Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing that Philip noticed when he awoke was the sterile, metallic tang of the hospitals air - sharp and artifical, like bleach mixed with panic. The second was a hand in him, squeezing gently, a lifeline tethering him to the world. Warmth. Steady. Familiar.

Martha.

His head felt like it was filled with gof, dense and unmoving. The world around him swam in soft pures of white and pale grey. He blinked slowly. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead made the white in his eyes ache, and then the thin hospital blanket barely covered his legs. Cold air leaned in from somewhere - through the vents, or the gaps in the cheap cotton sheets - and he was shivering beneath the chill, his skin puckered with goosebumps.

A ful ache curled low in his abdomen like a coiled serpent. He winced, instinctively trying to shift his legs - but they stopped short at the edge of the bed. The soreness wasn’t sharp, not anymore. But it was deep. Heavy. It settled in the pit of his belly like a stone. A permanent reminder. A successful surgery - or a foolish dream made flesh?

Philip’s hand slipped from Martha's grasp as he adjusted, and the sudden exposure to air left his skin dry and clammy. He grunted softly and pushed himself upright, ignoring the strain that pulled at his newlu - stitched midsection. The blanket slid from his shoulders. The TV that sat across the room loomed like a silent sentinel, turned off, but still present.

Beside him, curled in a stiff vinyl chair, was Martha - his anchor, his breah, his favorite chaos. Her knees were drawn to her chest, arms tucked tightly around them, and her head lolled sideways as if resting against the sterile white wall. Her shirt had twisted up in her sleep, revealing a sliver of skin along her hip.

Philip’s breaths caught. Even now, in the washed-out light of the hospital room, with IV’s in his arms and sitiches on his abdomen, he couldn’t stop loving her.

He leaned towards her, brushing a stray amber curl from her face and tucked in delicately behind her ear. She murmured something unintelligible but didn’t wake. Her breaths ghosted across his plam - soft, warm. Each exhale kissed his skin, and he smiled, tired and tender.

The door cracked open. A narrow beam of hallway light spilled into the dim room.

A young nurse peeked in, her scrubs a calming blue. ‘’Um- good evening, Your Royal Highness. We weren’t expecting you to wake up soon.’’ She fidgeted with her fingers, her nerves evident, but her voice was kind.

Philip nodded weary. His eyelids dropped again. He was still so tired - like the sleep was stitched into his bones now. He exended his arms when she approached.The Iv tugged slightly ass she removed it, and a red bead of blood followed. ‘’Let me check your broard,’’ she murmured, pressing the gauze sently against the site. Her touch was light, clinical, careful. Philip drifted in and out, his breaths shallow, the haze pulling him under again.

She replaced the IV with pratciced motion, and he murmured a polite, ‘’Thank you. I’ll let you know when my wife awkes.’’

‘’No rush, Your Highness.’’ she smiled before retreating, the door clicking softly shut behind her. Quietness surrounded him again. Dimness. Just the faint beeping of montiers and the steady sound of Martha breathing.

Philip pressed a hand to his abdomen, just adobe the line of the incision. The stitches beneath the skin were new. Alien to him. A womb, inside of him - a foreign mickle carved into his flesh. It was real now. The surgeon had said it would be possible, had said maybe. But now the pain he felt was proof.

He had a womb.

God.

A soft sound came from bside him. He turned his head to see Martha shifting, her lashes fluttering as she stirred. Strands of her hair danced with the slight breeze from the vent that hung overhead. She blinked slowly, once, twice - then she stretched, her spine popping audibly.

Her eyes met his and amsile ghosted across his lips.

‘’I hope you slept well, love.’’ he whispered, voice still hoarse from sleep and anesthesia. She chuckled, stretching again. ‘’As well as I could in this chair, darlin’.’’ she dralwed, her ridiculous, theatrical southern accent slinking in around the vowels. ‘’I’ve had beds of nails with more lumbar support.’’ Philip let out a weak laugh, shaking his head. ‘’The nurse has already come by. I told her i’d call her when you woke up.’’

‘’You’re a good man, my stars.’’ she said, reaching out and threading their fingers together. Her thumb rubbed lazy circles into the back of his band. ‘’How do you feel?’’ he paused. ‘’Sore. Stiff. But…I think it worked.’’ Her face softened. ‘’I hope so. I’m prayin this worked, my heart.’’

He heard it in her voice - the tightrope-thin mix of hope and exhaustion. Philip took a deep breath, then forced himself to brighten. ‘’Come one, love. Think happy. If this worked … we’re one step closer to our goal.’’ She nodded slowly, a small smile giurking her lips as she looked away. He gently turned her face back towards him with two fingers under her chin.

‘’Do you want me to call the nurse?’’

