The Truth Comes Out

'Please, take a seat.'

England and France looked at each other before focusing back on the gun in Jean's hand. His hand was still and focused, pointed directly at England.

Jean gave a small smile. In any other situation, it would have been kind.

'Please. Don't make me ask again.'

He motioned his head towards the chairs again and England cautiously lowered himself into one, seeing France out of the corner or his eye do the same.

Jean nodded. 'Thank you. This will be so much easier if you comply.' He looked over their shoulders and nodded. Suddenly, England felt his hands being grabbed and forced behind him, rough cable ties tying them together and attaching them to the back of his chair. Deciding not to put up a fight, he allowed it and also did not resist when the same was done to each of his legs. As the person behind him backed away, he gently tested their give. They were tight but not completely restrictive. He could break out of them, but not without doing it conspicuously.

He maintained eye contact with Jean and sat straight with shoulders back watching him slowly settle more comfortably on the bed. Behind him, an electrical generator, hooked up to the lamps, whirred gently.

Jean nodded at whomever was behind them and they stepped out of the room, shutting the door as they left. He then clapped his hands together and beamed at the both of them.

'Well. I expected something but certainly not this.'

Neither France nor England replied. Jean didn't seem too put out by this. He nodded his head and gestured to the restraints. 'I'm sure you can understand why this has to happen.' The gun in his hand was fixed between the both of them, glinting with each slight movement. England resisted the urge to glance at it.

'Please believe me, I am not a violent man. Far from it in fact.'

France must have made some sort of face because Jean gave a small laugh, 'Ah yes, well. I am not intentionally a violent man. When pushed, I do what is needed and things sometimes go out of my control. This will hopefully not be one such time.'

He looked at England.

'Arthur, how nice to see you again.'

England said nothing.

Jean continued to smile.

'I'm aware that this isn't a situation either of you would like to be in. And I'm also aware that you're not willing to tell me anything. So, let's get this over with as quickly as possible.' He leant forward in an impression of ease and geniality. 'I know what you are.'

Neither France nor England said anything; neither moved. But by the way England could feel France tensing next to him, full of a restless nervous energy, England knew he'd figured something out. The missing link that somehow made Jean's involvement here make sense.

Jean's eyes flicked from one to the other, searching for acknowledgement, 'Rather, I know you're not human. I have proof you're not human. I also know that this information is not something you're going to want to be made public.

Still, neither spoke. Jean frowned. 'You're both making this incredibly difficult.'

Quickly, without warning, he stood and swung the butt of the gun, cracking it against France's temple. He gave a muffled cry of surprise and pain and slumped forwards heavily in his chair.

Jean sat back, regarding England's unmoving expression. England didn't glance at France, but out of his periphery saw him straighten back up.

'You're not new to these sorts of things, I take it.' Jean gave a short bark of laughter, 'Makes sense'.

After still no response, Jean shook his head and gave the two of them a thoughtful expression, 'How long would it take you to heal, I wonder? If I did worse, I mean.' Jean regarded France, 'Arthur here was shot only the other day, in the chest, I believe.'

He glanced back to England, at his chest. 'But it seems you're already fine. That's been recorded, you know.'

England fought to not let the cold chill of dread show as it flooded his body. Modern technology was nothing but a curse.

'Tell you what. Let's do an exchange.' Jean opened his arms, gun flashing in the light as it moved, 'I tell you something I know, and you nod yes or no. In return, you can ask a question.'

Still silence.

Jean sighed, 'I am being incredibly generous; you're not really in a position to argue.' He got up and crossed the room, out of the pool of light and into a corner. He retrieved something, before making his way back.

It was England's case.

This time, England couldn't help the flash of emotion at seeing it. He knew he'd slipped by the way Jean's mouth curled into something nasty.

'Yes, this. I have this. But you knew that, didn't you? It's what you came back for.' He sat back on the bed, case in his lap, and stroked the lip, 'I know that you both can't die. Or, rather, can't truly die. I know you can heal extraordinarily fast and recover from injuries no regular human can. You can live for years, centuries, without change. And this,' he bobbed the case on his knee, 'has something to do with it.'

He raised the gun and stroked the barrel along it, 'I wonder what will happen, if I were to destroy it. Would you die? Or would you turn mortal? I thi-'

'Burn it.'

