Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and its characters.
Acknowledgements: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, alerted, favourited: White eyed fox, Furret the Sparrowsong, rubyredroses1, PhantomPrussia, Art and Soul, Starchacer296, GirlLoki, FiresCreek, JustAGirlWithAPen, SchrapnelGirl, GermanyIsAwesome-NotPrussia, iTorchic, kakashailuckyblackcat, , Xou, alexf801, chattie98, Myrna Maeve (and Romania!), ThatPurplyThing, Forever Halfa, WinterLake 25, Frustration, Ankhasia Riddle, Kitty the Dinosquirrel, envysfangirl, PikoPiko-Chan, Silver FoxWolf, citrine sunflower, Canyon's Rose, chickenkitty, ZeroLuver567, Lady Sandra of Sealand, Tamarutaca, 101Icestormxx, VengefulCat (my beta reader) and all my anonymous readers. If I've missed anyone, please PM me and tell me off.
Warnings:Pru-Den, sexual innuendo, France, silliness
Chapter 19 - Trouble
Late Wednesday PM
Route E67, Latvia-Lithuania
They had been travelling for five hours – through Latvia (Latvia sniffing and having a little cry when she saw the industrialisation of her capital city, Riga). "He only wanted me for a port!" she'd cried and then stroked her stomach and whispered to her non-existent bump, "I won't let him take you and sell you, I promise."
They were now driving through the flat green countryside of Lithuania.
"I miss having a pet Baltic," Denmark suddenly piped up, whilst opening yet another bottle of beer with his teeth.
Latvia ignored him, "How about another game of I Spy?" she asked.
"I spy with my little eye..." Den started.
"Kesese that's not the only thing little about you, Den."
"Copenhagen's bigger than your five metres."
"Get on with the bloody game!" Latvia all but yelled. Her morning sickness had eased as the day went on. However, her irritability was at an all-time high. Spending all day stuck in a totally un-awesome ex-sanitary hygiene van with suspicious smells did not help.
"I spy with my little eye... something beginning with... C!" Denmark all but yelled, spilling his beer on Latvia.
"Car." Latvia sighed.
"How did you know?"
"Because, Denmark you idiot loon, you always pick car."
"But there's nothing but cars! Can't we stop somewhere?"
"No we fucking can't," Prussia said. "We're not stopping just so you can watch Scooby Doo."
"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R," Latvia said.
"Retard!" Denmarks shouted.
"Randy!" Prussia shouted back.
"Something you can see," Latvia said.
"Railway," Denmark said.
"Where?"
"Dunno, somewhere."
"We give up," Prussia said.
"Russia!" Latvia said.
Prussia almost choked, "W...w...what? F...f...fucking hell!" and then stepped on the accelerator. Bloody hell, he thought, the fat commie dude's caught up with them.
"Hahaha! Your face, Gil, was hilarious" Latvia started laughing.
They did eventually stop – at a very seedy motel on the outskirts of Vilnius.
Latvia pulled out Russia's credit card to pay yet again, however, this time they got a shock
"I'm sorry, this card has been cancelled," they were told by the bored-looking, greasy-haired man behind the counter who looked at the three Nations with undisguised lewdness. Two men and a woman sharing a room?
"Try it again," Latvia insisted.
"I've swiped it three times, love," the man said.
Denmark looked as if he were going to start crying, "No the credit card! Oh man! How'm I gonna get my beer?"
Prussia put a hand on his shoulder, "Man up, dude, we'll get you your beer," he told him.
Latvia trembled, "Are you sure it's cancelled?" she asked the greasy man.
"It's down here as cancelled," the man said, glancing at Denmark who had huddled into a foetal position. The big Dane had loved that visa like it was his own child. "Do you have cash?"
Latvia turned to Prussia, "It's about time you paid for something you free-loader!" she told Gilbert.
Gilbert frowned and dug in his pockets and extracted a broken biro, a pack of condoms, a receipt stub from a strip club, his van keys (adorning the key-ring was a tiny plastic naked woman), two cigarettes (both crushed), ten deutschmarks and a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing. In short, the sum total of his worldly possessions.
