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There’s a new headline up on the wall of his office, dated Valentine’s day 2015: Is This The End Of The Great Harry Hart?
Forty-six cases, closed and filed away like they were nothing, and then that one. His one failure glares down at him, stark against the red walls of his office. At least when he had been in a coma there hadn’t been a need to admit that his mistake had landed him with a bullet in the head.
It really was a small miracle that he wasn’t written up in the obituary section—a small afterthought for the once famous.
“I bought that paper in hopes you’d burn it, not add it to the wall,” his sole companion informs him.
Harry takes a moment to tear his gaze from the wall to where Merlin is fixing himself a drink but pointedly refusing to offer Harry one in return, even though it is his house that they are sitting in.
“You know me better than that.”
“I had hopes,” Merlin says. “Also, you look like shit.”
“Thank you for that brilliant observation,” Harry replies, only slightly bitter. “One might think you were the detective here.”
“You’re crankier than I remember,” Merlin says, and then downs his drink all in one go. “I thought that was my job.”
“Your job is to find me cases,” Harry says dismissively. “And do the accounting, because I’m rubbish when it comes to numbers.”
Merlin makes a vague noise of agreement.
“I’m working on the cases. In the meantime maybe you could find a way to brighten up this place. Feels like somebody died in here.”
“I nearly did.”
“Now, there’s no need to be dramatic.”
---
He doesn’t find out what Merlin meant by all of that until three days later, when he opens the door of his apartment to find a boy standing on his doorstep with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder and what’s probably meant to be a friendly grin on his face.
As far as Harry is concerned, his grin is the opposite of friendly.
That awful grin doesn’t leave his face as he welcomes himself inside, against Harry’s protests, and explains exactly what he’s doing there while quickly making himself at home in a place where he is very clearly unwelcome.
“This is absurd, and highly unnecessary. I’m a world renowned detective who was was in a very minor car accident,” Harry points out, not for the first time, because that’s the simplest way to explain things. It’s easier than saying he had driven a car off a bridge after a sniper shot through the sunroof. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, and I do not by any means need a live-in nurse.”
Technically the boy isn’t a nurse, and is in fact a sober companion, but he doesn’t need one of those either.
He’s already a functioning alcoholic, the best sort of men in Harry’s opinion generally. He smokes recreationally atbest, and only when a case proves particularly troublesome.
Perhaps he had indulged a bit in excessive use of prescription painkillers following his accident, but in his line of work it’s necessary. A good detective can’t have hands that shake so badly he can barely hold a pen straight.
The nurse, Eggsy, as he had introduced himself, looks slightly amused by the whole tirade.
He’s already made himself at home on Harry’s sofa, propping his legs up onto Harry’s coffee table, idly flicking through his phone, and generally ignoring Harry’s disapproving looks.
“Why don’t you go call whoever sent you and tell them that I’m not interested.”
That gets a response out of Eggsy: “It was some Merlin bloke, called up for my services. Said he’s ‘a concerned friend of yours.’”
Of course it was, because Merlin is an interfering bastard and coincidentally his oldest friend.
“Look, bruv, I need the money, and you clearly don’t,” Eggsy continues, his eyes sweeping over the place as if casing the room for a robbery. “Your mate paid for my services. For six weeks I go wherever the fuck you do, make sure you’re not doing drugs or whatever shite you got messed up in, and then I’m out.”
“My line of work is very dangerous. Bringing along an untrained nurse is ill advised.”
“Sober companion,” he corrects, “and bruv, I live for excitement.”
---
The fact of the matter is, he’s technically a consultant.
A private investigator to the men with the deepest pockets and the most interesting cases, and a helping hand to the local law enforcement whenever Merlin insists that he needs good press. Someone had once tried to call him a consulting detective, in a high and lofty tone, but Harry had brushed them off, insisting his job was not quite so glamorous.
Though right now, his potential is being wasted.
“Lost dog,” Eggsy repeats drolly. “I thought you said this thing was exciting.”
