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sins without tragedies

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Their covers for their first mission together are as Mr. Hart and Mr. Hart-to-be.

Harry receives an invitation in the post from an old school friend five months after the day that no one talks about. Inside the envelope is a single heavy weight piece of paper embossed in gold, cordially requesting the pleasure of a one Harry Hart’s company for a social dinner—it’s a load of shit, bottom line, and Harry has every mind to toss it right into the bin. He only gets five steps into the dining room before his glasses beep and Merlin’s voice lets him know that he’s finally been cleared for his first mission, which just so happens to involve the very convenient invitation he’s received. Harry’s been a spy long enough to recognize that this wasn’t a coincidence, their mail gets screened before it reaches their Kingsman issued homes, after all. (Also, Merlin later admits that he intercepted the RSVP invitation and accepted it on Harry’s behalf three months ago.)

And it’s the perfect situation, really, because Harry’s started to become increasingly restless having to sign paperwork as Arthur day in and day out. How Chester ever managed to stay on top of the endless piles of folders and emails while also finding enough time to annoy the daylights out of Harry is beyond him. One of Harry’s stipulations in agreeing to take up the role was that he’d be assigned at least one field mission a month at the behest of his sanity. The good news is that it got approved, the bad news is that none of the missions he’s allowed on (Merlin’s words) have any chance of resulting in a blaze of flames or exploding cars. Meaning, Kingsman’s second most senior agent and king is being regulated to mostly recon and some projected low-action missions because of a little head wound. Delightful.

When Merlin hands them the dossiers during the initial briefing on the afternoon of the event, Eggsy takes one look at it and raises a brow. “You said this is a high class dinner full of old stoges?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Merlin says flatly. “But yes, it is.”

“And you,” he tilts his head at Harry with the beginnings of a grin, “are going to go in there with your hand on my sweet young arse? That’ll give ‘em all a heart attack.”

“Oh, I’m hoping for it. These parties are dreadfully boring and they need a little excitement in their lives,” Harry says, twinkly eyes and all.

Merlin thinks he may have made a mistake pairing them together.

Because the invitation was addressed to Harry’s actual name their covers need to be close enough to the truth just in case someone gets curious and starts to dig. Harry Hart is the owner of a tailor shop on Savile Row and Eggsy soon-to-be Hart was once his young tailoring protégé who managed to capture his heart through romcom levels of shy glances, fluttering touches, and artful suit designs. It’s silly, Eggsy thinks, but people eat it up, so.

Merlin’s decision in having Eggsy take on the job was less because he’s still new to the table or because it’s Harry’s first mission since Kentucky (though still important and thus the precaution) but more so because Harry lacks more tact than a five year old and Eggsy is the only one who can deal with it without wanting to tear Harry’s hair out.

While they’re in the shuttle on the way back to the shop, Eggsy busies himself by entertaining the smaller details of their courtship. “Yeah, but who made the first move? I think I should be the one who proposed. And more importantly, who lets JB out in the middle’a the night when he needs to piss?”

“We don’t need quite that level of cover, Eggsy, but alright. You should make the first move, because it is generally frowned upon for an old and withering tailor to set his sights on such a young man,” Harry says, glancing at him meaningfully and wordlessly trying to convey something that Eggsy doesn’t quite catch. “Be the proposer if you wish but that means it’s you taking the dog out.”

“Aw, Harry, y’know JB loves ya.”

“I don’t care how many times you say that, he still soiled one of my best pairs of oxfords.” Eggsy throws his arms up and Harry reaches over to push them back onto his lap. “You’ll crease the shoulders.”

Eggsy refrains from stretching his arms out and instead slouches in his seat, ignoring the frown Harry sends his way. Yeah, alright, it’s not very gentlemanly but it’s just the two of them here so Eggsy can get away with it.

Harry makes a small little tsk sound—it’s mostly for show; Eggsy’s caught him horribly slumped over taking a kip on his paperwork more than once—and settles back in his chair, one long leg draped in charcoal fabric crossing over the other. “You are on the right track though. It’s the little details that make a cover truly convincing and the illusion is important no matter how small the mission. Having said that, is there anything you might be uncomfortable with?”

Eggsy raises a brow at him, doesn’t say that he’s been sort of low key vying for whatever Harry’s prepared to give ever since he waltzed back into HQ with a shiny new scar, and instead says, “We’re professionals here bruv, I’m up for anything.”

Harry hums. “Good.”

“And you? Anythin’ off limits?”

“No,” Harry smiles a little, “do as you see fit.”

Oh, Eggsy thinks, yeah there’s definitely something fit I’d like to do.

Upon arrival back at the shop Eggsy tosses their head tailor, codename Elyan, a wink when he sees him. Elyan’s a mate, really, the man had stitched up the tie Gazelle’d sliced in half without so much as a comment about there being countless identical ones out on display. The tie isn’t for work anyway, he has it tucked away safely in his home.

Outside the shop is a cab to take them to the hotel that isn’t more than fifteen minutes away. Eggsy’s starting to get excited; it’s the first mission he’s had with Harry and it’ll be aces to see him work up close and personal—and as his fiancé. That gets him excited for a slightly different reason. There have been a few recons he’s been on before, twice with Roxy and a few times as backup for some other Knights (the most memorable one being posing as Gawain’s son because it’d involved lighter grenades) so he’s got a pretty good idea of what to expect.

Their glasses beep and Merlin’s voice filters in as the cab takes a turn on Knightsbridge to the hotel venue. “Parkers hasn’t arrived yet but I’ve made sure to get you seats at the same table. Rings in place?”

“Yep.” Eggsy adjusts the thick wedding band on his left ring finger. There’s a small latch on the metal right where the base of his finger meets the top of his palm that when pressed will release a diluted form of a truth serum. It’s Kingsman’s very own, but it’s still mostly a prototype with varying degrees of potency—an insurance just in case they don’t manage to get the intel that they need in time.


“Yes.” Harry pauses, and then sighs. “Though, why aren’t you here with us tonight? Didn’t you receive an invitation as well, or did they forget about poor old Graeme?”

Graeme? Eggsy mouths to himself. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Merlin wasn’t simply just his real name.

“Oh, that invitation made it nowhere near my house. Besides, I’m on babysitting duty. Both of you have been notable terrors on your own missions, I’d hate to lose a handler just because the two of you are paired together.”

Well, they can’t argue with that.

“So do both of you know this William Parkers then?” Eggsy asks.

“To an extent.” Harry says. “We ran in the same circle, you could say. Imagine my surprise when his name came up in our databases.”

“What he means,” Merlin tells Eggsy in a hushed conspiratorial tone, “is that he nailed Harry right in the head with a ball during a football game once. Never got over it.” Eggsy laughs all the way to the hotel’s front entrance.

