22 May 2010

MI6, London

0803 GMT

'Thanks, Russet.'

With a deadly calm face, England set the revolver down before the man Italy recognised as the one who'd popped into the wardrobe earlier on.

'Not at all, sir!' said the man, Russet, in an annoyingly chirpy voice. He pocketed the gun and directed his gaze to Italy. 'You know, mister, you don't look half bad in that suit.'

Italy didn't say anything; a curling smoke of a whine spiralled out of his mouth and dissolved into thin air. On a blank computer screen, he spotted the reflection of his normally brilliantly-dressed self subdued into the funereal clothing and winced before jerking his head away sharply. Each frightening second of what it had taken England to get him into this was being replayed in slow motion in his head…with embellishments, of course.

'Oh, don't mind him, Russet,' Italy heard England say from miles away. 'I suspect he's bipolar.'

Italy took his mind off a particularly frightening mental image of England in his WWII uniform and came drifting miserably back down to Earth, just in time to hear Russet's sympathetic tutting.

'Poor little bugger. Mister, you may want to – oh! Sir!'

As if his bottom had just been electrocuted, Russet jolted to his feet, spinning around and looking over Italy and England's heads. They turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a double-breasted coat with completely no expression (as in his face, not his coat having no expression) framed in the doorway.

'Good morning, sir, Russet…mister,' said the man with a nod to England, Russet and Italy respectively. He took off the coat and tossed it lightly. It landed perfectly onto the back of Russet's just-vacated chair. Italy's mouth hung open widely.

'Hello, Fifty-Eight,' England said sourly. He stepped over to Italy and clapped him hard on the back. Italy coughed and choked. 'Meet Agent Fifty-Eight.'

'Ciao!' Italy gasped, still impressed by the coat trick. 'Why are you called that? What's your real name? I'm – oh, ouch.'

England's foot released Italy's as Agent Fifty-Eight spoke.

'I'm afraid that if you knew…I'd have to kill you.'

The agent's cultured tone was oddly threatening. Italy laughed nervously, the pitch much higher than normal.

'Ha ha…! Ve, it's OK! I don't need to know! Ha ha…!'

England suddenly had Italy's elbow in a death grip.

'Right,' he said curtly. 'We'll be seeing you around. Fifty-Eight…Russet…'

Italy could hear a slightly softer edge in England's voice when he acknowledged Russet, but before he think about why, England was already frogmarching him down the corridor.

22 May 2010

MI6, London

0810 GMT

England dumped Italy unceremoniously onto the hardest chair and scooted around his desk for his seat. The latter was staring around in the unashamed manner of a goose, and England felt a tad uncomfortable.

'What?' he asked in a slightly accusatory tone. 'What's wrong?'

'Italy replied confusedly, 'Where are we? Why are there all these photos of you?'

England almost snorted as he took the questions in. How slow can one be?

'It's my office.'

Although this room generally stayed empty, England was quite fond of it. It wasn't too small, but not too large either. The walls were the creamy colour of custard, and footprints embedded in the carpet stayed for a second before being absorbed back into the thick softness. A ladder yawned up the bookcase that covered an entire wall, and a fairly large window burst out onto a particularly attractive angle of London. His desk sprawled over at least a quarter of the room and was topped with a fancy computer, scrap paper with Sealand's (really ugly) drawings on the back, and, as Italy had pointed out, framed photographs with him in them. England picked one up, running a finger along the grain of the wooden frame. There he was in the middle, wearing a stupid party hat and a scowl, and there were all his brothers around him, enjoying their surprise birthday party for him much more than their guest of honour. As he recalled, the party did not end well; Scotland brought a haggis instead of cake, some perfect idiot gave Sealand some ale which he spat out, unluckily, onto the back of England's head, and then Northern Ireland managed to call Wales a "sheep arse" for no particular reason. Hmm, they must have been drunk.

'Ve…England?'

England blinked and set down the photo quickly. Looking up, he saw that Italy had moved to the more comfortable chair. Pinching his lips together, he got ready to give the speech he had delivered a billion times before.

'Now, Italy,' he said, leaning forwards to prop his elbows up on the desk. 'As a spy, there are only three qualities you will ever need: discretion, observation and ingenuity. Now, you possess...none of these qualities. And that is why I am here.'

Italy looked at him and said, 'Ve.'

Assuming that this was Italy's way of saying, 'All right! Let's go for it, then,' England smiled and dug into one of his desk's drawers.

'First of all…have a jelly baby.'

22 May 2010

MI6, London

0903 GMT

Italy seriously did not think he could eat jelly babies ever again. As he droned, England would offer Italy a jelly baby at random intervals. Italy had tried to refuse the last twelve, but England suddenly got balefully insistent and he would quickly take one and eat it. He was currently having a "small" sugar high, bouncing madly on his springy seat and had been completely unable to fall asleep during England's deathly boring speech.

'…and that's really all I've got to say for now,' England smiled wanly. 'Questions?'

Italy shook his head a little…or that was what he intended to do; what happened instead was something in between a head-bang and a wet dog shaking itself.

Shooting him a slightly concerned look, England said, 'I trust you don't want any more jelly babies?'

Italy gave another crazy shake of his head (oh, ouch, he was getting a headache) and started saying 've' repeatedly. England shrugged.

'OK, more for me then.'

And he popped the last one, a green one, into his mouth.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I haven't updated for a while, but my laptop had to be fixed and I've only got it just got it back to edit and upload, et cetera. Thank God that I have it back now in time to upload!

So, I don't own Hetalia and characters, nor do I own Fifty-Eight's coat-flinging skills and the 'I'll have to kill you' thing; they're from Johnny English.

Now, I have a little...er...challenge! Right: 1. How did England get Italy to wear that suit? (I'd like the one specific thing, thanks.) 2. Why did England give Italy all those jelly babies?

Those who answer the questions get my Order of Genius and something kind of nice. Don't expect much, it's just a few rather sweet pictures that only I own...currently.

Last of all, thanks to those sweet people who reviewed/favourited/story alerted.

Hope you liked this chapter and feel free to leave a comment - and don't forget to try and answer those questions!

~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)