1997

Anne hates third-wheeling.

Or, rather, she hates third-wheeling in certain circumstances.

With one glaring exception, most of her present circumstances are fine:

One, An exclusive "pre-grand-opening" of a bar that resides on the rooftop of a posh hotel north of the Thames; with a beautiful view on each corner (she's already walked its borders). On one corner is St. Olave's Church, its clocktower lit up with a bluish glow. Two, She is wearing a decadently gorgeous coat, French-made and slimmed at the waist, that flares out into a skirt and keeps her plenty warm on this rooftop (wintry night that it is) with its shearling. (It cost her the entirety of her bonus…she'd justified the purchase on the premise that she'd wear it so often it'd be worthy of the price-tag. Its various trips to the dry-cleaner's since have disproved this pretense…still, she finds it worthy based on the compliments she receives for it) Three, It's been a week since she found out that her ex is getting married to the woman he cheated on her with.

Anne sits on the southernmost side of the rooftop, at a table with her brother, George, his girlfriend, Jane, and various work colleagues.

The view afforded from this angle suits her dark mood: the Thames and the Tower Bridge, lit only by the sparks of slowly-moving cars.

Anne hears Jayne's voice and tunes back in to the conversation.

Jayne is George's longest-lasting relationship to date; so Anne would find it important to listen to her even if she disliked her- luckily, she doesn't. Her outfit is cute, both cigarette pants and tight boatneck sweater are flattering to her small figure; the colors complementary to Jayne's auburn hair… Anne makes a mental note to compliment it later, as she neglected to do so in the cab over.

As the passion in her voice mounts, Anne reckons that this longevity has something to do with Jayne being his first girlfriend to have never asked him to shut up, already, about politics.

Or person, for that matter- Anne loves debate nearly as much as her older sibling does, but Christ, even she has her breaking point for it.

Political debate is the topic of discussion right now, as it happens; Anne's workplace friends all keenly trying to throw their hats into the ring- they're drawn to it, like hummingbirds to nectar, intellectual powerhouses that they are.

Anne reclines back into the plush chaise lounge chair as she lights a cigarette. Watching the tip glow red in the dark, she ponders how easy it is to set things a flame, how little it takes…

And with that thought, her mind again falls on the wedding invitation, lying face-down on the kitchen counter in her flat.

And with that thought, Anne decides she'd rather not think much anymore at all, and murmurs her excuses as she stands, stubbing the barely-smoked cigarette out on the table's ashtray and leaving the table.

Anne orders tequila, two, at a bar with fairy-lights strewn up around its edges.

No lime necessary; she figures a bar on the top of a hotel with rates like these is hardly going to dole out cheap liquor.

Anne throws back the served tequila, two with absolutely zero interim.

"Step on me."

Anne looks over her shoulder, surprised at the bravado but stunned when she ascertains the identity of the speaker.

If only she could be so far-removed that she had no idea who he was; if only she was afforded the dignity of a lack of recognition…unfortunately, she does not live under a rock.

If he were with mates, that would be one thing- she hates being embarrassed, and detests peacocking on principle; were this the case Anne would eviscerate him, at length.

However, his only company appears to be what she can only assume is a very bored bodyguard, wearing sunglasses and a poker-face in the background like the professional he most likely is.

"Step on yourself," is all she says instead, crisply, before turning on her heel.

As she hears the resulting, damnably gratifying laugh (rich and full as it is; were she someone with less willpower she'd risk a glance backwards); Anne finds herself very grateful that tonight she chose to wear her hair down, as it covers the flush creeping up her neck.

George stands alone, peering through one of the observation telescopes set up at the eastern wall of the rooftop.

Anne announces herself by pressing her hand on the leather between his shoulder blades.

"I'm spying, do ya mind?"

"But I have something to tell you!" she protests.

"Is it more interesting than the fully-lit, curtains-open threesome going on at the hotel across the street?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure? It involves blindfolds. And what seems like an obscene amount of whipped cream-"

"George!"

"Christ," he gripes, releasing his grip and turning around to face her, crossing his arms, "this had better be good."

Never one to fail on delivery, Anne smirks, long fingers templed over that broad mouth, saturnine eyes glittering with her secret.

"The crown prince," she says quietly after a beat of anticipation, "of our fine country just asked me to 'step on him.'"

"Holy shit," George exclaims, sucking in a breath.

The reaction is rare, and all the more rewarding to her for it- 99 times out of 100, you couldn't knock him over with a feather.

"He seems so strait-laced, though," he says, shaking his head in wonderment, whistling, "man. It's always the quiet ones, yeah?"

"No, not the older one. The younger one."

"Oh," George says, the word long and drawn-out, "okay, that makes more sense. So it's not always the quiet ones. That's good, though, given that the older one's married."

