Second drabble set in the same universe- more of the, 'started ages ago, now I'm cleaning up my pieces and putting somewhat acceptable endings on them to post the damn things' collection. So same warnings as the first- dark, fem!England, English spelling. Oh, and slightly insane!England. I seem to have a thing for that at the moment.

Disclaimer-Heh, I wish.

Enjoi.

She whipped the pistol from her holster and aimed before Francis could even blink. He froze- stupid mistake to make in the middle of a battle, he was no novice; why did he freeze- but Alice had never tried to shoot him before. Sword fights were par the course, but gunpowder was a relatively new presence on the field, and even though he had his own pistol at his hip, he hadn't considered using it on her.

Sword fights were the usual fare, and though they'd never shied from attempting a killing blow, it was unspoken that they probably wouldn't be able to kill each other. Be it skill, luck, the intervention of their generals- although they'd tried many times, no fatal blow had ever connected with its victim, none even leaving a glancing wound to show for itself.

Pistols were new territory. For the first time in centuries, Francis felt trepidation- the pre-cursor to fear- as he stared at her and her naked pistol. One twitch, one deliberate squeeze of the trigger mechanism-

-and for all they knew, it might- she might- finally, actually kill him. It was untested, just what would be required to make him die; after all, he was still alive.

The pistol roared and Francis was surprised as the shot missed him. He'd expected her to be as expert a marksman as she was a swordsman, despite the newness of the technology.

Then he heard the ragged cry from behind. He spun, turning his back to her- stupid mistake, giving her the chance to stick her blade in it - and saw the soldier fall, not three yards away from him. A knife glinted as it tumbled to the ground next to the body.

The soldier was wearing red.

This didn't-

Francis couldn't think; he turned back to Alice with confusion painted onto every inch of him. She was smiling, a dark, self-satisfied expression that he never would have thought to see on her face as she killed one of her own soldiers.

"Alice- pourquoi..?" He found his voice, though coherence was still beyond him. "You... mon dieu, Angleterre, he was yours!"

"He was going to kill you." Her voice was as steady as her hand when she'd taken the shot. "Or well. Try to. Would a knife to the heart kill you, Francis?" Her eyes had the glint that said she wanted to test her theory, and his confused mind couldn't work out why she would then take exception to someone experimenting for her.

"You killed your soldier over me- why, Alice?" His guard was non-existent, sword hanging limply from his right hand.

"It's no less than what I did for Charles," she stated, so matter of fact that he wanted to shake her, just to see if she'd teetered over the fine edge into insanity. It was the only explanation, surely.

"But your royalty- you love them, you fight for them- why, for me..?"

She was ignoring him now; her attention was on the distant forces, both in a state of disorganised retreat. "Another stalemate," was all she said, before looking directly at him again. Her face was carefully blank now as she re-sheathed her blade.

"You've always been worth it to fight, Francis," she said tonelessly. "It's just an interesting question, to me- that is, would you be worth fighting for as well?"

She walked past him, left arm brushing his. Like he'd done earlier, she left her back wide open as she paused and spoke her last words for this encounter. "But until that can be answered, you will fight with me, and me only. Not a well-meaning Englishman merely out for glory. And that same Englishman will not be the one to stop this."

Toneless as she sounded, there was the slightest inflection on this that left France even more confused than before. They fought; they fucked when they weren't fighting- they didn't like each other and they certainly didn't love each other.

Yet she walked away, her back practically a target in her red, untailored uniform- she never would have done that as little as one century ago, made it so easy for me- and he knew he couldn't consider doing anything about it. She'd given him the idea- take out the pistol; would it be enough to kill her?- and it would remain just that. An idea, never tested.

Six centuries ago, given the chance, he'd have slit the brat's throat in her sleep and not lost any of his. And now, he'd laid in the same bed as her, slept with a knife under his pillow (she'd slept beside him wearing a bracelet made of leather and string. He'd seen her use it to garrotte someone, once) and-

Mon dieu, he trusted her.

He didn't like her, but he trusted her. And since she'd raised the point... she trusted him too. As dark and bloody as their shared history was, something had changed between them and they... they trusted each other. Unspoken, unacknowledged trust.

Then she made him realise it, and changed everything.

Except- he trusted her. He turned and watched her join up with her soldiers. As though she felt his gaze, she glanced back and nodded once, a mark of respect.

He raised his sword to the sky, then sheathed it in one smooth motion. He made his way to his own men, confused as hell, but inexplicably smiling.

Yay for insane!England. Why do I do this to my country..?