Archive of Our Own ^beta

The irony is, he used to dream about this. Used to stay up at night and try on different last names for size. Jones. Burns. Fitzgerald. Whitman. Ginsberg. Johnson. He would mouth them out, over and over, dragging out the syllables carefully and slowly, hoping one of them would spark something. A thought. A  memory. A scintilla of truth.  

Henry Kent. Henry Wayne. Henry Parker. Henry Stark. Henry Banner. Henry Curry. 

When he’d exhausted the superhero names, he’d moved on to others: Henry Aston. Henry Bond. Henry Miles. Henry Jackson. Henry Shaw. 

Someone once suggested that perhaps the issue was with the name Henry, and that was why none of the combinations worked. But the thought didn't bear entertaining and Henry never forgave Mrs. Owens for raising it. Henry was his. As irrefutable as his hair was blonde and his eyes were blue, Henry was his name.

It was the rest of it that was the problem. 

The jacket he had been wearing when they had found him may have helpfully supplied "Henry", but it had neglected any other identifiers. No last name, no phone number, and certainly not an “If lost, please return to” address. 

And so, for approximately forever, just-Henry had relegated him to being "Just Henry". An untenable circumstance for a child. While other children wished for toys and playthings, Henry had longed, more than anything, for a name. A proper one. Something with a first, and (crucially) a last name. Any last name would have done as long as he had something to append to “Henry”. “Smith", which had been assigned to him, first because the simple act of existing begets paperwork and paperwork inevitably demands a last name, and second because his carers were irredeemably unimaginative, would have sufficed as long as it was his. But it wasn't. Nothing was. He was Just Henry. 

And he'd made his peace with that. Eventually. 

And now. 

And now he had half a dozen names. Enough to supplement not only himself, but four others besides. And to the surplus of names, he could also add a bloody royal title.

His Royal Highness Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor. 

Say that three times fast. 

He went from a starving, quasi-homeless nothing and nobody to a bloody fucking prince, second in line to a whole throne.  And not just any throne. The throne of bloody England. And to add a nice little sash to the whole thing, they have thrown a ball in his honour. A real, literal ball, with gowns and tuxedos and champagne and absurdly extravagant confectionery. All in his honour. 

Staring down at the dancing figures from his hiding spot on the balcony, Henry wonders if they consider him as big of a fraud as he feels. And he feels like a very, very big fraud. 

If Henry hadn't himself gone into all of the white rooms with all the white coats and been jabbed by all the needles, again and again, and if he hadn’t then watched the Queen of England experience an apoplectic fit because the erstwhile spare to her kingdom was a queer vagabond who had published not one, not two, but three books of homoerotic poetry, then he would not have believed it. And still, if someone were to accuse him of having somehow scrambled his own DNA just to swindle everyone into throwing him a party…well, he'd be inclined to agree. Look at how he got here and you'd be hard pressed to think him anything but a charlatan. What business does Henry have as a prince? Who could believe that this could be real? Certainly not Henry. 

Sure, he’d dreamed it. Every orphan dreams it. When the other kids are bullying you, when the adults are hitting you, when they withhold food or bed or warm clothes — you think, one day, when it turns out I’m the long lost Prince of Somewhere or Other, you’ll be sorry. 

So all orphans dream it. But they don’t believe it. Henry hadn’t believed it. He hadn't. 

……Actually. 

That’s a lie. 

He had believed it. 

They say the greatest cons are the simple ones. Where the mark wants to believe so badly, he basically does all the work himself. All the con artist has to do is show up at the right place and say a few words in more or less the right order, and he’s got the gullible sod eating out of the palm of his hands. 

Exhibit A: Henry (the mark, also: gullible sod) had chased David into an abandoned theater (the right place) where Alex and Nora (the con artists) had been holding “auditions for a play about the British royals”, desperately needing a believable older Prince Henry. For no reason other than artistic integrity. Truly. 

Enters Henry (the mark/gullible sod): 

“—Look at this, you’re the spitting image of Arthur Fox —” 

“— You even have his mole, right here —“ 

“— You’re looking for your family in London —” 

“— And his only family lives in London —“ 

(A few words in more or less the right order.)

Henry had barely put up a fight. He’d eaten that cock and bull story about a play and a "believable Prince Henry" right up, and had been oh-so-grateful that they’d abandoned their theatrical endeavors to help him find his family. Had been so enthralled — 

Such a fool. He’d have been better off standing on the street corner with a sign, “Willing to believe anything. Please take advantage of me.” 

“Bloody fool,” he says outloud. A fool, a fool, a thousand times a fool. Even now, as he’s staring down at the dancing figures below, the colours are fading into the background and he's seeing only a pair of warm brown eyes, framed by thick lashes; tousled curls and impish dimples. He is hearing the music, but he's listening to an infuriating American drawl, "Sweetheart, all princes know how to dance the waltz. Get off your royal ass and dance with me." He is pressing his fingers into the hard marble of the railing but he can only feel the ghost of strong, calloused hands guiding him through the steps. Just Henry would have been able to sway in his arms for the rest of time and never complain. Prince Henry wants to crawl into a corner and cry. 

With no small amount of disgust, he shakes his head to free himself of the images. Forget him, Henry. 

"Who's a fool?" 

Henry jolts and steps away from the railing. Princess Beatrice (his sister) steps out from behind the curtains, smiling at him.

"Princess—Beatrice. I, uh, didn't realize anyone else was up here." 

"Bea," she corrects softly as she steps forward to stand next to him. "When you were a kid, you would run away from all our parties and come up here to hide. It seemed a safe choice when no one could find you downstairs. Nice to see some things don’t change.” 

Henry gives her what is hopefully a convincing smile. It's not that Henry minds hearing these little anecdotes about himself. He loves them, really. But right now, when Prince Henry and Just Henry seem so irreconcilable, the stories feel more like jabbing at open wounds. 

