Chapter Text
“Eggsy, do we really need all this?” Michelle steps over a pile of packages crowding the hallway of her flat with an exasperated look.
Eggsy just leans against the wall beside the coat rack, smiling unrepentantly. “Yes, mum. Absolutely.”
Turns out that getting a taste of the good life has unlocked something of a hedonist in Eggsy. There might not be enough time to pop into the brick and mortar shops between missions, but who needed to, when they had a nice bit of slick plastic and an internet connection?
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, babe,” Michelle bemoans, hands on her hips.
“It’s overdue!” All those years they went without? That was done. Over. Eggsy intends to buy doubles of everything now that he has his mum and his sister set up, and for his own place that happens to be perfectly located between their flat, the Mews, and Savile Row, saving him time as he bounces between all three like a pinball lighting up the scoreboard.
“It’s wasteful." But she’s caressing the new bedding with a lost look in her eyes.
It's the same expression he sees in the mirror sometimes. The incredulity that it’s all turned around for him, for them, and he’s the luckiest sod in the world. A fantastic job, colleagues he got along with—sans maybe Gawain, who has shit taste in movies—and a boss that Eggsy adores.
Well. More than adores, if he’s being truthful. (Best of all? He’s confident that Harry’s interested.)
“Why you smilin’ like that?”
Crap. Caught like a kid reaching for the biscuit jar.
“Nothin’, mum. But I gotta go. Call if you need anything, yeah?” Eggsy kisses her cheek, hugs Daisy, and strolls out onto the street whistling cheerfully.
The one year anniversary of V-day has come and gone, and in that unthinkably short period of time, humanity has "somehow" continued on without devolving into Mad Max-styled dystopia.
That "somehow" was the cooperative efforts of multiple agencies and organizations to duct tape society together. Organizations that would have, under normal circumstances, refused to so much as acknowledge each other. Organizations that Kingsman hadn't even known existed, such as their American cousins, the Statesmen.
Eggsy hadn't paid much attention to the whole "once in a lifetime" show of international comradeship. Up to his neck in missions that a newbie like him wouldn’t normally be sent solo on, he didn’t even have the opportunity to grieve for his mentor. There weren't enough agents to go around for anything. Not even for collecting Harry’s corpse while Kingsman scrambled to deal with the fallout. He'd been operating off pure adrenaline and caffeine that first week, catching winks where he could, too exhausted to linger on their losses. On his loss.
Unknown to him, six days after V-Day and after some tentative discussions and comparing of notes, the Statesmen had revealed to Merlin—de facto Arthur, at that point, without anyone else to take the wheel—that they happened to have collected a John Doe from what was assumed to be Valentine’s first testing site.
It’d been Eggsy, on his way home from resolving a dicey situation involving a dirty bomb in Mexico City, who’d gotten the order to turn the jet around. Merlin had promised him that the detour would be worth it.
It had been.
Bringing Harry home had been the most difficult, best thing Eggsy had ever done. The man had lost his memories and refused to get his name right, but Eggsy couldn’t keep the delighted grin off his face. It’d been touch and go with everything else that had stormed in on the heels of V-day, but Eggsy had been stubborn. No matter how often he was called away, he made sure to sneak into Harry’s room with takeaway at least once a week and just be with him.
Harry the lepidopterist was still Harry, even if he wasn’t his Harry.
Admittedly, the Statesmen were a swanky bunch. They hadn’t needed to save Harry with their cool sci-fi healing gel or to graciously return him to his people. They also hadn’t needed to guide Kingsman on the best ways to break through the memory loss, but they had, and he’s beyond grateful. Since then he's run point on several of their ops, and he's rather fond of them, crazy bastards that they are.
Resolving Harry’s amnesia had resulted in plenty of arguments. Eggsy had staunchly refused to pile on more trauma. Merlin had remained unconvinced until Eggsy had pointed out that even if they cured the amnesia, Harry would be in no shape to be of immediate help. Not after the slaughter he’d been forced to commit. What good would it be to get Harry back, only to immediately break him?
Eggsy taps out a quick text to Harry: just left mums, gonna buy smt rq brt. Then he slides into his ride, stroking the steering wheel with a pleased hum. His mobile chimes a reply soon after. All Harry had typed was “Atrocious,” and it takes skill to make a single word on a screen emit that much poshness.
He leaves Harry on read. They’ll be seeing each other soon enough. After Harry had recuperated and the whole Arthur issue had been finalized, it’d been Harry who’d extended a dinner invite with that old-world charm that drives Eggsy up the wall. Now it’s a standing tradition and Harry still goes out of his way to inquire every time, as if Eggsy would decline, since apparently gentlemen do not assume.
