Wilkie Collins

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor do I have any author-slaves.

'Having a dinner party, are we?' Wilkie Collins asked, shedding his cloak, cane and top hat by the door. They began to sink towards the floor, very slowly, like dry ice or thistledown. In about half an hour, England reflected, there would be a fine clutter on the floor.

'Tolkien!' Mr Collins said heartily, striding forward to shake his fellow author by the hand. 'I was hoping to bump into you again! And who do we have here?' He turned to the three European nations. 'Bonnefoy, you old scoundrel! Fancy meeting you here of all places. Making a go of things again, are we?' He looked between France and England. 'Well, I thoroughly approve; let bygones be bygones and all that. And Ludwig, and little Feliciano too! My, my, you do know how to pick the company, don't you, Arthur?'

'Meaning what?' England asked tersely. He could feel prickles of sweat breaking out on his shirt; Mr Collins hadn't said anything completely unacceptable yet, but it was only a matter of time.

'Oh, I meant no disrespect to your guests,' Mr Collins assured him, taking a seat without being invited. 'A variety of nationalities; an array of subjects and opinions. I'm sure the conversation was absolutely thriving.'

'Chance would be a fine thing,' England muttered.

'So,' Mr Collins said, 'would you object if I sat and shared a pipe with you?'

'Not at all,' Tolkien said mildly, as Italy nodded eagerly, Germany grunted, 'feel free,' and France made a sweeping gesture of acquiescence.

'Yes,' Mr Collins said, sitting back comfortably and smiling at this universal approval – well, almost universal – England was quietly gnashing his teeth. 'The most stimulating social occasions of my lifetime were always accompanied by the presence of foreign ladies and gentlemen. As well as the unorthodox notions they brought to the table, it was often amusing to watch the occasional outlandish turns of their characters, just as now, when each of you welcomed me after the fashion of his fellow countrymen.'

'Collins,' Tolkien put in, catching England's agonised grimace, 'perhaps now is not quite the time –'

'Such observations are an author's bread and butter!' Mr Collins overrode him. 'While other men move in the sea of life and society, we view it from above, as it were, and take note of whatever peculiarities happen to amuse us…we are caricaturists, if you will, in our own medium. Why, seeing you three countries gathered together in England's house reminds me very much of a scene in one of my best-known novels –'

'Oh, bother,' England sighed. He had heard this before.

' – "The Moonstone!"'

'The Moonstone,' Germany echoed, perhaps searching for a sensible response.

'Invented the modern detective story as we know it today, good sir!' Mr Collins declared, waving his pince-nez sternly at Germany. 'Classic of the genre. And it reminds me of tonight because it contained, as one of its leading characters, a gentleman by the name of Mr Franklin Blake, who had been educated in Italy, France and Germany!'

'Really?' France said. 'What an interesting effect that must have had on his character!'

'You may count upon it. The different sides of this gentleman are changed about and presented at different times, much to the confusion of the dinner guests at the heroine's birthday party. A fine comic passage, if you will permit me to quote.' He cleared his throat.

'"That foreign training of Mr Franklin's – those French and German and Italian sides of him, to which I have already alluded – came out, at my lady's hospitable board, in a most bewildering manner.

'"What do you think, for instance, of his discussing the lengths to which a married woman might let her admiration go for a man who was not her husband, and putting it in his clear-headed witty French way to the maiden aunt of the Vicar of Frizinghall? What do you think, when he shifted to the German side, of his telling the lord of the Manor, while that great authority on cattle was quoting his experience in the breeding of bulls, that experience, properly understood, counted for nothing, and that the proper way to breed bulls was to look deeper into your own mind, evolve out of it the idea of a perfect bull, and produce him? What do you say, when our county member of parliament, growing hot, at cheese and salad time, about the spread of democracy in England, burst out as follows: 'If we once lose our ancient safeguards, Mr Blake, I beg to ask you, what have we got left?' – what do you say to Mr Franklin answering, from the Italian point of view: 'we have got three things left, sir – Love, Music and Salad!'"

'And Pasta!' Italy added.

'Quite so,' Wilkie Collins nodded. '"He not only terrified the company with such outbreaks as these, but, when the English side of him turned up in due course, he lost his foreign smoothness; and, getting on the subject of the medical profession, said such downright things in ridicule of doctors, that he actually put good humoured little Doctor Candy in a rage."'

'Oh, Angleterre, how could you?' France cried, getting into the spirit of the thing.

'I…um.' Germany cleared his throat. 'I would…er…just like to reassure everyone that I would not really advocate such a method of breeding a bull…'

'No,' Tolkien said, tamping down a fresh pipe, 'times have changed; yours is a more practical outlook nowadays. Ah, those good old days when the Germans dabbled in philosophy and the breeding of bulls! Much nicer than when we were slinging shells at one another in the trenches, wouldn't you say, old chap?'

'Ahem,' Germany coughed. 'Yes, much nicer.'

'I can't believe you would miss out pasta, ve,' Italy muttered, then quailed as Mr Collins's ghostly eyes turned on him.

'The pasta is essential is it? Well, I'll bear that in mind for next time. You live and learn, eh. Die and learn, haha!' He slapped Italy on the shoulder, and Italy gave a yelp and leapt practically into Germany's lap.

'I can hear music,' Germany said faintly.

England raised his head, which had found its way into his hands in the last few minutes, and stared at him reproachfully.

'Ludwig, must we have that sort of carry-on at the dinner table?'

'No, I mean it,' Germany insisted, fending Italy off. 'I really can hear music. Singing. Listen.'

Wilkie Collins's chuckles had subsided. England listened, and now that he was paying attention he found that he could indeed make out the faintest echoes of a song.

'Food, glorious food, hot sausage and mustard…'

'Hullo,' Tolkien muttered. He, France and Italy inclined their heads and listened as well.

'…while we're in the mood, cold jelly and custard…'

'How unsavoury!' France exclaimed.

'Oh no,' England said quietly, a sick, heavy feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. 'No, no, no…'

'Just picture a great big steak, fried, roasted or stewed…'

'Stewed?' France repeated. 'Angleterre, no! Surely you would not take a fine piece of steak, a filet mignon, and stew –'

England banged his fist down on the table. 'Shut up, France! That is not the point!'

'Arthur – ?'

'We have bigger problems! Oh, bloody, bloody hell…'

The voice, so jaunty on the surface compared to Wilkie Collins's dramatic entrance, but so much more weighted with menace, reached a triumphant climax,

'Oh, food, wonderful food, marvellous food, glorious food!'

And for the second time that night, the dining-room door banged open.

Arthur glared across the table at the apparition in the doorway.

'Good heavens!' the ghost exclaimed theatrically. 'If it isn't the British Nation himself! Good evening, good evening!'

'Charles Dickens,' England said darkly, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice. 'What a delightful surprise!' The ghost drifted into the room, revealing a familiar dour-faced figure floating behind him. 'Oh, and you've brought Mr Blake, too. Well, how absolutely spiffing!' He turned to the assembled company. 'Alright, who invited them?'

A/N: This was a pretty awesome prompt. 'England really hates Charles Dickens.'