Work Text:
The first time it happens is on his wedding day, of all days.
It should be the happiest day of his life, something perfect that nothing can taint. Anna forgave him. She forgave him and she agreed to marry him and he’s going to watch her walk down the aisle to him, going to be the man she spends the rest of her life with. Every other concern should wait for some other day, this one is theirs.
But, as he gets ready, trying to keep his hands steady as he ties his cravat, Mother steps into the room, beaming brightly, tears in her eyes, and tells him how proud she is, of him. How glad she is that he found something truly special, with his bride-to-be.
And then, still crying happy tears, tells him how much he reminds her of his Father on their wedding day.
His stomach churns at the comparison, hands starting to shake even worse. He would give the cravat up as a lost cause entirely, go without, but Mother steps in, chuckling to herself, makes the comparison again—he was always hopeless at this when he was nervous, too, though the idea of Father ever being nervous is incomprehensible—and ties it for him.
When he was a child, he would have taken a comparison to his Father joyfully, clung to it with every bit of pride he could muster.
At twenty-seven, about to marry the woman he fell hopelessly in love with at twenty only to single-handedly ruin everything that was between them in a stupid grab for power that would have meant nothing, without her at his side, he’s not joyful about the comparison at all. He feels sick, about being anything like the man that made him feel so invisible for so long that he’d thought betraying Anna and taking Arendelle for himself might actually get him anywhere he wanted to be. About being anything like the man he watched treat his mother like she was nothing more than a pretty accessory, his entire life.
Lars can remember a time when their parents absolutely adored each other.
Hans can’t. He doesn’t think Mother’s feelings ever changed, or she wouldn’t be so happy to tell him how much like Father he looks, but by the time he came around, Father was just—cold. To basically everyone except for Caleb, though he saw moments, where each of his brothers was praised for something. All of them except for him. He was weak, he was soft, he was quiet and therefore timid, he was the youngest and therefore a baby, he was upset when his brothers would taunt and tease him and therefore whiny, and anything he could possibly accomplish had already been done by one of them and most likely they’d been better at it. Academics, swordsmanship, politics, no matter how hard he strived to be the best he could be, he was always second to someone.
She kisses his cheek and takes her leave and part of him just wants to flee. To find Anna and say to hell with ceremony and convince her to elope instead of having so many eyes on them. To find Anna and say screw not seeing each other before the wedding, I need you, I need to hold you, I need to be held by you, I need to hear you say that I’m a good man.
But he’s marrying a Queen, and she deserves a beautiful wedding, and she’s planned this for months, and he can’t bear to take it away from her by giving in to that impulse. Not when he can picture the way her smile will fall as she asks him what happened to make him want to change all their plans. Not when he can see, already, the way her heart will break as he tries to explain the way that being told he looks like his Father made him want to retch.
He’s broken her heart once before, and that’s too many times as it is.
The second time he could almost write off as the confused ramblings of a very old man.
They’re visiting the Isles, because it’s Darcy’s birthday and she begged them to come and Hans has never been able to tell his niece no and Anna—well, honestly, he thinks Anna might have surpassed him on the Darcy’s Favorite People list but that makes sense because it’s Anna and she’s his favorite person, too.
Anna’s with child. They’ll be back in Arendelle by the time she’s due, but they make no secret of the fact that they’re expecting, and her dresses do nothing to hide it, either.
His Uncle, Karl, Mother’s eldest brother, has lived in the palace for years. First as an advisor to Father on trade, but then, as his mind began to leave him, it became mostly out of pity. Mad Uncle Karl would have nowhere else to go, and Mother couldn’t bear the thought of sending him to an asylum, and Father had indulged her, and Caleb had continued to indulge her, after Father’s death.
Uncle Karl goes on a rant over dinner one night about Viktor parading that young mistress around the castle when Addie’s been nothing but an excellent Queen, when she gave him so many strong sons.
The whole thing is embarrassing at best, but he thinks most of the table looks genuinely horrified by it. If only out of worry for diplomatic relations with Arendelle over this, given the implied insult to Anna.