“Your opinion is noted, but not particularly relevant to the case at hand,” Harry says curtly. He’s irritated and willing to take it out on the nearest target, regardless of the fact that he undoubtably agrees with the kid.
“Not every job is glamorous,” Merlin says, not looking up from his computer screen, “but if some Earl is willing to pay a couple thousand pounds to find his niece's lost poodle, you’re taking the job.”
“If we fired the nurse, we wouldn’t need the money.”
“Oi!”
“Play nice, Harry.”
“This is me playing nice.”
---
Eggsy, as it turns out, in addition to being a sober companion and getting on Harry’s arse every time he pops a painkiller, is a dog person. If anything he’s a dog whisperer.
A minor case that might have led to Harry wandering a park attempting to convince some idiot’s prized poodle to come to him is finished off the second Eggsy arrives on the scene.
If Harry hadn’t already resolved to despise the boy, he might have found the image before him cute.
Eggsy, sitting in the grass of the park where they had found the dog and letting the animal climb all over him while they wait for the owners of the poor thing to finally appear, should not be so terribly charming. And yet, against all odds, he manages to be just that as he shoots Harry something nearly like a smile before pressing a kiss to the top of the dog’s nose.
Regardless, skills with small animals do not a good detective make. At least, that is what Harry attempts to tell himself as he watches the scene with an expression that he hopes is not betraying the slight hint of fondness he feels.
“You know, Harry, I could get used to this dog finding business.”
“Don’t get too content. If I have my way, you’ll be out on the streets by morning.”
“Aww, love you too.” Eggsy grins before going back to scratching the newly found dog’s ears. “And that’s me talking to this pup, in case you was wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
All he gets in reply is a wide foolish grin before Eggsy is back to playing with the pet, burying his face in the animal’s fur with a sigh.
He doesn’t get to watch Eggsy for too long. For soon enough the owner in question appears, a formally dressed man who approaches Harry with ease while his niece rejoices in being reunited with her pet.
“Thank you, Detective Hart,” Percival says. “I’m not sure where we would be without you and your—” He glances over to where Eggsy is chatting up his niece.
This is the part where Harry’s supposed to say something to explain Eggsy’s presence, but he can’t make himself say the words sober companion—not around a client.
Thankfully, he is saved the trouble when Eggsy speaks up. “Assistant, though I prefer the term junior detective or protégé.”
---
They’re celebrating a job well done, Merlin’s long since gone home, and in lieu of being able to enjoy a drink (his sober companion had made quite the face at the mention of it, reminding Harry that alcohol would slow down his recovery), he had invited Eggsy up to his office for a cup of tea.
He had reluctantly made up the guest room for Eggsy the day before when he had obstinately refused to leave, but it was too early in the night for a retreat to their rooms. Not that Harry particularly cared about being polite given the circumstances, but nevertheless; manners mattered.
Predictably, upon entering the office, the first place the boy’s eyes go to is the wall.
His one display of narcissism, which generally sells any worried clients on his merits, has served as a conversation starter on more than one occasion in the past.
Eggsy’s tea cup is abandoned on Harry’s desk, growing cold as he surveys the headlines. Harry lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Eggsy doesn’t dwell on the infamous failure and instead begins to study the more exciting stories.
“You gonna pin the dog story up here next?” Eggsy asks, his fingers tapping against a paper regarding Harry’s brief run in with a movie star.
“Miss Morton’s poodle will hardly make the front page,” Harry points out, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Though if it does, I suppose I will.”
Eggsy makes a vaguely contemplative noise before saying, “She gave me her number, you know, as thanks for the dog and all. That usually happen?”
He’s not entirely sure why hearing those words casually roll off Eggsy’s lips makes him tenser than he had been a moment before. “Often enough.”
“That must be nice,” Eggsy says, shooting him a wink. “Gettin’ all the birds, you know.”
“Thinking about changing careers?”
“You ain’t gonna be rid of me that easily, old man,” he replies with a slightly coy smile, before going back to look at the papers. “Which one of these is first?”
