Any good thing in Eggsy’s life must — necessarily — be accompanied by an equally shite turn of events. Given that, it's completely unsurprising that he is about to be balls deep in a princess when Merlin’s voice comes pouring out of his glasses to say that some woman in a Kentucky ICU is calling about one of Harry’s U.S. aliases.
All in all, Princess Tilde’s a pretty good sport about it.
“I understand,” she tells him in the Kingsman jet. They’re returning her to Stockholm before continuing on to Kentucky. “It is difficult to remain erect when you’re crying.”
“Fuck,” Eggsy swears. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder to check if Merlin's laughing because Merlin’s not muffling his laughter very effectively. “I wasn’t crying.”
Princess Tilde pats his cheek. That is the move of a fit bird who is never ever going to fuck him. “Your eyes were leaking,” she tells him kindly.
She makes it worse by giving him a hug when they drop her off to heaving, adoring crowds in Sweden. Roxy, who had flown in to meet them, picks up where Princess Tilde leaves off and holds his hand during the second leg of their trip while telling him what a sweet boy he is. By the time they get to Kentucky, Merlin’s half-pissed himself.
And Eggsy’s gonna be furious about it, all right? He’s going to be right fucked off —except that they land in a private airport in Kentucky and he forgets. He spills off of the plane in the trackies and kicks he’d gotten onto it in, eyes red from back to back flights and no fucking sleep. He’s a mess in the car, clawing at the upholstery, digging his nails into his palms. He looks at the shitty streets and shitty buildings and the shitty signs of the world already starting to drag itself off its knees and dust off.
Eggsy doesn’t notice that Merlin’s produced a doctor’s coat from fucking who-knows-where until they’re already at the hospital. He’s grateful for his top shelf fake American accent and how it opens door after door — until they’re on the third-floor ICU and some woman in dark green Crocs is explaining how lucky Harry Holborn is, to have been the sole survivor of the church massacre.
“Just barely, but it counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, sweetheart,” she tells Eggsy, who is — fuck it — sniveling into the cuffs of his jacket, stood at the foot of a terrifying hospital bed where Harry’s lying all fucked up. There’s a mass of bandages around his head, his neck in a brace to keep him from moving around, and so many beeping, bleeping machines surrounding him.
Eggsy’s only known Harry Hart for nine fucking months.Harry’s spent a third of that time unconscious, and still managed to change absolutely everything — to reconfigure Eggsy’s fucking universe.
Harry Holborn is too delicate to move.
Eggsy wants to say he does something sweepingly romantic and stupid and refuses to move, either — sits wasting away at his bedside or whatever. But actually, the world’s a mess, and even though Arthur was the only Kingsman who’d gone fucking Sith, there’s still a lot of nonsense to clean up. So while Harry Holborn stays in a private room at the University of Kentucky Hospital, Eggsy goes hither and yon and back again. Eggsy flat out refuses to answer to Galahad, so Merlin swears and starts calling him Dagonet, and Eggsy doesn’t bother with looking it up on Wikipedia because he figures it’s the most shit knight. Or one of their horses. He’s still not going round calling himself Galahad. He does go around putting down insurgencies and glumly dismantling conspiracies, and whenever he can he goes to Kentucky and sits by Harry’s bed and gets him caught up on all the latest foolishness, shows Harry pics of his little sister and JB and whatever fucking thing Tilde has been sending him, because Swedes apparently fucking define post-almost-fuck coolness. Harry's a surprisingly engaged listener for being comatose.
Two weeks after the doctors take Harry off of medical sedation, he wakes up.
Eggsy’s not there for it, but Kay has his glasses on for for his shift babysitting, and Eggsy — squatting in a fucking scorpion nest outside the Green Zone in Bagdad — gets to see the exact moment Harry checks all the way back in and hisses, “Fuck.”
When Harry Hart gets back to London, it’s polished and well posh and perfect but for a still-angry scar on his temple — from where the bullet deflected just enough off the Kingsman glasses to saves his stupid arse. He’s wearing a single breasted pinstripe from Bhambi’s in New York, hand-cobbled Italian leather shoes and when Eggsy runs out of a debriefing to meet him, there’s still a curl in his hair.
“You’re back,” Eggsy says stupidly, and even he can hear how breathless and right fucking besotted he sounds.
Thank God then that Harry smiles, just like that, and that he cups Eggsy’s face with a big, warm hand and says, “Yes, Eggsy, I am.”
Equally thank God, Harry don’t fuck posh at all.
Sometime after they knock the hole into the wall but before Harry says, “Darling boy, would you be so kind as to take a seat on my face,” Eggsy learns the following:
- Dagonet is is King Arthur’s fucking jester.
- Harry’s reaction to provocations of jealousy is to bite.
“Not a fan of sharing your toys, eh, Harry?” Eggsy manages. Barely.
Harry gives him a particularly jarring bounce for that — the nasty wet sound of balls slapping against Eggsy’s fucked-out arse — and he has to claw at the headboard, the muscles of his thighs screaming and trembling.
“Toys are more biddable than this,” Harry huffs at him, and goes back to a maddening slow grind that has been scraping away at Eggsy’s already-limited dignity and composure for roughly six years now.
Eggsy says, “Fuck, shit, shit, fuck,” and lots of other similar variations, and because Harry is a fucking prick, he just says, “You did complain about lack of anal in your post-op report on Valentine’s compound.”
Afterward, Eggsy’s too shattered to complain about anything, even the way Harry has Eggsy draped over his chest like an expensive rentboy. He decides just to enjoy it, press his ear to Harry’s chest and listen to the reassuring tidal crash of Harry’s heartbeat.
“I guess you ain’t gonna be sendin’ me on any honeypot missions then,” Eggsy mumbles, in between pressing open-mouthed kisses to Harry’s chest, scraping his fingers through the rough hairs.
Harry makes a considering noise, and when Eggsy lifts a head up to stare at him, Harry looks solemn.
The mission briefing on Duplasse has 10 pages on the complex series of shell companies and SPACs that are funded by his drug and human trafficking business and a further six appendices on his personal holdings. Duplasse owns property in every major European city, a pied-à-terre in Hong Kong, a beachfront mansion in Hawaii, and three Teslas. Some poor fuck had been charged with divining his gym routine, so the Kingsmen know that Tuesdays and Thursdays are leg days, that he has an on-call aesthetician, has had four very discreet plastic surgeries, and waxes — back, sack, and crack. Duplasse likes Burgundian wines and Indian curries and he has a secret account on XTube that’s gotten a historical total of 60,000 page views on 15 videos of him rabbiting away at disinterested bottoms in the most beautiful hotel rooms money can buy.
Also his first name is Harry.
“Arthur is a bad man,” Roxy had said.
According to well-verified rumors (Roxy), Merlin and Harry had proper thrown down at the shooting range over who’d get stuck being Arthur going forward. Harry — still recovering from what should have been a permanently debilitating brain injury but for some fucking terrifying experimental shit that made his x-rays look like the Terminator now — had an intermittent tremor, and it had sealed the deal.
“Fucking tell me about it,” Eggsy had muttered, and gone to put on the tarty trousers Harry had picked out for him like a fucking high-end pimp.
So there Eggsy was, in some fucking jeans, a beat up pair of boots and a soft gray jumper — pretty much the complete opposite of the mesh shirt and gold shorts Eggsy had been braced for. “Duplasse is the kind of man who likes ornamental things, Eggsy,” Harry had lectured, adding, “Please also attempt to appear vulnerable and perhaps a bit overwhelmed,” at which point Eggsy had asked, “Be honest: is this for him, or for you?”
Anyway, that was then, this is now.
Eggsy looks around the club and has that dizzy, dissonant feeling where the distance between this polished bar and the Black Prince comes hurtling back in stark relief. Two years ago he’d had five quid in his pocket and a mate from south of the river and they got lashed every few weeks and had quick, shitty fucks in his mum’s spare room.
