You Can't Run if Your Legs Can't Carry You

'Do you think we should take this as a hint?'

England didn't reply but France knew that he was awake. They were back in England's bedroom, lights off and tucked under heavy blankets that were doing their best to fight off the chill in a house where the heating system had been ignored for too many years. The sheets and blankets of England's big bed were soft and still smelt fresh and clean from their washing the day before, but despite the comfort France found himself unable to get his restless mind from working.

After hashing out a quick plan of action downstairs, the two nations had eventually accepted that there was no more that could be done that night and now had nothing better to do but try and go back to sleep. Tomorrow they'd take a Eurostar into Paris, and from there travel to the National Assembly in Paris to find out what had happened to Monsieur Durand. Despite the high profile scandal he had caused by shooting France, nothing about what consequence befell him could be found from an internet search.

'Humans are living far too long now,' France mused, laying on his back and staring at the dark ceiling, 'it's making this whole thing far too complicated. The cases are supposed to make things easier, you know.'

He turned his head right to look at the lump next to him, but England's back was turned and he could only make out the back of his head.

Deciding not to press the issue, France closed his eyes. He could sympathise with what he assumed England was feeling; the matter of their resets wasn't something they discussed very often -they didn't need to- but France had a suspicion that England was far more attached to the whole idea than he was. England hated, amongst many other things, to be anything other than in complete control of himself. A notorious control freak, stumbling about for days unable to recall who he was or be in control of something as simple as staying awake was possibly one of England's primary fears. That, and of course being seen by others in that condition. His stubborn pride and need to keep up appearances might drive France crazy most of the time, but even he dreaded thinking about extending the reset process back to its natural duration. Days of waking up in different places with no idea how you got there and no idea of how much time had passed, whole chunks of memory swallowed up by a thick haze. Mental state veering from not knowing who you were to remembering both lives, human and nation, in shots of memory that never were clear enough to help.

'Thanks to this happening once, we can make sure it won't happen again.' England's quiet voice prodded France away from the doze he'd been about to slip into after a few long minutes of silence. 'The main issue was that I didn't consider the possibility of you-' He stopped his sentence abruptly. It was going to take some time for both of them to get used to the name changes. 'Of Francis going into a home. Any other reset we either died at our houses or in battle and the case would be found after the reset, or the other could bring it.'

England sighed through his nose. 'The concept of living for so long never occurred to me until it happened, honestly; we've never lived that long before.'

'Our populations have never been this healthy with stability almost guaranteed before.' France reminded him, 'I assume that's why you followed m- Francis, into the home?'

England hummed in agreement. 'I didn't consider he'd last that long there. Once I noticed he'd gone in I followed him. I thought I'd either smuggle the body out or I'd reset you quick, depending on the time or day Francis died. Either way, I'd know what happened straight away and could prevent the inevitable medical nightmare. Once I was in there, of course, I was in it for the long haul.'

France felt him turn to lay on his back.

'Which, was a mistake.' England admitted. 'I was away from home for too long and if there hadn't been a problem, Francis could have lived for another five or even ten years with the right care.'

'Oh, don't say that,' France groaned, flinging an arm up to rest over his eyes, 'he was so bored. Could you not have killed him sooner?'

'Could have done,' England agreed far too easily, 'but most of our people are now going through that part of the ageing process; I thought s'probably a good idea to experience it.'

Neither of them said anything for a while.

'I think he was close.'

England turned on his side to face him. 'What?'

'Francis. I think he was close to dying anyway.'

'How do you know?'

France turned too so that they were facing each other. 'The sleeping pills. They put his body and human mind to sleep but the dreams he had- they were mine. Mild drugs can't work on us, you know this,' he prodded one of the bags under England's eye before he could react and swat him away, 'but they can for a human. The older he got, the more frequent they became. Almost as if the line between us was blurring.'

England frowned. 'So, the nightmares?'

France gave a dry laugh. 'How I died. They were getting clearer and clearer with each one, enough that Francis was starting to see a pattern.'

England tutted. 'I had my suspicions that was the case but- well. It's not like I could ask him. There's no way of knowing whether that's age related or to do with how you died either.'

France let them fall into a comfortable silence as he contemplated how to tackle the very awkward elephant in the room.

'You know, England, that's not what I was talking about.'

England's eyes flicked back open and fixed upon him with an unreadable expression. 'The cases are no longer necessary, in this day and age. Transport is so fast and accessible, and then there's the technology...'

England sighed again and turned back over. 'I know.'

France fixed the back on his head with concern, conflicted between being annoyed at the man's stubbornness and wanting to tell him that he too preferred the comforting presence of France's things nearby as a human, when deep inside his human subconscious a nation waited patiently to awaken. He chose instead to roll away from him too and ignore the issue for now.

He supposed he was just as stubborn.

England woke to an empty bed and a feeling of dread and mild panic in his stomach once he remembered all that needed to be done today. He pushed his face into his pillow and groaned before sitting up and blearily rubbing his eyes to encourage them to adjust faster to the sunlight that was brightening his room.

Wait...Sunlight...

What time was it?

He turned his head away from the window to his bedside table to search for his phone, but discovered that it wasn't where he left it. There neither was his wristwatch on his wrist, nor the clock that usually hung on the wall above his dresser.

Grumbling with irritation he got out of bed, put on the new jumper he'd bought yesterday to keep warm and made his way to the bathroom to freshen up. He stopped on the landing when he heard voices talking downstairs in the kitchen. Voices, plural, meaning that there was now someone else in his house. He shook his head, deciding to ignore the new information for now, and shut the bathroom door behind him with a quiet click.

When he eventually made his way downstairs, he found Wales sitting at his kitchen table, a mug of tea in hand, and happily chatting to France who, despite his usual complaints about them, was dressed in some more of England's old clothes and busy poking at something that smelt irritatingly delicious on his stove.

