I. BMW Z8
Harry eases his roadster out of the Mill Hill Golf Club pathway onto the southbound lane of the A1.
He taps his glasses, "How much longer, Merlin?" he asks as he shifts gears and takes the fork to the A41, heading into Camden.
"Still four or five hours until completion, Harry, can you find some way to occupy yourself in the meantime? I do apologize."
"I'll think of something. Thank you, Merlin."
Perhaps he shouldn't have ended his golf session early after all. But Harry hates golfing. He'd been out on the course since 8 am, it was 2 pm now, and six hours is about six times over his tolerance limit for the sport. He keeps his hand in it, however, under orders of Kingsman. True to stereotype, wealthy middle-aged men made an alarming number of important business deals over a round of golf. It's an exclusive world not many people are privy to, so agents who have a history with the sport (Harry used to play golf with his uncle) are encouraged to practice regularly so as not to lose their skills.
Roxy, the new Lancelot, had mentioned in passing that she'd grown up playing golf. Harry thought perhaps he could cede his Spy Golfer #2 title to her, but golf is still very much a man's world despite more and more recognizable female names in the sport.
The title of Spy Golfer #1 is held by none other than Merlin himself, who practically grew up with the legendary St. Andrew's course in Fife as his back garden. Not that Harry would ever call his best friend a gentleman to his face, but Merlin's (real) name made one non-sanctioned appearance in the paper, when he won the Junior Open Championship a year after they were both shipped off to Eton.
Merlin is a well-respected member of all of the important clubs and an expert in disguising information gathering as idle gossip. One game of golf and Merlin would have a year's worth of blackmail material on UK's finance and business elite.
Merlin refuses to sully the sport by inventing weaponized golf clubs and so Harry spends most of his time on the green editing his imaginary BuzzFeed article, 50 Ways to Kill a Man with a Callaway!, and debating the merits of a driver versus an iron in bludgeoning a man to death.
Harry could turn back for another round but he'd already showered and changed out of that ghastly polo shirt and chinos - he draws the line at argyle knit waistcoats. Plus he'd already been on the course twice since Monday, the start of his mandatory period of "laying low."
There was chatter, apparently, connecting his name to Kingsman. Ordinarily this wouldn't be too worrisome, he did work for Kingsman Tailors, but considering he'd nearly blown his cover on his last mission and the chatter originated from IP addresses in Beijing, Kingsman was taking the necessary precautions to ensure that information regarding the spy agency didn't fall into the wrong hands.
Laying low is as close to a vacation as Kingsmen get, although some knights are so good at remaining inconspicuous that they never get the opportunity throughout their entire career. Some exile periods lasted a couple of days, if it was just a false alarm, while others went on for weeks - however long it took for Kingsman to tie up any loose ends. Merlin assured Harry that this was a minor incident and he'd be back on the field early next week.
Terms of the exile period are simple - agents must not be caught with anything on their person which could connect them to Kingsman, the spy agency.
Hypothetically, agents who were captured would be kept alive for purposes of interrogation so Harry isn't too concerned about trading in his bulletproof bespoke for a non-bulletproof Tom Ford suit (if it's good enough for Daniel Craig's James Bond then it's good enough for Harry Hart). He does miss his Rainmaker though, and the spyglasses, although Merlin didn't leave him empty-handed in that department -
"What are these, Merlin?"
"Custom Tom Ford 5178s. Only two basic functions - untraceable comms and GPS tracker. No audio or video recording capability."
"Hmm, I must commend you on your excellent taste, Merlin, I do look rather nice."
"Get over yourself, Harry."
No Kingsman cab, either, but he was more than happy to take his BMW Z8 roadster out of storage. It's a pleasure to drive the car, especially on days like today - he'd had the top down all day. He doesn't drive it very often; with fewer than 6,000 Z8s ever produced, only half of which were earmarked for distribution outside the US, it's too conspicuous as an every day car for a super secret spy. It's also left-hand drive (no right-hand drive versions were ever produced) so despite his extensive Kingsman driver's ed Harry always needed a brief period to get re-acquainted with the configuration.