Martha gazed into his eyes, and Philp knew she was watching the way the colors in them fought each other - his mother’s green, and his father’s blue. They swirled, and she always told him it looked like the sea right before a storm. ‘’Yes’’ she said finally. ‘’Let’s see what they next steps are.’’ He leaned in, kissed her softly, and felt her breath hitch before she pulled away. ‘’Call the nurse, my moon.’’

He reached for the remote.

A few minutes later, the door opened again with a quiet squeak. Nurse Smith and the doctor - Dr. Micheal - walked in, their shoes scoffuing against the vinyl flooring. The doctor looked tired, his white chaot wrinkled, his hair wild in every direction.

‘’Good morning, Your Royal Highnes.’’ he greeted.

‘’Good morning, Doctor.’’ Philip replied, his voice still tingled with exhaustion. Martha moved to sit behind him, pulling him close against her chest. Her hand gripped his shoulders, grounding him as Dr. Micheal opened the folder with the results. ‘’As you know, this was new for all of us,’’ the doctor began, flipping a page.’’ But…we believe it was a success.’’

Philip couldn’t breathe. His entire body locked. The words hit like a thunderclap. He was quiet. Too quiet.

The doctor kept talking. Something about observation. About staying another night. But Philip only heard: It worked.

Behind him, he felt Martha’s heart racing like a warm drum. She was shaking. Or maybe he was.

They were one stop closer. They were going to have children.

Philip let out a sharp exhale, a breathless laugh mixed with disbelief. But underneath it all, a new terror crept in, slow and sticky like syrup. They hadn’t told anyone.

Not Henry. Not Bea. Not his mum.

And definitely, not then Queen.

The moments that Philip thought of her - of her cold gaze, the steel spine honed by decades of duty - he felt his stomach twist into knots. His grandmother. The Queen of England. She didn’t even know he’d had the surgery. That her grandson now had a womb. That he was going to carry a child.

A royal heir.

He was going to have to tell her.

Tell the entire family. The nation. The world.

Philip’s chest started to tighten. His fingers trembled. Panic rising in his throat like bile. ‘’My heart?’’ Martha's voice came, sweet and concerned. ‘’Honey, are you okay?’’ He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The weight of the moment was crushing. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Just thoughts.

Images.

Mary, Henry, Beatrice.

The press. The taboids.

The backlash.

The headlines.

Philip felt like the walls were closing in.

‘I’m fine.’’ he muttered, breah shaky. ‘’Just…thinking.’’

‘’About what?’’ Martha asked, brushing hair away from his forehead. He looked at her nose - counting every freckle like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. ‘’I was just thinking… We’ll have to tell…Mary. And Henry. And Bea. And my mum. And…. the entire nation. The whole world.’’ His heart shuddered at the thought. ‘’And people are going to judge, Martha. They’re going to whisper and shout and speculate, and…’’ she touched his face, cupping his cheek. ‘’I know, my stars. Bealice me, I know. I;ve thought about it all, too. But the only thing that matters is you, me, and our growing family.’’

Philip inhaled deeply, her words washing over him. ‘’You, me, and our little family.’’ he echoed. A slow small unfuled across his face. He reached out and traced the curve of her cheek. She leaned to the touch, eyes closing for a moment.

‘’I can’t wait.’’ she whispered.

And neither could he.

Even with the fear, the doubts, the shadows waiting just beyond the hospital room walls…

Philip felt joy.

Real, impossible joy.

Chapter Text

Philip couldn't remember the last time he’d truly slept.

Not just closed his eyes for a few fitful hours. Not just drifted off only to be dragged deep back by the cold hands of his nightmares - monsters with his father’s voice, with memories he couldn’t scrub clean. With shadows shaped like his brother’s pained expression.

No, proper rest had eluded him for so long that peace itself felt like a stranger. But now…

Now, with his palm resting gently against his still flat stomach, the low hum of home in his bones and the soft rustle of Martha moving about the room, Philip felt something startling and unfamiliar settle over him.

Belonging.

He wasn’t Prince Philip of England. Not the Crown Heir. Not Fox-Mounchristen-Windor. Not the shining son, the older brother, the tightly- wound public figure always poised to smile and wave.

No, not here. Not in their quiet little home that smelled of spiced tea and paint and the books stacked in every corner.

Here he was just Pip.

Not Philip.

Just the book-devouring, video-game-loving, blanket-hoarding nerd his wife adored. His hand curled instinctively over his belly, protective and reverent, as a slow smile touched his lips. Sleep was tugged at his eyes, soft and sweet. For the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t fight it.

Martha, from across the room, watched him with stars in her eyes.

