The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
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24th December, 2010; London, England
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Though his brothers contrive some way to ruin it year after year, England still loves Christmas.
He loves the familiar festive songs on the radio; the indulgence of rich food; the vibrant lights and decorations bringing much needed colour and cheer to the dark, cold nights. He loves the routine of it. The tradition.
And, for decades, their Christmas traditions were very simple. They opened presents after breakfast, nodded off into a turkey-induced stupor in front of the Queen's speech after lunch, and then, after a late supper of leftovers, and a skinful, they would inevitably welcome Boxing Day in with a fight.
That wonderfully predictable routine has been upended of late. Like so many other disasters that have befallen England, it was Scotland's fault. It had been his suggestion – his fantastic advice – that they start inviting guests, which had led to the shitshow that was last year's Christmas, with its horrific revelations, food fights, and the Prusso-Scottish alliance which decimated England's wine cellar.
England had put his foot down after that, insisting that they would never again entertain more than one or – and this was his downfall – maybe two extra guests for the season.
England had invited America, who will be a very welcome addition to their festivities, because he's one of their wea—
Part of the fam—
Everyone gets along very well with him, so he'll doubtless slot in quite nicely.
Scotland had, of course, invited France, exploiting that damnable 'two' that England had so unthinkingly, so naïvely, spoken, and thus doomed England's favourite time of the year to be blighted by his shameless lechery, pompous face, and his mistletoe.
England almost didn't spot it until it was too late. When he'd opened his front door to France's knock, he'd at first been too distracted by the sheer, mountainous size of the pile of luggage France had deposited on his doorstep to notice the nation himself and his slow, insidious approach into kissing range.
Luckily, he hadn't been able to resist purring out, "Angleterre," in that ridiculously exaggerated, throaty way that he seems to think is seductive, and though it may well work on other – more credulous and unsophisticated – people, it only serves to make England suspicious.
He takes an automatic step back, and looks up just in time to see France's lips pucker and his head cock; a move that makes his hair swing over his shoulder, revealing the sprig of mistletoe tucked behind his ear.
England lurches sideward until he runs out of hallway and his shoulder hits the wall hard enough to wind him for a moment.
"No," he gasps out, shaking his head with vigour. "Absolutely not."
"Ah, but Angleterre," France says, as he insinuates his way across the thoroughly inadequate few feet of floor that separates them, "it's traditional. And I know how much you love—"
"Ffrainc!" Wales' voice has never sounded more beautiful, even when lifted in song, and it distracts France sufficiently that England has time to make a strategic retreat to the relative safety of the parlour doorway. "We thought it must be you when we heard Lloegr screeching."
Which is a gross mischaracterisation of the small exhalation of surprise England involuntarily loosed when he ran into the wall, and England opens his mouth to tell Wales just that, but France talks right on over him like the boor he is.
"Cymru." He virtually gargles the name. "I hope you're more respectful of traditions than your brother."
"What?" Wales gawps at him gormlessly, until France points at the mistletoe, whereupon his mouth splits into an equally gormless smile. "Oh, that's one he's not particularly fond of, I'm afraid. I, on the other hand…"
The sentence remains unfinished, Wales choosing to demonstrate that supposed fondness with action instead of words; clasping hold of France, and then swooping in for a kiss.
But it doesn't land on France's cheek as it usually would when they greet each other, but on his lips. And it goes on, and on, and on until France reaches down to grab a handful of Wales' ample backside, and England decides it's gone quite far enough.
He calls out for the cavalry. "Scotland! Wales is getting very personal with your… With France out here."
"Lighten up, runt," Scotland shouts back from the kitchen. "It's Christmas!"
Unbelievable. Of all the times for Scotland's explosive jealousy to take a holiday, then the… well, the holidays are probably the worst possible.
France and Wales stop of their own accord a short while later, thankfully; parting with a sickening smack of lips and a few more gropes of the arse.
"Yr Alban's made punch," Wales says afterwards, blasé and innocently cheerful despite the horrors that have just occurred. "You should have some." He inveigles an arm around France's shoulders again, and steers him in the direction of the kitchen. "It tastes like cat's piss, but it's really, really strong."
