A/N Content warning for attempted suicide.

I Want

"I'm a Catholic whore currently enjoying congress out of wedlock with my black, Jewish boyfriend, who works at the military abortion clinic. So hail Satan, and good day."

The look of shock on her face had given him a quick, petty thrill of pleasure.

The smile lingered on the corner of his lips as he walked down the aisle of the church towards the door.

Then he stopped walking.

Stopped smiling.

And-

Harry gagged. One tended to do that when a ventilator tube was lodged in their throat. His movement and the wailing monitors brought doctors. Strange. Why was he in a hospital and not in the care of the Kingsmen?

His body was too tired to stay awake long, and after the herculean effort of coughing the tube out of his body, he went back to sleep.

"What did you do to me? I wasn't in control of myself. I wanted to-"

God, he'd needed to hurt those people, to-

His beard was worse than when he woke up after being poisoned. At least enough time had gone by for the hair on his head to grow back. Harry was not under the impression he could sport the shaved head Merlin did and still cut a fine figure.

They had gone in and repaired what they could, trying to save his left eye. The bullet had gone through it, so why they bothered was a bit of a mystery to him. It had exited just past his temple, managing to avoid the control center for anything particularly vital to his body's functions. The mess it made had been enough to convince Valentine he was dead. The emergency responders who came to the church had thought that too. He was lucky he had been outside, and one of the first checked for vitals. Any more time on his own under the sun, and they wouldn't have been able to save him.

Harry toyed with the bandage on his face after a nurse was kind enough to offer him a hair cut and a mirror. He would have been fine with a dead eye, but an absent one seemed troublesome.

Merlin would probably want to stick some gadget right into the socket.

That his brother in arms, or any of the others, had yet to collect him was disconcerting.

The medical professionals who he spoke to didn't know who he was. He decided to play ignorance with them. If the Kingsmen did not know where he was, and since no one had been there when he woke he was certain they didn't, he decided to stay. Being an amnesiac who just awoke after brain surgery and a several month coma gave the hospital leave to keep him.

He gathered what information he could from the time of his long nap, and availed himself of the physio therapy that was being offered.

The smile lingered on the corner of his lips as he walked down the aisle of the church for the door.

Then he stopped walking.

Stopped smiling.

And in his next breath he was turning, sprinting-

striking down-

tearing apart-

destroying every body in his path.

He did not smile, but his heart pounded.

And-

The Americans, some with their southern drawl, were enamored by his accent. He hadn't been together enough to hide it from them when he first woke. The nurses took to calling him James Bond, in part because of his voice, but mostly after seeing the suit he had been found in. The doctors and police said they were certain his clothes and nationality would help them find out who he was, though Harry knew better.

He would have been impossible to find in the best of times, and what he learned told him that the world had gone through the worst of it while he was out. While it recovered, so would he.

Only being able to use the physio equipment in the presence of an orderly or some other health professional was damned annoying, but if he did too much too quickly, they would boot him out. The American health care system was a nuisance.

It was better than the street. Where doors didn't lock on the outside and there weren't ready made beds that could strap him down.

He had to keep his hands busy, and if he could only do it under someone else's watchful eye, he was better off for it.

"What did you do to me? I wasn't in control of myself. I-"

It was some time after his hands had regained their strength that he was able to procure his own razor and shave himself. The endless chatter of those who had done it for him had been useful when he still needed to learn about what was happening. They had become a bit of a nuisance in the past week, hands deft at their task and eyes always on him.

When Harry finished shaving, he patted his face dry and dampened his hair to slick it back. It was almost back to the way it had been before, even after one nurse's niece had been given leave to practice her beauty school education on him.

The man in the mirror was thinner than he had seen himself in a while, but hospital food and atrophied tended to take a lot out of a person. Physio therapy and nicked lunches could only do so much. Still, he didn't look half as bad as he did when he first woke up.

Harry picked up the razor he had just finished shaving with and dragged it across his carotid.

"What did you do to me? I wasn't in control of myself. I wanted-"

He wanted to feel them break under his palms. Watch them flail and die, like so many fish in a barrel under his practiced hands. Every breath cut short, every arc of blood, every scream of pain-

his heart pounded.

"I wanted-"

That cunt Nancy had been keeping an eye on him, and she didn't have to be the person he first saw when he opened his eyes to know she was the one who had saved him.

"There's group meetings, for when you're back on your feet."

"I believe you failed to understand the meaning of the exercise if you think I want to get back on my feet."

"Oh, I got your meaning clear enough. Who gives a shit if you look like a pirate? Saves you a lot of trouble come Halloween. That in itself is reason enough to stay alive. Think of all the money you'll save."

With his one eye, and now rather notable scar on his neck, she had a point. "Fuck you."

"See you at lunch, Mr. Bond."

When he jammed the knife into the man's eye and deep into his brain, all he felt was disappointment that his death spasms were not strong enough to vibrate the handle in his hand.

His disappointment lasted less than a second, when he turned and killed the man who charged him.

