Scotland looked up as his office door opened. France stepped in. "Bonjour, Alistor."

"Hello, Franny. I thought ye were flyin' back t' Paris?"

"Ah, non. It is not safe to fly over my lands right now."

Scotland frowned. "But yer neutral…?"

"Oui. But Amerique 'as blockaded zhe supplies I am seinding to Norvège and 'e won't let anyone go zhrough zhe lines. So, here I am."

France had been walking towards Scotland's desk during his short monologue, and with its conclusion, settled himself in Scotland's lap.

"Franny, I have paperword t' do…" Scotland protested unconvincingly.

"Well, if you have paperwork to do, zhen do it," France whispered, his arms going around the Scottish man's neck.

"It might be time fer a break."

"I thought so." France leaned in for a kiss.

A very long kiss, as it turned out.

And it would have been longer (much longer, probably) had not a very red-haired, very blue-eyed boy walked into the office.

"Da-?" he began, before noticing what was going on. "Oh. Sorry, Da, Francis." He turned to leave.

As soon as they heard the boy's voice, France jumped out of Scotland's lap in a feat of gymnastics that were learned only after centuries of being caught in *ahem* "compromising" situations at court, and was currently adjusting his clothing.

Scotland, meanwhile, was turning a shade of red more commonly seen in tomatoes than people. He straightened the papers on his desk, then looked up. "Hello, Son. D'ya need something?"

The boy (well, fine, he was a teenager) was also bright red, though less red than his father. "Um…well…ah, never mind, Da."

"Well, alright, Tormod. Let me know if ya need anythin'…"

"I'm fine, Da!" Isle of Man stalked out of the office.

Frowning, Scotland got up and locked the door.

"Teenagers zhese days. Ah, I remember being a teenager…" France said wistfully. He noticed Scotland's frown. "What's wrong?"

"I don't think he likes you."

France shrugged. "I did not expect him to. After all, I am not his fazzer and besides, 'e's a teenager. 'E does not 'ave to like your decisions."

"But-"

France pressed a finger to Scotland's lips. "Non. You 'ave enough worries. Do not worry about me."

Scotland grinned suddenly and took France's hand in his own. "Sorry, Franny, tha's what this means," he said, bringing France's hand to his lips and kissing his ring finger- the own with the 25-year-old engagement ring on it.

France laughed softly. "Oh, Écosse, sometimes I forget how…sweet you can be."

Scotland dropped France's hand and wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's waist. "And what, exactly, is tha' supposed t' mean?"

France smiled impishly, then ducked out of Scotland's grasp, seating himself on Scotland's desk. "So, Écosse, do you ever think about having more children?"

"All the time." Scotland went to the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a scroll- clearly the type used for writing spells. "And I've found a way to do it."

"Zhis will work better zhan your brozzer's magic, oui?" France asked, nervously and a little bit curiously.

Scotland laughed as he untied the ribbon keeping the scroll rolled up. "No, Baby Brother's magic always left…something to be desired. This will work better, I assure you, love." Scotland's voice slowly dropped to a whisper as he leaned across the desk.

"But I suppose we still have to-?"

"Aye. What fun would it be otherwise?"

France swung his legs around the desk, turning to face Scotland. "Je t'aime, Alistor," he whispered, pulling Scotland closer.

"Je t'aime aussi, Francis," Scotland murmured into a passionate kiss.

A/N: Yes, the introduction of another one of my crazy OC's. This time, it's the Isle of Man.

Interesting story about the Isle of Man: Scotland owned it for a while, then sold it to Norway (or something like that), then Scotland demanded it back. This is the reason I had to search "Scottish-Norwegian names" on Google. I came up with "Tormod," which is an actual name, meaning something along the lines of "Courage of Thor."

In my story, he's an angsty teenager, who doesn't like France. And I just thought of another random interlude chapter that will be, much like this one, a lot of fun to write.

The inspiration for this chapter comes from my friend's rp-ing adventures online, the phrase "Why the Hell not?", and also the phrase "That seems like something France would do."

BTW, French was the official language of Scotland for a while. I swear, history sails its own ships.