Work Text:
Alex hunches over his laptop, the poster boy for bad office posture. Alex is the reason his masseur can vacation in Bali once a year. It’s a habit no fancy height-adjusting desk, ergonomic chair, or chiding by Henry can fix. He insists he works better this way.
Besides, what’s a little neck pain compared to helping a young family navigate their immigration case?
The legal brief in front of him is already in its tenth iteration, but it’s got to be perfect. He took this case pro bono because it matters. It’s important. He won’t give it any less than 110% of his effort. These are the cases he loves, the ones he eagerly takes on between the workload that actually pays the bills. The extra hours in the office and the extra concentration of caffeine in his bloodstream are secondary to the impact this makes. This is the difference he’s always wanted to make in the world.
It shocked the masses when Alex pivoted his career, turning away from being another cog in his family’s political machine and taking a more humble path as a human rights lawyer.
He understands their confusion. He had the chance to be in the spotlight, to be an icon, and to champion big changes. But he also knows most will never understand how exhausting that life is. How this “on-the-ground” work is far more rewarding than getting stuck in the political vortex of big words and little action.
Tucked in his shared corner office, doing the nitty gritty work of making sure anyone whose rights have been viciously stomped on is given justice, Alex feels normal.
Here, he’s just a simple man with a favorite kitschy mug on his desk, a plant near the window that's living off the hope of a proper watering, and a colleague-turned-friend who knows far too much about his private life. He has a job he loves. He has a fiancé he loves even more. And together they have a home complete with a dog whose love for him is conditional upon routinely delivered squares of cheese.
Some days being FSOTUS, falling in love with a literal fucking prince, and getting caught a sex scandal feels distant, another life completely. Certainly none of it was ever a part of the 10-year plan he drafted in high school. He’s adaptable, though. He’s made it work. He’s wrangled these unexpected pieces thrown into the puzzle of his life and made them into something beautiful enough to frame.
He and Henry enjoy a mostly mundane life. They’ve carved out a pocket of privacy for themselves in the vastness of New York City. They’re mature, settled, and purposefully uninteresting — boring in the eyes of the tabloids. Why bother with two late twenty-somethings pondering produce in the grocery when there are up-and-coming pop stars embroiled in cheating rumors?
Despite the occasional PPO presence and the advanced security system in their home, Alex forgets some days that he and Henry are internationally-known household names.
Then his phone vibrates and the illusion of normalcy falls to a heap of musty fabric at his feet.
He ignores it at first. Probably another TikTok from Pez or Liam. He’s about a dozen videos behind in both message threads.
His phone buzzes again…and again…and again…
A pen, thrown from across the small space, hits him in the shoulder. “Can you please check to see who’s blowing up your phone? It’s vibrating harder than my rose toy last night.”
“What — ew! I did not need to know that, Ash. What the fuck.”
“Make it stop, Alex.”
“Okay, okay! Jesus. No need to commit a clear violation of the Cortez/Claremont-Diaz Shared Office Code of Conduct.”
Alex flips his phone over and immediately swears in a string of Spanish that would make his Abuelo proud.
“Fucking hell. Henry.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, not really.” And it’s truly not. In the grand scheme of their life, this is tame. “I should probably go home and see if we need to address this. Or prepare another lawsuit against TMZ.”
Ashley frowns and picks up her own phone as Alex begins packing up. He shuts down his laptop then stuffs it and a few case files into his briefcase. Before he can close the latch, his officemate bursts out laughing.
“Oh. my. god. I love your fiancé. I love him. Have I ever told you that?” She giggles and literally kicks her feet, nearly ejecting herself from the rolling desk chair.
“Sure. Laugh it up,” Alex grumbles, shoving his sunglasses on top of his head and slipping his coat over his shoulders. “You won’t have to deal with this for the next 7-10 days.”
She’s still chucking over her phone as he heads out the door.
Ashley calls after him, “I’m framing this!”
Waving off the driver, Alex lopes up the steps of the brownstone, shoulders tucked up to his ears against the brisk fall breeze. Admittedly, he’s a bit nervous over what might be waiting for him on the other side. Henry’s reactions to these sorts of things are varied.. And Alex will be supportive no matter what. He’s just always on edge until his course of action is clear to him.
He slips through the front door and punches in the security code before the alarm can start chirping incessantly. He drops the briefcase onto the bench and sheds his coat. Toeing off his loafers, he turns toward the interior of their home. He’s greeted by an empty foyer and even emptier living room. No fiance accosting him on the threshold or pacing a path into the polished wood floors. That’s good…he thinks.
A cursory glance around the main floor reveals no Henry, so Alex heads up the stairs. He’s halfway up when a muffled melody catches his attention. He follows the sound past their bedroom, the two guest bedrooms, and a bathroom before he stops in the doorway of the second floor laundry.
