Harry doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be doing any of this, but he has to, has the same obligation he did twenty-one years ago. This is his mess to sort out and sort it out he will, even if it should kill him. His mind remembers the way to the flat, feet taking him there automatically.
When he knocks on the door he's half hoping there won't be an answer so he can put this off for another day, or another week, or perhaps even another month. He would be content with putting it off forever, if he could. But his prayer goes unanswered, as so many of them do, and the door swings open to reveal Michelle Unwin, looking far older than she did the last time he visited.
The instant she sees him the blood runs from her face. "You can't come in," she whispers, fingers digging into the door handle. "I won't let you." As if that will somehow make what he as to say untrue, as if she can hide herself from what's happened by closing the door in his face.
"I know this is difficult, but I would prefer not to do it in such an open area," Harry says, keeping his face and voice as steady as he possibly can. It won't do to let his own emotion show; it would only make it harder for her.
There is a moment where he thinks she truly will just close the door on him, retreat back into some happy fantasy where Eggsy is still alive and there isn't a Kingsman agent at her door, come to tell her how brave her son was, how valuable his service. But she only swings the door open a little farther, lips pressed into a thin white line, shoulders slumping forwards. The picture of defeat.
Harry steps into the flat, closing the door behind him. It looks different from how he remembered, but then, that's only fitting, given how many changes the years have brought to the small family. First Lee's death, then Dean, then Eggsy's proposition for the house and his mother's refusal to leave, the last lingering traces of Lee still ingrained in the thin carpet and furniture. Dean had gone, though, and with him much of her belongings. So she'd redecorated, made the place something of her own again. The only familiar thing is a small girl sitting in the middle of the sitting room floor, stacking blocks with a brow furrowed in concentration.
Michelle makes a shaky way over to the sofa, collapsing onto it and hiding her face in her hands.
Harry seats himself on the armchair opposite, taking a moment to just close his eyes and sort out what he has to say. "Your son-"
"Stop it. I already know what you're going to say," Michelle rasps, hands falling to her knees, clutching at the thin fabric of her jeans. "I've heard it before," she adds.
The words cut, as they were meant to, and Harry simply nods. "Yes, of course. The offer still remains. Should you ever need anything..." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, pink-and-gold pendant, a phone number stamped into the back. Almost hesitant, he holds it out to her, eyes flicking briefly over to Daisy.
Michelle's lip curls into a bit of a snarl and she snatches it away from him, leaning forward, and lowering her voice. "You stay away from her," she hisses, catching his sidelong glance. "You won't take anyone else from me, not now, not ever, do you understand? I don't want to see you around here again. Should I find you've been in contact with her I will call the police, 'secret service' of yours be damned."
Harry takes her anger, lets it break against him without a word. He deserves every word of it. "I understand," he says simply, getting to his feet when her tirade is over. He makes his way towards the door, skirting around the toddler who only looks up at him, head tilted curiously, wispy blonde hair framing her face. He pauses in the doorway, turning back. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Eggsy was a good man and I shall mourn his loss as well as you. We all will."
Michelle lurches to her feet, the pendant locked in her fist. "Get out," she says, nothing but flat anger in her eyes.
After a small, brief pause, Harry dips his head, closing the door and leaving the Unwins behind.