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Prince Harry and the Expert in Motorcycle Maintenance

Summary:

Louis puts the truck back into drive. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where do you want me to take you?”

“To the Royal Palace.”

“The hospital psych ward, it is, then,” Louis says, though that’s a forty-five minute trip and a lecture on tardiness from his stepfather that, in the end, will definitely not be worth the trouble.

an abo cinderella au in which prince harry rides a motorcycle and louis, a simple mechanic, fixes it.

Notes:

1) I wrote this fic to make myself laugh. I'm not going to pretend that it's coherent or meaningful. Thank you, as usual, to E for the edits!

2)This fic was written as part of an ongoing challenge using the book 1000 Feelings For Which There Are No Names for our prompts. To read the other fics written in this challenge, click here. You can find more information on the challenge here and to reblog the masterpost on tumblr, you can click here. My prompt was: 817. The elation of roaring around on your new motorcycle in great weather and picturing how cool everyone thinks you are.

3) It's finished! Completed! (Not 'almost done.' Not 'I hope it'll get done.' it's DONE.)

4) But! I am posting it in five acts, one act every other day.

5) Warnings: motorcycling without helmets is very bad despite the amount of it done in this fic, a cinderella au (so light mentions of abuse), abo (so some between the lines and blink-and-you'll-miss-them noncon implications), and crackfic (so might have been written by me, but also might have been written by a pair of eleven year olds while slurping down a giant package of pixie sticks and watching ove glove infomercials at 11:30pm on a Friday night.)

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

Chapter 1: Act One

Chapter Text

Louis knows a lot about Prince Harry.

Now, he’s not in the Official Royal Prince Fanclub (bunch of stalkers, that lot), and he’s never applied to be a Lad-in-Waiting (they all do it for the Instagram follows), but he knows his facts.

He knows that Prince Harry is an omega, that he was raised in the Royal Palace, that he loves tacos, and that (according to a copy of Hello that Louis’d pilfered from Niall) he wants to marry an alpha with blue eyes and strong hands.

(Louis has blue eyes and strong hands.)

However, Louis does not know what Prince Harry looks like. No one does.

Except his family and staff and friends and Lads-in-Waiting and other VIPs at the clubs he frequents. But, other than that, his appearance is a tightly held secret.

Given the opportunity, the wrong sort of alpha might take advantage. Accidental bonding happens and no one wants some poor, rough- skinned schmuck to be the next royal consort.

So when the man sitting beside Louis in his pick-up truck claims to be Prince Harry, adding, “You’ll get a royal medal for this, I promise,” Louis’ fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

“Why would I get a royal medal for helping a long-haired, hippie omega stranded by the side of the road with a broken motorbike? If I were the Queen, I’d want you out of town. Not good for tourism, riff-raff like you.”

The man giggles. And then snorts. And then giggles some more.

“You still haven’t told me where you want me to take you and your-- what did you call it?- your baby?” Louis’ currently driving in the direction of the farm. There’s only one mechanic in the whole kingdom that he trusts with a bike this beautiful. There’s only one mechanic in the kingdom he trusts at all. (Himself.)

“I have,” the man insists, running a hand through his hair. If Louis were pressed, he would probably admit that the man’s locks look less like the dirty dreads of a street musician and more like the well-manicured waves of a supermodel. Louis wants to touch them, muss them up a little.

“I can’t take you to the Royal Palace,” Louis tells him.

“Why not?” The man’s gone from giggling to pouting in less than sixty seconds. Louis’ impressed by his emotional agility.

Louis twists to stare at him. Slowly, he says, “Just think about it.” He returns his gaze to the road. What a fucking idiot. Handsome and sweet smelling, yes, but a fucking idiot all the same.

Louis continues driving in the direction of the farm.

After a few minutes, the man says, “I’ve thought about it. Please take me to the Royal Palace.”

Louis lays on the brake and the truck jostles to a stop. Behind them in the truckbed the motorbike clatters a little, but not so much as to worry Louis. Carefully, Louis switches the truck into park.

