The Way of Things

Henry and Alex have been very much enjoying the life they’ve managed to carve out for themselves. They’ve had to compromise and work and change to maintain it, but it’s worth it.
Henry finds himself pregnant, though, and everything they’ve built starts to turn on its head.

Notes:

YALL HELLO!!!
I read this book, then watched the movie, then watched the movie again because it was my birthday, and I’m OBSESSED!! And, as I tend to do with my favorite fandoms, I decided to get one of these dudes pregnant.
Few things to note before we begin:
1. Male pregnancy is something that can happen in this universe. It’s very rare, but usually boys are tested for the ability when they go through puberty. A cis man getting pregnant still comes with a hefty amount of stigma, but it is something that does happen
2. This is set about four years after the events of the book. Henry is 27 and Alex is 25.
3. This fic is much more heavily based on the book than the movie, so June is here and Alex’s parents are divorced.
Okay!! That covers it! Enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Nausea, Fatigue, and Anxiety

Chapter Text

People

@people

EXCLUSIVE: Alex Claremont-Diaz, former first son, shares with People his plans after law school, his favorite things about Prince Henry, and what it’s really like to have lived in the White House

Great Ormond Street Hospital

@greatormondst

We unfortunately have to announce that @princehenryofwales has had to postpone his storybook reading scheduled for today. Hope to see you soon Prince Henry!

Henry wishes he could be doing this at the brownstone in Brooklyn, where he and Alex are so abundantly sprinkled, and where the bathroom is small but cozy. But, this trip has been planned for months, even if Henry has canceled on the main events of his visit.

He wishes that this could be private, between no one but him and David, maybe, if he insisted on sitting outside the bathroom door like he always does with Henry. But, the Prince of England couldn’t exactly walk into any pharmacy in Kensington and purchase something like this. So, now Shaan knows, and so does the random staffer they got to buy it, but Henry feels removed enough from that person not to care as much about them.

There was always going to be compromises with his life. He knew that. Unless he fully abandoned his family and any claims to his title at all–which he’s not at the point of wanting–there would inevitably be some concessions. He still gets to live as he wants to, mostly. He gets Alex, and he’d make almost any concession needed for that.

This, however, feels like the gateway to a million more concessions and agreements and manufactured stories. This feels like shit.

“Shit,” Henry mutters to himself, voicing the feeling. The box the anonymous staffer purchased had three tests in it, so Henry got a cup and took all three of them at once. Which means, now, he gets to stare at all three double-lined, glaringly positive pregnancy tests developing at once.

He frowns. He’s not that surprised, despite the fact that, given him not being aware his body was capable of this, it should be very surprising. Something in his gut, quite possibly the thing Alex left in it, had told him every test would turn up positive. Still, though, shit .

Henry gathers up the tests and the box and the cup he just washed out and shoves them all into the bag the box came in. He won’t throw them away in the palace.

Shaan is sitting with David in Henry’s bedroom when Henry enters. He looks up from his phone and stares at Henry, not asking the question he must want to, or saying anything at all. He just looks at Henry, waiting, curious but not overtly expectant. Henry’s eyes glance away and he nods. Shaan rises up from his chair.

“No planning yet,” Henry says, “Soon, once I see Alex again, I promise, but . . . just . . . not this moment. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Shaan answers. As studied in Henry’s moods and needs as anyone outside of Alex can be, he moves towards the door to leave, “Tonight, at seven, you have a dinner with the UK board of The Henry Foundation. You are free until then, your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Henry acknowledges. He grips harder onto the plastic bag that has yet to leave his hand and crouches down to pet David, “I’d like to take David on a walk, if you could let the PPO's know.”

Shaan fetches him PPO’s to border him as he walks David on a path just outside the palace gates. When there’s a gap in onlookers, Henry tosses the tests away with a bag of David’s poop.

The week ahead of Henry is full of ample distractions. There’s always something to be done; work for The Henry Foundation, interviews, photo-ops, meetings. Usually, the endless rigor of celebrity is a source of aggravation for him, and it still is, mostly, but it’s not so bad when it’s keeping his mind off other things.

Those other things, though, have a tendency to creep back up on him in the middle of the night, when insomnia grips him.

Outside of everything else, which is a lot , the timing’s a bit shit. This summer has been a bright spot in Henry’s near future he’s been eagerly awaiting. He was to spend the whole of it in Brooklyn with Alex. Alex is newly done with law school, his graduation barely over two months ago. Henry’s just finished up the tour for his (first ever) book, a collection of poetry he’s still not sure isn’t utter rubbish but that is selling well, and a load of work on his UK shelters. In autumn, Alex will start looking for firms to apply to and cases to take on and Henry will be jet-setting for work again, maybe even writing as well if the muse takes him. This summer, though, this summer is theirs . The Brooklyn brownstone and the Texas lakehouse and nights drinking with friends and all theirs.

Well, it was theirs. Whatever Henry and Alex end up doing about their predicament, it will likely be a wrench in those plans.

He has to tell Alex the minute they can speak privately, rip that bandaid off and get the sting of it over with.

Except, he concludes his work in London, goes home to their brownstone, sees Alex, and doesn’t tell him a fucking thing.

“God,” Alex grins, that perfect grin, and wraps Henry up in his arms the second he comes through the door, “I missed you like hell, baby.”

“It’s barely been more than a week,” Henry demures. Alex pulls back to look at him with a scoff.

“Don’t act like you didn’t miss me, too.”

Henry rolls his eyes, though he did. Of course he did; he misses Alex when they’ve spent the whole day together and then he leaves to get groceries. He’s still so hopeless about him, but it’s not as though he can go around admitting it something like that.

“Do you want dinner?” Alex asks once Henry’s tossed his duffle bag into their bedroom and changed from his stiff ‘appearances outfit’ into pajamas. Henry sighs down onto the bed and considers.

At home, sinking into the nice give of their mattress, in what should be the height of comfort, Henry’s reality– their reality, actually–is more present than ever. This life they’ve somehow managed to carve out for themselves from impossible circumstances shakes under the weight of what Henry found out in KP. Alex deserves all the facts before he goes and does something sweet like cook Henry dinner.

Henry opens his mouth. His announcement sits there. He shuts it again and lets his lids droop to a sultry expression.

“I want your cock in my ass first,” he says. Alex’s mouth falls open and he takes only a few moments of processing before he launches on Henry, mouth first.

Henry does get Alex’s cock in his ass rather quickly. It’s the de-stressor it always is, and Henry remains blissed out through their Indian take-away dinner, hardly thinking of what he needs to tell Alex. But, then, CNN is playing on nearly mute, Alex is trying to ask Henry about his trip, and it shivers up his throat again like a rush of bile. Which reminds Henry he’s lucky he hasn’t thrown up in front of Alex yet, considering he spent most of the flight home kneeling in front of a toilet.

“Would you . . .” he murmurs, toying at the waistband of Alex’s pants, because he’s got one reliable move and he’ll use it. Good thing they go at like rabbits when everything is right and dandy with them, too. Or, not good, maybe, given . . . well, “Please? I really did miss you.”

“Yeah,” Alex hums. He presses a knee into Henry’s crotch, just the right pressure to make Henry’s breath flutter, and lays him down against the couch, “I know. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” Henry breathes against Alex’s lips, so close yet still not touching his.

He wants this, outside of as a ploy to keep from talking, the way he always wants Alex; desperate and raw and insatiable. He closes the distance between them and kisses Alex smooth and soft. He focuses on the taste of him. He melts into it. He lets Alex touch and grab and tug at every part of him. He delights when Alex starts toying with the piercing he had done nearly two years ago, that still serves to excite Alex. He thinks, in the very, very, most subconscious bit of his mind, that it makes sense he got pregnant, when it’s like this all the time.

Alex fucks him on the couch, drawing out their orgasms until they’re both disasters, and comes in him. With no condom. Because they're stupid. Henry’s subconscious echoes the thought again; it makes sense he got pregnant, when it’s like this .

Henry blurts it out as Alex hands him a towel to clean up afterwards.

”I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Alex says, almost a laugh. Henry’s eyes dart away as he diverts all his attention to wiping the towel across his stomach and ass.

“I’m, um. Well, you heard me, didn’t you?” he mutters. He glances at Alex as he throws the towel to him to find his brow quirked in confusion. Henry sighs, “I . . . I said I’m pregnant.”

“Is this a joke?” Alex asks, legitimately chuckling. Henry frowns as he rustles into his briefs. Alex’s smile flatters, “Or . . . or, um . . .”

“Or,” Henry states resolutely. Alex falls back against the couch.

“Did you know that you could get . . .?” he asks without finishing his question. Henry shakes his head, not looking at Alex, not quite yet.

“No. I was never tested.”

He was, at fourteen, the typical time most boys are tested for the ability, told by the family doctor that he, of course, would never have to worry about it. The test is invasive. No sense in going through all that, given how irrelevant it would be. Such assumptions about Henry’s life seem to keep landing him in trouble.

“Hm,” Alex says, a non-response, and the conversation flattens between them. Henry sits, holding his shirt in his lap and rubbing the fabric between two of his fingers.

“I’m . . . sorry,” he eventually gets out, “I’m sure you’re rather taken aback. You hadn’t signed on for this.”

“Hey, wait, no ,” Alex juts out immediately. He’s pressed against Henry’s back, arms around his chest, in an instant, and Henry lets out a shuddering breath of relief, “I was just, like, getting my thoughts together about it. I wasn’t . . . I’m not mad, Jesus, Henry. Stop assuming you’re a burden to me. I signed on for you, and everything that comes along with that.”

“Even something like this?” Henry mumbles against the inside of Alex’s bicep. He smells his sweat and faint lingering bits of cologne and wishes he could dive under those smells rather than be in this moment.

“Yes. Definitely,” Alex answers assuredly, “It’s earlier than we thought about kids, yeah, and not the way we were thinking, but, you know, we’ll figure it out. Move some things around. This can work. We can definitely make this work.”

Henry fights a smile. It’s almost enough to make him laugh. Alex’s optimism has always had a way of infecting him. It’s how American it is, all ‘definitely’s and ‘we got this’ and the blind belief that they are capable of handling what seems insurmountable. It’s as charming as it is terrifying.

“Alex, I . . .” Henry says, and can no longer help grinning into Alex’s skin, “Christ, you’re ridiculous. You just found out you’ve gotten someone pregnant whom you didn’t even know could get pregnant in the first place. You should spend at least a few minutes on being overwhelmed.”

“Eh, I’ve got nine months to be overwhelmed,” Alex shrugs off. The idea of that, of those nine months, sinks like a stone inside Henry.

He hasn’t really touched that, fully. He made the connections in his head between his nausea, vomiting, and fatigue, leading to him ask Shaan to procure him pregnancy tests, and, once that was done, he thought of his need to tell Alex and, in the vaguest senses, ways this might complicate their life. He seems to have put up a block around everything else.

He gulps, shifting in Alex’s hold.

“There are options. When it comes to that,” he says. Alex nods, pulling away, which is likely just so they both have room to think, but it feels a little bit like a rejection, nonetheless. Henry pulls in on himself.

“Okay,” Alex says, too even and warm in the face of this, “What are they?”

“There’s what you said, of course. The whole, um. Nine months and then, uh, ah, the having a baby one. That one probably means a lot of my family’s involvement and insane amounts of press coverage,” Henry details. Alex nods him on to continue, “There’s also the less practical version of that where we find some sort of monastery in the middle of nowhere to hide me in for the duration, then we invent a story about a miracle adoption or surrogacy or something of the like to explain away the child I’ll return with.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m veto-ing that option. I don’t like the idea of you in a monastery. I think my dick would kill itself if we had to be parted for that long. Also, as you said, not very practical,” Alex says. He’s glib and grinning and, much like Alex’s optimism, it threatens to take over Henry. He can’t allow it, though; there simply isn’t room for both of them to laugh it off.

Alex must catch something in Henry’s expression, because he stiffens his face, and lets show the first, faint hints of how much this is hitting him in the way his brow creases.

“Do we have any other options?” he asks. Henry nods.

“Just one more,” he says, “Getting it taken care of. Which would probably be a great deal of work for Shaan, figuring out how to have it done discreetly. Still, it’s an option.”

“Do you want that?” Alex says, voice low and considerate. He takes Henry’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze. Henry squeezes back.

God, what a question, though. As if Henry even knows, as if any of the options seem at all ideal to him. If he forces himself to think about this, and if he takes away all the complicating factors, like the throne, or the court of public opinion their relationship is constantly in flux in, or Alex’s burgeoning law career, or the stigma that surrounds male pregnancies, he thinks he would choose option one. If he ignores most of who they are, and pretends he’s some little known author who lives an exceedingly average life with an exceedingly wonderful partner, he’d want them to have this. That is a lot of ‘if’s, though.

“Do you?” he flips onto Alex.

“I want what you want,” Alex answers, like a fucking arse, and Henry doesn’t fight a scowl.

“That isn’t a real answer.”

“It’s your body,” Alex defends, tossing his hands over to the still mostly naked body in question, “and you’re going to be way more affected by it all than me. This is so not my call to make.”

“But, I . . . I want you to . . . ugh,” Henry sighs.

It’s pointless. Getting Alex to tell him what he really wants will be a night-long fight, if he even manages to succeed at all. His mother ran for president with a person’s right to bodily autonomy as one of her unshakeable beliefs, and Alex didn’t back her in name only. He goes to rallies, he stands outside clinics between patients and protestors, and, as Henry found out only a year ago from a drunk and weepy June, he took care of his sister after her own abortion. Just another thing for Henry to be proud of, even as it comes back to bite him tonight.

He shakes his head and, with a ‘hmph’, lays himself on Alex’s chest. Alex holds him with a ‘hmph’ of his own and doesn’t demand more of Henry. CNN still plays on the TV, which they forgot to turn off during sex, and Henry’s eyelids grow heavy to the even, familiar murmur of Anderson Cooper’s voice.

“I want it,” Henry murmurs, on the borderline between awake and not, the courage to confess living there, “I want to have it.”

He thinks, before he fades away completely, he feels Alex’s breath hitch under him.

They agree-as in Henry makes Alex agree-to go separately to tell their families the big news. Alex would rather be with Henry, glaring at Queen Mary and Philip the second they so much as look at him the wrong way, but Henry reminded him that they do want the pregnancy to be as little of an upset as possible.

Alex has the much easier job of telling his mother, who, now retired, lives happily with Leo a little bit outside of Austin, emerging into the public eye only when she really wants to comment on something.

Still, he lets her take him out to their favorite barbeque spot and get a little tipsy with him before he’s worked up the nerve to tell her. Which he doesn’t understand, because he didn’t expect this news to be any sort of upset to her at all.

It is pretty fresh to him. That’s probably it. He does want this. He had been glad when Henry said he wanted it. Just . . . he thinks he would have been glad if Henry decided on an abortion, too. Maybe it all depended on Henry deciding. Maybe he’s not sure Henry has fully made the decision yet.

Ellen Claremont, former POTUS, currently revered political figure, sits on her back porch, giggles from the beers she has drank, and sings along to Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver.

“Country roads … take me home!”

“To the place where I belooooong!” Alex croons with her, “West Virginia, mountain mama …”

“Take me hooome, country roooads,” they finish in a fit of laughter as the song peters out. Alex’s grin broadens as he clinks his beer to his mother’s. Taking a long, slow sip, he tells himself, very sternly, that he won’t put it off any longer.

“Mom, hey,” he says, waiting for her eyes to focus out of the hazy gaze they have somewhere across the backyard. Maybe he could’ve done this a few drinks earlier. She blinks, though, and he has her attention in a moment, “There’s something I need to tell you. It’s important.”

“Okay,” Mom nods, the word elongated. She leans back into the lawn chair she sits in, and shoots Alex an appraising look.

Alex takes a breath, still not entirely sure what has him so nervous, and says it.

“Henry’s pregnant.”

Mom’s eyes widen before she can even out her expression, though she can’t fully school the shock of her face completely. That’s fair; male pregnancies are rare enough that hearing about one will always feel like an oddity, even if all the shame around them is lessening with time.

“Well, damn,” Mom smiles with all the excitement Alex had been hoping to get from her, albeit mixed with startled surprise. She leans over to hug Alex to her, “congratulations, sweetheart. To both of you. How far along?”

“Early,” Alex answers, as exact as he can get for now. Henry won’t know how many weeks he is until he sees a doctor, which he’s planning on doing while he’s with his family. Another reason Alex wishes he could’ve gone, but, sometimes, with matters concerning the royals, he has to just bite his tongue and defer to Henry’s judgment.

“Does Henry’s side know yet?” Mom asks with a justified twinge of worry in her voice.

“He’s in the process of telling them now,” Alex says stiffly. Mom rubs a hand across the tensed muscles along his back. Her soft smile is knowing. Though, even if she couldn’t read him like a book, Alex hasn’t exactly been subtle about his feelings on Henry’s family. Him and Henry have a call scheduled for tomorrow morning to debrief each other on their respective announcements; he’s not sure he can keep his cool if he finds out Henry’s family was cruel to him about it.

Alex never thought he’d get to a point in life where he would be seriously considering a shouting match with the Queen of England, but, then again, he didn’t imagine he’d be cohabitating with her grandson, either. Or getting him pregnant.

“Henry’s strong. He knows how to handle them,” Mom assures. Alex nods weakly, and doesn’t point out that Henry also knows how to sit there and take their bullshit wordlessly.

“But, you’re happy about this, right?” Alex checks.

“Course I am, sugar,” Mom drawls as she takes hold of his hand and gives it a firm shake, “A grandkid will be great for my public image.”

Alex snorts and his mom’s face breaks out into a bemused grin. He’s got his one person who’s glad, then. That will have to do for now.

“We would have hoped you would wait until after you were married,” Queen Mary fumes under a thick veneer of politeness, “but, we will make do, I suppose.”

Alex had been summoned to Kensington Palace the morning after he told his mom about the pregnancy. He hasn’t had much of a chance to talk Henry alone about how things went on his end but, from the general vibe in the meeting room they’re sat in, it seems like not great.

“There are some things that need to be done,” Catherine sighs, almost regretfully, “just so we can minimize the scandal and make things easier on you two.”

“Okay,” Alex says, though ‘minimizing the scandal’ usually just means lying a whole lot to everyone who asks. He squeezes Henry’s hand under the table and looks over to him. He’s tired; a night spent awake and worrying lives in his eyes. He’s resigned, too, to whatever his family has told him they’ll have to do. Resigned Henry is never a good thing.

“I informed Henry that it would be best if you gave up your flat in Brooklyn and took up a royal residence full time,” Queen Mary states.

“Which I said no to,” Henry cuts in. He smiles at Alex with his eyes only, and pride rumbles up in Alex. Queen Mary’s lips purse.

“I also insisted that we had you two married as quickly as possible, which, luckily, my grandson has deemed acceptable.”

Alex’s head whips over to Henry.

“We’re getting married?”

“Um, I hadn’t had the time to speak with you about it, but…” Henry starts, looking sheepish and worrying at his signet ring. He glances up, first to Alex, then the watching eyes of his entire family, and back to Alex again, “I won’t push you into anything you don’t want, or aren’t ready for. It’s just … there will already be uproar over me being pregnant, no matter what. It will be much worse if we’re also not married. I wanted to get ahead of it, so I thought … I mean we all thought … I’m sorry, though, it was wrong of me to presume that-”

“No, it’s okay,” Alex assures, even if he’s not sure that it is, “I, uh. I figured we were heading in that direction soon anyway. So, we need to get married ASAP? How soon does that mean?”

“Remind me, dear,” Queen Mary asks Henry, “how far along are you?”

“Nearly nine weeks,” Henry says. He gives Alex another look, another squeeze of his hand under the table, “everything is quite alright, by the way, with … all that, my doctor said.”

“Nine weeks,” Queen Mary tuts, “gracious. Well, it would’ve been best to do it nine weeks ago, then, but we can’t sit around worrying about the past. We’ve decided on August 1st for your wedding date. We’ll announce your official engagement within the next few days.”

Alex can’t help it. He was trying, really, really trying, to keep his composure and show some respect for the sake of maintaining the peace, but that has him shooting up from his seat, hands clapping down at the ancient wooden table they all sit around.

“That’s in two weeks!”

“I know it’s not what you would have liked,” Philip interjects, as if this is at all his concern, “and I’m sorry you must be rushed like this, but you can’t possibly understand how awful it would be for this pregnancy to get out before you’re married.”

Alex huffs. Martha, who has already produced two heirs for the family, nods to all her husband has said as if it is sage wisdom.

“We’re not engaged, actually,” Alex snaps, “if that matters when it comes to announcing our engagement.”

“Oh, yes, right,” Catherine mumbles as she rustles around in the pocket of her sweater. She pulls out a ring box and gently slides it across the table to Henry, “Here’s that for you.”

Henry handles the box with as much care as his mother had, turning it in his hand before he opens it. When he sees the ring inside, he gasps.

“Mum,” he says fondly, “is this dad’s . . .”

“Yes, your father’s wedding ring,” Catherine nods, scrunching her eyes as if to pinch off tears, “It seemed appropriate.”

Alex swallows, sitting back down. He looks at the ring over Henry’s shoulder. It’s beautiful; a gold band, etched with leaves around its entirety, a single emerald inlaid in the middle. He could imagine sliding it on to Henry’s finger, even if under less than preferred circumstances.

“Okay,” he mutters, a hand on Henry’s thigh and not a care in his mind if it offends anyone in the room, “we can get married in two weeks, I guess.”

“Thank you so much for your approval,” Philip drips sarcastically. Beatrice scoffs.

“Oh, shut it, Philip.”

They conclude their meeting for the time being, though there’s still a million plans to be made, most of which will probably be made for Henry and Alex, instead of by them. Alex personally will have to spend the rest of his day making calls; inviting family and friends, rearranging vacations and outings, and canceling their trip to his dad’s lakehouse, because there’s no way there’ll be time to leave England before the wedding.

“I think this is bullshit,” Beatrice tells them when she nabs them as everyone is leaving the room, “I mean, shouldn’t they be happy you’re so ahead on producing an heir? It’s ridiculous, but I’ve got the feeling you two aren’t fighting your way out of this one, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I got that, too,” Alex laughs roughly. He’s making his way to coming to terms with that, but he’s not there yet, and probably won’t be for at least the next few days. Henry is next to him, brows furrowed, looking morosely guilty, and Alex kisses his temple with a sigh, “Hey, I knew there’d be some sort of shit storm. It could be worse.”

“I’m personally just glad it’s you rather than me,” Beatrice taunts lightly, “I think your wedding and heir should keep Gran from bothering with me for at least another year or so.”

“How kind of you, Bea,” Henry huffs, his voice ragged around the edges with exhaustion, “but I hope you are aware that you can’t dodge your royal duties forever.”

“Now you sound like Gran,” Beatrice chastises, giving Henry’s arm a punch, “I’ll be in my room if you two wish to vent any justified frustrations.”

Henry mumbles his thanks as he and Beatrice hug. He leans on Alex after, letting him tug him along to the room they’re staying in. Alex wants to get him right into bed, no innuendo intended. Henry needs some sleep.

“You do want to marry me, right?” Henry mutters as they walk, “Outside of this debacle, I mean. I haven’t made a terribly incorrect assumption, have I?”

“Babe,” Alex laughs, “I’ve been wanting to marry you since the first time you kissed me. Subconsciously, at least. This is just . . . on a slightly faster timeline than I expected.”

“Slightly,” Henry snorts. Alex opens the door to their room and Henry makes a beeline for the bed, falling onto it face first. Alex joins him, delaying his phone calls for a little while, and they nap together as their wedding plans are made around them.

Alex knew, if he wanted to marry Henry, (which, like he told Henry, he has for a while), that he wouldn’t get final say on nearly anything. Their wedding would have to be forfeited in majority to the royal family, just as an entire history of weddings before theirs had been, even if their own wedding would break from a number of precedents. That was not okay with him, per se, but, still, he understood that’s how it had to be.

Proposing to Henry, however, didn’t belong to the royal family at all. Within reason. It’s not like he could realistically do it at a pride parade in full leather kink wear, obviously, but outside of a certain sense of modesty, it was his to plan. It would be a moment that belonged to them.

Alex isn’t letting go of all that so easily. If they have to announce an engagement, Alex is damn well going to make it a real one.

Planning time is limited, that’s true, so maybe it’s not as grand and intricate as he would’ve wanted it to be, and maybe there’s a distinct lack of surprise, given he had to ask Henry to give him the ring this morning. But, there’s nothing stopping Alex from getting a room blocked off in the V & A museum, having dinner catered there, and getting down on one knee right after the apple tarte is served.

“This really wasn’t necessary,” Henry tells Alex as he kneels in front of him. His watery eyes give him away, though.

“I’ve wanted this for so long. I don’t care if it’s happening by royal decree, or . . .” Alex drops his voice to a whisper, even if there’s no one around to hear but two members of the royal guard, “or because of me getting you pregnant. We deserve this.”

“Do you want to give a speech or can we cut to the part where I say yes and start weeping?” Henry asks, pretty close to weeping as it is. Alex gives him a side-leaning smile.

“I had a speech I wrote and memorized, yeah,” he admits, “but we can skip to the kissing and crying stuff if you want. I think you probably know the gist of what I was going to say anyway.”

“Yes, most likely,” Henry agrees, and his voice wobbles. He, very cordially, Alex notes, waits until the ring is on his finger and Alex is standing again before he starts crying in earnest, peppering Alex with kisses that taste like happy tears. They eat the torte, kiss some more, look at their favorite pieces from the renaissance room they’re in, and call it a night because Henry is about to puke up all of dinner.

Outside of the museum, there are paparazzi waiting for them that Alex is pretty sure the queen tipped off. Well, all the better, he guesses. They need this to be believable. He waves to them amicably as he ushers Henry, looking a bit seasick, into the car waiting for them.

The Royal Family
@theroyalfamily

We are delighted to announce the engagement of Prince Henry of Wales to Mr. Alex Claremont-Diaz.

[image attached: a document bearing the royal insignia, listing the date of the wedding, August 1st]

People
@people

It’s official! @princehenryofwales is engaged to @agcd! Catch up on their relationship timeline: people.com/royals/prince-henry-alex-claremont-diaz-romance-timeline/

Daily Mail Online

@mailonline

Up close pictures following Prince Henry’s engagement to son of a former American president, Alex-Claremont-Diaz

[images attached: blurry photos of Henry and Alex leaving the Victoria and Albert museum and a zoomed in, even blurrier picture of the ring on Henry’s finger]

“Please don’t be too upset, darling,” Henry’s mum attempts to soothe, “we will get this sorted. If you weren’t aware, our family does have a bit of pull in this country. We’ll get everyone on board.”

“Hm,” Henry simmers as he settles down on the settee. He taps the spot next to him and David jumps up with a beleaguered little huff. The poor thing, he’s been traveling around almost as much as Henry himself these days. He lays his head down close to Henry’s leg, his wet nose bumping against Henry’s thigh.

“Everything will work out,” Mum assures, taking a seat on the armchair next to him, and Henry shrugs.

The wedding has been mostly planned, with minimal input from Henry and Alex. They’re five days out from it now, however, and there’s been a hitch, a major one at that. St. George’s Chapel doesn’t want to perform a wedding between two men, and from what they’ve heard from the Archbishop of Canterbury this morning, neither does Westminster Abbey.

Their resistance won’t last; Mum is right in telling him that. Both churches are officially under the family’s jurisdiction, so if the queen herself wishes her extremely gay grandson to be married in either of them, he will be, even if it takes a little (or a lot of) fuss. Frankly, Henry doesn’t give too much of a fuck about it all, in his current, slightly worrying state of detachment from his life.

This debacle, and their refusal to grant Alex any sort of title after they marry, and the way Gran has been treating him about his pregnancy, are all sliding off the walls Henry’s put up between himself and his feelings. He pets David, slouching down into the cushions of the settee, and hopes Alex will be done with his video call interview with CNN or Good Morning America or whatever the fuck soon.

“Are you . . . alright, Henry?” his mum asks, her brows knitting worry lines into her forehead. Henry offers her a small smile and a shrug.

“Fine,” he says, “I haven’t been sleeping well. My doctor told me that’s to be expected.”

“Everything else is going well, though? Have you been very nauseous?” Mum continues on, even if Henry’s shoulders have gone tight and tense, “When I was pregnant with Beatrice, I was terribly sick for my entire first trimester. You know, I found if you have some ginger tea with-”

“Sorry, Mum, excuse me for a minute,” Henry interrupts, standing. All the talk of nausea has his stomach turning, or maybe that’s just the idea of this pregnancy in general, “I’m not feeling well.”

Daily Mail Online
@mailonline

The Royal Wedding scheduled for only two weeks after the engagement. What’s the reason behind this rush to the altar: www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-12351657/five-reasons-for-the-rushed-royal-engagment.html

TMZ
@tmz

Prince Henry is seen out looking stressed and sick. Wedding planning woes?

[image attached: Henry wearing sunglasses and walking David, looking pale, hair disheveled, clutching a large bottle of water]

Three days before the wedding (which will be occurring at Windsor Castle, in St. George’s Chapel, thanks to his gran’s insistence), when Alex’s side arrives in England, the ‘super six’ are reunited for a stag-do. As much of stag-do as they can have when Henry is exhausted, cranky, and throwing up at least three times a day, that is. They’ve settled on a night in Henry and Beatrice's rooms in Kensington with junk food, copious amounts of alcohol, and a karaoke machine. Though, without the encouragement of tequila shots, Henry has sworn he won’t be using it.

“Cheers!” Pez shouts as they clink their champagne flutes and Beatrice snaps a photo of them all. Henry takes one tiny half sip of his drink, wanting for more but knowing he can’t, and sets his drink down. He leans against Bea, his sober confidante of the night, and lets conversation simmer around and over him, contributing only when directly asked a question.

