A/N: Sorry for the massive gap! It's exam time at school at the moment and science has the most difficult test I've ever encountered in all my years of high school. If I had any dreams of being a world-famous physicist I'd be kissing them goodbye right now. But I didn't, so that's okay. ^_^ Anyway, exams are mostly over now (just Japanese to go - I want to go back in time and sentence the person who invented kanji to death by memorisation of a zillion different tiny little formations of lines) so I should be able to post more regularly now. I've also got a one-shot planned for Halloween, so look out for that one.

Snow was relatively normal in the United Kingdom. Scotland was easily used to it and even the more southerly nations such as England and Wales usually dealt with it around February. It missed Christmas nearly every single year as a matter of policy, of course, but people still got disproportionately excited when roads were closed, school was cancelled and everyone got to spend a day sledding and having snowball fights. However, snow could often end up being more trouble than it was worth. When the weatherman predicted record amounts that night, possibly leaving people unable to open their front doors, the brothers of the United Kingdom knew that preparations had to be made. Scotland was sent out into the raging blizzard to head to the nearest Tesco and stock up on food and other necessities. All would be well.

If you'd told Wales and Northern Ireland that the next day would see them locked in the upstairs loo, traumatised and fearing for their lives, they would have laughed at you.

It all started the next morning. Northern Ireland was up first, as usual, and set about making breakfast. Bacon, eggs, baked beans, eggy bread (not French toast), all the regular things. Scotland had done remarkably well, considering last time they let him tackle the shopping on his own they'd ended up with what Ireland had preferred not to identify any further than 'glop'. He did spot a haggis at the back of the fridge and a few cans of Irn-Bru on the shelves, but that could be overlooked.

Wales was up next, still wearing his pyjamas and sheep slippers. "Did you see?" He ran to the window and almost climbed up onto the counter in his excitement. "Look, Ireland! We're snowed in! How cool is that?"

Wales was right; the entire house was surrounded by a good few feet of snow and pushing on the door was as useless as trying to convince Scotland to wear trousers. But neither of them were particularly worried about this. It was still snowing, but not quite as heavily as it had been the day before and besides, they had more than enough to keep them going until the snow melted.

It wasn't until England came downstairs that the problem was discovered.

"Brilliant," he said, spotting the steaming plates. "Thanks Ireland. Stick the kettle on, would you? I'm dying for a cup of tea."

Ireland did so. It was unwise to withhold England's tea; they had discovered that years ago and had vowed never to repeat the mistake again. Even thinking about it was enough to give any of them highly disturbing flashbacks. The kettle finished boiling; Ireland grabbed a mug from the cupboard, popped the lid off the tin and groped around inside it for a teabag.

It was empty.

"Scotland!" Scotland raised his head from his arms, still half-asleep at the counter. "Did you get teabags from Tesco yesterday?"

Scotland gazed blearily at him for a moment, his mind sluggishly working to comprehend the words his ears had just picked up, then he shot upright and his eyes snapped open in horror.

Icy chills gripped Ireland's spine. Wales nearly toppled off the kitchen counter he'd been watching the snow from. Scotland's mouth opened and closed in a series of rapid, silent apologies.

"I didnae... I dunnae ken... Can we still open the door? Maybe Tesco's still open? We could make some kind o' batterin' ram-"

"Oh, is there none left?" England seemed entirely unconcerned. "Don't worry about it, then. I'll be fine." And with that, he continued eating his breakfast without a care in the world.

They stared at him, slack-jawed. Northern Ireland was not relieved. As far as he was concerned, the storm had far from been averted. This was just the calm, the rising, swelling silence right before your house gets blown down. Still... it was best not to act too worried, right? Maybe England really had changed since... last time. Ireland shivered, forcing the images from his mind. Yes, it was definitely best to just ignore it. Distract him somehow. Keep his mind off it.

"I think we've got some Top Gear recorded," he said quickly, jumping to his feet. "There's that new special out now, isn't there? We should watch that! Watch them all!"

"Okay," said England. He put his plate in the dishwasher and Wales and Scotland practically tripped over each other in their hurry to turn on the telly. "Guys, honestly," he laughed, watching their panic with untroubled amusement. "I survived the Blitz; I can survive a day without tea."

But after two episodes of Top Gear, England was starting to show some alarming symptoms of withdrawal.

"Are you sure you're okay?" asked Wales, watching his brother concernedly as the closing theme played.

"I'm fine. Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? Never been finer," said England very fast, reaching for the remote with violently shaking hands. He aimed it at the telly and, after several attempts, managed to get his thumb to land on the right button to bring up the Sky menu.

Scotland, still suffering from a lingering sense of guilt, ignored his protests and took the remote off him. He started the next episode and put it back down on the coffee table.

