9Title: Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet
Warnings: Possible OOCness (Haven't worked with France yet, and America is... you'll see).
Disclaimer: I own nothing... I thought that was obvious?
AN: This is unfinished. It was just going to be a really long one-shot, but I kept getting stuck. Making it a few chapters seems to be the better option, I don't know. Any 'French' in this will be Cajun/Creole so if you Frenchies think it looks or sounds wrong, you know why.
Italics: Spoken in French.
England nodded his head in greeting as he walked by an aide during the mid-hours of the morning. He arrived relatively early to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization's Supreme Allied Command Headquarters in Brussels, Belgium. It was a reasonably tolerable morning. The sun was shining and there wasn't a single cloud to be seen. There was an unusually cold chill in the air for both the time of year, and day, but otherwise it was your standard, stereotypically beautiful day. Of course, there wasn't going to be much time to enjoy such a day as it had the unfortunate privilege of having a NATO conference scheduled within its brief, twenty-four hour existence. Rounding a corner, the representation of Great Britain and Northern Ireland paused briefly in front of a seemingly mundane, wooden door. He took a deep breath through his nose and was greeted by the aroma of tea and ink. It was a strange combination, but one that the island nation found to be both enjoyable and relaxing; often stirring fond memories and that brought a small smile to his face.
Having decided that he had dawdled long enough at the door, the island nation opened the door and walked into the large meeting room. It is certainly, an impressively large room. One with deep, sky blue carpeting and the flags of member states standing in a single file line at one end of the room. Behind the line of flags was a wall adorned with the symbol of the alliance… an area often used for by politicians and other important figures to shake hands in front of the press to let the world feel like something had been accomplished during the long and certainly, trying meetings. England immediately made his way towards the large, custom built table that formed a massive ring around the impressive star embedded in the blue carpeting that formed one part of the NATO symbol. The table formed the other half, a ring that accommodated the cooperating nations and their representatives.
Finding the section of the table marked with a place card bearing the name "United Kingdom", England pulls out the chair and seats himself. He resists the urge to roll his eyes when he notices that he will be between the Republic of France and the United States of America. This was definitely going to be an interesting meeting. Sighing briefly, the blonde nation grabs the manila envelope placed on his section of the desk, provided by the host, containing various reports and outlines of the topics that will be presented in today's meeting. An eyebrow is raised slightly when he notices the topic: Disaster Preparedness and Civil Emergency Planning.
"Thank you," the nation says to an aide that set a hot cup of tea on the table. Without removing his eyes from the report, he reaches with a free hand for the delicious beverage. He was rather impressed with the report, not because of its contents, but because of its author. To this day, the island nation can't comprehend how Denmark, of all people, was elected to be the Secretary General of the alliance for the current term, but has to grudgingly admit to be pleasantly surprised by his handling of the post. Bringing the tea cup close to his face, the Englishman finally manages to tear himself away from the report to give full attention to the wonderful beverage that so deservingly commands such attention. The color is a marvelous reddish-brown, and the aroma is strong, yet subtle with a hint of some sort of citrus, probably orange. He goes to taste the brew, but suddenly goes rigid and wide eyed as a slimy, creeping chill snakes its way down his spine. It is an ominous and seemingly familiar feeling… one he has not felt in literally decades, maybe centuries.
"Odd", England quietly states to himself as he sets the tea cup carefully on the table, along with the report. He slowly looks around the room, quickly noticing that several of his fellow nations have already made their way into the meeting room and were all preoccupied in some way or form. He could find nothing out of the ordinary, but his attention was effectively derailed from the report. Having lived for literally hundreds, if not thousands of years, one learns to trust the seemingly strange and random feelings and instincts that develop. The sensation was vaguely familiar… it was one the nation often got in the past when a powerful rival was plotting against him. However there was something else about it, it was slightly different, yet familiar. As if he had felt it only in very specific circumstances before. Scrunching his impressive brow, the island nation desperately tried to recall when he had last felt such a sensation. He barely noticed that the room was filling up with a steady stream of individuals. It was only when that disgustingly slimy sensation once again oozed its way down his spine that the representative of Great Britain and Northern Ireland recalled why it was familiar. It was a sensation in which he had really only felt once or twice before in his history. He frantically looks to the empty seats at his sides before glancing towards the door. His eyes narrow as he immediately adopts a menacing look when an all too familiar blonde strolls through the door.
"You," England spits out, venom dripping from the word to such an extent that it could burn a hole through a reinforced steel wall.
"Good morning to you too," France said cheerfully, clearly unaffected by the murderous look aimed at him that could stop a rampaging elephant in its tracks. "You appear to be in a marvelous mood today."
"I know you're planning something," the emerald eyed nation states as he watches the frog from across the channel occupy the seat to his left. His eyes narrow as the Frenchman beside him compliments a passing aide on their business attire. "Where's America?"
"Really, Arthur…" France says as he turns to look his island neighbor in the eyes. He slightly raises a brow in what appears to be minor confusion before continuing. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. You should relax your rather, 'impressive', brow before you give yourself a headache."
"I am watching you…" England states while shooting one last glare at his supposedly, 'former' nemesis before warily turning his attention away from the insufferable nation and on to more pressing matters. Like the fact that America still hasn't arrived. Despite his reputation, America, like his people, was surprisingly punctual. He smirks briefly as he remembers a guide for Europeans visiting the USA that advised going to theaters and events about twenty or so minutes early if you wanted a good seat, since most Americans would be doing the same. England quickly pushes the thought aside and focuses on the fact that America and France were obviously plotting something, together. Dealing with one of them is perfectly manageable, but when the two team up, especially when their target is England… well let's just say such plans in the past rarely ended well for Britain. Movement to his right distracts the green eyed blonde from his thoughts.