“Top left,” Harry answers easily. “Margaret Thatcher, saved her life on my very first case.”
“Not everyone would thank you for that,” he says.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Let’s see what else we got here . . . Bigfoot, that must have been sick!”
“Mad scientists and illegal experimentation,” Harry explains. “Far too easy.”
Eggsy laughs a little at that, scanning through some more. “This one looks like something out of a Doctor Who episode.”
“I assure you that the reality was a lot less satisfying.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. I . . .” He falls silent, and Harry can’t see exactly which headline has caused Eggsy to freeze in place.
“Eggsy?”
There’s a labored breath before the boy turns around, his smile less carefree than it had been a moment before. “Tell me about the Bigfoot one, yeah?”
Not nearly the answer he had been hoping for. And for a moment he considers pressing the subject, but there’s a tight almost nervous look on Eggsy’s face that stops him.
“It was early 2002 . . . ”
---
He makes Eggsy a cup of tea the next morning, watches carefully as his sober companion drops four sugar cubes into his drink and commits the number to memory for next time. It’s a pathetic attempt at a peace offering, but for now it will have to do.
“So, what’s on the menu today, boss?” Eggsy asks, once he’s satisfied with his tea.
“Feet off,” Harry says, whacking his paper at where Eggsy’s propped his feet up on yet another table. “And we’re meeting with a Mrs. Pellinore regarding her cheating husband.”
“She know he’s cheating?”
“Not yet, but I imagine by the end of our investigation she’ll be quite aware.”
“You know, you’re a bit of a bastard.”
“I genuinely try.”
He gets a hint of warm laughter in reply that brightens up the kitchen. “Most people wouldn’t be proud of that.”
“Now when have I ever given you the impression that I was like most people?”
---
“You know you ain’t supposed to be doing that,” Eggsy says, narrowing his eyes at the unlit cigarette between Harry’s fingers.
“What are you going to do,” Harry asks, “spritz me with water like a dog?”
“Nah,” Eggsy says, reaching up to snatch the smoke and shove it between his own lips. “This works good enough.”
“You cheeky little shit.”
“That’s what they’re paying me for.” He grins around the cigarette before asking, “Got a lighter?”
He should say no. Would serve the kid right. But instead, Harry reaches into the pocket of his coat for his lighter, flicks the flame on, and holds it out for Eggsy. There’s a surprising intimacy in the way Eggsy’s eyes never leave his as he leans forward to light it. For a second Harry can barely remember to breathe, barely keep his hold on the cigarette.
Before it can last too long, the moment is broken as Eggsy rocks back on his heels and says, “So what’s next on the to do list?”
---
There’s a cup of tea splattered on the ground and his hands are shaking and—
“You alright over there?”
“Obviously not,” Harry says sharply, more so than Eggsy probably deserves.
After all, he had detected genuine concern in the boy’s voice. He’s frustrated at himself and at his hands that won’t stop shaking, and Eggsy is the nearest thing at which he can lash out.
This isn’t the first time he’s lashed out at the boy since he moved in.
Eggsy takes it in stride as always, squaring his shoulders and asking, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.”
“Let me help you clean this up at least,” he offers, already moving to grab one of the towels from the kitchen.
He’s really doing nothing but trying to be helpful, but Harry already feels too weak, too much a shadow of his former self. “I don’t want your help,” he snaps.
Eggsy rolls his eyes, and drops down onto his knees to clean up the mess regardless of Harry’s refusal. “Look bruv, I’m just trying to do my job.”
That’s perhaps the worst of it, because as much as Harry insists that he doesn’t need a nurse hanging around and looking after him, there are moments such as these when his hands shake too much for him to hold onto the world around him. Moments where he closes his eyes and he can still imagine the moment when he thought he was going to—
“I was in a car accident.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I was in a car accident,” Harry repeats, sharper this time, “and your job is to lecture me on the downsides of medical overdoses until Merlin is successfully convinced that I don’t need a fucking keeper.”
