Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and its characters – I just borrowed them for the purposes of this story, they were returned dry-cleaned and back in their original packaging (apart from France who insisted on sharing his packaging with England).
Acknowledgements: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, alerted, favourited (they all mean a lot and keep me updating): Becky999, Scarheart of Darkclan, Willow the collie, xxcatxx,.me.1, fire hores is awesome, Lani Carmine, xxEu-chan, ChubbyCubby23, AFreezingFlame, Animechic420, White eyed fox, Furret the Sparrowsong, rubyredroses1, PhantomPrussia, Art and Soul, Starchacer296, GirlLoki, FiresCreek, JustAGirlWithAPen, SchrapnelGirl, GermanyIsAwesome-NotPrussia, iTorchic, kakashailuckyblackcat, , Xou, alexf801, chattie98, Myrna Maeve (and Romania!), ThatPurplyThing, 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, VengefulCat (my beta reader) and all my anonymous readers.
Warnings: more personality swaps
Chapter 23 – Sex Bomb
Thursday AM
Warsaw, Poland
Russia stepped out of the Volvo, slammed the door shut and surveyed his surroundings. It was early morning in Warsaw and he could smell fresh bread. He actually liked Warsaw and would never admit it, but had a great deal of respect for the Poles. The events of 1944 still left him with a lump in his throat. If ever there had been a time when he felt like battering his generals on the head with something big and blunt that had been it.
"Fucking Stalin..." Russia muttered, his purple aura shimmering briefly.
Estonia staggered out of the remains of Sweden's car, "What was that?" he asked, rubbing his head. He carefully unwrapped the scarf from around his face and checked he didn't have frost-bite.
"Nothing," Russia mumbled and strode off to a nearby bakery to buy breakfast. He remembered, quickly, to use Polish. Russian was not a language that was welcome here, he recalled in time.
Estonia shook his head, honestly he never knew what was going through his boss' head and was grateful sometimes that he didn't.
There was a bang and a crash making the Estonian jump. He turned back and watched with incredulity and some dismay as Sweden's Volvo collapsed – its tyres burst and the engine fell out with a loud clunk.
Russia rushed out of the bakery, his arms full of cake, bread and pastries, "My car!" he exclaimed.
Estonia shook his head and said softly, but with an air of trepidation, "Mr Sweden's car..."
"Oh, da, it was!" Russia sighed heavily, "Never mind... a little paint job and it will be fine when we give it back to him."
Estonia looked at his boss. He'd considered the possibility many times in the decades he'd lived with Russia that the man was insane, but this really concluded it. There was no way that a 'paint job' could make Berwald's prized Volvo look anything other than it was – fit for the crusher.
What worried Estonia was that, when they did return the 'car' to Berwald, he and Russia would be in a crusher.
Parked right behind the unfortunate car was a VW Campervan with a psychedelic paintjob. Russia leaned against it and started eating a pastry, contemplating the car. "I suppose if we pump the tyres back up?" he asked Estonia.
Estonia shook his head, "What about the engine? It fell out..."
Russia shrugged and banged on the side of the campervan, "Excuse me, is anybody in there?" he yelled. (He was sure he'd heard movement within.)
Russia turned back to Estonia, "Maybe the nice people in this," here he indicated the motorhome he leant on, "can give us a lift?"
Estonia frowned, "Or get a taxi?" He was about to add to this when a young, tall, blond-haired man jumped out of the back of the campervan, a shovel in his hand.
"Sir, I think..." Estonia pointed at the young man. Where had he seen him before?
But he didn't get to finish his sentence as the young man took one look at Russia, his blue eyes went wide with shock and jumped back in the van. There was a yell of "Go go go," from inside and the van, inexplicably, sped off down the road.
Russia, who had extended an arm to lean against the vehicle again, promptly lost his balance and fell over.
Russia stood up, completely confused. He was sure there'd been a van there a moment ago. He shook his head. "Da, a taxi, good idea, Esty," he said and strode down the road looking for one.
Estonia racked his brains. That young man... where had he seen him before? And why did he run when he saw Russia? Granted, it was the actions of a sane person, he, Estonia, would run if he saw Russia. But usually people didn't run when they saw Russia unless he was in full kolkol mode. The young man had looked at Russia and had recognised the big Arctic Nation, how could this be?
Also in Warsaw
The pink Ferrari sped through the city, Pol at the wheel, Lithuania, his hair unrestricted by its usual elastic band, flowing behind him.
"Can't we put the roof back up, Pol?" he asked – for the fortieth time in two days.
