Tear Down These Walls

Chapter 1

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

[Berlin, October 1991]

A car was waiting for Harry when he touched down in Berlin. It was black and nondescript sedan, scuffed in a few places, but not overly so, the sort of car that could fade into the background almost anywhere. Amongst the bustling activity of Tegel Airport, it wouldn’t have registered as anything if it weren’t for the lightly embossed ‘K’ insignia on the license plate. The symbol was only visible if you were looking for it, and like any decent spy, Harry was.

The driver of Harry’s car was perched on the hood, reading a newspaper with the faintest hint of impatience. Harry took a moment to study the man from a distance before approaching. He was lean and tall, skinny almost, about the same height as Harry himself. His nose was prominent, beak-like, and his hairline was creeping upwards, but his face had a striking handsomeness about it, with sharp, defined cheekbones, black hair, and keen eyes behind half-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a long, beige coat, and his slacks were as neat as the Oxfords he wore on his feet. Harry had seen him before, roaming the hallways of the Kingsman laboratories underneath the estate, but they had never spoken. Most of the support staff treated visiting knights like misplaced furniture, something to be ignored and maneuvered around, only to be interacted with when necessary.

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Harry said. He squinted up at the gray, drizzly sky. Thick clouds hid the sun away, giving the concrete architecture a washed-out, industrial cast. “Reminds me of home.”

The driver snorted at Harry’s joke, the faintest glimmer of amusement passing over his face before returning to what Harry assumed was his normal stony expression. “You’re late,” the man said. His voice was deep and rumbling, threaded through with a strong Scottish accent.

Harry plastered on his most conciliatory smile. “My apologies,” he said. “Customs was being difficult.” It wasn’t even a lie. For the most part.

The man stood up straight and neatly folded his copy of Der Tagesspiegel before tucking it under one armpit. “Come on, then. No need to be any later than we are.”

Harry climbed into the car. There was a disorienting moment where he felt as though he was on the wrong side, since he was still within that adjustment period whenever he ended up on the continent or (god forbid) America, but he settled as easily as he could. The other man seemed to continue his silent judgment, and Harry forced himself to relax under the scrutiny. Harry was well aware of how unremarkable he was compared to the other Kingsman agents. Same breeding, same education, same background. And yet, he always felt one step out of sync, like he was living in a different world from all the rest of them. He wondered if Merlin could sense that, wondered if Merlin would consider that a positive or a negative.

Once they were on their way, on the highway from the outskirts of the city towards the center of it, Harry turned to his companion. “Since we’ll be working together for the duration of this mission, I suppose we should introduce ourselves. I’m Galahad.”

“I know. I’m Merlin,” the man said. His eyes were fixed on the road in front of him, his lips pursed into a flat line. Harry was not making a good first impression then. Or perhaps a good fifth or twentieth impression.

Harry raised his eyebrows. He’d heard the old Merlin had retired, but he hadn’t expected a new one to be named so soon, much less sent out on a mission out in the field like this. “Ah, you’re to be my handler, then.”

“I drew the short straw this time around, yes.” Merlin agreed. He didn’t bother hiding the bite of his words at all, forgoing that particular English habit of veiling insults under the politest tone possible. It was a welcome relief from some of the stodgier handlers Harry had dealt with before. They hadn’t liked Harry any better, but they’d always tried, in vain, to hide their distaste.

“Lucky for me,” Harry said. He smiled, because it always set people on edge when their disparaging remarks were met with smile, and also because it was lucky that he would spend time with the newly appointed Merlin. Harry had been a Kingsman agent for ten years now, and as much as the job was about knowing ten ways to disarm an assailant with only a toothpick, it was also about knowing where the real power lay in any organization. Merlin, who oversaw much of the support staff -- most importantly, the R&D division -- would be a far more useful ally than even Arthur.

Merlin shot Harry a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowed. Harry met his gaze and didn’t let his smile slip, not even for a moment. Something passed over Merlin’s face. A reassessment, perhaps. Good. Trust was not easily earned in their profession, but Harry believed he was more than up for the challenge.

Harry fiddled with the car radio until he found a station that was reporting the news, something about a speech that Chancellor Kohl gave earlier in the week. Harry’s German was shaky, atrophied after years of disuse. He would have to get some practice in while the stakes were still relatively low.

If Merlin had any opinions on Harry’s selection, he didn’t voice them, and he didn’t speak another word for the rest of the ride.

---

Their living arrangements for the duration of the mission were in a dingy squat in East Berlin, inside the borough of Mitte. It had been claimed by Gawain while he was on a reconnaissance mission in the most chaotic days of 1989, and Kingsman had decided to purchase it as a long-term investment afterwards. It was located a little further out from where most of the West Berlin artists and punks who had flooded into East Berlin after the fall of Wall had set up their own squats, but it was close enough that they were firmly embedded in that milieu.

It was a large space on the third floor of what was probably once a factory or warehouse, now abandoned to whoever wanted to lay a claim on it instead. Most Kingsman outposts tended to be the size of a shoebox and only intended for a week’s worth of use at a time, so the size of the place felt decadent, even if nothing else about it was. The windows were grimy with dirt or soot, though they gave an excellent view of the street below when cracked open. There were some pieces of furniture -- a sofa, a few tables, a few chairs -- worn and mismatched like they had been picked up off the streets. The only gesture towards real comfort were the dusty and faded rugs spread over the concrete floors.

Despite the neglect, there was evidence that Merlin had landed here several days before Harry had. The only desk had been claimed for his equipment. The entire surface was covered in wires and half-finished gadgets along with a few scattered papers.

Merlin stripped off his long coat, hanging it on a simple wooden standing coat rack, which also looked as though it had been rescued from the street. It one of the few tributes to Kingman propriety in the place. Merlin was wearing a neatly pressed white shirt underneath with a plain black tie, and he undid the cuffs and rolled up the sleeves, exposing strong, corded forearms. Harry looked, because of course he looked. Merlin was attractive, and Harry liked to look. He hid his attention by sliding his own jacket off his shoulders, careful not to crease the fabric, and draping it over the back of one of the free chairs.

“You’ve been properly briefed, haven’t you?” Merlin asked. He collected a file off the desk, detaching it from a clipboard before handing it over to Harry.

Harry flipped it open, paging through the surveillance notes. “Arthur gave me the high-level overview before I left.” Their target was an ex-Stasi intelligence officer, Gabriel Letzel, who had begun to branch out from drugs to weapons, leveraging his contacts in the Soviet military and KGB to gain access to entire warehouses that were partially abandoned in the current political chaos. Harry’s mission was to both uncover the networks that were feeding him and to discover who his interested buyers were. The less attention Harry drew to himself, the better, but he could make contact if necessary, work his way through Letzel’s inner circles until they had the information that Kingsman wanted.

There was a photograph of Letzel attached to the file. He was young, younger than most might have expected, perhaps only a few years older than Harry himself. A stocky man, broad in the shoulders with thick, dark hair and a heavy brow. His suit was well-cut but ill-fitting, too baggy in the waist and too short in the arms. There was a familiar intensity to his expression, a ruthlessness to his gaze that Harry recognized. Letzel was the sort of man who knew what he wanted and would do anything to get it. No wonder he had risen so quickly through the ranks of the Stasi for someone so young, and no wonder he had already made a name for himself as an independent agent so soon after that organization had collapsed. Harry could respect that sort of focus in an opponent, even if he didn’t look forward to facing it himself.

Once Merlin was satisfied that Harry had acquainted himself with the mission, he rifled through the papers on his desk and pulled out a map of the city. He cleared himself enough space to lay it flat, shoving aside the electronics with a confidence and carelessness that spoke of expertise. “He’s been operating in the Mitte, using the cover of the underground clubs to do his business. The locals let him get away with it because he provides them with cheap drugs, but they’ve definitely made it difficult for any of the MI6 and CIA agents who have been sniffing around.” As he spoke, Merlin pointed out several circled locations which were only a few minutes away from their flat.

It didn’t surprise Harry to hear that MI6 and CIA were interested in Letzel. It did surprise him to hear that they hadn’t been successful. “What’s been holding them back?” Harry asked.

Merlin shrugged. “He emerged on the scene from out of nowhere. It took many of them by surprise. Not enough time to prepare. He doesn’t trust easily, and his men are fiercely loyal. All of the current attempts to flip them have been unsuccessful.”

It wasn’t encouraging information, but Harry wouldn’t be here if the Americans had already gotten their claws in Letzel. He was here because everyone else had failed. “So then what’s our plan? I don’t suppose my sudden appearance will be any less suspicious.”

There was a pregnant pause, and when Harry glanced away from his work of memorizing the map, he saw that Merlin was looking him up and down. The sweep of his gaze was mostly analytical. Mostly. “Well, you’re prettier than any of the others that have been sent in already.” Harry felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck, that awareness of interest that meant he could pull tonight if he wanted to. Did Merlin even know the signals he was giving off? Perhaps he did. Perhaps not. That would have to be a question for another time. Harry was a professional, and so was Merlin, and they had a mission briefing to finish. Merlin said, “Our plan is to skirt the edges of his operation, see if we can find weaknesses in his supply lines or his buyers. Identify them if at all possible, maybe even pass that information on so other agencies can deal with it if it comes to that.”

“I’m presuming that a cover has been set up already?” Harry asked. It didn’t sound like the most exciting of missions, mostly painstaking waiting and watching, but he had been sent on worse ones.

“We’re using Henry Hawkes,” Merlin explained, sliding over a fake British passport. “A young, disaffected, libertine man of wealth who’s been wandering the continent for the past decade. You’ve landed in Berlin for the time being and are looking for an authentic experience.”

Harry picked up the passport and flicked through it, checking to see which entry and exit stamps were present. He could invent youthful escapades if need be, but he wanted to know where he’d been at the time if it ever came up. “Excellent work,” Harry said. He smiled at Merlin, letting his gaze drift down to the long lines of Merlin’s neck before returning to Merlin’s face. He saw Merlin’s eyes narrow at the interest, but Merlin didn’t otherwise respond. “We can tackle the rest of the strategizing in the morning. I’m knackered.”

With great deliberation, Harry broke their standoff and turned his attention towards the meager kitchenette that had been set up in the far corner. While his head turned away, he heard Merlin let out a breath -- a sigh of relief? Of annoyance? Of regret? -- but he didn’t let himself react to that information in any way.

---

Some of the tension relaxed while they ate dinner. Merlin loosened his tie and popped open the top few buttons of his shirt, exposing the hollow of his throat and the tiniest glimpse of chest hair. Harry had spent many of his formative years in public school, then the army, and then Kingsman. The male body held little to no mystique to him. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the tease of it all, every new flash of skin as it was revealed.

He wasn’t sure what it meant to Merlin, though, and if they were to go about this mission as handler and agent, they would need to clear the air between them. Harry speared a vegetable on his fork and thought about how best to approach this situation. Merlin did not seem particularly squeamish, nor did he seem like an idiot. Harry didn’t have much use for the truth when lies were so much prettier, but in this situation, honesty did seem to be the best policy. “I fuck men,” Harry said. “I fuck women, too, but the fact that I fuck men seems more relevant at the moment. Is that going to be a problem?”

It could be so messy when it came to men. Women, for all their reputation or being flighty and emotional, were far more practical and reasonable when it came to the complicated vagaries of sex. Men were unpredictable in comparison, begging for your cock one moment and then threatening to kill you for looking at him in the wrong way in the next. Merlin didn’t seem like he was in denial, but they hadn’t known each other for more than four hours, and Harry did not want to take the chance that this would become a problem down the line. Much to Harry’s relief, Merlin just smirked and cocked his head to the side. “No,” Merlin said. “Is it going to be a problem that I fuck men, too?”

Harry laughed at that, meeting Merlin’s smirk with his own. “Not in the slightest.”

Merlin leaned back, looking at ease for the first time since Harry arrived. “Well, are we going to sit around talking about it or are you going to do something about it?” There was a challenge twinkling in Merlin’s dark eyes, a hint of teeth now when he smiled.

Harry could feel his blood heat, the way it always did before a good fight or a good fuck. There was a time when he would have answered the call of it immediately, just reached over the table to drag Merlin closer, to tear Merlin’s shirt the rest of the way open and attack Merlin’s skin with his teeth. But Harry wasn’t twenty-three any longer. He had learned to savor the moment, to draw it out and let it linger, this taste of anticipation resting heavy on his tongue. “I was planning on finishing my dinner,” Harry said, dabbing at the the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “But after that…” He let his voice trail off. “My evening is clear of any other commitments.”

Merlin rolled his eyes at that, but his smile grew wider. “You know, you’re exactly what I expected you to be.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at that. He had always known, in that vague way, that the support staff gossiped about the agents, but he’d never had an opportunity to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. “Oh? Do tell.” He liked to imagine that he was friendly enough with the techs and the handlers that they were tolerant of him and his curiosities. But he had no idea what Merlin had expected, and he found himself eager to know, especially if it would become an issue later, if and when they made it to a bed.

“I wouldn’t be a good spy if I gave up all my secrets that easily, would I?” Merlin said, laughing as he took another drink of his beer.

---

Harry woke the next morning to the smell of cooking eggs. He rolled out of the bed -- far more comfortable than he was expecting given the state of the rest of the flat -- and gave his muscles a good stretch. He was suffused with a pleasant soreness, a reminder of his activities the night before. Merlin had a wicked mouth, it turned out, and his clever fingers were good for more than just tinkering with his electronics. Harry gave back as good as he got, if he did say so himself. Merlin didn’t seem to have any complaints. After they finished, Merlin returned to his own room, to his own bed where he was presumably more settled, which suited Harry just fine. For all their comfort, the Kingsman-issued beds were not very large.

Harry showered in the cramped and dimly lit bathroom. The shower/bathtub was clean enough, even with the water damage that stained the walls and the grime that stubbornly clung to the floor titles. Not the most luxurious of accommodations, but it was serviceable for Harry’s purposes.

