Chapter Text
21st May 1997
Lee Unwin died. He threw himself onto a grenade right in front of the other three’s faces. James barely knew him – despite training together every day, James had never been interested in getting to know him. They had been training for months together, and yet he knew nothing about him apart from his name and that he had a son. The contest between himself and Lee had been tight. Merlin had been upping his game, even sending the pair out on real assignments with supervisors. Toughest job interview in the world, Merlin had said when they'd first arrived. It seemed like an understatement, the process both far longer and more life-threatening than he'd imagined, but in the end, James was Lancelot. He’d imagined he would feel good about it. In some ways he did, yes. Months of work had paid off. But watching a young man – a young father – die right before his eyes and then almost instantaneously getting the position by default rather put him off.
He felt somewhat guilty for the situation playing out like it did. He drank a toast to the man he barely knew and was welcomed as Lancelot. He went home that night to a Kingsman assigned house, fed his dog and called his mum. When he returned to work the next day, he got to know the staff – the other agents, the tech department, the medics, everyone he could. He didn’t know Lee despite spending every day with him for nearly a year. He wouldn’t let that happen again.
People became his thing. He knew their birthdays, their interests, their pet peeves.
Harry Hart told everyone his favourite film was Goldfinger, while James knew it to in fact be The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Arthur was in one of the Carry On films as an army recruit.
He had Merlin’s mother’s phone number.
Anyone needed advice on birthday gifts, he was the man. He got invited to a lot of parties too, which was a bonus.
It came quite naturally to him. He’d always liked people, always liked knowing things. Always liked parties. It's funny how the skills he worked on to get information about his colleagues and friends ended up making him one of the best interrogators in the world.
*
23rd November 1997
Percival – David – died. James knew him better than he did Lee, but not well enough for his death to hit him particularly hard. It was the first proper toast he ever had at Kingsman – Lee’s being an unofficial farewell – and it felt off. Arthur’s detached speech about his legacy and quick moving on to how they are all expected to nominate a trainee for the position just felt out of place. He noticed different agents having various reactions to David’s death – ranging from blank faced to one agent appearing very close to tears. He found himself wondering what their reactions would be when he hopped the twig.
His suggestion for Percival wasn’t even his suggestion. He'd asked an older agent for advice and the other man said he’d sort it out for him. James was glad, having no idea what to do. He didn’t pay much attention to who he nominated (and he didn't need to, the man being eliminated within the first three weeks). He didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the trainees for a few months either. Not until the final five.
*
25th April 1998
It was the first time James had actually looked at the trainees at all. The final five had been the final five for weeks. Most of the candidates had lost out fairly quickly, but these were holding on firmly. James sat himself next to Merlin in his headquarters, bringing gifts of Chinese food and cake from Christie in IT's birthday upstairs. Merlin welcomed it, sat on the edge of his seat as he watched the candidates on the screen.
The brief was simple enough - a series of rooms, in each a different tool, with the aim to disarm or pass the assailants. Whoever turned out at the end would proceed. Of course, the assailants weren't real, just various members of different departments. James had always found their employment amusing - fight and play dead and you'd get a bonus at the end of the month. Unsharpened swords and unloaded guns wouldn’t actually kill anyone, but they’d still have to drop down. Kingsman had always provided them with shock-absorbing uniform as to minimise any pain. It had always attracted the over-dramatic. James always thought that it would have been his ideal job if he hadn’t become an agent. He rocked the office chair he'd taken up residence in from side to side, watching the task unfold from different cameras.
The first room was simple – a gun. All of them knew how to work through that. Well, all but one, who failed to pay attention to his surroundings and was promptly approached from behind by an ‘assailant’. Merlin voiced his amazement that the candidate had even made it that far, stating that most of his achievements had been pure luck. The screen switched off, leaving four. The feed switched to the next room.
“Really, Merlin, a bow and arrow?” James questioned. “When have you ever used one of those?”
Merlin shrugged. “I’m old fashioned, James.”
Of the remaining four agents, only one appeared to know how to actually fire accurately – James noted that the blond man looked upper class enough to have been training with it his entire life for some strange sport that only very conservative rich people in the countryside played. Two shot the arrows with varying degrees of accuracy, one getting the hang of it fairly quickly but in the end using the bow to hit several people in the face. The last one’s arrows swung off to the side before it had even left the bow and he was promptly floored by an attacker.
“You’ll like the next one, James,” Merlin said.
The next feed revealed two swords, which although blunt, were beautifully shaped, handles intricately carved and blade reflecting the light. “You’re right there.”
None of the candidates did badly with the swords, all proceeding to the next room. However, if there were rewards for performance, the slender trainee with dark hair and glasses would have won by a mile.