Eggsy snorts. Yeah, he ain’t that much of a gentleman yet.
Honestly, part of him still thinks Harry’s too good for him. Too poised, too clever, too handsome. The only thing he isn’t is too old for Eggsy.
Forget the three decades between them, Eggsy’s gagging for it. Worse than any crush. It wasn’t no fluttery nerves and shaky knees. Eggsy only had to think about Harry and warmth bloomed in his chest and radiated outwards until he figured that he had to be physically glowing, giving away the game.
Eggsy knows he’s become a greedy bastard. Knows also that maybe he should hit the pause button and take stock, but he’s twenty-five going on twenty-six; patience was never his strong suit. No pain, no gain, nothing risked… something or other.
It’s fine if Harry doesn’t love him, that in that sense them getting together would be horribly lopsided and maybe not the best idea in the world, but who cares? Having frequent brushes with death put a lot of things into perspective.
Live now, feel lucky if you last long enough to regret it.
Eggsy pops into the shop and grabs a Macallan, showing up at Harry’s door with five minutes to spare.
“Did you fear we were in danger of running out?” is all Harry remarks when he opens the door, dry as kindling, but Eggsy is undeterred.
“Shove it, Haz. I’m bein’ civilized, bringin’ a gift with me, yeah?”
Harry collects the bottle, lifting it up to the light, turning it over as if it were one of his precious butterfly specimens, approval softening the line of his mouth into a quiet smile. “You're learning.”
“‘You’re learning,’ he says. Christ. I only bought Johnnie Walker once! Let a bloke live down the shame.” Ignoring the flush of pleasure the man’s approval still instills in him, Eggsy sweeps past him into the foyer. After having lived there for a few months, and all the subsequent visits, he’s more at home in Harry’s house than he is at his current flat.
It doesn’t change. Hasn’t in years. Harry is habitually fastidious, chiding him like he’s a misbehaving cat when Eggsy goes and moves a picture frame, or throws a cushion off to the side so he can lay down on the sofa.
Eggsy really shouldn't find that as endearing as he does.
Dinner is from their favorite Indian place. They spread out the dishes across the dinner table and over tasty bites of murgh kari they discuss business. They’ve got other topics to cover, and they’ll touch on them eventually, but first and foremost they’re Kingsman, off-duty or not.
They’ve gone through a wine bottle already and the mood has mellowed. At the moment Harry is mulling over reactivating old posts versus creating new ones.
Harry sets down his fork and knife to thread his hands, pensive. “It’s a potentially touchy subject. History can be a double-edged sword. New agents should not feel weighed by the sins of their past name-holders.” Crow’s feet deepen at the corner of Harry’s eyes. Between the lines is a pain that is foreign to Eggsy, who didn’t get to meet those agents who had turned over to Valentine’s side.
“Let ’em pick,” is Eggsy’s suggestion. That Harry is mulling over this so much speaks volumes of how considerate he is, but there’s no need for all the fuss. “Lay it out to the candidates that the last tosser with the codename got their head blown for trying to murder five billion people, and let ‘em decide whether they want a new name or nah.”
“That simple?” asks Harry.
“Yeah, mate. That simple. Choice is what matters, yanno? Being asked.” Eggsy starts on the kaju katli, sweetened cashew flooding his taste buds. “Makes all the difference.”
“I believe you may have hit upon the solution, then.” Harry doesn’t give praise idly. “Thank you, Eggsy.”
The kaju katli nearly goes down the wrong way.
Harry waves Eggsy off as he clears the dishes off the table. Given a reprieve while Harry’s occupied, Eggsy scrubs his cheeks, scoffing at himself for turning red like some bird in school. Really, did that shit never stop?
They retreat into the sitting room. Wine had started them off, now it’s the Macallan to serve as a nightcap. Harry produces tulip glasses, serving two fingers of scotch for each of them.
“S’nice,” Eggsy mumbles, accepting the drink.
He means the situation as a whole, but the lit fireplace is casting some terribly romantic amber lighting that gives Eggsy the inappropriate notion that Harry’s about to break out the Barry White records. He won’t, of course. (Elton John, however, is not summarily off the table.)
“To well-deserved indulgences,” Harry toasts, and he takes his customary seat on the leather club chair, further loosening his already slack tie so that the ends hang off his neck.
Eggsy bites out an exasperated “cheers.”
