4th April, 2009; London, England
(Day following a G-20 Summit; England's London residence)
-
Somehow, the lamb is burnt on the outside and completely raw on the inside. England doesn't know how it keeps happening, because he always carefully ensures that his oven is pre-heated to exactly the right temperature before starting a roast, and follows cooking times down to the last second. Added to which, the peas resemble nothing better than green buckshot in consistency, ricocheting off the plate if a fork or knife is applied to them, and the potatoes, lumps of coal.
England has suspected for quite some time that his continuing disappointments in the kitchen – most considerable, he has noted, whenever he cooks for company; everything he prepares solely for his own consumption turns out perfectly fine – are due to the lingering effects of some curse or other that Scotland must have cast on him when they were younger. It bears all of his brother's hallmarks, being neither particularly painful nor overtly dangerous; just extremely annoying. Embarrassing England in some way rather than hurting him seemed to have been his goal most of the time: witness the three and a half months England's hair was indelibly stained blue, or the time when everything he touched swelled to several times its original size, something which had made pissing both physically difficult and mentally harrowing for the fortnight of the spell's duration.
Turning a pastime that England otherwise enjoyed into a trial fraught with frustration and potential humiliation was right up Scotland's alley, and it would have been bearable if it had been as short-lived as all of his other curses. It has, however, resisted all of the spells and rituals England has attempted in order to remove it, and he has simply had to learn how to cope with it. He has found that a certain amount of both brazenness and wilful ignorance goes a long way in that regard. If he acts like there's nothing wrong, if he believes in it strongly enough, then surely he can convince others of the same.
Unfortunately, it is one piece of magical thinking which has never appeared to work very well for him.
"For heaven's sake, just cut it here," England tells America, pointing at the most charred portion of his lamb, when he tires of watching the other nation stare down at his plate like he's not entirely sure what he should be doing with it, the knife and fork clutched in his hands notwithstanding. "And here." He points to the bloodiest part. "The bit in between is perfectly fine."
England follows his own advice with his slices of meat, and discovers that that leaves him with nothing but slivers which are little wider than his index and middle fingers pressed together. It's not a very inspiring sight, but one which would be improved, England's sure, by the liberal application of gravy.
He picks up the gravy boat, and tips it towards his plate. And tips. And tips. And keeps tipping until the boat is completely upside down. He shakes it, but not one dribble of gravy escapes. It just wobbles, set to the sides of its container like the most unappetising jelly ever created. England sighs, and scrapes a few shavings of the glutinous mass onto his greens with the side of his fork.
"Gravy?" he asks afterwards, offering the boat to America.
America swallows audibly, and shakes his head. "No, thanks."
"Tuck in before it gets cold, then," England prompts when America returns to eyeing his meal in silence once more. "I assure you it's not poisonous."
He places a large forkful of meat into his own mouth to demonstrate. It tastes of nothing but carbon and, oddly, fish.
"Though it could perhaps do with a pinch more salt," he says, reaching for the cellar.
Afterwards, America follows England's lead and adds a little salt to his own food, then attacks it with admirable gusto. Judging by his relaxed expression, he doesn't seem to find it too objectionable, after all.
-
-
England eventually manages to pry the sticky toffee pudding out of its tin, but it bounces when it hits the plate beneath it, dense and elastic as rubber.
And the custard, England's culinary nemesis of old, is more lump than liquid.
He surreptitiously shovels the whole lot into the bin, and then says, "I picked up some lovely biscuits at M&S that we can have with our tea."
-
-
Pour a little water from the kettle into the teapot, swirl, and then pour it down the sink. Switch kettle on again.
England finds the process of preparing tea incredibly soothing. Even more than drinking it, sometimes.
Add three teabags to the teapot – one for America, one for himself, and one for the pot – and fill with freshly boiling water.
During the Great War, France was forever poking fun at him and his brothers for their habit of reaching for their tea rations rather than something stronger whenever their trench came under heavy bombardment; how they sat clutching their tin mugs even as artillery shells roared overhead, and blasted earth rained down on their heads.
Put two cups and saucers – cardstock-thin and patterned with sprays of tiny pink roses – onto a tray.