Denmark, it turned out, possessed even less – a bottle opener, a used piece of chewing gum, a tube of something that Latvia hoped was hair gel and a handkerchief of indeterminate colour – Latvia assumed it should have been white. (Sweden and Finland always made sure Den and Sealand had a handkerchief with them before they left the house.)
Unbelievably, the man refused to accept any of these items as payment for the motel room.
Latvia sighed and dug into her pockets and pulled out the wad of 'emergency money' – the American dollars she'd taken from Estonia's safe.
"I'll pay this time, but you are going to pay for dinner." She told Gil.
Gilbert nodded.
Den whispered to him "How're you gonna do that, dude?"
Gil leaned in to his fellow Nation and said, "Remember that time we were in that restaurant with Francis and we didn't have to pay?"
"You mean that time we were chased out by that dude in white with a meat cleaver?"
"Nah, that was the time Francis said the sauce was crap and we got chased by that chef."
"Oh, well, you mean that time when we..." here Den whispered in Gilbert's ear so that 'dude chick' couldn't hear.
"Nah man! That was disgusting. I ain't doing that... it got stuck and then Francis had to use butter and then that guy called the police..." Prussia hurriedly dropped his voice lower as Latvia turned and glared at him.
"Can you recommend any restaurants around here?" Latvia asked the man.
The man looked them all up and down – Denmark had recovered sufficiently, with the appearance of money he knew his beer supply was guaranteed, but he was still wearing a traffic cone on his head and had a moronic half-dazed look on his face. Prussia was looking dishevelled to say the least, his red eyes were redder than usual – lack of sleep and nearly 7 hours of continual driving had given them a staring quality that made him look like an axe murderer. Latvia looked pale and exhausted and was even now wanting the toilet and wanting to eat. And in her current frame of mind she didn't want to be pissed around with.
"There is the Fryers on Tyres around the corner..." the man said and laughed.
"Is that one of those burger vans?" Den asked.
Latvia did not think this was funny, "You think we are not fit for a restaurant, da?" she asked the man and, alarmingly, a purple haze started to glow around her.
Prussia backed off, "Wooo dude chick," he said.
The man looked at the young, blond girl who had come in looking so incongruous in a baggy military outfit with a tatty padded jacket and a red scarf around her neck, looking at first so meek, tired and quiet and now at someone who suddenly raised herself to her full five feet four inches (although appearing taller), pale cheeks burning, strange purple flashes in her eyes and a weird shimmer around her.
The man gulped "Hmmm, I mean there's the Restaurant Chez Pierre down in the town..."
"That's better, we'll go there. Come on you loons," she said and pushed the two 'loons' out.
"Dude chick's turning into fat commie dude..." Pru whispered to Den as they headed back to the van.
Den didn't comment, he was working out when Scooby Doo was on, he just hoped he hadn't missed tonight's episode.
A telephone booth just off route E67
"I cancelled the card so that she'll have to turn around and come home," Katya was saying to Estonia.
"But that was how we were tracing her, Katya!" Estonia batted his head against the telephone booth and looked out at the wreckage that was Sweden's Volvo. He was exhausted. Russia had insisted that they keep driving along the E67, with no windscreen, the suspension blown, a huge hole in one of the doors – if it hadn't been for Russia's scarves they would have got frostbite on their faces with the freezing Baltic temperatures hitting their faces.
"I know but I thought if she had no money..."
"She has American dollars – she'll just use them!" Estonia almost shouted, and then he stopped and said quietly, "I'm sorry, Katya."
Katya went very quiet, "There is no need to shout, Ed," she said firmly, "I'm trying my best here. Besides she's pregnant so she'll come back soon after she's kicked Poland's arse."
"She's what?"
"Going to kick Poland's arse."
"No, not that, that other thing..." Estonia leaned against the telephone booth, did she just say...
"Pregnant."
Estonia was about to say something else when the phone was cut off and he stood staring at the receiver. He looked back at the 'car' and its occupant who was sat humming to himself, smoking a cigarette and drinking vodka as if it were quiet normal to be sitting in a car that should really be consigned to a junkyard.
