The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
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28th August, 1944; Paris, France
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By all reports, this entire apartment building had been crawling with German soldiers when first they'd found him; snipers stationed at the windows, heavily-armed guards patrolling both inside and out. They have been replaced by two GIs, standing either side of a door which, from the outside, looks no different to any of the others which line this third floor hallway.
Although the Americans must have been told to expect their arrival, they still pore over Scotland and England's papers with slow, careful deliberation. Scotland can hardly blame them. The ink's barely dry, after all.
The top brass had been reluctant to allow them this meeting, clearly suspicious of their reasons for requesting it, and had hemmed, hawed and dragged their feet over making a decision for the past three days. Even now, the permission they've been granted is conditional, circumscribed by concessions and curtailed by caveats.
They were ordered to dress in civvies, to hand in their Brownings and go in unarmed. They were patted down before they set out, their pockets checked for contraband. Their visit is to last for no more than twenty minutes, and they are to be watched throughout.
The GIs must not have been informed about this last stipulation. Once they've studied every last penstroke of the papers England handed them, they wave him and Scotland through the door they're guarding without a word, and do not follow after.
Fifty years ago or more, the sitting room that door opens into must have been beautiful, but, like the building that houses it, it has since declined into shabbily genteel decay. The upholstery of the overstuffed armchairs and chairs is faded and torn, the floral-sprigged carpet underfoot balding in patches, and a thick patina of dust covers everything: the ornate frames of the age-begrimed paintings and tarnished mirror that hang on the walls; the side board with the cracked veneer. The plates piled high in the corners of the room, and the mouldering remnants of food they contain.
The whole thing smells like a midden. Or perhaps a charnel house. The sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh permeates the air.
France is standing - for a wonder, he's still standing - by the sole window, looking out onto the streets beyond. Scotland's heart lurches at the sight of him, skips a beat or two or maybe three, he isn't counting, but he checks the impulse to rush toward him, to place his hands upon him, just to reassure himself that he's real, that he's as solid as he looks, because France doesn't turn to face them. He doesn't acknowledge England calling his name, and flinches back when England starts to approach him, bristling in indignation at being ignored.
Scotland stills his brother's with a hand on his shoulder, a small shake of his head. England scowls at him, shrugs off his touch, but does halt his advance. He's been remarkably compliant where Scotland's wishes are concerned of late, but Scotland doesn't imagine that this uneasy sympatico they've rediscovered these past few years will outlast the war. It never has done before.
So, they wait, side by side and in silence, and eventually France rouses himself to ask, "I don't suppose you've been sent here to set me free?"
"No," England says. "Afraid not. High Command haven't decided what to do with you yet."
France's shoulders sag, just a little. "So, you've come to check on my well-being, then. How touching," he says, his voice completely inflectionless.
"We wanted to see this prison of yours for ourselves," England says, glancing quickly around the room. "It doesn't look like much of one to me."
"A gilded cage is still a cage, you know that," France says. "And even if most of the gilt has worn off."
England's nostrils flare wide, and he grimaces, as though he's only now noticed how much the place stinks. "It is a little ripe in here," he admits. "And we're supposed to believe that you've been kept here since the armistice? That you never joined any of the fighting?"
"No doubt you'll believe whatever you like, Angleterre. You always do. But my people were divided, how could I be trusted?" The ruddy glow of the dying day outside limns the sharp outline of France's profile as he briefly tilts his head towards England. "If I had made a different choice at Dunkerque - if I had retreated with you instead of stayed - would I have been allowed the freedom of your country? Or would I have found myself in a flat in London with British soldiers stationed at the door; locked away for my safety, or security, or some other such lie?"
Of course he would, England knows that as well as France, as Scotland, but still he seems unwilling to concede the point. "If you did," he says, "we'd have tidied up after you a little better than this, at least. I'll get someone sent to clean up around here."
"I'd rather you ask if I can be moved to my own apartment," France says, and there's a beseeching note to his voice that Scotland has never heard him use on England before.
It certainly looks to surprise England, and flustered, he acquiesces readily. "I can ask," he says, "but I can't promise you anything more than that." He nods once, determined, though France doesn't look his way again to see it, then straightens up, straightens out the sleeves of his serge jacket, and adds, "I'll see to it now."
France snorts. "Leaving already? We haven't seen each other for four years, surely we have much to discuss?"