Merlin, thinking that Harry would be at the golf course all day, decided to take advantage of the opportunity and update the security features in Harry's house in Stanhope Mews - they hadn't done any upgrades since he first moved in over twenty years ago. Harry didn't bother to ask about the details, constant surveillance was his life since joining Kingsman. He trusted Merlin's team with his life.
Still unsure of how to occupy himself until he receives the all-clear to return home, a quick glance down at his instrument panel reminds him of an upgrade he had been meaning to do on his car if and when he ever found the time. Well, four or five hours for Merlin's team to complete their work on his house, possibly another few days of exile, he has more than enough time on his hands.
Harry exits the motorway and pulls into the first reputable-looking garage he comes across - Dean's Auto Repairs.
Thursday is Eggsy's favorite day of the week.
Every Thursday, right after lunch Dean and the other mechanics ('band of crooks, occasional mechanics' is a more apt description according to Eggsy) leave the garage for an off-site (read: pub) meeting to discuss their other - mostly unsuccessful - business ventures and hash out their evil plans for the weekend. Eggsy had flat-out refused to take part in any of Dean's numerous endeavors outside of auto repair, so he was left alone to tend to the garage in the afternoon.
The garage is Dean's most credible business practice and even that is a dubious honor. Once or twice every few months one of Dean's lackeys would come screeching into the garage in a car that was obviously stolen. The gang would quickly roll down the garage door, change the number plates and disable any vehicle tracking devices. Sometimes they'd try to enlist Eggsy's help, but he would storm off, refusing to take part in any illegal activity. It earned him a beating when he got home, but at least Dean was savvy enough to leave Eggsy's face alone - not exactly good business practice to have your best mechanic show up to work with a shiner.
Oh, how Eggsy hates working for Dean.
On his bad days Eggsy feels like his dream of one day operating his own garage would remain exactly that - just a dream. Eggsy is close-fisted with his money but there's no way he could ever save up enough for capital to open his own garage. Dean pays him the bare minimum, if that, forfeiting the rest of his paycheck for rent even though Eggsy's share for the small council estate flat is far smaller than the amount Dean withholds every month.
Eggsy is the best, most qualified mechanic in Dean's garage - he's the only one with a technical certificate for maintenance, diagnostics, and repair of light and heavy vehicles. Even if the IMI's proposal to require licensing of mechanics goes through, Eggsy still wouldn't be able to get rid of Dean and his goons - they'd probably just fake some certificates and continue working.
On a few occasions Eggsy tried to apply for a position in another garage, only to be rebuffed when he couldn't produce a letter of recommendation from his current employer and Dean refused to provide Eggsy with an employment reference. Eggsy knew that was Dean's tactic to force him back into more disreputable lines of work, but Eggsy had come back from his aborted stint in the Marines with a set of principles and new-found determination to stick to them.
On his better days Eggsy doggedly pursues his plan, the only one he has at this point, really. He had business cards made - without Dean's knowledge -
Dean's Auto Repairs
Gary "Eggsy" Unwin
Certified Motor Vehicle Technician
and would hand them out to any customer with whom he had built a good rapport. It would take years though, Eggsy knew, to build up an impressive enough clientele for him to use as leverage when seeking a position in another garage. Still, it made him proud when customers would ask for him by name or wanted him exclusively as their mechanic.
The one saving grace working for Dean is that Eggsy is basically in charge of the garage, except for the finances. He keeps the space as neat and presentable as possible, checks the work of the other mechanics to make sure they haven't completely fucked something up, makes sure the garage is up to par with safety and equipment regulations. The other mechanics never complain about him being in charge or bossing them around, although it had more to do with Dean shacking up with Eggsy's mum rather than respect for Eggsy. If it wasn't for Eggsy, Dean would've run the garage to the ground by now.