England's voice cut across him. Jean paused, 'I'm sorry?'

'Burn it. Destroy it. Shoot it. I neither take kindly to blackmail, nor am intimidated by it.'

France coughed, twice. Short and sharp. 'Now Arthur, wait a minute. Let's not be too- ah, hasty, here. Do forgive him, Jean, I'm sure you're more than aware of how difficult he can be.'

England fought to keep the incredulity from his face before France almost imperceptivity tapped his foot against the floor, again twice.

Ah. Okay then. He recognised the signal for what it was. Go along with it.

'What? How can you say that?' He shot back to France without hesitation, pulling at his restraints. 'He's only going to get the information from us and then kill us, keeping the case anyway.'

'Ah, you would like to think so,' Jean cut in swiftly, 'I'm aware that killing you will only lead to you being born again.' He snorted, a half laugh. 'I'm not foolish enough to let you 'go' like that.'

England gave an incredulous laugh, 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'Don't mock me Arthur. Don't sit there and lie.' The last part was said in a drawled sneer. 'I know that this man here,' he threw a hand in the direction of France, 'I know this man was the same Francis from the home. I know that he died, and was reborn, somehow, as a younger man. I know that you, too, are able to do this.'

Bingo. Jean knows too much, but not the whole story.

'He's recorded you, Arthur.' France said, softly, 'This isn't like other times.'

'That could easily have been doctored.' England countered, ignoring Jean who watching their exchange silently, 'Children do that all the time these days. That isn't proof.'

'Maybe not on its own.' Jean let the comment hang for a second, letting it settle. 'But I have photos, a birth certificate; other things. More importantly, however,' He paused, glancing at them both, 'I have medical records.'

A silence, thick and strained, filled the room.

Jean grinned, sensing his advantage. 'Caught on, have you? A small benefit to my old employment.'

England's mind began racing, thinking over his own medical history, stored under lock and key in the British government buildings. Does Nation DNA change when they Reset? He had no idea, never thought about it; when he'd last been human these sorts of things weren't even dreamt of. Had anyone else considered this? If this was as bad it had the potential to be, then this could be a worldwide security breach. Either that, or he was more of a fool than he'd thought.

Thinking about where Francis could have left records only made him more horrified. Dentist records, blood tests, chests scans, x-rays; all would have a file somewhere, especially stored at the home. England had no fears for himself- his government could step in, refute it, and cover it all up. Even if it hit the internet there was no real proof- only one video of him being shot on a camera phone.

France, meanwhile, had no such support. No government. The process of reintroducing himself and proving that the accusations were actualy worth covering up would take weeks. Other nations would also need to be pulled in for verification and that was even if France were able to get out of here. Which, being tied to a chair, was currently highly unlikely.

That wasn't their only problem. Despite behing safe for now, if England died he'd be out of action potentially for 100 years and wouldn't be able to help either himself or France. Leaving his body here with Jean was also not an option.

He couldn't believe it. A human had them.

'I have the feeling that you're both willing to be a bit more cooperative.' Jean crossed one leg over the other and drummed his gun free hand on the case lid.

After the call from Wales, Scotland had excused himself and Northern Ireland from the UN sessions citing some business issues and had flown them to France on the first flight he could get. North had found, through England's bank records, that a credit card was last used in Luçon earlier that morning. With today's technology of contactless payments, there was no way to say whether England himself had made the purchase, but it was a lead.

This sense of accomplishment, however, was short lived. Whilst they were waitting to board their plane, North found something onlin: there, in wonderfully readable black and white in a prominent French newspaper, was a photo of his brother under the headline 'Care Home Kidnap'.

What a cunt.

England was a fucking idiot. A fucking inconsiderate prick who had stormed back off into a shit storm of his own making, leaving the rest of them to pick up the bloodied pieces and clean up the damage. He was such a selfish fucking arsehole; Scotland immediately lost of any sense of previous concern he had briefly had for his brother's wellbeing as it was swiftly buried underneath cold fury and hurried planning of how he, Scotland, was going to have to dig England out of the fucking shit pit and prevent this from becoming an international scandal.

