Acknowledgements: Thank you to IrishMaid, B-The-Geek, Pedro-IS-Madi12, Percabeth is Awsome, cullinane, Go LilixIcy, Missmanda, Einsam-Schatten,, Becky 999, Kate Marley, Typewriting Fangirl, fishstick1999, Envie Rouge, Laughinthefaceofdanger, Missflutterpie, abbydobbie, saraholly, Draskar, julyza for all the reviews, PMs, faves and alerts and of course all my other readers.

Chapter 3

"Can anybody find me somebody to love?" America 'sang' (sang being the operative word but bore no relation to what came out of America's mouth).

"I doubt it, wee laddie," Scotland told him.

"This is rubbish," Austria said.

Austria was indeed correct. It was rubbish.

They were walking along the seafront of a small English seaside town. 'They' being America, Russia, Scotland, France, Germany, Austria and France's French Embassy official Pierre who had been sent by the French Government to ensure Francis did not go to jail. So far he had been successful.

"Zis ees indeed terrible, zere are no wine bars…" France whined.

Russia held up a hand, "Do you think we should take England back to the hotel?" he asked.

Everyone stared at him.

England was in fact slung over Russia's shoulder. Every so often the Englishman would announce his presence by giggling and then warbling a sea shanty. He had regained consciousness after France had thrown beer in his face (much to Germany's horror).

He now lapsed in and out of consciousness and seemed to be under the impression he was on a ship. "Har har me hearties! Set sail for the South China Sea!" he yelled.

Russia stopped and dumped the Englishman with no grace at all onto a nearby bench.

"Too heavy for ya?" America asked and stepped forward, flexing his biceps.

"Nyet," Russia said and went to pick up America, who side-stepped smartly.

"Dude! Not cool!" America yelled.

Russia wrinkled his nose.

"I, as leader of this merry gang…" America began.

None of them were merry - apart from England who was conducting an imaginary orchestra while prone, shouting "Altogether now!"

"… There's a MacDonalds!" America yelled and took off towards this mecca of culinary taste leaving his 'gang' stood looking at each other.

"Anybody want anything?" America called back to them as he approached the establishment.

"Do they have sausage?" Germany asked.

"No.

"Apple strudel?" Austria asked.

"Is that like apple pie?"

"No."

"Then… no."

"A bottle of Bordeaux 1974?" France asked.

America, amazingly, paused and actually thought it through, "Dude…" he murmured.

"Ah well mes amies… it was just a thought…" France said languidly and wandered off to stand beside England to gaze down at him creepily.

"Dude! Only the drive-through is open!" America yelled.

"You can still get some food," Germany told America - who had collapsed onto the pavement in despair.

"Man! I'm so hungry! I haven't eaten in like two hours and then it was English food. Fries don't count, right?" America asked him.

Germany considered this and shrugged. He really felt like the only sane man.

"Chips!" England shouted, randomly.

"You can still use the drive-through," Austria said.

"I'm sorry, I can't take someone seriously who's in fancy dress," America told him (quite reasonably).

Austria looked America up and down, "This is the first time I've seen you without that ridiculous outfit Wonderman or whatever it is."

"Superman! Dude, he's a hero!"

"It's chipsh, not friesh," England slurred at France.

"I know, mon ami… I know…" France said, patting England on the head.

"Just go to the serving hatch and place your order!" Germany ordered and gave America a shove.

"Do they have vodka?" Russia asked.

"Haggis?" Scotland said, standing uncomfortably close to Russia.

"Wut?" Russia said and stepped away from the Scotsman.

"It's about ten o clock," Scotland said.

"I don't understand," Russia said to Scotland.

"Aye, it would be, laddie," Scotland said, not understanding Russia either, but pretending he did.

"Just go up to the hatch and place your order," Germany told America.

"I prefer good ol' fish and chips wrapped in newspaper," Scotland told Russia.

Russia stared at him, "Why is your hair so red?" he asked in fascination.

"Aye I would think he is," Scotland answered.

Austria took charge and marched up to the hatch with purpose.

Russia thought he had seen it all in his thousand plus years but watching a fellow Nation in a pink rabbit costume attempt to buy a happy meal was a defining moment in his long life.

"Chicken nugget happy meal with extra fries and a strawberry milkshake, please," Austria said, repeating America word for word, who was stood beside him.

"Do you sell red wine?" Austria added.

"No we don't," the teenager behind the counter said, most abruptly, Austria thought.

"Oh."