Harry has to be doing this on purpose. He has to, the insufferable prick. The air of intimacy, the steady regard over the scotch that ignites Eggsy’s insides into molten want—he’s a ruddy menace and that much sex appeal wasn’t healthy for anybody.
Right, then, he decides after another ten minutes of conversation passes, bolstered by liquid courage. Right, then.
The line of his shoulders straightens, muscles flexing as if preparing to fight as he peels himself off the sofa and sets the tulip glass on a coaster, as otherwise Harry will be distraught over water rings.
“More? Or are we calling it an early evening?” Ever the gracious host, Harry makes to stand, halting when Eggsy slides into his personal space.
Harry falls silent as Eggsy braces a hand on the armrest and leans in to touch his lips to Harry’s mouth, intending to be delicate. It’s all built up to this moment for what feels like ages, from that second meeting outside the police station, drop by drop and he can feel it swelling, pushing at him, the sense of rightness.
“My—no. No." Harry catches Eggsy’s elbow with his free hand.
Eggsy's mind goes blank. “What?”
Their breaths intermingle. They’re close enough that Eggsy can count Harry’s individual eyelashes, feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of gold that swim in his remaining eye. He repeats, “What?” because he’s just that—
Stupid.
“Oh." Understanding dawns. Harry doesn’t mean “not like this,” he’s saying no. Flat out.
Eggsy swallows. His mouth feels too soft, too expectant—it hasn’t caught up to reality yet.
Harry’s gaze dips, zeroes in, and shakes his head sorrowfully as if he can’t believe Eggsy would be that gauche.
Yeah, well, Eggsy can. He pulls away, slamming all the internal emergency buttons as he does, setting off the blaring sirens, code red, this is not a drill, everything’s gone to shit.
“Eggsy, stop. Let me explain—” Harry tries to squeeze Eggsy’s elbow, but Eggsy skitters away, adrenaline buzzing. It’s too hot in the room now. Asphyxiating.
Eggsy holds up both hands, to ward off the platitudes he can hear coming his way like an avalanche dislodging. “Don’t gotta explain. ‘No’ is a complete sentence. I overstepped. Sorry.” And isn’t that fucking familiar, the embarrassed dismay that he’s disappointed the man again, except this time no one’s asking him to shoot a dog.
No, this is all on him.
Eggsy shifts, getting his bearings in this new post-No world that makes no sense, but exists anyway. His stomach turns with the vertigo of it all. Don’t hate me, fuck, please. “We’s gonna be adults about this?”
That wasn’t meant to end as a question. Nor with that wobbliness that Eggsy sucks back to replace with a sheepish smile.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s been run over with a migraine. His voice is a weary, defeated thing. “Yes, of course—I would never—you are… dear to me, Eggsy. There is nothing to forgive. We won’t speak of this again.”
“Okay. Cool. Thanks.”
Eggsy retakes his seat on the sofa. They sip more scotch, ambling from one topic to the next, ignoring the elephant in the room. Then Eggsy summons an Uber instead of sleeping in Harry’s guest room per the norm, bids Harry good night while staring no higher than the other’s shirt collar, and ten minutes after that, Eggsy stumbles into his flat.
It’s tempting to grab the six pack out of the fridge. Get himself full blotto, wipe away the night’s events with a clean cloth, self-medicating until numb. But then he might do something reckless like ringing up Harry.
Christ, no.
He flumps onto his beautifully cozy bed, with its fluffy goose-down comforter, and waits for his defenses to disintegrate like some madcap villain’s self-destructing secret base. It’s gonna be ugly. He ain’t a dainty crier. He’ll be all sopping wet and disgusting with snot.
That doesn't happen. The night is spent facing the far wall of his bedroom, dry-eyed, occasionally making a stricken sound in the back of his throat that tastes of bewilderment. Part of him wants to review every interaction they’ve ever had and recontextualize it with Harry doesn’t want you, but what’s the point?
There were no plasters for the kind of wound he’s got, and he's not going to be a sap who keeps adding salt to injury by torturing themselves.
It’ll go away, the ache. One day he won’t even remember it was there.
But for now, well, Eggsy's learned his lesson. Flew too close to the sun and got his wings wrecked. That’s all.
Harry doesn’t treat him any differently at work. He clearly has no issue dismissing the whole thing. Great. Perfect.
So instead it’s Eggsy who curtails himself, who collects his assignments with a jaunty salute and then bounces out of Arthur’s office. Who claims he’s got a thing with Roxy when Harry seeks him out for their weekly dinner appointment, and Harry, god bless him, lets him off the hook gracefully, not pressing even though they both know Eggsy can’t lie for shit to Harry.
