Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and its characters.
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Warnings:None!
Chapter 18 - Doctor, Doctor!
Still Wednesday pm
Vienna, Austria
"I say we go to this auction room house thingy and get this painting and get the hell out of there. Hell yeah, who's with me on this?" The speaker was of course Alfred. He punched the air, pulled out his Colt 45 and fired a few bullets into the ceiling to force the point home. Not that he needed to.
"Mein Gott! More plastering to do... the bill for repairs is already..." Austria pulled out his calculator and started tapping in numbers.
"I mean, old chap, was that necessary?" England sighed "And take that bloody hamburger out of your mouth!"
Alfred ignored them. This was brilliant, finally, he thought, some action. They could storm the building – this prissy poncy art auction house – in full combat gear, balaclavas, toting carbine machine guns, it would be brilliant. Just like that Rambo movie. "I'll be Silvester Stallone!" he yelled.
"Yes, that makes sense," England sighed again, "Because he can't bloody talk properly either."
"Right! Who's with me?" America looked around the conference table. His chances of putting together a crack special ops team were not looking favourable (cracked maybe).
Austria was wiping his glasses and reviewing the figures on his calculator with a sigh. His floral wellington-booted feet were crossing and uncrossing themselves under the table and he beat a stoccato rhythm on the conference table – a sure sign of his irritation.
Italy was gazing happily out of the window. The small Italian's happiness cup had been overflowing of late. His long-lost love and his present love were one and the same and had undergone such a personality change that could only be described as remarkable in the extreme. Going from a snappy, uptight, un-romantic stern man who often yelled at Feliciano to get off his lap, to one who was quite happy to sit for hours whilst Italy braided his hair whilst reciting Italian love poetry to him – all activities that would cause his younger brother, Prussia, to choke on his own awesomeness.
France was twirling his hair in his long, elegant fingers and gazing with obvious lust at his fellow Nations – particularly Germany who was happily oblivious.
England was stirring his cup of tea, his spoon clanking against the cup –which wasn't bone china – much to his disgust (honestly these foreigners) and looking thoroughly irritated.
The only tough-looking Nations present – Belarus and Hungary – were sat whispering and muttering about the stupidity of the assembled male Nations.
America stood up and put one foot on the conference table and put his hands on his hips in what he thought was his best 'Hero' pose and yelled, "Right, are we men or mice?"
Italy put a hand up, very pleased he had what he thought was the right answer, "Pick me, pick me!" he said.
England tutted, "Get your bloody boot off the table. What have I told you? Honestly, anyone would think I brought you up in a bloody barn."
"Dude... chill..." Germany said.
"Honhonhon, you look very erm... how shall I say... effeminate, non? With your hands on your hips?"
"We're Nations!" Italy shouted, delighted he knew the answer.
"We're going to this poncy place and we're gonna get that painting thingy-ma-jig back. Who's with me?" America yelled. (However, he did take his foot off the table.)
"Well, I suppose we should. This is going to be a disaster. I can bloody feel it in my water," England said.
"Get with it, Arty dude. In World War 2 you were all keen to get stuck in. Remember D-Day, dude? That was awesome?"
England stood up, stretched his back. He really felt he was getting too old for all these 'shenanigans'.
"Oh yes, I am with you, Alfred. It will be fun, non? But first, I have some business in Vienna..."
"You're not getting out of this, frogface. It's your bloody fault we're all here. By rights I could be sat at home watching the football on the telly. You can come along and bloody well help. And if we need to buy that bloody thing back you can bloody well stick your hand in your bloody pocket and use some of that money you've got instead of wasting it on tarts and wine." This was a long rant from England, even for him and everyone looked up.
"Ah sacre bleu! It is wonderful that you are yourself again mon Angleterre! But I spend all my money on wine, women and song... and I waste the rest! Honhonhon!" France giggled.
"Are you with us, dude Austrialasia?"
"Was? Austrialasia? What is that? It is AUSTRIA, AUSTRIA, AUSTRIA! Mein Gott, how difficult can it be? You do not get England mixed up with Scotland or Germany with Prussia or France with ... with..." Austria ran out steam and sat down, took off his spectacles, wiped them and glared at America with as much passive-aggressive irritation as he could.
"Nobody can mix up France with anybody, bloody pervert... I mean is there really anybody he won't have a go at?" England muttered to himself and slurped his tea noisily.
"Dude, I'll take that as a yes," America all but yelled in England's ear making the Englishman spill his tea.
"Sodding hell..."
"Italy dude are you with us? And your weird boyfriend, gender-neutral German thingy?" America yelled at Feliciano.
