AN: I don't even know anymore.

GIBRALTOE

Spain discovers it quite by accident.

It happens one morning, when there's still not enough caffeine in his system to make him somewhat functional. Normally, he could have walked from his bedroom to the kitchen with his eyes closed — many times he's zombied his way through his house after having gone on an "easy night out, just a couple drinks" with his two best buddies. Unfortunately, his furniture's layout has been recently changed; a redecorating spree instigated by Romano the last time he invited himself to spend a few days at his place.

And so it happens, in an otherwise perfectly normal morning, that a not caffeinated enough Spain with eyes still sleepy fails to see a table that used to be nearby-but-not-quite-there.

He remembers about it the moment he stubs his little toe against it.

"¡ME CAGO EN LA PUTA!" he yells, slamming his hand against the table, and is ready to start hopping on one leg, cursing while clutching his poor toe between his hands, when he realizes… that it hasn't really hurt.

Blinking, Spain stares down at his toe, red and swelling there where it has hit the table. It looks painful — it should be painful. But all he feels coming from it is a light tingling, a ticklish sensation so very different from the hurt he expected.

He stands there for two whole minutes, gawking at his feet, his still not fully awake brain trying to comprehend what's just happened. But the only coherent thought that makes it through the sleepy fog is I need a coffee, and the curious incident is forgotten in favour of the beverage.

It's rescued back from whatever pitch-black memory black hole it was tossed into about a week later, when Spain attends an EU meeting.

He's chatting with France about this and that before it starts when Scotland approaches them, his lips twisted into a smirk that they recognize as the one he wears when he conspires with them to prank England.

"Artie is losing his mind," Scotland says as greeting, and Spain shares and amused look with France. "I think all this Brexit shit is finally taking its toll on him."

"Surely it's not that bad," France waves his hand dismissively, although his eyes are positively gleaming in mischief. "He's been through worse."

"Aye, but… The funniest thing happened the other day." Scotland glances around, as if making sure that his little brother is nowhere near them, and when he addresses them again, there's amusement all over his face. "He was having his morning tea, as usual, and then suddenly he jolted where he sat, screaming."

"Oh?" Spain cocks an eyebrow, curious, but loving the visual his mind conjures. "What had happened?"

"Nothing. Literally nothing. But then the cunt accused me of practicing voodoo with him," Scotland sighs, rolling his eyes, "which is an equally ridiculous and tempting idea."

"Voodoo?" France snorts (something only he can manage to do dignifiedly). "What on Earth gave him that idea?"

"He claimed to have felt a sudden pain on his toe, as if he had stubbed it on something."

Spain's eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he recalls his own incident. Could it be…? "When did you say this happened?" he inquires, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Gee, last week, on… Tuesday? Maybe?" Scotland shrugs. "The paranoid little shit has been glaring suspiciously at me since."

France replies something that makes Scotland laugh, but Spain is no longer listening, his mind too busy digging up a blurry memory of a stubbed toe and a confusing absence of pain. That was a week ago, wasn't it? In the morning, too. And Spain is no Sherlock Holmes, but this puzzle isn't hard to solve. He looks at the paper in his hands, a detailed planning of the topics they'll be talking about in the meeting (courtesy of Germany), and his gaze finds Section Two (Brexit) Subsection Eight (Gibraltar).

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he quietly whispers the word, tasting it in his tongue: Gibraltar. He wiggles his toes inside his shoe. It might seem a crazy theory, but everything seems to point towards it… and Spain knows just how to fully prove it.

He waits until the meeting has started. From his seat, he can easily glance at England, sat between Germany and his brother, his papers neatly ordered and a permanent frown on his face as he listens to and takes notes on what Germany says. Spain has never considered himself a very patient man, but the prospect of screwing up with England is powerful enough to make him break his limits, and so he waits and waits, until he notices England is too engrossed with his paperwork to notice anything around him except for Germany's voice.

Then, with a lot of care so as not to give himself away to France and Romano, who sit at his sides, Spain raises a foot and, his gaze never leaving England, smashes it down on his toe.

The effect is immediate.

England lets out a startled yelp, flinching on his chair, and his face is distorted by pain and confusion when he glances under the desk.

"Did you see that?" Romano asks Spain quietly. He's not the only one — a general mumble has settled on the room, and England is the centre of everyone's gazes.

"Yes," Spain answers, taking his glass of water to his lips to hide his smile behind it. He watches England as his face goes red in embarrassment and how he takes it out on Scotland, who he blames for the voodoo-like experience. "Yes I did."

~{§}~

Out of all the hobbies Spain has picked up through the years, randomly stubbing his little toe against furniture has to be the oddest. There's a certain dark satisfaction to it, though, knowing that wherever he is, whatever he's doing, England is suddenly being assaulted by toe-stubbing pain. And maybe, just maybe, Spain is behaving like a petty bastard, but he's always been a bit of a sadist under that cheery façade, and he knows that, had it been the other way around, England would be doing exactly the same. Perhaps because he, too, is a petty bastard.

It takes one to know one.

