Chapter Text

Prologue

Harry knocked on the door to the sound lab but got no reply. When he had knocked three times without any response he just stepped inside.

At a desk, hunched over and way too close to the computer screen, sat his mentor and Kingsman’s first and only female agent, Lancelot. Her dark hair was in a messy knot put up with a laser shooting pen and her glasses were next to the keyboard. She had been cooped up in the sound lab for three days, beta testing Merlin’s latest audio analysing software on a live case where she’d hit a wall (and refused to ask for help). It looked as if she hadn’t slept since she’d started and there was an acute lack of oxygen in the room.

Lancelot pushed the headphones off the ear closest to Harry and gave him a side glance.

“What do you want?” she muttered. “And how dare you come here without tea?”

“I can go fetch so—”

“No, what do you want?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I would like a black suit.”

Lancelot turned her chair so that she could look at her former recruit more properly. “Why are you telling me? I’m not your tailor.”

“I thought—”

“You thought you needed mama to sign you a permission slip to take to Supply.”

“Yes.”

Lancelot finally took off the headphones and hung them around her neck. She smiled wearily.

“What do you need a black suit for, anyway?” she asked. “What’s wrong with the one you got on?”

“Going to a funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, softening a little. Then she frowned. “Don’t you have an ordinary suit for that?”

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes.”

“What’s wrong with that one, then?”

“It’s at my parents’.”

“Your parents who live a forty minute bus ride from here? Those parents?” Lancelot asked, one eyebrow raised. “Or do you have other parents who live in Hong Kong or something that I don’t know about, making it impossible for you to get the suit from their place?”

“No, it’s them,” said Harry, stalling. Coming here, he had known exactly how much he wanted to tell her, he had a word for word speech prepared, but now everything was blank. He barely remembered if he had planned to lie or to just omit truths. “It’s— I don’t want them to ask questions.”

Lancelot tilted her head, the frown not leaving as she studied him. It made him want to squirm. Then, with a sigh, she seemed to drop it.

“You’re an agent now, Harry,” she said. “Just go and ask for the bloody thing.”

With that she turned the chair around again and put the headphones back on. Harry stayed for another second before he turned to leave. Just as he opened the door Lancelot said, louder than necessary:

“When you’re up there, tell the bastards I’m still waiting for my bulletproof cocktail dress!”

Harry didn’t comment, knowing perfectly well he wasn’t supposed to. He decided to go fetch her a cup of tea (and some food, because god only knew when she last ate) before going to the tailor. Not because she really had wanted that tea or because she would appreciate the gesture, but because it would be a small thank you for not pushing for more details.

Chapter Text

It had been called AIDS for a while now, the disease caused by LAV or HTLV-III, but it didn’t really matter. Or it did matter, of course it did. “Gay-related immune deficiency” was a terrible name, but people kept on dying no matter what it was called.

They died.

Disappeared.

In Harry’s old friend group they said that a person had ‘gone to Scotland.’ No one asked follow up questions on that one because no one wanted to know if it was the disease or if it was suicide that had taken them. Or if it was something else. Whatever something else might be. The turn of phrase did give just enough wiggle room though, some small sliver of hope that the friend that wasn’t around anymore lived on happily somewhere else. Even if that somewhere else was Scotland.

Harry wondered sometimes if they talked about him that way. If there were people who said that he had gone to Scotland too. The people he’d been closest to knew that he wasn’t dead, but to most people he had just… disappeared.

Gone to Scotland.

Joined a cult.

He had heard people’s disappearances referred to as that as well. That one was almost fitting to what had happened to him. He had joined a cult of sorts. An independent, international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion. It sure sounded cult-like.

Not that it was Kingsman that had made him disappear from these people, though. That had been the army. In a way. Perhaps it was just on him. He couldn’t help thinking about it as he stood in the back of the small church, listening to the priest talking about young lives being taken too soon. He had been surprised when Scott had called and told him about Andy’s funeral. Not so much because Andy was dead —though that had been painful to learn— but because Scott still had his number and had bothered reaching out. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Andy, but he had never seen him ill so he could keep his memory of Andy intact. Untainted. Full of life.

Harry had brought a flower to the church. A red rose, because Andy had loved roses. Or liked them. Love was a strong word. Love was dangerous. Harry had realised that early on. Even before all of this.

“I can’t believe you came,” Scott said as he hugged him outside the church. “I thought they’d whipped you so hard you’d nailed the closet door completely shut from the inside by now.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, but he knew he didn’t want to let go of the hug. He missed this, all of this. For nineteen months and twenty-seven days he had lived as an openly gay man. Perhaps not loudly and proudly, but still from the day he left for university to the day he enlisted he had been out. He would love to say that he’d just stopped being outspoken about who he was and started to omit some truths here and there, but he couldn’t and he had lost a lot of his friends in the process.

Later he had used Kingsman as an excuse to cut most ties with his family. The family that had suspected what he was and fought so hard to ignore it, fought so hard to make it not be true. Fought so hard to make him prove to them that it wasn't that he had denied himself.

None of that was important right now. A good friend was dead and he was fairly sure that the man he was hugging would be the next to go.

He would be right about that.

It had been easy, when he’d been in the army, to put on a smile at the bigoted jokes. For some reason, it was harder at Kingsman. Maybe it was because he looked up to these men in a way he hadn’t looked up to his officers and fellow soldiers. Maybe it was because they all pretended to be gentlemen.

Maybe it was because he never expected it here.

In the army it had been everywhere. One step out of line, one sign of weakness, and you were a sissy. At Kingsman it was something else. It was subtle-not-so-subtle grimaces as if they dealt with a bad smell whenever certain topics came up, half-sentences about you-know-who being a you-know-what.

Except the times when Gawain was a pansy for not joining them at the pub or when Ector was a fairy for his preference for colourful ties and everyone —including Harry— laughed. It chipped away at him, every time.

There had been a few raised eyebrows when he had announced he would leave the army to train as a tailor, his parents’ among them. It didn’t bother him that much, because he always accepted the invitation to grab a pint and he always wore discreet ties. None of the men around the table ever called him a nancy boy. He didn’t give them any reason to.

So all and all, this was better. Kingsman was better than the army, suited Harry better, even if the jokes made his skin crawl.

Kingsman was better and deep down Harry knew that was the reason it was worse.

“Harry!” Lancelot called after him as if he was a puppy she trained to walk on a leash.

Harry, just back from another funeral and with his black tie untied around his neck, was not amused. Yet he stopped, turned around, and walked back to her anyway. She opened the door to the cigar lounge and let him walk in first. It felt as if he was in for a scolding and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t done anything reckless or stupid in weeks. Lancelot pointed at one of the leather armchairs and like the good puppy he was, Harry sat down.

Lancelot fiddled with the gramophone, muttering about the record selection and 19^th century technology. When Bach filled the room she walked over to the drink trolley.

“Pick your poison,” she said, inspecting a glass.

“Whisky.”

“Martini it is.”

“I said whisky.”

Lancelot glared at him. She made their drinks and served them with a lemon peel. She sat down opposite him, unbuttoning her jacket and crossing her legs.

“How many times have you taken that one out for a ride now?” she asked, eyeing his black suit. “Three?”

Harry nodded. It would have been four, but he had been on a mission with Tristan for one of them.

“Close friends?”

“Close enough.”

She sighed. She tasted her drink, pursing her lips approvingly, before putting it away and looking him straight in the eyes.

“You don’t have to answer this,” she said. “And you’re well within your right to tell me to fuck off, but I’m asking because I care about you, alright?”

Harry felt his mouth dry up and he did his very best to look neutral. He nodded.

“Have you been tested for this thing? I heard there’s one available now.”

Harry blinked. That wasn’t the question he had expected. It sort of boiled down to the same thing, but it still wasn’t what he had anticipated. At all. He was so taken aback by it that he didn’t even manage to play dumb and pretend he didn’t understand what she was referring to.

He shook his head.

Lancelot nodded once. “Again, you don’t have to answer. Is there a reason for you to take the test?”

Harry swallowed. Then very slowly, he nodded, unsure of what exactly he admitted to. There were at least nine good reasons for him to take the test. Two very good ones. It was what haunted his nightmares. It was the worry in the back of his head, the constant buzz. He spent a disproportionate amount of energy every day trying to not think about it, as if thinking about it too much would make it true.

“Right,” said Lancelot. She cleared her throat. “If you want to do it, and if you want company, I can come with you.”

“I, I don’t think—”

“Yes. Right. Just. If you like. Or if you just want someone to talk to. I mean in general. About this. You can talk to me.”

“Thank you.”

“And I know it’s none of my business, but I think you should get tested. If you have it, no amount of denying it will help. If you don’t, then it will give you peace of mind.”

Harry nodded again. He knew that.

“One more thing, then I promise I’m done. If you take the test and the result would be… bad… you won’t have to go through any of it alone and you have my word that you won’t lose your job over it.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Fuck you I can,” said Lancelot fiercely. “I can’t vouch for others’ attitudes, but I’m sure as Hell going to force this agency to rise above stupid, narrow minded bigotry. You’re a better agent than most, Harry, you deserve to be here. No matter what. For whatever amount of time we have the honour to have you.”

Harry didn’t dare reply to that and he had no clue as to what he would say if he had. His cheeks were heating. He wanted nothing more than to run out of here and put as much distance between himself and this conversation as possible.

“I don’t know if it’s my place to tell you this,” said Lancelot after a short silence, clearly as uncomfortable with this conversation as Harry was. She frowned. “Actually no, I’m absolutely sure it isn’t, but I will anyway because I think you should know… Merlin’s new sidekick —the Scot, Hamish something— has been to at least two funerals like the ones you’re going to.”

Harry stared. “You’re sure they are, the ones he’s gone to… that they are…”

“AIDS related?” Lancelot looked vaguely insulted. “Give me some credit, you think I’d tell you something like this if I wasn’t?”

Harry kept staring. He stared and stared as if the word she had uttered was written on her forehead. Here, among leather chairs and stuffed animals, was the last place he had ever thought he’d have a conversation about this. This was the last place he’d thought he’d hear the name of the disease spoken.

“I haven’t talked to him about it —and I won’t unless he approaches me, which, let’s face it, he won’t,” Lancelot continued, her features becoming more concerned, “but I’ve been down there enough lately to notice and I think that both of you might need a friend in this.”

Harry studied the lemon peel in the glass. He hadn’t tried the drink yet —he didn’t care much for martini, to be honest— but now he lifted his glass to get out of answering. Lancelot seemed to understand, because she emptied her own glass in one go.

“Drink up, Galahad. Then go home.”

Harry nodded and followed her example. They both knew he wouldn’t leave, but they still managed to avoid each other for the rest of the week.

Harry agonised over what Lancelot had told him about Hamish for weeks. He knew exactly how heavy that type of secret was to bear and what it took to keep it. (He also knew what it could cost if it came out, no matter what Lancelot said.) Some days he was furious with Lancelot for telling him about it —and only partly for Hamish’s sake— while other days he couldn’t stand himself for being a coward and not reaching out. Those days he was pretty mad at Lancelot too, because it was just easier. Not to mention that she could take his anger much better than he could.

In the end, the universe sorted it for him.

It was a Thursday. A grey one. Harry had put on his black suit again and stood in the back of yet another church. No flowers this time. Not because Theo didn’t deserve flowers or anything like it, but because Harry hadn’t had the time to buy any. Theo had been a friend of an ex-something (Harry had never got to the point of calling anyone ‘boyfriend’). Harry remembered a fantastic smile, a horrible haircut, an interesting dye-job, and a constant talk about pride and rights and mobilisation. Theo had scared the living daylight out of Harry back then as he quoted the GLF manifesto and Harvey Milk speeches as if it had been Bible verses.

Truth be told, he probably still would have spooked him if he only had the chance.

Harry had admired the man’s fire, his passion. Still did. That was one of the main reasons he was there. Theo had fought for him, for all of them, while Harry was too scared to even look his mother in the eyes and tell her who he really was. Given some more time, Harry was sure Theo would have changed the world. So he was here to show his respects to what could have been. To the life that was almost lived.

Theo deserved flowers.

The people in the pews rose as the organ started to play. Harry exhaled with a deep sigh, another one over and done with. The people in the front lifted the casket and pew by pew, people walked out behind it. Harry, standing in the far back, waited, his head slightly bowed, as they all passed. He looked up just in time to see Hamish, who must have been sitting almost at the back, walk past him.

Hamish noticed him as well and almost twisted his head off as he stared in horror and continued walking out of the church. Harry slipped out as quickly as he could to follow him, but to his relief Hamish waited for him outside.

They awkwardly avoided looking at each other and instead watched the rest of the company leave without them.

“So…” said Hamish, scraping his foot in the dirt. “How did you know Theo?”

“He was a friend of a… friend,” said Harry, tripping at the last word. “You?”

“Same. Sort of.” Hamish cleared his throat. “We were sort of close. Once.”

Something in Hamish’s voice went like a knife to Harry’s gut.

“I’m sorry. Did you know he was ill?”

“Yeah, but we hadn’t spoken in months. This—“ Hamish pointed vaguely between them, “—came in the way.”

Harry nodded. He knew. He got it. Sort of. He knew many struggled with how all-consuming Kingsman was, even if he personally saw it as a relief.

They started to walk away, fell into step with each other, disappeared without telling anyone there that they did. Joined a cult. Went to Scotland. Walking next to Hamish, Harry cringed at that allegory.

“You should get yourself a proper suit,” said Harry after they’d walked a few streets. “You’re supposed to work at a tailor.”

Hamish smiled, if barely. “I don’t think a bulletproof suit protects against this.”

“No,” Harry muttered. “It bloody doesn’t.”

“And the suits are for agents.”

“Fuck that. Get yourself a bloody suit or I’ll tell Lancelot that you’re being an idiot.”

Hamish lost a step. Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid he would out him or because he was scared of Lancelot in general. Perhaps a bit of both.

“It’s impossible to hide things from that woman,” said Harry, hoping that would be clear enough without having to go into details.

“Well, there’s a reason we keep sending her on recons,” Hamish muttered, his ears red. “She has some of the best eyes for details.”

Harry nodded. “Don’t worry, she’s… very discreet.”

“Lancelot?” asked Hamish with a laugh stuck in his throat. “The woman who thought the best course of action was to let a bomb go off inside Selfridges? That Lancelot?”

Harry smiled, looking down at his shoes as he walked, and nodded. Yes, ‘discreet’ wasn’t a word he would usually use to describe his mentor, but when it came to this she really had been. Except perhaps when she told him about Hamish, but he could see how that had been out of concern for the both of them.

“Get a suit,” Harry said after a short silence. “And if you want company to one of these, or someone to drink with afterwards…”

Hamish nodded. “You too.”

Harry smiled briefly. He was starting to run low on old friends. It was nice to know that at least for a while, he might have a new one.

Chapter Text

Her lips were red, her nails perfect, her hair not naturally that blond. She was at least ten years older than Harry and flattered by his interest as they walked around at the grand opening of the World’s Fair in Vancouver, talking about art.

Harry went after honeypots like it was nothing and he was good at it. He was the youngest of the agents —according to a poll among the handlers he was also the most good looking— and was sent on them a lot. He didn’t mind, it was a convenient way to deflect any suspicions and he started to learn his way around the female body.

From having felt a certain kind of disgust about it, he now felt nothing. Usually he tried to get the information he needed without sleeping with the target, but needs must, duty and honour, Queen and country, and so on. He was young. Perhaps not a teenager anymore, but it got done. If he sometimes stood too long in a hot shower afterwards, then so be it. Honeypotting was a good means to an end.

If he sometimes went out and did something stupid and reckless afterwards… then… well… there are other needs that must, too.

Harry smiled at her. He reached out, hesitated, and then followed through to put a lock of hair behind her ear. She blushed and he knew he was home. Perhaps not tonight, but before having to go back to London. He had her.

There was a certain thrill even in this type of chase.