After the shower, he dressed himself in Hawkes’ wardrobe, which had been sent to Berlin ahead of Harry himself. For the most part, it was wealthy and tasteful but not overly formal. Harry pulled on a pair of jeans and buttoned up his shirt in front of the floor-length mirror, leaving his hair loose and unstyled, and tried not to feel naked without the many layers of his traditional Kingsman suit. But if this was to be an assignment that lasted more than a day or two -- and it almost surely was -- he would need to step into Hawkes’ skin as soon as possible. It was possible to skate by on charm and reckless confidence for a party full of civilians, but when it came to dealing with paranoid former intelligence officers, Harry couldn’t afford to allow any cracks to show. He learned that the hard way in Monaco in the summer of ‘86, and he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

When he made his way out into the main living area, he found Merlin sitting at their only real table, hunched over what seemed to be today’s newspaper. For whatever reason, the man had decided to go shirtless, exposing the broad, smooth planes of his back. The muscles of his shoulder blades shifted every time he took a sip of his coffee, showing off the purpling mark Harry had left there last night in the exact shape of Harry’s teeth.

Harry wanted to put his mouth there again, so he did. Merlin’s skin tasted as good this morning as it did last night, and his neck smelled clean, like fresh soap. Merlin leaned into Harry’s touch, his back arching with a livewire tension underlying the movement. It reminded Harry of cats that were enjoying being petted but didn’t want to show it.

“So we’re still doing this, then?” Merlin asked, his voice low and controlled. His chest rumbled underneath Harry’s lips. The sun had risen while Harry was asleep, and the morning light, filtered through the dust and dirt of the windows, had a hazy, diffuse quality that caused the entire room to glow.

“I’m amenable if you are,” Harry said. There wasn’t any explicit Kingsman policy banning sexual relations between members of the organization. In fact, it was subtly encouraged, in order to ‘keep it all in the family’ as it were. It reduced the risk of honeypots, after all, if everyone involved was under constant surveillance. What was very much forbidden was the concept of emotional attachments -- the idea that you could put any one person above Kingsman itself. There wasn’t any risk of that with Merlin yet. Harry had only known the man for all of twelve hours, even if he was a delightful bed partner.

Merlin let out a grunt of agreement. “There’s some leftover eggs if you want them.” He gestured towards the pan sitting on the counter. He had also laid out some bread ready to be toasted and a stick of butter. Harry’s stomach rumbled at the sight of it.

“Much appreciated,” Harry said. He gave Merlin’s shoulder one last lingering kiss before straightening and collecting his breakfast.

---

They talked strategy while Harry ate. Preparation and surveillance for the first part the day, and then an attempt to explore the Berlin nightlife afterwards. Harry would need to make himself known around Berlin’s underground social circles, get his cover firmly in place.

“We don’t know if Letzel stores any of the weapons in Berlin itself, but he does all of his business within the confines of the city.” Merlin explained as they pored over the map for the best possible locations for a stakeout. “Rumor has it that he refuses to do business anywhere else.”

“Even with every intelligence agency on the planet with a hand in the pot?” Harry asked.

“Since the collapse of East Germany’s government, there’s been a lot less interest in Berlin as of late. Many of those resources have been redirected elsewhere,” Merlin explained. Harry knew for a fact that he’d only been in Berlin for about a week, but he was talking with the expertise of a bureau chief. It was impressive, how much intelligence he’d been able to gain in a short period of time.

Harry frowned as he traced his fingers over the lines and names drawn out on paper, an impersonal and distant sort of understanding of it. There was a logistical sense to looking over the map, but he was a field agent. He wanted to be on the streets to see and to hear and to smell and to taste what the city was like now. Harry had made one pitstop in Berlin in ‘83 on his way to Warsaw, but a lot had changed over the eight years. He said, “Still, Letzel seems to be a man with a sentimental more than a logistical attachment to the city. Perhaps we can take advantage of that.”

Merlin shrugged. “That’s more your area of expertise than mine.” He was studying Harry again, his forehead furrowing. One of the duties that every Merlin handled would be to train future Kingsman candidates. Maybe he wanted to use Harry as a case study.

“I’m not sure how to best leverage it yet,” Harry said. “I would like to take a look around, get a lay of the land if you will.”

“All right,” Merlin said. “We’ll start in an hour.” He left his dirty dishes in the sink and left to go put on a shirt. Harry understood the practicality of it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed.

---

The air was warmer than Harry expected as he walked along the banks of the Spree, the river which cut through the center of the Mitte. A breeze came up off the water and ruffled Harry’s hair. There were gaps in the city where the Wall used to be. No remnants of the actual Wall were left. Most of the debris had been cleared out by the formal demolition crews already, but the empty strips of land that had not been developed over still felt like a scar in the city skyline. The marked difference between East and West Berlin was more obvious here, too, where the cities had sat side by side. It was like moving through different neighborhoods in London -- with their differing architectures, cars, decorations, advertisements -- except the contrast was more sudden, more pronounced.

“Galahad, do you read me?” crackled over Harry’s earpiece. They were using this little excursion to check their equipment. Kingsman tech was the best that could be produced, but even they weren’t immune from the laws of entropy.

“Yes, Merlin. I read you loud and clear,” Harry said, murmuring under his breath as he walked past a young couple. There was an art to communicating with one’s handler without seeming like you were a few cards short a full deck. Harry had never bothered to cultivate it, and he was going to have to play catch-up now. To be fair, his last mission had been an ugly, bloody smash-and-grab in Prague, the sort where subtlety went out the window the second the violence started. No one cared if you were talking to yourself while you were in the middle of a shoot-out with the KGB.

“There’s a bit of interference on my end,” Merlin said. “I’ll want to take a look at your mic when you get back.”

Harry hummed in agreement as he made a turn and headed further into the Mitte. An older woman who reminded Harry too much of his grandmother squinted at him with sour look on her face. Harry smiled back, turning on the charm as much as he could. Her scowl just deepened, and she muttered under her breath in German about children these days.

“Let’s check your tracker next,” Merlin continued. “According to the data I’m reading, you’re on Oranienburger Straße headed north-west. Can you can confirm?”

“Yes,” Harry said. This particular street was of interest to them because it was one that had been claimed by the squatters and had become one of the centers of newly growing club scene. It wasn’t obvious in the daylight, when it was just a set of facades, damaged during the war and never quite reconstructed afterwards. The walls were plastered with posters, advertising bands, special nights at clubs, art exhibitions. Graffiti was layered over and under the leaflets, huge swooping letters and shapes formed from messy spray paint.

Towards the end of the street was what used to be a department store. It had since been squatted by a group of artists and the outside of it there were large block letters proclaiming TACHELES. As Harry passed by, a few of the residents step out of the front doors. They looked as they were almost a parody of themselves. Young, wearing baggy clothes that were covered in paint stains, their hair dyed in vivid pinks and blues. They spoke to each other in rapid fire German, too fast for Harry to do more than pick out a few words.

Harry had spent plenty of time around the world in all sorts of situations, and he had learned to read the energy of a place -- as much for his own self-preservation as anything else. This part of Berlin felt wild, anarchic, buoyed by the reckless optimism of youth. Night and day compared to the last time Harry had passed through East Berlin, when everything had a omnipresent stiffness to it, the Wall looming large in both physically and psychically. It was also a far cry from the England that Harry had grown up in, full of ancient, strict hierarchies and structures. There was a seductive quality to it, the promise of a sort of freedom that Harry had only ever dreamed of, the chance to throw away anything and everything that had ever held him back and reinvent himself as something different, something new.

One of the young artists, a woman with a pierced eyebrow and heavy makeup, stopped Harry on the street. “Hast du Zigaretten?” she asked.

Henry Hawkes was a smoker, even if Harry himself was not. He produced a package of cigarettes, cracked it open and offered her one.

She plucked it from the package with a casual grace, producing a lighter from one of her jacket pockets and lighting the cigarette herself. “Danke,” she said, blowing out a stream of smoke into the air. “Du bist nicht von hier.” She gestured towards the Benson and Hedges logo on the cigarette package. “English?” she asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’m afraid so.”

She took that in with a shrug of her shoulders and a half-hearted curiosity on her face. “What are you looking for, Englishman?”

“I don’t know,” Harry lied. “But I suppose I’m out here searching for it all the same.”

Her look was pitying. “Tonight. Ohmstraße. New DJ playing there. Maybe you will find it.” It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was something. Harry would take it.

“Vielen Dank,” he said, giving her his best smile and a tiny salute with hand that was still holding the cigarettes. She rolled her eyes.

---

Harry had a period of downtime between when he returned to the flat and when he would venture out to Ohmstraße, looking for a party. Merlin used that time to disassemble Harry’s microphone on his desk/workbench, poking at it with a soldering iron while wearing an intense look of concentration on his face. Harry used that time to clean his guns, laying each part out flat out on the table as he worked. It was the sort of thing that was within the realm of tech maintenance that the handlers dealt with, like the earpiece, but Harry’s years of military service had impressed upon him the importance of caring for his own weapons and not relying on anyone else to do that work for him.

The focus on their separate tasks gave the room a pleasant, companionable silence, each of them lost in their separate worlds. But Harry was only capable of tolerating the quiet for so long before it crawled underneath his skin like an itch that needed to be scratched.

“So, Merlin,” he said as he slid the barrel of his left Tokarev back into place, “when did you join Kingsman?”

Merlin glanced up. “What’s it matter to you?” he asked. His eyes had narrowed again, closed off, and Harry had the distinct impression that he’d taken their relationship a few steps back.

“I’m assuming you were given my file as soon as you were assigned to this mission.” Harry explained. “You could name my great-grandparents and the breakfast I had every morning during Kingsman training. They didn’t give me the same courtesy.” It was the sort of oversight that was quintessentially Kingsman. Why would a knight like Harry want to know anything about the help? Harry was certain that he had the security clearance to request Merlin’s file if he wanted, but Harry had no desire to ask some poor secretary to painstakingly fax the information over. Not when the subject of his interest was right in front of him and available for questioning. “I had your cock in my mouth last night. Surely you can tell me a bit more about yourself without suspecting me of having a darker motive behind it.”

That line seemed to startle a laugh out of Merlin. His shoulders relaxed, and his eyes softened. His lips twisted into a wry, amused smile, almost indulgent. “I’ve been working at Kingsman for five years. Six in January,” he said.

“A while then,” Harry said. “And now you’ve been appointed Merlin.”

“Hamish,” Merlin said.

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“My real name. It’s Hamish. That was going to be your next question, wasn’t it?” Merlin raised one eyebrow in Harry’s direction. Harry thought about kissing the smug smile off his mouth.

“Well, now it isn’t,” Harry said, and it came out snippier than he intended. He turned his attention back to his right Torakev.

“You know, there are plenty of things that aren’t in your file.” Merlin continued.

That got Harry’s attention again. “Me? I’m an open book.”

“Why did you join Kingsman?”

Harry had never been asked that question before, not even during his Galahad trials. It was assumed, then, that anyone would want a place at the table. The only question was whether or not one deserved it. “I was bored,” Harry said. He had always had an itch to see the world, to escape the confines of the world of his parents and his peers. For a while, that escape had been lepidoptery, the thought of criss-crossing the globe in search of rare species of butterflies. But out of a sense of duty or perhaps an awareness of his unsuitability for academia, he’d chosen service in Her Majesty’s Army instead. It hadn’t been enough.

Merlin snorted. “Somehow, that answer doesn’t surprise me.”

If Harry had any shame left, he would probably be embarrassed by that reaction. As it was, it just seemed to be a statement of fact. “I have the same question for you. Why did you join Kingsman?”

Harry watched as Merlin considered his answer. His brow furrowed. He pursed his lips. Harry wondered exactly what he was thinking of hiding. “An unlimited R&D budget and the promise that I would never have to work with the fucking wankers that I knew in uni.”

“They couldn’t possibly have been that bad,” Harry said.

“You didn’t have any classes with them,” Merlin said.

Harry glanced over at Merlin, who was managing to keep a straight, if also somewhat dour, face. It didn’t last long. The corner of Merlin’s lips twitched upwards, and then, as if by mutual agreement, they both burst out laughing at the same time. The sound of it echoed throughout the flat.

It was the most relaxed Harry had ever seen Merlin. There was an ease to the way he carried his shoulders, a curl to his mouth, even a sparkle in his eyes. The expression transformed his face, softening all the sharp edges of his features.

Harry thought about reaching out, thought about brushing his thumb along the curve of Merlin’s cheekbone, thought about making another joke to see if he could get Merlin to laugh again, thought about seeing if he could use one of his miniature cameras to capture this moment, just as it was. He did none of those things, though.

He finished re-assembling his right Tokarev, and when he looked up again, Merlin was Merlin again, focused on his soldering. He didn’t so much as glance in Harry’s direction.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Everything was prepped and ready by the time night fell. The earpiece was functioning as expected again, its microphone broadcasting without static. Harry’s guns were clean, ready to be fired as necessary, though he didn’t plan on bringing them with him to the club. With the changing of the seasons, the sun set far before any of the clubs were even open, which meant a companionable dinner before Harry would have to head into the field.

Over takeaway from the tiny, possibly questionable restaurant down the street, Harry managed to coax out a few of the stories of Merlin’s days at the University of Edinburgh, most of which featured quite a bit of alcohol, bad decisions involving toxic chemicals, and, in one particularly memorable story, an angry old goat. In return, Harry told an embarrassing story about one of his Harrow classmates having to go to the A&E because his dick had been bitten hard enough to draw blood by his -- lover, for lack of a better term -- in the showers. Of course, every student at the school had known about it within five minutes of the ambulance showing up, even if some of the details varied with every retelling.

Over the course of the story, Harry could see Merlin relaxing even further, lowering his guard bit by bit. Harry’s last handler had been at least twenty years older than him and had very strict notions about what constituted proper social interactions between handler and agent. The most Harry had ever gotten him to admit was that he had grown up in Cornwall. Merlin didn’t seem to have any of those hang-ups, and Harry was grateful. The world of Kingsman had grown too stifling, too insular.

