Work Header

Bang to Rights

Chapter Text

The brand new Inspector Court is a nice kid, a good bloke, and the stupidest, stupidest person Eggsy has ever met in his whole life.

Over Court's shoulder, his gaze meets that of the bloke Court is trying to take a statement off. It's pretty clear from the look on his face he agrees with Eggsy's assessment, a sort of lofty resignation that turns into a softer, almost mischievous understanding when he looks at Eggsy.

"Sir," Eggsy says respectfully. "There's some press turned up."

Of course they have: an explosion in central London in the middle of the afternoon? They're all over it, it's amazing they hadn't got there before the Met. Not that he isn't keen to start getting some stories straight: he saw the shadows on their faces, the fear on the passers-by and the gawpers tweeting away, the word everyone's mouthing.

It's not terrorism, as a matter of fact, in Eggsy's expert opinion. Sooner they can start settling that the better.

"Well, I should... speak to them?" Court says hopefully.

"I'd suggest no comment, Sir," Eggsy says. "I radioed up, you can tell them there'll be a statement outside New Scotland Yard in thirty minutes."

"Good, good," Court says. "And in the meantime I'll - er -"

"Stop them taking too many photos and bothering the witnesses," Eggsy says, "yes, Sir." Bloody hell, how did he get through the scheme and nab the promotion and still be unable to run the absolute basics of a scene? Shame they’d been nearby when the call came in, but hopefully a grown-up will turn up soon and take over because all the other uniforms on the scene are pretty much leaving him to Eggsy, thanks a lot for that, boys and girls. "Unless you'd like me..." He trails off meaningfully.

"No, no," Court says. "I'll take that off your hands, Unwin."

"And I'll take over here with Mister..."

"..." Court says, peering at his notes for a length of time really long past any possibility of competence, decency, or manners. The witness's eyebrows are practically in his hairline by the time he manages "... Hart!" triumphantly.

Eggsy suppresses a sigh. Then, thankfully, Court buggers off to talk to the journos.

The bloke watches him go and then says, "Is he quite safe to be let in front of the press, do you think?"

He seems like any other well dressed, middle aged, nice, slightly dim hooray Eggsy's come across in this job. But there's something in the way he looks off after Court that's wrong for it. Something shrewd, and a bit cold.

"He's lead officer on the scene," Eggsy says, keeping his tone even. "Sorry to ask you to go back to the beginning, but if you could just recap for me how you got involved..."

"Oh, I'd hardly say I was involved, Officer," Hart says brightly. "Just walking past, saw the fuss, popped over to see if I could be of any help. As one does."

He's lying. Eggsy doesn't know what about, or why, but he's seen and been top lying talent in his life, and this is some quality, quality material.

He looks at Hart. Hart looks at him. Hart's expression says, very clearly, yeah, and what you going to do about it?

He bites back the smile that wants to come: not appropriate. He's maybe not very successful because Hart smirks at him. It's one of those weird little moments of perfect understanding with a practical stranger. "What do you think caused the explosion?" he asks.

"Couldn't possibly speculate,” Hart says lazily. "All very unexpected and unusual."

Hart’s actually a bit fit, for an old fella with glasses on and swinging a brolly. Eggsy tries hard not to notice that the smirk makes the corners of his very nice deep brown eyes crinkle up attractively, and that the suit trousers and length of his jacket make his legs look a million miles long, and that his hair is neat and styled but just long enough that it would probably go floppy and careless if, just as an example, someone got him a bit sweaty and then ran their fingers through it.

God, his trousers are getting a bit tight. He clears his throat and flips through his notepad. “Where can we get in touch with you?”

Hart reaches into his jacket and hands over a business card. It’s achingly posh, on such heavy dull-white card and with a name and contact details so prim and discreet it all only just about exists for the purpose it was meant for, basically apologising for the bearer being (shock, horror, whisper it) in trade.

“Kingsman,” he reads off it. “Savile Row.” He flicks another glance over Hart - this one professional and allowable, so he lets it linger. That’s some decent muscle under there, if he’s not mistaken, and the working type, not the business version of a gym bunny. And the line of his shoulders - Eggsy might’ve only spent a few months in Marines training, but he still knows a military bearing at fifty paces. “Menswear?” he checks.

“Yes, we’re a tailor,” Hart says, all mild-mannered reporter. “I’m not often at the shop but they can always get hold of me.” He adjusts his glasses - nice big clever hands, thick fingers, also inappropriate, Eggsy - then Eggsy flinches back as the gesture turns smoothly into reaching out and tapping at the epaulette on his shoulder. “Unwin,” Hart says. “May I…? What’s your first name?”

“Constable,” Eggsy says flatly. This is turning all a bit weird and Carry On Copper and it’s not like he thinks Hart is actually behind the explosion - well, he doesn’t really think that. And there are other witnesses to talk to. And Court to go and scrape up from whatever puddle of shitness he’s collapsed into in front of the Evening Standard. “Appreciate it, Mr Hart. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”

“I look forward to it,” Hart says in tones too smooth by half and - for fuck's sake - winks. “Good day, Constable Unwin.”


Three days later, Eggsy’s sent to check out Twitter reports of a couple of blokes waving guns around off Regent Street.

It’s not much use. He sticks the hat on and walks round purposefully so the Met can say later they sent someone along, but nobody’s hanging around in Oxford Circus at rush hour to play dutiful citizen, having presumably convinced themselves it couldn’t possibly be guns and fucked off to not be late for work.

He makes an effort to go round a few of the shops, without much luck. A Topshop greeter who looks about twelve years old manages to produce having seen a couple of blokes being chased down towards the H&M on the corner by someone in a suit, but no-fucks-given coolness is clearly part of her job and she stubbornly refuses to admit to anything about it being weird. He asks for the manager anyway and she apologises but they’ve had a glitch in their CCTV that morning, so she’ll have a look but she doesn’t think they’ll be able to give the police anything.

By the time he finishes there it’s over an hour since the original reports, the commuters replaced by tourists and shoppers single-minded enough that being shot at probably wouldn’t stop them. He checks in: nothing’s come of it on social media, and there’s been no actual reports whatso-fucking-ever, so he’s told to log it and come back in to the station.

He flips his radio back off, sighs, and goes to the stall by the Tube to buy a Twix.

Hart is leaning up by the exit steps, fiddling with his glasses. Eggsy doesn’t actually recognise him at first, finds he’s idly eyeing up long legs and a fit body under a good suit and is startled when he gets to the face and is looking into Hart’s amused expression.

“Constable Unwin,” Hart says. He peels himself off the wall and Eggsy finds his gaze is drawn back to the way his hips move, a liquid roll up to the shoulders. The bloke moves like bloody poetry, like sin might be just round the corner waiting to be asked for this dance. “What an unlooked-for joy it is to see you again.”

“Mr Hart,” he says. “Another day, another crime scene.”

Hart makes an elaborate expression of surprise. “Surely not. I, of course, am merely on my way to work.”

“Right,” Eggsy says. Of course. Savile Row is a few streets away, no reason Hart’s journey couldn’t come through the Oxford Circus crush. “Well. Be careful.”

He has no idea why he just said that. He is a living embarrassment. Brazen it out: he smirks at Hart, gives it a bit of hip and a bit of lip - it doesn’t work so well in uniform as in the club, but good enough.

Hart looks like he thinks the whole thing is hilarious, but also like he might actually be genuinely touched. “I’m sure we’re all very fortunate to be looked after by someone of your evident… gifts.” Talk about fucking brazen. He looks Eggsy up and down and then licks his lips. If this were the club, Eggsy’s pants would’ve just spontaneously fallen off his arse.

“Yeah, bye,” Eggsy says, feebly.

He buys a Snickers by accident, instead of his Twix. He fucking hates Snickers.


“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Eggsy says.

Hart tears his gaze away from the fire, which is admittedly impressive - one building down and partway through the next. “Oh, it's you. You’re out late.”

“The law never sleeps, Mr Hart,” Eggsy says solemnly. “And how did you get involved in this fire?”

“Just walking past,” Hart says. “Saw the fuss.”

“Just walking past,” Eggsy says.

It is half past one in the morning. It is a sleepy residential street - very sleepy, all but a couple of the houses dark and quiet in that weird deep way that tells Eggsy their owners are off across the world in their other houses; it’s going to be an expensive fire, but not in life and limb, and absolutely not in fuss. Nobody else is out in the road.

He looks at Hart, in the flickering light of the fire. Hart looks at him.

“I was walking the dog,” Hart offers.

“What dog?” Eggsy says. This bloke, he swears to God.

“Must’ve run home,” Hart says vaguely. “Well, you know where to find me.”

He wanders off down the street, which Eggsy shouldn’t allow, but 1) Eggsy does know where to find him, 2) one of these houses is going to have some CCTV going on and that’s going to be a hell of a lot more forthcoming than Hart will ever be, and 3) he wouldn’t exactly say Hart was wearing sports gear but the casual trousers he’s in are a lot softer and clingier than the suit was, and that rear view deserves to be round the corner in the V&A.


He summons Roxy to an emergency pint after work. He’d been in basic training with Roxy: they’d hit it off, she’s pretty decent for a posh bird, but she’d smashed every test they’d had and been spirited off to Counter Terrorist Command soon as, leaving Eggsy to toil away on the streets while he waits for his firearms refresher to get funded.

“Harry Hart,” she says, frowning. “Harry… Hart.”

“Don’t say it again,” Eggsy says. “I think it might make him turn up. Like Beetlejuice.”

“No, it sounds familiar,” she says. “I’m just trying to think…”

“It’s not exactly Tarquin von Clutterbuck,” Eggsy points out. She’s freaking him out a bit. “There’s probably loads of Harry Harts around.”

