Chapter Text
{THE RECOGNITION - November 2048}
The call comes while Alex is making notes on a new batch of discovery documents. His phone is on his desk, next to the picture of Henry and the children in the gardens of Adelaide Cottage, and the lock screen of Mick goes dark before ‘Henry ❤️’ flashes up on the screen. ‘Calling’.
From her armchair by the door to his chambers, his PPO Jane looks up from her novel with a frown.
“Henry,” he tells her and she nods once, turning her attention back to the book. Alex picks up his phone and swipes to answer.
“Jane thinks you’re clingy,” he says, instead of ‘hello’ or ‘good afternoon’ or any of the other niceties other people were probably taught as children. From her armchair, Jane gives him a sidelong glance.
“Jane’s probably right,” Henry replies, before continuing, “You’ve not set off home yet, have you?” he asks. Alex glances at his computer - the small display in the right hand corner tells him he’s got about 10 minutes until he’d usually start winding down for the day.
“Not yet, why?” He asks. There’s a shuffling sound in the background, the sound of a car door opening and then closing.
“Don’t head for Windsor. Mum’s just asked us to come for dinner at Buckingham instead,” Henry tells him.
“That sounds ominous,” Alex comments, peeling a sticky-note off the pad by his elbow and placing it on the page of notes in front of him. He feels better doing his notations by hand, it feels like the information flows from his brain better this way. His clerks hate him for it. Everything is computerised now, but Alex’s chambers still place regular orders for printer paper.
“Doesn’t it just? I’m just getting in the car, I’ll be going to Clarence first to change. See you there?” Henry says and Alex nods, even though Henry can’t see it.
“Sure. See you in a few,” he says. The exchange quick ‘love you!’s and then Alex hangs up. Jane glances up from her book again and Alex meets her curious look. “Good news, we’re heading over to Clarence House tonight instead,” he tells her and she slips a bookmark between the pages to hold her place.
“I’ll arrange a car,” she says, and by all measurements, she looks nearly giddy with relief.
Alex knows he’s a pain to guard. Amy and Cash had complained about it before, but ever since becoming a Royal (with a capital R), the PPOs seem to think being on duty with him is also some sort of hazing ritual for new recruits. They get a rundown of Alex that goes something like this;
He can and will take public transport at every opportunity, despite security concerns. (The day he announced he’d be taking the train from and to Windsor every was the day the former head of the PPO service decided to hand in his retirement notice).
He can and will talk to any member of the public who so much as murmurs his name. (Alex has made it his life's mission to make the Royal Family seem approachable and not so out-of-touch. He has held fussy babies on train platforms before to give frantic Moms a breather, and he’d do it again).
He can and will refuse to be comply with the security guidance befitting his station, and that makes him a liability. (If he can’t run The Long Walk in Windsor, he will run in St. James’ Park, and the PPOs better keep up).
There are more, all along the same lines. Whatever pre-conceived notion they have about what it means to be a PPO, Alex will rid them of it within a week. Thankfully, once they’re on his service, his PPOs usually like to hang around. There hasn’t been a new one since Dafydd joined three years ago.
So, Jane being able to arrange a car to take Alex from his Chambers in Paper Buildings is bliss to her. It certainly makes her job a lot easier, despite Alex’s familiarity with the tube.
Alex sends quick messages to his clerks saying he’ll be leaving shortly, tidies away his desk and secures everything he needs to, before standing. Jane has tucked away her book for another day, and waits patiently by the door to his office while he shrugs on his coat.
November is brisk when they get down to the London streets. There is a cold wind whipping in from over the Thames, and Alex shivers as the sleek black car pulls up in front of them. Jane opens his door for him and ushers him inside, shutting the door once she’s slid in beside him.
Jane reminds him of Amy, sometimes. Their forthrightness, their deadpan manner, their silent support of all (well, most) of his endeavours. He still speaks to Amy’s wife sometimes, and occasionally Amy gets a lucid day, an hour, when she remembers the past and remembers Alex and June. Her wife likes to tell Alex about these moments, and Alex lets her because it’s enough for her to believe that Amy is still there, buried under the cloud of dementia.
The car glides smoothly into London traffic and heads towards Clarence House. The drive is about 20 minutes, give or take, and Alex spends that time catching up on his phone. Arthur and Sofia (mostly Sofia) have been keeping the family group chat alive during the day. Memes and photos and emojis litter the screen, Sofia’s last message, underneath a selfie of her in her sailing gear, is bookended with the megaphone emoji.
‘📣DADS ARE U ALIVE???📣’
Alex taps out a response.
‘I was working. I thought you were supposed to be too? Heading to BP for dinner, you know what Granny thinks about phones at the table.’
Sofia sends an awkward face emoji as a response. Arthur just thumbs-up reacts on his message. Sofia’s typing bubble pops in and out for a little while, but no message comes through, so Alex catches up with his emails instead (‘to: [emailprotected], cc: [emailprotected]’ more often than not), reads a few messages from June and Nora, forwards an invite to a gala Pez is hosting for climate change awareness to his personal secretary, looks over an email from his Mom reminding him about Thanksgiving at the end of the month. Alex scrolls through it all and when he next looks up, they’re pulling up at the gates to Clarence House.
A footman opens his door for him once the car slows to a stop outside the main door, and Alex slides out. His coat and scarf are taken from him just inside by the ever attentive footmen, and his personal secretary Olive appears from the shadows as he heads for the stairs, tablet in hand.
Zahra had retired about five years ago. She and Shaan now spend their days yachting in the Mediterranean, but they have a very nice house in Cornwall that he and Henry have visited a few times, whenever they’re back home. The day she’d left, Alex had found her in her little office in the Windsor Castle administrative wing. She’d been placing the last few personal items in a bag ready to take home, and had given him a genuine smile when he’d entered. She’s embraced him, and murmured in his ear-
“You would not have been able to survive this long without me,”
And she was, of course, right. Olive is nice enough, young, friendly and eager to be helpful, but Alex was also keenly aware that he was talking to someone only a few years older than his son. He often had the urge to ask if she’d had enough to eat at lunch.
“Your Highness,” Olive bobs a curtsey three steps in front of him and then falls into stride as he starts up the stairs. “His Highness’ Equerry let me know about the change of dinner plans, so I’ve asked your valet to pull some suit options for tonight,” she explains in a rush and Alex bobs his head. Max is always on the ball when it came to plans changing.
“Thank you, Olive, that was very… forward-thinking,” he says with a smile and colour blooms on Olive’s cheeks. As they reach the corridor for Alex and Henry’s bedroom, bypassing the den and the kids’ bedrooms, Olive lifts her tablet and taps at it rapidly.
“Just a reminder that Princess Sofia has a sailing fixture, Under-18s friendly, on Saturday. Oh, you’ve also received an invite to the premiere of the new Bond film for next weekend” she says and Alex looks at her with curiosity. Of course, James Bond didn’t die with Arthur Fox. Many others had picked up the mantle after his tenure. Since Kit Connor had stepped down four years ago, there had been a lot of buzz about who would be the next Bond, and this film was the first outing for Spencer Page, a young Shakespearian-trained actor, much like Henry’s father had been. Many a family evening had descended into a heated debate about his suitability, and even Alex’s even-keeled ‘Let’s just wait to see!’ had been drowned out by Sofia’s loud proclamations that he’d be the best Bond yet. Alex hasn’t told her yet that he’s seen her liking his social media posts for the past year.
“Do we have any other plans that evening?” Alex asks Olive now, and she hums and chews on her bottom lip for a moment as she scrolls through the shared calendar, updated by herself and Max daily.
“No, looks like you’re clear. Should I RSVP for you?” she asks and Alex nods.
“Best check with Max, but I think it could be fun,” he says. Olive smiles and slips away as they reach the door of his and Henry’s bedroom and Alex slips inside. It hasn’t changed much since they first moved into Clarence House after their marriage, the room spanning one corner of the front of the house, windows facing over towards The Mall and St James’ Park beyond.
They haven’t been back for a couple of weeks, but you’d never know they lived anywhere else. It was something Alex had figured out soon after they moved to England permanently. If they liked something, if it was a regular feature at home (wherever that was on any given day), duplicates were acquired and placed in every single one of their residences, in the same spot. Alex had a favoured picture of him and June as children, grinning in the dusty Texan heat, and once he’d set it down on his bedside table in Clarence House, copies of it in the same frame appeared in Adelaide Cottage and Anmer Hall, as well as their bedrooms in Sandringham and Balmoral.
Even Henry’s favourite books are bought in triplicate, but Alex doesn’t think anyone tracks his reading progress on them. He’s horrified at the thought of a footman whose sole job was to move the bookmarks just in case Henry comes back to Clarence House one night and fancies picking up where he left off.
Alex sheds his work suit, draping it all over an armchair by the armoire, before padding into the ensuite and turning on the shower to a decent heat. He washes off the days work, letting the water sweep away all thoughts of his cases. Even though he rarely goes into a courtroom these days, he’s busy - he’s a special adviser for the International Criminal Court, is on several committees for the UN and works closely with the Human Dignity Trust Bar panel, which Amal Clooney had recommended him for before she had retired. His days are spent up to his eyeballs in cases and discoveries and research, but it all means something, and that’s what fuels him.
The bathroom door clicks open as Alex rinses the shampoo suds out of his hair, and he squints through the fogged up shower panel to see who’s come in. He isn’t surprised to see Henry (albeit blurred), down to his shirt sleeves and trousers, already unbuttoning his collar in the steamy bathroom.
“Hey baby,” Alex calls over the shower, and he hears Henry respond, though the words themselves are lost to white noise. He can see through the frosted glass as the amorphous blur that must be Henry unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, the fabric slipping to the tiled floor. Alex turns his attention to his conditioner, even as he hears the clink of a belt hitting the floor, shivering slightly when the shower door opens briefly as Henry slips in.
