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"Sir," comes the measured voice of his equerry, Donna. She stands a step behind the door frame, waiting for him to look up. He blinks to see her, the evening dark and full of rain."Donna," he says as she takes two measured steps in. She doesn't waste time or space and Philip appreciates it about her. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a low, sensible ponytail and everything from her dress, her demeanor, and her speech is measured."You wanted to be alerted when she started whelping," Donna says, a small shine to her eyes that always happens when the dogs are mentioned. Philip finds himself flashing her a quick grin as he steps away and changes quickly.It's never not exciting, getting to see the newest litter as they enter the world. He dresses in old jeans that few have ever seen him in and a sweatshirt that once belonged to Philip's father. There's a logo embroidered on the sleeve, gold thread outlining a jewel, a safe, and the words Bond 85. It's Philip's favorite, worn soft and just baggy enough.He pulls on his wellies, tucking his jeans into them and nods to her sharply when he steps into the receiving area of his quarters."Lead the way," he says, pocketing his phone and charger.===Philip's first pet (his first real pet, all on his own and not just the family labrador) had been a chameleon.He was six, newly an older brother, and Philip remembers silently waiting with his grandparents for news.Silence with his grandparents had been difficult then.(He remembers the door opening and an exhausted and harried Arthur Fox had strode in. He'd sketched the barest hint of a bow and scooped Philip up in a safe, secure hug."Well, Philip," he'd said, tapping Philip's nose, "you've got a little sister. How 'bout that, chap?")Beatrice had been home for a week when his father had taken him to a pet store and let him look. Philip had gone past all of the kittens, puppies, and all the other kinds of creatures that would have been acceptable.He'd paused on the snakes, peering at them curiously, watching the unblinking eyes and the shift of scales."See anything you like?" Arthur asked. Philip turned his head, mouth open to say something when he saw it.On a branch in a terrarium, eyes moving separately, was a lizard. Not just any lizard, but a chameleon.Its skin was a deep blue that soon faded into lighter shades. Bumpy stripes crossed its body in scarlet and hundreds of other colors that Philip hadn't had words for. It focused one eye on Philip when he approached, the other eye looking in a totally different direction. It didn't move, but it changed shades of blue slightly and Philip had only breathed out, "Wow.""He's a handsome fellow," Arthur said, bending down to look at the chameleon with Philip."Like a dragon," Philip agreed, thinking of St. George and the stories that his Grandad had told him. Arthur had hummed, reading the plaque to Philip in a murmur."Ambanja Panther Chameleon. His diet consists of crickets, locusts, wax worms, and mealworms. You sure, Philip?" Arthur had asked as Philip had nodded furiously. He hadn't begged, hadn't pleaded the way that he'd heard other kids do (that would not have been proper, he knew even then) and there was a moment of silence before Arthur pushed his hands into his trousers and nodded."Gavin, when I end up in the Tower for this, say something nice, will you?" Arthur had said to his PPO, nodding to Philip with a wink. It was a wink like Philip was in on the joke and Philip grinned the whole way home, holding the box in the careful cradle of his arms, hearing the soft scribbling of reptilian feet on cardboard."What are you naming him then?" Arthur had asked, car full of equipment to set up a space for the chameleon. Philip had hummed and with a fingertip stroking the bumpy, cool side of the chameleon."George," Philip had said decisively. His name is George."===Philip strides through the grounds with Donna at his side until he gets to the kennels. The baying of the beagles within is comforting, a not-so-distant memory of his grandfather showing him the hounds. He had spent more of his teen years with these dogs than his own family."Shall I send for some tea, sir?" Donna asks as Philip slides in through the gate. He whistles sharply and most of the dogs - save the obstinate ones - quiet down."Yes, please, Donna. Has the vet been alerted, in case anything should go wrong?" he asks, pocketing his phone and placing the charger over a hook that usually holds leashes. Already, the tension in his shoulders is slipping away, familiar sounds soothing something he didn't know was verging towards irritation."Yes, sir. The kennel master called him then me," she says. Philip nods and murmurs a thanks as he walks through the rows of kennels.On either side of the wall are long fences, separated by divisions of separate kennels. Three on each side with two larger ones at the end for impending litters. He stops at each kennel of four dogs, greeting them with a soft voice and gentle hands. There's twenty-four of them in all; soft heads and gentle whines leaving him with a smile on his face.He walks to the whelping box at the end, checking on the temperature controls to make sure the mother and her pups