Nora’s talking about her work, Pez is waxing poetic about June, and June is laughing hard at every word he says. Henry should be laughing, too; this is rare, a true reunion of all of them. Usually they only meet up in little break-off groups. Henry and Alex see June every Thanksgiving, Easter, and alternating Christmases, at the very least. Pez takes Henry out for drinks most times they’re both in London, and Nora drops by the brownstone for dinner nearly every month. It’s a joy to be back together, all of them, one that Henry has been eagerly awaiting for the whole week.

It’s here, everyone’s here, though, and he still can’t shake off the heavy, leaden feeling that rests in him. After the wedding, he’ll be alright, he thinks, which is a terrible thing to think about one’s own wedding. But, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s counting down the days and the hours until it's over.

Nora rips open a bag of crisps and tosses them into the middle of their group once she’s fished out a handful for herself. She speaks with her mouth full, discussing her theories on who she expects to hook-up with whom at the wedding, while somehow also steadily emptying her glass. Henry sits up and leans to her with a grin, deciding it’s about time to become an active participant in the evening, when Alex clinks a chopstick from the take-away they ordered against his glass.

“Nora, sorry to interrupt, but, ah,” Alex pauses, giving Henry a meaningful glance. Oh. Right, then. They discussed this, getting this done before the wedding, because Alex didn’t want anyone here having to find out from a royal press statement. Henry didn’t want that, either, but, now, the moment is here and it’s all a bit much to bear. He nods for Alex to continue anyways, “we have a little announcement we should probably get out of the way before any of us get shitfaced.”

“Is it that Henry’s pregnant?” Nora asks bluntly. Henry and Alex blink at her. She takes a sheepish drink from her champagne.

“Sorry, totally stepping on your moment!” she cringes, “I just figured, well, you looked all serious, and you’re getting married so quick, so it just stood to reason . . . and, also, I know Alex would have told me if he could get pregnant, so it had to be . . . uh, anyways, sorry! You guys go ahead.”

Henry glances to Bea, who has a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Pez, with June pressed tight to him, who also don’t really look all that shocked.

“Henry,” Pez sighs, “mate, you’re getting married only two weeks after you got engaged. We figured there might be a reason for that.”

Henry’s eyes drop to his lap. He does suppose the whole thing hasn’t been exactly subtle, their rush to the altar, but considering his friends might have noticed that means also considering any number of people out in the general public might have noticed that, too, and Henry is enough of a mess getting ready for the wedding as is. There’s a reason he’s blocked himself from looking at most social media since the announcement of their engagement.

“Is it true, then?” June asks, a tint of eager hope to her voice. Henry looks over to find Alex smiling, which is enough to make him smile, too.

“Yes,” Henry confirms, a wry twist to his mouth, “your sleuthing was right.”

“Oh, oh my gosh!” June squeals, “I was hoping, but I didn’t want to presume, but-eee! I’m going to be so good at being an aunt! And I’m going to throw you the best baby shower ever, I swear.”

Henry lifts a hand, mouth open, though Nora bounces up and is talking before he can get a word in.

“Ooooh, I love baby shower games! We should do the one where you have to most accurately guess the due date. Bea!” Nora shouts over Bea’s way, “Are you in this?”

“Technically, royals don’t do baby showers. It’s considered bad luck,” Bea says, taking the words from Henry’s mouth, “but, I’m sure we could manage a small one. If we were covert about it. Henry?”

“Maybe,” Henry shrugs, though he feels the choice has already been made. Sure enough, Bea slips down to join Nora on the floor, and her, June, and Pez all dive into shower plans. Henry leans onto Alex, simmering a laugh into his neck.

There is karaoke, lots of it (Henry and Pez duet on Under Pressure ), and everyone but Henry and Bea getting properly sloshed as the night goes on. By around one in the morning, everyone is in Henry’s bedroom, on the bed or the couch or even the floor, somewhere between wildly inebriated or completely asleep.

Alex is leaning towards camp one, giggling as kisses up Henry’s neck and nibbles his earlobe around his piercing.

“Baby,” he hums, sing-song-y, with breath Henry could probably light on fire. He nudges his body impossibly closer to Henry’s, rocking against him, “baby, baby, baby, can’t believe I’m gonna marry you.”

Henry sighs, wrapping his arms around Alex. Normally, in front of other people, even ones they are as close with as this, Henry tries to be more demure with their PDA, but it hardly matters at this point.

June and Pez are under a blanket together on the couch, snoring in rhythm, and Henry is sure they’ll be the next wedding bells he hears, if either of them can stop working for long enough to actually settle down. In the corner, between the door and the armoire, Nora and Bea giggle and fall into each other’s laps. Henry raises a brow at how his sister’s cheeks have flushed, and makes note that he might be witnessing the start of a ‘thing’ here tonight (two queer royals, what a pity for Gran). No one, though, is looking at him and Alex. He tips his lips down to where Alex’s head rests on his shoulders and kisses him for as long as he pleases.

“Mmhm, baby,” Alex repeats once more, “baby, you’re gonna have my baby. Shit.”

Henry’s breath catches. He hopes Alex doesn’t feel. And he doesn’t understand it, really, why he suddenly feels like all the air has left his chest every time someone mentions the reality of the child he’s having. Alex has never referred to it as ‘his baby’ before. It makes all sorts of odd, somewhat painful things happen to Henry’s heart.

“Yes, love,” he says, swallowing away a rush of tears. He asks, only because he knows Alex is drunk enough that this will be only a vague recollection to him tomorrow, “Do you think we’re making the right choice? Having it?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Alex woefully admits. The question seems a bit much for his foggy mind, Henry notes guiltily, “but, I-we, we just . . . it’s us , they’re us, whoever that kid is. And, I love us. So, I think it’s okay? Right?”

“Sure,” Henry agrees stiffly. He pets Alex’s wonderful curls, tucking down one that has shot out from his head in an odd direction, “you should sleep. It’s late.”

“Okay,” Alex concedes, yawning, as his eyes fall shut without a fight, “love you, baby. N’ the baby, too.”

“Love you, too, darling,” Henry hums. He rubs his palm up and down Alex’s spine until he’s well and truly asleep, and keeps holding him after that.

Henry can’t sleep, although he’s exhausted. Alex loves the baby already, a thought that will keep him up for most of the night. Maybe Henry does, too. It startles him that he doesn’t know for certain.

The Knot
@theknot

The wedding of Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz is only days away! Take a look at our predictions for decor, outfits, and guest list: www.theknot.com/content/royal-wedding-predictions

Princess Beatrice

@princessbeatrice

Super Six reunited!

[image attached: a group shot of Beatrice, Henry, Alex, Nora, June, and Pez in a room of Kensington Palace, all clinking champagne glasses]

“Sir,” Shaan says from where he lingers in the doorway to the bathroom, “the car is here to take you to Windsor Castle. Shall I tell them you’ll need another few moments, or-”

“No,” Henry croaks, pulling away from the toilet. He wipes at his mouth with some toilet paper and stands, “I’m ready. Just . . .”

He stops in front of the mirror and checks his suit–designed and tailored for him, on very short notice, by Alexander McQueen–for any wrinkles. He smooths his hair down, takes his earring out, and rinses away the lingering vomit taste from his mouth.

“Ready,” he nods to Shaan. Shaan mutters something into his earpiece and leads him along and out to the car that will take him to his wedding.

Henry opted to ride alone. His best man is Pez in his heart, though, officially, it has to be Philip, who offered to join him on his trip from Kensington to Windsor Castle. He declined, deciding to meet him on the chapel steps instead.

Even now, on his drive, there are people lining the pavements just to get a glimpse of him. The car windows are luckily blacked out, though he will be expected to roll his down and do some old-fashioned royal waving once he arrives at the Long Walk outside the castle.

For now, Henry shuts his eyes, leans back against his seat, and dives deep into his own head.

He’s that mostly undiscovered author again. He owns a mildly successful bookshop in Brooklyn, and, because he and his partner recently found out they are expecting, they’re going to get married. It’s a small affair, just a little ceremony at city hall, and then they’re going to get dinner with their closest friends and family after. That night, they will make love in their own bed and, in the morning, they will discuss baby names.

Henry smiles to himself. What a lovely couple, he thinks, maybe he’ll write a book about them.

Alex is escorted by his mother to St. George’s Chapel at around eleven in the morning, dressed in a Tom Ford tux with shining satin lapels. He doesn’t think he fully comes back to himself until after dinner at their second reception, dancing with Nora while she screams the lyrics of Low by Flo-Rida at him.

There’s bright, glistening moments of clarity in that time. When he sees Henry’s face as he comes down the aisle with Catherine. Kissing Henry on the steps of the chapel while a million cameras snap photos of them that the whole world will have seen by tomorrow. Every pride flag waving for them as they took the carriage ride to Buckingham Palace. Adele, literally, actually Adele , singing Make You Feel My Love and Alex nearly crying in front of three hundred people as he and Henry swayed around the dance floor.

Other than that, everything blurs. Alex is experienced in unending days of press. He knows how to smile for ten hours straight without it hurting, and how to make every one of the hundreds of people he speaks to feel important. That can come at the cost of putting his brain on autopilot.

By the time his dad is pulling him aside and pushing a glass of whiskey into his hands, it is past ten pm and he can’t remember a full sentence he and Henry have exchanged today that wasn’t meant to be heard by a whole crowd of people.

“You and I,” his dad starts as he slings his arm around Alex’s shoulders. He guides them out of the reception tent and towards the lake that sits beside it, “are going to smoke cigars and talk.”

Alex wrinkles his brow at his dad, who is well aware he has never and will never enjoy the taste of cigars. Dad laughs, forcing one into Alex’s open hand as he readies a lighter.

“C’mon, vato,” he says as gestures with his lighter, his own cigar already in his mouth, “These are some nice ass cigars. Cuban shit. And, from what I hear, we got even more than just this wedding to celebrate.”

Alex’s brows raise. He’d been meaning to tell him, really, when he called to cancel their lakehouse trip, but something like Henry’s pregnancy is not safe to communicate over the phone, and this rush to get married has kept him from getting back across the pond to let his dad know in person. He holds out his cigar to be lit and takes two big, horrible tasting puffs from it, as if it will assuage him of his guilt.

“June told you?” Alex asks. Dad shakes his head.

“Your mom did, actually,” he says, “yesterday, while Leo was taking June and Nora out to dinner.”

“Dad,” Alex sighs. He stomachs one more cigar puff, frowning at the lake, “I should’ve told you, but . . .”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Dad shrugs off, which Alex only half believes, “You go to Mom about stuff like this first. That’s how it is. I figured you were planning on telling me at some point.”

“What do you think about it?” Alex asks. So far, June, Nora, Leo, and his mom are firmly in the ‘happy about this’ camp. People like Percy and Beatrice are wavering on the fence out of their worry for Henry. Everyone else seems to be leaning towards upset. Henry’s still an undetermined variable.

“I think it’ll be a crock of shit for you two to deal with when it comes to the media,” Dad huffs. Alex coughs a laugh, grateful for the honesty. Dad grins around his cigar as his warm eyes land on Alex, and he moves in closer, bringing his voice down low, “but I think you’ll be a good dad. You’re cut out for it.”

Alex laughs again, this time to hide how hard his dad’s words hit him. He’s not sure they’re true. He’d like them to be, but, outside of a few visits with Henry’s niece and nephew, he doesn’t have much to test their validity against. He’s got a few months left to get there, at least.

“We should go back,” Alex says, because it’s a risk for them to talk about this out here, even with how vague they’re being, but also because any more of Dad calling him a good dad will wreck him.

Dad nods, his grin tipped to the side.

“Yeah. Your sister still owes me a dance.”

“I vomited in between speeches,” Henry informs Alex when they, for the first time as a married couple, cross the threshold into their room at Frogmore Cottage, “in some bushes outside the tent. I think some guests took photos.”

“They probably just thought you were drunk,” Alex shrugs. Henry was served champagne for every toast and a few of their custom cocktails (not that they had any part in customizing it) to keep up appearances, though he took barely a sip from any of them, of course.

“Let’s hope,” Henry sighs. He sits on the bed, a beleaguered breath simmering out of him, and Alex frowns. He drops down next to him and pulls one of Henry’s legs into his lap, working on unlacing his dress shoes.

“Don’t worry about it right now,” Alex says. He tosses one shoe off and Henry brings his other leg up for Alex to begin working on the next, “it’s the end of the night, we are finally alone, and we are finally married, so-”

“We are, aren’t we?” Henry says, grinning for the first time in a while. Alex beams back.

“What? Did you miss it? They televised it, in case you want to watch it back,” he snarks.

“God, no,” Henry says, adding as Alex shoves him, “not because it’s us. I mean, I just hate watching any appearance I make on television. Even if I’m marrying you in it.”

“Okay, fine,” Alex says with a fake pout. He finishes with Henry’s other shoe and presses a kiss to his knee. When he glances up to Henry, his eyes are glossy and big and gorgeous, that lovesick puppy look that Alex just can’t take, “What?”

“I’m thinking about going back and telling my eighteen year old self that I married you,” Henry states, very clearly having to work to keep his voice level, “and that happens to be making me a bit emotional.”

“Oh,” Alex says, and is also thinking of telling little Alex, on the brink of puberty, that the prince he’s obsessed with, and all those feelings he doesn’t understand, every secret want inside himself, leads him on the path to here. Yeah, that might make someone slightly emotional, “hold on a sec.”

He gets his phone out and opens Spotify. He had this idea during the Adele dance, which was totally amazing, no shade to Adele, but also very public. He finds the song easily and turns it on. As he pulls Henry to his feet, his eyes light with recognition.

“Alex,” he hums with a watery smile, “this is very sweet of you.”

“This’ll be our first dance, alright?” Alex says. He gets his arms around Henry’s neck and leans his head on his shoulder. Henry sighs into the touch, “This is it.”

They sway there, in their dimly lit, royally-owned room, to a song in Spanish that Henry doesn’t understand but fell in love with when he heard it on the radio. It’s been one of ‘their songs’–a playlist keeps growing–since. They hold onto each other tight and, despite the shitstorm Alex’s dad rightfully predicted is coming their way, Alex still feels they lucked out.

“I’m terribly exhausted,” Henry murmurs against Alex’s ear as the song ends, “but I’ll be damned if I end this day without consummating our marriage.”

“I put a bun in your oven, babe,” Alex snorts, “we’re pretty damn consummated.”

“Can we just have that slow, romantic sex we’re always too impatient to have?” Henry asks. Alex chuckles, and doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He and Henry strip each other down methodically, taking their time with each item of bespoke fashion, and trade lazy kisses as Alex lubes up his fingers and works Henry open, just as slowly. They fuck with Henry on his side, Alex holding him around his waist, trying but failing not to think of what exists right under his hand.

Chapter 2: Dizziness, Heartburn, and Cravings

Notes:

Thank you so much to Kisaru for beta-ing this chapter and to all my friends who have been cheering me on to write this ♥️
Also I’ve started working on a playlist of all the songs mentioned in this fic, plus some extras that fit the vibe. I’ll post with the final chapter!
Finally, there are some major content warnings for this chapter, so please, CHECK THE END NOTE to see if you might find some of it upsetting

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

E! News

@ enews

Could Alex Claremont-Diaz look any dreamier with his new husband, Prince Henry, in Playa del Carmen? #honeymoongoals

[image attached: Henry in a cabana reading a book in a loose button up and swim trunks, while Alex stands, shirtless, with his feet in the water]

Daily Mail Online

@ mailonline

Shirking Responsibilities: Prince Henry and husband, Alex Claremont-Diaz, will be delaying their royal tour and their move into Kensington Palace.

“Hm,” Henry hums to himself as he does up the buttons on his breezy, camp collar shirt. It’s the second to last day of their honeymoon and also the start of Henry’s second trimester.

Up until this point, his stomach has remained as flat as ever. If anything, with all the vomiting, he’s lost weight. These past few days, he’s noticed a slight curve. It’s barely anything, but he’s been wearing his loosest shirts whenever they leave the hotel, just to be safe. Today, it’s enough of a bump for his knuckles to graze it as he pulls his shirt closed over his stomach.

“Henry!” Alex calls as he steps out from the bathroom, and Henry’s hands shoot to his sides. Alex wraps himself around him, his arms in a snug circle around Henry’s waist. He makes no comment about the bump, if he even notices, “Beach again today? Or should we go check out that catamaran tour?”

Henry tilts his head in consideration, though he’s mostly just considering how warm Alex’s skin is and how nice it would feel against his, sans clothes. Henry’s mouth tilts up into a smirk as his cock twitches. His arousal has always been like hairpin trigger with Alex, but, ever since his nausea has improved, it's a struggle to not just forgo everything they've got planned and spend the day in bed. A struggle that he has lost a few times. Goddamned hormones.

“Let’s stay in a bit longer,” he asks, knowing Alex will catch his meaning. Sure enough, Henry feels the heat of Alex’s laughter on his neck a second later.

“You’re gonna break my dick, baby.”

“Well,” Henry says, moving Alex’s hands from his waist and up into his hair and over his chest respectively. He shivers as Alex’s fingers dip under Henry’s shirt and find their way to a sensitive nipple, “I could fuck you, if you prefer.”

Henry swears he can feel Alex’s brows rise. He grins to himself as a beat passes.

“Ah,” Alex says, sounding both shocked and deliriously horny, “yeah, that, uh. That works.”

Alex is no bottom by any means, but, on the rare occasion, under the influence of Henry’s fingers and a little bit of romance, he’ll give it a shot. Henry adores watching him unravel each time.

He gets Alex laid back on the bed and undresses the both of them from the little they have on. With his fingers and his tongue and his cock, he works Alex to his edge and then watches him topple over it. They end up not making it on that catamaran until nearly three in the afternoon.

Tomorrow, they’ll have dinner at the restaurant they fell in love with the last time they were here, and after that it’s back to Brooklyn for two weeks and then onto London for interviews, family matters, and a doctor's appointment. If he could make it happen, they’d spend another week at least in Playa del Carmen, where Henry can listen to Alex speak Spanish with the locals and drift away from the world awaiting at home. They’ve already extended this trip an extra two days, though; there are limits to the escapism.

The Royal Family

@theroyalfamily

His Royal Highness, Prince Henry, Duke of Wales, and his husband, Mr. Alex Claremont-Diaz, are very pleased to announce that they are expecting their first child, due Spring of 2024.

[image attached: a black and white picture of Henry and Alex, posed stiffly, from their wedding]

“Hand ‘em over, both of you,” Zahra commands.

She no longer works with Alex in any official capacity, or Ellen for that matter, having moved onto being the right-hand woman of many more powerful female democrats climbing up the political ranks. But, she and Shaan are in year two of their marriage, which keeps her updated on the rises and falls of Alex and Henry’s life. Outside of that, she does seem to have vested interest in their well being and happiness, despite her denial of any such feelings.

Whether or not she’ll admit to caring about them, she is here at their brownstone on one of her rare days off, advising them on how to deal with announcing Henry’s pregnancy.

She’s just finished approving their Instagram posts about it. The Royal Family officially announced it an hour ago. Now, Zahra has decided it is the time they turn in their phones to her.

“Twelve hours, no cellphone use at all,” she outlines as she plops their phones into her purse and zips it up, “and twenty-four hours without social media use at all. Shaan or I will let you know anything you absolutely need to know during that time. Got it?”

“You haven’t congratulated us yet,” Alex points out. Zahra looks up from a text she’s sending for a brief moment.

“Didn’t I?” she sighs, and frowns at Alex when he shakes his head, “Okay, congrats, then. I still don’t get the appeal of reproducing, but, sure, yay for you two. I hope you can handle the avalanche of press you’ll be getting for this.”

Henry huffs a small laugh. He’s not sure he will be able to handle it, but he appreciates Zahra’s honesty nonetheless. Better than Alex’s facade of ease about them going public with this.

“I’m going to work with your PR people,” she says to Henry, “and start turning down interview requests. Anything you want me to say yes to?”

“No,” Henry says at the same time Alex answers, “People or The Times are probably fine.”

They exchange a look, in which Henry considers explaining himself and every reason he wants to speak to no one but their family and friends about this, but he shuts his mouth before a single word gets out. Best they speak with at least a couple of outlets, controlling the narrative and what not.

“Alex is right,” he says, turning back to Zahra, “those two are good picks; say yes to them.”

“NY Times and People. Copy that,” she nods as she jots a note down in her phone, “and, sorry to rush out, but, I have shit to do for the people I actually work for now.”

“Thanks, Zahra,” Alex says, “seriously, this means a lot. Let me walk you out.”

He squeezes Henry’s shoulder as he stands and moves towards Zahra, giving him a smile before he lets go. Henry smiles back, best he can that is, and tries to be grateful for this cocoon Zahra is encasing them in, about as close as they can get to the extension of their honeymoon Henry wanted.

He is grateful. For Zahra and Shaan and every one of the royal’s team of public relations representatives who are working on their behalf to shut down the worst of the backlash before it reaches them. For being back in their home, finally, and the few days this will allow them to spend in it, sheltering from the real world. For Alex. Always for Alex.

There is, however, the ever present knowledge of what is waiting for them once they emerge from this bubble. That might be putting a bit of a damper on their weekend in.

“Wanna watch Drag Race?” Alex asks when returns from seeing Zahra out. His smile remains, wide and hopeful on his face, though the cracks are forming under it. Henry sighs, arms extended out in front of him.

“Come here, darling,” he hums, “and let me hold you for a minute first.”

Alex crawls onto Henry’s chest ungracefully and tangles all their limbs together, quieting a fraction of the buzzing drone of worry inside Henry. It sometimes takes something like this–meaning both a cataclysmic media storm creeping up on them and the grounding pressure of their two bodies clinging onto one another–to remind Henry of all they are capable of. They’ve faced the tempests of public scrutiny before and come out on the other side, holding each other’s hands. It stands to reason they could do it again.

“Do you think we could fit a crib into our office?” Henry whispers right into Alex’s ear, the type of question that seems too monumental and private to ask anywhere but here or anytime but now.

Alex’s smile burns itself onto Henry’s neck.

“Only if you put one of your bookcases in storage,” Alex answers, his voice as small and intimate as Henry’s.

“More like if you clear out your hoarder closet in there,” he scoffs back.

“Jackass,” Alex snorts.

“Bastard,” Henry fires back warmly. He feels like he could tremble under the weight of this, but he doesn’t. Tonight, in lockdown, when they’re free to be nothing but a couple having a night in, he allows them this.

Piers Morgan

@ piersmorgan

I’ve been trying my best, but I’ve been having a lot of trouble getting excited about our kingdom’s new ‘heir’. Wasn’t letting the prince marry a man enough?

The Bump

@ thebump

We here at the Bump would like to offer a big congratulations to expecting parents, @ princehenryofwales and @ agcd ! And, in case any of you out there might be confused, read up on these ten things you didn’t know about male pregnancy: www.thebump.com/a/10-facts-on-male-pregnancy

National Enquirer

@ natenquirer

QUEEN IS MAD: Sources close to the royal family claim that Prince Henry’s pregnancy is causing a major upset. Queen Mary has supposedly threatened to revoke the Prince’s claim to the throne: bit.ly/1ae25347

Buzzfeed

@buzzfeed

Anyone else freaking out over the announcement of the #firstgrandbaby? 😭

[gif of a kitten screaming with an American flag waving in the background]

The press is mostly negative. Or at least that’s how it feels to Henry. In all likelihood, it could be an even split of those celebrating them and those deriding them, but the detractors have a way of rising to the top. Alex and Henry each have their methods of dealing with it; Alex diligently saves every positive post he sees, and Henry pretends that social media doesn’t exist, silencing all his apps.

They’re on their way over to London after the pregnancy announcement. It’s because Henry wants to talk to Bea in person, and his family are concerned about them, after, and the only doctor Henry can see is over there; it’s because they must. Already, at only sixteen weeks along, there have been so many things Henry must do, more than in the past year combined.

“Fuck Piers Morgan,” Bea greets them with as they enter Kensington Palace, Shaan opening the doors ahead of them, “and fuck the entire bloody conservative party along with him.”

Officially, the royal family has no political leanings. Unofficially, Henry and Bea share some very strong ones.

“You have quite a mouth on you, you know,” Henry comments, “for a princess.”

“I’ve got you Nando’s ,” Bea says, and Henry can’t help the way his mouth starts salivating, “Don’t worry; we’re well stocked here. Alex has been keeping me abreast on all your cravings. And your mood swings.”

“You arse,” Henry huffs lovingly over his shoulder at Alex.

They eat their Nando’s in the sitting room in between Henry and Bea’s bedroom. Henry carefully dodges questions about his pregnancy with questions of his own about Philip, and, when that fails to keep Bea distracted, talking about Nora.

“Alex, do you . . . . do you happen to know if she’s seeing anyone?” Bea asks, not very subtly, and Alex and Henry grin smugly to each other, their own theories confirmed.

The ‘must-do’ activities Henry was called over for begin the morning after they arrive, with a family meeting to assess public response to Henry’s pregnancy. It is one of the least bearable family meetings he’s ever had to attend, which is saying something. At least he was able to get Gran to coincide that, now that they are married, Alex should probably be allowed to attend, too.

There’s a prime minister dinner, a military luncheon, and, most ridiculously, in Henry’s opinion, a ribbon cutting for a brewery some second cousin or other of his owns. At all these events, Martha keeps conspicuously slipping her children away from their nanny and placing them in Henry or Alex’s arms.

“There we go,” Martha hums as she sets her youngest, Princess Victoria, in Henry’s lap, during the tea she and Philip are hosting them for. He adjusts for her quickly, looping an arm around her waist and setting his tea cup out her reach. She’s just past one and very grabby when it comes to things she shouldn’t have, as Bea has informed Henry.

She’s adorable, with Martha’s mouth, Philip’s eyes, and a wispy head full of hair the exact same shade of red as Bea’s, and Henry has a growing soft spot for her and her fat, pinchable cheeks. Still, though, he would prefer to be asked before she’s thrust at him.

“Best to get used to it now,” Philip nods, which he’s already said at least twice when one of his children were forced upon Henry. His tone, and the assumption that sits in it that this is now Henry’s role to fill, princely responsibility traded off for being a baby maker, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Have you begun vetting nannies?” Martha asks, smiling as Henry offers up one of his fingers and Victoria takes firm hold of it, “Philip’s equerry found us Elise when I was about as far along as you with James.”

Henry glances up from tugging his finger back and forth with Victoria, his brows furrowing. He shares a look with Alex, wondering if this is even remotely something they should be considering, and is glad to find him looking equally as put off by the idea.

“I don’t think we’ll hire a nanny,” Henry says, about as concrete of a statement as he’s been able to make yet about their future parenting.

“It’s such a help, though,” Philip says, taking a seat next to Martha, as if he would do a substantial part of parenting, regardless of hired help being involved, “especially at charity events and parties.”

“I think we have it handled,” Alex assures, and he smiles at Henry with such faith, it’s enough to make him believe it, “and, also, my mom and stepdad are both retired, so it’s not like we won’t have any help at all.”

“Won’t that be hard, though, with you over here?” Martha asks. Henry frowns, that great monster of guilt and fear and denial that lives inside him rousing, knocking things about and making his chest go tight.

“We . . .” Henry starts, wanting to look at Alex but not, terrified he might just find the courage to tell his family off there, “we’re not sure where we plan to live yet.”

The silence that stretches after that is expected, even if Victoria keeps breaking it with her little gurgles and laughs. Henry searches out Alex’s eyes in it and they are waiting for him, bright and beautiful and certain. Henry’s mouth flicks up at the corners just slightly; they’re not raising their kid in a palace. He doesn’t need anything more than Alex’s eyes to tell him that.

“We can find out the sex today, probably.”

Henry’s eyes lift from the book he’s reading. He dogears the page and closes it so he can give Alex his full attention. They’re in the offices of the royal gynecologist (which one of the odder titles Henry has heard associated with his family) for Henry’s anatomy scan. PPO’s are posted up at every door and window, and the entire facility is locked down and running on minimal staff.

“We’re not supposed to, technically. It goes against tradition,” Henry informs. Alex’s smile falls as soon as he does, and it hits Henry in the center of his chest. He shakes his head and thinks, as he often has lately, of his imagined couple, the author and the lawyer, living in a flat above a bookshop, and what they might do, “but, it’s not as if anyone will know, not unless we tell them. So . . . do you want to, then? Find out?”

“Uh, kinda?” Alex admits with a laugh. His hand comes up to his face to hide away his grin, “It just feels like it’ll be real, once we know. Like there’s actually a little person in there.”

Henry chuckles. He finds the concept of a person growing inside him mildly terrifying, and he thinks he still would even if that person wasn’t also going to be in the line of succession for the throne. The way Alex talks about it, though, in the rare times they do actually talk about it, makes it seem so lovely.

“We should find out,” Henry nods, despite his own fears.

“Any bets?” Alex asks. Henry leans back in his chair, trying not to notice how the movement makes his shirt pull snug over his small bump, and swallows hard. He hasn’t thought of the baby’s sex, because thinking of that means thinking of the baby in a real sense, and thinking about that is simply not an option. Except when Alex smiles and asks him about it, that is, and he can’t help himself.

“I don’t know,” he says softly, even as he conjures up an image of a little girl with Alex’s hair and stupidly long eyelashes, “what do you think?”

Alex’s smile twists in a way that twists Henry’s heart right along with it. He starts to answer, but a nurse opens the door and calls them back before he can. It’s probably for the best, with the way even the anticipation of Alex’s response had Henry’s pulse pounding.

Henry waits until after the rigmarole of his vitals, weigh-in, and blood draw before he mentions anything about finding out the sex. The doctor is setting up an ultrasound machine, while Alex sits on a rolling chair next to the exam table Henry is half reclined on, his eagerness radiating.

“We know it’s not tradition,” Henry prefaces before he asks, “but, we were hoping, if it stays between us, you might be able to tell us what we’re having?”

“Oh?” the doctor asks, almost conspiratorially. He’s been excited to handle Henry’s care from the start–the first ever male pregnancy in the royal family is quite a thing to be given responsibility over, Henry figures–and always enters these appointments with an odd, giddy energy about him, “well, I suppose that might be alright, as long as we keep quiet about it.”

“We can totally keep it on the downlow,” Alex nods, and Henry snuffs a small laugh at his prevailing American-ness.