Two years later, Harry Hart says into Eggsy’s ear:
“Duplasse likes a victory — it’s the only unifying element of his conquests beyond their being achingly young and attractive.”
Eggsy smiles into his drink and murmurs, “Thank you, I think.”
Eggsy’s sans Kingsman glasses today, which meant Merlin had needed to provide alternate communications equipment. Roxy’d come at him with a fucking ice cube and a sewing needle from upstairs in the shop and pierced his left lobe so Merlin could stab a hideous earring into it. “It’s a storied diamond, at least,” Archer, the desk clerk stroke standby Kingsman assassin had told Eggsy in an attempt to console him.
“Steady there, Galahad,” Harry tells him, but it’s with a smile in his voice. Harry had called Eggsy "needlessly sweet," and officially codenamed him Galahad; Eggsy was pretty bad at hiding what a thrill it was, still. “Percival is making his approach.”
“And how bratty shall I be this evening?” Eggsy asks, because he likes the idea of Harry in the cozy little private study in the tailor’s shop, color pricking his cheeks, pressing the heel of a hand into the swell of his dick through his perfectly cut trousers.
“Saucy enough to capture Duplasse’s attention,” is Harry’s reply, and he adds, “You’re aware this is an open line, Galahad.”
Eggsy tosses back the rest of his martini. “Gotta give Merlin something to live for.”
Merlin says, “Please, no.”
“Duplasse, 6 o’clock,” Harry cuts in again neatly. “Percival coming in at 2 — he’s leaning left so I assume he’ll initiate contact via your right buttock.”
Merlin makes tortured, Scottish noises. “That’s me off this transmission. Arthur, you have the monitor.”
“I have monitor,” Harry confirms, just as Eggsy feels Percival slink up cloaked in the full regalia of a rich lout: loud clothes, strong cologne, the tacky agony of a Philip Patek fairly crusted over with diamonds. As predicted, he announces his presence with a hand on Eggsy’s right arsecheek, and slurs, “Where’ve you been?” while giving it a squeeze.
Eggsy channels how he felt last Wednesday, when he’d rocked up to the shop dressed like a vagrant hoodie because he was on 72-hour stand-down following a mild concussion, and found some public school twink touching Harry’s lapel.
“Off,” he snaps at Percival, who looks appropriately sozzled with drink and confounded for this mission. “I’m well finished with your arse.”
“It was an aberration, Duck,” Percival coos.
Duck, Eggsy thinks, gagging elaborately in his head.
“If you’re so desperate to get your cock sucked, I’m sure that bleached blond is right where you left him under your desk — so fuck right off, Percy,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music and to capture the attention of the bartender, the three nearest women — and Duplasse, just a few yards away.
Percy looks surprised and surprisingly hurt, which Eggsy can only entertain for a few moments before there’s the proximity-warm sensation of someone drawing near.
“Mark engaged,” Harry tells him smoothly, and Eggsy twists around at the bar, looks over his shoulder in a way that Harry’s accused of being irresistibly provoking before.
Duplasse is there, smiling. He puts a hand on Eggsy’s wrist — just fingertips — and asks Eggsy, “Is that gentlemen bothering you?”
There’s a part of Eggsy’s mind that watches his missions from a distance, and that version of himself is rolling his eyes horribly. Out loud, Eggsy lets himself lean into this, gets hot with embarrassment and nerves and says, “I — well, yes, actually.”
Percival, going for the BAFTA, slurs, “Oy, I own you, Kyler.”
Harry, via the in-ear comm, sighs, “Jesus Christ, Percival.”
“I think you’d better leave this — ” Duplasse favors Kyler with a heated look “ — lovely young man alone, sir, or I’ll be forced to contact security.”
Percival, clearly tired of this charade, continues to make protesting noises just for a few further moments, earnestly accuses Kyler of being a slut, and storms off. He’ll serve point for phase two of this mission, dependent on the success or failure of Eggy’s charge for the evening.
Eggsy decides to trust Harry’s filthy instincts, and after Percival vanishes into the crowd, he turns to the bar, letting himself look as shaken as he’s beginning to feel.
Despite all the spy flicks he’d cited as examples early into his tenure with the Kingsman, honeypot missions are vanishingly rare. For one, a significant percentage of their targets are heterosexual males, and Lancelot is the first lady Kingsman. For another, good spies don’t necessarily make good seducers, and for the most part, the organization relies on the help of a network of well-compensated professional contractors.
“So you needn’t have that martyred look on your face,” Harry had told him, in the privacy of their bed in the gray early morning. “Such missions are rare indeed.”
“But they do happen,” Eggsy had retorted, squirming until he’d got himself positioned just so on Harry’s hips, so he could get Harry’s half-hard, still-wet cock tucked between the cheeks of his arse like he liked it. “And you’d make me do it — fuck someone else.”
Harry had rolled them over, so that he had Eggsy pinned to his bed and crushed under his weight. It was with a particularly dirty smile and rough tenor in his voice that he’d said, “Yes, when it's too dangerous for anyone but a Kingsman. And you would do it for me, Eggsy — and do it only as directed,” and whatever token protest Eggsy might have been constructing fell apart with the way he’d shivered head to toe, his cock twitching at the implications.
“I’ve moved us to a private channel,” Harry says now, as Eggsy clutches at a tumbler of scotch, neat. “Look at Duplasse’s mouth — but just for a moment.”
Eggsy does, shy-like, hazarding a glance and then darting his gaze back to his hands.
“Bring the tumbler to your mouth,” Harry directs, “but don’t drink from it — just press it to your chin and bite your lower lip.”
Eggsy does that, too, and there’s something going molten hot in his chest, swelling out of its container. Harry has a way of doing that, of erasing all the things that make Eggsy feel worldly and replacing it with a sense of breathless waiting, like all of Eggsy was a blank wall or an empty space, just waiting for Harry to color him in — fill him up, Eggsy thinks, and he flushes all over in a way he can’t control.
“I rather think he liked that,” Harry purrs, and Eggsy risks a sideways look at Duplasse again, to see the man’s eyes crinkling in a smile, to see his fingers creeping further down the bar and narrowing the space between them. “Say thank you — be sweet.”
Fuck’s sake, Eggsy had said, when Harry had said that to him last week at work.
“Thank you,” Eggsy says — Kyler says, a half-octave higher and younger than Eggsy’s sounded in years. “For that.”
Harry’s smile is one of those things Eggsy can hear. He’s asked Roxy about it, and Merlin once, if they could hear it when Harry smiled, because it was so obvious really: every consonant and collection of syllables wrapped up in it. He’d been half-drunk he was so knackered coming off back-to-back missions and crossing the dateline fuck knows how many times in a 72 hour period. Roxy had called him sad. Merlin had offered him a mercy killing.
Right now, Eggsy can feel himself preening at the sound of Harry’s smile as he says, “Very nicely done, Galahad.”
“I would be a poor gentleman indeed if I hadn’t intervened,” Duplasse says, all earnestness and continental vowels.
Eggsy’s read the literal book on him, knows about Duplasse’s ramshackle childhood of agonizing poverty and continuous abuse, how he’d discarded his history like a snakeskin and adopted all the affectations of a man of means and measures. Duplasse and Eggsy are alike, they are, only Duplasse is a murdering, thieving sack of a shit who prostitutes children, and Eggsy has Harry in his ear saying:
“Tell him you’ve had your fill of gentlemen — most of them are no such thing.”
Eggsy folds himself at a right angle, so his arse sticks out just so, and he smiles a little, bashful around fancy folk like Kyler might be. “Well, I’ve had my fill of gentlemen,” he says, and it comes out pouting. “Most of them are anything but.”
Duplasse looks fascinated, and Eggsy can’t help but feel a thrill at that, too, to know that he could reach over, could stroke a finger down the back of Duplasse’s hand and operate him like a marionette. The marines taught him how to shoot a gun, but Harry’s taught him all sorts of things about power and what it looks like. Right now, Eggsy touches his throat, fluttery, and he watches the way Duplasse watches him, and he feels indestructible.
