March 3, 1776
Le Château de Versailles
France's Apartments

France awoke to the harsh beams of the mid-day sun stabbing into his eyelids. He threw his elbow over his eyes and groaned out his irritation, flipping his body over onto his stomach to avoid having to face it.

In response, the sun thought it proper to glare across the many mirrors in his room when the rest of the curtains were drawn. With sunlight still stabbing into his eyelids and ruining the comfort of his sleep, he sighed and threw the covers off of himself.

"What time is it?" he asked to the room, still unwilling to open his eyes.

"Almost noon, Monsieur," someone answered. One of the staff members at Versailles. Whoever it was continued to move around the room and make what seemed like a deliberate amount of noise until France heard freshly-drawn water splashing in his washbasin.

Noon. For some reason the word unsettled him. He quickly took mental inventory of the day before, assessing whether or not he had agreed to something important. Yesterday morning, he didn't attend Louis's waking ceremony but he did go to Mass with him. And then they had their usual meetings with his other advisors. France had some free time in the afternoon so he took a walk in the gardens. After that he went back into the Palace and watched Louis and Marie eat their lunch with the rest of the normal Versailles crowd.

That was when Vergennes pulled him aside, slipped something into his hands. Left without another word. When France opened it-

"Merde, was anyone going to tell me it was almost noon?!" France shrieked, shooting upright. He untangled the covers from his legs and vaulted to his feet, running into his drawing room, over to his desk. He snatched up the little scrap of parchment that Vergennes slipped him, and still uncoordinated from waking up only a few moments ago, he grabbed at it over and over to find a corner to unfold. When he finally succeeded in opening it up, he read it again.

Meet Paul's cellmate half Louis tell no one

Most definitely in code, France squinted at it for another minute, more than sure he knew what it meant at some point yesterday. Paul's cellmate . . . He couldn't immediately recall someone important to him named Paul, let alone a Paul who was in prison. His next thought was Saint Paul, influenced by his long, Catholic history. France frantically wracked his brain for all of his Biblical knowledge, momentarily bitter that the culture of the Church didn't impress upon its followers the ability to recall the Bible by the verse. Still, the knowledge he had was enough. Saint Paul was imprisoned with Silvanus in Antioch in one of the chapters of Acts of the Apostles. Silvanus, also called Silas.

Silas Deane. The diplomat America sent to discuss France's aid in his ridiculous, deliciously delightful almost-war with Britain. Deane had arrived days ago with almost no ceremony whatsoever, so France hadn't gotten around to crossing paths with him yet. He figured this was going to be his chance to finally meet him.

The next part of the message was the one that was the problem: half Louis. There were a lot of Louis's in his long history, but only one of them aligned themselves with celestial bodies - le Roi Soleil. The sun was at its highest at noon, so half of le Roi Soleil. Half past noon. The meeting was supposed to be secret based on the "tell no one" part of the message, so 12:30 was the perfect time. That was usually in the middle of Louis and Marie's lunch spectacle, so the attention wouldn't be on the foreigner Deane. Perfect time for Vergennes to steal him away.

Perfect time to be late if he didn't hurry.

"Merde-e-e-e," he swore again, drawing out the the last syllable and letting it ring through the air as he ran back into his bedroom. He went straight for his washbasin and scrubbed at his face with the crisp, clean water, hoping to remove any traces of drowsiness from his appearance. He then flicked a few drops into his hair and finger-combed desperately, to simply de-tangle and then let the curls do what they would as they dried. He whirled around and ran to the side of the bed, scooping up his white stockings from where he had kicked them off the night before. He started to tug them onto his legs, hopping up and down to maintain his balance while the seemingly indifferent member of the Versailles staff wordlessly gathered up his bedding to be washed.

As soon as his socks were appropriately gartered he threw open the doors of his armoire and began tearing through it coat by coat, looking for the best colors to accentuate the situation: A meeting, in secret, with a member of an American delegation. "American," he mumbled to himself. "American." What could he wear to meet an American? Earth tones seemed American to him. At the very least, those color patterns reminded him of the lush forests and wildly untamed landscape he remembered from when he first landed on America's shores. Untamed, swampy, and humid. Bugs everywhere, with mud on his boots and his hair falling flat. Granted, the most vivid memories he had from back then were the nasty spats he had with Britain and Finland, but at least the colors were still appropriate. He decided on a rich taupe for his trousers and waistcoat, and a beige top coat that was embroidered with green, sky blue, and gold flower-like designs.