Aside from that clusterfuck he was also furious at Wales, which was an odd enough occurrence that he didn't really know how to process it. Normally Wales was the one cross with someone else, if anyone was angry at all. Wales himself was sensible, logical, quiet, and caring- all traits Scotland silently admired. Reliable to a fault, Wales was not usually the fuck up of the family; England handled that title quite well without any help.

When North found that article, however, pushing the phone under his nose in panic, Scotland's controlled hold on his concern and serenity had imploded. Causing such a public scene and scandal as a nation was bad enough, but then to go back to the scene of the incident, when the public had access to all the wonderfully accurate modern technology that they had? And Wales had known and let him.

After an apoplectically furious phone call to Wales in an airport terminal, who had recently found similar information and was already in contact with the Prime Minister, Scotland had remained stony faced and white knuckled as they flew back to Europe, North sat as far away as he could get to avoid becoming the outlet for Scotland's anger.

Now in France, he was calm enough again to focus.

Wales had caught him up via email that during their flight that the PM was already in contact with the French government to let them know that a British 'agent' had become embroiled in French news. It wasn't the UK's business or right to reveal France for who he was, so instead they were going to play the politics card. Ban more printing of stories, reverse any warrants out for England's arrest, prevent news channels from mentioning it and readying a story from Britain's perspective, should anything break out back home.

That was the messy, admin part under control. Likely due to his mortifying part in this nonsense, Wales was working incredibly efficiently from the sound of things and Scotland trusted that his brother would be doing all he could to rectify the problem.

Panic and rage under control, Scotland could focus on the task at hand.

He'd hired a car upon arrival and bundled North, who had refused to fly back home and insisted on coming with him, inside to drive to Luçon. North was going to continue his online searching and fend off questions from other Nations whilst Scotland drove, which, begrudgingly, he had to admit was helpful. Being so accustomed to the internet did have its advantages, although he wasn't ever going to tell North that.

For Scotland, the worst-case scenario would be that England was in a morgue or hospital somewhere, awaiting dissection or unable to show himself as alive for fear of giving someone a heart attack or being kidnapped by a research lab. Without the French government knowing about nations, they couldn't rely on them for help, so if England was stuck somewhere then he would likely be struggling to get out of whatever pickle he'd found himself in.

Where France was, who the fuck knew. The fact that neither of them had called anyone, or tried to make contact in any way with the authorities was worrying and for the sake of his mental health and North's ability to sit in the same car as him, Scotland was resolutely not thinking about it.

If all went well, in around 4 to 5 hours they'd find England safe and sound and Scotland could happily beat the spit out of him.

Jean rebalanced England's case on his lap. There was a void behind his eyes, an emptiness; the sense of a man who had nothing to lose in battle and was winning.

'If you know as much as you do,' Began France slowly, 'then why on earth do you need us? What's the point of all of this? Go to the authorities and be done with it, tell the public, sell what you know; what more can we tell you?'

'I need to know why, know how. I am no fool, I know how crazy this is, how insane this will seem to people. I need proof, total, irrefutable proof. I need to know how this works, why it works, and all the ins and outs of things.'

'And that's because of Julien Durand, isn't it? Your grandfather.'

Instantly, Jean's lips pulled back, contorting his face. England looked shocked as the sight of it, so different from the co-worker he was used to. France pressed on, cultural knowledge easily available to him, 'His daughter was your mother. He killed me and they thought him mad. He lost all credibility and was deemed mentally unwell, not worth even thinking about.'

'He was trying to do what was right!' Jean stood, case falling to the ground with a muffled thump. England stared at it. 'He believed-no, knew that he'd found something! He didn't know enough, but he did what was right!'

France gave a dry laugh. 'Yes, killing me was right?' He looked Jean in the eye, 'He was a fool. A fool who was getting involved in far more than he could ever have known and it backfired. Is that what this is for? To avenge him?'

'You don't know what you're talking about.' Jean was furious now with a roiling fury, 'My family was ruined. His wife left him and my mother and uncle were raised to think of him as just that, as crazy, as something to be ashamed of, someone who couldn't even hold down a job for long enough to save any money. No credit, no credence, no future.' Jean breathed heavily, gulping breaths, 'He'd tell us stories of that case any chance he could get, of what he found, of what he tried to do but our whole family were disgusted by him, thought so little of him. Blamed him.'

