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Kingsman: The Highlands Liaison

Chapter 9: VII. Progressus - I

Summary:

“I see the way you look at me, when you think I can’t see ye.”

Notes:

Hello hello lovely people! We hope you've had a relaxing weekend and a good Monday, and that you've fuelled up to get back on the Idiots To Lovers train!

This week, after what feels like ages, we switch back to our beloved Eggsy's POV. Be prepared for some intense internal monologue, shocking revelations, and some more self-indulgent Scotland porn. We can't really help ourselves on that front, soz.

As usual, you can find some visual reference for our landmarks in the mood board, a map in the end notes, and our weekly playlist to help the mood.

See you very soon!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Kingsman THL mood board

 

VII. Progressus - I

 

Eggsy is standing naked in front of a mirror. He tries to avoid doing it most days—just full-on stare at himself—because he doesn’t really like what his body has become in the past couple of years. And yet, this one time, he’s enjoying it: the man he sees reflected in front of him seems to look exactly like Eggsy used to look what now feels like eons ago, when he first signed up for Kingsman trials: lean, toned, mostly hairless—in a word, perfect.

The person behind him, whose hands are snaking up from Eggsy’s hips to cup his pecs, lingering to trace every ridge of muscle with the tips of their fingers while they do so, definitely seems to agree with Eggsy’s silent assessment.

Eggsy is really feeling whoever this is, but somehow he’s unable to distinguish their features in the mirror yet. Going by what he senses, though—a strong chest pressed against his back, a slight height difference, hairy forearms, big, big hands—it seems to be a man standing behind him. 

Harry, his trained mind immediately suggests. 

“Harry,” he whispers, out loud, leaning into the man’s touch even further and trying to bring him closer to the mirror, so he can look him in the face.

The man does accommodate him—he pushes Eggsy gently forward, closer to the mirror, and now his face is miraculously lit up and his features are distinct and fucking drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s kissing the crook of Eggsy’s neck, and he’s smiling against Eggsy’s skin, so sensitive against his beard, and he’s chuckling lightly and saying, “Try again, bonny lad,” and well, fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This can’t be—

“Something wrong, Eggsy?” Wallace murmurs, impossibly close to Eggsy’s ear, before turning his eyes towards the mirror and meeting Eggsy’s shocked gaze in the glass. “Changed yer mind?”

“How’d… No, I haven’t, I just… How did you know?” Eggsy hears himself reply, weakly, as he leans even further into Wallace, already oh so hopelessly lost and, weirdly, not regretting it for a second.

“I see the way you look at me, when you think I can’t see ye,” Wallace replies, still grinning and resuming the gentle kissing and nibbling of Eggsy’s neck he’d started on before stopping and checking for consent. Fuck, that really shouldn’t be that hot. “I’ve thought about doing this since the first time I saw you,” he adds, low and mellifluous—and Eggsy’s knees completely turn to jelly.

“Mmmhdoingwhat?” Eggsy says, in a single breath, because he’s having trouble even just thinking straight, let alone formulating actual sentences to reply to, well, that

What the fuck is happening.

“This,” Wallace says, moving to the other side of Eggsy’s neck and biting down on his skin a tad more roughly, as he skims the tips of his fingers over Eggsy’s abs and hipbones and his hands are dangerously close, so close to—

It all vanishes in a puff of black smoke and the sound of someone crying out for help.

Eggsy sits up and immediately turns to his left to try and understand what is going on with Wallace. The man seems to be screaming at the top of his lungs, and it’s a mixture of indistinct noises and actual words and sentences—please, help me, it’s not me, they killed her, they killed Julia, and Vicky, get Vicky, get my wife amongst them.

Not being able to make sense of any of it, and generally not knowing what to do, the only things Eggsy can think of doing are to turn on the small solar lamp hanging from the middle of the tent ceiling, and subsequently try to shake Wallace awake. He shifts awkwardly in his sleeping bag and grabs Wallace by the shoulders, nudging him gently. “Mate? Mate, wake up!”

That doesn’t work: Wallace continues tossing and turning and convulsing and sweating, and after even just a bunch of seconds it’s frankly fucking scary, so Eggsy decides to try again. He pats Wallace quite awkwardly on the cheek and moves closer to speak directly into his ear. “C’mon, man, please. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

Finally, that does the trick: Wallace makes another strangled noise and sits up, wide awake and looking absolutely petrified. “Need to…” he starts, but he trails off as he turns his head slowly to his right to meet Eggsy’s gaze. “Fuck, Eggsy, I’m sorry, I’m…”

Another sentence going unfinished, it seems. Eggsy watches as Wallace struggles out of his sleeping bag and hugs his legs close to his body, burying his head between his bent knees and starting to sob loudly.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay! It was just a bad dream, eh, Wally?” Eggsy comforts him, as he moves again to sit a bit closer and soothe him a tad more by rubbing his back. He doesn’t even realise what he’s doing, at first—touching Wallace, potentially invading his personal space while he’s vulnerable—and when he does, he kind of wants to kick himself. He can’t really think, it seems: someone’s crying, it’s all touchy-touchy and no more boundaries. Well done indeed, Eggsy.

Wallace says something that Eggsy finds to be unintelligible. The man’s voice is muffled by weeping and his head is still covered to conceal his tears. Eggsy continues to rub his back while he asks, “Come again, bruv?”

That spurs Wallace to finally emerge from his hiding place and rub a hand all over his face, scantily drying his tears, before turning to look Eggsy in the eye—blue, blue, so blue, even in this shitty lighting, it’s impossible—and say, softly and a bit wetly, something that Eggsy was done hoping he’d ever get to hear. 

“It’s David, Eggsy. My name... is David.”

Eggsy smiles at him, feeling weirdly relieved. Fucking hell, this means so much. Not really the time or the place for a freak-out about it, though, because Wal—no, fuck no, David needs him now.

“David,” Eggsy repeats, slowly. Nice to finally meet you. Took long enough. 

