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Driving Lessons Chapter 21 - Men in Black
"Aren't you going to thank us for saving you?" America yelled in England's face.
England looked around at them. "You only turned up to see if I'd gotten beaten up or arrested."
"We saved your ass, man!" America yelled. "Now, let's move out!" he motioned outside as if they were on a military mission.
"I hope we didn't come in their bloody taxi cab," England said, nodding at Denmark and Prussia.
France shook his head, "We arrived in young Alfred's giant car." France looked the American up and down, "I zink he is trying to compensate for somezing…"
America was oblivious, "Let's do this, men!" he yelled and strode off to his 'Hummer'.
England, holding his nose with a tissue, silently thanking France for actually bringing the tissues (how did the blighter know?) and stumbling after the idiots, cringed.
"Hey! Let's go to the pub!" Denmark yelled.
"I don't zink you should go anywhere, mon ami. You look drunk," France said.
Denmark ignored him, "Hey England dude? Do you know any good pubs?"
"Ja!" Prussia yelled.
"Shouldn't you two be working?" England asked.
Prussia nodded.
"Where did you get the food for that sandwich?" England asked suspiciously.
Denmark hurriedly stuffed the rest of his 'Scooby sandwich' into his mouth.
"Questions questions… some people are just too happy shoving their nose in other people's business!" Prussia admonished.
Two large men in black suits, wearing sunglasses suddenly stepped out of the shadows in front of the Nations.
"Prussia, Denmark, America, England, France and Spain?" they asked.
Prussia grabbed Denmark and slid away, "Right, bye then!" he called as he hurried off down the street. He knew secret service when he saw them.
The others were slower. Much slower.
"Who's asking?" France said suspiciously.
England looked them up and down, "Who are you?"
"CIA, Sir."
France snorted, "Ha! You call him 'Sir'? Nobody calls him 'sir'. CIA… I zay zat you are really fancy dress people!"
England glared at him, "Shut up, France. Why shouldn't they call me 'Sir'? However," he turned back to the men, "My idiot friend is correct. Why should we believe that you are indeed CIA?"
The larger of the two gave England his confiscated phone, "I believe you were missing this, Sir."
"Well… thank you… I think…" England wasn't really sure he actually wanted his phone back.
"And we talked to the Metropolitan police so you're no longer wanted for blowing a hole in their cell wall," the man told England.
"I bet I am still wanted," France winked.
"I didn't do that! That was China's dragon!" England protested.
"Of course, Sir."
England could not see the man's expression behind those sunglasses. He was glad.
America yelled from his 'Hummer'. "Yo dudes! I'm waiting!"
"Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones?" the man asked.
"Yo?"
"We've come to take you home, Sir!" the 'CIA' said.
"Aw man!"
England, France and the two CIA men found themselves squashed in the back of the 'Hummer'. America was driving. Spain had found himself suddenly being 'requisitioned' by Ukraine to take her 'forthwith' to Benidorm. The Spaniard had looked very worried about this as he was dragged away by the Ukrainian.
"I still zay zat zay are fancy dress people," France muttered to England as if this was a new Nationality.
"Shut up, Francy. I cannot believe that Alfred is a bloody Lieutenant-Colonel!"
"Our Nation is a senior officer in the US Air Force, Sir," the CIA man told England. The other one had not spoken a word.
"Don't bloody 'sir' me. And I was talking to my friend here," England said sniffily. "Oh my God, France will you bloody well take your hands off that man's knee?"
"J'adore a man in a suit!"
"I ain't going back to DC!" America told them. For the sixth time.
"Sir, you're needed back in your country."
"Dear Lord!" England shook his head and looked out of the window. He couldn't believe he lived in a world where America was called 'Sir'.
"I tell yer. It's nothing to do with me. I didn't even vote!"
"Sir…"
"Honestly, man!"
"Sir… Mr Obama has assured you that you can keep your basement room in the White House."
"I'm staying with Artie dude and his French gay boyfriend."
"Oui!"
"Sir, take your hand off my knee," the other CIA man finally said. It was the first time England had heard him speak.
France removed it.
"We are not a couple!" England yelled.