The second they step out of the cab together Harry’s already put on a small smile of polite indifference and set his shoulders even, his posture astute. It’s a click-of-a-switch change from the Harry that was sitting in the back of the cab with his mile long legs splayed a forearms length of the other and from the Harry that rolled his eyes when Eggsy elbowed him in the side. It’s a mask and an iteration of his own self that’s spurred from years of experience, as easy as breathing. Watching Harry work is a sight, is what it is.

“Darling?” Harry holds out his arm.

Eggsy fights the grin that’s trying to take over his face, too schoolboy in manner for his tastes, and takes Harry’s arm. The room they’re led to is large and dripping with expense at every corner. From the floor to ceiling windows and crystals strung together into chandeliers to the spit shined cutlery gleaming on porcelain plates, it’s exactly something one would expect from a dinner party thrown by rich old men one foot into the retirement home.

There are about a dozen large round tables with satin soft tablecloths spread out evenly throughout the room and ten chairs arranged around each of them. They find their table and settle in, chatting mindlessly to the others sitting near them while they wait for their mark to arrive.

Ten minutes in, Merlin says, “Arthur, at your six.”

Harry turns and dips his head close to Eggsy’s ear as if to whisper something to him, then makes eye contact with William over Eggsy’s shoulder. “William,” he exclaims.

William Parkers, forty-nine, owner of a manufacturing business and suspected of attempting to make copies of Valentine’s sim cards on the side, stands a few feet away from their table. It takes a second for recognition to hit. “Harry! Well, I almost didn’t recognize you!”

“Oh, it’s definitely been much too long.” Harry inclines his head towards the open seat to his right. “Do sit down.”

William greets the other guests around their table before taking the offered seat and turning back to Harry and spotting Eggsy. “And who’s this, your son?”

Eggsy blanches immediately. That hurt. “Naw mate, ‘Arry and I are gettin’ married, ain’t we, love?”

Harry smoothly slips his hand around Eggsy’s waist and leans into his side, enjoying the gobsmacked look they’ve put on William’s (and a few others who were listening in) face. “Yes, we are. In fact, shall Eggsy and I extend an invitation to you, William?” Merlin makes a distressed noise in his ear and says If he accepts that invitation I am not going to pretend to be your best man. “We’re considering a spring wedding; much broader choice of flower arrangements available around that time, you understand.”

William blinks away his shock and smacks Harry’s arm, his plastered smile only with a mite of distaste—and not at the prospect of flowers. “Look at you, sly old dog. Finally settling down, eh? Regrettably, the company eats up all of my time; projects don’t approve and build themselves, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Harry says in a way that even if they actually were going to have a wedding, Eggsy doesn’t think William would be invited. “And how is the business?”

“Bah, you know how it is: people submit proposals, can’t get them done correctly, I have to step in. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, hm?” William waves it off with a shrug. A twitch of Harry’s pinky finger is the only indication that he feels ruffled at the blatant subject change. “Now, Eggsy was it? What do you do?”

Eggsy tells him about getting a job at a tailor shop and how he and Harry met, and by the time he finishes a lengthy explanation of the correct way to hang up trousers on hangers, by hanging it upside down and folding one leg so the hem touches the seam then folding the other leg over it, Williams has moved on to reminiscing about the past with Harry and the man on his other side. Eggsy notices that some of the stories told around the table are incomplete and awkwardly skip over names, and eventually he figures out that they’ve redacted the names of the people that didn’t make it through V-Day. It throws him for a loop for a bit before Eric sitting on his left pulls him into a heated discussion about the peppers in the dish on their plates.

It occurs to him later, sometime between when the other older couples give him wondering looks and Harry’s left hand comes to rest on his thigh, that he’s allowed to kiss Harry. Harry himself had said that the illusion was important, and now is the perfect time to go ahead and do it to dispel any doubts their tablemates may have about them (yeah, he gets it, he’s the youngest one here and stands out quite a bit, okay). There’s a joke in here somewhere, where all the fancy suits and gowns don’t look nearly as interested in their own romantic partner as Eggsy does to his fake-romantic partner. But now that the thought is in his head, he can’t unthink it and the sudden urge nearly sends his knees wobbling. Eggsy goes for it after Harry says something that makes the group laugh, swaying into Harry’s side to press a gentle little kiss on the corner of his mouth—the only place he’s brave enough to go for.

He pulls back to find Harry looking positively delighted. Eggsy fucking loves it.

It’s a simple, quick peck that wasn’t even on the lips but it sends Eggsy’s heart careening from his chest. You’re a professional, he tells himself, only barely holding back from dropping his head onto his plate of something French that he can’t pronounce. He knows there’s a flush on his cheeks that isn’t from the wine and he’s grateful that Harry’s currently too busy trying to get William back onto the subject of the man’s business to notice.

The woman across from Eggsy, Bridget if he remembers correctly, sighs. She’s got her chin in her hands and her eyes are gazing softly at Eggsy, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Or maybe it’s just that obvious on his face. Some spy he is. “I still can’t believe you managed to tie down achy breaky Hart.”

Achy breaky Hart?” 

Merlin snorts and those sitting near enough to hear Eggsy’s outburst give a small tittering laugh. Eggsy turns his slack-jawed and raised brow look to Harry who frowns, pink at the ears. “Achy breaky fucking Hart?” He whispers. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that Eggsy playing as Eggsy Hart-to-be would react this way, so it’s not like he’s breaking character or anything, but he suddenly feels like he’s really hit the jackpot with this mission. And, yes, that’s including the kiss.

As it turns out, the nickname had nothing to do with the country pop song (which came much later than their school years) but everything to do with Harry’s blatant snubbing of suitors and those that had budding affections for him. And the ones that did get a chance—it apparently didn’t get any farther than a quick romp or so (which, hey, he tries not to focus on that part, thanks). Eggsy manages to wheedle a few more embarrassing stories out from Eric on his left while Harry makes headway with William by refilling the man’s glass every couple of drinks, slipping in a few drops of the serum when he starts to slur and deviate too greatly from the subject of sim cards.

In the end, they get most of the information they need and Eggsy gets information that’ll earn him a few months’ worth of first dibs on fresh brewed tea in the kitchens back at HQ.



On their second mission together, a month later, there are more kisses.

A lot more.

Their mark for this mission is a man that goes by the name Anton, a weapons dealer who operates strictly out of a nightclub in Lisbon. Eggsy doesn’t know why that is, Merlin might not know why that is since the dossier they received doesn’t explain it, and Harry probably doesn’t know why it is either. It can be chalked up to the natural seedy happenings in dark corners of any establishment anyway, or even because the man just might enjoy the ambiance and the bass pounding through his skull while he gave away illegal weapons, who knew. Eggsy sure doesn’t.

What Eggsy does know, is that Harry Hart seems to have a severe aversion to the top three buttons of his shirts when he isn’t wearing a tie.

