Chapter Text
- - -
One Last Candle Burning Low
- - -
Chapter 1
- - -
December 17th, 2018
Jeffrey Fowler is a dead man.
Hank blinks, re-reads the same cluster of sentences for the hundredth time, struggling with the weight of what those words entail as they sink into his tired, hungover brain. He narrows his eyes as he once again sees those damning final words, then grits his teeth.
Fuck this. Boss or not, Jeffrey Fowler is going to be a dead man, but he's going to die a slow and tortured death at Hank's hands. Preferably breathing his last few breaths while that shitty Christmas music he loves so much is blasting in his ears.
Either that or this is some fucked up idea of a holiday joke. Hank toys with the idea but just as quickly dismisses it. Fowler is a lot of things—one of Hank's oldest friends being an important thing that is currently balancing out Hank's bloodlust—but his sense of humour does not extend to sending out joke emails. Hell, Fowler had made them all sit through an hour long session on proper office email etiquette when Chris had accidentally 'replied all' with an unfortunate meme about lazy editors.
No, this can't be a joke. Which makes it so, so much worse.
Cursing, Hank shoves back from his desk, his chair flying into a filing cabinet with a satisfying crash, and marches with determination through the maze of desks that make up The Detroit Post, papers and tinsel fluttering in his wake.
“What crawled up your ass, Anderson? That baby Jesus snatcher come back to steal the Wise Men or something?” Gavin Reed calls out as Hank stalks by, that stupid smirk plastered on his stupid scruffy face, like he knows exactly why his fellow journalist is stomping towards Fowler's office.
For a brief second, Hank debates flinging the closest thing at hand into his stupid fucking nose, but the only thing in reach and worth throwing is North's porcelain Christmas tree that she inherited from her great grandmother and she would not appreciate him using it as a projectile. The delivery guy from last week had made the fatal mistake of bumping into it when he'd been walking by and North had thanked him by stabbing a pen through his clipboard.
With the porcelain tree off-limits, Hank settles for flipping Reed the bird. He doesn't bother telling him to 'get fucked' as per their usual witty banter, because he has to save his voice for yelling at Fowler until that shitty email gets retracted out of Hank's inbox and out of Hank's life.
The door to Fowler's office crashes open with a bang as Hank bursts through, the tiny bells decorating the window tinkling maniacally like some kind of Christmas alarm for 'Pissed Off Journalist Now Entering The Premises'.
Hank slams both hands down on Fowler's desk, rattling a decorative plastic snowman family so badly that the little snow kid goes flying from the desk and onto the floor. He doesn't give his boss a chance to react before he gets right to the point. “What in the ever loving fuck was that?”
Jeffrey, to his credit, doesn't even blink. He gestures vaguely at the empty chair, eyes glued to his computer screen as he taps away at the keyboard. Probably writing some new email to ruin someone else's day, Hank thinks bitterly. “Good morning to you too, Hank. Have a seat.”
“That's all you can say to me? Sit down? Of course I'm not fucking sitting down. Not until you tell me that email was some kind of shitty joke.”
“If I wanted to play a joke on you, I wouldn't do it by email.” Jeffrey taps out a few last words, then leans back from his terminal and finally meets Hank's irate glare. “I also don't think receiving an email about a decent proposition for an article that would help get our December sales up is something to laugh about.”
“Does it look like I'm fucking laughing?” Hank snarls. “That email was bullshit, Jeff. You know it, I know it, hell, if you showed it to Gavin Shithead Reed, even he'd know it. The question is: how did it end up in my inbox, of all godforsaken places?”
Jeffrey Fowler can be an intimidating man when he wants to be. Hank had been on the receiving end of of the patented Fowler staredown (shoulders straightened, jutting chin, eyes narrow and frigid) many times in his three years at The Post, but somehow it still managed to stop him in his tracks.
“Hank,” Fowler says his name slowly, his voice even and cool, “you need to turn around, shut the door, and then. Take. A. Goddamn. Seat. HR gets pretty pissy if you interrupt their vacation and I don't want to them on my ass because one of my journalists has to be written up for harassment right before Christmas break.”
Those last few words are delivered with enough iciness that it eats through Hank's fiery rage as effectively as a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. Hank swears under his breath but does as he's asked—even going so far as to shut the stupid door gently—and takes a seat (he leaves the little snowman kid on the floor because he's still fucking pissed and if he can't take it out on Fowler, then his lame Christmas decorations will have to suffer instead).
