A/T: HAPPY BOITHDAY, SCARLETT! May you remain as awesome as ever!

This is a birthday gift for Scarlett, and if you're reading this on your birthday, happy birthday! May you stay sweet and awesome and forevermore happy!

I've never done this before, so…tell me what you think, ne?

Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia

Little patience, lots of love

He watched as she stormed across the room, pacing furiously, growing increasingly angry because the room was small. Her rage glittered in her blue eyes, and her golden hair swished and bounced off her back. He just continued to cut potatoes, remembering the time when she couldn't do more than breathe, and when those eyes were more broken than a china plate smashed into a thousand smithereens.

"I want to go!" she declared loudly, turned to him, with her hands on her hips. He remembered stitching the gashes on her arm, aligning her broken ribs, repairing her broken fingers. He knew, from having lived with her, that she hated to be ignored, especially when she was serious. He'd done it many times, especially when she'd raised the topic, and then finally said he'd had to go somewhere out. But there was a snowstorm outside, and they were locked in. Still, he didn't mind—he hadn't minded, before Françoise had begun her tirade again.

"Allistor, say something, vous damner!"

He didn't know French, but he knew she was cursing—that was all he heard her say these days. He would've said he preferred how she had been before, but just thinking about the circumstances that they had met, how she'd been, was enough to make him double over in pain.

He watched her move. When he'd first seen her, she hadn't been moving—she was covered in dirt, grime and her own blood, swathed in clothes caked with vomit. Blood had matted her hair, and he wouldn't have known her alive if it wasn't for the pain on her face. He would've probably killed her—he knew how to be merciful when an animal on his farm had just about enough. But something grabbed hold of him, and he rescued her, with the same feeling he would've had if he'd rescued an injured animal or bird. And there were plenty of those in the harsh planes of Scotland.

He knew she would've had a better chance at her brothers' places—hell, any brother's place—but they hated the French with a passion they didn't show their own wives. And Allistor hated his brothers, only taking their help when absolutely necessary.

And he could take care of her. Or he hoped.

But now, as he looked into her eyes, he realized that he no longer saw the broken looks in her eyes, the one he'd seen when she opened her eyes, weeks after he'd brought her home. And now, she had those eyes on him.

Awareness ran through him as he looked at her, followed by a wave of guilt. He couldn't touch her, because she would flinch, and he hated it that she would compare him with the scum who'd broken her methodically and thoroughly. Her spirit had lived through, but she would forever be afraid of men.

He couldn't help but love her, but every time she flinched, it killed a tiny portion of his soul. So he didn't nothing more than help her, and when she wanted to talk, he found it wiser to ignore, and if that wasn't possible, just answer her question and be on his way.

"Bein?"

"You aren't going."

"Yes I am."

He scoffed softly. "Good luck, then. But, lassie, if you can so much as make it two yards away from the den in that white piece of 'ell, then you have my respect."

"I don't mean now!"

"You aren't going, lassie. Now git."

"Vous sot, don't you tell me to git. I've been gitting long enough!"

"It's true, then," he said, in his characteristic soft, deep voice. "You French really don't know how to speak English."

She flew into an apoplexy at the insult of the French, and Allistor took the time in starting a fire for their dinner. She could eat on her own now; gone were the days when he had to feed her by hand, or worse, feed her gruel through leather skin.

"You don't even speak English, imbécile analphabète!" she raged at him, and he realized how hilarious her French accent was, and how the refined, cultured tone of her voice slid over his skin. He just chuckled and tied his red hair with a leather thong—it had been ages since he'd gotten his hair cut, and the last time he had gone out, it was to get Françoise clothes to wear. He had his own farm, he grew his own food and milked his own cows—he didn't need to go out much.

"Allistor, listen to me"—

"What do you have to say to me, lassie?" he said, turning around to face her. It was time to end it. "You want to go? Fine. Go as soon as it stops to snow. Go into town, explain to people what you were doing here, somehow make your way back to France and murder those sick bastards in their sleep! You don't have a plan, lass—you don't even know what you're doing. You're just saying you want to go—what do you want to do?"