Which likely explains Wales' lewder than usual behaviour, and Scotland's uncharacteristic laissez fair attitude towards it.
The punch is obviously dangerous, and even though England would prefer to put as much distance between himself and France as possible, he feels himself duty bound to investigate.
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Scotland slobbers over France with even more enthusiasm than he normally does when he sees the mistletoe, and then hands him a brimming cup full of punch to sample.
France takes a tiny sip, retches, and pronounces it undrinkable. After seeing the amount of empty bottles scattered around the countertops, hinting at the obscene amount of alcohol that has gone into its creation, England is inclined to agree that it should remain undrunk, no matter what it tastes like. It's clearly a loaded weapon, and as such should be kept in a secure location. Against his brothers' protests, he takes the bowl and locks it in the pantry, pocketing the key.
To ease Scotland and Wales' loss, France uncorks one of the bottles of wine he's brought as a host gift. He pours a glass for England too, which he refuses to take until it's set down on the down on the kitchen table, where he can retrieve it without danger once France retreats to a safe distance.
It is, naturally, an excellent vintage, and a few, generous swigs of it – added to France's continued sojourn at the opposite end of the room – help sooth England's own nerves.
France soon shatters this fragile peace, however, by announcing that he's going to cook them all lunch, and he won't take no for an answer.
England's brothers greet this news with an embarrassingly effusive outpouring of joy, which France basks in, in his typical, self-satisfied fashion.
England's emphatic, "No," is ignored, just as France promised it would be.
All of England's instincts are still screaming at him to make himself scarce whilst the going is good, but he can't bear the thought of France being left to roam freely around his kitchen. It's his kingdom, his solace, and although France has brought all of the supplies he needs from home – English produce seemingly isn't up to his standards; which is also bloody typical – which will limit the amount of poking around he has to do, he'll still be using England's chopping boards, touching his Aga, and that means he'll need a watchful eye on him at all times.
France bristles at the idea that he requires supervision whilst he cooks, but ultimately yields his ground when Scotland suggests making them all sandwiches in lieu of a decent, hot meal if they can't come to a compromise. As Scotland is fully capable of making even a simple cheese and pickle sandwich taste like the underside of a bin lid somehow, it's the only sensible choice.
And it happens to be a good one for England, as it turns out, because France quickly becomes so engrossed by his cooking that he forgets all about his nefarious plans with the mistletoe, allowing England to relax and enjoy his wine.
Unfortunately, he relaxes a little too much, and doesn't recognise the peril inherent in France's bubbling pots, and, especially, the piquant steam rising from them. The piquant steam rising up, up to Northern Ireland's attic room, and drawing him downstairs and into the kitchen.
By which time it's far too late, and Northern Ireland's mind has been completely overtaken by his stomach. He ignores England's barked warning, sidesteps the hand he reaches out to grab and hold him back, and marches straight over to France's side to inspect his efforts.
"Nord," France says, wearing the expression of a cat who's just stumbled across an entire swimming pool full of cream, "it's good to see you."
"North!" England tries again. "Watch out, he's got mistletoe."
France rolls his eyes and points to the mistletoe. Northern Ireland stares at it, and then at his feet, which begin shuffling away from France.
England sighs in relief. He should have trusted Northern Ireland more, clearly. They're not a kissing sort of family, and the lad's not used to this kind of nonsense, besides. It's only logical that he'd be too embarr—
Northern Ireland darts forward, and plants the briefest of all possible kisses on France's cheek, blushing hard.
France chuckles, returns the same peck to Northern Ireland, and then turns to grin his triumph at England.
"Honestly, Angleterre, what did you think would happen?" He wags a chiding finger, because, apparently, he wasn't being enough of a smug wanker already. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
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England would like to turn his nose up at France's lunch, but Northern Ireland had the right of it. It smells too delicious to pass up and England's stomach is growling by the time it's finished cooking. He wolfs it down as quickly as he can, though – which negates the deliciousness somewhat – and bolts for his bedroom whilst everyone else is absorbed in their normal, post-prandial occupation of arguing over who should do the dishes.