Bea turns away and makes a show of scanning the crowd. “Are we looking for anyone in particular?” 

Alex. “No.” 

She hums pensively. “I see Pez there, dancing with your American.” 

Henry nods, even though he’d hardly call Nora his American. It had been easier to be quasi-forgiving with her part of the whole farce, yes, but he's afraid salvaging any friendship is a lost cause. Meaningless pleasantries is all they manage to exchange these days. 

“He and Nora are old friends," he says, and watches as Pez leads Nora into a deep dip, then pulls her back up to capture her lips in a kiss that is all tongue and teeth and roaming hands. Roaming hands that are … roaming lower and lower and …. Henry clears his throat. “And it seems they are both eager to rekindle their acquaintance.” 

“Luckily for us,” Beatrice says drily. She lifts up to her toes and (quite comically) cranes her neck. “I believe she came as a pair, did she not?” 

“You know very well that she did.” 

Another hum. Henry has barely known her a month and he is already deeply suspicious of these hums. “I don’t see him though?” 

“That’s because Alex isn’t here.” If some bitterness seeps through his voice, then he hopes Bea doesn't know him well enough yet to detect it. “He’s probably already off to America right now, blowing through his reward money.” 

There is a very long pause. “Right," she says, tone clipped and awkward. Like she'd somehow forgotten and didn't know what to do with the reminder. "The reward money.” 

“Right.” 

The sting of that. Reward money. The only reason Alex had put up with him, in the end. Alex and he hadn't gotten off on the right foot but Henry — well. Well, he'd thought they'd become friends. He'd even foolishly hoped for more. He'd seen Alex's eyes rake over him, drinking him in, and he'd wanted to burst into song and dance, his stomach doing little idiot happy summersaults. He could still feel the thrill of that night, at the Opera, when Henry had emerged from the cab, decked out in the tux that Pez had arranged for him with his tailor, and Alex had stopped in his fucking tracks to stare at him. 

“Wow, sweetheart," Alex had said, eyes raking over Henry as though Alex couldn't help himself, "you—you look amazing."

It had released butterflies, not just in his stomach, but all over his body. Down to his toes. 

"Well," Henry had said with a blush, smoothing a hand down his front, “If, as you say, I am James Bond’s son, then I suppose looking at home in a tux is not such a stretch." 

Alex’s face had contorted before settling in a different smile that Henry hadn't understood at the time and now seems so obvious. “You are his son."

"We think." 

"We know." His smile morphed into his usual grin and he winked at Henry. "You'll see, sweetheart.” 

Henry had seen. He'd seen that the whole time when Henry had been falling in love with Alex, Alex hadn't even seen Henry. He'd seen a paycheque. And in the service of securing that paycheque, he had not hesitated to play on Henry's emotions. Had not hesitated in making him complicit in his deceit. Had not hesitated to use Henry to trick a mourning family. 

Well. 

He shouldn't be surprised. It's what conmen do, afterall.

"You know," Bea says suddenly, making Henry jolt again, so lost he'd been in thought. He turns his attention back to her and hums that he's listening. "The first time you hid in this corner, you fell asleep and we had no idea where you were. Mum and dad must have torn the whole place down to find you. They called everyone. Head of security, the Guard, MI5, MI6 — everyone, Henry. Not a single person was spared. You should have seen it, the great minds of our nation, some of the most powerful people in the world, gathered right down there" — she points to a spot on the stage where the orchestra sits — "brainstorming suspects and ransom payments and saying things like we do not negotiate with terrorists. I swear mum was a minute away from declaring war on at least 15 of the G20 countries. Dad was ready to duel the Prime Minister and show everyone what he'd learned from doing all his own stunt work. When what should happen?" She giggles. "Little Prince Henry shuffles in, rubbing his eyes and dragging his poor little bunny behind him. Everyone was so shocked, I swear you could hear a pin drop — I've never seen them all so quiet in my life. And he looks up at the head of MI6 and says, irate as all can be, 'can everyone be quiet please? I can't sleep'."

Having barely been able to get through her story without random bursts of laughter, she lets go now and laughs freely and openly and joyously. Henry suspects it's not so much the story itself, but her relief at finally being able to think of their childhood memories without painting it in tragedy. Henry smiles. "You're making that up," he says, just to goad her. 

She snorts. "I am not! Ask mum if you don't believe me. Oh, the look on everyone's faces, Henry. Gran almost threw you out the window!"

He can so clearly see the older woman's displeasure at a young boy who'd almost thrown the nation into chaos by his sleeping habits that it sends him into his own peel of laughter. 

"How old was I?" He asks when their laughter finally dies down.

"Oh, no more than four, I should think. Philip appointed himself your watcher after that." 

That he does find hard to believe. "Really?" 

She nods. "He was a tyrant about it, too. Wouldn't let you go anywhere on your own. Think he was terrified of losing you." 

Henry looks at where his brother is standing somberly next to his wife by the dance floor. Poor Martha looks like she wouldn't mind joining the dancing but Philip just looks blandly on. "Hard to imagine." He's hardly exchanged ten words with Henry since they've been introduced. Or, re-introduced. 

Bea makes a displeased sound. "Philip's changed a lot over the last ten years. Unfortunately, not all for the better. We can thank our dear grandmama for that." 

Henry hums. "I believe it." 

There's another moment of silence and Henry loses himself in thoughts of his fractured family. The narrative has been commonly pushed by the papers. Henry had disappeared, and with Arthur already dead, the family had fallen apart. Their mother, already lost to grief, had become a ghost of herself and Bea had unraveled under the influence of drugs. The magazines all fall short of saying that the reason the heir to throne is a twat is because all he had for years by way of family was the Deathless Mother, but it's not a hard connection to draw. Henry could not blame Philip for falling under her influence.

