Chapter Text
The streets were crowded with horses and people in the late morning damp of Christiana. Last night's rainstorm still lingered on the cobblestones even after being tread on by so many feet and hung heavily in the air. Norway didn't think much of it as he headed home from his morning errands for lunch, walking quickly and lost in his thoughts, but he discovered the slipperiness of the streets when he bumped into a young woman who promptly lost her balance and fell to the ground.
Alarmed, he quickly grabbed her elbow to pull her to feet and started to mumble an apology until he caught a glimpse of her face. Face blank, he waited as she finished brushing off her skirt, unwilling to think or feel anything until he got a proper look at her. The white apron of her folk dress was smeared with mud, but it seemed the dress itself had been mostly spared. The embroidery was understated but of fine quality, something a woman of moderate means might wear on Sundays. Her head was covered a bonnet, but there was no ring either on her finger or a chain around her neck.
"My apologies, Sir," she said, and the tenor of her voice was like music even as she flattened his melodic language. "I'm just so clumsy, my father scolds me often, but I always seem to be late..." There was pleading on her face as she finally looked at him, and Norway felt even more jarred than when they'd crashed into each other. It was Denmark, he knew it as surely as his own name, but nothing she'd said so far made any sense, and, more importantly, the magnitude of the risk she was taking by simply being in his country was staggering.
"It is I who should apologize to you," he said, drawing on his great reserves of serenity. "Are you unhurt?"
"I think--" she began brightly, then went to take a step and had her leg buckle underneath her. It was lucky Norway was still holding her arm, or else she would have taken another tumble in the mud. "It seems my ankle is twisted, Sir."
"Then it must been seen by a doctor," Norway said, presuming to heft her packages by the twine that tied them together. "Come, I will call one for you."
"Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't," she protested, even as he began to lead her down the street towards his home. "My father and brother will be waiting for me on the ferry."
"There will be other ferries," he replied, not caring that he sounded curt. The sooner they could talk safe from prying ears, the better.
"But Sir," she protested again, but he ignored her. His residence wasn't far, and she seemed to be limping along just fine.
"Mrs. Henriksen!" he bellowed for his housekeeper the instant they were through the door. He quickly stripped off his gloves and coat before turning to Denmark and helping her do the same. He was just helping her down the hall to the sitting room when Mrs. Henriksen hurried in, red cheeks showing how flustered she was.
"What--?"
"Fetch a doctor," Norway ordered.
"No, Sir, really," Denmark cut in. "I can wrap it myself, it's just a little twist."
It occurred to Norway that the injury itself might be a total fabrication and that calling a doctor might create more trouble than it was worth. "Bandages, then," he capitulated.
"Oh dear, oh dear," Mrs. Henriksen fussed, taking Denmark's other arm to help her. "Come inside, Miss, we'll sort you right out."
'Miss.' Right. "Fetch something warm to drink as well," Norway said after Mrs. Henriksen's retreating form as he helped Denmark into a chair. Sitting on the table, he lifted her affected foot and began unlacing her shoe. "Are you actually hurt?" he whispered.
Denmark shook her head once, sharply, and the tiny bit of doubt that he might have been mistaken finally evaporated. Gone was the wide-eyed distress of the street, replaced with a desperate determination in the set of her jaw.
"You're insane," he hissed, even as his fingers rubbed the bones of her ankle.
"Sir, I must ask you to unhand my foot," Denmark said instead of replying, and Norway sprung back as if he'd been burned. Not a moment too soon, because just then Mrs. Henriksen swept back in with the bandages.
"I'll-- look after the coffee," Norway said, not listening to Mrs. Henriksen's sputtering protests. Everything had been happening so quickly, and he needed a moment to get his head on straight. Shock and anger and longing were all fighting for dominance in his chest, and none of those were what he needed at the moment. The bubbling of the water was soothing, and he took a deep breath before finishing preparing the service Mrs. Henriksen had started to lay out.
He returned to hear voices drifting down the hall. He stopped just outside the door, listening. "You must at least stay for lunch, Miss."
"Oh, no, Ma'am, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to disturb the family."
"I'm afraid there's no family to disturb. He's a widower, without even any children to remember his wife by. It's a right shame, that such a nice man should be alone so young."
"He could remarry."
"From your lips to God's ears, Miss," Mrs. Henriksen said, and Norway imagined she was shaking her head. "I know he was devoted to her, but even the most jealous woman would have to forgive him some companionship after these many years."
"I can't imagine a woman who would inspire that kind of devotion would be cruel enough to wish him a life of solitude."
There was something in Denmark's voice Norway didn't like, but then Mrs. Henriksen said conspiratorially, "He don't think no one notices, but I know he has a letter hidden in his desk drawer that he'll read over and over again for hours. I reckon it's got to be from her."
Norway decided that was enough and cleared his throat as he entered the room. Mrs. Henriksen was an excellent housekeeper, and quite loyal too, but he knew her loose lips were the reason she'd been hired to help him: no need to bribe or blackmail her; she didn't even know she was helping spy on him. "Please prepare an extra plate for our guest, and room for her, Mrs. Henriksen."
"But—"
"You've missed your ferry, haven't you?"
"No doubt," Denmark said quietly.
