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The gravel-and-dirt road around the back of the distillery is quiet, at two in the morning. The halls of HQ still have their wanderers and people who have somewhere to be, as soon as possible, watch where you’re going, and all that.
Out here, the only signs of life are the crickets and the occasional rustle in the trees. Birds, bats, who cares? As long as they stay where they are, it’s fine.
Gravel crunches under Eggsy’s sneakers with each step. The night breeze carries a fruity smell from the trees, although Eggsy can’t see any fruit by the light of the sparse street lamps. It’s a little brighter now that he’s getting close to the next light but the fruit trees must be just out of sight. He walks from the side of the road to its middle to get a better look.
He has too much nervous energy to sleep, so a lazy walk around the property seemed like a good idea, a quarter of an hour ago. It’s less of a good idea, right now, as a car roars up behind him, straight down the middle of the lane.
On instinct, without turning around, Eggsy dives off the road and into the brush nearby. His arms take the brunt of the fall into the shrub, but his head still spins.
The car swerves and brakes with a screech of gravel and a few choices words from the driver.
Eggsy pushes off the ground and turns back to the road, scrambling to his feet. Dust clouds in the headlights of the stopped car, bright beacons compared to the ambient light above. The engine shuts off, leaving only the crickets and Eggsy’s laboured breaths against the silence of the night.
The driver of the black muscle car - does no-one here appreciate blending in? - throws a door open and steps out.
“Whiskey?” Eggsy asks, a hand half-over his eyes to shield them from the headlights.
“Eggsy? God, kid, what the fuck are you doing? I know they don’t teach you much at Kingsman, but I thought you might’ve learnt not to walk in the middle of the fucking road at night,” Whiskey says, one hand on his hip, the other on the open door.
Eggsy shakes his head as his eyes adjust again. “Sorry, my head was somewhere else.”
“It was about to be, if I hit you.” Whiskey looks back to the car, then adjusts his trademark hat. A hat at night is a little odd, but at least he’s chosen to forgo sunglasses. Which is kind of undermined by the choice to wear double denim, again, even though it looks better on him than it has any right to.
Eggsy nods, unsure of what to say. Bye, then, thanks for almost hitting me with your car.
Whiskey speaks up instead. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Eggsy mutters, half-surprised at being asked. He straightens his posture, breathing finally returned to normal after the scare. “I didn’t know you were going on a mission. Where’s the jet?”
Whiskey huffs. “For your information, smartass, I’m going on a vacation.”
“Is that code for getting kicked out?”
“No. I asked for a bit of time off.”
“Why?” Eggsy asks with a frown.
With an annoyed look to the stars, Whiskey shuts the car door to lean against it. “I don’t usually deal with that kinda,” he waves a hand around airily, “doomsday shit. I hit the stupid fuckin’ vial out of your hand and…” He crosses his arms over his chest and kicks the toe of a boot at the gravel. “Getting shot in the head is one hell of a wake-up call.”
Eggsy tries not to wince. He looks away just in case, to see how far the headlights’ beams reach. “So, where to? Somewhere a little less sunny, maybe?”
“McCracken County, about three and a half hours south-west of here. There’s a Statesman-owned safe house on a dozen acres. Bit of a change of scenery from here or New York.”
“London’d be a bit of a change of scenery,” Eggsy says, gaze wandering back to the car. He almost forgot about the skyscraper in NYC.
Whiskey shakes his head. “Choosing new agents ain’t exactly my forte. Ginger’s gonna be proof of that, I’m sure,” he says with a sigh.
Merlin had mentioned that, since Eggsy wasn’t there for any of it. Ginger Ale had put her foot down, this time, asking for field work of any kind. Champ agreed; she’s to take a new agent role after a few weeks of extra training. All existing agents had the power to veto this, but no-one did.
Eggsy shrugs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweats. “I don’t think I’ll be any good at picking recruits, either, to be honest.”
“Galahad Senior is, if his head screwed on right. And Tequila’s going with you; get him and Merlin to pick one each, and you and Lancelot can follow their lead.”
That’s pretty much what Eggsy had been thinking, as well. But he’s not ready. He can’t be. What if, during a mentoring mission, Eggsy’s recruit got hurt or killed? He has a feeling the tenuous grip he has on his composure would crumble.
Eggsy clears his throat. “You really think a vacation is the best thing to do?”
Whiskey tilts his head to the side, considering the question. “Beats the alternative. Going on a mission, getting distracted, fucking up and getting myself or other people killed. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen,” he says. “I think I just kinda know when I need a couple of months off, every few years.”
“How do you know, though? I mean, I’ve only been a Kingsman agent for a year. I don’t really get it,” Eggsy says.
“Honestly? I fucked up, real bad. That’s usually a pretty obvious sign. Otherwise…” Whiskey trails off, dropping his arms to drum his fingers against the car, “I’m just tired of it.”
Eggsy nods. He understands the last part, he thinks. Being tired can be a bone-deep ache rather than a call for sleep. He’s reminded of the guilt and dread that coil his guts into a nervous mess whenever he thinks about Kingsman. Which, of course, is most of the time, especially now that he and Tilde have decided to part ways.
Whiskey sighs. “Stress tends to do it,” he says, eyes narrowed at the younger agent, hands going still by his sides. “Like if something terrible happened and I had to carry out the doomsday protocol, and then save millions of people from a genocidal bitch’s virus. But that’s just me.”
So, maybe Eggsy’s line of questioning hasn’t been so subtle. A vacation sounds like a pipe dream, to him; a few months away from being so out of his depth that he’s sure to drown. It’s only been a year and a bit, with Kingsman, sure. But he helped save the world twice from public genocide schemes, almost lost Roxy and Merlin, saw the rest of Kingsman explode along with his dog and close friend, broke up with his girlfriend over a honey-trap, and found out Harry was alive. And discovered that Kingsman has a related organisation in America that’s their doomsday protocol. It’s a headache just to recall it all, let alone live through the memories that come rushing back.
