Remember to Breathe

Before the embassy people had arrived, France had 'silenced' the man England identified to him as having seen a bit too much to be comfortable and with Scotland's help, removed both him and Jean to the washroom to rest with the other dead.

England's case was nowhere on the campsite. At least, nowhere that Scotland could see. He checked the washrooms, the cars, the van- everything. England, after checking up on France, had then properly sifted through the motorhome in case Jean had been foolish enough to leave it there with him, but no luck. They both might have missed it, but either way if it were here then it could be found by the British Embassy folks during their clean-up and if it wasn't- well, England would have to get over it. It would either turn up somewhere or it wouldn't, there was no point sulking and brooding over it now.

Not that the British Embassy liked being the political cleaning service for their nations. England would like to say that usually he and his brothers were very calm, mature people who went about the world very professionally and needing no help in maintaining this persona.

Sadly, this wasn't the case. Things happened, fights occurred, and every now and again someone had to be scraped out of a foreign jail and paperwork filed for 'damages'. So, they had a special department for such things, people who knew what they were and knew best about how to keep them hidden and flying under the radar of international public scrutiny. Every nation had something similar working with and for them, dotted about various embassies and government buildings to work with the local authorities and within local rules to keep things ticking over smoothly.

That didn't mean that this department had to like it though.

About an hour after Scotland rang them their people arrived and swiftly began doing what they did best- fixing whatever England and his brothers had put wrong. The man Scotland had kindly run over with his car wasn't quite dead- he was alive but semi-conscious and hadn't moved too far off the road from where he had last been seen (being hit by a car did somewhat hinder one's ability to move very far). He was collected without fuss into a non-public medical van the embassy had brought with them and kept there under observation whilst the medical team began rounding up everyone else.

Alongside this, England and his brothers had a brief but thorough chat with a very unimpressed officer about what else was needed and why; not only was there the very messy issue of the campsite to contend with, but England and France had left their bloodstained rental car outside the Durand family home and that had most likely attracted some form of attention by now. Then, after running through directions, details, and other potential problems, they were given keys to a new rental car and allowed to leave after promising they'd be heading back to the embassy in Paris the next day.

Scotland did most of the talking. England was far too tired to argue or to properly conceptualise any next steps that were needed and the only emotion he found distinguishable from bone aching tiredness was deep gratitude. Now that everything was being handled by someone else, and someone else who England trusted to be competent, there was no panic or worry to keep him alert and he was finding it increasingly difficult to stay conscious, let alone remain focused on conversations enough to be able to provide intelligent input.

France was very much the same. He hadn't spoken much more since the motorhome, not even when North had laughed at him for his ridiculously baggy stolen clothes. The location of France's own things was a mystery- perhaps they had been abandoned at the care home or chucked out of the window as they'd driven here- who knew. Technically they were England's clothes anyway, so France wasn't too bothered.

The most France had done was rummage through Scotland's luggage before they set off and triumphantly pull one of Wales' jumpers out from his suitcase to take for his own.

'If I ever insult the lovely Wales' fashion choices again, please remind me of this moment.'

It was a horribly garish thing, mottled with splashes of bright red and blue. It was entirely the sort of thing Scotland would also eye up and steal. Terrible looking though they may be, Wales' jumpers were, somehow, always the most comfortable and he was frequently annoyed with his siblings for taking them if he left them anywhere for too long, which he often did.

'We all know that as soon as you get back to your own clothes you will conveniently forget this conversation.'

France ignored England in favour of pulling the jumper over his head and giving a long sigh of contentment.

'Go on, hurry up,' Scotland pushed past him to the driver's door, causing him to stumble forwards, 'chuck England something to cover the blood and get in the car already. I'm leaving with or without you in five minutes.'

Although they now had the backing of the embassy to explain any erratic and untoward behaviour concerning the general public, England did look particularly horrific and it probably wouldn't end well if they waltzed in looking as they did. There was a high chance someone would panic and phone an ambulance which was the last thing anyone wanted- hospitals were always risky for semi-imortal beings as they were and drawing more attention to themselves at the moment wouldn't be wise.

Because of this, England before too long thankfully found himself in a hotel lobby wearing an extremely large green monstrosity he was most certainly not going to give back later. (1)

Someone, probably not Scotland because the place looked comfortable and Scotland was always the most careful (England preferred the word stingy) with money out of them, had arranged a hotel for them in Le Mans. It wasn't anywhere too extravagant but it was a bed each and that was more than enough for England right now. It wasn't even that late in the evening but all he could think about was going to sleep somewhere and being left very much alone.

Sadly, he wasn't given that luxury. As soon as they'd checked in and avoided the suspicious eyes of the hotel staff, Scotland had bullied him into his room and through to the bathroom. He'd requested that the embassy bring additional medical supplies with them and whilst England was pulling off the top most layers of clothing he unpacked them on his bed, picking out what he thought they'd need.

