Author: Regency
Title: Soft Things
Pairing: Eggsy Unwin/Harry Hart
Contains: cuteness, light angst, fluff, backstory, age difference
Summary: Post-canon. During trying times, Harry relies on his creature comforts to maintain his equilibrium. Eggsy comes to rely on them, too. (Or 5 times Eggsy 'borrows' something of Harry's and 1 time Harry does the same.)
Author's Notes: Written for the 2015 Summer Hartwin Secret Santa for ilokiheimsins.
Prompt: Clothing that Harry remembers laundering keeps disappearing and he can't for the life of him figure out where it's going, until Eggsy walks into HQ snuggled into one of Harry's cashmere sweaters.
Not exactly like the prompt, but I hope it's okay.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015). They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
[1. Harry's cardigan.]
Harry stares at the pile of freshly laundered clothes that's sat forgotten on his bed since early Wednesday morning. He'd gotten up to complete the chore after sleep had eluded him the previous night and then had been forced to abandon it when Percival's latest mission went tits-up abroad. Harry had Merlin's analysts pumping agency contacts nonstop to locate Kingsman's youngest veteran knight and extract him from hostile territory. He's home now, though still unconscious, and is expected to make a full recovery in time. Kingsman's head physician has given them all leave to stand down from high alert, but Harry hasn't truly stood down since he was a recruit and he's having difficulty decompressing now that he's king. It's only Merlin's staunch refusal to re-activate his access codes that keeps him from working his tired fingers to the bone this evening.
Tonight is a return to the new normal. Time to finish incomplete chores, empty the bins, soak and scrub the mouldering dishes, dust and brush Mr. Pickle, pick up the shopping, fold and stow his washables, and set out his dry cleaning. All things he'd like to be properly dressed to do. Perhaps 'properly' is a misnomer. He longs for careworn softness to soothe his tattered nerves, since even a bespoke suit loses its lustre after three days of perpetual wear. Harry wants to set aside the mantel of being Arthur for the night, to drape himself in his beige cashmere cardigan for comfort's sake, but quite suddenly it's nowhere to be found.
He's checked everywhere. The laundry hamper (empty), the washing and drying units (twice, both void of laundry), his closet (absent though others were present). He even suffered the supreme indignity of crawling under his bed and only found a royal blue tie he gave up for lost three weeks ago and a pair of socks he doesn't think he's worn once this calendar year. Further examination of the house yields the same result: the cardigan isn't here.
It's an odd occurrence. Harry's years in the field have made him accustomed to having to replace pieces of his suit; casual wear has never been so problematic. He lives alone barring occasional visits from his older sister and her family and Eggsy's irregular overnight stays. He's not once had reason to worry about his possessions disappearing.
Nothing a Kingsman owns simply disappears.
Giving the search up for a bad job, Harry dons his second favourite cardigan, this one heather grey, to see to the flower boxes on his terrace. His thumb could be considered more red than green, but he's found in his life that most natural deficiencies can be offset with a little sincere effort. He applies himself to the task of weeding his neglected plants, spritzing the wilted blooms and clearing dead foliage from the soil, murmuring apologetically as he does to the gasping roots. He'll have to see if his assistant can't be compelled to take on watering duties in his frequent absence. It isn't fair that his plants should suffer for his negligence.
That done, he sets forth to finish his errands with dogged determination after an early dinner following a trip to the shops. Dust is dusted, dishes are cleaned and dried. Clothes find their place and Mr. Pickle is restored to his handsome posthumous glory. Harry rubs the dog's muzzle fondly before he leaves the small washroom for less depressing environs. He misses his constant companion tonight; he could use someone loving to hold.
His office, a less frequent sanctuary than in the past, welcomes him as if he's only stepped away rather than kept the room locked for over a year. Arthur's office at the shop and in the manor is more than sufficient for his purposes. He makes every effort not to bring his work home when his days are long enough.
He makes quick work of his private correspondence, wishing his young niece a happy birthday by way of his sister and grudgingly refusing a discreet invitation to rendezvous with an old lover who happens to be in town. Harry is too tired for anything approaching civilized conversation. More than that, he's too wrung out to initiate a liaison when he feels stretched thin over a skeleton that is increasingly made of stainless steel plates, rods, and pins. He aches to be touched, yes. What he doesn't want is to have to explain why he hasn't been. Tailors can long for just about anything; kings must be somewhat more circumspect.
