Chapter Text
When the first love letter had come, Hans had thought the whole thing was a total hoot.
A secret admirer waxing lyrical about his hair, complimenting the manly shape of his eyebrows and even comparing the comely shape of his arse to the curve of the ripest peach?
It was a fucking riot.
Sure the poetry got a little bit creepy by the third letter and yes, maybe the ink looked remarkably like blood but really, who was Hans to judge someone who thought the sun shone out of his backside?
They were clearly an excellent judge of character. A person of impeccable taste. Because someone who adored Hans as passionately as Hans loved himself? They were obviously the dog's bollocks.
Hans may have been known by the public at large for being an aristocratic cad (‘Lord Porkstein’ had been coined by the Daily Mirror, those thankless cretins) but his letter-writer clearly gave him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps this secret admirer had looked beyond the bad reputation Hans had displayed in the countless trash reality shows he had been a contestant in. Maybe seeing his noble pizzle flashed to the world on Royals Gone Wild made them want to give him — and his frankly excellent cock — a chance. Either way, Hans thought it was rather magnanimous of them.
Uncle Hanush, however, had not been nearly as impressed. He took one look at the letters, made a hacking sort of noise like a dying giraffe and then proceeded to bark at everyone in a fifty metre radius. Within the hour he had tripled their security, driven two maids to quit and had caused at least one footman to have a full-on nervous breakdown.
Honestly, if you asked Hans — who watched the staff either burst into tears or run around like headless chickens — it was all a total overreaction.
Okay, the roofied box of chocolates showing up outside the front door of Pirkstein Manor sent some alarm bells ringing.
And sure, the amount of silk boxers routinely being stolen from Hans’ drawers may have been a tad worrisome.
And as for the bloodied, disembowled skunk that had ended up in his bed… who could prove it hadn’t innocently wandered into the manor? And then onto his bedcovers? And then, somehow, contracted some unknown skunk-based disease that caused its guts to explode into mincemeat all over his walls?
…
Fuck it. Fine, Hans Capon might have had a tiny bit of a stalker problem.
It was all terribly annoying.
Why did bad things always happen to good people like him? It really was such rotten luck. Sure he was handsome and rich and hung like a stableful of horses but really, it was most unfair that he had to suffer for being too fabulous. How was it his fault that he was irresistible, even to the mentally unhinged?
And it got even worse when Hanush, in the middle of the grand drawing room at Pirkstein, turned to him and said in that aggravatingly final voice of his, “We’re getting you a bodyguard, lad. No objections.”
Hans naturally objected, because he took pride in being objectionable. In fact, he scoffed with such righteous indignation that he almost choked on his own spit and asphyxiated, potentially doing the stalker a favour.
“Oh, come on!“ Hans had squawked, throwing up his arms with such exasperation he almost hit himself in the face. “You mean I get lumped with a glorified babysitter all because someone sent me a horny note?! How is that fair?! They’re only human, who wouldn’t send me a horny note? Christ’s wounds, have you seen me? I’d send me a horny note!”
Hanush didn’t even blink, which was impressive considering Hans’ whines were progressively getting high enough to shatter glass. If Hans didn't know better, he could have sworn he heard a dog howling in pain outside, as though the very frequency of his voice caused it a literal headache.
“It’s cute you think you get a say in this, boy,” Hanush said shortly as he sat at Hans' father's antique writing desk, not looking up from the piece of paper he was diligently writing on. For all Hans knew, he was doing his daily sudoku puzzle. Or, more likely, selling Hans’ soul to the highest bidder.
Having such a competent uncle really was a pain in the arse. Especially since said uncle had a stranglehold on his life and his finances like he was a pop princess under conservatorship.
Hans ground his teeth, the familiar taste of bitterness rising up in his throat.
It was a wonder Hans was allowed to shit without his permission. Because his Uncle Hanush? He was impossible to reason with when he was like this.
And he was always fucking like this.
“We need someone trustworthy, someone with training,” Hanush continued, proving Hans right by promptly steamrolling over all his protests. Hanush then stroked his hairy chin thoughtfully, almost losing his hand in the nest of thick bristles. “We also need someone who won’t put up with your shenanigans. Lord knows you need a tight leash.”