He’s had no day-to-day life - at least not often - since becoming an agent, and enough shocks to last him a while. And going back to London is diving straight back in.
Whiskey continues to wait for a reply, arms folded once more. He raises an eyebrow in question.
“I think I get it, now,” Eggsy says, not bothering to force a smile.
“Good.” Whiskey pushes off the car and turns to open the door, then pauses. “Something to bring up with the others, huh?” he asks, as if making sure that Eggsy still has some brain function. That he can form a sentence with more than six words.
“Or,” Eggsy begins, without really meaning to, “I could go with you?”
“Huh?” Whiskey asks with a bewildered look.
“I thought because you’ve actually got a place set up and I don’t know if Kingsman has much like that,” Eggsy says, well aware of his accent getting more pronounced in his haste to get words out. “And you’re going now and I’m supposed to be going in a few hours. Y’know, back to London-”
“No offence, but why not go by yourself?”
Eggsy laughs, short and hollow. “And give ’em the chance to tell me no?” he asks. He doesn’t want to say the second reason; that a vacation alone sounds lonely. No Tilde, no dog - he’ll normally never be home to look after it, so the puppy went with the princess - and no friends or family, for fear of putting them in danger. Brandon is proof that it’s a bad idea to be close to Eggsy, even if those were extreme circumstances.
“So long as your heart’s not in it, you’re a liability. They should see that,” Whiskey says. “But if you don’t wanna take that risk…” he waves a hand towards the buildings behind him. “Tell you what, I’ll wait here while you go back to your room, in HQ. Pack a bag or change your mind, you pick. If you’re not back here in fifteen minutes, then I’m leaving without you.”
Eggsy’s sure he’s misheard, for a second, but no. That’s a convoluted way to say yes, but it counts. “Really?” he can’t help but ask.
“Sure. Why not, right?” Whiskey says, then climbs into the car.
Eggsy makes an aborted step down the road, to go the way he came, then reconsiders. It’d be quicker to go amongst the buildings rather than around them all.
Whiskey rolls down the window. “Well?”
“I’ll be right back.” Eggsy weaves around the car and checks the time; two thirty-six. He decides to use up whatever energy he has, and starts off at a jog. Just to be safe.
-
Eggsy gets all the way to his room, past biometric security locks that accept his fingerprints only for one more day, before he really starts to doubt this plan. He throws his Statesman-issued bag on the bed and pauses.
It's been a time for rash thinking, lately. Insisting on Harry going to Italy, lying for him. Breaking up with Tilde because- well, a few reasons. Eggsy has never thought much of marriage; doesn't think that was the problem, the reason for a lack of trust.
Maybe he should stop this while he's ahead. Slow down, go back to London, follow a plan that's surely being formed about how to rebuild. And contribute, what? How to fail the last test? He knows how to be an agent, not to run the organisation or train recruits. Train where, exactly? It'll take months, at least, to rebuild even one usable base for training. They're probably going to spend months waiting around for construction and screening lists of hopefuls to recruit. They don't need Eggsy for that.
He grabs his Kingsman suit, hung up in its own little bag, and puts it in the duffel. He walks over to the dresser to snatch the small assortment of toiletries and his glasses in their case. Drags open the top drawer to grab his wallet and phone. He can call everyone later, when they're up and it's daytime and he's two hundred miles away.
-
Not ten minutes later, Eggsy returns in the same pseudo-pyjamas with the bag over his shoulder and his phone in his pocket. His heart is in his throat as he pops open the trunk and throws in his duffel bag alongside the one already there. His bag doesn't have much in it, but he can buy more clothes once they get to where they’re going.
Whiskey stops his idle drumming against the steering wheel and leans over the low console to open the passenger-side door. The radio is off, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable.
“Thanks,” Eggsy says as he takes a seat, then shuts the door.
The car roars to life with a turn of the key, drowning out the crickets. They take off slow and don’t go faster than around thirty miles an hour, since they’re on a gravel road.
Eggsy leans back in his seat, looking out the window to watch the buildings slowly go by. The tall one with direct access to HQ and the fancy meeting room at the top, the various barns, the gift shop, and finally, the parking lot ahead of them.
“Last chance, kid, and then you’re catching a cab back if you change your mind,” Whiskey says as gravel changes to asphalt. “You’re sure about this?”
Eggsy waits, for a moment. Listens to the rumble of the engine, looks to the buildings that house his colleagues. They’ll understand. He wants to work through this, help rebuild Kingsman as soon as possible, but if that means he could be putting people in danger, then it can wait. He's of no use to them, at the moment.
The car eases to the road leading away, back in first gear as Whiskey waits for an answer.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Eggsy says with a small smile. The stuffy, suffocating feeling he's had for a while isn't gone, but it's ebbing.
Whiskey smiles back, then accelerates and changes gear. “Good. We’ll stop somewhere for breakfast and you can call your friends, okay? Tell ’em where you’re going so they don’t send anyone after you.”
“Like they could catch me,” Eggsy says as they turn the sharp corner from the end of the driveway to the road. He plants a hand on the door so his head won’t smack the glass of the window.
Whiskey chuckles and glances at the passenger. “As fun as a cross-country chase sounds, you look like you could use some sleep, first.”
Eggsy hums in agreement as he winds the window down. He’s not sure what has him nodding off, considering he wasn’t sleepy while he was walking around. The warm hum of the car, or the constant breeze, or even the company, maybe. He keeps his head to the side, watching the stars and the open road, and falls asleep within minutes.