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"Oi! You, get up!"

England frowned, squirming away from the persistent nudging. "Charlie, come on…ten more minutes…"

Unfortunately, he was successful. Too successful. He managed to squirm his way off of the bar stool, and fell victim to a three foot fall, which was enough to wake anyone up. (Except for maybe a certain Grecian.)

Raucous laughter filled the ears of the now very awake prince. Very obnoxious laughter, truly. It made him want to punch the living daylights out of whoever the rude bastard was.

In fact he was just about to, but a sudden dagger of pain in his head impeded his efforts. Ouch. It had been along while since England had a hangover quite this bad. And even longer still since he'd awakened in a bar: he was royalty, usually his family had someone sent to pick him up. They couldn't just have their crown prince laying around in some godforsaken tavern. That wouldn't be good for their reputation. Not at all.

Deciding the pain had finally reached a somewhat tolerable level (he had had worse, much worse, just…not since he'd challenged his brother to a drinking match.), England cracked open his eyes. He was met with a very odd sight.

A dwarf. But no, it wasn't quite a dwarf. More like a midget, perhaps. England couldn't quite remember the distinction between the two in his current state. Or which was which. Though, this one didn't seem to quite be either. And this could all be some weird dream. England wouldn't put it past himself at this point.

The midget, dwarf, elf…whatever. The thing was still laughing uproariously. You'd think he'd never seen a person fall off a chair before, for a 'he' it most certainly was, whatever its species.

"For God's sake, put a sock in it!" England yelled, clutching his temples at the re-lash. "What in the bloody blazes is your problem? I fell off a damn stool…I fail to see what's so bleeding funny about that!"

The thing stopped then, giving the prince an impish smirk. His blood red eyes only accentuated the expression. "It never gets old…seeing idiots like you make fools of themselves."

"Pardon me?" England sat up fully, eyes narrowing in furious irritation. Hangovers put him in a bad enough mood as it was without having to deal with something like this. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"A hung-over Brit without a sense of humour?" the other responded, before going into another bought of laughter at his own joke.

England's eyebrows twitched.

"Oh, whoa…I think those caterpillars on your face are awake."

And continued to twitch for good measure.

"Dude, seriously…you might want to have those looked at."

"Just…bugger off," England buried his head in his hands, groaning. "Don't you have anything better to do? A life or something?"

"I do, actually," the thing walked over, sitting down next to him. Standing up, the thing had been a foot or so taller than England sitting, on the floor. Now he had to look down considerably to see him. Not that he wanted to. Blasted prick. "I'm looking for West, my little brother. You haven't seen him, have you?"

" 'course not," the Prince mumbled into his hands. "How would I bleeding know?"

"He's a little taller than me…blond," a pause, presumably as the thing pondered a better description. "Looks like he has a stick shoved up his ass."

"…" England ventured a glance at the thing. "Can't say I have seen him."

"What's your story, then?" the thing inquired. "Unless you really are just a useless drunkard."

"I…am a prince," England announced, drawing himself up regally as best he could in his current state. The thing began laughing hysterically, and the glare from the prince only made him laugh harder. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Sorry," the thing managed to say, between fits of giggles. How sincere…

"I was supposed to have a date last night," England finished.

The thing nodded with a surprising amount of sympathy. "Got stood up? That blows."

"No, you don't…" England's breath hitched a little. It was definitely not because he was about to cry. He was not! "He…he wouldn't do that. I know he wouldn't."

"So…do you think there's kidnapping involved?" Was it just England, or did the thing's ears perk up a little at that? "We should join forces: accept! You should be grateful that I am bestowing my awesome aid upon you!"

"Hang on…" England tried his best to massage the headache away, to little avail. "Give me three good reasons why I should let you tag along with me."

"That's easy: without me, your search is doomed to failure. My awesome tracking skills are AWESOME!"

"I think that's a bit redundant—"

"Due to my awesome powers of investigation, I have a lead on my brother's location!"

"And how does that benefit—"

"AND…" the thing paused for dramatic effect, holding a finger up. "I can cook!"

"…"

"What do you have to say to that? Has my awesome argument left you speechless? Kesesesese…"

"Fine," England gave in, knowing he would dread this not too long from now. But the promise of good food was too good for him to ignore. "On one condition, you quiet down a little. This hangover is bleeding terrible." He groaned.

"Not to worry!" the thing leapt to its feet, rushing off into the kitchen, past the disgruntled (and rather flummoxed) bartender.

England looked at the doorway with a mixture of apprehension, curiosity, and relief. Sighing, he flopped back on the floor, determined to make the most of his few moments peace, not knowing how long it would last.

Much to his dismay, it lasted scarcely a few minutes. The thing came rushing back in, clutching a glass of…something. Whatever was in the container looked questionable at best.

"Drink this!" the thing commanded, thrusting the receptacle at the prince.

Catching a whiff of the substance, England blanched. "What on earth is this?"

"Surefire cure for hangovers!" the thing elaborated enthusiastically. "Made by my awesome self!"

England prodded the substance dubiously. Prodded, because it was quite solid enough to be worthy of the action. It had the consistency of cold mud, and didn't look much tastier, with several…unidentifiable objects mixed into it. Every ounce of common sense was screaming as the Brit not to drink it.

But he had to rescue Snow White. He could be in mortal peril at this very second: the very thought caused something inside of the Prince to twinge, very painfully. He needed to rescue the Prince(ss), and there was no way he'd be able to do so in his current state, immobilized by his hangover and all.

And so, bracing himself, he threw his head back, and chugged. The taste was even more fowl than he had been anticipating. It was some sort of strange, horrible mixture between rotten eggs, spoiled milk, decomposing fish and…just generally revolting. There was really no way to describe it.

He felt about ready to throw up there and then, but continued on stolidly. Doing this was necessary, for himself, and for Japan! So he finished the concoction, gagging every time an inexplicably lumpy portion passed down his throat. His relief at finishing the goop was indescribable. And people said his cooking was inedible. He'd have to get some of this stuff to show them, as a comparison.

But, low and behold…it worked, and really well. The Prince could already feel the throbbing pain start to fade from his skull.

"So?" the thing prompted, a self-satisfied smirk already stretching across his lips.

"It's working," England admitted, grudgingly. "…Thanks."

"I knew it would!" the smirk only grew larger, impossibly enough. "Let's go!"

"All right," England got to his feet, depositing the glass on the counter, before following the thing out of the door. Time to leave the poor bartender in peace. England almost envied him. He had a feeling the concoction had not been the end to the gigantic headache that would be his trip with this…thing.

Mentally, he berated himself. In all his exasperation, pain, and disgust, he had forgotten to so much as ask the thing's name, much less…what exactly it was.

Bugger it all.