DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND 'Allo 'Allo! – David Croft & Jeremy Lloyd

THE GREAT UN-ESCAPE

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. To avoid confusion, italics will represent the unknown language in each character's POV.

This story is a Hetalia-spoof based on the BBC sitcom, 'Allo 'Allo! (1982–1992).

ALWAYS practise safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred F. Jones

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

CANADA — Matthew Williams

CHINA — Wang Yao

ONE

THE BRITISH ARE COMING

FRENCH

NOUVION, PICARDY

GERMAN-OCCUPIED FRANCE

In a small town in northern France lived Francis Bonnefoi. He was a twenty-six-year-old chef who had inherited the picturesque Café Le Fleur-de-lis from a distant relative, long dead. It was a beautiful café frequented by locals, tourists, and, more recently, German soldiers. One such patron was young Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt. He was a polite, punctual, self-disciplined man who maintained a strict routine. He arrived at Le Fleur-de-lis every afternoon at twelve-thirty sharp, ordered a mug of dark beer and the only sausage-based entrée on the menu, and—mashing-up his potatoes—proceeded to eat his dinner in total silence. Or, that had been his routine before Feliciano Vargas. Feliciano was a jaunty young Italian serving as Ludwig's adjutant in France. (Despite his flightiness the boy's French was good.) Feliciano's pleasant, sunny nature balanced out Ludwig's steely hardness and made it easier to communicate with the intimidating German, who's French was nonexistent.

"Welcome, Monsieur Capitaine," said Francis cheerfully. "How are you today?"

Ludwig glanced at Feliciano, who was singing softly to himself and not paying attention. "Dummkopf!" he snapped in annoyance. "What did he say?"

Feliciano blinked. "Oh. Ciao, Signore Bonnefoi. How are you?" he asked in French.

"I'm very well, thank-you. Just praying that his horrible war would come to a swift end."

Feliciano translated for Ludwig, who eyed Francis suspiciously. "And who's side are you praying will win?"

"Oh, your side of course, Monsieur Capitaine," Francis lied, smiling. "Should I bring you your usual order?"

"He wants to know what you would like for dinner today," said Feliciano.

Ludwig said: "The same thing I order every day, of course. He should know that by now. Tell him."

"Capitano Beilschmidt would like his usual," said Feliciano to Francis.

Francis nodded. Usually he would offer the services of his waitresses to the high-ranking officers that visited the café—in exchange for supplies: butter, sugar, kerosene, etc.—but there was no need to waste his breath on Ludwig. Not as long as he had Feliciano's company. Oh well, more for me, Francis mused, gesturing for his waitresses. His girls were both attractive: Maria was young and curvy; Yvette was tall, dark, and modelesque. "Oh, mes chéries," he whispered, snaking a possessive arm around each girl's waist. "It looks like I have you all to myself today. Just as soon as that boorish German is fed." He lowered his hands and pat each girl's taut bottom before slipping into the kitchen—

—where a green-eyed blonde in a trench-coat was waiting for him, smoking a hand-rolled Dunhill cigarette.

Francis blinked in confusion. He knew everyone who frequented his café, but he did not know this man. He blew-out smoke and lowered his cigarette. "Alright, ol' chap?"

"Oh, fuck, an Englishman! What are you doing here?" Francis panicked. Quickly, he closed the kitchen door behind him. "There's a German capitaine in the café right now! If he catches you in here, I'll be shot!"

The Englishman dropped the cigarette butt and stepped on it, crushing it beneath the toe of his boot. "Don't talk, just listen," he said in an authoritative tone, as if Francis hadn't spoken. "I'm only going to say this once—"

"Pardon?" said Francis, stepping closer.

Urgently, the Englishman repeated: "I said I'm only going to say this once! I am Captain Arthur Kirkland of the British Expeditionary Force. For the past few months I've been working with the French Resistance trying to get my men out of Nazi-occupied territory and back to London. I had been collaborating with a café owner closer to the boarder, but when the Jerries discovered the plot, he, uh, well... he died very bravely in service to France. Anyway, your café has been chosen as the next rendezvous point for my lads. I need you to hide two pilots until it's safe for them to leave France: two North American lads, good pilots both of them. I'll have travel documents ready for them in a fortnight. The Resistance has a forger, the best in the business. Can you hide the lads until then?"

Francis stared at the Englishman. "Coffee or tea?" he offered obliviously. He hadn't understood a single word that Arthur had said aside from his introduction. He gestured to the kettle.

Arthur frowned. "What? No, I don't want tea! Do you speak English? Err... Parlez-vous Anglais?"

"No," Francis shook his head. "Do you speak French?" It was the only sentence in English he knew, besides a few unsavoury pick-up lines and a bit of profanity.

"No," said Arthur, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, bloody-hell. I really need your help, frog-eater. I've got to get my lads safely back to London."

"You're travelling back to London?" Francis asked.

"London, yes! You understand London!"

Francis nodded, smiling amicably. Good, he thought, go back to London before Ludwig finds you here! He grabbed Arthur's biceps and turned him around toward the door. "Very good, London is that way." He pointed in the general direction, parading the Englishman out. "Out the back door you go. Safe travels. Good luck, you damn idiot."

"What are you doing? Unhand me, you bloody frog-eater!" Arthur struggled. "I need your fucking help!" He dug his heels into the floor and stopped, pushing back against Francis. "Okay, let's try doing this the hard way then." He raised his hands and mimed: "I. Need. You. Do you understand?"

Francis eyed the Englishman skeptically, from the top of his wheat-blonde head to the toes of his shiny black boots. He was about an inch shorter than Francis and slight-figured, but not unattractive. His pale, freckled skin only complimented his shapely face and made his eyes look fiercely green. Cocking his head, Francis considered the offer in a congenial way. "I usually prefer women or boys that are considerably prettier than you," he misunderstood, "but perhaps I can make an acceptation... for a price." Suggestively, he took the Englishman's chin between his thumb and forefinger—

—and got slapped.

"NO!" said Arthur sternly. "You fucking pervert!" He retreated a step in self-defense and took a therapeutic breath. "I don't think you understand. Let me try again."

Eventually, after much back-and-forth and an energetic game of charades, Francis was able to piece together Arthur's message. Two young North American pilots—one American, one Canadian—were being smuggled back to the British headquarters in London to regroup. They had been POWs but had escaped and now sought refuge in Le Fleur-de-lis, which Arthur begged to hide them until forged travel documents could be delivered. Then the boys would leave using two preconceived aliases right under the Germans' noses. It was a gamble, dangerous for everyone involved, but Francis was a patriot. He said: "Vive la France!" and agreed to help.

He shook Arthur's hand. "I'll do anything to end this horrible war quickly, Capitaine. I am at your disposal."

Arthur said: "Thank-you. Francis, was it? Your assistance will help to end this dreadful war."

And they both smiled, having no idea what the other had said.

ENGLISH

ONE DAY LATER

Arthur sat at a small round table in the corner of the café beside the piano-forte. He tried to look inconspicuous, but he was nervous. There were a lot of German soldiers milling about, including a barrel-chested blonde, whom Francis pointed out as Captain Beilschmidt. Like yesterday and the day before, Ludwig arrived at precisely twelve-thirty and ordered dinner, toting a young Italian behind him, who chatted incessantly like a little terracotta-haired dog. Francis personally took their orders—Feliciano liked to try new things; Ludwig ordered the same entrée every day—and then slipped into the kitchen. He was a good chef and a cloying host. He was flirty and somewhat manipulative. He always seemed to profit regardless of the situation. But that's exactly why Arthur had chosen him for the mission, because Francis Bonnefoi was smart. He's very adept at self-preservation. Let's see how well he can lie when it's not himself he's preserving. Arthur cared for both North American pilots and he felt responsible for them, like an older brother.