He left the flat rested but also restless. Spy work could be a slow, agonizing process, the careful assembling of a drip-feed of information painstakingly acquired. Harry had never been good at that side of the job -- patience had never been his strongest suit -- but he was determined to learn how to be better. At least a night on the town held other pleasures, even if he didn’t manage to gather any useful intelligence tonight.

Ohmstraße was another run down street not far from the Spree. The brick buildings were crumbling. Many of their windows were missing, leaving behind the ragged frames that once held them. Of the few lights installed on the street, only one of them was still functioning. It was still obvious where this party was being held without any signage, because music poured out of only one of the buildings. The pavement vibrated in time with the thudding bass. A small cluster of people milled about outside the entrance, smoking and laughing in the chilly night air.

“I’ve found the club,” Harry murmured into the microphone.

“Good,” Merlin answered. “I’ve marked down the location so that we can track it later if we need to.” The familiar rumble of his voice was comforting. Even if Harry was no novice at any of this, he still enjoyed knowing that he had backup with him at all times. And the fact that it was Merlin who was watching over him just made it all the more sweeter.

Harry made his way inside the club after charming the bouncer with his terrible German accent. The club had taken up space in an abandoned factory, but any renovations made to the building were perfunctory at best. The floors were dirty concrete. Periodic drafts blew through the broken windows. The walls were bare brick.

Still, the sound system was new -- or new enough. The music was rhythmic and industrial, supported by an electronic, thudding bass. Blasted through the new sound system, it left Harry’s teeth rattling in his skull. The lights were also new, a spin of colors, floating on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Not meant to illuminate the space so much as paint it and make it throb in time with the music. Even with the ventilation from the windows, the club smelled of smoke, mostly cigarettes, and of bodies sweating.

Almost the entire space was a dance floor. There was a tiny, perfunctory bar in one corner with a couple of associated tables and chairs. A DJ station sat in the far edge of the room, set up on the same level as the dance floor, a shadowy figure hunched over his turntables, ensuring that each song flowed, uninterrupted, into the next. Compared to the London clubs Harry had visited in the past, where there were always areas for VIPs to ensure that they could see and be seen, the only purpose to visit this club, it seemed, was to dance.

Well, dance and do drugs, if the woman who approached Harry and offered him a pill was any indication. It was most likely ecstasy, judging by her dilated pupils. Harry had enjoyed ecstasy, the one time he’d taken it. He liked the floaty feeling of that particular high, but he didn’t want himself to be impaired while exploring this place for the first time. He faked dry-swallowing the pill for her benefit, palming it and sliding it into his pocket.

“I hope you didn’t just take that for real,” Merlin said, his voice bone dry with sarcasm as Harry stepped away from her.

“Of course not,” Harry said. “I would never swallow evidence like that. This pill might be one of Letzel’s.”

It was difficult to tell if the snort Harry heard was actually Merlin or if it was one of the other ambient noises in the club playing tricks on him. Harry had a preferred interpretation, but he didn’t dare voice it out loud.

He made his way through the dancing bodies, trying to imitate their uninhibited flailing as much as possible so that he blended into the crowd. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room well enough to pick out faces. Most of them were uninteresting, with a strong Teutonic cast to their features and expressions that were blank and blissed out on a mixture of the ecstasy and the music. Many of them had their own glow sticks, streaks of neon pinks and blues and greens moving in sync with the gyrations of their bodies.

There were a few men who looked out of place, a bit too old, a bit too severe, hanging close to the far edges of the dance floor, where the shadows were the darkest. No one else was paying them any mind. Harry did his best to track their movements from the center of the crowd without making his interest too obvious.

One by one, the objects of his attention made their way to one of the furthest corners. Harry had to work in order to get a clear visual on that area, but when he did, he understood why.

“Merlin,” he said into his microphone, turning his head away so that he wouldn’t be caught staring, “Letzel’s here tonight.”

“Meeting buyers or sellers?” Merlin asked.

“Unclear,” Harry said. “I’ll tail them when they leave and get photographs so we can identify who they are.” He had a miniature camera tucked into his pockets, shaped like a credit card. It could only had enough film for ten images, but ten images were all they needed.

“Be careful, Galahad,” Merlin said. His concern was sweet. Unnecessary, but still sweet.

“I will,” Harry said. He pulled back, melting further into the crowd.

---

He spent the next few hours tracking the movement of Letzel’s business associates around the club. He timed his smoke breaks with their comings and goings, managing a few photographs while pretending to fumble his way through his pockets for his lighter. The lighting was less than ideal, but he would have to trust in Merlin’s ability to get the most out of the negatives.

Perhaps he was too focused on his targets. Perhaps the crowd was too thick. Perhaps he got overconfident, too comfortable in his assumption that he knew where everyone was at all times. It could have been any number of things that led Harry to turn a corner and come face-to-face with Letzel himself, almost bowling the man over.

“Entschuldigung,” Harry said, excusing himself, because even here, it was important to be a gentleman. This hallway was a bit quieter, not as much foot traffic. The music was still loud enough to reverberate through the walls, but it still felt tucked away, hidden from prying eyes. Maybe that was how they’d both ended up here, some natural instinct for these sorts of places.

Letzel smiled. He was shorter than Harry expected, and he was handsomer here, in motion, than he was caught in the freeze frame of the photographs. There was a grace to his movements that Harry knew well. He was a killer. He had killed before and would kill again, much like Harry had and would. He was dressed in a way that wouldn’t stand out in place like this -- his trousers a bit baggy, his shirt untucked -- but still more formal than most of the other patrons. His shirt had buttons. “You are new here,” Letzel said in German. “I haven’t seen you around before.” He leaned in, his smile growing wider, more flirtatious.

Harry’s first thought was that Letzel’s file hadn’t mentioned this. It had mentioned that he was single, yes, but that could be chalked up to his youth, an unwillingness to settle down just yet. The club itself wasn’t exclusive, segregated, the way many of the clubs back in London were, but Harry had seen two men kissing in the middle of the dance floor. No one had paid them any mind. Nor had they paid any mind to the woman moaning loudly as a man fingered her near the washrooms.

Harry’s second thought was that he couldn’t let an opportunity like this go to waste. “Uh, no,” he said in his own halting German. “I just arrived a few days ago.”

Most likely, it was Harry’s accent that gave him away. “All the way from England?” Letzel asked in English.

“Is it that obvious?” Harry said. He ducked his head with mock bashfulness, as if he were hiding a blush. He might be a bit too old to play the ingenue, but he can at least make a show of being a bit shy.

“You are not the first to decide you wanted to visit Berlin.” Letzel said with a vague wave of his hand. “I have met others like you before, but none of them were as memorable.”

“I’m-- I’m Henry,” Harry said, meeting Letzel’s eyes for a moment before shifting his gaze away again. “Henry Hawkes.” He held out a hand in a stiff offer of a handshake.

Letzel took it, giving Harry a formal shake but letting his fingers linger longer than would otherwise polite. “Gabriel Letzel,” he said.

“Galahad -- I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t make contact,” That was Merlin. His voice had a sharp but also uncertain edge to it. Harry hadn’t had enough time to warn him about this change in their plans.

“I really must apologize for running into you like that,” Harry said. “It was total carelessness on my part.”

“No apologies necessary,” Letzel said smoothly.

“Of course this mission had to go tits up because you accidentally ran into the mark.” Merlin managed to sound both irritated and aghast at the same time, which Harry really thought was unfair. Mistakes happened. Sometimes they even happened to Harry.

“So what brings you to Berlin?” Letzel asked. “The music, perhaps? Or maybe the people?” For a spy, he flirted with all of the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, but then again, like Harry, he had most likely learned the value of directness.

Harry bit his lower lip, smiled, rode the edge between interested but not too eager. “Well, I can’t say I object to either. But no, my father wanted me to ah, investigate possible investment opportunities. In property.” It was a solid enough part of Hawkes’ cover story. He was a dilettante whiling away his father’s fortune on the continent while collecting a salary for doing almost nothing whatsoever. Now that Merlin had heard him mention it, he could ensure that HQ sealed that cover story airtight in case Letzel ever decided to look into it.

“Here? In East Berlin?” Considering the chaos and the state of disrepair, not to mention the fact that a bunch of squatters would have to be dealt with, it wasn’t exactly the hottest market for foreign investors.

Harry shrugged. “You know what they say, buy low and sell high.”

That provoked a laugh out of Letzel. “Indeed. But you’re not here to talk business, are you?” At Harry’s nod, he stepped in closer. “If I may be so bold…”

Harry let Letzel draw him into a kiss. It wasn’t much, just a soft press of lips against lips. It was more of an invitation, an offer being extended. A marked difference from the last kiss Harry had received. Merlin had shoved Harry up against the wall hard enough that he thought maybe they’d cracked the plaster, and he had bitten at Harry’s mouth until Harry had let out a low moan at the back of his throat. A flicker of heat flared to life in the pit of Harry’s belly at the memory of it. Merlin, who was as tautly mannered and controlled as anyone else in Kingsman, until he wasn’t. Merlin, who had made the most indecent noises when Harry had licked along the V of his hips.

Merlin, who was on the other end of Harry’s earpiece, listening to this entire encounter. “Oh, and now we’re just turning this whole thing into a honeypot, are we?” he muttered. He was clearly annoyed, but Harry was sure it was just the fact that Harry was generating more work for him.

After a few moments, Letzel released the hold he had on Harry’s neck and drew back, but his fingers lingered there, at the curve of Harry’s cheek. “I don’t-- I’m not--” Harry stuttered, playing up the ‘confused about his sexuality’ card, letting the discomfort and uncertainty bubble up into his expression. He didn’t pull away from Letzel’s touch, though. “I haven’t-- anything like this before.”

It was a risk, a calculated one. Letzel had already made a move despite Henry’s feigned shyness already, so he most likely wouldn’t drop Harry just because he was being somewhat reluctant. “We don’t have to do more tonight,” Letzel said, “but I would very much like to introduce you to my Berlin. For your father’s business interests, of course.” He didn’t give much away with his expression -- he was too well-controlled for that -- but there was a hint of amusement, maybe even curiosity in his dark eyes.

Harry let himself laugh. “Of course. We would want to ensure that he gets the best return on his investment that he can.”

“Where are you staying in the city?” Letzel asked.

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t tell Letzel the address of the flat, the one that still held Merlin and all of Merlin’s equipment in it. He tried to play it off as more of that same shyness. “Maybe this isn’t the best--”

“Just so that I can reach you,” Letzel assured him.

“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you, Galahad,” Merlin said, his voice breaking into the conversation. He rattled off the name, number, and address of a hotel.

Harry repeated it dutifully and watched as a smile bloomed across Letzel’s face.

“Ah, in Kreuzberg,” he said, referring to the borough to the south of Mitte, which had been on the Western side of the Wall. “A good neighborhood for you.” Harry didn’t know what he meant by that, but he was certain that he would soon find out.

“I’m sure if you ask for me at the front desk, they’ll be able to patch you through,” Harry said. He fidgeted with his watch for want of something to do with his hands, and he hoped it translated into nerves.

“Of course. I look forward to spending more time with you, Henry.” Letzel pressed a gentle kiss to Harry’s cheek.

“And you, Gabriel,” Harry said, returning the favor. Letzel smelled of club smoke and sweat and some kind of earthy cologne.

With that, Letzel let Harry go and disappeared back into the darkness of the club and its dance floor. Harry turned back towards the entrance, pushing out into the night air. He had done enough work for one night.

“Good work with the hotel on such short notice,” Harry said into the microphone, once he was clear of Ohmstraße. He pulled the collar of his jacket up to hide the movement of his lips. He wandered in the direction of Kreuzberg, trusting that Merlin would be able to guide him to the hotel eventually.

“You owe me a bottle of Glenfiddich for this,” Merlin said, the irritation still obvious in his voice. “And a blow job.”

“I would be delighted to provide you with either,” Harry said. He turned down another street, passed by a small cadre of ravers. They were illuminated by the light of their glow sticks, painted in eerie neon colors, like Harry had never even left the club. “Though I’m not sure when I’ll be able to make good on that promise. It wouldn’t do me any good to meet you back at the flat.”

“Aye. It’ll probably be good policy to assume that he’s going to have you watched from here on out.” Merlin said. “I’ve already arranged for your things to be sent to your hotel room.”

There was enough activity on the Berlin streets that the one or two men Harry recognized from the club could be out and about because they were looking for a midnight snack or because they were stumbling home, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it. “Thank you again,” Harry said. “I owe you all of that and more.” He was starting to feel some of the come down from the adrenaline high of facing off against Letzel, and now all he wanted was a bed and some time to sleep in it.

“And you better not forget it,” Merlin grumbled, but there was a softness to his brogue as well that Harry could almost mistake for affection. Perhaps his exhaustion was starting to cloud his judgment. All the more reason to make his way back to the hotel as soon as possible.

---

Harry slept deeply that night. The hotel was pleasant enough, catering to foreign visitors flying into the nearby Templehof Airport, well situated for Harry’s cover. The Kreuzberg Harry had walked through was still awake, still vibrant, even past midnight. It was an immigrant quarter of the city with a heavy punk influence. Many of the stores had signs written in Turkish, and many of the young people on the streets were wearing studded leather jackets and ripped jeans.

When Harry woke again, his first order of business was to sweep the room for bugs. The usual places first: light fixtures, underneath furniture, behind the heavy curtains on the windowsill. He found one that was so old its battery had died, a real relic of the 70s. He crushed it underneath his foot, not willing to take any chances. A pity he couldn’t take it back to Merlin.

When he was confident that the room was safe to talk in, he slid the earpiece back in. “Merlin,” he said. The sky was cloudy outside the window, but of the sort that didn’t promise rain. A plane passed overhead, the sound of its engines loud enough to rattle the walls.

