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Published:
2013-07-24
Updated:
2013-07-26
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6,110
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3/?
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A Prince and His Knights

Summary:

Derek Hale is the newest heir to the throne of England, and he's really kind of sick of it.

Enter Stiles, an American theatre student, and everything Derek knows turns upside down.

Notes:

So hi, this is a fic bc I had inspiration about the royal baby, hooray!

Please ignore any glaring historical or geographical errors, I am not British so there might be some!

Also, my research says that the princes today (namely, Will and Harry) didn't live in Buckingham Palace as children. In this story, Derek, Allison, and their family do take residence there, so that's an error I'm aware of.

Umm, I think that's all..

Oh! Derek is young in this fic. For those of you who've seen the newest episode of TW, imagine him like young Derek, or google Ian Nelson, aka my (very attractive) muse.

Picture Stiles like he looks in the movie The Internship, if you've seen it, or google that too.

Okay, enjoy!

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

Chapter 1: Champagne and Shakespeare is the way to go

Chapter Text

On a particularly sunny morning in the city of London, England, Derek Hale walked down the street, face half covered by a dark grey sweatshirt.

From a first glance, he looked like any London teenager, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, ratty red Vans, and the hooded sweatshirt. To his mother, the one and only Queen of the United Kingdom, he probably looked like a disgrace.

At any rate, it didn't matter. He didn't care.

He was on the run, slipping past the palace guards and through a back exit in the kitchens they thought he was unaware of. Of course, he shouldn't have known a lot of secret places in the Palace yet, but he was a curious boy, and so he did.

Given the sudden death of his Grandmother, the late Camilla Hale, the former Queen of the UK, he was swept out of his house on the outskirts of London, handed the title of Prince of Wales, and thrust into Buckingham Palace while his mother became Her Majesty, Anne Hale II, the new Queen of England.

If that hadn't been a big enough change, he was given a new stepfather and a sister, too. His new stepfather was an ordinary man- a wealthy businessman none the less, but not of Royal descent.

His sister, the newest addition to the palace, Lady Allison Argent, was actually pretty okay. Derek didn't mind having her around, she was just as much trouble as he was and an excellent partner in crime. Within the small amount of time they'd been in the palace, they'd already dyed a few of their mother's dresses bright pink, put a rubber frog in the soup, and just generally caused a ruckus, running and whooping through the long hallways.

Now, here he was, nervously hiding out and running away from his life, tired of the constant scrutiny, always under the watchful eye of someone he didn't know, but someone who knew him.

That was another thing, too. Everyone in the whole world knew him now; or at least it'd seemed like it. He was only sixteen, Allison a few months younger then him, and already they'd been called the Royal heartthrobs. His face had graced several rag magazines, claiming to know "secrets of the new Royal hottie!" when honestly they knew nothing correct at all.

The first time he had attempted to go out in public without his sister or a bodyguard and get some ice cream down the street, he had been mobbed by screaming British teenage girls, which he had supposed was nice, but it wasn't so nice when he had to sneak into the bathroom and embarrassingly call for security to come and get him out of the crowd. Embarrassing indeed, especially when the head of his own security detail chewed him out and he wasn't allowed out of their sight for an entire week.

His phone, a sparkling new iPhone Five he could barely use gave a little chime, letting him know someone was calling.

Incoming call from Seth DeCaria, read the screen, making Derek smile. Took you long enough, he said to himself, darting behind a bush to take the call.

~

American exchange student Stiles Stilinski was really, really lost. He had been wandering around for what seemed like hours (but was really only twenty minutes), trying to find his tiny flat. He didn't know how he'd gotten so mixed up- he had gotten off the bus, walked a few streets to meet Scott at a bistro, and then left, totally turned in the wrong direction.

He surveyed his surroundings yet again, finding only old buildings, lots of trees, and tourists clogging the sidewalk. There was no one around he could ask for directions either, and he was so screwed.