At half-past one o'clock, Ludwig stood and signalled to Feliciano that they were leaving. The soldiers saluted him as he passed and then went back to self-indulgence. Francis returned to Arthur's table, carrying a tray laden with coffee mugs. Quietly, he said:

"The first pilot should have arrived by now. What's keeping him?"

Arthur lifted his teacup and placed it on the tray. "No, thank-you. I don't want any coffee," he said as politely as possible. In truth, he was anxious about Alfred's late arrival. I wonder what's taking him so long? Knowing Alfred, he probably went to the wrong bloody café. He had told both boys to disguise themselves as French grocers to avoid suspicion and to come to the café's back door as grocers would. From his corner vantage, Arthur could see through the window to the back door's stoop, which is what he was watching when Francis tapped his shoulder.

"Yes, what is it?" he said shortly. Then he stopped. The café's bell rang and the whole place went silent.

Alfred was standing in the front entrance wheeling a vegetable cart and wearing a beret and a fake mustache. He looked like a spooked fawn staring back at the curious Germans, who regarded him as if expecting him to perform a skit. Arthur slapped a hand over his eyes, too embarrassed and afraid for Alfred to watch; trying to improvise a plan, when Francis suddenly dashed forward.

"Mon chéri Renée! How long it's been since I've seen you, mon amie! Entrez! Entrez, s'il vous plaiî!"

Francis pulled Alfred into a familiar hug and kissed both his cheeks, surprising him. Discretely, he whispered to him in warning and then ushered him through the café's dining-room into the back, leaving the full vegetable cart behind. Quickly, Arthur followed.

"Bloody-hell, Alfred! I said to come in the back door discretely! This," he snatched the boy's flat beret, "is not discrete! I hope you enjoyed that theatrical entrance. You've made a spectacle of yourself in a roomful of Jerries!"

Alfred blushed, but retaliated: "I couldn't find the stupid back door! It's practically invisible from the street!"

"That's the bloody point, you thick-headed git!"

"Excusez-moi?" said Francis, intervening. "Are you Alfred Jones? I've been expecting you, though not quite in that fashion." He gestured to Alfred's disguise.

Alfred blinked, then looked to Arthur for guidance. "What did he say? Why is he pointing at me?"

Arthur shrugged. "I think he wants your hat, probably in payment for rescuing you. Bloody French crook."

"Oh, okay." Alfred nodded. Arthur handed Francis the beret.

Francis took it, looking confused. "Err... merci," he said, as if receiving a gift.

"Anyway, now that I'm here," Alfred continued, "I'm starving! Do you have anything descent to eat? It's been hours since I've eaten anything, and days since I've eaten anything resembling food. Well, do you? I. Am. Hungry," he said slowly, trying to communicate his request. Then he mimed: "Food—?" and rubbed his stomach.

Francis blinked. "Are you feeling ill? Do you have a stomach ache or something? I have medicine for that."

"What's he saying?" Alfred repeated.

Arthur sighed, feeling exhausted. "I have no fucking clue. Just nod and accept whatever he gives you, it won't be for long. Hopefully those documents will arrive on-time, but until then I don't want to risk offending him. There's nowhere else for you and Matthew to go that's safe."

"This place is safe? It's crawling with fucking Krauts!"

"It's high-traffic," Arthur admitted, "but it's safer than anywhere else, I promise. Francis seems to be on good terms with the Jerries. You'll just have to stay hidden for a while. I know it'll be difficult for you," he acknowledged, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder in mock-sympathy, "but I really, really need you to stay here and not do anything stupid for a few days."

Alfred opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when Francis returned. He had been fishing inside a cupboard in the pantry and was now holding a stout brown bottle and a spoon. He handed both to Alfred and then patted his wheat-blonde head fraternally. Alfred said: "Err... thanks, I think. Is this food?" he asked Arthur, looking discouraged.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "No, you git. That's tonic."

It was going to be a very long fortnight, indeed.

GERMAN

Ludwig sat in his big office at the German's temporary headquarters, located at city hall. He was studying a beautifully artistic—and, ahem, somewhat erotic—portrait of a naked figure writhing in sweaty climax. It was worth more than a captain's retirement pension if sold, but Ludwig wasn't planning to sell it. He was planning to return it to the relatives of its rightful owner. He had it on good authority that it had been stolen by the French two generations ago from an Italian artist, who just happened to be Feliciano's grandfather. Grandpa Roma, he had called himself. The portrait—whoever the subject might have been; Ludwig had not asked—was the family's most prized possession. That, and a secret generations-old pasta recipe. (The Italians had very odd traditions and priorities in Ludwig's thinking.) But the German captain felt obligated to return the portrait to the family of his (cough lover cough. I mean, err...) adjutant.

Just then, Feliciano hurried in. "Germany! Germany!" he cried in panic. "An officer from the Gestapo is here! He looks really scary, like a red-eyed demon!"

"Uh, red-eyed?" Ludwig repeated in concern. He only knew one red-eyed German. "That's my older brother, Gilbert. Quick, help me hide the portrait!" he said, wrapping it in brown-paper.

Gilbert loved Ludwig, of course, but he took his job as secret-police very seriously and he was very good at it. If he found out that Ludwig was trying to smuggle a priceless article out of German-occupied territory, he would have no choice but to report the crime; charge Ludwig with stealing and disobedience; and potentially shoot him dead as an example to discourage disobedience. It was just protocol. There was nothing personal about his only living-relative shooting him dead, of course. In such unstable times, order must be maintained.

As Ludwig stuffed the portrait into the fireplace grate, Feliciano flittered:

"Oh, Germany! What do I do? I don't want to die—I don't want to die!"

"Shut up, dummkopf!" Ludwig slapped a hand over Feliciano's mouth. He could feel the boy's nerves (and his exceptionally soft, sun-kissed skin). "You're not going to die, not yet anyway. Just keep your big, loud mouth shut and follow my lead." Slowly, he released Feliciano and gestured to the door. The Italian opened it.

"Little brother!" said Gilbert, striding in. His marching gait was practised, short and fast. His black uniform, emblazoned with the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia and the letters SD in silver, was pristine and freshly-pressed. The Iron Cross at his throat was proud and carefully polished to shine. Doubtless, he looked intimidating: an exceptionally tall, red-eyed albino. Yet he was grinning like a satisfied tomcat. After the customary greetings and salutes, he said: "You look tired, brother. Aren't you sleeping well? There's nothing to worry about. We're winning the war, after all."

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just, err... busy." He glanced at Feliciano in accusation. (The boy flopped like a fish out of water in bed and slept stark-naked. It was distracting and annoyed Ludwig, who needed peace and quiet to sleep.)

Gilbert blinked. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing a gloved finger at Feliciano. The Italian cowered and yipped in fear when addressed. He held himself as straight and tall as possible and didn't make eye-contact, which disturbed the perceptive Gestapo officer. Gilbert looked keenly between Ludwig and Feliciano, reading the tension and anxiety. Suspiciously, he said: "He's young. What's his rank? Is he French?"

"Italian," Ludwig replied. "Feliciano Vargas is serving as my adjutant."

"Oh, that's right. You don't speak French, do you, brother?" said Gilbert smugly, relaxing. The cocky Gestapo officer spoke—heavily accented and very broken—French and considered himself something of a linguist because of it. ("I'm so awesome!") "Well, whatever," he ignored Feliciano. To Ludwig, he said: "There's something that I need you to do for me, Ludwig. It's a sensitive subject, very secretive. I need you to track down a specific article for me that's gone missing from the art gallery, a priceless Italian portrait. You see I've been asked personally by the Führer—through an assistant—to send it on to Berlin," he said proudly, as if the delivery of profane portraits was a task reserved for the noblest of gentlemen. "I need it within a fortnight, otherwise I'll have to investigate the entire town and the person found in possession of the portrait will be publicaly executed. It's just so time-consuming," he sighed, "and my time is valuable. If you find it for me, I can guarantee your promotion. But if not then you'll be investigated too. It's such an inconvenience, I know. I can't return to Berlin until it's found though, so I'll be staying here in Nouvion until I retrieve it or shoot the thief. I'll be back soon to see what you have uncovered. The men have told me about a little restaurant called Café Le Fleur-de-lis, which has excellent... services." He grinned wickedly. "I'll meet you there tomorrow for dinner.

