Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, 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, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, 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 29 - King for a Day
"You got kicked out of the Palace? Aw man!" America looked delighted when he saw their dejected faces as England and France approached the car.
He was leaning out of the car window and grinning moronically.
"No of course not," England said. "I was not kicked out of the Palace. I was merely asked to leave by her Majesty."
"We were kicked out," France said sadly.
"Yo! Did yer see Gilbert and Den?" America yelled.
"Yes we did." England replied. He didn't really want to talk. "Can we just go home and get a cup of tea?"
"Did they get their medals then?" America asked.
England didn't answer but stared in disbelief. His Bentley, his most prized possession (which even included his ancient sword, Excalibur, and his wand) was covered in cat hair.
"Well I got news as well, dudes!" America told them.
"Oh? You've started a new business? 'Alfie's Mobile Cats Home'? 'Cats 'R' Us'?" England asked.
"Zat is very good, tres bien, mon cher."
"Oh shut up, France and stop bloody touching me!"
"No! But they're great ideas, Artie!" America yelled.
"Will you stop yelling?" England yelled. "I have a headache."
"Are you drunk?" America asked, in a quieter voice. He looked worried as well he might - drunk England was never good.
"Zat is what his Prime Minister asked him," France said, getting in the car, and placing two kittens on his lap. "Which of zese is Lafayette?" he asked America.
"Zat one. I mean that one…" America answered, placing another kitten in France's lap. "Hey! I just spoke French!"
"Non you did not."
"So what news do you have?" England asked as he got in the driver's seat. Uncomfortably, he noticed 'Gaston' or 'Philippe' or whoever it was, sat in the passenger seat and was staring at him.
"It's for Francy-pants," America said.
England frowned and looked at him in the rear view mirror. But all he could see was a kitten sat on America's head.
"Really?"
"Yep." America, who had no indoor voice at all, turned to France and said, "I did what you said, dude."
France, who winced at being called 'dude' but was too busy cooing at 'Lafayette', just nodded.
"Did what?" England asked, suspicious.
"Nothing."
"Is it anything to do with you going back home?" England asked. "Because really, you should be going back to your own country at some stage you know. You being the Nation of the United States of America and all…I mean surely they'll be missing you?"
America frowned but instead began saying, "Aw, who wants their tummy rubbed? Who wants their tummy rubbed? You do? You do?"
England hoped that America was talking to one of the kittens and not France or Gaston or Philippe. "So you will be going home soon?" England asked again as he started the engine.
America didn't answer but instead opened the door, "Yo! Do you need a ride?" he asked the spectral figure stood there.
"Oh no," England muttered. He had really hoped they could get away without the ghost of the dead King who had followed them all the way from the Palace.
America opened the door and the King got in.
Later…
"I'm just saying that a MacDonalds would go some way to cheering us all up!" America said for the twentieth time.
"And I'm telling you that no, we are not going to a MacDonalds restaurant!" England argued back.
"But duuuuude!" America whined. "This King Charlie wants to go, don't you, man?" he indicated the space next to him.
"Oh bugger…" England said. He had really hoped that they could ditch King Charles I somewhere but he seemed to have no intention of allowing himself to be ditched. England also wondered how the ghost of King Charles I would fair on the streets of modern London.
The King did not answer America. He didn't look particularly happy about being in the back of the 'carriage' squashed in between France, a large CIA man and America. (France was sat on the CIA man's lap - much to Philippe's or Louis' or Gaston's distaste, whichever one it was.) He also had several kittens climbing over him. For a 17th century King this was most unbecoming.
"We named Maryland after your wifey," America told the King, nudging him. "It's one of my favourite states."
The King had still not said anything and England was wondering if he was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. England said this aloud. (In fact, England wondered if he himself was suffering from it.)
"Why? Cos of Francy-pants? I know I've felt post-traumatically distressed after being with Francy but the dude's not saying a word," America declared in what England construed as being a non-professional capacity.
"Because he was beheaded," England explained slowly.
America whistled slowly. "Wow. You're really rough with your bosses," he said.
"Oui," France said and added dramatically, "I will always remember poor Louis…"
"Anyway…" England said, "Back to reality…"
"So can we?" America asked.
"What?"
"Go to MacDonalds? Stick with the program, dude."
