The car was easy to track- luckily, it hadn't travelled far. As the sun started to set the sky orange and pink, England and France approached the warehouse the black car was parked outside of.

"Don't you think it's strange?"

"What?" England asked, turning towards him.

France glanced at the car. "That they took off without us. That none of them were carrying guns. As if they wanted us to follow them."

England hesitated, eyebrows furrowing. "I know. But what other choice do we have? We can't back down now, and-"

Huffing, France looked up at the sky pointedly. "Merde, I didn't need an in-depth explanation."

"Do you want to single-handedly sabotage our mission? Because I am seconds away from strangling y-"

"Shhh!"

"Don't you shush me-"

France's hand darted out, covering England's mouth. Seriously, his eyes conveyed, gesturing to the warehouse. Faint voices could be heard. England ripped France's hand off his mouth, glaring at him before beckoning him to follow.

They quietly walked into the dark, their ability to squabble while maintaining silence impeccable, scaling the stairs two at a time. They approached a hallway, pitch black- England gestured to France, mouthing, There are voices.

France whispered, "I can hear, bast-"

England sent him a nasty glare, gritting his teeth, and the two quietly advanced towards the end of the hall. There was a balcony with rails, lights illuminating the ceiling from below. France, with a pointed look at England, crouched low to the ground and advanced towards the balcony.

Below carried on a meeting, voices now distinct. England crawled next to France, refusing to look at him as they focused on the men below. The agents of the Black Hand, smoking cigarettes, gathered around a map on the center of the table.

"The Archduke will be coming down this street," one muttered, gesturing to the map. He slid his finger down. "We can intercept his caravan on the first turn."

"The first turn? Isn't that too obvious?" One snorted.

"It's expected that since it's too obvious, we'll stay away from there. No one will be guarding the first turn, trust me."

"How many teams are deployed?"

"One."

Inhaling sharply, England glanced to France. Let's get out of here, his expression conveyed. And for the first time France found himself agreeing with his rival. They quickly raced out of the hall, down the stairs, and out of the warehouse, shoes clattering loudly on gravel as they took off down the street.

"Now what?" France hissed, trying to keep up with England's pace.

"The hotel," England breathed out. "You still have the-"

France unclipped the backpack from around his chest and pulled out the briefcase. "Directions?" He smirked. England rolled his eyes and slowed down once they were out of sight. Gasping for breath, France whined, "Did we have to run that fast, you ass?"

"It's not my fault you're an old fart."

"Not only are you ugly, but you look stupid when you run."

"At least I can run-"

"At least I'm not ugly."

England rolled his eyes, snatching the directions from France. "God, I hate you."

—

Night fell as the two exhausted, dirty personifications walked wearily into their hotel room and instantly started squabbling over the single bed in the tiny room.

"Although I never thought I'd say this," France started, nose pointed haughtily in the air, "I'm older, and therefore, you can sleep on the floor."

"I am the one who got us here. I sleep on the bed."

Someone in the room next to them hit the wall, which clearly meant shut up: a disgruntled France and a fuming England clambered into the single bed, as far away from each other as possible. And quickly, a heated argument started up.

"You're hogging-" England hissed, yanking on the blanket harshly, "-all the covers, bastard." France gripped the sheets and tugged back, ripping them completely from England with a contemptuous humph. Before England could pull them back, France rolled over onto his side, trapping the mahogany colored blankets under him-

And England shoved him off the bed. With an effeminate cry, France hit the carpet and glared up at England, who rolled over with the blankets.

"I hate you," France growled, climbing back up, very deliberately jostling the bed.

—

As sunlight filtered in through the window, France groaned, lazily rolling around. England walked out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and opened the curtains completely, blinding France.

"Rise and shine, princess. We've got scouting to do."

France's lips curled up irritably, ready to snap groggily back, but his eyes caught the way the light illuminated Arthur's figure. Hands on hips, eyebrows raised in an unimpressed manner, he looked like an image from one of France's favorite magazines-

Scoffing, France looked away, stretched, and fell back in bed. England stomped back into the bathroom, demanding France be ready by the time he walked out. But France, curling up into himself, wasn't listening, eyes wide, wondering why on earth his heartbeat had accelerated.

I'm just attracted instinctively to pretty things, France reasoned. Not that Arth- no, England is pretty, of course, non. He's vile, and cruel, but merde, that sex appeal-

France jumped out of bed and slammed open the door to the bathroom, completely ignoring England's cries of protest. He drenched his face under the cold water of the faucet, screaming internally in horror.