"Auf wiedersehen!"

FRENCH

Francis was carrying several bottles of cognac down to the cellar—it was a favourite among his French patrons—when he heard two voices speaking English. His two houseguests were arguing indiscreetly in frustration.

"I can't sleep in a fucking cupboard, it's too small!" Alfred complained.

"Well, you can't bloody well be walking around upstairs. The Jerries think you're a grocer, remember? If they become suspicious, if they hear your bloody Yankee accent, you'll be in danger, Alfred. They'll shoot you!"

"But Artie—"

"Don't call me that," Arthur chastised. "It's Captain Kirkland when we're in uniform."

"Yeah, but right now we're not in uniform. C'mon, Art-ie!" Alfred whined, teasing Arthur's concern. They stood nearly chest-to-chest, closer than what professionalism deemed appropriate; it was intimate. The big American stared down at the freckled Englishman, cornflower-blue eyes smiling condescendingly into Lincoln-green. Francis watched curiously as the boy placed a hand affectionately atop Arthur's head, like siblings playing, but Arthur slapped at him in denial. It was nervousness not violence that made him do it, and he seemed surprised by his own action, but Alfred did not. In fact, he cocked his wheat-blonde head as if he had been expecting it. Sighing in defeat, he stretched his sculpted arms upward, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and folded them lazily behind his head. It annoyed the testy English captain.

"Stop that, Alfred. This is serious. I won't risk you getting found out because of stupidity, they'll shoot you!" he repeated, betraying fear. "I've brought you and Matthew here to protect you. I'm, well I... I'm rather fond of you both," he admitted, sulkily avoiding eye-contact. It seemed like a difficult thing for him to admit face-to-face. "I don't want to lose either of you, so please don't gamble with your life. It means too much to me."

Alfred's eyes softened. Francis couldn't understand their words, of course, but he recognized the worry in the Englishman's tone. It was a specific kind of worry reserved for blood-relatives and best-friends, people you considered family; people you would do anything to protect.

Francis descended the warped concrete steps and entered the cellar, surprising the two Anglophones, who hastily stepped apart. He stocked the cellar shelves with cognac, checked his stores (which were getting low), and then turned and faced his guests. He had reservations about hiding Alfred—the entitled, loud-mouthed American wasn't at all subtle; his presence put Francis and the entire café at risk—and now was as good a time as any to address them. He said:

"You can't stay here in the cellar. My stores get searched regularly by soldiers for provisions. You can't sleep in the cupboard, Alfred."

"Oh, he's talking to me," Alfred said, recognizing his name.

"Perhaps he's offering you a drink?" Arthur guessed. He pointed to the cognac.

Francis said: "No, you can't have that. It's expensive, it's only for paying customers. If I catch either of you stealing from my stores then you can forget about my help. I'll throw you out," he warned, pointing a finger between them. "This is my livelihood here. It's all I've got left to sell," he emphasized, trying to make them understand.

They blinked. Francis stared impatiently, and then repeated himself louder (because that was the instinctive thing to do when someone didn't understand: speak louder).

After fifteen tedious minutes of gesturing and breaking simple sentences down by syllable, they understood each other. Francis said: "You can't stay in the cellar, Alfred. The only place I can put you is in the loft above the café. The only problem is, well... it's already being occupied."

Francis had been hoping to avoid revealing the identity of his other uninvited guest, but the loft was the only place the Germans didn't search. He led Arthur and Alfred upstairs, past the café's dining-room and into the scullery. He climbed onto a three-legged stool and pulled open a trapdoor on the ceiling, from which an old rope-ladder swung down. He climbed it, knocking on the floor above as he poked his head into the small loft. "Ivan?" he called, searching the dark. From the corner, a low grunt answered him. "This way," he said to the Anglophones below. They climbed up and Francis lit a lantern by the trapdoor. It was a low-ceilinged and under-furnished space. There was a bureau and a single-bed. The bed was piled with blankets, hiding the figure underneath; his features, not his size. The Russian was a big, tall, muscular man—even bigger than Alfred—who had a temperamental attitude and a distaste for French wine. The only mutual word that he and Francis spoke was vodka. "Hello, Ivan," Francis greeted, peering down at him. Ivan shifted away from the light.

"What do you want?" he grumbled in low-voiced Russian.

Francis ignored him. He faced Arthur and Alfred, and explained: "This is Ivan Braginsky,"—he pointed—"an NKVD agent who was stationed in Paris when the Germans invaded. He managed to escape capture, but was badly injured, shot in the stomach. When he reached the rendezvous point he found all of his comrades dead. I found him half-dead on my doorstep about a month ago and brought him here to recover. I didn't think he would last the night, to be honest, but he's very resilient. His condition is stable now, and as long as the Germans don't discover him here, I think he'll live. I'm sure that you two will, uh... get along just fine. Ivan?" he repeated, poking the Russian's blanketed shoulder. "Say hello to your new roommate, Alfred Jones."

Upon hearing his name, Alfred stepped forward. Ivan's face was half-covered, but his pale eyes stared at the American teenager, scrutinizing him from head to toe. Ivan looked weak. Dark shadows of fatigue circled his eyes and he was sickly-pale. He looked tired, but, as Francis had described, resilient.

Alfred said: "Hello."

Ivan exhaled and closed his eyes, uninterested.

"He doesn't speak English, or French, or anything except for Russian," Francis explained inconsequentially. "But I'm sure you'll be fine. Anyway," he gestured to the bureau, "there are blankets and pillows in the bottom drawer, so you can make yourself a bed on the floor, Alfred."

There was no way to misinterpret Francis' implication this time.

"I'm sleeping on the floor, aren't I?" Alfred asked Arthur regretfully. The Englishman nodded; Alfred sighed in resignation. "Well, at least it's not a foxhole. Or a cupboard."

TWO DAYS LATER

Francis was helping Alfred insulate his bed on the loft's floor when Yvette's voice called from the scullery. "Monsieur Bonnefoi, there is someone knocking at the backdoor. I don't recognize him, but he's a really cute young boy. He looks like a grocer, should I let him in?"

"No, I'll go!" said Francis, hurrying down the rope-ladder. It must be the Canadian pilot. He had completely forgotten that the second pilot was supposed to arrive that day. "Stay up there," he called to Arthur and Alfred, but—(intentionally) misunderstanding—they followed him.

The boy waiting anxiously on the doorstep was young and looked younger for nerves and malnourishment. He was wearing a hooded coat, but pulled it down when Francis invited him inside. It revealed pale-blonde curls that were frizzy from the rain. Beneath his coat he was discretely dressed as a grocer as planned. "Monsieur Bonnefoi?" he asked hopefully. Francis nodded. The boy sighed in relief and extended a cold, winter-white hand. In flawless French, he said: "I'm Matthew Williams of the RCAF, enchanté."

"Oh, you speak French! That's wonderful, chéri!" Overjoyed, Francis took the boy's shoulders and pulled him into a grateful embrace, kissing both his rosy cheeks in delight. Finally someone whom I can communicate with! Oh! What a lovely, polite boy, and his accent is almost native! "It's wonderful to meet you, Mathieu!"

"Stop that, you dodgy pervert," Arthur interrupted. He grabbed Francis' shoulder and pulled him off of the stunned Canadian pilot. "Don't touch my—I mean, Matthew. Alright, lad? You look fit, all things considered." His Lincoln-green eyes swept over the boy, searching him for signs of mistreatment. "Any news from the front?"

Before Matthew could reply, Alfred pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "Hey, Mattie! It's good to see you, I'm glad you're okay!"