don't catch a chill. The box is a perfect square on the ground, wood planks forming a barrier for when the pups begin to move around. In the box are pads that can be disposed of as well as large blankets that she's arranged to her liking and he smiles at the sight. The floor to ceiling gate is cut in half like all the others, wood holding the chain link fencing as he opens the top half and gently knocks his knuckles on the wood.He hears a soft rustling and then he sees her coming out to greet him. She moves ponderously slowly with a large belly, mouth open and panting in pain, but she lets him throw a leg over the hip height gate and come into her area."Hello, Rosemary, my dear," Philip says, crouching down to rub her head gently, scrunching her ears and dodging the lick she tries to give his face.He lowers himself to the floor of the whelping pen, pulling his phone out as Rosemary lays beside him, panting heavily. He murmurs to her, tapping out texts, waiting for the time to pass.===There's an argument behind closed doors after Philip brings George the chameleon home. It's loud and his mother's voice had risen with anger only to be countered by his Grandmother. Philip had sat in a chair outside the room, kicking his legs and wanting nothing more than to be back in his room with George.Philip could hear words like proper and that was familiar; Grandmother was always concerned with proper and Philip had always tried his best, wanting nothing more than the approving nod she would give sometimes. Philip had heard his father's voice, mild and careful, before his mother had broken in and the arguments had started again.Philip had thought about George. About his funny eyes and funnier paws that grabbed for anything. Phillip had loved the way his bumpy skin felt and his strange head turning this way and that when his parents helped Philip feed him."You will turn him soft and I'll not have it!"His Grandmother's voice had rang in the sitting room that Philip was in, the air stilling as the staff stayed at their posts and Philip had been unable to move. He didn't know why it was so bad to be soft but Grandmother was the Queen and she had always talked to Philip like a grownup and he had liked that."Hey, now. What's this?"His Grandfather was still a tall, slender, jovial man then. He had reddish brown hair and creases on his face from smiling. Thomas was, for lack of a better word, soft. He had always been there to spend time with Philip, to talk with his parents, and to freely offer affection that Philip's Grandmother eschewed. His hair was thinning on top by then but his green eyes were bright as he sat beside Philip."Dad let me get a chameleon. He's an Ambanja Panther Chameleon," Philip had said carefully as Thomas nodded. The door opened for some of the staff to go in, their faces fixed in a placid expression as the argument drifted out."You don't get to tell me what to do with our son!""You will not speak to me that way, Catherine. Not as your mother and certainly not as the Queen.""Mary, he's six yea-""Arthur, I do not recall you being asked."Philip remembers that his mother had been wearing blue, like the color of the sky and feeling pleased because they matched. In his father's arms was Bea, not interesting enough to warrant much notice and briefly, Philip had been jealous.The argument had changed then, squabbling voices rising before the sound muted with the closing door."Come on, Pip," Thomas had said, standing and offering his hands. Philip held his hands out, going to stand before Thomas had gently swung him onto his hip. "Let's go see your new friend. What's his name?"“George,” Philip had said, letting his grandfather carry him away from the argument, expressing admiration for the name and later for the creature that he had helped Philip hold.(Later that year, Bea sitting up on her own, chortling in delight at Philip showing George off, he hadn’t thought of Thomas and the cough that seemed to grow stronger as his Grandfather grew thinner. He’d only known that Thomas was someone he could talk about George to and could get away from the arguing.)===The kennel is warm where Philip sits, heat lamps above kicking on as the night air grows more chill with the rain coming down. There’s barking but his attention is on Rosemary, laying in the whelping box, whining as he strokes her head, offering comfort that is second nature for the dogs but almost nobody else. He dials Martha before he can hesitate, wanting another voice to keep him company.“Well, hello there,” she says demurely and he thinks he can hear the smile in her voice, pleased that he called her after texting all evening.Philip hesitates.“Maz,” he says finally as Rosemary pants and whines loudly when his hand stops. Philip huffs softly, stroking over her head and her soft ears.“Are you in the whelping pen with her?” Martha asks, voice gentle. Philip puts her on speakerphone, placing it on the wooden lip of the whelping box, reaching for towels that had been brought over once Rosemary had gone into the box.“Yes. Is that so surprising?” he asks, hoping the answer is no. Martha hums softly.