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Roxy glanced at Merlin who stood on the other side of the table. They had just finished going over the equipment for her next mission. Two months in the Bolivian jungle awaited her – her first solo. It was exciting. (And terrifying, she’d admitted to Percival after a few beers last night.) A small part of her was gleefully proud that she got a solo assignment before Eggsy. Perhaps it was petty, but she couldn’t help herself. Two months undercover in Bolivia. She would have her last briefing with Merlin and be introduced to her operative handler tomorrow and then on Monday it was bon voyage.
Everything – from hand grenades and boots to dental floss and sun lotion – was neatly laid out in front of her. Except one thing. She frowned as she looked down at her gear again, wondering if she should point it out or just deal with it herself.
“Any problem, Lancelot?” asked Merlin.
“No, it’s just…” Roxy pressed her lips together, hesitating momentarily. “It’s a two months mission in the jungle. Away from any real city or anything. I’m going to need about fifty tampons and a few pads.”
Merlin blinked once and a blush spread from his neck and over his entire face, but to his credit that was his only reaction before nodding.
“Of course,” he said. “Apologies. Learning curve. Haven’t sent a female agent on a mission this long before. Give a list to the lads down at Supply and I’ll make sure they pack them with the rest of your things.”
Roxy nodded.
“You might need to specify brand preferences if you have them.”
Roxy took a breath through her nose, nodding again and slightly regretting having brought it up. She looked down at the table again, clearing her throat and asking a random question about the improvements made on the lighter grenades.
As Merlin – clearly grateful for the change of topic – explained it to her, she made a mental note to book a time with her gynaecologist for when she got back to discuss maybe start using an etonogestrel implant so that she could avoid this conversation in the future.
Eggsy felt the panic rising in his chest, the adrenaline pumping. For all his Kingsman training, he couldn’t stay calm.
“Daisy, please…” he begged, standing on his knees in front of the crying and furious two year old. “Please, just, please? Can we just. Put on the shoes, Dais. I’m gonna be late.”
His sister kicked and kicked, making it impossible for him to get the shoes on her. Michelle had the opening shift at the bookstore, so it was up to him to get Daisy to day care. Usually it wasn’t a problem, but today it was for reasons beyond Eggsy.
She had refused the porridge (though had some toast), protested when he wanted to help her get dressed, and now… now Eggsy was about to start crying in frustration too.
His phone rang for the third time. This time he reached for it and he bit back a curse when the screen said “Percival.”
“I know, I’m sorry!” he said, pinning the phone to his shoulder, trying once more to force a shoe onto Daisy’s foot.
“Where the fuck are you, Gala--” Thomas cut himself off. “Is that Daisy?”
Eggsy sat back on his heels, sighing and taking the phone in his hand instead. “Yeah.”
“What’s wrong?”
“If I knew. Can’t get her to put her shoes on. I know I’m late and--”
“Yes, you need to get here. I can brief you when we’re on our way, but we have to be on the helicopter in an hour.”
“I know.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “Is her bag packed?”
“Yes.”
“And she has clothes on?”
“Not her jacket or—”
“It’s warm outside, put the jacket in the bag with the rest. Then you take her, her shoes, and the bag and you drop her off at day care.”
“But—”
“I know.”
“It’s—”
“I know. Welcome to the worst parts of parenthood.”
Eggsy exhaled. “Thanks.”
“Just get over here. I’ll make sure to have tea waiting for you.”
They hung up. Eggsy put the phone in his pocket and looked at Daisy who tried to stare him down. He picked up the shoe again, but Daisy started kicking as soon as he reached for it. With a sigh he got up. He stuffed Daisy’s jacket in her backpack, then he hung both it and his own duffle over one shoulder, took Daisy’s shoes in one hand and Daisy on the other arm.
As he tried to lock the door -- with Daisy screaming in his ear -- he thought that this was so not how he wanted to leave for a Karachi.
Harry came downstairs in the morning, his glasses already on. “Sweetheart?”
“Mm?” said Hamish from behind his breakfast.
“Can you call my mobile?”
