The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.
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1820; Buckinghamshire, England
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As they made their way out onto the crisply manicured lawn behind his manor house, England had slipped on the dew-slick grass and taken a tumble, arse over tit. His cream breeches are smeared with mud across the seat and he's favouring his left leg, leaning heavily on the silver-tipped ebony day cane which has been pressed into service as something more than a fashionable affectation for the first time since he bought it.
He'd looked pathetic enough when he'd crawled out of his bed that morning, but is thoroughly wretched now: grey-skinned, hands shaking as though palsied, and profusely sweating what smells to be almost pure gin.
He's probably incapable of summoning up the coordination necessary to cock a pistol right now, never mind shooting it straight.
"This is ridiculous," Scotland tells his brother. "You do know that, right?"
"I do not." England sniffs superciliously. "He insulted me. Grievously."
England and France had been swizzled last night, and as they can barely scrape together enough good will between the two of them to be civil to one another even when they are sober, grievous insults were pretty much par for the course. The only surprise is that they'd taken things this far. Normally, their respective grievances were settled with a quick round of fisticuffs – satisfied by raw knuckles and contusions.
Scotland can only suppose that England had been looking for a reason – the very flimsiest of pretexts – to test out the fine pair of engraved percussion lock duelling pistols he'd commissioned from a London gunsmith and taken possession of just the week before.
"And what, exactly, did he say to you?" Scotland asks.
"I couldn't tell you the precise words he used," England says, "but I'm certain they were vile. Unspeakably vulgar. You know what he's like."
What Scotland knows is that, whilst France does have a sharp tongue and vicious temper, he's usually neither vile nor vulgar in his speech unless sorely provoked.
"And you were just an innocent lamb in all this, were you?" he says. "Hadn't said a single cross word before he up and laid into you for no good reason."
"Well, I…" England's eyes dart furtively, avoiding Scotland's gaze. "I'm afraid I don't recall the specific order of events, either, but—"
"Jesus, England." Scotland groans. "I think the specifics are pretty bloody important right now, don't you?"
If England is determined to press ahead with this farce, then Scotland's going to make damn sure he plays by the rules and does it properly, so neither he nor France has any excuse to declare it all null and void and demand a rematch.
Ignoring England's protestations, Scotland sets off towards the opposite side of the lawn where France is standing – slumping, more like – next to Wales, who has been granted the dubious honour of being France's second by default, as Ireland had, quite sensibly, washed her hands of the entire ludicrous affair, and France was likely no more willing to ask Scotland to act in the role than Scotland would have been to accept it.
Wales hurries forward to meet him halfway, and asks in a hushed undertone, "Is there a problem?"
"Besides these two idiots wanting to shoot at each other for no good reason?" Scotland says, rolling his eyes. "Aye, his nibs 'can't recall' what actually happened last night. Who gave the first offence."
Not that it matters much, either way. The first offence requires the first apology, but Scotland suspects neither party will be prepared to offer one and they'll insist on going to shots, come what may.
"That's still more than I've managed to get out of France," Wales says. "He refuses to talk about it to me, at all."
"Right, well, I'll see if I can squeeze some sense from him," Scotland says. "You go and work on England."
England barely listens to Wales even at the best of times, so it seems doubtful he'll meet with any success. Scotland doesn't rate his own chances any higher – barring their brief détente in the cellar beneath the Royal Oak after the Battle of Fishguard, he and France haven't had a civil conversation in decades.
Scotland would much rather not talk to him at all – had in fact managed to avoid doing so otherwise throughout the rest of France's week-long stay at the estate – but needs must, and he has his prescribed duties to perform as England's second, even though he is a most unwilling one.
Wales scurries away to England's side and, with heavy feet and an even heavier heart, Scotland trudges towards France.
His complexion is just as pasty as England's and his hair is all knotted up into wispy, unkempt tangles of the sort he wouldn't have countenanced to be seen outside his bedchamber under normal circumstances. His clothes, at least, are clean and neatly arranged; tailcoat, shirt and cravat all in perfect, pristine order – testament to his valet's careful attentions, no doubt, as his employer clearly lacks the wherewithal to have taken proper care of himself otherwise this morning.
His bloodshot eyes rake perfunctorily over Scotland and then he looks away, nose tipped haughtily high, as has been his habit in more recent years. His easy, apathetic dismissal still stings, but Scotland has schooled himself to ignore that particular affront and respond to it in kind; to stop humiliating himself by begging for some pitiful scraps of politeness or even acknowledgement.
He can't retreat now, though; he has to press forward despite every instinct and ounce of good sense he possesses urging him instead to retreat.
"England says yours was the first offence," he forces himself to say.
"He does?" France says. He doesn't sound surprised. "I don't remember it that way."
"You're saying he insulted you first?"
"I don't remember that, either. Last night is, regrettably, mostly a blur. Though" – France tilts his head back towards Scotland slightly and gestures towards the bruise purpling his eye – "the evidence does suggest that he struck me. I believe that entitles me to whip him with my cane."
His tone is salacious, the leer that accompanies the words even more so, but Scotland can't determine what, if anything, he intends by it. France has flirted with England for as long as they have known each other, even though England – Scotland very much hopes – has never responded to him with anything other than blistering anger.
Once, Scotland had thought that such blatant, persistent advances were meant to inflame his jealousy, but that seems impossible now. These days, he's inclined to believe they've simply become a habit, too.
"I don't think that'll be wise," he says. "I wouldn't recommend it."
England's rage would be incandescent if France even suggested such a thing, and Scotland imagines France would be pinned down and force-fed his cane whole if he tried.
"Perhaps not," France concedes. "Well, I'll just have to take my chances with a pistol."