He turned his back on the assailants. James had thought that at that point he was out. But the man picked up the swords, one in each hand, testing their weight. He looked straight ahead, apparently listening to the attackers approaching. Then, abruptly, he back flipped, swords hitting the first pair of men in the head and the second pair under their feet. He landed with a skid and stood up, twisting himself round and knocking out three more of his opponents. It was impressive, and James was pretty sure he was showing off.
“You’d never know he was a gymnast,” Merlin murmured.
James watched closely. He was amazed. And a little aroused. “Who is he?”
“Alastair Jones. Ector’s suggestion. Cambridge graduate, trained to be a gymnast in secondary school. Was pegged as Olympic team material before a car crash and losing his leg. Arthur was therefore not expecting highly of him, old-fashioned bastard,” Merlin stated. “I can see the look on your face, James," he said, eyes never leaving the screen. "It’s never gonna happen.”
James frowned. “Why?”
“He’s uptight. Too stoic. The type to think that colleagues should remain acquaintances.”
“You can remain acquaintances after fucking,” James said. “I like a challenge.”
“Of course you do,” Merlin sighed. “I’ve put my money on him.”
“You bet on the candidates?”
Merlin glanced at him. “Of course I do. Most of us do. It’s surprisingly dull around here most of the time.”
“Did you bet on me?” James asked.
Merlin’s gaze returned to the screen. “Oh, look, he’s cleared the room.”
The next room – the last – had no weaponry in it. As soon as the door opened, the aggressors launched themselves at the trainees, giving them no time to assess their surroundings. James made an assessment of their fighting styles.
The other dark haired one. Erratic and unpredictable, which put him ahead of his opponent, but messy, blows rarely falling in the right place. James had seen bettwe tactics at a rave. He gave a valiant fight, but alas was floored by his attackers.
The blond one. Calculated and strong, but more predictable. His strikes however were well timed enough to allow him to clear the room fairly quickly and his ability to manoeuvre around the assailants allowed his movement to the other end of the room to be swift and simple. It reminded James of his own methods.
Jones. Alastair. Again calculated, but relied more on placing in the right area of the target than on brute strength. Once more his movements were graceful yet powerful, his stances well-balanced. He took them all out with ease. James was beginning to like him more and more.
“Right, that’s three gone,” Merlin said as he rose from his seat, switching the remaining feeds off. “Better go tell the other two to shoot their dogs.”
*
26th April 1998
Alastair got the position. James knew he would. Any man who could move like that was too good to miss out on.
There was a party. There was always a party whenever a new agent was hired, simply because other employees enjoyed a good drink and get together. Most of the Kingsman agents didn’t even go, it was just the other employees. Merlin came to keep an eye on things (and for the free booze), occasionally bringing Harry if the other man was around. James had been quite surprised that Harry Hart actually rather enjoyed parties, despite pretending he didn’t. James was the only other agent who did go most of the time. Any excuse for a party on Kingsman’s human resources budget (every year a select few would argue to the higher ups that those sorts of things were important for the emotional well-being of the staff and for team-building). It rarely depended on what the new agent wanted. If it had, this one certainly wouldn’t have taken place. It was not, everyone knew even without meeting him, Alastair’s scene. He loitered at the edge of the room, drink in hand, looking perfectly comfortable with his own company. James wanted to change that.
As he sauntered over to the other man, he could see the look on Alastair’s face switch to that of a vague apprehension and anticipation of annoyance. James forced back a smirk, instead smiling amicably.
“Congratulations, Percival,” he said.
Alastair watched him warily. “Thank you. Lancelot.”
“Please, Lancelot is only for missions, not every day work. Nor parties. My name’s James.”
“I think I prefer Lancelot,” Alastair replied.
James raised an eyebrow. “And do you prefer Percival or Alastair?”
“Percival,” Alastair said firmly.
“What about Ally?”
Alastair looked at him with something akin to disgust. “Absolutely not.”
“Al?”
“No.”
James smiled. “Whatever you say, Al.”
Percival clenched his jaw. “How would you feel if I called you Jimbo?”
“I think I’d quite enjoy it, Al.”
Percival let out an exasperated sigh, before looking at his wrist (absent of a watch). “Oh, would you look at the time. Lovely talking to you Lancelot, but I’m off now.”
James pulled a disappointed face. “Leaving your own party early?”
Alastair smiled briefly as he walked away. “Come on, it’s only on for free drink.”
James grinned. “See you around, Al!”
Alastair didn’t reply, back already turned.
“Thought you were going to flirt with him, not scare him away,” Merlin appeared behind him.
“I’m loosening him up,” James replied. “He likes me.”
Merlin simply blinked at him. “Did you just have the same conversation as I just watched? Because he certainly didn’t like you.”
“Give him time, Merlin. Give him time.”