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Chapter Text

He left school at 16 and worked odd jobs for a while. University wasn’t an option for kids like him. The fourth of eight children born to a single mother living in the East End, he needed to fend for himself and send some money home to his mom and younger siblings when he could. He didn’t drink or smoke, mostly because he couldn’t really afford to do either. He worked odd jobs for a couple of years, including working the counter at a sandwich shop. 

He didn’t grow up going to church too often, because his mother worked as a housekeeper seven days a week. He wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he did believe in fate. Because one day when he was working at the sandwich shop, the most beautiful woman in the world walked in and ordered lunch. 

On their first date, they walked around London, and sat and held hands on a bench across from Buckingham Palace. He told her she was pretty enough to be a princess. She tried to imagine what it must be like to live somewhere like that. He told her it’d be impossible to keep clean. She laughed and said they must have staff for things like that. 

“Imagine, though,” she said dreamily, “just once, to be able to wear a fancy gown and dance in the ballroom at Buckingham. I’d feel like a movie star, or like I’d died and gone to heaven.” 

He didn’t bother making ridiculous promises to her. He was a practical man and he knew some things just weren't in the cards for someone like him. 

He married Gemma when he was 20 and she was 18. Her parents wouldn’t let her get married before that. They could’ve snuck off and eloped but he didn’t want to start off his relationship with his in-laws on the wrong foot. So he waited. 

Well, he waited to marry her. They didn’t... wait, per se. 

She was pregnant at the wedding, but she wasn’t showing so it was their little secret. And when Valerie was born less than nine months later, they just claimed she was born a bit early.  

Two years later they had Simon, and a year after that they had Oliver. 

His own dad left when he was two, but he’d had a couple of short-term stepdads that weren’t terrible. They never stayed, though. He swore to himself he’d never abandon his children. He’d provide for them, put food on the table and clothes on their backs. He didn’t see any need to play with them or be their friend, that was more of a woman’s job. 

Growing up, their youngest son was always a little different. Not bad, or difficult, just... different. Maybe it was because he spent too much time with his mother and sister. Although Simon was well, Simon was a rough and tumble boy, like his dad had been growing up. Oliver was never like that. 

Then he’d decided that maybe Oliver would grow out of...whatever this was. He spent most of his time alone, reading and scribbling things in notebooks. He wasn’t like Simon or Valerie, who were always outside playing with the other kids in the neighborhood. 

“He’s sensitive, that’s all,” Gemma told him. He nodded, but he worried. Worried his son would be picked on at school if he didn’t toughen up. 

He and Gemma had both grown up Anglican, but he saw the Bible as an old book that didn’t have a lot to teach him. She took the sermons more seriously, quoted the Bible to him sometimes, and even volunteered to be a lay reader during services. She also thought it was important to raise their kids with some kind of faith. So he went along too, to be a good father, and to make Gemma happy. 

With three children to raise, he got a steady job working in a warehouse. It was a job he enjoyed. He started out moving boxes around but when he was trained to drive the forklift, he got enough of a raise to move the family out of the East End and into a nicer neighborhood. The house was small, but it was theirs. It had a tree in the yard for the boys to climb and have friends over to play. He even started taking the boys out to play catch on Sundays before he left for work. The dining room had a spot for a little china cabinet, and Gemma was so proud to be able to fill it with her wedding china. He felt like he was being a good husband and father and provider, a real success in life. 

Until the accident. 

He was working in the warehouse when someone knocked a shelf over. The metal crossbar landed right in the middle of his back, knocking him down. He went to his GP, who prescribed him some pain medication even though he didn’t see any major damage. The doctor also told him to take two weeks off, which...wasn’t really an option. So he didn’t. 

The pain never went away. He developed a limp from trying to avoid putting too much pressure on one leg when he walked because it made his back act up. 

He became angry and resentful about not being able to do the things he wanted. He stopped spending time with his children, annoyed that he couldn’t throw the ball around with them the way he did when they were younger. Gemma prayed for him, prayed for the pain to go away. 

The day he screamed in pain and dropped a box at work, Gemma and the kids insisted he see another doctor. That one couldn’t find anything either, but suggested he wear a back brace and stop doing manual labor. 

