Good morning, good afternoon or whatever time you will read this.
It might be one of my first english written fanfiction at all, so bear with my poor english.
I also might write it more french-sided, since I am a France rp'er and know way more about France than of Scotland.

Pairing: Scotland x France

Rating: T

Genre: Historical.
As I imagine how it all went down. I might miss events, but that's a minor loss in my opinion.

Disclaimer: France and Scotland belong to Europe, Francis Bonnefoy belongs to Himaruya and Alasdair Iain Angus McKirkland (Scotland, and I gave him this name) belongs to a user in pixiv.

_

"Have you seen? There is nothing to worry about.", Arthur said and smiled as he stood in the door of the bureau he had welcomed the French kingdom.
"Oui. Have you told him I was here?"
"No. He would have been fed up and not leaving if I had so. I know him. Now shall we go?", the Englishman bowed a little and offered Francis to step through the door first – which the Frenchman also did. Francis was still very unsure, yet he knew that he would do anything to save his husband. It was a test to show the worth of this Alliance. But why was Norway never really involved? He was also an alliance partner but never cared about the other two. In fact he had held northern islands from Scotland for a long time as if they were full blown enemies still. Norway would never help one of the other partners.

"Your house is beautiful.", Francis said with a slim voice as they made their way through the front lawn. The older nation could have sworn to see little dancing lights in the house much like fireflies. But as they entered, they were gone. The house was pitch-black inside. The curtains weren't drawn but being it night, there was hardly any source of light strong enough to illuminate the rooms from the outside. It gave the scene an eerie touch. England slammed the door shut and pressed the slightly taller man firmly onto the door, just to catch his lips. The kiss was fierce and Francis tasted the scent of roses and citrus fruits – possibly from something the Englishman had downed some time ago. Tea wasn't popular in England yet.
"I am grateful to have the honour of having you here this evening.", Arthur said with a sweet voice the other man had never heard before. Not even when Arthur had been a child and wanted something. Besides that the younger one never wanted anything really so much that he would beg.

"How about we just pretend being married for the time being? You'll be the wife and I'm your caring husband."
"For a wife I'd have to know where your kitchen is, at least. Don't you think so?", Francis retorted. Seriously, he would play along but not as much as eating the garbage England produced from good ingredients.
"Aww. I had hoped you'd treat me with your food once again. I have been waiting for it so long…This way.", England walked through the rooms and showed him around.
"Then I at least know why I am here."
"You're free to go wherever you like – but you have to remain in these walls within these 24 hours."
"And what if your house catchs fire?"
"You'll have to remain inside and burn, frog."
"Ew…"

Being it night-time, they had to come down to sleep.
"I have only one bed. So … we might be able to snuggle together to use it. Or you use the floor to my feet."
"Don't you have a couch? I think I'm too old to sleep on the cold floor."
"You're such a pussy, French frog. And you agreed that you would do everything what I tell you to."
"…Then let's try and snuggle together. But nothing more than that.", Francis was beginning to have a bad feeling in his stomach despite he hadn't eaten any of the food England would have made (or leftover).
And so they snuggled together. It was nothing like the broad bed Francis had shared with the older brother of England. Chances were high that one of them would kick out the other during the night. But Arthur remained surprisingly calm still.

In the next morning Francis woke to a sensation of someone stroking his hair. He knew he wasn't home and that he was with England. All of the Kirklands were people who would rise early in the morning. Did they have no sense for enjoyment?
"Enjoying my hair, Angleterre?", the hand stopped.
"I didn't know you were awake."
"Don't you think that a gesture like this wakes me up?", Francis opened his eyes and turned to a set of green ones.
"Uh.. well.. ..you slept late. I stroked your hair for hours now."
"…You're sick!"
"No. And you promised me that you'd be mine for the next 24 hours.. eh.. I don't know how many hours exactly are left, but until this evening, you are mine. No doubt in that.", there was clocks already around - even in pocket size – but not everyone had one.
"I know, I know. … I'll make us breakfast."