Estonia weighed up his options. Should he tell Russia he was going to be a father? Estonia was a wily old fox. He had been under the dominion of various nations far bigger than him – Denmark, Russia, Sweden and under each one he had suffered as had his people to varying degrees. However, he had learnt, under his current boss who was largely oblivious with severe memory lapses the opportunities of making money on the side had been enormous. But he wasn't totally without emotion. He loved Katya and he cared about his fellow Baltics as if they were his siblings. He was also strangely fond of Russia although the big unpredictable Nation scared him. But in his many dealings with Russia he'd learnt the best thing was to play dumb and be ignorant. Let Latvia tell him, he thought, it makes not one iota if he knows now or later.
"Where is she now?" Russia asked the Estonian as soon as Eduard got back 'into' the car. (It is difficult to say that someone was 'in' a car when there was no windscreen and a large hole in the passenger door.)
"I don't know," Estonia said truthfully.
Russia looked up. He'd relied on Estonia to keep track of this credit card. Russia had no idea how that worked – it sounded rather like magic to him but eventually he hoped that it would lead them to his little sunflower.
"But she's still going to Warsaw?" Russia asked hopefully.
"Oh yes, Katya says so..."
"What else did she say?" Russia asked.
"Hmmm, nothing," Estonia said decisively.
Russia sighed heavily, "Let's go to the airport and get a flight to Warsaw, da?" Russia liked airports and he reasoned that he could get to Warsaw quicker than Latvia, kick Polska's arse and then carry Latvia home in his arms.
Estonia nodded rather too vigorously and almost threw his arms around his boss.
"Do you think she'll come back to me?" he asked Estonia sadly as Eduard started the poor abused car engine.
"I'm sure she will, Sir," Estonia said and crossed his fingers.
Restaurant Chez Pierre, Vilnius, Lithuania
"Have you booked?" the maitre d' asked. The man had a suit on that looked as if it had been ironed on the guy and he looked as if he'd had a banana shoved up his backside. He sneered at the three Nations as if he'd found a large dog-turd on the under-side of his expensive leather loafers.
"Yes, we have," Prussia said confidently.
Latvia looked at him in amazement.
Even Denmark took the traffic cone off his head and scratched his wild blond hair. Latvia took the cone from him and threw it into a nearby pot plant.
The maitre d' stepped back in over-dramatic incredulity and said, "What name?"
"Lovelace," Prussia said.
Latvia was about to say something but then a large, red-faced man came charging out of seemingly nowhere.
"Lucinda Lovelace? The famous authoress? She is here in my restaurant?"
"Yeah, mate," Prussia nodded and pointed at Latvia.
The large man, whom Latvia assumed to be 'Pierre' hugged her tightly, "Ah Miss Lovelace you will eat here, non? I love all your books – Symphony of Lurve... ah yes!"
Prussia whispered to her as she struggled to free herself from the man's grasp. "Just go with it, dude chick."
Latvia glared at him, "I am Lucinda Lovelace, fool," she said.
"Of course you are! But you do not look like you did this morning on Good Morning Baltics?" 'Pierre' asked her.
"Hmm, I've been travelling and ... this is just ..." she indicated her military combats and thought furiously. She was glad she didn't look anything like a cross-dressing Polish man.
"She's dressed like that for publicity for her new novel. Love and Ferrets," Prussia told the man in a conspiratorial manner.
The maitre d' clearly did not believe any of this and was looking at the three Nations with undisguised disgust as if they'd brought a lorry-load of effluence in with them.
"Bullets," Latvia corrected.
"Yeah, Bullets and Ferrets," Prussia said.
"So this is the famous Ivan in the novel?" Pierre indicated Gilbert, "I read about it this morning in the Riga Times," 'Pierre asked, his whole body wobbling with obvious pleasure at having met his favourite romantic novelist.
Prussia looked as if he were going to retch, Latvia laughed so hard she thought she was going to burst a blood vessel.
"Oh dear God, no..." Latvia shook her head.
"Kesese! You wish, dude chick..."
Latvia raised a hand about six inches above Gil's head, "You have to be this tall to go on this ride, sweetie," she told the Prussian.