"Can I have a power ranger figure with that?" America asked.

"No, you need a car," the teenager said, looking bored.

"I don't want a car. I want a power ranger figure," America said.

"Disgraceful… no wine…" Austria muttered.

"No, you need a car to be served here," the bored teenager said.

"Why?"

"It's a drive through," the teenager sighed and pointed to the large sign.

There was a queue of cars and the lead one honked its horn at them.

Russia approached the counter, glared at America, Austria and Germany and the teenager who stepped back quickly.

"What is wrong?" he said.

"This dude says we need a car," Alfred said, pointing at the teenager.

"Humph," Russia answered and turned to the line of cars, walked up to the first one, opened the driver's door, hauled the surprised-looking driver out, got in and drove the car up. He drove past the serving hatch (Austria, America, Germany and Scotland leaping out of the way), around the corner and through the glass entrance doors of the restaurant.

"I cannot believe he's just done that!" Austria said.

"Appalling," Germany said.

America ran after the Russian yelling, "A happy meal with extra fries!"

"Chips!" came an English voice far behind them and receding.

Thankfully, no-one inside was hurt. But that was probably because the main restaurant was closed.

The manager crept out from behind the kitchen and surveyed the devastation. "We're closed," he whimpered.

"Well, now you're not," Russia said chirpily, stepping out of the car and waving a hand at the trashed doors.

"That was bloody brilliant! Like Die Hard 6 or something!" Alfred said, bounding in.

"Da!" Russia said, having no clue at all what the American had said.

"Yer a bloody hero!" Scotland said, clapping a hand on Russia's shoulder.

"It was a Ford Fiesta," Russia said, pointing at the car.

"Aye! So did I!" Scotland replied.

"Does this come with a power ranger?" America asked the shaking manager as he was handed his happy meal.

Germany pulled the young American away, "Come on, before the police get here."

"Too late," Austria muttered as sirens wailed in the distance.

"Artie will get us out of this!" Alfred said.

"Where is he?" Someone else said. And they all looked at each other.

"Fine best man you are, yer big jessie!" Scotland said, punching America in the arm.

"…and where is France?" Germany asked suspiciously.

"Ah oui, he will be mine…" France cooed in a villainous voice. "Zay should not have left him with me, non?" France was trying to get England off the bench and standing up. "He will not marry Belarus. She is wrong for him… we were always meant to be together…"

"Vous avec Mademoiselle Belarus? Est-ce que tu l'aimes*?" Pierre squeaked in amazement. (*Meaning "Do you love her?")

"Non! Arthur… Je t'aime!" France said indignantly. "Eet eez meant to be!"

England was having none of it and slithered to the floor where he giggled as if this was the funniest thing on earth.

"Monsieur le France? I don't zink…" Pierre began, looking nervously at the chaos about to explode at the MacDonalds across the road.

"Zen don't…" France grunted. "Arthur my leetle pumpkin, you need to lose some weight…" he said as he attempted to lift the Englishman.

"Waterloo!" England yelled.

"Shush! Pierre, aidez-moi, s'il vous plait. We need to get him to Paris," France told Pierre.

Pierre sighed, he did not sign up for this. He was a nice man who had joined the French Foreign Office to serve his country having, by some horrid twist of fate ended up as London's French Embassy official for French Nationalists, namely Francis Bonnefoy. He was 45 years old, prematurely white, had a permanent facial tic and was on valium under doctor's orders.

"I do not zink your plan will work, Monsieur le France. The ferry to Calais is 40 miles away, he will not let us take him to France…"

"I am going to order a taxi, you silly Frenchman you!" France hit Pierre ineffectually and quite camply on his chest.

"You have planned zis from ze beginning?" Pierre said, realisation dawning.

"Oui!"

"You are ze most cunning, devious, sly Frenchman I have ever met!"

"Merci! But fermez le bouche and aidez-moi avec zis stupid Englishman," France said, alternating, weirdly, between English and French. Possibly to further humiliate England.

"He eez very heavy, Monsieur."

"Arthur, do you want some of your gross and hideously flavourless fish and chips?" France asked England.

"Chips!" England yelled suddenly and managed to stagger to his feet. He promptly headed towards the MacDonalds where Russia had just solved the problem of early closing by driving a car through the entrance doors.

"Zis way, my little idiot… not zat way!" France steered England away and pointed him down the street away from the other Nations. He then winked lasciviously at Pierre.

"I am going to leave him in ze queue until we get ze taxi, non?" He said to Pierre.

