A/N: Burns night is on Jan. 25th folks, so here's a quick little Scotland/Canada bonding fic to celebrate the occasion with. A quick note: Ceilidh, is pronounced 'Kay-Lee' and if you don't know what one is... shame on you. Go look it up on Youtube.
There were a great many things that made Scotland a rather popular country with the rest of the world: His beautiful Highland scenery, his ability to make very good whisky, {some of} his music as well as many of the inventions and discoveries his people had made. But mostly it was because the country knew how to throw a really good party, and would use practically any excuse to throw one.
Canada shook his head as he watched his uncle hum happily to himself as he sat down at the kitchen table, writing out a list of invitations to his annual Burn's Supper. He was always amazed at just how many other countries turned up, despite the man's reputation for even worse cooking skills than England. Which was why Canada found himself standing at the stove in said kitchen, mixing in some extra pepper into a large pot of Scotch Broth. It wasn't that Scotland didn't know how to cook, {he'd spent centuries practically living with France} it was that the reputation for his food being awful tended to precede him and most other countries would often need to be plastered with drink before they'd touch anything the nation had made. It was for this reason that Scotland had practically begged Canada to help him with the cooking for the last two years. Scotland stopped humming as he looked his list over,
"D'ye think I should invite Russia along?" he asked, frowning at the paper. Canada turned to look at his uncle,
"I don't see any reason why not." He replied, "You've said yourself that Russia enjoys Burns' work and he'll enjoy the chance to experience a proper Burns Supper." Scotland nodded,
"That's true, but America's likely to turn up and I'd rather not hae those twa glaring daggers at each other a' night." Canada turned back to the pot again,
"If the two of them decide to start anything, you can be certain I'll have a few words to give to both of them." He said. Canada's tone was light, but Scotland knew the undertone well enough to chuckle,
"Why do I get the feelin' it'll be mair than words wi' you laddie?" Scotland asked, ignoring the annoyed sounding snuff his nephew gave in reply. The older nation picked up the pen and wrote Russia's name on the list anyway, to remind himself to send out an invitation to the other country. Scotland got up out of his seat and stretched,
"If ye're almost done wi' that broth laddie, we can go get a soft seat fer a bit. The dumplings can get done once that lard's set a wee bit mair." Canada, stirred the broth again and gave it a quick taste. Satisfied that it was properly seasoned, the younger nodded and wiped his hands on a nearby tea towel,
"Give me five minutes to wash this lot up and I'll be right with you uncle." He called. Scotland nodded as he flopped down onto the settee, several fairies fluttering around him now he wasn't so busy,
"We found what you were looking for on Hogmany." One of them said, handing Scotland a small box, "It was underneath the sideboard." Scotland grinned up at the little ball of light,
"Cheers lass, I wis wonderin' whaur it had disappeared to." He took the box gently and opened it to reveal an old Celtic Cross on a fine chain. He smiled faintly as he fingered it. He remembered why he had originally made it, but when the colony it was meant for foundered, Scotland had hid the charm away in his attic and forgot all about it until he had been forced to clean the place up by England just before Christmas. Scotland looked up at the sound of Canada finishing up in the kitchen and closed the box again with a sigh. He leaned over the arm of the couch and pulled up another, much larger package, sitting up properly just as Canada came into the living room. Canada greeted the fairies happily as he sat down on the chair just opposite his uncle, giving him a quizzical look over his glasses as Scotland handed the package to him,
"A late Christmas present." Scotland explained when Canada took the two boxes, "The big one wasn't ready by the time Christmas came around and I only just got it last week." Canada smiled at his uncle,
"You really shouldn't have bothered uncle Scotland." Canada sighed, but Scotland waved it off,
"Dinnae tell me whit I can and cannae gie ma favourite nephew." He chuckled, "Just open it." He commanded with another wave at the box. Canada shook his head but complied anyway, opening the larger of the boxes first. Scotland watched his reaction carefully, his face splitting into a wide grin as Canada gasped at the contents.