He’s actually quite well acquainted with this fact, see, because most days of the week are spent at Harry’s house. Eggsy’s own Kingsman issued home is just a few streets over and about the same size as Harry’s, but it’s newer with less stuffy and dusty furniture. His mother and sister are peacefully situated in their new living space—where Daisy’s begun toddling around at record speeds, raising Eggsy’s blood pressure any time she wobbles too closely to the sharp corners of tables—and they’re happy. Or, at least Daisy is, because his mum gets significantly less happy whenever he comes home with a limp or ache that no regular tailor would get on a normal basis, which is why Eggsy elects to spend most nights in Harry’s guest bedroom that he’s claimed as his own.

Which. Well, stems the problem. Harry is an absolute diva who owns no less than twenty different colored jumpers and cardigans and even more button-up shirts. He doesn’t wear a tie at home, because what person out there does, but he also doesn’t close up the first three buttons of any of his shirts.

The first night of their stakeout isn’t too bad. Harry has two and a half buttons undone, the half being the third from the top that’s stuck halfway through the button hole, but it’s bearable.

He and Harry are nursing mostly watered down drinks and have been wandering around the club for only an hour before Anton shows up. Anton’s carrying a briefcase that’s small enough to not garner too much attention, and is dressed in slacks and a plain dress shirt to match. Inconspicuous enough, at least. Eggsy shares a look with Harry and tilts his head towards the booth that Anton’s claimed. “Follow my lead, yeah?”

Eggsy downs a third of his glass and reminds himself that he’s a professional with a job to do, then takes Harry’s hand and slings it around his waist. Harry gets the idea and discards his own drink on one of the tables near them as they start to sway sharply together in a mock dance of the high energy grinding that’s playing out around them, their chests brushing with every few steps they take.

Anton doesn’t even glance at them when they stumble past him to topple into the booth next to his. Harry ends up on the seat that has his back facing Anton’s front so he pulls Eggsy down onto his lap and takes a split second to glance up at him in question. Eggsy nods and his brain vaguely thinks this is it without knowing exactly what this is.

This, apparently, means Harry’s mouth fully on his own. It’s all dry and chaste and literally nothing more than a mild press of lips yet all the same it has Eggsy mentally scrambling for purchase. A mission is no place for feelings, but this is Harry kissing him and it’s everything he’s imagined since the dinner party last month. Harry’s lips are chapped but warm and Eggsy’s hands have found their way onto the skin peeking through his collar—

“Galahad, three inches to the right,” Merlin says, snapping him out of a blissful daze.

“Got it,” Eggsy breathes. They rearrange their limbs and rotate their bodies slightly to the right so that Eggsy’s glasses have a clear view of Anton’s booth without Harry’s shoulder or ear getting in the way.

Harry’s next kiss is softer, hesitant almost, sort of like the way a petal drifts into a pond and makes barely-there ripples on the surface. Eggsy presses into it, making sure to stay angled with one eye open toward their mark, and Harry presses back with renewed fervor. The kisses that follow after come in quick successions and are still as chaste and sweet as the first.


On the third night, it’s the thought of those three damned buttons renewed and the actual physical feel of them beneath his fingers that threaten to compromise their mission.

“He’s gone,” Harry mumbles into Eggsy’s bottom lip.

Eggsy pulls back a bit, still sat firmly on Harry’s lap while Harry traces a line to Eggsy’s ear with his lips (jesus god).

“Still only one briefcase tonight. Seating pattern still indiscernible, possibly a random choice each night.” Harry peers over Eggsy’s shoulder to watch the mark weave through the crowds and slip out through a side door.

“Sure we can’t follow ‘im?”

“No, Eggsy,” Harry says at the same time that Merlin says, “Absolutely not, Galahad.”

Eggsy breathes out a sigh. He moves back fully to face Harry, and by extension of the glasses, Merlin. “We done here then? All I’ve had to eat today were those biscuits Rox brought back from Sweden, I’m fuckin’ starving.”

“Get some rest, I’ll send more bugs over to your hotel room tomorrow. Looks like you’ll have to place them in every booth if Anton switches up his choice daily. Which means more work for me,” Merlin grumbles before signing off.

“I didn’t know you packed snacks, why didn’t you offer me any?” Harry reaches up to fix the mess that’s become of his hair and Eggsy shuffles over to sit next to him instead of on him.

“Are ya kiddin’ bruv? Tilde made them special for Roxy, how many times can you say you’ve eaten biscuits made by a Princess? I only got some ‘cause I’m Rox’s friend. Also, Tilde thinks I got the cutest dimples she’s ever seen,” Eggsy adds with a grin.

“I think your dimples are lovely, Eggsy,” Harry says without missing a beat.

Eggsy scoffs to cover up the embarrassing churning in his stomach. “Still ain’t gonna get any of them biscuits.” He leaps up from the booth and straightens out his jacket. “Know any place to eat ‘round here?”


The novelty doesn’t quite wear off, even by the fifth night.

“It’s a nightmare trying to sort through all these audio feeds,” Merlin mutters mostly to himself while Harry is busy trying to steal every bit of Eggsy’s breath. “The music isn’t helping either, what is this anyway?”

Eggsy pulls back for a breather and a small laugh, “If you want a nightmare you should see me and my cousin Dennis after one too many pints.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Your loss,” Eggsy says. He presses his face in closer to Harry’s and nudges the man’s cheek with his nose, keeping his eyes trained on the booth on the other side of the room. A plus to sitting on Harry’s lap, while ignoring the obvious reasons, is that they can survey both sides of a room with few blindspots. From beneath the cover of his lashes he can see Anton gesturing with angry movements to the person across from him.

“Anything?” Harry asks, hands petting gently at his waist.

“He looks angry. Tryin’ to contain it so he doesn’t gather attention though. Merlin?”

“I’ve got it,” Merlin grunts. “Sounds like someone’s not happy their customer can’t afford their prices.”

Eggsy shoves his face in Harry’s neck when Anton’s gaze sweeps around the room and he gets an eyeful of Harry’s chest in the process.

“We’ve got what we need for now. See if you can place a tracker on him then get to the extraction point.”

“Or,” Harry says, his exhale ruffling the hair behind Eggsy’s ear, “we can follow him tonight and retrieve the weapons. Much easier than regrouping and handing over the next part of the mission to someone else.”

“This is a recon for a reason, Arthur. Once you can shoot more than fifty rounds without wavering then we’ll talk.” Harry grits his teeth. “Jet is en route. ETA two hours, don’t be late or I’ll have you fly back commercially.”

Merlin signs off once more without any further comment (though they both know he’s still watching their feeds) and Eggsy winces once he sees the expression on Harry’s face. No doubt he’s thinking about every possible scenario that involves firing Merlin—because Harry is the boss here, need he remind you—but even Eggsy himself can’t find any outcome where the agency doesn’t go down within minutes of Merlin’s leave.

“You’ll get there, yeah?” Eggsy tells him, absently smoothing out Harry’s collar. “Just needs a bit more time.”

Harry sighs and drops his head. His jaw rests on the backs of Eggsy’s fingers and when he shakes his head it has the effect of rubbing his slightly prickly chin on the finger joints. It’s endearing as fuck. “It’s been six months, Eggsy, that’s half a year. I think that’s been more than enough time.”