Italy, who had not been listening, looked up, smiled at Germany's quiet contemplative puffing on his 'magical' cigarette and nodded enthusiastically, "Si, I will bring the white flags!"
"Right... hell yeah. Girly Nations can stay here. Smoke me a kipper, I'll be back for breakfast!" America punched the air, zipped up his aviator jacket, pulled on his sunglasses and stomped out. He thought his rousing speech was very General Patton-like and that should get his 'troops' moving.
Belarus said something extremely rude in a smatter of Russian and Belorussian which roughly translated as 'Go and stick this large cucumber up your very fat backside'.
"Girly Nation?" Hungary growled and she smacked Austria on the arm, "And why don't you stick up for yourself more? You're useless..."
"What's the point? I mean really..." Austria stuttered. He honestly felt he was too old for all this.
England would have agreed with him on this point. He just wanted to be back home, in his favourite armchair, Daisy on his lap, Belarus snuggled next to him, while he drank his tea and watched Manchester United on the telly. 'When could a Nation get a day off?' he thought.
Italy pulled Germany up from his seat and, together, holding hands, they skipped through the door.
Austria and England shared a 'look'. Neither could quite believe what they were seeing.
"Bloody hell! He wasn't like that in the bloody War... I mean bloody hell... skipping around with bloody daisies in his sodding hair... bloody Jerries would have kicked him out of that Panzer tank regiment," Arthur concluded.
Austria just shook his head, "Why does it always come down to the War? Oh, I give up..." Austria sighed heavily, "I hope this isn't going to take long, I have a concert to attend tonight. It's Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 22 by that pianist..." here Austria trailed off as France sniggered.
"Honhonhon, I lurve the word pianist, non? It sounds like..." France was kicked out of the room by England.
"Bloody move you idiot frog and let's get this sodding painting back so I can get back home."
Hungary and Belarus exchanged looks.
"Phew, now they've gone, let's go into the city and see the doctor about your predicament," Hungary said to Belarus.
"I may not be ... but I feel as if I am..."
"You might just be late?" Hungary said to her fellow female Nation. "I mean really? Arthur? I sometimes wonder..." she let the comment hang.
Belarus was clearly ruffled by the implication, "My Arthur is more than capable! And I know my own body, Elizaveta. I am in tune with my rhythms..."
Hungary shuddered at this, "Well, okay, okay, calm down, we'll go and see Doctor Pumplenicklestein. Roddy goes to him all the time. He even has an account with him. He must be good if Roddy sees him... come on and we'll find out for sure before you land Arthur with a huge bombshell."
"You think it's a bombshell?" Belarus asked, following Hungary out of the door, fingering her favourite knife in the pocket of her dress.
Hungary decided not to answer that. In her head, England was a stick-in-the-mud older male Nation who liked his comforts, his slippers, and his cocoa. She doubted if the 1000+ year old Nation was going to be all that chuffed about having a screaming half-Belorussian knife-wielding toddler dribbling all over his best china.
Belarus' eyes filled up again – for the fourth time that day.
Bonn, West Germany
Another meeting. However, this one was a serious affair. There were no rattling cups of tea, no 'honhonhons', no floral wellington boots, no 'Hell yeahs' and certainly no jokes or innuendo.
A German Government official read out a medical document to the six delegates around the table.
"Multiple personality disorder, severe degree of psychosis with a tendency to lapse back to the sixteenth century and claims he will make all the other Nations bow to him and him alone. He has ranted about Austria being a knock-kneed fool and France being a lying pervert."
One of the delegates raised a hand, "Is this Gilbert?"
His fellow delegates all shook their heads.
"Germany." Someone confirmed.
The delegates all sighed.
The official carried on, "The patient also keeps mentioning someone called 'Feli' who appears to be some kind of lover, but we're not sure. My sources think this could be the Nation Italy also called Feliciano Vargas. The doctors have tried various drugs on him, up until now none appeared to have worked... his metabolism is exceedingly fast and the doctors think that his body breaks them down too quickly so they don't have time to work."
Another sigh from the delegates and some muttering.
"However, he has been allowed out on day release with this Italy person who appears to be able to calm him down. We have members of the security services watching them. At the moment our proud Nation is ..." here the official broke off and clicked on the overhead projector and an image came up – obviously of some CCTV somewhere in Vienna. The image of their usually stern, unsmiling Nation could be seen in his tie-dye shirt and velvet pants, daisies in his hair, eating an ice-cream with a big moony grin on his face. Next to him a small, dark-haired man was gazing up at him with not quite shut eyes and a big cheery smile.