“Let’s get to it, then,” the doctor says, mumbling his usual warning about the chill of the gel he applies to Henry’s stomach, “and see if we can get a good look at the little one.”

The doctor presses the ultrasound wand down onto Henry’s skin and glides it along the bottom of his bump. The whooshing of the heartbeat comes a moment later, accompanied by the grainy imaging of Henry’s insides, and, of course, the baby.

Henry’s done this once already, at his initial appointment, so that they could confirm a due date for him. There was a heartbeat then, too, and a squishy bean-shaped thing he was informed was his child. The black and white shape in front of him now is definitively more baby-like. Legs, arms, nose, a round belly, and a large head, all curled inward just slightly, as if the little thing is trying to get snug in there. The corners of Henry’s vision fuzzes.

“Henry …” Alex whispers, his breath hitching. Henry’s places his hand on top of Alex’s on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb into the curve of Alex’s wrist.

“Hmm, everything looks wonderful, but they’re being a bit tricky with me about seeing the sex. Let me change my angle a bit and …” the doctor drifts the wand lower, in line with Henry’s hips, and slides it to the left, until the screen focuses again on a section of the baby Henry can’t identify, “ah, alright now. We’ve got a view of their bottom, but if I shift and … okay! I think I’ve got it.”

He turns his pleased smile out to Alex and Henry as he freezes the screen on what is apparently a view of the baby’s arse. Fucking Christ, Henry can barely keep his breath level over a picture of an arse. Alex’s hand grips tight onto Henry’s shoulder, nails pinching into his shirt.

“Are you two ready to know what you’re having?”

Henry opens his mouth to answer, but his voice catches in the back of his throat and will go no further. He manages a nod, which, coupled with Alex’s assured ‘yes’ seems to be enough for the doctor.

“It’s a girl,” he says, after one extra beat of suspense, and everything but Henry and his new knowledge of his daughter ceases to exist.

There’s more to the appointment after that, that Henry’s body must pull him through as his mind stays stuck on that one piece of information. He wipes his stomach, pulls down his shirt, and does his trousers back up, all on autopilot. The doctor tells them things he hopes Alex is tuned in enough to remember. After that, the receptionist hands them a folder before they leave, though Henry’s nowhere near aware enough to piece together what’s in it.

“Are you okay?” Alex’s voice, fuzzy and distant, asks him in the car.

“Y-yes,” Henry says, “just fine, t-thank you.”

He kisses Alex, for good measure, only half feeling it. Alex frowns when he pulls back, and Henry knows that he owes him an explanation. He owes him more than he’s been giving during this pregnancy, that is certain. If he could get his tongue to give shape to his thoughts, if his fears and wants and hopes wouldn’t thicken and solidify in his veins, Henry would give Alex all that he deserves and more. But, as much as Henry wishes for it, they don’t live in ‘if’s.

“I can’t,” he confesses, “it’s too hard to … and I just … I can’t … Alex, please, I’m sorry.”

“What, baby?” Alex asks. He shifts closer, fingers on Henry’s cheeks and their knees pressing together, “Tell me. Cause I can’t help if I don’t understand. And, Henry, I don’t . If you would just fucking talk to me and-and let me know how the fuck you feel about any of this, so that I-I could just-”

“Not …” Henry says over Alex, his throat tensing around his voice. He glances to the front of the car, a driver and PPO there, and out the back window to the car escorting them, where Shaan follows with three more guards. He shakes his head, “not now.”

Alex’s hands fall from his face, smacking audibly against the leather of the backseat. The skin of Henry’s cheeks tingle from their absence, as his chest plummets from the absence of Alex’s eyes on him. The silence of the car lacerates as it lingers, and Henry would speak, if only he could offer up something reassuring to fill it with. Another if, to add to the millions that sit between him and Alex, years upon years of them.

At Kensington, Alex wordlessly runs Henry a bath, a routine from their stay in the palace that doesn’t seem so comforting when Alex likely won’t join him as usual. Henry strips himself down and sinks into the water without attempting to extend an invitation.

“Thank you,” he mutters as he does, because Alex has lingered in the room even as the bath filled. Alex dips his chin in acknowledgment and moves to leave.

“Just-fuck, Henry,” he huffs, stopping to turn back to Henry as he reaches to doorway, “do you want this kid with me? Or this marriage?”

Henry straightens up fast enough to splash the water around him. His heart thuds in his chest the same way it did years ago, when Alex stormed the palace just to convince Henry they were worth all that they would cost, the very specific form of fear that spikes in him when their relationship is in question. But it isn’t, no, it can’t be, because they’ve gotten married, they’ve fought, they’ve won .

“Yes,” Henry says, barely keeping himself from shouting, “of course I do. I want both, how can you even-”

“Because you’ve basically shut down since we got engaged!” Alex says, none of the same reservations about yelling that Henry has, “And, you won’t talk to me about any of it, especially not about the baby. What am I supposed to-”

“I-I know! I know that I have,” Henry admits with a shudder, “I want to talk to you, Alex. I do, but…”

“But?” Alex prompts as Henry’s loose end of a sentence hangs between them.

“I don’t know,” Henry mutters. He pulls his legs up around himself, pressing his face against his knee. His nudity, which hadn’t bothered him before, now feels too vulnerable, as if Alex couldn’t see every bit of him, whether he’s dressed or not. He shuts his eyes. He could write Alex endless love letters, could fill books upon books with everything he feels for him, but this is when his words halt, “I don’t know.”

“She’ll be here in less than six months,” Alex states, his voice low, a fact Henry is acutely aware of, each day ticking on and on to an unavoidable conclusion, “and we can’t ignore her then.”

The door to the bathroom closes before Henry looks up again. He tugs his lip between his teeth, burrows his face further into his legs, and cries without making a sound.

The Hollywood Gossip

@thegossip

BUMP WATCH: Prince Henry, seen here with his husband, Alex Claremont-Diaz, walking their dog in Bushwick, is sporting a baby bump under his sweater!

[image attached: Henry and Alex walking hand in hand, David in front of them. Henry is wearing a cream-colored cable knit sweater, slightly rounded by the curve of his stomach]

The Sun

@thesun

Tomorrow’s front page: Royal Snub? Prince Henry leaves London just a day prior to his brother, Prince Philip’s, charity gala

People

@ people

EXCLUSIVE: @princehenryofwales and @ agcd sat down with People to talk about their wedding, honeymoon, and bombshell pregnancy announcement: people.com/alex-claremont-diaz-prince-henry-pregnancy-exclusive

Daily Mail Online

@mailonline

Why Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz STILL haven’t taken up a royal residence, despite their baby on the way: http://dailym.ai/prince-henry-residence

After Thanksgiving dinner is over and he has listened to all the passive-aggressive and not-so-passive-aggressive squabbling between his parents he can take, Alex nabs a bottle of Cabernet and retreats up to the roof. It’s no surprise to him that June follows only a few minutes later.

“Pass it,” she demands, taking a good-sized swig once she gets the bottle. Alex watches her drink as he reclines against the tiling of the roof.

This house, which is a new house since his mom and Leo decided to sell the one Alex grew up in last year, is situated in the woodsiest part of Waverly, with no neighbors closer than a quarter of mile to them, a full two miles from the nearest Wal-Mart . Wind whistles around them, shaking the branches of the two big cedar trees bordering the property, and it is the only sound to hear out here, other than the muffled hum of Leo playing Frank Sinatra inside the house. And, on this roof, in this little pocket of expensive nature, the Claremont-Diaz siblings close out their national holiday by getting drunk.

“I don’t understand why they insist on spending the holidays together,” Alex grumbles, “if they end up fighting like they’re still together every time.”

“It’s for our sake, I think,” June says. Alex scoffs, turning on his side and resting his head on his folded arm.

“I don’t know how it doesn’t piss Leo off, the way Dad and Mom talk.”

“Leo isn’t capable of getting pissed off, I think,” June chuckles. She takes another sip of wine before she hands the bottle back over to Alex. Her eyes, deep brown and heavy-lidded, land on him as her mouth stretches into a fond, soft smile, “How are you, by the way? You’ve been even worse about answering my texts than usual.”

“M’good,” Alex shrugs. He caps off his words with a long drink of wine. June’s brows are raised when he looks back to her, and he rolls his eyes, “What? I’m fine. Everything is fine. Stop being weird.”

“The media’s been rough on you guys. I’ve been keeping an eye on it,” she says, and of course she has. June scoots closer to Alex, even as he turns his head to the sky with a huff, “Are sure you’re both okay?”

“We’re . . .” Alex stops, blinking up at the stars above him, and finds he has no clue how he wants to finish that sentence.

What they are, in all actuality, is in regressive denial about the pregnancy, talking about it even less than they were before they found out they’re having a girl. They’d been making some small, cautious steps towards dealing with the reality of their impending parenthood before then, but, now, they’ve backslid all the way to ignoring the situation completely. Henry doesn’t mention it, and changes the subject when Alex does. So, Alex doesn’t mention it anymore, despite the fact Henry is over halfway through his pregnancy. Maybe they’ll finally be able to talk about it by the time their daughter turns one.

Alex has also started applying to civil rights organizations, something he’s neglected to tell Henry. So far, he’s sent out his resume to the New York and DC branches of the ACLU , The Freedom Initiative , the NYCLU , and, on a whim or a hope or a want, depending on how he looks at it, the Equality Texas Foundation in Austin. He even has interviews with a few of them lined up after the holidays. It’s not like he can accept any of them, though, until he knows where the fuck they’re going to raise this kid, which is yet another point they haven’t discussed in any concrete way.

“We’re okay,” Alex settles on, “We’re doing the best we can.”

“Fine, Alex,” June sighs. She lays down next to him and follows his gaze up to the sky, “but, for future reference, I did try to get you to talk to me about this.”

“Well, how are you, then, Miss Perfect?” Alex counters back.

June doesn’t reply right away and, when Alex looks over to her, she has the strangest mixture of pride and anxiety on her face. He sits up, clutching the wine to keep it from rolling off the roof.

“Oh shit, what’s up?”

“I was going to tell everyone during dinner,” June says as she gnaws at the smile stretching across her lips. Her hand slips into her jacket and works something out of a pocket deep in it, “but, then Mom and Dad got all worked up, and . . . I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to tell you first.”

She takes the small, sparkling thing she produced from the folds of her jacket and slips it onto her finger; her ring finger, to be specific. She turns it a few times to center it before she presents it to Alex.

“Holy shit, Bug!” Alex yelps. He yanks her hand closer and tilts her wrist this way and that, getting the moonlight to hit the ring at every angle. It’s a silver band with a large, oblong, bluish-purple alexandrite in the middle–June’s birthstone–and small diamonds wrapped around it, “so, is it Pez-”

“Yes, Pez! Duh!” June snorts, so giddy that it makes Alex’s cheeks warm, “who else?”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago, in October when I was in London for his birthday,” she beams as she takes her hand back and admires the ring some more. Alex chuckles as he leans back on his hands.

“Have you two little lovebirds set a date yet?” he asks, and June is quick to shake her head.

“No, not yet, but not for a while,” she says, “I just got pushed up to the main political correspondent for The Denver Post, and Pez is still trying to get his clean water initiative in Mali off the ground. And, we do want to actually live together before we get married. So, I don’t know . . . but it’s a promise. It’s a goal we're working towards.”

June’s smile softens, a little gentler and a little younger, and Alex can feel every bit of her want and her hope in it; she’s got a whole thing about meeting goals, though this one seems more personal than most.

“Hey!” Henry’s voice calls from the window Alex and June crawled out from, and June tucks her left hand under her thigh, “Your grandmother made an excellent apple pie that you’re both letting go to waste.”

Henry leans further out the window, gearing up to swing his leg out of it and onto the roof, until Alex and June both come to their senses about what a bad idea that is.

“Henry! What the fuck?” Alex yells.

“No, just no!” June says, shooing Henry back inside, “pregnant princes and rooftops do not mix! I’m not getting executed for treason if you fall off!”

Henry rolls his eyes and pulls his leg back in, as if Alex and June are the ones being unreasonable.

“I think you both are much more likely to go tumbling off roofs than me,” Henry says with a flick of his chin to their wine, “and, a screwcap bottle, really?”

“Don’t be such a snob, princess,” Alex snorts as he swings back into the house, his screwcap wine along with him, “Screwcap is just fine.”

Henry tuts lovingly at him as he helps June in through the window. She leans into him as she lands her feet on the floor, tipsier than she had seemed out under the stars a moment ago, and presses her cheek to his shoulder.

“Can’t have my little niece or nephew getting hurt up there,” she hums, a small tap of her fingers to Henry’s bump, and Alex watches as Henry’s body tenses in the familiar way it does whenever the baby gets mentioned.

“I . . . I, um . . .” Henry stutters. He looks to Alex, the faintest cast of regret over his eyes, before he forces a smile, “it’s your niece. Definitely a niece. Let’s keep that between us, though.”

“A niece?” June repeats, somehow both squealing and whispering. Alex nods at her when she looks to him for confirmation, and she whisper-squeals again, “oh my God , she is going to make the best flower girl.”

“Flower girl?” Henry questions. It takes him only a moment to put two and two together and take hold of June’s left hand, his eyes widening as he gets a look at the ring, “Oh, Pez is in so much trouble for not telling me! Who else knows?”

“Just you two,” June grins, “so, I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine?”

“Fair enough,” Alex shrugs, though he must admit all of his attention has shifted from his sister to Henry. Henry, who, yet again, has doled out a crumb of acknowledgement of his pregnancy, another small piece of proof that this baby is really going to be a part of their lives, and not some fabrication in Alex’s head he should stop mentioning. Alex tucks it away, along with the meager others he has, to store until Henry alludes to their daughter again in however many months.

“I’m gonna have pie now,” June states as she unwraps herself from Henry, either to remove herself from the simmering tension between Alex and Henry, or because she legitimately wants pie; Alex isn’t sure. She hugs Alex around his neck and kisses his cheek on her way to the stairs before she leaves them alone.

They stare at each other for a moment, like they haven’t been together for years, like they’re not married to one another, like they don’t both know exactly what the other one is thinking, until Alex sighs and gestures to the guest bedroom they’re staying in.

“C’mon. I don’t wanna go back downstairs yet.”

Alex takes what he decides will be his final swig of the Cabernet as he and Henry sit themselves down on either side of the mattress. The room is impersonal, minus a few family photos and some touches of Mom and Leo’s design style, and offers little of the comfort staying in Alex’s childhood bedroom did. Alex goes to cap the bottle again as Henry extends his arm out towards it, Alex raising a brow.

“One sip is fine,” Henry shrugs, which is likely true, but Alex is still not crazy about the idea. He relents anyway and hands the bottle off. Henry takes his single, albeit large, sip, before he screws the cap back on, sets the bottle away on the nightstand, and reclines onto the pillows, “Come over here.”

Alex does, getting himself situated so Henry can curl up on him, head in the center of Alex’s chest. Stroking his fingers through Henry’s fine, styled hair, Alex is grateful that they’ve never lost this, their desperate need to be on each other, touching and holding one another, every chance they get, despite whatever unresolved issue sits between them; sitting between literally tonight, Henry’s bump pushing against Alex’s own stomach. It was relatively small, that bump, until a few weeks ago, when Henry very suddenly went from looking a little bloated to visibly pregnant.

“That wine tasted very cheap,” Henry mutters into Alex’s shirt. Alex snorts and ruffles up Henry’s perfectly combed hair.

“You didn’t have to drink it,” he says as he noses his way into the mess he’s just made of Henry’s hair, Henry grumbling as he does, “God, what did I do, marrying a man who’s too good for screwcap wine?”

“What did I do, is the question,” Henry retorts as he tucks himself deeper and snugger against Alex, “marrying a man who would choose to drink screwcap wine when there was an aged Bordeaux available to him?”

“Sorry,” Alex laughs against Henry’s scalp, “next time, when I’m trying to hide from family drama on the roof, I’ll grab something with a better vintage.”

“Good,” Henry hums, soft voiced.

Their conversation fades away, until the only sounds are their breathing and the indecipherable muffles of people talking downstairs. Henry shuts his eyes, though Alex knows he’s not asleep, but Alex rubs his back and keeps quiet like he is.

“I know . . . I know that it’s hard for you to talk about . . .” Alex whispers, his own eyes shut now, so he doesn’t have to watch when Henry ignores him, “but . . . but . . . I don’t know, Henry. Just-whatever it is, that’s keeping you from talking about . . . her, you can tell me, okay?”

A moment passes without Henry’s response, then another, and another, long enough by then that Alex figures he should just pretend he didn’t say anything, when Henry trembles out a breath.

“I’m sorry,” Henry mumbles without looking up to Alex, “I’m trying. I really am.”

Alex presses a kiss to Henry’s forehead and lets Henry press some back along the line of his jaw. Alex believes him, for what it’s worth, even if the waiting is killing him, and he’s not sure how much longer they can delay facing this. He can try to be patient, though. Henry’s about the only person in this world Alex can manage patience for.

Prince Henry

@princehenryofwales

Alex, David, and I are happy to wish you and yours the happiest of holidays.

[image attached: Alex and Henry, dressed in coordinating colors, sit on a bench in Kensington Gardens, David sat at their feet. Henry has a small baby bump, barely noticeable in his dress shirt]

Daily Mail Online

@mailonline

Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz to join the royal family for Christmas amidst rumors of family tension.

Great Ormond Street Hospital

@greatormondst

Thank you so much to Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz for stopping by today to participate in our Christmas party for our patients and their families!

[video attached: Alex, wearing a headband with reindeer antlers on it, leading a group of kids in singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer , while Henry, in a Santa hat, visits with patients]

Piers Morgan

@piersmorgan

Dreading having to watch the royal family parade around Prince Henry and his consort this holiday season. And, before you in the woke brigade accuse me of racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and whatever other phobias you can think of, please know that I’m honestly just sick of these two.

This year, going by their alternating-families holiday schedule, was supposed to be a Claremont-Diaz Christmas year. But, that was the plan before there was a pregnancy and shotgun royal wedding involved, and, given Henry is currently growing an heir, it’s probably for the best that they spend the holiday in Sandringham House this time.

Christmas with Henry’s side, though, of course means about a million photo-ops and parties to host for every charitable organization and distant familial relations that the royal family has any sort of connection to. By the time they get to Christmas Eve, a day stuffed with tea, lying to various members of the extended family about how far along Henry is, and full black tie dinner, Alex is ready to pass out the second they close the door behind them to their room. Henry, however, has other plans.

“Fuck me,” he demands as he gets Alex shoved up against the door in a way that is very reminiscent of their early trists. He gets a fistfull of Alex’s hair and kisses him hard, Alex sighing into the kiss.

“Okay, just-woah,” Alex chuckles as Henry literally rips out of the damn tux he was required to wear for the evening’s festivities, “you just destroyed every button on that shirt.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Henry growls, “I’ll be too fucking fat to wear it in a week anyways.”

He’s back onto Alex then, fucking his tongue into his mouth and pushing the two of them towards the bed like they’re on a time limit. Alex isn’t very surprised; Henry has this unspoken thing about Alex fucking him whenever they finish spending a long stretch of time with his family. It’s a power thing, or maybe a revenge thing, or some sort of other psychological reaction that Alex doesn’t understand, but it happens near every time.

“You look good,” Alex hums. He trails his fingers along the line of Henry’s now naked spine as Henry undoes Alex’s buttons with more care than his own, kissing his way down as he goes. Alex’s hand wanders to Henry’s stomach, which hangs down between them, and coasts his fingers over the side of it, “really, really good.”

“Stop,” Henry shoots quickly, yanking Alex’s hand to the back of his neck instead. Alex frowns, though Henry kisses it away before he can say anything about it.

He keeps kissing Alex after that, insistent and rough, as he pushes him even flatter against the bed. Kissing and tugging and grabbing, he does away with Alex’s shirt and starts to suck a mark just under Alex’s collarbone, where no one will see but where the two of them will know. It’s heady and wonderful for a moment, Henry’s desperate affection and the way he clings to Alex like he’s the only thing getting him through this day, until it isn’t. Until Henry’s hands push too hard and his lips move too fast, until Alex can’t catch his breath and Henry trembles under his hands.

“Hey,” Alex huffs, giving Henry’s shoulder a squeeze. When Henry doesn’t stop, frantic and frenzied still, Alex shifts under him and tries again, louder, “Henry, hey, stop.”

Henry hears him then, scrambling back as his hands recoil off Alex’s body. He sits back on his haunches with a wide-eyed, stricken look across his face, and puffs out large breaths, barely keeping himself steady.

“I . . . I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-” Henry gulps. He leans back further onto his thighs, dragging a palm over his face, “I’m really sorry, Alex.”

Alex shakes his head, muttering a soft ‘s’okay’, and moves towards Henry. He gets a hand on the back of Henry’s neck, cautious and slow–Henry is still unbalanced enough that Alex is worried about toppling him if he makes any sudden moves–and another around his arm. Gently, he leans himself into Henry’s space, closer and closer, until they’re breathing against each other, as close as they can be with Henry’s bump in between them.

“Are we good?” Alex asks. He does his best to keep his voice level, despite the fear this interaction has rattled up in him, too. Henry nods, dipping his head into the crook of Alex’s neck, as his breathing finally starts to settle.

“I hate these dinners,” he mutters into Alex’s skin, “I hate making you be at these dinners.”

“I know,” Alex says. He’s not the biggest fan of these dinners, either, and this one had been one of the worst; the simmering disapproval over Henry’s pregnancy and his marriage to Alex had stayed just barely concealed all night, thick enough to be suffocating as they talked around it with forced niceties.

With a sigh, Alex presses a kiss to Henry’s neck. They agreed to stay until New Year’s Day and there’s not much getting out of that agreement without the press latching onto their early departure as a sign of familial tension. Which it would be, but they don’t need the press pointing it out.

The fire of the moment has fizzled out, and any interest in having sex along with it, so they strip away the last of their tuxes in favor of pajamas. Henry’s pants are a pair of worn, red flannel bottoms with a waist he’s been stretching out recently, his top is slightly too small, leaving a small line of belly visible at the hem, and it’s been a long enough day that his hair has come unstyled in parts, strands falling where they please. Alex thinks he looks like a vision.

They pull close together under the sheets, Henry’s back to Alex’s chest, and Alex wraps a hand around the jut of Henry’s hipbone. He’d put his hand on Henry’s stomach, if he wasn’t aware of how Henry’s shoulders tense, or how he freezes up for a moment every time Alex so much as grazes his bump. Alex wants to, though. He wants and wants and wants, that want twitching through him, his fingers flexing with it.

“You want to feel her, don’t you?” Henry murmurs. Alex’s hand stills.

“I . . .” he says, swallowing, as he tries to pull his want back inside himself. But, God, he does , “yeah, I do.”

Wordlessly, and without even glancing back, Henry takes Alex’s hand from his hip and places it on the apex of his stomach. He shifts it after that, up and down, his brow furrowed, until he releases a soft exhale and presses Alex’s palm against him, his own hand coming up to cover it. It takes a few seconds, but, finally, something small but persistent pushes up from under their hands. A foot, Alex is pretty sure.

“There she is,” Henry whispers, and Alex swears he hears a smile in his voice. Alex rubs a thumb over the spot as the foot pulls back. This is only the second time Alex has felt her; the first was a while ago, when she only first started moving, and Henry had seemed so incredibly overwhelmed by it that Alex hadn’t asked to feel her again. Feeling her now, though, Alex regrets every day he hasn’t.

“I do love her,” Henry says, his voice faint, and, when Alex sits up a little, he can see tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes.

“Yea?” Alex gasps. Henry breathes out a watery laugh.

“Of course I do. God, of course I do. She’s a part of you, Alex. I love every part of you. How could I not?”

“You love every part of me? Really?” Alex chuckles through tears of his own.

“Yes,” Henry says resolutely as he wipes his face against his pillow, “even all your terribly annoying bits.”

Alex huffs as he slides his hand down to just under Henry’s navel, where their daughter issues out a few more kicks. He holds his tongue, everything they haven’t said in the past few months coming up at once, and waffles between being grateful for what he’s been given or pushing for more until Henry stops him.

“Why don’t we talk about her?” Alex demands, probably too bluntly, but he’s desperate, clambering to get all he can from this moment before it passes and they go on like nothing’s happened for however many weeks after.

Henry swallows roughly, blinking off the new batch of tears that crop up on him. He shrugs, shifting under Alex’s arm, but Alex keeps his hand right where it is.

“I’m scared,” Henry admits.

“Of her?” Alex asks. Henry’s eyes fall shut, and he shrugs again. After a moment, though, he shakes his head.

“No,” he mumbles, “or, not . . . not like that. I . . . I’m scared of what her life will be like. Of what it already is like.”

Alex leans back, sinking back into the mattress, as his heart sinks down to the bottom of his stomach. He’s been in his own world of denial alongside Henry’s, with his picture of their future with their daughter. Summers at the lakehouse, Disney trips, a bevy of aunts and uncles and grandparents to shower her in love, and a childhood to mirror the simplicity of Alex’s own. Well, of Alex’s childhood before his parents became major political names, before they divorced, before his face had ever been in a newspaper or on the cover of a piece of tabloid trash. Though, that was never an option for any child he and Henry had, just as it was never an option for Henry himself.

His words form into a solid ball in his throat that he struggles to breathe around. None seem right. He can’t tell Henry he’ll never let the press hurt her, because that’s what Alex’s mom had said to him, and the sting of that broken promise still burns on occasion. He can’t tell him that they can hide her from it, because that’s a herculean task they’ve already failed at. He can’t lie to Henry the way he’s been lying to himself about what they’re setting their daughter up for.

“She’ll have us,” Alex whispers into Henry’s hair, as much as he can offer. Henry releases a shaky breath. He turns over his shoulder to press a kiss to the tip of Alex’s nose, securing Alex’s hand against him as he does.

“Once she starts up like this, she’s usually at it for a while,” he murmurs, speaking around his tears, which catch on his nose and puddle soundlessly onto the sheet under them, “She’s rather good company when I can’t sleep, actually.”

Alex grins against Henry’s neck. He traces his hand down to the bottom of Henry’s bump and, very aware he might get pushed away at any moment, sneaks it under his shirt. Henry releases a small ‘hmph’ but allows it, his eyes drifting shut as Alex rubs at the starts of stretch marks and follows around their daughter’s fast-moving legs.

“Is this my Christmas present?” Alex beams.

“No,” Henry scoffs quietly, “I’ve gotten you something horribly sentimental and sappy that you’ll get tomorrow evening, once we’re away from my family.”

Alex has also gotten Henry a hopelessly romantic gift; a first edition of Orlando by Virgina Woolf that he verified with Shaan that Henry didn’t already have in some library collection somewhere, that Alex read and annotated with post-notes of his thoughts. He’s sure it will be even more well-received now, given every other gift Henry’s gotten so far this year has been solely baby-related.

Speaking of the baby, she reminds them both of her presence with a harsh kick right below Henry’s ribs, Henry wincing a laugh.

“Hola, mi nenita,” Alex hums to her, “no puedo esperar a abrazarte.”

ELLE Magazine

@ellemagazine

Prince Henry’s pregnancy fashion is setting a new standard for styling male pregnancies: www.elle.com/uk/fashion/celebrity-style/a25603326/prince-henry-style-baby-bump/

E! News

@enews

5 ways Prince Henry is handling his pregnancy differently than his sister-in-law, Martha Fitzroy, Duchess of Cambridge, did: www.eonline.com/news/1360392/prince-henry -martha-fitzroy-differences/

The Sun

@thesun

JET SETTING ROYAL: Why all of Prince Henry’s traveling could be putting his baby at risk:

www.thesun.co.uk/royals/prince-henry-pregnant-travel-risk/

Henry gets exactly one week at home after the Christmas holidays before he’s very insistently summoned back to London.

“It looks better, the more you’re over here, dear,” Gran explains with a soft yet sharp smile, “You are carrying an heir to this kingdom’s monarchy.”

She says that with bright, gleaming eyes, having softened a bit about the pregnancy now that Henry is married and doing the due diligence she asks of him. She says it like it’s wonderful, that Henry should be overjoyed that he should have the honor to add to the line of succession. Henry forces a smile as the slowly building fervor of discontent within himself grows.

He does what is asked of him; the meetings and the dinners and the sporting events, all of it pointless. He fits in work on the Henry Foundation as often as he can. At night, he tries to write if he can get his brain out of the fog its been in for months and produce anything of substance, though usually that’s nothing more than a few thousand words of Finn and Poe fanfiction on his (hopefully) untraceable AO3 account.

The nights are also for missing Alex, and everything else back home, too; David, his favorite armchair, the coffee shop only a two minute walk from their brownstone, the very specific way the sun filters through the curtains they have in their bedroom. He aches for it all, demanding Alex send him daily pictures.

‘Only six more days’ will caption a picture of Alex indulging David with some bites of his reuben. ‘ See you in 99 hours and ten minutes!’ comes along with a snapshot of Alex’s breakfast from the coffee shop; a toasty bagel and a coffee that surely has a dangerous amount of espresso in it. They video call, too, so that Alex can get Henry’s opinions on where to put the new vase he bought, and show him the remastered vinyl of Lodger waiting for him when he comes back.

They don’t talk about Christmas Eve. They don’t talk about Henry’s pregnancy. They don’t talk about their daughter.

Henry has always known he was an expert in denial, but he was never aware Alex could be so good at it, as well.

Their Christmas conversation did at least push Henry over the ledge of finally being able to speak to the baby. He knows she’s been hearing for a good long while now, having read in some pregnancy book he skimmed that she’s been able to hear him since eighteen weeks along, but he’s never spoken directly to her like he does now.

“Hullo, love,” he whispers into the dark of his room, tapping his fingertips against every spot she kicks. The bed feels too big without Alex or David to fill it up, but she helps it seem a little less empty, “Are you as tired of all this back and forth business as I am?”

She kicks what must be some sort of vital organ, considering how it hurts, and he takes it as her aggravation with this extended departure from their real home.

