Eggsy is sixty-five and wakes up too early, like he has done on most mornings in the last decade or so. It's one of the things he never thought he'd have to worry about, not being able to sleep in anymore, and although he still doesn't enjoy it, there are advantages, even Eggsy has to admit that, like the sun rising outside, slowly illuminating the English countryside. Of course, the cottage has lost some of its magic in the seventeen years they have been living here, but at the same time it has gained something Eggsy has never known in this intensity before – it's become home.
Not the flat he used to live in with his mum, which never felt safe, not the house provided to him by Kingsman, which never truly felt like his, not Harry's home that had accepted him after half a year, a year, two, but a home they made for themselves, together.
And in that home, Eggsy turns around, a soft smile tugging on his lips at the sight of his husband. The years haven't been kind to him, and Eggsy knows that; he's still the most beautiful thing Eggsy has ever seen in this very moment, just like he is every single morning.

Reaching out, Eggsy brushes a strand of white hair from Harry's forehead, resists the urge to press a kiss to the other's forehead, not wanting to wake him. Sleep doesn't come that easily anymore to both of them, so he tries to give Harry as many opportunities as possible to catch up on the hours he has missed.
He gets up slowly, his limbs stiff with sleep, when he stretches it's hard to ignore all the different aches and discomforts his body is tormenting him with these days, each pull and sting reminding him of all the things his body won't ever forgive him for – the ankle he never allowed to heal after he jumped out of that window in the Philippines, several bullets that ripped their way through his limbs, stab wounds to his side and shoulder, a particularly nasty fracture of his left femur, the injury that finally convinced him to retire: a fractured jaw, splintered into pieces which not even the Kingsman medical team was able to fit perfectly together again.

Repressing a groan, Eggsy straightens, his back cracking uncomfortably, his knees and ankle complaining when he tiptoes to the door, slipping out of it, only to leave it ajar – they hardly ever close it anymore, since Harry's sleep has gotten so light that sometimes, the creaking of the handle is enough to wake him up.
It makes more sneaking and tiptoeing necessary, but even after decades, Eggsy still prides himself on his spy abilities, makes it to the kitchen without making a sound. The clock on the wall shows that it's just past six, which is perfect, leaves him more than enough time to go for his daily run, pop by the bakery nearby to get Harry the pain au chocolat he likes so much and get back early enough to start making breakfast before his husband wakes up.

Eggsy is sixty-five and the air is sweet when he steps outside, clean and crisp after last night's rain, and Eggsy breathes in deeply, lets his eyes slip shut for a few seconds. He loves mornings like this, when it feels like he has all of Shere, if not all of Surrey, to himself.
In half an hour, maybe a little longer, Mr. and Mrs. Hawking are going to open up their little supermarket, in an hour, the first shuttle to the city will leave, and while the village never gets busy, at least not for someone who grew up in the middle of London, it will be filled with people once more. Sometimes, Eggsy wonders just when that started being something he wasn't looking forward to, when he started to prefer wandering the streets by himself and pretend that he was untouchable.

Turning left, Eggsy starts slowly, reintroducing his joints and muscles to the strain that jogging has become, his breathing coming in huffs within seconds. There were times when he was ten times faster than this and still managed to go on for thrice as long as he does nowadays, but that's quite alright with him. Age isn't something he fears, death, on the other hand, might be.
He jogs down Chantry Lane until he reaches the river, grinning when he, despite himself, notices that the grass in the Turner's garden hasn't been trimmed, a sure sign that the small family is still in Spain. More than a decade in a village have managed to make him just as nosy as the old people he and Harry used to make fun of when they just moved to Shere.

Following Tillingbourne River, the rhythm of his own feet slapping the pavement lulls him into a trance that always allows Eggsy to forget about his racing heart, his burning lungs. Still, he hardly makes it past St. James' Church, before it's too much, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest, the gentle breeze cool against his heated skin.
The sun has risen by now, tinting Shere golden and gorgeous, and Eggsy slows down until he's walking, trying to get his breathing under control. In front of him, the river glitters in the morning sun and Eggsy counts his breaths, lets his eyes flutter shut.
Life is good here, he knows it, feels it in every cell.

