#vulcancherry

The bloke is striding in, wearing a white leather jacket and a cowboy hat, and Eggsy resists the urge to roll his eyes at the way his fingers stick in his belt loops. Not only has this guy been fixing rodeos, he’s also using them as a front to deal in weapons, selling them to contractors in foreign countries.

He taps the other man’s shoulder, and they nod, picking up one of the cues at the pool table. Two other men there nod as well, and the bug Whiskey’s slapped on them while they were chatting at the bar picks up their conversation.

“…Definitely recording some major blackmail,” Eggsy mutters, taking a sip.

Suddenly, the man in the red plaid takes a gun out of his belt and points it at the white leather jacket man. “That wasn’t the deal!” he shouts.

“Oh, shit,” Harry mutters beside them.

Whiskey raises his voice: “Sir, put that away now.”

“Shut up!” the man shouts, pointing it at him. “You don’t fucking get to tell me what to do!”

“Well, I am one of the owners, so…”

The girl in the corner stiffens, hand slowly reaching for her phone in her back pocket, and the man sees, spinning around and finger landing on the trigger when Eggsy leaps to his feet, and with a flick of his wrist, smashes his glass against the man’s head.

He drops like a stone, and after that, it’s chaos.

Patrons run or pull out guns of their own - honestly - as he and Harry and Whiskey pursue the members of the rodeo-fixing ring. Eggsy fires amnesia darts, sending the people with weapons to the ground, and drags them behind the bar because they do not need more bullets flying than usual. Stepping into the fight, not worrying about the people who are dialing 911 because Ginger’s already working on the other end to make sure no one arrives, Eggsy opens his umbrella.

Beside him, Whiskey twirls his lasso and lets it fly, the loop tightening around a waist and tugging, sending the bloke crashing into the bar, and Harry’s swiftly stepping around the leather jacket man who’s pulled out a handgun, trying to shoot him. Eggsy tenses, ready to jump in, but Harry, within seconds, easily snatches the bloke from behind, twisting his arm and making him drop the gun.

“Do you know who I am? ‘Cause I’m going to fucking kill you,” the man vows, despite his loss of his weapon.

“Been there, done that,” Harry says, and allows the dart in his watch to do the job.

With an anticlimactic thump, the man goes down, and Eggsy whistles, long and slow.

“Holy shit,” Eggsy says, “that was as sexy as hell.”

“No respect for the lasso trick,” Whiskey mutters underneath his breath, but Eggsy ignores him in favor of stepping towards Harry and kissing him, fingers lingering on the elastic of Harry’s eye patch. Yeah, that’s right; Harry’s alive, Harry’s back from the dead, and Harry still fights like he did on that day in the pub, fast and brutal and graceful.

“God, I love you,” Eggsy mutters, kissing him again, hands winding into Harry’s hair. His heart feels like it’s about to burst any second. “All quick and tough and fucking amazing. I love you, I love you, I fucking love you.” 

“If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to a bed,” Harry says when they pull away. His lips are slightly parted, pupil widened, and Eggsy can’t imagine he looks in better shape himself.

“Good enough for me,” Eggsy replies, then pulls Harry in by the lapels of his jacket so their hips knock together.  

There’s a deliberate cough behind them. “Gentlemen,” Whiskey says, “as much as I understand your mutual…desire to get reacquainted, we do need to get back and debrief with Ginger.”

Eggsy closes his eyes, stretching out fuccccckkkkkk as long as he can, and smiles apologetically at Harry. “Rain check, then?” 

Harry smiles back. “Rain check. And I do believe we can have some time to make proper martinis.”