Humidity stifled the dark summer nights of Europe, almost as much as the ever looming threat of war stifled the people. 1914 had brought about various defensive treaties, because no one trusted anyone anymore, not even their allies.
England knew as well as anyone that Europe was one breath away from catastrophe. That's why he stood outside, staring out at the English Channel, various members of government workers behind him. They all waited for a certain ship to come sailing across the Channel, a French ship with a very important message.
It was deadly silent, but what was about to happen required such. Not even England himself, dressed in a black suit as was requested, understood fully what was happening. Glancing back at his prime minister with a curious look, England received only a dismissive glance.
However, his eyes widened as his sixth sense started picking up a certain nation's presence. He whirled around, catching sight of the small French boat sailing across the channel, and hissed, "What the hell is he doing here?"
His boss approached him, hand clasping his shoulder. "I need you to keep an open mind, England. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I'm sure you're aware."
England said nothing, watching as a familiar figure jumped off the side of the boat, staring up at England, who stood on the cliff above. The boat was pulled ashore, what England assumed France's government stepping out, and the group made their way up the rocky steps.
Clenching his jaw, England took a wary step backwards, eyes locking with the blue of France. However, the other looked just as defensive and confused as England did, arms folded across his chest as he neared with his boss.
"You've said nothing to him?" England's boss asked.
"Of course not. Are you sure you're alone?" France's boss glared suspiciously at the other government officials.
Rolling his eyes, the prime minister jerked his head back slightly. The others backed away, leaving only the countries and their bosses.
"We're on the brink of war, gentlemen," England's boss started, circling around them. "Tensions are high everywhere. The Austrian Empire is a mess, a volcano ready to erupt, and if we do nothing, the world will change as we know it." He eyed the two countries. "I know you've had your differences. But you two, if you can work together, could be an unstoppable force."
"That's ridiculous," France scoffed, and England quickly agreed.
"What do you expect us to do?"
"We need you two to go underground together," France's boss murmured, "-to the Austrian Empire. Franz Ferdinand, ruler of Austria, is preparing to travel to the border of Serbia."
England's boss pulled out a piece of paper, handing it over to France. England glanced over his shoulder, eyes roaming over the page. "The Black Hand?"
"A terrorist group in Serbia. If Franz sets a foot inside their border," France's boss explained grimly, "They'll kill him. And if that happens..."
"Austria will declare war," France finished softly, glancing at England, then up at their bosses. "So you're sending us to stop them."
"Not only that," England added pointedly, "But... a personification of Serbia will be created... if Austria declares war on it."
"That's correct. And if that happens, all of those other principalities- the ones under Austria's rule- they'll rebel, and Europe's balance will topple as they overthrow Austria." Their bosses glanced at each other, the prime minister nodding at France's boss to continue. "You'll be undercover-" France's boss held out two identification cards and a briefacse- "as Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. Any questions?"
"When do we start?" England asked, trying to keep a straight face. Duty before personal bias, he reminded himself.
"Now."
—
They left in the night, on a train headed to the Austrian Empire. The second their bosses were out of sight, a cold, bitter silence built up between the two, festering slowly. A century of being rivals wouldn't disappear, no matter how coercing their bosses seemed.
"Look," England started, trying to seem dignified. He'd be the mature one, not the stupid French bastard. "We might as well get along during this. I have a duty to my country, you have a duty to your country."
Shadows jumped around France's face as his eyes caught England's. "Brave words coming from you, Mr. Kirkland."
Well, screw maturity. Scowling, England suppressed the urge to strangle him, breathing out heavily. "I hate you."
"That's more like it," France encouraged, smirking.
Gesturing to the briefcase, England stood, begrudgingly sitting beside France and making sure they didn't touch in the slightest. "Whatever. Let's go over the material-"
France popped the briefcase open, a note taped to the top from their bosses. Advanced technology- hand guns, strange spy-tech that England had never seen before, grenades- were neatly assorted at the bottom. Standing, England drew the curtains warily as France read aloud the mission briefing.
"They've rented us a hotel room in Bosnia."
"Sarajevo?"
Francis nodded, absently pushing blonde hair out of his face. "While the Ruler of Austria is on his way, we're supposed to spy on the Black Hand."
"Mm," Arthur mumbled, picking up a pistol in the briefcase, examining it closely, and sliding it inside his coat. "Fun. I don't suppose they gave us any clue where they are?"
"Not a one, darling."
"Piss off."