He’ll be back in only two days now, but not for long. He’s expected to spend the last six weeks of his pregnancy in London at Kensington, because even the slightest chance of this baby being born anywhere but British soil is not an option. At least Alex has agreed to stay with him for that chunk of time.

“We’ll see him soon,” Henry promises, rubbing a circle into a tender part of his middle, “just a few more days.”

“This might rival the stuffed giraffe the president of Uganda sent,” Shaan comments dryly as they leave Parliament, a tone only someone as in tune with Shaan’s sense of humor as Henry could interpret as a joke.

And, the absolutely, ridiculously, monstrously large stuffed lion the speaker of the commons has gifted Henry’s child is most definitely a joke .

“Yes,” Henry chuckles, touching at the fuzzy fur of the thing. Shaan really does look idiotic holding it, with the creature nearly half the size of him, “I’m not sure where to even put a thing like this.”

“In some rarely used dungeon seems apt,” Shaan grunts as he hoists the stuffed animal up against him. He sighs when a PPO offers to take it off his hands, shoving it into the man’s waiting arms.

“I heard you’re coming back to the States with me this time,” Henry says as the doors swing open for them. Immediately, the sounds of the crowd assault Henry, and he turns from it at first, as he always does.

“I do try to see my wife more than yearly,” Shaan says. He moves himself in front of Henry seamlessly, as Henry makes himself wave and smile, dipping his chin in recognition to some children who have pushed their way up the barrier around him. He’s exhausted today, with swollen ankles and an ache in his lower back that feels like daggers in his spine, but he does his best to look poised and prim for every camera he sees snapping at him.

“I think we both owe our spouses a bit more time,” Henry nods to Shaan, who nods back, smiling as covertly as he can manage. Henry keeps waving to the crowd with the knowledge that he will be in the arms of said spouse within the next twenty-four hours.

“Prince Henry! Prince Henry!” people shout from every angle, the sensory overload that is usually manageable pounding just a bit too rough today. Henry can feel his smile falter, though he sets it right as soon as he can.

“Prince Henry!” a voice calls, not eager like the others, but angry, vicious. Henry turns from it, this as expected as the crowd itself, especially since the announcement of his pregnancy. As the voice keeps calling, Henry keeps on moving, “Hey, Prince Henry! Look at me, you fuckin’ faggot!”

That pulls Henry up short. He glances over, just for a beat, to where the voice called, to find a man in his middle ages, his head covered in a patchy, thinning spread of hair, sneering at him. Henry blinks at him as Shaan ushers him to keep moving. But he doesn’t, not instantly, which gives the man long enough to pull something from his coat and brandish it at Henry.

“Men shouldn’t get pregnant!” he screams, and other people are screaming, too, and, oh, oh God, that is a gun he’s holding. A mass of PPO’s, coming from every direction, set in on him, “You’re a freak! A fucking disgrace! You should-”

What Henry should be is muffled by the three PPO’s who tackle and disarm the man, and by Shaan and yet another PPO who shove at Henry. They move him, back, back, back, so fast he trips over his feet and Shaan has to keep him from falling flat on his face. There’s a hand on his shoulder and one on his arm and he’s being loaded into a car. The crowd is still screaming. Henry can’t figure out if the man is still in it.

“Sir,” Shaan says in the car, a formality they usually don’t bother with anymore, and Henry turns his wide-eyed stare on him.

“What? What just . . .”

“The threat is being neutralized. We’re taking you KP,” Shaan tells him, and Henry looks down to find his hand resting on his knee, “and we will call your OB/GYN once we arrive to check that everything is alright.”

“Call Alex,” Henry shoots at him. He puts his hand to his bump, running it up and down, over and over, and tries to will some movement from inside it, “I need you to call him. I can’t . . . Shaan, call him, he has to-”

“I will, Henry,” Shaan nods, “I’ll call him right now. But, I need you to breathe first.”

Henry takes a large inhale, only then realizing how much he needed it. He puffs a few more breaths, fast and harsh, as he keeps rubbing his hand over the curve of his stomach. Shaan makes the call, and Henry doesn’t listen, can’t listen, can’t have Alex’s worry for him on top of his own. He can’t afford anything else in his mind but the want to feel her move.

“Please,” he whispers, and, finally, for the first time since he found out about her, allows himself to feel every horrible, aching bit of love he has for his daughter.

A kick rises up against Henry’s palm

Notes:

CW: drinking, use of the f-slur, gun violence, assassination attempt

Chapter 3: Stretch-Marks, Backaches, and Swollen Ankles

Notes:

Okay so I added another chapter lol.
Basically, I was writing this one (which was gonna be third trimester + birth) but then i got to the last scene before Henry's labor starts and was like . . . this is already 10k omg.
SO. The next chapter will be entirely the labor and giving birth part, and then the final chapter, chapter five, will be the epilogue. Sound good for y'all?
THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY LOVELY BETAS: livingincolors, galica, and kisaru!! You guys are the best!

(also cw for the slightest mention of chest growth/male lactation)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Guardian

@guardian

BREAKING NEWS: An assailant pulled a gun on Prince Henry this afternoon as he was leaving the Palace of Westminster. The man is now in custody. Read more here: www.theguardian.com/2024/jan/20/prince-henry-attack/

Telegraph Breaking News

@telegraphnews

Prince Henry rushed into a car after a potential assassination attempt. The palace has yet to comment: www.telegraph.co.uk/royal-family/2024/01/20/prince-henry-assassanation-attempt/

CNN

@cnn

Alex Claremont-Diaz seen here being rushed from his Brooklyn home after rumors of an attempt on his husband, Prince Henry’s, life

[images attached: a few blurry snaps of a frantic looking Alex getting into a car with darkened windows]

Henry sent Alex a text letting him know that he’s alright once he’d gotten back to Kensington Palace, and then a few more as the hours dragged on to keep him reassured of that fact. He’s sure Alex would prefer a phone call, and deserves to have Henry give him that, but Henry doesn’t trust his voice right now. It will only upset Alex more.

The doctor said there’s nothing wrong with the baby, or Henry for that matter, and the person who pulled the gun on him is being held on high levels of security, though he seems to be nothing more than a lone attacker motivated by nothing grander than hate. Gran and Mum and everyone are shaken up by the whole situation, and Henry will likely wake up tomorrow to a security team double or more the size of his now and stricter regulations about where he can go and what he can do. If he manages to sleep at all, that is.

The threat is contained, Henry is secured, and so is the person he’s sharing a good chunk of his body with, pedaling her feet against Henry’s ribs like she’s a professional cyclist. He’s aware that he’s safe now, or at least his mind is. His heart and his lungs and the hairs that keep goose-pimpling across his arms must not be.

He’s been pacing for what could be hours, only sitting or laying down in bursts of a few minutes at a time, before his nerves tingle and he can’t catch his breath. Then he’s up again, to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace and up and down from the curtain-covered windows to his unused bed. It will be murder on his back and ankles, once Henry can tune himself in enough to feel those pains again.

The door to his bedroom flies open at some point into this timeless monotony of fear, Alex on the other side of it, looking like as much of a mess as Henry feels.

“Alex, h-how …” Henry stammers. Flying from New York to London takes at least six and a half hours, not to mention drive time, and, it can’t … Henry can’t have been churning in this anxiety for that long. But, there’s no more light leaking in from under the curtains, and the large clock above the fireplace reads out two-twenty in the morning, telling him otherwise.

He doesn’t get much more time to think about how his brain has remained in fight-or-flight for the entire day before Alex runs over and envelops him wholly.

“Baby,” Alex shivers against Henry’s ear. He holds him tight, nails gripping into Henry’s shirt, and trembles. Henry wraps one arm around Alex’s shoulders and another around his hips, and does the best he can to stabilize him.

“I’m alright, love. I’m here,” he tries, the shake in his own voice lessening with each second he spends with Alex in his arms, “we’re all alright. All three of us.”

Alex makes a sound that lies somewhere between a sigh and a whimper as he loosens his grip on Henry’s arm and wanders a hand between them to lay it on Henry’s stomach.

“I’m going to fucking kill that guy,” Alex hisses, vicious even as his fingers trace gentle circles on Henry’s bump, “I’m going to kill him.”

“He’s already in custody,” Henry assures without needing to ask who Alex means, “and I don’t think murder will do well for your public image.”

“Fuck my public image,” Alex barks. His hand lifts again, this time squeezing the back of Henry’s neck, looking up at him with a ferocity in his eyes that steals Henry’s breath away, “I’ve never been so scared in my life. God, Henry, if he had hurt you, I-”

“He didn’t,” Henry reminds, and solidifies that fact for himself yet again, “I’m safe. I’m with you.”

Another strangled, wrecked sound creaks out of Alex, before he leans up and kisses Henry as if this is both the first and the last time they ever will. Henry is certain it’s neither, but he matches Alex’s energy all the same. Fuck , he was terrified. He still is, but seeing Alex is like being able to breathe again.

They fall into bed together and fuck, even if they really should be too shaken up to so much as think of sex. That’s never how they’ve worked, though; Alex inside him, tethering him to himself, has been Henry’s safest space for years now. It seems to work the other way around, too, with the way the muscles in Alex’s back won't relax until he’s sunken into Henry, the two of them sharing a breath before they move again. There’s something instinctual about their bodies together, something that feels like home, even if Henry’s own body has been alien to him lately. Alex treats every change as if it’s always been there, leaning to kiss Henry around his bump, cupping the new roundness of his chest, running fingertips along stretch marks, as if none of it makes a difference. Henry flows with the touches, following the rhythm Alex sets, and settles into himself more than he has in a while.

After, he can finally sleep.

Henry wakes up his favorite way, with Alex wrapped around him, and nuzzles his face into the dip of Alex’s elbow. Alex’s other arm is curled protectively around Henry’s bump, around the baby, and Henry has to swallow a whimper. He goes through the quick mantra of reminding himself that he is safe, they are safe, the threat is handled, and so on, until his pulse settles. Still, the memory of yesterday, and how close not only him, but also his daughter, came to danger, threads around his spine, prickly and chilling. He presses back against Alex and pulls the duvet up over them.

Alex stirs a little with the movement, waking just enough to kiss the nape of Henry’s neck before his head tips down and he’s back asleep. Kissing along Alex’s bicep, Henry doesn’t wake him; he’s sure the jet-lag must be hitting him, and, anyway, he thinks they’ve earned a lie-in.

It’s past eleven in the morning once they actually wake up, groggily turning to each other and basking in the other’s mussed hair and morning breath. They linger in the cloudy morning feeling for longer than usual, where nothing is concrete and none of what they’ve been going through is fully real yet. Eventually, though, Alex blinks at the sun slipping in between the curtains and yesterday’s worry clouds over his eyes, stealing their sleepy ease. He cups Henry’s face, grazing a thumb roughly across Henry’s cheekbone.

“It’s alright,” Henry whispers, another echo of that statement, sure that he will have to echo it many more times today, and the rest of the week. He doesn’t judge Alex for needing it; he does, too.

Alex sighs with a nod as he pulls his hand back. His eyes shut again and he scoots over until he’s gotten his head situated on Henry’s pillow, noses almost touching, boundaries absolutely non-existent.

“Do we have to get up now?” Alex yawns.

“No,” Henry snuffs indignantly, “we are not leaving this bed until my gran comes in and forces us up.”

“Will she?”

“Most likely not, I think.”

They chuckle as they thread their legs with each other. There’s a paradoxical lightness to this morning that is seemingly only achievable in recovery from the heaviest of nights. Henry kisses along the line of Alex’s jaw, just slightly stubbly, and feels, in the face of what yesterday wrought, so incredibly lucky.

“Oh!” Alex says, some lazy stretch of time later, his eyes springing open, “I forgot, Bowie’s here!”

“David?” Henry asks, ignoring the nickname Alex has chosen to exclusively refer to David as.

“Yeah, I left him with Bea last night, because . . . because I wanted to see you and-but, yeah, he’s in Bea’s room if you want me to get him!”

“If Bea’s up, I suppose-” Henry starts, though Alex is already up and tossing on a shirt and a pair of Henry’s pajama bottoms. He yawns as he pulls his pillow snugger to himself and watches Alex dart around.

“Be right back,” Alex says, and slips out of the room a moment later. Henry closes his eyes and drifts as the door shuts, and doesn’t wake up again until the bed shifts next to him with a ‘thump’, David licking his nose only seconds later.

“Oh, yes, David, hello,” Henry chuckles, even more restored by the droopy face in front of him than he thought he would be. He issues out a few sturdy pats to his side, “I missed you, too, yes, come here.”

David flops over onto his back and tilts his belly towards Henry for some good scratching. He’s generally low maintenance, when it comes to dogs, and fits himself around Henry and Alex’s often insane schedules. But, whenever he has to go extended periods without Henry, like these past twelve days, he’s insatiable about affection when they reunite. Alex is often the same way. Henry was supposed to be back to him tomorrow, though, at David’s most stable home; the Brooklyn brownstone.

Realization settles like a rock in Henry, and his hand slows on David’s belly.

“Have you spoken to Shaan, or my family, yet about how they plan to proceed, given . . .”

Not much was said to him yesterday, other than letting him know the attempted shooter was in custody and Alex was on his way. He doesn’t imagine he looked in state to be for any sort of discussion beyond that, but Henry’s not so naive to think that there were no plans being made around him. Or, that Alex brought David with him for a day or two long visit.

“Um, well, everybody’s freaked out, obviously,” Alex says from where he sits on the edge of the bed, bunching up a section of the duvet in his fist, “I know Shaan said your family wants to meet about it later today, but, uh . . . the general plan right now seems like they want you to stay here until . . .”

“Until she’s born,” Henry finishes with a gentle touch to his bump. He sighs, and it’s not as if he hadn’t figured this might happen, but he’d still been hoping it wouldn’t be. His due date is still around eight weeks out; two entire months stuck in a home that he no longer thinks of as Home , with a capital ‘h’.

“I’m not going back, either,” Alex assures, “As long as you’re here, I’m here. So is Bowie.”

Henry nods, the faintest, most half-hearted smile on his lips. They only want him to stay for his own safety, they can’t properly keep him secure in the brownstone, everyone is just worried, and all of that. He knows all that . That doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t sink with dread to think of the months ahead of him. It’s not that he doesn’t love his family; he loves each of them deeply, even Philip and Gran, despite their difficulties. It’s what surrounds their love; the pressure of his title, the media, the requirements, and the hate . The hate is always there, no matter what public figures send his daughter gifts or what talk show wished him and Alex well when they got married. Their child is not even born yet and people already hate her.

There’s hate waiting for them back in Brooklyn, too, but not like here, not in the place where Henry is not a person but his whole country, and a symbol and a national disappointment and a sign of everything that’s wrong with the UK all in one. Here, their daughter is being delivered straight into that.

It starts with sniffles, small and contained, until the baby starts kicking him and Henry is sobbing, Alex holding him and whispering sweet, reassuring things that Henry is too distraught to understand. David puts his paws up on Henry’s lap, whining as he knocks his head against the side of Henry’s stomach. He hasn’t been this much of a mess yet, even with all the ups and downs of his hormones and the stress of the past few months. Thirty-two weeks of repression catch up with him at once, rocketing out of him with wails that shake through his chest.

“I-it’s … it’s so … s-so unfair,” Henry gasps out.

“What? What’s unfair?” Alex asks between Henry’s shaky breaths and fast-flowing tears. Henry huffs against him, shaking his head. Alex can’t ask him to explain, can’t expect logic and clarification from him on something like this. But, he’s already spent the entire pregnancy up to this point explaining absolutely nothing , and that’s done them no good. If there ever was an impetus to try something else, this is it.

“ Her ,” Henry pushes out first, while he tries to materialize other words out of the fog of his fears and wants and angers, “That her life is-is . . . i-it’s already so . . . fuck, Alex, s-someone pulled a gun on her!”

“I know,” Alex shudders, voice hushed. He pulls Henry tighter to him and swipes his thumbs under each of his wet eyes, Henry doing his best to sniffle his tears back up.

“She sh-shouldn’t h-have to-to . . . she doesn’t deserve this!” Henry works out. He tips his head and buries his face into Alex’s chest, which is warm and has the just right balance of give to solidness. He takes in a breath, and another and another, before he speaks again, “I don’t want her to live the life I did.”

Henry swallows around that confession and, under his cheek, he can feel Alex do the same. It’s not a surprise. It’s something Henry has been aware of, somewhere, always, from much before he got pregnant and even before Alex, when his prospects for starting a family started and ended with a loveless marriage and an obligation. But, it rings in him nonetheless, setting off a chain reaction of other truths he’s been refusing to name.

“There’s things we can do,” Alex whispers, “choices we can make so she doesn’t have to . . . so it won’t be that way. And, Henry, baby, you-you gotta know I’d protect her with my life. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Henry says against Alex’s chest, solemn. Of course he knows; Alex’s love for their daughter is something he can feel all the way into his bones, just like Alex’s love for him, both equally terrifying and incredible,”don’t you ever get scared, though?”

Alex chuckles, a little bit tear-soaked, the sound reverberating through Henry’s own chest.

“God, all the time. This is scary fucking shit,” he admits. He pauses, pressing a kiss to Henry’s hairline, and leaves his lips there when he’s done, “but, then I think about her, and how much I wanna meet her, and how much I want this with you, and . . . I don’t know, I’m still scared, but, mostly, I’m excited.”

“I want to be excited, too,” Henry says, unable to keep the longing out of his voice, “we … we should get to be excited, shouldn’t we?”

Henry tries it out. He takes away the crown and the press and their transcontinental lifestyles, in that way he can, where all that exists is him and Alex and their love for one another. He thinks, in that frame, of raising a baby with Alex, and it’s good. It’s so good that Henry knows he should only allow himself to indulge in it in small bursts. Their reality is endlessly more complicated, and demands, now more than ever, to be addressed. But, for a minute or two, Henry can be here; he can be excited.

Alex doesn’t answer, not directly, but the way he holds Henry says enough. David stretches out over their calves and they stay there, holding each other, as the light bleeding in from under the curtains shifts. Henry follows the rhythm of Alex’s breathing and loses himself to the feeling of the ringlet-y curls at the nape of Alex’s neck. He could lose a whole day like this, if no one came round to stop them.

“Hey,” Alex murmurs as they slouch further down into bed, David moving himself to press against the back of Henry’s thighs, “there’s, uh. We need to talk about one more thing.”

With his face still pressed against him, Henry can feel Alex's breath still and his heart beat a few paces faster as he speaks. Henry frowns and shuts his eyes, just for a few moments, before they slam back into their lives outside this room.

“Hm?” Henry asks, not looking up at Alex.

“I . . . I’ve been interviewing for legal jobs. I’ve gotten a few offers,” Alex tells him. Henry sits up, blinking, as relief blooms cautiously in him.

“That’s great, love,” Henry says, leaning off Alex’s chest and giving his hand a squeeze, “I-I didn’t realize you were applying, but, that’s . . . I’m so glad.”

The plan had been for Alex to start applying as soon as the summer after law school was over. He had his shortlist of organizations he wanted in New York, and some in DC, where he’d have to split his time between there and Brooklyn. They’d discussed this, but, with every other part of their life that got tossed to the wayside as soon as there was a definitive baby in the picture, Henry had assumed that it was just another goal to be waitlisted for the time being.

“So, The Freedom Initiative and the NYCLU both offered me positions, but,” Alex pauses, glancing away from Henry, “I also got a really good offer from the Equality Texas Foundation . Which, you know, would be in Texas.”

Henry nods, toying with his fingers as he steadies himself against the pillows behind him. Settling down in Austin was another long term goal they’ve discussed, but always in the form of mad hopes, always in the terms of ‘wouldn’t it be great if . . .’, and, with how much Henry still splits his time between America and the UK, always more of a dream than a want they could really allow themselves.

“Well,” Henry swallows, and keeps his voice as light as he can when his throat still aches from sobbing, “do you know which one you want to accept?”

“I really want to take the Texas job,” Alex admits, sounding so mournful it breaks Henry’s heart, how much he wants to serve Alex up everything he desires on a silver platter.

“Okay,” Henry nods, rationalizing and compromising and cutting his own fears out of the equation, “maybe we could alternate our time, a few months there, a few months over here, or I could stay here with the baby and you could come over when you have time off, or-”

“Henry,” Alex huffs, “No. I’m not going to live in a different country than you and our daughter. That’s not-that makes no fucking sense.”

“I know,” Henry frowns, shrugging, “but, you shouldn’t have to turn down a job you really want just because I’m . . . because I won’t be able to . . .”

“You know you mean more to me than any job,” Alex says, “This stuff can wait. I can reapply whenever things are more figured out. It’s fine, it’ll be, it’s just . . . I guess I knew I couldn’t take the Texas job already, but I wanted to tell you still. That I got it.”

Henry nods, blinking back tears, and decides to put all the blame for his pitiful weepiness this morning on his hormones, and not on the daggers this conversation has been wedging into his heart. His hands find their way to the top of his bump, something they’ve been doing often without his realizing.

Thinking of Austin, he reconfigures the Alex and Henry who live in his head, the ones who’ve never been on the cover of any magazine and haven’t had to give a single interview. They have a house that looks a great deal like the one Alex and June grew up in, and a yard that David likes to chase butterflies around in. Henry spends his days writing on their back porch, doing storybook readings at the local library, and adoring every minute of time he spends with their smart, brilliant girl. God, goddamnit , Henry wants it.

“Take the job. We’ll figure it out,” Henry states definitively, out of post-traumatic adrenaline or reckless hope or truly overwhelming love; take your pick.

Alex stares at him, wide-eyed, as sweat clams up Henry’s neck. It’s not regret, not really, that’s tensing up through his shoulders and into the joints of his fingers. He doesn’t want to suck the words back up. The logistics of it are terrifying; the fighting with Gran this will take might be enough to do him in. But, Henry’s fighting for two now. He settles his face into what he hopes is some sort of confident, assured expression, and takes Alex’s hand in his.

“We will figure it out,” Henry repeats. He looks down at the curve of his stomach, sitting his lap and looking both totally foreign and right where it should be, and chuckles roughly, “We have a lot to figure out, don’t we?”

“Shit,” Alex laughs, just as broken and fragile. He brings their joined hands up to his lips and kisses each of Henry’s knuckles, “We are so screwed.”

He smiles as he says it, bright and beaming, and with a light behind his eyes that doesn’t falter. He’s blazing, so shiny and resplendent Henry wants to squint in the face of it, and Henry is having his baby. How could he have spent all these months thinking that was anything but wonderful?

“Almost done now, hm?” Henry’s mother comments as Henry sits in what is surely the most ungainly way possible, bracing a hand against the underside of his stomach and lowering himself down into the chair haphazardly.

“I suppose,” he comments as he lands. What he actually thinks is that seven weeks is both too long to have to stay this uncomfortable and too short to pull together all the plans he’s been ignoring for months.

He grabs a biscuit to nibble on as he smooths out his jumper. And, as he does, his mother watches him. She’s been watching him a lot lately. He quirks a brow.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks. Mum laughs and turns her attention back to her book, shaking her head.

“No, no, it’s just . . .” she pauses, slipping a bookmark in between the pages and glancing at Henry from under her glasses, “it’s odd for me, sometimes.”

Gliding a palm down the curve of his stomach, Henry frowns. It’s odd for him, too, in moments where he will catch sight of himself in a mirror or happen across some horrible tabloid photo taken from the worst possible angle and not immediately connect the body he sees to himself. He figured, in the deeply self-conscious part of himself, that everyone around him also finds him to be a peculiarity, something disjunct with the order of things, but the confirmation still stings.

“Ah,” he nods, “because I’m a man?”

“Oh, darling, no ,” Mum cuts in quickly, her eyes wide with concern, and some of the churning hurt in Henry settles, “that couldn’t matter to me less, except with how people are treating you and Alex about it. I meant. . . I don’t know if this will make much sense, but, sometimes, it’s still difficult for me to see you, or Philip or Beatrice, for that matter, as the adults you so clearly are.”

“Really?” Henry asks.

“It doesn’t feel all that long ago that your father and I were bringing each of you home from the hospital,” Mum sighs, a softness in her eyes that Henry can’t bear to meet head on. She shakes her head and refreshes her smile, “and now, all of the sudden, here you are, about to be a father. I can’t always wrap my head around that. ”

Hearing someone refer to him as a father jumps around inside Henry like unchecked electricity, singeing him and waking him up. The feeling it leaves in its wake is still too muddled for Henry to qualify, but it's inching its way towards joy. Though, there’s also still a certain touch of terror to it, too.

“It’s quite sudden for me, too,” he says.

Mum smiles bemusedly at him. It presses wrinkles up into the corners of her eyes. They’re blue, same as his and Bea’s–Philip the only one who got their father’s hazel-y brown–and soft, like Henry has always known them to be. She’s always been so tender, the parent Henry would run to for nightmares and scraped knees. When she went away, locked off from her children in all the ways that mattered, he assumed she took that tenderness with her. Henry hasn’t looked for it since, even if she’s mostly returned to them, though maybe she’s been sitting here the whole time, waiting for him to find it.

“Was it ever hard for you? Having to raise us so publicly?” he asks. He’s never asked her before, never having the reason or the stability between them to do so, but he’s always wondered. Mum purses her lips.

“Yes. Of course. It was . . .” she sighs, shaking her head, and shrinks down into her chair, her book clutched to her body, “I grew up in that life, at least, so I had some sort of . . . of tools, I suppose, to handle it. But, your father, well, it wasn’t the same as the type of public attention he was used to. He didn’t always agree with how much of your lives belonged to the people.”

Henry bites his lip against blurting out how he didn’t agree with it, either. For as long as he can remember, there was an awareness in himself that he hated the cameras and the press events and the expectations. He was seven, on Christmas morning, shaking hundreds of hands and smiling for thousands of photos, and thinking of how he’d give away all his gifts to be alone in his room with a book for the rest of the day. Though, as tempting as the simplicity of having someone to blame has seemed to him at various points in his life, he can’t place all the fault on his mother, or even his grandmother, for doing as best they could in the circumstances they were given and trying to help their children do the same. That’s all any parent can do.

“Were you scared,” Henry asks, voice nearly a whisper, as he taps his thumb against a spot his daughter just kicked, “when you had each of us?”

“Yes,” Mum admits, “I was shaking the entire time I held Philip on the steps of the Lindo Wing. Those first few days . . . your grandparents had your father and I give an interview when he was only three days old. I don’t know how I managed not to sob through the whole thing. But, it will get easier. I swear to you, darling, it gets easier with time.”

“You’re certain?” Henry says. His voice trembles, and he swears he sounds like he’s a little boy again, making his mum and dad vow there’s no monsters lurking in the dark of his room, begging Mum to hold his hand at every interview and royal event, standing with Dad just a few minutes longer than he should outside of his boarding school. He hears the echo of this very same question throughout his life; right after Mum had told him that Dad’s diagnosis wasn’t something he should worry about.

“Not certain, no,” Mum frowns, something she refused to admit when it came to Dad, not until the very end. She stands, taking a few cautious steps towards Henry, and placing an equally cautious arm around his shoulders, “but, I know that you’re resilient, and you’ve got someone by your side who’s going to be with you every step of the way. And . . . and you have me, too, to help in whatever way you want. I . . . I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like you didn't.”

“Mum,” Henry says, his voice tight in his throat. He leans into her and lets her hold him in a way she hasn’t in years.

“A babymoon?” Henry laughs as Alex presents him with a powerpoint presentation titled: Our Babymoon! A Guide to Where, What, Why, and When.

“A babymoon,” Alex echoes as he tosses his arms towards his computer, clicking it on to the next slide, “in Paris!”

Henry’s brows raise in interest at that, which is what Alex had hoped.

“You are aware we went on a honeymoon less than six months ago, yes?” he points out, evening the excitement out of his expression. Alex shrugs.

“So?”

“People already think we’re a drain on the money and resources of taxpayers,” Henry huffs with the slightest smile, “two romantic getaways within less than a year will likely not help that assumption.”

“Oh, screw ‘em,” Alex waves off. Henry shakes his head.

“There’s also the fact that I’m not supposed to fly when I’m this …” Henry gestures vaguely at his stomach.

“Then we’ll take a car!” Alex counters, Henry snorting a laugh, and maybe Alex is a bit too desperate, but that’s only because he knows they need this, “or a train! Those are romantic as hell. And, we could probably get the conductor to stop if you need to have a medical emergency.”

“This is ridiculous,” Henry smirks, though he does nod his chin at PowerPoint. Alex clicks ahead; the next slide shows the hotel he’s already booked, and the one after that a list of restaurants; a mix of their tried and true favorites and some new, adventurous picks. Henry hums thoughtfully at each.

“And, you’ve gotten approval for this little holiday?”

“Yep!” Alex answers, “we are a go for Paris if we want. Just you, me, Shaan and Zahra, and ten PPO’s.”

The ten PPO’s is a compromise with Henry’s family down from twenty, which itself is a compromise from them not going at all. Generally, the idea since the Parliament attack has been to have Henry leave Kensington Palace as little as possible. Alex understands the motivation behind it; it’s the same reason he can’t let Henry out of his sight for more than a few minutes. But, it’s also draining them both, Henry looking dimmer each day in this monotony and Alex restless enough he’s going to wear a track into the carpet of all the rooms he’s been pacing, desperate for something to do.

They talk about the baby now, at least, every single day, with smiles and tentative, fledgling optimism. Alex will take being locked away in a tower in exchange for that. Though, when even those talks had started to fade with this dreg of days in hiding, Paris became the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Hmm, well,” Henry says as he settles back in his chair, a glimmer in his eyes that tells Alex he’s nearly won him over, “finish your presentation. I’ll reserve judgment until the end.”

“Thank you,” Alex nods. He clicks on again. There’s a slide on fun activities, that all take into consideration such concerns as swollen ankles, heartburn, and general moodiness ( ‘I haven’t been that moody, Alex ). The one after that is a list of reasons why this trip is a good idea; REALLY HOT HOTEL ROOM SEX is the last bullet point, in a font a few sizes larger than everything else. Finally, they reach the ‘when’ section, which Alex admits is a bit cheesy.