He tucked his shirt in to the trousers with far less care than usual, and folded the vest and coat over his arm, planning to throw them on while he made it to the council chamber. He slipped his shoes on and ran back into his drawing room, and the porters had opened the door for him before he realized he very nearly left without a ribbon to tie his beautiful locks. To look anything other than his absolute best, even in a hurry, was unacceptable. He looped back around and sprinted to his armoire again, kneeling down to the lock box neatly placed in the bottom corner. He opened it up, pulled out a beige ribbon and slipped it between his teeth, then also remembered at the last minute to snatch a strip of white fabric to tie his cravat. Only once he double-checked to ensure he had everything he needed did he then return to the still-open doors leading to the halls of Versailles.

He took a route that strategically avoided the room where Louis and Marie dined, instead looping around and traveling through each of the Roman antechambers. Sure enough, the people milling about who weren't invited to watch Louis and Marie's dining ceremony were sparse by Versailles's standards. France juggled his coat between his arms and managed to sling his waistcoat behind his back to shrug his shoulders through. He fixed the tucking of his shirt by the time he reached the Mars Room, stopping for a few seconds in front of a hanging mirror to double check the lay and ensure it was as flat as possible. He buttoned up his waistcoat in front of the mirror, meeting eyes with a young lady off to the side who was staring with a disproving look on her face.

He still had the ribbon in his mouth, so France lifted his eyebrows in an obvious question and gave a quick twirl, gesturing to the coat and wordlessly asking her how it looked. Caught off guard, her eyes widened and she visibly recoiled, looking behind her to see if he could be talking to anyone else. France shook his head no and motioned directly at her, then back at his coat. Completely disarmed, she nodded her affirmation that it looked okay, and when France smiled around the ribbon and winked she raised her fan to hide her smile and her red cheeks. He pulled his coat on next and began the rest of his trek through the rest of the Roman rooms. He was tying his cravat by the time he turned the corner into the Hall of Mirrors, and he stopped before the doors to the Council Chamber to finally slip the ribbon around the middle of his long, luxurious blond hair.

The porters moved to open the door for him but he quickly shook his head. He instead stepped up to the doors and placed his ear against them, hoping to possibly catch a few pieces of the conversation on the other side before he entered. Unfortunately, he didn't hear anything. He hadn't checked the time since he left his rooms but either they hadn't started yet and he had made it, or they were whispering too quietly for him to hear.

He backed off of the doors and waved for them to be opened, and he lifted his chin before parading confidently into the room. Inside were three men, two of which wore the morose black of Louis's high council. The first, on the far side of the room and staring out the window, was Charles Gravier, the Comte de Vergennes. Louis's minister of foreign affairs. He turned upon France's arrival and respectfully nodded his head. France returned the greeting in the form of a shallow bow with an elegant curl of his arm, and before he lowered his head he stared hard into the face of the Comte in an attempt to read the man and read the room.

Vergennes was a powerful man - both in presence and in practice. He stood tall, and was probably one of the tallest people that France knew. In addition to his height he was also stocky of build, sturdy and tree-like, with wide shoulders and a slightly surging gut that would've dwarfed a normal sized person. His long face was proportionately wide as well, and his sloping nose stretched so far towards his cheeks it nearly took on the width of a finger, and his powedered wig was a dark grey color as opposed to the more delicate-looking white. His baggy eyes were sharp and bright. Always thinking, always planning, always calculating, and he worried at his lip in an obvious tell when the cogs were turning in his mind.

He had many jobs over the course of his time as an appointed statesman. He had been an ambassador at some point to Portugal, Prussia, Turkey, Sweden, and Austria, and nearly every policy of his was ardently pro-French and anti-anything else with little, if any, compromise. France normally considered him an invaluable asset and an ally, but in this situation he simply seemed like a threat. He was a charismatic speaker and an excellent salesman, able to get foreign governments to wilt beneath the force of his personality and his arguments in a way that sometimes seemed to rival the Nations. He even convinced the Ottoman Turks and Turkey himself to publicly support France and Austria's alliance in the Seven Years' War despite the fact that Turkey and Austria hated each other almost as bitterly as France hated Britain. Vergennes looked serious and thoughtful, possibly thinking through all of his talking points when he brought up whatever he wanted to do in regards to aiding America.

