He puts a hand on America's forehead to make sure he's not delirious with fever…Nope, perfectly normal.
"Do you havta make such a big deal outta it?" America grumbles, swatting his hand away. "I'm branching out because McDonald's is getting kinda pricey for me, all right? And, as it turns out, buying a shit ton of kale and almonds in bulk is cheaper in the long run. Amazon delivers it to my door for free. I'm tryna save some cash, 'kay?"
"Right, right, of course. That's perfectly reasonable, and that's the problem. You're never reasonable, America, but I think I see what's going on here."
"You do?"
"Yes," England asserts, pulling his shoulders back and standing up straight. "Your political climate has become so chaotic and borderline dystopic that your personal life has also been affected as a result, and now, you're doing the opposite of what was once considered the norm for you. That salad is a manifestation of just how much control you lack in your life at the moment, and it's a blatant rejection of the status quo and so-called establishment."
"Wow, way to be optimistic about this whole thing. I thought you, of all people, would be happy for me," America huffs before taking out his cellphone and snapping a picture of his food. "At least I can post this up on Instagram and add a pretty filter to it. Now, if you don't mind, can I go back to eating my lunch?"
"Can any of us go back to the way the world used to be a year ago? I think not."
"Loving the philosophical discussion, really, but I promise I'm not dying. It's just a salad."
England shakes his head. "America, it's never just a salad. What's going to happen next? Are you going to have an apple for dessert? An afternoon cup of tea?"
"Ugh, come on, let's not get too ahead of ourselves here. The day I drink a cup of tea is the day I'll truly die, or at least, my soul will be dead," America says, grimacing.
"France, I'm afraid he's too far gone," England states, turning around to face his European neighbor.
"Perhaps Canada can talk some sense into him," the man suggests.
"Who?"
"Canada! Your former colony, England! Mon Dieu, you always do this. Have you no shame?"
"I'm still right here you know," America notes, cutting into the conversation. "You could just ask me if I talked to Canadia—I have. We're cool. It's all cool."
England and France, however, don't seem to hear him. They're more interested in bickering with one another.
"I beg your pardon, of course, I remember Canada. I simply misheard you the first time you said his name. You're so quick to jump to conclusions! You have no right to criticize my relationship with the Commonwealth, frog."
America rolls his eyes and scrolls through his social media feed, trying to drown the two of them out. That's when an advertisement on Instagram catches his eye…
"Hey, guys, Wendy's has a four for four dollars deal—you get a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger, chicken nuggets, small fries, and a small drink."
"English pig, I count my blessings each day that you didn't corrupt Canada like you corrupted some of your other colonies. You couldn't discipline a dog if you tried."
Not again, America thinks, watching as England gives France a strong shove in the chest. Quickly, he gets up and stands between them, holding them at a safe distance apart from one another. "Guys, calm the hell down, okay? Remember what happened last time? Germany won't be happy if either of you misses the meeting 'cause you've gotta go get stitches again…Now, if you guys are done assaulting one another, I'm gonna go to Wendy's because I'm dying to get a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger. You can have the rest of my salad, England. It's on the house this time. Good? Good."
And with that, the double doors to the conference room go flying open before slamming shut once more, and England and France are left alone, still fuming, but already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.
"Well," England says, clearing his throat proudly. "That's been fixed. My work here is done."