“Hello,” Henry murmurs, his deep voice quiet enough that if Alex wasn’t perfectly in tune with it, it’d disappear in the rush of water. A line of cool skin presses itself to Alex’s back, and he turns in Henry’s arms, conditioner pooled in one hand, to kiss his husband. Henry smiles into the kiss, his hands slipping to Alex’s hips and then further still, pulling Alex closer, and who is he if not a servant to his husband’s desires.
“Your mother doesn’t like tardiness,” Alex murmurs against Henry’s mouth, and Henry sighs and tilts his head back and away.
“The one time I try and seduce you when we’re on a schedule, and you bring up my mother,” Henry says, accusatory. Alex grins and kisses Henry’s chin where it’s jutting out petulantly.
“Sorry baby,” he replies, mouthing at his jaw. Henry sighs and his head tilts back further as Alex kisses the junction where his neck meets the corner of his jawline. And then Alex, with great personal inner strength, pulls away. “Later?” he suggests and Henry huffs.
“Nearly 25 years of marriage, and just look at the state of our love life,” he grumbles, but Alex knows he’s joking. He reckons it’s pretty healthy, by all measures. Still, Alex shrugs one shoulder and beings to comb the conditioner through his hair with his fingers, smoothing it through the ends of his silver-shot curls.
Henry sidles past him to stand in the spray of the shower, and Alex gives him the space to do so, taking a second to greedily soak up his husbands naked form. He’s thicker in the middle, but which of them isn’t. His shoulders are still broad, his hair turning from sandy to ashy as more white comes through, Henry skipping past silver entirely. There is still the space under his ribs where Alex’s hand fits perfectly, and laughter lines mark the years of happiness they’ve shared on his face.
He’s still as beautiful as ever. Alex loves him more with every passing day.
“What do you think my mother wants?” Henry asks, head tilted forward to let the water sluice over the back of his neck and down his back. Alex reaches past him for the face wash.
“Not a clue. Maybe she’s moving forward with that charity idea Bea had?” he suggests. Bea had floated the idea of starting a performing arts charity dedicated to Arthur Fox, supporting young people from working-class backgrounds, and Catherine had seemed interested at the time. Henry looks up at him through his eyelashes, nose wrinkling.
“I’m sure Bea’s going to sign that one over to Benji,” he says, referring to Bea’s chronically shy Australian-born cellist husband. They’d met when Bea had been on a visit to Sydney, where Benji had been performing with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. Somehow he’d agreed to follow Bea back to London, where he’d stayed ever since. He’s very nice, even if he’s very quiet.
“Not a clue, then,” Alex says, depositing a pump of face wash into his hand and reaching around Henry to put it back on the shelf. Henry takes the opportunity to nip at his collarbone once it’s within reach, and Alex falls back with a laugh. “What do you think?” he asks, working the face wash into a lather between his hands. As he rubs it over his face, he can feel Henry thinking even if he can’t see it. He knows the look, can see it perfectly in his mind’s eyes, his eyebrows drawn together, his lips tight in one corner.
Alex cups his hands into the spray to gather some water to rinse his face with. With the face wash out of his eyes, he looks back at Henry again, who is squirting shampoo into one hand. He pauses, shampoo bottle in hand, and meets Alex’s eyes.
“I think she’s going to abdicate,” he admits. His confession is swept down the drain by the spray of the shower, but it still rings in Alex’s ears. He tries to find something to say, some comfort he can offer Henry, but ‘Well, we knew it would happen eventually’ feels bitter as he rolls it around on his tongue. While he thinks, Henry puts the shampoo bottle down and lifts his arms to wash his hair, running his fingers roughly through the lather as it builds, and Alex stops him with a gentle hand.
He gently pushes Henry back under to the spray, and tilts his head back to wash the shampoo out. The long line of his throat is exposed and Alex can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
“How do you feel about that?” Alex asks quietly, and Henry can apparently hear him over the shower, as he swallows again, lifting his head up, raising a hand to swipe the water from his eyes as it runs down his face.
“I don’t know… I thought - well, truthfully I thought I’d accede at her passing. I didn’t expect an abdication. I always thought Mum would stay until the bitter end,” he adds with a rueful smile, turning to reach for the conditioner. Alex takes his chance and presses himself to Henry’s back, wet skin to wet skin, hoping to press some reassurance into the warm expanse of his back. Henry stills, and then leans against him, and Alex ducks his chin to press a kiss to Henry’s bare shoulder.
“Would you want that? To become King while in mourning?” he asks and Henry hums.
“If I had a choice? Maybe not. But I always thought that was what was going to happen. It feels like someone has made a last minute revision to the script. Like the plan has changed with no forewarning,” he explains. Alex kisses his shoulder again.
“We don’t know why she wants to talk to us all. It could be nothing,” he offers. Henry huffs, and reaches for the conditioner once more.
“This is the Royal family, darling. It’s never nothing.”
{#}
It takes longer to drive to Buckingham Palace than it does to walk, but the head of their PPO service won’t hear it, so despite Alex’s grumblings, they’re bundled into a black town car. On the drive, Alex scooches over to Henry’s side and lifts his phone to take a selfie to send to the kids. It’s probably a cringy thing to do these days, but Alex doesn’t care, he just doesn’t want the kids to forget what their Dads look like. Henry smiles for the picture, even if it’s tight in the corners of his mouth, but Alex sends it anyway.
Within seconds of sending the picture, Sofia sends a heart-eye emoji. Arthur just thumbs-up reacts to the image, like always. With a resigned sigh, Alex puts his phone away as they pull into the porte-cochère of Buckingham Palace.
Several footmen wait for them, jumping into action as soon as the car has stopped, opening doors and taking overcoats. They’re dressed in black tie, shirts neatly pressed and bowties tied precisely. In the foyer, Henry smooths a hand over the lapel of Alex’s suit jacket, and Alex tugs the end of Henry’s bowtie teasingly, the corner of Henry’s mouth quirking up in amusem*nt.
They’re shown into a small but elaborate decorated sitting room, where Bea and Benji wait already. She stands as they enter, bustling over to kiss their cheeks, her husband following at a slightly more sedate pace. Bea’s hair is going white rather than grey, like Henry’s, and she has a very distinguished slice of white growing through by her right temple. It’s shown off perfectly in the chignon her hair is styled into.
“Any ideas?” she whispers to Alex after depositing her kisses, and he shakes his head.
“None,” he lies, because the shower was Henry’s confessional and Alex will always keep his secrets. He pulls back from Bea to shake Benji’s hand, who smiles tremulously and adjusts the glasses that keep threatening to slip down the bridge of his nose.
“Good to see you Alex,” he says in his lilting accent. Alex smiles.
“You too, Benji. How’re the twins?” he asks, and Benji’s face lights up. If nothing else, Benji can be counted on to talk about his children with passion.
Alex can still remember being told that Bea was a. pregnant and b. it was twins. She’d invited them over for coffee at St. James’ Palace, her marital home after she’d escaped Kensington, sliding the sonogram onto the coffee table between them, and he and Henry had made the appropriate cooing noises until she’d said “Now count the black circles”. Two. Benji had looked nearly giddy as Alex whooped and Henry crawled over the coffee table to hug his sister. She’d been worried about conceiving at her age, but apparently she’d done the job too well.
“Well, go big or go home, I suppose,” she’d said cheerily before bursting into tears and then waving them away by proclaiming it was hormones.
“Oh, they’re good. They’ll really miss St. George’s next year, we’ve had a few teary nights over it. Oh, and Lyla’s got the part of an angel in the nativity this year!” Benji says with a smile, though it then recedes a little. “Rupert’s sheep number three, but he’s in good spirits about it.”
The door behind Alex and Henry opens and a footman steps inside, clearing his throat as they turn around.
“Her Majesty, Queen Catherine,” he announces and as a group, they slip into bows and curtseys as Catherine enters. She smiles at them as she enters the room, the cane in her right hand taking some of her weight. She tries to hide her wince, though Alex can see it. She’s been slowing down in her old age, the added grief of her sister’s Tilly passing eighteen months prior not helping, and Henry has spoken to Alex before about how his mother’s health is… not failing, but certainly changing, and what that could mean for them. Increased Royal duties, taking over as the figureheads for charity and social events. Stepping into an almost pre-King role for Henry, which he still says with so much dread.
Alex brings himself back into the present, as Catherine waves a hand for them to all sit down. He dismisses the glass of champagne offered by a footman with a smile, and he and Henry fold themselves onto a nearby sofa while Catherine takes the armchair.
He remembers speaking to Henry the night his grandmother announced her abdication. How Bea called Alex out of the blue and told him in a rush what had happened when the family gathered for dinner that night, before pressing the phone to Henry’s ear, trying to summon him back from that distant place he went to. Later, Henry told him in detail about that night. How the late Queen Mary III had sat in her armchair and looked so very tired and human and told them that she could no longer continue as queen.
And so, Alex realises what Catherine’s going to say one terrible, stomach-churning moment before she does. He wants to stop her. He wants to dive in front of Henry and take the emotional blow before he’s hit. But he can’t move.
“I won’t beat around the bush, my darlings. I have decided to abdicate,” she announces primly and there’s a sharp silence in the room. Benji looks to have been frozen in place out of shock, Bea’s mouth has fallen open and Henry - Henry’s jaw is clenched so tightly Alex is surprised he can’t hear his teeth creaking under the pressure. He reaches for Henry’s hand, but finds that his fists are clenched. He wraps his own hand over it anyway. Catherine’s smile is tremulous when he looks at her. “It isn’t a decision I’ve made lightly, but as my health declines, I know I cannot meet the demands of this position. Dr Chibnall has recommended hip replacement surgery in the new year, and a long recovery is predicted… I’m sorry,” she says, and she aims this at Henry, who hasn’t blinked. Her chin quivers as though she’s fighting the urge to cry and she takes a second to compose herself before she turns in the armchair and murmurs a pointed “Thank you,” to the footmen lingering about the room, and they take that as their cue to leave.
