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Chapter Text

Harry jerks awake with a start.

He lies silently on his bed for a minute, confused and blinking to the ceiling, wondering what woke him up. Then the alarm starts screaming, and Harry would’ve buried his head under the pillow, playing deaf until the dame thing eventually dies down on its own if he hasn’t already learnt firsthand that it won’t.

He grumbles, slips out of bed and into his slippers. It’s the third time this month his new alarm system goes mental midnight and wakes him (along with every other living beings within ten miles) up. Harry only agreed to buy it because the neighborhood committee strongly suggested, aka demanded, him to—for his own safety, obviously—and the woman lives next door coaxed him in so they could all get a discount for group purchase. A compromise was made to save him from a good hour of unwavering persuasion, but now Harry deeply regrets his decision. Even if the woman next door teams up with the sales man, they cannot possibly be as loud as his new alarm.

Harry has never met something quite so paranoid as this system. First it went off at 3 a.m. because an early bird landed on his balcony (Harry admitted it was a very big bird when he checked, but then again, IT’S A BIRD!), then because he forgot to close his window before going to bed, and it slapped shut by wind and successfully set off the sensitive bastard with a not even loud bang. Not to mention all those times when it suddenly began beeping at nothing in the middle of the day, forcing Harry to return home early only to turn off the false alarm.

He has no idea what it is this time. Maybe the fat bird comes back for a return visit.

Harry rubs at his eyes with a grimace. He’s had a long day, and he needs to go in early the next morning. Harry checks the pad they gave him, and a little blinking light shows that there’s an ‘intruder’—Harry shakes his head at the screen—on his balcony.

If it’s a raccoon, Harry wants it to know he’s not above punching baby animals in the face at this point.

He drags himself to the balcony with murder schemes in his mind. He reaches out to unlock the door, except it’s already open. It’s strange; Harry remembers locking it earlier.

There’s something on the carpet too. Harry squints in the dark—something liquid and black, like oil. For god’s sake, he probably has to wash the whole carpet for this. Harry kneels down with a grumble and brushes his finger against the stain. His fingertips come back with a slight slimy touch. Harry sniffs at it, and the realization hits him like a truck.

It’s blood.

Harry’s whole body goes cold. Slowly gets to his feet, he's not sure what to do. The alarm is still shrieking without mercy, doesn’t at all give a shit about all the people around who are sleeping. Harry traces the bloodstain; It goes from his study to the balcony, crossing the (curiously) open door where carpet gives way to floor tiles, and keeps going until it vanishes behind the railing. It’s third floor up here, Harry hopes whatever the intruder is did not fall down to its death.

Or, a voice in his head helpfully prompts, it could be the other way around.

Harry turns back so quickly, he almost gives himself a whiplash. Something squirms in the dark, deep in his study, hiding under the shadow of Harry’s bookshelves. Something big and hunched and definitely not a raccoon.

“Turn it off,” the shadow hisses.

It’s a man’s voice, coarse and rough, like he hasn’t spoken for a long time. Harry freezes, hands still holding in the air, blood cooling down on his finger.

“Turn it off!” the voice demands again, more urgently this time, “now!”

Harry is calmer than he gives himself credit for. “Okay.” he walks backwards into the balcony, eyes fixed on the breathing shadow. Night air licks coldly at his skin, sending a chill down Harry’s spine. He fumbles without looking away, fingers searching for the off-button. A simple click to kill the alarm, and all dies down.

The silence screams even louder.

Harry stands alone on his balcony, hands holding defensively in front of his body. He can hear the hard, sharp thrusts of the other man’s breathing even from out here, and Harry wonders how he missed it in the first place.

Something else slices through the silence of the night, grabbing Harry’s attention. “That way!” someone’s shouting from afar, voice obscured by the distance, but is becoming louder and clearer by the second, “go find him!” From the way the shadow’s breaths hitches, he hears it too.

The shouting comes from the street below. Harry risks a glance back over his shoulder, and sees a bunch of dark figures running down the street, splitting up at a crossroad and heading different directions. Two of them are coming this way. Harry turns back to the shadow.

The shadow stirs, lets out a shaky breath, and steps forward. It’s only a small step, but enough for the lamp light to catch him.

It's a young man.

There’s blood on his face, and a nasty scratch sprawling on the side of his cheek. His cloths a mess beyond redemption, ragged and dirty, impossible to tell the original color under all the layers of blood and dirt. He clutched at his left arm, and leaned strangely on one leg; a small pool of blood already forming around his shoe. He’s pale, only color besides red on his face comes from the warm orange light of street lamp.

He looks no more than 25. “Please hide me,” the young man whispers.

Damn.

How Harry wishes it's a raccoon.

Chapter Text

“Please hide me,” the young man whispers, "please!"

Harry gapes at the sudden plot twist, feeling like he’s stuck in a movie set, caught right between the wounded runagate who’s steadily bleeding to death and the persistent villains coming for blood.

The footsteps are getting louder, and the wounded runagate turns to him with wide eyes. “Please,” he begs again, more desperately this time, “just--hide me. I promise I’ll leave soon. Please!”

Harry struggles with himself; the men outside don't seem like good people, but then again, neither does the man in front of him! For god’s sake, he is not supposed to make life-or-death decision this early. He’s still in his pajamas! 

A furious thumping downstairs yanks him out of his inner struggle violently. The boy limps forward. “Please,” he breathes, voice shaky and pleading, “help me!”

He has dirty blonde hair, and green, green eyes that glimmer in the dark.

Harry takes a second to really look. The young man is a mess. lips chapped, an swollen eye that can barely open; the scratch on his face crawls from his chin to his temple, where pale skin is scraped raw, like his face had been pushed into rough surface multiple times. His injured arm dangles limply by his side, blood oozing lazily from between the fingers that clutched around. A small pool of red around his shoe is slowly encroaching the carpet beneath, and Harry’s stomach churns at the distinct smell of rust (and the thought that his carpet would never be the same again). 

The boy locks eyes with Harry. His eyes are clear and desperate and so very green, even the swollen one. It hits Harry at that exact moment: if he turns away now, however justified, the gavel would inevitably fall and the young man’s fate would be sealed.

But no one is going to die tonight. Not on Harry’s carpet, not under Harry’s watch, not if Harry can help it. Later he is going to regret about this, but right now he HAS TO do something.

“Hush,” he waves to the door, “this way.”

The young man’s eyes widen in a mix of confusion and burning hope.

“You need to hide in the bathroom,” Harry explains, gesturing with his hand frantically, “Hurry!”

Relief washes through the boy’s face. “Than—Thank you!” He drags himself forward and stumbles; Harry winces at the sight. “S’rry,” the boy slurs, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, “it’s my leg. I'll—”

The knocking against the door downstairs are getting louder, along with a suspicious clattering noise. Harry quickly kneels down, palms holding up in front of him in an apologetic gesture. “Normally I would ask for permission first,” he hastily says, “but with the situation—”

The young man stares down at him with confusion. “Wha’??” 

A loud bang downstairs. The boy’s head snaps up at the sound, and Harry catches the moment to lunge forward. “My apology!”

He lifts the boy in one swift move, bridal style, thanking inwardly for all those gym trips Merlin dragged him along to, and starts running.

The other man yelps in his arms. “Put me down!” he hisses frantically, struggling a bit with fingers instinctively fisting into the fabric of Harry’s nightgown, “put me down NOW!”

Thankfully the bathroom is not far. Harry turns around awkwardly, stumbling backward and pushing open the door with his shoulders before gently lowering the other man down in the bathtub (somehow it doesn’t feel right to leave a wounded man on the floor). The younger man shudders at the cold tiles and hums painfully when Harry lays his wounded leg down.

“Don’t open the door unless it’s me.” Harry hesitates, “And—apology, again.”

