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, Deefangirl, Pandoala, Hintori-time, Senor Tree, Wandering Authoress for the reviews, PMs, faves and alerts and of course all my other readers. (If I've missed anyone please give me a heads-up.)

White Wedding Chapter 6

Ludwig Beilschmidt would have preferred to be anywhere than where he was - in the back of an ambulance with America and a barely conscious English postal delivery worker.

America, of course, being the most optimistic person around, thought it was fantastic. "I saved the day, man!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the vehicle as it sped along to the nearest hospital.

"Will you shut up? I've been in battles that are quieter than you," Germany said.

"Oh God… Please don't hurt me," the postman groaned. "Why am I in here? Why am I here with you?"

"Because I'm the hero and I saved your limey ass!" America yelled.

"Please don't save me again," the postman begged.

America looked appalled, but leapt up and went to sit next to the poor man.

"But dude! I'm the hero!" he yelled at him.

Germany shook his head.

There was a burst of light and America yelled, "Smoke me a kipper I'll be back for breakfast!" and disappeared.

If this wasn't astonishing enough - for Germany anyway as he was the only person there - the postman also disappeared.

"Well… at least it's quieter," Germany said and sat back, just assuming it was England's strange magic again.

On the ferry bound for Calais.

Germany was correct, it was England's magic.

The tune of "Holding out for a hero" rung around the bar, with many football fans harmonising to it. The fact that many of them were flat on their backs on the dance-floor was beside the point.

"They are quite good, aren't they, Monsieur France?" Pierre said to France.

France wasn't listening, he was watching England as the Englishman shoved the football fans in various positions around the room. It looked completely random. It wasn't.

Austria moaned as he was dragged around by England, "This is disgraceful. I am a 1000 years old Empire and I demand my rights to be unbound from this idiot!" Austria complained.

England ignored him. He seemed to be in a part-drunken haze but his subconscious knew what he was doing.

"There… I shummon you, oh beasht from the pitsh of shell," Arthur began chanting.

"What's a beasht?" Austria asked.

"Beasht," Arthur slurred, looking at him glassily, "My head hurts," he said and tried to rest his head on Austria's shoulder.

"I think we need a hero," Austria said and then added, "But we don't know any."

There was a flash of light and something or someone began to emerge from the fog.

"Perhaps it's…" Austria began.

But it was never known who Austria was hoping for.

"Dudes! I'm here!" came a very loud voice.

"Mon dieu!" France exclaimed.

"Yes! Mon do!" America yelled.

"Get off me!" someone yelled.

America had materialised, stood in hero pose, one arm aloft as if he were holding a flag (he wasn't) on top of several people.

He wasn't alone either.

"Oh God, why me?" came a feeble voice.

"Because you were chosen to witness my heroic endeavourventures," America told him.

The postman looked him up and down and said, "That's not even a word."

"It is now," America said.

It was Austria who worked out just how America had been summoned. The football fans were arranged in a strange stars and stripes fashion. He was about to mention this when America yelled, "So who is it I'm saving?"

"Us," Austria said, with resignation. He probably would have preferred to be 'saved' by someone more competent, more quiet and someone who would understand the ordeal he had been through.

But Austria was all out of luck.

"Cool," America said. "I don't usually rescue Gerries… but I'll make an exception."

"I'm not a Gerry! This is not the War! You rude Yank, you," Austria attempted to hit him but fell over as England fell over.

"What's up with Artie-dude?" America asked.

"He's drunk."

"Dude can party!" America yelled, punching the air.

"He partied too much," Austria said from the floor.

"So, who am I rescuing you from?" America said.

"How can you have forgotten?" Austria said peevishly. "We were kidnapped by the most evil…"

"Russkie dude?" America said, frowning. Hadn't he just seen Russia driving off with Scotland?

"Nein!"

"Nine?"

"The most despicable…"

"Pru-dude?"

"Prussia? Nein! The most perverted…"

"France!" America said, snapping his fingers.

But the French Nation and his side-kick, Pierre, had disappeared.

"He's vamooshed!" America said, much disappointed.

"Indeed," Austria sighed and tried to shake England awake.

"So I'm rescuing Artie-dude and Australasia from Francy?" America said, obviously thinking aloud, still trying to work it out.

"What is wrong with you?" Austria all but yelled. "Yes! No! I'm not Australasia! That isn't even a country!"

"It's the region of Oceania comprising Australia and New Zealand actually…" the postman interrupted.

"Who are you?" America asked.

"Erm…" the postman considered.

"Precisely," America said and then pulled a baseball cap off a man's head and pulled it on. "Let's do this, men," he said and swaggered off.

No-one had any idea what he meant by 'men' as no-one followed him.

"Fetch me a cup of tea, please," Austria asked the postman.

The postman didn't move, "Who are you people?" he asked.

