This is my first foray into Kingsman fandom. I'm not abandoning Sherlock, though.
Feedback very much appreciated. Also looking for beta reader.

Sometimes Merlin wondered if being a Guardian was a blessing or a curse.
In his childhood, when he was told about his nature and life purpose, it came as quite a shock. He wasn't ready for that; couldn't imagine dedicating his entire life to being someone's guide and protector. Luckily for him, his Granny was a wise woman and managed to help him come to grips with such a daunting perspective. She taught him how to harness his gift and showed him how wonderful a life of a committed Guardian could be.
He, of course, wasn't one of those people who saw life through the rose-tinted glasses. Anything could go wrong – most of things, in Alasdair experience, certainly did. But, on the other hand, who said he couldn't be the lucky exception? People tended to believe in miracles, after all.
Armed with these skills and knowledge, young Alasdair Hamish McKinnon (although he disliked his middle name with passion) prepared himself for waiting, however long it might be. Not to mention that Granny warned him there were clear signs of him having not one but two charges (or Satellites, as the Guardian's life partners were called) in his life. Took him a while to get used to such bomb of information, but, somewhere at the back of his mind, he always knew he had been destined for something extraordinary. And wasn't the whole thing just a perfect confirmation to that?
As he had suspected, waiting took some time – six years, to be exact. Everything changed as soon as he turned eighteen: his uncle Maxwell told him about a secret spy agency named Kingsman, and asked Alasdair if he was willing to become a Kingsman knight. The young Scotsman, being rational and level-headed, asked for an opportunity to think everything through, agreeing meanwhile to sign the non-disclosure agreement. While doing that, he found out his uncle's codename – Gawain.
He remembered asking if he was supposed to get a codename too, and seeing his uncle's expression turn sad.
"Excalibur," the older man replied curtly, and Alasdair dropped the subject, feeling a wave of deep sorrow sweep over him, leaving him hurting and gasping in shock.
He might have passed out at some point, because next thing he knew was being cradled in his uncle's arms and rocked soothingly.
"I'm sorry, my dear boy," Maxwell placed a kiss on Alasdair's temple. "Agatha told me you manifested as a Guardian, but I had no idea you were empathic as well. Perhaps I shouldn't have offered..."
"No!" Alasdair protested, trying to pull himself upright and discovering with surprise his body's reluctance to obey his mind's orders. "No, uncle, I want to do it, please!"
The older man chuckled, fondly ruffling his nephew's hair and patting his cheek. "Alright, lad. But we need to schedule a preliminary training – I'm not going to throw you to the wolves unprepared."
"Whatever you think is necessary, I'll do it," Alasdair finally managed to get his body under control and pulled out of Maxwell's embrace, looking at the older man with barely concealed excitement. "You wouldn't be disappointed, uncle, I promise."
Maxwell chuckled again and stood up, patting the younger man on the shoulder. "I don't doubt that, lad. Now let me make some calls, and we shall see if I can get you pencilled in for the beginning of your training…"
Next two months for Alasdair went in a blur: preliminary training turned to be quite extensive and covered everything from computer technologies to weapons and hand-to-hand combat. There were even a few lessons on seduction techniques; Alasdair hasn't been overly fond of them, but Maxwell explained that it was an unavoidable part of the job, and the younger man accepted it as a necessary evil.
With all these lessons under his belt, the young Scotsman breezed through tests without any problems. Except maybe the last one – Alasdair figured out the bullets were blanks, but it hadn't made the whole situation any better. Took him almost a week afterwards to make peace with Sparky, his golden retriever, and he was overjoyed when his dog finally forgave him.
Still, here he was – a newly instated Kingsman knight with his place at the Table, already assigned a mission halfway across the world. All new knights started with easy missions – surveillance, mostly, - and then progressed towards more serious stuff. Alasdair went the same way, and two years later had a reputation of a successful agent with more than twenty perfectly executed missions.
And then everything in his life went tits up in a blink of an eye.
It was supposed to be a sophisticated but clean-cut rescue-and-retrieve mission. Due to the complexity of the mission task the decision had been made to send a team consisting of Gawain, Galahad and Excalibur.
All three done their parts with the usual precision, and were on their way to the extraction point, when their cover was blown and all hell suddenly broke loose.
Gawain and Galahad did their best to protect both their mark and their young colleague, but unfortunately, this time their best just wasn't enough.
When Alasdair regained consciousness a week later in Kingsman's medical wing, he found out that their mark and Galahad were dead, his uncle gravely injured, and his own career as a field agent ended for good because of a bullet rendering him paraplegic for undeterminable period of time.
His future, gone in a flash.