'It's not too bad,' England called out to him from the bathroom, giving up on his top completely and cackhandedly cutting his way free with a pair of medical scissors. In the room next door, he could hear the sound of a shower turning on- France must have jumped straight in, 'it'll be fine with a wash.'

Scotland returned with some bandages and antiseptic solution and placed them down on the counter, 'Sure.'

'Honestly.'

'Okay.'

'There's no point fussing, I can do it myself.'

England made a grab for the antiseptic but Scotland moved it back and away, out of easy reach, 'Christ, would you stop?'

'Just give it here, you go check on France or North.'

'No, England sit.'

There was a wooden chair in the bathroom and Scotland pulled it over and tried to push England into it. Too tired to properly fight him England sat, but reached over to the counter to grab for the gauze.

Scotland slapped his hand away and stood in front of them, blocking him.

'Scotland. Let me-'

'Bollocks to that, look,'

Scotland crouched down in front of him and England bristled immediately at the offense, 'Don't treat me like a child.' He wasn't dying.

'I'm not, just,' Scotland made an exasperated noise, 'calm the fuck down.'

'I am calm, you are what is currently stressing me out.' England grit his teeth and forced himself to sound level-headed and somewhat close to polite. He really couldn't be arsed to deal with any more grief today and his tolerance for his brothers' particular flavour of annoyance was always low.

'Right,' Scotland put a large hand on England's good shoulder and let it rest there, heavy, and England tensed at the contact, 'breathe, for one bloody second. Even before France came back you weren't feeling great and you've had a shit few days. Just breathe, and stop trying to take control of every damn thing.'

Scotland's eyes looked far too serious and, dare he say, concerned and England tried to shrug him off, 'It's fine, I only got caught in the shoulder. There's no need for all of this,' England gestured with his head Scotland himself. Scotland wasn't usually one to provide any form of tender affection or coddling, whilst England had been growing up Scotland's method of child rearing at been a firm, rough bluntness that he now found oddly comforting and expected. This sort of behaviour usually came from Wales, so to see it from Scotland was incredibly unnerving.

'I'm not talking about the shoulder,' Scotland only tightened his hold and England tipped his head back against the wall in frustration, 'I can feel you better now that I'm close and you're putting me on edge.'

There were benefits to being in a political union. The UK was made up of four separate countries, four independent states with long, messy histories that intertwined yes, but were still very separate beings. However, under the United Kingdom they formed one nation, one political entity and that caused a strange blurring of self, sometimes. It gave them all a sort of fuzzy idea as to how the other members of the union were doing- how the English banks were faring, how the Welsh harvest was coming along, how much the tourism in Northern Ireland had swelled and boosted the local economy and how much the fishing industry was suffering in Scotland.

It was handy; it was extremely useful when it came to planning and understanding how to best move forward as one nation of 4 people, and it was also a pain.

It was a pain because England couldn't hide himself as much as he wanted to around his brothers these days, couldn't put on an entirely impenetrable mask of indifference as he would like because if there was something wrong then the other members of the United Kingdom would know about it, regardless of how much he tried to cover it up. He was used to this feeling of intimacy with Wales, who had been bound to him since 1301 (2), but Scotland still felt somewhat new. They hadn't always had a peaceful relationship, their people had often been at very bloody war with each other, and at times it still felt odd for Scotland to read him so well, even after three hundred odd years together.

It still felt even stranger for Scotland to act upon that vulnerability with kindness rather than take advantage, although England knew that he was being unfair to think that. He hadn't always given his eldest brother the opportunity to demonstrate anything other than what England had come to expect and a lot of that he knew in hindsight was self-inflicted.

As for right now...

England forced himself to meet Scotland's eye, 'I'll be fine. I just need to sleep, eat something, and get home.'

'Aye, I know,' Scotland gave his shoulder a brief pat before letting go, standing up to pick up the supplies on the counter, 'but you feel like you're gonna have a heart attack so until then, let someone else do something for a change.'

England closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the tap as Scotland washed his hands. Scotland was calm and healthy, his economy were strong, his people were happy and he felt steady and familiar- an old ancient lullaby and a well-trodden path to home.

Despite what he said, and even though he wouldn't never admit this even to himself, having Scotland nearby felt good and England had to concede that maybe his brother was right. He took a deep breath in and held it for a moment before letting it go, feeling the tension that he hadn't realised was there lift from his shoulders and jaw.

Scotland made a noise of approval and stepped closer, a calloused hand on England's arm to warn him about the incoming stinging sensation, 'After this I'll go grab us something to eat, drag North in the shower, and you can go to bed.'

