Watching from the Woods

It was long past dark when France finally killed the engine.

After many hours of driving and near misses, he'd finally lost the car that was tailing them by pure accident and luck- some rowdy teenagers and good timing on a swerve on a roundabout was all that he needed.

Having no other place to go to, he had driven them to the forest by Luçon; bypassing the main entrances and the town itself he managed to drive them away from the main road and into a thicker part of the trees. He didn't really have anywhere to aim for, but allowed himself to listen to the senses which orientated him and allowed him the sense of his land and let centuries of survival skills take over. Aim for water. Get away from people. Plan the next move.

With England about to die there wasn't much they could do other than stop, and now that they were being chased by someone who probably knew far too much they couldn't stop anywhere obvious. If someone was willing to shoot at them through a hotel window during daylight there was no telling what else these people were willing to do.

Their escape was starting to catch up to him. The adrenaline had worn off long ago and he'd been running on the last of his energy reserves for longer than he'd care to think about. Raising shaking hands to run through his hair, France leant back in his seat, head tipped on the headrest and allowed himself a deep sigh through his nose before turning to look at England. Somehow, he was still alive; hardly there and probably not conscious he was slumped in the passenger seat unmoving and complexion ashen. His breathing was very shallow and he looked dead already but he was still alive, probably just from sheer stubbornness. He reached over and with his right hand brushed England's sweaty hair back from his forehead. His skin was morgue cold; bloodless.

'We're safe. You can go now, my dear.'

A small, barely audible, sigh was his only response as England breathed out one last time and his chest fell still.

France watched him for a while, face inscrutable, before climbing out of the car to inspect his surroundings. He'd driven them deep into the forest, following a dirt track that was only accessible to cars during the height of summer, towards where he felt a stream nearby. The water itself was still a way away and so from here they'd have to go on foot. Or, rather France would go on foot, England was most certainly being dragged.

Confident enough in their remote location that leaving the car wouldn't be an issue, France collected all of their things that he'd managed to take with them from the hotel, laid them by a nearby tree and then tugged a very cumbersome and heavy England out of the car and onto the grass.

'You need to be careful when you next insult America about his weight,' he said, hefting England awkwardly upright with his arms snaked under the Englishman's armpits and crossed over his chest, cringing when his skin made contact with the blood from the bullet wound, 'I now have very recent and first-hand knowledge that you're not all that dainty yourself.'

France dropped him none too gently by the bags and stripped him of most of his clothes, throwing the ruined remains of what had once been a Welshman's comfortable jumper into a bush and trying his very best to squash England's shoes into one of their bags. No sense in anything getting dirtier than could be helped, they certainly weren't going to be around a washing machine anytime soon, and he highly doubted that England would be happy with a pile of mud in his shoes. France was all too aware of the phases of death and it was a none-too-clean process, all muscles tended to relax most inconveniently and it was a testimony to their current relationship that France had the heart to strip him before the inevitable mess. Any other era and he'd have left him to fester in his own filth.

Any other era and he probably wouldn't even be a part of this in the first place.

He sighed. He knew that that wasn't true; despite their wars and arguments the cases and their resets were always a separate thing, a very personal and intimate stability in their otherwise tumultuous relationship.

After loading himself up with the bags, England's jeans tied around the straps and the stolen duvet still wedged underneath them, France began the journey to the stream which now seemed almost too far away to bother with, the dead-weight of his fellow nation making his arms grown weary and start to cramp in their awkward position. Although he knew where the body of water was, he couldn't see it- walking backwards meant that he often walked into branches and stumbled on wayward roots whereas England unfortunately got snagged on things quite a bit. By the time he got them there France was more than ready to leave England to his fate as he himself recovered on a comfortable looking pile of dead leaves.

England was unceremoniously dumped by the water's edge and left to the whims of his body clock whilst France backtracked a little bit to a sheltering (ish) tree where he placed their belongings. It would be a while before he'd see England again, despite the other nation being strong and healthy a hole going from his chest through to his back would take a bit of time to fix.

By his best guess, France had a good ten or so hours at the very least before England would gasp his way to consciousness again and he was determined to make the most of them. At least his injury, whilst serious enough to kill him, was only one entry and exit wound, there wasn't anything else that needed fixing and England as a nation was very much unharmed, so he would be able to heal his body quick enough for his death to not cause them a major problem or setback.

