Don't know if I'll have chance/time enough to write Christmas gift fics this year (though I really want to and will try...), but I hope this will suffice if I am unable to.

Despite the festively-themed title, it's not set at Christmas, and though the bros' and France's personalities are broadly the same as they are in FtF, their history is very different. I wanted to try my hand at writing some Scotland/France where they're nations and weren't ever romantically involved in their past, but are also not as angsty as their Slow Tide counterparts (though there will still be a little touch of angst).
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France is, by now, convinced that England has organised every single aspect of this year's world meeting in a manner carefully calculated to best annoy him.

His suspicions were initially raised a month ago, when he received his copy of the event agenda and noted that each day's activities were planned to begin at eight o'clock, an hour – as England well knows – at which France is barely cognisant enough to pour himself a cup of coffee never mind deliberate on matters of global importance. To not even allow a little latitude on the very first day, when so many nations would be suffering from jet lag, or might simply have appreciated the opportunity for a lie in after their travels, seems like a deliberate act of malice.

France's own journey from what passed for English civilisation to this god-forsaken, wind-swept spot in the barren heart of the Lake District had been both long and arduous, rattling along for mile after twisting mile of potholed roads in his ageing, underpowered hire car which began to wheeze asthmatically as soon as the terrain became more mountainous, and beset around every corner by herds of itinerant sheep which had slowed his already leisurely progress to a lethargic crawl.

And all that to reach… nothing.

There's nothing to see for miles around but grass, rocks, and the odd resilient tree, clinging gamely onto the scree-covered hillsides, their winter-stripped branches like gnarled fingers pointed accusingly up at the unbroken bank of black-rimmed clouds overhead.

The hotel itself holds no diversions. Once, it had likely been the home of a wealthy but particularly reclusive member of England's upper crust, and was doubtless sold off, as so many were, following the Second World War when the family money began to run out. Whoever bought it afterwards apparently hadn't done a great deal to improve accommodations since then, either: it's dimly lit, all the furnishings smell faintly of ancient dust and mildew, and the only entertainment on offer is a single, gloomy bar manned by equally gloomy and antediluvian staff.

Last night, exhausted from his drive and his temper too snappish to inflict on the few nations who had huddled for warmth around the bar's long tables, France had ordered a single glass of brandy and sequestered himself in his mouldering room with it and his burgeoning headache. He'd tried to read, but didn't even manage to reach the end of the next chapter in his book before the deluge the leaden sky had been promising all afternoon was unleashed. The sound of the rain rattling against the windows was loud enough to be distracting, and he'd whiled away the few remaining evening hours that stood between him and sleep dreaming up ever more inventive ways of revisiting every gramme of his own displeasure upon England.

The rain had not stopped or even slowed when France arose at the crack of dawn this morning, but he still could have weathered this new aggravation with something approaching equanimity had England not compounded every other affront he'd perpetrated in the form of an email announcing a last-minute change to their schedule, rearranging the session on agricultural policies to run concurrently, starting at eight, with the one on biotechnology, instead of just after lunch as had been the original timetable. Having to learn that he would be forced to decide between the two presentations he had most wanted to attend as he choked down a breakfast of offensively weak coffee and charred toast made it all the more galling, and if Germany has anything interesting to say about biotech innovations over the course of the hour he's been allotted to talk on the subject, then it is lost on France. He's far too preoccupied with thinking about where he's going to hide England's body.

So vivid are these imaginings, so macabrely detailed and compelling, that when the two competing presentations end and their attendees are disgorged to mill around the corridor beyond the meeting rooms and he catches sight of England amongst the crowd – wearing the small, smug smile of someone well-pleased with the agricultural knowledge he's just absorbed – France's first instinct is to go directly for his throat, witnesses be damned.

Had England been alone, he might have done, but the figure looming at England's shoulder gives him pause. The tall, stoop-shouldered, and very familiar figure.

Scotland.

He hasn't attended a world meeting in decades, and France hasn't seen him in the flesh for almost as long, as his visits to England's house have declined precipitously in more recent years. Scotland doesn't appear to have changed a great deal since the fifties, however: he's just as intimidatingly broad as he ever was, and his suit is just as poorly fitted, pulling tight across his barrel chest, his shirt collar digging deep into his neck; his scowl is just as ever-present and thunderous; he's doubtless just as likely not to take too kindly to unprovoked attacks on England, though he might talk a good – and very convincing – talk to the contrary.