“Your previous companion could hardly be called a gentleman,” Duplasse says, all diplomacy here. He’d left a dismembered guard as a warning for his other men in a safehouse in Rio last week. To Kyler, he extends a manicured hand. “Harry Duplasse.”
Harry Hart says, “Give him your hand, palm down, three fingers touching his palm,” and when Eggsy does it, Duplasse’s eyes darken and he bends over Kyler’s hand, brushing a kiss over the knuckles — lingering.
Eggsy’d meant it when he’d told Tilde he’d always wanted to kiss a princess. He's got a soft spot for kissing in general; there's something marvelous about it. He’s got a baby sister, and when she’s not heaving up on him or shitting herself or tearing up toilet roll, she’s watching Disney movies. Eggsy’s seen Pocahontas about 100 times. He’s kissed lots of people, but not in months — not since Harry had taken him to bed, and it’s fucking stupid, really, to be suddenly shocked by having Duplasse’s mouth on his skin. Eggsy’s known what this mission was since moment zero, but he’s shocked all the same, and he stares at the whorl of hair at the top of Duplasse’s head and —
“Introduce yourself,” Harry says, mild, and it feels strangely like Harry hitting a reset button in Eggsy’s spine — all the panic slipping away because Harry’s watching this in his office, seeing the scene from six different angles. Harry’s watching another man put his mouth on Eggsy, and the thought’s jarring enough he doesn’t have to fake how shy and surprised he looks when he murmurs, “I’m Kyler.”
In his ear, Harry’s saying, “Curl your fingers into his — just enough to cling.”
“Ah,” Duplasse says, when Eggsy does it, and it’s good that he can keep looking down, at where Eggsy’s fingers are half-laced into Duplasse’s now, because Christ on Earth how he’d keep it together if he looked at Duplasse’s face. Harry’s a manipulative pervert of the highest order.
“Do you know,” Manipulative Pervert begins to reminisce in Eggsy’s ear. “Merlin was kind enough to share the footage of your abortive tryst with Princess Tilde with me. How lovely you were, all eager, lithe youth and muscle. I was still suffering issues with motor control then, and I assume Merlin showed it to me as some form of punishment, knowing there was no way I could touch myself, or you, for that matter.”
Eggsy’s face goes hot, his whole body goes fucking hot, but that’s going around looks like, because Duplasse’s expression is hot, too.
“Like I cannot, unfortunately, touch you now,” Harry continues. “I’ll just have to use Duplasse then, won’t I.”
Eggsy's read a lot of his mum's shite Mills & Boon, so when he'd started this thing with Harry, he'd assumed they'd fight a lot about how Harry kept so many secrets, and how it created an unbridgeable chasm between them. The stuff about accidental pregnancy and breasts was less relevant, obviously, but overall, he'd carried all those presumptions with him, stuffed into the pockets of his trackies and suits and then into Harry's bed.
But Harry, once you'd had your cherry popped in dressing room two — or been eaten out on his desk for an hour, whatever — had apparently no secrets. He was the only child of Martha and Howard Hart and had grown up quiet and a loner in a village 30 miles outside of Worthing. He'd gone to Westminster School and then Cambridge. During a brief career with the Royal Army Medical Corps (which explained his complete lack of squeamishness about exploding heads and pitiless insistence Eggsy stop drinking Irn Bru) he'd ended up providing emergency field treatment to a Kingsman, unbeknownst to himself, and found himself called upon as a proposal just a year later.
"That's it?" Eggsy had asked. "You can just tell me that, just like that?"
Harry, who post-shag had a wildness to his usually tamed curls and the laziness of big cats in zoos, had busied himself running open-mouthed kisses down Eggsy's back — oblivious to how fucking weird this all was.
"Why not?" Harry had slurred.
Eggsy had rolled over onto his back, because a spectacular bit of fucking full-chest and elbow rug burn was beginning to make itself known. "I dunno," he'd said, "because we're spies?"
And Harry had collected himself enough to laugh a little, and replied, "Spies like us, Eggsy, should seize the day and what intimacy we can," and ended the conversation with a filthy, breathless kiss that resulted in Eggsy getting matching rug burn on his arse and shoulders. Shit.
Duplasse is the type of wanker who loves the sound of his own voice, and all Eggsy has to do is look riveted by his every word. It's easy and since he doesn't have to keep up eye contact, all he's got to do is dart a shy, pleased look up at Duplasse every few minutes and the fucker's well taken.
"Make some noises about leaving," Harry instructs, while Duplasse is telling some rich arsehole oh so funny story about a helicopter mishap in Sao Paulo. "And when he tries to escort you out, tell him you could never."
Eggsy makes a note to tease Harry about learning all his turns of phrases from a maiden aunt one day.
Kyler shuffles, nervy and beginning to feel a bit drunk. He's just broken it off with one posh git, after all, and despite how intriguing this one's helicopter stories are, it wouldn't do to rush too headlong into it with another.
"Well, thanks again, for all your help," he says, still sweet in a way Eggsy suspects would have Harry checking his temperature or looking for signs of mind-control. "I'd best get going."
Duplasse stops him with a hand on his wrist. "Let me give you a ride," he offers.
It's excruciating not to smirk and say he knows what that means, you old pervert, but Eggsy manages to forebear. Kyler, who is simple, says, "Oh, no, that's too kind — I wouldn't want to impose any further, Mr. Duplasse."
"Please," Duplasse interrupts. "Call me Harry, I beg you."
Yes, Rox, Eggsy thinks. Harry is a bad man.
"Truly," Kyler simpers. "Thank you, but — "
"A ride, at the very least," Duplasse says, motioning at the bartender for the check or a limousine or whatever fuckawful rich people do when they're trying to pull emotionally compromised twinks in Monaco. Eggsy will have to ask Merlin. "I won't hear another word."
The ride Duplasse offers is, in fact, a limo. Most days, Eggsy has to lean on his suit to feel like he's not an imposter at Kingsman all-hands meetings, so in battered boots and jeans it's all too easy to lean into the version of himself who'd followed Harry into pub, pulse racing and a bit out of sorts.
"Duplasse will probably take this opportunity to proposition you — and you must do exactly as directed," Harry says to him, and it's less matter-of-fact and something altogether teasing, bedroom tenured, right into Eggsy's ear.
He squirms a little; his cock's been twitching all night, half-hard at the way this thing is playing out. Eggsy's history of functional relationships is nowt to talk about, but again, the little sister, the Disney, the Pocahontas. He'd been a bit anxious, first, that he'd get missions to fuck someone and that Harry would be a jealous prick about it, and then that he'd get missions to fuck someone and that Harry wouldn't be a jealous prick about it. Now he's got a mission to fuck someone and Harry's found some middle path that's so madly possessive Eggsy's fucking dizzy with it.
It's dark and quiet in the limo, the city sounds shut away as the door snaps closed, and Eggsy keeps a polite distance between himself and Duplasse on the buttery leather seats. He touches the inlay on the doors, closes his hands over his knees, stares out the window, and when Duplasse asks where he's staying, Harry instructs:
"Say you hadn't thought about it — since you ran out on Percival. Anywhere will do, as long as it's not too expensive."
If Eggsy weren't so busy trying to get this guy to want to fuck him without looking like he's trying to get this guy to want to fuck him, he'd marvel at this. As it is, he just twists his fingers together in his lap, all the ways he still feels like a kid whose comprehensive teachers said was too smart to be doing this shite welling upward — the yawning sense of his surroundings being beyond his reach.
"Oh, I didn't think about it, really," Kyler confesses, and Eggsy thinks of how infuriatingly grateful he is that this is just an act. That the person Harry had sprung has grown and changed and that Eggsy looks at himself in the mirror in the morning and knows who he is, what he's about, that he's got responsibilities and people who will help him up. "I just wanted to get away from him. I was in such a rush I didn't…"
"Oh, Kyler," Duplasse says, tenderly disapproving.
