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The air underground is pleasantly cool, it’s always the same temperature here, and the fact is soothing on its own.
Merlin enjoys the idea of his surroundings being reliable, the hum of electricity in the white lamps constant and steady like a pulse. Maybe it’s not the science that got him into technology, but the stability of mathematics. Axioms unfailingly correct, formulae balanced like scales, the ultimate trust with no surprises. Inventions rising from established principles, discoveries blossoming from pages of carefully grown calculations.
But then of course, stability is different for everyone. Like Harry Hart, his suits always neat, shoes always polished, appointments always forgotten, decisions always last minute. Merlin glances at the clipboard again, the last line in the list of candidates daringly blank, then flips it to check his watch. All the spy technology at his disposal, yet, of course, Harry Hart is late.
Merlin presses his back to the grey concrete wall, the cold seeping through his commando sweater and settling between his shoulderblades. In the nearest room quiet young voices introduce themselves to each other, polite and trained, with a hint of competition here and there, and gloss of well-bred superiority all over. To drown them out, he runs through the introduction speech, punctuating and highlighting the important bits in his mind. “Risks.” “Confidentiality.” And, of course, “the most dangerous job interview in the world”, just to make it sound impressive.
Muffled footsteps reach him from the end of the corridor, a click of a lock, and he resist checking his watch as Harry walks in, opening the door like he’s walking into a restaurant.
Finally speaking up, Merlin puts enough cheer into his voice for his colleague to hear it as an accusation. He calls Harry “Galahad”, of course.
“Galahad!”
“My code name,” Harry nods to the new recruit, who’s trying desperately to keep pace two steps behind him.
Merlin checks the watch after all. Checks it pointedly. He’s so overwhelmed by his annoyance with failed schedule, the obvious thing doesn’t even hit him the first few seconds. He even runs the usual line…
“Late again, sir.”
…before casting a glance at the boy. That’s when he pauses, just for a second, before adding “In you go!” and gesturing at the room.
Merlin’s first thought is “not again”. The kid is small (or he looks small next to Harry) but sturdy, all muscle and animal worry, a powerful combination when used well. He sweeps the room with his eyes and then concentrates all attention on Merlin, studying him with a puppy-like head tilt. Stores the information, and proceeds towards the room with a deep inhale of a diver jumping into a pool full of sharks.
The kid is dressed in Adidas.
And something’s telling Merlin that if he spoke up, the kid’s accent wouldn’t suit the Kingsman image either. “Something” not even being the sneakers and the varsity jacket, not even the thuggish sway in his walk, but the fact that Harry Hart chose him.
Merlin’s second thought comes when he begins the speech and finally pays attention to the kid’s face. The thought is delayed somehow, as if his mind resists the possibility, but it only makes the realization clearer and sharper, the edge of it turned to Harry like a weapon. The thought is: “He didn’t tell me.”
His third thought is an exasperated “Of course.”
Once he spots the similarity, it’s impossible to ignore, eerie in its subtle persistence. It’s all in the details. In the set of the kid’s jaw, telling everyone he’s ready to fight. In the proud little lift of his chin. In the confused way he frowns hearing the instructions, like they’re complete nonsense. And Merlin wouldn’t say the kid is wrong to question instructions like these.
“In a moment you’ll each collect a body bag. You will write your name on that bag. You will write the details of your next-of-kin on that bag.”
The boy’s next-of-kin being, of course, his mother. Because his father died 17 years ago.
Sometimes Merlin thinks that he likes the cool air of the underground corridors because hot dry air reminds him of standing there, sweat seeping into his clothes, the sound of explosion ringing in his ears. And Harry’s muffled voice - “You trained him well” - trying to reassure both of them, while the smell, well, not even smell, the reek of burned flesh, fabric and plastic, slowly fills the room.
What Merlin knows for sure, is that since then he really doesn’t like surprises.
He finishes his speech.
***
Merlin finds Harry in one of the lounge rooms upstairs, sitting in one of the symmetrically placed armchairs with a glass of whiskey in his hand, as if posing for a painting. A classic Harry Hart pose, meaning usually that he’s waiting for someone to come in and start a conversation. And oh, Merlin can provide.
He strides across the persian rug, stops abruptly in front of Harry, and says what he says as calm as he can, because a kingsman doesn’t yell. And also because he’s too aware of the cameras overhead. After all, he installed most of them himself.
“Galahad.”
Harry looks up for just a second, reacting mostly to his code name, not Merlin’s tone. Then nods at the other armchair, inviting Merlin to sit down.
Merlin doesn’t move.
Another memory: Lancelot – the late Lancelot - completed his training 17 years ago, when Unwin senior became just a dead body in the middle of the room, and Merlin stood there announcing the news: “Your training is over.” That day Lancelot’s name was James. Today Lancelot demands a new name, like a hungry faceless ghost.
“That family already lost a father, and now you want the son to follow?”
He jabs the air with the clipboard, and Harry recoils a bit, because he’s had years of experience with that particular maneuver. The whiskey glass in his hand stays perfectly still. He looks at the point high up on the wall where the camera is, and gives Merlin a look that, instead of the usual “calm down”, spells something like “calm the fuck down”. After a long pause Merlin walks a few deliberately slow steps and lowers himself into the armchair. It gives a little under his weight with a low quiet creak. The kind of creak made by furniture that’s considerably older than its owners. When Merlin puts his elbow on the armrest, his sleeve catches uncomfortably on the velvet.