'What are you doing here?' This England directed towards his brother, who looked up quickly and smiled at him in greeting.

'Hello to you too. And I felt you come back, so I thought I'd bring by some bits for you both.' He gestured with one hand to the chair next to him, upon which rested a bag for life filled with clothes. 'Just until you pop back, either to London or Meriden. (1) The least I could do whilst I'm using your London flat.'

England didn't know how to respond to such unexpected, thoughtful kindness and sat down dumbly to accept a plate, without argument, of fluffy pancakes that France placed in his hands. Wales understood though, probably from the confused and bewildered expression on his face, and chuckled, happily accepting his own plate from France who soon enough joined them.

'What are you doing in London?' England asked between mouthfuls of pancake.

Too used to England's personality to be offended by the question or change of conversation, Wales answered easily, 'Welsh government talks with the PM. It's the annual review.'

'Ah.'

The meal continued in comfortable silence until France decided to rudely break it. 'Took you long enough to wake up.'

England raised his eyes and narrowed them in suspicion. 'Why, what time is it?'

France put a hand into his pocket and withdrew England's missing wrist watch before sliding it across the table to him, smirking and raising his mug to take a drink. 'Past 12pm.'

England almost choked on a pancake. 'Why didn't you wake me up?! We were supposed to leave around midday!'

Talking over Wales' quiet query of where they were supposed to be going, France replied flippantly, 'You have been sleep deprived for too long, my dear. You're far too insufferable as it is, I wasn't planning on going anywhere with you when you'd be even worse to put up with.'

'Um... where are you both-'

'Excuse me?' England shrieked indignantly.

'You're excused. I only have your best interests at heart, of course.'

'Oh, of course you do, arsehole, it's not your stuff we're worried about now though, is it.'

'Sorry, but can someone tell me what you're talking about-'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' France glared at England.

'You know perfectly well what I mea-'

'HEY!'

They both stopped to turn to look in surprise at the usually calm and quiet Wales.

'What on earth are you talking about? Where are you going?' Wales had pulled his face into a frown, and was now sat expectantly, long, gangly arms crossed over his chest.

England's irritation immediately cooled and he rubbed a hand absent-mindedly over an old scar on his neck. 'I er...we need to go and visit a colleague whom I was working with in France; we think she knows something about France's case and we want to make sure she doesn't know too much.' This wasn't a lie, they planned on visiting Amélie later; as the newest member of staff who appeared around the time of the disturbances in Francis' room, she certainly wasn't someone to overlook.

Wales raised a dark eyebrow. 'Can you not call or email? You've only just got back Lloegr, you should stay and rest up a bit from the floods before you run off again, I'm sure she can wait.'

England flushed and retorted hotly, 'I'm not running off thank you very much, and I feel perfectly fine.' He quickly looked at France, who swiftly stood up and began to noisily clear away the breakfast things. England didn't know if France had shared their reset tradition with anyone, or how much, but England's brothers were aware of most of it. They didn't know the reason -they hadn't asked and weren't told- but they knew about the process.

England didn't really know how comfortable he felt sharing this much detail about something so personal, but if he could trust anyone on the planet with any sort of personal problem Wales was probably at the top of the list.

'My case has gone missing,' he finally admitted almost sheepishly, as if this whole thing was a lot less bothersome than it actually was, 'Someone stole it eighty years ago when France was murdered, so n-'

'So, now you're going to go back to France...and what? Most of Kent is flooded, Lloegr. I would ask if you even feel it, but judging how shit you're walking on that leg it seems that you still possess the ability to feel to some degree. Shame you left your bloody common sense behind.'

France sucked in some air through his teeth. Patient and calm he may be with his unassuming, dreamlike expressions and gentle manner, but it seemed as though Wales was just as good at causing verbal harm as the rest of his brothers. Maybe more so, Wales was the type of person to stay silent until he caught you by surprise once he knew exactly how lethal he wanted to be.

Wiping his hands dry on a towel, France cleverly made his escape from the kitchen just as angry sounding Welsh started to snap in the air and disappeared upstairs to pack, leaving England to his fate.

They were fortunate that they didn't need to book a seat on the Eurostar- England's passport was enough to grant them two seats on the first train that pulled up, reserved for people especially like them, although some talking had to be done on France's behalf due to his lack of any identity whatsoever.

Wales was a kind man if nothing else, far kinder than England knew he deserved, and so despite his very vocal disapproval of their plan he had driven them both to the station to save them hassle, albeit in a very stony silence. Once at the station, he'd glared at France, hugged England quickly, then turned and got back into his car all without a single word.

The train journey itself passed by uneventfully. England used the time to catch France up on any major work events he had missed and to inform him of all the little things he had found suspicious in the home. France then shared his, and it was unnerving how long many things England had missed. He was angry with himself- that he could admit, even if not out loud. Angry that he didn't pay more attention to Francis' changing mannerisms, angry that he'd allowed himself to get complacent over time, and angry that now he felt as though he was playing catch up on a game he'd helped design. Angry that this whole situation was so fucking preventable but he couldn't see where it truly began.

'I should have paid more attention to Francis.' he admitted quietly, after a brief silence. 'His behaviour was unusual but I allowed myself to believe that it was related to the nightmares, rather than taking the time to make sure there was nothing else.'

Out of the corner of his eye he could see France looking at him, face blank. He didn't respond for a while. Eventually, 'It was not an unreasonable assumption to make.'

England glanced up.

'They were part of it,' France continued, 'they helped fuel his paranoia. He knew he was being watched but with the recent increase of nightmares, the change of drugs-' France waved a hand lazily, as if to dismiss the lingering melancholy, 'Well. Despite what he said, he was also well aware of his age. He was no fool, he knew how crazy he sounded. I cannot begrudge you for sharing his sentiments.'

