England had not been downstairs in a long time. Shortly after America's banks had collapsed some weeks ago, he had disappeared into the dark recesses of his office and hadn't left since. The rest of them had learnt a long time ago that he didn't appreciate being interrupted while he was working and they had the sense to leave him alone. Wales took it upon himself to bring him meals three times a day, so it was only Wales that ever saw him any more.

"You know, I'm a bit worried about him," he'd said one day, when the three brothers were gathered around the telly. The news - the only programme they all agreed on watching - was telling them all grimly about the economic recession. The pound was at its lowest value since the Great Depression and unemployment was rising sharply nationwide. "He doesn't look very well. I think he's overworking himself."

"Ach, serves 'im right fer takin' on most o' the UK's economy," said Scotland, leaning back on the couch.

"He's doing it for our benefit," said Northern Ireland. He was staring at the telly like a hypnotist's pocketwatch.

"He's doin' it 'cause he's a bloody control freak."

Wales sighed. "I just worry about him sometimes, that's all."

"Don't upset yourself," said Ireland. "He can take care of himself. This recession'll be over soon and he'll be back to normal."

"I cannae wait," said Scotland, the dripping sarcasm practically making a puddle on the carpet.

Despite his laid-back attitude towards it all, the year hadn't been particularly kind to Scotland either. He had much more paperwork to do and many more problems to sort out than usual, to the point where his free time was limited. But he had never been one to let problems weigh him down - or even to acknowledge problems at all if they didn't suit him - so he always found time to come downstairs and relax in the afternoon. It certainly would never have even occurred to him to miss a meal. Wales and Ireland were busier than usual as well, but he still saw them around the house and they still had their meals and telly nights as usual. But the weeks began to roll by and he still didn't once see England's face.

Pure dead brilliant, he thought, stretching out on the couch and flipping the channel to a rerun of Braveheart, his favourite film. I dinnae have to put up with that stuck-up crabbit.

That was, until the remote broke.

Scotland frowned at it and stabbed at the 'volume up' button again. It was one of his favourite scenes and he couldn't hear a thing! How was he supposed to reminisce about the sacking of York without the proper soundtrack? He prised the back off the remote and flipped the batteries around, just in case - still nothing.

"I'll gie yer a skelpit lug, yer wee scunner," he muttered, hauling himself up off the couch. England was the one who dealt with the electronics around the house - Scotland had a feeling he didn't know much more about them than the other three, but he was the one that most often succeeded in intimidating their various machines into doing his bidding. And so, still insulting the remote under his breath, he climbed the stairs and dragged himself down the corridor to England's office.

The first thing he noticed as he pushed the door open was just how dark the room was. How was anyone supposed to work in that kind of light? The only source of illumination in the gloom was a small lamp on the desk, casting dim shadows across the mountains of paperwork. And there were mountains - England's desk, usually at least passably neat, was overflowing. His in-tray was piled high, his rubbish bin was spilling scrunched-up paper all over the floor and the polished oak of his desk was invisible under a carpet of forms, reports, memos and unopened envelopes. Even Scotland, whose desk looked like the abominable snowman on the best of days, was surprised.

"England," he said, waving the remote. "This bloody thing willnae work and I dinnae ken how ter-"

"Go away, Scotland. I'm busy."

But Scotland was too busy staring open-mouthed at his younger brother to go away. England had turned around in his chair to face him and he looked, quite simply, like death warmed up. His hair was sticking out at odd angles where he'd run his fingers through it and his clothes looked like they hadn't been changed in days. His skin was pale - paler than usual - but his eyes were what shocked Scotland the most. They were dull, not the usual bright green that ran in the family, and half-closed like they wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Shadows too extensive to have been entirely caused by the lamplight hollowed out his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes made it look like he'd been punched twice in the face.

"Yer pure done in, arenae yer?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, turning his chair back around and picking up his pen. "I can handle this. I don't need your help."

"Yer gunnae make a mistake if yer this knackered."

"I'll make a mistake if you don't stop bothering me."

Scotland sighed. England was always so grumpy when he was tired. Actually, he was grumpy most of the time, but tiredness definitely enhanced that part of his personality. He didn't want someone that grumpy managing the UK's economy. Before he knew what he was doing, Scotland had strode across the room and snatched England's pen right out of his hand. Ignoring his cries of protest, he grabbed his little brother around the waist and lifted him up onto his shoulder in a fireman's hold.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled, incensed. He writhed and squirmed in outrage, beating his fists against Scotland's back, but Scotland kept his grip easily. "Put me down right this instant or I'll... I'll invade! I swear I will!"

Scotland ignored him. It was easy; he had plenty of practise at it. As he walked down the corridor, England's kicking and screaming became slower and quieter. He went from shouting threats of violence and curses of both the verbal and magical kinds, sometimes at the same time, to mumbling vaguely, accompanied by the occasional jerk of the leg or weak slap.

"Put me... I need to... recession... I..."

"Yeah, yeah," Scotland reached England's bedroom. He kicked open the door, crossed the room and dropped the exhaused nation onto his bed. He pulled the duvet up before England could do anything stupid like getting back up again, effectively trapping him in there.

"Now yer get some sleep, yer hear? If I see yer back in yer office before tomorrow mornin' I'll make yer wish yer'd never woken up."

"Scotland..." England's eyes were closed now. His eyelids fluttered occasionally, like they wanted to open but didn't have the energy.

"And when yer do, let us dae some o' the work. We're nae complete dunderheids, yer ken."

"Tha... thank..."

And then he was asleep.

Scotland turned off the lights and shook his head. It took a global recession and weeks of twenty-four-hour workdays to get even half a gesture of appreciation out of him? Sometimes he didn't know why he bothered.

"Dinnae let the bedbugs bite." He stepped out of the room and shut the door gently behind him. Maybe it wouldn't kill him to relive his favourite memories quietly.

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