((I started writing this back when this blog was active, and for some reason finished it tonight. Kingsman x Legend crossover, with a bit of a twist.))
Harry's Papa has a special friend.
He follows papa into their home, twice, sometimes three times a month and disappears into Papa's bedroom in a rush of laughter.
Mama looks up towards the closed door and pours herself a drink-- one from the expensive bottles Harry's not supposed to look at let alone touch. She shoos Harry and Robert off to Nan to be put to bed, then drinks and curses once she thinks the children can't hear her. “How dare he bring that rentboy into our home? Into our bed?”
Harry isn't sure what she's upset about. Robert says it's because papa is sleeping with the man, and men sleeping with men is wrong. It's sodomy and adultery, and God is going to punish them for it. Robert also believes there's some sort of shadow beast lurking in their wardrobe waiting to eat them at night and forces Nan to check for it before bed. Robert is not the best source of information.
So, despite what mum and Robert have to say, Harry finds himself liking the man more than the rest of Papa's friends. Whenever Harry catches a glimpse of him, he's smiling and laughing. He wears colorful shirts and patterned suits and keeps his curls tamed in a way Harry thinks he will never manage.
He's mysterious. Like James Bond.
For all his admiration, Harry's never managed to say a word to the man, let alone even learn his name-- until one day he stumbles across him in Papa's study. He has a black eye and a split lip and is slumped across the settee, but sits right up and smiles when he catches sight of Harry.
“Well, ‘allo there little Mr. Hart. Harry, yeah? Your da talks 'bout ya. Says you like films.”
Harry startles a bit at being caught but he's never been shy, so he edges his way into the room and nods as the door closes behind him. “I do. Are you a spy?”
The man laughs at that, looking delighted despite his bruises. “Ain't been asked that before. Do I look like a spy?”
“A little,” Harry hedges. “But you don't speak like one. Spies are supposed to talk like gentlemen.”
“Ain't never been called a gentleman, neither,” the man hums, still merry. He moves slow, careful, as if it hurts him, to lean forward and brace his elbows against his knees. “But I don't think that talkin’ pretty’s what makes a gentleman. It's more about how you act, ain't it?”
The question takes Harry aback. He’s never quite thought of it before. He’s watched all the films, and he thinks he knows what a gentleman and a spy should be, but on the other hand, the only time he gets called a gentlemen is when he’s sitting quietly at Mama’s dinner parties, not making a nuisance of himself, as Nan puts it. “I suppose you may be right?”
“I suppose,” the man squawks. “I may? There’s no if’s ‘bout it, young, Mister Hart. You treat people with the right amount of respect and all sorts of doors will be opened to you. Ones you ain’t never seen before; suddenly they’re there.” His smile fades slowly, until he’s frowning and sad. Harry gets the feeling he’s not even talking to Harry anymore as he whispers, “It’s all about respect.” His gaze refocuses on Harry, but the frown remains. “There’s this bloke, I read some books by ‘im. He says ‘There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow--’”
Hary shuffles a bit closer. He wants the man to smile again--he has the prettiest smile, and should always be laughing, but the door creaks open, and they both jump and turn to face it with varying levels of guilt.
It’s Papa.
“Harry! What are you doing in here? You should have been in bed hours ago!” Papa’s voice is a harsh whisper as he immediately steps around to usher a protesting Harry back out the door. He doesn’t close it all the way and Harry doesn’t go to bed. It’s the principle of the thing really. Papa didn’t let him get even a single word edgewise before shutting him away.
“I’m sorry for that, Ted.” The harsh whisper is gone, replaced by a tone Harry doesn’t believe he’s ever heard from his father before. It’s nice, but sad. He wraps one arm around the man-- Ted’s-- waist, pulling him closer, as he reaches up up with the other hand to brush his thumb over his bruised cheek.
Ted smiles, equally sad, and fond, then reaches up to take Papa’s hand with his own. “Don’t be, he’s a good lad, just like his Da’. I’ll wager he grows up to be just like you.”
“God, don’t say that,” Papa scoffs, but he’s smiling. “Beatrice will never let me hear the end of it.” Ted laughs at that, and Harry’s tummy flip-flops at the way he looks when he smiles. He wants someone to look at him that way. He’s so distracted by it, that he misses his Papa pull away, and turn serious once more. “--done, but you have to leave now to catch the flight. I have a car waiting to take you to the airport.”
They turn for the door, and Harry has to pull away, lest he get caught again. He pads back towards his bedroom, but he can still hear their quiet voices as he goes. “Thank you, Henry. For what it’s worth, I’ll miss you the most.”
“You’ve always told the most wonderful lies, but I appreciate the attempt. I’ll miss you too, darling boy, now let’s get you taken care of before we wake the entire household.”
Harry pulls the covers up around himself to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. The door opens, then closes, and Harry never sees the laughing man again.
-----------------------
Harry never quite puts the late night conversation out of his mind, but like with all things, the memory fades. A decade later, and he’s home on holiday from boarding school, waffling about the direction of his life, when he finds a small package from Australia addressed to him, hidden away in his father’s desk. He leans over the desk and brandishes his father’s letter opener with a flourish, then easily slices through the tape. Inside is a watch. It looks just like any of the others he owns, but he finds a strange button on the side that releases a small blade, of all things.
There’s a note along with the watch, and Harry frowns as he reads it.
To Young Mister Hart,
Every gentleman spy needs to start somewhere. Here’s a bit of protection for your adventures.
Thanks for the conversation, be the heartbreaker I know you are,
Edward Smith
PS: Here’s the rest of that quote for you.
There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.
Words to live by.
Harry sets the note aside, and rubs his thumb against the face of the watch, before gently returning the blade to it’s hiding place and strapping it about his wrist. Suddenly, the future seems clearer, and Harry smiles as he looks down at the watch, silently thanking Mr. Edward Smith again, for the excellent advice.
Words to live by, indeed.