“Shenanigans? Me?” Hans pointed at himself, his face shocked. He looked almost comically over his shoulder to check Hanush wasn’t addressing somebody else. When all he saw was the portrait of his grandfather looking highly disapproving, Hans winced, feeling like he was in the middle of an ambush. Fuck’s sake, even his dead ancesters were judging him. “Uncle, I would never-“
“Don’t start with me, boy,” Hanush snapped in a voice that made most lesser Lords wet themselves on the spot. There was still a stain on the carpet from when Lord Novák had last visited. “You think I didn’t hear about that sex tape you made with that glamour model in Ibiza? Who do you think covered it up? And we’re still trying to deal with the PR nightmare that was that crypto Ponzi scheme that idiot influencer got you involved in!”
Hans raised up his hands placatingly. Alright, maybe Hanush had a tiny reason to be annoyed. That crypto scheme wasn’t Hans’ finest hour.
“In my defence,” he tried to say diplomatically, his tone the one he used on spooked horses and the occasional angry husband, “it looked like it would be a solid investment.”
“No, it didn’t, you absolute imbecile,” Hanush growled, his cheeks so ruddy Hans briefly wondered if he was having a coronary. It wouldn’t be the first time he set off his uncle’s blood pressure. Last time he got caught with his dick somewhere it shouldn't have been (Lady Adela specifically), Bernard had to fan Hanush with a magazine for at least an hour. “Taking financial advice from a stoned FIFA streamer is not what I call a sure thing!”
Hans opened his mouth to retort before promptly closing it again. a) He was impressed Hanush even knew what a FiFA streamer was and b) Hans really didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to this. Fucking Marcus. That was the last time he trusted a man with a mohawk with his money.
Pouting, Hans did what he usually did when he was cornered by reason. He dramatically changed the subject.
“Do I at least get to choose who my bodyguard will be?” he asked snootily, feeling highly aggrieved about all this. Honestly, enemies of the state got treated better. It was like people had no respect for who he was. It was galling. Hans had half a mind to write a letter of complaint. He didn’t know who to but either way, it would be eviscerating. “I want Victor. At least he’s fun and his company won’t make me want to brain myself with a rock.”
Hanush let out a bark of a laugh that made the crystals on the chandeliers shake. Hans looked up warily, praying one didn’t fall on his head and kill him. Although, at least it would have saved him from this conversation.
“What, that moronic, lovestruck sycophant who would let you punch him in the face just so you could finally touch him?” Hanush scoffed, so unimpressed by hearing Hans’ suggestion that it was a wonder his ears hadn’t jumped off his head and stormed off in protest. “Think again. No, I know exactly who to pick. He’s perfect. And he won’t put up with your nonsense. I just need to check if he’ll want to do it. This may have escaped your notice but dealing with you is as palatable as having a rectal wart.”
“Oh, nonsense, I’m a joy,” Hans said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He spent all day with himself and he happened to know for a fact that he was excellent company. As much as commitment terrified him, if Hans could marry himself, he totally would. He was a hell of a catch. Hans then paused, as he focused back on Hanush’s words. “Wait, what do you mean you already know who you want to hire? Who?”
“Oh trust me,” Hanush chortled, amused by his own joke in a way that filled Hans with a cold sense of dread. This could only mean bad things. If Hanush got him another handsy old lady, Hans would just let the stalker kill him and be done. “You are going to love him.”
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“Capon? The Hans Capon? The royal brat who was on The Bachelor and threw up in the pool?”
Radzig Kobyla looked at his son patiently, exuding regality to such a degree that he made the armchair he was sitting in — Henry’s shitty armchair — seem like a golden throne instead.
His expression told Henry he clearly thought he watched too much television though.
Henry scratched sheepishly behind his ear, feeling a little abashed. His father — and his father’s raised eyebrows — might have had a point.
“Now, son,” said Radzig firmly but Henry could see his eyes were twinkling with mirth. He had totally seen Hans Capon vomit chunks in a jacuzzi, too. “Sir Hans is fourth in line to the throne. He might not be the… well, traditional example of royalty but he needs our help. Your service under Lord Divish makes you an ideal choice to help him. And you’ve always done a damn fine job watching out for me.”
Henry stared at his father through narrowed, suspicious eyes, wondering if this was punishment for something he had done.
Sure he had got shit-faced with Godwin last week and had woken up cuddling Farmer Olbram’s prized white bull (after he had drunkenly painted a cock on it) but everyone did that at least once.