Kyler flushes hot, and in his ear, Harry murmurs, "You've know idea how you look when you do that, do you? I used to watch you get angry or embarrassed, and track the flush from your cheek to your throat, and wonder how far it went down your chest."
Fuck you, Harry, Eggsy thinks, and clears his throat so Kyler can say, trembly and not a little humiliated, too, "It's fine, really! Just tell your driver anywhere will do, as long the rooms aren't too steep." Eggsy flashes Kyler's best approximation of a sweet, emotionally injured smile. Eggsy has one himself, but fuck if he'll use it on a mission, on someone who he's not safe having see it. "Really, Mr. Duplasse, you've already been too kind tonight."
Duplasse looks resolved now, in the dim light of the limo. He closes one of Kyler's hands into his own, clasping at it with an invasive sort of caring, and he pleads:
"Kyler, let me take you home."
Eggsy's no good at this bit. His usual routine at pulling is telling some girl she's well fit and hoping for the best. He hasn't got a usual routine with boys, since those turn out half-accidental half the time, and anyway if Eggsy's version of pulling blokes has a 50 percent chance of resulting in punches, that's shit, isn't it.
"Relax," Harry tells him, all crooning care, the way he sounds when he's turning Eggsy onto his belly, when he's got Eggsy strung out and desperate, about to fly out of his own skin. "Don't worry about answering, just look as you do right now: confused, a bit torn."
So Eggsy doesn't reply, and so neither does Kyler, just staring and staring at where Duplasse's hands look massive on his own, on the leather of the seat between them. Eggsy tries not to think about how much he hates him, how there're 15 things just in the backseat here Eggsy could use to kill him, and how the world would be a much better place all around, regardless how fucked the mission would be.
"He'll try to kiss you, soon," Harry says, into the panting silence — just as Duplasse is closing the distance between himself and Kyler in the backseat, his mouth wet and open and wanting, and Eggsy barely hears Harry saying, "Let him have your neck, or the corner of your eye, not your mouth."
That's so fucking hot, and Eggsy can't even think why. It's all he can do to tip his head back and let himself get drawn in — feel Duplasse's hands on his hip, dragging him across the backseat, feel Duplasse's mouth on the skin of his throat. Eggsy's a lad, and it's teeth and the hot press of a man's dick through the fine wool of his fine fucking trousers. It might not be Harry, but he's got reflexes, has a spot on his neck that connects straight to his dick and then up to his mouth, and before Eggsy knows it he's moaning: raw and wretched and every bit the slut Duplasse thinks Kyler must be.
"Those are standing orders, Galahad," Harry continues, sounding so fucking unruffled, listening to Eggsy moan at the way Duplasse is gripping a bruise into Eggsy's hip now, leaving teethmarks on his collarbone. "Be alert — the limo is nearly to Duplasse's hotel."
"God," Eggsy manages, and that's about when the car stops and Duplasse stops savaging his neck long enough to grin, smug, and say, "Come along, Kyler," and drag him out the limo and into the gleaming golden light of the hotel lobby.
Eggsy's grateful to default into his training, to note details and study entrances and exits, watch for anybody watching them. But everyone in the hotel lobby is too fat and rich and idle to be dangerous, and he allows himself to be chivvied into the elevator — watches Duplasse swipe some inky black hotel keycard — and starts as the lift begins rocketing skyward to a floor number that isn't on the keypad.
"Penthouse?" he asks, with the fluttery, pleased surprise of a boy he imagines Kyler is.
Duplasse, because he's vile, puts his hand up Eggsy's jumper, slides it higher and high until he's — shit — thumbing a nipple with easy ownership, like it's just his right to do that kind of thing in fucking elevators because they're headed for the top floor suite. For the first month they'd been fucking, Harry had asked for permission to kiss him. Eggsy had thought it was right mad then; in retrospect, it's perfect, just as it should have been.
"Have you ever been in a penthouse suite, Kyler?" Duplasse asks, and his other hand's been busy hooking into the belt loop of Eggsy's jeans, so he could grind them together.
In Eggsy's ear, Harry makes a considering noise. "Running evac option discard — Duplasse is in the Diamond Suite on the fifth floor," he says, and so casually adds, "Cup Duplasse through his trousers. If you can bring yourself to do so, feign intimidation."
Eggsy does it, and his personal dislike of touching this guy's cock must translate into some universal manipulative pervert code for sexually arousing fearfulness, because Duplasse lets out a growl and leans in. Eggsy just manages to dodge the kiss, and he does it by snagging his teeth into Duplasse's throat, squeezing tight at his dick — already hard in his trousers — and saying, high and scared, "Oh."
"Don't worry, boy," Duplasse says, because of course Duplasse is the sort of knob who refers to sexual partners as 'boy.' Eggsy decides to ignore the way it makes it cock jump, automatic now, the way his whole body melts and gets open and ready for when Harry kisses the back of his neck and calls him 'darling boy.' Old Eggsy would never stand for this shit. "I'll open you up nice and slow, fuck you wide open on my big, thick fingers."
Eggsy thinks, terrible, because it is. Porn dialog is always fucking terrible, and for some reason, when he'd been watching shite spy flicks years back or sitting in Harry's claw-foot tub waxing filth about fucking state secrets out of people for King and Country, he'd somehow overlooked the fact that the people he'd be shagging might be fucking awful. It takes all his training not to kick Duplasse in the balls.
"Galahad, your ferociously aroused expression is veering dangerously into ferociously murderous," Harry corrects with fond amusement. "Be a dear and roll your hips into Duplasse's thigh — keep him distracted. Percival will be following you into the suite."
Eggsy does it, but only so he can give his (angry) erection some relief, and he bites down harder on Duplasse's shoulder, which Duplasse is apparently into because he swears in Armenian and grabs two handfuls of Eggsy's arse, rutting into him hard enough Eggsy'll have bruises from the lift's railing.
"Arriving at five — off private line — Percival, eyes on the mark please, Galahad has him in hand and you should be clear to approach as you see fit and appropriate," Harry says.
It's ridiculous to get all shy about whatever noises he's making as the lift doors open and Duplasse shoves and shoves at Eggsy, slams him into walls and doors and scores his back with dull nails. Duplasse keeps pressing wet kisses to Eggsy's jaw, his cheek, and one time he manages to get just the corner of Eggsy's mouth before Eggsy turns. Eggsy can't tell if Harry is just some kind of evil wizard pimp, or if this is just his possessiveness creating a happy coincidence, but the more Eggsy won't kiss him, the hotter Duplasse gets: sloppy, unfocused. It's easy, then, for Eggsy to direct them to the suite door, to fumble with the key and the lock, to kick it open and not kick it shut.
"Thirty second window commences now, Percival," Harry says calmly.
Eggsy tries not to think about Agent Percival stealing into the hotel room on the chemtrail of frustrated lust that's got to be wafting heavily into the hall. He doesn't hear Percival come in but he gets Harry in his ear, moments later, murmuring, "Well done, Percival — I'm transferring your monitor to Merlin for tech backup," and the quiet double-click of Percival in radio silence indicating orders received.
The sigh of relief Eggsy lets out must come off as something completely different, because Duplasse lets out an agonized moan.
"God, you're a hungry slut aren't you?" he asks Kyler, pawing at Eggsy's jumper and shoving him through long hallways and through doorways and how fucking big is this fucking penthouse anyway? "You want my cock, baby?"
Eggsy doesn't say, "'fanks, no," but it's a fucking trial, that.
Instead, he makes a high-pitched noise he saw in a porno once, from one of those whippet thin boys with lipstick on, whining in the back of his fucked out throat as some brute meathead alternated between fucking the kid roughly and making the kid lick his cock clean.
"Mr. Duplasse — " Eggsy starts.