"No!" They all jumped; England snatched the remote off the table and carefully replaced it in the bottom left hand corner, perfectly parallel to the sides and facing the telly. "There. Right there. Perfect. That's where it goes. See? Okay." He kept watching, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the screen, completely unaware of his brothers all staring at him in alarm.

"Um... Scotland, Wales, can I talk to you outside for a moment?" said Ireland slowly. "I need to... um... show you something..."

He needn't have bothered with the excuse. England was still gazing at the telly like it was the only thing that existed any more and didn't even move as the room steadily emptied around him. Once the three of them were safely outside the living room, every word began to overflow like a tsunami.

"I'm so sorry, I didnae mean ter-"

"This is insane, we can't keep-"

"What if he dies? Or turns psychotic? Or-"

"Everyone shut up!" Northern Ireland closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them and looked directly at Scotland. "You're the best at dealing with snow. We are stuck in a house with a potential maniac here; we need to get tea or face the consequences. Remember what happened last time?" Wales whimpered softly. "Exactly."

"What aboot the windaes?" suggested Scotland. "If we could find one that isnae frozen shut, I could get oot and gae from there."

"I think the one in the kitchen's open," said Wales. "I nearly slid it back a bit by accident when I was looking out of it at breakfast."

As Scotland ran off down the hall to try and force his way out of the kitchen window in desperate search of tea, Wales and Ireland looked at each other, steeled themselves, and went back into the living room.

"What the hell was that for?" England's head snapped towards them as they shut the door behind them in a way that made Wales edge ever so slightly behind Ireland.

"What was what for?"

"Slamming the door like that! Stop making so much noise!" The telly had been turned off now. England had his knees tucked into his chest and was rocking backwards and forwards very fast, glaring at them from behind his fringe with wide, haunted eyes. "You're so loud. All the bloody time, noise! Why must you be so bloody loud? Shut up!"

"I didn't say anyth-"

"SHUT UP!" But England wasn't talking to them any more, Ireland realised. He was shaking his head as if to dislodge a large amount of water from his ears, pausing, listening, then shaking his head even more violently than before. "Go away! Be quiet! Why can't you give me some bloody peace and quiet? I can't hear myself think!"

"Ireland," said Wales quietly, "what's wrong with him? Is he going to-"

"SHUT UP!" shouted England again. "Shut up shut up shut up! Stop making noise! Stop making... stop making..." He stared up at them, the colour rapidly draining from his face. "Oh dear God. They're coming."

"Who's coming?"

"THEM!" he yelled, launching himself from the couch and pulling the curtains closed with violently shaking hands. "Ireland, Wales, lock the doors! They'll see us!"

"We're snowed in!" said Ireland, his face a mixture of fear and disbelief. "And who's 'them'?"

"Them," said England, as though that explained everything. Satisfied that they were fully locked in - a thought which frightened rather than comforted the two nations standing by the door - he returned to the couch and resumed his rocking. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, shaking madly and soaked with sweat.

"England..." Wales was approaching him now, hesitantly reaching out to pat him on the back. "Please calm down... Scotland's out finding tea, it'll all be okay-"

"Tea?" His head snapped back up again, wild hope in his eyes. "You have tea? Wales? Tell me!" He grabbed his little brother's collar and pulled him down until their noses were inches from each other. "Tea?"

"No!" Wales panicked, trying to disentangle England's fingers from his pyjama top. "No, I told you, Scotland's out getting some! I don't have any!"

"No tea..." England turned and glowered at Ireland, who swallowed. "There's never any tea, is there? No-one appreciates it like I do. They let it run out, they turn it into stupid iced tea, they throw it in harbours like ungrateful gits..." And then he had let go of Wales's collar and buried his face in his knees, his shoulders shaking. "You were always so naive, you fool!" he hissed to no-one in particular.

"England!" Wales went to wrap his arms around his brother, but Ireland pulled him back.

"No, don't touch him! He's hallucinating."

"T-there's no point in firing, is there?" England was staring at the wall again now, speaking to someone who wasn't there. "Damn it... why... damn..."

All the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped back against the couch, head in his hands, shoulders heaving with dry sobs. But just as Wales was about to give in to the temptation to run up and hug him, his eyes snapped open and he leapt to his feet, all traces of sadness gone. "What are you doing here, Frenchie?" he shouted, sounding so sure of himself that Ireland almost looked around for France. "It's too late for you, you know. You've lost that country witch you were relying on - you won't be able to hold on for long now. Orleans gave you false confidence, I've always said it."

"Ireland?" Wales asked quietly, tugging on his sleeve. "How long will Scotland be?"

"I don't know," said Ireland truthfully as England's demeanour began to change once again. He was more relaxed now, confident in his superiority rather than wildly aggressive and warlike. It was a persona Ireland recognised; he gulped.