He went to his boss and prayed to a God he’d never really believed in that he wouldn’t be fired. He was never sure if it was divine intervention or luck, but he didn’t lose his job. Instead, they transferred him to a job in security. 

At first it was boring, watching the cameras, watching his pals do work while he sat on his ass. But it paid well, and no one seemed to resent him for it. Sometimes it was even kind of interesting. He started working swing shifts, usually from 6pm to 3am, because he got paid more to do the same damn thing he did during the day: watch the monitors. None of the computers had internet access, so he read and got very, very good at solitaire. 

It was the reading that changed his life. 

He was hurrying out the door to go to work one evening. He’d just finished the last Mickey Spillane mystery and needed something new to read. He saw a book on the table in the front hall, one of Oliver’s library books. He hoped it wasn’t something he needed for school, and scooped it into the briefcase the kids bought him last Christmas. 

When he pulled it out just after midnight, he cursed. It was an art history book. He’d always considered himself a practical man. Art was not practical; it was something rich people used to decorate their fancy houses. He shoved the book to the side and pulled out his deck of cards. 

He lost three games and walked the premises twice before he got bored enough to flip open the cover. 

At first he just looked at the pictures. There were quite a few of naked women, and he apologized to Gemma in his head when he lifted the book to peer at them more closely. Eventually, he started reading the text beside the pictures, explaining why these particular paintings were important culturally and historically. 

Three days later, he finished that book.

Four days later, at the age of 40, he got a library card for the first time in his life. 

Every night while he worked, he read more about art and artists, even learning the names of certain paint colors. 

He came into the kitchen one day to find Oliver flipping through the book he’d just checked out, a biography of Monet. He looked vaguely guilty when his dad walked in. “Sorry, I just, I was just looking.” 

He smiled. Valerie and Simon were away at uni, and he was proud of their ambitions but it was odd not having them around anymore. He’d missed out on so much time with them while he was struggling with anger and pain. Oliver was the only one still living at home full-time, and he felt like he only had a year or two more before his youngest child would be gone too. 

“Where’s your mum?” 

“Next door gossiping with Mrs. Siler,” Oliver said with a grin. 

He took a deep breath, wondering if he was being foolish to ask...but it was Oliver’s library book that had gotten him interested in art in the first place. 

“You’re into this art stuff, yeah?” he tried. 

“Um, yeah, I mean, it’s cool, I guess.” He looked oddly hesitant to continue talking. “My art teacher is a pretty interesting guy. He’s an artist himself and he’s been really encouraging about my work, so--”

He felt just as surprised as he did when the shelf knocked him over. “You’re an artist?” 

Oliver adjusted his glasses anxiously. “I mean, I’m not very good yet. But I like to draw and paint, when I have time.” 

He sat down at the table, next to his son, the one he thought he knew and obviously didn’t know at all. “Could I see some of it?” 

Oliver stared at him. “Erm, I guess so?” He left the room and came back with several sketchbooks. He flipped through the first one and pushed it aside with a little self-conscious laugh. “Those aren’t, er, very good.” He finally opened one that was full of dark black line drawings of random objects, flowers, tables, 3-D shapes. “This one is mostly shadow work.” 

He brushed a stubby finger over one of the lines. “Charcoal?” he asked, and his son’s face lit up in surprise. “Yeah,” he nodded.

Oliver opened another book and pushed it toward his dad. “These are mostly collages, we were studying--”

“Matisse,” he interrupted. 

His son was staring at him like they’d never met before. “Yeah.” 

He took a deep breath and opened the first book, the one he’d originally pushed away. “This one has some figure drawings, but I’m not very good at people yet.” 

He nodded, slowly flipping through the book. There were sketches of bodies, backs, legs, feet, arms, necks. A few faces, but not many. 

Oliver shook his head and pointed to a spot where he’d obviously erased many times. “Faces are tricky.” 

“You’re quite good, Oliver.” He was immediately ashamed of the tears he saw in his son’s eyes. Were his children really that unaccustomed to receiving praise from him? 

That night at work he was flipping through the newspaper someone on day shift left in the breakroom. There was an exhibit of Monet’s work at the British Museum. He folded the paper carefully and tucked it inside his briefcase. 

