Chapter Text
Adam was fed up with looking at himself in the mirror. His eyes rolled back into his head while he was still upright, his eyelids sticky and raw.
“Almost done,” Phil promised, probably feeling Adam’s shoulders slump. Adam could feel the slightest of taps from the lint roller as it skated neatly across his back. Lint rolling was a nice but unnecessary touch, he thought, to the most unfluffed jacket Adam had even worn, with n’er a cat hair sight. But why argue? Phil was the best.
“You said that,” Adam croaked instead, “two years ago.”
Phil appeared around his front, dusting around the edges of Adam’s lapel, his nose pinched in concentration.
“You know there’s more involved with State dinners,” he offered meekly, and Adam would’ve felt bad, if Phil hadn’t been his stylist for the last three years, and they hadn’t played out this routine at every State dinner.
“All these years and I still don’t know why,” Adam said, to the ceiling, as he felt Phil’s warm hands finger along the edge of his collar, to flatten it for the fourth time in as many circumnavigations of Adam’s outfit tonight. “It’s the same people we have in and out every week, for other meals.”
“Just that they’re all together. And the press. I heard the Prime Minister’s wife is wearing Vivienne Westwood,” Phil sighed, and Adam knew Phil would give anything to trade places and be rearranging the frills on a lavish gown and not, as he was, de-fluffing an Italian suit and plumping up shoulder pads. It required so much less artistic mastery.
“You could be tending to the ladies, you know,” Adam pointed out. Although he wouldn’t have wanted Phil anywhere else: the fancier the night, the more Philippe seemed to be so sane compared to the rest of the whole circus. “Instead of making me look more like a penguin.”
“Because you are the centrepiece,” Philippe tutted. “The next generation! A new hope for the country! And the cameras will be all over you, and I won’t let you embarrass me. So, shut up. Where did I leave the hairspray? And I asked you not to scratch your neck, your moles have come up, again.”
Adam winced as the cold concealer was reapplied to his neck, and closed his eyes as a cloud of sticky hairspray fell softly onto his face.
Parting his eyelashes now felt even more gluey than before, and the leftover aerosol spiced the end of his tongue.
“Are you and the Earl… uh.” Phil swallowed thickly. “Do you have plans. For afterwards.”
Adam’s reflection took on a seedy kind of smile.
“Studge and I are going out on the town tonight, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Late.”
Studge, his wingman, his angel, would save him from a dreary evening and catapult him into the nightclub district on a Saturday in search of release. And after tonight, Adam would need a release.
Phil had been silent for a while, tucking down the underside of Adam’s bowtie, Adam guessed, in thought. Adam was sure he was brooding over the role of the Earl Sturridge in how the evening would pan out, and disapproving greatly. He wouldn’t, Adam knew, be the only one. But he surprised him instead, by saying:
“You know. When you become King, couldn’t you just… do away with State dinners?” and Adam was surprised enough to actually laugh.
He could have said several things. He could have said that his role in how the monarchy would play out was so tightly constricted, that changing the palace brand of toilet paper would be a nearly impossible feat, let alone abolishing the top social event of the calendar year. He also could have said that when he would be King, he might actually be more involved in the State’s affairs, and give a shit about holding a dinner on it.
Instead, he shuffled on the spot, stretching his toes out where they were pinched by the sides of his shoes. “My kingdom for… a pair of Uggs and a bottle of Shiraz,” he said his old joke- enough to make Phil break concentration and grin.
“Okay,” Phil nodded, “we’re done.” Adam watched his reflection stride over to the door to rap it, and he took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders the whole way back so they clicked into place, ignoring where the suit itched, and the makeup matting his face for the cameras that hung heavy on his cheeks. This event seemed to have already worn him out more than normal, which was a worrying sign for someone who’s life was about to be one long string of such glamourous social events.
Tonight, he told himself. Think about later tonight. And the door opened.
“Ready?” the face that poked its way around the doorframe and into Adam’s room was familiar and kind and understanding, so Adam dearly wished the presence of his private secretary did anything more to reassure him. “Your mother is in the hall. I think tonight she wants you to escort her into the dining room. Best not keep the lady waiting.”
“Sure, Klopp,” Adam said, letting his face melt to neutral- his transformation into Prince Adam now complete. “Lead the way.”
Adam’s mother was forever a picture of elegance, and rose to the occasion to blow everyone else out of the water- wrapped in soft looking red silks, with just enough frill to be fancy but not ostentatious. Undoubtedly, Phil’s handiwork.
“You look nice, Mother,” Adam said, the drawl fixed, and she tutted.
“Be friendly,” she said. A scold. Here we go. “There’s people to meet at this reception, you know.”
