Chapter Text
Eggsy knocks his head on the sharp edge of the cupboard under the bar when he hears footsteps on the stairs and nearly drops the bottle he’s holding. For a moment, his world goes white with sharp pain and he swears heartily like he’s heard Merlin do countless times crouched in the exact same spot. The visceral reaction makes a lot more sense now Eggsy is acquainted with this particular cupboard, which was seemingly been built to scalp people.
Above him, Roxy asks, “You’re not bleeding again, are you?” leaning over the edge of the bar with a mischievous smile.
Eggsy would rather forget about that incident, in part because he’s still of the opinion that blood on a head wound should be alarming, not that Roxy had agreed at the time. Rubbing the back of his head, Eggsy says, “‘M sure you’d love that.”
“Absolutely not. Merlin would side with you and it would somehow turn out to be my fault.”
“How and why would that ever happen?”
“Because, this place is still his pet project, and since you’ve risen to fill his shoes as Kingsman’s resident grouchy bartender he’s really taken to you. Either that or the fact that with you around he hasn’t had to pester Harry about therapy even once. You pick.”
“Okay, for starters, I ain’t grouchy,” Eggsy says, to which Roxy raises an unimpressed eyebrow and says, “It’s the job, not you, but the outcome is the same, ergo grouchy .”
“Secondly,” Eggsy continues, undeterred, “Harry doesn’t need to be pestered about anythin’.”
“Not with you,” Roxy says sweetly.
Eggsy rolls his eyes and fishes a glass out for her to pour two fingers of almond liqueur into. This is their revised routine since she’s started spending more time abroad than on home soil: a pre-briefing drink for her to nurse while they throw a few jibes back and forth before they settle on a better time to meet.
Roxy lifts her glass in a silent toast and takes a long, delighted sip. “So, how has good old England fared in my absence?” she asks. She’s been gone for two months this time and it shows; a tan in early spring isn’t exactly the English art.
“You’d better ask Harry that.”
Just then, a single creak sounds from the staircase, then Harry’s voice, disembodied, calls out: “Ask me what?”
Roxy murmurs a startled, “Christ,” hand automatically gravitating toward the shoulder holster concealed under her blazer. She still isn’t used to Harry’s contingent stealth, the way he accidentally sneaks up on people by taking the stairs very slowly, always holding onto the railing and inadvertently staying close enough to the wall to miss the creaky bits that are meant to act as a warning sign on old steps like the ones at the club.
Eggsy, forever amused at this, says: “England.”
“That’s rather broad,” Harry says, coming around behind the bar to invade Eggsy’s realm effortlessly. “And it’s not a question either.”
Roxy pointedly sticks to her drink, hiding the curl of her mouth in the distortion of the rim of her glass. Eggsy looks away too and busies himself with a rag and the eternal mess of a leaky tap he can’t quite seem to fix. This put together, crisp version of Harry still flusters him from time to time.
In the silence, the bottles on the wall clink as Harry reaches for his favourite one, accidentally knocking it against another that protests, like a botched turn of Operation demanding attention.
Eggsy glances and wishes he hadn’t. Eggsy can tell by the set of Harry’s jaw he isn’t having a good day and that he’s decided to be stubborn about it. Harry ignores the protests of his own body and reaches for a glass. Pouring himself a drink even without any depth to his vision took him a long time to learn and he prides himself on it. Usually, it’s something small to steady himself with. Today though, Harry’s hand trembles, the neck of the bottle rattling against the glass as he spills some.
“Here, let me,” Eggsy says, stepping close enough to Harry to make him retreat a step and set the bottle back down.
Eggsy catches Harry’s fingers in one hand - the disobedient ones, the ones that make Harry grind his teeth without noticing - while he lifts the glass onto the rag to mop up the spill. Sometimes he wishes Harry could stop being so hard on himself, to not let a tremor frustrate him into being coiled so tight.
“Where is your tie?” Eggsy asks quietly, all too aware of Roxy still leaning on the counter even though she’s more occupied with her phone than the two of them.
In a gesture that’s become habit between them, Harry hands him a rolled up tie. Two years on and Harry’s coordination still isn’t what it used to be, likely never will be. In the meantime, Eggsy has learned to tie ties.
He steals his hand back from Harry to unfurl the fabric and settle it around his neck, black and gold stripes glistening in the spotlights above. Eggsy pulls the ends into place and crosses them. As he pulls one end through the neck loop, Roxy gives a long suffering sigh.
“Guess who’s been invited to another wedding?” she complains, “It’s another one of those weekend long country affairs too. God, when did it become acceptable to impose on people for three days for a single wedding, especially when it comes to plus ones.”
“‘S what you get for hanging ‘round a socialite,” Eggsy counters. “Who’s wedding is it anyway?”
“Not a clue. Duke something-something and no doubt a very pretty girl. Sophie’s stopped trying to loop me in until we actually get there; I’m better with faces than fifteen letter given names and their seven nickname variants.”
It’s not strictly true, of course. She’s excellent at names when she wants to be, namely when she’s spilling elite gossip during their ever rarer sleepovers, her head rolling lazily to rest on Eggsy’s shoulder as he Googles everyone she’s talking about, scandalised.
Harry says, “Don’t bother. Sooner or later, the entirety of the aristocracy will be related to one another anyway,” as Eggsy gets through the final loop on the knot.
Roxy sneers. “No doubt with quadruple hyphenated names. It’s worth it for the champagne alone though, and every wedding is an excuse to buy a new dress.”
Eggsy pulls the knot up and settles it in the hollow of Harry’s throat. Roxy adds, “On that subject matter, if you two ever want to get on with it, I’ve had my eye on a breathtaking Valentino for a special occasion and I’m afraid no one in the upcoming season is quite important enough to justify spending that much money.”
Eggsy, willing his hands not to betray him as he pulls the narrow end of Harry’s tie through the keeper loop, says, “I ain’t tyin’ the knot just so you can get a dress, no matter how stunnin’.”
“There certainly are better reasons to,” Harry agrees, gaze settled firmly on Eggsy. It’s intense in an illuminating way, heated enough to make Eggsy flush, so he turns away to pour Harry the drink they left halfway.
“You know what,” Roxy says, drawing Harry’s attention, “We should get going. Merlin’s going to get impatient soon.”
It’s blatant misdirection for Eggsy’s benefit, but Harry nods anyway, so she drinks the last mouthful of her liqueur, large enough to make her frown and clear her throat afterward, the aftertaste no doubt stinging. Harry knocks his own spirits back more gracefully, only the slightest twitch of discomfort tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Eggsy, knowing it’ll be gone in a moment, leans in to place a kiss onto his lips and catch the fading burn. It’s a juvenile impulse, but in that short instant, Harry is warm and pliable, eyes fluttering closed for just a second before he’s back online, brighter than ever.