Title: BC Bud
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America, England, France, Russia; one-sided France - England, America/Russia
Rating: M for Mature Themes and portrayal of drug use.
Warnings: Drug use portrayed in a humorous manner. Bad language. Mild sexual content.

BC Bud

"...fucking Russia throwing his weight around like a fucking semi wrestler or something," ranted America, cramming another pot brownie into his mouth.

Canada regarded him stoically, blunt in hand. His brother got very emotional when high.

"Sometimes," continued America, narrowing his eyes, "I just wanna shove one of my missiles up his ass. But n-not a missile, exactly..."

Canada took a long drag and then groped on the floor for his bag of Cheezies. Yum, delicious Cheezies. He ate them like he had an illness and the cure was massive amounts of cheddar cheese snack curls - "Bwah!" sputtered Canada as he stared in horror at the empty bag. He fell to his knees and dug around, only to find more forlorn empty bags of Cheezies, Doritos, and Smarties.

"Don't tell me we're out of snacks!" America said, shooting a guilty look at the last few crumbs remaining on what had been a heaping plate of brownies. "Oh man, what're we gonna do."

"I don't know!" cried Canada, on the verge of tears. The world had taken on a hazy, indistinct quality made unbearable by overpowering munchie cravings. He crawled over to grab at his brother's knees. "Drive me to the store!"

America shoved him off, or rather tried to; he mostly succeeded in knocking himself half on and half off the couch. "No! I can't op-oper-work a toaster right now, much less a car." His stomach rumbled and his eyes watered. "Ah crap," he muttered. "We'll have to walk!"

The few blocks to the corner store seemed as daunting as the quest to destroy the One Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. Canada trembled. America whimpered. They both made astonishingly uncoordinated dashes for the door.

"Talk to me, bro!" pleaded America, as he tagged along behind Canada.

"About what?"

"Anything! Anything to take my mind off the hunger."

"Uh," Canada said intelligently. "The most do-able nation." Then as an afterthought, "Lady nation."

America laughed, high-pitched and annoying. "Oh, that's easy," he said. "Belgium."

Canada was aghast. "More men have gone down on her than the Titanic."

America huffed indignantly. "Okay then, who's your pick."

"Ukraine," said Canada wistfully.

"No way! I bet she doesn't even shave her pits!"

Canada shoved his hands into his pockets with more force than was strictly necessary. "Yeah, but she's got great... tracts of land," he finished lamely.

Utterly failing to catch the reference, America groaned from hunger and then grasped his shoulder, shaking him with inhuman strength. If Canada hadn't been his brother, and accustomed to centuries of such treatment, he would've had a dislocated shoulder. "There it is," America said in a hush, as though he'd discovered the treasure of a lost pharaoh. "The corner store."

A ray of light parted the clouds and shone down on the corner store. The broken glass in its parking lot sparkled invitingly. The grumpy lady behind the counter with a metric ton of barrettes in her hair glared at them as they stumbled into her store (America had almost lost his balance and fallen on his face when the automatic doors slid open just as he was reaching to push them). Canada gave her a lopsided smile, his reddened eyes somewhat unfocused.

"Oh shit!" America frantically dug around in his pockets, turning in circles much like a dog chasing its own tail. "I didn't bring my wallet!"

"It's okay," Canada assured him. "I'll barter my watch for food." He eyed the stands of cheap, mass-produced snack food hungrily. His brother made right for the freezer of ice cream and dildo-shaped Popsicles.

The bell rang behind them, signaling the arrival of another customer. "Well, fancy meeting you here," said a voice in Canada's ear. He yelped and leapt nearly a foot straight into the air and then two feet to the front, completely violating the laws of physics.

"ENGLAND!"

"England?" America tried to stand up, but slipped, and the freezer door came down on top of him. England stared as his former colony flailed around, apparently being eaten by a freezer full of frozen confections.

"What is wrong with you two?" England asked, studying Canada's face intently.

Canada blushed like a virgin and squeaked out, "Oooooh nothing's w-w-wrong, just trying to get some uh, smack, I mean snacks. For snacking."