“Good. Now can we talk like adults or are you going to have another tantrum?”
“Oh we can talk, Jeff. Better yet, you can talk and I'll listen, because you have a shitload of explaining to do.”
“Jesus, Hank, you're lucky we have a history, or I would have had to fire you years ago.” Jeffrey sighs. “You know, there are journalists out there who would kill for an offer like the one I just sent you. And you're sitting here, acting like some entitled jackass, just because you think it's beneath you to write an article that doesn't feature drug busts or crooked cops.”
“Yeah, because it's what I fucking do. It's what I write. And I write it well. ”
“No one's saying you don't. But Christmas isn't exactly a hot time of year for crime—”
“Bullshit,” Hank interjects, his skin prickling hotly at the assumption. “Last year I was working overtime with all the break-ins and Christmas decorations heists going on. And that article about the big finance CEO getting caught with that hooker dressed like Mrs. Claus took up my whole Christmas eve and most of Christmas day too. All the articles were related to crime and I was happy to write them because, guess what? They're in my fucking line of work.”
“I'm not saying you don't work hard, I'm saying crime stories don't sell well when everyone's wrapped up in Christmas cheer.” Fowler is scowling now, drags a folder out from under a stack of books and flings it across the desk at Hank. “You know what's in there? A collection of all the most viewed articles off of our website during the month of December. Take a look and tell me what you see.”
Hank grabs the folder and flips it open to the first printed article at the top of the pile. It's one of Chris Miller's articles, titled 'The Little Dancer That Could'. Hank skims through the first few paragraphs even though he knows exactly what to expect, because Chris and his 'People of Detroit' series was well-loved in the city and his formula was pretty much set in stone. Not that Hank minded reading them once in a while. Chris was a good guy—he genuinely appreciated all of the oddballs and weirdos that he encountered and his appreciation for their quirks showed in his work and made them seem entirely human. Even that freak who turned an abandoned warehouse into a pigeon sanctuary seemed like a regular guy once Chris was done with him and Hank hated those flying rats with a burning passion.
He flips and flips and flips and yeah, the trend emerges all right. By the twentieth article ('Beware The Skunk – Local Dog Gets Sprayed Three Times In One Day!'), it's all Hank can do not to set fire to the whole folder.
He's not a monster; he gets why people like these articles. Stories about kittens being saved from trees and beautiful people getting married to other beautiful people and sweet, charitable grandmas and every other tooth-rotting cliche of a feel-good story appeal to people who need a boost in their otherwise mundane life. The public has always preferred to escape the real world rather than face it and Hank's been heartily aware of the fact that his own writing preferences do not provide a convenient exit from life.
But that's the fucking point. Hank doesn't write lifestyle pieces. Hasn't written one since he was an intern and that was only because at that time in his life, he was as eager as a puppy, willing to jump on any kind of story if it meant giving him a boost up the journalistic ladder. At fifty-three, the only eagerness Hank feels these days is when his paycheck arrives and he can treat himself to a decent brand of whiskey.
“I get it,” Hank sighs, tossing the folder back on the desk. “This assignment would probably boost our readership rates sky high and make the big bosses piss their pants in joy. But I can't write it.”
Fowler leans forward, arms crossed on the desk. “You're gonna have to, Hank. Our publisher wants this article written before the end of the year—hell, they wanted it written yesterday—and everyone else is out.”
“Someone's gotta be here. I can't be the only loser who picked up the Christmas shift.”
“Trust me, you think you were my first choice? I would have given it to Josh but he's down in Baton Rouge for his grandmother's ninetieth birthday.” Holding up a hand, Jeffrey starts ticking down the names, finger by finger. “Chris's wife had a baby two days ago. North is going back home to New York tonight. Tina is currently halfway across the world, meeting her boyfriend's family for the first time. Hell, even Gavin's got a solid week and a half of vacation starting in a few hours. The rest of the staff who are stuck here are either too fresh out of school to handle something this big or they would give me the same fluff piece that every other news outlet is going to publish. There is literally no one else I would trust to write this article.”
“What about Ben?”
The corner of Jeffrey's left eye twitches and Hank wonders how much effort it takes his boss not to roll his eyes sky high. “You're kidding me? Ben? He's a goddamn food critic.” Jeffrey shakes his head. “Anyway, he's got the week of Boxing Day off to go a Caribbean cruise with his husband.”
His boss—his friend, Hank's brain supplies helpfully—leans forward and for the first time Hank can see the tiredness etched into the lines of Jeffrey's face. “Hank, you have to believe me. You're all I've got.”
