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The mid-November rain in London did not fall; it sheeted down in icy, relentless needles, blurring the stone facade of Kensington Palace into a drab, gray smudge.
Inside the chilly, high-ceilinged library of Nottingham Cottage, a furious debate had been raging for an hour.
"Henry, you are literally on fire. I can feel it from here. Look at me."
Alex Claremont-Diaz stepped directly into Henry’s line of sight, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Your eyes are watery, your voice sounds like you’ve been eating gravel, and you’re swallowing like every sip of water is an act of God. You are not going outside."
Henry stood before the full-length mirror, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to knot his cashmere scarf. His skin was dangerously pale, save for the dark, bruised circles under his eyes and a sharp, hectic flush high on his cheekbones.
He let out a breath that was far too hot, his shoulders slumping for a fraction of a second before he forced them back into a rigid, royal line.
"It is a youth mental health sanctuary opening, Alex," Henry said, his voice a raspy, painful friction. He stopped to swallow, his jaw tightening at the spike of pain in his throat. "The charity has been working on this for three years. The press is already there. If the royal patron doesn't show, the coverage drops by half. I am going."
"Not to be the sexy voice of reason here but you probably have strep, or the flu, or whatever the British equivalent of a biological weapon is," Alex argued, stepping closer and pressing the back of his hand to Henry’s forehead.
Henry flinched but didn't pull away. Alex hissed.
"Jesus, H, you're boiling. You’re going to pass out in front of God and the BBC."
"I am perfectly capable of standing on a dais for forty minutes," Henry croaked, a sudden, harsh cough ripping from his chest. He winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. "I’ve done it with worse."
"That is not the noble flex you think it is!" Alex threw his hands up. "Listen to yourself! You sound like a broken engine. Let Shaan call them. Tell them you have a sudden medical thing. People get sick, Henry. Even princes."
Henry turned, his blue eyes glassy with fever but entirely immovable. "The kids at this shelter don't get to take a sick day from their lives because it’s raining, Alex. I am getting in the car."
Three hours later, the front door of Nottingham Cottage burst open.
The freezing downpour had turned the London evening pitch black. Henry stumbled through the threshold, nearly tripping over the rug. He was entirely soaked to the bone.
His thick woolen coat was heavy with ice-cold water, water dripped from his flattened blonde hair down his neck, and his teeth were chattering so violently that his jaw audibly clicked.
"Henry!"
Alex abandoned his laptop on the couch, skidding across the hardwood floor. He caught Henry just as the prince’s knees gave out. Henry’s body was a terrifying contradiction—his clothes were freezing, wet, and stiff, but the skin of his face and neck was burning, pouring off a terrifying, dry heat.
"I—I did the speech," Henry chattered, his voice barely a breathy whisper. His chest heaved as he fought for air, his vision swimming as he tried to look at Alex. "But the... the rain. The marquee collapsed at the edge. I had to stay and help move the... the kids inside."
"You're an idiot, an absolute, spectacular idiot," Alex muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of terror and furious affection.
He hooked his arm firmly under Henry’s armpits, hoisting him up. Henry was heavy, his coordination completely shot by a spiking fever and severe dizziness. "Come on, sweetheart. Lean on me. Put your weight on me."
"Dizzy," Henry gasped, closing his eyes tightly as the hallway tilted violently. His head dropped onto Alex’s shoulder, his forehead burning right through Alex’s cotton hoodie. "Alex, everything is... spinning."
"I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you drop." Alex navigated them toward the downstairs bathroom, his heart hammering against his ribs. He managed to deposit Henry onto the closed toilet seat. Henry immediately slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his trembling, wet hands. He was shaking so hard the ceramic seat vibrated.
Alex moved with frantic, practiced efficiency. He turned the shower on to its maximum heat setting, letting the small bathroom rapidly fill with thick, heavy steam to help Henry’s congested lungs.