He does not wait to see the look on the boy’s face, rushing downstairs taking two steps at one time. The man outside is banging the door so hard, mere minutes from tearing the whole thing down. Harry opens the door, and looks up to a pair of shoulders broad enough to get stuck at security check door. 

God, the man is HUGE.

And he has a face comes right from the illustration puts beside the word ‘henchman’ in the dictionary. But at least he has the decency to bid Harry a good evening before everything else.

“Good evening sir. Did you see a man running towards this direction?” he cuts right to it, “he’s about this height.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Harry fakes a yawn. “Do you have any idea what time it is now? I was slee—”

“Your security alarm was on,” the big guy cuts him off, “I heard it.”

The damn thing. “Was it?” Harry tilts his head, as if trying to listen, “I didn’t notice.”

“It has been turned off.” 

“Curious,” Harry nods thoughtfully. “Are you a police officer?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” the man answers the not-answer, pushing past Harry without a warning. “That man is dangerous. I need to check the house for your safety. It won’t take long.”

He strides into HARRY’S doorway with one hand reaching into in his jacket like all hit man do in the movie, looking around briefly before heading up straight to the second floor, ignoring Harry’s protest. “Stop! What are you doing!”

The man kicks open a door, and then the next, didn’t even bother to be discreet.

“Stop that! This is outrageous. I’m calling the police—”

“Calm down,” the other man throws back, kicking through another door, small beetle eyes glitter coldly in the dark, “I’m almost done.”

The bathroom is just around the corner now. Harry can already picture it in his mind the way this enormous man-troll’s going to smother his target like snapping a twig. Large, vice-like fingers tighten around the younger man’s neck, lifting him up from the floor while the victim hanging helplessly in the air, shuddering like a leaf, broken leg kicking in vain—

“I SAID STOP, you damn fool!”

The man actually stops this time, turning towards Harry slowly. Harry’s ears are ringing; he takes in a deep breath.

“See the button here?” he asks coldly, pointing at the built-in control pad on the wall, “I got the new alarm system set up last week. Just in time, I see.” He puts his fingers on the button, “I push this tiny thing in, and a signal’s going directly into the police department. Police would be here in no time. You can always try to run, of course, but remember your face was already captured by the camera before you come in through MY door. Now, I’m going to ask you to kindly leave, mister.”

The man takes a step forward, looming over Harry with his sheer bulk. “You what?” 

Harry does not back off. Instead he straightens his back—he has not been known as a short man, and certainly not as a coward. “You heard me. This is trespassing, and I would tolerate this no more.” He tilts his head towards the hallway, “I don’t care what that damn alarm says, there’s no one else here. I live by myself. Now get out of my house, door is that way.”

They stare at each other, neither one backing down for a good minute. Then the man stirs, and the epic staring down ends just as abruptly as it starts.

“Excuse me,” the big man grumbles, “I must hear it wrong.”

He pushes past Harry without looking back, vanishing quickly and rather silently out of the door for someone his size. Harry waits for a few more seconds before going forward and double-checking the lock.

He climbs upstairs, knocks on the bathroom door three short times. “It’s me.”

No response. Not a peep.

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach—Jesus, is he going to have a bleed-to-death body in his bathtub? He pushes open the door in haste, and walks right into the black muzzle of a gun.

Harry blinks. “What the—”

Chapter Text

“What the—” 

“Sorry!” the gun is lowered in an instant, “thought ye were someone else.”

Harry puts down his hands; it’s vaguely disturbing that he didn’t remember throwing them up. “You have a gun,” he weakly points out.

“Sorry,” the boy apologizes again, slumping back against the tub. “Didn’ mean to scare ye.” He struggles to sit up, fails miserably and slides down.

Harry hesitates for a second (the other man has a gun, and Harry is armored only with nightgown and slippers), but soon, as always, chivalry gets the better of him. “Here,” he offers a hand, pulls the young man out of the bathtub as gently as he can, and without a better option, sits him down on the toilet.

The young man blinks up dazedly at Harry’s face, and did Harry mention he has really green eyes?  “Ye saved my life.”

The flat statement did something odd to Harry’s stomach. “Don't be so sure yet,” Harry averts his eyes to the wound on the other man’s thigh; it’s still oozing blood. “You really should have someone take a look at that.”

The young man shakes his head and immediately grimaces in pain. “I'll handle it.” he says tiredly yet firmly, “please don’ call the police. Just need a few minutes, then I’d be outta yer hair. Do ye ‘ave a first aid kit?”

“Yes. It must be somewhere…” Harry fumbles through a few cabinets, “here.”

The boy goes through the contents in the kit with calm proficiency. He stops to look up at Harry halfway, fingers loosely clutching the small plastic bag for sterilized needle. “Ye don’ have to watch,” he suggests, clearly struggling to convey as much resolve as he can through bleary, swollen eyes (which is not much).

He looks whacked, and determined, and half-way to death already. God help him, but Harry is not watching anyone sewing themselves up. “Jesus, please don’t. I…I’ll do it.” he stutters, reaching out towards the needle nervously, somehow more afraid of it than he’s of the gun. “Not like it’s the first time.” He weakly adds.

A sparkle of hope flicks through green eyes. “Ye can’t happen to be a doctor, can ye?”

“No,” Harry answers, almost guiltily, “I’m a tailor.”

To his surprise, the boy snorts a laugh. “Next best thing,” he coughs, "must be my luck."

He only let out a soft ‘arh’ when Harry made the first stitch, then for the rest of the time he kept his lips pressed together into a painfully straight line. Harry’s jaw feels sore just by watching. He bites on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something really stupid, like: tell me if it hurts. 

By the end of it, they are both sweating wet. The boy kind of passed out during the process, eyes half shut, eyebrows knitted together, but somehow managed to come to himself the exact moment Harry pulled the last stitch. He sits up straighter, breathing out evenly and is it possible that he’s already looking better after a ten-minute disturbed shut-eye? Jesus. Harry misses being young.

The boy brushes his fingertips tentatively against the freshly-made sutures, trying the stitches. Harry can tell he is somewhat impressed. Not that he ever sewed up human skin before, but the sutures are neat, even and strong.

“Thank you.” the boy mutters. He sounds so relived and tired, and Harry doesn’t know what gets into his head but it rushes out of his mouth before he can stop himself:

“You can stay the night if you want,” he blurts out, “I have a guest room.”

The other man freezes, looks up, and if anything he looks vaguely troubled. A small frown forms between his eyebrows, like he’s trying hard to focus, or is silently judging something.

“You don’t have to.” Harry adds, a little self-consciously, “but you can.”

A few seconds, then the peculiar concentrated look erases from the boy’s face. “Sure,” he agrees mildly, posture relaxed, fingers a loose circle around his gun. “Can I ‘ave a cuppa water first, though?”

Harry lets out a silent breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He goes downstairs to fetch his tea sets, setting the kettle on stove and braces himself against the counter. He almost dropped the glass when he saw his own hands; they’re covered in blood. Christ. How’s this Harry’s life? Boiling water in the middle of the night with blood all over his palm and a hotheaded promise to house some battered gunman?

Only when the kettle starts whistling does Harry realize he is not supposed to make tea. The boy asked for water. A glass of lukewarm water from under the tap probably would do. But tea is good, and Harry desperately needs caffeine in his system right now. He deserves a decent cup for playing Robin Hood and Nightingale in a roll tonight.

He goes back upstairs to ask the young man if tea is fine, but the other man is already gone.

***************************

“So,” Merlin asks matter-of-factly, flipping open the newspaper, “Did you call the police?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. It hardly seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Why not? He broke into your house.”

“Yes, but he was scared. And wounded.”

“And carried a gun,” Merlin adds absently. “He’s probably a fugitive. You should call the police.”

Harry stares at him with accusing eyes, all in vain because Merlin refuses to tear his eyes away from the newspaper. “He is not a fugitive! He looks like he is barely 25.”

