Apologies to the Scottish

Understanding Part 1.

Since the doctor had instructed Britain not to pressure his arm for the time being, France drove them back to London. Fifi had been banished to the back seat, since neither man trusted Britain not to kick her if she was around his feet again. Being a pig, she had no idea she was being punished, and happily made herself a cosy bed amongst the bags and blankets, occasionally oinking, but mostly dozing. The drive going south was colder than the drive up, as the winter was settling itself comfortably into the land. Britain wrapped himself up in a blanket and France was bundled up in a million layers (but he still managed to look slim – how did he do it?!), complaining the entire way.

"Why is your heating still broken? It broke over 10 years ago!"

"Because I live in London, Froggy, I barely use my car!"

"That is no excuse! There is nothing sexy about shivering!"

"And who the hell are you trying to be sexy for, pray tell?"

"Why you, of course." France answered with a wink.

"Really? You're really going to start a fight while we're driving?"

The city remained as they had left it, except that here and there the Christmas decorations had started to appear across the streets, hanging off ungrateful lamp posts and in shop windows.

"Earlier and earlier every year." Britain grumbled.

There was still a few days until the conference, but this being December, the nations liked to gather a little earlier to celebrate their particular winter festival. For America, it was of course all about Christmas, but as there was a myriad of other celebrations, they tried their best to keep things secular. They had a big party with lots of food and drink at a nice restaurant or hotel, exchanged gifts with their friends and allies, and in the spirit of the season, ignored their enemies. Of course, this didn't stop America throwing his own (completely lavish and entirely overdone, in England's opinion) Christmas party closer to the end of the month, but the nations rarely got to let their hair down when they were all together – especially as America's guest list always excluded whatever country his bosses had a problem with this year.

While usually England would have planned the bash (since the conference happened to be in his home this year), since he had been taking some time off work, his duties had been left to his brothers and sister, and naturally he was worried. While Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland could certainly plan a party – with enough lager to sink the Lusitania – a sophisticated soiree might be a little above their heads. At Britain's insistence, they headed for the hotel first to check on the progress of the party. Fifi seemed ecstatic that they had finally stopped, jumping up and down as France put her on her lead so she would walk around the hotel. To Britain's great relief (and suspicion), everything seemed to be in order.

"And what the bloody hell happened to you?" a familiar voice demanded.

They looked around, meeting with the curvaceous Wales, curly black hair pulled back into a pony tail, dressed sensibly and holding a clipboard – she looked like a party planner, and considering she usually looked like a farmer, it was quite a change.

"Hello, Wales." Britain greeted "Everything looks like it's going well?"

"Don't change the subject!" she ordered, pointing her pen accusingly at his bandaged arm "What happened?"

"Oh, I was cutting a swede and a pig got involved. It's not as bad as it looks."

Wales' emerald eyes were full of scepticism, but as she seemed harassed and stressed, she let it slide for now, especially as she noticed Fifi sniffing about her shoes. Fishing about in her pocket, she threw a couple of keys at Britain.

"Your rooms are 709 and 710." She told them "I've rented you both tux – try them on RIGHT NOW, because if they don't fit, we've only got a couple of hours to get them exchanged, and I still have a million things to do."

"Uh-"

"Scotlands in charge of the alcohol, so there's lots of Scotch and lager. Since we're 'hosting' the monkey for a while, his government has 'donated' some champagne and wine, and I've arranged for some spring water for the non-drinkers."

"Love you too, Wales." France piped in.

"Republic and North are taking care of the food."

"Ireland?!"

"Aye."

"Why is he getting involved?"

"Ireland may be a Republic now, but he's is still our brother."

That was pretty shocking. Britain and Ireland hadn't been on the best of terms for some time now. But what was even more shocking…

"He and North…together?"

"Aye." she confirmed.

"That's…infeasible!"

"They found common ground in touring restaurants to find chefs, apparently."

"Oh, thank god!" France declared, earning him a glare from Wales.

None of the British Isles were known for their cooking, but the Ireland's – North and Republic – were slated as the only nations whose cooking was worse than England's (what with Wales and Scotland being able to brag about their lamb and salmon respectively).

"Go try on your damn suits!" Wales ordered again "And I swear to god, Britain, I am never doing this again! This fucking party is more trouble than it's worth! It's not like I can just throw a plate of sausage rolls on the counter and have done with it, no, there are over 200 countries to consider, and some can't eat meat, and some can't drink, and some have to have their food killed in a certain way, and some can't eat this-or-that vegetable for god-knows-why!" she screamed in frustration "You owe me, little brother! You owe me big for this one!"