“Fuck, don't give me that look.” Hank groans, leans back in his chair and stares hard at the ceiling because he can feel his resolve cracking and damn if he isn't gonna make his friend grovel just a bit longer. “It's a goddamn royal wedding, Jeff. A fucking million-dollar marriage spectacle paid by innocent taxpayers to watch some stuffy prince marry some airhead socialite. What do you expect me to do? Chat with the caterers about the food menu? Ask the florist about the flowers in the bride's bouquet? Interview the blushing bride about her designer dress?”
“I'm not looking for a minute-by-minute play of how the damn wedding goes down. Just a decent full page article on the current members of the royal family and on the bride and maybe a few political commentary pieces on the idea of the monarchy as a whole.”
Hank snorts. “Is that all? Because I remember reading something about going undercover inside the palace, which kind of seems like overkill for a simple wedding piece.”
“So maybe there's some rumours about the Prince that I want you to investigate. Rumours like the wedding is a sham, something about political motivation to keep the royal family in power. I might have even heard that the bride-to-be is an American heiress who was photographed topless on Elijah Kamski's personal yacht just this past June and who was suddenly being prepped to be a princess a month later. There's some interesting pieces to this story. It would be even more interesting if someone was able to connect the dots.”
Hank mulls this new information over. “You don't mean Detroit's own Kamski? That greasy hipster who keeps yapping about how he's going to revolutionize AI systems and bring back glory and money to our...what did he call it again? Our neglected ruin of a city?”
“The very same. He's a billionaire. He can say whatever he wants and people will buy into it.” Jeffrey's voice loses its hard edge, because he's a fucking bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out Hank's interest in a subject (and Hank is starting to be interested, damn him). “Not only is Kamski potentially involved in this royal wedding business, but this is the same royal family who have Detroit roots. Their mother was from Grosse Point, born and raised. She even met her royal husband in the city when he was here for some charity thing. Gavin did a whole article on it last year for what would have been their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
There is something satisfying in knowing that Gavin Reed had to sit his smug ass down on some fancy sofa and interview an actual member of an uppity royal family without coming off as a major tool. It makes this whole assignment suddenly seem less hellish (because if fuckwad Reed can do it, Hank can do it and do it better). “And how did Reed's story do?”
“It was the second most read piece online, right after 'Our New Striped Enemies – The Rise of Intelligence in City Raccoons'. Why do you think he finally got the green light to write that piece on corruption at City Hall? It sure as shit wasn't because of his friendly attitude.”
The numbers and recognition that are going to be associated with this assignment are...appealing. Hank's usual crime articles do just fine, but this might be his chance at having some leverage to write what he really wants. Or, at the very least, to get him off the hook for writing more shitty lifestyle pieces in the future.
“This story is starting to sound like every Detroit paper's wet dream,” Hank remarks wryly “No wonder they're pushing us to do it. Local girl turned princess or queen or whatever. Local megalomaniac connected to the future queen. Prince with a Detroit pedigree. Hell, it almost sounds too good to be true.”
“It's not gonna be boring,” Jeffrey promises him. “And all your travel expenses are already fully covered.”
“First class?”
“You wish. But you're gonna be staying in a goddamn palace so you won't be suffering.” Fowler laughs and the tension that had been thickening the air since Hank stormed in begins to dissipate. “So you'll stop bitching me out and do it?”
Hank looks at his friend, the same man who'd stuck his neck out for him time and time and time again. Jeffrey Fowler had been there for Hank's first time getting drunk, had been best man at his wedding, had offered Hank a lifeline when he'd given him the job at The Detroit Post, even though Hank had still been drowning in a quagmire of grief. As much as he hated to admit it, Hank owed him one.
Hank runs a tired hand down his face, resignation settling into his bones. “Well, shit. This had better be the first and last wedding article you ever, ever make me write, or so help me God I will find a way to make you pay.”
“How about I start rewarding your loyalty by giving you the rest of the day off? There's a lot of reading you're gonna need to do to prepare. You might as well do it in the comfort of your own home.” Jeffrey rummages around in a filing cabinet behind his desk and drags out a few hefty piles of papers, held precariously together by clips and a ridiculous amount of rubber bands. “Your flight leaves at 6 pm tomorrow. I'll swing by your place around noon to prep you on how this undercover operation is actually going to work and then I'll take you to the airport.”