Chapter Text

Harry watched Lancelot as she made their third round of martinis. They were celebrating his first successful solo mission. It was two weeks since he had returned from it, but Lancelot had been in the field for the last six weeks so they hadn’t had time before.

When Harry had asked why bother with it at all, Lancelot had said, “Because life is too bleak to not recognise milestones.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that.

Lancelot hummed along to A Kind of Magic as she worked (the latest Queen’s album had been going non-stop tonight), still wearing her dress shirt and suit trousers. The jacket and glasses long since retired for the evening, though. Harry still wore his glasses, but not his jacket. It was too bloody hot in Lancelot’s house for that.

Lancelot smiled as she walked around the bar, a drink in each hand.

“Barely a year old as a proper agent, and already flying solo,” she said, handing him the drink and sitting down next to him on the sofa again. “Do you have any idea how long it took before I was even allowed in the field?”

“Three years,” said Harry. She had told him that before, how all of the older agents —even Percival who recruited her— had kept her out of the field and how she therefore spent her first years as a Kingsman agent with Merlin, monitoring her colleagues and translating Russian intercepts.

“Three bloody years,” Lancelot went on as if she hadn’t heard his reply. “And look at you!”

“It was just a hit.”

“Bollocks,” she spat out. “Have you ever killed a man before?”

Harry shook his head.

“Then there’s nothing ‘just’ about it.”

“Is this when you tell me about your first hit and how it changed you?” Harry asked over his glass, half-smirking.

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“Well, then…” said Lancelot with a smile. She raised her glass. “To you, Harry. The future of this horrid organisation!”

The praise made Harry embarrassed, but it meant a lot coming from her. Sure, she was tipsy, her cheeks red and her hair had started to fall out of the otherwise so tight hairdo, but her smile was genuine and her words sounded sincere. Still confident in her choice, in the trust she’s put in him, in spite of what she now knew about him.

So he had to ask, because it had been on his mind since he’d realised she figured it out. He just didn’t know how to and the words were hard to form. Yet the question was there, at the tip of his tongue. He swirled the drink, rather than drinking it, knowing fully well that she hated that. As if on cue, Lancelot reached out her hand and took the glass from him.

“Don’t play with your food,” she said curtly. “What’s with the face? We’re celebrating!”

He looked at her, and before he lost his nerve he blurted out, “Would you have nominated me if you’d known I’m queer?”

“What? You’re bent?”

Harry managed to roll his eyes at her, but it was with trembling hands that he took the martini when she handed him back the glass. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this answer, no matter how much alcohol he’d had.

“I was about to say that I didn’t give two shits about your sexuality when I picked you,” Lancelot started, a small wrinkle on her forehead, when she realised that it was a serious question, “but the truth is that it was one of the reasons I did. Oh, don’t look so scared, darling, no one else knows. I think. You don’t have ‘a tell’ or whatever.” She had put a hand on his knee. He kept staring at it, unable to get his heart rate down. “I’d had my eyes on you since the witch’s assassination attempt, and—”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Thatcher.”

“No, what…? How...?”

“Oh.” Lancelot looked a bit disoriented as her train of thought came to an abrupt halt and she took her hand off his leg, which was much appreciated. “I thought you knew by now. That was a Kingsman mission. Seeing what was planned for the day after, Thomas decided to bring in some bodies who are good at following orders from the official machinery. We do that sometimes.”

Harry’s brain momentarily short circuited. He had worked a mission with Gawain in 1981?

“You stood out that day,” Lancelot continued. “So I started to ask around in case I’d need to put up a candidate. Your —shall we call it preferences? It came up rather early when I got to your mates from Cambridge. Even one of your professors commented on it. You and what’s-his-name weren’t very discreet.”

“Who?”

“I don’t remember his name, he wasn’t important to me.” She waved her hand. “The dark, handsome one who took chemistry.”

“Tobias,” said Harry quietly.

“Is he one of the ones you’ve buried?”

Harry blinked and just stared at her. It took them both a moment to realise that she had actually asked that.

“Fuck,” Lancelot cursed under her breath when it caught up with her. “That’s— I’m sorry. Fuck. Forget I asked.”

“It’s fine.”

“It really isn’t. I’m sorry.” She picked up her glass and finished her martini. “Drink up, I’ll make us new ones.”

“I shouldn’t have another.”

“’Shouldn’t’ or ‘don’t want to’?” she asked, already standing up and holding out her hand to take his glass.

“Shouldn’t.”

“Well, then. Hand it over. This isn’t a school night.”

Harry drank what was left of his drink. The awkward silence was blissfully filled with Freddie Mercury’s voice as Lancelot started to make their fourth martinis for the night.

Harry avoided looking at her, pretending to study the movie posters she had framed on the wall. Part of him wanted to tell her that no, Tobias wasn’t among the ones he had buried yet, because there was no one else he felt he could talk to about the fact that Tobias had called him a few months ago to say that he had tested positive —making him the third very good reason for Harry to get tested himself. He didn’t want to think about Tobias that way. Truth be told, he didn’t want to think about him or any of it at all, so he kept his mouth shut.

Tobias was the only man he’d ever thought of in terms of ‘boyfriend’ even if they never put that word to it and breaking it off with him to join the army had, at the time, been the most difficult thing he had ever done. It still was top three, and even if it wasn’t an open wound anymore it was still raw. Knowing that they might have ended up killing each other didn’t help matters.

“So why did you nominate me if you knew I am a security risk?” he asked just to get away from Tobias and turned back to her.

Lancelot gave him a dark glare as she peeled the lemon to decorate their glasses. “Don’t ever call yourself that again, do you hear me?”

“Or what?” said Harry, trying to put on a cocky smile. “You’re going to report me?”

“After dragging you into this in the first place? Don’t be stupid, of course not. Who you love isn’t something that can cost you your job.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“I know that Kingsman needs you more than you need Kingsman.” She walked over to the sofa and gave him his glass back. “I know I’m asking a lot here, but you really need to trust me on this one. Being queer is not something that will get you kicked from the Table.” She sat down on the sofa again. “There are a surprising number of people who can do this job, Harry. Live a double life. Lie. Not get credit for anything. Kill. There are very few people who are strong enough to change the world for the better and that’s why I picked you.”

“You think I’m one of those?”

“You haven’t disappointed me yet.”

Harry forced a smile. He thought about Theo, who had been strong enough to change the world but not been allowed to. He thought about parades he himself had watched from the sideline. About fliers he had thrown away. About buttons he had refused to wear. About the shit he’d done in the army to deflect attention. About his parents who he still hadn’t told.

He was in no way a world changer. Not even a little.

“What if I don’t want to?” he asked.

Lancelot shrugged. “Then you’ll still probably end up being one of our best agents. I said your sexuality was one of the reasons I picked you, not the only reason.”

“But you’ll be disappointed?”

“Not really. I get it. There are days I really wish I could just be an agent and not a female agent, but I don’t have that choice, do I?”

Harry raised his glass. “To three years in Merlin’s dungeon.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Lancelot, raising her glass as well.

When they both put away their glasses, she reached out and put her hand on his knee again. “I appreciate you telling me, even though you knew I knew.”

Harry was about to protest that he hadn’t told her anything, that he had just asked a question, but it had been years since he had used that word to describe himself. It was exhilarating and a relief at the same time to feel safe enough —or secure enough— to do it again.

He smiled. Theo had called it freedom and perhaps it was.

Chapter Text

“A gay man goes home to his parents and tells them he’s got good news and bad news.”

Harry stiffened as he heard the beginning of Tristan’s joke, there was no way the punchline of this would be either good or tasteful. They were out at a pub, him, Tristan, Gawain, Percival and Ector, a few streets from the shop, blowing off some steam and talking shit about the handlers. Mostly.

“The bad news is I’m gay,” said Tristan, looking around the table, with a smirk as he paused for the punch that Harry now knew exactly what it was. “The good news is I’ve got AIDS.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone.

Harry didn’t know where to look or where to turn, stuck in the booth as he was between the wall and Percival. So he laughed as well, dying on the inside. He could all too well imagine himself framing his homosexuality to his parents that way, though he was unclear if they actually would consider that good news. He wished they wouldn’t.

Not that it mattered. He didn’t know his status and he was not coming out.

The conversation moved on (slightly) to whether or not Margerath, one of their older female handlers, was a lezzie or not. Harry was fairly sure that the answer was ‘yes’ —he and Hamish had speculated as well— but he remained quiet. There were some bonding exercises he couldn’t bring himself to participate in anymore.

He drank his beer, trying to wash down the joke and his own laugh, but it didn’t go away. It remained there, as a lump in his chest, a worry he didn’t want to put words to and a shame he didn’t feel entitled to.

His nails dug into his palms and when it was time for the next round, he volunteered just to get away from the table. No one noticed that anything was amiss. And nothing was.

At least as far as he knew.

Hamish‘s eyes were red and puffy as he sat across the stall from Harry in a small pub. He had called Harry from the phone box on the corner, sounding far more composed than he now looked. It was the first time Hamish took him up on the offer of having a drink after a funeral, but Harry knew he had been to a lot of them lately.

Harry reached for Hamish’s empty glass. “Another?”

“Tell me you’re negative.”

Harry blinked. Hamish hadn’t put two words together since Harry had got there. He let go of the glass. When Harry didn’t answer, Hamish met his eyes.

“I just need to hear— I just want to— Please tell me you’re not dying.”

Harry broke eye contact and looked down at the table.

“Harry.” Hamish reached out and touched his hand, making him look up again. There was an urgency in Hamish's voice when he said, “Tell me you’re not dying.”

Harry looked at their hands, surprised by the touch, and mumbled, “I can’t.”

Hamish straightened up, pulling back his hand. He stared at Harry, mouth slightly opened.

“I mean I don’t know,” said Harry hastily, his ears turning red. “I haven’t taken the test.”

“Wha— How? How can you not have been tested? Don’t you have a physical every year?”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. “You really think an HIV test is standard?”

“It’s a blood disease! At least one of you is covered in blood every week!”

Harry looked around, but no one seemed to have heard them.

“Even if that’s true, you know no one thinks of it like that,” he said, quieter than necessary just to make a point.

“There’s no ‘if’ about it. It is. It is a blood disease.”

“Well, I’m not going to suggest them add it. Are you?”

Hamish sighed. “No…”

“So… another one?” Harry asked when the silence had stretched into uncomfortable territory.

“Aye, but it’s my round.”

Harry leaned back against the booth, exhaling slowly, as Hamish got up. His heart was beating very fast, the booth growing smaller and smaller. It was fine, everything was fine. He was fine.

Harry flinched when Hamish put the glasses on the table. He gave Harry a strange look as he sat down.

“Take the bloody test and be done with it,” said Hamish, pushing one of the glasses to Harry. “If for nothing else, do it for the women Merlin keeps sending you to fuck information out of.”

Harry smiled briefly. He didn’t fuck his honeypots if he could help it, and when he did he always used a condom. Knowing his status wouldn’t change that. At least he didn’t think it would.

“Have you taken it?” he asked, stalling for time.

Hamish nodded. “Twice. I’m negative.”

Harry huffed, annoyed as much as relieved by that answer, and tried to cover it by taking a sip of beer. He also felt a sting of envy.

“If I take the test, then what?” he asked when he put down the glass. “If it comes back positive, what do I do? You think they’d let me stay? You think they’d let me sit at the table, be a knight? Most of them would gladly send me off for being bent to start with, knowing I’ve been tested would convince the rest of them.”

“Not if it’s negative.”

“Don’t think it matters to them, I’ve still taken it.” Harry shook his head. “If I have it, I’ll die, test or no test, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be dead before I find out.”

Hamish shook his head in disbelief. “Fuck you, Galahad,” he said, just loud enough for Harry to hear him. He got up, leaving his almost untouched beer and Harry behind.

Hamish closed the door without a word when he saw Harry standing on the other side. Harry could hear him remove the chain. When the door opened again, Hamish stepped to the side to let Harry in.

“Brought chips,” said Harry.

Hamish took them from him, still without a word, and walked into the flat. Harry closed the door and put the chain back on before he followed. It was only the third time he was here, so he couldn’t say for sure, but it felt much messier than it had the other two times. There were dirty plates and glasses everywhere, gadgets and gizmos from work, unfolded laundry… The suit he had worn to the funeral lay in a pile on the floor —Harry’s fingers itched to hang it up, but he stood with his hands behind his back as Hamish put on a kettle and took out two chipped mugs.

When the tea was done, Hamish gave Harry one of the mugs before sitting down at the small kitchen table with the other one. Harry remained standing, having a hard time knowing where to look.

“I just don’t want to know,” he finally said.

Hamish gave him half-a-smile. “Sort of figured.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, whatever keeps you sane.”

Harry tapped his finger against the mug. He wasn’t sure ‘sane’ was the right word, but self-preservation sounded better than cowardice.

“Just don’t say shit like you might get lucky and die,” said Hamish. “Even if you mean it, because I can’t hear it. It’s… I can’t hear it.”

“I promise.”

Hamish nodded. And kept nodding without looking at Harry.

Harry put down his tea, placing a hand on Hamish's shoulder. “Eat the chips and take a shower. I’ll clear away the dishes in the sink.”

Hamish nodded one more time. He put the mug on the table and took the chips instead as he got up.

Harry stole two chips. “And hang up the suit or I will tell Andrew on you.”

Hamish huffed as he left, but a smile teased at the corner of his mouth, which was a relief to see. Harry moved the dirty dishes from the sink and turned on the tap. He had made the right call coming here.

Chapter Text

Harry stood over his fourth dead body, his first dead woman. She was his age, a bit older. Perhaps not collateral damage per se, but not the target either.

He had suffocated her with a hand over her nose and mouth. It had taken time. She had struggled, clawed at his hands with her red nails. Now she lay still on the floor. The veins in her eyes had broken.

He lit a match and dropped it on the body. It would have been nice if everything that had to do with death could be handled this easily.

What did it say about him that he had become this indifferent to killing but still felt like crying at funerals?

His eyes were brown, his lips soft, his cologne cheap. He reminded Harry a bit of Andy, something about his smile. That wasn’t why Harry had approached him at the bar, though, but because the crazy neon pink trousers he was wearing made Harry smile.

“Have you been tested?” The man with the pink trousers whispered against Harry’s neck.

“Mhm, yeah, I’m good,” murmured Harry in return. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Harry didn’t want to think about how easy they could both be liars. He didn’t want to think at all. Not about that, not about the two bullets he’d put in the back of a man’s skull yesterday. He didn’t want to think about death, he wanted to feel alive.

And for a brief moment, in a dark corner of a loud club, he did.

When he walked home through the not quite dark streets of London three hours, two shots, and one orgasm later, it was hard to remember the thrill of it. Hard to justify it even to himself. That’s what the last shot had been for. Not that he could really justify that either.

At least he had the day off tomorrow.

Chapter Text

There was an envelope on the doormat. There was nothing strange about that per se, that’s where they usually were before Harry opened them and binned them, but this one made him cold from the inside out.

There was a blue square on it, and in it it said ‘AIDS’ with huge letters. There were more words, and as Harry bent down to pick it up he managed to actually take them in as well.

‘Government information about AIDS’.

Harry closed the door and made sure it was locked —he checked twice— before putting the envelope with the blue square on the chest of drawers he had somehow managed to squeeze in here. Mr Pickle yapp by his feet, not at all impressed by Harry’s inability to focus on him.

He walked to the kitchenette, leaving the envelope where it was, and filled his tea mug from breakfast with cold water. His hands trembled with an insane amount of adrenaline, but when he’d finished the water, he walked back out.

His first instinct was to throw it away, because what on Earth could the government tell him about this that he didn’t already know? He turned it around a few times, making perfectly sure that his address wasn’t anywhere on the envelope. It didn’t matter much that it said that it was sent to every household in the country. The idea of the government —the idea of this government— sending him letters about AIDS…

With still unsteady hands he opened the envelope. The leaflet inside screamed at him. It screamed at him the same way Hamish did, the same way Lancelot did (except neither of them actually did), the same way his subconscious screamed at him. Don’t die of ignorance.

