"Britain, can I have a biscuit? Please?"
The island nation looked up from his book and at his young charge with a slight sigh. He loved the boy, but the child had been pestering him all afternoon about the sweet treat.
"First of all, America, it is 'may I have a biscuit', not 'can I'. 'Can' implies you are wondering about your own capability of retrieving a cookie, which I presume you are able enough to do."
"And second off?"
"No, love, you may not have a biscuit before supper time."
With a whine of protest and grumble, the eight year old child stalked out of the room, back to the kitchen, where the tantalizing jar of sweets stood, tempting him, taunting him.
"Hmm…all Britain said was that I couldn't...(mouldn't? No, that's not a word)…couldn't have a 'biscuit' before supper. But what if it wasn't called a biscuit?"
England's home was quiet, serene, peaceful. Then, it no longer was. The clattering of silverware from the kitchen alarmed the country and he rushed to see what the commotion was. Drawers were out and askew to form steps, a metal ladle from the countertop was on the floor, and sitting on the counter, next to the biscuits, was a wide-eyed, naughty child who had, quite literally, been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Britain!" the startled child voiced.
"America, I thought I told you, you are not permitted to have a biscuit before supper," the blonde scolded, grabbing the boy around the waist.
"But it's not a biscuit, Britain, it's a cookie!"
"Honestly, I cannot fathom where you get these ideas," England huffed, striding out of the kitchen, reprimanding America the whole way.
Later on that night, after America had been put to bed, England was still mulling over the whole ordeal in his mind.
"He must've gotten it from France," he finally decided, ignoring the fact that the child hadn't seen the Frenchman in nearly a year.