As soon as the coast is clear, Bea lurches out of her seat and towards her mother, wrapping her in an embrace. Bea’s back trembles and Catherine makes soothing sounds, rubbing a hand down her only daughter’s back. Benji, from his seat on their sofa, catches Alex’s eye and throws a quick look at Henry. Alex gives a discreet nod.
Bea pulls away from Catherine and goes back to her husband, running a finger under her eyes to catch any unshed tears. Benji pulls her close as Catherine turns her attention to Henry, who hasn’t unclenched either his fists or his jaw.
He does, though, stand, and walk stiffly to his mother, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Alex is close enough that he can hear her speak to Henry.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, and Henry’s shoulders are one solid unmoving line underneath his jacket. “I wish I could’ve seen it through to the end,” she says and Henry doesn’t reply, stepping back. Alex stands and moves towards Catherine, leaning down to kiss her cheek as well. She has no words of comfort for him, but Alex doesn’t need them right now.
His only focus is stopping Henry self-destructing. He takes Henry’s hand again, forcing his own fingers in the small gaps between Henry’s own, and eventually his fist yields enough for Alex to hold his hand. His grip is tight, painful, but Alex holds on anyway.
{#}
The dinner that follows is quiet and tense, and the short drive back to Clarence House is downright painful. Henry holds himself so tensely that Alex is worried that something is going to snap. As they get out of the car, Alex collars Olive, who waits by the front door, her wide eyes trailing Henry as he marches for the stairs, Max hurrying along behind him.
“We need to speak to the kids, secure line,” he tells her, and she nods and darts away, phone already pulled from a pocket while Alex follows in Henry and Max’s wake, taking the stairs two at a time until he’s nearly caught up. Max glances over his shoulder as they turn onto the main corridor and frowns deeply at Alex, who tries to make his face express something along the lines of ‘We’ve just had the news he’s always dreaded, and I’m worried he’s going to run for Tower Bridge and jump off’ but given Max’s confused expression, it doesn’t appear he’s managed to communicate that precisely.
Henry reaches their bedroom first and shuts the door firmly behind him, and Max won’t dare follow, instead left to stare morosely at the dark wood door. Alex gives the young man a consoling pat on the shoulder and slips by him into the room, shutting the door again behind him. Inside, it’s dimly lit, prepared already for the evening by the housekeeping team, and Alex has to take a second to search the gloom to find Henry, who isn’t immediately obvious. When he does spot him, he sighs.
Henry, despite being over fifty, has tucked himself into a corner of the room by the large sash windows, wedged between the wall and an armchair. He’s pulled his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them to keep them close, his head dropped down so he’s hidden from the world. In moments like this, Alex can see the little boy Henry once was, the one who was scared and alone for so long.
Alex crosses the room and, knees creaking, lowers himself to the floor beside to Henry. He nudges the armchair out of the way and tucks himself in close, so they’re sat hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and then he sighs and tilts his head back against the wall behind them. He doesn’t speak, and neither does Henry.
It’s only a few minutes later when there’s a sharp rap on the door, and Alex gets to his feet again, letting out more groans than he’d care to think about. He opens the bedroom door slightly, and Olive thrusts a phone through the gap.
“I have their Royal Highnesses,” she says and Alex smiles and takes the phone, murmuring his thanks before shutting the door. He puts the phone on speaker, glancing over his shoulder at Henry, who still has his face hidden in his arms.
“Hey guys,” he says, and his voice sounds strange to him in this quiet room. There’s a sharp breath from Arthur in response.
“Is everything okay? Tom’s just pulled me out of ChipSoc,” he asks and Sofia huffs.
“Yeah, Amir’s cleared everyone out of the boarding office for this. What’s going on?” she asks and Alex clears his throat, but Henry hasn’t moved. He tries a different way.
“Baby, it’s the kids. Do you… do you want to talk to them?” he asks and Henry lifts his head from the small place of quiet he’d made for himself. He meets Alex’s gaze and lets his hands slide away from his knees, opening up his body a bit more. Alex takes that as a ‘yes’. “Hold on guys, lemme just reconfigure myself,” Alex tells the phone as he goes back to his place on the floor next to Henry.
“Is Daddy okay?” Sofia asks, and now there’s a note of concern in her voice. Arthur is their more sensitive child, prone to anxiety, while Sofia just bulldozes through any obstacle she comes across. To hear her worried makes Alex even more anxious. He frowns as he gets himself situated on the floor again.
“I’m alright Poppet,” Henry says, though his voice is dull and monotone. Alex settles back against the wall leaning against Henry, the phone held between them.
“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his voice pitching upwards a bit.
“We just got back from dinner with Granny,” Alex explains. Henry’s eyes are trained on the phone, and he’s chewing so hard on his inner cheek that Alex is worried he’s about to start bleeding. Alex hesitates, sighs, and decides to barrel on. “She’s abdicating. Granny, that is. We wanted to tell you before the news was made public,” he explains and the phone fizzes with silence for a second.
“Granny’s abdicating?!” Arthur says the same time as Sofia shrieks “f*ckING WHAT?!”
“Language, Sofia,” Alex snaps in Spanish, and she murmurs an apology. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on curls as he tries to think about what to say next, but he can’t find anything profound to say. “This is a shock to everyone, okay? But we needed you two to hear it from us first. You can’t talk about it until it’s released to the press, got it? You’ll probably hear from Rowan in the morning, she’ll give you the party line,” he explains. Rowan, a member of the Lord Chamberlain’s Office who handles things like PR, would probably be awake at the crack of dawn preparing statements and press releases. Alex should send her flowers, or maybe a bottle of very expensive whisky. “We’ll call and check in as well,”
“Daddy, are you okay?” Arthur asks now, his voice tinny over the speaker, and Henry’s mouth downturns at the corners sharply before he smooths his expression out again, bobbing his head once.
“I’m alright, Munchkin. It’s just a shock. We’ll speak more tomorrow, alright?” he replies, holding his voice steady even as Alex can see his hands shaking, and the children make twin noises of agreement.
“We love you,” Alex tells them and their children respond in kind before they all hang up. Phone call done, Alex throws the phone somewhere towards the bed, and leans back against the wall once more, head tilted back. He’s surprised, but not shocked, to feel Henry’s weight press against him as Henry leans on him, his shoulder pressed to Alex’s bicep, his thigh to Alex’s knee. Alex lifts an arm and slips it over his husband’s shoulders and pulls him close, and it’s like the dam breaks.
Henry takes great, gasping sobs, his face turned into Alex’s neck, soaking the collar of the shirt he never unbuttoned, the shoulder of the jacket he never shucked. All Alex can do is make soothing noises and kiss his hair and ride the wave with him.
{THE OATH - December 2048}
Half of his case files are already gone from his office. Alex can see the spaces on the shelves where they’d usually be locked behind the glass fronted cabinet doors, but over the last few weeks, more and more of them have been taken to partnering chambers as his caseload has been cleared. As today is his official last day, the rest will go once he’s gone, archived or handed to another barrister, but Alex wants to take a moment to remember them. All the cases fought for, some won, some lost. His entire career, tidied away.
There’s a smart rap on the door to his office and Alex looks up to see one of his newest clerks, Neela, lean in to the room. His PPO for the day, Dafydd, looks up from his phone, hand fluttering for the concealed firearm at his side before he relaxes back into his seat.
“Sorry to disturb you, Sir,” Neela says with a smile. “But Rhett brought in some cake for you?”
“Cake?! Well, lead the way Neela,” Alex replies, pushing himself to standing and following her out of the room, Dafydd close behind. They turn the corner into the small kitchenette where a yell of “SURPRISE!” makes Alex jump, hand flying to his chest. He laughs, even as Dafydd grumbles, to see all members of his chambers crowded into the small room, party hats set at jaunty angles under a homemade banner saying ‘GOODBYE ALEX!’ pinned above the window.
“How’d you manage this?” he asks, because the only way to the kitchenette is past his office and surely he would’ve noticed someone attempting to sneak by with a stack of party hats. Dafydd clears his throat and Alex turns to grin at him.
“I may have helped, Sir,” he says in his singsong accent and Alex grins.
He turns back to the assembled staff members, who look at him with a mixture of joy at surprising him, and sadness it’s his last day. He smiles and powers through the lump in his own throat.
“Thank you, all of you. Now, Neela promised me cake,”
{#}
There isn’t just cake in the office to celebrate his retirement. A dinner is booked for the tasting menu at Pavyllon in Mayfair, Alex footing the bill of course. As soon as he opens the door to the restaurant that evening, Henry just behind him, they are ushered straight to the private dining room where chilled bottles of champagne wait for them.
They’re not the first to arrive, so with Henry holding his hand, Alex mingles. Some of the people attending are his fellow barristers, a few he works with, a few he’s clashed with in court (and not held grudges against), some are fresh-faced graduates who having been shadowing others ahead of being Called to the Bar themselves. His clerks, ranging from Pamela who is as much a feature of Paper Buildings as the stonework, all the way down to Neela, are chatty and friendly, and wish them both luck for the future. Henry accepts their well-wishes with a smile and a squeeze of Alex’s hand.
When their lead server suggests that they take their seats for dinner, Henry follows Alex to their seats and slips into his first, the other members of their party, consciously or not, aware that they need to wait for him to sit before they can.
He’s not King yet, Henry keeps furiously reminding everyone. Catherine is due to sign the abdication paperwork in a weeks time, hence Alex’s quick retirement, and Henry will officially accede then. Despite that, people are now showing him a level of deference previously unseen before, and based on Henry’s irritated rants in the evenings before bed, it’s starting to get on his nerves. Still, he graciously smiles when he’s seated, and everyone takes their own seats.
Dinner is delicious. Every dish is precisely plated and the flavours are well balanced. Conversation across the table flows as freely as the wine, and just before dessert is served, Alex seizes his chance. He lifts his glass of champagne, recently topped up, and stands. A hush falls down over the table.
“So, first of all, I wanted to thank you all for coming here tonight, to say goodbye - and probably to make sure I actually leave, eh, Pam?” he asks, sending a wink down the table at her. She huffs good-humouredly and waves a hand at him dismissively. He smiles and takes a second to collect his thoughts.