Her heart swelled with russet ache, the kind that nestled itself deep and hummed with joy and fear all at once. Her darlin’ , her Pip, was asleep 0 truly asleep. His shoulders relaxed. His mouth parted slightly. His face free of that tense mask that the palace had taught him to wear like a skin.

She moved carefully, her bare feet making so sound on the polished floor, the hem of her skirt trailed behind her as she tidied up the spaces. She didn’t want to wake him. Not when he looked so peaceful. Not when she could finally breath without feeling the weight of the last few weeks clawing at her lungs.

Their surgery had gone well. Better than they dared to hope. A quiet miracle, a quiet hope.

Her pip, her stars, her brave bloody husband - was going to carry their child.

A thrill danced up her spine just thinking about it. A baby. A little someone with Philip’s eyes and her crooked smile. A tiny pair of feet pattering down the hallways. Chubby hands reaching for them. First laughs. First words. A life they’d made together.

She leaned against the doorframe and for a moment, hugging herself, she let the thought blossom.

She was excited. So, so excited. Baby showers and scans and picking out names. Watching as Philip’s stomach swelled with their child. Holding his hands through every flutter, every single kick. Helping his waddle about when his back ached and rubbing his feet at the end of long days.

She wanted to be there for all of it.

But -

But she was scared too.

What if it wasn’t an easy pregnancy? What if his body rebelled against the changes? What if it hurt him? What if the world judged them, sneered and whispered and twisted something so intimate into headlines and scandals?

Her fingers trebled slightly as she picked up a book from the bedside table. The Queen wouldn’t approve. Mary would smile that cold little smile and talk about tradition and duty and appearances. She’d never say the words outright, but they’d ring loud and cruel beneath every sentence.

This isn’t how royal heirs are made.

Martha bit her lip.

She remembered the wedding. The way Mary had taken a simple, joyful thing and stuffed it full of pomp and strangers. How she’d demanded changes. A bigger dress. A longer guest list. Cut those names , she said, when Philip had begged to keep his best mates and Martha her aunt and uncle.

They won’t photograph well , the Queen had said, her eyes cold.

And they’d listened. Like bloody fucking fools, they’d listened.

She had made them cancel the afterparty too - it was just a cosy little gathering with friends and fairy lights and music, but no. It didn't fit the brand. The royal brand. And the honeymoon - god, the honeymoon. Martha had planned for months to surprise Philip with a trip to Greece. He’d once said he wanted to take his father there, before the cancer. She’d wanted to give that memory back to him piece by piece. But the Queen had found out.

And squashed it like a bug.

So no. Martha didn’t care for the Queen. And mauve that made her sound cold and sharp and bitter, but no one else saw the royal family behind the cameras. No one else saw what the Queen was willing to sacrifice for polish.

But Philip wouldn’t do that.

Philip wanted to raise their child far away from all that mess. He’d already found a cottage - tall windows, creaking floors, and trees for miles. A place with peace baked into the walls. A place for books and laughter and muddy boots by the door. A home, not a stage.

He wanted their child to grow up free. Happy. Safe.

And Martha?

Martha wanted that too.

She wanted to stand beside Philip as he grew their baby. She wanted to paint in the morning and read to him at night. She wanted to rub oils into his skin and kiss the stretch marks as they bloomed like wildflowers across his belly. She wanted to be the first to hold him when his hormones hit too hard as he cried for no reason. She wanted to watch him fall in love with their child long before they were born.

They’d have a baby shower, maybe out in the garden, with fairy lights and a homemade cake and silly games. Bea would help decorate. Henry and Alex would try to outdo each other on gifts. Catherine might even join.

Martha stepped quietly to Philip’s side of the bed. He looked like a dream - his cheeks soft, his breaths deep, his hand still splayed protectively over his stomach, and her heart ached with love.

‘’My stars,’’ she whispered, brushing her fingers lightly over his fringe. ‘’My love. My beautiful, brilliant darlin’.’’ She exaggerated the drawl like she always did, Texan as the day was long, even in sleep Philip’s lip twitched into a smile.
For now, he was calm.

But Martha knew how quickly the world could turn. She’d teen it too many times - the way Philip withdrew when it got too loud, too cruel. When the headlines scraped raw. When Mary disapproved. When the past crept in.

And next time it happened, she’d finally be ready.

She’d hold him. Shelter him. Remind him who he was when the crown tried to tell him otherwise. And she’d protect their unicorn child with everything she had.

Because this family - their little family - was built on love, not duty. Not pain.

Chapter Text

Henry stared out of the narrow window of the jet, his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on his knee. His stomach twisted with a thousand kinds of nerves - familiar ones. Family- shaped ones. The sky stretched endlessly beyond the glass.

