This fic was inspired by a fantastic gift fic that was written for me in which Scotland arrives home to discover that France has paid him a surprise visit, and it follows on directly from that encounter.

19th December, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland

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France's phone call might not have been from another of his lovers, but it demands just as much of his attention. Judging by the few terse words France shares with them, Scotland suspects it's some poor junior government lackey or other, delegated the unenviable task of pestering their nation in his free time either by committee or simply the drawing of a short straw.

France's scowl suggests that he does not agree with their decision regardless of how it was made, but the subject matter is apparently still urgent enough that he keeps listening, despite his obvious annoyance.

After a few monosyllabic exchanges on his part, he sighs deeply and tells the drone, "Un moment, s'il vous plait," before turning to Scotland with an apologetic-looking smile.

"I'm afraid this may take a while," he says, "but I have no intention of allowing it to change our plans for the evening, in any case. Continue getting ready; I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Our plans?" Scotland echoes derisively, but the sarcasm is wasted on France, namely because he doesn't even wait for Scotland to finish speaking before he slips out of the bedroom and heads downstairs.

The dismissal's grating, but not even half so much as the presumption of… well, everything France's done thus far today. That's galling enough that he almost makes the decision to refuse to follow any of France's suggestions on his attire – overt or otherwise – in protest. All thoughts of defiance fizzle out immediately, however, the moment he remembers that the word 'date' had been uttered.

It might as well have been a magical one, given the way it spirits away every scrap of his vexation. A shortcoming on his part, to be sure, but then again he hasn't had long enough that he can even begin putting the past behind him when it comes to France; it still dogs every step they take, even together. The promise of some time alone together – by its very nature designed to make him the centre of France's of attention for a little while – is one he clearly has yet to build defences against.

He suspects France was restraining himself before, and would prefer he didn't wear a T-shirt at all, Nessie or no. Instead, he takes a wild guess at which colour might go best with the charcoal trousers, grabs a shirt that's the closest match to it, and then quickly changes into them.

Contemplating his reflection in the long mirror inside his wardrobe door afterwards, he can admit that, even though the trousers are a slimmer fit than he's used to and the shirt's pattern is far fancier than he would like, he doesn't look too bad. Slightly uncomfortable and far too much like he's been letting England do his clothes shopping for him, but not as ridiculous as he usually feels when wearing such an outfit.

Much more reluctant is the concession that he might actually benefit from a little help with his choice of clothing. He's never going to be as fascinated by that sort of thing as some are, but there had been a time, centuries ago now, when he took an interest and at least tried follow the prevailing winds of fashion. His ignorance was deliberate, born out of a need to assert himself at his lowest point that seems self-defeating in retrospect, but it has long-since grown into a habit.

He could, he supposes, learn to make slightly more of an effort, especially if it might lead to being taken on more dates in the future.

France announces the end of his phone call with a penitent sounding apology shouted from the living room, followed by: "Sometimes I wonder how they manage to even go to the bathroom on their own," as he walks up the stairs, each word accentuated by the heavy tread of his foot on a step, "seeing as though they seem to need their hands held so tightly through everything else."

When Scotland turns his head to watch him re-enter the bedroom, however, there's no sign of the frustration he's clearly feeling reflected on his face; his brow is smooth and his lips upturned into a small smile.

He reaches out for Scotland as he steps up behind him, but though his hands form the contours of Scotland's waist, ultimately they do not settle there, instead leaving an inch or so of skin-warmed air between them.

Scotland is glad of the hesitation, because even though his convictions about taking things slow and being sure are strong, they're worn down just that little bit more every time France touches him. And a few feet away from his bed is the very worst place for any erosion of that type to be going on.

Even without the contact, France's meaning is abundantly clear. Scotland compliantly spins on his heel, and waits for his efforts to be evaluated.

France's appraisal is slow, his gaze wandering just as leisurely up Scotland's body as it had done going down, giving Scotland plenty of time to try and brace himself for the scathing assessment he's sure will be forthcoming, and thenceforth the presumptions of myopia and/or colour blindness.

To his astonishment, however, France's judgement results in nothing more than a brief, dry kiss pressed to his cheek, and then, even more unbelievably: "You look very handsome, mon coeur."