“King of hearts,” she mutters. “Hah. No, don’t worry.” She must see that he’s thinking this might be a proper Roxy-level baddy and Eggsy’s let him walk three whole times now, because she pats his hand comfortingly and starts looking for her purse to get another round in. “If he were under active investigation I’d definitely know the name. It just rings a bit of a bell, that’s all. Same again?”


The next one is early morning, over in Canary Wharf. Eggsy fucking hates being assigned to Canary Wharf. If it’s not financial and corporate bankers whining and moaning about cordons and hassle and how too fucking important they are to walk twenty seconds round the next corner, it’s jumped-up bouncers insisting it’s private land and the Met can only go where they’re told, do what they’re told, and fart as loud as they’re told, probably. Which wouldn’t usually be a problem, but to add insult to injury Eggsy’s drawn duty with Court again (now rechristened Cock by mutual agreement of the tea room) and can he stand up to them? Can he fuck.

He doesn’t know how he knows he’s going to see Hart, but he does; clocks him pausing long enough for Eggsy to ID him before he turns into a coffee shop down the road. Maybe he’s got a sixth sense for the bastard at this point. Maybe if the sixth sense worked a bit better, he’d get there before the chaos and see what role Hart is actually playing in all this, because there’s something about him Eggsy just - likes, stupidly, something in him that’s saying he’s involved but not responsible, Roxy’s shit memory notwithstanding. Hart reminds him of the men he used to look up to on the estate, the ones who were pretty much bastards, yeah, but decent underneath it, the ones who'd come through when it really counted. Eggsy is a standard plod on the beat, and he grew up in the skin-of-your-teeth kind of place the fancy officer class hates covering: he trusts his gut.

(His gut isn’t the only part of him that likes what it sees in Hart, but Eggsy doesn’t trust his cock half as much. His cock makes shit decisions.)

Eggsy packs the bloke off in the ambulance with his gunshot to the shoulder, does an initial forensics sweep and puts three weirdly flattened bullets in plastic bags, and takes statements and details from everyone who’s not too terribly important and horribly busy to stop and wait for the police to get round to them at the scene of an attempted murder.

No, people didn't really see anything. No, they didn't know the would-be corpse - one sees so many people. Yes, someone tackled him out of the way of the shots, very brave. Looks? Couldn't honestly say, sorry. Just a chappie, you know. Nicely dressed.

Harry is indeed nicely dressed, sitting in the Caffe Nero with three empty espresso cups in front of him and another nicely dressed man sat on the next chair. The two of them together is a weird bit of double vision: at a quick glance they're non-descript, so much the boring normal businessmen it's almost aggressive. You have to look again to see that they don't quite fit. The other bloke is younger, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, with floppy brown hair and a supercilious, slappable face when he looks Eggsy up and down.

"Good morning, Constable Unwin," Harry says, composed. He doesn't look like he's been rolling about on the floor saving someone from getting shot dead, but as Eggsy gives him a slow once-over - both business and pleasure - he notes a bit of dust, a slight scuff on Harry's otherwise perfectly polished shoes, a hint of a scrape on two knuckles.

"Oh, this is Unwin?" the other one says. He examines Eggsy with evident interest, although not any more warmth. "Well."

What the fuck? Eggsy raises an eyebrow at Harry. There's something that might be a glimmer of a smile and Hart says, "Don't let me keep you, James."

James the Twat peels himself up off his chair and gives Eggsy an ironic little bow. “I’ll see you at the shop later, then.”

Harry doesn’t watch him go out; he’s looking at Eggsy. Eggsy looks back.

“Might I get you a coffee?” Hart says politely.

“Just white, please,” Eggsy says. He puts his hat on the table and sits down in James’ chair while Harry goes up to the counter and comes back with Eggsy's coffee and another espresso, and a lemon muffin that he drops in front of Eggsy without comment.

Eggsy looks up at him from under his lashes and crumbles a bit off the top to start.

Harry grabs three sugar packets and adds them to the espresso, stirring neatly without clinking the spoon against the sides of the little cup. He looks straight out of an old film, slapped down in the middle of the over-cosy coffee shop, his legs crossed and his body a long curving line against the bench.

Eggsy watches, amused. “Not sweet enough already?”

Harry gives him a smile of such devilish heated filth he almost chokes on his muffin. Jesus Christ, the man shouldn’t be fucking let out in public.

“Never knowingly,” Harry says. Then he looks a bit startled by himself, just for a tiny second, and clears his throat and says, “Not going to ask me how I came to be involved?”

Eggsy sucks muffin crumbs off his fingertips thoughtfully and watches Harry’s gaze follow the motion. “I know you’re involved,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re doing or why. But you’re involved.”

Harry smiles faintly, then reaches over to pinch off a bit of Eggsy’s muffin. “Then is this the last meal of the condemned man?”

“Not got enough to bring you in, have I,” Eggsy says. “Couple of coincidences that you happen to be knocking around unconnected cases. Good brief would have you out before your arse touched the chair. You’ve got a good brief, yeah?”

"I should bloody well hope so, for what he charges,” Harry says. He downs his espresso in one, licks a drop off his full lower lip. “Then we seem to be at an impasse.”

Eggsy shrugs. “Don’t seem to me you’re doing any harm. That bloke this morning’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Still, much obliged,” Harry says.

It’s the cue to leave. Harry’s finished his coffee. Eggsy’s on shift, is already going to have to bring everyone a coffee to explain what he’s been doing in the shop all this time, and should be spending the next three hours hanging round the crime scene stopping arseholes barging through the police tape. He saw the forecast this morning: it's supposed to rain.

Harry nicks another bit of muffin. “You should at least have me down as a person of interest,” he observes.

“Maybe I have.”

“You haven’t,” Harry says. “Not so much as my name. Why not?”

Eggsy taps his fingers against the thick white ceramic of his mug, then makes himself stop. He says, "Can’t trust the police, mate."

"You are the police," Harry points out.

Eggsy shrugs again. "You can take the lad out the estate..." Two years in the Met and he still hasn't flipped on Dean, although he should've, because the fear he might is enough to keep the bastard in line with Mum: Eggsy knows how to look after his own interests first, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

"Then why did you join?" Harry says. Something in his eyes is soft.

Eggsy feels the pause stretch out, words stalling in his mouth. "I wanted to do something good," he says finally, feeling self-conscious. "I like it. Getting out and helping people."

"I see," Harry says, and Eggsy thinks maybe he actually does.

When he gets back to the crime scene there's a young woman turned up, in very high shiny beige heels and one of those dresses that wraps round and makes a bloke think his luck's in for a tit to fall out at any moment. She's dabbing her (dry) eyes ostentatiously. Carts, still at it and taking her statement, rolls his eyes at Eggsy while she's safely behind her tissue.

"Simply can't believe anyone would want to hurt Stephen," she's saying. "Just last night we were out drinking, having fun. So terrible that one can’t even walk the streets!"

"Quick question, miss," Eggsy says abruptly, his mind still on Harry. She gives him a dirty look but drops the dramatics and waits for it. "Where were you drinking last night?"


Roxy says, "I will absolutely not go to some godforsaken Sloany club because your elderly pash might be doing something dodgy there."

“Did you remember where you knew his name from?” Eggsy says.

She hesitates.


“I asked one or two people,” she says reluctantly. “They warned me off asking questions. Gently. But I definitely got the impression that trying to poke around too much might be a bit of a career-limiting move.”


“So you see where I’m coming from.”

“It’s just a bar,” Eggsy says innocently. “Anyone can go a bar, can’t they?”


He considers wearing his uniform, but he’s pretty sure people might think he’s a stripper. He puts on tight jeans and a tighter t-shirt. He doesn't need to dress up when he's got Roxy on his arm in one of those dresses that objectively speaking barely exists but because she's posh and does haughty really well and buys expensive stuff, makes her look curvy and beautiful and classy, and very much not available to anyone without a country pile of their own to take her home to and make her the lady and mistress of.

Of course, being so nicely dressed means it takes Rox about twelve whole minutes before she's got her tongue down some bird's throat - right at the bar! - and Eggsy is on his own, with no idea, really, what he's looking for or what this case is that he's trying to investigate.

Eggsy gets himself another vodka and coke - getting rinsed for the better part of twelve quid in the process, robbing bastards, he's letting Roxy get the rest of them in - and goes to hold up a wall on the second floor, one with a good view over the dancefloor and both bars.

Maybe he has developed that sixth sense after all, or else Harry really is Beetlejuice and appears at a mere thought, because he's here. He's bloody here, and Eggsy is going to owe Roxy for life ‘cause he hadn't actually thought he was right about this at all.

Harry must be the oldest one in the place by a good ten years, but fuck if he don't wear it well. He's still in the suit trousers and shiny shoes but the jacket is gone, and the tie. His shirt is undone to the third button and Eggsy thinks he might be seeing God in Harry's collarbones, the vee of revealed skin there and where his sleeves are rolled up to expose corded strong forearms, his hands looking even bigger and his fingers more clever without the disguise of cuffs.

People are looking. Not like, grab a grandad night was yesterday, mate. Like, please dear lord and all his precious baby angels let me be the one that fine piece of arse drags back to his cave tonight. That kind of looking.

A couple more minutes watching and Eggsy can see why. It's not the clothes - he looks good, yeah, but not devastating (unless you're Eggsy and already got a hard-on for the bloke). It's that liquid dangerous tilt to his body again, the sharpness of his smile, something in the set of his shoulders and the craftiness of his hands that says he’d ride you hard round the park and put you away dripping wet. The furthest thing possible from the posh idiot Eggsy’d met at the scene of the explosion, or even the polite businessman from the coffee shop.

Down there, in the noise and mess and the strobing light of the bar, cutting an effortless swathe through people who fall to the side and look like they’d rather be falling to their knees - Harry is fucking hot as hell.

And Eggsy’s always been good for the boys who are bad for him.


He goes back down to the bar where Roxy is chatting up - is that a different girl? Bloody hell - another young lady, and collars her into buying her round.

