#princealbertverse

“-Come on in, you are --quite safe, I only -bite -dentists,” Albert said quite dead pan but he was sure to chuckle afterwards. He never did enjoy being presented with a new bodyguard, it was easy to pick up the routines, habits and blind spots of the men charged with protecting him, learning it all from scratch with someone new was hardly ideal. Still, he did not dislike the men themselves, in truth he rather enjoyed their company when he was not proving to be a headache for them. 

This one had been sent from the police, he believed, it wasn’t unusual but having served in a war, Albert simply did not believe he needed a babysitter, but his father had insisted and here the poor man was. 

“So we -have it out of the way,” he waved as he left the door to his living room open for Charlie to let himself in, turning his back as he wondered back into the room to pour himself a drink, “It’s Your -Highness the first -time in -greeting, then -sir after that.” He picked up a decanter of whiskey and began pouring it, “-avoids any awkwardness of me -having -to --correct you.” 

The war had taught him enough about his own personal freedoms and much to the chagrin of his parents, the prince had made his way out of the Palace, unescorted and into the London streets. Adorned in his top hat, coat and tails he had found his way into a dance hall and, given who he was, granted access to more private areas of the establishment. 

A cigarette carefully placed between the fingers of his left hand and a glass of whiskey in his right, the prince made for what looked to be the most comfortable looking booth there was as the dances went on behind him. When he arrived, however, he discovered there was already someone else sat in it. 

It had likely been assumed at first that the boy was simply being shy. That seemed likely, no? A child in an unfamiliar family was presumably far less likely to ask for help than one that was comfortable with their surroundings in the best of situations, and where Mycroft had found himself could hardly be considered normal or familiar in any sense at all. Even if the status of the family was ignored (which it really couldn't be), the way they interacted with each other was just so different to what he was used to.

As time went on, though, his hesitancy to speak up did not seem to go away. Mycroft didn't want to be a bother, and no amount of reassuring him that he would never be considered such a thing for needing a little help changed that.

The fact that he was in pain was not being hidden particularly well. Scars did not just go away and, unfortunately for Mycroft, the fire at the Holmes manor had left more than a fair share of them across his skin. Some days were better than others and, on the bad days, they could make moving in general rather painful - something that was shown rather clearly in the way he kept wincing whenever he did something that required something more than sitting still and reading a book.

At his father's request, said book had been placed aside so they could speak for a moment. That did not bring Mycroft any confidence - it meant that something serious was about to be said, most likely a telling off. He was right too, because (in his eyes) he didn't see how the man's words could be anything other than a reprimand.

"Asking for help only shows that you are weak and irritating," Mycroft quietly responded, fully believing his words and therefore seeing no reason to be secretive about it. His father would understand, wouldn't he? He seemed to be a smart man; he surely knew about the reality of the situation. Despite his confidence, though, the boy still could not meet the other's eyes - his gaze fixed on his feet, which swung back and forth and hit the legs of his chair with his heels.

Albert was sometimes baffled at some of the things that Mycroft said. He had realised only a few weeks into adopting the young boy that the Holmes had certainly raised him differently and that said a lot given Albert’s own childhood. He shook his head at the response and was sure to place himself in another chair so that he was not looming over him like some terrible shadow. 

“No, not at all Mycroft.” He corrected gently, concern filling his expressions. “Everyone needs -help, like your -grandpapa when he -broke his -pelvis? He was in -bed for weeks and needed -help with all manner of things.” Everything. The King was immobile, in pain and considerably grumpy for a long while. “Would you -have said he was -weak -because of that?” 

It have become apparent that Mycroft was not keen on getting help from the family for his burns, they had noticed his suffering and worried for his unwillingness to ask for help. It seemed to have come to a head that day with Albert not being able to bare seeing his son in such discomfort when he believed it was preventable. 

Albert had managed to wear out a number of bodyguards in the last year, none really seemed able to either handle him or keep up with him. The Prince having served, did not seem so convinced that he truly needed protection in the same ways that his siblings might. However, his own role demanded protection and so he would inevitably keep going through bodyguards until there was one that could stick or his father gave up. 

When he looked at the latest to walk through the door he was at first surprised by his age, he supposed that rumour had spread of how difficult he could be and the more senior in the service knew to avoid him. Still the expression granted was polite even if there was just a little shadow of pity for the man too. He stood straight and lifted his chin just that little bit, playful but still measuredly regal.