“Right, you know, I ain’t a fucking detective or nothing,” Eggsy says grumpily, “but even I know your car accident is bullshit.”
Harry stills. “Excuse me?”
“There’s something you ain’t telling me, or anyone, some detective shit, yeah? And that’s cool, keep your fucking secrets or whatever,” he explains, looking up at Harry. “Just, you know, it’s my job to fucking help people and I can’t do that if they won’t tell me what the fuck is wrong with them.”
“I didn’t want you here to begin with, and I’m in no mood to share my personal problems with some stranger.”
He’ll feel awful later about how satisfied he feels when he sees the look of hurt cross Eggsy’s face.
“Don’t fucking tell me the truth, I don’t care,” Eggsy grumbles, pushing up off the ground and abandoning his towel. “You’re right, I’m just here to keep you off the strong stuff and get my check. I don’t need to fucking know all this shit.”
“Eggsy—”
“I’m going up to my room. Let me know if you plan on leaving the building so I can make sure you don’t light a fucking joint on the tube.”
---
He had no idea how used to he was to the sound of somebody milling around until the sound was no longer there. His office, which had always felt like his escape, suddenly seems empty. Every so often he glances over to Eggsy’s favorite corner seat, only to remember that he is in a different room. It seems foolish that something as simple as that could leave him disconcerted, and yet, here he is, unable to get anything done.
It doesn’t help that he has a piercing headache (a side effect of the accident that has yet to go away). Harry tilts his head back for a second and shuts his eyes, willing his problems to disappear.
Predictably, his status remains unchanged.
He desperately wants a smoke, or even a drink, but in the back of his mind he can hear the last words Eggsy said to him, and giving in would only add fuel to the fire.
Harry can’t help but wonder at which point he decided to stop riling Eggsy up, and actually started to feel bad.
It’s a startling thing for a detective of his caliber to only realize now, and as to what exactly it means, he remains unsure. At least, that’s how he attempts to reassure himself as he sits there in his office, unable to work.
---
There’s a small part of Harry that wonders for a brief moment what he will do if Eggsy does not open the door and accept his meager peace offering. He’s never been the type to back down easily, or to turn away from a fight. Even if their disagreement was partially Harry’s fault.
Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that, because soon enough the door is wedged open.
Eggsy’s hair is messed up, flat on one side from where he was lying down. His pajama bottoms are slung low over his hips, and his thin cotton shirt is riding up too high. It’s a terribly distracting image, such that when Harry finally pulls his gaze away there’s a mischievous glint in Eggsy’s eyes.
He’s not certain if the boy’s cheeks have always been that pink.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Harry apologizes quickly.
“It’s alright,” Eggsy says. “Weren’t sleepin’ well anyway.”
“I made tea, and I thought perhaps you might enjoy a cup.”
“Thanks Harry, you’re the guvnor.”
“Yes, well,” he stops. The words stick in his throat as Eggsy brings the cup to his lips, taking a small sip and making a noise that sounds almost sexual. It’s only once the cup is lowered once more and a skeptical look is cast his way that Harry manages to clear his throat and finish, “I live to serve.”
“You remembered how I liked it?”
One wouldn’t need to be a world renowned detective to catch the note of pleasant surprise in the boy’s tone.
Fortunately, though, he is.
“I happen to make my living off being observant,” Harry reminds him. “Noticing that the nurse takes his tea with gross amounts of sugar was no challenge at all.”
“Whatever you say, bruv.”
There’s something knowing in his tone. Something Harry’s not entirely ready or prepared to deal with. Rather than playing into whatever game is going on between them, he takes a step backwards and says, “Good night then,” before making his way out from the doorway.
“You know,” Eggsy calls out at his retreating back, causing Harry to turn around, “just ‘cause you made me tea don’t mean I’m forgiving you, yeah?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be so easily swayed.”
---
He’s bored.
It’s not an unfamiliar sensation; there have been times like this before, including the prolonged months that Harry had spent in a hospital bed recovering from his coma.