“I think that someone who hadn’t known you before you had spots would be surprised but I remember how you were about George the chameleon, so no. How’s our girl doing?”Philip swallows hard, looking down at Rosemary and feeling his cheeks flush. Our girl, Martha says, as if Philip can be normal after that.“I don’t remember agreeing to shared custody,” Philip manages, voice shaking briefly as he clears his throat, “She’s good. No complications but no pups yet. Getting there, I think.”“Shared custody? Pah,” Martha says, the clicking of keys letting him know that she’s in her study, working on whatever University paper is coming up, “I picked out the one you kept, that’s more than shared custody.”“And yet,” Philip says, smiling to himself. Martha laughs softly, the kind that she doesn’t let herself laugh out in public. He knows that they were set up from childhood to be partners and there is a Plan (his Grandmother’s voice ringing through the dining room, explaining these things to him just after breakfast. It was the same tone that she’d used to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that George the chameleon would be rehomed as it wasn’t a pet that befit a Prince), but he finds himself grateful that Martha is his friend and someone he could love.“What are you working on?” Philip asks as Rosemary groans, sitting up and panting hard. Her belly is firm when he presses a hand to it, small bodies moving just beneath and he finds himself excited to see this newest litter. He’s always excited for the newest litters, even if he doesn’t keep them, for the health of his pack. He watches Rosemary like a hawk as Martha starts speaking.“Charity proposal,” Martha says, humming, “I told Mother that I wanted to take over duties and one of them is proposing new donation drives. Same old humanitarian things that Mother likes to pretend is a calling and not an excuse for good press.”Philip snorts.“And what’s this one?” Philip says as Rosemary huffs, laying back down.“Book drive for the Council Estates,” she says, a grin in her voice as she crunches on something. He listens to her chew and laughs when she speaks again, “I figured it’d drive Mother batty but she can’t say anything without looking an arse, so it’s the best of both worlds.”“You should ask Henry for help. Then she really couldn’t say no,” Philip says, grinning to himself. He doesn't always understand the urge that Martha has: the urge to help and the urge to rebel. It feels as if it's a foreign language to him but she never makes him feel bad for not understanding. Martha laughs, the one that’s almost a cackle that Philip feels proud of drawing out.Philip opens his mouth but gasps when he sees the first puppy spilling forth, red and slimy, wiggling as Rosemary cleans it off. He grabs for the towels in the basket and begins to help her clean it off, her eyes intent on him as he lets her nose around his hands and the towel as he hands it back to her. She’s comfortable with him doing it, familiar from her first litter the year previous, a matriarch now.“First pup?” Martha says, knowingly. Philip laughs softly, wiping his hands and watching Rosemary nudge the pup to nurse for the first time.“Right on time,” he says, fondly. Martha starts typing again, the clicking of her keyboard a welcome sound as Rosemary pants and eyes him as if he should just let her get on with it.“Ah, truly a Montchristen-Windsor, being on time,” Martha says as Philip laughs, surprising himself with the sound as he watches Rosemary welcoming a second puppy.It’s just gone nine and he lets the sound of Martha’s typing and new puppies surround him.===Philip is seven when Grandmother finally puts her foot down, directing him and his parents to see about rehoming George and his wonderful colors and fascinating eyes.His parents talk in quiet tones as she walks off, heels clicking authoritatively and Philip looks up at them and thinks, briefly, that it isn’t fair.He didn’t say it. He didn’t cry and he didn't beg, knowing that Grandmother wouldn’t like it and that there isn’t anything his parents could have done. Philip had looked away from his parents, pulling at a loose thread inside of his pocket, feeling the fabric pucker and the seam break where nobody can see it.“Dad, you have to talk to her! She’s completely unreasonable,” his Mom had said when Thomas walked up. He had been smaller than the year before, face paler and Philip remembers knowing that they wouldn’t tell him anything, but he thinks that his Grandfather had disappeared before their eyes. Philip had watched Thomas look at her with a soft, understanding expression.“Darling,” he had said gently, “You know that she isn’t prone to changing her mind.”“So, we just let her demand that her grandson’s pet be rehomed because it doesn’t fit what her image of a Prince is?” his Dad had said, face as stormy as it would be when he was acting in his movies, fighting bad guys and being charming. Philip had looked to his Grandfather, hoping to see something there and he resisted the urge to plead his case. He had pulled the other loose threads in his pockets, tangling them around his fingertips until it bit into his skin.“This is above and beyond either of us, Arthur. You’d do well to remember that she is the Queen.”