Adam knew. Adam knew “people” translated to “nice young men” which in turn translated to “you’re a twenty-eight-year-old gay prince who has never remotely looked like settling down, tick-tock”. The country needs a distraction. That’s your job.
He just wasn’t in the mood. Everyone he was introduced to these days had the Future Partner label hanging over them, and even though the dust from Adam’s sudden closet exit had settled by now, Adam felt the pressure begin to sit on his shoulders: pick a dude, and you had better do it soon.
Sad thing was, he probably would. And the guy would probably be perfect: for the people, but probably not for Adam. That was how royalty had always worked, right?
But he’d humour his mother for now, if he had to.
“Sure,” he said, planting a kiss on her powdery cheek. He nudged his hand under her elbow and guided her into the dining room. “Is the new treasury secretary here yet? He sounds like a laugh. I wouldn’t mind meeting him… Kidding. I was kidding.”
“Well,” Studge said, his tone mocking, drawn out and nasally from somewhere behind Adam- draped, no doubt, over the whole of Adam’s bed, “you survived.”
“Shut up,” Adam snorted. He was less and less focused on his shirt selection process, and was just feeling them now, as though that would bring up the best number.
“You’re moanier about it this year,” Adam could hear the sound of what was, presumably, Studge stuffing a load of crisps in his mouth. “You’re only about a quarter of your way through your life’s worth of duties, bro- woah,” the crisp packet fell, open, onto Adam’s bed. “What is that?”
“Ew,” Adam said, gesturing at Studge’s open mouth. “Close that. I don’t want half-digested crisp on my sheets.” Like he was being heard or anything, as Studge kicked his feet up into the air, howling. A small giggle made its way up Adam’s throat and he didn’t even try and keep it down.
This was the Earl of Sturridge. Recently handed earldom, blossoming into a frightfully good politician, Adam’s best friend and also: a goofball. And Adam was so glad that he had him as a friend, a real friend, back when they were on civic duty together, in the madness.
“What,” he said, as Studge started to wipe his eyes dry. The crisps, however, still lay freely scattered across Adam’s bed. “Is your problem.”
Studge made a clucking noise. It might have been “zebras”.
Adam looked down at his shirt and it’s flamboyant, zebra-striped glory. He’d asked Philippe for the campest selection of t-shirts he could find and, judging by the reaction, they had a winner.
“Alright,” he said, scooping his jacket from the chair and kicking at the edge of the bed to bring Studge back to reality. “Let’s get me laid.”
They hadn’t been to this club before, having thoroughly overfished their other waters. It didn’t matter so much for Studge, but strategically bad fashion sense only bought Adam so much anonymity, as in:
D’ya think that’s the crown prince?
Nah, no way would he dress that badly.
As usual, they’d taken a taxi from a side-road out the back of the palace, skulling vodka as they went to make sure by the time Adam reached the crowd his body was sufficiently numb. The back door was a press thing, not a security thing. Adam was always aware of the presence of his security detail- he knew how they worked, he knew where they were likely to orbit - exactly like satellites, he knew they were out there somewhere, watching everything, but he could never be sure where.
The dancefloor was alive like its own living, breathing being: bathed in shades of purple that flickered and changed as it swayed like an ocean. Adam’s eyes blurred for a second, and he tightened his grip on Studge’s arm, the odd flailing elbow hitting him in the ribs a pleasant reminder that he was, actually, still alive.
Studge dragged him over to the bar, just about upright as they tripped up the steps – inebriated by both laughter and giggles, balance not helped with the various slaps on the back and declarations of “you are smashed, mate”. It was elevated above the dancefloor, like a perch, and Adam leaned the whole way over it, waving plastic in the direction of the bar staff.
“What do you want?” he asked, cupping his hand around Studge’s cheek to get his attention, and then not hearing the answer. Instead, he chose the most decoratively named cocktail he could see listed above their heads.
“I’ve got one,” Studge said, turning him by his shoulders, wheezing the words out through giggles. “Him,” his finger extending lazily over the crowd, “he’s been watching you.”
“Since when,” Adam asked, turning to look.
“Since I started looking.”
Adam tucked his credit card safely back into his jacket. “Maybe it’s you he’s looking at.”
Studge gave him his stickiest, sleaziest smile. “Nah,” he said, taking the drink. “It’s always you.”
“Modest,” Adam tutted, as their glasses clinked. “Maybe he recognises me.” He contemplated his drink, the same psychedelic purple that the lights had turned the dance floor.
