-This was originally for the Kingsman Big Bang, 2015, and posted on Ao3 with links to GORGEOUS ART that y'all should go check out.
-SO MANY THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO PUT UP WITH ME OVER THIS. My betas were amazing—cyn_ful, cinderella81, Knuckleblister, and AcedaVinci all did so much to make this thing decent, and without them it wouldn't exist. At least, not in a decent form.
-I shamelessly stole the first line directly from the book/movie of A Single Man, and the title's from the soundtrack.
The poem Harry quotes in class is from "In a Dispensary" by Agatha Christie.
-Liberties were taken with dates. I hope that doesn't ruin things for you!
Waking up begins with saying am and now. Harry lays still, long after the alarm has rung and jerked him from another restless night, working through that idea, until the words make sense, remind him of who he is and what he is to do.
I am here, he thinks. I am here, now. Alone.
The alone comes along, unbidden, ruining whatever chances the man had for pretending this was an ordinary day. For a while, it was easy to pretend James was off on a mission, would be back in just a few days. But his bed remains cold, empty. Days become weeks become months. And he is still alone.
Every day, Harry goes through this. Every morning, he wakes up, willing himself back to sleep. He dreams of James, of course, of the 17 years of happiness and purpose they shared. But it's not to be. Not anymore. Harry must drag himself from his hard, uncaring bed and ready himself for the day.
After all, losing the one thing that gave your life true meaning doesn't mean you can stop living. Harry knows that, now.
When he lost James, Harry had begged Merlin to send him off on every mission in any far-off place he could find, no matter the danger. He just wanted—needed—to be away from the pain. Merlin, the bastard, had refused, saying that just because James was no longer there it didn't give Harry an excuse to have a death wish. Instead, he was given a long-term reconnaissance mission, teaching English at Imperial College, ostensibly to find the root of a human trafficking ring that seems centred on uni students.
For eight months now, Harry has had to make himself presentable to the world, to be the austere and refined figure they expect of him, not the broken-hearted mess he hides under bespoke suits and thick-rimmed glasses with his hair slicked back, his shoes shined, and his tie in a perfect Windsor knot.
It's getting harder and harder to pretend he's okay. Every room of their house—not his; it hasn't been his since the day he'd invited James to share his home—is full of memories, bittersweet and painful.
Harry always shaved while James showered, singing whatever insipid pop song he'd taken to in the past week.
"God, couldn't you at least use that voice on something worthy of it? Maybe a classic?" Harry would call over the running water.
James's laugh was bright, warming Harry to the core. "This one's gonna be a classic, love!"
Down the stairs in just his old red robe, to the empty kitchen where he and James would fight for counter space as they worked together on breakfast. Now, only one teacup sits out, one plate for toast. One chair, always empty, at the table. It makes Harry's heart ache, but he pushes through, putting the kettle on, fixing his toast with just a bit too much jam as James always fixed it for him.
It's too quiet, without James and without the dogs begging for a bit of bacon. But Harry hadn't kept them; they weren't only his dogs to keep. James had always told him he'd be a piss-poor parent on his own.
He was right. James was always right.
Breakfast finished, Harry goes back upstairs, dressing for the day. Not a hair out of place, looking exactly as one would expect of a stodgy old English professor, right down to the cufflinks and signet ring gleaming gold in the lamplight.
"One of these days, Harry, you're going to stop being so put together," James teased, watching Harry steam his tie after one particularly rough mission. At least the blood had come out; he rather liked that tie.
"I hardly think that's appropriate for a man of my station," Harry replied, with maybe a bit more refinement in his words than usual and a smile fighting its way to his lips, and James had countered by laughing and tugging Harry close by his belt-loops.
"Sure they'd say this isn't, either," James whispered, pressing his lips to Harry's neck, his cheek, his mouth.
The tie was soon forgotten, along with two wrinkled shirts and four scuffed shoes discarded into corners.
Harry is putting his day's work into his bag when there's a beep from his glasses. He sighs, closing the bag before answering.
"Yes, Merlin, I know. Meeting at the shop, 6pm. I've not forgotten."
"Meeting's cancelled, Galahad. I thought instead we might get together for dinner. It's been a while."
Harry smirks at that. "Can't figure out how to remotely re-activate your bugs, you mean, and you're a nosy prick."
He can almost see Merlin's mouth pull into a tight line, wholly unamused that Harry's worked out how to keep his private spaces private. For a moment, Harry smiles; it's not often he can one-up his best friend and handler.
"Just come by my place at 7. And bring that single-malt you picked up in Islay." The connection cuts out, and Harry shakes his head, amused.
He wonders if Merlin will be upset that he's long since finished off that bottle.
The drive to work is always easy. Harry hates cars; he's tense as he watches those surrounding his, though what he thinks he can do if one of them should slip too close is debatable.
Hell, maybe he wants that.
But he makes it to the college incident-free as usual, checking his bag once again for his supplies. Today, he's only one class to teach, but it's one he somewhat enjoys. It's a full class discussing British literature and its implications in today's society.
First, though, he goes to his office, a small, windowless gaol cell of a room on the far side of campus from everything. He's been meticulous in his actions here; he doesn't keep any personal items on his desk—which, in hindsight, may be a poor idea, seeing as how often Keri Lynn the too-young-for-him secretary comes to his door with two buttons too many undone on her blouse—and he's very careful to keep his desk and shelves clean. He looks around his small space, pleased that everything is perfectly in order, and if he weren't to come back one day there would be no mess for the next professor to clean.
He's left blessedly alone as he goes over his lecture notes, listening to the chatter of people walking past his office. The walls are thin; he's known for months that Russ Dreyer's cheating on his wife with a student, his poor spouse in an office of her own halfway across campus. She deserves better, but nobody's got the balls to tell her, on the off-chance that she doesn't know what her husband gets up to in his office.
At least fucking a girl half his age keeps Dreyer from following Harry to class, as he's wont to do when he's alone. The man's an unending fount of insipid and inaccurate insights into classic books.