Duplasse seems mollified by whatever bedroom he's directed them toward, and so is Eggsy, he guesses, since it's got an entire wall of windows and a terrace that could easily serve as a staging point for a takedown or a convenient fall for Duplasse. Whichever. Duplasse — while Eggsy checks the corners and roughs out the size of the suite — contents himself with shoving him down on the bed and shoving his jumper up, dipping his tongue into Eggsy's naval and fuck — how is that hot even though it's a fucking human trafficker doing it?
"Should I be offended?" Harry asks on the comms line. "You seemed so charmingly martyred at the beginning of this, and now look at you."
His voice has dropped half an octave, into something scotch-soaked and roughened. Eggsy's been trained like one of Pavlov's dogs and it gets him panting, all desperate and easy, to have Harry in his ear and in his head and Duplasse licking down his belly and ripping at the button on Eggsy's jeans.
Harry says, "Gasping wantonly, twisting your body into his — not unlike the first time I had you, either, Galahad. Is this how you win over all of your lovers?"
Eggsy says "Fu—uck," earnest and desperate. He's saying it to Harry; Kyler's saying it to Duplasse.
"Don't worry, slut, I've got what you need," Duplasse assures him, and Eggsy doesn't get to think how he fucking hates getting called that before Harry's back, conversational and unhurried, saying:
"Do you remember our first night, darling boy?"
He's louder to Eggsy, though his voice is softer, his tone is quieter — but he's closer where it matters. Eggsy's dick twitches and throbs, and he closes his eyes against the Monaco lights, spilling into the room,and just melts into Duplasse's hands where they're dragging the tiny pants Harry had put him in down Eggsy's hips.
"You made that same noise: like you were overwhelmed, like you could barely contain yourself. I still don't know if it's abject coquetry or a burst of something lushly, irrepressibly genuine," Harry goes on. "But when the color goes up in you, that rush of blood down your throat and your belly and the sweat beads on your lovely jaw — you must know how impossible it is not to savage you, tear you to pieces and eat you alive."
Eggsy has to bite his lip hard so he doesn't make another noise, something probably worse, and he's impatient now, so fucking impatient, because Harry's back in Blighty and the only person who's going to fuck the mood out of him is probably the world's only human trafficker both unsurprisingly mediocre at foreplay and overly invested in it.
"Fucking look at you," Duplasse says, and Eggsy hears the sound of clothing going off so he opens his eyes, admires the gay porn lines of Duplasse's perfectly manufactured chest and torso — reaches out so he can scrape his fingers down it, grasp for something — and Duplasse rolls his hips and his body obligingly into the touch, laughing smugly. "Yeah you like that, baby? Rock hard," he says, rubbing his cock into Eggsy's thigh.
"Start talking," Harry orders. "I know you bite that infuriatingly plush mouth of yours when I'm fucking you, and I can hardly give you orders in bed — "
"Shit," Eggsy whimpers.
" — but we're in the field now, Galahad," Harry goes on. There's no way he didn't catch that. Fuck. "And I'm ordering you to talk."
Eggsy wants to call Harry a cunt and a tease, but mostly he wants to wail about what the fuck should he say? He'll say it, whatever the fuck it is that Harry wants, because Duplasse has left Eggsy's pants hooked around his ankle and is pushing his knees up to his chest, sucking meanly at the head of his dick and it judders pleasure and pain through him like long, bright fingers of electricity. His whole body's shaking, and Eggsy wonders what he must look like, with Duplasse bent over him and making him all but fucking scream.
"Tell him to lick you open," Harry suggests.
Eggsy's said worse and in worse places to Harry, but shit. Shit. "Mr. Duplasse — "
And then Duplasse pulls off of Eggsy's dick with a pop, laughs, "Fuck, baby, just call me Harry already," husky and easy, and Eggsy can feel spunk starting to pearl on his dick, his cock tightening up in Duplasse's hand.
In his ear, Harry says, "You really should, you know," and shit.
Eggsy says, "Harry, lick me open," and he feels like a peach struck by a hollow point, like he's fucking exploded, messy and shattered and humiliated and burning up. He can feel parts of his brain shutting down. He can feel it to his fingers and toes; his cock throbs and his hole throbs and Eggsy's never felt so debased or so hot.
Duplasse is probably saying things, because Eggsy's realized he's the sort of prick who can't keep his trap shut during sex — narrates the entire process like porn Richard Attenborough. It's mental, this dissonance, because at home, Harry's quiet carefulness extends frustratingly into the bedroom; he's too good to bark out greedy demands and rude things, and now Eggsy thinks that was a kindness 'cos he might not survive this.
"Ask him to get you ready, Galahad," Harry goes on, a rasp along Eggsy's nerves.
What's Eggsy to do but listen?
He twists his fingers in the bed linens and feels his back arch, hears Duplasse whispering, "Shit — yeah — fuck, keep talking, you filthy slut," and gasps out:
"Get me ready — I — "
Duplasse does, sucking a nasty, open-mouthed kiss to Eggsy's balls before licking down tight skin of his perineum and licking at his opening, running the tip of his tongue over the tight muscle and using his thumbs to spread him.
" — fuck, yeah, work me open," Eggsy begs, and he sounds awful. He sounds pleading in a way he barely likes sounding with Harry, who's crooning into his ear. Saying, "You're gorgeous like this, Galahad, did you know? Have you ever watched yourself? It's dismantling to a man's control, when you get like this."
Out loud, Eggsy's chanting, "Yeah, yeah — get your fucking tongue in me," and Harry rewards him, saying, "It's among my favorite things to do to you, this — put my mouth on you and kiss you and kiss you there until you're red and swollen and yielding — "
"Please," Eggsy's saying now, hooking a leg over Duplasse's shoulder and dragging him closer, until his nose his a hard line of cartilage pressed into Eggsy's taint and the hot, moving muscle of his mouth is fucking Eggsy open. "God, I want — "
" — so that when you're a wreck near the end, after your lovely cock has made a mess of your belly, that I can just sink into you and feel how blood hot you are, your whole body a throbbing, impatient mess," Harry goes on. "Do you know, I think I can feel you starting to come on my cock before even you know you are?"
" — I want you to just be able to fuck right into me," Eggsy's swearing now, slurring, rolling his ass back for more and more of the wet noises Duplasse is making, that his tongue is making, opening him up. "I wanna be wet for you, come on your dick."
Duplasse swears into Eggsy's hole, and lavishes him a last, wet lick over the red, soft pout of his opening before crawling up Eggsy's body, grinding them together tip to tail and muttering, "You fucking nasty boy."
"Oh, he's no idea, really," Harry comments mildly, while Eggsy tries not to die from the way the trim hair of Duplasse's groin is grating the head of his cock and making him see fucking stars. If he was feeling bad about sort of cheating on Harry he's over it now. "Do you remember that time, last month?"
Eggsy does. He says, "Oh shit, oh shit, come on, fuck me, get in me," to Duplasse, because he needs something to fill up the gap in him, the wide open wound and rub him inside, so he can clutch at Duplasse's cock and think about last month.
"Yeah, yeah, fuck, okay," Duplasse agrees. Eggsy figures right now he'd agree to anything: take apart his trafficking business, hand over the operational details that Galahad and Percival are here to obtain. "Shit — God, can I do you bare?"
That comes like a pinch, an abrupt pause, and Eggsy finds himself staring into Duplasse's gorgeous, surgically perfected face and at the beautiful lines of his body, his waxed-clean chest and feels his cock twitch, feels his own fish-white belly get wetter with spunk, leaking steadily now.
There are standard Kingsman procedures for on-the-job sexual congress; Eggsy's got a special condom in the pocket of his jeans designed for mission use and to keep DNA integrity for records and matching for up to 72 hours. Their intel hadn't flagged any warning signs in Duplasse's medical records, and Merlin attacked every knight with a fucking cocktail of required medications that included a daily blue PrEP tab Eggsy took dutifully because Merlin's paranoia outweighed Eggsy's stubbornness by miles.
Duplasse reads the hesitation for what it is, and he sucks a kiss into Eggsy's chest, like that's a good fucking argument. "I'm clean, I swear — you?"