"Food goes in here!" America announced, pointing to his mouth with his free hand. He managed to wiggle free of the freezer, slumping to the floor.

England rubbed his brow, as though that comment had caused him physical pain. "Snacks. You're acting ridiculous because you're hungry."

Canada squirmed under England's suspicious and hairy-browed gaze. "I ran out of Cheezies and America forgot his wallet," he whimpered.

In the meantime, America had stumbled over to the front counter and tried to charm the cashier into giving them free food. "You know what would be awesome?" he asked her. The cashier stared into his very soul. "Puppies. Buckets of puppies," he told her. "So you could bury your face in them-"

"That's quite enough," said England, snatching him up by the collar and marching him and Canada towards the door. "If you're both so hungry, I'll feed you, in return for you not terrorizing the neighborhood."

England hustled them into his car - Canada in the passenger's seat, and America sprawling across the back. England stuck the key in the ignition. America merrily hummed to himself. Canada sat straight, hands clenched in his lap, absolutely certain that England that tell that he was baked as hell just by looking at him.

The car hadn't even pulled out of the parking lot before America was climbing into the front, randomly poking at the radio buttons. "Ah!" yelled England, batting at him ineffectually. "Get in the back seat."

"I love this song!" America grinned ear to ear as Elton John's tinkly piano filled the car.

Canada looked fearfully around him. Oh man, I am so high right now. Wait - can England read thoughts? He's a wizard. Oh shit. Oh shit. Uh, I'm NOT high at all! No sirree, eh!

"HOLD ME CLOSER, TINY DANCER!" bellowed America directly into England's ear. "COUNT THE HEADLIGHTS ON THE HIGHWAY!"

"Ah!" England weaved in and out of traffic wildly, struggling to regain control of the car. "Quiet, you idiot!"

America rolled down the window to howl "HOLD ME CLOSER, TONY DANZA!" to passersby. Canada caught a glimpse of his bright-eyed, red-faced reflection in the rear-view mirror and broke out in a cold sweat.

England's car roared into his driveway and slammed to a stop. Canada found himself in the floorboard, while America ended up halfway across the steering wheel. England was panting heavily. "Get out," he gritted out from between his teeth.

"Uff," said America, trying to untangle his legs with Canada's arms.

"GET OUT!"

Canada bolted through the passenger-side window. America climbed through the sunroof. Both ended up sitting in the front yard of England's cozy, two-story rental home, slumped against each other. After several long seconds, England stepped out and walked stiffly to the front door. "I don't know what's got into the both of you," he ranted, yanking open the door and shoving them inside. "Idiots! Ugh!"

Canada was afraid this meant they wouldn't get fed, but England stormed into the kitchen and they heard a clatter of pots and pans. "Uh, England?" he asked hesitantly, peeking around the door.

"WHAT NOW?"

"... Can I go to the bathroom?" Canada asked, praying that if he washed his face that his red eyes would go away. England dismissed him with a grunt, which he took as consent. He left America sitting on the couch, doodling eagles on the very official-looking documents laying on the coffee table, and stumbled upstairs. In his haste he yanked open the wrong door -

"Angleterre, mon amor!" purred France, who was draped across the bed. He had on a rose and the radio and not much else. "Surprise, surprise - AH!"

"AH!" Canada clamped his hand over his mouth.

"What're YOU doing here?" they asked each other at the same time.

"What's going on up there?" yelled England from the bottom of the stairs.

Canada frantically signaled for France to hide. France obligingly dove under the bed. "Nuh-nothing!" he called out the door. "I'm coming down!"

"Hurry up! Dinner's ready!"

Canada slid most of the way down the stairs, running into the dining food considerably more flustered than he had been earlier. America was sitting at the table, cramming food into his mouth eagerly. "This is the best stuff you've ever made, Iggy," he said.

"You never liked it before," England muttered bitterly.

Canada stuffed some of England's bangers and mash into his mouth, trying to think of a way to get them and France out of the house without ending up with permanent dents in their heads and nasty curses that would insure none of them would get an erection for the next few centuries. He gulped heavily. Now was the time for the greatest tactical thinking of his life.

Too bad he was still totally baked.