“Karl,” Mother scolds, the closest he’s ever heard her to snapping angrily, “Viktor has been dead nearly five years now. You’re insulting Hans and his wife on unfounded grounds.”
Uncle Karl doesn’t stop. He never does, when he’s deep in whatever it is in his head that makes him so confused. His caretakers have to come and remove him from the dinner, and by the time he leaves there’s not a chance to recover any sort of pleasant mood.
Hans should be able to ignore it, shouldn’t he? They call Uncle Karl Mad for a reason. The man hasn’t known what year it is since Hans was about ten, let alone half of what comes out of his own mouth.
But he can’t fully bring himself to. Can’t help the lingering dread that sits on his chest from being confused for his Father entirely.
The third time is shortly after the twins are born. When Mother had realized that Anna had very few ladies who knew what they were doing to attend and support her, for the birth, she’d rallied a few of the sisters-in-law—Louisa, Natalia, and Frederica—and insisted on coming along to Arendelle with them.
His daughters are tiny, and fragile, and he just wants to protect them, with everything he has. Wants to make sure that they never feel alone, never feel unloved, never feel invisible.
He’s absolutely wrapped around their fingers. To the point where even Elsa, visiting her sister, softens a bit towards him, doesn’t act like his continued existence—or the fact that Anna still chose to marry him, after everything—is a crime against her.
Every chance he gets, he cradles one or both of them in his arms, his precious girls.
And just before she and the others are due to return to the Isles, Mother—of course it’s Mother, again, she would know more than anyone—smiles at him, and sighs, and says your Father was just as elated when Caleb was born. Goodness, you remind me of him more every single day.
Again, the comparison makes him feel sick. Terrifies him. If he truly is like his Father now—happy, in love with his wife, willing to do anything for his children—does that mean that as time goes by, he’ll continue to be like his Father? That he’ll someday be aloof and cold? Someday be a man that Anna won’t recognize?
Years pass. He does his best to put the comparisons out of his mind. It’s easy, when he focuses on Anna and her happiness. Easy, when he focuses on their children—Iduna, and Elizabeth, at first, and then a few years later little William joins them, takes after his mother to such an extreme that Hans can’t imagine anyone ever telling him you look just like your Father and takes so much relief in the fact.
He loves his children.
He can’t bear the thought of any one of them being burdened with constant comparisons to him.
Mother passes in her sleep, peaceful.
They go to the Isles for the funeral. Anna tells him about her parents’ funeral, after they were lost at sea. About how her sister, still keeping her at arms’ length, at the time, stayed in her room, forced her, fifteen and mourning, to stand alone in front of all of Arendelle, and he’s never hated Elsa more, though he carefully avoids saying as much. Anna still loves her sister, after all. That has never changed, will never change, no matter how fervently he believes she deserves more of an apology for how she was treated than she’s ever actually gotten.
He doesn’t think anything of seeing a portrait of Father, almost as soon as they arrive. Mourning for him ended ages ago, and Caleb would have removed the shrouds from his portraits as soon as Mother indicated she was ready.
But then, as he readies for one of the seemingly endless dinners, he glances into the mirror and suddenly he can see it.
His face. His Father’s face. Either. Both. Does it matter? They’re the same.
He stumbles back from the mirror, shaving supplies clattering to the floor. Shuts his eyes as his breathing goes ragged.
I’m not him, he tries to tell himself, repeating the words over and over, clinging to the thought, I’m not him. Anna wouldn’t love me if I were.
He sinks down against the cold stone wall, tries to hold onto some sort of good thought. Anna loves him. Mother loved Father. The children mean everything to him. We only have three, Father had thirteen. He’s not his Father. Or is he?
“Hans?”
Focused as he was on his inner turmoil, he didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t even hear Anna enter the room. But suddenly there she is, next to him, holding his face in her hands gently.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” she asks, wiping away his tears. It’s all he can do, to meet her gaze.
