Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and its characters.
Acknowledgements: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, alerted, favourited: Forever Halfa, WinterLake 25, Frustration, Ankhasia Riddle, Kitty the Dinosquirrel, envysfangirl, PikoPiko-Chan, Silver FoxWolf, citrine sunflower, Canyon's Rose, chickenkitty, ZeroLuver567, Lady Sandra of Sealand, Tamarutaca, 101Icestormxx and all my anonymous readers. If I've missed anyone out, PM me and tell me off.
Warnings: Irate Austria, Pirate England, France, sexual innuendo, Scotland, long chapter
Chapter 8 - This Is War
Tuesday Morning
Vienna, Austria
Austria woke, irate and annoyed – actually his default mode. A weak wintry sun was just filtering through the virulent orange flowery bedroom curtains. Austria staggered out of bed ('double bed, ha!' He thought, 'I would say not' – he really missed his own four-poster) and banged into the vinyl-covered wall. He tried to carefully step around the bed, skidded on Hungary's silk underwear that pooled on the floor and stubbed his toe on the tiny fitted wardrobe. He stifled a yelp, worried he'd woken the sleeping Hungarian. She hadn't been in the best of moods the last week, particularly in the morning. Austria was worried she was going to leave him any day. It was only her presence that made his current miserable existence bearable.
The thousand year old ex-Empire staggered into the kitchen and attempted to switch on the kettle. He also, hoping that this simple act would cheer his ex-wife up, switched on the electric heater. He wore old stripy pyjamas, bed socks and a night-cap complete with tassel. He looked rather like Wee Willie Winkie. He located his glasses, put them on and looked out of the window overlooking the snow-covered grounds of his beloved estate. He hummed a small passage of Mozart to himself while he poured himself a cup of tea, however, what he saw out of the window made him jerk the kettle and water flowed over the cup and onto the floor.
"Nein!" He yelled and, completely flustered, pulled on his coat, tugged Hungary's pink floral wellington boots onto his feet, hardly noticing they were two sizes too small and hurried outside.
"Stoppen! Bitte! Nein! What are you doing?" he shouted, waving his arms in the air.
The builders ignored him. The huge digger continued its excavation and six feet of Austria's prized lawn was scooped up and dumped joining the rest of Austria's once coveted garden.
"Stoppen! My prized lawn!" Austria clambered down into the huge hole which almost came to his waist and was now at least ten feet wide and ten feet long.
The JCB driver stopped and the builders suppressed sniggers as the Austrian, still clad in blue stripy pyjamas, his blue velvet tailcoat and floral wellies (to say nothing of his nightcap) waved his arms around desperately.
"What's the problem?" the foreman said – a huge German by the name of Gustav (although that's not really relevant).
"Problem? Problem?" Austria's voice gained another octave, "This is the problem... a huge gaping hole in the middle of my prized lawn!"
"Orders," the foreman said simply as if that was the end of the matter.
Austria was really angry now, not that it took very much to make him angry. Sometimes just the sight of Gilbert's insolent face was enough to send the Austrian into spasms of rage. The builders had shown a complete and utter lack of respect towards him from day one and seemed to view him as some sort of comedy relief. On the other hand, after first wolf-whistling at Hungary and shouting at her to show them her 'assets', which had necessitated Hungary stomping over to them and telling them in no uncertain terms to drop their trousers and show her their 'tools', they'd treated Hungary with awesome respect and when she said jump, they all asked her 'how high?' and added a 'Miss' to be safe.
The wolf whistles had been transferred instead to Austria, particularly when he scuttled out of the caravan on a morning in his jimjams to procure the mail and the milk which was still delivered onto the mansion doorstep. He detested the builders with a passion bordering on mania.
"Miss Héderváry told us to do it," the foreman said as if that was the end of the matter.
This was another contention that Austria had with the builders. They called Hungary Miss Héderváry and treated her like a queen, whilst he was treated like a dim-witted nuisance and called him, to his shame, 'Woderwick' which they pronounced with a cringing lisp. He'd given up correcting them, he preferred instead to ignore them and pretend they would go away eventually.
The foreman nodded to the JCB driver to continue and Austria only just scrambled out of the hole before he got a metal shovel embedded in his head.