“Have you seen him?” she says, handing him another vodka and coke and then a Jagerbomb. They down them together, Roxy wrinkling up her nose and taking a big gulp of her rum and coke to wash the taste away.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. His voice comes out drawling and he can feel his mouth curve into a sly hunting smile. He must be drunker than he thought. Roxy looks conflicted between her usual righteous get-in-my-son support, and her conviction that Harry is a wrong ‘un possibly with designs on Eggsy’s - something.

Non-existent virtue, if Eggsy is lucky.

“Where is he then?” she says, leaning in close so he can hear. The chat upee glares at him.

He hasn’t looked properly in a while but he’s been keeping tabs via swooning crowd. He nods over to the opposite corner where there’s a bit of a chill-out zone, a few sofas and plush chairs, a dark VIP area cordoned off behind keeping the financiers safely away from the great unwashed.

“Sat down over there,” he says, lets her into his arms and nuzzles professionally at her neck so she can have a good old gawk over his shoulder (the chat upee stalks off; Eggsy would feel bad, but not like Rox can’t find plenty more where that one came from).

"He's talking to a man," she murmurs into his ear.

"What, like... on the pull?" Eggsy says, disappointed. Although, does he think Harry's supposed to be keeping himself off the market for Eggsy? Harry doesn't even know he's here.

"If so it's not going well," Roxy says tartly. "I think they're arguing."

He cradles her head and swings them round to get a look. She puts her arms round his waist helpfully and kisses his jaw.

Well, there's one person in tonight who isn't gagging for it off Harry. Definitely arguing, Harry managing to loom over the guy even while they're sitting down on one of the sofas, both of their faces pissed off. Stern looks good on Harry, Eggsy can't help noticing.

A few minutes of heated chat - Roxy's head starting to get heavy with resentment against his chest - and the other bloke gets up and storms off. Harry doesn't follow, just sits back into the sofa and runs his hand through his hair, leaving it falling in waves over his forehead. Eggsy's cock throbs.

Harry stands up and looks around and Eggsy ducks instinctively and catches Roxy's lips with his. She sighs into his mouth but kisses back dutifully.

When he breaks off Harry is gone.

"I hope that was in a good cause," Roxy grouses. "Urgh, beard burn. How is that even possible? You have all the regrowth of a twelve year old."

Eggsy strokes his chin protectively. "I've got manly stubble."

"Hah!" Roxy says. She brushes herself down and wipes her mouth, very quick and demure, then looks around. "Think he's gone? Can I go and find somebody I'd actually like to kiss?"

"Yeah," Eggsy says, dissatisfied. "Shall we get another drink first?"

He sends her off with his blessing but doesn't bother himself. He's feeling a bit fucked off, suddenly ready to just go home and ring up for a Dominos, but he has to pass the dance floor to get to the door anyway and then they start playing a song he likes and he thinks, bit of a dance and then he's gone.

Eggsy isn't a great dancer, really, but it's not the Royal Ballet: he's got good rhythm, he knows how to lose himself in it, and mostly, thanks to all that gymnastics as a kid, he can move. He gets himself a bit of space and shuts his eyes and lets himself melt into it, lets his hips and his chest swerve and shake and sway, lets his head tip back and his throat show and just goes with it, moves with the beat and lets it move him.

His song is nearly over when hands slide onto his hips, heavy and confident, fucking possessive even. He tamps down his first reaction which is still, always, punch the bastard.

He pulls away - the hands let him go - swings around to give it the what-the-fucks and it's Harry, obviously not left after all, close up looking tall and scruffy and not put together at all, another button fallen open on his shirt, hair waving gently into his face.

Fuck. If he'd thought he'd ever had Harry's attention before - well, this a fucking revelation. Harry's all dark eyes and hot focus and coiled energy, all of it out on a plate for Eggsy.

Harry says, "What the fuck are you doing here?" looking pissed off and resigned and sexy as hell -

Eggsy kisses him. Doesn't know what'll happen but can't not. Harry freezes for a second. Then hands are back on his hips and Eggsy’s pulled against a broad chest, and Harry's mouth opens against his.

Eggsy vaguely registers the amazed feeling of fuck this is good, the way it is when chemistry and the moment just click into place and he sinks his hands into that gorgeously soft curling hair and lets Harry take him over, lets him hold Eggsy's jaw where he wants it and stroke along Eggsy's cheek, fuck his tongue into Eggsy's mouth and grope Eggsy's arse.

They're kissing for ages, slow and deep and wanting, and then Harry pulls back. Eggsy looks at him. He looks at Eggsy like chaos and breathes, "Eggsy, fuck," and Eggsy goes in for another hard kiss, thinking I never did tell him my name -

And then the bogs explode.


"Fucking never again," Roxy hisses, later, when Eggsy's lost Harry in the evacuation and the police have turned up - including, inevitably, bloody Court, so Eggsy has had the pleasure of getting to see Roxy pull rank she doesn't actually have, effortlessly take over, and run a scene after four drinks and in high heels - and amongst the screaming and panic they've established it was firecrackers and smoke and the only injuries are people twisting their ankles legging it. "I hate you, Eggsy. At least tell me he was a shit hot kisser."

"Oh yeah," Eggsy says. "Til he lifted my passcard for the station front door." Bastard. But the way they'd kissed - that wasn't just fucking distraction. It'd been real; it'd been fucking lovely.

"What?" Roxy says. "Fuck. We have to report that right now, he could already be in there. Why have you even got it on a night out?"

He holds it up in front of her. "All my stuff's in my locker, innit? Saves me bringing my whole handbag."

She breathes out and says flatly, "You took it back. Do you think he noticed? We need to know why he wanted to get in there."

"Some things you never forget," he says. "And he'll be back. Got myself a souvenir."

"I hope it's an STD," she says sourly.

"Nearly as good," he says. Then he shows her Harry's watch.


It's a Bremont, very plush - he could've got himself a good little payoff lifting one of them back in the day. It's gold, shiny and a bit heavy. And the bloody weird settings go a bit beyond showing the time for London, Sydney and Dubai simultaneously.


He picks up a double shift so he won't have to think and gets home gone two in the morning, looking forward to a good bit of kip, a fry-up, another sleep.

The lift’s fucked again so he treks up the four flights of stairs, drooping. The stairwell smells of McDonalds.

He heads straight to the kitchen - or the alcove with a fridge, sink and microwave generously described as a kitchen by his landlord - and grabs a beer. He drinks half of it down just stood there, enjoying the cold froth of it against his long-day tiredness and threatening headache.

He gets another one while he's in there, cuts himself a chunk of cheese and gets some tomatoes and crisps; he's had worse dinners. Then takes it all into the living room to wind down for a bit before bed.

He puts the light on.

Bloody Harry is sitting on the sofa.

Eggsy jumps and a bit of beer splashes out of the bottle and onto his hoodie. "Have you just been sat here in the dark?" he says, stupidly. Like that's the important thing.

Harry looks completely out of place in Eggsy's little shabby flat with its suspiciously stained sofa, scuffed cream walls, and the expensive but old and chipped coffee table Roxy's mum had been taking to the tip. And Harry sat there like he owns the place in another good suit, navy with a faint stripe, long legs crossed, holding a heavy crystal glass with dark whisky or brandy, neither of which he found in Eggsy's cupboards.

Who brings their own fucking booze to a break-in? It's almost funny but Harry looks hot with anger, his lips thin and his eyes narrowed and blazing, his body stiff like he's been in that exact position for hours, waiting.

"Been out clubbing again?" he raps out.

"Been at work, actually," Eggsy snaps back. "Get the fuck out my fucking house right now and maybe I won't have you picked up in the morning."

"Your friend already told you they won't," Harry says, levelling Eggsy with a cool, hard stare. "You know what I want."

"To finish what you started?" Eggsy says, making it as sneering as he can. Harry'd lifted his passcard first, he could've lost his job over that. Eggsy's the fucking sinned against here.

"Just hand it over and I'll be on my way," Harry says. He hesitates for a second and then adds, "Or tell me where you sold it."

Where he fucking sold it? He'd sounded a bit doubtful at least; but actually though, the complete bastard.

"Fine," Eggsy says, "and also fuck you," feeling himself flush to the ears with anger, and he stomps to the sofa and leans over Harry obnoxiously, knocking his drink so it splashes in the glass although Harry's too co-ordinated to let it spill, and flips open the cleaned-out plastic Chinese takeaway tub on the coffee table next to him.

Eggsy looks at Harry. Harry looks in the tub, then puts his drink down and gingerly opens up the soft old facecloth inside, uncovering the bits of watch arranged neatly inside.

Harry stares at it without so much as twitching.

Eggsy watches him and as the moments pass and seem to get longer and excruciatingly longer the anger fades away and he starts to feel a bit awkward. He's not sorry - looking at that watch had been very illuminating, and if Eggsy's not sure yet just what was illuminated he's getting a better idea all the time - but what if Harry's amazing James Bond watch had sentimental value or something? He has a quick look into the tub himself. It could be put back together. Probably. He thinks.

Harry reaches over and puts the facecloth and the lid back on the disassembled watch gently. He looks up at Eggsy, and then in tones Eggsy identifies with faint surprise as admiring he says, "You wretched little shit," and then grabs Eggsy round the waist, tumbles him into Harry's lap and covers Eggsy's surprised mouth with his laughing one.

God, it's so fucking good, Harry's so fucking good at this, he makes Eggsy want to moan and give it up and just spend the rest of the night at least with Harry's mouth on his, Harry taking casual possession and keeping Eggsy close, like there hasn't been a couple of days and a lot of being pissed off between this kiss and the one in the club, both of them already heated and up for more.

His tired body is sparking awake; he hooks his arms around Harry’s neck romantic-dip style and lets himself fall into Harry’s mouth moving softly over his, their tongues playing together, Harry’s hands sliding slow and warm under his clothes and onto his stomach. Harry tastes of the sharp kick of the alcohol he brought, his body relaxing gradually under Eggsy’s at odds with how focused on Eggsy feels, Harry learning him bit by bit and using it mercilessly to strip Eggsy down to a needy raw thing under the rising intensity of the kiss.

