Chapter Text
Alex looks down at his briefcase full of merchandise, then back up the nearest impressive, really-who-the-fuck-needs-to-have-a-house-that-massive mansion. He is lost, his phone is dead, and he really didn't think through this whole door to door salesperson thing. Being Latinx in rich neighborhoods like this in New York City isn't exactly safe. But the online store he set up isn't working, and he needs extra cash because 1) he's tired of asking his parents for help with his student loans. 2) He still lives with his mom. 3) His recent breakup with Miguel has been too depressing to dwell on. He needed a new hobby, and he knows his strengths. Alex is good with people, knows how to parse out what they need and how to help them get it. If only he could help himself right now.
He's probably going to be accused of intending to steal something if he knocks on the door of any of these houses, even though his briefcase is way too heavy for him to consider adding anything to it. He focuses on the facts: he is somewhere probably in the upper west side, he needs to pee, his arms are aching like crazy. Next time he'll bring a cart, though then people will probably think he's selling drugs. It won't matter how nicely he's dressed, which, today, is more business casual, because he didn't want to look like he's trying too hard. It won't matter now; in his experience, rich people refuse to be impressed unless you've donated an exorbitant amount of money to cure cancer or whatever, or if you've bought an island and named it after yourself.
He doesn't want to urinate on the sidewalk, so he walks up the sidewalk to a huge, beige house with blue roofs, its wide windows displaying the warm glow of lights inside. He really hopes no one in the neighboring houses is watching him walk up to the house, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He swears that eyes are on him from everywhere. Better make this fast. He focuses on making himself look sad, pulling a facial expression that he used on his teachers when he got a bad grade. It had a fifty percent success rate, depending on the teacher, and hasn't worked since high school.
Every step he takes closer to the door, he feels his chest tighten and his palms sweat. He shakes out his hands, pastes on a smile, then makes it the last few steps, and knocks on the door.
He counts the seconds in his head. If he gets to 15 and no one answers, he'll leave.
At 11 seconds, the door swings open, and a blonde young man about his age sighs at him as if holding the door open is physically exhausting. Alex barely stops his eye roll, cutting his eyes to the side instead.
"Hi, I'm Alex Cameron-Diaz, and I have--"
"Yes, yes," the man waves him silent with a regal flick that is equal parts impressive and insulting. "Come in. We've been expecting you."
"You have?"
Before he can slow things down and demand what exactly he's getting himself into, Alex feels a warm hand wrap around his shoulder, and the man pulls him inside. He clamps his mouth shut, vaguely registering the expensive decor, blue and white wall paper decorated in a wispy floral pattern, swirling all the way up to elegant flying buttresses. The floor of the foyer is dark marble, and the first thing his eyes land on is a mahogany piano in the grandiose living room. The curtains alone could probably pay for his college tuition.
He lets out a low whistle when his mouth finally starts working again. "Wow, this place is nicer than my Uncle Jack’s condo in Boca, and ya know, he bought the picture model." He leans against the piano, hitting the keys at an awkward angle, and the jarring noise echoes through the living room, which is empty except for him and his host, who gives him a long deliberate look.
Alex's stomach swoops, because whatever gruesome thing he's been expected for, if it involves this guy, then he won't particularly mind, he decides. He's handsome in a conventional way that should be boring: white, blond, British. But there's an attitude underneath that, a promise of something snarky, complex and confident which speaks to a deep personality, and Alex can't deny he's curious. For a few moments, Alex is sure he's seen him before. He looks so familiar. But then his mouth puckers into a sourface, and the attractiveness vanishes, making Alex question his memory and observation skills. Miguel had always told him he didn't pay enough attention to his surroundings.
A handful of seconds pass. The stranger's gaze doesn't waver, and Alex shifts on his feet. "What's the matter? Do I have lipstick on my teeth? Nevermind. Speaking of lipstick, I have an excellent selection of--""
"You are here for the nanny position, are you not?"
Alex blinks. The other man's British accent is so perfect it sounds fake. Like he's trying way too hard. This can't be real. Who is scamming who right now?
"Uh, yes, of course," he says hastily. "And you are...?
"Henry." He holds out his hand. But when Alex tries to shake it, he recoils. "Present your resumé, please."
"You look a little...young to have kids," Alex murmurs, and then cusses his brain out. "I mean--"
"Too right. You won't be looking after my children," Henry says shortly, though it looks like he's trying not to smirk. "My brother Phillip has two girls, Angelica and Divina. Twins. Just turned 5. Do not let their names fool you. They are anything but angelic or divine." He gives Alex a wicked grin. "Still want the job?"
"Yeah, sure." Babysitting demon children has to be better than peddling for pennies.
"Splendid. Resumé?"
"Tell you what, why don't you get your brother and I'll do the resumé presenting myself."
"As you wish." Henry turns to walk away, but the acoustics in the house are excellent; he hears him mutter 'This ought to be good' under his breath.