The ritual of tea-making, the familiar rhythm, allows England to carve out a piece of calm – of home – from just about any situation, however; whether it be a trench under fire, yet another dislocated night spent in some bland and unmemorable hotel room, or an evening which has started off badly and England fears might only get worse.
Place a plate of biscuits next to them. (The biscuits are not taken from the original packet opened for Canada's visit, which had been discovered and devoured, but from the second that England had hidden at the back of the cupboard where he keeps his cleaning supplies; somewhere his other houseguests avoid on principle).
Back then, it had helped ease the shaking of his hands, if only for a little while, and now it occupies his mind and keeps it from dwelling on the utter fucking travesty of cookery he'd perpetrated upon a fine cut of British lamb.
Fetch milk to fill –
As England starts towards the fridge, he almost collides with America, who, for some reason, had been standing directly behind him; not even a foot away. England's heart makes a shocked lurch towards his throat – he hadn't heard America get up from his seat at the kitchen table, and so hadn't even thought to prepare himself for the possibility of him being so fucking close – and he hurriedly steps backwards until the edge of the countertop nudges against his spine.
"What the hell are you doing?" England asks when he manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Almost gave me a bloody heart attack to turn around and see you fucking looming over me."
"I wasn't looming," America protests, and to England's horror, he actually moves a little closer.
In response, England curls his hands around the countertop to halt the reflexive need to press them against America's chest. It is not, he thinks, a desire to pull him closer that fuels it, but quite the opposite. There's a certain weight to his presence that can't easily be explained by the inch or so of height he has on England, or the added breadth of his shoulders. He always makes England feel very crowded whenever he stands nearby, in a way that Scotland never does despite being half a head taller again than America, and almost twice as broad.
"I was just watching," America continues. "What happened to that metal doohickey you used to use to make tea?"
"The infuser? I don't think I could even tell you where it is. I barely ever drink loose leaf tea nowadays." England is unsurprised that America has never noticed that change; he doesn't usually take such a keen interest in England's tea preparations, after all. "Tea bags are so much easier."
"They were invented by one of my people, you know," America says, leaning yet further towards England until he can… Jesus, England can feel his warm breath fanning across his face.
England quickly snatches up the tea tray to use as a shield against any greater encroachment into his personal space. The two glasses of wine America had drunk before their meal have clearly gone straight to his head; whenever he's tipsy, he forgets that England's version of that particular concept extends far wider than most people's, and he's probably mere moments away from clasping England's shoulder or patting him on the back.
"I am well aware of that, America." As performing either of those gestures will likely result in America getting drenched in scalding hot water as things stand, with England's nerves already on edge, he thinks it's probably high time they move elsewhere. Somewhere he can ensure that America keeps himself at a decent distance. "Could you grab the milk for me, please? We can take our tea in the parlour."
-
-
When they were younger, America and Canada had seemed convinced that England kept his parlour locked whenever they visited because he used it to store some sort of fantastical treasure or other he didn't want them to see.
It has never held any treasures of the sort England's sure the boys were imagining, only those items in his possession that he liked to have on display, but that were fragile enough that he could not risk them being subjected any rough handling. Even now, he is loath to open up the parlour usually, because it houses the most delicate of his Spode and Derby porcelain, and the finest examples of the collection of agricultural paintings (or, as Scotland insists on referring to them, his 'Ode to the Rectangular Cow') he started amassing at the beginning of the nineteenth century during his gentleman farmer phase.
Unlike Canada, however, America seems distinctly unimpressed by his first visit to the room he used to be so determined to break into. There is none of the hesitance his brother displayed, none of the obvious fascination, just the blunt observations that the William Morris inspired wallpaper is 'ugly' and the Chippendale armchair he flings himself onto so heavily that it makes England worry for the integrity of the aged mahogany is 'uncomfortable'.
When the chair fails to collapse, England forbears to comment on America's thoughtlessness, and concentrates on pouring out their tea.
"I meant to ask earlier, but did your brother get off okay this morning?" he asks, handing America a cup.
"Yeah, but it was a pretty close call," America says, taking both the cup and a small mountain of biscuits before he leans back in his chair. "You know what he's like; we had to go back to the hotel three times to pick up stuff he'd forgotten to pack."
