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Chapter Text

Publicly, the return of Harold Hart, scion of London, is greeted with curious crowds, pushy photographers, and the attention of every news outlet through London. He emerges from a sleek black limo dressed in a sharp three-piece suit and gives an amazing speech filled with self-deprecating jokes about his turbulent childhood after his parents’ horrific murder and promises to return London and Hart Enterprises to glory and absolutely nothing about the ten years he spent “discovering himself” after he secured his bachelor’s degree at age 18 and promptly vanished from the face of the earth.

Afterwards, as he strides back to his car, every reporter wants to know: “Where did you go, Mr. Hart? What did you learn? Did you really discover yourself?”

Harry merely smiles and says nothing.

Realistically, the return of Harold Hart to London is rather less dramatic. He steps off the boat with a month’s worth of beard clinging to his cheeks, dust from several different countries all over his clothes, and a single sack of priceless items by his side. He is greeted by only two people: Merlin, who has faithfully preserved the manor in his absence, and Commissioner Morton, who has faithfully preserved the city in his absence.

Commissioner Morton says, “You look like you need a shave, a week’s worth of sleep, and suitable clothing.”

“I’m sure Merlin has everything already lined up for me,” Harry replies.

Merlin lifts his eyes from his tablet for ten whole seconds. Harry feels honored. “I am not your butler, Harry,” he snaps, but it’s a familiar refrain. Merlin has been around since Harry was a boy, the slightly eccentric tech genius that Harry’s parents made the executor of the estate and guardian of Harry when the worst came true, and he’s not really Harry’s butler but on the bad days, the really bad days, the refrain of Harry asking for things and Merlin replying that he was not Harry’s butler was all that kept Harry going.

Well, that, and the fact that Merlin usually had whatever Harry wanted prepared or ordered already.

When Harry was a child, this had meant on-demand breakfast in bed and tickets to the sold-out shows and a ready excuse out of the latest paparazzi filled event. Now, Harry settles into the car and looks at the phone Merlin hands him, which has an entire calendar week blocked off into “Sleep or I will slip something in your alcohol” and “Eat or I’ll shove an IV in your arm” and “For god’s sake show up so your tailor has something to work with”. His contacts are even filled with all the nearest and highest rated takeout places.

It’s the work of a second to pull up the texting app. Thank you, Merlin, Harry sends.

I am still not your butler.

I have gained an appreciation for martinis.

You know where the key is.

I knew you had it covered.

If you vomit anywhere, do try and aim for the toilet. Your tiny pea brain must at least be able to remember the layout of the manor.

I feel so loved.

You should, I’ve had to arrange two press conferences and six meetings with the board.

I take it all back.

After devouring his body weight in takeout, Harry gets incredibly drunk, just because he can.

Merlin “I’m not your nursemaid either!” shows up, shoves a gallon of water in his hands, makes him drink it, and then pushes him onto the couch and gives him a blanket.

And just like that, Harry is finally home.

For the first week, Harry is the model of “work hard, play harder”. By day he meets with countless people and companies to drag Hart Enterprises back to the fine-tuned, well-oiled machine that fueled the Hart’s family rise to wealth and power. By night he throws extravagant parties that have celebrities and fellow millionaires flocking to London.

And in the pre-dawn hours, when it’s so late that it’s early, Harry starts his efforts on the real work.

Hart Enterprises has one of the top technology divisions in the world, thanks to Merlin’s careful budgeting during his tenure as chairperson, and it’s laughably easy to make off with prototypes more suitable to Harry’s real agenda. Bulletproof fabric has made immense strides forward in the ten years Harry has been away, and between that and the knowledge of armor, fighting, and sewing that he’s gained from his time with the Knights, it takes only a limited amount of time to get his hands on enough material. He chooses a three piece suit as his design: elegant but understated, flexible enough to move but rigid enough to shield, bland enough to blend in when he walks a certain way but sharp enough to stand out when he looms.

A suit, King Arthur had been found of saying to Harry, is a modern gentleman’s armor, and we are first and foremost gentlemen.

Of course, the Knights didn’t just teach Harry how to sew and fight and stitch his own wounds. They believed that the gentlemen of the Knights should be able to handle any situation and make conversation on any topic, and so Harry was drilled on astronomy, architecture, logic, science, literature, art, psychology, geology, and everything in between. He restores an old elevator at the back of a false wall in his father’s study, which once served as a discreet method of transportation when his grandfather ended up in a wheelchair and didn’t want to be caught rolling through the hallways to get up and down, and then works on restoring the old bullet train that leads to an underground bunker designed to withstand a nuclear war.

When it’s all said and done, the only thing left is a method of concealing his identity.

For that, as always, Merlin is his saving grace.

He walks down one night to find Merlin swiveling calmly in his new HQ in the bunker, his ever-present tablet resting in his lap and his fingers tapping together like some Bond villain.

“Ah,” Harry says, and nothing else because honestly, to say anything else would only insult Merlin’s intelligence.

“Your grandfather laid this place with sensors and traps,” Merlin says, eyes glinting. “Imagine my surprise when suddenly alarms were going off willy nilly, and then – what do you know – the cameras are capturing someone wandering in and out, making repairs to a bunker that technically doesn’t exist. That special someone even brought in brand new computer equipment, medical supplies, and a costume! Now, Harry, I’m sure you never intended to try to hide things from me.”

The last time Harry tried to hide something from Merlin, he was ten and had gotten his first cavity. Merlin had wheedled it out of him and proceeded to give him such a disappointed look that Harry had laughed for the first time since his parents’ death, mostly because Merlin was more aghast at how badly Harry had lied than the fact that Harry had lied.

“Of course not,” Harry tells him smoothly, keeping his body open and loose and face smooth. He learned to lie from the best, because to lie badly was to starve in the cold and to lie well was the promise of at least some food. “I was merely waiting to see how long it would take you to figure things out.”

“Mmm-hmm. A likely story. By the way, that mask is terrible and I refuse to let you step outside this bunker with it.”

Harry looks at his mask. Then he looks at Merlin. And then he looks back at his mask. It’s a Knight’s mask, functional, concealing, and simple. If Harry were to lose it, he’d just slip into the shadows and make another one. It is also gone.

In its place is a gorgeous pale grey mask, the eye lenses top of the line Hart Enterprises technology, the nose cover fitted with filtration systems, the edges thin and sleek so that the mask itself, once fitted, becomes incredibly difficult to remove, especially by an opponent unfamiliar with the proper technique. There’s even some gold color filigree at the top, whimsical but incredibly functional, containing tiny capsules for medication and poisons. All in all, a mask fit for a king at a masquerade.

Merlin puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder, and they’re of equal height now, but Harry can only think back to his parents’ funeral and how Merlin had solemnly laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder in the exact same way. He had not spoken a single word, but Harry had felt supported regardless.

“You didn’t think you’d be doing this alone, did you?”

“Thank you,” Harry says, voice thick with everything he’s never managed to say.

Thankfully, Merlin is as excellent at reading body language as he is at reading computer script, so he just squeezes Harry’s shoulder once and then makes a beeline for what will likely become his chair in the bunker. “Now then,” he announces cheerfully, cracking his fingers, “get dressed, you great big lout, and let’s see if I can’t find you some crime to stop.”

Eggsy is tired and sore and very, very lost.

His parents had gone into the city to order some things for their act, and they had allowed Eggsy to accompany them as a reward for his birthday. The orders they’re putting in were especially important because they include some new equipment for Eggsy, now that he is to begin training with them to join the Flying Unwins when he’s finally deemed old enough and big enough to fly across the tent the way his parents do. It had been the greatest birthday of his life, complete with ice cream and balloons and plenty of hugs.

Of course, even his parents can act like boring adults, so when they really got entrenched in a conversation, Eggsy had politely wandered away to amuse himself with some butterflies he had seen fluttering around in a shop window. He does it all the time in the circus tents, because everyone knows to watch out for him, and everything is always set up roughly in the same pattern so he can always find his way home.

The city, though, is just so much bigger. And more confusing. Eggsy has turned more lefts and rights on these streets than he thought a city could possibly contain and now it’s dark and cold and he’s left huddling in a corner with the dawning realization that he is lost and may never find his way home again. He had even climbed up several flights of a fire escape to try and catch a glimpse of the big top over the city, but the city is too dense for him to see even that.

He can’t stop the sniffles that escape. He misses the warmth of his home, the animals that lick his face and snuffle his hair, and the hugs of his parents. He misses being home.

All he wants is just to go home, except he has no idea how, so he huddles in a tiny corner, shielded by a storage chest on the fire escape, and tries not to be seen.

On the bright side, one of Eggsy’s talents is being able to fall asleep practically anywhere. He’s right in the middle of doing that so that he can wake up and find out that everything was all a dream or, even better, that his parents found him and brought him home, when he hears the light footsteps of someone walking towards him.

It had been his first lesson with his parents, how to hear someone else’s footsteps. His parents had said it was one of the most useful talents, so that one would never be surprised during an act and be distracted.

The person sounds . . . large. Bigger than Eggsy, certainly, given the gap between one foot and the other that hints at very long legs. But the footsteps are also very light, like a dancer, and very cautious, like a tightrope walker. Eggsy would, of course, be paying it no mind but for the fact that the footsteps are unerringly heading towards him. And the feet, when they come into view, are wearing some of the shiniest, fanciest shoes Eggsy has ever seen, black as night but polished until gleaming. He hadn’t known black shoes could shine quite that much.

“Hello, little one. What’s your name?”

The yelp that comes out of Eggsy’s mouth is instantly muffled in his hands, but it’s too late. Whoever the man is, Eggsy can see his fancy shoes shift as the man kneels and he would move further back except his back is against the wall. He can’t run.

“I promise, I am not going to hurt you. We can just talk, if you like.”

“Ma says not to talk to strangers.”

The man laughs. “Well, your mother is very wise.”

“She’s the best Ma in the world,” Eggsy says proudly, because she is. She gives the best hugs and the best kisses and makes the best scrambled eggs. Whenever she is on the breakfast rotation they have to make extra helpings of the scrambled eggs for everyone otherwise there will be people staring sadly at the empty container all day long.

“Mothers are always the best,” the man says, but his tone is wistful. He sounds kind of like the fortune teller when she gets started on one of her “in my day” tangents.

Eggsy peeks out at the man. No one who can sound that sad can be that mean. Most likely, anyways.

The man is dressed in a very sharp suit, all clean lines and neat angles, hair perfectly flat, a shiny ring on his finger, and the most beautiful mask Eggsy has ever seen on his face. It’s pale white – eggshell, Eggsy thinks it is called – just faint enough that the white isn’t blinding but just strong enough to clearly stand out against his patterned suit. It looks like one of the circus masks, complete with beautiful gold edging that glitters whenever the man moves an inch.

The man smiles at the sight of him. It’s slight, hidden by the shadow of the edge of his mask, but it’s there. “Why hello there,” he says kindly. “Speaking of mothers, would you like help getting back to yours? I’m sure she’s quite worried about you.”

“I don’t – I don’t know where she is,” Eggsy stammers, shame filling his gut. He’d promised he wouldn’t wander far, and now he’s lost and his Ma is probably going to be so angry.

The man nods thoughtfully and then he leans close. He smells like the good wine they share after a great performance and the smoke of a fire banked low and the slightest hint of fresh lemon. “Let me tell you a little secret,” the man says. “I got lost too, the first time I promised not to leave my mother’s side.”

Eggsy can hardly imagine himself being older. He can’t imagine this tall man his age. “You’re lying.”

“I am most certainly not.” The smile widens and shows a hint of teeth, but it’s the playful kind, the kind the tigers use before they nuzzle his hair. “And you know what? My mother was worried, very worried, but she wasn’t angry. She just hugged me and kissed me and then next time bought me a map. I’ll bet your mother will hug and kiss you too.”

Eggsy thinks of being hugged and kissed. He thinks of his mother crying. He thinks of his mother possibly desperately searching the whole city for him, because that’s what she would do.

Finally, he holds his hands out to the man and lets himself be scooped up.

“Do you like flying, dear boy?” the man asks, tucking him on his hip. He’s a little clumsy about it, like he’s not used to ferrying small children around, but his arm is strong and warm and unwavering so Eggsy just clings close like a koala cub.

“I love flying,” Eggsy tells him.

“Hold on tight.”

Eggsy whoops in the delight the entire time they spend flitting about from building to building and his rescuer smiles and whoops with him.

The man brings him straight to the circus. Well, not straight, but they end perched up on a rooftop only a street over from where Eggsy can see his friends and family milling about next to the carriages they use to do parades through city streets. The thrill of flying above the city in his rescuer’s arms is starting to wear off now, because Eggsy really just wants a hug and a nap.

“Is that your family?” the man asks.

Eggsy nods.

“Excellent. Just another minute and I’ll swing you down, okay?”

Eggsy whines when the man tries to pry off his hand from where it’s clutched tight in the man’s lapels. The man didn’t seem bothered at all before, and he doesn’t really want to let go. “Aren’t you coming with me? I wanna show you my Ma’s eggs!”

“Darling boy,” the man says, voice fond but in that special way adults have when they are about to say stupid adult things, “unfortunately I have other duties to see to. Probably not more rescuing of little circus fliers, but duties nonetheless. I’ll see you safely to your family and then I really must be off.”

“No. Don’t wanna.”

“Darling – ”

“My name’s Eggsy, not darling. Don’t wanna.”

“Eggsy,” the man says and then he sighs and starts digging about in a pocket. Eggsy’s honestly surprised that he keeps anything in there, since he seems to produce more gadgets from his jacket than anything else. He pulls out a little gleaming medal, twisted golden coil laid within a little pale red circle. When the man tilts it, Eggsy can see that the twists make an intricate little “K”.

“What is it?” Eggsy says, refusing to let go of his prize of the man’s lapels.

“A memento of our time together,” the man says quietly, but his voice is sincere, all of that fond adult nonsense gone away.

“Yeah, but what is it?”

“My mentor gave this medal to me the first time he saved my arse,” the man explains. “Bit of nostalgia, really, we’re supposed to pass it on. Like pay it forward, I guess. And now it’s my turn to pass it on. I suppose I saved it all this time for someone like you, Eggsy. So take care of it and hug your mother for me, okay?”

The medal is quite beautiful, even in the dim light of the moon. Eggsy would almost think it was real gold, except he learned a long time ago how to tell the difference. “Are you a prince?”

“Heavens, no.”

“A king’s man, then?”

“Sorry?”

“You save people like the king. So you must be the king’s man.”

It makes sense to Eggsy’s. He’s the flyers’ boy, because he’s not a man yet, but this man is quite full grown and he’s come crashing into Eggsy’s life like some kind of Prince Charming.

“A Kingsman. Yes, I guess you could call me that,” the man says and then he ruffles Eggsy’s hair. “Come on, Eggsy, let’s get you home.”

