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Your Words on My Skin

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Soulbonds, Eggsy’s mum explains, are not a magical, instantaneous occurrence. They develop slowly as you get to know each other. Being soulmates makes you compatible, but it takes time, effort, and commitment to form a soulbond.

She talks about it less after his dad dies, but she tries when he asks. After Dean becomes a part of their lives, she stops altogether; Eggsy stops asking. Like his mum, Dean no longer gets marks that aren’t his, but Dean gets angry instead of sad.  Eggsy doesn’t like Dean, doesn’t like the way he talks to him or his mum.

The first time Dean hits him, Eggsy tries to fight back. He goes to gymnastic practice with a black eye and bruises all across his left side. He tells his coach he fell trying to practice a move at home. His coach gives him a look, but he sticks to his story and in the end, he just gets a lecture on being careful and a reminder that he can talk to her about anything, anytime. When he goes home that night, he traces the bruising on his face and hopes it’s not too noticeable on his soulmate. He’s gotten marks his whole life, on and off—hints of color and thin lines he’s learned denote injuries—but he’s never been injured like this, been the one to pass the marks on.

One part of him hopes it’s not, doesn’t want his soulmate to deal with the questions that come with it, but another part hopes it is, and that his soulmate is thinking of him.

--

Eggsy knows you aren’t supposed to write on your skin until you’re eighteen (his mother says it’s to prevent dependence, but Eggsy not sure he believes that; how can you be dependent on someone who’s not there? He can’t even depend on the people he sees everyday). Another day, another bruise, but backtalk or snitching will just get him another one.  He can’t tell anyone and Dean goes through his stuff too often to write it down on paper. Still, if he gets caught with writing on his skin, he’ll get in even worse trouble. Ryan got sent to the principal’s office for drawing on Jamal when they were eight, and the whole class got a lecture on the sanctity of one’s skin. He rationalizes that no one will ever know, that he’ll keep it hidden, that he’s nearly fifteen anyway, and ignores the small part of him that still believes in destiny for soulmates.

I wish he would die, he writes on his thigh, stolen sharpie bleeding over the bruise Dean left when he kicked him. He doesn’t write any more, but as he stares at it, he feels something in him loosen. He knows he probably won’t sleep well tonight, adrenaline still rushing and only nightmares waiting, but he caps the marker and curls up in bed.

He makes it to the edge of sleep, the world as warm and soft as it ever gets these days, when he feels something warm brush his leg. He tenses and when he doesn’t feel anything else, he grabs his flash light and peeks under the covers. He doesn’t see anything at first, but then he notices a glimpse of color on his leg.

Are you alright? Is written in blue ink right under his own writing.

Eggsy stares and suddenly remembers why you aren’t supposed to write on your skin. Soulmate are revered, but part of why they are held so highly is the aspect of fate, of chance, of luck. Every religion on earth has explanations and there are billions of pounds spent every year on researching how it works. Those facilities are constantly under protest, though, by religious and secular groups alike. Even after eighteen, when it’s more accepted, people look down on those who write on their skin. It’s vulgar, it’s cheating, people say, writing means you don’t have faith in God, in the Universe, in your soulmate. He never understood that, doesn’t think it’s true, and neither does his soulmate, apparently. His heart starts beating faster as more letters start forming as he watches.

Do you need help?

Eggsy scrambles for the sharpie, ignoring the shaking in his hands.

 ‘m alright. He scribbles, messy next to the elegant script of his soulmate. Just my stepdad. Nothing new.

Does it have anything to do with the bruise? I’ve seen them before but I’m sure you’ve seen mine as well.

It’s fine. He avoids the question. When no new words appear, he slumps back against his pillow, wondering if he fucked this up like he seems to everything else.

What do you do in your free time?

Eggsy breathes a sigh of relief when more writing appears.

I like gymnastics. You?

I’m rather fond of taking my dog to the park and watching old spy films.

Yeah? What kind of dog? My name’s          , what’s yours?

He’s a rather stubborn Yorkshire Terrier I call Mr. Pickles. I’m afraid your name won’t show, nor mine should I try to write it, my dear. A new study showed that certain information cannot be passed along via marks. It depended on the pair, and they were unable to determine why, but names, birthdates, and specific location were the most common, even after soulmates had bonded.

Eggsy stares at the words for a few minutes, wonders what that means for them. He knows logically that they will most likely meet by chance eventually, but his heart had leapt at the chance to meet his soulmate now. He must remain silent too long, because more words begin to appear on his skin.

