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Assassin!France x Reader x Prussia
Infidelity
Warning: Reader is a politically uninformed idiot. Swearing. Death.

1 August 1914. Metz, Reichsland Elsass-Lothringen.

Yes, you were severely scratched from your fall, but you could still run, even though you were shaken from the past three minutes’ events. You skidded off of the pavement and into the grass.

When the silhouette skidded to a stop in the doorframe to scan the darkened garden, you took your only chance: you entered the labyrinth. You caught a glimpse of him bolting down the stone steps before you disappeared into the hedges.

At least, your objective was to disappear, and earlier that evening, you had not been so successful.

***

You lightly clutched Gilbert’s arm as you waited to greet guests near the left of the ballroom. Chin up. Lips parted. Everyone’s watching out of the corner of his eye.

Most of the guests had already been in attendance for about half of an hour now and were mingling amongst themselves. The regular cliques—the certain families and friends of families—had separated early this evening, each of the members never straying from his own group. However you—you—were the exception for the night; they would break out of their boundaries to speak to you, and many already had approached.

Being Reichsstatthalter had its benefits.

You looked up at the chandelier and squinted into the light. You ducked your head, but the reflection on the floor sported the light’s glare. If only someone would scuff the wood. However, everyone remained in their places on the edge of the dance floor whilst they half-listened to Herr Drosselmeyer’s dry introduction speech.

You had read his notes; you had no reason to listen. You shifted your weight onto your left foot, breaking your hardened stance. You frowned as a burst of pain shot up to your ankle from the spot where the shoe chafed against your heel.

Gilbert leant his head towards you, keeping his eyes on Herr Drosselmeyer. “How much longer does he have to go?”

You tapped your fan against your hip, clicking your tongue. “He still has to describe the exact reason for this charity ball, acknowledge the conductor, and—” you said, dropping your hand from his arm to elbow him, “—mention our gracious hosts.”

Gilbert closed his eyes, nodding. “Fantastic. Is anyone else up for a speech? I know; I’m an idiot for not knowing the agenda—”

“True.”

“—but I just got back from a meeting with Ludwig. It’s getting serious in the north.”

You nodded, glancing off to the right. “And I don’t want you to think about any of that tonight. You’re going to relax, and I’ll handle the masses. I don’t even want you to think about politics.”

He offered you his arm again, and you took it, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

When it broke through, you tore your gaze away from him. “I hope this goes quickly. We’ll speak to the right people; the orchestra will play a few songs, and we’ll be finished,” you said, breathing deeply, “I’ve been to too many of these balls to look forward to them anymore.”

“Then you won’t be upset if we leave early?” Gilbert asked over the applause. “I haven’t gotten to see you in so long, and a charity ball is hardly private. If it’s not too forward for such a short reunion, I’d like to find a place where we could—talk,” he said, clearing his throat and nodding curtly to the gentleman who had approached, “Herr Drosselmeyer. Those were some excellent words you said on that stand.” Gilbert glanced sideways at you and flashed a grin.

As Herr Drosselmeyer made his reply, the orchestra’s conductor finally stood, and music surged into the air. Couples moved onto the dance floor, and the chatter started again, a dull roar to compete with the orchestra. No one was watching you anymore; you could at last slacken your posture and fix your shoe.

You rubbed your thumb over the beginnings of a blister but, having no bandages, had no choice but to hastily return it to under your dress.

Gilbert nodded again as the gentleman turned to stride away.

“I thought you were going to relax, Gilbert.”

He sighed. “You told me I was, but I can’t right now. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Ludwig—” He shook his head. “For instance,” Gilbert said in a newly rejuvenated tone as he grabbed you by the waist, directing your attention to a spot in the crowd behind you, “that man in white has been fervidly glancing at you for the past quarter hour.”

***

Right. Left. Left again.

The unfamiliar layout of the labyrinth played havoc with what was left of your composure. You nervously plucked at your necklace, briefly contemplating whether or not to leave a trail with the beads. You dropped your hand, shaking your head. Whatever you dropped he would find; thus you would have to guess your way around the maze.

You rounded a shrubbery. Damn these skirts and damn whoever thought to make them so narrow, you thought, They don’t provide for moveme—

Sighing, you yanked your dress off of a stalk sticking out of the corner of the hedge.