She marched off to check on the arrangements. Somewhat bemused, Britain regarded the keys in his hand.

"Why did she get us rooms when I live in the city?"

"You want to go and ask her?"

"God no."

If there's two things Britain knew, it was never cross an angry woman, or an angry Welshman. How to deal with an angry Welsh woman? Let's just say centuries of being beaten up by his big sister had taught him that the best option was to run away. The two took the lift up to the seventh floor and found their rooms, which were quite nice, albeit unnecessary, and they found their suits waiting for them. France offered to help Britain with his jacket, and they engaged in their usual back-and-forth before being interrupted.

"Laddie!" a deep voice called jovially "You little bastard!"

The two blonds looked to the doorway – Scotland was easily the tallest of Brittanias children, with the wild red hair of the Celts and the mischievous emerald eyes his family was known for. He grinned at the two.

"Good god, he's wearing a skirt." France muttered.

"It's a kilt!" Britain defended "You know it's a kilt!"

"Aye! Wee Franny's just jealous!" the red-head announced "He cannae wear dresses like he ustae!"

"Scotland…"

"It was a tunic!" France shrieked, having heard this argument many times before.

Scotland just laughed and made his way into the room, slamming the door in his usual heavy handed manner.

"What's all this I hear 'a you, buggering off up north and leaving all the work tae us, then? Not that I mind – it's always nice tae have an excuse to go on a tour of my distilleries."

"Since when have you ever needed an excuse?" Britain asked.

"Never!" Scotland admitted "But I rarely get tae order a crates worth!"

Scotland slapped France on the back playfully by way of greeting, but as the Frenchman was quite a bit leaner, it nearly knocked him clear off his feet.

"Mon ami, I swear you get worse every time I see you." France criticised as he rubbed his sore shoulder "And you've gotten fatter, too."

"Is that any way to speak tae one of ye oldest friends?" Scotland pretended to be hurt.

"It is because you are my friend that I can say it 'onestly." France replied "Perhaps it is time to lay off the deep-fried Mars Bars, mon ami."

"Please, I dunnae eat that shite! Every pound a me is muscle, matey!"

"Oui, even the wobbly bits."

"Scotland, what do you want?" Britain interrupted before they completely lost track.

"Oh aye, Wales sent me up." He confirmed "She wanted tae know about your suits."

"She could at least give us time to try them on." Britain grumbled.

"Aye, girly's been ferocious since the pricks in parliament put her in charge. They dinnae think we could handle it, even though I'm the oldest! I ask ya! Although, she does remind us of our old mum when she's like this, but I wounnae want her like this all the time."

"Agreed." Britain said plainly "Give me a minute and I'll try on the suit, okay?"

"Aye."

Scotland didn't move, placing his hands on his hips and staring at his brother expectantly. Being British, and therefore shy about nudity, he took the tux into the bathroom to try on. As soon as they heard the door lock, Scotland turned to France.

"What happened tae his arm?" he asked sweetly.

"He was cutting a swede, and Fifi ran through his legs. Just an accident, mon ami." France assured him, although truth be told, thinking about the incident still turned his stomach funny.

"Is that a fact?" Scotland remained sweet "Those swedes sure can be a bastard." He clicked his tongue and wiped his nose with his finger "Sure is a nasty looking cut for an accident."

"Oui, the knife was very sharp."

"Does the laddy have many 'accidents'?"

"Non, he is usually…"

France finally picked up on the tone.

"Non, there are no 'accidents'." He confirmed with a sigh.

"Is that right? Because if there were, I might have tae get involved. And I don't think anybody wants that."

"I can assure you, mon ami, hand on my heart, as long as I am around, there will be no 'accidents'."

"Aye, you make sure a that."

Awkward silence followed their awkward conversation.

"What's with the pig?" Scotland asked.

"She is a micro-pig!" France cheered to lighten the mood "They are all the rage in pets!"

"What the hell for? Ya cannae get a decent bacon butty outta that."

"You will not be making bacon out of Fifi!"

Britain reappeared from the bathroom, putting his suit in the cupboard.

"The suit is fine." He confirmed "Tell Wales she can cross it off her list."