I’m sorry, was that unwelcome? Is there something you would prefer I call you.

No, no, I guess I was just hoping to at least know your name. Is there something I should call you then?

Why don’t you call me H. Do you mind petnames? I’m afraid I quite enjoy them, but if they aren’t to your liking, I can use a nickname you prefer.

Nah, H, it’s nice. Eggsy hesitates, unable to elaborate on the warmth that fills him when he sees the endearment, before finally reaffirming his answer and shifting the conversation to a lighter topic. As long as you don’t mind. Tell me about Mr. Pickles?

I got him during training to be a tailor, if you can believe that. The smallest of all the dogs there, but fearless….

--

Fuck maths, H. Seriously, I ain’t ever seen anyone use it in the real world. Why we gotta learn this?

It’s rather important for any number or reasons, my dear. Many of the sciences require it and you’d be surprised how useful it is in many of the more hands-on careers.

Let me guess, you’ve somehow used calculus to find the perfect color tie for a client’s suit?

As a matter of fact, it was a pocket handkerchief.

You’re a fucking liar is what you are. Tell me more.

--

Hello, darling, I’m sorry I haven’t written you recently. I’m afraid I’ve been dealing with a rather demanding client the last few days.

Hey, luv. It’s alright, ain’t nothing going on here. 

--

Got a minute?

Of course, my dear. You’ve been quiet the past few days, is something wrong?

I’m alright, just didn’t know how bring this up. A girl in my form kissed me.

Ah. Did you dislike it?

That’s the problem, it felt nice. But I got you, don’t I? Thought you was supposed to not want anyone after you met your soulmate?

Oh darling, it’s not that simple. Especially because we haven’t met. You will still find others attractive and like any relationship, it takes work. While many people find their soulmate to be the only one they desire, many others continue to want others and for some, that is an important part of their relationship with their soulmates. Of course, it’s best to always discuss it, rather than assume.

So I’m not messed up? It’s normal.

You are perfectly normal. Given the circumstances and that we likely won’t meet for several years, I would even encourage you to explore other relationships if you feel comfortable. Perhaps I should have spoken sooner. While I have not had a committed relationship in years, other than work, I have had my share of liaisons, some of which have been since we began writing. Does that bother you?

I guess not. I mean, it would if we’d met and started something, but right now? Not sure I want to talk about it a whole lot, but it don’t really bother me.

I’m glad. Just remember you can always change your mind and we will definitely renegotiate when we meet in person.

--

Morning, lu

Shit, H, my teacher almost caught me. Sorry about the aborted message. Had to hide my pen and pretend my ankle itched.

Don’t worry, darling, it happens. Even now, I occasionally get dirty looks from my coworkers if they notice me writing.

Why can’t they just mind their own business? I mean, I usually write at night anyway and I always keep it covered. Ain’t like I’m shoving it in their faces or nothing.

Most people are a bit caught up in their beliefs, I’m afraid.

--

H, I need advice. Mum’s gone mental and I don’t know what to do.

What’s wrong?

She was crying over the phone when I called. H, she’s pregnant. That bastard knocked her up and I don’t know what to do. She wants me to come home, but the Marines is the best thing that’s happened to me since we started writing. I don’t know if I can live in that house again, but I can’t let him hurt the baby.

Oh my poor darling. She still won’t leave him?

I’m starting to wonder if she ever will. I know losing my dad messed her up bad. She was screaming about how I was gonna end up as cannon fodder for some rich bloke even as she told me I needed to come home for the baby.

I’m so sorry, my love.   

--

How is your new sister, dearheart?

Oh, H, she’s so beautiful.

--

Darling, I’m afraid I’ll be unavailable for a while. Far too many people wait until the last minute, then realize they need a suit for the holidays. We’ll all be working overtime to get orders completed.

Alright. Make sure you eat and get some sleep, though, yeah? You gotta take care of yourself. I’ll keep just fine with Miss Daisy.

I appreciate your patience, and should I not get a chance before the holidays, Happy Christmas.

You too, luv, and a Happy New Year as well!

--

You ok, luv? What happened to your arm?

I’m fine, my dear. I wasn’t paying attention and a mugger got the jump on me. When I attempted to defend myself, I found myself thrown to the ground over the remnants of a beer bottle. The doctors say it should heal up in a week or two, but I’m sorry for worrying you.

As long as you’re alright. You know I’ve had worse, so it don’t bother me.

I know and someday you won’t have to deal with that man ever again.

Yeah, someday. You taking time off work then?