"I thought they were both married?"

George tuts, moving his head from side to side, considering.

"They…technically? The younger's legally separated; his and hers can't agree on a settlement and haven't been able to for like, years."

"That's very posh of them. Most people can't afford legal procedure for years on end, most-"

"Hey," George interrupts, a plan forming as he unearths his wallet from his back pocket, "here's an idea- you…should kiss him."

"Oh, piss off," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm hardly going to reward that sort of behavior."

He braces himself for a feminist rant that doesn't come. Perhaps this Percy-Talbot wedding thing has taken the wind out of her considerable sails more than he's realized.

In any case, it's been the first time he's seen her focus shift from that in days…he feels a brotherly duty to keep her on that course.

"£200 says you can't."

"Why are you goading me?" she asks, pushing a thick wave of hair behind her ear…although he can see her interest in piqued as soon as he actually reveals he has the cash in hand.

"How many girls can say they've kissed a prince?"

And what better way to move on from the son of an earl?

She laughs at the naff line, shaking her head. As if being a prince meant anything, anymore, in this world. It carried all the clout of being a C-list celebrity fortunate enough to come from Old Money, but worse- taxes rendered them a parasitic reputation.

The glamour and novelty of the existence of the British Royal Family shone bright in the 1940s and 1950s, sure- given that they were newly televised directly to living rooms, that was little wonder.

But that glow had dimmed considerably ever since.

"How many want to? This isn't fucking Cinderella."

"You're certainly no Cinderella," he says cheekily, chucking her under the chin, "Miss Oxford Graduate. You work at Bloomsbury, for God's sake."

Anne stares at the cash, biting her lower lip.

£200 would go a long way in buying a gift off her sister's wedding registry, which she (oops!) still has yet to do.

"How do I know you'll pay up?"

She's stalling, really- George can be a bit of an arse even at his best; but Anne's never known him to not keep his word.

"Pay up what?" Jayne asks, joining them and looping an arm through his, drink in her other hand.

"I hedged a bet-"

"Oh, he'll keep it," she says, nodding and primly taking a sip of her martini, "I'll make sure of it."

"See? Collateral. And also…to your left."

Anne peeks over her shoulder.

Goddamn it.

Everyone surrounding Henry and his circle of friends (a few of them lanky, all of them singularly handsome, a few of them tall…although none are more so than he is on the former and the latter, and Anne idly wonders if that's intentional) fakes nonchalance while sneaking glances; in what Anne can only imagine is an attempt to not appear gauche.

No one is bowing, of course; but the change is evident all the same: postures improve, laughs get louder, gazes perk like a strand of Christmas lights, one by one by one…

"May I speak with you?"

Henry's gaze perks most of all, at that, and he draws back a little (surprised, maybe?), appearing to adjust his shoulders somewhat (again…maybe? if that's a self-congratulatory shimmy she's going to murder him)- if the other partyguests' are bulbs strung around the pine, his is the star atop the tree.

His mates exchange glances with each other, laughter evident in them even while it's not given any volume.

"Are you going to berate me again?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, smiling impishly.

His voice is on the higher side, polished and Eton-esque. It was part of what had startled her so much earlier, left her wondering how on earth a voice could sound so very proper while saying those very words?

"I can't promise I won't."

Wolf-whistling begins, but a glare from their leader silences them readily enough.

A pair readily vacates a table after he asks if it would very much trouble them to let us borrow the space whilst coupling the request with an incandescent smile.

Indeed, they practically fall over themselves to oblige him, leaving Anne to wonder if it would be the same were any factors subtracted (deference or awe to his status, the politely deferential way in which he phrased the question despite it his charm, his appearance, his smile alone) as she takes a seat: smoothing one hand over the skirt of her coat, perching another on the edge of the linen tablecloth.

A candle on the table flickers between them as she watches him, carefully.

Neither of his hands are ringed, and he never fails to meet her gaze whenever she gives it; steadily, with immersive blue eyes fringed by long gold lashes.

"What did you want to tell me?" he asks, fingering the small upside-down triangle of exposed skin left by his white-v-neck.

"I need to kiss you."

Henry gives a short laugh, flattening his palm against his chest where it was previously fidgeting:

"Goodness."

"Don't pretend you're opposed to the idea," she says, feeling her heart beat a bit too keenly for her taste (embarrassing oneself for free is unacceptable) and a blush spread over her cheeks, "mere minutes ago you told me something very lewd-"

"I don't know if I'd call it 'very lewd'-"

"No? That's convenient for-"

"Lewdness depends on setting," he says, shrugging considerable shoulders and leaning back in his seat (which still…leaves him taller than her, even seated), "do you expect to go to a bar and not get hit on?"

