Work Text:
Butterflies covered in blood descend upon him and he can hear distant shouts from voices he knows he should recognise, and thinks he hears cars backfiring, but he can smell gunpowder and knows, he feels in his gut that he’s in great danger, and a man with a red hat points something at him, another car backfires and suddenly everything is white-
He’s awake. He blinks - well, he winks, he supposes wryly - sitting up and trying to figure out the pictures his brain had been showing him. In a rush, the white makes sense, and he remembers he’s in a padded room where the walls are white and soft, and he’s a lepidopterist, and that Eggy boy is standing in the doorway staring at him, apprehensive and tense.
He can't help but flinch (everything makes him flinch) and Eggy looks pained as he smiles kindly, “It’s alright, I just… I got you a going-away present.”
Harry sees him then: a tiny Yorkie, pressed in Eggy’s arms, and Harry feels an overwhelming rush of affection. Eggy steps closer, proffering the dog to Harry. Harry feels himself grin as he takes the puppy into his hold. It’s so small, and warm, and he holds it close to his face, making a soft noise in greeting. It - he, Harry notes - squirms and wriggles in his grasp, looking Harry in the eye, head tilting adorably. Harry marvels at the creature, wondering why he's never had a dog before, - has he? Mother never allowed it, but he feels like he has... - and as he’s getting lost in the dog’s gaze, Eggy takes a deep breath beside him.
“Think I should shoot it?”
Harry’s brow furrows, worrying that he's misheard, and he turns to look at Eggy. He hadn’t seen the gun inches from his left eye, pointed straight at the puppy's head, and he feels his stomach drop. He flings his bedcovers away, twisting round to protect the puppy.
“Are you quite mad?!” Harry panics, leaping across the room, and shields the Yorkie from Eggy's gun. The boy takes a step closer. “You'll have to shoot me!” Harry shrieks, running around to the opposite corner, hunched over the dog. No way in hell this crazed boy with a gun was going to hurt this animal.
“I’ll shoot you, then! I will!”
What cruel game was this? Another test to set him on edge? Harry felt his stomach turn, “No one’s sick enough to shoot a puppy!” He can feel himself almost start to cry, terror overwhelming him. His heart pounds, and he feels his vision start to swim in panic.
“You were, Harry!” Eggy gestures at him with the gun, an impassioned plea on his face. “Don’t you remember?”
The butterflies are back, jumping off the walls and towards him. They flutter around his head, blocking Eggy from view; the shouts from his dream start up again, but this time they’re familiar and there’s blood on his hands and face, he can see the butterflies on his bathroom wall in London and he hears himself shout.
“It was a blank! It was a fucking blank!”
Harry gapes at the puppy in his grasp, gripping it tight, and an older dog stares up at him, looking innocently at the barrel of the gun that Harry’s pointing at him, and the words come out of his mouth without thinking as it all comes rushing back, “I would never hurt Mr Pickle! He lived to a ripe old age, I took him home and cared for him for eleven years until he died of pancreatitis-”
“Yes, Harry!” Eggy - no, Eggsy , Eggsy Unwin - shouts back at him, and their eyes meet.
Harry’s suddenly exhausted, and he remembers . He remembers Eggsy failing the final test, he remembers that he’s just murdered an entire congregation, and - he feels the thing wriggle in his hands - he remembers that Mr Pickle is long dead.
He stares at the puppy in his arms, and his heart fractures a little more. “You’re not Mr Pickle.”
It yawns in reply. Eggsy’s reassuring him Valentine has been dealt with (what is the current date, he wonders), he’s enveloped in Eggsy’s arms and the small creature is in his, and for the moment he lets himself feel and not think.
Eggsy promises him the puppy will be taken care of at Statesman HQ while they’re out dealing with Poppy. Harry’s reluctant, wary of the entire American organisation; he has his doubts about Agent Whiskey, especially, but he forgets about it for a moment as the butterflies surround him gently again and he nods at Eggsy.
“Make sure he doesn't get too cold,” is all Harry says to Ginger, as she walks away with the puppy in her arms.
They sit in the bar, he, Eggsy, Merlin and Agent Whiskey. Eggsy breaks the news to him. First he explains about Arthur - Chester, the old Arthur - and Harry clenches his fists at hearing of the betrayal. But it's nothing, he finds out, when he’s told that everyone else is gone. Eggsy takes a deep, shuddering breath before he says, “They got my place - your place - my mate Brandon was dogsitting JB,” and he clenches his jaw and looks down. Harry’s heart twinges.
