Characters:
Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland
Arthur 'England' Kirkland
Francis 'France' Bonnefoi

Pairings; Past Auld Alliance, suggested FrUK

Summary; Arthur's been travelling


Kent, early 1800's

Alistair has never really liked travelling down to Arthur's Kent mansion, but it has to be done. As much as Arthur pisses him off, he's still Alistair's wee brother.

Problem is, Arthur's mansion is often updated or added to, Arthur liking to keep up with fashions of the century. Never anything huge, he's still nostalgic, but he always shows it off. And that always pisses Alistair off, because he genuinely doesn't care.

Alistair steps up to the mansion, knocking firmly on the front door. No obvious change from the outside.

Arthur answers himself, and beams. "Alistair! I'm missed you, mon frere!"

"Missed you too," Alistair says plainly.

"Come in, bienvenue!"

"Alright."

Alistair steps into the house. Again, no immediate change.

"Would you like anything?" Arthur asks, "I believe I still have some patisseries from my travels."

"Some what now?"

"Oh, pardon my French," Arthur laughs, heading further into the house.

"Since when were you so happy to be speaking French?"

"It comes naturally with travelling, I suppose." Arthur leads Alistair to the drawing room, where cakes and pastries are arranged neatly on a delicate stand. He sits down, legs stretched casually in front of him.

Alistair grabs a relatively plain pain au chocolat. He's encountered them before, and doesn't trust the rest of the pastries. Cakes, in his experience, are not pink.

"So, mon frere, comment allez-tu?"

Alistair just stares at him.

"Oh! Pardon my French!" Arthur exclaims dramatically.

"You realise I was married to Francis for well over two centuries, right?" Alistair says plainly, "I do speak French fluently."

"And yet you don't know what a patisserie is?"

"It's a shop. A poncy baker's. I can't eat a baker."

Arthur pauses. He might have fucked up.

Alistair takes a big bite of the pain au chocolat. It's a little stale after the long journey, but Alistair doesn't mind it. He heads to sit down, tripping on Arthur's stretched-out legs, and dropping his pastry.

"Fuck!" he yells. "Shitting hell, I fucking wanted that for wank's sake!"

Arthur gasps in shock.

Alistair looks up at him, grinning. "Oh, do pardon my French!"


And that's where the slang phrase 'Pardon my French' comes from. The wealthy used it to show off how well travelled (read: rich) and educated (read: rich) they were, and the poor used it to take the piss out of them.

'Patisserie' originally meant baker, and came to also mean pastry due to the British misusing it. Sorry, Franny.

I own nothing
I also don't speak much French
-Laurel Silver