France's surprise both halts him in his tracks just outside throttling distance of the brothers and stops his tongue, and all he can do is stare in baffled silence at Scotland whilst Scotland's face shades towards vermillion and he shifts his weight from enormous foot to enormous foot.

England is the first to snap. "Is something wrong, Frog?"

France hardly knows where to start. The hour, the hotel, the weather, the vile, supercilious curl of England's top lip: all demand complaint, and each is as irritating as the last.

"Why did you rearrange this morning's meeting?" seems as good a place as any, though, as well as being a fresh enough insult that it still stings. "You must have known I would have wanted to attend both."

England snorts. "I can't say I thought of you, at all," he says. "Something came up. Circumstances change. It wasn't anything personal."

Judging by England's self-satisfied look, the superior tone of his voice, every word he's just spoken was a lie. France would like to challenge him on it – choke the truth out of him, by preference – but that can wait; he can bide his time until England has lost his bodyguard.

"Were there any handouts from your meeting?" he asks, striving to keep his own voice level and as inflectionless as possible. "Perhaps I could—"

"No," England says, sounding positively gleeful. "Italy forgot to bring them. Sorry."

"Or a recording I could—"

"No; something wrong with the equipment, I'm afraid." England affects a horrible parody of a sympathetic expression. "You know what the wiring's like in these old places. Simply shocking. You'll just have to do without, and—"

"Here, you can take my notes," Scotland's deep bass rumbles out suddenly, seemingly startling England, who wheels around to fix his brother with a glare of betrayal. Scotland ignores him, and continues with: "Can't say you missed a great deal, though."

The sheets of paper Scotland hands out towards him are dingy and crumpled, and France plucks them from his grasp cautiously, using only the very tips of his thumb and forefinger.

"Well, I can't imagine they'll do you much good," England says. "I've seen the sort of notes he takes in his own parliament's sessions. They're such a mess that he might as well not bother. Almost illegible."

In the past, that sort of accusation would have prompted a retaliation from Scotland – a cuff around the back of the head, an angry refutation, or, at the very least, a hissed 'wanker' and the threat that they'd 'have words' later – but, although a shadow of a frown does briefly crease Scotland's brow, the storm it would usually promise is not forthcoming.
Curious.

The papers, too, are curious, and despite his distaste for the process, France unfolds them and smooths them out with a quick brush of his fingers, hoping that he might find something of value there that would serve to prove England wrong.

It's only the very faintest of hopes, however. When he and Scotland were much, much younger, they had kept up a sporadic, dilatory correspondence for a century or so, and each of the letters France had received from Scotland had been clearly rushed off without care, those few words that weren't half-obscured by ink blots riddled with spelling errors and crossings-out.

He doesn't expect the intervening years to have wrought any significant improvements on that score, but is surprised, again, to instead see a neatly bullet-pointed list of notes, written in an even, blocky hand, which, even at a glance, look to be thorough if not exhaustive. The final page is surmounted by a scruffy sketch of England with an arrow sticking out of the back of his head. France understands the sentiment well.

"Thank you, Écosse," he says. "These look as though they will be very useful."

"No problem," Scotland says, his lips curving slightly into something that isn't quite a smile, but does warm his otherwise stony expression considerably. "If you need anything else, then—"

"Come on, enough chit-chat," England says, turning his glare from his brother onto France. As France is also long-inured to such looks, he ignores it just as easily as Scotland had done. "We've still got a lot of things to sort out before the next presentations."

He beckons for Scotland to follow him as he stalks away, but Scotland – as has been his habit for as long as France has known him – waits for a pointed moment before setting off after him, so as not to appear as though he's actually obeying his brother's demands.

"I guess I'll see you around, then," he says as he takes his leave.

And, "I hope so," France replies, though he is doubtful that they will be able to speak again for the remainder of the week.

England will almost certainly do his best to ensure they're not given the chance to do so. He's never liked it when it seems as though they might be in danger of getting along.