"So you dare to show your face here again, Spaniard?" drawled England. "Even after what I did to your armada? You can't fight me, you know. I'll always beat you. They don't sing 'Britannia rules the waves' for nothing." He paused, listening to something no-one else could hear, then his face twisted into a snarl. "You never can admit defeat, can you? Even when it's your own country at stake. How about this? A duel, one on one. You versus me. We'll settle this once and for all." And, without warning, he had grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace and lunged forwards.

"England!" shouted Ireland, darting forwards to grab his arm. Who knew what mess he could make swinging that thing around? "England, stop it! Calm down!" Ireland and Wales hung onto him as he struggled, shouting threats at his imaginary Spain, until his rage subsided and he stopped fighting. "That's right. Calm. Just breathe. Scotland will be back soon with your tea."

"Tea?" England's head snapped around again, his eyes wide. "I had tea once... Why is the tea always gone? Wait... You have it! GIVE IT TO ME!"

No matter how tough Wales and Northern Ireland could be, no matter what they had endured and how much faith they had in themselves and their people, when they saw a pirate-minded, tea-deprived, wild-eyed, psychotic England lunging at them with an iron poker swinging through the air like a wrecking ball, they ran.

Slamming the door behind them did little to stop him; his footsteps and battlecries were behind them as they raced down the hall and up the stairs, screaming at the top of their lungs, hearts pounding in their throats. Ireland shot through the first door he could see - the upstairs loo - held it open just long enough for Wales to hurtle past and slammed it shut, turning the lock and leaning all his weight against it. It shook behind him as blow after blow rained down on the sturdy wood, incoherent shrieks only slightly muffled as England suffered a complete psychological breakdown inches away from them.

"We're going to die..." moaned Wales as the door shook on its hinges. Ireland just stared grimly ahead, feet planted firmly on the floor.

A moment of quiet, then a loud splintering sound; Ireland and Wales looked down to see the poker protruding from the wooden door in the tiny space between them. Wales screamed, Ireland went white, screwed his eyes shut and started muttering prayers rapidly under his breath. The poker was pulled from the door and smashed against it again and again, followed by what felt like a shoulder as England hurled his entire body weight against the door, shaking it on its hinges and sending the two nations barricaded inside the loo staggering forwards.

"Hello?" came a voice from downstairs, echoing through the house like the words of an angel of deliverance. "I'm back! I foond tea!"

There was a long silence, then footsteps retreated from the door and hurtled down the stairs so fast Ireland was amazed he didn't trip and break his neck. Cautiously, tentatively, he unlocked the door and opened it a crack. England was gone. Still shaking as badly as he had been, Ireland clutched the banister for support as they made their way slowly downstairs. A few vases had been smashed, a few pictures knocked from the wall, all evidence of either their retreat upstairs or England's mad fervour to get to the new source of tea. But Ireland barely noticed.

They found their two older brothers in the kitchen - Scotland had climbed back in through the window and was still covered in snow. He was looking mildly shellshocked as he stared down at the lump on the floor. The lump, upon closer inspection, was England, curled up in a ball with a bulk pack of teabags clutched tightly to his chest. His eyes were closed in a state of comatose bliss. Wales threw himself on Scotland and hugged him tightly, almost sobbing into his shoulder. Ireland had to restrain himself from doing the same. In that moment, they were sure they owed Scotland and his impeccable timing their lives.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "I went tae Tesco, but it wasnae open 'cause o' the weather, so I had to gae lookin' fer a shop and it wasnae easy with all the snow aroond, I can tell ye. I ended up findin' this warehoose that wasnae too closed, but they only sold this kind, and only in these great bulk packets. It's nae his favourite kind, but I thought it'd dae."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," said Ireland, looking down at England, who was now unconsciously sucking the corner of the pack. He decided not to question exactly what 'too closed' meant - they were alive, and that was what mattered. England looked comatose enough... Ireland bent down and attempted to gently disentangle the bag from his grip. England's eyes didn't open and he didn't regain consciousness, but the hiss that ripped its way through the air was terrifying enough to make all three of them jump backwards in fright.

Eventually, Wales managed to sneak a teabag from the corner of the packet without shifting it in his grip and being detected as an enemy to be mercilessly destroyed. Scotland picked him up, still being careful not to touch the bag, and took him back to the couch in the living room. And Ireland, watching his limp, drooling brother be carried from the kitchen, was able to breathe a sigh of the kind of deep, soulful relief that comes when you have narrowly avoided death and now see your remaining life stretched endlessly before you, as he pressed the plastic button and heard the most beautiful sound in the world:

The sound of a boiling kettle.

A/N: I wrote this while drinking tea. ^_^ It's freaking life-juice, people!