Title: Independent Means
Fandom: Hetalia: the New World alternate history project- same universe as Terra Nuova (America loses the revolutionary war, there are two new nations, California and Louisiana).
Characters/Pairings: France/Louisiana OC, mentions of FrUK
Time Period: 1820s
Rating: R. Seriously.
Word Count: 2,400
Summary: France returns to the New World for the first time in nearly fifty years.
Warnings: het, rather dangerous bondage, racist terms, mentions of domestic violence, sort-of incest (somewhere between England/America and Canada/France level of incest.) Goodness, this may be the kinkiest thing I've ever written. That's rather sad.
Notes: I actually started writing this first; nevertheless, I think of it as a remix of The Crescent City. Although I suppose I am being quite pretentious now, pimping out my own fic, but the thematic similarities really did strike me quite strongly.
Other: The themesong for this fic (and France/Louisiana in general) is The Bones of You by Elbow.
The moment France steps from the steamboat's ramp on to the dark, silty soil of the Mississippi delta, he wonders why in God's name he has been away for so long. A moment later he remembers; but that does not stop the sheer powerful exhilaration he feels, to walk on virgin land, the vast potentiality of a continent stretching out before him. It is wonderful as it has always been; but things are not all the same. New Orleans has changed, and it gives him a sharp stabbing pain in his chest, to see how much his new Paris has grown. A wild assortment of architecture decorates the river bank, ramshackle shanties cozening up to stately turn-of-the-century residences and run-down Regency mansions. The river is dotted with a small fleet of various boats, and snatches of conversation ring out across the water, a strange exotic dialect of French with occasional Spanish slang thrown in. Alongside the river, the docks are filled with hurrying people, loading and unloading the titanic steamboats that bring goods from South America or Europe or even as far away as Japan. It is nowhere near the size and beauty of Paris, of course, but it is alive and growing, vibrant in a way that even the City of Light has never achieved. There is a sense of progress in the humid air. France loosens his neckcloth and breathes in, long and deep.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" a voice like dark velvet asks teasingly. France turns sharply, pivoting on one boot, and sees- oh.
"Sacrebleu," France breathes. Oh, she has grown up.
He steps back. Holds out his arms. "My, let me look at you." He looks. Begins with the shoes- high-heeled boots, laced to the knee, hold her high above the mud- the dress- green silk, hooped skirt embroidered with light green thread- the jewelry- that same silver cross he gave her a hundred and fifty years ago, now hung on a fine silver chain- jade earrings- silver rings- her face, her fine, sharp, wicked eyes, her full and sensual lips, her skin the color of black Colombian coffee. "My Louisiane," he says, savoring the phrase, "you have become a lady."
"You sound so surprised," she deadpans in her drawling accented French. "Why, it's only been fifty years since you last saw me." Though her words are light and teasing, there is a faint undertone of bitterness.
France sighs theatrically, drops his waiting arms to kiss her hand. "I am so sorry for leaving you desolate," he murmurs into her fingers, and is rewarded with a snort of laughter.
"Come," she says, hooking her arm around his, "let me show you what this desolate lady has done in your absence." She is as tall as he, in those boots, but still the long feather in her hatband tickles his nose. He shifts his cane to his other hand and tries to be gallant. It was easy enough, once.
The city is almost unrecognizable. She keeps up a running commentary as they pass through the broad streets. "There was a fire, twenty years after you left," she says easily. "It was on Good Friday. Eight hundred and fifty-six buildings were destroyed utterly, which was a great deal in those days. We rebuilt in the Spanish style, bricks and iron balconies and courtyards, things like that. That's when we built our St. Louis Cathedral," and she points, with one elegantly gloved hand, across the streets, and indeed France can see tall spires beyond those tiled roofs, and a great clock, marking out the passing of the hours.
"I wish I could have seen it built," he murmurs.
She glances at him quickly, then away. "I wish so as well," she replies, her voice still carefully casual.