Taking the opportunity of Jean focusing on France, England begin to work on his restraints. He was surprised that whoever was working with Jean hadn't come in to check on them when the shouting begun, although perhaps this was usual behaviour. A concerning thought in itself, had he attempted this before?

'Myself, Amélie and Charles all knew about that fucking case growing up, stories about it, about you'. This last word was dripping in venom and directed solely at France. 'Knew them as grandfather's silly stories but also knew how much he desperately believed them, was desperate to be taken seriously. It bled through our childhoods, infected everything and everyone like a poison.'

Jean's fists were clenched and shaking. 'Despite it all I had a decent life, a decent job. I was happy with my lot. And then you moved into the home.' His expression turned hateful, 'With that same name and fucking briefcase that I recognised immediately.'

Suddenly, he laughed, head tipped back. 'I couldn't believe it. Surely not, I thought, surely not. That would be too farfetched, too impossible. Not another one of those damn fucking things. All that time growing up, hearing about this man called Francis Bonnefoy and a case? Someone my grandfather considered worth killing, worth throwing away his life and the lives of his family for? A potentially immortal man? But there you were.'

Jean shook his head, almost as if he were in disbelief still. 'That's fine, I thought, perfect. I would try to open it, find out what was in it. Try to make sense of what drove Grandfather to do something so desperate for it. But it was locked, of course. Same as the one he'd kept all those years that he wouldn't let anyone go near. And you,' he looked France hard in the eyes, 'didn't know anything about it. Or if you did, you weren't going to tell me.'

He gave another short laugh, 'Again, that was fine. All I had to do was wait for you to die and then I could grab it up and take it away, compare the two. But then,' he swivelled round to England, who just in time stopped his efforts on his restraints, 'You showed up. Out of nowhere, and with that name. That same name. Then I knew it wasn't a coincidence, knew it wasn't something made up; a story. Whatever it was, it was real. It was real and there you both were.' There was a hungry quality to him, the way he moved and spoke, that sickened France to look at.

Jean stepped closer to England, back fully to France now. Out of the corner of his eye, England saw him pull his legs away from the chair and rub the cord of the cable tie that bound his hands up and down the pole of the chair back.

'I realised then that it must not be the case that was important, but you. Both of you. The case had something to do with it, oh yes, but that wasn't the real deal here. Grandfather was so close but he was looking in the wrong direction, focusing on the wrong thing.' Jean whirled round and grabbed the case from the floor, brandishing it before England. 'That's what I still don't know. What I need to know. Which is why I was serious about talking to the both of you.'

Suddenly, he was calm again. He shook himself, a small movement on the head and shoulders and a deep breath. 'Tell me what you are. Tell me how you work. I go to the government, and you help me clear my grandfather's and my family's name. That's all.'

That was never all. England knew that, knew mortals and knew this type of one too. You gave an inch and eventually the mile started to look obtainable too. Expected, even. There was no bargaining, no reasoning. His stance on this was always the same, one did not negotiate with criminals. No matter what they offered, no matter how promising it looked; the main thing you were negotiating was your respect, your pride and as soon as you struck a deal, you'd lost. You were malleable.

And this mortal in front of him, knowing what he knew, was dangerous enough without giving him more. There could be no second day of this, there could be no deals struck or agreements promised. No, there would be nothing. All they needed was a chance.

England had the beginnings of an idea. It wasn't a great idea and it was certainly a risk, but from what he could see it was the best they had. He hoped that France would catch on, 'Ask.'

Jean raised an eyebrow. 'Ask? Is that all? I must admit I'm surprise at your quick turn around.'

England shrugged nonchalantly as best as he could whilst tied to a chair. 'As you've said, there's not much we can do, is there? If that's the inevitable end I'd rather not make things more difficult for myself.'

Jean hesitated, suspicious.

'Obviously you're going to have to trust what answers I give,' England continued, 'But like you said, tou have proof, and proof that modern science cannot deny. The main reason you want us is to fill in the blanks and go with you when you present it. I'm willing to do that if, as you say, that will be all. We have to trust your word and you'll have to trust ours.'

'What's in here?' Jean asked quickly, mind seemingly made up for now.

'Arthur-' France, a note of caution in his voice.

