Chapter Text
There were a hundred reasons why asking Henry was a bad idea.
A hundred and one, if you counted the fact that he was probably going to murder him by New Year’s Eve.
Still.
Better murder than marriage.
~*~
The workshop smelled of motor oil, cold metal, and the bitter end of December. Henry wiped his hands on a rag that had seen too many bad days and even worse engines, when the door opened with the irritating jingle he still hadn’t bothered to fix. A flurry of cold air and snowflakes swished into the room, as well as the bold scent of a way too expensive aftershave.
He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“I told you,” Henry said, voice flat. “Your car doesn't need another check-up. Unless you finally managed to hit a tree. Again.”
Hans Capon leaned against the doorframe like a man in a cologne ad: scarf artfully thrown over one shoulder, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold—or maybe the wine he made at his family’s winery in Rattay. Probably both.
“I’m not here for my car,” Hans said. “Though I do miss how you look at her. So tender. So thorough.”
Henry gave him a look. The kind that would’ve made lesser men turn and flee. Hans just smiled.
“I need a favour.”
“No.” Henry turned his back to Hans, busying himself with cleaning another tool that lay in front of him on the workbench. Capon had been coming here way too often in the last few weeks, ever since he gently scratched a tree a couple months ago. He’d been on a business trip, some sort of wine tasting event from his family’s wine estate, had not focussed on the road but rather his lovely lady friend and wished to impress her - and then hit the brakes a little late and got some not-so-lovely scratches in the car’s hood. Being in the countryside, he came to Henry’s little auto-repair shop, the only one for miles, screaming and flailing his hands like someone had just died, demanding his car to be fixed this instant, and Henry had taken his sweet, sweet time just because he could. Ever since then, Capon had returned for the smallest things - fixing something superfluous, getting advice for car parts, and sometimes, Henry could have sworn, for little chips in the varnish that Hans possibly put there himself. At first, Henry had saved him in his phone as Sir-Wrecks-A-Lot, but then, over the course of the many, many visits, just changed it to Hans (Sigh).
Hans scoffed, not giving up. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
“And I already know it's going to be insane.”
Hans stepped closer, boots echoing on the concrete floor. “You’re not wrong on the insane part,” he laughed, “but it’s also potentially life-saving!” With a practised twirl, he leaned against the workbench and crossed his arms. “My family Christmas gathering starts on the 22nd. Tomorrow. It’s a nightmare. Picture this: ancient men arguing about wine, meddling aunts trying to marry me off like it’s the fifteenth century, and Hanush —Hanush, Henry—trying to talk me into getting engaged to a woman who collects ceramic owls.”
Henry arched a brow. “And you think I can help with that?”
“I need a date.”
Henry blinked. “What.”
“A fake one. Just for the holidays. Just for the family. You come with me, we pretend to be wildly in love, everyone leaves me alone, and in return—” Hans pulled something from his coat. “You get a mini vacation. You can use the guest room at the estate. Warm bed. Heated floors. Mini fridge stocked with beer. And, if you behave, I might even let you drive the Jag.”
Henry stared. That… was not on his bingo card today.
Hans smiled. “Come on. It’s either you or Petra from PR, and she still thinks my name is ‘Harris.’ Even though she totally has the hots for me.”
A long pause.
Henry tossed the rag aside, sighing. “I’m sorry, Hans, but I’ve got plans already.”
Hans’s face fell. “You? Plans?” He tried to recover his poise. “Mr I-Never-Talk-To-People-And-Work-My-Butt-Off?”
Henry looked at him confrontationally. “Exactly. I decided to take time off during the Holidays to get away from people. Who talk.”
Hans cocked his head, smirking. “So, you’re telling me you’ve got nothing planned and are totally free to join me in my huge-ass estate with the best tasting food you’ve ever seen?”
Henry just shook his head. “Sorry, Capon. Gotta finish cleaning up and then I’m going to disappear over the Holidays and only emerge sometime in the new year. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”
The other man squeezed his lips tight in frustration, then pouted - yes, pouted, as he said, in a tiny voice, “You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. Or drunk. Or both.” He fiddled with the keys, then eventually put them back into his coat pocket, defeated. He cleared his throat, the vulnerability from a moment ago gone, hidden behind a carefully crafted mask that he didn’t let just anyone see behind. “Fine. Be a Grinch then. Can’t promise you I’ll stay a loyal customer after I’ve been forced to get married.” He spat the last word, turned on his elegantly crafted leather boot’s heel and stormed towards the door. For a split second he hesitated, gloved hand hovering over the handle, but then threw the door open and waltzed toward his car.
Henry didn’t watch the car leave.
Didn’t have to. He could hear it. That stupid soft engine purring like a smug cat. Of course Capon’s car sounded expensive and annoying. (Like Capon himself.)
Henry ran a hand over his face. Capon was a right brat, always expecting to get what he wanted just because he was ho-, strike that, rich. But Henry wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, he never had. Henry didn’t do drama. Or estates. Or rich brats with champagne problems and stupidly perfect smiles. Or family festivities. The latter was a no-go ever since he had lost his beloved parents.
He also didn’t consider himself someone who other people liked being around - especially not the higher class. He was rooted in values, grumpy, not talking a lot, with an attitude that screamed “I don’t care who you are, you’re going to behave or you’re going to get my pissed-off side”. He wouldn’t fit.