A familiar crackle of static indicated that Merlin was on the other end of the line. “Galahad. I trust you’ve managed to secure your location.”

“Well enough,” Harry said. “I suppose we should discuss a new plan. I have a camera for you. If you can get me a new one, I should be able to take more photographs for you.”

“You mentioned that you were followed. We’ll have to be careful about the exchange.”

“Yes,” Harry said. He hummed as he combed through Hawkes’ luggage, searching for what to wear for the day. “I suspect that this mission became a lot more difficult, but the effort should be well worth it.”

“We can only hope,” Merlin said.

The conversation was all perfectly professional, and that was to be expected -- they were professionals after all -- but it was as though another wall had come down between them. And after Harry had made so much progress already. On impulse, he said, “Tell me something about your first mission.”

Merlin hesitated. “Galahad--” His tone was impossible to read from just that one word, and Harry wished he could see his face in order to better judge his reactions.

“Indulge me?” Harry asked.

Merlin sighed, and Harry attempted to picture the expression. The weary downturn of his lips, the stiff line of his shoulders. Harry had excellent recall, a necessary skill in his line of work, and he’d -- he’d liked Merlin straight away with an intensity that he wasn’t used to. Merlin carried himself with an unpretentious competence that was rare enough in their field in general and in Kingsman in particular. During their night together, Merlin had laughed when Harry had dislodged his glasses in his haste to get Merlin’s shirt over his head, the sound of it rich and warm as it rumbled through his chest. It was one detail that Harry would hoard, but Harry wanted to know more about him, wanted to add more details to his collection.

Harry said, “On my first mission, I almost got a bullet in the back of my head because I was so distracted by a terrier that reminded me of my own dog, Mr. Pickle. Arthur chewed me out for a good twenty minutes in the debriefing after that.” It had been an awfully well-behaved terrier, too, sitting at its master’s feet and unbothered by the crowds who had shown up to watch the royal wedding. And besides, Harry was still alive to tell the tale and the Sun hadn’t even caught a whiff of the assassination attempt.

A silence echoed over the line. “You named your dog Mr. Pickle?” Merlin said eventually.

“He looks like a Mr. Pickle,” Harry said, affronted. Mr. Pickle had been his loyal companion for a decade now, though he was getting a bit long in the tooth, and Harry would not hear an insult directed towards him.

Merlin snorted, but he continued without belaboring the topic. “My first mission involved teaching Bors how to tell the difference between different breeds of sheep,” Merlin said. His tone was deadpan, but a hint of amusement still managed to leak through.

“They sent you all the way to Wales, did they?” Harry asked. Bors was a giant of a man: tall, broad-shouldered, built like a tank. The mental image of him wading through a flock of sheep, perhaps while he was trying to shoo them away with his umbrella and a particularly dour glower on his face, would be enough to entertain Harry for weeks to come.

“There are too many fucking breeds of sheep,” Merlin said.

“I can only imagine,” Harry said. He paused for a moment, lost in the image of Merlin bent over some sheep encyclopedia, hastily trying to update Bors on every new scrap of information he came across, before he continued. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Merlin asked.

“For indulging me.”

---

They established a time and location for the drop, a popular Turkish bakery halfway between the Kingsman flat and Harry’s hotel. The place, according to Merlin’s research, was small and bustling, ideal for a tourist like Hawkes to pop into for a bite to eat, but also difficult for a tail to follow Harry inside.

He made the trip in mid-afternoon, after a quiet lunch in the hotel. He was tempted to make a game of it, to see how dull he could be before he put his tail to sleep. He wandered around Kreuzberg in the daytime, which was even more bustling. The air was filled with the smell of cooking meat -- pork and beef and sausage -- being sold by street vendors. It stood in contrast to Mitte, the same and yet different. Where Mitte’s bombed out houses had been left abandoned, Kreuzberg’s had been half-patched up, filled up to the brim with people looking for cheap rents and a place to call their own. East vs. West in its most obvious, literal form.

It didn’t take long for Harry to find the bakery. Merlin’s directions were excellent. The inside of the place was mostly one long counter, displaying the various pastries that could be purchased. On the opposite side were some small tables, one-or two-seaters that looked like they’d seen better days. The place was busy, crammed full of people calling out orders in a mix of Turkish and German. Harry bought a slice of baklava and took up a seat at the farthest table from the door. When he had a chance, he slid an envelope containing the camera and the pill he obtained at the club underneath the table and taped it to the bottom, where it wouldn’t be obvious. “I’ve made the drop,” Harry said into the earpiece.

“Good work, Galahad,” Merlin said. “I’ll let you know when I’ve replaced it with a fresh camera.”

Now that the work was concluded, Harry turned his attention on the baklava. It would have felt more proper to eat it with a fork and knife, but it wasn’t that sort of establishment. Harry picked the slice up with his bare hands, getting his fingers sticky with honey, and took a bite out of it, letting the burst of sweetness and nuttiness linger on his tongue along with the crunch of the flaky layers between his teeth. This, too, was one of the pleasures of being an agent. A moment out of time, an experience he wouldn’t have had if he’d done as his father had wished and become a dreadfully dull banker of some sort, toiling away in an office and doing nothing of real importance.

He was still wiping his fingers clean as he left the bakery, considering if he wanted to stop by one of the nearby kebab carts for a later afternoon snack. He only made it two steps past the doorway before he was confronted, once again, by Gabriel Letzel.

“Ah, Henry!” Letzel said. “I see you’ve started making yourself acquainted with what Kreuzberg has to offer.” He smiled, broad and wide, opening his arms in welcome. Compared to the night before, his dark hair was neatly combed and parted, and he was wearing a two-piece suit without a tie. He gave the full impression of a businessman now, in the light of day.

“Gabriel,” Harry said, and his surprise to see Letzel here was only partially feigned. “What a coincidence.” It wasn’t a coincidence, obviously. The reason Letzel was here was because he’d had Harry followed.

“I was just on my way to go see you, when I thought to myself, ‘I should not show up empty-handed. What sort of host would I be?’, but when I come to pick up pastries, you are already here.” Letzel placed a hand at the crook of Harry’s elbow, guiding him away from the bakery and down the street.

“Ah, yes. I was just out exploring the neighborhood, like you recommended,” Harry said. He was off balance, his guard up, though he had to keep his reaction under control. He wanted to -- he wanted to challenge Letzel a little, bare his teeth. He wanted to force Letzel to take him seriously as an opponent. But of course he couldn’t. That would defeat the whole purpose of the exercise. Harry would have to play at being meek and mild and unassuming.

“I’ll pick up the camera as soon as you’re clear of the area,” Merlin said, his voice a grounding force, a reminder of Harry’s mission, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back, not while he’s having you followed.”

“And there is so much more of the city to see,” Letzel promised. Harry let himself sway closer, pretending to be drawn into Letzel’s orbit. Letzel smelled of cigarettes and aftershave, nothing unpleasant, and so it wasn’t even difficult. “You must understand what it’s like, wanting to show someone around a place that you love.”

Harry couldn’t say that, necessarily. He liked London well enough, its familiarity and its comforts -- tea, black cabs, his butterfly collection, Mr. Pickle -- but he didn’t love it any more than he loved Amsterdam or Tokyo or Rio de Janeiro. “I look forward to seeing what you have to show me,” he said.

---

Letzel took him to a piece of the Berlin Wall that was still standing, the Eastern side of it, which had been turned into an art gallery of sorts. Letzel paused at the beginning, a gap where the Wall no longer stood. The Spree was spread out wide between them and West Berlin. “I was an Ossi,” Letzel explained. “The West was-- how do I explain this in English? -- it was like a dream, a dream that was hidden away from us.” He gazed at the sprawl, the towering skyscrapers with a wistful longing.

“And now?” Harry asked, wondering where this line of thought would take them.

“And now we are one Berlin, one Germany. The dream has become real for all of us.” He spoke like a zealot, but his voice had a cool, even tone to it. As if he were analyzing the situation and laying out a plan.

“You know,” Harry said. “you never mentioned what it is that you do.” A breeze came up, teasing at his cheeks, at his hair. The autumn chill had stripped away what little greenery existed on the banks of the river, and the city looked cold and gray.

“I’m an entrepreneur, Herr Hawkes. I see opportunities, and then I take them.” Letzel slipped his hand into Harry’s. “Come, let me show you what I see.”

What he had to show Harry was an explosion of color. Artists had taken it upon themselves to use the Wall as a canvas, leaving behind huge murals. Some were explicitly political, like the one that stated (in German): “Politics is the continuation of war by other means.” Another one depicted a Trabant driving through the Wall, painted cracks and shattered concrete left in its wake. A third showed two doves sharing the Brandenburg Gate between them. Others were more abstract, like the stone faces painted in a way that was reminiscent of Easter Island’s statues. A brick archway between a man’s legs. A human face bursting from between two trees and a rainbow. They all radiated a sort of defiance, a reclamation of a space that had once been a powerful symbol of the Cold War.

The most striking image was of two men kissing in close up -- two older men in suits. Politicians, perhaps? It twinged at Harry’s memory but he couldn’t quite place the specifics. The caption underneath it read, “My God, help me survive this deadly love.” Harry studied it for a moment, tilting his head as he tried to process the imagery.

“Brezhnev and Honecker,” Letzel explained. His hand had drifted to the small of Harry’s back. “A photograph circulated of them greeting each other this way, but it takes on a different meaning in this context, no?”

Harry turned to meet Letzel’s gaze. “It seems very literal,” he said.

“It is a rejection of the old alliances,” Letzel said, “a rejection of the old guard. A tribute to the spirit of Berlin, that even these old men could not break us.” He smiled at Harry then, and his eyes were bright. He wasn’t a true believer, then, a loyalist to the East German government the way some Stasi agents could be. He was an opportunist. But that label didn’t sit right on his shoulders either. Letzel continued, “You understand, I think, what it is like to wish to be free of our fathers.”

For all that the father that Letzel was referring to was fictional and Harry’s own father had been cast to the wayside long ago, Harry could concede that there were times when even the rigidity of Kingsman could feel stifling. That hardly translated into arms dealing for Harry, and he didn’t feel the need to voice that opinion out loud. “My father wouldn’t approve of this at all,” Harry agreed.

He stiffened but didn’t pull away when Letzel kissed him again out here in the open, where anyone could see. It was another line he had to walk, being eager but not too eager. Cagey and hesitant enough to keep Letzel hooked but not so difficult that Letzel got bored of courting him. Letzel said, “Then let us upset him some more.”

He slid a slip of paper into Harry’s hands. Harry unfolded it and read the words written there in a neat block-lettered scrawl. An address.

“Meet me there tonight,” Letzel explained. “I have more to show you.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

“It’s a club,” Merlin explained, when Harry was back at the hotel, preparing himself for his duties. Harry had told Merlin the address as soon as he was alone again, and Merlin had been the one to do the research and reconnaissance.

Harry asked, “What sort of club?” He squinted at his hair in the mirror, unsure if he should lay it flat or let it stubbornly fluff up. The answer would depend on Merlin’s answer, in all likelihood. If it served wine that cost more than 100 marks a bottle then he would tame his hair into something more acceptable.

“The advertising is not very explicit about it, but I suspect it’s a gay club given the circumstances. Unless I’m entirely mistaken about the nature of Letzel’s interest in you,” Merlin said, his voice bone dry but still more than a little teasing.

“I was referring to the dress code of the club, Merlin. A gentleman endeavors to ensure that he is neither over- nor under-dressed for the occasion.” Harry decided that he would at least comb his hair, though he wouldn’t try to slick it down all the way. He buttoned up his shirt and frowned. It was a plain white, appropriate for any number of situations, but he had decisions to make about what to pair it with. Would a tie be the right addition?

“Just pick something. I doubt it will matter anyway. I’m sure you could show up naked for how much anyone gives a toss.”

“Now there’s an idea. Though it’s cold enough outside that it wouldn’t be the most flattering of looks on me.” Harry discarded the tie. He wasn’t going to a business meeting, after all. He wanted to look like he was relaxed, at ease, around Letzel, ready to open up to him.

“You’d draw plenty of attention anyway, and you know it,” Merlin said. Was that a hint of bitterness that Harry heard in his tone?

“Is that so?” Harry asked, trying to tease it out.

“Stop fishing for compliments and check over your equipment,” Merlin snapped, but there was no heat to it. “You have an opportunity to learn more about his social circles, though I don’t think he’ll introduce you to his business partners.”

“Speaking of, did you get anything useful off the camera?”

“Sent it back over to headquarters for processing. It will take some time to identify everyone.”

Harry hummed in approval. He spent some time buffing his shoes, ensuring that the blades hidden with them were mounted properly. It wouldn’t do to have them popping out in the middle of dinner, which had happened on a couple of occasions to Percival a few years back. Merlin was quiet on his end. Harry imagined him bent over his workbench, tinkering away, much like Harry was himself. The silence was comfortable and companionable, the two of them working at the same time, together and yet not.

“First weapon?” Merlin said, eventually.

“Pardon?” Harry startled, almost slicing his finger on the blade hidden in his right shoe in his surprise.

“Was just wondering. What was your first weapon? Since you decided we could have storytime whenever we felt like it.”

Harry smiled, wide enough that he could feel the way it stretched the corners of his lips. “Of course we can have storytime whenever we feel like it,” he said. “My first was my father’s hunting rifle. I was ten.” He could still feel the press of it against his shoulder, the kickback rocking his whole body after he pulled the trigger, the startled flock of birds fleeing the scene. It had been transformative, in its own way, the shivery-intense realization of the power in his hands, the power to hurt or to kill.

“You’re a parody of yourself,” Merlin said.

“Perhaps I am,” Harry said, and his smile didn’t fade in the slightest. “What was yours?”

“A pocket knife,” Merlin said. “Mostly kept it around because it was handy when I wanted to go out into the woods.”

“How practical of you.”