"You staying here with these…" here the CIA looked at England and France, "… people…" (he said 'people' as if they were the worst degenerates ever) "… is a grave security risk."
"Too right…" England nodded.
"I don't care. Dude Artie is my main man!"
"Then we will have to secure the area," the first CIA man said.
"Oh God." England groaned. More bloody Americans.
"Oh good…" France's eyes gleamed.
The CIA man muttered into his radio, "Operation Lassie Come Home is cancelled. Operation Mary Poppins is go go go."
"My life is over…" England muttered.
Later…
The CIA men were indeed "securing the area". They had consumed all England's 'nice' coffee. Done some shopping. Placed a security cordon around the back garden and were now re-laying England's ruined bathroom floor that Russia had destroyed with his failed plumbing excursion.
England tried to ignore them all. The Times crossword was now attracting his full attention.
He jumped when his phone made a strange beeping noise, and snapped, throwing the "over-complicated bloody ridiculous new-fangled gadget" (as he had termed it) onto the kitchen table in disgust. "And what, in the name of Yorkshire pudding, is this thing doing now? There's no new messages, nobody is calling me, it's fully charged, so why? Am I going bloody mad?!"
France picked the mobile up and inspected it. "Ah mon Angleterre, you have a new voicemail message… ah yes," France somehow managed to make this sound dirty, wiggling his eyebrows at Arthur. "Perhaps eet eez the lovely Katya calling for another date, non?"
"Well I highly doubt that," Arthur said, touching his face on reflex and wincing. He still felt a bit sore from when she had punched him. "It's probably bloody Germany yelling again or some sodding idiot thinking I'm Austria. Just delete it."
"Ze phone says eet eez from Finland, mon ami," France said. "He does not usually call you, non? I will play it!"
He did so. "Hello you've reached… oh bloody hell is this thing recording… oh yes. Hello you've reached the phonebox… no wait it's not a phonebox… damn… the phone of Arthur Kirkland - France will you bloody well put your pants back on - erm yes. I cannot answer the phone right now, please leave a message after the *BEEP* Arthur? This is Finland calling… Hmm I thought this was Austria's number… oh well. I do have something I need to talk to you about as well. Well we haven't heard from you about whether you can have Peter this weekend so I'm assuming you don't have an RAF training course like last month… or a poetry retreat like the other month… and I'm guessing your sick mother is better? Well in any case, unless I hear back from you, me and Ber will be at your house on Friday at 9 pm to drop off Peter. This Friday, that is. Well goodbye Arthur, I hope yourself and France are doing well! *click*"
France looked at Arthur with visible trepidation. Arthur felt like he was about to have an aneurysm, or possibly was in the middle of one. "Finland… Peter… drop off… Friday… Ber… what."
"Arthur, I think you need a cup of tea," France said - probably the most helpful thing he had said while living in this house. He skidded out and returned with a cup of Earl Grey.
England downed the cup in one go. "It's bloody… this is your fault!"
France pointed at himself and said, outraged, "Moi? But mon Angleterre, what did I do?"
"Well I don't bloody know specifically, but I'm sure somehow or another you are to blame. I mean I always come up with an excuse not to bloody have Peter the third weekend of the month, but you and your matchmaking and your general bloody idiocy have distracted me and now I've got to spend time with my bloody son… bugger."
"But 'ow is zat my fault? I didn't know you had leetle Peter one weekend a month! I 'ave never seen him here! He lives with Berwald and Tino," France argued.
"No one knows because he doesn't bloody come here! He hasn't in two years! I always make something up… some training weekend or a family emergency or some such. Of course sometimes things do happen… like that time bloody America was in hospital after a motorcycle accident and I got on a ten hour flight to sodding California and it turned out he'd stubbed his toe." England seethed a bit at the memory; he'd skidded into the hospital room with a massive overnight bag, a cup of terrible coffee and a hangover, seen America with his leg in a cast, gone through the five stages of grief, and then been told that the idiot hadn't even broken a bone.
"Zen why do you have zis deal if you do not want to see him? He is your son, Angleterre," France said, admonishing.
"It's part of the buggering child support thing. It says I'm entitled to have custody one weekend a month… nobody bloody asked me if I wanted to have custody, though. The bloody kid doesn't even like me. He never shuts up about when I left him in the war… I mean was that my fault?"