At first, Spain doesn't intend to tell anyone about the whole little-toe-ghost-connection thing, for starters because he knows it sounds completely bollocks. Sure, they're not human, and they're used to seeing and doing some weird shit, but as far as he knows, this kind of thing is previously unheard of. He's delighted to be the only one who knows about it. Sadly, he can't keep it secret forever.

The first one he tells is Scotland.

They've always gotten along, if only out of their shared dislike towards England, and Spain starts to feel bad, knowing that Scotland is getting the blame for his actions. He meets with him one day, far from the other curious ears, and confesses what he's been doing. Scotland listens carefully, an incredulous frown on his face, and Spain totally expects him to be mad at him. But when he finishes, Scotland breaks down in laughter, and he laughs so hard he ends up lying on the floor, out of breath and with tears running down his face.

"You brilliant bastard," he cackles, wiping off his tears. "Don't stop; I'll happily take the blame."

The second one to find out is Romano.

In his defense, Spain will say that he can hardly hide anything from him for too long. France and Prussia are his best buddies, but Romano is his best friend. They've known each other for a long time; long enough for them to notice even the slightest change in the other. So when Romano shows up in his house again (self-invited, as usual) and goes on another redecorating spree, Spain can't hide his smile as he remembers the first time he stubbed his toe, and, "What are you smiling about, bastard?" Romano asks, the insult already a fond nickname between them.

"Nothing," Spain answers.

"Nothing my ass."

Spain tries to laugh it off, but Romano is having none of it, and he keeps pressing until Spain's smile finally morphs from innocent to mischievous. "I wasn't used to some of the changes the last time you redecorated and I stubbed my toe against a table."

Romano goes pale. "Shit, I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes. It was fantastic." Spain laughs at Romano's confused expression, and elaborates on that. "Turns out my little toe is Gibraltar, so it hurts England instead of me."

It only takes Romano a moment to put two and two together. "Is that why he keeps flinching and yelping at random times? Because you're purposefully slamming your toe against stuff?" Spain's response is a wide grin, and Romano shakes his head, unbelieving. "You're an evil genius."

Spain laughs and chooses to take that as a compliment.

The last to hear about it directly from him are France and Prussia, after they go out one night, Spain has one too many drinks, and they find him in an alley, repeatedly kicking a wall.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Prussia asks, flabbergasted.

"Kickin' a wall," Spain slurs back.

"We can see that," France says, staring up and down his friend and wondering if he's finally lost it. "Why exactly are you doing that?"

"Because fuck England, that's why."

The quizzical answer leaves them with even more questions; questions they keep asking the following morning, when Spain is too hungover to refuse them for long. When they finally get the whole story (or what they can put together based on the sometimes incoherent blabbering), Prussia starts laughing so loudly that Spain buries his head under the pillow with a disgruntled groan. France just stands there, wrapping his mind around the crazy concept of pain-transmitter toes, and when he finally opens his mouth, his voice comes out with a mixture of awe and respect: "You know, Toni…

"Out of all the pranks we've pulled on England, this one has to be the best."

~{§}~

Of course, news travels fast, and it's only a matter of time until England hears about it.

It all happens in Denmark, where one of their hundreds of meetings takes place. The meeting itself passes without any incidents — save for the occasional jolting of a certain island nation — and everyone walks back to the hotel together, in a good mood, for once. Spain walks sandwiched between France and Romano, and the three of them chat and laugh with ease, all their problems left behind in the meeting room.

A new problem catches up to them when they walk into the hotel lobby.

The problem is a very enraged England who is suddenly storming towards them. His eyes are on fire, his scowl is so deep that his eyebrows nearly merge into one, and his mere presence is so threatening that everyone in his path is quick to stumble out of it.

"SPAIN!" England roars, his hands closed into white-knuckled fists and his focused glare stabbing the target of his rage. "Come here, you son of a thousand whores!"

Spain doesn't need to ask to know England knows. He doesn't know who's told him, or how he's figured it out, but the evidence in front of him is clear enough: England knows about his Gibraltar-toe and is not happy about that. Not happy at all.

And, again, Spain is no Sherlock Holmes, but even the dumbest of people would deduce that England's intentions aren't precisely good. So, in a display of his better judgement, Spain decides not to obey England's command, and instead prepares his escape plan.

Step one: stun the enemy.

In a quick, smooth move, Spain kicks his shoe off, sending it straight at England's face. He doesn't stop to look if his shot has been successful (although, judging by the disgruntled Fuck he hears, accompanied by a chorus of oooh's and ouch's, it's safe to assume that it has hit England square on the face), and instead carries on with his plan.

Step two: run for your life.

Before England has time to recover from the sudden shoe attack, Spain sprints away and makes a run for the stairs. It's uncomfortable to run with one shoe only, and while that does slow Spain's run, it also serves a purpose: without the shoe in the way, it's easier to slam his toe against the stairs as he climbs them.

He can hear England sprinting behind him, his insults and curses every time the toe is hit, and his rough voice when he tells him to stop and promises he won't hurt him — much.

"Don't lie!" Spain yells back, a bit breathless from the race. He ducks by pure instinct and his shoe flies over his head, crashing against the wall with such force that Spain thinks that, had it hit him, it might have actually knocked him down. "Shit, are you crazy?!"