France would need a bravado to match. Confidence, bordering on arrogance, like he already knew the outcome of this discussion. He technically did already know, he reminded himself, since he already talked to Louis and gathered Louis's version of a halfhearted rejection. Nobody had to know it was only halfhearted. All they had to know was that he had Louis's answer. That, and he could count his own National reasons for saying no.

His heart twinged a bit at the thought of leaving America to his own devices. He wanted to help, and the thought of standing over Britain and laughing was a fantasy that could lift his mood at the worst of times. But every single thing about sending help just felt wrong, in a deep-rooted, unsettling kind of way that prickled at the back of his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine, and every nerve in his body lit up with warnings when he even thought about it. He could practically feel the body aches associated with a weak financial position, and the nausea associated with war. He knew, with the intuition that Nations possessed, that aiding America was a misstep. It was the same intuition that allowed the Nations to know the second a hostile power set foot on their lands, or the same intuition that compelled them to be in the most important places at the most important times, and it was screaming in the back of his head that this was a terrible idea.

The other man in black, by comparison, selected a seat on the near wall so that he couldn't be seen by anyone immediately walking through the door. Turgot. Looking almost pinched and weaselly next to the commanding man that was Vergennes, Turgot's youthful face but perpetually annoyed look gave him the air of an indignant child. He frowned the same way that he always did when France reflected on it. Turgot was slumped over the table, fingers caught in his white powdered wig and threatening to tear it from his head, and when France walked in he straightened up and glared in the way that he always did.

The third and final man was the man of the hour: Silas Deane.

The first thing France noticed about him was the blandness of his clothes. His coat was a solid beige and so were his trousers and his stockings and his vest and his cravat, and that was all. No accent colors or embroidery to speak of to catch the eye or impress the people around him. It wasn't even a silk, or a shimmery material. Drab and dreary. With very little else to speak of, France instead scrutinized his face, long and ovular, almost egg-shaped when viewed from the side. Plump cheeks, and his nose was slender and sharply pointed at the bottom, lips turned up at the corners. His wig was the natural brown color chosen by younger men. He looked young. No older than thirty, though France was always bad at guessing in human timescales.

In return, Silas Deane's eyes traced the shape of France's face as well, and his eyebrows twitched into the ghost of a furrow. No doubt he was expecting someone who looked a little older considering the height of France's position.

"Monsieur Silas Deane?" France asked him, and the man nodded.

"At your service," he said simply bowing deeply but inelegantly. France listened carefully to his light, smooth tones for the hint of an accent, but Deane had been schooled well in French pronunciation. Barely the undertones of his American accent eked from in between the words he spoke. Deane eyed him skeptically, feeling scrutinized under the weight of his gaze. "Monsieur . . . France?"

France chose that moment to lay on his charm. He smiled and dropped into a low bow of his own, placing one hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity and the other in the small of his back. "I'm pleased you've heard of me! Though I suppose my reputation would travel far and wide!" There was a long silence that usually accompanied when people met a Nation, even if it wasn't their own. All the humans he ever asked told him it was an eerie feeling to meet one of them. Joan of Arc once said that she could feel his and Britain's timelessness, and she always got the impression that they knew something she didn't. But she also said that she got the sense of 'home' when seeing him, putting her at ease, and everyone else he ever asked said something to the same effect about the Nation whose land they called their own. "Monsieur François Bonnefoy, le Royaume de France. Has anyone offered you a drink yet, Monsieur?-"

"My apologies, but no thank you. I have very important business to discuss, of a very serious nature."

Americans, France scoffed to himself. Total workaholics.

"I am here," Deane continued, "to lay bare the situation that our thirteen colonies find themselves in, and-"

"I know why you're here," France said. "My friend Alfred told me you'd be coming."

"Alfred Jones?" Deane offered.

"The same. The very representation of your thirteen colonies. Why the need for secrecy, Vergennes?" France asked next, looking to the mountain blocking the sunlight that streamed through the windows. "Louis knows Monsieur Deane is coming, and he knows what he is going to ask of him - I already told him, as soon as I received America's letter."