Belatedly, England realised that their entire conversation was being held in Brythonic and although a small part of himself was unamused that Scotland could trick and lull him into passivity so easily, he was mostly grateful for it. A shared history, a collective notion of stability, peace and default comfort wasn't something to take for granted. England couldn't quite bring himself to express this in words, but he hoped that his appreciation for it came across well enough by keeping his eyes shut and doing as he was told.

France couldn't remember a time he had enjoyed a shower more.

There was something so refreshing about being newly clean, made all the sweeter after being very not for so long. Scrubbing off all the sweat and grime, even with the terrible complementary shower gel, felt blissful and stepping out again afterwards he felt as light as air.

His feet weren't as bad as he feared. There were one or two deep cuts where a root or rock had been sharper than ideal but, overall, there was nothing that required stitches or anything more serious. His nose was now also mended for the most part, the bones now fused together again straight and all that remained was some slight swelling and bruising, along with it being a bit sore. With nothing medical that needed seeing to he ordered room service, charged it to the account paying for the hotel (the British deserved it, really, after all of this. If France wanted room service, then France was going to get it) and ate dinner by himself in peace whilst watching the news.

Wales had done a particularly good job. There was no mention of the viral videos, nor anything about the care home kidnap or the hotel shooting in Fouras. That wasn't to say that the internet was calm and contained, but at the very least the government-controlled media was behaving more reasonably.

Without any reminders as to the carnage of recent events, France was able to fully lose himself for a moment in the locale news stories and interviews. How nice to be hearing French news again. It was different, as a nation, the news hit something known in him as France that never connected for human Francis. A story about a boy raising money to refurbish his local community centre became a lot more detailed and understood; France knew this boy, knew his family and their town and the history of them. Could pull up their family tree in his mind and weave it into the fabric of the area and walk back through the connections.

Watching the news as a human was so boring in comparison. When France had died eighty-nine years ago, he had relied more on newspapers for this sort of thing rather than TV shows but the effect was the same. It was hearing information about people you knew, doing things you could innately feel them doing, and it was an entirely different experience to how a human perceived the same story.

It was somewhat, he supposed, like a drug after so long and a decent amount of time slipped by without him becoming fully aware of it.

Eventually, however, he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and took himself to bed, stripping down to borrowed underwear and burrowing beneath the covers.

He was woken at some point to the sound of his door clicking shut.

He hadn't locked it.

France frowned, instantly awake, but relaxed when he recognised the familiar tread of the newcomer and kept silent as England lifted the covers to join him.

'This is a pleasant surprise.'

'Shut it. I was coming to see whether you'd eaten yet.'

'And now you are in my bed.'

'It's cold.'

France smiled, 'Ah.'

England shuffled about to lay on his back and France turned towards him, 'Which shoulder was the bad one?'

'The left why?'

France didn't answer but lifted England's right arm so he could lay his head down on him, 'Because it'll be easier for you to talk to me about whether I've eaten yet like this.'

'What on earth- that doesn't make any sense.'

'I know darling, I'm mocking you.'

England grumbled something under his breath but brought up a hand to begin running through France's hair.

They fell silent, France relaxing into the touch and beginning to doze.

'How's your chest?'

England's voice was low and soft and France blinked his eyes open sleepily, 'My chest?'

England moved his hand from France's hair to curl around and downwards over his heart, drifting to where the skin was still slightly too smooth and new.

'Ah,' France tilted his head to rest better in the hollow of England's neck. He smelt of the same shower gel France did, slightly too lemony and artificial, 'It's okay now. It did make hand-to-hand combat and panicked sprinting through the forest slightly more difficult, though.'

England huffed a laugh through his nose, 'so melodramatic.'

'I'd like to have seen you try.'

'I would have been able to easily.'

'You couldn't even dress yourself after you woke up in the woods, it would have been like hunting Bambi.'

'That's an exaggeration.'

France laughed and tapped England on the nose, causing him to start in surprise, 'I would say we could try it out to see, but I know I will forget to goad you with the truth after you eventually Reset again.'

England tutted but let the matter drop. In the silence, France listened to the steady pattern of his breathing, the deep rise and fall of it. England had come in here to say something, that much was clear but France couldn't quite work it out yet.

'Is there something wrong?' he decided he might as well come straight out and ask, sometimes that worked. England and his emotions were often a messy tangled ball, very difficult to separate and define a beginning or an end, a cause and a result.

'Nothing's wrong at all.'

France passed a hand over his chest, catching in the material, 'You are thinking about something.'

'No, I- I'm not thinking, nothing's the matter,' England paused before continuing on, clumsy, 'but, I do want to let you know that this would have been a lot more difficult, had you not have come along with me, and overall things could have been a lot worse, and-'

France, smiling, took pity on him, 'Ah, that's what this is- you're struggling to be kind.'

'What?' England spluttered and France pressed a finger to his lips to keep him quiet, taking in the curve of his jaw and the old piercing holes in his ear. England was staring resolutely at the dark ceiling, eyes fixed on the whorls in the plaster and France let him stay there, safe and unwatched.

