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Harry had wrapped up the mission in Phnom Penh early, and Merlin, not letting Harry stay the extra few days and enjoy the scenery, rescheduled his flight to London so that, after over fourteen hours in the air, the agent arrived in London at ten in the morning. After this, Merlin kept him in debrief for three hours, so Harry was about to fall asleep standing up by the time he made it home.
There might be spots in Harry’s vision when he does a routine check of his house, dismantling the alarms and searching for bugs, as well as glaring through the neighbors’ windows to observe any possible hostile activity. This is how Harry notices his neighbor’s dog being dragged out of its house by a leash, the small creature howling and pawing at the furniture.
Even in his sleep-deprived state, Harry knows that his neighbor (a nice, elderly woman with connections to the PM) would never treat her dog like this, even when the loud bastard was being stubborn and noncompliant.
Harry connects the dots that someone else is in his neighbor’s house and realizes this is most probably an assassination attempt against his life, planned by people who have intel about his house, and his neighbor is probably dead in a ditch.
Harry draws his handgun and steps out of the side door in his house. He quickly and quietly jumps the fence, straining the seams of the non-flexible Kingsman suit he’s been wearing for two days straight. He hides behind the corner of the house and scans the street, noticing one motorbike propped up against the front shrubbery.
Three assailants, maximum.
Harry looks back inside the window, observing no property damage or any shuffle of movement to indicate a person inside the house.
He hears the front door slam, and palms his gun by his side. He steadies his glasses, prays the feed is still being transmitted to Merlin’s department, and peers around the corner.
Harry sees one man in front of the door, tugging on the dog’s leash. The man is wearing a garish yellow jacket and a skewed basketball cap, clothing not suitable for assassination attempts.
The man uses all his strength in pulling the dog out the door, and as the dog growls, he speaks to it.
“You haven’t been outside in ages. How can you not want a walk? Come on, JB, it’ll be worth your while. I’ve got treats in my pocket, can’t you smell them?”
Absolutely none of the man’s attention is focused on Harry, and his posture is unguarded, defenseless. Harry begins to relax, lowering his handgun and thinking I’m standing in broad daylight brandishing a weapon for no reason.
The man says, “JB, do you want to see the treat? Would that get you to fucking follow me?” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a bar long enough to be any sort of weapon.
Harry acts on autopilot, jumping out from behind the corner and training his sights on the mass of brain tissue behind the man’s ear. He growls, “Freeze!”
The man immediately drops the item he’s pulling out of his pocket and JB’s leash, pivoting and shoving his hands in the air.
Accustomed to working with cops , Harry notes.
“Holy fuck!” the man exclaims when he sees the gun and that Harry is not a police officer. “Whatever it is, bruv, I didn’t do it! I don’t even live here, so don’t target me!”
“I see you’re not from here,” Harry snarls, advancing. He’s so tired he could drop on the pavement, here and now, but he won’t. He has a job to do protecting himself. “Were you planning on robbing my neighbor’s house? Or was your focus on me, because if you were planning on killing me, tell your employer -”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” the boy (not older than twenty-five, as Harry observes up close) interrupts. “Can you stop pointing the fucking gun at me? I swear, whatever you think I’m here for, I’m not. I’m here for JB, and that’s it.”
Harry toes the possible explosive the boy dropped with his Oxfords. He feels suddenly to old and senile for this kind of work, which is ridiculous, because he is still in almost peak physical condition. “And this would be…”
“It’s dog food, mate!” the man gestures emphatically.
“So you’re not trying to kill me.” Harry needs the kid to say it, to alleviate the adrenaline flooding his exhausted synapses.
“No, bruv. You think too highly of yourself. I don’t give a shit about silver foxes in fancy suits.”
Harry nods absently, tucking his handgun back into his waistband. He feels lightheaded again, like his lack of sleep is catching up to him, and remembers why he was in such a hurry to get back home and in bed.
“So,” the man says, “I’m Eggsy. Figured we should be on first name basis since you, y’know, almost shot me dead.”
“Sorry about that. I’m Harry.”
The dog yowls pitifully from where he’s splayed on the doormat.
“That’s JB,” Eggsy says. “He’s the literal worst dog to walk, but hey, it’s a job, right?”
“I guess.”
