This story really was too much fun to leave at the one chapter. It kept bugging me, so here we go... the culinary disasters continue on!

Whilst England attempted to sleep off his sickness, Scotland appointed himself as responsible for housekeeping. The truth was he feeling very guilty about poisoning his little brother. He really hadn't meant to. He wasn't all bad, despite what England liked to claim to anyone who would listen. He figured he could make it up to England by cleaning up his house and surprising him with his favourite meal before he cleared off home again.

What was England's favourite meal, though? Scotland liked haggis but England had made it clear time and time again that he despised the stuff. He can't handle it, Scotland smirked, as he poked around in the fridge. Bangers and mash, he likes that, right? Oh, hang on… he pulled something out of the freezer. Fish and chips, of course. All of the British brothers were quite fond of fish and chips. This will do nicely.

"Scotland?" England's tired voice rang out through the kitchen before he appeared in the doorway in a pair of green pyjamas, rubbing the back of his head. Scotland stood up straight and shot him a massive smile, hiding a frozen fish behind his back.

"Brother! You're looking much better." (He wasn't.) "Do you need anything? I'm taking care of things down here so you can head back up to bed if you like."

England frowned at the Scotsman. "Yeah. I want a drink. I'll get it myself, thank you very much." He made his way over to the sink, eyeing his brother suspiciously. Scotland kept smiling, albeit nervously.

"What are you bloody smiling at?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just-"

"What?"

"I was wondering-"

"Out with it!"

"Are you still angry? About… about… earli-"

"Don't talk about that." England's eyes flashed dangerously over his glass of water. "I want you to go home. Before you try and heal my food poisoning with another magical cure and kill me."

"C'mon… don't be like that," Scotland replied, laughing uneasily. "I had only the best intentions."

"Like I'd believe that. "

"I was trying to help!"

"You were-" England paused. He'd spotted something.

"What's wrong?" Scotland followed England's gaze. Then he realised. He wasn't doing a very good job of hiding the fish. In fact, he was practically waving it in England's face.

"IF YOU THINK YOU ARE COOKING ANYTHING IN THIS HOUSE YOU CAN BLOODY WELL-"

"England! Calm down! I was just… airing the fish."

"You were what?"

"It's been in the freezer too long, you have to air it every few days or it gets bruised."

"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, SCOTLAND, YOU ARE THE MOST RIDICUL-"

"Oi! You can shut yer yap right now, it's not like YOU know anything about anything!"

"You need to get out of my house THIS INSTANT or I swear I will… I will… ugh…"

"England?"

England clutched his stomach and Scotland grabbed his shoulder, concern replacing anger in an instant. England shoved his hand aside, however, before slapping his own over his mouth and bolting from the room. Scotland stared after him, his own stomach panging with guilt. "Poor lad."

Then he looked down to the fish in his hand. "Still, being ill is no excuse for insulting me when I'm trying to be nice. I can cook. I'm going to cook. It's not like he can stop me anyway. Aye. He'll enjoy it once he tries it."

England greeted his bed with his face and tried to drown out the sound of his gurgling stomach with a throaty groan. As if the hangover hadn't been bad enough. Uni, his unicorn friend, nestled against England's leg in a show of concern, but he barely registered. What was wrong with that Scotland? His brother was an extremely smart man, but whenever "culinary skills" became involved, something tweaked and he became completely irrational, blinded by his own stubbornness – or delusion. England knew it well, because he himself could be the same way. Not that he'd ever acknowledge that out loud.

A crash sounded from downstairs – the kitchen, England noted, but he wasn't about to do anything to stop the madman that was raiding his fridge. Not after that most recent bout of vomiting. He'd lost all will to argue as he felt far too hellish to even think about moving now, and planned to spend the remainder of the day with his face nicely buried in his pillow. At least until his nausea and/or Scotland left him alone. The whole day was turning into a disaster. But then again, he'd predicted as much. He couldn't get along with any of his brothers for longer than a day at the best of times and when Scotland announced that he'd invited himself over for the weekend England knew in the pit of his stomach (ugh, his stomach) that something like this would happen sooner or later over the course of his stay. Okay, maybe not exactly like this.

"Uni, this is so unfair. Scotland drank that wicked tonic too and he's just fine. Typical. His stomach must be made of steel – well, probably, actually. How else would he be able to eat the way he does and still be living?"

Uni just nuzzled his leg again in response. It was a small gesture but it comforted England enough nonetheless. He was well aware that he was whining like a child, but he just felt so hard done by that he couldn't bring himself to care.

England's stomach settled somewhat after a little while and allowed him to drift into a light sleep. He was woken an hour or so later by a tentative knocking on his already open bedroom door.

"England?"

"Mrrrrfff."

"…England?"

"…Sctlnd…?" England raised his head off the pillow, his face puffy and eyes misted over with drowsiness.

"Aye. How are you feeling?"

England sat up straight and examined the sight of his brother standing there in the doorway, holding a tray. A tray!

"Listen, I feel pretty guilty about earlier, even if it was your own fault you gulped it down like that," Scotland walked into the room, England unable to do anything but gape. "I cleaned everything up and made you some food… if you're up to eating, that is."

"I'll never be up to eating any of your… what…. What is that supposed to be?"

Scotland met his brother's eyes, obviously a little insulted, but answered: "Fish and chips. Your favourite, right?"

"That is not fish and chips. Scotland, what happened to your hand?"

"Hm?" Scotland followed England's (concerned?) gaze to the bandage he'd haphazardly wrapped around his left hand. "This? It's nothing. Papercut."

Papercut. Psh. Like England would believe that. The idiot's gone and burnt or diced or blended his fingers, hasn't he?

"Scotland, you can't cook. Isn't my food poisoning proof enough? Isn't whatever you just did to yourself…" A gesture to his brother's injured hand, "…proof enough for you? I understand you're trying to help but it would help a lot more if you would just admit your food is deadly poison." England sighed and took the offending hand in his own, inspecting the hurried bandaging. He stole another glance at the tray Scotland had brought in with him.

"Bloody hell, Scotland, did you grate the potatoes?"

"That's how you make chips, is it not?" Scotland looked serious. "To keep them even in size, right? Though your grater must be broken, because they came out seriously thin. Then the grater jammed so I cut the rest by hand."

Those would be the full potato-sized chips, England snarked. He sighed very loudly and tiredly. "And you thawed the fish properly, right?"

"Aye, I boiled it."

"…"

"You alright?"

"…Yes. Though, presentation-wise, one tends to cut a lemon slice rather than throw a full lemon onto the side, but that's a minor issue compared to… never mind."

"So… since you aren't yelling at me anymore," Scotland looked up at his brother after a few moment of silence passed between them and smiled, his eyes a little weary. England paused in unwinding the bandages for a second. He wasn't yelling. Scotland had blatantly defied him (again), but he wasn't yelling about it. Was he that drained? "…and it'll be good to fill your stomach again… do you think you could… eat this for me?"

Well, England?

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To be continued! Brace your tastebuds.