“Wait!” Italy says with a bright beam, “Why not Marco?”
“I like Marco,” France says, smiling lazily as he walks around the table, towards the cot. “Claude, perhaps?”
Fuck, no. France isn’t allowed to decide. England still has absolutely no interest in the child whatsoever, but he can’t let the unfortunate bastard be named by a frog.
“Harry,” England says, and he gains a few strange looks because nobody expected him to contribute at all. “Or William.”
Spain catches England‘s eye from across the table and smiles; it‘s unexpected, so England doesn‘t return it. “Hm, I like Harry. Or Adrián?”
“I like Lau,” Taiwan declares, clapping her tiny hands together.
“Naming aside,” England says hastily, “surely we have more important things to be doing? We shouldn‘t waste our time with this… curious appearance of an unknown child.”
It’s a lie and he knows it; these meetings never get anything important done. But he wants to be rid of the child before it starts crying, or something equally insufferable.
“Well, yeah,” Poland says, rolling his eyes, “but we’re totally not gonna get anything done with a baby chilling with us.”
England feels his teeth grind together of their own accord, moved by agitation. “Then get rid of the baby.”
He genuinely cannot understand why Seychelles gives him an outraged glare from the other end of the table, her slender arms reaching out to lift the far-too-podgy child up and out from its basket. “That’s disgusting. Don‘t you care for the child‘s well-being?”
“Not particularly,” England says, voice hanging in the air, and he’s taken aback by the smack delivered to the back of his head by a passing Hungary.
“Stop being so negative,” she orders, moving to stand by Seychelles’ side. “You were a daddy once.”
The golden-haired babe is now settled in Seychelles’ arms, and the two women coo and fawn over the gurgling noise escaping the child’s throat. The baby’s arms reach out, fat fingers flexing out and closing back in, gently tugging at strands of Hungary’s hair until the action elicits a warm smile from the Magyar nation.
England feels a pang of something. Probably indigestion.
“I wasn’t a daddy,” England snaps. “I was forced into caring for children that didn’t generally need my assistance anyway.”
“Too right,” Australia says, appearing from nowhere to slam a hand down onto England’s shoulder. “You were shit.”
“Thank you for the support,” England snaps back, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“Children are amazing,” Spain says, receiving a few strange looks from the nations seated around him. He leans back in his chair, resting his head on his arms as he breaks into a wide grin. “They’re so cute! And they’re really rewarding to raise.” He seems aware of Romano hovering behind him with a furious expression, so he quickly adds, “Most of the time, anyway.”
The baby giggles at absolutely nothing and Seychelles lets out a slight squeal of delight; Hungary gently rubs the babe’s cheek with her knuckle, muttering to it in pidgin English.
Baby talk. How embarrassing to have to hear it. England never got the hang of it. Never got the hang of being a parent in general. Doesn’t care.
“I want to see the laughing baby,” Italy demands, and Seychelles simply watches him with amusement as he lifts the infant from the cradle of her limbs.
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in careless mood [1b/??]
(Anonymous) 2012-01-25 01:02 am (UTC)(link)“Wait!” Italy says with a bright beam, “Why not Marco?”
“I like Marco,” France says, smiling lazily as he walks around the table, towards the cot. “Claude, perhaps?”
Fuck, no. France isn’t allowed to decide. England still has absolutely no interest in the child whatsoever, but he can’t let the unfortunate bastard be named by a frog.
“Harry,” England says, and he gains a few strange looks because nobody expected him to contribute at all. “Or William.”
Spain catches England‘s eye from across the table and smiles; it‘s unexpected, so England doesn‘t return it. “Hm, I like Harry. Or Adrián?”
“I like Lau,” Taiwan declares, clapping her tiny hands together.
“Naming aside,” England says hastily, “surely we have more important things to be doing? We shouldn‘t waste our time with this… curious appearance of an unknown child.”
It’s a lie and he knows it; these meetings never get anything important done. But he wants to be rid of the child before it starts crying, or something equally insufferable.
“Well, yeah,” Poland says, rolling his eyes, “but we’re totally not gonna get anything done with a baby chilling with us.”
England feels his teeth grind together of their own accord, moved by agitation. “Then get rid of the baby.”
He genuinely cannot understand why Seychelles gives him an outraged glare from the other end of the table, her slender arms reaching out to lift the far-too-podgy child up and out from its basket. “That’s disgusting. Don‘t you care for the child‘s well-being?”
“Not particularly,” England says, voice hanging in the air, and he’s taken aback by the smack delivered to the back of his head by a passing Hungary.
“Stop being so negative,” she orders, moving to stand by Seychelles’ side. “You were a daddy once.”
The golden-haired babe is now settled in Seychelles’ arms, and the two women coo and fawn over the gurgling noise escaping the child’s throat. The baby’s arms reach out, fat fingers flexing out and closing back in, gently tugging at strands of Hungary’s hair until the action elicits a warm smile from the Magyar nation.
England feels a pang of something. Probably indigestion.
“I wasn’t a daddy,” England snaps. “I was forced into caring for children that didn’t generally need my assistance anyway.”
“Too right,” Australia says, appearing from nowhere to slam a hand down onto England’s shoulder. “You were shit.”
“Thank you for the support,” England snaps back, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“Children are amazing,” Spain says, receiving a few strange looks from the nations seated around him. He leans back in his chair, resting his head on his arms as he breaks into a wide grin. “They’re so cute! And they’re really rewarding to raise.” He seems aware of Romano hovering behind him with a furious expression, so he quickly adds, “Most of the time, anyway.”
The baby giggles at absolutely nothing and Seychelles lets out a slight squeal of delight; Hungary gently rubs the babe’s cheek with her knuckle, muttering to it in pidgin English.
Baby talk. How embarrassing to have to hear it. England never got the hang of it. Never got the hang of being a parent in general. Doesn’t care.
“I want to see the laughing baby,” Italy demands, and Seychelles simply watches him with amusement as he lifts the infant from the cradle of her limbs.