A/N – Will Dean have a British accent in the fic? – He was written to possess a British accent. However, if you find yourself resorting to his default American accent then that's fine. I've adjusted his dialogue to suit either accent.

If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.

JANE AUSTEN, Northanger Abbey

Castiel's nipples were like icicles by the time he shoved his way through crowds and escaped the airport.

London was bitter cold already and he detested that a longtime hatred towards the sun was now a daunting feeling; the ball of orange wasn't in sight and it was barely after lunch.

But perhaps the most fascinating aspect was that the photos in magazines and the entertainment industry didn't deliver enough justice to the beauty of the city.

For him, he savored the simpler things in life. Like the tip of a hat from a stranger bidding a good day. To the clipped accents and the sophisticated air and manner in which most people seem to adhere to.

It was like stepping into a whole new world unlike the bustle of New York where taxis almost ran you over. Or where the sewers leaked and smelled and everyone was so occupied by their own little worlds inside their heads, they forgot about mannerism. Or maybe he was making judgments too soon. Maybe one needed to allow a twenty-four span of time to pass before gathering a substantial amount of evidence to use in comparison.

He had to suppress his glee after checking in at the Austen Apartments.

It was like waltzing into another era. With finely polished dark walls in the lobby. Paintings of Jane herself and Pemberley, and Derbyshire and several scenic views including Bath on the walls. Even the arm chairs were covered in red velvet and antique tables. Lamps. And the absence of an elevator with just the availability of a winding staircase.

Wearing his usual attire; a graphic black t-shirt with the slogan 'Straight Outta Downton Abbey', the receptionist immediately placed Castiel as a tourist. Or maybe it was the black leather jacket. And then they spent fifteen minutes debating on the ending of the show before she handed over a rather antique looking key leading into a room on the top flat.

After internally screaming over the fact that he had lugged his suitcase and bags into a space that was crafted from the likes of a scene in an Austen novel, Castiel locked the door. And stared. Refusing to believe that he was confronted with the likes of a small living room with a mantle, fireplace and a writing desk in the corner. Then with a heart that sighed, he carefully parted the red lace blinds and examined the beautiful view of a bustling London.

It was breathtaking to be there in the flesh. Like a wild exotic animal that was somehow returned to its habit; after immensely engrossing one's heart in books and tv shows.

By 3, Castiel was seated across the table from Ruby in a small café that reeked of cheese scones and coffee.

Two things she settled on ordering; a burger for her own guilty consumption of course, and then a serving of macaroni and cheese as if completely unaware of his hatred towards an excess amount of cholesterol. And after two cups of coffee later, Castiel carefully examined her attire once more but this time with amusement.

Black leather. Jacket, tank top, pants, boots, gloves. Nothing else to reveal except her heavy black eyeliner and blood red lips. And she kept mentioning to his dissatisfaction that they always had undeniable chemistry that was like fire and she liked to be burned. A lot.

"These are not for the public, but I know people…" those brown eyes blinked slowly at as she pushed a paper closer to his brown coffee cup. "It's the Royal Family's General Itinerary. What events they have to attend. Where those events are. Which one of them has to attend."

"And you have this information readily available daily?" Castiel was suspicious of her sources. Always had been.

Ruby stared at him. "Duh."

"At what cost?" he sipped some coffee and never broke away a penetrating gaze into brown eyes that were reminiscent of the pits of hell.

"If you're asking me if I'm selling my body to get it, then it's none of your business." Ruby sat back and folded her arms. The leather tank stretched lower and exposed a hefty amount of cleavage.

"Well, clearly you've just provided the answer." Castiel shrugged. He carefully picked at the macaroni.

"Will you ever pull your head out your ass?" Ruby smiled nonetheless. "You haven't changed a bit in five years. God dammit. The last time I was in New York, you were still the same stuck up little shit. Do you still hoard books?"

"That's classified information."

"Since when?" She raised an eyebrow.

Castiel scowled and considered a large red bus, two levels, gliding by on the street beyond the window. "Since you barefacedly stole my 2nd edition copy of Emma."

"You lent it to me. You never reminded me that I had it. So, I left New York with it." Ruby's eyes caressed her partner's tousled hair and his kissable lips. "By the way, I'm still totally turned on by you."

Castiel, rolling his eyes, pulled the itinerary closer. Pushing his glasses an inch up the bridge of his nose, all attempts were made to ignore Ruby's bold manners of undressing him with quite the normal devilish gaze.

It was like old times. Five years ago, she was nothing short of a maneater and lo and behold, not much had changed.

