Work Text:
You've tried everything to escape this. Your mother and father were about to lose their minds. Which meant you had some reason to hold onto hope and waste everyone's time like this.
"It's nice to meet you," your voice doesn't sound like yours. You feel above your body, deeply bored by the length and monotony of this process.
"I should be saying that to you, your highness." The man kneels before you, a hand on the pommel of his sword.
All you can see of his bowed head is the blonde hair atop it. You try not to look as nauseous as you feel. Despite every meticulous piece of your upbringing, you can't bring yourself to accept or appreciate flattery like that. Yet another thing your parents were growing sick of. It's possible that's part of why they're so insistent on you finally having a guard of your own. Some kind of sick exposure therapy to get you thinking like a prince.
You have to swallow down the bile building in your throat. "You, don't have to do that."
He raises his head to look at you, "My apologies, my prince."
"You don't need to apologize, either." You motion to the chair across from yours.
He makes his way to the table without another word. It takes an awkward period of silence for you to realize he's waiting for you to speak again.
"Right. Um." your exhale makes an audible 'whoosh', "What's your name?"
"Godfrey, your highness."
"Godfrey. Alright."
Biting your last guard seems like a mistake, now. If you'd known the price was having to interview dozens of men throughout the kingdom and choose your own captor, you might have tolerated the manhandling.
"Why are you here, Godfrey?" you try.
The man furrows his brow, "I'm afraid I don't understand?"
"Well, obviously, if you're selected, the job comes with a salary as well as room and board. I assume that's why you're here, but there are easier jobs in the castle that take as good of care of you."
You watch his eyes widen, "I'm not here for the pay or the accommodations, your highness. Only to serve the crown."
"Understood," you make a show of picking up your quill and writing something on the sheet of parchment in front of you. "Thank you for your time, Godfrey. The guard at the door you entered through will see you out."
Godfrey is silent. Looking at you with a face of shock and disappointment. Michael, who is now tasked with escorting the fifteenth potential candidate of the day back out the door, groans. You shoot him a glare and feel sick about it a moment later. This is the problem, really. Can't you glare at people, and roll your eyes, or lock yourself in your room, or refuse to speak to anyone for a day or so, and not be applying the crushing weight of upsetting a member of the royal family? Of course you can't. Instead, you either have to become resigned to being an asshole or diminish everything you feel to keep others comfortable.
Godfrey continues to stare at you and Michael makes no moves to retrieve him. Which leaves all three of you at a standstill, because you refuse to budge.
Everybody knows that a prince's personal guard takes on a certain level of risk. They're tasked to take on that risk in place of the prince they're protecting. If that's all you were asking Godfrey to do, maybe you could put that on him. Unfortunately for him, the best case scenario is that he means what he says with a full heart. In which case you could never choose him, because the moment you try to find some joy in this world he'll scamper off to your parents. Worse would be him not meaning it. You have no interest in being stuck with someone willing to degrade themselves to convince you of their worth. Either way, Godfrey cannot be your guard, you can't allow it.
It's difficult to tell how much time passes before he stands from his seat. Michael is quick to his side when he does, on the off chance that the hasty dismissal is enough for him to lash out. The moment the door swings closed behind them you're faced with one of your father's advisors.
"My prince..." the muscles across his face and down his neck are tense. Being your babysitter is not the job he wanted today and he was likely eager to pass the role off to someone else. "Do you have any intentions of choosing someone today?"
Your legs ache from all the sitting. You stand and reach toward the high ceiling, enjoying the gentle tug of your muscles from head to toe. "Maybe," you answer, "If there's someone good."
His face falls, but it doesn't relax. Mostly it's the light in his eyes that vanishes in front of you. "Very well. I'll have the next brought in."
"I'm sure you will." Your next step on your journey toward comfort is the cold stone floor. You stretch out across it and admire the sunlight streaming through the glass embedded in the room's gabled roof.
Later, you'll take a proper nap. Hopefully even without someone staring you down like you might implode should they look away. You'll tuck yourself under plush blankets and rest your head on feather pillows. For a short while all of this will feel worth it. Then, you'll go down for dinner with your parents and it will all fall apart again.