The next day after school, he tapped carefully on Oliver’s bedroom door. The music that was always playing stopped and the door opened a crack. 

“Sorry, I’ll turn it down,” Oliver said, and started to shut the door again. 

“No, wait, I--” Feeling suddenly foolish, he held the paper out to his youngest son. “Would you be interested in going with your old man to a museum this weekend?” He looked down as Oliver took the paper out of his hands. “You probably have plans with your friends, so…”

Oliver let the door swing open a little wider, not inviting him in but not keeping him out, either. “I...no, I’d love to.” He adjusted his glasses. “I mean, that’d be cool, I guess.” 

He nodded, happier than he’d expected to be. “Good, then. It’s a, erm, plan.” 

Oliver nodded back, and shut the door with a pleased but slightly baffled expression on his face. 

Saturday afternoon found him on Great Russell Street, with his son, exploring the museum’s collections until closing time. 

While they were looking at the artwork, Oliver told him about school and friends and his life, things he’d never talked about before. In return, he told Oliver about work and how bored he got sometimes, how he sometimes felt guilty because he wasn’t doing man’s work. Oliver seemed to bristle at that a little bit, but he thought nothing of it. 

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, the three of them were having dinner and Oliver asked hesitantly, “Dad, would you want to go to the V&A Museum this weekend? There’s an exhibit I’d like to see. I can go on my own, if--” 

“No, I’d like to come with,” he insisted. “Gemma, dear, would you like to come?” 

His wife smiled, a secretive smile he couldn’t quite decipher, but then he’d never completely understood women. “No, that’s your thing. You boys have a good time. I’ll just have to go shopping, I guess.” 

“Don’t you have enough dresses and shoes?” he asked, with a loving glint in his eye. 

“A woman can never have enough shoes,” she insisted, poking him in the arm. “What if I suddenly got invited to visit Buckingham Palace? What would the Queen think?” 

He laughed. “Well, when you get invited to the Palace, you can buy all the shoes you want.” 

**********************

Saturday afternoon, he was standing in a hallway waiting for Oliver to come out of the restroom when he noticed a sign posted on a bulletin board. 

HELP WANTED 

Overnight security guard

Experience preferred but will train

He stared at it, immediately dismissing the idea. He wasn’t the type of person they were looking for. He was too rough around the edges to work in this posh little museum with it’s fancy, educated employees and visitors. He’d never fit in, even if he got the job, which he wouldn’t. 

“You should apply for that, Dad.” He jumped at Oliver’s voice behind him. 

He turned his head in surprise. “They wouldn’t hire someone like your old man,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. 

“Why not?” Oliver asked. “You’ve got lots of experience, and you actually know about this stuff,” he said. “I mean, can’t hurt, yeah?” 

With a shrug, he pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote down the number. 

No one was more surprised than he was when he was offered the job. It was better pay than the warehouse job, and the benefits included a discount in the museum gift shop. 

He and Oliver continued their museum trips on the weekends whenever they were both free, but then Oliver turned 17 and started spending more and more time with a boy from school. They were always in his bedroom upstairs, playing video games and listening to blaring music. It wasn’t what he did with his friends when he was a kid, but these were different times, he supposed. And honestly, by the time he himself was 17, friends weren’t as important to him as girls. Oliver hadn’t had a girlfriend yet, but some kids were just late bloomers. 

Oliver had always been different, his own person. Unlike his siblings who were set on uni by the time they were 10, Oliver was still trying to decide between taking a gap year and applying to art schools. 

He was just doing things on his own schedule. That was all.  

One weekend they were at the Tate Modern, walking around a Rodin sculpture. Something about this one reminded him of the sketches he’d seen in Oliver’s sketchpad that first afternoon.  It hit him, for the first time, really, that the sketchbook had been filled with male figures. Which...could be a coincidence. 

Or not. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He looks over at his youngest son, expecting him to have changed or something, now that he knows. But he’s still Oliver: sweet and sensitive, smart and artistic, handsome like his dad. 

And Gavin loves him, just as much as he does his other two children. 