Dusting himself down he marched over to the foreman, "A hole? She told you to dig a hole?" he jabbed the man in the chest on each word.
"A swimming pool," Hungary shouted from the door of the caravan, "And stop shouting and get in here, you idiot."
The foreman grinned at Austria in what Austria thought was a very boorish manner, "This is not over," the Austrian vowed and turned to head back to the caravan, slipped on some mud and fell flat on his back. Ignoring the guffaws from the builders, and mustering up a thousand years of Hapsberg dignity, he straightened his coat and stomped back to the caravan.
Hungary waved at the builders, "I'll have lunch ready later, boys!" she yelled in a most uncouth manner, Austria thought.
The builders all waved back. It was hardly any wonder they did as they were told, Hungary was hanging out of the door wearing only a white lacy nightdress.
"A swimming pool? Liz? Why?"
"Because... it would be nice."
"I can't swim," the land-locked Nation said despairingly.
"At 1000 years old it's time you learnt."
"I don't like water. Swimming is just elegant drowning," Austria said pulling on his clothes.
"Now there's a thought," Hungary said.
The caravan door was yanked open after a very brief knock and Austria tried desperately to pull up his pants.
"Nearly there, Miss Héderváry! Heart-shaped?" The foreman asked, taking in her lovely figure.
Hungary nodded, "Oh yes, thank you Gustav. You're such a sweetie..." she answered and blew him a kiss.
The foreman leered at Austria whose trousers were still at half-mast and then slammed the caravan door shut.
"I hate that man," Austria groaned. Really there was no privacy to be had anywhere, the bedroom was too small to get dressed in and the rest of the caravan, apart from the bathroom where you could barely swing a cat, was open-plan.
"Shut up, Roddy, he's doing the swimming pool for free," Hungary said.
"Oh," Roderich perked up at this, "I suppose that's okay then."
Having breakfasted on croissants and coffee, Austria, now attired in more formalwear, i.e. his usual long navy blue coat, black velvet pants, waistcoat and cravat, but with one small difference, his green wellington boots, trudged through the mud to his mansion. He ignored the wolf whistles coming from the builders. One particular builder whose name appeared to be 'Mickey the Brickie' and had the look of Gilbert, in fact Austria could have sworn the impudent little swine was Gilbert's long-lost son, often shouted something witty at the aristocrat in an attempt to get a rise out of the irate Austrian. Austria wasn't disappointed, "Now then, are you going to play us some Chopin?" however, the insolent cur pronounced Chopin as 'chopping'. Austria cringed and strode on, he'd all but given up trading insults with such ill-bred and ignorant low-lifes.
Meanwhile in London, England
America woke up with a crick in his neck, slumped on England's couch with Daisy asleep on his chest. 'What on earth were they drinking last night?' he thought. He'd largely been drinking Budweisser whilst Arthur had been drinking vodka and Ribena. They'd had a game of monopoly, both getting drunker and drunker and arguing over the number of hotels Alfred had acquired and then England had started singing some weird songs about ships and sailing which he called 'sea shanties' and after that Alfred could remember no more.
Daisy jumped off his chest, he staggered to his feet and then he heard very out of tune singing emanating from England's garden, "We're going this way that way, forwards and backwards, over the Irish Sea... a bottle of rum to sooth my tum and that's the life for me!" the voice sang with gusto.
'He's still drunk,' Alfred thought as he wandered into the kitchen and attempted to plug the kettle into the silly English electric socket.
Belarus came in, she looked as rough as Alfred felt.
"Hungover?" Alfred asked her.
"No," she said, "Where is he?" she asked.
"Arty?"
"No... who do you think I mean?" she said sarcastically, "Ded Moroz?" Alfred frowned 'who was this dead Maury bloke', "Superman? Of course I mean Arthur, he didn't come to bed last night," she said worriedly.
Alfred opened the kitchen door and pointed outside. Leaping through it, waving a cutlass dangerously with no heed at all for health and safety, a feathered hat atop his head, a ruffled shirt, velvet pants and, weirdly, an eyepatch came England.
"Aharrr! Me merry hearties!" he exclaimed in a strange West Country accent.