Hamish gave his partner an annoyed look but got up to get his phone which was charging on the countertop. As he crossed the room, he did a quick scan to see if he could spot Harry’s. If Harry could go one week – one bloody week – without misplacing his mobile or his keys then it would be a goddamn miracle. How the man had the mission success rate was he had was beyond Hamish – or it would have been, if he hadn’t been Harry’s operative handler before he was promoted to Merlin.
“It’s ringing,” Hamish said as he held his own phone to his ear.
“No, it’s not. I can’t hear it.”
“Is the sound on?”
Harry’s face dropped. “Fuck!”
“You’re a highly trained intelligence agent,” muttered Hamish as he hung up. “A weapon of mass destruction in human form—“
“You’re not helping!”
“—how is it possible that you can’t keep track of your things?”
“Not now. I’m late! Help me find it.”
Hamish sighed, but went to check all the pockets in Harry’s overcoat.
“Found it!” Harry yelled from the study.
“Good!” Hamish yelled back, taking down the coat from the hanger. “I’m done signing out new ones for you.”
“No, you’re not,” said Harry, smiling as he let Hamish help him with the coat.
Harry then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving. Hamish shook his head and went back to his breakfast. No wonder that man could never be on time.
Roxy cursed under her breath. The kettle in back room of the shooting range didn’t work. She’d tried to unplug it and replug it, she had hit it, and she had pleaded with it. It had given up. So now she stood there, teabag in her mug, but no water.
This wasn’t what she needed today. At all.
“Can’t you just take some water pop it in the microwave?” asked Eggsy, taking out a mug of his own from the cabinet.
Roxy blinked, staring at Eggsy as if she couldn’t understand what he was saying. It wasn’t completely unheard of when he lay it on thick, but this was just… just…
“Or why not just use hot water from the tap?” she asked, annoyed.
Eggsy held up his hands in surrender. “Just a suggestion. It’s that or get all the way back up to ground level.”
Roxy picked up her mug and stomped out of the break room. She ignored Eggsy calling her name, asking her to make him some tea as well if she was going anyway.
Thomas was surprised to find his new boss waiting in the reception of the veterinary clinic. It was weird, thinking of Harry as Arthur, but not quite as weird as running into him here. Harry, however, didn’t seem surprised at all by the meeting.
“Percy,” said Harry as he stood.
Thomas, knowing fully well that his eyes were puffy and his nose red, nodded. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard through the grape wine what day it was, so I thought I’d come down. I know when it was time for Mr Pickle…”
“…You stuffed him and put him on a wall. I won’t do that to Caspian.”
“I was going to say that I wished I hadn’t been alone, and I know your son is with his mum this week.”
Thomas pressed for a smile, his eyes burning again. “Thank you.”
“A beer?”
Thomas nodded. As did Harry, who was courteous enough to turn his back and walk to the door so that Thomas could wipe his eyes unnoticed before they left.
Hamish tilted his head, watching the content of the fridge. Or rather the lack of content. Harry had been away for eight days (four hours and nineteen minutes) and he had been stuck at the office for about as long. Probably good that the fridge was empty, because who knows what had crawled out of there by now otherwise.
With a sigh he closed the door. It was a rule rather than an exception that they were out of food seeing how they spent so much time away from this place. They’d had this idea that Harry being appointed to Arthur would give them more nights at home together, but so far that didn’t seem to be happening. Harry always had somewhere to be, some branch of the organisation that needed oversight or some diplomatic disaster that needed to be smoothed over, and Hamish… well, his job as Merlin never seemed to lessen.
He didn’t want to order takeaway tonight. He wanted… Honestly, he wanted Harry’s cooking, but that was a no go tonight. Therefore he opened the fridge again, taking out a jar of pesto. It looked okay. Smelled okay. There had to be pasta somewhere in the pantry. Before he closed the door he took out a beer. He absently wondered if it was a problem that they had beer at home but no food. Probably.
They had pasta, though. He put the kettle on and soon the pasta was in the pot. There was no way to make a dinner by himself, on pasta and pesto anything other than sad.
For a moment he thought about calling Harry on facetime, but seeing where in the world he was that was a bad idea. So instead Hamish propped up his mobile against the salt-and-pepper shaker and turned on an episode of Amazing Interiors on Netflix.
He vowed to go grocery shopping tomorrow.