It might not have been addressed to him, but it was directed to him all the same and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He opened it, but had a hard time reading —or at least taking in— what it said. Partly because it was not terrible.

He jumped at the sound of the phone ringing. Dazed, he walked to the kitchenette to answer.

“Hart,” he said, still looking at the leaflet.

“It’s Hamish,” said the voice on the other side, he sounded distant. After a short pause he said, “Did you get it too?”

“Yes,” Harry said, not for a second thinking Hamish could mean anything else. “Fuck them.”

“Safely.”

Harry snorted and started to giggle hysterically. As he sank down to the floor, his back against the wall, he heard Hamish laugh as well. It was liberating and fucked up at the same time.

Mr Pickle, still not sure what was wrong (but clearly aware that something was) came and put his paws on Harry’s thigh and was finally rewarded with some attention. Harry dropped the envelope and leaflet on the floor and patted him.

“Fuck…” said Hamish when the laughter had reached the end. “Well. See you tomorrow at the office, then, Galahad.”

That made Harry giggle again. “See you tomorrow, Hamish.”

He heard Hamish chuckle before the line was cut. He put the phone down on the floor over the leaflet, he didn’t have the energy to stand and hang it up just yet. Instead he lifted Mr Pickle into his lap and put his nose against his, earning himself a few face licks.

It took a while before he managed to get himself off the floor.

Lancelot slammed her hand on the table, making all the men shut up and instead look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the part of the screen showing Tristan who had just made a terrible comment about the epidemic tearing through the gay community. Or rather, about how it was their own fault.

“These men —these boys— are fighting a goddamn war,” she said. “They have no help. No resources. Their governments have all turned their backs on them. They are losing friends as if they were in the trenches. This might not be a Kingsman assignment, but we sure as Hell owe them the respect of fellow soldiers.”

“But they’re—“

“Fuck you!” she spit out. “Don’t you dare say it! They are human beings. And they are dying. And you’re not allowed to mock them, so help me GOD, Robert!”

Tristan looked to the side of his screen —probably to get eye contact with Arthur who just lifted his eyes to surrender. Harry kept his head down.

Perhaps it was inevitable that the epidemic would weasel its way to the Table as well. Counterfeited HIV drugs were flooding the market, especially in Eastern Europe and it had been a point at the briefing.

Harry was wary about the idea that there were any real drugs at all. They claimed AZT worked, but his scepticism about anyone lifting even the smallest finger to do something to help in this epidemic was strong and deeply rooted by now. There was only so much trust you could gain by scaremongering ad campaigns and information leaflets.

He balled his hands into fist in his lap, trying to block out the rest of the discussion. It ended with Arthur stepping in and telling them all to shut up. This wasn’t a Kingsman assignment since too many governments were already officially involved. End of discussion.

No one except Merlin said anything else for the rest of the briefing.

“What’s wrong with Jenny?” Gawain asked Ector when it was over and they left the room. “You think it’s her time of the month or something?”

Harry, too filled with storming emotions already, didn’t think as he turned around and put his fist in Gawain’s face.

Harry sucked in air through his teeth. The alcohol stung as Lancelot dabbed the cut on his eyebrow, but he didn’t move.

“Serves you right,” Lancelot muttered. “That was stupid.”

“So you’re allowed to stand up for me, but I’m not allowed to stand up for you?”

Lancelot glared at him. “Who said anything about you? I do it for this damn organisation so that maybe, before I die, it evolves passed a fucking chimpanzee. Also, I’m an agent. I’m a knight at the bloody Table. I don’t need a man to defend my honour or whatever the fuck it was you thought you did back there.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in a very good impression of her, but the pain made him regret it instantly. She had refused to let him go down to medical and he started to suspect that it was so that she’d be allowed to punish him.

“Don’t start with me,” she said. “I’ve dealt with this crap for over ten years. They are good men, and you can’t afford to make Thomas a personal enemy because he says some random bullshit. He has my back whenever. So what if he’s stupid enough to still believes in the wandering womb or whatever the fuck.”

“But—”

“It’s not personal, it’s systematic, and you catch more flies with honey than with fists.”

“That in there was honey?”

“Watch it, Galahad,” she said harshly. “You’re not on my good side right now.”

Harry smiled as much as he dared. Lancelot narrowed her eyes and then turned back to using far more alcohol on his cut than absolutely necessary.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” she said, forcing his head backwards with a hand under his chin so that she could get better lighting. “Which is good, since this pretty face is your greatest asset.”

“Thanks?”

Lancelot let him go without a word and started to collect the bloody pads she had used to clean him up. He watched carefully what she did with them.

“Whatever your reasons,” Harry said, when she was done disposing of them. “I appreciate what you said in there.”

She gave him a glance and smiled ruefully. He didn’t know what to make of that look, but she sent him off with a stern order to go and apologise to Gawain. For someone who kept telling everyone that she wasn’t their mother, she sure acted that way far too often.

“You didn’t need to bring the whole box,” Harry protested when Lancelot came back to the kitchen. “You could just have picked one.”

Lancelot put down the box with records that she had retrieved from his bedroom on the kitchen table. He had invited her home for dinner after being horrified to learn that she mostly lived on takeaway and microwave meals and was now trying his hands on paneer makhani.

“It’s much more fun mocking your taste in music when you can hear me,” she said and pulled up the first record. “Bee Gees, sweetheart, really?”

“They have some good songs!”

“Mhm…” She put it back and continued flipping through the records. “I would never have nominated you if I knew you listened to Eurythmics. Just so we’re clear.”

Harry rolled his eyes and went back to stirring the food.

“Are you doing okay?” asked Lancelot after a shorter silence.

Harry looked over his shoulder at her. She had flipped through about a third of his records. She seemed… concerned? It was a strange look on her.

“Just because I listen to different music than you—”

“Not that —though we can discuss what a cry for help The Go-Go’s is later.” She sighed. “You don’t believe the shit they write, right?”

Harry frowned.

“The Sun,” she clarified. “That you for some reason have all over your bedroom wall.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine.”

“So this isn’t some weird new form of self-harm you kids are up to these days?”

“No? Why?”

“Because it’s The Bloody Sun!”

Harry shrugged. “Not like they write anything worse than what they say in the House.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to buy them, or you know… decorate with them.”

“It’s fine,” said Harry and went back to the food. “They are my trophies.”

“Figured as much,” she muttered.

They all collected things like these, small trophies to remind themselves that what they did mattered, that they made life go on as usual. Percival saved postcards. Merlin recorded the 7 o’clock news. Lancelot saved radio guides (and these days also TV guides). It was a way to get the ‘thank you’ they didn’t get otherwise.

The newspapers filled him with a sense of pride —what would the front page have been those days if it hadn’t been for him?— and if The Sun could fill him with pride, despite their best efforts to keep the public opinion against men like him, then he considered that a win too.

The actual reason he used The Sun was that it had been the only one where he’d been able to track down a paper from the Royal Wedding, but he wasn’t going to tell Lancelot that.

“I like them,” he said.

“As long as you don’t let that shit get to you, okay?”

Harry smiled with his back turned to her. She said it like it was that simple, like it wasn’t an active choice he had to make on an almost daily basis. Like if what that rubbish paper wrote wasn’t everywhere.

“Promise,” he said anyway, because he appreciated the sentiment. “Now pick a record and put the box back where you found it so you can lay the table.”

“I'll do my best, but it would be easier if you had any taste.”

“They are in alphabetical order, Queen is in the back, just pick it and be quiet.”

Lancelot laughed. In the end she picked Around the World in a Day by Prince.

“Do you think Lancelot is a lesbian?” asked Hamish out of the blue one evening when they were doing nothing in particular over at Harry’s.

Harry looked over his shoulder. He was cleaning up after making pasta pomodoro (“It’s spaghetti with tomato sauce, you posh git!”) and Hamish sat on the floor, torturing Mr Pickle by keeping his toy just out of reach for him.

“No,” he said, turning off the tap.

“Then why does she…” Hamish waved his hand in the air. “I don’t know, care?”

Harry shrugged. “She says she does it for Kingsman.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I don’t know, but do you for a single moment believe she’d be closeted if she were?”

Hamish thought it over, tossing the chew toy over the floor to Mr Pickle’s delight. “There are only so many battles a person has the strength to fight at the same time.”

“She’s not a lesbian,” said Harry, feeling like he put his foot down. “She would have told me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He wasn’t. He wished he was, but he really wasn’t. He had thought about it, it would explain a lot. That or if she had a brother or something who was gay but he knew better than to ask her personal questions.

He hoped she wasn’t a lesbian. It would be nice to know at least one heterosexual who was firmly on their side. No matter what she said her reasons were.

Chapter Text

The target, a woman Harry’s own age, was putting on her bra. She had a smile on her face, apparently Harry had done a good job. Harry knew he had, he honestly thought he was better at sex with women than men at this point.

He sat naked on the bed, the duvet covering him, smiling almost as big as her but there was nothing genuine about it. It got harder and harder to do this, not just from a performance point of view. Had he killed her tonight? Had he cursed her with a slow, painful death?

Collateral damage wasn’t something that usually kept him up at night, it was something that came with the job. Honeypots though… It wasn’t the same. He didn’t know if it was because he had to establish a rapport with them, pretend to get to know them, treat them as humans and not faceless numbers, or if it was just his own mortality that haunted him.

The older agents talked about him and Ector, quite condescendingly, how it was to be young and indestructible. If they only knew.

If he only knew…

Not that it would make any difference. He’d still go on the honeypots Merlin sent him on. He’d still seduce them. He’d still fuck them one way or the other.

He’d still die.

One way or the other.

Chapter Text

There was a small church on the Kingsman grounds. It had come with the purchase of the mansion when the agency was young. There still was the occasional sermon, but since Kingsman took over the land, it had mostly been used for funerals. Like today.

A week ago, Merlin had died of a stroke at his post and since he didn’t have any family other than Kingsman they were the ones burying him. It wasn’t uncommon, most of the senior staff left the world without any connections to the outside world.

They had joined a cult.

It was strange, being at an old person’s funeral. It was the same type of hymns, similar religious platitudes and a complete waste of flowers, yet the atmosphere was different. Harry couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

The church was filled well beyond the fire safety regulations, but there were still people outside, wanting to show their respects to a man who had been devoted to Kingsman for over forty years.

In the two front rows to the right sat the six agents who could attend. Merlin had trained all the agents currently at the Table, Arthur included, and had saved all their lives on more occasions than they were probably aware.

Lancelot wasn’t among the agents present, she was in Leningrad. Harry had broken protocol and called her after they had got the news. She hadn’t been grateful for the call —apparently she had raised him better than that— but Harry stood by his decision to not let her find out about Merlin’s death by a new voice in her earpiece. She had told him to bring a hydrangea to the funeral for her, and that he had done.

In the first rows on the left side of the aisle sat Merlin’s own senior staff, solemn, and for once all of them also wearing suits. Farthest to the right in the first row sat Hamish, his eyes were dry but his face grey. Arthur had asked him to —ordered him to, really— take the position of Merlin. Harry wasn’t surprised, but it would be strange to start referring to Hamish by that title. He had tried it once already, but neither he nor Hamish had liked it.

When Merlin was firmly in the ground, Arthur ordered all of them back to work, but Hamish lingered at the grave. When he noticed, Harry fell behind his fellow agents and discreetly turned around to walk back.

He walked up next to Hamish, his hands behind his back.

“O God! Guide us, protect us; we are too young to reign,” he said after a while, quoting Marie-Antoinette and Louis XVI’s prayer upon becoming king and queen.

Hamish snorted. “You’re an arse, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“I thought… I thought I’d be more indifferent to death by now,” said Hamish after another moment of silence. “And Merlin he was… he was old.”

Harry looked at the grave, feeling something very similar. “Did you know his Christened name was Rufus?”

Hamish nodded.

“I sort of always thought his name was Merlin. I mean, I knew it wasn’t, but...”

“Promise me that won’t happen to me.”

Harry patted his shoulder. “I promise.”

It was almost fascinating how many different and colourful synonyms for “homosexual” Bedivere and Lamorak knew. Harry balled his hands into fists under the table, doing his best to ignore both them and Lancelot who took this as yet another opportunity to ask their colleagues to put a sock in it.

He wondered how many times he’d be able to do this, how many times he’d have to. And he wondered if anyone else noticed how hard Hamish held onto his clipboard… Harry was glad Lancelot had her back to Hamish or else everything might have become a real argument.

It actually made it harder, having Hamish there. When he’d been the only queer in the room, he knew how to deal with these things —he’d had years of practice after all. Seeing how the same words he had learnt to take from the other agents affected someone else raised Harry’s pulse, it awoke something.

He thought of Theo a lot and felt small.

Harry stood for a fitting. Or he sat without his shirt on in the sewing room looking at patterns with Andrew and William. The agents had a scheduled fitting each year when the tailors took new measurements and they went through what worked and what didn’t in terms of function. If they had opinions about cuts and fashion, that was a separate fitting that the agents had to book themselves.

The older agents often complained that the tailors treated them like children (Hamish just rolled his eyes when he heard them) and Lancelot always came from these sessions fuming with rage, but Harry didn’t mind them. At least not yet.

“I don’t like you in the three piece,” said William. “Makes you look much older than you are.”

“It’s good on honeypots, though.”

William gave Harry a quick look up and down. “I can assure you, agent, it’s not the suit. A simple double breasted would do wonders, because you really shouldn’t dress like you’re Chester’s age.”

“Other than William’s opinions on design,” said Andrew louder than necessary to cut in, “are you experiencing any problems with the suits? Your measurements have changed slightly since last year so we’ll have to do some refitting but nothing major.”

“No, but I haven’t been properly shot yet either.”

“I can arrange that, if you like,” said Andrew dryly.

Harry grinned and William stifled a laugh.

“They work fine,” Harry said. “They are warm though.”

“Common complaint,” Andrew said. “Not much to do about it if you want to keep them bulletproof.”

“The age old battle,” William chimed in. “Protection versus comfort.”

Harry bit his cheek to not smile at that (most likely unintentional) double entendre, but he couldn’t help thinking about Hamish's comment about there being some things bulletproof suits didn’t protect from.

“If you don’t have anything else, Galahad, we have what we need at the moment,” said Andrew and tore out a sheet from his notebook and gave it to Harry with his new measurements and everything else they had discussed in bullet point form. “Please bring in the suits as soon as you can so we can do the alterations.”

Harry took the paper and started to button up his shirt. He didn’t know what to do with the list, really, but there was some truth in that the more information you had and the easier it was to work with and reach a good result.

And what could be more important to know the details of than your protection?

Harry folded the paper and put it in his pocket, deciding to not think about the double meaning of that either.

Chapter Text

There were only a few people besides Harry in the waiting room, but to him it felt crowded. He had never been to this part of London, and as far as he knew he didn’t know anyone here, but the thought of being recognised was still unbearable.

He had dressed down for the occasion, wore washed up jeans and an Arsenal t-shirt. It felt terribly foreign —he hadn’t been out in civilian clothing for a long time— but bullet proof suits really didn’t protect against this. And it felt like he would stand out more if he’d come here dressed for work.

Not to mention, this wasn’t Kingsman related.

He was here to take the HIV test. What had finally tipped him over was hard to say, but one morning, before going into the shop he had picked up the phone and made the call. He had barely slept since then and had been half-hoping that Hamish would send him to Hong Kong or something so that he’d miss it. Two days ago he had almost volunteered to go to Basra.

Instead he had spent a lot of time at the firing range, trying to convince himself that his fears were disproportionate. What was a virus in his cells compared to a bullet in his chest, really? One thing was certain, though. If he had it, he’d find a way to have that bullet get him before anyone else had to know.

Not by his own hand, though. At least he didn’t think so now, but who knew what he’d feel when he got the result. Only if he was positive, of course. If…

He’d find a bullet to step in front of. He had only promised Hamish to stop talking about it, he hadn’t actually promised him to not do it.