Anne glares and he grins.

"I wouldn't hit on someone in….a café, or at a library. On the Tube," he continues, gesticulating as he speaks.

"Because you ride the Tube, I'm sure."

"I would love to," he says, something of the conspiratorial in the way he admits it, hushed and leaning in with elbows on the table, "but no, I haven't and won't be able to realistically. Although I was given a tour…I just meant…in theory."

Anne finds herself at a rare loss for words; taken aback by his ability to remain earnest in the face of her scathing words.

It's not something she can recall encountering before.

"I am sorry if I offended you, for whatever that's worth-"

"Are you? You seemed to find it funny."

"No," he says, although he laughs again, softly, drawing a circle with the pad of his forefinger on the tablecloth, "I thought you telling me to step on myself was funny. Novel, even."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Quite. Granted, it was more thought-aloud than premeditative, so I'll offer apologies again, but…why would you 'need to' kiss me if you were offended?"

Anne's ready to chalk her attempt up to a loss- there's not plausible explanation other than the truth, and she doubts he'll like it very much.

"My brother bet me 200 pounds that I wouldn't."

"Ah, I thought he looked like you," Henry says, lifting his gaze and tilting his chin up slightly, offering a parade-style wave.

Anne looks over her shoulder to see George, shocked, offering a hesitant wave back while Jayne's shoulders shake, covering a probable laugh with one gloved hand.

"He looks familiar, too."

She turns back around to the table, and Henry; with a new softness to his gaze and smile alike; an elbow on the table and a finger pressed to a right dimple.

"He went to Eton," Anne offers.

"That must be it, then…they had me as a guest speaker there, a few times."

Figuring this is the end of the road as far as seeing him in the real world goes; that it will be the last view beyond magazine pages and television screens, she allows herself to admire his presence visibly.

There's much to be said for it, he wears himself better than most do. Even the rakish curl of red-gold looped over one side of his forehead adds to his charm; the all-white outfit is flattering especially against his colouring.

His lambent gaze never leaves hers during her observations, even as he brushes a bit of snow off his considerably long nose.

But at that she looks above, wondering how long snow has been falling, surprised she hasn't felt the drop in temperature that usually proceeds it.

"Shall we earn your quid, then?"

Anne lowers her chin, sees that he's gotten up from his chair while she's been gaping above …

And takes his extended hand unthinkingly, letting him lead her across the walled edge of the rooftop slowly, as it becomes damper by the second with the melting snow.

Henry walks her over to a decorated space, a sort of small lounge area, tucked behind the stairwell of the top floor (she assumes he's been here before, as it's hidden by a curtain that he pushes aside), taking a seat at an armchair near its gas fireplace.

"Why did we leave the bar?" Anne asks, unbuttoning her coat and draping it over the back of the armchair opposite.

"In case someone has a camera. I assume you don't want your face in the press tomorrow morning."

"And how did you know this room was here?" she asks, taking a seat.

"My friend owns the hotel chain. Hence the 'pre-grand-opening'…he didn't want me to get swarmed."

Anne nods, unsheathing her boots from her feet and setting them aside before crossing wool-covered legs; hair falling around her shoulders as she leans closer to the fire.

"You don't have to, you know," he says, softly, fingers to his temple, elbow on armrest.

"Sorry?"

"You could just tell him you did, he wouldn't know."

She finds she likes him a bit more for saying so, and the manner in which he did; but shakes her head.

"No, he would. He can always tell when I'm lying."

"Twin telepathy?"

"We're not twins," she gasps, affronted, putting one hand over her heart, "he's older than I am!"

"He probably looks younger than he is, then. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"Ah," he says wistfully, reclining, "to be twenty-five."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five," he says, turning to face her, hands folded near his hip, and she can see now in the closer proximity that he has some lines around his eyes.

Nothing else betrays his age, though…she can view no silver in that copper hair, or that neat, shortly trimmed beard. He has twice the vitality of most people her own age.

His gaze drifts from her to the fire, a wry smile imprinting the only side of his face visible to her now with a dimple.

"Alright," she says, sighing and getting out of her chair, "I assume you want to go home at some point, so we should probably just…"

Henry follows suit, and they face each other standing in front of the fire.

Anne peers up at him, squinting.

"You seem nervous, are you alright?"

"I'm not nervous," she says, peevishly, "I just…don't even know how to reach you, God, I shouldn't have taken my shoes off-"

"We could try the bay windows," he offers, watching bemusedly as she kicks a boot towards herself.

"Oh…sure."

"Can I know your name first?" he asks as she settles in, moving throw pillows against the window rather than at her back.

"Anne."