"Your highness," it's Michael's voice that interrupts your peace. You turn your head to see him. Next to his cleanly polished boots are a mismatched pair covered in what you hope is mud. Even on each boot, none of the buckles match, one is missing, and the rest are so dirty that you can't tell if each buckle is made of copper, nickle, or brass. Was that normal? You don't often see normal people's boots this close. It's only visible now because their pants are cut off an inch or so below the knees, revealing scraped up shins that match battered knuckles.
They don't wait for you to greet them, welcome them into the room, or even get up off the floor. The wooden legs of the chair Godfrey had been sitting in not long ago scrape the floor as you sit up. When you stand and see their face for the first time, a large patch of purple across their cheekbone stands out to you. This is one of those moments where you have to restrain yourself. Of course you're curious. Maybe fascinated by the idea of the story to a degree that's inappropriate. But the power you hold to force them to answer takes away your ability to ask without pressure. You're better not to ask at all.
"I'm sorry," you sit in the chair, "Usually I get a heads up before they bring people in."
"That's alright."
It's silly to say, but the sound of his voice does something tangible to your brain. You take a breath and let your shoulders fall into place.
"How are you?" You can't tear your gaze away from the bruise on his cheek while you ask.
"'m alright."
"That's good." You shift in your seat, trying to find the most princely way to sit, "Y/N, by the way."
The corner of his mouth twitches, "Yes. I'd heard."
G!d dammit. What is wrong with you? "And you are?"
"Hobie."
"It's nice to meet you, Hobie."
"Thank you."
You glance down at your near empty page. Line after line of 'fuck this shit' scribbled down, the last of which is still wet from when you were politely getting rid of Godfrey. You look back at Hobie before flipping the sheet over.
"Why are you here?"
He doesn't look at you like you've asked something crazy. To be fair, his eyes haven't changed in the entire time you've seen them. He stares straight at you with a gaze like freshly-cooled iron. As if he's prepared to go down fighting in a battle he isn't in.
"Out of options."
He rolls his shoulders back. You pay attention for the first time to the rips and stains on his shirt. He's patched it in places, but with too narrow of margins to the point where the fabric has begun tearing at the stitches. Out of options is vague, but it makes the torn up pants and blood around the fingernails make sense. It also gives context to the hostility ebbing off of him.
"Alright." you nod, "You know this job is dangerous."
"I do."
"Then why do you want it?"
He drums his fingers across the surface of the table. The growing nervousness still doesn't reach his eyes. "Need a place to sleep."
"There's easier jobs here that will give you a place to sleep. I promise you that."
He grunts, except it sounds like a low laugh. You think you catch that same near-smile from earlier, but he hides it too quick for you to be certain. "I've got zero interest in working for the King."
That piques your interest. It feels important, like something you'd write down if it weren't also something that could get the man killed on the wrong day.
"What makes me any different?" The opportunity to ask such a question opens a well in your stomach. You grit your teeth, hoping that whatever the answer is will feel like a breath of fresh air and not condemnation.
That smile, the one that's been building since you made the error of introducing yourself, finally makes its way to the surface. With it comes a near invisible softening in Hobie's gaze. "Do you know what people outside the castle say about you?"
You shake your head, "I don't get out much."
"Mm," he nods, "You have a reputation."
One by one, butterflies creep into your stomach. You find yourself wringing your hands under the surface of the table. It's not clear to you yet whether you feel nervous or excited by this information, but you aren't ready to share either.
"Then you know that this position comes with more risk than usual? More than keeping me guarded around the castle and being my shield at formal appearances."
"I do."
"Good." Never in a million years did you expect it to go like this, "Do you have any questions for me?"
"Yes. I do."
"Go ahead."
"Are you a good liar? Or am I going to end up out by the gallows in a few weeks time?"
---
You never got to take your nap.
Your discussion with Hobie didn't last too long. You assured him you were a decent liar and a better sneak. He told you some details of his experience in battle, mostly a collection of scraps in back alleys. You weren't all that worried about his actual defensive capabilities, but with your father's guards in the room you were obliged to ask.
Tomorrow, he would come back at midday with whatever things he had. Which meant that tonight you had to actually secure the position for him. A thing you were not authorized to do, but had assured him with the utmost confidence that you were. You'd feel guilty for having done so if he hadn't been so concerned with your ability to lie.