“It was particularly useful when some wankers decided they wanted to steal my lunch money,” Merlin explained.

“I do hope you taught them a lesson,” Harry said.

“I don’t think they’ll forget it.” There was a nasty edge to his tone that convinced Harry that Merlin had stabbed them. No wonder that the man had fallen in with Kingsman. He was as bloodthirsty as any of them.

For whatever reason, that thought pleased Harry, leaving a fizzy, warm feeling in the center of his chest. “Good,” he said. He slid the shoes onto his feet and clicked his heels, studying the blades as they popped out. “Good,” he said again.

---

The club was located in West Berlin, not far from the hotel. From the outside, it was modest, no different from any of shops that lined the streets, but on the inside, it was raucous and loud and crowded. Harry was, to his own relief, only mildly over-dressed. The place was in much better condition than the last club in Berlin that Harry had visited, though that could be due to the fact that it had been checked by a health inspector in the last month.

Harry drifted through the main room of the club, taking it all in. A dance floor took up most of the space, bodies gyrating in the dim light to the loud, echoing music. A DJ was set up with her turntables on the modest stage, one cup of her headphones pressed against her ear as she bent over her equipment. The music was more like the music that Harry would hear in the clubs back in London, electronic and bass-heavy, but still warmer and more melodic than anything he’d heard back in the abandoned factory on Ohmstraße. And, while the clientele of Ohmstraße had been mixed, this particular club was very obviously gay. Men were twined around each other, kissing and dancing and grinding the night away.

In another room, smaller and quieter than the main one, tables and chairs and sofas had been set up for the clubgoers to relax in. Some of them appeared to be sleeping, despite all the activity around them. At least one couple had their hands in each others’ trousers, uncaring about the fact that they had an audience watching on. Gay porn was projected on one wall, featuring a broad and hirsute man dressed in leather bondage gear being serviced by a pretty young thing.

“Hello,” a voice from behind Harry said. He spun on the balls of his feet and found Letzel standing there. He was dressed down for the club, wearing tight trousers and a shirt that was unbuttoned enough to show the tiniest bit of chest hair. He was on the pull tonight, and he wanted to broadcast that fact to as many people as possible.

“Gabriel!” Harry said. “I was just looking for you.”

Letzel smiled. “But you were distracted?”

Harry ducked his head, convinced a flush to rise up on his cheeks. “It’s-- it’s a lot,” Harry said, making a gesture at everything around him. “I-- I’ve never seen anything like this before.” It was a lie, but it wasn’t much of one. The gay clubs Harry had visited in London were less chaotic, better organized, though they contained no less debauchery.

“Still, you are enjoying yourself, yes?” Letzel took Harry’s hand, a gesture that was almost comically chaste amongst the debauchery around them.

Harry bit his lip, partially so that he could look uncertain and shy and partially so that he wouldn’t burst out laughing. “Yes, but it’s better now that you’re here.” He darted forward to press a kiss against Letzel’s lips. “I didn’t realize it could-- be like this.”

Letzel slid an arm around Harry’s back, drawing him closer. His nose brushed against Harry’s cheek, his breath ghosting over Harry’s skin. “Berlin has always been a haven for men like us. In the days before Hitler, it was the gay capital of the world. Men would paint their faces, and women would dress in tuxedos, and they would gather in clubs like this to drink and to dance and to fall in love.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d read his Isherwood, after all. But of course, Henry Hawkes wouldn’t have. “It doesn’t seem so different now,” he said.

“Yes, we have rebuilt some of its past glory.” Letzel said. “But I do not desire to live in the past. I want to create a future. As I think you do as well, Henry.” His gaze was dark and focused as his eyes met Harry’s.

“I do,” Harry said, keeping his voice even.“But we don’t have to worry about any of that tonight, do we? The future can wait just a little bit longer?”

“Of course,” Letzel said, but it took a beat too long for his smile to reappear.

---

They danced for a while. Harry had never been much of dancer, much to the amusement of everyone he had ever known. He could almost waltz, and a box step was something he could manage on a good day, but anything else was beyond him. Granted, a club like this had very little use for Harry’s ballroom dance lessons, but he still didn’t know if he was flailing his limbs in a vague approximation of the beat or if he just looked like an awkward madman.

While he was keeping Letzel occupied, Merlin reported in to let Harry know that he’d managed to do some photography of his own, attempting to identify the men who had been tasked with following Harry. While Harry couldn’t risk drawing their suspicion, Merlin had no such restrictions, and he was evidently taking advantage of it.

Letzel stuck close to Harry’s side all night, which wasn’t surprising, but he waved off every single person who wandered by, which was. Some of the more determined or more oblivious ones managed to introduce themselves. Harry made note to remember their names and their faces, though most seemed too young and too frivolous to be concerned with anything related to arms deals, far more interested in whatever drugs they could score. Anyone who worked with Letzel on the other side of his business dealings were staying away.

“Why don’t you want me to meet any of your friends?” Harry asked after Letzel shook his head at another friendly face was trying to meet his eyes on the dance floor.

“Do you blame me for not wanting to share you?” Letzel said. He tugged Harry into another kiss, slotting their hips together. He radiated heat, which Harry had no shortage of from where they were standing, a stifling press of bodies all around them. “You will meet them eventually, but I would like to keep you to myself for a little while longer.”

“All right,” Harry said, because it wasn’t as if he was running out to introduce Letzel to his own associates (though he suspected that was for different reasons).

Harry did get a brief respite from all of it when Letzel took a quick trip to the loo. Merlin even decided to chime in. “He’s laying it on thick tonight.”

“He’s always laying it on thick,” Harry murmured. He was taking the opportunity to scan the club, looking for anyone who he might have recognized from the night before.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, which could be that something else drew Merlin’s attention away. Despite his status as handler for this mission, he had other responsibilities, many of which weren’t known to Harry. “Are you--” Merlin finally said, “are you planning on doing something about it?”

“It might give us another avenue to gather information. We’re not making any progress as it is,” Harry said. As of now, they’d only met in public places with Letzel’s guard up and aware of Harry’s every movement. That was to be expected with the paranoia of a spy. Harry’s own liaisons back in London were conducted with much of the same care and discretion. But sex did have a way of lowering one’s guard, and if there was any sort of opportunity that presented itself, Harry would have to take it.

“I don’t have to-- You’re more than capable of handling yourself. I could sign off for the night if that would be more comfortable,” Merlin said.

Harry blinked in surprise. None of his other handlers had ever signed off during honeypot. It made Harry wonder who Merlin had been handling before, that he would offer such a thing. Maybe Bedivere, the man was as prissy as they came. How he’d ever passed NLP training was a mystery to everyone. “No,” Harry said. “It’s quite alright with me.” He thought it over for another moment. “Unless it would be-- unless you’d rather not.”

“I’ll be fine, Galahad,” Merlin said, but there was a sharpness to his voice that seemed to indicate that he was lying.

Harry wanted to protest, wanted to force the truth out of Merlin, wanted to understand what Merlin was feeling right now, but Harry could see Letzel from where he was making his way back from the loo. Harry didn’t have the time. The feeling left a cold, hard lump in Harry’s stomach, an ugly and twisted thing. He would have to deal with it later, but he didn’t want it to fester, the way so many feelings used to fester during his long semesters at Harrow.

Across the room, Letzel had stopped to speak to a man who looked familiar. It took Harry a moment to place him. Not one of the business associates from the first night. One of Letzel’s lackeys who was in charge of following Harry around Berlin. Harry was too far away to overhear them, and their mouths were shadowed in the lights of club so Harry couldn’t read their lips.

When Letzel returned to Harry’s side, he touched his fingers to Harry’s neck, and his expression had darkened into something intent and unmistakable. “I know I am being forward, but I was wondering if you would maybe like to come home with me tonight.”

For all that Harry was expecting this, he still felt his breath catch in his throat. He let it out slowly, deliberately. “I-- I’m not, but-- yes, I want to,” he said, putting just enough hesitance in it to be believable. This was an opportunity. He would have to make the most of it.

If Merlin had thoughts about that, he didn’t voice any of them out loud.

---

As far as sex went, it was pleasant but unremarkable. Unfortunately, the same could be said of the flat in West Berlin that Letzel had taken them to. One of many that Letzel must maintain in the city. It had amenities, of course, but there wasn’t an office or a desk. The walls were, for the most part, bare and plain.

After they were done and before Harry could extract himself for a shower, Letzel sprawled out over the bedspread, naked and unselfconscious, and smiled at Harry. Unlike his previous smiles, this one was gentle and open, startlingly unguarded. He drew Harry in close, cupped Harry’s face in his hands. “You are so lovely,” he said. “I want to give you… so many things.” He even sounded like he meant it.

Harry smiled back, though the attention made him itchy and uncomfortable. “I want to give you things, too,” he said, “but first, I have other bodily functions to account for.” He disappeared into the bathroom for a shower, and when he re-emerged, he found that Letzel had fallen asleep in the meantime.

He poked around the flat as much as he dared, unwilling to press his luck too far. The most he found was a faded postcard of Berlin’s Siegessäule, a monument of a bronze angel standing atop a tall column, in the kitchen, tucked into one of the drawers. Harry had caught a glimpse of the landmark earlier in person, when he and Merlin were driving in from the airport, the sight of it towering over the streets below. The postcard was never sent, so there was no postmark and no stamp, but a message was written on the back. “Thinking of you,” it said in German. It was signed as “A.” In all likelihood, it was just another fling of Letzel’s, much like Harry himself. Another man Letzel had fucked and sent on his way. But its inclusion here spoke of sentimentality (or maybe just laziness). The romantic in Harry spun a story about a lost lover, torn from Letzel’s side by the job or by the disease, both of them equally likely in this day and age.

He shut the drawer when he heard footsteps and started banging around the cupboards. “Just wanted a drink of water,” he said as Letzel appeared in the doorway, shirtless and rumpled. It was almost enough to fool someone into thinking he’d lowered his guard.

Letzel’s smile was indulgent, but his eyes had a hard sheen. “Come back to bed,” he said. He looped his arms around Harry’s waist and pressed his forehead against Harry’s back. His hair tickled the back of Harry’s neck.

“In a moment,” Harry insisted. He nudged Letzel away, laughing as he fetched an empty glass and filled it from the tap.

Letzel watched him, his eyes fixed on the bite mark he’d left on Harry’s shoulder.

“So,” Harry said. He didn’t have to do much to fake the discomfort in his voice. He was used to be being watched, but there was still something unsettling about Letzel’s gaze all the same. A professional quality to his observation. “I don’t suppose I’m the first man you’ve brought here.” There had been condoms and lube in the bedside table, prepared and ready, and in the club, it was clear that Letzel was a regular.

“I don’t do this often,” Letzel said. “You are special, Henry.” Maybe it was the clipped German accent that went along with the words or maybe it was the intensity of his scrutiny, but Letzel’s statement left a prickle of unease on Harry’s skin.

“I seriously doubt that,” Harry said, fighting back all of his natural reactions. There was no real reason to believe that Letzel was going to do anything questionable just yet, even if his instincts were on high alert, preparing for a fight.

Letzel’s attention didn’t waver. “Ah, but you are. I will be able to convince you of that eventually.”

Harry ducked his head, glad that he was playing Hawkes as shy. The kitchen felt too small for the both of them. He sipped his water and did his best to ignore the way his fingers itched for a weapon and the way his teeth wanted to clench. “Still, I should-- I should go. My father is expecting a call from me in the morning, and I know he’ll be rather cross if I miss it.”

Maybe he expected Letzel to protest, but Letzel didn’t, just shrugged his shoulders and turned away. “All right. Let me call you a cab.”

---

The discomfort lasted through Harry’s return to the hotel. It was late enough at night that it was beginning to verge on morning, that strange midway point between one day and the next. For all his pretensions otherwise, Harry -- like all Kingsman agents -- was a creature of his body, and right now, his body was cagey and restless, desperate for an outlet for the mood he was in. If he were home, he could visit the firing range or find one of the other agents to spar with or even borrow a puppy from the kennels to take running around the Kingsman grounds. None of those were options here, not while he was still being watched.

He took a shower instead, attempting to calm himself in the steady beat of the running water against his back. This whole mess would be simpler if his mission was to go in and eliminate Letzel and his entire supply line, to tear a bloody swath through anyone who so much as glanced at Harry the wrong way. Despite all his training in other areas, violence was still the language that Harry spoke best.

He left the shower feeling better but still uneasy. Perhaps he just needed to sleep, since he’d been awake for nearly a full twenty-four hours now, but he wasn’t nearly relaxed enough to drop off yet. Harry drew the curtains open so that he could see a bit of light on the horizon and settled into one of the more comfortable chairs as he slid the earpiece back into place.

A familiar hiss of static greeted him when he turned it back on. “Galahad?” Merlin’s voice was thickened with sleep, his brogue deeper than usual.

Harry closed his eyes. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Anything new to report?” Merlin asked.

“Not as such, no,” Harry said. “I didn’t find much about his business dealings in his flat. I just--” It was the mood he was in, most likely, that loosened his tongue. “I am feeling somewhat out of sorts.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Merlin said. “He’s a paranoid bastard, but we’re making progress.” He even managed to sound grumpy while trying to be comforting, and that was charming in and of itself.

“He was being odd when I left,” Harry said. “I’m not sure what to make of it. Going on about how I was ‘special.’ It put me on edge, and I would very much like to punch someone now.” It felt good to put that feeling into words. His past handlers had been all about cold hard facts and stiff upper lips. A proper gentleman didn’t speak of his emotions at work, and he definitely did not attempt to explain them to his colleagues. If absolutely necessary, there were professionals for that sort of talk, but you left everyone else out of it.

Merlin asked, “Do you think he’s onto you?”

“It’s difficult to say.” Harry wished he could see Merlin’s face as they spoke. Not only because he enjoyed looking at Merlin’s face, but because he wanted-- he wanted someone to understand, someone who could understand. “He’s hiding things from me, but that’s to be expected.”