She had a knack for knocking men down like dominoes. Her last trip to New York left a string of broken hearts and desperate men who called Castiel begging in tears for Ruby's number. He on the other hand, suspected that she was a witch of some kind. Because her eyes would seem to take on a fiery glow when she went into full predator mode.

However, she was a fucking fantastic photographer. Her blog on IG carried over 2 million followers and her stills mostly comprised of catching human emotions in its rawest form. A grieving mother in Syria, shadowed by the sunset. An arranged marriage in India with a sullen face bride and a prideful looking groom. King John shaking the hand of the Prime Minister and with a look of absolute disgust on his face.

"Please…to God…don't let anyone get their hands on this shit," Ruby said after peeling away every layer of Castiel's clothing with those brown eyes. "It's like drugs. It's worth someone's sanity. Other reporters rely on getting a whiff of when the next activity will be whilst I show up like a VIP, camera ready. So, you lose it, and I'll end you."

"I thought you wanted to have sex with me," Castiel smiled innocently whilst stirring his coffee.

"You know what your problem is?" she snatched the itinerary and tucked it into her jacket with a scowl, "you're too smug."

"I'm always aroused by your anger." He was enjoying it.

"I know you don't want to work with me. You think that I'm the spawn of Satan. But newsflash, buddy. I know the Royal Family more than anyone else because I was tangled up with them more than any of those other lousy reporters. If you want to get things done and to get a good story, then you'll have to work with me."

"Alright, fine," Castiel sighed and surrendered, holding his hands up. "You can give me the itinerary. But I can't make any promises that I will tone down my sex appeal. How about you pay the bill?"

He was still smiling over the memory of her string of curses after returning to the apartment later that day.

Castiel wasn't a prideful specie. But he liked to wind Ruby up enough to watch her dance.

Of course, he paid the bill. Always did when they teamed up. But she kept on presenting herself as vulnerable in his presence and it was amusing to prey on that weakness just to gain some kind of satisfaction.

Now, with the sheet of paper spread across the writing desk and a glass of merlot, Castiel perused the Royal Family's life.

His finger traced the lines and details.

VISIT TO SAINT ANNE'S MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

10am – 12 Noon

New hospital wing for children suffering from leukemia

Attendees: Prince Adam - Duke of Windsor, Carlie Clapton - Duchess of Edinburgh, Prince Samuel - Duke of Sussex, Eileen Leahy - Duchess of Cambridge.

BRUNCH AT PROMENADE GARDENS

12 Noon – 1pm

Discussions about the naming of Prince Adam's third child

Attendees: Queen Mary, Dame Elisabeth…

"Boring," Castiel downed the last drops of wine and the glass clattered on the table as he discarded it and went further down the list. "Come on, you can't hide from me."

OPENING OF EGYPTIAN PAINTER'S 'SCENES FROM THE CRYPT' GALLERY AT THE BRIGHTON'S HOTEL

5pm – 6pm

Attendees: Prince Dean – Duke of York, Princess Annalise – Duchess of Emmerdale

"Bingo," he was finally contented, those blue eyes flicking to the white round clock with black hands and black numbers on top of the mantle.

There was a fireplace made from red clay bricks, inside the small apartment. Enough flames licking logs to warm his heart of fond memories whilst drowning in an Austen book. But later.

It was just past four and if he managed it on time, he could get there before Ruby. Providing that she wasn't rolling around in the sack with some other lucky Londoner. But why on earth was he labelling anyone who slept with Ruby to be quite fortunate? Maybe it was that damn tight leather tank and the swell of her breasts.

"No," those piercing blue eyes glared at the view beyond the windows already fading into a smoky looking afternoon. "I will not, and I repeat, will not fall into her web of lust."

By the time the car spat him out at the Brighton Hotel, a light rain had wet the pavement.

Reporters were scattered everywhere under umbrellas and fighting with their cameras. It was like walking into a cave of hyenas, always hungry for the next juiciest scrap but still deeply vulnerable by the elements of mother nature. And it was marvelous to discover that their coats were blotched from rain whilst the leather that covered him was impenetrable.

"You're not making it easy. Looking so scrumptious in that damn jacket," was Ruby's first greeting, giving him a one over.

Castiel scrutinized his attire and smiled. "I thought we would match." He eyed her leather tank again, swallowed then glared at nothing in particular.

Ruby's expression was a mixture of pleasure and satisfaction from the reaction unearthed from the other man. She struggled with her black camera bag and gestured at the awning of the hotel's entrance that was brightly lit.