"Remind me, England- who was it that kicked your ass in the Hundr-"
With a fierce hiss, England lunged at him, France cried out in mock terror before being pummled onto his back, and the two commenced into a fistfight (or, cat fight), sprawling out on the bench, and though no one could see them, everyone on the train could hear them, French expletives and all.
—
Eventually, the two arrived in Sarajevo, the crisp air and smell of grass a welcome change from the stuffy atmosphere of the train. Birds chirped cheerily, so cheerily that you wouldn't suspect a war loomed in the distance.
"So, now what?" England hissed, the two standing on the loading deck alone. Impatient footsteps against the wood beneath sounded as Francis pulled out the note again, huffing something derogatory.
"They're sending a car to pick us up. Merde, can't you just be patient for-"
"Remind me, France, who was it that kicked your ass in the Seven Years Wa-"
France threw his fist into England's gut, snarling, "I will kill you if-"
As England's slender fingers wrapped around France's pretty throat, a horn honked, and the two, still holding each other's collars, glanced over to the road. A car was indeed waiting, roofless, seven or so other agents sitting inside with shaded glasses, watching them silently. Coughing, England released France and picked up the suitcase, ambling over to the car, throwing a nasty glare at France before settling down. France climbed in after him, kicking his shin, and the car took off.
It was unusually silent, and England's mental alarm started going off as he finally focused on something other than pummeling France into the ground. The agents in black watched them, watched them too closely, and England discreetly nudged France in the ribs. France made to snap at him, but promptly sobered, suddenly aware of the eerie atmosphere.
Coughing, England smoothed his suit, and suddenly pulled out a sleek pistol. The car broke out into a frenzy, as England fired, the agents jumped out of his way into the backseat, and the driver swerved, throwing everyone off balance.
France bowled into England as the car jerked around, earning a fierce, "You no good piece of-" and promptly, France was tossed into the back seat with all of the presumable agents of the Black Hand. They glared at him, and France, giving a nasty look at England, elbowed one in the nose, sending his head back with a sick crack.
"1-0, me," France chimed, rolling up his sleeves cockily.
"It's not a game, you ugly pig," England scowled, firing his pistol centimetres from France's ear. It struck an agent in the back, rendering him unconcious. "But, if it was," England gripped Francis's hair and shoved him against another agent, slamming him into the headrest, "it would be 2-1, me."
"You," Francis grunted, smacking one agent in the face, "are-" he paused, grabbing England's wrist and hurling him into the backseat- "the most infuriating,-" England kicked one member's feet from under him and slammed his head against the cool metal of the trunk- "pigheaded, idiotic-"
England's pistol suddenly was pointed at his face, and France's blue eyes widened, glaring at his rival. With ease, England flipped it around, handing it to France to use, and France fired at an agent behind England, narrowly avoiding his head with a smirk.
"Blasted show off," England hissed, tackling France to the seat and smacking a member of the Black Hand behind him with his foot. France would have called him out on the rather scandalous position, England's nose inches from his, when England pulled up, their special suitcase in his hands. Raising his eyebrows flirtatiously, England smoothly stood and backhanded one of the agents with the suitcase, maintaing eye contact with France.
"Stupid flirt," France threw back, when suddenly, one of the agents threw a grenade into the backseat, rolling towards them.
"Shit!" England screeched, grabbing France's wrist. They jumped to the back of the car just as it exploded, the force sending them flying into the road. The car accelerated off, leaving them far behind in the dust.
France coughed, ears ringing, pushing himself up. He glanced at England, breeze ruffling his hair every which way, and his rival scowled. "Wonderful! If it wasn't for you, we could have been taken to their hide out, bastard!"
"Me?!" France cried out. "You're the one who pulled out the gun-"
"Stupid, ugly, worthless-" England continued muttering curses under his breath, opening the suitcase. "At least they didn't get this."
"I planted a device on the car."
"Ugh, I can't believe-" England's attention whirled to France, wide-eyed. "What?!"
France shrugged. "I found it in the suitcase when we were on the train. Put it in my pocket just in case. I was originally planning on planting it on you-"
"Oh, shut it."
"The device to track the car is in there," he pointed to the suitcase.
England stared at him for a few moments, and then snapped, "You couldn't have told me earlier?!"
"You're welcome," France said smugly, tying his hair back as England set up the tracking device, still muttering under his breath.
"Just in case you didn't know, I hate you."
"Oh, believe me, I hate you the most."
Alrighty, my main focus is finally here! This is a FrUK spy AU set just before World War I. If you like angst and the feeling of your heart getting torn out, this story is perfect for you. *sadistic grin*