"Yeah, me too. It's really good to see you, Al." Matthew held Alfred at arm's length, violet eyes surveying the American from head to toe, studying his disguise. (Alfred hadn't changed his clothes because he had nothing else to wear.) Suppressing laughter, Matthew asked: "What on earth are you wearing?"

Alfred dodged the question, muttering noncommittally in embarrassment as he released Matthew.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Thank God you're here, Matthew," he said gratefully. I should've sent for you first. I forgot that you speak Frog. Could you please explain the situation to this bloody wanker?" He gestured at Francis, who frowned in confusion. "I've got a headache from trying to talk to him."

Matthew nodded. "Yes sir, Captain. Excuse me, Monsieur Bonnefoi?"

"Francis, chéri. Please call me Francis," Francis smiled.

Matthew repeated Arthur's plan to Francis, detailing aspects that the Frenchman had only guessed. The boy was an apt translator. He was accommodating and receptive to Arthur's orders and Francis' questions. He was patient and soft-spoken. Compared to Alfred—his lively North American counterpart—the Canadian was shy. Finally, once all parties had been briefed on the mission and all complaints had been dealt with (crushed by Arthur's logic and self-entitlement), Alfred said:

"I'm glad you're here, Matt, but where are you going to sleep?" He glanced at Francis. "There's not enough room in the loft for three people. There's barely enough room for two," he added, begrudged by his new roommate. "Ask him if there's anywhere else I can sleep, too, my boys need space!" he said, grabbing his crotch in example.

"Alfred, don't be crude," Arthur chastised, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "You've already made a spectacle of yourself. Matthew, please ask the frog-eater where you can sleep. And ask him where I can set-up the radio. It needs to be somewhere above ground, preferably somewhere high. I wonder if we can use the loft?"

"Oh! And ask about food! Like, what's for supper tonight?" Alfred added. "I'm sick of onion soup."

"Mathieu, chéri," said Francis when Matthew had finished. He inhaled deeply, trying to suppress forty-eight hours of stress and frustration, but he failed. In a cloying tone full of false kindness, he said: "Please tell that arrogant English-dog that I run a café and not a fucking hotel. He can use the loft for his radio, but I won't take responsibility if the Germans find it, understand? I already have enough to worry about because of him. And please remind him that it wasn't my idea to smuggle airmen—no offense. I'm doing this for France, and if Arthur Kirkland has a problem with me, or the accommodations, or anything else in my café, then he's more than welcome to shove them right up his—"

"Mister Bonnefoi regrets that his café is underequipped to house boarders," Matthew mistranslated politely. "He, err... regrets the inconvenience and conveys his deepest apologies. He hopes that we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement for the sake of the cause. We all fight for the same side, after all. We're the Allies."

"Yes, I guess we are," Francis begrudgingly agreed when Matthew repeated the speech in French, but from Arthur's perspective. "But Alfred must understand that he cannot come downstairs unless the café is empty. If the Germans recognize him or try to talk to him then that'll be the end of us all. Since you haven't made a fool of yourself and speak fluent French, Mathieu, I'll pass you off as my young cousin from Nancy. You'll make a perfect Nancy boy." (Alfred snorted; Matthew frowned.) "You'll work as a waiter and sleep in the boudoir off my bedroom. I only ask that you don't disturb my girls," he added. "They often use that dressing-room for, err... private audiences with German soldiers. Don't worry, Yvette and Maria are true patriots. They'll hide you and Alfred if I tell them that you're working for the Résistance Française."

"Well, I'm not happy about it, but I suppose it's a compromise," said Arthur reluctantly. "But I don't like the idea of parading you in front of the Jerries, Matthew, or keeping Alfred locked-up with that Russian bloke. Bloody-hell, I just want this war to be over."

Francis nodded. "Can you be a waiter, chéri?"

"Well, I guess so." Matthew shrugged. "I'll do my best, Monsieur. I've only ever been a pilot, but... how hard could waiting tables be?"

Unexpectedly hard, as Matthew soon discovered. Especially for someone as shy and mild-mannered as he was, whose talents didn't include flirting (which is what the French wanted), or punctuality (which is what the Germans wanted). He found himself being talked about in both languages and, despite his time overseas, he wasn't desensitized to either culture's mannerisms. In trying to keep the patrons sated, he found himself wishing that he was back in the cockpit of his plane flying dangerous air-raid missions over enemy territory. At least he knew he could do that. He knew that he was good at that. But Francis dismissed his fears and insisted that he was doing fine as a waiter, despite his nerves. "It just adds to your coy charm, chéri," he said, patting Matthew's cheek; retying his apron strings. "Stop worrying, you'll draw unwanted attention to yourself. Look, there's Capitaine Beilschmidt and Feliciano now. Ludwig is a regular and rather amiable for a German officer. He's an easy customer," he explained, walking Matthew forward, handing him a notepad and pencil. "Don't be anxious, chéri. He orders the same thing every day, you'll be just fine—"

Francis stopped. A black-coated albino had walked in behind Ludwig and was surveying the café skeptically.

"Francis!" Matthew whispered, recognizing the Geheime Staatspolizei insignia. "That man's a member of the Gestapo! What should I do?"

"Just wait here. Make yourself look busy," he said, trading the notepad for a floral teacloth. Then he walked forward.

"Welcome, Monsieur Capitaine! You're very early today," he smiled, eyeing Ludwig's pale-faced comrade. He waited for an introduction, but received none. "Please make yourselves comfortable," he continued, feeling the bite of tension. "Can I get you something to drink?" He addressed the question to Feliciano, who always translated, however, it was the Gestapo officer who replied in halting French:

"Beer. And, err..." He snapped his fingers, searching for the French translation: "Sausage. Is this the owner, Herr Bonnefoi?" he asked Ludwig in German. "He looks very suspicious. Then again, he is a Frenchman." His wine-red eyes stared critically at Francis, scanning him from head-to-toe. Then he leant back and folded his arms in front of him in an intimidating fashion, showing his youth (twenty-five, or twenty-six—? It was hard to gauge by his looks), and grinning smugly, as if pleased by the café's reaction to his daunting presence. He seemed to enjoy toying with the respect—fear—that his position demanded.

Francis inclined his head. "I'm at your service, Monsieur. I'll get you a menu right away."

Hastily he returned to the bar, and said: "Mathieu, I think you'll be okay. Be polite and give him whatever he wants without delay. I don't need trouble with the fucking Gestapo, especially not now that I'm playing host to the Résistance Française. Oh! Mon Dieu!"

Out of habit, Matthew almost saluted, but he clumsily caught himself and nodded instead. "Yes, Monsieur."

GERMAN

Gilbert cracked his knuckles and grinned. He felt powerful, like a Kaiser upon his throne. "These French peasants fear us, Lud. And they should. We're winning the war, after all. Their future belongs to us," he said arrogantly. In example, he snapped his fingers for another round of beer and the waitress brought it immediately. He called for a jaunty piano medley and the pianist played. He yelled to the German soldiers, ordering them into compliance, and they all saluted and called back uproariously and without hesitance. Gilbert was the most powerful man in the café—in Nouvion—and he was enjoying it, lording his position over everyone who feared him. He could have absolutely anything he wanted; he could take absolutely anything he desired. Grinning in self-assuredness, he glanced up at the approaching waiter—

—and completely froze.

"Bonjour," said the violet-eyed boy in a soft, shy voice, delivering three laminated menus. He refilled each of the water glasses as Feliciano surveyed the specials. Ludwig didn't even bother opening his menu. And Gilbert... Well, the all-powerful Gestapo officer had completely forgotten how to speak. His brain wouldn't tell his mouth what to say, leaving him tongue-tied as he gaped at the waiter. He felt suddenly nervous, which was an entirely new sensation that he wasn't particularly fond of. When the boy looked at him, ready to take his order, his heart fluttered but no coherent words came out. It was embarrassing but went unnoticed. The boy—his nametag read Mathieu—must have assumed that Gilbert didn't speak French, which was untrue.

"Who was that?" Gilbert asked, watching Matthew's retreat.