'You're welcome.' He made sure that his tone was serious, so that England wouldn't be able to misconstrue what he was saying as sarcasm or something unkind, 'I am glad I came along to help.'

England didn't make an attempt to say anything and France took his hand away, placing it back on England's chest. Eventually, England spoke again, just as serious, 'Thank you. I'm glad you came.'

France shook his head fondly but let the silence fall between them, lighter this time. Their people were at peace at the moment, had been for the longest time in centuries. It was a nice change, and France appreciated that this was new for both of them. Although Resets had continued throughout the ages, their friendship often had not and it was a testimony to their current state of affairs that things had played out as they had.

Who knew when something of a similar sort would happen again? Messy and horrendous it had been -horrifying, even- it had been an experience. An experience they had both shared whilst on the same side of war and that in and of itself was something to be oddly grateful for.

Whilst this mood remained, France took the opportunity to ask England something that had been playing on his mind for a while.

'Speaking of thinking about something for far far too long,' he began, poking England playfully in the stomach, 'why did you keep Francis alive for so long once you had got him to Kent?'

'...What?'

France heard the sound of England lifting his head from the pillow to look at him better and he raised his head up to meet him. This close, France could see the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose clearly, even in the dark. Uncomfortable with the closeness, England lay his head back down and France propped himself on his elbow to look at him better, leaning over him.

'You got Francis back to Kent but then instead of killing him and bringing me back as soon as possible, you kept him alive for a while. Even tried to feed him a truly ridiculous story about Government control in an attempt to get him to believe you.'

France smiled and raised an eyebrow, 'I used to believe you to be adept at story telling, but that was wholly terrible.'

England scowled and turned his face away, 'Well, do excuse me for not being able to spring up a perfectly reasonable excuse on the fly that could completely explain everyth-'

France caught his chin in his hand and turned England back to face him, 'I wasn't teasing, I do actually want to know.' He brushed his thumb over England's cheek and felt him soften, 'It would have been much easier for you, yet you kept him alive. Why?'

'I'm not sure,' England did look genuinely perplexed to think on it, 'All I could think about at first was getting back home and he had so many questions...'

England trailed off, looking thoughtful, 'I think at first I just wanted to calm him down enough so that I could think about what to do next, considering what had happened.'

'But you know it would have been impossible to keep him alive though, surely. He had heart medication that he needed to take and he would have wanted to go home at some point. Were you planning on keeping him there, hidden, until he died naturally?'

England said nothing and France pressed on, 'If he had bought your story, for example. If he had believed you and had calmed down, if he hadn't asked so many difficult questions, what would you have done?'

'I can't tell you,' England said, honestly, 'I didn't think that far ahead. I would like to say that I would have of course seen the logical side of things but...'

He reached up with his right hand to cup France's face before brushing back his hair and tucking it behind his ear. England was always gentler in the dark, 'I suppose a part of me wanted to be committed to it until the end. We've never ended a Reset before and thinking on it even now, it feels wrong to do so. It's a chance to be human, isn't it? Those lives shouldn't end by a nation's hands.'

France turned his head to kiss England's palm, feeling the calouses underneath his lips, 'I understand. I feel the same way. Although, I don't think you would have been left with much other choice.'

'No,' England took his hand back and France once again lay down to rest on him, tucking the covers around them both, 'I don't think so. And like I said, I'm sure logic would have won over before too long.'

France chuckled, 'I think you believe yourself to be more logical than you are.'

'We both know that's untrue.'

France smiled into England's stolen pyjamas. The 'truth' was that England was often much more sentimental and soft-hearted than he wanted to be, but France usually avoided taunting him about that lest England become better at hiding it. 'If that's untrue, then do explain why it was logical to leave Francis with my case for so long. You gave it to him too early on.'

England shrugged, 'That one is logical. After you died the Cold War kicked up (3) and more of the Commonwealth began declaring independence. For a time-' England stopped suddenly and cleared his throat, 'one can never been sure of how an Empire will end.'

He brought his hand to France's hair and began to once again card it through in long, languid strokes than were probably more to comfort himself than do anything for France, 'There was very little money after WWII and everything got much smaller so quickly that- well.'

He paused and France filled in the silence, 'You thought you would disappear?'

England shrugged, 'I didn't think so, I didn't feel like I, like England, was fading from public consciousness. But most empires before us fell and vanished; I couldn't be certain of what would happen to me. So, I left Francis with your case in the event that I wouldn't be able to be there when you woke up. I knew he would be drawn to it and would protect it, so it was safe. All I had to do was pop round from time to time and make sure things were carrying on smoothly.'

'I caught you, sometimes. Or, Francis could sense someone watching him but he could never see anyone.'