“I'm sorry,” Harry says.
Eggsy’s temple pulses as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, and doesn't quite look Harry in the eye as he says, “I’m sorry too. About all your stuff. I should've had it all put in storage.”
Harry pales then. “You mean-”
Eggsy meets his gaze properly then. “Fuck,” he says, and he looks like he wants to kick himself, “yeah, I - I left all the butterflies, and the pictures, and stuff,” he swallows, “I didn't want to move them and Mr Pickle into a box, you know?”
“Mr Pickle?” Harry tries not to let the break in his voice come through.
Eggsy looks at Merlin, whose brow is furrowed in pity.
“I'm so fucking sorry, Harry,” Eggsy says again.
A butterfly appears behind Eggsy's ear. Harry wants nothing more in that moment than to hold the nameless puppy again, but Merlin produces a dark glasses case and hands it over, and changes the subject, tries to lighten the mood.
He’s given a new umbrella, a watch, and a pair of functional if grotesque Kingsman spectacles to replace his eyepatch. He asks how he looks and is thrown an insult or four from the next table over. How funny, he thinks, as he goes to lock the pub’s doors, that last time a close friend of his died, this exact same scenario took place.
“Then let me teach you a lesson.”
Except this time, he has the extra hurdles that are his lack of depth perception, his too-raw grief for a dog that died twice and an organisation that no longer exists, and of course, the fucking butterflies blocking his vision.
He gets knocked to the ground, and as Eggsy and Merlin crowd him back into the safety of the booth, he silently wishes he had that unnamed dog in his arms so that he might take solace in its affectionate touch. Eggsy pats him on the shoulder, but it's not the same. He wonders why Merlin only lingers on his hand for the briefest of moments, but then the butterflies distract him again and the thought is gone.
There’s the Skyway incident, and he shoots Whiskey in the face. He worries that Ginger won't be forgiving, that the puppy might suffer for his actions. It doesn't. He breathes a sigh of relief.
On the plane to Cambodia he talks to Eggsy. He tries to alleviate his tension - his heart hurts for Eggsy as he wears it on his sleeve, the world on his shoulders. They share martinis for old times’ sake and, at Merlin’s suggestion, get themselves suited and armed, settling in for descent.
“She's lovely,” Eggsy says of Tilde. “Got me a new pug before she…”
Eggsy trails off.
“What's its name?” Harry asks, keen to get off the subject of Tilde, if only to improve Eggsy’s mood some.
“Dunno yet,” Eggsy replies. “JB took ages to name, and it was the best of the lot.” He gives Harry a small smile. “What're ya gonna name the little terrier? Mr Mustard?”
Harry sniffs. “Mr Pickle took a good while to christen, and it was the best of the lot.”
Eggsy laughs, and the two share smiles all the way to Cambodia, until they hop off the plane, Eggsy steps on a landmine, and Merlin takes his place and goes out with a bang.
Harry grieves best alone. Or at least that's what he's used to, so he takes solace in what’s familiar. He stays at Merlin’s house, not wanting to impose on Eggsy and Tilde, and floats around wondering if this was how Eggsy had spent the past year in his own house.
He sits in Merlin’s armchair, the Yorkie puppy in his lap. He pours himself three fingers of Merlin’s favourite scotch and cries into the dog’s fur, pressing the little creature against his face. It doesn't wriggle in protest.
Hours later his shirtfront is ruined by phlegm and doggy drool, and he can't bring himself to care, drifting off between choked sobs. Merlin’s grandfather clock chimes two A.M. as the pup licks Harry’s nose clean.
“I've called him JB2,” Eggsy tells him three days later, as they sit across from each other over lunch at a pub near Merlin's house. Harry almost chokes on his Guinness. He gapes at Eggsy in disbelief, struggling to formulate words.
“You're joking,” he manages.
“I'll call him Jack, though. But JB2, legally.”
“Why not Mr Bauer, at least?”
Eggsy gives him an undeservedly withering look. Harry returns it. “What’ve you named yours then?” Eggsy says petulantly, playing with his half-empty glass.
Harry recalls the moment the name came to him two nights before. He’d been rinsing the puppy in Merlin’s bathroom - poor thing’s fur had been matted by Harry's snivelling, so he was guiltily giving it the best spa treatment he could manage. He’d grabbed the nearest cloth to dry him off - an embroidered face washer, inscribed with a neat “H” in the corner.