England chuckles as he settles himself into his own chair; close, but not too close, to America's. "I just discovered this afternoon that he'd managed to leave a few of his ties here after he stayed on Tuesday, which I presume explains why he was wearing that one with the shagging frogs on it yesterday. Could you let him know that I'll send them on for him?"
"I will." America grins briefly, no doubt recalling Canada's horrible tie and his unsuccessful attempts throughout the day at disguising the fact he was wearing it. "Hey, speaking of brothers, where are yours? I thought they were staying with you."
"They are, unfortunately." Thankfully, England's only going to be lumbered with Scotland for the weekend, but God only knows when he'll get shot of Wales, who had appeared on his doorstep a week before, fresh from being dumped by the latest in his long line of human lovers, and shows no sign of pissing off back home again in the near future. It's Wales' protracted visit that has necessitated England's unwilling use of his parlour, as his brother has taken to spending all of his time in the living room, and seems incapable of tidying up after himself whilst he's in his doldrums. "But they took themselves off to the pub at lunchtime, and no doubt they'll be making a night of it, too."
"So they're probably not going to be back any time soon?"
"I shouldn't think so."
America nods once, and then turns his attention to drinking his tea and munching his way through his pile of biscuits.
When he's finished both, however, he doesn't try to strike up another conversation; he simply stares at England, and there's something expectant in his expression that makes England slightly uncomfortable.
He is, England suspects, waiting for England to speak first for some reason, but he may well be waiting for some time if that is the case. England and America rarely spend any time alone with each other outside of those instances when their work demands private meetings, and, on the rare occasions they do, there is always something else going on that takes up most of their attention: a game to play, a film to watch, or cricket to explain, for example. There is never this, just of the two of them and an oppressive silence gathering that needs to be pierced. England has never been particularly skilled at talking for talking's sake, though, and every topic he considers raising would no doubt either die on its arse in short order or cause an argument. He and America have such differing tastes in so many things – films, books and TV programmes included – that it seems unlikely they'll find common ground enough for any such conversation to be a pleasant experience for either of them.
The tick of the grandfather clock at the far end of the room seems impossibly loud.
England hurriedly turns again towards the safe refuge of tea, taking his time over re-filling both their cups in order to prolong the moment wherein he doesn't have to resort to matters meteorological in despair; a conclusion he fears is fast approaching.
He is saved from it, however, by the sound of the front door opening. Even though it heralds the early return of his brothers, who will no doubt be paralytic by this point, it's a more than welcome distraction.
America raises his eyebrows questioningly, but England can only shrug. "I thought they'd be out longer, but perhaps they got kicked out of the pub. It happens a lot when they visit. I'm surprised the landlord hasn't barred them."
Unsteady footsteps echo down the hall, and then Wales appears in the parlour doorway.
"Well, I wasn't kicked out, but I wouldn't be surprised if Yr Alban is later, given the rate he's putting it away," he says, his words remarkably coherent. He actually looks almost sober, which is has become something of a rarity over the past few days; eyes clear and posture unbowed. "I couldn't keep up, so I thought I'd just leave him to it. Jim said he'd put him in a taxi if it looked like he wasn't going to be able to walk home, so he should be fine."
"Hey, Wales," America says, raising one hand in a lazy wave. He doesn't look pleased to see Wales, but not really displeased, either. Blank, England would call his expression if pressed, and not exactly welcoming.
Wales reacts by taking a step back even as he says, "Hi, America." He yawns exaggeratedly – obviously faked as its not even nine o'clock and Wales has been doing very little other than sleep when he's not drinking recently – stretching his arms up above his head. "Well, I'm knackered, so –"
"Why don't you sit with us for a little while?" England asks, clinging on desperately to the chance of escape offered by Wales' timely interruption. He's even willing to put up with yet another recitation of Wales' tribulations with Cerys and the pottery-class-bastard Rhys if it means he isn't left alone again with the silence that feels, oddly, like it's asking something he does not know how to answer. "I'll make another pot of tea."
-
-
Notes: This chapter is set the day after the events of Feel the Fear (part 32 of the series).