Vergennes bristled, shoulders twitching under his coat. He normally boomed his sentences with a loud and gravelly voice, but in the name of caution he kept his voice low. "Yes, and I wish you hadn't done that. The need for secrecy is so that we can come together at this point, then go to King Louis as a united front and convince him to lend support to the American colonies."

"So that is your official position?" France asked outright. "That we should, and are in a position to, lend aid to America?"

"It is."

"That's awfully bold of you, considering that position already assumes my personal willingness to endure another war with Britain," he said, splaying his fingers across his chest. He quickly corrected himself, "That is, endure the hardships that come with another war with Britain. As we all know, I love every chance I can get to stomp him into the dirt so that's not the issue."

"Despite that hatred of him, you couldn't be persuaded to agree that we should help America fight against him?" Vergennes challenged him.

"Probably not. And Louis already told me he's leaning towards a 'no' as well, just so you know." He smirked, implying to Vergennes that the matter was already settled with Louis. Vergennes didn't even look the slightest bit convinced, used to Louis's watery dispositions. "However, in total fairness," France added, "we haven't even heard a request from Monsieur Deane yet!" France gestured to him as he watched their exchange. "So I will entertain you, for the time being. But I - we would need exact figures of what America is asking for, and we would also need a hefty incentive. Right, Turgot?"

The man nodded vigorously. "Right," he squeaked.

"I have already been discussing the matter with Monsieur Deane in private," Vergennes said. "I believe he has both of those things. If you would," Vergennes ceded, inviting Deane to speak again.

He cleared his throat. "Y-yes," he began. "I will first begin with the state of America's affairs, and what we believe is a respectable foundation upon which we build our confidence to war successfully against England. The sum of our manpower is divided between each territory's militia and the enlisted Continental Army, but in total it equals some fifty thousand men-"

"Fifty thousand?" France repeated, making a show of sitting down in an empty chair next to Turgot so he could throw his elbows on the table and prop his face up on his knuckles. "How cute! Fifty thousand men, for my little Amérique? That's adorable - England brought sixty thousand men with him to the Battle of Villinghausen during the Seven Years' War and that was one battle. If fifty thousand is all you have at any given time, we'd have to bolster your forces with our own if you want any sort of chance. I'm not inclined to provide those men to you."

"The Atlantic will slow Britain down," Vergennes argued. "He will have to cart any men he sends to fight across the sea, which will tie him up in logistics. He obviously will not have all of those men on the front lines at one time-"

"We will be in the exact same position if we want to help," France fired back. "And that will be expensive." He leaned back and propped his feet up on the table. "Next."

Deane's mask of professionalism fell and he looked to Vergennes, who glared down at France with one of his withering stares, warning him against any further charades. He even took a deep breath to puff himself up further, like an animal raising its hackles. Well, France thought, Vergennes was tough, but he wasn't a Nation. He had a forceful, angry edge to him, but not the near-feral energy that a Nation could employ when they called upon the cruelty of their natures. He stared back at Vergennes, his smug smile never wavering.

"I can address the expense," Deane intruded. "What we lack, Monsieur France, is the arms and ammunition necessary to match British arms. Monsieur Vergennes has told me that France has a surplus from your recent hostilities against Britain-"

At France's skeptical glance, Vergennes added, "A number was provided by Monsieur le Comte de Ségur, King Louis's Minister of War."

"We would be willing to buy that surplus from you," Deane continued. "Pending the outcome of our next several discussions, I will have the authority to name the colonies' budgets-"

"If that figure doesn't match - Turgot? What do we need?" France cast a look over his shoulder to Turgot, who quickly straightened his posture.

Turgot ruffled through the mountain of papers next to him on the desk - probably a ledger of some kind detailing their recent finances. "Ten million would be an excellent start. At a minimum," Turgot said after another minute of searching.

"If that figure doesn't match or exceed ten million," France said, "we're not interested."

"Don't be so hasty!" Vergennes almost shouted. He quickly walked around Deane and placed his hands on the table, practically leaning over France. "Monsieur Deane, if you would, please leave us."

Deane paused, eyes flitting between France, Vergennes, and the top of Turgot's head. He then frowned, lowered himself into a shallow bow, and slowly left the room, knocking on the doors so they would be opened to him. As soon as they closed behind him, Vergennes actually leaned over France.