Hank picks up his homework, tries not to grimace at the weight or the thought of just how much cramming he's going to have to do in the next twenty-four hours to at least pull off a decent cover story. “Thanks for the offer, but I can drive just fine.”
“Normally I wouldn't fight you, but not this time. The only way I can guarantee you getting on that plane is if I deliver you to the gate myself.” Jeffrey turns back to his computer. “Now get out of here. You've got a lot of work to do.”
- - -
Contrary to popular belief, Hank Anderson has some standards. One of his standards is to not get shit-faced before noon, no matter how sweetly the slide of a good stiff drink down his throat would help him deal with the sudden realization that in roughly twenty-four hours, he's going to be on a plane for the first time in fucking years, jetting off to a country he knows nothing about, to spy on people who probably have the power to throw him into a dungeon or some shit like that if things go south.
So he drives by his usual boozy haunts (most of them closed anyway, so it's not like he even had the option) and straight to an old favourite.
The warm light emanating from The Chicken Feed is like a balm to his troubled soul and the familiar smell of frying onions and grease helps re-center Hank's stormy emotions. For a moment, he debates grabbing his burger and eating in the car, but the thought of the mountain of papers on the passenger seat has him making a beeline for one of the outdoor tables, winter chill be damned.
As he digs into what will probably be his last decent burger for the next two weeks, Hank finally has time to let the weight of what this assignment—no, jail sentence—sink in. It's been fucking years since he's done something as risky as going undercover and the thought of having to pretend to be a completely different person, all the while balancing on the tightrope of trying not to fuck up the investigation, is almost too much for his brain to handle right now.
It's not that he didn't want to do the story—not anymore at least, now that Fowler had given him a few choice nuggets of information that teased at a story bigger than some sideshow of a wedding—but the amount of effort that this story is going to require from his sad old self is going to be monumental. Even the thought of the first flight to London, strapped into those miserably small seats on a what is essentially a tin can with wings, has Hank shuddering. The only flights he's been on lately have all been quick hops around the country. He hasn't done anything international since his days at the New York Times and the fleeting glimpse of those particular memories is enough to add to the already substantial weight on his shoulders.
Ah fuck, Hank thinks miserably. It's gonna be a fucking nightmare.
A nightmare he won't be able to escape until December 30th, according to his return ticket. But it's a nightmare that will pay the bills (maybe even nab him a bonus if it does well and Hank is determined to at least do his job fucking well) and will ensure some job security for at least the next year.
Besides, the more rational part of his brain adds, you could probably just write some schmoozy piece on the royal family and all those fun little million-dollar wedding details, and gush about the new bride and it would still sell like hotcakes. Even if it's not the story Jeffrey wants, it could be a story that the public would still want to read, no sacrificing of his job required.
It's a comforting thought. A comforting thought for someone who can write about weddings and love and other shit like that without the need to be seriously hammered. Which is not someone Hank has ever claimed to be.
He's so stuck in his thoughts—like how the fuck he's going to type out the words 'and she gazed deeply into his eyes as she repeated the words 'I do'' without wanting to kill himself—that he visibly jumps when he hears the roar of a familiar motorcycle squealing to a halt.
Shit, can't a guy get some privacy to fucking brood? Hank gripes, although there is no bitterness to the thought. He likes North well enough—can appreciate her 'no fucks given' attitude towards life and everyone in it—and at least she won't sit there and gush about how lucky he is that he got assigned this spectacular turd of an article.
He's taking his last few bites of his sweet, sweet burger as his friend and fellow reporter plods over in her usual heavy black boots to join him. Hank chews slowly, then swallows under her measured stare. “How'd you find me?”
North tosses her braid over her shoulder, balancing her fiery red helmet on her hip as she leans against the edge of the table. “Easy. This is where you usually come to drown your sorrows when the bars aren't open.”
“And why did you think I'd be drowning my sorrows?”
“Because I got a text from Gavin ten minutes ago, saying you were having a hissy fit about some new article that Fowler assigned you.” North raises an eyebrow. “Something about you covering a royal wedding in some backwater country that nobody cares about?”
Hank fights the urge to roll his eyes. The gossip mill at work is terrifyingly efficient, probably because they were all decent journalists who knew exactly how to investigate even the weakest of leads.
“So that's what they're saying?” Hank pretends to think on it, finishes his burger with one last satisfying chomp. “Hmph.”
“Don't use that attitude with me, Anderson,” North says. “I know it's true. Gavin was hinting about some stupid wedding story last week. I just didn't think you'd be the poor sucker assigned to write it up.”