Eggsy leaned over the table in the Kingsman library where they were studying – he Russian, Roxy pyro tech – putting one of his earbuds in her ear.
She grabbed him by the writs. “What are you doing?”
“Just listen.”
“You could have asked,” she muttered, but put the earbud in with an amused smile. “You know, one of these days I’m going to throw you to the ground when you do some shit like that.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” said Eggsy, turning up the volume a little, still with the other bud in his own ear. “What do you think?”
“What is it?”
“Jamal’s first single.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’s written it and everything,” Eggsy’s smile almost split his face in two. “He just sent it over.”
“That’s… wow,” was all Roxy could manage to say. The song (some EDM, if Roxy knew her genres) was really not her style and she didn’t know enough about music to tell if it was objectively good, but the pride that radiated from Eggsy due to his friend’s success was contagious. Roxy knew he was the one who had given Jamal the money to do a studio recording, and she was so happy for the both of them.
“Always knew he could do it,” said Eggsy when Roxy gave him back earbud and he put it in his own ear again.
She went back to her book with a smile, wondering if Eggsy was going to tap the beat with his pen against the table for the rest of their study session.
“Seriously, how can you not—“ Thomas stopped himself and sighed. Deeply. “Come with me.”
Roxy followed him without questions like the good soldier she was, even if she frowned. He led her to the sewing room in the back of the shop. It was after hours, so the regular tailors had left for the day.
He took off his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.
“You too,” he told Roxy, moving on to his vest. “Take your shirt off.”
Roxy’s expression changed from confused to shocked and she just stared at her mentor. Thomas paused in the middle of taking off his cufflinks.
“Shit, sorry,” he said. “That’s not— I didn’t mean— I was just going to show you… Sorry.”
Roxy relaxed visibly. Thomas fastened the cufflinks again and put the vest back on.
“This is part of your weapon care, you know,” he said. “You have to learn how to iron your own shirts when you’re out on a mission. You can’t hand them off to someone, what if you don’t get it back. Or get the wrong one back and don’t realise it until they are shooting at you?”
Roxy looked a bit embarrassed.
“I’ll get some shirts from the store,” said Thomas, reaching for his jacket, and left.
He wondered if this was on him to just have assumed that a twenty-four year old knew how to iron a shirt properly. He knew he had when he joined. And James. He should probably check up on Eggsy, or talk to Harry to do it.
When he came back, Roxy had pulled out the ironing board and plugged in the iron. She stood behind the board in her bra, with her shirt laid out ready. Thomas blinked.
“The ones in the store are all men’s shirts,” she said. “The seams are different.”
She took one of the shirts he had brought with him and put it on. It was at least two sizes too big and she had to roll up the sleeves. She didn’t bother tucking it into her trousers.
“Show me,” she said, sounding determined. “Then go and tell Merlin I want a bulletproof bra.”
“I’ll get on that.”
Thomas lifted the shirt, placing it better on the board and checking the temperature of the iron.
He looked up, giving her a pointed look. “Do I need to teach you the care symbols as well?”
“No,” Roxy scoffed, then she added, mumbling, “I can use Google.”
He laughed. He was so damn proud of her and what she had accomplished already, but if she really needed to learn how to take care of her clothes properly. He pointed at the iron.
“Shall we start?”
Harry stared up at the ceiling, bored out of his wits. He had thought that his days waiting in second rate hotel rooms for cloak-and-dagger meetings were a thing of the past, but he had been sorely mistaken. (This hotel was admittedly not second rate in any way, but when you lay on a bed and stared at the ceiling it didn’t really make a difference.) Hamish would never admit it, but Harry was fairly sure that this particular trip was a punishment for forgetting his mother-in-law’s birthday.
He looked at the time. It wasn’t even close to 4 o’clock yet. He rolled over and got his phone out of the charger.
“I’m desperately bored,” he said as soon as Hamish came on. “What are you wearing?”
“Trousers, shirt and a pullover.”
“That’s not very sexy.”
“I’m at the office.”
“I’m in bed. Naked and lonely.”
“Harry, you’re on speaker.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, I am at the office.”
“Are you sure you’re not in the shower? All… naked and hot and wet?”
“Pretty sure.”
Harry sighed. “You’re absolutely no fun.”