***

You frowned. He was purposefully avoiding eye contact. Very well.

You stared at your hands, determined to discourage anyone who cared to approach. Gilbert was fortunately drawing some of the crowd over to the far side of the room—bless him; anyone with serious business would usually shove through the icy façade, so you could relax on the unnecessary social interaction front. Still, you edgily tapped your foot, and the wooden fan in your lap creaked under your grip.

Dash it all; you would get his attention.

Eventually, the man in white felt your indecorous stare from four tables over upon him, and he half-smiled. He nodded deeply.

You bit your lip and glimpsed back at Gilbert, who was duly speaking to Frau Héderváry, his eyebrows raised and blinking profusely. He was busy. It was fine.

Your mouth twitched into a smile as you discreetly kicked off your ungodly shoes, and you mouthed a greeting.

The man in white paused before gradually closing his right eye. You’re beautiful, he told you.

You snorted, hastening to cover your laughter. Recovering yourself and rolling your eyes, you held up your fan in your right hand. You’re too forward, you said. No room to mince words at such a distance.

He frantically felt around on his table for a napkin, and upon finding one, he drew it across his eyes. I’m sorry. He set it in his lap and tilted his head. When you remained stagnant, he raised his eyebrows, leaning forward in his seat in earnest. He slowly shut his left eye, swallowing hard after the motion. Try to love me. Please.

You sputtered pithily, flicking your arm out to the side and attempting to successfully convey your pique in the few words you managed to mouth. He was acting so…!

The man in white shook his head and turned away, pushing himself up from the table and throwing the napkin on a plate. He took a step in the opposite direction and stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

Somewhat regaining your composure, you cleared your throat and tucked your hair behind your ear. In your left hand you raised your fan, opening it briefly before clamping it shut. Desirous to make your acquaintance. I want to speak with you. You stood and pushed your chair under.

He sighed, smiling, and tucked his hands into his pockets as he spun on his heel to face you.

A grin edged its way onto your face, and you shoved on your shoes, tripping over your skirt as you dashed over to him.

***

After you had been caught in a bush for the umpteenth time, you began to rip a slit up your skirt. You grimaced at the noise but could not regret your actions: you could run now.

Urgh…

Concealed under some of the fabric was a scratch—just another to add to the countless others you had gotten from your seven minutes in the maze. Reminding yourself you could have it much worse, you licked two of your fingers and began to rub away some of the trickle of blood—

You jumped at a rustling behind you, and you, panicking, shoved your way straight through a hedge, the branches cutting into your face.

***

“No, I beg you as a lady and demand you as your Reichsstatthalter: ask properly,” you said, elbowing him.

Francis Bonnefoy opened his mouth and closed it before bowing. “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?” He stood upright again and cocked his head to the left.

You smirked and shook your head. “I’ll do it very ill, but it is not my place to decline,” you said, taking his arm.

***

Concrete?

You stepped onto a path that encircled a fountain in an open stretch of the labyrinth. A path cutting through the hedges was not seen, and you cursed Gilbert’s design—only he would be idiotic enough to think of ornamentally cut shrubberies but not of a clear route through the maze.

Gilbert, you imagined, would spout off some rubbish about not knowing being part of the thrill of the puzzle, the point of it all. You would have to tell him off when—if you returned, for a puzzle was vastly unappreciated and unneeded at the moment.

Why were you being so calm? By all accounts, it didn’t make sense.

It’s like it’s not happening to me, you thought, It’s like I’m watching it instead of experiencing it. Really stupid to happen now, though.

You adjusted your shoes to patches of skin that weren’t raw from chafing. Jogging up to the fountain covered partially in moss, you glanced into the water, expecting coins and seeing nothing.

***

“And your escort won’t object?”

“No. Gilbert has other things on his mind.”

***

You dropped to the ground when a bullet nicked the edge of the lowermost bowl of the fountain and vanished into the bush in front of you.

The third shot.

The concrete scraped pieces of your uncovered skin, but you had no time to examine it—you pushed yourself up and stumbled again into the maze.

You couldn’t do it. You would fail; he would catch you, and you would fall. Your chest was heaving—out of anxiety rather physical exertion—and you felt a little dizzy. Still, you had to stay in motion—but you had not a plan nor conviction.