David gives him a small smile back and then breaks down again, which promptly tickles the Eggsy’s touchy-touchy instinct once again. Before either of them knows, Eggsy’s kneeling right in front of David and hugging him tight. 

It’s a bit awkward, what with them being in a too-small space that doesn’t allow for much movement and cuffed together, but Eggsy does his absolute best. David doesn’t even protest: on the contrary, he mirrors Eggsy’s position to make things easier and returns the hug, and Eggsy feels it all through the physical contact—the fierce, all-consuming heartbreak of the traumatic experience David must have gone through, but also the gratitude and the utter relief in knowing, without Eggsy needing to say anything else other than his name, that Eggsy’s here for him, and he’s not going anywhere.

“I’m so sorry,” David says, in-between sobs and half into the crook of Eggsy’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Eggsy.”

“Shh, shh, come on, man. Nothing to be sorry for, eh?” he reassures David, kindly.

He feels David shake his head. “Course there is. Been such an… arse to you this whole time. And y-yer first instinct is to just be nice to me, no questions asked.” 

“You’re alright, David, seriously. Besides, it’s just what any decent human being would have done.”

David disentangles himself from the hug and sits back on his heels. The obnoxious bluish-white hue of the light above their heads makes him look even more broken. He fixes the impossible blue eyes on Eggsy’s once again, wipes a few leftover tears off with the back of his left hand. “Wanna hear about some not decent human beings?”

God. This is really happening. Eggsy nods. “Course I do. Didn’t wanna pry, but if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” David says, firmly. “I want tae be honest with you. I owe you this, after the hell I put you through.”

Eggsy settles back to a cross-legged position and is ultimately unable to resist amicably squeezing David’s forearm in encouragement. “Well, then, David: I’m all ears.”

Minutes feels like hours pass, during which David tells Eggsy many, many things about his latest giant undercover assignment in London. Not very far into David’s speech, the words Home Secretary and bombings are uttered, and Eggsy’s jaw falls.

I fucking remember. It was all over the telly for months. Julia Montague. They offed her and a dozen other people at a public fucking gathering, then tried to frame a copper for it. Wait, no, this can’t be, he can’t be—

But it’s the only possible explanation. 

“Fuck. You’re David Budd, then, aren’t you?” Eggsy can’t help but throw in, at some point, as if that could stop his brain from whirring too loudly.

David looks positively baffled. “Um. Aye? How…”

“Watched the live coverage on the telly. Then I stole Merlin’s file and read up on the whole thing. Can’t fucking believe I’m just putting two and two tog—ah, but of course.” Eggsy taps his temple. “Bloody targeted memory darts. Although I must admit, you do look about fifteen with a poor dye job and no beard, mate,” he adds, grinning.

David rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Please don’t remind me. How rude, eh? My two best features, and they take them away from me. You should be grateful for getting that dart, really.”

“Can’t tell if you’re being serious or just fishing for compliments, right now, David. Either way, when we get back home, I’m going to take you to a couples’ therapy date to IKEA and buying you a fuckin’ mirror.”

David just scoffs, diverts his gaze and, quite visibly, blushes

Wow. What the hell. Looks like he wasn’t fishing for anything after all.

“But anyways,” Eggsy says, briskly, before he starts visibly staring, “enough of me stroking your ego. Do go on, please.”

David proceeds to tell Eggsy about all his personal issues. How he was diagnosed with PTSD when he came back from playing hard man for Clansman in Afghanistan for two whole years and burning himself out completely. How he ignored the lot of ‘em, Robert and Hume telling him to take a break from being in the field. How he just jumped on the next opportunity to get back undercover, thinking it would look suspicious for an assignment in the Met if he took too long a leave of absence from the forces. How his superiors quickly realised the PTSD was going to be a problem, offered him help. How he refused all the outstretched hands around him, thinking he was doing the right thing by not showing weakness. How it all came crumbling down when Julia Montague was killed, and he—

“Fucking hell, David. I… I had no idea.”

David’s eyes fill with tears once again. “No-one really knows the nitty-gritty of that one, to be fair. It’s… Extremely classified, I suppose. Anyways. It was a blank.” He tries to be dismissive, shaking his head and giving Eggsy a forced smile.

You still tried putting a bullet in your head. You actually pulled the bloody trigger.

Eggsy doesn’t say any of that: he’s perfectly aware that the last things anyone needs after telling you about a suicide attempt are pointless pity and a fucking lecture. He just straightens himself up, then, and gives David a friendly smile.

“Glad you’re still with us. You’re a fuckin’ national hero, David Budd.” 

Once again, Eggsy stops and thinks: it just feels so right to be saying David’s full name. Never in his life had Eggsy ever imagined he would be rolling three simple syllables around in his mouth. Almost like a fine wine, the way he’s relishing them. Someone once asked what’s in a name? and the question just feels odd to Eggsy. There is so much in a name. Then again, s’pose old Willy was wildly unfamiliar with the world of secret organisations and undercover work.

Oblivious of Eggsy’s inner turmoil about names, David mindlessly and slyly rejects yet another flattery. “Ah, stop that, immediately. Just doing my job, wasn’t I?” 

Sure you were. Truly allergic to praise, aren’t you?

“Right, of course,” Eggsy replies, shaking his head and hugging his knees to his chest, trying to get the blood flowing back into his feet. Just wanted you to know there really aren’t many blokes like you around, is all. 

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t want to make David any more uncomfortable—not now that David’s being open and honest with him, and possibly not ever again. This feels like a good place to leave it, for the night.

He briefly glances at his watch, which reads 2:13 AM. “Hey, what do you say we put a giant pin in this and try to get some more kip? Gotta get up again in four hours. So much more walking to do. I’m tired just thinking about it,” he says, dramatically.

David nods. “That’s a canny lad.” He then draws a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit. The striking silver streak at the front of his quiff practically glimmers in the now feeble glow of the camping light, and Eggsy tries his best—and most likely fails—not to appear too transfixed.

Eggsy smiles kindly at David, then turns the light off. When they finally shuffle back into their sleeping bags, just lying next to each other with their cuffed wrists at a reasonable distance, Eggsy lets it all sink in, for a while. 