“You were in a coma for two of those six, those don’t count.” Eggsy pushes onto his feet and palms a tracker, starting casually towards Anton’s booth and lowering his voice. “And medical wouldn’t even let you near a gun for another one, so really you’ve only been at it for three months.”

“Six or three it doesn’t matter, I can still do just fine with my left hand.”

“You know that ain’t what Merlin’s worried about.” Once they get close enough to the booth Eggsy casually reaches out to run a hand on the leather of the back of Anton’s seat and slips the tracker just under his collar. Raising his voice just a bit, both for their covers and Merlin’s sake, he says, “Let’s head on home, yeah, love?”

(They make it to the jet only a few minutes late in the typical Harry fashion.

How did you make us late again I was watching the clock the whole time!”)



Eggsy’s developed a sort of routine in the few months since he’s taken over guest bedroom in the Hart household as his own. He wakes up in the morning, sometimes to JB’s slobbery dog breath, and heads down into the kitchen to let JB out the back and start on breakfast. He makes a cup of tea for himself and lays out a mug on the side for Harry—something he’s learned is that on any normal day Harry prefers his usual cuppa, and on bad days when his head starts to ache a little too much he chooses to brew a mug of coffee.

By the time Harry comes downstairs Eggsy has usually finished whipping up their meal and putting the final touches on their plates, arranging the food into a design of his choosing. Today it’s an attempt at JB’s face, two eggs as the pug’s eyes and pieces of bacon making the outline of his head—it’s adorable, and Harry has no qualms about rolling his eyes and feeding JB scraps under the table despite Eggsy’s insistence that that’s got to count some for perceived self-cannibalism.

After that, Eggsy fills up a spare thermos with tea and takes JB out for a run, making his usual stop at the flower shop Jamal’s aunt owns a few streets down. She always gives him one free flower on the days he visits and he’s started bringing her tea in exchange. He makes a detour to his house on the way back to Harry’s and leaves the flower of the day balanced between the doorknob and the door frame for his mum and Daisy. It’s as much a gift as it is an offering of apology for being gone so often and as a way of letting them know he’s still doing fine and not in a ditch somewhere.

When he makes it home Harry’s dressed and cleaning up the kitchen while Eggsy goes to wash up. They maneuver around each other with ease when they’re trying to figure out which shoe belongs to who and neither of them blink an eyelid when Harry unknots and redoes Eggsy’s tie.

At HQ they split up in the hallway with Harry giving him a gentle squeeze on the back of the neck.


On the days that he doesn’t have a mission to be preparing for, Eggsy can be found in a) his office working diligently on reports and sometimes taking a nap under his desk, b) in the firing range, running the field, or the gym, c) helping out Merlin with the batch of recruits for the Tristan chair (much more entertaining now that the they’ve chosen their pups—Eggsy thinks he may have found a kindred soul in the cavalier spaniel Roxy’s candidate picked). Or, not as common though no less enjoyable, d) in Harry’s office with his shiny oxfords kicked up on the corner of the man’s desk.

(Oh yeah, Harry says he doesn’t play favorites, but Eggsy’s got his feet up on the big head honcho’s table doesn’t he?)

Lately though, other agents have taken to asking him of Harry’s whereabouts when he can’t be found in his office. Eggsy doesn’t know when he’d been assigned as Harry’s PA but the answer probably lies somewhere in how he actually does know where Harry is based on the time of day.

“Don’t ya think it’s weird?”

“What is?” Roxy says from where she’s stretching out on a mat. “That you’re living with our boss and apparently know that he has a stash of ugly Christmas jumpers?”

“Okay, that was an accident, and they ain’t that bad.” Eggsy pushes her arm and sends her toppling down.


“Your posture’s still too stiff! Do some yoga or somethin’ to get rid of that stress.”

Roxy huffs and mutters something about show offs who can stretch their legs behind their ears. She gets back on her feet and bends one knee with only minimal wobbling, extending her arms.

“Anyway, I meant that people keep comin’ to me like I’m some kinda Harry whisperer. Can’t they ask Merlin? He’s got cameras all around the place.”

“It’s because you’re married, you dolt.” Roxy gives him a sideways look.

“Well thanks Rox—wait, is that what started this?” Eggsy hops on one foot to face her, expression incredulous. “Just ‘cause we get paired on a few missions as a couple?”

Roxy unfolds herself and crosses her arms, watching Eggsy’s face as he thinks it through. “All of your missions with him have been as a couple.”

Then, and this is when Roxy knows she’s lost him, Eggsy smiles a small silly little grin. “That’s a little funny, innit, imagine if we actually were married?”

Roxy tilts her head to the skies and thinks about how this is what she and her unlimited texting plan have to deal with on a daily basis.


They are sort of like a married couple, Eggsy supposes when Harry comes in to drop off biscuits and a cup of coffee.

“And how are you holding up from your last mission?” Harry asks, settling into the chair in front of Eggsy’s desk.

“Alright, just twisted me wrist a bit when I was tryin’a reload.” Harry raises a brow and Eggsy frowns, “What? I was gettin’ shot at!” He doesn’t say that the actual injury (if it can even be called that) happened specifically when he was trying to imitate one of those mid-action twisty-reloading moves he’s seen Harry do before. “So I get back from a successful op, yeah? No innocents gettin’ hurt, no explosions, a good clean getaway, and what does Lamorak do? He makes me write an extra page report on the nick I managed to get on the side mirror of the car!”

“You drove into the wrong side of a tunnel with your lights off and three cars tailing you, that’s hardly what I would call a clean getaway.”

“I lost ‘em though, didn’t I?”

Harry exhales what might be constituted as a laugh and Eggsy considers it a win. Pulling his chair closer to the desk, Harry leans forward with an open palm. “Come here.”


“Your wrist.”

Oh. Eggsy watches as he lifts his own hand and places it in Harry’s much larger one. Watches as Harry’s thumbs smooth down the length of Eggsy’s wrist, pressing and kneading into the skin. When the pads of Harry’s thumb move back to his open palm, Eggsy realizes that this is the closest they’ve ever come to holding hands. Yeah, they kiss on missions and wrap their arms around each other’s waists or necks, but they’ve never actually held hands before.

“What exactly was it that caused the nick?”

“Oh, er, got too close to the wall is all.” It’s not—it’s not really intimate per se, because they’re at work and Harry’s just trying to help him with his not-injury, but the warmth bleeding into his skin from Harry’s hand trickles to every other of his appendages and makes his toes curl in his shoes.

Harry hums, one hand cradling Eggsy’s and the other tracing the lines of his palm. “I hope we don’t have to send you to training on how to handle a car. That was one of your shining qualities.”

“Oi, I can still drive circles and every other shape ‘round ya bound and with only one foot.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that.” Harry smiles, amused and eyes crinkling at the corners. “Are you busy tonight? You still haven’t seen Pretty Woman yet, have you?”