--

H, I fucked up. Stole Rotti’s car and there were coppers and a fox and I’m up shit creek. I made a phone call to guy who knew my dad, but I don’t know. Got some weird customer service. I’m sorry. God, why can’t I catch a break?

H, it was so weird. This guy got me out of jail, then bought me a pint and lectured me! I mean, he seemed sort of understanding, but he kept talking about living up to my potential and overcoming all that life threw my way.

Jesus, H, I don’t think I can go back. I think Dean was actually going to kill me this time. My father’s friend, he did something, got me out, and now I’m going to meet him. Can’t get worse, right?

--

Eggsy lingers a moment, staring at the storefront to the tailor shop, before he pushes the door open. He cringes a bit at the sound of the bell, but is still entranced by the sight of the man in front of him.

Harry Hart is simultaneously everything he wants and everything he wants to be. He’s cool and collected, effortlessly elegant with danger simmering under his pleasant demeanor, handsome despite his age, well spoken, devious and full of tricks, frank and honest yet not unkind.

He wonders what the catch is. Nothing goes right for Eggsy, not even his soulmate. Despite writing to each other for nearly a decade, they had yet to meet and a part of Eggsy wonders if they ever will. He rubs at his wrist, checking again to find no response yet. Harry had seemed understanding in the pub, but disappointed none the less as he’d listed Eggsy’s various failures and mistakes. Maybe his soulmate was feeling disappointed, too, and that’s why he hasn’t written back.

Eggsy has made choices he isn’t proud of, most of them to keep himself and his mum, and then his sister, safe, but even now he wonders what his soulmate will think. This man, this friend of his father’s, knows all his shortcomings and flaws, even the ones he’s kept hidden. It hurts more than he expected, that disappointment.

Harry doesn’t look disappointed now, though. There’s a pleased look on his face that catches Eggsy off guard and settles something in him. He wonders if it makes him disloyal to his soulmate, too feel so deeply about another. No tryst and date in the past has made him feel this way, even when he’d known them much longer.

“Excellent,” Harry begins, a note in his voice that wasn’t there earlier. “You made it.”

Eggsy can’t identify what is different as Harry sets down his drink and stands. He’s looking at something written on his wrist, Eggsy realizes, in the same place Eggsy had scribbled a note just an hour ago. His breath catches and the warmth in Harry’s eyes gives him hope when their gazes meet. “I’ve never met a tailor before, but I know you ain’t one.”

Harry smiles at. “My dear, there are so many things I’d like to discuss, but I’m afraid we’re running late. I have a job offer I think you might be interested in. I’m offering you the opportunity to become a Kingsman, Eggsy.”

“A tailor?” Eggsy asks with a smirk.

“A Kingsman agent.” He says as leads Eggsy to one of the fitting rooms. His hand brushes Eggsy’s shoulder as he motions him through the door and Eggsy fights not to lean into it.

“Like a spy.” Eggsy is grinning now, eager to hear more.

Harry nods. “Of sorts. Interested?”

“Alright.” Eggsy agrees, anything to get to know his soulmate better. “Not like I got anything to lose.” 

“The first thing you ought to know Eggsy, is that agents aren’t allowed to propose their soulmates, and even close friends and family are discouraged as candidates. The bias and potential for compromised priorities is too high.” Harry explains seriously, and Eggsy feels his stomach drop, until Harry continues with a more conspiratorial look. “Of course, if you discover your soulmate during training or while on a mission, there are different protocols in place. After all, we can’t lose an agent or even a potential agent due to fate.”

Eggsy can’t stop the grin from returning as their eyes meet in the mirror. “Guess it’s a good thing I ain’t met my soulmate then.”

Harry nods approvingly. “Indeed. Now then, we’d best be off.” He places his hand on the mirror and Eggsy starts as the floor begins to sink. “Since 1849, Kingsman Tailors have clothed the world’s most powerful individuals…”

--

Well, if Merlin didn’t suspect already, he knows now. Hard not to when I got all the same scrapes and bruises from the explosion. Played it off as if I didn’t know until then. He let it go, though, and showed me your room. Didn’t say anything to the other recruits, either, so I’m not going to worry about it. I’ll save that for you. You look wrong with all the wires attached.

It’s so weird, H, I still can’t write your name without it vanishing. We talked about it that first time, but I thought maybe it would change once we met.

Charlie’s such an ass. If it weren’t for Roxy, I’m sure we’d have killed each other by now. Almost did it anyway when he dumped ice-water on me—poor JB got soaked, too! I beat him in marksmanship training, and we tied on the last written test, though. Take that, you posh toe-rag!