He waits until Henry is out of sight, then panics, unlocking his briefcase and rifling through it, scattering an assortment of silk ties, kitchen knives, and makeup. "What the hell am I going to do for a resumé?" With numb, buzzing hands, he pulls the top off the nearest tube of lipstick with his teeth and writes 'RESUMÉ' on the back of an order form. As he's writing his work history, he sees a little girl with russet gold hair stumble towards the foyer, then slumps against the white door, her hand smearing red ketchup on it and the front of her dress. Oh, this old chestnut. He used to fake his death all the time as a kid, and he'd been way more convincing. Ketchup, really? At least spring for something odorless.
"Quick question: do you have a pen?" He looks down at her with a blank expression. When the girl gasps her 'last' breath, he shrugs. "Alright, never mind, then."
"Divina, you’re losing your touch." Henry reappears and gives Alex a smile. "Unfortunately, my brother just stepped out, but he has given me permission to make any executive decisions regarding your possible employment." He gestures to the girl on the floor, who is still motionless. "This is my niece, the 'late' Divina Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor."
The name registers in his brain, and his eyes widen. "Wait. I know you. Esquire magazine. New York’s ten most eligible young bachelors." Alex snaps his fingers. "I knew you looked familiar."
Henry arches his eyebrow. "You read Esquire?"
"When they list the ten most eligible bachelors, I do. I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz."
"So you said. Come in."
Henry turns to lead him towards the living room.. "Divina, please clean up the ketchup mess before your father gets home. The cost for your dress to be dry-cleaned is coming out of your allowance."
Allowance? For a 5 year old? Wild.
Alex gets an eyeful of the decor as he follows Henry. "Oh, do you have gorgeous chucherīas."
"I beg your pardon?" Henry peers over his shoulder.
"You know, bric-a-brac, the dust collectors."
Henry's eyes fall on a nearby statue. "Ah, the Rodin. Yes, he’s quite well known for his bronze 'chucherías.' May I see your resumé, please?"
Alex's gulps. "Sure, but first, I really need to pee," he croaks. He's so not getting this job, which is a shame because he wants to know more about Henry, and his nieces, and what his favorite hobby is, if he plays sports, because his muscles are filling out his dark grey suit in a way that would be distracting even if he wasn't surrounded by riches.
---
Henry takes the order form and peers at it. "Crayon?"
"Lipstick."
"Of course. What a lovely shade." Henry continues reading, and Alex resists the urge to sprint out of the house."You’ve listed the Queen Mother as a reference?"
Alex frowns. "Wha--? Let me see that." He laughs when he decodes his admittedly sloppy writing. "That’s not the Queen Mother. That’s my mother who lives in Queens."
Henry makes a low hmm noise, and takes the 'resumé' back. "So, let's see, shall we? 'Half a degree in political science' half a degree? Those don't exist. Three years working at Dreadnaught Games, and a degree from the Ultissima Beauty Institute…well, that certainly spells out 'nanny' to me.
Alex bites his lip. "So, that means I get the job?"
"No, I'm afraid not. You have a lot to learn about British sarcasm. Now, I can call you a cab if you like, but you really should be going."
Alex deflates, but then notices a girl behind Henry. She's holding--oh God, she's holding a spider. A fucking tarantula. This must be Angelica, the other twin. Probably the evil(er) one. Before Alex can say anything, the girl flicks the spider onto the right pant leg of Henry's suit.
Alex considers just leaving, walking out and leaving Henry to take care of his poltergeist nieces. It would be the perfect revenge, but he's always had a bit of a hero complex, damn it.
"No, I don't think I should leave just yet," Alex says carefully. "Because you clearly need me."
Henry's cheeks go pink. "What are you talking about?"
"I need you to stay still, okay?" Alex shifts closer, his eyes glued on Henry's. He takes a slow breath and brings his left hand to Henry's hip, and then grabs his thigh, lifting it upwards.
Henry clears his throat. "I don't know what strategy this is, but we really shouldn't be doing this in front of the--oh my sweet Christ! WHAT IS THAT?!"
"I--told you--to hold--still," Alex grumbles, struggling to grab the spider off of Henry's thigh. When he finally manages to, Henry springs away, hurtling himself to the other side of the room. Alex holds the tarantula in front of the girl, unfazed."Solid execution, kid. Your only mistake was doing it in front of me. Spoiler: I know every trick in the book because I wrote it. I would have waited til he was asleep. Not that you should try again," he adds at Henry's disbelieving glare. "Now, if you keep using this poor sweet creature to scare people, I'm going to pull way, way worse pranks on you. I don't care if you're 5. Kapeesh?"
Angelica looks up at him in awe and a tiny shred of fear. "Okay. I'm sorry, Uncle Henry," she mumbles, then points at Alex. "Is he your boyfriend?"
Henry makes a shrieking noise and violently shakes his head. Okay, hurtful.
"No! He's not my boyfriend," Henry tells her. "He's...he's your new nanny."