“Mister--” Louis resists the urge to call the man ‘sweetheart’ but only barely-- “I don’t know why you’re fucking with me after I picked your ass up off the side of the road, but I do not appreciate it and if you don’t quit fucking with me and tell me where I can actually drop you, then I’m going to drop you right the fuck here.”

“You’re very rude to me,” the man says, brows scrunching together. Then, suddenly, his lips quirk into a small smile. “I like it.”

Louis wants to shake him. Instead, he puts the truck back into drive. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where do you want me to take you?”

“To the Royal Palace.”

“The hospital psych ward, it is, then,” Louis says, though that’s a forty-five minute trip and a lecture on tardiness from his stepfather that, in the end, will definitely not be worth the trouble.

“That’s where I live,” the man says. He bites at the cuticle on his thumbnail. That’s when Louis notices the half dozen rings on his fingers.

“In the psych ward?” Several of the man’s rings hold large, shiny stones. One is engraved with the letters HRH.

“No, I should think not,” the man says. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares pointedly at Louis.

“Look,” Louis says, trying not to think too hard about the implications of a royal signet ring being less than three feet away from his person, “I can’t just drive up to the front door of the Royal Palace and drop you off.”

“Why not?” the man asks. “Jeff always does.”

“Jeff,” Louis repeats. Louis does not follow Jeffrey Azoff, chief Lad-in-Waiting, on Instagram. But Niall does.

“Yeah,” the man confirms. “I mean, usually he drives round to the back. But a few times, late at night especially, Jeff’s come in the front.”

“I’m not Jeff!” Louis explodes. “I’m Louis, a fucking farm mechanic with dirty hands and a shitty truck and no royal blood or connections except through my asshole stepfather Simon who’d be loathe to claim me even if I won the goddamn lottery.”

“I’m sure he’d claim you if you won the lottery,” the man-- who Louis now strongly suspects is Prince Harry-- says.

Louis closes his eyes.

“Also, now you know me. So, that’s a royal connection.”

Louis imagines pulling up to the royal gates in a truck that has two different colored doors. With the prince inside. Then, he imagines being thrown into the royal dungeon for the rest of his life.

He keeps driving toward the farm.

“Who will be working on your bike?” It’s probably not the question most would ask upon discovering they were sharing the cab of their truck with Prince Harry, the future king of the realm, but Louis’ been desperate to know who they’ve hired as royal mechanic.

“Logan, of course.” Prince Harry beams at him. “Do you know him?”

“Logan?” Louis gapes. “Logan Thompson?!”

Prince Harry nods. “You do know him.”

“You would let that imposter work on that beautiful machine?” Louis is not one to compare automotives to human infants, but Harry’s endearment to his motorbike isn’t difficult to understand.

Prince Harry shrugs. “We keep him on retainer.”

Louis’ eyes nearly bug out of his head. “I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you hand over this gorgeous craft over that fumbling charlatan. He shouldn’t’ve even been given a license, let alone a job at the palace.”

Prince Harry does not jump up to defend Logan, which is very telling. Perhaps he suspects, just as Louis does, that it’s Logan’s ineptitude with motorcycle maintenance that put them both in this compromising position.

Louis turns down the lane and the farmhouse pops into view.

“You aren’t taking me to the Royal Palace.”

This is a correct assessment, and Louis doesn’t bother to confirm it. “You can call Jeff from the barn, have him pick you up here.”

Prince Harry lets out a small noise of distress. “I won’t be able to give you a royal medal if it looks like you’ve kidnapped me.”

“I don’t want a royal medal.”

This is a lie. Louis would love a royal medal. Who wouldn’t? If he had one, he’d pin it to his uniform and wear it out to meet clients. Very good for business, that would be. He’s trying to earn his freedom back, after all.

But Louis also knows if he were to receive one, Simon would find a way to steal it for himself.

“You’re very strange.”

Louis pulls the truck into the barn and parks it beside the two tractors he’s currently contracted to fix.

“I’m going to fix your bike,” he says. “Out of the goodness of my heart. Just like I picked you up from the side of the road. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

Prince Harry unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m sure you have a very good heart,” he says. “But that’s not why you’re doing this.”

The prince gazes down at the rings on his fingers and a small smile plays at his lips.

