i.
It comes down to France, in the end. England can only smile bitterly now, so he does, and he thinks of all those years before, when it was Frenchmen storming English beaches. It feels like an end, like things are coming to a close. Not just of war, but of everything else, too. He imagines that this must be how humans feel as they grow old. Resigned and relieved and nervous. If he dies here, he will die alongside his men, his colonies' men. In that respect at least, it will be a death worth dying.
He'd spent hours poring over the pictures of Normandy, memorising the sloped sands and outcrop of rocks, thinking that the water would be chilly—it was the Channel, after all—and imagining the beach as a war zone. There are moments (and they are awful) when he catches glimpses from the corner of his eye, and for a horrifying moment thinks that they're his. Friendly enemies storming his coast. If France lives, it will be a miracle.
America shows up once, hard-faced and steely-spined. There are a hundred things to say between them, and even though they've been on good terms for ages now without bringing them up, England considers it. He doesn't have a chance to.
The steel and stone slide away and America smiles, not quite cheerfully. "Lookin' like you're about to head to a gallows, old man."
He shrugs. "We might as well be."
There's something like sympathy, a perceived knowledge in America's eyes. "Sure thing. I'll get you a nice funeral. Toss your ashes off over Dover." He grins a little at the rhyme, and England knows that his humour is for his own benefit. His soldiers are there too. They'll all die together. Almost as good as living together.
"You'd have my body burnt?" England murmured curiously, shifting through the stray papers on his desk.
"Course I would. Can't have you comin' back to life without fair warning."
He smiled back, grim. "Fair enough."
(If America is steel, then England is cold iron, good now only for warding off fae in the evenings. His sword sleeps fitfully in his hand, but it's no longer for him to wield.)
ii.
He was there at the Battle, to witness his own downfall, but he did so knowingly. He could have left at Dunkirk, while England was there, a skinny slip of a man, now, with none of the power of the Empire to keep his head high.
(He'd offered, quietly: "Come with us, you sod. Your self-preservation instinct is too great to waste a death on this."
"We're not cats. We are not limited to nine lives."
They'd stood together, waste-deep in the water, feeling the tide run around their legs. England's home, this place. France had never been one for the seas. They'd clasped hands as England prepared to leave with France's men and his own, the Allied troops. A hundred years ago he would have laughed in the face of anyone who said he and England would be allies, or friends even.
"Last chance," England whispered, earnest as a child.
He'd refused.
(By July he wanted to kill England all over again, wanted to smash his face in Dunkirk's beach until he suffocated in the sand. He was vindictive all over again, and justified in it. His chest seared and he thought of the men that died at Mers-el-Kébir, and how none of them— any of them-had to die. He wanted England back in France so he can ask him exactly who between them had the greater self-preservation instinct.))
He hasn't seen Germany since the Battle. He imagines that he is probably Vichy now, or that maybe someone else—another nation, even, though nations don't go hand-in-hand with governments—has taken his place. It matters little to him, because the Republic is gone and he has become a part of the Resistance. It is dirty and underhanded, and it suits him. He has lived in Paris long enough that picking pockets is second nature, and stealing weapons is hardly a stretch.
Subterfuge becomes easy, and alongside them—always, always—is England. They hold tight to their radios, listen carefully. Long sobs and violins bring them to action, preparation and anxiety; they aren't quite sitting ducks, and there are precautions. France thinks of them as his people now, he realises. Even the Italians, the Hungarians, the Americans with their lazy Louisiana French. There is no loyalty to Vichy in his heart, and with that knowledge, he feels as though it's safe to move forward.
iii.
It isn't like the last war. They do not wait in trenches fearing enemy gas, they do not storm through barbed wire and mines, organised chaos like the Somme. They land at the beaches of Normandy and move, England among them. His people will follow him, to battle, to war, around the world and back again. They already have. No longer the conquerors, but they will not be the conquered.
They go to the end. They fight in France, and on the seas, and they fight in the air. They have defended the island and now they will defend their allies. He hears second hand news: the Canadians at Juno Beach, inland within hours. Of the American troops at Omaha, pushing, pushing inwards. They push across the Seine, push the Germans out.
Paris is liberated. This, too, is second hand news. He imagines France among his resistance, fighting with his people. Toppling governments was like a hobby to him—England adds that to his private collection of insults and jabs, a four-year running list, accrued scorn and stabs. He would forget them all if it meant this war was over.
There is no rest for the wicked.
(In 1945, less than a year later, the war ends. Gone, like the runny print of a wet newspaper.)
iv.
"I thought you might choose a love poem," France says dryly.
England spins on his heel, eyes almost comically wide. There is celebration: Pictures will arrive, later, of lovelorn soldiers and their passing ladyloves, dramatic poses and smiling faces. Relieved tears, even in the disaster that London's become. Something dissolves from his chest, and he's relieved now too. Trafalgar Square has never been more inviting.
"Well," he says, smiling a little and waving a dismissive hand, "I thought this one might be more appropriate."
France catches his hand and makes a courtly bow, examining England's bruised knuckles before brushing them with his mouth. "No. Instead you chose one about growing old."
England pulls his hand back and glares. "Whatever works."
France just laughs, and loops his arm through England's, pulling them into the brunt of the crowd. His chest still aches sometimes, like the remnants of a lingering cough. England limps and leans on France's arm when he thinks no one is watching. They make quite the pair, stumbling their way through half-drunk revellers.
They aren't the only ones. America and Canada both were in the crowd earlier, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, laughing and joking and drinking together. England thinks, idly, that they've come into their own. The new world, no longer new.
"Hey! Hey, guys!" Speak of the devil, he thinks wryly.
They manoeuvre themselves around to see America running towards them, Canada in tow. He's nearly giggling as he says, "Did you hear the news?"
"That the war's over?" England asks. "Oh yes, I hear it's caused quite the stir."
Canada snorts. "Russia's run out of vodka."
"Yeah, man, we're at the wrong party."
"Well," France interjects smoothly, smiling at both of them with a sort of contained delight, "You're welcome to march to Moscow, but personally I would recommend it."
"We'll make sure to provision ourselves," America jokes, and the evening takes on a sort of surreal quality. The four of them together. England can't recall the last time they saw each other in peacetime.
(He also remembers that France hasn't seen any of them in years. Short time, to a nation, but four long years of occupation—were they not in public, England might have hugged him. It felt like such a long time, all of a sudden.)
They say their goodbyes, and England wrestles them out of the crowd, his leg tingling. "So," he begins. "Have you any place to stay?"
France smiles slowly. "Where have they been keeping you, Angleterre?"
He snorts, and they begin to walk again. "I've set myself up in a hotel, I'll have you know."
"And I suppose—"
"If you're so inclined as to ask politely—"
"—that you'll invite me to stay."
"—I might let you stay the evening."
"I'm so glad we've agreed," France says cheerfully.
England bumps his shoulder to France's, like they were old friends. "You," he says, "are insufferable."
He thinks that it's the most he's ever seen France smile.