"Seems like the Prince arrived earlier than any of us expected." They walked closer towards the agitated reports. "Annalise just stormed out dressed in one of her mink coats. She wears sunglasses even in the nights by the way."

"Maybe it's to conceal devilish red eyes she sports from being Satan in disguise," Castiel studied the stone structure of the building stretching five stories upwards. "Are you going to tell me why she left in a haste? Or do I have to get down on my knees and beg?"

"I'd rather you do a lot of things whilst on your knees," Ruby snickered, adjusting her camera. "But not now. She stormed out because apparently, she and the scandalous Prince had an argument. The whole lobby heard them. But no one knows for sure what was the topic."

Interesting.

So, there was trouble in paradise. He could write a wonderful string of words about a love story that turned sour. Scratching his chin in earnest, Castiel scrutinized the interior of the lobby and tried to develop the many theories about how a quarrel might have been ignited.

Money. No. Infidelity perhaps? Over the years, if there was one thing that the Prince thrived on was attention. But never sleeping around. He didn't seem to be that sort of young man, twenty and nine and still hormonal.

In fact, he sported a good one in bars too many but the women were kept at bay. It was always the women that were kept at arm's length. Almost as if he had developed a phobia towards them.

"I got shots of her leaving," Ruby said, pressing their shoulders together unnecessarily. "Sam's inside. I mean…the Duke of Sussex."

"On first name basis, huh?" Castiel grinned. She shot a glare at him and turned away growling. "Please tell me you slept with him too because that would make our job easier."

"Try to play with fire," Ruby hugged her camera, "and you'll get fried crispy."

For half an hour they squabbled like an old couple outside as the light rain sprayed the paparazzi. Most of them were bored by then. A few had chosen to wander across the street to grab snacks from a café advertising a 5% discount on coffee.

Castiel highly suspected that there was no discount, only a ploy to draw in the reporters like flies to make business boom.

"Tell me about this plan," he said finally, sipping coffee from the café and trying to divert his attention from Ruby's leather covered butt swaying from side to side. She was purposely trying to toy with him. Diving into the bag sitting on the pavement to collect more rolls of film.

"It's simple. We meet Garth by the side entrance and he slips us in. Nice and easy."

Castiel rolled his eyes. He tossed the Styrofoam cup into a trashcan. "Why is it that everything about you is related to sex?"

Gawking, she collected the bag, and the two of them sidestepped the other reporters. "Maybe your mind is in the gutter."

The alleyway was clean. Unlike the ones in New York. So far, Castiel had developed a general assumption that the Brits could slip off their shoes and walk bare feet if they so desired. And maybe the Queen had funded more than enough to keep the city clean. Or maybe Brits were far more conscious of their surroundings than New Yorkers.

He was growing considerably biased to his hometown and hated that the likes of a place that had become a prison wasn't missed. In fact, the only substantial part of NYC that he longed to go back to was his cat. His books. His apartment. Everything else, even Zachariah could go fuck themselves.

From the moment he laid eyes on Garth though, Castiel thought that the man was entirely sketchy. The type of concierge that possibly slipped valuables from other people's suitcases. Or spied on them whilst they were in the shower or dressing. Or worst of all, picked their pockets.

"And all of that you gathered from the way he smiled at you," Ruby said after they had gotten into the hotel. "Unbelievable," she shook her head. "You know, you really need to stop judging people like books. Get to know 'em. Like me for instance. I'm a nice girl."

"If by nice you mean chains and whips and gags," Castiel was scrutinizing the interior of the kitchen and could have sworn he saw a rat scamper across the tiled floors.

"What's wrong with some BDSM?" Ruby peered around the corner of the hallway leading out into the large lobby. There were heavy whispers out there. And a waiter brushed past them.

Castiel plucked a stuffed egg from the tray and bit into it. "I rest my case."

"You're beginning to piss me off."

"What did I do now?" he smiled and tried to touch her prized camera.

Batting his hand away and growling, Castiel deciphered that maybe what men savored the most about Ruby was the fierceness. The way she boldly put herself out there without a care in the world about who criticized that honest streak of fire. And maybe he was being rather unfair at making judgments. But damn, she wasn't a woman to be reckoned with.

"Hey, all jokes aside," he tried whilst another waiter brushed past them carrying a tray of souffles. This time though, she snatched the merchandise. "I think that you're rather complex but entirely worth knowing."

"Coming from you, that's more than flirting," Ruby was more than a couple inches shorter than him. "But I'll take it. I'm not all that bad. It's what makes me a damn good reporter. Because I'm willing to do anything to chase a story. And I do it because I like my job. I like taking pictures and I like telling a story."

