You wake up to his touch, and your first thought is- as it should be. His hands are on your face, gentle fingers stroking the back of your neck while he dabs a washcloth against your cheeks.
At first, it's pleasant. But then you realize you have no idea what he's doing, and why. You watch his face closely, focusing on those green eyes, which in turn are focused anywhere but at yours. His face is set deep in concentration, as if he's undertaking a particularly difficult technological challenge. The cool dampness of the washcloth is relaxing, even soothing to an extent, but it makes your brow furrow even more. Why is he washing your face? You can do that on your own, thank you very much.
Once he's finished, he quickly presses a soft kiss to your forehead, the type you love, and immediately it leaves you craving more. He starts to pull away, but you reach out to grab him by the wrist and guide him back towards you. You're still a bit too confused to give him a proper smile, but you hope he can read the softening of your face. Gently you pull him in, closing your eyes as your mouths meet. He's unresisting, even warm to the touch.
But no sooner have you closed your eyes that images suddenly flash across your eyelids- Gun. Bullets. Bodies. Blood. You jerk back, roughly breaking the kiss, your hand flying to your cheek. Blood… Blood… At first you feel nothing but fresh, clean skin, but then your fingers reach higher and you touch a fissure. Scar tissue.
You freeze. And it occurs to you why he must have been washing you.
"Merlin…? Is- is there still blood on me?"
"Merlin? A little help here?"
Eggsy- Galahad- sounds anxious, and he has a good right to be- it's only a matter of time before the door he's barricaded gets broken down by his pursuers who are after the information he's just filched. While Roxy- Lancelot- waits in front of the door, gun poised, Galahad is trying to consider his escape options. He needs Merlin for that, which means all of Merlin's faculties should be focused solely on the mission.
But Merlin, in that second, has become preoccupied. He's blinking at the small box in the corner of the screen, the feed transmitting from his boyfriend's flat. For an hour now it's been showing the same view of the lush bedroom walls, over and over. That can only mean two things. Either the glasses are broken- which Merlin highly doubts they are, because he helped remodify them and he knows exactly how long they're supposed to last- or, more likely, Harry's not wearing them anymore.
Which could have disastrous consequences.
"MERLIN! You listening?!" Galahad's voice pulls Merlin straight back to work, and he immediately begins scoping out the room, the floor above, the windows- anything that would make for a quick and discreet exit. "Yes, Galahad, I'm right with you…" He manages to do his job in guiding the agents out of the building without causing a scene, but all the while his heart is pounding as if he's the one in the field. It isn't until they're safely inside the getaway car- luckily, no one takes chase this time- that he realizes the reaction has nothing to do with the mission he's just helped Galahad and Lancelot complete. He catches himself glancing at the corner of the screen again, and gives a frustrated sigh. He's simply worried about Harry, that's it. The hell is that bastard up to…
Instead of finishing off his cup of coffee, Merlin finds a sink to dump it into. Probably should have done that years ago. Caffeine always used to be an invigorating wake-up call, but recently it's been aggravating the very anxiety that keeps Merlin out of field work. He's never felt this bad when observing the screens before. Returning to his seat, with the mission now complete, Merlin brings up Harry's glasses' feed and lets it fill the entire screen. A frown tickles his mouth. Still the same static image, except the lighting has changed so he knows that time has passed. That proves that the glasses aren't broken after all- Harry just doesn't have them on his face.
Maybe he's in the same room? Hopefully Merlin speaks low into his microphone, transmitting to Harry's home. "Harry, are you there?"
Nothing but silence greets him, which ratchets up the anxiety more than the coffee did. Merlin knows it's acceptable to leave to go check on Harry, but he finds himself reluctant to do so. At least wait until Lancelot and Galahad are back.
It seems like ages before the two agents step through his door, during which time Merlin sits back, obsessively watching the screen and counting his breaths. Every now and then he expects, or rather hopes, Harry to walk into the bedroom, pick up his glasses, and call to ask Merlin what's going on. But the image remains still, doing nothing to alleviate Merlin's personal fears. When Lancelot and Galahad make their safe return, playfully bickering with each other about their skills on the mission, immense relief comes over Merlin. Almost as immense as when he found Harry alive in Kentucky. Now he can gracefully bow out.
