Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics, Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, 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, skywolf2001
Driving Lessons Chapter 57 - Fastlove
"I zink zat ze world has gone mad, mon cher. Of course eet eez all part of ze plan…"
The speaker was France and he was driving. Badly. The car (stolen, BMW, black - although the colour is insignificant in this case) was on the wrong side of the road.
England yelled and grabbed the wheel, bringing the car back to the left. "What on earth are you twittering on about?" He asked. He was regretting this and they were only a few miles away from the caravan site. But if he went back he would have to face up to the carnage they'd left.
"Ze state of ze world, mon cher. One day ze great French Empire will rise again and we will rule all of Europe and l'amor will persist!"
"Great Empire?" England spluttered. "Jesus! Watch that cyclist! Oh my God!" His hands were gripping the dashboard so hard that his fingernails left indentations. "You were a rubbish Empire. You just played at it. Being an Empire is not a hobby," England told him. "Now bloody change gear, you loon. You've been in first gear for the last ten minutes."
Indeed, it had taken them ten minutes to drive one mile. Mainly because France was chugging the BMW along firstly on the wrong side of the road and then actually almost in the hedgerows.
"That man was very rude back there," France said.
"You nearly ran him over," England said with a sigh.
"When I am a great Empire again I will have a chauffeur," France told him.
"Yes, that's a good idea. Because I don't think you should be behind the wheel of a car. Will you keep your bloody eyes on the road! For God's sake!"
"Stress suits you, mon ami. You look handsome when you are angry." France purred.
England ignored him, but moved his knee away from the gearstick area.
They came to a roundabout, this was the moment England dreaded.
"You driven in bloody London, you goon. This should be a piece of cake!" England said, looking at the near empty road ahead of them. France still drove like a bloody idiot he thought.
"Ah cake. We should go and have afternoon tea, mon cher."
Much as England would have loved afternoon tea, complete with china cups, home-made scones, butter, jam and tinsy-winsy sandwiches with the crusts cut off, he knew that consuming such with a badly-attired Frenchman would put him off his cucumber sandwiches.
France was wearing very tight pink jeans, so tight they were indecent, a flowery blouse and a yellow fedora. Not particularly practical trousers for the inclement Welsh weather, England felt.
"France, where's your poncho? At least it covered you up. You should have bought a cagoule like mine." England held up his own bright orange cagoule, brighter than the sun.
"Poo, you have no sartorial sense at all, Angleterre."
"And why are you wearing sandals? Do you want to borrow a pair of my wellingtons? I think I might have left a pair in the Bentley."
"You may not care how you look but I do," France said as he edged the car out onto the roundabout.
"Just keep left," England instructed.
France drove right.
"No! We're not in bloody Paris, you idiot."
A tractor, predictably came the other way and the farmer therein shouted something rather obscene at them.
"I am not a wanker!" France shouted out of the window. He kept the window down and drove off the first exit he came to.
"For God's sake, you are a bloody…" England began to say. "Oh my God!" England then exclaimed as France drove the car up a mud track. "Where in God's name are you going?"
"Stop talking about God. I did not think you believed in God. You believe in cricket and football."
"We are going up someone's driveway!"
France stopped the car, which slid a little on the road.
"A farm. It says 'Jones Dairy Farm'. Is it your brother's?" France asked.
"He doesn't own everything."
"Apart from ze cottage zat burned down and ze caravan that you have now wrecked."
"That wasn't my fault! Now turn this bloody car round."
It was always painful to watch France attempting a three point turn and this was no exception.
After 20 minutes and forty-five turns. Fifteen minutes spent shouting at France to get in the 'right bloody gear'. They found themselves stuck. The back wheels spinning.
"Ah… German engineering," France said laconically and leaned back in his seat and began smoking.
England pointed to the 'No Smoking' sign on the dashboard, took the cigarette from France's hand and threw it out of the window. The window was wound up and it bounced off and landed behind them in the back of the car and smouldered unnoticed by them both.
"Bloody get us out of here, you French goon," England yelled at him.
England had had plenty of time to think as he'd alternatively shouted at France and watched him crunched through the German gearbox. He was thinking his life was in ruins and no doubt now Germany was reporting his car stolen. England was also wondering why the cottage had burned down. He had blamed Italy and his cooking but the Italian had denied this. More importantly, so had Germany who, despite being a pig-headed boring nobhead (in England's opinion), was actually usually right about these things. That could only mean one thing… that nefarious bear was still after him and would obviously stop at nothing to get his revenge.
"Right! For God's sake!" England finally gave up after his thinking and watching France trying to get them out of the mud. His patience had run out like a tin of tomato soup through a colander. "Get out! I'll drive. I'll show you how it's done."
France shrugged in his annoying Gallic way, got out of the car, stepped around the car, squelching through the mud and waited moronically until England had stepped out - straight into a puddle. At least England had his wellington boots on - which he pointed the fact out to France and that this was why he had won the War and France was such a 'loser'.