His classroom is large, nearly full when he walks in, and Harry surveys his students, recognising only a few—mostly those in the front rows, the ones who care about their grades, but also a young man in the back. He's not actually on the roster, Harry knows (he's checked, many times in fact), but he's there for class every day, always as far away as he can be, never participating or disrupting class. Harry's half convinced he's seeing things.
As the class continues to talk, Harry sets up for his lecture. Today, he lays out a number of items from his personal stores—containers that have held or still hold deadly substances within. So many of the authors the class has studied use poison, and Harry feels this might break up the monotony of listening to him go on for an hour about symbolism and allegories and other such bullshit.
Slowly, the class falls silent, looking at the array of objects laid out on Harry's desk. Harry lets the silence drag out for a few moments, waiting until the class is on edge before he speaks.
"From the Borgias' time to the present day/ Their power has been proved and tried!/ Monkshood blue, called Aconite/ And the deadly Cyanide!
"One of the cleanest ways to get away with murder is to poison one's victim," Harry begins. "Long before Shakespeare wrote of Hamlet's untimely death, before Christie used her pharmaceutical knowledge to off numerous hapless victims, and quite before Rowling wrote of the Draught of Living Death, poison was used as a rather neat and tidy way to get rid of a problem. After all, it's easily hidden in a number of objects," he adds, motioning to the items behind him. "Bottles can go unnoticed among other bottles. A ring—well, it was sometimes far easier for a woman to find her way close to the side of a blackguard, to slip something into his drink or food. Some poisons, like curare, can easily coat the surface of a weapon long before it's used to ensure the victim's demise."
The class—and the student near the back of the room—seems fascinated, some frantically scribbling notes, some just watching Harry speak. He smiles a little bitterly. "Poison is a fun weapon. It's simple, really." He holds aloft his pen in one hand and a teabag in the other. "Both of these items could likewise hold something deadly inside, and none would ever be the wiser." Harry has always had a soft spot for the poison pens the agency has developed and perfected over the years, though perhaps a classroom full of children is not the place to reminisce about that.
He continues speaking for the full class period, answering the many questions his students pose about poison and its place in literature, though honestly Harry's mind is quite firmly elsewhere as he clutches the pen tightly in his hand. This one object is going to be the end of him, just as it has been for so many of his targets. There's something poetic about that, Harry would wager. Something about being hoisted by his own petard, and were the situation not so grave, there would be some sort of irony there, he thinks.
When he finally releases the class, nearly everyone bolts as Harry tidies up, though it's clear after a few moments that not everyone is gone. The boy from the back has made his way to the front of the room, standing just out of Harry's reach.
"Is poison really that easy?" he asks, and Harry pauses for a moment before answering. He hadn't been expecting such a blunt question—nor was he expecting that question in particular.
"Planning to murder someone, Mr. …?"
"Unwin. Call me Eggsy. And maybe I am. Sir." The way the boy hesitates before adding the title makes Harry's stomach tighten in a way he hasn't felt since James. "How come you don't usually lecture like that? Usually you're a bit—well, you're a bit odd."
Harry chuckles as he exits the classroom, Eggsy keeping pace beside him. "I hardly think it's appropriate for me to plot out a murder every class period," he jokes, and he's rewarded with a bright laugh. Harry delights in the sound, now in no hurry to escape Eggsy's company.
"But if you was gonna do it, poison, yeah?"
"It's not quite that simple. You'd have to be sure it didn't trace back to you, for one thing."
Eggsy nods thoughtfully. "Well, s'the same for anything, innit? If you're gonna nick someone's wallet, you gotta look innocent."
Harry admits to himself that this boy is already seeming to be full of surprises. Instead of acknowledging it, though, Harry takes a different route. "I notice you're not enrolled in my class, Eggsy."
Eggsy shrugs as they walk. "Can't afford a posh place like this, can I? Nobody's goin' 'round my neighbourhood handin' out ten thousand pounds to chavs like me."
"Yet you're attending regardless."
"Heard the teacher was fit," Eggsy admits with a wink, the cheeky brat. Harry smiles slightly, one eyebrow raised in intrigue.
"Does he live up to the expectations?"
"'m still comin' to class, ain't I?" Eggsy's eyes slide over Harry's body, his interest and intent clear.
And Harry has never had anyone come on to him so blatantly or earnestly. These few minutes he's spent with Eggsy are quite possibly the best he's spent in eight months with anyone. Surely James was never so forward.
Harry sat outside the pub, nursing a Guinness as he watched the group of Royal Navy boys on holiday; he was too old for any of them, but there was no harm in looking, and besides, Harry was sure that was the only reason Merlin had assigned him to a stupidly simple watch-and-report in Plymouth—he knew Harry hadn't had a partner in the decade he'd been an agent.
Harry always did like the look of a man in uniform.
The group filed in, one man actually catching Harry's eyes and smiling. Harry had smiled back, raising his glass in a hint of a toast before he was gone, inside with the press of women wanting a round with a sailor. It was too cold to be outside anyway; the night unseasonably chilly for September, but Harry rather enjoyed the silence. Having Merlin in his ear all the time had taught him to appreciate the times when he truly could be alone.
"This seat isn't taken, is it?" the sailor asked as he slid into the chair opposite Harry, smiling sweetly before taking a swig of whatever his beer was. "You looked like you could use a friend."
They'd talked for hours, until the pub finally kicked them out, and the sailor—James, he'd called himself—cleared his throat. "So … can I see you again? Maybe for a real dinner?" His eyes were bright, shy and eager all at once, and there was just enough colour to his cheeks for Harry to see it in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp. James really meant it, that he wanted to see Harry again.
And in that moment, Harry knew he'd found something good. And he didn't want it to end. Perhaps it was the youthful innocence of the man smiling so earnestly at him, but there was the fear that if they parted ways, Harry would never see James again, and his heart seized at the thought. "Come back to my hotel. I'll treat you to breakfast."
