France wondered how some women could put up with this more than once in their lives (much less sixteen, like Empress Maria Theresa).

It really wasn't fair. He was tired all the time, often hungry (that made it very difficult to watch his figure. Not that it mattered, but still…), had weird cravings (haggis. Why was haggis a thing?), and could no longer fit into his own clothes.

It was all Scotland's fault.

Him, and his stupid attractiveness, and his je ne sais quoi, and-

And France still had another full month left.

Which is why he thought it would be a good idea to seek out Scotland's first-born. After all, there was no time like the present to make another attempt to bond with your grumpy teenage step-son.

At least he wouldn't be hard to find. He rarely left his room.

France knocked on Tormod's door.

A muffled "Jus' ta moment!" came from within.

France idly wondered what he was covering up. A girl (or boy)? Unlikely. While there were ways of sneaking people in and out of rooms not on the ground floor, there were none that France would not have noticed. (Because France had quite a bit of experience in this department.) So…something on the computer, probably. Understandable; Tormod wasn't exactly social, and he rarely spoke to anyone in the house, if he could help it.

The door opened and Tormod stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him.

He looked to be about fourteen or so, and had inherited Scotland's bright red hair. He wore all black, down to the headset that was currently slung around his neck. The only color in his entire outfit, in fact, was the lettering on his shirt. (Some band, France thought, although he couldn't say for sure, since he didn't read Norwegian.)

"Good morning, Tormod."

"What do you want, Francis?"

"I was going to make some crepes. Would you like to help?" Mmmm…crepes. Finally, a normal craving! Even if Tormod didn't want to help, he was going to make crepes anyway.

Tormod stared into France's eyes. They both had blue eyes, although Tormod's were darker (no doubt due to the boy's other parent). France felt trapped in the boy's gaze, as if Tormod were staring into his soul. He could not look away.

Finally, Tormod looked down at his feet. "What's th' real reason ye wanted t' see me?"

"Your fazzer and I are worried about you."

"My father," Tormod began bitterly, "is in no position t' worry about me. I read th' news. An' even if he was, he wouldn't worry about me, 'cause he doesn't care about me."

There was nothing wrong with Scotland- certainly nothing that would have ended up in the news. And Scotland was worried about Tormod; it wasn't natural to spent all day alone in front of a computer-

Oh.

A sudden realization hit France: Tormod didn't seek a paternal bond with Scotland. Always a more…maternal one….

He stifled a laugh. No wonder Scotland never talked about his relationship with Norway.

The baby kicked France in the ribs. Hard.

This was all Scotland's fault.

"Why don't we go sit in the kitchen and talk?" France suggested. He really needed to sit down…

"Um…sure, I guess."

France led the way to the kitchen, where they sat at the table.

"Why do you say zhat your fazzer wouldn't care about you? I have met him, and he doesn't seem like zhe kind of man who would forget about his children, much less zhe kind who wouldn't care."

"Yeah, well, I guess it's a difficult thing t' remember when ye've got as many as he does. Besides, haven't ye wondered why I'm in this house?"

Goodness, how many children did Norway have? Apparently, he got around far more than France had previously suspected. "Some custody issue, I thought…"

"There was a war. There always is, ye know. And t' save his arse, Far gave me back to Mor, who never had time fer me, on account o' his wars wit' Uncle England. I woulda preferred t' stay wit' Far, but…"

The use of random Norwegian words startled France; he hadn't thought the boy remembered much of that language. "Don't curse, Tormod."

Tormod grinned. "Should I have used a different word that 'arse'?"

"Probably. What would your f- uh, Scotland say?"

The boy shrugged. "I really don't care." He absently played with the hole in his ear- from a piercing, France guessed. He wondered why the boy never wore anything in it.

The baby kicked him again- thankfully not in the ribs. Just one more month…

"So…" Tormod began after a brief, yet awkward silence, "ye said somet'ing about crepes?"

Merde, that's right. "Desolée, I don't think I can right now…"

"If you tell me how, I think I could," Tormod said shyly.

Another startling revelation. Especially considering Tormod's general unwillingness to do anything.

"Um, sure. You'll want to get a pan out, a large, flat one…yes, exactly like that. Now turn the stove on to 'High'. While that's heating up, get two eggs…"


The first crepe turned out horribly burned. The second was undercooked. The rest were so perfect, France wondered if they had strayed to his favorite crepe stand in Paris.

Clearly, Tormod hadn't inherited the poor cooking skills that characterized Scotland's family. (Sure, Scotland said the England was the only one who couldn't cook, but France had eaten haggis. And he'd seen it made, too…)

They were having a lovely conversation about music (Tormod had a surprisingly varied taste in music -everything from classical to death metal- so it was easy to talk to him), when Scotland walked into the kitchen.