It was very late now, well into the early morning, and his tiredness was starting to weigh on him. France hoped that it would help him sleep at least a little that night. Years of soft beds and warm houses had, he was quite happy to admit, softened him considerably and the idea of a cold damp ground in a forest no longer served as his idea of a good sleeping place. He allowed himself a moment to lament his abysmal luck and then set about making a fire before settling himself against the tree, stolen duvet wrapped about his shoulders. He was lucky it was still summer.

A good many hours later, France was jerked awake by the sound of loud swearing and splashing. After about 10 minutes of this happening in intermittent bursts, heavy footfalls announcing the presence of England crashing his way through the bracken towards him. He stumbled into France's little clearing and found him hunched against the tree immediately, eyes locking onto him and narrowing in loathing.

'Y-you could've left me s-s-some fuckin' clothes you ba-ba-stard.'

He was damp, presumably from giving himself a probably painfully frigid wash down in the river France had so thoughtfully placed him next to; regardless of their current positive relationship France did not wish to stand vigil over England's corpse and wash him clean no more than he wanted to sleep on the hard ground in a forest, but at least by trying to sleep he had the chance to gain some benefit.

England's hands and feet were tinged a dark blue, as were his lips, but he was clean, the blood from his chest had been washed away to reveal shiny pink skin stretched over the recently closed bullet wound.

France peered at him over the edges of the duvet, eyes betraying his amusement. 'They would have been horribly damp by now; you should be thanking me.'

England looked as though he would rather do many things other than thank him, but instead concentrated on trying to find his clothes with the violent shaking of his body. Waking up from death, although it was never permanent and never for too long, was never something any one of their kind enjoyed. At best it was sporadic, the heart would sputter erratically before finding a rhythm and blood would shoot throughout the body, pushing open collapsed arteries and cold organs in an attempt to heat up something cold to a nice and functional 37C. In other, far less pleasant occasions, like right now, when the body was left in not so ideal conditions, this bumpy process to be anything close to smooth; England had been left outside over night and then he had willingly dumped himself into a frigid river, and so his body was angrily trying to heat itself up as quickly as possible, bypassing other important functions and body parts and using all the tricks it knew in order to bring his core temperature up quickly.

After watching the English idiot make a fool of himself and fail to accomplish anything other than knocking things over, France begrudgingly felt himself pity him and stood up from his cocoon, regretting it instantly as the cool air hit him and made the crick in his neck reveal itself painfully. Leaving the duvet crumpled by the foot of the tree France allowed himself a much needed stretch, rolling his shoulders back gently and pushing out his chest to pop his spine and giving a small noise of happiness at the feeling. England had watched him rise and was looking his way witheringly, silently ordering him to hurry up.

France somehow still looked as though his appearance was carefully planned, sleeping outside and curled upright against a tree had rumpled his clothes and dirtied them along with his hands and feet, but he still looked as though he'd intended that to happen. His hair was ruffled in an easy, lazy way and he only looked marginally tired, even if his face did need washing. England, meanwhile, felt quite as he looked: like he'd gone off on a weekend long pub crawl and then slept in a hedge.

France made his way over to the other nation, brushing him aside as he passed and easily rooted through England's bag, picking out a set of clothes at random. He pushed them into England's arms and then left him to it, disappearing off to the stream England had just come from to presumably freshen himself up as much as was possible with river water.

Clumsily, England made his way to a nearby bush and placed most of the clothing on the top most foliage for now to allow him better use of his hands; his motor skills hadn't returned enough yet to allow him to juggle putting clothes on whilst simultaneously holding the rest and remaining upright and he didn't really have the patience to try. His numb hands and fingers really weren't helping him either, he managed to put his underwear on and the pair of jeans without toppling over but had only just slipped one of his arms into his shirt by the time France came back, looking significantly more alert.

Tutting at him, France quickly stepped over and effortlessly coerced his other stiff arm into its sleeve and buttoned up his shirt, making quick work of what would probably have taken England another five minutes. Then, leaving his socks, shoes and jacket by the bush, France grabbed his wrist and lead England back to the tree he'd slept under, pulling the duvet around his own shoulders before he sat down, taking England with him.

