#kaalli

“Harry.”

He ignores the voice, humming a tune under his breath. There’s a soft warmth radiating from the kitchen that manages to seep into his bones. It eases the pains and worries of the year away, seems to soothe his very soul. His sisters always used to joke with how calloused his hands had become, he could handle the cookie trays without oven mitts. He puts the things on anyway (they’re horrible, reindeer ones he bought for his mother last year), and pulls the pan out. The air smells of gingerbread and home as he sets it down on the stove top.

“Harry,” Louise is laughing now, which makes him stop.

He throws her a look of mock offense. “Is it the Santa apron? I told you already, there’s value in tradition. I’m not taking the damned thing off; I don’t care how ridiculous you think I look. Put me on the front of the Christmas card if you want, it’s staying on.”

She walks over, hip checking him out of the way to get access to the cooling cookies. Using the spatula, she pries one of the pan, then turns to face him. “You’ve got a spring in your step.”

His comment about her and the massacre of his prized gingerbread army falters on his lips. Harry Hart is a brutal, calculating man, but his older sister was the one who taught him most of what he knows.

Louise grins, bites the head off of her trophy, and pounces, knowing she’s going to get what she wanted from him. “You should invite him over for Christmas, the darling. I want to meet who’s making you this happy. We can give him a proper, Hart-felt welcome to the family.”

A groan passes through his lips, and he reaches for the glass of brandy seated next to the sink. His sister laughs again, and there’s a deep set ache in his chest that longs to share all of this with Eggsy.

***

It’s not exactly chilly when Harry sets out to see his partner, but he berates himself while standing on his porch for not bringing gloves. Leave it to him to think of a scarf because it matches his tie and overcoat, but to forget his bloody gloves. Christmas has always been something special. Not only is a time that he gets to spend being close with his family and loved ones, but the energy in London seems to change. With a slow exhale, he turns, taking in the evening air. Things seem quieter. There’s not such an urgency to get from place to place, or to check around corners to see who may be waiting. Part of him knows it’s a stupid holiday, but if he can spend time with Eggsy, even with the illusion of peace, it couldn’t be that bad.

He hears the door open, and the warmth that had filled him the moment before forces itself from his lungs as he faces Michelle.

Michelle, the only red on her, her puffy eyes. Her sweater a few sizes too large, her hair in a sloppy ponytail from having spent the entire day in the house. There’s a dagger in his side that has been there for the past eighteen years that twists itself a little as she retreats at the sight of him. Before he can even offer her the plate of Christmas baking in his hands, she’s turning away.

“I’ll go get ‘im.”

He wouldn’t have heard her if he wasn’t desperate to hear something that wasn’t that.

Stepping inside, he shuts the door behind him. There’s the faint sounds of the television playing what he can recognize as a bad soap opera, and soft voices coming from upstairs. The Hart’s had always been a family that were liberal with decorations with every holiday. Here, Harry feels unwelcome with his gingerbread men and biscotti. He wanted to invite him face-to-face, hoping they could have a moment together and enjoy the sweets over a cup of cocoa. This house does its best make him acutely aware he’s an intruder.

The look on Eggsy’s face when he comes downstairs does nothing to make him feel more welcome. There’s something that’s just fleeting on his face, and he knows him well enough to recognize contempt when he sees it. It was similar to when they first met, but this time, he feels like he could choke with it. None of the boy’s anger would be misdirected this time around.

Harry holds up the plate of goodies in a pathetic attempt at defending himself. There’s no words to say, even if he could bring himself to say them.  The plate’s gone from his hands, placed gently on the side table nearby. Being with Eggsy was always something inevitable, unbelievably amazing, and unpredictable. He was as bright and warm as the sun, but Harry knew how fast that could change. There was never a moment with the other he wasn’t kept on his toes.

As he’s being pulled forward into a tight embrace, he reminds himself of that. He tucks his head against Eggsy, runs a hand down his back instinctively. The blond makes a low, quiet sound as Harry presses a kiss to his cheek, and he’s squeezed tighter. He’ll take this over his scorn any day.