Eggsy is sixty-five and Amelie greets him like always, her voice syrupy sweet and impossibly kind, the charming hint of a French accent still making her words sound like a song, even after having lived in England for more than two decades.
"Hello, handsome", she warbles, already wrapping up a pain au chocolat for Harry and a croissant for Eggsy, three bread rolls. "The same as usual?"
"You know it", Eggsy responds with a wink and a smile, and Amelie laughs, hands over the pastries and accepts the money, putting it away.
"Greet your husband from me, will you?", she tells him and cards a hand through her dark hair; she's a beautiful woman, even before seven in the morning, even at fifty-two years of age.
"I absolutely will. We might come round for tea later, if Harry feels like going out."
"Tell him I'll make a mille feuille later, maybe that'll convince him"
"I'm sure it will."

Eggsy is sixty-five and when he gets back to their house Harry is already up and about, the shower running behind a half-closed bathroom door. For a second, Eggsy considers joining his husband, hopping into the shower behind Harry, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and holding him close. He can almost feel the water raining down on him, see Harry's small smile in front of his inner eye, but decides against it in the end, knowing that it would end with them in bed again, touching and kissing, even if their tired, old bodies would most likely prevent them from getting anywhere. The croissants would go stale and they would sleep till noon; a great plan for another day, but not this one.
So instead, Eggsy puts on the kettle, because neither he nor Harry ever got used to the fancy devices all around who brew the tea for you, perfect timing, perfect temperature, perfect everything. Eggsy has long since learnt to cherish the small faults and mistakes life brings with it.

He's setting the table – the mug with Teddy's handprint on it, which he got from his godson for his forty-fifth birthday for him, one of those Daisy gave them for their tenth anniversary for Harry, a picture of their smiling faces in the front – when Harry emerges from the bathroom, hair combed back and his good hand gripping the handle of his cane tightly. A little too tightly - it must be a bad day, then.
Still, there is a smile on Harry's lips when he sets eyes on him, and Eggsy gives his husband a small wave, places the plates where he wants them before walking over, pecking Harry's cheek.
"Slept well?", he asks, and Harry nods, reaches up to brush three fingertips over the slightly sagging skin of Eggsy's jaw – when Merlin was still alive, it was the one thing which consoled him after it became clear that Harry would most likely go to his grave with still enough hair on his head to keep it perfectly coiffed: Eggsy neither kept his hair, not his sharp features, like the other man did.
"Good. Me too. Went for a run, and got us breakfast." He jerks his head towards the set table, then adds, "Amelie says hello and asked me to tell you that she'll be making a mille feuille today, if you feel like popping by."
"I assume you told her yes already?", Harry asks, and his voice is hoarse with sleep, but still amused.
"I absolutely did."

Eggsy grins, and kisses Harry on the lips, even if just for a second, then reaches up to catch his husband's fingers in his. "Unless it's too much today?"
A few years ago, Harry would have vehemently denied it without taking a second to consider, but now, he stays silent for a little while, then, slowly, shakes his head. Eggsy is still so proud of him because of it.
"I think I should be fine. The knee hurts a bit more than it usually does, and my chest's a little tight, but it's not a long walk after all."
"Alright." Almost as a reward, Eggsy kisses him again, squeezes Harry's fingers a little. "Perfect. I'm sure Amelie will be thrilled."
"Because she gets to see you", Harry shoots back, amused, and maybe a little bit wistful – even after all this time, Harry has never quite let go of his wish for Eggsy to find someone else after him. "Who wouldn't be looking forward to that?"
"I'm sure I can think of a few people", Eggsy replies, pulls back slightly, but keeps Harry's hand in his. "But as long as you are not one of them, I'm perfectly fine with that."
"Me? Never."

