Welcome to Kingsman.

“What are you doing?”

The question causes Colin to go very still. He contemplates various answers he could give, then settles for the truth. “Look, we both knew this was going to happen when you left me here.”

“You look like a peacock who had an unexpected growth spurt in the middle of a mating dance.”

“Yes, I rather forgot about our size differences in all the excitement.”

“Right.” Taron, at least, now appears amused, though he’s valiantly trying not to show it. “So, let me guess. You’re stuck.”

Colin doesn’t wince, but it’s close. “The, er, fabric is not as giving as I’d hoped.”

There had been some ominous tearing sounds as he tried to squeeze his long limbs into the, er, ensemble, only to belatedly learn that, no, it would not simply stretch a little to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders or chest, nor would it the length of his torso or legs. As it would happen, all of Sir Elton John’s more ridiculous full bodied outfits that had been recreated for Taron to wear had also been carefully custom tailored to his proportions with not an ounce of generosity left to spare.

So here Colin is, halfway stuck in a jumpsuit of colourful plumage, attempting to play it all off like he very much intended to end up in this position, thank you very much. He even tries crossing his legs, only to give up halfway when the fabric resists.

“Would you…like some help?” Taron posits after witnessing Colin’s unsuccessful attempts to arrange his constrained limbs into a casual repose on the couch.

After a moment’s thought given to refusing such humiliation, Colin admits, “I fear there’s no getting this thing off now except in pieces.”

“I’ll go dig up some scissors.” Taron sighs. “Wardrobe’s gonna kill me.”

“Ah. Will you be explaining to them that….”

“Oh, that Colin Firth has got a glam rock fetish that makes him take leave of his senses at the sight of a few feathers and glitter?” Taron grins. “Oh yeah.”

“Right,” Colin says with resignation. “I suppose I deserve that.”

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