The coffee and biscuits Harry brought him are still sitting stagnant on his desk by the unfinished field report, he can hear the trainees are outside the window training their dogs, and Harry’s still smiling so softly that there are only slight indentations of the dimples on his cheeks—and it’s here that Eggsy thinks it might be nice to be really, actually married to Harry Hart.



On their sixth joint mission their objective is to retrieve a model microchip that they believe is supposed to be the successor to Valentine’s sim cards, the intel made possible and in thanks to William Parkers being highly susceptible to wine. It’s not a recon mission, which Harry’s thankful for, but it’s also not a very action-packed one. If things go according to plan, anyway.

There’s a four day science event going on at the Savoy Hotel and Merlin sets them up with a single room on the floor above their mark. They don’t know whether their target, one man named Finley, will be making a presentation about the microchips or even if the reason for his visit to the event has anything to do with it, but they’re there to prevent another possible disaster.

On the first night, they listen in to all the various speakers where they don’t make contact with the target and attend the after dinner which Finley doesn’t show up to. They end up staying for most of the dinner and leave once it’s been long enough to not seem rude, because manners, then take the elevator to Finley’s floor. His door is at the end of one hallway away from the elevators, but already from afar Eggsy can see the blocked out shapes of two guards flanking it. Subtle.

Harry reaches out to place a few bugs into a few corners of the floor before they head up another level to retire in their room. For the first night of a mission spanning several days it’s not unusual that there was so little action, but it still doesn’t fail to be a little disappointing. When he mentions it to Harry as they get ready for bed, Harry smiles a smile that Eggsy’s come to understand as Harry being reluctantly amused.

“Did you expect to save a Princess after every one of your missions?”

“Shove off,” Eggsy laughs, “and no, for your information I was thinkin’ that there’d be more hanging from ceiling vents to hack computers, motorcycles, plane stunts, y’know. The glamour stuff.”

“The glamor stuff,” Harry echoes. “I see I should have recommended you to a fictional agency. You’d never suffer terrible injuries or die from events that normally would have a normal person in pieces there.”

“Ha, ha.” Right, like Harry’s one to talk. The man’d come back from throwing the middle finger at death’s face with only a scar on his temple to show for it—he’s harder to kill than a roach and his medical records can attest to that.

“Come on then Mr. glamorous spy, we’ve got a morning nanotech presentation to attend.” Harry pats the space next to him on the bed, pulling off his glasses and folding them. “It won’t do for you to be falling asleep on your feet.”

Falling asleep next to Harry (and he’s going to be doing that for the next three nights) isn’t as weird as Eggsy thought it would be. It was awkward at first, on Eggsy’s part, because he tries to stick stiffly to his side of the bed so as to not bother Harry. It isn’t actually a problem, because Eggsy’s used to sleeping in one position the whole night. He’d grown up with a small bed that could barely fit his broadening frame and threatened to drop him on the floor if he tossed too much to the sides.

It’s not until half an hour in when Harry’s breathing evens out that Eggsy starts to relax. Their shared space makes the heat under the covers a little warmer than he’s used to, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. It’s actually a bit comforting.

(The next morning, he wakes up facing a Harry that’s sprawled out so wide that his icy cold feet are pressing into Eggsy’s knees. )

On the fourth night, after they’ve determined Finley’s pattern, they devise a way into his room via reverse defenestration.

Alright, it’s not that dramatic; they just pick their way through his window after he’s left the room.

“He could be carrying it with him. Like what if he keeps it in his wallet or summat.”

“Not likely; but if he is, then we may be out of luck.”

Eggsy blows out a breath, eyes looking around for anywhere else they could have missed. On the side table to his left he picks up a blue detailed porcelain vase and finds nothing under it, settling it back gently down. On a whim and at a loss he peers inside and freezes. “Shit, are you fuckin’ kidding me? It’s inside a vase.”

“What? Then get it out.” Harry says, already working to right what he’s moved and wiping away fingerprints.

Eggsy upturns the vase and shakes it to try and dislodge the microchip but it doesn’t budge. He tries to shove his hand in but the neck is too small and his knuckles end up flopping against the outward inclining mouth of the vase. “I think it’s glued in there.”

“Just take the whole thing with you then,” Merlin says.

Harry motions for him to move back out through the window. “Won’t he notice if it’s gone?” Eggsy says, handing the vase to him so he can climb out.

“The vase will be the first thing he checks when he gets back, it won’t make much of a difference anyway.” Eggsy nods. “We’ll have to be cunningly evasive to try and escape with it before he notices.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy groans.

“This isn’t the time for puns, Harry,” Merlin sighs, forgetting codenames in his exasperation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry slides the window shut behind him and picks the vase up back into his arms.

“Eighth window on your right, Galahad, the room should be empty.”

“Understood.” Eggsy slowly starts to shuffle towards the window, his oxfords making small scuffling sounds on the ledge.

“Elyan won’t be happy about your treatment of those shoes,” Merlin says.

“Kinda busy righ’ now, Merl.”

“Ha,” Harry snorts.

“Ah.” Over the comms link they can hear the quick clicking of Merlin’s typing. “Just on time. Finley’s on his way up, he’s on the second floor now. Hurry and get out of there, there’ll be a car waiting for you in less than twenty.”

Eggsy comes across a large decorative spike attached to the wall, placed between him and the very window he’s trying to reach like some sick joke played on him by the cosmos, and bites his lip to hold back a curse. “Don’t know what’s worse, gettin’ my bits impaled by this rusty piece of shit or fallin’ to my death.”

“He’s on the fifth floor, Galahad.”

“I’m going!” Eggsy braces himself on the top spike, reaching his leg around to toe tentatively at the ledge. With a small heave he swings his weight over and hopes that the spike doesn’t decide to rot and crumble. It’s both an embarrassing and terrifying experience. Once he gets a solid footing on the other side he takes the vase Harry hands him and works quickly to unlock the window and swings it open, jumping inside.

“Right, let’s go—Harry?” Eggsy peeks out again. “’Arry why’d you stop?”

“I seem to be—compromised,” Harry says, though Eggsy doesn’t see why. He’s made it across the spike, he just needs to go a couple of steps farther to get through the window. “Merlin, I’m stuck.”

“What are you talking about?”

Harry tilts his head down far enough so that his glasses can capture the sight of the leg of his trousers caught in the bottom most spike. Merlin lets out a startled laugh in his ear and Harry counts to one hundred. “Bloody buggering fuck,” he spits out. Throwing caution to the wind (which he sincerely hopes does not start to pick up while he’s looking down at a possible death) Harry jerks his leg away from the spike and feels his irritation bubble up and overflow when the leg rips—when the entirety of his trousers (one of his favorite pairs, dammit) rip cleanly off. He watches it flutter gently down to land on a potted plant.

Eggsy makes an ungodly noise and shoves his palms onto his mouth.

“Elyan won’t be happy about that either,” Merlin chuckles.