Beside him, Alex sat quietly, his legs stretched out, one able crossed over the other. His reading glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, and in his hands rested a well-loved, dog-eared copy of the The Lighting Thief. His thumb brushed over the pages as he read, and every so often, a small, almost invisible smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Henry’s eyes softened and his heart gave a little leap.

He had a boyfriend. An honest-to-god boyfriend. And for the first time in his life, he didn't have to hide it behind cold marble walls or blank smiles. He didn’t have to live in the shadows. He wasn’t just the prince anymore.

He was Henry.

Not His Royal Highness. Not ‘’Prince Henry of Wales’’ or ‘’Duke of Edinburgh.’’ Just…Henry.

And yet-

The anxiety never truly left, did it?

It settled deep in his chest like a second heartbeat, drumming louder the closer the jet crept to English soil.

Catherine would be there. So would Beatrice. Their family - fractured and patched up in places, still threadbare in others. He loved them. God, he did. But there was one absence that lingered.

Philip.

He hadn’t seen his brother in months. Maybe even longer. Not really. Not properly.

Not since…

Not since everything broke.

Once, when they were boys. Philip was the sun that Henry revolved around. Caught in his gravity. The world could fall to pieces and he knew Philip would be there to read him The Hobbit under his torchlight, to hold his hand when the thunder got too loud, to whisper stories when the loneliness crept in. Philip was a fortress - one Henry never doubted would stand tall forever.

Until it all shattered.

Until their father died.

Until the Queen had summoned Philip into her private office just hours after their dad drew his last breath, and pulled him away like she was plucking a pawn from a chessboard.

Henry still remembered the haunted look in Philip’s eyes that day - red-rimmed, brimming with grief - but determined, steeled, and cold. A wall went up that day, and Philip shut the door behind it.

Not more laughter. No more stories.

The library they once curled up together became a graveyard. once filled with fairytales and soft couches and fairy lights, it became sterile and still. Fiction vanished and in it places came biographies, treated, and law textbooks. Colourless. Clinical. The Philip who once pressed daisy chains into Henry’s hair vanished into tailored suits and press confidences.

That was the last time Henry stepped foot into his brother’s library.

He felt the ache now, as the jey wheels touched down and the soft jolt pulled him back into the present. Alex closed his book and quietly he rested a hand on Henry’s knees. ‘’I’ve got you.’’ Alex said, low and steady. Henry managed a nod, his jaw tight.

The jet door hissed open, and sunlight spilled inside like gold. Henry took a deep breath, and adjusted his jacket collar. He descended the steps with Alex just behind him, a silent promise in his shadows.

Waiting at the bottom of the path were Catherine and Bea, both clocked in blown elegance. Their dresses fluttered softly in the spring breeze, and as soon as Catherine spotted him, her arms opened like sanctuary, sanctuary he hadn’t felt in such a long time.

Henry fell into her embrace. Her warmth was immediate, familiar.

‘’Oh, my darling,’’ she whispered, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear ‘’Look how much you’ve grown.’’

‘’Mum,’’ Henry said with a laugh. ‘’I was only gone for three weeks.’’ He shuckled, burying his face into her shoulders for a second longer than he intended before pulling back and greeting Bea, who hugged him fiercely. ‘’’Bout time you came back, Hen.’’ She teased, squeezing his shoulders.

Henry;s gaze shifted, searching. Scanning the crowd beside them, the flashes of cameras didn’t matter. The spurious aids or security didn’t matter. His eyes were looking for someone tall. Familiar. Steady.

‘’Wh-where.. Where’s Philip?’’ He asked, his voice low, hesitant.

Catherine’s expression faltered - just slightly. Her smile tightened and her hands found his elbow. ‘’Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry but…Philip and Martha…they had to cancel. They said it was something personal.’’ The words echoed like a slap. And Henry’s smile twitched at the corners. He swallowed hard.

‘’Oh.’’ He said.

Beatrice glanced at the camera’s, clearly uncomfortable. ‘’Probably still fussing over that wedding cake disaster.’’ She muttered. ‘’Honestly, they’ve been sulking for months.’’ Alex let out a shark, amused breath behind them. ‘’Of course they are.’’ Henry didn’t respond. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

It shouldn’t have hurt. It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to roll his eyes and scoff like Bea, to act as if he didn’t care. But he missed his older brother.

Not the version that stood beside the Queen, stiff and suited, lips pressed into a line. He missed Pip / His Pip. The one who used to sing ABBA and Hamilton off-key while baking. The one who let Henry fall asleep on his chest during long drives through the countryside. The one who used to write him letters with hand-drawn dragons in the margins.

He missed his brother before the crown twisted his spine into steel. Deep down, he hoped that coming home might bring some of him back. But today was not the day.

