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Eggsy knew of course. Couldn’t not. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror as Galahad. Every time he saw his perfectly groomed self, hair slick and shiny with product. Saw it too in the crisp dress shirt, cut with the slight extravagance of a striped tie, the blush of colour in a pinstripe or pocket square. Little touches of style that were not his own.
Saw it in his propensity for a cutting quip when he himself would have settled for a “Fuck, yeah!” or something maybe a little more crass but a lot more free-flowing.
He knew he modelled himself on Harry. Had done so from the outset. How couldn't he? Watching Harry’s take down of Rottie and the crew had been poetry in motion. Add to that an intense sense of gratitude and top it off with the way that Harry had spoken to him, had seen something in him right from the start, and well it was inevitable really.
And that was before Harry died.
And Eggsy can almost finish that thought without a stutter now.
Anyway, Eggsy maybe had a case of hero worship for the man who had rescued him from Holborn nick, from Dean, from his rotten stinking life. He knew that and didn't really care who else did.
At least…
Merlin.
Eggsy looked up to Harry as a sort of knight in shining armour from way back when. As someone on a bit of a pedestal (and fuck, it hurt when he fell off) but it was kind of abstract.
Eggsy had craved Merlin’s approval from the very first night. When the brief flash of praise ‘well done on realising it was a two-way mirror’ had been slashed through with immediate criticism of their lack of team spirit. He wanted that beat of approval back again and again and it was that need that pulled him through the toughest parts of training as much as a general desire to pass.
He wanted Merlin's friendship after Harry fell into a coma. He’d find Merlin in the hospital ward just about every time he snuck in to see Harry. And his quiet air of calm, magnified against the softly beeping machines soothed Eggsy and he knew he wanted someone like Merlin on his side when it counted.
He had wanted to jump Merlin’s bones from the moment he landed after the Halo jump and his misplaced feeling of injustice had been met with the quietest challenge. The incitement to ‘whisper in my ear’ and when the challenge was accepted, whispered in Eggsy’s instead before knocking him on his ass - figuratively and literally.
So yeah, he'd been hook, line and sinker for Merlin for a lifetime it seemed, even if it had taken another lifetime for them to reach each other.
It had been months after V day though, months of working to rebuild - well everything really. Rebuild Kingsman. Picking up the pieces of broken-down agents who'd killed in the thrall of Valentine’s chip (though none so spectacularly as Harry.) Picking up their broken trust as they realised that men who had sat at table with them, men whom they had trusted with their lives, hell, with the world, had in fact signed up to a plan to destroy it, to set the slaughter in motion. They’d realised that the rot had started at the very top and it was a blow that stunned the organisation and left them on their knees.
Merlin had worked to pick up the pieces, Eggsy and Roxy at his side.
(And wasn't it noticeable that amidst all the distrust and sideways looks. Not one agent, not one member of support staff ever questioned Merlin’s honour. It made Eggsy burn with pride every time he saw it.)
So, the three of them, connection forged irredeemably on V Day, worked tirelessly. Merlin, Lancelot and a newly knighted Galahad sat at table and led by example.
No one questioned Eggsy’s place or his title. No one but Eggsy himself who quavered at being knighted without having passed the trials and vehemently protested his naming to Merlin only to be shut down with a lesson on tradition, ritual and with a quietly whispered ‘Let him live on, lad.’
And at the time he had taken that as a compliment and a massive appraisal of his worth and if anyone else had seen the tears that fell as he knelt for Merlin or those echoed on the face of the man himself as he performed the ceremony, well, it wasn't mentioned.
When Merlin told him that somehow between comas and missions and that final, dreadful argument Harry had made his will out in Eggsy’s favour, he couldn't quite believe it.
“What if I failed… I did fail.” he'd stated. “Harry, hated me, wouldn’t have wanted me…”
“He didn't hate you, lad.”
Merlin had played the recording of Harry's last remorseful conversation on his flight to Kentucky.
“Merlin I was quite unforgivable, tell the boy…”
“Nay I'm not doing your dirty work - tell him yourself. You know he….”
Eggsy had snapped off the recording not able to hear anymore but had been comforted. And when Merlin had travelled with him to Stanhope Mews to pick up classified documents as a precursor to handing over the deeds, Eggsy had seen the stiffness in his back. Seen the stillness with which he was suppressing his grief and had, easy as anything, reached out to take his hand.
They had walked through the door, hands joined together and somehow never let go.
It hadn't been quite that simple of course.
Merlin was almost 30 years older than Eggsy, used to a solitary life, used to order and to being obeyed. Eggsy was just as likely to throw his jacket on the side as he was to hang it in the wardrobe, was used to making decisions on the hoof and was not looking for a father figure thank you very much.
