PandaG's contribution to the Rare and Under-Appreciated Ship Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, and have a wonderful holiday!

Summary: Kept awake by terrible nightmares, France and America find hope in one another.

When France dreams of her it is always the same. It begins with all the sweet things that mean home. The rivers running fresh and cool through his veins, the mountains bumping down his spine, the softer curves of hills and valleys over the angles of his body. Above all, he feels the steady thrum of his people as they were in those days. Working the land, their plows and hoes like fingers dancing over his back, working out the kinks in his muscles so that he can help them thrive. Making love to one another until France cannot help but grin, to share in their ecstasy. Baking fresh bread and leaving the taste of summer in his mouth, the sun smiling down on him because France is blessed. She is by his side, just a little girl then, but her eyes are wide and full of promise.

Then there is war. Dark clouds and sharp raindrops – or are those arrows? The farmers change to soldiers, and there are hard-booted feet tramping over his skin instead of plows, stale bread and the taste of winter, death instead of love. He shivers, and then she takes his hand. Still just a girl, all innocence and determination. He falls in love with her again, every single time, and puts himself into her hands. They're bigger than they seem, and stronger too; he is not surprised.

Victory. Even in his sleep he can smell it: the crisp, cool air, the dirt kicked up by the horses, pitch thrown down from castle walls, blood and sweat. It isn't a bad smell, because he knows they've won. He can hear the soldiers shouting, see their bright smiles as they raise his flag and praise God for sending them the girl. In those moments he's with them, floating aloft on their glory while his heart soars with pride.

He smiles at the soldier next to him as she raises her visor. She is young, stubborn as ever, and she rides through his nerves with cries of freedom and hope. France believes in her, and she believes in France. It is because of this that he believes in himself. Together they raise their swords and yell, the joy too strong to contain.

He should know better. He's had this dream so many times before, he's lived it, at least once he should recall what comes at the end. Instead there is only a vague wish that they could go back to the beginning and she could live out her life on a farm, never to know glory or pain. Then he is pushing her from her horse and into the arms of men with ropes and chains. Horror wells up, extinguishing all the joy. Yet no matter how he tries he cannot stop himself because these men are France too, and they do not believe in her and they do not believe in him, so how can he ever trust himself?

Finally comes the fire. The ash fills up his mouth and lungs, making it impossible to breathe. There is a crowd around the stake; he should have come sooner, how could he abandon her to a trial run by their enemies? He has come too late now. The jeers of the crowd sink into his soul and clog up his heart. France staggers like a drunken fool, pushed and shoved until suddenly he is alone in front of the pyre. They've shaved her head and left her in nothing but a shift, and yet they could not take away her dignity. She is looking at him, those eyes still so stubborn, unwilling to let go until the very end. Does she think he will save her? She's so young, she's only a child, she is supposed to be blessed!

He reaches for her hand, and instantly the flames consume him. They are both there in the fire, smelling of seared meat and tasting like death and there is pain, unbelievable pain that eats him from the inside out until his shrieks. "JOAN!"

France wakes tangled in sheets soaked with sweat. There is no fire. There is no girl. He is entirely alone.

XXX

When America dreams of him it is never so specific. It is a gentler sort of dream, one he travels through like a boat down the Mississippi. It begins with spring, where the grass is so soft he isn't sure if he's touching the ground or his rabbit's fur. The whole world fresh and wonderful and new. There are all sorts of wonderful feelings that he doesn't quite understand; the tingling over his skin of new people, of change, of a future that is undecided.

He hears a voice, though he could never describe it. It's not the voice he remembers but the face of its owner: a young boy with big wide eyes in a square face and a head full of thick, light hair. They go adventuring together, looking for special blue flowers until the sun goes down and it's summer.

America is a summer child. He thrives in the sun, and he grows while he plays and looks for flowers. He has no concept of time, no more in the dream than he did in reality. He is too young to understand that there is even such a thing as time. He knows seasons, he knows when his brothers visit, he knows sun up and sun down. But this isn't what time is and the dreamer knows it; time is never so simple or kind.