'Items precious to the nation of England.' Ignoring him, England bumped his bound hands against the pole they were tied to, three quick jolts. He hoped France would recognise his own signal.

'Such as?'

'My turn.' England quickly considered the things he needed to know, prioritising them and filtering away ones that he could live without, 'Who else knows what you do?'

'Amélie and Charles. Although, I know you're both aware of what happened to them now.'

'Not the men outside?'

A small shrug, uncaring. 'They're hired. They didn't ask questions and telling them wouldn't have them respecting me enough to do what I wanted without question. They're well paid.'

How on earth do you have the money to hire them? England thought, but that was a question he could ask France later.

'Why are the cases important to what you are?' Jean asked next.

England considered his words. 'They help bring us back to ourselves, once we're reborn. We have a lot to remember; looking through old objects we've owned or are important to our lives in some way help us to remember faster. Come back to ourselves quicker.'

Jean seemed pleased with this, making a noise of interest, 'So, I was right; the case has nothing to do with your immortality.'

England shook his head. 'No, nothing.'

'When my grandfather killed Francis back then, he had caught you searching through French archives- seen you exchange a case.'

'I was looking for things to jog Francis' memory, he had done the same for me. Things lose their impact if they are used too often.'

Jean regarded the case again in his hands, its old cracked leather, 'Then, the one Francis had in the home was for when he died. You were there to take him away, hide him from medical authorities and show it to him.'

'Correct.'

'Sadly, I made that more difficult?' Jean chuckled. It was strange. They were discussing something so private, so unhuman, and Jean was suddenly acting how England remembered him from the home. Warm and unassuming and made all the stranger that they were sitting in Francis' old bedroom.

'It sped up the process.' England acknowledged, 'Where did you find my case?'

Jean looked down at it and passed a thumb over a worn clasp. 'When Grandfather confronted Francis, he was apprehended rather quickly. However, he did manage to hide the case in a small cupboard in the room before he tried to escape.' His face grew cold, 'At the time it was what made his stories the most unbelievable. Why go to all that trouble, and then just leave it there? But I now imagine that this…process… isn't something many know about. The case wasn't declared missing, because perhaps no one was looking for it.'

England could feel France looking at him, could feel his judgement and it pissed him off because there was nothing he could say in his defence. Jean was right, England wasn't looking for it. He'd had no idea his case was missing, had no idea France was murdered for that specifically. As far as he knew, it was safely stored in the French government somewhere, ready for when France needed to Reset him. Besides, even if a human found it there was nothing dangerous about it, nothing in there that revealed who he was or symbolised.

Yet, he couldn't stop the burn of shame run through him. Why hadn't he investigated more? Why hadn't he checked? But it was too late to do anything about it now and he wanted to kick that look from France's face.

'There was someone,' Jean continued, 'who my grandfather was good friends with on the security staff. This man believed that the case was my grandfather's and, after my grandfather contacted him, he managed to "return" it to my grandmother. When grandfather was released from prison, it was left amongst the other things of his that she'd abandoned.'

Jean let out a huff, patting the old leather top, 'he never could get in though, no matter what he tried. Why is that?'

'They're protected,' England began, 'they're bound to us. Only those with friendly intent who know what their use is for may open them.'

'Like magic? Do you expect me to believe that?'

England laughed and nodded his head to gesture to himself and then at France who was watching the exchange, hands now still. 'Is any of this believable? If you want a logical answer, I'm afraid I don't have one.'

Jean almost looked as though he was going to argue, but relented. 'It'll do, for now. As long as they open when I need them to, that's something I can work out with you later. Next question?'

'Why work together with Amélie and Charles just to kill them? They're your cousins, I assume.' England guessed.

Jean raised an eyebrow at England and said, archly, 'Well, I didn't kill Charles.'

England glowered at him. 'That was not my question.'

Jean waved a hand and inclined his head, seeming breezy and unconcerned. 'No no, I know. They were my cousins, yes. But I needed them as scapegoats, I suppose you could say. I offered Charles a job in the gardens and once a job opened up for staff inside, I mentioned it to him. I knew Amélie was unemployed and knew Charles would tell his sister.'

'So, you couldn't even be blamed for bringing them both here.'

