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You’re just an average denizen of Spitbucket. Specifically, one who happens to be reeling from a broken heart when a British detective blows into town saying something about a missing royal.
Oh, you can’t stand that accent. Your lover was an Englishman who had spent some significant time on this side of the pond and met you in the process, but the passion had fizzled when he moved back home and your relationship proved unable to survive the distance. You had always been so excited when letters arrived, and were positively crushed when the most recent one had started with “I’m sorry” and ended with “I wish you the best”. You could hardly see for the tears as you’d scribbled a lengthy heartfelt response to thrust into the confused mailman’s hands.
That was three weeks ago, and you still feel like anything England is emblematic of what you’ve lost. Hey, you only knew the one Brit; it’s not like you have anyone else to associate the accent with. Detective Edward Gold reminds you of days gone by a little too closely for comfort. You hope he’s out of here soon. You had been almost done wallowing in despair, and this rude reminder that Britain dares to exist set you back by, like, a week’s worth of progress.
At the saloon, back to the habit of drowning your sorrows that you’ve been indulging in since the breakup, you’re half-eavesdropping on the detective. Your ears are attuned to pick up a voice like Gold’s thanks to - well, you know. Honestly, you’re surprised not more people in the saloon are paying attention; like, sure, kidnappings and shit aren’t out of the ordinary for Spitbucket, but the goddamn English monarchy certainly is.
You can’t help but sneak a peek when he slams a photograph of the missing Prince Matthew onto the counter. Hey, if you can help solve this mystery, you can get this guy and his painfully familiar accent out of town sooner rather than la-
Oh. Oh, of course the prince has to be infuriatingly pretty.
Like, yes, a photo where he’s laying with his shirt unbuttoned and a rose between his teeth is a bit much, but his face is just very nice to look at. Ugh.
You avert your eyes in hopes nobody will notice you’re peeking, but of course Gold catches you. He perks up, hopeful — “have you seen him? Do you recognize this man?”
You shake your head. “I wish,” you sigh. You cringe at yourself; that just slipped out before you registered what you were saying. You’re sad, and you’re yearning for something gone, and it’s making itself apparent in your every interaction.
“Dang.” Gold sulks in his seat. Then straightens back up, confused. “Wait, huh?”
You shift in your seat, face burning. “I, uh, haven’t seen him. Sorry.”
He gives you a puzzled look, before the sheriff cuts in, and you slink out of the conversation while the two talk. Awkward as hell. You’re still committing that prince’s face to memory, because you can’t help it and because it’s nice to have a good-looking face in your head that’s not the face of heartbreak. You tell yourself it’s just because you want to rush Gold out of Spitbucket, but you know that’s not why. Not your fault the prince is handsome. He’s a fucking prince, like, duh.
With that said and done, you really just go about business as usual. Gold and Sheriff Thompson disappear out of the saloon, and you find yourself sitting at the counter, circling the rim of your nearly empty beer with a bored finger. When you push the glass across the counter for the barkeep to take it, you push it a little too far and it falls to the floor with a cry of shattering glass. You’re distracted. And you also owe Todd a dollar.
Of course, that’s not the last you see of Detective Gold.
Several hours later, you’re lucky enough to nearly get caught in crossfire between Gold and some bandits. For fuck’s sake, you don’t deserve this, you’re just an adorable bystander.
Someone yanks you behind a rock, and suddenly you’re part of the action. Well, if hiding counts as action. Obligation to project adorable bystanders, you suppose. You look to see who it was that grabbed you. and it’s — oh! Of fucking course it is.
“Prince Matthew?”
He lets out a chuckle that you can barely hear over the ceaseless gunshots. “Guilty as charged,” he lilts.
He looks worse for wear, but you guess anyone would be after being held hostage and then shot at while 4000 miles away from their homeland.
He’s still infuriatingly pretty, though.
While the sheriff and Detective Gold shout at each other over the gunfire about cola or something, you naturally have to say something to the prince. You would just be rude otherwise.
“Thank you,” you say. “…um… sire.” The word feels weird in your mouth. “What am I supposed to call you?”
He shrugs. “You’re welcome, and I have no idea,” he says, voice flat and loud to be heard over the bullets. “You think they've ever taught ME how I’m to be addressed? Well, um, they have, and I kind of forgot.” He scrunches his face up. “It makes no sense, now that I think about it. I’m not gonna be addressing me. Tragic, really, that I’ll never get the chance to meet myself.” A bullet whizzes very close by. “Also, I think we’re about to die.”
You shake your head, but you’ve also subconsciously grabbed tight onto Prince Matthew because you’re a little scared. Surely touching a prince like this is uncouth, but that’s not your problem right now. “Your, uh, detective guy seems to be holding his ground pretty well, actually,” you say, nodding at Gold, who’s just downed a bottle of cola and looks like he wants blood.