Eggsy talks with Harry as they walk, surprising the older man with his insight into the books he's assigned to the class. Harry finds he doesn't want to go; he's enjoying Eggsy's company, and he really hasn't anywhere else to be, officially, until his dinner with Merlin. Besides, he's at the age where he should be allowed to indulge himself and look at beautiful things, and Eggsy is very beautiful to Harry; the bits of dark blond hair peeking out from beneath his cap and curling at his ears, the green eyes sparkling with laughter under too-long lashes, and the easy, cocky way he walks as though he doesn't care how very much he doesn't fit in at Imperial College mould together, brightening Harry's dim outlook with just his carefree youth.
He turns to Eggsy when it's time to part ways, hesitating. "Would you like to take lunch with me?" he asks, and when Eggsy grins, he knows he's made the right choice. He even treats the boy to a nice meal at the Eastside Café, and Harry tries not to pay attention to the way he eats his steak and ale pie, like he's starved and might not get another good meal for a long time. It's not really his place to pry into Eggsy's life, no matter how charmed he is by the boy's witty responses and eager smiles.
Lunch lasts nearly two hours before Eggsy finally needs to excuse himself. "Gotta check on me baby sister," he says, standing up and tugging a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbling something onto it. Harry looks at it curiously as Eggsy slides it over.
"I ain't your student, so if you ever wanna do somethin' … " And he winks, all brazen confidence before he leaves Harry sitting alone in the café, tossing a wave back at him as he passes through the door.
Harry's fingers curl around the paper, and he tucks it into his pocket, shaking his head. He chuckles self-depreciatingly as he throws out their rubbish and he, too, exits the cafeteria.
Eggsy is far too young, but it doesn't hurt Harry's self-confidence to feel desired by a lovely young man.
A quick trip back to his office, gathering the last of his personal belongings, and Harry heads for his car, bidding a goodbye to the girls in the office, declining the offer to meet them for drinks later.
He always declines.
He'd rather drink alone, anyway.
"You're such an old man," James teased, fingers tangling with Harry's as he pulled the man out of the taxi. "It's just a few drinks and some dancing."
"It's the latter that worries me," Harry replied dryly, "and I've seen what you do under the influence of the former." James was already affectionate sober—drunk, he was indiscriminately handsy. Not that Harry minded, as such, but when they were out with friends there was only so much he could do to keep James's hands in socially acceptable places, and he flat-out refused to shag in a bloody public toilet.
James laughed and pulled Harry along. "You're not fooling anyone, Harry," he said. "You love going out with my work mates." It was true; Harry did—but only because it made James so happy, and he'd do anything for the man.
He'd ended up with a lapful of James and hands down the back of his trousers before he was able to politely extricate the two of them from the group, though James insisted on dancing before they left.
Who was Harry to disoblige? He let James lead them, listening to the man singing wholly off-key but thoroughly enjoying himself in the process, and Harry began to loosen up as well, letting James lead him through some more modern dances.
"Ah, you're smiling!" James crowed, exuberantly proud and beaming at Harry in a way he only did when he was sloshed. "Knew you loved it."
Loved him, was more accurate, Harry thought, even when he was drunkenly staggering around the dance floor.
It's a short drive to the bank, and Harry is led back to his safety deposit box without trouble. Once alone in the room, he cleans it out, just as he's methodically cleaned the rest of the places he's touched in his life.
Inside the box are the important documents he's collected over the years: Insurance policies. The deed to the house. Bank account numbers overseas he's had set up in case his time with Kingsman ever had to come to a premature end. His Eurovision picks for this year, because damned if he's letting Merlin win the pool again. The gold ring he'd bought for James, anticipating the legislation for same-sex marriage.
And his will. He's updated it, of course; the courts won't pay out to a dead man.
Once back home, Harry begins to sort through his documents. He places them carefully into a file folder, all in order and prominently placed in the centre of his desk with a sticky note on top, so when Merlin collects his body he won't have to hunt for anything. He lays out his favourite suit, the one James had insisted he get because the dark olive green really made his eyes pop. Harry had never really understood how it worked, but James never let him forget about it, either.
The matching shirt and tie are set with it, his cufflinks, his signet and the wedding ring he'd never worn neatly aligned on the jacket's sleeve. Harry doesn't want to be mourned; he wants to make the transition as easy as possible for the few people he's leaving behind that he actually cares for.
James always was the "fun" one in the relationship, trying to get Harry to try new activities or eat new foods or dress up in couple's Halloween costumes. Harry often resisted these changes to his life; he was, and is, a creature of habit, and in his 34 years he'd seen no need to change what worked for him. Besides, there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to go out in public dressed like anyone from 300, despite James's insistence that he filled out the shorts perfectly.
"Every suit you own is black or grey, Harry," James had lamented, tutting over the poor selection of clothing Harry had available for their evening out. "Don't you have anything in a colour that isn't boring?"
"My pyjamas are blue," Harry had pointed out, trying his hardest not to smile at James, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"Stuffy old man," James teased. "Next week, we're getting you something brighter! Something picked solely to make those gorgeous eyes of yours stand out. I want everyone to be jealous of me for having you on my arm."
"Well, that makes me feel wonderful," Harry retorted. "You're only with me for my looks, and even those aren't enough for you now." It was a common argument he and James had, and Harry knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that James loved him and only wanted everyone to see Harry for the beautiful man he was. James had told him that often enough, and Harry believed it.
But this time, rather than follow the script they both had memorised after so many years, James merely moved in closer and pressed a light kiss to the tip of Harry's nose. "That isn't what I meant, and you know it. I just want you to turn every head in the room, so everyone can see how sickeningly happy we are."
They were on time for dinner, for once, but only because Harry had absolutely refused to let James help him back out of his dark grey waistcoat.
Harry touches each of the suits hanging in the closet as he looks for one to wear tonight. He never got around to cleaning out James's things; he holds each shirt and scarf and cheap knick-knack cluttering shelves and table tops far too dear. Harry knows it's entirely based on misplaced sentimentality—it's not as though keeping that awful orange-striped tie is going to bring James back to him—but he can't bring himself to pack everything into boxes, to throw it out or sell it.
