The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
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2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
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Something about the timbre of Scotland's voice this evening had put France in a nostalgic mood. Softened by wine and warmed by whisky; passion lending it a smoky richness that made it a pleasure to hear, even if that passion was directed towards a rambling and unprompted lecture on the subject of igneous rock formation.
It reminded him of those times when Scotland had turned the fine instrument of his voice towards more artistic endeavours. "Do you remember how you used to sing for me?" he asks, interrupting Scotland mid-explanation of the mechanics of magma evolution.
Scotland frowns, brow furrowed deep, clearly thrown off-balance and struggling to make sense of the interjection. "Unfortunately," he says at length. "I can't carry a tune in a bucket."
"Nonsense," France chides him. "I enjoyed listening to you."
"Really?" Scotland's cheeks pink slightly, the tentative beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thought you looked as though you wanted the earth to open up and swallow the both of us, frankly."
Whilst France would like to be able to reassure him otherwise, on further reflection, he does recall that he had been somewhat embarrassed on Scotland's behalf at such times. Not because of the quality of Scotland's singing - which was far better than Scotland gives himself credit for - but due to his demeanour whilst he was performing.
He always wore a terribly earnest expression when he sang, and maintained unwavering eye contact with France throughout, in a way he never did at any other time. It had made France squirm when they were younger, elicited uncomfortable laughter more than once, but he'd assumed Scotland hadn't noticed at the time.
But of course he had - just as he'd noticed so many other things about France's behaviour that France had later come to wish he hadn't - and of course he'd misinterpreted France's reaction, and subsequently drawn all the wrong sorts of conclusions from it.
That thought, as ever, makes France feel a little guilty, and thus provokes him to say, "I'd love to listen to you again."
"What? Now?" Scotland asks.
It seems as good a time as any, and a welcome diversion from further talk of rocks, besides. France nods.
Scotland's nascent smile spreads and widens until he's beaming. "I think my fiddle's up in the attic," he says. "Just... Just give me a minute; I'll go and get it."
The minute stretches very long indeed, and half an hour later, France is starting to wish he'd never raised the subject of singing at all, because those thirty minutes have been filled with muffled swearing, bangs, and cracks drifting down from above, and such violent creaking that France worries that Scotland might come crashing down through the ceiling at any moment.
That worry grows steadily from idle speculation, through niggling concern, to full-blown fear as the creaking intensifies, but it's the sudden, heart-rending silence that comes afterwards that finally harries France from the living room to the landing, where he peers anxiously up at the black, empty space of the open attic hatch.
"Are you all right, mon coeur?" he calls out.
After another, dreadful pause, Scotland's voice drifts back faintly. "Aye, I'm fine. It's just... You have to come and see this."
He sounds almost as excited as he had when he'd spotted an Andrena marginata - a bee so rare, he'd informed France in hushed, reverential tones, it had once thought to be extinct in his country - on their last visit to the Cairngorms.
France sighs, and trudges up the ladder Scotland had set up below the hatch.
Scotland grabs hold of his arm and helps him haul himself up the last few feet of space between the top of the too-short ladder and the attic, curling his other hand conscientiously around the back of France's head so he doesn't bang it against one of the low hanging beams when he straightens up as best he can in the confined space.
And France is glad of the assistance, because he can scarcely see more than a few centimetres ahead of him. The only source of light is Scotland's torch, and its weak beam is pointed away from them, directed towards the far end of the attic.
"There," Scotland says triumphantly. "Do you see that?"
All France can see are cardboard boxes, and a heap of tarnished metal plates that he thinks might be the remains of one of Scotland's old suits of armour, none of which seem likely to have prompted such enthusiastic interest on Scotland's part.
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking for," he admits.
"Just there." Scotland points emphatically at nothing at all, as far as France can tell. "It's quite small so... Ah, I guess you can't really tell what it is from here." He reaches for France's hand again, and laces their fingers together, then urges him to, "Come on."
France trails Scotland across the attic space, taking his time and cautiously stepping from joist to joist even whilst Scotland eagerly tries to drag him onwards with more haste, until they reach what appears at first glance to be a random heap of rubbish.
When Scotland crouches down and shines his torch directly down upon it, though, it's clear that the offcuts of wood, torn pieces of cardboard and snips of wire have been laid down with deliberate, albeit simple, design, forming a crude dais of some sort, upon which a mound of hair has been placed.
Long, blond hair. France suspects it might be his.
The beam below the structure is covered in a thick layer of dust, broken here and there by trails of tiny footprints.
France shudders. "You wanted to show me a rat's nest?" he asks incredulously.
"Naw, it's not a rat's nest," Scotland says. "The ùruisg built this. See" — he gestures towards the footprints — "these tracks were made by little boots. Don't see many rats wearing boots. And the whole thing reeks of magic."
All France can smell is mould and damp wood, but he defers to Scotland's greater experience in such matters.
"And what is it for?" he asks.
"Not sure. But the little guys are always so happy when they know you're coming to stay, maybe they just wanted something to remind them of you when you're not here." Scotland's eyes grow misty. "I think it's sweet."
France has never heard Scotland refer to anything as 'sweet' in all the many centuries he's known him; not even any of his weans, back when they were at their most doe-eyed and winsome. It's mystifying, and he still finds the... monument, or keepsake, or whatever the hell it is more than a little unsettling.
When he tells Scotland as much, Scotland dismisses his concern with a nonchalant wave of his hand and an assurance that: "The ùruisg are harmless."
"You once told me that it might be dangerous for someone else to have possession of any of my hair. That they could use it to bind a curse to me."
And France had thought it superstitious nonsense at the time, but finds it disquieting now to consider that some creatures that he's never seen, that he never can see, and will never know might plausibly have that sort of power over him.
"There's no need to worry about that," Scotland says. "They like you; they wouldn't want to hurt you. And, if they ever do get it in their heads to try, then—"
"You'll protect me," France finishes for him. "Yes, I know, but... You do admit there is a risk of it, then."
"There's more chance of England declaring his undying love for you, mo chridhe." Scotland snorts. "I never thought I'd see the day when you' d be fretting about stuff like this. You didn't even used to believe the ùruisg existed!"
"Yes, well, someone kept this house clean, and I knew it wasn't you," France says. "It seemed quite compelling evidence for their existence."
Scotland's amusement bubbles over into laughter, and he loops an arm around France's shoulders, pulling him close. "Look, I'll have a word with them, make sure they know they're not to go nicking any more of your hair. And I'll tidy this lot up, if it'll set your mind at ease. Then" — Scotland's grin sharpens — "I'll find the nicest picture of you I can, and give it to them. They can moon over that, instead."