France's knees slammed into the Champs-Élysées with a dull thud. He grit his teeth against the rods of pain that shot up his thighs and down his shins. A short, hot breath escaped him as he tried to ignore the throbbing, refusing to give the uniformed man behind him the satisfaction of his grunt or anguished cry. He liked to think that, as a Frenchman, he was more composed than that.
The barrel of the Mauser Kar rifle was cold against the base of his skull as it prodded him, causing him to bend forward slightly. France almost laughed. He can't honestly think he can make me grovel, he smirked, grinning through the fog of terror that had fallen on him ever since they had set foot in his beloved Paris.
Polished black military boots moved into his vision, and France closed his eyes as the officer strode in front of him.
"This has been a good day," Germany began.
France grimaced at the drawling German accent, at how it twisted his language.
"I had a wonderful breakfast, a nice talk with my boss, and now I have you. Paris, to be precise. I have...Paris. But of course, you know that already."
The barrel slipped under his chin and forced France's head up, titling it skyward. He opened his eyes slowly and met Germany's gaze. His cold, dull blue eyes brimmed with arrogance and malice. France jerked his head away from the gun, averting his gaze again as his face burned with shame.
"There is actually something I've been meaning to do."
A small piece of metal clattered across the road, tumbling to a stop in front of France. He glanced at it – a razor. He looked at Germany.
"What?" France asked. A laugh bubbled up in his throat again at the sheer idiocy of it. A razor?
"Of all the things about you that make me want to crush your face between my boot and a nice cement wall, your ridiculous beard is one of the most irritating." Germany poked France's forehead with the rifle. "Shave."
France snorted. "You must be joking."
Germany stared at him and jerked his head to either side infinitesimally. Nein.
He slowly took his hands from behind his head, reached down and picked up the razor. He flicked his eyes up to Germany once more; the fascist's expression never faltered.
"No," France grinned after a pause. He stroked his jaw with his index finger and thumb. "I'm rather proud of this and I –"
Germany drove the butt of the rifle into France's face, making him jerk backwards. Panting slightly, France wiped his bloodied nose and mouth and gave Germany a frenzied smirk. "I see your new management has done wonders for your conduct."
Those dead blue eyes narrowed and Germany raised the Kar for another jab. France flinched, but the blow was halted by a shouted "Herr!", called across the street by a young man in a military uniform.
Germany turned. "Was ist das?"
The soldier jogged over to Germany after snapping a quick salute. "Herr...Er will wissen, wo du bist. Sie sind spät."
Germany's eyes widened, and a twisted joy crept into their depths as a sneer crossed his lips. "Ja, ja. Ich werde bald kommen."
"Ich werde die Botschaft ausrichten," the man nodded. He stepped back, saluted, and ran off. France watched him go and cocked his head, curious.
Germany rested the rifle on his shoulder. "Ja, I almost forgot! My boss has something special planned for today." He grabbed France by the collar with one hand and dragged him to his feet. Their eyes locked, and something in the younger man's expression made France's heart race. "He's going to dance. Right under your precious tower."
France swallowed heavily. "You've never had a good sense of humour, Deutschland," he laughed nervously, gripping Germany's wrist. "I'll shave if you want, just put me down."
"Nein, this seems like so much more fun." Germany released France, shoving him back.
"You're a bastard," France muttered, rubbing at the crimson stream dribbling down his face.
The Kar was in Germany's hands in moments, and a shot rang through the streets as his gloved hand tapped the trigger. France flinched involuntarily and glanced down. A crumpled bullet was half embedded in the pavement at his feet. "March, you damn Frenchman," Germany hissed, raising the rifle to France's sternum. The hot barrel skimmed his chest, burning him through his coat. "We've got a show to catch."
–
France was shaking, visibly trembling as the cameraman set up for the shot. Germany stood next to him, his hand firmly gripping his new territory's shoulder, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. France could still almost hear it – the hollow echo of that sadist's boots as they smacked the pavement beneath his gorgeous tower, tapping out some hideous German dance. France winced as the grip on his shoulder tightened, and he wearily titled his head towards Germany. "Look up," Germany murmured, jerking his chin towards the scene. "I wouldn't want you to miss this. I want you remember this moment, cherish it for the next thousand years." France attempted to straighten, to force himself to look at the horror unfolding before him. Germany's superior and two other men were lining up for a picture, shifting their poses and straightening their cuffs, right in front of his tower, his beautiful, beloved monument.
God, this is just another one of your jokes, right? A hysterical smile broke onto his face as he watched the three men mutter amongst themselves in German, barking occasional orders to the surrounding personnel. This is a mistake...or some sort of prank...right?
"The Eiffelturm looks wonderful in this light, ja?" Germany chuckled as France shuddered at sound of the foreign word.
There was one saving grace; from here he couldn't see the troops goose-stepping down his Champs-Élysées, marching by his Arc de Triomphe completely unabashed – the Arc de Triomphe with the German flag raised above it...
It has to be a joke...
"What is it they say overseas?" France blinked, jerked from his reverie by Germany's whispered query.
"'Cheese'," France mumbled, staring wide-eyed at the scene. "They say 'cheese'."
"Ja," Germany nodded. He raised a hand, gesturing to the photograph-to-be. The camera man bent down, making the final adjustments to his position for the shot. The men stopped fidgeting and preening, and straightened as they faced the camera. "Well then," he let out a clipped laugh and switched to English to sneer, "Say cheese."
Click.