—

The streets of Sarajevo were bustling, people everywhere- France and England, dressed as regular civilians, easily blended in. Hands in pockets, England halted, scanning the street with careful, calculating eyes. "Here."

"Hm?"

"This was where they planned to intercept the Archduke."

Skeptically, France drawled out, "And how do you know that, smartass?"

"I have a photographic memory, shit-beard. I could see where they pointed on the map. And it's here."

France couldn't fight with that, although trusting England's apparently "amazing" memory practically made him want to barf. He kept a pleasant face, however, and replied, "Fine. And you plan to intercept them how?"

"They'll have one team, probably on the ground. I'll be your eyes. You can intercept them on the street."

"You take the street," France countered, blue eyes boring into green challengingly. "My turf is height. I function better where I can see everything unfolding."

England shrugged. "Whatever." They continued to walk, idly passing through markets as England continued, "And I assume your choice of weapon is something old-fashioned and slow, like yourself."

The breeze brushed France's hair out of his face as he smirked. "You'd be surprised."

"Yippee, I can't wait," England huffed dryly, harsh accent practically dripping off his tongue. He stopped, observing the fruit in crates stacked neatly at the market. "We take them down quietly and quickly, understand?"

"No bickering?" France gasped, a hand over his heart.

"Ah, that's asking too much of you, I know."

"Is it asking too much of you to share the blanket in our hideous and tundra-like climate of a room?"

England rolled his eyes, and the two settled into an uncomfortable silence, walking uneasily back to their hotel.

—

France observed from the window of their hotel room the many people gathering in the street, waiting to cheer on the Archduke's caravan eagerly. Uneasily, he shifted, strapping on his gear firmly. The sniper strapped to his back felt too heavy- the pistols attached to his belt made him swallow anxiously. The weight of their mission had finally dawned on him, and France had a bad premonition about such.

"Nervous, princess?" England sneered, approaching the window, watching the crowds below.

England's ability to read body language precisely never ceased to amaze (and infuriate) France. "I'm nervous that you won't die," he shot back, crossing his arms. "It would be most satisfying to watch them slit your throat."

"Sadist." England kept an emotionless expression, voice low. "As much as I want to see you bleed out, I'd rather complete this mission successfully and never have to see you again."

"Agreed."

"Don't get in my way."

"Then don't get in mine." France glanced at him. "Is your mic on?"

England pressed a finger to the chip inside his ear, fiddling with it. "It is now." The cheering suddenly escalated, louder- England turned swiftly, calling back, "You're my eyes. Keep me updated."

Unsure why pride swelled in his chest, France scoffed, "Of course. I'll be sure to lead you down the wrong path, darling." Be careful, his mind added. France wanted to slap himself for thinking such.

As England snorted, muttering curses and slamming the door, France sharply inhaled, tying his hair back. Although he knew he should be taking the elevator to the roof of the building, nervous energy kept him frozen to the spot, still gazing blankly out the window.

And suddenly, he realized he wasn't worried about the mission itself- he was worried about England.

"That's stupid," France muttered, shaking his head as if clearing thoughts away.

"Excuse me?"

He'd forgotten about the mic in England's ear. Merde, he cursed inwardly and snapped, "Nothing. Are you on the street?"

"I'm in the crowds like I'm supposed to be, unlike you, lazy ass."

France rolled his eyes, not bothering to ask how England knew. He promptly walked out of their room and down the hall, entering the elevator. "I'm going, I'm going. What do you see?"

England, peering down the street in the front lines of the crowd, saw the black outline of the Archduke's car nearing. "He's coming. Are you on the roof?"

"Patience," France snapped, exiting out of the elevator and onto the roof. Gusts of wind hit his face, not a cloud above, as he neared the edge and crouched down. "I see you. Short little wimp making his way out of the crowd."

"I hate you."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual."

"It's hot out," England's voice sounded, calculating. "The Archduke probably-"

"Has his roof down completely," France finished, eyes drifting over the entire scene, looking for certain men. "And it's safe to say no one will be wearing black-"

"Except for the Black Hand."

"Exactly."

"You know," France murmured, "They don't like the Archduke for good reasons, England. Austria hasn't exactly been a saint to their neighbours, especially Bosnia... And Serbia."

"I care more about preventing a world war than who doesn't like who for good reasons," England replied coldly, flatly.

"Then-" France's eyes caught a sleek figure on top of a building, right above what would be the Archduke's first turn- "focus your attention to the building on your East."

