Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, 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 18 - Hairspray
England stared at the small alien until it/he turned and went back into the lounge. England shook his head. Surely not? He turned to look at Germany, the most logical, rational and therefore, most boring, Nation England knew.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
"See what?" Germany asked, looking up from his papers.
"That alien?"
"You can't distract me like that, England," Germany told him. "Spain, tell him how much he owes me."
Spain who was dozily looking from one to the other, pulled out a calculator. He proceeded to scratch his head, wrinkled his nose and peered at the device confusedly.
Germany sighed and leaned across, took the calculator from the Spaniard, switched it on and handed it back.
"Ah!" Spain smiled happily and began punching numbers in.
"That Mercedes Benz was top of the range and so you owe me…" Germany began.
Spain held the calculator up so England could see the number.
England was still looking at the lounge door and wondering if he was indeed going mad. He turned back, looked at the calculator, "Twenty-five quid? Bargain."
Germany almost exploded with rage. Obviously he didn't. That would have made the now clean kitchen very messy. "Give me that calculator!" he shouted at Spain.
Spain looked hurt and handed it to him.
Germany almost hit him around the head with it, but didn't. Spain was quite a placid Nation, usually. But could be provoked to anger sometimes and when he was, he could be quite formidable.
Germany tapped in some numbers, his jaw clenched.
"Do you want a cup of tea, Spain?" England asked.
"Si!" Spain said happily and then remembered something, "No! You came between me and Belgium!" Spain told him.
"It's 'you came between Belgium and I', not 'Belgium and me'," England answered, switched on the kettle, realised to his annoyance that Germany had already done this earlier and picked up a teabag and mug. He was not going to offer Germany a cup.
"You're such an idiot, England," Germany said and added, "One hundred thousand pounds."
England almost dropped a mug.
"…With twenty thousand pounds of costs. Of course, I can translate this into euros if you prefer," Germany added.
"I hardly think so!" England exclaimed.
"Si!"
"Spain, tell him the legal bit," Germany nodded at the Spaniard.
Spain cleared his throat and shuffled some papers and began reading, "South Italy shall belong to the great and glorious Kingdom of Spain until… oh no, that's the wrong one…" he shuffled again. Germany sighed.
"You'll not get a penny from me," England told Germany.
"We'll see about that," Germany said and looked pointedly at his lawyer.
Spain blushed and looked flustered, "Oh wait, here it is!" he began reading again, "And that the great and glorious Nation of Spain shall be called Boss Spain from now on or until little Romano says he can't… oh wait… that's not right…" Spain stopped and looked at the piece of paper where England and Germany could clearly see the latter words scrawled in crayon.
"Yes… Boss Spain…" England muttered.
"Anyway, you'll be receiving a court order in due course to reimburse me for my car," Germany said.
"Si!" Spain said and rummaged in his briefcase. Various papers, most of them covered in tomato seeds were flung about. A sandwich was found and eaten. A bottle of sangria was discovered and placed on the table - much to England's consternation. He'd had more than enough of foreign alcoholic beverages that week.
Germany stood up, straightened his tie, nodded at England, "You'll be served with court papers. I'll see myself out."
"You should try having some fun for a change," England said, knowing this would get a rise out of the German. "And keep an eye out for that dragon as well, will you?" England said, slamming the door behind him. He trudged back to the table in his slippers.
"I got stuck in an elevator once with Italy and a soda stream salesman. I think that was enough 'fun' to last me a lifetime," Germany said to the shut door. He strode off when he realised nobody was listening.
"I didn't find the papers. But I did find a copy of when Joanna the Mad told me about her daughter marrying…" Spain began to tell England all the intrigues of the Spanish court, which England found utterly nonsensical.
England shoved him out of the door. He was about to close it but was stopped by America who slammed it back open. "Yo! Artie! My main man! And Tony, my main man!"
"Did you have a good sleep?" England asked, resigned to the noise.
"Heroes do not sleep!" America yelled. "Isn't that right, Tony dude?" he asked Spain.
Spain looked confused and looked round, wondering if America was talking to someone else.
"Can't you go elsewhere?" England asked.
"I could, but I know you'd miss me," America said, charging through and heading into the lounge. "Tony my main man! You're okay! I suppose jetlag doesn't affect you seeing as you're from Vega Two or wherever."