“Darling? Eggsy. Do you want to talk to me about what’s going on?”

He can feel him shake his head, and so he doesn’t bother trying to pull away. The quiet between them isn’t what he came here seeking, but it isn’t unwelcome. The energy in here’s different than outside, different than how he felt yesterday. The cold is bitter here, and his boy is shaking with it, like it’s already swallowed him whole. His hand moves to the back of his neck, and now he’s thankful he forgot his gloves. The slow circles he massages against skin help Eggsy relax. He kisses his cheek again, before the warmth against him is pulling away.

There’s no question asked, but there’s one in his eyes that burns him.

“I wanted to invite you to my family’s Christmas dinner. It’s-“

“No. Sorry, Har. Not interested.”

He can feel the cold start to sting at his own skin as the silence stretches between them.

Eggsy looks away, as if unable to meet his eyes. He grabs the plate of baking before disappearing into the house.

“Thanks for the cookies though.”

***

Something must have possessed him, he decides. Something had crawled inside of him, stopped him from thinking logically, and let him go loose in the in the world. Harry’s intentions were innocent enough. He wanted to get Eggsy a Christmas gift. Something small, Harry figured Eggsy wouldn’t appreciate much of a fuss. It was just some of the movies they had talked about watching together, and a silver chain he could wear under his clothing. He knew the other hadn’t gotten him anything, but that’s not what the holidays were about. Harry had always taken more joy in giving thoughtful gifts than receiving them, and seeing the looks on the faces of those dearest.

Eggsy’s expression’s borders on panic.

He shoves the gift back towards him, not making the slightest gesture to open it.

There’s a slight mumble of, “Thank you, uh. I can’t take this. I’m not gonna, just. Please return it,” before he leaves.

Harry isn’t sure if Eggsy’s lip is shaking more than his own hands by the time the other leaves the room.

He doesn’t hear from him again until there’s a request on his desk for an assignment, left there sometime during the night.

Eggsy would be spending Christmas in Belarus.

And for the first time in a long while, the Hart family Christmas wouldn’t be feeling so complete.

***

After Belarus, there’s Thailand. After Thailand, Australia, then a brief stop in Canada to save the life of some politician Eggsy doesn’t stay around long enough to even learn the name of. He’s back in London for all of three days before he leaves again to break up an arms smuggling ring capitalizing on the weakened economy in Iran. Or something like that. When Merlin hands him the briefing, he feels too exhausted to think about reading it over. He doesn’t want to give himself time to think about if it’s how hard he’s pushing himself, or how far he needs to run from Harry right now to avoid something that seems inevitable. He’s on the way to the cab waiting out front to take him to his next posting in Brazil nearing the end of January when there’s a hand on his arm, holding him firm in place.

Staring Percival in the face feels like staring at the heart of a great storm, a lingering threat of chaos always around the corner. Roxy once told him he was imagining things. Right now, Eggsy isn’t sure if he’s more similar to the older agent than either of them want to admit, or he’s just projecting.

“Galahad. I’m taking over your assignment, on Arthur’s orders. He’s waiting to speak with you in his office.”

He stiffens, a cold drop of sweat starting to bead at the back of his neck. It seems to cascade into a wave of ice that washes over him, washing away the walls he had built up against his anxiety. He hesitates, only for a moment, before replying as proper as he can sound while ripping his arm away. “Good luck in Tehran. Do us a favour, don’t get shot.”

As he’s turning away, the other takes the chance to hit him right in the back. “Do us one, and start at least doing your job properly, if you can’t handle your relationship.”

The water freezes over into a cold anger. It’s another thing he won’t think about who he’s angrier at. He carries it with him as a heavy weight on his shoulders, trying to keep them straight until he reaches Harry’s office. As he opens the door, he stops at the sight of the man seated behind the desk.

An awkward beat passes between them. Eggsy’s eyes are hard on Harry as he can feel his trying to search for some answer on his face. He juts his chin forward. Whatever the question is, he’d need to use his words. There’s nothing he has to say to him.