"I don't think you ever cared for this life." 

Henry frowns, pulled from his thoughts again. When he registers her words, his frown deepens. "How do you mean?" 

"We were all born to this world," she nods at the crowd of glittering dancers, "and we've all had our own feelings about it and I think, Henry, that you never cared for it at all. For as long as I can remember, you've always hidden away from this part of our lives." 

"That doesn't mean I'm not happy to be here, Bea," Henry says, "That doesn't mean I'd change any of this. You have to know that. All I've ever wanted was to have a family." 

"And you'll always have your family." 

This time they both startle and turn. Their mother stands at the top of the stairs, looking at them with an expression that Henry can't quite decipher. 

"Mum," Bea says at the same time as Henry says, "Mother."

Catherine steps up to them. She's smiling, but her eyes are somber. "I seemed to have misplaced two-thirds of my children."

"That's my fault," Henry says quickly, "I was just looking for a moment away." 

"What a wonderful idea." She steps up to stand on Henry's other side. "Mind if I join you?" 

"Oh, um, no. Of course not." 

Feeling oddly ambushed, Henry stands between his mother and sister, looking awkwardly between them. The two ignore him with the practiced ease of royalty, each pretending to watch the dance floor again. Henry finds himself practically holding his breath while he waits for them to start speaking again. 

"You know," his mother starts eventually, "when Bea came to me, telling me that Pez had someone he thought we should meet, there was not a single part of me that believed the person he wanted us to meet would be my son." 

Henry knows that part. Had heard his mother and sister tearing into Alex when he'd tried to convince them to meet Henry anyway. He just doesn't know what happened in between the Opera house and Princess Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor stepping into his hotel room. "What made you change your mind?" 

She shrugs. "Hope?" She turns to him with a smile. "I don't think any mother is ever able to let go of hope." 

And Alex had preyed on it. Henry clenches his jaw. "It was … generous of you. To still meet with me after all the disappointments." 

She snorts. It's oddly endearing. "Generosity had nothing to do with it." She reaches for his hand and he lets her link their fingers. She squeezes his hand comfortingly. "You can't know how happy I have been these past weeks, having you in our lives again. It's like I was alive again. My little boy with me and all my children together again. I never thought I'd ever feel happiness like this."

"Of course," Henry rushes to say, he clutches back at her hand. "That's exactly how I feel." He turns to Bea, looking between his mother and his sister. "Finding you, figuring out who I am, having a family is all I've ever wanted." 

"And we will always be here," Catherine says, she reaches a hand to cup Henry's cheek. "I am so proud of the man that you've become and I am so thankful that we've been given another chance."

He gives her a pained look, feeling his eyes grow wet. "Why does it feel like there might be a but coming along?" 

"But that doesn't mean that you should settle for what you think you should have." 

Henry almost rolls his eyes. "I'm not settling. This isn't settling." He's a bloody prince for God's sakes. There's no doors barred to him. No singular item out of his budget. Nothing that he can't have. 

Except — 

"It is for you, darling," Catherine says, her thumb brushing his cheekbones. "The only thing you have ever cared about since you were a child was love."  

His breath hitches. "Mum, I—" 

Her other hand comes up to take his face between both her hands. Henry reaches up and wraps his hands over her wrists. He's not sure why. "You will always have our love, darling. Always. And we will always be here. Do you understand?" His mother tugs down and he bows his head obediently until she presses their foreheads together. "Nothing or no one will ever take that away." She pulls back and fixes him with a smile. "But I think it's another love that you need to be chasing now." 

He sucks in a breath. "If you're talking about Alex—" Henry closes his eyes, trying to center himself. "It's no use. He doesn't love me. He never loved me. It was all about the reward money for him. That's all. I was the idiot who fell in love." 

"I don't know about the reward money," his mother says, "but I know what love looks like and I know what I saw when I looked at him." 

Henry shakes his head. "You're wrong. He—" 

"I know about the reward money." 

This time, Henry barely reacts.

He pulls away from his mother to turn to Bea and shoot her a look. "I thought you said this was my hiding spot." 

Bea shrugs. "It's become a shared space." She turns to Philip as he walks over to them, Martha behind him. "What do you know about the reward money? How do you know about the reward money?" 

Philip raises both palms as both he and his wife come to a stand next to them. "I was in the room with grandmother and the American as they discussed it."  

Henry scoffs. "Do you see?" He says to his mother. "He never wanted me. He's only ever wanted the money and now that he's taken it, he can fly off into the sunset with it." 

There's a long, deadly pause, something that stretches and curdles, as his mother tries to come up with a rebuttal, or a way to spin this into a positive and comes up blank. Henry should know. He's tried many times in the past few weeks to find a "Good Spin" and drawn nothing. 

It's Philip who breaks the silence. "Only." They all turn to him as one and Philip looks away.  "He didn't." Another pause. "Take the reward money, that is."

"Of course he—" Henry stops. Thinks over the words. Turns fully to Philip. "What?" 

Philip sighs and moves a bit in a gesture that Henry's come to understand is Philip for 'fidgeting'. "He didn't take the money."

"What?" Henry blinks. "Why?" 

Another minute fidget by Philip and he shrugs. "He said something like he had had a change of heart, I believe." 

"What does that mean?" Henry asks, echoed by his sister and mother. 

Philip takes a cautious step back from them. "Well I don't bloody know, do I? It's not like he was going to confide in me about what his heart wants or doesn't want." He looks at Henry and whatever he sees on Henry's face makes him sighs and reach in his coat pocket to retrieve an envelope. "But I do know that he left this with our grandmother in the hopes that she would pass it on to you." 