"Good work, you two." After a cursory inspection of the two's tech, and a few mild grumbles when he notices bullet holes in Galahad's umbrella, he instructs them to wait a moment before delivering their report to Kay- Arthur now. He steps out to contact his superior, knowing that a few words are all that's needed to explain why he's leaving so soon in the day. And then, onwards to Harry.
You wake to the sound of sobbing, and it takes you a moment to realize it's coming from you. Once you do, you are nervous. What could have upset you so? Why don't you remember what upset you? You try your best to stop, but you can't suppress it.
Where are you? One hand is folded around white ceramic, the other hiding your face. Through tear-stained eyes, you realize you're sitting at the edge of a bathtub. Not just any bathtub- your bathtub. Your bathroom, back at home in England where you belong. Not on a mission overseas. Not in Kentucky-
KENTUCKY. The word hits you like a brick, and suddenly images come flooding back. Gun. Bullets. Bodies. Blood… Your breath hitches in your throat as you hold your hands out in front of you, turning them over and rubbing your palms. There was blood on your hands. You remember seeing it there. There was blood on your face, your hands, because of Valentine's experiment, because of the fight, because-
VALENTINE.
He violated you. He made you kill so many innocent people, with no remorse and no feeling but joy. He made you hunger for it. He caused the blood on your hands…
And then what? And then- what?
And then he shot you.
You discover quite suddenly that you can't breathe, like you've been punched hard in the stomach. Like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room. You double over, gasping and clutching your chest, racking your brain for something, anything, any small tidbit of information that will help you out. But there's nothing.
He shot you. And you woke up in your bathroom.
It now makes sense why you're upset.
You remember what anxiety looks like. Being with you mellowed him out quite a bit, but it was still an unavoidable part of his life. You remember he used to breathe in a certain way, and you'd hold him and count with him, whispering each number in his ear. But for the life of you, you can't recall what the pattern was. Nothing is coming to mind, nothing that can help you at all.
If you could just- get up off the fucking floor-
And then the door opens, and he arrives, exactly the person you were thinking of. You don't know what he's doing here, and frankly, you really couldn't care less at the moment. All that matters is someone's here, someone who knows, someone who might understand…
"M-Merlin…" You want to greet him properly, you really do. You want to stand and kiss his cheek and say his name in a voice that doesn't shake. But you can't seem to manage even the first step. He looks overwhelmed, but not really surprised to find you in this state. Has he seen you like this before?
You can't remember.
At that, the panic starts up again, and you have to clench your teeth and sink your fingernails into your knees to keep from spiraling into the black abyss of fear that keeps threatening to pull you in. Your voice is hardly coherent, but you force the words out anyway. "S-sorry, love, I… I don't know what's happening. I-I'll be f-fine…"
You won't be fine. You have no idea how long you haven't been fine. But no matter how badly you want him to be here and hold your hand, you also can't bear the thought of burdening him with this. You've never lost control like this before, not even on your own. He doesn't deserve to see this, and you don't deserve to hurt him.
He stands over you and sighs through his nose, looking conflicted. It's the closest way you can describe the strong pool of emotions flashing in his eyes. "No. No apologies." It comes out as a hushed murmur, and you're surprised he didn't snap at you. Then again, you already feel wretched enough without him adding onto it. "Harry, you're not-" Mid-sentence he changes topics, and his query is enough to keep you from wondering what he was about to say. "Is there anything I can do?"
At first you have half a mind say no, get out of here, you shouldn't have to deal- But you're shaking and your chest is aching and damn it, there's no reason why you should have to suffer alone. You try to motion to him, but your hands are trembling too much and you have to clench them together to steady them. "No, just- just your presence…"
He comes, like he always does, gliding to the toilet and sitting down on it. He reaches to take your hand in his, and you end up squeezing his so hard you're probably cutting off his blood circulation. If it hurts, he says nothing. Gripping your hands, palms slick with sweat, he murmurs, "Can you breathe with me? I'll count. One, two, three, four…"
You make an effort, because this is familiar, you've seen him do this before and you know it helps. Inhale on four, hold on seven, exhale on eight. As he leads you into the pattern, you wonder why you couldn't recall it a moment ago. But that thought starts to open up the abyss again, so you frantically push it away and concentrate only on breathing.