*******************************

In an odd coincidence, the next time he and Gemma are in church together, they overhear some of the older parishioners chatting about homosexuality after the service. How it’s considered a sin, one that should be rejected by all God-fearing men and women. 

After the service, they go home and sit around their kitchen table, eating egg salad sandwiches for lunch. Oliver, who couldn’t be bothered to wake up for church, staggers downstairs for lunch still in his pajamas. Gavin looks at him and laughs. “Nice hair,” he teases, brushing a large hand through his son’s bedhead. 

“Dad, stop,” he says with a little grin. 

Gavin keeps staring though, looking for the sin, for the evil that’s supposedly present in his youngest child. And he just can’t see it. 

“More egg salad?” Gemma asks. 

“I’m not going to that church anymore,” Gavin says in response. 

Gemma stops, sandwich midway to her lips. “Sorry?”

“I’m not going to church anymore,” he repeats. 

“Why not?” she asks, setting her sandwich down on the little white dish. 

“I’m not going to listen to people prattle on about how homosexuality is a sin, because I don’t believe that.” 

His wife and son stare at him.  

He looks away, hurriedly gets up to make himself another sandwich at the counter. “People love who they love. If someone told me it was wrong to love you, Gemma, I wouldn’t have listened to them.” He slams the container down a little harder than he means to. 

When he returns to the table, he’s chewing his sandwich before he has the nerve to look up. His wife and son are smiling softly at each other. 

Well, damn. She always knows things before he does. 

“Whatever you say, dear,” his wife says softly. “I guess I’ll have more time to shop for shoes, then.” 

“You have enough shoes,” he mutters. 

“You say that now, but what if the Queen invites us to tea? Wouldn’t want to be embarrassed, now, would you?” 

They never go back to that church. He doesn’t miss it. 

*****************************

The week before he leaves for art school, Oliver invites Gavin to see an exhibit on Asian art at the British Museum. They’re walking around, looking at woodblock prints and chatting about the saturated colors and the brushstrokes. They turn a corner and end up in a smaller part of the exhibit with no one else around them. 

“Is this the same bridge as that other painting?” Gavin asks. 

“Dad, I’m gay,” Oliver blurts out, still staring at the artwork in front of them. 

“I thought you might be,” Gavin says, also looking straight ahead. He reaches out and wraps his arm around his son’s shoulders. He presses a kiss just above Oliver’s ear. “You’re my son and I love you.” 

“I was worried you wouldn’t,” Oliver whispers. He takes his glasses off and wipes them on the hem of his t-shirt. 

“Son, when you have children, you’ll see.” Oliver turns to face him. Gavin is slightly ashamed to see surprise there. “When you’re a parent, you love your child. It’s not optional.” 

They hug each other silently for a while. When they pull apart, Oliver wipes his face and sniffs. He points at the print on the wall. “Yeah, same bridge.” 

Chapter Text

Soon after he started working at the V&A, Gavin heard stories from the other guards about how the royal family visits some mornings, before the museum opens to the public. His fellow staffers have varying opinions on the royal family, but Gavin has never given them much thought one way or the other. They have too much money and too much power, but he’s had more important things to worry about for most of his life. 

It’s still a shock when he’s working one night and sees someone come in through a locked door at half-past midnight. On the monitor, it looks like a tall, gangly teenage boy, probably some kid just up to shenanigans. Gavin rests one hand on the radio at his hip, trying to look intimidating as he heads toward the entrance. He waits until the boy is a few steps inside the foyer, then clicks on his flashlight. 

And shines it directly in the face of the Prince of Wales. 

“Shit!” the Prince says.

Gavin flicks the flashlight off and just stares at someone he’s only ever seen on television. 

“I mean, sorry, I, erm, I have a key,” the Prince says, holding up what is, indeed, a key. “The museum director gave it to my parents. I’m allowed to be here,” he says, with a false bravado Gavin has heard from his own children when they knew they were in trouble. 

“Yes, sir, of course, Your Highness.” He bows his head a little, unsure of exactly how to handle this particular situation. The prince is dressed in sweats and trainers. He has headphones looped around his neck. Gavin looks around for some kind of royal bodyguard, the army of people who usually travel with the royals in public, and sees no one but this scared boy. 

“I’m not here to steal anything, I’m just here to look around,” he assures Gavin.  

