Per Request, for FrancexFemAmerica! I hope this is what you were hoping for, but it go angsty, I have no idea what is wrong with me! For the Awesome Roxy.
I own nothing. Rated M.
OoOoOo
Normal.
It had become normal to mock America.
Normal to blame her for leaping into action, or blaming her for not leaping into action. Either way, it had all boiled down to somehow being the star-spangled nation's fault. France had long since accepted and adopted the mindset that other countries carried on a daily basis.
So, when he had made yet another comment about how America was the bully and an idiot... he had not expected that he would be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.
She stood abruptly, cutting off his cruel words effectively. The look on her face was a disheartening thing to behold, and it had him hypnotized.
"You know," America said softly, holding back the tears that glittered in her eyes. "For a country known for love... you are really, really mean."
France's thoughts paused, practically thunderstruck by the way America said it. Such a potent and childish comment. Innocent and yet accusatory. However, it wormed its way into his heart and stayed there. It vibrated with the pain and sadness she felt.
His expression mirrored the shock he felt. He could only watch helplessly as America gathered her things together. Other nations jeered and laughed in the background, agreeing with France's litany of transgressions America was somehow responsible for.
Her blonde cowlick bobbed in time with her hands clasping her papers and binders to her chest. She was already moving toward the door with wounded pride and what little dignity she could scrape together. America reached for the handle with one hand, keeping everything close to her chest with her other arm. She yanked the door open, and France could only watch passively as it nearly came off its hinges.
America blushed with embarrassment, and bit her lip. Her features twisted once more, and France nearly panicked internally that the female nation was so close to openly crying. She clenched her jaw, he could see that she wasn't looking at any other nation. Some of her allies looked pained upon her behalf.
She tilted her chin upward and walked through the threshold. The door gave a deafening slam behind her rough pull.
There was a soft silence left in her wake. Until some countries started mocking America's dramatic exit. France normally might have joined in, for his relations with America had degraded considerably in the last 60 years. However, seeing the mural of emotions that flashed across her face with those tears...
France never liked making women cry.
And, his taunting and open criticism of her country had reduced what he thought to be an overly proud nation... to tears.
Merde.
He covered the lower half of his face with his hand. He contemplated her exit, feeling rather horrible for the whole ordeal. But it was normal to yell at America and point out her flaws. All too common, in fact...
It left an uneasy feeling simmering in the pit of his stomach.
It would be fair to say that he was not very pleased with America. And, perhaps, it would also be correct to state that he had often complained about several aspects of the country.
Loudly, and mayhap, repeatedly...
The only place he even bothered to really recognize her was for New York, with fashion-though he was still the pioneer on such things, obviously-, and Nappa Valley.
Wine.
In fact, it had taken him decades to acknowledge that America actually could produce very decent and even superior wines to his own. It had been a large upset to his people, and so, to him. The look of near pride radiating from her when a wine from Nappa Valley had bested his time honored vineyards had been almost graciously done.
It was the Paris Tasting of 1976. It had been a blind tasting. France had been overly confident in his supremacy. However when it came to the Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay from California being compared against the best wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy from his established crafters... he had lost. The judges had given top honors to Chateau Montelena Chardonnay and Stag's Leap Wine Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon.
America hadn't boasted about it, or been crass at the judgment. If he were wholly honest, she appeared almost afraid that he wouldn't allow her people to keep the award. France had been unprepared for her to beat him in anything.
She had shyly attempted to chat with him about imports when it was over. France hadn't wanted to even entertain the option. However, he could still recall the soft blush on her features as she nervously adjusted Texas with a small smile.
He had quickly voiced his rejection. America's smile had fallen, but she'd nodded all the same.
"Yeah," the female nation said after a bit. "I understand."
That had been the end of it, until he actually had started importing her wines, which were rather good. Though he refused to say as much out loud.
Rousing from the memory, France stared at the door, which hung nearly off the hinges after its harsh treatment. The other nations around him carried on as if nothing happened. It was all business as usual. There was yelling, arguing, and threats on all sides. Some of them mixed with thinly-veiled insults.
Perfectly normal.
Except, France was haunted by the look of sheer hurt on America's face and those damming tears.
Suddenly, France did not enjoy 'normal' quiet so much. It made the sick feeling in his stomach intensify when he realized that no one even bothered to yell at him for hurting her feelings. He wasn't certain how to comprehend that.
