12th February, 2010; Palace of Westminster, London, England

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"Is it just me, or do the drones seem particularly agitated today?" Scotland asks when yet another junior civil servant pales and then hurriedly dives out of their path as soon as he catches sight of them.

"You know they're all a bit nervous of you," Wales says, offering him an apologetic smile. "I think they half-expect you to start screaming 'Freedom!' and brandishing a sword at them whenever you're here."

"Hardly an irrational fear," England observes, cocking one pompous eyebrow.

"Fuck off, I was drunk," Scotland snaps defensively, "and it was only a sodding umbrella. I wasn't going to hurt anyone. Anyway, that was nearly forty years ago; most of these guys were probably still swimming about in their dad's bollocks back then."

"Word gets around, I suppose," says England, whom Scotland suspects of ensuring that that particular story survives in the Westminster consciousness by gleefully recounting it to each new hire before they have chance to make their own, unbiased opinions of him. "And that face you've got on can hardly help, either."

"What fucking face?" Scotland wasn't aware he was making one, but he wouldn't put it past England to be referring to his normal, resting countenance which, he has been reliably informed, looks like one that might be worn by someone contemplating instigating random violence, even if he's thinking of nothing more sinister than puppies and fields full of gambolling fucking lambs. (A rare occurrence, to be sure, but Wales can be a pernicious influence on one's thought processes at times.)

"You do look a little…" Wales pauses, his tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips. "Intense today, Yr Alban."

Which is Wales-speak, no doubt, for 'quite likely to induce premature labour and the curdling of all milk within a two mile radius'. The expression might well be subconscious, but Scotland isn't entirely surprised to discover he's wearing it, nevertheless.

He's probably been sporting some variation on the same theme for the past fortnight, ever since he was informed that the PM had finally got around to rescheduling the long-delayed joint meeting with England that he seemed inexplicably eager they have. So eager, in fact, that he had gone so far as to carefully coordinate schedules with Scotland's First Minister so Scotland wouldn't be able to fall back on his usual excuse of 'pressing business in Holyrood' to avoid it, and likely pulled the same trick with Wales'.

(Northern Ireland seems to have managed to escape the ordeal, but then he has no shame in pretending complete political ignorance due to reasons of youth in order to do so.)

"Jesus, do you blame me? You know at least one of us is going to be going home with a broken nose."

Wales' optimistic, though unconvincing, "I'm sure it'll be fine," is almost completely drowned out by England's chipper, "Nonsense. There won't even be anything to fight about. He just wants us all to sit down and have a nice chat."
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The meeting does start with a nice chat but ends with England throwing a letter opener at Scotland which only just misses taking off the PM's ear. Scotland can't bring himself to hold the unwarranted attack against the little wanker, however, as it means that they are swiftly and perfunctorily dismissed almost half an hour earlier than planned.

His hopes of an equally swift exit to the pub are soon dashed, though, when he steps out of the PM's office to be faced with an entire flock of ashen-faced civil servants and MPs anxiously fluttering around in the corridor beyond. Their eyes turn en masse to him, then quickly dart away as their heads bend together and a whispered conversation ensues.

Scotland's about to ask what the hell's going on, or perhaps tell them they can all calm the fuck down because he hasn't even brought his umbrella with him today, when a lad emerges from amongst them to approach him, albeit seemingly by simple Brownian motion rather than design.

His soft, youthful face and shiny, ill-fitting suit suggest that his position is incredibly minor, maybe even some poor work experience sod offered up as a sacrificial lamb. His shaving rash reddened Adam's apple is jumping up and down in his throat like it's attached to a piece of elastic, and there's a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow.

"Mr Scotland, sir," he says in a soft tone that is just as timorous as it is deferential, "could you please come with me? There's something we need you to sign. It should only take a few minutes."

England's voice oils its way obsequiously into the conversation before Scotland even has chance to think of a reply.

"I'm sure we can spare that," he says, stepping around Scotland to favour the lad with a smile smugly assured of its owner's vast and singular beneficence. 'Don't you worry, young man,' that smile says. "You'll find that, unlike these two disagreeable buggers, I'm very accommodating. But never you mind about them; I'll get them to behave somehow, and then it's bonus time for you once your boss gets to hear about it!'

Scotland would quite like to punch it straight off his brother's mouth.

"I'm sorry, Mr England," the lad says hesitantly, the shells of his ears turning a deep, embarrassed red, "I'm afraid there seems to have been a misunderstanding. It's only Mr Scotland's signature we need."

England's look of horrified surprise makes Scotland's decision for him instantly.

"Lead on then, mate," he says. "The pub can wait."
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The lad, it transpires, is called Rob Stevenson and he's a couple of rungs up the ladder from a work experience placement albeit only just, being as he is assistant junior under-dogsbody or some such for a department so obscure that Scotland has never even heard of them, much less had dealings with them before.