He pulled his knees up either side of England, flinching at the cold clamminess of the other man whilst prodding him to pull his own knees to his chest, and pulled the duvet up, over and around their shoulders. After tugging it in place so that both of them were covered, he gave the edges to England, who, with his back flush against France's chest, immediately crossed his arms with them to cover his chest and lock the warmth in around them both.

With the two of them under the duvet and sharing body heat it was a lot warmer than it had been that night. It hadn't been a cold night, but it was still cold and if France hadn't been as tired as he had been then he doubted that he would have been able to sleep at all.

'How's your chest?' He asked, nudging England's head with his chin so that he would move it to rest a bit better against his collar-bone.

'Hurts.' England managed to grunt out, cold cheek pressed on France's chest.

Ideally, he should now be resting up in bed rather than roughing it out in a forest, and so when France started rubbing his hands up and down England's arms to help warm him and stop his shivering he didn't shrug him off, not only because it was helping to warm him faster but because in truth he was feeling just a bit sorry for himself.

'It could have been worse.' France said cheerily.

'Says the one who wasn't sh-shot.'

'Says the one who was still able to get you here in once piece, rather than in a sack.' France countered easily. He stopped rubbing to bring his hand up out of the warm to push England's fringe back and cup against his forehead, feeling for and finding the beginnings of a fever. He was warming, at least.

England pushed his head back, away from France's hand but deeper down into the covers. 'I'm warm inside now', he managed to mumble, 'jus' cold outside.'

France hmm'd in reply and went back to working some heat into England's arms, sides and chest, careful not to brush over the area near his heart with too much force.

'Do you remember it all?'

England didn't reply verbally at first but nodded stiffly once against France's chest, then elaborated further when it became apparent that the other nation was waiting for an answer.

'We were shot at in the hotel, 'n' I got caught in the chest. We got in the car and you tried to drive us away, but we were chased.'

France noted that England said that they'd been shot at, which was interesting. Did he not considered himself to be the main target?

'Did someone try to shoot at me as well?'

England frowned in concentration. 'There was two of 'em. Two windows down, but only one shot.'

Hmm, interesting. Maybe they hadn't been aiming for England himself after all, maybe just at the two of them in general.

'Where are we now?'

'The national park, near Luçon,' answered France. 'And I've been thinking, we may as well visit Amélie's brother, Charles Lavoie whilst we're here.'

England tensed and tried to twist his head to look him in the eye. 'I thought- weren't we trying to get away from this?'

'We should,' France agreed, 'but do you have any better ideas?'

England thought for a moment. 'If we try and go anywhere, we have the chance of being found again so that's a risk regardless of what we do. With that in mind we should try to get to your government; it's pretty apparent we're in over our heads here.'

'Oh? What happened to that being a bad idea?'

England scowled but was too tired to give him more than a 'shut it' as an argument.

France grinned but decided for his own safety that it probably wasn't worth continuing. 'I agree. Without phones or any other means of communication we're too cut off, but I am hesitant in returning straight to the government. After all, we don't know when or where it was that we picked up the tail.' It could have been the government, Amélie's house, or even from when they'd got on the Eurostar- the fact that they didn't know anything about who had attacked them made France uneasy.

'Might as well try and see Charles then first.' England shut his eyes. 'What a fuck up.'

'I can't think of any easy solution out of this either.' France had been thinking on this particular problem for a while and no answer he came up with seemed very good. 'As it is, we're either caught or somehow manage to get to Belgium or cross The Channel, but if we lose them now then it's unlikely they're willing to stick around after they've already tried and failed to kill us.'

England tutted. 'Especially if they know what we are, they surely must then know that there'll be far greater repercussions if they're caught than if we were we merely human.'

'What worries me the most,' France ghosted his hand above the new, tender skin on England's chest, 'is that they attacked us potentially fully aware of that. These are obviously not people to underestimate. If we do escape unharmed then the problem persists and could spiral into something worse involving other people- other nations, potentially. We can't risk the possibility that they know everything about us, down to what we are and how we operate and they may know that.'

'Maybe. But, whilst they may know what we are, they don't know us personally.'

'You're saying we should go after them directly?'

'No...' England mulled over his words before he elaborated, 'but I don't think we should go on the complete defensive. They know we're after information, so we should try to get it before they make it more difficult to obtain. The fact of the matter is, we don't know what they know. Nothing that's happened so far could be linked.'

'Or, it all could.' France shifted against the tree and adjusted his legs into a more comfortable position. 'There is too much that is linked for this to be a coincidence.'

