Acknowledgements: Thank you to The-Macer-of-Dale, Blackdevil Nightheart, Mely-Val, 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 tell me.)
White Wedding
Chapter 12
In Calais...
"Why are you here?" Russia asked Austria.
"Because I'm still handcuffed to that idiot," Austria replied, indicating England, who was hanging limply from Russia's shoulder, a lump on his head the size of a grapefruit.
"Nyet, not you, Austria, I mean you," Russia nodded to the postman who walked alongside them.
"Erm, I erm…" the postman was trying to explain that although he was terrified by the big blond Russian who he was sure was some kind of demon, he also wanted to get out of the jail and go home.
"A car!" Russia said as he spotted a police car.
"Yes, but it's a police car," Austria said, pointing out the obvious.
"Of course it is, this is a police station and I'm wearing a police uniform," Russia said, looking at Austria as if he were mad.
Russia threw England into the back of the police car (which also meant Austria was thrown in as well).
"Get in the car, yer wee eejit," Scotland said. "We have only a couple of hours to get back to Britain and get my wee brother to the church."
Nobody understood what the Scotsman had said, but they got the gist. Russia nodded. "Hamish, you should drive," he told Scotland.
"My name's Dorothy, now. I'm not Hamish… I'm in disguise."
Russia had no idea what the Scotsman had said but nodded in agreement anyway and jumped in the passenger seat. "Let's go to the ferry," he ordered.
The postman, under the quite insane impression that Russia and Scotland would get him home and back to his family, also got in.
Austria shook his head in disgust, "What about Germany?" he asked, pointing out of the rear window at Germany stood on the pavement.
Germany waved gleefully goodbye at them. He could finally get on with his paperwork.
"Oh da! We should take him as well!" Russia said.
"Yes, why should he miss all the fun?" Austria said bitterly, resigned to whatever fate Russia and this mad Scottish transvestite had in store for him.
"Get in the car, Mr Germany!" Russia said and then realised that the window was closed so Germany could not hear him. Instead of winding the window down like a normal, sane person Russia punched the window shattering the glass and shouted, "Come on Mr Germany! I'm sorry we nearly forgot you!"
"There isn't any room for me," Germany called back.
Austria shuffled up until England slithered on the floor of the police car, his blond head resting on Austria's lap. "Yes there is!" Austria said.
"Get in the car!" Russia said as Scotland revved the engine.
Germany grudgingly got in.
Austria grinned at him in triumph (the first time he'd smiled in days). "If I'm in here with these complete and utter fools on a one-way trip to hell then so are you!" he told him.
"Hell? No, not today!" Russia said cheerily from the front of the car, as if he were a tour guide.
At the hotel...
"How do I look, sestra?" Belarus asked.
"You look like a Disney Princess!" Ukraine said.
Belarus smiled.
It was true. She actually did. And there was a very good reason for this - the dress she was wearing was a (substantially altered) Disney Cinderella dress (adult size of course) from a local fancy dress shop.
Estonia had given up trying to alter the original disaster of a wedding dress and had rung the reception to get the address of a local 'dress shop'.
When he, the Italies, Spain and China (the latter accompanying them as an 'unofficial observer') had arrived at the address by taxi, they found it was a fancy dress shop.
Feliciano and his brother (who both thought they were catching a plane to Shanghai with China to escape Belarus' wrath) were excited. "Fancy dress! We didn't know this was a fancy dress wedding!" they'd both yelled.
Spain, who had followed the Italies, muttering that now he could have them both as his underlings, was also taken in. "Senor Estonia, I think fancy dress is a wonderful idea! I know just what I will wear for the wedding!" he had said, gazing at the many outfits on offer - particularly the pirate costumes.
"We don't have time for this," Estonia had told the Spaniard and the Italies who were all trying on various costumes. "We have just two hours to get her a dress…" Estonia had said.
"Who?" Spain had asked.
"Miss Belarus, stupido!" Romano had then said, hitting the Spaniard hard.
"Ah my little tomato, you are so cute when you are angry," Spain was looking at South Italy fondly.
"But there is no groom…" China had said.
"Yes… that could be a problem…" Estonia had said with some regret.
But Belarus seemed to have forgotten Arthur entirely. Or the presence of a groom was just an aside for her.
"I look like a proper princess!" she breathed.
Ukraine neglected to tell her that most of the male Nations called her 'Princess Crazy'. "Yes, dear, you do."
"Do you think Arthur remembered to get me a horse and carriage?" Belarus asked, twirling around and around. A plastic sparkly tiara on her blond head.
"Erm…" Ukraine had no idea.
England would not have been able to answer, he was laid with his head on Russia's lap out for the count. Which was just as well as he would have been horrified to find himself in such a position.
Austria was horrified enough for the two of them.
Russia, Austria and England were hiding in a cleaners cupboard in the depths of a ferry on its way back to England. At least Russia really hoped it was on its way back to English shores.