“We’re going on Valentine’s Day?” Henry asks, his brows raised dubiously. Alex offers up a bashful smile.

“Oui, mon chéri,” he winks. Henry groans.

“Don’t you dare make any attempts at speaking French while we’re there,” he orders, and Alex takes it as a yes.

The Sun

@thesun

HENRY GOES AGAIN: Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz are off on another holiday, while continuing to dodge royal duties:

www.thesun.co.uk/royals/prince-henry-alex-claremont-diaz-paris/

People

@people

Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz enjoy a romantic #babymoon in Paris before their little one arrives!

[image attached: Henry and Alex, dressed in warm, cozy clothes, looking up at the Arc de Triomphe. PPO’s border them, waving other tourists away]

The Guardian

@guardian

A look at how the Royal Family has increased Prince Henry’s personal security following the attempt on his life: www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2024/feb/12/prince-henrys-new-security

“Un verre de Gamay Noir, un Boulevardier, et deux verres d'eau, s'il vous plaît,” Henry asks of their watier in the little nook of the bistro they are tucked into, “Oh, et les radis et le beurre aussi. Merci.”

Unlike Alex, Henry’s French is perfect. At least he’s got a few Spanish words he still mangles that Alex can make fun of him for. The waiter nods to the request with the same polite, mildly disinterested energy he has with everyone else in the bistro. That’s the amazing thing about when they go to Paris; on the whole, the French don’t give a shit about them. They’ve barely even seen any paparazzi.

Alex scoots closer to Henry in their booth, walking his fingers over to meet Henry’s under the table. He doesn’t mention the fact that Henry ordered himself wine, because he knows there’s no point in it. Alex will fuss about it, Henry will wave him off, saying that his doctor told him a glass of wine here and there is fine, and then they will both be moody and argumentative for the next half hour or so. As far as Alex has read online, there’s no research that finds the occasional drink during the third trimester has any ill effects, but it makes him nervous, regardless.

“I found a crib I liked online last night,” Alex says, quiet, just for them, as he pulls up the listing on his phone. Henry inclines his head to look, wrapping his pinky around Alex’s.

“Hm,” Henry comments as he scrolls through a few images of a Pottery Barn listing, the crib made of walnut wood and posed artfully against floral wallpaper and a creamy shag rug. He smiles at the listing, then at Alex, before he hands the phone back, “It’s wonderful, you should buy it.”

“Ah, you sure?” Alex confirms, because, when Alex moved into the brownstone, buying a new bedspread was a two-week debate, with about a hundred options sent back and forth between the two of them. This is too easy.

“Yes, I think it will be great,” Henry says assuredly. Alex shrugs and orders the crib to be sent to the brownstone, where they’ve been sending everything for the time being.

They’ve already bought a stroller, a swing, a few baby carriers, and a whole assortment of newborn to six month sized clothes, pulling up links for each other over breakfast and in bed before they go to sleep. Henry tells Alex to buy everything he shows him without their usual bickering over it, which is probably a bit of an overcorrection for the last seven months, but Alex will take it. They do need all of it, and ASAP.

The waiter returns a leisurely time later, placing the Boulevardier cocktail in front of Alex, the wine in front of Henry, and the radishes and butter between them. Henry thanks him and serves himself, smearing a rich pad of butter across crispy bread and placing radish slices along it. He takes an indulgent bite, and Alex watches his lips, which are stupidly hot, as always. His gaze wanders across the rest of him; his perfect cheekbones, the way his sweater clings to him with how far along he is, his delicate, long fingers, and Alex wants to fuck him as much as he ever has.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispers to Henry, pressing himself closer than he should in public. But, they’re in Paris, and nobody cares about the horny idiot drooling over his pregnant husband in the corner of the bistro. That’s part of why Alex always steals Henry away here for trips.

“I know,” Henry hums. He takes a sip of his wine, with playful eyes and a hand squeezing Alex’s thigh, “but I’d like to have a glass of wine and enjoy our food first. Do you think you’ll be able to wait, darling?”

“God,” Alex laughs, briefly considering sucking a mark onto Henry’s neck, then and there, social decency be damned. He settles for gnawing the hell out of his bottom lip and planning out all the things he’ll do to Henry back in the hotel, “I’ll try.”

It’s a miracle they keep their hands to themselves through a car ride and the elevator up to their hotel room. Alex has to use all his willpower just to manage it. Once the door is shut, though, they’re all over each other.

“You in this fucking sweater,” Alex hisses against Henry lips as he tugs on the sweater’s hem, “should be illegal. Jesus.”

Henry scoffs, rolling his eyes, like he always does when Alex calls him attractive lately. He must have somehow gotten it into his head that pregnancy doesn’t look good on him. In Alex’s opinion–and he doesn’t know whether its a kink, or something about how Henry looks like this because it’s Alex’s baby he’s carrying, or the fact that it’s Henry , and there’s no way for him not to drive Alex crazy–Henry’s about as overwhelmingly sexy as he’s even been.

Alex’s hands finally get under Henry’s sweater, palms rushing across the taut, heated skin there, as he slips his tongue in between Henry’s lips. Henry’s breath catches and flutters back out as they break for air, giving Alex a good look at how his lips glisten when they’ve been kissed red, and he’s perfect, absolutely perfect. Alex walks him back to the bed and falls to his knees beside it as Henry sits, body fitting in snuggly between Henry’s spread legs.

“What do you want?” Alex asks, fighting a moan as Henry fists a hand into his curls and pulls, just this side of rough, “Lemme make you feel good, baby. Anything you want.”

“Just touch me,” Henry gusts, still tugging, still making Alex go all stupid, “everywhere. That’s all I want.”

Alex tilts his head, kissing the inside of Henry’s thigh, and nods. He presses himself up onto the bed and covers Henry’s body with his own. Touching him everywhere sounds like a good goal to him.

He starts at the top, sucking Henry’s neck and biting his ear, making sure he gives his earring a tug with his teeth. God, that earring nearly did Alex in. When Henry came home with it, with no prior warning he was going to get his ear pierced, Alex almost had some sort of horny aneurysm, only kept alive by Henry’s lips on his. Queen Mary got close to having an aneurysm-aneurysm when she found out about it, and Henry still must take it out any time he’ll be publicly representing the royal family. That only makes it that much hotter for Alex, the simple defiance in just having it. He yanks it one more time, Henry gasping, before he trails his lips down.

They strip as they go; a shirt for a shirt, undoing each other’s belts, Alex helping Henry shimmy his pants off when his stomach gets in the way. Alex does his best not to miss a bit of Henry during it, with hands and lips and teeth on every part of Henry they expose together.

“Hey,” Alex huffs into Henry’s ear as he grinds himself against his thigh and gives Henry’s sensitive chest a squeeze, “we’re in Paris; tell me something hot in French.”

Henry gasps a laugh, but indulges Alex nonetheless.

“Arrête de parler et mets ta bite en moi,” he says, eyes half lidded, in nothing but black socks that stop midway up his calves. Alex doesn’t understand most of it, but he’s pretty sure it was something about his cock. He grins.

There’s some awkward fumbling around with Henry’s bump and all his other pregnancy ailments. Sex has become pretty limited ever since he entered his third trimester, but, embarrassingly, Alex googled some positions that might be comfortable in preparation for this trip. Henry laughs when he confesses this, but still seems pretty relieved when Alex gets them set up with reverse cow girl, which is easy on Henry’s back and on Alex’s eyes.

“Fucking perfect,” Alex hisses as Henry rides him, his ass, which has gotten even rounder and more slappable with pregnancy, bouncing. Alex reaches around, slipping a hand under Henry’s stomach, and jerks him off. For a second, just a second, he glides his hand up, feeling the solid curve of Henry’s bump. He did that, he fucking did that . And, if he’s honest with himself, that's pretty goddamn hot.

It doesn’t take either of them long to finish after that.

Daily Mail Online

@mailonline

Prince Henry, currently pregnant, is spotted drinking wine in Paris: http://dailym.ai/prince-henry-drinking-in-paris

Daily Express

@daily_express

On a holiday to Paris, Prince Henry is caught drinking, worrying many about the safety of his child

[images attached: two pictures of Henry and Alex in the bistro, shot through the window of the restaurant, Henry clearly holding and drinking a glass of wine]

The Bump

@thebump

Point & Counterpoint: Drinking Alcohol During Pregnancy – Is a Little Okay?: www.thebump.com/a/drinking-alcohol-during-pregnancy/

“Happy Valentine’s,” Alex says as he rolls over to Henry’s side of the bed, spooning up behind him. Henry is surrounded by pillows; the obvious one under his head, another tucked under his belly, and two shoved between his legs. Alex still manages to work around them to get his arm wrapped around Henry’s bump.

“Hmmm . . . ‘anks,” Henry, Prince of Sleeping In, mumbles, and Alex kisses his cheek with a laugh. Their daughter must be more on Alex’s schedule, though, because she flutters under his palm.

“Hola pequeña,” he murmurs, “A Daddy le gusta dormir. Mucho. Pero te levantarás y le harás el desayuno conmigo, ¿eh?”

“Talk to her later,” Henry yawns, eyes yet to open this morning, as he tucks his face into the pillow, “M’tired.”

“Sorry, princess,” Alex taunts. He quiets down, leaving his palm on Henry’s stomach and resting his head between Henry’s shoulder blades. The baby turns and stretches, and Alex can feel every move she makes from the outside.

They’ve got five weeks left, give or take depending on when their daughter feels ready to meet them. Alex has thrown together many important things in five weeks or less; term papers, rallies, parties, and campaign memos. Planning for an entire new life seems slightly more complicated, though. He gulps.

Henry’s panic has been all Alex has had room for for months now. It was big and encompassing and uncrackable, until it wasn’t. Which, of course, Alex couldn’t be more glad about; the light from Henry’s smile when either of them refer to the baby as ‘our daughter’ could power entire cities. But, now, the mental space worrying about if Henry would ever be able to face the reality of having a baby was occupying is wide open, and Alex’s own fear has decided to take up residence.

Five weeks to get it all together, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’ll do when that deadline is up.

“Do we have to give her a stuffy royal name?” Alex asks, because ‘figuring out her name’ is one bullet point on his ‘shit we really need to do before we become parents’ list he feels moderately equipped to deal with. Henry is still mostly asleep, so Alex doesn’t actually expect an answer, but, a full minute later, Henry blinks his eyes open.

“Ah, uh, yes, probably,” he admits with a frown. His hand wanders down to his stomach, landing just above Alex’s, “I mean, we don’t have to, but . . . with Gran and the press, it would be . . . we should probably just do it.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Alex mumbles. He’s mostly been restricting his name search to former English queens, princesses, and duchesses, turning up with a lot of Elizabeth’s, Eleanor’s, and Margaret’s.

“Well,” Henry says, shuffling around the sheets and tossing pillows so he can turn to look at Alex, something hopeful in his eyes, something Alex wants to chase, “just because we have to forfeit her first name to my family doesn’t mean she can’t have a middle name. Or that we can’t just call her that in private.”

“Yeah?” Alex smiles. He’s got ideas for something like this, too, on the rare chance Henry would tell them they could actually name their daughter as they pleased. This isn’t exactly that, but it’s close enough to feel like some sort of victory, “I, uh. I kinda have an idea, actually.”

Henry presses himself up, his chin resting in his palm, and looks at Alex expectantly. His smile is bright and wide and Alex would say anything, do anything , just to keep Henry looking at him like that.

“Emiliana,” Alex says.

“Emiliana?” Henry repeats, the name soft and solid when he says it, and Alex sighs into the sound.

The name is not particularly significant to Alex personally; there’s been no memorable Emiliana’s who have shaped his life, no family history or treasured story centered around it. It’s Spanish, according to the baby name website Alex found it on, and means ‘to excel’. And, despite his prior lack of connection to it, the second Alex read it, it settled inside him and refused to budge. Hearing it in Henry’s voice cements it further.

“I think that’s her name,” Alex whispers. Henry’s eyes squint at the corners, a small amount of wetness misting there.

“I’d have to agree.”

The world shrinks down for just a minute, the city outside their window and all their homes across two different countries fading away, until all that’s left is the two- three of them, sharing this bed. Their daughter has a name. She’s a real person now, and that is as scary as it is exhilarating. Alex is sure he’s going to fuck up with her more times than he can count, but there’s something exciting about that, too.

He leans over and kisses Henry, gentle and slow. Emiliana lies between them, for now and for forever, regardless of how out of their depth either of them may feel raising her. She’s coming, one way or another, and there’s something almost comforting about the stability of that fact.

If no one stopped them, Alex could’ve stayed in that moment for hours, for days longer. But, they only get another minute before both their phones ding with notifications. At the exact same time, which has never once meant something good.

“God,” Henry mutters preemptively, making the cumbersome movements to turn himself over to grab his phone, “what now?”

Alex reaches over to his nightstand and reads through the messages on his home screen; the same link sent to him by Nora, June, and Zahra, a text from Shaan asking if Henry has checked his phone this morning, and, as he holds his phone, an incoming call from Zahra. He sends it to voicemail for now and looks over to Henry.

On his screen, he has the same link everyone sent Alex open. He scrolls through the article’s pictures, zooming in on the wine glass in his hands, and huffs as he tosses his phone down onto the bed.

“As if everyone wasn’t upset enough with me for getting pregnant in the first place,” he grumbles, rubbing his thumb between his pinched brows, “I’m an idiot. An absolute idiot. How could I not know-”

“We don’t normally get papped here,” Alex attempts to comfort as he places a hand on Henry’s slumped shoulders, “so, how were you supposed to guess they’d find us at some random bistro? And, didn’t you say wine is, like, basically fine? It’s not like you really did anything wrong, right?”

Henry glances at Alex over his shoulder, his expression weighted down with upset and incredulity.

“It is fine,” he groans, “as far as my doctor and most research are concerned. But that doesn’t make pictures of drinking while I’m eight months pregnant look any better. Fuck.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Alex mumbles, pressing himself against Henry’s back. His phone rings behind them, likely Zahra, and he swears he’ll get it on the third call, fourth at the absolute latest. For now, he rests his lips on the nape of Henry’s neck and sighs, “we’ll get on top of it once we go back to London.”

“I’ve mucked things up for her already, haven’t I?” Henry frowns with the lightest touch to his bump.

“We’re gonna mess up with her sometimes,” Alex says, and admitting it outloud doesn’t sound nearly as bad as it did in his head, “It’ll probably happen a lot, honestly. Mostly by me.”

“Don’t say that,” Henry says with a breathy laugh, “you’re supposed to be the one who’s good at this. I’m the one who’s got no clue what he’s meant to be doing.”

“We’re both clueless, baby,” Alex chuckles, “God, what the fuck are we going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” Henry moans, grinning as he says it, “do you think she’ll realize we don’t know? Once she’s here?”

“I think she’s already got us figured out,” Alex sighs warmly. He tucks his head into the crook of Henry’s neck, pressing a few kisses to his skin, as nerves buzz under his skin. There’s always something vibrating around inside him, a restless energy that nothing, not even the meds he takes for his ADHD, can ever fully quell. The idea of Emiliana fires all that energy up, spiraling into a ball between his lungs and quickening his breath, but he finds he doesn’t mind the strain.

When they get back to London, the plan for what to do about the Paris photos ends up being nothing. The story simmers out within a week, with nothing more than a few articles, some angry conservative mom bloggers, and a mention or two by celebrities who already didn’t like them, whether or not Henry was drinking with a baby on board. Philip snips a little bit at Henry about it, until Martha reminds him that she also had a glass or two of Pinot Grigio in her last few months with both James and Victoria, and he lets it go.

With that settled, it's back to the day in day out sameness of palace life, which Alex truly and earnestly hates, but which there is also no viable escape from at the moment, not with Henry so close to his due date. At least Alex has worrying about their Texas move to fill his time. He’s looked at so many Zillow listings in Austin that all the open floor plans, granite countertops, and walk-in pantries are blending into one amalgamous mass he can’t separate out in his head. Even if he could find one house from the hoard he really likes, the tangibility of the move is so elusive he can’t imagine being confident enough to actually put in a downpayment.

Tentatively, Alex has accepted the Equality Texas Foundation job, with the condition that he won’t be starting until Emiliana is at least a month old. Tentative is the operative word, though, because, as much as Henry says it’s fine, as much as he nods away the problems Alex poses, no part of moving to Austin seems like a sure thing.

Alex still does his due diligence, because he’s incapable of not doing it. When one of the heads of the departments he’ll be joining sends him over a document on legislation they’re working on for this year for Alex to ‘look over when he has time’, he immediately dives into research. He’s got a window with about ten tabs open for each item on the legislative agenda, sandwiched between home listings, a Target cart full of onesies and blankets, and the Google search results for ‘how do i take care of a baby’.

He’s elbow deep in some readings on transgender health care this morning. Henry’s off in a meeting with his family for the next few hours. Alex wasn’t invited, which he normally would kick up a fuss about, but he’s so bored of hearing Queen Mary and Philip chatter on with each other about nothing important that he’ll take it as the win it is.

Henry, though, storms into their room only an hour after he left in the first place.

“We’re leaving,” he declares the second he has the door slammed behind himself, and both David and Alex’s head raise in shock.

“Leaving as in-”

“As in a plane to America, or a boat, or getting in a taxi and going anywhere but here,” Henry growls. He’s at the dresser, yanking open drawers and tossing wads of clothes onto the bed.

“Can we talk about-”

“No,” Henry hisses without looking back at Alex. He wobbles into a crouched position and pulls his suitcase off the ground, swinging it up alongside their clothes and nearly toppling himself over in the process, “we can talk once we get out of here.”

Alex shuts his laptop, walks around the small pile of underwear and socks that ended up on the floor instead of the bed, and places steadying hands on Henry’s shoulders. David takes up his other side, whimpering quietly as he sits by Henry’s feet.

“So, yeah, no,” Alex sighs as he eases one of Henry’s hands out of the grip it has on the suitcase handle, “we’re gonna need to talk about it now.”

Henry huffs, his brows pulling together and wrinkling his forehead. He grabs a handful of shirts to bunch them up in his fist and tosses them back down, before he shakes Alex’s hands off him.

“She’s not getting a title,” he mutters weakly.

“What?” Alex asks, barely hearing him. Henry grimaces at him.

“Emiliana,” he fumes out of gritted teeth, none of the magic charm the two of them usually put on her name, meant to be whispered alone in their room, their little secret, “My grandmother won’t give her a title. She doesn’t have to; it’s her choice whether or not Emiliana gets referred to as a princess. And, as I’ve just been informed, she’s decided she won’t .”

“Oh,” Alex says, and waits for the information to hit him as hard as it has hit Henry, but it never does, “but . . . Henry, forgive me if I’m missing something, but you hate your title. Why are you upset that our daughter won’t have one?”

“Because,” Henry says, that fire of anger that he stormed in with simmering right behind his eyes. He shakes his head and takes a seat on bed, David hopping up next to him, “Because it’s . . . it’s . . . the principle of it.”

Pushing some clothes out of the way, Alex settles next to him. There’s a lot Alex doesn’t fully grasp about Henry’s relationship with his family and the monarchy. Maybe there will always be this gap of understanding between them, one that the fundamental differences between how they were raised will forever prevent from being bridged. But, God help Alex if he doesn’t try to bridge it anyways. He wants to get it. He wants to know every truth of Henry he can, even the ones he has to dig and dig for.

“Tell me about the principle of it, then,” Alex prompts. Henry frowns, before he nods and takes hold of Alex’s hand.

“I’ve done so much I didn’t want to do, just to make things easier on everyone else in my family. And, I’ve always done that, but . . . but then there was you,” Henry says. His eyes flit over to Alex, the briefest flash of a smile crossing his face, before he sucks in a deep breath and it falls away, “and I finally was able to carve out something that was mine. But, now I’m back, doing the nonsense they tell me is good for ‘the image of the Crown’, and I’ve gotten you stuck here, too-”

“Don’t worry about that,” Alex jumps in, though he ferments in unease more and more each day they stay here, every part of him disjunct with this life, these people.

“It’s true, though. We’re stuck,” Henry laments, more maudlin than Alex has seen him in these past few weeks, “till she’s born, and who knows how long after.”

Alex tries and fails to combat that with something uplifting. Someone, be it Queen Mary or Catherine or whoever else, has had a nursery set up for them here at Kensington. They will need it; it’s not like they can just hop on a plane with a one day old–or Henry fresh off giving birth. There’s a not so temporary feeling about the set-up, though, that sits heavy in Alex’s gut, that must be weighing on Henry, too.

“Fucking Christ,” Henry scoffs roughly, “Gran begged me months ago that I give birth in London. I’d never seen her actually beg me for something, but she looked close to tears at even the idea that I wouldn’t and, I . . . I didn’t want to hurt her, or cause trouble for Mum, or the rest of the family, or even Emiliana, by refusing. And now they won’t even . . . I did it, did so much, and they won’t even . . .”

“Fuck ‘em,” Alex blurts. It’s a risk; Henry’s willingness to tell his family to screw off is never predictable. Relief floods Alex when Henry’s lips tilt up in the slightest, “Emmy’s still a princess in my book, no matter what shit your grandmother’s pulling.”

“Gran asked what I thought she’d look like. Emiliana, I mean,” Henry says ruefully, “I thought she was genuinely curious. She wanted to know how dark her skin might be.”

“Jesus,” Alex says, forcing himself to laugh so he doesn’t snarl.

The question isn't exactly a shock. He looks a lot like his dad, unlike June, who got enough of their mother’s features to pass for white in the right settings. And, though Mom would never say a word about it to Alex, he knows from Dad people weren’t shy about pointing these facts out when he and June were each barely more than newborns.

“I love Bea. I love my mum and James and Victoria and even Philip. And, in some part of myself, I love Gran, as best I can,” Henry states, stiff and level, his eyes focused off and away from Alex, “but, as soon as we are allowed to leave, I’m not coming back. Not for a long time. I’m going to make sure of that.”

He takes a shaky breath and looks over to Alex, his eyes deadly serious. Alex swallows, sitting in the feeling of Henry’s stare, and thinks he might know what Henry means. He doesn’t voice it, though. Not yet. It can wait until after Emiliana is here.

“I love you,” he says, which is true always but true especially now. Henry’s eyes soften.

“You are,” he murmurs, “the love of my life.”

“I had a feeling I might be,” Alex smirks, and Henry gives him a good-natured shove, which transitions easily into Henry falling against his chest. He holds Henry there, inviting David into his lap as well, and lets Henry wet his shirt with tears without comment.

Notes:

Feel free to comment or reach out to me on tumblr! I love talking headcanons

Chapter 4: Contractions, Dilation, and Pushing

Notes:

Firstly, thanks so much to Gali, CuriousCat, and kisaru for being awesome beta-readers.
Second, wanted to warn y’all that this is a pretty detailed depiction of labor. It’s not that bloody or messy but still, it’s pretty in depth. If that makes you uncomfortable, might be best to skip to the baby fluff at the very end.
Okay, enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

CafeMom

@cafemom

20 Times Prince Henry Looked Like He Was Over Being Pregnant: cafemom.com/entertainment/217544-prince-henry-over-being-pregnant

Daily Express

@daily_express

Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz were notably absent during this morning’s royal welcome of Their Majesties: The King and Queen of the Netherlands, despite their current residence in Kensington Palace, raising some concerns about the health of Prince Henry and his unborn child.

[image attached: the entire royal family, minus Alex and Henry, greeting Dutch royals as they exit their carriage in front of Buckingham Palace]

Vanity Fair

@vanityfair

Prince Henry’s Online Trolls Have Become Obsessed With This One Weird Theory: why the dark side of the internet believes the prince is faking his pregnancy: vanityfair.com/style/2024/03/prince-henry-online-trolls-theories

Henry goes into labour eight days past his due date. Well, technically seven, as he’s fairly certain now that the back pains that kept waking him up last night were actually mild contractions. It’s a good time for Emiliana to make her appearance; late enough to add an extra touch of credibility to the story the royal family is pushing that she was conceived within wedlock, but not quite so long Henry would have to be induced. Henry decides to take it as an act of kindness on his daughter’s part, and mutters a thank you down to his stomach, alongside a hopeful request that she doesn’t go too hard on him with this labour bit.

Alex is out on his morning run when Henry determines that what he’s experiencing is definitely labour, but Henry doesn’t bother calling him back in early. His contractions are staying consistently around ten to twelve minutes apart, and nothing too bad yet. No need to start a fuss over that.

“Hey,” Alex breezes as he returns to their room, sweat clinging to his curls. He smiles at Henry, revitalized in that way he always is after his run, and Henry smiles back as if he didn’t just have a contraction, “I’m going to take a shower real quick, okay?”

“Okay,” Henry nods. Telling Alex can wait a little longer. Henry doesn’t mind; he might prefer it, honestly.

Alex is in the bathroom for the next twenty minutes, just enough time for Henry to get through two more contractions with no one knowing about them. He waits, still, until Alex is dressed and rubbing David’s belly before marking his spot in his book, resettling himself in his chair, and getting on with it.

“Alex,” he breathes, light and gentle.

“Yeah?” Alex shoots without looking up from David. Henry takes a breath and lets a beat or two more pass.

“You don’t need to get worked up over this,” he states, though Alex’s head snaps up to him as soon as he says it, the statement pointless, “but I think I’m in labour.”

“What?” Alex says, springing up to his feet. Henry flushes.

“It’s very early stages,” he mumbles, “and I’ve only just realized that it even is labour at all, and not-”

“Jesus, Henry,” Alex chuckles, “you let me spend ten minutes in there doing my hair while you were in labour? What the fuck?”

Henry shrugs off the question and Alex nudges him over so they can share the armchair, which is not really intended to seat two people, nevermind when one of them is literally about to pop. That fact doesn’t seem to deter Alex from cozying himself in.

“What are you doing, telling me not to get worked up?” Alex tuts as he raises a hand to cup Henry’s cheek, “ Of course I’m gonna get worked up. We’re going to meet her! This is the most excited I’ve ever been about anything.”

“Easy for you to say,” Henry says with a roll of his eyes, “when you’re not going to be doing any of the hard bits.”

“True,”Alex concedes. He laughs again, the sound bursting from him as if he couldn’t keep it in anymore, and it evaporates some of the tension sitting in Henry’s chest, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Like I said, I'm still very early on. The contractions barely even hurt. It just feels tight.”

Alex nods and tips his eyes down to Henry’s stomach. He gives it a tap and Emiliana shifts reluctantly, likely a little cramped in there by this point.

“How bout you, princesa?” he hums to her,“¿Finalmente estás lista para salir? ¿Ya terminaste de hacernos esperar?”

There’s another shift inside Henry in response to that question. She’s low enough now that basically every move she makes grinds her head against his pelvis, a shooting pain that has Henry rising up in his seat, trying to ease away from the pressure. Alex looks up at him with worried eyes, but Henry just shakes his head as he settles back down.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” Alex asks, “Or, like, is there anything we need to do? I don’t . . . sorry, I feel like such an idiot right now. I read everything I could about labour, but I swear all of it just evaporated from my head.”

“There’s not much to be done. I won’t need to go into hospital for ages, I’m sure,” Henry shrugs. His lips flatten into a tight line, the start of a contraction tensing up in his lower back, as he considers that hospital trip. The second their car makes its first turn towards St. Mary’s, word of Emiliana’s arrival will spread until there’s not a soul out there who doesn’t know Henry’s in labour. Though, as he said, that’s hopefully a bit of time ahead of them still, “We should start telling people, though, shouldn’t we?”

“I know my mom will be on a plane the second we hang up with her,” Alex smiles, “You wanna tell her first? I can guarantee a lot of excitement.”

“The protocol is to let my grandmother know first before anyone else,” Henry says, gritting his way through a contraction, and doesn’t even need Alex’s frown to put him off the idea, “but, we are not fucking doing that. Call your mom.”

“Hell yeah we’re not,” Alex agrees, with a mild cast of surprise over his face. A proud smile pushes into Henry’s cheeks as his own defiance stirs up some warmth in his chest. He tucks himself closer to Alex than he already was on the snug chair and tips his head into the crook of Alex’s neck as his contraction lets up. Alex calls Ellen and puts the phone on speaker.

“Alex?” Ellen answers after only two rings, already sounding eager. She’s been checking in daily for the past two weeks, just to see if anything has happened.

“Hey, Ma,” Alex says, pausing to press a quick kiss to Henry’s cheek, “we’ve got some exciting news for you.”

“I’ve already got my bag packed,” Ellen says, without needing to hear what the news is, “Give me a little bit to wrangle up a plane, and I can be there within the next ten hours or so. Quicker if I can manage.”

“I’ve only just gotten started,” Henry assures, though he doesn’t doubt the capabilities of Ellen Claremont to get planes to fly faster than they’re supposed to, if so needed, “so, please don’t rush if you-”

“Leo! Get us a private jet!” Ellen calls out, before she returns her attention to them, “Oh, it’s not a rush. We’ve been waitin’ for you two to tell us to get our butts over there for almost a month now. You tell June yet? Or your dad?”

“Nope,” Alex says, popping the ‘p’, “you’re the first to know.”

“Oh. Well, that’s . . . alright, then,” Ellen says, and Henry is certain he can pick up a hint of a smile in her voice, “Even before the queen?”

Henry chuckles into Alex’s neck, wincing as another horrible bit of sharpness crops up in his hips. Alex wraps a hand around Henry’s hip bone and holds on, firm but not overly tight, a little trick they’ve developed in the past few weeks. Some of the pain starts to dull and Henry can take a breath. He keeps his head precisely where it is, buried in Alex’s neck, his cheek being grazed by the occasional wayward curl, and thinks that he might just spend the rest of his labour here, if he’s allowed.

“Yes,” Henry grins, “even before her.”

Four hours into labor–or, four hours since Henry told him he was in labor, Alex should say–and everything seems to be going well. Henry’s contractions are about eight minutes apart now, and gradually becoming more painful, though still nothing they can’t work through. So far, it’s been relatively relaxed: walking around KP, rubbing the aches out of Henry’s back and hips, grabbing him water and little things he can nibble on whenever he feels up to it.

