It was an ordinary morning. France got up, got dressed, made breakfast, and turned on the tv, though not in that order. As he cooked, the beautiful news reporter talked about politics and the newest scandal of the American President in melodious French. Then, after her story was done, her male counterpart took over, and France tuned him out, until he heard a curious set of words.

"...London's most recent terrorist attack…" the reporter said, and France's attention snapped to the screen, where the featured picture was of a roomy yet charred and clutter-filled interior of a building that seemed to be like a bar, though with the floor above it caved in.

Fearing the worst, he listened anxiously to the rest of the report. "...Where twenty two people have already been rescued, and another five are confirmed to be dead. Investigators are looking into the incident, and hope it will be resolved soon."

Just yesterday, when France had to postpone their date, England had said he was going out to a bar. Neither he nor the report said which bar they were at, but there was an easy way to find the answer France really wanted to hear.

France went back to his bedroom to get his phone, and as soon as he had it in his hand, he called England.

But England didn't answer.

The call went to voicemail, and France took a deep breath before trying again. Each ring felt like a vice grip being tightened around his heart, and when he reached voicemail again, France felt that grip release all at once, letting his fear and desperation wash over him, making him weakly sit on the edge of his bed.

A third time he tried, and whispered, "Come on, Angleterre, this isn't funny…" as he glanced at the clock on the bedside table, and waited. Still, no answer.

In numb disbelief, France lowered the phone, and looked at it for what felt like an eternity, waiting for England to respond to his calls, but no such response came.

Finally, unable to take the suspense and worry, France stood up and got dressed quickly, and was out the door faster than England could say "bloody frog".

All the way to England's house, he played a dangerous game of chicken with his thoughts. His mind would conjure up a series of possible events for the previous night and an accompanying fate of the one he was to see, each more horrible and gruesome than the last. For each train of thought, France would cling to the controls, and pull the brake only when he didn't dare imagine any more, and the next train would start its journey.

The sight of England's front door couldn't come soon enough. France strode quickly to it from his car, and once there, he raised his hand to ring the doorbell, and hesitated, suddenly unsure if he wanted to know what would happen. Finally, he summoned his courage and pushed the little button.

He heard the chiming of the bell within the house, and impatiently counted the seconds as they passed by. When he reached ten, he rang again. At twenty, he found that his hands had started shaking. As he approached thirty, he became aware that tears were threatening to spill onto his face, and he closed his eyes to focus on staying calm, not giving up just yet.

At last, he heard the door open, and the familiar voice ask, "France? What are you doing here?"

Never had he been so relieved to hear that huffy british accent.

France released his held breath in a shaky sigh, and opened his eyes to see England, hair disheveled and hastily clothed in slacks and a t-shirt.

"Angleterre..." he said, running a hand through his hair to calm down a little, "I thought you may have been caught in the attack…"

"No, I… Attack? What attack?"

"I woke up and heard that there was a terrorist attack here in London, and you weren't answering your phone."

England seemed a little embarrassed to not know, putting a hand on the door handle and staring at it. "Well, I'm obviously fine."

France closed the distance between them and hugged England, saying, "I was worried about you. Tell me, what happened last night?"

"Eh, well, I suppose I left my phone at the pub or in the cab," England guessed, sort of hugging France back. "Because I couldn't find it when I woke up." Having had enough physical contact, he pushed France off him. "If you were really that worried, I suppose you can come in…"

His offer was met with a warm smile. "I'd love to."

England stepped aside, and let France enter his home. As he watched the Frenchman start to relax, he joked, "Next time you have to cancel, I'll just stay in."

Extra: Bomb threats in London?

Sitting with tea in their hands, France had to ask his burning question. "Angleterre, why are you so nonchalant? Some of your people have just died."

England took a thoughtful drink of his tea before answering, "Well, yes. But life goes on for the rest of us. I'll go pay my respects to the ones who died, but if I let it discourage me, the terrorists win, right? After all, that is their goal. Not to take a few lives, but to affect the lives of the whole city."

"That hardly seems like the right mindset, what if they strike again while you are recovering, because you are not careful enough?"

England shrugged. "Well, then I'll just keep persevering."

A look of concern crossed France's face. "And acting like nothing has happened?"

"You probably don't realize because you don't live here, but bomb threats aren't uncommon. If I let every one affect me, I'd be running around like a chicken with its bloody head cut off."

France didn't look too convinced, so England continued, "It's like strikes at your place. To most other countries, a strike is a big inconvenience, but you're used to them. Heck, you even participate. In the same way, bomb threats are common enough here that if I were in a restaurant enjoying my meal when the police come in and tell us to clear out because of the bomb threat, I'd stay right where I was and finish eating."*

"Angleterre, that is dangerous! My strikes and your bomb threats are nothing alike. Someone could actually die if the threat was real!" France scolded him. "Just look, last night some people did die!"

"You think I don't know that?" England asked indignantly. "I realize full well that real people have died. It's a tragedy. But it's also not the worst this city has seen." There was some pride in his voice as he continued, "We lasted though 76 nights of bombing in World War II during that bloody Blitz, and came out swinging. We can take a few minor terrorist attacks on occasion."

With a sigh, France said, "If you say so, Angleterre. But please, keep your phone with you so I can know you aren't hurt."

AN:

*This is a story that happened to someone I follow on Twitter. There's a tax on dining in at restaurants in England, and so when he and his friend got a burger at McDonalds and got a table to eat at, the friend stood up to the police when they came to clear the restaurant, saying something along the lines of, "I payed to eat my burger in, and that's what I'm going to do."

I pray for the families affected by the Manchester bombing, and hope they find peace.