Note: I've been meaning to do this for ages, but, as ever, got distracted by other ideas!

This will be an open-ended collection (I have no end point in mind) of short pieces set just before or after other fics in the Feel the Fear series, or telling parts of the same stories from a different character's point of view.

I have a few already in mind that I want to write, but if anyone would like to see a particular prequel/sequel/alternate POV, please comment and let me know, and I will endeavour to write it!

The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
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Sequel to Highly Effective People ( s/10860330/1/Highly-Effective-People); the first fic I wrote in the FtF series.
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29th August, 2009; Lake District, England

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The sky is a pure, unbroken cerulean from horizon to rugged horizon. Sunlight glitters atop the crests of the waves that ripple across the lake far below, burnishing them to a brilliant gold. The only sounds to break his land's peaceful slumber is the susurrus of the breeze, flowing over this exposed hillside and gently stirring the heather.

On any other day, they might stay a while to admire the view; England quoting a line or two of Wordsworth, Wales sharing a snippet of his own, inferior verse, inspired by the moment.

But on any other day, England's stomach wouldn't be churning like a cement mixer, and Wales' complexion would be a far healthier shade than its current fire engine red. There is no poetry in England's heart right now, only anger.

"He doesn't give a shit about us, does he?" England gestures towards the faraway speck that is Scotland, a quarter-mile or so ahead of them on the trail. "Not one single, solitary shit."

"He does," Wales insists with all of his normal, misguided loyalty. "He's just…" He pauses for a moment, gasping for breath. "He's in his element, out here like this, and I think he just gets carried away."

"I doubt we've even entered his head. He shows no consideration for anyone, Wales. Not a jot. And I, for one, am sick of it." England stops dead in his tracks. "Sick of him, sick of today, and definitely sick of fucking hiking."

Wales carries on for a few more strides alone, then turns to look at England, wide-eyed and wondering.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm having a well-deserved rest, and a cup of tea," England says. "Then I'm going to back to the cottage. You can join me if you like, or scurry off after Scotland like a good boy. Your choice."

Wales' eyes linger on England for a beat longer, and then he gazes off in Scotland's direction, his bottom lip caught up between his teeth and clearly conflicted. Torn, as he always is, between the two of them.

Whilst he dithers, England finds himself a relatively dry, level spot on the ground beside the trail, sits down, and extracts a thermos from his rucksack. The gurgle and splash of the tea as England pours out a measure into a tin mug attracts Wales' attention, and he eyes it longingly.

England inhales the steam rising from the mug with exaggerated pleasure, and Wales takes a step closer. Then another when England takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid and smiles as though he's just swallowed a mouthful of ambrosia rather than a stewed, over-sweetened brew that tastes faintly of plastic, as tea from a thermos always does.

"Could I have some?" Wales asks, and England knows he has, for once, won.

"Of course," he says, magnanimous in his victory, handing the mug to Wales when he crouches beside him. "There's plenty."

They pass the mug back and forth until both it and the flask are drained, then share one of Wales' cigarettes, all in silence.

Wales stretches out his legs, leans back and stares up at a lone kestrel hovering above them; a sharp, black shape bitten out of the otherwise clear sky. England watches his brother watch the bird until Wales inhales deeply and says, "He isn't doing this just to annoy you, you know. I don't think he really understands hangovers."

"I don't think I do, either," England says, eagerly grasping at the chance of a conversational detour that that remark offers. He's had his fill of talking, or even thinking, about Scotland for the day. "It makes no sense that we have them, does it? We're not really affected by any other human illnesses, so why this one in particular?"

Thankfully, Wales follows him along it easily enough, with none of his usual demands that they remain on the ever-vexatious topic that is their older brother. "I've never really thought about it, but you're right." He frowns. "It could be that we just think we should be hungover, and so we are."

"Like when we get hungry, or tired." Lies that their human-shaped bodies have tricked them into believing are true. With sufficient determination, they can be overcome. "Perhaps all we need is a little willpower."

"Perhaps," Wales agrees with a grin. "Why don't we try? See if we can just… just force it all away."

England nods, and then screws his eyes closed, digging his fingers down into the damp soil beneath him; down into the earth that is his true body, vast and strong and thrumming with ancient power. It vibrates along his arms, through his chest, all the way up to his head, which… Fuck, which was pounding hard enough already, and now feels as though it might split from ear to ear. His gorge rises once more, and he can't concentrate on anything other than the resulting nausea.

Wales groans. "I must have thrown up my willpower along with everything else this morning," he says. "I can't do it. We'll have to ask Yr Alban if he can teach us the trick."

Scotland again. Wales can't shut up about him for more than a couple of minutes at a time, seemingly. The man's obsessed.

"I'm sure we'll manage on our own," England says, smiling thinly.

"It'd be easier if he helped us, though," Wales continues, obviously not willing to be dissuaded this time. "If he could—"

Growling in frustration, England grabs hold of his rucksack and launches himself upright. "Right," he says, "I'm going to set off back to the cottage now."

"You were serious about that?" Wales boggles at him as if shocked, though England cannot imagine why. He's never been an enthusiastic participant in Scotland's hikes, even at the best of times. "Ah, well, I thought I'd see if I can catch up with him actually, so…"

He steadies himself with his hands as he pushes himself first to his knees, and then – with slow, steady caution – to his feet. Once vertical, he sways alarmingly, his face taking on a bilious tinge.

"The cottage is probably a better idea," he admits, swallowing hard. "I'm sure Yr Alban will be fine. I think he prefers walking on his own, anyway."

That makes the idea of chasing after him sound almost appealing. But only almost. England isn't about to cut off his own nose to spite his face.

The cottage they're returning to might be cold, damp, and lacking in all possible amenities, but it does at least have chairs, a large supply of both aspirin and paracetamol, and a merciful lack of Scotland for at least the next few hours.

"The only way I've ever managed to keep up with him is if he happens to see some sort of interesting plant or insect," Wales says. "He'll be rooted to the spot for ages, then."

Lacking Scotland solely in body, apparently. Wales still seems determined that he accompanies them mentally, thrust to the forefront of both their minds. Forced to be a captive audience as his brother prattles on about Cairngorms this and Fomes fomentarius that, England begins to wish he'd never encouraged him to stay.

He likely would have been happier on his own, too; a conclusion he inevitably reaches at some point – at several points – during these interminable bank holiday weekends they make themselves suffer with one another.

This is the last time, he promises himself, because it helps dull the urge to push Wales into Lake Windermere, just to shut him up. No matter what anyone says, I'm not going to come on one of these little excursions ever again.