Alex’s main task–and a self-imposed one, at that–has been calling everyone he can think of. So far, he’s gotten to June and Pez, who have both been staying in Pez’s place in London since Henry hit the ‘any day now’ mark in preparation, and Nora and Zahra, who are both on their way out on the next flights they can arrange.

Henry had a quick phone call with his grandmother a little while ago, when his energy was up, and didn’t want to talk about it after. Shaan, Bea, and Catherine were each just a few doors down, and are now on the unofficial ‘Prince Henry Labor Support Team’ alongside Alex. He assumes someone also told Philip and Martha, at some point, because he got a text from Philip asking for updates as things progressed, but, honestly, Alex wasn’t too concerned about reaching them.

He hasn’t been able to get through to his dad yet, though he’s not overly worried, as this is usually a busy time for him with meetings. He’ll see Alex’s two calls and ‘urgent grandkid news!’ text soon enough, hopefully.

“Good job, baby,” Alex hums as Henry works his way through another contraction, this one coming just a little bit quicker than the last one, bringing them one small step closer to meeting Emmy.

Henry’s sat on the edge of his bed, bent nearly in half with his elbows resting on his knees. It doesn’t look like the most comfortable pose to be in, but it’s the one he’s taken up for his last four or so contractions, and Alex is not a big enough moron to question the choices of someone in labor. He knows what his job is: shut up, follow Henry’s lead, and rub his back whenever possible. Case in point–Alex is sitting behind Henry now, running his knuckles up and down Henry’s spine, and offering up only praise to Henry.

“That one felt longer,” Henry mumbles as he sits up and straightens his back out with a groan.

“It was,” Bea nods. She’s in the big, cozy chair by the fireplace and has taken up her own job: time-keeper. She switches from her window of emails and documents for The Beatrice Fund on her laptop to her virtual stopwatch, “Almost a minute.”

“Making progress!” Alex beams and Henry leans back against him, huffing a laugh.

“You can’t possibly stay this high-energy throughout the whole labor, can you?”

“I mean, I’m gonna try ,” Alex says, and Bea chuckles, too, as she returns to her work, “You want some of your water?”

Henry nods, so Alex grabs him his bottle and keeps his hands busy working some tension out of Henry’s shoulders as he takes a sip. His phone buzzes in his pocket as Henry hands him back the water and he pauses rubbing Henry’s shoulder to take it out, elating to see his Dad’s contact photo filling the screen.

“Oh, I gotta-” Alex starts to rise, pressing a quick kiss to Henry’s temple as he stands, “Bea, can you keep an eye on Henry while I take this?”

“I don’t need a sitter,” Henry grumbles, but Bea still nods and takes up a spot behind him on the bed.

“Hey, hey, sorry,” Dad says when Alex answers, “I had work stuff all day. But, I saw the text. This it? Should I get a plane ticket?”

“Yeah, this is it . Finally,” Alex says, a pleased little laugh, repeating the same sort of line he’s been giving on every phone call. That extra eight day wait kept everyone on their toes.

“How’s Henry?” Dad asks. Alex glances back towards the room he just left, a small trill of nervousness shooting through him. He hasn’t left Henry alone much since he found out labor started, even if he’s completely aware his hovering is starting to get annoying.

“He’s doing really good, actually,” Alex tells his dad, reminding himself of the fact as well, “It’s pretty early on, so it’s not that bad yet, I guess. But, yeah, Henry’s amazing. It’s . . . all of it’s amazing.”

“And, what about you?” Dad follows up. Alex’s brow furrows.

“What about me?”

“How are you doing?”

Alex leans heavy against the hallway wall and takes a breath or two, the question bringing him up short. It’s been at least a few hours since he thought about himself in any meaningful way, all the hubbub of tending to Henry and getting family up to speed on the situation a mighty distraction for his already easy to distract mind. He should probably eat something, since he’s not sure he has since before he went on his morning run, and maybe take some sips from Henry’s water. He should also probably spend more than a second on considering how he’s feeling.

“Uh, I’m . . .” he starts and stops, sifting through his brain for another moment before he comes up with actual words to explain himself, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You mean with Henry in labor?”

“I mean, uh, kinda . . . all of it?” Alex confesses, wincing as it leaves his mouth.

There’s never been a point in his life where he’s been unsure of where he’s going. His parents started working in politics when he was barely in first grade, setting up a clear goal for his own trajectory. After that, there was a logical progression: do well in school, get into a good college, network with every one his parents’ coworkers, brand himself, alongside June and Nora, as a name to remember among Democrats. All of it was sending him towards becoming the youngest congressman ever. And, now, that goal has shifted a bit, or delayed slightly, at least, but law school and the job hunt following still kept him on a path with a definitive endpoint in sight.

His relationship with Henry has been one of the few things capable of jarring Alex into the unknown. Alex is happy for it, and will let Henry uproot him as many times as he sees fit, but the sensation of being so unmoored is always a rough adjustment at first.

“Okay, well, are you taking good care of Henry?” his dad checks, “Making sure you’re there for him?”

“Of course,” Alex says, a touch indignant to even be asked.

“So, keep doing that until the kid is born,” Dad says, “and, then, just make sure the kid’s okay, too, once they're out.”

“And?” Alex asks, because there is absolutely no way it can be that simple.

“Just that. Every day, for the rest of your life,” Dad replies, with so much ease Alex wants to scream at him, “It’s day by day, you know. Hell, I’m still going day by day with you and June. You figure it out as you go.”

“That sounds really fuckin’ nervewracking,” Alex laughs weakly. Dad chuckles, too.

“Yep,” he agrees, and lets that fundamental fact of parenthood settle between them. Great, it is as scary as Alex is picturing, then. It’s still a path, though, despite how rocky and unmarked it seems; make sure Henry and Emmy are okay, from now until forever, “but, you can call me or Mom if you get really stuck.”

“Thanks,” Alex snorts, and can already picture all the frantic three-am video chats when Emmy does something he didn’t read about in his google searches.

“Alright, I’ve kept you from Henry for long enough. I gotta figure out a flight to London, anyway,” Dad sighs, “Te amo, mijo. Que te vaya bien.”

“También te amo. Hasta pronto.”

“That one looked rough,” Alex comments as Henry comes out of another contraction.

They’ve been steadily getting stronger, longer, and closer together, inching their way towards only six minutes apart. Someone–either Alex or his mother, Henry can't remember–had started to float the idea of heading over to St. Mary’s, but Henry shot it down. Five minutes; when they called his obstetrician this morning, he said Henry could wait until contractions are five minutes apart to come in. Henry will leave not a second before then.

“A little bit rough, yes,” Henry mumbles from where his face is buried in the duvet. A few contractions ago–which, despite what he just said, have been much worse than a ‘little bit rough’–he crouched down by the foot of the bed, knees wide, fists clenched into the sheets, and he hasn’t been able to move since.

He breathes, collecting himself as much as he can in the respite between waves of pain, and manages to at least turn himself around to look at his party of onlookers he amassed; Bea, Mum, David, and Alex sat cross-legged right by his side. He flushes, just a slight bit embarrassed, as he must look a state. Sweat has begun to crop up on the nape of his neck and trickle down his back, despite the fact that London is still firmly in winter, and he’s certain his face has gone all blotchy, given how hot he’s running right now. Everyone around him still meets him with smiles, though.

“That one was a full minute,” Bea informs him, “and just about . . . six minutes and twenty seconds after the last one.”

“Do you want some crackers?” Mum asks, holding a plate full of Ritz primly in front of herself, as if she’s been lying in wait just for the exact right moment to offer them up to Henry. He laughs to himself at this and nods for her to bring them over. She sets them by his side and he nibbles at one, hoping it won’t come right back up, like the sandwich he attempted a few hours earlier.

David ambles over to him and rests his snout atop Henry’s bump, a habit he’s taken up ever since it curved out enough for him to do so. Henry pats his head and scratches the spot behind his ear he knows he loves, though David still whimpers at him.

“Oh, you’re such a worrywort,” Henry tsks, “I’m fine, and so’s the baby.”

“He’s been whining every time we try to take him out for a walk or down to the kitchen for some food,” Bea says. She closes her laptop and sets it away, joining the group of them on the floor. Even Mum lowers herself down with them, her legs tucked under her, and Henry is once again grateful for their care at the same time he’s utterly mortified by it.

“Those contractions have been getting rather intense,” Mum comments, making some attempts at nonchalance as she says it, though it’s not exactly a mystery what she’s hinting towards. Henry frowns.

“If you wanna go . . .” Alex trails, shrugging, as he dips his chin to land on Henry’s shoulder, “I don’t know, you tell me what you wanna do, but now seems like a good time.”

“Not quite yet,” Henry says with a tight smile. He levers himself up off the ground, as the sitting is starting to make his back even sorer than it already is, and everyone rises with him. He narrows his eyes at them, “I, uh. I think I might . . . might just rest a bit. Alex?”

“Yeah?” Alex says, a bounce in his step, as if he’s ready to bound into action the second Henry gives the command. Henry sighs as he lays on his side, sliding pillows under every spot of him that aches. That thankful-self-conscious mix of feelings churns about inside him again with Alex’s eager eyes on him and he tucks his face into a pillow.

“Would you take David down to the kitchen and see if you could get him to eat something?” he mumbles. His eyes are shut, but he can still feel the weight of Alex’s stare when he pauses before he answers.

“You . . . you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

“I’m worried about him not eating,” Henry says, still keeping his face concealed in his pillow. He adds, a moment later, when he can still feel Alex’s eyes on him, “please?”

“Fine,” Alex huffs, and Henry hears the sounds of him gathering David up, mixed with some grumbling from Alex, “C’mon, Bowie. We’re irritating your dad.”

Mum offers to go with Alex to refill Henry’s water bottle, and the door closes behind the two of them as they leave. Bea lays herself onto the bed next to Henry soon after they go, and his eyes open on her smirking at him.

“You’re such a stubborn git,” she says, “You know that, right?”

“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” he says, nudging a little closer to her.

“You’ll have to go into the hospital eventually. Soon rather than later, with how things are progressing,” she reminds, and Henry sighs reluctantly. He knows, he definitely knows, and, even if he didn’t have to, it’s not as if he’d want to actually have the baby without some sort of medical support. It’s just . . . well, he decided a while ago he was going to wait as long as he could.

Bea reaches out, lightly pushing some of his hair off his face, and Henry leans into the touch of her fingertips and the calluses built up there from her guitar.

“Are you doing alright?” she asks softly. Henry shrugs.

“It’s…well, it’s labour, it’s not going to be easy,” he mumbles, and frowns as he rubs at a tender spot along his spine, “what about you? Are you alright? You and Nora were on the phone for hours last night.”

Bea gives his arm a swift punch and Henry laughs.

“No!” she huffs at him, “You delivering a baby does not give you an excuse to ask me about my love life.”

“Love life?” he asks with raised brows, “So, then, I’m assuming I’m right in thinking you two are dating?”

“Oh, shut up,” Bea fumes brightly at him, rolling her eyes, “Dating is not-that’s not what-well, just leave it, alright? I’ll explain once you get done pushing the sprog out.”

“Okay,” Henry smirks as he swears to himself that, however foggy and emotional he is after the birth, he will remember to ask his sister about it. He rests his head on her shoulder and she allows it with some grumbling.

Alex goes and does the nonsense task Henry assigned him, even if they both know that it’s nonsense. David whimpers as soon as they are out of Henry’s room, and Alex has to carry him to get him down the stairs.

“You and me both, bud,” Alex commiserates. Catherine smiles pityingly at them.

“Poor thing,” she comments, and Alex isn’t sure if she’s referring to David or him.

In the kitchen, Alex fills up David’s food and water bowls, which he devours, despite his grumpiness over being taken from Henry. Alex checks his phone. Nora, June, and Pez are bombarding the Super Six group message with excited texts and gifs of cute animals screaming, and both his mom and dad have updated him on their ETA’s. Philip sent a text saying ‘ How are things going? Me and Martha send our love’ and Alex doesn't think so poorly of him to not believe that he is legitimately concerned.

Going pretty fast, but good. Will let you know when we go to st mary’s, thx

David’s finishing up his food when Alex looks away from his phone, so he pats the dog’s side and takes some steps out of the room, knowing David will follow.

“Come on, Bowie. Let’s get back to our guy.”

At the top of the stairs, he’s met with Bea carrying a stack of towels and rushing towards Henry’s room. Which, probably not a good thing.

“What happened?” he demands as soon as he catches her eye, a brief flash of worry that Henry is somehow having Emmy right now. Bea shakes her head with a sigh.

“His water broke,” she tells him, and a shock of excitement and dread runs through Alex.

“Does he want to go to St. Mary’s?” he asks, and Bea rolls her eyes.

“He’s still saying ‘not yet’.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Alex says, taking the towels from her.

When he opens the door to the bedroom, there’s Henry, gripping onto the top of his dresser, his legs spread wide, as he stands in a puddle that, according to Bea, he made all by himself. Catherine stands beside him, rubbing a hand up and down Henry’s spine as she makes comforting sounds. Alex approaches carefully and steps around the puddle to place a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He tosses one of the towels haphazardly at it as an afterthought.

“It looks like a lot happened while I was downstairs,” Alex jokes, and Henry looks over to him with a regretful expression, before glancing at the large dark spot on his sweatpants and sucking in a breath.

“It . . . yes,” Henry mutters, shifting around uncomfortably in all the wetness, “my contractions are . . . they’re five minutes apart.”

“Okay,” Alex nods. He runs his knuckles along Henry’s cheek, which is hot with excretion, “we’ve got some options here.”

“Really?” Henry asks, a fragment of hope in the question that ignites something deep in Alex, that part of him that lives just to make Henry hopeful, “What are they?”

“Either we can call up all the midwives, and obstetricians, and whoever the hell else, tell them to get over to KP, and you have this kid right here,” Alex says, and Henry’s brows knot at that idea, “or we leave for the hospital. I’m with you no matter what you choose, but, I have the feeling you’re gonna need to make that choice pretty quick.”

Henry gulps and casts his eyes down, giving the towel between his legs a nudge with his sock-covered foot. They sit in his deliberation for a while, as Alex strokes his palm up and down Henry’s tense arm, content to wait as long as Henry needs to take.

“Whatever you want,” Alex reminds, voice hushed, speaking just for the two of them, “I’ve got you.”

“I . . .” Henry starts, squeezing his eyes shut, and Alex can’t work out if it’s pain or worry that’s wrinkling between his brows. He blinks over to Alex after a moment with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, “I think I need to go to hospital.”

“Okay,” Alex nods. He kisses Henry’s temple, as a sort of small reward for making the choice, and helps him stay steady as he leans away from the dresser and stands up straight.

“Do you want to get changed before you go, darling?” Catherine asks, and Alex remembers that she’s even there at all. His awareness has been so acutely focused on Henry and how he’s doing all day that everyone else in the peripheral keeps fading if he’s not actively speaking to them. She smiles at him as she helps Henry over the bathroom.

“Alex, love, would you fetch Henry’s hospital bag? I’ll get him some new clothes,” she says, and Alex nods, practically buzzing out of his skin with how fast things are going. The skin around Catherine’s eyes crinkles tenderly before she turns her attention back to Henry.

“You’ve got yourself a good one, Hen,” she murmurs as Alex is pulling Henry’s hospital bag from the closet, and he just barely catches it. He thinks, though, he was meant to hear it.

The Daily Beast

@thedailybeast

BREAKING: Prince Henry in labour!

[image attached: Henry, dressed in a new pair of sweats and XXL Claremont for President shirt, is stepping out of a car in front of the entrance to the Lindo Wing. Alex is holding his arm and supporting him around the waist]

Vanity Fair

@vanityfair

Epidural? Home birth? C-section? Read about what our sources are saying might be part of Prince Henry’s birth plan: vanityfair.com/royals/2024/03/inside-prince-henrys-birth-plan

The sky is dark by the time they leave for St. Mary’s and the Lindo Wing. Twelve hours have passed from when Henry first decided he was in labour till now, apparently; time lost meaning around the point Henry stopped being able to talk through his contractions. The benefit of this is that, as they arrive around nine in the evening to the hospital, there’s a much smaller amount of press waiting to meet them than Henry had worried. Still a non-zero number of them, a few cameras flashing as Alex helps him out of the car that Henry doesn’t bother waving to. They’ll still circulate news of his upcoming delivery nearly as fast, of course, but Henry can worry about that later.

The first matter to address when he greets his labour and delivery staff–his main OBGYN, Dr. Baker, an extra one on call, and five entire midwives–is what they should refer to him as. Henry wheezes out a laugh. He insists on simply ‘Henry’, and asks them to please avoid the use of ‘prince’, ‘your royal highness’, and ‘sir’ as much as possible. Most of them are going to have their fingers in his arse and/or an up close view of his crotch during the course of this; formalities seem a bit foolish, given that.

“Just like your mother was,” the most senior of the midwives, a short, older woman with a thick Jamaican accent who evidently helped deliver Henry himself, says. That fact settles warmly in Henry, a secret of his mother he’s never been party to, yet makes complete sense.

The next order of business is assessing how far into labouring Henry is. Quite far, seems to be the answer, as his contractions have jumped to only two to three minutes apart and a pelvic exam reveals he’s nearly eight centimeters dilated and fully effaced. And, with how close he is to end of all this, he’s also too far gone for an epidural.

It’s not as if Henry wasn’t aware this was a risk with how long he waited to go into hospital. Still, it’s a disappointment nonetheless. The staff sets him up with a gas and air machine, a birthing ball, and the guidance to keep doing what he’s been doing until they return to check on him in an hour.

“You doing alright?” Alex asks as he sits behind Henry, doing up the ties on his hospital gown. Henry, only just coming off a contraction, gives Alex a heavy look, and Alex shakes his head, “Yeah, sorry, I know you’re . . . it hurts like shit, obviously. I just meant, do you need anything? Water? Ice chips? Or should I-”

“Shh,” Henry hums. His hand fumbles out for the gas and air mouthpiece that hangs at the head of the bed. He sets in his lap for when the next contraction comes roaring in, surely all too soon after the last one, “Just sit, love.”

“Okay, ah, I-okay,” Alex says as he takes up the edge of the bed, looking a little jumpy, and Henry holds back an ‘I told you so’ about Alex drinking those Red Bulls before they came in.

“Hold me,” Henry sighs as he lies on his side. He’s sweaty and exhausted and, truthfully, being held doesn’t sound at all pleasant. But, god-fucking-damnit, he’s scared as well, their daughter so close to coming out.

Alex complies with this request readily, slipping in behind Henry and placing a hand on his bump as soon as he’s been asked. Henry looks down at himself, and gets about three seconds to think how ridiculously massive he is from this angle before another contraction rolls in. He shuts his eyes against it as every one of his muscles tighten. Time becomes a meaningless thing as pain overwhelms it, and Henry can’t think about breathing through it, or focusing his mind on some happy memory as a distraction, or even getting the gas and air nozzle to his mouth. At some point, Alex’s hand guides it up to his mouth, and he huffs and huffs and huffs on it, the top layer of his pain starting to ebb away with each breath.

“Good job, you’re okay,” Alex murmurs to Henry once he comes out of it, “you did it.”

Henry huffs out a weak, grumbly sound and pulls a pillow snug to him. Alex holds onto him a little tighter, and, though Henry is running hot enough for him to consider asking the midwives to check him for a fever, he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re getting so close,” Alex whispers.

“I know,” Henry mumbles, and is not as convinced of that being a good thing as Alex is. Well, Alex doesn’t have to go about pushing the little bugger out, does he? Henry groans at the thought, and Alex rubs the base of his spine like he can do away with all of Henry’s troubles if he could only work the soreness out of that spot.

“Can I . . .” Alex asks, another contraction and a few minutes of a pointless back rub later, “can I get a picture of you real quick?”

Henry’s inhaled enough laughing gas that everything is foggy, and that’s on top of the already woozy state of mind the pain of his contractions have put him in. Those two things must be making him mishear Alex, because he couldn’t have actually asked for a photo of Henry looking like this .

“. . . what?” he croaks, a few moments later. Alex pulls back a fraction of an inch.

“Okay, just, like, hear me out?” he starts, “I know that you probably don’t want a picture of you right now. And, I get that. I totally do. But, also. This might be the last picture we’ll ever get of you pregnant with Emmy. Cause, I don’t wanna scare you, but I feel like she’s gonna get here pretty quick.”

Henry swallows and thinks, as best as he can manage that right now. He has the same feelings about Emiliana’s imminence, some sort of energy building in him that refuses to be contained any longer. She’ll come before midnight tonight, Henry’s nearly certain, despite that being only a few hours away. But, Henry is also certain he does not want to be photographed. There’s enough of a record of him looking swollen and uncomfortable as is, with the press and Bea’s insistence of snapping a new polaroid of him each week to save for her ‘scrapbook’.

He opens his mouth to deny Alex’s request, but, looking down at himself, looking at Emiliana , he finds he simply can’t. He’ll want this later. As painful and horrid as everything feels in this moment, he knows he won’t want to forget it entirely.

“Just one,” he says as he turns onto his back and does his best to arrange his hair into something less disastrous.

“Just one,” Alex agrees. He stands, beaming behind his phone, and lines up a photo, “Okay, princesa, one last shot of you and Daddy before you’re here.”

And, Alex has definitely referred to him as Emiliana’s daddy before, quite a few times by this point, but, for some reason, this time has him sobbing.

“Should I, uh, not take it, or-” Alex asks as he lowers his phone. Henry shakes his head and does his best to gather himself, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes roughly. He’s trembling, whether it be from all the hormones in his body right now, or everything else, and he has to take a few shaking breaths before he feels up to answering.

“Take it,” he says, “I want to have this picture.”

Two midwives, the older woman, Jahkai, and one of her younger assistants, return a few minutes before an hour is up, when Henry is in the middle of another contraction. He’s bent over the side of the bed, rocking his hips in rhythm with his breathing, as Jahkai approaches behind and snaps on a glove.

“Alright, let’s see where we are at,” she hums, and pushes Henry’s gown up above his hips. Alex cringes a little at the brashness of it, but Jahkai just laughs, “No dignity in childbirth. Even if you are a royal.”

At least Henry is too distracted to have much of a reaction to Jahkai checking his dilation and discussing her findings with the younger nurse, who looks on raptly.

“I’ve never observed a male childbirth before,” she smiles at Alex, her own accent sounding, as Alex has learned to identify from Henry, very Northern. He smiles back around a rough chuckle, and sits himself down on the bed so he can push Henry’s sweat-dampened hair off his forehead.

“He is at nine centimeters,” Jahkai informs, “and in transition. Shouldn’t be much longer now, Dad.”

Alex’s face lights in excitement, both at hearing how close they are and at being called Dad. He manages to catch Henry’s eyes as he comes out of the contraction, beaming at him.

“Almost there!”

Henry makes a small attempt at a smile and looks considerably less excited about the news. Jahkai and the other midwife excuse themselves, this time with the promise to return in twenty minutes from now, and a reminder to holler if they need anything. It surprises Alex, how relatively hands off they’ve been, but the sentiment among the whole staff is that Henry’s body knows what it’s doing. Watching Henry toss himself into bed, working around the low weight of his stomach, sweat glistening on the back of his neck, Alex has to agree that his body is doing a pretty good damn job of it.

“You’re doing really good,” Alex makes sure to voice aloud, just in case Henry needs to hear it. Henry grunts as he curls around his bump and clutches the gas and air nozzle close.

“Can you . . . get me a wet rag . . . please?” he huffs. Alex rushes off the bed to the sink and runs cold water over a towel, ringing it out just enough so it’s not dripping. When he offers it up to Henry, Henry slaps it down over his eyes with a moan. His fingers tremble as he fits the nozzle into his mouth, another contraction roaring in already. Alex scrambles back into bed, pressing his thumbs around the base of Henry’s spine, as he’s been doing during the worst contractions. Henry shirks away from the touch.

“Nuhh . . .” he eeks out around the nozzle in his mouth, some moans and groans following. The gas and air device topples out of Henry’s hand a moment later, hitting the railing of the bed with a clang, and a shriek launches out of him. It's the loudest Henry’s been this whole time; all his little winces and whines seem to sip out despite himself, as if Henry’s been swallowing up each sound his body tries to release. Now, though, things must’ve reached a point beyond Henry’s ability to control. Again, Alex tries to aid him somehow, with a hand on his hips or fingers in his hair, and, again, Henry shakes him off.

“Can’t . . .” Henry gasps, before his mouth slams shut and he shakes his head. He shivers and shakes through the rest of the contraction, a worrying sight to see that every pregnancy book assures is normal during transition, and can only finish his thought once it ends, “sorry, just . . . can’t have . . . can’t do touch right now.”

“Oh,” Alex mumbles. He withdraws, pulling his legs back from where they were tucked against Henry’s. He starts to pull himself out of the bed, one foot on the ground, “let me just-”

“No,” Henry whimpers as he reaches out a hand to yank Alex back, “Don’t go. Need you to . . . but, just . . . don’t touch me. But, stay. Please?”

He looks back at Alex entreatingly, and also sort of like he knows how little sense this request makes. His eyes soften, and Alex can’t deny those soft eyes anything. Even if he could, he wouldn’t deny a thing Henry asked of him right now, no matter how confusing. He pulls his leg back up onto the bed and lays down, leaving some distance between them.

That’s how they lay for the next three contractions, with Henry curled in on himself and Alex bunched up beside him. Keeping himself from touching Henry is no easy task. He keeps reaching out without thinking about it every time Henry winces and, besides that, logistically, the bed is not that big. Restlessness stirs in Alex, and every part of him aches for something to do. He knew there would be waiting; labor is mostly waiting. But, now, on the precipice of a moment that he’s been wanting and fearing and anticipating for months, the waiting feels as impossible as it ever has. He has no clue what to do with himself.

But, maybe what Alex does is this . He lays next to his husband, keeping his body stiff and straight so he doesn’t crowd him, and waits until Henry tells him to do something else. The stillness of it kind of makes Alex want to crawl out of his skin, but Henry’s going through a lot worse. So, Alex can manage it. If it’s what Henry wants right now, he’ll do it gladly.

“Hey,” he murmurs as Henry sighs out of a contraction, wiping his wet rag across his face. He turns to Alex, one brow quirked tiredly, “I’m really proud of you. What you’re doing right now, it’s amazing.”

“Yeah?” Henry huffs, laughing a little. Alex’s face bursts into a smile.

“Yeah, baby.”

Henry sits up in bed. He hasn’t moved at all in at least fifteen minutes, as even shifting his sore hips felt unworkable. But, now, a fire has been lit in him and he can’t rest for a single second more. He knows what he’s feeling right now. Knows it deep, deep in his bones, despite having never felt it before.

His eyes shoot over to Alex, who flies up from his chair without Henry having to say a word.

“You gonna barf again?” he asks, which is a fair question, given Henry’s thrown up around four and a half times since they arrived at the Lindo Wing. But, no. This is definitely not nausea.

“No,” he says, and orders, firmly but calmly, “I need you to ring for the staff.”

It’s the clearest his words have sounded in hours, his body and brain coming together for one moment of clarity before the end of this. Alex’s eyes widen to an almost comic degree as he nods and rushes to hit the call button above Henry’s bed.

A minute–or maybe even quicker than that–later, Dr. Baker, Jahkai, and two of the other midwives Henry hasn’t had the mental space to learn the names of, stream into the room. Jahkai checks Henry’s dilation again and tells him he’s fully there, though he was aware of that before she even arrived.

“I need to push,” he tells her as that odd, rolling pressure comes over him with his contraction. She grins.

“Well, that is good,” she says, “considering you have to.”

She’s standing at the end of the bed, with gloves on that go halfway up her forearms. Dr. Baker is sitting on a stool next to her, and the other two midwives hover off to either side, looking between Jahkai and Henry with vigilance. Henry gulps as his certainty starts to demure.

“I . . . uh, how do I . . .” he stumbles. He glances at Alex, who is staring right back, waiting for Henry to lead the way. Except Henry is not sure exactly what that way is, “do I need to move, or, ah . . .”

“However you’re most comfortable, Henry,” Dr. Baker says, “and we’ll adjust to you.”

He nods and, after a beat, starts to move. He’s not sure what comfortable even means right now, but hopes his body will let him know along the way. And, after a few false starts of lying on his back and getting on his hands and knees, it does; sitting on the very edge of the bed, his legs pulled up around him. Once he settles there, everyone adjusts quickly; one of the midwives pulls out some stirrups for his feet to rest on, Jahkai stations herself by his side, her gloved hands resting on his knee, and Alex tucks himself snuggly against his back as he takes hold of Henry’s other leg.

Henry shuts his eyes, takes a long breath, and, as a contraction tightens through his muscles, pushes for the first time.

“You’re doing it,” Alex reminds and reassures, kissing Henry’s damp brow, “you’re really doing it!”

Henry keeps on doing it, for at least four more contractions, or maybe more. He’s not that focused on counting them. All that he can keep track of is Dr. Baker’s steady drone of ‘one . . . two . . . three . . .’ all the way to ten, and Jahkai guiding his breathing. Other than that, and the security of Alex’s weight behind him, Henry can’t follow much else. He must be progressing, moving Emiliana down, because everyone is saying what a good job he’s doing, but actually getting her out feels ages away.

“Big pushes, Henry,” Jahkai asks of him as she gives his knee some encouraging pats, “Come on, now. You can do it.”

Henry sucks up a gulp of air and, holding it in his chest, bears down as thoroughly as he feels able. For a second, Emiliana’s head begins to crown. But, as soon as he lets the breath he’s been holding out, she moves right back up. He releases one short, sharp whine, tipping his head back onto Alex’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Alex whispers to him, stroking Henry’s hair, “You’ll get there. You’re doing so good.”

“Just keep pushing like that,” Dr. Baker encourages, “long and thorough. It can take a little while, with first deliveries.”

