2:00 am, 31st October, 2012
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Northern Ireland's first thought upon awakening is that the fae are evil, duplicitous bastards.
He'd assumed that they'd reached an unspoken gentleman's agreement regarding the rules of engagement in the low level war they'd been waging against one another for the past twenty years or so. To wit, that so long as Northern Ireland didn't throw anything heavier than Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (paperback only) at them, they would declare a ceasefire come bedtime and he could remain undisturbed by their malicious pranks and creepy voyeurism until his morning shower.
Said cessation of hostilities would by its very nature preclude his sleep being interrupted by one of the little shits curling up on his pillow like a cat, and yet there's the rotten egg smell of magic lingering on the air, and a tiny arse almost filling his field of vision when he opens his eyes.
Such an egregious breach cannot go unpunished, and so Northern Ireland grabs the – gnome? pixie? it's hard enough to tell them apart at the best of times, never mind in the near darkness with only what little of the bleached glow of the streetlight outside that can seep through the curtains to see by – transgressor by the scruff of its neck, fully intending to throw it against a wall so hard that it bounces. "Right, you fucking –"
His voice sounds slurred and Estuary-tinged, very much like England's does whenever he's over-tired or been on the sherry at Christmas.
"Jesus." The word feels too crisp in Northern Ireland's mouth; sharp against his tongue. He clears his throat a couple of times, and then tries it again. "Jesus."
His second attempt emerges in the cut-glass RP accent England affects most of the time, and the shock of hearing it makes Northern Ireland lose his grip on the whatever-the-fuck-it-is, and it growls angrily at him before popping out of existence, leaving behind nothing but its stink and a small cloud of shimmery smoke.
In its wake, Northern Ireland's heart begins to beat a little faster, and he reaches automatically for the lamp that sits on his bedside table. His hand, however, brushes the cold, clammy surface of what feels like a glass of water, and then knocks against something hard and angular, which overturns, landing on the mattress beside him with a soft thump.
It appears to be a framed photograph – Northern Ireland has to close one eye and squint before he can bring it even slightly in focus – of Portugal. The exact same photograph of Portugal, in fact, that has pride of place on England's own bedside table.
"Fucking hell," Northern Ireland says in England's voice.
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2:15 am, 31st October, 2012
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Wales is dreaming about dissolving.
He's had the same dream so often during the last five hundred years that he can watch his eyeballs melting and the flesh peeling away from his bones with complete dispassion; it's such a commonplace sight by now that it's lost any of the horror that it might once have held.
Even England's melodramatic gloating over dream-Wales' liquefied corpse now inspires only a vague sense of relief that the whole tedious business is nearly at an end, notwithstanding the fact that it tends to herald a night filled with an endless round of teeth falling out and inappropriate nakedness.
Tonight, however, dream-England suddenly deviates from the most moustache-twirling portion of his usual speech, and starts saying his own name over and over. The change seems fairly inexplicable until Wales rouses sufficiently to realise that it's not part of the dream at all, but England himself shouting.
Which is actually even more inexplicable, and it makes Wales doubt that he's woken at all, because England should be in London, not pounding on Wales' bedroom door.
"Lloegr?" he ventures, feeling a little foolish.
The banging and shouting both stop, and England hesitantly asks, "Wales? Is that you?"
"Of course it's me," Wales says, but the words neither feel nor sound right. He touches his throat experimentally, and then his chin, jaw and cheeks. Their shape is familiar, but not as familiar as he would have expected. "Except I seem to have Gogledd's face."
"I think you've got my entire body. Or at least I hope so, because I've got England's."
"Oh. Right." Wales thinks he should probably feel angry or scared like Northern Ireland obviously is, but he can barely even muster up mild concern. After Scotland's two week reversion to childhood, and what he made poor England suffer through in revenge, a bout of bodyswapping seems downright innocuous in comparison. "Just go back to bed, Gogledd. It'll probably have worn off by morning."
"Go back to bed?" Northern Ireland echoes, sounding thoroughly unconvinced by the idea. "Isn't there a spell or something you can do to fix this? Aren't you worried about what's happening to your body at all?"
"Not particularly." The last time this had happened, it had only lasted a couple of hours, and both England and Wales had simply stayed very still and carefully avoided touching any part of their borrowed bodies for the duration. As far as Scotland's curses went, it had been unusually painless. "But I can always give myself a ring if it'd set your mind at ease. England might even know a spell that'll reverse this."