'Either way, I still think that going to the government is our best course of action after all that's happened, but we should try to find out as much as possible and narrow down as many variables as we can before we do.'

'I agree.' France felt England relax more against him. 'What about your brothers?' Being part of a union meant that although they wouldn't know why, the other members of the UK would at least know that some sort of grave misfortune had befallen one of them, there was then a chance to getting some outside help.

England however, understood what France was implying and shook his head. 'They probably know something happened but there's not much they can do. 'S far as I know Scotland's in talks with the UN somewhere, North may be somewhere with Ireland or at home and Wales is probably sitting feeling smug but without a phone...' England trailed off. 'Well, they can't exactly give us a ring and find out what happened, can they.'

'But they know something has happened.'

England shrugged. 'If that's how you want to look at it.'

They stayed quiet after that and remained pressed together tightly until England had stopped shaking and could once more feel his hands and feet.

'I was supposed to have reset.' He said, voice distant and quiet, as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone in particular.

France was almost about to fall back asleep again, but was instantly awake. 'What?'

'I'm due one, it seems.'

France racked his brain, struggling to try and think of the last time England had had his stint at being human. 1800s? No wait, before that... it couldn't have been anywhere around the 1600s, he'd been too busy starting to pillage and conquer to allow himself to enjoy a mortal existence. Late in the 1700s then, perhaps?

'We're all probably due one,' England continued, 'so much has changed even in the last hundred years that we're all a bit out of touch- Francis' lifespan being one example.'

'How could you tell that you...' France floundered. 'why do you think that?'

France felt England give a small shrug. 'I know it was time; it was very hard to stay, I guess. You're dead but still there, but this time I had to actually think about staying.' He ran out of words, language not really enough to describe what he intrinsically knew. 'I knew it wouldn't be a good idea though, not right now.'

France huffed. 'Well no. I, for one, would have to deal with your government and also reintroducing myself to mine, whilst at the same time being embroiled in a murder inquiry.'

'Don't forget that someone is still trying to kill you.'

'Oh yes, that too. How could I have let that slip my mind.'

England chuckled and then coughed, lungs not quite ready.

France helped him sit up a bit higher and rubbed his back. 'This isn't something we need right now. One more hit on you and it'll be even harder to fix this mess if you actually stay dead.'

England continued to cough and try to wrangle his breathing back under control, but shook his head.

France tutted in annoyance. 'I doubt that you'll be able to put it off for long, it's not something that you can simply avoid.' He sighed and leant back against the tree. The gap between them had filled very quickly with cold air, and once he stopped struggling to breathe France pulled England back down again and covered them both back up. 'This is going to make things a whole lot more difficult, you know.'

'Dreadfully sorry.' England did not sound in any way sorry. 'Next time I'll just die better, shall I?'

France gave him a smiling kiss to the temple. 'You could always learn to die better, you are never very pretty when you do so.'

England elbowed him in the gut and leant hard against him on purpose. 'I cannot wait to not have to see your face again after this.'

France huffed at him. 'You would miss my shining example of poise, culture and beauty before too long.'

'Would not.'

'Oh! Think of how boring your life would be without me to enhance it, for example, consider that nice long holiday we'll go on after all of this blows over. Southern France, by the beach and in the sun...'

'You can sod off, I'm going home.'

'Back to your rainy lump in the sea, of course my dear. I shall not join you.'

'Thank fuck for that.'

As much as England didn't want to, he knew they needed to get moving and so after a few more minutes of, dare he say it, companionable silence and allowing himself to become warm with France as a personal body heater, he forced himself upright to go off in search of his socks and a jacket.

France made a noise of unhappiness at the loss of warmth but stood too. There was no point in keeping the duvet now, so he left it on the ground; hopefully they'd be able to either find somewhere warm and inside to sleep that night or they'd be in the car. He felt uncomfortable leaving litter behind in his woods, but he'd done worse in the past.

He managed to pack up quickly and by the time he was done England was fully dressed, bag slung over one shoulder and waiting for him impatiently, looking healthy once more apart from a slight flush to his cheeks. Before too long England was throwing their bags in the boot of the car and France was turning up the heating as far as it would go, until England started to complain about him wasting petrol.

After a quick fight over who would be paying the cleaning bill on the rental -England had left a sizeable blood stain in the passenger seat- they were trundling through the woods.