Harry attempts to wind down from his meanderings only to discover that peace is as elusive as his first best cardigan. Despite nodding off in front of the Great British Bake-Off twice, when he goes to get ready for bed, he finds himself too wired to sleep. Worry for Percival wars with his memory of James and Lee and the multitude of personnel lost and injured in the field in his thirty years of service. These losses have always weighed on him, only now the weight is responsibility instead of mere sympathy. They can ill afford to lose any more knights. Something will have to change.
All desire to rest lost, Harry slips into the Kingsman communication system to summon an unmanned taxicab to ferry him to Savile Row. The trip is a silent one, as silent as the streets Harry traverses to reach his destination. He makes his way through the shuttered tailor shop at four a.m. pleasantly unhindered by prospective customers or other kingsmen. One benefit of being Arthur is the ability to move about the Kingsman properties without disturbing the night staff, who are busy taking routine inventory of the shop's goods for the day shift. His palm print opens the few doors it wouldn't have as a mere knight, allowing him to escape the Kingsman storefront at once.
Strange though it is to be on Kingsman ground but not in official Kingsman garb, Harry is getting used to it. The former Arthur had an unspoken policy regarding the dress code. He could be found in full kit whatever the hour or day. If he was in residence, he was dressed to be seen. Harry is making an effort to be less unbending in his own polished loafers and open collars are mainstays on weekends, as much as his penchant for tardiness is a hallmark of his character any day of the week. Harry may be Arthur, but he's still Harry. The knights are gradually becoming accustomed to his more relaxed management style. Expectations haven't slipped, in fact have risen, because Harry has no questions that the knights of his table are loyal and worthy of his regard. In that, Harry Hart and Chester King will always differ. Manners maketh man; origin has nothing to do with it.
Harry manages to make his first hour at the office productive enough. He and Merlin's second-in-command trade messages over the Kingsman internal messaging service, supposedly a good alternative to email but in Harry's estimation far more distracting. It's nevertheless useful for exchanging minute by minute status reports and conducting informal budget requests to cut down on bureaucratic nonsense. Merlin loathes it for the tedious recordkeeping it requires whilst Harry swears by it because it reduces on the number of times he has to sign his name on a given day. Harry is still very much a field agent at heart and paperwork is positively torturous to a man who'd rather set it all alight to watch it burn.
Unfortunately, Harry's attempt to push through the glut of his inbox for a second hour is less successful. The night shift is preparing to handover to the day. Traffic on the streets below is picking up momentum. Kingsman and London are coming awake; the world isn't Harry's alone anymore and that leaves him feeling restive.
He goes to the only place he can, left without alternative. He summons the bullet train to the shop and takes off for the countryside alone. Once he's checked in with Merlin's second, and skipped out of the command centre just in time to avoid Merlin's disapproving glower, he makes his way to the infirmary to see to his injured friend.
When Harry steps into the patient room where Percival is recuperating, the man is out like a light, though no longer unconscious, as he expected based on his passing conversation with Lancelot in the hall. The young knight is headed back to Brunei to assist regional Kingsman operatives with the interrogation of Percival's captors. It's crucial for them to discover whether Percival was made or burned by an inside source. Lancelot was eager to get underway now that she knows Percival will recover.
By all accounts, the younger agent acquitted herself admirably in riding to Percival's aid during the retrieval operation. But then, given that he is not only her proposer but her only surviving parent, she could scarcely be expected to act otherwise. Percival's captors would be right to be afraid of the woman's wrath, in Harry's opinion. She learned ruthlessness from the same men that taught her love and they made the fatal error of wounding one of those men.
Much of Lancelot and the new Galahad's bond could likely be attributed to their shared grief over the loss of their fathers, but Harry supposes the fact that it was James's death that facilitated their recruitment is of little consequence in the scheme of things. Some people are simply meant to be bosom friends, as he and Merlin are, and that's all there is to it, similarities and differences be damned.
