“Don’t you dare,” Eggsy breathed, green eyes wild and frenzied. His posture veered dangerously towards aggressiveness, and his knuckles went white where his fists were tightly clenched. “Don’t you fucking dare joke about this, Merlin.”
The Scotsman lowered his pad, his expression taut and unreadable. “I would never joke about something like this, Eggsy. If I hadn’t received the video confirmation earlier, I would have reacted the exact same way. But believe it or not, Eggsy… Harry is alive.”
Roxy, or Lancelot (Eggsy has been having a rather difficult time trying to use codenames when he’s got a relationship stemming from an non-professional friendship with people), had been a Godsend these last few months. She’d offered to take any jobs that exceeded two week’s duration off Eggsy’s plate, so the new Galahad was never away from Harry’s comatose side for long.
This had become especially important, in lieu of a recent and unexpected turn of events.
Omegas don’t get pregnant unless they’re bite-bonded. But apparently, a scent-bond was sufficient for Eggsy to take with Harry’s pup. And all it took was once, during the 24 hours allowed between candidate and their mentor. 24 hours, a tentative scent-bond and one round of unprotected sex, and Eggsy was carrying Harry’s pup. The discovery had been met with shock (everyone), disbelief (Merlin, because he couldn’t believe that Harry could even get it up anymore; Roxy, because Harry was more than twice Eggsy’s age and should have known better) and dismay (Eggsy). Though it had been a plausible option (and highly recommended for a bite-bondless expectant Omega), the very mention of abortion made Eggsy snarl and curl around his still-flat abdomen.
He had never expected to get bonded to anyone, much less have kids, but the idea of giving up Harry’s child was too painful to even consider. Especially when it was unknown if Harry would ever wake up to learn that he was to be a father at the age of 50.
“It’s okay if I name him Henry, right?” Eggsy murmurs, trying to rub some warmth into Harry’s cold hand. “Henry Lee Hart.”
At eight month’s gestation, Eggy’s belly is unmistakably round with Harry’s pup. His scent, according to both Roxy and Merlin, has changed. Even Percival, Roxy’s mentor and the rumored lover of the previous Lancelot, has made the same observation. Rox once described it as a mix of Eggsy and Harry, with warm milk thrown in. It apparently incited the instinctual urge to cuddle with Eggsy. A lot.
Merlin had suggested talking to Harry, who might have recovered enough to regain low-level consciousness, enough to be aware of his surroundings. The idea had initially given Eggsy hope, but after weeks of enthusiastically discussing baby names, talking about the ultrasound pictures, revealing their pup’s sex and even putting Harry’s hand over the spot where their unborn pup had kicked against Eggsy’s stomach… Eggsy was reduced to forced cheer and fleeting hope.
“I hope he looks like you, Harry,” Eggsy mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut to force back the threat of tears. Bloody hormones. “So I’ll always have a piece of you with me.”
With that, Eggsy leaves for his shift (Merlin has unrelentingly assigned him a continuous stream of dead-boring desk jobs) in the Handler’s department. The door snicks shut behind the Omega just as Harry’s hand, still retaining residual warmth from Eggsy’s palms, gives the faintest twitch.
Eggsy goes into labor just as he’s finishing up an assignment with Roxy—Lancelot. It’s a little overdue, but Dr. Duschette and Merlin both agree it’s better late than premature. His waters break as Roxy makes a movie-worthy getaway in a battered Ford truck.
“Oh shit,” Eggsy curses under his breath, watching with detached horror as his belly starts tightening with contractions and amniotic fluid stains the seat his trousers and Merlin’s patent leather chair.
“Galahad? What’s the matter?” Roxy asks, her voice a little scratchy over the intercom. “What’s wrong? Do I have a tail?”
“No, no,” he mumbles. “My water just broke, is all.”
“What?” she screeches.
“Your pick-up point is another five point three kilometres North,” he instructs, ignoring the growing discomfort. “Follow the highway for another two clicks, then turn off onto the mountainside until you see the runway.”
“For goodness’ sake, Eggsy!” Roxy admonishes. “Forget me! Go to the infirmary already!”
“Going, going,” Eggsy huffs, levering himself out of the ruined chair with no small amount of difficulty. Maneuvering yourself with a bump you can barely reach your arms around is tough; doing so while you’re in labor is damned near impossible.
He waddles towards the med wing without coming across a single soul, much to his relief. He would rather not alert the entire HQ to his current situation.
A flurry of nurses and Dr. Duschette descend upon him once he makes his predicament known to them, and he finds himself propped up in a bed with his legs up and parted in stirrups in no time.
“How long have you been having contractions?” Dr. Duschette asks, eyes widening as he checks Eggsy’s dilation. “You’re already nine centimeters.”
