The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.

This fic is a quasi-sequel to Mindful.
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23rd February, 1797; Fishguard, Wales

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Lord Cawdor hadn't had France lashed to a barrel out of any fear that he might escape, but to give him support enough to sit upright and face his confinement with some measure of dignity.

He's stewed, just like the rest of his so-called invasionary force, the acrid stench of pilfered wine oozing out of his pores. It doubtless hadn't taken much to leave him in such a sorry state, because he's scrawny, as he always is when there's upheaval at home; little better than a skeleton wrapped in waxen, pallid skin and swimming inside his looted British uniform.

It has been inexpertly dyed black, and bright splotches of its original red are still visible around the button holes and across the shoulders. In better times, France would have refused to wear such a shabby garment, just as he would have fought to his dying breath to prevent the butchery that has been perpetrated on his hair.

It's cropped short – hacked, more like – and the scalp beneath is corpse-pale, criss-crossed with shallow cuts where a careless hand had cut too close with the shears. His ears seem prominent now, slightly oversized and protruding at an awkwardly wide angle.

Scotland has always been too distracted by the gilded lustre of his hair to notice that about him before. More than likely, it is the reason that France has otherwise worn it long throughout all the many centuries Scotland has known him.

Shorn of its defences, and robbed of what little softness good health lent to his sharp features, his face is almost that of a stranger's, and Scotland endeavours to look at him in that same light. If they had just been introduced, would he find any beauty in his sunken cheeks and glassy eyes?

Or would he be repelled by him: this jumble of bones in his ill-fitting clothes, reeking like a taproom?

He knows what his answer should be, but he still finds that he's drawn towards France anyway, just as he has ever been.

Scotland retreats to the back of the cellar and resolves to ignore France henceforth, driven as much by his need to defy England's expectations than the desire to spare himself any fresh heartbreak of the sort France has been all too ready to dole out in recent years. His brother had been reluctant to assign Scotland this guard duty when he left the Royal Oak to strategise with Lord Cawdor, citing his fear that France would seduce Scotland into allowing him to escape.

Whilst there's no chance of that, come what may, there remains the distinct possibility that France will make an attempt at it, which Scotland definitely wants to avoid if he can.

He sits down on a crate, facing the wall with his back to France, and counts the drops of water he can hear dripping down into some puddle concealed behind the massed ranks of piled barrels.

He gets up to one hundred and twenty-three before France asks, "Why are you ignoring me, Écosse?"

He sounds querulous and peevish; even more so when Scotland doesn't give him an answer and he adds, "I though we parted on good terms when last we met?"

They'd fucked, the last time they met, and France had called it a mistake brought about by nothing more than sentimentality. Still, the time before that, France had slit Scotland's throat and left him choking on his own blood facedown in the mud, so it was somewhat of an improvement, wretched though it had left Scotland feeling at the time.

Admitting as much will only encourage France to try and engage with him further, though, so Scotland says nothing and just listens to France curse: first at him, for his silence, then his commander, for dragging him into this farce of an invasion, and then his bonds, which he insists have been tied far too tightly.

Scotland is inclined to dismiss this last complaint along with the rest, but there is a pained note in France's voice that doesn't sound feigned.

He sighs, and gets to his feet. "I'll take a look at them," he says.

To his dismay, France's wrists are bloodless beneath his restraints, and his hands are purpling, fingers likely long-since gone numb. He tries to untie them, but the rope has swollen in the damp of the cellar and the knots are impenetrable.

"I'm going to have to cut these," Scotland says, unsheathing the knife hung from his belt. "Don't try anything."

"What would I try, Écosse?" France asks. "When have I ever been able to best you in hand-to-hand combat?"

No more than he has ever emerged the victor when they've crossed swords, but still Scotland keeps a tight grip on his knife as he hacks away at the rope binding France's feet, his chest, and finally his hands.

France curls his fingers down, splays them out again, then lurches to his feet and makes a sudden, lunging grab for Scotland. Not for his knife or his throat, as Scotland had been anticipating and prepared himself to counter, but instead for his face, which he brackets between his palms.

What follows isn't quite a kiss, though their mouths do meet. France's lips are lax and slightly parted, and for a moment he simply pants as though winded, his hot breath is sharp with souring wine.

Scotland's revulsion is instinctual, and strong enough that he almost gives into that natural impulse and shoves France away, but then France says, "Écosse," in a horribly, fantastically familiar pitch and timbre.

He doesn't need to hear the question that will inevitably follow any more than France needs to hear his answer. They're always the same, after all.

Acting on an instinct that is far stronger and centuries-old, Scotland's hands drop to the buttons at the front of France's trousers. France grasps hold of his hips in return, his lips curling into a smile.