"You're still drunk," Alfred stated, "What happened to your eye? Did you poke yourself with that sword thingy?"
"Cup of tea?" Belarus asked, she was relieved he wasn't in some sleazy hotel with France.
England swept off his hat and bowed to her, "Aye, you're a comely wench," he said and then suddenly he grasped her by the waist.
"Oh Arthur!" she exclaimed as he flung her over his shoulder.
Alfred shook his head, he'd never understand Europeans.
There was much yelling and shouting from the upper storey and Alfred put his hands over Daisy's ears. The ceiling light in the living room (which happened to be directly below Arthur's bedroom) swung dangerously.
"Hoist the main sail!"
"Oh Arthur!"
"Anchors away!"
Alfred put Daisy's lead on her and set off down the garden path, blushing madly, "Come on, Daisy, you don't need to hear your mum and dad doing... whatever it is they're doing... but I'm sure it's not sailing..."
Alfred was probably right, he was certainly correct to take a young puppy out of the environment. However, he did not get very far, in fact he got as far as the garden gate before a taxi pulled up.
A flouncing, Chanel-scented figure stepped out and shouted, "Well, au revoir, mon cher, it was nice to meet you!" and blew kisses at the driver who skidded away.
"France! Arty told you to bugger off last night," Alfred said, holding onto Daisy, who was growling menacingly.
"I know, but he needs me now, non?"
"Well, he certainly needs something."
"Ah l'Amérique," France stroked Alfred's cheek, "You are so very young..."
"I'm fed up of this. Everyone says I'm young and irresponsible..."
"So where is my petit l'Angleterre? I expect his heart has broken into two by zat 'orrible Belarus?" France rubbed his hands in glee.
"His heart? No, but I think his liver might be," Alfred paused and thought about the recent noises, "Or perhaps other parts of his body might be broken soon," he said as an afterthought.
"Liver? Je ne comprends pas?"
"He's leaping around dressed like Captain Hook and saying Yohoho and a bottle of rum or something..."
France's expression had gone from delighted anticipation to horror, "Non? You are sure? This was not meant to happen..."
Alfred and France stepped into the kitchen where they heard the unmistakable shouts of "Oh Arthur" and then "Captain Arthur Kirkland" and then ominously the ceiling light shook from the vibrations in the room above, a yell "Armada!"
France winced, "Mon dieu! Did he drink the vodka that I brought for Belarus?" he asked as peace seemed to descend finally over the house.
"Erm yeah," Alfred answered, "... with Ribena," he added.
"Sacre bleu!" France put a manicured hand to his head in despair, "Did Miss Belarus not drink ze vodka?" he asked.
"Nope, weird that. In fact I think she only drank water."
They were interrupted by the door being flung open and Belarus leaning against the doorframe. Her normally elegant dress was ripped in places, her hair was wild, her hair ribbons missing and a big smile on her face. She staggered and collapsed onto a nearby chair. "Oh my God!" she gasped, "He's an animal!"
Alfred and France exchanged glances, France looked extremely confused, "Arthur?" he said disbelievingly.
"Are you alright, Miss Belarus?" Alfred asked tentatively.
"Oh God yes, I'm going back up in a bit," she answered.
France shook his head, "Non non non! It was supposed to be..." and then he clamped his mouth shut quickly.
America and Belarus both looked at him suspiciously, however, before either could say anything the door was flung open yet again and Captain Arthur Kirkland leapt in, "You French vermin! You shall walk the plank! I will teach you to sink my Mary Rose!" 'Captain Kirkland' then launched himself at France, yelling, "Trafalgar!"
France squealed and ran, pushing America into England's wake before running into the garden.
"Excuse me, milady," England said to America (much to America's disgust) and dashed after France.
"What in the name of Lucas is going on?" America yelled to no-one in particular.
Belarus, realising finally that something was very wrong with 'her Arthur', probably the fact that he'd called her a 'comely wench' should have alerted her, along with being dressed as an extra in 'The Pirates of Penzance'. Sure, they'd enjoyed playing 'dress up' before but he'd always been endearingly gentlemanly and rather awkward. There'd been nothing awkward or gentlemanly about their more recent activities.