He can feel a powerful, almost magnetic force inside his chest telling him to stop staring blankly at the ceiling and turn to look at David: it’s dark, now. Not like he would know, anyways.

He doesn’t, however. Instead he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and resists it. The silence is endless and absolute, until...

“Eggsy?” David whispers, out of nowhere. Eggsy, who was almost falling asleep, feels every cell of his body awaken and tingle in anticipation. 

“Yes, David?” he replies, hopefully not too eager.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For listening to me.”

“Nah, mate,” Eggsy says, mind clear and heart full as it hasn’t been in months. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

Eggsy hears a feeble clicking sound and he feels his left hand be gently tugged away from his body by the wrist, until the back of it is pressed flush against David’s.

Sleep comes surprisingly quickly. When it does, Eggsy’s dream miraculously resumes from where he left it—like he’d just pressed pause on a film he was watching. Except, of course, there’s one giant difference: he knows it’s David, now. David touching him all over, David worshipping his body in the mirror, David turning him round and kissing him like he’s never been kissed before.

*

Eggsy and David’s Scalan campsite. 5:56 AM.

Something smells nice, Eggsy thinks as he gently stirs awake. His sleeping bag is soft and cosy around him, and the residual embers of his fiery dream are still softly warming him from the inside, as well. He hasn’t woken up so serene and at peace with the world in a good while. Hasn’t been held like this since…

Wait, what? When, how, why did this happen?

Eggsy seems to be curled up not only inside his sleeping bag, but also nestled in David’s arms. Hell, his face is pressed into the man’s chest. He can smell the fabric softener on the soft thermal shirt hugging his torso, and basically hear his fucking heartbeat. 

This is—fuck. And Eggsy can’t even move, get back to his side of the tent and feign obliviousness: David is clutching him tightly and doesn’t seem to have any intention of letting go. There is not a chance in the world Eggsy won’t wake him if he tries to slither away.

He looks up at the tent ceiling and sighs. Why do these things always happen to me? he wonders, as he thinks of something he hasn’t thought about in a long, long time. Weirdly, it hasn’t crossed his mind last night, in front of that fire that David lit for him, fuck, but this morning it’s all coming back in waves. This morning, he remembers that first night at the pub with the whole gang, and the way David and Julia were with each other. He also thinks of each and every time he’s looked at David, and David was seemingly lost in thought, smiling like an idiot to himself. Like a man in love. 

David is clearly spoken for, and Eggsy is in his arms, and even if this feels right it is actually oh so wrong, and this, what, cuddling situation needs to cease to be a thing immediately, or else—fuck, but he smells good.

Come on, Eggsy. You can do it.

Eggsy blinks a couple of times, trying to shake it off. Gaining some mental clarity back, he realises that, judging from the light he can see through the thin forest green canvas, it must already be around dawn. The alarm hasn’t rung yet, but it’s definitely time to get up.

Right. Easiest way to do this is play the cheeky fucker and hope for the best, I guess.

Before doing anything else, however, Eggsy does decide to indulge his dream-self and discreetly cup one of David’s gorgeous, bulging pecs in his hand—because, for fuck’s sake, they’re right in front of his nose, and Eggsy’s only flesh and blood; plus, David seems to be sleeping pretty soundly, there’s no risk of him actually—

Eggsy hears the sound of someone coughing lightly, and immediately starts panicking. He looks upwards and—fuck, hi, SFX blue eyes and tousled bed hair and bushy brows and a general air of absolute astoundment on David’s face, obviously wide fucking awake himself and seemingly halfway between bemused and amused.

“...morning?” Eggsy says, uncertainly, retracting his hand from David’s chest as if it had suddenly turned into a radioactive surface.

David grins a bit more still. “Good morning, Eggsy. Careful, or I might have to report you to our handlers for inappropriate workplace behaviour.”

Eggsy scoffs but feels himself blush furiously all the same. He disentangles himself from David’s quite possessive sleep-embrace and shuffles back to his original place on the tent floor. “Right back at you, bruv,” he says, nodding to the space between David’s spread arms he was curled up in just fifteen seconds ago. “Seriously, what are you, a koala?”

David laughs in earnest and shrugs. “Something else ye didn’t know about me: I’m a hugger.”

Oh, it wasn’t just a hug, fucked-out Dream-Eggsy whispers in Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy so wishes he’d shut the fuck up.

Busy getting rid of the last drops of sleep in his system and fixating on the dip of David’s trapezius into his upper deltoid—oh so beautifully highlighted by the tight, tight, tight thermal top David’s wearing—Eggsy finds that his mind is completely blank, and that he has absolutely no idea what to reply to what David just said. Fucking get it together, mate.

Luckily, David provides. “But anyways. Sorry about that,” he says, chasing that with a yawn and a small smile. “What d’you say we get a move on, then, eh? We’ve got a bit of a head start on the day, and I don’t think I’ve heard the alarm go off yet. Also, pretty sure I’ve spotted two packs of instant coffee in my rucksack, yesterday.”

Eggsy widens his eyes in surprise and delight. “Fuck, you for real? I’d kill for a coffee.”

David nods. “Dead serious. Come on, then. Get yer bum out of that sleeping bag and boil me some water, London boy.”

Bossy. “Why can’t you do it?” his cheeky self decides to snap back.

“You’re the master of that hellish gas stove palaver. I bow to ye, oh Grand Shaman of Camp Cooking,” David says, theatrically gesturing with his free hand and actually bowing his head.

“Yeah, alright. And fucking ridiculous, is what you are,” Eggsy says, smirking. He climbs out of his sleeping bag and crawls towards the tent opening, unzipping it. He then, still on all fours, turns to face David. “Come on, then, get the Grand Shaman his gear. We ‘aven’t got all day.”

Eggsy catches a glimpse of David most fucking definitely staring at his arse, before the man replies, “Yes, sir.”

*

Task IV: Castleton of Blairfindy

Knockandu. 8:30 AM. 5.5 hours remaining.