“Who the bloody hell are you?” gasps the last thug as Harry advances. He’s already beaten the rest of the gang to pulp and the adrenaline rush is probably why he just spits out the first answer that comes to mind instead of holding his tongue like he has been the rest of the night.

“I’m the Kingsman,” Harry answers, and then he slams the thug’s head into the wall.

“Really?” Merlin says dryly into his ear.

“Well, I already have a wizard. And king’s knight is such a long title.”

“Och, just pick any of the knights. There’s dozens of names for you to take your pick of: Lancelot, Galahad, Percival, Boys, Kay – ”

“No, I think Kingsman will do just nicely.”

MAN CLAIMING TO BE “KINGSMAN” STRIKES THE HEART OF LONDON. WHO IS THIS MAN AND WHERE DID HE COME FROM?

Chapter Text

“Really? Whyyyyy?” Harry whines when Percival shows up in a penguin suit with two tickets and a gleam in his eyes that does not at all bode well.

“Because you are becoming a recluse and I refuse to let you become a shut-in,” Percival answers.

“You know,” Harry says, dodging Merlin as the man pointedly chucks a tie at him, “I miss the days when exciting meant staying in and getting absolutely plastered. Things were better then.”

“Harold Hart,” Percival says, “you are 38 years old and I refuse to let you become the kind of celebrity that only emerges once every five years when the signs are just perfect or someone’s managed to break the 66 seals of the apocalypse. Your . . . nightly stock trades can wait just one more night, can’t they?”

Harry and Merlin are fairly certain that Percival knows exactly what Harry gets up to late at night when he turns off the lights and Hart Manor goes quiet at the exact same time that the Kingsman of London starts his daily patrols. Percival has never come right out to say anything though, so they’ve followed his lead, especially since Percival is still technically in charge of the mission to uncover the Kingsman’s identity. Harry has had plenty of close calls, especially after Merlin upgraded his glasses to include a holographic cover that – in a pinch – he can activate to mimic his Kingsman mask if something happens and he doesn’t have time to reach one of his many stockpiles scattered around the city. And Percival is not stupid; he’s probably made the connection.

So Harry closes his mouth and swallows down one of his many, many tailored excuses. “That’s a low blow,” he says instead. “No one calls me Harold anymore.”

“I do. So go and get dressed, Harold Hart, we’re going to the damn circus and you are going to relax and enjoy yourself for once.”

“Can I please use one of your pills?”

“No, you are going, Harry.”

“But tonight I was going to – ”

“Patrol the docks. Again. It can wait. I’ll even set up alerts to your glasses if the police scanner goes off. Now go get dressed.”

“God, and here I thought one of you was scary. You and Percival are terrifying.”

“Good. GO GET DRESSED.”

It probably says something quite sad about Harry’s state of life that he doesn’t manage to actually relax and pay attention to the circus acts until Merlin gets fed up with him using the glasses to text him and shuts down his connection to HQ, leaving him pouting and staring through regular glasses at the fantastic acts in front of him.

“Finally checked back in, Hart?” Percival teases, noticing how his eyes are following the tigers scampering around the ring.

“Hush, I haven’t been the circus in years.”

“I can tell. Ah, but that’s okay. You’ve checked back in for the best part: the Flying Unwins!”

Percival’s tone indicates that they are the highlight of the night, and now that Harry thinks back on it he remembers seeing posters plastered amongst the tent walls boasting of the Flying Unwins, but that doesn’t solve the problem of Harry still having no idea who they are. And Merlin’s gone dark so it’s not he can just pull up the files for Harry, sadly. “Who?”

“The Flying Unwins, one of the best trapeze artist families in the world. They haven’t been to London in, oh, almost ten years.”

The smile Harry produces then is secret and small. Ten years. Almost exactly as long as the Kingsman has been operating, a private anniversary that Harry shares with no one. He’d celebrated this afternoon with a new suit and a new Rainmaker, which Merlin had made special upgrades to after months of Harry pestering him over it.

Still, if he’s to give up Kingsman for this one night, it might be worth it to see the best flying trapeze artist family in the world, so Harry settles in to take in the sight.

The act is indeed breathtaking. The family – Lee and Michelle and their son Gary – do not use safety nets and often leap far distances in the air, with trust and, Harry assumes, a great deal of practice assuring that they do not end up plummeting to the ground. Distantly, he reflects that perhaps Percival was right, because this is truly worth it. It makes him excited for the first time in a long while, mostly because gymnastics was never quite Harry’s area of expertise.

Taming tigers? Certainly. Riding elephants? No problem. Spitting fire and juggling and throwing knives? Harry’s done all of that and more.

Leap from a trapeze? Now that’s another story entirely.

He’s so distracted by the awe of the display going on in front of him, in fact, that he doesn’t notice something is wrong until the body language reading lessons King Arthur beat into him finally start to register the way that the boy’s face has turned open and devastated, the way the mother and father plunging to the ground are holding hands, too tightly to be necessary, the way the other circus people near the edges are starting to freeze to leap forward, the way the silence falls in the tent.

Harry leaps to his feet, but it’s too late. Even with his Rainmaker, even with his gadgets, even with all of his training, the only way he could do anything now is if he teleported.

Lee and Michelle Unwin hit the ground with a final, muted thud and the tent erupts.

Harry, though, has eyes only for poor Gary Unwin.

The boy’s mouth is open in a silent scream, hands outstretched as though he thinks if he could reach out just one more inch, just one more, and he could have saved his parents. In his costume, flying and flipping about, he’d been impressive, but right now Harry can see him exactly as he is: just a boy who’s lost and confused and has had his whole world torn away right from under him.

Harry knows. He had felt exactly the same way.

So while Percival scrambles to get backup to the circus and to control the crowd of stampeding, screaming witnesses, Harry leaps over his seat and smoothly slides past the throngs of people to meet Gary Unwin when the boy slides down the pole and makes a run for the bodies of his parents.

“Don’t,” Harry says, and catches Gary with his arms.

The boy snarls wordlessly at him, tears glittering on his cheeks. Containing him is rather like holding a slippery, wriggling eel, and Harry is still well into his prime and he’s a trained assassin but more importantly, he remembers the hundreds of nights where he woke up, gasping, his dead parents’ visage floating in his eyes; if he can prevent even one more child from seeing that, he’ll do anything to do it. So he just grits his teeth and hangs on.

“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” Gary screams at him.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Harry says, voice low. “Don’t let this be the last thing you remember of your parents.”

“THEY – AREN’T – DEAD!” he roars, voice cracking with emotion. If voices could kill, Harry would be dead ten times over by now. “MUM! DAD! PLEASE!”

“Gary – ”

“GET OFF ME! GET – OFF – MUM! MUM PLEASE!”

“Look at me,” Harry orders and then he grabs Gary’s face, squeezing tight because he’d rather let Gary Unwin hate him forever than let him live with the faces of his dead parents on the floor. “Look at me. Remember them as they lived, Gary Unwin. Don’t let this be the last thing you ever see them as. Remember them flying through the air, remember them kissing you, remember them laughing and smiling and living. It’s what they would have wanted.”

“How the hell would you know that?!”

Harry just smiles. It’s an old friend, this painful smile. “You’re not the only one who has parents who left them.”

“So?” Harry asks when Percival finally deigns to wander away from conversing with the other officers.

Percival makes a face. He’s in full Commissioner Morton mode right now. “You know I can’t publicly comment on an open investigation, Harry.”

“You just did,” Harry says dryly. An open investigation means a suspected homicide, and no public comments means that support is being called in by higher-ups who want everything silent until they get there to investigate on their own. Harry might’ve done horribly in journalism, but he learned how to read between the lines from the best of the Knights.

“Harry.”

Harry lets it go. To be fair, he’s not quite as interested in the murders of Lee and Michelle Unwin as he could be. There’s too much police attention right now for the Kingsman to get involved; he’ll have to wait for things to die down a little before he starts gathering evidence.

“And the boy? Gary?”

Percival’s mouth goes thin and hard. Harry sympathizes. Gary is, apparently, sixteen years old, so he’s too young to be on his own but far too old to be easily placated with reassurances of a quick investigation and the benefits of foster homes. Currently he’s just sitting in the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket draped over his shoulders and a water bottle lying listlessly in his hands, but Harry can spot someone planning to make a break for it. He’s been that person so many times, after all.

“Foster home, I expect,” Percival answers, rubbing at his head. “God, what a mess, Harry. The ringmaster has been begging me to let him stay, but he’s a witness and a potential target.”

Impulsive, King Arthur had scolded, after he’d kicked Harry’s sword out of his hand and slammed him into the ground, grinding his face into the dirt as Harry choked. That is your calling card and your weakness. You must learn to take your time and consider all the potential consequences of your actions before you commit.

Harry had bitten the man’s leg and bent the man’s arm backwards until King Arthur had dropped his own sword. And it can allow me to surprise any opponent, he had replied.

Only if your opponent does not see you, King Arthur had pointed out. Now. Again.

Before Harry even realizes it, he’s made up his mind. “Let me take him, Percival.”

“What? Are you mad?”

“I know exactly what he’s going through. And Hart Manor has security systems far better than any last minute foster home could hope to put up. I could shelter Gary until trial. Or even further, perhaps.”

“You’re also the richest man in London right now,” Percival argues. “You’d paint an even bigger target on the boy’s back!”

“Or my celebrity would discourage them,” Harry shoots back. “I have bulletproof cars, I have bodyguards, and anything Gary wants I could bring inside the Manor where he’d be safe: tutors, toys, food, clothing. He could be free and safe and I could keep an eye on him.”

“He’s a boy, Harry, not a puppy!”

“Mr. Pickle had a wonderful life, thank you very much.”

Percival throws his hands up in exasperation. Harry stays silent, because he’s been friends with Percival for a long time; he can see when the man is close to giving in. Besides, Harry knows he’s made some excellent points. Harry does have the money and the resources to protect Gary from any further attempts on his life, and what Harry doesn’t officially or openly have, the Kingsman certainly does.

“Harry,” Percival says finally, voice so weary that it’s like he’s aged twenty years in two syllables. “You’re my friend. But can you really take care of him? As far as I remember, despite all the interviews to the contrary, Merlin mostly raised you. And yes, you’re alive and mostly healthy and in one piece – but Gary is not you.”

“Percival,” Harry replies evenly. “I am not doing this for me. I am doing this for Gary. You of all people should know that I am perhaps one of the few people here right now who knows exactly what he is going through.”

Percival looks at Gary again. Looks at the strong curve of his jaw, the faint tremble in his hands, the banked fury in his eyes. Looks at his crumpled pants, his glittering shirt, the clash of the orange shock blanket against the well-mended, lovingly made clothes of his costume. Looks at way Gary’s eyes track the flashing lights of the police cars and the distant clamor of the press and the officers roaming around taking photographs and notes.

Harry doesn’t have to look. He knows exactly the kind of parallels Percival’s mind is drawing, back to another dark night with a terrible murder and a lost child.

“ . . . Fine. I – I’ll support you. But you get to convince the boy of that.”

“May I sit next to you?”

Eggsy lifts a shoulder and drops it. He ran out of words a long time ago, since half of these “adults” aren’t listening to him and the rest are too busy talking at him to talk to him. Shrugging has gotten most of them to go away in short order.

“Thank you,” the man says politely, and then he hops up and sits so neatly one would think he was sitting in a palace and not in the back of a cold ambulance. “My name is Harry Hart.”

Eggsy shrugs again. They’ve all introduced themselves. He’s forgotten all of them already.

“May I see that?”

Another shrug, and then the man reaches over and takes the water bottle gently from his fingers. His hands are warm, but all the warmth left Eggsy’s world a long time ago, so he just huddles closer to his shock blanket that isn’t really that warming but serves as a useful creator of distance and personal space.

“Ah, one of the old logos,” the man muses, which is when Eggsy realizes he’s looking at Harry Hart as in the richest family in London Harry Hart. “I never did like this logo.”

“Not to be rude,” Eggsy says, because his parents always told him to trust his instincts and right now they’re telling him that Hart won’t go away until Eggsy talks, “but what the bloody hell is the Hart heir doing in the back of a dirty ambulance?”

Hart shrugs. “Talking.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Well, perhaps not with words,” Hart concedes, smiling faintly. He rolls his shoulders and leans back with a faint sigh. He’s well-dressed, Eggsy notes, but he can still spot the faint lines of exhaustion on the man’s face. Eggsy thinks that if they were to switch clothing, he could picture Hart huddling beneath the shock blanket and looking just as lost as Eggsy feels. “But we are still talking. Bodies have all sorts of ways of communicating. Body language, for excellent. Scent. Eye contact or lack thereof. Touch or distance. And so on.”

“Bruv, I’m really not in the mood for a lecture on psychology or whatever this is.”

“This is, I suppose, my way of trying to find an elegant way of asking you a question,” Hart says. “I was never good at small talk.”

“So just talk. Ain’t like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Hmm. Well then. Gary Unwin,” Hart begins, and Eggsy stiffens because no one ever says his full name without it boding ill, “would you be amendable to coming to live with me? I’m afraid that you won’t be allowed to live your family here, but you might have heard that I have . . . rather more than enough space to accommodate you.”

“Or I could just . . . stay here.”

“We both know that isn’t going to be allowed,” Hart says gently. “You’re a witness. And a potential victim, Gary, we can’t guarantee no one will go after your friends and – ”

“We can look out for ourselves.”

“I’m not saying you can’t. And if, when you turn 18, you choose to return here, I will be more than happy to provide you with the necessary funds.”

Eggsy bristles. Rich men always think it’s as easy as throwing money at things. “I don’t want your charity.”

“This isn’t charity,” Hart states calmly. “This is . . . well. I suppose it’s rather arrogant to assume you know my story, but let’s say that when I was in your place, I was always . . . hoping for some kind of . . . helping hand. You’re a capable person, Gary Unwin. I am not and will never replace your parents. But – if you are amendable – I can help you, in whatever way you desire. Consider it . . . oh bollocks. I’ve cocked this up.”

Against his will, Eggsy felt his lips twitch. Hart has the most pretentious, poshest accent Eggsy has ever heard, and it’s beyond hilarious to hear him curse. “Yeah, you really have.”

“Weren’t you ever taught to respect your elders?”

“Yeah, bruv. Except you ain’t one of them.”

“Excuse me, I am old enough to be your father.”

“I ain’t babysitting, if that’s what you’re angling at.”

Hart smiles at him, and Eggsy feels caught in the web of his spell. He’d heard that the Hart heir was magnetic in ways people whispered they couldn’t escape or predict, and yeah, magnetic is one way of describing Hart. “What I’m angling at, Gary,” Hart says, “is that I see a young man with potential and I’d like to see you reach it, with the helping hand of yours truly. Hart Manor is open to you; you need only to agree.”