The spring boy is not there. In his place is a summer man who wants nothing to do with him. America does not understand, but he can feel some things. The man with the boy's face does not love America the way the boy did. He is thinking of faraway places, like his big brother. America thinks maybe, if he had flowers, the boy will come back and love him again.

It is fall. Big brother England tells him about the flowers. It is not the season for flowers, and America does not have the blue ones anyway. He goes to the man with the boy's face, hoping the promise of flowers will make them friends again. America would like a friend. He is beginning to realize that he may be different from the other children. There is a little girl instead of a boy, and a grown man with her. A father. America has never had one of those, nor, until this moment, thought he might like one.

The man does not remember him, even though America has not changed and he can still see the boy there, in his eyes. His heart plummets like the falling leaves. If he had the blue flowers, he would have a friend. He so wants a friend. He wants to be loved and needed all the time, and his brothers are nice but they are not around, they are not the same, they aren't America.

The snowfall is bitter-cold, and all of America's wildlife friends have gone to sleep for the winter. The people are in their homes enjoying fires and waiting for better weather. America sits alone, feeling as cold as the snow itself. Suddenly, a bunch of blue flowers appear before his face, as though spring has popped out to surprise him. He runs off with the quickest (but most sincere) of thank yous to his brother, in search of his spring-time boy. They'll be friends again now. He'll remember, and they'll play together as all the seasons turn.

A boy is there! A little older and much sadder, but the flowers will fix everything. Only…the face is wrong. There's some piece of his friend there, but it is only a memory. He doesn't understand. The boy leads him to a box, a box with an old man inside. His hair is snow, his face is wrinkled, his eyes are closed. But that is the face, the one he will never forget. That face is his first friend, and his first brush with time.

Time is cruel. His boy's face is there, but there is no one inside. A tree bare of leaves, a heart gone cold and still. His friend has gone to a place he will never be able to follow and left him all alone. The flowers were supposed bring back the summer, but they cannot bring back the dead. Nothing will hold a mortal life to the earth, no matter how strongly it is loved.

"Davie?"

America wakes to a dark, empty room, and wonders why he's so cold.

XXX

France leans on his balcony, looking over the lights of Paris. It's very late (or perhaps early), but there are still a few cars to be seen in the distance. If he squints he can see the building where the meeting will be tomorrow, and the hotel above that is hosting many of the other nations. Those he is close to are staying at his house and sleeping soundly in their guest rooms – unlike France himself.

For the third time since he came outside, France lifts up his cigarette and attempts to light it. Instead he winds up staring at the flame of his lighter, intrigued and horrified, feeling everything burn and hearing the scream as she–

"Thought you were trying to quit?"

France jumps, the lighter clattering to his feet. America is leaning in the doorway behind him, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a soft smirk. Once his heart slows again, France returns that smile and replies, "I make the attempt every decade or so."

America walks over and plucks the cigarette from his fingers. "Well, don't give up. It isn't healthy."

France raises an eyebrow, but decides against commenting. He picks up the lighter and returns it to the table alongside an empty ashtray. "I hope I did not wake you."

"No way, dude. I didn't even know you were out here," says America.

"Is it too warm in the guest room, then? Or is the bed lumpy? I flipped the mattress, but I admit that one is getting a bit old. I should-"

"No, no!" America exclaims. "The room's great, the bed's comfy, everything's perfect. You're perfect. Ah…I mean, y'know…" America trails off with a sheepish grin and an awkward shrug.

France laughs. It feels good to laugh with America here. The boy has a way of dispelling all of his shadows. "Thank you, my dear. I do strive to be an excellent host. But if nothing is amiss with your accommodations, why are you awake? The bathroom is at the other end of the hallway, you know."

The smile fades from America's face and he looks away, out toward the city. "It's nothing, really. Just couldn't sleep."

"Nothing does not wake you in the middle of the night, or prevent sleep," says France, frowning.