"I — yeah," Eggsy says, but. He's not been with anyone other than Harry in, Jesus, more than a year, and even then it'd been just last month that he'd come home from breaking the fucking sound barrier in a stealth jet and savaged Harry into the Turkish rug of their front sitting room: too high on it and impatient to do anything other than slick Harry up with his mouth and climb on.
In his ear, Harry says, "Tell him, 'yes,' Galahad."
That quakes through him, Eggsy's whole body a widening fault line, and he says, "Fuck, shit, all right — yeah, good — do me, get in me," and Duplasse swears in Hungarian, now, and digs around the pillows for lube with shaking, overeager hands.
"I confess I feel unequal to the task of you sometimes, Galahad," Harry says. "I know you don't like to be reminded of it, but I am twice your age."
Eggsy thinks, who fucking cares, and not this again, and out loud he tells Duplasse, "Start with two fingers — I can take it," because he can. Harry's trained him well in all things: haberdashery to hand grenades to this, too.
Close, just to Eggsy, Harry is saying, "And you are so lovely: all flushed skin over gorgeous muscle, the lovely turn of your hip."
Duplasse is pouring lube out onto his fingers, tossing it aside in the bed. "How — ?"
"On your knees, please, Galahad," Harry tells him, and Eggsy moans and heave himself over, onto his knees, yes, but weak in the elbows and all of his limbs gone soft, so he's barely holding himself up in the bed — burying his face in his arms.
Duplasse makes a lot of admiring noises about Eggsy's backside, which is nice and always good for the ego, but it goes on long enough that Harry has time to say:
"We were outlining this mission, then, when you burst into the house and had me on the carpet. Afterward, you wanted to lick me clean and all I could do was feel the wet heat of your mouth and watch how I was leaking out of you, your arse still fucked open and tender, and I thought, 'how could I send you to anyone else's bed?'"
Eggsy chokes out a noise he hopes comes across as dangerous and demanding as he feels, and Duplasse hushes him, says, "Yeah, baby, I know what you want," and then there're two fingers pushing inside him — going knuckle deep. Eggsy has to say, "Ah — not there," when the pads of Duplasse's fingers stroke over his prostate, because he gets too sensitive, because he'll only take it if Harry's bullying him about it, milking him dry in awful, endless full body orgasms until he's coming dry and sobbing about it.
"But then, if I weren't so selfish, if I could have denied myself the pleasures of you, you'd have a dozen lovers instead of being stuck with just me," Harry tells him.
"Just want you, Harry," Eggsy gasps, rocking to meet Duplasse's fingers — three now, stretching him out. There's no cool kiss of metal at the end, no bite of a ring against the soft skin of his opening, but it's still so fucking good. "Just you."
"Fuck yeah," Duplasse says.
"I suspected, and for that, I am humbled and honored, you foolish, darling boy," Harry says. "And all of this may be work, Galahad — but how I enjoy seeing you work."
"Fuck," Eggsy pants out. "Fuck, fuck. I'm ready. I'm ready now, get in me, get in me."
Duplasse, ever articulate, says, "Yeah, fuck yeah," and Eggsy's far gone enough that all he does is arch his back, spread his knees out on the bed: wet and open and waiting while the Harry in his ear purrs, "Greedy."
Eggsy's usually proper bratty if Harry puts him on his knees in bed. Eggsy likes to see and to be able to reach, score his nails down Harry's back or flip 'em, pin Harry down when he's gone too slow and easy for Eggsy's liking. He's glad of it today though, that he can press his face into his arms in the duvet and moan into the blankets — no constant reminder of whose bed he's in and doin' what — as Duplasse spreads him out and presses the head of his cock in, that first burn always so good it makes Eggsy's toes curl.
"Shit, you're so fucking tight," Duplasse is moaning, and Eggsy would bite back his answering moan if Harry doesn't remind him, "Remember, Galahad: talk."
"Fuck me, fuck me," Eggsy begs, because orders. Because Harry's listening, because he needs it and it's making him fucking mental. "Get in me — come on, I need it."
Duplasse's dick is longer than Harry's, but thinner, and where Harry's cock's built to torture on entry — thicker in the middle and covered with veins — Duplasse's slides into the hilt in an easy stroke. Eggsy feels the hot press of Duplasse's sack against his ass and he feels a full fucking tremor, knob of his spine through his toes, feels himself rearing back even though Duplasse isn't going to get any deeper. Eggsy tightens around the bare skin of Duplasse's dick, slick and buried in him, and feels like he's lit up inside out, like there's flame in his gut that's about to go nuclear.
"And how does he feel, Galahad?" Harry asks, scrupulously polite.
Eggsy scrapes together his two remaining brain cells and vows to cut up all of Harry's dressing gowns.
"Kyler, fuck, Jesus," Duplasse is huffing, which is apparently all the warning Eggsy's getting because Duplasse starts rocking in and out, and there's a burn and a drag and —
"Shit," Eggsy — Kyler's wailing, undignified, because Kyler doesn't have dignity in bed. He's just all grasping hands fisted in bedsheets and red faced, wet eyed and so grateful to be fucked, gagging for every inch of dick he can get his arse backed onto. "Fuck, God, you're so fuckin' deep in me."
Duplasse grabs the lube again, like he's starring in his own private porno, and he opens it so he can drip a fucking freezing stream of it where his dick's splitting Eggsy open, until they're so slick between them and the sounds are so fucking nasty that it's all Kyler can do brace his knees, lock his hips in place — go fucking boneless. Eggsy's not thinking about the fucking mission, he's not thinking about Duplasse, he's not thinking about anything other than the dickhead that's rubbing over his prostate on every drawback, trying to tilt his arse back into it and get more, more, deeper, just something else to get him over the edge. Eggsy listens to the wet, filthy slap of Duplasse's balls on his own and he would reach down and fist his cock but it's too much, it's too fucking much, and Eggsy thinks Kyler's the type of well trained boy who knows if he's gonna come he's gonna come on someone's dick and nothing else.
"Christ, you spoilt creature," Harry swears at him. "Look at you, your prick's absolutely dripping and you're getting fucked blind across the bed and I know exactly what you're thinking right now."
Which is rot, cos Eggsy's thinkin' fuck all right now, just a knot of exposed nerve endings, hypersensitized, barely alert beyond how he's clutching at Duplasse's dick every time he bottoms out — just —
"I'd put my fist around you, grip you tight, rub my thumb into your twitching slit and rub that come right back into your skin," Harry's telling him. "I'd slap your arse, get you moving, none of that lazy, overindulged waiting — I'd put you to work earning your fuck, Galahad."
That's a lie, that's such a lie, Harry's the one spoiling him after all, and Eggsy thinks this in between woozy thrusts, in between half heart attacks every time Duplasse scrapes over his prostate. And out loud he's babbling now, slurring, the little bit of polish he'd kept up for Kyler's been fucked out of him, so that he's digging his nails into the sheets and begging, "More — shit — more, Harry, Harry, I've — please — "
"Breathe, Galahad," Harry consoles him over the comm. "Down on one elbow, please."
Eggsy goes, grateful. It was fucking exhausting trying to keep his head up, and now with one ear pressed to the bed he can hear more of his blood roaring in his ears, his breath rattling like a fucking typhoon through his chest. He can hear the way Kyler's gasping, choking off whimpers every time Duplasse pulls out almost all the way and then fucks back in to the hilt, and then he can hear, too, Harry say:
"Now, reach back with your free hand and slide a finger in alongside his cock."
Eggsy has no idea how he manages it, how he manages to get his finger wet in his drooling mouth and how he manages to reach behind himself, to press tenderly at the wet, abused skin of his hole and listen to Duplasse shout, "Fuck, you're so fucking filthy," as Eggsy's fingertip slides in alongside his dick.