The fact that Reed apparently knew about it beforehand explains his shit-eating grin as Hank had headed out of the office, practically staggering under the weight of all the papers he'd been given, even though there was no way anybody in that office would have heard Fowler's pitch with the door being closed. Fuck, he should have thrown that Christmas tree at Reed's face, North's wrath be damned.
Hank frowns. “How the hell did Reed know about it?”
North shrugs. “No idea. He did do that article a while ago on the royal family, so maybe he still as an in?” Her lips quirk. “Shit, you're gonna be talking to royals. Like, an actual prince and princess and whatever the fuck else they have in their family. You're gonna have to learn how to bow and shit too!” Her grin stretches wider as Hank's frown deepens. “Oh man, maybe I should ditch the family plans and just tag along with you instead. It would be worth it to watch you suffer through two weeks of royal rules or etiquette or whatever .”
“Nice to see someone's fucking enjoying this,” Hank grumbles, a new anxiety coiling in his stomach because now that North has brought it up, he realizes she's absolutely right. Not only does he have to go undercover, but he's gonna have to follow strict protocols and call people 'your highness' and he's even gonna have to learn how to fucking bow like some Regency-era servant.
He didn't think it was possible, but this assignment just veered off the Highway of Bullcrap and is now careening straight into Hank's Ninth Level of Fiery Hell.
He must have gone quiet for an awkward amount of time because when he claws his way out of thinking about bowing and how do you actually properly bow without making it seem stupid and how the fuck do you actually address a prince without getting hauled off to the dungeon, North's smile is gone and she's watching him carefully. Probably wondering if I'm gonna have another fucking hissy fit.
“Hey, old man, you okay? I didn't mean to freak you out.”
He waves her worry off. “Nah, don't worry. You're not telling me something I don't already know.” He lets out a long breath as he runs a hand through his hair. “It's just been a long fucking morning and I've got a lot of work I have to do if I'm gonna pull this shitshow off.”
“You're a good journalist,” North says sincerely. “And your article is going to kick some ass, even if it is about some bougie wedding.”
Hank huffs out a humourless laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”
“So what do you know about these royals anyway?” North asks, deftly switching topics, as if she senses that Hank is already writing up his resignation letter in his head (he isn't but he's starting to question just how much bowing his job is worth). She plunks her helmet down on the table and repositions herself more comfortably against the table.
Part of Hank just wants to go home and flop down onto the couch and sleep (and drink) until this day is over, but another part of him is actually appreciating the company. After that plane takes off tomorrow, he won't have any familiar faces around him. No friends or colleagues to bounce ideas off of. No one to have his back if things get problematic. As dedicated a loner as he is, Hank can't help but appreciate North's willingness to hang around his grumpy self for a few more minutes.
Not that he would ever let her know that. She's just about as good with handling emotions as he is—which isn't saying much—and he's sure as hell not going to make their final hangout before the new year (and before Hank's probable arrest for eating with the wrong fork and being sent to rot in a foreign jail cell for the rest of his sad life) weird.
Hank thinks on the few pages he managed to skim. Judging by the literal pile of papers in his car, there's a fuckload more to this family than a couple pieces of paper can convey, but he'd been able to get a brief overview. “Not much, right now. I know that there's three kids—two boys and a girl—and that their parents died in a helicopter crash two years ago. The Crown Prince managed to avoid becoming King at the time because his dad's will got messy or something, and the country has a system of government that seems to handle things just fine. Sounds like the wedding is partly a gamble to fast track the coronation, because the Prince hasn't exactly jumped at the chance to throw on a crown these past few years.”
“Can't say I blame him,” North muses. “Can you imagine having to deal with a whole country of people asking for your attention? I can barely handle my family asking me to do shit.”
“You couldn't pay me enough to be a king,” Hank agrees. “Although the unlimited riches wouldn't be such a bad thing.”
North makes a sound of disapproval. “Yeah, except it's at the expense of all the peasants who you rule over. Gotta have a pretty good mental block to live like that. Eating fancy foods and sleeping on silk sheets while the family one town over has to decide whether they can afford food for the week.” She shakes her head, disgust written plainly on her face. “Its the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages. It's a fucking joke that royalty exists at all.”
“You're preaching to the choir but that attitude is not gonna help me get this story written,” Hank says grimly. “So yeah, that about sums up what I've read so far. Fowler's given me enough material to keep me reading for weeks though, so I'm sure I'll be a fucking expert by the time I get back”
“That's it? That's all you know?”