“My whole life, I’ve thought about how I can do good. And not just do good but be good. How can I change the world for the better, incrementally and then meteorically? I thought, in my youth and naivety, that I could do that in politics, and maybe in another universe I did. Maybe in another universe, Hail to the Chief is played every time I enter the room,” he adds, giving a sidelong glance to Henry who grins and shakes his head with an indulgent smile. “But alas, it was not to be in this life. Instead, what I did was become a lawyer. A barrister. I stood before God and the Right Honourable Chiefs Justices of England and Wales, and I argued. And anyone can tell you, oh, I can argue,” he grins and the table laughs again.
“I joined committees. I spoke at the United Nations in defence of global Human Rights. I’ve argued in The Hague, and I’ve hunkered down at the Human Dignity Trust. I have had a career many could only dream of. And for that, I have to thank the man next to me,” he says, turning to Henry who looks up at him with a frown. Alex lifts his glass in a salute. “You changed my life, Henry. First by falling in love with me, and then by letting me love you in return. And through that, you have changed the world,” he says and Henry’s lower lip trembles a little. Alex rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, turning back to the table. “So, if you please - a toast. To changing the world,”
“To changing the world!” the table choruses as they lift their glasses, and then they drink. Henry takes the hand on his shoulder in his own, and lifts it to his lips, brushing a kiss over Alex’s knuckles. Alex leans down and kisses the top of his head, and no one even glances their way.
They stay for another few drinks after dinner, and then they climb into a waiting car with Jane and Ben, Henry’s lead PPO, and head back to Clarence House. The children are due home tomorrow, in time for the Accession Council, and Alex can’t lie, he’s excited to see them. He’s worried though, about Henry. How quiet he’s been since the announcement went public, as plans started to form about what his Coronation would look like. How often he drifts to somewhere Alex can’t quite reach him.
“Did you mean it?” Henry asks in the quiet of the car. London is never dark, the streetlights turning Henry’s profile amber in flashes. Alex turns in his seat, seatbelt straining over his hips, and frowns.
“Mean what?” he says. Henry tilts his chin down, and Alex can see his fingers twist together in his lap.
“The speech. You said I changed your life, and… you sounded so positive about it. But all I can think is that I stole you away from the life you should’ve had before me. You wanted to go into politics, Alex. Youngest Congressman ever, from what I remember. And I feel,” his fingers stop twisting as he lifts a hand to his own chest and presses the palm to his heart, a small grimace passing over his face. “I feel like I took that from you.”
Alex reaches out a hand and takes Henry’s other hand in it, squeezing it, threading their fingers together.
“Hey, look at me?” he asks and Henry’s eyes flicker over to him, a small frown line between his eyebrows. Alex wants to smooth it with his thumb, rub it away so that Henry doesn’t look so terrified, so anxious. He tries to explain it instead. “You took nothing from me. And you have given me everything. I have been happy here, with you. I would’ve been happy in America with you too. It’s not about where I am Henry, or what I’m doing - it’s that you’re next to me. That’s what matters to me. Just you,” he says and Henry’s chin trembles as he presses his lips together.
“And the children,” Henry suggests quietly after a moment, and Alex smiles.
“And the children. They would’ve found us eventually, in any other life, I know it. But I am happy in this one. I’ve had a fantastic career, I have a gorgeous husband, I have incredible children. I am fulfilled, I promise you. And I’ll be right beside you for this next bit as well. I’m not going anywhere,” he says, trying to let the weight of his promise rest in his voice. Henry smiles and squeezes his hand.
“My dust into your dust,” he murmurs and Alex smiles. He’d said that, all those years ago, Henry in the riptide of grief after Philip’s death, telling Alex he could leave if he wanted.
“I am going to lie right next to you until my dust becomes your dust.” he’d promised then, and he means it still.
{#}
A week can fly by in a blink, Alex finds. One minute Dafydd is helping him take a box of personal items down to the car from his empty chambers, and the next he’s in a holding pattern outside the Throne Room in St. James’ Palace, where the Accession Council is meeting.
Henry is there, dressed in a dark morning suit, twisting his milgrain wedding band round and round his ring finger. The children are with them, Arthur pacing up and down the small ante-chamber in his own morning suit, Sofia sat with one knee over the other in one of the brocade chairs, chewing on her lower lip as she watches her brother go up and down the room. The Archbishop of Canterbury lingers in the room as well, his smile serene whenever Alex catches his eye. Apparently he’s there for any last minute spiritual needs.
They’ll be ushered into the Throne Room ahead of Henry being called back in to sign the accession paperwork, though Arthur has already been in as Henry’s heir to sign his bit of the proclamation. Bea and Benji wait in there along with Henry’s cousins Kit and Helen, while Catherine waits in Buckingham Palace to hear that her son is now King. Alex can hear the murmuring of the Accession Council just beyond the doors, like the distant rushing of waves.
“You’re absolutely sure about Henry IX?” Sofia asks Henry out of nowhere, and he looks over at her with a raised eyebrow. She raises her hands defensively and sinks back into her chair, eyebrows raised. “I’m just saying, the last Henry didn’t have a great rep,”
“The last Henry died 500 years ago,” Alex tells her, as gently as possible. With all the confidence of a fifteen-year-old, Sofia rolls her eyes. Most of the time she looks like Henry, but on occasion Alex’s Mom comes shining through, and this is one of them.
“I know that! I’m just saying, the ‘Henry’ brand isn’t a great one,”
“Well, I’ve been married to your father for nearly 25 years. I’d have to get a wiggle on to marry five more times,” Henry tells her in a deadpan tone and Sofia wrinkles her nose.
“Ew, please don’t,” she says with the utmost disgust. Before she can say anything further, the doorway to the Throne Room clicks open and a member of the Privy Council steps inside, which draws all of their attentions.
“We’re just about ready for you, Sir,” he says this to Henry, who inclines his head. The member of the Privy Council turns to Alex and the children. “If you’d like to take your places?” he suggests gently and Alex nods as the Archbishop follows the council member back into the Throne Room. Alex pauses briefly to kiss Henry on the cheek and give his hand a squeeze and then he takes Sofia’s hand, Arthur following just behind, and leads them both through the door way and onto a dias where the small table and inkwell have been sent up with the declarations Henry will need to sign shortly.
Alex directs Arthur and Sofia, with eye movements only because they’ve been trained to feel his eyes boring into the back of their heads their whole lives, to stand back from the table and lectern, under the red velvet canopy but still within view of the Privy Council, who mill around like black-clad sheep in a holding pen. Why they’re wearing black, Alex isn’t sure - no one died in order for Henry to become King. Well, no one recently.
Alex knows Henry has been thinking about Philip. About what could have been. A lost future that is out there somewhere, Hail to the Chief or maybe a quiet life in Texas, Henry writing books and Alex reading them, and no crown lingering over their heads like a guillotine. But that is not this life. Alex hopes those other Henrys and Alexs are happy, somewhere out there.
A member of the Lord Chamberlain’s Office clears his throat and the Privy Council swivel their heads as one to the doorway again.
“His Majesty, King Henry,” he announces, the first time Alex has heard some say it aloud, and the door opens again and Henry steps through. His back is straight, his chin high, but Alex can see the flick and tremble of his fingers, the anxiety that is ricocheting around his body right now.
The Lord President of the Council meets Henry at the lectern, bows, and then begins.
“Business for part two of the Council. Your Majesty, to make your declaration,” he intones, and then he turns, bows to Henry again, and steps away from the lectern as Henry steps forward. It’s like a highly intricate dance, this back and forth between the lectern. Henry pulls some paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and sets the notes for his speech on the lectern. His shoulders straightened once more, he begins.
“My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is my most humble duty to announce the abdication of my beloved mother, the former Queen Catherine I. For nearly thirty years, she has reigned over us with dignity, kindness and humility, qualities I hope to continue. She has endured unimaginable loss, first of her husband, and then of her son, with grace, and even now, she has remained the very picture of a Queen, so I find myself stepping into a role which has been perfectly performed for the last thirty years,” Henry glances up at the Privy Council, and Alex can see his hand shake on the lectern. “Heavy is the history that weighs upon me. I will bear it,” he intones, and then he folds his hands over the edge of the lectern. The Lord President of the Council speaks up next from a second lectern further back on the dias.
“Concerning the security of the Church of Scotland?” the Lord President says, the question oddly casual for the formality of the occasion. Henry speaks again.
“I understand that the law requires that I should, at my Accession to the Crown, take and subscribe the oath relating to the security of the Church of Scotland. I am ready to do so at this first opportunity,” he replies, and he lifts the small bible left on the lectern for him. He recites the long oath from a small notecard laid before him, and Alex feels Sofia lean against his side. He nudges her slightly, and she stands up straight again. He catches Bea’s eye, and she flicks her gaze at Henry. Alex knows what she means, he’s worried too.
The Lord President speaks again, and Alex looks away. “I now invite Your Majesty to subscribe both copies of the instrument confirming the oath has been taken,”
Henry steps away from the lectern and towards the small table, where the Duke of Norfolk waits. Once he’s sat in a red brocade chair, similar to the one Sofia had been waiting on in the antechamber, he plucks an ink pen from the stand in front of him and signs where the Duke directs him to.
He’d been practising his new signature the night before. Henry Rex. There are high loops, Alex had seen it enough times to know. He’d practised until his fingers were red, until Alex plucked the pen from his hand and kissed his sore fingertips, until he’d given into exhaustion and fallen asleep, a notepad covered in Henry Rex by his feet.
He signs the declarations now, and caps the pen, slotting it back onto the stand. He stands and steps back to the main lectern.
“I now invite the witnesses to His Majesty’s oath to sign both copies of the instrument,” the Lord President says and that’s Alex’s cue. He steps forward first to take Henry’s place at the small table, and follows where the Duke of Norfolk shows him to sign. He takes the pen from where Henry put it, and signs his own new signature.