If Duplasse says anything after, Eggsy doesn't catch it, because Harry says, "Galahad — come," and he does, hard enough that his whole body closes up like a fist and he screams into the mattress — every bit of him turning inside out.
Smoking was never really Eggsy's vice of choice, but he decides it's Kyler's for sure, because fuckin' hell. Duplasse more or less collapses, a dead weight on Eggsy's back after he dumps a load, and Eggsy'd go clean up but he can't move his bloody legs. He blames Harry for this, so when Duplasse rolls off him and says, "You smoke?" before offering him a joint, Eggsy decides that Kyler says, "Um, okay," and takes a hit. It's the best fucking pot he's ever had in his life, and he's high as fucking Lancelot shooting a fucking satellite, mate, letting Duplasse finger him idly — stroking his jizz back up inside — when fucking Percival decides to execute part two of the mission.
So it goes that Eggsy's more than one toke over the line and still dripping semen down his fucking thigh when a black-masked intruder comes in and drags him out of Duplasse's bed by the hair, holding a pistol to his throat and threatening to shoot if Duplasse doesn't make good on some fucking deal he'd skipped out on.
"Oh my God, don't kill me," Kyler is begging, slurred and tearful and clutching the duvet to himself, where Duplasse had kicked it off the bed earlier. "Please, please — "
And on the bed still, Duplasse looks fucking terrified and calculating, saying, "Okay, shit, fine, just — let me grab my phone okay?"
Over comms, Eggsy hears Harry switch to the public line and say, "He set off his panic button, his personal security will be there in ETA five — four — three — two," before the suite door gets kicked in.
In his panic, Percival pulls the trigger, and poor Kyler dies a quick, bloody death in a nest of blankets on the floor while Duplasse screams, "Fuck!" and gets bundled off by his people as the intruder panics and makes a break for the terrace.
Kyler — for his part — has to lie there on a fucking freezing floor, naked, leaking come, in a pool of fake blood, for 10 minutes until Harry gives him the all clear.
Eggsy's in the process of giving up on a semi-respectable sink wash when hear hears the telltale double clicks of Merlin getting back on the monitor, and then his immediate complaint of: "Jesus suffering Christ, Galahad, are you high?"
"He is," Harry sniffs. "Outside of mission scope."
"Oh fuck off," Eggsy says, same time as Merlin scoffs, "Mission scope."
Thank God the nice woman faking a dead prostitute photograph in the hotel room knocks politely at the bathroom door then, calling out in a sweet, nervous voice, "Er, Agent Galahad? We've found your clothes, if you'd like to scarper before we call the authorities to report your death?"
The biotracker cocktail Eggsy'd tossed back before hitting the bar was working — Duplasse had run for a safe house still covered in Kyler's sweat, and it's simple then with a starting point to keep tabs on him as Merlin's team begins the delicate work of breaking into Duplasse's cloned laptop, courtesy of Percival. They'll watch him, collect evidence, root out his routes and business partners, and in a few months, once they have what they need, there'll be a determination of whether Duplasse can be successfully prosecuted in any court of law, or if he'll need to be handed off for wetwork. It's nothing for Eggsy to worry about now, Merlin assures him at the conclusion of debriefing.
"So what, that's it?" Eggsy asks into the screen of the tablet. Around him, the Kingsman jet is quiet, just Pennyworth — swear down that was his name — piloting from Monaco back to the estate headquarters and Percival asleep in the bedroom.
On the screen, Merlin arches an eyebrow at him. "Would you have preferred to debrief with Arthur on this mission, Galahad?"
Eggsy swallows. "Uh. I mean. He was there for all of it."
"I'm all too aware," Merlin tells him, looking ill.
It's funny how fast all the blood that had been in the rest of his body is suddenly in his face, and Eggsy mumbles, "Right, yeah, s'right, okay then," and hangs up on Merlin by fumbling the tablet until he smashes it on a table by accident and the screen goes dark.
Two seconds later his mobile lights up.
That's coming out of your pay.
For all that the jet's posh as fuck, it's still a tool in the Kingsman arsenal and designed for utility over luxury. There'd been a nice shower in there once, but Agent Kay had sighed that Merlin's first act as Merlin had been to have it ripped out and replaced with additional munitions storage, which Eggsy can't fault, really.
But that means when he sacks out on the long sofas, it's with sweat and dried lube on his skin and jizz leaking out of his arse still, and Eggsy would be mortified to think about his upcoming medical intake but fuck it. He'd been copied on a note from Harry-as-Arthur to the head of medical that they'd started barebacking last month as an FYI for Eggsy's files so whatever token privacy he liked to pretend he'd had is irrelevant.
Accordingly, neither Percival nor Pennyworth — again: swear down — wake him up when they land, that honor's reserved for Mohammed, from medical, who jabs Eggsy back into consciousness with a clipboard.
"Oy," he says. "Up, you."
Eggsy tries to pull a cushion over his face. "No," he protests.
"Right away, get up," Mohammed insists. "I need that semen sample from Duplasse and you're the only way I'm going to get it."
So after a medical intake that leaves Eggsy and Mohammed a lot closer than they'd been before—spiritually, physically—Eggsy's finally released on his own recognizance and with a reminder to come back in four weeks and then three months for follow up testing.
Eggsy's cotton-headed at this point, muzzled from no sleep and the post-fuck crush. There's no endorphins to carry him, no buzzy, oxytocin high, and he's stuck feeling something funny and fucking unsettling he can't put his finger on. Mohammed said he'd looked fine — "Congratulations! No anal tearing!" — and all his numbers had come back all right, but something was off about his shoulders, and Eggsy has a funny taste in his mouth. He feels dehydrated even though he'd drunk a fucking liter of water while waiting for the tests to process.
He's numbly trying to get his bloody shoes back on when the door to medical opens and he hears Harry say:
"Dr. Bagheri — how is our Galahad doing?"
Eggsy might be moving slow, but he still looks up. Harry's pressed and perfect as ever, in a vividly navy double-breasted suit, his snowy collar perfection. His glasses are folded up in a pocket, and when Eggsy finally stops starin' at his clothes to stare at Harry's face, it's to find him smiling — all kinds of soft — right back at Eggsy.
Mohammad, bless him, doesn't report the anal tearing thing. He rattles off some doctory nonsense that must have Harry pleased, because he's all happiness and satisfaction as he says, "Thank you, Dr. Bagheri. In that case, do you mind?"
"Have at 'im," Mohammed says. "Remember, Galahad — four weeks!"
"Of course," Harry allows, gracious, and pressing a hand to the back of Eggsy's neck, he strokes a thumb through the short hairs there and says, "Come along, Eggsy."
Eggsy goes, mumbling his goodbyes to Mohammed. His feet are dragging and he's still a mess under his clothes, but he's grateful because their own shower sounds suddenly so much more appealing than the locker room at Kingsman.
"The house, please," Harry tells the driver, when they settle into the back of the car.
Eggsy starts out looking at the countryside but ends up slumped into Harry's shoulder, asleep, and when he wakes up it's to the twilight of London, his face pressed into Harry's neck with an arm wound around his shoulder. Harry's saying, "Eggsy, we're here," and so they are, parked in Harry's mew, all the posh houses with their posh windows lit posh orange in the evening. That Eggsy manages to get out of the car without falling on his face is a miracle, and he lets himself get steered and handled into the house, where the door shuts and the street noises of Gloucester Road fall away.
"Um," Eggsy says, his tongue feeling too big in his mouth, but Harry only hangs up his jacket and starts directing him toward the narrow stairs of the house, saying:
"Upstairs, Eggsy — you've had a long day."
So Eggsy goes upstairs. He goes upstairs, and he gets sat on the closed toilet seat watching Harry run a bath in the massive claw-foot tub in his second floor bathroom — steam rising off the pale green-blue skin of the water.
When Harry reaches for him, for his jumper, Eggsy — fucking flinches. Shit.
Harry stares at him, patient like he could wait there forever, sat on the edge of the tub in his shirtsleeves and polished Oxfords, watching Eggsy quietly.