"You zink zis will work?" Pierre said.

"Of course, he eez English. Eet is what zay do, mon cher."

"We can fight our way out!" America yelled. "Dude mad Russia, are you with me?"

But Russia had already shoved his way through the police cordon and was heading towards the opposite side of the street where he could see France sashaying around most suspiciously and no sign of England. "You can't arrest me! I have to get Arthur to the altar to marry my sister!" he told the police and barrelled through.

"That's what I'm talking about!" America yelled, backflipping around the restaurant.

"It's outrageous," Austria protested as he was being searched.

"I am the Nation of Germany and I have the identification papers to prove it!" Germany told one of the police officers. "Well I would, if they hadn't caught fire," he muttered resignedly.

"Inspector, here's another one who claims he's a Nation or something…" a policeman told the senior officer.

"Of course I'm not hiding an explosive device!" Austria was protesting as his bottom half was searched.

Scotland was placed against a wall beside him. "Yer'll only find up that kilt what all Scotsmen have…" Hamish was telling the policewoman who had the unfortunate job of searching him. "… and more…" he added mysteriously.

Russia grabbed France as the latter nation was walking nonchalantly away from a fish and chip shop. "Where is he?"

"Who, mon cher?"

"I saw you taking Arthur…" Russia said, ignoring the policeman next to him, reading his rights.

"I am innocent!" France said indignantly.

"You have never been innocent!" Austria all but screamed and then said, "I am not taking this costume off!"

"You are under arrest for disturbing the peace and…" the policeman told Russia.

Russia shoved him aside when he saw England dreamily eating chips across the road.

Arthur had stood in the queue obediently, bought his chips and was now dreamily staggering out of the shop singing. He waved his wooden chip fork at Russia , who was just a blurry figure to him and then frowned as Russia stormed towards him.

"You are getting married tomorrow…" Russia said anxiously.

"Ah taxi!" France yelled at a passing taxi driver and then slithered between Russia and England.

"You are all under arrest!" the police inspector was trying to tell them.

"You are going to put us in a cell?" Russia said.

The Inspector looked up at the Russian and gulped. Was that a weird purple aura pulsating around him? He looked around for back-up, or even animal control. "Yes…" he said finally.

"Good. Da," Russia said, shoving England towards the other Nations. Surely, if they were in a cell overnight, nothing could go wrong?

"My name is Count Roderich Von Hapsburg Edelstein," Austria was telling the police officer who was trying to write their names down.

"He is no Count. He is as royal as I am. Which is zero," Germany told the police and then added, "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. That's B…E…"

"You take that back!" Austria screeched.

"Beilschmidt? Do you have an older brother called Gilbert?" the policeman asked.

"He is not my older brother!" Ludwig all but yelled. "It was all a lie. They…" here he pointed at Austria and looked wildly round for France, "…lied to me. I was the Holy Roman Empire and they wiped my memory. I was made to live with France and clean his house for centuries!" Germany yelled.

"Teutonic relations eh?" America said with a shake of his. "Lieutenant Colonel Alfred F Jones, US Air Force," America told the police officer.

"You were never a Colonel!" Austria said.

"You're not a Count!" Germany said. "Wait? What? Gilbert? Please don't tell me he's been arrested?" Germany said.

"What does the 'F' stand for?" the policeman asked America, ignoring Germany.

"Fuck yeah!" Alfred yelled.

"You were a Colonel, but I was a General," Russia said, shoving past a policeman. "General Ivan Braginski. No middle name."

"Chips!" England said, cheerily. "Would anyone like one?"

"F is for Fitzgerald," America told the policeman with a sigh, "and… that big Russian dude was never a General," he added in a whisper.

"My full name is Francis Louis de Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy. If we are talking ranks zen I am a Colonel, retired, of ze French Resistance. Viva le France!" France said and saluted in an extremely camp way. He then pointed at Alfred, "He has never flown a plane in his entire life."

"I bloody have! Arthur! Tell them!"

"Does anyone have any ketchup?" Arthur said and staggered towards his brother. "Hamish…"

"I dinnae have ketchup in my sporran, Arthur, but I have other things," he winked at the policewoman.

"I am a Count! I have royal blood! Tell them, Arthur! You know, you were with me in 1743!" Austria said and then turned to the policewoman who was tentatively patting down Scotland, "Gilbert took my Silesia."

"Nobody touches my Silesia!" Scotland suddenly said.

"I liked your baguettes," England said mysteriously to Austria and held out a chip (he was still very drunk). "I'm Arthur Kirkland," he told the policewoman.