Eggsy thinks of his mother’s kisses and his father’s smiles. He thinks of their cozy little home. He thinks of Harry Hart and his perfectly slicked back hair and perfectly pressed suits and perfectly orchestrated life. He thinks of Harry Hart, ten years old and solemn in the newspaper photos about the Hart murders. H thinks of the way Hart had rushed through the crowds, ignoring both the screaming audience members and the two bodies crumpled on the ground to catch Eggsy and hold him back. Hart had shielded him the entire time, not letting him see his parents, and Eggsy – despite all of his initial instincts – is grateful for it.

He’d rather remember his mum and dad as they were, instead of as they ended up.

“Eggsy.”

“Hmm? Well, I suppose we can order eggs – ”

“No, you twat. My name. It’s Eggsy. If we’re gonna live together you can at least use my name.”

“Oh. Hello, Eggsy. My name is Harry.”

Eggsy stares at him. He’s actually offered his hand out as if he hadn’t introduced himself literally ten minutes ago, on top of being the most recognizable billionaire in London aside from, like, the royal bloody family. He’s even got the faintest little smile on face, the smile Eggsy decides to dub the come-on-play-along-Eggsy smile.

“You’re bonkers.”

“Several psychiatrists probably have agreed with that sentiment, but in more professional terms,” Hart says thoughtfully.

“Harry! Harry, I leave you alone for one night!” bellows a very angry looking bald man in a patched jumper with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Ah, Merlin,” Hart murmurs, as if it’s natural for bald angry men to yell at the top of lungs at him in a Scottish accent.

“He your butler or something?”

“He’s a friend. Merlin, this is Eggsy,” Hart says brightly. “He’ll be living with us from now on.”

Merlin gives him a look. Then he turns and looks at Eggsy, and it’s weird. He doesn’t look at Eggsy like normal people do, like he’s gutter trash clinging to the bottom of a shoe. He looks at Eggsy like he wants to crack his skull open or x-ray his head or something to figure out why Hart’s attached himself like a barnacle to Eggsy’s cause. It’s at once terrifying and exciting.

Of course, then Hart and Merlin proceed to have some sort of silent conversation, with only the twitches of their eyes and expansions of their chests betraying that they’re still alive.

Finally, Merlin blinks and sighs. “Fine. Eggsy, I’m Merlin and I am not your butler, no matter what Hart says. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. Harry can make you dinner.”

“Merlin!”

“The car is that way,” Merlin tells them, and then he flounces off like he’s a ballerina and not a bald guy in a jumper.

The heartbreak on Hart’s face makes Eggsy laugh. He looks like someone’s stepped on his puppy or something, and Eggsy’s decision to say yes crystallizes in his chest. No man who looks so mournfully sad could be a secret serial killer wanting to lure Eggsy into his huge bloody manor so that he could have an easier time killing Eggsy and chopping him into tiny pieces to bury him somewhere.

“Well, come along, Eggsy,” Hart sighs. “We might as well start walking before Merlin abandons us.”

Twenty minutes later, Eggsy is really starting to question his decision.

“Is that . . . a stuffed dead dog? In your loo?”

“No, that’s Mr. Pickle.”

“. . . You named your dog Mr. Pickle?”

“No, he named himself. He really did enjoy pickles for some reason.”

“What’s he doing in your bloody loo???”

“Well, he can’t be in the red sitting room, because there’s too much dust there, and the green sitting room would really clash with Mr. Pickle’s coloring, and the blue sitting room doesn’t have a mantel large enough.”

“The hell’s a sitting room? And why do you have three of them?”

“Actually, I think we have six. Would you like a map?”

“You are so weird.”

“Hmm, yes, I’ve been called that too. The kitchen is this way, if you’re still hungry.”

Chapter Text

Merlin walks into the office, takes one look at the way Harry has three empty wine bottles on his desk, and immediately slams the door and locks it, because he’s the greatest person ever.

“It is not even nine in the morning, why are you drunk,” Merlin asks flatly, eyebrows so severe Harry can feel them judging him even though he’s currently got his face planted in his desk to avoid the stabbings of the sun’s rays into his eyeballs. And Harry once was abandoned in a desert with no water or clothes, so he knows exactly how punishing the sun can be on the human body.

“I have made a grave mistake.”

“What, that tie and suit combo? Well, yes, thank god you acknowledged it.”

Harry bats at Merlin’s hands when he goes to seize Harry’s tie. It’s got little cairn terriers on it and Merlin really shouldn’t judge. “It’s my Mr. Pickle tie. Leave it alone.”

“If it’s not the tie, then what?” Merlin sighs, slumping into a chair and crossing his arms.

“ . . . Eggsy.”

Merlin frowns at him. It’s a slightly smaller frown than the one he’d graced Harry with after they’d brought Eggsy home and found a room for him that didn’t have dead stuffed dogs in it and gave him pajamas and food and put him to bed. Merlin hadn’t yelled at him, because he knows exactly why Harry offered Eggsy sanctuary, but he had pointedly not ordered Harry breakfast during his next board meeting and Harry had had to make do with terrible office coffee instead.

“I thought you two were getting along.”

Harry supposes that it could be called “getting along”. They certainly haven’t fought or anything, and Eggsy has only destroyed one chandelier. (Harry had come home to a sheepish Eggsy and a sighing Merlin and some mumbled words about acrobatics off of the chandelier. He hasn’t pried further.)

On the other hand, they haven’t fought because Harry hardly ever sees Eggsy. Once Eggsy figured out that Harry is nonfunctional before his first cup of tea and Merlin has mastered eating without looking up from his tablet and neither of them would scold Eggsy for waking up very late, Eggsy has simply . . . stopped attending meals. He’ll certainly eat – Harry’s grocery bill has gone through the roof after the first time he wandered into the kitchen and realized that the fridge was essentially empty – and Harry has seen him in passing, but Eggsy does not seek him out and does not make noise.

It’s a bit like having a ghost in one’s house, and Harry’s instincts are sufficiently creeped out about it.

Merlin is, as usual, incredibly unsympathetic. “You’re drinking because you can’t figure out a way to relate to a teenage boy?”

“Fatherhood was not for me,” Harry tells him solemnly.

“You’re not his father, Harry. You told him point-blank you wouldn’t be. All you need to be is his friend.”

“Friends require common interest. And interaction. And . . . things.”

Merlin takes a deep breath and looks at the ceiling. He looks like he’s one second away from hitting Harry in the face with his tablet, so Harry hides behind the closest decanter because Merlin isn’t quite at the stage where he’ll make a giant mess of Harry’s desk and not give two hoots about it.

“Eggsy loves gymnastics, acrobatics, and dogs,” Merlin says in a bored tone, as if he’s reading off of a file. Hell, he probably is. Before he even went to pick them up he’d probably already run a background check on Eggsy and compiled a dossier on everything he could possibly find. “And you loved that Mr. Pickle so much that you had him stuffed and put him in your loo, so surely you can figure out the one common interest you most certainly have.”

“He complained about Mr. Pickle!”

“Yes, because you didn’t tell him that when he went in to piss he’d get an eyeful of dead, glowering dog,” Merlin tells him. “That was not a ban on liking all dogs forever, Harry.”

“But I – ”

“No more buts,” Merlin says, in the exact same way and voice he’d once told Harry No more climbing after Harry had climbed out of a window in a fit of childish rebellion and fallen three stories to the ground and broken his arm and his leg. “Go and talk Eggsy and his dog for a walk.”

“He has a dog?”

Eggsy does indeed have a dog. Oh, he’s been quite clever on how to hide it – he’s taken to raiding the fridge when Harry is at work and Merlin’s off doing whatever it is Merlin does, he’s gone for walks on the grounds early in the morning, and he’s also clearly been making off with the extra towels and newspapers that Harry has been searching for – but when Eggsy opens the door, he is flushed and slightly damp and Harry would know the smell of wet dog anywhere, especially after a hearty dose of Merlin’s “get sober fast” pills that have left him feeling slightly jittery.

“You know,” Harry says conversationally, “I do give you enough money to properly feed a dog.”

Eggsy looks at him like he’s gone crazy. It’s an admirable attempt, except for the faint yips Harry can hear in the background. “What dog?”

“The one Merlin saw you playing with on security cameras.”

“Maybe it ain’t here. Maybe it’s a stray.”

“Eggsy, my dear boy, I am going to have to teach you how to lie, because that was horrendous,” Harry says.

Eggsy’s face does a weird contortion again. It’s similar to the contortion his face made when Eggsy broke the chandelier, like he thinks Harry is going to beat him. Or perhaps, worse, get someone else to beat him because Harry is too posh to get his hands dirty. And yes, Eggsy really doesn’t know Harry that well for all the weeks they’ve been living together, but it still makes Harry’s heart do a painful flip in his chest.

He doesn’t want Eggsy to ever fear being hurt at Harry’s hand.

So Harry softens his tone, rounds his shoulders, lets his arms go loose and his legs bend. He doesn’t force his way past Eggsy, he just stands there and waits. “Eggsy,” he says, “I don’t mind that you brought a dog home. We have more than enough room here, and surely that dog cannot possibly make a bigger dent in my account than you.”

“Oi, you invited me here.”

“Exactly. Now. May I see this fine specimen that you’ve liberated from wherever?”

The dog, as it turns out, is a tiny little pug, with floppy soft ears and a wrinkled face and a very enthusiastic tongue that licks every bit of Eggsy’s skin it can reach, drawing the sort of soft delight in Eggsy’s eyes that Harry remembers from his own experiences with Mr. Pickle.

“Have you given him a name?” Harry asks, petting lightly at the dog’s back and getting a tongue bath in return.

“JB,” Eggsy announces proudly. “Like Jack Bauer.”

“I would’ve thought you’d choose James Bond. Or perhaps Jason Bourne.”

“Nah. That’s too easy.” Eggsy cuddles the pug close, despite the fact that his shirt is absolutely ruined and there’s water all over the floor and towels everywhere. It’s an endearing sight, and Harry knows he’s completely gone because normally it would be making him downright irritated to find all of this mess everywhere. “You really ain’t mad, Mr. Hart?”

“I will be if you keep calling me that,” Harry informs him tartly, in the poshest accent he can manage.

Eggsy laughs.

“But in all seriousness,” Harry continues, moving to sit on the toilet because the floor is hard and he sees no reason to have aching knees when there’s a convenient seat nearby, “no, Eggsy, I am not mad. I have always loved dogs, and as I said earlier, there is more than enough room for a puppy to run around. He might even stop you from damaging any further chandeliers.”

“I make no promises if you start bringing round a stuffer guy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Like Mr. Pickle.”

“Taxidermist, Eggsy,” Harry sighs, because clearly Eggsy will never let Mr. Pickle go, “not a ‘stuffer guy’.”

“Whatever.”

Harry still accepts JB when Eggsy offers the squirming bundle of towel and puppy to him, expression shy. The pug happily starts slobbering all over him, and Harry doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until there’s a click and Eggsy bounces away, crowing in victory at the photograph he’s taken.

“I do hope that picture was focused on the excellent pug you’ve chosen and not my disheveled appearance,” Harry says mildly.

“A pug? It’s a bulldog, innit?”

Harry changes his text from Merlin, please push back my meetings for today to Merlin, please clear my calendar for today. The affirmative comes back seconds later, which means that Merlin’s being his usual creepy self and monitoring the sounds of their conversation from the glasses Harry has tucked into his suit. Harry would scold him but he gave up on having any meaningful sway over Merlin ages ago and it’s not like Merlin hasn’t heard worse things.

“Do get changed, Eggsy,” Harry calls out. “I believe that we need to go shopping.”

Six hours later, Eggsy collapses into a booth at the pub with a winded expression, a healthy flush to his cheeks, and a snoring pug cradled against his chest. Harry doesn’t blame him; what began as a quick shopping trip has quickly devolved into a major expedition that has left a sizeable amount of purchases ranging from the practical (dog food and collars) to whatever caught Eggsy’s whimsy (a giant dog bed and deluxe playground kennel).

Harry doesn’t mind though. Watching Eggsy’s clear joy has been a reminder to exactly why Harry took him in.

So he merely sends their driver off to drop off all the packages before ordering some drinks and food. He figures by the time Eggsy polishes everything off, the driver will be back and they’ll actually be able to fit in the car with all the purchases gone.

“How the bloody buggering hell are you sitting so straight?” Eggsy mumbles, slouching like he’s in his bed and not in a restaurant.

“I maintain a strict physical regimen,” Harry says cheerfully, when really he just wants to slouch as well, and possibly cuddle in his bed with some good books and lots of pillows. “It’s important to keep in shape.”

“You calling me fat?”

“A gentleman of my caliber would never dare do so.”

“Right, well, I certainly ain’t no gentleman,” Eggsy says, although there’s the faintest hint of shame coloring his words, like he thinks it’s a barrier to be breached instead of an achievement of character. “I’m just a circus flyer.”

“Nonsense,” Harry counters. “Being a gentleman has nothing to do with the circumstances of one’s birth. Being a gentleman is something one learns, and you can most certainly be a wonderful circus acrobat and a gentleman.”

Eggsy wrinkles his nose. “Does that mean you’re gonna start making me taken lessons on how to talk right, like in My Fair Lady?”

“No,” Harry says, fighting – and failing – to contain a smile. Eggsy has a tendency to make both the most modern and most classic of references, completely at random and unpredictable. It’s endearing and also makes Merlin splutter, so Harry is all in favor of it. “Not unless you want it. You will need to take classes eventually though.”

Eggsy just grunts at that. Which is a fair enough reaction; the only reason Harry had not skipped every class he could was because Merlin had taken to GPS tracking him and would unfailingly find him and drag him back, by his ear if necessary. And that was, of course, if he didn’t just hack the bloody school and lock Harry in a corridor instead until Harry had given up and turned back to class.

“School has some merits,” Harry offers, sipping politely at the tea he’s been offered as Eggsy practically buries his face in the coffee he ordered. “You can join many different extracurricular activities. Gymnastics, for example.”

“What for? I’d ace it.”

“You might find some friends.”

“I’m good,” Eggsy says dismissively. He pets JB with one hand and downs more coffee with the other, and it’s probably a sign of impending old age that makes Harry feel more domestic than nonplussed at the lack of table manners. “I got you and JB and Merls.”

“And I’m honored to be a part of your family, Eggsy, but we alone are not enough.”

Eggsy’s chin goes firm, jaw taut like he’s clenching his teeth. A large part of Harry wants to tense over it, because Lancelot had the exact same tic before he’d lunge forward to drive a powerful blow to Harry’s face during sparring, but he captures that instinct and wrangles it down, down and down and further still down, because this Eggsy. He is not a threat. Even if he was, Harry doesn’t know if he could raise a hand to Eggsy anyways.

“We can’t all have bloody huge social networks,” Eggsy snaps, each word like an arrow launched at Harry’s unprotected neck. “I like small families, okay, and ain’t nobody gonna be able to tell me that’s wrong.”