“Or maybe it’s that time of the night in a bar. Dude.” Studge made an attempt to turn Adam the whole way around again, and Adam saw him – at the bottom of the steps, too casually leaned against the railings. Dark, furrowed eyebrows, wide shoulders, shirt sleeves pushed up enough for Adam to see the promises of intricate trails of ink running up and down his arms.
Yes.
“Your type, right?” Studge asked, but he never got an answer. Adam threw back his drink – predominately gin, he decided, as it rocked his insides – and started down the stairs.
Eye contact first, body contact next. Hands, then hips as he slid closer. He was a bit short on time tonight and cutting corners was necessary.
Besides, this guy looked like he was up for it, matching Adam’s height, and then his touch when Adam moved to press his lips to his ear.
“Hi,” he said, over the din, his mouth pressed hard to the guy’s skin- a cloud of familiar, beery incense filling the whole way up his nose, down to his lungs. He palmed slowly into his waist, skin warm against his hands. Their hips shifted in time to the music, together. Adam was reminded, as his blood rushed south, just how long it had been since he’d had someone. It made the State dinner he’d just lived feel like years ago. Anonymous, no longer the step below his father. When he was on duty he was just the next in line – someone who might have something to say one day, but not right now, thank you very much. Now he was whoever he wanted to be.
“Hi.” His drawl was distinctly southern, not that it mattered, with his hands gripping Adam’s hips like that, grinding closer. This had to be a new record.
Cheers, Studge.
“Hey,” the guy said suddenly, back into Adam’s ear, loud enough to make him shudder. “Hate to say this, but do you come here often? You look familiar.”
“Nope,” Adam said. Then he ended all further discussion on the matter when he stuck his tongue deep into the guy’s mouth.
Adam shouldn’t have napped and regretted it when he did eventually wake up. He could have only been asleep mere minutes, and already his hangover was making itself at home.
The first thing that alerted him to the fact that this was not his own room in the palace was the smell: old socks and Chinese takeaway. The bed felt harder, the duvet felt lighter, and there was the now-unwelcome weight of an arm across his back. His skin itched, feeling distinctly unclean. It always did, once the orgasm wore off.
Nugh. He thought, as he moved his head, and it pounded in protest. It wasn’t even a particularly good one. He couldn’t help feeling that maybe he’d forced it a bit.
His eyes rolled open- dim, distorted shapes took a while to come into focus: clothes draped back over an armchair like a multi-coloured land slide. A quick shift of his eyebrows showed the open cupboard equally in distress.
He pushed himself onto his elbows, slowly letting the arm on him slide onto the bed. Softly, and in a way he might even have enjoyed an hour ago. Adam swallowed, and his throat thickened: it was bad if you could even tell that your breath reeked.
He was wondering about Studge’s whereabouts as he pulled himself up- the timeline of the night so far sliding into place like a jigsaw puzzle: starting at the edges, and working its way in. He remembered the club, the taxi, his clothes…
Hmmm, clothes.
He made his way across the room- stiff, and rubbing his palm into the base of his spine to quell the ache deep in the muscle. Like it actually would, or something. When he heard a voice, he flinched.
“Babe,” the pile of sheets, and the owner of the arm that he’d just left, moved. “Where you going?”
Babe. It was enough to make Adam squirm, itch like he was dirty again. Bestowing a pet name like Adam actually belonged to someone.
“Bathroom,” he said hoarsely. He remembered a name when he closed the bedroom door behind him: Danny. Did it belong to the bedsheet collection? Or was it a name that Adam had given in a panic? Not that it mattered. He’d have figured out by now if his real identity had been uncovered. People didn’t generally just let Prince Adam go to the bathroom unescorted. When Prince Adam was around, people didn’t sleep, and Adam nearly always got breakfast.
Breakfast that was usually more trouble than it was worth.
The house was a comfortable size for a bachelor pad. Adam’s pants were across the couch in the living room, his t-shirt on the stairs.
God, he thought. What a mess.
A fully stocked fridge was good, though. A fully stocked fridge was unusual and Adam had barely dared to dream given the state of the bedroom. His hands closed around the orange juice cartoon like it was the only viable beacon of hope in the stupid place, extra aware of how cold it was, equally aware of how his head still throbbed like someone was banging pots and pans around the inside of it.
He demolished the entire carton and ended with a satisfied burp, that didn’t even veer anywhere near a chunder. Satisfied – or as close to satisfied as anyone could be with a raging hangover, in other words, it was fleeting - Adam checked his pockets, his wallet, his phone, sat on the stairs as he quickly toed on his shoes, and stepped out into the morning.
As he walked up to the far-too-recognisable black jeep parked up the road, he began thinking of ways to talk himself out of trouble for napping.
