The G8 meeting was being hosted by Germany, and he already had a headache. Why was that, do I hear you cry? Simple; England and America were at it again. Not in the way that France would like, with his obsession with 'love', but in a genuinely antagonistic argument where each tried to verbally crush the other. On top of that, every time it looked like the pair was going to settle down, the aforementioned third nation would do something that would set them off again. Arschloch.
"That is it!" An enraged voice shattered America's current rant. "I have had enough of you, you ingrate!" A bright white flash lit up the meeting room and, when seven of the eight assembled nations had finished blinking the spots away from their eyes, all of them – minus France, who had seen it happen once before – stared in disbelief.
Instead of the stuffily dressed figure in a suit they all knew well, in front of them was a side of England they had never seen before. He wore a blindingly white tunic that was gathered at one shoulder and fell asymmetrically from mid-thigh to lie just level with his knee. In one hand was a star-tipped wand and, flaring out from between his shoulder blades was a majestic pair of snowy-white wings. His build, slender for a man even on a normal day, had become more effeminate and France was eyeing his bare legs appreciatively.
"Dude… What the hell?"
"Feel the wrath of the mighty Britannia Angel!" he shouted, levelling the wand at America and flicking it to produce a dazzling beam of light that – somehow – bounced off America and rebounded onto the caster. Another flash later, tinted blue this time, and England had gone through his second change in under five minutes.
Now standing in front of the nations, all but two of them eagerly watching what promised to be better than any TV show, was England, but as he had been centuries ago. His short build was masked by heeled boots, he wore a richly decorated scarlet coat and his billowing shirt had more ruffles than Switzerland's pyjamas/Austria's cravat [delete according to preference]. On top of his longer and even more unruly hair was a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a single large feather. At his hip were belted a sword gleaming with use and an old-fashioned pistol. He lifted his head and in his emerald eyes shone a light that brought back unpleasant memories for many in the room. This was not England.
This was the British Empire at his strongest.
Now, convention dictates that, in this sort of scenario, the one out of his time should look around, bewildered but usually hiding it with anger, ask where he or she is and then freak out and/or attack someone.
The British Empire dictates that convention can kiss. His. Arse.
He strode over to France and scrutinised his face. After a very tense five minutes, he turned away from the Frenchman, irritation in every line of his body.
"How far am I into the future?"
"Dude, how couldn't you know?! It's the twenty-first century!"
He span around, coat flaring with his movement. His sword was out and at America's neck before the other knew it. "Who are you? Answer quickly and with the bare minimum of words."
"It's me, America!"
"My colony? Look at you, you're all grown up!" he lowered and sheathed his sword before patting the 'colony' on his head and ruffling his hair fondly.
"Angleterre."
"What do you want, frog?" He was not happy about the interruption of his little familial 'moment'.
"How long will you be 'ere?"
"How annoyed was my future self, and what did he use to make this happen?"
By that point, Germany had long given up any hope of getting anything useful done. Russia had not moved from his seat and was looking at England, wondering if building empires was back 'in'. Italy was trembling under a desk, surrendering for all he was worth, Japan was not visibly affected, and I feel like I'm forgetting someone…
"France was egging you on while you were arguing with America about his plan to fix our economies. Again." Germany had yet to find a headache reliever that could counter the stress of meetings. It showed.
"Oui. And you pulled out l'Ange de Britannia, but the spell rebounded on something."
"I went Britannia Angel in front of you?! I give it at least a week before I can return to my own time."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"If I would take that form in front of a man as notoriously lecherous as you, I must have been enraged beyond all reason. I still haven't forgotten last time."
"Lecherous? I am le pays d'amour! L'amour is something to be spread around, non?"
"Along with venereal disease."
"Why do you wound your frère ainé so?"
It would seem to be a basic law of nature that, if France and England are put in a room together for any length of time, they start bickering, while most nations nearby will start to place bets.
"Would everyone SHUT UP?!"
France obediently stopped talking and scurried back to his seat. England, however, was unaffected and turned to face Germany with the full force of his glare aimed at the other blond nation.
"I am calling this meeting to a stop! We will get nothing done until England returns to normal." That said, he chased after Italy, who was trying to get away from the imposing empire. The nations left behind to gather up their papers could hear him shouting at the shorter man as he ran down the corridor. Russia left quietly and Japan bowed and made his excuses too, leaving three – no, four – nations in the room.
"Is that Canada, France's little colony?"
"Y-yes," he whispered as loudly as he could.
"My, haven't you grown?! And your behaviour is so much more polite than America's! Where am I going to go wrong with that boy?"
"Canadia, bro! When did you get here?"
"I've been here all along…"
British Empire cut across the 'lowly colonies' and addressed the only 'fellow empire' in the room. "What do I need to know so I do not stand out?" Before France could open his mouth, he added "Be warned: if you give me bad information, I shall turn you into a pincushion and I will enjoy it."