Wales was watching a late night omnibus of Emmerdale (1) in London when he felt England die. It was hard to describe exactly what it felt like, but Wales liked to imagine that it was something akin to suddenly realising that your watch strap had broken and was no longer on your wrist, or the sudden panic that your phone was no longer in your pocket. That feeling of realisation, of oh shit, that happens just as your mind connects the lack of physical feeling with the sudden, intense quick burn of panic would probably be the most accurate, Wales thought. He unquestioningly knew that first of all, one of his brothers had died, and secondly, that this time it was England.

He sat in his chair and frowned at England's TV, trying to will away the concern that had inevitably started to bubble in his stomach. That idiot. He told that English prick to stay here, hadn't he, that it was stupid to go back to France but no, he had to go himself like the control freak that he was. He couldn't just wait, he had to do things now, regardless of anything or anyone else like the stubborn twat he was. Well, Wales was fed up with it all. Fine, whatever, it wasn't his problem.

He concentrated on the TV and, to be extra spiteful, put his feet on his brother's coffee table. He was borrowing the flat still, Scotland had left for the UN meeting in Mexico a few days ago and had taken Northern Ireland with him, leaving Wales to oversee proceedings in London. He tried not to feel bitter about being left behind, Scotland was a far better diplomat that he was after all, and Wales didn't even really like travelling, but still. It would have been nice to have been considered.

Wales had just got back into the programme and was considering finally going to bed when Scotland rang. Looking at it in trepidation of more bad news, Wales paused the TV and picked up.

'Hello?'

'Do you need any paperwork sent over or do you know where it all is?'

Wales blinked stupidly before it clicked what Scotland was referring to. So much for a, hello Wales, how are you? Sorry for calling you so late, I hope you weren't sleeping. Arsehole. 'I know where it all is, thank you.' He said instead, curtly.

'Just asking, no need to get pissy.'

'I am not pissy,' Wales retorted hotly, 'but you do know what the time is here, don't you?'

'Ah fuck off, I knew you'd be awake, that Emmerdale thing is on.'

Wales felt his cheeks heat up. 'That doesn't mean anything.'

He heard Scotland give a bark of laughter. 'Like hell it doesn't!'

Ignoring both the sound of Northern Ireland saying rude things about him in the background and Scotland's comment, Wales said, 'I will get what I need from the office tomorrow, there's not much I can do tonight.'

'Yeah alright, but might be worth cracking on with it now before the medical teams get involved, don't you think? What happened anyway?'

Scowling, Wales said angrily, 'I am fully capable of taking care of this myself, thank you very much, I don't need your input.'

'Fine, I'll leave you to it then.' Scotland paused. 'You alright?'

'What?' Wales was thrown off slightly by the question. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Shit, I dunno,' Scotland sounded very awkward and Wales could imagine him cracking the knuckles on one hand like he always did when he was thinking too hard about what to say, 'you just don't sound... concerned, I suppose.'

'There's nothing to be concerned about.' He said defensively. 'Must I always worry myself stupid when one of you does something idiotic? Since when did I become the bloody nursery maid?'

'Aye, alright, calm down.' Scotland said placatingly, 'No need to get your knickers in a twist. Speak to you soon.'

Wales just heard the faint 'Enjoy the omnibus!' from Northern Ireland before he cut the call and dropped the phone on the sofa in irritation. He stared at it angrily before realising that he hadn't told Scotland that England wasn't actually in the UK anymore. Ah well, if England ended up in a morgue in France there wasn't the need for Wales to intervene to stop a death record being created if they didn't know who he was, after all. England had left all but one of his credit cards behind and presumably wasn't wandering about with his passport. Feeling a little bit better, Wales turned his attention back to the TV and hit play. One more episode couldn't hurt.

Charles Lavoie lived in what France explained to be the old Durand family home. It was large and situated in a quiet area and detached from its neighbouring houses by a reasonable sized garden. France parked a few houses away. He'd first driven past once to make sure there weren't already visitors and once satisfied they were alone he'd settled them on a side street and killed the engine. There, he could watch both the road to Charles' house and the way which led to the forest.

'We there?' Blearily, England sat up straight from where he'd been sleeping, sprawled across the back seats.

'Yes but shh, don't move for a while.'

'Why do I need to-'

'Shh!'