It takes Harry all of a second to realize there are two men asleep in Percival's room, but only one is the patient. Percival rests the rest of the blissfully sedated in his elevated hospital bed. His colour is much improved from the ashen pallor that had left them all concerned that they would be holding recruitment trials again much too soon. Unlike three days ago, his chest sounds clear, his breathing unimpeded by lungs filling rapidly with blood. The man is unquestionably on the mend.
In contrast, Harry's protégé looks somewhat the worse for wear.
Eggsy has tucked himself into a nearby corner in one of the infirmary's recliners and has fallen fast asleep clutching a wrinkled mission brief. He can't possibly be comfortable in the position he's found himself in, knees up to his chest and hands tucked in fists under his head, yet he slumbers on, breathing deep and serene.
"Eggsy."
The younger man frowns, sniffs and curls away from the sound of Harry's voice intruding upon his nap.
"Darling," Harry lets slip, shooting a guilty look at Percival's resting form immediately afterward. "Eggsy, it's time to get up now."
His protégé frets in his sleep. He does so beautifully, as he does everything else, Harry can't help noticing.
"Galahad," he implores again and carefully touches Eggsy's sweater-clad arm. The arm beneath shifts from relaxation to tension in an instant, reminding Harry not for the first time that Eggsy is no longer the young man he met outside of Holborn Police Station; he's an agent as dangerous as Harry himself and it never does to antagonize danger. Harry withdraws, the downy softness of Eggsy's cardigan still a whisper on his fingertips. He's never known Eggsy to prefer jumpers or cardigans to tracksuits.
He doesn't get long to contemplate the change before Eggsy groans soulfully and begins the laborious process of unfolding his body from the unforgiving lounge chair. "Christ, that pulls. Ey, 'Arry, wassup? Somethin' up with Percy?"
Harry suppresses a smile of nostalgia. James was the last person to get away with shortening Percival's codename. He was in many ways Percival's sole exception. As his friend, Harry worries the man might never have that again. As his boss, he thinks that might be best. The year of training James's replacement was brutal; they came close to losing two knights in the end.
"Percival is stable. Lancelot informed me he woke for a short time not long ago and then fell back to sleep. I've come to relieve you of sentry duty. You're due for a mission in forty-eight hours, I won't see you run down in the field because you're determined to ruin your back in these ghastly chairs."
Eggsy's posture stiffens. Harry sees at once that he's about to dig in his heels. "Roxy asked me to keep an eye on 'im. I ain't about to let her down."
Lancelot had mentioned that Eggsy staunchly refused to leave Percival behind, stating that since Roxy had saved his family, the least he could do was watch over hers. She was helpless to dismiss him after that.
"She would understand that you have duties to attend to. Merlin and I will take shifts keeping watch over him. He won't be alone, you have my word."
Eggsy shoves the overlong sleeves of his sweater up his wrists. They really are rather long, Harry observes thoughtfully.
"I know, an' I trust you, you know I do. I just…what if somethin' did happen after I gave Rox my word? She'd never forgive me." His forlorn expression at the prospect of losing Lancelot's trust tugs at Harry's forbearance. He doesn't expect to have much more success in sending Eggsy off looking like that.
"She would, actually. I feel quite sure of that. And so would Percival. They're each terribly fond of you." 'They aren't alone in that,' Harry doesn't append. They're well past fondness by this stage.
Eggsy perks up just the same. "It's 'cause I'm so charming."
"Of that, I have no doubt." Harry indicates a second lounge chair sitting vacant beside Eggsy's own. "May I?"
"You're the boss, go for it."
Harry muffles a groan as he tries to adjust to the unforgiving seat. One would think that for all the money Kingsman pours into these facilities that they'd invest in more welcoming furniture. Alas, no. His back immediately starts to complain.
"Ya all right, there, boss?"
"Feeling my years, I'm afraid." He smiles wanly and settles back for a moment of silence. "Never get old, Eggsy," he says quietly. "Live for as long as you can, but don't get old."
Eggsy casts him a worried look. "Oi, you ain't old, 'Arry. You're just tired. You shouldn't even be here after all the hours you put in at Control with Merlin."
