Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Christmases at Sandringham House were always lavish affairs, but there was a hush over the proceedings the year young Bertie turned seven. His great-grandmother, the impossibly long-reigning Victoria, had passed the year before, and while Mummy was busy with Henry and about to give birth again, Bertie’s nanny had been treating him shamefully for some time now. David was doted on, and Bertie was treated like something she wouldn’t deign to wipe off her shoes. Bertie’s stutter was growing progressively worse, to the point that he sometimes felt like he was out-and-out choking on his words. His left hand now bore a scar across the knuckles, where he had been forced painfully to use his right when it felt unnatural.

His misery presently had only one flicker of hope for relief: the mysterious American man Father had invited to stay, and his two sons who hadn’t been allowed to meet Bertie yet. One, he’d heard, was 11, and the other was 15.

That very evening, the princes were led into their parents’ chambers. As usual, Nanny pinched him severely. But for once, someone saw her do it. The Americans were there, and the older boy looked ready to leap to Bertie’s defense before his father put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

They went inside the room and Nanny apologised to the prince and princess for Bertie’s tears. “Clearly, the boy wants to be with me, though.”

“Clearly,” Father said—but there was something skeptical in his tone. “I do hope, then, that you will be willing to join us for the Christmas festivities?”

Her face lit. “Certainly! I needs must get the boys into bed, and—”

A deep voice rumbled, “In nomine Patri....”

Nanny hissed and turned... and it was a jolly good thing no one was expecting Bertie to say anything, because Nanny’s eyes were solid black.

“Madam,” the American drawled to Mummy, “now.”

Bertie had never seen his mother so upset before—or so fast. He was in her arms and across the room before he had time to draw two startled breaths. David was in Father’s arms, in a similar state.

Nanny laughed, and it sounded all manner of wrong. “You. Hunter. You are out of place.”

“Don’t see how it matters to you,” the American said. “Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus...”

And Bertie’s face was crushed into Mummy’s shoulder, but he heard—oh, the awful screams and roars. They were inhuman.

Then there was a thud, as if Nanny had fainted. There was an awful silence, and then the American was talking quietly. “Easy, now, ma’am. You’ll be okay.”

“Wh... where... what....” Nanny suddenly sounded working-class.

“We’re at Sandringham. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I... I was at home... going to get my bread....”

“Where’s home?”

“Devon....”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m... I’m a washerwoman...”

“And what day was it? Date, month, year.”

“July... 15... 1897.”

Bertie gasped without meaning to and turned his head to look.

“She will need some transportation home, Your Highness,” said the American.

“Y—” Nanny’s mouth fell open as she looked at the royal family. “Lord save us... w-whatever’s happened to me?”

“Possession, ma’am,” the American said. “But it’s over now.”

“Possession? You—you mean, like—by the devil?!”

“No, ma’am. By a demon.”

Nanny fainted again.

The American lifted her. “My sons may remain here until my return?”

“As was our agreement,” Father replied, and Bertie almost stopped breathing. He hardly dared hope... but if the American boys were staying in the house, there might be a chance....

“By your leave, then.” And the American was gone, pausing by his children with a rumbled, “Look after your brother, Dean.”

“Yes, sir,” the older boy replied. That must mean his name was Dean. Bertie filed the fact away for future reference.

Mummy’s hands smoothed his hair. “Bertie... David... would you show young master Dean and young master Sam to the nursery?”

Bertie nodded so fast he almost gave himself a headache.

“Good night, boys.”

“Night, Mummy, Daddy,” David said easily, while Bertie fumbled, “G—g-g—g’night, Mummy.”

As they left the room, Dean’s hand came to rest lightly on Bertie’s shoulder. Bertie turned to blink curiously at him.

Dean smiled and whispered for Bertie’s ears only, “Talkin’s a little hard, huh?”

Bertie didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t think Dean was making fun of him, the way David always did, but he wasn’t sure. And if Dean was just being friendly... well, Bertie didn’t really have friends, so he didn’t know what to think.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered. “I get it.”