Bea shoots Philip a dubious look as Henry reaches with numb fingers for the envelope. "Our grandmother gave that to you to pass it on to Henry?" 

Philip shrugs. "More likely that she threw it in the trash and I perhaps fished it out, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her." 

Henry ignores him as he turns the envelope in his hand. A nondescript, cream-coloured letter envelope. Like a thousand others he's seen in his lifetime. Only this one Henry scrawled on the front in Alex's handwriting. It barely weighs anything at all, but Henry feels like it has the weight of the world on it.

"Are you going to open it, darling?" 

Henry looks up at his mother to see all three of his family staring at him expectantly. Almost reflexively, he pulls the envelope close to his chest even as he shakes his head. "I—I don't—he's already left for America." 

"Actually, his flight isn't for another four hours."

Of course. 

Henry gives a wet laugh as Nora and Pez make their way to them. "Is there anyone else who's to join our party?" He looks to Bea. "Shall we simply take this in front of the orchestra?" 

Nora ignores him as she comes to stand next to his mother, a hand on her waist. "Alex will be boarding a flight to Washington in four hours. What are you going to do about it?"

"I—" He glances down at the envelope, turns it in his hands. "I— he still lied to me. He used me and he played me and he — he's a liar and a thief and—" he looks up with a glare "—I am so angry at him."  

Nora throws up her hands. "So be angry, Henry. Be as angry as you'd like but just let him love you." 

"He doesn't —" 

"He does." They all say it in unison, even Philip and Martha. It startles Henry enough to make him blink at them but then what they're saying…

Nora sighs. "Henry." She takes another breath when he doesn't look at her. "I—I don't know what he's written in that envelope, and I don't know if this helps at all, but — but he was going to call the whole thing off."

Henry frowns. What? "What?" 

Nora shifts in her spot and shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. "He was going to call the whole thing off. He was going to tell you the truth and beg your forgiveness and whisk you off to New York so you could both live in a tiny studio apartment drinking cheap wine while you wrote your poetry books and he went back to law school. That was his plan. Remember he'd packed his bags in Paris? Bought you a new suitcase?" 

"Yes. Yes, I remember that." It was to replace his old suitcase with the broken handle and brittle latches and no wheels. When Henry had asked him about it, he'd gotten rather subdued and said only that a prince needs to travel in better style. "So—what—what changed? Why didn't he?" 

She shrugs again. "I—I don't know, exactly. He was supposed to tell you at dinner, you remember? He shipped me off to go 'sightseeing' with Pez and ordered room service because he wanted to let you murder him in private if you wanted. He was so nervous when I left but when I came back and asked him how it went, he said he didn't go through with it."

"Why?" 

"Because," Pez says, "he knew you were the right prince, after all." 

Nora nods and shrugs. "He said you were the real deal, but he wouldn't tell me how he knew."

Henry stares at her. He remembers that night. Remembers walking into Alex's suite, startled by the candlelight and the fancy hotel room service. The other man — usually so smooth and charming — had been so flustered, he'd spilled the wine twice when he'd gone to pour Henry's glass. He'd eventually said, "I have to tell you something" and Henry, suddenly filled with dread, had asked him to wait until after dinner so they could enjoy a quiet dinner in Paris. Alex had agreed and like a switch had been flipped had slipped back into his charming role, coaxing Henry into easy conversation. 

"He," Henry croaks out now, distantly aware of everyone's eyes on him. "He asked me what I would say if anyone asked how I survived the attack at the park that night." 

"What did you say?"

Henry frowns, staring unseeingly into the red carpet adorning the floor. "There was a boy? An American boy. With curly hair and a SeaWorld t-shirt but someone had crossed out SeaWorld with marker and written 'Free the Orcas' on it." There is a gasp from Nora. "He — he saved me." He looks up. "He saved me." 

"That—" Nora swallows. "That was Alex. He still has that stupid t-shirt." 

Oh. Oh oh oh oh oh. Then — 

"Then." He takes a breath, his mind so full, he can't seem to hold on to a single thought. "Then he was going to really call the whole thing off?" 

"Until you told him that story. That's how he knew you were the real deal. Because he was there." 

Henry's eyes sting. "He really cared?" 

"Yes," Nora says, "Are you going to do anything about it or not?" 

Henry doesn't even hear her. "I have to go." He says to her. He looks over at his mother, then Bea, then Philip then Martha. "I have to go." He turns to Pez. "I have to go." 

Pez claps. "An excellent choice, by far, my liege. Now come, I have your royal steed prepared and waiting." 

Which Henry took to mean a car was waiting for him at the front. 

"What if I'm too late? What if he's already gone? Or I get there and the plane is already about to take off and —" 

"Henry," Bea says, cutting him off. Henry stops and stares at her. She grins. "Haven't you heard?"

What could he possibly have had to hear now? He throws up his hands. "What?" 

"You're a prince." 

When he keeps staring at her in incomprehension, Philip rolls his eyes. "They'll hold the bloody plane for you." 

The intercom above Alex's head dings to life: "Attention all passengers. For your safety and security, please report any suspicious behavior, unattended packages, or activities that seem out of the ordinary, immediately to airport security personnel or local authorities. Remember, if you see something, say something. Thank you for your cooperation."

Alex sighs and sinks lower in his chair. The only thing Alex can see reflected in the tinted airport windows is a pathetic, sleep-deprived man sitting in his pathetic suit on his pathetic chair waiting for his pathetic flight to his pathetic home. His eyes are bloodshot, the dual result of his lack of sleep combined with the month-long overconsumption of alcohol, trying not to think about beautiful men with pillowy lips and long legs and bad taste in Star Wars and a wicked sense of humour. 

