Yo homies! Where my playas at? Cough. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Anyways, here I am. Back from the depths of my couch/school where I have been wasting away. Hopefully you all see this and read it and like it :) I've been rereading this again and again because I really wanted to get this out but it's gotten to the point where now everything sounds weird to me so I had to stop. If all goes well, it only sounds weird to me and not to you guys. I tried some minimal French but, again, it's nothing major. It's the same French that everyone who writes Hetalia fanfiction uses, I promise. Unbeta'd.


"I can't believe you." England muttered for the thousandth time, staring at them accusingly. "Why can't you?" France asked her easily, sitting on wet sand and seemingly unconcerned about the wounds he'd acquired. Spain, on the other hand, was keeping his distance from her.

He'd been incredibly surprised by the fight she'd managed to put up from the water, shrieking and throwing whatever she had close to her. He grimaced, he'd gotten a fat lip from a rock flung in his direction but it was nowhere near the damage France had put up with when he slipped and landed in the water. Shallow water, mind you, but that didn't stop England from sinking her claws into his collar and trying to drag him to the depths.

She hadn't succeeded; mermaids were better equipped to take down their prey in deep water and France was very well equipped to escape an angry woman's clutches, but in the end, she got what she wanted, a very bloody France. It reminded Spain rather horribly of another time he had badly underestimated England.

She had been discovered stealing artifacts from the Spanish Empire and, with no weapons in sight, she ran. Spain had given chase and tackled her, holding her down as he waited for the other soldiers to catch up with him; confident that she was finally going to be captured. He was significantly less confident when she pulled a pistol from his own belt and beat him over the head until he let go.

By the time his men found him, she was gone and Spain was still struggling to focus his eyes. It was painful to think about even now, he grimaced, how easily he fell into her traps. Running after her so they would be alone, getting close enough that she could put her pickpocket skills to use, and then being unable to stand the pain long enough. It was depressing to think of all her maliciously correct calculations about him.

It was a special skill of hers, the ability to correctly judge how a person would act and then twist it to her advantage. Not to say that other Nations couldn't do this, but she was different. She put them all to shame with her disturbingly accurate predictions. And yet, Spain sighed, he seemed to be the only Nation worried about her and her witchcraft.

France had dealt with her games longer than anyone else; anyone else alive, Spain reminded himself, thinking of Rome and crossing himself unconsciously. Yet, after a brutal beating at her hands, the blue eyed nation still lay, not two feet from her, and had a casual conversation wherein she accused him of something of which he was clearly guilty. Spain didn't think he'd ever seen France more relaxed and for the life of his people, he just couldn't understand it.

Didn't he fear her?

Apparently not. "Perhaps I can't believe it because some part of me believed there was a shred of decency left in your souls." England growled in answer, flexing her hands threateningly, "I can see I was wrong." "You hold our souls, cher, shouldn't you know more about them than anyone?"

"Shouldn't you be working to make a boat?" she shot back, entirely irritated with this whole situation. "It's more difficult than it looks." France sat up and argued, if there was one thing he would defend about himself it's that he is not lazy without good reason.

He had a perfectly good reason for deciding a glance of England's pink nipples was a better use of his time than boat materials. Looking for boat materials was difficult and when had he ever had to make a boat before? Exactly never.

Or long enough ago that he had practically been a different person and had been a different country. France came from a civilized place where wood was cut down, taken away, and when it came back, it had mysteriously transformed into a boat. None of this foraging for himself nonsense.

England growled at him again, "You're completely useless!" "And you're completely topless," he gave her a sad look, "We all have our problems, mon ami. Why don't we hug it out until something comes to mind?" he asked, holding out his arms invitingly.

She scoffed, only at the last moment strangling the urge to toss her hair over her shoulder, and sneered, "I'd get on my knees for Spain before I'd willingly touch you, Frog." Spain interrupted them before they could continue and his fantasies could get more pronounced, "Why don't we just make the boat?" he forced between gritted teeth.

What a piece of work he was, Spain thought bitterly, a few vaguely suggestive words from the island girl and he gets excited, forgetting all the cruelty she ever showed him. He ignored the whispers in the back of his mind telling him England's words were hardly vague. "I agree," England crossed her arms and glared at them both, "the sooner this is all over and done with, the better."