OoOoOo
He showed up in New York. He also knew that America would be there.
Whenever things turned out badly, he had noticed, she retreated to her 'heart'. Mostly to lick her emotional wounds until she bounced back as if nothing happened. He had assumed that was what she would do this time as well.
Except, that she hadn't come back to the next meeting. Or the one after that. Nor, France was worried to say, the one after that. She had all her calls forwarded to her secretary, and her voice mail was changed to its standard answering message. America had not even spared time to meet with Canada, who had warned France to leave her be for a while.
Though the two were friends, or at least largely involved with trade, Canada preferred to give America her space when she was upset.
And, France would have listened under most circumstances, but the image of America's teary eyes had haunted him. He felt awful about the whole ordeal. He was the country of love and lovers, yet he had made a woman cry. That was not on par with his flirtatious behavior and charm. In fact, he should have had America swooning over his suave and manly ways.
England had not commented on America's lack of appearance at the meetings. Though several other countries had made jokes about the whole fiasco. Her absence was met with jeers and more arguments. Frankly, France was beginning to get a headache.
Also, he still felt... rather guilty...
Guilt had no place in the country of love! He planned to apologize, get things back on track with America being her loud and obnoxious self. Then he'd lose his temper so would she, and they would be back to quipping at each other on a nearly daily basis.
Back to normal. Well, the normal normal.
He purchased a small bouquet of flowers. Women were often more inclined to soften their wrath when presents were offered. He smoothed his hair down one more time. America's coast was windy and the salt was playing havoc on his perfectly groomed locks.
He rapped on the door briskly, as he looked around the scenery. It was a simple brownstone with Victorian architecture. Was this a... row house... or some such nonsense?
The door groaned, as he heard the locks on the door being undone. The door opened, and a familiar face with bright blue eyes looked at him. First at shock, and then with nearly murderous rage.
Ah... she was still upset.
He tried to push the flowers at her, but she narrowed her gaze at him. The female nation did not move.
"America!" France said with a roguish grin, " I wanted to-"
She shut the door in his face. France blinked at the white door that separated him from America. Talk about rude! This woman. He frowned heavily, but decided that there was a possibility that he had deserved that.
He took a deep breath and knocked again.
"America?"
"Go away," she stated in a muffled voice.
"America," France said patiently, part of his hopes for them patching things up deflated. This was not looking promising.
Well, this made bringing flowers a touch more awkward. He knocked on the door, a bit harder this time.
"Fuck off frog." She growled angrily and France stiffened at the insult.
She was a rude little bit of bossy goods, then, wasn't she? He nearly pouted. Nearly. However, he was much to debonair for that. No. He had to make America see reason. However, he would not abide speaking through the door.
"I want to apologize."
She scoffed. He glowered at the white, innocent, door. Growing more irritated.
He cleared his throat.
"I want to apologize for what I said the last time we saw each other."
Silence met his declaration. France shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"At least allow me to do so without the door between us."
He waited, listening for even a slight noise. Slowly, after a few tense moments, the door opened once more. America continued to glare at him.
"I think that," he flashed a toothy grin and showed his most dashing side. "We had a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" She deadpanned.
He tried to offer her the flowers again, this time America spared a look that suggested she thought they were poison. Something fluttered in his chest uncomfortably. A tight and searing but hot emotion. He did not like the fact that America did not trust something so innocuous as a bouquet.
If he didn't know any better, he would have thought she'd never received them before. Which was preposterous because...
Because...
France's mind stalled, trying to recall a single time America had been given flowers in his presence. In fact, he could not recall even hearing about her getting flowers. He mentally attempted to summon memories of times where she had been courted by other nations.
They gave her...
Nothing.
Why could he not think of a single instance? He quickly pushed the question away. Instead he gave a self-assured laugh.
"Come now, take the flowers." He said nearly coyly.
America grudgingly reached out her hand for them. He noticed that her eyes lingered on the fragrant petals a moment longer. Her blue eyes flicked to him once more, and Texas was perched proudly on her nose. He handed over the bouquet with an elegant flare.
She closed her hand into a fist around the stems. An uncertainty on her face that was not fully masked by the anger she radiated. America clenched her teeth and noticed France's smiling face.
"You can come inside," she said with only the bare minimum amount of politeness required.