“At least give it a chance,” Harry says. “A gentleman does not – ”

“Well, good thing I’m not.”

Harry blows out a long breath. Sometimes he wonders how Merlin survived raising him. “I’ve been thinking about adding some gymnastic equipment to the gym,” he says instead, in a terribly transparent attempt to change the topic and salvage the conversation. “Perhaps you might be able to practice there, at least, if you aren’t comfortable in a club or large gathering.”

Of course, because this is Eggsy, the attempt backfires rather more powerfully than he expected.

“You can’t buy me, Harry!”

Jb awakens with a whimper, but Eggsy hushes his dog distractedly before leaning forward, eyes as hard as diamonds and shoulders tense like he’s about to go into freefall. Normally, Harry would yield, would lean back and soften his own shoulders, not because their relationship is built upon shouting each other down but because he’s clearly touched upon a very sensitive topic for Eggsy and he’s not so stupid as to believe that he can ever truly understand it without a lot of explanation.

Unfortunately, Harry finds himself sharpening, shoulders spreading, chin lifting, chest expanding, because he was a Knight of the Table first and the Kingsman second, and no Knight lets any challenge go unanswered.

Needless to say, it does not help matters.

“I am not attempting to ‘buy’ you, Eggsy. I was merely attempting to offer a potential compromise – ”

“Bull,” Eggsy interrupts immediately. “What in the seven hells would you use gymnastic equipment for?”

“My own routine, obviously. I wouldn’t flatter myself to say I would be the equal to your parents, but I imagine I wouldn’t be the total novice to the sport either.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare bring my parents into this.”

“Why? Do you think that they’d agree with you isolating yourself from those would help?”

Eggsy very deliberately places JB on the seat next to him. Then he puts his hands flat on the table, as if ready to vault over it and kick Harry in the head, and says, very quietly and dangerously, “You think that you have any idea what my parents would want?”

“I would think,” Harry replies tartly, “that they would prefer you to accept my offer and socialize.”

“And you think that’s so easy, for circus gutter trash like me?”

“You are not – ”

“Oh, and here he goes again, Mr. Harold I’m-Never-Wrong Hart,” Eggsy snarls, like a wounded wolf biting off any finger that gets too close to the weeks old but still quite painful injury in its side. “You think it’s so easy, to ‘socialize’ with old snobs like you? All you people do is just sit around and drink tea with your finger stuck out and whisper amongst yourself judging people like me from your ivory towers, with no thought about why we do what we do. We ain’t got much choice, you get me? They will never look at me and not see circus gutter trash. And I tell you right now, if we was born with the same silver spoon up our arses, we’d do just as well as you, if not better. We wouldn’t walk around judging people, for one thing.”

A long silence falls after that. It’s perhaps the most he’s ever heard Eggsy say in one time. Certainly the most passionate.

Merlin, because he’s a right prick, texts Buuuurrrnnnnnn to him via his glasses.

To Merlin, Harry types out, Go away and stalk someone else, you creepy wizard, because Merlin hates being called a wizard.

To Eggsy, Harry says, “Eggsy – ”

“Go to hell, Harry,” Eggsy tells him, and lifts JB back into his arms, cuddling the restless puppy close to his cheek. “Just – just go to hell.”

“I – ”

“Oi! What the hell are you doing here? Are you taking the piss?”

If Eggsy’s sharp tone made Harry sit up and prepare for attack, the loud voices and startling bang of the pub door make Harry finger his signet ring and start calculating the best angle to deploy his Rainmaker. There are about six rather garishly dressed young man stalking forward, led by the one who had shouted, and they look like they rather want to bash Eggsy’s head in.

Oh no, absolutely not, Merlin sends. BEHAVE YOURSELF.

I will if they will, Harry sends back pleasantly.

“You nicked my dog,” the man says, in a tone that can’t quite decide if it’s furious or confused. It rather lessens the dramatics of his argument, especially when his looming presentation is dreadfully lacking.

(Harry had once faced down a tiny six-year-old Roxanne Morton when he’d woken up hungover, sprawled on the floor bare-chested and with only a blanket to preserve his dignity. She’d put her tiny fists on her hips and made the most serious no-no gesture with her finger and pointed at the shower, and Harry had never moved so quickly in his life. It had taken quite a long time to get back in her good graces, and she’s only grown more formidable since then.)

In any case, it’s not like nicking a dog is beyond Eggsy’s capabilities or his character, so Harry just gives Eggsy a look.

Eggsy shrugs. “Ain’t my fault if you was abusing him. ‘S my dog now.”

The man cracks his knuckles. “Messing with my property means you’re game now,” he says gleefully. “Right, boys?”

“Um, listen, boys,” Harry interjects, because he can see Eggsy spoiling for a fight and while he’d love nothing more than to see Eggsy fight, he thinks one on six are perhaps odds a tad beyond Eggsy’s current capabilities, especially since Eggsy appears to show no signs of relinquishing JB. “I only have a few more minutes before I’m due back at the office, so I’d appreciate it enormously if you could just leave us in peace until I finish this cup of tea.”

His words earn him a wild look from the man, who blinks twice when he finally registers Harry’s presence. It’s not, Harry knows, his identity so much as his appearance that throws the man off, since Eggsy is wearing a snapback and sweats and Harry is wearing the full three piece suit and has a sharp umbrella leaning on his seat.

“You should get out of the way, Granddad, or you’ll get hurt.”

After a moment, Merlin sends, I’ve seen day old kittens more threatening.

And Harry would reply, because if any animal describes Merlin a prickly, silent, deadly cat is more than fitting, except that Eggsy leans forward and says, “He ain’t joking, you should go.”

“Nonsense, we haven’t finished our drinks.”

“Harry.”

Harry sighs and looks at his watch. “I’ll see you in the car, then,” he tells mildly, a warning and a promise both and he can tell from the conflicted look on Eggsy’s face that he hears both.

And really, that would have been the end of it. Harry would have walked out, waited patiently whilst Merlin streamed footage from the pub, and perhaps he might have walked back in eventually and dragged Eggsy and JB out and brought them home, with no violence done, no wiping of security cameras needed, no weapons deployed. It would have been quiet and quick and tedious.

Except: “If you’re looking for another rent boy, they’re on the corner of Smith’s Street.”

Rudeness is unacceptable, King Arthur had once said musingly, after he’d sliced off a man’s hand for presuming to cut in line. It must always be remedied, Galahad, by any means necessary. Do you understand?

Merlin, be a dear and shut off the cameras, Harry types out, even as he reaches for the locks to ensure that no one else walks in and he has to utilize more amnesia darts.

Harry, no.

“Manners,” Harry announces, sliding the lock into place with a defining click, “maketh,” another click, another lock, “man.”

The six thugs look at each other, then at Eggsy, then at Harry’s seemingly unguarded back, and then form up, like a formation of Canadian geese. It would be more menacing if geese didn’t fly south to escape winter’s chill and Harry has a very nice, conveniently placed pint of winter-cold beer to splash on them.

“Do you know what that means?” Harry asks pleasantly, because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, giving people a way out of a fight they can’t win. “No? Then let me teach you a lesson.”

Watching the way the thugs stare at him after he’s hooked his Rainmaker around the pint and sent it flying into the face of the man who interrupted their very nice evening is gratifying. Watching the way Eggsy’s mouth drops is even better.

“Well? Are we going to stand around all day,” Harry continues impatiently, “or are we going to fight?”

Thug #3 throws the first punch, and from there it devolves into total and absolute chaos.

Here’s the thing, though: Harry loves it.

Afterwards – when the six thugs are groaning or unconscious and the bartender is slouched over the bar sleeping off an amnesia dose – Harry nonchalantly walks back over to their booth, slides, and drains his lukewarm tea to the last drop. It’s not particularly good tea, so Harry really only does it to calm his adrenaline filled nerves and evaluate Eggsy’s reaction, but Eggsy is too busy staring at him with his jaw touching the table to notice.

“Sorry about that,” Harry offers, to both the pointedly silent Merlin and the taken aback silence of Eggsy. “I find that my tolerance for rudeness grows less and less as time goes on.”

Eggsy works his jaw several times, and finally it is only when JB nips at Eggy’s frozen fingers in the pug’s fur that he finally manages to reboot his brain. “You . . . do realize I’ve heard worse, yeah? Like, lots worse?”

“Perhaps. But I will not allow someone to discuss my family in that manner. You are worth more than all of them put together, Eggsy.”

“I already knew that.”

Eggsy’s tone says otherwise, but Harry politely ignores it. He’s not stupid enough to think he can fix all of Eggsy’s self-esteem issues in the few weeks they’ve been together. What he can do is treat Eggsy like the adult he most certainly is, and if that means beating the piss out of anyone stupid enough to mouth off against Eggsy, whether through physical or legal means, he will do so. Hell, Merlin’s probably compiling warrants to finish the job on the thugs as they speak.

“Eggsy. I do apologize for . . . bringing up your parents. It was . . . short-sighted of me, and very wrong.”

Eggsy’s cheeks turn bright red, and it’s so strange, that such a halting and short apology can render him speechless and lobster red and curling up, like a flower confronted with too much sun after years in darkness. “That ain’t necessary,” he mumbles into JB’s fur. “I was mean to you too.”

“Nevertheless, I am supposed to be the adult.”

“Riiiiiggghhhttt.”

“Eggsy.”

“I’m just saying, no one would ever believe you was an adult if they took a look at your loo.”

“If this is about Mr. Pickle again – ”

“It will never stop being about Mr. Pickle,” Eggsy deadpans. “That is right creepy, Harry! You stuffed your dead dog! Can you imagine what people would say if they saw that?”

Harry levels him with an unimpressed look. He hasn’t carefully cultivated a reputation of being a weird recluse for nothing. “Just shout it a little louder, my dear boy, and the whole town will know by tomorrow.”

“What, you gonna bribe me now to keep your secrets?”

“With what? You already have a dog.” Harry taps a finger on the table, as if in consideration. It’s not like he’s terribly worried, because Eggsy has a bright grin on his face that means his apology has worked to loosen the tension generated by Harry’s misstep and really that was Harry’s only goal for resuming the conversation. “How about this? Not a bribe, but a competition.”

“Bring it on.”

Oh now this I have to see, Merlin says, because the bastard always knows when Harry least wants him to be paying attention.

Shut up, Merlin.

Money can do all sorts of amazing things, Harry has learned, but nothing has given him quite the same level of pleasure as placing an express order for various gymnastic equipment and seeing it installed in a record two days, so that one morning he presents a sleepy Eggsy with a key and gets to watch how the boy’s eyes light up when he finally clues in.

“I am going to kick your – ”

“Language,” Merlin threatens, half muffled by the oversized mug of tea that’s attached to his face, but Eggsy has also seen Merlin eviscerate a noisy reporter in two seconds so he’s not fooled by the man’s appearance.

“I am so gonna win,” Eggsy revises.

“Out of curiosity, what exactly are you competing for?” Merlin ventures mildly through another sip of tea, like he doesn’t know them both well enough to guess.

“Bragging rights,” Eggsy answers immediately, at the same time Harry replies, “An outing of the winner’s choice.”

“How so very mature.”

“We can extend the invitation to you as well.”

“Or I can just sit here and watch one – or both – of you fall flat on your faces while I sit down with a very nice cup of tea. I think I know what I choose.”

“Spoilsport,” Harry and Eggsy say together.

Eggsy lands on his feet with a flourish on the mat, arms spread wide like he’s presenting to the judges at the Olympics, shoulders squared and legs solid and a confident, cheeky smile on his face.

He totally deserves the cheeky smile, though, because the routine he’s just pulled off is likely Olympics worthy. At the very least Harry’s certain that if King Arthur and the Table saw it, they’d want to steal Eggsy as a possible apprentice or at the very least a trainer, because Eggsy is the right combination of flexible and motivated and innovative in a way that almost makes Harry regret proposing this little competition.

Almost.

There’s a reason Harry joined the Knights, and his competitive spirit had won him a brief nod from King Arthur and a calculating stare from Gazelle.

Merlin applauds, his claps echoing in the enormous room. “Well done, lad,” he praises as Eggsy swaggers off, towel over his shoulders and water bottle in the other. “If you wanted to make Harry face plant, I approve of your choices for the routine.”

“Whose side are you on, anyways?” Harry demands, even as he finishes stretching out. He’s got nowhere near Eggsy’s level of flexibility, but long experience has taught him that not stretching out will make him regret things far more than skipping the workout in favor of saving the tiniest bit of time.

“Whatever side brings me tea,” Merlin says promptly, and then he grins like a Cheshire cat when Eggsy immediately produces one. The cheeky brat even throws in a neat little bow.

Eggsy throws a salute at Harry. “Your turn, governor,” he announces, sounding a tad winded. “Don’t fall and break your neck, yeah?”

“Your faith,” Harry says dryly, “is astounding.”

“The powder’s for your hands and not your face, by the way, bruv.”

“Eggsy, I know what the powder is for.”

“Could’ve fooled me with your hairdo.”

“Eggsy.”

“Oi, I’m not the one stalling, am I?”

Unfortunately, Eggsy is completely right that Harry is stalling, because the parallel bars are an awful sight – both in the old-fashioned full of awe sense and the in the modern day Harry-Hart-torture-contraptions – but Harry was a Knight once who’d stood toe to toe with the daughter of the King himself, so he can handle a set of bars. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and then steps up.

From there, it’s not quite easy, of course, but eventually he gets into the rhythm of the swing and the fall and the catch. He watched Eggsy very carefully, and now he translates memory into movement, flipping himself upwards and swinging round and switching hand over hand, taking care not to overbalance himself. You can do this, he tells himself, over and over, the same way he’d coaxed himself through the torturous days and nights of training with the Table.

He’s just gotten into the rhythm when he misjudges his own flip – he’s a bit taller than Eggsy, and it throws off the timing – and misses the bar, and Harry reacts on instinct and deploys the grappling wire from his watch, sending him on another loop over the bars before he lands on his feet.

“Harry!” Eggsy shouts and then he’s bouncing up onto the mats, grabbing Harry and shaking him as though he’s unconscious on his feet and not merely a tad unbalanced.

“I’m fine,” Harry tells him and then he grips Eggsy’s shoulders in return and gives him a shake of his own when the boy appears not to hear him. “Eggsy, I am fine. I assure you, I’ve had worse tumbles than this.”

The worry is clear in Eggsy’s eyes, in the way his lips are bitten raw and tension makes a straight line of his jaw, and Harry feels like his heart will overflow with affection. He’d thought, perhaps, that Eggsy merely tolerated him for the safe harbor he provides from the police and the press, but here now is clear evidence that it’s more than that.

He wonders what it says about him that it’s startling to find out that another living, breathing human cares about him.