The little puppy had fought against being dried with the cloth, suddenly cantankerous after being soaked, and promptly bit off the “H” corner off. The grumpy aggression had reminded Harry keenly of the “H” in question, and he'd almost let himself cry again, but figured he ought to spare the creature any more angst.
Harry levels his gaze at Eggsy, returning to the present. “Hamish.”
Eggsy nods, mostly indifferent, and it dawns on Harry that he doesn’t know. “Is that a food thing? Like. Ham? Pickles?”
Harry smiles wanly. “Merlin was only a codename, you know,” and Eggsy’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.
They stare at each other across the table for a long moment before Eggsy raises his pint, and says, “To Hamish.”
“To Hamish.”
“Oh, you fucking didn't,” Harry growls.
Hamish wags his tail enthusiastically.
“I thought I trained you better than this,” Harry says agitatedly, eyes scanning the room for any further evidence of defecation. Hamish runs a few circles around Harry’s left Oxford as he inspects the room.
No, he thinks, with some relief, it's just the one little spot - very neatly, an almost eerily calculated placement, Hamish has deposited his gift in the centre of Harry’s pillow, right in the little divot impression left by his head the previous night.
“I should only hope you stay away from my shoe cupboard,” Harry says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. Hamish yips in response and skitters off down the hallway as Harry is left to clean up the mess.
The days stretch on as Harry and Eggsy start to rebuild Kingsman. Certain rules are abolished, and recruitment tests re-evaluated: “There are other ways we ought to test loyalty that don't involve lifelong trauma,” Harry says, as Eggsy enthusiastically tears up copies of the dog test protocol in Merlin’s study. Andrew the tailor, a good number of the tech staff that did Merlin’s bidding, and most of their drivers (and captains and pilots) were spared in the missile attack, so a few are put in charge of recruitment.
Merlin’s study becomes a temporary HQ for Harry and Eggsy as the tailor shop is slowly put back together. Eggsy brings Jack in, and the little pug runs circles around Hamish, who sits diligently in the corner to keep an eye on proceedings.
Harry and Eggsy pore over the extensive Kingsman records that Merlin kept on a backup drive, doing their best to re-establish the organisation. Neither bother with codenames - it feels gruesome for either of them to be anyone but Galahad.
Some days are long. Some go by disturbingly quickly. Harry loses himself in phone calls and training and, when he retires for the day, a glass or three of scotch. He's unashamedly running through Merlin’s supply, and Hamish looks at him accusingly from the foot of Merlin’s guest bed, as if his namesake is reprimanding Harry for using up all the good stuff. The glare disappears, however, when Hamish senses that Harry is seeing butterflies again, and he picks up the little dog to press his face into its fur and sob.
“Hey Harry, I got a favour to ask,” Eggsy begins cautiously, warily eyeing Jack as the little pug paws at the rug in Merlin’s study.
Harry makes a noise of acknowledgement, preoccupied with his handkerchief, removing a bit of yuck from the corner of Hamish’s eye.
“Was wonderin’ if you'd be able to dogsit Jack tonight.” Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and he adds, “Please?”
“Well, you'd have to ask Hamish,” Harry answers matter-of-factly, and scoops the Yorkie up with one hand. He walks over to Eggsy and shoves the Yorkie in his face, one hand bracing the dog’s tiny body, the other controlling his paw. “We’ve not been formally introduced,” he says, making Hamish hold out his paw as if to shake, speaking in a squeaky voice that has Eggsy gawping in disbelief. “Hamish Hart, how do you do?”
Eggsy glances from the dog to Harry, who’s looking as expectantly at him for a response as if he were introducing a member of parliament.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Eggsy takes the tiny paw between his thumb and forefinger, moving it up and down some. “Eggsy Unwin.”
“Now I hear you've a favour to ask of us,” 'Hamish’ says.
“Uh…” Eggsy looks bewildered.
“Well, do go on,” Harry says in his normal voice, as if he doesn't have a Yorkshire terrier proffered in front of him.
“Yeah, I, uh. Was hoping, please, if you could, if you wanna, you know, keep my dog company tonight,” and Hamish turns round to look at Harry.
“Master,” 'Hamish’ says, affronted, “is he propositioning me?”
“Oh, don't flatter yourself,” Harry hums, and turns Hamish back around to face Eggsy again.
“That would be permissible,” the Yorkie says, inclining its head in admission. “For a small fee, of course.”
“Of course,” Eggsy says coolly, a well-rehearsed smile spreading across his face. “Name your price, gents.”
