England ran through the rain, newspaper over his head, as he tried to read the soggy directions in his hand. Hopelessly, he sighed and looked up at the Eiffel Tower in front of him. He needed to find this address; otherwise he wouldn't be running around downtown Paris in the pouring rain, at ten o'clock at night.

In despair, he jogged to the nearest apartment, and knocked, hoping that whoever was in would be kind enough to let him in and dry off for a moment and get his bearings, before he was off again to find the hotel for the world meeting tomorrow.

As he stood in the pouring rain, waiting for someone to open the door, he realized that they might not be home, and therefore not answering, so he turned away in defeat and was about to walk away, when the door opened.

And standing in front of him in deep blue jeans pooling around his ankles, not bothering to button his black dress shirt, was none other than France. England blushed bright red. This was actually the one person he had been hoping to avoid. He turned back to France.

"How do I get here" he said, not bothering to say hello.

France blinked. He looked sleepy, as if he had been taking a nap.
"Zat vas so rude, Angleterre" he scolded, and then looked at the rain behind England, frowning. "Mon Dieux! You are all wet! You must have brought this weather. Come in and dry off." And with that he turned and walked back in the house, not looking behind him.

England hesitated. He really didn't want to spend a night with France,, but even he wasn't too proud to see that he would just be lost in the cold and wet streets all night. So he groaned in defeat and walked in.

As he was removing his shoes, he felt a towel wrap itself around his shoulders, and looked up in surprise to see France silently drying his hair off.

"What are you doing" He asked awkwardly, blushing again.

"Vat does it look like?" France asked amusedly, not pausing in what he was doing. England just stood there and let him. He was too tired to resist, and it felt good.

Finally, France was finished, and he pulled the towel away from England's hair, and peeled off his coat.

"You want some clothes?" He asked. Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed a long shirt from a closet England hadn't known existed and began taking England's own shirt off.

"Stop!" England started, trying to push France's hands off of him. France just sighed and smacked England's hands away, succeeding in removing the shirt.

"Merdre!" he grunted, frustrated, "just hold still, I'm in no mood for this. Just let me help you!" England stood numbly in shock as France continued undressing and dressing him, as if he were a child again. France hadn't been this nice to him in years.

Eventually, he felt France's hands still and he looked down, realizing that he was in France's nightshirt.

"Sorry for being a bother" he mumbled softly.

"Oui, well, I suppose zat zis is ze only time I vill be hearing this," France said matter of factly. He sighed and grabbed England's hand gently. "But you can sleep on the bed. I'll sleep on the couch" he pulled England gently up the stairs.

England yawned, already halfway asleep by the time they made it up to the room.

"But I can't" he mumbled sleepily. "'ts your bed"

France sighed patiently, pushing him down and forcing the blankets over him. "You can and I will. Go to sleep, Angleterre." France said, beginning to walk out of the room.

"Wait!" England half yelled from the bed.

"What now?" France asked impatiently.

"I'm cold," England whined. France stared at him for a good minute, and then let a small smile grace his lips as he moved back to the bed.

"I suppose," he yawned, for he was tired too, and got into the bed, moving closer to the already half asleep Brit, "zat I vill just 'ave to keep you warm"

As the Brit fell asleep, he wasn't quite sure, but among the covers and the warmth and the perfume, he almost thought he heard something come from the Frenchman's mouth. Of course, it was just his imagination. Because France would never have said that.

"Mon Amour."