His kerchief was the color of poppies and as thick to the touch as leather by the time he was able to see his reflection in his pocketknife. Arthur Kirkland cursed when he saw the long jagged wound decorating his cheek, and once again when he felt a calloused finger trailing lazily across it.

"This would leave a quite ugly scar," Beilschmidt mused, drawing his red fingers back to the more interesting matter of the unconscious, and now nicely scarlet, man slumped on the ground before him.

"It was necessary," England retorted sharply, and joined his companion in the binding of his attacker, "can't have them thinking of me as anything but human. It's not like it will stay or anything."

"Ja, but sometimes I wish that we could keep our pretty little scars, especially on your nice face," Prussia purred, shoving the bundled of a bloodied man into the hard stone of the alley that had chosen for their little meeting.

Britain only replied by rolling his eyes and tossing his cleaned knife, now shining dully in whatever light the fogging night would let through, on to the haphazard pile of his pack and Prussia dark overcoat on the, slightly bloodied, ground.

"I will never understand their underestimation of weapons, as much as they are a part of me, and after all they have seen…" the blond man grumbled, leaning against the wall behind him,

"Well, he is a Death Eater, is he not? And if we know one thing about these sort of men, they think that nothing can touch them besides the blood on their hands…" Prussia muttered, tossing an arm over Britain's shoulder, scarping his knuckles very so slightly across the brick wall and giving the firm shoulder under his hand a firm squeeze. Britain, though he would never admit it, leaned in to the touch, the only warmth he could feel in this night across from a bringer of death and below a cloudy, dead sky.

The odd pair stared there for a quite a minute, basking in whatever afterglow one could get out of a two minute skirmish- if one could even call slashing a man up the chest and smashing his head against a wall a skirmish, a massacre might be better fitting, if anything.

"Who gets the honors?" Britain finally spoke, growing tense with the silence hanging in the cold air, not as comfortable in his own skin as he'd once been.

After a brief pause, Prussia replied with a lazy drawl, heavy with implication: "Well, I haven't been able to have much fun in the past years, seeing as I tended to be receiving rather that doling out the love…"

"He's yours then, though he'll squeal before your blade gets within a arms length of his stomach."

"I was thinking of getting out my old Eiserne Jungfrau, actually," Prussia countered lightly, a wolfish smile spreading across lips that had not worn such an expression in a good many years.

Britain snorted at that, "And just how are you going to get your hands on one of those? We don't exactly keep them around anymore."

"I'm sure one of your museum around here has one in stock," Prussia chuckled good-naturedly, "if not I can always just make one."

"It really has been too long for you, hasn't it?"

"You have no idea."