A series of even more profane curses blistered the air, easily audible from England’s front door though Frances rarely had to exert herself to pick out that particular voice.
The personification of France rapped politely at the front door. “Angleterre? Are you there?” She could have barged in; but she didn’t feel like facing her fellow nation’s wrath at the moment or perhaps the newest jinx that Alana had cast for any hapless intruders. The last one had involved creative use of the climbing roses by the door…
“What the fuck are you doing here, frog?” came the less than pleasant reply.
Frances felt a grin slowly curve the corners of her mouth upwards. “Can’t I visit my adorable sister?” she called back, voice dripping honey and sweetness. Alana’s next response told Frances just where to go.
“Hm. I suppose you don’t want chocolate gateau then,” said France, somehow managing to put in the aural equivalent of a shrug in her voice. There was a tense silence and the blonde woman at the door idly counted down from ten. And just after she reached “two”…
“Come in then, you evil bitch,” growled England’s voice from the depths of the dwelling like a surly lioness in her lair.
Frances managed not to laugh as she swept into the house as though she belonged there. Her… sister, for lack of a better word, kept a fairly clean home, though Frances always suspected that it was with the judicious use of whatever little sprites Alana liked to prattle about on a regular basis. Certainly no one could keep hardwood floors this clean without daily effort or a maid. But the likes of them rarely kept human servants. Not something so intimate a help as a housemaid. Frances herself kept a housekeeper, who came in to do the general cleaning about every few days and did the laundry (the woman did wonders with undergarments and blouses).
The smell of burning hair hit France’s sensitive nostrils and she found herself grinning again. Well, well. She leaned lightly in the doorway that led into England’s (unnecessary) kitchen, as poised and graceful as a Vogue model or a ballet dancer. Compared to the sleek figure in deep blue who had just entered the room, Alana Kirkland was, for lack of a better word, a frump. Though her white dress shirt had been precisely pressed, she wore a horribly old-fashioned, elderly knit vest that had a horrific argyle pattern of gray and a much faded green. Currently, she held a hand to the left half of her face, namely just above her eye. Dark green eyes, the only part of her that would receive any sort of real admiration, glared at Frances.
Lazily, the taller woman, balanced neatly on her black suede boots, proffered a white pasteboard box decorated with gilt curlicues. “For you,” she drawled.
“Put it on the table and get out,” snapped Alana. She kept her hand firmly pressed upon her face right above her left eye. Something smoldering in a frying pan was right behind her on the stove, which told the newcomer all that she needed to know.
“So rude,” purred Frances, as she obliged, placing the box gently upon the clean kitchen table. “Are you not even going to offer me a cup of tea?”
England snarled something unflattering about the other woman’s parentage, hunting for something in the cupboards. Blue eyes watched in amusement.
“An accident, Angleterre?” asked France innocently. “You are not hurt, are you?”
“None of your business,” snapped Alana, slamming a drawer shut. She went to the sink and turned on the water, using her free hand to test the temperature and to pick up a paper towel to place under the running water. Then she froze and her head looked towards Frances.
“So rude,” sniffed the other nation. She came over and leaned in, taking fiendish delight in making England try to take a step back out of reflex. Unfortunately, Alana had been pressed against the sink and thus had nowhere to go.
“If you’re hurt, my dear,” breathed Frances. “You really should get it treated. No use in being stubborn.”
“Get away from me,” snapped England, her face reddening.
Fast as a snake, France grabbed the oddly slender wrist of Alana’s left hand and pulled; she had always had a very strong grip.
“Ah hah,” the taller nation murmured.
The revealed burn was actually rather painful looking, enough that Frances winced inwardly for a second in involuntary sympathy. Alana twisted her wrist but France only tightened her grip, digging beautifully manicured nails into the skin there. What remained of England’s left eyebrow were a few frizzy, sparse hairs against reddened flesh. Pine green eyes glowered murderously.
“Ow- Frances, you bitch!”
