[fem!FrUK] And close her from thy ancient walls?
London was hell on hair even in the best of times, and as the last traces of winter cleared from the air, the rain came all too quickly-a downpour of biblical proportions, dark and stormy nights laved at the windows. France would hesitate to say that she had become used to it, but they’d been going about the same routine long enough that she knew to prepare in advance.
If nothing else, the hotel that they’d booked rooms at was nice enough, outfitted in false finery, 1000-count sheets over mattresses with broken springs. Had it not been for the rain, the fog, the windows would have been open, curtains drawn back. As it was, the weather was still too damp for France’s tastes. Too grey. Tomorrow was supposed to be worse, with true, proper rain, the kind that made feet sink ankle deep in mud where a garden once stood, a flood that drowned the budding plant life. England’s green and pleasant lands eclipsed by some remnant of a divine punishment.
Tomorrow they would have their meeting, three hours of pomp and circumstance, presentations on the Euro and the Union and a thousand other things that none of them cared an iota for. Perhaps it said something of them, that peacetime would be a thousand times blander than those of war.
In the meantime, there was England herself, lounging in France’s hotel bed, her trousers tacky with half-dried rain and her blouse half stuck to the front of her. If she noticed it at all, she’d chosen not to mention it, but France took notice. She wanted to strip England of her cheap regalia and dress her up properly, but that was an ever-present desire. She could have been beautiful, had she wanted to be.
France tucked her fingers under England’s chin, pulling her up from her mobile, where she was typing out some email or another as rapidly as some teenager. She still had all the cold, aristocratic beauty of years gone by, but as time wore on she’d begun to take less care in her appearance. France could remember that, too, an England with hair shorn short and uniform soaked in the grit of trenches. She’d been tired then, though, an empire in decline, and now she was something else, taken with the modern age in a way none of them had been for years.
“We’re growing old,” France murmured, dragging her fingers up around the shell of England’s ear and combing into her hair, still fastened into a damp bun.
England raised a retaliatory eyebrow, sceptical and humoured, the slightest touch of a smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Speak for yourself, France.”
She wriggled her fingers back into the loosening hair, sinking her knee into the bed between England’s legs to accommodate the action. “Of course, of course. But I speak for us both when I say it.”
“Mm.” England leaned into France’s hand and set her mobile on the bedside table. “You act as though you miss it. Before, I mean.”
“Not so much as you’d like to believe, ma bichette. That’s not to say that this--” She waved a hand around airily, “-isn’t boring. We’re being…left behind.”
We’re becoming obsolete, England thought, lips pursed.
“You act as though I care a whit days gone by. I’ve had my chance at power, France. So have you.”
“Oh no, that’s not what I’m getting at. You’ve gotten the empire out of you by now. I’m just saying…”
“I know.”
France’s mouth curled into a strange little smile. “Do you truly?”
“Mm,” She said again, pushing at France’s shoulders. “It’s over, regardless. You’ll return to Paris in a week and your melancholy shall disappear.”
France leaned in further, until their noses were almost touching, examining England’s dark green eyes, the flecks of hazel around the centre shining like gold in the light of the lamp, like one of the fae in her old stories. She twisted her fingers into England’s hair, tugging gently. “And what will you do? Defend your isle against an imaginary enemy, wait for the fog to cut off the continent?”
England’s face curled into a sneer. “If only I were so lucky.”
“Now, now, pet, let’s not be cross.” France smiled beatifically, pressing England’s shoulder into the pillows on the bed. She dug her fingers further into England’s hair, revelling in the other woman’s wince, and pulled the long pin keeping it in place. England had lovely hair-long and shining, the sort of silky blonde some women would kill for. France combed her fingers through it, humming a tune. “You’re no empire, not anymore. You need us.”
England, passive and relenting towards France’s ministrations thus far, slapped her once across the face. “Rich, coming from you. It’ll be a pity when your united Europe collapses and Britain stands.”
France fisted her hand into England’s hair. Her smile carried too many teeth for comfort. “We’re allies now, remember? God, I hate you at times.”
“I feel slighted, darling. I hate you all the time.”
“I’m sure,” France murmured into the crook of her neck. “I trust you’re enjoying playing whore to the new world?”
England’s thin fingers, long and white and spindly, like spider legs, pressed into France’s spine, a biting pinch of nail and bone. “Only as much as you’re enjoying playing whore to Europe,” she purred.
France sighed and rolled herself over onto her back to rest her head on England’s shoulder. For all their arguments, petty or otherwise, they had this still. Once they might have strangled one another in their sleep and each would have happily held the other under the water of their ever-beloved channel until they ceased to breathe, but they would always have this at least. Each other.
“We deserve each other.” France pulled her fingers through the damp knots of England’s hair. “You and I.”
“We do make quite the pair, don’t we?” England mused absently. We’re not as good at change as we once were, the two of us. The new powers of the world have left us to wallow in our empires and there’s naught to do about it but live.
She was drawn out of her reverie by France, tugging at a lock of hair wrapped around her thumb. “You’ve not changed, you know. Your looks, I mean.” She pulled harder. “You should cut it.”
England shrugged. “Maybe I will. Could use a bit of change, couldn’t it?”
France smiled, slow and cruel and secret. “And that, ma puce, is why you won’t do it.”