England hummed in agreement and France felt it rumble through his chest, 'I didn't want to get too close.'

'I'm glad you didn't, the mere sight of you alone would have traumatised him to hysterics.'

England tutted and moved his hand to squash against France's mouth, silencing him. Too used to this treatment, France bit him.

England gave a cry of surprise and pushed him off.

France laughed and rolled to lay on his back next to him, 'What, you didn't like that?'

'You bit me!'

'What? Usually, you enjoy when I-'

France was interrupted but a very loud, frantic, banging on his bedroom wall, 'I want you both to know that the walls are PAPER THIN,' Scotland sounded slightly desperate, 'so whatever you're thinking about doing, THINK about it and then fucking DON'T.'

France and England turned to look at each other. Before England had the chance to do anything, France threw back his head and let out a deep, keening groan, 'OH, PLEASE!'

England gaped at him, horrified, 'NO. Stop that! No, we're not doing anything!'

'-Do it again! Right there! Yes!-

'NO, stop it, stop that right now or I swear to God-' England sat up and grabbed his pillow. Either forgetting, or not caring, about France's recently broken nose, he forced it on France's face as he cackled, banging a fist on the wall rhythmically.

'Yes, do that- oh! Oh no, you've got worse, don't do that again dear,' Despite the pillow muffling him, France knew he had been heard clearly by the sudden burst of laughter from Scotland's room.

'You arsehole!' With one last thump of the pillow, England swung himself out of bed and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

France lay there grinning and rubbed his nose, feeling only partially sorry for making him go. He'd make it up to him later- it wasn't like anything would have happened once England learnt that Scotland could hear so much.

Fixing his bed so it was once again usable, France curled up and went to sleep.

Things moved very quickly the next morning. Despite being in Scotland's clothes and extremely unhappy about it, France travelled to Paris to introduce himself to his government whilst the UK went back to Britain to check in with their own.

They all had a lot to do and there was no time for sentimentality or delaying the inevitable any further. England had this own political mess to contend with and France had to convince a whole upper-level political cabinet that he was the living embodiment of their nation and once again build his life.

This part was never really fun, especially after a Reset. Usually, France easily slipped from one government to the next, too old and too comfortable in his skin and identity to ever encounter any real issues regarding convincing people. Occasionally there were some, the odd minister or two, who refused to believe him but for the most part France usually only had to reveal himself to the new President. There was the backing of the previous one, and many before them, to ensure that should France encounter any problems they would be quickly and swiftly resolved. Before the Republic there had also been the monarchy and for this France had lived in a comfortable existence as a known constant to the royal family, revealing himself as and when to ministers or choosing to remain more hidden when the need took him. The King was the true head of power back then, and his continued and unageing existence was more than enough proof to keep him in good stead.

Even if a Reset was particularly long, with a royal family about there was usually someone still alive who remembered him- either that or there were family stories and portraits dotted about with France standing next to kings or playing with princesses. It was easy to step back into life almost exactly as he left it.

After this Reset, however, there was certainly no monarchy and there also wouldn't be anyone alive left in office to vouch for him. France would have to convince many people at once without this friendly support and it wasn't something he was looking forward to.

Luckily though, things went well.

Getting inside and gaining access to his inner government wasn't hard. France was their nation and politicians were often the most patriotic of his people. With little more than a thought and feeling on his end, people parted out of the way, locked doors were opened, and security waved him through. The rest, after that, was easy.

Similar to how Wales had been operating, the first few days of France's return were mainly damage control. There were records that needed to be found and erased, files that had to be restricted, and copious copies of media that needed to be altered. France did not like censorship very much, there was too much of a fizz of revolution still lingering within him to ever feel comfortable with controlling and selling information to such a state wide degree, but he wasn't as much of a liberal or idealist to believe that this way of living was wholly possible, or wise. Governments were sneaky. Truths were hidden or reshaped into something more palatable and that was just the way things were.

It helped that the truth he was hiding was about him, or about England.

The care home Francis had been in was eventually reopened and life there, as far as France knew, carried on very much as it had before. A death certificate was issued for the human 'Francis Bonnefoy' and was neatly filed away into the systems, along with a short explanation detailing 'Arthur Kirkland's' hand in it.

The story France and his president eventually decided to go with was very bare bones- 'Arthur' was an agent of the British government who was involved in a criminal investigation in the nearby town; the carer position was his alias. During the night of the attack, a 'confrontation' occurred and Francis had died in the crossfire. Arthur fled the scene and as Francis had died in the middle of a government investigation his body had been removed for autopsy.

No further details would be given, no further questions were permitted, and no media station or outlet would be allowed to pick up the story.

Any other era, this would have been the end. Some eras even that much information was extremely generous. Unfortunately, the internet was a powerful, unwieldy beast that no one power could ever fully contain. France did not approve of Chinese, Russian, or North Korean methods of internet control, but there were times in the proceeding days and weeks where he very much wished for their almost impenetrable lock on the web to help things.