Eggsy hugs like he talks, fierce and strong and as immovable as a thousand pound rock, so Harry stands there and awkwardly hugs him back. Well, at any rate, it starts out as awkward, since Harry hasn’t hugged anyone in decades, but Eggsy is warm and fits naturally against him and Harry soon finds that it comes naturally to him too, to settle his arms around Eggsy and press their heads together and take reassurance in the fact that he is indeed still alive.

Then Eggsy pokes him.

“Cheater!”

“Would you rather I had broken my neck?”

Eggsy snorts. “You’d’ve landed on your back and been winded,” he predicts – and correctly, judging from Merlin’s incredibly unimpressed expression.

“Or I could land on my own two feet, as my lovely teacher informed me that that was the only correct way to finish this,” Harry shoots back, neatly sidestepping another poke from Eggsy. “And if you poke me again I shall not be held responsible for what happens next.”

“Oomph – lemme up, Jesus, I was playing!”

“I gave you fair warning.”

“The hell, Harry, it was one poke, you didn’t need to sit on me back!”

“On the contrary, sitting on your arms and back has achieved the necessary goal: you cannot poke me again like this.”

“For god’s sake, Harry, get off the damn kid before you smother him and we need to flee the country with a dead body. Again.”

“You are a ray of sunshine as ever, Merlin.”

“Wait. Again? What do you mean, again? Merlin, you can’t just leave it like – Harry, get back here!”

Chapter Text

It’s not perfect, their relationship. But between the gymnastics and JB, they begin to find common ground, and although Eggsy is normally the fidgety type of person that drives Harry crazy after years of having perfect stillness instilled in him, he soon finds out that if Eggsy is occupied by something, he’ll be as still as a statute.

What that “something” is can vary. Sometimes it’s just JB, wriggling around and only half obeying a laughing Eggsy trying to teach him commands. Sometimes it’s Eggsy attempting to steal food from Merlin. And sometimes it’s just Eggsy, curled up with his pup and a nice book, quiet and comfortable in a chair whilst Harry doodles on Hart Enterprises business paperwork or conducts discreet Kingsman investigations.

With the barrier broken – their first outing, their first fight, their first apologies – they seem to naturally drift together. Harry enjoys spending time with Eggsy, and Eggsy seems to share the sentiment, even if they just sit in silence conducting their own business.

It gets so comfortable, in fact, that Harry gets a tad lazy.

“Harry,” Merlin says slowly.

Harry yawns and hits the button to summon the bullet train. “What, Merlin?”

“There’s something on your face.”

The comment makes Harry frown; he’d only gotten in one fistfight tonight, since his reputation is pretty settled enough that his appearance can make people think twice, and he’s fairly certain he did not get any blood on his face. “I don’t think I missed a spot.”

For that, Merlin leans over and taps him pointedly on his Kingsman mask. It makes Harry startle, because it’s true that the mask is incredibly light and he barely realizes it’s there half the time, but this is the first time that he’s nearly walked out of the bunker and towards the mansion without taking the necessary precautions and due diligence to store any Kingsman identifiers away before returning to his bed.

“Unless you’ve suddenly decided to let Eggsy in on the second biggest secret of your life,” Merlin says, “I think that mask belongs in its case.”

“Only second biggest?” Harry jokes, mostly to conceal the faint tremble in his fingers as he puts the mask securely back where it belongs. “What, pray tell, is the first?”

Through a giant smirk, Merlin says, “That you’re vainer than a peacock in mating season.”

“Ouch, Merlin, you wound me.”

“But you make it so easy, Harry! How could I resist?”

“With dignity,” Harry sniffs, and then shuts the doors to the train before he ends up spending two hours arguing with Merlin. It’s a strategic retreat; Merlin has known him all his life and he knows the man has a lot of blackmail material. Besides, Merlin has always shown a willingness to fight dirty.

When he steps into his study to turn off the lights and complete his illusion of going to bed after a long night of work, he finds Eggsy asleep on the couch. The boy is curled up into a neat little bundle of limbs, JB cradled at the center, and a book lying on the floor from where it’s tumbled out of Eggsy’s lax, dangling hand. In the dim firelight, his hair shines like gold, and Harry just leans against the door and looks at Eggsy and his puppy, content and happy and safe, and all at once it’s all worth it. He became the Kingsman to better the lives of others, and it’s beyond satisfying to count Eggsy among them.

Still, that couch is going to be murder on his neck in the morning.

Three steps takes him to the edge of the couch and there Harry kneels, feeling unbearably tender, as he smoothes a hand over JB’s head before he touches Eggsy on the shoulder. Eggsy murmurs grumpily, turning away from him, because of course he does, and it’s probably a sign of how far gone Harry is that he finds it incredibly endearing.

“You’ll regret sleeping here in the morning,” Harry comments lightly.

“Jus gif a pillow,” Eggsy mutters, words half lost to the couch. “And blanket. I good.”

“No, come on, my dear boy. Up you get. Come on, don’t make me have to carry you, I’m not quite that young anymore.”

The remark earns him one half of a baleful glare. “Don’t wanna.”

“Just two minutes,” Harry coaxes.

It takes a bit more than two minutes, but eventually, Harry gets Eggsy up and half-carries him to his room. Mostly this is because Harry only has two arms and the other arm is occupied carrying a snoring JB, but it’s also because Eggsy had yawned and rubbed his face against Harry’s chest, declared “You’re warm, I like you” and refused to be moved from that position since.

Harry manages to wrestle off Eggsy’s horrendous winged trainers, but he gives up at the idea of getting Eggsy into his nightclothes and just settles a blanket on the boy after depositing JB into his frankly enormous dog bed.

“Harry?”

Harry pauses at the door and turns around. Eggsy has already pulled all of the blankets around him into a neat little nest, and all Harry can see from it is the hair on Eggsy’s head and two shining eyes. “Yes?”

“I’m glad you took me in,” Eggsy says softly.

“So am I,” Harry tells him.

The next morning, the headline reads: MAN CALLING HIMSELF “THE RIDDLER” LEAVES TWO DEAD BODIES AND A RIDDLE. WHO IS THIS MAN AND WHERE DID HE COME FROM?

Eggsy never thought that Harry’s company involved a lot of journalism or newspaper reporting, given how tense something as simple as a press conference can make Harry, but with each reported death attributed to the so-called Riddler, Harry puts in later and later hours at the office and comes back with increasingly bigger bags under his eyes.

He might be able to fool the press, but Eggsy lived in a circus; he knows concealer when he sees it.

Of course, Harry is also the most stubborn twat to ever live, so he brushes off Eggsy’s concerns with “I’m fine, my dear boy” or “It’s nothing to worry about” or some variation thereof, which is such obviously not true that Eggsy is almost tempted to throw back Harry’s offer to teach Eggsy how to lie back in his face.

Almost.

The rest of the time, he just wants to tie Harry to a bed and force tea and a good hearty meal down his throat.

Of course, no good plan is worth its salt without beta testing and allies, so Eggsy steels himself, buys an enormous offering of Merlin’s favorite tea, and goes to beg for help from the one person who he’s seen be able to take Harry off guard.

“If that’s a bribe,” Merlin says lightly the second Eggsy walks into his office, not even looking up from the six computer screens in front of him, “good choice, but it’ll cultivate a rather small favor.”

“What if I just wanted some conversation?”

“Not with that much tea, you don’t. Now spit out whatever you want, I don’t have much time to waste. If you want reassurances that your outfit is either horrible or beautiful, go find Harry, that’s what he’s for.”

Eggsy splutters. Harry has long since stopped remarking on Eggsy’s outfits unless Eggsy is attending an official function (which has happened exactly zero times so far), but he has conceded to give Eggsy his own credit card and bank account so that they don’t have whispered arguments in the store aisles about bespoke suits versus Adidas shoes. They didn’t get kicked out, because money talks, but they did get quite the evil eye.

“Not about clothes then? Girls? Boys? Still go to Harry, in either case.”

“Merlin!”

“Very well, fine, talk. You’ve got until I finish this first cup of tea.”

Eggsy takes a deep breath. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way or nothing, but what are the odds of me successfully kidnapping Harry from his office and dragging him out to sleep and eat?”

“Hmm.” Merlin gives him a narrow-eyed look over the top of his cup, but Eggsy stands his ground. He’s learning to read Merlin’s catalog of looks, and right now this definitely falls more into the “is this worth my time” category instead of the “get out of my sight before I squash you under my shoe” category. “I assume you have a plan that is a little more detailed than tossing him over your shoulder and walking away? He’s a wee bit too heavy for that, if that is your plan.”

“What?! No! No, it goes a little something like this . . .”

It’s the first time Eggsy has set foot in the main headquarters for Hart Enterprises, and he does so with a cocky grin that belies a surety he doesn’t quite feel. It turns out that he needn’t have worried, because the guards at the bottom take one look at his access card and wave him on immediately, dog and “tacky shoes” and all.

He takes the elevator all the way up to Harry’s floor, which really is party to a quite stunning view of the city, and then makes his way to Harry’s secretary.

“Ah, Mr. Unwin,” she says when she catches sight of him, a faint smile on her face. “You can go right in.”

And, well, he knew Harry was an over-prepared worrying nanny, but if Harry knows he was coming . . . “Am I expected or something?” he asks.

“Ah – no, there’s no note in Mr. Hart’s calendar,” she tells him after a quick look at her computer. “But Mr. Hart’s standing order is that you’re to be allowed access whenever you like. So long as he isn’t in a meeting or something, of course.”

It really shouldn’t make Eggsy grin like a fool, because all access to Harry’s office really isn’t that much, but it does anyways.

It’s probably that foolish grin that makes Harry’s eyes narrow when he looks up to see Eggsy strolling through, JB panting at his heels, before he parks himself on Harry’s very nice soft couch and pops his feet up on the little table. He helps himself to a chocolate and takes it as a bonus that the move makes Harry’s eye twitch.

“ . . . Eggsy,” Harry says slowly. He’s still got enormous bags under his eyes, and on top of that, he’s even taken off his glasses. He never takes off his glasses. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Eggsy crinkles up the wrapper into a neat little ball, and then he cocks his arm and chucks it straight at Harry’s incredibly neat waste basket. It lands with a little thump.

“Eggsy, I really don’t have the time – ”

“You owe me an outing,” Eggsy interrupts, because he knows if he lets Harry build up steam he’ll never get a word in edgewise. Harry is incredibly good at this sort of smooth manipulation that involves him talking until, out of sheer self-defense, you start nodding and agreeing or zone out completely.

Harry’s sigh is golden. “Eggsy, I have about four more meetings, and a board meeting, and dinner with the Commissioner, and – ”

“And an outing with me. As per our bet.”

The tiredness slips away, to be replaced with wry amusement. Harry leans back, looking for all the world like he’s got all the cards to win the biggest jackpot, and then he says, “I don’t recall losing said bet.”

“You didn’t stick the landing, bruv,” Eggsy reminds him. “An outing of my choice, you said. And I want it today.”

“And if I say no?”

Eggsy whistles. “Get ‘im, JB.”

He enjoys the way Harry’s face goes from amused to calculating to downright alarmed for the few brief moments before JB reaches his goal of slobbering over Harry’s perfectly tailored pants, but he doesn’t stick around for long. Instead, he sticks his head out of Harry’s pretentiously gold-edged doors and says, “Uh, Amelia, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Unwin?”

“Mind clearing Mr. Hart’s calendar, luv? He’s got some promises to keep for me. Shopping and stuff. You know.”

And Harry doesn’t hire stupid people, because she gives him a sweet grin accompanied by a nod that says she knows exactly the kind of game he’s playing and immediately starts dialing a number with one hand while typing furiously into her computer with the other. Eggsy loves her just a little bit for that.

When he returns, Harry has mastered the art of bribing JB into sitting still, so only one shoe has slobber all over it.

“Oi, stop feeding my dog. You’ll make him fat.”

Harry gives him a look. “You left me with little choice, I fear,” he deadpans, like it’s the end of the world and not him giving JB a handful of biscuits. “You’ve taught JB incredibly well on how to only obey you.”

“Yeah, well, can’t have handsome blokes like you running off with my dog, yeah?”

“Did you really just tell Amelia to cancel all of my appointments?”

“No, course not.” Eggsy waits just a beat, just long enough for Harry’s shoulders to relax and for him to reach for his glasses again, but he continues, “I just asked her to.”

“Eggsy.”

“We got stuff to do, bruv. Now come on.”

Harry spends the entire time they are traveling to the ice cream shop on his tablet typing frantically, so when they finally get there and the driver opens the door, Eggsy takes the expedient route and tugs the tablet straight out of Harry’s hands, tossing it into the backseat and shutting the door firmly behind an aghast Harry.

“Eggsy, no, I need to finish that e-mail – ”

“Harry,” Eggsy says firmly, stilling him with a firm hand to the chest. “You have been getting like 30 minutes of sleep a day, tops, so right now, you owe me an outing, and I think you owe me your full attention.”

Harry heaves a dramatic sigh, but they both know that Harry’s stronger and taller and therefore could well and truly push past Eggsy if he really needed to. And they both know that really, he wants a break as much as Eggsy says he needs one, so he just lets his shoulder slump and the corners of his mouth turn out. “Why, darling, if you were feeling a little lonely, all you had to do was say so,” he says.

“I just did,” Eggsy smirks unrepentantly. Then he holds up Harry’s credit card, which he nicked earlier. “And you’re paying today.”

“Brat.”

All in all, it’s not a bad day. Harry treats him for ice cream, then drags him off to some fancy tailor shop to get measured for several bespoke suits (Harry’s revenge), and then treats him to a tech shop to get a new phone and laptop (Harry’s apology) before they finish off the day with a very nice dinner in some exclusive Hart hotel where Eggsy unapologetically orders enough food to feed a family of ten while Harry watches with a wry smile.

“This bed is amazing,” Eggsy tells him fervently from where he’s rolling around.

“We are known for the best of the best,” Harry replies snootily, even if the sentiment is somewhat ruined by his missing tie and unbuttoned shirt. He lost the suit jacket ages ago, and it was wonderful.

“The food better be awesome too, I’m starving.”

“It might take some time. You did order quite a bit, my dear.”

“I’m a growing boy,” Eggsy points out, patting at his stomach. “I need all the food I can get.”

“But of course. I would never have guessed, since I have no such experience with the hunger of a teenage boy.”

“Harry Hart, are you mocking me?”

Harry’s teeth flashes in the light as he smiles, sipping delicately at a glass of whatever little concoction he made for himself whilst Eggsy was checking stuff off the menu. “No comment.”

“Whatever.”

The silence that falls then is natural, elegant, and beautiful, broken only by JB snuffling in the corner. Eggsy closes his eyes and luxuriates in the fluffy blankets and mattress, at ease, because the lines of Harry’s shoulders have finally softened and he managed to steer Harry into the hotel without retrieving his tablet, so he bets they’ll both get a good night’s sleep tonight.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For. You know. Putting up with me.”