So, they clashed. Eggsy’s fiery temper clashing with Merlin's biting wit and cold sarcasm, neither of them quick to back down but it worked. And brightly sparking arguments led to some spectacular making up.
They worked. Eggsy wasn't always sure how or why but they worked.
And then Harry came back.
Eggsy was overjoyed, of course he was how could he not be? He had wept many tears, both secretly and in public over Harry and to discover he’d been stashed away in a recovery facility in the States… Or rather escaped from a recovery facility in the States. A facility that had attempted to keep Harry longer than he felt necessary. The APB put out for an escaped patient still in need of treatment, a patient who had critically injured one of the nurses/guards in his escape had flashed Harry’s fingerprints onto the all-seeing Kingsman monitors - leading to an emergency extraction and an anonymous donation to cover the medical costs of the staff member who, as Harry had put it indignantly later, made a full recovery.
“I merely disabled the man enough to make my escape.”
Whatever.
Initially Kentucky PD had been interested in the unidentified sole survivor of the Church Massacre when they picked him up moments after he'd been shot by Valentine but when the rest of the world tried to kill each other the following day, well Harry had been exonerated by default really. He’d survived the day itself by dint of being in a locked intensive care ward, inaccessible to the majority of the marauding masses when it happened, although he had suffered an additional injury when the two nurses charged with his care had nicked his leg accidentally whilst they tried to kill each other.
Anyhow, the emergency compensation fund set up in the aftermath of Valentine's Day had kept Harry in a top-class care facility whilst he recovered enough to escape.
Harry had been slightly salty about the lack of rescue mission until he'd emerged into the real world and seen the still stunned aftermath even months after the event.
Anyway, the beacon had alerted Kingsman to Harry’s survival and by the time Eggsy had returned from his own mission in Egypt. (The third inept attempt by a megalomaniac wanting to use Valentine's technology for their own goals - this time a sad effort to create a ‘love chip’ that the geezer had said would bring calm and joy to the world but turned out to just be a nice guy attempt to get laid. Thankfully, as ineffectual as it was offensive, and Eggsy had handed the mastermind to the local authorities after seizing the handful of V-simmed phones the louse was handing out to the woman he fancied. It would be pathetic if it wasn't so rapey.)
It meant however, that Eggsy had been off grid enough that he walked unaware into headquarters to find the place mysteriously agog with gossip, a kind of bubbly excitement and joy, and had wandered curious, to Merlin's work spot hoping for a reunion snog and the low down on what the fuck was going on. Instead, he'd been hustled to medical by an overexcited staffer who had presumed he knew what was happening and had walked, unexpecting, into the sight of his lover sitting on a hospital bed rubbing shoulders with Harry fucking Hart.
Harry fucking Hart who had sprung from the bed and embraced Eggsy as he halted, stunned, in the doorway, dropping a never before deposited kiss on his cheek as he did so.
And it was fucking aces once he got over the shock. I mean, who wouldn't want a loved one back from the dead? And Harry had been utterly gracious about Eggsy and Merlin living in his house. Had swallowed manfully at realising his butterfly collection had been donated to a Museum of Natural History and had shed an embarrassed tear when he realised that amidst all their redecoration (Eggsy and Merlin had both agreed that they couldn't live in a shrine to Harry however much they missed him) they had left Mr. Pickles in the loo - albeit with a deactivated pair of Kingsman specs resting on his nose as some kind of tribute that had seemed right at the time although neither of them could really explain it now.
Harry had moved in with them ‘for a while’, insisting on the guest room while they all settled in to work out what was to be done. The financial bits were easy, stocks, shares and the like were simply transferred back into Harry's name (despite his protests) similar with vehicles and general assets. The butterflies were a lost cause. Eggsy offered to try and reclaim them from the museum and had spent a few sleepless nights on Ebay trying to replace them before Harry had come to him and whisperingly confessed that actually he didn't mind. That trapped in a hospital room during his slow medical recovery with no visitors other than a few charity volunteers, he'd had time to reflect on what was important to him. He’d haltingly explained that in the isolation of his recovery he had come to believe that Eggsy and Merlin and others must have died given that no one came for him. (“Oh, Harry.” Eggsy had clasped his hand tightly and accepted the kiss on his forehead that had followed.)
His loss, as Harry had believed, had made him care little for belongings. It's why, he'd reassured Eggsy, he had no care for the house or the things in it.
He was though, he admitted later, devastated that his clothes had gone. Suits dating back to the 80s - timeless and classic and tailored. He’d been truly heartbroken at the thought of those donated for rags and he’d actually punched Merlin when, two weeks later, he walked into the guest room to find it piled high with boxes that Merlin had finally pulled down from where they’d been stashed in the attic. Merlin having been unable to part with them either.