Somebody else who seemed to have celebrity status was Denmark who had three children attached to him all chanting 'Bad Santa, Bad Santa'.
Pru and Latvia shared a look and then both shrugged.
"So do we get a free meal?" Prussia asked as they were shown to a table.
The maitre d' who seated them, wiping his hands on his immaculate trousers as he did so as if they were contaminated, appeared to seriously consider the question, "Aaaah, no!" he said finally and then bustled off in a very camp manner.
"I love children..." Denmark said dreamily as his 'fans' were finally dragged away from the tall, mad-haired Dane by their worried-looking parents.
"You'd better have some money, Gil, cos I ain't paying," Latvia told him and to force this home, her purple aura shimmered – albeit briefly.
Gilbert was not scared, certainly not of some little Latvian dude, however, he was aware that he could quite easily be in the company of an embryonic Russia and that was enough to make him wary.
"Don't worry, dude chick, I got it covered," he said confidently. He then looked across the table at Dude Den, "Hey Dude Den, remember when we were in that restaurant with Alfred?"
Den looked up from his examination of the breadsticks – he then proceeded to stick two in his mouth like large fangs and grinned at Latvia as if it were the funniest thing on earth.
She glared at him.
"Ja?" Den said or should one say mumbled – it's very difficult to talk with two 12 inch breadsticks shoved in your mouth.
"We'll do what we did then, 'kay?"
Den took the sticks of bread out of his huge mouth and considered this, "This time we don't need a note from England?" Denmark asked, his eyes wide.
"Nah mate."
"I don't have my lube with me," Denmark said, much too loudly, Latvia thought, for a public place.
"Nah, man, not that time, I mean that time we were with Alfred, not Francis..."
"Oh right, phew... oh yeah."
Latvia narrowed her eyes.
Russia and Estonia were sat at Vilnius Airport, correction, Russia was laid spread-eagled across four seats fast asleep and snoring like an overworked tractor, whilst Estonia was stood at the Aeroflot desk trying to get two seats on a flight to Warsaw. He was not being very successful.
Russia held the young girl on his lap and kissed her gently, his hand lifting to hold of her soft breast and caress it tentatively. The girl moaned and kissed him back. He pulled his lips away from hers regretfully and peered into the pitch-darkness. Her lips felt so enticing, the feel of the soft skin of her thigh on his lap, her small hands fluttering against his chest... all this felt vaguely familiar. If only he could see her face... Hmmmmm, so nice... she smelt of apples, the sea, sunflowers and vodka. His favourite scents. He kissed her again ... that kiss was so familiar... she must be...
"Sir! There are no flights so we have to go..." Estonia told him and then realised that he'd made a mistake in his tiredness. Never wake a sleeping Russia.
Russia jumped up, his blond hair on end, as well as other areas of his anatomy. He hurriedly covered his nether regions with a copy of Pravda.
"Wut? It's Aija... she must be... ooooh," he said. The girl he'd kissed in that closet last Halloween... so no wonder Hungary had thumped him, Belgium had looked at him like he'd just stepped off a spaceship and poor little Lily...
Estonia stepped back defensively, "Er, riiiiight... let's go, Sir and find a motel room."
Watching them were not one pair of eyes, not two, but many.
A short, dark-haired, very bad-tempered Italian watched them from across the huge Departure Hall through binoculars. His cheap wig was askew and his dark glasses looked ridiculous in the interior of the airport. However, it was important, he thought, to keep up a disguise.
"Damn vodka bastard just won't die," he thought and then he was about to put down his binoculars when he caught sight of a pretty girl.
Romano was a sucker for a pretty girl. This particular pretty girl was also watching the vodka bastard but she was at the other side of the hall. The vodka bastard was now waving his arms around and yelling something about 'Asia' ('poor China', thought Romano). The pretty girl was very pretty, if dressed a little formally. She also looked familiar. Until Romano realised it was the girl from the hire car company, who he'd had to regretfully leave whilst on their first date.
He threw his binoculars down and waved at her, "Hey, hey, pretty girl! Remember me?" he waved and shouted, but to no avail. The pretty girl was already moving away and going down the steps towards Russia.