England saw the figure and immediately took off towards the building, weaving in and out of people, pushing open the door harshly-

Bam! England stumbled backwards, a fist burying itself in his gut, and he grunted in surprise. A man pointed a gun at his chest, but before he could firmly clutch the trigger, England swung his foot into his arm, kicking his weapon away. It clattered to the floor as England launched himself at the other, engaged in hand to hand combat.

"What the hell is going on?" France asked, unable to see England but still hearing the commotion over the mic.

"Ambush," came England's panting voice, grunting as another fist sent him to the ground. "Watch-" he paused, foot flying into the other agent's legs and sending him tumbling to the cold concrete floors- "yourself, they might be in your-" he finally had time to grab his pistol, quickly firing at the man's chest- "area."

"There's no one here. Did you get hit?"

"I'm fine," England panted, standing quickly and running up the stairwell. "Man still on the roof?"

"Yeah. The caravan's approaching the first turn," France breathed out urgently, watching as the Archduke's car neared. "Can you hurry your ass up?!"

"What's he doing, Francis?"

"W-what?"

"What is he doing?!" England demanded, almost at the top floor.

"He's..." France pulled out his binoculars, adjusting the frame quickly. "He's crouched at the edge with a pistol."

"A pistol? What the hell? How is he going to shoot someone below at that range?"

France lowered the binoculars, mind racing in confusion. "Unless-"

"He's a decoy," England answered, breathlessly, pausing on the rusting, old stairs. "France, he must be." His voice sounded calm, something France begrudgingly admired. "Should I-"

"Take him out," France hissed quickly. England didn't reply, racing up the steps and slamming open the door to the roof, facing the man who stood at the other edge. France saw his figure, a small blur, but still recognizable. He heard scuffling over the mic, and picked up the binoculars once again to watch.

Swift punches were exchanged from both sides- France watched with intrigue as England sent his foot into the other's ankle, making him stumble backwards. England sprinted towards him, grabbed his arm, and jumped. He whirled around the man's back agilely and gripped the man's head in between his thighs, using gravity to his advantage and flipping them both. The man crashed with a harsh thud against the concrete. England landed neatly on his feet, straightening up and stalking towards the other agent.

"Merde," France cursed in awe, lowering the binoculars.

"Alright," England hissed, gripping the agent's collar taut. "Start talking."

The agent growled at him, teeth showing. "You think we didn't know you were in the warehouse?" The color drained from England's face as he continued, "You think we'd actually just let you follow our car-"

England threw him into the brick wall, rendering him unconscious. "Thank God," France huffed snidely, watching as the Archduke's car prepared to make the first turn. "I was getting tired of his mouth."

"France, it was a set-up. The whole thing."

"What?"

England's voice sounded, urgent. "They wanted us to follow them. They knew we were in the warehouse." It hit them both at the same time: the Black Hand knew exactly where the two were. "France, you need to get out of there now. They're going to kill us!"

"As much as your concern warms my heart," France said with a sly smirk, "I can take care of myself. Speaking of, where did you learn how to fight like that?"

"Oh, shut it." England glared out at the crowd, shielding his eyes from the sun. "None of your business..." he trailed off, catching sight of two distinct men weaving in and out of cheering people, discreetly following the caravan. "France, do you see what I'm seeing?"

Lifting his binoculars, France focused on the crowd, spotting the two men. He started to speak when the door to the roof slammed open, startling him. He whirled around, facing three agents, and dived behind a convenient metal structure, bullets barely missing him.

"Hello? Where did my eyes go?" England pointedly asked.

"I'm a bit tied up right now," France hissed, shooting back at the agents and again ducking for cover.

"Then get untied and back to your job, punk."

France grunted, pulling out small circular devices from his belt, and tossed them back at the men behind him. The electric devices were drawn to the metal in their guns and promptly disabled their weapons. As the agents recoiled in shock momentarily, France sprinted towards them, sliding to the ground and kicking the two nearest agents' feet out from under them. They toppled to the hard concrete and France jumped up on his feet, kicking the third agent squarely in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

"Arthur," he panted out, "I hear them coming up the stairwell."

"Then stay there and I'll come get you, princess."

France rolled his eyes, aware of the loud shouting coming from the staircase below. "No need. I'm coming to you."

"What?"

Swiftly, France prepared his rope, tying it securely around the metal structure. "Don't worry. I've done this. Once."

"Once?! The bloody hell are you doing?"

Saying the Lord's Prayer in his head, France tied the rope to his waist, and just as the agents broke through the door onto the roof, France jumped off the side of the building.