Spain looked confused. "I'm from Barcelona," he said slowly.
"He doesn't mean you… oh never mind."
England's phone rang. He hesitated to check it. He was worried it might be some idiotic Nation threatening to bother him. His day so far was not going well.
It was an idiotic Nation bothering him. It was France.
"Ah mon cher! Can you pick me up?"
"France! You've only just bloody got there. What kind of working day is that?"
"There has been a problem."
"Oh yes? A Battle of Normandy type problem? An Agincourt type problem? A…" here England hesitated, "…Pants type problem?"
"No, mon cher. It was a perm that went very badly wrong!"
England frowned, "Are you panting? You filthy bugger!" England said suspiciously. He'd had these type of telephone conversations with France before. Who knew where France's hands were or what they were fiddling with.
"Oui… I am running… or trying to run… I am hopping."
"I'm not picking you up. Ring Denmark and Prussia or someone."
"Oh Angleterre! I thought you loved me!"
"He does!" America yelled down the phone, grabbing it from England. "I'll come get you, Francy-pants, I'm the hero!"
"Oh mon dieu!"
But America had hung up. "Let's do this, men!" he declared, giving a dazed-looking Spain a high-five.
England crossed his arms, "This has absolutely bugger all to do with me. If that complete moron has gotten himself into some sort of trouble then that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with me…"
"…I am not, absolutely not, going to rescue France and we are not, absolutely not, in any way, shape or form, a couple…" England finished this sentence sat in the back of the 'Hummer', still in his slippers, still clutching his mug of tea and found his bottom was wet.
"Why in God's name is my bum wet?" he asked the other occupants of the vehicle.
Spain sat in the passenger seat next to America, looked around, and shrugged. He was still clutching the briefcase and seemed to think he was on some kind of exciting adventure. "Where are we going again?" he asked America.
America was driving. In a fashion. "We're on a rescue!" said the hero in heroic fashion.
England did not really want to rescue France. If France had indeed upset some poor unfortunate customers at a hairdressing salon then that was his look-out. He certainly did not feel empowered to do any rescuing whilst he had a soggy bottom. He told America as much. "I need to go home and change my trousers," he told his former colony.
"Dude, if you can't control your bladder then that's your problem."
England growled to himself. "This seat is wet!" he said and realised that the sunroof had been left open by some imbecile (himself actually) and the typical English weather had done the rest. "I cannot possibly partake in a rescue mission whilst I have wet trousers."
"It never bothered you in the War," America told him cryptically.
Spain raised an eyebrow and smiled.
"I have no idea what you mean…" England said, finishing his tea and trying to cross his legs.
America suddenly swerved down a side street and pulled up on the pavement. "There he is!" he yelled, pointing even before he'd switched off the engine.
"Francis! We've come to rescue you!" Spain shouted.
All three Nations watched in fascination as France hopped down the road as fast as his crutches could carry him. He was being harangued by three women. All of them looked angry. England recognised one as being the eponymous 'Shirley' from 'Shirley's hairdressers', another was presumably the one with the bad perm - half her hair was in a high afro, the other half was as flat as England's own. England had no idea what the other woman was telling France off for, but he sympathised.
With a collective sigh, the Nations slowly got out. America rubbing his hands - his opportunities for contact with humans was often severely limited so he was looking forward to this.
"Excuse me, ladies," England began, interrupting.
France fell onto his neck with relief, "Ah mon cher! You have no idea what zay have done to me! Ze accusations!"
"Get off me! Who did you touch?" England asked, suspiciously.
"Yo ladies!" America said, looking at them with interest. "How's it going? Is one of you the queen?"
"Are you being bloody funny?" one of the ladies asked.
"I'm very sorry about my friend here," England said as he extricated himself from Francis' grip. "I see that he's ruined your hair with that perm…" he said to the half-afro lady and then turned to the other who had virulent green-blue hair, "And your dye job…"
"You cheeky bastard! My hair was like that when I went in!" said the lady with the green-blue hair. "I'm sticking up for my friend!"
"Ah."
Spain was stood staring at them. "I like it," he said dopily.
"Well we'll be off then…" England said, pulling his fellow Nations away. He knew that police sirens were never far off.
"But do you know the queen?" America persisted.