Roxy is bemused when he ambushes her in the hall. “We’re going out drinking? It’s Thursday, Eggsy.”
“Which means tomorrow is Friday, and ain’t that worth celebrating?”
Lips twitching, she taps him on the chest. “Do you remember what happened last time? I will not be shoving you into a cab while dodging your sick. You were aiming for my Louboutins—”
“Swear down, I wasn’t!”
“Irrelevant. So if you want to drink, you’re coming to my flat, and bringing the booze and a change of clothes.”
“Sleepover? Casual dress? I’ll bring my PJs.”
“You better. I saw far too much of your bum during training."
Roxy’s flat is on the outskirts of London proper, bracketed on each side by remodeled nineteenth-century factories that Eggsy thinks might either be art galleries or… well, some people were weird with their design choices, that was all he was going to say on the subject.
Her place is on the third floor, taking up all of it, not that it means much other than she’s got a guest room to chuck him into when she gets fed up with his babbling. Or so she threatens.
What actually ends up happening is they pilfer all the blankets and pillows that she owns, and bunker down in the middle of her living room in a make-shift fortress of comfort.
Snug as cuddle bugs, swathed in comforters and quilts, they pass a bottle of tequila until they're light-years past squiffy by the time Roxy broaches the topic of Harry.
Emboldened by all the liquour shunting through his veins, Eggsy smiles lopsidedly, bitterly.
Roxy jerks upright. “Wait, you finally did it?!”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Didn’t take.” An ache settles between his lungs.
Roxy blinks at him. “It didn’t… take?” she echoes slowly. “Harry Hart rejected you?”
“Twist the knife farther to the left, luv, finish me off.”
“No, I mean,” she huffs and takes another draught from the tequila bottle, squinting at the taste. “I didn’t see that coming. Are you…?”
“Gutted? Yeah, but me’n’Harry are sorted,” he reassures. “Honest. He ain’t for the likes of me.” And there he tries to channel Eliza Doolittle in a half-recalled movie quote.
“Oh, do stop.” Her eyebrows knit in worry. “Did he say why?”
“No. I mean, he was gonna, but fuck, my heart was already on the floor, I couldn’t take a stomp.”
“I… think that might have been a mistake.”
“What could he possibly say that wouldn’t make me feel like shit, fam? It ain’t like I haven’t been obvious for the last half year—”
“Year,” Roxy mutters darkly.
“—if he wanted to tell me the reason, he had the chance. He’s too bloody gentlemanly to bring it up himself, prob’bly was hoping I wouldn’t push it.” And doesn't that just make him an idiot for misreading all those signals? Eggsy wants to invent a time machine and go back to smack himself upside the head. Though he'd been so stupidly besotted with Harry that he probably wouldn't listen and history would repeat itself in some kind of masochistic loop of rejection.
“That doesn’t make sense."
“We're plastered, we ain't gonna remember this in the morning anyway.”
Roxy knocks her knee into his. “I just… I think you should,” she hiccups, “maybe talk to him again."
“Nah, once was enough, ta,” he says, and takes the tequila bottle back.
“Where did we find glitter?” Roxy mumbles to Eggsy the next morning, studying her hands. They’re hungover and commiserating in the manor cafeteria, chugging bottles of water and sugary coffee by turns. “I haven’t touched the devil’s dust since I was five.” Specks of glitter sparkle on her skin, defying removal as she tries to brush them off.
Devil’s dust. A tiny pained laugh escapes him. Eggsy shouldn’t find that funny when he’s fully sober and suffering like he is. “I dunno, maybe we hit a strip joint and don’t remember?”
"How would that explain the glitter?”
“Roxy…” Eggsy trails off. Did she really not know? Has she never met a stripper? “I’ve gotta to take you into a strip club.”
Roxy groans. “I’m never drinking with you again, Unwin!”
“Yeah, you will,” Eggsy dismisses. “You love me.”
They’ve come in too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. There’s a couple of mechanics having a tea break. Past them are Gawain and Merlin. Going by shadows under their eyes, they’ve had a rough night. Eggsy’s heard through the grapevine that they’ve got a mess on their hands. Something or other about an uptick in organized crime since V-day.
He gestures towards them with a water bottle. “Ya think they’ve gone home this week?
“Who knows? I’m not asking. Whatever they’re working on, I don’t want to get involved.” Roxy takes a sip of her coffee, and Eggsy silently agrees that he wants no part of whatever has them pulling all-nighters.
