I'm Still Here
I: The Gentleman
Whenever the subject of childhood and family comes up amongst his friends, they always laugh at him. "How can you remember that far back? I can't even remember what I did yesterday."
He laughs too, but he knows why. Imagery makes a vivid impression on memory. It isn't so much that he remembers the day itself, as he remembers the little details that compose it.
He remembers the gleaming Christmas lights in the window and the weight of the snow globe in his hand. He remembers the sudden shock of cold air that accompanied the door's opening. He remembers his mother weeping, and him not knowing why.
And of course, he remembers the gentleman. There had been no other way in his mind to describe him, and nothing that seemed more fitting. The gentleman wore an impeccable suit beneath his long jacket, black shoes that shone as brightly as the surface of a pond on a sunny day, and a pair of thick-framed glasses perched comfortably on his nose. He had never seen a gentleman before, but he knew that's what the man was, from his tasteful outfit to his dignified carriage. Even then, everything about him screamed wealthy, posh, and as he recalled the memory later in life, old money. He looked as if the winter wind had blown him in from another world, one that the boy and his mother would never be a part of.
He doesn't remember specifics of the man's appearance- how many buttons were done up on his coat, for example, or to which side he parted his hair, or what color his eyes were. He just remembers his tall, soft-spoken presence, and the brush of their fingers as he reached for the snow globe. And of course, he remembers the words as he handed over the mysterious medal, words of encouragement. Something about taking care of his mother, and the phrase that imprints itself onto his brain- Oxfords, not brogues. Then the gentleman left, taking the physical chill with him, but leaving behind a dark, oppressive cloud that at the time he could only comprehend as bad. His mum was crying, and it worried him, because he'd never seen her cry before. He came and took her hand, and she held him close as if she was afraid he would dissolve right out of her arms and disappear into thin air. He could feel each teardrop on her flesh as she pressed her cheek against his and brokenly murmured soothing words that seemed directed more towards herself than towards him.
After the arrival of the gentleman, nothing was ever the same.
He has held onto the medal, keeping it close by on a string beneath his clothing, where it hangs over his heart and reminds him of that cold childhood day when his mother slowly explained to him that Daddy's never coming home. He's never shown it to anyone- but he also has never forgotten its purpose.
Oxfords. Not brogues.
It's truly a shock when those words bring him face to face with the gentleman again. Of all the responses he had expected, it hadn't been that. Not the same man, at any rate.
But there he is, standing against the wall in his fancy suit and umbrella, plainly speaking the words that once again change everything.
"My name is Harry Hart, and I gave you that medal."
II: The Fantasy
When everything is said and done- the world's been saved, Dean has finally been beaten into submission like he deserves, and the family is safe and content and awaiting move-in- there's nothing left for Eggsy to do but take one last look around the empty flat, under the pretense that he's making sure he hasn't missed anything to be cleared out. He knows, though, that there's nothing left. Merlin went through the flat long before he did, boxing up personal items and whisking them away to god knows where. Eggsy had taken the second wave of cleaning, child-proofing the house and mapping out who would stay in which room. By now, the only reminder that a man named Harry Hart has ever lived here is the ever-present stuffed dog mounted over the toilet. When Eggsy questioned Merlin about it, Merlin said he wasn't going to take it if he could help it, and besides, Harry might have wanted Eggsy to have it.
From what little Eggsy actually knows of the man, he can believe it. But it frustrates him that he doesn't know more.
The quiet of the flat is unsettling, as are the bare white walls and the stench of Lysol that hangs in the air. Eggsy moves into the kitchen and sinks down at the table, resting his chin on his hands and finally letting out a deep sigh.
This isn't how it was supposed to end.
He'd never expected to see Harry again after that brief encounter during his childhood. But once he had seen him again, all the fantasies came flooding back. In the years following his father's death, Eggsy had had wild dreams in which Harry- the gentleman- figured prominently, stepping in to save Eggsy's family and take them off to his castle on a cloud, the world that Eggsy knew he didn't belong to. The wild fantasies had made a violent reappearance once his mother married Dean, but for the most part Eggsy was able to quash or ignore them. Until he'd met Harry again and was able to put a face to the figure in his head.