Romano sighed and pulled his overcoat around him and set off to try and intercept her. But was caught up in a huge throng of German tourists.
The 'pretty girl' surreptitiously hid behind a pillar and waited to apprehend her Nation. Major Bollockoff, oblivious to Romano's waving, was about to pull out her ID card and approach Russia when a series of unfortunate events were to stop her.
The other eyes watching Russia with great interest belonged to four shaven-headed, muscular young men, all wearing black bomber jackets with swastikas tattooed on their bulging biceps.
"That's the guy who killed Manfred with a microphone," one of them all but mumbled. It had been a significant effort for him to link these words into a coherent sentence and he felt rather proud about it. He looked like an ape with his sloping bulbous forehead, except that would be insulting to apes.
His fellow 'apes' looked equally un-evolved.
"Ja."
"Let's get him."
"Ja."
This was obviously the sum total of their 'strategy'. Indeed, their collective IQ would have been dwarfed by Denmark, who would have appeared Einstein-like to them.
Oblivious to the approaching danger, Russia followed Estonia, still thinking about that Halloween kiss.
'Restaurant Chez Pierre', Vilnius, Lithuania
"Duck terrine, 20 ounce sirloin steak, rare, extra fries, four beers, the side order of sauerkraut with chopped potatoes and ..." here Prussia paused as the maitre d', his nose wrinkling in disgust, wrote the order down, "three servings of your chocolate mousse."
The maitre d' was about to walk off when Den called him back, "Hey dude!" Den yelled making the whole restaurant look up.
Several snotty-nosed women stared in horror, a man behind Den almost choked on his soup whilst several children tittered, "What about my order? I want beef – rare, the biggest joint you can find I dunno... a leg of something... with lots and lots of beer – Carlsberg. Bread and not your rubbish black rye stuff and some bacon. And two lots of suffle," here Den pointed at the dessert menu.
"That is soufflé, Sir." The Maitre d' pronounced the word 'Sir' with a distinct edge in his voice.
"What you 'aving, dude chick?"
"A rare steak, please and fries but with salad... for the baby," she patted her tummy gently and tried a smile at the head waiter.
The man looked at her, saw she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, muttered, "Unmarried mother, tart," and was about to walk off when Prussia grabbed him by the lapels.
"Listen, dude fancy-pants. Lay off the shitty attitude, the looking at us as if we have fleas and bring the food. And if you look at my little dude chick funny again you see this soup spoon?"
The maitre d' nodded, his face white, eye to eye with the red-eyed Prussian.
"...It'll be so far up your arse then you'll have to have a tracheoctomy to remove it, 'kay?"
The man nodded, shaking.
Prussia waved the spoon around to ensure everyone had heard him and then sat down and started throwing bits of bread to Den for the latter Nation to catch in his mouth.
Vienna, Austria
America, wearing black combat gear, a balaclava and carrying his Colt 45, led his team of crack black ops into the Vienna Auction House.
"This is absolutely bloody ridiculous. You do realise how stupid you look, don't you?" England complained. Really that football match would be nearly over now – and they were playing Chelsea.
"Hey, I know what I'm doing – so chill, cos I'm American!"
"This is nice, is there is a gift shop?" Italy asked and wandered off with a spaced-out Germany in tow.
"Does anyone actually have any money?" Austria asked, "I mean if we're here to make a purchase?"
It was a reasonable question and the remaining four Nations had a look in their respective pockets.
"Well, I have exactly five pounds and thirteen pence, a tea-bag - used, an elastic band, one of Bela's hair ribbons and a rubber," England announced.
"Honhonhon, a rubber eh?"
"A pencil rubber you pervert."
"Well I have a programme for the piano recital I will be attending tonight and... that is all," Austria said hurriedly.
"Bugger off, you've always got loads of money," England retorted, "Come on empty that wallet."
Austria shame-facedly opened his wallet. A beleaguered moth flew out and he sighed heavily as he counted the notes therein. "Hmmm around 500 schilling..." the Austrian said, pulling them out.
France started laughing "Ah mon Autriche! These notes are fifty years old!"
Austria flushed, "I like to save money," he said.
