Chapter Eleven


Newfoundland snorted loudly, bleary eyes fluttering open. Something had decided to interrupt that awful nightmare he'd been having- Something vaguely foot-shaped that had been driven into his side.

He groaned and let his eyelids flutter closed again. He must have started sprawling out a bit, which wasn't really that unusual. Hopefully he hadn't woken Saskatchewan up.

Newfoundland breathed slow and deep as sleep slowly overtook him again, the tiredness making it impossible to open his eyelids-

"-Alberta? Give me the spade….no! Not the melon. The spade."

The fisherman blinked awake, shifting his elbows underneath him to look at Saskatchewan with wide eyes. Did he just…?

"…Cherry tree…back garden…" he mumbled.

Newfoundland groaned quietly to himself, despairing as his prospects for good night's sleep weighed anchor and left port. He pondered his options, deciding that he might as well amuse himself for the hour or so until sunrise, since he certainly wouldn't be spending it sleeping.

He could still function on two hours of sleep, right?

" 'berta…mmmmfg…fuckin' Winnipeg…."

Newfoundland snorted. "Bombers winnin' again, lad?"

To Newfoundland's incredible surprise, Saskatchewan mumbled out a disgruntled "Yes…."

Like he was…replying.

The Atlantic province stroked his beard. Well. That was an interesting development.

The silence dragged on for a few minutes more as he ruminated on this, Saskatchewan resuming his slow, steady breathing. He had two options, really. He could kick the farmer out of bed, which had the downside of waking Saskatchewan up and pissing him off, which would probably lead to a fight- Or he could stay up and mess with the guy whenever he said something.

The second option was the far more appealing of the two if the fisherman was being entirely honest. Showing up to a provincial meeting with a broken nose was rather poor form.

"Pass shovel. Gotta bury it…."

Newfoundland sat back on his pillow and put his hands behind his head. "Bury what, b'y? Dat melon?"

Saskatchewan frowned, his facial muscles moving quite slowly in and out of the expression.

"...Not melon. The treasure." He replied, face returning to its neutral sleep expression.

Newfoundland's eyes went wide.

The "treasure" Saskatchewan was talking about was probably just figment of his dream, of course. There wasn't a real treasure, and he certainly wasn't going to go off hunting for it based on the half-lucid babble of an overeager football fanatic. But the word itself was giving him an idea for something that might possibly be…

valuable.

Newfoundland grinned nastily and rubbed his hands together. Yes. This could work. All he needed was enough detail to make it believable.

"Where's it buried, me son?" he whispered to the farmer, praying to god he hadn't drifted out of the more lucid part of his sleep cycle.

Saskatchewan rolled over and mumbled, "Cherry tree..."

Newfoundland frowned. A cherry tree? That wasn't specific enough. There were a lot of cherry trees in Canada. He needed more to go on than that- it'd be easier to fabricate his made-up story if the inspiration gave him more to go on.

"An' where's dat tree, B'y?"

The farmer frowned. "…Ottawa…."

Well, that certainly clarified things. Canada's own house- the house that they all shared and stayed at periodically- had a single cherry tree planted at the far back of the garden. The nation himself preferred pine and maple, but the tree was a gift from a former prime minister and had grown there for well over a century. Or so he'd been told.

Newfoundland's grin widened. Next to the old cherry tree- the perfect place for Saskatchewan to have buried a forgotten cache of precious things for safekeeping, the memory bubbling up in his dreams to reveal the long-lost secret. Dreams Newfoundland had been privy to because the farmer talked in his sleep- something Manitoba would confirm as true without hesitation.

He rubbed his hands together. That little fairy tale he'd just spun was just believable enough for someone to possibly buy it. Someone like, say, Nova Scotia.

The believability would be directly affected by the telling, of course, but if he played his cards right (and his words as well), he could potentially win the couch back.

The tricky part would be getting New Brunswick to buy the load of shit he'd just cooked up-if she didn't give it the okay, he'd have nothing to gamble. He'd need an accomplice, someone he could bribe easily who wouldn't rat on him-someone who could "confirm" his made-up story without it being too much of a stretch.

He looked over at the sleeping farmer. The person had to know Saskatchewan inside and out, be easy to bribe and able to lie with a straight face.

…So Manitoba was right out. That left his twin sister, Alberta, as the most credible source to hand- moreso than Manitoba perhaps, since they were very close and had been so their entire lives.

The only problem was that offering money to Alberta was like offering a bucket of water to an ocean. And he didn't have very much money. She'd stick with the lie-that much he knew-but Newfoundland would have to offer her something she wanted or something that was valuable to her in some way.

"Now, what does Alberta want…" he mumbled aloud, pondering the question deeply.

"…Oil money…"

Newfoundland almost jumped out of his skin at that- during the course of his musings he'd forgotten that the bugger talked in his sleep. He tried to calm his hammering heart by taking a few deep breaths- he hadn't been expecting THAT.

But Saskatchewan had a point.

The fisherman stroked his beard a few times, thoughtfully. That was right. Alberta loved money- but if there was one thing she loved more than money, it was making money.

And to make money, she sold her oil to whoever wanted to buy it- provided she could get it to them somehow, be it by rail, or…pipeline.

And just like that, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Newfoundland grinned hugely- he knew just what to bargain, had just enough leverage to get the cowgirl on board with his cunning plan. Everything would fall into place from there on out.

All he had to do now was sit back and wait for morning.

"...Dog ate the tractor. Where's my hat…"

"Shut the fuck up."


A/N:

-The "bombers" refers to the Winnipeg Blue Bombers, a football team- and the main rival of the Saskatchewan Roughriders.

Now we're cooking with gas- time to get this plot on the road. I apologize if this isn't the best thing in the world but I needed to get it out of my system. Also, my "v" key was kind of having a hissy fit and only worked about half the time while writing this- so if you see a typo that I missed, let me know. I do proofread, but hey, I'm only human.

Next time: Newfoundland is a manipulative bastard! And Nunavut wants broccoli! (Possibly!)