Keep going left, Gilbert would say to you if he were here, keep your hand on the wall and keep going left. It’s the heartbeat in your ears that makes you frantic; just keep your hand on the wall, and you’ll be fine.

Swallowing, you looked back. “All right, Gil,” you muttered, and, your fingers grazing leaves, you broke into a run.

***

“I expect you’ve been rather preoccupied for the past week,” Francis said, guiding you through the dance steps, “and that this—this frivolous affair must be soothing.”

“On the contrary, Francis—if you don’t mind my being so bold—I could be putting my time to better use. Local problems within Elsass-Lothringen,” you said, taken aback at his flinching, “I could be better working with the Landtag; I could do something about the soldiers who have the gall to act as law enforcers—”

“You disagree?” His hand on your waist curved into a fold of your dress.

“Our law—though it may be different than what the French are accustomed to—needs to be enforced, but it does not need to be so by those men. Their skills are needed elsewhere,” you said, staring at your feet as you tried to move them in the correct pattern.

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

You let out a laugh. “Surely you know the troops were mobilised today after the declaration of war on Russia? We can hardly have them harassing townspeople when we need them on the lines.”

“And what d’you know about war, Reichsstatthalter?” he asked, the last word said in almost an incredulous tone.

You pursed your lips. “I admit in disgrace: next to nothing. I am an abomination.” You squeezed his hand. “But sometimes I feel privileged not to know. More innocent—”

Francis rolled his eyes.

“—and not as scarred.”

“Same thing.”

“Shut up,” you said, pausing when he spun you, “but what about you? Have you been to, say, Sarajevo lately?”

“Very funny. I mourned the archduke’s death, the same as everyone, but I did not attend. I was surprised, on the other hand,” Francis said as his palm met yours again, “that it took about a month for Franz Joseph of Austria-Hungary—”

“I’m aware.”

“—to declare war on Serbia,” he said, edging you to the side, “I would have thought he would have more wit about him.”

“I’m just glad that it’s in Serbia and not here,” you said, “At least, for now. I hope it stays away as long as possible. I want no part of it.”

Francis nodded deeply again and did not say anything more. You bit your lip—perhaps you had been a bit too tactless. You broke eye contact to stare at his unusually white attire; you vaguely wondered why on earth he would break typical formal fashions. Completely white was, to be frank, weird—as was the fact that he apparently felt the need to wear a belt.

When the two of you were on the side of the dance floor, he said, as if it had just hit him, “Excuse me, but you mentioned the local German soldiers and the Frenchmen?”

“Well, the ratio of French to German in Elsass-Lothringen is frustrating… For the most part, there are more Frenchmen than Germans, but we’re moving in quickly enough. There are spats, of course, because we’re passing laws and doing stuff that the French aren’t used to,” you said, lifting your hand off of his shoulder to scratch your cheek, “Like banning the French language—that’s something I actually approve of; personally, I think the French language is vile—”

His jaw shifted. “Thank you.”

“I mean, you’re fine, of course, because you have the courtesy to speak German—”

He began to spin you again, his hand holding yours above your head. “How the hell are you in charge of Alsace and Lorraine?” he asked, his countenance darkened.

You stopped dancing to pivot in the other direction around towards him. “What?” you asked in a flat voice.

“I—my apologies,” Francis said hastily, softening his voice and clutching your waist again, “I get a little—protective of—it was not my place.”

“Wha—I,” you sputtered, squinting.

“Again,” he said, his hand on the back of your neck to draw you closer, “I apologise. Please forgive me. It was a thoughtless remark.”

“I—”

“Please.” His nose twitched. “I apologise.” Francis looked off towards Gilbert and, in a state of defeat, let go of you. “I, er,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I should be going, then.” He took a step backwards and one to the right.

You grabbed hold of his sleeve, and he flinched. “I—I understand. It’s difficult for you to accept German rule. You must be—you’re forgiven.”

“You are gracious, Reichsstatthalter,” Francis said, bringing a hand to his mouth, which was formed in a faltering—yet still oddly charming—smile. “I deserve not such clemency.”

Your eyes darted from Gilbert and back to Francis. “Tell you what,” you said, sliding your hand down to his, “Why don’t you and I have a proper conversation on the balcony on the second story in five minutes?”

