Archive of Our Own ^beta

our lives grew apart, it's been just over a year
for reasons I can't really tell you about here
love wasn't nearly enough in the end
please will you tell him again?

Harry Hart is a survivor.

Always has been.

He has been on the receiving end of guns, knives, batons, brass knuckles, bare fists, steel-toed boots, teeth, syringes, ice picks, meat-hooks, chainsaws, regular saws, grenades, bombs (two of them dirty), three earthquakes, one anti-aircraft missile, and a pitchfork.

He has survived it all.

More or less in one piece with only a few permanent scars for Merlin to queen out over.

Harry himself has never been one for gossip despite his collection of tabloid front-pages.

Not because the life of some K-list celebrity doesn’t hold entertainment for him. On the contrary. He is often bemused how much shit is going on the world and how much more shit he is saving the world from, and how their main concern is still who wore what better.

They all lack class as far as Harry is concerned but their oblivion is his appraisal. Their names in the headlines mean another mission has gone smoothly and when he gets to put it up on his wall it means he has survived.

Harry Hart will not survive this.

*

The celebrations are in full swing. Literally.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s champagne and it’s diamond studded tiaras and it’s ornate uniforms. It’s fake smiles and it’s outdrawn toasts and it’s polite chit chat.

It’s everything Harry hates. Or has come to hate within the last few hours.

He holds up. He files this away as another mission.

It comes naturally because he just fits in so perfectly. His hair is perfectly coiffed, his suit is immaculate, dark and subdued with the cheekiest sliver of pink peeking out from under the lapels, and his shoes are polished to a shine. The brim of his glasses cover the jagged scar he doesn’t walk to talk about with European royalty, the slightly tinted glasses hiding the somewhat blank stare of his new left eye.

He is polite to a fault, all smiles and nods and sophisticated replies. A gentlemen to the bone. But deep down in those bones he can feel it. He can feel it lurking there like a tiger on the prowl, hidden away but ready to jump at any moment. He can feel what Valentine and his doomsday machine have tapped into.

He can feel the rage.

It’s there, always has been, bubblewrapped in decent upbringing, bespoke suits and self control. Maybe it is what has turned him into (one of) the most prolific secret agents, turned him into a fine tuned and highly efficient (killing) machine. Maybe he has always been just one step away from flying off the handle and Valentine had just given him the final push.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it’s not true, that he is better than this. But as he sits through the soup, the salmon and the rack of lamb, mental images of Kentucky taste as good as the wine.

*

“Let me guess, this one’s from you, yeah?”

“How did you guess?”

“Please, even your wrapping paper is bespoke.”

They meet over gifts and cards.

Which is so say, the court has set aside an extra room for what passes as ice cream makers and sauciers in royal circles.

Eggsy stands in front of one of the tables, champagne in hand, regarding one of the neatly wrapped packages.

“I don’t want to open it.”

“Not to worry. It won’t explode,” Harry tries to sound light but it comes out in a headmaster’s voice. “At least not just yet.”

“It just looks so… pristine.”

“It’s just paper, Eggsy.”

Eggsy beams at him and it lights Harry’s fuse. “Alright, guv, hold this.” He shoves his glass into Harry’s hand. “Here goes nothing, then.”

Eggsy’s grin falters quickly as he not quite so carefully tears the burgundy paper off the rectangular object. He looks at Harry with his mouth open, trying twice to say something, but ending up saying nothing.

“You don’t like it,” Harry deciphers.

“No I don’t.” Eggsy’s voice comes out quiet and frayed. “I love it.”

“I figured it was as good a tradition as any. You don’t have to continue with it, of course. It was merely a…”

Eggsy smells like cologne and champagne and ironing starch, and he feels like a rock beneath all the heavy fabric and brass of his uniform. He has his arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s neck, one notch away from actually smothering him.

Harry doesn’t want to let go. Ever. He can’t will his arms to release Eggsy. Not just yet.

He wants them to stay like this, and he doesn’t give a damn if it’s inappropriate, if anyone sees them and is not amused, if Eggsy has just gotten married to a Swedish princess. This is his moment, his minute sliver of silver lining, and he will fight tooth and claw and Rainmaker to defend it. To just have something.

“It’s the most proper gift, Harry,” Eggsy says against his collar, too loud and too hot against his skin. “Thank you.”

Harry doesn’t whimper (unless he has sharp objects sticking in and out of his body) but he is damn close to right now. Right now when Eggsy pulls away from him, taking his warmth and delicious air with him.

“I’ll hang it in my study.” Eggsy scoffs out a laugh. “Listen to me… My study.” He makes air quotes around the last two words.