As expected, the coffee turns out to be (as David oh so elegantly puts it) undrinkable fucking pish, but it seems to do the job nonetheless: Eggsy feels he’s got an actual spring in his step, this morning. 

Coffee aside, as far as their ridiculous treasure hunt goes, the day seems to have started off really well. Opening the envelope, they came across a brief note from Merlin and Hume setting their next destination—the Castleton of Blairfindy, located on the Glenlivet Distillery grounds, a 1PM deadline, and £15 in cash. David then proceeded to read Eggsy’s mind, great, more pocket money, and add it was a real shame they wouldn’t even be able to use it to buy themselves some decent grub, then suggested they pack it and make the most of the extra time they inadvertently bought themselves.

At 7AM, sharp as a whip, after barely fifteen minutes on the road, the damned flip phone started buzzing in David’s pocket. What followed was a brief but very satisfying exchange with Merlin and Hume, who thought you boys would need a wake-up call and ended up flabbergasted at David and Eggsy’s efficiency, anticipating their alarm and getting an early start to be sure to finish in time for their end of day time limit. The devious handlers ended up being so incredibly chuffed, in fact, that they decided to give David and Eggsy a whole extra hour to complete this next task. Eggsy could also swear he’d heard Merlin utter a quiet well done, keep at it right before the call got disconnected: that really took him back, to a time when he was actually doing his job well. It almost made him blush.

On a second thought, though, maybe his sudden cheerfulness is not all to be pinned on caffeine and praise. The way David—David, David, Eggsy keeps repeating to himself whenever his mind is not otherwise occupied—precedes him on the path but still makes a point to glance back from time to time, as if to check on him, blue eyes smiling and uncharacteristically kind and so, so heartbreakingly beautiful, dammit, Eggsy, he’s taken: just get it the fuck together, eh? 

Luckily, the path they’re on is long and winding enough that Eggsy does end up eventually getting it the fuck together—no choice, really, as he’s not particularly keen on landing on his bum and making a fool of himself yet again. 

Although that might make David laugh, Dream-Eggsy tries reasoning with him from where he’s lying, in a sea of white sheets and buried inside Dream-David’s embrace—the insufferable smug prick.

Oh, piss off, will you not, Eggsy mentally replies, shaking it off as he avoids the umpteenth protruding root that seems to have been put there with the exclusive purpose of making him trip over. He walks up to David, who’s calling for his attention. After almost three hours of walking, they finally come to a halt. 

“There it is. Can ye see it? Right next to the distillery building: that is Blairfindy Castle,” David announces, pointing to a seemingly insignificant pile of old rocks, who looks to be positively crumbling before their eyes. 

“You call that thing a castle?” Eggsy wonders out loud, as they start slowly walking again. “Fuck me, I bet that even in its best days it didn’t look like much. Look at the structure, it’s all… wonky.”

David tuts. “First of all: wash yer mouth—I’ll have ye know that us Scots were masters of fortified constructions for centuries,” he says, rather pedantically but not in his usual unpleasant tone. “Second: what the fuck would you know about architecture, anyways, eh?”

Eggsy laughs, but still keeps playing the game. “If you were such fierce warriors, then why did you ultimately bend the knee to our good Queen, eh?” he teases, glancing sideways and hoping to find David looking like he’s about to launch on a lecture on Mary Stuart and her rather convenient marriage and progeny. 

What he gets instead is a resigned smile and a dramatic eye roll and a shake of that gorgeous, gorgeous head, before David replies, “Heard state school education in England was shite, but didn’t think the truth would live up to the tales.”

And, well, here’s the rub, Eggsy supposes: as much as he still wants to smack this exasperatingly standoffish arsehole he gets to call his partner, what happened last night and in the very early morning really has opened his eyes on a possible reason why they’ve both been behaving like this. Sure, there’s the whole ego problem, what with Eggsy having been called in to supposedly mitigate David’s anger management issues—but his gut says the question could have a few more layers to it. He remembers someone, sometime, telling him something about the reason why little boys pulling on little girls’ pigtails in the school playground. It’s because they like ‘em. 

Maybe this is why David has been so hard to crack, all this time. But that can’t be, he immediately contradicts himself. How in the world could he want little old me, when he’s with Julia?

And yet. Maybe, just maybe—

“Oi, Norman Foster, you listening to me?” David quite rudely interrupts Eggsy’s musings on what he’s this close to labelling a schoolboy crush.

“No, sorry, tuned out after you started pissing all over my secondary education, I’m afraid,” Eggsy immediately replies, sarcastic but playful. “You were saying?”

“Just wondering whether we’re about tae come face to face with ghosts—that building looks haunted as fuck,” David says simply, looking dead serious and a tad concerned.

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You seriously calling me an illiterate peasant and then immediately following that up with superstition? You’re a walking contradiction, David Budd.” You’re lucky you’re so pretty.

They banter back and forth about how ghosts are absolutely real and Eggsy should be careful about taking stuff like this lightly, with Eggsy half-bent over laughing the whole time and David shaking his head disapprovingly, until they finally get to the Glenlivet Distillery and check the time. 9:30AM. Decent speed today as well, Eggsy thinks to himself. Well done the disaster spies.

“Have ye ever been on an actual distillery tour, Eggsy?” David asks, sounding quite unpromptedly chipper, as they walk inside the visitor centre and move closer to each other, hands instinctively clasping, cover back on. Somehow, it feels different than it did last night, when that priest busted them—but Eggsy is definitely not thinking about that.

“Um, no? Not that I recall. And, ah, fuck, look,” he realises, looking at the list of prices exposed right next to the entrance. “Seems the Glenlivet folks won’t be the ones popping my cherry, either. Tickets are £15... per person.”

“Shite,” David utters, irritably. “Not like we can separate, either. God, I hate those two so much.”

“You and me both, mate. Plan B, then?” Eggsy suggests, raising an eyebrow.

“Plan B,” David confirms. “We’re generally quite good at Plan B, aren’t we?” he says, with a smile.