Hamish chuckled. “What if I’m in bed with you instead? My hand on your cock.”
Harry smiled. Finally! He undid his trousers.
“Now you’re on speaker,” he said, putting the phone on the pillow next to him and helped himself out of his pants.
“You alright, lad?”
Eggsy looked up at Merlin. He had been sitting, leaning against the table with his palms pressed against his eyes in the library. Orange and purple spots now danced in front of him as he tried to focus on Merlin.
“Yeah, just tired. Bit of a headache.”
“Been going on for a while, haven’t it?”
“It’s nothing. Just been much lately. Daisy and Karachi and I can’t remember last I read this much.” He did a gesture with his hand over the books on the table. “Got some catching up to do.”
Merlin didn’t look convinced. “On your feet.”
“What?”
“I just want to check something.”
Eggsy was about to protest, but Merlin pulled his chair from the table and with a deep sigh, Eggsy followed him. They didn’t go to Merlin’s office – which Eggsy had expected – but to Medical. Eggsy felt his heart sink, and when Merlin pulled out a stool and put it in front of the Snellen chart, he took a step back.
“You think I need glasses?” he asked. “When have I ever not had a perfect score at the range?”
“Just sit your arse down, Galahad.”
Eggsy stubbornly refused, but after a few seconds of staring at each other, he caved, his shoulder slumping a little until Merlin gave him a pat on the back.
They started on the fourth line, both eyes, and Eggsy reeled off the letters easily. Already on the fifth he started having troubles, but he managed that and the sixth. His triumphant smile disappeared when Merlin told him to cover his right eye and repeat the process right-to-left. He struggled his way through it and the same when he covered his left.
“Well?” he asked when he was done, feeling very disheartened. Merlin hadn’t commented on the result, but no matter if he got everything right or not, Eggsy had noticed that Merlin had been correct. He probably needed glasses.
Merlin wrote down some results on his clipboard and pulled off the paper.
“Don’t look so gloomy,” said Merlin, handing Eggsy the note. “Not the end of the world. Take this to the ophthalmologist for a proper check-up, then come back here with the prescription and I’ll make sure your glasses match your civilian ones.”
“What?”
“Believe it or not, we’re not the RAF nor do we sack people for not having perfect eyesight.”
Eggsy smiled tentatively. “Yeah?”
“It takes far more resources to train an agent than to make a new pair of glasses,” Merlin said. “You can talk to Tristan if you want some input on contacts. Never managed to make any which are compatible with the glasses, but he uses normal ones with his old glasses most of the time. Now take a break and go to bed, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Eggsy, almost jumping off the stool. He stopped at the door. “Thanks, Merlin.”
Merlin smiled. “You’re welcome, Galahad.”
Harry was holding a brass candlestick holder. It had seen better days, but with some love and care it could probably get a new life. There was an inscription underneath it, but the cursive letters were hard to make out in its worn state, but he could make out the year 1899.
He knew Hamish would kill him one day when he brought home one framed butterfly or odd martini glass too many, but walking around in antique shops and second hand stores calmed him down. It was something about the clutter of things, organised and categorised to the store workers best ability that made him feel connected to this world and the people in it.
Someone else had used these tea cups, someone else had hung these paining, someone else had read these books. Someone else had connected with these items and now he got to do it too. It had very little to do with recycling (though that wasn’t unimportant), and very much to do with putting himself and what he did in the larger picture.
There were a couple stores close to the tailors, a few others in the neighbourhood where they lived. When he had been Galahad, he’d sometimes visited one after wrapping up a mission abroad. Those times he’d never left empty handed. In London, he more often than not just walked around in there to clear his head.
The candlestick holders were exquisite though, and if Hamish would throw a fit he could always pass them on to someone else.
“I’ll be right with you,” the lady who tended the shop yelled from the back room when he reached the counter.
“Take your time,” said Harry, looking at the piles of unsorted and unshelved books lying on the counter. “I’m in no hurry.”
He didn’t have time to read books anymore and these weren’t beautiful enough to keep in the study or sitting room just for the sake of it, but there was still one that caught his eye. He got it out of the pile and looked inside.
There was a date and a name written there, Alice, 25 December 1932. Someone’s Christmas present. The book was well read, corner folded over and over to keep track of where the reader left the story, and the cover had lost most of its colour. Harry fell in love even before he read the back.