“You had a noble goal. It seemed prudent to agree to play along.”

“Well, I owe you.”

“No, you most certainly do not,” Harry says sharply. “I took you in because I could, not because I had to. There is no debt between us, Eggsy, and there never will be.” Perhaps he senses Eggsy’s reluctance, though, because he continues, “Think of it as an investment. I saw great potential in you. I am just here to help you reach it. A man owes no debt to his stocks or his plants, my dear boy, and if anything, I imagine our relationship is one of mutual symbiosis.”

“A what now?”

“I help you,” Harry explains simply, “and you help me.”

“Oh.” Put like that, Eggsy supposes it does sort of help him understand Harry’s mindset. He’s always wondered what Harry saw in his bedraggled, shocked-silent self. “Okay. Why’re you so busy at the company anyways, Harry?”

They are then, of course, interrupted by the arrival of all the food, which Harry calmly dishes out and gets little portions for himself whilst Eggsy sits on the bed like a heathen and sinks his teeth in. The wait is totally worth it, though, because the steak is heaven on his tongue and the macaroni and cheese is even better. Therefore, it takes a good fifteen or so minutes before Harry finally gets back on topic.

“The Riddler is causing a lot of problems,” Harry says quietly.

It’s not quite out of the blue – the Riddler’s offed like ten people in the last week and the newspapers have been going wild with speculation – but aside from the stepped up bodyguard presence whenever Eggsy wanders outside the manor, he hadn’t really thought the Riddler would impact his life too much.

Besides: “You ain’t a cop, Harry.”

“True. But Hart Enterprises has a robust R&D department, and we have designed a lot of new equipment for the local constabularies, as well as Scotland Yard. Failing that, we have a great deal many consultants on the payroll who can be coaxed to helping out, and failing that, well. More money never hurts.”

Eggsy waves an impatient fork. “Why not leave it to the coppers, Harry? Or like, that Kingsman guy?”

“We all are citizens of London, my dear boy. We all have our parts to play.”

“Yeah, well. Try not to die, yeah? I’ve finally figured out the PIN to your account and if you die it’s gonna be real inconvenient for me.”

Harry’s mouth curls into a little smile and he reaches out and pats gently at Eggsy’s socked feet. “I am thrilled to mean so much to you,” he comments dryly, fishing out another dumpling from his fancy pants Chinese dish that he ordered in Mandarin because of course he knows Mandarin. “However, I feel that you should know that I have made arrangements for you that do not include identity theft or financial fraud.”

“Piss off, Harry.”

“You should know,” he insists. “I’ve set up a trust, which you’ll gain access to at age 18. With your gymnastics and your grades, you’ll likely be able to secure a scholarship, but if you are not, Hart Enterprises has several that will suit you. This, of course, will be in addition to the allowances and accounts that you already have access to.”

Eggsy moans and shoves his face into a pillow, mostly because his face is making a weird expression and he’s not quite sure how to describe it. It’s just . . . weird, to be hearing Harry talking so calmly about his impending death. And yeah, he’s like old enough to be Eggsy’s dad but like he’s pretty sure the standard life expectancy for a fit bloke like Harry is probably 80 or 90. And it’s not like he’s gotten clingy or anything but it’d also be great to not have someone else die on him for the next, oh, forty or fifty years.

“Tired?” Harry asks.

Eggsy flaps a hand at him instead of answering, because he figures Harry’s got enough brains to figure that out. Unfortunately for him, Harry also takes that as his cue to start harassing Eggsy to get undressed.

“Shoes off, there’s a lad,” Harry says, prodding at Eggsy’s ankles until he finally kicks them off with a whine. “No, don’t make that noise at me, you’ll thank me in the morning. Come on, that suit is indeed lovely on you, but a night in bed will ruin it, come on – oh. What’s this?”

When he opens his eyes, he finds Harry’s gaze trained on the Kingsman medal looped around his neck. It’s a braided cord with the Unwin colors, one for his da and one for his mum and one for him. It’d been a gift, to assure him that his parents really weren’t as angry at him for getting lost as he feared and, of course, to allow him to keep his souvenir close.

“It’s uh. A keepsake.”

Harry tilts his head, a considering look in his eyes. “This is the sigil of the Kingsman.”

“The what now?”

“Sigil is another word for symbol.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you just say that?”

Harry’s mouth lifts in a wry twist. “Old habits die hard, I’m afraid.” Yet despite the humor in his voice, his eyes are still troubled, like he thinks the medal is a sign the Kingsman is going to bust through the window and kidnap Eggsy right out of bed.

“Swear down, it’s just a keepsake,” Eggsy repeats. “He helped me once, ages ago, practically saved my life, yeah? I just. Never got around to putting it aside.”

“Well, if you swear,” Harry says, in the exact tone of voice he used when Eggsy promised that JB wouldn’t dig up the garden.

“Oh, shut up, old man.”

Because Harry is so emphatically not a morning person, he gives Eggsy free reign to order breakfast and start eating without him when Eggsy inevitably wakes up first, starving and impatient. Eggsy takes the offer with glee to order an assortment of eggs, scones, waffles, toast, bacon, and more eggs, but even so, eating feels weird when Harry is snoring over in the next bed.

So Eggsy has a brilliant idea: wake Harry up.

Eggsy learned from a young age how to walk carefully and quietly, and the thick carpeting in this luxurious hotel room makes it almost child’s play. He slips off his bed, shushes JB with a quick gesture, and then creeps towards Harry’s bed. He gathers himself, tensing, and then – liftoff and he’s landing right on top of Harry, cackling madly.

Or, well, that’s how it goes in his mind.

In reality, the second he collides with Harry, Harry’s eyes snap wide open and in between one moment and the next, Eggsy goes from “I GOT YOU” to “OW OW OW GET OFF ME HARRY WHAT THE HELL”.

Harry snarls something in a guttural tone from above him. He’s got a heavy knee planted in Eggsy’s back, bending his body into a really uncomfortable line, and one of his hands are wrapped like unbreakable handcuffs around Eggsy’s wrists while the other is like a seal on Eggsy’s throat. Each time Eggsy yelps, Harry’s grip just gets even tighter. It makes Eggsy’s heart start racing in his chest, because yeah, he’d seen Harry utterly decimate the thugs in the pub, but this – this is different. This is like some PTSD from a war or something. Hell, Harry isn’t even muttering in English right now.

And then Harry’s phone goes bananas across the room.

It makes Eggsy startle, because Harry always has that thing on vibrate and that ringtone is the most annoying thing Eggsy has ever heard in his life, but Harry’s reaction is even more startling.

Harry practically jumps five feet in the air and flips mid-jump, landing on his feet with an ashen face and trembling hands.

“ . . . Eggsy,” he says, after a long moment.

Eggsy just rubs at his throat and back, too shocked to even comment. He’s heard about soldiers who came back from wars who acted like that, but he never heard of any war that the famous Harry Hart ever participated in.

“Eggsy, I am so, so, so sorry,” Harry says. His voice trembles as bad as his hands, and it’s really freaking weird. Harry has never been anything less than absolutely pristine, and early in the morning doesn’t count because a messy early morning Harry Hart is like distressed jeans – the beauty is in the carefully manufactured mess. “I – I have no words to defend myself, truly.”

“Was you a soldier or something, cuz, what the hell, Harry, that ain’t a normal reaction!”

“RAMC,” Harry answers, like that’ll explain anything.

“They’re doctors.”

“And is it not my job, as a doctor, to know all of the weak points of the human body?”

Eggsy points a finger at him, and he’s relieved that his own hands aren’t trembling. Mostly he’s calming down though, because Harry’s voice is his lighthouse in the dark, his constant guide to a safe harbor, and they’ve walked down this road of banter a thousand times and more. “You stole that line from somewhere.”

“Borrowed,” Harry insists, with a brief curl of his lips. Then his shoulders collapse again, and god, if a trembling Harry Hart is freaky, a defeated Harry Hart is just . . . abnormal, like something that should never exist.

Eggsy inclines his head at Harry’s phone, which is still making an enormous racket in the corner. “Shouldn’t you get that? It’s hurting my ears, bruv.”

“I can explain – ”

“Hurry up, bruv, I’m hungry and all this food is getting cold!”

Unfortunately, they never really recover the equilibrium of before. Harry didn’t even leave bruises, but Harry stays glued to his tablet the entire time they’re eating and checking out and getting in the car. He doesn’t even scold Eggsy for the mess he makes of his very wrinkled clothing.

Sullenly, Eggsy texts Merlin, Harry’s being a right wanker.

Merlin, unsurprisingly, replies, I figured as much. Just give it time, lad. Harry just gets into moods sometimes.

And, well, Eggsy’s not sure if a “he tried to murder me over eggs and bacon” counts as a “mood” but he’s also sure as hell not telling Merlin that Harry put his hands around Eggsy’s throat and squeezed until Eggsy thought he was going to pass out, so he just puts his phone away and pouts some more.

Usually, Harry’s great at realizing when he’s pouting and finding a way to distract him, but today, Harry sucks so they just ride in silence.

That is, until they pull up in front of a house that is most certainly not Hart Manor.

“Um?”

“This is Commissioner Morton’s home,” Harry says without looking up. “He’s agreed to look after you for a bit.”

Eggsy gapes at him. He’s not quite sure what to be angrier about: the fact that Harry’s dropping him off Eggsy is a disobedient puppy at a kennel or the fact that Harry felt it was necessary to go straight to the police commissioner of London to send Eggsy to.

“Please go, Eggsy,” Harry continues, cutting off Eggsy’s immediate protest. “I’m afraid I am already late for work today. If you need anything, Merlin can arrange for it to be sent.”

If Harry wants silence, he’ll get it. Eggsy clambers out and slams the door, not even looking over his shoulder.

You idiot.

He needs space, Merlin. Away from me. To feel safe again.

Harry, he never felt unsafe. Hell, his first text to me was to ask why you’re reacting like you’ve been in a war!

He doesn’t understand. And he won’t ever, if I can help it.

I give up.

Roxy sets the teacup down, swishes her ponytail neatly over her shoulder, and says, quite bluntly, “If you pretend to smile one more time when I offer you tea, I will slap you.”

“Er,” Eggsy says, because up until that point he’d thought he’d been doing great at this playing guest thing, given that Commissioner Morton isn’t home and his daughter Roxy had welcomed Eggsy inside instead. She’s been aces, letting him chill and play videogames and eat all the snacks and she hasn’t said a word about JB wheezing about, but clearly he’s not quite as good as . . . as someone-who-must-not-be-named is at playing the happy, charming guest. “I’m sorry?”

Roxy taps one finger on the table, like a metronome. It’s both fascinating and weirdly kind of terrifying. “Was it Harry or Merlin?”

“Um – ”

“Harry, then, if it was Merlin, you’d be sitting here making bald jokes,” Roxy decides, and then she swings herself into a chair and stares at him like he’s some half-interesting specimen under a microscope. “So. Spill.”

“What? No!”

“I’ve seen Harry naked,” Roxy tells him absently, although the gleam in her eyes when Eggsy chokes somewhat ruins the innocent presentation. “I’ve also seen him utterly drunk off his arse, high as a kite, and so sleep-deprived that he tried to put a dog biscuit into his tea. There is absolutely nothing you can say that could possibly ruin Harry’s reputation for me.”

“What, you his assistant or something?”

“No, just a family friend. Now. Spill.”

“Fine, Jesus, those eyes should be against the Geneva Convention.”

Then the whole story comes tumbling out, and funnily enough, Roxy gets less scary the more he tells her, like words and stories are the sacrifices she takes to once again don her mortal disguise and walk among people like a normal human. She even deigns to pick JB up and cuddle him on her lap, petting his ears and putting up with his licks.

“And then he dropped me here and buggered off,” Eggsy finishes, draining his cup of tea again and wishing he had something stronger. “Like I’m some kind of stray he doesn’t wanna let sully his hands again.”

“Eggsy,” Roxy says, in a long-suffering tone, “he did just nearly choke you. Maybe he wants to make sure that you don’t see him as a stray you need space from.”

“What? Harry? Nah, Rox, he’s like the fittest, richest bloke around.”

“Money can’t buy everything.” Roxy leans back, regarding him with softened eyes. “Also, remember that Harry’s been working nonstop for a while due to this Riddler person. Lack of sleep can compromise judgment. He probably just panicked.”

Eggsy tries to picture “Harry Hart” and “panicked”. Fails.

“And while you’re there trying to reboot your brain,” Roxy says, “I’m going to go and do something productive. Like fencing. Or boxing. Literally anything that is not watching you run in circles over your mentor.”

Eggsy flips her the bird.

Roxy grabs a silver serving tray and chucks it at his head, and the war is on.

Still, in the end, Eggsy has to admit that Roxy has a few good points, so after he declines the Mortons’ kind offer of dinner and a spare bed, he gives her a hug and tells her “You’re right” and dodges her good-natured punch. He also declines their offer a ride home, saying that he’ll just call a Hart Enterprises car, and fortunately Roxy is still too distracted by his admitting that she’s right to stop him.

Outside their home, Eggsy flips over the Kingsman medal to reveal the gleaming numbers on the back, takes out his brand new Hart phone, and dials a very specific number.

No one answers when it finally connects, but Eggsy didn’t really expect an answer.

“Yeah, it’s me. Eggsy. The little circus boy,” Eggsy says, strolling down the street, JB a faithful, wheezing shadow at his side. “I got a favor to ask. Meet me in the Hart Enterprises garage, yeah? I’m sure there’re plenty of shadows over there for you to do your Kingsman vanishing act.”

The Kingsman appears quite suddenly, as Eggsy has always heard, and really the only reason Eggsy realizes it is because JB suddenly starts barking up a storm. Not aggressively, not like he thinks Eggsy’s about to be attacked, but more of a “welcome hi hello” bark, like how he barks at birds and squirrels, so Eggsy just shushes him and then looks up.

The Kingsman is utterly unchanged. He still has a very fancy mask, a Rainmaker at his side, elegant gloves, and a three piece suit so sharp Eggsy thinks he might cut himself if he touched it.

“Hey,” Eggsy says lamely.

“Hello, Eggsy,” says the Kingsman, and his voice is low and distorted, like it’s being run through some kind of voice program.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“You asked for a favor. I didn’t say I’d grant it.”

“Well,” Eggsy points out, “you’re here.”

“Then speak.”

Eggsy takes a deep breath. The Kingsman really only probably has a few inches on Eggsy, but with the shadows as his backdrop and the gold filigree and shiny oxfords, he looks so out of Eggsy’s reach that it stuns him that the guy actually came when Eggsy called. “I need you to take down the Riddler.”

“What makes you think I’m not trying?”