"Hmm, I don't know. He's new," said Ludwig suspiciously. "I haven't seen him here before."

"He's, err... pretty good-looking for a boy. I mean, you know... he's got violet eyes, that's unusual."

Ludwig cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. The idea of angular, red-eyed Gilbert describing anyone else's looks as unusual was rather ironic. "Yes, he's attractive, I guess. But he's awfully pale—"

Ludwig stopped mid-sentence and glanced apologetically at Gilbert, but the elder Beilschmidt was distracted. Captivated was a better word. He followed Matthew's movements like a schoolboy spying on his crush, too nervous to speak to him face-to-face. Reading his brother's expression, Ludwig leaned forward and said: "Don't waste your time, brother. He's one of Bonnefoi's wait-staff, they'll fuck anyone for supplies. If he's anything like the waitresses, he'll sell himself cheap to anyone with a bit of cash. You could probably have him all night for a chocolate bar," he criticized.

Gilbert, however, perked-up in intrigue. "Oh, really?"

He watched Matthew, who was talking to Francis behind the bar. Then he glanced around the crowded café, counting the bodies in green uniforms. Enviously, he hated the thought of anyone else touching the boy, who looked so sweet and innocent. What a gorgeous smile. I wish he'd smile at me. Only me.

"It is odd," Ludwig mused, interrupting Gilbert's fantasy, "that Bonnefoi would hire a new waiter now, so late in the year. His supplies must be near empty." Except for what Ludwig provided him with, but he wouldn't tell Gilbert that. "Most of his other employees have fled the countryside. I wonder who that boy is to Bonnefoi that he would take him in so suddenly? Could he be a spy?"

"No!" Gilbert burst defensively. "Just look at him—(what an angel!)—he can't be a spy!" Noting the shock on both Ludwig and Feliciano's faces, he blushed. "I mean, uh, he's so young," he added, trying to be logical. "And he's anxious, he draws too much attention to himself. He'd make a horrible spy."

"Yes, perhaps you're right," Ludwig ceded. "But it's still suspicious. I should interrogate him—"

"No, no, I'll do it!" Gilbert knocked his chair back, standing up too fast. "I mean, that's my job. I'm Gestapo. You just sit here and enjoy your dinner, brother. I'll be right back. If he is a spy then I'll get the truth from him, don't worry."

That said, Gilbert stalked purposefully to the bar, feigning confidence and fingering the decadent chocolate bar in his cavernous overcoat pocket. He could feel his heartbeat pound as he approached Matthew, and his mouth went suddenly dry. He lost his voice momentarily, fighting nerves, but cleared his throat and finally managed to blurt:

FRENCH

From where you, Mathieu? I mean, err... Fuck, how do you say this in French?" The Gestapo officer shook his head in frustration, his pale lips working out a jumble of hushed sounds before he found the words he was looking for. "Where are you from? Mathieu, is it?"

Matthew blinked, taken aback by the sudden appearance of the red-eyed German. His words were comically accented, but his tone was firm and demanding. He wasn't a man used to being denied by those he considered a lower status. Frankly, his stark confidence made Matthew nervous. It made him feel like he was being interrogated.

"I'm from Nancy, Monsieur. My name is Mathieu Bonnefoi," he lied as planned, with only a slight tremble in his voice. "Francis is my cousin. I've been sent here to stay with him and to help with the café. It's been rather busy."

Now that the Germans have invaded French territory, he added silently—spitefully. If I was still flying, if I hadn't been shot-down, I'd still be fighting, doing what I've been trained to do. I'd be chasing off the Germans, not serving them!

Matthew was an ace fighter-pilot, after all. He had been trained at the finest flight academy in the Canadian West (financed by the RAF, of course). He had spent hundreds of hours on the ground and in the air learning how to operate advanced military equipment. He had been the top of his class, just as Alfred had been the top of his class at a flight academy in the American Midwest, which is why Arthur had handpicked the two of them to fly such dangerous missions. Alfred and Matthew had been trained to shoot Germans out of the sky—not to serve the Gestapo! Especially not such an intimidating officer as this one. The thing about being a pilot was, you never saw the men you shot down. Matthew had never been face-t0-face with his enemy before, except as a POW, which suddenly drudged-up fear and anxiety. Inadvertently, he eyed the Lugar holstered on the German's belt and swallowed the lump in his throat, while hiding his trembling hands in a teacloth.

If I do or say the wrong thing, he'll shoot me. Matthew hoped his panic didn't show on his face.

"Be polite and give him whatever he wants without delay," Francis had advised.

Okay, I can do that. I just have to act innocent and dodge his questions. I can do that. I have to. Otherwise I put the mission in jeopardy and risk getting us all shot: Al, Arthur, Francis—Oh, fuck.

Matthew took a deep breath and busied himself behind the bar. Deliberately, he avoided eye-contact with the Gestapo officer, which seemed to displease him. He rested his elbow on the countertop and leaned forward. Matthew tried to act normal, but his heartbeat pounded as he pushed a frothy mug of beer toward him.

"You're really Bonnefoi's cousin from Nancy?" the Gestapo asked stoically.

Matthew swallowed. Oh God, he knows that I'm lying! He's going to shoot me! "Yes, Monsieur."

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen, Monsieur."

"Oh. That's nice."

Suddenly, the German relaxed. It happened so abruptly that Matthew was left staring at him in confusion. In fact, if he had been better at reading people, he might have even noted that the Gestapo officer's face was tinged pink. His red-eyed gaze was downcast as he fumbled with something in his overcoat pocket, then glanced up and smiled at the perplexed boy. In secret, he produced a brick of milk-chocolate, which he exchanged for the beer, sliding it back across the countertop.

"Do you like chocolate?" he asked hopefully.

Matthew merely stared. He actually... believed me? He's not going to shoot me? His relief was so great that a timid chuckle bubbled-up past his lips, shaky and nervous. Chocolate? Is he serious? It had been a long time since the pilot had tasted anything akin to sweets. "Yes, of course I do," he replied, smiling despite himself. "I love chocolate."

The German smiled, too. "It's yours then," he said. And left.

ENGLISH

Whoa! Where did you get that, Mattie?" Alfred grabbed the chocolate brick from Matthew's hand and unwrapped the foil. Breaking off a generous piece, he shoved it into his mouth, moaning as he savoured its sweetness. "Mm, yes! Oh yes! I love chocolate!"

Matthew glanced at Ivan, who was watching Alfred curiously. "I got it from that Gestapo officer," he replied.

Alfred nearly choked. Arthur whipped around so fast, he bumped into the American. (The loft was so small!). "You what?" he snapped in horror. Matthew glanced between he and Alfred, who was staring at the foil-wrapped treat as if it was poisoned. Arthur scrutinized Matthew. "That Jerry just gave you a brick of chocolate for nothing? He didn't ask you for anything, or suggest anything, err... improper? He didn't want to take you anywhere?"

Matthew shrugged, misunderstanding the insinuation. "No. He just asked a few questions about my 'relation' to Francis and then gave me the chocolate before leaving. That's all, really."

Satisfied that he hadn't ingested cyanide, Alfred took the brick from Arthur and bit off another piece. "Well, that was really generous of him," he said, unconcerned. He offered the brick back to Matthew, who took a piece. "You must be a really great waiter, Mattie."

Arthur was about to protest—to warn both boys against the Gestapo's generosity—when Francis' head poked up through the trapdoor.

"Here, take this," he said, handing Arthur a thin paperback book as he crawled inside. The loft, not intended for five people, forced Matthew up against the wall, Arthur and Francis to stand chest-to-chest, and Alfred to fall onto the single bed with Ivan. ("Uh, sorry," he mumbled in apology. The Russian only grunted and shifted to accommodate Alfred's weight.)

