A young Scotsman is asked to make the choice that all final Kingsman candidates are asked to make.

This is a follow-up to Lywinis's "Handler." (archiveofourown dot org /works/3812251/chapters/8496160) Because we've decided Merlin is a dog hoarder and there's really no going back.

[CENTRAL, ARTHUR'S OFFICE; 1983]

Arthur waits patiently in his seat, gazing pensively into the fire as he waits. Truth be told, he'd never expected the boy to make it this far. There is a certain tenacity among the lower class which must be accounted for, he supposes, but all the same, this is where it would end. It would go no further. He had given the boy his chance, he had owed him that much, and now his debt would be repaid.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

He looks up at the sound of the thick, Scottish brogue. How he hates it. How it grates on him. But he smiles, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.

"Have a seat, boy."

His eyes follow the young man as he enters the room, watching his stride and the five dogs which follow obediently in his wake. There are no leashes in sight. When he sits, they sit. His posture remains straight-backed and attentive, his eyes fixated on Arthur from behind his spectacles.

"I must admit, you've made it quite a great deal further in the selection process than I'd ever thought you would," Arthur tells him.

The boy dips his head in acknowledgement. It's not a compliment. He knows that. With the drink in his hand, Arthur motions towards the dogs at his feet.

"They seem rather well trained," Arthur says. "Surprising, considering you took on five of them."

"Dogs respond well to those who treat them well, sir," the boy says with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Arthur nods. "You've come to care for them."

"Yes, sir."

"Love them, even."

"Yes, sir."

Arthur reaches for the Browning pistol on the table and hands it to the boy. The young man accepts it cautiously, his eyes flickering to Arthur's as though for guidance and receiving none. Arthur motions again to the dogs.

"Shoot the dogs."

The boy's eyebrows flick upwards in surprise. He looks to the five dogs sitting on the carpet, each one of them gazing back up at him, their tongues lolling out of smiling jaws. His attention returns to the pistol in his hands. He weighs it as thoughtfully as he weighs his decision and as a deep set frown begins to form on his face, Arthur knows he'd been right. A short few moments later, the boy rises from his seat and flicks the safety back on before returning the pistol to Arthur.

"I knew you hadn't the stomach for it," Arthur tells him.

"No, sir," the boy replies. "If that's all, sir?"

"That will be all," Arthur says. "You can see yourself to the door. There's a car waiting at the gate with your things."

The boy nods and turns on his heel, making for the door. He pauses before he leaves, lingering as though there's something else he wishes to say before he's gone.

"One last thing, if I may, sir?"

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Go on, then."

"While I respect that you didn't expect me to make it as far as I did in the selection process, I do have to express my disappointment in you, sir," he says.

"Do you, now?" Arthur asks.

"I must admit that I'm offended you believe me incapable of differentiating the weight between a Browning carrying live rounds and one carrying blanks," the boy says smartly.

"You knew, then," Arthur says with some surprise. "And you still didn't shoot."

"No, I didn't," the boy answers. "Goodbye, sir."

A sharp whistle gets the five hounds moving out in a single file march, with the boy following them just behind. Arthur reaches to refill his tumbler. He'd known the boy wouldn't have the stomach for it; it just turns out he'd been even more right than he'd thought.

"And we're just going to let him go?" Harry asks, watching the young Scotsman loading five dogs into the car.

"We have our Gawain," Merlin says. "You know how the selection process works, Galahad. He made his choice."

"But…"

Harry's eyes travel to the car as it begins to drive away from them. He'd really grown to like that one. He'd been different from the rest. In the rougher, less privileged sense, yes, but also in that he drew Harry to him like a magnet. Something he doesn't believe had been at all one-sided.

"Surely there must be some way we can keep him?" Harry asks. "You're not honestly going to let that kind of brilliance just wander out your front door. What if MI6 picks him up instead?"

"It's not up to me, Harry," Merlin says, drawing away from the bannister. "It's Arthur's decision. Although…"

Harry looks to him expectantly, noting the way the old man's eyes have taken on a thoughtful twinkle. Whenever you saw that, you knew what was going to happen: trouble, if you were Arthur; a great deal of fun, if you were Harry Hart.

"Let me talk to Arthur," Merlin says at long last. "I might just have something."

The young man's flat is in a neighborhood that is, well… not one Harry would like to be in after sundown. Not one he'd like to be in at all, really. He pounds a fist on the door, waiting for some kind of answer. Several moments later, he hears the sound of latches—a great deal of them—being undone before he is greeted with the sight of the young man they had turned away. He's dressed casually now, standing on the stoop in sweatpants and bare feet. He colors at the sight of Harry, embarrassed, it seems, at having been caught dressed so.

"Mr. Hart," he says, dipping his head respectfully.

"Just 'Harry' will do, please," Harry insists.

He sees the five dogs behind the young man, all watching him carefully. Well, not just him. At his feet, Mr. Pickles gives an appreciative yip at the chance of some company. Harry clears his throat.

"I have a job offer for you," Harry says.

At once, the young man's expression shifts to something flat and unamused. "I've seen your job requirements, thank you."

"No, no, this is something a bit different," Harry says, unwilling to lose him. "No shooting your dogs required."

"Mr. Hart—"

"Harry."

"Harry, then," the boy says with a patient sigh. "Much as I appreciate what you're trying to do, I can tell when I'm not wanted. That I'm actually rather good at."

"I want you," Harry blurts.

He sees the tip of the Scotsman's ears go a shade of pink that he's certain his cheeks must match.

"What I mean by that is… you have a talent, you see, that I believe would be invaluable to the Kingsman," Harry explains, willing himself to make this seem as professional a gesture as possible. "Arthur can't see it. He's old, set in his ways, blinded by all… this."

Harry gestures around them.

"And he's wrong for it," Harry continues. "You could be the best of us, if only given the chance, and I'd stake my life on it."

"It was my understanding," the young man says slowly, "that there would only be a call for candidates in the event of the loss of a Knight."

"Merlin," Harry says soberly. "Aneurysm. Inoperable. He's not sure how much time he's got left, but he'd like to train a successor before he goes and he'd taken quite a shine to you. I believe you would be well suited to the position."

The Scotsman regards him thoughtfully, warily, as though not quite sure what to make of the offer. Harry resists the urge to shift from foot to foot, not wanting to seem anxious. It's Mr. Pickles who breaks the ice, drawing their attention when he wanders towards the young man and paws at his pant leg.

"Would you, ehm… Would you like to come in?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you. I would," Harry says.

The young man steps aside, offering him a soft, barely-there smile as he enters. Well, Harry thinks, he'd better get used to calling him Merlin, then.