Eggsy winces, both in chagrin at his oversight and at the flaming embarrassment of having someone decidedly not Harry poking at him down there. “Okay, so maybe those weren’t false contractions I’ve been feeling since yesterday. Or gas from the curry takeaway.”
Dr. Duschette rolls his eyes and tells him he can push with the next contraction.
Harry Hart wakes up to the sound of screaming.
His first instinct is to lurch upright, which doesn’t go down very well with his body. He feels lightheaded, nauseous and every inch of him aches. His joints are stiff, and his mouth and throat feels like someone has been stuffing it with cotton.
His second instinct is Eggsy.
Second instinct is both satisfied and infuriated when he recognizes the screaming as Eggsy’s.
He tries to get up, but only succeeds in dislodging sensor tabs stuck to his torso and temple, setting off a series of annoying alarms that make his head pound even more. It takes a while for him to register that this is Kingsman HQ, and that the people he’s trying to fight off are the medical staff.
“What’s going on? Where’s Eggsy? What’s happening to him?” he growls, but the intended effect is muted by the hoarseness of his voice.
“Calm down, Arthur,” Merlin suddenly appears, looking flustered like Harry has never seen before. “Sit down before you hurt yourself.”
“What’s happening?” Harry snarls, inner Alpha bristling at the lack of answers. “Merlin, what the hell is going on? Where is Eggsy? What’s happening to him? And why in God’s name did you call me Arthur?”
“You’ve been comatose for almost ten months,” Merlin pushes him back down on the bed as the medical staff fuss around him. “Eggsy is in labor, and you’ve been promoted to the position of Arthur after Chester King decided to join sides with Valentine and was subsequently poisoned by your protégé.”
It’s too much for Harry to process, so he latches on to what’s seizing his forebrain. “Eggsy is in labor?”
Merlin gives him a half-amused, half-impatient look. “Yes, Harry.”
Eggsy. In labor. With whose pup? And why does he care so much? Why is he so obsessively concerned with Eggsy? The last thing he can recall about his proposed candidate and Lee’s son is frustration over a failed test, directed at both the younger male and Chester, green eyes glittering with unshed tears and a promise to sort things out when he got back from Kentucky.
A massacre in a church, a face-off in a parking lot. The chilling echo of a gunshot fired at him, a sharp and bright note of pain before blacking out.
His mind is a mess, and Eggsy is still screaming. So his inner Alpha decides to take over, and with vicious abandon.
“One more push, Galahad!”
What the hell does Duschette think he’s doing, having a fucking tea party? Of course he’s bloody pushing. It fucking hurts!
Eggsy grits his teeth and bears down, thinking of Harry, thinking of the pup and how much he wants to meet it.
There’s a burning sensation as the pup’s head stretches his temporary cervix, and then a wet pop as it emerges. The shoulders slide out next, and then Eggsy’s and Harry’s pup is born in a slick, wriggling and squalling mass.
Henry Lee Hart weighs 8 pounds and not an ounce over. He has matted brown curls, a squished red face and an impressive set of lungs that help him bellow his displeasure at being forced from his dam’s dark and comfortable womb.
He is quickly wiped clean and swaddled in a soft white Kingsman-issued terrycloth towel before being placed in Eggsy’s exhausted but outstretched and waiting arms.
“Hey,” Eggsy coos as the pup snuffles, cries quietening as his twitching little nose is placed against Eggsy’s chest for scenting. “Hey there, handsome.”
“Congratulations, Galahad,” Dr. Duschette smiles, snapping off the bloody gloves. “I’ll leave you two to bond, then.”
“Thanks, doctor,” Eggsy spares the man and the med staff a brief nod of gratitude before returning his attention back to his pup.
Henry’s hairless brow furrows and his chubby little fists fight free of the swaddling to root against Eggsy’s chest, instinct demanding he be fed. Eggsy smiles, filled with an overwhelming feeling that at best can be described as unmitigated joy, and guides the pup’s mouth to a nipple. It feels weird and kind of stings a little, but also relieving to have his pup suckling at his chest.
“I love you so much, Henry,” Eggsy says, unable to think of anything else but unconditional adoration for this pup, half him and half Harry. He traces the curve of his cheek with one finger, his chest tight with emotion.
He is proud, delighted, relieved and…sad. He wishes, so badly, that Harry could be here with him, to be able to hold his pup.
A soft knock on the door distracts him from sliding down the slope into familiar misery, and Eggsy allows Merlin to enter.
“Congratulations, Eggsy,” Merlin smiles at the sight of the pup, and his smile grows wider as he recognizes Harry’s curls. “Dr. Duschette says you are both in good condition, and can be released by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank God,” Eggsy’s head thumps back against the stack of pillows behind him, helpfully provided by the med staff post-birth.
