Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, why couldn't you just marry your Alpha lover, then? How’m I more suitable than whoever left their scent all over you?” Eggsy asked, taking a deliberate sniff of the air, probably horrifying the old bat in the corner, given the way she gasps and looks completely scandalized. Eggsy doesn't even bother to hide his glee, just smirks at her. It’s ‘not done’ in high society, to mention what scents you can detect on other people, not when you’re talking about sex scents at least. But War Lord Harry Hart, who’s conquered more territories for King and country than just about anyone, ever, absolutely reeks of Alpha scent. Mating scent. And, hiding just under his collar, only the smallest sliver visible, is what’s probably a mating mark.

Which begs the question: why does Harry Hart need a mate, when he already has one?

The elderly Lady in the corner starts to speak, meaningless words that Eggsy’d already sat through twenty times. He looks at the woman who’d orchestrated everything, from his being taken away from his mother to being in this room, being introduced to Lord Hart and told that they were to be mates - a wonderfully suitable pair - and sneers. Eggsy makes sure his sharp teeth glint menacingly in the light, and she looks scandalised again. It’s not done to threaten Omegas, either, but he’s not from high society, whatever the blood that runs through his veins. He ain’t gonna play by their rules; Eggsy mightn't know much but he knows a losing game when he sees one.

“Bullshit. ‘M a bastard you’d’ve spat on rather than look at three months ago. I ain’t suitable for any o’ you posh toffs, far as you’re concerned. Even if I am the best of your grandkids.” Having now had a close up view of those in line for the throne, Eggsy's not exactly flush with dynastic loyalty. It’s a wonder that anything gets done, if they’re the ones who’re in charge. He doubts any of them could tell which end of a sword to grab, let alone swing it.

“Quite right.”

Eggsy’s broken from his stare down with the Lady who’s technically his grandmother - not that she’d like to admit it, no matter what shite she's currently trying to peddle - by Lord Hart.

“You see, it’s been decreed by the crown that I need to be properly mated, to set a good example for the gentry. When I informed them I was already mated, it was decided that he was not suitable, and a new mate had to be found.” Though his expression don't change at all, Lord Harry Hart has turned from a well mannered Omega into something deadly. Something in the set of his face, the angle of his shoulders, even if his words and tone seem perfectly polite; all this, over the course of a single, succinct explanation. Clearly, Lord Hart is not a happy man. Who would be, when told that they’d have to break their mating off to satisfy a royal who probably had his thumb up his arse.

Lord Hart is absolutely doing the posh version of a stare down, his polite veneer not quite able to hide the intensity of his eyes. Eggsy, particularly adept at figuring out when people want to make him swallow his own teeth, sees right through him. Meeting the man's gaze unflinchingly, Eggsy knows he shouldn't bait the man. He's seen enough dangerous men in the military to know to leave well enough alone, but he can’t help it. They took him away from his mum, his sister, for this. No choice, just an ultimatum. A threat. Every man's got a weak spot and Eggsy's ain't exactly subtle.

Neither's Lord Hart, as it turns out.

“And how reprehensible’s the bloke you shacked up with if I’m a better choice?”

Lord Harts lips thin, before he says,

“He’s a Scot.”

Which, that is a surprise. The Crown’s been trying to make inroads into the Highlands for years; unsuccessful every time, unsurprisingly. Though currently at peace, Eggsy’d learnt from his time in the army that there was massive hostility between the British nobility and, well, all of Scotland. Eggsy himself didn’t much care and neither did anyone he’d grown up with; they've got enough trouble just getting by back home, no need to borrow the trouble of a rich man's game.

“Still doesn’t explain why you ain’t shacking up with some right proper Alpha. One of your war buddies or something. Surely they’d give you time to... oh.” Eggsy's always had a sharp nose, which'd been to his compliment during his brief military stint. It's barely noticeable; subtle enough that it'd be easy to overlook or attribute to someone who'd been in the room, hours ago. An old scent don't linger like this, not for such a soft scent. Raising an eyebrow, Eggsy barely bites back another too sharp smile.

“You up the duff, then? Just far enough along you thought you’d be able to pass it off as mine if I mate you soon enough.” It was a pretty genius strategy, actually. They’d never try to pull this one over on a noble, the bloodlines are 'too important,' but on Eggsy? Who's illegitimate himself, who's not in line for the throne regardless of the blood which'd trapped him in this ridiculous predicament in the first place - no one gives a fig if there's a cuckoo in Eggsy's nest.

They’d've had more luck fooling one of the rich toffs. They’d never even consider someone trying to pull the wool over like this; every one of them thinks too much of themselves. Not to say Eggsy don't have his own pride - he's got more than enough, according to his mum - but he's not foolish enough to believe anyone else likes him even half so much. Besides, apart from the scent, the idea isn't exactly one unfamiliar to him. A few months back, Janine gave birth to a kid with black skin who bore a striking resemblance to the neighbour she’d had before she mated Mike. Mike - himself the spawn of dubious origins - hadn't been especially bothered. Only emotion the alpha'd had, past the relief of both mum and bub making it out of the birthing bed, had been affable bemusement.