Francis’s smile deepened—became genuine. His eyes seemed to have been lit aflame. “Of course,” he said, “I find it difficult to converse with all of these observers.” He curled in his lips. “I’ll go on. It wouldn’t be right for us to leave at the same time.” Francis took off towards the staircase, his heels knocking together in a clumsy, overeager sort of manner.

You shook your head after him, grinning. You had someone else to take care of first.

***

Left. Left. Right. Left.

Ever since the fountain, everything in your line of vision were masses of tangled branches and slowly yellowing green. Everything looked alike and seemed to blur together, but it was still better than seeing the barrel of a gun.

You yanked off your shoes far later than you should have. Your heels and toes were bleeding from blisters, but you were able to hasten your pace. It was the lesser of two evils.

Three bullets already used. Four remained. Four more chances to die.

You could do this, right?

***

“Gil,” you said, breaking the moment to breathe, “Gilbert—”

“Yes?” He stopped gasping long enough to clear his throat, his lips fading to their original colour.

“I need to finish a few things down here.” You leant back slightly, twiddling your fingers on the back of his neck. “Meet you upstairs in fifteen minutes?”

“Ten,” said he, pushing back part of your hair, “I’ve been away far too long.”

“Then it won’t hurt you to wait a little longer,” you said, disentangling yourself from him and taking a step back, “Go on, then. I’ll be up.”

“Eh, all right then, schatz.” Gilbert bent forward to kiss your forehead again. “Fifteen it is. I love—”

“Go on,” you said, shaking your head and flicking your hand in the direction of the staircase.

He nodded once and turned to go, his too-short coattails flapping after him.

So earnest.

You idly waved after him, your smile weakening.

Gilbert was too good for you.

***

Right.

This was fine; you were fine; you were doing well, and you were keeping your hand on the wall. This should work.

The remnants of the sunset had long since faded, and the hedges were too high to see the house—you didn’t even know what direction in which it was. You could never read the stars, so the sky was not of any use to you.

Wait. Is that—?

You ran forward, keeping your hand on the hedge that was abruptly leading down a straight path—this was it; at the end of the path, you’d turn right, and you’d be out. You could make it back to the house before he did, and you would be safe.

Damn…

Your hairline was sweaty, your chest was heaving, and your legs ached. You were ready to be out of this mess, finally, and so, so ready to step into that ballroom to be refined again. No more of this.

Just run down the path, you thought, your feet heavy as they hit the ground, and turn right—

Right into a dead end.

Oh, no. You pushed back your fringe as you tried to regulate your breathing. Ohhhh, no. You clasped your hands together and held them at your lips; you couldn’t ignore the sound of your heart pounding. When you looked up, the sky was distorted into constellations that you could not see. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m okay; I’m so okay—as long as I don’t hear—

You started, clamping a hand over your mouth when you gasped, and you leant against the hedge, sinking into it slightly.

Footsteps.

***

“Francis,” you said, out of breath, as you slid up next to him on the balcony, “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had to—”

“No matter. Don’t worry about it. However, I saw how you treated Gilbert down there,” he said as you pushed yourself up to sit on the ledge. He took a few paces back towards the staircase and peeked through the drapes.

“Sorry?” you asked, bringing your knees up to clutch them to your chest. You glanced over the edge. Gilbert had done some nice, heavily shrubbed landscaping. How silly.

“I don’t think it’s right, do you?” Francis pulled down the curtain and walked over to the next one to cover the balcony. “I hope you didn’t lie to him.”

You lowered your eyebrows. “I…I didn’t.” You ducked your head to rest on your knees. You slipped off the heel of one of your shoes and grimaced at the blister.

“I mean, I hope you didn’t tell him you were coming back,” Francis said, pushing back part of his coat to pull a handgun from a notch on his belt.

You baulked backwards on the ledge, almost falling off of it. “What? What is this?” You shook yourself—how idiotic of you. “I mean, other than the obvious. Wh—”

“Well, Reichsstatthalter,” he said, flashing his eyebrows on the latter word, “I won’t explain much; you don’t deserve that. You’ve already revealed to me that my suspicions were correct. So, I have less penitence about the next minute.”

You bit your lip. “Suspicions?”

“That you are an incompetent fool who acts as a mere puppet for the Beilschmidts.” He cocked his head. “They appointed you to your position, yes?”