"I used to be an empire," Austria said quietly and nodded to England, "So did he. But I was far better at it than him. That idiot you just met has never been an empire," Austria wrinkled his nose as if this made him a lesser Nation - in his eyes it did.

America would have been proud that he'd never been an empire. He was currently swaggering through the upper decks in the cold night air, the English Channel swirling below him, looking for France.

"Yo! Francy-dude!" he yelled. It was not enough that he'd 'saved Artie-dude' (although he hadn't as yet), he also had to 'kick butt'. "This is fracking weird, man," he muttered to himself. "It's like when I rescued Francy-pants back in 1944 from the Germans and I saved all Europe and they never appreciated it," he stopped and then yelled, "Hey! You've failed, Francy, I'm taking Artie-dude back to Boringville so he can marry Princess Crazy."

France was hiding in a storeroom. Pierre was on the 'lookout' - peeping round the door. "Eez he still zere, Pierre?"

"Oui, monsieur Le France."

France shoved Pierre out of the way and looked out, watching America standing heroically on the deck with his back to him. "He eez so handsome but so very silly," he said quietly.

"Monsieur Le France I zink your plot is over," Pierre said, with much relief.

"We shall see, mon ami," France said, narrowing his eyes. He was not called the most devious-minded spy of World War II for nothing.

"I just want to go home," Pierre whined.

France patted him on the head, "Soon, mon petit fils."

"You are not mon père!"

France pursed his lips, "I am ze father of all France!" he declared, seeing America had gone and opened the door.

Pierre could well believe that and followed his Nation out of the door with trepidation. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Have you ever heard, mon ami, about a false flag?" France asked.

"Do you mean instead of ze Tricolore?"

France sneered, "Ha!" he said. "Watch mon petit fils and learn…"

At the hotel…

"It'll be okay, Nattie, it really will," Katya was telling her sister, in the corridor outside their bedroom.

Hungary, Latvia and Belgium had all scarpered as soon as the taxi had pulled up.

Belarus was stood in her wedding dress and clutching a knife. She looked beyond angry. Her once-white dress was a technicolour disaster.

"I'll soak it," Katya told her.

"It's ruined," Belarus said. "That little idiot who spilt tea on me…" she mimed what she would do with her knife.

"Yes but dear I did think…"

"And who drank the cocktail that looked like this?" Belarus pointed to one stain that was a startling blue.

Katya shrugged but knew it was Hungary.

"It looks like antifreeze!" Belarus said.

"Hmmm…"

"And this…" Belarus pointed to another questionable stain.

"I did tell Latvia that the kebab was overloaded with sauce."

"I hate you all," Belarus shrieked, still resisting Katya's efforts to shove her into the bedroom. "None of you want to see me get married."

"Oh Natty, of course we do. And Arthur will marry you even if you wore fancy dress," Katya said prophetically.

"You're right sestra of course," Belarus said. "How hard can it be to get these stains out? I've got plenty of bloodstains out of big brother's clothes so many times," she smiled at the memory.

Katya pushed her sister into the bedroom and decided not to point out the large black stain on Natalya's bottom. It looked like oil.

Which is precisely what Feliciano said as he swanned up the corridor, "Hey! That looks like oil!"

Katya gritted her teeth and turned round as the small Italian approached.

He was oblivious to the atmosphere. "I'ma just going to bed, I'ma wiped out after making noodles for Mr China, it'sa good he's here isn't it? I wish Luddy was back but I suppose he's drinking with his brother and…" he stopped talking quickly. He had to. Belarus' hand was round his throat.

"Oil? There's oil on my dress?"

"You. Are. Dead." Katya hissed at Italy.

Italy sobbed.

Belarus threw herself into the room and flung herself on the bed. "I'm never getting married!" she yelled and began tearing her dress off.

Italy covered his eyes, "Mamma mia!" he whimpered as Katya dragged him into the room with them.

"Yes you will get married…" Katya told her sister soothingly.

"I will be an old maid," Belarus sobbed.

"Like me!" Italy squeaked.

Katya rolled her eyes and tried to comfort her sister. "You can wear one of the bridesmaid dresses. Wear Latvia's. I'm sure she won't mind." No doubt guessing none of the bridesmaids would mind giving up their awful dresses.

"I'm wearing this one or I will wear nothing! Do you hear me?" Belarus yelled.

"We can all hear you!" someone shouted down the corridor.

"Yes! Shut up! Before you wake that damned cock…" another voice called but was interrupted by a cockcrow and then there were several gunshots.

Katya didn't even blink. She picked up the discarded dress.

"You," she ordered.

"Me?" Italy whimpered.

"You… Go soak this dress," Katya threw the massive dress at Italy. It landed on his head.

"He's not your servant," came a defiant voice from the doorway.

"I'm not?" Italy said hopefully, peeping through his fingers. He saw nothing. A once-white wedding dress covered his head.