“Of course not, Sir.” In a moment of temporary insanity, he decides to risk joking with someone who could probably have him fired. “Kind of belongs to you anyway, dunnit? No sense stealing anything.” 

The boy bites his bottom lip and fights a grin. Gavin imagines he’s had training on how to act like a royal, but he’s really just a child. 

Gavin turns away and ambles back toward the control panel in his booth. “Where you headed, then? I’ll turn the lights on for you. Can’t have you knockin’ around in the dark.” 

The boy, Prince Henry , his brain supplies, seems surprised but then quickly follows. “Erm, the sculpture galleries, I believe.” He’s straightened up again, a solemn look on his face. He pulls something out of his pocket and places it, somewhat awkwardly, into Gavin’s hand. It’s a roll of pound notes. 

“Sir, this isn’t--”

“Keep it, please. I’d like this visit to be kept in confidence.” 

Gavin weighs his options. He doesn’t feel right keeping the money but he realizes maybe it’ll make the boy feel a little more secure, certain that Gavin won’t tell anyone he was here. 

“I promise this is just between us, Your Highness.” He pockets the money and holds his index finger to his lips. 

The boy smiles, then schools his face into that somber expression again.  “Thank you.” 

Gavin waves an arm toward the galleries, dramatically flipping on the hallway lights. The prince nods at him solemnly and walks off into the semi-darkness. 

When Gavin sees him again, on the security cameras, he’s got the headphones in his ears. He’s examining each statue closely, with an educated eye. Gavin wishes he could follow him around and ask him what he’s looking at, this boy who already has more of an education than Gavin ever dreamed of. 

When he leaves about 90 minutes later, the prince nods and waves at Gavin. Before he makes it all the way to the door, Gavin calls out, “Sir?” 

The prince turns, visibly anxious again. “I don’t work on Sundays or Mondays. Might be best to avoid those nights, for what it’s worth.” 

The boy grins at him. “Thank you.” He clears his throat and steps back toward the guard booth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” 

“Gavin. Gavin Davies.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Davies.” He takes a deep breath. “Please, call me Henry.” 

“Of course, sir. I mean, Henry.” He holds out a hand for the boy to shake. “But only if you’ll call me Gavin.” 

Prince Henry shows up occasionally over the next year or so. He’s always alone, always polite, always slips Gavin a wad of cash. He must know by now it’s not necessary, but Gavin decided long ago that he wasn’t going to argue the point. 

There’s something sad and lonely about this young man, who has the entire world at his feet. It makes Gavin want to give him a hug, but that's not an acceptable way to treat royalty. 

He tries to give Henry his privacy, but sometimes he watches the cameras, just long enough to see what art the prince is drawn to. He spends a lot of time in Renaissance City, looking at each statue with the same intensity Gavin witnessed that first night. He bends and stoops to look at tiny details on some of the pieces, and when Gavin does his hourly walk-throughs he stops too, wondering what was so fascinating about a chipped hand or a foot. 

The prince sometimes wears his headphones while he wanders around, but he always puts them on when he walks into the Chapel of Santa Chiara. Gavin can see his lips moving, singing along, probably, but turning on the audio feed feels even more intrusive. 

Henry’s usually friendly, if not very talkative, when he arrives. But one night he shows up looking like he’s just lost his best friend. Gavin isn’t sure if it’s okay to ask, so he doesn’t. 

“Renaissance City, Henry?” 

He nods silently and walks off before Gavin even has all the lights on. 

When Gavin sees him on the screens, Henry is sitting next to a statue called Samson Slaying a Philistine. His arms are wrapped around his knees, face buried in his arms. Based on the way his body is shuddering, Gavin guesses he’s crying. 

Gavin looks away from the monitor and stares at a little switch, the one that would stop that camera from recording. He feels funny doing it, because it’s technically breaking a rule. It could get him fired, if anyone knew. 

He flips the switch, deciding that if anyone ever finds out, he’ll claim it was an accident. 

About a month later, the news announces that Arthur Fox has died. Gavin’s heart clenches for the sad, lonely boy who spends so much time wandering alone in a museum. He hopes there are supportive family members and friends surrounding him at a time like this. 

