A/N: This is supposed to represent the French Resistance.
Um... Sorry for any OOC-ness. I very breifly considered characterizing Germany as a total bastard, but decided not to.
Germany was rarely unsure of himself. He had always considered himself in the right when he did anything, and made sure that others understood him. Usually, other nations were just as direct and courteous. But France… France was a mystery. A living, breathing enigma sitting across the table with a glare on his face and his hair messy.
"I hate you," France said flatly. "And I never invited you to take me."
"But you did invite me to lunch…" Germany said, trying to figure out the expression on the other man's face.
"I need to level things with you," France replied. "Starting with the fact that I will not be your bitch. You may have conquered me, but I will not be your bitch."
"You didn't seem to object to it last night… And you were always inviting people to come to your country…"
France began to cut his meat furiously, his face growing red. "That does not mean that I want you coming in and… seizing my damn vital regions!"
"My orders were to take you over. You made it so easy…"
"I am not easy!" France shouted, tossing his knife aside and breathing heavily.
Germany was now highly uneasy, worried that France might hurt himself or break down crying. "Your leaders were very weak, France. And as for taking you…" he shrugged and looked down at his own beef, cutting it slowly, "I don't think I heard you say no."
"I said now, you nasty kraut bastard. I just didn't say no in your language."
Again, Germany shrugged and began to eat, saying politely, unsure how to calm France, "Well… It honestly didn't look too much like you were bothered by my, um…"
"Your intrusion of my most sacred areas?" France snapped, "Your conquering of me without permission? If I didn't seem bothered, it was only because you weren't looking at my face."
Germany chewed his food slowly, ashamed to look up at France. What would Italy do when he found out what had happened? Hopefully, he wouldn't understand. Maybe France wouldn't speak of this. Maybe he would simply keep the details of his defeat to the tanks rolling in on Paris, to the bombs. Perhaps, if Germany was lucky, the term 'total conquest' and 'taken' would not spark realizations in the heads of the other Nations.
France kept glaring, his anger not so easily soothed. Yes. At one point in time he had rather liked Germany. There was something about the other man's shoulders and seriousness that were incredibly attractive. But now… Now he could find nothing in Germany worth admiring or being attracted to. Yes, Germany was loyal to an extreme, but he was loyal to a madman boss who had given the order: "Take France, next."
And France hadn't even put up a fight. He had just let himself be screwed at gunpoint, let himself, and thus his country, and fall into Germany's hands. It was shameful. Truly shameful. He had to strike back somehow, but…
The fork in his hand gleamed. Yes. Perfect. He wasn't going to kill Germany just… make him suffer a bit. Quietly, making sure that Germany was involved in cutting his food, France stood up and walked to the side of Germany's chair, keeping the fork behind his back.
"You know," France said quietly, forcing his voice to remain silky, as though he was going to beg to be conquered again. "I think, maybe, that you're correct. Maybe I did enjoy it a little bit."
Germany breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. But please don't tell anyone. Especially not Italy. You understand, don't you?"
"Oh, of course…" France cooed, running his hand through Germany's hair and smiling. "I understand that what we have is special."
"Special?" Germany's mind could not begin to comprehend what was happening. France had spent the entire day telling him how much he hated him, and now… Now he was going to be seduced? What? "What do you mean?"
"Come now," France said, grinning slightly, moving his hand down to the top of Germany's shirt and skillfully unbuttoning the top button. "Don't tell me you haven't always had your eye on me…"
"France…" Germany tried to stand up and back away, but France put a hand on his shoulder and held him in place. "I don't understand you."
France licked his lips and tenderly kissed the side of Germany's face. "Good," he whispered. "That's my intention. It's harder to fight an enemy you don't understand, isn't it?"
"But… You aren't acting like my enemy," Germany stammered, crossing his legs nervously, trying to push the thoughts of the act out of his head.
"Not yet," France purred. "Just give me a minute."
With that, he quickly brought the fork into plain view and took aim at Germany's eye. Germany managed to move, but the fork lodged itself deeply into his cheek. He let out a howl, more of surprise than pain, and fell back, the chair toppling and the wind knocked out of him. By the time he had pulled the fork out, the left side of his face was soaked in blood, his head was aching, and France was long gone, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Germany pulled himself to his feet and grabbed one of the napkins off the table, pressing it to the four deep puncture wounds. His mind slowly wrapped around the events and it came to him then that France was not an enemy he did not understand.
France was going to be a difficult opponent, yes, but not an incomprehensible one. If war was to be waged this way, let it be so. Germany would just have to prepare himself for France's sneak attacks.
"Germany!" Japan was standing in the doorway, his eyes full of concern. "What happened here? A guard called me from training to talk to you. He said France was being very suspicious. Are you injured?"
"Not severely. Thank you. Where is Italy?"
"Still sick."
Germany nodded. "I'm glad, for once. Tell him, when he wakes up, that I have been injured, but it only means we must train harder. And do not let him tell you that he cannot fight without pasta. We are in a real war, now."
Japan nodded sharply, saluting. "Yes."
"Thank you, Japan. You don't have to stay… I'm going to clean up this mess."
"If you're sure." Japan turned and left calmly, casting one last look over his shoulder. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened between France and Germany, but he would never ask. It could be humiliating.
With a deep sigh, Germany put the napkin down and stared at the blood. He resolved not to wash it, and instead, would keep it in the draw with the map of France. A reminder of his enemy's strength, and of Germany's moment of weakness.
He decided that from now on, if he got the order to conquer a Nation, he would do it via military, and save himself the trouble afterwards.