But Thursday afternoons are sacred. Eggsy banishes all negative thoughts and freely indulges in his fantasy of one day becoming his own boss. Time enough to wallow in his misfortunes during the other six days of the week.
On this particular Thursday Eggsy is restocking the windscreen wipers in the small retail section in front of the reception area. This had been another one of Eggsy's ideas. Even though profit from sales of the limited selection of items is small compared to what they take in from repairs, it's a way for Eggsy to draw customers in, engage them in conversation, and sometimes he would turn a small sale into a bigger-paying repair job.
He's daydreaming, fantasizing about a garage as vast as an airplane hangar, filled with rare Aston Martins, Lamborghinis, Maseratis and McLarens. He imagines his wealthy patrons, James Bond-types with entourages of skimpily-clad women (although if he's being honest Eggsy'd rather go home with Bond than with a bird), folks with money to throw away. Maybe they'd hire Eggsy as their private mechanic and he'd get whisked away on a private jet to places like Monte Carlo or Dubai.
Eggsy hears a car pull up to the front of the shop and has a moment of disassociation, or whatever the proper term is for when fantasy and reality blend together too seamlessly.
Black BMW Z8, holy fuck, Eggsy never thought he'd see one of those in person - but it's the owner who takes his breath away. Eggsy's been to a few auto shows so he's seen some amazing cars but he never imagined someone like that would walk into his life.
Definitely a James Bond type. Slim-fitting expensive suit, crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone so only his jugular and a bit of chest are showing but Eggsy finds it fucking obscene, trendy, thick-rimmed black glasses, wavy fluffy hair just starting to go grey. Lithe frame, trim waist, and tall! Such long legs - Eggsy does some quick mental geometry to figure out how they could both squeeze into the roadster so Eggsy can fuck the posh right out of him. He might have to engage his gymnast flexibility for that. The bonnet of the car might be a better option, but that aluminum chassis was a bit iffy, structurally. The bloke is well fit, the fuck would be worth the Eggsy-shaped dent in the bonnet of his £100,000 car - Eggsy would make sure of it. Not that he's had vast experience or anything but -
When Harry finally catches sight of him, Eggsy gives him a cheeky smile and tips his chin in the direction of Harry's car -
"What's the difference between a BMW and a porcupine?"
Harry gives him a slightly bewildered look and furrows his brow.
"A porcupine has the pricks on the outside," Eggsy finishes.
Silence, for a beat. Then Harry laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his face relaxes, transformed by a smile as bright as the sun on this rare cloudless day. He beams down at Eggsy, brown eyes warm and friendly, and says in a crisp, velvety voice, "I wish I could contradict that implication but sadly I've been called that, and much worse, on occasion." He extends out a hand, "Harry Hart."
And just like that Eggsy's in love.
Well, OK, not really, but the way his heart starts racing, his sudden difficulty breathing, the onset of nerves which are of a different variety from those he usually gets when dealing with new customers - maybe the whole 'love at first sight' thing isn't such a far-fetched concept after all.
"Sorry, Mr. Hart, couldn't resist. M' name's Eggsy," he says, taking the proffered hand - beautiful long fingers, callused palms, Eggsy notes - amused at the way Harry squints at the name patch on Eggsy's mechanic's coveralls to verify he heard his name correctly.
"So what can I do for you today? Although I gotta be honest, if you need major repair work you're better off drivin' to BMW, we don't exactly keep parts 'round 'ere for limited collector's editions 'n all."
Harry takes stock of Eggsy's appearance, the spy in him noting identifying marks - the mole on Eggsy's neck, a small missing patch of eyebrow, nice strong jaw, mischievous eyes, green or blue-grey depending on the light - but more in admiration rather than for future possible target identification, and throws him a reassuring smile.