"It said Dover," Austria told Russia, trying to get as far away from the big Arctic Nation as he could. This was difficult in a room 2 metres square.
"Is that in England?" Russia asked.
"Ja."
"Do you like England?" Russia asked.
"It's okay. It's always raining and foggy though."
"Nyet, I mean Arthur," Russia said, stroking England's head. He actually thought he was stroking Russi-cat. Russi-cat was actually living it up with Scotland and the postman in the bar.
"He's an idiot. He was supposed to be my ally in the War of the Succession, and then he just left. He's a scoundrel."
"Was I in that one?"
"Yes, you were."
"Oh yes! Me and my army marched in and saved the day!" Russia smiled like a crocodile. He added, "As usual."
"Hmmm…And Prussia took my Silesia."
Russia sighed. They were all fed up of hearing about Prussia taking Austria's Silesia. Austria really needed to get over it. "It's been over 200 years, you need to get over it," he told Austria.
Austria tried to stand up, but as he was still handcuffed to England who was laid on Russia's lap, he couldn't. "Get over it! How would you feel if someone took your Silesia?"
"I don't have a Silesia," Russia said simply, glaring at him. His purple aura began to pulse.
"Okay then… your Siberia!"
"My son would never be taken. Nobody could take him. He is…" Russia considered this. "… Untakeable."
"I don't think that is even a word," Austria said.
Russia's aura pulsated around him. So much so that outside, the purple glow could be seen from under the door.
"Or perhaps it is," Austria said quietly.
Up in the bar, Scotland was trying out the selection of whiskys. There weren't many and he wasn't happy about the lack of choice as he told everyone.
"I'm no happy!" he shouted in a very thick Glaswegian accent. He dumped the tea urn on the bar. Russi-cat curled himself around the Scotsman's legs and then jumped on his lap. The ancient cat was usually quite discerning whose lap he sat on (he loved Latvia and Lithuania - the latter because he fed him, he imperiously ignored Estonia and had hated Prussia with a passion bordering on psychotic when Gilbert had lived with them), but he liked Scotland.
It could have been the tweed skirt, or the ruffles on the blouse. It might even have been the red hair or the smell of tea. Whatever it was, Scotland had an audience.
"This is not bad, and this is not bad, I suppose this is just average…" Scotland said as he drank down each glass of whisky.
"I thought you didn't like any of them?" the postman asked. He had followed Scotland as he didn't really want to be stuck in a cleaners cupboard with a half-naked Austrian, an unconscious Englishman and what he thought was a demon - Russia - who had claimed they were 'hiding'.
"There is no such thing as a bad whisky," Scotland told him, swilling yet another mouthful around. "Hmm… not bad." He offered a glass to the postman.
"I don't like whisky," the postman told him.
Scotland was appalled, "Ah that's because you've never truly tried!" he said and pushed a glass into the postman's hand and urged him to drink.
"Everyone drink!" he yelled. "Barman! The drinks are all on me!"
"Are you sure?"
"Aye!" Scotland grabbed the barman by his tie and pulled him close across the bar, "Are yer doubting my wealth?"
"No, it's just that…" the barman didn't want to argue with a mad Scottish transvestite.
"Is my money not good enough for yer?" Scotland pulled out his purse (pink) out of his Burberry handbag and began counting out Scottish notes.
The barman looked suspiciously at each note and was about to say something when Scotland leaned across and glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I think ye'll find that my money's just as good as any English twit's," he told him.
"Erm okay…"
Next to him, the postman drank his glass of whisky and began telling him about his working conditions and how under-paid he was.
Scotland, who had never held down a job for longer than two weeks in his long long life (he found there wasn't much demand for an alcoholic kilt-wearing man with a tendency to get into fights, although he had worked as a bouncer and a hotel concierge), listened in fascination.
Germany, meanwhile, had managed to put as much space as possible between himself and his fellow nutjob Nations. He was in a quiet booth in the bar with his paperwork (yes, he'd brought it with him).
"I will do this," he muttered to himself. "And there is absolutely no way I am going to that stupid wedding," he added.
He would be wrong on both counts.
"We want to wear fancy dress as well!" Hungary declared.
She was wearing a dreadful yellow dress. This alone was awful - frills did not suit Hungary. She could look regal in a dress (Austria could attest to that), but frills were simply a no-no. The colour too was awful. Or as Poland had said - it looked like a burst banana.
Lily's dress was blue. But it was a strange mauve purply blue that looked as if someone with a strange sense of humour had thrown Ribena over her. Perhaps they had. She was the only one resigned to her 'fate'.
Belgium agreed with Hungary and was already in the process of taking her dress off.
Latvia hadn't even put her dress on. It hung on a hanger in the room she shared with the absent Russia, while she stomped up and down in her combat boots, berating the bride's utter lack of colour sense.
The reason for their revolution?
The Italy brothers and Spain bursting back into the hotel dressed as pirates (Spain and Romano) and a Pope (unsure which one - Italy couldn't decide).