"You say you have made no progress on the recovery of your memory?"

Harry had made far too much. He couldn't blame anything on brain damage, the shot to the head had come after. He couldn't even reliably pin it on the signal, the explanation Valentine had given him had made no mention of the pleasure center of the brain.

"Some traumatic experiences can be blocked by our unconscious mind, but what about before the church. Is there anything that is familiar to you? A name, a place?"

Harry watched the man scribble notes on his clipboard.

"Reports from the orderlies said you were very keen on keeping up with your physical therapy. Commitment to making yourself strong again is a good sign of recovery. So, I have to ask."

Here it was. Harry stared at the man with his one remaining eye.

"Why did you feel compelled to try and take your own life?"

"I don't want to be a pirate for Halloween."

"I wanted to-"

"I wanted-"

"I-"

Thinking about the massacre didn't make him sick. He had seen far worse atrocities in the field.

It made his heart pound. It made his blood race. It made his muscles ache to stretch out and relive the moment.

It made him hard.

"Think you're quite the comedian, don't you? They're talking to you because they want to help."

"I am incredibly funny." Her second comment deserved no response.

Nancy handed him his little paper cup of pills. He had been cheeking them since they started giving them to him. He probably had enough now to poison her.

"I suppose Brit humor isn't my thing then, though that Catherine Tate, I like her."

He hummed while he drank his water, pills safely tucked away from his esophagus.

"You know what I think is funny?"

He handed back his cup.

"That a man could turn up in a place like you did, wearing what you were. Police are just thick some times, you know that?"

He stared at her.

"I thought, man wears a suit like that, he must really love clothes. Or have a reason to be wearing something like that, maybe a job. Either way, whoever made the suit must see him a lot."

"Nancy, what did you do?"

"I called your tailor."

His blood raced. His muscles ached to stretch out and relive the moment. That kill. A kill. Just another body-

He shuddered and gasped, trembling despite the heat of his skin.

Fuck. He needed to be quiet, or the nurses would come running in to check on him.

"Why didn't you contact us?"

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and for the first time in decades, Harry felt nauseous during an interrogation.

Merlin must have read his medical file, because when he looked at him, he didn't flinch. Or his poker face had significantly improved. Had Merlin ever been bad at poker? Maybe he was losing his memory.

His meager, blood stained things had been packed up by Merlin, and a fresher set of clothes brought. It was more casual than proper work attire, but it was more layers than he had been given in a while. After he had changed, they stayed and spoke in the relative privacy of his room in the psychiatric ward.

Merlin frowned at his silence, eyes dropping to the large, still pink, scar across his neck. It would fade from its garish hue in time, but always be noticeable.

"It was Arthur."

"What?"

"Valentine had Arthur in his pocket."

Oh. He couldn't learn that form nurse's idle chatter. "You still won."

"Thanks to Eggsy, he's a fine Galahad."

Well, that was it, wasn't it? "Why are you here?"

Merlin didn't respond, as Nancy stepped into the room.

"You have a very dedicated tailor, Mr. Bond."

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

"It's Hart, actually. Harry Hart."

Nancy smirked. "Knew you were a lying little shit."

Of course she had, it was why she kept an eye on him. "Your bedside manner will be sorely missed when I leave this establishment."

Merlin didn't bother to contain his smirk. "I'm sorry to take you away then, but you're needed back home."

Harry struggled to keep his expression neutral.

His whole body flushed with excitement. His breathing was rapid and shallow, lungs burning. He bit his lip and made the mistake of closing his eyes.

They were there, under his lids, dropping like rag dolls, blood spurting from severed arteries. Bones jutting out of torn skin.

He choked on his moan, hand tightening around his prick.

"Oh shit! Lookit whose back!"

JB was almost stepped on as Eggsy leaped up from his chair. Roxy rolled her eyes, but the beginnings of her smile vanished when she looked at Harry. She was not disgusted or startled, but her sudden blankness was enough of a tell.

Eggsy crushed his ribs in a quick hug. "We had to save the fuckin' world without you!"

"Yes well, thank you for managing to keep it mostly intact."

"Who has the right to talk about missin' pieces?"

Merlin had brought him an eye-patch, so he didn't have to walk around the world with the band-aid lookalike the hospital offered. His impaired vision was one thing to get used to, having something strapped to his head all day was another. Maybe he would risk tech in his skull for the ability not to have to feel something sitting across his hairline.

Eggsy had stepped back form the hug, but his hands were still on his arms, fingers clasped in a bone tight grip. Harry had nothing to offer in response to the hopeful look in his eyes.

"Yes, well, we can have a party celebrating the return of the pieces we did get back later." Merlin put his hand on Eggsy's shoulder, and the younger man finally let go of Harry. "For now, let's get him settled."

"I am not a piece of furniture." Harry picked up his bag and walked down the hall.

He tasted blood. His or someone else's? He had stepped out of the church so clean. Maybe that was part of it. The precision, the efficiency. What little there was that needed to be washed away.