After a few long moments of this- it could have been an hour, could have only been a few minutes, who's counting?- your breathing grows less shallow and less rapid. Your body's shaking eases off into short-lived tremors, and your tense grip on his hands relaxes. Finally, the tears subside, leaving you overwhelmed with relief. You feel much more like yourself, even if you still aren't sure what you're doing here and not back in Kentucky. Maybe you've just come out of another coma- it would make sense after being shot. Would also account for the confusion. But whatever happened, you're alive, and that's what counts, right?
"Thank you, Merlin," you breathe as soon as you can, and he slowly releases your hands. "I'm terribly sorry you had to see me in such a condition." You only wish you knew what caused that condition- but you hold back from wondering, for fear it might start it all up again.
"I'm sorry you had to be in such a condition," he replies, so quietly you're almost unsure he even intended to say it aloud. "I trust you're feeling better now?"
"Yes," you say, and start to rise just as he does the same. Casually he places his hands on your shoulders and pushes you back down, and you frown a bit at this. The frown deepens when he goes to the bathroom closet and takes out a washcloth, though you disguise it with a weak chuckle. "Oh, come on now Merlin, you don't have to baby me."
Though he says nothing, and remains as unflappable as ever on the outside, you see his gaze shift away from you, and you guess that he's trying not to say what's on his mind. You've known him for so long that every subtle facial expression is easily read. When he comes out and says "Oh shut your mouth, I'm only trying to help," you recognize that he's distracting you, and whatever's in his mind is much more potent than what he's saying.
"And I appreciate that," you reply warmly, but inside you're trying to figure out what he was going to say. Is there some secret he's trying to keep from you? The sound of running water, though, shatters all your concentration.
You wake up to his touch, and your first thought is- as it should be.
Those damn glasses, Merlin thinks as the shuttle comes to collect him and take him back into the city. Should have them glued to his fucking face. He's sure not even that would stop Harry from losing them. But while losing a pair might have been a minor inconvenience before, it's like losing a credit card now. No, even more than that- it's like losing an ID card, one that identifies you not only to others, but to yourself. God knows Harry needs that now.
Arthur had been understanding when Merlin explained he had to briefly leave work. The mission with Galahad and Lancelot had been his most important job of the day, after all, and they had managed to cut their expected time in half. Easy in, easy out- those two are a dream team. Still, Merlin can't help but feel a twinge of unease. This is the third time in two weeks he's left work to check on Harry, which might not sound like a lot, but it feels like a lot to Merlin. Once was just a false alarm, which he couldn't help but feel ashamed about. But with Harry's current condition Merlin can't afford to take any chances.
He only wonders, as he takes his seat and the shuttle hurtles off, how much longer this can keep going on. Though the rest of Kingsman fully understand the situation, Merlin knows better than anyone that patience isn't eternal. And besides, he needs to be able to work without any distractions. Just look at what happened today with Galahad and Lancelot- if Galahad hadn't broken his concentration, they might have ended up in trouble. The whole mission could have been jeopardized thanks to Merlin's wandering eye.
The easiest solution, in Merlin's opinion, would be to bring Harry to work with him. That way neither of them would ever have to go home. Harry's condition does not require him to be bedridden or locked away, and Merlin will personally take offense towards anyone who implies it to be otherwise. But the doctors had said Harry's condition required a constantly-familiar environment, so Merlin had to grudgingly acquiesce. Kingsman HQ is a large place, after all, and if he knows Harry Hart it's going to be hard to keep him confined to one room, even with the frequent resets. He just wishes sometimes that he didn't have to look after the Kingsman field agents as well as Harry, that work didn't call him away at all hours. Being both caretaker and controller is a difficult position to hold.
Retirement is another possible option. That or getting fired, but Merlin would rather part with Kingsman on good terms. But he's not sure who would fill his shoes at the control center. In fact he's not even really sure how he's supposed to nominate a successor. He doesn't have any relatives who are interested in technology, so the method that brought him into Kingsman is out. And something feels… off about running a training program. He could talk to the new Arthur about it, but that's not a subject he wants to broach for a while. Not until it gets worse, at least.
One thing's for sure- Merlin is NOT going to relinquish Harry to the hands of any other caretaker. The workload had been exactly what Kingsman protested when Merlin first made his proposal. They wanted him available at all times, and Merlin had to admit it did pose a problem. But he fought for it, and finally got what he wanted, because he knew no one else could do the job as he could. No other face was as familiar to Harry as his was. He had to be the one, the only one.
