59 - The Other Half
Title: "The Other Half"
Characters: France and England. FrUK, if you squint.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1966 - France withdraws from NATO; England is thrilled. He is decidedly less thrilled when France decides to pay him a visit before he goes, and the conversation turns to America.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
NATO Headquarters. Brussels, Belgium. March, 1966.
The only forewarning England had was the rattle of the doorknob before France bumped the door to England's NATO office open with his hip, stroked his hair over his shoulder, adjusted a cardboard box in his opposite arm, and offered, "Well, I'm off; you'll let the master of the house know that I've cleared out my things, won't you? I must say you're splendid at running his errands, cher, I think you may have found your calling."
The tip of England's pen scraped clean through the end of his signature. He felt it dig into the desk. He didn't look up. "I can only hope you'll soon find yours as well. Preferably beneath the wheels of a speeding Buick."
"Don't be so quick to wish for my death!" France propped his shoulder against England's doorjamb. "Think of it, Angleterre: not only would you have to attend my funeral, and feign deep sympathy, without scowling, mind you, you may need to practice beforehand; but it's decent odds that America would have you go in his place, as well. He's very busy, you know. It's understandable. Better to send someone--ah, less important. …Which would mean twice as many cards for you to sign."
England's fist clamped shut. The golden clip on the side of the pen cut into his fingers. "I can see no future in which I would do anything but rejoice at your untimely demise, regardless of the political ramifications." His chair creaked as he spun to face the door, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. "And as for my position, well. If I were the one flouncing out of this organization, at least someone would be sorry to see me go."
"Yes," France acknowledged, in a tone of immense sympathy. He cradled his box before his hips and adjusted his coat across it. "I'm sure America would be exceedingly sorry. I'm not sure he even knows how to do his own laundry. Whatever would he do without you?"
Since eight o' clock. England had been at his desk since eight o' clock on a Saturday, because there were things that needed doing, papers to be signed, treaties to be ratified, files to be proofread--he'd known France meant to come in to clear out his things today, of course, but he'd hoped France would deal with his business and trot directly out to his obnoxious little sports car and leave--
He twirled his pen between his fingers, in and out and in again, and didn't bother to control the grind in his voice. "He managed for a century and more."
France's smile widened. A flash of eye teeth. "Then, you mind for him now wholly out of the goodness of your heart? Angleterre, I am moved."
"Literally," England retorted, and raised an eyebrow at the box in France's hands. "And not a moment too soon. Gives you more time to spend with that clumsy, vodka-swilling pet of yours, I suppose."
"It does," France smirked. He rocked back on his heels; made himself comfortable, there in England's doorway. "I must say, I have never previously appreciated the benefits of neutrality quite so keenly. While watching you and America play house with the West did have that soupcon of absurdity I ordinarily enjoy, all told I think I'd rather be sucking melted chocolate off of Russia's fingers in a hotel room in St. Petersburg. You will understand."
"France, the mere thought of you in that position is enough to make me ill."
"That is because you are a philistine," France replied agreeably, "But I think your latest conquest has made that clear."
England pushed his weight back into the chair. It spun an inch to the right, creaking like the steps of an abandoned house. "Philistine? You had your hands on him for decades. Whatever happened to that famous taste of yours?"
France glanced out the window. "Well, someone had to break him in properly. You'd certainly made a mess of it."
England hurled his pen at France's chest. Over the furious hum in his blood, he couldn't hear it clatter down into France's box of evacuated office supplies.
France blinked at down at his shirt. Brushed it, mild, eyebrows raised. "You asked."
England's eyes narrowed. He was bristling like an angry barn cat, and there was France, all cool smiles and composure and not sparing him a look-- "Why are you leaving? Really? I can't imagine that neutrality holds much appeal for you. You like to make your opinion known in everything." He paused, and a smirk wormed its way across his face. "Are you truly so upset that America and I won't let you--as you put it-- play house with us?"
"I have made clear," France answered, calm, as he fished into his box and pulled out England's pen, "That I dislike how you and America are running things. That you are running things. That you both seem to be of the opinion that your accord with one another is--is sufficient." He came into the room and placed England's pen on the corner of his desk: click. "Excuse me if I doubt that my best interests appear anywhere on your agenda."