After dismissing him for the day, you did go up to your room and hide under a pile of blankets. You even made a quick enough escape to lock and lightly barricade the door behind you, ensuring a short period of privacy. You didn't sleep, though. Every time you came close a memory of Hobie's scraped knees, or bruised face, or serious eyes would pop up and you'd pull your covers down enough to stare at the extra bed across the room.
It felt too good to be true. Acknowledging it felt risky. But even the possibility that the strange person following you around and sleeping in your bedroom might be someone you could stand to be around was very, very exciting. The idea occurred to you more than once that you should tidy up for him. Maybe go out and find some things to make the space that would soon be his a little bit more comfortable. The only thing stopping you was the fact that you had no idea what he'd want. He'd probably have his own things to fill it with, anyway. He seemed passionate and interesting, so of course he'd have things he holds dear that he'd need room for.
Logically, it was a while between the time you'd retreated to your room and the time you were called down for dinner. Lost in your thoughts and mild anxieties, it felt like no time at all. You didn't feel like you'd recharged, reset, or prepared yourself for the oncoming battle with your parents. The cold silence of the dining hall doesn't help.
"So." Your Mother shoots you a glare as you talk around the food in your mouth. You wait to swallow before continuing. "I hired a new guard."
"You chose a new guard you'd like to hire," you Father corrects.
"No." your fork clinks against the plate, "He starts tomorrow afternoon."
Your Father stops eating to stare you down across the table, "and who approved this?"
You nod toward the guard at the far door, "Michael likes him."
"This isn't funny, dear." Your Mother says.
"I'm not joking," you take another bite, "He has experience in defense. He's comfortable with the pay. And he's a man, you wanted me to hire a man."
"You," he spits the word, "don't get to hire anybody. You're only being asked at all because it's a bad look for our son to keep assaulting his knights."
"He knows about my history. Everyone does, apparently. That would have been nice to know."
Your Mother sighs, "Don't get a big head about it. You're lucky anyone is willing to put themselves in your path at this point."
"Exactly," you agree, "Which is why when I found out that everyone knew, I hired the first person willing to do it."
"After sending away more than a dozen perfectly capable men," your Mother complains.
"He seems capable."
"Was he a mercenary?" your Father asks.
"I don't think so."
Dishes rattle as your Mother grabs the edge of the table, "You don't think so?" Her voice is high and strained, breath caught in her throat.
"What's his name?" your Father asks.
"Hobie."
"And his last name?"
"I didn't ask." You tell him.
"Did you ask him anything at all?" The color is draining from your Mother's face.
"I asked his name. Why he wanted the job. If he was aware of the risks. All the important things."
"Where he's from? Who he's worked for in the past? Where he got this 'defense experience'? Anything?" your Father demands.
"I assumed I'd learn all of that later. We'll be spending a lot of time together, no? I didn't want to exhaust all possible conversation topics up front."
"Michael." Your Mother calls, "I need you to escort me to my quarters. I can't handle any more of this this evening."
"Yes, your highness." Michael is by her side in seconds, offering a hand to her.
"Sort out your child, Christopher."
Your Father's jaw is set, eyes locked on you. "You're going to kill your Mother, you know."
The door swings closed behind them. You let the statement hang in the air while you finish chewing.
"I'm a grown man now, Father. You can tell her not to worry so much. I can handle myself."
"Really? Because this kind of rash decision making leaves you seeming awful like a child."
"It isn't rash. I'm confident in my choice."
He doesn't respond. You don't budge. The reason you're good at lying is the same reason you're good at arguing. You aren't afraid to make people uncomfortable. You do it without trying all the time, so why wouldn't you leverage it to your advantage once in a while?
You watch your Father grow more and more angry at your refusal to bend. He works to clear his plate whilst his face grows deeper shades of red. Between bites he grumbles under his breath, hoping his irritation will prompt an apology. You've stopped eating. You aren't all that hungry anyway.
It's a relief when he finally stands from his chair, leaving you alone in the oversized hall. You take a few more bites of cold food from your plate before deciding you're finished. It will be nice to be back in bed.
---
The next morning you wake up with the sunrise, excited to a fault. You'd never been excited to have a new guard starting before. Usually you locked yourself away until you were physically forced to see them. Today you were buzzing and ready to go. Cheerful at breakfast, rushing through the tasks you needed to complete in the morning, and waiting at the front gate before midday.