We’ve been studying Kingsman history and protocols recently. Merlin didn’t say anything, but he gave me a pointed look, so I went and found the rules on soulmates. You weren’t kidding about things being different. Did you know, while it won’t help me none as a Lancelot candidate, any candidate discovered to be an agent or other staff member’s soulmate that doesn’t become an agent is almost guaranteed a support job?

You know, I keep wanting to tell you about how training went. I mean, I shouldn’t be used to actually talking to you already, but every time we get a break (an actual break, not just time to study), I come down here and talk. I guess it’s supposed to help if you’re in a coma, but I keep expecting you to say something back.

I wish you’d wake up already.

I’m awake, love.

--

“So,” Eggsy says with a grin as he follows Harry into his home. “Twenty four hours. Think we can find something to do?”

Harry smiles back serenely. “I’m sure we can find some way to fill the time. For example, your manners need quite a bit of work, still.”

“Harry!” Eggsy yelps before he catches the glint in Harry’s eyes. “You are the worst. You better make me something nice for dinner.” He demands playfully as Harry closes the door and hangs his jacket.

“Oh, I’m sure we can come up with something.” Harry agrees, turning to face him. His face softens and he lifts a hand to cup Eggsy’s cheek. “Hello there.”

Eggsy sighs into the touch. With how busy they’ve both been, touches between them have been fleeting. Nudges, a shoulder squeeze, a brief hug when Harry woke up has been the extent of it. Eggsy craves it; the warmth of Harry’s touch soothes him like nothing else. “Hey.” He lifts his own hands and tucks his thumbs into the back of Harry’s belt.

“I’m so very proud of you, darling. You’ve excelled in your training and handled everything life threw at you beautifully.” Eggsy can feel the remaining tension drain out of him as Harry pulls him close. Tucking his head into Harry’s shoulder, he lets himself drown in his soulmate. He tries to memorize Harry’s warmth, the scratch of the tiniest bit of stubble showing up at the end of the day, the solid weight of his arms, the smell of his expensive cologne and his natural scent beneath it. He clings back, unable to let go now that he finally has the chance to hold his soulmate.

“Thanks for trusting me, for waiting.” Eggsy says, feeling the strength in Harry’s grip as he holds him tight. He’s tried not to think too hard about what it must have been like for Harry, to wait nearly twice as long as Eggsy, as most people. The average age to meet your soulmate is twenty three—Harry was nearly thirty when they started writing to each other and wouldn’t have started to get marks until he was at least fifteen.

Eventually they part, but they linger in each other’s space as Harry shows Eggsy around the house.  Eggsy is flushed with pleasure and excitement by the time they reach Harry’s office.

“Hey, do you still keep Mr. Pickles around?” Eggsy asks after Harry shows him all the Sun covers decorating the walls.  He had demanded to hear all the stories, running his fingers over particularly interesting covers as Harry watched from his desk. He’s still amused at how well they had matched up with the tales of frustrating customers Harry had written over the years.

Harry smiles at him. “After a fashion. Come,” he stands and settles a hand on Eggsy lower back as he leads him back down the stairs. “Here we are.”

He opens the door and lets Eggsy proceed him. “That’s sick!” Eggsy exclaims laughingly before continuing with a fond tone of voice. “You’re a fucking freak, Harry. The bathroom?”

“I must admit, Merlin’s reaction is one of my most treasured memories.” Harry tells him with a smile. Eggsy hesitates, then presses a quick kiss to his cheek. Mr. Pickle’s fate as a taxidermied resident had unnerved Eggsy at first, and Harry had clearly picked up on it even through writing. He doesn’t want Harry to think it still bothers him when he’s come to understand it. Harry’s smile softens. “Shall we make dinner?”

--

“Shoot the dog.” Eggsy’s hands are steady as he accepts the gun from Chester King, but… Eggsy still isn’t sure how he feels about the man—he’s never been anything but politely kind and interested in the trainees, but there is something about him that makes Eggsy’s skin tighten. Now isn’t the time to focus on that, though. This, he thinks, is the final test. His mind races as he points the gun at JB. His heart races, too, and only years of control keep his emotions off his face. He’s about to turn the gun back on Arthur when he remembers Mr. Pickles. Harry had told him years ago that he’d received the terrier during his tailoring apprenticeship, which he now knows was his Kingsman training. Mr. Pickles had lived for years and there wasn’t a single mark or scar on him, even now, stuffed and mounted in Harry’s loo. The final test, he thinks again, and turns the gun to the tip of JB’s tail. He pulls the trigger and hears another gunshot ring out with his.