"Mein Gott!" someone said.
The others tutted at the image of their stoic Nation slurping an ice-cream like a... well, like an ordinary person.
"This can't go on!" one of the delegates exclaimed, appalled that their hard-working Nation was dressed as a 1960s hippy, eating ice-cream and... what was that? Smoking a joint? Appalling.
"It's been well over six weeks since the incident... at least he's not threatening to invade anyone. But what can we do? We don't have a personification of our Nation. I mean we do but... when it comes to the next World Meeting, England, France and America will tear him to bits in this state and if he thinks he's still Holy Rome then Russia will rip his head off."
"Gilbert?" one of the delegates piped up.
The other five men around the table looked up in horror.
"You can't be serious!"
"He'll cause World War Three!"
"The other Nations wouldn't stand for it."
"Russia will rip his head off."
"Well, what are we going to do? Who else is there? He doesn't have any children that can deputise..."
"Yes, that's a pity. Someone should perhaps have a word and tell him..."
The remaining delegates all looked at this person with a mixture of horror and amazement. Who on earth was going to be given the job of telling Germany that he should go forth and procreate?
"Gilbert it is then. Right. Who's going to inform him that he is now, until further notice, the personification of the German Nation?"
There was horrified silence.
"Don't all speak up."
Vienna, Austria - later that same day
Hungary and Belarus stood outside Dr Pumplenicklestein's Surgery.
"This is where Roddy always comes when he's ill. Which is often. I mean even when he has a headache... he had a sniffle last week and thought he had pneumonia," Hungary explained, bitterly.
"It says veterinary surgery," Belarus said doubtfully.
Hungary sighed, "Well, perhaps he's a vet as well as a doctor?" she said hopefully.
Belarus was unsure about all this but it was too late. As she was about to retreat down the steps, the door was opened and an elderly man with wild, grey hair and bottle-bottom glasses which magnified his big, staring blue eyes, was smiling at them.
"Ah! What do we have here?" he asked them.
"Dr Pumplenicklestein?" Hungary ventured.
"Ja! That's me!" he said quite happily and ushered them in, staggering somewhat.
'Aw, poor old man,' Hungary thought, 'He must be over 70, he looks like he should be in retirement, look how he's staggering about.'
"How can I help you?" The doctor asked them but he smiled gently at Hungary.
"Well, my ex-husband recommended we come here," Hungary put great emphasis on the 'ex'.
"Ah? A regular patient?"
"Yes, Roderich Edelstein," Hungary confirmed, pulling Belarus in after her and closing the door. Belarus fingered the knife in her pocket and glared around her.
"Ja, a very nervous animal, quite highly strung," the doctor said.
Hungary frowned, she'd heard Austria called many names/things – 'piano bastard', 'poncy-pants', 'specs', 'as tight as a duck's arse' 'cheapskate', 'stupid aristocrat' and her own favourite 'Woderwick', but never an animal.
"Ja, I see you are his mistress then?" the doctor asked Hungary.
Hungary considered this. She'd never been called this before but she actually rather liked the title.
"You ride him a lot?" the doctor continued.
Hungary blushed furiously and ignored Belarus' giggling. "W...w...what did you say?" she stuttered.
"No matter," the doctor waved a hand and ushered them into his surgery, "How can I help you?" he asked.
Hungary and Belarus exchanged a look.
"He's a weirdo," Belarus said with conviction, being one herself she recognised a fellow weirdo.
Hungary sighed, "You said you wanted to find out if you were definitely pregnant or not before you told Arthur?"
Belarus nodded, tears forming in her eyes again.
"Well, come on then," Hungary said and pushed her forward. "She thinks she's pregnant and we need to confirm it," Hungary told the doctor.
The doctor patted the examining table, indicating Belarus was to sit on it.
Belarus hesitated. She found it very difficult to trust anyone who was not her brother or, lately, England. She pulled out a knife from one of her many hidden pockets in her dress, placed it in easy reach and sat on the table – the very same one her big brother had sat on some weeks whilst having his arm stitched up.
Dr Pumplenicklestein gently stroked Natalya's hair, causing the Belorussian to growl. "Ah, very pretty kitty, ja?" the Doctor said, swaying a little.
Belarus picked up her knife, "Creepy sod," she said.
But Dr Pumplenicklestein, Hungary thought, had the look of a kindly grandfather. - a grandfather with the beginnings of senile dementia - but a kindly one.
"What is her name?" the doctor asked Hungary.