Harry brings the Yorkie up to his mouth and whispers something in its ear. The Yorkie turns around (not of its own volition) and has its head shaken disapprovingly.
Eggsy watches incredulously - though he doesn't show it lest Harry and Hamish rescind the offer - as Hamish is brought up to Harry’s ear, and Harry makes some unintelligible squeaking noises, as if the dog is whispering.
The illusion breaks when Hamish licks and slobbers happily into Harry’s earlobe, and Eggsy bursts into the laughter he's been holding back as Harry’s face twists up in affectionate disgust.
Hamish and Jack get along, much to Harry and Eggsy’s delight. A little too well, sometimes - as Eggsy removes the little pug from where he’s clamped onto Hamish’s backside, Harry reminds him for the umpteenth time to get Jack neutered as soon as possible.
The four are walking through Green Park when a squirrel nips past. Jack blarps excitedly, tugging on his leash, while Hamish heels obediently at a look from Harry. Eggsy reigns in the little pug, scooping him up; Harry smirks as it squirms insistently in Eggsy’s grip, snuffling and snorting.
“Shut up, would you,” Eggsy hisses.
To Harry’s amazement, the pug shuts up.
“Can't take him anywhere,” Eggsy moans, “he listens to Tilde but not me. I think he only speaks Swedish, he don't even look at me when I come home sometimes.”
Harry leans down to scoop up Hamish from the ground, nuzzling him to his chest, pressing a quick little kiss to the top of his head. “Perhaps you should brush up on your Swedish.” He gives Hamish one last pat on the nose before letting him down to rejoin the pug.
Eventually the tailor shop front is back in business. The first time Harry brings Hamish to the new shop, the Yorkie runs six laps around the register counter and leaves a package for Kingsman’s clientele in fitting room two (which is mercifully discovered by Andrew before a customer walks into it). Harry is deeply apologetic to Andrew, while Eggsy laughs and laughs behind him.
It’s been a year to the day since Merlin sang John Denver to a group of unsuspecting thugs. All agent positions have officially been filled, save Arthur’s - Eggsy doesn’t want to outright say it, but it’s going to be Harry, despite the man’s protests. They’ve changed the rules sufficiently that being Arthur doesn’t necessarily mean no fieldwork, but even so, Harry isn’t keen for the title.
Eggsy’s just sent Harry a message through his glasses - “Swearing-in’s 2day, meeting at 10am sharp at the shop”, followed by, “ur gona be Arthur by 11am”, and then “;)” - and it’s put Harry in a foul mood. It’s while he’s reading the second message that he realises what day it is exactly, and he almost rips the glasses from his face and flings them into the dishwasher along with his plate. But he doesn’t; he clenches his jaw, slamming the dishwasher closed with more force than necessary, and stalks out of Merlin’s kitchen into the sitting room where the liquor cabinet lives.
He stops to take a deep breath and wipes the dust from one of the crystal glasses, and then he’s pouring an alarming volume of liquid into it and down his throat. As he waits for the burn to die down, he sends back a message to Eggsy: “I’ll be late”.
He spins on his heel, whistling sharply. The jingle of a collar and a flash of brown lets Harry know that Hamish is in the room, which is getting a bit blurry round the edges for him. Harry, with some effort, plops down into Merlin’s armchair - the same way he has every night when he gets home (because this is home now, this house, still much the same as it was a year ago, and Harry can’t leave) - and pats at the armrest invitingly.
His Yorkie, his Hamish is there, warm and comforting. He pulls the dog into his lap, fighting down a sniff, and pulls off his glasses so he can hang them off his shirt pocket, unwittingly starting a video feed stream as he fumbles the arms closed.
Eggsy, in the middle of walking Jack on the other end of the glasses comms, gets an eyeful of the open liquor cabinet and emptied crystal glass, the top left corner of the screen obscured by Harry’s shirtsleeve. Eggsy freezes, and Jack lets out a little snort of protest as their walk is interrupted. Eggsy says confusedly, “Harry?” before the sound of sobs comes through the comms, and the screen is obscured by dark brown fur as Harry clasps the dog tightly to his chest.
Entranced, Eggsy watches the video feed for a moment more, until he hears a soft, broken, “Hamish,” and that’s all he needs to hear. He scoops up Jack and sprints the whole way to Merlin’s sitting room.
He lets himself in, and he knows Harry knows he’s there, because Hamish starts yipping from the sitting room - ever the guard dog even when his master has him cuddled close. Catching his breath, Eggsy puts Jack down and orders him to stay by the front door. The pug does.
