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Harry wakes up (albeit briefly) in a hospital room in Kentucky.

He doesn't question why he's only seeing the world out of one half of his face, because he spots Merlin hovering over him, and a sluggish part of his mind recognizes the bald, severe looking man, and knows that he's being transported back to Kingsman HQ.


He struggles to keep his eyes open for a few more seconds, taking in the color of Merlin's jumper and the fact that he feels like his brain is moving through molasses before he allows the heavy drugs flowing through his system to pull him back under.



Harry opens his eyes for the first time since he'd gathered the strength and pressed the assistance button tied to the IV attached to his arm a few minutes ago and tries his best to turn his head to face Merlin, who's standing off to one side of his bed, digital clipboard in hand, looking down at him with concern. He hears a doctor fussing about and removing some wires that have been in his arm, because being incapacitated and confused doesn't mean that he isn't still hyper aware of his surroundings.

His first thought is that his head is killing him, his second thought is him inquiring as to why his sight seems to be limited. 

Merlin shifts and looks at the doctor, before Harry realizes he's said the second part aloud, his voice rough from disuse as his mind finally catches up with the fact that he's spoken at all. He looks around the familiar room in the medical ward, and reaches one tired, sore arm and softly touches the bandage around his head with stiff fingers. 

"Harry..." Merlin starts, and he gets the sinking feeling he's in for some rather dreadful news, Merlin never uses his first name. Not in that tone, anyway.

So Harry looks up him, braces himself for the worst and tries to keep his face blank. 

A gentleman is composed at all times.

"The bullet barely missed your brain," the man says slowly, his eyes searching Harry's face, "You were very lucky-"

"But?" Harry prompts, and goodness his voice sounds atrocious-

"The doctors couldn't save your eye." Merlin replies, his voice even and his face softening just a bit.

A gentleman is composed at all times.

"Ah." Harry says.

They are quiet for a beat, Harry processing the loss and Merlin watching him closely and gauging his reaction.

Harry finds that he doesn't feel much of anything. It also occurs to him dully that it could just be trauma and that he shouldn't celebrate his lack of an adverse emotional reaction just yet. He could wake up later, realize what's happened and have a complete meltdown.

Goodness, he hopes that's not what happens. He'd like to be able to keep his composure if at all possible.

"No bother." he croaks, and struggles with trying to sit up, which thankfully he can do although the smallest jostle makes his head ache rather terribly. He fiddles with the remote for the bed, setting it to rise to support his back before he realizes that Merlin is still standing over him looking a lot like he's swallowed his tongue. Harry looks at him expectantly for a moment before Merlin says, "...There's more."

"Well I can assure you that I do, indeed, have my other eye." Harry says smartly, trying to lighten the mood.

Merlin's frown deepens before he glances at the doctor--who has taken up adjusting the amount of drugs Harry is being administered--and then back at the man in the hospital bed, "Are you aware you hold the carrier gene, Harry?"

The world tilts on an axis a bit.



That what Merlin had said, right? Pregnant? As in, carrying a child? A fetus?

Harry Hart is 54, one-eyed, and pregnant.

And he knows exactly whose it is. He didn't tell Merlin this as he sat gaping at the man standing next to his bed, and the man had known that it wasn't information Harry was going to divulge, at least not yet. The conversation is quick, and he can hardly remember what was said due to the shock but he remembers the most important part.


And when he's finally left alone--Merlin giving him a concerned look and the doctor checking the machines one last time before stating that he'd be back to look in on him soon--he gives into the panic, shock and frustration. Just a little bit.


He presses a shaking hand to his abdomen, his mind betraying him and imagining a small, blooming life growing just a few inches behind his hand.

A hand that has been used to pull so many triggers, to wield knives that have stabbed into so much flesh, to snap so many necks. Harry is a killer, he can't raise a child. He didn't even know it was possible for him. How can 54 years of medical exams not reveal the small fact that he can conceive and carry children? How has he gone so long not knowing? How is he going to be able to hold and cradle a baby, knowing what he's capable of? Harry knows he's capable of compassion and love, but bearing and raising a child is another thing entirely. He's always been friendly towards children, but having to raise one? With the kind of job he has?

How is he going to be able to handle any of this?

Harry Hart can do many things. But this isn't one of them.

And somehow, the thought that the fetus seems to have survived Harry's massacre at the church and Harry being shot in the head soon after--along with everything else in between--doesn't really comfort him at all. He finds himself disappointed and angry he hadn't lost it at some point during all of that bloodshed.

Then he immediately feels guilty. It's his own fault, not the child's. The little thing hasn't done anything other than simply exist, and it's because of Harry's own carelessness and ignorance that the child is even festering inside him at all.


He won't be able to fit into his suits soon, and he entertains the idea of getting rid of it.

The child.

He could have it discarded, ripped out of his body like the tumor it is and-

He can't do that either.

It's not the child's fault, but Harry is panicking alone in his hospital room and for the first time in a very long time, has no bloody idea what to do. He feels young and vulnerable again, and has no plan.

He always has a plan. But this time he's been knocked on his ass.

And then there's the boy. He was simply too young and full of too much potential to be a father, and while--if he found out--he would insist on being in the child's life, Harry couldn't take his youth and freedom away from him. He hadn't signed up for that when he'd slept with Harry that night, after their chat about being a gentleman which led to him teaching Eggsy how to make a proper martini and the the two of them having too many martinis which led to them falling into bed together and-


Harry comes to the simple conclusion that he can't tell him. 

He can't have the boy killing himself trying to take care of a baby. 

Harry, in a dark hospital room with his head on his pillow and his tired gaze on the wall opposite him, decides he'll do it alone.

It's the wisest choice.