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, sighs and settles down next to Eggsy. The cool morning has turned into a warm spring day, the sun shining down on them and a soft breeze making the grass and the apple tree in their garden whisper; Eggsy drapes the blanket over both their laps and rests his head on Harry's shoulder.
His husband lets go of his cane and instead puts his hand on Eggsy's thigh, squeezing.
"You know", Eggsy starts, because although they didn't start out that way, it's usually him who initiates conversations these days. "I love it here. Best idea I ever had, coming to Shere."
"The best idea we had", Harry corrects, and Eggsy grins, turns his head so he can nuzzle his husband's shoulder, breathe in the ever-familiar scent of bergamot, soap and washing powder.
"Nah. The best idea we ever had was to get together."
"No, my heart", Harry responds after a few seconds, squeezing Eggsy's thigh again. "That was all your idea. And I am just eternally grateful for that."

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and they both fall asleep right there, pressed together on the bench in their garden, the spring sun keeping them warm.

Eggsy is sixty-five and answers the phone with, "Hello, Arthur."
The reply he gets is a scoff, Roxy saying, "Oh how very funny, it's not like I have heard that one about a hundred times by now."
"Doesn't make it any less hilarious to me."
"Oh, I am sure." Roxy's tone changes, goes from mock-annoyed to kind again. "I just wanted to ask if my favourite pensioner was feeling like coming over to the big, scary city next week to have a cup of tea. Or something stronger, Elliot is making the new recruits build their own drone out of scrap metal and it is the actual fucking worst."
"Yeah, I'd love to", Eggsy replies, looking over his reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving the bedroom. "I'll even bring some of Amelie's chocolate cake, if you ask me nicely."
"I will, God help me. Bring an extra one for the kids, maybe? Ted and Emma said they were going to come over for tea next Saturday."

There is some bustle in the background, some screaming, some cursing, then a crash and a lot more screaming, then Roxy says, "Sorry. I just passed the labs and one of the drones crashed on Elliot's desk. He's not pleased."
Despite himself, and despite knowing that he'll hear all about it later, Eggsy laughs, waves at Harry, who's sitting on the couch, reading, to let his husband know he'll be ready in a minute.
"I can imagine. Tell him I said hi, though, will you? And tell the kids I said hi, too." It takes a second, maybe two until Eggsy is able to remember what else he wanted to say, it used to be easier to keep all these things in mind. "Oh yes, and tell Ted that I saw the pic of him in the papers, the one where he helps Mrs. Rogers down the stairs in the home. I'm so proud of him."
"As am I. As is his dad, or at least I assume he is." Roxy sighs softly, her voice suddenly a little melancholic. "Can you believe it, Eggsy? My boy, all grown up, in the papers. Well, one paper. Did he tell you they named him employee of the month too? The most popular nurse in all of London Bridge Hospital."
"No, really?", Eggsy can't quite keep the excitement out of his voice – Teddy doesn't call him as often as he used to, so he is grateful for every bit of information he gets about his godson, especially when it's as wonderful as this is. "That's great news. Who would've thought that a spy and an accountant would manage to produce such a great, caring kid?"
"Definitely not said spy."

There are a few seconds of silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts, then Eggsy meets Harry's eyes, is suddenly reminded that, yes, there is somewhere else he should be.
"Alright, Rox, I've got to go, Harry and I are going to take a walk. I'll talk to you next week latest, yeah?"
"A walk to the bakery?"
"You know it." Eggsy grins and gives Harry a thumbs up, watches his husband get up slowly, one hand gripping his cane, the other one pushing himself off the sofa. "Amelie's making mille feuille and you know that Harry can't resist that.
"Neither can you, just admit that."
"Alright, yeah, I do." Eggsy shrugs, moves to grab his keys, stuffs them into the pockets of his jeans. "Sue me."
"You've turned into such a bumpkin", Roxy comments, her tone light and teasing and so very familiar by now. "I love it."
"Oh, shut it, city girl, and let the villagers eat their pastries in peace", Eggsy shoots back and waits until Harry has crossed the distance between them before he opens the door. "I'll be off now, see you next week, Rox. I've got a date with both my favourite pastry and my favourite husband in the world."