England nudged the pen with the tip of his finger. It rolled across the desk, making a sound like a handful of dropped bullets. "But it is sufficient, as far as we're concerned. And you must know that your best interests have never precisely been foremost in my mind."
"Then you should not be surprised that I am leaving."
"I'm not, especially." He wondered if France would seethe, once he realized how little he'd be missed. He should.
"Angleterre, is this really what you want?" France met his eyes, abrupt, serious. "To have no true allies, besides America? To cast me off, well, I would expect nothing else from you, and I'm sure we're both delighted to see less of each other than ever, but--if you truly mean to put accord with America before everything..."
There was a heavy, dim silence of a second or two.
"You don't love him, surely." France balanced the edge of his box on England's desk. "What could possibly be your purpose?"
England's hand twitched against his thigh. He pinched it closed. His heartbeat felt a little hot, a little quiet. "I can't imagine why you would care," he snapped. "And at any rate, my...relationship with America is at least as legitimate as whatever it is you get up to with Russia. What are you after, France? God knows you don't love him either--"
"I am not concerned with your legitimacy," France interjected, quiet. He slid his box the rest of the way onto England's desk. It tipped over England's paperweight. "If you would be allied with him, fine, you could not hope for a stronger ally. And you are friends. And you are--lately romantic, I believe; don't look at me like that, it's plain enough to anyone who cares to notice..." France's fingertips ticked on the corner of his box. "There are many reasons to favor your alliance with America. I understand."
France wet his lips, eyes downcast. "But...but you are isolating yourself again, cher. In a--in a different way. By determining that this relationship is the only one that matters, you have turned us out." France's gaze drifted like a falling dust mote to the far corner of the room. He was motionless. "It is not the alliance which concerns me, it's the--the totality of the thing. Is this what you want? You are sealing yourself away, politically, socially, emotionally, with someone you do not love--and who does not love you."
England's eyes didn't fall away from France's face. They held fast to every line, every twitch, every flicker that went through his expression. The walls seemed--seemed very close, all of a sudden. England wanted to place a hand on either one and shove them out again. He took a breath. "I am--well aware of America's feelings for me, and of mine for him. Of course we don't love one another."
He was silent for a moment, listening to himself breathe. Listening to both of them breathe.
He caught France's gaze, all at once, and dragged it back from the middle distance. Look at me.
"But how is my isolation any concern of yours?"
France's gaze trembled, once, inside of England's, but he didn't look away. "Is it--so extraordinary that, after all this time, I might be tired of watching you make yourself miserable?"
"Yes." It came out like dust. England's throat ached. "Yes. Exceedingly."
France shut his eyes.
"Well," he said, and collected his box, propped it on his hip. He twined a lock of hair over his ear. "I suppose, in any case, it is your particular gift. Perhaps I shouldn't interfere."
--Something had just slipped through his fingers, England knew. He could feel where it had been.
He dragged a hand down his face, stared at the corner of the box pressed tight to France's side. "Would you like me to interfere with your relationship?" He asked at last.
He wasn't sure he didn't mean it.
France quirked him a smile. "Do you have some pressing advice to offer me?"
"--No, but what on earth do you see in him?" It was slightly too loud. England didn't care. It seemed like it was always Russia. England couldn't find it in himself to be jealous, not over something as patently foolish as this, but Russia was a wasteland. Albeit one America still wanted desperately, and France was spoiling like a new kitten.
France laughed, quiet, shook his head, and turned for the door. "An impossible question to answer for someone who demonstrably has no taste."
"For fuck's sake--" England hefted his paperweight and eyed France from skull to heel. It was nearly alarming that he wasn't irritated. "I could bash your head in with this, you know," he said. "Tastefully."
"Yes, yes..." France raised one hand in a lazy over-the-shoulder wave as he turned the corner into the hallway.
The door banged shut behind him.
The paperweight rolled out of England's fingers, tumbled across the desktop, and was still. England stared at it.
He did not care at all for this feeling, whatever it was.
+++
--In 1966, all French armed forces were removed from NATO's integrated military command, and all non-French NATO troops were asked to leave France.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: France and England. FrUK, if you squint.
