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Driving Lessons Chapter 15 - Calling Dr Love
England resisted the urge to make pirate jokes as he helped France hop his way out of the hospital.
France was on crutches, his right foot in a pot and if he hadn't been drugged up he would have been upset.
"Har har! Come on me hearties!" England yelled, laughing. He gave up with the 'no pirates' joke. "All you need is a parrot on your shoulder, Francis!" he told France.
France shook his head, "I know you zink zis is funny. You and your weird friend, Captain Hook, who I zink is your perverted side…" France forgot what he was going to say.
"I'll ring for a taxi," England laughed. This was brilliant. France with a broken foot. That meant he should be out of action for ages. "Six to eight weeks to heal!" England repeated again. (He'd repeated this blissfully several times.) "This is going to slow you down, mon ami!" England said to France with much relish.
France shrugged.
England rang a cab, who told them it would be half an hour. Then, with a sigh, he rang Denmark's Uber number, only to get no answer. Then he remembered that Denmark was probably still tied up with Prussia. (A fact that did not really bother him at all. If Belarus did kill them then it would mean a lot of paperwork, but that was the bane of his life anyway.)
"Bus?" England asked.
France had sat on the pavement outside the hospital entrance. A woman tutted and stepped past them. Another looked at them piteously and dropped a few pence in France's lap.
"I cannot buy wine wiz zis!" France shouted.
"Bus?" England repeated.
"Bush? What do you mean?"
"Public transport."
"Pubic transport? What a strange country zis is!" France said. He was clearly high as a kite, England thought.
"Who can I ring? Who would rescue us?" He cast around in the contacts on his crushed phone. "Hello, Toris? You're a nice chap…"
"He is not in zis strange country, mon cher," France burbled next to him.
"Never mind… no it's okay Toris, I don't need you to interpret anything for me… no, I'm not bloody married! How did you know about that? Oh… Estonia told Latvia who told Poland who told you." England shook his head.
"You are a legend, mon ami," France said. He had pulled out a bottle of wine and a glass (from heaven knows where) and was pouring himself a glass. He then lit a cigarette and, reclining on the pavement with his crutches, looked like redolent drunk. Which he was.
"Never mind, Toris… I just needed a lift from someone who's sensible and won't throw us out of their car." England said and then listened, "Yes indeed! Who would throw us out of their car?!" England agreed.
France waved a glass of wine at England, spilling half of it. "Allemagne, Pologne, Prusse, l'Espagne, Hongrie…" France listed all the Nations who would most likely throw them both out of a car.
England only understood 'l'Espagne' and turned to France, "Spain would not throw me out!"
"Mon cher, he hates you. You keep stopping him from getting together with Belgique!"
England hung up. "You look like a vagrant," he told France. "Besides, I'm not sure you should be drinking after taking those painkillers."
France shrugged, "Why don't you use magic to get us home?" he then giggled and fell over - even though he was actually sitting down.
England smacked his forehead (his own), "Why didn't I think of that! Probably because magic won't get us out of this, you French twerp! What am I supposed to do? Summon up a broomstick?"
"Shummon a demon!" France giggled. He then said something else in French - probably something perverted, England thought.
Nevertheless, England snapped his fingers, "I know what to do! Magic!" he said. "And by doing this, I save Prussia and Denmark from Belarus' evil plan! I'm a genius!"
At England's house…
"I told you to bring help!" Prussia was telling Denmark.
"I did!"
"You brought you. That's not help."
"You didn't say bring someone else!"
"Bringing help means bring someone else!" Prussia argued back.
Denmark frowned. He would have scratched his head if he wasn't tied up.
They were sat on the floor in England's kitchen, tied up back to back. A pink floor mop France had bought was laid next to them, almost mockingly. Belarus had used it to beat Prussia around the head.
It was all a blur to Prussia. One minute he was insulting Belarus, which was akin to poking a bear, an angry bear that is, with a pointy stick. The next minute he had been running for his life. Denmark had not helped. In fact, Denmark had been the equivalent of pouring petrol on a fire. Sauntering in with that crazy grin and enormous hair did not help at all. They only served to enrage Belarus.
Although Prussia had lived in Russia's house for many years alongside the Baltic Trio who he always assumed were 'little poncy jerks', he never imagined that Belarus was so strong.
Somehow, the small Belarussian had overwhelmed and tied up the most Awesome Nation and a Viking warrior. Prussia was confounded. He said as much to Denmark.
"She's hard she is. Almost as hard as my daughter, Greenland. Remember her, Pru?" Denmark answered. He didn't admit that he didn't understand what confound meant.
Prussia nodded. He was hardly likely to forget. The first time he'd met his friend's daughter, he'd bent down to pat her on the head (she'd been around 6 years old at the time) and she'd threatened to bury an axe in his head. "Vikings…" Prussia mumbled.