"I — didn't get to clean up, after," Eggsy makes himself say finally.
"Quick extraction was necessary for your safety and for operational fidelity," Harry answers, with a note of apology. "It wasn't ideal; I'll speak with Merlin about the shower on the plane again."
Jesus. "Fuck the shower, Harry," Eggsy snaps, crosses his arms over his chest. "Just — you might want to fuck off for this bit, yeah? I'm all…"
"You're what?" Harry asks, like's bleeding dim, or he's playing at it.
"I can't believe you're gonna fucking make me fucking say it," Eggsy complains at him, because sometimes he forgets and he shouldn't that Harry can be a right cunt. "That you might want to sod off while I'm scrubbing some other bloke's jizz off me.
Harry's not jealous like, that'd be beneath him. People like Dean get jealous, yelling at Eggsy's mum about nonsense, imaginary bullshit. Harry's got a easy certainty to him, like he knows himself, and he's got an easy certainty about Eggsy. He sends Eggsy out on missions all the time that seem too big or too wild, and he says, "I know you, Eggsy, you'll rise to the occasion, as you always have." Harry's watched Eggsy get lashed at a club, dance like a fool and snog a dozen beautiful and glittery boys and girls, and when Eggsy had staggered back, Harry had only looked fond and dragged Eggsy into a kiss that had obliterated all the others, had him weak-kneed and begging in public.
But still. That's what Roxy calls performative heterosexuality and provocations of borderline infidelity and that shite's a fucking leap year away from Eggsy, and how he feels lube and come soaking through the seat of his pants and onto the jeans. Fuck.
"So will you fuck off already?" Eggsy asks, he thinks reasonably given the givens.
Harry apparently disagrees.
"You can't possibly believe I mind," Harry tells him, mild and mildly disapproving.
Eggsy narrows his eyes. "You see where most people might."
"I'm hardly most people," Harry ripostes, brisk and no-nonsense, and reaches for Eggsy's jumper again. "And anyway, I sent you on that mission, I ran monitor, and Eggsy — " he leans in, catches Eggsy's gaze " — you did only as directed. Do you understand?"
Eggsy thinks he might be starting to, just a little — but.
"I meant it, before," Harry goes on, all his words quiet and landing like stones in still water: rippling out. "I love to watch you work. You should enjoy it as well."
Eggsy feels his forehead wrinkle. "Even if it means fuckin' other people, even if it means stepping out on — " he has no fucking clue what to call this thing he's got on with Harry " — this? You?"
Harry's apparently done with the not-stripping-Eggsy bit of the night, because he says, "Come on then," and drags the jumper over Eggsy's head, setting it aside before he reached for Eggsy's boots — unlacing and tugging them off, rolling down his socks and cupping his big hands around Eggsy's ankle, squeezing.
"Sex and seduction are tools that can and must sometimes be used by a Kingsman. Like other uncomfortable things we must sometimes do, it's our mandate to endure and our prerogative to — where we can — take pleasure in our work," Harry tells him, philosophical, but he does it while staring so hard at Eggsy's shoulder Eggsy follows the line of his gaze until he's peering down purpling bruises, the snag of a set of teeth.
"Shit," Eggsy says, tries to grab his jumper back. "Fuck."
"Stop it, Eggsy," Harry says, the way he said manners maketh man and remade the world, the way he's forever sweeping into places he doesn't belong and taking Eggsy places he never thought he'd go. Eggsy feels Harry's hands now, cupping his face, Harry's thumbs on his cheeks, which are red hot with shame, and Eggsy can only keep staring ferociously at where his fists are balled up on his knees. "Look at me."
He does, because it turns out Eggsy's instincts are to do whatever Harry tells him. And he'd been scared of that before, that Harry might fuck him over, but it turns out that mostly Harry tells him to eat up or be sure to visit medical or to adjust his stance — take this chance — jump out of this plane — know that he has bigger things ahead of him, inside of him — waiting to burst free.
And staring into Harry's annoyingly lovely face, Eggsy blurts out:
"I, you know, enjoyed it."
And fuck, what is it about this stupidly posh house in its stupidly posh mew that always has Eggsy feeling stupidly guilty in its stupid bathrooms?
Harry arches an eyebrow. "I should hope so. I worked extremely hard to make it an enjoyable experience in spite of Duplasse's presence," he says, so gorgeously haughty it makes Eggsy want to tackle him backward into the bath, to kiss him breathless. Eggsy manages to limit himself to an angry shove.
"Come off it," he mutters.
But Harry only keeps on looking right into Eggsy's face, and Eggsy's never been able to look away when Harry gets like this: solemn and thoughtful and focused. Eggsy drinks it up, soaks it it into his skin. He feels drunk on it.
"Did you think I would be angry? That the experience wasn't sustained misery?" Harry asks, and now the bastard's smiling, one of his thumbs stroking downward, to the corner of Eggsy's annoyed mouth.
"You get angry 'bout lots dumber," Eggsy sulks.
Right in front of him, Eggsy watches Harry's eyes go from the amber brown of his overpriced brandy to all pupil: black and dark and hypnotic.
"If you think something as transient, as unimportant as someone else's hands on you really matters, you are sorely mistaken," Harry tells him, in the way he'd told Eggsy that if he was prepared to adapt and learn, he could transform, revealing a truth of the universe. "I told you, that first night, that if we undertook this endeavor, I would never leave you in peace — do you remember?"
There's something in Eggsy's throat right now, so he just swallows hard around it and does his best to nod. He has to raise his hands up, so he can clasp them round Harry's wrists, press the tips of his fingers into the pulse points.
Eggsy remembers. He remembers being dizzy with happiness and pressing messy, adoring kisses to Harry's face, thinner and paler but dazzlingly alive. He remembers Harry pushing him — ever so carefully — against the closed door to his house, shuttering away the distant noise of the city beyond the mew, and telling Eggsy that if he were to go upstairs, that Harry would never leave him, that it wouldn't be a happy romp for young people in love. That Harry intended to score marks into him, keep him, and Eggsy had been so fucking desperate for all of it he'd shut Harry up with a kiss and manhandling so violent they'd had to redo two of Harry's stitches on the sly so Merlin wouldn't have them both strung up by the thumbs.
Harry smiles at him now, pressing the pad of his thumb into the bow of Eggsy's mouth, territorial. He says, "Then you must know, Eggsy, that no matter where you go or what you do, that as long as you return here, to me — you are mine."
Eggsy feels Harry's thumb drag over his mouth, over the way he's smiling now, and he asks, "Yeah? Is that right?"
"Never doubt it," Harry tells him, and his voice is low and purring and indulgent; he asks, "Am I understood, Eggsy?"
Eggsy's smile's gone wild, fucking explosive, and he grips Harry's wrists tightly so he can dart in, so that there's just a breath between his mouth and Harry's when he says, "Yeah."
And this way, they're so close Eggsy feels it more than he sees it as Harry grins at him, when Harry murmurs, "Good," and slants his mouth over Eggsy's, seals the promise with the sharp nick of teeth, and Eggsy loops his arms over Harry's shoulders — blissful.
The bathwater's gone lukewarm by the time Eggsy's finally sunk down into it, with Harry's running his lovely long fingers through Eggsy's hair and stroking soapy palms down his back. It's quiet, and every time Eggsy thinks he might want to ask something, it just seems easier to drag Harry in by the tie and kiss him instead. In the end, the floor's soaked, and Harry's tie is soaked, but Eggsy's scrubbed pink and half drifted away, every muscle in his body liquid.
"I reckon you're pretty fond of me," Eggsy mumbles, slurring as Harry dresses him pajamas and puts him to bed, draws the duvet up.
"You're tolerable, I suppose," Harry whispers back, but he punctuates it, when Eggsy whines at him, with one of those deep, searching kisses, and Eggsy sleeps — dreamless — with one hand drawn across Harry's chest, an open palm pressed close to feel the steady rhythm of his heart.