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, takes his hand after they have walked a few metres, something that comes to them as natural as breathing does. Their fingers fit together perfectly, and Eggsy lets his next steps bring him even closer to his husband, until they are brushing shoulders.
"It's nice today, isn't it?", Eggsy asks and closes his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his skin. "Perfect day for everything, basically."
"You're right", Harry agrees, then adds, "Well, for most things. It wouldn't be a good day for, say, drowning in Siberia."
"Obviously." Still, Eggsy can't help but grin; one of the things he'll be grateful for forever is that, even with age, Harry has never lost his dry sense of humour, even if the quips and puns come a little less often, a little slower these days. "Good to know you can still be an arse when you feel like it."
"Good thing I don't feel like being one often, then."

Harry turns to look at him, lips quirked into a small smile and the sun reflecting in his eyes, making them even brighter, and Eggsy doesn't think about it for a second, just leans in and kisses him softly.
Mutters, lips still moving against lips, "That's what you think."

Eggsy is sixty-five and only lets go of Harry's hand once they reach the shop, so he can hold open the door for his husband. It's these small things that are harder for Harry with his cane, and it's these small things that Eggsy is glad to be allowed to do, unhindered by pride.
"Brought you someone", he calls inside, where Amelia is slicing pie into even, delicious slices. "Told you he wouldn't be able to resist."
When she looks up, dark ponytail bouncing, there is a smile on Amelie's lips, a smudge of sugar on one of her cheeks. "And aren't I glad that you were right. Good afternoon, Mr. Hart."
"Good afternoon, Ms. Dupont", Harry replies, plays up the part of the aging gentleman by bowing down slightly, as much as his back allows him to. "A pleasure, as always."
"Oh, stop it with the flirting", Eggsy interrupts – if he lets them, they'll act out the entirety of Pride and Prejudice, complete with curtsies and the appropriate language. "Feed us instead, Am. And let my husband be."

The pretended jealousy makes Amelie laugh and Harry smile – he thinks Eggsy doesn't notice, but he enjoys the hint of possessiveness from time to time, even if only mentioned jokingly; Harry knows as well as Eggsy does that he means it, too.
"Your wish is my command", Amelie responds, dares to curtsy anyway, and laughs when Eggsy rolls his eyes; Eggsy pretends he doesn't see it when Harry winks at her.

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, they both have a slice of mille feuille and Eggsy insists they take home two slices of cherry pie for the next day when they leave.

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, doesn't look exhausted, but still tired when they get back to their house. He doesn't have to say a thing, it's in the way he walks, the way his steps become smaller, his grip around both the cane and Eggsy's hand tightens.
It's a good thing that they took some pie with them, that way they can easily stay in tomorrow.
"How about you go and sit down a bit? I still have to fill out this goddamned questionnaire Elliot sent last week. You know, the one about the shock-absorbent fabric he has been working on forever."
Harry doesn't remember Eggsy telling him about it, he can see that, but he nods anyway, a soft smile on his lips.
"That sounds lovely, my heart", he adds, squeezes Eggsy's hand one last time before letting go. "Just wake me up before supper, if I happen to fall asleep, will you?"
"Of course, babe. Whatever you want."

Eggsy is sixty-five and it takes almost two hours until he has finished the questionnaire; after he has ticked the last box, he is considering just telling Elliot to stick the next project he comes up with where the sun doesn't shine.

Eggsy is sixty-five and spends another hour or so in his office, before he decides he has given Kingsman enough hours of his day. He picks up the e-reader Daisy gave him for his last birthday together with a snarky comment about how a man pushing seventy should start paying attention to his eyesight –which is still absolutely acceptable, thank you very much – and goes to find Harry.