France shrugged again and got in the car, watching England trudge around to get in the driver's side.
There was a fumble around for the car keys, with France claiming he had 'lost' them, then admitting they were in his trouser pocket and then trying to con England into reaching into said pockets for them.
"Not bloody likely… I'd prefer to trap my own gonads in the car door than put my hand in your bloody trouser pockets!" England replied.
France looked upset and went into one of his mega-huffs. "I am not always after your body and ze sex, mon cher." He said finally.
England ignored him and was looking at his phone. Eight missed calls - all from Germany and no less than twelve text messages. His voicemail told him it was 'full'. He switched the phone off.
"Give me the keys, Francis or I'm telling Macron you've been a bad boy."
France shrugged but then handed him the keys with a sideways look.
England was amazed this had worked and vowed to use it again in the future.
"Now watch and learn from a driving master," England told him. "Of course when I was on Top Gear…"
"…You were thrown off for shouting at ze Stig because you came last on ze Star in a Reasonably Priced Car. Why did it take you 25 minutes, mon cher?"
"It wasn't my fault. They put me off!"
"And you are not a star! I zink zat pretending to be Daniel Craig did not go down so well, non?"
"I could pass for him." England growled, starting the engine.
"You are too weedy and a leetle short."
"In certain light I've been told I look like him."
"When it is very very dark, by someone with very bad eyesight…"
England ignored him and slammed the car into a gear and put his foot on the pedal. Nothing happened but the wheels spun.
"I zink zat you are sexier zan Daniel Craig. For someone who is so old."
"You're older than me!" England snarled. "We need to rock the car because it's stuck…"
"Ah oui. So zat means it is naked time!" France exclaimed and began to unbutton his shirt.
"No! Not rock it that way! Oh my God! Put your bloody clothes back on!" England almost screamed. But didn't. It was not becoming of a gentleman to scream. Particularly in a German car.
France pouted.
England got back out of the car and reviewed the situation. They were stuck. Well and truly. He considered ringing one of their fellow Nations but decided that this would make things far far worse. America seemed to view every operation as needing tanks and guns (despite the fact that there was no way he could procure either in the Welsh countryside). Russia would probably smash something. Germany would have a baby if he saw the state of his new car, England decided.
Thus, England stood at the bonnet, scratching his head and looking at the stuck front wheels. A thought occurred to him. If France could put the car in reverse and he pushed they might get it unstuck. "France, get back in the driving seat and put the car in reverse gear." England told him.
France slithered over to the driver's seat in delight and slammed the gear stick in something. It was not reverse gear. "Hey so why don't we make a little room, in my BMW, babe?" France sang along with the radio.
England shook his head, "Don't bloody call me 'Babe'," he shouted.
The car slid forward and England, stood at the bonnet, was knocked over. By a German car, no less and lay on his back in the mud. Thankfully, the idiot Frenchman stopped the car. Francis leaned out of the window, "Mon cher! Where are you?"
"You knocked me down, you bloody great garlic-eating dickhead!" England muffled from beneath the BMW. The car's bumper inches from his head. He saw his life flashed before his eyes. It was a thousand years long and France featured in it a lot.
"Oh non!" France climbed out of the car and squelched towards him. He peered down at the top of the Englishman's head - the only part visible.
"Bloody move the thing then!" England yelled.
"Ah oui!" France climbed back in the car, his bare sandalled-feet covered in good old Welsh mud and restarted the engine.
"Reverse!" England yelled.
France clanged up and down the gears and England prayed.
The car slid back and England got up. The back of his head splattered with mud. His orange cagoule no longer the colour of the sun (not that they'd seen the sun since they'd arrived in Wales).
He noted with satisfaction that the car was spattered front and back with mud. "You are in so much trouble, Francis," England said. "Germany can't blame all this on me."
"Little Allemagne has always wanted to get into my pants. Of course he will forgive me."
"How do you work that out?" England asked.
"It is why he is always invading my Loire valley."
England shuddered and not from the cold.
It was getting dark and by now the car was stuck. They had no choice. They had to do something which required them to do something most Nations avoided at all costs. Something that required great inner mental strength. Something that showed up most Nations to be the utter dicks that they usually were. They had to talk to humans.
"Right, I'm going to go up that driveway to that farmhouse and ask the farmer there to lend us his tractor." England told France.
"Talk to humans? In their own home?" France seemed amazed. "Are we allowed?"
"Well strictly no. But this is an emergency." England replied and strode off.
France jumped out of the car and followed him, squelching painfully through the mud in his sandals. He lost one, paused but then hurried off after the mud-covered Englishman. "Mon cher! Wait for me!" He called. "I want to see what happens."
England turned to look at him, "It might have been better if you'd waited in the car." He said, looking the bedraggled Frenchman up and down.