If…

“Harry,” said a woman. He snapped out of his head. The woman, the nurse, smiled when she met his eyes. “This way, please.”

Lancelot frowned at the sight of Harry standing outside her door at seven in the evening. She was wearing her glasses, but jeans and a way too colourful jumper instead of her suit. Harry had seen her in civilian clothes many times before, but it always threw him.

She took a step back to let him in. “What’s happened? You look like shit.”

Harry handed her a folded paper and walked straight past her into her kitchen without bothering taking off his coat. The kitchen smelled of reheated dinner and oddly flavoured teas. It smelled a lot like a home he wished he remembered from his childhood. He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, hiding his face in his hands.

Lancelot came after him, stopping just inside the kitchen.

“It’s negative,” she said, clearly relieved. “Harry, that’s…”

Harry nodded without looking up. It was negative. He didn’t have the virus. He wouldn’t get AIDS. He was… he was… He started to cry. At Lancelot’s kitchen table. He started to cry at Lancelot’s kitchen table and he didn’t care.

At least not much.

Lancelot stepped up to him and stroked his back. After a while, he leaned against her instead of the table and she hugged him. He didn’t hug her back, he just cried. Unable to stop.

“Darling,” Lancelot whispered, moving a hand through his hair. “Oh, sweetheart… It’s all right. You cry. It’s all right.”

The softness in her voice was terrifying and did nothing to comfort him. Even if she frequently called all of them every endearment in the English language it was always with a hint of tired restraint. Harry didn’t know what to make of this caring side of his mentor.

It took almost five minutes before he could pull himself together. He kept leaning against her for another moment and Lancelot just stayed there, close and with both her hands slowly stroking his back and neck. Then, after one last deep breath, he sat up straight and dried his eyes with his hands. Lancelot reached for a serviette and put it in his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at her as he blew his nose.

She gently ruffled his hair. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Are you threatening to cook for me?” Harry asked, pressing for a smile.

“Only if you consider putting beans on toast cooking,” said Lancelot. “What do you say?”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded.

“Take your coat off and go put some water on your face,” she said. “Then you can raid the liquor cabinet while I fix you something to eat.”

Harry nodded again. He hung his coat over the back of the chair and picked the test results off the table before heading to the bathroom. Putting water on his face did nothing to help with how red and puffy eyed he looked, but it felt better. He found a fresh towel under the sink and he sat for a long time on the edge of the tub just staring into space.

These had been the longest weeks of his life, from booking the appointment to getting the results, and now it was over. For years he had been suspicious of every cough, every sore throat, every headache, and now he didn’t have to be anymore. He was relieved by the result, he was, but right now he felt mostly empty.

One thing he wasn’t, was happy. He wasn’t happy about the result. Because why him? Why not Andy and Scott and Theo and Jacob and Mike and Sebastian and Tobias?

His eyes filled with tears. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to blink them away. He couldn’t start crying again! This was a good thing. Now he could move on, he could let it go. He could… he could give all his time to Kingsman. He wouldn’t perhaps change the world for the better, but he’d make damn sure it was still here for stronger men to do it. There had to be a reason other than dumb luck that he had been spared the plague.

With one last, deep breath, he got to his feet. He carefully hung the towel over the side of the bathtub before going for the liquor cabinet in the sitting room. Before he started any attempt of making drinks, he poured a glass of gin and drank it as if it was water. He had started to really enjoy the taste of it.

“You look terrible,” said Lancelot when he came back to the kitchen, a martini in each hand. Her face was disturbingly soft though, and he wished she would go back to being rude and loud. Normal. He needed her to be normal. He gave her one of the glasses and sat down.

She tasted the martini and frowned. “You’re getting better, but ugh…”

Harry smiled. The genuine insult filled his chest with warmth. He would never make a martini that met her standards, he had accepted that idea long ago. She put down a plate with two slices of toast covered with beans in front of him, muttering about knives and forks.

“Do you want me to make up the bed in the guest room?” she asked when she handed him the utensils.

Harry nodded. Not being alone tonight was all he really wanted.

Harry went down to the control centre underneath the mansion when he got some free time the next day. With some sleep between himself and the test result (and a few martinis and some poor excuse for breakfast) Harry was actually as happy and relieved about it as he expected people to be.

Hamish was nowhere to be found. After thinking it over for all of two seconds Harry snuck into Merlin’s private office. Old Merlin had kept the place very tidy and only open to agents when he felt he needed to give them a private telling off. It had always felt like being called to the Headmaster's office and Harry had kept up his habit of staying away as much as he could.

Hamish hadn’t had enough time to make a complete mess of things here, but it was clear that he wasn’t as tidy as his predecessor.

Harry found a pen and a post-it note and started to scribble down his good news on it.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry smiled, trying to disguise the hit his professional pride had taken for being busted. He pulled off the post-it he had been writing on and held it up.

“I’m negative,” he said. “I just came down to tell you.”

A relieved smile spread over Hamish's face. He reached out and took the post-it.

“Thank you for letting me know. Now get the fuck out of my office, Galahad.”

Harry smiled, nodding once. “Merlin.”

As he passed him, Hamish grabbed him by the hand. “You’re not going to tell me who he is?”

“Who?”

Hamish held up the post-it, smiling. “The guy who’s important enough for you to finally get tested.”

“There’s no one,” Harry mumbled, having made the decision after getting the test back that it would never be anyone either. “I did it for me.”

Hamish looked at him for a moment, then he pulled him into a hug.

“Not to sound like Jenny,” he murmured, “but I’d been with you either way.”

Chapter Text

They had spent the morning boxing up Harry’s small flat to move him to the other side of the city, into a bigger flat with a french balcony and kitchen where it would be possible to actually cook food fit for humans. It was bittersweet leaving, Harry couldn’t deny that. He had lived here ever since he left the army, or perhaps more accurately, since he had become a Kingsman agent. When he’d got it, it had been the ultimate symbol of leaving his family behind. In some ways, it would probably always symbolise that for him.

Now Mr Pickle walked around the moving boxes, sniffing them suspiciously, and Lancelot had reopened the box marked “Kitchen” to make them tea while they waited for Hamish to come back with the lorry. Harry sat on the box marked “Heavy!” being of absolutely no help to either of them.

“Have you ever kissed a woman?” asked Harry, when she gave him one of the chipped Villeroy & Boch a la ferme mugs.

Lancelot laughed. “What?”

“Have you kissed a woman?”

Lancelot winked at him, leaning back against the counter in the kitchenette and raising her own carrot decorated mug to her lips.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve been a field agent for over ten years, luv. Of course I have.”

“Are you implying that Chester’s kissed a bloke? And Robert?”

“I know Martin has.”

Harry’s eyes widened. The thought of Percival having kissed a man for the sake of the Greater Good (or whatever Queen and Country was when you’re working for the entire world…) was baffling. Also, somehow, reassuring.

“I don’t think the others have,” Lancelot continued. “Which is a shame. It makes fantastic blackmail material.”

Harry tapped his finger against the mug, his signet ring clinking cheerfully. He didn’t comment and she didn’t seem to hear herself. Not that she was wrong.

“Why do you ask?”

Harry shrugged. “No, I just wonder why you— Why you’re so mad about the amendment?”

“Aw, sweetheart, are you asking me if I’m a lesbian?”

“No!”

Lancelot laughed as Harry turned red. “For the record, I’m not.”

Harry smiled, embarrassed for having brought it up in the first place but also a bit pleased that he had been right. (And that she hadn’t kept that from him if she had been.)

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to be mad about this Section 28 bullshit, though,” she said. “And no gag-law in the world can shut me up. Had it applied to me or not.”

Harry had no trouble at all believing that. Not even a week ago she had called out Tristan for some inane joke about how bullets were a cure for homosexuality. It was exhausting having her jump on everything, and sometimes Harry just wanted her to shut up, to let it pass rather than bring attention to it. It still felt infinitely better to hear her go on about it, than hearing his government tell him that children should be protected from learning that men like him even existed.

“You know, I voted for the Witch in -79,” said Lancelot suddenly.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You voted Conservative?”

“I voted for her,” Lancelot repeated. “Not sure that makes it better or worse, to be honest. I wanted a woman, okay? I didn’t know she’d end up being the Devil. Sue me!”

“I saved her life.”

The statement hung in the air until Lancelot shook her head. “I’m sorry about that.”

“She’s the prime minister.”

“She is a god awful, queer hating bigot.”

“She’s still the prime minister.”

“Yeah, yeah… And I’m still sorry about that.”

“So much for changing the world...”

“Well, no one said it had to always be for the better,” she said with a sigh, but then she smiled. “Don’t worry too much about it. As long as we keep saving the world, we can afford to play the long game.”

“Since when are you an optimist?”

Lancelot shrugged. “I’m not, but nobody questions my right to vote these days so… It can happen.”

Harry raised his mug to that, because there was something inherently hopeful about Lancelot being able to vote another woman into power. No matter what that woman ended up doing to people like him.

“To the long game,” he said. Lancelot raised her mug as well.

There was a persistent ringing in Harry’s ears.

“That’s to be expected when you stand close to an explosion,” the Kingsman doctor told him when he was done changing the compress on the second degree burn Harry had on his arms.

He’d probably be out a few weeks, but it had been worth it. For the first time since joining the agency, Harry had been sent out on a mission with Lancelot. Usually, Lancelot was teamed up with Gawain, but Gawain was in Somalia again so with just some gentle suggesting, Harry got to come with her to Belfast.

Other than the ears and the arms, Harry had got away with just some burned hair. Lancelot on the other hand had taken a hit in the head with a flowerpot, knocking her out cold.

“Momentarily,” she said, as the doctor tried to get her to follow his finger with her eyes. “It wasn’t Baby Galahad who got us out, trust me.”

“Agent, please?” the doctor said with the tired resignation of someone who’d given up on being listened to.

Lancelot sighed, but started to follow his finger with her eyes. “They checked us out before we got on the plane. Is this really necessary, luv?”

The question was directed at Hamish, who stood by the wall, the clipboard that had become his constant companion in his hand and a grim look on his face

“Yes, if I make this inconvenient enough for you it might make you think twice before using a bomb as a diversion. In Belfast.”

“It was the most efficient way to do it,” Lancelot said. “I had to improvise, the tie pin didn’t produce enough smoke so I had to rely on the lighter.”

“And because it was Belfast we could get away with it,” said Harry, inappropriately happy. “Probably won’t even make the news.”

“I don’t know which one of you I had expected would keep the other in check,” muttered Hamish. He tore off a piece of paper from his clipboard and gave it to Lancelot. “Take this to R&D when you’re released and explain to them what didn’t work for you with the pin.”

He turned on the spot and left. Harry flinched when the door slammed shut.

Lancelot looked at Harry, grinning. “He’s going to make a fine Merlin.”

Harry laughed. He had never doubted that.

Lancelot, wearing a blood red evening dress, did a phoney curtsy on stage after having led them all in the Soviet National Anthem. It had been a tradition at the Christmas party since long before Harry had joined the agency. It felt wrong, but all the older agents seemed to find it both fitting and hilarious, so who was he to say anything?

Lancelot jumped off the stage —how anyone could move like that in heels baffled Harry— and got a hug and a kiss from Gawain and a glass of punch from Tristan. Harry was too far away to hear what the older agents were saying over the music that was put back on now when the singing was done.

Hamish sat down next to him, tipsy and smiling. Beautiful. He was beautiful when he smiled like this. Harry very rarely saw him do it, especially after the promotion.

“You know what Merlin used to say?” he asked.

“You’re Merlin.”

“You know what Merlin used to say?” Hamish repeated, a little bit louder. “He used to say that the only good thing coming out of the Cold War is Lancelot’s singing.”

Harry rolled his eyes and took a big gulp of his whisky. “We’re bloody lost, then.”

“Probably. She has a nice voice, though.”

Harry nodded, only half listening as Hamish kept talking about things his predecessor had said and done. He was too distracted watching his own mentor and… human nails on a blackboard, because he just now noticed she wore the tie clip he’d lost as a hair clip.

“I might need you to talk me out of doing something stupid tonight,” he said, interrupting whatever it was Hamish was on about.

“Oh yeah? How stupid?”

Harry looked straight ahead, again focused on the group of older agents joking and laughing at the other side of the room. “Telling them.”

“Telling them what?”

Harry turned to him, raising his eyebrows. Hamish's eyes grew wide again. He shifted on the chair, clearly uncomfortable with that idea.

“Why all of a sudden?” he asked.

Harry sighed and let his eyes drift across the room. He wanted to tell them because there was hardly anyone left alive who actually knew him. Because this organisation was the only thing he had left in his life that he truly cared about and he wanted it to evolve past the level of a chimpanzee. Or something like that.

“Because I’m bloody drunk.”

“Bad reason.”

Harry nodded and downed his whisky. “I know, that’s why you need to stop me.”

“Right, then.” Hamish stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“What?”

“Let’s go. If you’re not here, then you can’t ruin your career. I have scotch at home.”

Harry saw the logic in that. He got up as well and let Hamish steer him out of the room. Harry threw one last look over his shoulder, in the direction of Lancelot and his tie clip. She didn’t see him leave.

Hamish had the best scotch —it would have been embarrassing otherwise— and after all of Lancelot’s martinis it was even better. Harry hadn’t lied when he said he was drunk, even if that hadn’t been his main motivator to come out tonight, and sipping on a glass of hard liquor didn’t make him less so.

They both half-sat, half-lay in Hamish’s worn down armchairs with their feet on the coffee table. They had taken off their jackets and shoes, and Hamish had got rid of his tie as well. Annoying Christmas carols were coming from the radio, but neither of them could be arsed to put on a decent record. And it was the night of the Christmas party, so in a way it was fitting.

“Am I going to have to watch every day from now on, or can I trust you to not bin your career once you’ve sobered up?” Hamish asked.

Harry shrugged.

“Damn it, Harry, just because Lancelot says—“

“Oh, do shut up, dear,” said Harry. “I’m not a complete idiot. I’m well aware how these things work. I’ve conducted barrack raids for God’s sake! I just—”

He cut himself off with a deep sigh. Hamish stared at him, but Harry avoided meeting his eyes. The barrack raids weren’t his proudest moment from the army, but what better way to throw people off your scent than trying to out others?

It really, really wasn’t his proudest moment.

“Did Old Merlin know about you?” asked Harry.

Hamish shook his head. “I didn’t tell him at least. Christ, that would’ve been something. He wasn’t like Bedivere or Lamorak, not even like Tristan, but… no, that... No. I don’t think he’d have kept me around if he’d figured it out.”

“He put up with Lancelot for long enough. The man had awfully low standards.”

Hamish laughed. “True, but at least she’s not an abomination, or what was it Bedivere said?”

“Chester’s an arse.”

“Also true.”

“Do you ever wonder if we’ve met before all of this?” asked Harry to change the subject. “At one of Theo’s rallies or something?”

“Didn’t pick you as a very active gay lib,” Hamish said with a smirk.

“God no, I was terrified, but I was dragged to a lot of them.”

“By?”

“Braver friends.”

Hamish raised his glass. “To braver friends.”

“Braver friends.”

“I don’t think we met back then,” said Hamish after they had finished most of what was in their glasses. He took his feet off the table to be able to reach the bottle. “I’d remember. I mean, have you seen yourself?”

“What?”

“Come off it. There’s a reason they send you on all the honeypots.”

Harry blinked, feeling slow and stupid. Hamish’s earlobes were bright red.

“Just saying, if I’d met you when we were out and…” Hamish waved his hand in the air. “I would have remembered you.”

Harry was drunk enough to interpret that as an invitation. He was, however, sober enough to realise that it probably wasn’t. So all he did was hold out his glass for Hamish to refill it. Tomorrow would be an absolute nightmare.

Chapter Text

Harry cursed when he couldn’t find his keys. It was late. He had been out in the field for three months before a stupid mistake (all his fault) had blown his cover and he’d had to do a premature exit to not ruin the entire mission.