"But how can we make the boat?" France asked, lounging in the sun. "It is too difficult—" England cut him off and snapped, "Do you ever stop whining and use your bloody brain? Shut up. I don't want to hear your voice. My God, I have to do everything." Before either of them could say anything, England's tone changed. It became commanding and strong, much stronger than before.

France got the distinct impression they were getting front row seats to her Captain personality. Interesting. He'd always wondered what she was like when she ravaged his merchant ships. "Spain, go get those trees and pull as many branches down as you can. They should be of medium thickness and still young enough that they can bend. Get as many as possible because they will make up most of the boat. You'll have to bend them to make the shape of a boat, but not too hard or they'll snap."

"Use that vine there," she pointed to a high hanging vine, "to tie it all together, especially the ends. Pay the most attention to the ends or the whole thing will fall apart and I'm sure you've both experienced that enough times to want to avoid it."

Spain looked close at her then, because his first thought was that it was a jab at them. That they experienced falling off their makeshift boats into the water because their navies were broken and battered by England's pirates. His second thought was that she was completely serious. He heard no malice behind her words and she hadn't even paused, giving the words no more importance than any of the others.

When England insulted, she made sure you knew it. She hadn't been insulting this time. She simply thought it was a normal experience in every Nation's life to haphazardly slap together a boat. I cannot understand this girl, Spain thought, guilt latching on immediately for admitting defeat, even in the privacy of his thoughts. Slowly, he realized England was still talking.

"When that's done you want to leave it in the sun so it'll dry and then place leaves inside to cover the gaps in between branches. Oh, and you'll need two ores to direct the boat. I'd use that type of tree," she pointed to a thick, smooth tree this time that looked sturdy, "just make sure to break it at an angle. I'm sure we all know why that's important." She added, rolling her eyes.

Spain and France gaped at her. She shouldn't know how to do this! This was new for all of them, wasn't it? "How do you know that?" Spain demanded, ignoring both the cowardly shaking in the back recesses of his brain and the soft echo of his cracking empire he had begun hearing at all times more than a year ago.

"Haven't you ever been stranded on a deserted island before?" she asked, narrowing her emerald eyes. It's like they were children, honestly. For countries older than herself, it never seemed like they knew more of the world than she did. If anything, England had always rather thought she'd seen more of it than they ever would.

After all, some things couldn't be explained to the rich boys who stood before her. To truly know, some things had to be seen. Some things had to be done. And she was beginning to believe they hadn't seen or done anything in their translucent successful pasts. This was all common knowledge as far as she was concerned.

Spain looked as though he was two minutes away from exploding, though in the anger he used to possess or frustration deep enough to cause tears, France couldn't quite tell. He sighed, rolling on his stomach to dig in the sand with his fingers. France had no desire to enter this conversation.

He could tell already, this was way out of his league and, to be perfectly frank, he didn't know why it was so crucial they all question each other. There was a beautiful, wet woman, conveniently already naked, in their grasp and here they were, arguing about boats.

"No! Why would I have been stranded on a deserted island before?" Spain yelled. "Come now, you must have some experience with pirates." She said, looking completely unimpressed with his anger. "Pirates." He sneered, "Of course I do. Your pirates."

"Why don't you do yourself a favor," England suggested sweetly, poison shining through her words like jewels poking through the sand, "and quit letting your mouth run away from you. One day, that'll get you into trouble. And your precious Catholic king won't be around the save you."

"Let's go get the branches." France cut in, sapphire irises flashing back and forth between them. "You will repent. If it's before Satan or the Almighty is your decision." Spain growled, showing his teeth. England snarled right back, as unafraid as she never should have been. "It will help soothe our minds and ready for the long journey if we do it together." France added with a desperate sort of cheer.

"My friend," Spain laid a calloused hand on France's shoulder, chocolate glare drilling a hole between England's eyes, "Of course. Anything for you." He added, as though to injure England with his words. She had felt it as well, France noted, as her pretty mouth twisted unpleasantly. Well. At the moment, he would take what he could get, even at the expense of England. "Perfect." He purred, steering Spain towards the tress once more.

There was a tone of alliance in Spain's voice and it was best to remove that before their journey started.


Thanks for reading!

(btw. anyone been watching Man, Woman, Wild? Yes? No? Anyone? Let me know~)