Raven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
koohii_cafe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly2016-02-19 07:09 pm
koohii_cafe) wrote in fandomweekly2016-02-19 07:09 pm
Entry tags:
[#003] HUMPED TO DEATH BY PET CAMEL (Kingsman)
Theme Prompt: Domestic Bliss
Title: HUMPED TO DEATH BY PET CAMEL
Fandom: Kingsman: The Secret Service
Rating/Warnings: Mentioned canon-typical deaths.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 720
Summary: The quiet rustling of newspaper was the only sound as he folded this morning’s copy of the Sun carefully.
Sidenote: I've swapped my author's account tomochasnmayhem
The quiet rustling of newspaper was the only sound as he folded this morning’s copy of the Sun carefully. He’d read it slowly, leaning back in a familiar worn leather chair, rifling through page after page, reaching every so often to lift a mug from the polished desk and sip from it. The tea it held had gone cold long before he’d finished, but he hadn’t minded; it was always cold by the end, his routine and reading unrushed. It was something he savored, these mornings, reading through the articles and catching up on what he’d missed in the world while he’d been away. After all, he never knew what he’d find between the printed pages.
He did know, however, what he wouldn’t find.
Yesterday had been… rough. It always was, no matter how many years it had been. Really, he never wanted it to be anything but rough. It should be rough, it should be hard, and painful, and difficult. The day that it was anything but rough was a day that would never come. He made sure of it every year.
The mission had been grueling. He’d asked for it specifically because he knew it would be. He’d been undercover for three months before he’d finally gathered the intel they needed, and then he’d bided his time for the last few days. He’d planned it carefully, watched the calendar, and made sure of the perfect day to complete the mission.
Merlin had known his plan, had known there was no hope of talking him out of it. He’d tried anyway, of course. There’d been several talks, as the Scot tried to convince him he was ready, tried to convince him that he didn’t have to wait. He’d ignored his long time handler, brushed off his concern with light grins in the mirror, confident reassurances that he knew what he was doing, that he’d be fine.
Merlin hadn’t believed him, but that was alright. He hadn’t believed himself. ‘Fine’ was never quite the word for that date.
When the day came, he was ready. The drug ring went down in- well, not flames, Merlin would’ve killed him if he’d blown up yet another building, or set another place on fire. Instead, it went down in a silent wave of violence. He’d slipped through the warehouse they were based out of like a ghost. He knew every hiding place, every corner, every duct of the building, given that he’d spent three months casing it, three months walking its halls like he belonged there. He’d moved through and left a trail of bodies behind. Men and women who’d smiled at him as they turned to greet him, and who’d died with looks of anger and betrayal frozen on their faces. He never gave them the chance to raise the alarm, though, not a single one of them, and by the time he reached the the drug lord’s office, the drug lord too had fallen with the same look as the rest of them.
Only then had he come home. Returned to headquarters, let medical do their examinations, waited to be cleared. Nodded and smiled to fellow Kingsman as he passed them in the halls on his way back to the shop. Greeted the tailors there, and a few customers, before finally finding his taxi outside and returning home.
His suit had been hung with care, to be sent to the cleaners later, and he’d slipped into a set of old pajamas that had once smelled of leather and brandy and guns. He’d crashed in his bed, barely remembering to set his alarm. Then he’d woken this morning. Retrieved the newest copy of the Sun, and retreated to his office.
It was a familiar routine, and one he’d kept up for… a decade now, he thought. Ten years. It had been ten years.
He finished folding the paper carefully, his gaze running over the headline on the front. HUMPED TO DEATH BY PET CAMEL.
It wasn’t the craziest headline he’d ever read. It wasn’t even the craziest headline in the room.
As he pinned the Sun’s February 14th, 2024 edition to the burnt orange wall of his office, Eggsy had the thought that, somewhere, Harry was smirking as he watched his protege continue his legacy. ‘Humped to death by pet camel’ indeed.
Title: HUMPED TO DEATH BY PET CAMEL
Fandom: Kingsman: The Secret Service
Rating/Warnings: Mentioned canon-typical deaths.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 720
Summary: The quiet rustling of newspaper was the only sound as he folded this morning’s copy of the Sun carefully.
Sidenote: I've swapped my author's account to
mochasnmayhem The quiet rustling of newspaper was the only sound as he folded this morning’s copy of the Sun carefully. He’d read it slowly, leaning back in a familiar worn leather chair, rifling through page after page, reaching every so often to lift a mug from the polished desk and sip from it. The tea it held had gone cold long before he’d finished, but he hadn’t minded; it was always cold by the end, his routine and reading unrushed. It was something he savored, these mornings, reading through the articles and catching up on what he’d missed in the world while he’d been away. After all, he never knew what he’d find between the printed pages.
He did know, however, what he wouldn’t find.
Yesterday had been… rough. It always was, no matter how many years it had been. Really, he never wanted it to be anything but rough. It should be rough, it should be hard, and painful, and difficult. The day that it was anything but rough was a day that would never come. He made sure of it every year.
The mission had been grueling. He’d asked for it specifically because he knew it would be. He’d been undercover for three months before he’d finally gathered the intel they needed, and then he’d bided his time for the last few days. He’d planned it carefully, watched the calendar, and made sure of the perfect day to complete the mission.
Merlin had known his plan, had known there was no hope of talking him out of it. He’d tried anyway, of course. There’d been several talks, as the Scot tried to convince him he was ready, tried to convince him that he didn’t have to wait. He’d ignored his long time handler, brushed off his concern with light grins in the mirror, confident reassurances that he knew what he was doing, that he’d be fine.
Merlin hadn’t believed him, but that was alright. He hadn’t believed himself. ‘Fine’ was never quite the word for that date.
When the day came, he was ready. The drug ring went down in- well, not flames, Merlin would’ve killed him if he’d blown up yet another building, or set another place on fire. Instead, it went down in a silent wave of violence. He’d slipped through the warehouse they were based out of like a ghost. He knew every hiding place, every corner, every duct of the building, given that he’d spent three months casing it, three months walking its halls like he belonged there. He’d moved through and left a trail of bodies behind. Men and women who’d smiled at him as they turned to greet him, and who’d died with looks of anger and betrayal frozen on their faces. He never gave them the chance to raise the alarm, though, not a single one of them, and by the time he reached the the drug lord’s office, the drug lord too had fallen with the same look as the rest of them.
Only then had he come home. Returned to headquarters, let medical do their examinations, waited to be cleared. Nodded and smiled to fellow Kingsman as he passed them in the halls on his way back to the shop. Greeted the tailors there, and a few customers, before finally finding his taxi outside and returning home.
His suit had been hung with care, to be sent to the cleaners later, and he’d slipped into a set of old pajamas that had once smelled of leather and brandy and guns. He’d crashed in his bed, barely remembering to set his alarm. Then he’d woken this morning. Retrieved the newest copy of the Sun, and retreated to his office.
It was a familiar routine, and one he’d kept up for… a decade now, he thought. Ten years. It had been ten years.
He finished folding the paper carefully, his gaze running over the headline on the front. HUMPED TO DEATH BY PET CAMEL.
It wasn’t the craziest headline he’d ever read. It wasn’t even the craziest headline in the room.
As he pinned the Sun’s February 14th, 2024 edition to the burnt orange wall of his office, Eggsy had the thought that, somewhere, Harry was smirking as he watched his protege continue his legacy. ‘Humped to death by pet camel’ indeed.