Chapter Text
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It really was deplorable, Harry thought as he straightened his singed cuffs, how singularly unimaginative criminal masterminds were becoming these days. The whole world to choose from, and every psychopath with an explosive point to make inevitably wound up in New York, Tokyo, or - as in this case - London. Just once, he wished they’d choose somewhere unexpected. Florence, perhaps. He rather liked Florence.
Merlin was still screaming tinnily at him through his glasses, something about tact, Galahad and finesse, Galahad and the highest levels of discretion, Galahad, you utter sodding twat mixed in with a long stream of creative obscenities. Harry casually switched off the feed, cutting the man off mid-rant. Honestly, if he’d wanted to listen to an hour of angry Scottish swearing he’d have stayed home and watched Malcolm Tucker.
Still, for all that he thought that the quartermaster was overreacting – the West End was only the tiniest bit on fire, after all – a small gaggle of gawkers was already beginning to gather, phones out, and while Harry was certain none of the terrorists he’d left behind would be in a fit state to identify him any time soon, plausible deniability was much easier when one’s face wasn’t plastered across social media in the background of a thousand selfies. He cut smoothly through the crowd as the clamour of approaching sirens grew louder, sidestepping distracted tourists and gawping teens, turned swiftly down a narrow, shadowy side street, and ducked into the closest shopfront just as the first fire engine pulled up.
‘….C’n I help you?’ said a young, male voice, and Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, registering in turn the somewhat dingy establishment, the array of colourful bottles lining the walls, and the blond young man in a black bartender’s vest eyeing him slightly askance.
Kingsman policy was, strictly speaking, for agents to report to the estate for debriefing immediately post-mission. But the sirens were still blaring at full volume outside and besides, Harry wasn’t particularly anxious to hurry back and receive his inevitable tongue-lashing. Arthur always blew little things like ‘excessive use of hand grenades’ out of all proportion.
‘Martini,’ Harry said crisply, stepping up to the bar. ‘Gin, not vodka, obviously, stirred for ten seconds while glancing at an unopened bottle of vermouth, thank you.’
The bartender – Gary, his name tag read, though it didn’t seem to suit him somehow – blinked at Harry. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s definitely got t’ be the most particular drink order I’ve gotten today. A man of fixed habits, eh?’
The younger man clearly hadn’t meant it as a dig – he was already reaching for the bottle of Beefeaters – but his casual quip jarred Harry slightly, recalling his earlier thoughts.
‘Something else, then,’ he said, and then, impulsively, ‘Bartender’s choice.’
Gary paused and turned back towards him, blue eyes quizzical.
‘You sure?’ he inquired. ‘I can mix you up a martini quick as, no problem-’
‘Yes,’ said Harry decisively. ‘As it happens, I was just lamenting to myself how set in their ways the people that I….work with have become lately, and it would be hypocritical of me to disparage their habits while sticking rigidly to my own, wouldn’t it? And what better place than a cocktail bar to, ah, shake things up a little.’ He smiled a little self-deprecatingly at the pun.
‘Well, all right then,’ grinned the boy, leaning back on his elbows. His eyes flicked over Harry, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, the bespoke but creased suit, and the stray curls of hair escaping from his severe side-parting. ‘Long day?’
‘Very much so,’ Harry agreed.
The boy hummed to himself for a moment then spun around, grabbing a highball glass and a couple of bottles. He scooped ice into the glass, deftly splashed a shot from each bottle over the ice, then ducked underneath the bar for a bottle of orange juice and filled the glass almost to the brim, topping it off with a yellow liqueur that Harry didn’t recognise.
‘Go on then, give it a try,' he said, a spark of mischief in his eyes as he slid the glass across the counter to Harry. ‘I’ve found one o’ these is a pretty good pick-me-up after a rough shift.’
Harry raised an eyebrow dubiously, but took a cautious sip. It was sweet – sweeter than he usually liked his drinks – but the flavours blended pleasantly together, hints of vanilla and whisky overlaid with the sharper notes of citrus.
‘Good?’ said the young man, raising an eyebrow to mirror Harry's.
‘Excellent,’ Harry said sincerely, somewhat to his own surprise. He pulled out his wallet. ‘How much do I…?’
‘On the house,’ the boy said, waving away the bills.
‘That really isn’t necessary,’ Harry said. ‘I must insist, Gary-‘
‘Call me Eggsy, everybody does,’ the boy said, crossing his arms on the bar and leaning forwards. ‘Listen, mate. In about an hour those doors are gonna open, an’ I’m gonna be making Old Fashioned after Old Fashioned for city arseholes who think they’re the next Don Draper and Cosmos beyond countin’ for birds who still ain’t over Sex and the City, and every single one of 'em'll bite my head off if I even suggest they might think about tryin’ something different for once. So this one’s on me. Call it a reward for bein’ open to new experiences.’ He winked. ‘An’ if you still feel bad about it, then just come back n' find me another night, an’ remember to tip me real well the next time.’
He grinned up at Harry, a dazzling thing which lit up his face, and Harry was suddenly struck by just how very attractive the boy was.
He muttered some polite, near inaudible words of thanks and buried his nose in his drink, telling himself firmly that the sudden curl of warmth behind his breastbone was the alcohol and nothing more.
(Elsewhere, Merlin stared despairingly at the TV on which an earnest young reporter was bemoaning the sudden, fiery destruction of one of London’s oldest and most renowned theatres, and very gently and repeatedly beat his head against his desk.)
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