Bertie blinked and frowned. He knew Americans talked strangely, but he didn’t understand what Dean might have got, whether he meant ‘fetch’ or ‘get as a gift,’ and what either statement might have had to do with anything. He opened his mouth to try to force the question out.

Dean held up a hand. “I mean I understand.”

“Oh,” said Bertie. “... Oh! D—d-d-d—”

Dean waited patiently.

Bertie choked and stumbled until he managed, “Do you r-r-really? Y—y-you d—d—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” Dean said. “Not with me. Out there, yeah. With me? No. I know what it’s like, to feel that the words are stuck in your throat and you’re forcing them through a brick wall ten feet thick.”

Bertie gasped as quietly as he could. Nobody’d ever put it like that before, but that was what it felt like. “... H-h-... h-how....”

“We’re here,” David announced.

Sam gasped loudly as David flung open the nursery door. “WHOA! This is yours?!”

“This is where we live, yes.”

“Awesome!” the brothers chorused.

The princes looked at them as if they were suddenly speaking Chinese.

“Dude,” Dean continued, “when she said nursery, I was thinking, like, one bedroom. We’ve had apartments smaller than this!”

“Apartments?” David frowned.

“I think they call ’em ‘flats’ here, Dean,” Sam noted, but that didn’t make matters any clearer to Bertie.

“Two people divided by a common tongue,” Dean quipped. “Okay, where do we sleep?”

Bertie ran to show them Nanny’s room.

Sam gushed, and Dean smiled at Bertie. “Will you show us the routine in the morning?”

Bertie nodded. He still didn’t understand why Dean seemed to like him so, but he was eager to please.

“Okay. Good night, Prince.”

David bristled at that. “The proper form of address for a prince is ‘Your Highness’—or don’t they teach you that in the colonies?”

Dean met his eyes. “No,” he said firmly. “They don’t.”

David huffed. “I’m not surprised.”

“Nor am I,” Dean said. “We are taught that royals are arrogant little snot-nosed brats.” His hand moved to Bertie’s shoulder again, the squeeze conveying his apologies without a word.

“You can’t talk to me like that! My father’s the Prince of Wales!”

“And my father’s a United States Marine, and I don’t take orders from you.”

Bertie suddenly rather liked America.

“So—your high and mightiness—I will say it again. Good night.” It had the air of a dismissal.

David looked ready to try to argue further, but Sam stepped toward him threateningly. Grumbling, David withdrew.

Dean smiled at Bertie and removed his hand, waving at him in lieu of words.

There was so much Bertie wanted to say—thanks for putting David in his place and for being so nice to him, questions about what had happened and why Dean understood and how he’d got past his own stutter, if he ever had—but the words would die in his throat if he tried, so he settled for smiling broadly and waving back before leaving the room.

Morning came far too soon. Bertie woke to find Dean fixing breakfast on the nursery’s small stove.

Dean noticed movement and smiled. “Hey, morning. Wash your hands and come help me.”

Bertie goggled at him. Not only did Dean clearly not know that the servants would be bringing breakfast, but he also clearly didn’t know that Bertie wasn’t supposed to help. At anything ever.

Dean studied his expression and the smile turned into a huge grin. “You’re going to be king someday, kiddo. Imagine how your subjects will love a king who knows how to make his own grub.”

That didn’t make any kind of sense at all. David would be king, not Bertie. But Bertie didn’t want to disappoint Dean, and explaining would take all morning, so he did as he was told.

“Scrambled eggs?” Dean said, holding out a hand palm up. “Or fried?” he held the other one the same way and pressed them toward Bertie. “Touch which palm is the answer. Scrambled... or fried?”

Bertie looked at Dean wide-eyed for a moment—no one ever asked!—then made up his mind and chose scrambled.

“All right! That’s my boy. Scrambled it is!”

So Bertie learned how to break eggs and beat them just. So. Dean showed Bertie how to melt butter and how to keep the eggs moving in the pan—and then he let Bertie do it a little!