You hesitantly nodded.

“Mm, and you do what they say, right? I’d be surprised if you had made an independent decision within the entirety of your term. They just needed someone they could control. Now, then,” Francis said, glancing behind him at the curtains, “The Beilschmidts—”

“You’re not going to hurt them, are you?” you asked, scooting backwards on the ledge. You stopped when you could feel some of your skirts dangling off of the edge, but it did nothing for your nerves—he was still too close.

Francis snorted. “You’ll be enough for the Landtag to cease to function. Now,” he said, raising the gun a few inches, “it was an intense unhappiness speaking to you.” He stepped forward—and you slipped back, your hands never finding the concrete.

Before the rushing of air blocked your hearing, the gunshot had been softer than you had expected—it wasn’t as stentorian as Gilbert had said, but it surely had the potential to be just as piercing.

Francis had pulled the trigger a second too late—you had fallen off of the balcony just before he had, and you had never been so grateful for Gilbert’s silly landscaping; the shrubberies’ branches chafed and scratched to no abound, but you weren’t severely damaged.

Francis bent over the balcony, grasping the edge with disgust as he scowled down at you. He pushed off of the ledge and bolted.

Damn, you thought, where am I going to—I should get— You scrambled out of the bush and began to run—No, no, you thought, Slow down; someone’s going to—

You heard another gunshot. You glanced over your shoulder—how was everyone not reacting; what was wrong with them? The orchestra never faltered; the lights never flickered—why couldn’t they see—?

No matter. You just had to hide long enough for Francis to lose interest, to leave—and he would, yes?

Gilbert’s landscaping was growing peculiar—garden mazes were nearly archaic now, not to mention their connection with France was—well, in a scrape, it would have to do.

You looked back once again, and Francis’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.

***

“Finally,” Francis said, panting, “to see you cornered again is a real pleasure. Persons with stamina tire me so.”

Your breathing had, for the most part, returned to normal, and you gave a jerk of your head. You would stall for time now. It was just another meeting.

“So I’m doing well, thanks,” he told you, “except for the mad chase, of course. Would’ve been easier if you hadn’t’ve fallen.” He let out a laugh. “Would’ve been easier if you hadn’t’ve been appointed. But I’ll fix everything.”

You narrowed your eyes, feeling around behind you in the hedge for an escape. “What d’you mean by—”

“Alsace and Lorraine are French, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have; I’m not as entirely vapid as you seem to think I—”

“Not German, as you seem to think.”

If I back into the hedge, he’ll shoot me for sure, you thought, but if I could distract him long enough to knock the gun out of his hands—can I do that? I’m not sure I have the… You drew your hand out of the shrubbery behind you. “So, what? What’s killing me going to do for you? Gil—the Beilschmidts will appoint another Reichsstatthalter.”

He flicked his hair out of his eyes. “But not efficiently enough to keep everything under control. The people—my people—will rise, and the Frenchmen waiting on the border will invade—excuse me, return home.”

You took a step forward, glancing up at him. Francis didn’t react inimically, so you began to edge around the bush—if you could get to his side, then maybe…

Francis showed no aversion but kept his stance, his chin raised and his feet shoulder-width apart. “We’ll be able to claim Alsace-Lorraine as French again—all of the troops have been moved to Russia; who is there to stop us? Ah,” he said as you opened your mouth, “no one. You’re sunk.” He held up the gun. “My dear.”

You were so close; you could grab it if you took about two more steps. A smile twitched onto your face in spite of yourself. No, no, you told yourself, Just…relax. You tentatively reached out your hand—

Francis snatched your wrist, twisting your arm behind your back. “Just how much of an idiot are you? You’re—” He broke off and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of your head. “That’s enough, now. You’ve been a nuisance,” Francis said, clicking his tongue, “but you’ve been—you know what?”

You elbowed him with your free arm, but he did not do so much as flinch. Funny, considering how keen he had been to avoid any essence of you. And damn, damn it all—the last thing you would see would be this darkened hedge, completely identical to every other one in this God-forsaken labyrinth.

“Ah. Careful. But,” he said, sharply inhaling, “I lied to you earlier. It has been—” Francis moved the gun a few inches to the left. “—a real pleasure, Reichsstatthalter.”