Work Text:
JB makes him aware that something isn’t right.
The dog isn’t the smartest or the most agile and he’d be utmost rubbish to take on a mission but if there’s one thing he’s great at is guarding the house. No one comes even remotely close to the door without the little guy barking to his heart’s content. Which can be really annoying or really helpful.
Tonight, Eggsy isn’t quite sure which.
What is even more confusing, though, is that the short yappy barks are followed by a scratching sound. When Eggsy follows the dog, he finds him all but digging his way through the hardwood floor by the bottom of the door, the curled little tail twitching in equal eagerness.
Eggsy clicks his tongue but this time, the command doesn’t work. He does it again but has to take JB by the collar to draw him away from the door. With his back to the wall, Eggsy reaches into the top drawer of the small end table where he leaves his keys. He withdraws an extendable baton, draws it out to full length and slowly reaches for the door handle.
The baton clatters from his hand to the floor and he is almost knocked off it his feet by a very eager pug rushing to greet his late night visitor.
“Isn’t he supposed to fend me off instead of humping my leg?”
“He’s used to your smell. Probably doesn’t consider you a threat.”
Eggsy is surprised by how steady his voice is. It should be shaking, break even, given the circumstances. Maybe all that training has finally paid off and he can be as tough as nails, too. Even when his supposedly dead former mentor shows up at his doorstep without a warning. Even when he just stands there, suit immaculate as ever, hair done in a fashionable yet practical undercut to work around a garish looking scar along the side of his head. Even when his left eye is covered by a black patch, the flesh around it still raw and puckered.
“Eggsy.”
“Harry.”
It’s saying his name that does Eggsy in. He steps back from the door, his body going rigid. He balls his hands into tight fists, and it’s all he can do to not either beat the man unconscious or throw his arms around him and never let go.
“Nice patch,” he says tonelessly.
“Thank you.”
“Maybe you should decorate it, though. Rhinestones are coming back.” His voice begins to tremble. “Or maybe Merlin can hook you up with, like, a cyborg eye. Turn you right into RoboCop. Not that you’d know who that is.”
“Eggsy…”
“No.” Tears burn in Eggsy’s eyes and he couldn’t care less if they fall or not. “No, Harry.”
What he cares about is that Harry crosses the threshold and closes the door behind him as if he still lives here. Eggsy takes another step back.
“Two years, Harry. You let me believe you were dead for two years. I think I’m entitled to freak out just little bit.”
Harry nods. The bastard nods. Then he takes a step forward and Eggsy raises an arm to keep him out of his personal space. As he unclenches his fist, the tears begin to roll down his cheeks. His resolve evaporates into a sob when Harry takes another step, letting Eggsy’s hand fall against his chest.
Eggsy pulls back is if burned but Harry’s reflexes are faster and he grabs his hand, strong fingers closing over his wrist.
“Forgive me.”
It’s the simplest statement and Eggsy hates him for it. It means even less than what Harry has said to his mother nineteen years ago.
Eggsy shakes his head but he belies his own answer when he lets Harry wrap his arm around his shoulders.
Eggsy doesn’t remember the last time he has been hugged like this. Probably because it has never happened before. He doesn’t even know what the Kingsman policy is on this. It’s certainly frowned upon.
Harry feels solid against him, warm and real. His cologne is still the same, even his shirt and jacket smell as if he has just taken them out of the closet upstairs. Eggsy knows it’s just his brain playing tricks but there is that faint scent of cordite clinging to Harry that makes his insides hurt.
“Please forgive me.”
Harry’s words make Eggsy’s body react on its own volition, make him return the embrace in kind. It’s a lost battle, trying to pretend he doesn’t want this, hasn’t longed for this ever since that video feed broke off two years ago. There’s no more denying how many times he has imagined this, Harry returning to him. He has played and replayed in his mind until it has become too painful to even think about.
And now Harry is back.
Back from the dead.
Slightly damaged, sure, but back.
Flesh and bone and ironing starch.