Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001
Driving Lessons
Chapter 13 - House of Pain
England did not hug France, he didn't hit him either. He consoled himself by just glaring at him.
"Where did Ivan go?" France asked, a balloon popped over his head as if in commiseration.
"Home. I hope." England replied. "What in God's name have you been doing?" When he saw the devilish grin on France's face he said quickly, "Never mind that, don't tell me. Just help me get a plumber and a glazer."
"Why a plumber, mon ami?"
"Because Russia that's why."
"Eet eez terrible!" France exclaimed when he saw the hole in the bathroom floor and the wrecked pipes around the bath.
"Oui, it is," England said, not realising in his consternation he was talking French.
"You should not let such hooligans into our home."
"Yes well…Wait what? Our home? This is not 'our' home!"
France shrugged in a very 'Gallic' way, "You zay zis now," he said mysteriously and picked up the phone, "Allo? Oui? Zis is Arthur Kirkland's house. Well it is not his house because zat would be very weird non?"
England shook his head, "Yeah cos that's not the most weird thing happening right now," he muttered. He would have hung around to listen but France was looking particularly pervy and starting to flirt with the poor unfortunate person on the other end of the phone. England hoped it was a handyman/builder and not some sex line. "Right… I'm off to get changed into… something," he said, wondering what on earth he was going to wear as he had no clothes.
"What happened to your phone!" France exclaimed, one hand over the speaker and pointing at the crushed iphone.
"Russia did that!" England explained and then wondered why he was explaining himself to France of all bloody people.
"And I suppose you will say he did zat?" France pointed at the hole in the ceiling.
"Yes he did!"
"And zat?" France pointed at the broken window.
"No, that was bloody you and you bloody know it!"
"Pointing fingers helps no-one, mon ami," France said and turned his attention back to the phone. "Oui oui…"
The doorbell rang and England answered it.
He hoped it was, against all odds, a plumber or a glazer (the house was freezing).
It was neither.
It was Belarus. England opened the door to find a knife stuck in it.
She swept in like a blue tornado. If tornado wore ribbons.
"Ah Miss Belarus, I'm glad it's you," England lied.
"Where is he?" Belarus asked running from room to room, ribbons trailing, knives flashing.
"This marriage thingy…"
"Where is he?" she demanded again as she skidded past a startled France and up the stairs.
England could hear wardrobes opening and closing. How Russia could possibly cram his six-foot frame into America's Disney-stickered wardrobe was beyond England's comprehension.
"He's not here!" England called up.
Belarus came downstairs slowly. "You have a broken window, broken pipes and there is a desk on the German car outside…"
"Yes but…"
"Then he was here." Her eyes shone.
"Yes, he was but…"
"Tell me!"
"He sat here and…" England motioned to the sofa.
But Belarus had already planked full-length on the sofa with a blissful look on her face.
He thought about telling 'his wife' on the subject of the fact she was now 'his wife' that he wanted a divorce but his courage failed.
"Well?" he said as France came off the phone.
"I am well, yes, thank you for asking. I do have a little mal de tête, possibly a hangover but…"
"No! I mean with regards a plumber and glazer, you goon!"
"Oh that!"
"Yes that."
"Yes it is sorted. Do not worry your little Anglo-Saxon brain," France did a mock exclamation of surprise when he saw Belarus prone on the sofa. She was in some kind of swoon.
"Why is she here?" France whispered.
"Looking for Russia."
"Not for you?"
"Why would she be looking for me?" England said nervously.
They were now stood in the kitchen, whispering.
"Now zat you are married of course."
"How do you know about that?"
France smirked, "Estonia told Lithuania who told Poland who told Hungary who told me."
"Damn bloody gossips."
"Well, I have sorted out your life now, mon cher. I will go in ze bath!" France said and skipped upstairs.
"You mean now you've ruined my life! And you can't have a bath. There is no bath!" England called up to him.
"Ah! England is so uncultured. Not like Le France!" France came downstairs. "But never mind I have called for a very excellent plumber and glazer who will fix everyzing. You know, you should go out."
"In what?"
"What?"
England pointed to his attire which was still damp. "You've given away all my clothes. What am I supposed to wear?"
France snapped his fingers and went back upstairs. "I have some zings you can borrow, mon cher! Although I think you are on ze bigger size zan me."
"Are you saying I'm fat?"
France didn't answer.
England turned to the still prone Belorussian. "Miss Belarus do you want me to escort you home?" he then thought about what he'd said and that he would possibly be going all the way to Minsk and so said, "Or to your Embassy?"
Belarus looked up, "I want to stay here and bask in the glory."
"The glory of my sofa?"
"My brother's presence," Belarus said scornfully.
"He's not here," England said and added under his breath, "I bloody wish I wasn't."
"He has left his essence."
"He's left a bloody mess."
Belarus turned her face away from him and resumed her planking position.
"How are we going to get rid of her?" England whispered to France.
France was stood in America's bedroom and didn't answer straightaway. He held up a series of clothes against England and shaking his head. All of them were clearly designed to elicit outrage in the Englishman.