“I wish—” he starts, haltingly, “God, I wish I could say I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. But I—looked in the mirror. And saw my Father looking back at me.”
“Oh, Hans,” Anna sighs, practically climbs into his arms as she clings to him, tightly, comforting, “No, love. You’re not him. You’re not.”
She wouldn’t know, a cynical part of him whispers, she never met Father. She might have, if you hadn’t ruined the first engagement, but Father was gone by the time you managed to fix things.
“But what if I am?” he questions, desperate.
She pulls back, again. Stares at him, like she’s trying to memorize his face.
“You’re not,” she says, firm, after a very long moment, “I know I never met him. But I’ve seen portraits. And I don’t see him at all, when I look at you. I see my husband, not my father-in-law. I see the man who sang our babies lullabies every night until they told him they were too old for it, who taught our daughters to defend themselves with swords as soon as they asked, who always puts our children before everything else. You aren’t him. You’re you.”
“Anna,” he starts to protest, because how can she even be sure? If he can see the resemblance, how can she deny it?
“You look similar to him, yeah, sure, superficially,” she cuts him off, “But not the same. There’s a really, really important difference. And it’s subtle, so I get it if you didn’t see it. It’s your eyes. Every portrait I’ve ever seen of him, his eyes are hard. Cold. Mean. Yours aren’t. I mean. They were. That one time. You know which,” she starts to babble, “But that was a lie so it doesn’t count. You have soft eyes. Warm eyes. Kind eyes. The complete opposite of him. I promise, Hans. I promise. You aren’t him. You’re never going to be him.”
He wants to believe her.
She’s never lied to him. Never. So, logically, she’s telling the truth now. She’s never lied to him and she wouldn’t start, in this moment, just to make him feel better. That’s not who she is.
But all the times, nearly twenty years ago, now, that his Mother said he reminded her of Father continue to race through his head.
She must see his hesitation, to accept himself. But then, Anna has always seen him. Has always been the one to smash through his every facade and find his core and love him fiercely anyway. So it shouldn’t surprise him that she sees his war with himself now, and that her response is to kiss him, feather-light at first, deepening only as his arms cinch around her, as he responds to her touch just as he always has.
“I love you,” she whispers, between kisses, “I loved you the day we met, and I still loved you even when I hated you, and saying I’m going to love you for the rest of my life is too weak a way to put it. I’m going to love you until the end of eternity, Hans. You’ve always been—you understood me, when no one else bothered to look. You believed I could be a Queen before anyone else thought I was anything other than… Rash and impulsive. You steady me without judging me. That’s what matters. Not what you look like. I mean, I stand by the fact that I called you gorgeous, in that rowboat, back then. You are. You always have been. But that’s, you know, bonus. It’s your heart that I love the most.”
“Darcy,” Anna addresses their niece, who ran away to Arendelle as soon as she was old enough that her mother wouldn’t drag her home, but of course came back to the Isles with them for the funeral, “Settle something for your Uncle Hans and I, please, dear?”
“What is it?” she asks, blinking curiously.
“Does he look like your grandfather?”
Darcy makes a face—somewhere between horrified and confused.
“No?” she sputters, gagging a bit, “I mean maybe if you guys had to sit for a portrait and he was trying to look serious, I guess he would? But Uncle Hans smiles too much to look like Grandfather did. I don’t think I ever remember seeing Grandfather smile.“
“See, Hans?” Anna smiles, “You can tell me I could be wrong because I didn’t know him, but you can’t say the same about Darcy.”
“Hans,” Theodor snorts a laugh, and claps him on the shoulder, the most brotherly he’s ever been, “If it’s between listening to your wife, and listening to something Mad Uncle Karl said over a decade ago, always listen to your wife.”
“No!” Beatrice interrupts, “No, Hans, don’t you dare listen to Theo, either. The correct answer is not between your wife and Mad Uncle Karl. It is always your wife. No matter who or how sane the other option is, always listen to Anna, you’ve been married for almost twenty years, you should have learned this by now.”
“And when the other option is both Mother and my own eyes?” he questions, looking seriously at his eldest sister-in-law.