The shuttle lets Merlin off at the tailor shop. Mechanically he takes the elevator up, his thoughts focused on nothing but the route to Harry's flat. It's a route he's taken so many times that he could walk there if it wasn't too far. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling and wonders which would be better- a false alarm, since Harry wouldn't be in trouble, or a real problem, since it would keep him away from his work.
You wake up to your own reflection. Except it's not your reflection, it can't be. You recognize the sleeping attire you're clothed in, and the height and build of your body, but the face- or one side of it, anyway- is all wrong. Almost grotesque.
The right side of your face is, well, right as always, except perhaps for the fact that you've got more stubble than you'd like to have. One charming arch of an eyebrow above an immaculate brown iris. The handsome slanting nose. The full mouth, though it's not curved into its usual smile because of the confusion you're currently experiencing.
One side is your natural look- one side is Harry Hart. But the left side is where things get confusing. The nose and mouth are all right, but there's a massive scar working its way from your temple to just below the left eye. You know that your eye is functioning, obviously, because you can see your reflection just fine. But the scar mars any beauty it could have.
What in the world-? You reach up to prod the scar, trying to judge how long ago it was formed, or perhaps what kind of weapon could have created it. Pain rushes immediately to meet your fingertips, but it's the kind of pain that accompanies an old, healing injury, not a fresh one. Your first instinct is to assume that you've been shot. But that's a ridiculous assumption, if you'd been shot you certainly wouldn't be standing around in your bathroom like any other morning-
Wait.
What morning is it?
Your face holds no answer, but your eyes are getting wider.
Think, think. When was the last time you checked the date? What's the last thing you remember?
Your fingers trace the scar- and suddenly it hits.
Gun. Bullets. Bodies. Blood.
Gun! A picture forms in your head as clear as day. The gun had gone off in your hand, blowing the bigoted church woman's head off. But that hadn't been you, you didn't want to do that, you never would have done that… Everyone in that church was packing heat, and if they weren't, they were at least armed in some way. Gunshots sound in your ears, bullets embedding themselves in their warm targets.
Bullets! When you ran dry, you snagged another and another, firing at random, purposeless, wanting nothing but death, death and blood… Plenty were fired at you, but they bounced from your suit, and whoever saw that probably thought you were Satan's child as their church had taught them to fear. The only one that didn't bounce came from a certain gun… Valentine's gun. He'd aimed straight for the head, and you fell, and for a time you were gone. You know you were gone.
So why aren't you gone now?
Bodies. So many bodies littering the church, so many dead and broken and bleeding. All gruesome horrors transmitted back to HQ. Too many to count. Men, women, teenagers… were there any children? You don't remember seeing any children. You hope there weren't any.
And of course… there had been blood. You've never seen any casualty, especially on this scale, that didn't involve at least a bit of it. This time it's all over the floor, its distinctive pungent scent hanging in the air like burning incense. It's on your face, staining your right cheek like a lipstick kiss. And your hands are covered in it.
You come back to yourself to find that your hands are clean. Your face is clean. Your clothes seem clean enough. There's no hint of blood to be found- so why can you still smell it? Who cleaned up the mess you left behind?
How did you get here?
That last question stops you dead in your mental tracks. How did you get here? When did you get here? How long has it been since Valentine shot you? Why aren't you bleeding out, left for dead on the doorstep of that Kentucky church?
Why aren't you atoning for your sins?
You take a step back, because suddenly you can't stand to see your reflection anymore, that horrible blemish that cuts across your temple. Desperately you try to remember what you came in here for; nothing's springing to mind. It isn't until you've collapsed, almost by accident, onto the cold edge of your bathtub that you realize you're breathing much too fast. You try to calm yourself, but the images swallow you up- Gun. Bullets. Bodies. Blood.
Your physical body is shaking, but in your mind all you can feel is the blinding pain shooting through your head, and the unforgiving ground beneath you as you meet what should be your final resting-place. By the time the tears start, you're lost, pulled under by a wave of blood with a scent so strong it makes you feel sick.
You wake to the sound of sobbing, and it takes a moment to realize that it's coming from you.
"Thank you," Merlin murmurs as he hops out of the cab that took him to Harry's flat. He's so distracted that he thinks he might have screwed up the tip, but if the driver notices he doesn't swerve back and demand the rest of what Merlin owes. Thank goodness for small miracles.