"Britain! Why not ask me?"
"Silence, colony. The empires are talking."[1]
And that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the week. England, when the G8 had first been set up, had given to Germany a list of rules that instructed the blond nation on how to deal with him should his magic go awry at a bad moment. It detailed events ranging from changing the sandwiches provided into songbirds to a full-blown apocalypse. Each scenario had two ratings; how dangerous the situation was, and how important it was that the instructions were followed to the letter. Under 'swapped with past self', rather than a single danger rating, this had a sliding scale that ranged from 'mild nuisance' to 'run like a bloody Italian' and a footnote stating that it depended on both the age and the mood of his past self. The number determining the importance of following the instructions exactly was bolded, highlighted, underlined and in bright red ink.
Not even the full on apocalypse had all of that.
None of the nations were allowed to mention America's independence or, indeed, the breakdown of the British Empire in the twentieth century. To many who had not known him at the time, he was arrogant and aloof and to those who he had known, he was merely arrogant but, except for America, they were used to that. At that time, so had most of them been.
America wasn't quite sure what to make of this England. When he had been a colony, Britain had been his big brother and almost a father to him. Now he was an adult, and independent, and he wasn't allowed to say so or Germany would give him a super-ultra-boring lecture that would drone on forever but he couldn't go back to worshipping the ground England walked on like he had done in the time this new – or should it be old? – England had come from. On top of that, England seemed to be trying to treat him like he had when he was a kid, but the first time he had tried to cook for the two of them, expecting a delighted America surprised at the thoughtfulness shown by the Empire, the superpower had paled, run away screaming and then called France over citing 'emergency code black'.
It was, however, only when England tried to send him to the naughty step that America put his foot down and called Germany.
"I quit! Make France or Spain look after him! I can't take it any more!" Before Germany could reply, he threw the phone back on the cradle.
Halfway through his packing, England shouted to him that the 'communication contrivance' was making an 'infernal noise' again. Sighing, the nation who had been volunteered to babysit his ex-big brother picked it up.
"'Sup?"
"Allo, Amèrique! Why has Germany ordered me to get over there?"
"I. Can't. Take it any more! He's treating me like I'm a little kid again! You have to save me, France!"
"Relax, relax. Grand frère is coming."
"I owe you, dude. I gotta go – my stuff won't pack itself! Bye!" He hung up, then turned back to the bomb site he called a bedroom. "Now, what next?"
Poor America; he had only managed to last two days. When France arrived to relieve him of his duty, the European nation was greeted by an enthusiastically grateful tackle-hug.
"I thought you'd never arrive! 'Kay, thanks bro! Bye!" He picked up his bulging suitcases, threw them effortlessly into his car, jumped in and zoomed off.
The replacement empire-sitter walked into England's home calmly and immediately turned towards the sitting room. As expected, the time-displaced empire was sitting in a plush armchair, reading a fantasy novel and sipping a cup of tea.
"Morning, frog. What brings you here?"
"You drove America away with your incessant mothering. He is over four hundred years old now, you know."
"That may be, but as long as he acts like he is still in double figures, I shall treat him like he is in double figures. Will that boy never grow up?"
"I don't think so, mon ami," he replied cheerfully, not backing down from England's glare. "You are always grumpier when you are hungry. I'll make us some lunch, oui?"
England grumbled and turned back to his reading. France smiled; over the centuries, he had learnt to read the black sheep of Europe very well, and the refusal to admit his love of the Frenchman's cooking was, quite frankly, adorable. He strolled into the other country's kitchen and started to prepare a light lunch for the two of them to share. Humming quietly to himself, he began to look through the fridge for edible ingredients.
"My, my. You've practically become domesticated," A voice purred from the doorway.
Hiding his surprise, France turned to face him. "Well, someone has had to keep you from starving over the centuries, mon cher."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
France set some new potatoes on a chopping board and began to cut them expertly into small rounds. "You know as well as I do. Now, could you fill a pot with water? These was parboiling before je les fais sauter."
Grumbling about 'bossy frogs', the empire complied and set the pot down on top of the stove. "I shall be reading a novel through in the other room."
France smiled; he knew the prickly nation would be drawn back to him once he had begun to cook.
France endured the British Empire's company with good humour for another five days. England was arrogant and power-hungry, yes, but hadn't they all been at that point? He himself had been similar, if not worse, so he could not complain too much.
Still, he did feel some sense of satisfaction when he saw just how high England's paperwork had piled in his absence. None of it was urgent – the nation in question's boss had been told that he was 'unavailable' – but there was still a lot of it.