The French got up and walked down to the kitchen like it was his duty. He couldn't relax around his former enemy, so he just wished to pull it through – and go afterwards. Being busy in the kitchen made him think about the things he would do once he'd get out of Englands house. He could go to Scotland in Perth. The war in Italy was still on… but Alasdair meant everything to him and he wanted to know if the redhead was safe and healthy.
"Hmmm… smell's great. What kind of breakfast are you making?", Arthur asked and snuggled up to the other blonde before him. France stood at the stove with a pan and made fried eggs with bacon.
"A proper English Breakfast - French style. I hope you'll like it."
"I think I will.", Arthur faintly said and remained beside his guest.

They ate their breakfast in silence. Arthur said something every now and then but soon noticed that France was absentminded. As England got angry (and was finished with his breakfast), he smacked his plate across the table onto Francis' head.
"Will you fucking pay attention, you bloody frog?!"
"Quoi…?"
"Look, I try to talk to you but every time I try, you block me off! What is it with you!? Didn't you promise to play along being the loving wife? All you think about is yourself! I bet you already plan what you do after you got rid of me! You heartless beast!", more porcelain flew towards Francis – who managed to catch some of that with his hands.
"I'm sorry, Angleterre…"
"Don't call me that! You know my name!", Arthur was crying by now, but was also blushing due to his rage. Now being without any porcelain, he threw his fists at the taller nation.
"Stop it! You know fully well that we will never get along! And you know why! I will never forgive you!", Francis caught the blows, most blocked by his hands, but he never fought back. Soon his face was covered by more bruises and some blood. Actually, Francis still carried some injuries from the war in Italy, so England just added some as if to make an improvement to the painting.

Then Francis grabbed the fierce blonde's wrists and hold them tight so England wouldn't hurt him anymore.
"I said stop it."
Instead of answering, Arthur just held onto Francis' wrists as well and kneed into his belly. France fell over and gasped for air. England didn't think twice and pinned Francis to the ground. The green eyes looked dull and full of hatred.
"Now, now… what do I do with someone who breaks an important promise? I can't hurt Scotland anymore right now… he is too far away. But I can have my way with you. Let's see…", Arthurs eyes wandered around.

The kitchen of the Englishman was large enough so a little sitting group with table and four chairs found place – on which Francis and Arthur just had been sitting for breakfast. There was no problem in getting any 'tools' from the kitchen, such as knives, spoons and other things that might come in handy when you plan something eerie. But how to make sure that the bloody frog would remain pinned on the spot?
Arthur just dragged Francis to where he could reach for what he needed. As easy as that. Francis still didn't struggle after all.
"What are you doi-?", Francis gasped as he saw England take a big knife from one of the drawers. Was he really going to cut him? What the hell was wrong? Now he began to struggle as if his life depended on it – not that he'd lose it.
"Just remain still…", Arthur said and came dangerously close with the knife.

But he didn't come far with it. The knife flew through the air and stuck into the wooden board on the worktop.
"Don't ye think you're a bawherr tae young fur this kind o' speil, wee brother?", Alasdair asked as he entered the kitchen, a gun in his hand and a cigar on his lips. Well, this was a new habit…but he looked cool with that.
"Alasdair!", both blondes cried – one in relief, one in anger.
"Noo git aff mah guidwife.", the redhead commanded with a dangerously low voice.
Arthur obeyed as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. He was in his own territory after all – even if unarmed. And Alasdair had to reload his weapon before shooting another bullet. Then Arthur noticed that it was one of these fast loading new guns. Damnit! Deciding that this was the best he could do, he just backed off …until he noticed that he was very close to the knife that was still stuck in the wooden board.
France had gotten up by that time and hid behind Scotland, who didn't leave Arthur out of his eyes. "Don't ye dare daein' that, wee yin …"

Arthur paled and didn't do anything.
"Raise yer hauns.", Arthur obeyed. This way, Alasdair and Francis could leave the house safely.
In the front lawn was only one horse, so Francis sat up first and Alasdair behind him. The redhead wasted no time and rode away.
It sure had been some time since they had been last riding on the same horse and Francis regretted that they were sitting like this. Either his balls got crushed or he was dangerously close to Alba's front…
Apart from this, his face and arms still ached from the fight with England.