Henry makes some attempt at nodding, but the rest in between his contractions is cut short by the all-encompassing need to push. He keeps his head tipped down, chin resting on his chest, and pulls his legs up closer to himself. He pushes with all the want he has focused on getting this baby the fuck out , despite what Alex and Dr. Baker just told him. He doesn’t want to get there, or wait a little while; he needs this over and he needs her out. Again, Emiliana starts to move down, but, once Henry can no longer bear down, the pain and the intensity of it shaking through his limbs, she moves back up.

“Fuck,” he spits. Alex and the staff rush to offer up more words of comfort, but Henry’s frustration fuzzes over the sound of their voices.

He takes the twenty or so second rest he gets between contractions after that to regain his strength as best as he can. Letting his head lull, he breathes, the long, deep breaths he can’t take when he’s pushing, and wills away all the horrible thoughts swirling in his head.

Truthfully, he feels at the point of giving up, which he doesn’t even understand himself. He’s gotten through most of the labour already, and somehow survived the transition, despite it trying its best to do him in. He’s been at this for almost fifteen hours now and still kept going. Beyond that, he and Alex have gotten each other through this entire pregnancy, with a forced marriage and attempted assassination and about a hundred little media scandals along the way. It seems ridiculous, now, that this is the point where it suddenly becomes too much, but, nevertheless, that’s what it feels like. Like Henry could get here, but no further.

“I can’t!” he admits with a sob, and, as a new contraction comes in, he pointedly doesn’t push, “I’m not . . . not this part, please . . .”

“Baby,” Alex coos worriedly, kneading his fingers into Henry’s shoulders. Henry is hit all at once with the nauseating, terrifying reality of how undeserving of Alex’s love he is, and how ill-equipped he is for a daughter as radiant as Alex. He tips forward, away from Alex’s hands.

“I-I can’t do it,” he wails. He bears down, no longer able to stop his body from doing so, and Emiliana is a fraction closer to being here. And he’s not ready, he’s not fucking ready at all. God, he thought that he was over this, “I . . . I need to . . . ugh, God, just let me stop ! Please. I . . . oh, Alex . . .”

“I got you,” Alex says, and his hands are back on Henry, finding purchase on Henry even as he retreats. Henry whimpers at how solid Alex’s grip is, and just how dearly he needs it, “and you can do this. I know it.”

“But . . . no, Alex, I can’t , please, I . . . I . . .” Henry stammers out, unable to produce the words to explain exactly how frozen his fear has him. His mouth keeps opening and shutting around false starts, and his body keeps reminding him that he needs to keep pushing. Tears run down his cheeks in heavy tracks and he simply shakes his head.

Somewhere in all that sensory overload, a hand comes to grab Henry’s, gently pulling it from his thigh and guiding it down between his legs. He opens his eyes to see Jahkai looking up at him with her fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Feel,” she orders as she moves Henry’s fingers just slightly lower. So, he does, and that's . . . . oh, God, that’s her . Her head is right there, just on the cusp of leaving him, and she has hair. She’s so close Henry can feel her hair. He lets out a snotty, wobbling cry.

“Alex, she’s . . .” he gasps, and Alex’s chin falls into the crook of his neck.

“She’s almost here. Don’t you want to meet her?”

Henry sniffles and nods; despite himself, and his nearly crippling fear, he really, truly does. There’s little in his life he’s ever wanted more.

“Push,” Jahkai commands.

And Henry does.

It still takes quite a few more pushes to get her out, and Henry’s sure after each he won’t be able to manage another. But, one of the hovering midwives will appear at his side with some water for him to sip, Alex will remind him that he’s nearly there, and he’ll find it in him to keep on going.

The final push is surprisingly easy. It’s just one last bit of force, and then all of Emiliana comes sliding out of him. He pants some relieved breaths as Dr. Baker catches her and Jahkai, waiting with a fluffy towel, takes her from him to wipe her clean. After that, the longest five seconds of Henry’s life pass, while Alex and another midwife tug his gown down to uncover a baby-sized stretch of his chest and Jahkai rubs the baby’s back until she starts crying.

Finally, a lifetime later, Emiliana’s in his arms. A real, solid weight, right there on his chest. He can hardly breathe.

“Oh,” Henry whimpers, as she opens her eyes once and quickly slams them shut upon seeing how bright the world is. He sobs, then he laughs, and then some awful sounding combination of the two, “it’s you.”

Emiliana wails at him properly, and Henry laughs some more. He collapses his whole weight back against Alex, certain that he’s got them. Alex laughs with him, all wet and tear-soaked, maybe also coming to the realization that this looming danger that had Henry petrified for months was this beautiful, wonderful girl the whole time. He pulls Henry’s gown over Emiliana and Henry holds her snug, hoping it’s warm enough for her.

One of the midwives leans in, pushing her hands in between Henry and his daughter, and his chest tightens as he holds on to her firmly.

“Not yet, I just-” he gulps, but the midwife shakes her head quickly, retracting her hands a little.

“Oh, no, I’m just checking the little one a bit. Not taking them away!” she smiles, “You go ahead and cuddle as long as you want.”

Henry nods and warily loosens his arms. The midwife is quick with her check-up, at least, and makes an announcement to the room as she finishes about the baby being a girl, which Henry forgets to act like is a surprise. He’s too preoccupied taking in every squishy, baby-fat covered feature of Emiliana.

“She’s so little,” Alex comments, hushed and wobbly, “I thought, since she was late, she wouldn’t be so . . . but she’s so tiny.”

Henry huffs, as the baby certainly didn’t feel little at any point of her leaving him. But on his chest, engulfed in his arms, yes, he does suppose she’s quite the small thing. He’s excited to learn her weight and length, but that will involve letting go of her, so it can wait a while.

“Does she still look like an Emiliana?” he asks Alex, words a little garbly with exhaustion. He doesn’t know why he asks, because he already knows that’s what he’ll be calling her, but having Alex’s confirmation wouldn’t hurt.

“Mmhmm,” Alex hums lazily. He reaches his hand down to pet Emiliana's head, which, as Henry felt, has a decently thick covering of dark hair. She snuffles angrily at the touch and cries some more, her miniature brow furrowing, “She’s our little Emmy.”

“That’s your name, love,” Henry mumbles, rubbing her cheek with his thumb and carefully watching each miniscule reaction it produces on her scrunched face, “and you’re going to be ours.”

Notes:

Comments are always very appreciated, and feel free to find me on tumblr!

Chapter 5: Spit-up, Nappies, and a Bit of Hope

Notes:

Hey!
I'm sooooo sorry this took soo long. It was really fighting me. Overall, though, I'm pretty happy with this final chp.
Thank you to curiouscat, livingincolors, kisaru, and especially Gali for always checking my Spanish, for all being so helpful to me and encouraging this fic endlessly.
Enjoy!

Chapter Text

The Royal Family

@theroyalfamily

His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales, was safely delivered of a daughter at 1150 hours last night.

The baby weighs 7lbs 10oz. His Royal Highness and the baby are both doing well.

The Mirror

@dailymirror

Royal baby RECAP: Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz have a baby girl. Read more on the details we have so far here: www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/royal-baby-live-prince-henry

The Bump

@thebump

It’s official! The #royalbaby is a girl! Our biggest congratulations to @princehenryofwales and @agcd!

Henry wakes to a sliver of sunlight flickering across his face, a truly horrendous cramp in his stomach, and the comforting murmur of Alex’s voice. He blinks and turns his aching body towards the sound with a yawn. There’s Alex, right where Henry left him, sitting on the foldout couch by the window with Emiliana in his arms. A warm hum simmers out of Henry and, though the post-birth chemical cocktail of euphoria has long since given way to the reality of his pain, seeing Alex holding their daughter pushes that hurt to the back of his mind.

Alex pauses his rambling, which seems to be a mix of Spanish, English, and sounds that are hardly language at all, and smiles over to Henry.

“Hey,” he says, “good morning.”

“Morning,” Henry mumbles back. He pulls his blankets snug around himself, sinking into them, and Alex returns to his babbling. Through the gap between the curtains, the sun peeks in, higher in the sky than it was the last time Henry looked at it, at some point before he nodded off. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, just waking up, which is how it’s been since the birth. Awake for a long enough stretch of time to feed Emiliana, get a few cuddles in, and kiss Alex a bit, then his eyelids start to grow heavy, and, the next time he blinks them open, Alex will say two hours have passed. He imagines his schedule isn’t that different from Emilana's.

“Come over here, you two,” Henry requests as he scoots himself over to make space for them. Alex stands carefully, his eyes on Emiliana as he does, and takes slow steps towards the bed. He tilts his arms as he lowers himself down into the spot Henry’s left for him and Henry is surprised to see Emiliana’s eyes wide open and focused intently on him.

“Well, hullo there, love. You’re wide awake, hm?”

“She woke up from her nap like ten minutes ago,” Alex explains as he very graciously allows Henry to take Emiliana from him, “and she’s just been staring at everything she can since.”

Henry shifts onto his back and bends his legs to lean Emiliana against his thighs. Her dark, round eyes squint and widen a few times as she glances between her two parents, and Henry thinks he could laugh again. There’s about a hundred things plaguing him right now, physically and mentally, the throb of pain centered between his legs and the dread over what the press is already circulating not nearly the least of them, but, she’s looking at them . She’s looking at them like she knows who they are and it’s simply ridiculous and wonderful enough that, for the few moments Emiliana’s eyes are on him, all of Henry’s troubles fuzz into background noise.

“She looks . . .” he trails, grasping for the right words that encapsulate how absurd and extraordinary their daughter is. Alex cuts him off with a snort.

“She looks Mexican.”

Henry hums consideringly. That’s not exactly what he was thinking, but it is true, nonetheless. Even if she’s still too squishy and fresh for either of them to claim any of her features, it’s obvious she’s gotten all of Alex’s coloring. The press will have a racist, disgusting field day over that. He looks at Emiliana, though, and she uses whatever power she has to evaporate Henry’s worries again, until all he can do is smile.

“I suppose she does,” Henry agrees. He leans forward, despite the fact that doing so puts painful pressure on his very slightly deflated, still cramping stomach, and kisses to her forehead. She smells like heaven, which must trigger some sort of oxytocin release, because his stomach doesn't seem to hurt so much anymore, “You look like your papa, don’t you, Emiliana? Beautiful like him?”

He glances up to Alex as he reclines back into his pillows and offers him a soft smile. Alex blinks at him for a moment before a big grin bursts across his face and he gusts a laugh. The sound swoops into Henry’s chest and flutters around in there. Alex tips down to kiss him, leaning over to Emiliana after and pressing kisses all over her face. She releases small, sweet grunts at the action.

“She’s just . . . she’s so . . .” Alex trails, before he shakes his head and runs a finger across her soft cheek, “God, I love her so much.”

Henry hums his agreement as he reaches out to place his hand on Emiliana’s belly. His palm can cover her whole torso, clothed in a striped romper that fits her perfectly. She’s got a little matching cap that someone must’ve put on her when Henry was asleep, and he can’t help himself from tugging it off to reveal her dark, surprisingly thick, hair underneath. She stretches her arms up above her head when he does and yawns big enough to wrinkle her entire, miniature face. Her hands ball up into round fists as she tugs them back down and pulls them snug to either side of her face.

“I think she’s hungry,” Alex says, adding when Henry looks at him with a raised brow, “the fists, when she makes fists and pulls them all tight like that, it’s a hunger sign. I read that somewhere.”

“Ah,” Henry nods, hoping he’s not flushed too red. He didn’t do as much reading as he should have, he’ll admit, and is equal parts glad and guilty that at least Alex picked up his slack. He undoes the buttons of his pajama top, brings Emiliana close to him, and hopes for the best.

He, of course, doesn’t get it when Emiliana won’t latch. He hasn’t even fed her that much, considering she’s been out of him for only about nine hours total, but he’s still determined he’s terrible at this. She nursed so easily the first time, just ten minutes after she was born, latching on by herself without any work on Henry’s part at all, and gave Henry the false hope that feeding her would always be so simple. Every time since then has been a struggle, twice necessitating the aid of a lactation consultant, though Henry has no desire to call the woman back for a third visit.

“Want help?” Alex offers. Henry frowns as Emiliana whines at his chest and shakes his head, even if he really could use some.

He tries some of the positions the consultant taught him, adjusting himself and Emiliana and the pillows behind a hundred times over. He does his best to be quick about it, because he’s already learned that, once Emiliana gets crying in earnest, trying to nurse her just gets even harder. Finally, with the two of them both lying on their sides, facing each other, and her head tilted at just the right angle, Henry gets her latched. A sigh of relief huffs out of him as Alex runs his knuckles along the line of his spine.

“You two are starting to get the hang of it, I think,” he reassures. Henry makes the mistake of glancing back at him, only to see that overwhelming, swathing look of pride on his face, the very same he had in the minutes just after Emiliana’s birth. Henry flushes hotly and turns his attention back to Emiliana.

“It’s more difficult than I imagined,” he admits, voice barely more than a whisper, as his insides cramp and twist as they keep doing every time Emiliana nurses. Alex kisses the nape of his neck, lingering there for a few extra seconds, before he pulls back and eases himself off the bed and into a chair next to it.

“Your brother called while you were sleeping,” Alex says. Henry rolls his eyes.

“God. What did he want?”

“He was actually concerned for you,” Alex tells him, and Henry glances at him over his shoulder, careful not to upset Emiliana’s positioning, “like, not even rude concern. Just wanted to know how you two were doing, and say congratulations and stuff like that. He said James and Victoria are excited to meet her, whenever we’re ready.”

“Oh,” Henry says. He lays his head back on his pillows and traces his finger around Emiliana’s ear as she eats, steadfast in her task and blissed out on milk, “that’s . . . that’s quite nice of him, actually.”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s not a total dick,” Alex says.

“Watch your language,” Henry mumbles tiredly, not really meaning it, and Alex chuckles at him as he offers a sarcastic apology, “Oh, ah, by the way, someone did let my grandmother know that Emiliana was born, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I got Shaan to call her hours ago, don’t worry. From what I heard, she’s already got an announcement up at Buckingham Palace and a town crier out there yelling it in the streets,” Alex tells him, a laugh in his voice, though the information settles like a stone in Henry’s gut, “I let my side and Pez know, too. Everybody seems legitimately surprised it’s a girl, so I guess June managed not to tell anyone.”

“Mmhmm,” Henry replies neutrally as his skin heats with anxiety. He pets Emiliana’s hair, which helps calm his breathing slightly, and evens out his frown.

It’s a good thing Alex handled the dissemination of the birth; Henry was–and still is –in no fit state to be making calls or interacting with anyone but the members of his small family of three. Everyone must be so excited, he’s sure, filling Alex and his messages with gleeful congratulations. They’ve gained someone today, just as he and Alex have; a niece, a cousin, a granddaughter. It’s wonderful, having this breadth of people who care for them. But . . .

But, yet, the idea of anyone , even those Henry loves most, outside of him and Alex and the doctors that delivered her knowing of Emiliana still feels too soon. Every fact of her, from her name to how much she weighs to the way her lashes flicker like Alex’s when she blinks, is meant to belong to them alone.

Maybe Henry could stomach their families having some bits of her, just small ones for right now. But, it’s not just them, is it? It’s anyone who came by Buckingham Palace to read the public announcement posted there. It’s whoever tunes into BBC News or Good Morning America today. It’s the mass of people who are already swarming around the hospital.

He swallows up tears that threaten to fall as Emiliana continues to nurse without a care in the world and very carefully cranes his neck to kiss her head.

“You okay?” Alex asks after a minute.

“Just tired,” Henry answers. He sighs, gathers himself, and shifts to lying on his back. Emiliana whimpers at him for causing all that movement, pinching any of his skin she can grab, “So sorry, poppet. I’ll be nice and still now.”

“Sirs?” Shaan's voice asks from the other side of the door, accompanied by a knock, and Henry immediately breaks his promise by fumbling around for the extra blanket slung over his bed and tossing it across his chest. Emiliana gives him a deserved set of kicks to his ribs for it. Alex raises a brow and Henry just shakes his head at him, calling for Shaan to come in.

It’s not that Henry thinks Shaan would be offended to see Henry nursing out in the open. Still, he’s not entirely sure he’s ready for anyone but Alex (and the lactation consultant, unfortunately) to see him doing it.

“How is everyone doing?” Shaan asks before he gets to whatever royal obligation he has come to address.

“We’re wonderful. She’s wonderful, Shaan, thank you,” Henry says, patting Emiliana’s diapered bum under the blanket, “What do I need to do?”

Shaan sighs, nodding to the question, and Henry’s smile falls. It was lucky, really, that Emiliana came out when she did; they got the entire night and early morning to themselves, at least.

“I delayed the press for the last few hours, but there is a demand to-”

“C’mon, Shaan,” Alex groans, “can’t you buy us another hour or two?”

“I’ve pushed it off for as long as I could. I’m sorry,” Shaan says, sounding legitimately regretful, “I could get you another half hour or so before hair and make-up-”

“Do that, then,” Alex nods, adding, as he gestures without a hint of subtly to Henry’s blanket covered chest, “cause Henry just got Emmy nursing and-”

“Alex,” Henry winces, his cheeks burning. Alex just shrugs at him like he’s done nothing wrong. Looking at how unfazed Shaan looks, Henry supposes he hasn’t. The blanket stays where it is, though.

“It can wait until she’s done eating, then,” Shaan concedes, already taking steps back to the door. The apologetic look on his face remains, which Henry appreciates, even if it does nothing to stop Henry from having to make a public appearance within hours of giving birth, “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Once the door has closed behind Shaan, Henry removes the blanket and finds Emiliana serving him up a baby-sized glare, her thin brows knotted, albeit while still nursing intently.

“Sorry about that, Em,” Henry murmurs, the nickname coming from him unbidden, but sounding right on his tongue

“This isn’t right,” Alex says.

“Yes, well …” Henry sighs, his words coming no further. He wonders if his mum and dad ever had this very same conversation, or a million other conversations in the same vein. He might even remember a few from when he was growing up; hushed, angry back and forth in hallways when he was meant to be sleeping g. A pang of sympathy shoots through him as he thinks of Mum, as unable to answer for their family as he is now.

“Let’s just get it over with,” he says, finally, “and we can have all the time alone we want once it’s done.”

“You don’t have to go out there,” Alex counters, rising from his chair. He stands at Henry’s bedside, hands gripped onto the railing around it, with his face tight with anger, “Jesus, Henry, I’m sorry, but this whole ‘presenting the baby’ tradition is ridiculous. And, you don’t owe it to anyone. You don’t owe your grandmother a thing. You know that, right? She didn’t even give Emmy a title, so why should you-”

“Leave it,” Henry half orders, half begs. His throat squeezes tight and his tears, which have seemed to fall with the smallest provocation since Emiliana was born, stream silently. The lines between Alex’s brows soften and fade as his face falls. Henry wipes his eyes across his sleeve, both hands occupied with Emiliana.

“I’m sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t’ve said that-”

“It’s fine,” Henry mumbles, cursing how wobbly his voice sounds, “You . . you’re right, about my family. I know that. But . . . can we . . . can we just do this? This one last thing, and then we’ll . . .”

He stops, shaking his head, and doesn’t even know where he was going with that thought. It’s not a thread he’s going to pull at it, or at least right now, with his head a muddled mess, nothing linear or sensible in there. The only thing he trusts right now is his love for Emiliana and Alex.

Emiliana starts to relax in his arms, her latch loosening, and Henry gently eases her off his chest. All her open-eyed awareness is gone now that she has a full belly, her eyes shut and her mouth lightly curved into a smile. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Henry hopes they can keep her that calm throughout the press circus awaiting them outside the hospital.

“Want me to burp her?” Alex asks. His brows are still folding into one another, and he looks about ready to crumble if Henry says no. So, Henry doesn’t.

“Ven aqui, nena,” Alex murmurs as he places Emiliana high on his shoulder, a rag there at the ready. He hums her melodies Henry doesn’t recognize, sweet enough to make Henry’s eyes mist, as he pats her back steadily.

Henry watches them, completely unabashed and not caring if Alex notices. He commits every detail of this moment to memory, even his own pain, even the looming fear of what waits for them outside. He makes special note of the way Emiliana’s head slots onto Alex’s shoulder, like it was meant to be there. It is meant to be there, Henry decides, she is meant to be here and to be theirs.

Three people arrive to attend them before they’re fit to be presented to the press and public as a family: hair, makeup, and styling. The majority of their attention is focused on Henry, as he is by far the biggest mess in the room. His hair needs gelling, his under eye bags need concealing, and his body needs to be attired in a way that hides his round stomach and overall puffy body. When he argues that most people will likely be expecting him to still look a bit pregnant, he gets silenced with some non-committal talk about how they’re just trying to help him look his best.

Alex gets a bit of attention himself, fixing some of his loose curls into place and being given a button up top and fancy trousers to wear. Even Emiliana requires some managing, although for her that only means being put in the traditional knitted cap and shawl combination royal babies have worn for generations. She screams and wails when Alex gets her wrapped in it, and the sound is like a knife in Henry’s core. He does his best to breathe around it.

Suitably camouflaged as completely alright, Henry is sent out, in a baggy but posh-looking jumper and loose-fitting trousers, alongside Alex and Emiliana, to the doors leading to the Lindo Wing steps.

“We can still turn around and say fuck this,” Alex whispers to him, as they wait for a PPO to open the doors in front of them. The cheering of the crowd is loud enough they can hear it inside.

Henry frowns as he fusses over Emiliana, held in Alex’s arms, because Henry doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand up and keep from dropping her at the same time. He tugs at her cap and tucks her shawl up over her chin, adjusting the whole arrangement until only the smallest sliver of her face is exposed. She snuffles against the knitted fabric but otherwise doesn’t wake.

“No, we shouldn’t,” Henry mumbles back as he reluctantly pulls away, straightening out his back. He wraps an arm around one of Alex’s, careful not to lean too much of his weight onto him, and shuts his eyes for just a moment.

For a moment, just one breath of a moment, there’s no one waiting for them outside. When they step out of those doors, all they’ll find is their car, which Alex will struggle to strap the car seat into. They’ll laugh and grumble over it until it’s figured out, and then they’ll take their perfect little one home. Her whole family is so eager to meet her, but they understand when Henry and Alex ask them to wait just a bit longer. For today, maybe for the next couple of days, all she’ll know is Daddy and Papa. They’ll be everything she needs, and no one else will-

The doors open, and the noise doubles. Henry blinks open his eyes and, with a gulp, takes his first unsure steps outside the Lindo Wing. The crowd erupts. Emiliana starts crying.

“Shh, shh, te tengo, princesa,” Alex soothes, tucking her closer to his chest. Henry attends to her a bit, too, brushing his knuckle along the curve of her nose and dancing his fingers along her swaddled up belly. She continues to fuss, no matter what either of them do, as cameras snap distantly. Sighing, Henry transforms his expression into something uniformly pleasant and turns towards them.

The crowd is not as close as they were for either James or Victoria’s births, and the flashes of a thousand pictures being taken don’t hit them nearly as intensely. No one even stands on the same side of the street as them, press and public both held behind a metal barrier across the road. It’s heavily guarded by PPO’s, who glare daggers at any one who pushes up against the fence a little too eagerly, After the attempt on Henry’s life, everyone’s been cautious. This is the first time he’s made an official public appearance since then. Even with the extra safe guards, he and Alex have been instructed not to go too far down the steps, only moving out into the light enough for the photographic evidence of their daughter to be acquired.

Two PPO’s stand behind them at the top of the steps, three more at the bottom, and all of them scan the surroundings continually. Emiliana is safely sheltered in Alex’s arms. For all intents and purposes, they are safe. But, fear still tightens up like a vice inside Henry, distinct from all his post-birth pains. It stabs in a specific way, Henry fine tuned to recognize the feeling.

He wants, acutely and painfully, for this to be over. Hopefully, it will be soon. Everyone must’ve gotten at least a few shots of them by now. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?

Questions that Henry can’t make out are shouted at them across the street, Emiliana releases a sharp, frustrated yelp, and Henry stretches out his press smile as wide as he can bear while his eyes dart through the amalgam of faces staring at them. If he has to be out here for more than a minute or so longer, he’s either going to have a panic attack or start bleeding all over himself. Neither of which are things he wants to be broadcasted across every newspaper and gossip blog. He doesn’t know how Martha managed to look so put together and calm the two times she’s been made to do this. Henry should’ve asked for her advice.

“I-I can’t . . .” Henry murmurs as he leans into Alex, trying his best to make it look like a tender moment and keeping his smile from so much as faltering. Alex smiles, too, as he replies through gritted teeth.

“We gave them enough time to get their stupid pictures. We’re done.”

All it takes is one determined look from Alex to Shaan, and he’s nodding to the PPO’s to usher them back inside. Henry waves and smiles and waves and smiles until he’s certain no one outside can see them anymore. Then, he falls into the wheelchair someone in the hospital very considerately readied him, shakes out a few rough breaths, and thrusts his arms out in front of himself.

“I’d like to hold our daughter now,” Henry demands with a huff, adding, when Alex laughs at him, “please.”

“Yeah, I think she wants you, too,” Alex smiles. He lowers Emiliana down into Henry’s arms, and Henry immediately snuggles her up. The vice in him untwists, little by little, as she grumbles and sniffles her complaints.

“Oh, I know, my love,” he hums, “too loud and too bright. I know, I know. Don’t worry. We’re all done with that.”

NBC News World

@nbcnewsworld

Royal baby name revealed. In an Instagram post this morning, four days after her birth, @princehenryofwales and @agcd have officially announced the name of their daughter: Margaret Emiliana Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor-Claremont-Diaz.

New York Post

@nypost

Where does Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz’s daughter fall in the line of succession? Find out here: nypost.com/2024/03/where-does-prince-henry-and-alex-claremont-diaz-baby-sit-in-line-to-the-throne/

People

@people

Everything we know about Margaret Emiliana so far, including @agcd’s adorable nickname for her, her birth weight and length, and how excited all her famous family members are about meeting her! people.com/royals/margaret-emiliana-everything-we-know-royal-baby/

Candace Owens

@realcandaceo

I don’t like to contribute to the rumor mill, but, as a parent myself, I have to point out that any baby born as prematurely as Margaret Emiliana would NOT look as healthy as she does. Anyone else feeling suspicious about this?

They’ve gotten through the first week of Emiliana’s life. She’s met all her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, and her cousins. She’s even had a short hour’s visit with her great grandmother. The media has spread news of her birth far and wide, and every picture of her that is out there in public circulation has been posted at least a hundred times. And, Henry isn’t sure if he can make it through another week after this one.

Emiliana must’ve been going easy on them for the first day or two, providing them adjustment time and instilling the false hope in Henry that he was capable, that he might even be good at this. What a laughable concept to even think of now, as walks around their wing of Kensington Palace at three am, humming to her, as a hopeless effort to get her back to sleep. Alex and David are asleep in the bedroom, and the staff of the palace must either be in bed as well or making themselves scarce as Emiliana’s hollering fills the halls.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Henry mutters to her. He rocks his body in a way that has comforted her before, but now only results in her kicking him in frustration.

She hates him. That’s the only explanation left for why, even after a nursing session, a nappy change, and an hour of carrying her, she still refuses to go back to sleep.

She hates him, she hates him, she hates him, and Henry doesn’t blame her. He reeks of insecurity and his trepidation penetrates all the way down to his bones. He’s a flight risk and she knows .

Henry swallows away tears, shifts Emiliana onto his shoulders, and doesn’t go fleeing off into the night. Not this time. He keeps on walking, a slight bounce in his step that he hopes to be soothing, and does his best to not think at all. As he crosses by the doorway to their bedroom, he quickens his pace and works doubly as hard to quiet Emiliana.

Alex’s head peeks out of the door, regardless, before Henry can get himself out of sight.

“You okay?” Alex yawns, his eyes squinted with sleep. He rubs his fists against them, and blinks them open a little wider, “Want some help with her?”

The hallway is dark enough to conceal most of the helplessness Henry is sure is painted across his face, but he still puts on a smile and shakes his head gently.

“No, no, she’s a bit fussy, is all. I’ll have her down soon.”

“You’ve, uh . . . you’ve been up a while,” Alex says, and now David’s creeping out of the bedroom, too. Henry takes a few small steps back, “I can just . . . lemme hold for a minute, okay? So you can sleep. You fed her already?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” Henry continues to insist as he fights a crack in his voice, “really just fine, so you can go back to bed, I’ll-”

Alex, luckily or unluckily–Henry’s undecided–is just as stubborn as Henry himself and walks out into the hall anyways. He reaches out for Emiliana and, eventually, Henry passes her over. His arms ache, he notices once she’s out of them; he’d been holding her for long enough for his arms to ache.

“Go sleep,” Alex says as Henry takes up the armchair by where he stands with Emiliana, but Henry shakes his head. It’s been a bit since he fed her, so the best he’ll get is an hour, maybe two, before he’ll need to be up again, and there’s no sense in that. Alex sighs and must be tired enough not to fight Henry on anything else. He hums as he rocks Emiliana, who keeps on whimpering and wriggling. Henry is slightly relieved to know the entire problem isn’t him.

Still, watching how gentle and attentive and sure Alex looks with their daughter in his arms, tears start to prick up at the corners of Henry’s eyes. He turns his head from them, very well mastered in crying without making a sound, and pets David when he comes to sit by his feet.

Emiliana fusses for another small chunk of time, before Alex burps up the gas bubble Henry must not have been able to get out after he fed her, and she finally starts to simmer back into sleep.

“I’m gonna try to put her down now,” Alex whispers, and Henry mutters some acknowledgement as he discreetly wipes the sleeve of his robe across his eyes. Alex only goes a few steps towards the bedroom before he turns back, “Come on, Henry. Just lay down for a little bit, at least.”

Henry, much like his husband, is also too tired to argue anymore. He stands reluctantly and follows a small distance behind Alex into the bedroom. He lays himself down, as instructed, as Alex eases Emiliana into the bassinet next to him. Henry watches anxiously the whole time, but, miraculously, she doesn’t wake. He lets out the breath he’d been holding and blinks off a few more tears.

“Hey,” Alex murmurs as he takes up the other side of the bed, spooning Henry loosely. He’s been so careful with Henry, all light touches and slow movements, as if Henry’s just as fragile as Emiliana, “are you okay?”