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," she said determinedly, "...and if that garlic-smelling fiend has done something to my Arthur, he will pay," and on the word 'pay' a large bread knife was embedded in the kitchen table.
Vienna, Austria
It was just as Austria feared, the painting was gone from his desk drawer. He checked and re-checked and then, running the gauntlet of sarcastic wolf-whistles (one of the builders had took to calling him 'liebling') he ran (or as well as anyone in Wellington boots can run anywhere) back to the caravan.
"It's as I feared, it's gone, Lizzy."
"Was it ever really there?" Hungary asked, stirring a large pot of goulash – lunch for 'her boys'. She'd quite taken to the builders, finding it highly amusing that they called her ex-husband 'Woderwick' and she frequently fed them lunch. She found it refreshing to have appreciative male company.
"What?" Austria asked, momentarily confused.
"It wasn't where you put it?" she asked, dipping her spoon into the pot and carefully tasting the contents, "Hmmm, more paprika," she murmured.
"No, I looked. I mean, it was tucked away."
"Well then, you're going to have to tell them," she said, pointing her spoon at Austria.
Austria sighed and began pulling off his wellies, "I know..."
"I mean you should have taken more care of it. Who knows where it is and who's got it?"
"I know. The trouble it could cause - it could be catastrophic!"
"Who's involved?"
"What?"
"Well, who's actually on the thing?"
"Oh right. Well, England..."
"Naturally."
"Spain, both Italies, Prussia, Germany, well I suppose he looked very different back then."
"... not that much different. Honestly, I can't believe I didn't realise," Hungary hugged herself, "It's so romantic. Remember, Roddy? How romantic they looked together?"
"Hmm... then there's Sweden, Denmark, France of course, the bloody fool, me of course, and you."
"Oh I think I looked absolutely brilliant. That armour was really good."
"Erm, yes. I suppose you were the only one apart from France who wasn't covered in blood, apart from Romano and Feliciano. If the world's media get hold of it, then that's it."
"Well... I suppose... You should have burnt it."
"Yes, but it was a Da Vinci! A Da Vinci, Liz! How could I destroy something so beautiful by such a genius?"
"I'm not sure I would call it beautiful," Hungary said doubtfully. "But your face on it is absolutely priceless though," she concluded. "France is such a twat," she added.
London, England
Hungary was correct in her diagnosis – France was a twat.
"It was not meant for him," France yelled, pausing between each word as he narrowly avoided England's sword.
"What?" Belarus' tone sounded horribly dangerous and sounded very much like she was going to spear the Frenchman on some handy kitchen implement.
"It was meant for you. You were to supposed to lose your memories and go back to your brother and I would comfort Arthur," France gasped, now getting out of breath as he dodged England's blows. "Aaaargh!" this last scream was due to Daisy's teeth sinking into one of France's buttocks.
Francis was now fighting on three fronts – England, Daisy and Belarus – and failing, his only weapon to hand was his curling tongs – fortunately or unfortunately unplugged.
Alfred, the self-designated hero, stepped in and pulled Daisy off and pushed her into the living room and closed the door.
"Mom! Dad! Uncle Alfie! That funny-smelling man should be bitten again!" she barked (in doggy-eze).
Alfred then lifted Belarus up and deposited her on a kitchen chair and took the knife from her hand. He then turned to England who had now sprung onto the kitchen table and was shouting "Aha! Me hearties, I am the Ruler of the High Seas and I'm going off to Portsmouth to get Blackbeard and Cap'n Henry Morgan and we're going to take Tahiti from this French scallywag!" He got no further, indeed it was doubtful if he would have got as far as the garden gate, never mind Portsmouth as Alfred did the only thing he could think of doing – he pulled Arthur off the table, took his cutlass from him, said 'sorry' and, with some regret, punched him out cold.
France giggled with relief, "Honhonhon, I will give him ze kiss of life, non?"
Alfred (Indiana Jones) F. Jones, without saying sorry and certainly with no regret, punched the Frenchman – possibly saving Francis' life as Bela, not knowing who to hit first and seeing France with a bleeding nose, decided to attend to the unconscious pirate.
"Arthur, Arthur, come back to me!" she whispered worriedly.
Alfred, his usual affable, easy-going self gone out of the window grabbed hold of France by the lapels and said, "What did you give him?"