“We need to talk.”

The chain that’s holding the weight to him seems to snap, and he knows who he’s angry at. He knows this is what he was running from, as his fists clench, and relax at his sides. There’s a smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he keeps himself together for a moment. “Or, we couldn’t. Kinda wanna get home, since you excused me from work. Unless you got something better for me to be doing here, Arthur.”

He recognizes that look on Harry’s face, as if he just slapped him. It’s always like this when they’re about to fight. They’ve never been good at this side of things without getting too personal. “Eggsy. Don’t be ridiculous, please. You can go home soon. I just need a minute of your time.”

When he doesn’t bother replying, Harry takes it as permission to continue. When he stands and circles around his desk to come closer, he has to fight back the instinct to step away from him. “You haven’t said so much as a word to me since Christmas, my darling. I just wanted to celebrate it with you.”

Another beat. The taste of blood fills his mouth as he chews on his lip, hesitating. It only lasts for a moment before his temper gets the better of him.

“I can’t celebrate this holiday, Harry. Not after what you fuckin’ did. Not just to me, but my mum, yeah?”

He doesn’t recognize the expression on his face this time around. “That was almost two decades ago. I wanted to give you a chance to move on from that and-“

Eggsy walks up close to him, moves his fists to the lapels of the man’s suit. “Fuck off. Fuck off, with yer stupid fuckin’ holiday, Har. This is exactly what I was talkin’ ‘bout, with yer fuckin’ silver spoon.” He pulls away from him, as if touching the older man burns his flesh. He doesn’t look at him, the energy that’s eating at him making it too difficult to.

“I know you fuckin’ lost ‘im too. I know you fuckin’ lost people. But you could fuckin’ move on, couldn’t you? You had time to, you could off and enjoy fuckin’ Christmas. Every year, Mum and I had to sit there and think ‘bout you walkin’ through that fuckin’ door tellin’ us ‘e’s dead. He was the only person that fuckin’ cared ‘bout ‘er, y’know? And you never fuckin’ once bothered comin’ back, seein’ how we was doin’, if she was okay.” He’s shaking with it, with every step. His legs almost feel like they’re about to give out beneath him.

There’s a lump in his throat, and he’s not sure why, but he can’t bring himself to stop now. The words seem to keep coming to him faster. “She went fuckin’ mental, Har. That’s what death does, when you don’t got nobody else. It’s like losin’ a part of you that you can’t see. Yer bleedin’ out, and you can’t stop it ‘cause you don’t know where it’s fuckin’ comin’ from. And every fuckin’ time someone came by, it was always ‘bout ‘im. Always ‘bout Lee. No one fuckin’ asked ‘bout ‘er, or ‘ow she was gettin’ on, or I was. No one fuckin’ wished us a Merry Christmas, we never got the luxury. We never got the chance to be yer fuckin’ perfect, normal family. So when Dean came along with his fuckin’ smile, told her have a good holiday, never said nothin’ ‘bout ‘im, she was fuckin’ sold. And that’s fuckin’ why we don’t do shit. That’s why she gets panic attacks bad ‘nuff she gets sick. We do what we gotta to survive, okay?”

He’s not sure when he started to cry. The tears are brushed away angrily with the back of his sleeve. His whole body falters. “So just lay off.” There’s a weakness now in his voice that he hates. “Just fuckin’ lay off, ‘cause I’m so sick of people tellin’ me to lighten up. I thought you would understand, yeah? Of all fuckin’ people.”

He doesn’t realize how bad he’s shaking until there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. When he looks up, the ice inside of him melts away to fear. Harry looks at him as if he had wanted to hear those words. He was waiting to hear them. And Eggsy knows now they were never directed at Harry, just at a death he never coped with, and a holiday he never got to celebrate. Some darker part of him knew Harry wouldn’t react vindictively.

“I’ll give you some space.”

He trembles, and as the hand leaves him, the tears well in his eyes again. This isn’t what he wants.

“You’re dismissed. Take a few days off to rest, and then I’ll let you know when another assignment is posted.”