'Oh, fuck off.' He gave France the two fingered salute and slumped back down again, shutting his eyes.

France had tensed at a car which had appeared from the the road in front of the house and stared hard at it, trying to memorise as many details as he could just in case they were needed.

Still laying down but with eyes now wide open, England asked quietly, 'What can you see?'

France didn't move. 'Just a car, but I'm waiting to see if it comes back again. It came from near the house.'

After a few minutes, a soft and murmured, 'Fuck.'

'It's back?'

'Yes,' France muttered, 'back towards the house.'

'Same car as yesterday?'

'No.' France clucked his tongue in irritation. 'If it is the same people I'm sure that they wouldn't be that obvious.'

A few more moments passed in silence. England stared at the sunroof and listened to the sound of France's controlled breathing through his nose. He was left waiting for over half an hour before France was satisfied that the car wasn't coming back, but despite this assurance they still made their way to the house without speaking, both on the lookout for something suspicious or hostile.

They did not stop, but walked confidently. Throughout their lives, they had both had the need to evade capture or infiltrate somewhere enough times to know that the best way to avoid detection was to act as if what you were doing was completely normal. Trying to be overtly careful or cautious would give them away more so than if they waltzed up and banged on the door. However, if this place was under watch then it was being watched for them; regardless of their acting skills if they were seen by those who knew what they were looking for there then they were walking into very real danger.

England was not scared of death. He had died too many times in too many ways for him to harbour any trace of the primal terror surrounding his own mortality that humans have. Still, he did not like dying. Dying still hurt just the same as if it were to happen to a human, he felt it no less and tried to avoid it as much as a mortal man would, though perhaps for different reasons. Death was not an end for their kind, death was a mere painful inconvenience which meant that England was out of action and more vulnerable on the world stage for however long it took him to revive again. Jobs could not get done, political decisions could be passed without his consent, his affairs could be sorted and decided without his knowledge or against his wishes and these were sometimes things he could not fix. In peacetime death was irksome, in wartime death could be disastrous. But this was the first time that he could remember where he was actively conscious of wanting to stay alive for no other reason than he didn't want to die.

He was not immortal by any means, the ancients like his own mother, Rome or Egypt were a testimony to the nations' version of true death, but today he was aware of how close he was to a reset. This added an odd layer of humanity that he hadn't experienced before. He knew full well that if he were killed now England the nation would not die. The body housing the spirit of the English nation and his own consciousness would momentarily cease to be, but England itself would construct a new body in due time and Arthur the person would once again be aware and alive and healthy. But now he felt more semi mortal, more human, more close to that strange line between life and death, than he ever had before.

If he were to die now, he would reset. If he reset now, at a time when a part of England's consciousness was collected and bound up by a few priceless artefacts and in the hands of a knowledgeable, informed human enemy, it could affect more than just Arthur the man, it could affect England the nation and that made dying dangerous. Knowledge was always power and the knowledge of nations was a powerful piece of information indeed; England felt uncomfortable that a human, not even one of his own choosing, was made, in a way, equal to him by knowing what they knew.

He was trying his best not to think about this, and how exposed it made him feel, when they finally climbed the steps to the house and France rapped smartly on the door. As seemed to be their luck, there was no answer.

France rapped again, then rang the doorbell on the side of the door, before tutting angrily. England hovered on the step behind him, covertly looking from out of the corner of his eye at the garden surrounding them and shuffling his bag to sit better on his shoulder. They'd taken their bags with them this time, a precaution for if they needed to run again.

'Windows are all shut up from what I can see of the front, but there's a car in the driveway.'

France glanced back around at him before fixing his attention once again to the door, grabbing the handle and trying to twist it. 'Locked...search for a key?'

It wasn't until England was looking under the hedge alongside the steps that he belated realised that he normally would have argued with being ordered about, especially by France of all people. France himself did seem slightly perturbed by England's out of character behaviour, throwing him a small look with a raised eyebrow, watching him shuffle about a bit before going down on one knee to check the other side.

'So much for being inconspicuous.' England quipped after some time.

'Nonsense.' France said, although he did stand back up again, brushing the dirt off from his jeans. 'If I hadn't have joined you anyone watching could have easily assumed that a grubby troll was crawling about in the bushes.'

England scoffed but didn't offer anything else. Suddenly, he sat back on his hunches. 'Wait, do you smell that?'

