Chapter Text
I.
When, five whole weeks after the church massacre and V-day, none other than Harry Hart walks through the front doors of Kingsman HQ, looking fresh as a fucking daisy, Gary “Eggsy” Unwin has all of three thoughts:
The first consists only of a string of incomprehensible profanities. The second is a broken record player of “I thought you were dead”.
The third is: “Shit. I wacked off all over your sofa.”
Fortunately, at any given moment, Eggsy’s brain-to-mouth filter is only working at about a third of full capacity. So while, in his shock, the first two things make it out of his mouth, the third thing sticks firmly behind his teeth. That his heart is attempting to jump out of his ribcage and flop like a dead fish on the floor is an entirely different matter.
He sort of feels like he’s dying. It’s terrifying, but not all that terrible.
Harry Hart looks at him fully. He graces Eggsy with a smile that is warm, genuine, and almost relieved. Eggsy doesn’t feel quite real. He has so many questions to ask. He wants to slug Harry. He wants to hug him.
Somehow, he knows this is not a very English thing to do, not a very Harry Hart thing to do.
One of Harry’s large hands finds his shoulder; it squeezes, reassuring, and Harry’s voice is gentle but firm. All in good time, he says. I will tell you all in good time; but right now, I need to speak to Merlin. Immediately.
When Harry’s hand leaves his shoulder, it feels like a bird taking off. He’s gone in a whirlwind of suit and single-mindedness.
Eggsy is left staring at the empty space before him. He has a fourth thought, which he says aloud, though no one is around to hear.
“I’m so fucked.”
II.
The wank, he tells himself, had been purely perfunctory in nature.
This is actually quite believable. When he says it only to himself.
Not that he would tell anyone else about it—god, he would never, never live it down. As far as he knows, there are no cameras in Harry’s house, and there was no one around to see him, so the only other pair of eyes present had belonged to Mr. Pickles, who had been shut away in the bathroom, and therefore saw nothing and could tell no one.
(How he thinks a taxidermied dog could possibly rat him out, he has no clue.)
Christ, it wasn’t like he’d gone there with the intention of wacking off. Nothing even remotely sexual had been on his mind when he quietly unlocked Harry’s door and let himself in.
It had become a post-mission ritual of sorts, going to Harry’s. The house was unoccupied, but Kingsman policy dictated that a two-month period should pass before the house and its contents were repurposed. Eggsy had filched a key the second time he had been here (when Harry had left him here, left him with the promise of returning, however irate). There was so little downtime at Kingsman, and what time he did have he tried to spend with his mum and Daisy; this gave him little respite.
So he came here. After missions, after days that made him feel twice as old as he really was. He would let himself in, pour a drink, peruse Harry’s music collection. Clean a little, if things were getting dusty. Put some tunes on. Sit back on his couch.
Drink. Contemplate.
The first few times, he did not let himself cry.
He liked going through Harry’s music. It was surprising, how much he invested in it. Harry had records, CDs, and a digital music player. He had a truly impressive amount of music, in genres Eggsy had never heard, and some genres he would have never pegged Harry to be a fan of. He liked to listen and imagine Harry, here in the living room, listening as well. He liked to think about Harry moving around his house, maybe humming under his breath to a familiar tune.
The first few times, Eggsy did not let himself cry. Mostly, he felt too tired and too empty to do much but sit and listen.
But once, he had the gall to put some old crooner, someone he’d never heard of, on the turn-table. And when he’d listened to the record in full, when it ended and the needle scratched tonelessly over the vinyl, Eggsy blinked, and tasted salt on his lips. He was crying.
And he was hard.
He didn’t really think about it. He just undid his trousers, and slipped a hand beneath his pants. Gripped himself. Made fast work of it.
He was tired. It was quick and dirty and he hadn’t gotten off truly since that tryst with Tilde. He was run ragged, and emotional, and it was only a physical response. It was just a wank. It had nothing to do with anything.
He did it a few more times. Four, maybe five, before Harry Hart walked into Kingsman good as new.
III.
Harry does explain himself, in due course.
He sits Eggsy down, almost immediately after he is finished having his meeting with Merlin. It seems important to Harry that he do so. He steers Eggsy into an empty office at Kingsman, makes Eggsy park it in a dusty office chair, and explains himself fully. How he woke up in a Kentucky hospital with a massive headache and a glancing bullet wound that, for such a show of blood, barely glanced off the exterior of his skull and left everything inside intact. He recounts his recovery, and sending a covert message to Merlin—no one else, just Merlin, and just one word: “Calico”. It’s the code word Merlin had established for agents going into deep cover and requesting all communication be cut. Merlin knew nothing except that Harry was alive. No one knew anything.
But he’s back now. He’s back, alive, no worse for wear except for a ragged wound bursting to life at his temple. Eggsy can’t stop staring at it. It’s terrifying, and also sort of dashingly sexy.
After he explains all this, Harry apologizes. He does it firmly, slowly, as if he’s uncertain that Eggsy will understand.
Eggsy is dazed. He understands. He doesn’t understand. Harry Hart is not dead, but wearing street clothes, a black turtleneck, faded black boots and fucking jeans. Harry Hart is not dead, but has a day-old beard growth and a slight tan that can’t have been caught in England.
Eggsy wants to punch him in his handsome fucking face.
But he just nods, with a calm that he must have borrowed from someone else, and says, “I understand, Harry.”
Harry sets up in that house again, the very day he returns.
Eggsy buries his key at the bottom of his sock drawer.