Stevenson seems unwilling to talk beyond sharing his name and rank, however, deflecting all of Scotland's other attempts at engaging in friendly chitchat with nothing more than the odd grunted monosyllable. Scotland would like to also blame this laconism on England's gossipmongering, but Stevenson simply seems focused on his randomly delegated task to the exclusion of all else, his eyes fixed firmly forward and his step brisk and efficient as he leads them further and further into the bowels of Westminster.

Eventually, they fetch up at an unprepossessing little room in a remote corner of the basement that Scotland's never had cause to visit before, despite his three centuries' long familiarity with the building.

It's winter-cold even though there's an old-fashioned cast iron radiator dominating the wall behind the equally old-fashioned faux-mahogany laminate desk, which suggests that the room is seldom enough used that it's uneconomical to either bother turning that radiator on or fixing it if it happens to be broken instead. The air smells like the Thames outside – damp and silty – and the peeling wallpaper is the same murky grey-green.

"Would you like to take a seat, sir?" Stevenson says, waving one hand towards the desk.

There's a chair pulled up behind it, but it's a flimsy thing made out of moulded plywood and aluminium tubes; if it's anything like as old and neglected as everything else here looks, Scotland doubts it would take his weight. "Naw, I'm okay to stand," he says. "You did say this wouldn't take long, right?"

"Just as long as it takes you to write your name." Stevenson moves to the tall, rust-pitted filing cabinet which rounds out the room's meagre furnishings, and grabs a sheaf of papers from the top drawer. "Three times," he finishes, his lips thinning and drawing back into a brittle smile that suggest more nervous tic than amusement.

When Scotland holds out his hand to take the papers, however, Stevenson clutches them a little closer to his chest, seemingly unwilling to relinquish them, and what slight colour had been returned to his cheeks during their march through the building quickly drains away again.

Scotland sighs. "Look, lad," he says, striving for a soothing tone despite his annoyance, "no matter what you might have heard, you're perfectly safe. Whatever these are –" he slowly folds his fingers over the top edge of the papers, and then gives them a gentle tug – "I'm perfectly capable of reading them without knocking your block off if I don't like what they say. Which, I'm guessing, you think I'm going to."

Stevenson doesn't look particularly reassured – in fact, his eyes grow even wider, until there's white visible around the full circumference of his irises – but does eventually allow Scotland to ease the papers out of his grip, although Scotland presumes it's less a decision than a simple act of necessity, as they're beginning to tear at their sides under the strain.

As soon as the documents are in his possession, Scotland tries to read them, but his attention begins to wander before he's even reached the third paragraph, driven away by the massive infestation of 'aforementioned's and 'heretofore's which seems to have devoured all the words that might have made some sort of sense.

"We might be out of here quicker," he admits, "if you just tell me what this thing is."

Stevenson's Adam's apple takes another swift journey to the base of his throat, this time accompanied by an audible gulp. "It's a statement, sir," he says, his voice as high and thin as a whistle. "Of intent."

"What sort of intent?" Scotland asks, quickly skimming the document's title again in the hopes that this new information will provide some added context, but his eyes soon hit a stray 'therewith' that sends them ricocheting away once again.

"Of…" The pitch of Stevenson's voice reaches its apparent apogee, and cuts out with a shrill squeak. He coughs, mouth politely covered, and tries again: "Of romantic intent, sir."

"Of romantic intent." Even repeating the words slowly doesn't encourage a bolt of inspiration to descend from the heavens and gift Scotland with sudden understanding, as he'd rather hoped it would.

Stevenson's nod is firm, but the faltering step he takes in the direction of the door before speaking betrays increasing nervousness. "Towards Mr France, sir."

"Mr Fra… France and me, that's hardly a new thing, lad. And it's been a bit…" Scotland's face heats with embarrassment. This is why he fucking hates bureaucracy, and its avaricious need to hoard and then notarise as much knowledge as it can, even if it's information that should be a person's entirely private business. "A bit past intent for centuries."

"We have reason to believe that the nature of your relationship with Mr France has recently changed, sir."

Stevenson's mouth quivers a little, but stills when the corners of his lips twist sharply downwards, pulling them taut across his teeth. He looks like he wants to cry, and Scotland would pity the poor wee thing if he hadn't just admitted to what sounds very much like spying on him in some fashion.

"What do you mean by changed?" Scotland asks him, leaving aside all questions regarding governmental intelligence gathering only because he knows from experience that they will just be met with evasions, if not ignored entirely.

He is going to check for hidden cameras as soon as he gets home, however.

"Our understanding is that you have entered into a relationship with a national personification – or personifications – which is intended to be long-standing and either wholly or largely exclusive." Stevenson sounds as though he's reciting a memorised speech, and that appears to calm him a little. He even manages a small smile after he appends the ubiquitous, "Sir."

"Right," Scotland says neutrally, wanting to neither confirm nor deny any of that, because: "I still can't understand why it's any of your business what I get up to in private."

"Such an arrangement represents a possible conflict of interests," Stevenson says, continuing his clearly well-rehearsed patter, "and, especially in the event of war, it –"

"Shitting hell," Scotland breaks in, truly offended now, "how many times do I have to prove myself to you people? How many more times do I have to go into sodding battle against him to get it through your thick skulls? Jesus Christ, maybe if I say it slowly enough, it might sink in." He takes a deep breath and then says, leaving a pause between each word for emphasis, "There is no such thing as conflict of fucking interests for our kind."