“So what can I do for you today, luv?” asked the lady when she appeared from the back, smiling.
“These, please,” Harry said, pointing at the two candlestick holders. Then he held up the book. “And how much for this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t got ‘round to them yet. Two quid?”
Harry put the book down on the counter. “Then I’ll take it too. Is it possible to get it gift wrapped?”
“Of course,” said the woman. “Who is it for?”
“A colleague -- a friend -- who’s doing remarkable and ground breaking work. I think she’ll like this one.”
“It’s supposed to be based on a true story, you know.”
“Her memoirs, yes. That’s why I think she’ll like it.”
The woman kept on talking and Harry politely answered when he needed. A few minutes later, he left the store with two brass candlestick holders and a gift wrapped first addition of Marthe Cnockaert’s I Was a Spy!
He hoped that maybe, it would make Roxy feel a little more connected, a little bit like someone in a long line of someones, if she could read the memoirs of one of Britain’s first female spies.
Eggsy got up, gathering four of the six empty beer bottles on the table.
“Anyone wants another one?” he asked, and five hands flew up in the air. He shook his head. “Drunks. All of you.”
If anyone heard him, then no one commented. They were all crammed in around a small dining room table, in what looked very much like an informal meeting at the Table saved the fact that there were just six agent present, only Galahad and Tristan had glasses on, Arthur was in the kitchen and Merlin was seated.
Every now and then -- or as often as they could manage -- Harry and Merlin liked to invite the agents currently in London for dinner. Tonight, since Harry was making dinner, and Merlin had purposely placed himself in the corner and couldn’t get out, Eggsy had taken it upon himself to play host.
When he came into the kitchen, Eggsy put down the bottles on the countertop, next to the cutting board with prepared vegetables. Harry gave him a look, but he didn’t comment. Instead he just took the bottles and put them away under the sink instead.
“Do we really have to listen to that music the entire evening?” he asked as closed the cupboard.
“Yupp.”
“It makes it sound like we’re in a club.”
Eggsy, already retrieving the beers from the fridge, grinned over his shoulder. “And what’d you know about that?”
Harry sighed and handed him a tray for the bottles.
“Jamal got his album on Spotify,” said Eggsy when he closed the fridge and put the last bottle on the tray. “Promised to up his stats.”
“Isn’t everyone on Spotify?”
“That’s why I’m trying to up his stats.”
Harry shook his head, but smiled. Eggsy felt a little like a puppy who had been patted on the head, but he didn’t mind. He opened one of the beers and put it next to the stove for Harry.
“Before you go back in there,” said Harry just as Eggsy had lifted the tray. He quickly got out a spoon and dipped it in the stew he was making. “Taste this.”
Eggsy blew on the spoon held out for him before he tasted it. “Mm! That’s fantastic!”
“Do you think it needs more salt?”
“You know I grew up on beans and cereal, yeah?” said Eggsy with a grin. “I have no idea.”
“It’s salt.”
“You can always add that later.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, but then he shrugged. “Suppose you’re right.”
“I am, but it’s amazing, don’t worry about it.”
“You grew up on beans and cereal, what do you know?”
Eggsy laughed. “Just finish and bring your beer, we’re hungry.”
“The rice needs five more minutes,” said Harry, reaching for his beer.
“Call when you need help carrying to the table.”
Harry lifted the bottle in a toast and Eggsy walked back to the dining room. He was greeted with cheers and both Roxy and Thomas nicked their beers off the tray before Eggsy had time to put it down.
“Drunks, all of you,” he said again as he sat down and picked up his own. No one commented this time either, too occupied with their conversations about Amazing Interiors versus Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, last night’s game, and the book Roxy was reading.
Eggsy took a sip of his beer and looked at his colleagues. It was strange that if it wasn’t for the red, angry marks covering Tristan’s face from an explosion last week, all of this looked so… ordinary. As if they were just like any other group of friends. As if their lighters could just light cigarettes and their identical rings couldn’t electrocute a person. As if they weren’t just the most extraordinary group of people Eggsy had ever met.
But then, Eggsy had since long learned that what made these people remarkable had very little to do with their work.