"Alright, layers off. Now," Alex commanded gently, kneeling in front of him. He began tugging at the sodden buttons of Henry’s coat. The fabric was icy, freezing Alex’s own fingers. When he got the coat off, Henry’s button-down shirt underneath was damp and clinging to his shivering frame.
"S-sorry," Henry whispered, a tear slipping down his flushed, burning cheek, instantly vaporized by the heat of his skin. "Should have... listened."
"Yeah, you really should have, you stubborn royal bastard," Alex said, his voice cracking slightly. He carefully pulled the damp shirt over Henry’s head, exposing a chest that was rapidly rising and falling. Alex immediately reached up, cupping Henry's face with both hands. The heat blooming off Henry’s skin was immense. "Look at me, H. Open your eyes."
Henry forced his eyelids up. They were glassy, unfocused, and swimming with a high fever.
"I need to check your throat, okay? Open up."
Henry did, leaning his head back against the wall with a miserable groan. Alex used the flashlight on his phone. The sight made him wince—Henry’s tonsils were angry, swollen, and covered in telltale white patches.
"Definitely strep. And the freezing rain turned it into a full-blown crisis," Alex diagnosed, his caretaker instincts taking total command. "We need to get your temperature down, but you're freezing from the outside. Sit tight."
Alex quickly ran a warm—not hot, not cold—bath, then helped a clumsy, trembling Henry strip out of the rest of his wet clothes and ease into the tub. The moment the warm water hit Henry's chilled skin, a long, ragged sob broke from his throat. He curled into himself, splashing water over his chest, his shoulders shaking.
"I’m right here, I’ve got you," Alex murmured, sitting on the bath mat. He took a washcloth, soaked it in the warm water, and began gently wiping the grime and cold rain from Henry’s back and neck.
“You're safe. The event is over. You did great, H. You saved the day. Now you're off duty."
"Hurts," Henry choked out, his throat so swollen he could barely articulate the word. He pressed his forehead against his bent knees. "My bones... everything hurts, Alex."
"I know, baby. I know."
After twenty minutes of soaking to get the deep chill out of Henry's bones, Alex helped him out of the tub. Henry was so weak his legs buckled twice, forcing Alex to practically carry him into the bedroom.
Alex dressed him in the softest, loosest flannel pajamas they owned, purposefully avoiding tight layers that would trap the fever heat.
He helped Henry into bed, propping him up with three pillows so he could breathe easier through the thick steam remaining in his lungs.
"Don't move," Alex ordered softly.
He ran to the kitchen, returning with a tray containing a thermometer, heavy-duty liquid antibiotics they’d kept from a previous clinic visit, a glass of ice water, and a cup of warm chamomile tea with massive spoonfuls of honey.
"Thermometer first," Alex said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He slid the digital tip under Henry’s tongue. Henry closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and hot. When the device beeped, Alex looked at the screen and swallowed hard. 103.8°F.
"Right. You are taking this liquid medicine, and you are not arguing," Alex said, pouring the thick, sweet antibiotic dose. He held it to Henry’s lips. Henry winced at the mere thought of swallowing, but he let Alex pour it down his throat.
He immediately choked, a harsh cough racking his body, and Alex rubbed his chest firmly until the fit passed. "Done! Sip the water. Just a tiny bit to clear the taste."
Henry took two tiny, agonizing sips, his hand shaking so badly Alex had to steady the glass for him.
Once the medicine was down, Alex climbed into the bed. He pulled the light duvet over them—heavy enough to stop Henry's shivering, but light enough to let the fever break.
He pulled Henry’s burning, trembling body tightly against his chest, wrapping his arms around him securely. Henry immediately tucked his face into the crook of Alex’s neck, his hot breath puffing against Alex's collarbone.
"You're burning up, H," Alex whispered, resting his chin on Henry’s damp, blonde hair, gently rubbing his broad shoulders. "But I've got you. The meds are going to kick in. I'm staying right here."