Who else would appreciate the fine Italian leather jacket Harry'd picked out for his lover, the one dyed the exact same shade of brown as the man's eyes? Or the hideous Yorkie cufflinks James had bought the both of them for their third anniversary? Harry had feigned interest in the ugly things until James had laughed, tugging him up to bed for his real gift.
It won't matter, not after tonight, Harry knows. Everything in the house will be boxed up, pieced out to the people who feel they've a claim to his life, the leftovers sold or binned or burned—it doesn't matter. He'll be given a grave beside James on the vast lawn at Kingsman headquarters, and his memory will fade with time, until he's nothing but another name with a handful of successful missions attached to it in the Kingsman archives.
It's the nature of his line of work; in a few generations, when the other agents have aged and their positions are passed on, none of them will be remembered. His family, too, is long since passed, and he's nobody left to carry on his legacy. Harry Hart will be forgotten.
Finally, he chooses a simple suit for the evening, slate grey and rather dull—forgettable, even, he thinks sarcastically—to be frank about it. He's just going to see Merlin, after all, and if Merlin were to start caring about anyone's appearance, he'd need to bin those jumpers of his before anyone would take him seriously.
But he has always enjoyed Merlin's cooking. He'd have a great career as a chef if he weren't so firmly entrenched in Kingsman's tech department. A night in with his good friend will be good for him—for the both of them.
It's one more good memory for Merlin to carry, more proof that Harry isn't doing this because of anything his friend has or hasn't done for him.
Merlin is waiting on Harry when he reaches the man's house, smiling as he hugs Harry tight. "You didn't bring the single-malt?"
"That's been gone for months."
"Pity," Merlin replies, but beckons Harry inside regardless. "Well, supper's on, though now we'll need to compensate with something to pair with the lamb I've fixed."
Harry pulls out a bottle of Beaujolais from Merlin's stores as his friend plates the meal, and they sit down, talking about work until they finish off that first bottle of wine and move on to the harder stuff.
"Harry, you've been too withdrawn since we lost Lancelot," Merlin says, leading Harry to the couch, shoulders brushing together. He's been Harry's friend so long that, outside of work, there were few barriers left between them. Merlin knows Harry practically better than Harry knows himself, of that he is sure. He's been there nearly from the beginning of Harry's time with Kingsman and has been his handler just as long. He's talked Harry through dozens of missions and gotten him through the roughest spots, both on mission and in his personal life.
He'd been the one to whom Harry had run as soon as it was official that James was gone.
Merlin picked Harry up as soon as the call came through—he, too, was on his way to Kingsman for that final honouring toast to their fallen compatriot.
Harry was the picture of a stoic, unruffled gentleman. His face held no emotion; he slid into the car without a word to Merlin and stared straight ahead. Merlin knew better than to speak to Harry right now; it wouldn't do to show weakness before the rest of the agents, and sobbing would result in teasing for years-that's what had happened when Bors had fallen for a mark, after all, and had used the internal email system to send her a love letter. It was maybe two hours before the note was printed out and everyone had read it. The mockery hadn't died until he asked the girl to marry him and she'd said yes. Even then, it only diminished to the man's face.
Bawling at the toast would just ensure Harry would be taunted for his attachment. Kingsmen weren't supposed to get too close to anyone; it was a given that a life could end without notice, and that the best way to mourn was to get on with living, to make the world a place the fallen would want to have seen.
And somehow, Harry had made it through the toast and down to Merlin's office before he broke. Merlin wrapped himself around Harry, Harry who was gripping Merlin's sweater and crying into his shoulder, barely able to breathe as heavy sobs wracked his frame.
"—on't do something rash. I'm worried about you," Merlin finishes, and Harry settles heavily back in his chair, finishing his tumbler of whiskey before speaking.
"I assure you, nothing I've done is rash," he replies coolly, and he's not lying. He's planned the rest of his life down to the last detail. He knows that this is the last he'll see of his friend, that tomorrow Merlin will call, and, upon receiving no answer, will go to Harry's house and find him poisoned in his own bed, pen in hand to prove it was intentional. He's got the letter explaining his reasoning already written and set on the bedside table so Merlin won't suspect foul play.
Everything is set.
Harry isn't making any rash decisions.
"Happy tenth anniversary, love," James said, smiling across the dingy table top, the same table in the same pub where they'd spent more nights unwinding than they'd be able to count. "We survived another year of each other."
Harry laughed, shaking his head. James said that every year, and maybe that was what had them coming back home every mission, knowing that in another year they'd get to say they'd survived yet again. It sure wasn't the greasy pub food the Black Prince served.
"You're lucky," Harry told him playfully. "I don't want you to have to go to the trouble of training your next partner how to trim the hedges to your exacting specifications." James snorted into his beer.
"As if you'll have better luck finding someone who can figure out how the hell you take your tea, you picky bastard." Harry conceded that point; he had a very exacting routine that James had taken ages to finally get down.
"Well, God willing, neither of us will ever need to think about it," Harry said, voice suddenly thick with emotion. He didn't know what he'd do without James—the man had come into his life and settled in so easily that it was almost as though he'd always been there. Before James, Harry's life had been little more than Kingsman and the occasional night out with Merlin, to a footie match or a show. But it had been empty, unfulfilling, and he'd seen that once he had someone's cold feet pressed against his legs in the middle of winter and a warm chest against his back.
Long moments of silence stretched between them, James's eyes dark as he, too, was imagining a world without his lover there. "If we do … if I do, anyway … I don't want you mourning me," he finally said, his voice so matter-of-fact and calm that it hurt Harry to hear those words. "I can't bear the thought of you being alone in the house. I mean, with our jobs … it'll likely be death in the line of duty that separates this—"
"Don't," Harry broke in. "I don't want to think about losing you. I can't."
"We have to think about it," James replied, and Harry hated when he was so rational about things. "It'll happen eventually. And you need to promise me, if you're the one left standing, that you'll go out more. Take a lover or two. Find someone else who can make your damn tea properly." He smiled at Harry, thumbs brushing over the back of Harry's hands as he leaned across the pitted wood table top. He looked so open, so honest. Like he truly meant it that he wanted Harry to have a life beyond him.
