England winced as he lowered himself gingerly into a well cushioned armchair. That damn German and his Luftwaffe… The bombings absolutely killed him; he found new wounds slashing across his body every day. But he was luck, his London, his precious capital, was untouched. For now, anyway…

Arthur heave a sigh, hands folded neatly across his lap as he watched the dismal world outside. Rain was pounding from a dull grey sky, beating ferociously against the windowpanes like a hail of never ending bullets. Despite the unseasonal cold nipping at his bones, he felt his chest burning with heat. If only the rain would put out the fires… The Englishman took a sip of his favorite tea in an attempt to distract himself from the fire and pain. Perhaps he would read a book, work on his embroidery, listen to the radio. He needed all the rest he could get while he still could. Lord knew when that insane German would finally calm.

Rising to his feet, Arthur took a step to the large, overstuffed bookshelf, intent on grabbing a book of fairy tales to amuse himself.

He never made it.

BRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGG! BRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGG! BRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGG!

"Hm?"

The doorbell? Who in the world would be out in this weather? He walked to the door, undoing the deadbolt with a small frown.

'This better not be a salesman, I swear to God-'

It wasn't.

"F-frog?"

Francis Bonnefoy, the representative of France, stood on his doorstep for the first time in months, in the sorriest state Arthur had ever seen him in. His clothes were torn and stained with mud and who knew what else. His hair, normally teased to perfection, was unkempt. And his eyes… Thos twin sapphires, usually dancing with laughter and light, were as dull as stones.

"B-bonjour." He stuttered, rubbing his arms for warmth. "M-may I come in? Please?"

The desperation was so strange, so foreign in that teasing voice that all Arthur could do was mutely nod and step aside.

"Merci! Merci, Angeleterre!" The Parisian gratefully cried, rushing past him into the room. Arthur closed the door behind him, turning to stare, wide eyed, at his ancient rival. He hadn't noticed it before (although now it seemed a fairly imperative fact), but Francis was covered in blood. It stained his stubbled face, his clothes, his battle scarred, sun tanned skin. Through his shirt (although it barely qualified as a shirt anymore, seeing how it was merely a few frayed shreds of filthy cloth) Arthur's eyes caught sight of a larg sign carved amongst all of the ancient scars into the nation's back, punctuated by bruises and clotted with blood. He sucked in a sharp breath as he relized what it was.

"Oh my God…"

"I bet I look like a wreck, don't I?" Francis asked softly, glancing back at Arthur with a wry smile.

That was a gross understatement. He looked as if the devil himself had dragged him down to the seventh circle of hell, let him burn for a good, long time, then thrown him off the Frenchman's precious Eiffel Tower.

But he wasn't about to tell him that.

"Undress yourself. We need to clean your wounds." He commanded, gesturing to Francis to follow him into the bathroom. To his anxious surprised, the Parisian didn't even laugh at the command to strip, merely nodding at the order and walking after him. As Arthur fetched a medkit and several towels from the closet, Francis gingerly removed his clothes and placed the muddy, filthy cloth into the sink.

"Relax. I'll bandage you up, okay?"

Francis was silent, merely nodding in resignation and settling into the bathtub. Arthur began to wash his lean, once strong body with a washcloth, anxiously noting how skinny the man was. When was the last time he had eaten? His hand fluttered over his skin with a touch as soft as butterfly wings, gently setting bones, bandaging cuts, applying pressure here, an ointment there…

"Two of your ribs are broken, but I don't think anything's punctured. Are you having any trouble breathing?"

"Non."

Arthur nodded in relief, motioning for Francis to stand.

"Non, merci Dieu I can still do that much."

The Frenchman shakily rose to his feet, one hand using Arthur's shoulder as a crutch as he stepped out of the now filthy tub. England carefully dried every inch of Francis' skin that wasn't bandaged, dabbing his bare skin with a soft towel. He only broke his concentration once, to tell Francis to sit on the counter so he could bandage his feet. They were terrible, raw and bloody as if he had walked thousands of miles without shoes.

"Where are your shoes?"

Francis was silent, merely giving the Englishman a painful shrug.

In a matter of minutes, the two rivals were seated side by side on the couch, each holding a steaming cup of tea. Francis was wearing Arthur's pajamas, which happened to be a size or two too small and printed with the Union Jack,, but he was grateful nonetheless. He couched over his tea as if afraid someone would snatch it, a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

"All hell broke loose after Ludwig invaded. I just surrendered because, really Arthur, what hope was there for me? My infrastructure was a wreck, and my own people had no faith in me. And, how in the world would Poland and the others help me?"

He laughed at that, a wry, bitter sound.

"So I just gave up. Have you seen Ludwig lately? I would just look up at those of eyes… I've never seen a man look so detached while torturing someone, Arthur. Never. He looks nothing like that gangly little boy following Gilbert around everywhere, tripping over his own feet… He hates to be reminded of that, by the way."

He took a long draught of his tea, finishing it off in one go. He placed in of the coffee table, the glass clinking against the pot almost melodically.

"A man named Charles de Gaulle is starting a provisional government here in England until Germany is gone. Your government hasn't agreed to it yet, but we're pretty sure they will soon. Is that okay?"

He glanced over at Arthur at that. The Englishman took a shaky sip of tea, placing the still full cup next to Francis'.

"Wh-why do you ask? It's not as if I get any real say in it."

Sure, he was considered an advisor to the crown, but he didn't have any true decisive vote like the humans of his nation did. The Frenchman didn't seem too concerned by that fact, continuing to stare at Arthur with that indescribable look in his eyes.

"Oui, I know that. I want to know if it's okay with you, ma cher."

Arthur hesitated. Yes, France had been his most hated rival for centuries, but… Here he was, broken, weak, in need of help. Honestly, he had never thought he would see the day when Francis came begging for help, never in hi long life. It didn't seem possible, to have the proud Frenchman be so humble… The thought would have once made him so happy, so accomplished, but now it just made him sick to his stomach. So, he took a deep, calming breath and counted one uncharacteristic action with another.

Francis' eyes widened in disbelief as he felt arms suddenly wrap around his torso, too gentle to jar his wounds.

"Fine." Arthur mumbled into the Parisian's chest. "But as soon as that damned German's gone, you're going straight back to your froggy, wine sucking excuse of a country, understand?"

Francis suddenly smiled, placing his hands on England's waist and hugging him back, dull eyes now shining in appreciation.

As they hugged, Arthur tenderly began to stroke his rival's back, thoughts turning to the Swastika carved into the flesh just below his fingertips. If he was lucky, Francis would be back to his idiotic, perverted self in no time…

"Oui." The Frenchman replied, once dull eyes shining in appreciation as he enjoyed his friend's comforting warmth. "It's a deal."

O:o:O

O:o:O

O:o:O

History time:

September 1st, 1939- Germany invades Poland, an ally of France. Poland falls on October 6th, 1939.

May 10th, 1940- Germany invades France.

June 14th, 1940- France surrenders and the German forces enter Paris.

June 18th, 1940- Charles de Gaulle makes a declaration to the French citizens in England, making his movement (the Freed France Movement) known to the general public. Actually, most of the French population heard the speech on June 22nd, when it was broadcasted over the BBC.

Ironically, also on June 22nd, France officially signed an armistice with Germany.

By this time, the bombing of London had yet to begun, but Germany had bombed several military positions in Great Britain.