Poland shook his blond head, pulled on his sunglasses, "We'll just nip home, sweetie, collect my exit visas and we'll shoot off to Vienna... If this painting's really going for 50 mill I want some more money from that creepy guy I sold it to... I mean, honestly, sweetie... I only got ten thousand for it!"
"It wasn't yours to sell, Pol!" Lithuania said, appalled.
"Creepy Cedric Cameron... like, what a thief..." Pol said, not listening.
"Do svidaniya!" Russia called to the retreating taxi and then turned, his feet crunching on the gravel driveway.
Estonia shook his head. He really wished this day was over, and it had barely started. He had a very bad feeling about today. He really hoped Latvia was in this house and if she wasn't...
"Kolkolkolkolkolkol!"
... there was going to be trouble.
"Problem, Sir?" Estonia asked as Russia slammed his faucet pipe against the hard wooden door of Poland's house.
"Nobody is in," Russia said, rather unnecessarily.
The doorbell, that Russia had pushed several times and then punched as it played "Its Raining Men" in a horrible canned, out of tune manner, was hanging on by a solitary wire.
"We should go..." Estonia muttered, but was ignored. Russia kicked the door, which, rather than face the wrath of the Arctic nation, promptly swung open.
Russia strode into the hallway which had seemingly normal decor – wooden flooring and a vase of flowers in an alcove. It was only when he ventured further in that Russia knew that he hadn't made a mistake and he was truly in the Polish Nation's abode.
The lounge was decorated in lilac, with a fluffy lilac rug and a pink leather sofa and chairs. Russia cringed, surely lilac and pink don't go together? He didn't like to say anything to Estonia because surely it wasn't manly to mention if colours went together or not.
Estonia sat down on the pink monstrosity of the sofa, shuffling his bottom a little on the fake zebra throw. Russia snarled at the painting above the fireplace – a huge canvas depicting the Union of Lublin and was about to shove his fist into it when Estonia coughed politely and said, "Erm, Sir... I think Latvia won't be happy if she finds that you've been angry and started destroying things..." he took another deep breath as he saw Russia hesitate, frowning, "... it frightens her, Sir." he said quietly and crossed his fingers.
He'd heard enough about Russia's feelings for the smallest Baltic these last few days to realise that she could be used as a bargaining chip or a way to calm Russia down. It worked. Russia grunted, thought about Estonia's words and backed off.
"Why don't you sit down, Sir, until Latvia gets here?" Estonia again, crossed his fingers and hoped it would be soon.
Russia looked around the small living room, the retro 1960s style television, the paintings of ponies, the pink furniture, even the lilac rug repelled him and he strode off to the kitchen. Poland should have some vodka, he thought as he rummaged in Poland's (pink) fridge.
"Toris will always belong to me..." Russia muttered to himself as he raided Poland's fridge, wincing at the nail varnish he found there, but finding some very good Polish vodka and lots of chocolate.
Vienna
After a very disturbed (or disturbing, depending on the point of view), night, the occupants of Austria's mansion awoke to the sound of birdsong and beautiful sunshine and... a loud Italian shouting "Ein, zwei, ein, zwei... march, march..."
"What in the name of my aunt Josephine is he bloody doing?" England asked, sticking his un-combed head out of the window at the sight that met him.
Italy, dressed in a Luftwaffe uniform was shouting orders at Germany – who was dressed still in hippy clothes but was doltishly trying to march... and failing.
"Eet's very strange..." Spain concluded; a sleepy, puzzled look on his face. He then snuggled back down on the sagging airbed and covered himself with the musty blanket. He had not had his customary fourteen hours sleep and was not accustomed to being woken by Italians counting - shouting for breakfast and calling him a 'tomato bastard', yes, but counting, no.
"Well, that's bloody nice isn't it? Bloody Germany was good at bloody marching back in the bloody War," England said ruefully and rubbed the stubble on his chin as he watched Germany's inept strolling after the goose-stepping Italian. At least the German had his clothes on this morning.
Arthur gave a crumpled body a nudge with his foot, "Hey, Alfred, you slacker, get up you lazy sack..." he said, "If I'm up, so are you."
He glanced over at the body in the opposite corner of the room, covered head to toe in a plaid throw (further evidence of the covered Nation's descent into style hell) and awaited the usual sexual innuendo riposte. None came. This was more serious than he thought. Last night, sharing a room, albeit a room with other Nations, with Francis, had been the ultimate test. But Arthur had woken that morning with no wandering hands down his pants nor finding his underclothes in a state of disarray.
Thinking of hands down pants, he hoped whatever had caused Belarus to ignore him yesterday had just been a case of 'girly hormones'.