The taller woman clucked her tongue. “Well then, I see that hairy beasts must be conquered by fire then. A pity you did not destroy the other one.” In order to make sure that England did not miss the joke, Frances gesticulated to the relatively whole right eyebrow.
Alana actually kicked her, right in the shin under the knee cap.
Yelping in a most undignified way, France fell back, forced to release the shorter female’s wrist in order to cup at her knee. England had been wearing house slippers but an infuriated Alana tended to know right where to strike someone and made it hurt twice as much.
“My dear, remind me how old you are,” grimaced Frances. “Because I could have sworn you just turned five years old.”
“Shut up,” snarled the other nation, picking up the discarded paper towel in favor of pressing the makeshift cool compress to her eyebrow.
“Will you be shaving the other one then? You should match.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that an invitation?”
The second murderous look could have burnt through steel but Frances only grinned, straightening up properly as the pain in her leg started to ebb just a little. Angrily, Alana turned away to sulk and press the cloth against her seared skin. An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional drip from the kitchen faucet.
“I trust you know how to treat that,” France remarked.
“Of course I do, idiot.” England resumed her search of the cupboards and drawers, muttering darkly to herself.
“Do you have an aloe vera plant?”
“Out in the back, why-?” Dawning comprehension filled Alana’s face and she shook her head rapidly, muttering to herself.
“I’ll get it,” Frances said, lazily sauntering out to the back. She knew England’s house far too well, a fact that the other female did not like to admit readily.
The garden outside showed signs of loving and dedicated tending, though most eyes would not realize that. It seemed untamed, showing odd organization and anything but mathematically precise boxes and beds. But Frances knew that each plant was exactly where it was supposed to be, even if it was to England’s peculiar logic, from the patches of clover fighting a valiant battle against a bed of mint to the ancient apple tree that bore only woody fruit. And roses. Oh so many roses. Not many chose to acknowledge the fact that the dour faced and foul-mouthed personification of England, the woman that had played soldier and knight, courtier and diplomat, pirate and murderer and conqueror, bred flowers. But then again, roses suited Alana, as simplistic and thorny they were. France had the iris as her emblem, after all, a distinguished plant. No thorns. Just distinguished royal violet, rich and brilliant gold.
The desired aloe vera grew in a series of pots by the back door, along with some other succulents that somehow managed to survive and even thrive in the foul clime here. Somehow, England had a way with plants, though many of them did. Perhaps it was something symbolic regarding the nature of countries. Frances shook away those unnecessary thoughts as she snipped the thick, spiky leaves from the plant, seeing the clear sap ooze from the cuts like viscous tears. She returned to the kitchen, taking a knife and a cutting board without so much as a “by your leave” to England. Deftly, she made a deeper slice into the leaf, squeezing out a small quantity of the sap. Alana watched through narrowed eyes and Frances actually sighed aloud.
“Honestly, Angleterre, how do you live like this? All of this… scowling and such.” She put down the knife and wiped sticky fingers clean. “One would almost think that you hate me.”
“I do not scowl,” England replied stiffly. She did not address the other matter.
“Would you prefer that I call it a look of constipation? I thought not. Come over here.”
Alana reluctantly came over to Frances, still holding the damp paper towel to her eyebrow. The personification of France pulled the paper towel away with surprising gentleness. Cool water had helped a little, though the skin there was still lividly red.
“I almost think this is a blessing for you,” France remarked as she gently cleaned the skin, wiping away the crisped and curled burnt hairs.
“Make another eyebrow joke and you won’t leave this house alive,” growled England. She winced as the paper towel made one more trip across her forehead a little too roughly.
“No need for violence.” France replied blandly. With her fingertip, she smeared the aloe vera over the burned skin gently, letting the soothing sap of the plant work its own natural magic.
England’s eyes fluttered closed and a sigh escaped her lips, which remained parted slightly. Frances’s finger remained on there for rather longer than necessary, on the excuse of making sure the sap coated every part of damaged skin. It was good to be exact, after all. Alana swayed slightly on her feet before catching herself on the nearest stable object. Namely France.