"Five years ago you told me that you were trying to find your father," he hated to bring it up in such a cramped moment like that. They were hiding behind a door and peering occasionally into the lobby, awaiting the Prince's appearance. "Any luck since then?"

"Well, I found him alright," she pressed her body onto the wall and hugged the camera, eyes downcast. "Turns out he's a multimillion-dollar business man in Dubai who would rather have more than one woman he spoils than accept the fact that he has a daughter. Me? I'm not worth it."

"Don't ever think that," Castiel squeezed Ruby's right shoulder. Their gaze deepened. A couple seconds passed and then he scoffed. "Oh come on, let's not make this awkward."

Smiling, she shoved the camera into the bag and gestured to the lobby. "I'm going to wander around, you coming?"

"Right after I use the washroom to powder my face." Grinning, Castiel ditched Ruby.

It was strange though.

Back in New York, he stood out like a sore thumb. The graphic t-shirts weren't likeable. Neither was the completely nerdy look apparently because everywhere he went, people stared as if there was some sort of an alien breezing through the city. And maybe Hanna had a type. Maybe she loved extra-terrestrial looking men like himself and Evlek.

But he often thought that his brothers weren't lying about the good looks a man such as himself possessed. If he ditched the black framed glasses and parted his hair on one side, maybe he would give Tom Cruise a run for his money. Maybe his body was also a weapon because of the good genes that contributed to a finely sculpted physique. So why weren't women crawling all over him?

The blue tiled washroom was unoccupied and contained five urinals.

Castiel chose the one further away from the door because of privacy concerns. And also because a stranger staring at his lovely gifted in length cock wasn't something he fancied at the moment.

Nevertheless, it was preferable to remain alone and unbothered until two men came into the space and approached the sink.

One of them left when Castiel was zipping up, grumbling to himself with an abundance of tattoos on overly bulging biceps. The other one stayed and continued to stare at that goddamn Halloween looking face longingly in the mirror. Almost as if he was having a conversation with God. Or maybe, eye fucking himself.

Either way proved to be something that Castiel did not want to intervene with. So, he carefully washed his hands, collected a paper towel and thanked the heavens when one of the other stalls opened up and another man joined them.

What was it about public restrooms and the appearance of weirdos?

Didn't they have somewhere else to express their insane lives?

The air contained a mixture of vanilla from the soap and a faint hint of Old Spice aftershave. Two things that softened Castiel around the edges, relaxed him somewhat. And he wondered why on earth the combination was so soothing until the man next to him stood up straight all of a sudden and walked stiffly towards the door like a robot.

Carefully fixing his leather jacket and trying to avoid making eye contact of any sort with the other male specie that remained in the washroom, Castiel balled up the tissue. Tossed it into the bin and stood before the mirror trying to make sense of his disheveled hair.

And he could immediately feel the other man's gaze like a spotlight.

The rude scrutiny.

A pair of eyes bold enough to pry without holding back. To take what he wanted in making his own assumptions without getting permission. Almost like standing in front of a painting and studying every inch of it. And Castiel was really and truly deeply moved. Almost…stunned beyond understanding that a man was deliberately checking him out.

Knowing fully well that something was happening though. Something that awakened his pores and washed him over in a sense of discomfort. It was nothing like he had ever experienced.

Nothing like the stares of mockery received on a daily basis. The men who snickered and shook their heads. The ones who abandoned all efforts on trying to tease his attire because they thought that he was obviously a lost cause.

But this…this was different. This was more like being on the receiving end of having someone walk all over you with their fingers in an intimate way.

Whilst washing his hands, the stranger was peeling away every layer, and helping himself to whatever was favorable. And Castiel felt…flushed in that awfully tight leather jacket.

It was unlike any other feeling ever experienced. And instantly, he was disarmed from wit, his sense of feeling comfortable and the ability to withstand any social awkwardness stronger than ever.

There he was, reduced to a man who stood before a wide wall mirror in a washroom. A man who couldn't even shift his eyes to decipher who the other person was. This other man who seemed to be entirely fascinated by an enigma like Castiel and who found him desirably…pleasing enough to scrutinize barefacedly.

Good God. Were all London men so deranged like the few that had left prior?

"Hi, Ocean Eyes," the man said finally, in a rather deep voice that was breathy and affected by slight humor. He flipped off the tap. Therefore, there was silence in the washroom between them.

But Castiel said nothing.

Instead, he stupidly pulled out another paper towel from the dispenser, folded it quickly and dabbed at his mouth. Then whilst his mind was screaming to will his legs into a stride towards the door, damned curiosity won over. And because he desired to at least justify his sense of feeling discomfort by glaring at the other man, Castiel allowed their eyes to meet.