"Where have you… been…" the Englishman barely manages to finish his sentence when he turns and gazes upon the late arrival. Before him stands the one and only United States of America, however something feels different. The American's hair is spiked up, similar in style to the one commonly sported by Denmark, only it was shorter and seemed softer and 'messier'… but in a purposefully stylized manner. The blue eyed nation's attire was that of a comfortably tight dress shirt and skinny black tie with what appeared to be a worn, dark leather belt holding up a rather snug looking pair of black jeans. To complete the look, the American was wearing an open, form fitting, black leather jacket with a popped collar and lapel. To England, the kid looked like he belonged on some high fashion runway, and not a meeting discussing…
"Disaster Preparedness and Civil Emergency Planning," he manages to mumble quietly to himself after briefly tearing his eyes away from the American and glancing at the report that was temporarily forgotten on his desk. Turning his eyes back to the runway model to his right, the island nation is at an utter loss for words. It's not that England never realized how handsome his former colony had become. After all, the power(s) to be saw fit to curse the majority of their kind with the bodies of attractive, hormonal university students; but America rarely made an effort to dress in such a flattering way. Honestly the whole situation screamed 'Frog'. Despite his body yelling at him either run, or strangle his neighbor, the once mighty British Empire could manage no more than gaping wide eyed like a fish gasping for breath out of water. He managed to quickly recover when the American turned to look at him. The blue eyed nation give England a radiant smile and adopted a cheerful disposition that the Englishman knew from experience was going to be followed with a 'sup, Dude?,' or equally informal and potentially idiotic phrasing that Americans dared to pass off as a proper greeting.
"Vomment ca vas," the American said while maintaining that adorable, airheaded smile. And then it happened, something in England snapped, something that required his brain to temporarily shut down and reboot. He stared vacantly as he heard French being spoken with a disappointed, almost chiding tone from his left. Apparently America did stick to character even when not speaking his superior to French, albeit bastardized, English. The momentarily stunned English nation felt his chair turn so that the emerald eyed nation was face to face with his annoying French neighbor. Still not yet fully recovered, he watched motionlessly as the Frenchman gently placed the back of his hand on England's forehead and checked him for fever. It was then that England noticed that France was as dressed to kill as the American. He didn't notice it before, mostly because the Frenchie always tries, keyword 'tries', to be fashionable. The difference being that France's look was more professional. He wore a professionally fitted black suit that was fastened in the middle by a single button. It was simple, comfortable looking, yet classy.
Unfortunately for England, the scene quickly evolved into the two blued eyed nations fussing over, and at one point, jostling the island nation and having a conversation in French? The European was clearly speaking French, but the American was speaking some sort of variation that was difficult to follow. Slowly, the representative of the United Kingdom came too. The scene of two seemingly French speaking nations placing their slimy frog hands all over him in public, and the large amount of amused and bewildered stares, brought the temporarily incapacitated nation back.
"Stop touching me!" England commanded as he swatted at the French and American hands invading his personal space. Once the two offending nations' hands retreated, the Englishman paused a moment to collect himself before calmly, and slowly turning to once again face France. "What the hell have you done," he manages to barely refrain from yelling.
"I haven't done anything," France replied, looking mildly surprised, and maybe just a tad hurt at the accusation. Of course, it is just an act. England knows his rival well enough to recognize that.
"Don't give me that," England says before pointing to the American on the right hand side of his table. "Explain that then."
"'That' would be America. For a supposed 'gentleman', referring to someone as 'that' seems rather rude," the Frenchman states while indignantly lifting his nose ever so slightly to the irate Englishman.
England rolls his eyes before casting a weary glance at his former colony. Said nation appeared to animatedly be holding a conversation with Belgium. However, the beryl eyed nation couldn't help but notice the subtleties of the conversation. The barely noticeable positioning of the body, subtle movements, minor, yet seemingly well timed touches… the American was clearly flirting and if Belgium's periodic smiles, and playful giggling were anything to go by, was quite successful in his endeavor. It was strange to watch; on the surface America seemed to be his usual, cheerfully oblivious self… but if one were to look closer, there was an unusual French influence being channeled.
"I am not convinced," England states as he narrows his eyes and returns his gaze back to France. "More importantly, why are you both speaking French?"
Almost immediately after the question leaves his lips, the Englishman feels a breath accompanied by barely intelligible words. Words that England couldn't quite catch the meaning of but were delivered in such a way that he suddenly felt very warm and uncomfortable in his clothing. It was almost as if there were too many layers that desperately needed to be shed. He shifts his gaze to his former colony and is greeted by a dangerously playful expression; dangerous in that it was a playful expression only suitable for the bedroom.
"I have learned from a most reliable source that you secretly find French to be particularly," England quickly directs his attention to France as a foreign hand slowly rubs his leg. His breath hitches as he notices the devious, seductive expression on the blue eyed European. "Attractive."
Before the representative of the United Kingdom could protest such an abhorrent and baseless accusation with the subtle and tactful statecraft of throttling, the meeting is called to order. Straightening himself up, England focuses his attention on the opening presentation as he feels the heat slowly subside from his body. He quickly shoots glances towards his right and left and takes some comfort in the fact that the two clearly insane nations he is seated between appear to be providing their undivided attention to the presenter. Breathing a small sigh of relief, the Englishman pulls out a pen and begins to underline key points in the report on his table. It seemed that with the meeting underway he wouldn't have to worry about any more encounters for the time being… Of course that unreasonable delusion was quickly shattered when he felt a foot brushing up against his right leg and a gentle squeeze above his left knee.