And alright, Henry had occasionally nicked spoonfuls of stew when no one was looking (it wasn’t his fault he was always hungry) but other than those transgressions, he had been pretty much the model son since the news of his true paternity got made public. Well, as model as he could be for a poor farm boy with a working class accent and a haircut that looked like he cut it himself (because he did).
But now it appeared as though someone, somewhere, was fucking with Henry because giving him Hans Capon to guard? Notorious playboy and literal exhibitionist Hans Capon, who once got booted out of the Celebrity Big Brother house for shagging someone in the diary room?
The guy was an absolute pillock and everyone in the country knew it. The fact Capon could even walk without collapsing under the size of his head was a miracle.
Henry must have accidentally disturbed a sacred burial site or pissed on an ancient relic because this sort of bad luck was insane.
How could he possibly protect someone who had every husband in a hundred-mile radius ready to wring his neck? Forget keeping him safe from a stalker, how was Henry supposed to stop him from being murdered by the army of people whose marriages he had left in ruins? Capon was like a pompous hurricane in designer chinos, a whirlwind that destroyed happy homes wherever he went.
And that much destruction had a hell of a body count.
“It won’t be as bad as you think,” his father said in that annoyingly convincing voice of his, the one Henry was sure had some hypnotic properties. Derren Brown didn’t have a patch on his father when it came to the powers of persuasion.
Radzig Kobyla could whisper sweet-nothings into politicians’ ears, negotiate any contract and — most impressively — get Sir Hanush to lend him his favourite gloves. It was horribly effective. With that tenor, the man really was wasted not living an idyllic podcast life.
Henry just shook his head with a huff of a laugh.
At this rate, Radzig would get Henry believing Hans Capon was the second coming of Christ and that his shit smelled like freshly-picked marigolds.
“Why do you want me to do this so much?” Henry asked honestly, curious despite himself. His father didn’t usually push like this. If he didn't know better, he would say the man lost a bet.
“Because you’re a good man and Hans needs more of those in his life. He’s young but his heart is in the right place,” his father persisted, already trying to convince Henry that Capon was as holy as Buddha and Mother Theresa rolled into one. After seeing the downright scandalous shit the man got up to, Henry wasn't sure Capon wouldn't immediately catch fire if he ever stepped foot on consecrated ground. “I’ve known him since he was a small lad. He went through a great deal when his parents passed. All he needs is a firm hand. Having someone around his age would be beneficial for him. Lord knows the people he surrounds himself with are… well, hardly the most reputable. You would be a good influence. Give him a chance.”
Henry just crossed his arms, his face unconvinced. He had been in his father’s world long enough now to know how the rich treated someone like him - how they had been treating him ever since he had first entered the scene. It was like he was a leper, whose touch might infect them with abject poverty or, even worse, a work ethic.
Lord Ulrich constantly sneered down at Henry, the butler at Talmberg dusted everything he touched and Lady Margaret always gathered her daughters to her bosom whenever he was around, as though Henry might trip over one of them penis-first and accidentally knock them up with his dirty peasant seed.
Everyone knew Henry’s mother had been Radzig’s dirty secret but the fact Henry wasn’t kept hidden really seemed to piss off high society for some reason. Illegitimate children were one thing but claiming them? Loving them? Treating them like actual family instead of chucking them down the nearest well to be buried away forever?
Now that was clearly going too far.
Henry would never understand rich people. And now his dad was trying to lump him with the sassiest one of all time. He had seen Capon on telly enough to see the man’s sharp tongue make at least five people cry, and most of them had been grown men. There was no way in hell Capon wouldn’t judge him, too.
“You really think Hans Capon would listen to a poor bastard like me?” he asked his father dryly, trying not to react to the look of disapproval on Radzig's face. “None of the rest of your friends do.”
“Henry,“ said Radzig sternly, although there was a pained look of sadness in his eye. “What did we agree about that word?”
Henry smiled wryly, heaving a heavy sigh.
“We don’t use ‘bastard‘ in this house,” he parroted back for what had to be the tenth time that week.
“He says, using it again,” Radzig murmured under his breath, his tone long-suffering. His look was soft when he glanced back at his son though. “I’m sorry, my boy. If I could take this burden away from you, I would.”