Sorry, got carried away.
We had a drink first.
Why would you drive this monster to a covert mission?
That last one’s good. Deflect, he decided. But then again, it also depended on who had been sent on the babysitting mission. As he thought this, the window of the jeep slowly rolled down, at the same rate which Adam’s heart sank. The crispy blonde quiff was unmistakeable: Adam’s least favourite minder after a hook up.
“What are you doing here? Again?” he snarled.
He wished for anyone else: for Emre, who would have brought a restorative pizza and a large bottle of water, or for Lo, who had let him bestow a nickname, or even for Klopp- because even though he was the boss, he might have responded with something as fun as “rescuing you”.
Instead, wearing a suit with right angles like it had been cut from metal, Adam was suddenly contending with the one member of his security detail who he came close to actually despising.
“Do they know?” Hendo asked, nodding at the front door. Adam had known the guy nearly two years now and he could safely conclude that he had never smiled, at anything, in his life.
“They.” Adam snapped. “He. And no, no need,” he added the last hastily, as he could tell Henderson was already reaching for the confidentiality agreement in the front of the car beside him. “No need,” he said again, opening the car and climbing into the back seat. He could still hear the yelp from the last guy to guess his identity after they’d fucked. Must be terrifying waking up to a crowd of suits around your bed holding out a large collection of paper for you to sign.
There was a lot to be said for hiding in plain sight. Most people didn’t recognise a Famous when they were thrust under their eyes. (Or were thrusting them under their eyes.) If they did, a nice ambush and a polite conversation with Adam’s security detail reminding him of who they were and who they knew, and mostly importantly that no one would buy their story, tended to be swift remedy.
Adam closed the car door behind him as quietly as he could. The street was deserted, not even a cat or a twitchy curtain. He sighed and reclined the whole way flat across the back seat, worried that the orange juice might suddenly start repeating on him.
“Are you sure they don’t?” the voice came from the front seat, quiet. Adam was assured of never getting more than a sentence in a row from Henderson, which was probably the only thing he had going for him.
“He,” Adam hissed. “I fuck dudes. I rode him into the sunset. Get it right.” The venom was probably undeserved, and it only made his head ache more. But Adam hadn’t found the time to get annoyed with Klopp instead: that he seemed to repeatedly send the one member of the team who was the most uncomfortable with Adam’s sexuality.
However, Henderson’s nervous gulp was quite loud and quite satisfying.
“Take me home,” Adam muttered, cloaking his face with his arms.
“Seatbelt.”
“No,” Adam snarled back. When he stopped feeling petty, maybe. His liver was making him feel stupid and used and gross, and being petty made him feel better. Under him, the car seat rattled as the engine growled to life, and Hendo guided it into the morning.
Adam tilted his head back to count the street lamps as the flashed past, their light just about penetrating the tinted windows.
He heard Hendo mutter something that might have been “checking in” from the front seat, but it wasn’t to Adam- rather to his Bluetooth earpiece.
Adam’s eyes – quite beyond his orders – flickered down to Hendo’s hands on the steering wheel between the gaps in the seats and the long, intricate veins of raised blue twisting and disappearing like vines down the cuffs at his wrist. As Adam watched, Hendo’s fingers curled further around the curves of the wheel, his knuckles raising through his skin like white shackles.
“What.” The word sounded like a cold whip through the car.
Again, it wasn’t to Adam.
But that really should have been his first warning.
The steering wheel spun suddenly, sending Adam skidding back across the seat, and his head collided with the car door with a hollow thud.
“He’s fine,” he heard Hendo say, vaguely, far away. The car lurched in the other direction, and Adam used the motion to help himself throw his body upright.
Fine, Adam thought. Me? His head throbbed. That’s rather relative.
The car straightened up, and even though Adam felt himself pressed back against the seat by pure velocity, it was with a force that hurt. He’d just figured out whether or not his head was the right way up when Jordan swerved again – Adam lunged for the seatbelt beside him – roaring down through the suburbs.
Adam knew the signs of his security team’s defensive manoeuvres – usually, he was the last to know about them, so he’d learned to pick up the signs. Usually, the most apt course of action involved grabbing onto something solid and holding on for dear life, like now.
However, by the time Hendo had rolled the car to a stop, Adam’s hangover and copious amounts of orange juice had caught up with him, and when Hendo opened the door for him to climb out of Adam could only loll forward and vomit out onto the tarmac.
He was sure Hendo leapt back in horror, but couldn’t even funnel his most hateful glare in his direction, as he threw up again.