He was tired to the bone and mad at himself for fucking this up. He hadn’t even stopped by the shelter to get Mr Pickle on the way home. All he wanted was to take a shower, have a whisky and then go to bed. He had strict orders to present himself in Arthur’s office tomorrow morning.

Once inside, he regretted not having picked up his dog. The house felt empty and haunted without him. Harry pushed the mail from the doormat with his foot and dropped his duffle on the floor with no consideration of either.

The pulsating red light on his answering machine called out to him like a beacon. He sighed. The only people who ever left messages on it were his mother and sister and he didn’t have the energy for either of them. Yet he pushed the rewind and then play.

It wasn’t his mother or his sister, but it was a familiar female voice that came on.

“Hi, Harry, it’s Rachel,” said the crackling recording of Tobias’ sister. “I just wanted to… Toby died yesterday. Pneumonia. It, it was time. I know you two were— I thought you wanted to know. The funeral will be on the 15^th, if you want to come. I know it didn’t end well between you, but… I know Toby understood why you joined the army. I know he did. So if you want to… ”

She trailed off. Harry heard her take a deep breath and clear her throat before rattling off the information about the funeral home and time of day. She even gave her phone number, in case he wanted to call her back.

“Don’t worry about our parents, they won’t be there,” she said, ending the call.

Harry stared at the answering machine, feeling numb. He hadn’t thought about Tobias in a while, he hadn’t thought about any of it in a while. Being undercover had its perks. He wondered what day the message was from, but the funeral was in two days nonetheless.

He picked up the phone and dialled Hamish’s phone number, but no one answered. Harry hung up with his finger on the cradle. He took a deep breath before he removed the finger and dialled a new number, this time to the shop.

“This is Galahad,” he said when he got the switchboard. “Is Merlin still there?”

“I’ll transfer you,” said the young man whose voice Harry didn’t recognise.

“Galahad?” Hamish asked, confused when he picked up. “I thought you were sent home awaiting trial?”

“Hamish…”

“Harry? What’s wrong?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Can you come to a funeral with me?”

There were twenty-seven people at Tobias’ funeral, including the rabbi. All of them were under 30. Rachel gave Harry a hug and shook Hamish's hand when they arrived at the funeral home. She looked so small and fragile —two things she wasn’t— and thanked them three times for coming.

Hamish wore the suit he had finally got for himself and he had dug up two kippahs from somewhere. Harry suspected they were taken from the undercover department, but he didn’t care enough to ask. Instead he just put it on before going there. Harry felt awkward and like a complete hypocrite when he did. Tobias had been so upset with him when he had found his kippah in a desk drawer and tried it on once.

They sat down as far back as they dared. With only twenty-six people attending, it would have been odd to sit in the very back row as Harry usually did at funerals. Either that or standing by the door so that he could slip out whenever.

This was different. Tobias had been different. He wouldn’t slip out this time.

He looked around. The only person there from Tobias’ family was Rachel. Harry didn’t judge her parents too harshly. Tobias had had a strained relationship with them since before he met him. It had been one of the things that had brought them together. Harry remembered Tristan’s joke about coming out and distantly wondered if his own parents would attend his funeral if it would force them to face the truth of who he was the way Tobias’ death would have forced his parents to.

When the service started, Hamish put his hand on top of Harry’s. As a reflex, Harry pulled it away. Hamish didn’t let himself be discouraged and made another attempt. This time he took Harry’s hand instead of just touching it, and even though Harry flinched at first, he soon squeezed Hamish’s hand. This was why he had asked him to come after all. A hand to hold. A shoulder to cry on.

And cry he did, quietly and discreetly.

The service wasn’t that different from all the others he had been to during these last years. The readings were different. As were the hymns. And the lack of flowers. Harry desperately wanted to have brought Tobias flowers. Tulips. Tobias had loved tulips. Tobias deserved tulips. He had brought flowers to so many funerals.

Too many funerals.

Far too many.

Harry knew two of the men carrying Tobias’ casket. He felt a stab in the gut for not having been asked. It was petty, he knew that, but he still felt it.

They followed the rest of the small group out of the funeral home and stood in the back as the casket was lowered into the pre-dug grave. Harry’s grip on Hamish’s hand tightened and he spent almost the entire time watching Rachel and the man he imagined was her husband. He was grateful she had called him, that she had reached out. She hadn’t had to.

Tobias deserved more people at his funeral, though. Perhaps the rest of the friends were gone. Perhaps that was why she had called.

Out of nowhere (or so it felt) he was handed a small shovel. He took it and followed the others in scooping dirt down onto the casket. It felt like he was burying not only Tobias, but the life he might have lived, had he been just a little bit braver.

When it was all over, and the people who had known Tobias at the time of his death started to retreat to wherever they would go, Harry said goodbye to Rachel and thanked her for being invited.

“He forgave you a long time ago,” she said when she hugged him. Harry knew that, but it was nice of her to remind him. He really wished he’d had some comforting words to offer her back.

Side by side, both with their hands in their pockets, Harry and Hamish left. It felt good leaving, as if the London traffic put distance between the calmness of the funeral and the life he had chosen to live.

“Who was he?” Hamish asked when they had walked a couple of streets. Harry looked at him, feeling stupid for not having told him. It was their deal though. Company without questions. Support without prying.

“He was… He…He was a reason I considered coming out to my parents.”

“But you didn’t?”

Harry shook his head. ”I enlisted during summer break. I wrote him a Dear John-letter. He called me to talk sense into me, as he put it. We both said a lot of things we shouldn’t. It didn’t… It didn't go well. Then he called me again out of the blue three years ago, left a message on my machine. Took me almost a month to call him back.”

“He wanted to tell you?”

Harry nodded. “And to urge me to get tested.”

“Did you ever tell him that you did?”

“No, he… he was pretty far gone by then. It felt like I would just rub it in.” Harry pressed for a smile, but it crumbled, his throat burning again. “I figured it was better to let him die thinking I’m still a coward.”

“You’re not a coward.”

“If I wasn’t, I would have a degree in lepidopterology, not a green beret.”

Hamish didn’t reply to that. It stung. Not that Harry would have believed that he was sincere if he had, but the silence made it feel like he agreed in spite of his initial protest.

“Are you out to your parents now?” Hamish asked.

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to them since I joined Kingsman. Dad wasn’t too thrilled that I left the army to become a tailor, but that was just the final nail after a lifetime of disappointments. You?”

“My mum called me after they started running the ads, told me to stay safe,” Hamish said. “Didn’t think they knew.”

Harry managed to smile, even though a wave of envy almost knocked him to the ground. Hamish didn’t seem to notice and —as was their habit— changed the topic of conversation to a made up football game as he held up the door to the pub.

Harry followed his lead, but in the back of his head he made a mental note to make sure to contact Hamish's parents if he died, because they would probably come to the funeral.

Chapter Text

Very carefully Harry lifted the butterfly from the humid box —or jar, really. He looked at it, turned it over in the palm of his hand with the tweezers. It was beautiful.

He moved it so that he held it between his fingers and tested to see if it was properly hydrated. He would have been surprised if it hadn’t been, because it had been in the humid box for almost two days. The wings moved nicely. He reached for a pin and placed it in the insect’s thorax before he stuck it to the pinning board.

It was years since he had done this, and he had forgotten how soothing it was. It was almost impossible to think about anything but what he was doing. Stretching the delicate wings, one by one, making sure they were symmetrical, pinning them in place.

He had got his first kit for pinning butterflies from his grandfather when he was a kid. The one he used now was a gift from Tobias. The first and only Christmas present he had given him. Harry hadn’t bought him anything, partly because Tobias was Jewish and it had felt insensitive or inconsiderate or pushy or something to give him a Christmas present but mostly because Harry hadn’t quite accepted that perhaps they were close enough to give each other presents yet.

He still felt bad about that.

There were many things he still felt bad about when it came to Tobias.

When all the wings were properly in place Harry just sat and looked at it. A sense of pride spread in his chest. It wasn’t perfect, but it definitely was good enough and perhaps he hadn’t buried everything about the man he was with Tobias.

This was a small part of his old life reclaimed, a part that he had enjoyed and —as he realised now— missed.

Chapter Text

Percival was the second agent who died since Harry joined the agency, but he was the first who he’d had the time to get to know. All of it felt really strange, one day he was there and the next a bullet ripped through his chest. Unlike all the young people dying a slow death due to a virus, unlike Merlin who had been old, it felt like Percival’s death came out of nowhere. In their line of work, it shouldn’t come as a shock, but it did.

For some reason, death was always shocking when it involved people he cared for.

Lancelot was one of the six agents who carried Percival’s coffin. She cried. Silently, yet unashamed. In 1972, Percival had been the one recruiting her out of the police academy. She rarely talked about her relationship with him, but when she did, she usually told Harry that, for all her flaws, at least she was a better mentor than Percival and that he should be grateful. Seeing her openly mourn Percival’s death made Harry wonder what to make of that.

Outside, when Percival was loaded onto the hearse that would carry him to the cemetery, the other agents patted Lancelot on the arm, stroked her back. No one said anything, no one had to. No one offered her a handkerchief, because all of them knew she wouldn’t accept it. Harry, having seen too many people cry at too many funerals, hugged her without thinking twice about it. It probably shocked a lot of their colleagues when she hugged him back.

“Don’t you dare pick an unworthy candidate and embarrass me,” she whispered in his ear. “Those are some giant shoes to fill.”

“I’ll make you proud,” Harry whispered back and let go of the hug. “Martinis at your place tonight?”

“Thanks, but…” She shook her head, sighing. “Really, thank you, but I don’t feel like company.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be home by the phone if you change your mind.”

She took his arm, or rather let him take hers, and rested her head against his shoulder as they walked after the others.

“Make damn sure I don’t have to bury you too, Galahad,” she said. “I don’t think I could take that.”

“Were you drinking during the service?”

Lancelot laughed. It was short, but it was a laugh.

“No, but Martin wouldn’t have minded if I had,” she said. “Did I ever tell you he was the one who taught me to make a martini? Made terrible jokes about it being a Martin-i… Tosser.”

She went on, telling him stories about her mentor he had never heard before. All of them funny, all of them kind. They were nothing like the stories she had told him previously, and they didn’t match Harry’s own memory of their colleague, but he was sure they were all true. People were complicated like that. He listened carefully, because he was fairly sure he would never get a chance to hear them again.

“Cats.”

Harry sat on Hamish’s bed as Hamish dug through his closet to find something to wear. Harry wasn’t completely sure what he was looking for, other than apparently anything other than what he owned. The day after tomorrow, the training of the new recruits would start and to say that Hamish was nervous was probably an understatement.

Hence the closet raid.

Hamish threw yet another t-shirt on the bed. “What?”

“Instead of dogs. You should make the recruits train cats.”

“You serious?”

“No.”

“I should let the handlers train cats, though,” Hamish muttered, holding up a striped shirt with a frown. “Much easier than trying to keep you lot in check.”

Harry snorted.

Hamish threw the striped shirt on the bed next to Harry, on top of the ever-growing pile of rejected items.

“How much clothes do you even own?” asked Harry. “I think I’ve only ever seen you in polo shirts.”

“And suits, but I can’t very well wear that.”

“What do you want to look like?”

“Like Merlin.”

“You are Merlin.”

“Yes, but not… Merlin.”

“You want to look like a 70 year old ex-marine?”

“Well, it’s better than a balding computer engineer,” muttered Hamish. “Seriously. I’ve looked over the people you have picked and the oldest is only three years younger than me.”

“So?”

“How well would 25 year old you have responded to a 28 year old Merlin?”

“Probably better than 30 year old me does.”

In spite of himself, Hamish cracked a smile. Harry saw it as a victory.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “They’ll eat out of your hand no matter what you wear. It’s after we become knights that we lose our ability to follow orders.”

“Tell me about it.” Hamish tossed another shirt on the bed. “I give up.”

He started to move the clothes from the pile back to the closet. Harry sighed, but started to fold the shirts and gave them to Hamish. He wanted to tell Hamish that he was being childish and stupid, obsessing about the clothes —it would go great whatever he wore, Harry was sure of it— but he remembered all too well the feeling of putting on his first Kingsman suit. It was important for the part he played. The modern knight’s armour.

He handed Hamish three neatly folded polo shirts. “Are you serious about wanting to dress like Old Merlin?”

“I don’t know? Maybe? Not exactly like—”

“Because I got a few jumpers with me when I left the army that would probably fit you...”

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had been called to Merlin’s office (he still thought about it that way, because thinking of it as Hamish’s office felt strange) to, as Harry had believed, give a report on what had been a fairly uneventful, though successful mission. A break in, a few slit throats, some leaked documents… The usual. And as a result there were still just six nuclear states.

Instead…

“You’re benching me?”

“Yes,” said Hamish, refusing to take his eyes off his damned clipboard. “We’re in the middle of a recruitment process so we can afford—”

“—to bench our agents!”

Hamish looked up, narrowing his eyes.

“Seriously, what’s your problem?” asked Harry.

“My problem? My...?” Hamish gaped. “You risked the lives of countless civilians and the integrity of this agency. That’s unacceptable.”

“I made a call. It’s part of the job. I’m not going to apol—”

“Do you know what’s part of my job?” asked Hamish, talking over him. “Getting the fucking call. Because as Merlin, I’m listed as every single one of you fuckers’ next-of-kin. Then I have to go up to Arthur and tell him that he has lost an agent. That’s my job.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that…? You all but stole plutonium with your bare hands! I know you don’t have much respect for your own life, but—”

“I got the job done!”

“—I’ve lost too many friends to a bloody virus to lose you to your own stupidity!”

The air went out of the room, out of both of them. Harry blinked, unsure he had heard that right.

“You can’t drag that into this,” he said, his voice trembling with restraint, “and I’m not going to apologise for doing my job.”

“And I’m not going to explain why or how I do mine. You’re suspended until further notice, Galahad.”

“Merlin.”

Harry turned on his heel and walked straight out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he left.

Harry watched as the nurse swabbed his arm with alcohol, it was cool against his skin. He was nervous. Everyone at Kingsman —especially the agents— were encouraged to donate blood. Harry had done it twice before realising that he really shouldn’t, even after they had found a way to screen for the virus he had made sure to not having to do it.

Now, almost sure that he didn’t have it, there was no reason not to. He wouldn’t put his colleagues in danger and he wouldn’t be outed by a test result. There was no excuse not to do his bit. Especially if Hamish had decided that he wasn’t allowed to do anything else productive for a while…

“Ready?” asked the nurse.

Harry nodded and looked away. One can be an international superspy and still not be fond of needles. As he felt the warmth of his own blood against his skin as it filled the tube, he smiled. He could be normal, after all.

Harry was a bit surprised when he opened the door and found himself face to face with Hamish. They hadn’t seen each other in five days, both being very good at avoiding the other since their argument. Now Hamish stood outside his home, holding a bag of chips, by the smell of it.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Harry stepped aside, putting Mr Pickle back on the floor once he had closed the door. The dog went straight for Hamish, jumping up to greet him as if Harry hadn’t spent the better part of a year training the little shit to not do things like that.

“I’ve been told agents die,” Hamish said, bending down to give Mr Pickle some attention, and in that avoiding looking at Harry, “that you’re all expendable, and that I should get over myself.”

Harry snorted to hide a laugh. “If that’s an apology…”

“It’s not.” Hamish sighed and straightened up after giving Mr Pickle a last scratch behind the ear. “This is: I’m sorry. I was very unprofessional, but I want you to know that even if I can put a new body in your chair, you’re not expendable to me.”

Harry blinked, he had no idea what to reply to that.

“You’re back on active duty,” said Hamish, clearing his throat. “Truth be told, I never finished the paperwork to pull you off it to start with.”

“Right,” Harry mumbled. “Do you want some chips? I have beer in the fridge.”

Hamish smiled. “Sure, that— Sure.”