Kingsman medical branch, of course, did their best to resolve his problem with the damaged spinal cord, but, unfortunately, a human body wasn't just a mechanism that could be fixed with a couple of stitches. Despite an extensive rehab, Alasdair's body stubbornly refused to cooperate, so in the end he grudgingly accepted the hi-tech wheelchair and arranged for his personal belongings to be moved into his newly assigned lodgings at the HQ. He also was forced to entrust Sparky to Kingsman's kennels – there was no way he could care about his dog properly in his current damaged state.
As soon as he more or less got his bearings, Arthur called him in for a long overdue post-mission briefing. When the young Scotsman arrived at the door of Chester King's office, there was another man waiting outside, one that Alasdair recognised as Kingsman's current Merlin, the chief handler and the head of tech department.
After greeting each other they went into the office, and Chester, busy with the phone call, waved for them to come close and, in Merlin's case, take a seat at the table.
The older wizard, however, first of all made sure Alasdair had no troubles manoeuvring towards the head of the table and parking there, then went around and took his own seat.
The young ex-agent frowned, trying to make sense of the situation. One thing was for sure – this DEFINITELY wasn't the standard debrief.
As if hearing his thoughts, Chester King finished his call and turned to look at Alasdair with an expression of polite concern on his face.
"How are you feeling, Excalibur?" their Arthur enquired, making the young agent cringe in sudden annoyance.
"With all due respect, Sir, I'm not exactly a part of the Table now, am I?" he looked straight into their King's eyes. "You can drop the codename."
At this moment, Merlin cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "Actually, young man, that's exactly why I asked Arthur to schedule this meeting. I may have a job offer for you, if you have no objections against working for Kingsman tech department. I've seen your entry test result, and your skills will be quite in demand."
It was Arthur's turn to clear his throat, and Merlin glanced at his boss, receiving a quick nod and answering with one of his own. Then he continued.
"Long story short, in view of my impending retirement I would like to train you as my replacement, Alasdair. How do you feel about that?"
"Also, while you are weighing all pros and cons," Chester interrupted, "I would like you to think about your proposals for yours, Galahad's, and Gawain's positions. You are allowed to collaborate with your uncle, of course."
The young Scotsman was silent for a few moments, his gaze shifting between Arthur and Merlin. "That's a lot to take in, to tell the truth," he said finally. "Can I discuss it with my uncle?"
"Of course, Excalibur," Arthur confirmed. "As for 'dropping your codename', it will happen only when your position is officially declared vacant."
"And even then, you wouldn't be left without a codename," Merlin piped in. "I have one available at the moment. Galatine."
Alasdair, who, of course, was familiar with Arthurian legends, grinned in reply. "How thoughtful of you, Sir. Sword of Gawain. My uncle's legacy."
"Thought you'll appreciate the significance," the chief handler returned his grin. "Now, with Arthur's permission, you'd better be off to visit your uncle."
"Permission granted," their King confirmed. "Besides, it would be beneficial for both of you. Be sure to submit your proposals in two days. Off you go, Excalibur."
"Thank you, Sir," the young Scotsman manoeuvred his wheelchair back from the table and towards the door.
The road to Maxwell's room in medical wing took Alasdair ten minutes, and soon he was opening the door and directing his wheelchair to his uncle's bed.
The older man, propped up by multiple pillows, looked up from his Kingsman-issued tablet and smiled to his nephew. "Good to see you, lad. Merlin already sent me the feed from your meeting. Congratulations are in order, I guess?"
"Glad to see you too, uncle," Alasdair parked his wheelchair and reached out to grasp Maxwell's hand. "Maybe, but I need to hear your opinion on the matter first."
His uncle placed his other hand over Alasdair's, squeezing it lightly. "I think what you are needing to hear from me is the blessing, Dair. You've already decided, am I right?"
Alasdair nodded, swallowing nervously. "Do you approve? I've heard so much about the tech department, it sounds pretty impressive."
"It really is," Maxwell confirmed. "It's a good career choice, my boy. I'm proud of you. As for proposals, I have a small list just for the occasion. If you'll be able to shoulder a few meetings tomorrow, I can schedule them for you."
Alasdair unconsciously squared his shoulders. "I'll manage, uncle."
"Good lad," Maxwell praised, letting go of his nephew's hand and typing something into the tablet. "Here you go, invitations sent. All three of them will be there tomorrow at two, four and six P.M. accordingly."
"Anything in particular I should pay attention to?" Alasdair enquired, pulling his own tablet from the compartment in his wheelchair and starting to scroll through his uncle's notes. "Or anyone?"
"Good question, my boy," the older man nodded in approval. "Harold Hart, although I heard he prefers to go by 'Harry' nowadays."