“A lot of criminals these days are under 25, Harry, keep up with the trend. And should it be me, fugitive or not, I’d have them arrested the second their first drop of blood stains my carpet.”

Harry shakes his head. “You’re a terrible, terrible man,” he tells his friend.

Merlin un-hums.

Despite spending the whole night scrubbing the blood out of his bathroom and drinking tea alone, Harry was actually early to the shop next morning. No customer comes in this hour of the day, so Harry settles down having breakfast with his colleagues as usual. There is Merlin, a bald man with a fetish for sweaters and electronic products, who calls Harry old whenever he’s trying to make a point. Also, there’s Percival, the youngest in the shop, a strict Stoic with the most patient put-upon face and weaponized glare that usually renders people sweating and swallowing and taking a step back.

Merlin turns another page. “For all the trouble he caused, is he at least handsome?”

Harry thinks about bruised skin, chapped lips, swollen cheek and green, green eyes. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “I think he is?”

“Then why are we still talking about him?”

“Because I worry about him!” Harry sighs. His breakfast left untouched in front of him. “He was hurt badly, and can barely move when I found him. I have no idea how he managed to take off on his own. Those thugs might still be lingering in the neighborhood when he left. He could get himself killed! At least he can call and let me know he’s fine.”

Percival finally decides to join in the conversation. He glances up from his plate with only mild interest in his tone, “Do you know his name?”

Harry shakes his head. 

“Does he know yours?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry answers with a frown, “he never asked.”

Percival nods. “Then he cannot possibly contact you.” he concludes, “You don’t know each other.”

“Exactly,” Merlin agrees, clapping Percival on the back. Percival nods again, turning back to deal with his breakfast with painstaking absorption.

“He knows where I live,” Harry insists, “and we know each other just fine. I saved his life!” but even without Merlin rolling eyes from across the table, he knows already this is a lost cause.

****************************************

Harry doesn’t know why, but his thoughts keep wondering back to those green eyes.

Merlin is right, though. The boy cannot be good news if he was chased around by a gang of gunman. He’s probably a thief, who stole some bad things from some bad people. Or worse—he could be a drug dealer. But a part of Harry just refuses to believe the boy is evil. He is young, and young people make poor decisions; hell, Harry himself made his fair share of unadvisable choices back in his youth.

Harry half-heartedly expects the boy to come back. He tried leaving the windows open at night as a not-so-subtle hint, which left him both disappointed and freezing cold the next morning.

He checks the newspaper for homicides, unclaimed bodies of John Does, gang fights, even the obituary column on daily base, but gets nothing. He reset the whole home alarm system, had someone over to fix it so it won’t go rabid at the shadow of pigeons flying by. He also tried the strongest detergent he can find to get the blood stain off his carpet, but failed epically. At last, Harry has to arrive at the inevitable conclusion: he must have the whole carpet dry-cleaned by professionals, and the boy is not coming back.

The boy is probably dead, as Merlin helpfully suggested. The thought makes Harry sick. To think of the boy being dumped somewhere in a dark alley, lifeless and limp, glazed green eyes half-shut and staring dead into the sky; bruised skin that’s never going to heal, Harry’s stitches hold back cold blood that’s not running anymore. 

Harry stubbornly keeps his windows open at night.

*************************

One day Harry wakes up, feeling warm and confused. He gets out of the bed and checks the window; they are closed.

And locked. From inside.

Harry frowns. He is no master of memory, but surely he can remember what happened last night? He didn’t lock those up. Harry opens the windows again, bewildered, and goes to the balcony to check the alarm. 

The alarm is off. Or at least the little light is not blinking. Harry flips the switch a few times (like what Merlin told him to), checks the connector (like what the technician told him to) then gives it a few kicks (like what he’s been doing all his life), but the light is still dead.

Harry gives up. He’s never good with electronic products. He should ring the maintenance department, or throw the cursed thing into the Thames; it does nothing good anyway.

Harry turns back, and that’s when he realizes something is seriously wrong:

The dark, almost black stain on the carpet is gone.

And wait, is it even his carpet? Harry carefully brushes his fingers against the soft fabric; it looks exactly like the old one: the same pattern, same texture, same size, but it’s definitely new. The signs of wear over the years are nowhere to be seen, and the small burning mark where Harry accidently dropped his cigarette is gone, too.

Harry straightens up and looks around.

“Well,” he murmurs to himself, “this is not creepy at all.”

Chapter Text

It was a night.

A hot, damp, windless summer night. Harry loved Lithuania, loved Neris river, loved Vilnius. It’s a city so old yet so vibrant, and most of all, you wouldn’t believe how many bars you could find within ten steps down the main street. Harry was so, so, so drunk, that he stumbled into the oldest area in the old town, found the oldest store displayed handicraft that looked even older, which should be impossible, because according to a tour guide the building was medieval. The store was so humble it didn’t even have a sign, and later when Harry was sober, he came to doubt if it was a store at all, since he didn’t recall seeing any price tags or cashier counter or shelves or…any other evidence to indicate it was indeed a store. The thought that he might have drunkenly robbed a random local family, however monetarily compensated, was so appalling that Harry was haunted by it for a long, long time.

But the owner (or just a shrewd hostess) sold the carpet to him anyway.

And that’s the origin story of Harry’s carpet.

Now staring down at the new one, Harry wonders to himself, HOW?

*****************************

The fact that it doesn’t bother Harry nearly half as much as it should bothers him even more.

Harry’s always considered himself a sensible man—proudly so, and he’s well beyond the age of chasing after thrills just for thrill’s sake. Go ask Merlin, he’ll eagerly share with you how insufferably old-fashioned he thinks Harry is. Maybe that’s why he’s been holding the whole thing a secret; Harry has a feeling his friends are not going to react well towards this new…twist in his life. 

Percival probably wouldn’t mind. But then again, Harry doesn’t remember seeing the man mind anything terribly so long as you leave him alone with his cool nonchalant self.

Harry keeps leaving windows open at night, and keeps finding them closed and locked in the morning. It’s like a strange kind of competition between him and a nameless player No.2 who has never even showed up, where the winner gets to finally creeps the loser out. Harry even left a post-it note on his own window once, said ‘please come in next time’, but when he checked in the morning the note was still clinging to the glass, exactly where he left it, and Harry found himself unable to tell if it’s been read or not.

It's crazy. Harry is crazy.

****************************

“How’s your fugitive?”

Harry glances up. “My what?”

“Your fugitive,” Merlin tilts his chin at the newspaper in Harry’s hand. “You’re still subtly checking the news for him, right?”

“I’m not.” Harry retorts automatically, puts down the newspaper just for good measure. “And I told you he is not a fugitive.”

“AND I told you you don’t know that.” Merlin shoots back. “Forget about him, Harry. Or as much as I hate it, you’re going to receive an earful of ‘I told you so’ from me in the near future.”

“What do you mean, as much as you hate it?” Harry gives him an unimpressed look, “you love telling people 'I told you so'.”

Merlin shrugs, equally unimpressed. From across the shop, a dashing looking customer is brave enough to try to hit on Percival. Both Merlin and Harry stops what they were doing so they can watch the poor thing shriveling under Percival’s cold eyes.

And he does. Poor thing indeed.

Merlin turns his attention back to Harry. “Anyway. I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” He comments, “The gangster finally left the neighborhood. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Not again. Harry scowls. “He is not a gangster!”

“You don’t know that.”

*******************************

Harry is lying flat on his bed, hands folded over his stomach, and he is painfully awake. 

His clock tells him it’s a little over midnight. Harry never had trouble sleeping before; normally he lays his head down on a pillow, and spends the next several hours dead to the world. He is considering whether a nice Scotch would help when suddenly his ears pick up something strange—a muffled noise, distant and soft, dissolving into the silence in a fleeting second.