After half an hour of scouting around the property, doing their best to keep a very low profile and managing surprisingly well, if one disregards the few weirded-out looks their clasped hands and rehearsed couple-y act get from some of the tourists pouring into the property—which, you know, fuck ‘em—Eggsy and David conclude that, possibly for the first time from the beginning of this whole ridiculous endeavour, Plan B unfortunately really isn’t an option. Every door is barred, every gate has a sturdy lock on it, and every open entrance is guarded. They have nothing to pick the locks with, nothing to dress up in to look like anything else other than tourists, and no real excuse to ask to be let in via an alternative access. 

In all this, the Castleton of Blairfindy is just standing there, mocking them from its secure location very much within the confines of the Glenlivet property—so close, yet so far. And so, so unfair.

“Dunno about you: I’ve got zilch,” Eggsy says, after the five minutes they agreed to spend in silence sitting on a bench and looking to craft Plan-fucking-C finally elapse.

“I’ve got one idea,” David announces, smiling but looking unconvinced. “It’s not that great, however,” he warns, immediately after.

“If anything, these past 24 hours have confirmed my suspicions about you—you’re not as thick as I thought you were. Not in the slightest. Like I keep having to say, somehow: you should give yourself some credit, Budd.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” David says, rolling his eyes the teeniest bit. “But seriously—all I’ve got is: maybe, let’s take a breather and use that pointless cash to buy ourselves a sandwich and a hot brew? I think it might help.”

Eggsy feels something spark in the middle of his chest, at that. The familiar, incorruptible contentment that usually comes with the promise of food. “Told ya you was a genius, mate,” he replies.

“That’s really not what you said, Eggsy.”

“Shh shh shh, honey,” he says, louder now, as he quickly gets up from the bench and grabs David’s hand, tugging on it to get him up. Right then, he feels more eyes on them—so he decides to turn it up to eleven. “Come on, love: you promised you’d get your new husband some breakfast.”

David briefly rolls his eyes, “Your wish is my command, darling,” but still ends up giving Eggsy a dazzling grin as he gets up and joins him on the short walk back towards the entrance of the visitor centre.

The distillery café is cosy and beautifully furnished, and the waitress that serves them is possibly one of the nicest humans Eggsy’s met in a while. She’s all friendly chatter and smiles, mostly directed at David, and Eggsy can’t really say he blames her, unfortunately—but still, he has to silence that irrational bit of him that is screaming at her to back the hell off, for some reason. 

On top of the cuppas, they agree to share a meal: chicken and corn chowder, ham and cheese panini, and a slice of chocolate cake with a scoop of whisky ice cream on top. The whole thing is absolutely delicious; Eggsy feels rebooted, warm and fuzzy, kind of like he felt by that fire David lit him last night, but possibly even a tad better. They’re sitting across each other and somehow still keeping up the honeymoon stunt for no-one’s benefit in particular—David’s hand dangerously close to Eggsy’s on the table, playing with the fifty pence change the waitress brought back after they paid the bill, expertly turning it over in his fingers as if it was a gadget he was preparing to throw, and accidentally brushing the back of Eggsy’s hand more than once as he does so, and—

“Eggsy? Ye listenin’ to me?” David asks, poking Eggsy’s forearm to attract his attention. Shit, gotta stop doing this.

“Um, no, sorry—thinking too hard, aren’t I? Sorry, you were saying?” he says, hurriedly, trying to save face.

“I said,” David says, a touch of impatience in his voice, “it may be worth checking out whether they do free tours for honeymooners? It’s probably worth a shot, since this,” he pauses, gestures between them, “is now a whole thing that, I’m guessing, at least half the park population is aware of.”

Eggsy considers that for a second. “Suppose they say yes: wouldn’t they want to snap pics of us, for their website? Or at the very least have us promote the tour on social media as a honeymoon activity? Can’t really afford our mugs to get any kind of publicity, and the phone we have really won’t make us pass for Instagram influencers, I’m afraid.”

David looks a bit crestfallen, but ends up nodding. “Yeah, fair enough. Any better plans coming from your own machinations, then?”

“Better I could come up with was faking having our wallets stolen—but then a lot of people did just see us get this lovely meal, so…”

“Fuck,” David curses, closing his fist on the table. “That would have been good. Damn my daft ideas,” he adds, frustrated.

“Hey, hey,” Eggsy reassures him, while—yeah, alright, fuck it, all part of the masquerade, innit?—covering David’s clenched fist with both his hands. “It’s all good, David. The food was fucking amazing and exactly what I needed, so not an ounce of regret from my part. Let’s just look around some more, eh? We might be able to work with something.”

They get up and, for lack of a better plan, start wandering pretty much aimlessly around the gift shop. Eggsy marvels at the price tags of some of the bottles there—and even recognises a couple of the most premium ones from Harry’s private liquor cabinet, fuck—observes the elaborate spiralling display of Scotch bottles that catches the eye in the middle of the room, and watches David’s eyes nervously flicker from left to right, definitely scanning for something, looking for something, until—

“Fucking hell,” David says, quietly, a big smile crawling up on his face. “I think I’ve bloody got it. Knew the name Glenlivet rang a bell.” He then turns to look at Eggsy. “Follow my lead, yeah?” he asks, squeezing Eggsy’s hand more tightly still and looks for confirmation with an intense glance. 

My God, d’you know you could ask me to jump off a cliff right now and I’d do it?

“Let’s have it, then,” Eggsy replies, with a half-smile and a wink.

David tugs on his hand and walks with purpose in the direction of a very tall, very handsome ginger man wearing a crisp white shirt with rolled up sleeves and the same light brown tweed waistcoat everyone from the distillery staff seems to be sporting. Since the man is walking away from them at a seemingly equally fast pace and not turning round, David calls out after a while. 

“Callum!”

The man, who indeed does seem to recognise his name, stops in his tracks and turns to face them. “Oh my God, Ross! Is that really you?”