“Lord Hart will, of course, have the foetus aborted. Then you’ll be able to consummate.”

“Wot?” Eggsy looks at his grandmother, completely stunned. Lord Hart has his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are turning white and the look in his eyes is absolutely murderous. The old bag looks as if she's having a chat about the weather, sipping tea like she hadn’t just decided to abort someone else's baby. Someone who - if Eggsy's not mistaken - wants the sprog badly enough to re-mate in order to keep it. No, not even 're-mate.' This ain't as simple as that; this is the breaking of an active mate bond, in favour of another, and all for the kid who's just been deemed expendable.

“And you’re fuckin' okay with this?” Eggsy looks to Lord Hart and keeps himself still by the skin of his fucking teeth. Most military ranks are more or less interchangeable; a couple years skill here, some noble backing there. Some green Lord's son has an equal chance of getting an advancement as a man who'd put in all the yeas of hard service. 

War Lords are an entirely different matter.

Harry Hart's been playing nice, this whole time; going along with this whole scheme, doing his duty, making nice with the monarchy. Like that, it'd been easy to see he was a military man - step here, bark now, kill who you're told to. More experienced than Eggsy? Dangerous, in the right circumstances? Yes to both, but that didn't mean he was a danger, as it were.

Now, Lord Hart looks about three seconds from killing everyone in the room. Eggsy believes he could do it, too, and he and his Scot'd be halfway to the Highlands before anyone realised a thing'd gone wrong. It's not that the man's baring his teeth and growling, or even that his polite mask has slipped enough for the man to glare. Nothing at all about him has changed, and yet, the hair on Eggsy's neck's stood on end. Nothing more than the omega's will, his sheer dominance, settling across the room as a warning. Stunningly, the old bag - the Queen Mother - is entirely unaffected. And, given she'd flinched away from Eggsy's meagre aggression,  it's not that she's got a spine of iron. She just... hasn't noticed, somehow. Maybe she's nose blind; maybe she's just too used to being top dog, with no credentials other than an accident of birth and a fancy marriage.

“Just so.” War Lord Hart replies, voice tight, instead of putting his foot down. Only the still prevalent danger thick in the air keeps Eggsy's tongue from running off with him - well, sort of. He doesn't lambaste Lord Hart, at least, though he kind of wants to. If he had as much power as Hart does, if he was even half as dangerous, there'd be no way he’d let himself be forced into something like this.

“Well I’m bloody fucking not!” Eggsy blurts out, sneering at the old Lady when she tuts at him, disapproving.

“If you’re worried about the abortion causing infertility, I can assure you such a thing is an old wives tale. It will be a safe, legal abortion, not some back alley -”

“You really think my problem is where he gets the abortion done? Are you fucking mental? My problem is you’re gonna force him to abort in the first choice. If you wanna go through with it, sure, but I can tell from looking at you that you sure as hell don’t want to.” Despite the danger prickling at his spine, Eggsy still meets Lord Hart's eyes. Lacklustre alpha he might usually be, Eggsy's stubborn enough to make up for most of his failings. Hart stares back, dark eyes entirely unreadable, but he doesn't get a chance to reply.

In a show of anger more at home in Eggsy's house than this fancy parlour, the Queen Mother near slams her tea cup down atop the table. Tea sloshes over the side and, given the sensitive nature of this little talk, there's no maids in here to rush over and clean it. Instead, the old bag glares at Eggsy, entirely uninterrupted. If it weren't for the leverage she's holding over his head, Eggsy'd say he's been more intimidated by new born pups.

“And what do you propose then? Simply let Lord Hart remain mated to that Scot? Need I remind you that your mother and sister -”

“No, you don’t fuckin ‘need to remind me.’” He mocks her crisp enunciation, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t mate 'im. If you want to keep the baby, keep it. I’ll still raise the kid. Not a big deal, way you're making it out to be." It happens all the time where he’s from. People die and their mates remarry if they want to. Mike's perfectly happy with his kid - and it is his kid, regardless of who provided the sperm. Hell, Eggsy had a step dad, right prick though he was. Not like he’s opposed to the situation, though he’ll be a sight better at the job than Dean ever was.

All at once, the air comes back into the room. Across the table, Lord Hart relaxes enough to take a sip of his own tea. There might even be the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth - which is not attractive, actually. Eggsy don't need to go mooning over the man, no matter how attractive. This is an arranged mating and Lord Hart don’t seem all too keen to break off his previous one. They're both being forced into place by the conniving bitch seated at the head of the table, valuing things over their own freedom and comfort. So there's no need to get his hopes up that they’d actually have a relationship, not of any sort.