'Smell what?'

England didn't say anything, but looked steadily at a vent about a foot above ground level.

Slowly, France turned his attention back to the door and to the letter slit halfway down. He got back on the top step, then reached out and lifted the flap, leaning in close.

This turned out to be a big mistake. Immediately, putrid air assaulted his nose and before he could stop himself he gagged on reflex, throwing a hand across his mouth and nose to stop himself from vomiting. It was so strong that England caught a whiff of it and looked horrified at France, eyes wide and mouth agape. 'How the fuck did we not notice that?!'

France said nothing, still doing his very best to not be violently ill in someone's shrubbery, but shook his head furiously, eyes screwed up tight and watering. The sweet, sickly smell of death was one they knew all too well, and whoever was inside had certainly been dead for quite some time.

While France was still collecting himself, England continued to search and finally got lucky, finding a large rock under the hedge by the wall of the house that covered a spare key. Bracing himself, he stood, walked up to the door, and took a deep breath in before slipping the key into the lock and swinging the door open.

France had luckily been watching, and so had the time and foresight to take in a breath of his own and pull the neckline of his shirt over his nose. He watched as England baulked when the full force of the smell inside hit him but he pushed himself in the house without waiting for France to catch up.

Hand clamped over nose, England tried his best to keep walking and, despite what he really wanted, to keep breathing normally. The quicker he adjusted to the smell, the easier this would be. Just as with Amélie's house, all the curtains were drawn and the house was dark and quiet, air still and heavy with a deathly silence. As he proceeded further into the house, through a hallway and into a sitting room, he heard the front door shut and France coming up from behind, and stopped to check that he was alone.

He was. The other nation still had the collar of his borrowed shirt around his nose and England rolled his eyes at him before removing his own hand from his face and taking an experimental breath in. After swallowing deeply and forcing himself to keep breathing, he was okay enough to continue without.

Amélie's brother was quite obviously dead. He too was sat on his sofa, like his sister had been, though his placement looked more unnatural and forced. A big man anyway, with wide shoulders and a stocky body, he was now bloated and misshapen with marbled skin, indicating to both nations how long since he'd died. There was a gunshot wound to his chest, a direct hit upon his heart, and when he saw this England grimaced and gave his head a small shake. Out of the corner of his eye he saw France step into the room, giving himself a fair bit of distance from the body and look his way questioningly.

'It's the bloke I shot, at the home.' England explained. 'The one I caught trying to kill Francis. He wore a mask then, but the clothes and build are the same, as is where I shot him.'

France glanced at the man on the sofa and frowned, blue eyes hardening.

'And now I'm sure he's the one I kept catching watching him, during that last week or so.'

'Someone broke into his room too, through the window.' France's voice was muffled and he reluctantly exposed his face to talk clearer. 'Only someone with a key could have had access; now we know who.'

England pulled his lips into a thin line. 'Assuming Amélie and Charles worked together, they must not have trusted me, to have started to act so blatantly after I left.'

'Amélie acted no different.' France brushed some hair behind his ear and let out a sigh. 'Unless there was someone else. He must have known something about you to act so obviously once you were no longer there to stop him.'

Well, this was just getting better and better. There must have been a major leak of information at some point. The biggest worry for them currently was when.

England reluctantly voiced this concern and France shook his head in frustration. 'Maybe from when I was shot 89 years ago, or when you started working at the home; either way people knew far more than they should have.'

France kindly didn't state outright that he was to blame for this whole situation, and for that England was grateful. Although there was nothing he knew of that he had done to arouse suspicion working at the home, he knew that there must have been something that had given him away. This, in part at least, must be his fault. The attacks on Francis happened properly once England had left; they'd known he was a threat.

'We can't assume anything other than what we can prove.' England avoided France's eyes on him and glanced at the body on the sofa. 'What we do know: I shot him dead.' England lifted his hand to gesture at the bullet hole which had torn through the man's thick clothing, letting his hand fall back weakly afterwards. 'Seeing as he did not walk here, someone picked him up and brought him.'

France walked over to stand beside him. There were no other visible wounds of Charles Lavoie's body; England's shot was all that was needed to kill him. 'He looks as though he's been dead for that whole time frame, certainly. Unless, of course, you aren't as good a shot as that.'

