“I have taught you better than this,” Harry says, quiet. The tone - a curling serpent of barely contained fury as Harry Hart has never been known to cover behind stoicism - makes Eggsy shudder.
He’s standing by the doorway, scuffing the carpet with his shoes and feeling like a fuckin utter disappointment. It is hard not to feel terribly guilty and responsible either, for the piss poor mood Harry’s been in since Eggsy’s shite decision-making had sent both him and Roxy blown fuckin sky high in Croatia. By only sheer luck did none of them end up dead in bits and pieces by the road side.
Merlin’s still resolutely not speaking to him. Apart from the necessary debriefing that even then had been curt and short and everything Eggsy reckons he deserves - can’t even argue, can he? And Roxy’s still holed up in medical with bruised ribs and a broken leg, barely lucid most of the times that Eggsy’s been there visiting.
Eggsy’s been climbing the walls ever since. Half nervous tension waiting for a dressing down he knows Harry’s going to give, half the sinking feeling of guilt eating away at his insides, the tiny voice reminding him of his fault in this whole clusterfuck. Well, he thinks wry, here we are.
He breathes out through the lump in his throat and steels himself - he’s no stranger to Harry’s disappointment but it doesn’t ever get easier swallowing down - for the inevitable humiliation. Closes his eyes and count five heartbeats before wrenching them open with whatever courage he has scraped together to meet Harry’s scowl.
Harry gives him a contemplative look. “Do you know what you did wrong, Galahad?” He’s holding a glass of brandy in one hand, swirling it idly.
“Apart from the fact that I defied Merlin’s orders and nearly got us killed?” Eggsy retorts, finding it hard not to feel defensive when Harry pins him with that look in particular. “Sure bruv,” he crosses his arms, “How ‘bout Lancelot fuckin doped up on painkillers there in med bay and Merlin ain’t even meetin’ my eyes? How bout the people dead cause I couldn’t get to them in time, how ‘bout-”
And Eggsy could go on, will, now that the flood gates have opened and the fuckin fuck up that was Croatia he’s been carrying around and letting fester the last one week or so is threatening to pour out and Eggsy can’t find it in him to stop it.
“Eggsy,” Harry says sharper this time, and that’s it, isn’t it? Eggsy’s done for. He wasn’t made to have so much blood on his hands, he wasn’t made to swim under the fuckin weight of innocents dying on him, lives crushed just cause he couldn’t get his shit together-
Then there is a hand warm on his cheek. It makes Eggsy blink, past the way his vision has blurried and the way his eyes sting, to see Harry right up and into his space. “Eggsy,” Harry says and it’s suddenly so gentle, a hint contrite, and that hurts more. Eggsy doesn’t deserve sympathy. “The only mistake you made was to not inform us about your decision to disarm the bomb on your own.”
Eggsy shakes his head at that. “I had no choice-” Eggsy says, “ An’ you an’ Merlin had been yellin murder at me and Roxy for blowin’ our cover too early, and we’d seen the timer and there had been ten fuckin minutes left-”
“Which is why,” Harry cuts him off, the other hand coming to grip Eggsy’s shoulders tightly, “you should have said something Eggsy. We weren’t there without professionals on site. And perhaps they may never have made it to where you were on time. The mission was doomed from the start, Eggsy. But really, the point is, Eggsy-” Harry gives him a slight shake. “You need to trust others to do their job as well. You need to trust that Kingsman will always have its agents’ back everytime they go out there. You need to trust that I have your back as well, dear boy. That we are no longer the barely surviving fraction we used to be after V-day.”
“Do you understand me?” Harry prompts when Eggsy does nothing but stand there, half-lidded and trying his damned best to wrap his head about what Harry has just said. The rousing speech about trust and all Eggsy can think of is how Harry has not blamed him once for any of casualties, has not implied once. He doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know how to accept a forgiveness he wasn’t prepared to receive.
“Eggsy?” Harry says again.
“I- , ” He starts, voice breaking and dangerously tilting to the side now. He feels so tired all of a sudden. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so so fuckin sorry-” And all Harry does is move the hand that has rested on Eggsy’s cheek to the back of his head, fingers fanning wide and shifting his grip to guide Eggsy into the curve of a shoulder which Eggsy takes gratefully - exhausted and shaking.
Harry says nothing when Eggsy’s tears soak through what must be thousand dollars worth of fabrix, says nothing when he cannot hide the small pitiful noises dragged out unwilling from his throat, says nothing when Eggsy’s hands settle into the collar of his suit jacket, wrinkling the fabric beneath.
Harry doesn’t comment as Eggsy comes apart right then and there, silent and unmovable and present, unyielding. Only tightens his hold. Doesn’t let go.