"Alex..." Henry rasped, his hand weakly clutching at the fabric of Alex's hoodie. "Thank you."
"Shut up and sleep," Alex murmured affectionately, kissing the top of Henry’s scorching forehead. "We'll fight about your stubbornness tomorrow. Right now, just let me take care of you."
Henry let out a long, shuddering sigh, his body finally beginning to relax against Alex’s steady, grounded weight as the dark, feverish sleep finally took him over.
The liquid antibiotics did nothing to slow the runaway train of Henry’s fever.
By two in the morning, the light duvet felt like sheet metal to Henry’s hypersensitive skin. He was thrashing weakly against the mattress, his limbs tangled in the sheets, letting out low, ragged whimpers that tore straight through Alex’s chest.
Alex had been up for hours, constantly swapping out cold, damp washcloths on Henry’s forehead and neck, but the cloth turned hot within minutes of touching Henry’s skin.
"Alex... please, make it stop," Henry choked out, his voice barely a sandpaper friction. He didn't open his eyes. His face was a dark, terrifying crimson, and his chest was heaving in short, desperate gasps. "Can't... I can't breathe."
Alex grabbed the digital thermometer, clicking it under Henry's tongue. When it beeped, the little screen read 104.4°F.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded Alex’s veins. A fever that high in an adult with an active chest infection wasn't just miserable; it was dangerous.
"Okay. Okay, sweetheart, hang on," Alex murmured, his thumb rubbing Henry’s burning cheek. He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he dialed Shaan.
It rang twice before Shaan’s crisp, alert voice came through. "Alex? Is everything alright?"
"No, Shaan, it's not. Henry’s burning up. His fever just clocked at 104.4, his throat is so swollen he can barely swallow, and his breathing is completely labored. I need a doctor. A real one, right now. No royal PR bullshit, just someone competent who can get an IV in him."
"I am on it. Dr. Harrington is on our secure list; he will be at Nottingham Cottage in fifteen minutes. Stand by the door," Shaan said, his clinical calm slightly cracking with genuine concern.
True to Shaan's word, a sharp knock rattled the front door exactly fourteen minutes later. Alex practically ripped it off its hinges. A tall, gray-haired man in a sleek trench coat stood there, carrying a heavy medical bag.
"Mr. Claremont-Diaz. I'm Dr. Harrington," he said, stepping inside without ceremony. "Where is His Royal Highness?"
"In the bedroom. This way," Alex said, leading the doctor down the hall.
The moment they entered the bedroom, Henry let out a wet, rattling cough that ended in a sharp wheeze. Dr. Harrington didn't waste a second. He dropped his bag on the nightstand, pulled out a stethoscope, and immediately sat on the edge of the mattress.
"Your Royal Highness, it's Dr. Harrington. I’m going to listen to your chest, alright?"
Henry gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes glassy and unfocused as Alex sat on the other side of the bed, immediately grabbing Henry’s trembling, sweaty hand.
Dr. Harrington slipped the cold metal disk under Henry’s pajama shirt. "Take as deep a breath as you can manage, Henry."
Henry tried, but the effort instantly triggered a vicious, violent coughing fit. He curled onto his side, his whole body shaking, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Alex immediately lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Henry’s torso, supporting him through the strain.
"I’ve got you, H, I've got you," Alex whispered fiercely against his hair. "Just breathe. Slow it down."
Dr. Harrington’s face turned grim as he listened to the back of Henry’s lungs. He pulled out a small penlight. "Open your mouth for me, Henry. Let me look at your throat."
Henry complied with a miserable groan. The light caught the severe swelling, the angry red tissue, and the thick white lines blocking his airway.
"The strep infection has migrated rapidly, likely exacerbated by the severe chill and exhaustion from earlier," Dr. Harrington diagnosed, turning to his bag and pulling out a bag of saline, an IV line, and a vial of heavy-duty medication. "L
“His airways are closing up due to the inflammation, and his lungs are beginning to show signs of secondary bronchitis. I’m going to start him on an aggressive IV course of broad-spectrum antibiotics and a high-dose steroid to pull the swelling out of his throat. We also need to get these fluids in him immediately; he’s severely dehydrated."
