Work Text:
death went dancing
and left the party alone
.,oO8Oo,.
“Oxfords, not brogues.”
A line of code wished to life by desperation, like wind sweeping through an empty street and stirring up the leaves.
It was a call he didn’t know he was waiting for.
When the operator rang, Galahad picked up.
.,oO8Oo,.
It took less than 10 minutes for the right call to be placed, the proper channels gone through. It took less than 10 minutes, but he only gave the word to let Gary Unwin out of interrogation as his car was pulling up to the station.
The boy, once he appeared, was both striking and unremarkable. To the untrained eye, he was very unassuming: stupid, one might guess, a mere boy with no direction or aspiration in life but to get away with the next petty scheme.
But Galahad’s eyes were sharper than most. Gary “Eggsy” Unwin was a patchwork quilt of everything in life that had not defeated him, sewn together with thick, leathery-black string. He saw loyalty, hunger, and a triumph that was waiting to make its grand entrance. He saw a few broken bones and a smile that could charm its way through anything.
.,oO8Oo,.
“Interested?”
“You know I’ve got nothing to lose.”
.,oO8Oo,.
When the idea first occurred him that he could offer Eggsy a chance at becoming a Kingsman, Galahad had already decided that this was an act of penance on his part. This was the gentleman in him attempting to pay proper respects to a long-deceased benefactor by encouraging his son to follow in noble footsteps. This was settlement. This was business.
He thought this throughout the candidates’ training. He thought this as he watched Eggsy and Roxy plummet with frightening speed towards the impeccably manicured lawn. He thought this as he watched Eggsy writhe on the traintracks, thinking he was going to die.
He was doing the boy a favor. This could only be good for him. Whether he became a member of their august order or not, Galahad was confident that Eggsy would be changed irreversibly by this. He would look at the world differently. He would see his own potential.
And if he succeeded? There was a chance, albeit a slim one. Eggsy had none of the training or education that the others did. He was at an unmistakable disadvantaged, clearly demarcated by the staircase of class. If this was an equestrian tournament, the other candidates would have represented the thoroughbreds, the champion prancers; Eggsy was a stallion, plucked straight from the wild terrain.
But who knew? Sometimes it took a dark horse to pull ahead.
.,oO8Oo,.
Pick a puppy, they’d been told.
Shoot the dog, they’d been ordered.
Galahad had observed them both. Roxy had hesitated all of three seconds before resolutely pulling the trigger; she did not so much as flinch when the gun elicited a loud bang as the blank popped.
Galahad had known she would do it.
Just as he knew the moment the gun was handed over in the other room that Eggsy wouldn’t.
Galahad, sitting in the solitude of Merlin’s control room where two large monitors were pulled up to observe both of the final contestants, had watched Eggsy warily take the gun. He watched the boy point it at the pug—J.B.—and watched the barrel quaver. Just once.
When Eggsy had lowered the barrel only to point it at Arthur, Galahad had been both furious and disappointed.
Somewhere, though, in the very back of his meticulously ordered brain, Harry had been relieved.
.,oO8Oo,.
For a Kingsman, there were many occasions to die.
For Galahad, death was like a disingenuous flirt at a crowded cocktail party: she would smile at him from across the room, blow smoke in his face, come up behind him when he was otherwise engaged and tap him on the shoulder before disappearing again.
If he continued to tread carefully, there was a chance he could leave the party quietly and retire in peace.
But he was getting old and getting weary, and he felt like he was stumbling around more than usual. Someday, he was going to unwittingly step on death’s feet and she’d throw her drink in his face. He was just waiting for that misstep.
In that steamy little church in Kentucky, he had glimpsed her dancing in his periphery: right at the edge where the frames of his glasses created a temporary blind spot, lithe and twirling and snickering at him.
The moment he strode out into the sunlight, he knew he’d finally stepped on her shoe.
He could hear her shriek of fury, then her crinkling laughter, like the sound of burning plastic.
Galahad had faced her readily.
.,oO8Oo,.
But Harry Hart had not.
Harry Hart was still standing in his apartment, staring at the young man that continued to defy his expectations. Staring and thinking:—
Why did I pick you?
How am I ever going to put you through this?
He thought about J.B., and the way Eggsy looked at the little pug as if it were a child and not a dog.
He thought about the way he had seen Eggsy discreetly squeeze Roxy’s shoulder and share with her a smile that had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with compassion.
He thought about the suit he would never see Eggsy wear.
And, because he was dying, he thought about some of the things that he might have said to Eggsy.
You are brilliant. You are young, and capable, and you are worth it.
You are worth it.
.,oO8Oo,.
He did not die.
As luck would have it, Valentine was a genius and a bloody horrible shot. The bullet had grazed the side of his skull, but did not penetrate the bone. He lost an impressive amount of blood, got a punk haircut, and spent three weeks in Kingsman’s ICU in a medically-induced coma.
Eggsy sat with him for at least an hour every day. No one would tell him this.
Death dusted off her shoes, flashed him a grin, and continued dancing.
.,oO8Oo,.
As awakenings went, he could now say that being licked into consciousness was not his favorite method of arousal.
The moment he opened his eyes, the little dog saw that its work was done, and it sat back on its hind legs, looking at him patiently.
He regarded it quietly. He then slowly (cautiously) turned his head, attention caught by the quietly snoring body in his periphery.
Eggsy lay sprawled in an uncomfortable-looking metal chair, chin resting on his chest. The top half of him was swallowed in an overly-large (and cozy-looking) dark grey jumper; the lower half of his body, Harry saw with surprise, was swathed in sharply-creased trousers and a pair of sleek black oxfords. Rebellious red socks peeked out at his ankles.
From where he sat on Harry’s lap, J.B. gave a tiny, slightly irritated little bark.
Roused by the sound, Harry watched Eggsy’s snore catch, his muscles shift, his neck straighten. His eyes opened, blue and bleary and new.
He smiled tiredly a smile that didn’t belong to him, a smile that made him look both old and young at the same time. “Oi,” he murmured, sleepy and soft. “s’bout time you woke up.”
And, even though it hurt, Harry laughed. He laughed, and he smiled and shook his head.
Yes. It was about time.