Harry pulls back first and bites at his jaw, casually possessive. “Ah, you’re lovely,” he says, his voice holding a soft purr of appreciation and affection that makes Eggsy's chest feel tight. He nudges Eggsy’s head up and starts kissing down his throat at the same time as his hand moves lower, rubbing Eggsy sure and brisk through his jeans until Eggsy cries out with how good it is. He’s got no leverage, sprawled over Harry’s lap, his arms starting to shake on Harry’s broad shoulders, but he arches up best he can and shoves his hard trapped cock into the clasping heat of Harry’s big hand.

“That’s right, darling,” Harry says, “let me see you work for it,” and Eggsy wriggles with it, the words or maybe Harry’s low raspy tone going straight to his cock. He never lets blokes he pulls talk to him like that, like he’s twinky and daft and asking to be taken, but something about the way Harry does it, absolutely confident and almost weirdly loving, is making it - yeah. Yeah, it’s working for him, and Eggsy squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the too-good heavy lidded open lust on Harry’s face, and thrusts and moves and works for it, just the weight of Harry’s hand and clever fingers and the friction of his cock in his clothes getting him desperate.

He opens his eyes and whatever Harry sees in them makes his expression go intent. He shifts his other arm to support Eggsy’s head, fingers in his hair holding him in place for Harry to ravage his mouth, Jesus.

Eggsy moans and moves his hips furiously, chasing it now, his voice coming helpless, “Please” - and Harry gives him a last squeeze and ignores Eggsy’s disappointed whimper to undo the buttons of Eggsy’s fly with what feels like torturous, evil slowness.

He manhandles Eggsy around, repositions him in Harry's lap back-to-front, Eggsy's legs spread, jeans falling down enough he can get his hands back on Eggsy's cock now just with the thin cotton of his underwear between them. After the contact through denim it feels as bright as being skin to skin and Eggsy groans and moves against him, liking that he can squirm back on Harry's hard cock as well from this position, can make his breath go ragged and loud like he's as affected as Eggsy.

He can feel all that muscle and strength along his back and shoulders, his t-shirt getting sweaty with pressure and friction, and it's hot as fuck: Eggsy's no lightweight but Harry had moved him like it was easy, with the carelessness of a man in absolute physical command of his body and his surroundings at all times.

He grabs Harry's hand and shoves it down his pants and Harry chuckles and kisses behind his ear even as he obligingly closes his fist at fucking last around Eggsy's rigid dick.

"Greedy little tart," he says, and Eggsy turns blindly and finds Harry's mouth with his, kissing sloppy and deep. Harry's hips are moving under him, grinding, and he loves the first time he makes Harry moan from Eggsy shimmying his arse with controlled, vengeful purpose. It feels as brilliantly filthy as he'd wanted, fulfilling all the promise of those dirty smiles of Harry's so at odds with the proper suits.

"Have you got -" Harry says and Eggsy says, "yeah," leans over and digs around the back of the sofa for the lube he's sure he left there last time he fancied a bit of porn on the big screen.

Harry takes the opportunity to tip him to the side, onto his front, and cover him. "Lube in the soft furnishings," he says approvingly into Eggsy's ear. "Very prepared."

Then his warmth is gone and there's a hand groping his arse, sliding down into his underwear. And that’s - he can’t see Harry, feels a throb of discomfort in his belly and tenses up against the fingertip stroking temptingly over his arsehole.

“Don’t trust me yet?” Harry says, with a low thrum of satisfaction in his voice, and Eggsy relaxes against the kisses being brushed along his shoulders. “Good boy -”

A sucking kiss and a hint of teeth on the nape of his neck, and then Harry's sliding off him, off the settee entirely.

Eggsy rolls over uncertainly, getting tangled in his half-off clothes, and Harry catches his mouth again from where he's kneeling on the floor. He’s still fully dressed, only the jacket on the floor and his sleeves up his forearms, rumpled and flushed and gorgeous, that sizeable bulge distorting the sleek lines of his trousers. Eggsy's mouth goes dry and his hole clenches up on nothing, wanting. If Harry fucks anything like he kisses – Christ, Eggsy still doesn't know just what's got this fucking beautiful treat of a bloke here with him but hell if he isn't going to do what he can to make him want to stay.

Harry presses the lube into Eggsy’s hand and mutters, “Let me watch you, then,” against his mouth, simple and expectant.

"Watch me," Eggsy says, feeling himself start to blush. He doesn't know why that should seem so kinky, fingering himself the way he does a couple of times a week anyway, just because he's never done it on display before, just because it's poised posh Harry who'll be looking, who'll have that hot demanding gaze on him, who'll be ready and gripping what's bound to be a great cock, all big and hard - "Yeah, all right."

Harry looks pleased and he rewards Eggsy with a long, slow kiss, teasing at Eggsy's lips with his teeth, pulling away a tiny bit so Eggsy follows and laughing softly when Eggsy gets impatient with that, grabs the back of Harry's head and sticks his tongue down Harry's throat with more passion than elegance.

"Will you take your clothes off for me?" Harry says, and Eggsy can't help but laugh - he comes off so courteous, what he says is nice, but the way he says it makes it so clear that he expects to be obeyed, like it wouldn't even occur to Eggsy not to do it, the cheeky bastard. Harry grins then, really nice and big and he is fucking beautiful with that look on his face, and Eggsy cradles his face and kisses into his smile.

Eggsy sits up and Harry backs off a bit, grabs the kitchen chair Eggsy uses with his desk and sits himself down. He crosses his legs, hiding the delicious fat outline of his cock so he could almost be the businessman again, a bit undone from being late at work. Until Eggsy gets to his face and notices the hectic colour on Harry’s cheeks, his blown pupils and the intent lust of the set of his jaw, his swollen lips and dishevelled hair where Eggsy's run his fingers through it the way he imagined when they met. He looks like pure sex, like - like a man who wants someone and is going to have them, not like the matey lads Eggsy usually gets off with.

He swallows hard at all that focus on him - but he likes a challenge to rise to. He gets his knees under him on the settee and crosses his arms at his waist, pulling his hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He holds the clothes to his chest for a second before he drops them, getting his nerve up. He's not unfit, but between shift work and tea-room biscuits he's heavier than he'd like, a bit of softness rounding over the chiselled muscles he had in Marines training.

"Fuck," Harry says. His gaze traces slowly over Eggsy's bare chest with obvious appreciation, even greed, and Eggsy preens, pleased. "Knew you'd be gorgeous, Christ. Are your nipples sensitive? Play with them for me."

Eggsy takes a deep shuddery breath, the words making his cock twitch, and brings one hand up and licks his fingers, holding Harry's look and stroking across his pecs, pinching hard at his nipple. The sharpness goes straight to his cock and he whines and jerks his hips, fucking air, the movement giving his dick a bit of blessed friction against the fabric of his underwear.

"Oh, that's nice," Harry says softly. "Very nice." His gaze snaps up to Eggsy's suddenly and Eggsy moans just because of the look in his eyes, heated and predatory. "You're doing very well. I'm going to enjoy this, Eggsy. I'm going to enjoy you thoroughly. Stand up. I want to see you naked for me."

Eggsy gets up slowly. It's so late, or too early - darkness outside, and actual silence for once, and it should be cold in the flat but he feels like he's burning up, in the tight little bubble of Harry's attention.

Hard to do a sexy strip-off of jeans. He does it quick instead, pulling his socks off with his jeans and then hesitating with his hands in the top of his pants.

"You like this?" Harry says. "Being looked at. Being - appealing to me." He sounds steady and cool. His fingers are twitching on his trouser leg, near to where his cock is at this point possibly permanently stretching the fabric. Eggsy wants to sit on it.

"Yeah," he says. He sounds fucked out already, scratchy and deep. He pushes his pants down fast and kicks out of them.

"Give them to me," Harry says and holds his hand out. Eggsy's cheeks go hot and he picks them up and folds them, not very well, and takes the three steps he needs to hand them to Harry. Harry drops them on the floor, takes Eggsy's wrist and urges him down, and Eggsy bends gratefully to his mouth, lets Harry ease their lips gently together.

"Thank you," Harry says. "You can sit down. Take the lube with you."

Eggsy does. His hard-on could hammer fucking steel and he gives it a few long comforting strokes, whistling air through his teeth with how good it feels.

"No," Harry says severely. "I didn't say you could touch your cock. And as a matter of fact, you can't. I want to know how close you can get without it."

“Fuck that,” Eggsy says without really thinking about it. Not wank himself when he feels like this? Desperate and dripping with his belly burning low with lust, his skin prickling for touch and his balls aching for relief?

“Too far?” Harry says, smiling. “All right, how about this. You can touch your cock, like you want, until you come on yourself - that’s fine. Or you can leave your cock alone, like I want, and you can come in my mouth.” The smile turns absolutely devilish.

Fucking hell. Eggsy almost comes just from the thought of Harry’s mouth. Looking down and seeing that dark head bent for him, that posh mouth hot and wet round his dick -

“That’s not fair,” he says in a tiny voice.

“It’s an imperfect world, my dear boy,” Harry says. And there’s the incentive: Eggsy would do a lot more than keep his hands off himself for a while to get to fuck his cock into that smirk.

“Your mouth,” he says. “... Please.”

“If you like,” Harry says. He licks his lips and Eggsy stares, entranced - it doesn’t look deliberate or teasing, it looks natural, like maybe Harry really wants to suck him. Harry says, “Well. Are you going to keep me waiting?”

Like Eggsy’s the one making a simple fuck so bloody complicated. Eggsy’s a bit of a one-night stand man usually, not wham bam thank you man precisely - he fancies himself as a top shag - but it’s usually pretty straightforward, everyone gets what they came for and goes home happy. He finds he hates the thought this might be one night only. He wants everything Harry will give him and the way he feels right now - that could take a while.