"It was an amnesiac draught. It was meant for her," here France nodded nervously at Belarus who was patting England's cheeks. "She would have left him sooner or later anyway and gone back to her brother so..." he finished lamely.
Belarus leapt to her feet and grabbed Francis where it hurt. "I love Arthur. You had better reverse this or I am going to kill you and then when I am done I am going to ring Vanya and he will kill you again," she said, her eyes gleaming darkly.
France squeaked, it wasn't the first time his testicles had been manhandled by one of the Soviet Republics (it probably would not be the last). "I don't know how..."
"Wrong answer, dude," America said wisely.
Belarus applied more pressure "You had better find out how," she growled in his ear, "Because I am pissed off," and then she promptly burst into tears.
"Hormones," France said in weird high-pitched voice as if he'd just sucked on a helium balloon, whilst gently cupping his wounded balls.
"I think I'm pregnant!" Belarus suddenly burst out.
France and America jumped back as if an alien was about to burst out of her stomach.
Then the telephone rang.
"Arthur?"
"Nope, it's me."
"Who's me?"
"Who are you?"
"Austria."
"Dude Australia! How are you doing my old cobber?" America answered gleefully in a very strange attempt at an Australian accent. Really, it was a relief - things had gotten a little heavy around here.
"Austria Austria Austria," Austria shouted, "Not Australia. Oh for heavens sake, we are not in any way shape or form alike."
"Okay, dude..." America sounded deflated.
"America, we have a problem, is Arthur there?"
America was about to answer and then thought, 'hang on why does everyone ask Arthur, why is it always him? I'm the hero, I can sort anything out. I won the World War... well okay I didn't win it on my own... okay okay, but I helped, if it wasn't for me... why do they always ask for Arthur?' and then said, "No, he's indisposed, ill, unconscious and he's lost his memory."
At these words, Belarus burst into renewed sobs.
"Ooooh dear, that is a problem," Austria said. At his end of the phone he turned to Hungary and whispered, "I think Arthur's finally lost the plot." Hungary nodded sagely - it had been over-due.
"No, it's not a problem, because you have me – the Hero!" America said. Honestly, didn't these guys understand?
"Well, okay..." Austria did not sound too sure, "It's a code red..."
"A codered? What's a codered?"
"A code red, you know..."
France who was stood at America's side, having stemmed the bleeding from his buttock and his nose – the latter had cotton wool shoved up it (don't ask about the former) nodded "Ah oui, a code rouge."
"What? A rude code?" America was very confused now.
"A code red. A code red!" Austria was shouting now in despair. Many years ago – too many to count, they (the Nations that is) had come up with a series of codes and codenames for each other should they be captured by human enemy forces. However, code red was the highest band of code which meant that either the secret of their existence was about to be or was in danger of being revealed to the human world.
"War? This is it! I'll scramble the jets! That commie bastard thinks he's caught me with my pants down!" Alfred shouted excitedly, 'the cold war was just hotting up, fuck yeah!'
Belarus jumped up, "What? Big brother has declared war?"
"Pants down! Oh mon dieu!" France leered.
"Nein nein nein!" Austria yelled down the telephone. Hungary shook her head, "I told you to ring Spain first and then ring England... hang up..." she told him.
"999? What for? The Police aren't going to do anything? This is war, dude," America said.
"No, it is not war!" Austria tried desperately to speak slowly and clearly and use words of one syllable. "It is a code red, you American idiot. The painting of the Nations has been stolen and we could be found out. Our secret is out..."
"Oh ... that..." America sighed, severely disappointed. He'd already got images of himself garbed in his five star general's uniform at the head of a column of Sherman tanks rolling into the Rhineland to save Europe from communist rule – again. He sighed and handed the phone to France, "Boring..." he said, like a bored child.
An hour later found America, France, Belarus and England getting into a taxi for Heathrow. England had been brought round and dressed in more appropriate attire and although he was no longer singing sea shanties, he was instead talking 'weird rubbish' (America's words). France had been told in no uncertain terms by Belarus that if he so much as touched 'her Arthur' again he was dead. Belarus had packed for both her and Arthur and shoved various items of clothing into England's battered old suitcase. She had the bright idea that if he'd lost his memory then perhaps certain possessions of his could help bring them back. So she threw in old uniforms, various books, his wand and cloak and, under the bed she found what appeared to be a very old, ancient sword – its hilt covered in precious stones. So, with a shrug (she'd never seen it before) she crammed that in too.