"Sir."

Scotland had initially thought of Stevenson's profligate 'sir'ing as nothing more than a kind of obsequious punctuation to whatever he was saying, but he's starting to discern that they have some nuance; some deeper meaning. This one sounds mildly interrogative.

"One of the first things we learn is how to separate the personal from the political," Scotland says, indulging him. He is young, after all, and new to his job, so perhaps a little ignorance is only to be expected. (Though an information pack of some description would likely be of great benefit, and Scotland makes a mental note to suggest the preparation of such to the PM.) "Our people always – always – come first, no matter what."

Love between nations can – and does, as Scotland knows first hand – survive shifting allegiances and the tearing up of treaties, because they're human enough that their hearts, at least, are their own. Inter-national loyalty is a more pragmatic thing, however, apportioned where expedient (though that has never come easy for Scotland, whose heart and loyalty are often inextricably entwined): thus England would nowadays fight to his last breath for France whilst begrudging each one France took all the same, and Scotland could put a sword through his chest if it was required of him, and never once love him any the less.

"We are aware of that, sir," Stevenson says, his tone frustratingly opaque. "This is simply standard procedure. For the official record."

Scotland hates the 'official record' and everything associated with it, which, as far as he can tell, is simply a way of wrapping up in endless red tape everything that used to be taken on good faith and a means for keeping a few more pen pushers in gainful employment.

He sighs. "If I don't sign this now, I'm just going to keep having these things thrust under my nose every time I come here until I give in, aren't I."

"Your First Minister has copies, too, sir."

Meaning Scotland won't have any respite even at Holyrood. He grabs the pen Stevenson offers out to him, and then slams the pile of documents down onto the desk, which wobbles unsteadily beneath them.

"The first section," Stevenson says, drifting over to Scotland's side as he leans over the papers, borrowed pen poised, "reaffirms that, in light of the recent change in your circumstances, you remain loyal to the interests of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God –"

"No plotting with France to overthrow the government," Scotland says, slashing his signature across the blank space Stevenson indicates before he can launch any further into the Queen's full title and waste another five minutes of pub time. "Think I can manage that."

"By signing the second section, you are agreeing to not disclose any information deemed classified to the subject co-named in this documentation," Stevenson continues smoothly, as though he hadn't been interrupted. When it comes down to the administrative nitty gritty, it appears he's nothing but professional. He'll probably go far in the civil service. "Classified information includes, but is not limited to –"

"I have signed the Official Secrets Act, you know," Scotland grumbles even as he scribbles his signature again. "Every damn version since 1889, no less."

"Those items listed in the Official Secrets Act of 1989," Stevenson finishes, undeterred.

"Is this a new thing, then?" Scotland asks conversationally as he puts his name to the statement which confirms that he has read and understood the conditions of the document he's barely even glanced at.

He's signed alliances, both in ink and in blood, pledged devotion under gods and God, and even taken (reluctant) part in one of the sham ceremonial marriages that used to be the accepted way, at least in Europe, to publicly legitimise annexations and political unions. (Wales had somehow managed to avoid taking part in such a farce, but there wasn't an indignity England could bring himself to spare Scotland, apparently.) He's never even heard of this particular record of 'joining' before, however.

"Fairly new, I suppose, sir, in the grand scheme of things," Stevenson confirms, sounding almost jovial now that his appointed task appears to have been completed satisfactorily. "The specific Act of Parliament relating to it was passed in 1758, I believe. This particular iteration was implemented in 2001, and it's in use EU-wide. I understand this is the first time we've ever had to use any of them, though. That's why they've all ended up buried down here."

Stevenson's low chuckle – likely inspired simply nothing more than what he sees as the strange vagaries of paperwork – makes Scotland cringe. There must have been tens, hundreds, of different copies of these documents made up over the years, as laws changed and the empire waxed and then dwindled, and not once in over two hundred years had a single one of them had a pen set to them; an 'official record', if only by omission, of the sad state of his – and his siblings' – romantic life to date.

It's not something he either wants or needs to dwell upon, so he distracts himself by asking Stevenson, "Is France going to have to sign one of these things, too, then?"

He regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth, because on reflection, he'd rather not know. Because if France delays signing, or worse, is never asked to do so at all…

"As I said, it is EU policy, sir," Stevenson says, ignoring, or else ignorant of, the chagrin Scotland's sure must be evident in his expression. "We received copies of Mr France's documents last week."
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England adopts a narrow-eyed glare full of suspicion and venom when Scotland catches up with him and Wales in the vestibule of St Stephen's Entrance.

"What are you looking so cheerful about?" he asks, and, as ever, the question sounds accusatory, as though England believes that there's a finite amount of happiness in the universe and Scotland is using up a share that might rightfully be his brother's instead.

But, for the moment, at least, not even England's habitual misanthropy can diminish Scotland's newfound sense of optimism.

"Just got an early Valentine's present," he says.