Though even then he had been able to beat the boredom with a book of foreign literature, or with Sudoku puzzles that he had bartered with a nurse to obtain. Here, however, there is nothing to keep him properly entertained.
A gentleman may always be patient, but even Harry’s patience has a limit.
“I need a new case, Merlin. Something exciting.”
“All the exciting people want to wait and make sure you’re not completely off your rocker.”
“How terribly boring of them,” Harry replies. “They must not be very exciting at all. Find others, would you?”
“Remember when you hired me as your accountant,” Merlin says, sounding both mocking and wistful at the same time. “If only I could actually do the job I was hired for.”
“Oh come off it—“
“Speaking of which, where’s that lad I hired for you?”
“Don’t say it like that,” Harry answers quickly. “It makes him sound like a rent boy.”
And that’s an image that Harry most certainly does not need in his head.
It’s a nice one, one that he may have thought about in his down time, especially following the curious incident of Eggsy in his nightclothes. However, it’s not an image that Harry needs while in the middle of conducting business.
“Worried about his virtue, are you?” Merlin says with a knowing smirk.
“Hardly,” he replies. “And my nurse is upstairs; he finally seems to have given up dwelling underfoot.”
“Don’t sound too disappointed, Harry. I’m sure he’ll forgive you soon.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not.”
---
“Missing princess,” Eggsy says, slamming the newspaper down onto the table.
Harry grabs his tea cup quickly, steadying it before it can topple over. “Excuse me?”
“There’s this princess, from Sweden or,” he flicks the newspaper over, trying to skim the article before giving up, “wherever, it’s not important. Look, she came to London for this event and got herself fucking kidnapped. You wanted a case, yeah? Then why don’t we find the fucking princess?”
“Harry doesn’t do missing persons cases, not anymore,” Merlin says carefully.
Still, Harry picks the paper up from underneath Eggsy’s hand, reading it for himself.
“Fine, fuck it, I tried,” Eggsy says, slumping down into his seat. “I just thought this gig would be more exciting than fucking lost dogs and cheating husbands.”
That causes an amused smile to settle on Harry’s lips. “You thought your job as a sober companion would be exciting?”
“I mean, I figured I’d be helping you go cold turkey. Looks of moping and puking, the usual,” Eggsy admits, “But you promised excitement and near death, and fuck, we ain’t done nothing like that yet. Closest we came was when that housewife fucking slapped you. You’re letting me down, bruv.”
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Perhaps we’ll be doing something exciting soon,” Harry says. “There is, after all, a missing princess in our city.”
“I assume any advice I give against this will be ignored,” Merlin asks.
“You know me so well.”
---
A proper gentleman detective doesn’t simply show up and demand that the information of an ongoing investigation be handed over to the more qualified individual (which would of course, be Harry). Instead, he sits through a polite meal while insisting he would do “Everything in my power to find your missing princess.”
No matter how boring that lunch was, or how terrible Prime Minister of Sweden’s taste in food.
Which, to be most clear, was horrible.
“I bet it’s the prime minister,” Eggsy says the second their lunch meeting has finished.
“I highly doubt the kidnapper would hire us to find the kidnapped,” Harry replies, “Even if said person does make awful meal selections.”
Eggsy laughs a little at that. “I’m just saying, bruv, he’s fucking shifty,” he insists. “Don’t trust him.”
“Do you have any reason to mistrust him other than his shiftiness?”
Eggsy shrugs. “It’s a gut feeling.”
“Ah yes, and I suppose you would like me to trust your judgement on this?”
“I’m just saying, Harry. I know shifty.”
---
“So this the part where it actually gets exciting, yeah?” Eggsy asks, tugging the collar of his coat up, as to prevent the stave off the chill of the air around them. He looks silly hunched in on himself like that.
“I certainly hope so,” Harry replies.
“More exciting than the dog?”
Harry doesn’t bother dignifying that with a reply.