Harry handed him the bag of chips and sent him off to the sitting room while he got the beer. They watched reruns on the telly as they ate and drank, all activities very clear diversions to not having to continue the conversation.

“Just so you know,” Harry still said as the late night news came on, “I’m taking every possible precaution to just be killed by my own stupidity.”

Hamish smiled, if barely. “Me too.”

Harry took a swing of his beer. Wasn’t this a sad state of things?

Chapter Text

Harry had lost his focus early on during the briefing, so he wasn’t sure how they had ended up here, but somehow they had. Homophobia presented as reasonable arguments for national security. Gays and lesbians were easily blackmailed and therefore a security risk. They shouldn’t be allowed to serve... for the sake of the nation, of course. He had heard it all before. He had said it himself.

He was just back from Harare, overseeing the election and watching Robert Mugabe be sworn in as president of Zimbabwe again —or Southern Rhodesia as he had accidentally called it three times. He had never felt more like a white, imperialistic arse and it was a sobering experience. Perhaps that was why his patience was running thinner than usual with all these other entitled pricks who were discussing things they had no idea what they were talking about.

His hands were balled into fists under the table and he kept his head down as he tried to block out what they were talking about. He had promised himself to not do this in anger, but his colleagues made it so difficult for him sometimes. He made the decision just as Tristan stopped to take a breath during his monologue about how it was better for morale to not have poofs in the military.

“It’s not true,” Harry said quietly, before he managed to talk himself out of it. His heart beat fast, but the only one who seemed to have heard him was Arthur who gave him a quick glance.

“It’s not true,” he said again, louder this time just as Tristan started to speak again. “We’re not the security risk, you are.”

This time everyone heard him and everyone looked at him. He briefly looked at first Hamish and then Lancelot —the first looking horrified and the second mildly surprised— before he locked eyes with Tristan.

“The barrack raids, the discharges, the abuse… that’s what make us security risks, not that we’re gay,” he said, surprised that he sounded so calm when he was vibrating with rage —and quite frankly, fear. “If you’ve got nothing to lose by being gay, then there’s nothing that can be used to blackmail you. We’re just security risks because that’s what you make us.”

A pressing silence filled the room. He didn’t dare to look at Hamish or Lancelot again, but he let his eyes wander over his other colleagues. All of them just stared at him. He was pretty sure no one had missed him speaking in first person plural, lumping himself with the people they claimed to consider security risks to justify their bigotry. He knew what Lancelot had said about not losing his job over this, but he had never quite believed her and right now, with these eyes on him, he didn’t really care.

“Well said,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence and looking at the men around the table. Harry did not meet her eyes, but to his surprise Gawain, Kay and Ector nodded in agreement.

“Anything else, Galahad?” said Arthur after clearing his throat.

“No, I think that covered what I wanted to say,” said Harry. He pushed back from the table, the chair making a horrible noise against the floor, and he stood up. “I suppose you have things you want to discuss without me here, so… Gentlemen. Lancelot.”

He nodded once at Arthur and once at Lancelot. He met her eyes briefly and she gave him a smile and a short nod in return before he turned his back to all of them and walked out of the room. He half-expected Lancelot to come running after him, but he reached the shop floor without anyone catching up with him.

He stopped and took a deep breath. Fuck… what had he done?

Hamish didn’t seem very surprised to find Harry sitting in a corner of the control room underneath the Tailor shop. It was half an hour since he had left the briefing, and Harry was going out of his mind. It felt a little like awaiting a pardon or an execution.

“There’s tea,” Harry said. “It’s probably cold now, but there’s tea. I made… tea.”

Hamish put down his clipboard, smiling slightly. “Do you want something stronger than tea?”

Harry shook his head. Scotch sounded like a bad idea right now.

“Do you want to talk or are you hiding?”

Harry glared at him. “Neither.”

“Bollocks,” said Hamish, putting on the kettle again. “You’re never down here.”

“Hiding, then.”

“From Lancelot or from the rest of them?”

Harry laughed joylessly. “All of them, I think.”

“Bloody Hell, Harry,” Hamish muttered. He poured out the cold tea and put on a fresh pot. As he waited for it to finish, he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Harry. “What were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” he said. “I couldn’t— Fuck. Fuck! Fuck… What did they say?”

“A lot,” said Hamish, making a face. “For a group of gentlemen you lot sure love using profanities.”

“It’s the army,” Harry said, feeling weird about being lumped together with the other agents right now. “If we’re not ruined when we get there, we’re ruined when we get out.”

Hamish patted him on the knee with an encouraging smile and got up to finish the tea. Harry felt his intestines tying themselves in a hard knot, because the stalling couldn’t be good. He couldn’t take his eyes off Hamish as he made the tea, suddenly wishing he had accepted the offer of something stronger.

Fuck.

“Are you going to tell me what they said or not?” he asked just as Hamish picked up their tea mugs.

“No,” said Hamish, “but I think you’re safe.”

Tentatively, Harry reached for the tea. “Really?”

“Really, but I don’t know for sure. Lancelot sent me out of the room as soon as Bedivere started going on about AIDS.”

“He didn’t?”

“He did.”

“Chester’s an arse.”

“Mm,” said Hamish, nodding. “But it turns out Lancelot isn’t the only one in your corner, both Kay and Gawain spoke up for you.”

“Arthur?”

Hamish shook his head. “Didn’t say much. You seem to have shut up Tristan real good though, because he said nothing for as long as I was there.”

Harry blew on the tea. He was surprised that Kay and Gawain were on his side in this, they had never said a word in these discussions before. Then again, neither had Harry. He wished he could be up there in the room, listening to what was being said, but at the same time he knew it was better if he didn’t.

He wished he could say that he was at peace now that the secret was out, that this was the right decision, but he couldn’t. He felt sick. He knew he wouldn’t get any of the tea down. He just had to… wait. There was nothing else to do. He had put his cards on the table and now it was their move.

Hopefully he’d get a chance to at least plead his case if the verdict turned out to be something other than he hoped for.

Harry stayed underground for hours.

Hamish made sure to keep him busy, correcting the written tests he had held with the recruits for the Percival position earlier in the day. The recruits were a handful —rumours had it the new recruits always were— but Hamish seemed to have got the hang of what he wanted to do with the training.

Harry was appalled by some of their answers to the questions, but it was a very straightforward thing to focus on. His mind still drifted. More than once he looked at Hamish, grateful that there was at least one person who understood the magnitude of what he had just done.

“I’m heading out to the mansion now,” Hamish said just after 7 o’clock. “We’re doing night training next week and I need to make sure things are set up properly. Do you want to come with me?”

Harry shook his head. “I should get home… I can’t imagine them still being here. Not even this can be scandalous enough to be discussed for over five hours.”

“You’re probably right,” Hamish said. He hugged Harry long and hard before they parted.

Harry felt exhausted as the dressing room lift brought him back up to ground level. He fiddled with the things on the dresser, the notepad, the pen. The weird glass paperweight. It was fascinating how quickly this had become routine for him, going up and down in a bloody dressing room. Not even five years ago this had blown his mind.

The fact that this could very well be the last time he rode this lift made his chest tighten.

The lights were still on in the shop when he stepped out of the dressing room. His heart sank when he saw Lancelot waiting for him on the sofa in the front room. Bloody nuisance of a woman!

“About time,” Lancelot said, putting away her whisky when she saw him. “I’d started to think you weren’t coming this way.”

“Here to take my key and lock up after me?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I thought you trusted me.”

Harry blinked once.

“What have I told you all these years?” she asked. “You won’t lose your job because you’re queer.”

“Excuse me for going by experience.”

Lancelot smiled, shaking her head. “I’m so goddamn proud of you right now that I don’t even care that you nominated a cretin for Percival’s spot.”

“What’s wrong with John?”

“Everything, darling.” She stood up. “Do you want to share a cab home so I can give you a list?”

Harry shrugged, he supposed he could survive that. Lancelot held open the door for him as they walked out of the shop.

“I just— I’m really still a Kingsman?”

Lancelot nodded. “I’ve told you, they are good men. Also, they like you and are scared of me.”

Harry couldn’t help sighing in relief.

“Don’t relax just yet,” said Lancelot, opening the car door for him as well. “This is the beginning of the next battle.”

“Optimist.”

“Realist, you’re not the only one with experience. Now watch your fingers.” She slammed the door shut without giving him the time to move his hands, had he had them in the way.

He knew she was right, but he didn’t want to think about that now. He wanted to remain in the surprised euphoria the news that he wasn’t fired had created for as long as he could.

“Before we end today,” said Arthur, “Galahad, regarding the incident during last meeting, you haven’t broken any laws and there is nothing in our statutes that prevent men like you from serving in this organisation. Let’s not talk about it further.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped. He nodded once.

Arthur looked around the table. “It goes for all of you. This topic is closed for discussion. Any complaints should be brought up with me.”

All agents nodded.

“Good,” said Arthur. “Now, dismiss.”

The chairs scraped against the floor as they all stood up. Lancelot met his eyes and smiled. Gawain, Kay, and Ector all came up and shook his hand. It was overwhelming and Harry couldn’t help smiling. He had a feeling this wasn’t over yet, but he had more people in his corner and that felt good.

Chapter Text

Being out at Kingsman didn’t feel at all as being out at Cambridge. There were very few people at Cambridge who ever got to know him as anything other than a gay man. It had been an active choice he had made to take the opportunity to present himself as who he was to everyone right away. He had known it was a risk, but one he had been willing to take.

Stepping back into the closet had also been an active choice. He hadn’t thought so at the time, but in retrospect he knew it had been.

Coming out at Kingsman was an accident, not an unfortunate one, it turned out, but an accident all the same. At least that’s how it felt right now. The other agents changed around him, keeping a distance, very clearly avoiding certain topics. Not to mention the ones who outright ignored him or just pretended what had happened never had.

At Cambridge, he would never have let people who treated him like this into his life. Now he didn’t have much of a choice. “The next battle” as Lancelot had called it, was in so many ways harder than the first.

It really hit home how different things were now the first time he was on a joint mission. He and Gawain were in Johannesburg and Harry managed to get himself nicked by a knife. It was a scratch, doing more harm to his shirt than his skin, but it drew blood.

He saw Gawain’s look and his hesitation to even help him off the ground. It stung worse than the blade.

“I don’t have AIDS,” muttered Harry when the job was done and they got back to their hotel room. He shut himself in the bathroom, closing the door in Gawain’s face as he tried to apologise. He didn’t want to hear it.

The fabric had stuck in the wound and trying to get it loose to be able to patch it up hurt like Hell. He had to stop on multiple occasions just to breathe through it. That was the reason his eyes teared up.

Or so he kept telling himself.

Being out also didn’t seem to stop some of his fellow agents from keeping on talking as if there were only heterosexuals in the room. Perhaps Kay thought about the words he used more, but he was also the only one.

Nor did it stop Lancelot from biting every time someone did say something homophobic. And for some reason that felt more humiliating than anything Bedivier or Tristan or any of them said. As if he needed her protection, as if he couldn’t stand up for himself. The little poof needed a woman to defend him.

After a meeting, where a fairly innocent comment from Bedivier about how Gawain’s candidate was clearly a sissy from the way he’d screamed when he got hit with the rubber bullets had escalated to a verbal sparring session between him and Lancelot, Harry’d had enough.

“Jenny, can I have a word?” he asked as they all started to scatter in the hallway.

“Sure, luv,” said Lancelot. She gave Gawain a pat on the upper arm. “See you down there, don’t start without me.”

Gawain laughed and made no promises, but for some reason he winked at Harry. Harry had no idea why and it made him even more annoyed.

“This seems serious,” Lancelot said, only half-joking, when Harry opened the door to the cigar lounge on the other side of the hallway. “What’s wrong?”

Harry carefully closed the door behind them, taking an extra, deep breath through his nose before turning around. Lancelot leaned against the back of one of the leather chairs, puzzled and concerned.

“You have to let me take these fights now,” said Harry.

Lancelot frowned. “Which ones?”

“The… queer ones.”

“But you don’t.”

“They are my fights to take, now it just looks like I’m hiding behind you.”

“Today wasn’t about you.”

“Yes, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’ve told you, it’s not personal, it's systematic.”

“But it’s my problem! It’s my choice. I’m fine with it.”

Lancelot straightened up a little, looking at him as if he was mad. “You’re fine with it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? And more importantly, how?”

“You don’t get it.”

“Clearly not.”

“Sometimes you just have to… not make a big deal out of it. Every time you open your mouth you remind them about it. Every time! I’m never going to be one of them again if you keep reminding them that I’m not.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice condescending. “You can’t even begin to imagine the amount of shit I’ve taken in that room. How much I’ve had to swallow to just be at that table. And yet not a single one of you fuckers treats me like an equal. They won’t forget that you’re bent just because I shut up.”

“Then why can’t you just shut up for both our sakes? Why can’t you—”

“Hamish is in the room too.”

Harry stopped.

“Hamish is in the room too,” Lancelot said again, calmer, quieter. “And he’s still voiceless. If you want me to take a step back, I will, but then you have to remember that he’s there too with no way to push back against any of it. And if you’re not going to do it, then I am. Because we can’t let them get away with it, even if it’s ‘just’ calling Clemens—”

“I think it’s Clark?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Even if it’s ‘just’ calling whatshisface a sissy, we can’t let them get away with it.”

“Why not?”

“Because who we are cannot be an insult!” Lancelot took a deep breath through her nose. “If they insult you I don’t give a fuck, you’re a vain, naive idiot, but if they use what you are as an insult I’m not going to let it slide. Do you understand the difference?”

Harry nodded, he understood but he didn’t agree.

“Good,” she said. “Anything else you want to be a man about and tell me what I can or cannot do, or am I allowed to go get my arse kicked by Thomas?”

“No.”

“Lovely.”

With that she left, closing the door just a little too hard. Harry exhaled through his nose. He really was a naive idiot for thinking that he could talk the stubborn woman out of anything.

William, one of the younger tailors, stopped Harry as he was about to climb the stairs at the back of the shop. Harry, one foot already on the lowest step, turned around, racking his brain as to what he had forgotten to do this time.

“I’m running late to the Table,” said Harry. “Is it important?”

“No, I just, I never catch you alone and I wanted to tell you that I think that was awfully brave what you did.”

He extended his hand. Harry looked at it, frowning, before taking his foot off the step and reaching out to shake William’s hand. It took another moment before the situation clicked and a soft warmth spread through Harry.

“It was that or exploding,” he said as he let go.

“Still. Awfully brave.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Harry smiled. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known, hadn’t even considered…

“I need to go upstairs,” he said.

“Of course. Didn’t mean to keep you.”

They both nodded and Harry headed up the stairs. He had to put a lot of energy into not accidentally smiling during the meeting, as Hamish gave them all updates on what a terrible state the world was currently in and how awful the recruits had performed on the parachute test.

Mr Pickle went absolutely crazy when he saw Lancelot standing outside the door. Or perhaps it was because of the bag she was carrying which clearly contained food.

“Young Merlin said chips were a good way to get in the door,” she said, holding up the bag.

Harry frowned as he opened the door properly to let her in while keeping Mr Pickle from the door with his foot. “What are you on about? Haven’t you made yourself nine copies of my key?”

“They are just for emergencies, luv,” she told him. “I’m not in the habit of breaking into my colleagues' homes.”

“Mhm…” Harry muttered and took the bag from her. “I still don’t get why you’d need to bring chips.”

“I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow,” she said. “Should be just in and out, but you never know with that place.”

Harry nodded.

Lancelot cleared her throat. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. In case I…”

“Sorry for what?”

“Honestly, why do I bother?” Lancelot sighed and took off her jacket. “Let’s eat the chips before they are completely cold and soggy.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that and soon they sat on his sofa with the chips between them, still in the newspaper. Harry had even brought out some lukewarm beer.

“I suppose I’m getting old,” Lancelot said after a swing of the beer. “Aware of my own mortality or some shit but I didn’t want to go into the field with the last thing I said to you is that you’re a misogynistic arse just because you happen to have an opinion of how I do things.”