Ross? Eggsy wonders for a brief second. Oh, but of course. Fake names. Spy stuff. Wondering what he’ll call me, if he chose such a crap name for himself.

“Hey mate,” David greets the guy with a pat on his back, making a point not to go for a handshake that would cause him to stop clutching Eggsy’s hand and give the whole shackles situation away. “Nice to see ye. Been so long, eh?”

“What, three years? Crazy how time flies,” Callum replies, conversational and friendly, icy grey eyes flickering up and down David's body—most definitely checking him out. Oh, but he’s gorgeous. How are all men in the whisky business this handsome? Have I been missing out all this time? 

“May I say: you haven’t aged a day, old boy,” Callum goes on to observe, appreciatively, to which Dream-Eggsy, stirring for the first time in hours, replies by clutching Dream-David closer still. Hands off, Attractive Redhead Maltman. 

Callum then finally, finally acknowledges Eggsy. He turns to face him, holding out his hand and smiling widely, teeth white as snow, full lips and a thick ginger beard framing them. “But where are my manners. Terribly sorry, mate. I’m Callum McDermott, very nice to meet ye,” he says, charmingly. 

Eggsy holds out his own hand and is about to introduce himself, when David precedes him. “Cal, this is Mark, my…”

“...husband,” Eggsy finishes, grasping Callum’s hand and shaking it vigorously while he holds Callum’s intense gaze. Yeah, that’s right, you prick: husband. “Nice to meet you too.”

Callum briefly looks like he’s astounded and disappointed at the same time, before giving Eggsy and David another blinding smile and showily congratulating them on the wedding. Eggsy can feel the veiled spite in his words, and absolutely relishes every second of it.

“Yeah, thanks mate. Just last month, actually. Rained like crazy, didn’t it, honey?” David prompts. A moment after, while he’s nodding, Eggsy can see David urgently looking at the clock on the wall next to Callum’s head. It says 10:45AM. Altogether not too late, but it’s plain as day that the time aspect of this whole dumb-as-fuck small talk endeavour seems to officially be stressing David out.

“Ah, but you know what they say, darlin’: a wet knot…”

“...is harder to untie,” Callum butts in, finishing Eggsy’s sentence. Eggsy really, really has to work hard to avoid rolling his eyes. “You’re a pair of lucky fellas. Where did you go on your honeymoon, then, if I may ask?”

Just how close is David to this man? Who asks these questions after not seeing you for three whole years?

“Ah, funny you should ask that, Cal,” David says, with a small smile. He then proceeds to do that thing, that thing he did last night that possibly was the catalyst of the whole romantic daydream situation Eggsy’s still very much lost into: he raises their entwined hands and brushes his soft, plush lips over the back of Eggsy’s, firm gaze saying I’ve got you, and—fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck—he then turns back to face Callum, as if nothing at all had happened, and continues talking. “We’re actually on our honeymoon right now! Decided to get out in the Scottish wilderness, show London Boy here some of the wonders of the best of Great Britain.”

“I seem to have married a whole country, not a man,” Eggsy says, eyeing Callum knowingly and stressing the word married just a tad. “But I’m told it’s pretty much standard practice with you Scots, innit?”

“Indeed, it is,” Callum agrees, shortly. “And may I say: great choice, Ross. Guessing you stopped by Glenlivet for the distillery tour, then?”

Don’t worry about me, eh? Continue your little conversation as if I wasn’t here. I’ll be absolutely fine.

“We have,” David confirms. “Mark hasn’t been around many distilleries, if you can believe it, so I thought it’d be great to stop here. You did always have some of the best stuff, anyways.”

“Well then, that’s perfect. A tour and a couple of drams for the newlyweds, on me. What d’ye say?” he says, smirking at David—and undoubtedly just at David.

“Oh, no, no, no,” David shakes his head and touches Callum’s forearm, which automatically has Eggsy squeeze David’s hand tighter. “We couldn’t possibly accept.” 

Look at how polite my husband is, Callum. And, might I add, absolutely immune to your pathetic advances.

“Nonsense,” Callum dismisses David. “Of course ye can. Wedding present from all of us at Glenlivet to our brother in arms from Glenglassaugh. How much time do ye fellas have? I could book you in for our Academy tour: starts in two hours, lasts for another three, but I guarantee you’ll come out of it pleasantly tipsy and considerably more knowledgeable about Glenlivet Scotch. Well, maybe the last one only applies to you, Mark. Ross is plenty familiar with our… products.”

Patronising much? Eggsy thinks. Also, why the pause? Is David familiar with anything else from ‘Glenlivet’?

“Ah, that sounds lovely,” Eggsy takes it upon himself to reply. “But we really haven’t got that much time, ‘ave we, darling? We’re on a bit of a schedule, I’m afraid.”

David nods in assent. “Sorry, mate. Have to be off by 2.”

“I suppose we could book you in for our standard tour, then?” Callum suggests. “Starts in ten minutes and lasts for about an hour, with a tasting at the end.”

“That sounds great, mate. Thank you so much, this is real lovely of you,” David says, grateful, and Eggsy sees him relax for the first time in a couple of hours. 

Bingo. A way in. Well done, you gorgeous fucker.

They follow Callum to the till and wait for him to print out their tickets for the tour. He hands them both to David—once again, it’s kind of like Eggsy’s not really there, thanks a lot—or at least until David passes the tickets to him with an absolutely smitten smile that Eggsy has to remind himself is clearly, clearly for the benefit of the act. 

They’re just about to walk away when Callum raises his index finger and silently bids them to wait a second. He disappears from view for a few beats and comes back holding a bottle of Scotch that says cask strength on the label, which he hands to David. “Just another wee present for youse, with the compliments of everyone here at Glenlivet. Might recognise this one, Ross,” he says, smiling at David. 