“Still Anna,” Beatrice nods, firmly, “Honestly, it’s like you forgot you’re married to a woman whose word is law.”
“Well, I try not to use that unfairly,” Anna giggles, “I don’t want to be a tyrant.”
“Dearest,” Hans looks at her, “when you were pregnant with William and couldn’t stand the scent of chocolate, you sentenced me to doing your paperwork until he could learn to behave himself.”
“You agreed that he was committing a terrible crime!” she protests, “And you volunteered to be punished in his stead because, and I quote, he’s too young to know what he’s doing. How is taking you up on that offer tyranny?”
“Ah, well, there’s your proof you’re nothing like Father right there,” Markus puts in, oddly pleasant, “If one of us had upset Mother, you know he wouldn’t have ever taken on a punishment in our place.”
He still hears his Mother’s words, too often, when he sees his reflection.
Anna helps. She always helps.
One day, particularly self-loathing, he asks her, near broken, how she can keep doing it. How he isn’t just a burden.
She sighs, and runs her fingers through his hair, and kisses his forehead as he rests his head in her lap, tears flowing freely.
“True Love, darling,” she murmurs, as she holds him, “Have you ever thought I was a burden when I couldn’t stop crying at how close the twins have always been, and how much I miss the way Elsa and I should have been like that?”
“Of course not,” he protests. He could never.
“So why would I feel any differently about you?” she questions, gentle, as she always is, in his darkest moments. “We don’t just love each other when it’s easy, Hans. I don’t just love you when it’s easy. I love you always. Even when you don’t love yourself.”
“I never had a choice,” he mumbles, petulant, “It was you from the start. You or no one at all. You—could have had easy.” She nearly married someone else. The ice harvester. Came so close to walking down the aisle to another man that he still has nightmares, sometimes, that she did. That he’ll wake up and their entire lives together will have been a torturous, beautiful dream. That he’ll wake up in a world where she doesn’t sleep curled into his arms, where their children don’t exist.
“I could have,” she agrees, “But I chose you. And I’ve never regretted it for a single moment. And I never will.”
“Wow,” says the prince who’s been slowly courting Iduna for a while now, and Hans—on his own walk through the gallery with Anna, not quite close enough to be considered chaperones, as Darcy has taken to that role quite happily and they don’t want to seem too much like they’re hovering—pauses at that tone in the boy’s voice, “People really don’t know what they’re talking about, do they?”
“About what?” Iduna demands.
“Well, that’s your parents’ wedding portrait, right? I can’t count the number of people I’ve heard say you look like your mom. But—you look way more like your dad.”
“I have Mama’s eyes,” Iduna says, almost but not quite agreeing, “But other than that I’m a Westergaard through and through, yes.” She sounds—so proud, as she says it.
“Does it bother you?” the boy asks.
“Why would it?” his daughter sounds genuinely confused at the question, “I know he made some mistakes, when he and Mama first met,” which is understatement, of course, but they told the children everything as soon as they were old enough to understand, so she does, in fact, know, “But Papa is—he’s the best. Why wouldn’t I want to look like him?”
“I actually meant does it bother you that people always get it wrong,” the boy says, laughing just a bit, “I do think my sisters would be upset if someone told them they look more like our dad than our mom, but you’ve always struck me as someone who cares more about people getting things right than anything that superficial.”
“Oh,” Iduna laughs, just a bit, “That. Well. Yes, it does. And I really hate it when people don’t give Papa credit for all the ways he’s been a good leader, for Arendelle, because they’re still hung up on his mistakes. Honestly, I think it’s connected. Acknowledging that I look like him would mean acknowledging that he’s more than just the things he did wrong.”
Anna squeezes his hand and leans into his shoulder, and he looks at her—still as lovely as the day they met, even with laugh lines around her eyes and silver starting to thread through her copper hair—and can’t help the smile that graces his face.
For every fear he’s ever had, he’s—someone that his children are proud of. It’s a small thing. But maybe… Maybe it’s enough.