France did not see or hear from England for 3 months after they parted in Paris. This was not unusual, or even a considerably long time for them to go without talking to each other, but France was pleasantly happy when he did see him again in Berlin for talks on national security. The human front was just what it said on the tin but there was an underlayer of discussion about Resets going on amongst the nations themselves.

None of them were very happy about it.

It was a vulnerability, after all. They became, briefly, human. Their land, for however long, became nationless. Their people walked and moved without them, things ticked over without disturbance, but they very briefly lost a voice on the international stage. It was also something that could be exploited, especially now with humans living for so long. Before, if Spain disappeared for 40 off years maybe one or two others would notice, but in these modern times it was internationally known almost immediately.

There was a lot to discuss. That meant a lot of meetings.

Too many.

After the first one (mostly just a volley of shouting and talking over one another) France had caught England's eye before he could make a move to leave and motioned for him to wait, allowing him time to gather up his things and push through the sea of grumbling nations to reach him and pull him outside.

'Where on earth are you taking me.'

'A bar,' France released his arm to hold a door open and push England through, 'your sort of thing, yes? Alcohol, questionable fellow patrons, a breeding ground for mistakes…'

England stopped moving in the hotel foyer to give him a blank look, 'What a wonderful selling pitch you have.'

'Come on now,' France walked up to him and stole his arm once again. England shook himself free, 'we both know that's where you'd rather be. We have an hour, why not make the most of it.'

England snorted but began walking forwards, 'As long as it's not American and sells something other than just wine, I'm sure I'll cope.'

'Of course,' France gave the back of his head a knowing smile, 'speaking of which, how did he take it all?'

England turned to him and raised an eyebrow, 'What do you mean "it all"?'

'What happened to you. Does he, or anyone else, know?' It hadn't come up in talks so far, in front of France, at least- not the full story of England's capture.

England stepped outside into the sunny street and glared at the crowds. Tourist season in Berlin, in any capital, was not something he found pleasant, 'I think most of them know that I was the one who was shot in the first video. It was picked up by Alfred's-,' outside now, anyone could hear. Best not to sound entirely deranged, '- internet sites rather quickly, after all. Wide reaching and invasive as they are. Rhys did a good job, admittedly, but he couldn't prevent that one. Publically, we tried to smooth things over and tie it with Jean's other videos, say they they were leaked advertisments for a student film.'

A flash of discomfort across his face for a moment before it was covered up, 'But obviously, all of us would know instantly that's not the true story. No one has said anything out loud to me and nothing has filtered back, but I'm sure many of them have suspicions. There must be- I'd suspect something, if it were them.'

'Well, you would.' France nudged him with his elbow to prod him down a side street. England carried on walking forwards, spitefully, and France followed him with a groan, 'There was a nice one down there.'

'Didn't like the look of it.'

'You didn't see it.'

'You recommended it, so I didn't need to see it.'

France took a deep, calming breath.

'I'd rather it stays that way- unspoken of, I mean,' England continued, 'but I'm not enough of a fool to believe that just because it hasn't been mentioned yet that people don't know.'

'No, but even if so, you got away lightly.'

England scowled, 'Don't remind me. I am not holding out hope that it lasts.'

They had started their walk with no clear direction, just walking forwards. After a time though, England seemed to have a destination in mind and began to lead them through the city with purpose, stepping away from busier streets and down ones less frequented by tourist traffic. Eventually, they came to a nondescript bar, something new but not modern in style and hurried inside and out of the heat.

They ordered their drinks and tucked themselves in a small booth in the far corner.

England fell into it with a grateful sigh, 'Oh thank God.'

France chuckled at him, 'It is day one.'

England groaned and ran a hand through his hair, 'Don't remind me. We've only brought up some of the security gaps around Resets- we have so many more to go over before we can even think about starting to discuss solutions.'

France made a noise of agreement and took a sip of his drink. Wine, white- perfect for the hot day, 'Well, we knew it wouldn't be taken well.'

That was an understatement. France and England had hijacked the human's security talks under the pretence of similar discussions with their fellow nations, which was dropped as soon as they had gathered them all together. In the eyes of many, Resets were no one's business but the individual in question and the concept of openly discussing them came with a knee-jerk reaction to refuse. The lie was underhanded, but necessary.

'Yes, well,' England thumbed the condensation from his glass, 'it needs to happen.'

France eyed him critically for a moment. Most of the security breaches that had been discussed so far concerned France's issues- his medical records being kept in public locations under his human name, the electronic trace Francis had left behind, the danger of security cameras watching his activity, etc. So far, their cases had been left out, 'I plan on going into detail about my case being the source of the problem- for this latest Reset, at least.'