England went to get something to drink, so Canada seized his chance. He needed help. He got America. "America," he said in what he thought was a much softer whisper than it actually was. "France is upstairs!"

"Huh?" America stopped cramming food into his mouth momentarily. "France?" he repeated around a mouthful of food.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" Canada said in an exaggerated hush. "Don't let him hear! We haveta get France out of here before Eng-Eng-Iggy notices he's here! Or we're screwed."

One could almost hear the cogs turning in America's brain. "I got it!" he said, waving a finger around earnestly. "Call England's cell phone, so he'll go to answer it! And then I can get France out the back door while he tries to figure out who called him!"

Canada could've wept at the brilliance of this plan. At this baked he would've wept at sad commercials and motivational posters of kittens telling you to "Hang in there baby". When England reappeared, he told him, "I gotta go to the bathroom!"

"Again?" England looked concerned at Canada's strange bladder problems.

Canada jumped up, knocking over his chair, and sprinted back upstairs. America stood up and declared, "I gotta go, too!"

"There's only one bathroom -" England started even as America followed Canada upstairs. He sighed and sat down, rubbing his temple.

Upstairs, Canada ran into the bedroom, yanked France out from under the bed, and said, "I'm gonna distract England! So you run out the back door!"

"But I don't have any clothes," France protested, brushing dust bunnies from his silky French hair. Canada grabbed at the first thing that was handy, namely England's Manchester United boxers, and then took off his own shirt and handed it to France. Proud at having solved that problem so quickly, he grabbed the land line phone and dialed England's cell number.

"Hullo?"

"Um," Canada hadn't actually thought this part out. "Izzzz thizz Meezzter England?" he asked with a pitiful 'foreign' accent.

"What the hell-"

America, meanwhile, burst into the bathroom. He splashed his face with water. "Who's the hero?" he asked his reflection in the mirror. "I'm the hero." He grabbed a hand towel, patted his face, and stood up to look directly out England's bathroom window and into Russia's face.

"AHHHHH!"

"KOLKOLKOL!"

Russia flailed, somehow breaking the branch he was sitting on, but managed to grab the window's ledge. America yanked open the window and gaped at him. "Are you SPYING on us, Commie?"

"Not Communist anymore," Russia reminded him, even as he struggled to haul himself through the narrow bathroom window. America snatched the camera from around his neck and waved it in his face accusingly.

A few steps down the hall, Canada was babbling incoherently into the phone. "Me love you long time!"

"Is this Canada? Bloody hell, Matt, why are you calling me from my own phone? I'm coming upstairs."

"No!" Canada panicked, running around the room in circles trying to find somewhere to hide France. "No! No need to do that! Me so horny!"

"...Is this France?"

America stuck his head in the room. "Guess who I found!" he said triumphantly, pulling Russia in after him. Canada stared at them, aghast. The look on France's face was something more like 'foursome?'

"Hide! Hide!" Canada slammed the phone down. He hid behind England's curtain. France simply sat back down on the bed, accepting his fate. America's mouth gaped open and he stammered something before Russia grabbed him and pulled him into the closet.

The bedroom door flew open. "Francis!" England shook with fury. "It WAS you! What are you doing here, frog? And why are you wearing Canada's shirt?"

France smirked. "Do not misunderstand, Angleterre..."

England ignored him. "Canada, I know you're there. I can see your feet."

Shamefaced, Canada shuffled out from behind the curtain.

From inside the closet came a rather suspicious breathy sound, followed by rhythmic thumping noises. England yanked the door open and Russia and America tumbled out, entangled, America's glasses askew and Russia's pants half-undone.

England turned silently back to France, as though somehow attributing this entire state of affairs to him. France smiled and and leered at him with obvious evil intent. "Oh, rosbif, such a day you've had - come, let me console you."

Canada took the opportunity to sneak out. America turned to Russia and asked, "Uh, so... how liberal are your marijuana laws, Commie?"

Notes: yes, America means 'sumo wrestler' but says 'semi wrestler'.

The 'who's the hero? I'm the hero' part comes from a guy I used to work with, who would mumble 'who's the man? I'm the man!' to himself all the time.