It really shouldn’t grab his attention, but call it a hunch (or him being paranoid), Harry believes there’s a reason behind the fact that he’s still awake by this hour. He silently rolls over and slips out of the bed, tip-toes down the corridor like a thief in his own house for no good reason.

He approaches his study—where he wishfully believes the noise came from—as quietly as he can, literally holding his breath. As he gently pushes open the door with his fingertip, Harry panics for a second the hinge would creak like it always does in horror movies, only it doesn’t. The door slides open smoothly like a shadow gliding over the floor, and Harry slips into the room without a sound.

At the far end of the room, through the glass door separating the balcony and the study, a black figure is bending over the handrail. It’s all but a dim silhouette, a dark shadow that moves swiftly and soundlessly, balancing on the thin railing like a cat. But it’s too big to be a cat, and it has two human hands, which are reaching towards Harry’s window—

“Oh my God,” Harry exclaims, “I cannot tell how good it is to see you!”

The shadow yelps, jerks back and falls over the railing.

****************

“Erhhhhhhhh” was the first thing the other man said to Harry, and Harry’s was “Christ I’m so sorry let me get you out of there”.

The boy was struggling in the azalea bushes by the time Harry hurries down the stairs, his limbs tangled between the twigs, making a mess out of the artistically trimmed plants. Thank God, the bushes must’ve buffered most of the impact, so the boy looks overall unhurt if the fervent way he fights is any indication—desperately humiliated, though.

Harry trudges his way through the flowerbed relatively unhindered on his long legs. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you--” He offers a hand. The boy looks up, his dumbstruck face caught under the streetlight the same way a lone deer captured by headlight.

The first though hits Harry is BOY, I WAS RIGHT. The young man is indeed very handsome. With the swell in his socket gone and the bruise on his cheekbone faded into a pale yellowish green, his is actually rather good-looking. He’s fairer than Harry (not due to blood loss this time), has messy dirty-blond hair and boyish but determined features, completed by straight, narrow eyebrows and a well-defined jaw line.

The second thought hits Harry is oh my god, what’s the thing he’s wearing? Harry is never one of those typical obsessed tailors who cannot bear laying an eye on fashion they deem bad. But still, he feels like he’s personally insulted by the young man’s dressing. The ill-fitting jacket almost swallows him whole; it’s sloppy and awfully-designed and is harassing Harry by simply BEING.

The boy is not struggling anymore by the time Harry tears his eyes away from that atrocious jacket. He is glaring at Harry’s hand like it is deadly toxic.

“M’ boss is going to kill me,” he says to the hand.

Well, that doesn’t sound like criminal talking at all.

Harry opens his mouth to say something not so gloomy, but a third voice inserts in.

“Uh,” someone calls out hesitantly behind their back, “what are you two doing there?”

Chapter Text

“Uh, what are you two doing there?”

They both jump. The boy grabs Harry’s hand and scrambles to his feet hastily, and Harry unconsciously takes a step forward, like he can somehow hide the mess behind his body and pretend nothing happened.

There’s a man facing their way from across the yard. Harry recognizes him immediately; It’s the man living next door—whose wife coerced him into buying the home alarm a month ago, Harry recalls with a wince. He is standing over there on his porch squinting in the dark at their direction, a huge trash bag in one hand and a bottle of beer in another.

“Mr. Hart,” the neighbor asks, “everything all right there?”

“Quite,” Harry flashes his neighbor a friendly smile, realizing guiltily that he can’t come up with a name, “all good.”

“Who’s that?” the nameless neighbor points the bottle at the boy’s direction, “I’m not sure, but I think I saw him falling from your balcony.”

The boy tenses under Harry’s palm. “Yes,” Harry begins, “yes. That was...an incident. I asked him to fix…something on my roof. We’re just about to go in. Nothing to worry about.”

The neighbor’s eyes dart between the two of them. “Oh—kay,” he replies with a heavily implied ‘if you say so’, accenting on the ‘Oh’, “have a good night, then.”

“You too.”

Harry gives his neighbor a reassuring little wave before putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder and urges him forward, and they both trample through the flowerbed pretending it’s perfectly normal. The boy moves his feet reluctantly, looking like he’s dying to run for his life if not for the neighbor’s skeptical eyes still lingering on their back. Harry literally drags him through the door and closes it behind his back the second they’re both in.

“Well, it could be worse,” Harry mumbles to himself and turns around.

The young man is eyeing him up warily in the hallway, sneakers leaving dirty marks of soil on Harry’s rug, looking as lost as lost can be. He’s also a good three-inch shorter than Harry. They both take a painfully long second to judge the situation.

“You didn’t stay for tea last time,” Harry finally breaks the silence, “would you like some now?”

“Eh,” the boy hesitates, “sure.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Harry reminds him.

“Well, I’m already ‘ere, yeah?” the boy answers, a little deflated, “might as well have that tea now.”

************************************

It’s not how Harry pictured it. 

Not that he gave it enough thought to make a picture, but if he did, it certainly would not be like this: Harry boiling water patiently, again in the middle of the night; the boy sitting behind Harry’s kitchen table picking leafs out of his hair, squirming like he’s going to bolt any minute.

“Ye left yer windows open,” the boy suddenly says when Harry turns off the stove, “every night.”

“Yes, I did.” Harry pauses, then, “Did you come by every night?”

The answer doesn’t come right away, so Harry turns around. The other man is fidgeting in his chair, fingertips tapping the table in a restless, irregular rhythm. “Yeah,” he admits, curling his fingers back as soon as he notices Harry is watching, “I was…um, I was worried. Ye know,” he makes a vague gesture, “about the people who chased me.”

“So was I.” 

“Why?” the young man’s eyes dart up in alarm, “did ye notice somethin’ wrong?”

Harry restrains himself from saying ‘aside from automatically closed window and self-updated carpet?’, because that’s just rude. “No.” he says instead, setting two cups of steaming tea on the table. “I was actually worried about you.”

“What ‘bout me?” the other man asks, clearly confused.

“I didn’t know if you were fine,” Harry slides into the seat opposite to him, knowing very well he is making the face Merlin named ‘sulk with disapproval’. “You left without noticing me, how do I know if you made it out safely or not? You could be dead.”

The boy looks at him, looks sideways, then looks at him again.

Harry can’t help but soften down at that helpless gesture. “I’m Harry Hart.” He offers. “What’s your name?”

“I,” the boy pauses, “I am, urh…”

For a moment, Harry is mentally prepared for all kinds of instant fake name. David, Joseph, or an outright ‘John’. But the young man purses his lips before puffing out a determined breath.

“…Screw it. I’m Eggsy. It’s my real name. I mean, not my real name real name, but all my friends call me Eggsy so…”

“It’s okay,” Harry says sincerely, “it becomes you.”

The young man—Eggsy—lowers his eyes at the mug Harry placed in front of him, reaching out to pull it towards his body. “I don’ even know wha’ that’s supposed to mean,” He mumbles, takes a sip, ears turning pink, “but thanks, I guess.”

Harry watches him with a hint of fascination. “If you don’t mind—how old are you, Eggsy?”

He gets an immediate answer this time. “26.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “You look younger.”

“Yeah.” Eggsy mutters, “I get tha’ a lot.”

“Now, I don’t mean to be rude, Eggsy, but I have to ask.” Harry lifts the cup to his lips, eyeing the other man over the brim. Merlin is going to love this one—“Are you a fugitive?”

Eggsy spills a little tea out of the corner of his mouth. “What? No!”

“A gangster, then? I don’t know exactly what they call it these days, but—”

“No! No, nothin’ like that.” Eggsy’s face crumples up, “It was—I was doing legal work!”

“Which is?” Harry awaits expectantly.

Eggsy opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it, making a small ‘pop’ sound. For a moment, he seems to be inwardly at war with himself. “If I answer,” He says after a few beats, looking up at Harry with blunt sincerity in his eyes, “I’ll ‘ave to lie. But I don’ want to.” 