"I know right? I thought you looked really funny when she used that lasso. I wonder where she learnt that from?" Denmark said cheerily. He was always cheery. It was annoying.
"Alabama Gay Rodeo," Belarus answered him.
"I blame Alfred," Prussia said.
Belarus may have thought that she had things under control. She didn't. One of them began singing:
"When the day is dawning…"
And the other joined in:
"On a Texas Sunday morning…" the other sang.
"No!" Belarus yelled.
"How I long to be there…"
"With Marie who's waiting for me there…" the other one sang gleefully.
"I have to go!" Belarus said quickly. "I have been summoned!" She ran out of the door before the song got into her head and she was cursed forever.
Back at the hospital...
"The regretful tears of a thousand year Nation…" England muttered to himself. Funnily enough a certain song was ringing around his head. "Bloody earworm…" he added to himself.
"Qui?"
"What?"
"What?"
"I'm trying to remember how to summon Belarus."
"Why would you want to do that? Are you mad, mon cher?"
"Enough of the mon cher business!"
"But why?"
"Because I'm sick of it, okay?"
"No, I know zis. Why would you shummon Belarush?" France slurred.
"You're drunk!" England observed.
"Oui, hic."
"Who else would pick us up?"
"Erm…"
"Precisely." England thought hard. "The regretful tears of a thousand year old Nation…" he looked at France who was slumped. "A human skull… that's going to be a tad difficult… A full moon…" England looked up. It was mid-afternoon. The moon was not out. But he was British and he would improvise like the time he'd fooled the Luftwaffe in the War with cardboard planes.
He ran back into the hospital and winced as he bought another beverage of unknown substance from the vending machine which subsequently gurgled threateningly at him. He cast around for the big security guard but he was nowhere to be seen. Presumably ejecting Denmark had been the pinnacle of the man's career.
He hurried back outside, looking at the beverage in suspicion and poured it into France's glass of wine.
"There, France, I found some nice Beaujolais for you."
France smiled glassily at him and then through the windows of the ward nearby. A nurse quickly appeared and closed the window blinds, indicating that France was a deviant peeping tom. Which he was.
"Zis ish not Beaujolaish! Tea! Why would you do zish? Hic!" France slurred and spluttered as he took he sip. He emptied the cup into nearby shrubbery.
"Yes well…" England waited for the tears.
France looked at him through golden lashes. "You are so cruel!"
"I need tears… bwahahaha!" England said rubbing his hands and laughing like a mad scientist. He thought about adding a dash of magic but he was afraid that as this 'spell' came from Belarus he could summon Russia by mistake.
"You want me to cry? To pour out my soul? My beautiful French soul?"
"Yes."
"My beautiful soul that Napoleon himself said was too gorgeous to invade Russia…"
"Yes.. Wait what? You didn't go with the Grand Armée because you were a bloody coward!"
"Eet eez not true! Someone had to stay behind and do ze cooking! You are rude and cruel and a barbarian! When I first met you, you were living in a mud hut with your King who burnt ze cakes!"
"King Alfred was a bloody good man and you take that back!" England exploded and then remembered what he was trying to do. He forgot that actually France could be quite a tough nut to crack. Italy of course would cry at the drop of a hat - the sight of a kitten or someone telling him his pasta was rubbish was enough. France was made of sterner stuff. Or drunk. Probably the latter.
England thought hard. "Your clothes are awful. You'll never be able to dance again and you'll never pass your driving test."
"My clothes are ze height of fashion. I am a fashion icon. You look like you slept in a skip! And ze test? I will pass, even if it takes centuries."
England felt like crying now.
"You'll never get that Porsche."
"It was a Ferrari."
"You'll never get Italy back. He'll never go to live with you. None of the younger Nations look up to you. I don't know anyone who calls you Big Brother France!"
France's eyes filled with tears. "You are so cruel!"
England went in for the kill, "And your hair is greasy!"
Big French tears rolled down Francis' cheeks.
England stepped forward quickly with a monogrammed lace handkerchief, "Here!"
"Ah Arthur! You are cruel wiz zat lovely mouth of yours but you still love me!" France said in between sobs.
The self-proclaimed great Nation of Love sobbed into the lacy handkerchief, loudly blew his nose (so loud that a flock of pigeons took off) and handed the handkerchief back to England.
England held it between thumb and forefinger, vowing to boil wash it later and then wrung out the tears into the polystyrene cup. One had to make do, he couldn't very well kill a human just for a skull, besides the polystyrene cup was creepy enough. Full moon though? England looked up at the sun blazing down on them.
He turned to a woman in a wheelchair who had just emerged from the hospital, obviously having been discharged from some awful operation. She was about to go through another awful experience.
"Excuse me, do you know what phase the moon is in?" England asked her. "I'm trying to summon a friend, well not a friend… a person of dubious origins. She is the only person who will pick us up. I don't suppose though, we could share your taxi?" he added the last bit in hope.