Alex watched with a tight throat as the doctor bound Henry's forearm with a rubber tourniquet. Henry didn't even flinch when the needle pierced his skin—he was too exhausted, too deeply consumed by the fever to care.
"Alex..." Henry rasped, his eyes rolling back slightly as the cold IV fluids began to pump into his vein.
"It’s so cold!”
"I know, baby. The medicine is working. It’s gonna make you feel better," Alex said, leaning over and pressing a firm, lingering kiss to Henry’s sweat-soaked temple. He looked up at the doctor. "How long until the fever starts dropping?"
"The steroids should begin reducing the inflammation within the hour, which will ease his breathing. The fever should start breaking by dawn," Dr. Harrington said, securing the IV line with clear medical tape.
He handed Alex a small bottle of prescription pills. "Once he is able to swallow without choking, give him these every six hours. I will return at eight o’clock to check his vitals. Keep him hydrated, and do not let him out of this bed."
"He's not moving a muscle," Alex promised, his voice deadly serious. "Thank you, doctor."
After showing the physician out, Alex walked back into the quiet bedroom. The soft drip-drip-dripof the IV bag was the only sound breaking the silence. Henry looked incredibly small beneath the covers, his face still flushed but his breathing already slightly less rattled thanks to the first wave of medication.
Alex climbed back into the bed, careful not to disturb the IV line. He pulled Henry’s uninjured arm around his own waist, pulling the prince flush against his chest.
"You're a magnet for trouble, Wales," Alex whispered into the dark room, his hand gently running through Henry’s damp hair. "But I'm not going anywhere."
Henry let out a soft, loose sigh, his body finally sinking deep into the mattress as the medical intervention began to do the heavy lifting his body couldn't manage on its own.
By four in the morning, the bedroom smelled of menthol, heavy rain, and the sharp, metallic tang of sickness. The IV bag hung half-empty from the makeshift stand Alex had rigged out of a floor lamp.
Suddenly, Henry gasped. His eyes flew open, entirely glassy and unseeing, staring at the dark ceiling. A violent shudder ripped through his body, followed immediately by a heavy, profound sweat. The fever was finally breaking. Within minutes, the dry, radiating heat evaporated, replaced by a cold, drenched dampness that soaked right through his flannel pajamas.
"Alex," Henry choked out, his voice a frantic, thready whisper. He began to thrash weakly, his fingers clawing at the mattress as the sudden drop in temperature triggered a massive wave of delirium. "Alex, please. The... the protocols. Shaan said I have to—I have to stand up. The cameras are... they're watching."
"Hey, hey, look at me. No cameras, H. Look at my ugly face," Alex murmured instantly, waking from his light doze. He pinned Henry’s arm gently to the mattress to keep him from ripping out the IV needle. "You're in bed. You're in London. You're safe."
"I can't... I can't find the words," Henry whimpered, a tear tracking through the heavy sweat on his cheek. He was trembling so hard his teeth clicked.
He looked directly at Alex, but his blue eyes were looking right through him, lost in a feverish maze.
"They're going to see. My grandfather... he'll know I'm—"
"Shh, I've got you. Your grandfather isn't here. It's just me," Alex said fiercely, his heart aching at the raw, deep-seated trauma the fever was pulling to the surface.
Alex knew he needed to ground him. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a worn, slightly battered paperback book he had smuggled from the shelves downstairs earlier—a book he knew Henry kept close for comfort.
He pulled Henry tightly against his chest, despite the damp, sweat-soaked fabric of their clothes, and opened to the first page.
"Listen to my voice, sweetheart. Just focus on my voice," Alex commanded softly, clearing his throat. He leaned his chin against Henry's damp hair and began to read, deliberately slowing down his frantic American cadence into something steady and rhythmic.
