1924; Paris, France
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Scotland had assumed that what had happened with France in the trenches was an aberration, and, for the past five years, it had certainly seemed to be.
France had made no attempts to continue what had been so very briefly – but brightly – rekindled there, and whenever their official duties brought them into one another's orbits, France's eyes skipped over Scotland in the old way once more. The few words he chose to share were pared down to the barest of bones needed to maintain a fiction of polite interest, bland inquiries after Scotland's health and continued recovery being chief amongst them, though he never seemed particularly interested in Scotland's replies.
For five years, it seemed as though Scotland had outlived his usefulness yet again, and for five years, he tried to persuade himself that he was not hurt by the rejection. To be sure, it wasn't as painful as the first time he was cast aside, for he had been expecting it from the start as he'd hadn't then in his naivety, but he'd still allowed himself – notwithstanding his own advice, better judgement, and the full, dreadful weight of their history bearing down – to entertain some faint hopes that things might work out differently. To have those hopes snuffed out was a simple bruise in comparison, but it was slow to heal nevertheless.
The arrival of a telegram a fortnight ago had changed everything. It had changed nothing. Scotland's thoughts had ricocheted between the two extremes ever since, because, no matter how hard he tries, he can't resolve the meaning he's certain France must have written between the sparse lines he sent.
On the surface, it was nothing more than a terse invitation to pass a couple of days in Paris, but beneath that, there seems to lie the possibility for so much more.
He and France have no formal reason to meet – their bosses have not ordered them to do so, and there are no meetings planned – and the address he has been given is that of a private apartment, not some government building or other. Scotland has folded and refolded, read and reread the telegram so many times that the thin paper is starting to disintegrate, but he still can't interpret it as anything other than a request to visit France in his own home.
The rationale behind that request still escapes him, however, despite all of the sleepless nights and fretful days he has given over to his attempts to elucidate it. For every moment that he is sure that it represents a wish on France's part to resume what might only have been temporarily deferred between them (because what are five years compared to the centuries that came before? they're nothing, nothing at all), there is another that he thinks himself a fool for even considering such a thing.
That thought is predominant in his mind when he arrives at France's address, suitcase in hand and his heart in his throat, but it's easy enough to ignore. If he'd let himself succumb to his fears as often as he'd have liked to when it came to France, they wouldn't have had the few good years they did, never mind anything else.
France answers the door to Scotland's knock promptly, and for a time afterwards, stands silent and still, and just looks at Scotland, in a way he seemingly hasn't cared to since the war's end.
Although he had believed he longed for it before, such close attention makes Scotland feel uneasy now, and though he can fight his body into submission sufficiently to keep from squirming away from it, he cannot stop the flush he can feel heating his cheeks.
In an effort to distract from his discomfort, Scotland studies France in return, and far more openly than he would usually give himself permission for.
He looks both better and worse than he did the last time Scotland saw him over a year ago. The golden sheen has been returned to his hair at last, but his eyes, in contrast, are so dull and lifeless that they look to be almost grey; overcast, instead of the clear blue sky Scotland always remembers. His face has regained slightly more weight, but lost all its colour, making the shadows cast by his still sharp cheekbones appear all the darker.
He has an air of dishevelment about him, too, which Scotland is not used to seeing in more settled times. His trousers are rumpled, his shirt collar askew, and there is a smudge of what looks like flour at the hinge of his jaw, just below his ear.
Scotland wants to brush it away. He holds himself back, however, because he does not know what will be allowed of him yet; what the rules of this visit might be.
Whatever France has decided them to be, they clearly do not include touching, because he makes no move to kiss Scotland's cheeks in greeting as he used to during the war, or even hold out his hand to be shaken as has been his custom on each of their more recent encounters.
He stares until he seemingly grows tired of it, and then says, "Come in." His voice is rough and the words are, to Scotland's ear, somewhat reluctantly spoken. He has to wonder if France is regretting his invitation already. "Let me show you around."
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France's old estate had been crammed full of intricately woven tapestries, colourful rugs, and paintings beyond counting. Anything and everything that caught his eye and brought him pleasure to look upon would find its home there.
His apartment is almost barren in comparison. The furniture is all exquisitely well-made, and the ornaments tasteful, but there are so few of them that Scotland can hardly believe that the same nation had had his hand in decorating both places.
Only the kitchen seems recognisable, and only then because of its smell. The air is thick with the succulent, almost sweet scent of meat cooking, and, to his embarrassment, it sets Scotland's stomach to growling.
France smiles faintly at the sound. "Gigot d'agneau de sept heures," he says, without any prompting on Scotland's part. The name sounds almost familiar, though Scotland can't quite place where could have heard it before. "It's a simple dish, but one I thought you might appreciate all the same."
Frankly, Scotland would appreciate a hunk of mouldy bread if it were all that was on offer at present. Anxious nausea had forced him to regretfully forgo both breakfast and then lunch. It amazes him how quickly his body has readjusted to feeling hunger after a couple of skipped meals when he had learnt anew to endure weeks with no food only a handful of years before.