"What's so special about him?" the young Scotsman opened Hart's dossier. Dark-haired, good-looking, with an infectious smile and surprisingly attractive dimples on his cheeks. "Beside his fetching appearance, of course."
"His grandfather held Galahad's position long time ago," Maxwell remarked. "He died in the line of duty, and Harold's father refused the position. But I think young Hart might be susceptible to our offer."
Alasdair scrolled through numerous pages. "I can see your point. He's ambitious and reckless, but obviously has a clear and quick mind."
"Taking a liking of him already, aren't you?" the older man smiled. "That's understandable, but do keep in mind that you should remain impartial. At least until he gets the position."
Engrossed in reading, Alasdair missed his uncle's teasing, but the moment he caught up with it, his cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. "Uncle!"
"You are a Guardian, lad; it's natural for you to seek out your potential Satellite," Maxwell raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement curling his lips into a smile. "Unless there's something you want to tell me…"
"There's nothing," Alasdair said hastily, ducking his head to hide his flaming face. "You recommended me to pay attention to him, and I just…"
"There's no need to apologise, my boy," Maxwell reached out and patted his nephew's arm, which caused Alasdair to risk raising his head in order to look at his uncle. "Our family has quite the history, and there was a Guardian in each generation, so I'm bloody proud of you, lad. Maybe it's the reason fate brought you into Kingsman. Agatha had some premonitions about your Satellites, and she said both of them appear to be male. For all we know, Harry Hart can easily be one of them."
It was Alasdair's turn to wink and smile. "Are you trying your hand at matchmaking on my account, Sir?"
"I'm a highly trained Kingsman, my boy," Maxwell grinned too. "That means I'm supposed to be a man of many talents, so why matchmaking can't be one of them?"
"Reasonable," the young man agreed, resuming his reading. "So, Harry Hart as possible Galahad. What about yours and mine replacements?"
"Bright young lads too, I think they would also fit," his uncle shifted, trying to move down from his half-sitting position. "Can you give me a hand with these pillows, Dair? I'm a bit tired, going to kip for a while. You should too, by the way, you look a bit pale."
"Good idea," Alasdair helped his uncle to get more comfortable for his sleep. "I'm going to turn in too: there's a big day tomorrow, after all."
"Mm-hm," Maxwell closed his eyes, his face smoothing out as sleep started to pull him under. "Come and tell me about everything afterwards, my boy."
"Of course, uncle," Alasdair adjusted the older man's blanket, tucking him in. "Sleep well."
"You too," came the mumbled reply, and the young Scotsman left the room, switching on the automatic navigation module in his wheelchair and allowing it to drive him to his quarters. He felt a bit sleepy too, so turning in seemed like the best idea at the moment.
Once in his room, he went through his pre-sleeping routine on autopilot, and soon he was crawling into his bed and settling down.
Sleep whisked him away from the world a moment later.
Next morning had Alasdair waking up an hour before his alarm clock, habitually going through his usual routine and then spending half an hour choosing his suit and getting into it.
With his first meeting scheduled at 2 o'clock, there was plenty of time to study all the dossiers more thoroughly, and maybe even pay a visit to the tech department to discuss some details about his upcoming training with Merlin.
Truth be told, he wasn'treally eager to conduct those three interviews, even if one of the candidates could turn to be his Satellite. Compared to the opportunity to work with their resident wizard, it seemed like a meaningless waste of time, so Alasdair decided to make those meetings as short as possible.
Grabbing his tablet, the young Scotsman once again pulled up the files, scrolling through them one by one and memorising necessary details. Due to his conversation with Maxwell, he paid special attention to Harry Hart's biography, thus completely failing to be impartial even before seeing his candidate eye-to-eye. If somebody at this exact moment decided to ask why he was so carelessly disregarding Kingsman long-time established rules, Alasdair would've just shrugged his shoulders and called it intuition; funnily enough, it was nothing but the truth. As soon as he saw Harry's photograph, a strange tingling sensation settled in his chest, starting from his heart and seemingly radiating upwards into his brain. First it happened yesterday, the moment he opened Hart's dossier the first time, and then the effect only grew stronger. It was a strange but quite pleasurable feeling, and Alasdair found himself succumbing to it more and more with each time.
Maybe Maxwell was right. Maybe Harry Hart was his Satellite, which hypothetically meant half of his problem was solved. The rest could be dealt with on the way.
His tablet beeped, bringing him out of his reverie, and Alasdair tapped the flashing "New message" icon. It was from Merlin – their resident wizard enquired if his potential successor would be able to pay a visit to his office during the next two hours.