“Well, can you, I dunno, try harder? Only I’ve got this guy, Harry, Harry Hart, you might know him, he’s driving himself bonkers trying to help the coppers and I’d really appreciate it if he didn’t drop dead soon. So if you could like, catch the Riddler so he can sleep, that’d be great and all.”

The Kingsman doesn’t answer for a long, long moment, and Eggsy thinks that maybe he’s pissed off the vigilante who can kill a dozen bad guys in ten seconds – except then the Kingsman suddenly exhales and curtly says, “Duck.”

Eggsy does duck, but only because he hears the sharp whistle of an incoming object and when he rolls back up to his feet he sees the Kingsman going at it with six goons in tactical gear and ski masks.

“Seriously?” Eggsy complains.

So he accidentally-on-purpose sweeps out one of the guys’ legs, dancing backwards to avoid the retaliation. Just because.

“I said stay out of this!” the Kingsman snaps.

“No, you didn’t, you just said duck,” Eggsy says cheerfully, using the man’s body as a springboard to launch himself at another goon, surprising the guy so much that he yelps and full on shudders to a halt so that the Kingsman can neatly grab his head with his Rainmaker and slam it into the concrete.

“Well, stay out of this!”

“What was that, couldn’t hear you over the sounds of body-slamming!”

Still, Eggsy doesn’t get too involved. The Kingsman clearly knows exactly what he’s doing and Eggsy’s really just dodging people, for starters, and secondly, watching the Kingsman fight is so freaking fantastic. Poetry in motion would be a pale descriptor for how fast and fluidly the guy fights. Eggsy thinks a better description would be a tornado or something, sweeping through the fields of bad guys and toppling them like dominos, fast and dangerous and utterly beautiful to watch from a distance.

The Kingsman lays out the last guy and sits on him, muttering something in a low voice that –

Wait, Eggsy thinks, I’ve heard this before.

He creeps a little closer. Sure enough, he recognizes that harsh, guttural tone, the snarling of a language he doesn’t understand. He recognizes the grip on the goon’s hands and the planting of a knee of the guy’s back. Hell, Eggsy recognizes those hands, those elegant hands with long fingers and a grip strong enough to choke a guy out.

He doesn’t even realize he’s said Harry’s name until Harry goes still. And if there was ever any doubt, yep, those are definitely Harry’s eyes.

“Eggsy,” the Kingsman – Harry – says. “Eggsy, I can explain.”

It’s the exact same tone of voice he used that morning, when he’d nearly strangled Eggsy in the bed. And if that had been a wake-up call, this now is a tectonic shift, throwing everything Eggsy knows out of balance.

So Eggsy does what everyone does during an earthquake: he runs like hell.

Chapter Text

“You are being idiotic,” Merlin hisses into Harry’s ear, and that is when Harry knows that he’s truly in some deep trouble.

Merlin hates talking to him during missions or combat. He’ll send text, sometimes, when he notices something and of course if he detects something major like a bomb he’ll yell a warning, but otherwise Merlin prefers to be the silent angel on his shoulder, feeding him information via maps and small text instructions.

“This gathering was found by your information, Merlin, how could pursuing it possibly be idiotic?”

Merlin snarls. “You’re not in the right headspace, Kingsman; you and I both know you’re not.”

“It won’t matter what headspace I’m in if I can prevent a massacre.”

It had been Merlin who had finally uncovered a pattern to the seemingly random series of Riddler murders: a visit from the Valentine Corporation and a spike in specific electronic signals. Given that the old church sitting before Harry has had two visits from Valentine in the past week, complete with vans and silent workers, they are fairly certain that something will be happening soon. To that end, Harry is wearing specialized additions to his mask this time: tiny clips near his ears that dampen electronic signals once activated. It’ll risk possibly cutting his connection off to Merlin, but given that the signals have caused as many as twenty deaths, Harry’s willing to take the risk of losing his connection to Merlin over the risk of more deaths on his hands.

That being said, this church is full of people, like sardines in a can. If whatever the Riddler is doing strikes here, tonight, it will be the biggest of all the Riddler’s murders.

“Kingsman,” Merlin says, and his tone is so abruptly gentle that Harry nearly falls off his perch in shock, “what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Tell that to him,” Harry replies, and then he leaps nimbly down, trading his Kingsman mask for the holographic glasses and ignoring all of Merlin’s irritated mumbles as he strolls leisurely into the church and takes a seat.

It’s not exactly the most exciting sermon, unfortunately. Harry spends most of it playing detective with the crowd, trying to deduce random things because the sermon repeats itself over and over again and Harry can only take so many repetitions “THE WORLD IS GOING TO CRASH AND BURN IN HELL IF WE KEEP GOING THIS WAY” before he starts wanting to say terribly crass things back.

Fortunately, Merlin knows him very well. Charming sermon, utterly charming. Don’t talk, dear, you’ll ruin its perfection.

Your wish is my command, darling.

As if. I commanded you not to leave your perch and yet here you are, sitting with the sheep waiting for the wolves to descend.

I think I can handle a few wolves.

Literal ones that King Arthur unleashed on you do not count.

The comment makes Harry smile, which he does by ducking his head quickly so as not to be seen. It probably wasn’t his wisest decision to start with the story of how King Arthur had dropped him into a pit with a stick and two starving wolves when Merlin had inquired about the Knights, but, well, Merlin had asked how crazy he was to go searching for the Knights that no one believed existed and Harry’s fairly certain that his wolf story would make anyone understand that no one searching for the Knights was crazier than the Knights themselves.

“Oh, I have movement,” Merlin says suddenly, voice sharp. “Two buildings over, there are three cars and a lot of heat signatures suddenly moving around. You might want to make an exit, Kingsman. Or at least get your back to a wall.”

Harry flicks a glance to the doors and the windows, conveying the simple message that they haven’t barred the exits. It confuses him; surely if they were going to test something, they’d bar the doors to ensure no one would escape and run off into the night. For the smaller murders it makes sense, but there are so many people here tonight; it’s just sheer probability that at least one person would make it out.

“Kingsman, the signal is starting, I’m going to analyze – oh god. Get out, Kingsman, get out, these signals target the inhibition and aggression centers – Kingsman! Kingsman, can you hear me? HARRY!”

Harry hears the words, but distantly, as though Merlin was shouting from one end of Hart Manor and Harry was at the other. They’re just meaningless tangles of vowels that might have been words when they were uttered, but are certainly not perceived as such by his ears.

Instead, it makes far more sense to grab his gun and put a bullet in his pew mate’s brain.

No one knew how old King Arthur really was. He had white hair and a stooped spine and shuffling footsteps, but his eyes were so keen that many described them as sharper than his sword. He could tell story after story of things that were too old for someone who looked like him to remember, and yet – and yet, the way he told them, it was like he’d experienced them for himself firsthand.

How do you find the energy to keep fighting, Harry had once asked, watching King Arthur carefully wipe his blade clean of blood after he had decimated those foolish enough to stand in his way, after so many years?

Ah, Galahad, King Arthur had laughed. You are so young still. When the rage of battle hits you, when the true joy descends, when the mind settles, your aching bones and trembling joints will melt away. There is no greater peace or joy than that of war, Galahad, and one day, you will understand this as well as I do.

Harry had looked ruefully at the one man he could claim as his kill. It had not been difficult, because Harry had had the best training in the world, but he had found no peace or joy in it. It had just . . . happened.

One day you will know, King Arthur had promised. All of us Knights do, in the end.

Harry looks around at all of the death around him – men and women, toppled like dominos, burned and shot and bludgeoned and stabbed and suffocated and broken – and thinks, for not the first time, that King Arthur had been lying through his teeth. Because this had been war, true war, and Harry had felt peace, the mindless peace of killing, but in the end, he does not understand it.

What have I done? Harry thinks.

Merlin stays quiet, mercifully. He stopped trying to interfere about five minutes in. It’s a good thing; with the signal driving his rage, it’s not beyond reasoning to assume that Harry might have continued fighting until all the voices were drowned out, Merlin included.

When Harry looks down at his hands, all he can think is Why isn’t there more blood?

He shot people point blank in the face. He gutted one man with a poke. He set a man’s face on fire. He should be drowning in blood, but all he can feel is the silently spreading patch of blood where he’d taken a knife to the shoulder and a faint spray of blood on his hands and throat when he’d dodged another person’s gun and wrestled it out of their hands. The floor is dirty, but it shouldn’t be a floor at all. It should be a river – no, an ocean, red as blood and enough to drown a man ten times over.

Harry walks out the front door and is only mildly surprised that he doesn’t have to swim to reach it.

In fact, he is so drained that when Valentine rolls up, gun in hand and lackeys at his back and a smug smile on his face, he just stares at him. The mindless of war has faded into shock instead of peace, and he can’t quite bring himself to care.

“Neat, isn’t it?” Valentine says.

“What did you do?” Harry demands, not because he really cares, but because his Kingsman glasses are still recording and if he survives this, he knows that someone, somewhere, will care. He hopes they’ll care. “We – I had no control.”

“In simple terms,” Valentine says cheerfully, “it’s a neurological wave that triggers the centers of aggression and switches off inhibitors. All it takes is a few SIM cards. I mean, who’s going to say no to free Internet and free unlimited calls and texts? All I had to do was offer and they were practically begging me to beta test them.”

The horror, too, is distant. Harry powers through it. “I assume you didn’t tell them they were beta testing their own deaths.”

Valentine shrugs. “If they didn’t read the fine print where death was a possibility, well, now, that isn’t on me, is it? But you – you were magnificent, Kingsman. Oh, yes, I know it’s you; that holographic face mask is good but not that good. It started glitching when you triggered the hand grenade. I never thought I’d be in a situation where I’d have my own vigilante hero coming after me, like all those old grand spy movies. And yet here we are! The Kingsman of London, right here in front of me.”

“The pleasure is not mine,” Harry replies instinctively.

“To be fair,” Valentine says, “ it’s not mine either. You see, I hate the sight of blood. One glance and I’m upchucking every single thing I ate for dinner, lunch, breakfast, and the dinner before that. But you survived, and damn, it was impressive, but you really weren’t supposed to.”

“The hero of the spy movie never dies, does he?”

“Well, this ain’t that kind of movie,” Valentine announces, and then up comes the gun, and bang goes the trigger and in between one blink and the next, Harry is falling.

Huh, Harry thinks, even as his head whacks painfully against the ground. That wasn’t nearly as painful as thought it would be.

Huh, Harry thinks, even as he hears Valentine’s men beginning to move out. So this is where I end.

Eggsy, Harry thinks, and then his eyes close and he thinks nothing else.

Eggsy does what he always does when he’s upset: he goes high, high as he can, so high that no one else can follow him without making a great deal of noise and possibly falling off. Eggsy is a Flying Unwin, after all, and he knows the best ways to fly so far away that he can’t be easily found.

His mum and da could have, perhaps, but they’re gone now, their wings clipped, and he’d cried for them at their funeral but that’s nothing compared to how he cries now.

Thank god for JB, though. The poor pug doesn’t really like heights, but when Eggsy curls up on the fire escape and starts crying, JB totters over and starts licking at every part of him he can reach, and if Eggsy buries his streaming eyes into JB’s warm fur, well, it’s not like the pug’s going to judge him.

He doesn’t know how long he cries, except when the sadness finally begins to recede into emptiness, JB has long since gone still, his tail wagging exhausted, and Eggsy is cold and tired and he sort of wants to head back to Hart Manor except he has no idea if he’d even be welcome there.

Of course, that’s when his phone rings.

He ignores it the first time, because to hell with Harry. He ignores it the second time too. And the third time.

The fourth time, well, Harry might need a telling off in person, and if Eggsy also wants to hear his voice, he can let Harry get at least three or four words out before he starts giving Harry a piece of his mind. It’s probably not at all gentlemanly, but hey, running around as a masked vigilante and not telling someone probably ain’t gentlemanly either, so they’ll all be rude people today.

Except it ain’t Harry.

“I suppose that you are the reason why I’m getting calls about a boy crying on a fire escape,” a man says. There are distant sounds of doors closing and papers shuffling in the background, like an office, and Eggsy actually looks down at the call he’s just accepted when he sees that “Harry Hart” is lit up.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Commissioner Morton,” the man replies. “I’m a friend of Harry’s.”

Eggsy feels his lip curl. Of course all the rich sods think they can just reach out to their friends in high places and get everything smoothed over, just like that. “Well, you can go and kindly just – ”

“Harry’s worried about you.”

“He should’ve been worried about me when he was lying to my face.”

And really, he should just hang up now and throw away the phone, but Commissioner Morton does not defend Harry. Hell, he just laughs, but it’s not the nice, amusing, polite laughter. It’s an old laugh, a weary laugh, like he has to laugh because if he doesn’t he’ll end up crying.

“Eggsy,” Commissioner Morton says, after a long moment, “I have known Harry for almost his entire life. Do you think that stopped Harry from lying to me about where he was?”

“So?”

“Harry has always lied. He got very good at it, you see, after so many years of people poking their noses into his business. I’m not excusing him – hell, Merlin and I have had our fair share of yelling sessions at him for it – but I figured you should know that telling the truth has never been Harry’s strong part.”

And Eggsy would say, “What’s wrong with telling the truth?” except.

Except.

Except he knows better than anyone why people don’t tell the truth. It’s why he never told his mum about the time the juggler tried to grope him, it’s why he never told his da about the time he fell off the trapeze when he’d snuck in at night and twisted his wrist, it’s why he never told his parents the first time a guy had called him gutter trash and a circus whore. Sometimes, the lies, no matter how painful, became the first line of defense and shaking that habit is so hard.

Hell, Eggsy still hasn’t told Harry the truth about JB, although he’s sure Harry has guessed that it involved more than Eggsy climbing over a fence and liberating the pug.

“I’m still mad at him,” Eggsy says, because for all that he hates that Harry lied to him, he’d never spill the Kingsman’s identity.

“That’s the beauty of being a family, lad,” Commissioner Morton replies gently. “Getting mad is kind of par for the course. You can’t love someone without getting mad at them, sometimes.”

Eggsy takes in a deep breath and lets it out. He’s never been good at meditation, but his parents always said breathing would help, in a pinch. And perhaps it does, because he’s not holding JB quite so hard now. “What happens when you get mad over a secret?”

“Well,” the Commissioner says, “you decide if the secret’s worth breaking family ties for.”

Eggsy thinks about Harry’s stupid curly hair, which he takes great pains to straighten and gel down flat. Eggsy thinks about Harry’s stupid red dressing robe, which he trundles about the manor all day in unless or until Merlin comes in and forcibly rips it from him. Eggsy thinks about Harry’s stupid stuffed dog and how every damn time he goes into the loo he gets a new heart attack from fake glistening eyeballs. Eggsy thinks about Harry’s stupid face, the way he can lie without blinking, the way the bags under his eyes only get bigger with each night he stays up, the way he can smile while simultaneously verbally eviscerating someone.