“I’ve been at this dogsitting gig for weeks, mate. Any reason you haven’t used me for target practice before now?”
“I work out of town,” Harry replies, the same vague answer he gives all his neighbors.
“NIce,” Eggsy says, nodding restlessly. Harry cannot take his eyes off the terrible sweater the young man is wearing, too baggy and accentuating the thin cheekbones of his face.
Which Harry doesn’t think about, because the man is in his twenties (and is also named after a verifiable source of protein). It would be so inappropriate.
Eggsy clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet and blushing from the collarbone up. It’s apparent he’s noticed Harry’s exhausted, intense look that reveals the collapse of Harry’s higher functioning.
“You okay, mate?”
“Peachy,” Harry grunts, and passes out on the spot.
His last thought is an amalgamation of what if I was drugged and Eggsy was the decoy and I blame Merlin for this.
***
Harry wakes up in a bed that is not his own, bolting up in the clean sheets, checking for restraints and bugs on his person. He’s never been captured and delivered in a queen-size bed before, as his captors usually have hated him too much for comfort.
He scans the room. Through the window, the sun is setting, and the lone item on the bedside table covered in a thin layer of dust is his handgun, still in one piece.
Harry dismantles it, and discovers it hasn’t been altered into an explosive while he was asleep.
The hallway outside the master bedroom his empty. It is only when he walks down the stairs, adjusting his rumpled suit, that he realizes he’s in his neighbor’s house. His own house, unprotected and empty, stares back at him from the window.
Eggsy is lounging on the sofa, JB sitting fast asleep and drooling on his stomach. He’s flicking through his phone, and glances nonchalantly at Harry as he strides down the stairs.
“You feeling okay?” he asks. “‘Cause you just wiped out in the middle of our conversation, and I thought you had a stroke or somethin’. I would have called an ambulance, but they would have seen the gun, so.” He shrugs.
“Why would I have had a stroke?” Harry grumbles, untying his tie. He looks Eggsy up and down, noticing that the younger man has chucked the jacket and is only wearing a soft cotton tee shirt and particularly tight jeans.
Harry swallows.
Eggsy shrugs again, unconcerned with the literal spy in front of him. “Your age, maybe? I don’t interact with many old people.” He’s still buried in his smartphone feed.
Harry sputters. “I’m not old, I’ll have you know. I am still in my physical prime.”
Eggsy snorts into his phone, unable to hold back his giggles any longer. “I know, mate. Don’t worry, I was just teasing.”
Harry sighs, sitting down on the chair across from Eggsy. He shouldn’t be developing feelings of something strong for someone who just joked about his old age. “So if you’re dogsitting for your neighbor, can you just - stay at their house with a complete stranger?”
“They don’t care; they’ll be gone for months. And if JB won’t leave the house then I’ll have to exercise with him in here, and it worked, as you can tell from him dozing off on top of me, the brat.”
Harry tries not to think of how he ended up on the second floor while fast asleep, tries not to stare at the defined muscles in Eggsy’s arms. Harry knows how much his body weighs.
“Well,” Harry blunders over his internal monologue, “it was nice of you to not leave me on the pavement with my stroke. For your information, I was just tired.”
“I bet. How many fights did you get into ‘out of town’?” Eggsy looks at Harry, face a perfect composure of innocence. “Your scars are wicked cool.”
Harry self-consciously touches the backs of his hands. “I didn’t,” he says. “I’m a tailor, not a - martial arts instructor.”
Eggsy hums, and turns back to his phone. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. For the record, it was nice of you not to shoot me, point blank, on behalf of your neighbor.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry tries not to roll his eyes. “Well. I have to go home now.”
Eggsy waves a thumb in the direction of the front door. “See you around, yeah?”
Harry runs his gaze over the solid lines of Eggy’s neck and arms, and the smooth connections of his chest and thighs. “Definitely,” he hums.
When he looks back at Eggsy’s face, the younger man is staring at Harry’s eyes, and occasionally flicking his gaze to the older man’s lips. “I’ll be here every day,” Eggsy says, “so if you wanted to, ah, not shoot me, that would be preferable.”
Harry stretches a smile, and his throat feels tight. “I would like that very much.”
Eggsy smiles and shrugs again, reveling in the unconcerned air he exudes. “It’s a date, then.” He laughs at Harry’s choked reaction.