"Dude, I'm up... let's get this show on the road, you up for this, Austrialasia?" America yelled, gaining a groan from Spain – only the fluffy brown head could be seen of the Spanish Nation.
It was testament to how tired and fed up Austria was, as he didn't even comment on America's mispronouncing his name.
"I got no sleep last night," Roderich grumbled as he stumbled out of the room, re-arranging his normally elegant pants and jacket, his hair stuck up and like Arthur, stubble shadowing his chin. He, like Arthur, wanted nothing more than to find out what it was that had caused the female Nations to leave them out in the cold.
After pounding on the caravan door the previous evening and being told to 'beat it' or risk 'disembowelling with a cake slicer' he'd took himself off and shared a very uncomfortable evening being elbowed repeatedly in the face whilst sharing a flat airbed with America. It was a far cry from his gorgeous four-poster bed (which had been smoke-damaged) and the lovely curvaceous figure of his ex-wife.
To add to his grievances, the builders had arrived and had taken over the mansion kitchen.
The kitchen had been severely fire-damaged but had been one of the first rooms to be re-built and renovated – Austria loved to bake. But now, as Austria attempted to switch on the kettle and make himself and England a much-needed cup of tea he was accosted by cries of "Hey Woderwick! Where's your lovely wife?"
"Who are these scoundrels?" England asked, utterly appalled.
"The builders," Austria explained, "Just ignore them, that's what I do... really..."
"Hahaha! Who's your gay mate?" one of them asked.
"Is that why Liz has shut herself in her caravan?" one of the builders asked, spraying remnants of a bacon sandwich on the floor as he spoke.
Austria ignored him, pulling on 1000 years of Hapsburg dignity. The fact was that the truth was too painful.
England was not prepared to be called 'gay' by a builder – a German builder no less.
"You impertinent little shit..." England said, picked up the nearest weapon to hand, one of his own blue scones and threw it at the man's head.
England was not usually a good aim, but this missile hit its target and the man went down with a thunk.
Austria turned to England, "Danke, England..."
"Right, when you two girlies have finished discussing your knitting, let's get this show on the road!" America yelled.
"I'm going nowhere until I've had my cup of tea and spoken to Natalya," England said.
"I'm the same... only I need to talk to Liz," Austria said, for once in his long life agreeing with England.
"It's just like 1745 again, isn't it?" England said.
"Hmmm..." Austria preferred not to think about that, with allies like him, he thought, who needs enemies.
"Never mind all that. We're off to Toys R Us!" America yelled.
"I wish you wouldn't yell like that first thing in the morning..." England said, stepping over the still unconscious German builder and procuring a frying pan and some bacon to start breakfast, "... It's not very gentlemanly... wait, what? Toys R Us? What - in the name of Wellington - for?"
"I don't know what it's got to do with boots, man, but for the disguises, dude! We need disguises for this bank job."
Austria and England both shuddered. Neither felt they had the requisite personalities to commit a bank robbery, whether they were dressed as superheroes or not.
Warsaw
"I just love this car, Liet. I probably love this car more than anything in the entire world... apart from you of course, my sweet Liet," Poland said, smoothing down his blond hair as he stepped out of his beloved Ferrari.
"Yes, okay, Pol. Can we just get on with this? Get those visas, we'll take the next flight to Vienna, try to sort out this awful mess. You can apologise for letting this painting become almost public property and then I can get home, hopefully before Mr Russia... aaaargh!" the scream Lithuania emitted was not due to his hair which was stuck on end (riding at 60 mph in an open-top car can do things to a guy's hairstyle) nor was it due to the state of Pol's doorbell that had been 'Russified', it was more the sight of the 6 foot two inch Russian stood on the doorstep glaring at them.
"You two..." Russia growled.
"Braginski! You broke my doorbell..." Pol wailed and was lifted by his neck and frogmarched into the house.
"Where is my Latvia and why are you here, Toris? Why were you on the television? Why are you pretending to be her? And why are you pretending to me, Toris?"
"Woooo, wait a minute, sweetie," Pol said, finally freeing himself from Russia's iron grip, "Too many questions, sweetie." (He knew Russia hated being called sweetie.)
"Pretending to be you, Sir?" Toris was baffled.
Russia spun around and pinned him to the wall, "Answer me... why are you poncing around Eastern Europe with Polska, Toris?" Russia growled into his face.
"I...we...he..." Lithuania struggled to breathe, his feet were three feet from the ground, his neck in Russia's vice-like grip.
"Sir... I think you should let him go. When Latvia arrives she'll be upset if she finds you've been hurting Toris. Toris and Poland are her friends, Sir," Estonia said quietly and hoped that his theory would bear fruit.