"So, I take it you're not going to apologise?"
"No," France says firmly. "I am not."
Judging by his faint smile, he's enjoying all this. In some ways, he and England are just as bad as each other, and Scotland despairs of the both of them.
"Fair enough," he says. "If that's what you want."
It's what England wants too, according to Wales, though he is, surprisingly, temperate enough to have suggested that they only engage until first blood.
France agrees to his terms, the pistols are duly brought out and selected, and then he and England move to the 'field of honour', taking their places at the marks Wales and Scotland had measured out.
Wales, standing at Scotland's side at the edge of the field, spares an uneasy glance back towards the distant manor. "I do hope we're far enough away here," he says, obviously concerned that a stray bullet might take out one of their windows.
"Jesus, I know England's not the best shot around, but I think even he can manage to avoid hitting a fucking house," Scotland says.
Usually, France is a much better marksman, but both his and England's first shots miss. The percussive crack of their pistols firing resounds loudly across the manor's grounds, setting the peacocks to screeching.
France is quicker to reload his gun, but his second shot also arcs uselessly wide. England's second hits him square in the stomach.
France staggers back a step, a step forwards, then crumples to ground in an inelegant tangle of limbs, and Scotland's stomach drops along with him.
He shouldn't care – even if the bullet tore clean through him, France will be fine. Hurt, and no doubt embarrassed, but taking no lasting harm from it. Scotland should congratulate England on his victory and leave Wales to tend to France as his second.
But, despite everything, caring comes as instinctively to him as breathing. When Wales makes a move towards France, Scotland grabs hold of his shoulder and pushes him in England's direction, instead.
"You deal with England," he says, knowing that, if he gets within striking distance of his undoubtedly gloating brother, he won't be able to stop himself from attempting to break every bone in his face. That would be instinctual, too. "I'll look after France."
Wales obeys him without question, and Scotland tentatively approaches France, now lying sprawled out on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled. He mounts no protest when Scotland lightly presses his fingers against his throat to check his pulse – strong and steady – which suggests that he is down for the count.
As such, Scotland feels no compunction against picking him up and slinging him over his shoulder – a position that makes him much easier to carry but which France has always found horribly undignified.
He doesn't stir once on the long walk back to the manor and on up to the bedroom England had assigned for his use on this visit, nor when Scotland gently eases him down onto the bed there. He doesn't even rouse upon a brisk shake of his shoulders, and Scotland's own pulse quickens, spiking in anxiety.
He fumbles open the buttons of France's tailcoat and waistcoat to reveal his shirt, which is torn through with a singed bullet hole just above France's navel. Scotland takes a deep, steadying breath to calm himself before he untucks the bottom of the shirt from France's trousers and gingerly slides the material further up his torso.
To reveal that France is wearing a girdle.
Scotland should have expected as much, really. France is slim but he is not naturally wasp-waisted, no matter what the vogueish cut of his clothing might suggest. Scotland doesn't much care for the trend himself, and has been content to ignore it, but France has always been a prisoner of the latest fashions.
The girdle is cinched so severely that Scotland struggles to untie it, and when it finally drops away, France's skin is blanched almost colourless beneath. There is a bloodied graze running across the curve of his flank, also lightly singed at the margins and obviously caused by the bullet. Thankfully, it seems to have struck one of the girdle's whalebone struts, which had robbed it of most of its power, and it hadn't cut deep.
Clearly, France hadn't been knocked out cold from blood-loss or the pain of his injury. Scotland assumes that blame lies with the tight lace of his girdle and the previous night's overindulgence, which when coupled with the sudden shock of the bullet striking – no matter how glancingly – sent him into a swoon.
Still, his wound will need tending to, if only to ensure that it heals more swiftly. When Scotland starts to move away from him, though, France's eyelids flutter open and he croaks out, "Scotland?"
Scotland's heart leaps into his throat. It's been centuries since he's heard that name, his true name, spoken by that tongue, that mouth, that voice, and the sound of it stops him dead in his tracks.
"Scotland," France says again. "What happened?"
His half-lidded eyes are soft for the first time in centuries, too, and he grasps for Scotland's hand, hovering outstretched just a few, scant, blood-warmed inches above France's stomach.
Scotland should spurn it; he knows he should. Jersey had persuaded him well enough of that. He'll never be truly free of France, of his desire for him, until he learns to stop striving towards the mirage of intimacy which is all France has ever extended to him of late.
But it's been twenty years since he last felt France's touch and no matter what he'd promised Jersey – what he told himself – Scotland has hungered for it all that time. He grabs hold of France's hand and clings on tight.
"You were shot," he says.
"Shot?" France's brow puckers in confusion. "I don't remember… Why?"
"You were duelling with England, and—"
Scotland recognises the exact instant that France recalls the memory. His lips thin, his eyes harden, and in the next instant he yanks his hand away from Scotland's, shooting him a wounded glare that seems to accuse him of taking advantage of France's weakened state.
Scotland lets his own hand drop to rest, empty and bereft, at his side.
"Pays de Galles was acting as my second, wasn't he?" France says coldly. "Why are you here and not him?"
Scotland doesn't have a ready answer for him – at least, not one that France would either appreciate or accept. He can only shrug in response.
"You should fetch him," France says. "Or better yet, a proper doctor."
He struggles up into a sitting position, tugging his shirt back down to cover his stomach, and then turns his head aside to stare fixedly at the wall beside the bed.
It's an even clearer dismissal than the last, and Scotland knows from long and bitter experience that he has no recourse against it; that nothing he could possibly say or do would persuade to rescind it now.
"Of course," he says on a weary sigh, offering France a shallow bow. "I'll see to it straight away."