Truth be told, Bertie was feeling a bit scrambled himself. But it was kind of a good feeling. And eating simple fare that he had a hand in making—well, it seemed to taste a million times better.

“Do you like it?” Dean asked, making a strange gesture with his thumb, jutting it straight up.

Bertie echoed the gesture with a grin.

“All right,” Dean repeated. He looked back toward their sleeping brothers, then said, “I know what it’s like, because I’ve been there. When I was little, I didn’t want to talk for a long time. It felt like there was a brick wall in my throat and the words couldn’t make it out of my brain past that wall.”

“W-w-w—why?”

“I saw my mother die,” he said softly.

Bertie’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t imagine something so horrible.

“So, yeah. And when you’re older, you WILL have to talk. But you never really do with me.”

“Th—th-th—”

Dean took his hand and squeezed it. Acknowleding the thanks. And Bertie decided Dean was his new favorite person.

The servants arrived with breakfast after Dean had cleaned up his cooking. David and Sam woke and ate with them. Bertie couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten so well. Nanny—or, well, whatever had pretended to be Nanny, who wasn’t Nanny after all—had often refused to feed him.

At the end of the meal, Dean said, “Show me your lessons.”

Bertie’s spirits sank as David retrieved their books. He didn’t mind learning, but schoolwork was a pain—literally.

“David, you and Sam work over there. Bertie, show me where you are.”

David started to object, but Sam grabbed him by the scruff of the neck as if he were an errant puppy and dragged him off to the area Dean had indicated. Dean just shook his head.

With a sigh, Bertie opened his books and showed Dean where he’d left off the day before.

Dean looked at it and nodded. “Okay, I can see most of this is oral. Is that typical teaching in this country?”

Bertie shrugged. He didn’t know how other children learned at school, but this was how his tutors had always worked with him.

“Well, this isn’t going to work. We’ll keep a few of these oral exercises, because you ARE going to need to use your voice, but there’s got to be stuff we can do that doesn’t take that.” He poked at the books. “Oh, math. Let’s try this first.”

Bertie bit his lip and reached for the pencil with his left hand before he caught himself.

“What was that? Why the hesitation?”

“I’m... ... ... s-s-s-s-supp-pposed t-t-t-to wr-... write with my r-r-r-right...”

Dean muttered something about savages under his breath, then pushed a paper toward him. “Write your name for me—just ‘Bertie’. Right handed and then left handed.”

Bertie did so. Writing with his left hand felt so much more natural, but he couldn’t forget the pain Nanny and his tutors had inflicted on him for writing that way.

Dean studied it and started to smile. “They’re identical.”

Bertie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Look.” He showed him. “You’re ambidextrous. Since it’s apparently so important for you to write right-handed, keep practicing it to keep it identical, and write right-handed if you have to in public. But for your lessons, away from the eyes, I don’t mind if you use your left hand.”

Tears welled up in Bertie’s eyes as he looked up at Dean. Nobody’d ever been this nice to him before.

“Hey, what’s this?” Dean smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no need for that.”

Bertie sniffled for a moment, then threw caution to the wind and hugged Dean.

Dean looked shocked, then hugged back awkwardly, patting his shoulder. “Come on, my friend. You can do this. Let’s get those math problems done while I figure out your history and literature texts, see if I can’t get some of that oral out of it so you can focus on the information instead of the brick wall.”

Bertie sniffled again, nodded, and pulled back. Then he swiped at his eyes and picked up his pencil again. For a couple of minutes, he expected the crack of the rod across his hand, but Dean apparently meant it when he said he didn’t mind. The only thing he suggested was that Bertie hold the pencil looser so he wouldn’t break his hand.

Was this what it felt like to be a commoner, not to be trapped by the expectations of how a prince should behave? If so, Bertie wished with all his heart that he could give up his titles and live with Dean all the time. Sam, too, though he hadn’t had time to get to know him quite so well. From what little he could overhear, Sam wasn’t taking any nonsense from David, and Bertie admired him for it.

