My boyfriend just woke up, mostly still asleep and told me “don’t worry, it’s getting better” in a heavy, American accent, which is unusual for an Australian man.
“Why are you American?” I asked, to which I got:
“Sorry, it’s getting better” in a stereotypical posh English accent.
“Why are you English?” I asked, amused.
“What is he normally?” He managed to ask.
“He? You’re not anyone else, you’re you.”
“Ugh, me” was the last thing he said, in a right proper Aussie accent before he fell back into proper sleep.
Bitch just thwarted a ghost possession by judging his accents
“It’s been thirty fucking years, Merlin” Eggsy breathes into the com, his fingers tracing over Harry’s cheekbone. He doesn’t look a day older or a day dead.
“We’ve got a clean up crew on the way. They’ll take care of it, Arthur.” Merlin says, soft but insistent. Eggsy knows he should leave. He’s done with this particular organization’s beat-down. There’s nothing left to fight, no more new-age brainwave hackers or kids with slicy wands that remind him of star wars. And that’s probably why he’s so shocked – he knows half the organizations they take out have some ties or allegiance or shrines to Valentine, but this one. This was just a tiny terrorist cell with a good engineer and a creative event planner.
So it doesn’t make sense that they have Harry Hart’s body frozen in their basement, not a hair out of place since the last time Eggsy saw him tear apart a church and die in twenty-fourteen.
“Arthur.”
Eggsy’s not listening. He’ll leave when he feels like it, he decides, but then the unthinkable happens – he feels breath on his palm.
He can’t really help it. Eggsy kneels by the now open pod and slips a hand beneath Harry’s slack shoulders, lifts him so he can press his ear to Harry’s chest.
Slow, steady under the Kingsman issued suit, he hears a heartbeat.
“Oh god,” he whispers, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric. “Harry, oh my god.”
“Arthur?” Merlin asks.
“Send a medic.”
“What? Are you injured? How serious?”
“Fuckin’ serious as shit, you send in everyone we can fuckin’ spare Merlin. He’s breathin’.”
“What?”
“You ‘eard me. Harry bloody Hart is alive.”
There’s a muttered curse from the other end of the line, but Eggsy’s stopped listening. All he can think of is the dimmed memory if the day he lost Harry, the old scar it left on his heart, the days spent missing him and trying to move on and remind himself that he was being stupid because he and Harry weren’t the air and sky to each other, they weren’t, no matter how his young and wild heart had dreamed of it.
“Sorry mate,” he says, through tears but with a tiny edge of hysterical humor. It dies on his next words, growing to a whisper “Sorry it took so long.”
headcanon: Graves being very casually affectionate which just surprises Credence to his very core. Being the serious man he is, he would never be so casual with any of his colleagues, and doesn’t particularly know anyone well enough outside of work.
Graves ruffling Credence’s hair, Graves pulling Credence in for a hug, Graves rubbing Credence’s arm when asking him a question. Graves just being an absolute secret softy for Credence.
Credence going slightly crazy because he LOVES being touched by Graves but he really, really doesn’t know how to properly reciprocate. So often he just stays stock still and let’s Graves stroke his cheekbone absentmindedly or sit with his thigh pressing against Credence’s without comment.
Credence eventually starting to seek Graves out when he wants attention, pushing his head more firmly against Graves’ palm when stroking his hair, sitting closer still to Graves on the sofa.
The two of them, in every sense, cuddling, while listening to the wireless. Credence coming to know touch which isn’t harsh or painful and seeking out love which is just right there in the form of Graves.
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