"With pleasure!" He practically crowed with pride. He knew that she was not immune to his charms. He watched as America stepped back and allowed him entrance.
And, as his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he was nearly struck mute.
There were tasteful decorations everywhere. Colors in neutral warm tones that made it feel homey and comfortable. The European nation was at a loss. He had expected to see red, white, and blue everywhere. Her flag was proudly displayed over the fireplace, but it was tasteful and mature.
He ... had not expected that.
America shut the door behind him, and set the flowers down on the table near the entry way.
"Okay, why are you really here?" She demanded.
France's brows furrowed at the fact she had just set them down. She did not put them in water, or go to fetch a vase. The male nation was uncertain at how to interpret that. Was it an insult at him? Or not?
It was hard to tell with America. She was an unpredictable sort. Like how she had managed to get him to fly all the way to New York to apologize. Even though, some would argue that everything he'd said was warranted.
However, they had not been haunted by the sight of her crying. Something he knew must have cost her dearly to have happened.
"To apologize," he replied, arching a brow at her skepticism. Honestly, it was as if she expected him to hurt her feeling again. Or to have some ulterior motive.
Internally he frowned at the thought. America wouldn't really feel that way toward him. Would she? He hadn't been the friendliest nation toward her but he certainly hadn't been the worst. Of course not! He was France. He was culture, love, and art personified.
And utterly gorgeous, thank you very much.
America snorted in disbelief.
"Yeah, alright." She rolled her eyes. "So is there a camera hidden somewhere? Or is this for a whole 'humiliate America' contest between the nations?"
"What are you talking about?" He asked curiously.
"Never mind," America retorted with her voice straying into forced neutrality.
"You can tell me," he coaxed, wanting to ease the tense air between them. It was nearly stifling, and she acted as if he were a wild animal that would lash out against her at any moment.
She gave him a sour look.
"Tell you?" America asked, with a ghost of an unnamable emotion passing between them. "No, I really don't think that is even possible."
"Why not?" France asked, tilting his head to the side, smiling at her with a disarming sweetness.
It had the opposite effect of what he had hoped would happen. Instead of swooning for his good looks and sheer brilliance, America started crying again. Her anger melted into unrepentant sadness and loneliness.
France felt himself panic. Only a little bit, mind you.
"Why not? Are you serious right now? Oh my god! You've made it clear you hate everything about me," she snapped out, brushing the traitorous tears that fell with the back of her hand.
It nearly crushed France to see her in such a state.
Her blue eyes were so heartbreakingly sad that he wanted to gather her up in his arms.
"You think I'm stupid. You think I'm lazy. Or fat. Gosh I don't even know which is worse. You complain that my taste for food sucks. I have no fashion sense. I'm mule-headed. You ride my back about foreign polices and... and..."
When her voice broke, France could not stand to hear anymore. He moved before he was aware of the action.
"Shh," he soothed with a deep tone. He pulled America close as she began to openly weep. What a tragic thing. His brows furrowed as France came to the conclusion that he had been much too hard on a country that had always been called upon.
Yet, somehow the mood changes from wanting to simply comfort the distressed nation. The gentler and more pure aspects of France just want to provide her with arms to hold her. She seemed unstable under the weight of even a smidgen of kindness.
It was hard to bare.
He swallowed tightly, feeling the first hot pinpricks of moisture in his own eyes. He was moved at how much America felt. he had always considered his showing of sarcasm to be a compliment. That he was comfortable enough to be himself around her. However, in the wake of this fiasco, he was left with the bitter and late understanding that America had never seen it that way.
To her, he truly was just being 'mean'.
He'd assumed that she was a country used to the teasing, and possessing of thick skin, but as she trembled in his embrace, France knew it was not so. America was actually sensitive to the snide comments. Wounded by the constant disapproval of her.
Time seemed to slow, and he crooned at her softly. Words of comfort and praise. He told her she was truly a unique nation and a lovely woman. That is why he had gifted her the Statue of Liberty. He had... always cared for her.
In some manner or another. He had protected her back when she was still very young. He had tried to guide her. However, time and events in history had made that an impossibility. America had also isolated herself for a great deal of time.
France had mostly forgotten about her and who she used to be to him. He stroked her golden locks as he felt the nearly overwhelming flood of shame enter his chest. A deeper level of awareness entered his thoughts, and he realized that he had missed holding America like this.