Prince Matthew takes a look, then laughs and nods. “He always gets like that when he has cocaine, the little scamp.”
“Wait, what?”
The prince is too busy watching Gold firing his ridiculously accurate shots to respond to you. You’re still holding tight onto him, and he wraps his arms around you in turn, though his eyes are fixed on the action, a silly, content smile on his face. Okay, wait, why the hell is he holding you back? Hello?
After what seems like a lot of shooting, Gold is grinning to himself like a child and whirling his gun on one finger. “I - I actually did that!” he exclaims as he runs up to Thompson and Prince Matthew. And you, technically, but you’re not really part of the discussion. Though you are currently in the prince’s arms, which is… something. You have to admit it feels kind of nice, as much as it also feels like the ghost of the way you used to be held by someone else.
Thompson, now on his feet, notices this little setup — he must have had his eye on Gold the whole time and missed you entirely — and quirks an eyebrow. “Nice lap dog you’ve got there, your highness,” he laughs.
The prince cocks his head. “Wait, what? I could have sworn Little Curly was NOT kidnapped with me- ohhhhh, oh, oh you mean the person.”
“Yes I did, genius.”
“They’re not a lap dog, they’re, um… what’s your name?” You tell him, he immediately repeats it back to you.
You tentatively peel yourself off of the prince, though he keeps one arm wrapped around you. You both remain seated behind the rock. “I was just trying to not get killed, is all. I’m sorry to intrude,” you say.
Gold pouts his lip, deep in thought. “Wait, I’ve seen you before. You were the one who said that… vaguely creepy thing about the photograph of Prince Matthew. At the saloon.”
Your face burns, why the fuck did he bring that up or remember it at all, but Prince Matthew seems unfazed. “I love when people say vaguely creepy things about me,” he says.
“It wasn’t even that creepy,” you insist. “Detective Gold was like, ‘have you seen this guy?’ and I was like ‘I wish’ and that was that.”
“Awww, that’s actually kind of cute. Well, now you have seen me! You’re incredibly lucky, I must say,” Prince Matthew says.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I am.”
“Wait, you’re actually agreeing with me? The last person I said that to practically killed me.”
“Well, I have to be respectful to royalty, right? And I’m also desperately lonely. And your accent is good exposure therapy. because I like your voice.” You have no idea why you said everything past that first sentence out loud.
“Exposure therapy? What for?”
“Oh, uh, I like just broke up with a British guy so-”
“-so you need someone executed,” he says, deadpan.
“No, oh my god,” you exclaim, “it was on good terms, I just — the accent makes me sad or something.”
Prince Matthew finally gets up and brushes the dirt off his clothes. You’re almost disappointed when his arm leaves you in the process. “Well, if someone as dashing as yourself needs exposure therapy to this lovely voice of mine , then surely you won’t mind chatting with me a bit longer?” he purrs.
You flush at the compliment and the offer, and take his extended hand to get back up yourself. Once you’re on your feet, he kisses your hand, ohhhh, stupid gentlemanly prince behavior making you swoon, how dare he… “I! Uh, sure! I really don’t know why you’d take any sort of interest in me, but…” Interest probably wasn’t the right word. You are simply lonely and projecting.
You realize Gold and Thompson are both glaring at you and the prince. Gold taps his foot impatiently.
“We’re having a moment,” Prince Matthew says defensively.
“Have a moment somewhere else,” Gold shoots back.
“Maybe we will,” Prince Matthew declares, which is all the warning you get before he scoops you up bridal style, only to carry you away, like, five feet tops before setting you back down. It’s just enough distance for Gold and Thompson to carry on their own conversation without the whole thing feeling too crowded. Only just barely, though. Pushing it.
You look at the prince, stunned and confused, before bursting into laughter at the bizarre ineffectiveness of the move. He just picked you up to carry you like five feet. You see a smile tugging at his lips, too.
“I like you,” he hums.
Okay, you’re blown away at this point. “Why?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, if we’re being sincere here, I do enjoy the sort of desperate attention I’d get from someone rebounding….” he probably notices the look on your face as he trails off, “…but, ahh, that’s not the only thing! Alright, maybe I shouldn’t have said that first part. But you’re very easy on the eyes. And it makes me sad and confused to think that anyone would ever turn you down. You’re hurting and I don’t like that.”
He looks down to adjust the cuff of his sleeve as he continues, “and, ah, if you really are as broken up about the accent as you say you are, that makes your interest a lot more meaningful than what I’ve gotten from other Americans. I swear, they just fling themselves at me the moment I open my mouth. I mean, sure, ninety percent of the time I’m intentionally flirting anyway, and I’ve also spent the majority of my time here so far in a hostage situation, and heck, I’ll gladly take the attention, but, uh, you know how it is.”
