There are never marks on his face. Scotland affords him that much dignity, at least.
England endures it all. He is learning not to whimper; he barely needs the gag. When the burns scrape against his shirt he feels a distant pride.
He goads his brother on. Nothing so crude as the insults they once hurled at each other across the battlefield; he makes sarcastic comments and calls at inconvenient times over triviak matters and forgets how Scotland likes his tea (no milk, three sugars, a dash of whiskey if it's handy). The bruises stop healing betweentimes; his ribs are a constant agony. That, too, makes him proud. England has felt worse. Much worse, than to know his brother's touch with every breath.
--
It's nothing, in comparison, but Scotland can never pay him back truly; there are things none of them would dare do.
It will have to suffice.
--
In the bleak week between Christmas and New Year's, England spends most of his time avoiding the house. He spent Christmas alone, while the rest of the household went to Dublin; Scotland detoured north for Hogmanay, and England is somehow afraid of looking Wales in the eye. He depletes the heaps of paperwork in his office, then wanders around annoying various secretaries until they start sending him on errands of assorted pointlessness. It's pure luck that he manages to be home after all, making a cup of tea prepatory to hiding in his study for the evening, when France arrives in a swirl of fashionable coat - long and dark and loose, not quite a wizard's robe, but he wears it with that sort of aplomb. England very nearly drops his teapot. "Hello," France declares.
"I thought I took your key back."
"You did. Your brother let me in."
England sets the teapot down firmly and storms out into the main room, France trailing at his heels. Wales is perched on the sofa, a copy of the Blue Fairy Book in one hand, the other buried in Northern Ireland's hair; her head lies on a pillow in his lap and her gentle snores permeate the room. The fire is dead. England stops short of screaming. "What is France doing here?" he opens. Wales pays him no attention.
"Ah, Wales," France declares. "I am kidnapping your brother. Have you any objections?"
"None at all," Wales says softly. He seems quite distracted. France grabs England by the shoulders and doesn't give him a chance to shake free until they are standing on the road outside, France fading into the darkness, England still shivering in shirtsleeves.
He glares until France throws up his hands and declares, "I am kidnapping you. Scotland asked. Are you going to make this easy on both of us, or shall I have to knock you over the head and drag you away? Come, my car is around the corner."
Something icy runs through him, at the idea that Scotland would involve someone else in their - He must be misinterpreting something. He decides to be an ornery git; that won't look suspicious, as it's so close to his natural mode. "Where are you taking me? Why would he do something like that?" France and Scotland have been friends for a long time, he knows, although he's never understood why. They seemed to have so little in common. He had no idea if they were lovers. Quite possibly, knowing France.
"Marseille. You need to see the sun again, I think, and there is no chance of that in your own lands. Unless you would rather go visit Bermuda?" England shakes his head. "Then, Marseille. Do not argue, my dear." France's hand rests on his upper arm, right over a still-lingering bruise from the last time he saw Scotland, and England hisses in surprise, unable to supress a wince. But France says nothing.
The car is warm, and he dozes off somewhere on the outskirts of London, while France fiddles interminably with the radio.
--
"How much did you tell him?"
"Everything," Scotland answers. Then he presses England against the wall and tightens his fists. England does not scream. "Everything, damn you, why do you care what France knows? This can't go on forever."
It can go on until July first, England thinks. It can go on as long as you need it to. As long as you stay.
gang aft agley [4/5?]
There are never marks on his face. Scotland affords him that much dignity, at least.
England endures it all. He is learning not to whimper; he barely needs the gag. When the burns scrape against his shirt he feels a distant pride.
He goads his brother on. Nothing so crude as the insults they once hurled at each other across the battlefield; he makes sarcastic comments and calls at inconvenient times over triviak matters and forgets how Scotland likes his tea (no milk, three sugars, a dash of whiskey if it's handy). The bruises stop healing betweentimes; his ribs are a constant agony. That, too, makes him proud. England has felt worse. Much worse, than to know his brother's touch with every breath.
--
It's nothing, in comparison, but Scotland can never pay him back truly; there are things none of them would dare do.
It will have to suffice.
--
In the bleak week between Christmas and New Year's, England spends most of his time avoiding the house. He spent Christmas alone, while the rest of the household went to Dublin; Scotland detoured north for Hogmanay, and England is somehow afraid of looking Wales in the eye. He depletes the heaps of paperwork in his office, then wanders around annoying various secretaries until they start sending him on errands of assorted pointlessness. It's pure luck that he manages to be home after all, making a cup of tea prepatory to hiding in his study for the evening, when France arrives in a swirl of fashionable coat - long and dark and loose, not quite a wizard's robe, but he wears it with that sort of aplomb. England very nearly drops his teapot. "Hello," France declares.
"I thought I took your key back."
"You did. Your brother let me in."
England sets the teapot down firmly and storms out into the main room, France trailing at his heels. Wales is perched on the sofa, a copy of the Blue Fairy Book in one hand, the other buried in Northern Ireland's hair; her head lies on a pillow in his lap and her gentle snores permeate the room. The fire is dead. England stops short of screaming. "What is France doing here?" he opens. Wales pays him no attention.
"Ah, Wales," France declares. "I am kidnapping your brother. Have you any objections?"
"None at all," Wales says softly. He seems quite distracted. France grabs England by the shoulders and doesn't give him a chance to shake free until they are standing on the road outside, France fading into the darkness, England still shivering in shirtsleeves.
He glares until France throws up his hands and declares, "I am kidnapping you. Scotland asked. Are you going to make this easy on both of us, or shall I have to knock you over the head and drag you away? Come, my car is around the corner."
Something icy runs through him, at the idea that Scotland would involve someone else in their - He must be misinterpreting something. He decides to be an ornery git; that won't look suspicious, as it's so close to his natural mode. "Where are you taking me? Why would he do something like that?" France and Scotland have been friends for a long time, he knows, although he's never understood why. They seemed to have so little in common. He had no idea if they were lovers. Quite possibly, knowing France.
"Marseille. You need to see the sun again, I think, and there is no chance of that in your own lands. Unless you would rather go visit Bermuda?" England shakes his head. "Then, Marseille. Do not argue, my dear." France's hand rests on his upper arm, right over a still-lingering bruise from the last time he saw Scotland, and England hisses in surprise, unable to supress a wince. But France says nothing.
The car is warm, and he dozes off somewhere on the outskirts of London, while France fiddles interminably with the radio.
--
"How much did you tell him?"
"Everything," Scotland answers. Then he presses England against the wall and tightens his fists. England does not scream. "Everything, damn you, why do you care what France knows? This can't go on forever."
It can go on until July first, England thinks. It can go on as long as you need it to. As long as you stay.
--