“Is that what you called me? I thought you said I was a naive idiot.”

“That part’s true, so I won’t apologise for it.”

“You don’t have to apologise for the other part either.”

Lancelot raised her eyebrows. “Telling me what I can and cannot do again, are we, Galahad?”

Harry rolled his eyes. She held out her bottle to lightly clink it with his, and he complied.

“I just don’t want to leave it like that,” Lancelot said. “You tried to stand up for yourself, and there’s nothing wrong with that, even if I don’t agree with how you do it.”

“You really are sentimental tonight.”

“I blame Martin,” Lancelot muttered. “That fucker haunts me.”

Harry took a couple of chips to stop himself from saying something stupid, but he was fairly sure that Lancelot would haunt him until his dying days. For better, for worse.

“Apology accepted,” he said once he had swallowed the chips.

Lancelot smiled at him.

“Don't take that as permission to die, though. Because I'm not going to forgive you for that.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Lancelot said, giving him a mocking salute. “Now go make me a martini, can't meet the comrades completely sober or they'll be suspicious.”

Harry didn't even bother rolling his eyes again. He just obeyed. He might have stood up to her once, but when it came to Lancelot, he was still very much a well trained puppy.

And if Moscow would turn out to not be just a quick in and out, he didn't want to pass on the opportunity to drink with her one last time.

Chapter Text

Andrew Miller, 1958-1985

Harry wrote the name and the years on the back of the frame with a pencil. He turned it around, looking at the Pachliopta aristolochiae he had mounted inside the box. Andy, who had loved roses.

He put it aside and took the next frame box, this one containing an Aglais io. On the back he wrote Theodore Morison, 1961-1985.

On the back of a Papilio glaucus he wrote Scott Roberts, 1960-1985.

There was a large box with seven butterflies in it on which he had written Patrick, David, John, Charles, Richard, and George. Another saying Martin, Jonathan, Brian, Steven, Matthew, and Fredrick.

On the back of a Gonepteryx rhamni he wrote, his hand a bit unsteady, Tobias Behar, 1961-1987.

Each butterfly got a name and a date, hidden against the wall so that no one but him knew. He hung the butterflies in his sitting room first. Then when the walls weren’t enough he continued into the hallway and the stairs.

He knew which name was behind every single one of them.

Chapter Text

They had a new Percival, Tristan’s candidate. Lancelot wasn’t all that pleased —probably more because it was Tristan who had won than anything against the new Percival per se. Her own candidate had failed the written exam and Harry’s had missed the parachute mark, which meant Lancelot owed him 10 quid.

The new agent was 27 years old, the youngest son of a viscount, with an unfinished degree at Oxford and a career with the Royal Marines. And collector of pocket watches. He was eerily similar to the rest of them. Harry had always thought of himself as completely different from his fellow agents, but if he changed ‘pocket watches’ to ‘butterflies’ he and this Alastair fellow had basically the same CV.

As tradition held it, they all went out to get the new knight properly pissed (as well as his mentor). Harry only had very fuzzy memories of his own first night as a knight, but he was pretty sure he had enjoyed it. He wondered if they had managed to get Lancelot drunk that night, because the few times he had seen her even close to drunk it had just been the two of them. When they were out with the other agents she only ever had two glasses of wine, at most.

Harry had taken the liberty to suggest an additional activity to the evening: since this was the first agent Hamish had trained as Merlin, it seemed only fair that they’d try to get him sloshed as well. Everyone —except maybe Hamish— had thought it was a splendid idea.

They were at the gentlemans’ club where all the knights were members. Lancelot stood out like a sore thumb even with her suit and tight hair do. Hamish was clearly uncomfortable and New Percival treated it as a university party with an open bar, which everyone encouraged. As the evening progressed, they naturally divided into two groups — the ones who could actually keep up with New Percival (or at least keep up the appearance that they tried), and the ones who claimed they had to work tomorrow.

The agents did their best to let New Percival know that he’d got off easy compared to them who all had had to deal with Old Merlin. Percival tried to defend his honour, but was constantly shot down.

“Parachute test, I was pissing myself,” Kay admitted.

Percival laughed. “That was nothing!”

“You laugh, but you would have done the same if you’d seen the parachutes back then. Was my first time on an aeroplane as well.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Percival said, shaking his head and looking smug. “I’m not afraid of anything. Except maybe having one of them poofs coming to get his hand on this fine arse.”

Tristan laughed, because of course he did. Ector did too, while Kay just rolled his eyes. Harry felt it as a slap in the face. The idea that the old bigots would die one day and the world would be a better place because the younger people would just be more tolerant and accepting was a lie they told themselves. Deep down Harry knew that.

Young people were arseholes too.

Old Percival had been on his side.

Harry looked straight at New Percival, and asked calmly, “You mean someone like me? Don’t worry, you’re not my type.”

Percival gaped and stared, highly undignified, but he was tip-toeing up to ‘really drunk’ so Harry wouldn’t hold that part against him seeing how that wasn’t his fault at all.

“Blimey, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean— I mean, you don’t look like a poof.”

“How does a ‘poof’ look, then?”

Percival’s cheeks turned red, stuttering something incomprehensible. Ector put his arm around Harry’s shoulder —proving that he probably had had a drink too many as well.

“Don’t torture the lad,” he said, which was hilarious, seeing how Percival was just three years younger than both of them. “It was a compliment, Galahad.”

“How?”

Ector blinked, clearly not understanding the question. And Harry got it, he really did. Not looking like a poof was a good thing. The problem was that it shouldn’t be a bad thing to look like a poof. Whatever that actually meant? Theo had been visibly queer by choice. Andy and Scott hadn’t had a choice, they had been clocked as homosexuals by everyone, everywhere they had gone. Their whole, short lives.

In Harry’s current company one would get accused of being a queer if you wore a too colourful tie…

How does a poof look?

“Are you really a…?” Percival asked, still red in the face. Still staring.

“Very much so,” said Harry, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he was afraid it would break his rib cage.

“Blimey…” Percival said again.

“Your glass is empty,” Kay said, putting a hand on Percival’s shoulder. “Let’s see to that.”

With that, he then steered Percival away from the group to get him more whisky. Harry sighed in grateful relief for that well-timed interruption, even if Tristan glared at him before walking after Kay and Percival.

“Was that really necessary?” Ector asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I bloody think so.”

He raised his own glass and almost emptied it, catching Lancelot’s eyes when he did. She gave him a smile and a very short nod. It made Harry finish what little he had left of his drink.

When the other three agents returned, they were deep in a discussion about race horses. A neutral enough topic, which both Ector and Harry could join in. In theory. Harry had a very hard time contributing to the conversation. The topic, however, made the other group of agents slowly merge with theirs, because if there was one thing they could always talk about, then it was horses.

“Harry, luv, your glass is empty,” Lancelot said, patting him on the arm. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the only person in this place who can make a decent martini.”

Grateful for the excuse to leave, Harry followed without a word and let his old mentor hound a poor bartender to make them martinis even though that wasn’t usually served here.

“Drink up,” she then said when she held out the glass to him. “Then maybe your hands will finally stop shaking enough so that I can trust them with a gun again.”

Harry glared at her and wanted to protest, but taking the martini he could see that his hands were, in fact, still unsteady. That didn’t stop him from continuing to glare at her as he sipped on the drink. As always, she seemed completely unfazed by that.

“Take Young Merlin home when you’re done, would you?” she muttered quietly to him, her back to the rest of their group. “Before he gets too drunk. It's been fun, but...”

Harry nodded, he had thought the same. Hamish had a difficult time getting the older agents to respect him as it was. It would be unnecessary to let him make a complete fool of himself tonight. And Harry had efficiently ruined his own fun by standing up for himself, so there really wasn’t much reason to stay.

“See you at the office tomorrow, then,” he said, handing her the glass back after having downed the martini, and walked back to their colleagues. She followed him shortly after, passing on her drink to Gawain, and Harry wondered if she had even tried it.

It took some time before he found an opening to get Hamish out of there without it being too obvious what he was doing. Arthur had already left, and Bedivere and Lamorak both started talking about calling it a night. (Lancelot and Gawain were nowhere to be found, but Harry was fairly sure they were still in the building and he’d rather not think about it.) There was no shame in calling it a night.

So Harry made sure they did. He got their things, he got a cab, and he signed them both out in the club’s ledger.

Hamish almost fell asleep on the ride home, and Harry had to help him out of the car and up the stairs to his flat. Mission clearly accomplished on getting him drunk tonight. Luckily, he was a quiet drunk, so he hadn't had the time to make a fool of himself.

“Are you mad I haven’t told them yet?” Hamish asked, leaning against the wall next to his front door as Harry tried to find his keys in his jacket.

“Told them what?” Harry muttered.

“That I’m gay.”

Harry frowned. “Not sure you’ve ever told me that.”

“Pretty sure I have.”

“Well, if not, it has at least been heavily implied.” He held up the keys triumphantly and shoved the jacket back at Hamish. “Aha!”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” mumbled Harry as he managed to unlock the door —perhaps he was a bit drunk too? “Take whatever time you need, but if we leave a company party together one more time, they are going to start suspecting something.”

“At least we don’t look like poofs, aye?”

Harry chuckled. Here, with Hamish, that was a funny joke. It was odd how that worked.

“Well, at least there’s that,” he said, half-pulling, half-shoving Hamish into his own home.

Hamish giggled, almost falling over as he tried to get his shoes off.

“You think I should, though?” Hamish asked when he had regained his balance. “Tell them?”

“I’m not even sure I think I should have,” Harry muttered as he bent down to pick up the jacket Hamish had dropped on the floor.

“Don’t say that,” Hamish said. “Don’t say… Just… hush.”

“Go to bed, you’re drunk.”

“And whose bloody fault is that, Galahad?”

Harry nodded once. “Merlin.”

Hamish shooed him out the door, and Harry, giggling, let him. It was time to get home anyway. For a moment he considered walking up to the main road and hailing another cab, but the night was pleasantly cool after the stuffiness of the club and he only lived a few streets away so he decided to walk.

He felt surprisingly exhilarated. And weirdly calm, now when he had left the club and his colleagues behind. He had taken something back tonight, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but in the same way these nights used to leave him feeling as if he’d chipped away a piece of himself, he now felt as if he had started to glue those pieces back again.

As he had told Ector, it was bloody necessary.

Chapter Text

Arthur had called Harry into his office. Harry wouldn’t say he was nervous, but he wasn’t all that comfortable being alone with his boss. It was something about him that reminded him too much of his dad and his uncles. Old money, peerage, public school, all things that could be used to describe him as well. He shouldn’t judge.

“Galahad,” said Arthur, eyeing the clock on the wall as only indication of annoyance that Harry was two minutes late. “Please, sit down. I have a mission for you that I want to discuss.”

Harry frowned as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. “Why isn’t Merlin giving me the assignment?”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Arthur said, “and since I’ve closed this for discussion, I will also be the one opening it up again.”

Harry tensed up. He tried his damnedest to keep his face neutral, but he was sure Arthur saw his sudden will to scream. He managed to nod once, even though he was 100% sure of what would come next.

“Are you familiar with Lord Sidney Herbert?” Arthur asked.

“Not enough to see why he’d be of any interest to Kingsman.”

“He was recruited by the KGB in 1984, the SIS has known about it since -87. They keep an eye on him, of course, but he’s classified as a non-threat. Going by the general state of Europe, however…” Arthur shook his head and sighed, capturing very well the bubbling disarray on the continent. “Well, let’s just say I disagree with their conclusions here and I think Herbert could be a good source of intelligence for us if we can just get a way in.”

“I see.”

“I know you’ve done a lot of honeypotting, but due to what you’ve recently revealed about—“

“I can still do that, sir,” Harry interrupted. “Have I ever failed a honeypot? I even got the codes from Lady Mary, and I was just as homosexual then as I—“

“Galahad, please.” Arthur held up his hand. “I know what you are, let’s not mention it more than necessary.”

Harry pressed his lips together. It felt like smoke was coming out of his ears.

“I’m not questioning your ability to go after a woman,” said Arthur after having cleared his throat. “I’m about to ask you to go after a man.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide. Arthur seemed very flustered and Harry could feel his own ears growing bright red.

“Lord Herbert is…”

“Gay?” Harry supplied.

Arthur nodded. “So our sources tell us. Usually in cases like these we try to find a different approach, but with this new information about your personal life I’m sending you to… get whatever information you can. Merlin will supply you with more information and a proper cover. I want to see a first report on my desk in one month. Will that be a sufficient amount of time?”

Harry nodded. “I think so, yes, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Harry nodded again and got up. If his head hadn’t been spinning as fast as it was, his first reaction to this assignment would have been fear.

He hadn’t touched a man in over two years.

Harry flipped through the dossier Hamish had dropped in front of him. Lord Herbert had been a busy man and it seemed like Arthur’s assessment was better than the SIS’s —not terribly surprising, but somewhat worrying. Lord Herbert seemed to be one of the few who thought the Cold War had been cold for long enough, and when seeing how the winds were blowing, strongly worked to change that.

“He’s not really my type,” he said, holding up and frowning at a photo.

“And Julia Nelson was?”

Harry laughed. “Fingers never go soft, but when you put it like that.”

“He’s not ugly.”

“Mm, true.”

Harry put down the picture and kept on turning the pages. He was looking for something, but when he didn’t find it when he reached the end, he closed the dossier and looked at Hamish.

“No medical records?”

“I tried to get them for you, I really did.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. Not knowing Lord Herbert’s HIV status wouldn’t change his approach all that much, but it would have been nice to know just for peace of mind.

“I’ll schedule a test for you for when you get back,” said Hamish, jotting it down in Harry’s file.

Harry frowned. “I’d rather not do it through Kingsman.”

“Right.” Hamish crossed over what he’d just written. “Whatever you need.”

Harry hummed and went back to reading the file. The knot in his stomach tightening, this would be an interesting mission.

“Should I be offended that Arthur’s asking me to do this?”

Lancelot looked over his shoulder and gave Harry a confused look through the mirror. She was helping him get dressed for the event where he was supposed to bump into Lord Herbert —probably because she had sensed his worry, because it wasn’t for her skills as a valet.

“He’s just asking me to do this because I’m gay,” Harry clarified.

“How many missions do you think I’ve been sent on just because I’m a woman?” Lancelot asked. “I’m going to tell you what Old Merlin told me when I was about to make stupid career decisions because of my pride: Pick your battles.”

“And you picked all of them?”

“Something like that. No, but seriously… Pick your battles. You’re not getting side lined, that's what's important. You got this mission because you’re the best agent for the job.”

“Because I’m gay.”

“And because you’re great at honeypots. It’s not like he would have sent Thomas to do it, gay or not.”

“So he’s not sending me on a suicide mission?”

She turned him around so that he was facing her instead of the mirror and started to tie his bowtie. He sighed, but let her. He would re-tie it later, because she was shit at bowties.

“Everytime we go into the field we risk getting shot in the face,” she said, focusing on the bowtie. “If Arthur wanted you gone, you would have been voted out months ago. I don’t think the thing you’re worried about even crossed his mind.”

“I’m not worried.”

Lancelot took a step back, finally leaving his personal space. “Darling, you just called it a suicide mission.”

Harry sighed again. Without even looking at the result of her attempt at tying the bowtie, he opened it —earning himself an offended glare— and turned back to the mirror to do it properly.

It bothered him that Arthur might not have even considered what it meant sending him to seduce another man. It bothered him more that there were people in the world where it was actually an option to not be aware of it.

“Tell me about the woman,” he said to distract himself.

“Who?”

“The one you kissed.”

“Men!” she said, laughing. “You’re all the same.”

He met her eyes through the mirror. “I promise I won’t have a wank to the thought of you and another woman later.”

“Not even if I say please?”

“No.”

She smiled. “You get one.”

“There are more than one?” Harry asked, turning around, wide eyed.

Lancelot held up three fingers.

“The first one,” he said without hesitation. “Tell me about the first one.”