"I'm sure I'll get an earful about it from him first thing." He shrugs. "Believe it or not, I couldn't sleep. I missed all this too much. The missions used to be my lifeblood and now that I can no longer carry them out, this agency has become the same. I don't know who I am away from it anymore." He must be exhausted. He'd never admit anything like this if he were of sound mind.
Eggsy squeezes his shoulder in a way that's meant to comfort and, wonder of wonders, it does. Harry tries not to make too much of it.
"You're Harry Hart, Galahad—and you know bloody fuckin' well that's your legacy—and Arthur. Shitty poker player. Aces at hand-to-hand. Almost unbeatable weapons score with two eyes, damned impressive with one. You're a knight because that's who you are, not 'cause you ride around saving maidens."
"I haven't saved any maidens in quite a while. I may never again." That isn't what the job's about, really; that doesn't stop the truth from stinging.
"You saved me. See that, you don't need anybody else for saving. You got me, I'll be your maiden. And not just 'cause I look sick in a dress and I dance betta than Roxy any night."
Harry both does and does not want to know more.
"I'm sure you're a sight to behold in anything you wear. You were always going to be extraordinary, Eggsy, either in trouble or excellence. I merely steered you toward a particular kind of excellence. Look at you now." That Harry manages to do anything else is its own miracle.
Eggsy flashes his dimples in a grin. "That's what I mean. I got here on my own merits, but that's 'cause somebody saw somethin' in me and gave me a shot. You don't get to be worthless after that. Not to me." He slides his hand down Harry's arm to take his hand. It's warm, steady. "'Sides, I ain't done with you yet."
"You will be," Harry replies without rancour yet tirelessly convinced.
"Didn't know you could predict the future. That mighta come useful last year."
Harry shakes their clasped hands. "Cheeky brat."
"That's what Percy says."
"He's right." Harry scratches lightly at the numb scarring above his left eye socket. "I suppose you're right as well."
Eggsy tuts good-naturedly. " 'Course I am. You're not just a boss and an asset. You're a friend and then some. I learned some of my best moves off you."
Harry would be proud if Eggsy learned so much as how to brew a good cup of tea from him. He's been proud since the start.
"I must say, this is quite the motivational speech. I may need to record it for posterity."
"No need for that. Ask me and I'll say the whole thing again." He strokes his thumb across Harry's knuckles and doesn't seem to notice he has. "'M not makin' it up, Harry. You're really somethin' special and I'm not the only one that thinks it, though I'd guess they mean it different than me." He sounds slightly uncertain, as if he's saying something he isn't sure he ought to.
Harry purses his lips, in search of a more appropriate topic of conversation, a task made more difficult by Eggsy's attention, his touch. The mean hours of the morning are no time to be discussing previously unvoiced affection, nor is the medical wing the proper place. Should he have his way, both those things will come—and soon.
"You know, I have a cardigan much like the one you're wearing. I didn't think it was to your taste."
Eggsy's neck and ears begin to redden. "Uh, I guess I got cold waiting for you a while back."
"That night I got held up at the shop when Percival was compromised." Harry and Eggsy have a standing dinner date on Wednesday nights from which they rarely deviate. Eggsy had been on his requisite twenty-four hour furlough post-mission when hell had broken out and Harry had neglected to call until he received a concerned text from Eggsy. Harry makes a silent vow to make it up to him.
Eggsy shrugs in response and the neck of the cardigan slides down his comparatively slimmer shoulders. "I like it. Smells nice."
"It can't smell terribly nice after all this time." There's a smudge of navy blue ink on the right sleeve, a smear of tzatziki sauce on the collar, both indicators of how close it had been kept at all times.
Eggsy sniffs it a little and then eyes the cardie Harry's wearing now, his gaze calculating. "Smelled like you. 'S nice havin' somethin' of yours around."
Eggsy doesn't explain why he might need a memento to remind him of Harry. It's been a little over a year since his return and it's only in recent months that Eggsy's advanced beyond acting as a mutinous limpet, eager to keep Harry in sight for his own peace of mind yet resentful of that desire in the face of his own anger at being left in the dark. For all that Harry has given up apologizing, he hasn't entirely stopped being sorry yet. He had wanted to wait to see Eggsy until he could see him whole, as the man he was when he left him. It was only upon realizing that he would never be that man again that he returned, eyepatch and tremor, scars and all. As much as his pride hurt them, in its own way it's made this nebulous connection sparking between them stronger, too.