“Hmm,” Henry hums back. His eyelids are growing heavy, but he blinks a few times and doesn’t let them fall shut, “yes, I’m . . . I just . . . I miss home.”

Home . He doesn’t even know what he means by that. Home is a nebulous term. Technically Kensington is home; he spent a majority of his first twenty-three years of life in it. For the past few years, the Brooklyn brownstone is what first comes to mind when he thinks of home, but even that is in flux now, with Alex’s new job. Not that Henry even knows what’s happening with that, given Alex hasn’t mentioned it in weeks. Maybe Henry really just misses knowing where his home is. Maybe he simply needs it to be anywhere but here, away from the strict control of his grandmother.

“I know,” Alex sighs as he tips his face against the nape of Henry’s neck, and Henry has to wonder which of their homes Alex is longing for, “me too.”

“I . . . I wanted to say that . . .” Henry starts, his voice hushed for Emiliana’s sake, or so he tells himself. Truthfully, saying this louder than a whisper feels like treason, “after Em’s christening, I want to . . . to step back from the royal firm. In a . . . permanent sense.”

Henry squeezes his eyes shut after the words are out, though he can feel how abruptly Alex sits up. He does his best to breathe around the solid weight bearing down on his chest, ancient, sacred, and crippling, and counts to five in his head before he can will himself to look at Alex.

“Are you . . . is this serious? You really want to leave it?” Alex asks, his eyes wide and focused intently on Henry. Henry shrinks under the attention and shrugs.

Maybe he’s not serious. It’s the middle of the night and he hasn’t slept for more than three hours at a time since before Emiliana was even born. Tomorrow morning, when they wake up and Alex asks after this, as Henry knows he will, Henry can say he was just tired. He could blame his hormones, which are still completely out of whack, or claim to not remember saying anything of the sort. All of that would be utterly false, though.

“I think so, yes,” he mumbles. Alex reaches out, cupping Henry’s cheek.

“You know that I don’t need you to do this for me, right?”

“It’s not . . . I’m not . . .” Henry attempts, but he can’t seem to translate his thoughts into anything sensible. That he can definitely blame on his postpartum brain funk, as half of what he thinks lately makes no logical sense. He shakes his head, “it’s for our family, Alex, and it’s what I want.”

“Do you wanna talk about this? Like, the details of it?”

“Not really,” Henry admits as tendrils of exhaustion wrap around his limbs and tug at him, “I just . . . I’ve been up for hours, and . . .”

“Sleep,” Alex says, as he leans down to kiss Henry. When he pulls back, his face contains too many things–elation and anxiety and hope–for Henry to decipher, especially not now of all times. He lets his eyes fall shut, though, for however long Emiliana will allow them to stay that way.

BazaarUK

@bazaaruk

How Margaret Emiliana’s christening will differ from that of Prince James and Princess Victoria:.harpersbazaar.com/celebrity/latest/a28282483/margaret-emiliana-christening-compared-to-cambridges/

Cosmopolitan

@cosmopolitan

Who will be godparents to the #royalbaby? Here are some of our guesses, what are some of yours?

[images attached: red carpet photos of June, Pez, Rafeal Luna, and, lastly, Adele]

Princess Beatrice

@princessbeatrice

Absolutely overwhelmed by cuteness right now!

[image attached: Beatrice with Emiliana in her lap, dressed in the royal christening gown, with James and Victoria on either side of her, staring at Emiliana. All are dressed in their Sunday best]

Emiliana has her christening when she’s just a few days over a month old. It’s a rushed timeline–most babies, royal and regular, aren’t baptized until they’re a few months old, at least–but, since Henry got pregnant with her, everything in their lives has been on a rushed timeline. And, the christening is the last of Emmy’s royal requirements during infancy that has to take place on English soil. Once this is done, they’re allowed to leave, and neither Alex nor Henry wanted to delay that any further. After the first round of conversations about Henry stepping away from his royal role, none of the rest of the family had seemed quite as eager to keep them around, anyways.

So, they do the whole thing; dress Emmy in the same gown Henry himself was christened in, dunk her in holy water from the River Jordan, and pose for a portrait after as if the tension between them and the rest of the family isn’t thick enough to suffocate in.

Emiliana leaves the church with four godparents;Zahra, Pez, and two of Henry’s cousins who have always been kind to him. Alex had wanted Nora to be included in that list, but the Church of England only allows baptized Christians to be godparents and Nora’s Jewish, so he grits his teeth and lets her know privately she’s a godmother to his daughter in all ways but officially.

There’s an afternoon tea for everyone once it’s over, and they get to act like everyone but Bea hasn’t basically stopped speaking to them there, too.

“You’re pouting,” June points out as she takes a seat next to him.

Alex scoffs into his tea cup, though she’s not exactly wrong. Across the room, Henry holds Emmy in his arms and converses genially with Philip and some viscount of whatever the fuck as if not a single thing is amiss. He’s always been miles better at this than Alex, the whole ‘put on a happy face’ charade. It’s not a skill Alex envies, not when he considers how Henry mastered it. But, still, maybe he should try not to mope in the corner at a party in honor of his daughter.

“Yeah, a little bit,” he concedes, “It’s just . . . God, well, you know.”

Or, June knows enough, he guesses. They haven’t left the palace at all since Emmy was born and, like so many things in his life, Henry’s departure from the royal firm was not safe to communicate fully over the phone.

“I know,” June smiles softly as she nudges her shoulder up against his, “but, would you look on the brightside? You’ve got everybody here to support you today, you’ll be back in Brooklyn soon enough, and, also, you have literally the cutest baby I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I’m including us in that assessment.”

In spite of himself and his efforts to be sullen around the royals, Alex’s face lights a little.

“I knew it,” he mutters, “Like, I get that I’m biased, but, c’mon. Emmy’s the best. She just is .”

“Agreed,” June says, her grin pressing up into her cheeks. Her stare wanders out to the rest of the party, humming a laugh at Nora and Bea’s obvious flirting by the dessert table, before she catches sight of Pez. Alex catches the exact moment her eyes brighten.

She’s stupidly in love with him and, judging by the adorable little wave and wink combo Pez sends back, the feeling is pretty mutual. She’s been staying at his apartment since before Emmy was born, and, even as Alex and Henry are finally on their way to leaving, June seems content to stay put. She’s told Alex her and Pez are giving moving in together ‘a trial run’ but, the longer she stays, the less it seems like a trial. That’s a brightside, too.

“It’s not that I’m not happy, it’s just . . . I’m worried about Emmy, with all of it,” he admits, mumbling it down to his knees. June rests a comforting hand on his shoulder and he tilts towards her, “and Henry, too. He’s . . he’s been . . .”

Alex trails off and, when June quirks a questioning brow, he shakes his head to wave her off. It’s really not worth getting into, especially considering Alex hasn’t even gotten into it with Henry. He’s still observing, he tells himself. He’s taking all of Henry’s sleepless nights, every moment he catches him staring at the wall, aimless and bereft, the way Henry’s voice breaks when he tells him he can’t seem to get Emmy to latch for the hundredth time, and tallying them all up into . . . something. A data set Nora can interpret, or a question he can type into google; Alex isn’t sure.

“Nevermind,” he says, standing before June can work any more out of him, “I’m going to get a mimosa. You want one?”

“Sure,” June sighs at him with a roll of her eyes, leaning back in her chair, “Eres un cabron.”

“Cállate,” Alex retorts with a laugh. He leans in and kisses the top of her head, though, glad for her care.

The Observer

@observeruk

Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz are back in Brooklyn, alongside their daughter, Margaret Emiliana. Read more about what that could mean about their status in the royal family: observer.com/2024/04/prince-henry-alex-claremont-diaz-back-in-brooklyn-home/

Piers Morgan

@ piersmorgan

Well. It’s exactly as I thought. Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz got all the money and publicity they wanted out of the crown and are back to ignoring their royal duties. Upset, but not surprised.

It’s the middle of the night, their blackout curtains drawn shut in their bedroom, and Emmy is screaming. She’s been screaming for almost a full minute, and one of them really needs to get up and deal with it. For now, though, they’re stuck in a quiet stalemate.

“Sounds like hungry cries,” Alex finally mutters, blinking the ceiling into focus. Henry pulls his pillow tight to his chest and keeps his back turned to Alex.

“Give her a bottle,” he mumbles back, his voice low and weak, “I pumped today, s’in the fridge.”

Alex spends a few more seconds staring into nothing and mourning his sleep, before he sighs, wriggles his way out from under the warmth of their sheets, and heads towards the office/nursery.

Emmy greets him with a sharp, pinched cry when he arrives, her miniature brows furrowing indignantly.

“I know, I know, I kept you waiting,” Alex murmurs as he picks her up, “Estoy cansado, nena. Lo siento. Estoy muy cansado.”

He searches through a bin of all the miscellaneous baby stuff they’ve yet to find places for in the brownstone and unearths a sling wrap from the bottom of it. Once he gets Emmy situated in it, she starts to calm, nestled up against his bare chest, and Alex presses a kiss to the top of her head before he moves on to the kitchen.

He shuffles around in the dark for a few minutes, using only the light of the fridge to guide him as he transfers pumped milk into a bottle and heats it under the trickle of warm water from the sink. He maintains a steady rhythm of pats to Emmy’s butt as he works, humming a lullaby his abuela used to sing to him, the words only half-remembered.

“Luna lunera . . . cascabelera . . .” he sing-yawns as he checks the milk’s temperature on his wrist, “ . . . something, something tanto padecer . . .”

He pulls back one of the folds of the wrap to offer the bottle to Emmy, and she blinks up at him, her lashes long and lovely. It stops Alex for a second, as it often does, even when he’s tired as shit. She’s beautiful. Every single thing about her is beautiful, and, if he looks at her too long, spends just a few too many seconds thinking about overwhelming blessed and completely fucked he is, he sort of can’t breathe.

Emmy whines, impatient for her milk, and Alex snaps out of it.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he mutters as he gets her latched onto the bottle’s nipple. She drinks with a grumpy expression for a few seconds, before it softens into something pleased and relaxed. Alex takes the chance to zone out for a few minutes, too, or as much as he can zone out with a baby in his arms, that is.

In the armchair that was once reserved for Henry and his most favorite books, but has recently become the Emmy burping station, Alex holds her until she falls back asleep. He holds her some more after that, because this chair really is the most comfortable chair he’s ever sat on–truly, Henry’s best purchase for the brownstone, and one that has to come with them whenever and wherever they move–and he might just go ahead and sleep here.

He doesn’t, though, forcing his eyes back open. Sleeping in this chair won’t be good for him or Emmy, and his brain is spinning him up nightmare scenarios of him dropping her, or rolling over onto her, or squeezing her too tight in his sleep. His mind has gotten especially good at making ideas like that up lately. With the utmost caution, he stands from the chair and sets her back in her crib.

Alex enters the bedroom as slow and cautious as he had been in the nursery, and slips under the sheets, hopefully without waking Henry. Henry’s been desperately needing some more sleep. He’s been looking even more exhausted than Alex most days. He just needs some more sleep, Alex swears to himself. Maybe things will be a little better if Henry just gets some more sleep.

Though, Alex knows Henry’s asleep breathing, and as he watches Henry, back turned to him, his limbs tucked up against himself, the movement of his chest unsteady, this is not it. If anything, it’s more like how Henry breathes when he’s doing his best to hide that he’s crying.

“You good?” Alex asks, keeping any helplessness out of his tone. Henry shrugs, the sheets lifting with his shoulders.

“Fine,” he mutters, “Sorry, by the way. I . . . I know I should’ve nursed her, and I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Alex says. He places a hand in the center of Henry’s back, but tugs it away with a frown when Henry tenses under the touch, “She, uh . . . Yeah, it’s okay. She took a bottle and went back down. It’s whatever.”

“I just should have . . . I need to . . .” Henry stops short, huffing, and bunches in on himself further.

Alex’s mouth keeps opening and shutting, false starts and bits of encouragement that haven’t worked as of yet sitting there. He’s been trying, with googling and bright smiles and taking on as much of Emmy’s care that Henry will allow him. Mostly, it’s left him feeling like an idiot when he fails again and again.

It’s just a hard time, he reminds himself. Emiliana’s barely more than two months old. It’ll get better. They’re just tired. Henry should sleep.

“It’s okay,” Alex says again. Henry pulls the sheets tighter.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and Alex doesn’t answer. A few seconds later, he shuts his eyes, and hopes Henry does the same.

June is returning from her months long sabbatical in London with Pez, making a stop in New York before she heads back to Denver to see her ‘favorite tiny human’, which means of course Nora is coming from DC to see her. And, since both Nora and June are visiting, Ellen and Leo decide they might as well come out, too.

“We’ll stay in a hotel, of course, darlin’,” Ellen had said, on speaker, as Emiliana sucked on the collar of Henry’s shirt and simply refused her two o’clock nap, “Less you want us to stay with you and help! You just let us know.”

Once Ellen is confirmed, Zahara jumps at the chance to come and, given Henry’s recent drop off in royal duties, Shaan is free as well.

All of this results in six additional people crammed into the brownstone on a too warm Saturday afternoon in June, eating the food Alex rushed out to buy that morning, drinking the expensive bottles of Chardonnay and Zinfandel and Ellen and Leo had arrived with, and all eagerly awaiting their turn to hold Henry and Alex’s still all together too small and breakable daughter.

It’s nice, all the support they have. It should be nice, especially considering the lack of contact Henry’s had with his own family since he left London. Regardless of how nice it is or should be, Henry’s spent most of the gathering hiding away in the kitchen, making meek small talk with whoever comes in to grab a wine glass or some extra napkins.

He pops into the party every now and then, to snag a bite to eat, or grab Em for a feeding or a nappy change, only to find her being passed around as if she’s one of the trays of hors d'oeuvres, Alex looking altogether unconcerned about it. Henry will chat a bit then, too, despite how much his heart is telling him to snatch his daughter away and tell everyone the need to stop touching her now .

“Everything good?” Alex asks him each time, with a light smile and too much concern in his eyes. So, Henry will grit his teeth and nod.

“Of course,” he’ll say, and then he’s back to the kitchen until he can manage to interact like a sane, stable adult again.

He’s been in the kitchen for a full twenty minutes when Ellen comes in with a few dishes to add to the sink, almost time for him to brave his loved ones again to get Em for a nursing session. Ellen grins at him, so he puts on the brightest face he has.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she hums.

“Hi, Ellen. How are you? I’m sorry we’ve not gotten much of a chance to talk yet today,” Henry says, as if he hasn’t been actively avoiding conversation.

“Oh, I’m great,” Ellen says, waving Henry off when he tries to help with the dishes she’s begun to wash, “Not too much to report. The life of a retired president’s an easy one. Gives me lots of time to come visit my grandbaby.”

She swipes a dish rag Henry probably needs to toss in the wash over her hands and shakes the remaining wetness off them, before she turns back to Henry, determined and terrifying.

“How are you , is the question! Alex told me Emmy’s finally started sleeping through the night. That must be a relief.”

“Yes, that’s been helping,” Henry says through a fading smile, “and, I’m . . . I’m . . .”

He is terrible . He’s not going to bother lying to himself about that any longer. He barely sleeps, eats absolute junk if he even remembers to eat at all, and can’t string two consecutive thoughts together, except, of course, if those thoughts are about how much he’s failing as a parent. His mind has no trouble creating entire spirals when it comes to that.

Poor Emiliana. It’s not her fault; she’s about as wonderful of a daughter as he could ask for, and some much like Alex, in looks and manner and everything else. Poor Alex, too, having to deal with Henry’s moods. And Henry’s absolute lethargy. They’ve barely had sex since Emiliana was born. They’d both joked before she was here that they didn’t know how they’d manage the six week wait. Well, six weeks have come and gone, and Henry’s sex drive has remained a steadily flat line. Poor, poor Alex.

“I’m great, thank you, Ellen,” he finally answers. Ellen releases a disbelieving ‘mmhmm’ in response, and Henry has to look away.

“Sure,” she says as she leans back against the counter, “So, how’s the Texas move coming along?”

Henry holds back a wince. The Texas move and Alex’s job are on the long, long list of things they’re waiting to deal with until they’re more ‘settled’ with Emiliana, the official announcement of their departure from the royal firm another burning hot bullet point. He shrugs, a smile still plastered on.

“We haven’t found anything just right yet,” he explains away, “but Alex got another extension on his in person start date. Hopefully soon, though.”

“Hm,” Ellen nods. She narrows her eyes, straightens out her back, and puts on that face that Henry has seen in action before, demolishing debates and nailing interviews, “Well, while you’re looking for a place, I think you three–or, sorry, four, David, too, of course–should move in with me and Leo.”

Henry’s breath stutters in chest.

“Wh-what?”

“We’ve got extra room. Lots of it. Once Alex is working in person, you’ll need the extra help, anyways, and, lately, me and Leo have nothing but time on our hands,” Ellen reasons, all very logical, still entirely surprising, “I’m not saying this would be permanent, or even especially long term. Just until you two have the ground under your feet a little better.”

“Oh, I-ah, well . . .” Henry says, his tongue suddenly tying itself in knots. Or maybe it’s his head that is all twisted around, unable to make sense of what he means to say. Ellen uses his stammering to move a few steps closer.

“I don’t need an answer today,” she tells him softly, shifting quickly enough from strategist to mother to give Henry whiplash. And remind him how keenly he misses his own mum. God, god , he misses his mum, and Bea, and even stupid Philip so much, “Think about it, talk it over with Alex, take as much time as you need. The offer’s got no expiration date.”

“I, uh . . .” Henry says and hates how his eyes water at how tenderly Ellen is looking up at him, “yes, I’ll talk to Alex about it tonight.”

“Good,” Ellen says, “let me know whenever. We’d both love to have y’all.”

An alarm dings on Henry’s phone for his next nursing session, and he’s barely silenced it before Alex is entering the kitchen, Emiliana in his arms. Ellen gives him one last knowing, hopeful look, before she turns her big grin onto her son and granddaughter.

“Oh, come here to me, gorgeous,” Ellen says with arms already eagerly extended.

“Hey Ma,” Alex replies, and Ellen tuts at him.

“You know damn well I’m not talking to you,” she huffs. She glances at Henry over her shoulder, “Henry, mind if I hold her for just a minute before I give her back to you?”

The novelty of actually being asked, for once, has Henry’s brows rising in pleasant surprise. He even has a feeling that, if he were so inclined to say ‘no’, Ellen wouldn’t even fight him on it. That startles a smile onto his face.

“Of course you can.”

“Thank you, sugar,” she beams at him, before scooping Emiliana up tight to her, “There you go, angel. Mimi’s got ya.”

Emiliana stares up at her, squinty and curious, as she reaches up her stubby fingers and grips onto Ellen’s chin. Ellen chuckles and loosens her fingers to kiss every knuckle.

“I think she’s gonna be trouble, you know,” Ellen comments, her eyes not moving from Em.

“Oh, yeah, we know,” Alex agrees with a snort.

Just like her Mimi, Henry thinks.

The Royal Family

@theroyalfamily

Prince Henry, the Duke of Wales, and Alex Claremont-Diaz have confirmed to Her Majesty The Queen that they will not be returning as working members of The Royal Family.

While all are saddened by their decision, the Queen will be allowing their departure, and would like to remind all that Prince Henry, Alex Claremont-Diaz, and Lady Margaret Emiliana will remain much loved members of the family.

USA Today

@usatoday

Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz are ‘stepping back’ as members of the royal firm. Why, and what exactly does that mean: www.usatoday.com/story/entertainment/celebrities/2024/07/prince-henry-alex-claermont-diaz-step-back-everything-you-need-to-know/

The Sun

@thesun

Tomorrow’s front page: THE ROYAL BREAK UP: Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz are leaving the royal family. The Queen’s heartbreak, the family’s betrayal, and more, in tomorrow’s article.

Jonathan Van Ness

@jvn

Absolutely amazed by both the continued bravery of Prince Henry and Alex Claremont-Diaz, AND how continually awful the media is treating them! This statement is beautiful, and I’m so happy for them finally finding their freedom

[images attached: screenshots of Henry and Alex’s statements on each of their Instagram accounts detailing their departure from the royal firm]

Philip, of all people, is the first of Henry’s family to reach out after the official announcement of Henry’s departure from the firm. Though, Henry would not say he’s all that grateful for the conversation.

“I simply don’t believe you’ve thought this through,” Philip sighs tersely across the line, even though Henry has already done all he can think of to explain how much and how long he’s really been thinking of doing this, “I mean, you’re throwing so much away, and practically breaking up our family, so-”

“Any of you are welcome to come visit us once we’re settled in Austin. Even Gran,” Henry states, possibly a touch spitefully, “My intentions here were never to-to ‘break up our family’, or whatever nonsense you’re trying to insinuate, here. I-I don’t want to cut ties with anyone, even if you think that.”

“Well, then, I can’t understand what your intentions were ,” Philip huffs. Henry slumps down into his chair, tossing a hand over his eyes.

“That much is obvious, Pip.”

“Gran wanted me to tell you that this doesn’t need to be permanent, if you do change your mind. You know, eventually.”

“Really?” Henry groans as the realization of exactly why Philip had called slaps him across the face. At least Gran must not have been able to wear Mum or Bea down enough to have them working on her behalf, “This is just-if you’ve seriously called me as a way to get into her good graces, then I will hang up right now. I-I can’t believe you would-”

“Gran didn’t tell me to do anything!” Philip says, lying through his fucking teeth, as practiced in it as any royal is. Henry lingers, kneading his thumb into his temple, and decides to give Philip the benefit of doubt–which he has in no way earned–and not end the call.

“Sure,” he mutters, “Still, though, if this conversation just so happens to come up in conversation at the next family meeting, please let Gran know I’m not interested in any offers or bargains or . . . whatever else she wants to pull me back in with. I can’t, Philip, I can’t. Please understand that, okay?”

Silence stretches after that, tense and weighed down with a whole life’s worth of things they haven’t said. Maybe it’s an overly optimistic notion, but Henry would like to think Philip grasps even a fraction of Henry’s reasons, and that’s enough to give him pause. He’s been trying to be more optimistic, generally, since Emilliana was born, though most days it feels like a fool’s errand.

“Is . . . is this really what you think is best for you? For all three of you?” Philip asks, finally, his voice quiet and uncertain, as if someone might catch him.

“Yes,” Henry answers resolutely.

His voice is calm and certain, even if he wants to scream it. There’s a part of him, that vicious, bitter, scorned part of himself, that wants to lash into Philip, to tear him down with every wrong he and Gran have ever done to him. He could fill hours and hours of phone calls already with the way the royal family and their ‘image’ have already wounded Alex and Emiliana. He could fume and rage until he was hoarse. But, what would any of that bring him, really?

“Okay,” Philip replies. It brings Henry up short.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“I suppose if . . . if it's what you feel you have to do for your family . . . I, um. You have to do what’s best for your child. I understand,” Philip says, and it hits Henry like a bullet, “Henry, you . . . you do know I love you, right?”

“I . . .” Henry pauses, swallowing back an onslaught of things he doesn’t wish to deal with. Does he? He had hoped Philip did, just as he hoped Gran did, and Mum did after she fled after Dad died. But, he had doubted just as much. Mostly, he tried not to think about it. Hearing it now rings him like a revelation.

“I love you, too, Pip.”

“Take care,” Philip says, an ominous finality to the words, and hangs up after. Henry blinks. Well. It’s not as if any rich white man has any easy time admitting his love.

“Who was that?” Alex asks. He’s got Em in a wrap on his chest and another stack of boxes to toss with the rest in their office/library/nursery/storage room. Henry gathers himself before he replies. He considers lying, saying it was a telemarketer or the moving company they’ve hired to ship all their things to Ellen and Leo’s next week, just to avoid Alex asking him any more about the call, but thinks better of it at the last second.

“Philip.”

“Oh,” Alex nods, his expression turning worryingly serious, “you wanna talk-”

“Not right now,” Henry says over Alex’s question, “Eventually yes, I promise. But, I need to . . . decompress awhile. Alright?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you need,” Alex agrees, “Uh, are you good with me and Emmy hanging out with you a little bit, though?”

The question, or some variation thereof, has become a common one between them, and one that continues to necessitate being asked. Henry’s answers shift with his moods, which still have yet to settle post pregnancy. He bounces from touched-out and overwhelmed to needy and desperate for Emiliana in his arms to weepy and hopeless all within an evening. Today, though, when he looks at Em, becoming more of a little person with each passing day, all he wants is a good snuggle.

“Hmm, yes to both of you, please,” he murmurs, arms extended. He chuckles as Alex takes up a spot in his lap, leaving Em in her wrap, and circles both of them up in his arms. Henry pulls back the fabric covering her head and takes a deep inhale of her dark curls.

“Will she ever stop smelling amazing ?”

“So I guess you’ve already blocked out the memory of her shitting all over both of us on Thursday, huh?” Alex counters, and Henry turns his head to tuck his face into another head full of curls he adores so much.

“It was a necessity, darling.”

In the brief calm of the afternoon, sandwiched between their hectic packing schedule for the upcoming move, and a rough night battling with Em’s sleep regression, Henry lets his mind wander to his storybook couple, the unblemished Henry and Alex living in his head. Their daughter never poops on them, and that Henry’s emotions are always even and temperate. He’s already reopened his bookshop since giving birth. His husband and he are never cross with each other, and neither of them ever get bitter and envious over the other’s parenting skills.

They are absolutely perfect, all the time.

Though, Henry would still choose the man sitting in his lap and the beautiful girl wrapped up on his chest a million times over.

Chapter 6: The Way of Things Music

Notes:

Here's just some of the songs that helped me create this fic!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Henry finding out he’s pregnant/telling Alex
- Yesterday-The Beatles
- Be OK-Ingrid Michaelson

Alex telling his mom that Henry is pregnant
- Take Me Home, Country Roads-John Denver
Alex proposing to Henry
- Can’t Help Falling In Love-Perfume Genius
- All I’ve Ever Known-Hadestown Original Broadway Cast
Henry and Alex’s Stag-Do
- Under Pressure-Queen, David Bowie
- American Boy-Estelle
- London Bridge-Fergie
The Wedding
- Make You Feel My Love-Adele
- Low-Flo Rida
- Le jardin-La Femme

Chapter 2

Honeymoon

Canciones de Amor a Ti-Rigoberta Bandini

Henry and Alex finding out the sex

Love of My Life-Queen
this is me trying-Taylor Swift

Thanksgiving

Fly Me To The Moon-Frank Sinatra
Vienna-Billy Joel
The Best is Yet to Come-Frank Sinatra

Christmas

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer-Gene Autry
O Holy Night
Christmas Memories-Frank Sinatra

Henry’s texts with Alex while he’s in London

Fantastic Voyage-David Bowie

Chapter 3

Henry and Alex recovering post assassination attempt

Roslyn-Bon Iver and St Vincent
Sign of the Times-Harry Styles
Here Comes The Sun-The Beatles

Henry and his mum talking

Beautiful Boy-John Lennon

Paris

La Vie En Rose-Cristin Milioti
La Mer-Charles Trenet
Je t’aime moi non plus-Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin
Sweet Creature-Harry Styles

Henry and Alex finding out Emiliana won’t have a title

Washing Machine Heart-Mitski
enough for you-Olivia Rodrigo
Blackbird-The Beatles

Chapter 4

Henry laboring

I’ve Been Waiting for You-Mamma Mia Cast
Lovesong of the Buzzard-Iron and Wine
By Your Side-Beachwood Sparks
This Woman’s Work-Kate Bush

Meeting Emiliana for the first time

Sea of Love-Cat Power
Everything Changes-Sara Bareilles
Isn’t It Love-Steven Universe

Chapter 5

First hours post-birth

You and Me-Lifehouse
Hold My Girl-George Ezra
How Long Will I Love You-Ellie Goulding

Henry telling Alex he wants to leave the royal family

I Will Follow You into the Dark-Death Cab for Cutie

Alex and Henry up in the middle of the night with Emmy

Luna Lunera-Eydie Gorme
The Scientist-Coldplay

Alex’s family visiting the brownstone

Matilda-Harry Styles

Henry and Alex the night before their move

Me and my Husband-Mitski

Spotify Playlist Link

Notes:

Thank you all soooo much for reading. Your comments have meant the world to me!
Feel free to reach out to me on tumblr!

Notes:

The song Henry and Alex dance to after their reception is Le Jardin by La Femme.
(And yes, I gave Henry Nicholas Galitizine’s ear piercing)
Thank you to my three super awesome beta readers, niol, kisaru, and livingincolors, and special thanks to Niol for serving as my consultant for all things British.
Please comment!

Actions

Kudos

Agent1995, abcdefgh6193, myvvitavirginia, zyche, neneko_sakurada, midnightfxiry, queer_immortal, Autistically_Honest, rachaellllllllllll, totalnerdatheart, bleucheeks, RB19304, Wangxian100, littlewitch13, KnownGoon, Ray112, court_reads, cghtfr, Para13, Toast_Buster, s_u_m_m_e_r_b_r_e_e_z_e, qrandslam, evilcorporation, isabellahy, Misukiyuri128, buckynova, Gozdi1234, GlitterGiirlGG, Yabadabadoooooo, glossfm, Marythelamb363, lovefrenzy, maye, RiverMax05, Sannetl95, LifesWalkingShadow, Jollypickles, marveltastic, hikaryuu, THEVERYHUNGRYCATERPILLAR, Yellow_01, Junoriot, roubee, Smallnote, diamondclari, liza_weirdo, yoonji_min, love_ru9, Lettervos, x0xalexis, and 736 more users as well as 374 guests left kudos on this work!

Archive of Our Own^beta

Actions

Work Header

The Way of Things

writerkenna

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter 1: Nausea, Fatigue, and Anxiety

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Dizziness, Heartburn, and Cravings

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 3: Stretch-Marks, Backaches, and Swollen Ankles

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 4: Contractions, Dilation, and Pushing

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 5: Spit-up, Nappies, and a Bit of Hope

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Way of Things Music

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Notes:

Actions

Kudos

Comments

Footer

About the Archive

Contact Us

Development