He picks up the lube and pumps out too much over his fingers, shuffles back on the settee so he can bend his knees, curve his arse up and get his feet on the edge, reach through his legs and get to his hole. He feels exposed and cold but when he looks back at Harry he’s drawn forward on his chair and is watching practically without blinking, totally present. The flicker of a smile he gives when he notices Eggsy watching him is reassuring, gives Eggsy the nerve to slide his hand down and circle a slippery finger over his arse.

It’s hard not to fall automatically into his usual routine, which involves a hand on his cock to help him relax and heighten the pleasure of the first pressure and push in. He doesn’t know what to do with his other hand apart from that, then remembers how Harry asked to see him touching his nipples and puts a hand up to his chest, groaning low and deep when he runs the pads of his fingers over one.

His head wants to fall back against the sofa and he has to struggle not to let it, wanting to stay connected to Harry by sight if Harry won’t touch him yet. Harry looks back at him like he knows and it overwhelms him, makes him throb and feel empty and he pushes a finger inside with steady irresistible pressure, feeling his arse give and grip, biting back the shout that wants to come out.

“Beautiful,” Harry says tenderly. “If you knew how you look, Eggsy. I can’t wait to taste you.” It’s just what he needs to hear then - this all starting to feel like something they’re doing together, not about what he’s doing to himself or what Harry’s doing to him with his fucking gorgeous words if not his hands yet, both of them building the anticipation in a way Eggsy’s not used to but thinks he could get addicted to if he’s not careful.

He pumps his finger in and out a few times, Harry watching avidly, but it quickly becomes not enough and he adds another. Harry’d wanted to know how close Eggsy could get without a hand on his cock: not very, usually, but with such a build up and the way Harry looks and is looking, and the promise of that delicious mouth - it’s not going to take long at all, his cock already jerking and leaking against his stomach where he’s curled up to reach inside himself. His nipple is starting to sting and he flails up and grabs the top of the sofa instead, grounding.

He can’t help his eyes slipping closed. Maybe Harry’s onto something after all: with his cock untouched he’s completely alive for once to the sensations of his fingers playing in his arse, stretching his rim, the lucky too-brief moments when he can work the angle enough to catch his prostate.

“Fuck,” he says, “fucking feels - so good, I wanna - three, Harry, can I -”

Fuck yes,” Harry says and finally, fucking finally Eggsy hears the snick of a zipper being drawn down, and as he pulls out nearly completely to plunge back inside with three and get that lovely aching stretch of being well-used, he forces his head back up and opens his eyes.

He was right. Harry has a great cock, even poking through his fly so Eggsy can’t see it properly he can tell it’s fat and long, Harry has his fist round it and there’s still plenty to see, a reddened wet head offered up to him. Harry’s stroking it and staring at Eggsy’s fingers where they’re sliding into his hole, and although he feels full Eggsy’s hole clenches at the thought of it being inside - of Harry being inside, fucking and taking. If they can be this good together without even touching more than a bit of snogging - Harry fucking him might actually be the death of Eggsy, but it’d be a bloody good way to go.

“Are you close,” Harry says and maybe it’s just that he’s getting a hand after epically blue balling his own stupid self but Eggsy thinks he can hear his voice fraying, patience finally gone, letting out a need that matches Eggsy’s. “Eggsy -”

Please,” he says and Harry moves so fast, and Eggsy cries out when he feels Harry’s mouth closing over his dick, caught between his own fingers in his arse and the back of the sofa and Harry’s head bobbing urgently on his cock, sucking it in with sharp savage pulls that slam orgasm through Eggsy like a thunderstorm, intense and cleansing. “Harry,” Eggsy shouts, the sensation rolling through him, staring down at Harry’s lips around his cock as he jerks and spills into that perfect fucking beautiful mouth.

He sort of loses a bit of time then and when he opens his eyes again he’s lying on the couch, arse empty, cock sensitive. Harry’s leaning over him and stroking his hair back from his face but when he notices Eggsy looking back at him his face goes intent again. He knees his way between Eggsy’s sprawled legs and Eggsy switches between watching his face and his cock as Harry braces one hand by Eggsy’s shoulder and furiously fucks the other. Eggsy stares up at him, thinking dreamily of all the other things Harry could do with that cock, the things Eggsy could do, what Harry might say to him. He wriggles and arches a bit, thinking about it, and Harry draws in a tight breath and groans and comes warm and sticky on Eggsy’s chest.

He only realises his eyes are shut when he feels fingers at his lips; opens and obediently sucks Harry’s come off his fingers, licking them carefully clean to get at the taste of Harry’s skin. He feels limp and happy and he stretches and hums and gets down to some serious afterglow.

Harry slumps against the back of the settee and says, "Fuck. That - Eggsy -" His hands sweep over Eggsy's chest, up his throat, cupping his face, and he draws Eggsy upwards, Eggsy scrambling with him into a tight hug, both of them kneeling on the sofa cushions and clinging close from knees to chest. Harry gives him a lingering kiss and then pulls Eggsy's head to his shoulder and Eggsy shuts his eyes and leans on him.

Eggsy's not sure how long they're there, holding like that, Harry rocking them almost imperceptibly together. He's so tired, the double shift catching up with him and the sated lust dragging him towards sleep. Harry settles him down onto the settee again: he feels the throw he uses to hide the scragginess of the sofa being laid over him, murmurs at Harry’s lips brushing his temple, doesn’t hear him leave.


"You're a fucking idiot," Roxy says.

"I know."


He’s a fucking idiot the next night as well. It’s nearly midnight, he’s been home from work for hours, staring at the blaring telly and refusing to admit to himself he’s replaying it in his head, half-hard, waiting. He doesn’t even pick up the intercom for the downstairs entry when it rings, just slams the button to click the lock and opens his front door and listens to Harry taking the stairs two at a time, lets him stride right up to Eggsy and drive him against the wall of the corridor to the bedroom with deep biting kisses.

Harry strips him down right there in the hall, licks his cock slowly until Eggsy’s sliding down the wall and begging for more, for the pressure and hot and wet of Harry’s mouth really going down on him. Harry pulls him down to the floor, hair flopping down and sticking to his forehead, and sticks Eggsy’s legs over his broad shoulders and sucks Eggsy's balls and wanks him off until he comes on his own stomach.

Then Harry rings up for a fucking pizza and by the time it arrives Eggsy’s exhausted and shaky, lying on Harry’s chest and getting his shirt all sweaty, balls aching from coming again so soon in Harry’s hand, throat aching from Harry cradling his head carefully against propped sofa cushions and fucking his mouth.

Eggsy shuffles into the hall five minutes after the doorbell buzzed, naked and covered in jizz, to find no Harry and a meat feast pizza cooling on the floor. He puts half of it in the fridge for breakfast.


And then again the night after that. Harry comes round halfway through Eggheads, obnoxiously gets all but three answers right in the rest of the programme, then takes Eggsy’s hand and leads him through to the bedroom. He puts Eggsy on his front on his bed and rims him until he’s swollen and tender and nearly crying from it, coming the second Harry runs a fingertip softly up the underside of his dick and rubs at the head.

Eggsy buries his face drowsily in the pillow after, flexes his arse up and clenches his thighs for Harry to fuck in between them, once again barely undressed, the wool of his trousers and the cotton of his shirt smooth and expensive against the length of Eggsy’s back. He kisses Eggsy’s cheek and whispers in his ear, says gorgeous and you’re so good for me, darling and shit, yes, Eggsy. He adds to the wet spot on Eggsy’s nicer duvet cover then pulls it out from under Eggsy and settles it warmly over him, and presses the tips of his fingers to Eggsy’s lips before he leaves.

Fucking idiot.


On the third day, he's at work when the call comes through about a tailor's in Savile Row being ramraided.

He just overhears the call, and one bit jumps out, Kingsman, but it takes a second to put that together with Harry, the name on the business card Harry had handed him the first time they met. He listens in to the rest. There’s injuries - serious injuries. Ambulance on its way. Someone might not survive.

"I can go with you, Sir," he says, trying to make it sound casual. Court looks up at him and nods.


There's several of them go but Eggsy's only bloody one of the ones Court sets up to stand guard at the police tape wrapped round the front of the shop, anchored on a couple of lampposts to keep people away from the riot of broken glass and spoiled formalwear on the pavement.

Eggsy opens his mouth to protest, can't think of a reason to give, says, "Yes, Sir," instead. He can't exactly admit he's here less to work and more because he's anxious for the bloke he's shagging.

It looks a right mess inside. The car didn’t go much further into the shop than the front window but they’d sprayed a fucking machine gun around before reversing out and there's plenty of damage. The paramedics are still in there, ambulance blocking the street, and Eggsy's desperate to know who it is they're working on and he's stuck here in the bloody road, waving people to cross to the opposite pavement to walk on and frowning at the vultures taking photos from the other side of the road. Harry had implied once he wasn't at the shop that much - maybe he hadn't been there, horrible as Eggsy feels about basically hoping some other poor bugger got shot.

The paramedics come out then, moving fast enough that whoever it is must be alive still. Eggsy's got a front row seat so he can see and it's - not Harry. Someone else, probably ordinary and perfectly nice looking when he's not still and pale and blood-smeared being loaded into the ambulance.

Eggsy realises he's slumped with relief, his heart thumping rabbity fast. He straightens up slowly and adjusts his vest. The ambulance peels out, siren blaring and lights racing, for all the good that'll do in the cramped busy streets of this central a location.

"Jen," he calls over to the other officer lumped with gatekeeper duty. She turns to look and he gestures at the shop. "I'm gonna let them know the ambulance got off okay."