"Oui, as is mine." France said, although truth be told he hadn't tried it on, but he could make anything look good.

"A'right, then! T'other nations are arriving, party starts at 8, be downstairs to greet your bloody guests at ten to or Wales'll tan yer hide!"

France tried his level best to do something with Britain's hair, but just had to admit defeat. The shorter man noticeably winced as France helped him get his jacket on – the sleeves were a little tight – and felt a pang of guilt for not being gentler. Wales, properly scrubbed up, was more than happy to practically throw her clipboard at her brothers head and enjoy the fruits of her labours – it was in the hands of fate now, and knowing how the nations were when they got together, she wasn't going waste her night trying to keep order.

The conference room was grand and elegant, with ivory coloured walls and gold gildings, tall French windows and a spotless red carpet. At one side of the room, a great 'U' shaped table had been set up, ready for the later meal, all silverware polished to perfection, each fork, knife and spoon laid in the exact right place. At the other end was a large space, all but empty except for the table piled high with drinks and glasses. Brilliant chandeliers hung above them like magnificent icicles, gently illuminating the room in a golden glow. France whistled in appreciation.

"There is nothing man can do that can match a womans elegance." He postured.

"I'll remind you of that next time she throws a sheep at you."

"She does do that, doesn't she?" he laughed.

Being the host country, Britain stood at the entrance and greeted his guests like a gentleman. Despite how frightfully dull it was, France stood beside him the entire time, being charming with the guests and completely inappropriate with his friends. Britain had to elbow him roughly a couple of times in the ribs to make him behave. Finally, everyone had arrived, and the two were able to enjoy the party.

A contented chatter filled the room. Italy clung to Germany's arm as usual as they spoke with Japan and Belgium. China marched around the room in aggravation with Korea on his heels like a puppy begging for attention, and even hiding behind Russia didn't seem to make him go away. Ukraine chatted happily with Hungary, who had Austria on her arm, who himself was either zoning out entirely or appreciating the music. Belarus, Seychelles and Lichtenstein were whispering and giggling conspiratorially ('Ah, young women are tres bon, are they not?') while Sealand (was he invited?), Wy and Kugelmugel ran about the place excitably, as children re wont to do at parties. Romano was telling off Spain who, along with Prussia, was trying to get Switzerland drunk. Greece was being kept awake by Turkey occasionally slapping him on the back of the head while they spoke with Egypt, and the Baltic's reminisced about days-gone-by. With over 200 countries in attendance, Britain was happy that the lack of raised voices was a good sign. France was on his heels like a shadow as he made the rounds.

The Nordics were the same as always – friendly, if a little difficult to talk to. Each of them gave England a little courtesy present while they availed themselves of the fine scotch. Italy talked their ears off with tales of his honeymoon with Germany in the Cayman Islands (said husband shushing him when it got too personal), before overloading them with souvenirs and presents. Russia was always generous with the presents, but he seemed determined to spoil Britain this year, giving him a pile of presents taller than he was ('To cheer you up, da?'), while the presents from the Asian countries ranged from the sensible ('It's supposed to keep your tea warm for longer, Britain-san') to the downright stingy ('It's Kimchi sauce, okay? You think because you throw a fancy party, I owe you, da zay?').

It took a while, what with playing host, before Britain and France noticed that they hadn't seen America. It concerned them a moment, as the young nation usually made sure everyone knew where he was, one way or another. After a brief look around, they spotted him with Canada at the edge of the room. While it was perfectly normal for Canada to hang out around the edges of a situation, America was normally right in the middle of it.

"You boys!" Britain greeted jovially as they approached "Why are you standing about like a couple of wallflowers? Have you gotten yourselves drinks yet?"

"Hello, Britain." Canada greeted in his usual manner "This party is really nice. You really put a lot of work into it."

"I can't take the credit this time." He admitted "Your aunt – I mean Wales – put this all together."

"Oh? Is that so?"

Canada blushed happily for some reason. As France fussed over the boy a little, Britain noticed Kumajiro was the only one with a drink (which made him decidedly uncomfortable). He offered to get them some, but America refused. In answer to 'why', his only reply was 'solidarity.' Both the boys looked a little pale and thin, and America looked like he hadn't been sleeping well, which was very unusual for him. Canada nervously tugged at his sleeves while Kumajiro sipped his whiskey (again, why did the bear have a drink?). He looked happy as Britain straightened his tie and France played with his hair, the sight of which seemed to click something in America's head, and he put his arm around his brothers shoulder enthusiastically.