“You really are barmy, mate. This is too much!” David protests, weakly. Eggsy realises that the man’s lit up at the sight of the posh-looking spirit. A whore with expensive taste like the rest of us, aren’t you, Budd? Glad to know my assessment was correct, Eggsy thinks to himself, smugly. Oh, but he’d treat David to so many nice things, if only he—

“Just, you know: for old times’ sake,” Callum insists, visibly winking at David. Not sure I want to know what that means. “Now, if you’ll just join the rest of the people back there,” Callum says, pointing to the opposite corner of the room. “The tour will start in a couple of minutes.”

Eggsy gives Callum a fake but absolutely dazzling smile. “Thank you so much, Callum.”

“My pleasure, Mark,” Callum says, finally forced to address him again. Immediately, he turns back to David. “Ross, lovely seeing you again.”

“And you, Cal.”

Phew. Good fucking riddance.

They walk away from the till, and Eggsy breathes out in relief. “The fuck was all that about?” he asks, a tad annoyed. 

“Long version or short?” David asks, eyeing him rather wickedly as they move towards the group of people huddled together next to another member of the Glenlivet staff.

“Short, please,” Eggsy replies. For the love of God.

“Cal is what one would commonly call an ex,” David says, simply.

Course he bloody is. Tell me something I don’t know, smug arse.

Eggsy rolls his eyes and waits for David to deliver more, but in vain. “Oh? That it?” he prompts, impatiently, after ten whole seconds of standing in silence.

“You’re the one who said ‘short version’, y’dafty. If you want a detailed account on how the sex was, I’m happy to give you one when we’re finally out of this hellhole.”

Eggsy is dumbfounded for a while—because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Yes, please, I'm all ears: do go into the nitty-gritty of your (I’m assuming) multiple sexual encounters with that smartly-dressed Game of Thrones wildling? Or maybe I’d much rather you showed me?

Just as he’s almost settled on the second option, opening his mouth to retort, the tour guide starts talking, welcoming everyone and introducing herself, and the moment is all but gone.

The tour—well, the part they actually get to follow, more like—turns out to be quite interesting. They learn all about the history of Glenlivet and how whisky is made. They even get to touch and smell some malted barley and grist, and Eggsy is so involved for a second that he actually thinks of raising a hand and asking some follow-up questions. 

Unfortunately, this is not a field trip but a very important, very silly treasure hunt they’re on, so they eventually have to abandon the group and the tour altogether. They take a chance and detach from everyone while the guide is leading them to the room where all the copper pot stills are kept—the very cool, very shiny ones from the brochures that Eggsy kind of really wanted to see—and slip out, keeping close to the walls and looking right and left to make sure no-one’s following them.

It takes them only five minutes of brisk walking to get to Blairfindy Castle—well, what’s left of it. Eggsy stands by his appraisal: the thing really shouldn’t be called a castle.

“Well, then,” Eggsy says, after a while, breaking the short silence that has fallen while they were both assessing the outside of the building, looking for visible clues. “What d’you say: shall we venture into the Shrieking Shack?”

For a second, David looks like he wants to say something—even opens his mouth a tad, but ultimately closes it and raises an inquiring and quite confused eyebrow. My oh my, Budd, Eggsy thinks. Pop culture is really not your forte, eh, mate? 

“Seriously? You quote Pixar films at me, but Potter references fly over your head?” Eggsy asks, fake-exasperated. “Ah, well. Guess I’ll be adding a boxset to the list of things I’ll have to get you when this thing is done—things that you definitely don’t deserve, by the way. Consider it a form of civil service.”

David nods in resigned assent. “Shall we, then?” he says, with a show of hands towards the entrance to the ruin.

“Absolutely, Eggsy replies, taking a few steps forwards and stopping in the threshold to add, “And don’t worry, sweet’eart: I’ll shield you from the mean ghosts with my strong, strong body.”

After a few minutes of fruitlessly walking around the (small and admittedly quite oppressing) castle ruins, Eggsy gets so bored he starts to disappear behind corners, as far as the chain would let him go, and wait until David is completely absorbed in looking at one particular stone or spider web or weird symbol on the wall to sneak up on him and make a silly scary noise—successfully making David jump three times in a row and earning himself a string of rather flattering-sounding insults in Gaelic. 

On the last occurrence, though, David doesn’t say much. He just stops in his tracks, and looks to be blankly staring at a spot near the top of a particularly wrecked bit of wall, his expression serious and focused.

“What is it, Budd? Too much for you?” Eggsy badgers him, deliberately poking a bulky bicep with his index finger, and trying not to think of wrapping a whole hand around it.

“Oh, would you just stop fucking about, Eggsy,” David says, sounding officially annoyed. “We’re on a schedule. And I think I just spotted something. There, look.”

Eggsy follows David’s pointed finger and immediately sees it: a small object, made of stone like the rest of the castle around them, but looking distinctly more modern and like it doesn’t really belong there. It’s quite high up a wall that looks to be extremely fragile—no real way to nudge his feet anywhere and know for sure whether the structure will hold, and the ledge is too high up to attempt reaching it with just a jump. However, with a bit of help, Eggsy reckons he can absolutely try.

“Right. Well, gimme a hand then, big boy. Look at this bloody wall: can’t really risk having it crumble on us,” he says, walking up said wall and eyeing David expectantly.

David looks a bit unsure for a split-second, but ends up nodding. “Okay. How’d you want me to—”

“Just wait for me to jump up: when I do, be ready and just… um, I guess… give me a good push further upwards?” Eggsy directs him, awkwardly. “Might also need you to hold me up for a few moments. You okay with that?” You okay with having my big butt in your face? 

“Absolutely. Let’s do this, c’mon,” he says, sounding—what, a bit eager, maybe? Alright, Budd. Buy me dinner first.

In a show of strain that to Eggsy feels a touch overdramatic—but also, is that how he grunts when he fucks?—David manages to get Eggsy high up enough that he can grab the edge of the crumbling wall with one hand and retrieve the small box with the other, then lower him back down. So fucking strong. Teamwork, eh? Can definitely live with it, no problem.

“Ta,” Eggsy tells David, landing softly on his feet and handing him the hefty box. “Shall we?”

“I’ll admit, I quite enjoy this bit,” David replies, with a sweet smile.