"Well, Eggsy, a couple of issues - the more pressing one is that my left rear indicator is fully out." Harry sounds mildly affronted that his ten year old sports car dares to show some wear and tear.
"Now I had the car imported from the US originally," Harry continues, "so I had to replace the original red neon indicators with amber ones to pass the MOT test. Back then there were already some concerns raised regarding the custom light units so I had some modifications done to replace the neon tubes with LEDs." Harry pauses in case Eggsy is one of those purists when it comes to preserving aesthetic integrity of rare vehicles.
Eggsy nods. "Makes sense, better for long term maintenance, innit?"
"Yes, exactly, Eggsy, replacement units are horrendously expensive and supply of parts for this car is completely unreliable. Now the second thing - I actually have no idea what the best way to do this would be - would you be able to somehow retrofit the car to be compatible with an iPhone? It was manufactured for one of those Motorola phones, the latest thing back then, I suppose. You're familiar with those flip phones?"
"Nah, mate, but I've seen memes on the internet," Eggsy says, eyes twinkling.
Harry rolls his eyes.
Eggsy nods, all business now. He's done both jobs before, not in cars as nice as Mr. Hart's, but there's nothing technically difficult about the procedures.
"Well, Mr. Hart -"
"Harry, please," he corrects, with a smile that makes Eggsy want to offer Harry an alternative, non-pecuniary method of payment for Eggsy's services.
"Well, then, Harry, why don't you bring the car 'round back so I can take a look?"
Eggsy locks the front door of the shop and puts up the "Ring Bell for Service" sign. He's tempted to put up the "Closed" sign instead, he'd love to give Harry his full, undivided attention, but the garage can't exactly afford to miss out on potential revenue. It's not like he's expecting a stampede of customers anyway.
Eggsy reaches the back entrance in time to see Harry pull up to the service area and position the car between one of the few available two-post lifts. Eggsy motions for him to move forward a bit, and when he's satisfied Harry parks the roadster.
"Do you own this garage, Eggsy?" Harry asks as he opens the driver's door to get out - on the left side, still a bit odd.
"Nah, it's me stepdad's," Eggsy grumbles, and Harry doesn't miss the scowl that clouds over Eggsy's features. It's fleeting, though - a second later Eggsy brightens up at the fact that Harry's tone suggested Eggsy owning the garage was a completely reasonable assumption.
"Quiet at the moment, isn't it?"
Eggsy shrugs, "Rest of the crew meets every Thursday for some other business."
Harry takes the hint from the swear words Eggsy mutters under his breath following his reply and doesn't press him on it.
Eggsy takes some time to admire the car as he walks around it. Shiny, polished black exterior - "Designed by Henrik Fisker," Harry informs him.
"Of the Aston Martin DB9, yeah?" Eggsy asks.
"The very same."
Sport red leather interior, 50s-style BMW grille. Eggsy gives a low whistle of approval and winks at Harry, "Very, very nice."
He bends down to look at the tail lights. He runs his hand along the bumper, asks Harry to pop open the boot of the car, lifts up the carpet to look underneath, and takes a few more mental notes.
Next he takes measurements of the stereo head unit - standard size, good - and takes a closer look at the armrest. He brings over his laptop and searches his directories for the wiring diagram of the harness that should be in the BMW - 16-pin connector, nothing out of the ordinary, good.
When he's done with his preliminary examination Eggsy takes a deep breath.
"Alright, guv. I'm sure you've noticed there ain't a lot of fancy cars in 'ere, but I can promise you, I'm really fucking good at what I do. I'll replace the busted LEDs - I'll do both left and right rear lights, makes more sense while I've got access to everything. We can replace the current head unit with an aftermarket unit that's compatible with the iPhone, there are some really good options out there, we can order one today if you'd like and I can perform the install when the unit comes in. I guarantee and charge a fair price for all my work, I can even get you back on the road with your blinker fixed by closing time today."