She gives him a weird look. Everyone just heard it go off okay. But she shrugs at him and Eggsy ducks under the tape and goes inside. He'll just have a quick look, check Harry's not there, and then go straight back out to his post, no harm done.

There's a tall, bald bloke inside, holding a clipboard and giving Court the most incredulous look Eggsy's ever seen.

"- You mean to tell me -" he's saying when Eggsy gets close, in a very low calm voice that in Eggsy's vast experience means utter, pure fury, " - Yes, what now?"

He turns to Eggsy who almost wilts under the burning look. "Just wanted to advise the ambulance has gone." He belatedly remembers that he doesn't actually work for this bloke, he works for the useless one currently puffed up and self-righteously cross about the respect due the badge; he looks at Court and adds, "Sir."

"Thank you, Unwin," Court says. He's gone red. "Go back to your post."

"Unwin," Baldie says. He gives Eggsy a look that feels like being x-rayed and found significantly broken.

"Mr Smith," Court says, getting the anger thankfully transferred back to himself, and Eggsy melts away, unnerved. He'd known obviously something was up with Harry, and this only confirms it; he can worry about that now he knows it wasn't him who got injured. But the idea of Harry talking about him - what the fuck has he been saying so that bloke would remember him at a time like this, look at him like that?

He drifts over to where Molto is wrapping tape around the area behind the counter. There's a pool of blood on the floor. Presumably the poor bastard in the ambulance is the one usually stood behind it. The shop's a sorry bloody sight, House of Lords turned Black Prince after last orders, smashed up and furniture overturned and bullet holes in the walls.

Something on the wall catches his eye and he goes to have a closer look. It's a painting of a man in old military uniform, looks a bit of a museum piece but the label beneath is what caught Eggsy's eye. It identifies the man as one of the founders of Kingsman and there's a small logo next to his name, like an upturned K enclosed in a circle. It's familiar, and not just because now Eggsy looks he can see it repeated discreetly in other places in the shop: a motif in the carpet, inlaid into the corner of the counter, in the gilt frame of the unscathed mirror hanging on the wall.

There's a thump and a chatter and he turns around to see three men coming down the stairs. A much older stranger, suited and business-boring like the others, James the Twat from the Canary Wharf shooting and - Harry. Looking absolutely whole and well and stone cold with rage, holding an umbrella, his face stormy, his body poised and balanced for violence.

Eggsy takes a step forward before he realises he's going to move. Like his body just wants to be where Harry is, like he's a compass and Harry is North. Then he reconsiders, but it's a bit late now: nowhere to hide, unless he wants to take an undignified and difficult-to-explain header behind a decapitated mannequin. Maybe he should've stayed outside after all.

Harry catches sight of Eggsy and his face goes abruptly soft. He leaves his colleagues, still talking to him, and crosses the room like - like maybe Eggsy's his North too, like the mess and the circumstances don't matter. Eggsy just stands there like a lemon, pinned by Harry's dark gaze on his, and when Harry comes up and reaches for him he steps in close, completely mindless of the fact of his colleagues hanging round and that he's with someone who's a witness - if not a victim - of the crime scene he's in uniform at and working.

Harry says, "What are you doing here?" rough and concerned, his voice a bit raspy like he's been shouting. He cradles Eggsy's face, like Eggsy's the one who's had the nasty morning.

"... M’job," Eggsy says. His eyes want to slip closed and his face wants to tip into the warmth of Harry's big hand cupping his cheek, the thumb rubbing tiny circles on his jaw.

"Christ," Harry says. Baldie calls his name, sounding exasperated, but Harry ignores him, staring into Eggsy's eyes and then pressing in close, tilting Eggsy's mouth up to his, and Eggsy does close his eyes then for the sweetest kiss he's ever had, like falling, Harry's tongue nudging past his lips and just touching at Eggsy's, unhurried and delicate. Eggsy brings a hand up and hangs onto the front of Harry's tidy white shirt under his undone jacket, feeling the strength and warmth of the body beneath.

Harry pulls away first, then swoops back in for a last closed-mouth press like he can't stop himself. He says, "Be careful," and then he turns smartly on his heel and walks straight out the shop, collecting James the Twat as he goes. James the Twat gives him evils and follows Harry out.

Eggsy turns around and - shit shitting fuck, there’s Court and a senior officer. Eggsy vaguely recognises him: Superintendant Javid. Roxy’s worked with him, Eggsy is pretty sure, said he's a good bloke and smart as buggery.

Court is giving him a stumbling account of what they’ve done since they got to the scene. Baldie has moved over to the wall and is pretending to mess with his clipboard but is blatantly earwigging everything and making special time to shoot sardonic looks at Eggsy.

"Friend of yours, Unwin?" Javid says. He's giving Eggsy a thoughtful look, but hopefully it's just because Harry is not only twice Eggsy's age but a good ten years older than Javid himself.

Eggsy says calmly, "Just a bloke I've been seeing, sir. He did tell me he worked round here. Nothing serious, but it’s a shame to see anyone in this situation. Quite upset, you know - sorry for the, er," he makes a vague gesture that hopefully covers the whole thing but the sinking feeling in his chest is pretty sure he's fucked.

Javid raises an eyebrow but after a few seconds he nods and seems happy enough to leave it there until they get back to the station, possibly just so he won’t have to probe any deeper into what he might well be thinking is Eggsy's perverted life of casual geriatric sex.

Then it happens. He can see it coming, see the brightening face of bloody Crusher Court as his thick brain throws up an actual thought at the worst possible time. "Wasn't he at that explosion in Hatton Gardens a few weeks ago? I took his statement and handed him off to you."

And now Javid looks well pissed off. He turns back to Eggsy and says, "Anything else you want to say about that, Unwin?"

Eggsy does not say anything. Anything he does say may be given in evidence against him.


He slams into his flat and straight through to the bedroom, into the wardrobe and the pile of crap at the bottom. He finds the box he's looking for, carefully set under a pile of old exercise clothes, and sits on the floor to open it.

It's just an old Tupperware box and he hardly ever opens it but he likes to know it's there, safe in his home with his special things inside. There's pictures of him as a kid and his mum and dad, two favourite ones of the three of them together, some other stuff from back then, good school reports and the diary he kept when they went on holiday to Blackpool with shells glued in and sand still falling out over fifteen years later.

And the medal. It's fallen to the bottom of the box and he takes it out the way he'd handle a grenade, wary and reluctant. He didn't need it to know, really - he wore it round his neck every day until he put the uniform on, not like he's forgotten it. He'd stopped really seeing what it was, he supposes, it was just the chain he wore for his dad, but when he looks again now it's obvious that it's a logo. The Kingsman logo he saw earlier in the shop.

He puts the box back and puts the medal away in his sock drawer, close at hand.

Then he just drops down on the bed fully dressed and lies there for a while. Being a copper wasn't his childhood dream or anything, but he's good at it, he reckons. He likes it. He doesn't know why he's let them take it away from him, accepted the suspension while they investigate his misconduct at a crime scene and more importantly whether he's involved with either of the crimes they can link him and Harry together at; Christ, he hopes they don't put it together with any of the others. The way his Chief Inspector had looked at him, barely surprised, like he was reverting to type, like they'd always known one of those scumbag kids from the estate wouldn't hack it on the right side of the thin blue line too long.

All for the sake of some bloke he barely knows - apart from that he lies, that he's totally mixed up with dodgy shit, that he has something to do with what Eggsy's dad was doing when he got killed.

And that he'd looked at Eggsy like he was the most important thing in the wreckage of his tailor's shop, that he'd kissed Eggsy there in front of God and everyone like Eggsy was precious to him.

It's dark by the time he hears the front door open and close, but no footsteps after. Like someone might be waiting just inside, to be shouted at if they’re not welcome. He rolls over and buries his face in his pillow - and a minute later the bed dips, the warm bulk of Harry’s back at his hips and Harry’s hand settling between his shoulder blades.

They stay like that for a while. Long minutes, Harry stroking along Eggsy’s back and him letting himself go heavy into the mattress. Then Harry’s hand slides up further, into the hair at the nape of his neck, and tugs, not hard but insistent, and Eggsy lets himself be guided to sit up and be pulled into Harry’s arms. They kiss with heavy meaning but no urgency, not yet, honey slow. Different to any way they’ve kissed before, then swaying seamlessly back into an embrace.

"I know you were loyal to me, when they asked you," Harry murmurs against his temple. "I won't forget. Sweet boy -"

"Don't fucking talk," Eggsy begs and now he smashes his mouth against Harry's instead so he can't, pleading with his body for this, Harry sighing and then putting a hand in Eggsy's hair and taking control, making everything fall away but how their bodies move together so perfectly.

Harry lies back, bringing Eggsy with him until he's sprawled all over Harry, still kissing, deep and sweet. Eggsy tries to get his knees under him so he can grind his cock against Harry's through their clothes but Harry puts a hand on his arse and pushes, getting their groins together and holding and then going back to drawing long hypnotic lines up his back and sides, firm enough not to tickle. Eggsy gets the message and subsides to tiny shifts of his hips that he can't help, licks of heat zigzagging up his spine.

He has no idea when was the last time he did this, just kissed and kissed like that was the main event. School, probably. It's nice, his desperation to grab and fuck and have Harry make him forget turning into actually wanting to be here, to have this just for itself, the feeling of Harry's mouth on his, Harry’s hands on his body, Harry all around him.

He doesn't know how long it goes on before Harry wraps a long leg round his thighs, but his lips are tender and when he raises his head to look at Harry, feeling almost drugged with sensation, his lips are reddened and rough from kissing too. He says, "Harry," and it seems to echo, although Eggsy's bedroom is the size of a stamp and it can't possibly. Harry's looking at him gently, and then not so gently as he arches and rubs their dicks close.

Eggsy abruptly comes back to the fact he's very hard and would very much like a hand or a mouth or, fuck, just a leg to thrust against, something to do with the coiling hot energy in his groin, and he says it again, startled, "Harry, Jesus, fuck," and Harry says, "Yes, Eggsy,” and rolls them.