They bring their shackled hands closer together and touch the top of the box, which immediately reacts with a mechanical whir. 

“We really are the less busty, considerably less skilled-for-survival and regretfully male versions of Lara Croft, aren’t we?” David observes, while the thing is slowly springing open. Aren’t you absolutely adorable, Eggsy thinks, half-lost watching another snippet of his idyllic bedroom reverie, in which Dream-Eggsy is caressing Dream-David’s jawline and nibbling on his perfect, plump lower lip. Once again, fuck off.

“Honestly, David, you should be kinder to yourself: you’ve got great tits, mate,” Eggsy replies, without really thinking about it. 

Just as Eggsy’s about to kick himself for saying that out loud, he notices that David is actually standing a bit taller and giving him a side look. “You would know, wouldn’t ya,” he replies and—wow, is he blushing? “Hey, look at these!” David immediately continues, cutting off the memory of Eggsy’s hands on those stupidly hard pecs, as the box is finally open and he’s able to retrieve its contents. He shows Eggsy two small objects—lapel pins, Eggsy, Harry’s voice somehow helpfully interjects—in the shape of roses. One in red, the other in dark blue and green tartan. Seriously, what is it with Scots and tartan?

Adorable,” Eggsy says, sarcastically, but smiling in genuine amusement. “And finally something we can actually wear. Let’s pin ‘em on for the picture, eh? They’ll be chuffed, I’m sure. Here, let me,” he says, picking the blue and green rose out of David’s fingers. Their eyes meet for a split-second, and—

“Yeah, go ahead. Careful, though—betting these aren’t poisoned, but if they’re really the ones from the shop that I’m familiar with, I can confirm they’re so sharp they could probably be used to poke an eye out,” David tells him, with a knowing smile.

“You’d better stay very still, then, ‘adn’t you?” Eggsy replies, focusing on the task at hand—his hands on David’s chest, piercing the delicate fabric with the pin, his hands on David’s chest, straightening the pin and fixing the protective end back in place, his hands on David’s chest. “All good,” he says, feeling his heartbeat quicken a tad as he admires his work and makes a point of absolutely not looking David in the eye.

“My turn then, eh?” David replies, as if it wasn’t a big fucking deal. “Here, hold this though. Need both hands,” he says, holding the empty box out for Eggsy to grab. Eggsy does, nods, go ahead, I guess, to which David furrows his brow, unsheathes the pointy end of the pin and makes a quick work of fixing it on the left side of Eggsy’s chest. “Look at this: Royal tartan—fit for a Kingsman,” he comments, appreciatively, giving Eggsy an absolutely dazzling smile.

Fuuuuck. Quick, diffuse the tension, say something idiotic, you’re usually bloody good at it. This is the time, smart-arse: now or never.

“Hardly a Kingsman, really. Maybe one day I’ll tell you the whole story,” he utters, vaguely.

David raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly. “Oh? Did ye really shag yer boss, then?”

Eggsy goes very rigid, at that, and David one hundred percent notices. “Um. I—”

“Ugh sorry, sorry, ignore me,” David hurriedly cuts him off. “Absolutely not my place. Would love tae hear that story one day. About yer recruitment, I mean, no’—” he pauses, bites his lip and looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“It’s alright, David, really,” Eggsy says, winking at him. Really not your fault I’ve fallen for a man twice my age who ultimately ended up giving me the boot. If you want to kiss it better, however— “C’mon, get the phone out and let’s take this selfie before they can tell us we’re slacking off,” he adds, before he can once again get lost in his own silly musings.

David snaps a picture of them both, big smiles and rose pins, and immediately shoots it into the ether to Merlin and Hume via fucking MMS, because it’s apparently 2006 all over again. Thirty seconds later, the phone starts buzzing: David picks it up and puts it on speaker.

“Well done you beautiful bastards,” Merlin rumbles appreciatively at the end of the line.

“Merlin just lost a wager, fellas,” Hume chips in. “I bet him fifty quid you’d be good enough with each other by now to actually pin those things to yourselves—turns out I was right, and now Kingsman’s most brilliant member owes me more than a couple of pints, don’t you, Merlin? This is just in case you were wondering which one of us is actually rooting for you lovebirds, by the way.”

Lovebirds, Eggsy thinks. Did those hikers somehow get to Glenglassaugh at record speed and blabbed about the Honeymoon Bondage Guys there, too? But also: am I really supposed to believe Hume doesn’t know about his two best agents hooking up?

“Oh do shut up, Hume,” Merlin retorts, sounding mildly annoyed but still in a good mood.

David glances at Eggsy, grinning. Christ, is that what David and I sound when we bicker? “Fellas,” Merlin then says, his voice booming out of the speakers once again. “C’mon, back to it. You have just one hour for your next task, but don’t be alarmed: your destination is Drumin Castle, which is just a brisk walk away from where you are.”

“Good luck, boys,” Hume adds, and then the line goes dead, before David or Eggsy can get a single word in.

“Always lovely to have them on the phone. Truly the highlight of my day,” Eggsy comments, rolling his eyes.

“Ditto,” David agrees. “Here’s to having them off our arses in a few hours, hopefully.” And here’s to me having you in my arse, hopefully very soon, Dream-Eggsy interjects again before Eggsy can stop him. Eggsy would be partial to him shutting the fuck up for the rest of the day, if at all possible.

“Come along, Budd. One more left. We’ve bloody got this,” Eggsy says instead, trying to sound confident and chipper but secretly worrying about the mere sixty minutes they have to complete the task.

“Yeah, we have,” David replies, unpromptedly clasping Eggsy’s hand once again and making Eggsy’s heart jump in his throat. “Let’s show ‘em.”

Notes:

Well. That was intense, wasn't it? So many fake-married antics, so many feelings, ugh, our poor poor hearts. We are all Eggsy, people.

Please find our map for this first part here:

Kingsman THL map

And please let us know what you thought of this, we really really loved working on it!

See you on Friday for the last bit of this ridiculous Tomb Raider side quest!

Love,

M and C xx