It had been weeks since Alex had seen Henry and he will likely never see him again. If he's honest with himself, Alex knows that he delayed returning to America as long as he could because he knew he'd never step foot in England again once he leaves. It's simply too painful. But even if it wasn't, he doubts anyone would want to let him back in. Some royal person will likely put him on a no-fly list as soon as his plane takes off. 

Or. 

Or maybe they don't. Maybe they don't care at all. Maybe Alex is already just a footnote in Henry's life. He's a prince, after all, with far more important things to think about than the conman who'd lied to him since the moment they met. Being scrubbed from Henry's life somehow hurts more than being hated. 

"Ugh," Alex says, rubbing his hands over his face. He’ll  never stop being miserable for as long as he lives and it's all his own bloody fault. He slides lower in his seat and leans his head back. He closes his eyes. Partly in hopes that his hangover would go away, and partly in hopes that he'll just disappear. 

He's near dozing off when the chatter around him comes to a sudden halt. Slowly, Alex blinks his eyes open. 

Six men in suits are surrounding him on all sides, hands clasped in front of them. They each have sunglasses and earpieces on. 

"Alexander Claremont-Diaz?" asks the (very) handsome Indian man standing front and center. He's the only one not wearing sunglasses. 

Not disappeared, then. Fuck. Alex knew it was all too easy. Slowly, Alex sits up. "Yeah?" 

"You need to come with us." 

There's a long pause as Alex considers his choices. The Queen of England couldn't lock someone away in the dungeon for turning down reward money, could she? He can't outrun these men, and honestly, he doesn't even want to try. He's tired and hungover and his heart hurts. 

He lets out a deep breath and nods before rising to his feet. "Lead the way." 

They walk in silence, save for the almost obnoxious squeaking of Alex's carry-on. The Men in Black walking in formations of 2 — flanking Alex from front, back and sides. Alex can feel the stares of everyone in the airport, wants to explain that he's not one of those 'if you see something, say something' cases. His brand of criminal is much, much tamer. 

"So," Alex says to the man he assumes is the leader, who's taken the spot on Alex's right. They turn into a quiet corridor, no doubt inching closer to his dungeon. "What did you say your name was?" 

"I didn't," the man says. He reaches for a door and throws it open. "Through here." 

Alex raises an eyebrow. "You know, if you're going to do a cavity search, I gonna have to ask that you wear gloves." 

The man only stares down at him long enough that Alex, conman with years of training of handling scrutiny, resists the urge to squirm. 

"Right," Alex says and steps into the room. It looks less like an interrogation room and more like a lounge. Someone pushes his suitcase after him. "Wha—"

The door clicks shut behind him. Alex whips around. 

"Hey!" He yanks at the door but it doesn't budge. "Hey! You can't just leave me in here!" 

But if anyone hears him, they're certainly not in a rush to respond. Alex tries tugging at the door a few more times before he gives up with a curse. 

"Fuck," Alex says, then: "Fuck." — just for good measure— and: "Fuck my life." 

He glances at his watch. Three hours to his flight. With not much else to do, he wheels his carry-on across the room and drops his full weight on the couch. 

"What have you gotten yourself into now, Alex?" 

With a groan he lets himself fall sideways until his head hits the cushion. At least he can get a nap in. 

When Nora and Alex had devised their little plan, sitting over a bottle of six dollar wine and a bowl of stale popcorn, they had envisioned a fairly easy task of hiring a well-trained actor to impersonate the presumed-dead prince, teaching them every single thing there was to know about the English royal family, defrauding some horrible, rich people of some money they likely wouldn't even miss and splitting the proceeds three ways. 

The ethics had sat comfortable with Alex, who saw only that the royal family certainly had more money than they knew what to do with. Thousands of people lost their children every single day, you didn't see them holding out thirty million dollars in reward money for almost two decades in the hopes of seeing them return. They were practically inviting Alex to steal it. Besides, Alex and Nora had better uses for it: June needed the money for her medication and surgery, shelters needed money to expand their capacity, charities needed the money for their causes, and Alex needed to buy the house in Austin, etc., etc., etc. They used the money to help people. People who needed it far more than Queen Mary and her band of spoiled children. They were basically Robin Hood, taking money from the rich and giving it to the poor. And if they kept a cut for themselves? Well, to Alex's mind, they were coming by the money honestly and they never took more than they needed. 

And it would be the easiest score Alex and Nora ever made. 

That was, until a blond maniac had burst through the theater, yelling "David" at the top of his lungs. 

He'd dove under the seats, crawling between them and screaming: “David! David, come here! David!” 

"Hey!" Alex had snapped. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You're trespassing." So was Alex, and so was Nora, and so was every single amateur actor there, but the man didn't need to know that. 

"I got you!" The man had yelled triumphantly, then stood up from behind the seats. He was tall, with dirty, greasy hair, and filthy clothes, and he was clutching a quivering bundle in his hands. It was only then that he seemed to realize he'd interrupted something and that no less than a dozen people were staring at him. His eyes landed on Alex, standing on stage with whatever random actor he'd been giving notes to, with the stage lights focused fully on him. The man had gasped. It had made Alex nervous, thinking the man must have recognized him and made him somehow. 

He'd glared. "This is private property." 

It took a moment for the man to react and then his mouth had shaped a horrified O. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry." His posh accent was completely at odds with his whole ensemble, but then maybe homeless chic was all the range amongst the rich these days. What did Alex know? The man moved his arm to indicate his bundle. "My dog got spooked and ran in here." 

Alex made a face, mood already sour from the third day of failed auditions and now this on top of it. "Is it your dog?"

The man stared at him a beat as though he needed time to process, then slowly he frowned. "What does that mean?" 

"In my experience, dogs don't tend to run away from their owners." 

"Well, then," the man said, sticking out his chin, "I take it you must not have much experience with dogs, then. They tend to run away quite often when they're still being trained." 

