A/N: This is written for a prompt on tumblr. There are suggestions of pairings (ie FrancexEngland, FrancexSpain, +) but not enough to be offensive, I think. The story is France-centric. I hope you enjoy
A Chink in His Armour
Sunbeams coming in through a window struck France's face, slowly waking him up. He nuzzled his companion of the past night before carefully climbing out of the bed as as not to wake her. He checked his bedside clock. He did not have long to get ready for the day's world conference unless he was going to adopt America's habit of tardiness. Quietly, he dressed and tended to his hair. Before he left, he wrote a note to the woman, apologizing for his absence and suggesting a nearby cafe for breakfast, leaving enough francs to pay for any amount of decadence.
He imagined her walking out of his house, dressed in her clubbing outfit from the previous night. Hopefully, she wouldn't be too upset (at least she wouldn't have to worry about his neighbors; they were used to his many visitors). France tried not to treat any relationship, even one night stands, as simple dalliances. He was not a sex crazed menace as many of his fellow nations seemed to believed. Maybe he was love crazed, but was that such a bad thing. He loved everyone he ever slept with. He loved them for their strengths and weaknesses. And some times he loved those who no else did, people who needed the love even more than he did.
France locked his front door and walked over to his car. It was a Mercedes, a gift from Germany. The blond had told him it was so safe he could drive on the autobahn, though France had not yet dared.
Germany and he got on well, despite their parasitic relationship at the beginning of the last century. But France had chosen to love him, instead of to hate.
Spain was hosting the conference, so it did not take long for France to get there. France had loved Spain for a long time as well. In the past, the French nobility used to frequently marry the Spanish nobility. In the past couple of centuries, they worked together to support Prussia as he dived into depression at his country's dissolution. They shared their fear that he would someday vanish like Rome.
The conference was being held in a museum. As France walked past a picture commemorating the Franco-Spanish he felt sick. France had been involved in so many wars in his long tenure as a country. Even now, his soldiers were dying in the East. Not on the same scale as America's. War was glamourized by modern media, while peace was portrayed as weak.
The older nations (he, Spain, England, and many more) had been involved in so many wars that each of them had found some special defence against war and slaughter, sorrow and heartbreak, oppression and depression. They had to in order to survive. England had become a cranky old man to hide his true feelings. Russia had become a monster from nightmares that scared everyone away so he would never need to deal with another person leaving him
As for France, l'amour was his armour. He loved so hate would not turn him into someone he didn't like. He loved so there was always a shoulder to cry on in case of heartbreak. He loved to shield others from their pain.
"Frog." England was standing at the doorway to the conference room, staring at France. "You're late."
"Non, Angelterre. I have simply been too preoccupied admiring your beauty from afar to come closer." England scowled and went inside the conference room. France stood at the doorway a moment before following.
France would love everyone, even if it killed him.