Chapter Text
“Steady, Gawain. Your pulse is all over the place.”
“Yeah, no fucking shit. You wanna join me in here and see how fucking steady yours is?”
There would hardly be enough room for you, but you don't point that out. Not right now. There's the sound of another volley of gunfire, so close that the view on the screen lurches as Eggsy jerks back against the stonework, startled at the sound. It's too dim to see much except the bare outline of the opposite wall too-close in front of Eggsy's face.
“Hold tight, Gawain,” you instruct, projecting every ounce of calm in your voice you can muster. “Backup's on its way.”
“Backup.”
“Lancelot. ETA about thirteen minutes, so just sit tight.”
“Right. You want me to wait to get rescued like a sodding princess.”
“That's exactly what I want you to do, yes.”
He's not in anything like a critical condition, not yet, but the blood loss is just starting to make him shiver and you can see that his temperature is starting to drop with the beginnings of shock.
“Fuck that,” he says, and the camera in his glasses lurches again as he pushes himself upright from where he'd been slouching. “I'm not broken.”
Without the wall's support he's wobbly as a newborn colt, especially on that leg. You roll your eyes.
“This isn't up for debate, Gawain. Sit your arse down and await backup, that's an order.”
“I reckon I've had enough orders for today, Merlin, if it's all the same to you.”
He staggers forward a couple of steps, steadies himself against the wall. The space is narrow, it only highlights the trouble he's going to have trying to get out of this fucking labyrinth with his injuries as they are.
“Don't make me call Galahad in here,” you say, as if Harry wasn't already in the corner of the room with a set of headphone on, looking white as a sheet. It was only after a significantly higher quantity of threats than usual (and the gentle insistence that there's nothing you can do for him, Harry, let us take care of it) that he agreed to abandon his plan of flying over there himself to take out the bastards that had surprised them by being much, much more prepared for Eggsy's infiltration of their premises than initial intel had suggested they would be.
Somebody in the Intelligence Department (ha! what a bloody misnomer) is going to have a really fucking bad day when you're done here.
Eggsy laughs, and it's weak but you're nonetheless so happy to hear it that for a second you close your eyes and let the sound wash over you. Just one second.
“I think we both know Harry'd never get himself into this mess in the first place,” he says, bitterly, and you don't have to look around to know Harry's expression is collapsing in on itself like a Tory government.
“You think Galahad's never been captured?” you say, forcing yourself to keep your voice measured, almost off-hand, as if none of this bothers you. “Never been tortured?”
Eggsy sucks in a wet breath.
On another monitor you can see Lancelot's progress. She's reached the room where Eggsy had been held and is dispensing the sort of violent justice you know Harry wishes he could be there to deliver himself. Kay's walking her through it in the control room, though surveillance is patchy. Merlin took Harry and retreated to his office for some privacy as soon as it became apparent that Eggsy wasn't going to be good for much except sitting tight and trying not to die.
They're fucking tricky, this lot, and they're not going down without a fight, that much is clear.
“Standby, Gawain. There's a bit of a hold up, but she's getting there.”
“I can help,” he says, fiercely, and god help you but you're proud of him in this moment. Proud of how fierce he is, how nothing can dull his sharp edges. Nothing.
“She doesn't need your bloody help, Gawain. I said sit down.”
There's either enough of an order in your voice (and a bit of your brain is whispering, silky-smooth, that he's gotten very used to following your instructions) or he's lost enough blood, but either way he slumps down the wall to the dirty ground.
When you glance behind you, Harry's got his head in his hands.
He's all right, Harry, you want to say. No permanent damage. Not even to his fucking indomitable spirit. You want to say that he's suffered worse knocks than this in his young life and still come out swinging.
But you're a professional, and so you focus on your job.
“Merlin,” Eggsy says, and his voice is just the faintest bit slurred now. It worries you. There's medical team on standby ready to fly him to the nearest hospital or get him stable enough to be brought back to the Kingsman facility, and they've done what assessment they can over the video feed. He should be okay. Some blood loss, some blunt force trauma. A few broken fingers, the possibility of cracked ribs, and the bullet graze to his leg. A fair amount of pain, but nothing immediately life threatening. This should just be shock finally kicking in properly.
“I'm here Gawain.”
You can hear Harry get to his feet behind you and come closer. Wordlessly you kick out a chair beside you for him to sit on. He sinks into it and takes your hand, grips it tight. You let him.
“Merlin, talk to me. I'm going mental sitting here.”
You look at Harry for a handful of seconds, considering. Then you nod decisively and switch to a private audio line.
You interlace your fingers with Harry's. When you speak it is with utter nonchelance, as if you're at breakfast and asking him to pass the milk for your tea.
“Did I ever tell you about how Harry and I got together?”
*
He started taking you out for drinks before you'd even been knighted. Such blatant favouritism, you couldn't help feeling a bit smug about it in a private sort of way. He was only four years older than you, and it felt strange calling him sir like you were back at school when it felt, just a little, like you were starting to be friends.
He took you out for drinks and he fussed over your stupid dog, and berated you for not giving two shits about the wee beast. You named it Doug, and only then because Galahad was unhappy with you for wanting to call it Dog, and the two sounded almost identical in your accent anyway.
“Never been a dog person,” you told him, and he glared up at you all scandalised from where he knelt on the ground, dirtying up his pretty suit so he could pet the creature's soft ears. He covered them at your words, his elegant hands pale on the dark fur.
“Hush your rotten mouth. He'll hear you.”
“He's a dog, sir.” You'd learned by this point that some things needed explaining to him very slowly and patiently.
Sometimes, at the word sir, Galahad's eyes would meet yours very briefly and then he'd look away. It made you feel strange in your gut, like you'd said something to offend him and couldn't quite work out what it was.
“He's a puppy,” Galahad cooed, fingers slipping into the short fur to scratch at the back of its neck, making its tail thump excitedly and its entire body wriggle in barely-contained glee. “How could anyone dislike a puppy?”
You rolled your eyes. Galahad's own (ridiculous) dog sat off to one side, aloof and well-mannered. You felt vaguely embarrassed at the way your dog had no shame in front of Galahad, would lick and mouth at his hands, rub its face on his trousers, would roll over and show its belly, beg.
“Here, Doug,” you snapped, perhaps a bit too forcefully, but along he came anyway – slowly, resentfully tearing himself away from Galahad's spoiling – and sat down at your feet.
“Don't get too attached,” you made sure to warn Galahad. “Whether I get the job or not, I'm getting rid of the bloody dog at the end of all this.”
Galahad looked like he was trying to swallow a smile, maybe even a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about the job,” he said, standing and dusting off his trousers. “I have every confidence in you.”