"Oh for goodness sake, no!" England yelled and then felt the CIA man next to him turn to stare at him. "Well…" he began to say as he felt a large hand rest on his own on the gearstick. If it was France's hand he would think it was being flirtatious but this felt threatening.
"Do you want to go to MacDonalds, Mr King?" America asked King Charles I. "There ya go!" America said, without waiting for an answer. "We have to do what a King says."
"Ah… Louis Louis Louis…" France was still saying sadly, looking out of the window and flicking his hair in a 'dramatique' way that made England want to throw up. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he hugged a kitten to his chest. In France's anxiety, he'd even forgotten to fondle the dead King's knee.
England shook his head but nevertheless pointed the car in the general direction of the nearest MacDonalds with America acting as navigator.
"Left, then left, then left…"
"Are you sure? That takes us round in a circle?" England asked as they set off.
"No not that left, the other left!"
"There isn't another left! There is either left or left!" England shouted.
"What's the other word for left?" America asked.
"Gauche," France answered.
The King nodded.
"Gosh?" America looked at him sceptically. "That doesn't sound right."
France shook his head. It was pointless attempting to teach the young Nation any French. It was almost as pointless as teaching England. It always ended in tears - usually his own.
"What in God's name are you on about?" England yelled.
"I mean, not left."
"You mean 'right'?" England said.
"Oh yes! Right!" America said as if he'd suddenly had an epiphany.
England sighed. It reminded him painfully of the time he'd tried to teach America the points of the compass. He sometimes still woke in the night sweating and panicking that America, with the largest military might in the world, called North 'up', South 'down', East 'right' and West 'left' and for some reason a fifth which was 'home'. England had still never got to the bottom of that.
America was reading the directions from some Satnav application on his phone. But he was also showing something to France which made France giggle.
England wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hoped it wasn't another bloody Youtube video of him in that restaurant. He didn't think it was good that it had garnered 25 thousand 'hits'. Whatever that meant.
France was still giggling. The sound made England's skin crawl. What he didn't know was that France and America had conspired in a conspiracy so audacious, so indecent and so… funny (at least to them) that he would explode with rage. Although this was to happen much later.
"Left, then right, then second right then up the road. I'll have two chicken nugget happy meals, large fries, large coke and a McFlurry," America told England.
"Hmm… well I really think that is way too much sugar for you, don't you agree, Agent Gaston?" England said to the CIA man next to him.
"My name is not Gaston," 'Gaston' said.
"Ah right!" England looked triumphantly at France in the rear-view mirror.
France shrugged in his annoying Gallic manner.
"What is it then?" England asked.
"It's classified."
"Cool!" America yelled and fist-pumped the air. He accidentally hit the King instead. Who looked very hurt. Clearly, King Charles' afterlife wasn't going so well for him. "I think we need to get something for Mr King here. He looks sad!"
"He looks sad because you almost punched him out!" England said and drew up to the drive-through window. "Did Russia really actually drive through one of these things? I mean actually drive through as in…?"
"Yeah!" America's eyes shone.
"Anyway…" England shook himself back to reality. "Erm… Two chicken nugget happy meals, large erm chips…" He told the bored looking youth behind the counter.
"Fries!"
"…fries… a coke, a tea a proper tea… oh never mind… France, anything?"
"Non! Eet eez le crap!"
"Gaston… erm whatever? No? Erm your other friend in the back? No? Your Majesty?" he looked over his shoulder at the King, who was nursing a black eye. Also his wig was askew. England doubted that the King had ever had to put up with such degeneracy before. Apart from when he was beheaded by Cromwell of course. England made a note to have a word with him later. He really hoped there wasn't a 'later' and that the King would disappear at some stage.
The King frowned and whispered something in French to France.
France said, "His Majesty says he would like to try a Big Mac." France looked severely uncomfortable as he said this. As if this was the most outlandish thing he had ever heard.
England shrugged. The ghost of Queen Victoria had once been in his car and had insisted on going to a Starbucks.
"And a Big Mac," England added to the order. "Does anyone have any money?" he asked around.
America rooted in his pockets and produced a broken Action Man toy, a strip of gum and several dollars.
France shook his head.