“Sorry,” he might have heard Hendo mumble. He was too distracted by the taste of the inside of his mouth, rather like he’d been chewing on a bar of soap. Anyway, it wasn’t like Hendo to feel, so he might not have even said it at all. However, he definitely did interrupt Adam’s short, peaceful solace with his head buried into the cool leather seat with: “Er, you need to come with me. Now.”
Adam knew better than contemplating another option. He was lifted up by the elbow as he was pulled out of the car. Bile smell was all up his nose and he noticed, and was momentarily pleased about the fact that, it was all over Hendo’s shoes, too.
Hendo must also have realised this, because he followed Adam’s eyes to the ground, and quickly let go of his arm – like on a reflex – and took a step back.
With his arms free Adam wrapped them around and around himself, morning wind rushed into his chest. He mourned his jacket, which he had left forgotten across the backseat, containing all of his worldly possessions. His eyes darted – to the service station behind them, to the motorway the other side. His chest dropped suddenly as a weird fear flooded it.
Hendo huffed, bringing him back to earth. He had started to unzip his jacket; the heavy, black, regulation one that all of his bodyguards wore. Adam could now feel the extra rattle of his knees as they knocked in the cold, and his breath clouded in front of his eyes.
Hendo dropped the coat around Adam’s shoulders, the weight jolting him into something like consciousness. He then gave Adam a hesitant sort of pat, on his shoulder, as though to confirm that he looked as bad as he felt. And it must have been really bleak, because he started to steer Adam in the direction of the service station – one hand a sharp claw on Adam’s elbow, even through the coat – without the usual song and dance about a Clark Kent-ish style cover; usually a woolly beanie or sunglasses. Adam looked unrecognisably bad.
It wasn’t that it was worth it, or anything.
The petrol station itself was small, with only a handful of pumps outside, a shop that may have had no food naturally occurring in nature available for purchase, and a barely-alive Burger King in one corner. Klopp’s presence, frowning over a Styrofoam coffee cup in a booth, made Adam suddenly feel equally relieved and fearful.
“Hendo,” Klopp began, sounding exhausted, “please.” Hendo had manoeuvred Adam into the seat opposite, in against the window; and had made to cross the café again. “We’re all friends here.”
Hendo looked confused for a second – staring at Klopp and looking decidedly pinched around the nose – before he slid into the booth too. Adam knew that usual protocol never involved his security personnel in his immediate vicinity in cafés – because that would be too obvious, apparently – so he took Hendo’s hesitation as confusion about the order, and not his own paranoia that Hendo’s distain for him really was that obvious.
Hendo, he thought, was still radiating quite a lot of heat despite the coat, and his twitching knee was sending tangible ripples through the air circulating under the table.
“Don’t try the coffee,” Klopp continued, clearly trying to offer up a smile, but grimacing instead. “Tastes like filtered earth.”
Adam wasn’t sure what kind of response to muster up to that statement. Something was immediately, obviously, very wrong and it wasn’t like Klopp to dance around the edges of those kind of things.
Klopp cleared his throat, and leaned forward some more over his crossed arms. His eyes, Adam realised, really were very blue.
“There’s been an incident.” Klopp began slowly, waiting for it to obviously register with Adam before moving on. “At the palace. In the last few hours.”
“Oh,” Adam had to say, before Klopp would continue. He willed his heart to speed up, for his brain to tick a bit faster, but it just wasn’t happening.
Klopp cleared his throat, and leaned a little further across the table. “At around three o’clock this morning,” he said, unblinking, “surveillance captured a hooded figure lingering in the corridors of the palace. Then entering your room.”
The coffee machine behind the Burger King counter spluttered to life. Adam jumped to look at it, instead catching sight of the tendons stretched to breaking point in Hendo’s neck as he started decidedly at the table top. This was the most alarming thing so far.
“Adam,” Klopp urged his attention slowly back to his very slow speech, “they were armed.”
Now, Adam’s heart started to register the urgency of the situation. In that it suddenly cut out.
“You can imagine,” Klopp continued, with clear care, “that they weren’t pleased to find you weren’t there. And so, instead they went looking for the King.”
“Oh,” Adam croaked. If he was still breathing, he wasn’t aware of it. His eyes closed and he saw his mum, dusting down his lapels in her ball gown; and his dad, giving him a devilish wink down the long dinner table. Hours ago. A hand fastened on his shoulder to steady him, even though he hadn’t realised he’d been swaying.
“The Queen is a little shocked, but unhurt. The King – with what was undoubted bravery from his years in service – only suffered one shot wound.” Klopp swallowed. Adam had never, ever seen him stumble over a single word. “He’s in hospital, and there will be some minor surgery. He’s expected to be absolutely fine.”