"Oh good, it's the code-book for the radio," said Arthur, inspecting the book. "Cracking stuff, frog-eater. Now I can finally contact the bloody French headquarters to tell them that the boys have arrived and ask about the forger. Help me set-up the radio. Where is it?" he asked, trying to dance around Francis. "Oh, uh—Excuse me, could I please just—Could you move over a tad—Oh, so sorry, Matthew! That was an accident. It's a bit tight in here, you know, and I really need to—Ouch!" Trying to escape Francis' touch, he banged his head on the slanted ceiling. "Ah! Bugger me! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Alfred!" he snapped angrily. "Get the bloody radio, would you?"

Awkwardly, Alfred leaned across Ivan's lap and reached for the cubby beneath the headboard. He pulled out a big field radio with a tall antenna and receiver. "Oh, sorry!" he gasped, accidentally hitting Ivan with it. The Russian clenched his teeth in pain and clutched his stomach, glowering at his roommate.

Matthew rescued the radio and set it atop the bureau. He flipped on the switch and lifted the handset. It took a few seconds of crackling dead-air before a fuzzy voice sounded through the speaker, which Alfred held overhead. In heavily accented English, it said:

"'Allo. 'Allo! Can you 'ear me? Ready to receive your message. Over."

Arthur took the receiver. "This is, err... Nighthawk," he said, reading from the code-book that Francis held. "The, uh, chicks have hatched—?" ("Are we supposed to be the chicks?" Alfred whispered to Matthew, who shrugged.) "When will the pussycat arrive? Over."

"Ze pussycat will arrive on Sunday. Over."

"Which day of the week is Sunday in the code-book?" Arthur asked Francis, flipping a page. "Oh, it's Sunday. You know, that's really not very secure."

"We should change it to confuse the enemy," Alfred suggested. "Like, Monday can be Friday; Tuesday can be Saturday; Wednesday can be Sunday; Thursday can be Monday; Friday can be Tuesday; Saturday can be Wednesday; and Sunday can be Frabjous Day!"

Arthur, Francis, Matthew, and Ivan stared silently at him for a moment. Then they all simultaneously said:

"No."

"Non."

"Nyet."

"Over and out," Arthur finished the transmission. He handed the radio and code-book back to Matthew, who handed it back to Alfred, who stashed it back in the cubby behind Ivan. As Matthew translated the correspondence to Francis, Arthur rubbed his severely bruised head.

"The forger will arrive tomorrow then. Where the hell," he glanced around the crowded loft, "is he going to work? If the Jerries catch him here then he'll be shot. Maybe he can work in the boudoir? But he'll need a believable disguise, otherwise the Jerries will get suspicious of us and we'll all be shot! Oh, bother."

FRENCH

SUNDAY

I've received a message from the French Resistance," Arthur whispered, pulling Francis and Matthew into the pantry. "When the forger arrives—the pussycat" (he rolled his eyes)—"he'll order a cognac and ask you for a light. You'll tell him that you have no matches and then he'll reveal himself." He waited for Matthew to translate. "He should be here any time now so go and wait at the bar." He pushed Francis. "Oh, bollocks! That bloody Gestapo officer is back!"

"Mathieu, you go distract him," said Francis, rearranging the boy's pale locks artfully. "He seems to like you. Or, he doesn't growl at you, at least. Go on, don't be shy!"

"No, wait—!" Arthur bit his fist, unable to act as Matthew left.

Francis frowned at the Englishman before taking a position behind the bar. He pretended to converse with Maria as he watched the café door for the forger. Ludwig's regular table was situated beside the front window. He and Feliciano sat snuggly together facing Francis, while Gilbert sat with his back to the bar. Matthew had gotten better at playing waiter since Gilbert's arrival. Despite the boy's dangerous position, he seemed to relax under the Gestapo's indulgent smile. It was deceptively kind-looking and Francis didn't trust it. It worried him, since he felt responsible for both pilots. He didn't like the idea of the Germans getting too close to either boy. Francis was indiscreetly glaring, narrowed-eyed, at the captain's table when, suddenly, the door opened. It revealed a slight, long-haired Chinaman, whose dark, almond-shaped eyes quickly scrutinized the café. When he spotted Francis, he headed deliberately in that direction, but not before Feliciano, who reached the bar first.

"Ciao, Signore Bonnefoi. Do you have a match? Signore Beilschmidt"—he pointed to Gilbert—"needs a light for his cigarette."

Francis inhaled sharply. Oh, fuck! I can't refuse a direct request from the Gestapo! "Uh, of course," he said accommodatingly, producing a matchbook from a drawer. He shoved it quickly at Feliciano while keeping an eye on the Chinaman, who had just ordered a cognac. Go, please go! Francis begged the Italian, but Feliciano hadn't yet left when the Chinaman said:

"Do you have a match?" He eyed Francis intently, conveying a secret. He held an unlit cigarette between two delicate, ink-stained fingers.

Francis glanced anxiously from he to the Italian, and hesitantly said: "Err... no, I don't."

Feliciano blinked. "Sì, you do. You just gave me a matchbook, Signore Bonnefoi. Don't you remember it?" he asked kindly, concerned for Francis' well-being. "Do you need a light?" he asked the bewildered Chinaman. "Here." Before Francis or the Chinaman could refuse, Feliciano struck a match and lit the Chinaman's cigarette with a friendly smile. "Enjoy yourself, friend. Ciao!"

Francis sighed. To the Chinaman, he said: "Are you the, uh... pussycat?" The Chinaman stared awkwardly at Francis, which embarrassed him. "Uh, I mean... Oh, for God's sake! Are you the forger?"

"Ach—! Be quiet, fool!" the Chinaman shushed him. "Is there somewhere private we can talk? It's Bonnefoi, right?" Francis escorted the Chinaman—dragged him by his skinny forearm—into the pantry where Arthur was pacing frantically. There, he introduced himself: "My name is Wang Yao," as he shook the English and Frenchman's hands. "I have been recruited by the Résistance Française to forge travel papers for Allied soldiers. You're expecting me, yes?"

His accent was thick and a bit choppy, but his multi-linguistic skills were very practised. He spoke in French, then repeated himself in English.

"Yes, yes, thank-you," said Arthur, pumping the forger's hand gratefully. Yao extricated himself with barely concealed disdain. Too relieved, the Englishman seemed not to notice. "We've been anxiously awaiting your arrival. I'm afraid that it's a matter of the utmost urgency, Yao—May I call you Yao?" he asked. It was difficult to gauge the Chinaman's age: his face was unlined and effeminately attractive, but it was agelessness, not youth. His pretty brown eyes looked archaic. Francis wondered how many secrets lived behind those dark, intelligent pools. "When can you begin work?" Arthur asked impatiently. "The sooner the lads can leave the better. They're not safe here," he added, as if any of them were.

"I can start immediately," Yao told Francis. He held a heavy black suitcase. "Just show me where to set-up."

"The boudoir." Francis guided him, pointing. "But before you do, Monsieur Wang, I need you to put on these clothes." He collected a basket from the cupboard and handed it to Yao. The Chinaman looked quickly inside and then frowned, as if he thought they were having a laugh. "Pardon, but it's the only disguise we could think of on such short-notice," Francis admitted. "It'll hide you from the Germans, which is very important. I can't have you walking around the café looking suspicious, you understand. You must appear to have a purpose here."

"And my purpose," said Yao unhappily, "is to pretend to be a small girl?"

Francis shrugged. "I'll tell them that you're my niece—adopted," he added, noting their difference in looks. "The Germans will never suspect that the young girl in my café is actually a fugitive aiding the Résistance. Please—?"

Oh my God! This was such a stupid idea! he thought, blaming Alfred. Helplessly, he glanced at Arthur, who was smiling uneasily in an attempt to soothe Yao's scowl. He tried to argue in the way of logic, but failed and ended up looking as embarrassed by the disguise as Francis.

Yao sighed in defeat. "Fine, I'll do it. But if you're going to disguise me as a teenager then why do I have to be a small girl? Why can I not be a small boy instead?"

"Well," said Francis simply, "because you are a small boy."