Harry blinks, taken aback. It’s…the most honest prevarication he has ever heard. “Then you don’t have to.” He decides, “I won’t ask that question again. Can I have another one, though?”

Eggsy looks genuinely surprised he is let off the hook so easily. “Okay?”

“Where did you find the carpet? Because that was you, correct?”

“Yeah! I pulled a favor from a...an acquaintance,” Eggsy replies earnestly, “took some time. But it’s exactly the same, righ’?”

“Yes, it is. But you really shouldn’t have. I’m not sure it’s worth the trouble—I don’t even particularly like the old one. I bought it, well, on an alcohol-induced whim, and that was ten years ago.”

“Oh,” the boy’s shoulders sag visibly.

“But it’s still very considerate of you to do so,” Harry adds immediately, “thank you very much.”

“It’s okay,” Eggsy mutters, “I owe ye my life.”

The statement falls heavily on Harry’s shoulders. He’s not sure what to make of it; how do you react at something like that? Every word weighs a ton. Harry tries to scratch up a decent answer in his mind, but it comes out like this: “Why did you leave last time?”

“’Cause that was a bad idea.” Eggsy licks at his lips, mumbles more to himself than to Harry, “it—IT IS a bad idea. I’m not supposed to be ‘ere.” He starts fidgeting again, eyebrows drawn together, the corner of his mouth frowns in distress. “I shouldn’t talk to ye.”

Harry can’t help but feeling an edge of sting. “Then why do you come tonight?”

“Oh,” Eggsy stirs, “righ’.”

He straightening up a bit from his chair like something just comes to his mind. “I almost forgot. I bring ye this,” he fumbles with the inside-pocket of his jacket. “I thought ‘bout leavin’ it on yer floor. But…” he trails off, hand hesitating under his jacket, “…anyway.”

He puts something on the table.

Harry looks down. It’s a bulging brown paper bag with no tag or label on it, a little larger than an envelope. Harry picks it up; it’s surprisingly light on the weight.

“Chai tea,” Eggsy announces excitingly, eyes bright with expectation. “It’s a souvenir. I got it on a job some time ago, figured ye’d like it better than me.” he leans forward over the table and gives Harry his first grin, face a little flushed, somehow managing to be both cheeky and shy at the same time.

The bag is still warm when Harry brushes his fingertips against it.

“So,” Eggsy begins tentatively, drawing Harry’s attention back. He nods at the paper bag, green eyes lock with Harry’s; and Harry’s heart—without a better way to describe—does a double flip. “Do ye? Like it, I mean.”

Oh boy, Harry thinks to himself, I’m in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

Eggsy comes back with a shovel the next day, claiming he’s going to fix the flowerbed.

It actually makes sense, but the first thought hit Harry when he opened the door to a determined-looking Eggsy and his brand new shovel was: how anticlimactic. 

Not that he’s complaining, of course. Harry doesn’t really mind, but nor does he really care for all those blood and chaos and falling-down-from-the-second-floor. And it’s a miracle that Eggsy comes back at all. Harry doesn’t know why—again, not that he’s complaining—but whatever it was that made Eggsy believe it’s better to avoid Harry’s radar like rabbit shrinking from headlights, he obviously considers it a problem no more once they officially introduced themselves to each other. 

So here goes Harry’s morning. He spends the better of it sitting on his porch, playing with his thumbs while watching Eggsy sweating under the sun and digging holes in his garden. This is not what Harry had in mind when he started the day.

He offered to help at first, as any decent man would do in his shoes, only to be brushed off with a polite yet nonnegotiable ‘no’. 

“S’ okay, I can do it.” the boy had said, eyes squinting under the bright sunlight while glancing up at Harry. “S’ no trouble at all. And it was my fault anyway.”

“I’ll have to disagree,” Harry argues, bracing for debate, “you wouldn’t fall down in the first place have I not startled you. So if we are talking about responsibility here, then I am as guilty as—”

“Mr. Hart,” Eggsy cuts him off, thrusting the shovel into ground and straightening up with one hand on his hips (which Harry just might have stared at a little when he bent over), “Have ye ever done this before? By yeself, I mean.” 

“Well,” Harry pauses, “no.”

“Then turn back and go have some tea.” Eggsy waves a hand, “Or sit on the porch if ye wontta watch,” he looks over at the miserable mess of azalea surrounding his feet, a calculating crease between two thin eyebrows. “It might take some time, but I’ll get it done before noon.”

Harry doesn’t move right away. “Are you implying I’m not qualified to work on my own garden?”

“Yes,” Eggsy tosses him a slightly bemused look over his shoulder. “Go on,” he urges.

Harry walks away and spends the next hour sitting on his hands, reflecting about all the dubious life choices he recently made.

********************

Eggsy works efficiently. When he’s done, the flowerbed looks even better than it used to, and as much as it pains Harry to admit, he’s not sure the job can be done quite so well if he were a part of it.

Harry gets to his feet as Eggsy swings the shovel over his shoulder and walks towards him. “That’s impressive. Have you been trained on this?”

Harry’s honest compliment strokes the young man’s ego the right way. “Somethin’ like that,” Eggsy gives him one crooked smile, rubbing his palms against his jeans absently but stops upon the second harry grimaces at it. “Okay. So, um, s’ done. I better go now. Have a nice day, Mr. Hart.”

He begins turning away. “Wait!” Harry stops him, quickly weighing options in his mind, “Do you have anything else to go to next?”

“No. Not really. I’m kinda…in between jobs righ’ now. But I’d better give it back,” Eggsy nods at the shovel in his hand, “it was borrowed.”

Hopefully not from a hardware store when no one’s watching, Harry thinks to himself, then mentally kicks himself for assuming. “Then would you probably like to stay for lunch?” 

Harry tried hard to not phrase the question too suggestive, but still, an edge of suspicion flicks through Eggsy’s face. “Lunch?” he looks around, as if expecting someone to explain it to him.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Harry continues, “but I’m about to cook, and I hate eating alone.” He actually enjoys eating alone, but no one needs to know that.

“I…I don’ know,” Eggsy hesitates, looking a little embarrassed, “I wasn’t expecting to—I didn’t bring anything? And m’ not sure I should be in the house, ‘cause,” he makes a vague gesture at his muddy sneakers and dirt-smudged jeans.

“Nonsense.” Harry immediately says, “You fixed the garden. It would’ve cost me a great deal if I have someone else over to fix it; the least I can do is treating you to a decent meal.”

“But…” Eggsy trails off.

“Eggsy, please.” Harry puts on his most sincere pleading face which normally he only turns to as a last resort, “consider this a favor to me. I really could use some company.”

It works. The boy softens down. “Okay,” he looks around again at nothing specific, licking his lips, “my boss is going to kill me, but okay.”

*************************

Eggsy blinks at the first bite. “This is actually very good, Mr. Hart!”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered by the compliment or insulted at the level of surprise you demonstrated,” Harry replies, “But thank you anyway.”

Eggsy shoves the food down his throat in alarming speed but surprisingly passable table manner. Harry watches him happily chewing on for a while; It’s weird that the boy always begins with opposing to an idea, but seems happy enough once he gets down to it.

He is somehow distracted by the way Eggsy eats to the point he forgets his own lunch. Eggsy swallows between two bites and throws him a questioning look, and it slips out of Harry’s mouth before he can think better of it: 

“You know you can always come back, right?” 

*************************

During his life Harry learns to be a lot of things, but one thing he’s not is a man who lies to himself. 

He likes Eggsy. 

Harry’s not particularly disturbed by this new find (even though according to Merlin the boy is a potential menace to the society); and it’s not strictly romantic anyway, more like a vague fascination. He knows himself all too well to be bothered by it. But it sure makes him feel old, like he finally becomes one of those old creeps that prey on innocent pretty young things—or not-so-innocent pretty young things, in this case.