Instead, he pushes open the door to the hotel and waves Eggsy inside with him. After that it’s just a matter of flashing some (faked) police badges, plus a bit of schmoozing with the desk attendant, and soon enough they’re shown up to the room where the princess had been staying.
Eggsy lets out a small noise, sometimes not quite pleasure but not disinterest, at the sight of this place.
“What do you think?” Harry asks.
“Fit for the Queen, this is.”
“Or a visiting royal.”
“True enough.”
With that Harry sets off to work, examining the room for any sign that would indicate the fate of Princess Tilde. The search wasn’t too promising; the actually police had already picked the place apart, messing up anything that could have been used as solid evidence. Still, he has a hunch that there was something they had missed the first time through.
“Tell me, Eggsy, do you see anything out of the ordinary?”
He almost expects the boy to insist that this isn’t his job, but there’s no smart comment from Eggsy—just a curious look on his face as he searches through the papers and books on the Princess’s nightstand.
“Nothing that says who the kidnapper is.”
“Perhaps you’re just not looking hard enough.”
“Alright then, Mr. Detective,” Eggsy replies. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done, yeah?”
---
He supposed he had asked for this, the need for excitement, for the sort of challenge he had been used to before his accident—and here it is, staring him in the face. Perplexingly so.
The sitting room, usually decorated in fine paintings and taxidermied bugs, is now decorated in a series of newspaper clippings, photographs, and the miscellaneous that he had found in the Princess’s hotel room. Red strings connect the clues he knows as fact, and blue ones connect his less certain deductions.
“It really is like one of those detective shows,” Eggsy muses.
Eggsy’s fingers trail along one of the strings, until Harry reaches over to stop him. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” he asks, though even as he speaks he drags his hand backward, curling it inwards ever so slightly so that for a second their fingertips brush against each other before Eggsy jams his hand back into the pocket of his track jacket.
Harry had meant to say something, to insist that Eggsy would ruin his carefully made board, but whatever he had been intending to say flees his mind as he realizes the sudden proximity between them. He’s close enough that he can feel Eggsy’s breath against his cheek, and it is highly distracting.
“Uh, Harry,” Eggsy says, clearing his throat, and this time it is Harry who comes to his senses, stepping back quickly to give Eggsy his space. “You were saying?”
“I’ve quite forgotten what I was going to say, carry on as you were.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
---
He startles out of his thoughts at the sound of a tea cup setting down on the edge of the desk. Blinking past the blurring of his eyes, he focuses on Eggsy standing in front of the desk.
“I should probably tell you to go the fuck to sleep,” he says, “but figured that you won’t listen so I made tea.”
“A wise assessment.”
“Maybe I’m getting good at this detective-ing business, yeah?”
“Perhaps,” Harry muses, bringing the cup of tea up to his lips and making a small noise of pleasure.
It’s impossible not to miss the widening of Eggsy’s eyes at the sound, even if a second later he’s shuffling around and taking a seat before the desk.
“Any progress?”
“I’m afraid we’ve hit a dead end.”
“That happen often?” Eggsy asks. “Not counting the car accident I’m not supposed to know about.”
“No, not usually,” Harry says “There was one time years ago where I nearly failed to crack a case. It had involved these two naval officers, who—”
“Yeah, I saw the headline,” Eggsy says quickly, cutting him off. It’s quite an odd response; usually Eggsy enjoys hearing the stories of Harry’s past cases, and this difference gives him pause at once.
“Is something the matter?”
“It ain’t nothing important,” he insists, voice tight and low so that Harry has to strain to hear it. “You got a case to work on, and I should be going back to—I got things to do.”
“Something’s wrong,” Harry says, “and don’t try to tell me that I’ve read the situation wrong. I am a world class detective, but even if I weren’t your signs of distress are rather obvious.”
For a second Eggsy looks angry, and Harry worries he was wrong for pushing. Then that moment passes, and with a great heavy sigh Eggsy settles down into the seat in Harry’s office that the boy had claimed as his own weeks before.