GERMAN

I'm disappointed, brother," Gilbert sighed. Habitually he cracked his knuckles, his elbows resting on the tabletop in an ungentlemanly fashion. "I had hoped to have the portrait in my possession by now. I'm eager to return to Berlin. You're sure that your search parties have found nothing?"

"No, nothing at all. It's the strangest thing, isn't it, brother? It's almost as if the portrait simply... vanished." Ludwig took a long swig of dark beer and feigned nonchalance. He exchanged a glance with Feliciano, who flittered nearby. The Italian boy tugged at an errant curl and gnawed at his lower lip nervously, which momentarily distracted Ludwig. (My God, he's cute. Weird, but so cute.)

"I guess I have no choice then," said Gilbert, regaining Ludwig's undivided attention. "I've heard disturbing rumours lately that some of our German officers have been stealing priceless artifacts from the French, hording items to sell after the war. It's shameful, don't you think?" Ludwig nodded in agreement. "But if it's true, then I'm sure to uncover the portrait thief. I'll start with your office at Headquarters, Ludwig. That way it won't look like I'm playing favourites," Gilbert decided. "Don't tell the other officers that they're under suspicion though. I want to take them by surprise so they won't have time to hide anything incriminating. When we return to Headquarters this afternoon, I'll start the... the, uh... the investigation..."

Gilbert's words faded as the young, violet-eyed waiter approached, swallowed by incoherent, single-minded thoughts. Ludwig rolled his eyes. Could you be any less discrete, brother? he thought in embarrassment. "Close your mouth," he advised.

Gilbert obeyed without tearing his eyes off of the young Frenchman. He stared keenly at the waiter as the boy collected the trio's empty plates and beer mugs. He looked stern and dissatisfied, but Ludwig knew otherwise. Gilbert was head-over-heels infatuated with the shy waiter, whom Ludwig consistently forgot about. He was an attractive boy, certainly, but not very memorable. He had a knack for making himself invisible. Ludwig kept forgetting his name and had to subtly glance at his nametag every time he served them, or simply resort to calling him: "Hey, you!" Mathieu, that was his name, and as far as Ludwig was concerned he was out-of-sight, out-of-mind. His mind, at least. Not out of Gilbert's mind. Gilbert's mind seemed to make room for the boy whenever he got close, pushing everything else (including the ability to speak) heedlessly aside. It was shameful. (And a little bit creepy.)

"Stop that," Ludwig whispered. "I'm embarrassed for you, Gil. Are you even listening to me?" He sighed. It's like he has blinders on. He doesn't notice anything when he's with Mathieu... Suddenly, a thought struck Ludwig; one that might save his thieving self from German justice. "Gilbert? Gilbert!" he snapped, shaking his brother's shoulder.

Gilbert blinked, tearing his eyes off Matthew's quick retreat. "Huh? What?"

"You know, I think that waiter really likes you," Ludwig lied fluidly. "You should invite him out. I'm sure he'd be impressed if you did. And wouldn't it be nice to, err... spend some time relaxing? You could get to know him better on a personal level. Somewhere that you could be alone with him. I mean, you're right, he's really attractive."

"Really? Do you really think so?" Gilbert asked eagerly. "Do you think he would accept if I asked him out?"

"Yes, of course he would," Ludwig encouraged. "You're the most powerful officer in town, after all, how could he refuse? I know that he has a break after dinner. You should definitely ask him—now—before someone else does," he added, knowing how possessive Gilbert could be.

It worked. Gilbert's wine-red gaze narrowed. "Yeah, you're right. I should do it now. I'm awesome, after all."

"Yes, of course you are," Ludwig agreed. He elbowed Feliciano, who smiled and nodded vigorously. "Mathieu will be flattered."

Ludwig watched Gilbert's blushing face set in eager determination as he stood and followed Matthew to the bar. He waited until the two were engaged in conversation and Gilbert's attention completely focused on the waiter before he said to Feliciano: "Quick, go get the portrait from my office and bring it here, but don't let anyone see you!" He feared for Feliciano and his classic unreliability (he has such a short attention span!), but he didn't have anyone else whom he trusted with his secret. Please be safe! he begged as the Italian scurried off. A pornographic portrait—priceless or not—was not worth the cost of Feliciano's life.

I really hope this works. Because if it didn't, then he, Feliciano, and the café's entire staff would all be shot.

ENGLISH

Whoa! How are you getting this?" Alfred gasped, admiring the bricks of chocolate that Matthew handed to him. "You must be an amazing waiter, Mattie! This is an awesome tip!"

"I guess so." Matthew shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know why he would keep giving me chocolate otherwise. But now he's asked me to go out with him this afternoon, Al, and I... I really don't know why. Do you think I'm being taken in for interrogation? What if he takes me to the German headquarters? If he discovers my true identity, then I'll be executed!"

"Hey, calm down," Alfred soothed, glancing quickly at sleeping Ivan. "It's alright, Mattie. That's probably not going to happen to you. It's probably nothing. I mean, most likely. Maybe he just enjoys your company—?" he offered. Matthew frowned in unlikelihood. Alfred discarded the thought. "Maybe you should tell Artie, he'll know what to do."

"But if I am suspected by the Gestapo, my being here puts the whole operation at risk," Matthew insisted.

"Yeah, uh... that's true." Alfred awkwardly massaged the back of his neck, staring thoughtfully at the floor. "I don't know, Mattie, but you definitely shouldn't go out with him. I mean, he's fucking Gestapo. Can't you just fake sick or something?"

"No, not if he suspects me," said Matthew, covering his face in defeat. "That's as good as a confession. Oh my God. I'm dead, aren't I?"

Alfred placed a tentative hand on Matthew's shoulder and squeezed it fraternally. "No, of course not. It'll be okay. I'm sorry, Matt," he admitted when Matthew peeked up in disbelief, "I don't know what else to tell you. But, you know, that red-eyed Kraut really seems to like you. Maybe it really is just a precaution. Maybe it won't be that bad—?"

"Yeah," Matthew said hopelessly, "and maybe the war will be over by Christmas."

FRENCH

Slow down, Feliciano! You want me to do what?" Francis asked in astonishment.

Feliciano spoke quickly and waved his arms about as he translated for Ludwig. "Capitano Beilschmidt needs you to hide this portrait for him for a while so that his brother of the Gestapo doesn't find it. You'll do it," he frowned, his high-pitched voice deepening in threat, "or else Capitano Beilschmidt will report that you have German military supplies—butter, sugar, kerosene, etc.—in your storage, Signore Bonnefoi."

"But you gave me those supplies!" Francis argued fervently.

"Yes, but it's my word against yours," said Ludwig smugly.

"It's his word against yours," Feliciano rephrased.

"But—but—but you can't do that! If the Gestapo finds the portrait in my possession, I'll be shot!"

"Better him than me," said Ludwig.

"Better you than him," said Feliciano.

"If you don't agree to hide the portrait"—Ludwig placed the heavy, gilded frame in Francis' arms—"it won't be the Gestapo who shoots you. I'll do it myself, understand?"

"Well, it's hard to argue with that, Capitaine," Francis grumbled, shifting the frame's weight. "Fine, I'll do it."

Francis grudgingly lugged the portrait down into the cellar and placed it on a tabletop while he searched for a place to store it. He was rummaging in the cold fireplace when Arthur descended the steps and noticed the packaged portrait. He said something that sounded like a question. He sounded urgent and confused—though Francis thought he always sounded a bit confused. (Pft, Englishman.) Arthur disliked being left uninformed, that much was clear, but, preoccupied, Francis chose to ignore him. He couldn't understand the Englishman's words anyway. He continued to prepare a hiding place for the portrait when he suddenly heard the crackle of brown-paper.

"Wait! What are you doing?" he panicked, waving in denial as Arthur unwrapped the portrait. "No, don't!"

"What is this?" Arthur asked, eyeing it in perplexity. His green eyes regarded Francis curiously. "Why do you have something like this, frog-eater?"