“Harry,” Eggsy says, turning the corner into the sitting room. He watches as Harry cradles Hamish under his chin, hunching over the dog, his eye closed, his face grief-stricken. “I’ll postpone the ceremony.” He approaches Harry, and the man doesn’t open his eye to look at him, doesn’t acknowledge he’s there at all. Eggsy kneels down on Harry’s right, and Hamish looks curiously at him for a moment, tail wagging in recognition. He cracks a small smile at the Yorkie, then glances up at Harry.
“Harry?” he says again.
Harry shakes his head. For a moment Eggsy thinks he’s going to say something, but it passes. Eggsy puts a cautious hand on Harry’s arm.
“Think you need to find somewhere else to live, bruv,” he says gently. “Not good to be doing this to yourself whenever you come home, being reminded of him 'n his things.” He knows he’s being a hypocrite, they both do. “And Kingsman really needs us both right now.”
Harry grips the dog just a little bit tighter. Eggsy studies his face closely.
“Were you and Merlin… Hamish... did you-”
Harry opens his eye to look at Eggsy. It’s all the confirmation he needs.
“Who would win in a fight, Jack or Hamish?” Eggsy says one evening, as he and Harry walk their dogs along Savile Row.
“Against each other?”
“Obviously, Harry.”
“Certainly Hamish has some advantage on size,” Harry says thoughtfully, as the dog in question stops to sniff at a fencepost. “But I will admit Jack has some heft to him-”
“My dog’s not fat, Harry.”
“-so I suppose it's a matter of intelligence and tact, rather than brute force.” He kneels down to give Hamish an enthusiastic rub about the ears.
Eggsy bristles. “That ain't an answer.”
As he stands back up Harry throws a smirk in Eggsy’s direction. “Isn't it?”
They keep walking. Eggsy frowns at the pavement between Jack’s legs as the little pug pads happily along. “You reckon your dog is smarter than mine?” Eggsy bites out, trying not to sound too petulant, and failing.
“I never said such a thing,” Harry says coolly.
“He’s plenty smart, is my Jack! Not to mention his rugged good looks.”
Harry stares at the pug as it snorts and snuffles in circles in front of him, and as if sensing he's being watched, Jack glances back up at Harry and slobbers, his eyes goggling a little.
“A handsome creature, for sure,” Harry says dryly. Eggsy glares up at him.
“I reckon Jack would win, paws down,” Eggsy insists. “He’s an angry little shite when he wants to be. Hamish is too friendly.”
At hearing his name, the Yorkie swivels his head round to look at Eggsy, tongue lolling out as he pants happily.
“Hamish could rip your bollocks off if I told him to,” Harry says.
“Bullshit.”
“Would you care for a demonstration?” Harry stops walking, and Hamish sits immediately, looking expectantly up at Harry. Eggsy stops too, and Jack tugs at his leash for a moment, whining insistently before lying down to put his head on his paws.
“You wouldn’t,” Eggsy says, only a touch nervous about the way Harry is looking at him. He looks Hamish in the eye instead, and the Yorkie looks right back at him, beady little eyes boring into his.
“Hamish,” Harry says, his voice dropping an octave, and the dog jumps to all fours, tail high and head low, looking every bit the angry guard dog. Eggsy feels himself pale suddenly as Jack growls ineffectively at Hamish. Eggsy looks sidelong at Harry, who looks far too smug.
“Alright, I believe you! Don’t sic your bloody puppy on me,” Eggsy exclaims, as Hamish bares his teeth and growls.
“Heel,” Harry says, gentler this time, and Hamish goes back to sitting position, an angelic doggy smile on his face once more.
Eggsy shakes his head and tugs at Jack’s leash, and the four resume their walk.
At night, Harry curls up on Merlin’s guest bed while Hamish looks up at him from the floor, waiting for permission. It’s never more than a five-minute-long staring contest before Harry pats the bed beside him, and the Yorkie hops up to join him.
Harry strokes the dog slowly, sometimes making idle conversation about things he and Merlin used to do. Harry doesn’t cry when he tells these stories - he only allows himself to shed a tear when he’s in Merlin’s armchair - he only smiles wretchedly, and the dog licks his face in return.
And sometimes, when the butterflies won’t go away, Harry skips the one-sided conversation entirely; he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the dog in close, Hamish a surrogate for his namesake, and the two eventually fall asleep.