“And she’d do well to remember that we’re her family,” his Mom had said sharply as they fell to arguing and Philip remembered ducking his head so he didn’t have to see them. He could hear the larger argument brewing, Thomas trying to play peacekeeper and failing. He had looked over to the painting that hangs on the wall across from them. It was a nature scene, beagles running alongside horses while chasing foxes.He had thought about the calm authority that his Grandmother had always had about her; a serene knowing that her way will be the end result and he had met his Dad’s eyes. His Dad looked tired and sad as Philip walked over.“Dad,” Philip had said softly, “can Gavin have him?”Gavin, his Dad’s PPO, had always been Philip’s favorite person to ask questions about George. He had, what seemed then, to be an endless fount of knowledge about reptiles. In the corner of the room, Gavin, looking at Philip with kind green eyes, had nodded with a wink. His red hair shone in the morning sun and Philip found himself on the receiving end of his parents’ gaze.“Honey, you don’t have to give George up,” Catherine had said, crouching down. She always tried to put herself on his level and her eyes were kind, the bags under them soft and covered barely. “I’ll talk to your Grandmother.”“She doesn’t change her mind,” Philip had said, parroting Thomas, as his Grandfather had winced. “And Gavin will love him and then I can still see him if Gavin says I can.”“Philip,” Arthur had said as his parents shared an expression. “Gavin may not want to take on an exotic pet.”“Ask him!” Philip had said, jutting his chin out stubbornly. He didn’t do this often, didn’t make demands because it wouldn’t be proper. He had never insisted, he had always tried his best to be exactly what his family expected of him. He had looked back to Gavin who came forward carefully when Arthur motions.“Gav?”“I’d be delighted to take George home, of course, your Highness,” Gavin had said, Irish accent winding around the words as Philip looked up to his parents. They had looked sad but Philip found himself hoping that he'd made someone in the room proud, even as he thought about how empty his room would feel.Thomas had leaned down, pressing a light kiss to Philip’s hair, a murmur of “Good lad,” into his hair and Philip had watched his soft smile and felt like he’d accomplished something even as Thomas seemed to grow smaller from then on.===A standard litter of pups for his dogs tends to be eight to ten, Philip has learned, since taking over the beagles from his Grandfather.Rosemary, however, is always the exception, rather than the rule.“Number eleven,” Philip says, breathlessly laughing as Martha cheers. Rosemary lays on her side, panting with her eyes closed as Philip finishes wiping puppy number eleven off, encouraging him to latch and nurse.“That’s quite a large litter for yours, isn’t it?” Martha asks, a yawn obscuring her words briefly. It’s just after midnight and Rosemary takes some water when Philip offers her the bowl. She licks his hand lightly as he watches her carefully.“Mm, Ella’s last litter was only seven. Rosemary is an overachiever,” Philip says fondly, laughing softly. His hips and back ache and he wants nothing more than a shower and to crawl into bed for a few hours. He tosses the used towels into a nearby basket outside of the whelping kennel, knowing that one of the staff will take care of it after he heads back to his room.“I’m sure you don’t know what that’s like.”“I have no idea what you mean,” Philip says easily, smiling to himself when Martha laughs softly. Philip cleans up as best he can, pulling soiled pads from under Rosemary and the puppies as he gently moves newer ones to them. Rosemary grumbles softly but doesn’t warn him off as he tosses those outside the kennel as well.Martha says something when Philip sees it; a small, barely moving lump and his heart sinks. He reaches for it, the puppy smaller than its siblings but moving sluggishly. It doesn’t complain when he roughs it’s sides to stimulate some kind of response.“Oh dammit, Maz,” Philip says, clearing the puppy’s airway as the vet taught him once upon a time. The puppy whines at the motion but doesn’t seem to care that Philip’s heart is racing and his stomach is sour with anxiety, “there’s a runt. He’s not responding.”“Oh no,” Martha says, “can I do anything?”“Not unless you’re suddenly a vet,” Philip says sharply, wincing as he murmurs an apology after. Martha hums something and he finally gets the puppy to cry out, agitated at his movements. Rosemary looks at him, surprised as Philip is by the sound. Philip laughs breathlessly, putting the puppy down at a teat, watching it latch slowly.“Well, sounds like he came around,” Martha says, a smile in her voice.“Too right,” Philip says, slumping back against the wall, tilting his head back. “I do actually need to call the vet. Just in case it goes downhill.”