Harry didn't want that. He wanted James, wanted them to die of old age in each other's arms.
"I promise," he whispered, knowing in his heart the words were a lie.
But James had smiled so sweetly then, leaning across the table for a gentle kiss, stealing a chip from Harry's plate as he pulled back.
God, how Harry loved him, playfully sticky fingers and all.
He'd never find anyone so perfect for him again. If he lost James, he'd lose himself, too.
When Harry steps into the pub after leaving Merlin, he's greeted by the barman, and there's a pint in his hand nearly before he's even seated at a small booth far from the door, the same booth he always takes when he stops by the Black Prince. It's a slow night, with almost no other patrons, save for a few uni students crowded around the bar and drinking the cheapest pints they can buy.
Harry isn't in the mood for that; he'd much rather sit and relax. Enjoy this moment. Moments of calm in a life full of uncertainty and turmoil are rare and precious as it is, and Harry has had more than his share of both of the former.
He's treated to even more bewilderment when the door opens and in walks Eggsy, just as bold and cocky as when he left Harry's side after lunch. He doesn't even break his stride as he crosses the room and sits opposite Harry, as though he knows exactly where he's going.
"Fancy seein' you 'ere, professor," Eggsy says, motioning for a pint of the same cheap swill all poor uni students prefer. "Thought you'd be at some proper posh place, not a little rundown pub like this."
"It's near enough my home without being too close to campus," Harry explains. "It's rare that I see any of my own students here."
"Still rare," Eggsy replies, winking at Harry. "I ain't your student."
Harry laughs, shaking his head before reaching for his Guinness. "Quite luckily, if your papers would be written in your same English," he teases, but Eggsy isn't put off by it at all. The boy seems to be happy just to see Harry happy, and Harry can't help but feel special at the young man's attention being directed at him, and only him. There is something in Eggsy's manner that draws Harry to him and makes him want to know more—to know everything. He's so very, very young, and so incredibly unafraid. This boy, surely he's never known loss so deep it feels as though every breath will be his last.
"But you could be," Harry blurts out, suddenly serious. "You've sat in on my class often enough, and you know the material. I'm confident you'd do well in any class. Why haven't you applied?"
"'Cause then I'd be busy too often, even if I could afford it," Eggsy replies. "Not all of us can have the life we want, yeah?" Harry knows there's more to the story, but he's only known Eggsy for a day, really, and it's not fair to pry when in all likelihood he'll never see the young man again.
Instead, Harry takes a sip of his drink. "Something to do with your questions about poison?" he asks, hoping that's a neutral enough question that Eggsy won't recoil, leaving Harry alone again.
"Maybe," Eggsy concedes, a grin slowly spreading over his face. "Why? Offerin' to help me commit murder, Professor Hart?"
"We knew you two were something special, but we didn't expect you both to make it this far," Merlin said, holding his pint aloft and toasting their success. His companions did the same—after all, it was a celebration.
"I knew you'd do it," Harry said to James, so proud of his candidate, his partner, his life. "Bloody well done."
"You know, no sane person would congratulate someone on shooting their dog," James teased, and Lee agreed.
"My boy's been askin' for a dog for months," he said. "I was thinkin' how unfair it was that I got such a sweet dog, only to have to murder 'im to give my family a better life."
"And now we've got another dog to raise," James sighed, nudging Harry playfully. Harry chuckled. James had picked a Yorkie of his own, a little female to keep Mr. Pickle company.
"Well, they'll stay at headquarters until we get back from Afghanistan," he pointed out, "and by then, one of you will be Lancelot." He still wasn't sure what would happen to the other if they both did well; Harry could admit he'd grown fond of Lee's easy manner and quick wit over the months of training, and both would be an asset to Kingsman, though he truly hoped James would come out on top.
He'd make sure to tell him everything anyway; now that he knew about the agency it would be hard not to keep him apprised of Harry's missions.
Harry had already gotten an earful during their 24 hours about all of his trips to "buy new fabric" or "study Russian clothing makers," along with some truly deliciously dirty sex, through which James had extracted a promise that Harry tell him before he did anything stupidly dangerous again.
Now he could—he would. His lover was a Kingsman now.
"… so you wanna get out of here?"
Harry blinks, coming back to the present. He's sure Eggsy said something he should have listened to, but his mind's already made up. "Sure." It doesn't even matter where they're going right now, what Eggsy expects him to do. The answer's yes.
Eggsy beams at him, downing the last of his pint and waiting for Harry to stand before taking the man's hand. Eggsy's hand is warm and solid in Harry's, and Harry can't help smiling back at Eggsy as they hurry along darkened London streets.
"Where are we going?"
"The Garden Museum," Eggsy says, smirking. "If you're too scared to go in, we can even jus' walk around outside.
"They're closed," Harry points out, but something in him already knows that's not going to stop Eggsy.
"Nah, just means we gotta be creative to enjoy it all by ourselves. Pickin' locks is somethin' we do for fun 'round my neighbourhood," Eggsy replies, digging in his pocket for something, coming up victorious. Harry recognises the lock-pick set; it's a cheap one, the sort they sometimes force on agents when they begin to rely too heavily on their tech in the field. Eggsy is watching Harry, waiting on his word. He looks so earnest, so ready to show Harry a good time, and Harry is powerless to refuse. It's been a long time since he felt so alive, and that this boy, this young man could be the one to bring this joy back to him for even a few minutes is a wonder Harry can't begin to understand.
It can't really hurt to break in, can it, Harry thinks as Eggsy leads him through the exterior garden, deeply shadowed by the old church in which the museum resides. It's eerily silent, neither Harry nor Eggsy's feet making a sound on the dirt path.
Eggsy jimmies the door open in no time at all, and it creaks open unnaturally loudly in the silence. Harry's broken into buildings before; he's a spy, for fuck's sake, but never like this, just for fun. He doesn't need to worry that each footstep will bring bullets raining down on his position. It won't result in hours of paperwork for collateral damage. There's no need for weapons at all.