The voice belonged to Romano.

"No, you're not a servant," Katya said.

"Yay!" Italy whooped.

Romano nodded and was about to go.

"Servants get paid, you don't. Now bring her a cup of tea," Katya told Romano.

Romano hesitated, "Me?" he said, now timorously.

"Do I look like I'm talking to myself?"

Romano looked behind him and then tried hard to put on his best manly look. He failed.

"Well? How long do we have to wait?"

Italy ran up and down blindly in a panic with the dress on his head.

Katya shoved him into the en-suite bathroom and told him, "Soak in the bath, you silly Italian." She then turned to Romano, ignoring Belarus' continued sobs. "Do I have to wait for the rise of the Ottoman Empire?"

"The Otto…Otto… Ottoman Empire?" Italy stuttered while he ran the bath.

"Go!" Katya ordered pointing at Romano.

Romano scuttled away.

"And bring biscuits!" Katya called after him.

"Hob nobs!" Belarus said, in between sobs.

"Yes, sestra, they are."

In a small town called Doverham…

Prussia and Denmark were strolling along the road, free and at liberty and very very wet.

"It's always raining in bloody England," Denmark said.

Prussia trudged next to him. His right shoe had a hole in it and his feet were soaking wet after Denmark had shoved him in a puddle.

"My hair's going flat!" Denmark moaned. "We have to get to a hotel."

"I don't have any money, do you?" Prussia asked.

Den looked at him in amazement, "You know I'm not allowed money," he said.

Gilbert sighed. This liberty lark was not going well. It was two in the morning, cold and raining.

Suddenly he spotted possible shelter.

He pointed, "There! We can sleep in there and then hitchhike in the morning."

"I ain't sleeping in that," Denmark said.

Prussia jumped over some iron railings and indicated Denmark was to follow him.

"Don't be such a softy," he said. "I've slept in way worse."

Den followed reluctantly, like a large dog. "Okay dude, but this ain't gonna be pretty."

"Neither are you," Prussia said, opening up the lid of a large container marked "Doverham Council Refuse Services."

"Hey! Some people think I'm gorgeous!"

"This century?" Prussia asked, skeptically as he jumped in.

"Yeah man!"

"Francis doesn't count as people, man."

Denmark ignored this, "Where are we anyway?" he asked, looking around at the huge yard, the iron railings, the large forbidding building next to them.

"Who cares? Get some sleep, man. Tomorrow we'll be long gone," Prussia said, already 'snuggling' down among broken cardboard boxes and rubbish bags.

Denmark sighed, he didn't think it was going to be that simple. It wasn't. But they weren't to know that until the next morning…

Deep in the bowels of a cross-channel ferry, Mr and Mrs Worthington-Smythe of Middlewich, England were on their way to their peaceful sojourn to the South of France. They were taking their usual late night ferry in their prized campervan so they could get to their destination nice and early. It was a journey they had taken for many years without incident. Until now.

Mr Worthington-Smythe turned to his wife as he put the handbrake on, "Get the thermos out, love and we'll have a cuppa." He had pulled up next to a rather battered looking police van. He didn't think much of this - yet.

But then he made three mistakes. He wound down his window, switched on the car radio and looked across at the police van next to him.

He was alarmed for several reasons. One being that the man in the driver's seat did not look like a police offer. Or if he were, he was not in police uniform. He was in a beige coat with a gold star medal pinned to the lapel and he looked very wet. He also had very weird purple eyes as he glared back at him.

Mr Worthington-Smythe was a typical Englishman, so he hurriedly looked away, but then looked back to find the blond man still staring at him. So he looked at the passenger - a man with startling red hair who appeared to be wearing very little but a soaking wet blanket on his lower regions. There was also a very large cat of unspecified breed.

The blond man was still staring at him.

Mr Worthington-Smythe looked away again and then looked back, "Are you a police officer?" he asked, trembling (although he did not know why he was trembling).

"Nyet, I am angry," came a Russian accent.

"I dinnae think we'll get to Francy in time to rescue Arthur," the red-haired man said to the 'angry man'.

The angry man glared and crushed the steering wheel beneath his hands.

"This is a newsflash," the campervan radio told them. "Dover Police have issued an alert for three suspected terrorists who are believed to be on the 12.30 ferry to Calais."

"That's our ferry, Scotland!" Russia said.

"I think it's the one before us, Ivan," Scotland said in his thick Glaswegian accent.

Russia didn't understand what he'd said only the 'Ivan' at the end, "Don't call me Ivan," he said.

Mr and Mrs Worthington-Smythe looked at one another in alarm as the radio broadcast continued. "The three fugitives are believed to be travelling in a stolen police vehicle."

"That's like ours!" Russia said.

"… one is described as being of medium height with red hair and a strong Scottish accent."