"So zis is settled zen, mon ami? You will take over as Angleterre?" France had said to Scotland. They'd decided it was safer if England's boss did not realise that Arthur's brain had gone walkabout and that Scotland, being England's older brother should take over as the personification of the United Kingdom until England was more 'compos mentis'.
"Yer. Ahm Scotland and I've 'ad me Irn Bru. Jus' leave it ter me, Francey-pants," Scotland answered in his unintelligible Scottish accent.
"Oui. Au revoir."
"I'll see yer!" And so, Scotland was left alone to his own devices, in his new house, as the newly-appointed personification of Great Britain. You may not know, but leaving a Scotsman to his own devices is not always the best of ideas.
Suddenly, the phone rang. "Yer?" Hamish answered, forgetting about the 'Hello, you've reached the Kirkland residence, may I help you?' that England – that bloody Sassanach – usually answered the phone with.
"Congratulations! You've won our grand prize – a Caribbean cruise!" The caller said cheerily.
"I dinnae wan' ta goo oan a bloody cruise, tha can tak tha cruise an' tha can pess orf!" Scotland shouted, before hanging up the phone. "Gran' prize, whut a bloody joke. An' why would ah wan' ta goo to th' Caribbean? It's too bloody 'ot, an' I'm Scottish I am. I wanna goo back ta Scotland. If it's noo in Scotland it's not worth bloody gooin ter."
Scotland sat back in Arthur's armchair with Daisy on his lap, glowering at the complete lack of Scotch whisky in Arthur's house.
Author's Notes:
Stoppen – stop in German
Bitte – please in German
Nein – no in German
JCB – a type of digger or in the US, a backhoe
1000 years old – I think it states in canon that Austria's 'birth year' is 976. Although the first time the name Austria is used is 996. So as this story is set in the early 1980s he might actually be less than 1000 years old...
Je ne comprends pas – I do not understand in French
Sacre bleu – damn in French
Mary Rose – this relates to the sinking of the Royal Naval flagship the Mary Rose at the Battle of the Solent in 1545 when King Francis I of France (yes him) intended to invade England and engaged the Royal Navy under King Henry VIII of England.
Trafalgar – refers to the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805 between the British Royal Navy against the French and Spanish Navies. Britain won a decisive victory led by Admiral Lord Nelson, not one single British ship was lost.
Liebling – darling in German
Tahiti – an island in French Polynesia
Captain Henry Morgan and Blackbeard are both famous pirates
Portsmouth is a large port on the South coast of England
Lucas - refers to George Lucas - the producer of Star Wars
999 – the number to ring in Britain for the emergency services
Compos mentis – legal term for not of sound mind
Scotland – have given him the name 'Hamish', and I think in canon/fanon? he is the older brother.
Scottish translation:
Sassanach – Scottish term for English person
Irn Bru – carbonated soft drink manufactured and sold in Scotland
I dinnae wan' ta goo oan a bloody cruise, tha can tak tha cruise an' tha can pess orf! ... Gran' prize, whut a bloody joke. An' why would ah wan' ta goo to th' Caribbean? It's too bloody 'ot, an' I'm Scottish I am. I wanna goo back ta Scotland. If it's noo in Scotland it's not worth bloody gooin ter.
I do not wish to go on a cruise, you can take your cruise and piss off... Grand prize, what a bloody joke, and why would I want to go to the Caribbean? It is too bloody hot, and I am Scottish, I am. I want to go back to Scotland. If it is not in Scotland it is not worth bloody going to. (In English)
Please note I am not anti-Scottish – I do actually have Scottish blood and have lots of Scottish friends – and I am sure this is precisely how they would act. (I think Scotland is just England but with a Scottish accent.)
Sorry long chapter but I think pirate England deserves a long chapter
Next Chapter – a close shave, a rescue, an unusual alliance, Prussia and his most awesome van, DudeDen and Scooby Doo.