Work Text:
Is it romantic how all my elegies eulogize me? I'm not cut out for all these cynical clones, these hunters with cell phones
All of his life, Harry Hart had known some form of battle. From the taunting of bullies on his school’s playground, to the self-resentment of his teenage years and then the wars and fights which came with being a Kingsman. It was no surprise to him when another fight, another war to be won, ended up in his hands. And it shouldn’t have been a surprise to him that this would also be the way he would die. But it was surprising.
As he looked down the barrel of Valentine’s gun, Harry couldn’t help regret not kissing his husband just one more time. He hadn’t expected to see someone waiting for him outside of the massacre he had participated in, maybe if he had, he would have one less regret.
Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die. I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you. Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry. I'm setting off, but not without my muse.
Regrets, however, were a fickle thing; once you start to let them in, they begin to flood every thought like water rushing through a broken dam. And no matter how hard you try to fight it; it cannot be fixed before they start to trickle in again.
He longed to kiss Hamish one last time, to reassure him that it would all be okay. The Quartermaster always seemed to worry too much about Harry and never enough about himself. Even with their professionalism, it was moments like these did the two seek each other out, finding comfort in each other.
Harry also longed to go back to the lakes by their countryside home. The two of them retreated there whenever they could spare the time. For a few hours they could leave behind the professionalism of Galahad and Merlin and just be Harry and Hamish. They would bring a large flask of tea to share and enjoy the gentle breeze from across the water. During the summer months, Harry would point out the species of butterflies and Hamish would hum along, half listening. Tome would stand still for them.
He longed for the comfort Hamish brought, he longed for the gentle mornings and the long nights; he longed for his home which he would never see again.
What should be over burrowed under my skin in heart-stopping waves of hurt?
Hamish, or currently Merlin, watched the exchange take place, silently begging for his husband to achieve one last miracle and somehow survive this. He wanted Harry, or Galahad as he should say, to find some stupid and convoluted way to get away from Valentine. He wanted Galahad to come home to him, but miracles weren’t real, and Harry was out of time.
If it was any other agent, Merlin would be prepping for an extraction team to come in for when the agent’s heart stopped beating. He would be preparing for the recruitment process to start over once more. He would be following the protocols he spent hours studying and curating. But it wasn’t any other agent, this was Harry and all he could do was watch as the bullet left the gun and his husband let out one final breath of air.
I want auroras and sad prose; I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet. 'Cause I haven't moved in years, and I want you right here.
The funeral was small. Although Harry had saved and bettered many lives, he didn’t let many people in. It wasn’t in his nature. He had always said that he didn’t want to have anyone else to lose. He did never lose anyone, but as Hamish looked around the half-empty church, he wished that Harry had allowed himself to be loved by others. He deserved to be celebrated by the many, not mourned by the few.
Hamish wasn’t one for second guessing nor regrets, but as he watched the empty coffin as it was lowered into the ground, he allowed himself to imagine what might have happened if he had looked outside the church. Harry would be alive and with him. He would’ve returned home, and they would’ve made dinner before going to bed at an ungodly hour.
And I want you right here while I bathe in cliffside pools with my calamitous love and insurmountable grief.
After the service, Hamish left to go back home. He couldn’t stand to be around people saying how great his husband was, as if it was any consolation. However, as he walked up the path, Hamish kept walking through their overgrown garden towards the lake.
The water was the same murky brown it usually was, the grass was still green, and the flowers were still in bloom. Harry was now a memory, frozen in time, but here, at the lake, time stood still once more.