Kingsman suits are bulletproof and made with only the toughest Kevlar, but of course they wouldn’t also be able to protect the wearer from sharp objects like knives, the tip of a fountain pen, or even decorative spikes on expensive five-star hotels. Of course.

“Harry are you—” Eggsy chokes out when Harry shoves himself through the window.

“I’m fine, we’ve got the blasted thing, let’s go before someone sees us,” Harry says, trying and failing to ignore the breeze that’s chilling his exposed legs, ignoring Merlin’s quip of More like before someone sees how delicate your knees are. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Eggsy gently sets the vase on the ground, making sure that the base is even on the ground so it won’t tip over, then unzips his zipper and steps out of his trousers. “It’d be weird if only one of us was in their pants, yeah? If we get caught we can just say we had a little too much to drink and lost ‘em.”

Harry purses his lips, looking like he’s about to go full-on lecture mode. Instead, what he actually says is, “I’m personally offended that you are wearing yellow dotted pants with a navy blue striped tie. They don’t match at all.”

Eggsy winks and clicks his tongue at Harry. “Don’t matter if you’re the only one meant to see it, love,” he says, sweeping the vase back into the cradle of one arm and swiping a smack at Harry’s rear all in one clean move.

“Christ,” Merlin groans. “Get a move on, Finley is only five feet from his door. Because in case you lovebirds have forgotten, you are running out of time.”

“Oh, keep your hair on, Merlin,” Harry says.

They make it through two hallways before they start to hear the heavy pounding of footsteps. “Ten seconds,” Merlin warns them as Eggsy drops the vase and yanks off his jacket to cover it. Before he can turn around to pull Harry in by his tie, Harry’s already pushing him back against the wall and shoving a tongue in his mouth.

There are two very distinct thoughts warring in his mind: fuck yes, and fuck no.

Fuck yes in regards to the minty sweet taste of Harry in his mouth, fucking bless, and fuck no because the two guards who were posted at Finley’s door come rounding the corner. Eggsy throws his arms around Harry’s neck and hopes that the guards won’t notice the obviously shaped lump next to their feet.

Lucky for them Captain America was correct about public displays of affection, because the guards dressed in black suits pause briefly at the sight of them before they continue on down the length of the hallway. From the corner of his eye Eggsy watches them determinedly try to ignore the couple snogging against a wall like teenagers.

Feeling just a tad brave, Eggsy hooks one leg around Harry’s waist to bring them closer, the knots of their ties digging into their sternum, and feigns a moan. He nearly laughs into the kiss when he feels Harry smirk at the sound of one of the guards’ cough.

Once they’re gone, Eggsy waits a couple more seconds before tapping twice on Harry’s skull and pulling away with a small breath of laughter. “Should’a seen his face, poor guy was red as a fuckin’ tomato.”

“I’m sure. The theatrics were lost on him, you little shit.”

Theatrics—Oi! Look who’s talkin’!”


“I am fuckin’ knackered,” Eggsy announces once they step past the threshold of Harry’s house.

He kicks off his shoes, though taking care not to click them together to deploy the poisoned tip, and sheds his jacket. Harry sighs and picks it up, starting up the stairs. Eggsy follows him up, rubbing his eyes and stumbling into the banister with every yawn.

Harry pushes the door to his room open and Eggsy staggers through with a shower of his tie, socks, and trousers. Harry sighs again, a sigh of resigned suffering of a man who has long since accepted that it’s impossible to try and get rid of this terrible habit. He watches Eggsy circle around the bed and collapse onto it face first, his shirtsleeves rumpled and still fully intact.

He gives a small tsk at the sight. “Too many buttons,” Eggsy grumbles, “f’ckn bite me.”

“Alright then,” Harry says and lays out Eggsy’s discarded clothes on the back of a chair. He pulls off his own suit and socks and slumps onto the empty side of his bed that Eggsy hasn’t managed to commandeer. “Goodnight.”



Harry is cleared for his first solo mission and it goes as well as anyone expects it to. That is, not at all.

Merlin rages in his ear as he dives for cover behind a stack of crates, a couple shots flying past his ear. There’s various alarms and a multitude of red lights blinking overhead, the sounds of production lines being halted with a screech, and shouting voices too far away to be understood.

—ucking every single time I cannot believe this how do you always—”

“Yes I get it, you were right, thank you Merlin,” Harry says around the cloud of dust swirling around. It isn’t just a warehouse he’s in right now, it’s an old and dusty one, which is the worst kind. There really should be protocols about the cleanliness of workplaces, illegal or not.

“You’re goddamn right I’m right! You can’t pull that I’m Arthur shit with me anymore—on your left.”

“Much obliged.” Harry veers to his left and takes three shots, aim unwavering. By this point everyone who had been in the warehouse when he first infiltrated are aware that he’s here, if the dead bodies littering the ground didn’t give it away then the gunshots should have.

The warehouse itself, the only one insofar as they know, is the site of the microchip productions that they’ve been investigating for the better part of six months. Beginning with a chance invitation by an old school acquaintance for a dinner party to an eventful (not) four nights at the Savoy, it's all led to this. To Harry's first solo mission to go undeniably tits up. 

Merlin inhales a breath and gathers himself. “Hold on for a bit longer, Galahad’s just outside.”

“I’m fine, Merlin, I can handle this.”

Ah ah,” Merlin tuts, “what was it you said not even thirty seconds ago? That I was right?” Harry fires another shot over the rim of the crates in lieu of replying. “That’s what I thought.”

“Yeah, ‘Arry,” Eggsy links in through the comms line, “there ain’t nothin’ wrong with needing a little backup.”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it,” Harry huffs. “I just don’t need it.”

Eggsy skids to a halt by the crate where he’s hiding and shoots twice above Harry’s head. “I know ya can handle it, Harry, but what kinda husband would I be if I just let ya get shot to smithereens?” He winks and Harry gives him a long look that says Cheeky brat.

On the other side of the warehouse, a small explosion takes out two halted production lines. A flash of light is the only split-second of warning before a wave of heat hits them.

“That was me, sorry not sorry!”

Well, there goes discretion. “Eggsy, do you have any more of those grenades with you? I’m afraid I’ve only packed two.”

Eggsy laughs and hands him an overflowing handful of lighters. Merlin is curiously silent over their glasses and they take it to mean that it’s their unspoken go-ahead to carry it out. Harry has eight in his hand (two of them his, the other six Eggsy gave to him) and Eggsy has seven. It’s exceedingly excessive and the absolute farthest thing from discretion but Eggsy doesn’t miss the satisfied upward quirk of Harry’s mouth when they make a run for it before the grenades detonate.

The more microchips they can burn and make unsalvageable, the better.

They get well enough away from the warehouse exit when one lighter grenade goes off and triggers the others, sending the whole building into flames and chunks of flying debris, the blast strong enough to rattle the ground.

(Eggsy has unfortunately made the mistake of running near the river bank when it happens; he trips over his feet and topples right into the water.)


