A/N: As usual, thank you to everyone for supporting me with this. Special thanks to my Francis/Darksstars for continuously irritating me to continue. XD
Also, because I'm a derp, I forgot to put this in present tense and had to go back and correct it, so if anyone spots anything I've missed, please let me know!
- Gil.
So much for England having better weather than him, France thinks with a smirk as he looks at the left of the weather report.
When he is still covered in black clouds the next day, France is a bit more worried. However, he doesn't do anything until the fourth day, by which point the floods are making European headlines. His slow, relaxed Sunday morning is ruined as he switches the news on and sees that the tidal barriers on the Thames have failed and London has flooded. Ironically (and thankfully) the rain finally stops within hours of them breaking.
Still, one grey ride on an army helicopter full of handsome men and women that he is too worried to enjoy later, France is in London.
He lets himself into England's house with the key that the other Nation still hasn't moved, and runs up the stairs to his bedroom.
"Angleterre?" No reply, and he isn't in his room either. France checks the bathroom, the study, the living room and the kitchen; he even opens the door to that ridiculous cellar of England's, but there is no light at the bottom of the stairs, so he assumes he isn't lurking down there.
Frowning to himself, France leans against the kitchen counter to think, and then draws his mobile out of his pocket. He hits redial, but England still doesn't pick up. Sighing, France closes the phone again, leans back, and tries to think. If he was a stuffy, old fashioned, flooded Nation, where would he be?
He almost forgets to lock the door as he leaves, but returns to do it, slipping the key back into place before he sets off up the road at a jog. The Underground is out of action, of course, and the streets are rather empty in Shepard's Bush, which has mercifully avoided the worst of the floods. There seems to be less traffic than normal on the roads, and he doesn't see a taxi on his way to the bus stop.
The bus is crowded, full of worried people whispering quietly amongst themselves. It has to stop half way along its route because the roads are impassable past that point, and France gets off the bus with a large group of displaced Londoners. Looking around, bemused, France tries to work out where he is, but struggles. Eventually he decides to follow the emergency services, a slow but steady stream heading towards the river.
England is dressed in his usual dress trousers and shirt, both ruined by the muddy water, helping an injured man climb out of his house in water up to their ankles. France wades over, wrinkling his nose at the filthy water, but not saying anything.
Before England can complain about his presence, France takes the young man's other arm, and between the two of them they manage to safely get him to the waiting ambulance at the water's edge.
"We need extra hands to help build a sandbag wall on the bank." England says, turning to France.
The older Nation nods, putting his hand on England arm and squeezing lightly. "Show me where."
Together, the two Nations work as they have done many times before. Maintaining silence, they are able to do it without arguing or complaining; handing sandbags one after another along a chain of hands until the sun sets and it is too dark to see. Then France leads a soaking, shivering England to a school hall where tea is being served, sits him down at a table and fetches a tea and a coffee. The ambulance service comes round, wrapping foil blankets over both of their shoulders, for which they give quiet thanks, pulling them tighter around their tired bodies. When France leans against England's shoulder, he lets him, and together they both sip slowly at their drinks.
As they sit there, the man they had helped earlier limps over, and a little gingerly slips onto the other side of the bench. "All right, gents. Thanks a lot for earlier." Both of the Nation's lips quirk a little at the heavy cockney accent, England because he enjoys the familiar accent, and France because it is so stereotypical.
England nods his head as a response, but France smiles. "That's not a problem. I'm just glad that you're…" He trails off because of the foul look he is being given by the man, and France looks at England in surprise. Has he said something wrong? But England looks just as surprised as him.
"Are you French as well?" The man asks, jabbing a finger towards England with a sneer on his face.
Neither of them can hold back a chuckle at that, and England quickly shakes his head. "Obviously not."
"So I was helped by a frog and a toff?"
"Do you have a problem with that?" England leans forward over the table a little, frowning at the man.
The man snorts, standing up again. "You should feel ashamed of yourself, hanging around with a Frenchie."
France thinks that England will leave it at that, but to his surprise, England rises as well, his blanket slivering off to the floor. "Wait just a moment. This Frenchie helped save your bloody life! And he's not the only one either! A load of them came over to help today, and I hope they didn't all get greeted the same way you've just greeted Francis."
"We don't need their help! This is our country—"
"Our bloody country is six foot under water, and I don't give a damn about your issues about what happened over a hundred years ago when you weren't around to experience it! There's only one person allowed to take the piss out of Francis, and that's me."
For a moment there is silence, not just between the three of them, but in quite a large area around them. England realises how loud he's being and blushes (rather cutely France thought), but doesn't back off.
The man is silent, obviously startled by the outburst and not sure how to respond. "You just want to give our country to the Europeans!"
"No, I'm just happy to accept their help when we need it, just as I'd offer my help if any of them were in difficulty." France puts his hand on England's arm, not wanting the argument to get too heated, and worried that England is having difficulty not mentioning something that he shouldn't. England looks back at him, and frowns. "Whatever, anyway. If you don't appreciate it, perhaps we should take down the sandbags that the French army helped us put up around your house, or take off that nice dressing and put you back where we found you in your house."
Either that, or the stares from around the room are enough to finally make the man back down. He grits his teeth, and starts to storm off as best he could with his bad leg, but England stops him. "Apologise."
The man looks like he was about to scream again, but then spots the dangerous glint in England's eye and backs down. Without looking at France, he mutters a sullen, childish apology, and then limps off before anything else can be said.
As England sits back down, France wraps the foil blanket back over his shoulders. "You didn't need to do that, mon cher." He murmurs.
England sniffs. "He irritated me. Besides, like I said, I'm the only one allowed to point out what a frog bastard you are!"