It's strange to remember how it was before, when Merlin had to actually wait at the doorstep for Harry to let him in whenever he came over. It's taken him twenty-two years, but now he can finally let himself in. He supposes he should have gotten Harry's keys much earlier in the relationship, but Harry's always been rather particular about security, even among those he feels closest to. Thankfully, due to Harry's condition, Kingsman would have foisted the keys on Merlin whether he wanted them or not, it just so happened that he did want them.
On the doorstep, Merlin has to suffer through the unbearable security procedure before entering. He knows he really shouldn't complain, because this is his own tech and it's saved lives in the past, but today, when he most desperately needs to get inside, it's absolutely tedious. First approach the peephole and stand there for at least five seconds, long enough for the tiny hidden camera to take a picture of his face. Then wait a few more seconds before the green light flashes through the peephole, letting Merlin know he's been recognized in the security database. If he's not recognized, the doormat beneath his feet (which Harry seems to have chosen to be as tacky as possible) will deliver a nasty shock. It's not as easy as just unlocking the door after that, however. Bending down, Merlin reaches the microphone concealed within the doorknob and quietly identifies himself with his voice. He speaks his birth name into the mic, because referring to himself by his codename could result in the doorknob shocking him. Finally, he gets to insert the key. If anyone tries to do that without first following the previous two steps, surprise surprise- they too will be shocked. Nothing lethal, just enough to knock them out and ensure that they'll never try to break in again.
Almost as soon as Merlin walks in, he calls out Harry's name, satisfied that his voice is steady and stable enough. "Harry? I'm back, love." He catches himself before he lets the word "home" slip out in place of "back." Because this isn't exactly a home. Merlin will freely admit that he's more content to live behind computer screens and glass than he is to move about Harry's flat, no matter how much time he has spent here. Surely it's enough that the rest of Kingsman have caught on about their partnership, if they hadn't already known.
Well, let them talk, is Merlin's current opinion. At least their new Arthur is more accepting about such things than the last one, so he's not going to dissuade any stories. Only those that besmirch Harry's name.
Unbuttoning and shrugging off his coat, Merlin moves further into the flat, again calling for Harry. He checks his glasses feed- Harry's are still transmitting bedroom wallpaper. There doesn't appear to be any motion and sound on the first floor, though, so Merlin ascends the stairs. With every step, the words run like an undercurrent in his mind- Let him be safe, let him be safe, let him be safe…
You wake to a shot ringing in your ears, to hands around your throat and sweat dripping down the back of your neck, and in your mind blares the constant litany- Gun! Bullets! Bodies! Blood! You sit up, thoroughly startled, unable to erase Valentine's smirking face from your mind or block out his smug statement- "Well, this ain't that kind of movie." You can feel the Western heat crawling up your skin as you hang in place, waiting for the inevitable.
But you're here now. You've awoken in your bedroom at home without a scratch on you, seemingly transported as if by magic. The blinds are drawn and the sheets are tucked in, just like every morning. No sign of Valentine or dead bodies anywhere. So what happened?
Dear God, was it all just- a dream?
Unable to find answers in your own mind, you turn to your side to find someone who can possibly provide them. He's reclined, but awake, extending one hand to shut off the alarm clock. "Sorry, Harry," he says blearily, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. "I'm sorry I woke you, I know you don't…" He trails off, as if he's started to say more than you're allowed to know.
"Merlin?" You reach for him, loosely taking his hand, as natural as breathing. Befuddlement must be showing on your face, but he doesn't immediately react. "What's going on? What am I doing back here?"
"It's all right, Harry," he says, sounding oddly like he's trying to soothe you. "Here, take these-" He twists back to reach the bedside table and snags a pair of glasses. Your glasses- his are already on. Still confused, you humor him when he offers them to you, slipping them on with a small smile. Then that smile fades quickly with the information your glasses show you.
Words are scrawling superimposed over your field of vision, words written in a distinctive hand that you'd recognize anywhere as your own. Hello, Harry. I'm writing to you as a ghost from your past. The name's Harry Hart. I'm sure you've heard of me.
The date I am writing you from is 4/21/15. It has been two months since the day Richmond Valentine unleashed a hate plague across the entire globe. (Unfortunately I can't say how long it's been by the time you're reading this.) That was also the day you- we- were shot in the head. It didn't kill you, obviously, but it did put you in a coma for a month. Merlin found and recovered your unconscious body in Kentucky, and brought you back to Kingsman HQ.
