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Put a Ring on It

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Every jeweler in the London area gets to know the name ‘Harry Hart.’ He becomes known in the inner circle as the most determined man they’ve ever met. The ring, he says, has to be perfect.

There are several theories as to why.

Their first theory is that the man he plans to marry is just high-maintenance like that, one of those blokes who demands nothing less than the absolute best and he’s just catering to his whims. They call him a poor sod for that one.

Their second theory is that the he’s done something spectacularly wrong and is trying to make up for it in a grand way. They’re all in agreement that, if that’s the case, he’s probably just shit out of luck and should start looking for another lover.

Their third theory is that he’s just buying it for himself because he knows what he likes more than his partner. Whispers go around that he should get to know him better before marrying the man.

All completely wrong, of course.

Then, one of them gets a glimpse of Harry out of the shop, walking with some bloke that looks young enough to be his son. It’s probably not his son.

After that, the most accepted theory is that he’s looking for a ring good enough to keep a man that young and handsome at his side. Nail on the head.

*

Harry sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, eyes combing through the pages of yet another wedding magazine. He’s got enough of them to open his own shop if he wanted and yet none of them have managed to have what he’s looking for.

It would help, he thinks, if he himself knew what he was looking for. If Eggsy is one thing, it’s unpredictable, which doesn’t help when it comes to making decisions like this. Several times he’s considered just flat out asking Eggsy what he would like, but that would rather ruin the prospect of a surprise proposal, wouldn’t it?

So he searches through page after page of magazines, visits jewelry store after jewelry store, comes away a little more discouraged every time.

It’s probably the fourth time he’s making the rounds in the ring section of London’s jewelers when he starts to notice the sympathetic looks he’s been getting. That’s when he decides asking is at least less embarrassing than this.

Besides, it’s not like any of them are getting anything new. It’s all the same as it has been the first three times he’s come around and he’s getting a bit tired of staring at the same gold and silver bands, none of which seem to be good enough.

“Right, I think you can put that one up,” he tells the man behind the counter. His name, Harry has learned, is Winston. And Winston has been a saint, patiently allowing him to examine nearly every ring in their selection, giving him little tidbits of information about the make of each one.

And now Winston is, calm as ever, putting back the seventh ring he’s seen this morning, a black band surrounded by two thin rings of silver. It’s close, but not close enough.

Harry nods a farewell and is just moving to make his way out of the shop when Winston’s quiet, “If I may make a suggestion, sir,” stops him. He turns, runs a hand over his face. “Please do. I’m afraid my patience won’t last much longer.”

“Pardon me if I’m intruding too much, but I assume this man is important to you?”

“Of course he is.” There’s never been anyone more so.

“Then perhaps a more personal touch would be more to your liking,” Winston says slowly.

Harry’s eyes narrow slightly and he leans forward, interest clear. “What did you have in mind.”

The jeweler nods towards Harry’s right hand. “We resize rings, if you like.”

Harry follows his gaze down to the signet ring that is, as always, resting on his right hand. For a second Harry blinks, struck by the idea. “Whatever they are paying you, Winston, it certainly isn’t enough.”

Winston smiles wryly. “Just get me the measurements, sir.”

It’s a simple enough matter to secure the ring Eggsy wore during his V-Day mission and an even simpler one to get it back to the jeweler’s shop along with his own.

Thankfully, Eggsy is away on a mission, not there to notice either the absence of a ring on Harry’s finger or that of his own. Harry, however, feels markedly vulnerable without the weapon and resolves to get a replacement as soon as possible.

Then the ring is ready.

-

If Harry thought picking the ring was torture, actually proposing seems a nearly insurmountable challenge. Eggsy has been back for three days before he finally gathers the courage to do anything.

But of course nothing can ever be that easy.

The ring is in his pocket, they’re even in the car on the way to the extravagant dinner he’s planned out when Eggsy’s glasses beep.

“Galahad, Tristan, you’re needed. Both of you.”

Of fucking course they are.

-

Perhaps, Harry thinks, he shouldn’t have chosen such a lengthy plan of proposal last time. The longer the time period, the more chance there is for things to go wrong. So he goes to see Eggsy in his office at 2:00 in the afternoon, generally a slow time of day.

He sucks in a deep breath and knocks at the door.

“Yeah, c’mon in,” Eggsy calls out, glancing up to smile brightly at Harry when he comes in. “Harry. Need somethin’?”

“In a way,” Harry mutters, trying to keep his voice steady. It, thankfully, doesn’t crack, but something in it must alert Eggsy that something is different, because he frowns and stands up to move around to the front of his desk.

“You alright?”

Harry nods, the carefully planned speech he’d planned falling right out of his head. “Yes, I’m fine. I just… had something I would like to ask you.” Damn the speech, he’ll save it for the wedding vows. He reaches into his pocket to pull out… nothing. His search grows a little more frantic and his brow furrows as a frantic pawing at all his other pockets yields nothing.

Eggsy arches an eyebrow, watching him. “Wanted to ask me where somethin’ was, maybe?” he teases.

Harry stops, closing his eyes as he remembers where the ring is. In his dresser drawer. At home. Exactly where he’d left it. “Yes,” he sighs. “Have you seen my glasses?”

Eggsy bites his bottom lip, struggling and failing to stop a wide grin from splitting over his face. Slowly, he reaches up to tape the side of his own face.

That’s the exact moment Harry remembers he is, in fact, wearing his glasses. “Right.” Fuck. “Thank you, Eggsy.”

“Any time, bruv.”

-

This is getting ri-goddamn-diculous. Harry has decided that the universe just has it out for him, doesn’t want him to marry Eggsy at all. Screw the universe. It’s happening one way or the other.

…But maybe he didn’t mean for it to happen quite like this, even taking the universe’s vendetta into account.

“Marry me.”

Eggsy chokes on Harry’s cock. “What?” he asks as soon as he’s pulled off him, looking up wide-eyed from his kneeling position.

Well. Now or never, Harry supposes. “Marry me,” he repeats. “I have… here, I have a ring.” He turns away momentarily to yank open the drawer to his nightstand, rooting around for the signet ring that’s gotten shoved back in the month it’s been lying there. Finally, his fingers close around it and he holds it out in his palm.

Eggsy reaches out slowly to take it it, noting the H. Hart inscribed on the inside of the band, the faint scratches etched into its sides from the years of service its seen. “This is your ring,” he mumbles incredulously, eyes fixed on it.

“It is. I’ve had it resized, though. It should fit on your finger,” Harry says, slightly on edge. There hasn’t been a no. But there hasn’t been a yes either.

There’s another small stretch of silence while Eggsy slips it onto his third finger and holds his hand out to examine it. Harry’s heart restarts when he smiles. “Yes, Harry,” he breathes.

And Harry hauls him up to kiss him.

-

Eggsy loves to tell the story of his unorthodox proposal. He always says the wrong one of them was kneeling.