‘’Let’s just go,’’ Henry said softly. ‘’We still have dinner with them, right?’’ Catherine nodded. ‘’Yes, love. They’ll be there. I promise.’’ He forced a smile and nodded.

Alex took his hand as they turned towards the car waiting to take them home.

Home.

It was a funny word.

Because the palace hadn’t felt like home in a very long time. Not since Philip’s library, and his laughter fell silent. Still, Henry hoped. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a part of his brother that remembered who he used to be.

Maybe the library light would flicker on again. And maybe in the future, they’d both be brave enough to open the door.

_______

Philip flushed the toilet with a trembling hand. His cheeks brushed against the chilling porcelain of the bathtub as he panted. Swear clung to his skin like a second, clammy later, his entire body clamored with heat and nausea. His breath came in shallow, scratchy gasps, and his throat burned like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, unbidden and frustrating.

He hated this.

His hands clenched uselessly at the edges of the tub, and he bit back a groan as another roll of nausea twisted in his gut. The only thing he could do was lie there - motionless and head low, praying that the worst had passed. That his stomach might, for once, show mercy.

God, he just wanted to crawl back into bed. To slip beneath the covers, find Martha’s warmth, to press his face into her shoulder until the world calmed down. Her skin always smelled like sunflowers and spice. She’d probably still be there, curled around the body pillow, murmuring darlin’ into her sleep-breathed dreams.

But instead, he was here. On the bathroom floor. Afraid to move, afraid that even the tilt of his head would trigger another violent retch.

His hand trembled as he laid it flat against his abdomen. The skin was skin and tender, the surgical stitches still raw and slightly raised. A week more, the doctors had said. Just one more week and the sutures could come out. Then, only a month until they could begin IVF. Just thirty days away from possibility. From hope. From life.

A child.

Their child.

The thought sent a strange ache through his chest - an ache that was not of grief or fear or regret. It was longing. It was joy. It was wrapped so tightly in apprehension that it left him breathless. He pressed his palm more firmly to his lower stomach. This was going to be worth it. The vomiting. The dizziness. The aching. He had to believe it.

He reached out weakly to lower the lid - just a simple motion - but another surge of nausea gripped him without warning. His stomach clenched violently, and he lunged forwards, barely making it in time as his body betrayed him again.

The sound of retching filled the tiled silence.

He didn’t hear the door creak open. Didn’t register the soft, purposeful footsteps across the tile. He only noticed the presence when warm fingers spread across his back in a slow, soothing rub. ‘’It’s alright, my love.’’ Martha’s soft voice said beside him, low and full of tenderness.

Philip clung to the edge of the bowl until it passed. He let out a broken groan and leaned sideways, his temple finding her shoulder, and her hand threaded gently through his sweat-damp hair. ‘’You good now, my love?’’ She whispered.

‘’For now.’’ she muttered hoarsely, still not opening his eyes. He wanted to melt into her. To disappear into her strength, her patience. ‘I thought that morning sickness was supposed to start when you actually get pregnant?’’ He croaked. Martha hummed, brushing his hair back with gentle fingers. ‘’Well, considering your body just got a uterus a few weeks ago, I reckon you will have nausea until your body is used to it. It seems like your body is thrown a little temper tantrum ’’

Philip snorted weakly. ‘’Well tell it to calm the hell down.’’ She chuckled beside him, her breaths were warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, basking in her comfort for a moment longer. ‘’How much longer do we have before we have to meet mum and Bea at the air port?’’ Martha pressed her lips against his temple. ‘’I already rang your mum, my stars. Told her we had something personal come up and we couldn't make it.’’

Philip stiffened, pulling back slightly ‘’Oh god, Martha, why? Beatrice is going to chew me out for abandoning Henry.’’ Martha only smiled as she wrapped both of her arms around his waist. ‘’Let her. She doesn’t know the truth yet. And when she finds out, she will be ecstatic.’’

Philip sighed, pressing a hand to his face. ‘’I know she’ll understand, eventually. But…it still feels like I’m hiding something.’’ His voice quieted. ‘’Like I’m lying.’’

‘’You’re not lying, my love.’’ Martha said, her voice firm and full of fire. ‘’You’re protecting a dream. Our dream. And it’s okay to hold it close a little longer before the world get a peek.’’ Philip let it sink in, staring out the nearby window. The sky was grey, but the light that broke through the clouds looked silver. Almost like a promise.

He imagined Henry’s face when he found out. Beatrice’s loud gasp. His mum’s teats - hopefully the good kind. He could almost feel the laughter, the hugs, the strange surge of happiness that might bloom in his siblings’ chest.

Maybe - just maybe, they’d be proud of him again.

Maybe he’d be proud of himself.