Strong fingers crumpled precisely pressed lapels and wrinkled a delicate silk blouse. But Frances’s ire at the damage to her clothing, which was not that formidable to begin with, was definitely eased in favor of the far too appealing expression on England’s face. The other nation’s cheeks were faintly flushed, not the crimson of anger or embarrassment or drunkenness, but a delicate hue, like the first flush of color on a spring rose, like the pale color of the silk Alana now crumpled so carelessly in her rough fingers.
How… humorous that those dark and marring arches hold such intriguing possibilities. France was willing to bet money that should those eyes open, the green would be swallowed by the blackness of dilated pupils. On a whim, she softly exhaled upon the damp skin and was rewarded by a slight shudder as a breath cooled sensitized skin. Something like a far too appealing mixture of a moan and a sigh fluttered from Alana’s parted lips and the rough fingers (so rough from gardening and needlepoint and fencing, deceptively ladylike pursuits) curled further into France’s expensive blouse, remarkably close to her breasts.
Frances considered the picture before her and saved it for posterity, though every sensual, sensuous instinct inside her urged her forwards and offered many dark and lovely pleasures. She did not know why, only that she found herself reluctantly pulling her hand from the other nation’s face. On another whim (rather mischievous this time), she leaned in to kiss right above the recently treated skin. England sighed in something like vague pleasure before her eyes shot open. Immediately, she shoved blue-eyed woman away and danced backwards, the so very pleasing flush to her cheeks now reddening garishly.
“A kiss to make it better,” winked Frances, always quick on the draw.
Alana sputtered, too flabbergasted to even curse. “Get out!” she bellowed, seizing a nearby plate and brandishing it like an Olympic discus.
With a peal of laughter, France made a judicious retreat, wiping her sticky fingers carelessly on the beautiful antique needlework picture of a unicorn by the front door as she left.
I still enjoy their banters, even when gender-switched. ^^ I like it how France doesn't actually know what touching those brows really does to England, just something subtle... =D Or maybe France DID know... But yea, anon love this!
I kept getting requests to write fem!France, because I've made reference to her in other fics with Alana. Unfortunately, fem!France is a bitch and refused to let herself be written, until this prompt. The two of them are even bitchier to each other when gender switched, frankly.
Actually, France knows quite well what touching the brows does to England at this point. She now has blackmail material. And oh dear god will that not bode well for fem!England...
Re: Tending [4/4]
anonymous
July 17 2009, 11:18:32 UTC
Oh dear. Coherent language fails me, but this was absolutely wonderful. There's not enough fem!France on this meme, and the unicorn picture is just... something England WOULD have, oh ♥
A series of even more profane curses blistered the air, easily audible from England’s front door though Frances rarely had to exert herself to pick out that particular voice.
The personification of France rapped politely at the front door. “Angleterre? Are you there?” She could have barged in; but she didn’t feel like facing her fellow nation’s wrath at the moment or perhaps the newest jinx that Alana had cast for any hapless intruders. The last one had involved creative use of the climbing roses by the door…
“What the fuck are you doing here, frog?” came the less than pleasant reply.
Frances felt a grin slowly curve the corners of her mouth upwards. “Can’t I visit my adorable sister?” she called back, voice dripping honey and sweetness. Alana’s next response told Frances just where to go.
“Hm. I suppose you don’t want chocolate gateau then,” said France, somehow managing to put in the aural equivalent of a shrug in her voice. There was a tense silence and the blonde woman at the door idly counted down from ten. And just after she reached “two”…
“Come in then, you evil bitch,” growled England’s voice from the depths of the dwelling like a surly lioness in her lair.
