1926; London, England
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For the past two years, Scotland and France have settled into something that isn't quite regular enough to be called a routine, but has several hallmarks of one, all the same. Scotland never knows exactly when he might receive one, but every few months, a telegram will arrive, requesting his presence. Each one of those telegrams will give him a date, time and address, and that address will always be a Paris one, if not necessarily for France's apartment.
They have never met in London, and never without a great deal of planning beforehand, but Scotland is still not surprised to discover France standing on the front step when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. They have had many such visitors recently, most of them nations whom Scotland has not seen in decades otherwise, but France is the first who has managed to time his arrival to coincide with one of England's infrequent absences from the house.
Scotland suspects that it's no coincidence, and has little to do with good luck on France's part.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd been hiding in our rose bushes, waiting for England to leave," he says. "You've just missed him."
"What a shame." France's attempt at a disappointed sigh is far too dramatic to be anything approaching convincing. "Perhaps I could come in and wait for him to return?"
"He's meeting with the Prime Minister, he could be gone hours. And I'm under strict instructions to not let anyone in whilst he's away," Scotland says, gesturing for France to move into the hallway. "Pity for him that I'm so untrustworthy, I suppose."
France smiles gratefully, and then steps forward to press a kiss to Scotland's cheek in greeting. Whilst the rose bushes might be a stretch, the tip of France's nose is freezing cold, as are his fingers when he briefly clasps them around the back of Scotland's neck, which makes it seem likely that he has been watching the house for a good long while regardless, waiting for his moment to strike.
"Are you alone?"
In any other context, Scotland would hope that that question was the foreword to a proposition, but given the circumstances, he knows it to be nothing of the sort. France is not here to see him, after all. He is merely a gatekeeper, and a welcome one only because he isn't England.
"Wales is out… somewhere, doing something or other," Scotland says. They've never cared to keep tabs on each other's comings and goings to any great degree, but Wales has been especially secretive about them of late, slipping away without giving a word of even fabricated explanation. Normally, Scotland would presume he'd taken a new lover, but that seems highly unlikely given what happened to his Gunner during the war. "It's just me and the bairn."
"Could I meet him?" France asks; a purely perfunctory request for politeness' sake, Scotland's sure, as they both know there's no other reason for him to be there.
"Aye, but I should warn you that he's a little…"
England calls him 'tractable', Wales, 'thoughtful', but Scotland thinks he's a strange wee thing, sometimes disconcertingly so.
"I don't expect you'll get much out of him," Scotland finishes. "He's pretty subdued around strangers."
Frankly, he's not very lively whatever company he's in, and when Scotland leads France back into the living room, he discovers that the same holds true when his little brother is alone, as well.
Northern Ireland is sitting exactly where Scotland had left him when he went to answer the door, staring down at the large, leather-bound book laying open on the floor in front of him. It seems to be a favourite of his, probably because it's one of the few in England's collection to have illustrations, and Scotland always fetches it from the library whenever England's not around to fret about the pages getting ripped. Scotland can't understand why he gets so worked up about it, because Northern Ireland is always very careful as he turns the pages.
France looks captivated as soon as he sets eyes on the lad, even though Northern Ireland's appearance, to Scotland's mind, is just as peculiar as his behaviour. He has none of the chubbiness that usually sets people to cooing over toddlers, the round cheeks and dimpled knees: he's all angles from his pointed little nose down to his scrawny legs and bony feet.
Children of any sort are so rare amongst their kind, however, that even the odd-looking ones are cause for wonder.
"For some reason, I was expecting him to be much younger," France says, quietly, as though he's afraid of accidentally disturbing Northern Ireland's concentration even though he's doubtless planning on doing so deliberately in short order.
"Aye, so were we," Scotland says in his normal tone, as he knows his brother's not easily diverted when he has pretty pictures in view. "But it turned out that he'd been taken in by a human family a few years back, and he wasn't newborn even then. Who the hell knows how old he really is."
France nods, and then starts to approach Northern Ireland slowly, his tread soft and tentative. Northern Ireland doesn't look up until France is close enough to touch him, and when he does, France laughs delightedly.
"He has Angleterre's eyes," he says, dropping into a crouch that brings him near to Northern Ireland's level. "And your mouth."