"If it's any consolation," Harry says, "you still have me."
Eggsy rubs the sleeve of Harry's grey cardigan between his fingers, solemn as a love letter. "I'd rather have you over anything."
…
…
[2. Harry's tie]
Harry is dressing to return to the shop for a night-time crisis just as a yawning Eggsy is undressing in preparation for bed. The young man a vision in his charcoal grey three-piece suit, so much so that it's almost a shame to see him take it off. His chiselled jaw creaks ominously over another yawn and Eggsy's hands stumble over the buttons of his waistcoat, clumsy with bone weary tiredness.
Harry steps up to cover him, deftly loosening his buttons and liberating him of jacket and waistcoat both.
"I coulda done that," he grumbles, not a little whiny to Harry's ear. Eggsy values his independence too much to acknowledge how much he likes being doted on.
"I like to be the one that undresses you." Their relationship hasn't extended to sex as yet, more due to a lack of opportunity than a for lack of desire, but there's little left to the imagination for two agents with no modesty to speak of who have practically lived in each other's pockets for the past fifteen months.
"Possessive much?" Eggsy's eyebrows hitch up, a hint of humour brightening the dark circles underneath his eyes.
"I could be more circumspect if you'd prefer." There's very little chance he could be.
"It don' bother me." Eggsy stifles yet another yawn behind the back of his hand. " 'M gonna sleep for a year."
"We can't celebrate your safe return if you're comatose." Harry hangs the garments up to be steam cleaned at the shop. He'll take it in with his own later in the week.
Eggsy grumbles. "Not feelin' much up to celebrating anyhow." He succeeded at this mission by the skin of his teeth. A lethal combination of a dearth of field experience and questionable intel. No one's fault at the end of the day, which naturally means that Eggsy will brood on it for no less than a fortnight.
"You've been in deep cover for just under two months. You've earned at least a good night's rest. Drop trou, I'll bring your pyjamas."
"Can I wear one o' your shirts?" Eggsy asks with just enough tentativeness that Harry doesn't think to refuse. Eggsy is still coming to terms with the fact that Harry will give him just about anything.
"Yes."
Eggsy grins in relief and hurries to finish undressing himself. He steps out of his trousers and kicks them aside to Harry's consternation. His undergarments soon litter the bedside as well.
Harry retrieves the top he wore to sleep the night before. "How about this?" he asks. Eggsy's only response is to scramble into the stretched grey RAMC tee shirt. Harry pitches a pair of Eggsy's garish trackies in his direction without comment. He can't deny he loves seeing the younger man in his clothes.
"Thanks, Haz."
Were Eggsy not already in the process of burrowing into the sheets to sleep, Harry would remind him how much he abhors that nickname.
Harry checks his reflection for defects and finding none, bends down to gather the articles of clothing left discarded on the floor. As he separates what needs to be laundered from what must be hand washed or sent out, he comes upon his blue and red silk tie. He knows it's his own because it's knotted slightly too long for Eggsy's physique, more suited to his own. He's been searching for it for weeks; it's his favourite.
"I was looking for this tie," he says to the snuffling lump in his bed.
"Went wiv my suit," defends the lump in a groggy voice. A blatant lie.
Harry sighs without ire. "A gentleman asks, Eggsy."
The younger man reappears from underneath the duvet but keeps it tucked around him like a down cocoon. "And a Kingsman apologizes. Sorry, guv."
Harry, in typical fashion, is incapable of remaining annoyed with him. "Can I expect it to make a reappearance in my wardrobe anytime soon?"
His former protégé averts his gaze. "Dunno 'bout that, might need it for my next mission. Rain check?"
Harry will learn to refuse Eggsy something eventually, but it won't be this evening.
"Of course, dear."
Eggsy's answering grin is too enchanting to be missed. "You're the best."
"Sleep well," he murmurs as Eggsy removes to his burrow once again.
"Night, Hazza."
I really must talk to him about that name.