“Alright.” Lancelot sat down on the chair in the corner of the dressing room. “It was my fifth year at Kingsman, I think, second in the field. My target was a KGB officer whose name I don’t remember…”

Harry listened to her tell how she infiltrated the KGB by accidentally seducing the target's wife, while he finished getting dressed. He got too many intimate details, but it really did distract him from the upcoming evening.

And it was an odd comfort knowing that what he was about to do wasn't a completely novel method for Kingsman.

The room was dark and quiet, the bed soft and warm. Harry lay in Lord Sidney Herbert’s arms, absently running his fingers up and down the sleeping man’s sternum. He was in bed with a Russian spy. He was in bed with a traitor. It felt very James Bond, if James Bond had slept with men. Perhaps he would though, for Queen and Country? Harry had slept with women for similar reasons, after all.

Patriotism was a strange thing, making people do even stranger things. In Harry’s case, maybe the sleeping with women part had other explanations, but still.

He lay there, with a man who had betrayed his country for money, and thought of all the people he’d buried in the last few years. Mostly he thought of Tobias, about laying like this with him in a single bed, in the small room with terrible, yellow curtains. But he also thought of Theo, about the Hell he would have brought down on Thatcher’s head. He thought about Scott, who had kept in touch in spite of it all. About Andy and how easily he had loved —if more people could be like that the world would be a better place.

He wondered why they had died when this traitor lived.

He felt dirty.

He had got what he needed though. After a few times flirting at finer establishments and then “accidentally” running into each other in a more… questionable one, Harry had the Lord wrapped around his finger. Perhaps there was something in what Hamish and Lancelot said about why he was sent on honeypots, after all.

There hadn’t really been a need to end up in bed with him. After years of trying to avoid bedding his female honeypots, he could easily have done the same now. But he hadn’t been intimate with a man for years. So now he lay here in the dark, with a traitor and war agitator, and thought about death.

Harry had never wanted a shower more in his entire life.

The report on Lord Sidney Herbert was fourteen pages long. Harry left it on Arthur’s desk three days short of the month he had been given for the assignment. With the written report Harry also provided an envelope containing nine photographs of him and Lord Herbert in various compromising situations.

It wasn’t what Arthur had asked for, but getting additional information that could be used for blackmail came standard with honeypotting, and Harry was good at this. He also knew just how effective this particular flavour of blackmail could be. He felt disgusted with himself.

“We’re not the security risk, you are.” he’d told the Table months ago. He had pointed the finger at all of the homophobes and said, ”We’re just security risks because that’s what you make us.” Yet here he was, providing evidence of another man’s homosexuality for the sole purpose of being able to control him with fear and shame. He was part of the problem.

He had been sure to label the envelope very clearly before leaving it on Arthur’s desk.

Arthur was pleased.

Harry asked Lancelot over for dinner the same night and made her the most elaborate dinner she had ever had in a private home. He didn’t give any reason and she didn’t ask. She just kept refilling his glass until he fell asleep on the sofa.

When he sobered up he went to Hamish and asked to never be sent on a mission like that again. Hamish gave him a week off and an appointment with a therapist. It was standard procedure.

For the first time, Harry kept the appointment.

Chapter Text

For two days after the mission, Harry stayed in his flat, playing with Mr Pickle and ignoring the phone. Not that anyone important called (everyone at Kingsman knew to not disturb him) but still. It was a nice decision to have made.

On the third day, Saturday, he went into the shop and borrowed one of the company cabs. He asked the driver to stop a few streets from his destination and walked for three minutes down a street with white townhouses and expensive cars parked by the pavement. For London, this was a quiet street, and with the help of the large trees on the other side of the street it was almost possible to forget that it was located in the middle of one of Europe’s largest cities.

When he reached the right house, he opened the iron gate and walked up the marble steps to the huge, black double doors. Harry felt nervous, but determined. There was one more thing he needed to do before he was completely free from the threat of being blackmailed for who he was. It was high time.

He rang the doorbell, taking a step back as he waited. He hadn’t been here in over five years.

The woman who opened the door looked surprised to see him, but her face soon lit up in a huge smile. “Harry! What are you doing here? Come in.”

“Good morning, Mrs Grant,” said Harry to the maid as he stepped inside. “Are my parents home?”

When Harry came home from his parents’ the red light on the answering machine was blinking. He sighed, dreading the message he would be subjected to. Coming out had gone just about as well as he had expected. He had hoped for someone else, obviously, but he can’t claim to be surprised.

He hadn’t done this for his parents’ acceptance, however. He had done this for himself. It still hurt —how could it not? They were his parents.

Harry stared at the angry, red light. He was a big boy, it was better to just get this over with and sever all the ties once and for all. His plan to get drunk and fall asleep on the sofa could wait a few more minutes.

So he pressed the button to rewind and then play.

“Hi Harry, it’s me,” said his sister Charlotte’s voice. “Mum called and, well... I suppose you’re not home yet or, or that you don’t want to talk. And we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, but we can, if you do. I don’t know exactly what they said, but they don’t speak for me, do you hear? I love you. And… and Harry, I miss you like crazy. It’s not like—”

Her message was cut off, but the next message was hers as well.

“Mum and dad will come around. I’m sure of it. They just need some time to adjust. I’ll talk to them. If someone’s not allowed to be alone with the children, it’s those two. Look how they screwed us up. The offer to babysit your nephew still stands. You can take me up on that any time you want. And do you want me to check in with Simon? I’m sure mum has called him as well. Know what, I’ll do that right now and let—”

The third message started.

“Damn this stupid machine!”

Harry smiled at his sister’s frustration.

“I’m proud of you, Harry. Call me when you’re ready. I love you. This doesn’t change that.”

A fourth message started.

“Hi, it’s Simon.”

Harry was surprised to hear his brother. He couldn’t remember the last time they spoke.

“I just got off the phone with mum, she was crying and didn’t make much sense, but um. She said you’re gay? Well, that’s not the word she used, but… is it true? Is that’s why you left the army? That’s… um… I mean, I suppose that would make sense? Call me, would you? I know dad probably had a fit, but um, I won’t. I mean I don’t. Didn’t. Aw, fuck. Just call me so we can meet for a beer? Or at the club. Dad's never there anymore, so don’t worry about that… Call me.”

Harry stared at the answering machine. He actually hadn’t given much thought to his siblings’ reaction to this —he had figured mum would tell them and he’d just never hear from them again— which made this all the more surprising.

He rewinded the tape and listened to the messages again. He didn’t feel in any hurry to call either of them back, but knowing that he still could eased something in his chest.

He also didn’t feel a burning need to get pissed anymore. At least not alone.

Harry picked up the phone, and dialled the number to the shop.

“This is Galahad,” he told the operator. “Can you put me through to Merlin, please?”

Because there was family, and then there was family.

Once he’s back after his week off, Harry spent another few days avoiding most of his fellow agents by checking out all of the Arabic text books from the Kingsman library. It’s not that he didn’t actually intend to learn the language eventually, but right now, it was first and foremost a hiding strategy.

He had managed to schedule an HIV-test during his R&R, and expected the results back any day now. The fact that he had always used condoms and not had penetrative sex eased the anxiety, but the wait was still about as terrible as he remembered from the last time.

So he picked learning Arabic over trying to have normal conversations with people whose job it was to gather intelligence and spy on others.

Early one morning, though, Arthur showed up at Harry’s office.

“They say you’ve been looking for me?”

Harry, having almost forgotten that he had actually asked to see Arthur, got to his feet so fast he almost knocked his knees against the desk. “Yes, sir, please, come in.”

Arthur waved for him to sit down as he closed the door behind him and pulled up another chair. Harry sat down again first after Arthur had done so. Aside from a ‘how are you settling in’-visit his first week as a knight, Arthur had never actually been to his office. Harry was acutely aware of the empty tea mugs that had started to gather on his desk.

“You did a good job on Lord Herbert, I don’t think I told you,” said Arthur before Harry managed to collect himself properly. “I’ve passed the information on and the SIS is going to deal with him.”

“Just the information?”

“Just the information.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We occasionally share information, never methods,” Arthur said. He frowned, a smile still breaking through. “I don’t think they’d care much for our methods, do you?”

Harry dared to smile as well, reminding himself that he had asked for this meeting and that he wasn’t going to be scolded by the principal. “Probably not, sir.”

“So, what did you want to talk about? Any more colourful details I should know about your personal life?”

“No, sir, I—”

“Because I’ve told Jenny that if you’re a Russian spy on top of everything I’ll strangle her.”

“No, I, eh… No, I’m not a Russian spy. I promise.” Harry managed to smile, because he was almost certain that had been a joke. The fact that he wasn’t completely sure, though, made him very uncomfortable.

“So, what, then?”

Harry cleared his throat. “I think we should make the HIV-test part of the standard medical check ups.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“It’s not a VD. Or it’s not just one, anyway. It’s a blood disease, we’re in contact with a lot of it. All of us.” Harry’s well-organised list of arguments had suddenly become very unorganised in his head. He should have written it down. “And since we try to be our own blood bank, it only makes sense that we test preemptively.”

Arthur hummed. After a moment thinking about it, he nodded. “I’ll talk to Dr Steinberg, see what he says about the feasibility of it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Nothing to thank me for, it’s far from the worst suggestion I’ve heard.”

“What’s the worst?”

“Rufus wanting to make actual jousting part of the tryouts,” Arthur said without even stopping to think about it. “Was there anything else?”

Harry shook his head. “No, sir.”

Arthur peered at him for what felt like ages. That Russian spy thing felt less like a joke for every second, but Harry didn’t look away. Then Arthur took a deep breath.

“I’ve been informed you recently told your parents you’re a queer,” he started, looking more uncomfortable than Harry had ever seen him. “Is that how you say it?”

“Did Jenny tell you?” Harry asked, his mouth dry, not really caring about word choices at the moment.

“Well, who else?” Arthur muttered. “A bloody nuisance, that woman, but I think we’d be lost without her. Don’t be too cross with her, though, I think she doesn’t trust me to keep you around and wanted to tell me you’re taking steps to protect the agency from being blackmailed.”

“That wasn’t why—”

“I don’t care. To be clear, though, Jenny’s worry is unfounded, you belong here.” Arthur sighed, slightly frustrated. “The reason I bring this up at all is that I find your parents’ reaction appalling.”

All Harry could do was blink.

“This entire agency was founded because people in my grandparents’ generation lost their sons to war,” Arthur goes on. “The fact that there are some people who cut ties with a child freely is an insult to their memory. It reflects poorly on them, not on you.”

There were no words. Nothing. Harry didn’t even know where to start processing this conversation.

“I know that doesn’t necessarily make it easier, but most of us here have, for various reasons, no meaningful connections outside of the agency —I think you know that?”

Harry nodded.

“So I hope that you too, in time, will be able to put this behind you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry managed to get out. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Arthur nodded, and cleared his throat. “Then I’ll leave you to your studies.”

He rose from the chair, more than ready to leave this conversation behind. Harry got to his feet as well.

“For God’s sake, keep your seat, Harry,” said Arthur. “I may have a king’s title, but I’m really not one.”

Harry still remained standing until Arthur had left and closed the door, then he sat down with a deep sigh. A few weeks ago he had worried about whether or not Arthur was sending him out in the field to contract AIDS and die. Now Arthur had not only agreed that HIV-testing would be good to have as a standard test, but also reassured him of his place at Kingsman while telling him his parents were wrong for not accepting who he was.

All that, in spite of clearly being uncomfortable every time the topic of queerness came up.

That was certainly worthy of more respect than being born into the line of succession, if you asked Harry.

After a couple of minutes just staring into space, Harry got up again. This time to collect all the tea mugs and bring them to the kitchenette down the hall. And to get another cuppa.

As the kettle boiled, he wondered if the wait for the test results would be more bearable if Arthur and Dr Steinberg decided to put HIV on the list of standardised tests. If the feeling of pending doom would somehow become routine?

Perhaps it would remove some of the stigma? That in itself, he knew, would be a battle half won already.

It wasn’t even two in the afternoon when Harry decorated the martini glass with some lemon peel and held it out to Lancelot. They were out at the mansion and Lancelot had just told Harry that she was HIV negative after getting her first ever Kingsman sanctioned HIV test result back, to which Harry had replied that he needed a drink.

Perhaps his hands trembled a little after Lancelot had taken the glass. He flexed his fingers as if he was cramping up for some reason.

“Would you relax?” Lancelot said. “How would you have reacted if I told you I was positive?”

“Hopefully very strong and stoic,” Harry muttered and plopped an olive in his own glass, since it was much easier than the lemon peel. The truth was that he’d probably have a complete meltdown if Lancelot tested positive for HIV. Ideally not in front of her, but it’s hard to control for some things.

“I wasn’t worried,” Lancelot said and Harry felt like throwing his drink in her face for that spectacular show of unknown privilege — how can you not be worried about a test result like this?

Lancelot tried the drink with her usual frown of disapproval, before continuing. “That is, until I got it. Weird how that works. How can I be anxious about it being positive after I learnt it was negative?”

“As long as you’re negative,” Harry said, sitting down in an armchair.

“I’m always negative, luv. Negative and bitter.”

Harry smiled dutifully at the joke, and avoided having to reply by tasting his own martini. Lancelot was many things, but ‘negative’ was not a word he’d ever use to describe his mentor (‘bitter’ might pop up, depending on context). Her vision of a brighter future was so strong it was contagious.

He was slowly starting to understand why she was so loud. Why Theo had been so loud. Once you started making noise, once you started envisioning that brighter future, it was hard to remain quiet.

Not that he could even remotely compare how he cleared his throat sometimes when a comment or a joke didn’t sit well with him with the noise Lancelot made every time someone stepped out of line, but it was a start.

And it felt good. Every time.

“To being here for the long game,” he said, holding up his glass.

Lancelot grinned, and held up her own glass. “That's what I'm saying!”

Chapter Text

About two weeks after sobering up post V-Day, Eggsy decided that the butterflies had to go. They creeped him out if he were to be honest and Roxy had a point about it not being healthy to take over not just Harry’s code name but also his entire home as he had left it, and live in it as if it was a shrine. Eggsy needed to put his own mark on the place and taking down the many dead bugs was a good start.

He started with the ones in the sitting room, taking them down and putting them on the coffee table. On the back of one of them he noticed something written with a biro.

Theodore Morison, 1961-1985

Eggsy frowned and turned it around again. It said Aglais io under the butterfly. For a moment he thought that Theodore Morison was the English name for it, but that would be the worst name of a butterfly ever.

Curious, he put the frame down and picked up another one. There it said, written with what seemed like the same pen, “Scott Roberts, 1960-1985”. He looked at the next one, “Richard Talbot, 1961-1989” and the next one, “Andrew Miller, 1958-1985”. It took him embarrassingly long to figure out what the dates represented.

On the back of a purple Apatura iris he found a female name, Jennifer Evans, 1948-1996. She had been much older than the men when she had died, but then next to it there was a Polyommatus icarus where it said Martin Bennett, 1932-1989 and a Hypolimnas alimena with the name Rufus Fane, 1919-1988.

(He almost dropped the frame with a Anthocharis cardamines that had Lee Unwin, 1971-1997 written on the back.)

Most of the butterflies, though, seemed to have been for men born in the -50’s and -60’s and who had died in the -80’s and -90’s. Men in their twenties and thirties. They couldn’t all have been agents, he would have known if that were the case. They could have been Harry’s army mates, but where exactly were the UK sending troops to die in these numbers at that time?

When was the Falklands? Or the Gulf War?

Behind a Danaus plexippus it said “Freddie Mercury, 1946-1991”. Eggsy was surprised, he had not taken Harry for a Queen’s fan. And a random celebrity didn’t fit at all with the other, unknown names. Freddie Mercury hadn’t been in the army (or at Kingsman). He had died of… of…

It very slowly dawned on Eggsy was this was, and what connected all of these young men.

He hung up the butterflies again, because this was a shrine… just not one for Harry.