Worries For Another Day
Genre: humour
Rating: PG-13
Characters: America, England
Warnings: none really
Disclaimer: don't own the Fraggle Rock theme or Hetalia
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"There are Fraggles in your walls," England tells him seriously one day.
"There's what?" America stares at him.
"Quite a large and happy group of them, yes. I hear them singing sometimes in the evening when I'm visiting." England looks in complete earnest. America can usually tell when he's lying, and he's not stammering, not spiky and over-defensive, not looking at him as though he's only trying to believe he's stupid or crazy or the most exasperating thing in the world since France. He obviously believes he's telling the truth. America sighs.
"England, Fraggles aren't real. They're... they're just puppets. Puppets on a children's TV show."
"Oh, they're real all right," England says, sharply. "I keep finding postcards in your rubbish bin."
"What? What does that have to do with anything?"
"A bloody lot, actually." Oh, now he's glaring. "I don't know who this Henson fellow is, but he's obviously one American who still knows how to see things beyond the mundane. You can't tell me that Fraggles aren't real when I can hear them singing behind the walls and banging on the pipes and find postcards addressed to them in the rubbish."
"I can. This is my house and I think I'd know if there were little furry bug-eyed singing creatures living somewhere behind my walls."
"There's a great big hole in the baseboard in the guest wing that wasn't made by rats or mice."
"So maybe there was a badger infestation here once, I don't keep track of that sort of thing! There aren't any Fraggles, England. Honestly. You're really completely crazy, you know that?"
England throws up his hands and storms out of the room, muttering imprecations.
"I think you made that other silly creature pretty angry," comments a rather pompous voice from about knee-height. "Now don't you think you're being ridiculous? Even silly creatures, uncivilized as you are, should be able to learn how to get along."
"It's his fault for seeing things that don't exist in the first place," America mutters, and then something occurs to him. "Wait, what -?"
He looks around, and sees nothing. Then he looks down.
America's yell all but shakes the walls.
England pauses in closing the guest room door behind him, and can't stop a smirk, even as some concern enters his thoughts. "I do hope Travelling Mat wasn't too badly frightened by that great git..."
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