“Of course. Get some rest though, love. You can hardly help Rosemary out if you’re exhausted.”Philip groans, murmuring a soft goodbye to Martha, blushing through the warmth in her voice and the feelings that take up space in his chest. He takes a quick photo of the litter and sends it to her, before he can doubt himself. He gathers the dirty linens and leaves them outside of the kennel and climbs out. The kennels are quiet and he closes the whelping kennel door, Rosemary resting quietly with the soft sounds of her puppies nursing. He smiles as he makes his way back to his room and his shower.He calls the vet, on his way back, talking with him quietly and figuring out a time for the vet to come by, checking on the litter and Rosemary.It’s only after he showers, collapsing into bed with nothing more than a pair of boxers on, that he allows himself to feel the aches and pains of having been on the floor for the evening. He drifts off, thinking of the kennels and the man who introduced Philip to the dogs therein.===When Philip is nine and Bea is three, his brother Henry is born.Henry had been born quickly, Philip had heard the staff say, but he was small. Philip hadn’t worried because nobody else in his family had worried. He just knew that his brother was finally here and he hoped that it meant they could finally go back to Llwynywermod like had been promised. Philip had been sitting in the study with Bea when their Grandfather had come to sit with them.Thomas had explained, gently, that their mother wasn’t feeling well and they would have to wait a few days to meet their new brother. Bea hadn’t understood, she had just raised her arms, unafraid to ask for the affection she wanted. Thomas had picked her up and Philip had nodded to him as he went back to his book.Philip remembers wondering if Henry was blond like himself or if he had their mother’s red hair. Thomas had been thin then, as if he were wasting away; his cheeks were growing gaunt and Philip remembers his hair thinning to the point of baldness. He had always had a smile for Philip and a hug for Bea and Philip was briefly jealous of Bea being able to ask for hugs so easily.Sometime after, the Nanny had come to retrieve Bea for her nap and he had sat beside Thomas in peaceful silence until a coughing fit had wracked Thomas’ shrinking frame.“Pip, lad,” Thomas had said, voice hoarse. He used a handkerchief to wipe at his lips, tucking the cloth into his pocket, “would you like to go check on the kennels with me?”Philip had walked to the kennel with his Grandfather, going slower than he had remembered, following along. There had been staff along the way but Philip doesn’t remember them and the only thing on his mind then had been Thomas’ comforting bulk beside him.“You are going to have to take on some responsibilities in the next few months, you know,” Thomas had rasped, holding his handkerchief over his mouth coughing into it briefly and shaking his head when a member of the staff had started towards them.“Her Majesty told me,” Philip had said cautiously, looking up at his grandfather for direction. The kennel had been loud with the baying of the dogs, not yet let out for their morning run.“Good lad, Pip. You must always remember that she is the Queen first and your grandmother second. But never doubt that she loves you.”“Do you love her, Grandfather?” Philip had asked, uncharacteristically brave as Thomas had opened the door to the kennels, full of the scent of dog and cedar and pine. Thomas had paused, looking at Philip with sharp eyes that never changed, no matter how sick he had gotten.“Pip,” Thomas had said, lowering himself to a nearby stool, waving off the help of a palace staff member. He had paused, considering his words as Philip had fidgeted until a wordless shake of Thomas’ head had stopped the fidgeting. He knew, as he always had, what was acceptable and fidgeting was never acceptable, lest anyone think Philip unsure.“Philip, when you are royalty like our family, love is not always required for a relationship. Do you understand what I’m saying?”“No, Grandfather,” Philip had said, sitting on a stool when Thomas had motioned to it. Philip remembers noticing the age in his Grandfather’s stooped back, the lines of his face, and the paper thin skin on the backs of his hands. Thomas had been serious, then; verging on stern.“I am very fond of your Grandmother and I have always been, but that does not mean that we are necessarily in love with each other. That does not erase the fondness and care we have for one another and that there are many different ways to love someone. Mary was a young woman who was being pressured to make choices that were not easy and she needed a partner. I was happy then, and am happy still, to be that partner.”“But-”“Philip, not all love must be grand sweeping affairs, no matter what your mother says. She has always been fanciful and I have always indulged her. My Mary and I were always great friends and enjoyed time together, so when I proposed marriage, that is what I offered. Seek friendship first and love comes after.”“Oh,” Philip had said. He had sat beside his Grandfather then, taking in the sights and sounds of the kennels, wondering what his parents would say. He nods slowly, watching Thomas with wide eyes as Thomas nods sharply to himself.