Erm, hello everyone. I'm de-anoning from the kink meme here with this oneshot. I'm pretty interested in WWII, and I'm thinking about expanding this oneshot to include the entirety of the important events from that war. We shall see. Right now I'm sort of in the re-planning stages of the China fic I started and I want to finish that first. And...please don't be scared away, but this hasn't been beta read. Also, my French sucks. Enjoy anyway. Heh.

OH, and the quotes blocks in Italics are taken from Churchill's Finest Hour speech given in that time period.

Anything could be ignored with the right amount of willpower. The shaking of his hand as he struggled to simply hold the fragile teacup in his hand—the effort it took to bring the choppy, chaotic liquid to his lips just to take a sip? Nothing. The soul-sucking weariness that somehow seeped into his bones with an unnaturally heavy weight while he struggled just to keep his eyes open? Nothing. The inability to sleep night after night with the knowledge that another salvo of bombs would inevitably batter his precious London, killing hundreds and leaving many more homeless? Nothing. The ache in his heart rivaled only by the never-ending ache in his body as his country was left in ruins? Nothing.

He could maintain his composure. Sure the brightness in his eyes had faded to an exhausted dullness, the bruises under his eyes were stark against unnaturally pale skin, and his head constantly clouded by a haze. But he was the British Empire, for hell's sake. He sure as hell wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Angleterre?"

England nearly leapt out of his skin, his tea sloshing up over the side of his cup and staining his trousers. It took him a moment to reorient himself to his surroundings. Yes, he was still in his house, huddled somewhat beneath a threadbare blanket in his favourite chair where the bleak rays from a resigned sun half-heartedly slinked its way in the window and refused to provide further warmth. "Wha—France? When the hell did you get here…"

All France could offer him was a sigh. "Mon ami, I've been here for at least ten minutes. You acknowledged me when I stepped in." He shifted his weight, relying on the wall to keep his shaking body upright. He was unnaturally tense, body mottled with bruises, one arm tucked in a sling, and left eye swollen shut. His breathing seemed strained, a little bit too hurried, and he kept licking parched, cracked lips.

England rubbed his eyes with an unsteady hand and shook his head. "Right. Well then. Um…" He looked the other up and down. Numbness immediately shot through him. The nation gingerly set down his cup and pushed himself up out of his chair to inspect the other more closely, brows furrowed. "You're a downright mess…" His fingertips brushed France's face and the moment was locked into place then shattered as England hastily jerked away and made for the kitchen. "You'll want tea, right?" There came the sound of clinking china and a teapot being thrust upon stove burner.

France followed him in to answer the unspoken question. "I shouldn't be here by any count. Germany's got Paris in complete lockdown. He's…he's lost it. Completely. And it didn't help that my government gave up without a fight. I'm afraid France has fallen for good. The damn Kraut is a monster, more so than I've ever imagined."

England took all this in with a grunt, eyes flickering to the window where he could crane his neck to see St. Paul's Cathedral framed by a halfhearted sunset. He swallowed, Churchill's words echoing in his mind.

I made it perfectly clear then that whatever happened in France would make no difference to the resolve of Britain and the British Empire to fight on, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.

"R-right."

France continued. "And Italy…" The Frenchman paced only slightly until England pushed the steeping cup of tea along the table toward him with a small sigh. The two slumped down into kitchen chairs. "Germany has dragged him down into his insanity. He's turned mon petit frère into just as much of a monster as he. That bastard. Italy was always such a cute, naïve child...but now he's declared war on me, even sent in invasion forces…I can hardly stand it. I actually saw him once. Talked to him, you know. He visited Paris with Germany—c-clings to that Kraut in the most disgusting way." France pinched the bridge of his nose in hopes of staving off a headache or possibly tears. "But you, Angleterre, how are you holding up? I saw London…"

England merely shook his head. "I am fine."

Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.

"Angleterr—"

"I said I am fine." England's voice was sharper than he intended, and his tendency to scowl at anyone and everyone these days wasn't helping. He sighed, adding to the weight of the following silence.

France stared intently at his cup, absentmindedly twirling the spoon around the edge. He felt useless, utterly useless. His rival and quite possibly closest friend was suffering and he was too weak to do anything about it. The war had hardly begun and he had already fallen.

Eventually France dared look back up at England who was also studying his cup, fingers delicately wrapped into the handle and pinky sure as hell sticking out and up. "It almost seems silly," France dared start.

England looked up. "What?"

"I mean, the quarrels we've had all our lives. The silly, petty arguments. It seems so silly compared to this."

"This is war. What do you expect." England's eyes drifted back toward the window, and it became clear that he lacked the energy to discuss this or even deflect it with some sarcastic jab. "We've endured worse. The very powers and conflict that forged us into nations was the real hellfire. This is just another test to see if we're worthy to hold the names and the power that we've accumulated. I intend on facing the challenge head on. I'll endure what I must until I can strike back. Great Britain waits for no one. You're insane, France, for sitting around twiddling your thumbs and waiting for some…some hero to charge in and save you. He's not coming, France. America is not coming to save your ass again nor is he coming to help me. I know that's why you came, to see if there was any glimmer of hope in the horizon, but you're wrong. Everything that we do here will be by our own power, and our own power is more than enough. It has to be. Germany would have be bloody insane to provoke America."