Harry sighs again as he turns to leave, fondly if very quietly. There's a charming knight sleeping in his bed.
…
…
[3. Harry's socks]
Harry and Eggsy are having an impromptu date night when he discovers that Eggsy's made off with another bit of his wardrobe.
Eggsy's just swung his legs up to drape across Harry's lap for a footrub while Pretty Woman plays on the television.
"Please, love. My dogs are barkin' something' awful and you got those nice hands you ain't usin'." His expression is imploring and Harry is nothing if not an easy mark.
Harry rolls his eyes, but he takes one of Eggsy's beleaguered feet in hand. It feels slightly swollen and warm to the touch, likely as a result of prolonged standing and running on unforgiving terrain. Though he doesn't verbally surrender to the boy's machinations, Eggsy seems to feel it as he melts into the cushions of the chesterfield at Harry's firm touch.
He sighs. "That's it, that's the stuff."
Harry draws one of the black socks down toward Eggsy's foot to get at his ankle which is slightly puffy and red. "You need to take better care of your joints." A kingsman is only as useful in the field as their body is reliable; it's their first and final line of defence.
"Who's got the time? If it ain't missions, it's paperwork; if it ain't that, it's training and meetings. I'm lucky if I got time to get in an ice bath some days."
"Kingsman employs part-time spa staff that offers therapeutic massages superior to any I could hope to provide." Harry grasps Eggsy's ankle in one hand and his toes in the other, and rolls the flat of Eggsy's foot between them until his metatarsals yield just so with a loud pop.
Eggsy hisses and then sighs. "Oh, fuck, that is nice. Didn't even realize I was tight there."
"When your body doesn't have adequate time to recover, it simply doesn't. It holds tension and pain until the pressure is relieved." Harry raises each of Eggsy's ankles to his lips and favours their tender notches with a kiss. "Take care of this body. I'm rather fond of it."
Eggsy sits up to kiss Harry's on the lips this time. "All right, old man, you made your point. I'll be good to these creakin' bones o' mine."
Harry cups his cheek to draw the kiss out a little longer though no less sweet. "You'd better."
Eggsy waggles his one neglected foot between them. "Now you gotta do the other one."
"As His Highness demands," Harry responds dryly and gets right down to it. When he drops both socks to the floor to get at Eggsy's insteps, he notes that Eggsy's socks are indistinguishable from the ones he's currently wearing. Eggsy's socks tend to be of another knit pattern and in another shade of black. And, yes, Harry's made a note of it. For laundry purposes, naturally. These are his.
"Are those my socks?" He frowns. "Eggsy, they aren't even the right size for your feet."
Eggsy squirms though he can't escape so long as Harry's got a hold of his shins.
"Yeah, but they're soft and warmer than mine are. I don't think the tailors like me as much as you; they give you all the good swag."
"They give me what I request. We'll review your requisition forms to see how they might be more obliging."
Eggsy twiddles his toes, uses one to scratch at the opposite ankle. "Can I keep the socks?"
"Anything of mine is yours to keep. You must know that by now."
Eggsy stretches his legs out and scoots closer to prop his head onto Harry's shoulder. "You're the guvnor, Harry. Just don't tell Merlin I said that. Might hurt his feelings, you usurpin' him an' all."
He drops a kiss into Eggsy's hair. "Your secret's safe with me."
…
…
[4. Harry's (mother's) quilt]
"Where on earth did my mother's quilt get to?"
This isn't a question Harry has had to ask since he had to bring his belongings out of storage following his presumed death. He long ago discarded the majority of his childhood mementos for the sake of anonymity, disseminating them to distant family members and charity shops where they would find a happier home than his tomb of one. But the quilt his mother had begun with her engagement to his father and left incomplete in her final months was one possession he could not bear to part with. His sister gave it to him after the birth of her only child, stating that their mother lived on in her daughter and that Harry ought to have something of her he could hold if he could not have that. Since then, he has cherished the finely-sewn quilt as the treasure it is, more so now that he's come so fatally near to seeing his mother again.