“I did speak with Her Majesty and I thought perhaps you would like to help out with the kennels from now on. The family has always had beagles for hunting,” Thomas had said with his customary smile putting Philip at ease.They had gone through the kennels, Thomas talking to Philip about the care of the pack, about training, introducing him to the two kennel masters - Owen and Tim - and going over what it means. Philip remembers that day as the day he got to spend with the newest litter, laughing in the sunlight while the puppies clambered over him and his Grandfather had watched, fondly.Philip had gone inside, dirty, tired, and his Grandfather’s arm around his shoulder, beaming and comforted over the absence of George the chameleon by the open affection.Less than a year later, Thomas had passed away. He had gone peacefully and it had been the first time Philip had lost a family member. Even as an adult, all he had remembered of that time was a quiet sense of bewilderment, even as he walked beside his Grandmother, his mother and father on either side of them.Bea had been held by their father and Henry, a quiet, shy baby, had been held by their mother and Philip could only offer his arm to his Grandmother.She hadn’t taken it (had waved him off, in fact), so he walked without comfort, watching the carriage in front of him, something fundamentally changed inside him.===Three and a half months after the passing of Arthur Fox, Philip finds himself again without comfort. He tells himself that he does not need it in the same way that Bea and Henry do; that their weakness is his strength and everything else his Grandmother says. He tells himself over and over until it feels like the truth and not that nobody has considered how Philip feels to be suddenly without his father.His mother is taken by her grief and Philip allows his Grandmother to voice all of her vitriol about Catherine and her absence, knowing better than to argue with his Grandmother. He tunes it out, wondering how Rosemary and the puppies are doing, how Martha is doing, anything to distract him from the venom that merely exhausts him these days.Besides, it isn’t as if his Grandmother needs him to respond, she simply likes that he listens. He thinks she is concerned in her own way; the way a distant relative would be. He remembers his Grandfather reminding him that she would always be the Queen first but part of Philip is still surprised by the insistence that Catherine simply move on because she was able to move on from her own loss.Philip doesn’t mention this to anyone besides Martha, knowing that nobody would truly want to hear it from him. Bea is too wrapped in her own grief and whatever weakness and expression of grief she has going up her nostrils and splashing across the gossip rags. There’s Henry: always so soft in a way that Philip was never allowed to be and Philip tries to tell himself that he isn’t bitter about it. Henry is, after all, barely an adult and Philip no longer needs to be coddled.“I think you’re too harsh with them,” Martha says gently, arm looped through his as they walk across the grounds. There’s staff around them, invisible but watching and Philip ducks his head, steeling himself for the moment that she realizes he’s nothing more than the pawn his Grandmother has installed in the family.“Do you?”“I do,” Martha says, fingertips sweeping over the thin skin of Philip’s wrist, “I think you wish you had gotten the same gentility that they have and you make yourself harsh instead.”“I was always going to have more responsibilities, Maz,” Philip says, smelling the brief hint of her perfume as she hugs his arm quickly. His gut swoops, heat blooming over his cheeks as Martha stops them. She leans against one of the wooden fences that looks over the property, holding them apart. She shifts and climbs up, sitting on the top rung of the fence.“That doesn’t mean you can’t wish you’d gotten something else.”“And what good does that do me, hmm?” Philip asks, arching an eyebrow at her. His heart is pounding and he wills himself to not react or betray anything he’s feeling.Martha scoffs.“Don’t be such a tosser,” Martha says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. He watches her arrange herself just so, trousers falling into position and wellies braced on the wood as she reaches over and combs fingers through his hair. She's always done it, setting him to rights when he lets her.“Sometimes I think you'd work until you collapse just for a positive word from them.”“Oh, so you're saying I'm needy?” he says, ire starting to fill him with breathless tension. She scowls, decidedly unladylike, and pokes him at his collarbone.“You are the biggest brat I've ever met, Philip Fox. Your family has made you think anything other than quiet acceptance is needy. You can be needy sometimes, you arse,” she says, cheeks flushing with her annoyance. She's been the same since they first met, an approved play date (though it certainly wasn't called that then) that ended in her blotchy red face and stamped foot because he wouldn't let her hold George.Lost in his thoughts, he watches the afternoon sun over her hair and the slope of her nose. He takes in the small constellation of freckles behind her ear where she told him she applies perfume in the morning and he comes back to the conversation when she pokes him again.