"Maybe just from owners who name them David." 

The man squared his shoulders and his eyes settled into a deep glare. He said coldly: "I'm sure we've taken up more than enough of your time. We'll get out of your hair." He'd turned stiffly to leave, which was when Nora had jammed her elbow hard into Alex's stomach. 

"Ow!" He'd hissed. "What the hell?" 

She'd merely pointed to the man then to the picture of a tween Prince Henry, then pointed back at the man again. 

It took Alex a moment to catch on. It had been hard to tell, especially with Alex's bad mood, but the man did have a remarkable resemblance to the young prince. Obviously, older, thinner, and dirtier but a resemblance was there. 

"Wait!" Alex had called after him. "Wait a minute!" 

And that had been the end of Alex and Nora's Best Laid Plans. Because they — Alex — Alex hadn’t planned on falling in love. That hadn’t been part of the plan. As far as he'd known, he was a straight man running a con with another man and his ex-girlfriend, neither of whom was he in any danger of falling in love with. But he hadn’t banked on Henry. Stubborn, funny, kind, Henry, who pushed his buttons in all of the best ways. Who’d had the manners of a prince even when dressed in old, tattered clothes. Who had the airs of an insulted duchess when Alex made his tea wrong. Who had no money to his name, but was so honest and decent, both Alex and Nora had known they couldn't tell him the truth about their plan. Who went toe-to-toe with Alex on everything and never backed down. Who was composed of equal parts marshmallow (with David, Nora, and anyone who needed gentleness) and steel (with Alex, and anyone who pissed him off (Alex)). 

How was he supposed to do anything but fall in love? 

Nora had almost laughed herself silly when she'd figured it out. Had patted him on the back, when he told her he was going to confess to Henry and beg his forgiveness. "He's going to skin you alive." 

"I know," Alex said, "I expect nothing else. I'm hoping he'll give skin-less me a chance, though." 

"Good luck." 

He had known he ran the risk of losing Henry forever the night he decided to tell Henry the truth. He hadn't counted on the reason being that Henry actually was Prince Henry. If only Alex had still told him the truth then, he might have had a chance at keeping at least a small part of Henry. 

But he hadn't. 

Alex turns now and buries his head into his makeshift cushion. "Fuck." He'd been in this damn room for over half an hour. Not only had sleep not come, he was trapped here with nothing but his thoughts. 

It's another twenty when the door swings open again. Alex, waits with his eyes closed for someone to speak. When nothing comes, he huffs. 

"You know," he says, his eyes still closed. "I do have a flight to catch. At this point, you're going to have to speedrun through your interrogation or I'm going to miss my flight."

"I sent Shaan away." 

Alex's eyes snap open and he shoots up to sit up from the couch, his feet hitting the ground with a thud. Henry — his Henry — stands by the doorway, hands clutching at a piece of paper. 

"Hen—Henry. You—" His words trail off as he drinks the other man in. If the universe has decided to give him this last chance to look at Henry, then he's going to look for all his worth. Henry looks — well. Alex always thought Henry was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen, but now he looks like a fucking fairytale prince on top of it. 

Henry steps further into the room and shuts the door behind him. “Alex.” 

Alex swallows and tries to act sem-normal as the other man steps closer to him. “What are you — what’s going on? You had them bring me here? Why?” 

"Apparently, I have authority to do that sort of thing now." 

"No, I know that," Alex says, still tracing Henry's every move with hungry eyes. "But why?" 

Henry doesn't answer, instead pulls a chair from the corner and drags it until it's in front of Alex, on the other side of the coffee table. He sits and drops the papers he was holding on the table. 

"Oh," Alex says, recognizing the papers now. "I see you got my letter." 

He'd poured his heart and soul in that letter. Explaining everything — from his origin story, to his motivations, to falling in love with Henry — if only because Henry deserved to know everything. He'd told himself it would not change anything and he wasn't writing it with any expectations that it would. And yet, when a week had passed after he'd passed the letter to the Queen and still the only people who showed up at his door were room service and housekeeping, and he'd realized it really hadn't changed anything … well. He'd cried himself to sleep. Like was sixteen again and police had shown up at his door to say his parents were killed in a car crash. 

"Yes," Henry says, drawing him out of his thoughts. "My brother gave it to me earlier this evening." 

"Oh, good," Alex says numbly, not sure what to do now with this information. So Henry hadn't seen the letter, and now that he has, he's here. He's here. "That's — that's good." 

"Is it?" Before Alex can ask him what he means he nudges at the letter. "What did you expect when writing this?" 

"Nothing," Alex says quickly, stopping himself from saying 'this' when he doesn't even know what the hell this is. "I swear, nothing. I just thought you deserved to know." 

Henry takes a deep breath. “Why didn’t you take the money?” 

Alex chews on his lips. "Who says I didn't?" 

"My brother." Henry crosses his arms. "Why didn't you?" 

"I—" He runs his hand through his hair. "You read my letter." 

Henry shakes his head slowly. "No. I read about your parents, and your sister, and the house in Austin, and the whole debacle with Rafael and Richards, and your band of Merry Men, and your code of ethics, and I read an extensive list of things you love about me. But none of that explains not taking the reward money. You'd delivered the prince, you'd earned it. Tell me why." 

Alex looks at him desperately. "You know why." 

Suddenly, Henry drops his arms and leans forward. “Answer me, please. I need a straight answer from you for once.” 

"Because I fucking love you, Henry! Because I love you and I only want you to be happy, and taking money for that seems fucking wrong, okay? Because I'd rather die than let you think I ever even spared a thought to the money since the first week we met." 

Henry scoffs. "Please." 