The King had some gold coins but he was urged to put these away. England suspected, however, that they would be collectors' items on Ebay. He resolved to have a quiet word later.
It was 'Not Gaston' who had the money.
England was apologising profusely to the uninterested youth sat at the till. "I'm so sorry I don't have any money. You see these aren't my pants. I'm wearing someone else's pants. Someone I know of course, I don't wear strangers' pants. And I left my wallet at home. Unless I left it at the Palace… Her Majesty you see…"
The youth wasn't interested in England's pants clearly, instead he said, "Look, I just want 12 pounds 32 pence."
"Yes of course…" England turned to 'Not Gaston' who handed him a few notes.
"I'll need a receipt for that," 'Not Gaston' told him in a deep rumbly voice.
All in all it was to be expected, England thought. Another embarrassing day, culminating in a disappointing cup of tea. At least America seemed happy. The King also seemed happy with his 'Big Mac' although he turned his nose up at the offer of a 'fry' from America. The McFlurry also seemed to vex the royal dead person. England couldn't remember if ice-cream had been introduced by 1630 or not. He also tried to ignore the crumbs and smears on the upholstery. He would get America and his CIA bodyguards to valet the car tomorrow.
"We're back," he told Scotland as they walked in through the door.
"Aye I see yer are. Yer a daft laddy so ye are," Scotland told him. He was still wearing a pinny and had clearly been busy. There was enough shortbread on the table to feed the 4th Highland Bagpipe Army. If such a thing existed.
England sat down with a flump. "It's been awful, Hamish," he confessed.
"Aye, I heard," Scotland said mysteriously. "What's daft Charlie doing here?" Scotland pointed at the King, who walked in after them. The King held a lace handkerchief to his nose as if someone had broken wind.
"He's staying with us," America announced. "Come on and I'll show you Pokemon," he added and motioned to the King to follow him into the lounge. The two CIA men trailed them and stood guard outside the door.
Hamish then raised a shaggy ginger eyebrow at the amount of felines now at his feet purring loudly. "What's this? I thought yer'd gone to get rid of that cat?"
England nodded wearily. "I did. The boy and France both had hysterics and I had to bring that lot home…"
"Zay have names. Jeff, Frank, Lafayette, George, Hammy and zis…" here France picked up the adult cat, "…eez Nelson."
"None of them are called Donald? Or Malcolm?" Scotland asked, looking accusingly at his brother.
England shrugged, "It's nothing to do with me."
Scotland untied his pinny from his waist and threw it to the floor, "That's it for me then," he said. "Yer've taken advantage of my services too much and hurt ma feelings! I'm oota here." He stopped and turned to look at his brother (who was trying to conceal his surprise and glee at this turn of events - although he had no idea what 'services' his brother had rendered), "And by the way," Scotland added, "I didnae care for the way you stole all those scones from Her Majesty. It's not becoming for a Nation. I wouldnae ha' done that!"
England had no idea what Scotland was talking about. "I merely ate one scone!" he protested.
But there was more.
"Oh yes and there's a visitor in the lounge. He wants to see you aboot something important. To do with Russia…" With that Scotland turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
"He has such a musical voice..." France murmured.
England almost danced with joy but then remembered the ominous words about Russia. "One Nation down… two to go," he said to himself. He ignored France who was busy cooing to the cats and pouring cream into bowls.
He went into the lounge to find that three of the kittens had already followed America and were sat on him while he showed King Charles his games machine contraption.
"So who wants to see me?" England said, resigning himself to some new idiocy.
He soon found out - Italy was suddenly clinging to his arm and talking a hundred miles an hour.
"Mr England! You have to help me! I keep getting phone calls from Mr Russia. He thinks he owns me now and my restaurant or just me! I'm scared really really really scared… he keeps chanting down the phone! Is it a curse like the one he put on Mr Japan? Will I have a poorly tummy like Mr Japan in 18 years time? Prussia said it was just a recipe for pirozkhi but I didn't think so. It didn't sound like it. There was no pasta! Fratello said I was stupid for letting Mr Russia invest but I didn't know what else to do! And when I stayed with Germany last night in the German Embassy which is so clean and shiny it made my eyes hurt, Mr Russia rang there and the Germans got all upset and then I tried to calm them down! Did you know that there is no German word for fluffy? I didn't realise this until I told Luddy that Mr Russia was really nice and fluffy, but I don't really think that. I think he's very big and very scary. Now I don't know what to do!"