Normally, Scotland would have been able to divest France of trousers and drawers both between one heartbeat and the next, but France had clearly taken a dip in the Irish Sea at some point during the invasion, because the canvas of his trousers is stiff and crusted with salt.

France endures his fumbling attempts to undo them for a while, but his patience soon runs out, and he pushes Scotland's hands aside, snarling, "I'll do it."

He certainly tries, though with no greater success than Scotland. And it's no wonder, for all that he's normally far more adept at such delicate tasks than Scotland, because he's swaying on his feet and shivers keep wracking his body. His hands are fucking trembling, and Scotland doesn't know whether it's due to the lingering effects of alcohol or the cellar's chill, but his heart turns over in his chest to see it.

"Please," he says, reaching out for France again, "let me help you."

France's head snaps up, and when his eyes meet Scotland's, they are icy. He had looked at Scotland in exactly the same way on a battlefield near Tournai, just before he took a knife to Scotland's throat. Just as he did then, Scotland can't see anything other than hatred in his gaze.

So, when France lunges for him again, Scotland expects it's with the intention of trying to throttle the life out of him. But his hands don't go for Scotland's throat again, nor does his mouth descend in some poor semblance of a kiss. Instead his forehead lands heavy against Scotland's shoulder, and he drapes his arms around Scotland's waist, pulling him into a loose embrace.

Then he starts to run the tips of his fingers, very gently, in small circles across the small of Scotland's back.

He hasn't done anything of the like for an age, since they were practically children, but Scotland still remembers what it means. He scarcely believes it, but isn't about to question this silent request for tenderness and risk pushing his luck.

He slowly runs a hand up the narrow arch of France's back, along the tense line of shoulders, to the column of his newly-bared neck. There's a hard ridging of scar tissue there, which is also new, and Scotland follows it with his fingers, circling the entire circumference of France's neck.

"What happened here?" he asks idly, not really expecting France to answer.

He might as well have not done, because his, "I was reborn," is cryptic enough to be entirely useless.

"How?" Scotland asks, and then, "What?"

France's back bows a little further. "In the same way my country was. The Ancien Régime had to die so…"

His breath hitches, and he can't seem to bring himself to continue, but the rest of his sentence resolves itself in Scotland's mind with horrible clarity, all the same. "They sent you to the guillotine," he says dully. They'd heard rumours of such a thing, Scotland and his brothers, but dismissed them as being ridiculous. "Jesus Christ, France. How could they? Your own people? You should have let me know. I would have found some way to come over there and—"

"What could you have done?" France asks, his voice muffled and thick with tears. "As you said, it was my people's doing, and they wanted me to die so I could be born anew in the Republic."

He's likely right, but still Scotland doesn't like to think of it. "There must have been—"

Above their heads, the pub's door slams shut, and the faint sound of England's voice drifts down through the floorboards. France stiffens in Scotland's arms, and, desperately, Scotland holds him tighter, tells him, "Don't worry, I shouldn't think he'll be coming down here any time soon."

But France is already pulling away, drawing himself upright. His eyes are damp and red-rimmed, but blank. It is, Scotland supposes, better than the hatred that had been their earlier, though not by any great degree.

"I'll go up and talk to him," France says, futilely trying to straighten the lapels of his ragged coat. "I suppose he wants to trade me back to my people."

Wales had indeed been sent to secure safe passage for France back to the Continent, and Scotland thinks it more sensible for France to await his return. England is seething over this invasion – shambolic though it might have been – and liable to take his frustrations out on France in the absence of their brother's usual peacekeeping efforts. "Aye, but, France—"

France sweeps past, ignoring Scotland as fully as if he had never spoken, which he is apt to do more often than not these days.

He will no doubt have forgotten this entire interlude ever happened by the time he reaches the top of the stairs. For the sake of his own heart, Scotland will have to try his best to do the same.
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Historical Notes:
- 1797: During the War of the First Coalition, Revolutionary France staged a military invasion of Great Britain. The attack was meant to be three-pronged, with two forces landing in Britain as a diversionary tactic, whilst the third, and largest, force landed in Ireland. Poor weather and outbreaks of mutiny halted the progress of the forces headed to Newcastle and Ireland, and they turned back to France. The last landed at 2 am on the 22nd of February in Fishguard, Pembrokeshire.

That force consisted of 600 regular soldiers, and 800 irregulars, made up of Republicans, prisoners, deserters, and convicts. Discipline broke down after the convicts discovered that the locals of Fishguard had a supply of wine, scavenged from a Portuguese ship that had been wrecked on the nearby coast, and they too mutinied and many simply disappeared.

On the evening of the 23rd February, two French officers arrived at the Royal Oak, where Lord Cawdor, commander of the British forces, had made his headquarters, to negotiate surrender.

Lord Cawdor received surrender from Colonel Tate on Goodwick Sands on the 24th of February.