He can’t help the way his shoulders slump in relief as he realizes it’s a blank and when he holds the gun back out to Chester, he sees the man hide a sneer. “Congratulations, Mr. Unwin.” His voice is friendly again. “You have passed. As, it seems, has Miss Morton. Report to Merlin for further instruction.”

Eggsy stands. “Thank you, sir. JB.” The pug trots after him as he leaves the room for Merlin’s office. He takes a minute once he’s halfway there to crouch down to hug JB to his chest and whisper praises. A part of him wonders how—or if—Roxy figured it out, but he pushes to the back of his mind. He’ll worry about it later. Once he’s settled again, he lets JB down and makes his way to Merlin’s office.

Merlin and Roxy are waiting for him. Lady is curled up in the corner, so Eggsy sends JB to join her as the three of them hash out a schedule for further training and test missions. It takes another three hours and by the time they’re done, Merlin sends them home with a number of files to review and even more to fill out.

Roxy is gone before he can ask about her test, so Eggsy decides to head to Harry’s. He wants to tell him he passed, and as much as he’d like to see his mum and Daisy, he really doesn’t want to deal with Dean while he’s still edgy from the test. He’ll visit tomorrow, he decides. Merlin told them to come in at 10, so he can grab some pastries and surprise his family while Dean’s still passed out.

He means to start on the files Merlin gave him, but it’s a long trip back and he gets caught in his own thoughts. By the time he gets home—and he realizes that despite only spending one night there, he already considers Harry’s house more home than the apartment he shared with his family—he’s worked himself up over the test.

He only knows about Mr. Pickles because Harry is his soulmate and the traded tales from years ago. He’s sure Harry would never have mentioned Mr. Pickles otherwise. Roxy didn’t have that advantage and even though Kingsmen are expected to use all their skills and tricks to succeed, it seems wrong and eats at him.

Harry can tell he’s upset when he arrives. Harry is smiling, but it quickly drops away when he gets a good look at Eggsy. Eggsy knows he’s disheveled, but Harry doesn’t focus on that.

“What’s wrong, love? I thought you passed.” Harry asks gently, reaching out to cup his shoulder.

Eggsy bites his lip. “Mr. Pickles.”

Harry frowns, but leads Eggsy into the living room. “What about him?” He asks as he pushes Eggsy into the sofa before sitting by his side.

“It’s cheating, innit?” He asks. “I mean, I know Kingsmen should always use their advantages and such, but Roxy couldn’t have known, and…I couldn’t shoot JB until I remembered Mr. Pickles. He was alive for years and no scar or anything. Even then, I aimed for the tip of his tail, just in case. Roxy did better than me, so she should be Lancelot, yeah? I mean, if it was Charlie it wouldn’t bother me, but I just feel like shit, knowing all this.”

“Eggsy, I don’t think—” Harry abruptly stops when his glasses beep. He listens intently while Eggsy watches. “I’ll be right in, Merlin.” He says before focusing on Eggsy again. “I’m sorry, darling, I have to go. We finally have a lead on what Valentine is up to.”

“But—no, you’re right, that’s more important.” Eggsy stops his protests as they stand. “Be safe, yeah?”

“Of course. We’ll sort this out when I get back, but until then, you can stay here and work on whatever Merlin’s sent home with you. My laptop is unlocked if you prefer that to your tablet.” Harry offers.

Eggsy nods. “Alright.” He hesitates. “Kiss for luck?”  

Harry smiles. They’ve touched more since their twenty four hours started, but they are both still aching for more. Eggsy had been exhausted and Harry insisted they sleep. They’d have plenty of time for other activities, he had reminded Eggsy as he cuddled him close and pressed a kiss to his head. Eggsy woke up feeling more rested than he could ever remember, safe in his soulmate’s bed. Now, Harry meets Eggsy halfway, the kiss starting tender but intensifying quickly. The gentle press of lips against each other gives way to a warm, wet slide of tongues. They kiss languidly, unrushed despite knowing that Harry is expected at HQ. Eggsy shudders as Harry pulls his lower lip between his teeth before they finally part.

“With that kiss, I’ll be the luckiest man in America.”

--

Good luck, Harry.

Thank you, love. Now get some sleep. I’m sure Merlin will have plenty for you to do tomorrow.