And Eggsy must like him back at least a little—or find his culinary skills hard to refuse—because he really does come back, and he comes back a lot. They’ve quickly come to a deal: Harry offers him food and tea, and Eggsy stops sneaking (breaking) in when nobody’s in the house.

Harry secretly believes (with guilt) that even though Eggsy mentions a ‘boss’ under many circumstances, he’s not officially employed, because the boy always seem to know when Harry’s home and makes it to each and every one of Harry’s invitation over for tea or lunch.

He’s probably not very well-off. Harry can’t help but feel guilty over the new carpet and Chai tea Eggsy brought him. He considers offering to pay, but couldn’t come up with a way to phrase the offer without it being downright patronizing.

So he feeds Eggsy. And secretly gains (a significant amount of) satisfaction by doing so.

Eggsy always eat with efficiency, and sometimes ferocity, because obviously his job is ‘demanding and laborious’. Harry tried very hard to not read too much into the line when Eggsy told him that. 

******************************

“Is there a secret relationship I don’t know about?” 

“No.” Harry answers immediately, then, “Why?” 

Merlin gives him a patient once-over that stands for I own all your secrets and now you owe me your life; Harry’s stomach churns miserably. Merlin already doubted his sanity for not informing the police about Eggsy, and Harry really doesn’t need to give the man any extra fodder.

“You disappeared a lot lately.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry puts on a stubborn face, “I show up just like usual.”

Percival looks up from his current work. “Actually, in this week you spent 23% less after-work time in shop, missed three of our work lunches and went home earlier by an average of 38 minutes.”

Harry gapes. “Are you monitoring me?”

Percival shrugs.

“That’s creepy,” Merlin comments with a certain undertone that indicates it’s a compliment, “Do you keep track of me too?”

Percival nods, and instead of being disturbed, Merlin looks intrigued. Sometimes Harry really thinks his friends are in the wrong line of work.

***************************

Eggsy rings the doorbell and waits for Harry to open the door for him this time, much to Harry’s surprise, since usually he’ll just invite himself in through the window. The boy really doesn’t care for doors, only using when absolutely necessary (namely one of Harry’s nosy neighbors spots him from their window), even after they bypassed the awkward period of hide-and-seek.

Harry had tried, and failed, to talk him out of it a few times.

(“You don’t have to hop in through the window all the time. Did you notice I have a door downstairs?”

“S’ fine, really. M’ good at climbin’ things.”

Harry barely restrained himself from asking does ‘things’ include people, and if it does, can he volunteer.)

“Do ye know yer neighbor thinks I’m a burglar?” Eggsy sulks into his cup of tea once they both settle around the table.

He looks a little depressed, so Harry tries: “You don’t know that.”

“But I do.” Eggsy frowns, “I saw the way he looked at me. The man who saw me falling from balcony tha’ day? He didn’t buy it when ye told ‘im I was there to ‘fix something on yer roof’.”

That was indeed a disastrous quick thinking. Harry winces at the memory. “Well, then there’s only one thing we can do.”

“What?”

Harry hesitates. “Do you want to fix my roof now? I’ll make sure he catches sight of it.”

Eggsy throws back his head and laughs so loud, the care-free sound sends a nice vibration across Harry’s skin, and Harry thinks to himself: I’m going to keep him around.

Chapter Text

Harry has a mental list about the things he’s found out about Eggsy:

Number one, despite his rough accent and atrocious dress sense, Eggsy is actually a well-mannered young man and is impossibly polite. 

Number two, Eggsy has a peculiar taste for fixing things. In mere days, he fixed everything in the entire house with even the tiniest glitch, including an archaic wall clock he digs up from Harry’s basement, which was inherited from Harry’s grandfather and has never ticked once since an air raid during the Second World War.

Number three, Eggsy has a mean boss.

Number four, Eggsy cannot lie if his life depends on it. He wears the same guilty look whenever he’s confronted with something he tries to avoid (a small frown weighing down the corner of his mouth) and apologies until Harry wants to swallow the question back.

Number five, Eggsy’s versatile with several most inconceivable skills, and he brushes them all off as ‘I’ve done a similar job before’.

Number six, Eggsy has an estranged father who he doesn’t like talking about, a step father who’s a dickhead, a mother he’s close to, a young sister he’s extremely fond of, and he doesn’t live with any of them. Harry asked him about it once; Eggsy murmured something like he’s ‘busy working anyway’ and swiftly steered the conversation away, so Harry didn’t push.

Each one of them equally attributes to the forming of Harry’s final decision. “Here,” he holds his business card out to Eggsy one day.

Eggsy takes it, brushing his thumb against its smooth surface before looking up.

“My number is on it. Do with it however you feel pleased. But you can call me—” when you’re in trouble? When you lose sleep? When you’re alone and wish for nothing but some silent company? “—when you feel like it.”

“Okay,” Eggsy says, but it’s neither a commitment nor a dismiss, simply an acknowledgement.

Harry goes back to nursing the kettle, resolved to give Eggsy some privacy while dealing with it. But when he risks a glance, Eggsy is carefully sliding the little card into his pocket.

*************************

Eggsy never calls, but it doesn’t necessarily mean anything since he’s been dropping by personally every other days. He is a nice chap and a delightful company, eager to help and once they passed the awkward period of tentatively feeling each other out, Harry realizes that Eggsy has a tendency to take things over when he deems it necessary. It’s intriguing and endearing at the same time.

“No. Not tha’ one. Ye can’t—Okay ye know what? Put it down.” Eggsy puffs out a long-suffering breath after twenty minutes of futile instructing, “leave it to me.”

“But I’m almost finished,” Harry feels the need to defend himself.

“No yer really not. Ye just nailed the board upside down.”

“I didn’t—” Harry looks down, “—or did I?”

Eggsy gives him a suspicious look. “Yer sure ye’ve done this before?”

“Not really,” Harry admits, “I tried, though. My friend got it done for me in the end, but I thought I was getting a hang of it.” Actually Percival put the shelves together in five minutes, like all of Harry’s struggling and endeavor was a joke. “I don’t understand. Look, right here, the tag says it’s ‘easy to assemble’.”

Eggsy gives him a crooked smile, the very kind that Harry’s come to recognize and enjoy recently. “Let me deal with it.”

“You sure?” Harry raises an eyebrow, “It’s rather tricky.”

“Just go,” Eggsy scowls, and it’s the least terrifying thing Harry has ever seen. “I’ll tell ye when I’m finished. Ye can ruthlessly judge my handiwork then.”

There’s a certain intimacy to it, to finish Harry’s undone like that. Harry doesn’t know if Eggsy’s feeling it too or it’s just his wishful thinking. He raises two hands in surrender, hands over the screwdriver and retreats to the kitchen, where he still rules.

Ten minutes later Eggsy reappears, a big grin on his face, showing shallow dimples on both sides. He looks so very pleased with himself, and all but purrs when he spots Harry leaning against the counter.

“Done!” he announces. “Damn, I’m good.”

“I thought I was going to be the judge of that?”

“No matter. I did a beautiful job. Waitin’ to be blown away, Mr. Hart, ‘cause yer so gonna.”

Harry doubts he can be ‘blown away’ but a mere bookshelf, however perfectly assembled. “There’s a smear on your cheekbone.” He says instead.

“What? Where?” Eggsy rubs the back of his hand against his cheek. “Is it gone?”

“No. Still there.”

Harry watches Eggsy struggling with himself for a second. “Here, let me.” he leans over, bringing up a thumb and tenderly brushing it against Eggsy’s cheekbone. The other man stirs violently under his palm, breath hitched in his throat, but doesn’t jerk back. Instead, he goes very, very still. It’s not exactly a welcome, but nor does it strike Harry as a refusal, so he allows his thumb to linger a little—just a little longer.