Because, despite all Radzig’s honeyed words, he still couldn’t sweet-talk his peers into accepting Henry. The ones who didn’t think he was an inheritance-stealing con artist had simply decided he should have had the good grace to have been drowned at birth. Radzig was stubborn, however, and kept pushing him in their faces, like Henry was a mole on his arse that he just had to show everyone.
Some days, Henry really wished he would just leave it. Socialising with richies genuinely chafed Henry’s balls (those tuxedos really were too tight).
“Look, I know I’m asking a lot of you here, son, but young Hans really is in danger,” Radzig said earnestly, his eyes doing that thing where Henry was sure he was casting some sort of spell on him. ”Could you try and give him the benefit of the doubt? He might surprise you.”
Henry opened his mouth before promptly closing it again.
He didn’t know how much more surprising Capon could be when he remembered the viral clip of him flashing his arse to Davina McCall and nearly causing a national scandal. Theresa had thought it was hilarious at the time, squealing from behind a pillow as Henry had groaned and literally thrown his popcorn at the screen.
Capon had been an utter knobhead on that show, stringing along four different girls before fucking off back to his fancy village to seduce the local butcher’s daughter. He boozed more than seasoned alcoholics and slept around so much that it was a wonder his todger hadn’t shrivelled up and fallen off from sheer overuse.
And when Hans Capon wasn’t on the front page of some tabloid rag for snorting a line of coke at a high end club, he was either falling drunk out of taxis or trending online for saying some crazy shit he really shouldn't have said (although, watching his infamous beefs with Piers Morgan on X was peak entertainment).
And apparently Henry had to babysit that royal brat?
He made a face.
“Are you sure you’re not punishing me for something? Because I really am sorry about that thing with the talking dog. I promise not to get involved in any more drinking contests with Hungarians.”
Radzig bit the inside of his cheek at his son’s contrite expression, trying not to laugh at the simply ridiculous things Henry encountered on a daily basis. In Henry’s defence, some things really did only just happen to him. Like that incident with Ignatius the sheep. That little guy seemed to find Henry every time he found himself in an open field.
“Think of this as more of a favour to Lord Hanush than a punishment,” Radzig said, his voice magnanimous. “He’s a good friend and would appreciate his ward being protected.”
Henry perked up despite himself. He liked Lord Hanush. He was one of the few aristocrats who didn’t treat Henry like an unworthy freeloader when Radzig introduced his estranged son to the masses. He had been the first to cut down the priest at the local parish when he had sneered at Henry’s table manners. Who the fuck knew grape shears were a thing anyway? Henry thought they were nose clippers.
“Can I be Lord Hanush’s bodyguard instead?” Henry asked hopefully.
Radzig gave him a look that could have halted an army at once. Even after all these years, Henry was still slightly winded by it.
It made him let out an exhale, his entire body deflating. His father was being convincing again and — like everyone else in the world — he wasn’t immune to it.
Bollocks.
If Radzig stared at Henry any harder he would not only get him to confess to being Jack the Ripper but Henry would genuinely start believing it, too.
Christ on a stick.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” Henry groaned, already regretting it. He lifted up a finger though. “But you’re not allowed to judge me if I quit a week later. I’m guessing Lord Hanush has already sorted a place for me to stay?”
Radzig pretended to look pleasantly surprised. Henry didn’t buy it for a second. His father knew he would accept before he had even asked him.
“All the arrangements have already been made. And don’t worry, there’s even space for Mutt. I know you’d never leave him behind.”
“He’d find me even if I didn’t take him,” Henry said, just thinking about the time Mutt had broken into one of Radzig’s fancy parties to frantically look for Henry and had ended up licking all the food in the kitchen. They had found him at the end of the night, surrounded by a half-eaten feast and so full he was lying with his huge belly up, legs in the air, snoring loudly.
Radzig frowned, like he was remembering it, too. He still hadn’t forgiven Henry for all the dog hair in his pantry.
Henry got heavily to his feet, as though he was readying himself for the gallows.
“I better start packing then,” he said in a mournful tone, taking one last wistful look at his surroundings. Even that mouse that kept eating his wires and shitting in his slippers was feeling like a treasured friend he had to part from.
Kevin Costner got to have Whitney Houston. He got Hans sodding Capon. How was this his life? It wasn’t bloody fair.
How can I be a good bodyguard if I end up being one of the people that want to kill him? Henry asked himself with genuine worry.
This was going to be a total shitshow.