England shrugged him off. "I have no idea how I can help you, Italy. He just offered to erm… invest in your business I think…"
"Is that it? Do you think so?" Italy's eyes were wide open for once.
"Yes that's it. Now goodbye, nice to see you and all that…" England ushered him out of the door, past France, who was switching on the kettle, and finally shoved the blubbering Italian out of the kitchen door.
"So when are you going back to Paris?" England asked France. "You can take Lafayette with you."
France didn't answer the question, instead he said, "You have a date tonight."
"No I don't. I'm having a long soak in the bath and a read of the BBC Gardeners World magazine with a cup of Yorkshire Tea."
"I do not wish to hear of your perversions, Angleterre!" France said, bending down and covering the kittens' ears as if they would be offended. "But you have a date and you must go!"
"Yeah dude! You really do!" came America's voice from the lounge.
"And you have to go back to Washington!" England yelled back.
"Washington in County Durham?" France looked appalled.
"Are you high?" England replied.
France shrugged, "Always."
"I'm not going on a bloody date. I've had enough of dates. I've been arrested, in fights, married off to mad Belorussians… oh my God, she's not listening is she? Covered in tomatoes, had guns shoved in my face and nearly fell off a dragon. No more."
"Ah well… she will be very disappointed."
"Who?"
France didn't answer this particular question but instead appealed to England's ultimate horror - of being unchivalrous to a lady. "If you are not at the Three-Legged Duck in one hour, then the poor woman will think she has been stood up!" France looked inordinately sad about this.
"I hate you," England said simply. His dream of a quiet evening fast dissolving.
Upstairs…
England realised he did not want to go on a date in France's 'pantalons'. In fact, he didn't want to wear France's 'pantalons' any longer. He eventually found a suit belonging to America that just about fit him. In fact, he could remember buying it for America. The memory brought tears to his eyes as he recalled telling the 'boy' that he had been looking like a 'scruff' and that he 'should dress better as it had reflected badly on both of them'. England sighed and quickly brushed away the tears. The 'boy' was a good chap really, he thought.
The suit was slightly too big for him but that didn't matter. He had no idea who he was meeting. Only there seemed to be some sort of collusion going on between America and France.
He was right. There was.
Downstairs, France and America were laughing over their 'inventiveness' on a certain online dating app. "Dynamic middle-aged man…" America read out and collapsed on the floor, laughing. "Oh my God. I love this Tinder app!"
"…Aged 39… height 6 foot one, body of a God…" France read on and laughed.
"Yeah 39 and 900! Body of a decrepit Nation. He could be 6 foot one when he's in his 1960s platform shoes!" America said, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"…Interests are extreme ironing, abseiling whilst embroidering pillowcases, exploring new beverages." France read out.
"…Seeks men or women or people of a neutral gender for a lasting relationship with doilies and teacups." America was especially pleased by that last bit.
"…No weirdos, Russians or rodeo riders."
"…Absolutely no clowns." America said and then added, "I put that in later."
France nodded. It seemed to make sense. "He is afraid of clowns. It eez the red wigs." France said wisely.
"…Financially solvent with large kitchen and six cats." America said. "I added the cats in just now." America added as if this was important.
"Who answered zis nonsense?" France asked. He couldn't quite believe that anyone would answer this dating profile.
"He sounds dreamy," King Charles I interrupted. The King was playing Call of Duty against one of the CIA men.
America ignored him and said, "Someone calling themselves LuckyInLove."
"Not so lucky, non? And what name did we give Arthur?"
"Who do you think?" America showed France the screen. "It's the same as the picture I used, dude."
France's eyebrows shot up to his forehead and he smiled.
England broke into a run when he realised he was going to be late and then wished he hadn't. "You've got to be bloody kidding me…" he said when he recognised the figure stood waiting for him. He wondered if he could slope off. Too late. He'd been spotted.
"Oh. My. God." A familiar voice all but screeched. "Arthur freakin' Kirkland! You're not Gary Barlow!"
"Poland…" England staggered to a stop and swore vengeance on the two Nations who had conspired against him.
To be Continued...