“Yer a subtle liar, Mr. Hart.” Eggsy murmurs under his palm, skin flushed pink. “There is no smear, righ’?”

Harry widens his eyes innocently, turning the hand to show the other man a smudge on his thumb.

“Erh,” Eggsy stares down at it, and if possible, he flushes even harder. “Sorry, mate.” He stutters, “I thought…well.”

Harry pulls back his hand contentedly. “Tea?” he raises the kettle.

************************

Things has been going well, and if Harry dares to say, going normally for a while, until it’s not.

*************************

Harry’s deep in thoughts in front of a shelf full of vegetables when his phone rings. It’s Saturday, he’s considering pulling a few more tricks with his normal recipe when Eggsy comes over.

The caller ID says unknown. Harry gets calls from paranoid customers demanding every detail on their ongoing garments all the time, so he picks it up without a second thought. “Hello?”

No one speaks. Harry waits a few more seconds before pulling the cellphone away from his face; the screen shows it’s still connected. “Hello?” he tries again, “Who am I speaking to?”

Still nothing. He’s about to hang up when suddenly a strange noise comes through the line. It sounds vaguely like a waterfall, or the noise a radio makes when receives no signal. It its midst is the unmistakable sound of someone’s heavy breathing.

That’s…weird. And a tad creepy. Harry frowns at the cabbage in his hand: “Hello?”

A few more beats of fitful noise. “Mr. Hart,” the caller coughs.

Harry’s not sure, but—“Eggsy?”

The reply comes with another cough. “Ye—yeah.”

“What’s wrong? You’re out of breath.” Someone clears throat pointedly behind him; Harry steps aside from the shelf with an apologizing smile for the lady who’s waiting behind him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’,” comes a rushed answer, “s’ just—” a sudden hiss, then a loud bang that almost makes Harry jump, “I don’ think I can make it to lunch today. Sorry.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. I’ll call ye back once this is over, okay?”

Harry frowns. “Once what’s over? Where are you?”

“I’ll call ye back,” the boy repeats stiffly. It’s either Harry’s imagining things, or the noise from the other side is indeed getting louder by the second. “look, I really gotta run now. See you later Mr. Hart. Really sorry ‘bout the lunch.” 

“Wait, Eggsy—”

Eggsy hangs up.

Chapter Text

Harry tried. He really did.

He made a fantastic meal as planned—using the new recipe and all—but no one showed up, so he managed to eat half of it before throwing away the rest. Then he changed his mind and remade the meal out of what’s left in the fridge, because if the younger man was simply caught up in some minor inconvenience and indeed comes to his door later, it’d be rude to not be able to put at least something on the table.

Harry dialed the number Eggsy called him with; it went straight to voicemail. He dialed again sometime later, and the number suddenly doesn’t exist.

He considered calling the police. He did call the police, actually, only to hang up before it’s answered.

Because what he’s going to say? Help please help, my friend’s in danger? And no, I don’t know what kind of danger he’s in. I don’t know where he might be. I don’t know any of his acquaintance. I don’t know what he does for a living. I don’t know his real name. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure we’re friends. But he’s pale, blond, he’s about this high, he doesn’t like onion but he can take food really, really spicy, and he’s very important to me. I think he’s in trouble, big one, bring him back here, pretty please?

Harry is—excuse his language, but Harry is fucked.

*******************

He decides to wait at home the next day, so he calls in sick, telling everyone he’s caught a flu.

“It’s not even flu season,” Merlin says dubiously, “and since when did you get knocked down by flu?”

“I got it bad,” Harry tells him, and boy, ain’t he right?

********************

Eventually he has to get back to work, but not without reluctance. His frustration must be practically tangible, since people suddenly start to give him pitiful looks and no one’s buying the excuse he tries to sell (“I know I look terrible, I got a flu. No—no, it’s not a bad break up! Who told you that? Is it Merlin?”). Even Percival comes to give him a few sympathetic pats on the shoulder. Heaven knows what Merlin has been whispering into his ears.

Also, Harry checks his phone roughly three times an hour, which does not help him selling the case.

********************

On the sixth day, Eggsy’s mysterious disappearance (along with Harry’s misery) comes to an end.

The irony is, it ends exactly the same way as it starts: abruptly, out of no reason, and with Harry playing no part of it.

It’s a Friday. Harry comes home at seven as usual, finds Eggsy asleep on his couch and almost has a heart attack.

It’s been a long time since he got sneaked upon like this, so pardon him if he’s a little out of practice. Harry silently freaks out for a while in the doorway, waiting for his heartbeats to come down to a normal rate while the boy lies unknowingly on the couch, fast asleep, utterly undisturbed by the fact that he just scared the living day light out of the owner of the house.

The boy is huddled up into a small ball with his back to the room (he’s wearing that hideous yellow-ish jacket again), face buried in the cushion so Harry can’t read his expression. His shoulders rise evenly with each breath. The boy’s clearly in deep sleep.

Harry wants to drag him up and shake him so hard until his teeth chatter.

It’s been a week, for God’s sake! A week with Harry worrying himself sick, jumping at every ring of his cellphone and eating alone in front of a whole table of food he didn’t prepare for himself. He gave up his perfect attendance record! And for what? To have the other man wander back into the house and crash on his couch like he owns the place? Did the boy even think about it at all? Does he care, at all, about what this may make Harry feel?

But at the meantime, in the back of his mind, there’s also a voice nudging him to come closer, to pull a blanket over the boy’s shoulder, to drop into the armchair and watch him sleep for a while, to let relief and gratitude wash over his body rather than anger.

Harry’s had enough of this.

“If my place is but a hotel to you,” he begins loudly, feeling a twisted satisfaction of revenge when the boy startles and almost falls out of the couch, “then at least you can call ahead to make a reservation before inviting yourself in. Was it really that inconvenient to just—JESUS CHRIST, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?”

Eggsy flinches. “Nothin’. Had an accident’.” He struggles to sit up, “S’rry for breakin’ in. Was gonna wait for ye, but I didn’ know when yer gonna be back and yer neighbors were givin’ me funny looks, so…” he shrugs with one shoulder awkwardly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I thought I’d just rest my eyes for a bit…sorry.”

Harry’s not listening anymore. He gets to the couch in two long strides, dropping to his knees while bringing two tentative fingers up to the boy’s face. Eggsy winces under his tender touch, which is definitely not a good sign. “M’ okay,” he tries to push Harry’s hand away.

Harry ignores the other man’s weak protest. “Who did this?”

“Uh,” Eggsy says, and that’s all Harry needs to hear. He pulls the phone out of his pocket: “I’m calling the police.”

“No!” Eggsy’s eyes widen in panic. He jerks his hand up in an attempt to grab Harry’s phone, but misses by a few inches. Harry stares at the younger man in horrification.

“S’ nothin’,” the boy explains weakly, “I’m okay. Just…can’t see things clearly righ’ now. It’ll wear off.”

“It won’t if it’s a CONCUSSION!” Harry yells, but regrets it as soon as the boy’s face turns a little green at his volume, “Jesus! Eggsy. You disappeared for a whole week, and came back like THIS? What—where were you?”

Eggsy winces. “I can’t tell ye. M’ sorry.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“M’ sorry,” Eggsy just repeats, “I—I tried, I swear. I,” he struggles with his tongue, “I was lookin’ forward to it. The lunch. A job came up, but I thought I could make it,” his shoulders sag, “guess I tried too hard…or not hard enough.” he swallows thickly, “but I did try, I swear. You must trust me—”

Harry cuts him off. “You think this is about you stood me up?” Eggsy hesitates, and it makes Harry all the more angry. “I don’t give a shit about the lunch!” he yells even when Eggsy flinches, “you can’t—you can’t show up like this and expect me to not ask questions. And don’t you dare to say it’s none of my concern. Because it is. YOU are my concern.” His fingertips dip into the other man’s shoulders, “And this is the second time. I can’t keep pretending to believe that you’re fine when I can see with my eyes that you’re not! How do you expect me to—”

“Then tell me to fuck off,” Eggsy cuts in.