He seemed a bit surprised to see Tormod there (mainly because Tormod rarely left his room).

"Hello, Mor."

Scotland was even more surprised to hear Tormod speaking to him in a civil tone. (Though he could have done without the "Mor". France had a guess that Tormod did that just to irritate Scotland.) "Hello, Tormod. Franny."

"Bonjour, Écosse."

"So, what have ye two been up t'?"

"Tormod made crepes."

"Francis helped!" Tormod interjected.

"But he did all zhe work," France continued. "Clearly, he did not inherit your cooking skills, mon amour."

"There's nothing wrong wit' the way I cook."

France raised an eyebrow. "I never said zhere was."

The baby was kicking again. Merde, was he going to be a professional football player when he grew up?

Scotland must have noticed the change in expression on Frnace's face. "Are ye alright, Franny?"

"Oui. The baby's kicking again." He rubbed his belly absently. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "Tormod, come here, s'il te plait."

Confused, the boy stood and walked over to France's side of the table.

"Now, give me your hand."

Tormod did so. France held his wrist and laid his hand on the round curve of his belly.

Startled, Tormod looked first at Scotland, then at France. "That's th' baby?"

France nodded. "Oui."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"We don't know yet."

"Well, I goin' t' be th' best big brother ever."

"Of course you will." France ruffled the boy's hair. "Now why don't you run along? I need to talk to Scotland."

Tormod nodded, took another crepe off the plate on the table, and retreated from the kitchen, presumably back to his room.

As soon as he was gone, France turned to Scotland. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Scotland asked innocently, reaching for a crepe.

France glared. "About zhat boy. What else?"

Damn, another mood swing…

"He seemed fine t' me."

"You should spend more time wiz him."

Scotland sighed. "He doesn't like me much."

"Well perhaps if you spent more time wiz him, he'd like you more!" France stood up. He was so done with this irritating Scotsman. And those irritatingly sexy green eyes weren't helping.

So he stalked angrily out of the kitchen (as much as a very pregnant person could; it was more like a very determined waddle). Needless to say, it did not take long for Scotland to catch up.

"Franny…"

France turned around and glared up at Scotland. (It was so irritating that he was shorter than his…spouse.)

"Francis, what's wrong?"

The concern in Scotland's voice made France want to cry.

He actually did start crying then. (Stupid hormones...)

Scotland put his arms around France, who spent the next five minutes or so sobbing into Scotland's shirt. (The frustrating part was that France really couldn't stop crying, as much as he wanted to.)

Finally, the tears stopped flowing. Miserably, France tried (unsuccessfully) to shrug out of Scotland's embrace.

"Yer not goin' anywere 'til ye tell me what's wrong," Scotland murmured, rubbing France's back. (It felt amazing, by the way.)

"I hate you. So much. You and your bizarre cooking and- and your je ne sais quoi…Your baby keeps me up at all hours of zhe night, and gives me weird cravings, and I swear, e's going to be a football player and 'e's getting in some early practice on my ribs…And it's incredibly unfair zhat you still look so unbelievably sexy and-!"

Damn mood swings.

So, here he was, crying into Scotland's shirt AGAIN, despite the fact that this was ALL his fault.

"Zhis is all your fault, Écosse."

"Je sais." Scotland wiped away the last remnants of France's tears. "Je t'aime."

"Je te deteste."

"I know." He leaned down to kiss France gently on the lips. "Here's what we're going t' do: yer goin' t' choose a movie, any movie ye want, then I'm goin' t' bring tha' plate of crepes into the living room, and we'll cuddle while we watch th' movie an' eat crepes. How does tha' sound?"

It sounded amazing, actually. Except for this whole thing with the baby, Scotland was a pretty good husband.

"You'll talk to Tormod, right?"

Scotland nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Alright, then." He already knew what movie he wanted to watch, too.


And that's how France got Scotland to watch Beauty and the Beast.


A/N: This chapter was way too much fun to write. I almost cried because I was laughing so hard. Pregnant!France is my totally my favorite character of all time.

"Mor" means "Mother" in Norwegian; "Far" is "Father."

And I'd like to thank Musicforeverinmysoul, Siakeruu Arrisorra, ZheAwesomePrussia, and SomethingAuldSomethingNew for help with the last eight chapters. You guys are awesome! (Though, technically, I really should be thanking ZheAwesomePrussia, , and SomethingAuldSomethingNew for help with the entire story. That's right; without them, the SKUniverse would not exist. Virtual cookies for all!)

I should be finished with this particular story in about 10 chapters, and I plan to start a new story almost immediately after. (I did promise that I'd eventually explain all of Norway's children, didn't I?)