"Bea?"

"Henry, my God are you okay?" Bea's voice booms out of his phone as soon as the call connects. He winces and holds it out at arm's length.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. Shaan's told me 'bout what you have to do." Henry drums his fingers on the desk, restless, despite it being late; the streak of sky visible from his window is dark, the palace grounds cloaked in ominous shadows.

"Well, yeah, so my life sucks. What's new?"

"Henry."

"Fine. I'm pretty stressed out right now." There's a pause.

"You're watching Bake-Off, aren't you?" Henry leans back in his chair with a sigh, glancing up at his computer screen, paused on a picture of a pastel-coloured tent, then back down at the phone.

"...Maybe."

"You're so depressing, Henry." Another pause. "I'm coming over."

"Really, Bea, I'm good." He protests weakly, secretly pleased that he'll have some company.

"Too late."

***

Bea doesn't bother to knock, striding straight into his room and ending the call as a wave of static fills his ear. She's followed by a large cat, who winds its way between her legs, doing its best to trip her up.

"Really, you didn't have to come."

"Mr Wobbles was getting bored of me. I'm pretty sure he was plotting my funeral." She gestures to her feet, where the cat has bounded across the room to nuzzle Henry's outstretched hand. "And, Hen, you forget that I literally live across the corridor from you. I can practically hear you moping around all day." He sighs loudly, then brightens up as she thrusts a wrinkled wrapper in his face. "Plus, I brought Jaffa Cakes."

"Love you, Bea." He mumbles, through a mouthful of Jaffa Cake.

"I know you do." She winks at him, draping herself across a chair opposite him, thumbing through the stack of newspaper left on the table by Shaan.

"Hey- what's this?" Henry looks up from the Jaffa Cakes, to Bea, who's gesturing to the FSOTUS Fact Sheet with a raised eyebrow. Henry feels the tips of his ears burn fiercely.

"Um...I have to learn it for the weekend. Test me?"

"Gladly." Bea arranges herself in the chair, crossing her legs and shrugging off her jacket before clearing her throat loudly and reading out in a pious voice.

"Okay...family. Go."

"Mother- Ellen Claremont, first female president of the US. Father, Oscar Diaz. Sister, June Claremont-Diaz, she's, uh, a reporter?" He counts them off on his fingers.

"Aspires to be one. Good. Best friend?"

"I thought that was meant to be me?" He groans, and Bea punches him lightly in the shoulder.

"Other than you."

"Nora Holleran. Granddaughter of the Vice President. Easy."

"Alright. So now you're an expert on the First Son's life. You should make a documentary."

"I will not." Henry protests, laughing. "Hey- Mr Wobbles get off me." Mr Wobbles has his claws digging into Henry's lap, sniffing curiously at the now empty packet of Jaffa Cakes with an air of betrayal.

"Bea, your devil cat is mauling me." Bea cackles evilly, not shifting from her seat.

"How sad."

"I hate you so much." He informs her loftily.

"I see someone's feeling better, then." Bea smirks, and Henry realises that yes, he is feeling better. A combination of Jaffa Cakes, Bake-Off and fast-approaching midnight has lulled him into a relaxed, sleepy state, his hair tousled and eyes bloodshot but otherwise feeling pretty decent. He hasn't even thought about Alex for a few minutes. Henry thinks that may be a record.

***

Bea leaves soon after that, begging exhaustion, and Henry curls up by the window, Mr Wobbles purring like a faulty lawnmower in his lap. He gets out an old notebook, tears off a page and touches pen to paper, hesitates, then dives head first into the flood of words swirling around inside his head.

***