His shoulders aren't as sore as he expected. England gets his hair washed and combed with only the occasional wince. Scotland ruffles it as soon as he's done, of course, but it doesn't seem worth protesting. He dresses in his pyjamas, and forlornly trails Scotland back to his room.
Wales is still fast asleep. England takes great vicarious satisfaction in watching Scotland wake him by dragging the blanket away. He yelps, and tries to grab it back to no avail. They glare at each other for a few seconds, then Wales sits up, clutching the sheet. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Aye. Do ye?"
"Too bloody early," Wales says, but he clambers out of bed anyway, wrapping the sheet around himself in an improvised toga like the better class of mad philosopher. He crosses his arms. "I suppose you expect me to go fetch fresh sheets."
Scotland's only answer is to jerk a thumb over his shoulder.
Wales departs, huffing with annoyance. England pulls out Scotland's desk chair, sits down, and stuffs his knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing.
It gets a glare, but no actual complaint. Scotland begins to strip the sheets from the bed, leaving the blankets in a heap at its foot, the pillows stacked on his desk. With that done he drops his bathrobe in a heap on the floor - England looks away automatically, although it's not as if he's not plenty familiar with his brother's body - and starts rummaging through his wardrobe.
It must be getting close to seven, England thinks; the light isn't far from what it was when he woke up here yesterday. He leans back, wincing at little with the motion, and waits.
By the time Wales gets back with the sheets, Scotland has pulled on a vest and trousers and is hunting under the bed for his shoes. Wales is fully dressed, including, England notes bitterly, that tweed suitcoat England had lent him in 1953 and never actually gotten back, even though it's too big on him. He tosses the bundle over, and Scotland snorts and starts to spread one over the matress.
"Er," England offers. "What are you planning now?" There's not really a lot on the same lines as yesterday they could be planning - given one hour, freshly changed sheets, and both of them dressed for the day - but it can't hurt to ask.
"This," Scotland says, and calmly lifts England from the chair. England sqwawks and starts to kick, but his brother dumps him on the bed, paying no heed, and grabs his wrists. England goes still, mute woth outrage. The silence gives Scotland an opening; he grabs England's wrists and tugs them over his head. It's no good trying to shake him loose, and a well-placed kick might startle him into letting go but England really doesn't have the energy. He settles for a poisinous glare, as Wales comes over to neatly tie his wrists to the headboard with the sash out of his dressing gown. Of course, he manages to put the knots where England can't reach.
England stares firmly at the celing as they stretch out his legs and strap them in place - he's not sure how they're managing it, probably the bedframe is involved, and those feel like belts. He hadn't even thought of this idea, but it's obvious in retrospect. He won't come untied by magic at eight-twenty. At least they didn't order him to redo the spell. The idea is cold and dreadful and he hastily shoves it aside. "Are you aware," he says conversationally, "that I could still make a good deal of noise?"
"Aye," Scotland says, and calmly yanks his pyjama bottoms down to his thighs. England makes a startled yip as they go, but he can't actually stop it. "But how'd ye explain it to North?"
England numbly tries to think of a counterargument, while Scotland spreads the sheet and blankets out atop him, and tucks a pillow under his head. He's being amazingly considerate, really. England finally settles for, "Why?"
"You need the rest, not that you'd ever admit it." Wales's head drifts into view, and then his hands, twisting a handkerchief neatly. "And we are going to spend the day with Northern Ireland, with whom we don't spend nearly enough time. You would only get in the way. Look, England, you'd just try to go about your day pretending you weren't aching all over, and probably pull a muscle or fall over or something. You're not as young as you were."
"Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (15/16) (just pretend that says 14 up there)
His shoulders aren't as sore as he expected. England gets his hair washed and combed with only the occasional wince. Scotland ruffles it as soon as he's done, of course, but it doesn't seem worth protesting. He dresses in his pyjamas, and forlornly trails Scotland back to his room.
Wales is still fast asleep. England takes great vicarious satisfaction in watching Scotland wake him by dragging the blanket away. He yelps, and tries to grab it back to no avail. They glare at each other for a few seconds, then Wales sits up, clutching the sheet. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Aye. Do ye?"
"Too bloody early," Wales says, but he clambers out of bed anyway, wrapping the sheet around himself in an improvised toga like the better class of mad philosopher. He crosses his arms. "I suppose you expect me to go fetch fresh sheets."
Scotland's only answer is to jerk a thumb over his shoulder.
Wales departs, huffing with annoyance. England pulls out Scotland's desk chair, sits down, and stuffs his knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing.
It gets a glare, but no actual complaint. Scotland begins to strip the sheets from the bed, leaving the blankets in a heap at its foot, the pillows stacked on his desk. With that done he drops his bathrobe in a heap on the floor - England looks away automatically, although it's not as if he's not plenty familiar with his brother's body - and starts rummaging through his wardrobe.
It must be getting close to seven, England thinks; the light isn't far from what it was when he woke up here yesterday. He leans back, wincing at little with the motion, and waits.
By the time Wales gets back with the sheets, Scotland has pulled on a vest and trousers and is hunting under the bed for his shoes. Wales is fully dressed, including, England notes bitterly, that tweed suitcoat England had lent him in 1953 and never actually gotten back, even though it's too big on him. He tosses the bundle over, and Scotland snorts and starts to spread one over
the matress.
"Er," England offers. "What are you planning now?" There's not really a lot on the same lines as yesterday they could be planning - given one hour, freshly changed sheets, and both of them dressed for the day - but it can't hurt to ask.
"This," Scotland says, and calmly lifts England from the chair. England sqwawks and starts to kick, but his brother dumps him on the bed, paying no heed, and grabs his wrists. England goes still, mute woth outrage. The silence gives Scotland an opening; he grabs England's wrists and tugs them over his head. It's no good trying to shake him loose, and a well-placed kick might startle him into letting go but England really doesn't have the energy. He settles for a poisinous glare, as Wales comes over to neatly tie his wrists to the headboard with the sash out of his dressing gown. Of course, he manages to put the knots where England can't reach.
England stares firmly at the celing as they stretch out his legs and strap them in place - he's not sure how they're managing it, probably the bedframe is involved, and those feel like belts. He hadn't even thought of this idea, but it's obvious in retrospect. He won't come untied by magic at eight-twenty. At least they didn't order him to redo the spell. The idea is cold and dreadful and he hastily shoves it aside. "Are you aware," he says conversationally, "that I could still make a good deal of noise?"
"Aye," Scotland says, and calmly yanks his pyjama bottoms down to his thighs. England makes a startled yip as they go, but he can't actually stop it. "But how'd ye explain it to North?"
England numbly tries to think of a counterargument, while Scotland spreads the sheet and blankets out atop him, and tucks a pillow under his head. He's being amazingly considerate, really. England finally settles for, "Why?"
"You need the rest, not that you'd ever admit it." Wales's head drifts into view, and then his hands, twisting a handkerchief neatly. "And we are going to spend the day with Northern Ireland, with whom we don't spend nearly enough time. You would only get in the way. Look, England, you'd just try to go about your day pretending you weren't aching all over, and probably pull a muscle or fall over or something. You're not as young as you were."