“You know, half the reason I took this job was ‘cause your name sounded familiar,” Eggsy explains. “I mean, I needed a place to stay, was crashing on my mate Jamal’s couch, but . . . When they called me up saying they got some rich tosser needing a sober companion, I was about to say no fucking thanks. I didn’t get into this to help rich druggies quit coke or whatever, I’m here for people like my mum, ones who got mixed up in the bad things and wanna get their lives back together.”
“I see.” He replies hesitantly.
“But then,” he pauses here, looking at the ground as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, “they said your name, and I knew you was a detective and all, ‘cause back in ‘97 you worked on a case that I heard about.”
“The naval officers in the Middle East.”
“Yeah, see uh, one of them, was my dad, Lee Unwin. Not sure if you remember—”
“I remember it clearly.”
---
“The last case I took before the accident involved this missing professor, Professor Arnold. The university offered me a good sum of money to attempt to track him down, and of course I accepted.”
“That didn’t go so well.”
“No, not quite. It seems somebody did not want their actions monitored, and for my trouble I ended up with a bullet to the head and a car with cut breaks,” Harry explains. “I imagine they hoped it would kill me.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Seeing as I’m still sitting here, I would say not.”
“I’m glad,” Eggsy says, reaching across the space between them to squeeze Harry’s hand ever so slightly, “that you’re not dead.”
“As am I.”
There’s a few more seconds of close contact, neither of them speaking, and for a second Harry thinks about moving forward—breaching the space separating them. Though Harry’s not entirely sure what he would do after that.
“What ever happened to the professor?”
“Ah, I suppose somebody managed to finish the job, because Professor Arnold is back to lecturing about environmental science to the masses.”
“Wait, did you say environmental science?” Eggsy asks.
“I just did, yes. Though it really wasn’t his subject matter that was important,” Harry insists, “and it doesn’t matter; the professor was found while I was in a coma and the case closed.”
“Okay, but what if it ain’t closed?”
“Eggsy, I assure you, I would like to open this case more than anything, but it is quite closed.”
“No, you see, that’s the thing,” Eggsy insists, pulling his phone out of his pocket like a man on a mission. “The princess right, the one we’re looking for, she was here for some conference, yeah?”
“Yes, I believe it was something along the lines of the International Conference on-”
“Sustainable Agriculture, Environment, and Forestry,” Eggsy finishes for him.
“That sounds about right.”
“It is” Eggsy agrees, bounding up to the wall to unpin the conference’s flier.
“I’m afraid I don’t know where you’re going with all this.”
“Guess who was the head presenter,” Eggsy says, handing it over to him.
“Professor Arnold.”
---
“You’re both bloody mental.”
“Tell me we’re wrong.”
“I’ll tell you what this is. It’s a bloody bad idea. You’re going to get yourself killed, again,” Merlin says, before shooting Eggsy a glare. “I thought I was paying you to keep him out of trouble.”
Eggsy shrugs, “Sorry bruv, I was promised excitement and near death.”
“Well if your hunch is right, this will certainly be right up that alley,” Harry replies.
---
Eggsy looks good in a suit, far better than he should be allowed to. Especially since Harry has just recently begun to notice how pink his cheeks can get, and how he bites his lips when anxious, making them even more plump than before.
“Think I’ll pass for some eco nerd?”
Honestly, he looks too good for an environmentally minded university student. More fit for a stockholders meeting or a opening night than mingling around crowd of university students at a special lecture series.
It’s a sharp change from the tracksuits the boy usually takes to wearing.
“You should.”
“Told you I clean up nicely.” Eggsy gives a little grin.
It takes significant effort not to grin like a fool back at him.
“Now remember,” Harry says, “you’re just gathering information, seeing if any of the other students may have heard anything. But don’t draw any attention to yourself. This is just the preliminary run.”
“Don’t worry Harry, I can deal with some danger.”
“Yes, well, I would rather nothing bad happen to you.”
“You’re worried,” Eggsy says, like it’s still a question.
“Of course I am.”
“Don’t be,” he insists. “I can take care of myself.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
---
There’s a famous saying about carefully laid plans going tits up.