Francis hurried to Arthur side, intending to rewrap the priceless Italian artwork, but stopped when he saw it. The figure was flushed, stark-naked, and writhing in blissful climax. Francis blinked, surprised by the erotic subject, and wondering who had posed for it, but more surprised that Ludwig would have such a thing in his possession. At least it was skillfully painted. "That's, err... interesting," he said. He exchanged a skeptical glance with Arthur, whose freckled brow was furrowed.

"Why do you have this?" he repeated.

Before Francis could speak in self-defense—Arthur was staring in accusation—Matthew descended the steps.

"Captain Kirkland?" he asked. There was a note of urgency in his tone. "I have to talk to you about—What is that?" He paused and pointed at the portrait.

"Nothing! It's absolutely nothing!" said Arthur, blushing. He threw himself in front of the portrait to block it from Matthew's view as Francis hurriedly covered it. "What is it you need, pet?"

Matthew explained his predicament to Arthur and Francis, who took turns frowning and interrupting as the boy went back-and-forth in translation.

"I don't like it," said Francis. "I wouldn't trust the Gestapo for all of the wine in France. Gilbert Beilschmidt is secret-police, he's been trained to hunt down enemies like a dog. If he's not planning to interrogate you, then why else would he take you out, Mathieu? If I didn't know better, I'd think that he wanted to—" Francis stopped suddenly. He looked at young Matthew, who stared back through big, long-lashed violet eyes. The boy had lost weight as a POW in Germany, but the colour had since returned to his cheeks and his eyes sparkled. He really is beautiful. The Canadian was tall and lean with soft skin as white and flawless as untouched snow. Despite the war, he still maintained the shy innocence of youth, and possessed the sort of kindness that was preyed upon by others. Alfred, too, had a personality flavoured by untouched innocence, ignorant of malicious intent. He believed himself invincible because he had never faced a truly helpless situation before; the fearlessness—and blue-eyed, sunshine beauty—of youth. They might be ace pilots, Francis thought, but they're both still naive about the world; about sexual advances. They're both young and beautiful and so, so stupid. And I'm not the only one who's noticed. Suddenly, he felt fiercely overprotective of the teenagers. "Mathieu," he started diplomatically, "I really don't want—"

"No. I forbid you to go," said Arthur sternly. "You're not going anywhere alone with that Gestapo officer."

"But if I don't go, he'll be suspicious—"

"Never-mind, Matthew. Francis will tell the Jerry that you're much too busy to leave work. If he doesn't press the matter, then you're safe. (From interrogation, at least," he muttered unhappily). "If he does insist that you go with him, well... then you'll have to leave Le Fleur-de-lis. It's the only way to protect you and the mission. But hopefully it won't come to that. The forger is here now. As soon as the documents are ready then you and Alfred will leave together as planned."

"Yes," Francis agreed, nodding. "But you don't want to give the Gestapo the wrong idea either. That could be just as dangerous. It might be better if you let Yvette and Maria serve the Germans from now on. I'll find you work in the kitchen, chéri. You'll be safe from the Gestapo's eyes in there."

Francis relaxed as Matthew left. "Thank-you, Monsieur. Captain," he saluted, grateful to both.

Francis was about to return to the fireplace, preparing it to hide the portrait, when Arthur said:

"Thank-you."

It took Francis off-guard. The Englishman's voice was soft and—genuine, even! Francis looked at him.

"Thank-you for everything you've done for them," he said, nodded upstairs to indicate the pilots. "I'm really grateful for everything you've helped with. I know it hasn't been easy. I know that we've endangered you and your café, but it means a lot to me that those two lads get home safe. And I, well... I appreciate your help. I couldn't do it without you, frog—I mean, Francis."

"I'm sorry," said Francis kindly. He cocked his ash-blonde head and smiled, feeling unexpectedly tender toward the insufferable Englishman. "I don't understand what you're saying."

Arthur sighed, revealing a tired half-smile. "You don't have the faintest idea of what I'm saying, do you?"

"You can keep talking if you want," Francis said (he might have, maybe, liked the sound of the Englishman's voice—when he wasn't yelling or cursing), "but I still can't understand you, chéri."

Arthur stared helplessly at him, then rolled his eyes. "Oh, never-mind then. I'll just help you hide this gaudy thing, shall I?"

They un-bricked part of the fireplace and lined it with tea-towels to protect the portrait from damage. It was still lying open on the tabletop. A minute later and it would have been safely hidden, however, it was at that moment, just as Francis was re-wrapping it, that he heard Maria's frantic voice from the kitchen:

"Oh! No, Monsieur! Customers are not permitted to enter the cellar, please wait—"

"Don't tell me what to do, Fräulein. I'm the Gestapo, I can do whatever the fuck I want. And what I want is to speak to Herr Bonnefoi right now!"

"Oh, shit!" Francis panicked. The cellar door opened and Gilbert's perfectly oiled black boots stomped down the warped steps, his toes already in view. Oh, shit! What do I do? He looked from the half-covered portrait to Arthur, who had paled in realization. They made eye-contact for a second and then Francis acted. In desperation, he grabbed the front of Arthur's shirt and pulled him into a wet, clumsy French kiss just as Gilbert entered the cellar. Francis felt Arthur tense in reflex, but he refused to release him. He held him as if they were lovers. When he heard Gilbert's gasp of shock, he dropped a hand to Arthur's lower-back and leaned further down, supporting his weight as he pushed him down. He slipped his other hand beneath the Englishman's shirt hem and sucked his slick tongue wantonly as if he didn't know the German was watching; it tasted like bitter-sweet wine. He moaned throatily in—not entirely—feigned pleasure.

"Ah! Fuck, I-I'm sorry!" said Gilbert's shocked voice, retreating quickly upstairs. The door slammed behind him and it was over in less than fifteen-seconds.

Francis quickly released Arthur, who stumbled back gasping, trying to catch his balance and his breath. He grabbed the tabletop, wide-eyed in disbelief. Francis fully expected to get punched for the stolen kiss, but he didn't. Absently, Arthur touched his fingers to his lips, which were parted. He was breathing hard, nervous. So am I, Francis realized as he blatantly stared back. He had initiated the kiss to distract Gilbert from the portrait, of course, but he hadn't expected to feel anything akin to arousal kissing Arthur. He hadn't expected to enjoy it so much, but he had. He could feel a warm, familiar tension budding in his nether regions; a heated feeling that spread throughout his whole body. He fought the urge to grab the Englishman again. Uh oh, that's not good, he thought, feeling a specific part of his anatomy waken in arousal. Why now? Why him? he wondered, staring at Arthur, who had somehow become more attractive in the past week. He didn't look this striking when I first met him, did he? But now—? Francis let his eyes ravish the young Englishman. He was rather slight-figured, with delicate, freckled features and rich Celtic colouring. He looked flexible, yet durable. Fierce. The fairness of his skin made his eyes look intensely green. They pierced the Frenchman like a storm-tossed sea and Francis swallowed hard, trying not to get swept away by sudden desire.

"Why—?" Arthur asked, then stopped. He knew why, of course. Blushing fiercely, he cleared his throat. "That was, err... unexpected."

"Pardon!" Francis stuttered in defense, but Arthur said:

"No, no, it's okay! I mean, it wasn't bad exactly. That is... It was kind of... exciting."

"You're not angry with me?" Francis guessed, reading Arthur's tone; his scarlet face. Cautiously he stepped closer, reducing the distance between them. Arthur's eyes strayed from Francis' blue-eyed gaze to his velvety lips and lingered there. Absently, he licked his own. Brazenly, Francis cupped Arthur's cheek and angled the Englishman's face gently upward. "Maybe we should try that again without the Gestapo watching, yes?"

Arthur placed his hands tentatively on Francis' shoulders and leaned closer. They may not have understood each other's words, but the intent of each man's action was crystal-clear.

Softly, Arthur said: "Yes."