They were little more than bairns the last time France said those words, Scotland's almost certain, and his feeling of nostalgia upon hearing them is almost as great as his surprise. He's heard them spoken by sufficient other voices over the years since that he's stopped thinking that they might be entirely unwarranted, but as they were never the right voice, he never cared enough to either read anything much into them or bother formulating a suitable reply.

"Thanks," is, therefore, the best he can manage off the top of his head. "So do you."

The second statement – thrown in on the spur of the moment with no intercession on the part of his brain – though entirely truthful no matter what the circumstances was clearly better kept to himself, nevertheless, if the irritated purse of France's lips is anything to go by. Scotland can only suppose that France's own clothes – though they look perfectly presentable to Scotland's eye – are what he would consider scruffy and unfit for any purpose other than performing manual labour.

That thought serves as a sharp reminder of what exactly he had walked in on France doing earlier, which makes his own irritation return strongly enough that he can say, "I gave you that key last week so you could come home early from the pub if you felt like it, not so you could let yourself in whenever you fancy, you ken. You might have given me a call or something first, let me know you were coming. I thought you were busy this weekend."

France looks slightly taken aback. "I only managed to clear my schedule at the last minute, and I wanted to surprise you. I thought you might find it romantic."

He sounds less and less convinced the longer he speaks, it saddens Scotland a little, the realisation that there's so much uncertainty between them now. It's difficult at times to believe that they were once such close friends that they barely needed words between them, they knew each other's minds so well.

It's the sort of sadness that instinctively makes him want to offer reassurance, but he forces himself to resist the temptation as he knows all too well now where giving into such urges against his best interests will eventually lead. "Coming home to find you and the bed all covered with rose petals would be romantic," he says, haltingly because he's none too sure of himself where romance is concerned. "Even though I'd have to decline, it'd've been a nice surprise. Coming home to find you throwing out half my wardrobe without warning? That's… Well, it's a bit creepy, to be honest, gaol mo cridhe."

"I hadn't planned on doing it today; I just wanted something to occupy myself while I waited for you and I'm afraid I got a little carried away." France looks contrite until the moment his abashedly averted gaze falls upon the pile of clothes he had obviously deemed unworthy of further existence, whereupon his expression hardens considerably and he barks out, "Honestly though, Scotland, half your clothes are little better than rags and all of them are unflattering. They never do you any justice."

Which is likely true, and Scotland can't argue with France's logic on that score, but there are principles entirely unconnected with his appearance at stake, namely, "Aye, I believe you, but that still doesn't mean you can chuck them all out without asking. I can't stand getting rid of anything that's got some use left in it for a start, but, more than that, I like my clothes. They might be ugly or whatever it is you've got against them, but they're comfortable and I feel comfortable wearing them. I don't want to be worrying about getting mud or grease or whatever on myself all the time and ruining what I'm wearing. It's –"

"But they're vile," France breaks in, sounding pained enough that it makes Scotland want to unbend a fraction in response.

"Tell you what," Scotland says, lifting his hand until it's almost brushing the underside of France's arm, "if I get to keep all of my old clothes, I'll only ever use them for working on the car and hiking; stuff like that. If we're going out anywhere together, you get to vet whatever I wear first. Hell," he adds, in a sudden fit of magnanimity, "you can even fucking dress me if you like."

The sudden delighted gleam that suggestion kindles in France's eyes brings memories of Wales' many childhood sartorial indignities immediately to mind, causing Scotland to backpeddle slightly before any funny ideas have chance to settle firmly in France's brain. "Just so long as there aren't any fucking ridiculous hats involved, anyway. Or yellow trousers."

The hug of gratitude France gives him is tight but thankfully brief enough that Scotland doesn't have chance to develop any conviction-challenging feelings about it.

"I promise that I anything I choose will- suit you wonderfully," he says. "I've had so many years to imagine such a thing that I think I've rather perfected the art by now."

Scotland returns France's grin, feeling quite proud of the two of them. He never would have dared contradict France's plans in the past, and even if he had summoned up the nerve, he doubts France would have taken his dissent so well. It's a fragile thing still, this new balance between them, but they both seem determined enough to keep it, nevertheless, that he's beginning to believe it might actually hold.

"I think we're starting to get quite good at this whole compromise thing," Scotland says.

France laughs. "You say that now, mon cher, but I fear you may be eating your words soon enough. We have yet to decide which restaurant I'm going to be taking you to this evening, after all."
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Notes:
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- And Two Back (part 46 of the FtF series) is a direct sequel to this fic.