England tutted bitterly. 'I stayed for the sole purpose of overseeing the reset's completion safely. It feels almost wasted, now that it's come to this.'

France inclined his head in agreement. 'From this outcome, yes, you would think that way.'

England bristled and opened his mouth to retort when France swiftly shut him up. 'I appreciate it, you know, that you stayed for so long. He appreciated your honesty with him too. You treated him like a human being and he relied on that. If nothing else, he took comfort in you and that will never be a waste.'

England blushed to his ears and looked away awkwardly, fiddling with the strap on the rucksack he'd brought with him. 'If you wish to see sentimentality as an important factor, you mean.'

France grinned at him knowingly. 'Of course.'

The conversation slipped to a natural end after that and they soon found themselves stepping out onto the Gare du Nord with France all but bursting with barely contained joy at bring back in his capital. Thanks to his lie-in, it was now 4pm and England, already annoyed at being behind his schedule, curtailed France's plans of re-exploring his city and manhandled him into the Metro to go to the National Assembly. It was here where they hit their first problem: they did not have permission to access where the old employee records were kept.

They were thusly stood in front of a very locked door, trying to think of a way to get in without looking suspicious. Slipping away from their tour group had been easy enough; despite no one knowing who, or what, France himself represented, he was their nation and possessed the ability to divert his peoples' attention enough to let them slip away undetected. Going forward, however, was proving a bit harder.

'Are you sure they're through here?'

'That's where they were kept when I was here last.'

'That's not what I asked you though, is it.' England huffed.

France fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead bent down to inspect the lock panel. 'This would all be so much easier if I just reintroduced myself to my government first.' He muttered, straightening again when he accepted that there was no weakness that they could pick.

'No, it wouldn't,' England leant against the wall, hands in his pockets for a lack of better things to do. They'd left their bags in lockers at the station and England was already regretting that he'd left his phone there as well, 'because then there'd be the whole process of actually getting to meet the right people, then you'd have to sit down and explain everything and go through all that sodding process and all the while your president's going to want to discuss your role, and what work you do, and how you help them; dear God France, it'll take weeks.'

Unwilling to admit the truth to the other's words out loud, France sighed whilst tying his hair up into a ponytail. 'Well, I do hope you've got another idea then because we're stuck rather early on.'

The both straightened suddenly upon hearing footsteps and quickly crossed the corridor to sit on a bench opposite the door, under a window, and tried to appear more like tourists taking a break.

'I think we should visit that café we passed earlier for dinner.' England wrinkled his nose slightly as he spoke, but his French sounded pleasant and relaxed.

France leant forward, swinging a leg up so he could rest an elbow on his knee. 'Oh, I do agree, then after that we could go for a walk along the river back to our hotel, where I can make sweet, long love to you all night lo-'

England swung a punch which France dodged, jumping up from the bench laughing as a security guard passed them, averting his eyes with a polite smile.

Once they were safely alone again, England stood and they both walked back over to the door. 'You can wipe that shit eating grin off your face now, arsehole.' He said, reverting back to English.

'Oh but England, your French is such a delight to hear. I do hope you'll continue to use it with me.' The usually spoke their own languages to each other and even after all this time France still enjoyed the novelty of forcing England to speak French. England made a point to never speak French unless he had to, mimicking France's own attitudes about refusing to use English.

'Not bloody likely,' he huffed in return.

'Why must you hurt me so with the Norman accent, it seems as though you're implying something.' (2)

England gave a sly grin. 'Maybe I am, twat. Now,' his eyes turned to the lock again, 'security or no, there are probably hundreds of cameras about that know we're hovering here, I say let's hurry this up.'

'You seem to have forgotten that we have no way to do that.'

'Have you tried your old access number?'

France stared at him condescendingly. 'I hardly think that will still be active.'

'Have you tried?' England pressed.

'I really think that my security would be better than- oh.' A series of happy sounding beeps emitted from the lock panel as a little light turned green. 'Shut up.'

'I wasn't going to say anything-.'

'Then don't.'

'But I'm honestly not surprised.'

France punched him.

It had been about an hour since he'd last seen France, and England was starting to grow slightly concerned. Not for the frog, mind you, but concerned that there was nothing to be found here after all. He'd left most of the searching to France, not really knowing enough about where everything was kept to do much more than leaf through a few confidential looking folders. Instead, he'd gone for a brief but thorough search about the archive room, making note of any cameras and any other forms of security he could see. Despite the time they took to get in, it seemed as though they were okay to stay and he could find no reason that they'd alerted anyone to their uninvited presence. The lax security would definitely not be allowed in London, and England made a mental note to give everything a check-up when he got back.

The archive room was dimly lit and silent, with yellowed lights scattered seemingly absent-mindedly across aisles of tall, well-stacked metal shelves. England usually liked rooms like this, dark and quiet, but he couldn't seem to get himself to relax properly.

He took himself for a wander after another half an hour of sitting and found France huddled on the floor with a scattering of folders about him in a narrow aisle between two of the many shelves.

'Find anything?' England poked at the nearest folder to him with his foot and France looked up in irritation.

'You could be helping.'

'I don't know where anything is.'

'You didn't ask.'

'Fuck sake, just answer the damn question.' England squatted to rest on his feet and opened the folder he had prodded earlier.

'Yes, yes I found something.'

'Oh?'

'Nothing much that will help us though.' France quickly added, seeing England's hopeful expression. 'But I know what happened to him.'

He put down the folder he was reading to pick up another and quickly leafed through it until he found the pages he was looking for. 'According to the records, Durand was immediately imprisoned for high treason, of which he served 25 years. Despite killing me of all people, the people in the know couldn't keep him longer than was normal and so he was released. He was only 32 when he shot me, so was released at 57.'