"I'd give you mine, but-"

"It is known by millions, including me…yes."

The space doesn't fit them as much as she'd like, trapezoidal as it is, it's difficult to find an angle.

"Would it be too weird," she asks, flustered at the way he watches intently but stays still himself, "if I put my legs across your lap, I don't know how else to…and be comfortable."

She hopes he doesn't make her spell it out, but there's something too supplicant-like about doing so kneeling that she can't bear to fathom, much less do.

"No weirder than anything else," he says.

So she does so, and they're closer for it. Her feet hang over the side, over his knees, she uses ballet-trained posture to extend herself and they are at last on eye level.

He murmurs that she has some mascara on her cheek, and dusts it off with the pads of his fingers, lingering there and then sliding his hand till it cups her jaw.

It's like that, with his hand there, that she leans in and finally presses her lips to his, gently.

He returns it tenderly in kind, in tiny sips, his lips dry yet soft enough to be pleasant. His hand travels from her jaw to under her hair, feather-light at the nape of her neck.

Anne deepens the kiss, turning it to open and finding that he tastes of wine, and he returns that too; the light touch becomes more of a rub near a pearl of her spine, then a massage so pleasurable that she tilts her head back to gain better access to his touch, a soft, breathy moan escaping her lips as she does (he must feel it in his own open mouth, that warm gust of breath and volume )…

And draws back, his hand slips away as she does; humiliated over the utterance, gaze lowered.

"Will that suffice?" he asks, swallowing audibly.

"Oh," she says, faintly, tracing finger-pads over her lower lip, "yes, I'm sure. He said 'kiss', not 'snog', so…"

They stare at each other for a few beats, each attempting to gauge the other for any hesitation or rejection.

Finding neither and yet no validation, they remain still.

Anne's gaze flickers to Henry's mouth; and as soon as it registers his is on hers again.

There's so much variance possible even with no change in position, movement restricted to the upper-half as it is with the backs of her legs on the front of his thighs; Anne discovers this in the minutes that pass.

First it's her hand braced against his shoulder, his own warm and solid against the small of her back, splayed and large. Her hand pressed near his collarbone, dancing over the warm hollow of his throat.

Then his hand cupping the small of her waist; and each new movement is all within a graceful, heady rhythm, reflecting any changes in the kissing.

It's French and then it's his palm brushing against her ribcage, she nips at his generous lower lip and he slides a hand over the skirt of her dress over her legs (under her black wool tights, gooseflesh erupts) down to her calves, traveling back upwards and to the side to grip her hip.

Her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of his neck when he teases her by pressing small kisses along her mouth. She kisses him fully and leans upwards as far as she can, until their chests brush against each other too, and that's when he pulls away.

"Well," Henry says, breathing ragged, dragging a fingertip over his swollen mouth, "that was…something."

"Normally," she says, clearing her throat delicately, "I would ask for…your number, or something but…is that even allowed?"

"What?" he asks, laughing in wonder as he plays with a strand of her hair, loose and black.

The windows are covered in condensation, he can feel it seeping into the part of his shirt braced against the one on his side.

"Isn't it like…a national security issue, or something? Giving out a landline in Buckingham Palace-"

"I live at Kensington-"

"Well, whichever…"

"I have a mobile."

"Oh, I do too! Do you have text? If you send one to me I'll just have it; I think I left it in my coat-"

"Um," he says, grabbing her wrist as she starts to pull away, "could you…wait, a bit?"

"Why?" she asks, guileless until she follows his panicked glance towards his lap, then its quick aversion…and realizes what her legs are shielding.

"Oh," Anne says, placing a hand over her mouth to cover the smile forming there, "sure."

"Say something unsexy, please," he says, sounding pained, eyes shut as he rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Uh…let's see…I have an acute fear of arthritis," Anne rambles, encouraged when she sees his nod, "not very sexy, chronic health issue, that, so due to this fear I always use Epsom salts whenever I take a bath…"

"Is this a joke to you, Anne?"

"What do you mean?"

"You in a bath?" he groans, rubbing shut eyes and blushing furiously.

"Oh…right. Uh…okay, shower grout, indigestion," she continues, as he nods and gives her an encouraging squeeze on her knee, "cod liver oil, earwax, the Plague…"

He nods, and then, after the list stays on-topic for another minute, gingerly removes her legs from their perch:

"You can get your phone now."

The bodyguard stands on the other side of the curtain, they discover, leaning against the wall (Anne wonders if they wear sunglasses for covert naps).

Henry doesn't have the decency to look embarrassed or even sheepish about that, but Anne does.

He bids her a good night with a kiss on the cheek; and she can't honestly say she terribly minds that.

Anne takes her own cab home that night with a heavier wallet and a lighter heart.