"There'll be plenty of time for that later," England says. "We've only been given leave for twenty minutes today, and..." He stutters into silence, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. "I don't need Scotland to come with me, and if he stays... The two of you have a lot to catch up on, I imagine."
It's the closest thing to encouragement England's ever given Scotland to pass time with France. No answering encouragement is forthcoming from France, but he doesn't suggest that he'd prefer that Scotland leave with his brother, either. He stays silent, which is a more promising sign than not, Scotland supposes.
England takes his leave of them without another word, and for a long while after he closes the apartment door behind him, France says nothing, either.
Eventually, he takes a long, wavering breath in, and exhales Scotland's name, so quietly that for a moment Scotland thinks he might have misheard it. There's no mistaking the beckoning twitch of France's fingers that follows, however.
So Scotland goes to him; slowly, cautiously, ready to stop the instant France asks it of him. But France never asks. He doesn't say or do another thing until Scotland is close enough to touch him, to smell that, Jesus, the spoiled meat stink is coming from France.
Then, he whirls around on his heel and collapses into the arms Scotland reflexively raises to catch him. His head falls heavy on Scotland's shoulder, spine rounding as he arches his back against the steadying spread of Scotland's hands. Even though he's wearing a shirt and waistcoat beneath it, his suit jacket is drenched with sweat and something far fouler. He's clearly been left to fester here, along with everything else.
France grabs tight hold of Scotland's hips, fingers clawed and digging deep enough that they're bound to leave bruises. Scotland scarcely feels them, though. They're nothing compared to the - far too fucking meagre - weight of France's body leaning against him; the sound of his breathing, growing ragged now and rattling harshly at the back of his throat.
He sobs and he shudders, but when he finally looks up at Scotland again, his eyes are dry and there are no tear tracks on his wan, sunken cheeks. He stares blankly at Scotland's face for a moment, and then surges forward again, brushing his dry, chapped lips against Scotland's. It doesn't feel like any kiss they've ever shared before, close-mouthed and chaste, and, for once, Scotland doesn't feel the need to press for more, because France's breath, too, is foetid. Still, he's glad of it, because it's warm, it's alive, and, god, he'd started to lose hope of that lately.
"You're really here," France says at length, breaking just far enough away to rest his forehead against Scotland's. He sounds wondering at that, as though he doesn't quite trust his own judgement on the matter.
Tears prickle at the corners of Scotland's eyes, but he blinks them back; doesn't allow them to fall. They're of sod all use to France, and he doesn't want to give him any cause to worry. "Aye," he says, threading France's lank hair through his fingers. It's thinner than it used to be, just like the rest of him. "I am. Far later than I would have liked. Fuck it, I wish I'd never left at all. I should have stayed."
"No, you shouldn't," France says firmly. "It was better that you didn't. You couldn't have saved me from this. I was always going to end up here, if not somewhere worse, and your people needed you more than I did. I'm glad that you remained free, mon cher. It made things a little easier to bear, knowing that you were."
His voice thins with that admission, breaks, and he seems disinclined to say anything more. Just as he seems content to allow Scotland to hold him, and much more closely than he usually would care for.
So Scotland clings on, even though he's guiltily aware that France may simply be too weak to mount any objections to the imposition. Near every thought he's had about France over these past four years has been a guilty one, and he can live with another comfortably enough.
He clings on until one of the soldiers outside bangs against the apartment door, signalling that their twenty minutes has come to an end.
France sways when Scotland looses his hold on him, but when Scotland reaches out a hand again to steady him, France shies away from it, shakes his head. "Go, Scotland," he says. "I'll be fine."
Scotland doubts that. "I'll ask for permission to come and see you again later." The top brass won't like it, but Scotland's more than willing to throw his weight around, crack a few heads, get down on his knees and fucking beg if he has to. "Tomorrow, if I can swing it."
France shakes his head more energetically. "I have no intention of being here tomorrow."
"Your apartment, then," Scotland says, not wanting to burst France's bubble though he has his doubts on that score. He can't imagine England pleading his case with any great degree of vigour.
"Perhaps," France says, shrugging. "But I'd prefer it if we met next on the field."
Scotland stares at him aghast. "You can't possibly be thinking about fighting, France. You're clearly in no fit state to—"
France presses one bony finger against his lips, holding back the rest of his words. "I'll be fine, mon cher," he reiterates, offering Scotland a tentative smile. "You'll be there to guard my back once more, after all."