As if he were the only one she could count on. Before that preposterous England had taken over caring for her. They all knew how that had turned out.
He pulled back, watching as she slowly raised her head. Her sobs had ceased and she gazed at him with quiet humility. The sweetness of her scent, the softness of her skin, and her shy demeanor at this moment were not lost upon the male nation.
France did find parts of America beautiful. How could he have forgotten? He smiled gently, confident charm radiated from every inch of him. He did not have the words to apologize, but perhaps he could show his sincerity with his body?
A kiss perhaps? Just to soothe the lingering questions and hurt in her eyes. As a nation of love, he could not abide knowing that America had known so precious little of it.
"France?" America hiccupped gently. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" He asked with low sensuality. "I'm going to kiss you and make it better."
Her blue eyes widened at his declaration.
"You...you can't."
"Why?"
"Because.. you..." her features twisted once more as she looked ready to burst into a fresh round of tears. "You hate me."
"Non," France denied nearly instantly. "I do not hate you."
She did not appear to believe his words, if the expression on her face was anything to go by.
"I do not hate you America," the European nation said much more seriously.
The female nation gave a small, nearly a whine of distress.
"Then do not do this to me."
"Do what to you?"
She looked down and away. The lines of her body screaming that she was ready for him to verbally attack her again.
"Pretend to be nice to me. Even being kind. Acting like you like me, when we both know that it's not true." Her words never reached above a whisper. As if she were incapable of voicing the gentle plea any louder.
If she had been wielding a sword instead of words, France would have been cut down.
And France-
Felt utterly lost.
"Let me love you," he murmured, without thinking about the words.
America startled, and glanced back up at him. Faint smudges of her tears lingered on Texas. She took a step backward, her face changing from sorrow to alarm, and then to anger.
"What?" Her blue eyes hardened. "Is this some sort of game? Another joke at my expense? What are you gaining by coming here? Or who are you working with?"
France suppressed a gasp at the blatant shift in her manners from vulnerable to paranoid. Internally he knew that he had crossed a boundary with his simply question. He had made America even more on edge.
"Nothing," he said trying to reach past the emotional barriers she was already erecting around her heart. "No one."
"Russia?"
"No."
"China?" She asked with another slight hiccup.
"No, America. No."
An emotion flickered across her face, and for the quickest second in time, France thought it might have been hope. She swallowed as she took another step away from him. The male nation bit his lip, concerned that he was losing what little bit of headway he actually had with the defensive nation.
"Go home France," America said with hurt shining behind the tough exterior. "You've said your apology. Thank you for the flowers. Now, go home."
"I.." The European nation floundered, "I..."
"You what?" She asked, her blue eyes hardened with a keen sense of disillusionment.
France scrambled for something to say. Anything at all. Normally his silver tongue enthralled legions of women and their hearts were his for the plucking. However, America seemed immune to the words of amour he repeated countless times. Even his honest request fell upon a heart far too weakened by constant upset to comprehend what he wanted to show her.
"Little America," He said, when his voice finally found itself again. Her gaze never left his and it was the whole of their two worlds hanging on his words.
"Let me love you," France tried again, pouring every ounce of affection he had ever felt toward the star-spangled nation into those four small words.
A soft blush colored her cheeks. America made no move toward him, but he watched the sharpness of her gaze as it slowly faded. In its place was the naive expression she'd held when she was still England's colony. The nearly imperceptible beginnings of trust ...
For him.
"Stop being a pervert," America grumbled, the breath she had been holding let out in a silent rush of air. "I'm not going to do you any political favors."
He stiffened, clearly insulted by her insinuation, but at the same time he understood that America was still doing what she did best. Trying to distance herself from the pain she felt certain was coming. Inescapable, and unavoidable.
However, he was a nation that had seem hundreds of years pass by. He had been home to countless pairs of lovers and hard times. So France knew when he was being tested. The way America shifted slightly toward him, let him discern that he was not entirely being shut out.
A slow and kind smile blossomed on his lips. He took in the blush on her pretty face and the fact that she had been willing to allow him to hold her. There was promise in that.
"I'm not going to simply go away," he said, ignoring her jibe about politics.
The barest hints of relief flashed in her eyes and France knew he would wait one hundred years if it meant showing America what love was really all about.