England sat down fully. 'Sounds ordinary so far.'

'It gets better,' France promised and flipped a few more pages. 'You see, the people who knew exactly what he did, AKA kill the actual Republic himself, decided to put a few measures in place to make the punishment a bit more effective.'

'Such as?'

'Such as be patient and let me finish.' France snapped back. 'Such as, he was prohibited from holding any more positions of power, in any sector, and a cap was put in place on his maximum earnings.'

'So, more of a humiliation then.'

'It would seem so.' France sighed. 'And if his family were anything like I remember them to be, I'm sure he was disowned as well. The Durands were rather wealthy; to go from a comfortable lifestyle and a high paying, well respected job to working minimum wage with no family support and a criminal record; I'm sure we have more than enough motive to mark him as a number one suspect.' France worried at his lip before continuing, a habit England knew he rarely succumbed to.

'He had a pregnant wife, now ex, and a 5-year-old daughter as well at the time. Not only that, but he was the last person I saw that had any sort of contact with your case.'

'If I remember rightly,' England said, 'he made a run for it and got clean away for a good five hours; he could have passed my case to someone before he was caught, or he could have hidden it to find later on.'

'He also thought that he was eliminating a threat to the French government,' France added, 'if anything, he probably thought he was helping. He did seem a bit...mentally unstable at the time.'

England rolled his eyes. 'Yes, because only completely sane people go about shooting people in a government building. By the fact that we're still here, I'm assuming there is a problem.'

'Oh yes, he's very much dead.'

England sighed and tipped his head back to lean against the shelf. 'Great. Now what.'

France shrugged and started scooping up the folders, resting up on his knees. 'Now, I suppose we could go and visit Amélie. Maybe stop off at the home as well and figure out what happened to all the staff and the CCTV. Hopefully, one of them will give us another lead.'

'I can't go back to the home.' England interjected quickly. 'We have no idea who was involved or how many, I'm probably wanted for questioning as it is and going into Fouras is bad enough.'

'If we let me introduce myself to my government-'

'No. That will take way too long. We're already giving whoever was involved enough time to get away and hide as it is.'

'Fine.' France tutted at him and stood up. 'We do this the hard way.'

Many hours later, they were back in a car.

They were back in a car and if that weren't the only problem, despite being seven in the evening, it was still sunny. Adding to England's irritation, this time France was driving. Unlike Francis, France himself got incredibly travel sick in anything more modern than a horse -though trains he seemed to be able to cope with- and had insisted that he be in charge of the car, especially now that they were back in his own lands.

England sighed and let his head loll slightly with the car's movements, eyes gazing outwards on the rapidly passing countryside. French countryside. He tutted, and felt rather than saw France's irritated look.

'What on earth is your problem now?'

England turned his head lazily. 'Oh, you mean other than your presence?'

'Look, I said I didn't mean to run the red, I don't see what you gain from continuing to hold it against me.'

'What I gain?' England sat up incredulously. 'You seem to a be forgetting that we're trying not to draw attention to ourselves because I am probably wanted by police!'

'Continuing to bitch about something I cannot change will not make your situation any better so why don't you shut up.'

France's retort was sharp, tone leaving little opening to continue the conversation, and England scowled witheringly, stopping himself from falling back into an old and familiar pattern of loathing. He was already long past regretting asking France to come with him and wished that this whole thing would just go away so he could go back home to his lands and stay there until he felt better. The pain of parting from his people so soon after returning to them was still fresh; although France was almost as familiar to him as England was, his heart ached with the need to go home and be surrounded by his own territory.

The worst part was, he didn't know how long this trip would take. They hadn't had much to pack, nor much time to buy anything new, and the only clothes they had were things they had scrounged from his Kent summer house and the few articles of clothing Wales had brought down.

'You need the next turning on the left.'

France did as he was bidden in terse silence and they turned away from the countryside into the edges of an suburban estate; similar looking houses huddled together to sit on the sides of the road and form a wall to the flat greenery beyond.

'Okay, now go right and look for a 57.'

'It's a nice place, I didn't think carers earnt enough to afford this, especially if she lives alone.' France thought out loud, 'Where did you live?'

'None of your business.'

France gave an exasperated sigh but let the matter drop, pulling the car to a stop outside the right building. They both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the house.

'Who should knock? She knows you,' France turned to England, 'but I could say I was a long lost relative of Francis or something.' It was strange to use his name in what felt like the third person, but to actually be speaking about someone else. (3)

'How would you know where she lives, or even who she is.' England paused for a bit. 'Or why you'd even be here to talk to her in the first place. No, I should go.'

'What will you say to her?'

'No idea.' With that, England opened his door, got out of the car and quickly walked up the path to knock on the front door. France stayed sitting, watching him through the window.

England waited for a bit and when he received no answer, knocked again. After a brief wait, he placed his hand on the handle and gently gave it a slight twist.

It moved easily. France saw his small look of surprise before he let go of the handle as though it burned him and then England turned his head to lock eyes with him. France quickly got out of the car, locking it behind him and met up with his fellow nation at the front step.

'What's wrong?'

'Something's not right.' England's voice was a low murmur. He took hold on the handle again and twisted fully, opening the door slowly to prevent any creaks or groans from the hinges.

The hallway was dark and quiet, and the air felt thick and heavy with the weight of something. The curtains all seemed to be shut but, thanks to the low sunlight hitting the windows directly, they could still see. France soundlessly shut the door behind them and motioned to England that he was going left, into the living room. England nodded, and shifted his eyes upwards and inclined his head- he was going to try upstairs.

This would be very hard to explain now, France thought to himself distantly, if she was just sleeping in her room. But England was right, something felt wrong and there was a familiar- ah.

