Chapter Text
1925; London, England
Normally, no matter how inebriated, England measures out his spirits meticulously, pouring a precise two fingers; no more, no less.
The glasses he now pushes towards Scotland and Wales are almost overflowing, however, and leave sticky rivulets of spilt whisky trailing across the pitted surface of the kitchen table in their wake.
“So, this whole thing’s got to be some sort of mistake, hasn’t it?” Scotland says, lifting his glass with such painstaking care that he manages not to lose even a single droplet more of its contents. “We would have sensed something before now. Or, if not us, then definitely Ireland, but she’s never said a word about it.”
England isn’t as fastidious with his own whisky as their brother was and seems to splash just as much down his shirtfront as he swallows when he takes a swig of it. “If not a mistake then a medical bloody miracle,” he says afterwards, top lip curling. “Unfortunately, from what our boss told me, I’m inclined to believe it’s neither.”
“What did he tell you?” Wales asks, folding his hand around the remaining glass though he doesn’t take a drink. With tempers already strained, one of them, he thinks, should at least try and keep a clear head, and by unspoken consensus, his brothers appear to have once again nominated him.
“Apparently, a woman in Belfast found a baby practically on her doorstep a few years ago. She asked around, but no-one seemed to know whose he was, where he came from, so she ending up taking him into her family.” England sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Then, a couple of months back, she took him to see a doctor because, what do you know, he didn’t seem to have aged in all the time she’d been caring for him.
“That doctor couldn’t explain it, so he asked one of his colleagues for his opinion. Who then asked another, and another, and eventually word made its way around to some MP or other, and thence to the Prime Minister. And, well, here we are. If it helps at all, he seems pretty convinced that the child is one of our kind. He’s met him once, I believe.”
“If he is one of us, why did he only appear now and not with the Plantation, like we thought he might?” Scotland frowns. “It can’t just be that we signed a few more bits of fucking paper this time, can it?”
“It was a little more than signing papers, Scotland,” England says, kneading at one of his temples with his free hand. The pinched skin at the corners of his eyes suggests he has a headache developing. “Ireland’s country was partitioned; I don’t see why it’s so unbelievable that something might be created out of that when we were all born because a few families decided to build their roundhouses together instead of on opposite sides of a sodding hill.”
“So, let’s say we do have a new brother,” Scotland concedes, albeit with what sounds to be extreme reluctance. “Then… So what? Why the hell have you worked yourself up into such a state about it? It’s not as if we haven’t had enough of them in our time, and you’ve always managed to bear it without pissing your pants in terror before.”
Wales tenses, expecting England to take umbrage at Scotland’s characterisation of his behaviour, and rejoinders and fists to start flying, but England simply winces and takes another sip of his whisky. “You’ll be ‘pissing your pants’ soon enough, too, I imagine,” he says, his voice remarkably level. “The Prime Minister wants us to take him in ourselves, you see. Here, into this house; treat him as if he were our own fucking son, or some such nonsense.”
Scotland pales, his complexion rapidly becoming a mirror to England’s, dull and ashen. “What the fuck do we know about raising children?”
England’s snort of laughter sounds reflexive and entirely humourless. “You’re an expert at it, aren’t you? Or so you keep telling us. ‘Fantastic big brother’ features prominently, I seem to recall.” His eyes narrow, glinting maliciously. “As do tales of how Wales and I would surely have withered away and perished if it wasn’t for the superlative nurture of our –“
“That was thousands of years ago,” Scotland says, folding his arms tightly (and, to Wales’ eye, somewhat defensively) across his chest. “Things have changed a hell of a lot since then. I wouldn’t know where to start now; can’t even change a bloody nappy.”
Wales’ own memories of their brief time under Scotland’s aegis are not as bleak as England’s have always seemed to be, but they’re still dim enough that it seems sensible to suggest, “We could always employ a nanny.”
England shakes his head firmly. “I raised that possibility with the Prime Minister, but he seemed adamant that we do this alone.”
“Did he give you any clue as to why?” Scotland asks, sounding baffled.
“Money’s an issue, of course; the coffers still haven’t really recovered after the war. I told him that I’m sure we could scrape together enough ourselves to cover her salary, but…” A hint of colour returns to England’s cheeks, and when he eventually starts to speak again, he sounds slightly abashed. “Well, he appeared to be very keen that the lad’s entire education be very tightly controlled, from start to finish. That there’s no chance of him… That we ensure that he’s taught the right things in the right way.”
“Make sure he’s loyal to the Crown is what he really means, I’m guessing.” Scotland sneers derisively. “Jesus Christ, and we’re to keep him away from Ireland, too, I suppose?”
“I did get that impression, yes,” England says, smiling ruefully. “Her bosses want to take custody of the baby as well, of course. Our sister is, I believe, ambivalent about the idea.”
Ambivalent would be putting it very mildly, Wales suspects. He can think of little that would distress Ireland more than the responsibility of a child’s full time care.
“So we’re to expect no help at all, then?” he asks, and finds himself horrified enough at the prospect now he’s given it the credence of voicing it that he gives in to the siren lure of the whisky despite his reservations.
“The right sort of tutors, perhaps, once he’s old enough for them.” England shrugs. “Until then, I’m afraid we’re entirely on our own. He couldn’t understand why I was so reticent about the whole thing when, in his words, we’d ‘done it all before’ and ‘seemed to have done a decent job of it for the most part’.”
Wales assumes that the Prime Minister must have been referring to the weans, in which case he can only wonder who on earth he’d been getting his reports on them from, because his understanding of their situation was obviously faulty. The most he and his brothers had contributed to their upbringing was the odd lesson in etiquette and Latin (England), swordplay (Scotland) or the harp (Wales) whenever they spent time together, which was once every half-decade or so, and only then if politics, finances, and the wind were on their side.
England especially might overplay their influence on the weans’ development, but in reality their day to day needs had always been met by their own people, and their tutelage largely undertaken by others, albeit others whose employment was dependent on teaching exactly what England and their bosses deemed they should be taught.
“Aye, ‘decent enough’ apart from the one that started a fucking war to get away from us, right?” Scotland says, chuckling a little. “Or was he polite enough not to mention that?”
Usually, England would not stand for any offhand talk of America’s revolution, would bristle if the topic was broached with anything less than the extreme sensitivity he seemed to think it deserved, but to Wales’ surprise he simply lets Scotland’s observation pass with nothing more than a faintly chiding, “Scotland.”
And Scotland, equally uncharacteristically, defers to the soft rebuke and doesn’t press the matter further. Instead, he asks, “So, when’s the kid supposed to be moving in, then? I presume we’re not going to be getting a say in that, either.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” England says, smiling lopsidedly. “He’s arriving at the end of the week, and, apparently, we’re to take charge of him straight away.”
They own nothing they might need in order to look after a baby properly; no cot, no clothes small enough or toys sturdy enough, never mind nappies or bottles or… The fact that Wales doesn’t know what else a baby would need worries him more than any material lack they might otherwise have. He’s never felt more ill-prepared for anything in his life before. Judging by the apprehensive cast of both of his brothers’ expressions, he is not alone in that belief.
Scotland reaches wordlessly for the bottle of whisky at England’s elbow. Wales hurriedly drains his glass and then holds it out to be refilled.