His husband is sitting on the sofa in the living room, the TV playing, but Harry most definitely not watching – his tablet is on his lap, playing cat videos.
"Having fun?", Eggsy asks, and Harry looks up, surprised, because he didn't hear him enter the room, but then nods.
"Absolutely. Daisy sent me this, and I have to admit, it is rather adorable. Although she did call it old and it was posted about seven years ago, so I think I should be a little bit offended, don't you?"
Eggsy snorts and plops down next to Harry on the sofa, leaning in to sneak a peek – someone put a little kitten on a hover board, a leash on the board and is walking them both through a park, it really is rather sweet. "Well, she's right, I guess? For the young ones, we're probably ancient. But just you wait until her own kids will start calling her old, she'll have a fit."
"She will, won't she?", Harry answers, sounding a little wistful all of a sudden. "I just hope I get to see it."

Eggsy is sixty-five and ends up on his back, his head pillowed in Harry's lap and the tablet balanced gently on his forehead while the fingers of his husband's marred hand idly scratch over his scalp. For the at least the thousandth time, Eggsy wishes he still had hair left for Harry to play with.

Eggsy is sixty-five and the sun is slowly setting when he sits up again, stretching and ignoring his aching back.
"Want to order food, babe? I don't really feel like cooking too much. We could maybe get Chinese, some of those prawn crackers you like so much…"
Next to him, Harry stiffens, slowly puts down his tablet and turns to look at Eggsy, his expression serious. "Eggsy, my heart, I think I have something to confess."
"Huh? What?" He knows it cannot be anything too terrible – they have been together long enough that there are hardly any secrets left and Harry has always been a bit of a drama queen – and yet Eggsy's heart picks up its pace a little, like it is getting ready to panic.
"You probably don't remember, but, oh, I think around forty years ago, before we got together, there was an evening where we ordered Chinese", Harry starts and he's right, Eggsy has no idea what he is talking about. "Or rather, you did, because I still had something to finish for work, and I told you to pick something out for me. I think you got me chicken chow mein, which was lovely, but you also got me prawn crackers, and you were so proud of yourself because you thought of them, although I have no idea why. And, anyway, you told me you only got them for me, and I was already desperately in love with you, so I thanked you, and you smiled and… well. But the truth is that I absolutely and utterly despise them."
Harry looks at him like he has just confessed to a sin, cheeks flushed ever so slightly with the truth finally out, adds, "I hate everything about them, the consistency, the taste, how they stick to your gums to extend your suffering even further… And I thought I could put up with them for my entire life because I love you, but the truth is that I don't. Even the thought of them makes me feel sick. So yes, I'd love to get Chinese, but please, keep those crackers away from me."
Finally Harry takes a deep breath, a sure sign that he has finished, and yet Eggsy cannot think of something to say, too dumbfounded by the story to even begin to form an answer.

"You mean, you spent forty years of your life munching away on something you hated, just because you didn't want to hurt my feelings?", he finally asks after several moments of silence, still incredulous, at least until Harry nods, looking a little bit guilty; he cannot help but laugh, the whole situation to absurd to take seriously. "You're the most ridiculous man I have ever had the fortune of meeting, Harry."
"I'm taking that as a compliment, just so you know."
"As you should. So Chinese it is?", Eggsy asks, scoots closer and lets Harry press a kiss to his temple. "Without prawn crackers?"
"Yes, please."

Eggsy is sixty-five and they order Chinese, but when the delivery boy brings the food, there is a packet of prawn crackers in the bag anyway, along with a note from Mei, the owner of the restaurant, telling them that they forgot about their crackers, but that she, just like always, had them covered.
It takes at least five minutes until Eggsy has stopped laughing.

Eggsy is sixty-five and brings Harry his share of brightly coloured pills before they sit down to have dinner, swallows his own six tablets down as well.

