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They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. Eggsy had always thought that was a load of shit, and whaddya know? It was. Because right now Eggsy was dying and he wasn't revisiting the past 20 years on a pissing show-reel in his head.
Fuck. Fuck!
His fingers twitched but he couldn't feel them. Hadn't been able to for a while now. Fucking prick had stuck him with whatever was in that needle; snuck behind him, used his blind spot, took him down. Disorientated in 10 seconds and completely paralysed in 60; then the henchmen had whaled on him. Numbness set in an hour later.
Fucking fuck!
Black-framed glasses sat neatly two meters away by the door, watching him. He was so fucking stupid. What made him think he could do this fucking job? He wasn't no spy, he wasn't cut out to be a gentleman. He was a fuck up; shoulda just gone back home and stayed there, told Dean to fuck off with his fists instead of his mouth. Bet they were watching him now, shaking their heads, thinking “why the fuck did we pick him?” Nah. They’d have stopped watching hours ago. Now they’ll just wait and pick his body up in the morning, stuff him in that bag they made him write on and deliver it to his mum with a pat on the arm and a bullshit apology.
Harry. Shit. Harry wouldn't have done that. Harry was good to him. But Harry was fucking dead. Harry got himself shot in the head by Valentine and he weren't ever coming back. Wanted to make him proud, how fucking stupid was that? Fucked up when he couldn't shoot JB, fucked up when he didn't see that needle, fucked up when he fucked the mission. Harry was dead. Harry would be fucking disappointed.
It was weird. He could hear his own breathing. He sounded like one of them zombies on that show Dean was mad on. The one his mum hated. Sounded like his throat was full of razors. Wheezing, groaning. His mouth felt slick, didn't know if it was spit or blood. Didn't know if he should care. His mum hated that show. Wouldn't tell Dean though, knew the dickhead would smack her one. Asked her once why she picked him. Told him that she made the best of a bad situation. Bollocks. But he loves her. He loves her and Daisy.
He loved Harry.
Fuck. Vision was blurring. He stared at his Kingsman glasses, unfocusing, refocusing. Maybe they’d find him. Prick disabled the locator. Could be anywhere. Should’ve gone home. Getting darker. Couldn’t keep his eyes open, fighting it. Fighting it. Fuck knows why, got nothing left now.
Galahad. Galahad. Eggsy!
Harry.
And whaddya know? Wasn’t a load of shit after all.