Upstairs, England had found nothing and no one in any of the two bedrooms or bathroom. Only one room was decorated with any personal touches and so Amélie's room he could identify with certainty, but the guest room had unmade sheets on the bed which indicated the presence of someone else fairly recently. England felt a little uncomfortable about his invasiveness and so, finding nothing unusual, slipped downstairs to find France and making a mental note to himself to go over the photographs he'd seen dotted about before they left. In their unplanned entrance, neither of them had taken off their shoes and England regretted this increasingly as he tried not to thump his way down the stairs in his boots.

The closer he got to the living room, the stronger the feeling he had first felt by the doorway grew and he soon smelt the all too familiar tang of blood make its way through the still air.

Amélie was on her sofa at the far end of the living room, sat down but with her head thrown back on the headrest. Her arms lay limply either side of her, one palm upturned, and her legs were positioned as if she were sitting. In fact, if it wasn't for the giant hole in her forehead and brains scattered amongst the blood in her hair, she looked as though she was simply resting on the sofa. Her expression was one of slight surprise, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes wide and glassy. She had quite obviously been shot.

Despite his many years of experience, England's gut still twisted and he had to grit his teeth and swallow to stop the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat at the sight; the inside of skulls was something he didn't think he'd ever get fully used to.

France was standing by her head, slightly bent at the waist and inspecting the hole and the consequential blood splatter. Hearing England's slight noise of discomfort, he looked up before straightening himself to his full height.

'She was shot at almost a point-blank range.' He walked around to stand in front of her and pointed an imaginary gun at her head. 'She must have been sitting already, or just about to rise because she remains upright and her limbs aren't too askew.'

France took a breath and then continued. 'I don't want to look too closely, but it seems as if that's her only injury, she looks otherwise unharmed.'

'France...'

'Nothing seems to have been disturbed and nor are any windows broken. Though unlocked, the door was not forced.' France continued, gesturing with one hand at the tidy room, at cabinets with their drawers untouched. 'We can confidently say that she knew whoever did this to her, well enough that she let them in her home. It was quick; she didn't expect this at all.' He finished, looking at a spot on the sofa near Amélie's body and pointedly not looking at the remains of her face.

England stood uncertainly in the entrance way to the room, wanting to apologise but not really knowing how to or even what for. Instead, he cleared his throat, chided himself on his hesitation and stepped further into the room to take a closer look for himself. She looked as though she had been dead since at least that morning, but to test this assumption he knelt by her arm and gently pressed the back of his hand to her skin. It was waxy in texture, ashen in colour and the underside of the hand itself had already turned a deep red from the blood which had filtered down from the rest of the body. Then, he nudged it slightly to test how much movement it would allow. It would not budge- rigor mortis had taken control.

'I'd say about 8 hours, maybe an hour more or less.' He said finally. 'Late morning or midday.'

France, who had been watching the process in silence, agreed. 'I'd say so.' He looked to England, who had straightened and was wiping the back of his hand on his trousers, trying to get the disconcerting waxy feeling of dead skin off himself. 'I cannot find the gun, though I doubt it'd be here. Find anything upstairs?'

'No.' England stopped rubbing and glanced at the closed curtains to check for any gaps that they could be seen through. 'I didn't want to check about her room in case she was in; now I don't want to leave much evidence behind.'

France said nothing, but continued to stare at Amélie with a sad look in his eyes.

'We shouldn't stay too long,' said England softly, 'if we're going to search about, we need to move quickly, before anyone notices anything amiss.'

France gave a slight nod and released a breath. 'I know. It's a shame we were too late.'

'It is.' England waited to see if France would say anything else but, with no elaboration forthcoming, he ducked out of the room to continue searching upstairs, leaving France where he stood. As he passed his neighbour England almost reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but stopped himself before he did, brushing his arm as he passed instead.

He would have comforted Francis, England admitted to himself back upstairs. Never one who felt comfortable initiating physical contact with another person anyway, England still would have been able to rest a hand on Francis' shoulder and talk to him honestly. But, with France there was so much between them, so much history, that England never knew where they stood or what was okay regarding true vulnerability. Francis had begun to incorporate much of France's personality in his later years, as though the older the man grew the more of his true self subconsciously filtered into his human opinions and mannerisms, and now England had to keep reminding himself in subtle ways that they were separate people with very different social behaviours attached.

He took a deep breath to help clear his head, and begun his meticulous search for a clue of what to do next.

France turned up nothing interesting in the living room, nor in the kitchen or downstairs bathroom. From the fridge and the sink, he could tell that another person had been staying in the house recently, there were pairs of plates and glasses on the washboard and a lot more fresh food than a single person would manage to eat. No clue as to who, however, and therefore no indication as to whether they were worth checking up on. If anything good had come from Amélie's death, it was that at least now they knew they were on the right path. She had known something and it had cost her her life. But what or how much she knew seemed unobtainable.

Giving up on the downstairs, he made his way up to the first floor.

'England?'

'Here.' England's voice came from the first room that opened to the landing, Amélie's room. He was hunched on his knees on the floor with a phone in his hands. The phone was plugged into the wall but seemed to not be charging, England was twisting the cable this way and that, trying to find a connection. He gave a sigh before looking up at France. 'Find anything?'

France shook his head, gazing about the room. 'You?'

England waved the phone in his hand. 'Nothing other than this; it'll probably tell us who she was last talking to but I can't get it to charge. I don't have an Apple and you don't have a phone yet; we'll need to pick up a new cable tomorrow.'

Francis hummed in agreement. 'Sure. There's that motel we passed on the way here, shall we stay there?'