“-and another thing! I know you would never speak ill but you're allowed to come first at things. I wish-”“Can I kiss you?” Philip blurts out. She blinks at him, mouth dropping open as he looks up at her. On the fence, she's taller than him, hair falling over her shoulder from the loose ponytail she'd put it into at the start of their walk.On the whole, Philip knows he isn't as demonstrative as Martha would like. Maybe not as much as she needs; but she holds his hand sometimes and she's incensed on his behalf and he thinks that she's his best friend. They haven't crossed this line yet, the one from friends who know what their future is to friends who choose their future.Philip thinks of his grandfather, telling him to seek friendship first and to let love come after. He wonders if this is what Thomas had meant.“I. Well, yes. Please,” Martha says, voice soft and prim as she leans down and he leans up and then.Then things are right with her lips pressed to his.===A week later and Philip has been in meetings all day. His skin feels too sensitive for the suit that holds him upright and he works until they all finally clear out. His hands shake as he walks back to his wing of the house, desperate to yank his tie off and breathe fully for the first time since he slid out of bed.He listens to Donna's update about tomorrow and it's all just static in his ears.Philip bites back his groan, wanting to scream and let this feeling out. He wants to release this pressure but instead he stifles it. He packs it into a neat box and puts it to the side, closing his eyes and clearing his throat.“Tomorrow, Donna,” he says crisply. She nods sharply and he motions to the door. He works on removing his cufflinks, placing them carefully into the velvet lined box.“Of course, sir,” Donna says, taking her leave.Philip waits for as long as it takes him to count to ten in four languages before he lets himself slump in a chair. His Grandmother would be horrified at his posture and the way he yanks his tie free. He throws it to the floor and tugs his shirt open, resolving to not let his Grandmother’s expectations take root in his room.He undresses quickly, pulling on worn trousers and a sweater that's soft with years of washing. Stains litter the cream knit, the sweater he always wears when working the horses or visiting the dogs. Philip makes his way down to the kennels as he does every evening, checking on Rosemary and her litter.She licks his hand as she always does when he climbs into the pen with her.“Hello, sweet girl,” Philip says, leaning down to press his forehead against her broad brow. She smells of cedar and milk and unwashed dog and it would normally have him bringing her out of the pen but for now, he allows it to comfort him. Martha's words rattle around in his head warring with the ever present voice of his Grandmother.He can hear her telling his parents to not let them be soft, to not let them coddle the kids. Philip wonders what it would have been like to get the same treatment that Bea and Henry got and thinks that maybe Martha was right.“Alright, loves, time for the evening walkabout,” comes a rough Birmingham accent that Philip's known for most of his life. Rosemary bays in excitement, wiggling away from Philip as Owen, the kennel master, comes into view. The puppies yip and tumble over each other to the gate as Philip stands, brushing his trousers off.Owen arches an eyebrow at Philip from underneath his customary cap.“You been hiding from me?” Owen asks, teasing gently as he's done since Philip first met him at the age of nine. He's never cared for rank, despite his deference and Philip knows that his Grandfather had thought highly of him. It has always been enough for Philip who now laughs softly.“Of course not, you old goat,” Philip says, drawing a sharp cackle from Owen as they let the puppies and Rosemary out to run into the back pen. They walk together, companionable silence soothing this restless tension in Philip's limbs.“How's your Mum?” Owen asks, leaning on his walking stick. Philip shifts, looking over to Rosemary, wiggling on her back with abandon. Her teats sway with the motion and as soon as one of the pups tries to latch on and feed, she's up and away.Philip huffs, looking down at his hands. There's a smudge of ink and Philip licks his thumb, rubbing at the smudge industriously until it disappears.“I'd tell you if I knew. Last I heard, she was in Nigeria. Some humanitarian project,” Philip says. His lip curls in a sneer, though he doesn't know exactly what upsets him most about it. He thinks about ringing her up, about telling her that instead of worrying about those a world away, she could focus on the three children who lost both parents. He thinks about a time when he had her to himself, before Bea; her soft, lily scented hands smoothing his hair back.“Grief is a funny thing,” Owen says.Philip snorts.“Spare me the grief conversation. She could be here, handling whatever Bea is doing and Henry isn't doing. Instead, she's a world away,” Philip says, scowling. Owen doesn't respond and Philip feels something close to shame simmering in his stomach.“The missus sent this for you,” Owen says instead, handing over a small package of homemade biscuits. They're wrapped in wax paper and tucked into a plastic ziploc bag and the palace would have a fit at Philip eating shortbread made outside of their kitchens.He sighs into it, dusting crumbs from his face as Owen laughs in his rough way.“Look like you did when you were a lad,” Owen says, “so determined to be your own man but still happy to share a biscuit with me and your Grandfather.”