"You are a hero. Of course to save my poor feet and my gorgeous hair from ze rain."
"No, because you look like you've been in the Somme," England replied. England knocked on the door of the farmhouse. A large foreboding house with a picture of the Welsh dragon, Idris, on the pane of glass in the door. He frowned. Dragons seemed to be the bane of his life. He half expected his nemesis, Mr Panda, or Mr Kumajiro, to open the door. Instead a big stocky man answered. He had a beard, which immediately put England at a disadvantage (England had never been able to grow a beard, despite Henry VIII's insistence that he was less than a man if he didn't).
"Ah hello I was wondering if you could help me and my friend." England said and nudged France to keep quiet and not say anything of a sexual innuendo nature.
The man said something that sounded like he was singing or clearing his throat.
"I'm sorry we don't speak Welsh," England replied. "But my brother is Welsh," he added as if that made any difference to the man's propensity to help them.
The man stared at them, "What happened to you? Are you the pair who burned down my friend's cottage?"
France nodded and was nudged forcefully in the ribs by England and then shook his head quickly. France was staring at the man with a look of such intensity that the man stepped back. He obviously recognised a sexual harasser when he saw one.
"Of course not. My friend and I," England said the word 'friend' and coughed a little. "Are on a touring holiday in your delightful country and we got our car stuck on your driveway."
"Stuck in ze mud." France said helpfully. "We need a big strong man to help us move it."
England stamped on his foot.
The man looked England up and down. England's front was almost mud free, however, at the back he was covered in brown sludge. "And you tried to push it out yourselves, eh?" the man said.
England nodded. "I don't suppose we could just come in and…"
The man's wife appeared at the farmer's shoulder and stared at the two of them. "You aren't treading on my carpets," she told them most firmly.
England sighed. It wasn't the first time he and France had been told that.
France gawped at her, "Such loveliness as i have never seen before!" He said. "You are like a summer's day."
The woman, a big stout Welshwoman, in a pinny, her hair in curlers, on the wrong side of fifty years old, stared at him and then giggled. Her husband, England assumed, stared at her and then back at France as if he were some kind of sorcerer. England suspected that the woman had never giggled in their long decades of marriage.
"I apologise for my friend…" England began to say, but the woman nodded at France.
"You can come in and warm yourself by my fire whilst Ivor tugs your friend out."
France just about skipped into the house. England yelled after him, "Bloody behave yourself you…" he was about to say 'randy Frenchman' but the farmer was glaring at him and he thought better of it. Besides it wouldn't be the first time if a cuckolded husband chased the Frenchman down a driveway with a shotgun.
It was a long thirty minutes, England thought. 'Ivor' had indeed brought out his tractor and duly towed the BMW, its once shiny black was now unrecognisable under the layer of mud, a bumper had detached itself - which only proved how rubbish German engineering really was (England couldn't remember ever losing a bumper before even when he drove a Mini Metro) and a wiper blade was gone.
"Thank you very much, my good man," England said, holding out his hand to the farmer.
"Are you the nobhead who cut me up at the roundabout by going the wrong way round?" The farmer asked suspiciously, as he got out of the tractor, ignoring England's proffered hand.
"No, most definitely not," England said.
"Well, there you go. You're out of the mud," the farmer said, unhooking the towrope from the BMW. "Now yer can take your boyfriend and leave these parts," he added.
"He's not my boyfriend!"
"Right." The farmer said, looking unconvinced.
"We live together but we don't actually live together."
"Right."
"I mean he lives in my house but not with me."
"Right." The man was, however, already getting back in his tractor.
"I mean I've been trying to get rid of him for months now. I say!" England shouted after him, having suddenly got a rather good idea. "You wouldn't mind taking him off my hands would you? He's very good at cooking. If you like garlicky messy sauces. He's also rather handy at ironing trousers… Oh he's gone…" England said as he watched the tractor chug back up the driveway.
He sighed as he got back in the car, thought about taking it through a car wash before they returned it to Germany. But decided that going through a car wash with France would just entice the Frenchman into more perverted ideas. (France had once told England that he found carwashes 'erotic'.)
He also thought about driving off without the idiot but just as he was about to do just that, a barefoot Frenchman came steaming down the driveway, pulling up his pants breathlessly. "Wait for me mon cher! Oh mon dieu! He has a shotgun." It was all very predictable, England thought as Francis jumped into the car, smearing the front seat with even more mud.
England sighed, not even missing a beat and drove the car, juddering down the path. He was fairly confident they could outrun a tractor.
Meanwhile, his phone registered fourteen missed calls, twenty-two texts and unbeknownst to the Englishman and the Frenchman there was an all car alert out for them by Montgomeryshire County Police.
Small flames began to the lick at the carpet in the back, despite the 'Feuerresistent'* label on the car mats.
Above them, 24-foot long wings beat a steady rhythm keeping easy pace with the car…
Author's Notes:
* German for fire resistant