"I'm so sorry. My friends have escaped from a lunatic asylum just this morning…" England explained. "Get in the car…" he hissed at America. He didn't need to tell France, who was already heading off.
"That Francis Napoleon person has ruined my business! He only worked for me for two hours and already I've lost six customers. He also drank all my coffee!" 'Shirley' told England.
England commiserated. "Yes, I feel for you, I really do."
"Can you do something with my hair?" Spain asked 'Shirley'. "My girlfriend, who this man here…" here Spain nodded at England, "keeps trying to split me up from, tells me it's too boring."
"Hey? Isn't Poland's domovoi called Shirley?" America asked suddenly.
"Shush America…" England said quickly.
"What's a domovoi?" Spain asked.
"Your hair looks nice…" Shirley said. But the other women had already realised France had made his escape.
"Come on, Shirl! Get him!" they screeched.
"Thanks…" Spain said dreamily. "See!?"
"It's some kind of European house spirit rubbish…" America replied.
"What is?" England asked but didn't wait to hear but hurried to rescue France.
France had locked himself in America's Hummer and was pretending he couldn't hear the women pounding on the vehicle's doors.
"Perhaps everyone needs to calm down," England said.
It was the wrong thing to say.
"What's that strange noise?" Spain asked.
"The police!" England said.
"Coolio!" America said.
"France open this bloody door!" England yelled.
"Non!"
"And we're illegally parked…" England said.
"This is freakin' hilarious! You guys kill me! What are they going to arrest us for?" America said, his eyes shining.
A traffic warden was now circling the car like a vulture circling a carcass.
"We're just going to move, officer," England told the traffic warden.
"I'm not an officer," the traffic warden told him grumpily.
"No, but you do a most respectable service for the community…"
"You're still getting a ticket."
"Bugger."
"Are you a police officer? Do you carry a gun?" America asked fascinated.
One of the women was now hammering on the Hummer's windows with a hair straightener.
"Please don't do that," England pleaded. "I know it's a dreadful car, but I'm absolutely sure that somehow I will end up paying…"
She ignored him and smashed the window.
The other woman was already climbing in and trying to grab France. The mighty and glorious former French Empire (England hesitated to call him an empire as he was sure France had only been messing about at being an Empire) cowered in the opposite corner of the back seat. "Oh mon dieu!" he cried and then shouted, "Why is mon derriere so wet?"
"That's the rain. Some idiot left the sunroof open. I also have a soggy bottom," England announced. Turned around and realised he was talking to a rather tall London police officer.
"Wow! A real police officer!" America was amazed.
"What's going on here?" the policeman asked.
Another one was already attempting to pull the women off France.
"I claim diplomatic immunity!" France yelled. He'd been in this situation far too many times.
"We're Nations!" America told the police. He got an elbow in the ribs from England.
"I'm from Barcelona!" Spain told them.
"Francis Louis de Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy, French Diplomatic Service," France told the police. "This lady here is accusing me of crimes against hair."
"He ruined my business! I wish I'd never employed him!" Shirley told the policeman.
"I totally understand, my good woman," England butted in. "Honestly, I've had to put up with him for centuries."
"Him and his gay boyfriend are a menace!" the 'good woman' said.
"I say! We're not a couple!" England remonstrated.
"You guys kill me! This is great!" America said, filming the whole thing on his phone.
"And this car is illegally parked," the traffic warden said. "And this particular gentleman," here he pointed at England, "Is notorious around London for not paying parking tickets. He already has had one car impounded and wheel-clamped."
"I bloody am not!" England protested.
"And he tried to fight me in Feliciano's restaurant," Spain added.
"Assault…" the policeman wrote down in a small black book.
"Will you stop bloody filming?" England shouted into America's phone.
"Disturbing the peace…"
England found himself, for the fourth time that week in the back of a police van in police custody with France. America yelled after them, "What is police custard?" England ignored him. The 'boy' had been no use whatsoever.
To his further shame, the whole sorry affair had been filmed on America's phone and even worse, Germany had driven past shaking his head in disgust.
"I hate them all," England muttered.
*Author's Notes:
A Domovoi is indeed a house spirit in Slavic mythology and legends. I referenced domovois in the Chapter 'Domovoi' in A Day in the Life and mentioned that Poland's domovoi is called Shirley…