England elbowed him hard in the side and continued on as if there hadn't been an interruption. 'We also know that Amélie would not have been able to carry him here on her own, especially not if it was only the two of them involved; the few other carers there would have intervened.'

'Unless they were also involved.'

'Unless they were also involved.' England conceded. 'So, what we can ascertain is that she had help from the entire shift there that night, or that there is a third member. Lastly, he was driven from the home and then placed here.' England turned to France. 'The body wasn't hidden away or dumped, Francis. It was placed. And I can think of only one reason why one wouldn't immediately dispose of a corpse.'

France looked away from the rotting body to England and underneath his calm exterior, England could see that he was worried. 'They want him to be found.'

England felt for a moment as if time had stood still, his ears straining to hear any unaccounted for noise and body held taut, ready to attack or run. 'We need to get out of here, now.' His voice was quiet, but the adrenaline now pumping through his veins gave his words a steely edge.

France swallowed and gave a curt nod before switching to Latin. ' We're probably being monitored. '

England felt like kicking himself. 'We didn't even check when we came in, the whole place could be bugged.' He answered in Cornish and was rewarded with the small pleasure of France twisting his mouth and frowning as his brain jumped languages. (2)

'Then, I think we should take a little turn in the garden. The back to the woods and wait.' Breton from France now, soft and silky.

England nodded and indicated that France should go first, he would follow. France didn't give any response, he turned and casually walked through the sitting room and to the kitchen where he probably found a back door, the soft clicks of one being opened and closed filtered back to England in the muffled silence. He scanned the room quickly, just to see if there was anything there that could be of any use of help to them. He would've liked to have searched the house, but he consoled himself with the the fact that the most important answer had been found. This whole situation was connected to the family of Durand, no doubts now. Seeing Charles again also helped clear up the questions of who'd been watching Francis at the home and how they'd managed to gain access to the buildings, but rather than answer anything more, coming here had just given them more questions that they had no way of solving.

All of a sudden, his eyes landed on a plug socket by the armchair in the corner of the room; a phone charger and cable were sitting above on a small side table. No phone, that could be on the body and England didn't have time to check. Inwardly crossing his fingers that it was an Apple one, England strode over and grabbed the charger before whirling around and making his way out of the room, after France, and not sparing Charles Lavoie a backwards glance.

As he flung open the back door leading to the garden, he heard the soft sound of another door, behind him and further inside the house, clicking shut.

AN:

Wales, you shitbag.

Boy, I'm churning out these updates faster than I ever have done before, what nonsense is this?! As always, thanks very much to all of my readers, this is quite a bit to get through! A big thank you to all who favourited and or followed, and an even bigger thank you to those who left me such lovely comments.

I see Wales as usually the least likely to get offended and the least likely to lose his temper, but probably the most likely to hold a grudge or stay angry for the longest out of all of them. Scotland and England are the family hot heads who are quick to get angry, especially at each other, but burn out rather quickly, whereas North just wants to pretend he isn't related to any of them.

After some critique, I have rewritten chapter one as honestly it was pulling this down a bit, I'm happy to say I've improved a lot since then, and I'm going to be going through the other chapters to tweak certain facts and make things a lot clearer. Any critique or questions, please don't be afraid to say so!

I look forward to seeing to all again soon; thanks again for reading!

(1) Emmerdale is a British soap opera that's apparently quite good, but not as popular as its fellow and more well known soaps like Coronation Street or Eastenders. It's got more of an older crowd fan base and I see Wales as this very mellow and soft old man wrapped up in a young person's body.

(2) Personal headcanon that England really does not like speaking Latin or French, if he can help it. Linguistic lesson time! After having English squashed down and looked upon as a lesser language for centuries, by main European powers (Mainly France and England's own nobility) English was seen as the language of the common man, uneducated and unrefined and not worthy with its harsh sounding, short words. French was the model language in Europe for hundreds of years, especially around the Renaissance period and long before that, with it's long words and Latin based grammar. Lots of quirks in English grammar and English spelling today can be blamed for this, even up until the Victorian times where they tried to stretch and fit English to a more French or Latin language grammar, like not using a double negative (which was/ is acceptable in most English dialects and many other languages) and splitting the infinitive (not possible in Latinate languages, very possible in English, e.g to boldly go.) I like to think that as soon as his kings started to speak English as a mother tongue he dropped Latin and French as fast as he could and is loathe to return.