Eggsy gives the whole spiel in one breath. He's a bit nervous, not about the work, but about convincing Harry that he's the right man for the job.
Eggsy feels himself straighten up, stick his chin out proudly, as Harry stares deep into his eyes.
After what feels like forever, Harry apparently likes what he sees because he softens his gaze and says, "There was never any doubt in my mind, Eggsy. I see a great deal of potential in you and in your business."
And he does. Harry's relied on his instinct for most of his life and it's yet to fail spectacularly on him, and he had a good feeling about Eggsy as soon as - well, as soon as he called Harry a prick. He did notice the absence of luxury vehicles in the garage, but the space is clean and tidy, there's a wide variety of cars - all different sizes, brands, and models, most of them older makes.
Never trust a mechanic who drives new model vehicles, as the saying goes.
Eggsy relaxes visibly and lets out the breath he's been holding. "OK, now the tail lights, I'm gonna give a rough estimate of 3, 4 hours to get the job done. I've gotta disconnect the wiring at the bottom of the boot, take out the rear bumper to get to the tail lights, basically disassemble the bottom bumper to release the top bumper then disassemble the actual units themselves before I can replace the LEDs. I don't wanna rush through everything with a car like this."
Harry nods. It's been a while but he does remember leaving the car overnight to do the modifications to the rear indicators.
"Now I can take a few minutes to prepare a cost estimate before I begin -"
Harry waves him off and Eggsy rolls his eyes. Fucking wealthy pricks. "Ok, I guess I'll get started then."
Eggsy takes the keys from Harry and prepares for the job - gathers his tools, pulls up relevant documentation and manuals.
"Is there a Starbucks in the vicinity, Eggsy?"
"Yeah, mate, down that way, on Primrose Hill."
"Thank you," Harry says absently, scrolling through his iPhone as he turns and walks away.
Eggsy stares after him longingly until he's out of sight then pulls himself together.
It's for the best, Eggsy sighs to himself, he'll get the job done quicker without Harry there for him to gawp at. He's got nothing in common with someone like Harry anyway, he reasons, catching sight of the golf clubs nestled in the passenger seat; the only use Eggsy would ever have for a golf club would be to bludgeon Dean to a well-deserved death with. Eggsy thinks back to all those things Dean had tried to force him to do - Eggsy'd ran off to join the Marines just so Dean wouldn't pimp him out on Smith Street. Not exactly the type of story he could entertain Harry with.
But it's Thursday afternoon and Eggsy has a strict policy of not letting thoughts of Dean ruin his day, so he turns on the radio for some background noise and gets started on Harry's car.
Originally Harry intended to grab a coffee and fuck off for the next couple of hours - what do civilians do in their spare time? See a movie? The new Melissa McCarthy, Jason Statham spy parody is out in theaters, that is definitely Harry's kind of movie. But the look of disappointment on Eggsy's face when Harry turned to leave was enough impetus for him to alter his plans. I'm turning into a sap in my old age, Harry surmises, and picks up the two drinks waiting for him at the end of the coffee bar.
The way Eggsy's face lights up when he returns to the garage, Harry thinks he might go for half-hourly coffee breaks just to see that look again. Harry couldn't remember the last time his presence made someone so happy. It's refreshing, actually, after years of being surrounded by people who are trained in the fine art of schooling one's features into perfect impassivity.
"I hope you drink coffee, Eggsy, I took the liberty," Harry says as he hands Eggsy a drink, "I brought sugar packets as well, although I prefer mine without."
"Is this the same as you're drinkin', then?"
Eggsy takes a cautious sip. He's not a big coffee drinker and this will probably keep him up all night, but then again, if not the coffee, then definitely the increasingly minutely detailed fantasies involving Harry Hart.
"Do you like it? Need some sugar?"
"Nah, guv, it's perfect, fanks. Wha' is it?"
"A flat white," Harry says, "I also got us some butter croissants."
