Chapter Text
There’s an almost institutional need in humanity to flee. To disappear, burn the effigy of the previous self and scatter its ashes. Sometimes, though, fleeing doesn’t mean to separate from others, but instead to join them. To love, for those people, is to flee the world and to find it in someone else. But pasts, as we all know, are tricky. Addicted to them, we live in memoriam. Harry Hart and Eggsy Unwin lived like that, drowning in memory and fleeing from life. They led the quiet lives of people who had seen too much but still thirsted for the thrill of thriving for absolute good. That was all soon to change, though. And it all started with a house in need of cleaning and a man in need of discretion.
The house was an old but charming thing at the top of a small hill which curved downwards into a pond. It was a simple low and long white tome with wide windows facing the water, more than half covered in climbing vines which filtered the light that entered the rooms. Perched by the pond was a deck fitted only with a writing desk and its matching chair, bleached grey by the sun. The kind of place that invites tranquility and peace merely by standing, it was the picture of quiet elegance.
Michelle hummed distractedly as she parked her car on the gravel that surrounded the cottage. The man stood as always in the doorway, clad in the lines and angles of dark bespoke suits and leaning on his walking cane, but with a countenance that spoke to her of a kindness and mischief as he awaited her.
“Good mornin’, Mr Hart, how are ya doin’ today?” she called, removing the grocery bags from the backseat.
“Good morning, Mrs Dean. I’m doing rather well, and you?” he replied, moving forward to help her move everything into the kitchen.
“Ah, Mr Hart, how many times have I told ye, it’s Michelle! And I’m good, thank ya.”
“I apologise, Michelle. I’m glad to hear that.” He set a bag on the kitchen’s counter and started sorting through it, checking if she’d brought everything he required. It was perfect as usual. “Michelle,” he asked after they’d silently stored away all of the items and he was walking her back to her car, “you wouldn’t happen to know of someone I could employ to clean the house and run some errands? A sort of butler, if you will. Discretion is, as you know, a must.” An instant smile blossomed in Michelle’s lips. His eyebrow shot up, unused to the woman’s brightness.
“Oh, Mr Hart, I have just the right fella fer ye!”
“Eggsy!” He turned towards the voice, and saw his mother walk into his room, an unusual smile on her face. “I found you a job.” she said, breathlessly, as she tied her hair into a bun. “I’ve been doin’ a lil’ errand on the side, ‘cause god knows Dean doesn’t bring in enough to save anything for Daisy, and we had your medical expenses an’ all, but the man I work for has a job for ye. If you want it.” Eggsy’s brows knitted together, questioningly. “He wants someone discreet to help in the house. I mean, ye do fit the bill, love.”
Eggsy chuckled at his mother’s choice of words and took his hand out of his pocket to sign ‘When do I start?’
Overture - the term originally applied to the instrumental introduction to an opera.
You can find me on tumblr at li-prouvaire