“I thought you were dead.” Harry/Eggsy, Kingsman
It had been months. Months. No Kingsman investigation ever stretched on this long without an answer.
When they’d lost Harry in Kentucky, it’d taken them three weeks to locate him, his body having mysteriously disappeared when the dust had settled from V-Day. He’d turned up in the south of France at a rehabilitation center, and both Merlin and Eggsy had been very irritated with his lapse in communication.
But Eggsy – he’d gone in for what had seemed like a simple enough black market auction at a hotel in Prague, and his glasses had turned up a week later in a canal in Amsterdam. No other trace of him remained in either locale; the sec-ops team at HQ remained on their toes, fearing Merlin’s wrath at the slightest misstep as their continued efforts failed to locate him. Everyone was worried, and it showed.
Harry settled in for another long night at his desk, wishing sleep wasn’t so relentless an enemy; if it wasn’t the nightmares, it was the insomnia, and sometimes it was both. Sometimes he wondered if he’d come back with someone else’s memories, wasn’t sure of the difference between sleeping and waking. Mostly it was safer now just to stay awake until he couldn’t.
Harry had thought, perhaps, that the cycle had begun to wane, with every time Eggsy stumbled in after a mission and passed out so trustingly in his bed, glasses slung over to the side table and an arm draped lightly over Harry’s hip. A lesser man might have faulted Eggsy for his implicit trust in someone whom really, he barely knew. But Harry was grateful to be trusted; he’d never really felt he’d earned it, before. And the smooth scent of cologne and the soft unconscious rub of one foot against Harry’s calf went a long way towards soothing his sleep.
Tonight, Harry rubbed his eyes blearily; the paperwork from his latest case swam in front of his eyes.
Suddenly, the light at the corner of his desk snapped on; he was on his feet in an instant, pearl-handled pistol cocked and ready in his hand between one breath and another.
In the next, he nearly fumbled and dropped it, and it was the very nearest he’d ever come to losing his composure.
“…Eggsy?” he asked incredulously. “I thought.. I admit I thought you were dead.” He lowered the pistol slightly, still on guard, taking in the strange clothes, Eggsy’s bruised cheekbones. “I’d hoped to be wrong.”
Eggsy cocked his head and smiled coldly.
“Eggsy?” he asked in a stranger’s voice. “Who the hell is Eggsy?”