Jean smiled, seemingly impressed. 'Exactly. They'd grown up with the same stories as myself; I knew they'd put two and two together in the same way. Once you arrived,' a hand casually flicked towards England, 'and I understood more of what I was involved in, I knew I needed to step back if I was ever going to be able to get a chance of getting close. I knew you'd be on guard for anything or anyone suspicious and so I knew I needed a cover, a distraction.'

'I would become interested in them, which would take my attention away from anything you were doing.'

'You understand my thinking perfectly,' Jean nodded, pleased, 'And it worked. As soon as Amélie arrived and found the case in Francis' room, she and Charles started thinking of ways to look inside it as much as I did. They became suspicious in exactly the same way. Even Francis knew something was going on, which lead to him becoming more paranoid and thus more medicated. All I needed to do was wait and watch.'

A quick glance towards France, who was looking slightly sick.

England thought of Amélie, how young she was. She didn't deserve the end that she got, betrayed by her cousin who had carefully spun and manipulated her along his own design- a mere means to an end. Although, at the same time she was a silly child who'd made a series of very silly mistakes. Actions had consequence, and although she didn't know exactly what she was getting herself into, she did indeed know enough of what she was doing that England didn't feel too sorry for her. She'd tried her hand in playing the game of nations and this never came without repercussions.

'You were staying with Amélie?'

'Yes. We weren't close, growing up.' Jean looked somewhat sad to admit this, 'Our family truly never recovered from what our grandfather did. We knew each other, but not enough for her or her brother to involve me in whatever they were planning. Which worked out fine for me. I just needed to know that they were doing something. So, when things started getting more intense I made up an excuse to stay with her and see if I could find out what they were up to to take advantage of it.'

England clamped his mouth shut, next question hot on his tongue but restrained himself. Don't push Jean too far, not yet.

Jean's next question came quick, 'Can I do this?' he gestured to both nations, 'What you do? Come back again?'

France and England looked at each other, wary. England, wanting to continue to divert attention away from France, sighed, making himself look torn.

'Well?' Jean sounded almost, desperate, England would say. Pleading.

'Yes,' he admitted, eventually, 'It is difficult-painful. Extremely painful but yes, it is possible. You may die in the process, but it can be done.'

'Well, that'd be convenient, wouldn't it? Don't worry, I'm not too interested in trying, especially not before talking to the authorities.'

The unspoken 'yet' fell heavy between them. Greed would get to him before too long, either that or the fear of death; it always did. It was one of the main reasons why very few humans knew of the nations.

England next asked a question that had been bothering him for a while, 'Did you have something to do with the staff becoming sick?'

'I did,' Jean still looked completely calm, no guilt for anyone else other than himself, it seemed. 'I wanted to give Charles and Amélie an opportunity, make it easier for them to find out or do something. With so many people about, you especially, I knew that'd be hard. And it worked, there were very few staff to distract.'

'How…?'

'The tea. Coffee. Whatever. A little bit of laxatives mixed with some strong over the counter medicines that would put someone down for a few days at least. We had to hire temps in the end.'

England thought back through his memories to the many times Jean had offered to make drinks for staff members, himself included. The cups of coffee he kept trying to make him drink. England had thought him kind, friendly. A concerned co-worker. He mentally kicked himself, he had believed his ability to read people was better than this.

'You,' Jean continued, a pointed look at England, 'were difficult. I didn't know about your healing abilities then but had a suspicion that whatever you are was preventing you from getting affected. But then you become unwell anyway.'

Kent. A rotten coincidence; terrible, perfect timing.

'I checked Amélie's phone; I knew when they were planning something. I took advantage of it- manipulated the rota on the night and "forgot" to hire adequate cover, then I went there myself. Unfortunately, you arrived back in time to prevent Charles from fully killing Francis.' Jean sighed. 'I was planning on cleaning up the pieces, offering my help to them and escaping with the body and the case. I'd hired a van and everything. Instead,' he glared at Arthur, 'You arrived back. Killed Charles instead. With the lack of staff, at least me and Amélie were able to clean up and smuggle his body out and to the family home in Luçon.'

'As a message for us?'

'Not entirely. It's out of the way and far away from the home enough to prevent police from searching there until they discovered that the gardener was missing and deemed it worth their time to investigate. But,' he inclined his head, 'you're right, also for you. If you went there following the same trail.'