It’s like a direct punch to his face. Harry’s so taken aback that he can’t find his tongue for a long moment. “Wha—what?”

“Tell me to fuck off if ye cannot live with it,” Eggsy continues. His lips moves quickly, like the words are poisonous and he’s been dying to spit them out. Harry stares at him in disbelief, but the boy just keeps going on. “If you cannot pretend to notice nothing, then tell me to stop coming over, and I will. Because THIS,” he points at his own bruised face, “this is goin’ ta happen again. And I can’t afford to have this conversation every time. So tell me. Say the word and I’m gone."

He sounds maniacally determined, and Harry is so angry that he laughs out aloud. “Is that an ultimatum?” he asks, leaning back to get a better look of the boy, “a threat?”

“No. S’ an offer.” Eggsy looks away, “I’m offering you a way out.”

“Out of what?”

“Me.”

The boy says the word like it’s a plain fact. Harry considers it. “So you broke into my house,” he slowly says, “to offer me a chance to officially kick you out?”

Eggsy doesn’t say anything, and refuses to look at Harry.

“Why are you here, Eggsy?” Harry shakes his head in disbelief, “I have absolutely no clue so help me. Why did you even come?”

Eggsy swallows. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, “I just…I am not exactly homeless, y’know. I have places to go. But…” there’s a small frown between his eyebrows, one that Harry has come to be familiar with over the time they spent together, so he knows the boy is trying to tell the truth while knowing he should lie.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Eggsy finally looks up, “but I don’t wanna go anywhere else.”

The thing is, Harry wants to be angry. He really does. And he should be; he has every reason to be. But all the anger drains from his body the moment Eggsy finally locks eyes with him. From the boy’s eyes, Harry cannot tell if he’s pleading, or defeated, or hopeful. He realizes that he truly knows nothing about the boy. He cannot read into his actions, cannot tell between his lines, and what the boy lets on clearly contradict who he really is. Harry would be a fool to not realize that Eggsy has been, and will be, nothing but trouble to him.

Harry is not an unwise man. And it unsettles him that he’s not unsettled by what he’s about to say.

“You are staying tonight.” He gets to his feet, “I’ll go fetch a first aid kit and some towels. You can sleep in the guest room.”

Obviously, that’s not what the boy was expecting. Eggsy blinks then frowns. “So wha’, that’s it?”

Harry gives him an unimpressed look, and suddenly Eggsy seems to be provoked by it. “What’s the problem with ye?” The boy stands up from the couch too, sways a little but doesn’t fall. His hands ball into fists behind his sides.

“I beg your pardon? What’s the problem with ME? YOU broke into my house.”

“And ye ask me to stay!” Eggsy shouts, looking downright furious right now. “Who does that? I told ye I have places I can go! Ye don’t have to—”

“You’re frustrated that I didn’t throw you out by the neck?”

“Why didn’t ye? what d’ye want from me?”

“Nothing! I want nothing from you!” rage begins licking at the edge of Harry's mind. “What do you want from ME? If you want me to respond in a certain way, then why don’t you just tell me and save us both the trouble?”

Eggsy ignores the question he tosses back. “Am I a charity to ye? Is tha’ why ye let me stay?”

“I never said you are! And stop pretending you don’t understand why I did what I did. We both know I didn’t do that out of sympathy!”

Eggsy freezes at the spot. “I—I don’t know wha’ yer talkin’ about,” he stutters.

“And now we both know you’re lying.”

Eggsy opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He pales, hesitates, seems to want to step back, but loses his balance when the back of his knees hit the couch. Harry grabs his elbow instinctively, and Eggsy grabs the front of his suit.

Despite all the afternoons they spent together, they’ve never had physical contact close like this; Harry being the gentleman he is, and Eggsy being surprisingly respectful of personal space. They lock eyes again, and for a moment Harry doesn’t know what’s got to him, his rage or Eggsy’s craziness, but he thinks he’s going to kiss the other man. It must’ve shown, because Eggsy’s eyes widen under Harry’s gaze. Then he tilts his chin up—and if this is not an encouraging sign, Harry doesn’t know what is.

He leans down, but the kiss doesn’t happen. He hesitates halfway. Actually Harry’s not sure who hesitated first, he or Eggsy; up this close, he can trace the minutest change of expression on the boy’s face, and he knows when he sees unsureness…or fear.

Harry pulls back. “I think,” he says softly, “we both need to calm down. I’d better go get that first aid kit now.” he lets go of the boy’s elbow, but the boy doesn’t free the front of his suit.

Eggsy’s face is unreadable now. He swallows under Harry’s questioning look, gazes up and directly into Harry’s eyes. “Mr. Hart,” he breaths.

So Harry kisses him.

It’s but a chaste kiss. Neither of them opens their mouth, and neither of them moves much. Eggsy’s lips are chapped and dry, a bizarre combination of compliance and roughness. Harry brings his hands up to cup the boy’s face, fingers sliding behind the boy’s ears to avoid most of the bruise on his cheek. The skin there is soft and warm, but the air the boy breaths out burns against Harry’s skin.

They stay like that for a few seconds before breaking apart. Eggsy takes in a shaking breath and lets go of Harry’s clothes. “Not sympathy,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Never,” Harry agrees.

******************************

They don’t talk much after that; both of them are tired, and have much to think in their mind. Harry works silently to clean up most of the boy’s wounds. Most of them are as severe as they look, but one side of Eggsy’s shoulders is dangerously swollen up. Eggsy insists it’s a sprain not a dislocation, so Harry decides to believe him (for now), and see what happens in the morning.

When Harry’s done, it’s already past ten o’clock. Eggsy looks worn out despite the claim he keeps making (“M’ fine, really”), so Harry sends him to bed. He himself is not so lucky; Harry has a feeling he’s not going to get much sleep tonight after all that happened, so he drags an armchair over to sit by the bed.

Everything is going to change in the morning, he thinks to himself.

It suddenly occurs to Harry that though it’s generally considered normality for people to express their feelings before the kiss happens, neither of them has mentioned such a thing. Saying ‘I like you’ seems pretty odd under that circumstance.

Eggsy coughs softly beside him, dragging Harry out of his thoughts. “You’re still awake,” Harry leans over, “do you need water?”

Eggsy shakes his head and coughs again. “My real name is Gary,” he suddenly says, “Gary Unwin. But please do me a favor. Never call me tha’.”

Harry pauses for a moment. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yeah, I know. But I want to.” Eggsy shifts a little under the sheet. “I don’ wanna lie anymore,” he tells the ceiling.

“But you never lied to me,” Harry says quietly.

“Lie, not telling,” Eggsy mumbles, “S’ the same.”

“Not to me.”

Eggsy’s lips pressed into a thin line, indicating he doesn’t agree with him much.

Harry scrutinizes the younger man’s face. “You’re still young.”

“Young for what, exactly?” Eggsy asks, and his tone is not cynical, or satiric or angry or even defeated, just plain and dulled, like he’s had the same conversation hundreds of times.

Harry doesn’t answer, and Eggsy doesn’t push. “Ye gonna sleep now?” the boy asks instead.

“No.” Harry shakes his head, “I think I’ll sit here for a while.”

“’Kay,” Eggsy mumbles, tries to stifle a yawn but fails, “tha’ sounds a bit creepy…but who am I to judge.” He chuckles at himself, and Harry can’t help but smile a little too.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you up in the morning. Then we’ll talk about whatever we need to talk about.”

“All right.” Eggsy closes his eyes, “G’night, ‘Arry.”

It takes a few seconds for Harry to realize that’s the first time Eggsy calls him by his first name.