Alexander R.
He can’t use Rex, because he isn’t King. He’s Prince Consort. It sounds strange to his American mind.
He signs both declarations, caps the pen and stands again, stepping back to allow Arthur to take his place. Arthur signs as well, just his name. The title of Prince of Wales isn’t inherited automatically by the heir to the Monarch, and Henry wants to wait until the dust settles before conferring the title on Arthur, and Arthur seems in no rush to take the title.
Signatures complete, they both fall back in line, Sofia’s hand finding Alex’s again. The Lord President steps forward to the main lectern and rattles through a list of requests to have the oaths and declarations authorised and at every one, Henry intones “Approved”. He has no microphone, his voice is somewhat swallowed by the heavy drapery above them, but they continue. While they talk, an assistant swaps out the last declarations with new paperwork.
At the end of the very extensive list, the Lord President says “I now invite Your Majesty to sign the proclamation,” and Henry steps towards the small table once more. He sits and signs this latest piece of paper, caps his pen and stands up again, taking centre stage.
“And that, Your Majesty, concludes today’s business for the Council,” the Lord President tells them. He bows to Henry, who then bows to the room at large. The Privy Council bow back and then Alex and the children are following Henry out of the room, back into the antechamber. The Privy Council will leave towards the Friary Court of St James’ Palace, where the public proclamation will be made. The family, however, will go home.
They hear it on the radio, though, waiting in an ante-chamber at the back of the palace, the rest of the family milling around. Trumpets blare over the speakers and then -
“Whereas by an instrument of abdication dated the 12th day of December instant, Her former Majesty Queen Catherine I did declare her irrevocable determination to renounce the throne for herself, and the said instrument of abdication has now taken effect, whereby the Crown of Great Britain, Ireland, and all other Her former Majesty's dominions is now solely and rightfully come to the High and Mighty Henry George Edward James,” announces the Garter King of Arms. Henry asks a footman to turn it off before they can hear any more. The only sounds in the room are the clinking of teaspoons against china, and the distant boom of the 21-gun salutes.
{#}
Christmas at Sandringham is still one of Alex’s favourite holidays. The Norfolk countryside over the Christmas period is picturesque, the grass frosted blue in the mornings, pheasants picking their way through the gardens at leisure.
Or, at least, until Mick gets a whiff of them.
Their red co*cker Spaniel races off into the surrounding parkland of Sandringham House without a backward glance at Alex, until he lets off a sharp whistle and then the dog comes flying back, paws barely touching the ground.
He’s obedient, Mick. He’s more of a working dog than David was, and needs things to do to keep him occupied and entertained. The kids, Sofia mainly, organise treasure hunts for him, hiding toys and treats across their apartments or Adelaide Cottage, and encouraging Mick to find everything. Most of the time he’s successful, but after one very smelly week where he didn’t find the dog treat next to a pipe that fed into a radiator, Henry made a rule that nothing perishable was to go near anything that could heat up.
Mick comes back to Alex’s side and sits in a perfect heel, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he pants, before Alex releases him again. He’ll go like this for hours, back and forth across the gardens, but Alex is trying to tire him out before they need to head to Christmas morning service at St Mary Magdalene’s.
The crunch of grass behind him alerts to someone coming to join him, and he looks over to see Arthur making his way over. He’s dressed in jeans, boots and a Barbour waxed jacket, looking every inch the English country gentleman. He’d cut his hair short when he started at University, an act which Alex and Henry both carefully pretended they were totally fine with while secretly mourning his curls, but he’d let his hair grow out since, honey-coloured and curling around his ears. It’s not as long as it used to be, but they’ve gotten used to it now. His eyes are like Alex’s, like June’s, the dark amber of aged whisky in daylight, but he has Henry’s cheekbones, his nose. Who he looks like seems to change with the position of the sun overhead. Right now, he looks like Henry.
“Feliz Navidad,” Alex says as soon as Arthur is within earshot, and his son responds in kind. “Were you looking for me?” he asks in Spanish. He always talks to the children in Spanish when speaking to them individually. Henry speaks to them in French. Family conversations are in English. Those are the rules.
“Kind of,” Arthur says, rubbing a hand over his nose. Alex knows his son well enough to know it’s a nervous tic. Arthur does it when he’s worried about something.
“What is it?” Alex asks and Arthur’s eyes find Mick in the distance before he speaks next.
“I, uh, I have a girlfriend,” he says and Alex feels a strange swooping feeling in his gut.
Arthur’s had girlfriends before, of course, but the last one caused quite a stir. Willa, Willow, something like that. She was beautiful and the ideal of a future Queen, the Lord Chamberlain’s Office practically salivating over her upper middle class but not titled background, her private school education, her friends in all the right polo clubs, but she kept insisting that Arthur and Sofia were a quarter-Spanish, rather than a quarter-Mexican, until Sofia had snapped one afternoon and called her a gringa amongst various other things that couldn’t be repeated in polite company. The girlfriend hadn’t understood the insult directly, but had realised she should be offended, and that’s when Alex had suggested sharply that Arthur should take her home. That had been the last time they’d seen her, and that was well over a year ago. Alex likes to think Arthur’s been more discerning since.
“Oh?” Alex says, keeping his voice even, measured.
“Yeah. Her name is Hana. Her mum’s an artist from Japan, her dad’s an architect. She grew up in Edinburgh actually, she’s been showing me all the secret places the locals go to,” Arthur says conversationally. Alex makes a small, interested noise, but not effusive enough to drive Arthur away. The practised casual interest of a parent of a young adult. “Anyway, we share a lecture on Didactic Poetry, and we got to talking… I really like her,” he admits shyly, quietly, and Alex smiles.
“Well, then I can’t wait to meet her,” he says and Arthur gives him a relieved look. “She should come for New Years, if you want her to,” he suggests and Arthur’s mouth downturns in one corner, the same way Henry’s does when he’s thinking.
“Maybe. I’ll see if she’s interested,” he replies noncommittally, looking off into the distance, and Alex smiles into his scarf. “Uh, Papi, you might want to call Mick back, I think there’s deer in the tree line,” Arthur says and Alex whistles once more.
{#}
The crowd outside St Mary Magdalene’s is as enthusiastic as ever. The cheers swell up as the gates to Sandringham open for them and they filter out, Bea and Benji first with Rupert and Lyla, Helen following and then Kit, his wife Ottavia and their son Hugo, Catherine and then finally Arthur, Sofia, Alex and Henry. As Henry clears the gates, a shout of ‘God save the King!’ goes up, which makes Henry duck his chin into his scarf briefly before he physically shakes himself, and plasters on a small smile and goes to greet well-wishers.
While Henry goes for the central group, Alex veers to the left and talks to the adjoining group there. It’s a mix of all ages, elderly women with flowers, young children with adoring parents. Everyone wishes him a Merry Christmas, which Alex responds to in kind.“‘scuse me?” a voice says from somewhere near his right elbow, and Alex looks down to see a little girl looking up at him with anticipation. He gives her Dad a quick smile and turns his attention to her, dropping into a crouch so they’re on eye-level. She must be about six or seven, with thick dark hair and a wide smile. She has highly polished patent leather shoes on, obviously chosen specially for the occasion.
“Hi, I’m Alex,” he says, holding out a hand. She slots her small hand against his and they shake, which makes her giggle.
“I’m Mabel,” she says and Alex nods. “Are you King as well?” she asks and Alex grins.
“No, not quite. My title is Prince Consort, it means that I’m married to the King,” he explains and Mabel gives a very serious nod. That title had been a predicament in itself in the early years of their marriage, but by 2034, the Church of England had finally gotten with the times and recognised same-sex marriages, and so that particular issue had been put to bed. Mabel, of course, probably hasn’t learned about that yet.
“Do you still get a crown though?” she asks, as though this is the most pressing issue. Alex… doesn’t actually have the answer to that. They haven’t got that far in the Coronation planning, at least for his bit of the proceedings.
“You know, I’m not sure. Tell you what-,” he glances up at Mabel’s dad, who tightens his hold on her small shoulders. “- if you give one of the PPOs a way to contact y’all, I will find out and let you know,” he says and Mabel’s dad’s eyebrows shoot up.
“She’s… she’s just curious, you don’t need to-,” he starts, flustered, but Alex shrugs one shoulder and smiles.
“No, it’s okay. Mabel asked a question that I don’t have an answer to, so I’m going to find out and I will let you know. Is that okay?” he asks Mabel, and she nods. Alex smiles at her. “It was nice to meet you Mabel, I hope you have a lovely Christmas,” and then he stands, knees popping.
He looks over to see Henry and Arthur standing shoulder-to-shoulder, talking to a group of elderly women who look thrilled to have captured their King and his heir in conversation. Despite Henry’s smiles, Arthur is leading the conversation, and Alex has to fight his instincts to step in as well, to shield Henry, who has a smile, but he’s tugging at the fabric of his gloves just over his left ring finger, subconsciously trying to twist his wedding ring. Arthur looks like he has it under control though.
Alex talks to a few more members of the public, exchanging Christmas well-wishes and even getting a sprig or three of holly, which he tucks into the breast pocket of his coat. The bells of St Mary Magdalene’s begin to ring overhear, signalling the start of the Christmas service, and Alex says his goodbyes.
The family make their way to the church, Henry latching on to Alex as he passes close by, hands linked, and when the church doors shut behind them, Henry tightens his hold on Alex’s hand, as if he’s afraid Alex will let go.
{#}
Alex’s phone shines 2:37am above June’s name at him when he scrambles to pick it up. Their bedroom in Sandringham is dark, and they’re in that strange liminal period between Christmas and New Years, where time is signposted by repeated Christmas Specials and turkey leftovers in various forms. Beside him in bed, Henry shifts and frowns at the blue light coming from Alex’s phone.
“Whoozat?” he asks, sleep slurring his speech and Alex frowns back.