Like most businesses in London, the museum closes for three days out of respect. The night it reopens, Prince Henry sneaks in the door. 

He lifts a hand toward the guard booth and Gavin steps out. Henry holds out a hand with the familiar roll of cash in it, but Gavin waves it away. “I’m sorry for your loss, Your High...Henry.” 

When Henry looks up, his eyes are hollow.  He stuffs the money in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Thank you,” he says, in a voice that’s tired and hoarse and rough. He suddenly looks and sounds ten years older than he did the last time he visited. Gavin doesn’t even ask, just turns on the lights to Renaissance City. He isn’t surprised when Henry sits down in that same spot and sobs. 

Not long afterward, Henry leaves for Oxford, which Gavin hears from him but also from the news and every tabloid at the market. He stops by occasionally when he’s in town, but Gavin doesn’t see him much over the next few years. 

Through the tabloids and the news programs, Gavin learns about the engagement of Henry’s older brother, Philip, and then about Cakegate. He feels terribly for the poor boy... well, he’s a man now, actually. Everyone has silly accidents, but everything the royals do is somehow newsworthy. The loyal Brit in him wants to blame that American, the President’s son.

One night, not long after that, Gavin is on his phone looking for gifts for his grandkids, when he sees the locked door slowly open. 

He walks toward the entrance to meet Henry halfway. “Hello, sir. Long time no see!” 

He doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s met with a smiling young man, practically bouncing with each step. “Hello, Gavin, how’ve you been?” 

“Well enough, sir, well enough.” He wants to ask why the prince is in such a good mood. He wonders if he’s finally met a special young woman. But Gavin has always been the picture of discretion and he isn’t about to change that now. 

Henry hands over a few bills and Gavin pockets them with one hand while flipping the light switches with the other. “Where to?” 

“The Chapel, I think,” he replies. 

Gavin gives him a little salute and a nod. “Enjoy, sir.” 

************************

On his next visit, Henry isn’t alone. 

Gavin was expecting that, though, because Henry had called ahead to make sure Gavin was on the night shift. He’s come to trust a couple of the other guards, but he seems most comfortable visiting when Gavin is on the job. He’d told him where he planned to go, and asked that the lights be turned on. “I’m, er, bringing a friend tonight.” 

On the monitor, he sees Henry slip inside the door, pulling someone else by the arm. Gavin steps out of his booth, eager to meet Henry’s friend, or girlfriend, whoever he brought with him tonight. He’s expecting one of the pretty blond actresses Henry is often photographed with. 

He hopes he manages to conceal his shock when the other person shucks off their hood and Gavin recognizes him as the President’s son. Ah, he’s seen the tabloid stories that said these two were fast friends now. Gavin finds himself looking for traces of icing in their hair or on their clothes, even though that whole debacle happened months before. 

Henry thanks him, grateful and polite as usual, and slips him the usual wad of cash. “Can’t thank you enough, Gavin.” 

“Renaissance City tonight, yeah?” 

“If you would be so kind,” Henry answers. The man with him, Alex Claremont-Diaz, stares at them while they complete their little transaction. He smirks and waves his fingers as the prince eagerly drags him off down the hallway. 

Gavin is thinking how nice it is to see the prince happy, having made a friend he can spend time with, when he happens to glance at a monitor and sees the two men kiss. 

Oh. 

Oh.  

Gavin feels as dense as he did when he realized Oliver was gay. He’s still slow on the uptake, it would seem.  

In the years since Oliver came out to him, Gavin has become a member of a local parent support group and even attended a few pride parades. And he still missed all the signs here. Or maybe the prince was just very good at keeping this a secret. 

He’s checking the cameras in the other parts of the museum, giving the two men as much privacy as he can while they wander the piazza holding hands. He watches the image switch from one camera to another as they step inside the Chapel of Santa Chiara. The prince does something off-screen, and then they meet in the middle of the room and start to dance. 

Gavin immediately realizes how explosive this could be for the two of them. Oliver has told him about how scary coming out was for him, and he wasn’t in the public eye. Gavin knows that in the wrong person’s hands, this information, these images, could be used to blackmail either of them, or sold for a ridiculous sum of money. 