Harry meant to take it down to show Eggsy. Eggsy had brought his sister over along with a bunch of baby albums Michelle had unearthed during their move to the new house. Harry recognized a number of the photographs as Lee had been a proud father and could scarcely go a day during training without flashing photographs of his growing son. Michelle was quietly as tenacious in documenting Daisy's early, turbulent years, and Eggsy has the baby books to show for it.
For the first time, Harry is ashamed that so little of his upbringing survived the transition from civilian to kingsman. It's almost as though he didn't exist before, nor his family, but they did. He loved them and he's disheartened to realize there's no longer any proof of it.
Eggsy and his little sister are playing tea party on the floor of his den when he returns to join them, empty-handed. There's a pink velour bunny, a stuffed crocodile, and three poorly done baby dolls in attendance. They've spread out the finger foods Harry prepared for their get-together onto tiny plastic plates and cooling tea fills a quarter of the pastel tea pot Daisy wields while playing mother. They've made a picnic of snack time and the picnic blanket they've chosen is patched in faded blues, reds, golds, and yellows underneath them.
There's square that duplicates his birth announcement and another his sister's; one for his mother's first and second marriage and the deaths of each of her husbands. There's even a patch with the Kingsman insignia that till the day she died his mother swore was sewn in pride of his accomplishments as a tailor despite that fact that all who mattered knew her to be the superior seamstress. Eliza Hart was no one's fool and certainly never Harry's. He thinks she would approve of this use of her needlework.
Harry is drawn from his introspection by a young voice demanding his attention.
"Hawwy, come pway?" Daisy has been warming up to Harry slowly in the months since his return to Eggsy's life. He's no longer an imposing stranger in her eyes, merely one more oversized playmate.
"I don't want to intrude."
Eggsy pats a clear patch of quilt beside him. It's black and gold. "Get down here 'fore you miss the biscuits. I saved you a lemon meringue."
Harry's knees give a jarring pop when he gets down on the floor, yet he enjoys the company—and the tea—immensely.
…
…
[5. Harry's bed]
The days they have off together they spend sleeping. Harry is still waiting for the novelty of sharing a bed to wear off.
Harry smooths his hands over Eggsy's hair, combing his fingers through the downy strands in silent wonder of this young man who seems to have chosen him for a home.
"What could you possibly be thinking, darling, hitching your wagon to an old war horse like me?"
Eggsy shuffles closer till their knees touch. He's only just awake, having stumbled back in after a trip to the toilet. "Thinkin' I'd rather have a short, bumpy ride with Old Reliable who loves me than somethin' long and easy with somebody who don't."
Harry isn't sure how to take that, but he can't refute that he loves Eggsy beyond all reason, beyond doubt or hope.
Eggsy tangles his limbs with Harry's till they're just endless warmth and skin on this foggy London morning. "'M not givin' you up till you're dust, get me? You're my man now."
Harry pulls him as close as separate skin allows and wishes there was some way to be closer. "Yes, I am."
"Com'ere," Eggsy slurs. "'M still cold." He snuggles into Harry's chest and his breathing slows and deepens back to peaceful slumber almost at once.
Harry bundles the bedclothes around them and contentedly follows Eggsy back to sleep.
…
…
[1. Eggsy's shirt]
"Is that my polo?" Eggsy asks as he's crawling into bed, fresh home after another protracted deep cover op, this time in Singapore.
Harry swipes across the screen of his tablet to turn the page on the eBook he's reading. He pauses to peer over his glasses at what Eggsy's holding up. "Hmm? No, I don't think so."
Eggsy shakes the garment out to its proper shape. "Nah, it definitely is. You get hives every time you look at it; you wouldn't 'ave bought one o' your own. What's it doing here?"
Harry cocks his head, blinks. "I haven't the first idea. I must have missed it when I was making the bed this morning."
Eggsy brings it to his nose. "Smells like you." He doesn't sound displeased.
Harry redirects his gaze to his book and swipes to the next page. "I preferred when it smelled like you."
Eggsy tosses the shirt vaguely in the direction of the laundry hamper and rolls onto his side to stare up at Harry who is staunchly refusing to look at him.
"Missed me?"
Harry sets his tablet on the side table. "Only always."
Eggsy nudges over to twine his arms around Harry's waist and buries his face in the older man's neck. "It's all good, love. I missed you, too."