“June,” he says, squinting in the dark to make out her name, and he swipes to answer, lifting the phone to his ear. “Bug, it’s nearly 3 am, what-,”
“Alex, you need to get to Texas,” June tells him, her voice thick. She sniffles and his heart drops. “It’s Dad, he’s had a stroke,” she says, but Alex’s ears are ringing and has it suddenly gotten darker in the room, he can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t-
He feels, numbly, as Henry pulls his phone from his fingers, and then Henry’s quiet conversation with his sister.
“June? Oh my God, is he-? Okay, yeah, we’ll be there. Text Alex the hospital name, we’re coming now. Yes, we’ll keep you updated. Love you, bye,” Henry’s voice is kind and then his hand is on Alex’s shoulder, pulling him back to the now. Alex blinks at him as his face swims in to focus, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through a crack in the curtains.
“My Dad had a stroke?” he asks, and he sounds small, childlike, even to his own ears. He feels some sort of emotion burn at the back of his throat, in his eyes, soothed by Henry cupping his jaw in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over Alex’s cheekbones.
“Yes. June’s going now, he’s not well but he’s going to be okay. We need to get going, I’m going to wake up the kids and get a plane organised, you just need to get dressed,” Henry tells him firmly and Alex nods, eager for any instruction, for someone to tell him what to do. Henry kisses his cheek and then backs off, clambering from the bed and pulling on a dressing gown to ward off the winter chill that permeates Sandringham, disappearing into the dark corridor beyond their rooms.
Alex, as if in a daze, does as Henry told him to do, and gets ready to leave.
{#}
In the end, it’s decided that only Sofia will accompany Alex to Texas. There is a rule that the immediate line of succession cannot fly together, despite Henry raging at the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, and Alex doesn’t have it in him to fight. Henry and Arthur reluctantly, tearfully, kiss them goodbye at the door to Sandringham and wave as the car sets off to RAF Marham, two hastily packed bags tumbling around in the trunk.
An armoured SUV and accompanying police escort meet them at Austin-Bergstrom after an anxious flight, and then they’re flying down the 183 North with lights on. June meets them in the hospital foyer, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, glasses balanced on her nose. She looks as exhausted as Alex feels, and she reaches to hug him first. It’s mid-morning in Austin, the foyer bustling, and even if he gets a few stray double-takes, everyone seems to be more concerned with other things, thankfully.
“He’s okay,” June says into his shoulder, and Alex takes what feels like his first proper breath since she called. “He’s going to need rehab and will probably need at-home help going forward, but he’s okay,” she explains and Alex nods, her hair scratching at his cheek.
They separate so that Sofia can hug her aunt, and June presses her cheek to the side of Sofia’s head, closing her eyes for just a moment before sighing and releasing her.
“Come on, I told him you were coming,” June tells Sofia, stepping back and taking her hand. Alex follows behind them, PPOs and June’s private security officers falling into step. They take the elevator up to the right floor and Alex follows quietly as June talks to Sofia.
“He’s lost control of the muscles on one side of his body, so he might look a bit different to you, okay? And because of that, his speech is a bit slurred but he can understand you just fine. Gammie’s here too, she’ll be pleased to see you,” June says and Alex frowns.
“Mom’s here?” he asks and June nods as they turn onto one long corridor, fluorescent lighting overhead making everything white and stark.
“She got here before me. She’s been bullying the doctors,” she adds with a grimace and Alex can’t help but smile. Sounds like his Mom alright. “Turns out Dad was talking to her on the phone when he started to sound ‘weird’, according to her. She had one of her Secret Service agents call an ambulance and they got to him in record time. Thank God Dad was visiting some old friends nearby,”
June pauses outside one of the rooms, the door flanked by two Secret Service agents, and gives Alex and Sofia both encouraging looks. She knocks once on the door and then opens it.
“Guess who’s here!” she says in an upbeat tone, and she steps aside to usher Alex and Sofia in.
His Dad… it’s as June described. The left half of his face has almost collapsed on itself, sloping downwards with gravity. He favours his right side as he lifts his arm out to Sofia, who runs straight for him and folds herself into his embrace. He’s saying something, Alex can’t quite understand it, but it might be Chofis, his nickname for Sofia.
“Hola Abuelo,” Sofia murmurs, turning her head to kiss his cheek. Alex steps close too, bending down to wrap an arm around his Dad.
“Hola Papi,” he murmurs and his Dad makes another garbled sound. Alex presses a kiss to his white hair. “We’re gonna get you all taken care of, yeah? Don’t you worry about a thing,” he tells his Dad. He steps back to let Sofia have her Abuelo to herself, and rounds the bed to hug his Mom, who’s sat in an uncomfortable-looking armchair by the window. Her white hair is pin-straight and loose around her face, tortoise-shell glasses hanging from a fine gold chain around her neck. She looks tired, but pleased to see them.
“You doing okay?” his Mom murmurs into his ear when he’s close. Alex presses his face into her shoulder and doesn’t answer. “How’s Arthur?” she asks and Alex pulls back with a huff.
“I think his first order of business when he becomes King will be to do away with the Lord Chamberlain’s Office,” he says and his Mom smiles. “Give it long enough and Sofia will video-call him,” he adds, and they glance over at the bed. Sofia has managed to wedge herself between his Dad and the rail on the edge of the bed, so they’re reclined shoulder to shoulder, strawberry blond hair blending into white, and she’s scrolling through her phone, pausing to show her Abuelo pictures and telling him the stories around them. His Dad makes a strange choking sound that gives Alex a jolt of anxiety, but June catches his eye and mouths “Laughing,” in explanation.
A doctor comes by and gives Alex and June an update on their Dad’s condition. The doctor does not make eye contact with Alex’s Mom, but she’s more focused on Sofia and his Dad anyway, her head tilted so she can see some of the photos too.
“The good news is that we caught it in time to prevent further damage,” the doctor says. “We’d like to keep him in for another few days, maybe a week, just to monitor him and get him set up with some medications and a rehab program,” he explains and June nods.
“And - recovery? What’s that looking like?” Alex asks and the doctor looks at the tablet in his hands briefly. It makes Alex’s stomach drop.
“We’ll see how he is when we get ready to release him. But in the short-term, he’s going to need some help. We have some recommended partners for in-home care if-,” the doctor begins, but Alex’s Mom cuts him off.
“He’ll come back to the ranch,” she announces firmly, and Alex and June look over at her. She peers at them over the top of her oval glasses, now perched on the bridge of her nose, every inch still the President who stared down Mitch McConnell until the man choked on his own saliva. Alex and June glance at each other and, using the unspoken language of siblings, decide not to argue about it just now.
The doctor bids them goodbye and leaves once more. Alex’s Dad has fallen asleep on Sofia’s shoulder, though she doesn’t seem to mind. She keeps up her gentle narration in Spanish as she flicks through pictures on her phone, her expression serene despite the circ*mstances.
“I got a suite at a nearby hotel, if you guys want to have a rest?” June suggests, and Alex nods, grateful.
“Are Pez, Nora and the kids coming?” he asks and June shakes her head.
“No, not while Dad’s still in hospital. Ayo might be okay, but Olu and Eniola are just a bit too young. They’ll bring them when Dad’s settled back at-,” she hesitates, glancing over at their Mom, who raises an eyebrow at her, and June fakes a smile before she continues, “-at the ranch.”
{#}
Sofia goes straight for the shower once they’re in the hotel suite, bags deposited by a kind PPO just by the front door. Alex waits until he can hear the water running before he calls Henry, who answers on the second ring.
“How is he?” he asks, niceties skipped and Alex, for once, is glad.
“He’s uh… he’s okay. He doesn’t have any muscle control in the left side of his body at the moment, and he can’t really speak, but he’s mentally all there. The doctors think they got to him in time, and he should mostly recover,” he explains, and Henry makes a noise of acknowledgement.
“What does that entail? Physical therapy?”
“Not sure yet. The doctors want to keep him in a bit longer, maybe a week, see how he reacts to some meds… Mom’s decided he’s going to go live with her and Leo at the ranch,” he adds and Henry hums.
“Well, I suppose it makes sense. It’s all on ground level for one thing, if he’s in recovery it’ll be easier for him to get around - Alex, love, are you alright?” Henry asks and Alex wipes a hand over his cheek to discover he’s crying, pained whimpers pushing their way up from his lungs as Henry spoke.
Now that he’s realised, it’s like the floodgates open. He tries to catalogue the emotions as they wash over him - fear, sadness, confusion. His Dad, so proud, so strong, larger than life in Alex’s childhood, reduced to a fumbling old man between starched white sheets, unable to even say his granddaughter’s name. Alex sobs, curls over, presses his forehead to his knees where he sits and clutches the phone tightly to his ear. Henry murmurs to him soothingly from the other side of the Atlantic.
“Oh, my darling. He’s okay, he’s going to be okay,” he repeats and Alex holds onto it like a lifeline.
“I wish you were here,” he manages to get out between trembling lips. Henry makes a pained noise.
“I wish I was too,”
{#}
His Dad is discharged into his Mom’s care after five days in hospital. He has enough medication to kill a horse, has a list of at-home physiotherapy exercises as long as his arm, and Alex’s Mom has already arranged a day nurse, a night nurse, and several specialists to visit the ranch in the next few days.
They get him settled in one of guest rooms at the ranch, Leo smoothing sheets around his Dad as his Mom fusses, and then Alex and Sofia are on a flight back to London. Sofia waits for the seatbelt sign to turn off before kicking off her shoes, tucking her feet under herself, leaning into Alex’s side and promptly falling asleep.
She’d been his rock this week, Sofia. If nothing else, he could count on her to keep to a schedule. She made appropriate noises about being hungry at mealtimes, yawned pointedly late at night, and gave rave reviews about the bathing facilities in the hotel. She’d kept him moving, one foot in front of the other, and kept his parents amused with her anecdotes about boarding school, and video-called Arthur regularly so he could check in. She was a Godsend. She shouldn’t have had to do it. He’ll thank her properly when they get home.