--

Eggsy is about three quarters done with the newest files Merlin had given him when he decides to take a break. He had spent the night, sprawled across Harry’s too-big bed, after finishing the first batch, and managed a three hour visit with his mum and sister, taking them out for a nice breakfast far away from chance of seeing Dean. He’d reported to HQ, but Merlin had sent both him and Roxy off after only two hours. Roxy had been sent to work with Percival while Eggsy had been instructed to focus on the paperwork and review a few of Galahad’s old missions. Every place he tried had been busy, so he finally went back home to Harry’s after letting Merlin know he was leaving.

He’s watching footage on Harry’s computer from a job Harry had done in Germany when he realizes Harry’s current feed is connected and recording. He pauses the video and opens Harry’s feed. A few clicks and he has sound as well.

“If that’s all, Merlin, I’ll be heading in now.” He hears Harry murmur.

Eggsy watches, thrilled, as Harry enters the church. This is live, he has another connection to Harry while he’s away, and even if he can’t talk to him, it’s both comforting and exciting to observe from Harry’s point of view.

He’s laughing at Harry’s response when everything goes to shit. He stares in horror as everyone devolves to violence and Harry slaughters everyone in the church. He clutches the table, unable to do anything but watch as Harry looks around in shock. He can hear Merlin trying to talk to Harry, but his soulmate doesn’t seem to be responding. Harry moving towards the door breaks his own shock and he scrambles for a pen. He yanks his sleeve up and starts writing.

Harry, are you ok? What happened? Harry, please, I need you to respond, to me or Merlin, I don’t care, just say something, do something, anything so we know you’ll be alright. Dammit, Harry, stop!

Eggsy is sure his writing is a mess because his eyes are drawn back up to the screen and he can’t look away. He writes faster, harder, when Harry exits the building to find Valentine and his help waiting.

“No, no, Harry do something, dammit, why aren’t you doing anything.” He says even as he continues scribbling on his arm. He’s probably hyperventilating, he realizes, but then Valentine raises his gun. Valentine can’t watch, but Eggsy can’t look away. He can hear himself screaming, but it’s distant, as if it’s someone else.

He slams the laptop shut, hands trembling, and pushes the chair back. He heads downstairs and pours himself a healthy amount of scotch before throwing it back. It doesn’t help and he thinks about another glass before he decides against it. There’s a thick line of blood red from his left eye that goes under his hair and nothing he can do by himself.

He locks the door and heads to HQ.

--

H—

Harry, please.

I don’t know if I can do this.

It’s been a month Harry. I really miss you. I know you’re gone, but writing makes me feel a little better, even if you’re never going to write back.

Just got back from a mission with Tristan today. He’s a real dick, but he sure knows what he’s doing. I told my mum it was a special order and brought her back some fancy chocolates. It was all surveillance, so no bruises to explain, thank god.

I can’t believe I can finally write your name. Guess it makes sense.

Why’d you have to die, Harry? It’s not fair, we was just getting started. I know we’d written for years, but I wanted to wake up with you, make dinner and fight over laundry and grow old together. I barely got a taste of life with you, but the bed is still too cold without you.

Daisy turned 3 today, Harry. She’s getting so big, my precious flower. Got her a plush puppy, so maybe she’ll stop pulling on JB’s fur. He puts up with it well, but you know he hates it. Loves to cuddle with her, though. Spoiled thing.

Three months and I still have trouble getting out of bed some days. Merlin’s been great, you know. Told me a couple of stories about you. We both got drunk off your fancy scotch, but it felt good to learn something new.

Sometimes I hate this job. Every time I think I’ve seen the worst of humanity, someone does something even more horrendous. Little kids are the worst. Roxy’s taking me out for drinks and I just hope I don’t get too trashed.

I can’t believe it, I’m on restricted duty for three weeks! Some bastard got a lucky hit and medical says it will be at least two weeks before my ribs heal, then I’ll need physical therapy to get back to normal. At least Leo offered to let me help in the shop if there’s nothing I can help the handler’s with. Ain’t no use to R&D like this either.

Please come back, Harry. I fucking hate waking up alone and I keep finding all these little things and want to ask you where they’re from and I want to know your favorite dessert and what you’d do for our anniversary. I know you’re dead, but can’t it be that kind of movie?

Fuck, I’m sorry. I know there ain’t nothing you can do. You’re dead after all. Got a little drunk last night, lost my head a bit. I can’t help but feel empty sometimes.

Maybe I should stop this. It just seems to make it worse. Maybe someday it won’t hurt, but I keep checking for a new mark and there’s never anything there.

Goodbye, Harry. I love you.

Eggsy?