He wraps his legs tightly around Harry's trim waist, cradling him with their dicks pressed together giving him pressure where he needs it, and kisses him again, this time sloppy and deep and undeniably sex. It's brilliant but it'd be better with no clothes; he worms a hand between them and starts trying to unbutton Harry's shirt, then reconsiders and goes straight for his trousers instead. He's never undressed Harry before, only understanding now it's because Harry's never let him, and as soon as he realises that it becomes absolutely the most important thing in the world that he gets to see that tonight, that he gets Harry naked in his bed and preferably inside him quick smart after that.

"What the fuck is this," he says against Harry's mouth after a minute of fumbling at his waistband.

"It doesn't button," Harry says indistinctly and lifts off a bit and undoes his trousers himself, starting to push them down. He flips Eggsy’s bedside lamp on, abandons his trousers to say, “God, you’re a gorgeous creature. Come here,” and Eggsy soaks in the praise like a hot cozy bath, drops into another round of slow kisses, making low noises in his throat shamelessly because they make Harry move with purpose against him. He feels safe with Harry’s weight on him, Harry’s arms caging him in while he fumbles at his cuffs over Eggsy’s head, and he rests back into his pillow and runs his foot up the back of Harry’s very nicely muscled calf.

Harry fucking growls, vibrating against Eggsy’s chest, and he rises up and pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion - probably not how a proper shirt is supposed to come off - and drops it over the side of Eggsy’s bed - also probably not how a nice shirt should be treated - and Eggsy drags himself up enough to take off his own t-shirt and pulls Harry back down, skin-hungry. Bare, Harry is warm against his chest and his hands running down Harry’s back, all that promise of a fit body under the dapper suits fully met. Harry is whipcord firm and powerful, and Eggsy buries his face in the clean-smelling nook of his collarbone.

Hugged in close like that is good, the hot scent of Harry's smell seems to go straight to Eggsy's cock, but being covered and held down and just – held, close and tight, is so good as well. The next breath he takes in is shuddery with tension and sadness, like with Harry keeping him together he can fly apart into how really horribly shit a time he's had today, the heat and safety of Harry's body on his making him raw and needy for more than just the physical comfort.

“There you are,” Harry’s saying. “It’s okay -”

“Harry,” he says, takes a heaving breath. He feels bruised and wet and so tired of all this fucking trying. “I didn’t -”

“I know, darling, it’s all right,” Harry soothes, and then Eggsy feels like shit because Harry’s had a crap day too, his colleague getting hurt and his shop getting shot up and he’s come round for a screw and Eggsy can’t even get that right.

He lets go of Harry, presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

He feels fingers light on his wrist. Harry takes his hands off his face one by one, threads his fingers through Eggsy’s and clasps their joined hands together on the pillow over Eggsy’s head. Eggsy keeps his eyes shut, feels the silky brush of lips over one then the other.

“You’re fucking wasted on them,” Harry says, low, fierce. “Eggsy -” and Eggsy raises his head and catches Harry’s mouth again because nobody’s ever thought before that there was something not good enough for Eggsy instead of the other way round.

"Fuck me," he says, tests the strength of Harry's hold on his hands and relaxes before Harry can decide he actually wants to move. "Please, Harry."

"You ask so nicely," Harry says, "keep them there," pressing Eggsy's hands back into the pillows before he lets them go and starts kissing Eggsy's throat, which feels good enough he almost misses Harry's fingers at his jeans, shoving the whole lot of them and his underwear down and off as he kisses Eggsy's chest, down and across his stomach and hips.

Eggsy would usually be totally down for a bit of a play and a suck before being fucked but he's in no mood today, feels so wired, catching back on to the tension and want between them. Now, with Harry's mouth winding its way down towards his knob, desire pools demandingly in his groin, reminding him they've been kissing and touching and rubbing for bloody ages. So much as a lick and he's going to come in five seconds flat, not on Harry's dick like he wants.

"Harry," he says. "Get up here, okay - I'm gonna - I want to come with your cock inside me, yeah? Fuck me, make me come for you." He lifts his hips, gasping when his cock brushes against the hard planes of Harry's chest, and Harry crawls back up his body and cups his cheek and dips into his mouth again.

He's got rid of his trousers while he was down there and when he lowers himself back down onto Eggsy it's the first time they've been completely naked together, Harry's broad frame and nicely hairy chest and miles of soft skin all on Eggsy, so this time when he puts his legs round Harry's hips it brings their cocks into proper contact. Eggsy moans and bites at the nearest bit of Harry, which happens to be his chin, and Harry gives a slow thrust that slides the length of their dicks together and sends sparks up Eggsy's spine and down to his toes.

"Where -" Harry says and Eggsy gasps out, "In the drawer."

Harry kneels up to get the condoms and lube and Eggsy feasts his eyes on the excellent sight, drawn inevitably down to the thick hard dick drooling for him. It's going to feel so good inside and he licks his lips, still hasn't been told he can move his hands so he presses the sole of one foot to Harry's groin cheekily, slides it up Harry's chest to his shoulder and lets him bend Eggsy double when he rocks back down onto Eggsy and hooks Eggsy's knee over his shoulder, gaze intent and sure as he circles Eggsy's hole with one finger and then presses inside on one heavy slide.

Eggsy cries out and wriggles down, feeling the stretch and moving into it hungrily, relaxing around the welcome invasion. He feels his head and neck and chest start to sweat, hot with wanting and waiting.

"Ah, that's what you need," Harry murmurs, so satisfied it would be offensive, if he wasn't doing Eggsy so right. Harry turns his head, gaze still fixed on Eggsy's face, and presses a kiss to his leg. "That's right, darling, show me how much you want it. Another?"

Eggsy nods, frantic, not sure he can even muster enough language to say please, totally preoccupied with the gentle crook of Harry's finger inside, then two fingers circling and sliding, getting him ready. He wants to be filled, fingers quickly not enough, and he remembers himself enough to get out a, “Please, Harry,” wanting Harry's cock so badly in that moment he thinks he'd do anything, say anything if it just means Harry will fuck him.

"I know, I'm here," Harry says. "I've been thinking about this, fucking - fuck, Eggsy -"

"Harry," he sighs back, arching as Harry finally sets his cock at Eggsy's entrance and pushes steadily in, Eggsy fighting to accept and stretch and take his big cock in his not-quite-ready hole, letting the burn of it slam his entire focus into his arse where they're joined.

Eggsy moves his hands finally, holding Harry's head to his and kissing him again deeply, fucking his tongue into Harry's mouth like Harry's fucking his way into Eggsy's arse, like clicking together a circuit that lights up his whole body with pleasure.

Harry breaks off and presses their foreheads together, their bodies held tight from their heads to their working hips, a close intense space that feels to Eggsy like all there is in the world, everything in him narrowed down to being with Harry. He's in completely now, moving his cock inside in slow rolling nudges that feel almost unbearably good, almost constant pressure on Eggsy's prostate, the small motions building on each other until Eggsy's whole body feels like a tidal wave of pleasure.

“Tell me -” he chokes out, hardly even knowing what he's asking for.

Harry knows, though. He strokes Eggsy's hair back from his sweaty face and says intently, “You’re so good for me, sweetheart,” so Eggsy’s heart melts, and then, “clench up for me, that’s right - you’re so tight on my cock, Eggsy, you’re taking me so well,” sweetness and filth so beautifully wrapped up Eggsy doesn’t know how he’ll ever shag anyone else without imagining this.

He closes his eyes, feels Harry kissing at his cheek, mouth open and breathing ragged against him, and he bears down on Harry's cock and rolls up at the same time so his own leaking aching cock rubs against the firmness of Harry's belly.

"I want to come," he says, almost surprised by the strength of it, "please, Harry -" and Harry kisses his mouth and then props himself up on his forearms, looking down at Eggsy like he's the best thing Harry's ever seen, and then he pulls out slow and fucks in, strong long thrusts that rub Eggsy's prostate inside and his dick against Harry's body.

Eggsy puts his hands over his head again for the way it makes Harry's face go hot and vicious and goes for it, watching a flush creep over Harry's body as he fucks Eggsy hard, smelling Harry and sex and feeling the wave get bigger and bigger inside him - and then Harry's fist closes on his cock and Eggsy is gone, crashing and floating and sparking, dimly hearing Harry's groan as his hole spasms and clenches down on Harry's dick.

When he comes back down Harry is still resting inside. He grins down at Eggsy and starts moving again, slow and purposeful. Eggsy's sensitive, so on edge and trembling and he says, "Harry, come on -"

Harry dips down, kissing him gently, and says, "That was gorgeous, watching you fall apart, you're lovely, darling boy," and was kindness always the way to undo Eggsy like this? He doesn't know, nobody's ever been like this with him before, and he kisses back and lets Harry move him as he wants, intimate and sure, lets him push Eggsy's legs down around Harry's waist and grind into his tender arse, runs his fingers through Harry's hair and lets himself be fucked not back to hardness but back to needing.

By the time Harry slams in and holds and groans Eggsy comes again too, or near as, dry and with an edge of pain that just makes the sweetness stronger.

Harry stirs after a couple of minutes of resting on Eggsy, cock twitching and softening, their breathing slowing and matching. Eggsy hisses when Harry pulls out, sore now, and Harry strokes his chest and makes wordless soothing noises, then rolls over, pulls Eggsy to his chest, slides a hand down Eggsy's back and tucks two fingers into his loose hole, easing him down. Eggsy rests his hand on Harry's stomach and drifts on the echoes of pleasure.


Harry stays over, which he’s never done before. He’s a tidy sleeper, no bother in Eggsy’s little double, doesn’t insist on cuddling which is good because Eggsy runs hot in bed, but does go to sleep with an arm around Eggsy’s waist, which is nice. Makes him feel grounded and like things might not be so bad.