'Why kill her? Why not use her to help you, after all wasn't it to help restore your family?'

'First,' Jean stopped him, holding up a hand. 'Why were you ill? If you can heal so well and not die, shouldn't you be immune to things like that?'

England thought quickly. 'We are still…human. We still age, and die. The only difference is our ability to return. We can heal well, yes, but we still get hurt. In the same vein, we can still become ill, but we recover faster.'

Jean accepted his explanation with a small incline of his head and a noise of consideration. 'But it wasn't the drugs?'

'It may have been. They may have affected me, disrupted my body in some way.'

Jean seemed satisfied with this. 'For your question, I needed someone to take the fall for what happened. Amélie had all the text messages on her phone, both of their fingerprints were on the case, hers on Charles' body. Our last names are different and, on the surface, I don't appear involved at all. I couldn't take the risk that she might speak, so I needed to get rid of her quickly. I hired men and continued alone. Planted one in each place you may visit, just in case we could arrange for a meeting with you in a less public way. We managed to track your movements t-'

Suddenly there was a loud snap and a burst of movement from France. Despite his legs still bound to the chair, his arms were free and he propelled himself towards Jean, hands outstretched.

Jean gave a yelp of surprise, dropping England's case back to the floor. France managed to reach his shirt and he grabbed hold, momentum propelling him downwards and dragging Jean with him. There was a fierce struggle, during which England gave a huge tug and broke the tie around his own hands, ignoring the sharp burning sensation in his wrists. He had reached down to tug his legs free when there was an almighty crack of a gun as the doors behind them burst open. Hands seized his shoulders, pulling him back flush against the chair.

'Stop!' Jean roared, 'Stop! Don't shoot him!'

England looked down to see Jean under France's prone body by the foot of the bed, angry red welts around his wrists and a gunshot wound blooming red and fast from between his shoulders. France's hands twitched and he made a choking sound, no doubt from the blood welling from his mouth as it flooded his lungs.

The room was still calm again, the only sound, aside from France dying, was Jean's heavy breathing as he struggled underneath France's dead weight. His face was thunderous. The hands on England's shoulders tightened, but he heard a gun being holstered behind him.

Jean pushed France off him with a grunt and stood, checking himself for injuries. Then, in a sudden burst of fury, he kicked France's side.

'FUCK!' he screamed, 'FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!' Each shout was accentuated with a kick, causing France's body to jolt. France's eyes were wide and panicked, suffering through death as much as any other creature would, but he was likely already dead by the first kick and wouldn't have been able to feel anything else.

With one last kick, Jean looked up back to England, furious.

'You planned this! You planned this all along, you areshole. We had a deal; we were going to do this like men!'

England couldn't help himself, he grinned. 'I'm afraid, Jean, that we are not men.' He looked down at France. 'You may as well chuck him outside. He'll decompose soon and will be born again where his case is. Which, I'm sure you've guessed, is hidden.'

Jean crossed the room in quick strides and punched England hard on the cheek. His head whipped back, stars popping in front of him. Leaning forward, he spat blood and a tooth at the ground. Jean punched him again, once more across the face and then hard in the stomach. England gasped as the air was knocked out of him, wheezing for oxygen.

'You bastard.'

England looked up, made himself ignore his gasping need for oxygen to look this human, this pitiful man in the eye. He grinned, 'Nice to finally make your acquaintance.'

AN:

Well.

Well.

If the You-Know-What that's causing worldwide havoc and mayhem is good for anything, it's good for getting me to write again. Only took three national lockdowns to prod me into activity…

If anyone is still about to read this, thank you. Thank you to new readers, who are still out there and have stumbled across this dinosaur and a bigger thank you to anyone who came back for this, who got a notification in their inbox and clicked it. I hope it made you happy to see.

There have been many points where I wanted to abandon this thing and just leave it as it was up till this point. But I've always said I will finish this story and finish it I will. Every year that passes I grow more determined and I improve enough at writing that I want to keep going, to keep pushing myself to get it done.

No matter what, this story will get an end and BOY are we close now.

As always, please do let me know that you're there by leaving a comment letting me know what you thought. I hope the build-up and suspense was worth it!

Much love and thanks, as always, 3

Heroes