He turned his head towards Martha and gave her a small, warm smile. ‘’Let’s try for a bit more sleep. I’m still exhausted.’’ Martha stood and offered her hand to him, her palms warm, steady, and sure. ‘’Then come back to bed, Your highness.’’ Philip took her hand, and let her pull him to his feet. ‘’Time to rest up, my stars. You got a kingdom to grow.’’ He rolled his eyes with affection, but his chest felt warm.

‘’God help his child if they get your sense of humor.’’

‘’Oh darlin’, that’s the dream.

Chapter Text

Philip pulled the oversized shirt over his head, fatigue tugged at his limbs and nausea rolled in his stomach, sour and sharp, threatening to climb higher every time he moved too fast or breathed too deeply. His body felt like it was still adjusting to its new purpose.

He was close. Just one more week, and the stitches could come out. Just a few more weeks, and they could try IVf. Implantation. Life. A baby.

The thought should’ve filled him with joy. And it did, but it also filled him with terror. What if his body rejected the uterus? What if the procedure failed? What if he wasn’t strong enough?

What if all of this had been for nothing?

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting his hands hang between his knees as he tried to breathe. The nausea, the worry, the gnawing ache in his stomach. He ran his palm down his front, over the still-tender skin. The incision itched beneath the bandage, and the edges pulled at the raw skin beneath the waistband of his trousers.

He flinched as he stood.

Every movement reminded him of what had been done. Of what he had chosen. Of what he hoped for.

He had to be there tonight. For Henry. For Bea. For his Mum. For their family . Even if it meant pushing through the pain and the fear and the endless exhaustion clawing up his spine. Because if he didn’t go - if he stayed curled up in the bedroom with its soft light and warm bedsheets and Martha’s perfume lingered in the air - he was terrified that everything he had rebuilt with them would come crashing down. That they would see his absence as abandonment. Again.

And they’d shut him out. Again.

And maybe they already have.

The Philip they grew to know- the confident, polished, clipped version who followed every single royal expectation to the letter - wasn’t him. It was never him. That version - that cold and distant version - was never him. And what he saw in the mirror was a shell, something half-made, in-between. He missed the boy he had once been before the fear crept in. Before his anger and sadness took over. The boy who used to smile freely, laugh too loudly, and cry over fantasy, horror, and mystery novels.

He still remembered it - the book conventions, when his father had taken him. Just the two of them. He could still picture how the light would reflect over the glossy covers of the books, how his father’s hands never left his shoulder, grounding him. He could still hear his dad’s low chuckle as Philip rambled about plot twists and magic systems.

That had been before the cancer.

Before everything fractured.

Before he lost the only man who had made the royal world bearable.

Philip looked in the mirror and touched the edge of the dressing table. His reflection stared back, older, paler, with shadows beneath his eyes. He didn’t look regal. He didn’t look like a prince. He looked… tired. Tired and small and scared.

He once wanted to be like his father.

Brave. Kind. Unapologetically human.

But all he could see were the ways he had failed. He hadn’t stood up to the Queen. He hadn’t protected Henry when the press tore into him. He hadn’t held Beatrice close when their father died, or comforted his mother as grief swallowed her whole. He had turned away. Shut down. Pressed harder on the expectations, the titles, the rules.

He had hurt them .

He had hurt himself.

A low, shaky breath left his mouth as he snapped the button on his trousers. The waistband dragged across his stitches, and the pain flared bright and hot. He pressed a hand on his abdomen to steady himself, the skin beneath was still angry and swollen. His fingers lingered there, tracing the faith rise of scar tissue.

A womb. His womb.

He hadn’t been ready for how much that would change him. Not just physically. He wans;t just a man preparing for fatherhood - he was a man who had chosen to carry life within him. Because Martha couldn’t. And he loved her more than the stars, more than duty, more than his own fears.

The sound of her heels clicking softly across the bathroom floor drew him out of his spiral. The rhythm of it - sharp and steady - was soothing. It always was. Se he moved like she knew where she belonged. Like she belonged with him.

He tucked in his shirt, and his hand ran over his face to smooth away the tension. ‘’Martha, my love? Are you ready?’’ A pause. Then the gentle clink of a bottle being set on the counter. ‘’Almost, my stars! Head to the car - I’ll meet you there soon!’’ He couldn’t help but smile, even through the ache in his body. ‘’I’m taking your handbag with me!’’ He called, reaching for it from the side table.

‘’Then carry it like you mean it, darlin’.’’

Henry slid into the seat beside his mother, the warm, muted lighting of the restaurant casting a gentle glow over the white tablecloths. Alex pulled his chair back and sat next to Henry. As he did, Henry’s fingers trailed lightly down the sleeve of his boyfriend’s jacket, a smile twitched at his lips. Henry felt the knot in his chest ease. Even just a bit.