Eggsy sleeps like the dead, one of those where he wakes up in the morning and the pillow and duvet are practically untouched like he’s barely moved all night. Harry isn’t there but his jacket is still on the chair Eggsy uses for impromptu clothes storage. He gets up and jams a pair of boxers on and goes looking.

Harry doesn't look weird in Eggsy's flat any more, he thinks distantly. Stood in Eggsy's tiny kitchen, barefoot and yesterday’s shirt untucked and eating dry Frosties out of the box, he looks totally normal and right; necessary.

“Oh, there you are,” Harry says. “Morning. I’m glad you’re up, I need to leave soon and I shouldn’t have liked to wake you.” He beckons and Eggsy goes, leans on Harry, lets himself snuggle in a bit even and turns his face up to be kissed, a proper tonguey sexy good morning kiss with Harry’s hand that’s not covered in Frosty dust resting familiarly on his arse and his hands on Harry’s trim waist under the shirt.

“I've made you a coffee,” Harry says. It’s Nescafe, which Eggsy can hardly imagine is Harry’s thing, but he’s got a cup of his own half-drunk and he looks approving when Eggsy takes a good swig.

“Can’t convince you to stay?” he says, his voice still a bit rough with sleep. Shagging the day away sounds pretty good. Get back in bed, get Harry back inside him, forget the world for a bit longer. He still feels slick inside, soft and ready from last night.

“Afraid not,” Harry says and he does look properly sorry. He leans back and puts his arms round Eggsy, helping him lift up to get them aligned, opens his mouth when Eggsy kisses him and moves Eggsy’s exploring hand regretfully but firmly away from his crotch. “Although that would be lovely.” He strokes Eggsy’s face, thumbs his lower lip and lets Eggsy nip his fingertip. “You’re very tempting, dear boy. But duty calls.”

“Right,” Eggsy says glumly, duty having lost his phone number. Harry touches his cheek again and disentangles himself.

“I ate all your cereal,” he says. “Sorry.”


Up until he joined the Marines, and then started training for the Met, Eggsy hadn't had a job at all - he'd fucked about for literally years after crashing and burning his A-levels. Faced now with indefinite time off, he's got no idea at all what he did with his time then. Three days into his suspension and he's kicking round Streatham in the early evening with nothing to do, capping off a long day of doing nothing. He'd done all his usual errands and housework, the usual day-off stuff, the first two days, only really leaving the house to go up to Tesco and do a shop; there's only so many times he can clean the bath.

Harry hasn't been back round since that morning in the kitchen.

Eggsy doesn't even have a way to contact him, unless he wants to go to the shop, which he doesn't. It's not going to make him feel better to have James the Twat or Baldie looking at him like they've just scraped him off the bottom of their shoe. Eggsy can't help but think of the first time they'd hooked up in the club, Harry using it to lift his passcard. Maybe as much as it'd felt like more, the way Harry had kissed him and talked to him and moved inside him - maybe the whole time it was just about Eggsy being police, access or info or whatever else Harry'd thought he could get out of him.

Which makes Eggsy pretty stupid, doesn't it? He's seriously thinking about going back to work and telling all and seeing if they'll take him back.

He pursues this happy line of thought for several long minutes, wandering round the Common and getting more and more mopey and irritated. Everything starts to annoy him, even the yells of the kids grabbing the last few minutes to play out after teatime and the dogs running round barking. He wanders away from people, trudging north and meanly enjoying that as the dusk draws in over the scrubbier area of parkland there's nobody else in sight.

There's the smallest warning before it happens. A prickle at the back of his neck and a flash at the corner of his eye and he gets his arms up in time to fight the bag coming over his head, the arms trying to clasp his, he hears Midlands-accented swearing, and then a dull pain on the back of his head and he goes to one knee and is dragged stumbling into the cover of the treeline and chucked to the ground.

He lies there for a few seconds, his head thumping and his vision shooting black and stars. Then an insistent little voice at the back of his head tells him to get up, he’s in trouble and he needs to get up, and he forces the ache into unimportance and rolls over and sits up slowly.

There’s a man standing over him and a gun pointed at Eggsy’s head.

He puts his hands up slowly. “Mate, come on. Think this is a misunderstanding, yeah? I ain’t done nothing to you.” Strange how quick it comes back, the speech patterns and codes and behaviour from growing up. There’s a roaring in his ears, his heartbeat thumping slow with dread. He thinks, Mum - Daisy. He thinks -

“Harry Hart,” the man says.

Eggsy lets his face blank with confusion – not hard when his head is scrambling him with pain. “Who?”

The man moves his finger on the trigger, obviously threatening, and Eggsy doesn't have to fake his cringe back. “Don't fucking mess me about. Harry Hart.”

“I don’t know who that is, bruv!” Eggsy says, reaching for earnestness now. “Honest, I don’t know - I never heard of the bastard, you got to believe me -”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, mate,” the man sneers. “We know you know him, and he knows people we want to know about, yeah? So you’re gonna tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything, I don’t know no Harry Hart!” Eggsy protests, letting his voice go high with fear. It’s fucking true, he knows fucking nothing, not really, fucking Harry, and this bloke’s never gonna believe that, could shoot him not believing that, but Eggsy’s never snitched and he’s not going to start now.

He gets his hands behind him and starts to scrabble around, moving back, away from the gun. The man gives him an awful shark smile at the sight and keeps the gun focused on him and Eggsy shudders, reminded of Dean like he always is with people like this, the ones who like to show off how much they're into it when people are afraid of them.

He drops his gaze and hunches in, getting his legs under him, letting that old fear make him seem slow and defeated. Lets the bloke get closer, in to point blank range. Picks up the biggest rock his questing fingers have found and aims for the head.

He hits in the shoulder but the man staggers back swearing; he’s bought himself a few seconds head start, tops. He's already letting the motion roll him smoothly up and on to his feet and taking off, further into the trees.

Where to go? Leading a gunman onto the streets, or even a more populated area of the Common - it might put the guy off but he can't take the risk. He scrambles down the bank and cuts round past the tennis court, heading for the trees. If he can get into them he can head up through the gardens and into the woods proper, make it difficult as possible to shoot him if not find him. It's a cool night but he shrugs out of his red hoodie while he runs and chucks it over a branch as he runs past, hoping he'll be less of a target in his black t-shirt.

He has got one more option. He doesn't know if it'll work, but…

He slides to a crouch behind a particularly big trunk and yanks the medal he's started wearing again off his neck, fumbles his phone out of his back pocket. Dials the number on the back. It's some customer services woman, or computer, or something, and he says, fast and just as loud as he dares, "Yeah, the password is oxford not brogues, I need help, you gotta tell Harry, Eggsy's being chased through north-east Streatham Common by a bloke with a gun, asked me if I know a Harry Hart. Which I do but I won't if I get fucking shot, you get me?"

She sounds completely unruffled, but then maybe in Harry's life this kind of phone call happens all the time. "Of course, Sir. I'll pass the message on."

"Yeah, thanks," he bites out, drops the call and sticks his phone and the medal back in his pocket.

God, his head hurts. He touches just above his right ear gingerly and his fingers come away bloody. Pistol whipping might look good on the telly but it turns out it’s bloody painful. He drags himself back to his feet, braces on the trunk and grits his teeth against the wave of dizziness that shatters through him.

That’s what he blames, really. With the twilight coming in fast over the unlit Common, he gets turned around; between that and the fading effects of the blow to the head, what he thinks is going to be a quick dash over clear ground to the bigger woods and straight through to a road having lost the bloke turns out to be not so far from where he got dragged in.

Open ground. Dangerous. He slows down, too late, confused, and the gunman comes out of the woods behind him, furious, close enough Eggsy can see the glint of his teeth in his snarl.

There’s a shot. Muffled, silenced, but this close so clear.

And the gunman falls.

Harry is coming out of the trees, looking suited and stressed and so so welcome, and Eggsy puts his hands on his thighs and breathes deep. Harry only lowers the gun when he’s close enough Eggsy can see the big scared whites of his eyes. He barges right up to Eggsy and Eggsy puts his arms round him and clings almost as tight as Harry holds onto him.

“Eggsy,” Harry says. “Fuck, I thought - are you all right - Eggsy -” and then they’re kissing fearful and hot in the middle of the park and Harry’s leg is in between his - and then Harry’s hands are in his hair and Eggsy groans only half in the good way. Harry pulls back, seems to realise fast it’s blood he’s got on his fingers. “Are you all right?” he demands. “You’re injured, Eggsy, tell me -”

“Tell you?” Eggsy says hotly, shaking and pissed off and wanting - just wanting. “How about you fucking tell me? Tell me about Kingsman, and - and I want to know about my dad,” watches Harry flinch and nod, kisses him again fiercely until Harry responds, until Eggsy knows this is about them, him and Harry, not about whatever happened to his father. “But first -” cause he’s a copper, after all, and he won’t have bastards like this on his streets - “tell me what the fuck is going on with this -” and yes, kicking an actual corpse isn’t the best moment he’s ever had, but it’s been a day, all right - “and what the fuck we’re going to do to sort all this out.”

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, actually,” Harry says. He’s pulling the gentleman back on almost visibly, straightening and calming and voice losing the edge of panic. He looks blurry round the edges, proper night drawing in now, but his eyes are gleaming and soft when he pulls Eggsy close and his heart is thumping fast when Eggsy rests a hand on his chest.

“Yeah?” Eggsy says. The desperation seems to have melted away with the last of the day. The moment narrows down, over the last pink of a setting sun and the body of a dead man. He almost wants to hold his breath.

He looks at Harry. Harry looks at him. He can feel himself on the edge of a precipice - but he feels like with Harry beside him, even if he tipped over, he might just fly. Then Harry smirks, that slow, dirty, dangerous one, the one that made Eggsy fall in love right back when they first met, and says, “How do you feel about becoming a Kingsman agent?”