This moment happens to be a prime instance of that.
One second Eggsy’s getting information, Harry watching him by the refreshment table, and the next thing he knows the Prime Minister of Sweden is making an appearance, realizes who exactly is snooping around, and Eggsy’s gone.
“I need a fucking smoke,” Harry says, voice loud enough to be heard by people passing by, but really only intended for the person listening in through his earpiece. Harry pulls it off a second later, tucking it into his pocket so he can’t hear Merlin’s opinions.
He steps outside, the night air chillier than he remembered, and fumbles open a pack of cigarettes, quickly lighting one. For a second Harry can almost imagine Eggsy beside him, making a disapproving frown or threatening to steal it away, but Eggsy’s not there.
Because Harry fucking lost him.
He shouldn’t have sent the kid in—he was nothing more than a glamorized nurse for fuck’s sakes—and yet, Harry had likely just sent him off to his death. This is why he hadn’t wanted Eggsy around, not because he wasn’t interesting or kind, but because in business like this the good innocent people get hurt too easily.
Suddenly there are lights on the street, and a car pulls to a stop right in front of Harry. The door is flung open as Merlin says, “Put that thing out and get in the fucking car.”
“Merlin, I’m not—”
“We’re going to get your boy back.”
---
He knows as soon as his phone lights up with a blocked number that this is it.
“Hello?”
“If you want your little assistant back alive, you’re gonna stop sniffing around our business, ya hear?”
“He’s a sober companion, and quite honestly you can keep him,” Harry says, attempting to sound nonchalant.
Merlin rolls his eyes, but is clearly running the tracer on the call. Within minutes, Harry will know exactly where they are.
“Though if you would like my compliance, perhaps I could hear proof that you actually have my companion.”
There’s some shuffling on the other end, angry voices snapping orders, before the phone is handed off to somebody else, and a second later there’s a slightly slurred, but familiar voice saying, “Hello?”
“Eggsy.”
“You know, I think I’ve had my fucking fill of this danger bullshit.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long, love.”
---
They call the authorities, because there are protocols about these sorts of things and Harry can’t go in there guns ablazing. No matter how much he wants to.
Which means by the time he actually manages to get over to the abandoned warehouse everything is nearly finished. The princess is under the watchful eyes of secret service, and the prime minister and his accomplices are handcuffed and ready to be shipped back to wherever they came from.
He finds Eggsy sitting in the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The suit from the gala is ruined, dark brown in some spots where dried blood has caked to the cloth.
Still, even in the midst of all of this Eggsy lights up at the sight of Harry. A smile spreads across his face that Harry finds himself returning (though far softer) when presented with such a wonderful sight.
“We did it,” Eggsy announces.
“That we did,” Harry agrees. “Are you alright?”
“I thought it was my job to ask that,” Eggsy says, grinning up at him through a split lip and blackening eye.
“Yes, well, given the circumstances, I figured it might be my turn.”
That gets him a rough laugh in reply, as Eggsy tugs the shock blanket tighter around himself.
“I’m fine,” he insists, “getting treated like a hero, assistant to the detective that saved the princess.”
“I must admit I wasn’t thinking about the princess at the end there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, see they took something far more precious to me, and that was unacceptable.”
“And what might that be,” Eggsy prompts, an almost hesitant smile on his lips.
“You.”
He’s not surprised in the slightest when Eggsy pushes himself up off the edge of the ambulance to pull Harry into a kiss. He is detective, after all; it’s his job to be able to read people, and Eggsy has always been an open book.
Eggsy kisses like he’s fighting, as though he might never get the chance again. And it takes Harry a second before he responds in turn, holding tightly on to Eggsy’s shock blanket so he can’t slip away. His mouth tastes like iron, likely from Eggsy’s split lip, and Harry kisses him harder for it.
When they finally pull back for air, he’s met with a wild and mischievous grin from Eggsy. “I fucking told you it was the fucking prime minister.”
“That you did.”