Still silent, Harry stands up to fix another drink.
“Is it the guilt?” You carry something for 17 years, it might wear you off, just a bit. Above all things, Merlin feels tired, the kind of feeling that makes you slouch. Makes you run your hand over you face, pinch the bridge of your nose, rub your eyes, because it gives you a chance to keep your eyes closed for a another second. So he does all that. “It can’t be all about class, right? It is the guilt, isn’t? “
Harry’s reply is the clink of ice floating in honey-gold drink and bouncing off the crystal walls of the glass. He holds it up, looking at the play of light.
“Well, we’ll see how much better you sleep at night when both Unwins are in the ground,” it may be an illusion, but Merlin feels that his accent is stronger when he’s angry. Like it’s not alien enough as it is. He sqeezes his eyes shut, annoyed with himself this time, only to open them and see Harry standing right in front of him. Of course, the persian rug must silence his steps, but Merlin is always startled by Harry’s habit of materializing too close to you. He could at least pretend to walk louder, or accidentally squeak his shoe on a polished floorboard.
He hands the glass to Merlin and finally says something.
“Here.”
“You should’ve told me.” The glass is just the right distance before Merlin’s face so it’s not rudely too-close while still leaving him no choice but to take it. Or rather exchange the clipboard for it.
Harry gives a barely noticeable shrug and goes to sit down again, placing the clipboard on the billiard table as he passes it. “I wasn’t sure the boy would show up. It wouldn’t be right to worry you for no reason.” Merlin tsks. It’s been a while since Harry Hart offhand niceties stopped working as an excuse.
“Yeah, right, you just didn’t want it in the database till the last moment, did you?”
Understanding that he won’t get an answer even before he asks the question, Merlin allows himself a sip. The drink is cold when it touches his tongue and warm in his throat. The clock is ticking on the mantelpiece, a massive thing designed mostly to attract the eye, not to tell time. He wonders if Harry is going to say anything of substance at all. He feels like a radio presenter, rambling on without knowing if his words reach the audience.
“Because you know Arthur would never accept someone who…” he waves his hand impatiently because he doesn’t have time or will for a good generalization “someone who talks like him.”
“Well, he accepted someone who talks like you, I thought I’d give it a go.” Corners of Harry’s mouth twitch a bit, suppressing a smile. Merlin wants to say something, but then gulps the words back down, too conscious of his pronunciation now, and too angry at Harry for pointing it out with so much ease. So he just mumbles “Uh-huh” before standing up, slamming the glass down on the table, and sweeping up the clipboard.
“I trained his father. You should’ve told me. This isn’t some kind of your personal quest, Harry. It’s someone’s life.”
It registers with Harry that he didn’t call him Galahad this time. Merlin only notices his own slip because Harry does a surprised little blink.
“And this, by the way,” Merlin points at the glass before walking away, “is from Scotland too. Good enough, apparently.”
“You tr-“
Harry catches up with him just as he’s about to step through the door, fast and quiet as ever, and Merlin jumps a little as he grabs his elbow. It crosses his mind that the cameras don’t cover the doorway.
“You trained him well,” Harry finishes the phrase.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t yours either.” Slowly, he pries Harry’s fingers from his arm.
They stand in the doorway a few moments more, before Harry asks with a strange pleading note “Was I wrong to choose him?”
Merlin shrugs indifferently and makes a face. “We’ll see, I suppose.”
“That’s not funny, Merlin.”
“No, that’s just objective. Your jokes about my accent are not funny.”
“I’m sorry.” Harry tugs on his cuffs, taking time to choose his next words. “What do I do now?”
Merlin eyes Harry’s gleaming cufflinks. Kingsman issue, of course. “I don’t know. Finish your drink?”
“Merlin!”
“Now I train him, that what we do,” he emphasizes the we, “I train him and hope for the best, you... give him your manners talk, and he… waddles along. What’s his name by the way?” Merlin flips the clipboard and clicks the pen, waiting to fill the blank line.
“Eggsy.”
Merlin stares at Harry, but can’t see his eyes as the overhead lights reflect in his glasses.
“Galahad.”
“It’s not my fault he calls himself Eggsy, is it?”
“I’m going to write it down as ‘Eggsy’,” he starts writing slowly, “and I’m going to show this to Arthur, and if he doesn’t oppose…”
“Oh, Jesus bloody Christ,” shiny reflection still dominates the lenses, but Merlin knows Harry’s rolling his eyes, “It’s Gary. Gary Unwin.”
“I got the Unwin part, thank you,” he clicks the pen again and looks up from the paper, “I guess I’ll be on my way to… teaching…” Merlin backs from the doorway and struts slowly down the corridor, “…teaching Eggsy how to… you know…not die. Does he know dog breeds by the way? I’ll get him a yorkshire terrier.”
“Merlin!”
“Oh, and finish that drink for me, will you?”
“The by-the-way-Scottish drink?”
“Uh-huh, consider it a gift. Scotland,” he makes a wide theatrical gesture, “to England. As a sign of peace, friendship, and shared pile of shit you just got me into.”
Harry scoffs and turns around to get the drink when the baritone from the corridor announces triumphantly
“I think, I’ll get him a pug!”
“You will not!”
Lifting the glass Harry thinks he hears a distant chuckle.