Henry and Arthur have gone back to London in the week they’ve been in Texas, so the jet lands at RAF Northolt and they get a car back to Clarence House. Olive is waiting for them by the front door, tablet in hand, a relieved smile on her face.
“Welcome back, your Royal Highnesses,” she says, bobbing a curtsey as they cross the threshold.
“Thank you, Olive,” Alex says as Sofia gives her a small wave and then heads for the stairs.
“How’s Senator Diaz?” Olive asks as a footman takes Alex’s coat. Another one walks by with his and Sofia’s bags in hand.
“On the road to recovery, hopefully. Where’s His Majesty?” he asks, mouth still tripping over Henry’s new title. Protocol dictates Alex should refer to Henry as His Majesty to third parties, and he hasn’t had the time or energy to tear that bit of archaic tradition down yet.
“Upstairs in the library,” Olive tells him and with a smile, he takes his leave of her. He follows in Sofia’s footsteps and heads up to their main living space. She’s disappeared down one of the warren-like corridors, there’s not even a trace of her, but the library door is ajar so Alex heads in there.
He raps a knuckle on the door and then pushes it open, ducking inside. Henry looks up from the book he’s reading with, at first, a curious frown which then relaxes into a smile. As Alex crosses the room towards him, Henry closes his book and stands, his arms open for Alex to fold himself in to, his face upturned to meet his kiss.
It’s a reunion. It’s a homecoming.
Alex sighs as he pulls away, his arms around his husband, ducking his head to rest it on Henry’s shoulder, and Henry responds with a hum, his free hand running up Alex’s back to twine into the curls at the base of his neck.“Welcome home love,” Henry murmurs and Alex lets out a deep breath. They pull apart slightly, Henry’s hand still in Alex’s curls even as he lifts his head, Alex’s hands still on Henry’s waist. “How’s your Dad?” Henry asks and Alex tries to answer, he really does, but the words get caught in his throat and suddenly he’s choking on them.
Henry, eyes sympathetic, mouth downturned, gently pulls in onto the settee where he’d been lounging with the book before, and holds him close. He makes soothing noises, pulling Alex close so that his nose is brushing Henry’s jaw, where the lingering smell of Tobacco Vanille, Henry’s cologne for decades now, can be found. Alex tries to breathe it, him, in, and let it soothe him. Familiarity, domesticity - home.
“Oh love,” Henry murmurs, and Alex feels it vibrate in his throat as he talks. “I’m so sorry. I’m here, I’ll be here the whole time,” he promises and Alex believes him.
{THE ANOINTING - April 2049}
Arthur brings Hana home with him for Easter. He had warned them he was going to, along with a few hints that they should “Play nice!”. Unfortunately, the visit’s timing means that they’re not really putting their best foot forward, though thankfully she doesn’t seem to mind.
The Coronation is next month, which means the Lord Chamberlain’s Office is constantly acting like it's happening tomorrow. Random members of the office barge into whatever room Henry manages to seclude himself in at Adelaide Cottage, where they’re spending their last Easter before moving, and ask for his opinions on seating charts, musical arrangements, is oxblood too dark to be counted as crimson, would he prefer oxford or berry blue, one of the choirboys at Westminster’s voice has broken and they don’t know if they can find a replacement in time… On and on it goes.
“I’m going to write up business cards with rote responses and start handing them out,” Henry grumbles as he shuts the front door behind a particularly wound-up member of staff, who wanted to know if he wanted the ermine brushed through the morning of the coronation, or the evening before. Alex could see the response of ‘I don’t give a sh*t, really,’ building in Henry’s mouth before he managed to catch himself and give a polite “My valet will be able to advise,” instead.
“I think you can buy those already,” Alex says from the living room, craning his neck to watch as his husband makes his way back to the living room, where they’d been watching a film. Sofia is upstairs in her bedroom, revising for her exams, and Arthur and Hana have decided to go on a walk around the Frogmore gardens, tailed closely by a PPO.
Alex likes Hana. She’s friendly but forthright. Her degree is in Ancient History, as opposed to Arthur’s Classics degree, and she spoke with passion about the evolution of poetry, which made Henry’s eyes light up at the dinner table. She also likes to run, and she’d joined Alex already for his morning jog on The Long Walk, keeping apace with him.
She is still convincing Sofia, but even Alex could see his daughter’s façade start to crack, especially when Hana watched The Bachelor with her and complained loudly about the rose ceremony, Sofia in absolute agreement.
“While I’m up, more wine?” Henry asks and Alex nods.
“Please,” he says and Henry leans over to get his wine glass from the side table. On his way back, he pauses to kiss Alex, and even now, it still makes Alex breathless, warm and tingly. He watches Henry disappear into the kitchen, Mick on his heels, claws tapping on the slate flooring, ever hopeful for a treat.
On the side table next to him, his phone buzzes. Alex’s heart clenches, like it has done for the last few months every time his phone rings, ever since June called to tell him about his Dad’s stroke. Thankfully, it’s not June calling him this time, it’s Pez. Even so, Alex frowns - Pez usually calls Henry directly if he needs him, but Alex swipes to answer with a shrug.
“He’s in the kitchen, want me to get him?” he says and there’s a pause before Pez answers.
“Yeah, Alex, go get Henry please,” he replies and the tone of his voice is off. There’s no other way to explain it. His voice is usually musical, jubilant, but now it’s flat, tired, sad. Alex’s heart clenches in response, and he looks over his shoulder to see Henry look across the hallway at him, frowning, wine glasses abandoned on the side. Something in his face must give it away, because he crosses the hallway to come into the living room in four strides, one hand reaching for Alex’s shoulder straight away.
“Is it my Dad, Pez?” Alex asks, sounding breathless, feeling winded already. Please not his Dad, please not his Dad, please, he’d been doing so well recently.
“It’s not your Dad, Alex,” Pez reassures him but before Alex can take a breath, he continues. “It’s Leo. I’m so sorry, he died earlier today,”
It feels… empty. Like someone’s scooped out his insides, taken the air from his lungs. Leo. Sure, steady, overwhelmingly, innocuously pleasant Leo. Leo, who followed his Mom from Texas to the White House and back again, without a word of complaint. Leo, who cared about his flowers and his place settings and Alex and June and their Mom. Leo.
“Oh,” he says, and he’s surprised by the burn of tears in his eyes. “Um, how’s June? How’s my Mom?” he asks and Pez makes a small noise.
“Your Mom’s okay, considering. She’s, uh, holding it together. June’s upset. We’re just getting the kids together to go to the ranch, your Mom wants everyone to come and sit shiva… June wants to know if you’re coming?” Pez asks and Alex sniffs and wipes a hand over his cheek, brushing away the tears that have started to fall without his knowledge or permission. Henry’s hold on his shoulder tightens, lending him some strength.
“Yeah, yeah of course,” Alex says in a rush, nodding. “We’ll be there,”
“Okay,” Pez lets out a small breath. “We’ll see you soon,” and then he hangs up.
Alex lets the phone fall from his hand and turns to look back up at Henry.
“It’s Leo,” is what he manages to say. Henry makes a small noise and rounds the sofa, pulling Alex into a tight embrace, and Alex hides his face in Henry’s neck, feeling the collar of his shirt go hot and damp with tears.
There’s a scuffling sound from the foyer and Alex looks up to see Sofia in the doorway, pale, her eyes wide.
“Abuelo?” she says, her voice tight and high and breathless, and Henry’s the one to shake his head.
“No, Poppet. I’m so sorry, but it’s Nonno. He’s passed away,” he explains and Sofia takes a shaky breath. Alex leans back from Henry and gestures for her to come, and she climbs over the back of the sofa and into the space between them, and Alex just holds her close while she cries, his tears and hers flowing into one.
{#}
It’s a mad scramble to get everything organised, and this time Henry does actually shout at someone, albeit with apologies after. Eventually it’s agreed that Alex and Arthur will fly commercially, while Sofia and Henry will travel via a private jet to avoid breaking the monarch and heir travelling together ban. If anyone in First Class of their British Airways flight recognises Alex or Arthur, they’re kind enough to pretend they don’t. They all land within an hour of each other, load into armoured SUVs stationed across two airports, and they pull into the driveway of the ranch by mid-morning the next day.
Nora greets them at the door, dressed demurely in a black pantsuit, her hand stopping 3-year-old Eniola from bolting for them. She kisses their cheeks and shows them inside, where there’s already a small group of mourners waiting, his Mom in the middle, Zahra next to her. His Mom stands when she spots them, and crosses over to kiss them as well. Some part of her, some diplomatic part, is still running in the background, because she tries to bob a curtsey at Henry and he stops her, a hand on her arm.
“I’m just Henry here,” he tells her and she gives him a watery smile, patting his cheek.
“Of course you are,” she tells him.
They’re briefly absorbed into the group of mourners. Zahra and Shaan were visiting Zahra’s family near Dallas when they got the call, so they arrived the night before. Henry looks pleased to see Shaan at least, though Alex imagines he’d prefer it to be in happier circ*mstances. Alex would as well.
He manages to piece together what happened to Leo, through passing conversations with Zahra, June and Nora. He’d gone out to the chicken coop as usual in the morning, but hadn’t come back in. Alex’s Mom had asked one of the Secret Service agents to go and check, and they’d come back with the sad news. They’d found Leo, slumped against the coop as though asleep, his flock of chickens pecking nervously at his boots, his hat. Despite their best efforts, they’d been unable to resuscitate him.
He’d loved his chickens, Leo. He’d called them his gals. Alex thinks, privately, it might’ve been a nice way to go. Just Leo and his gals in the Texas sunshine. Quick as falling asleep.
They have enough time to shower and change before Nora is gathering them all for transport to Congregation Beth Israel, where the funeral ceremony will take place. They’ll then go to the Claremont Presidential Library, where Leo will be interred in a pre-built vault and then they’ll all come back here and the seven days of shiva will begin.
The men are all given yarmulke, a Secret Service agent handing them out like the world’s worst party favours, and June has to scrounge up some hairpins to get them to stay on over Alex and Arthur’s curls. Pez helps Alex, June and their Mom pin torn black ribbons to their clothing, just over their hearts, his hands steady and his expression calm. They then load into the convoy of limousines, and set off.