Then he heard a voice coming from the bushes, and too curious for his own good, he stopped and listened quietly.

"No, Seth," the British accented voice was saying. "Seth, for gods sake. No one has recognized me, and I'm in disguise. Tell Mother I'm fine, and if I need to, I'll call Allison."

There was a moment of silence, and shock shot up Stiles' spine. The quick clues clicked together- disguise and Allison.

Wasn't the stepsister of the prince named Allison? Stiles thought to himself, furiously trying to remember the British history class he'd taken before leaving the US. No way, he thought to himself. No fucking way is that the Prince hiding in the bushes.

"Tell them I'll be back at the palace by sundown," the voice said, sounding very ticked off. "That's all, Seth." There was another pause, and Stiles assumed the person had hung up the phone.

He knew whoever it was would be coming out of there soon, and his eyes darted around for a place to hide, but he was too late, the person already climbing out of the shrubs. Their hood got snagged on a branch and yanked it back, revealing for a split second the face of none other then The Prince of Wales himself, a face even Stiles (who barely passed History) would recognize.

The magazines he'd seen at the supermarket didn't do him justice with their grainy, pixelated photos plastered all over the cover. He looked different in person- tall, all long arms and legs. The second his hood was down let Stiles see his fringe of dark brown hair, all missed up and spiky, and a flash of paranoid icy blue eyes.

He caught Stiles staring, already putting his hands up in retreat. "Please don't shout my name," he muttered under his breath, Stiles standing completely still with shock. "I swear, I'll give you whatever you want, just-please."

Stiles swallowed, trying to calm his fluttering heart and actually say something intelligent. "I know how it feels to be hiding from your parents," he tried, taking a step closer. "I don't have to hide from Royal bodyguards, but still."

The boy flashed him a quick, genuine smile, extending his hand.

He had perfect hands, Stiles realized, with long, thin fingers. It was early June, but he was still stuck with his winter paleness.

He took it, shaking it lightly while trying to touch him as little as possible.

"I'm Derek," he said, eyes jumping around, obviously on watch. "Also known as the heir to the throne of England, or the Prince of Wales, if you'd prefer."

Stiles liked his easy smile and his ripped up jeans, and the tiny little freckles underneath those eyes of his. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you want to do something daring, Prince Derek?" he asked, and could scarcely believe his own ears. What the hell was he doing?

He could see the wheels in Derek's brain turning, and he fidgeted slightly, sure he was going to brush him off like the tourist he (sort of) was. "I'd have to know your name first, sir," he said jokingly, laughing quietly. "And we'd have to get a move on so they don't see us."

Stiles took one step in front of him, then another, waiting to see if he'd follow. He was still in the same spot when Stiles reached the corner, and Stiles called "I'm Prince Stiles of California," down to him.

A grin broke out on Derek's face, reaching all the way up to his eyes as he jogged to catch up to Stiles.

"American, eh?"

"Someone knows their geography," he joked back, looking across the street and wondering where the hell he should take royalty if he didn't even know where he was.

Derek must've noticed how confused Stiles looked, because with a bemused expression on his face he observed "You really have no idea where you are, do you."

Swallowing more embarrassment, he muttered "No."

Derek laughed, throwing his head back and darting across the street, hood back up. "I know just the place."

Stiles shook his head in wonder as he followed the other boy down the street, completely numb to what was happening.

~

Derek's head was screaming at him that he was being really dumb, that he didn't even know this kid, that he could be a murderer / rapist / kidnapper, but he shoved those thoughts down and continued walking. He was taking Stiles to the pub just down the street, the one that would serve him bubbly champagne and never tell a soul unless they wanted to be shut down.

It was a good deal they had, really. Derek got drinks and they got to stay in business, hooray.

Derek stole little glimpses of Stiles as they walked down the street, the silence comfortable between him.

He looked American, but he could also pass for hipstery London student, with his rumpled plaid shirt and black rimmed glasses. He had to be sixteen or seventeen, judging by his gangly legs and the way he kept tripping distractedly over the sidewalk, too busy looking around.