France did not comment on the pain that flashed through England's eyes. "I did not come to ask about Amerique. I only came to ask about you…"

"I—"

The first bomb pounded into the street nearby and sent a wave of rubble exploding outward. The screaming started, followed by belated sirens that echoed and whined like premature funeral dirges while the house shook with subsequent explosions.

Nghhh. England doubled over. His breath hitched. Sweat erupted across his face and dripped into clouded eyes. His twitching body jarred the table and his teacup shattered on the floor, tea seeping out like blood.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'

"Shit." England shoved himself upright, ignoring the chair that toppled over, and staggered to the window to get a better view. "They're here." Night had just barely fallen, but the air was already thick with the droning of planes. France joined him there, unable to see through the smoky haze, then pulled him away from the window as another bomb exploded into the house nearby. Debris rained down, some crashing through the glass and skidding across the linoleum floor.

"Angleterre. Surely it isn't safe he—"

"No." England snarled. "I'm not leaving my house." He wrenched free and lunged for the kitchen table then for the counter to find another tea cup to pour water into.

"Are you insane? The house! The shaking! What if a bomb hits us?"

England shook his head, dumping in a bit too much sugar with a shaking hand. He couldn't even grip the milk pitcher. "J-just turn the lights out. The g-government has been suggesting we turn out all the lights in London. M-makes it harder for the Nazis to hit us if they can't see us."

Breath catching in his throat, France did as he was told, looking back at England uneasily before flipping the switch. He could have sworn he saw a lone tear on the Briton's face before darkness provided him cover. "Alright, Angleterre, now what? Is there somewhere in your house that's safe to go?"

England found himself doubled over once more, clutching at the leg of his table as a cry ripped from his throat. He felt the family in the quaint house two doors down from his own die, their lives snuffed out in a matter of seconds in a cascade of debris. The house shook worse, until he feared it would crumble before it was even smashed into. More lives vanished until he too felt so distant from his body that he could just ascend to something better, away from the pain and the fear that assaulted him. He struggled just to push breath past the lump in his throat. Every inch of him throbbed with pain. He choked back sobs.

"Angleterre!" France was immediately at his side. He tried desperately to pull the other against him despite his own injured arm.

"I told you I'm fine." He kept his voice surprisingly level and he probably struggled to keep his face calm, though it was too dark for France to see. "Unhand me. Now."

France refused. "Angleterre. You don't have to endure this alo—"

"I said unhand me, frog." England's fist made contact with France's face, though not with enough force to truly hurt, before the entirety of his body lost all its fight and went limp from exhaustion. The house took on an eerie silence and the darkness grew thicker without the flash of bombs.

"There's sure to be another wave…" England choked. "Don't become complacent…" His voice grew faint.

"Right. Then I'm getting you out of here and to safety. Where to…"

"D-don't you dare, you bloody fro—"

"Like you can resist." France pulled England upright then slung the other's arm across his shoulder and held him in place with his good arm. The Frenchman walked with a limp, but managed to drag the feebly struggling nation toward the door. "We're going to the underground station. That seems safe enough, oui?"

He stumbled toward the door, which was hanging at an odd angle off its hinges, and tapped it open. He forced the exhausted nation to rely on him as he started for the streets.

"Tell me which way we go."

"..."

"Tell me which way to go, dammit! Mon Dieu! There's no need to be so damn stubborn."

With a drawn out breath, England pointed down the street where they could see only by the light of crackling fires that were consuming the remains of several houses. "Down that street."

The two continued on in strained silence. By the time they reached the stairs their panting scraped against the night and neither of them could manage little more than a staggering walk.

The droning returned, along with the smoke, the confusion, and the panic. Once again London shook and England doubled over at the top of the stairs, nearly taking France down with him.

"Non, Angleterre. Hold on a little longer." Wiping sweat and grime from his eyes, France half carried half dragged England down the stairs into the station where hundreds of families were huddled in the embracing darkness of the tunnel, clinging together for dear life.

France made sure England was somewhat comfortable by laying his coat across him, and settling his head on his lap, then squinted in the half light provided by dimmed torches at the people surrounding. This was a people beaten and bruised but not broken. Knocked down but not destroyed. France realized by the fire in their eyes, still burning behind the fear, that England truly would not go down without a fight.

The Frenchmen looked down as if to tell England, but paused when he saw the Briton's eyes slowly fluttering open. The hand that had been absentmindedly stoking the other's hair stilled as England reached a hand up to touch his cheek with trembling fingers. His considerable brows scrunched together as he struggled to just stay awake.

"America…?"

France swallowed, unable to answer for the lump forming in his throat.

England's eyes slipped closed. "Stay the hell out of Europe…"