America stuck his hand in his pocket, "How much more do we need Arty dude to buy that thingy?" he asked England.
"Around 49 million, 9 hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars," England said with a big sigh.
"Gotcha!" America shuffled around and pulled out a broken Luke Skywalker figurine, a packet of gum, three dollars and fifteen cents and a Bank of America visa card.
"Bingo!" England exclaimed, almost diving on the credit card.
"You do not wish to 'ave a look in my pockets, non?" France purred.
"No we bloody well do not!" England said and strode up to the reception.
But France was already rooting through his pockets – to America and Austria's horrified fascination.
A tube of something that America thought, in his innocence, looked like hair removal cream, but wasn't, a strange long rubbery thing (Austria put his hands over America's eyes when that appeared – he felt as the older Nation he should try to regain some propriety on the proceedings) and then a rolled-up copy of a dubious-looking magazine which appeared to have rather improbably oiled, muscular young men – and women – on the cover. France was about to root about further when Austria, his cheeks flaming red, one hand still over America's eyes, held up his other hand, "Please in the name of Charlemagne, do not put your hand in that pocket again. And please put those things" (here Austria shuddered) "back."
France smiled leeringly whilst America was trying to get Austria's hand from his eyes, "Dude! What's going on? I can't see? What's he got? Does he have any money?" America yelled.
"Houston! We have a problem!" England called from the reception where he was waving America's credit card around and shouting at the stern-looking Austrian receptionist.
"Dude, s'up?" America asked as he ambled across.
"They say that we can't just buy the thing. It's up for public auction this Friday. It'll go for more than $50 million and that is more than your credit card has on it," England explained.
"Dude, my boss tops this up every month for my expenses," America fingered his credit card lovingly.
"A public auction?" France asked, still shoving his 'possessions' back in his pocket.
"Yes, so that means..."
"Everyone will see it..."
"We're screwed, dudes," America concluded.
"Don't honhon Francis, or you will be exiting this building through the nearest window," England told France before he even opened his mouth.
"Is there any way we can see it before it goes up for this auction thingy?" America asked the receptionist.
The Austrian woman behind the desk had an expression on her face that could stop a tank at fifty paces. She had her hair in a very severe bun at the back of her head which looked like a small rock. Her eyes were blue but looked like little chips of ice and her mouth was set in a severe thin line. She looked as if she had never laughed in her life.
"Nein," she said simply and went back to her work and ignored the four men in front of her.
"Why ever not?" England ventured.
"It is locked away from..." here she looked them over with extreme distaste, "vandals and members of the criminal fraternity."
"Well, I say!" England was outraged. "I'll have you know that we are upstanding members of our respective Governments..."
America nodded seriously and fingered his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster, should he do his 'Rambo' bit yet, he wondered.
Austria was humming Chopin, and hoping that Feliciano wasn't buying up the whole gift shop.
France was filing his nails and alternately flicking his blond locks.
"I don't care," the woman said simply.
"Well, where is it then?" England asked her.
The woman looked them up and down and sneered, "I am not telling you." She said as if they were the scum of the earth.
England almost exploded with rage.
France put a hand on his shoulder, "Angleterre, leave zis to me..." he purred, flicked back his gorgeous blond hair and sidled up to the reception desk with a smooth panther-like movement.
England stepped back and pulled America with him.
Francis waved a hand at his fellow Nations, "Watch and learn, mes amis," he murmured and turned his attention to the grim-faced woman.
Austria stomped off, "I'm not hanging around to watch him, that Schürzenjäger."
England and America walked off and prepared to watch France from a distance. "Bloody hate him, how does he do it? Sodding France..." England muttered.
America, who was completely oblivious in a Russia-type way, was thinking of other ways he could get the information – water torture? Waving his gun around? Or just inflicting 12 hours of Austria's piano Chopin-thingy on the woman? Actually, he thought, the water torture would be infinitely preferable. He doubted the Chopin thingy could get past the Court of Human Rights.