“We’ve started to identify some of the men you photographed. Some friends of friends of older agents. It’s not all dead ends.” Kingsman was an independent agency, but the nature of its demographics meant that its politics aligned with that of the Crown’s. When the Iron Curtain came down, Kingsman picked a side, and with picking that side, it meant picking new enemies, too. It wasn’t a surprise to learn that some of their old KGB nemeses had decided to move into the realm of weapons trafficking.

“That’s good to hear. Thank you, Merlin.” Harry let out a long breath, parts of his spine unbending, a relaxation coming into his muscles. They were making progress, even if Harry wasn’t. It was fine.

“And tell me before you end up in a bar fight somewhere. Those are fucking miserable to clean up after.” The words were threaded through with a gentle sort of teasing, or as gentle as Merlin ever got. There was a prickly edge to his affection, Harry was beginning to learn, developed from somewhere from outside of Kingsman. He blustered because he cared, as opposed to most of the other handlers Harry had dealt with before, who couldn’t be bothered to care at all.

Harry laughed. “I will,” he promised.

“Good,” Merlin said.

A lull settled over the conversation. Harry thought about signing off for the night and tucking himself into bed, but then Merlin spoke, his voice filling the silence.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.” he said.

“Hmm?” Harry asked. He was close enough to sleep and Merlin said it quietly enough that he could almost believe he imagined it.

“I didn’t-- I know it’s the job, but I didn’t like that you-- and him--”

Harry blinked once, twice, and he felt-- it wasn’t as cliche as his heart stopping or his breath catching, but it was sharp feeling, piercing at the very center of him. He liked it, this awareness of Merlin’s regard. He felt possessive of it, wanted to hold onto it, hoard it away where no one else could so much as look at it. Instead, he said, “I told my family I went into the army because I’d felt as though I was neglecting my duties by studying lepidoptery, but it was really because I wanted to get as far away from them as I possibly could. My father and I did not see eye-to-eye, shall we say.” He and his father had argued for months beforehand about Harry’s complete lack of interest in ‘keeping up appearances.’ Harry’s older brother took their father’s side, as was expected of him, was studying foreign relations at Oxford and preparing himself for his future seat in the House of Lords while dating a very pleasant and well-bred young lady. Harry, on the other hand, was busy chasing after rare butterflies for his collection, refusing to play footie with the other boys because team sports were ghastly, and every so often, snogging the butler’s son in the coat closet underneath the main staircase.

Merlin let out a breath, almost a sigh but not quite. “And they believed you?”

“I think they were so relieved to hear of my decision that they would have believed anything I told them. I was always the odd one. None of them had any idea of what to do with me,” Harry said. “And you?”

“I cheated on a maths test once,” Merlin confessed. “In all fairness, the professor was a self-righteous prick and we fucking hated each other.”

“How scandalous,” Harry said, laughing. He liked imagining it, a younger Merlin full of piss and vinegar, staring down blustering professor twice his age and still managing to come out on top. He wanted-- he wished he could have known Merlin then, another boy out of place where he was and looking for a place to fit, to belong. Harry understood that all too well. “Just the once?”

“Aye, I’m not proud of it.”

Another lull. Harry could feel his lack of sleep creep up on him, drawing him towards the bed. He didn’t resist the pull, but he did break the silence one last time. “I know it’s the job, but I would have much rather gone home with you,” he murmured, because he wanted Merlin to know.

If Merlin said anything in response to that, Harry didn’t hear it, because he was out like a light the second he closed his eyes.

---

He awoke in the afternoon. He slept deeply and well through the morning, and only the barest whisper of a dream followed him into wakefulness. It had involved Merlin’s tongue, he was certain, and he almost regretted not remembering more of it.

Sunlight filtered in through the windows, not the golden light of morning but something deeper and darker as they drifted towards sunset. Harry let himself luxuriate in this quiet moment of relaxation, a rare occurrence when he was in the field.

He stretched his body, working out some of the tightness in his shoulders and back. His stomach rumbled. Perhaps he could make another visit to the Turkish bakery, sample a different one of their pastries. This was the sort of quiet that Harry could handle, when the itch to move, to be in motion, wasn’t quite as strong or as demanding.

He slid his earpiece back into place. “Merlin?” he asked, ready to check in and discuss their next steps.

The line was silent, not even the familiar crackle of static on the other side. It could be nothing. They all kept odd hours, and Harry slept through most of the day. Merlin wasn’t at Harry’s beck and call.

But Harry’s instincts were prickling again. That unease that had followed him the night before was back full-force, even multiplied. Something wasn’t right here, even if Harry couldn’t put a name to it.

He paced the room for another hour, ordering room service for his mid-day meal and hardly tasting any of it. Merlin didn’t reappear. His end of the line was still silent.

When Harry’s impatience got the best of him, he took the risk of calling into headquarters directly.

“Kingsman Tailors,” the polite voice on the other end of the call said. “How can I help you today, sir?”

“My name is Henry Hawkes. I’ve been having trouble with the cuffs of my suit that I picked up last week,” Harry said. “I was hoping to schedule an appointment with my tailor to have them adjusted.” It was the code to indicate that he wanted to get in contact with his most recent handler, but that he was not in the best position to make that overture directly.

“Hmm, yes,” the man said. “He’s currently busy with another client, but I’ll have him reach out to you at his earliest convenience. Can we reach you at this number, sir?” That was the code that Harry should stay put until further orders had been given

“Yes,” Harry said, through clenched teeth. “Thank you for the assistance.”

The man hung up without another word.

Another half hour passed. Harry turned on the television and watched some bits of a German game show, which seemed to involve contestants doing absurd physical stunts so that the audience could bet on them. It did nothing to quell Harry’s nerves or impatience. Outside, the sun began to set, a splash of orange peeking over the skyline.

On a practical level, Harry understood the importance of protocol, of trusting in his superiors, in Arthur, to make the correct call. That was the purpose of the dog test, after all. To test an agent’s loyalty, to test their faith. Harry should stay put until Kingsman -- or Merlin -- told him he could move, told him he could act.

It only took Harry another five minutes to decide that was bullshit. He didn’t bother to dress as Hawkes, choosing to wear his complete suit with his shoulder holsters tucked underneath his jacket, an extra lighter grenade hidden in the inside pocket, the knives in his shoes sharpened and ready.

He paused for a moment at the door. His fingers tightened around the handle hard enough that his knuckles went white. This was a risk he was taking, one that could blow his cover into bits. On the other hand, if Merlin was in trouble (if), Harry’s cover was already in danger. He just didn’t know it yet.

He yanked the door open, and he strode out into the October night.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Chapter Notes

Harry made his way on foot from Kreuzberg through Mitte. He did his best to shake his tails in Alexanderplatz, but he knew he stood out from the rest of the foot traffic in his expensive suit. A few strange looks were thrown his way from some of the younger people he passed by, but he was beyond caring at this point.

He reached the flat in record time. It looked even shabbier in the dark, only one street light still functioning. The street was littered with trash, discarded newspapers blown every which way, stubbed out cigarette butts, a beer can or two. It was quiet, almost eerily so. It wasn’t the busiest of streets at the best of times, but now, the silence felt deliberate, as if the place had cleared out. His followers, if they were still around, didn’t dare follow him here, where their presence would be immediately obvious.

Harry drew a gun as he climbed the staircase, careful to skip the steps that creaked. He lingered outside the wooden door to the flat, pressing his ear against it. A few muffled footsteps, a curse in German. Too many noises to be just one person, and if Harry’s suspicions were correct, not one of those occupants was Merlin.

He nudged the doorknob. Unlocked. His mouth tasted of metal, that kick of adrenaline as his body prepared for a fight. It felt good, a taste of what he’d been craving for days. Harry took one breath, and then he pushed his way inside.

An unfamiliar man in the center of the room. Harry shot him through the forehead, watched him collapse with the ringing of the gunshot in his ears. Another man, from the corner of his eye, drawn by the noise. Harry swung himself around, took another shot. The movement threw off his aim. The bullet caught the man’s center of mass, not his head. A presence behind him. His body reacted before his mind could, ducking the swinging pipe and twisting out of the way. He caught the arm, used the momentum of the swing to break it. The man howled as the bone snapped.

Harry took another shot at the second man, who lunged forward, towards Harry, blood darkening his shirt. Harry got his throat this time, and the man fell, his breath wheezing and pained. A still target. Harry put a bullet right behind his ear.

He approached the third man, the one with a broken arm who was still sprawled out on the floor, whimpering in agony. Harry kicked the pipe away, out of reach. The man was young, practically just a boy, barely older than twenty. The experienced goons had already come and gone, leaving these three children behind to comb over the flat for anything of use.

“I suspect I already know the answer,” Harry said in German, “but who do you work for?”

“Verpiss dich,” the boy snarled at him.

Harry grabbed a hold of the broken arm, twisting it so that the boy howled. He wondered if it would hurt more if he forced the fracture up through the skin, causing it to bleed. “Let’s try this again. Are you working for Gabriel Letzel?”

The boy grimaced, turning away. His expression spoke volumes without him having to utter a word.

“All right, now that we’ve established that, where is my friend?” Harry considered applying more pain, but it seemed excessive. He wanted the boy conscious, after all.

“We got him,” the boy spat, “so he can’t go around poking his nose where it doesn’t belong anymore.”

Harry’s blood felt like ice, as if the heart of him was frozen through. “Where is he?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

The boy shook his head so violently it looked as though his whole body was thrashing. Loyalty. An admirable trait, but an inconvenient one at the moment.

“No matter,” Harry said, switching back to English. “I’m sure your boss and I will work something else out.” He shot the boy in the face, and the room was once again plunged back into silence.

Now that he was no longer distracted, Harry took stock of the flat. It had been ransacked, that much was obvious. Merlin’s desk was a mess of wires and papers, all of the useful equipment stolen and spirited away. Harry hoped that Merlin had kept most of the advanced Kingsman tech well-hidden, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it. The cabinets and drawers in the kitchenette were thrown open, dishes and silverware spilled onto the floor.

They hadn’t reached the bedrooms yet in their search. The beds were both neatly made, with crisp military corners. Merlin’s dresser still remained untouched. Small mercies.

Harry called into HQ on the secure line that had been installed in the flat as soon as it became Kingsman’s Berlin current base of operations. “It’s Galahad,” Harry said, before anyone could make him speak in code phrases. “Merlin’s been taken by the target.”

“Just a moment, sir,” the receptionist said, and then she patched him through to Arthur.

“Galahad, I thought your instructions were to stay in place for the time being,” Arthur said, his voice frosty with censure.

“I must have forgotten that code,” Harry said, keeping his tone light and airy. “Silly me. Sometimes the mind just slips as I get older.”

A snort. Arthur was old enough to be Harry’s father and still thought of Harry as a child, not that Harry blamed him overmuch. “Well, what can you report now?”

“Letzel has Merlin, though his whereabouts are unknown. I eliminated three men who broke into our flat and were searching through our things. We’ll need a clean up crew as soon as possible. And I would like to--”

Arthur cut him off. “Hmm, yes. Arrangements will be made, but in light of your new information, I want you on the first flight back to London as soon as possible.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Sir, we’re in danger of losing our Merlin--”

“Yes, and it won’t do for us to lose our Galahad, too. His cover was blown. Yours is in danger if it hasn’t been blown already. We can let this whole thing blow over and send in another agent to try a different angle. The prudent thing to do at this moment is to cut our losses while we can.”

“The prudent thing is to prevent our enemies from holding onto one of our most valuable assets.” Harry said. His teeth ground together with every word, his jaw tight and clenched.

“This Merlin is new, just getting his feet wet, as it were. Valuable, yes, but not irreplaceable. Get a hold of yourself, Galahad, and think this through rationally.”

The anger, when it swelled up, wasn’t cold, the way Harry expected it to be. It was burning, a heat that reminded Harry of the midday desert sun. Harry couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- let Arthur have the pleasure of witnessing it, though. The decrepit old fuck wouldn’t have said that about the old Merlin, who, like the best sort of servants, ran the operations of Kingsman with the sort of velvet fist so invisible and so effective that he seemed to genuinely be made of magic. Arthur must have cried himself silly when the old man retired. “Of course, sir,” Harry said. “You’re right. I let the emotions get the best of me.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” Arthur said.

---

Of course, Harry had no intention of leaving Berlin without Merlin. He had hoped that he would have backup and additional resources before making a rescue attempt, but no matter. Harry could manage by himself.

He left the bodies where they were, confident that they would be handled by Kingsman. He reloaded his Tokarev with a fresh clip. He cleaned the blood from his shoes. By now, Letzel had to know that Harry and Merlin were… associates. He would be suspicious when these three didn’t check in, but that might not be for a few hours yet.

There wasn’t much to go on, but Harry’s work did leave him with a few options he could pursue. He could return to Letzel’s flat. He could make his way to the gay club they’d visited the night before. It was possible that he was lingering in a hideout that Harry knew nothing about.

Despite all of his hesitations, he still ended up on Ohmstraße, standing at the entrance of the club where he first met Letzel. Some instinct drew him here, and as of now, the only thing he could trust were his instincts. The bouncer in front of the club gave Harry and Harry’s suit a skeptical look, but Harry was more than capable of staring him down. “I have business with Gabriel Letzel,” he said in his clearest, most clipped German.

The bouncer gave him one more look up and down, an assessment as to whether or not he wanted to get in Harry’s way. Thankfully for both of them, the bouncer came to the correct conclusion, giving Harry a polite nod and then stepping out of Harry’s way. The club was much the same as it was when Harry first visited, the same clumps of young people wearing baggy clothes and offering each other psychotropic drugs, the same music that droned and throbbed and eschewed any trace of melody, the same strobe lights and glow sticks illuminating the space.

