America's paperwork was abruptly interrupted by violent knocking on his front door, knocking so hard his bookshelves were quivering against the wall of his office. With a sigh, he pushed himself out of his giant plush office chair that screamed "AMERICA" in every way possible. It was, of course, England who gifted the chair for America's birthday a couple year prior but America had outright refused to do any work if his butt was in any other chair. Oh, how England spoiled him.
With a slightly lovestruck smile on his face, America opened his his door to reveal a lanky red-haired man with England's eyebrows and a splash of freckles on both cheeks. A menacing version of a baseball bat was slung over a shoulder.
"Hey Scotland. You don't usually drop by this side of the pond. What's up?" America kept a casual tone, though he was wary of the Scotsman's unexpected appearance. "It's been, what, twenty years since we last spoke?"
"Aye, I rather prefer your brither up North. Least the lad has the decency to name a place for me." In a single fluid motion, Scotland used his modified baseball bat to shove America aside and welcome himself into America's home.
"Uh, come in?" Trying to maintain some semblance of authority in his own house, America slid his glasses up his nose, closed the door. He chased after Scotland, only to see the bat narrowly miss taking a chunk of plaster out of his wall and collide with a miniature model of Big Ben.
"Dude!" America cried up, racing to steady the old clock tower. "England got this for me! And aren't you, like, banned from bringing baseball bats on planes?"
Scotland responded by throwing his head back and releasing a loud guffaw. "This, laddie, it ain't a mere toy. It's a fine old club I stole from England's armoury meself." Scotland wore an expression a tad too smug for America to feel safe alone in the same room as Scotland. Scotland made himself at home on America's recliner, setting his feet on America's coffee table. "Speaking of me wee brither, we are about to have a talk."
"A talk?" Holding on to his model clock tower like a lifeline, Alfred eyed Scotland warily.
"Aye. A talk. A good 'ol chit chat between men." Scotland scratched his belly with one hand while stretching the other.
America had heard his fair share of horror stories involving Scotland from England, and he had laughed at his lover's irrational fear of his older brother, but America was very quickly realizing England's fear of Scotland was not so irrational after all.
"So," Scotland drawled, picking at his teeth with a penknife he had conjured from somewhere, "You and that bastard brither o' mine."
"Yeah?" America did not have the slightest clue what Scotland was trying to get at.
"Ye've been lovers for 'bout seventy decades now, aye? Ye treatin' him right?"
"Excuse me?"
Under his breath, Scotland muttered to himself, "Lad's as dim as they say." Then he raised his voice to address America again. "Me brithers an' I...we have a complicated relationship. But we are still family, an' family protect our own."
America was still trying to wrap his head around the conversation. "Wait. So you came all the way here, to D.C, so you could see how I treated my boyfriend? England and I have been together for seventy years!"
"Aye," Scotland nodded, "but ye did take advantage of me brither after the war. Draining us of every last piece of rubble..." He broke off into a string of unintelligible gaelic curses.
At this point, America set Big Ben back down on its shelf and proceeded to take a seat on the couch. Seeing Scotland's angry ranting had ended, he cried out in defense, "My boss made me! It wasn't like I wanted to destroy England. Honest! I didn't want to see the British Empire collapse, but my boss did, and, well, you know how it is. Besides, didn't you just try to leave England?"
"One of us brithers has to scare the wee one once every few years. Make sure he doesn't get too full of himself, keep him in line. It's tradition." Scotland put his penknife back in his pocket and was suddenly distracted by something down America's hallway. "Hey! A unicorn!"
Without a second thought, Scotland jumped up, raced into the hallway and knelt in the middle to pet the air, leaving behind a bewildered and confused America. Moments later, he realized it must have been the unicorn England had given him for their fiftieth anniversary. He had learned the hard way, after a rather unfortunate encounter with Wales back in the seventies, to never again question England, or any of his siblings, regarding magic.
When Scotland was done cooing over the unicorn, he returned to America's recliner. He looked at America with a newfound hint of respect in his eyes. "Ye must mean something important to me brither, if he's gifted you a unicorn. The unicorn may be mine, but me brither has a soft spot for them. He doesn't gift them to just any 'ol lad."
Cautiously, America responded, still not sure what Scotland was trying to get at. "I do love him, you know. England and I have had our differences in the past, and we probably fight even more than he does with France, but he's important to me and I would never do anything that would intentionally hurt him. He's my ally, my special relationship partner, my lover, my everything. I'd like to keep him around as long as I can."
Satisfied with what he was hearing, Scotland nodded. "Aye, I figured when the eagle appeared. Bloody birds, terrorizing my trolls and Nessie."
Scotland stood up, slung his club over his shoulder, and headed for the door. Robotically, America followed after.
Just before he opened the door, Scotland turned to give America a parting. "Ye should know," he said, "yer good for him. We brithers, we have a difficult relationship, but we protect our own. If ye ever break his heart I'll be sure to break yer face!"
Halfway down America's driveway, Scotland called out one last message. "I'll be seeing ye again in a month, aye? Don't do anything that would leave me no option to to break yer face!"
In his doorway, America stared after the diminishing figure of Scotland. There was no car, no transportation except for his own two feet. But America had learned, long ago, that England and his brothers were not people who should be questioned if one valued their sanity.
A little reminder in the back of his head chirped at Scotland's reminder about England's birthday being only a month away and America smiled.
One more month and he'd be with England again.
Canada has a province called Nova Scotia, meaning New Scotland. This is what Scotland is referring to in the beginning.
I'm also Chinese, and very much not Scottish, so I don't actually know the difference between the Scottish and pirate accent. Hopefully I'm not too off. heh.
There's been a lot of unwanted drama in my life so I wrote this little thing as a distraction for myself. I hope you enjoy~~