It's just an adrenaline rush for the sake of the adrenaline rush.
"If I live through this, I'm going to kill you," Harry muttered, checking his ammo stash.
James's laugh was bright as he tightened the straps on his body armour, checking that he had his gloves and goggles handy. "You'll be fine, Harry. We've seen worse than this."
Harry had to concede that point, but … "Normally I don't willingly go into those situations when I've the undubitable knowledge that I'll be getting shot."
"Well, then there's just one thing to do," James whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of Harry's nose before settling the goggles over his eyes. "Don't get shot." He grinned, self-assured and cocky, before heading out onto the field, gun up and ready to fire.
Harry grumbled, shaking his head as he followed his partner out, in it to win it, despite his misgivings.
It took three showers to get all the paint out of his hair.
Eggsy puts a finger to his lips, as though Harry needs reminding to be quiet. The place is eerie in the darkness, exhibits minimally lit and unfamiliar sounds echoing through the nave making both their steps slower, softer. This definitely isn't Eggsy's first time sneaking into a place like this, and it takes them a good ten minutes of careful creeping to relax enough to enjoy the exhibits and converse softly.
"This bloke was pretty borin' weren't he?" Eggsy asks, as they look at a display about decking. "S'like, all 'e done was garden." He passes by a display waxing poetic about seed catalogues, shaking his head in disbelief.
"He's not done too poorly," Harry points out. "He's written books and has a solid following in the media."
"Still—anyone who gets excited about waterin' cans is pretty odd," Eggsy murmurs, and it's only the sound of new, unfamiliar footsteps that keep Harry from laughing. Eggsy instinctively draws back into the shadows, and Harry takes a moment to be impressed as he follows the young man's orders to follow. He's calm, clearly assessing the situation for the best way to get them out undetected. And under different circumstances, Harry thinks, Eggsy would have made an excellent addition to the Kingsman ranks. He'd felt that way once before, too, though, and Harry was now all too aware of how horribly things could go wrong.
Death is a big part of Harry's life; he's lost friends and enemies alike, pulled the trigger himself on multiple occasions, not even realising at the time that's what he was doing.
Lancelot was dead.
Merlin had sent out the notice as soon as it was confirmed. Harry looked up from his computer, over to James, who was reading a book of his own. It had been more than a year since they'd met, seven months since he'd asked James to move in with him.
"I have to go," Harry said. "Work called."
"Funny hours for a tailor shop," James murmured, turning the page. "Still not sure I believe you."
Harry smiled slightly. "I promise, someday you'll know everything. Just trust me."
And he would. He was going to propose James to be the next Lancelot—he was perfect: smart, military-trained, able to think clearly even under extreme pressure, and Harry knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that James was loyal and would never say a word. Besides which, Harry wanted to tell him everything.
After tonight, he could.
"You know I trust you, Harry," James replied, wrapping his arms around Harry and tugging at his tie, skewing it. "Just wish you trusted me back."
"Trust me this time. I'll tell you everything." Harry sighed, nosing James's ear before pulling away and fixing his tie. He really did have to get going if he wanted to be there for the toast.
James sighed, but let Harry go. "I'll wait dinner on you."
Eggsy is pressed close, and Harry watches him, body instinctively still and quiet. They see the guard walk through the room, the beam from his torch swinging lazily across the floor. He's a man even older than Harry, and almost certainly doesn't have even half the same training: hardly a threat. But Eggsy doesn't move.
That's a lie, Harry thinks, as the boy's fingers curl around his hip. He smiles slightly; there's no need for Eggsy to hold him so close, but it feels good.
The guard moves past, but Eggsy's hand doesn't leave its perch. "Think we oughta go, guv?" he breathes, and Harry looks down, into those green eyes so alight with life. His breath catches in his throat and he nods, letting Eggsy take his hand and pull him through the museum, back out the way they came.
"S'a bit of a rush, yeah?" Eggsy laughs, nearly tripping in the dark as he and Harry walk hand-in-hand out to the main road, catching a taxicab.
When they arrive back at Harry's, Eggsy flops down on the couch without an invitation, and Harry shakes his head. "Good manners would be that you wait for your host to invite you to sit," he chides playfully, and Eggsy rolls his eyes.
"Nobody's ever accused me of good manners before, guv," he replies. "Now, how about a drink, yeah? For survivin' the Garden Museum an' nearly getting' caught by some old man with a torch an' all?"
"Martinis?" Harry asks, and Eggsy grins.
"Gonna teach me to make them proper?"
"Of course."
Harry invites Eggsy to join him at the liquor cabinet, pulling out the gin and the vermouth (he's always felt that vodka martinis are for those who can't appreciate a proper mixed drink—there's no real flavour, and to add too much to a martini cheapens the experience, in his fairly well-founded opinion), and together they make glass after glass. Eggsy, he learns, can't stand the taste of vermouth, so his martinis soon become little more than gin and bitters, and they are both getting rather drunk.
Finally, though, Harry has to concede victory to the younger man. His tolerance isn't what it used to be, and his head is beginning to swim. "I think it's time for bed." Eggsy lights up, an impish smile playing on his lips.
"Want some company?"
It's not proper, Harry knows that with every fibre of his being. He shouldn't. James would be appalled at his lack of will-power.
"Yes."
Eggsy strips unselfconsciously, and Harry is only able to stare as he does. What does one do with such a lovely body? Surely his touch will only take away from the purity Eggsy seems to embody—though Harry has already learned that looks are very much deceiving in this case. Eggsy's so open with affection, so tactile and inviting, and Harry … he isn't. Hasn't done since James.
But Eggsy seems oblivious to Harry's internal debate, merely asking which side of the bed is his for the night, tight black briefs hiding what Harry perversely hopes is a glorious cock. He reaches out, fingertips catching lightly on the waistband of those teasing pants. Eggsy comes forward easily, touching Harry's cheek. He's smiling, and then Harry is, too, slowly removing his suit, folding the coat and laying it over the dresser, fingers fumbling with his tie until Eggsy moves in and does it for him.