"There you are!" You push off the ground at the first sight of Hobie's boots.
He frowns and looks up at the sky, "Sun's not even above us, yet. 'm not late."
"I know." Your cheeks feel warm, hopefully from being in the sun too long.
He nods in response, but before he can speak again, another guard comes and stands between the two of you.
"Excuse me," you frown.
"You're the new one?" He says to Hobie.
Hobie tries to look around him, just as disgruntled as you are, "Yes?"
"Right this way." He grabs Hobie by the wrist and tugs.
"Excuse me! I can show him around, thank you!"
"King's orders, your highness." The guard says.
Hobie looks back at you as he's all but dragged away. You rush to keep up with them.
"I'm sorry!" you say, "I'll figure out what's going on! Promise!"
He nods again as the guard walks him through a door. Michael steps in front of it before you can follow.
"I'm assuming you won't let me through?"
He shakes his head.
You let your back hit the wall and slide down it. Your heart hammers against your chest. Is this normal? Or are they trying to punish you? Is he going to be okay?
It takes a moment for you to catch your breath, but the moment you do you're back on a mission. You travel down the halls to your Mother's office and pound on the door when you get there.
"Who is it?" she calls.
You swing the door open. "What is he doing to him?"
"I'm in a meeting, dear."
You nod at the woman sitting across from her, the utmost respect you can show in your rush, "My apologies." You turn back to your Mother "What is he doing to him."
"If you hadn't been so hostile to everyone we employ, you might know that every new member of staff goes through an admission process. He's getting cleaned up, new clothes, a proper weapon."
"And he doesn't get to put his things down or look around the place, first?!"
"That could have been negotiated, had anyone else met him or approved his presence here, first."
"That's bullshit!"
"He'll be escorted to you when he's finished. Before sundown, I'd assume."
You look at your Mother's guest again, hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms. "I'm sorry that you had to see this. I hope you have a wonderful day." You walk backward out of the room, keeping eye contact with your mother the whole time.
You slink back to your room and wait for what feels like days. Watching the sun sink toward the horizon. Cycling between anger and concern. You get up with the resolve to go find and rescue him several times, but ultimately decide that will only make things worse.
You're lighting candles to light up the room when the door opens and Hobie stumbles through it.
"What the fuck..." he mumbles, looking around the room.
"I am so, so sorry. I didn't know that was going to happen. I would have warned you, I promise."
The man in front of you is not the one who sat across from you. His skin almost sparkles aside from the places where it's been rubbed raw. The boots on his feet match and are spotless, they might even make him look taller. A linen shirt hangs loose around his shoulders, flowing down his torso, almost thin enough to see through. His hair is cut short, face clean of stubble. If it weren't for how angry he looks, you might not recognize him at all.
"Are you okay?"
He looks down at himself, taking stock of injuries that don't exist. "I'll live."
"Your hair," you frown.
"It'll grow back. 'nless they pin me down and shave it off again."
"I won't let them."
He doesn't look certain when he meets your eyes. You try to look confident, more confident than you feel after today. Eventually he nods.
"I believe you."
"Good," you offer an empty smile, "You can put your things down, if you want."
You point toward the bed in the corner. At it's clean, fresh pressed sheets and blank walls. The rest of the walls, the ones you consider your own, are covered in book pages and sketches you've tacked into the plaster. His space looks empty in comparison. You hope it looks like an opportunity more-so than a disappointment.
"Thank you." He walks over and drops an overfull leather satchel on the bed before sitting on the mattress.
"Just the one bag?" you ask.
"I like to travel light." He leans backward. His head meets the wall before he's level with the mattress.
That makes sense, you suppose. You'd never done much travelling and when you did your bags were packed for you. Living in a castle made it hard to imagine being able to keep everything you owned in a single bag. It would be necessary if you were on the move, though. You might have to ask more about how he's done it.
"Well, we can get you more things if you'd like. You can make the space yours. Did they show you the library?"
"Briefly."
"We could go down in the morning and you could bring up some books to read. That shelf over there is yours for whatever you want to put on it."
"Do all prince's guards get to decorate their living space?"
"Probably not," you admit, "Would you work for most princes, though?"
"Probably not."
You nod, "Thought so."
"So," he hums, "What do princes do after sundown?"