Frances managed not to laugh as she swept into the house as though she belonged there. Her… sister, for lack of a better word, kept a fairly clean home, though Frances always suspected that it was with the judicious use of whatever little sprites Alana liked to prattle about on a regular basis. Certainly no one could keep hardwood floors this clean without daily effort or a maid. But the likes of them rarely kept human servants. Not something so intimate a help as a housemaid. Frances herself kept a housekeeper, who came in to do the general cleaning about every few days and did the laundry (the woman did wonders with undergarments and blouses).
The smell of burning hair hit France’s sensitive nostrils and she found herself grinning again. Well, well. She leaned lightly in the doorway that led into England’s (unnecessary) kitchen, as poised and graceful as a Vogue model or a ballet dancer. Compared to the sleek figure in deep blue who had just entered the room, Alana Kirkland was, for lack of a better word, a frump. Though her white dress shirt had been precisely pressed, she wore a horribly old-fashioned, elderly knit vest that had a horrific argyle pattern of gray and a much faded green. Currently, she held a hand to the left half of her face, namely just above her eye. Dark green eyes, the only part of her that would receive any sort of real admiration, glared at Frances.
Lazily, the taller woman, balanced neatly on her black suede boots, proffered a white pasteboard box decorated with gilt curlicues. “For you,” she drawled.
“Put it on the table and get out,” snapped Alana. She kept her hand firmly pressed upon her face right above her left eye. Something smoldering in a frying pan was right behind her on the stove, which told the newcomer all that she needed to know.
“So rude,” purred Frances, as she obliged, placing the box gently upon the clean kitchen table. “Are you not even going to offer me a cup of tea?”
England snarled something unflattering about the other woman’s parentage, hunting for something in the cupboards. Blue eyes watched in amusement.
“An accident, Angleterre?” asked France innocently. “You are not hurt, are you?”
“None of your business,” snapped Alana, slamming a drawer shut. She went to the sink and turned on the water, using her free hand to test the temperature and to pick up a paper towel to place under the running water. Then she froze and her head looked towards Frances.
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“So rude,” sniffed the other nation. She came over and leaned in, taking fiendish delight in making England try to take a step back out of reflex. Unfortunately, Alana had been pressed against the sink and thus had nowhere to go.
“If you’re hurt, my dear,” breathed Frances. “You really should get it treated. No use in being stubborn.”
“Get away from me,” snapped England, her face reddening.
Fast as a snake, France grabbed the oddly slender wrist of Alana’s left hand and pulled; she had always had a very strong grip.
“Ah hah,” the taller nation murmured.
The revealed burn was actually rather painful looking, enough that Frances winced inwardly for a second in involuntary sympathy. Alana twisted her wrist but France only tightened her grip, digging beautifully manicured nails into the skin there. What remained of England’s left eyebrow were a few frizzy, sparse hairs against reddened flesh. Pine green eyes glowered murderously.
“Ow- Frances, you bitch!”
The taller woman clucked her tongue. “Well then, I see that hairy beasts must be conquered by fire then. A pity you did not destroy the other one.” In order to make sure that England did not miss the joke, Frances gesticulated to the relatively whole right eyebrow.
Alana actually kicked her, right in the shin under the knee cap.
Yelping in a most undignified way, France fell back, forced to release the shorter female’s wrist in order to cup at her knee. England had been wearing house slippers but an infuriated Alana tended to know right where to strike someone and made it hurt twice as much.
“My dear, remind me how old you are,” grimaced Frances. “Because I could have sworn you just turned five years old.”
“Shut up,” snarled the other nation, picking up the discarded paper towel in favor of pressing the makeshift cool compress to her eyebrow.
“Will you be shaving the other one then? You should match.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that an invitation?”
The second murderous look could have burnt through steel but Frances only grinned, straightening up properly as the pain in her leg started to ebb just a little. Angrily, Alana turned away to sulk and press the cloth against her seared skin. An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional drip from the kitchen faucet.
“I trust you know how to treat that,” France remarked.
“Of course I do, idiot.” England resumed her search of the cupboards and drawers, muttering darkly to herself.
“Do you have an aloe vera plant?”
“Out in the back, why-?” Dawning comprehension filled Alana’s face and she shook her head rapidly, muttering to herself.