Rating: PG
Summary: 1966 - France withdraws from NATO; England is thrilled. He is decidedly less thrilled when France decides to pay him a visit before he goes, and the conversation turns to America.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
NATO Headquarters. Brussels, Belgium. March, 1966.
The only forewarning England had was the rattle of the doorknob before France bumped the door to England's NATO office open with his hip, stroked his hair over his shoulder, adjusted a cardboard box in his opposite arm, and offered, "Well, I'm off; you'll let the master of the house know that I've cleared out my things, won't you? I must say you're splendid at running his errands, cher, I think you may have found your calling."
The tip of England's pen scraped clean through the end of his signature. He felt it dig into the desk. He didn't look up. "I can only hope you'll soon find yours as well. Preferably beneath the wheels of a speeding Buick."
"Don't be so quick to wish for my death!" France propped his shoulder against England's doorjamb. "Think of it, Angleterre: not only would you have to attend my funeral, and feign deep sympathy, without scowling, mind you, you may need to practice beforehand; but it's decent odds that America would have you go in his place, as well. He's very busy, you know. It's understandable. Better to send someone--ah, less important. …Which would mean twice as many cards for you to sign."
England's fist clamped shut. The golden clip on the side of the pen cut into his fingers. "I can see no future in which I would do anything but rejoice at your untimely demise, regardless of the political ramifications." His chair creaked as he spun to face the door, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. "And as for my position, well. If I were the one flouncing out of this organization, at least someone would be sorry to see me go."
"Yes," France acknowledged, in a tone of immense sympathy. He cradled his box before his hips and adjusted his coat across it. "I'm sure America would be exceedingly sorry. I'm not sure he even knows how to do his own laundry. Whatever would he do without you?"
Since eight o' clock. England had been at his desk since eight o' clock on a Saturday, because there were things that needed doing, papers to be signed, treaties to be ratified, files to be proofread--he'd known France meant to come in to clear out his things today, of course, but he'd hoped France would deal with his business and trot directly out to his obnoxious little sports car and leave--
He twirled his pen between his fingers, in and out and in again, and didn't bother to control the grind in his voice. "He managed for a century and more."
France's smile widened. A flash of eye teeth. "Then, you mind for him now wholly out of the goodness of your heart? Angleterre, I am moved."
"Literally," England retorted, and raised an eyebrow at the box in France's hands. "And not a moment too soon. Gives you more time to spend with that clumsy, vodka-swilling pet of yours, I suppose."
"It does," France smirked. He rocked back on his heels; made himself comfortable, there in England's doorway. "I must say, I have never previously appreciated the benefits of neutrality quite so keenly. While watching you and America play house with the West did have that soupcon of absurdity I ordinarily enjoy, all told I think I'd rather be sucking melted chocolate off of Russia's fingers in a hotel room in St. Petersburg. You will understand."
"France, the mere thought of you in that position is enough to make me ill."
"That is because you are a philistine," France replied agreeably, "But I think your latest conquest has made that clear."
England pushed his weight back into the chair. It spun an inch to the right, creaking like the steps of an abandoned house. "Philistine? You had your hands on him for decades. Whatever happened to that famous taste of yours?"
France glanced out the window. "Well, someone had to break him in properly. You'd certainly made a mess of it."
England hurled his pen at France's chest. Over the furious hum in his blood, he couldn't hear it clatter down into France's box of evacuated office supplies.
France blinked at down at his shirt. Brushed it, mild, eyebrows raised. "You asked."
England's eyes narrowed. He was bristling like an angry barn cat, and there was France, all cool smiles and composure and not sparing him a look-- "Why are you leaving? Really? I can't imagine that neutrality holds much appeal for you. You like to make your opinion known in everything." He paused, and a smirk wormed its way across his face. "Are you truly so upset that America and I won't let you--as you put it-- play house with us?"
"I have made clear," France answered, calm, as he fished into his box and pulled out England's pen, "That I dislike how you and America are running things. That you are running things. That you both seem to be of the opinion that your accord with one another is--is sufficient." He came into the room and placed England's pen on the corner of his desk: click. "Excuse me if I doubt that my best interests appear anywhere on your agenda."