"Oh... uncle Scotland... you shouldn't have..." Canada stuttered as he pulled a heavy, traditionally made kilt and sash from the box. What was making Canada so speechless however was not the fact that it was a kilt, but rather the colours on it. Scotland's grin got even wider,
"I ken it's no' official or anythin', but the Woolen Mill were mair than happy to dye it up fer me when I got them a sample." He explained, "They owed me a favour anyways." Canada carefully placed the fabric back into the large box, before noticing the smaller one sat next to it. Scotland stiffened slightly, but motioned for Canada to open it when the younger nation looked at him. The fairies fluttered around Canada as he opened it, most of them looking at Scotland to gauge his reaction,
"It's beautiful," Canada muttered quietly as he looked at the charm inside the box, "when did you make this?" he asked looking over to his uncle. Scotland's bright smile faded slightly as he replied,
"Around the early 1690s." He said quietly, "It's a bit tarnished, but nothing a good bit o' polishin' wilnae fix." He added. Canada looked back down at the necklace and fingered it gently, feeling the old charm woven into it,
"It's not been used..." he muttered, looking back up at Scotland again quizzically. Scotland sighed, his smile fading altogether,
"No, it hasn't," he confirmed, "that wis the charm I originally made fer Darien tae protect him when I wis awa'." Scotland looked to the floor, "The laddie never got a chance to wear it so it's been stuffed up in the attic fer the last three and a half centuries." Canada looked back down at the cross sadly; he knew the story of Darien and how much his uncle had been hurt by the colony's death. He sighed,
"So why are you giving it to me now?" he asked tentatively, wondering exactly why his uncle would want to give away something so obviously precious to him. Scotland looked up at him again with a sad smile,
"A charm's nae guid to anyone if it isnae bein' used." He replied, sitting up a little straighter now, "I'd rather it wis bein' worn rather than sittin' and gatherin' dust up in the attic. Besides, you've been needin' one fer the last couple of centuries, so why not give you one that was already made rather than wastin' magic tryin' to make a new one that'll hae a weaker charm on it?" Canada nodded; he could see his uncle's reasoning,
"I'll make sure it never comes off." He promised. Scotland beamed at him then motioned to the box with the kilt in it,
"Why don't ye go an' try the kilt and stuff on while I still mind? Might as well make sure it fits eh?" Canada picked up the boxes and nodded,
"I'll be right down." He said with a grin, swishing out of the sitting room, several fairies trailing after him asking questions. Scotland leaned back in his seat again and lit a cigarette while he waited.
...
It wasn't long before Canada poked his head around the door,
"Uncle Scotland, I think it fits ok, but I'm not sure it's sitting properly." He called, looking vaguely embarrassed. Scotland looked up at the boy,
"Well come on in 'til I see whit the problem is." Canada nodded and stepped into the room. Scotland stared as his nephew, words completely failing him. Canada shuffled uncomfortably as his uncle tried to find his voice again. He finally did when one of the fairies floating around poked him in the side of his head,
"Oh... Mata..."he breathed, tears of pride threatening to leave his eyes. The older nation quickly shook his head to clear it, "Ye look... ye look absolutely stunnin'." He finally said, "Ye're certainly gonnae turn heids wearin' that at the Ceiliidh next week." Canada smiled at the praise,
"Thank you," he said, "but I'm still not sure about the sash..." he trailed off as Scotland loked him over again. The older nation chuckled,
"Well ye've got it roond the wrong way fer a start." He said, "And it shouldnae be tucked in at the back, but other than that... it's perfect." He grinned. Canada mirrored the grin,
"Thank you again for this uncle Scotland, I know Nova Scotia had been bugging me for ages to get a kilt, I just never found the time to ask around." Scotland waved it off,
"Not a problem laddie, I'm just glad ye like it." He said, "Just wait 'til Francis sees ye in it." Canada laughed,
"No doubt he'll be surprised." He agreed, "Obviously in a good way though... not so sure about England." Scotland snorted,
"That laddie is bein' made to wear a kilt and a'. I'm no' haein' ma wee brithers turn up tae a Burns Supper in troosers!" he exclaimed. Canada laughed again,
"And how are you going to manage that exactly?" he asked, "From what I've heard so far England's outright refused to wear one." Scotland's eyes glinted maliciously,
"Oh he's gonnae do as he's feckin' told." Scotland replied, his voice low and rather dangerous, "Otherwise word might just get out about the late night shenanigans that he likes to get up to." Scotland chuckled darkly, making Canada scoot quickly away from him,
"Right... ok. I won't bother asking anymore." He squeaked nervously. Scotland's expression brightened again,
"Nae worries lad, I'll make sure no' tae offend yer sensitive wee ears wi' it. Francis would kill me if I did." He replied easily. "Now a' that's left tae do is make sure I've turned ye into a true Scotsman by next Saturday night." He said cheerfully, "An' make sure Russia doesnae see ye leave wi' Ukraine." He added with a sly wink, causing Canada to turn beet red, mutter something about making the dumplings and dashing up the stairs to get changed. Scotland laughed uproariously as he sauntered into the kitchen to get things set up again. Oh the next week was going to be priceless.