He didn't notice, but she hadn't flinched even once in the course of his talking, even when his voice had grown to a shout. She just stood there, glaring defiantly at him while still being able to look down her nose at him, which surprised him every time. She was taller than most, but he was taller than her, and it surprised him how she could possibly do that.

"If I don't even start, what can I possibly do?"

"You start by making a plan. Then you go and do it." He turned back to the fire, added the vegetables into the boiling water.

There was silence behind him. She thought he couldn't understand what she was trying to say, but he knew all too well. She'd been abducted as ransom, and when her family couldn't pay, she was used and torn in ways even the wildest of imaginations couldn't fathom. When he found her on the ground, three of her ribs were broken, one was smashed, her fingers were broken cleanly, her little toe on her left foot was crushed, and that was just the beginning. Her head had a large, festering gash, the flesh on her limbs was grooved open, and her slashed stomach was healing haphazardly. And when he tore apart her dress to clean her up…

He didn't want her to go—he didn't want anyone to hurt her. He knew she needed answers—he wanted her to stay with him, to be safe, to never be hurt again. But he knew her mind entirely too well. She would go, and she would even die in the process, if she had to.

"You're right. I don't have a plan, I don't have anything. I just want them all to die, and I want to stand and watch. But I am going to do it, whether you approve or not."

He paused, turned slightly. "How does my approval hold any value to you, lassie?"

Silence resumed, and this time, it was painful. "Tu as raison. You are right. And you probably don't care"—

She yelped, more surprise than fear, when he spun around and grabbed hold of her arm. "You accuse me of anything else, Françoise Bonnefoy, except not caring for you. I love you, I will always love you, and if you want to go and hurt yourself, I will do everything to stop you." Realizing he was holding her, and disgusted with himself, he let go of a shocked Françoise, who took a few involuntary steps back.

His temper threatened to choke him, but he calmed it. "You want revenge, Françoise? Go and get your revenge. And when you want to come back, know that I'll be waiting for you right here."

He grabbed hold of her, and held her close, their noses inches off each other. "I'm not a patient man, lassie, but I'm going to wait for you, whether it's one year or ten. You better come back before my patience runs out, lass—or else I'll hunt you down amongst your pantaloons-wearing countrymen and drag you back here. Do you understand?"

"Come with me."

He released her. "If you're strong enough to face me, lass, you're strong enough to take those bastards by yourself. I know you can do it," he said, and risked stroking her cheek, noticing, for the first time, that she hadn't flinched. "So go do it."

And, for maybe the first time in her entire life—from her genteel upbringing to the circumstances that brought her to him—she found solace in the arms of a man.

-Three months later-

Allistor smoked his cigar, looked at the city before him. It was like most French cities he'd seen, and they'd all bored him endlessly. He wondered what originality existed in making each street look like the other—he enjoyed the beauty of chaos. He took another drag of his cigar. But there were certain things that the French reputation lived up to—the nights, the bizarre fashion sense, the food, the wine, and the women. He didn't particularly care for any of them.

He was only there for one woman.

It had been hell on earth when his brothers had found out—Arthur had gone right off his rocker, Ian hadn't been able to speak for the longest time, and William had no idea what he wanted to say. It would've probably gone to blows, but Allistor agreed to let Ian take over his farmland until he came back, so even though Arthur began raging even more, he had Ian on his side, and William had realized his seriousness over the entire matter.

Well, he would look bad if he left such a loud commotion in his trail. Suddenly, the cigar failed to soothe him. It was time to do what he'd come for.

It was time to find Françoise Bonnefoy.

A/T: Scarlett, I really hope you like it—it isn't as good as I could've possibly made it, but I've had college from last Monday till today, Sunday included, and I'm tired as can be. This is the best I can do right not, and I hope you like my best.

Happy Birthday, darling.

If you liked this even a little, I'll be happy.

Love,

R. K. Iris.