And much like that first visit, Harry caught sight of Letzel lurking in his favorite darkened corner, talking quietly with one of his business associates. It was dark and hard to tell, of course, but Harry could swear that he seemed smug this time, a self-satisfied smirk twisting his lips. Harry wanted to punch it off his face.

He only had a moment or two to observe Letzel, though, because the man glanced up and unerringly met Harry’s eyes across the room. His smile only broadened at the sight of Harry standing there. It was as good as an engraved invitation. Harry made his way over to Letzel’s corner with a confident, purposeful stride, letting the crowd part for him without sparing any of them a second glance.

As he approached, he could see the dangerous glint in Letzel’s eyes, one that he had always hid from Harry in their previous encounters. This would be the first time they would meet without any artifice, all of their carefully constructed illusions stripped away.

“Gabriel,” Harry said. His fingers itched for his guns, for the feel of his weapons in his hands.

“Henry,” Letzel said. “Should I keep calling you Henry? Or do you perhaps have another name that I should refer to you by?”

Harry considered it for a moment. He was loathe to even give up ‘Galahad’ as a code name. “No, Henry will do for now.”

Letzel did seem bothered by Harry’s reticence in the slightest. “As you wish. I assume you’re here to inquire after your colleague.”

The mention of Merlin raised Harry’s hackles, his muscles wound tight, his lips pursed together. He now understood the reason why Kingsman disliked emotional attachments. The fear for Merlin’s safety was an awful, prickling feeling, like being stabbed in the chest with a thousand pins all at once. “Yes,” he said.

Letzel said, “I can assure you that he’s in perfect health, though he was cursing up a storm when I last saw him.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Harry said. His worry was somewhat assuaged by the fact that Letzel hadn’t made a move on him, though he must have the muscle in the club to do so. Letzel’s motivations were unclear at the moment, but it seemed unlikely that he would still be here chatting with Harry if his intentions were to simply eliminate the both of them.

“I would not expect you to,” Letzel said. “Men like you and I are not given to trusting easily.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He had thought that Letzel’s flattery would have been cast aside along with the rest of their masks. “No, we are not,” Harry agreed.

Letzel’s smile grew thinner. “Let us find a better venue for this conversation,” he said. “There is much for us to discuss, and it does get so very loud here, does it not?”

Before Harry could react, one of Letzel’s men had the barrel of a gun pressed against Harry’s spine. The Kingsman suit, as bulletproof as it was, was unlikely to resist a shot at point-blank range. Besides, Harry wanted to uncover more of Letzel’s true plan, and he was sure he could buy a bit more information with his compliance. He lifted his hands in surrender and followed Letzel out the front door.

---

Letzel’s man pushed Harry into a car without bothering to bind his hands, blindfold him, or check him for weapons, which spoke to either confidence or arrogance. They didn’t go far, staying in some of the rundown parts of Mitte, where you could stash a kidnapped man and not have it upset any neighbors.

“I must confess,” Letzel said from the passenger seat as Harry stared out the windows from the back, “I knew you were another member of the intelligence community from that very first night.”

“Did you now?” Harry said, and he didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. It rankled, the idea that Letzel hadn’t been fooled by Harry’s act for a second. Harry had never been the best actor out his cohort, but he had been hoping that he wasn’t dismal at it.

“You hid it well enough, but you have a spy’s eyes. You are always watching. It was familiar to me. I know our kind well.”

Harry considered putting a bullet through Letzel’s brain, but no, he had more restraint than that. “So what was the purpose of the rest of this, then? Why bother?”

The car pulled to a stop before Letzel could answer. They had arrived at yet another abandoned building, the hollowed out, decaying shell of a warehouse. Harry climbed out of the vehicle with a gun pointed at his face, courtesy of their driver. He was a large man with a rectangular head and an ugly scar on his cheek, and he carried the weapon with the calm assurance of someone who was experienced with using it. Letzel led them inside, continuing to speak. “I am sure you are aware that I am looking to expand my business. That must be what drew the attention of your agency.” He glanced back at Harry, looking for a confirmation. “I am not familiar with yours in particular. At first I thought perhaps you were MI-6, but you do not have the look about you of a government man.”

Harry said nothing, not willing to give Letzel the satisfaction.

“I have been looking to recruit new talent to support these endeavors. And you-- you fell right into my lap, so to speak.” He smirked at his double entendre, though it didn’t verge into an outright leer. “Forgive me for the subterfuge. I wanted to take a measure of your skills before extending an offer.”

“And that’s what this is, an offer? You don’t seem to be putting much stock in my loyalty,” Harry said.

Letzel laughed. “Every man works best when he’s working in his own self-interest. That is what capitalism has to teach us, yes?”

“You haven’t offered me anything yet,” Harry reminded him. “I don’t know if it’s in my best interest or not.”

They entered the warehouse together. The walls were made of a rusting metal, and the floor was rough concrete. The place was badly lit. The warehouse’s installed lights were not operating, and Letzel’s group had put together their own lighting set up, which was only partially effective. About half of the massive space was occupied, but there were pallets stacked on top of one another, their contents hidden away from view. Drugs or weapons, Harry couldn’t tell. A few men milled about, moving boxes from one place to another. Harry counted six of them, not including the driver. No sign of Merlin.

“What I am offering you, Henry, is freedom,” Letzel continued.

“Pardon?” Harry asked, blinking in surprise, because that was the last thing he expected Letzel to say.

“Did I not tell you that I understood what it meant to want to be free of our fathers, to no longer be at the beck and call of old men who refuse to let go of the past? Those outdated fools, so obsessed with East vs. West that they cannot see what is front of their faces. Their ways have no place in this new millennium. The Wall has come down, and the Soviets will be next. We do not need them anymore. Maybe we never needed them at all.” That fire was back in Letzel’s eyes, in Letzel’s voice, and Harry felt just the slightest bit of heat reflected from it. Letzel’s passion was animated with a righteous power, and Harry could not help but be swayed by it. He was not feeling partial to Arthur or Kingsman at the moment, and it was -- tempting -- the thought of leaving it all behind, some childish impulse to salt the earth and burn all his bridges behind him.

“None of that explains why you took my friend,” Harry said, because he had a purpose here and it wouldn’t do to forget it.

A shout from one of the side offices. Two men, new ones that Harry hadn’t seen before, dragged a body between them. Under the bad lighting, they were nothing more than dark figures, and it wasn’t until they reached the closest light, the one that Harry was standing under, that Harry could make out any of their faces.

It was Merlin. His hands were bound together behind his back, a cloth gag wrapped around his head, cutting off his words. His glasses were gone, and his left eye had been blackened, his eyelid swollen and the skin around it purpling. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. It was the first time Harry had seen him in person in three days, which was not so long, but it felt like like an age ago. Harry wanted-- he wanted to go to Merlin. He wanted to rip the gag from Merlin’s mouth, wanted to press an ice pack to Merlin’s forehead, wanted to check the rest of Merlin’s bodies for injuries. Merlin’s eye flicked between Harry and Letzel, promising murder with just one glance.

“As you can see, he is still alive and well,” Letzel said. “We picked him up because he was making the wrong sort of inquiries about some of my business associates. I didn’t realize he was one of yours until much later, and when I finally did, I thought it might be an opportunity to, ah, test your mettle, as it were.”

Harry snorted. “So I passed, then? How generous of you.” His gaze kept darting back towards Merlin, despite his best efforts to stay focused on Letzel, out of some unreasonable fear that Merlin would disappear into thin air if Harry looked away for too long.

It was too much to hope that Letzel wouldn’t notice. Of course Letzel noticed. Another reminder of the issues with emotional attachments. Letzel said, “You are fond of him, I see. You could keep him if you were to work for me.”

“He can keep himself,” Harry said, meeting Letzel’s eyes, and refusing to so much as glance in Merlin’s direction for fear of seeing his reaction. “I don’t own him.”

“Can the same thing be said about your employers?” Letzel said. “I doubt they would approve of your… friendship.”

Harry kept his expression as neutral and as blank as possible. “I’m not at liberty to discuss internal company policies.” He couldn’t help but imagine the sour look on Arthur’s face if he ever found out, the curled sneer on his lips, the disappointment in his eyes.

“Of course not,” Letzel said. His smile grew thin. “I worked with a man at the HVA. You might say that we were also friends, of a sort.”

“Is that so?” Harry asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stand around and listen as Letzel re-lived his glory days, but it would buy them more time to figure out what to do next.

“We kept the true nature of our association from our colleagues for as long as we could, but in our business, secrets do not remain secret for very long. Our superiors were tolerant of it, but not particularly approving. I was younger and foolish then -- I thought we could weather any difficulty that was thrown our way.”

“Clearly that was not the case,” Harry said. He resisted a particularly strong urge to roll his eyes. “Or I assume he would be here right now.” Glancing up, he noticed that the lights wired up overhead were cheap, single bulb things. Blow one of them, and the entire string would go out.

“Alexander was always more of a true believer. He was -- faithful -- to the DDR in a way that I was not. We knew, of course, when things began to unravel, long before the Wall came down, but he still took it badly when it all fell apart.” Letzel’s expression had grown wistful, far away. Harry wouldn’t dare presume that he’d become inattentive, but he had the look about him of someone who was lost in a memory. “We had a choice, then: to submit to our new masters or to forge ourselves a new path. But there was no way back to the life, the world we once had, and that was the choice that Alexander wished to make most of all.”

Harry thought of the postcard he’d found, signed with a simple A. Was that left behind from before or from after the collapse of the East German government? Was it a promise or a goodbye? “I take it you chose to forge your own path,” Harry said, “and he didn’t.”

“All things must change or die. He could not change, and now he is dead.” If Harry didn’t know any better (and perhaps, maybe he didn’t), Letzel looked regretful, almost as if he were still in mourning, somehow. Harry wondered if Letzel was the one who pulled the trigger or if it was another one of their former colleagues, on the orders of the new, unified German government.

“How tragic,” Harry said. In a nearby corner, he spotted a sliver of light. A doorway, cracked open. An exit? A spare room?

Letzel’s eyes sharpened as he looked at Harry. He drew a pistol from his coat and leveled the barrel of it right between Harry’s eyes. “What choice will you make, Henry?” he asked.

Harry had stared down plenty of guns before, but he didn’t look at the weapon. He kept his gaze on Letzel. “I don’t suppose I can ask for more time to consider my options?” He slowly slid his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and lifted out a packet of cigarettes and his lighter. “In the meantime, I’d like you to release my friend. I won’t speak for him.”

He glanced over at Merlin, who was fixing Harry with an inscrutable stare. Harry flicked the lighter between his fingers, careful to make it look like a bored, fidgety gesture more than anything deliberate. He knew Merlin could see the flash of the Kingsman logo, knew Merlin would read it for what it was. I’m going to blow everyone here to bits when I get a chance.

Letzel tilted his head. He smirked. “We can do that, yes.” He nodded at one of his goons. “Mach schnell,” he said, waving the gun in Merlin’s direction.

The goon ripped the gag from Merlin’s mouth and cut through the bonds tied around his hands. For a moment, it seemed as though Merlin might say something, his expression dark and angry, but he just spat on the ground and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. He didn’t bother to acknowledge Harry at all. It was most likely a defensive gesture, a refusal to give anything else away, but Harry still felt as though he was being-- ignored.

Letzel turned his attention towards Merlin, which did have the benefit of lowering the number of guns pointed at Harry’s head by one. Letzel asked, “Have you managed to come to a decision?”

Merlin’s gazed flicked towards Harry for a second. His lips pursed together. “Your hospitality has been shit,” he said. His voice was steady, but the anger underscoring his words was impossible to miss.

“My apologies,” Letzel said, not sounding sorry at all. “As you might understand, my instinct when threatened is to act first and ask questions later.”

Merlin glanced at Harry one more time, his head tilting forward in what seemed to be a nod. Harry slid an unlit cigarette into his mouth and pointed it towards the doorway he had spotted earlier, tilting his chin up to acknowledge Merlin’s attention. He may have only known Merlin a short time, but he was sure that Merlin was in this with him, that they would get out of this situation together or not at all. Merlin said, “You’ll have to forgive me when I tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Harry ducked, sweeping his leg back to throw the man behind him to the floor. A gunshot, fired wide, drawing attention from every other person in the building. Harry threw the cigarette aside and did his best to position himself so he had the widest possible view of the activities as he could get.

Letzel turned towards Harry, pulled the trigger. The bullet clipped Harry’s shoulder, ricocheting off the bulletproof fabric of Harry’s suit, a sharp pain fading into a low throb. Harry drew his own pistol, fired. It got Letzel in the leg, who fell to the ground with a series of curses. Merlin was already running, his gait strong if also uneven. Harry didn’t have much time before this would become another ugly shootout. He aimed at one of the lights and pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times, until the bulb exploded into sparks and the entire room was plunged into darkness.

He ran for the near door, hoping that Merlin had read him correctly. All around him, shouts of surprise and anger rang out. He shoved his way through the narrow doorway. It led outside, into the chilly Berlin night. Harry triggered his lighter grenade and threw it into the thick of the warehouse, slamming the door shut behind him.

The resulting explosion rattled the frame of the building, yellow-orange flame bursting through several windows and leaving behind the ugly smell of burnt human flesh. He waited an entire minute for the sound of voices, of new gunfire, but it all was quiet, that eerie quiet after a battle, as if a vacuum had swallowed up all the noise in the area.

Harry was grateful to see a familiar dark head sprawled out on the pavement a dozen feet away from warehouse door. Merlin’s breath was heavy, but his eyes glittered in the dim glow of the streetlights. “Hello,” Harry said, scrambling over towards Merlin with as much dignity as he could manage, which wasn’t all that much. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Merlin choked out a laugh, which turned into a hacking cough. “You fucking wanker,” he hissed out. “You aren’t half as funny as you think you are.” He hadn’t taken any new damage in their latest altercation, but his every bit of body language conveyed exhaustion. A wince crossed his face, reminding Harry of his existing injuries.