"Mr. and Mrs. Brown first met Paddington on a railway platform. In fact, that was how he came to have such an unusual name for a bear, for Paddington was the name of the station..."
At the sound of the familiar words, Henry’s frantic thrashing slowed. A long, ragged breath hitched in his chest. His eyes blinked rapidly, the terrifying, vacant stare slowly dissolving as the childhood story anchored him to reality.
"Paddington," Henry whispered, his voice incredibly small, sounding more like a homesick boy than a royal prince. “We adored him.”
"Yeah, baby. The bear with the marmalade obsession," Alex murmured, a soft, tearful smile tugging at his lips. He shifted, keeping his arm securely around Henry's waist while turning the page. "A permanent label was tied around his neck, which said, 'Please look after this bear. Thank you.'"
Alex paused, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the side of Henry’s cooling temple. "That’s what I’m doing, H. I’m looking after you. Just close your eyes."
Henry let out a weak, exhausted sigh. His fingers loosely curled into the fabric of Alex’s hoodie, his head sinking heavily against Alex’s collarbone. As Alex read through the second and third chapters in a quiet, low drone, Henry’s breathing finally leveled out into a deep, and truly restful sleep.
The gray, weak light of a London morning filtered through the heavy curtains. Henry woke up feeling as though he had been hit by a freight train, but the suffocating, fiery pressure in his chest was gone.
His throat was still incredibly raw, but he could finally swallow without feeling like he was digesting glass.
He shifted slightly, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles. His left forearm was heavily bound in medical tape, holding a fresh saline lock in place.
"Don't even think about moving," a voice warned from the doorway.
Henry cracked his eyes open. Alex was leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely disheveled with dark shadows under his eyes and wrinkled clothes, but holding a steaming mug of tea and a bowl of plain oatmeal.
Behind him, Shaan stood in a flawless, crisp suit, holding a tablet and looking thoroughly exhausted.
"You look terrible," Henry rasped, his voice incredibly weak but entirely lucid.
"Oh, I look terrible?" Alex scoffed, marching over and setting the tray on the nightstand.
He immediately pressed the back of his hand to Henry's forehead, letting out a long, relieved breath when he felt only cool, normal skin. "You clocked a 104.4 fever, hallucinated about royal protocols, made me read three chapters of a children's book about a bear in a duffle coat, and I look terrible?"
Henry flushed a faint pink, looking down at his sheets. "You read me Paddington?"
"Explicitly requested by your subconscious, Your Royal Highness," Alex said, though his eyes were completely soft with affection. He carefully helped prop Henry up against the pillows. "Drink the tea. Shaan is here to tell you how much of an international incident you caused by being a hero in a downpour."
Shaan stepped forward, his expression a mix of stern disapproval and deep relief.
"The press fallout is actually quite remarkable, Henry. Front pages across the country are calling you 'The People's Prince of the Storm' for staying behind to help evacuate the children when the marquee collapsed. The palace PR team is ecstatic, though the Queen is furious you didn't use an umbrella."
Henry took a tiny, cautious sip of the tea, the honey soothing his raw throat. "And my scheduled meeting with the Archbishop this afternoon?"
"Cancelled," Alex interjected fiercely, pointing a spoon at him. "By doctor's orders, Shaan's orders, and my orders. You are staying in this bed for the next forty-eight hours. You're going to finish your IV antibiotics, eat this oatmeal, and if you're good, I'll read you chapter four."
Henry looked up from his mug, a small, genuinely happy smile breaking through his pale, exhausted face. He reached out with his uninjured hand, curling his fingers around Alex's wrist.
"Chapter four features Paddington getting into trouble in a department store," Henry murmured softly, his blue eyes clear and warm. "I think I'd like that very much."
Alex let out a quiet laugh, turning his hand over to interlock their fingers. "Deal. But eat your food first, you stubborn idiot."