The windows to three floors down shattered to pieces as France swung through, landing with a loud grunt on the carpet. Someone down the hall- a maid- screamed and ran off. France sat up, breathing out a sigh of relief and picking glass from his arms, when England's furious voice sounded. "What the hell was that?!"

Voices even more furious than England's sounded down the hall- groaning, France stood and swiftly sprinted towards a second staircase. Praying to God there were no surprises waiting for him, France shoved the door open, taking the steps three at a time. Luckily, the lobby was cleared of people, and France pushed open the glass doors to the celebration outside, sun beating down on his back.

"I'm out," he panted. "Where are-"

"I see you. Two agents on the ground are headed your way."

"Oh, you want to take them down together?" France smirked, and apparently the smirk was evident in his voice, because England growled.

"No pistols, France. Not on the street. Don't blow your cover."

"I know." Smoothly, France stepped out in front of the agents, stopping them in their tracks. "Bonjour, gentlemen."

Apparently, the men couldn't blow their cover on the street either. Rigidly, one growled, "Stand aside, Bonnefoy."

"You see, though, the sun shines just perfectly here, and my hotel room is so cold." France shrugged nonchalantly.

"Do you want a public fist fight on your records? Do you think the Austrian Empire would appreciate you being here when tensions are so high?"

"Mm," France dismally hummed, trying not to smirk as he saw a familiar person approaching behind them. "I don't really care."

Before they could question his insolence, England stuck something into both, making them crumple to the ground, unconscious. "Electrocution is so convenient," he flatly said, facing France. There was a bruise under his eye, France noted.

"You're making it so easy for us to cover our tracks," someone muttered, and both France and England stiffened, whirling around. The owner of the voice stood behind them, smoking, and gestured to the caravan.

England started to charge, but France pulled him back, eyes widening as he caught sight of just who was in that car with the Archduke.

"Mon Dieu, his wife is in the car," he breathed out. His words caught England's attention, and promptly, they took off after the car, staying distanced from the crowds, trying to spot any member of the Black Hand-

"There's a man by the bridge," England spoke urgently. "He's the shooter, France."

You're making it so easy for us to cover our tracks, that man had said. The Black Hand's plan started to click in France's brain. They weren't trying to kill them- oh, no. That'd be too easy. They were going to frame them for the Archduke's murder.

France halted abruptly, eyes wide. England uncertainly stopped beside him. "What are you-"

"We can't go near that car, England. They're setting us up, but not in the way we thought-"

"Bullshit," England hissed, attempting to run to the car, but France gripped his arm. Glaring at him, England growled warningly.

"Can't you trust me for one damn second? They're trying to frame- England! Stop!" France yelled as England broke free of his grasp. Eyes widening, France watched as England raced towards the man and the car turned into the bridge.

Two gunshots rang out in quick succession. The cheers of people on the streets turned to screams- the Archduke's head rolled back instantly, and his wife slumped down into her seat. Blood stained the back of the car.

England stood behind the car, shell shocked, and watched as the man disappeared into the confusion. Becoming aware of just where he was standing, England glanced around- people were pointing at him fearfully, some screaming. Eyes widening in realisation, he backed up a few paces as a man shouted, "He just murdered the Archduke! He shot him!"

A gloved hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back- England, frightened, looked back to see France, dragging him out of the street quickly. Without questions or arguement, the two sprinted away from the scene, weaving in and out of buildings, France's hand tight on England's wrist as they took shelter in a narrow alley.

Blaring alarms echoed all throughout the city. Shrieks and cries of the people rang in France's ears, and furiously, he slammed England into the alley wall. England protested, but France's eyes boring into his own quieted him.

"Why the hell do you never listen?" France hissed. "Now they're coming for us! Not just the Black Hand, but the Austrian police, Arthur!"

"What was I supposed to do, god-dammit?! I was trying to stop-"

"England," France urgently whispered. "We just started a war."

Their harsh breaths mingled, faces close together. England glared at France, but as talented an actor England was, France could see the fear in his green eyes.

However, England's cold, emotionless facade came back. "Then get the hell out of here. I don't need you."

France considered this- it wasn't him who'd been accused. Arthur had been seen- Arthur and perhaps the young man from the Black Hand. France could walk away from this unscathed, could go back home and forget about this stupid mission.

"No." He shook his head. He tried to summon other words, an explanation, but nothing would come out. Instead, he grabbed England's wrist, and the two took off.

He had no idea why he was going to stay with England, but he would never argue with his gut.