Eggsy, not Harry (remember, harder than a roach to kill), is the one who ends up stuck to a bed in medical. “I’m fine.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Merlin remarks dryly. “You’re lucky you didn’t catch anything too severe.”

“Exactly, so why do I gotta sit here with a needle in my arm instead of just goin’ home to sleep it off?” He can think of a million and one more things he’d rather be doing than sitting around being sick. Stuff like teaching JB how to shake hands (well, paws) and helping his sister try to stack colored blocks. 

“His vitals look well,” Harry says, walking in and taking a glance at Merlin’s clipboard.

“That’s ‘cause I ain’t sick.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Tell your boy to hold still next time; one of our nurses nearly stabbed him in the eye when she tried putting his IV in.”

Harry rolls his eyes, filling a glass of water on the side table and handing it over to Eggsy. “Statistically speaking, Merlin, nine out of ten injections are done in vein.”

Eggsy promptly chokes on a swallow of water and Merlin groans, “The fucking lot of you,” and spins on his heel to leave.

“You did that on purpose,” Eggsy coughs out, the glass of water in his hands splashing around violently.

Harry takes it from him without even a twitch of a muscle on his face, “Did what?”

Eggsy coughs once more, trying to dislodge the watery and blocked feeling in his trachea. “You waited for me to take a drink—I didn’t even ask for it!”

“I did no such thing, it isn’t my fault you accepted the glass,” he says, looking insulted that Eggsy would even dare accuse him of such a thing.

“C’mon Harry, have a heart.”

Harry’s mask breaks and he gives into a grin.


Harry takes him home within the hour and fluffs a pillow behind his back when he sits on the couch. He doesn’t make homemade meals much, Eggsy had discovered when he first started sleeping over, save for the easy and impossible to mess up toast or scrambled egg, and tea and coffee of course, but other than that Harry had always ordered in or went out to eat.

He orders a pizza that night for Eggsy, extra everything, and takes two slices for himself. Eggsy glares at him and comments about cholesterol levels, to which Harry takes a third piece just to spite him.

Eggsy isn’t sick, he feels as sprightly as a horse, so what if he’s got an itch in the back of his throat? It’s the grease from the pizza, it’s not him.

Harry doesn’t stop with the pizza though—he runs a bath for Eggsy and even puts in fucking bubbles, just the right amount that Eggsy likes, he lets JB out the back for his nightly excursion, and he’s got warm socks ready by the time Eggsy steps out of the bath. It’s weird because he isn’t used to being pampered, because there’s not even any reason for it when he’s one hundred percent healthy, but he can’t deny that it feels nice to be tucked into bed with Harry settling in next to him.

(And, yeah, okay, when he coughs himself awake in the middle of the night for the third time Eggsy finally admits that he may be just a little bit under the weather.)

(Harry surprises him the next morning with heated soup out of a can and a collection of films.)


+ i.

“What’re ya doin’ here anyway?” Eggsy asks, eyeing his audience suspiciously while cracking six eggs into a bowl.

Roxy shrugs and leans over the island to watch him whisk, Percival next to her pulls over two chairs to bring over to the island. When they both sit down, it’s made clear that Eggsy isn’t getting out of this kitchen without either a peptalk or without giving them whatever it is they’re after.

“Word around the grapevine is that someone’s been using kitchen stores to bake.” Roxy says, wiggling her brows.

“Someone who isn’t Merlin, apparently.” Percival adds.

Eggsy and Roxy’s heads snap over to him, “Merlin?”

“He stress bakes.”

“Shit,” Eggsy exclaims, “that why this place is stocked to the nines? I never seen so many frosting tips in one place before in me life. I didn’t even know we had half these things ‘till I noticed that hidden door by the—well, there’s a hidden door. Tha’s all you need to know.”

Roxy rolls her eyes goodnaturedly and props her chin on her palm. “So what’s the occasion?”

Eggsy averts his eyes. “Harry still ain’t over his solo mission from last week, kinda ruffled ‘bout it. I remembered him sayin’ once that creme brulees were his favorite desert when he was a kid, so.”


Percival raises a knowing brow at him. “You know, the last time we had one of those on HQ grounds was twenty years ago, then Arthur—Chester, that is—issued a ban on it and vowed never again.”


“Best ask Harry that. Speaking of,” Percival says cryptically and pushes his glasses up on his nose, “when did it get serious between you two?”

“There ain’t anything goin’ on between us.” I think, Eggsy doesn’t add. He doesn’t try to think about it, truth be told, because over thinking their odd little arrangement would lead to uncapping a whole jar of feelings that he isn’t entirely sure would be welcome. Instead, Eggsy tries to think of any plausible reason that Harry of twenty years ago could’ve gotten a harmless custard dessert banned from headquarters.

“Hm,” Percival hums and narrows his eyes.

And because Eggsy knows exactly how this works, he takes a step back to pull two already chilled custards from the fridge. They’re set neatly inside a pristine white ramekin that has Kingsman’s signature K monogrammed on the inside base in gold. It’d tickled Eggsy to find that Merlin (or someone, but now he knows it’s definitely Merlin) had gotten a few dozen ramekins personalized. Highest level of discretion, yeah.

“Moving on, how would you two like to be the first to try the creme brulee ala Eggsy?” It’s not avoidance, it’s a tactical retreat. Besides, he was going to give them some to try anyway. He pinches a generous amount of sugar and sprinkles it evenly on the surface of the custard, smoothing the layer further with his fingertips.

“Er, Eggsy,” Roxy says, eyeing the blowtorch he’s pulling out from beneath the island, “I am ninety-nine percent sure they make smaller ones designed specifically for culinary use.”

Eggsy chuckles. “This was in the pantry labeled as does not leave this kitchen. I’d bet my left foot it’s for this exact purpose.” And knowing Merlin, it probably was. “Besides, this is much easier than trying to do it with a regular lighter. Shit takes forever.”

He aims the tip at the sugar from a reasonable distance and lets loose.

Once they take a bite both Roxy and Percival praise it to the heavens—Eggsy muses that he may have seen Percival tear up a little—and it’s just the little push he needs to convince himself to take a fresh torched ramekin over to Harry’s office. He enters without knocking and gives Harry a shit-eating grin when he gives him an unimpressed look.

“I’m not even going to say it anymore,” Harry deadpans.

“Good! See, Harry, old dogs can learn new tricks!”

“Eggsy, are you here just to prove to me that today’s youth is physically incapable of knocking?”

“Naw, I,” he clears his throat, “I tried makin’ something.” Eggsy pulls out the ramekin and a spoon from behind his back and places it right in front of Harry, dead center on one of the field reports he was reviewing. “Used to make them on Christmas for me mum. Didn’t taste as good back then, cause we didn’t have none of those fancy ingredients, but.” He shrugs.

Eggsy braces himself as Harry blinks down at it. Harry takes the spoon and breaks the hardened sugar with a pleasing crack, scooping a generous portion into his mouth. A few seconds tick by where he chews his mouthful slowly, licking his lips after he’s swallowed.