"Oui," France said.
"Oh bloody hell."
"Arthur," France said. England sat up a bit at this; France actually sounded like he was being serious for once. "Ze boy needs his father. You are it… though you are not ze best for the job. Zo you need to step up."
"He's bloody fifty years old. He's hardly a 'boy'," Arthur protested.
"You call l'Amerique a boy, Angleterre, and he is now over two centuries old! So big…" France pointed out, a bit creepily. "And as you say, it 'as been fifty years since leetle Peter declared independence. Don't you think eet eez time to make amends?"
"Well…" Arthur did feel guilty for rejecting Peter, that much he had to admit. He'd handed him over to Finland and Sweden, paying a child support sum to them, because he'd thought they would do a better job of raising a child than him. He'd failed with a lot of his colonies and they now hated him, so he'd assumed Peter would be better off without him. But… he should be in Peter's life. He knew this. "I suppose you're right."
"So you will let Tino and Berwald drop Peter off on Friday at 9 pm?" France asked.
"…Yes. I suppose I will."
"Tres bien! Because eet eez Friday, and eet eez ten to eight!"
"What." Arthur sat for a couple of moments, blinking, before something spurred him to action. He snatched his phone from where it still lay on the floor, hoping France was playing a cruel joke on him. He was not. It was, indeed, Friday, and 7.50pm. "Oh. It is."
"But zis is good, non? Your son will be here soon! Ah, it will be a beautiful reunion…" France went off into a reverie.
"Idiot!" England flicked France on the forehead. "I'm not bloody prepared for this! I mean… I suppose I can't turn the boy away now, but where in the name of cauliflower is he supposed to sleep? You and sodding America have commandeered my guest rooms!"
"You and I can double up, mon amour, and leetle Sealand can sleep in my bed," France said, grinning lasciviously at England.
"Fine, don't take this seriously. I'll go and bloody sort this out," England dashed out, tripping his way up the stairs and yelling America's name. The Nation in question stuck his head around his bedroom door.
"Dude!" America yelled ear-splittingly. "What's happening, man? Is there a fire? Can I finally do my fireman's lift? Aw man, I've been practising this since 1990, ya know when Gil accidentally set that crap bar on fire in Berlin… it was only a matter of time before it happened again, man."
"Well it's good that you're prepared, but I don't think that will be necessary," England said, putting a hand on Alfred's shoulder to calm him down. When he was sure 'the boy' wouldn't try to pick him up or backflip around the place, he explained the situation. "So, you see, I'm going to need this room. This isn't to say that you're not welcome-" (Alfred wasn't) "-I just have nowhere else to put Peter, and I suppose it really is time you went home and dealt with the fallout of that election result." (It was.)
"Aw, man!" But rather than looking upset, as Arthur had thought he would, Alfred seemed… excited? "Your dude son's coming here? Awesome!"
"Is it?"
"Hell yeah! We can have a sleepover and I can impart all my knowledge to the younger generation!"
"Your knowledge," England repeated slowly. "And what would that be?"
"Well, I don't know yet, but it'll be something heroic! I can teach him how to make corndogs, and how to play COD, and how to drive a kickass bumper truck, and… well you know, all the important stuff a Nation needs to know."
"Dear Lord."
"Yessir. So… where's the kid gonna sleep?"
Arthur facepalmed.
Eventually, Arthur found a battered-looking air mattress in his wardrobe, and put Alfred to work inflating it.
An hour later and 'the boy' was still at work with one CIA man stood watching him. Arthur was still not sure what the man thinking as the Nation was laid full-length on top of the mattress trying to blow air into the thing.
The door bell rang. Arthur wasn't quick enough on the stairs.
"Ah bonjour Monsieur Finlande et Monsieur Suède! And ze leetle Sealand of course! Did you 'ave a good flight? Oh you took ze ferry… I 'ope ze crossing was not too bumpy for you, honhonhon-" France was cut off here, as Arthur ran down the stairs and physically yanked him away from the door.
"So sorry about that," Arthur panted.