Russia looked at Scotland and then over at the campervan whose occupants were listening in horrified silence. Mrs Worthing-Smythe had begun pouring tea from the thermos flask and was still pouring. Hot tea spilled over the plastic cup as they listened.

"The man appeared to be wearing little more than a blanket."

"Och aye!" Hamish said, "Well if they'd given me proper troosers I wouldna have to wear this blanket."

Russia had no idea what he said but glared at Mr Worthington-Smythe, leaned over and said, "Turn the volume up on your radio."

Mr Worthington-Smythe almost cried but did as he was told.

"… another man is described as at least six feet tall, heavily built…"

Scotland glanced at Russia, who stared back.

"… with blond hair and wearing a long beige coat with some military insignia on it. He is described as extremely dangerous and should not be approached."

"Wow! He sounds like he's not a nice person," Russia said, his eyes wide.

Scotland stared at him, "They mean you, yer big eejit!" Scotland said.

"Me?"

The radio continued, "The third fugitive is described as male, average height, blond, wearing spectacles and an aviator flying jacket. He has a very strong American accent."

Scotland frowned, "The lad's not with us, he was in the ambulance with Germany and that human postman when I looked." (Scotland of course, always referred to America as the 'the lad' or 'the boy' which often infuriated America.)

"I think these people aren't very nice…" Russia said.

"It's us! They are looking for us!" Scotland told him.

"… the third man is described as being in need of psychiatric treatment," the radio said.

"Da! That sounds like America," Russia said and looked around the police van as if to reassure himself that America was not indeed with them and then jumped out of the van and strolled up to the neighbouring campervan, Russi-cat jumped onto his shoulder.

"Oh no…" Mr Worthington-Smythe moaned.

"Da!" Russia said.

"We need disguises, they are looking for us. I don't know where the boy is… I suppose he's still back in Dover being an idiot," Scotland said peevishly, getting out and standing next to Russia.

"I need your clothes, your vodka and your campervan," Russia told Mr Worthington-Smythe.

"Vod…vod…vodka?" Mr Worthington-Smythe stuttered. "We don't have any."

Russia frowned.

"Please don't kill us," his wife begged.

Scotland was correct on one thing - they were not on the 12.30 ferry. The 12.30 ferry was the one before them... the one where America was now prowling the decks.

"Hey! That guy sounds dangerous!" America said to himself as he heard the newsflash on the tannoy.

The ferry was just pulling into the port at Calais and France sashayed (he never ran - running was inelegant) back to the bar to find England (and Austria of course) but found only a gang of football hooligans singing (to his irritation) 'Waterloo' in harmony.

France grabbed one, "Where is ze silly Englishman?" he asked.

"Eh mate? We're all English!"

France sighed dramatically then saw the postman standing looking lost and utterly bewildered. "You! Where is ze drunk Englishman?"

"What? Oh God are you one of 'them'?" the postman asked.

"I am of course one of 'zem'," France said camply.

"No, I mean a Nation or something?"

France frowned. It was supposed to be a secret but he shrugged. "I am ze great Nation of le France!" he said dramatically, swishing his hair.

"You mean like a personification? Like Mother Russia, British Bulldog and all that? You're an actual human personification of real countries, representing sovereign Nations in the flesh, the embodiment of the people and land?" the postman asked.

But France was not listening and was bored. "Oui, oui, whatever, are all humans so boring? Or is it only ze English? Do you know where ze very drunk Englishman is who summoned you here? He is blond but has terrible hair. He is about my height but obviously he is less handsome than I am, with very bushy eyebrows, he smells of vomit… oh and he is handcuffed to a very annoying Austrian who is wearing half a pink bunny costume," France added the last bit as an afterthought.

"Oh him! That Englishman who was with that Austrian who ordered me around who said he used to be an Empire?"

"Oui!" France said impatiently.

"Is he a Nation as well?"

"Does it matter?"

"Is he the personification of my country - England?"

"Écoutez-moi little man. Zees events are beyond your meagre powers. It is imperative that I know where he is."

"Over there," the postman pointed to a far corner of the bar where England was curled up asleep and Austria was sat glaring at his prone form.

But France never got to proceed with his despicable plan as Pierre burst in, "France! The ferry has stopped! We have been boarded by special forces!"

"Français or Anglais?"

"I do not know. Does it matter?"

"Of course it does! The English uniform is so very bland!"

"You are very odd, Monsieur," Pierre said, leaving out the 'le France' bit and finally losing any respect he had for his Nation.

America, for his part, did not care if they were British or French special forces - he'd have preferred American anyway and considered any other forces other than American useless. But his eyes widened when he saw black-clad balaclava-ed men with submachine guns being airlifted aboard.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones, US Air Force," Alfred told them and then added, "And Navy Seals." He grinned as they saluted him. "Do you have a spare gun?" he asked, his eyes gleaming.