This isn't how his fantasy was supposed to end.
Some of the fundamental details had changed after Eggsy learned about Kingsman, but at its core the fantasy was the same as it has been seventeen years ago. In Eggsy's mind, he became Lancelot and returned to his home with newfound confidence. He drove Dean out once and for all. Then he, his mother, and little Daisy moved into Harry's flat- but this time Harry still lived in it, and made the offer personally. Eggsy and Harry worked at Kingsman together during the day, having marvelous adventures, and at night came home to the family waiting for them. Perhaps, if Eggsy let the fantasy reach its limit, Harry would fall in love with his mother and Eggsy would end up with a father- a real father- for the first time in seventeen years.
But almost as soon as Eggsy recalls the fantasies, he knows that they will never come to be. They're the product of an overgrown child's imagination, nothing more. Roxy is Lancelot, and well-deserving of the title. Harry is dead, gunned down in Kentucky by a man who ironically hated violence. And judging from certain points of their conversation on the night Eggsy had stayed at Harry's- not to mention the tense shadow of grief Merlin had worn like a burial shroud during the funeral-Michelle would have never be the type to catch Harry's eye anyway. Harry had said little when asked about his strict Scottish colleague, but what he had said spoke volumes.
He's at least managed to drive Dean off, though. And he has secured the flat.
But it isn't the same, because this isn't how it was supposed to end.
Another sigh escapes Eggsy, and he stands up, checking the watch on his wrist. Although he's accepted the Kingsman attire as a regular part of his wardrobe, the action still feels unnatural. Even wearing the suit feels unnatural, sometimes. Like he's stepped over a line that he shouldn't have crossed.
A world that you don't belong to…
Fifteen minutes before the moving van arrives, and the memory of Harry Hart is lost for good. Eggsy rubs the back of his neck and glances up the stairwell, a memory surfacing in his brain. The only time he'd been upstairs with Harry was on the night he stayed over. After a filling dinner, an excellent martini, and a long chat in the lamplight in front of the TV, the conversation gradually wound down and Harry announced that it was time to sleep. "You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Allow me to show you the guest room." Upstairs, he'd made a point to explain where every necessary item was located should Eggsy need them over the course of the night.
"If you require anything more," Harry had finished with, halting in the doorway while Eggsy opened the top drawer of the dresser and examined the sleepwear he'd been provided, "don't hesitate to ask for it. You know where to find me." He gestured lightly to the end of the hall, and Eggsy tore his eyes away from the dresser to give Harry a nod. "Thanks."
A warm, relaxed smile appeared on Harry's face, much different from the polite one Eggsy had seen him wear in public. Maybe it was the drinks they'd imbibed, or maybe it was the growing camaraderie of their conversation that had changed Harry's expression. Whatever it was, Eggsy felt a small glow of warmth within him when Harry gave a subtle nod back.
"My pleasure." He turned to leave, but not before adding, "Goodnight, Eggsy."
"'Night, Harry." The words fell gently from Eggsy's lips. He found himself listening to Harry's retreating footsteps down the hall, and was suddenly reminded of an incident from his childhood, from before the day the gentleman- Harry- arrived. He remembered a hand brushing back his hair, a pair of lips at his forehead, the light in his room going out and the footsteps as they descended the steps down to the sitting room. Somehow he felt for certain that that hadn't been his mother at his bedside.
Then the memory had dissipated, and Eggsy shook his head at himself as he began to undress. Affection? Really? What was he expecting? Harry Hart might be familiar with Eggsy through the files he'd uncovered, but that didn't mean Eggsy was familiar with Harry Hart.
And therein lies the problem. Eggsy ponders it as he stands in the hall, waiting for the inevitable.