“To be fair,” Philip says, tucking the bag and last piece away, resolving to share it with Martha, “Elsie does make uncommonly good shortbread.”Owen laughs and Philip watches the litter before him. One of the pups, smaller than the rest, barks sharply at a sibling, chasing after it. He's slower and smaller but he's constantly herding the others and Philip laughs quietly at the sight.“That little runt,” Owen says, motioning with his chin, like Philip doesn't see him, “he's not developing well. Might need to call the vet out.”“Surely not,” Philip says, peering over. “He's active, he's feeding. He just needs some extra time.”“As you say, sir,” Owen says, as deferential as he gets. Philip walks back with him, leading the dogs back to their kennel. Owen shakes his hand and then Philip is alone in the kennels. He takes his time, walking from pen to pen, visiting with the dogs and taking comfort in their familiar baying and whines.He goes back to Rosemary, sitting in the pen with her on a blanket that stays in the kennel. She props up on him, sighing gustily as he rubs her soft head and plays with her ears. Philip tilts his head back to the kennel door, closing his eyes until the tension that's sat in his throat all day passes.Sharp teeth nip at his fingertips, a playful grumble making Philip open his eyes. He watches the puppy with a slight smile.“You just need a little more, huh?” Philip says, reaching down to pick him up. He squirms for only a moment before Philip strokes a finger down his nose. He heaves a sigh like his mother and settles down. His yawn is milk scented and warm against Philip's chin, drifting off.He thinks about his day, wondering if he could take this one inside. After all, his Grandmother has her parrot, he can surely have this puppy. Philip thinks about standing up to her but on the heels of that is the venomous disappointment that he knows she'd direct at him.He's dialing Martha before he consciously thinks about it. His phone, on speaker and resting on his thigh, goes dark right as she picks up.“Maz,” Philip says, shifting the sleeping puppy on his chest closer. “I need your advice.”===It's another week before Philip makes his way from the kennel to Henry's rooms. He carries the puppy in his arms, round belly hot against his arm as the puppy sleeps soundly.Philip gets past Shaan, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his obvious hesitancy. Philip bites his tongue though, shifting the puppy in his arms a little higher, listening to the soft grunts as he stretches.Henry walks in, expression guarded and so impossibly young.Philip tries to not resent him for the softness he's been allowed by their parents and reminds himself that Henry is still so young. Philip clears his throat and ignores the wariness that settles on Henry’s face.“Hullo, Pip,” Henry says and Philip thinks about a tow-headed toddler, arms up and excited to see his brother, home for holiday.“Henry,” Philip says, unsure how to broach the subject. He casts around for the right words before clearing his throat.“Are you keeping that one, then?” Henry asks as he steps over and gently rubs the puppy’s head with a smile. Philip can see their father in his cheekbones and he misses him so much that it twists his stomach.“Ah, no. Not enough time for him in my day but,” Philip hesitates, watching the puppy open his eyes at Henry’s touch finally. “I thought that, well. He's the runt. He needs a bit of focused care. I thought you might be up for it.”“Are you giving me a dog?” Henry asks, with shock on his face. Philip clears his throat right as the puppy lets out a yawn with a whine at the end. Henry's face melts and Philip smiles to himself, handing the puppy over.“I thought that you two could help each other out,” Philip says, borrowing Martha's phrasing. His cheeks flush when Henry looks at him, eyes wide and watery with wonder and emotion. Philip coughs into his hand, uncomfortable with how open Henry is but he stays, wanting to see Henry's response.“I. I don't know what to say, Pip,” Henry says softly, letting the puppy lick at his fingertips and Philip shrugs easily.“Just don't let him destroy everything in sight and for God's sake, make sure you train him,” Philip says. He intends it to sound teasing but he can tell that it lands wrong. Henry's expression, once open and gentle, shutters.“I just mean that-”“That you think I'd let him run wild?”“Hen, no,” Philip bites out. He closes his eyes for a moment, “I just meant that beagles are willful little creatures and training usually helps.”Henry blinks down at the sweet face of the puppy and Philip doesn't think of the two sweatshirts Rosemary had destroyed when she was a pup. Henry huffs, a soft amused sound as he smiles slowly at Philip.“Thank you, Philip,” Henry says.Philip murmurs something that sounds like a gracious response before he slips out and back to his own rooms. He showers quickly, thinking over and over about Henry’s response. He changes and when he's settled in bed, he picks his phone up.“So, how did it go? Tell me how right I was,” Martha says imperiously as soon as she picks up. Philip laughs into the phone, telling her about lifting the sadness in Henry's eyes, even for a moment.It's enough, for now.