The plate France presents to him after they complete their short tour of his apartment is piled high enough to satisfy even the most demanding of appetites. The lamb, Scotland soon discovers, is some of the best he has ever tasted, so meltingly tender that it falls apart on his tongue, and the potatoes are fragrant with rosemary and crisped to perfection. France has even managed to work some sort of magic on the vegetables that makes them a welcome accompaniment to the meat rather than the dutiful chore Scotland usually considers them.
He would be ashamed by how quickly he clears finishes his meal if he hadn't been so hungry beforehand, but that feeling, it turns out, was merely delayed, in any case. When he sets his cutlery aside and turns to France to give his thanks, he notices that the other nation is, uncharacteristically, only picking at his own food and has barely eaten anything at all.
Scotland's always believed it rude to pass comment on others' eating habits, especially at the table, but, even so, he still thinks that he should maybe apologise for not setting his pace to France's, or else inquire after the health of his appetite.
"I thought I would be able to manage more," France says, pre-empting Scotland's concern. "But I'm too tired to try, it seems."
It's not yet eight o'clock, and thus Scotland hadn't even paused to speculate if France might need to take to his bed regardless of how exhausted he may look. "You don't need to wait up on my account," he says, feeling guilty for the oversight anyway. "I'll take care of the dishes, if you like; get myself set up in your guest room."
He'd spotted a small bookcase in there earlier, and he'll likely be able to find something within it to help kill the empty hours until he feels the need to sleep himself.
France shakes his head. "Come with me," he says, getting to his feet.
Scotland obeys without question.
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Normally, Scotland would know exactly what to do when France led him into his bedroom; what was expected of him. Over five hundred years have passed since they last shared a bed for any other purpose, and even in the trenches, that intent had always been there although their bodies were sometimes unequal to it.
But France still hasn't touched him, hasn't flirted with him, hasn't hinted at any desire for anything other than sleep.
Scotland cannot make any sense of the situation, and afraid – as he has always been afraid – to make the first move and have it be the wrong one, he can only stand uselessly by and wait to take his cue from France.
For a while, France just stares at the bed, eyes glazed and swaying on his feet. Then, all of a sudden, he starts clumsily unfastening his shirt. Scotland matches him button for button, tie for tie, until they're both down to their drawers. There, France stops in his undressing, and so Scotland does too.
"Get in." France gestures towards the bed, and the slight twist of his body as he flicks out his hand reveals a small patch of his back to Scotland. Reflexively, without thought, Scotland groans, because France's skin there is still split by deep cuts, their edges reddened and inflamed.
"They don't hurt," France reassures him, sounding impossibly weary. "They just feel… odd. Empty, almost. They'll heal well enough, given a few decades of peace."
He cannot know that for certain any more than Scotland can say that they will not, no matter how greatly he might now fear it. Even after their millennia of life, their bodies continue to be a mystery to them both; how intimately their integrity is linked to that of their lands, their people.
Scotland lets the issue go, as he senses that France does not want to talk about it, but he has no doubts that it will continue to niggle at him until France's flesh is whole and unblemished once more.
Instead, he does as he has been directed to, casting back clean, crisp sheets and then clambering onto the bed beneath them. He tries to make himself comfortable despite the too-soft mattress and the knowledge that France will soon be joining him.
France draws the curtains against the ruddy glow of the evening sky outside, and then lies down alongside Scotland. Scotland's heart speeds up, his mouth runs dry, but France makes no move to close the gap of mere inches that remains between them.
The whole situation seems surreal, and Scotland is no closer to deciphering France's motivations than he was the moment he first received the other nation's telegram, but he feels strangely at peace with it all the same. It's more than he had yesterday, and possibly more than he will do tomorrow, so he resolves to savour what France chooses to give of himself, even if it's nothing more than the chance to be near him again for a short while.
"Do you remember what you promised me when we were young, Scotland?" France asks, startling Scotland, who had thought him asleep already, judging by how deeply and slowly he'd been breathing. "How you would fight to the death for me if you had to. Protect me from anything that might harm me."
Scotland does remember – likely much more clearly than France – for all that he's often tried to forget. Those memories bring him nothing but shame, because the centuries in between then and now had proven beyond doubt that he'd been too rash, and revealed far more of his heart to France than France had ever cared to see.
"Aye," he admits anyway, because France will surely know it for a lie if he does not.
"Do you… Would you still do the same for me now, if you could?"
That truth is even more shameful, but France sounds desperate, almost scared, and, heedless to what the cost may be later, Scotland finds he cannot deny it to him.
"Aye," he says again. And, "I always will. Has someone hurt you?"
"Not someone, something. I need you to…" France chuckles dryly. "No, it's too ridiculous to say. But I've tried everything else, and nothing's worked. I think you might be able to help me, though."
"How? What do you need me to do?"
"Please, just stay with me," France says, his fingers brushing against Scotland's briefly. "That's all I ask."
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Scotland keeps vigil until morning, but he sees nothing. France rests like the dead, never stirring, and the apartment is as quiet as a tomb. Whatever it is that France is afraid of, whatever it is that has left him pale and weak, had obviously passed him by that night.
He dreads France's waking, because his report is bound to bring disappointment – another avenue of recourse closed – and so, like a coward, he lets France slumber on, just to put off having to see that reflected in his expression for a little longer.