"Here we are," he said cheerfully, stopping at the wooden door built into the wall, Stiles shooting him a surprised look.

"You'll like it," he promised, pushing open the door and hearing the little bell on top of it tinkle.

As usual, there was no one inside, only a waitress slumped behind the bar.

"Well well," she said, perking up as soon as she saw him. "As if it ain't the Prince."

Derek dipped his chin shyly, smiling at the young woman, who was maneuvering her way out from behind the counter.

"C'mere, ya wanker," she said good naturedly, pulling him into a hug. "Long time since you've brought your mates in."

Derek cast a backward glance at Stiles, who was looking down, hand running through his hair bashfully. "M'Stiles," he said, barely looking up.

"And an American," said the waitress, a glint in her eye. "Your bubbly is on the house today, Derek," she said, just like every other time.

The faint smell of cigars and lemony cleaner lingered in the air, all the lights besides the OPEN sign in the window off. The surroundings were, well, grim, but it was private and secluded, and thus special to Derek.

"Come on," Derek said quietly, tugging on Stiles' elbow to make him follow him. He headed up the small back staircase to the single table on the small balcony overlooking the streets of London, pulling out a chair.

Stiles took a seat, looking a little bit dazed. "I don't believe this," he said, looking out over the edge.

"Don't believe what?" Derek responded, leaning back in the chair, bridging his fingers on the table.

"Why'd you pick me?" Stiles countered, eyes connecting with Derek's, who didn't flinch away.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I just needed someone, anyone. I needed to know what normal was for a minute."

Stiles scoffed, looking away again, and Derek wondered if he'd offended him. He was quiet as the waitress came up the creaking steps, placing a dusty green bottle of Chardonnay on the table along with two long stemmed glasses, fancier then usual. He pretended not to see her wink as she set them down and descended back downstairs. Derek knew better, knew that she was standing beneath the stairs and listening, but he didn't care.

"Are you a student?" Derek finally asked, Stiles nodding at him. "Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts," he answered, and Derek whistled.

"Well done, mate," he said appreciatively. He reached up and grabbed the glass bottle, popping the cork off and watching it bubble inside. Taking the glass closest to Stiles, he poured it halfway full of the light pink liquid and then did the same with his own. "Do a monologue," he said suddenly, wanting to see the kid in action.

Stiles' face brightened considerably, thinking about what he could say. "Hmm," he said, lips pursed in thought.

~

Inside, Stiles' mind was racing, trying to think what could impress this sixteen year old champagne drinking prince, and he took a long swallow of the drink to try and calm his nerves. Contrary to what his friends thought, he didn't drink a lot, and so that probably wasn't the best idea, but that was just too bad.

Finally, nerves jangling worse then they did in front of a huge audience, he began.

"'Friendship is constant in all other things, save in the office and affairs of love, therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; let every eye negotiate for itself,
and trust no agent.'"

He spoke directly to Derek, their eyes never breaking from each others, the tension between them practically sparking as Stiles pronounced each word and it's clear message.

"Well done," Derek said seriously, squinting carefully at Stiles. "Shakespeare, not the easiest to recite from memory."

Stiles mouth twitched once, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "Are you a closet theatre geek, or was that just a good guess?"

Derek gave him his own eyebrow raise back, swigging down the whole glass like it was nothing. "Little more then a good guess," he replied, voice slightly rough from the drink.

"Mmm," Stiles answered, watching him. He sat so relaxed then, the now afternoon sunlight highlighting his features perfectly. It actually made Stiles think he might be drunk and just dreaming.

"So, Stiles of California," Derek said, pouring them each another glass. "Where exactly is it that you live?"

"I don't want you stalking me, now," Stiles dared to tease. "I don't give my address to just anyone."

How fitting it was that just then, a rather large looking man burst onto the balcony and demanded "Put yours hands up and step away from the Prince!"

~