'Might as well.' England unplugged the phone, leaving the cable in the wall, and stood. 'Before we go...' England made his way over to a shelf in a few steps and pulled down a photograph in a frame. It showed Amélie and a smiling young man who France didn't recognise, clearly taken a few years ago, 'who's this?'

France looked a bit closer. 'Charles Lavoie,' the answer came to him quickly, the family tree sprouting in his mind at the sight of his face, 'her brother.'

England drew his mouth into a thin line.

'Someone interesting?'

'Potentially, he was a gardener at the home.'

'Someone worth a visit then.'

'I'd say so,' England replied, 'he may have been the one I kept catching out the corner of my eye, skulking about the bushes.' He put back the first photo, thought a moment, then reached up and pulled down another. 'Seeing as her brother works at the home...'

The second photo was Amélie, her brother and an older man who was quite obviously their father. France's eye's widened. 'Louis Lavoie, born Durand; Julien Durand's son.'

England's face gave to reveal his surprise. 'Well, we have a definite family connection now then.' England clicked his tongue. 'I can't say I ever expected that.'

Suddenly, France clapped his hands together. 'Well, there's nothing more that we can do tonight, let's go out for dinner and then see if we can visit him tomorrow, the census says he lives in Luçon.'

England frowned. 'What? That surely can't be the most important thing on your mind. And why does he live there? That's surrounded by a national park a way away, isn't it? Shouldn't he live around here somewhere if he works at the home too?'

'It was the Durand family home. But never mind that, my dear,' France grabbed the photograph out of England's hands and wiped off their fingerprints before reaching past the other nation to place it back on the shelf. He then planted his hands on England's shoulders and steered him out of the room and down the landing to the stairs. 'It is a bit concerning, I admit, but I get a sense of him there. If after all these days he's still only gone that far, we can assume he won't go much further.'

'But what if he was the one who shot Amélie?' England shrugged France off once he reached the stairs, all too happy to walk himself down.

'If he were, he would again be a lot further away.' France supplied. 'We can assume he knows something of course, considering the fact that he's distanced himself, but I don't think he's likely to run away.'

England frowned. 'We're leaving a lot to chance.'

'You're just going to have to trust me on this one.'

England quickly looked around the room to make sure they hadn't left anything behind and caught sight of Amélie, still splayed on the sofa. He sighed. 'Fine, we'll go tomorrow. Should we do anything about...'

He left the question hanging, not quite wanting to finish it. France considered it for a moment, looking over at her body and resting his eyes a moment on her face. 'No.' He said quietly, 'Let what was supposed to happen, happen naturally. Maybe by the time she's found, all this will be over and we can cover our tracks. There's no use drawing even more attention to ourselves.'

England considered him a moment, watching his face for some other emotion, but France looked resigned and ambivalent to it all. What is one life to a nation?

Sadly, after all these years, still a lot.

They found a small rest stop which offered food after a quick drive, away from the centre of Fouras and potential arrest and public scandal. From there, they made their way to the motel where, as per England's continuing bad luck, only a single room with a double bed was available on the ground floor.

Thanks to his many years of personal resistance training, England did manage to withhold from causing a scene at the front desk by forcing them to drive somewhere else, and instead opted for a far more effective detachment approach, refusing to rise to the lewd looks and comments France kept shooting his way whenever another person came within earshot of them.

'Why do you insist in trying to make me angry?' He grumbled to him as they walked to their room.

France gave him a wink and bumped his hip with his own, eliciting a noise of surprise from England. 'Because it is a sport that I have missed far too much. You are so very easy.'

'I am not,' defended England crossly, red ears betraying a different answer. He stopped outside their room, adjusted the rucksack with his clothes in it on his back, and slipped the key card through the reader and let himself in. Flicking on a light switch he could see that the room, although small, wasn't terrible and the bed with its plump duvet looked very enticing.

As he was debating the pros and cons of showering now or next morning when he woke up, France had swanned inside and dumped his own bag on the bed before making his way to the window and throwing it open to let in the cool night breeze, resting his elbows on the windowsill. 'Ah, what a lovely view of the car park we have.'

England rolled his eyes and put his bag next to France's. 'Oh goody. I'm thrilled.'

France moved away from the window and plopped down onto an armchair which rested in the corner, by a small writing desk. 'Oh, you are so very negative. Anyone would think that you weren't enjoying yourself.'

England raised an eyebrow at him but once again refrained from commenting further. He reached into his pocket, then the next and then seemed to pat frantically in each one before raising his eyes. 'I can't find my phone.'

France looked at him in confusion, briefly thrown by the sudden change in conversation. 'What?'

'My phone.' England scrabbled about in his rucksack before dumping its contents on the bedspread. 'I can't find it; I don't think I've had it for a while either.'

France stared at him in mounting horror. 'Are you serious.'

'Yes!' England furiously looked his way before continuing his search. 'I think I last remember having it on the train but after that I have no fucking idea. I know in the National Assembly I thought I'd left it in the lockers but when we got there I didn't see it and forgot about it.'

'Oh my God, don't tell me that; stop talking.' France leant forwards to put his head in his hands and shook it in wonderment. 'You actually are the king of losing things.' He raised his head again to look in disbelief at England. 'The one phone we had that works, the one way of accessing the internet or anyone else that could be of any help and you lose it?!

'I didn't lose it I just put it down somewhere!'

'Christ!' France stood up angrily, hands briefly thrown in the air and span on the spot before resting a hand weakly on the wall as he looked in mute shock at England, now hurriedly checking through France's bag as well.

'If you shut up and help me look-'

'There's no point!' France ran a hand through his hair in aggravation. 'We both know you've put it somewhere and walked off without it and now it's long gone.'