“I suppose it’s a good thing you don’t have to explain to your bride why you are hanging the front page of The Sun in your study.” Harry doesn’t make air quotes.

“I guess so.” Eggsy sobers. “Isn’t that your regular fairy tale? Chav from the estate turned secret agent turned prince of Sweden.”

“Quite right,” Harry replies, thinking which role would be his. Some animated animal probably.

“It really means a lot to me, you know. That you’re here, everything you’ve done… I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Harry needs a drink. A strong one. Maybe two. Maybe a bullet to the head.

“I was merely a means to an end,” he lies and he does it badly. “You’ve always had it in you.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “But I never had the opportunity. So thank you.”

Harry nods in reply. He can’t speak. If he could, he would tell Eggsy. Tell him everything.

So they just stand there in a room full of useless things. In his mind, Harry catalogues them by how good a weapon they would make and comes up with 87 deadly items. One of them is an actual spear. That should do the trick just fine.

“Harry, I…”

“Your Highness, I’m sorry to interrupt but the Prince of Brunei is taking his leave. You are required.”

“Got it.” Eggsy gives the manservant a thumbs up. “I’m sorry, Harry, I suppose I have to take care of this. One prince to another and all that…” He smiles apologetically. “I see you later, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t leave without saying goodbye, ya hear me.”

Before Harry can reply, Eggsy is ushered out of the room.

“You’re not going to say goodbye, are you?” Merlin leans against the door, arms folded over his chest.

“I’m afraid not.”

“You should have told him, Harry.” Merlin sounds tired as he falls in with Harry on his way to the cloak room.

Harry scoffs. “And accomplish what, exactly? Ruining the boy’s life once again?!”

“You took a bullet to the head, Harry. That’s enough amends for a lifetime, don’t you think?”

Harry checks his coat and wishes Merlin would just stop talking. But even Harry doesn’t have the kind of power to make him stop. At least not when they have witnesses.

“He must never know.” It’s almost an order, whether he says it as Harry or as Arthur he doesn’t know.

“He has a right to.” Merlin tries to reach for Harry’s arm but never makes contact. “You do love him, don’t you?”

Harry stops. Just stops. His face stops having an impression, his hands stop being clenched into fists, his heart stops beating for a second.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.” It’s a well rehearsed line, run over and over in Harry’s head.

“Need I remind you that I am very well able to see past your chivalry, old friend.”

That Merlin means well is the worst part of it.

“It isn’t chivalry by any means,” Harry replies stoically. “He is a married man now. A goddamn prince no less. Whatever it was that I supposedly felt, it’s too late for any of that nonsense.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. He is ready to roll out some punches, too, but again… witnesses. “Because you never gave him an opportunity.”

“He just got married to the bloody Crown Princess of bloody Sweden. I’d consider that ample opportunity. He just told me so himself.”

“That is not what I meant, you utter prick,” Merlin says through gritted teeth. “You never gave him the opportunity to love you back.”

“Like you gave to me.” Harry doesn’t feel all that murderous anymore. Instead, he feels like he did twentyseven years ago on that undercover mission in Havana. “How did you manage?”

Merlin shrugs with the faintest of smiles. “I told you how I felt, you turned me down. Then I got drunk and then I moved on.” The smile turns into a cheeky grin. “Good thing our sex was spectacular.”

“That it was,” Harry says solemnly. “This is different, though. We were both young and…”

“None of that, Harry. And no more guilt over what happened nineteen years ago. It’s unbecoming. And frankly, it’s quite annoying, too.”

“And what would you have me do then?”

They step outside into a chilly Swedish afternoon.

“You either tell Eggsy you love him or you don’t,” Merlin simply states. “But if you don’t or if he has to turn you down, you will have to promise me to move on. Whatever it takes.”

Harry considers it for a long moment, ignoring the fact that the slight breeze tries to pick up Merlin’s kilt.

“Are you offering sex again?” he asks then.

“I’m not sure how Roxy would feel about it but… whatever it takes. Your misery is ours, too, you know.”

Harry smiles at that. It feels genuine for the first time today. He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, giving it light squeeze. Without another word he descends the stairs of the palace, sauntering slowly down the all but empty Stockholm street.

Merlin looks after him until he disappears around a corner. It’s not the cool air that makes him freeze. It’s the voice behind him when he is about to head back inside.

“Is it true?”

Merlin opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Merlin, is it… does Harry love me?”

“Go after him, Eggsy. Even if it’s just to hear him out.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “It’s not, Merlin. It’s not.” With that, he dashes down the stairs, almost tripping twice.

Merlin smiles to himself, a little self-satisfied.

“I am indeed the guvner.”

i always thought you should follow your dreams
however hard and uncertain it seems
i'd have loved him whatever he chose
and I don't think he knows