"I could say the same thing to you," America retorts.

"We are not talking about me," France replies. He takes a step closer, trying to get a better look at his companion. He should have seen it sooner, even in the darkness; there are purple-grey spots under America's eyes and a heaviness to his shoulders. He puts a hand on America's arm, his fingers gently rubbing at the tension. "What is it?"

America still won't meet his eyes, but he does not pull away from France's touch. "It's stupid. Just a dream I've been having. I shouldn't let it bother me so much."

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid of a nightmare," says France, his voice going hard. "Anyone who tells you differently should be forced to live through one." There are far too many friends – nation and human alike – who have told him that dreams hold no sway on the real world, that they are foolish and should easily be brushed aside. They do not know that the nightmare has kept him awake more nights than the worst wounds he's received, leaving him terrified for days on end. He will not let America suffer the same; at the very least, he will tell him that nightmares are real, and if they are real than there is the hope that they can be vanquished.

"Will you tell me about it?" he asks, gently guiding America into a chair by the table and taking the one opposite him.

For a moment America regards him, perhaps searching for some kind of reassurance that France could be trusted. Then he answers, "It was Davie."

"A soldier?" asks France, because they have all had their share of brave friends lost in wars.

America shakes his head. "No. He was a boy."

While America tells his story, the lights of the city shift as even the night owls turn in. Some cities never sleep, but there is a lull that arrives just as America finishes speaking. France is left nearly speechless, in awe of this vulnerable side and honored that America is willing to share it with him. At some point their hands touched, and they remain clasped on top of the table. He squeezes them now. "My darling boy! I wish I could ease such a memory."

"Nah, I don't think memories are meant to be easy. I wouldn't want to forget a minute of the time I knew him, even if I could," says America. He quirks an eyebrow, some of his real smile returning. "Kinda like you and Joan, right?"

France releases their hands, his heart sliding lower in his chest. "Am I that predictable?"

"Not really. I just took a guess from the way you reacted when I was talking." America starts to reach for him, then draws back and rubs his hands together. "Ah, shit – sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought, since I was talking about that stuff, you might like to talk too. That was dumb, I know you don't like to talk about her. Crap, I'm making it worse, aren't I?"

France grabs the fidgeting hands and offers an apologetic smile. "No, no. You are quite right – and even so, I find it rather endearing when you stick your foot in your mouth."

"You do?"

France laughs. He can feel his heart rise back to its proper place, as it always does when America is involved. The boy may cause trouble by speaking without thinking, but he usually manages to fix things again. "You make me think of her, actually. Joan had the word of God, but when she spoke she had a habit of angering certain people. Occasionally that included her allies as well."

He lifts his hand from America's hand to his face, brushing one thumb over his cheek. "Do you know, all those years ago during your revolution, I think I helped you because you reminded me of her. She was young and stubborn, full of impossible promises. She wore armor that was too big and I desperately wanted to see her succeed, just like you. Someone to be molded and guided, who needed me as much as I needed them."

There's a darkening blush on America's cheek now, and France turns the boy's face toward the inside light so he can watch it spread. He studies that face, too. It's changed so much over a few hundred years. He has a strong jaw set with sweet lips, a defined brow (thank God), and bright, eager eyes. "You don't remind me of her so much anymore. You have become your own person, and I love you all for yourself."

The blush completes its trek all the way down America's neck and up to his ears. He's wearing that adorable, self-conscious grin again as he takes France's hand away from his face. "You don't remind me of Davie at all, dude. You're old."

"Hey!"

"I don't mean you look old!" America swears, waving his hands in defense. "I mean, like, the way you carry yourself. Not elderly or anything, but…mature, I guess? Like you know things. Even when you're acting like a kid, I can see all those years in your eyes. Davie was never like that. Even when he was elderly, he just felt like a kid. You've got this suave confidence mixed with a touch of sadness, and it makes you really beautiful."