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2:25 am, 31st October, 2012
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Scotland is carefully avoiding touching any part of his borrowed body. It's making the process of getting dressed incredibly difficult, but he sure as hell isn't going to drive to London wearing Wales' ridiculous stripy pyjamas, much less give England the arse kicking he so richly deserves.
Changing the shirt had been challenge enough, but he can already tell Wales isn't wearing any underwear, and so the conundrum posed by the trousers has kept him stalled for the past five minutes at least. He plucks distractedly at the frayed ends of the drawstring which is pulling the waistband to uncomfortable tightness around Wales' ample middle as he contemplates the likelihood of his being able to coordinate his newly much shorter arms and stubbier fingers with enough finesse that the entire unpleasant business could be completed whilst keeping his eyes closed.
His ruminations are disturbed by Wales' mobile, which starts blaring out a high pitched, speeded up version of Cwm Rhondda – courtesy of Northern Ireland once again, no doubt – England's name flashing on its display.
He grabs it off Wales' chest of drawers, and growls into the receiver, "I'm going to fucking kill you, England."
"It's not England," the voice on the other end is quick to point out.
"North? What the hell are you doing ringing Wales in the middle of the night?"
"It's not Gogledd, either, Yr Alban. It's Cymru."
Scotland rubs at his forehead in an effort to ease away the dull ache that's starting building there before realising it's not really his forehead he's rubbing, and quickly dropping his hand. "So England's swapped us all round? Bastard always has to get the last word, doesn't he. I should have known he wouldn't let me get away with –"
"I don't think Lloegr's got anything to do with this," Wales says. "Not intentionally, at least. Gogledd's in his body, so I presume he must be in yours."
"But my body's…"
Scotland groans, cancels the call, and then quickly dials another number.
When he'd fallen asleep, he'd been in Paris.
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2:26 am, 31st October, 2012
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England is fairly certain he will never feel clean again.
He should have known something was wrong from the moment he was pulled back into that close embrace, because neither America nor Portugal had hairy chests, or normally smelt like the Great Pavilion on the last day of the Chelsea Flower Show, and, most importantly, he should have remembered that he had gone to bed alone.
But he'd been warm and languid with sleep, thoughts still sluggish, and hadn't remembered until after he'd let the Frog hold him tightly and press a kiss to the back of his…
He scrubs at his neck vigorously again, hands overflowing with water and lather, but either the water's not hot enough, or the soap's not strong enough, as the prickling itch of his skin doesn't abate.
"Are you all right, mon coeur?" France asks, rapping lightly against the bathroom door. England watches its reflection warily in the mirror above the sink, but although the handle rattles a little, the chair he wedged beneath it holds, and he breathes a little easier.
Easily enough that he can call back with some confidence of his voice holding: "Piss off."
"Scotland?" France, on the other hand, sounds confused and, perhaps, even a little hurt, although England's well aware that that may just be wishful thinking on his part. "What's –"
He's interrupted by a shrill rendition of Amazing Grace, which makes England look around – but not down; dear God, he made that mistake when he first leapt out of France's bed, and never again – for his own phone instinctively, before realising that it must be Scotland's. (The ringtone was chosen, no doubt, simply because Scotland was an unutterable wanker in addition to, it had transpired, a crass exhibitionist who didn't have the common decency to slip on even a pair of pants before he was abed.)
England listens to France's retreating footfalls thankfully, and then turns his attention to the bathroom window. It looks as though it might be a tight fit, but England's fairly certain that he could just about manage to squeeze himself through it. There still remains the twin problems of the subsequent five storey drop and a severe lack of clothing, but England's sure he can extemporise once he gets over the first hurdle between himself and freedom.
England is discovering just how badly he'd miscalculated the added breadth of Scotland's shoulders in relation to both his own and the width of the window frame, when France finally returns.
"Angleterre," he trills, sounding amused and every ounce as self-satisfied as every other time England has wanted to punch the smirk right off his wretched smug face, "your brothers want you to go home. You'll have to come out of there sooner or later."
"No I bloody well don't," England says, thinking that his brothers can go hang as far as he cares, because this was doubtless all one of their faults, anyway (and also that it appears that he's managed to wedge himself quite firmly in place, and thus unlikely to be going anywhere at all in any great hurry, whether he wants to or no).