Hank doesn't like the look North suddenly gets, the glint in her eyes and the thinning of her lips as she tries to hide a smile. He knows that look and he knows it usually spells some kind of trouble. “What? Do you know something I don't?”
Casually, she unzips a pocket and pulls out her phone. “Only what I read in Gavin's article.”
“Fuck.” Hank curses at yet another bombshell North just dropped on him. “I'm probably gonna have to read it. And he fucking knows it too, that little shit. No wonder he was all sunshine and rainbows this morning.”
“He's actually a decent journalist. But if you ever so much as whisper that I said that to him, you're fucking dead.” North taps away at something on her phone. “No, it's not what I read that's kind of interesting. It's what the brothers looks like that might float your boat.”
It's a weird statement to make, and Hank is about to tell her it's weird (even though he's fully aware that North knows his type because their first bonding experience had been over checking out the same guy during a work event) when North turns her phone around and shows him just what she's talking about.
“Hank Anderson, meet Connor von Friedenberg, Crown Prince of Beldovia.”
The photo is one of those formal pictures that royal houses always loved releasing to the press. Stilted, posed, and in some sort of uniform, the people in those photos always looked vaguely annoyed, no matter how wide they faked their smiles. Hank had always found the pictures to be ridiculous because trying to sell the age-old image that these people were better at leading a country thanks to birthright and not to, you know, actual skill, was an ancient and vastly outdated concept.
Prince Connor is all of those things in the photo—posed, stiff, a slight frown on his face—but Hank isn't dead enough on the inside to not appreciate the expertly fitted uniform accentuating what looks like a lean and finely tuned body. And his face is...something. Not hot exactly. A little softer but more compelling than the usual clean cut good looks that everyone seems to fawn over. There's something in the sharp angle of his jaw that balances out the fullness of his lips and sends a hot curl of desire through Hank's poor deprived system and fuck, he needs to get out more if a fucking photo is getting him twisted into knots.
“So, what do you think?”
Hank shrugs, trying to look like he is, in fact, not ogling the picture on her phone like some horny old pervert. “Not bad.”
“Not bad? Not bad?” North cackles and gives Hank's arm an affectionate shove. “He's a fucking pretty boy and you know it.”
He hands her back the phone, doing his damn best to keep his expression neutral. “Not saying he's not easy on the eyes. Just won't do me any good to be checking him out when I'm trying to get all the dirt I can on his wedding.” Probably wouldn't be too happy to have an old, washed-up journalist with a drinking problem ogling him either. People who look like the Crown Prince have a vastly different playing field than people who look like Hank. He's not even sure he would register as a person on Prince Connor's radar. More like a faceless being in a crowd of faceless beings, all at his beck and call.
North checks her phone and grimaces. “Shit, I didn't realize what time it is. Still gotta do some wrapping and then figure out a way to fit it all in my bag.”
“Have fun with your family,” Hank offers as she grabs her helmet and is rewarded with brief scowl. “Try not to murder anyone.”
“As long as they don't ask me any personal questions it should be fine. Besides, I'm kind of looking forward to meeting my sister's new boyfriend. I can't wait to tell him what I'm gonna do with his balls if he makes her cry.”
“You sure you don't want to trade? I could deal with your family if you go write this shitty article for me.”
“And miss hearing about your adventures?” North looks at him for a moment, then smiles. “You're gonna do fine, Anderson. And keep in touch, okay? Let me know how shadowing that sexy princely ass goes.”
She gives his arm a friendly punch (because 'bro punch to the arm' is a level of affection that they can manage without cringing) before sliding on her helmet and makes her way back to her bike. It's only when she roars out of sight that he allows his shoulders to sag and the anxiety to settle more comfortably into the pit of his stomach. Making his way back to his car, he sits for a minute as the car warms up and stares at the mound of folders on the seat next to him. Inside those folders are going to be intimate reports on this von Friedenberg family, as well as photos. Lots and lots of photos.
He doesn't want to think about why a single photo of some random beanpole (even a ridiculously pretty one) has set him off because that would require thinking about his sad, pathetic life and he's already got enough problems with self-image as it is, thanks all the same. But he does come to the conclusion that he will probably need some new clothes if he's going to be spending the next two weeks in a palace, because most of his clothes have seen better days and will do him no good if he's supposed to blend in. And really, what better way to top off an already spectacularly shitty day than by hitting up a mall during the Christmas rush?
Hank drops his head onto the steering wheel. Fuck my life.
- - -