#anyway colin firth is the only man ever

[elinordash]

Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (1995)

Can you tell me why Mr. Darcy keeps staring at me?

[muiitoloko]

Request if it strikes your fancy? Was listening to a version of ‘Por una cabeza’ (no words, just the music) and the thought of being taken to some event or party and Lionel (or whoever vibes with you) taking the reader and guiding them through quite frankly a rather intimate tango uncaring of the guests. It’s probably his party anyways, and it’s not like that man knows shame. Whether that goes to smut or not is totes up to you! The thought of being guided through a dance while he has his hands all over you as he guides you while at the same time using that voice, getting you completely flustered/ worked up is just stuck in my head but I can’t write I can only draw (⁄ ⁄•⁄▽⁄•⁄ ⁄)

Title: Tango of Desire

Summary: On their anniversary, Lionel turns a frustrating evening into a seductive dance, igniting a passion that burns far beyond the party.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Thanks for the request! I went to check out the song and accidentally stumbled upon Colin Firth dancing to it… and yep, I fell in love with him all over again ❤️🙂‍↕️ So, thanks for that little detour, and I hope you enjoy this! Also, if you’re in the mood to watch Colin tango his heart out, here’s the video.

Also read on Ao3

You sighed, feeling the cool gin slide down your throat as you stood near the bar, glancing out of the corner of your eye toward Lionel. He was doing what he always did best—entertaining his guests, laughing in that charming way of his, making sure everyone felt welcome. But as you watched him make his rounds, talking and flirting as if the night was just another party, a wave of frustration washed over you. It wasn’t just any night. It was your wedding anniversary, and you had wanted something special, something intimate—just the two of you. But Lionel, being Lionel, had turned it into a grand event, packed with people, leaving you standing alone with a drink in your hand.

You took another sip, the bitterness of the gin matching your mood as you watched him across the room, his deep baritone voice carrying over the music and chatter. Normally, you would be by his side, smiling, playing the role of the perfect hostess. But not tonight. Tonight, you didn’t have the energy for it.

After a while, you noticed Lionel heading toward you, his stride confident, the mischievous glint in his eyes as unmistakable as always. He reached you with that signature smirk, as though he had just won a private game you weren’t even aware of.

"Enjoying yourself, darling?" he asked, his voice smooth and playful as he leaned in closer. "I’ve been looking for you."

You raised an eyebrow, setting your glass down on the bar. "Oh, yes," you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Having the time of my life. Best wedding anniversary ever."

Lionel blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. His smile faltered, replaced by a hint of confusion as he looked at you. "Is something wrong?"

You sighed, feeling a wave of guilt for snapping at him. He didn’t mean any harm, not really. This was just Lionel being Lionel, always needing to be the center of attention. Closing your eyes for a moment, you softened your tone, forcing a small smile as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. "It’s nothing," you murmured, brushing your lips against his skin. "I’m just tired, that’s all."

Lionel’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze lingering on you, but before he could ask anything else, you smiled again and took a step back. "I think I’ll call it a night," you said quietly. "You stay, enjoy yourself. I’ll see you later."

Lionel watched you leave, but before you got too far, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, gently but firmly. You turned, eyebrows raised in question, only to be met with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” His deep baritone voice, smooth as velvet, pulled you closer. “I want to dance with you.”

You hesitated, already knowing where this was going. “Lionel,” you began, trying to sound firm, but the annoyance in your voice faltered under the heat of his gaze. “I’m not in the mood for—”

“Too bad,” he interrupted, his lips curving into a wicked grin as he started pulling you towards the makeshift dance floor. “I am.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but it was no use. Lionel was already weaving his way through the crowd, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d just claimed. He paused when he reached the musicians, leaning in close to speak to them, his voice a low murmur that you couldn’t quite catch. But you knew him too well, and the way the musicians quickly nodded told you everything you needed to know.

The first sultry notes of “Por una Cabeza” floated through the air, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, crossing your arms as you stared at your husband. “Really? A tango?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

Lionel’s smile deepened, his hazel eyes gleaming with that familiar blend of confidence and arrogance. “You know me, darling. I’m nothing if not dramatic.”

Without another word, he closed the distance between you, his hand sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand captured yours, fingers lacing together with an intimacy that sent a thrill down your spine. The music swelled, and Lionel wasted no time, guiding you into the slow, seductive rhythm of the dance.

His movements were deliberate, every step commanding, as he led you across the floor with an ease that left no room for resistance. His eyes never left yours, that playful smirk still tugging at his lips. “You know,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, “I always did like you best like this—pressed up against me, unable to resist my charms.”

You let out a breathless laugh, trying to mask the way your heart was racing. “Lionel, for God’s sake, everyone’s watching.”

“Let them,” he growled softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to your neck. “They should know who you belong to.”

