EnglandXReader Why Is Everything French?

~Why is Everything French?~

                Slamming the new cookbook from Francis on the counter, Arthur’s face lit to a bright red.  Slipping the apron off over his head, he flung it across the room.  Swearing up a blue streak that could even put a blush on a sailor’s face, you finally surfaced in the kitchen’s door.  “That manky nancy is always insulting my…everything!”

                Clearing your throat you dared to get the attention of the fuming blond that stormed around the kitchen.  Finally stopping in front of the large French style windows, he crossed his arms, clearly ignoring you. 

                “French lilacs,” he muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes at the bright purple blooms on the trees in the backyard.  His eyes shot down to the rows that made up the farther landscape.  Finally open his mouth he cursed and growled out, “French lavender.”

                “French lilacs and French lavender?” you asked and quirked an eyebrow at him in confusion.  “What are you talking about, Arthur?”  His back stiffened as if you had dared to ask him such a question.

                “All the bloody French…”

                “Oh! Not this again!”  You griped and leaned against the frame of the door.  “What did Francis do this time?”  Just like it rained half the summer in England, there wasn’t a doubt that anything you said would be wrong, especially if you tried to defend Francis. Much like the tube traffic was congested more than spring allergies, Arthur just didn’t like France or Francis. 

                “It’s not what he did!” 

                “I know I’ll regret asking, but what do you mean?”  He wasn’t blaming the Frenchman, but he was making it clearer than sunshine that he had certainly done something to earn a yellow card against him.

                “There are French lilacs, but no English lilacs…”

                You rolled your eyes, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table.  This was going to be a long, very long, conversation.  That was, of course, if you let it get that far again. “Yeah, but there’s English lavender.”

                “That blooms after his,” he corrected you and took a place across from you.  “Not to mention all the other things that he claims ownership, too.”

                Tugging on your ear, you wished you had just stayed in the living room and watched TV.  Every fiber of your being warned you against getting up and checking to see what Arthur was having a fit about.  Letting out a sigh you nodded and prepared.   “Arthur, there are plenty of English things, like…”

                “Name one thing!” 

                “Are we really going to do this?” You asked and he didn’t falter.  Apparently you were going to have to list something because he wasn’t going to let this go.  “English Bulldogs?”

                “There are French Bulldogs, too.  He’s even got Poodles!” 

                “Ugh…I don’t know!” Anything you said Arthur would certainly have a rebuttal for since you had played this game many times before.  “English muffins.”

                “Poppycock!”  Arthur exclaimed unhappy with that answer.  “Everything he does…he…does better than me!”    

                It was as if this was the Brady Bunch, just replace Marcia with France, and…well, you get the picture.  

                “Now, you know that isn’t true, Arthur,” you groaned.  “You’re both good at different things.”  Although they were more alike than either would admit. And you weren’t about to open that can of worms.   Then the lightbulb went off above your head.  “Ah, I know there’s one thing that Francis isn’t good at like you.”  Using your feet, you pushed your chair out.  Running your finger over the top of the table, you slowly sauntered up to the still red faced Englishman. 

                “And what would that be, love?’ he questioned.  Ah, yes, he remembered how this ended the last time he brought up the French and how they, or more so Francis, frosted him.

     Running your fingers threw his hair you leaned down and nipped at his neck.  Leaving a trail of kisses along his jaw, you stopped and felt a muscle quiver.   “Why don’t you come upstairs and I can show you?”

    “Of course!  I’ll be right there!”  He said and slipped his sweater vest over his head.  “I’m going to show you why they call me Great Britain, love.” 

     “Don’t keep me waiting, Arthur.” You leaned back in the kitchen and gave a wink before you started for the bedroom. 

    “Ah, are you going to give her a kiss?”  A voice questioned from behind Arthur, whose eyebrows knitted together in annoyance.  “Maybe a French kiss, non?” 

    “You bloody frog!  Get the fuck…”

    You sighed and rolled your eyes from the ruckus down below.  With a few more obscenities and glass breaking you heard the front door open and slam shut.  Pulling the blanket up and over your head, you knew that Arthur was preoccupied with the French invasion. It would never end and the rest, including you, would have to look on bemused with the verbal insult and tit-for-tat that Britain and France has done, well, forever 

    “I’ll give you such a wallop!”  Arthur bellowed from the front door. 

    “Don’t forget the French ticklers, Arthur!” 

    Ah, it was truly a love-hate relationship, but to anyone else, it was double Dutch.