At first, what he thought to be completely ludicrous was replaced by a sense of shock.

The familiarity of that face. The popular green eyes that reminded him of lush grass even when he managed to stare into them through a damn television screen. On BBC. On CNN. ABC. Aljazeera. 60 Minutes last fall. But the most injustice of it all was that none of the video footage or photos were capable of capturing what the Prince truly looked like in person.

And Castiel was stunned because Dean was possibly, no, decidedly the most handsome young man that he had ever laid eyes on.

He was ashamed by how stunned he might have appeared. In a public washroom, now boldly helping himself to an eyeful of perfect sculpted features on a face that belonged to someone who had to be well aware of how good looking he was.

No wonder the Prince was such a rebel.

"Billie Eilish," Dean said, this time with a look of amazement and yet a small smile. "Haven't you heard the song?"

"The…what?" Castiel blinked. Is he actually talking to a peasant like me?

"You're too cute." The Prince walked over and with his eyes locked on blue ones, boldly invaded the other man's personal space to pull out a paper towel. Then standing back, allowing a foot of space between them, perhaps intentionally, he sighed. "And starved of pop culture. Well then, have a listen when you get a chance."

Castiel smelled the strong scent of a cologne and aftershave that was…beautiful to inhale. And Irish Spring and couldn't understand why on earth his heart was racing.

Why his mind had grown so fuzzy. Why he was using the word beautiful all of a sudden to describe a man's scent?

He was so very much fucked.

Maybe something had been slipped into the damn coffee, that's why it was 5% discounted. Because what he was feeling in that moment couldn't be normal. It couldn't be…dammit. What was happening?

"Cat got your tongue?" Dean tried again, clearly puzzled by now but still amused. He neatly folded the tissue and couldn't take his eyes off of the other man. "Are you okay?"

"I…uh," Castiel tried to shrug off the magnitude of his embarrassing reaction. "I've never heard the song. But I will definitely check it out."

"My name's Dean, by the way. Or as the tabloids refer to me as 'The Royal Rebel'," the Prince seemed proud. "The Heartbreaker."

"I know who you are…" Castiel couldn't breathe. Get your shit together. Breathe. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Dean. Prince…Your Majesty…Sir. Shit. Sorry." Did he just…apologize? Castiel stared at the floor and hated how he could lose control of his senses.

"Just…Dean," the other man said chuckling. "Lighten up, will you? And the pleasure is mine. To meet you too. You're easy on the eyes. Maybe I can have a name?"

"Castiel."

"Okay, Castiel." Those green eyes were sparkling and lingering on his lips. "Uh, forgive me if I intruded."

The Prince gracefully plucked a gold pen from his left breast pocket on a blue and green plaid shirt and scribbled something on the folded tissue with grin. Then Dean held out the bit of mystery.

"Here," he said softly.

Cas hesitantly took the square of tissue and in the process, their fingers brushed. Perhaps deliberately on the Prince's part, he couldn't quite tell. But the grand effect was achieved because he instantly felt little bursts of lightening travelling through his arm. And wondered if he was losing his damn mind, to think that what books often described, about the way love could affect someone's body from a simple touch, was happening really in reality.

"Call or text me when you're free. I'd love to get to know you more," Dean sounded so sure of himself. He stepped back wouldn't break the gaze.

It appeared as if he loved to smile. He was carefree like that. "Nice t-shirt, by the way." The prince gestured at Castiel's attire with the words 'I'm Mister Darcy' printed in white on blue material. "I've read the book like what? Nine times? I bid you a good evening, 'Ocean Eyes'."

And he was gone, leaving Castiel with one thought ringing over and over in his head.

Dean Winchester, the Duke of York, had just flirted…with him. And now he was holding the Prince's goddamn number between his trembling fingers.

The Prince…the man who was scandalous and wild and loved parties. The Prince who was always extroverted and carefree and laughing. He had read Pride and Prejudice nine times. Nine.

Maybe he had lied about that one small bit. Maybe he had done it to seem more intriguing, more appealing. But why on earth did the Prince feel the need go out of his way to talk to a commoner like him?

Castiel turned to the mirror and realized in horror that a deep blush had covered his neck and cheeks. And for the first time in…forever, the first thing that captured his mind was the frivolous feeling of being on the receiving end of a man and not just any ordinary man, who had gone out of his way to flirt openly with an enigma such as himself.

"Maybe I'm really sexy," he said to his reflection in the mirror. "Holy fuck."