His hand slid lower, pressing into the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The heat of his body seeped into yours, and despite yourself, you felt your resistance melting away. There was something about the way he danced—no shame, no hesitation, just pure, unbridled want. His movements became more intense, his leg sliding between yours as he dipped you low, his eyes locked on yours with a predatory hunger.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Every part of you. And tonight, darling, I plan to remind you of that… thoroughly.”

Your breath hitched, heat pooling in your stomach as he pulled you back up, his lips ghosting over yours, not quite kissing you but leaving the promise of it hanging in the air. The music slowed, the dance drawing to a close, but Lionel wasn’t finished. His hand traveled up your side, grazing the curve of your waist before settling on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw in a way that made your knees weak.

“Shall we continue this somewhere more… private?” His voice was a low purr, his hazel eyes dark with intent.

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears as you nodded. There was no denying him—not tonight. Not with the way he was looking at you, like a lion about to devour his prey.

Lionel smirked, leaning in to press a slow, teasing kiss to your lips, before whispering, “Good girl.”

The applause from the guests echoed when Lionel finished the dance with a flourish, but his attention wasn’t on them. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your body pressed against his, the subtle rise and fall of your chest, and the lingering flush on your cheeks. The heat between you was undeniable, and Lionel fully intended to take advantage of it.

He gave a devilish smile as he led you off the dance floor, ignoring the claps and whistles from the crowd. His hand remained possessive on your waist as he maneuvered through the guests, guiding you down a side hallway that led deeper into the mansion. You followed, heart pounding in anticipation, breath shallow as the atmosphere between you thickened with desire.

Lionel opened a heavy wooden door, revealing his office—a large room filled with bookshelves, art, and a massive desk that dominated the space. As soon as the door closed behind you, his hands were back on you, sliding over your waist and pulling you against him once again.

"Now," he murmured in that deep, velvety baritone, his lips brushing your ear, "let's take a look at what you've been hiding under that dress."

You shivered at the commanding tone of his voice, your body already responding to the anticipation that had been building all night. You didn’t resist as he spun you around, gently but firmly pressing you against the edge of the desk. His hands slid down your hips, teasing the fabric of your dress before you felt the firm tug of the zipper being pulled down.

"Lift it," Lionel ordered, his breath hot against your neck.

With a soft sigh, you obeyed, gathering the fabric of your dress in your hands and pulling it up, revealing the sheer lace panties clinging to your body. The cool air of the room gave you goosebumps, but the heat building between your legs was undeniable.

Lionel’s eyes darkened as they roamed over you, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. "Well, well," he purred, his fingers brushing over the delicate lace, grazing the edges of your panties that barely covered your swollen, wet pussy. "Looks like our little tango got you all worked up, didn’t it?"

You bit your lip, heart racing as you felt his fingers trace the slickness already pooling between your legs. "Lionel," you whispered, a mix of desperation and desire in your voice.

"Patience, love," he growled softly, his fingers sliding the lace aside, exposing the glistening folds of your pussy. "I want to savor this."

His hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you in place as he bent you over the desk. The wood was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building between your thighs. You could feel the weight of his gaze as he stood behind you, admiring the way you were displayed for him—completely at his mercy.

"What a beautiful sight," he murmured, his hand sliding over the curve of your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before his fingers returned to your pussy, sliding over your slippery folds with deliberate slowness. "You're soaked, love. All for me."

You whimpered softly, your body arching under his touch as he teased you, his fingers brushing your clit before sliding lower, easily slipping inside your wetness. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your thighs trembling as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, slow and controlled.

"Tell me," Lionel growled, his lips brushing the back of your neck as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your skin. "Do you know how badly I wanted to fuck you right there in front of all those people? Watching you dance, seeing you move like that... knowing that you're mine."

You gasped as his fingers curled inside you, hitting just the right spot. "Leo," you moaned, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as your body rocked against his hand. "Please... don't tease me."

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. "Oh, I don’t plan on teasing you for long, love," he murmured, his voice a dark promise as he pulled his fingers away, leaving you aching and empty for a moment.

Then, you felt him behind you, the sound of his belt unbuckling and the soft rustle of fabric as he freed himself from his pants. His cock, hard and thick, pressed against your entrance, teasing you with just the tip, sliding through your wetness.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, love," Lionel growled, his voice rough with desire. "You'll be screaming my name by the time I'm done."

With one swift, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, stretching you completely, his hips slamming against your ass as he filled you to the hilt. You cried out, your body arching against the desk as he gripped your hips tighter, setting a relentless pace.

"Fuck," he growled, his breath ragged as he pounded into you, hard and fast. "You feel so fucking good."

Every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, your body trembling as he took you, his movements rough and demanding, just the way you both liked it. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your wet pussy filled the room, mixing with the harsh breaths and low growls escaping Lionel's throat.

"You're mine," he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back slightly as he drove into you. "Every part of you, mine."