"You're under arrest," she told him and promptly put a handcuff on him. She was about to put the other cuff on his other wrist when England took it from her and put it on Austria's and then clamped it shut.

"Heinz!" England said, for some unknown reason and then promptly passed out again. His surrender to gravity involved gripping the lower half of Austria's bunny costume and the furry pink trouser part fell down with the Englishman.

"Oh for God's sake!" Austria said. "Can you unlock us please?" he pleaded with the policewoman as he tried to pull the bunny costume legs up, with Arthur slumped beside him pulling them down.

But the policewoman was distracted by Scotland, "Do ye want me to take off my sporran?" he said, putting his bagpipes down and grinned. "He could never take his drink, not like me," he added, pointing to his slumped brother.

"Madame le police, perhaps you need a hand, non? With zees vagabonds? Particularly the drunk one?" France interrupted.

"Erm…" the policewoman turned one way and then the other.

France swished his hair, sex pheromones showered them, "Perhaps I could take ze Englishman off your hands, so to speak…" France continued, winking at her.

"Erm…" the policewoman gazed into the Frenchman's eyes.

"We could run away together, you and I to bask in warmth of a Mediterranean sun to lie upon a feather bed and drink of the nectar of the gods while we assuage our passion…" France purred, whilst waving at the taxi driver, Pierre and trying to get England to his feet. "…And in the name of love… Why is he attached to ze Austrian moron?" France suddenly blurted out and dropped Arthur - the spell broken.

In a police cell not very far away…

Gilbert Beilschmidt, the personification of the Prussia and all that was Awesome was sat in a police cell with Denmark. The latter - still high on lucozade - was bouncing off the walls.

"We have to escape, dude," Gilbert told Denmark.

"I bet Ber and Tino will come get me," Denmark said, his eyes weirdly dilated.

"Did you drink Ribena as well?" Gilbert asked, carefully.

"Ja!" Den yelled, his voice echoing off the walls. He bounced off the other wall.

Gilbert sighed and subconsciously began to straighten the bunk bed he was sat on and fold the tatty blanket. He tutted as Denmark jumped on the top bunk and then flung himself at the opposite wall with a yell.

Denmark launched himself at the cell window and hung there 8 feet off the ground, clinging to the bars like an ape. He grinned moronically at Gilbert.

Gilbert sighed and remembered their joint psychological examination with 'Dr Frood' the Police Psychologist who'd pronounced Denmark 'severely psychotic' and himself 'severe personal disorder'. He didn't think he had a disorderly personality but he'd agreed with the psychologist about Denmark.

"So you believe you are both personifications of Nations?" the psychologist had asked.

"Hell yeah!" Den had yelled.

"I don't believe, I know," Gilbert had said.

And then the following conversation had happened..

The two Nations sat side by side facing Dr Frood (or that's what Gilbert had thought he'd said but it might not have been).

Den had leaned forward almost nose to nose with the doctor.

"So what are your full names?"

"Mathias Thor Kohler," Denmark said confidently.

Gilbert smirked at this, "General Gilbert Beilschmidt," the Prussian said.

"Fuck off, you were never a general," Denmark said.

"Was."

"When?"

"1940."

"What? By accident?"

"I was a General for a week so that counts… but then I told Adolf to go screw himself and then there was that buzzkill of a Field Marshal who had to go on gardening leave…"

"Why?" the doctor said, despite his scepticism.

"It wasn't my fault! How was I to know that cliff was there? You'd think panzer tanks would have GPS!"

"GPS was not around in 1940…" the doctor said and made a note, muttering under his breath, "Delusional…"

"Was it you that destroyed that Panzer division by sending them the wrong way over a cliff?" Den said, his eyes wide.

Gilbert frowned, "Probably."

"Fuck yeah! Arthur said you were the Allies' biggest secret weapon, I thought he was mad!" Denmark said.

Gilbert launched himself at his friend.

The psychologist watched impassively, making notes the whole time as they writhed on the floor.

They'd had to be prised apart and to the psychologist's amazement sat side by side together again like best friends.

The psychologist had then put some inkblots on the table, "Firstly… I want you tell me the first thing that comes into your head…"

"Tuesday!" Gilbert said confidently.

The psychologist frowned, "No, I mean…"

Denmark considered this, "Erm… not sure…"

"It's the first thing you think of, idiot!" Gilbert punched his friend on the arm.

