A half hour later, when he's sure Matt's really asleep, Arthur heads out in the frigid morning air to where his borrowed car is still safely parked in the back corner of the lot. Through the foggy windows he can just make up Francis curled up asleep in the passenger's seat, Arthur's jumper wrapped around his legs.

It doesn't surprise him that the door open easily—those stupid frogs trust everyone, after all. He slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door as softly as he can manage, although the solid thump of it still reverberates through the car. Francis makes a sound deep down in his throat and slits his eyes open for just a moment. "Nmm?"

"Good morning," Arthur whispers. The blond starts to say something and decides it doesn't matter halfway through, turning his head back into the cushion of the seat belt with a sigh. It's just as well, Arthur thinks. There are no words for what he's feeling anyway.

Arthur watches him quietly, seeing the way Francis' shoulders move up and down as he breathes, the way his eyes flutter behind his eyelids as he sleeps. It's so absurd, he thinks, that Francis is out here sleeping and Mattie is in there sleeping, both of them in their own separate beds and their own separate dreams, wishing for someone to love them and being too timid to ask to be loved. That's the thing about being lonely, isn't it? We're all doing it together.

The thought makes him suddenly, achingly sad, and he reaches across to touch the other man's shoulder. "Francis?" He gets a sleepy murmur in response so he tries again. "Francis? You awake?"

"Casse-toi," Francis mumbles, swatting his hand away, and Arthur has to laugh. It's been a long, long time since they were together – his mind balks at the word intimate – like this, and obviously France's unconscious mind is quite aware of the fact.

"It's me, you git. You've fallen asleep in my car." Alfred's car, technically, but it's a little lie, and anyway it's enough to make Francis slit open his eyes in bleary confusion, pale blond eyelashes just brushing against his cheeks.

"Eh?" he asks after a moment, in an accent so heavy England hardly recognizes it as a question. "Comment?"

It's sort of cute, the way Francis defaults to French when he's tired or angry or emotional, and for just a moment Arthur wonders which language is Matthew's favored tongue when he's coming home from a hard day or just waking up from a good dream—but that thought hurts so he pushes it away. "You're in my car," he says instead, watching as Francis pushes up on one elbow to glance around.

"In... 'our car?" he mumbles, and then recognition dawns in his face and his blue eyes go wide. "Oh. Oh, Dieu. Tell me zat was a nightmarr."

England turns the heater up just for an excuse to look away as he shakes his head. "No. No, he... it wasn't a nightmare." I wish it was, he wants to add. I wish these past fifty years were all a nightmare.

"We are at ze 'ospital?"

"Yeah. In the parking lot."

Francis lets out a heavy breath and leans back in his seat, laying his head against the head rest until he's staring up at the ceiling. "Fouck."

"Yeah," Arthur says again. "Yeah, I know."

The blonde sits there for a moment before turning to look at him, slowly, as if he's afraid of what he's about to say. "'Ou said— 'ou promis'd to get me if anyt'ing happened."

There's an unspoken question there, one Arthur wants to ignore but he can't so he pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket just to have something to do. "I... yeah. He—he woke up, for just a second, but he was out again before I could do anything. I... I came out here to get you in case he wakes up again." That was a lie too, although to be fair Arthur really didn't know why he'd come out here. It wasn't because he was worried about Francis. It was, if he was being honest, probably the fact that being alone in that room with nothing but his thoughts and that machine and those god-forsaken magazines would drive him mad.

"Did... did he say anyt'ing?" Francis asks quietly. "Did he recognize 'ou?"

"Um. Yeah, he... he did. For just a minute. He called me—" The word is on the tip of his tongue, but Arthur doesn't think he deserves the title of daddy so he swallows it back down again. "He wasn't in his right mind, at any rate. He started crying as soon as he saw me, just kept saying sorry over and over again. I guess..."

There are many ways Arthur can end that sentence. I guess he thought we'd be angry at him. I guess he thought there wouldn't be anyone there when he opened his eyes again. I guess he thought life wasn't worth living anymore. I guess we failed him, really, truly failed him this time. But Francis' eyes are bright and shiny in the light of the hospital windows and England really doesn't think he can stand to see him crying again tonight so he instead he says, "I guess those apologetic Canadian stereotypes must be true, huh?"

Francis stares at him for a second and then laughs a sudden, startled laugh, the worried creases in his brow and around his mouth smoothing out to something resembling normal. "What?"

"You know, the Canadian who apologizes for the fact that you rear-ended him. The guy who says he's sorry that his load of whites got mixed in with your one red sock."

Francis leans forward with one hand covering his mouth and laughs again, eyes squinted open to look at England like he's the most beautiful and ridiculous thing. "Where do 'ou get these t'ings?"

"What? You've never heard that joke before?"

France smiles behind his hand and shakes his head in silence, and there's something in his face that makes Arthur's chest tighten so he turns away. "Well. It's a good joke." He slips the keys out of the ignition and shrugs his jacket back around his shoulders. "Come on, let's go in. It's cold as balls out here, even with the heater on."

It's really not that cold, especially considering it's Canada, but Francis moves the sweater draped across his knees and opens the door. "Do 'ou want to stay 'ere?"

"God, no." He can't stand the thought of sitting out here alone, in the deafening silence of his borrowed car. "No, I'll come in with you."

Francis glances over at him and then reaches out to grasp his shoulder with a gentleness that aches way deep down in his bones. Francis can be needy, yes, and dramatic and lazy and downright obnoxious sometimes, but never let it be said that he is not a gentle man. In fact, England thinks maybe he is the most gentle man he's ever known; there is, he figures no one who understands the nature of vulnerability better than a man who tears himself open so often and so readily.

"Ar'tur..."

The softness in his voice hurts. "What, frog?"

Francis pauses, and Arthur is afraid of the damage his words can wreak so he reaches up and overs the hand on his shoulder with his own. Beside him he hears Francis let out a warm, slow sigh. "I am glad 'ou're 'ere."