Chapter Text
If someone were to ask England of his ideal winter weather, he would answer quite curtly that the only acceptable sort was when there was a crisp chill, with just enough fallen snow to paint the world as a twinkling wonderland, and the sun a bright promise hanging from a clear blue sky. It was the type of weather in which one should don sensible winter wear--a cap, a clean cut coat, a stylish knitted scarf, and leather gloves. It was the perfect type of weather in which to take an early stroll through a park or down a quiet road. He supposed an additional light snowfall was also acceptable, if one were in the mood for a more romantic setting.
At the moment, England was decidedly not in a romantic mood. He was in no mood for anything but the warmth of a crackling fire and a cup of tea, and the company of his young New World colonies. It was something he had been anticipating since the moment he left the shores of his homeland, where the winter had just begun to become quite vicious. If the fates were kind to him, he had thought at the time, then America's winter would be a tad more mild and agreeable, at least until his duties forced him to return home.
The fates were, unfortunately, very much against him.
A gust of wind swept up his back and curled around his head, a unnecessary reminder of the freezing weather that had greeted him when his ship docked. The overcast skies, heavy snowfall, whistling wind, and almost knee high snow had not been what he had wanted to see when he arrived in the Americas. The sun was nothing but a faint glow between a few cracks in the heavy clouds overhead, and the view was most certainly not a winter wonderland; it was hell frozen over, twice.
Colonists were bundled up in the thickest clothing, hurrying through the snow and ice to their homes. The ship's crew had worked far quicker than they ever had until everything was settled and they could head for shelter themselves. Pulling into the harbor had been incredibly difficult with the ice in the water, but they had managed well enough. They were British sailors, after all. With his young colonies waiting for him, England had left as soon as he was able, confident that his officers would see that docking would go as smoothly as possible. He had climbed into a waiting carriage while the coachman piled his luggage onto the roof. With the door shut and the small curtains pulled aside from the window, he watched as the weather grew worse, covering everything in fast piling snow.
He did not envy anyone scuttling about outside.
Now, hurrying down the path to the front door of America's house, the wind and snow whipping about him, he reminded himself that as terrible as it all was, things could only get better.
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"America! Canada!"
The door swung open, blown in by the wind, the handle ripped right out of England's gloved hand. Cursing, he rushed in and hurried to shut the door against the snow that was whirling onto the carpet.
"America, Canada, where are you lads?" He called again, turning once the door was shut and locked behind him. He had been expecting to be greeted as soon as he walked onto the doorstep, which was often the case whenever he visited. But the boys had not been there with their usual smiles and hugs, and nor had they been waiting in the sitting room.
England removed his coat and hung it up by the door. The sitting room was empty except for the usual furniture. A fire had been lit in the fireplace, a cozy bunch of flames that must have been burning for some time. There were small wooden knick knacks on the floor, strewn about, most likely left there by two distracted little boys after play time. A single plate sat near the group of toys. It was covered in crumbs.
Dusting snow off his trousers and boots, England eyed the dirty plate with suspicion. Sure enough, he caught sight of a line of crumbs leading off the plate and under the doorway which led to the dinning room. Canada was a neat little boy; America, hardly so. England had a clear picture in his mind of America leading the way through the dinning room and in to the kitchen, sticking a too big biscuit into his mouth, while his brother trailed behind.
He was more than a little insulted that a plate of biscuits demanded more attention than his presence.
He followed the trail of crumbs, mood just slightly lifted by the warmth of the fire. As he opened the dinning room door, he heard the sound of giggling coming in from the kitchen, and he was satisfied to know that his deductions had indeed been spot on. The boys were in the kitchen, enjoying more biscuits than they should have been, and had forgotten about his arrival. Snorting, and unable to stop a fond smile, he reached out to push the door open .
And then he heard it.
A laugh, also originating from the kitchen, bright and pleasant and grating on his nerves.
He knew that laugh. He'd known it for centuries.
The frog.
The frog was here, in his home, with his boys--
England growled.
Things were steadily, and quite unfairly, only getting worse.