Harry touched his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, his hair, his black eye. A physical reminder that Merlin had survived, that Harry was still around to appreciate it. “Lies. I’m exactly as funny as I think I am.”

Merlin snorted, but he put his hand on Harry’s thigh, as if he wanted -- needed -- to be touching Harry, too. “Fuck off,” he said.

It wasn’t funny. None of it was funny, really. But Harry still burst into laughter, the sound of it almost echoing, the feel of it deep in his abs, in his bruised shoulder, in his throat. And after a few moments, Merlin even joined in.

---

They made their way back to Harry’s hotel room. The flat was still compromised, such as it was, and it was still had three too many dead bodies in it, waiting for the Kingsman cleanup crew. Merlin hotwired one of Letzel’s cars and drove them back through Berlin’s streets, entirely by memory.

“You’re a man of many talents,” Harry said, watching as the quiet, almost deserted streets of Mitte faded into the bustling chaos of Kreuzberg.

“I even have a pilot’s license,” Merlin said without so much as glancing in Harry’s direction. “This is nothing.”

Merlin kept it together, calm and steady and professional, as they entered the hotel lobby together, ignoring some of the questioning looks at his obvious injuries. He held himself upright until the door to Harry’s room shut behind them, and that’s when the last twelve hours seemed to catch up with him. He found one of the easy chairs and poured himself onto it, closing his eyes and letting his breathing deepen with sleep. Harry didn’t dare disturb him like this, not when Merlin could finally get some much-needed rest. Harry shed his suit and slipped into his nightgown as quietly as he could manage, before he pulled a spare blanket from the coat closet and draped it over Merlin’s sleeping body.

His heart felt tender and soft, watching Merlin like this, relaxed and safe and present. He wanted-- he wanted all sorts of things he knew he couldn’t have, couldn’t keep. In the morning, they would be going back to England, back to Kingsman with all the rules and restrictions that came with that, back to Arthur’s sour disapproval, back to Merlin’s polite distance.

Harry almost wished he had taken Letzel up on his offer. There had been an allure to it, the thought of razing every bit of his current life to the ground and building something new in the wreckage of it. A chance to break all the rules, to destroy the narrow boxes he’d been forced into his whole life. A chance to keep Merlin. But Harry hadn’t taken Letzel up on his offer. He had made different choices, and now he would have to live with the consequences.

He made a few calls, dragging the phone behind him as far as the cord would let him, ducking into a side alcove in order to request two seats on the next commercial flight to London. He kept his voice pitched as low as he could in order not to disturb Merlin’s sleep. He also made a quick call into Kingsman, leaving a message for Andrew at the front desk to let the agency know that he’d recovered Merlin, hanging up before Arthur could get on the line to yell at him.

When he emerged again, he found Merlin awake, his eyes fluttering open as he yawned. The nightstand clock announced that it was three in the morning in glowing red numbers, too early, but Harry had slept until the late afternoon and didn’t need to rest just yet.

“You should sleep a bit longer,” Harry said. “We’ve got a flight at nine.”

“Fuck that,” Merlin grumbled. “Just needed a little shut-eye, is all.” He pulled himself upright, shoving the blanket off of himself and onto the floor. When he stood up, however, he winced and clutched at his side.

Harry rushed over to him, reaching out to put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, but Merlin glared at him, shifting out of Harry’s way.

“I’m fine. Just some bruising,” Merlin insisted. “Remind me that going out in the field is shit and that I should never do it again.”

Harry didn’t back off, because even if it was just some bruising, that didn’t mean he couldn’t-- care. “I can fetch you some ice,” he said, lingering at Merlin’s side.

“No, it’s all right,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “I keep forgetting--” He flicked on the bedside lamp and met Harry’s eyes. “I haven’t thanked you for getting me out of there yet.” His face was cast in an mix of light and shadow, and his expression was difficult to read. Up close, his blackened eye was a riot of colors, purples and reds mixing into yellows and blues. He had a shallow cut on his lower lip that Harry hadn’t seen earlier. Harry wanted to kiss him.

“I could hardly have left you there,” Harry said. He touched Merlin’s cheek, not more than a brush of fingertips over Merlin’s sharp cheekbones, because this whole thing still felt as fragile as spun glass, ready to shatter at any moment.

“Arthur’s not going to be pleased that you killed Letzel without rooting out his entire supply chain first.” Merlin sighed.

“Bully what Arthur wants. He wasn’t here.” Harry couldn’t help but remember his last conversation with Arthur, the one where Arthur told him to cut Merlin loose, where Arthur made it perfectly clear that he considered Merlin an acceptable loss for the organization.

Merlin leaned in, cupped one hand around the back of Harry’s neck and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. Merlin smelled like the dusty warehouse floor, like sweat and exhaustion. “I was afraid for a moment,” he said, his voice growing soft, his accent thickening, “that you were going to go with him.”

“I considered it,” Harry confessed. “He wasn’t wrong about the state of global geopolitics, or about the state of Kingsman, and it was-- tempting.” He still felt it now, that low, deep yearning for a freedom that always seemed out of reach. With the perspective of a little distance, he could see that it was most likely another illusion, just another box waiting to trap him.

“But you didn’t take it,” Merlin said. His thumb brushed along the ridge of Harry’s spine, leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake.

Harry asked, “Would you have come with me if I had?” He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to that question, but he needed one all the same.

“Maybe,” Merlin said. “Would have depended on how you asked. If you weren’t an arsehole about it.”

Harry chuckled softly, just a few puffs of air between them. “I would say that you should know me better than that, but we don’t know each other all that well, do we?” There was that prickling sensation again, his chest filled with pins.

Merlin frowned, his lips twisting downward. “We could,” he said, his voice taking on a plaintive edge. “We could know each other better. Sod the rest of them. We could.”

Harry pulled back just far enough that he could meet Merlin’s eyes, which were dark and fierce. Maybe Harry didn’t know Merlin all that well, but he knew that Merlin didn’t ask for much. And yet, he was asking Harry for this. All things must change or die, Letzel had said. That applied to Kingsman, too. It couldn’t remain an organization full of stuffy old posh fuckers forever. But if Harry wanted it to change, he would have to work for that change, and Merlin would have to work to change it with him. He wanted that, wanted it with a ferocity that left his chest tight and his breath shaky. “Yes,” he said. “We could, and we should.”

The smile that split Merlin’s face was one of the sweetest things Harry had ever seen, all the more precious for how rare it was. He reeled Harry in by the lapels of his dressing gown and kissed him. Merlin’s lips were still gummy with sleep, and his five o’clock shadow was going to leave beard burn on Harry’s cheeks. Harry couldn’t care less.

When their lips parted long enough for Merlin to speak, he said, “You know, you still owe me a blow job for getting you this hotel room on short notice.” He was all well-earned smugness at the moment, and Harry liked him like this, comfortable and confident and at ease. He wanted to visit Merlin in his labs, wanted to watch Merlin barking orders at his minions, wanted to lurk at Merlin’s side while he put their next crop of proposals through their paces, wanted to keep Merlin this safe and this happy always.

“I do, don’t I?” Harry said. “Well, a gentleman does not leave his debts unpaid.” He lifted Merlin’s tie over Merlin’s head before he undid each of Merlin’s buttons, one by one, pressing a kiss against each patch of skin as it was revealed.

Merlin’s chest was broad, strong, and covered in a smattering of dark hair that trailed down into the waistband of his trousers. A few purpling bruises marred his otherwise pale skin, the darkest one spread over his right ribs. Harry bit down on one of Merlin’s nipples, just to feel Merlin clutch at his head, to feel Merlin’s fingers thread through his hair. “And the most expensive bottle of scotch you can find,” Merlin continued, though his voice was thin and breathy.

“The most,” Harry promised. He flicked open Merlin’s fly one-handed. His knuckles brushed against the bulge of Merlin’s cock, and it brought up the memory of their first time, their only other time, when Harry had stripped Merlin of all his clothes and sucked him down without preamble, because at the time, everything was simpler, and even sex between them could still be uncomplicated. That was no longer true, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to feel any regrets.

He drew the waistband of Merlin’s pants down, felt as much as heard the sharp inhale of Merlin’s breath. He pressed his tongue against the dip of Merlin’s navel, and Merlin’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Teasing bastard,” Merlin muttered. “Don’t--”

Harry laughed against Merlin’s stomach. “I won’t leave you hanging, darling,” he said. He licked and nipped his way down to the nest of hair at Merlin’s crotch, where Merlin’s cock was growing and thickening. Harry’s mouth watered at the sight, at the smell of it.

He pressed a kiss to the head, flicked his tongue out to taste the tip, which was salty with sweat and pre-come. One of the other benefits of sleeping with another Kingsman employee: thorough medical testing. And Letzel had been as paranoid about sex as he had been in all other aspects of his life, so they’d both been well-protected there.

Merlin groaned as Harry took him into his mouth. “Fuck, Harry,” he said. Shivers ran down Harry’s spine. It was the first time Merlin had called Harry by his name.

He used every trick he’d ever had to learn about fellatio, taking Merlin deep into his throat, pressing his tongue against the thick vein running underneath it, the barest hint of teeth. Merlin squirmed beneath him, his noises choked off and breathless.

Merlin’s body tensed, his fingers in Harry’s hair tightening to the point of pain in the best sort of way. Harry redoubled his efforts, and when Merlin finally came with a full-throated moan, Harry swallowed every bit down.

He pulled a handkerchief from the pockets of his robe and wiped his mouth clean, watching as Merlin caught his breath, his eyes closed, his head tilted back, a pretty flush chasing its way down his neck. Harry said, “I hope that was sufficient.” He kept his tone light, teasing.

“Harry,” Merlin said again. He reached out, caught hold of Harry’s arm and pulled him close, kissing him again. He undid the knot of Harry’s robe, and his hands roamed along Harry’s waist, yanking at the waistband of Harry’s pajamas.

At some point, he freed Harry’s cock while he was sliding his tongue into Harry’s mouth. The dual sensations made Harry’s head spin, made his skin feel too tight. He detached from Merlin’s mouth as Merlin’s fingers closed around the shaft, the sensation of his callouses leaving tingling sparks along the delicate skin.

His eyes met Merlin’s, and he couldn’t articulate what he saw there, but he recognized it as an echo of the feeling in his own chest. Merlin’s gaze was sharp but not calculating, and Harry felt exposed, stripped of all his armor, all of his masks, and he-- he wanted that. He wanted Merlin to see him as he was, all of him, all of his foolishness and his fearlessness, all of his cruelty and his strength. “Hamish,” he said.

“Fuck, look at you,” Merlin said, his voice deepening. “I want to-- take you home and have you over my couch, in my bed. Wanted it from the moment I saw you, you daft prick. And then you were-- different from the rest of them. Drove me mad that I couldn’t hate you the way I could hate all the rest of them.”

“I quite like you, too,” Harry said. He had his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, fingers tightening there for stability. Merlin was wanking him in earnest now, and his gorgeous fingers were clever and dangerous, capable of drawing all sorts of embarrassing noises from Harry’s mouth.

Harry ended up slumped against Merlin’s chest, his nose pressed against Merlin’s neck, his breathing ragged and uneven as he thrust his hips forward into the circle of Merlin’s fingers. He bit at Merlin’s at collarbone and let himself imagine leaving a mark there, hidden away from the rest of Merlin’s department underneath Merlin’s shirts. He let himself imagine the two of them back in England, back under the watchful eye of Kingsman, and still willing to carry on anyway, still willing to thumb their noses as Arthur and everything he represented.

Merlin’s other hand threaded through Harry’s hair once again. “Hated that he got to see you like this, because I wanted-- wanted to keep you with me, wanted you to be mine,” he hissed. He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious twist of his wrist, tight and just on the right side of painful and perfect.

Harry couldn’t make any promises, couldn’t swear any oaths, but in that moment, he wanted to, more than anything. He came with a muffled cry against Merlin’s shoulder, spilling all over Merlin’s fingers. He caught his breath with his head still tucked there, feeling the heavy thud of his heart, something terrible and powerful taking up space inside him.

He pressed a kiss to the vulnerable underside of Merlin’s throat. It wasn’t much of a promise, but it was the most that Harry could give him. Merlin ran his hand down Harry’s back, the touch gentle, as if he were petting a dog. His other hand cupped Harry’s cheek, drawing Harry up until they were face-to-face again. Merlin’s expression had softened into something that might even be called affection, and Harry let a matching, genuine smile spread across his face. He nothing to hide, not from Merlin, not here and not now.

---

They slept in the same bed that night, Merlin taking the right side to spare his bruises and Harry lingering close but not too close. He was careful about not to jostle Merlin as he slept, wary of aggravating Merlin’s injuries. But in the morning, he woke before Merlin did, and he took a moment to study Merlin’s sleeping face. The slope of his nose, the arch of his eyebrows, the angle of his chin. He committed each one to memory, all too aware of how fleeting their lives could be.

Breakfast was simple and quick, just a few slices of toast acquired from the hotel restaurant. They made a quick trip back to the Kingsman flat so that Merlin could collect his gear and change his clothes. Kingsman’s presence in the area was sparse, but the cleanup team had made its way in from Hamburg in the early morning, clearing out the dead bodies and mopping up the rest of the evidence.

The sun was out today, while Merlin drove them both back to Tegel airport, early enough still that the long rays reflected off the glass windows and windshields, bright enough to blind. Harry watched as the city passed by, each neighborhood fading into another.

He watched again from his seat on the plane, the houses and streets shrinking until the old divisions between East and West were no longer visible, this beautiful changing city on the cusp of redefining itself in this new decade before the new millennium. Could Harry learn to do the same as well? Learn to become something different, something new? Could he learn how to drag Kingsman kicking and screaming behind him?

Merlin had fallen asleep as soon as the plane had taken off, slumped against Harry, with his head resting on Harry’s shoulder, his replacement pair of glasses already gone askew. Harry turned and pressed a soft kiss to Merlin’s hair, and he thought yes, yes he could.

FIN.