"Hey, 'mom and dad'!" he said enthusiastically "What are your plans for Christmas?"

Britain looked at France, who shook his head.

"I don't think we have any." Britain told him "Why?"

"Why don't Canada and I stay here for the holiday?" he suggested "Y'know, Christmas is a time for family!"

What's with this 'mom and dad' thing?

"Well, I don't mind." Britain said.

"Nor do I." France agreed "It would be wonderful to have you boys over for Christmas!"

"It's a deal then!"

America immediately grabbed Britain's hand to seal the deal. Unfortunately, he grabbed his injured hand, and the Britain noticeably winced. Both boys immediately looked concerned, and America pushed England's sleeve back enough to notice the bandages.

"Britain…"

"Da…um.. Britainr, I-"

"I had a little accident in the kitchen." He assured them immediately "It's nothing to worry about. It'll be healed before you know it."

Neither of the boys looked like they believed him. Subtly – or as subtle as America had ever been – he put his hand on his brothers back.

"How about we come over about the 20th?" he suggested "And we take off just after New Year?"

"That sounds good," France agreed "We'll make up the spare room for you."

"Hang on, it's my house!" Britain argued "You can't just go inviting people over!"

"Oh? You object to the boys coming then?"

"Well, no-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Before a squabble could start, dinner was called. The choice was between lamb and beef for the carnivores, and salmon or nothing for the vegetarians (as none of the UK were vegetarians, or had any sympathy for them) with a generous helping of roasted or steamed vegetables with gravy and fancy breads. While the seating arrangements weren't nearly as precise as they had been for German and Italy's wedding, they were good enough to avoid the major disputes, with the extended commonwealth (and France) at the head of the short side of the 'U' shaped table. North and Ireland were trying to drink each other under the table, but North, as Britain's only younger brother (if you ignore Sealand) wasn't really a match for the Irish Republic. Scotland proudly and without shame accepted all the praise for the drinks and salmon (and at dessert, the short-bread and caramel), while Wales was happy to eat, drink and be merry, and forget her responsibilities for the night. Britain kept things civilised with his gentlemanly conduct, but by midnight, he was ready to turn in and leave all these bloody people to their own devices. Since their conference official started at noon the next day, many countries took the sensible decision to retire before the am, and France (for once) agreed with Britain that staying up with the stragglers (and drunks) was a bad idea.

"Did Hungary seem a little upset to you?" Britain inquired as they ascended in the lift.

"Not that I noticed." France admitted "You think she might be having a …'dark time'?"

"I don't know, but I think there was definitely something wrong. I'll ask her tomorrow."

The lift arrived at their floor, and Britain proceeded to his room, with France on his heels, as he had been all night. Out of habit, he checked his mobile, which he had left in his room, and pulled a face.

"What is it?" France asked, seeing his expression.

"That idiot Prime Minister wants to talk to me tomorrow." He revealed "Before the meeting. I wonder what he wants?"

"Probably to catch you up on what has been happening while you've been away." France supposed.

"Yes, you might…why are you naked?"

"Why not?"

"Let's go back to my question."

"It's hot."

"That's a damn lie."

"A better question is, why aren't you naked?"

"Because I didn't drink that much – it messes with my medication."

"Belle cher, there we have the answer to both our questions!"

Britain sighed. Being the only sober one at the party was not fun.

"You stay here, I'll sleep in your room." He announced.

As Britain opened the door, France slammed it shut, leaning his whole weight against it to keep it closed. Britain could smell the scotch on his breath as the taller man leaned over him. France released the door and wrapped his arms around Britain, kissing his neck while touching him all over. Britain just sighed – France was always the same when he was drunk. Despite the difference in their sizes, he overpowered France easily, pinning him to the bed.

"Angelterre…" he purred.

Britain just smiled.

"You'll regret it in the morning." He guaranteed.

He pinched France's nose, forcing him to breathe through is mouth, and after a moment, the Frenchman fell asleep. After hundreds of years living in each others pockets, Britain knew how to make France do what he wanted, and he knew Francis knew the same of him. With a sigh, he tucked the Frenchman into his bed and changed, wondering again what it was the Prime Minister wanted.

One bottle of wine later. Does it make much sense? Look forward to part 2!