"Depends on the day," you cross the room to sit near him, "Sometimes there's still guests to see or events to attend. Other times I'll read or draw. Today I spent too much energy being furious at my parents to do much at all."
He nods, "I'm exhausted, too."
"I'd imagine. I can leave for a moment, if you want to change into something more comfortable."
"I can sleep in this." He looks you up and down, "Should I leave so that you...?"
You shift in your spot on the floor. Normally you wouldn't ask for that, you'd turn your back and make quick work of redressing as if it weren't awkward. Normally, though, your Father had chosen your guards. It had always been presumed that he'd briefed them, for lack of better word, about the situation. You weren't sure this time.
Even if you knew, undressing in front of Hobie felt different. He was younger than any guard you'd ever had. Possibly only a year or so older than you, though you hadn't asked. More handsome, too. Not to mention the weight of the fact that you'd chosen him. Not for his ability to protect you, either, but because you thought you might come to like and respect him.
Of course, you'd have to tell him sometime. A few days to figure out how would be nice, though. So would doing it in words rather than by him catching a glimpse of you half dressed.
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Of course not." He stands from the bed and makes his way to the door, "Call for me when I can come back?"
"Of course."
You stand when he closes the door behind him. Your shirt lands on the bed and the warm summer air brushes your skin. You work to untie the bottom knot on the corset that presses against your chest, desperate to take a full breath for the first time today. This late in the summer you often wear close to nothing to sleep. It gets so humid this high in the castle. You aren't willing to sacrifice the fluffiness of your thick bedding for something more suitable to the weather. If you want to tell Hobie, though, rather than letting him find out himself, you'll have to get creative.
You step into your closet and begin sorting through clothes. You settle on a dark linen shirt and pull it over your head. Twisting in the mirror and tugging the loose fabric, you decide that your Father's doctors will never know if you sleep in the corset just a few times. You'll leave the bottom knot undone for the sake of safety and rely on the color of the fabric to disguise the rest. Bottoms are less of an issue. You pull on a loose pair of shorts and toss your dirty clothes into a basket to be washed later.
You roll your shoulders back on your way to the door, twisting the handle and pulling it open. You didn't expect Hobie to be leaning against it.
"Fucking shit!" he stumbles backward.
You steady him with a hand on his shoulder and press the other over his mouth. "Shh!" you urge him, "Hobie! You can't shout things like that!"
He frowns at you, "I can say whatever the hell I want!"
Your eyes are wide as you pull him through the door. "Quietly, with me, yes. Absolutely. If my Mother hears you speaking like that she'll have you on the nearest ship off the coast in an instant!"
"Don't think I'd mind being a pirate, honestly." he shrugs.
You can't help but smile, "You seem like you'd make an excellent pirate. Now, help me move this desk against the door."
You shake it, listening to it wobble where the leg has worn from moving it back and forth these past weeks.
"You have a guard now, you know. Got a sword and everything." He watches you push the table inch by inch.
"I'm not worried about being attacked. That's silly."
"Then why are we barricading the door?"
"People are quite... nosy. I don't want anyone coming to check on me."
"Can't you tell 'em to leave?"
"That'll just make them more insistent on seeing me."
"You're a prince though, ain't'cha? Doesn't that mean what you say goes, or something?"
You scoff, "I'm a prince, yes. Which means I have an endless list of boring tasks and silly meetings and no privacy whatsoever."
"Really?" he raises an eyebrow, "What if you've gotta, y'know... take care of things?"
"Hello," you motion to the desk that's now pressed against the door.
"Huh..." he nods, "Shit, I don't have to like, keep an eye on you while you--"
Your face burns crimson, "No!"
"How will--"
"Sometimes all of the guards have meetings with the captain, or my Father."
His face has begun to flush, too, "Understood."
"Stop thinking about it!" you scold.
"I'll make sure to knock."
You didn't know you missed the smile you'd only seen once until it's back on his face. Any progress you'd made in cooling your cheeks halts. Neither of you speak or break eye contact. His eyes are so much softer than they were before, now swimming with emotions you can't yet read.
You clear your throat, "Do you need anything else? Before I go to sleep. I can get you more pillows, or something to do if you aren't tired yet."
He shakes his head, "No. Will you put out candles, or should I?"
"We can split them?"
"Works for me."