England nudged the pen with the tip of his finger. It rolled across the desk, making a sound like a handful of dropped bullets. "But it is sufficient, as far as we're concerned. And you must know that your best interests have never precisely been foremost in my mind."
"Then you should not be surprised that I am leaving."
"I'm not, especially." He wondered if France would seethe, once he realized how little he'd be missed. He should.
"Angleterre, is this really what you want?" France met his eyes, abrupt, serious. "To have no true allies, besides America? To cast me off, well, I would expect nothing else from you, and I'm sure we're both delighted to see less of each other than ever, but--if you truly mean to put accord with America before everything..."
There was a heavy, dim silence of a second or two.
"You don't love him, surely." France balanced the edge of his box on England's desk. "What could possibly be your purpose?"
England's hand twitched against his thigh. He pinched it closed. His heartbeat felt a little hot, a little quiet. "I can't imagine why you would care," he snapped. "And at any rate, my...relationship with America is at least as legitimate as whatever it is you get up to with Russia. What are you after, France? God knows you don't love him either--"
"I am not concerned with your legitimacy," France interjected, quiet. He slid his box the rest of the way onto England's desk. It tipped over England's paperweight. "If you would be allied with him, fine, you could not hope for a stronger ally. And you are friends. And you are--lately romantic, I believe; don't look at me like that, it's plain enough to anyone who cares to notice..." France's fingertips ticked on the corner of his box. "There are many reasons to favor your alliance with America. I understand."
France wet his lips, eyes downcast. "But...but you are isolating yourself again, cher. In a--in a different way. By determining that this relationship is the only one that matters, you have turned us out." France's gaze drifted like a falling dust mote to the far corner of the room. He was motionless. "It is not the alliance which concerns me, it's the--the totality of the thing. Is this what you want? You are sealing yourself away, politically, socially, emotionally, with someone you do not love--and who does not love you."
England's eyes didn't fall away from France's face. They held fast to every line, every twitch, every flicker that went through his expression. The walls seemed--seemed very close, all of a sudden. England wanted to place a hand on either one and shove them out again. He took a breath. "I am--well aware of America's feelings for me, and of mine for him. Of course we don't love one another."
He was silent for a moment, listening to himself breathe. Listening to both of them breathe.
He caught France's gaze, all at once, and dragged it back from the middle distance. Look at me.
"But how is my isolation any concern of yours?"
France's gaze trembled, once, inside of England's, but he didn't look away. "Is it--so extraordinary that, after all this time, I might be tired of watching you make yourself miserable?"
"Yes." It came out like dust. England's throat ached. "Yes. Exceedingly."
France shut his eyes.
"Well," he said, and collected his box, propped it on his hip. He twined a lock of hair over his ear. "I suppose, in any case, it is your particular gift. Perhaps I shouldn't interfere."
--Something had just slipped through his fingers, England knew. He could feel where it had been.
He dragged a hand down his face, stared at the corner of the box pressed tight to France's side. "Would you like me to interfere with your relationship?" He asked at last.
He wasn't sure he didn't mean it.
France quirked him a smile. "Do you have some pressing advice to offer me?"
"--No, but what on earth do you see in him?" It was slightly too loud. England didn't care. It seemed like it was always Russia. England couldn't find it in himself to be jealous, not over something as patently foolish as this, but Russia was a wasteland. Albeit one America still wanted desperately, and France was spoiling like a new kitten.
France laughed, quiet, shook his head, and turned for the door. "An impossible question to answer for someone who demonstrably has no taste."
"For fuck's sake--" England hefted his paperweight and eyed France from skull to heel. It was nearly alarming that he wasn't irritated. "I could bash your head in with this, you know," he said. "Tastefully."
"Yes, yes..." France raised one hand in a lazy over-the-shoulder wave as he turned the corner into the hallway.
The door banged shut behind him.
The paperweight rolled out of England's fingers, tumbled across the desktop, and was still. England stared at it.
He did not care at all for this feeling, whatever it was.
+++
--In 1966, all French armed forces were removed from NATO's integrated military command, and all non-French NATO troops were asked to leave France.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.