"My name is Natalya," Belarus answered through clenched teeth.
"Oooh, a feisty little cat, eh?"
"What?" Hungary frowned, did he just say 'cat'?
The vet hiccupped and turned to fumble about on the shelves.
Belarus glared at his turned back and fingered her knife, eyeing the area where his kidneys lay – just one swift upturned thrust with the blade...
Hungary put a warning hand on her arm and shook her head.
The vet took a crafty slug from a bottle of liquor he had secreted in his white lab coat pocket and then found what he was looking for – two specimen bottles.
"I need you to pee in these," he said handing them to Hungary.
"From here?" Belarus asked and then frowned. This was getting more and more ridiculous she thought.
Hungary nudged Belarus and asked, "Both of us?"
"Ja. Nein... oh ja!"
Belarus jumped off the table and began to walk away, "I'm not doing this," she said.
"Come on, you wanted to do this. You want to find out for sure before you tell Arthur."
Belarus stopped and bit her lip apprehensively. She wasn't sure what England's response to her being pregnant would be. Their romance had been rushed to say the least and there was still a lot of Arthur's former life that she didn't understand and had misgivings about. His yelling 'Agincourt!' or 'Waterloo!' at certain points in bed had been alarming to say the least.
His relationships with America and France for a start were complete mysteries to her, as were his references to his former 'colonies'. She loved him, as she'd never loved her brother, he made her feel safe and loved and she never had to use drugs or restraints on him. But she wasn't sure if he was ready for the kind of commitment a child would bring.
"Come on," Hungary was saying as she saw Belarus' hesitancy, "I'll do it with you," she said, hoping a little 'solidarity' would go some way with the icy Slavic Nation, "Not that I need one. Bloody Austria, him and his flipping pyjamas," she added, rather unnecessarily, Belarus thought.
"Do you need to go outside?" the doctor asked them.
"We need a loo," Hungary told him. What was wrong with this idiot, she thought. Flipping Austrians. Too much Mozart, that'll be it.
"Ah, forgive me, ja. The toilet is there," and he pointed to a door leading off from the surgery.
Thirty minutes later found Hungary and Belarus sat in the surgery waiting room awaiting the results of the test.
A baleful German Shepherd sat with its owner growled at Belarus as she thumbed through a gardening magazine (she rather liked the pictures of spades and other sharp implements, but she would have preferred 'Knives Monthly'). Belarus snarled back and the large canine backed off and cowered under its owner's seat.
Hungary also picked up a magazine – about horses and leafed through it idly, 'Nervous animal, ride him, mistress,' all gave her ideas of what she was going to do that night with Austria – provided she could get him out those damn pyjamas and also of course get some privacy.
Dr Pumplenicklestein called them back in and smiled happily, "Two litters, ja," he told them.
"What?" Hungary said, completely at a loss.
"Ja, two ..." the vet said and swayed and shook Hungary's hand.
"You mean she's having twins?" Hungary asked. 'How on earth could he tell from a simple pregnancy test?' she thought.
Belarus leaned against the examination table and went very pale.
"Nein!"
"Nine?" Belarus gasped and almost fainted. An image of nine little Bela-England's destroying Arthur's quaint Edwardian townhouse came into her head. His Wilton rug would be ruined and they'd have to put the Victorian figurines away.
"I mean both tests came back positive," the vet told them.
"Both tests? What do you mean? You were only supposed to be testing her," Hungary pointed at Belarus and then realised, "You mean you tested both urine samples?"
"Ja, ja, congratulations!"
"Positive for what?" Hungary asked, deciding she had better make sure. The man was clearly as drunk as a skunk.
"Babies! Pregnancies? Little kittens, ja!"
It was Hungary's turn to stagger and cling to the examining table.
At the other side of the city, just outside the Vienna Auction House, six male Nations tumbled out of a taxi.
"I'm not paying for this."
"Germany you fool, you got ice-cream on my suit!"
"Ve, Luddy-kins... I lost my flake!"
"Chillax."
"Honhonhon, five nubile young men in the back seat of a taxi... aaah it is a dream come true... we should have gone further, non?"
"Rock out, dudes! We're totally here! Right let's get in there and get that picture and show them who's boss!"
Author's Notes:
D-Day – 6th June 1944, the date of the Allied landings in Normandy which precipitated the re-taking of Europe from Nazi Germany.
General Patton – a famous American General particularly during the 2nd World War, he was famous for his gruffness and often outspoken views.
Bonn was the capital of West Germany during this time.
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Next Chapter: France's superpowers, Pru-Den's guide to getting a free meal