"Too smashed to even unknot your own tie," Eggsy teases, using the garment to pull Harry down closer, barely hesitating before pressing their mouths together. The touch is too brief, too soft, and Harry follows as Eggsy pulls back. Eggsy just laughs softly and sets about stripping Harry of his suit, having a little trouble with the cufflinks but managing not to rip anything in his haste.
Not that Harry cares right now. They're both in nothing but their underwear, and Harry's hands are shaking as he leads Eggsy back to his bed. What the fuck is he doing? This isn't part of his plan at all!
No second thoughts, Harry tells himself as Eggsy makes himself comfortable, rolling his hips to remove his briefs, and yes, his mouth waters at the sight of Eggsy's bare body. Just this once, it's okay.
He runs his hands over a smooth, warm chest, abs that are better defined than he expected, touching old scars and bruises—he's more than his fair share, and Harry wants to know who hurt him. He's gentle as he explores, nibbling at the boy's neck and shoulders.
Eggsy isn't in the mood for this sentimentality, though; he whines and wiggles his hips. "C'mon, Harry, fuckin' tease," he sighs, eyes on the other man, taking in his body. It's obvious he likes what he sees. "M'not some virgin you gotta wine an' dine." He tugs Harry down for another kiss, this one much deeper, with teeth and tongue and want. There are hands tugging his briefs down, and this, this is familiar. Harry knows what's expected of him here.
He wants to make Eggsy come apart under his touch. The lube and condoms in the side drawer are old, though thankfully not yet expired, and Harry smiles sheepishly at Eggsy. "It's … well, it's been a while," he admits carefully.
Eggsy just grins, grabbing the lube and squirting it onto his own hand. "Then you jus' relax an' I'll do all the hard work," he teases, laying back and sliding those slick fingers deep inside himself. He knows what he's doing, squirming, pressing deep and twisting those clever fingers, stretching himself open for Harry. Harry, for his part, can't keep his hands to himself—he strokes Eggsy's cock, kisses him, cements it into his mind that this is really happening and that it's okay to want this before he even reaches for a condom, rolling it on and using a bit more lube on himself.
"Fuck—m'ready," Eggsy breathes, smiling up at Harry, hair damp with sweat and falling onto his forehead. Harry smiles back and smooths those loose hairs away, slowly pressing forward into the boy, unable to keep himself silent. Eggsy was so tight, so hot around him. His moans only encourage Eggsy; the younger man smiles blissfully up at him and shifts to make it easier on Harry. "Ah, shit, Harry," he gasps, legs wrapping tight around Harry's waist once the man's fully seated inside. "Do it."
Harry doesn't need the encouragement; he's ready for this—it's been more than eight months since he was last with anyone—since he was with James—but his body still knows what to do. He takes Eggsy's erection in hand, stroking roughly as he thrusts into him. Eggsy gives as good as he gets; his fingers are gripping bruises into Harry's arms, scratching red lines into his sides, biting and sucking at Harry's neck so hard there's going to be a few bruises that won't be covered by his shirt collars.
He isn't going to last long, that much he knows. And Harry only hopes that Eggsy won't hold it against him if he brings him off after. But it's been too long, and so when he spills inside of Eggsy, he can't meet the boy's eyes, maybe a little ashamed that he doesn't have enough stamina to outlast a boy in his sexual prime—and he won't even be able to get it up again for hours to rectify the situation.
Eggsy nips at Harry's shoulder, his own hand covering Harry's as he helps the man wank him off. It doesn't take long for him to come over their hands, smiling at Harry and looking utterly besotted—not something Harry usually equates with borderline premature ejaculation.
"S'good," Eggsy hums, stretching out his legs and shifting a little. "Gimme a tic; I'll fetch a flannel and clean us up."
Harry thinks he should protest—he should get the cloth and wipe them both down, but really, he can't be arsed, and Eggsy's willing …
He falls asleep to the feel of a damp, warm cloth running over his torso.
James's things were still in boxes, piled in corners of rooms, still nowhere near unpacked. But he was home, with Harry.
Harry smiled at his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around James and kissing his cheek. He was so happy things were working out like this; he was mad for the man and this was right. They'd been seeing each other seriously for nearly a year, and every night James had away from Devonport he was back in London, spread out over Harry's sheets and completely spent.
Rather like he was at the moment, actually, Harry thought, finders tracing the lines of muscle in the man's abdomen absentmindedly. Nothing was changing except James's address with this move.
"I'm glad you're here," Harry whispered into his lover's ear, hands sneaking down James's body again, with purpose. James laughed and squirmed before Harry could grab his cock.
"Me, too," James breathed, rolling over to pin Harry down on the bed, shooting him a bright grin. "So glad to be home. But it's my turn to drive, old man."
Harry is startled awake by the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs and the familiar whistle of the teakettle. It takes him a few minutes to realise that he didn't spend the night alone, for the first time in months.
He almost smiles before reality sets in.
The kettle whistled loudly, and Harry looked over at James. "It's your turn to make the tea. I did it yesterday." Besides which, Harry was reading over two reports that were likely to be important for his upcoming mission to Nicaragua.
James rolled his eyes, petting the two Yorkies curled up in his lap. "Well, I'm not doing it—I'm busy."
"They'll get over it. Anyway, I'm too old to get up. You'll have to do it."
James barked out a laugh, startling the dogs. "Bullshit, Harry." He scratched Mr. Pickle's head, and the old dog snuffled, shifting to get comfortable again. Damned traitorous dog, Harry thought.
"You are a prick," Harry said, making a show of groaning loudly as he pulled himself to his feet. "Your turn to take care of tea tomorrow. And I expect quality biscuits with it."
"Right, of course," James replied, smiling charmingly at his partner, blowing a kiss and all.
Harry'd fixed the tea the next day, and the day after that, too.
It was only supposed to have been a routine mission. Not the end of everything.