The funeral ceremony at Congregation Beth Israel passes in a blur. Leo’s casket is already waiting for them, unadorned dark polished wood gleaming. His Mom is bracketed between Alex and June when they sit, a handkerchief crushed between her and Alex’s fingers, and Alex is more focused on her than the Rabbi or the other speakers. Friends and old colleagues step up to speak about Leo, everyone dropping everything to be there, and they share short stories about a kind man, but Alex lets them just wash over him instead. It’s only when Henry stands that Alex looks up.
Henry crosses to the small dias and stands in front of a microphone that has been set up for speakers, and gives them all a small smile.
“Leo was a man of few words,” he starts, and the congregation seem to ripple, chuckling to themselves, and Henry hums a laugh himself before he continues, “But he used his few words for kindness. I have never heard him speak a word in anger, or to rebuke. He was endlessly pleasant to talk to, and loved nothing more than to talk about his wife, his step-children, his garden, his chickens. Despite his early career in the Silicon Valley, long before I had ever met him, Leo seemed to value a life that was quiet and yet well-lived. He found pleasure in cultivating flowers at the White House, and many a tablescape was better for it. He found purpose in feeding his chickens, his gals, and he found joy in his grandchildren. At my wedding reception, I found Leo talking to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom about how best to propagate orchids, and for the rest of his time in office, if I ever spoke to that Prime Minister, he would always update me on how his orchids thrived,” Henry smiles at the memory for a moment, before his expression smoothes.
“The same evening, I had a moment alone with Leo. I’ve never told my husband, nor his family, of this story, and it’s been a while, so you’ll have to bear with me. You see, the Claremonts are loud,” another chuckle from the congregation, “And yet Leo was quiet, and I find myself to be quiet as well. So, Leo found me in the gardens outside, and told me that he had never been afraid to be quiet around his wife. She found the words for him when he couldn’t, and in turn, he would be a pillar of strength for her to lean on. Silent, strong, unyielding but not unkind. And he said -” Henry blinks rapidly for a second, clearing his throat, before continuing, “- that even if his was a quiet life, it was one he found joy in. And he’d hoped I would too,” Henry glances at Alex, at his Mom, and he gives them a small, watery smile. “I know Leo was happy. We should all be as lucky to be half as happy as him,” he finishes and, with a small incline of his head, he leaves the dias, his place taken by a friend of Leo’s from the local farmers market.
Henry slips back into his seat and Alex reaches for his hand. His Mom leans forward in her seat and reaches for Henry as well, and Henry turns sideways in his chair so he can face her.
“Thank you,” she says softly, tremulously, and Henry gives her another sad smile.
The Rabbi leads them through some prayers and then they stand and follow the casket out the door and to the waiting hearse.
Black limousines ferry them to the Claremont Presidential Library. The congregation here is bigger, filled with diplomats and politicians. The British ambassador is there, and she inclines her head as Henry and Alex pass her. Senators and Congressman flock to their seats, and Alex finds Rafael Luna among them, Speaker of the House now. He acknowledges Alex with a nod, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses.
The graveside ceremony isn’t too long. The vault is in the gardens of the Library, by a pecan sapling that will grow to shade the grave in time. The casket is carried to the lowering device by a group of servicemen in dress uniform, and the Rabbi leads them in prayer again. With the kaddish recited, and a final blessing from the Rabbi, the service is over.
They linger, the family. Arthur has Eniola by the hand, crouched down to talk to her, her small black dress and patent shoes making Alex inadvertently think of Henry’s grandmother’s funeral, and how Sofia was dressed. Sofia right now is speaking to Ayo-Rose and Olu, her expression subdued, her hands by her sides rather than flying about as she talks, like they normally do. Pez joins them, his hand going to rest on his son’s head briefly, his expression warm as he listens to Sofia talk. Zahra and Shaan have fallen back into old habits, and they’re organising, whatever that entails in this situation. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex can see Shaan politely but firmly redirect a Congressman towards the Library buildings, where a small wake is being held for guests that the family won’t be attending. Shaan watches the man go with satisfaction, and Zahra gives him a subtle high-five.
Alex stays by the grave with June and Henry. His Mom stands by the casket, running her fingers up and down the smooth wood, her expression pensive. Alex doesn’t want to rush her along, and neither does June, so they stand behind her, shoulder to shoulder, trying to block any press from seeing their Mom’s final moments with her husband’s physical form.
Henry joins her by the casket, ducking his head to talk to her quietly. When he finishes speaking, there’s a moment and then Alex’s Mom leans over and presses her forehead to the casket. She breathes there for a second, and Alex wants to go to her, but Henry’s with her, his arm around her shoulders, and then she stands, nods, and turns to go.
They follow.
{#}
For as much as it’s a mourning ritual, sitting shiva is, well, nice, in some ways. None of the family aside from Nora is a practising Jew, so she takes the lead for the next week. With her guidance, June, Alex and their Mom spend their days sat on low stools while visitors come to the ranch to offer comfort, food and shoulders to cry on. Unfortunately for their visitors, none of them are big criers, so some must feel they’ve wasted a journey by the time they leave.
Shaan and Zahra keep them fed and watered, taking casserole and meatloafs and whatever else is offered by visitors and tetrising them into the fridge with military precision.
Henry takes over running the ranch, with Arthur, Sofia and their cousins in tow. He sees to the chickens every day, often with one of the children behind him. He lets out the ducks and geese near the creek, and calls them in every night. He becomes an expert in dodgy the cranky goat that has a paddock a bit further away from the house, and ignores the neighbouring donkey whenever it brays at him mockingly. He also helps to take care of Alex’s Dad, who still lives at the ranch, and he becomes friendly with some of the nurses that come everyday.
Alex’s Dad is respectful of shiva as well, joining them for meals mostly, but otherwise spending time with his grandchildren, telling slow and careful stories about their Nonno when they ask. He can walk now, albeit slowly and with a cane, and he can talk, although he has a slight slur. Time at the ranch has been good for him, and there’s no mention of him moving out anytime soon.
It’s… peaceful. Yes, it’s sad, and every morning Alex wakes up and remembers that Leo is dead, and it hurts, but the quiet of sitting shiva gives him the space to grieve. It’s also a reprieve from Coronation planning, the Lord Chamberlain’s Office strangely respectful of this period of mourning.
On the seventh day, shiva ends. The low stools are put away, the torn ribbons removed from their clothing, the candle that had been kept alight the whole time left to blow out in the wind on the covered porch overlooking the expanse of the ranch. Alex finds his Mom out there in the late morning light, her face turned up to the sun.
“I think he’s gone,” she says when she notices Alex watching, and then she cries.
{#}
They land back at Heathrow with a mere three weeks to go before the Coronation, Henry and Sofia arriving a few hours before Alex and Arthur do, the sun already setting over London. Olive meets them in the foyer, looking frazzled but trying to hide it.
“Welcome home, Your Highnesses,” she says, bobbing a curtsey. “How was your journey?” she asks as one of the footmen takes their jackets.
“Fine,” Alex says with a small smile. “How’s it been here?” he asks her and the corners of her mouth become tight.
“Busy, as always,” she says with forced lightness, and Arthur huffs a laugh before heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time and disappearing into the family apartments. “How was the funeral?” she asks quietly and Alex’s gut clenches again, a small bit of grief still gnawing there.
“Good. Went as well as they ever go,” he explains and she gives him a small pitying smile.
“And your mother?”
“She’s… she’s okay,” Alex tells her, and he does believe it. “Zahra’s going to stay with her until they come over for the Coronation, so she’s in good hands,” he adds and Olive’s eyes widen.
“Oh yes, she’ll be well taken care of,” she agrees and Alex nods. Olive lifts the tablet in her hands and begins to tap away at it, even as Alex edges towards the staircase. “The Lord Chamberlain’s Office want me to arrange a fitting for you as soon as possible? And they’ve advised that the night time rehearsals for the procession will begin next week, though you are not expected to join until closer to the Coronation,” she explains and Alex nods.
“Great, well, in that case, I’m going to lie down,” he tells her, and she inclines her head and lets him go. He follows in Arthur’s footsteps, stairs taken two at a time, heading for his and Henry’s bedroom. He can hear the children in the den, arguing over what they’re going to watch on TV, and he pokes his head in to wave at Sofia who makes a ridiculous kissy face at him, laughing when he shakes his head.
The bedroom is dimly lit when Alex enters, and he can make out the shape of Henry, lying on his side on the bed, his chest slowly rising and falling. Alex toes off his shoes and climbs on top of the covers next to him, fitting his body alongside Henry, who stirs out of his dozing and makes an inquisitive noise.
“Just me, baby,” Alex murmurs and Henry sighs.
“Hello love,” he replies in a low voice and Alex slings an arm around Henry’s middle, pulling him close. Henry hums, pleased, and slides his hands over Alex’s, slotting their fingers together.
“Thank you,” Alex says into Henry’s shoulder.
“What for?” he asks and Alex presses a kiss there.
“For helping. For taking charge when we were in Texas. You kept us all together,” he explains and Henry makes another small noise.
“You’d do it for me, darling. In fact, you already have,”
“Still. Thank you, Henry,” Alex replies and they settle into silence, Alex’s hand over Henry’s heart. He’s nearly lulled to sleep when Henry speaks again.
“I wish someone had done it for us,” he says and Alex stirs, frowning. Henry continues, “When my Dad died. I wish someone had just… taken over. We still had to get up every morning and put on our public masks and thank well-wishers outside Buckingham Palace. I wish the world had just stopped, just for a week, just for him, so we could sit down and grieve. But we couldn’t. So, I think, looking after you all while you mourned Leo was, in a way, healing for me too. I got to do what I wish someone had done for me,” he explains and Alex holds him a little tighter. Henry falls silent once more and it’s not long before they’re both asleep.
{END CHAPTER ONE}