Alex leans against the frame.
They had disagreed, in the beginning, on converting the smallest of the bedrooms into a laundry room. Cabinetry, a small sink, countertop space for folding, a large rack for hang drying — to Alex, it felt a bit excessive. However, he quickly folded at Henry’s insistence that he needed this space. And well, he wasn’t wrong.
There are plenty of “peasant chores” as Alex teasingly calls them, that Henry isn’t great at. He’s overflowed the dishwasher multiple times. He’s bought pretentiously overpriced cereal at the grocery store because he didn’t know better. And his driver’s license mostly gives his wallet purpose rather than attest to any proficiency behind the wheel.
Laundry, oddly enough, is where Henry found his stride. Alex hadn’t realized that washing clothes took any skill, but Henry proved him wrong. He’s still baffled that his silver spoon-fed fiancé managed to remove the dried-in barbeque stain from Alex's favorite bisexual lightsaber shirt. A stain Alex had tried to get out three times with no success. These days his clothes are softer, nicer smelling, and more sharply ironed than they were even
under the care of the White House’s services.
It makes sense, though. Henry’s life has been dictated by his appearance. The clothes he put on his body were a major factor in how he was presented to the world. He knows as much about cuts, stitching, collars and fabrics as any celebrity stylist. It’s only logical he gained an understanding of how to care for a wardrobe when his was worth more than a two-bedroom home in Austin.
The scene before Alex now is par for the course on a Saturday afternoon. Several overflowing laundry baskets sit on the floor — towels, darks, and lights. A phone is propped up on the counter, “Hot To Go” bursting from the inadequate speaker, but filling the room. In the corner, David snoozes on a blanket that's probably freshly laundered and still warm from the dryer.
In the middle of the organized chaos is Alex’s fiance, leaning over the washer and pulling fancy, high thread count sheets from its depths. He’s swaying a bit to the music, head bobbing, lips mouthing the lyrics. Caught up in his task, Henry’s completely oblivious to Alex’s presence.
It should be an endearing image, a soft snapshot of the little domestic life they are building together. And it would be if not for —
“What are you wearing?”
Henry jumps and curses, dropping an armful of Egyptian cotton, “Christ!” He whirls around. The tension drains from his shoulder when he sees Alex grinning at him. “Gave me a bloody heart attack, you demon.” He gathers the sheets back up and thrusts them into the awaiting dryer. “I didn’t even hear you come home.”
“Well, you wouldn’t when wearing that!” Alex gestures toward the hood low over his forehead.
Henry — the love of Alex’s life — goes a bit cross-eyed looking up at what's covering his head. He then glances down at himself, as if he forgot he’s covered head-to-toe by a Chewbacca onesie.
All of his 6-foot, broad shouldered form is bundled up in a fuzzy brown suit, complete with a sewn on signature bandolier.
The hideous garment is leftover from last year’s Halloween party at the shelter. Nora bought Star Wars onesies for the entire Super Six, claiming they could be in costume and be comfy while catering to a mass of sugar-hyped teenagers. Chewbacca for Henry. Grogu for Alex. June and Nora as R2-D2 and C3-P0. Bea embraced her dark side as Darth Vader. And Pez donned the Stormtrooper onesie because he appreciated that they bucked tradition by wearing white all year long. They looked ridiculous, but their group photo from the end of the night has a special place on the living room mantle.
The last time Alex saw his and Henry’s costumes, they were in a pile on the bedroom floor, probably a little sweaty smelling and stained by pizza grease. He’s assumed they’d gone into the donation box.
Apparently not.
Henry’s cheeks go pink as he shrugs sheepishly. “What about it? It’s laundry day. And I was cold.”
Alex peels himself off the door frame to stand in front of Henry. He pushes back the fuzzy hood from the man’s blonde head. “And did you happen to go outside wearing the polyester imitation of one of the most iconic characters in film history?”
“Of course I didn’t. I — oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, fuck. I only stepped out to water the mums on the stoop. I didn’t linger out there for more than a minute. You know how twitchy it makes Shaan when I’m out in the open for too long.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Alex boops him on the nose, “but it was long enough for photos to be snapped.”
Henry slumps against him, forehead knocking against Alex’s shoulder. “How bad is it? Just tell me.”
Alex pulls out his phone from his back pocket. He navigates to the browser and hands the device over to Henry. He doesn’t need to read what’s there. He’s already memorized the headlines.
Chew On This! Prince Henry spotted in a Chewbacca jumpsuit. Are onesies making a comeback?
ROYAL EMBARRASSMENT: HRH Prince Henry gallavants around New York neighborhood in ridiculous costume. Queen yet to comment on lack of royal decorum.
May The Force Be With You: Shoppers scramble to buy Star Wars onesie worn by Prince Henry. Many online retainers are already sold out.