“Okay, here.” Dean had left the room while Bertie was thinking and returned with a slate. “You were working on what happened around the Great Fire of London, right? Let’s start with that.”

Sammy showed up then, having clearly had enough of David for a few minutes.

Bertie nodded and swallowed hard. “Ch-Ch-Charles the S-s....”

But then the slate was slid under his hand. “Charles II, yeah? Who was king before?” Dean tilted his head to the slate. “Or was there a king right before him?”

Bertie shook his head and wrote, No king before—Cromwell. He couldn’t remember how to spell Interregnum, so he didn’t try for the moment.

“Cromwell,” Dean said. “Just Oliver or him and his son?”

Sam beamed at Dean. Maybe this was how Dean had taught him his own lessons whenever he had been sick and unable to talk.

Bertie thought a moment. Cromwell died, succeeded by son. Govt failed. Monarchy restored to Charles II. He wondered briefly whether he needed to be writing full sentences, but Dean had said he wanted to focus on information.

“Perfect. Can you tell me something about Charles II’s personality and ruling style?”

Merry Monarch. Loved parties.

“Any excuse for a bash, huh?” Sammy quipped.

Bertie blinked, shook his head, and tapped “parties” with the chalk. “H-h-he d... didn’t hit people.”

Sammy nodded. “Bash in the States is another word for parties.”

Oh. Bertie nodded.

Sam went back to David and the maths and Dean asked, “Was he a good king? An effective king?”

Bertie thought about it, tilting his head side to side as he considered. No king’s reign was without problems and enemies, but it seemed like most people still remembered Charles II fondly, and everyone said he did make some good laws. So finally Bertie nodded.

“Would you call him a wise king?”

Bertie frowned as he thought about that one. He didn’t really know. Finally, he wrote, Wasn’t Aethelred.

Dean frowned. He looked up Aethelred—and started laughing. “You’re right about that!”

Bertie was a little startled. He didn’t remember the last time he’d made someone laugh like that—not at him or at the way he talked, but at what he’d actually said. And it wasn’t a mean laugh at all. He didn’t know he could do that.

Dean grinned at him. “Okay, now let’s turn this to you. Let’s say you eventually become king. What lessons can you learn from this monarch?”

Bertie blinked—again with this idea that he’d be king! But Dean clearly expected an answer, so Bertie thought specifically about what Charles had done during the Great Fire. Help the people, he wrote. Be nice. Do the right thing, and do it yourself. Don’t run from trouble.

“Do you know what all this boils down to?” Dean said, tapping the slate.

Bertie blinked again and shook his head.

“Respect. A good king doesn’t see himself up here...” He waved a hand at his forehead, “and his subjects down here.” He waved one at his hip. “He sees his subjects as people, and knows that except for an accident of birth, he could be exactly like that.”

Bertie sat back and thought about that for a moment. He did respect commoners, now that he thought about it—not that he understood how they lived, but he liked the fact that they could do as they liked within the law, run and play and build models and wear plain clothes and so on. And he admired the way the grown-ups worked hard so other people could have nice things. He kind of wished he could make it so those people could have nice things, too.

“Now—you need to teach me something.”

That really startled Bertie. Dean was almost a grown man! What could Bertie teach him?

Dean chuckled softly. “You know we’re from the States. I worry about accidentally offending your parents because I don’t know protocol. I don’t even know what to call them.”

Ah. Now this, Bertie could do. He carefully cleaned his slate and began with Grandfather, His Majesty King Edward VII. Then he went through all the relatives he knew—names, styles, first address in a conversation, subsequent address, farewell. He was feeling a bit cheeky when he got to David, though, so next to his name, he put, Oi, you!

Dean laughed again, rubbing his back. “That’s about right!”

Bertie giggled. It felt like it had been a long time since he’d had something to giggle about.

Dean practiced with the titles for a few minutes. Then he asked, “And out there—what would I call you?”