He looks at her, but cannot see past her curved smile. She is a mystery to him. Try as he might, he finds it difficult to see the little girl he raised in this poised stranger. He doesn't let this worry him overmuch. He has time, after all.
"How many live here?" he asks.
"About a hundred thousand," she replies. "I know, I know, it is a very sad showing in comparison to your capital of a million souls; but it is growing rapidly, and, after all, we do not lack in room for expansion. One day, perhaps, this city will be the capital of a land many times larger than all of France," and she laughs, to tell him that it is a joke.
"A hundred thousand," he marvels. "Mon dieu, it must be the largest city in the New World."
"Mexico City is, I believe, somewhat larger," she says with a note of amusement.
"Well then, largest city in North America," he compromises, and smiles at her.
They order beignets in a cafe that is almost sophisticated, and as the waiter bows to his companion and shows her the menu something strikes him quite forcefully.
"What do they see, when they look at you?" he asks her once the man has gone.
"You mean, do they see a Negress, or a European lady?" she clarifies wryly.
"Well, to put it in coarse terms," he admits.
She tells him, "They see what they want to see."
"So I am the only one here who may gaze upon your true face." The thought excites him.
She looks at him almost pityingly. "Yes, of course."
They drink their coffee in silence for a moment, each looking at the other curiously. France begins to notice the little things. The crook of her hand as it curves around her coffee cup. The wisps of her hair escaping its numerous pins. She looks at him with equally frank appraisal, then asks, "How long will you be here?"
"I... don't know," France admits. "I had not really planned so far."
"Will you be visiting Canada?" Her fingernails tap against her mug. "He's had a rough time of it, you know."
"Maybe," France allows, feeling discomforted. "If I can. I was intending to look in on the Indies, and perhaps Guiana."
"It would be nice if you at least said hello to him," she says. "Well, as long as you're here I shall be your gracious host. I'm afraid there's only one opera house in town, and we'll have to amuse ourselves until it opens."
"I am sure I will survive," he chuckles, dividing his beignet into ever-tinier pieces with his fingers.
.
.
When they finally reach the top of the stairs and the key clicks in the lock France only spares a second to take in the decour of Louisiana's room as he is thrown roughly against a plaster wall. It's enough to see that she is everything he would have expected from a child of his. The bed is a vast four-poster, opulently draped, and every conceivable surface of the room is covered with expensive fabric of some sort or another, with perfume bottles and jewelry sharing tastefully recessed shelves. One wall is entirely covered with paintings, and he thinks he recognizes the Champs-Élysées in one, and he feels peculiarly heartwarmed. But indeed he does not have very long to reflect on this most of his attention is focused on the difficult task of undoing the expensive buttons on his jacket before Louisiana rips them off.
At last he seems to succeed, and he only hears a few threads rip as he quickly divests himself of his undershirt and breeches. Louisiana seems to have progressed no further than her tarlatan overskirt and silk-fringed bodice. He moves to assist her, but is instead forcibly pushed down onto the bed. This is not an unpleasing development, and so he consents to lie there as she rips a long strip out of her cotton underskirt. After a moment he grows bored and reaches for her. She irritably pushes away his grabbing hands and meaningfully indicates the posters of the bed, a question in her eyes. It takes him a moment to comprehend her meaning and then he quickly gives his consent, though he's a bit surprised. He hasn't done this in- oh, a very long while- and he supposes it will at least be interesting. Her hands start with his left wrist and her mouth starts with the side of his neck. This is not disagreeable at all.
He feels the last strip pull tight around his ankle just as her lips reach his thigh. "Oh, God," he moans, pleading. "Please, please-"
But she stops. Pulls away. Wipes her mouth with the sheets and sits there looking at him, a strange triumphant smirk inching across her face. France tries to sit up, to grab her and push her back down onto him, but of course he can't move. "Why..." he mumbles. Louisiana stands, moves away from the bed. She picks up his embroidered jacket, from where it was flung over the chair, and regards it.