Harry watches as Eggsy takes delicate sips of his drink, eats the croissant with gusto, eyes wide as saucers. He tries and fails to turn his eyes away when Eggsy licks the croissant flakes off his plush bottom lip.
"Thanks, guv," Eggsy says, a bit embarrassed he'd inhaled his croissant while Harry hardly made a dent in his.
He waits for Harry to finish his snack, it seemed like the proper, gentlemanly thing to do. He tries to take a photo surreptitiously of Harry leaning against his car, head turned to the side, long legs crossed, sipping on his 'flat white' but Harry catches him in the act.
Eggsy tries to brush it off, "Don't see that type of car 'round 'ere much."
Harry protests and moves off to the side so that Eggsy can take pictures of the car by itself, but it's too late, Eggsy's got a new phone background.
Eggsy tips his head back, tries to get the last bit of foam from the bottom of the cup. He blushes when he sees Harry watch him. Harry follows the faint flush down Eggsy's chest and wonders what Eggsy looks like underneath those baggy coveralls.
"Sorry, mate, don't get to Starbucks much. Bit rich for my blood," he says shyly, "Trying to save up for my own garage."
"Do you not like working here, Eggsy?"
Eggsy sighs as he gets back to work, "Stepdad's a total arse."
Over the next hour Harry gets the basics - Eggsy hates his stepdad, adores his little half-sister. He quit the Marines after two years - "Mum went mental," his father died during a Marines training exercise.
In turn Harry feeds him his practiced not-quite-the-whole-truths.
"I'm a tailor."
Eggsy gives him a look.
"Savile Row, Eggsy, very haute stuff."
Eggsy gives him a look and crosses his arms.
"Also I come from money."
That's the confirmation Eggsy's looking for.
Picking up on Eggsy's reticence on speaking about himself, Harry talks about his travels, trying to recall his first impressions, before the novelty of travel gave way to a tally of bullet wounds and scars, when packing was about remembering a toothbrush rather than keeping track of passports and aliases.
Eggsy's all ears, asks in particular about New York, Miami, Los Angeles.
"Have plans to tour the States in the near future, Eggsy?"
"Grand Theft Auto," Eggsy replies sheepishly.
The hours fly by in Eggsy's company. Eggsy offers to give Harry a call when he's done, but Harry tells Eggsy his house is being fumigated and it will take a few hours for the foul-smelling fumes to dissipate.
Eggsy enlists Harry's help at one point and Harry gets up from the armchair Eggsy supplied for him, which reeks of pot but is comfortably worn-in. He holds up the upper half of the bumper while Eggsy disconnects some wiring harnesses to access the light units. Maybe Eggsy has some proper equipment for that but this is better, this way he gets a whiff of Harry's cologne and can peek down his shirt and damn, the man's got a nice set of pecs, what the hell?!
They're interrupted a few times by other customers, but nothing requiring immediate attention. Just one pick up, and the rest of the jobs Eggsy's able to queue up for tomorrow when the other mechanics are in.
Eggsy's done with the lights, he's currently restoring the rear bumper, then all he's got left to do is re-organize the boot of the car. Harry gets up to grab them some dinner.
Harry doesn't notice the radio is on until there's a lull in the conversation. The station's currently playing a block of hip-hop classics, and the song's one of those instantly recognizable one-hit wonders of which no one ever remembers the name of the singer.
"Is this your theme song, Eggsy?" Harry asks casually.
"Fuck off, Hart."
♪ I wish I was little bit taller,
I wish I was a baller
I wish I had a girl who looked good
I would call her
I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat
and a '64 Impala ♪
Harry moves the golf clubs into the boot and they leave the car doors open, eat fish and chips curled up in the plush leather seats of the roadster, despite Eggsy's protestations of getting grease all over the car.
Eggsy's got his laptop and they're narrowing down choices for Harry's new stereo head unit. Harry's only half-listening to Eggsy prattling on, he knows he'll probably just go with whatever Eggsy recommends.