"Hmm…" Sweden said, looking the two Nations up and down. His facial expression didn't change much, but he seemed unimpressed.
"Arthur, are you alright? We've been hearing the strangest things you know… something about you groping Miss Ukraine, and marrying Belarus, and now you're living with France…" Finland looked concerned. "Now I don't mean to be judgemental, but if you keep causing such trouble I might have to put you on the naughty list."
Finland then motioned to the CIA man standing guard at the garden gate. "And who is that rude man? He called me ma'am and tried to frisk Ber. We had to show him our ID!"
"Yes well…"
"Sorry ma'am… security clearance," the CIA man said and saluted.
France seemed delighted by this. England gave him a dead arm. "Oh God, Finland… I'm sorry. Bloody CIA and no, I'm not bloody living with France! This is all just a temporary arrangement!" Arthur added the last bit, hoping against hope that they would all just eventually bugger off. As it was, more and more people seemed to be moving in with him.
"That's a very clinical way of putting it," Finland said. "I'm not sure we should be exposing Peter to such strangeness and debauchery what with France being here… what do you think, Ber?"
"Hmm," Sweden said.
"Well, if you think it's alright. Go on in, Peter, we'll be back to pick you up on Monday morning!" Finland practically flung Peter, complete with his sailor suit and a massive suitcase, into Arthur's townhouse and shut the door.
"Mom!" Sealand yelled at the closed door, outraged.
"Well I say, they were in a hurry!" Arthur exclaimed.
"Eet eez their first weekend alone in… two years, mon ami," France pointed out, winking at Arthur. "Zay are catching up on 'alone time', non?"
"Eww, that's not bloody it!" Sealand said, sounding remarkably like his father. "They just want to buy Wagon Wheels! That's what Dad was reminding Mom of!"
"You got that from 'hmm'?" Arthur asked. When Sealand just glared at him, he sighed. "Alfred!" He yelled. "Have you blown up that bloody bed yet?"
"Yessir! I feel a bit weird though man… think I need sugar."
"You just decanted the contents of your lungs into an air mattress, I'm not bloody surprised," Arthur said. "Wasn't there a bloody pump?"
"Ohhhh…"
Arthur, for the second time that day (and probably not the last), facepalmed. "Well, whatever. At least that's bloody done. It's time for supper anyway and then you can all go to bed."
"Yay! Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!" Alfred and Sealand both chanted in unison.
"I don't have any bloody ice cream!" England shouted over them.
There was a further half an hour of yelling, chanting and general swearing by England before he gave in. "I thought biscuits and a nice glass of warm milk would be better..." he muttered as they trudged outside. "We'll go to this MacDonalds place then…" he agreed to shut them all up.
They were about to jump in Alfred's huge 'idiotic' vehicle (England's words) to find said vehicle being towed away.
"Wait! Why?!" America wailed, chasing the tow-truck down the road. He gave up after only 50 metres, turned to the CIA agent and clutched the poor man's lapels. "Why has this happened? Why?"
"I believe the official stated that you had not paid your parking fines totalling £459.15, Sir."
"Oh right, yes." America straightened up, releasing the man.
England shook his head.
"Can I come as well?" France hobbled out. "Oh mon ami! What will we do? Ze mini is still wheel-clamped, Alfred's car is gone… does this mean…?"
"We can go in Jerk Dad England's antique heap?" Sealand pointed excitedly at the garage wherein lived England's only love - the Bentley.
England almost had a fit. "W…w…w…what?" he stuttered and stammered. A vein throbbed in his temple.
"Come on, dude! Don't have a kitten. Let's go in your antique crap thing," America yelled and clapped him on the shoulder.
"You won't all fit in!" England said triumphantly.
"Yeah we will!" Sealand said.
To England's horror they were all - America, France, Sealand and one of the CIA men, whom France had decided to name 'Maurice' (pronounced 'Mo-reece') heading towards the garage.
"No!" England stood in front of the garage doors, his arms spread out. "Not my car!"
America turned to the CIA man, "You know what to do, Maurice."
"That's not my name, Sir."
"Right."
'Maurice' bodily lifted England out of the way and picked the lock.
"You know it makes sense," America told England, patting his arm.
*To be continued*