Across the table, Beatrice was already seated, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands had escaped to frame her eyes. She looked tired but sharp, always sharp.

Henry glanced down at the menu, blinking at the ornate font. /i/ The Ledbury was etched at the top in bold golden letters, the trim shimmered in the overhead lights. The words on the page blurred momentarily. He blinked hard and tried again, thumbing the edge of the cardstock as he spoke.

‘’Should we….maybe start with the Wild Cornish Turbot, or…?’’

His voice trailed off as he scanned the starters, trying to keep his tone casual, even as his hands trembled faintly. Catherine gave a polite top of her manicured nails against the table. ‘’Let’s wait for your brother and Martha before we make any decisions.’’ she said, glancing down at her mobile. ‘’They’re not far - Martha just messaged to say they’re close.’’ Henry nodded, pressing his lips together. His stomach churned with a flicker of nerves. Seeing Philip again made his whole body stiffened with dread. The uncomfortable weight that came with things left unsaid.

‘’We could still have a look,’’ Henry mumbled, flicking a glance towards Bea. ‘’Get a sense of what we want.’’

‘’I agree,’’ Beatrice said without looking up. Her fingers tapped the menu rhythmically. ‘’Might as well be prepared.’’ Catherine offered a tight smile. ‘’All right. Just a look, then.’’ Henry exhaled slowly, flipping the page. ‘’Like I said, I think we should start with the turbot. Fish sounds….nice.’’ Alex chuckled softly behind his menu. ‘’Of course you do.’’ Henry gave him an amused look. ‘’You’re so rude.’’

‘’I’m just saying,’’ Alex grinned. ‘’Something light sounds better. We could work our way up the menu.’’

‘’That’s a good ide-’’

‘’We are so sorry that we’re late!’’

The sudden brust of Martha’s voice carried across the room and Henry startled slightly, looking up as she swept into view, her hand tucked into the crook of Philip's arm. Henry’s smile tightened. ‘’I- good evening.’’ Philip gave a nod in response, his movements were stiff and his skin was pale, almost grey under the warm lights. The dark circles under his eyes were heavy. ‘’I-is everything okay, Pi-?’’

‘’I’m fime,’’ Philip said shortly, sinking into his seat with a muted grunt. ‘’Just tired.’’ Henry blinked. His throat bobbed around the reply. ‘’Oh really?’’ Her brow was arched. ‘’Is that why you missed this morning? Too busy having a lie-in?’’ Martha took her seat beside her husband and reached for his head under the table. ‘’He wasn’t sleeping in,’’ she said, her voice soft with affection. ‘’He couldn’t even sit up this morning without feelin’ like he swallowed glass.’’ Henry winced. ‘’Yikes. That sounds awful.’’

‘’It wasn’t ideal.’’ Philip muttered, his eyes scanning the menu. ‘’I wasned to make sure I wasn’t…coming down with something.’’

‘’Right.’’ Henry said. His eyes lingered on Philip’s face, the set of his jaw, the way he kept picking at the edge of the menu with his thumb. ‘’I…missed you this morning.’’ Henry added. Philip looked up for the first time. His mouth twitched. ‘’Did you?’’

‘’I did,’’ Henry replied. ‘’Even if you’re a pain.’’ A pause. Then Philip gave a dry little huff. ‘’What are we starting with, then?’’ Bea raised an eyebrow at Henry as she leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. ‘’We were debating between the turbot and the, uh-’’

‘’Limousin veal sweetbread.’’ Alex cut in, squinting at the menu. ‘’I think that’s how you pronounce it? Lim - Limousin?’’ He whispered to Henry.’’ Henry leaned in closer. ‘’Yes, my dear. Like the region. You’re doing wonderfully.’’ Alex grinned and bumped his shoulder against Henry’s. Henry let himself laugh sofly. Philip glanced up again. ‘’If we’re starting light, I’d say the bread. But…fish does sound rather good right now. ‘’

Henry nodded. ‘’We could get both. Let people pick what they want, work our way through it.’’ Bea tapped the base of her menu against the table. ‘’That’s fair. We’ll do that.’’

Catherine nodded in agreement. ‘’I’ll let the server know.’’

The waiter scribbled down their order, the scratching of the pen against the notepad echoed through the quiet air. Philip tried not to flinch at the sound. He could feel Henry’s eyes on him - watchful, hesitant, almost too perceptive for Philip’s comfort. It wasn;t just siblings' curiosity. No, Henry's gaze lingered carefully. Philip knew what he looked like. Pale. Drawn. The days of recovering had worn him down more than he liked to admit, and there were only so many explanations he could give before someone connected the dots. If thet hand’t already. Especially Henry.