He bolts the door behind him, just to make doubly sure he won't be followed, and then finds himself at something of a loss. In his haste to escape, he hadn't made any sort of proper plans or preparations. He's gasping for a cup of tea – the only proper way to round out a meal – but hadn't had time to make one, and his room is entirely devoid of any means of distraction save…
He sighs, picks up A Christmas Carol from his bedside table, and settles into the leather armchair by the wardrobe with it. He practically knows it by heart, because he's reread it in the run up to Christmas near every year since it was published, and there's precious little entertainment left in its pages. Now, he uses it as a soporific, lulling him to sleep on those nights when it otherwise eludes him.
He opens it the page marked by his bookmark, and it's surely a Pavlovian response, but his eyelids start to sag by the third paragraph down. He doesn't try to stop them. He doesn't have anything better to do, anyway.
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England's awoken from his nap by the cascading notes of his mobile's alarm, set to alert him half an hour in advance of America's expected arrival so he has time to make himself presentable.
He showers in the en suite, brushes his teeth, redresses in fresh clothes, and then hesitates. He wants to make sure that he's poised ready to be the one who greets America at the door, but he isn't convinced that it'll be safe yet to do so.
It's been almost three hours since lunch, and most people would probably have grown tired of waiting for him, but the Frog can be remarkably… Stubborn, is what England would term it. France would likely name it a virtue and say patient.
Still, this is England's house, and he refuses to be a prisoner in it. He can surely fend off France's advances for another – he checks his phone again – five minutes.
He creeps down the stairs very carefully indeed, regardless, stepping light over the floorboards that he knows are creaky; rolling his feet softly from heel to toe.
France is waiting for him in the hallway, nevertheless.
England pauses, shifting his weight onto his trailing foot to better flee at the first sign of any funny business.
"Don't worry, Angleterre," France says, "I'm unarmed."
He points to his now-naked ears, and then rolls up his sleeves and turns out his pockets, demonstrating that he hasn't got anything hidden there, either.
"The game isn't any fun when one of the players retires from the field," he continues. "Come on, and have some wine with us."
He picks up a glass from the sideboard beside him, and raises it up towards England. England's mouth waters; forgetting the tea was an enormous tactical mistake on his part. He's parched now, and the wine looks very inviting. He takes a tentative step forward.
"Still don't trust me?" France snorts in amusement. "I can undress, if you like; prove that I'm not hiding that mistletoe anywhere."
"I most certainly do not like." England sprints the rest of the way, because France has started toying with the top button of his shirt with his free hand, and will doubtless pounce on the slightest excuse to undo it. "Here" – he snatches the glass from France's hand – "give me that, and keep your bloody clothes on."
France laughs – that high, grating, tinkling laugh he always affects when he's won – and England's blood runs cold.
"What is it?" he asks, his sudden spike of anxiety making him breathless. "What have you done?"
God, he's probably shoved the mistletoe down his fucking underwear. The man's exhibitionism knows no bounds.
He doesn't reach for the zipper of his trousers, though – thank goodness for small mercies – but instead pats a closed fist against his chest.
"I think you must need reading glasses, Angleterre." He shakes his head with mock sadness. "Unsurprising, given your age."
"What the fuck are you—"
"Look a little closer." France extends one finger, and taps it against one of the tiny, pale marks scattered across the otherwise dark blue shirt. The ones that England had taken as a pattern of spots. "And everything will become clear."
England does angle his head a little closer. No, still just spots. He squints his eyes, and the spots slowly resolve themselves into… Bloody hell. Into tiny, stylised sprigs of mistletoe.
"You complete and utter bastard," England growls. "Well, you can fuck right off with that. It's not real mistletoe, I don't think it counts."
"If you want to play it that way, then fine. Walk away." France shrugs. "But I think I've caught you fair and square" – he pushes himself up onto his toes, and lifts his arm, arcing it over England's head – "underneath the mistletoe."
Tradition now dictates a kiss, and England can't argue with tradition. He finds he doesn't want to, even faced with this unpleasant manifestation of it. Tradition is the glue that holds Christmas together, after all, and it just wouldn't do to weaken it.
He takes a deep breath, screws his eyes tightly closed, and leans into France, lips pursed.