That statement should have left silence, but instead the coffee machine spluttered again, definitely louder, and Adam wished he could fling it against a wall.
“I want to see him,” he said. “I want to see my Dad.” He would never regret the petulance of it, but felt rather ashamed of the way his throat stuck at the end of his declaration.
“Ah,” Klopp said. He picked up his cup and started to swirl his coffee until it came dangerously close to spilling over the edge. “I’m afraid, Adam, that decision has been made. Since we were – uh – unable to apprehend the intruder, your safety is our priority.”
Adam couldn’t breathe.
“I have to see them,” he croaked, “please.”
Klopp continued, “no, no. Anyone looking for you would then know exactly where you are, and our best advantage is that we can safely assume that right now they don’t. Bringing you back would only alert them. We will catch them, but not like this. When I get back to the palace there will be a briefing on whether or not, or what, to tell the press. But until then, I can give you something that I thought, gravely, that I had not given you this morning.” His eyes flickered to Hendo, and back to Adam. “Time.”
Adam closed his eyes as his lungs sunk back into his chest.
Dad, he thought, trying to reconcile his father – roly-poly, good humoured and wise – and the word shot. Mangled, distorted images filled his head and he desperately wished they would leave, just so he could think.
“There’s a new car out the back,” Klopp’s voice said. “Hendo, I’m activating emergency protocol. Protocol Yellow. You know what to do.” He pushed something across the table under his hand.
Hendo snatched at what rattled distinctly like car keys and leapt like he’d been a coiled spring, ready to go since he’d sat down. He was making towards the door before he seemed to realise that Adam wasn’t following him. He wondered if Hendo really looked impatient enough to stomp the floor.
“Adam,” Klopp said evenly, reaching a gargantuan arm the whole way across the table to press down on his shoulder. “You can trust him.”
That hadn’t been Adam’s biggest concern, but then again, maybe it should have been. Hendo had never been one to give the impression that he enjoyed his job: glorified babysitting. He was pricklier about it than most but Adam didn’t doubt that he had that whole jumping-in-front-of-a-bullet thing under contract anyway.
But Adam trusted Klopp, so he’d take the delegation.
No, his thoughts hadn’t been anywhere near himself. Pressing desperately on his temples was this irrepressible fear for his parents, so much that he could not connect to his feet to get them to move.
Klopp got up, giving Adam a little bit more of a forceful shove when he patted him now.
“We’ll be in touch,” he promised. “Don’t worry – we can let you know if there are any changes. But we will need to get moving. Hendo has a long way to go.”
Hendo fidgeted, clearly also very aware of this fact.
Adam – mostly aware that he knew no facts whatsoever – followed him blindly out the back of the service station. The car Hendo stopped at was distinctly smaller and redder than previously. That was really all Adam cared to take in about it, because outside the air was sharper and gave what had just happened inside a very surreal edge.
“Where are we going?” he asked, climbing inside. The zebra stripes on his t-shirt told him more about the reality of the situation than he needed to know.
“The less you know,” Hendo said, “the better. But Klopp’s right: it’s far.” There were several seconds of heavy silence. “How are you?”
Adam was aware enough to know that Hendo was hoping to avoid vomit on his floor and that it was not a genuine question after his wellbeing.
“Fine,” he said, politely. “I think I got it all up the first time.” Not to mention that Klopp’s news had been the equivalent of about three cold showers.
Hendo made no motion of acknowledgement, apart from turning the car on and sliding its gearstick into reverse. Adam wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, but he was very aware of the weight of Hendo’s coat, and slowly sank back into it and pulled it further around himself.
He breathed deep, realising a second later that he was looking for a smell, something musky to give him some comfort. He shouldn’t have been surprised that there wasn’t one. It was an army thing, being able to keep your clothes clean for weeks, and not that Hendo was as icy physically as he was temperamentally. Although Adam had his suspicions.
He pressed back into the seat, drawing his knees up to press them to the side of the door, curling into the smallest ball he could manage. Road signs flicked by as the car eased onto the motorway, and soon the trees flanking the side of the road blurred together against the grey backdrop. Adam had forgotten how early in the morning it was.
He jolted, unware that he’d slid into sleep, and it took him several seconds to get past the horrible taste in this throat and the crick in his neck to remember what was going on.
“Where are we?” he croaked, his voice still asleep. As was his knee, squished to the door. He was tangled up in Hendo’s coat, and struggled in momentary panic before he realised what was tying his arms in place. There was, also, an unwelcome press on his bladder. The reminder that he had spent the previous evening consuming vast, vast amounts of liquid. “I need a wee.”
“I can’t tell you where we are,” Hendo said, ignoring the second statement.