He hadn't known Harry personally like Arthur or intimately like Merlin. Throughout their conversation the night Eggsy stayed over, Eggsy had only just begun to catch glimpses of the man behind Galahad. If Harry had survived his ill-fated trip to Kentucky, there might have been more time for a connection, more time to say I'm sorry I fucked up, let me make it up to you, I'll do anything-
But there is no way to coax a dead man back to life. So Eggsy's left with his fantasies and the projections of all that could have been. All that he wanted to be.
…But life's not a fucking fairytale.
The door creaks open then, and Eggsy is startled from his thoughts. He turns to see Roxy crossing the threshold, her arms full of carefully-labeled boxes. Eggsy approaches her to see if she needs help carrying them, but she sets them down on the floor right away and straightens up.
"Daisy and JB do all right?" Eggsy asks, and Roxy nods. "Yes. Daisy didn't give me any trouble. She's a sweet thing." Eggsy smiles faintly.
"JB, on the other hand…" Roxy shakes her head ruefully. "I'm happy to help any way I can, but I didn't imagine dog-sitting was on today's agenda."
"He'll only take orders from me," Eggsy says, his smile turning amused. "Thanks so much, Rox. You didn't have to do this."
"Hey, what are friends for?" Roxy replies breezily. She bends down to arrange the boxes out from underfoot, while Eggsy steps forward and peers out the front door. Right away he spots his mother unloading Daisy from her car seat while JB scrabbles at the front window, wriggling with excitement. The back of the car hangs open, fit to bursting with boxes.
So it begins. Eggsy takes a deep breath and turns back to Roxy, savoring every last bit of memory before the move-in properly starts. His eyes scan the blank walls, the winding staircase, the silent kitchen- and then they land on the bathroom. Mr. Pickle's dull, glassy eyes stare back at Eggsy, a perpetual reminder of the choice Harry had made to achieve his dream.
And Eggsy grins in spite of himself, because now he's certain that what Merlin said is right. If there's anything that Harry would have wanted him to keep in this house, it's the stuffed dog.
"Let's go," Roxy says, already on the move. She touches Eggsy's shoulder and gives it a squeeze as she passes him, and it strikes Eggsy as a strangely intimate gesture coming from her. Perhaps she can read the mixed emotions on his face. Eggsy's never been good at censoring how he feels.
He swallows, and then speaks up before Roxy can open the door, before she can set the move in motion. In the final seconds before Harry Hart's home becomes the Unwins' home, Eggsy decides to ask Roxy for her opinion.
"Roxy?"
She halts. "Yes?"
Part of him wishes it didn't have to be Roxy, but at the same time he has to open up to someone. He meets her level gaze.
"I… I know you didn't know him, but d'you think… Do you think he'd approve?"
Roxy, bless her, knows exactly who Eggsy's talking about. She comes to him, her eyes softening, and stops an inch away from him.
"Eggsy, you belong here as much as any of us. I don't just mean the house. I'm talking about the organization too. You deserve to be here. Harry wouldn't have nominated you if he hadn't thought so."
That's not exactly what Eggsy meant, but then again, he hadn't exactly asked the right question either. For now, Roxy's words are enough. He breathes slowly out and nods his head towards her. "Thanks, Roxy. That means a lot."
The corners of her mouth turn up in a small, encouraging smile, and she turns once again to this door. This time, Eggsy follows her out into the bright sunlight, leaving his memories at the threshold.
As far as he knows, Harry had made three important decisions in his life. He'd shot the dog, earning him a place at Kingsman. He'd nominated Eggsy's father for the position of Lancelot. And he'd nominated Eggsy for the same.
Eggsy can only hope that that decision has paid off, because he's sure Roxy's right. Harry would have approved of Eggsy's joining Kingsman at last.
He just hopes that Harry would have forgiven him, too.
AN: This piece's title comes from the song "I'm Still Here" by John Rzeznik, written for the movie Treasure Planet. Some parts of it remind me of Eggsy and how I imagine his relationship with Harry to be- mostly the second verse. I urge any readers to give the song a listen- or the movie a watch, it's fantastic.