“But if you’re feeling well enough…” Merlin looks fidgety, which is very unlike the Scotsman. There’s a glint in his eyes that Eggsy is immediately suspicious of. It reminds him of the time when the handler suggested that one of the candidates might not have a parachute. “There’s someone who’d like to meet Henry, too.”
“Can’t they come in here?” Eggsy groans. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
“They’re…more indisposed than you are, I’m afraid.”
Eggsy engages Merlin in a stare off while the pup finishes feeding and grizzles against Eggsy’s chest. Eggsy continues to stare Merlin off as he carefully burps the pup.
“Ugh, fine,” Eggsy grumbles. “But they better be fucking honored, you hear?”
“I think you’ll want to meet them, too,” Merlin smirks as he helps Eggsy into a wheelchair.
Harry struggles uselessly against the leather restraints, snarling and snapping at anyone who comes near. His throat is parched, but the guttural growling doesn’t cease. His muscles are atrophied and his bones weak, but he doesn’t stop trying to fight free.
Then the door is swinging open, and the scent of baking bread, warm milk and muted whiskey undertones fills the air. Harry’s inner Alpha recedes, and his consciousness comes back to the surface.
Eggsy stares back.
There are no words, no sounds that will satisfy the gap between them. There are so many things that need to be discussed, so many things that need to be said.
All of them are placed aside at the plaintive whine of a pup at Eggsy’s breast.
Oh God, Harry can’t help but feel proud, even as his brain is processing the scent, the curls.
His pup. His and Eggsy’s.
“Harry,” Merlin decides to speak for them both when it becomes clear that neither will take the first step. “Meet your son.”
He wheels Eggsy closer to Harry’s bed, and Harry gets a proper, clear glimpse of his son. Eggsy’s green eyes are still on him, petrified. He appears to be frozen stiff, as Harry is.
But the warbling coo of the pup in his arms positively melts Harry, and he wants so desperately like he has never wanted anything in his life before to hold the pup.
He asks as much, and the leather restraints holding him down are swiftly undone. All that is left is for Eggsy to slip the pup into his arms.
“Eggsy?” he is unsure of how to proceed. This is Lee’s son. He recruited the boy with hopes of saving him from a miserable life, out of gratitude and to repay a life debt. He never expected to fall for the boy, or to forget that he was old enough to be Eggsy’s father, much less his lover (albeit for a night, a single glorious night). As a Kingsman frequently embroiled in danger and nefarious plots that could take advantage of his personal life, he never dreamed of having a family. And now, he has a child with Eggsy.
At the sound of his name, uttered from Harry’s dry lips, Eggsy flinches.
It is a reaction that stuns Harry.
“I-I,” Eggsy looks like a deer caught in headlights, his grip on their pup tightening. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—please don’t take him from me, Harry. I can’t—I won’t let you take him—”
It becomes frighteningly clear: Eggsy doesn’t think Harry will want to mate with him, and thus intends to take the pup from him. As an Omega, Eggsy has less legal claim to the pup, even if he did give birth to it. Though Omega rights have come a long way, the courts are 80% more likely to rule in favor of the Alpha parent. Harry thinks it’s complete nonsense, but now he can firmly declare it is bullshit.
“Eggsy,” Harry says gently. “I won’t take him from you.”
Eggsy eyes him, suspicious and fearful. Harry would give anything to take away that expression, for Eggsy to never feel that way again. “D’you swear it?”
“I want to mate you, if you will let me,” Harry figures the best way to settle this whole situation is to cut straight to the chase. They’ve spent enough time beating around the bush, and he really wants to hold his pup. “I want the both of you to live with me. But I will not push if that is not what you want.”
He expects hesitation, more fear. Then Eggsy is crying, and trying to climb into his arms with the pup.
“Yes,” Eggsy sobs, burrowing against him, the pup squished between them. The pup squirms and makes its dissatisfaction known with another whine. “Yes, Harry. Mate me, please.”
Harry kisses Eggsy’s brow, and turns his attention to the pup in his arms. Green eyes, green as Eggsy’s, squint back at him as if deciding an opinion.
“What’s his name?” Harry vaguely recalls Eggsy’s voice, as if in a dream, telling him names.
“Henry,” Eggsy sniffs, relaxing now that his initial fears have been abolished. “Henry Lee Hart.”
“Henry,” Harry repeats softly, taking one hot little hand in his. He counts ten perfect little fingers, ten perfect little toes. He traces the perfect shell shape of one ear, the Cupid’s bow of the perfect little mouth. Henry smacks his lips contentedly and grips the tip of Harry’s index finger with surprising strength.
“Thank you, my darling boy,” Harry tilts Eggy’s mouth towards his for a proper kiss. The Omega looks dazed but happy, and Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. “Thank you for giving me the both of you.”