It did. They were like magic words. Russia dropped Toris like a stone and patted him on the head, "This is not over, Toris," he growled at the smaller Nation.
"Right... thanks then... We'll be seeing you... Don't call us, we'll call you. I'll send a postcard," Poland said hurriedly, shot upstairs to find the visas and then ran back down the stairs.
Russia was having none of this, "You are going nowhere until Latvia gets here and I know she is safe," he said, stomped out, took one long, disgusted look at Poland's pink Ferrari and stuck his faucet pipe into each of the tyres. There were four loud bangs as the tyres burst.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooo! My gorgeous, beautiful car!" Polska fell to his knees and sobbed.
Lithuania turned to his fellow Baltic, "Esty... you look different," he said. "You look ... well... ungeeky."
Estonia frowned, took off his glasses and peered in amazement at his reflection in the mirror. He could actually see without his glasses (he was chronically short-sighted) and he did – there was a sparkle in his eyes, his hair was glossy and shiny and he had a sexy smile on his lips. He winked at himself and almost fainted.
"Oh my word..." he said wonderingly.
"Hey Pol," Lithuania pulled Poland into the house, still lamenting over the damage to his car. "Look what happened to Esty..."
"I don't care, my car has been damaged by Braginski and... oh, Ed... have you, like, been using products on your skin and hair, cos you look bishi..."
Estonia gazed at himself wonderingly... he was... a sex god. "Honhonhon," he suddenly laughed and clamped a hand over his mouth.
Russia ignored all this. He didn't care about Pol's car – the little 'weirdo' deserved it and he didn't care if his middle, geeky Baltic was suddenly sexy. All he was bothered about was his smallest, cutest Baltic, "Where is Latvia? I need her, she should be here," he lamented.
City Centre, Warsaw
The psychedelic VW Campervan had parked up, and the assorted occupants got out. The tall, blond Ukrainian man with the shovel who had dodged back in when he'd seen Russia, stuck his head out, gauged that the object of his consternation had indeed disappeared and then indicated that they were to 'set up'.
The two girls got out their guitars, the other man nodded at the Ukrainian and they pulled Sealand – still in his school uniform, out and onto a small make-shift stage they'd hastily set up.
"All ready, Peter?"
Peter nodded, a little nervous, however, this was way better than double history and double geography so he smiled and gave the thumbs up, "I'm ready, Viktor," he piped at the tall Ukrainian.
Viktor set up his bongos and they began to play – rather well it must be said – a series of Ukrainian, Polish and Russian folk music, whilst Sealand sang, rather incongruously a mixture of Swedish folk songs and English sea shanties about invading Northern territories.
Viktor smiled. The kid was a natural, it was just a shame he couldn't remember any of the songs they'd tried to teach him. The tourists were literally throwing money at them. All they had to do was keep an eye out for any passing Nations – particularly Russia – and they were home and dry.
Author's Notes:
1944, Warsaw – the Warsaw Uprising – in August 1944, the Polish Resistance Home Army rose up with the citizens of Warsaw against the Germans, believing that the Soviet Red Army who were just a few miles away and approaching the city would help (the Red Army had radioed them encouraging the uprising), but help did not come – well, not from the Soviets, the RAF did some tactical bombing, but the 'Home Army' was left to fight the Germans alone. The Nazis retaliated and just about raized the city to the ground. It's said Stalin wanted the destruction of the Polish Resistance Army so that when the Soviets did re-gain ground they could take Poland and put the country under communist rule without resistance...
Exit visas – during the time of the Cold War, movement between countries behind the Iron Curtain (i.e. the communist bloc) and the Western countries was quite difficult and visas were required (as they were if you wanted to go and out of Russia itself). Not sure how Prussia got in and out of Russia though – he's just awesome.
Cedric Cameron – the art dealer that Pol sold the paintings to back in Chapter 3 (I named him after the current British Prime Minister...)
Union of Lublin – 1569 – created the single Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, after centuries of various unions between Polish and Lithuanian monarchs the two nations had a single elected king.
1745 – War of the Austrian Succession – England allied with Austria – but only because Austria was fighting France (and Prussia)
Bishi – refers to Bishonen (hope I've got that right) – a Japanese term for youthful boy or youth – I think its used a lot in anime/manga. Not sure that Pol would use such a term but thought it would fit Estonia's new sparkly, sexy persona. But at least we know where France's sex powers have gone to.
Next chapter: Austrian-Hungarian empire history, Disney videos, another pregnancy, a bit of Russ-Lat fluff.