“Yeah, alright,” Adam snapped, as pins and needles started to run up his leg. “I need a wee. Now.”
“Sir - “
“It’s urgent.”
Hendo shot him a thinly-veiled look of distaste from under his eyelids. Adam glared back.
Slowly, as though to demonstrate just how much of an inconvenience it was for Adam to make him pause his mission, Hendo indicated into one of the motorway exits. Adam fidgeted, aware that something inside was very close to bursting.
After forever, they drew up beside the entrance to a park and Adam fell out onto the pavement, spotting a public toilet at the end of the path, but there was no time. His numb knee almost gave way as he stumbled through the nearest flowerbed, undid his zip, and released.
Bitterly, he realised that his bladder had been distracting him from the rest of his problems.
He glanced over his shoulder, back at the car, to catch Hendo suddenly rearranging himself to look the other way. He might almost have looked embarrassed.
Adam had not spent all that time amongst diplomats and politicians to not recognise when someone had been caught completely off guard. He dressed himself and, filled with sudden grim determination, marched back towards the car.
“Tell me,” he said, slamming the door closed behind him and lifting his chin when he spoke, “where we’re going.”
He hadn’t expected Hendo to be able to draw himself up to the same height. Despite the posturing, he nearly did get there.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice measured. “It’s for your own safety. Sir.”
Adam narrowed his eyes at him. “Tell me, then, about Protocol Yellow. Why I, your employer, have never heard of it.”
It was a bold play. Right now, the dynamic was more two blokes on a road trip, or a kidnapping, than a working relationship. And Hendo wasn’t creative enough to come up with kidnapping.
“Sir,” Hendo said. He faltered suddenly, and turned his head in the direction of the windscreen. “We will… be changing the car again in half an hour.” He cleared his throat. “Seatbelt.”
“Tell me,” he demanded, in his best royal commanding voice.
A vein in Hendo’s neck pulsed. Adam was comforted by his unease and glared at him for several more seconds. Slowly, he clicked his seatbelt into place.
The changeover was another service station, another Burger King. Adam had thought had he was feeling more like food, but the minute the burger passed his lips it turned to cement, his stomach flipping too much to receive it.
But I’m hungry, he thought miserably, watching grease run down over his hands, I am so hungry. If only he could digest what was happening to him first.
He looked over at Hendo, carefully positioned several feet from Adam’s bench, gulping from his very large coffee cup.
“You can sit, you know,” Adam offered, when Hendo had paused for breath. “I mean, at least have a chip.” He had completely failed at being in charge, right? So he nudged the packet down the bench, deciding the be civil instead.
Not that it mattered. Hendo looked like he would rather die.
They changed cars two more times, reaching the other end of the day before they climbed into the battered Land Rover. Adam was certain that the country wasn’t even this big. Hendo must have doubled back on himself. It did seem extreme, given that his would-be assassin hadn’t even known he was out.
They left the motorway soon after – the roads narrowed to two lanes, and then to one. The towns they passed through grew more and more sparse, until they became single streets. It was so dark, Adam could barely see the countryside around them – but he did recognise that they had been steadily climbing for a while, and suddenly the road steepened. It steepened enough for Hendo to have to lean forward in his seat to stay upright, and a difficult track meant that they bounced around in their seats.
Adam was starting to feel dizzy from the twists in the road, when he saw the two white pillars emerging from the darkness in front of them. Jordan manoeuvred the jeep between them, and Adam noticed the metal gate that must have ordinarily sat between them, propped open.
Does this mean we’re expected?
The house seemed to take an age to reach, Hendo following a curving path up to it that Adam couldn’t see. As they grew closer, he could make out the narrow two-storey: lights were on, lovely, warm and yellow.
Hendo pulled up around the back.
“Wait here,” he said. When he opened the door, the car filled with sudden light. It was so bright that Adam had to blink his eyes open.
Hendo paused. “Actually.” He started to climb out of the car. “You’d better come with me.”
“Where are we?” Adam asked, doing his best to follow. Mud squelched under his shoes.
“Protocol Yellow,” Hendo said, with a sigh. He had to lift the back door into its frame as he opened it.
Something about the movement struck Adam, and he was still figuring out what it was when they walked through the door and into the kitchen; full of panelled wood and with a low ceiling. But once he saw the woman waiting for them in the middle of the room, the gig was up: her features were undeniably a softer version of Hendo’s. And at that, Adam almost wouldn’t have believed it, only she tutted, “Jordan” and pulled Hendo into a serious squish of a hug.
Doing serious sums in his head, Adam decided that Jordan must have been Hendo’s first name. This was not something he’d previously cared to know.