The waiter stepped away with a police nod and Philip folded his menu, placing it down. His hand drifted to his lap - more specifically, to reat above the tender line of stitches that were hidden beneath the fine fabric of his trousers. His fingers lingered there instinctively. ‘’Philip are you sure you’re all right?’’ Henry asked softly. Philip’s jaw tightened. His spine snapped straight befor he could stop himself. ‘’I’m fine, Henry.’’ He replied through clenched teeth. ‘’You don’t need to keep asking.’’

The words came out sharper than intended. Across the table, Beatrice let out a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes. ‘’He’s just trying to look out for you,’’ she said drly. ‘’You do look a bit…peaky’ Philip scratched his nails against the wooden edge of the table. ‘’My breakfast didn’t sit right,’’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘’That’s all. Can we please let it go?’’ The lie fell out too easily. Bea scoffed, turning her gaze away. ‘’Sure. Be an arse about it. You’re used to that.’’

Philip’s nostrils flared. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snapping, but the words came anyway, sharp-edged and brittle. ‘’Hmm. I’m an arse, and you are-’’ He stopped him, his chest heaving slightly as he pulled in a break. His sister’s head turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. ‘’I’m. What?’’ She asked, her voice low and laced with venom. ‘’Forget it, Beatrice.’’ Philip muttered, closing his eyes. Bea gritted her teeth. ‘’No. Go on. You’ wre going to say I’m a-’’

‘’Bea, please.’’ Henry cut in, his voice hurried and small. ‘’Just forget it, yeah?’’

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she looked at when, and something in her expression softened. Barely. She sat back with a long sigh. ‘’Fine.’’

Philip exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling tiger beneath the table. Aside from him, Martha leaned in gently and reared her hand on his. ‘’So,’’ Catherine said. ‘’Philip, how was the vacation, Scotland, was it?’ Philip leaned his head on Martha’s as he looked at his mother. ‘’It was busy.’’ He said. ‘’We had some business to attend to, but it wasb’t dreadful. We’re planning on heading back soon, actually. In a couple of weeks time.’’

Catherine misled into her drink. ‘’Oh? What did you two get uo to while you were there?’’Philip set his glass down gently. ‘’We visited a hospital.’’ He said casually. ‘’Very low-profile. We were scouting it, really.’’

‘’Scouting?’’ Henry echoed, his fingers tapped nervously on the table. ‘’Are you going back, then?’’ Philip nodded, keeping his tone level. ‘’Yes. We’re returning in a few days.’’ Alex leaned against Henry, his shoulder brushing his boyfriends. ‘’Maybe we could go too.’’ He said, flashing a hopeful smile. ‘’Hen’s always wanted to play tourist without the press lurking about.’’ Philip glanced sharply at Martha, his heart kicking in his chest. Her hands squeezed him gently. ‘’Maybe,’’ she said smoothly. ‘’Depnds on how our schedules line up.’’

Alex chuckled. ‘’Fair enough.’’

Dinner had passed in a blur, a strand mix of silted conversation and sidelong glance that left Philip’s nerves frayed and his shoulders locked in tension. By the time they stepped outside into the cool London air, his chest felt tight and his hands were clammy beneath his gloves. Catherine pulled him into a soft hug - brief - but lingering enough to remind him of his childhood, before things had cracked and splintered. He gace her a stiff smile, murmured his goodbyes and turned to leave with Martha at his side. The moment the restuant doors shut behind, his composure wavered.

And his breath hitched.

‘’That..’’ He began, his voice uneven. ‘’That was harder than I thought it’d be.’’ Martha hummed low in her throat, slipping her arm between his as they walked towards the crub. ‘’You did beautiful, my stars.’’ She said gently. ‘’You held it together better than I could.’’

A sleek black SUV pulled up beside them, its headlights washing across the pavements. The guards followed, and Martha opened the door. Philip ducked inside carefully, grimacing slightly as the seabelt pressed across his middle. Martha followed after him, shutting the door with a soft thunk. The interior was warm and quiet.

As soon as the car pulled away from the curb, and Philip leaned against Martha’s shoulder. His ches rose and fell in shallow breaths. ‘’That was bloody awful.’’ He muttered. Martha’s fingers slipped into his hair, combing through it with practiced tenderness. ‘’I know, my love. I know.’’ She said, ‘’But it’s done now. Just one more event with them and we’re in the clear for a while long. We can lie low until after the next scan.’’ Philip closed his eyes, sinking into her touch.

The city lights spilled through the window. Outside, London hummed. But inside the car, there was only the rhythmic lull of the engine and Martha’s warmth beside him.