You find yourself nodding in agreement. “Honestly, I… I kind of miss receiving the attention, from, uh, like from before the breakup I just had. So I know how wanting attention but, like, a good kind of attention, is. And I know latching onto someone so fast is kind of stupid, especially like a literal fucking prince, hello?? but you’re just… very handsome, and very sweet I think, and…”
“I know I am,” Prince Matthew chimes. He pauses. “How soon ago exactly was this breakup?”
“Got the letter like three weeks ago.”
“And you’re still so torn up about it; it must have hurt you pretty bad… you’re
sure
you don’t need someone executed? I can have someone executed.”
“I’m sure.”
“Please?”
You laugh it off. “Seriously, I’m good. You are weirdly enthusiastic about killing your subjects.”
“Oh, no, I’m just enthusiastic about making sure lovely people aren’t hurting if I can help it.”
“Wait, what?”
“You heard me,” Prince Matthew says with a grin.
You’re about to reply, when the sheriff interrupts — “can’t you have a heart-to-heart with a stranger some other time? Or, uh, flirt with a stranger some other time? I can’t really tell what’s going on between you two.”
Prince Matthew looks over at him and furrows his brow in thought. “Not this stranger,” he replies completely genuinely. “And I’m sort of attached to this one now. They’re sad.”
“We’re all sad.”
The prince hooks a protective arm around you. “Well, I think I have an obligation to this one since I pulled them out of the way of the shootout.”
“You really don’t,” you insist, but Prince Matthew emphatically shakes his head. You don’t know why he’s so latched onto you, but you’re not complaining. It seems too conveniently good to be true, though, like this is all just escapist fanfiction or something. Ooh, and now it’s one of those quirky ~self-aware~ ones, fancy!
Gold joins the conversation, wringing his hands. “Well, we do need to get you back to England soon, your highness. People are worried about you.”
Prince Matthew tips his head back to let out a dramatic sigh-eyeroll combo. A sighroll, if you will. “With all due respect, detective, I don’t think one or two more days is going to hurt,” he says. A smile creeps onto his face as he adds, “as much as I know I’m sorely missed…”
All this talk of the prince returning to the UK is sending ice-cold dread sinking deep in your stomach. Goddamnit. This is exactly what happened last time. Now you’ve got a stupid crush that you’re going to hold onto longer than you should until the day the thousands of miles not to mention the fact that he’s fucking royalty who’s probably not actually into you anyway ultimately becomes too much to bear and you’re left crying into your pillow-
“I mean,” Gold begins, “I’ve invited Sheriff Thompson to come along with us and he seems on board with it.” Oh, well, that’s kind of insane. You must have been too caught up in your conversation with the prince to pay any attention to what the others were saying. “Maybe your little friend here would be up for that too? Anything to get you back home before people start to doubt my aptitude at my job.”
“Wait, what?” you blurt.
Prince Matthew lights up at the idea. “Wait, wait, yes! That sounds perfect,” he says. “I’m sure I could find some sort of cushy palace position for you to occupy. I’ll bet that’s better than… uh, whatever it is that you’re doing now. If I may hazard a guess whilst having no idea what you do.”
You hesitate. You may be heartbroken, and lonely, and infatuated, but you’re too smart to make an insane life-changing decision like moving into the British fucking palace on this sort of short notice.
“...and, of course, any travel fees in either direction would be covered by yours truly.” the prince adds.
Oh, so this isn’t an insane life-changing decision. You can just go home if you want. Cool.
“You gonna cover my travel fees too?” Sheriff Thompson asks.
“Of course not,” Prince Matthew scoffs.
“I… I think I’d be up for it,” you say.
“Yes!” Once again, Prince Matthew scoops you up, and you find yourself wondering where the hell he’s keeping the muscles needed to lift someone. “Oh, this works out perfectly. I’ll never let you out of my sight-”
“-wait, please let me out of your sight at some point-”
“-and I’ll get to talk to you aaaall the time-”
“-maybe not all the time but I mean I am up f-”
“-and I’ll have your former lover beheaded-”
“-no you fucking won’t-”
“-and it’ll be wonderful!!!”
You blink. “As long as you don’t behead anyone for me.”
Prince Matthew hesitates. “If you insist,” he sighs. “ Maybe I’m getting a little carried away with this. But there’s something special about you! I’m attached already. I don’t plan on letting you go. Unless you want to be let go, of course; I’m not that fucked up, I think...” He sets you down to put a hand to his chin in thought as he mutters to himself, “don’t think beheading is even historically accurate for this time, anyway…” His voice trails off.
He clasps his hands together, eyes bright. “But the bottom line is I get to take you home with me! And ease your aching heart, and be showered with your sweet sweet attention…”
“…yeah,” you say. “That sounds good.”