I suppose I should start with the good news first, to keep you from worrying. The V-Day Massacre was indeed set in effect, but it was quickly stopped by your associates at Kingsman, namely Merlin, the new Lancelot, and your own candidate, Eggsy Unwin. He was the one who uncovered Valentine's plot and brought it to Kingsman's attention. He also personally infiltrated Valentine's base through the use of Arthur's name. (It turns out Arthur was compromised by Valentine. He ended up on the receiving end of a murder attempt meant for Eggsy. To that I say, good riddance. Kay has now taken over Arthur's title- a man much more deserving of it). Singlehandedly Eggsy killed Valentine before the world's population could suffer a terrible blow. There were plenty harmed, of course, but the world is healing now. Every day it gets closer to achieving a perfect whole again.
Eggsy forgives you for the argument you had, just before you left for Kentucky. He understands where you were coming from and holds nothing against you. He also knows you feel the same way. Through his actions on V-Day, Eggsy's more than proven himself worthy of becoming a Kingsman agent.
And herein lies the bad news. The name Eggsy has taken on is that of Galahad. No matter when you read this, you will never be fit to return to work at Kingsman. You've had to retire after being shot in Kentucky. The bullet damaged the part of your brain responsible for making memories, which means you now suffer from a form of amnesia. If you're wondering why the last thing you can remember is that dreadful, stifling church in Kentucky, well, here's your reason why. Try to retain anything for longer than fifteen minutes, and you'll reset as if the past fifteen minutes never happened.
This may sound like a dire situation, but I assure you there are perks. Your dear Merlin has moved in with you to provide help and support in your condition. He'll be there for you as often he can. It's also a hell of an excuse for not showing up on time for anything. Wins you some sympathy, too, if you're into that.
Whatever happens, I urge you not to despair. You don't have to let your condition define you. You're still Harry Hart, and there is still plenty of enjoyment to be had from this world. In a way, your condition has provided you with the means to forever discover life's beauty. If you're going to change every fifteen minutes, make the most of it while you still can.
Your friend, yourself,
Harry Hart
The words draw to a close and a message flashes before your eyes- BLINK TO DISPEL MESSAGE. You blink (because what else can you do, anyway?) and the words fade, leaving your vision clear and your mind to digest what you've just read. It doesn't take long before you turn to him. He's out of bed now, sorting through clothing in the closet, and you admire the muscles in his bare back for a moment before calling him. "Merlin?"
He comes like he always does, turning back in one fluid motion. "Yes?"
Smoothly you motion him to your side, and he follows obediently, a small crease between his eyes betraying the early-morning calm. You suspect he's trying to figure you out, even though he must go through this with you every morning. What will your reaction be today?
Well, there's only one way for him to find out. As soon as he's close enough, you reach out and drag him down to your level, crushing him in a tight but comfortable hug.
"I may have lost my memory," you whisper in his ear, "but I've still got you, right?"
There's a pause. You can't read his expression, because his chin is resting on your shoulder. But you feel his chest expand as he draws in a breath, and then answers, "Of course, Harry. You've always got me."
Content, you pull away and move your hands up to his bare shoulders, gazing deeply into his green eyes. His expression seems… not exactly wary, but definitely with a hint of deep confusion. Perhaps this isn't how the morning usually goes. Do you normally take it this well? Is he used to self-pitying remarks or dark, moody glances?
But you find such a notion unthinkable. Your past self, the one who wrote the note, is right after all. If you have only fifteen minutes to inhabit a space in time, why not make the most of it? You may not remember what happened yesterday, but you do remember you love him.
"I was hoping you'd say that," you murmur, gently reaching up to cradle his cheek in one hand. A casual smile makes its way across your face, to ease his tension more than anything. Then you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips, a good-morning kiss, an I'm-still-here kiss. A can we do this all over again in fifteen minutes? kiss.
He starts to pull away after a minute, but before he does you break the kiss and graze his earlobe with your teeth. This makes him yelp and let go of you. "Stop it!" All you can do is chuckle. "Sorry. Go put on some clothes, maybe I'll find you less distracting."
While he dresses, you take your time rising from bed and padding to the window, drawing the blinds up a crack. Sunlight bathes and warms your body. You travel to the closet, right behind him, and unearth your favorite red bathrobe. He makes the bed as you slip into it, and then comes to you and touches your elbow to get your attention.