But he was alone now, and the blood was definitely his. He had bitten through his lip in an effort to say silent, but his moans still escaped to his chest.

His balls were tight and he barely maintained enough coordination to keep stroking himself.

Merlin closed the door behind him.

Harry didn't rise form his seat at the edge of the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Suicide watch."

"Excuse me?"

"Myself, the other Kingmen, and I believe that lovely nurse too, would be far too upset should you make another attempt."

He gripped his knees, but it did little to hold back his rising anger. He stared at the floor, tracking Merlin's feet as he approached him. He was being a damned idiot about this.

"This isn't meant to trap you. You aren't a prisoner."

"I should be." He was shaking, and he wasn't sure when it started. "I should be strapped down in a cell."

"Why?"

He ignored the question. "And you damn well better keep your eyes on me at all times." He tugged his eye-patch off and dropped it next to him.

He started when Merlin's hands reached him and finally looked up. His fingers brushed against his temple before dropping down to trace his cheek. It was more than a cursory check of the changed landscape of his face.

"I was watching you know."

He tried to look away but Merlin gripped his chin and kept his face forward.

"I saw what it made you do. What it did to everyone. No one could have resisted that." He dropped his hand. "You should get ready for bed. Do you want the right, or the left side?"

His toes curled.

Coming wasn't a release of tension, or a flood of warmth out to his nerve endings.

It was fireworks of brain, blood and viscera that left him weak-limbed and lightheaded.

He didn't have time to clean himself up before he got sick. He had never wanked to the memory of murder before. Then again, all his other kills had been pre-approved assassinations.

Perhaps spontaneity was the key.

There was no weapon under his pillow, so when something touched him, he resorted to grappling.

Merlin subdued him quickly, his body still not fit and fighting ready.

Adrenalin was still coursing through his system, but he forced the question past his dry throat. "Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine."

Merlin's words didn't make sense.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Harry." He released him, sitting up on his knees. "I'm fine."

He was shaking again, and when Merlin moved to get off of him, he grabbed him. "Don't-" let me up, let me move, let me leave.

He stayed straddling him, hand resting softly on the fingers Harry had digging into his forearm.

"I'm here. You're here. Nothing happened."

"It already did." It could one day, happen again.

The pleasure was visceral and sickening. He could force it to the back of his mind with enough exercise and training, distractions enough to sometimes let him forget, if only for a moment.

What was harder to ignore was the contented warmth that suffused his chest when he awoke from his nightmares, just before he could remind himself that was what they were.

"Who's the new Arthur?" He was only given information if he asked questions. Probably some damn attempt to make him engage. Eggsy occasionally forgot the rule, but the things that spilled out of his mouth usually required questions to understand.

"Sidney, lovely girl. Another of Percival's candidates."

"He seems to have a knack."

"You aren't half bad yourself." Merlin tapped his keyboard, and Galahad's mission stream grew larger on the monitor.

Harry lingered at the house and at Merlin's side since his return. He had no where to go and possibly no leave to go if he did. He doubted Merlin would let him out of his sight until he was completely satisfied, if that ever happened.

Perhaps, like Harry, he was simply growing used to falling asleep next to someone.

It was funny, but until he woke up with Merlin shouting his name, it hadn't occurred to him that he had never before dreamed of when he had been shot.

He was covered in cold sweat and clammy to the touch, but he burst into laughter.

Finally. A normal reaction.

"I'm not going back into the field."

"All right." Merlin smiled at him before picking up his soldering iron. The mechanical eye was working on was one of many in a long line that Harry was refusing to use. He was never going to change his mind, but Merlin liked to keep himself busy between missions.

Harry was seated in a rather plush armchair, ankle on his knee and book resting in his lap. Very few Kingsmen retired from the organization altogether, generally taking on leadership or analyst positions when they reached a certain age. He wasn't sure if 'youngest retiree' was a title he wanted. Being at HQ all the time and being a sounding board for some of the more inane ideas the younger members came up with had to count for something.

"I can't kill anyone again." What if he came out of it wrong? What if the massacre at the church was everything he had been hiding from himself, and the next life he took made it all too obvious?

Merlin put down his equipment, stepping away from his project. "We do other things, you know."

"Yes." But there was no guarantee that lethal force would not be required, and he would be a liability to others in the field if they did not believe he could properly defend them.

When Merlin got too close he picked up his book and buried himself in its pages.

He wasn't ready to discuss anything else.

It wasn't as if he was afraid talking about it would make it real, it was already far too real, under his skin and in his mind.

But what if talking about it made him believe he could forgive himself? After what he did, what right did anyone have to pass judgement?

The bed was warm and Merlin was the perfect shape for Harry to spoon up against. They had slept side by side and held each other through most nights since his return.

This was the first morning Harry felt compelled to kiss his shoulder.

"Mm." Merlin's voice was foggy with sleep. "You ready to talk about it?"

"I want to."

That was the closet to ready as he would ever be.

The smile lingered on the corner of his lips as he walked down the aisle of the church for the door.

Then he stopped walking, and stopped smiling.