"Listen to me: You are missing the bigger picture." France snorted at the irony of a human calling a Nation shortsighted, but Vergennes overpowered his noise of disgust. "This venture has far more benefits than it does detriments. It doesn't actually matter if America wins or not! It's irrelevant. All that matters is that we come out richer, stronger, and better in every way than Britain. Admittedly, indirect intervention is going to cost a fair bit of money, but it will be less than direct assistance, and that cost will immediately be off-set by the purchasing of arms. It is a relatively low-risk opportunity that will inflict a large amount of pain on Britain while restoring your power in North America, and all without firing a shot!"

That sentence rang in France's ears, and admittedly he felt his heart jump in his chest at the thought of it. He loved toying with Britain, and he did want back what was lost in the Seven Years' War. And Vergennes was crafting a beautiful sales pitch, trying to convince him he could have both. Vergennes even started saying 'your' to him instead of 'our'. France vowed not to fall prey to it.

"Without firing a single shot," Vergennes repeated. "England's power will diminish and yours will increase accordingly. In addition, America has a flow of trade goods. Tobacco, cotton, lumber - and those things normally go straight to Britain. We could divert those resources away from him, and his economy will suffer an irreparable loss from being unable to collect their import taxes. By the time America begins to complain about our import taxes, which we will raise gradually over time, we will have collected a hefty sum. England will become so weak, we may even be able to recover part of the possessions in America that he seized from you, including Canada."

Including Canada. His darling little mignon. The momentary bout of heartache in his chest gave him pause, thinking about the way Britain practically tore little Canada stright from his arms and then booted France out of North America. Vergennes sensed his hesitation and must have seen some look on France's face that he couldn't wipe away. Like a predator pouncing on his prey, Vergennes played his trump card.

"We can do this without even looking like we're involved. I've constructed a plan for this. We send the ships and the arms to the Indies under the guise of a new trading company. When our ships reach the ports, the Americans buy all of it, sail it all back to their own ports, and refit the materials to their own purposes! We are not culpable, the Americans get their little war, Britain is weakened, we retake our footholds, and who comes out on top in the end?"

France declined to answer, unwilling to entertain even the slightest notion that Vergennes was persuading him. But, Vergennes made some excellent points and made them beautifully, and his little scheme was brilliant. It was thinly veiled enough that France would have plausible deniability in the event Britain came after him for helping America, and meanwhile America got the help he was asking for.

Still, for the sake of his pride, he wasn't about to answer. There was no way he would let Vergennes swindle him into what would surely be financial ruin. He fell silent, removing any trace of levity from his face and staring up at Vergennes from over the tips of his shoes. He hardened his eyes and placed a bit of National force behind them, softly shaking his head to give Vergennes his answer: a definitive no.

To his credit, Vergennes didn't back down like most humans would have. He instead appealed to Turgot, glancing instead to him to wordlessly implore him to see his version of reason.

Turgot wouldn't look at him, but he did speak up. " . . . France," Turgot said softly, his nasally voice cutting through the ribbons of the dream-like scenario that Vergennes wove into the air around them. "It's just not possible."

He didn't look at Turgot in order to maintain his power over Vergennes and hopefully get him to back down, but he replied to Turgot. "I know," he said, to reassure him. "I know."

"Why?" Vergennes directly challenged Turgot, and France's stomach pitted. "You can't even pass your alarmingly child-like economic theories! You have about as much chance of success in securing France's financial position as anything else. The only difference is I'll have something to show for my success when this is done."

"My theories are rooted in practice," Turgot defended weakly. "And they are what I believe. When the Parlements see reason, my reforms will pass. Some of the justices owe me a favor or two for convincing Louis to reinstate them in 1774, after Louis XV's disbanding. And I've already drawn up my Edicts and gained Louis's and France's approval. Soon we will have the Parlement's answer. But until then, this is a wasteful venture, and will only sink France deeper into debt if it is unsuccessful. I'm sorry, but I don't find it worth the risk."

"Me either," France said with finality, removing his feet from the table. He stood up and walked around the table until he was only a few inches away from the giant that was Vergennes, staring up into his face. "Monsieur le Comte, I am speaking to you as the Kingdom of France: aiding America is a mistake. You've worked with me long enough to know that when these sensations come over me, they're usually right. I have those feelings now. I will take your defiance as a personal insult from here on out now that you know." France's eyes flared, more of his National influence forcing its way through his expression, and the unspoken threat lay thick in the air between them: 'I am not someone you want to insult.' He wasn't sure what leverage he had against the Comte yet, but he knew for a fact he could find it. Pettiness wasn't beneath him.