"No, what I meant was to look at the inkblots and tell me the first thing that comes into your mind…" the psychologist said wearily. His left eye began twitching.

"Ah right…" Gilbert said.

"I love this game," Denmark said.

"Russia!" Gilbert yelled.

"Fuck! Where?" Den yelled.

"I haven't shown you anything yet," the doctor said.

"Ah right," Gilbert said.

"Idiot," Den muttered.

"You didn't know either!" Gilbert said.

The doctor put an inkblot in front of them.

"Austria. And he's eating a large pie," Gilbert said confidently.

"Scooby Doo," Den said, leaning back with his arms folded.

"Are you implying that he's a real person?" the doctor asked.

"Scoobs? Sure!" Denmark said. "He unmasks monsters!"

"No! This Austria person? Are you are saying he is a real person?" the doctor said.

"Fuck no! He's a nation. He's a pretty crappy nation. He's mean and always angry. He's not a real person. He's a complete killjoy." Gilbert told the doctor with several nods.

The doctor scribbled some notes (one of them referred to Denmark as an 'imbecile'). "What about this one?" he asked.

"Easy! That's Tony dude with his tomatoes," Den yelled and then added, "Did I win?"

"Tony dude? Who is he? Is he another…" here the doctor hesitated and then said through gritted teeth, "… Nation?"

"He's Spain, man!" Gilbert said as if the doctor should know.

"Spainman?"

"Antonio, he's Spain," Denmark said.

"It looks nothing like Spain," Gilbert said, hitting Denmark in the arm, "He's got a better arse!" he then added, "Did I just say that out loud?"

"Interesting," the doctor made a note.

"I ain't gay!" Gilbert protested. "It's one of the Baltics! Probably Toris baking a pie," Gilbert said quickly.

"You're deluded, mate," Den said.

"You think it's Latvia? Nah man, don't forget she's a she now and not a he," Gilbert said.

"Ha! And you never realised all that time you lived with Fat Ivan!"

"Who is Fat Ivan?" the doctor said, scribbling away.

"Russia, stupid!" they said in unison.

"She fooled all of us, man!" Gilbert said.

"Gender misplacement," the doctor said, scribbling.

"Hey! I know my gender!" Den said.

"Apart from when you married that dude," Gilbert said.

"It doesn't count if its a Viking!" Denmark yelled.

"I meant Estonia!" Gilbert said.

"Oh yes, but I was the dude," Den said.

"Oh man…"

It was desperate times, Gilbert thought, bringing himself back to the present. He could think of worse Nations to be stuck in a prison cell with - Russia, Austria, England… but he could also think of better ones as well. Like Liz… it was a shame Hungary was having a kid with Austria. It should have been his kid… it would have been awesome and they could have ruled the world… or at least Western Europe up to the Iron Curtain and with a little bit of Southern England just to piss off Arthur.

"Hahahaha… you gotta be kidding me, man! Liz wouldn't touch you with a sterilised barge pole," Den yelled.

Gilbert realised that his thoughts had bypassed his brain and just hightailed it straight to his mouth. "Kesese! That's where you're wrong. She did!"

"No way!"

"Yes way" Gilbert answered.

"Before you knew she was a chick?"

"Of course it was… not… I mean… I always knew she was a chick."

"Yeah right… you had no idea."

"I ain't gay!"

"Neither am I!" Den countered.

"You said you loved Norge and you married Estonia."

"It doesn't count cos I was the man!"

"You're gayer than Poland on a rainbow unicorn at an Abba concert!"

"I don't like Abba!"

There was a stunned silence. A hush.

"You're in trouble," Gilbert said, leaning against the cell wall.

"Swe can't have heard me," Den said but looked around nervously, expecting a large Swede in full Viking mode wielding a sword to come bursting through the door.

"Kesese! Your face!" Gilbert laughed.

"Shut up! He can sense when someone's dissing Abba," Den said mysteriously.

"Piss off, I was joking, dude."

"He can… and he's kicked arse before now. I think he has to be on the same continent though. Mom… I mean Tino has to hold him back sometimes when there's karaoke on in the local bar."

"Kesese! You call Tino 'mom'," Gilbert laughed hysterically and then stopped suddenly. "I have a cunning plan…"

"Is it a cunning plan like that time Alfie got our order from that fancy dress shop wrong and we went to that Anti Nazi rally dressed as lady superheroes and ended up at a Gay Pride rally and you said something about Hitler would definitely not be impressed and that huge gay dude who made the Incredible Hulk look like Doris Day hammered you into the ground and then Alfie…?"