"Get away from me!" the woman cried.
"I say! How rude! A chap can ask," England said.
But the woman had said this to France who was trying to pitch her out of the chair.
"I am more wounded than you!" France said.
"France, you're not wounded. This is not Agincourt!"
"It eez Azincourt! You uncouth Englishman!" France tried to hit England with his crutch but then promptly fell over.
A large black car pulled up. It looked like a hearse. England peered at it with a sense of horror.
The driver's window wound down and a delicate white hand, perfectly manicured, pointed at them and then crooked a finger indicating that they were to get in.
"Us?" England asked.
"I have a bad feeling about this, mon ami…" France said next to him.
"Yes, my perverted little friend, I quite agree."
The hand pointed at them rather more emphatically and then at the back door.
It looked angry. If a disembodied hand could look angry.
"I'm sorry," England called. "But we don't get into stranger's cars," he said as if they were twelve years old.
A familiar head stuck out, there were dark sunglasses covering the familiar icy blue eyes, but there was no mistaking the platinum blond hair, "Get in the car, you pair of idiots!"
"Oh! Miss Belarus! My summoning worked."
"Why didn't you just text her?" France whispered, staggering to the car, tripping over a crutch and hanging onto England's arm.
"She didn't give me her phone number…"
Belarus glared at them. "You two look like you're married," she hissed.
"We're not a couple and why are you incognito? And why are you driving a hearse? And why are there bulletholes?" England added the last question when he saw the upholstery and the holes scattered on the car's trunk/boot.
Belarus looked at him in the rear view mirror, "Let's just say I got into an altercation with some bad people," she said mysteriously.
"What people?" France slurred.
England nudged him and shook his head. He really preferred not to know.
Belarus did not answer but drove off.
"It is nice to be home!" France said as he hobbled in.
"This is not your bloody home!" England shouted as the French Nation plonked himself down on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. Arthur was about to tell France to put that bloody cigarette out but did a double-take. Denmark and Prussia were still tied up.
"Oh God! Not you two!" he said.
"Dude! We're stuck!" Denmark appealed.
"We can't reach our beers," Prussia said.
"Did you fix my bathroom?" England asked.
"All I need to do is finish the tiling," Prussia told him.
"No!" Belarus interrupted.
"Yeah I do!" Prussia protested.
"You will not let them go, Arthur. You will bring me Ivan first like you said," she told England.
"I didn't say anything," England said. He then corrected himself quickly when a knife appeared under his throat, "Well if you put it like that!"
"Better listen to the missus, dude," Denmark said, shaking his head.
"She's not…" England began but stopped when he saw Belarus' face.
"Ha! Under the thumb!" Prussia looked happy at this.
"Your other wife will be jealous!" Denmark said.
"My other wife?" England frowned.
"Francy-pants!" Denmark yelled and tried to high-five Prussia but forgot his hands were tied behind his back and almost fell over.
"We're not bloody married!" England yelled and stomped off. Even Belarus stepped out of his way.
"If you bring my brother to me then he can finish your tiling and we can all go home…" Belarus said and made it all sound very sinister.
England wasn't sure if the idea of Prussia tiling wasn't a threat in itself. But the thought of getting rid of them all did really appeal to him.
"Me? How can I…?"
"Summon him! You are great… well not great… you are a good… well perhaps not good…" Belarus thought about it for a long time, "You are a wizard of great renown!"
"Great renown? I am?" England puffed out his chest.
"Da! There are a lot of people who talk about you."
"I bet they do!" Prussia interrupted with a leer.
England ignored him. He quite liked the idea of people talking about his wizarding skills. He began filling the kettle to make a cup of tea. "I went to the best wizarding school you know. When I had a spare century…"
"I made beer in my spare century," Denmark burped.
"I got good at fighting and war!" Prussia said.
Belarus did not tell them what she did in her spare century, but they could guess as she twirled a knife nonchalantly.
England looked up at the window and promptly dropped the kettle he was holding when he saw Russia peering in at him, grinning toothily.
"Aaaaargh!" England screamed.
A knock at the door at the same time made him jump again. When he looked up, Russia's face was gone.
"My brother!" Belarus yelled, flinging open the door joyfully and bulldozing the Nation who was stood there. She was gone in pursuit of Russia.
"Your doorbell does not work," China said, picking himself up and dusting himself off.
England and China stood on the garden path and watched impassively as Russia (China's stalker) was chased down the road by Belarus (England's stalker).
England turned around and almost jumped out of his skin.
"What is wrong with you, Arthur? Get in the house and make tea. Not your awful English tea, I have brought my own," China said imperiously, sweeping into the house.
England shook his head. Surely he was seeing things? There, totally obliterating his driveway and, of course, Germany's Mercedes (thankfully, his own precious Bentley was in the garage) was a 20 foot long dragon.
"Oh bollocks…" England said with feeling.