"I've got to get to work soon," he tells you, a certain undercurrent of urgency in his voice. "Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, and please promise me you'll keep those glasses on?" He taps the frames of your glasses, and you nod, understanding the importance of the note the screens display.
"You're not staying for breakfast?"
His eyes soften, as they often do around you, but his tone is crisp and cool- "No, sorry. I'll eat on the go." Clasping your wrist, he leans in and pecks you on the cheek. "I love you, Harry. I'll see you when I get back."
"Love you, Merlin," you reply, smiling vaguely as he steps away and makes for the door. You hear his footsteps as he trudges down the stairs. Then you go to the window and peep through the crack in the blinds, watching as he locks the door behind him and heads off to the tailor shop, where he'll catch the shuttle to HQ. Just another man on his way to work, like the millions of others in the city.
It occurs to you then that you'd like to take a shower before dressing and heading downstairs to cook something. The warm water is sure to invigorate you and wake you even further. So you take your glasses off, throw off your soft robe, and head for the bathroom, occupied entirely by the single thought.
You wake up to your own reflection.
Upstairs, the bedroom door is ajar, rather than shut as Merlin left it. That likely means that Harry is no longer inside. Just to make sure, Merlin cursorily checks the room, but finds no sign of Harry's presence. He does, however, notice the pair of glasses sitting on the bedside table, and has to take a moment to keep the angered heat from breaking against his skin. That damn fool… He'll never learn. Then he hastily catches himself. No, he never will learn. He can't.
Pocketing the glasses, Merlin makes for the bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom. Its door is slightly open too, just enough for him to peek inside. His heart pounding, Merlin approaches the door and takes a look.
Immediately he feels like a dagger has been jabbed into his gut.
He's never seen Harry in such a state before. Not after Kentucky, not during any of his past missions, not even when Lee was killed. Any fit of anxiety that occurred after the shooting was easily quelled by Merlin's presence. But he wasn't here for Harry, and now Harry's suffering.
His first reaction is guilt- he needed me and I couldn't be here, he needed me and I couldn't… Then comes the exasperation. I told him this morning to keep his glasses on, didn't I? And following that is a startling round of sorrow, sorrow and weariness. This isn't right on any level. This is no way for the noble Galahad to live.
Once that thought crosses his mind, though, he quickly gets a hold on himself. There's no use in wishing things were different. Yes, his Harry was returned to him shattered and broken, with no way to pick up the pieces that were obliterated forever. But at least he has his Harry at all! If Merlin were a religious man, he's sure he would be thanking God every day for that. Harry had even said so this morning- "I may have lost my memory, but I've still got you, right?" And Merlin has to admit that Harry has had him since the first day they worked a mission together. He knew from the start that he would be in it for the long haul. Sometimes all you can do is be supportive- a philosophy Merlin's been trying to live every day.
Taking a deep breath, he opens the door to the bathroom and walks in.
"M-Merlin?"
"Merlin?"
You wake up, or just barely wake up, to his bare skin pressing into your flesh. He's slumbering heavily in your arms, the murky half-light filtering through the blinds just barely enough to illuminate his face.
You think you've had a nightmare, or some sort of bad dream, but at the sight of him all such dark thoughts are driven from your mind. Your heartbeat slows, and you break into an easy smile. He's here for you. He's here, and that's all you need to know.
The clock on the bedside table tells you that it's much too early to get up. Not that you had any plans to do so, because you're still too groggy from sleep. You pause only to drop a kiss on his cheek and frown a bit at his clenched jaw- you're always surprised that his teeth haven't worn down to nothing by now- before snuggling up close and closing your eyes. Throwing one arm around his waist, you drift back into your dreams.
You wake to a shot ringing in your ears.
Gun! Bullets! Bodies! Blood!
AN- Sorry for writing this… My excuse is that I watched the film Memento around the same time I watched Kingsman, and one thing led to another. (Memento is an excellent film about memory loss that uses a similar backwards-to-front storytelling technique, and if you haven't seen it I strongly urge you to check it out!)
Also, Wikipedia tells me that anterograde amnesia is caused by damage to the hippocampus, which is not the location that Harry was shot (or at least, it appears that if his hippocampus was damaged, a LOT more areas of the brain had to be damaged too), but y'know, reality never stopped inspiration before.