"Our mouths are the same?" Scotland can't see a resemblance, but then again he's never noticed anything particularly distinctive about his own.
"Yes, they're both just as grimly set." France says, his lips thinning out in demonstration.
"Grimly set," Scotland echoes, hoping for some clarification that might make France's remark seem slightly less like an insult, but France ignores him in favour of peering down at Northern Ireland's book."
"A horse," he says after studying the picture on the page. Then, smiling slightly slyly, he adds, "I would call that 'un cheval'."
Scotland's muscles tense anxiously as he waits for Northern Ireland's reaction, because if his first words happen to be French, there will be hell to pay if England ever finds out.
Thankfully though, Northern Ireland simply bobs his head once, as if acknowledging that he's aware he's being spoken to and what France has said is likely true, but doesn't make a peep in return.
"He doesn't talk at all," Scotland says. "He seems to understand most things we say to him, but he's barely made a sound since he came to live here. He doesn't even cry very often, either."
England worries himself senseless about that constantly, but France just shrugs. "Canada was slow to talk, too," he says, sounding unconcerned. "I think he wanted to be sure he would get it exactly right before he tried. Maybe Irlande du Nord will be the same way."
Speaking of that memory makes France's expression turn nostalgic, and he reaches out towards Northern Ireland, perhaps to run his fingers through his hair as Scotland remembers he always used to with Canada when he was very small.
Northern Ireland's eyes widen in alarm, and he shuffles his bottom across the carpet, scooting away from France's hand.
France looks both bewildered and hurt, so Scotland is quick to tell him that: "He doesn't seem to like being touched. He goes stiff as a board when you pick him up and the like, so we try to do it as little as possible."
"I'm not sure that's the best response to such behaviour," says France, sounding very confident for someone who's never had to try and deal with it. He then sighs deeply. "Ah, but he has beautiful hair. So like Irlande's, and such a lovely colour."
Scotland tries to quash the stab of envy the words conjure into being behind his breastbone. "My hair used to be much the same colour, if you recall," he says when he can't. "It just got darker as I got older, and maybe his will too."
"Maybe," France agrees, but the prospect seems to disappoint him, and no reassurance that Scotland's hair hasn't darkened beyond all chance of loveliness follows. Scotland hadn't really expected one, but it would have been nice to hear, all the same.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimes three, and France grimaces at the sound. "I wish I could stay and get to know you better, mon petit," he says, very solemnly, to Northern Ireland. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave."
"Leave?" Scotland says, horrified at the suggestion. "You've only just got here!"
The fact that France had made no move to take off his coat should have been hint enough that he did not intend to stay long, but one Scotland had chosen to ignore because he did not want to believe it. Now that their not-quite-routine has been disturbed, throwing all of Scotland's vague calculations off track, he cannot begin to guess how long it might be before he will be invited to Paris again, and he hasn't even had chance to look at France properly, never mind anything else.
If France counts this as one of their visits, then it could be the end of the year before Scotland sees him again, if not the next.
"I'm supposed to be attending the same meeting as Angleterre, so I shouldn't really have come here at all," France says with a wry chuckle. "I couldn't resist the chance it presented me, but hopefully they'll forgive me for being a little late. Well, your Prime Minister might, I suppose."
He gives Northern Ireland a cheery, "Au revoir," and Scotland a perfunctory farewell kiss.
"I could perhaps manage another visit later in the week," he says as Scotland walks him back to the front door. "My hotel's only a couple of streets away; I could be here in an instant if you send me word."
Doubtless because it's robbing him of spending more than a few stolen moments with France when he's right there in the same fucking city – apparently with plenty of time on his hands to sit around awaiting updates on England's movements – Scotland finds himself suddenly sick and tired of England's ridiculous need to keep Northern Ireland hidden away from everyone and everything. Besides, it's even more ridiculous that France should have to stay in a hotel in London, of all places.
"You should stay here," he says, not caring for the moment it takes him to voice the words about routines and the ambiguity of whatever the hell it is that's happening between him and France. "Then you can spend all the time you like with North."
France snorts, shaking his head. "Angleterre would be furious," he says.
"When have you given a shit about that?" Scotland asks, "When have I? Jesus, we used to live for it back in the day, didn't we?"
"We did." France laughs, and then kisses Scotland again with distinctly more enthusiasm. "I'll send for my bags straight away."