"I'm not wearing that!" England said at a particularly frilly and flouncy pink shirt.
"Well I do not know what you are going to wear tonight."
"Tonight? I don't need anything to wear tonight…" England began to say and then amended when he saw France's filthy smile. "… I mean I do but I don't need anything fancy. You don't need to dress up for Downton Abbey." England considered this, "Although perhaps I should…"
France shook his head, "You have a date tonight, mon ami, as per our contract."
England stared at him, "No way!"
France nodded and waved a pair of virulent purple flares in his face, "Oui, mon cher."
"Don't you wave your pants at me! I'm not going on a bloody date!"
France frowned, "You really do not want to stand up the person I have for you."
"Person? Who is it?" England asked, his eyes narrowing.
"You will have a nice time. You should go out."
"Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me?"
"Get rid? Get rid?" France looked appalled. "How can you say such a zing?"
England frowned, "Are you planning something?"
"Moi?" France put a hand to his heart and looked appalled. But before he could protest the doorbell rang.
France threw some clothes at England and hurried downstairs. "I will go! Everyzing will be alright, you just see!" he called.
England sighed and went into his own room with a pile of clothes.
When England went downstairs, unfortunately wearing France's trousers (one of his worse nightmares) and a t-shirt with something written on it in French. (England assumed it was a band-name, he was wrong.)
France made him a cup of tea and told him that the plumber was 'fixing things'.
England looked at him, "Really?" he said. He felt very suspicious. But at least the water was back on. There was also a lot of banging and crashing. "I'm amazed you got someone so quickly."
"Yes well…"
"Shut up down there, I'm trying to work!" came a horribly familiar voice.
"Oh no…"
"It's not what you zink, mon cher."
"It's exactly what I think…" England got up from his chair (with difficulty as the pants were way too tight) and headed upstairs.
It was Prussia. In a rather incongruous boiler suit and wearing an over-large tool belt. He was clearly overcompensating for something, England thought.
"Come, mon cher, take me out driving," France said, appearing at his side and trying to pull him away.
"I see you had a problem with a large Russian," Prussia said, waving a large spanner around and grinning.
"I had no idea you were a plumber," England said.
Prussia looked him up and down, "Listen, Grandma, who do yer think fixed the plumbing at fat Russkie's house all those years when I lived there?"
"Toris?" England hazarded a guess.
Prussia ignored him.
"My darling Ivan is not fat. It is all manly muscle!" Belarus shouted from downstairs.
Prussia stuck his head down the hole in the floor and yelled, "He's a fathead!" and then grinned at England.
"Why did you get him?" England asked, turning to France.
"He owes me a favour," France told him. "And he needs the money…"
"We're actually paying him?!"
"Ja!" Prussia grinned. "I sorted out your water problems, didn't I?"
England was dragged downstairs by France.
"Also I promised Allemagne I would keep him out of the way…"
"What's it got to do with bloody Germany?"
"Here have some croissant, mon cher…" France stuffed a croissant in England's mouth.
"Listen ladies! Can you keep it down? A man's trying to work!" Prussia yelled through the hole in the ceiling.
"I bloody can't stand him," England mumbled with a full mouth to France.
"Let's go driving, mon cher."
"Stop bloody calling me that!"
"Gay!" Prussia yelled and recommenced banging.
"What bloody car are we supposed to drive in?" England asked.
France's eyes shone.
"You've got to be kidding me…" England had feared France had meant his precious Bentley. And seeing as the Mini still had a wheel clamp attached to it and was thus out of action, there was only one other car that was available…
Unfortunately it had a desk embedded in its roof.
France smiled at Germany's Mercedes and ran his hand along the body lovingly. "She eez gorgeous."
England felt queasy.
"Why are you insisting on carrying on with these bloody driving lessons?" England asked as they each took hold of the desk.
"I need my licence. Now ferme la bouche and take hold of your side of ze bureau, mon cher."
England grunted, "They are never going to let you drive that Ferrari."
"Yes but I can buy it myself," France replied. "Now lift."
"You lift as well!" England said, trying to lift and finding he couldn't. "Besides you don't have any money."
"I have got a job!"
This was the most amazing news England had heard since the 17th century when he'd tasted his first cup of tea. He was so amazed that he dropped the desk.
"My foot! My foot!" France cried.
"Stop screaming you stupid Frenchman!" England shouted. "Bloody drama queen…" he muttered.
France pulled off his fancy velvet high heeled boots (what kind of man wears high heels anyway? England thought) and then his sock (which had a huge hole in it).
"Oh," England said. "Did your foot always look like that?"
"Oh mon cher!" France sobbed.
It didn't look good, whichever way you looked at it. There was a huge bump on the top and at least one of the toes was at a very weird angle.
England sighed, "Well this is an inconvenience," he said. "I'll go ring for a taxi."
"But you can take me in your car!"
"You're not getting in my Bessie!" England told him (Bessie was the Bentley's name).
France sat down on the driveway and ignored the gawping of the neighbours. "I will never dance the ballet again…" he cried.
***To Be Continued***