"Nein."

"I only call them mom and dad cos Peter does. It's a habit. God I hate that kid, he put superglue on the remote once and I had to go to A&E."

"Den… sing…"

Denmark shrugged and began to sing a bawdy Danish singing song about women with large breasts.

"Nein! Sing Abba!" Gilbert told him.

Den frowned.

"Super dooper, fights are gonna find me, fighting in the sun, drinking havin' fun… feeling like a number one!" Gilbert suddenly 'sang'/shouted with one arm punching the air. "Come on, Den!"

"That's not Abba!" Den said.

"Tis!"

Den shoved Gilbert out of the way, yelling "Hello Wembley!" (obviously to an imaginary crowd) "Waterloo! I was defeating you at the bar!" he yelled/sang, weirdly channelling Arthur who was singing the exact same song some 50 miles away.

"I was there!" Prussia yelled (probably meaning at Waterloo, not at the bar).

"Waterloo, promise to love my cat forever more!"

"Why your cat? You don't have a cat?"

"Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to!"

Gilbert nodded, his hands over his ears.

Den's voice was the loudest Gilbert had ever known. Even if Sweden didn't hear it and Gilbert wasn't really sure this was going to work, everyone within a mile radius would be deafened.

"Waterloo, none of my babies can be with you… woowooo…"

Gilbert looked horrified, as well he might.

"Finally facing my Waterloo!"

There was banging on the door, "Shut up in there!"

"Do another…" Gil said to Den.

"I have a broom…" Denmark began singing slowly, "You'll have to join in Gilbert, I can't reach the high notes."

Gilbert nodded and stood at the side of the cell door and beckoned Den to continue (even though his ears were almost bleeding).

"A song to sing…" Den obviously got a bit lost there and then started again, louder in fact (so much so that the window behind the cell bars shook) "I believe in engines…"

"Angels…" Gilbert corrected and then put a hand over his mouth.

But then the cell door opened and two policemen walked in. They were all but deaf now from the noise - Den's singing giving the same effect as a pneumatic drill at close quarters.

"You can shut up…" one said but was stopped by Gil who jumped out and floored him with a punch.

Den was about to carry on and then realised the 'cunning plan' and punched the other one in the head.

"Right… which way…?"

"I dunno…"

"Down here…" Gilbert said and swaggered down the corridor. His swagger did not last long as another policeman came up the stairs and almost barrelled into the Prussian.

"Here what's all this?" the policeman said, and pulled out his walkie-talkie.

Den grabbed it off him, shouted into it, "It's all okay!" in very loud Danish and broke it over the man's head.

He grinned at Gilbert moronically.

Gilbert grinned demonically. At least that would mean anyone on that frequency would be deaf for a while.

The two Nations ran down the stairs, stopped when they faced another locked door, ran back up (Gilbert didn't think he could face any more singing), and dashed along the corridor to the window.

They looked out.

"It's a big drop," Gilbert said.

"It's only one floor up," Den said, already wrenching open the window. "I'll jump, cos I'm a Viking and I'll catch you."

Gilbert looked at him and then shrugged, "Okay."

Den sat on the windowsill, swung his legs over, grinned idiotically and jumped.

Gilbert leaned over and stared into the darkness. He then saw his friend's awesome hair sticking out of a bush. "I landed in a bush!" Denmark yelled.

"I know…" Gilbert said in hushed tones. "Be quiet!"

"I landed in a bush!" Denmark yelled again. "Jump down before anyone sees us!" He yelled.

"For fucks sake…" Gilbert murmured and then said in strained tones, "Be quiet, Den… everyone will hear you…"

"I can't hear you! I. Landed. In. A. Bush. Jump. Down. And. We'll. Escape," Den's voice sounded like a foghorn.

Gilbert took a deep breath and jumped. Den didn't catch him. Den seemed to be busy doing other things as Gilbert landed in a very prickly bush with thorns catching on various parts of him that he loved very dearly.

"Fucking idiot!"

"Pru…"

Prussia hated being called Pru and was about to say so, when he looked round and found why Den was hopping from foot to foot and waving his arms about saying, in an almost soothing manner (or soothing for a Viking) "Sit… go away… mush… down…"

They were surrounded by very large, very angry-looking guard dogs.

"Bugger."

Author's note: sorry for the long gap between chapters. And thank you for your patience.

"I have a broom" is obviously "I have a dream"…

Next Chapter - how to cause havoc on a cross-channel ferry.