“I don’t care that you’re the prince. As far as I’m concerned, inherited status and wealth have very little meaning and do not add to your value as a human being.”

Prince Harry licks his lips and his smile broadens. “How very modern of you.”

Louis throws himself out of the truck and closes the door with more force than he should, given how feebly it’s clinging to the rest of the vehicle.

He storms toward the side door to the barn and turns around when he reaches it. The prince has not followed him, which is ideal. Instead, he’s inspecting the large portrait of Louis’ mother which hangs on the wall in front the truck, which is not ideal.

“I have to run inside and check-in with my stepfather. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t touch anything.” Louis tries to load the last three words with warning, but the smile he receives from the prince in return causes him to doubt his success. Obviously, the prince is not used to people not allowing him to do exactly as he wishes, and why would he be when it takes two years to apply to be on the waiting list to be his friend.

When Louis returns a few minutes later, the prince stands in the bed of Louis’ truck, inspecting his motorbike with a frown.

“Your highness.” Louis uses his title, but in a silky falsetto, trying make it as diminutive as possible.

Prince Harry’s head jerks, and as he turns to see Louis, he leans faux casually against the bike.

“What are you doing?” Louis doesn’t trust him near the lovely machine. He’s already done enough damage for one day.

Prince Harry tosses his hair away from his face with a ringed hand. For all that he’s never been photographed for the public, he certainly seems to know how to move like a model. “I was seeing if I could figure out what went wrong.”

Louis squints at him, trying to decide if he’s fucking with Louis or he’s just that much of a dumbass. He suspects the latter, so he says, “Your chain broke.”

“You could tell that just from looking at it?” Prince Harry turns back to insect the bike. “I don’t believe you.”

“Who allowed you to have that thing? Because you don’t deserve it.” Louis makes his way over to the his desk, where he has an ancient phone and a private line, just for customers.

Harry sits astride the bike. Louis hopes he isn’t foolish enough to try to start it again. In the bed of Louis’ truck.

“What are you doing?”

Without looking at him, Harry says, “I just wanted to-- I love riding.”

Unbidden, Louis sees an image of Harry, naked and disheveled, bucking his hips as he rides the man beneath him. (That man is, of course, Louis.)

“You are an omega,” Louis says.

Harry gasps and falls off the bike, hitting the bed of the truck with a thump. Thankfully, he does not pull the bike down with him.

His head pops over the side. “Excuse you!”

“You weren’t offended when I threatened to dump you by the side of the road or take you to the psych ward, but that mere statement of fact was so upsetting that you almost injured that bike?”

Harry’s jaw drops. “I don’t know if you know this about me, being a filthy alpha, but I am very vocal advocate against omega repression.”

The slur stings and Louis resists the urge to glance down at his oil-blackened hands. “Good for you. You still-- how did you phrase it?- ‘love riding.’”

As soon he says the words, the image returns, this time with flashes of Harry’s red-bitten lips and his fingers digging into the flesh of Louis’ hips.

“My motorbike.” Harry hauls himself over the side of the truck and onto the ground. He only stumbles a little. Once he’s fully upright, he adds, “I love riding my motorbike.”

Louis folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you implying that the Royal Prince enjoys an athletic buggering?” He sounds a little breathless.

“Do you?”

Harry stalks across the barn and shoves a finger into the center of Louis’ chest. On it is a ring with large ruby stone that certainly is worth more than this whole barn and everything in it, save the prince himself. “If I do or if I don’t, that’s none of your business.”

Louis pitches his voice low. “I could make it my business.”

Harry’s cheeks pinken and his finger doesn’t move from where it’s pressed against Louis. “Thank you for the offer, but Jeffery is probably out of his mind with worry, not to mention my mum, who prefers to know where I am when she takes her tea.”

Louis sees the opening and takes it. “Another time, then?”

Harry bites his lip. Then, he says, “The phone, please?”

Louis hands it to him.

The conversation with whomever he calls is angry and hushed, but doesn’t drag on and before Louis knows what’s happening, Harry’s handing him back the phone and saying, “Well, Jeff will be here in about an hour. He thinks.”

“I don’t have an hour to sit around and entertain you. This may surprise you, but some of your subjects actually still have jobs to do and taxes to pay.”