"It's true," Alex insists, his own anger taking over and he points a finger at Henry. "The money hasn't mattered for a long, long time, Henry. You don't have to forgive anything, but I'll be damned if you don't fucking believe me." 

"Oh, and I'm supposed to believe the word of a conman who has done nothing but lie to me since the day I met him?" 

"Yes, because it's the truth!" He could feel his chest rising and falling with exertion as he glares at Henry and the other man glares back. "It might have taken me a little longer to figure out what it was I was feeling, but all I've thought about since that first week was you. If I thought of any money at all, it was that we'd buy a brownstone together in New York like you always wanted. And maybe we'd bicker over how to decorate it even though we'd both know it would be just for show because I'd let you have anything you wanted." He feels tears stinging his eyes and he sniffs. Dropping his eyes. "That's all I thought about. A future with you." 

"And how did coning a grieving woman work into that? Did you expect they'd let us get away with it? Did you expect I'd let us get away with it?" 

Fuck, Henry wasn't going to let him get away with anything, was he? "I didn't think that far into it." He swallows. "And I'm not proud of it." 

"Hm," is all Henry says and Alex closes his eyes. So Henry showing up wasn't the beacon of hope Alex had thought it might be. 

"Please," Alex says, hoarsely. "Please. I know you don't love me back, and that if you ever did feel anything, it's gone now. I know I don't deserve to ask you for anything, but please you know how I feel. Please don't drag this out. Just put me out of my misery — please." 

For a long moment, Henry says nothing, and Alex ducks his head further, hoping to hide the tear that escapes. 

"What about me stopping an international flight, sending a group of men to track you down, leaving my own party to drive an hour across the city and running through an airport to find you, with one shoe I might add, makes you think that I don't feel the same?" 

Alex's head snaps up and he gapes at Henry. "What?" He frowns. "You only have one shoe?" He leans forward to check, and, yes, the Prince of Wales is actually sitting there, with a single shoe and a sock-clad foot. Adorably, he curls the foot away and flushes. 

"It must have slipped off while I was running." 

Alex sits back with a grin. "Sweethe—" 

"Do not. I am still angry with you," Henry says with a glare and Alex quickly schools his face even as his chest hammers in excitement. 

"Yes, of course." 

"I'm so, so angry with you." He rubs his eyes and shakes his head. "But I've been half in love with you since the moment my eyes landed on you in that theater and I don't know what to do now that you might feel the same." 

"I do feel the same," Alex says, wishing desperately to leap across the coffee table and take Henry in his arms. But he's been pretty much calling the shots since Day One. If Henry wants to touch him, that should be his decision now. "You have to believe that."

"I don't know that I can! I don't know if I can believe anything you say, I don't know if i can trust you ever again, and I don't know if I can forgive you and —" 

"So what?" Alex says, "So you want to give up? You don't even want to try?" 

Henry glares. "You do not get to call me a coward for this." 

"I never said you're a coward," Alex says, taking a breath. "I'm asking you what you want." 

"I want you —" 

"Then fucking have me." 

Henry lets out a breath and falls against his chair, all the fight gone out of him. "It's that easy to you?" 

Alex shrugs, wishing he felt as calm as he was trying to act. "It can be. We can figure the rest of it out, I swear." 

"And if it doesn't work?" 

"Then we can at least say we tried." But Henry says nothing and Alex feels the small hope that had been building, die away. He lets out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. "Look. I have a flight to New York right now. If you need time and space to figure things out, that's fine. I'll wait for you, if that's what you want." 

"I don't want you to wait for me." 

And that feels like a slap. "Right." Alex nods. "Fair enough. That's completely fair enough." He runs his hand over his shirt, feeling for the familiar comfort of his chain with his key and — oh. "Oh, I have something for you." 

He reaches for his chain and tugs it out, revealing the two talisman's that have carried him almost his whole life: a signet ring, slipped off the fingers of a struggling prince as the two swam across an angry river, away from attackers; and the key to his childhood home, that June had been forced to sell after their parents' death, and Alex had sworn to get back. He slips the signet ring off the chain and holds it out. "This is yours." 

After all these years, it feels like giving up a limb. But it's Henry's. It belongs back with him. 

When Henry doesn't immediately take it, Alex looks up. The other man is staring at the ring like he's just seen a ghost. 

"Henry?" 

Slowly, with shaking hands, Henry reaches out and takes it. "How did you find this?" 

Alex swallows. "I told you. I was there the day of the carnival. You were wearing a blue suit and someone had forced you to put on this tie you really hated so you kept tugging at it. You had this book you wanted to read and you kept sneaking it under the table to be able to read it. When the attackers came, I pushed you in the river and jumped after you. The current was too strong for us, though, but I managed to hang on to a branch and you took my hand. I don't know what happened but one minute I was trying to pull up with me and the next your hand had slipped and I just had this ring clutched in my hands." 

"It was my father's," Henry says listlessly. "It was too big for me but I insisted on wearing it." He slips it on now, on his pinky finger and it fits perfectly. 

Alex musters up a teary smile. "It suits you." He clears his throat. "I'm so sorry. Not just about everything that's happened now, but that day too. That I couldn't save you." 

"You did save me," Henry says, startled. "You were a child, Alex. No one would blame you for not being able to hold on and I survived the attackers, because you were there to push me into the river, even when I was bloody fighting you because you'd insulted my book." 

"I wasn't insulting your book," Alex says, exasperated over a decades-long argument. "I was trying to get you to put it away and play with us." 

"Yes, but —" Henry stops. And then, Alex stops. 

"Wait a minute," Alex says. "Do you remember? Is this you, remembering?" 

A small smile forms on Henry's face. "I — I suppose so. I've been getting some memories back, here and there, but they've always so small and hazy. This is the most vivid memory I've had, yet." 