The same three photos accompany every headline: Henry in socked feet and wearing the Chewbacca onesie. Even though the hood is drawn up over his head, his blonde hair recognizably peeks out. They caught him from several angles as he waters the lush flower pots adorning their stoop.
Alex studies Henry as his eyes track across the screen. His brows pinch slightly and when one arches skeptically, Alex knows he’s gotten to the section where the Daily Mail tries connecting these photos to Henry’s absence at Philip and Martha’s anniversary party last month. They blatantly ignore the press releases issued by both Philip and Henry’s PR teams stating the absence was due to Henry having contracted the flu and reiterating that the brothers are still on great terms.
After thumbing through several of the clickbait articles, Henry locks the screen and hands the phone back. “I guess it was a slow news day if this is making such a splash. Though Gran must not be too scandalized or else Shaan would be busting down the door with some sort of communication plan the Firm is forcing upon me.”
Alex hates — hates — how every seemingly insignificant move Henry makes might be subject to a comprehensive public relations strategy. It weighs on him. It weighs on them.
He tucks a strand of blonde hair behind a delicate ear. “I’m sorry, H. If it’s any consolation, I think you look adorable in those photos.”
Henry’s chin tilts up defiantly, accentuating his strong jaw and neck. It’s his signature they can’t hurt me stance.
“You know, US Weekly isn’t wrong. Despite it being oversized, my arse does look pretty fantastic in this.”
A laugh bursts out of Alex. God, he loves this man.
Taking Henry by the waist, Alex urges him to turn around so he can ogle his ass with a lick of his lips.
“I concur,” Alex declares with a pinch.
“Hey!” Henry yelps and swats at him. Alex retaliates by trying to tickle his ribs. It quickly delves into a silly squabble of pinches and gropes, both cackling uncontrollably.
David stirs from the commotion, thinking he’s missing out on some game. The beagle hops over and immediately gets under foot, barking at them.
Henry is the first to yield with hands raised in surrender. Alex grabs at soft faux fur and reels him in for a dirty kiss. David continues to jump around and paw at their legs as they melt into each other. The sweeping of tongues and the nipping of teeth promises much more.
But before it can become frantic, Henry pulls away. Alex, who would happily continue this right here on the laundry room floor, pouts.
“Hold that thought, darling. I need to take David on a walk and get him settled. Or else he’ll be a distraction.”
“How about this: You finish up in here, and I’ll go change. Then we’ll worry about Davey’s walk.”
“Sounds great. Thanks, Alex.”
Alex places a light peck to Henry’s cheek and pulls the Chewbacca hood back over his head. Henry rolls his eyes.
Before he leaves the room, Alex turns back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
A nod, “I’m okay, love. I mean, what can I really do about it anyway?”
Alex ducks out of the room, a plan already forming in his mind.
Twenty minutes later, standing in the foyer, Alex clips David into his harness. Unsure where Henry is at the moment, he calls out across the house, “Hey, H?! David and I are about to head out. We’ll be back soon!”
“Do you want me to —” Henry rounds the corner from the living room, wiping his hands with a dish towel, and stops dead in his tracks. “What in god’s name are you wearing?”
Feigning innocence, Alex holds his arms out and surveys himself. “What? What’s wrong with it?”
“You can’t go out like that!”
Alex stands a little straighter, pulling up the zipper of the Grogu onesie. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I absolutely can go out like this.”
Henry gapes at him, mouth open and arms slack at his sides. “Alex, you don’t have to do this. I’m fine.”
“I know. But it would be a shame if the public didn’t get a glimpse of the coordinating onesies. Plus, I’m adding this.” He reaches for a paper on the credenza and pins it across his chest. He smooths over a crease so the black marker is easily read.
Support the Okonjo Youth Shelter’s Annual Halloween Bash! Donate at www.okonjoyouth.org
“You’re a menace and a plague.” Henry laughs, breathy with disbelief. “Do you have another?”
Ales beams and holds up a second sign. “I thought you might ask. Come here, baby.”
By the next morning, photos of Grogu Alex and Chewbacca Henry walking through Brooklyn have gone viral. This time for all the right reasons. Any fuss the tabloids attempt to make of their stunt is immediately drowned out. The internet declares Alex and Henry the undisputed “It” couple once again. And the shelter sees a surge of new donations, many accompanied by Star Wars quotes such as That’s how we’re gonna win. Not fighting what we hate, saving what we love. and This is the way.
Alex sets one of the paparazzi photos as his phone wallpaper.
Framed by falling leaves, he and Henry are hand-in-hand and with eyes only for each other as they stroll through their neighborhood. It’s a reminder that their life may never be fully normal; some part of it will always be a spectacle for the masses.
But it’s okay, because it’s still theirs.
And it’s beautiful.