There was plenty of time till the first meeting, so the young agent typed 'Yes, will be there in a few', and a moment later was on his way to Merlin's sanctuary.
The older man met him at the door, opening it wide as soon as Alasdair knocked.
"Excalibur," he greeted, stepping aside and allowing the young agent to drive into the room.
"Merlin," Alasdair responded, crossing the threshold and stopping to wait for the handler to close the door.
"Would you mind me calling you by your first name, young man?" Merlin enquired, closing the door and waving Alasdair in the direction of the small break area. "Mine is Vincent, by the way."
"Alasdair, or Dair for short," the young Scotsman replied, reaching his appointed destination and parking his wheelchair. "What is it you wanted to see me for, Sir?"
The older man clicked his tongue in disapproval. "What did I just tell you? Call me Vince, Dair."
"Vince," Dair tried the name carefully, his expression cautious. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," the chief handler walked to his work station and retrieved his clipboard. "I have a bunch of files for you to study, Dair. They should help you to prepare for the qualification test. I would be much obliged if you started working on them today. After your scheduled meetings, of course," Vincent added, seeing that Alasdair was about to interrupt him.
The younger man raised his eyebrow. "You are keeping tabs on me, Vince?"
"Yes," Vincent admitted easily. "Not without old Maxwell's intervention, of course."
"I suspected as much," Alasdair smiled. "So, what kind of files are we talking about?"
"Straight to the point, just like your uncle," Merlin chuckled. "As for the files – well, it's a bit of everything, basically. Old Max assured me you can handle that."
"Of course, no problem," the young agent shrugged his shoulders. "You're going to send the files to my tablet, right?"
Merlin touched his clipboard with a few quick swipes. "Sure, lad. Already done, all there for you to dig in. Shall I give you two weeks to get the gist of the whole thing?"
Alasdair retrieved his tablet and scanned the files, then raised his head. "A week would be enough, Vince."
"Excellent," Merlin clapped his hands in glee. "Good to hear that. And, as much as I'd like to keep you here indefinitely, you have candidates to meet."
Alasdair's lips curled in a mischievous grin. "I can return in the evening, Vince, if you want."
The wizard shook his head, chuckling. "Cheeky bastard. Off you go, and come back as often as you'll see fit."
"Alright, boss," the young Scotsman gave a sloppy salute and started the engine of his wheelchair, pinching in the return route to his quarters. "See you soon!"
"Mm-hm," Vincent headed to his work station. "See you, lad."
With more than two hours still remaining till the first interview, Alasdair made a detour via his uncle's hospital room, telling him the news and showing the amount of files sent by Merlin.
Seeing his nephew excitedly scrolling through the most sophisticated tech schematics, Maxwell couldn't help grinning and patting the young man's knee fondly. "Vince got you all excited, hasn't he?"
Alasdair looked at him with shining eyes, and the older man chuckled. "Just as I thought. You'll make an excellent Merlin, my boy."
The younger man rolled his eyes. "There are still going to be tests, you know…"
Maxwell raised his eyebrows. "Indeed, but Vince apparently did everything in his power to ensure your success."
"Let me guess," Alasdair smirked. "By giving me all these files to overload my brain?"
His uncle's expression was a picture of innocence. "Not exactly. More like talking Arthur's ear off about you being his ideal successor."
That got the young Scot's attention. "But… the qualification test…"
"Just a formality Kingsman tradition insist on," Maxwell explained, trying to keep a straight face and stifling a chuckle at Alasdair's stunned expression.
The younger man narrowed his eyes, his confusion rapidly transforming into irritation. "And none of you deemed this little fact worth mentioning, I take it?"
Predictably, Alasdair's reaction set Maxwell off into a bout of honest belly laugher while the victim of their practical joke spluttered and huffed in indignation.
The younger man's irritation, however, didn't last long: a moment later his lips curled into a small smile, and he joined the fun, chuckling and shaking his head. "I should have guessed…"
"You were too gloomy, my dear boy," the older man took a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. "But it was Vince's idea, I just played along."
"You're making it sound as if I'm blaming you," Alasdair grinned. "Well, maybe I am, but only in a good way."
"That's the spirit," Maxwell patted his knee again. "How's your preparation to the interviews going?"
"I've practically memorized all the dossiers," the younger man pursed his lips. "But I'm blaming you for my fixation on Harry Hart, uncle. How the hell I'm supposed to be impartial if all that I'm thinking about is him?"
The older man pretended to think a bit. "Well, I may have a suggestion. It will take you mind off things and help spend the remaining time productively."
"Which is?" Alasdair raised his eyebrows.
Maxwell smiled. "Sparky."
The younger man's blinding smile was an answer of its own.