1926; London, England
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Children are so very rare amongst their kind that each new arrival is greeted with both excitement and wonder.
A steady procession of nations has arrived at their house over the past year - most of whom Scotland has not seen in decades otherwise - wanting their chance to gawp at Northern Ireland, but England has turned each and every one of them away at the door.
And if he had bothered to stir himself to answer this knock, Scotland assumes his answer would have been the same.
"We're not receiving visitors," he thus tells France. "England's orders."
"And you've always been so ready and willing to obey him," France says with a smile.
It's a tremulous thing, that smile: lop-sided and wavering. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are as dull and shadowed as they ever were during the Great War. He's just as thin as he was then, too; his face cadaverously hollow and pale excepting two spots of livid colour sitting high on his cheekbones. His hands are trembling, ever so slightly. Despite the relative mildness of the day, he must be freezing, with no spare flesh to help keep him warm.
"I do try not to make a habit of it," Scotland says, throwing the door open wide. "Come in; have a cup of tea, at least. Best keep as quiet as you can, though. There'll be hell to pay if England hears you."
"I don't think there would," France says, stepping confidently into the hallway, "seeing as though he asked me to be here."
"He did?" Scotland asks, incredulous. England has been guarding Northern Ireland against the world so zealously that not even Portugal has been allowed past their threshold of late.
Nevertheless, France nods. "I was expecting him to greet me." He glances at his wristwatch. "Though I suppose I am a little early. Is he caught up elsewhere?"
"He's..." Scotland hasn't the first clue where England is. He's been conspicuous by his absence all morning. "I'm sure he won't be long, if he knows you're due."
Scotland still can't quite credit it, but France nods acquiescently again. "I'll wait, then. And take you up on that offer of tea, if I may."
Scotland wishes he'd never made it, for all that it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, confronted suddenly by a forlorn and shivering France on his doorstep. He doesn't much relish the prospect of sitting down with him alone.
After that one moment of weakness he'd been allowed to witness in the dugout - when France begged him to wash his wounds - France had drawn further away from Scotland than ever before. On the rare occasions France had had no choice but to address him directly, he was Écosse once more. At all other times, France had gone out of his way to avoid meeting his eyes, never mind including him in conversation, or, god forbid, so much as acknowledging his presence, even when they were standing shoulder to shoulder, enemies in their sights and guns raised.
It seems strange, then, that he would volunteer to pass time with Scotland now, that he would smile and joke with him instead of simply demanding to see England, which would perhaps be his right as England's invited guest.
This is Scotland's home, too, though, for all England treats him like a parasitical and unwelcome lodger in it, and it could be that France feels he has to force himself to play civil, in deference to that fact.
Or maybe he's simply so cold that he's willing to tolerate any manner of unpleasantness in pursuit of a warming drink.
"I'll put the kettle on," Scotland says, if only because he can think of no good reason to refuse to do so. In England's absence, France has become his guest for the time being, and he prides himself on his ability to be a decent host, whatever the circumstances. "Why don't you go through and wait in the living room?"
It's the perfect excuse for France to avoid his company for a little while longer, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he follows Scotland into the kitchen; keeping pace with him even though the stiff, halting measure of his steps suggests that he has not regained the strength in his muscles or suppleness in his joints that they had possessed before the war.
Close to, Scotland can smell that the stink of the trenches lingers on him. The dirt, and the smoke, and, most strongly, the decay. It makes him wonder if the wounds that France had so reluctantly revealed to him have turned rotten. He doubts they've been tended to as carefully as they should have been.
He doesn't ask after them, though. He doubts France would answer him, either way.
When they reach the kitchen, France seats himself at the table and stares blankly at nothing whilst Scotland bustles about, preparing their tea.
France has always turned his nose up at the stuff before, even when it was the only small comfort to be found in the trenches, so Scotland has no idea how he likes to take it. He leaves France's cup plain, but sets out the milk jug and sugar bowl so he can doctor it to suit his preferences.
France looks at both, and then beseechingly up at Scotland. "Do you have any lemon?" he asks.
Even if they do, Scotland has no idea where it might be kept. The kitchen is England's domain, for the most part. "I'm afraid not," he says.
France sighs, then stirs four spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. It's clearly no substitute for lemon, because he grimaces after taking an experimental sip of it. "I have no idea how you can drink this by the gallon," he says, placing the cup back down on the table. He keeps his hands wrapped around it, though, presumably grateful for its meagre warmth even if he can't stomach the taste. "It's so bitter."