'Don't get all pissy with me, just becau-'

There was a sudden noise as a car careered into the car park behind them. Before either of them could do little more than register the sound, there was the sharp crack of a gunshot from outside their window. On instinct long born from far too many wars France threw himself to the floor and ducked, covering his head with his hands and pushing his body as close to the floor as possible. At the same time tyres screeched against concrete outside and the smell of burning rubber wafted in on the breeze. France swore colourfully and jumped up onto his knees, peeking his head out of the open window and just catching sight of a 4-door blue car speeding out of the car park.

'What the hell was that about?!' He cried, turning around to look for England.

He found the other nation standing a few paces from where he'd last seen him, shakily picking at a recently formed hole in his chest.

'Well.' He managed to say, before his face drained of all colour and he slumped to his knees heavily, leaning his side on the bed.

France scrabbled over to his side. 'Shit, shit, shit!' He none too gently forced England's jumper off and lifted up his shirt to look at the bullet wound. It had managed to catch him directly in the chest, near the heart, and was bleeding profusely. Caught unaware, England hadn't even had the chance to dodge- it was a direct hit. Sliding his fingers around England's back, France probed for an exit wound and to his dismay, found one. Meeting England's eyes and noting the look of shock in them that was probably reflected in his own, he grabbed at one of the random items of clothing on the bed and acquired an extra jumper, which he then pressed tightly to England's chest. Then, pulling his shirt back down, he instructed England to push on the injury as hard as he could.

Ignoring England's mumbled complaint that he knew full well what to do, he'd been shot before I'll have you know, France sprang to his feet and in a moment of quick thinking, grabbed a can of deodorant and sprayed it at the fire alarm. All too soon, the shrill, piercing sound of the alarm made itself known and France turned his attention into scooping all of their clothes haphazardly back into the bags, which he quickly threw onto his back and over his shoulder.

'Whadja do that for?' England managed to ask with increasing difficulty, watching France pull off the duvet from the bed and try to stuff a pillow into his bag. He could feel the floor vibrating as feet trundled through the corridor outside their room.

'To get people to leave the building, we need a distraction.' France replied, pushing down the clothes in his bag to make more room for the pillow. 'We need to get out of here, now. The more people we can lose ourselves in the better.'

'Oh.' England replied stupidly, feeling the hand pressing on the lump of bloodied jumper on his chest start to shake. 'I'm going into shock, by the way.'

France hissed in frustration and threw off the rucksack, threading the duvet through the straps so that when he swung it on once more it stayed there, pinned to his back. 'We're leaving now, can you walk?'

England gave a dry laugh. 'Well, I can't fucking fly, can I.'

France bent to grab onto his elbow and pulled him up, too fast though for all at once England's vision became clouded in dark spots and what little blood he had left pounded in his ears. France steadied him but couldn't wait, pulling England spewing foul curses with him they stumbled into the corridor and made for a fire exit, pushing past people as they went.

Unlocking the car as they approached, France propped a very pale and pained looking England on the car and threw open the boot to throw their things inside, before making his way to the passenger door. After helping England quickly get inside, he slammed the door and dashed to the driver's side, jumping in and starting the engine without bothering with seatbelts.

'Fuck!' France swore once they were back on the road, slamming a hand on the steering wheel with each swear. 'Fuck fuck!' He stole a look at England, who was resting his head against the headrest and seemed to be trying to steady his breathing.

'Hey,' France turned back to the road but glanced back over and England to make sure he'd heard.

'Oi!' No answer. 'England!' At England's lack of response France nudged him, finally earning him a noise of pain as his chest was jostled.

'Fuck off.' England managed to get out, forcing open one eye. His hand lay uselessly in his lap, having no strength remaining to push against the now soaking remains of what had once been Wales' favourite jumper against his chest.

'Stay awake, don't fall asleep.'

Breathing was difficult and required more muscles than it used to, England thought as he tried to keep his eyes open. Against his will they started to slip shut, becoming heavier as his breathing became laboured, France's voice quiet and distant. Then, hot, white pain flared suddenly through his system and his eyes flew open, his mouth hung agape as he gave a noiseless scream, breath catching in his throat and sticking to his tongue.

'Stay awake!' France's voice was clear now and England focused on the pain and the fact that France had thumped him on a gunshot wound; he was going to fucking kill him he knew how much this fucking hurt, dear God he was going to fucking kill him that ponsey arsehole, what a fucking dick.

'You're an absolute prick, you know that?' He managed to force out, tongue trying its best to form words. He felt terrible, he was now beginning to feel extremely cold and clammy as too much blood drained away and wished France had put the stolen duvet on him rather than throw it in the boot.

'Yes, yes, you can hit me later.' France glanced in his rear-view mirror before doing a feverish double take which would have been comical had England not been dying. 'Goddamnit, we're being tailed.'

England groaned. 'Of course we are.'

'You need to stay awake, if you die now, you'll be dead weight that I won't be able to carry if we need to run again.'

Run? England laughed to himself in disbelief, France was lucky he was even still conscious, a human would have given in long ago. 'Who's following us?'

'The same car that shot at us, it seems. Looks the same anyway.'

France turned the car sharply left, overtaking a bewildered looking old lady in a small old Toyota, and England allowed his head to loll with the movement, focusing on the sound of horns beeping and the pain that pulsed sharper in his chest with each violent movement of the car.

'You staying alive?'

'Doing my best.' England grunted. 'Where do you plan on taking us?'

'The national park near Luçon. I'm hoping to lose him in the dark once we get off the main roads.' France glanced in the mirrors again to check for their pursuers. The car wasn't right behind them but it was close and definitely following them, matching their every turn and lane change. France was pushing the car as much as he could without endangering any of the other drivers, changing lanes erratically to squeeze between vehicles and widen the distance.

'Why the fuck are they following us,' he muttered to himself, 'they've already shot at us and exposed themselves, why now follow us? What do they hope to do if they catch us?'