Bertie met his eyes. “B-b-b-b-Bertie.” He hoped the ‘please’ was understood.

He half-expected Dean to emulate his stutter, but he just nodded. “Bertie. No title?” There was no warning in the voice—it was genuine curiosity.

“D-d-d... d-don’t want one,” Bertie confessed.

“Bertie it is, then. Now... what other subjects do you do? History, math.....”

It was that easy? Really?

It took Bertie a moment to recover from the shock, but when he did, he started listing his other subjects on his slate.

“Well. Looks like we’ve got our afternoon cut out for us. Let’s take a lunch break. Ever had grilled cheese sandwiches?”

Bertie shook his head. “C-c-c-cook’s s-sending....”

“Do you know what?”

Bertie shook his head.

“Hold on. Hey, Sammy, c’mere!”

“Yo!” Sam called back and returned a moment later. “What’s up?”

“Get David to show you where the kitchen is and see if they can send up some extra bread, softened butter and cheese with the meal.”

Sam brightened. “Grilled cheese? Dude, you’re awesome.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, but don’t tell them that or they’ll insist on doing it themselves. I don’t want the servants to do it; I want to do it.”

“Heck, I bet they never even heard of grilled cheese.” Sam went off to collect David.

“You are gonna love this,” Dean told Bertie. “I just wish I could make you tomato and rice soup.”

“I... I’ll ask if C-c-cook will s-s-s-send...”

“Well, I’ll let you know the ingredients once I figure them out. It’s a little... different... here.”

Bertie frowned, puzzled at Dean’s sudden hesitation. “Wh-wha-what d—...”

“I’m used to canned soup and instant rice. Neither of which exists here.”

Bertie bit his lip and grabbed his slate. Might be recipe book in library, or might ask Cook.

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Bertie! There’s always a way.”

Bertie beamed.

Sam and David returned a few minutes later, with David scowling deeply.

“Okay, what’s wrong with you?” Dean asked.

“I don’t have to answer to you,” David snapped.

“I’m the oldest one here,” Dean pointed out.

“And I’m Prince Edward of Wales!”

“So what?”

“I’m going to be king!”

“I know.”

David clearly didn’t know how to handle someone being totally unimpressed by the fact that he was second in line for the throne. His face nearly turned purple.

“And I don’t really care—because you see?” He smiled. “You’re British. I’m American. You’re not ever going to be my king.”

David was foolish enough to try to charge at Dean. Sam had him on the ground and pinned in about two seconds.

And in those two seconds, Dean had put himself between David and Bertie.

Bertie felt rather light-headed. He’d seen guards standing between his family and the public before, but he’d never seen anyone try to protect him from his own brother.

“You,” Sam growled into David’s ear, “calm down.”

“What happened, Sammy?” Dean asked.

“He’s never been downstairs before.”

Dean frowned. “Do what, now?”

“He’s never been downstairs before. Not to the kitchens.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I have no idea.”

Dean turned to look at Bertie. “Have you ever been down there?”

Bertie nodded. “I... g-g-got lost.”

“What did you think?” Dean nodded at Sam to let him up.

Bertie quickly erased his slate. Not lost really—curious. Hid and watched. Topping place. Cook does so much all at once!

Dean nodded and asked, “David, what did you think of the kitchens?”

“Aside from the food, there’s nothing of interest there,” David sneered. “It’s not like servants deserve our notice.”

Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to punch David.

“Sam,” Dean ordered, “get him out of here.”

Sam grabbed David by the front of his shirt, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him out of the room.

“Learn from that,” Dean told Bertie. “Learn how to be the kind of king who appreciates everyone.”

Bertie nodded. He did appreciate the servants. A house as big as Sandringham couldn’t function without them, and from what he could see, all of them—well, apart from the ones who wound up getting sacked—were very good at what they did and very smart about the parts of the household that they ran. He didn’t know if he’d ever be smart enough or strong enough to be a gardener, for example, or a footman.