The two of them had settled into a little routine fairly quickly. France would wake about an hour after England, go downstairs and unlock the kitchen before cooking a breakfast that couldn't be classed as a weapon of mass destruction. England was grumble and half-heartedly complain about having his kitchen 'stolen' from him and then watch France suspiciously while he did the paperwork he had one of his aides send over. Lunch was usually cold and quick, then England would drag him outside to do physical activities, complete with much taunting about the loss of his reflexes and fine-tuning in fencing, horse riding and other such things. The day he was forced into sailing on the lake was a nightmare.
Despite his own status as an ex-empire, France had never been entirely comfortable on any sailing ship with fewer than three masts and/or at least fifty crewmembers. He had certainly never travelled with any less! Due to this, it was understandable that he was eyeing warily the tiny little boat England was sitting in, a challenging smirk plastered all over the sort-of-empire's smug face.
'How bad can it really be?' the empire-sitting nation asked himself before gingerly stepping into the tiny two man – er, nation – boat.
Half an hour later, cold, wet, stiff, covered in weed and sore all over, France had his answer. As if to add insult to injury, his 'captain' remained bone dry and appeared to be laughing at his discomfort.
"If you find this so funny, you can make your own dinner, mouton noir!"
When England was finally allowed back inside his own kitchen for the first time in three days, he found that France was not so angry he could not think. Anything that could be used for cooking had been safely padlocked away. As he 'expressed his displeasure' (read: threw a tantrum) France smirked at the screen and congratulated himself for the speed and efficiency with which he set up the cameras.
Tossing another kernel of popcorn into his mouth, he changed to another angle of the irate nation's struggle.
Who would have guessed that it would be so difficult to put together a simple chunk of bread, lump of cheese and an apple?
"Should be some time today," England announced over breakfast a couple of days after the sailing incident.
"Quoi?" The French nation was very rarely at his conversational best first thing in the morning, and was often fairly slow on the uptake. Add to that the physical exhaustion of being more active in the last five days than he had been since the last major war – and not in a good way, either – and it was understandable that France had no idea what England was referring to.
It took more energy to keep a time-displaced empire amused for an hour than the average toddler for a week as France, rather painfully, found out.
"I should," England repeated himself more slowly and clearly, "Return to my original time at some point today."
France exited his chair and fell to his knees. "Merci, Dieu! Merci de me permetter d'échapper de ce cauchemar!" [2] His hands were lifted to the sky and a blissful smile spread across his face.
A cough with many emotional undertones broke through his rapturous thanksgiving. Moving into a more normal pose, he fixed England with a slightly defensive glare.
"You're about as low-maintenance as Austria. Do not deny it."
'Plus que ça change,' France thought as he and England were enveloped in the familiar dust cloud that accompanied all of their brawls.
The paperwork session was unchanged, lunch as normal as the two could get, much to France's dismay. The afternoon torture session had not been called off either. This time, England had planned a 'gentle' ride through the small forest on his estate with, in France's opinion, two of the most evil excuses for horses the island nation could have found.
His discovered this five minutes into their ride when the empire's mount, without any warning, sped off down a path on a sharp turn, right before his horse decided to follow suit and he was left hanging on for dear life as Newton's laws of motion kicked in.
It was moments like this that reminded France just why he had not looked back once cars had become a viable means of transport. Horses were unpredictable, often uncomfortable and usually had a mind of their own.
Apart from some uncomfortable (for France) yet apparently hilarious (for England) encounters with various trees, bushed and low, thin branches, the ride the empire had dragged the two of them on passed without too many significant event.
An hour after they had returned, France was sitting down in the armchair he had adopted as his own for the time being to recover from his ordeal, glass of fine French wine in one hand, romance novel in the other, when it happened.
"Oi, frog. I'm back."
Enfin! [3]
[1] I admit it; I wrote this entire story for the sole purpose of using this one line. So shoot me.
[2] "Thank you, God! Thank you for letting me escape this nightmare!"
[3] At last!
Okay, time for a short rant, but hang on 'til the end! I find it really annoying when people abuse basic grammar rules in foreign languages (especially French) when writing. I have lost count of the number of times I have screamed at my computer screen "No! The adjective doesn't agree with the noun!" or "Wrong gender, wrong gender!" Go a little further than Google translate.
Just one of my little pet peeves, rant is over. Now, I had an idea. There was a purpose to this rant, believe it or not. I would like to offer my services as a French translator (phrases and short sentences only) for things like this. Face it, Hetalians, it's seen the most in this fandom. Admittedly, that's because there's the most opportunity in this fandom, but still… I don't want to be the only person doing this, so if you're bilingual – or more than that! – why not offer your help in reading over other people's work? It will save you the stress of tearing your hair out in frustration over an awkwardly constructed sentence, or the wrong verb used.
Thanks for reviewing, Blue out.