“I’ll get it,” Frances said, lazily sauntering out to the back. She knew England’s house far too well, a fact that the other female did not like to admit readily.
Reply
The desired aloe vera grew in a series of pots by the back door, along with some other succulents that somehow managed to survive and even thrive in the foul clime here. Somehow, England had a way with plants, though many of them did. Perhaps it was something symbolic regarding the nature of countries. Frances shook away those unnecessary thoughts as she snipped the thick, spiky leaves from the plant, seeing the clear sap ooze from the cuts like viscous tears. She returned to the kitchen, taking a knife and a cutting board without so much as a “by your leave” to England. Deftly, she made a deeper slice into the leaf, squeezing out a small quantity of the sap. Alana watched through narrowed eyes and Frances actually sighed aloud.
“Honestly, Angleterre, how do you live like this? All of this… scowling and such.” She put down the knife and wiped sticky fingers clean. “One would almost think that you hate me.”
“I do not scowl,” England replied stiffly. She did not address the other matter.
“Would you prefer that I call it a look of constipation? I thought not. Come over here.”
Alana reluctantly came over to Frances, still holding the damp paper towel to her eyebrow. The personification of France pulled the paper towel away with surprising gentleness. Cool water had helped a little, though the skin there was still lividly red.
“I almost think this is a blessing for you,” France remarked as she gently cleaned the skin, wiping away the crisped and curled burnt hairs.
“Make another eyebrow joke and you won’t leave this house alive,” growled England. She winced as the paper towel made one more trip across her forehead a little too roughly.
“No need for violence.” France replied blandly. With her fingertip, she smeared the aloe vera over the burned skin gently, letting the soothing sap of the plant work its own natural magic.
England’s eyes fluttered closed and a sigh escaped her lips, which remained parted slightly. Frances’s finger remained on there for rather longer than necessary, on the excuse of making sure the sap coated every part of damaged skin. It was good to be exact, after all. Alana swayed slightly on her feet before catching herself on the nearest stable object. Namely France.
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How… humorous that those dark and marring arches hold such intriguing possibilities. France was willing to bet money that should those eyes open, the green would be swallowed by the blackness of dilated pupils. On a whim, she softly exhaled upon the damp skin and was rewarded by a slight shudder as a breath cooled sensitized skin. Something like a far too appealing mixture of a moan and a sigh fluttered from Alana’s parted lips and the rough fingers (so rough from gardening and needlepoint and fencing, deceptively ladylike pursuits) curled further into France’s expensive blouse, remarkably close to her breasts.
Frances considered the picture before her and saved it for posterity, though every sensual, sensuous instinct inside her urged her forwards and offered many dark and lovely pleasures. She did not know why, only that she found herself reluctantly pulling her hand from the other nation’s face. On another whim (rather mischievous this time), she leaned in to kiss right above the recently treated skin. England sighed in something like vague pleasure before her eyes shot open. Immediately, she shoved blue-eyed woman away and danced backwards, the so very pleasing flush to her cheeks now reddening garishly.
“A kiss to make it better,” winked Frances, always quick on the draw.
Alana sputtered, too flabbergasted to even curse. “Get out!” she bellowed, seizing a nearby plate and brandishing it like an Olympic discus.
With a peal of laughter, France made a judicious retreat, wiping her sticky fingers carelessly on the beautiful antique needlework picture of a unicorn by the front door as she left.
Reply
I still enjoy their banters, even when gender-switched. ^^ I like it how France doesn't actually know what touching those brows really does to England, just something subtle... =D Or maybe France DID know... But yea, anon love this!
-Is so not OP-
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Actually, France knows quite well what touching the brows does to England at this point. She now has blackmail material. And oh dear god will that not bode well for fem!England...
I'm glad you liked it.
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I take it you're a fan of Alana?
^_^ I'm very glad you enjoyed it.
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England made the unicorn picture herself, by the way. ;D
Thank you!
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