Now France is blushing. He is used to receiving compliments, but rarely have they been given so sincerely. "I really must have you over more often. You put all the joy back into my heart – however old it might be."

The night goes quiet again as they both grin at one another, until America glances away with a nervous laugh. He looks up again, opens his mouth, then closes it and stares at his hands. France does not push him to speak; if America is taking the time to think about what he wants to say, it must be something very important. Finally America takes a deep breath and meets France's eyes. "Look, France, I know when you say 'love' you don't mean it like that, but I've got to tell you…I think you're incredible. And if you give me a chance, I'd like to try and take your nightmares away. If I can't, I'd still like to be there for you, so that when you wake up I'll be there to comfort you."

Before France even has time to react, America drops his head in his hands and groans. "Oh man, that sounded so cheesy – it was way better in my head."

France can't help laughing, even though he knows it's likely to give the wrong impression. He grabs America's hands and drags him to his feet, twirling him into his arms. "My sweet, darling America! I would call it endearing, rather than 'cheesy'. Enchanting, because it is so very you. Whatever gave you the impression I did not mean love?"

"Well, I, you never…!" America stutters.

"Dearest heart," France chuckles. He takes a long moment to consider things, because it is clear that America is very serious about his intentions. This night has been about the things that haunt them, that eat away at their very souls and refuse to leave them be, even in sleep. Their nightmares are lonely ones, of loving and losing and learning how cruel the world can be. To open himself up to an actual relationship is something France has not done in a long, long time. Perhaps part of what has made his nightmare so dark is the lack of someone to share it with. It would be nice to feel the thrill of a steady romance again, even if it does end someday. "I do not think you can save me from my memories, America, no more than I can save you from yours. But I do believe we can share them, and create new ones in their place."

America's whole face lights up, from the slow spread of his widest grin to the crinkle of his eyes. "You mean it? We can go on dates and hold hands and cuddle and skype-cuddle when we're not together?"

"Yes, and you can tell me not to smoke while I tell you that three burgers is plenty, and should we wake up like this on a night when we are together, we will make certain to wake everyone in the house," France replies. Then he presses their lips together, allowing the rush of joy to sweep away the terror of Joan's fire and the emptiness of Davie's casket.

XXX

Afterward

When they dream together it is sometimes sweet, sometimes wild, and always full of pleasure. It begins with whispered words and light touches. France kisses America somewhere half-chaste and slides his fingers up the seam of his pants. America shivers and grabs that hand, kissing France's fingers and then his mouth. They exchange seductions and the kisses get harder, the touches more determined. At least a tie is loosened before they think to move elsewhere.

They go to bed. Or don't. Sometimes they stay where they are, or move somewhere more exciting. France is fond of his balcony, where he can watch his beautiful Paris while America moves behind him. America likes it outside beneath a big oak tree, where he can smell fresh grass, France's cologne, and the remains of their picnic.

Wherever they are, they are eager and laughing. The clothes fly between kisses, both tasting the salt of one another's skin. America forgets his strength and leaves marks France is happy to wear. In return France sucks harder on his skin and leaves little red circles in places that America can never quite cover. As more skin is freed the touches get bolder, finding places that make each other moan and quiver. They caress and tug at gold- and wheat-blonde, reveling in the texture of the smooth waves.

America traces the mountains of France's spine with his tongue, and France rakes his nails over the plains that stretch across America's chest. Then they move lower, dipping between pale thighs with slick fingers, wrapping around or pressing inside or simply grinding against one another. There are more kisses (some in unexpected places) and the world narrows to the two of them even as it expands to encompass an entire universe of sensation.

Here they come together, clinging to one another with hands and legs and mouths. America is louder, but he swears in short outbursts whereas France keeps up a constant litany of French. Slower then faster; deeper, more intense, then shallow thrusts and begging; honeyed, beautiful words of adoration, and finally spiraling toward a finish that leaves them breathless.

When the dream ends, France and America fall asleep beside one another. They are warm and happy, and the only names they recall are one another's.