"Now some audiophiles are really into Nakamichi units, Japanese made, beautiful, look real nice in bimmers. But I might 'ave a bit of trouble getting one, and I ain't sure about full iPhone support. Now the Pioneer ones are a pre'ey good option, they got Bluetooth, direct control for iPhone, you can match the display illumination with your instrument panel. Pioneer are good with support, with newer models you'll just need a firmware update if you upgrade your phone, unless Sir Jony fuckin' Ive decides to wring more money ou' of you n' me, we're just Apple sheep really, ain't we, and he makes a fancy new thunder lightnin' fuckin' hurricane connector, in which case I'll have to pop the unit back out and change the USB cord. 'Course it'd be easier with one o' them front-facing ports, maybe if you was drivin' a clunker I'd recommend it, but a nice dash like this, don't wanna ruin it with a thing stickin' out..."
Harry mumbles something about not using the car often enough to justify the fancy Japanese model, so they settle on a unit by Pioneer. Eggsy places an order with his supplier right there on the spot, excited for a guaranteed second date (appointment, whatever) with Harry.
After dinner they walk up to the till to settle Harry's account.
"Eggsy, would you mind terribly if you kept my address and phone number off your customer database? I trust you completely but I had a terrible experience once with a retailer who sold my information. It was a full year before I managed to stop the junk mail and solicitation calls."
Eggsy doesn't find anything too odd in that request, sometimes he doesn't even get a name, just a thick wad of cash and a nudge-nudge-wink-wink. It's fine, the less Eggsy knows about shady characters the better. He'd memorized Harry's address and phone number as soon as Harry told him anyway, he's always had that ability. He puts his name down on the work order as "H.H.", suddenly wary of Dean finding out about his wealthy customer.
Eggsy checks the car's fluids, free of charge (and if Harry wants his bodily fluids checked that'd be free too) in a desperate attempt to extend their time together. He frowns at something he finds while he's checking the engine. He grabs Harry's hand and drags him to the opened bonnet of the car to point something out.
Eggsy puts his hands on his hips and purses his lips, then points and says, "Mate, look 'ere, see that bit on the VANOS? 'Sposed to be silver colored, yeah? Yours has gone all browny-gold with sedimentation."
Eggsy's scolding him and Harry finds it adorable but he puts his spy training to good use, schooling his features to look properly chastised instead of inordinately fond.
Eggsy writes him a note, like a doctor writing a prescription, "Shell M TwinPower Turbo 10W-60, you gotta go to a BMW dealer to get it, if you have trouble lemme know, maybe I can even dig up the original Castrol TWS motor oil for ya, 's been discontinued but you can find 'em on eBay and Amazon sometimes."
Harry nods. When his exile's over he's sure Merlin can get him something to spec from Kingsman's garage.
Speak of the devil - Merlin's voice comes in over comms, "Just about finished, Harry, you can go home now."
Harry doesn't reply because he doesn't want to start talking to thin air in front of Eggsy.
Harry gets in his car and backs up out of the garage and does a three-point turn to face the car in the right direction.
Eggsy shuffles over, suddenly a bit shy, "Er, 'arry, here's my business card - put me mobile on the back in case you need to call after hours."
Harry extends a hand - "Thank you very much, Eggsy, it's been a pleasure. Do you have a few more business cards?"
Harry's thinking of those insufferable galas he has to attend, those businessmen on the golf course - there's never a dearth of men and women willing to brag about their latest auto acquisitions. Maybe he can drum up some business for Eggsy.
"Yeah, yeah, 'course," Eggsy bounces on his heels like an excited puppy and runs back inside to grab a stack of business cards.
"Give me a call when the Pioneer comes in, Eggsy. Until next time, then."
Eggsy sees Harry signal a left at the corner - indicator working beautifully - and watches until the Z8 is out of sight.
The world looks a little bit greyer through his eyes when Harry's gone.