The realization hits, much too late. He twists his wrists against the cloth. Nothing. He is strung up nicely, like a chicken ready to be plucked. He looks up into her glittering eyes. "Why?" he asks.
Louisiana laughs, a disbelieving laugh full of scorn and hatred. "Oh, I didn't want to think you'd say that," she mutters. "Why? How long of a list would you like?"
Sweat trickles down his forehead, prickling and uncomfortable. He tries to wipe it away before he remembers he can't move his arms. "I don't understand this! Are you angry because I was gone for so long?"
"In part," Louisiana confirms absentmindedly. Is she- she's going through his clothing, isn't she, presumably for loose change. Unbelievable, this ungratefulness. "I think it has rather more to do with the manner of your leaving. You ran away." As an afterthought, she adds, "You filthy coward."
"I didn't-"
She kicks him. He hisses, drawing breath sharply. That actually really hurt. "Shut up," she tells him conversationally. "You left. After you saw what he did to America, you left."
"In case you didn't hear," France snaps, trying not to scream, "I did declare war on him."
"No, actually, you didn't. He declared war on you, after Jefferson brought your government down. You couldn't even do that for yourself-"
"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" France yells. "Fine, I admit it, I was afraid! I'd never seen him like that before! I just- needed some time to think!"
Louisiana freezes. Then she drops his jacket and swings around to face him. "He blinded your son."
There is nothing France can say to that, nothing Louisiana would want to hear right now. He can't even properly explain it to himself, what he felt at that moment, when he saw the look in those mad green eyes, the creature he loved so desperately transformed into a thing he didn't even recognize. The little voice in the back of France's head, chanting this is not happening, this is not happening, not happening, no...
He knew he should not have returned to New Orleans.
"What do you want from me?"
"What makes you think I want anything from you?"
He indicates his immobile state with a twist of his head. "You didn't need to tie me up just to yell at me."
"You're right," and suddenly there is something sharp and glinting in her hands. France laughs nervously. He feels terribly exposed. There are few times France has regretted being naked, and this is one of them.
"Here is what is going to happen," she whispers, and she whispers it in his ear. France is astonished to find his body still reacting to her proximity. The knife is kissing his exposed throat, and he forces himself to be still. "You are going to grant my Parliament full governance. You are going to withdraw all your military. I'll have special trading rights and privileges, all of which I have written up in an agreement for you to sign, and everyone will pretend like I'm still a part of your precious Federation but we'll both know the truth, will we not?"
"You would leave me with nothing?" he whispers, very much conscious of the naked metal inches away from his jugular. He is so very afraid. He hates it, this helpless feeling.
She laughs again, an even harsher sound than before. "Far more than nothing, and you know it. It's the colonies you enslaved to feed your addictions and depravity that had nothing, and it's America who has nothing now, and you're too afraid to even look at him. Bastard." She drives the handle of the knife into his neck. He coughs, gasps, struggles to draw breath, wheezes. "But I refuse to be one of your beloved 'children' any longer."
"I never knew I'd raised such a vicious little bitch," he hisses, and he's sure she hears the hint of admiration he cannot entirely suppress.
"It's entirely thanks to you, Papa," she replies sweetly, and produces a pen and a depressingly long document. France glares at her, and she shrugs and unties his right hand, knife dancing up and down his chest as he signs, waveringly but accurately, damn her soul.
"Very good," she says, and smiles, and then she stuffs a handkerchief into his face and he tries not to breathe in, but it's too late, he's falling.
France wakes up in the bilgewater of a flatbottom barge somewhere in the middle of the Mississippi. He supposes it was considerate of her to not simply dump him on the bottom of the river. His wrists hurt, and he supposes before long he'll be thrown overboard as a stowaway. All he can see around him is flat fields and a gray sky. The lurid madness of New Orleans is gone, like a mirage or a hallucination, but he can still feel cold metal biting into the neck, can still see cold black eyes locked with his. He chafes his wrists and shivers. This new world has become something he no longer understands.
.
fin