Henry kept working on cleaning the workshop, getting it sparkly - well, dirt-free - for the holidays, trying to not think about tailored scarves, incessant yapping and blond hair shining in the winter sun. When he was finally done, he went upstairs into the little flat above his workshop, put some firewood into the fireplace. It crackled softly, like it probably would at Hans’s estate. They’d have a lot of fire places, Henry mused.
No.
Stop.
No thinking about Capon anymore.
Henry turned on the radio and instantly regretted it. “Last Christmas” blasted through his flat. “Nope.”
Henry sat down, cracked open a can of beer. It hissed.
He drank. Long sip. Let the cold hit his teeth.
Cold. Heated floors of a guest house would -
Nope.
Still thinking about him.
Still thinking about scarves and heated floors, for fuck’s sake.
Why had he even—
“Ceramic owls,” he muttered. Loudly. To the empty room.
Like that made it better.
Like that was the part that bothered him. Not the word “marriage.” Not the way Hans had said “fake” like it hurt a little. Not the pout. Definitely not the pout.
Nope.
He stood. Sat down again.
Did not check his phone.
He wasn’t going to send a text. That’d be—
No. No, no, no.
He took another sip.
Cold.
As expected.
Knock knock.
Henry jumped.
“You alive in there or did the rich boy kill you with his aftershave?”, a woman’s voice came through the door. “I can smell it up here. Did he bathe in a tub of it?” She giggled.
Henry got up with a sigh. “Theresa,” he said, opening the door to his best friend. She stood there, a container of self-made lasagna in hand and a look that said more than words.
“Henry,” she replied in the same manner and pushed herself through the door, flopping down on the old couch in Henry’s living room. She patted the seat next to her. “Before you warm this bad boy up,” she said, pointing at the food, “you’ve got to tell me why your blonde peacock was here. Again.” She looked at him pointedly.
Henry groaned, letting his head fall back. “You know, I was looking forward to seeing you one last time before your Christmas holiday, but now you’ve gone and ruined it.”
Theresa chuckled. “Have I really? Or is it the thought of a certain someone that’s got you all flustered.” She looked at the open beer can in his hands. “And drinking without me, which is utterly unacceptable.”
Henry let himself plop onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. “He came over, wanting a favour.”
“Oh, another one?” Theresa tucked her legs underneath her, fully engaged in the story now. “Do tell.”
Henry shot her a sideways glance. “Said he needs a plus one. For his family holiday Christmas party thing. Wants me to be his date.”
Theresa stared at him with wide eyes, opening her mouth to say something but instead, started shock-coughing. “He what?!”
Henry just nodded solemnly.
Theresa clapped her hands excitedly. “The Hans Capon wants your precious company at Christmas? As a fake relationship? What, how, why, when?”
“Don’t know, don’t know, because he wants his family to stop forcing him to marry someone, tomorrow,” Henry replied point-blank. “But I said no. Obviously.”
Holding a hand up, Theresa said, “Wait, wait, wait, there’s way too much to unpack here. Arranged marriage?”
“Yeah.” Henry went quiet for a second, staring at the ground. For the first time today, what Capon had said truly hit him - “Hanush trying to talk me into getting engaged to a woman who collects ceramic owls”.
Not that there was anything horrible about ceramic owls.
But the fact that Hans had mentioned getting married off thrice in their very short conversation, and based on what he had already told Henry about his family when he regaled him with tales about them while Henry was just trying to fix whatever stupid thing Hans had done to the car again, it seemed like Capon’s family wasn’t exactly smiles and sprinkles.
“Sounds awful, when I think about it,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “He’s a right brat, but nobody deserves this.”
Theresa studied him with a piercing look in her eyes. “And you said no.”
“Yup.”
“And you’re still thinking about it.” Matter-of-factly.
“... No.”
“Yeah, you are,” she said. “I know you better than anyone. Especially after what you just told me. Arranged marriage? You would let your friend suffer through that?”
Henry’s head shot up. “He’s not my friend!” he instantly protested. “Just someone who shows up often and pays on time.” He cleared his throat. “Mostly.” In fact, Hans had used his delay in payment as an excuse to show up and hand it to Henry in person.
Theresa cocked her head and just looked at him. Through him. Into his soul. He had to avert his eyes. “So, when is your wedding?”
“Don’t start.” Henry’s heart thumped in his chest.
“I’m just saying.” Theresa got up from the sofa, grabbing the lasagna. She headed to the kitchen. “You’d look good in a suit. He’d cry. I’d film it.”
Henry didn’t reply. He only felt his cheeks burn.
Theresa - bless her soul - didn’t mention the topic any more during that evening. He had told her about Hans right after the first encounter and every encounter afterward, so she knew who and how he was, but he’d never admitted to her that he actually kind of looked forward to his visits. To be honest, he hadn’t even admitted it to himself yet.
She only asked about his holiday plans (she was going on a ski trip with her girlfriend, he was doing - nothing) and just noted that his Christmas dinner would probably be instant noodles like last year. Small jab. Tiny jab. Might have made him think about wine-estate level food. Scratch that thought. Not going there.
Made him think about blond hair.
NOPE.
Another swig of beer.
Theresa saw everything. She always did. Always would. She knew him so well.
When it was time for his best friend to leave, she gave him a hug, wished him happy holidays and when she was already out the door, gave him one last look. “You said no to him but not because you didn’t want to go. You said no because, deep down, you do. And that scares the shit out of you.”
Henry blinked, heart thumping, when the door closed in his face.