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and like almost every evening, they end up on the sofa with the TV playing, tired and satisfied, drifting closer to one another until they are cuddled together, Eggsy's legs spread out across Harry's lap, his hand in his husband's soft hair.
"Y'know", he mutters, already a little sleepily, lets his lips move across the skin of Harry's cheek. "I was thinking about our anniversary. It's still a few months, I know, so it's a bit early to plan, but I thought maybe we could go to Granada again? Or Spain, in general. I'd love to see that again."
Harry is quiet for a few moments, stroking soft fingers over Eggsy's thighs, then he asks gently, "I thought you only wanted to do that every five years? Go where he had our honeymoon?"
Although Eggsy has, of course, expected the question, he can't answer it immediately, takes a few seconds, because the reason is one he'd rather not know himself. "I know, it's just…"
We won't live forever, is what he doesn't say, you won't live forever, but he doesn't have to, Harry understands anyway, nods.
"That sounds lovely, my heart. We can book the flight tomorrow, if you want to? See if the hotel we stayed in last time is still in business, maybe we can even get the same room again. Would you like that?"
"Yeah", Eggsy breathes out, feeling relieved although there is no reason for it, snuggles closer and wonders just why it feels so important to be close to Harry today. Wonders if Harry has noticed it too. "I'd love that. I love you."
"I love you too, my heart."

Eggsy is sixty-five and tells Harry he loves him again before they go to sleep, just like he always does, knowing that every morning, every night could be their last. He has been a spy, a husband for too long to still believe a miracle might happen; a miracle: both of them die at the same time, sleeping, unconscious, at each other's side.

Eggsy is sixty-five and Harry is ninety-one, and they fall asleep with their fingers intertwined, Harry's breath soft and warm against Eggsy's cheek.

Eggsy is sixty-five and wakes up too early again, the sun just so peeking through the cracks of the curtains. Next to him, Harry is lying turned on his side, and Eggsy smiles at him softly, his eyes still half-lidded and his brain slow with the remainders of sleep, taking several moments, if not longer, to realise that Harry is in the exact same position he was last night, that he is still holding Eggsy's hand, something he never does – Harry tosses and turns at night, every night, except for this one.
And it takes a little longer still, but Eggsy has seen death often enough that he recognises it even without wanting to, the missing warmth of Harry's fingers, the stillness of his chest, the lack of breath against Eggsy's skin.

There is a moment in which time doesn't seem to stand still, it seems to end, fall away, and Eggsy can neither think nor move, only look at his husband's face and desperately search for a sign, any sign. He finds none, and yet recognition does not mean acceptance, doesn't stop Eggsy from reaching out and shaking Harry gently to wake him up, careful not to disentangle their fingers – he might not be able to make them fit together again.

"Babe?", he calls out softly when his husband won't move; he doesn't expect an answer and yet the silence makes his heart break into pieces he knows he won't ever be able to put back together. "Harry, love, wake up, please."
There's no reply still, no blinking eyes and slow smiles spreading across the lips Eggsy has kissed at least a million times, and he knows it, he does, and yet leans in, presses his lips to Harry's cheek, half-hoping to find the skin warm, to find Harry breathing. He doesn't.
The tears come more quickly than Eggsy ever thought they would, make his sight blur and Harry disintegrates into a mess of fading colours, and it's that, this small detail, which makes it real. Because it's all Harry is now, fading, ripped away from Eggsy's grasp, and he cannot take it, presses closer and closer until their chests are pressed together.

There's no heartbeat, and Eggsy screams against Harry's shoulder, squeezes his husband's fingers so hard he knows he would have caused Harry pain if he was still alive, and like every other thought, it is unbearable; he raises their hands to his lips and kisses an imaginary pain away, shatters every piece of his heart into even smaller fragments.
Through the tears, his eyes catch on the soft gleam of metal as he drags his lips across the cool skin of Harry's knuckles and there are no miracles, but there's a ring around Eggsy's finger, silver and gold, the small letters written on the inside promising 22.02.2015 until forever and now, it's only Eggsy who can make forever last.