After the consummation, he doubts Lord Hart will touch him ever again.

-

The best thing to do, Eggsy decides as his mum's carefully straightening the lapels of the bespoke suit nicer than anything he's ever worn before, is to stay detached. Keep spitting acid, like he’s been doing since he arrived. Keep everyone at arms length. Everything and everyone will be better for it, if he keeps his stupid heart out of it.

There’s no use looking at Lord Hart and thinking ‘mine.’ It’s ridiculous, even if the man is walking down the aisle towards him. He’s only seen the man once since their disastrous first meeting; he’d been overseeing the training of a batch of potential knights, face set into neutral lines. There’d been nothing spectacular about him in that moment but Eggsy had still felt his heart skip before he’d hurried on.

So he may have avoided his husband-to-be in the few short days between their meeting and their marriage, Eggsy's alpha enough that he won't deny it. But... he couldn't avoid the scent of him. It lingered in the corridors, everywhere. Like the man's been marking his territory, show Eggsy exactly how little room he'd have to fit himself into, in this new 'home' of his. Eggsy knows he’d be able to pick it out of a crowd, now. To tell it true, he likely could've blind picked Lord Hart's scent after the first few minutes of their only meeting. 

Eggsy'd tried to ignore it - the way the scent makes his mouth water, how easy it is for him to lose himself in it. Ignorance ain't exactly bliss, though, and he has to have his wits about him, here. Nest of fucking vipers, no one ever tells you that about high society, do they. There's no room for denial, no matter what Eggsy wants.

Lord Harry Hart follows Daisy down the aisle of the small room and Eggsy knows, then and there, that he's absolutely fucked. Cause Daisy's throwing flowers, beaming and delighted, and Hart... Hart's looking at her with this softness in his eyes. Like he actually cares for her, though he only met her minutes before, when they'd lined up for the wedding procession. Plus, the man looks right fit in that suit; all crisp lines and military flourish, well decorated man that he is. Feels like Eggsy's taken a wrong turn somewhere, tripped over this whole mess and fallen into a fairytale instead of real life. He barely even knows the man but it don't matter. Eggsy wants everything he is, everything he has - wants to be known and owned in turn.

Except this is all horrifically real and there was no way that Hart is his ‘true mate’ or some trite shite. This ain't no kids story, where everything's gonna work out in the end. Besides, even if it were true, it doesn't matter. If this was a fairy tale and Lord Hart the princess, Eggsy sure as hell wasn’t the prince. Not with his accent and the way he holds himself, especially when compared to Hart. The prince is Lord Harts’ Scot, who’d heroically swoop in at the last minute and save the show. Eggsy's just the monster, the final obstacle for love to overcome and prove itself true.

He has no claim over Lord Hart, or his child; they both belong to someone else, regardless of their impending mating.

No, Eggsy'll endeavour to stay far, far away from Lord Hart and his offspring, and from the Scot if he ever finds out who it is. Otherwise when Lord Hart figures a way out of it - and Eggsy’s sure he will, eventually - Eggsy’d be the one to get his heart squashed. If he lets himself get emotionally involved, he’d lose a mate and a child when Lord Hart walks out of his life. Hell, he’s not supposed to be invested now, barely hours after their wedding, but he feels sick at the thought of Harry - of Lord Hart leaving.

He watches the older Lord strip efficiently out of his clothes, tries to be clinical as he watches his new husband, but he knows he's failed. How could he be indifferent when, bit by bit, the skin of his almost-mate is revealed to him? When he’ll be able to touch, to claim? Eggsy busies himself with stripping off his own clothing, as careless with the expensive suit as Lord Hart is careful. A disapproving click of the tongue has Eggsy's head springing up, entirely paused mid action, trousers still caught around his ankles. He can’t’ve disappointed his husband yet; he’s still got his pants on.

A half muttered Lord Hart is all Eggsy manages before his brain empties entirely, stunned and speechless. Highly decorated, widely respected War Lord Harry Hart walks towards him, naked and unashamed of his nudity.

“I expect it’s acceptable to call me Harry, at this juncture.” Is his dry retort to Eggsy's abandoned sentence. With all the grace of someone of his standing, Lord Hart somehow makes picking up clothes look elegant. Eggsy's suit jacket is draped over a chair and his trousers are folded with quick, easy movements.

Nodding, Eggsy wants to volunteer his own preferred name. It gets tangled in his throat with half a dozen things, though, and none of them make it past his lips. He can’t get past the sight of Harry, soon to be his Harry, his mate, his mark on beautiful skin. Doesn't matter, might even be better this way. Having Harry call him Gary will reinforce the distance. It’ll remind him that he doesn’t belong here, not even in his own bed, with his own husband. Besides, Eggsy’s pretty sure Harry ain’t gonna be screaming his name at the end of the night, regardless of how well Eggsy performs.

And he’s right.