Vergennes blinked, his own eyes widening and his mouth dropping slightly open at France's inexplicable display of force. He leaned back on his heels - his version of physically backing away - and France finally allowed himself to claim victory. He continued, "I'm not really sure what's in it for you, maybe personal renown? Some kind of recognition for being the one to pull me out of this looming financial crisis, maybe? Some land in America that Monsieur Deane promised you? I don't really care. Just stop meeting privately with Monsieur Deane behind my back and behind His Majesty's back, or the two of us will be forced to reconsider your position here. I will not allow Louis to entertain this discussion after I've already received his answer."

It was supposed to end the discussion. Assume Louis's support, and defend his position as if it was final. But it was an extremely arrogant move, knowing Louis's fickleness. Vergennes immediately called him on his bluff.

"Unfortunately, that is not the final judgment you believe it to be," Vergennes said. "Louis is pathetically acquiescent, and you know that. All it will take is one well-crafted argument from me to sway him, and you know that is where I excel. You will simply have to be more persuasive than me, when the time comes."

France prayed Vergennes couldn't sense the way his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. To cover up his fear that Vergennes was right, he shrugged his shoulders, attempting to act casual and undaunted.

"Good luck! We haven't even addressed your biggest hurdle, Monsieur," France said. "All we've talked about is logistics - we haven't even gotten around to talking about the morality of this entire thing! Just try to convince the King of the longest reigning monarchy in European history to support the overthrow of another monarchy. What is that going to say to the rest of the world, against us? What is that going to say to the peoples of Canada, who you mentioned earlier? What if they decide to do it after we reclaim that territory? No, Monsieur. I will not support this, Louis will not support this, and I don't believe that you should continue to try."

3 March, 1776

My dearest America,

With respect,

~No~

~François Bonnefoy~

~Le Royaume de France~

A/N: Some History Notes

-Silas Deane actually met with the Comte de Vergennes privately for a long, long time before he was officially recognized by America as an envoy. When that finally happened, Silas Deane, John Adams, and Ben Franklin were appointed to garner King Louis's support. In Hetalia S1E10, there's that part where the narration says, "France: Their killer technique is profiting from the sidelines" (LMAOOOO) and that is LICHERALLY what Vergennes figured would happen here.

-There are other parts of Vergennes plan, too: Why not commission and appoint French generals and captains to command in America? That way, when the war is won, France will already have a system of command in place and an impossible-to-uproot hand in America's fighting force. This is when America's Favorite Fighting Frenchman shows up, for my Hamilton fans. We'll meet him soon. Also, Vergennes worked behind the crown's back to curry public favor in helping America.

-Fun Fact of the Day: it seems to be a pretty well-known fact that America's Revolution effectively bankrupted France. But before that, a lot of Louis XV's reforms were being blocked from implementation by the smaller, local Parlements in each region of France. As a result, Louis disbanded the Parlements and made a LOT of people really really mad. As soon as Louis XVI was crowned, Turgot thought that reinstating them would endear them to him and to Louis and make it easier to pass his reforms and economic policies. We'll see how that goes (it doesn't).

EDIT 7/10/23: Silas Deane did not speak French. The conversation flowed better if I didn't have to add pauses for translations.

Some Personal Notes:

God DAMN it a lot has happened to me since I updated this fic in November of 2020! I had two jobs, one at Family Video Movie Company (like from Stranger Things I shit you not) and the other with a major telecommunication company whose name I will refrain from typing just in case there's legal stuff. In Feb 2021 Fam Vid couldn't survive COVID so it closed down and I was crushed because I loved that job. In March of 2021 I got news that my store for the telecomm company was closing too, and I was going to be working from home as customer service instead of retail. That closure happened in May. I got an apartment in June, moved into it in July, worked and worked and worked, took some history classes at my local community college, and last month I was accepted into an online Master's in History program at Southern New Hampshire University! I start on 8/22/22.

A recent comment from Red Paprika and my rediscovered passion for history and passion for the Hetalia fandom re-invigorated my desire to write this fic and continue it, so thanks so much, Paprika! This one's for yo really like this chapter and I hope you do, too!

As always, leave a comment if you have the time!
~Keyblader