Nightmare

A companion to After Bedtime I hope you like it.

France stayed on the dirt road for a long time. It didn't matter that his pants were getting dirty, or that his knees were sore, nor that the cool wind was chilling him. All that mattered was his little boy, his son, his ange, had been taken from him. France knew he wouldn't go to retrieve the child, not anytime soon, anyway. He was too stubborn, his rivalry with Angleterre much too strong, in noway was it possible for France to drop his pride and admit defeat.

Sometime after the sun had set and brilliant stars lit up the sky, France heard the jolly noise of drunk men singing from down the road. Pulling himself to his feet France stumbled to his home. Opening the door with fumbling fingers he walked into the kitchen where he kept several bottles of his favorite wine. Opening the small cabinet he pulled one, inspecting it for just a moment he brought the cork to his mouth tearing it open with his teeth. Spitting the cork away into the darkness, France threw his head back and gulped down half the bottle of wine. Slumping back against the cabinet France let his mind become muddled by exhaustion and the wine. Slowly his thoughts wander to his cher Matthieu with an angry snarl he swallowed a what was rest of the bottle trying to stop his ability to think.

Too warn out to reject sleep any longer France's eyes began to slip close, but just as he was falling into oblivion he heard the faintest of banging.

The bright sun shone into the kitchen, hissing in pain France squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't until about an hour later, when his headache had lessened enough for him to wonder about the whereabouts of his charge did France remember England had taken him. Anger boiling just below the surface France gritted his teeth, he would have gone and taken his boy back right now if it weren't for Angleterre's brat's strength. If he threatened America's "older brother" France knew that he wouldn't be getting his son back. So instead France settled for starting on another bottle of wine.

It went on like this for days France only leaving his house to buy more alcohol, he didn't even care if he was drinking wine any longer. Sitting by the dieing fire in his kitchen, France threw his finished bottle into the hearth's weak flames. The bottle broke on contact, the fire going out. In the dark room, the only light from the coming and going light of the moon outside France began to nod off. Suddenly something tugged his head by his hair. Gasping France's eyes darted around the room trying to make shapes out of the shadows. When he could not properly make out any single shape he began to panic struggling against the thing that held him.

"So much prettier..." A voice near France's ear growled. France went rigid before wildly lashing out at the air around him. "Dammit! Quit movin'!" The voice snarled before something delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. France froze in shock. Cold, biting fingers wrapped around France's wrist putting them above his head while a heavy weight settled on top of him. France tried to struggle, but a fist connected with his head causing it to ring. Dazed, France found himself unable to fight back against the hands that wondered up a down his body. France felt the hands move towards his pants, silently France wished he had believed Angleterre.

With a last ditch effort France slammed his head against the wall hoping to knock himself out or at the very least put him a disoriented state, so that tonight's events would be blurry. Lucky for France just as a malevolent chuckle filled the air above him he passed out into a injury induced sleep.

When France woke the next morning he sat up wincing when he found himself to be sore. It would seem the thing he'd heard and felt the night before had not been a delusion of his drunken mind. Had this happened to his petit Matthieu? Had the little boy woken up every morning sore and confused? What about when France refused to let Matthieu sleep with him or let him stay up just a bit later? Horror struck France, what had he done to his little boy? Ignoring the pain France scrambled to his feet. He would not be staying in this house any longer nor would he allow another family to live in it.

Lighting a fire, France tore a curtain from a window and threw it in the fire letting it trail out onto the floor. Gathering more logs he stoked the fire, watching the flames flare up. France then found a half-empty bottle of wine lying on the ground only a few feet away. Starting around the fire, France made a trail of alcohol around the room. Once finished, France stared at his work a satisfactory smile spreading across his face. When the smoke became to thick to breath France darted through the flames and out of the house. Taking a seat a safe distance away from the house France watched grimly as the house burned to the ground, just as twilight approached the fire died out leaving only charred remains of the house.

When the sky turned pitch black and only the stars to light the world around him France felt a cold angry wind blast by him. Shuttering, France rose to his feet and nearly ran to town not daring to look back. Much to his fortune France was able to find a room at an inn to sleep at for the night, curling up on the lumpy bed under dirty sheets France found it impossible to sleep. Slowly morning came, with it a desperate need to see his son. Leaving the inn France headed in the direction of where he remembered America lived.

Coming to stand in front of a gate France gazed fondly into the yard. Angleterre and the North American brother's were working together in a small vegetable garden in front of the house. Gathering his courage France knocked on the gate, the first thing he noticed was Angleterre's surprised stare followed by a delighted giggle.

"Papa! Big Brother said you'd come for me!"

Using every bit of his strength France lifted his little boy into his arms.

"Did 'e?" France muttered giving the Englishman a suspicious stare.

"Uh-huh! He also said if I liked I could stay here with you papa!" Canada grinned throwing his arms around his father's neck.

"Both of us?" France said taken back, staring at the blushing man in surprise.

"W-Well that's if you don't have a new house..." England stuttered, his face morphing into a scowl he said "I'm not letting you take him back to that house."

"Don't worry I sold it." France lied, never would he admit what had happened in that house to anyone. A smile spreading across his face France questioned "So am I welcome to stay here?"

England's face flushed a soft pink, "If y-you w-want."

"That would be lovely mon lapin."

"Yay! No more of Arthur's cooking!" Little America cried.

"Hey!" England yelled turning a furious glare on the little blue eyed nation.

France chuckled.

"You must admit mon lapin your cooking is poison compared to mine."

His face turning a furious scarlet England shouted "My food's not poison!"

France only laughed harder "Whatever you say Angleterre."

"It's not!" Arthur shouted.

What did you guys think? Is it good, bad, awesome, terrible? Please review thanks for reading.