When Harry finally makes his way downstairs, he's greeted by the sight of Eggsy wearing his robe, moving about the kitchen as though he belongs there. The boy pulls the kettle off the stove with one hand, the other prodding at the bacon sizzling beside it. When he catches sight of Harry, he grins at the man.
"You look … better," Eggsy says, waving Harry over to the table. "Hope you don't mind me cookin' breakfast, but I was hungry."
"Of course not," Harry replies, fixing his cup of tea, resolutely not paying attention to Eggsy watching how much milk and sugar he added. "You're welcome to take over cooking for me anytime." The words are out of Harry's mouth almost before he's realised what he's said—he isn't even supposed to be here at this point, certainly not with a boy young enough to be his son prancing about shirtless in his worn red robe.
But Eggsy's grinning at him, clearly pleased with Harry's thoughtless phrase. "Aren't you a sweet-talker," he jokes, plating the meal and handing one to Harry before sitting opposite him, in James's chair, Harry realises, sitting there as if it's his. Something seizes up inside Harry; his heart aches, feels like it's being ripped from his chest, and it must show on his face because Eggsy's right there beside him, looking worried.
"You don't gotta talk," Eggsy murmurs once Harry waves him off—he's fine, really he is. Just an incurable bout of nostalgia. "But that's … part o' why I followed you yesterday," he admits. "You looked bad off, guv. An' I'd've never forgiven meself if anythin' 'appened to you."
"You don't know me," Harry whispers, "nor should you want to."
"Never cared what people say I should do," Eggsy says, smiling wryly. "I seen that look you had on a lot o' folks down the estate. An' it'd be a shame to see you go the same way they do." He starts eating his breakfast in earnest, giving Harry his space, his thoughts, silence.
Harry had thought he'd hidden it so well. Even Merlin hadn't commented, and he knew Harry better than anyone alive. Despite it all, he does his job, and he does it well—whoever came in to clean up his life would find no unanswered questions left behind.
"But you don't gotta say anythin'," Eggsy repeats, "jus' so long's you know there's people who like you. I like you." He smiles shyly at Harry before shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth.
Harry says nothing, but he smiles his understanding. He knows that people care for him. It's just that the number has seemed insignificant in the face of his grief.
It was like any other Tuesday. Harry had just gotten back from a particularly rough mission in Lebanon, and James from a stakeout in Costa Rica. Harry hadn't even seen his partner in two weeks, but right now, all he wanted was a long, hot shower and something to eat—he could see James when he felt more human. And maybe he could get out of doing his debrief until morning. He didn't even stay long enough to clear it with Arthur; he climbed into the taxi and went straight home, his ruined suit discarded to the floor as he made his way upstairs.
He'd just stepped into the shower when he heard someone else enter the room, and Harry only smiled when he felt James step in behind him, warm arms wrapped around him and a bony chin digging into his shoulder blade.
"Missed you."
"Missed you, too."
James was silent then, fingers dancing over sore, tense muscles as Harry let himself relax. He was safe, and James was safe, too. That was all that mattered.
"I love you," James said after a long while, and Harry hummed.
"I love you, too." It was the right thing to say. They'd been together for nearly two years, living together for most of that. They'd never needed to say the words, but it felt right to say them.
"Hell of a time to tell me if you didn't," James teased lightly, and Harry turned to face his partner. "Come on; the water's getting cold. We ought to dry you off and get something to eat."
They'd dried each other off gently, but dinner wasn't what Harry was hungry for just then. He pulled James to their bed, aching muscles and still-tender knife wounds be damned.
Eggsy leaves hours later with a smile on his face, his clothes freshly washed and with a croissant snitched from breakfast in hand. He blows Harry as kiss as he rounds the corner out of sight, leaving Harry alone, and too many hours past his chosen expiration date. Harry's smiling, still, and it feels unfamiliar to him, after so long unable to muster up real joy.
The door closes behind him, and Harry sighs heavily as he stands in the entryway, looking around at the butterfly-covered walls, the nick in the floor where James had kicked the brolly stand over, the mantle covered in pictures of the two of them.
The house feels too large now, too empty, too quiet, too lonely. Where once were only memories of James and heartache so profound it literally makes Harry's head spin, now he wants Eggsy's bright smile back to fill the corners. He's known the boy less than a day, and he knows this is pathetic.
Harry's an old man, latching onto comfort where he's offered it despite how unfair it is to the other party. Eggsy is still young and beautiful, and far, far too good for someone as old as Harry.
Fuck. It's far too early in the day, and he's still slightly hungover, but Harry needs a drink. He makes his way upstairs to the office, stopping just long enough to pour a full glass of scotch before taking a seat at his desk.
On the desk's otherwise immaculate surface, Harry finds a note scrawled in Eggsy's hand—a bit messy, tight and loopy, and looking very much like the man who'd penned it:
Harry—
Next time, don't take your really dangerous toys to uni. Common types like me might work out your diabolical plots.
And leaving out all your farewell notes didn't make it hard to put it all together.
I'm borrowing your pen.
I'll give it back to you on our next date.
—Eggsy
He's also scribbled down his phone number again ("Just in case you've already lost it, old man," and he can hear Eggsy's teasing tone so clearly), and has even drawn a little heart—poorly rendered, but it makes Harry chuckle. It's … novel, knowing that someone out there cares so much about his well-being, even though it wouldn't be difficult to acquire another pen to finish the job. Indeed, he's likely got another one lying about the house if he were so inclined to find it.
But if he does that, he won't get another date with Eggsy.
And Harry wants that, wants to see that confident smirk and hear that brash laugh again. Wants it like he's not wanted anything in a long time.
He picks up the phone, dialling Eggsy's number.
-I don't know shit about wine or liquor. I'm teetotal. So take all of that with a grain of salt and blame Google if it's wrong.
-The exhibit they break into was a real exhibit, about Alan Titchmarsh, and yes, according to the Telegraph, one display was of decking. Say what you want of gardening, but that takes some real dedication to enjoy.
-I have never been paintballing. I know it involves paint and bruises, neither of which are things I care to deal with. Ugh.