He thinks about Harry, and Harry’s secrets, and he thinks, Nah, Harry, you’re mine now.

“Eggsy?”

“I’ll get down soon, I promise.”

“Well, Roxy’s making roast chicken tonight, so you’re welcome if you want any.”

“Nah, I, uh. I got some stuff to clear up. With Harry.”

“Harry’s welcome too,” the Commissioner says, sounding amused. “Assuming he’s still in one piece, of course.”

“Sure. Thanks, bruv.”

“Good luck.”

Of course, not one second after he hangs up and starts scrolling through his contacts for Harry’s number, his phone rings again. This time it’s Merlin, and the second he picks up, Merlin blurts out, “Where are you?”

“Heading home, why?”

“I need your help.”

The building is half demolished and dusty as all hell when Eggsy finally gets there, crooked glasses perched uneasily on his nose and half a bulletproof suit on. Merlin had given him the basics on how to get to the closest Kingsman supply drop and the codes for a car, but Merlin had been tense and snappish the entire time in a way Eggsy’s never heard.

Now that Eggsy sees the building where Harry is supposedly in, he understands why.

“Bloody hell, ain’t these people ever hear of overkill?”

“The Kingsman is known for being hard to kill,” Merlin mutters tersely. Eggsy has no idea what he’s doing, but the tapping of the keyboard is very loud in his ears. “And Valentine hates the sight of blood so I suppose demolishing the building made sense to him as opposed to having to clean up all the bodies.”

“And how am I getting to Harry again?”

“The Kingsman. Don’t use names here, I had to lower the encryption in order to give you access. And here’s the route.”

A blinking, branching line appears in the glasses, complete with a holographic map. Eggsy whistles. “Now that is sick.”

“Oh, just go.”

Eggsy picks the first staircase that doesn’t seem completely destroyed – perhaps Valentine and the others made their way down by using this one or something – and starts to climb. He has to dodge random bits of crumbling foundation and broken walls, but mostly he keeps watching the little blinking dot labeled “Kingsman” get closer and closer. It’s not moving at all, even if Merlin’s told him that Harry’s heart is still beating, so Eggsy talks to distract himself.

“Hey, Merls. If I join can I get a cool codename too?”

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin grumbles. “And that’s a bit ‘if’, the Kingsman works alone.”

“What’re you then, chopped liver?”

“A necessary evil, according to him.”

“Maybe I can be Excalibur or something. A sword for a king. It’d fit, right?”

“If you can actually convince him, I’ll let you take whatever name you want,” Merlin promises, sounding exasperated. “Now take the second door, I don’t want you tripping into any trap Valentine left behind in the closest exit. Jump, don’t stroll, in case there are any tripwires. If anything blows up, cover your head and try to dodge as much as possible; the suit jacket is bulletproof, but you’ll still get plenty of bruises. And – ”

Whatever else Merlin says is lost to Eggsy, because that’s when he finally catches a glimpse of Harry, crumpled on the floor with a dark pool beneath his head and debris scattered around and on top of him.

He only just manages to choke back Harry’s name, but that’s okay, because Merlin says it instead.

“Oh god, Harry. Get his glasses off, that’s a good lad, lemme get a look at the damage.”

“They shot him in the face, shouldn’t I be more concerned about not disturbing his head?” Eggsy questions, even as he gingerly eases the cracked, blackened glasses away from Harry’s still head.

Except there’s no blood, no hole in head, and definitely no damage akin to a gunshot wound to the head. There’s just intense bruising and cuts from where the edges of his broken glasses cut into his face, and some weird sticky residue clinging to half of Harry’s face, and so Eggsy feels incredibly justified when he mutters, “What the actual hell.”

“Tranquilizer,” Merlin breathes. “Extra dose tranquilizer, except his glasses took the brunt of the blow because Valentine is an awful shot.”

There’s a distant boom and the entire building shakes as more dust falls down upon them. It makes Eggsy eye the supports near them warily, and it also serves as an incredibly useful wake-up call, because Harry comes conscious all at once, gasping and yelling in pain when he tries to get up and finds his legs trapped underneath some chunks of what was once a pillar.

“E – Darling boy,” Harry wheezes, his beautiful eyes so confused. “How – What are you doing here?”

“Trying to stop us from getting blown up, now help me push.”

There’s another distant boom, and this time the effects are more immediate. The floor begins to tilt, debris begins to go sliding down towards them, and this time Eggsy has to shake his head for a bit before the dust finally falls off his glasses. Harry’s not quite so fortunate; he looks more like an elephant that just took a dust bath than a man in a bulletproof bespoke suit.

“There will be one more round of detonations and then you’ll have no more support pillars,” Merlin advises urgently. “So hurry up and get a move on.”

Eggsy strains and pushes at the stone on Harry’s legs, but it resists movement. “Harry,” he pants, because it’s quicker than saying his title. “Harry, help me, come on, Merls says we only got one more wave of detonations before we’re out of time.”

“Then go,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Get out, I have the necessary footage for Commissioner Morton to take action.”

“Like hell I’m leaving you.”

“You’re not dying here with me,” Harry snaps. “Get out, Merlin can get you home safe.”

And, what the hell, Eggsy didn’t want to do this here but apparently Harry is too much of a self-sacrificing sod for him to do anything else, so Eggsy leans forward and seizes Harry’s lapels, dragging him close so that there can be no misunderstanding of any kind. “Harry bloody Hart,” he snarls, “you listen to me. You owe me a lot of things right now, damn it, so sit up and help me get this stupid stone off your legs so we can go save the city and, more importantly, you and I can have a nice long yelling at each other session.”

“We don’t have enough time – ”

“Because you keep wasting it running your mouth! I ain’t watching another member of my family die, you hear me? Now help me push, what was the point of all those stupid exercises in our stupid gym if you can’t even lift one stupid stone?”

He doesn’t know what he says, but something sticks, because Harry’s eyes go all dark and serious and his shoulders tense and he says, “Well, if you insist, my dear boy.”

The stone clatters to the floor, and then Harry is free.

And then they’re making a break for it, Eggsy tugging Harry’s arm over his shoulder to support him and Harry pulling a bloody gun from somewhere and squinting at the dark corners like he thinks someone’s going to pop out and yell “boo” or shoot at them or something. Merlin’s yelling something in his ear, but mostly Eggsy concentrates on the warm, stumbling weight of Harry at his side and the blinking path in his glasses that will lead them to safety and he doesn’t stop moving until they’re at the car and he can open the door and throw Harry in it.

“There,” Eggsy says, “now you definitely owe me a code name.”

Harry blinks at him. He’s dusty and got blood smeared all over his throat and rips all through his clothing and his hair is falling all of his face, but he’s never looked more lovely to Eggsy than now, safe and alive and here.

So Eggsy hugs him, because there’s nothing and no one to stop him, and Harry sets aside his gun and puts his arms around him, and for a moment, all is right with the world.

“My dear Eggsy,” Harry murmurs. “My hero.”

“You’re bloody right I am.”

Harry is, apparently, as much of a fan of efficiency as the Kingsman, the hero vigilante of London, as he is when he’s Harry Hart, richest bloke in London. He arranges for Merlin to discretely drop off the footage containing Valentine’s confession to Scotland Yard at the same time that he goes to Valentine’s labs and starts blowing up all the production machines and SIM cards in sight and by the time Valentine emerges cussing and ranting about saving the world from the Valentine Corporation headquarters, Commissioner Morton greets him with an armed convoy and handcuffs.

Eggsy, who is safely ensconced in a nearby rooftop and watching through Harry’s glasses feed, pouts a little. “I wanted to do a bit more than just watch you blow stuff up,” he whines.

Harry puts a man in a headlock and shoots open a door. “Well, after you’ve had some training, then we can consider you doing more,” he says archly, before he knocks the man out with a cool twist and then storms into the room to check if there’s anyone else hiding inside.

Merlin makes tortured noises. “Absolutely not, one of you being grenade-happy is more than London can handle.”

“I am not grenade happy,” Harry shouts as Eggsy perks up and says, “Grenades?!”

“I take it back, you’re clearly meant for each other,” Merlin moans.

Afterwards, Harry goes the rooftop of the precinct, which is apparently some kind of pre-arranged meeting place because he’s only there for a few minutes before a door opens and Commissioner Morton emerges, looking tired and rumpled but in a dignified sort of way. He greets Harry with a polite “Evening”.

“Did you get my package?” Harry asks, mask firmly in place and voice modulator on.

Commissioner Morton nods. “London thanks you for your service, Kingsman.”

Harry smiles politely, but now that Eggsy’s seen beneath the mask, he can see the edges of true pleasure in Harry’s smile. Harry loves being the Kingsman, he knows, and god help him, but he loves Harry all the more for it. “London is my home too,” Harry notes. “I was just doing my part to help.”

“Well, Valentine did confess,” Commissioner Morton says. “He’s agreed to turn over everything he has, and believe me, this has gotten the attention of a lot of people. He won’t wiggle his way free.”

“I hope so.”

Commissioner Morton smiles then, the sly kind of smile that makes the hair stand up on the back of Eggsy’s neck. He’s always seen the man as kind and sort of bland, a respectable chap that one wouldn’t look twice at, but right now he looks as dangerous as Harry is, a wolf hidden in the sheepskin of a desk-bound police commissioner. He’s the kind of man that Eggsy would not want to piss off. “Let’s just say that I’ve had a call from Mycroft Holmes, and leave it at that.”

And Eggsy has no idea who the bloody buggering hell that person is supposed to be, but Merlin utters a short, sharp, sort of disbelieving laugh in their ears and Harry rolls his eyes, so he guesses it’s mostly good news.

“Ah, yes, this would be the sort of thing to finally bestir that one,” Harry says. “Well, good evening, Commissioner. I must be off.”

Because Harry’s a dramatic prick, he then lightly steps off the rooftop and drops into seemingly thin air, and so Eggsy is the one only who sees the way Commissioner Morton grumbles and rolls his eyes as the sky and says, “Show-off.”

Harry swings up to Eggsy’s perch a few minutes later. He’s not even breathing hard after utilizing his grappling hook, the bastard, but his eyes are bright and his hands are warm when he lays a hand on Eggsy’s knee. Eggsy cuddles closer just because he can, and Harry only hesitates for a moment before his arm comes around him and they can just sit there, watching as London carries on, unflappable and unstoppable as ever.

“I am sorry,” Harry says suddenly.

“I know.”

“No, Eggsy, truly I am.”

“I know, Harry, you’ve only said it seven times now.”

“And I meant it each time. I suppose my only justification was that I thought I was keeping you safe. And I suppose . . . I have gotten used to my secrets.”

Harry says it in such a begrudging tone that Eggsy almost wants to laugh. Instead he just tucks his face into Harry’s shoulder and breathes him in, gunpowder and tea and wool and leather, because Harry is alive and here and he’ll take a begrudging, grumpy, secret-keeping Harry to a dead one any day.

“Darling, you’re shaking,” Harry observes. “Are you sure you’re quite all right?”

“Just cold.”

“It is getting late.”

But he makes no move to get up, so neither does Eggsy. Which turns out to be a good thing, because there’s a soft thump from behind them, and Eggsy cranes his neck around just in time to see some lady dressed in all black raise one elegant eyebrow.

“And I thought my father took them in young,” she murmurs. Eggsy can’t place her accent, but Harry stands in one smooth movement and inclines his head so Eggsy scrambles up.

“It’s not like that. Still. My thanks, Gazelle, for helping with destruction of the SIM cards.”

“Well,” she smirks, “I didn’t do it for you, Galahad.”

Harry goes stiff as a board next to him, like the name is a death sentence. “I resigned that title.”

Gazelle tilts her head. It’s not a mocking motion, more like she’s weighing Harry and finding him more akin to a lost little puppy than a dangerous vigilante. “No one ever leaves the Knights, Harry Hart. You’d do well to remember that.”

“King Arthur released me.”

“And so he did.” Gazelle takes two steps closer, as elegant as the animal her name represents, and this time her smile is mocking. “But my father will not always be the King, and I might decide to call you back into service. It is not a good sign that the Table has one seat empty alongside the greatest of us.”

Harry swallows hard, at that, and Eggsy steps in because who the hell does this lady think she is, threatening Harry?”

“Back off,” Eggsy snaps, and it comes off too loud and echoing in the room, but it makes the lady’s eyes widen in a very satisfying way. “I dunno who the hell you think you are, but these masks do more than conceal our faces, you know. They’re recording every word you say, and I’m pretty damn sure you just threatened murder.”

“I am Gazelle,” the lady replies. “Daughter of King Arthur, Heir to the Round Table. And you are?”

“Excalibur,” Eggsy says, before he can hesitate.

“Well, Excalibur – I would never threaten murder upon my most powerful Knight,” she says. “But Galahad belongs at my side.”

“The Kingsman belongs to London,” Eggsy retorts. “He belongs to all of us.”

Gazelle is quiet for a moment, eyes thoughtful, and then she turns neatly back to Harry. She’s not angry, because every inch of her body is relaxed in a way that says she’s more amused than anything, but it’s not like she’s any less dangerous in her amusement and it makes Eggsy itch to deploy the signet ring Harry gave him. “And is that your final word, Harry Hart?” she asks.

Harry lifts his chin, and there he is, Eggsy’s Harry again, proud and unflinching. “Yes,” he says, “I am the Kingsman now, and Galahad no longer.”

Gazelle nods. “Then so be it.”

From anyone else, it would be a threat. Gazelle says it like someone would say “good-bye” and five seconds after the words leave her mouth, she leaps out the closest window, hair fluttering in the wind, and is gone.

Harry blows out a long breath, shaking out his shoulders like a great weight has left him. “Thank you, Eggsy,” he says sincerely.

“Yes,” Merlin chimes in sarcastically, “thank the boy before you explain that he just mouthed off the greatest assassin in the entire world who will one day be the Queen of the league of the greatest assassins in the world and who also now probably wants to kidnap you and train you up as a Knight.”

“Cheers, Merls,” Eggsy says, “but there ain’t no Knight I wanna train with ‘cept Harry.”

“Don’t call me Merls.”

Harry ignores them both in favor of putting a hand on Eggsy’s cheek, his eyes soft. “Are you sure, Eggsy? This is a dangerous road I walk, and one laden with threats and bruises and death. It’s a thankless road too. It will cost you sleep and blood and years of your life. Are you . . . absolutely sure this is what you want?”

“Bruv,” Eggsy says, “I ain’t never wanted anything more in my life, swear down.”

Eggsy falls asleep on the bullet train, so he misses most of the journey, but Harry shakes him awake when they finally reach the bunker. And whilst Eggsy is sat there staring open-mouthed at the plane and the car and all the computer screens and the enormous arsenal in front of him, Harry smiles and extends a hand and says, “Welcome to Kingsman, Excalibur.”

FINIS