“You watched me suffer.” He’d growled whilst stroking the lapel of a Flusser tuxedo but he smiled as he did so and then beamed as he punched the unrepentant, smirking Merlin when he gestured him in for a hug. “Bastard.”
He’d walked in on them once, in the middle of the night after the three of them had slowly gotten absolutely hammered whilst reminiscing. Telling Eggsy stories of their life, of his father's training, updating Harry on the events during his absence. They’d staggered to their respective rooms in the early hours and as Harry retired to the bathroom for a late-night shower as was his habit, Merlin had taken Eggsy into his arms and kissed him. Long, messy kisses that, in their cups, had swiftly led to a more fevered embrace. Merlin was on his knees, Eggsy's cock in his mouth, Eggsy gripping his shoulders when Harry had bundled into the bedroom, Martinis and autopilot leading him to his long-used room of 20 years and not his newly allocated guest bed down the hall.
The three of them had stood in a frozen tableau for seconds that felt like hours until Harry dragged his eyes away from Merlin’s hollowed cheeks to meet Eggsy’s startled gaze. And if Eggsy came with Harry's eyes on him and had lost himself in imagining it many times since, well that was nobody's fault and nobody’s business.
The day after though, the three of them had had their first row, when Harry made determined noises about moving out and Merlin and Eggsy had argued. That he should stay. That they should go. That it was Harry's house. That it was their house.
Round and round it went until…
“I left it to you.”
“You're not dead.”
“It would be easier if I was.”
And Eggsy had walked out with a ‘Fuck you.”
Leaving Merlin and Harry staring at each other.
Leaving Merlin to explain Michelle’s suicide attempt post V day.
Leaving Merlin to explain how hard the loss of Harry had hit Eggsy.
Leaving Merlin to hold Harry as he wept fully for the first time since his return, as he described the flashbacks he had of the slaughterhouse in Kentucky. As he explained how fucking lost he felt since his return.
And somehow, they’d agreed they'd have a meeting to discuss it all properly ‘later’, when things were a little more settled but perhaps, in the meantime, they'd use a lock on the bedroom door in future and none of them would get quite so drunk again and maybe they were a little more connected and maybe, somehow things never seemed to get settled enough for the conversation.
It worked Eggsy wasn't sure how or why, but it worked.
But then he noticed how, when Merlin called him Galahad, Harry would sometimes react. Noticed how sometimes at HQ when Eggsy was suited and booted, just sometimes, Merlin would call him Harry by mistake. And then one night, when Merlin was reading head bent at the kitchen table, Harry walked behind him and placed his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and placed a jokey kiss - a neutral peck, nothing more, to the top of his head and Merlin, engrossed in paperwork had reached a hand up to his shoulder and murmured ‘Eggsy’ before realising.
And Harry had laughed and clipped his head and told him to put the paperwork away dinner was almost ready, and Merlin had laughed and folded away his notes saying he must be overdoing it if he could mistake Harry’s no-good self for the love of his life and Eggsy had laughed and realised that perhaps, just maybe, he was a substitute all along.
And it was hard after that. Eggsy loved Harry with all his heart and Eggsy loved Merlin with all his soul, and he trusted fully and 100% that nothing was going on and nothing would go on. Knew them both. Knew they were good men; knew they weren't but knew beyond a doubt that they would never betray him.
But he watched. He watched himself and saw when he quipped, when he groomed himself, when he quirked a smile instead of a wink. When he used his rainmaker, when he saw the cut of his suit so precise. And he saw Merlin see each thing too and be sad.
He saw and he mourned.
It was a fucking mess is what it was.
And then one day, once upon a time, Eggsy went on a mission to deepest darkest Peru or Wimbledon anyhow and his quiet little mark turned out to be stronger than they imagined, and he found himself bound tighter and cleverer than ever before and he spent a good few days stripped of his gear. Naked, beaten, unarmed and anonymous. Turns out Kingsman weren't the only ones with stun guns and competency and a ruthless willingness to do whatever was needed.
So, days in a dungeon (in a small, locked room, drama queen Eggsy), far enough off track to be untraceable, the Kingsman tracker dug (thankfully whilst he was unconscious) from his arm and discarded along with his bloody clothes and disabled Kingsman gear in the Thames. Not weighed down, meant to be found. They wanted it so Eggsy could be dead.
He might be yet. He wasn’t doing a bang up job of escaping. Bit tired to be honest, bit battered, blood oozing a little more freely than he'd like but you know they were feeding him and didn't torture him too much. But he got to thinking (as if he ever stops) of Merlin and his love. His lips. His hands. His warmth. His heart.
He got to thinking that if he died. He, Eggsy, if he was to die well, he knows Merlin would mourn, He’s seen it first-hand. Merlin, stoic and sad and a little bit broken. But he would have Harry, the Proper Harry. Harry #1 not a cheap knock off version. Would that be so bad?