"I'm glad you saved me. Thank you... thank you so much, Alasdair!", Francis said and tried to not sound too much like he was crying. But he wanted to cry, or at least his body wanted to after the shock. Would England have ever stabbed him really? He should have tried more determined to please Arthur. Then this wouldn't have happened, right?
"I'm glad tae that ah saved ye. Juist a bawherr efter 'n' … noo ah don't wantae think aboot that. 'n' ah thank ye that ye saved me tae. Ah wid huv ne'er made it oot o' th' jyle wi'oot yer hulp. And… thay even gave me a golden chain. Sic mad rocket wee Sassenach fowk"
"You knew it was me?"

The night after Alasdair had been sent towards Perth wasn't quite correct. The sly redhead had jumped out of the chariot a few miles out of the city. Then he had run back, just to see Francis and Arthur walk down an abandoned street. He had even knocked down a robber who had attempted to step towards the two blondes. Then, the Scotsman had spent quite some time on the tree and had watched how the two nations went to bed. After apparently no further action, he had decided to get some help…
He had his men in this city who supplied him with clothes so he'd be not so easy recognisable as a Scotsman, and then they had also given him one of the new guns. The problem was that they had to be lit, but they had figured that a nice cigar would also do the job. So this night, Alasdair had just started his new habit of smoking. He disliked the taste first but knew that it was a necessity to use this gun efficiently.
After a few hours of rest, he had made his way back to Arthur's house – just in time when they had started their fight. Alba had waited what would happen further. When Arthur had grabbed the knife it was all decided for the Scotsman.

"You're so cool with that cigar... though the smoke makes it hard to breath for me."
"Ye micht git used tae it. Teuk me a few hours."
"Do you have more of them?"
"Aye. Ah huv…Bit ah don't ken howfur tae git mair efter ah used thaim up. Well…", Alasdair frowned.
"You're my hero!", Francis smiled.
The redhead blushed. But he also saw that his lover was in a bad condition. As soon as they had left England, they could stop at a Loch to take care of the wounds.

Later at the lake/lock, Francis took some time to stare at himself, at the reflection the perfectly still surface created. But then the surface got disturbed.
"Din think aboot yer looks. Tae me, ye wull aye be bonny.", Alasdair said as he kneeled beside Francis. It was his hand in the water who had made the surface curl.
The Frenchman only started to cry now for real. He was through with everything. It seemed like all the world was full of anger and disappointment. And even when he had won a battle, he was never really happy! What was with all the senseless wars? Just to get some territory? So many good people that died! And Francis? He had gotten kind of used to it, but he was missing a lot of things in his life when being out in the battlefield. There was no friends, no family to back him up. In fact he was fighting his family: his little brothers Spain and the Holy Roman Empire – and to some point also the Italy brothers.
Furthermore, he had no time to dress up pretty. His face got ruined by now. And what was even worse was the fact that he couldn't really spend time with Alasdair and the two cute children they had now. All the time he was practically wasting on the battlefield, he would miss out on how the children would ask for things like toys and food. He would miss out on their schooling, on their everything!

"H-hey, Din greet! please! Din greet, wee prince! a loue ye, aye?", Alasdair got worried and hugged the younger nation tightly. He didn't know what was going on. It was said that France was a wimpy nation. But growing up beside the Frenchman had taught that Francis only cried when things were really serious. He couldn't really do something but hugging the crying nation and kiss him repeatedly.
But it helped. Francis felt secure and felt even more that Alasdair was there when he needed him.
"Shhh… It's okay… Ye wur pure brave offering yersel' tae Arthur lik' this. Ah dinnae ken that he wid tick out… sae a'm sorry an' a'.", actually he could have blamed the Frenchman for getting him out of prison. Now he had been staying there rather than having him cry in his arms.
"Oui…I had to…I couldn't have taken it, if he had kept you there forever. I don't know.. what he would have done to you..-sob-…But also, he would not take my money. .. I offered him so much…-sniffle-…but he wouldn't take it.", Francis managed to say.
"Hmm… Aye. Bit keek. Noo wur baith oot. 'n' it doesn't keek lik' someone is follaein us either. Wur jammy.", he kissed the French forehead. Then he took his handkerchief, wetted it in the water and washed Francis face, washed away both tears and blood.