Harry sighs and gazes up at him like he’s climbed the stars and brought down the moon for him. “Eggsy, I could fucking marry you.”


So here’s the deal: Eggsy’s well aware of the unprofessional feelings he’s harboring for his boss, but he’s not so unprofessional that he can’t reign in the butterflies trying to break through his ribs. A job is a job and if it requires kissing Harry senseless then he’ll do it without any hesitation (and if he just so happens to enjoy it a little too much, then that’s his business).

It helps that Harry shares his opinion though, seeing as the man looks pleased off the soles of his feet right after they get finished with a loud and sloppy snogging session against a wall of their choice for everyone to see.

Also, Eggsy isn’t a spy for nothing, he knows Harry’s got some less than workplace acceptable thoughts regarding him. Whether it’s due to the nature of their work and work relationship that he hasn’t made a move (like, a real move, when they’re not pretending to be people who can’t keep their hands off each other) or because he isn’t looking for something serious with Eggsy, Eggsy isn’t going to bring it up. There’s really not too much of a concrete reason to try and ruin whatever wordless terms they’ve come to an agreement on.

Which is why, obviously, Eggsy’s brain makes the brilliant executive decision to do exactly what he’s been trying to avoid—it pieces together every moment they’ve spent together from the past few months like the final fragment of a jigsaw puzzle.

At exactly seventeen seconds after the clock blinks two thirty-three a.m., Eggsy’s eyes fly open and he shoots up in bed. “Are we married?” He blurts out, sounding more like a slur of syllables than any actual real words.

Harry jolts beside him and groans, doing his best impression of a broken coffee grinder. “What?”

Harry,” Eggsy enunciates and rips the covers away from where it was submerging Harry up to the crown of his head. “Are we married?”

“Of course we are,” Harry says, simple and all matter-of-fact, as if Eggsy hadn’t just become reacquainted with how often they’ve been sharing his bed even outside undercover missions for weeks now and never questioned it or told him to leave. They’ve been at it long enough that Eggsy’s learned a few of Harry’s sleeping quirks—he likes to sleep with his face tucked under the covers so the light won’t hit his eyes, he sprawls out his long legs like the worst of them and his feet are always freezing, and occasionally he grinds his teeth. “Aren’t we?”

“I don’t mean on missions, I mean,” Eggsy shrugs, throwing his arms around and gesturing to their general cohabited space of bed. “On... not missions,” he finishes lamely. “Like, Eggsy ‘n Harry.”

Harry blinks, still reclined and hair curled artlessly over his pillow. “I was under the impression that we’ve been unofficially dating for a while now. Eggsy, we do laundry together and we’ve argued for ten minutes in the fruit aisle about the correct ripeness of bananas. The other day you brought me a dessert that I’ve been craving for years.”

It’s been a long time coming, he supposes, the moment where Eggsy’s stopped trying to deny what was right in front of him. He’s left reeling over the sudden comprehension that they have been sort of unofficially dating-slash-married. And apparently, to Harry, doing laundry and washing their pants together is what immediately constitutes as dating.

“What, and you just neglected to mention anything?”

“I did tell you that you should be the one to make the first move. Far be it that I force you into something more than you wanted.”

“What—you,” Eggsy laughs a little, vaguely remembering a cover story about an old tailor, “That was seven months ago! I didn’t even know—”

“We are spies, Eggsy, don’t insult me or yourself by saying you didn’t know what we were doing.” Harry sits up then, brushing a single loopy curl from his eye so that it falls against the scar on his temple, “Unless I read this wrong?”

“No! ‘Course I wanna be with ya, Harry, you’re,” a litany of embarrassing endearments and speeches filter through Eggsy’s mind and he stops them before they can reach his mouth. “I really like you, yeah? I want whatever you want.”

Harry smiles, the kind with soft eyes and the dimples, the smile Eggsy’s completely gone for. “As do I.”

“Still could’a said something. We could’a been here, plus more, ages ago.” He mutters and allows Harry to take his hand and press a kiss to his fingers.

“I am sorry; it had to be up to you whether you really wanted this. Think of the impropriety of an old, withering tailor like me setting his sights on a breathtaking young man and making the first move.”

Eggsy bites back a snort at Harry’s usage of his own quote. “When’ve you ever been one for propriety you fuckin’ wanker.”

“Quite right, my dear,” Harry says, settling back against his pillows. He wiggles around until he’s comfortable then opens his arms out invitingly, beckoning with impatient hands. “Now, If we are both on the same page and you are more than agreeable to do this, kindly get the fuck down here, Eggsy.”

Yes, Harry!”


(They’re not married—yet—but they already kind of are.)

The next morning, Eggsy stumbles down the stairs only in his (or maybe Harry’s) pants and (definitely Harry’s) robe. He nearly trips on JB no less than four times when the pug runs to greet him, barking and circling around his legs like a vulture. It’s only when he steps into the kitchen that he realizes that maybe JB hadn’t gone to say good morning to him, but to warn him of the mess that’s become of Harry’s kitchen where he can hear Merlin scolding the man.

“—whisk the fucking—oh come on, you can stir a martini for ten seconds but you can’t even whisk consistently enough to make batter?”

“I’m trying!” Harry does, indeed, look to be trying. He’s gripping a blue mixing bowl in the curve of one arm and stirring furiously with his other hand. Clumps of flour dust come puffing out of the bowl with every circuit and Eggsy winces; it’ll be a nightmare to clean all that off from the cupboards, worse if Harry breaks the bowl.

“Makin’ a mess is what you’re doin’,” Eggsy says, taking a moment to appreciate Harry’s bare arms peeking out of a threadbare shirt. Very, very nice.

Harry drops the bowl like its dead weight and pivots to face him with a frown on his lips and brow pinched. Batter of some sort stains the front of his apron and Eggsy is afraid to find out if there’s any batter left in the bowl or whether the entire thing has ended up on their counters. “I apologize, Eggsy, it seems we’ll be eating out for breakfast this morning.”

“Don’t ever expect him to make you pancakes, lad.” Merlin’s disembodied voice says.

“I didn’t know you could, uh, cook.” There’s a laugh bubbling dangerously beneath Eggsy’s chest, and he tries valiantly to hold it back. Pancakes.

“Oh, he can cook alright, if you want to digest an organic bomb, that is.” Merlin’s voice chirps from the tablet Eggsy spots covered in flour on the counter. That, too, will be a hassle to clean, and once Merlin gets done laughing his lungs out they’ll most likely get an earful about proper treatment of Kingsman tech.

“It was one time,” Harry growls. He tosses the whisk into the sink and gives Eggsy an imploring look.

Eggsy doesn’t quite know the extent to which Harry’s terrible culinary skills go, but judging from Merlin’s unsuppressed snickering and choked out Harry—Harry, tell him about the baking incident of '95—he can make a guess.

He thinks he knows why creme brulees are banned from HQ now.