"Then you shall have to stay here until we can arrange you passage on the next one. It's the least I can do after knocking you over in the square."
She looked defiant for a moment, then muttered, "I'm grateful for your hospitality, Sir."
Looking over at Mrs. Henriksen, she took her signal to do as he instructed. "I'll send Eric to the docks to look after the ferry," she added as she left.
They sat in silence for a few moments as Norway prepared the coffee, then he said, "She's a fine housekeeper."
"She certainly seems kind."
"But she is a bit lacking in discretion." He paused a moment to make sure she took his meaning before he continued, "I'm sorry she bored you with nonsense about my personal affairs."
"I was sorry to hear about your wife," she said lightly, and Norway gave her a hard stare.
"I would make a deal with the Devil Himself to have her back," he said, voice like ice, and she looked startled at his intensity. How dare she? How dare she question his loyalty to her? The familiar anger was burning again in his chest.
"I apologize, I've clearly been indelicate, bringing something like that up."
She looked haughty and cold in that moment, and Norway's chest ached when he realized they had far too little time together to waste it being angry at each other. He did have his grievances, but no doubt little Eric would come back and tell his mother the good news that there had been a space on tomorrow's passage, and he would lose her again no sooner than he had gotten her back, not least because there was no way he would see her risk her neck like this again.
His eyes fell on the pale nape of her neck even as he had that innocent thought, and he was right back to being pulled in all directions again.
"Everything is all prepared, Sir," Mrs. Henriksen said, mercifully interrupting him from his trance. "I can... stay on tonight, if you like?" That's right, it was her afternoon off.
"Nonsense," he said, setting down his coffee cup and standing. "I won't let my clumsiness interrupt your time with your son." He reached into his pocket and pulled out two penny sweets, giving them to her without a word.
"Ah, you sweet, sweet man," Mrs. Henriksen laughed even as he turned red with embarrassment. "I do live right next door, if you need anything," she said, then turned and bid them good afternoon.
Norway risked a glance at Denmark, and her soft smile was something he hadn't seen in so long, he felt like he might burst. He listened for the front door to shut, then crossed the room quickly and knelt next to Denmark's seat instead of returning to his own. Slowly, afraid she might pull away or reveal herself to be a trick, he reached a hand up to cradle her cheek. She closed her eyes and turned into the touch for a moment, then set her cup on the table and sunk to the floor next to him. They just looked at each other, Denmark bringing a hand up to fuss with his hair, but after a moment her fingertips came to rest in the curve of his shoulder, and he crushed her to himself. Nuzzling the curve of her neck that he'd just been admiring, he asked, sounding breathless, "What are you doing here?"
"I got your letter," she answered, sounding in as much disbelief as he was that this was reality, and Norway would have let her go if he could have, he was so shocked.
"I thought all my letters were stopped. I've tried everything I could think of and never gotten a response." In the beginning, Sweden had tried to coax him into cooperation by promising to deliver his letters, but he had refused then, and he wasn't about to go crawling back for leniency now, even if it meant he'd been cut off entirely from anyone not one of his own people.
She shook her head, fingers soothing on the back of his neck. "Whatever you did last time worked."
"You should have just sent a reply."
"I couldn't, not after reading—"
"It's too dangerous!"
"It's too late. I'm here now."
So she was. Norway pressed a kiss into her shoulder. "You won't do it again." His tone brooked no argument.
She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. They both knew this was all they would have for the foreseeable future. "I love you," she said in his ear. "Forgive me."
It was Norway's turn not to answer.
***
They were tangled up in each other, just soaking each other in, when the morning found them. The clock in the hall struck the hour, and Norway knew it wouldn't be long before Mrs. Henriksen would be over to start breakfast. Reluctantly, he raised a hand to smooth back her hair, and he kissed her forehead.
"It was the nightingale, not the lark," Denmark said, bringing a hand up to cover Norway's.
"It was the clock," Norway said, slightly confused.
"I know, I know," Denmark muttered fondly. "I must be gone and live, or stay and die." She burrowed further into his embrace even as she said it, though. "Let me be taken. Let me be put to death. I am content."
Norway grit his teeth. "Perhaps I'm not."
"Oh." Denmark tried to push herself away, but Norway clung tighter.
"I won't list my grievances to a coffin. Don't come back here, and stop feuding with Prussia."
"I thought you didn't want me to end up in a coffin."
"Dan, please." He only got the scraps of the news his handlers saw fit to filter through to him, but he was scared for her. That must have been why she'd come: to prove to him she was still alive, still fighting.
"Don't you worry about me," she said finally. "You'll get your chance to yell and scream at me yet."
Acutely aware of how quickly the time was slipping away from them, he hesitated to say what had worried him most all this time, but without the prospect of seeing her again for who knew how long, he whispered. "When you sent me here, when I read that letter, I thought you didn't want to be married to me anymore."
"No, no, of course not."
"I'm glad I was wrong."
She kissed the apples of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, fingers catching on his stubble as she ran them down his jaw.
The chime rang the quarter of the hour. "You have to go."
Even as she began crawling backwards out his bed, she kissed him deeply. He followed her as best he could, until they finally, really, had to part. She gave him a watery smile as she slipped out the door and shut it behind her.
Curling completely under the covers, Norway cursed and clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.