For the second time in his life, Gavin risks his job, and flips a switch. He watches with great satisfaction as the screen on one particular monitor goes dark.  

And when the awful email leak happens, complete with photos, he knows he made the right decision. 

Chapter Text

Three years later...

“Gavin! Gavin!!” Gemma is screaming from the doorway. 

Gavin runs as quickly as he can down the stairs, fully expecting someone to be bleeding or something to be on fire. “What?” he says, gasping for air. It’s a good thing he’s a year away from retirement, because even if someone broke into the museum, he couldn’t chase them. 

There’s no imminent danger in the front hall, just Gemma holding a creamy white envelope. She stares at him for a full minute before she can speak, so pale he’s afraid she might faint. “We...we….we got an invitation to the Royal Wedding.” 

Gavin plucks the envelope from her hands and reads the fancy calligraphy, inviting them both to Henry and Alex’s wedding at Westminster Abbey. 

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Gavin comments, handing the invitation back to her.

“Nice? Nice!?” She’s shouting again. “How did we even get invited to this? This must be a mistake. They’re going to tell us it was some sort of clerical error and shove us out the back door, is what they’re going to do.” 

“I don’t think it’s a mistake, dear.” He calmly takes the envelope again and flips it over. “That’s the Royal Seal. And our names are engraved on the invitation and the envelope.” 

Gemma clutches the envelope to her chest. “Oh dear Lord, what will I wear?” She runs upstairs, presumably to her closet, leaving her husband to smile to himself. He’s never told her, never broken the promise he made to Henry years ago to keep his visits secret. 

“You must have something, you’ve been planning for this half your life,” he calls up the stairs. 

She only gets a little angry at him when they chat with Henry at the wedding reception, and Henry explains how they know each other, how long they’ve known each other. She agrees to forgive her husband when Henry asks her to dance, because all her neighbors will see the pictures of her dancing with royalty in Hello! magazine the next month. 

Gavin gets a chance to tell Henry about all his children and grandchildren. Henry’s especially interested to hear about Oliver, but he asks questions about all of them and patiently looks at pictures on Gavin’s phone. 

And Gavin finally gets to give Henry the hug he’s wanted to give him for years. 

He’s always assumed Henry had everything he could ever want, but he realizes now that there’s one very important thing he doesn’t have. Gavin can’t take the place of Arthur Fox, but he can do something. So he holds Henry in a tight hug and whispers in his ear, “I’m so proud of you, and your father would be so proud of you.” 

Henry’s eyes seem to be damp, but Gavin can’t be sure because his own are a little blurry. 

He has one other gift for Henry. He pulls an envelope out of his breast pocket and hands it over. 

“What’s this?” Henry asks. 

“It’s your money.” 

Henry stares at him, mouth hanging open, as he pulls out a wad of bills. “Gavin, this isn't at all necessary. We don’t need--”

“No, Sir, that’s not a gift. That’s your money, the money you gave me every time you visited. ‘Course I had to change it all into some larger bills or it wouldn’t fit into my pocket,” he chuckles. 

Henry’s staring at the pastel banknotes in his hands. Gavin leans in. “You never needed to pay me to keep your secret, sir. Some of us have good old-fashioned integrity.” 

Henry tries to push the envelope back into his hands. “You should keep this. You--”

Gavin shakes his head and holds his hands up, away from the money. “I’m not exactly giving it to you, Henry. I thought you could use it for your charity.” And he tells Henry about Oliver’s husband, Keith, who was rejected by his own parents when he came out. He thinks about all the children he’s met at pride parades and other events, who found themselves but lost their families in the process. 

“My children are grown and doing well. My grandkids are spoiled rotten. I’m about to start collecting a nice retirement pension.” He looks around and sees Gemma, chatting with the President of the United States like they’re old friends. “And I’m about to dance with my wife in a ballroom at Buckingham Palace.” He straightens up proudly. “I have everything I need. Those kids don’t.” He pushes the envelope toward Henry one more time. “Give it to them.” 

With another tearful hug and a promise to keep in touch, Henry steps away to chat with his other guests. Gavin straightens his suit and tie, and asks the most beautiful woman in the room to dance. 

She says yes.