There was a knock on the door and the footman brought a tray chock full of food. Dean stared, like he’d never seen so much food in all his life. But there was the bread and butter and cheese.

The servant left and Dean smiled. “Come on—let’s make sandwiches.”

Bertie nodded and hurried to wash his hands.

Under Dean’s direction, the sandwiches were quickly made. The dish was very simple, but it was very tasty—comforting, even. Bertie ate two. Then they finished half the meal, sending David and Sam the other half.

Bertie was so full, he found himself nodding. That was a rare occurrence.

And so was Dean’s reaction: a kind chuckle. “Go rest, dude. You’ll work better after some sleep.”

Bertie nodded and went to bed, still dazed by the morning’s events. If this was what having friends was like, he never wanted it to end.

Dean decided to let Bertie sleep an hour or two. In the meanwhile, he went in to see about David. “Sorry I left you with him,” he told Sam.

“You sure I can’t beat ’im up?” Sam grumbled.

“Not yet,” Dean smiled. “Seriously, you’re doing fantastic.”

Sam sighed and lowered his voice to where only Dean could hear. “Now I see why the jerk was a Nazi sympathizer. He seriously thinks he’s better than everybody.”

“I know. It’s pathetic.”

“And he’s racist! I mean, we were talking about science, and he buys the idea that blacks aren’t as evolved as we are!” Sam threw up his hands. “I don’t even want to know what Dad or Uncle Bobby would say!”

“Maybe that’s why we were sent here,” Dean said. “You wanted to understand him better and... well... I understand Bertie.”

Sam looked a little jealous. “I noticed.”

“Sammy, he was an abused child who has trouble talking. It’s the way I was when I was younger. I know how to help him. Always here for you, you know that.”

Sam ducked his head. “Sorry. Bertie does seem like a good kid.”

“David can rot for all I care,” Dean said for Sam’s ears only. “Come hang out with us. You’re welcome.”

Sam brightened. “Seriously?”

“You’re my brother. Seriously.”

“Awesome. Thanks, dude. Save any grilled cheese for me?”

“No, but it’s no trouble to make more. Still got enough for two. Come on.”

“Here!” David piped up when Sam started to follow Dean out of the room. “Where are you going?”

Sam smiled. “To spend some time with my big brother. Don’t worry—I’ll come back.” As he turned back, only Dean heard him mutter, “It’s more than you deserve.”

David opened his mouth to object, but Dean slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders and shot David a look that dared him to say anything. David shut his mouth in a pout.

Dean made two more grilled cheese sandwiches for his little brother, which Sam ate gratefully. Then they chatted quietly until Bertie woke and came out to join them.

Sam patted the chair beside him, and Bertie took the hint and sat down next to him. “You really do have trouble talking?” Sam asked.

Bertie nodded. “I-I-I... ... c-... can’t get w-w-words out s-s-s-s-sometimes.”

Sam nodded in return and patted his hand. “Dean taught me how to talk as a baby. He taught me everything I know. He’s the best.”

“W-w-w-w-wish he was m-my b-b-b-brother,” Bertie confessed quietly.

Dean felt himself blush so hard his ears were burning.

“I know,” Sam said with a gentle smile. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here... but know that we’re both here for you.”

Bertie’s smile was a thing of beauty.

Dean got the literature book and asked if Bertie and Sam could read the next poem, one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, together. One line each.

Bertie was plainly nervous again, but he took the book and, at Sam’s encouraging nod, began to read: “L-l... ... let me not t-t-t-to the mmmmmmarriage of t-t-t-true m-m-minds....”

Sam half-chanted his line, and Bertie heard the rhythm. He tried the same thing with his next line and halfway got it. As Sam read again, Bertie listened closely and tried again with his next line. The process repeated until the end of the poem, by which point Bertie was stumbling only once or twice.

When the poem was done, he looked into Dean’s smiling face. Dean nodded once.

Sam rubbed his shoulder. “Good job, Bertie.”

“You can do it,” Dean added. “I knew you could.”

Bertie grinned, and Dean felt like a hero.