England stilled, eyes flicking down to his drink- an extremely dark ale- and took a deep sip. 'I think you should. Mention mine is still missing, too.'

He glanced out of the window, eyes on the people passing outside and France kept his face carefully schooled and blank, not wanting to let on how pleased he was. They hadn't spoken about their cases yet; France hadn't wanted to bring it up. He'd expected a fight when he did, to be honest, and certainly hadn't dared hope that England would easily conceed. So, for this immediate agreement to come about naturally was unexpected, but very welcome.

He found England's leg under the table and hooked an ankle around it, 'Sounds good. It's a shame it hasn't turned up,' he said after a time, 'I'm not sure where Jean sent it but it's not been found anywhere that I know of.'

England turned away from the window to meet his eye and gave a one-armed shrug in a badly disguised show of nonchalance, 'I accepted it might be so. It will either be found, or it won't. The fact that I'm not wholly sure of what's in there makes it…' he paused, thinking, 'easier, I suppose. To come to terms with losing it. So don't tell me what you added to it.'

He pointed a finger at France for the last half of that statement and France casually waved it away, 'I wouldn't dare.'

'Good,' England took another sip of his drink and licked his lips, 'Speaking of, though, after all these talks are through, I'll be, ah, manually Resetting.'

France raised an eyebrow, 'Manually? You mean-'

'Yes,' England cut in quickly, 'dying. I don't like it hanging over me. Now that I know I'm due one I want to get it over and done with as soon as possible.'

France sat back, dropping his ankle, 'I must admit, I hadn't expected that.' Although, it wasn't entirely surprising, either. England had never been a patient man.

'It makes sense,' England shifted forwards, lifting his own foot to prod France in the shin. France, thinking of his fine suit trousers, tutted in irritation and gently kicked him away, 'The British economy and people are in a good place at the moment; I'd rather go when I have some say in it, rather than it unexpectedly happening fifty years from now when shit's gone tits up and another crisis is happening.'

'There's always a crisis,' France remarked drily.

'Of course, there is,' England waved this away easily with a hand, 'but I'd rather pick my crisis. My brothers will be able to keep the UK going and make sure we don't get left behind and things between us are healthy enough that I don't fear they'll use the opportunity to rip me apart.'

France nodded, slowly, and swilled the wine in his glass, 'And should they leave? Scotland, for example, has been making motions for a while now.'

For a very brief moment England looked, maybe not uneasy, but regretful, or sad at this, 'If that is what he wants, then that is what will happen. I'm certainly not in control of him leaving or staying- we're a union. If that's where his people take him then even if I were here, I'd be unable to change his mind.'

'I was thinking more of the United Kingdom's, or England's voice in politics, but you and your brothers are more of an outlier in that regard,' France had no one to speak on his behalf but himself, after all.

England gave a quick flash of teeth, 'We are indeed,' under the table he nudged France's ankle, 'either way, I'll be going away for a while.'

France chuckled, 'What a jolly little way of saying it. You make it sound so gentle.'

'It can be! You're just hideously bad at dying with any form of dignity. Being shot in your own government building? Really…'

'Oh!' France sat up straighter, 'You wish us to discuss death without dignity? May I remind you which one of us tripped and fell down some stairs and broke his neck whilst blind drunk?'

'Which of us,' England ground out, leaning forward, 'shot himself with the wrong end of a hand cannon?'

France coloured, 'It was my first time seeing one! They made the triggers far too sensitive and I didn't know it was loaded!'

England's mouth curled into a sly grin, 'Of course. That's what you've been saying for the last 600 years. I distinctly remember, however, overhearing someone very firmly telling you not to hold it as you were, and you said-'

'Says the one-' France spoke over him loudly, 'who died from food poisoning from his own cooking.'

'It was rancid.' England hissed, leaning almost to the centre of the table.

'Then why did you eat it.'

They both realised at the same time that the bar was suspiciously quiet. Over England's shoulder, France caught gazes flick away when he scanned the room and England sat back against his seat with a huff.

France swallowed a large mouthful of wine, lowering himself to England's heathen drinking standards in an attempt to remain calm, 'How are you going to do it?'

'None of your business.'

France rolled his eyes, 'Do you want company?'

England blinked at him, 'What?'

'Company. When you go. Dying alone is never fun.'

England blushed and shifted his blazer on his shoulders, 'No, that's alright. I've told the government so it'll be medically controlled- they don't want me making a mess somewhere.'

France gave a short laugh, 'Of course not, we can't have that, can we?'

England grinned again, quick temper easily cooled, 'I could have gone out in a blaze of glory somewhere but no, I must be civilised.'

'Oh!' France clapped his hand to his chest dramatically, 'How on earth will you cope?'

England chuckled and France looked at him warmly, 'What do you think you'll be? Remember when you were a doctor in the 1360's?'