"Yes!"

England's tone leaves no room for argument.

Not that Spain would have argued anyway.

As he climbs the last set of stairs before his floor, Spain digs out his room's key-card from his pocket mid-race. He can make it in time. He can reach his room before England reaches him, and once there's a solid door between them, he'll be safe — provided England doesn't find an axe and decides to re-enact The Shining.

Nearly there.

Spain skids to a halt in front of his room, the key-card held tightly in his hand.

England sees his chance and doubles his speed.

Almost—

The door clicks unlocked and Spain pushes it open and runs inside as fast as he can, slamming it behind him.

Not fast enough.

England storms in after him, a murderous aura surrounding him, and his smile is all teeth when he says: "Nowhere to run now."

Spain stands still in the middle of the room, facing England, and for the briefest of moments he's transported back in time to centuries ago — it feels like they're standing on a ship, a treacherous ocean below them, and if he concentrates enough he can feel the weight of his halberd in his hand, the glint of the sun on England's blade and the smell of gunpowder in the air.

The situation now couldn't be more different, but the sensation is the same.

And there might not be a halberd (or swords or guns), but there are fists.

Letting out a wild roar, England launches himself over Spain and tackles him into the floor. "You bloody wanker!" he screams.

"¡Imbécil de los cojones!" Spain yells back, fighting him.

"You're the worst!"

"¡Cabronazo!"

England's fist finds Spain's cheek; Spain's knee has a rough encounter with England's ribs. They roll across the floor, punching and kicking and spitting and yelling at each other, and normally the fight would have been even.

But today England is particularly enraged, and his fury gives him a strength Spain can't counter. He's not sure how it happens, but suddenly he finds himself in a headlock, England's arm around his neck and his legs clasped tightly around his waist, immobilizing him.

An unstoppable force (England's anger) meets an unmovable object (Spain's stubbornness).

"Let go," Spain gasps.

"Only if you swear you'll stop with that bloody toe."

"Never!" Spain struggles, trying to pry free. "Just give me my rock back!"

"Gibraltar is my rock, you hear me?! Mine!"

"No! I'll get it back!"

"Over my dead body!"

"If that's what it takes, then so be it!"

"You're worse than a two-year-old!"

"You're worse than haemorrhoids!"

"Imbecile!"

"¡Gilipollas!"

"Screw you!"

"Kiss my ass!"

"I wish!"

The tension in the air suddenly vanishes, leaving room for a very confused silence. Spain struggles in England's grasp, twisting his head until he can glance at his face. "What did you just say?" he asks, not a trace of anger in his voice, just plain stupor.

"I said you wish," England answers after a beat, and although there's still resentment in his voice, his face is red with embarrassment.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did. Shut up."

"No you—ouch," Spain complains when England releases him, shoving him onto the floor.

Now that the fight is over and he's no longer being fuelled by adrenaline, Spain can feel different centres of pain all across his body. He's certain that his lip is split, and when he takes a hand to his nose, it comes back bloodstained; his neck still resents England's rough lock and there's a throbbing pain on his side, where England has sunk his knee.

With considerable effort, Spain drags himself next to the wall and sits against it, spent. England is on his feet, and while he doesn't look much better than Spain, it seems that the greatest focus of pain for him are his knuckles, which he rubs gently.

Not a surprise there — he's punched Spain pretty badly.

"Spain," England calls. His face is still coloured from his previous tongue-slip, but his voice has regained its strength. It sounds cold and menacing. "Just stop with the toe, will you?"

It doesn't even sound close to a request, and Spain doubts it was meant as one.

"We'll see," he replies anyway, his signature stubbornness shining one more time.

England glares at him before turning on his heels and leaving, slamming the door shut behind him.

Finally alone, Spain allows himself to let out a pained groan.

And then, no matter how much it hurts his side, he can't help but laugh.

~{§}~

Spain gives England a week to cool down after their fight. He doesn't even touch his toe, and is extra careful not to accidentally stub it. And England must have noticed, because when Spain approaches him after the last meeting his over, his glare lacks the disgust it used to be loaded with.

"Hey," Spain says, smiling amicably at him.

He fully expects a Get lost for an answer, and is surprised when England mimics his Hey, if only a little less friendly.

"I've been thinking—"

"Well, that's a first."

"I've been thinking," Spain tries again, ignoring England's verbal jab, "would you like to go out with me tonight?"

England's shock at the proposition manifests in his massive eyebrows skyrocketing all the way up to his hairline. "What?"

"You. Me. Tonight," Spain breaks it down, his grin widening. "Come on, it'll be fun. I promise I won't purposefully stub my toe." When England fails to answer, Spain shrugs. "I'll take that as a yes. Meet me at eight, 'kay? If you behave during the night, I might let you kiss my ass later," he finishes with a cheeky wink.

"You—" England hisses, his whole face going beet red. "Fuck you."

Spain laughs with that laugh that no one, not even England, can resist, and his green eyes are gleaming with something akin to lust when he replies:

"Hopefully~"

FIN

AN: This is the peak of my career as a fanfiction writer. I was so engrossed with this that I forgot to have dinner. Please review.