Scotland can't imagine how lemon would be able to remedy that. "And that's why you add milk," he says, pushing the jug a little closer to France. "You should try it."
France wrinkles his nose. "I have," he says. "It didn't help."
Still, he drinks a few more mouthfuls, and his tentative smile slowly returns. "You look well, Écosse," he observes over the rim of his cup.
Scotland had resigned himself to never receiving compliments France many centuries ago, and even this paltry example of one completely flummoxes him. It takes him a shamefully long time to realise that a suitable answer to it would be: "Thank you." Returning the favour is probably the polite thing to do, but so blatantly untruthful that he fears that France would think he was mocking him if he did. Instead, he asks, "And how are you?"
"I'm well. I'm..." France takes a deep breath in, then chuckles weakly. "Lying, obviously." He pats his narrow chest with one bony hand, his eyes darting away from Scotland and then back again, gaze finally settling somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. "As you can no doubt see, I'm not exactly in peak condition.
"I can't eat enough to put any weight back on; I just don't have the appetite for it. And though I'm always exhausted, I can't sleep."
No matter how obvious that might be, Scotland couldn't have anticipated that France would deliberately draw attention to his impoverished appearance, or make such a bald admission of his own fragility. Especially not to him.
They've never shared confidences, even in better years, and nowadays they might as well be strangers.
It could be that that very estrangement has encouraged France to speak plain, though. He might feel as though he's simply pouring out his troubles to some distant acquaintance he's chanced to meet, and one he'll never have to engage with again if he does not wish to. A handy listening ear.
It's so far from how Scotland wishes France saw him as to be fucking risible, but probably the best he can hope for at this point in what passes for their relationship, in any case. As such, he's happy enough to oblige. "Nightmares?" he asks sympathetically.
His own nights have always been plagued by them, but they've been more vivid than ever before since he returned from the front.
"Every time I close my eyes," France admits. "Sometimes, gas has filled our trench again, and the earth's caving in on our heads. Others, I'm—"
"Scotland!" England screeches as he storms through the open kitchen door. "Scotland, have you heard any..." He stutters into silence when he notices France, and then stares at him in gape-mouthed fatuousness for a moment before turning to glare at Scotland. "Why didn't you come and tell me France had arrived?"
"Because I didn't know where the fuck you were," Scotland says; perfectly reasonably, he would have thought, but England scowls at him in response all the same.
"I was busy," he snaps, and though he neglects to explain himself further, it's clear as day - to Scotland, at least - precisely what 'busy' had entailed.
His face has the raw and florid appearance of the recently scrubbed, and his hair, which is as unruly as Scotland's own, has been weighted down into compliant submission by a great deal more pomade than he would normally use. He's wearing his best suit, the trousers creased to knife-edge perfection, and his shoes are gleaming.
He's been primping himself; an activity he usually undertakes only when Portugal or India come calling.
It's a disquieting sight, but not half so off-putting as France's reaction to it. He flows to his feet with all of his old, easy fluidity, a wide grin beaming from his face, and says, "England."
Scotland's heart twinges painfully hard. He'd known his brother and France had set aside some measure of their old animosity during the war, grown a little closer, but he never would have guessed they were close enough for that.
Thankfully, England seems no more kindly disposed towards letting France kiss him in greeting than he ever has been, however; squirming away before France can land even the briefest of pecks on one of his cheeks. They might have warmed up to one another, but it must only be by the smallest fraction of a degree.
"Well," England says, shuffling around until France's line of attack is safely blocked by the width of the table, "I wasn't expecting you to arrive so soon. You're never usually on time for anything."
"I can be," France says, "given the right sort of inducement."
England squints at him suspiciously, but France's expression is completely guileless as far as Scotland is able to tell.
"And you're desperate to meet North just like every other bloody nation on earth, apparently," England says at length, clearly persuaded of the same. "Come on, then."
He beckons for France to follow him, but France hesitates momentarily, glancing back over his shoulder to say, "Thank you for the tea, Écosse."
"No problem," Scotland says, "I'm..."
England bustles France away whilst he's still speaking, leaving Scotland with to voice the remainder of the sentiment to the empty room.
He feels faintly ridiculous, but carries on regardless, just to experience the small sense of satisfaction of having said it aloud: "Glad we had the chance to talk."