Doesn’t sound fun.
Another week, another evil genius mastermind dead. Eggsy will never get tired of it. (He’s still waiting for the volcanic lair, the shark tank and the lasers—a lad has dreams.)
He’s a little more huffy over the subsequent documentation required. Kingsman produced more paperwork than most offices in London combined, and he keeps meaning to talk to someone about their carbon footprint, but he supposes saving the planet multiple times a year might karmically even them out.
There’s a knock at his door.
Eggsy pauses, pen mid-twirl between his fingers. “Yeah? C’mon in. It ain’t locked, luv.”
It has to be the evening clean-up crew. Can’t be Merlin, the man doesn’t do anything as quotidian as walking to an agent’s office to speak with them. He sends summons. And woe be to any fool who didn’t answer them.
Harry steps into the room. Eggsy’s pen goes flying.
“Uh—hey? What’s up?” Was Harry there to invite him to dinner? Can he use the same excuse? No, Roxy’s in Colombia, that ain’t gonna fly. Okay, that’s fine, he has other mates. Could claim that Daisy had a fever. That was believable.
Where the hell did his pen go?
“Galahad,” Harry says in lieu of a greeting, and Eggsy straightens, swinging his feet off onto the floor. Not a social call. Business. Excellent, that he can handle.
Eggsy relaxes into attention, oxymoron that it is, and cocks his head. “Yes, oh fearless leader?”
Harry places the folder he’s carrying on the desk. It’s a slim thing unlike the fat dossiers they typically get for missions. “An opportunity has arisen. I need you in the field.”
Eggsy’s attention flicks between the file and back to him. A thousand possibilities fire off inside his skull. What’s odd is that Harry is entirely closed-off, unreadable as a cipher.
“Yeah, alright? I’ll do whatever you want me to." The file’s only a couple pages tucked inside. It’s a dossier on some bloke named Elliot Markle, and other than a few sparse details, it is skint. For all Eggsy knows this guy could be Hitler reincarnated. “What’d he do?”
“He has the misfortune of being the gray sheep in a rather unpleasant family.” Harry stands with military ease, arms tucked behind his back. “We need you to plant bugs in his house. Seduction is the easiest way inside.”
“Oh.” Eggsy pauses. “Not saying I won’t, but you know I haven’t done any honeypots, yeah? Last time you lot tied me up to train tracks. Is no one—”
“You’re his type.”
Well. Hard to argue with that. Not that he's being vain, just. Yeah. Fine. Eggsy taps the file. “You wanna fill me in?"
“Of course. The mark has kept an unusually low profile, but as of—” Harry checks his wristwatch “—forty-seven minutes ago, he signed up for an app popular with men of a certain inclination. Officially, Gawain and Merlin are in charge of this investigation, but they’ve got bigger fish on the hook and can’t be pulled away. Nevertheless, a researcher noticed the activity and made a false account to bait him into arranging for a meeting.”
“Hold up! Was I the bait?” Did some nameless techie just throw Eggsy into the nymphomaniac void that was Grindr?
“No.” A thin smile touches Harry’s lips. “I’m told she sacrificed the dignity of her younger brother in her rush to set something up. Said brother will not be liaising with the target, but I’m certain you are quite capable of comforting him in his stead."
Is that what they were calling it these days? Eggsy keeps the sarcasm to himself and stretches, joints popping in a chorus line all the way down his back. Fine, so it’s his first legitimate honeypot. At least Markle wasn’t ugly. He ignores the unsteady lurch of his stomach. “Got it. Who do I report to on my way out?”
“I’ll be overseeing this.”
Eggsy freezes with his hands curled above his head. “You’ll wot?”
“There is no one as familiar with the details of this case as I am available. Rest assured, I will not fail you.” Harry stands tall, somehow taking up all the space in Eggsy’s office. He’s as solid as granite, not a hint of unease. This is Arthur giving Galahad an order. He expects it to be followed.
That hurts. It hurts in a whole new different way that being rejected had. He rubs the center of his chest absently as if trying to massage away the pain. “No worries. I trust you.”
Distracted with tucking away all the pointless misery into a dusty corner where it belongs, Eggsy misses the movement Harry makes. By the time Eggsy’s got an approximation of his usual grin on, Harry has turned away.
“So’s when am I—”
“In approximately three hours.” Harry reaches the door in two strides of his ridiculously long legs.
Eggsy glances at the pile of paperwork waiting for him. At least Merlin can’t blame him for not turning them in now, can he?