'Maybe they know,' England said, voice hoarse and so quiet that France had to strain to hear him over the noise of the car engine and the traffic around them, 'that we won't stay dead.'

The implications of what he'd said caused a breath to catch in France's throat as he realised immediately what England meant. 'They know somewhat what we are.'

England made a noise in answer and France swore again, slapping his hand uselessly against the steering wheel. 'This is too much England; God knows how many people know! We walked right into a fucking trap.'

'They knew more... than we thought they did.' England agreed. His breathing had grown erratic and he gulped at the air as he struggled to get it into his lungs. 'But they can't have known... that we came back for the case. It's been missing for too long for- for them to make a connection.'

'Then they must have seen us go to Amélie's house. Maybe they guessed we'd try and get some information from her? Maybe they'd even seen us go into the Assembly which tipped them off we were looking for them.' France was rambling, brain whirring as he tried to find some fact that was the connecting piece in the tangle of information from the day.

'We s-should have s-stayed in the hotel.' England wanted to stop his teeth from chattering, but forcing himself to stay alive when his body so desperately wanted to die was taking up too much of his focus.

'Yes well, I didn't know we would be chased if we tried to escape, now did I.' France replied irritably.

Despite himself England let out a small hiss of pain as the car jolted sharply once more. France appraised him properly, he didn't look like he'd last much longer. 'How long do you think you can stay alive for?'

England's jaw was clenched and every part of his expression looked as though it had clamped down, like he was using every possible muscle to focus on staying alive. 'Don't know,' he grit out eventually, 'keep talking to me.'

'I think you're stupid for getting yourself shot.' France offered instantly, a ghost of their usual exchanges, 'I think Wales should be thankful his jumper is finally being used for something more suited to its appearance.' He swerved, feinting taking an exit but at the last second pulled back on the road- it didn't work. 'I dread to think that if I die it'll be in your horrible clothes. I think that I must have been out of my senses when I agreed to your plans. And finally, I think we both need a long holiday after this.'

England chuckled before coughing wetly. 'We need to- to get out of France.'

'But we're right on the West coast.' France's voice went higher in panic and frustration, 'It's four and a half hours to Spain, seven and a half to Switzerland or six to Belgium- there's no way we can get back to England and if we're followed the whole way, we won't make it to anywhere on the petrol we've got left.'

His mind worked furiously as England sat uselessly bleeding to death in the passenger's seat, desperately trying to think of a way out. He actually felt fear in his gut for the first time in a long, long while. Pure, unfiltered terror coiled its way around his heart and he had to focus more and more on ignoring its presence, to think about anything other than what was happening to them and detach himself emotionally. He forced himself to listen to his body, to listen to years of life experience and turn on autopilot almost; body moving quicker and faster than his mind could keep track of as it worked on muscle memory born from over a thousand years of self-preservation.

It wasn't dying that he was scared of, nations quickly became immune to such a regular annoyance wrought upon their physical bodies -keeping hold of such a primitive fear only held them back- but the fear of facing an enemy on such equal ground was an unwanted new experience. He had no previous fights to help them through this, there was no way of knowing how the enemy would act when they knew just what they were chasing.

France felt the fear of being hunted, truly hunted like prey, for the first time in his long life. Witch hunts didn't count, invasions didn't count, revolutions and mobs weren't the same because people were chasing what they thought he was, what they thought he represented. They weren't chasing a witch back then, they weren't chasing a noble or a scholar or a heretic, they were unknowingly chasing the semi-immortal personification of France and this always gave him the upper hand. They didn't know he could be reborn, didn't know that he knew their names and their histories and their hardships and understood their anger and hatred of him, unreasonable though it was. They didn't know he could just disappear and wait for the dust to clear before making a reappearance tens or hundreds of years later when it was safe, when everything was okay again.

But these people, the people in the car following them, the people who had shot England knew exactly what they were hunting. They may have even shot England because he was England, and maybe were chasing them down the motorway because they were nations.

And that was terrifying.

AN:

Hey there! Quite a quick update from me this time, hopefully I do can that again for the next chapter. This chapter was very fun to write, I actually managed to pound out most of it in a day once it started to pick up the pace and it was a nice change to the relatively relaxed tone that's been the bulk of the story so far. If you've been with me from chapter one, I hope this was worth the weight of what the summary promised!

A few things before I fly off into the void again:

(1) According to the internet, Meriden is the centre of England. I have a long held headcannon that each nation likes to spend most of their time, when not working in their capital, as much in the middle of all of their people as they can get. I imagine that if anywhere, this is where England would plop his big fancy manor house that he likes to stay in when parliament isn't in session.

(2) A bit of time after the Normal invasion, the French used by the upper classes and the royalty (who used French as a mother tongue well into the middle ages) in England started taking on its own dialectual features, very different from those of the standard Parisian of the time. It also apparently had a very Anglicised accent and was mocked by the French nobility and thus helped lead to the increasing use of English (Middle English by this point) up the class structure as people started to feel more 'English' than French, even though there were indeed a good number of French families in England who continued to hold land in both countries since the invasion in 1066. It's my own personal headcannon that if he ever is forced into a situation where he has to speak French around France, England would speak standard French but with an accent from modern day Normandy as a slight dig against Francis. He is perfectly capable of speaking perfect standard French though, he just finds it amusing not to.

(3) This fic was actually supposed to take a very different direction, so I named human Francis 'Francis' so readers would know who he was. Now that we've ended up where we are, I regret ever doing so as writing about them both in even the same paragraph I always have to make sure I make a distinction and the writing feels clunkier than it would without this problem. So, sorry for that!

Well, that's all from me! As always, I hope you've enjoyed the latest chapter. Please do drop me a comment or a review, they really do warm my cold dead heart.