"Where's our costumes?"
"I'm not wearing this dress if they're not."
"Yeah, neither am I."
"I want to wear something else as well."
"I quite like my dress… but I would really like to wear fancy dress." This last voice was Lily's.
"I don't know, you might have to go and get your own!" Spain tried to tell them.
He was surrounded by four angry female Nations. Well, three angry female Nations and Lily, who was never angry, but was now quite annoyed.
Latvia held a metal pipe up, "Mr Pipe doesn't like my dress," she said threateningly.
"Time to go!" Romano said, waving a cardboard cutlass. He grabbed his 'Pope' brother and attempted to dash off.
He was stopped by Hungary. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Erm… we were thinking of…"
"I don't think so. You will tell us where you got these costumes from and take us there," Hungary said.
"Yeah. I'm not wearing this awful dress," Belgium said. The dress was now on the floor and she stood, not in her birthday suit (although she did have French influences and was sometimes wont to undress when drunk) she was in her underskirts and massive maternity bra.
The 'Pope' covered his eyes. "Mamma mia!" he cried.
"Have you no shame?" Spain asked, his eyes wide.
"Not really."
"I agree with Belgium!" Hungary cried. "We either wear fancy dress or nothing at all!"
"I'm going to tell Estonia!" Spain said.
China was watching all this from a corner, while drinking tea and grimacing (it was not good tea). "Europeans are crazy," he said.
In a Calais jail..
"Lou-Lou, I love you…" America muttered in his sleep.
(Lou-Lou was America's pet name for Belgium. It is unsure whether she would approve of this.)
"Se réveiller!" France yelled at America. (French for 'wake up')
They were still stuck in the jail cell. Although police (real ones this time) had come in, checked they were there and ran out - presumably looking for Russia et al.
"Reveal what?" America said, suddenly sitting up and looking much alarmed. His hair stuck up on end and his glasses were askew.
"Ah leetle Amerique, how cute he looks when has just woken up, eh Pierre?"
Pierre preferred not to answer. His career as a diplomat was surely in tatters.
"Where's Artie?" America asked, looking round bleary-eyed.
"Ee has been kidnapped by a ferocious scoundrel, a person of such diabolique and terribleness that I feared to do anyzing!"
"You hid under the bench, Monsieur," Pierre said.
"Zat as well."
"You mean…" America left this hanging, looking around him in amazement.
"Oui, I am afraid so…"
"Uncle Hamish was here?"
"Oui! I mean er non… but oui he was. But I mean Le Russie."
"Who?"
"Russia! Ivan!"
"You shouldn't shout like that, Francy-pants. He might hear you."
"He has kidnapped Arthur and we must rescue him!" France said, almost exhausted.
America frowned. "I thought it was you who had kidnapped Artie-dude and I was the one doing the rescuing?"
France almost exploded, but didn't, "Of course not! You need to keep up, L'Amerique!"
"Hmmm…" America frowned. "I ain't that stupid, Francy-pants," he said slowly.
"We need to get out of here and…"
"Where are we again?"
"We are in Calais, Monsieur America. Monsieur Le France kidnapped Monsieur Angleterre and here we are in Calais. Monsieur Le Russie and Monsieur Angleterre's very strange brother arrived and rescued him." Pierre explained. He was frankly quite sick of France's double dealings.
"Yer know… all those Monsieurs aren't necessary," America said, looking confused.
"Oui, oh and Monsieur Allemgane," Pierre added.
"I don't know who you mean."
"Germany!" Pierre said in exasperation.
"Yeah okay. But you need to stop with all the Monsieur nonsense."
France held his head in his hands. "Eeet eez all over," he whined.
"Well Artie should be okay if he's with Russia, his bro and Germany. Germany seems to know what he's doing," America said confidently.
"But… Le Russie is a demon from hell and I do not zink he will get Arthur back for his wedding," France said, omitting the fact that it was he who had first tried to de-rail Arthur's nuptials.
"Wedding!" America leapt to his feet. "I have to get to the wedding. I'm the best man!" he began jogging on the spot, doing star jumps and then push-ups.
France sighed, "What are you doing, mon ami? You are giving me a headache."
"I'm going to break us out of here, man."
"All of us?" France asked.
"Well, maybe not you, dude. You're a bad dude, dude," America said, leaping around the cell doing karate moves.
"You are ze best man?" Pierre asked.
"Sure am!"
"Eet eez incredible!" France said, flinging himself back onto the bench dramatically.
"I have a cunning plan," America told him.
"Oh?"
"Yes dude. I need to beat the holy roasting hell out of Francy-pants," America said, rolling up his sleeves and advancing on France.
"Aaaargh! Remember I brought you up! I nursed you! Well okay Arthur nursed you, but I helped!" France's voice could be heard throughout the police station followed by screaming. (France screamed like a little girl.)
To be Continued…