“Mum,” Hendo said, faltering, confirming Adam’s suspicions. Then, gruffly: “why are you still up?”
“Mum?” Adam echoed, weakly.
“To meet our guest,” the woman said. Jordan’s mum said. She looked over Jordan’s shoulder with something like delight. Adam was used to the expression, even relieved to see it – finally, something he could deal with: an adoring fan of the royal family. He smiled his best photo smile – although probably sub-par, given what he’d had to live through that day - and held out his hand to shake. Jordan’s mum took it in both of hers. He was so glad that he had zipped the jacket up, and that she could not see the zebra stripes.
“Lovely to meet you, ma’am,” he said. “You have a lovely home.” He’d been in one room, but “I’ve heard so much about you from your son!” didn’t feel appropriate. Hendo might have also beheaded him.
“Sandwiches!” she exclaimed, still grinning. “I made you both sandwiches. Over here!” Adam liked her immediately, and not just because she was fussing over him, which was always bound to win brownie points.
“Mum,” Hendo said, so exasperated that Adam was overcome enough to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop himself giggling. “He’s not our guest. He’s under protection.”
“-And he could probably do with a sandwich,” his mother finished firmly, drawing their attention to the kitchen table. The tray of neatly cut, white bread triangles of different fillings was probably as long as Adam was high. Meekly, he gathered several up in each hand and waited for his opportunity (preferably when no one was looking) to shove them into his mouth.
“I’ve made the bed upstairs,” she was continuing, leading them on what appeared to be a circumnavigation of the downstairs. Adam couldn’t get over how low the ceiling was, but then again he did spend a lot of time in a palace. The house wasn’t nearly as big as it looked on the outside, with the hearth propping up the roof in the middle of the floor, the kitchen on one side and a living room on the other. “And I cleared the cupboard of stuff.”
Hendo sucked his teeth, muttering: “my stuff”. He continued to clear his throat, saying: “he’s tired, mum.”
She looked disappointed. Adam glared at Hendo, because he’d being enjoying himself. Anyway, the pause was time to grab more sandwiches.
Hendo insisted in bringing him up the narrow spiral staircase at the edge of the kitchen, up onto a narrow landing. Adam decided he wasn’t overreacting to the low ceiling – it just about scratched the top of Hendo’s head, explaining why he always seemed a little stooped when he walked.
“You’re in here,” he said, at the end of the row. “Bathroom,” he said to the door behind him, “and my parent’s room.”
Adam stopped suddenly. “Where are you sleeping?” he asked, and for a horrible moment, wondered if Hendo was going to bunk with him. He’s under protection. Did that mean Hendo had to watch him at every moment, even when he was asleep? He had to consciously stop any outward show of revulsion: he couldn’t imagine anything worse that having to sleep with someone else watching him, he hadn’t since his service days and he had no wish to go back to those. He had no wish, either, to going back to that morning, and his accidental nap.
“On the couch,” Hendo replied. He seemed to sense Adam’s fear, and Adam’s biggest consolation was that he looked equally horrified. “Definitely on the couch.”
“Right,” Adam said, meekly. Hendo’s horror made more sense when the room revealed only one, single bed, with a faded bedspread dotted with what could have been dinosaurs.
“Where’s your dad?” Adam asked, suddenly feeling like he’d accepted his fate too easily.
“It’s lambing season,” Hendo said gruffly. “So probably somewhere on the mountain with the sheep.” He didn’t seem to be in any kind of mood to answer Adam’s questions, having taken on a certain extra rigidity after Adam’s sleeping query. “Goodnight, sir.”
Adam shuffled awkwardly, like it was an answer. Hendo’s back disappeared back downstairs, and Adam heard his mother speaking – her voice hushed and urgent.
He looked back at the dinosaur duvet cover. He remembered the cupboard.
It wasn’t empty he realised, gratefully, as he opened it. Just incredibly neatly stacked. He pulled off the silly zebra striped t-shirt – glad to be rid of the memories that came with it – and chucked it into the furthest corner of the room. It didn’t quite get there, snagging off the edge of the bedframe, but far enough to be satisfied. He pulled off his jeans next, the fabric even felt stale under his hands. He paused in front of the open cupboards in his briefs and socks now. He rather felt like he’d just shed off some old, heavy skin.
From the shelves he took a white t-shirt and some track pants. Hendo wouldn’t mind, right? Adam briefly reflected on his angry mutterings about his things. He put the clothes on anyway, deciding that Hendo was unlikely to take them off by force.
He switched off the light and climbed under the duvet. He expected his brain to whirr all night, but sleep consumed him.