A/N: I think I might write some more historical one-shots rather than just sticking to modern times. What do you guys think?

Side notes: 'Tuaisceart' is pronounced 'TOO-ish-cart' and Pirate!England is awesome.

The year was 1707 and Northern Ireland was about to lose another five shillings to his sister.

"Straight flush," she said, placing her cards on the table with a cocky grin. "You?"

Ireland looked at his cards and grimaced. Truth be told, he had a two of spades, a four of diamonds, a Jack of spades and a nine of clubs, which, however you looked at it, could not be a more worthless hand.

More to postpone the moment of his inevitable humiliation than anything else, Northern Ireland sighed, leant back in his chair and surveyed the room. England was stretched out on the couch with a bottle of rum within easy grabbing distance, absentmindedly cleaning his disassembled musket and whistling a sea shanty Ireland didn't recognise under his breath. The entire living room - and most of the house, at that - was decorated with the spoils of his journeys around the world: a colourful Indian rug, a table carved from the enormous trunk of some African tree, cushions with a pattern that looked distinctly Caribbean. Ireland had never been to any of those places, but if his brother's stories weren't exaggerated (and he had a suspicion they were, at least a little bit, unless England really had fought off fire-breathing snakes in Argentina and rescued his entire crew from an evil witch-doctor in Tahiti) then he would like very much to go with him to see them someday. His boss would object, of course, but then his boss would object if he even knew he was here in the first place. Official relations between their countries had been sour lately, to say the least, but Northern Ireland still dragged his sister to reluctant meetings and awkward dinners. The way he saw it, they were far more likely to get somewhere if they could talk about things rationally rather than communicate through rebellions and uprisings.

"North? You listening?"

He snapped back to reality and looked back down at his useless cards. He sighed again, took a deep breath and prepared to hurl himself onto his proverbial sword.

Northern Ireland was spared at the last second by Wales, who slipped quietly into the room and stared at the carpet while he said, "Scotland to see you, sir."

England looked up from his musket in surprise. "Scotland? Why?"

"I don't know, he just-"

"Send him in," he said, sitting up and making a sweeping gesture with the hand that wasn't holding the dirty cloth.

Scotland, it had to be said, did not look himself. He had the same demeanor as usual, of course - chin raised, hands on hips, looking around the room as though challenging it to a fight - but there was something... off about him. His face was a little more gaunt than usual, his paleness more pronounced, his clothes discreetly but noticeably patched.

"What's up with him?" whispered South, leaning in so no-one but her brother could hear. He shrugged, but his mind raced with possibilities. Financial difficulties, maybe? He didn't look sick, as such, or wounded... maybe he'd just fallen on hard times?

"Scotland," said England, an easy grin spreading over his face. "Long time no see. How's that empire working out for you?"

Scotland did not deflate, not really. If anything, he puffed up and glared at his brother as though he'd just horribly and deliberately insulted him. But when he spoke, his voice was obviously restrained. "Hello, England. I'm 'ere on... official business."

"Official business? What sort of official business?"

Scotland stared at his feet, then at his brother, then around the room, then at his brother again. He shuffled his feet and said through gritted teeth, "Well... ye've got tae understand... I dinnae want... I mean, my people dinnae want... but my boss says..."

"Get on with it," said England, folding his arms and leaning back against the couch. He didn't know what was going on here, but he could feel that he had the upper hand in this conversation and he was enjoying it.

"Ineedaunionwithye," he said, so fast Ireland didn't quite catch it.

"Excuse me?"

Scotland took a deep breath and said very slowly, "I need a union. With... ye."

"A union?" England feigned confusion, widening his eyes in surprise, but Ireland knew what he was doing. He'd been expecting this for a while now - they all had. "Why ever would you want that? I thought you hated me."

"I dae!" he said defensively, staring his brother in the eyes. "Dinnae ye go thinkin' it's me that wants this! It's just my boss, ye ken? But... well... the empire didnae go doon so well. And noo... we're broke."

"Oh dear! Whatever happened to your empire, brother dearest?"

Scotland ground his teeth. "Panama... was a bad idea," he said, his voice strained. "The locals didnae want any of the wool we had ter sell, so we ran oot of money. None of the crops grew, and then..."

"And then?" prompted England.

"And then Spain decided he didnae like us colonising the same place as him and attacked us."

"But I imagine that was easy to fend off," said England breezily. "I mean, Spain attacked me a little while ago and I defeated him with no trouble at all."

Scotland was going to explode, observed Ireland. He was going to explode all over the living room and poor Wales would have to clean everything up. South would probably escort him back home before he could do anything to help, as well. "He's stronger in Panama," said Scotland slowly.

England opened his mouth slightly in mock surprise. "He defeated you? Goodness, Scotland, that must've been humiliating."

"And so," he soldiered on, ignoring the blond nation grinning at him from the couch, "I came home. Only... I spent every penny I had on that expedition. So... I'm broke."

"And you want me to bail you out," finished England.

"Not bail me out! Just... provide support."

"And bail you out."

"Nae! It'll be a partnership! I move in here and help ye with yer empire, and we share what we earn. Fair's fair."

"And what makes you think I want a partnership with you, Scotland?"

"Well, we already 'ave the same Queen. It willnae be such a big deal, really. We just need ter merge governments."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Scotland fidgeted, stared around the room and looked to the Ireland twins for help. Northern Ireland shrugged and South mouthed 'sorry' - there was nothing they could do. "Okay," he said, trying a different tact. "Ye've wanted ter get me under yer control for years. Noo's yer chance. I mean, ye even invaded a few centuries ago! Just because I beat ye then dinnae mean that-"

"You did not defeat me," said England, raising his chin a little and crossing his arms a little tighter. "I chose to withdraw after seeing what a frigid dump you live in."