From where they were stood, America and England couldn't tell what France was saying. He was leaning right across the reception, his elegant arse sticking out at an enticing angle that made England want to go across and kick it. The Frenchman was also flicking his hair around rather a lot and there were lots of 'honhonhons', and then Francis suddenly climbed onto the Reception desk and sprawled across it sexily, somehow or other – by magic or other means, the top four buttons of his shirt had popped open and his manly, hairy chest was visible to the adoring world.
England shook his head and waited for the inevitable. Usually by this time, the object of the Frenchman's desire would be in a puddle of lust on the floor or dragging Francis into a closet or nearby hotel room.
This time, however, appeared to be the exception to the rule.
Francis was really going all out now. England could see a sheen of sweat on Francis' elegant brow, as the fragrant Gallic seducer flicked his locks over and over and purred at the stony-faced receptionist.
"I can't believe it!" England said euphorically.
"I know, right? I'm gonna need some glue to fix that arm on Luke Skywalker," America said, still fiddling with his action figure.
"No... France is... has... failed... he didn't seduce her... it didn't work..." England clapped his hands together in glee. "I'm so happy!" he said and reached up and kissed America – unfortunately he didn't pull the American down enough – he was somehow aiming for the top of America's head – Alfred being a couple of inches taller than himself – and kissed him smack on the mouth.
"Oooh, Arty, dude!" America stepped back, "I mean I know you spend a lot of time with Francis and all that and you've gotten some European habits but I ain't like that, man..."
"Noooooooooo!" England wailed, "I didn't mean to..."
But it wasn't America he should explain to. For, as that moment, just entering the lobby, was Belarus and Hungary.
Belarus – seeing the father of her unborn child kissing one of her (in her head) main rivals – fled in tears.
Francis would also have fled in tears. Actually he was in tears. "I have failed! Mon superpowers have left me!" he sobbed and flung himself into England's arms, "Oh Arthur, mon Angleterre, what shall I do?"
"You can get your bloody hands off me, you French tart!"
Chez Pierre, Vilnius, Lithuania
"Are you ready to pay, Sirs?" the maitre d' asked the three stuffed Nations.
Latvia turned to Pru and said, "Go on, Gil, your turn. I'm off to the loo," she said and got up, leaving the two loons to it.
"You'll give us this meal free won't you?" Pru asked the man who was viewing the wreckage of the table with nose-sniffing disdain.
"And why would we do that?" the man asked disdainfully, brushing an imaginary crumb off his immaculate jacket.
Prussia and Denmark grinned at one another. "Because otherwise we'll come here tomorrow night and the night after and the night after that..." Prussia said.
The maitre d' was about to retort when Denmark leaned right back in his chair and said to the couple behind him "Hey dude! How much for your wife?"
The male customer behind him choked on his soup, "W...what?"
"How much for your wife? I buy your wife? She pretty..." Denmark made disgusting grunting noises and grinned at the man's female companion who almost fainted.
Prussia then, to the maitre d's further horror, stood up, "Who wants to buy my friend? Stand up, Dude Den..."
Den stood up on the table and slowly starting turning around as if on display.
"Show us your bod, Den! Let the women see what they're getting..."
The maitre d' was beetroot red and shouted, "Get down, get down, alright, alright... please just... don't..."
"Don't what?" Pru asked as Den started to unbuckle his belt, "Hey ladies want to see what you're getting pound for pound?" he yelled. Some of the restaurant was emptying, most of the women had taken to hiding behind napkins – and some were staring agog.
"You can have your meal for free... but please, I beg you, never ever return..."
"Danke!" Prussia said, shook the man's hand so hard he almost took it off and headed out the door. He paused long enough to whistle Den as if the Dane was a large dog and they loitered outside, giggling like idiot schoolboys until Latvia came out.
Author's Notes:
The Halloween kiss - a little nod to my other story, A Day In the Life – Russia has got to remember and put two and two together at some time hasn't he?
Schürzenjäger – German for womaniser
Sorry – very long chapter but had a lot to get in – also not sure if I can update for a week or so.
Also lots of movie references in there.
Man United vs Chelsea – little nod to my faithful reviewer Chickenkitty.
Next Chapter – death by Murphy bed, more of Russia's unusual choice of weapons and sex education classes with Latvia.