Alex smiles, suddenly proud. At least there's one good thing that Henry can associate with him. "Well then, maybe you'll get more back now." 

Henry hums pensively and stares back down at the signet ring on his hand. Alex stares too, and aches. Now he's lost both Henry and the ring. 

Slowly, Henry pulls the ring off his pinky and holds it back out to him. Alex stares at him. 

"I don't —" 

"You've kept it safe for me all these years. I'm asking you to keep it safe for a little while longer."

Slowly, Alex reaches out to take back the ring. "What does —" 

"And I don't want you to wait for me," Henry repeats. "I want you to stay here. With me. And I want us to both go to Kensington so I can say a proper goodbye to my family and make love to you on royal sheets and in the morning we can pack my bags and we can leave together." 

There's a beat as Alex stares at Henry and Henry stares back at him. And then Alex launches himself over the coffee table. 

"You're an asshole," Alex says later, as they're lying across the couch, Alex on top of Henry, and both of them naked. 

Henry hums. "How so?" 

Alex digs his chin into Henry's chest. "I was fighting for my life back there. I think I went through the five stages of grief — multiple times — and you'd already made your decision." 

Henry chuckles, running his fingertips gently over Alex's back. "Darling, I forgave you as soon as I read your letter, but surely you don't begrudge me giving you a difficult time when I spent the last month going between loathing you and crying over you." 

Alex whines and presses a kiss in the exact same place he'd just abused. "Baby, don't say that to me. I already feel like shit." 

"No," Henry says, running his hands through Alex's hair. "No more. No more guilt or shame between us and no more anger. Blank slate from now on." 

Alex frowns. "Are you sure, baby? I — I know I have a lot to make up for, but —" 

But Henry shakes his head. "No. I've lived in homes where people were constantly holding their pasts over each other, and it doesn't work, Alex. It curdles everything good and turns life into poison. We either let it go, or we let it ruin us. And I choose to let it go." 

Alex stares at him. Fuck, he doesn't deserve this man. "I won't let you down." 

But again, Henry shakes his head. "You're allowed mistakes, Alex. I'm asking that we work through them together." 

"But I —" He's cut off by the sound of his phone going off. 

"You should get that," Henry says. 

Frowning, Alex leans up and reaches for his pants, fishing his phone out of its pocket. "It's June," he says, frowning further. It's not like she knew he was flying in today, there's no reason for her to be calling at this hour, unless— 

"Answer it," Henry says. 

Alex nods and sits up, Henry spreading his legs to let him settle in between the v of his legs. Alex swipes to answer. "Bug? Is everything?" 

"Alex," June says, breathlessly. "The hospital called and —" 

"I know," Alex says, "just tell them to hold on. I will find the money for the surgery, June, I swear. I'll get my deposit back on the house and —" 

"No!" June says, laughing almost maniacally. "No, no, no, Alex. They called to say someone's paid the full amount of the surgery and enough to cover any medication for the next year and for my at home care." 

Alex blinks. "What? Who?" 

June laughs. "I have no idea. I thought it might have been Rafe, but if it was him, he'd have probably said something, and I — I don't know, Alex. I was so happy I couldn't even listen properly. I thought you might know." 

"No. No, I don't know anyone who —" His eyes land on Henry, who is doing his best to appear innocent. "Bug?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I am so fucking happy right now, and I am going to be home in a few days and I'm going to give you the biggest, tightest fucking hug in the world, okay?" 

"Okay," his sister says, sounding suspicious. "But?" 

"But I have to go now, because I do know who paid for your surgery and I'm going to suck his dick about it, okay?" 

The words make Henry break out into a grin and June to shriek in his ear. "Alex!" 

"Gotta go, June. I love you." He hangs up the phone to her still shrieking and throws it over his shoulder, completely uncaring about the clatter that follows. 

"Suck his dick about it, hmh?" 

"Shut the fuck up," Alex says, throwing one of Henry's legs over his shoulder. "You stupid nerd." 

Later, the two of them assess each other as they put their clothes back on. 

"There's no use," Henry says, as he stuffs his tie in his pocket. "Everyone will know what we've been up to." 

"Well, we've been here for six hours. They're bound to assume we were either fucking each other or killing each other, even if we looked pristine." He tilts his head to show the giant hickey that Henry's left on his neck and grins. "Which we very much don't." 

Henry rolls his eyes. "Come on, you miscreant. Time to go and face the music." 

"Think we can keep the couch?" Alex asks, as he tugs on his shoes. 

"You can't be — " Henry's eyes land on the couch and he flushes. "I'll see what I can do." 

Alex grins and stands. "That is so hot." 

"Come on," Henry says, a hand on Alex's back and swinging open the door. "Stop dilly-dallying." 

"Oh, I'll dilly your—" he stops as the door opens, and he sees the same Indian man — Shaan — standing there, looking impassively at them and holding on to a single shoe. "Shaan! Where did you disappear off to, then?" 

Shaan raises an eyebrow. "To find those gloves you requested for your cavity search." 

Alex laughs and nods at Henry. "Henry already took care of that." 

"Alex!" Henry sputters. He turns to Shaan. "He's making things up, I absolutely did not."

"Yes, sir," Shaan says. He holds up the shoe. "Will you be needing this?" 

Henry flushes, and reaches for his shoe, but Alex beats him to it. "Let me," he says, and drops to his knee. "Give me your foot." 

"Alex, don't be ridiculous, I'm perfectly capable of —" 

"Come on, your majesty," Alex needles, "let me be your Cinderella." 

"It's 'your royal highness' you buffoon, and Cinderella was the one who lost her shoe, don't you know, anything?" 

"Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe," Alex says, "you gonna let me put this on you or no, princess." 

"I despise you," Henry says, and lifts his foot anyway. 

"You love me," Alex says. 

He does. 

The End