"Chose ter?" Scotland couldn't suppress a laugh. "Tell me, dae ye still have that scar from Bannockburn? From when I shot ye in the-"

"I do not have a scar!" England's voice had gone considerably more high-pitched than usual and he was turning a bright shade of scarlet. "You know what, I've made my decision. I don't want you hanging around and stinking up my house. Now go away. Wales!"

The smaller nation stuck his head through the door just in time to have it slammed in his face by Scotland. "Noo just wait a moment! Ye cannae just leave me ter starve! I'm yer brother!"

"If you're going to turn this into a family thing, ask them," said England, pointing over to the table where the Ireland twins were sitting. South opened her mouth to protest, but Scotland didn't even look at them.

"Dinnae bring them inter this! I'm asking fer your help, not theirs."

"But you're not getting it. I think there's some spare change on the table by the front door - you're welcome to it. Now get out."

Scotland opened his mouth to make some angry retort, closed it, looked desperately around the room again as if hoping the Chinese curtains would jump to his aid, then spun around to stomp back out of the room. Before he could take the first step, something fell from his kilt and clattered to the wooden floorboards.

"What's that?" asked South, as Scotland bent to scoop it back up.

"Nothin'," he said, shoving it back into the leather pouch hanging over the tartan cloth. It promptly hit the floor again. "Ach, there's a hole in it, I knew it was-"

"Scotland..." England was leaning forwards now, interested. "What is that?"

"I said it was nothin'!"

"Well, it's too small to be a poetry book..." he mused, cocky again now. "Especially one of yours, since the writing would have to be really big if you wanted to read it. Maybe it's a token from a lady?" He paused, then burst out laughing. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Wait, did you steal the Irelands' lucky charms?"

"How many times, we don't have any lucky charms!" shouted South.

Scotland spun around, eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and hopelessness that made England's grin slip from his face in seconds. He shoved his hand under his brother's nose with the same ferocity as if he'd been punching him. "There! Happy?"

Northern Ireland couldn't see what it was, but he did see England's eyes widen as he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Then he heard South let out a tiny breath as they both caught a glimpse of it. It was a tiny bronze charm in the shape of a Celtic knot, expertly made but tarnished with age. England's eyes followed the single fine strand as it twisted and turned, over and under, until it met its own tail and left behind it an intricate, symmetrical pattern.

"Mum gave it to me," snapped Scotland, giving up on the pouch and leaving the knot clutched in his fist. He spun around and stomped back towards the door, but England stopped him with a single, "Wait." Both of the Ireland twins - and Wales, who had come in from the kitchen with a tray of scones but had frozen in the doorway - watched as England stuck a hand into the pocket of his ruffled shirt.

Northern and Southern Ireland looked at each other, then he put his hand in his pocket and she pulled out the chain from around her neck. On the other side of the room, Wales was reaching down inside his apron. And in the room full of exotic treasures and foreign mementos, five identical Celtic knots reflected the light cast by the Indonesian scented candles.

Northern Ireland remembered the day when Britannia had given each of her children one of these. He had been young at the time, his body and mind no older than eight, and Wales had been even younger. It was more of a sensory memory than anything - he remembered her smell, somewhere between roses, honey and salt, the red of her hair, the sound of her voice as she pressed it into the palm of his hand, closed his fingers over it and said, "I give you this knot for a reason, Tuaisceart." He hadn't known what she meant then, and he hadn't known any of the others had been given one. But now, in a sudden blaze of understanding that he saw mirrored in his siblings' eyes, he knew. She had given them knots to bind them together.

"Mum gave me one too," said England quietly.

"And me," said the twins in unison.

"And me," said Wales.

England looked at the knots held out around the room, then at his, then at Scotland's, then back at his again, and sighed. "I'll take care of the finances if you do the paperwork."

Scotland's mouth dropped open. "Does that mean... are ye..."

"How does 'the United Kingdom of Great Britain' sound?"

"It... it sounds grand," he said, trying his best not to smile too widely and failing. "I... I just... th... thank..."

"Yes?"

"Tha...nk God William Wallace isn't here to see me now."

Palm met face. "Yes, I'm sure you are. Wales! Find him some new clothes. He's not hanging around my house looking like that. And get him some trousers, please."

"Hey! What's wrong with this?"

"It's a skirt."

"IT'S A KILT!"

"It's a skirt."

Northern and Southern Ireland looked at each other once again and rolled their eyes to the heavens in perfect unison. Scotland and England unifying wasn't really going to mean less fighting at all, was it? Less wars, maybe, but living in the same house would mean a hundred times as many arguments. All Northern Ireland knew was that he was glad he and his sister didn't have to live with them.

More in an attempt to block out his brothers' voices than anything, he put his cards down on the table seconds before he remembered how terrible they were and winced. "You win, sis."

"Yay!" She grabbed the coins from the table and tucked them shamelessly into her petticoats. "Rematch, North?"

Scotland had England's pirate hat now and was claiming that if they were throwing out ridiculous clothes, this had to be the first to go. Ireland could feel a headache coming on as he gathered up his cards and handed them back to his sister. "Sure, why not?"

And as she shuffled, Wales ran for a cloth to clean up the now-spilt rum and Scotland and England wrestled on the couch, Ireland knew that he should be a lot more annoyed than he was. But, as he tucked the knot back into his pocket, he couldn't help but think that it sounded like home.