England's eyes widened at the memory, 'Jesus, yes. Those plague masks… I didn't live long in that life. I wouldn't mind doing something manual, do you remember when you were a sculptor, briefly?'

France finished off the last of his wine and clinked his glass on England's to prompt him to drink. They were running out of time before they had to head back, 'Yes, that was an enjoyable one.'

'What was it, the 900's? 1000's?'

'Mid 800's,' France corrected, 'The Vikings destroyed a cathedral I helped build in the Siege of Paris. I was most upset.'

'Ah yes,' England began drinking the remainder of his ale with a fearful amount of ease.

'Maybe you'll be a politician,' France supplied.

England finished his drink and shuddered, horrified, 'Lord, please no. Shoot me, if I do. Find me and end it quick- that's not a human life at all. I do that enough now.'

'Close enough,' France agreed, 'things are sadly a lot tamer these days.'

England didn't reply but France knew he felt the same. England longed for the seas and the open sky, for months and years spent with nothing holding him back from exploring further apart from how long his boat would last. England was a wild thing bound up in a nice suit and a gilded, politically correct cage and, like France a lot of the time, he hated it.

'That would be funny though,' France stood and brushed the wrinkles from his suit, 'imagine you there as a human, working with those strange creatures that we are and blissfully unaware. Poor dear.'

England groaned and slid himself free to stand next to him, collecting their glasses to hand back to the bar, 'Exactly. So please, I beg you, finish me before I can disgrace myself.'

France switched to Breton, 'I can think of better uses for you, if you are to be begging.'

England gave him an unimpressed look.

'Oh, come on now, indulge me. You might be gone for a long while yet.'

England headed over to the bar and made his way outside, France hot on his heels, 'I expect dinner,' he said once they were outside, 'and nothing French.'

France slipped his hand in England's, 'I suppose I can grant a dying man's wish.'

'And your room- not mine.'

'Mine is nicer anyway.'

England squeezed his hand and bumped it against his thigh, 'I suppose it'll have to do.'

France stopped suddenly, causing England's arm to jerk back where it was still in France's grasp, 'What do you-'

France quickly stepped towards him, closing the distance to catch him in a shocked kiss. He could taste the ale, heavy and strong, and just as England was relaxing into it France bit him, hard, on the lip.

England made a shocked, muffled squawk and pulled away, 'What the fuck was that for?'

France put on a bewildered expression, 'If I only have a few more days to taunt you, are you surprised to find that I want to make the most of them?'

'Bastard.'

'And you know,' France noted with satisfaction that England was still holding his hand. He tugged them into walking again, 'I managed to get my houses back under my name the other week- all there and accounted for apart from the flat in Nice, which was accidentally sold.'

'Ah, a shame- I liked that balcony.'

France made a soft noise of regret, 'Yes, well. I'm still planning on going for that holiday to the south. Might as well take the time to check out the vineyards and begin cleaning things up. What do you say to joining me for a week or so?'

England looked over to him and shook his head with a smile, 'I suppose I could, since you're forcing me.'

'Invitations are only extended to those who admit to an unforced attendance.'

'Shame, back to my "rainy lump in the sea" I go.'

'Although, you do most certainly owe me more than a small favour- you can help in pruning the trees.'

'There we go- it was an invitation disguised as an obligation.'

'Whatever makes you feel better, my dear.'

AN:

Most of this chapter was most certainly very much not needed plot-wise and was almost entirely self-indulgence on my part. What can I say, I have guilty pleasures and I am only somewhat ashamed of them.

1) I mentioned in another fic I've written, Character Study, but I have the personal headcanon that England has quite an impressive collection of large jumpers that are not actually his. He has one of France's too, an ugly thing that he bought in the 60's and thought he threw away. It's bright yellow.

2) Wales effectively came under English authority in 1301, after a lot of messy battles. Then part of the Kingdom of Great Britain in 1707 and the United Kingdom in 1801.

3) Kanbe left wonderful review on AO3 (check me out there too! I post under the same name, but more stories are there than FFnet) wherein they asked what time period this fic is set in. This is a very good question, and one which I never explained anywhere!

It was really hard to decide on a time period because I didn't want France to miss out on any big world events, but at the same time I didn't want to set it too far into the future that things became unrecognisable (and thus, far more difficult for me to write). In the end, in my mind I ended up setting this to start (with France's initial Reset death) sometime after WWII and has ended up around our modern day-ish around 2040's.

I was originally going to go more into how France reintroduced himself to his government and even had a decent chunk written but, as bad as I am for spiralling a story into a complete opposite direction, I realised that this was potentially going too far. The same is true for the UK bros returning home again. If anyone is interested in either of these, lemme know and I can chuck them up somewhere.

Just an epilogue to go! Thanks so much for reading everyone, please let me know what you thought! 3