“Of course,” Harry says.

Louis gestures to an adirondack chair with several broken planks that Simon’s asked him to fix up before summer. “You can wait there, if you like.”

Harry drops into the chair and then squirms and makes a face.

“Sorry I don’t have a golden pillow for your very precious and valuable ass.” The words are carried on a bitter hiss, but Louis does mean them. Harry’s ass- royal or not- is lovely and Louis feels it his duty as an alpha to spare it any pain or disfigurement.

“It’s fine,” Harry says with the wince of a person who is not fine at all, but does wish that they were for the sake of their company.

Louis grabs a few tools and begins to pull apart the smaller of the two tractors currently in the shop. Simon’s given him the afternoon to finish working on it and threatened to withhold dinner if he fails to complete the task.

Thankfully, Louis sees the issue right away and knows exactly how to correct it. He relaxes into his work, pushing the prince from his mind.

That becomes difficult, however, when after about fifteen minutes said prince stands up, walks across the barn, and begins to hover in the vicinity of Louis’ shoulder.

Louis finishes twisting a screw and then he sets down his tools and turns around. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you.” Harry lifts his chin. The motion sends a rush of omega pheromones in Louis’ directions. He does his best to ignore them.

“I can see that. Why are you watching me?”

“To learn about engines,” Harry says slowly, as though he were explaining himself to a child.

“Why do you need to learn about engines? You have Logan, right?”

Harry frowns. “You told me he’s terrible.”

“Well, an afternoon of watching me work isn’t going to make you any better.” He considers this statement after he says it. “Actually, it might.”

“Okay, then.” Harry says, smiling.

Louis considers him for another long moment, watching as dimples appear in his cheeks. “What you really need is a lesson in motorcycle maintenance.”

Harry’s beaming now and Louis so wants to be annoyed with him. But he isn’t. At all. Instead, he’s endeared. “I’m ready when you are.”

Louis sighs. “Unfortunately, the choice is between helping you and eating and I like you, but I don’t like you that much.”

“I could feed you,” Harry says. He could. With those long, lovely fingers. Louis’ cock twitches in his pants.

“No,” Louis says and turns back to his work.

Jeff arrives with the roar of an engine. Louis isn’t in a particularly good place to pause, but he doesn’t seem to have a choice.

“Jeffrey’s here for me,” Harry announces, expression forlorn.

Louis sets down his tools, wipes his hands on his jacket, and watches as Jeff Azoff steps out the driver’s side door of a pale blue Rolls Royce.

“Hello, Harry. Hello… man who rescued the prince.” His smile wavers, his eye twitches and then he winces. He may be having crippling gas pains.

“This is Louis. He’s a mechanic.” Harry sounds like a kid during show and tell.

“And an alpha,” Jeff says. To Louis’ surprise, Jeff is not an alpha, but a beta.

Harry’s smile widens. “Yes.”

The three of them stare at each other for a few long seconds.

Harry says, “I want him to work on my bike. Which broke.”

“We’ve already paid Logan to do that kind of thing.” Jeff folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head.

He says it like he’s the one who gets to tell the prince what to do, and not the other way around.

“Logan’s shoddy maintenance is why the bike broke in the first place. While I was on it!”

Jeff’s eyes narrow and he glances at Louis.

“He could have died,” Louis adds, just for good measure.

“Harry, if we stay here any longer, you’re going to miss hot yoga.” Jeff sounds like he has a headache. Louis doesn’t think they should have chosen someone with such a weak constitution to be in charge of the Lads-in-Waiting.

“Nick’s teaching tonight?” Harry bites at a cuticle. A stripe of grease has found its way to the back of his knuckles.

Jeff nods and rubs at his wrist, like it’s sore or strained and he’s imagining asking it to hold him upright for a downward facing dog later.

“Bye, Louis,” Harry waves as he walks away, his rings winking at Louis.

“Bye,” Louis replies, but he’s already climbed into the car and Louis doesn’t think he’s heard. The car pulls out of the drive in a cloud of dust, leaving Louis alone with the Royal Prince’s motorbike, a shitty truck, and a couple of broken tractors.