He thought this strongest when his captors were holding him, burning and trash talking, tormenting and taunting him but he thinks it too when they go. When he's alone staring into the darkness and it comforts him. If he did get dead and stayed gone at least Merlin could be happy.
And it works, somehow it keeps him soporific and immune to their words and to their exhortations to reveal all, to shed names along with skin.
Because Harry Hart the second he may be but he's Eggsy first and Eggsies don't grass and don't give up either. So, Torture Guy number one - complacent with a thus far compliant, non rebellious canvas to paint blood on suddenly finds himself with Eggsy’s thumb deep, deep in his eye socket. Blinded, finds out that blood makes an uncooperative prisoner impossibly slippery to hold onto and discovers brutally, that tools of torture can be turned against you. Torture Guy #2, responding to screams, drawn by the noise and happy to think that Eggsy is finally surrendering realises too late, that the screams of agony came from his co-worker not his captive. He goes down hard when a hot branding tool is thrust, without warning, into his face.
And woefully unguarded beyond the chuckle brothers who are now lying dead in their own piss and scorched flesh, Eggsy phones a cab (Kingsman naturally) using their own mobiles and strolls, naked, down to medical under his own steam a few hours later.
(He's not sure if the drama queen approach is his or Harry’s but he goes with it, nonetheless.)
Later, when he's still being patched up and Merlin fights his way into the room, ignoring medical staff and warnings from Arthur equally, to burst in and then stand hesitant at the sight of Eggsy’s bruises, burns and breathless beauty; well, Eggsy drinks in the sight and selfishly reaches out a bandaged hand to bring Merlin closer and kisses him greedily.
Whatever happens next Merlin was his first. No matter how in love with Harry Merlin was, he had never taken that step with him. Eggsy had him first and could hold onto that at least.
“Was I dead?” he asks. Confusing everyone. Medical who are treating his wounds and Merlin who looks stricken.
“Was I dead? In Kingsman? In the house? In your heart?”
“Was I Harry?”
“Never.”
And there it is he supposes. Never Harry. He will never be Harry and somehow, it's this that tips him over. Shivering and shaking and crying sobbing apologies. Muttering words that are lost in Merlin’s collar bone as he holds Eggsy close, ignoring the doctors who tsk as unsterilised and unbandaged wounds are touched and contaminated.
Sorry. Sorry I'm not enough. Sorry I didn't die. Sorry I'm not Harry.
Streams of apologies and broken hearts and words set free, until finally one of them lands and Merlin makes out the words and pushes Eggsy away. Holding him by his bare shoulders at arm’s length so he can stare, dismayed into Eggsy’s tear stained, crumpled face,
It's kind of odd watching Merlin cry. Odder still after Eggsy is sedated and Merlin's face slips out of focus, stricken and sad and ever so slightly wavy around the edges.
Being unconscious has its benefits though and when he awakens, he's like a patchwork quilt; bandages and dressings scattered across his skin, a few stitches scratching but mostly the stingy heat of burns insufficiently numbed beneath the gauze. There's a broken rib or two but he's used to those and besides, he's hooked to a drip on one side with morphine dripping into his veins as needed and hooked by Merlin's hand on the other dispensing a different kind of comfort. Equally as addictive and dangerous and one he'd happily overdose on.
“Harry’s moved out” is Merlin’s opening gambit and not what Eggsy was expecting at all. “He and Percival have… He wants to take Mr Pickle. We may have argued about that.”
There's so much said and more will come later, when Merlin will confess to thinking Eggsy in love with Harry. Believing that Eggsy’s emulation was prompted through love and loss and lust. Merlin filling, poorly, a Harry shaped gap, just waiting to be pushed aside once Harry returned.
Eggsy will confess his fears. Of knowing it was the similarities between Harry and Eggsy that were all that drew Merlin to him, that he would be discarded when Harry resurrected.
(Much later still. Months and months and months later. After Harry's wedding to Percival and with Scotch on their lips they'll finally confess that they ‘wouldn't say no’ - but then Harry Hart is as hot as fuck so who could blame them?)
For now, though, a held hand, promises of love and forever, and long moments (hours, years) of deep eye contact does what it needs to.
They keep the house. Harry doesn't need it. Percival lives in a mansion and Harry has two separate rooms just for his clothes.
They keep Mr. Pickles too but only because Percival refuses point blank to let him in his house. Harry insists on visiting rights.
The desecrate Mr Pickle often - with hats, false moustaches and once with a bra that they found in a drawer after their engagement party and never found out where it came from. (Percival blushes delightfully when they discuss it though, so they don’t push too much.)
Eggsy still wears a suit like Harry’s and favours a rainmaker in combat. Primps his hair and borrows the poshest accent now and then. But Merlin loves him anyway.