You moaned loudly, your body on the edge of release as he continued to fuck you with abandon, his hips slamming into you with a force that left you breathless.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous as his hand tightened in your hair. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure. "I'm all yours, Lionel."

The sound of your submission pushed him over the edge, his hips slamming into you harder, deeper, as his climax approached. "Good girl," he growled, his hand sliding down to grip your ass as he thrust into you one last time, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural moan.

You cried out as your own orgasm hit, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure washed over you in waves, crashing through you as Lionel held you tight, his cock still pulsing inside you.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Lionel leaned over you, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "You're perfect, love. Absolutely perfect."

And as he slowly pulled away from you, his hand caressing your back, you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that despite everything—the grand party, the crowd, the chaos—Lionel had made sure that tonight was just for the two of you, exactly how you wanted.

[hotjaneaustenmenpoll]

Quarter Final One

Propaganda...

Edward Ferrars (1995) :

Edward gets a bad rap because he's quiet and the whole lucy steele situation but he doesn't get enough credit for how honourable he is! It's easy to have honour when it costs you nothing he knows he'll be miserable with lucy but he knows it's the right thing and to do so he sticks to his guns and does it anyway despite the opposition from his family and to me that is hot! Also yes he makes mistakes but his family are vile - he grew up with Fanny and Robert and is still a good man! Also he looks like hugh grant and plays fun games with Margaret and he understands Elinor in a way no one else does - Hot!Hot!Hot!

Mr Darcy (1995) :

Colin Firth (1995) is book Darcy brought to life. He uses tiny gestures and looks to communicate with us and Elizabeth… his struggle is so subtle but so palpable. A beautiful asshole with a creamy nougat center. Just perfect.

GIF by sunsetboulevards

Those heart-eyes right up above☝️? Hot!

Passive-agressively drinking tea? Hot!

GIF by jaeausten

The way he rushes over to see Elizabeth at Pemberley on those delicious long legs of his with that slutty wet curl hanging over his forehead? Hot!

GIF by didanagy

Fencing? Hot!

GIF by greengableslover

The way he is so concerned about Elizabeth crying and takes her hand even though he shouldn't? Hot!

GIF by greengableslover

This dimple-y smile of pure joy because he knows he's married to Elizabeth freaking Bennet? Hot!

GIF by didana

Colin Firth Darcy is simultaneously immaculately put together and entirely falling apart internally. The wet shirt scene is so iconic not (only) because ‘oooh almost-shirtless sexy man’, but because it’s a metaphor for how he’s absolutely falling apart!!! This is a private moment, when he doesn’t think anyone can see him. And then he bumps. into. Lizzie. At his house!! And the entire sequence that follows with him rushing out still doing his jacket up to catch her before he leaves. They are both on the back foot and it’s THAT moment of confusion that opens a more honest dialogue between them.

Without Firth in a lake you wouldn’t get Macfadyen in a downpour!

There's a reason why Colin Firth is forever known as Mr. Darcy above all other roles he's had and will have! Even ignoring the wet white shirt, which has become A Thing now, he is so hot with his curly hair and his little half smiles and his intense looks of longing and his legs that go on for milessss.

This cannot be real. My fellow Jane Austen people. Without Colin Firth’s Darcy we wouldn’t have 90% of modern JA content. He opened a door and there was no turning back for modern culture. There would be no MacFadyen standing half undressed in a field at dawn without Firth jumping into a lake first. There would be no hand flex if there hadn’t been Firth doing his best impression of a man undressing Elizabeth Bennet with his eyes and hating himself for liking it. There would be no Bridgerton without Bridget Jones. Let’s face it people. We wouldn’t be here having these arguments if Colin Firth had not been Mr Darcy.

Colin Firth understood Mr. Darcy in a way no other actor ever has. He is awkward as fuck in a way that comes across as snooty and judgmental on a first watch-through, then can be read as awkward and longing on a second time. His performance had such depth while looking extremely shallow at first glance. This man WAS Mr. Darcy. (I love 2005, as well, and I love Matthew McFayden, but he was awkward for awkward sake.) Colin Firth made Darcy's awkward look snooty and aloof.

THE socially awkward Darcy is the 1995 Darcy - look at him coming and sitting in awkward silence with Elizabeth pointedly asking her if she wants to live a long way from her family (to obvious relief) and then abruptly leaving - vote for him please 😭😭😭😭

Colin Firth served so much as Darcy that when they did Bridget Jone's diary, they brought him back.... AS DARCY. The smoulder. The angst. The man is the quintessential Darcy.

“Firthing” is an actual term that is used now to describe someone yearning intensely. It is named after Colin Firth’s Mr Darcy performance.

Colin Firth all the way. He's known in our household as Owl Eyes because in every frame he's mooning over Elizabeth Bennet. Unsurpassable, unmatched, golden television (and some of the worst dancing you've ever seen).

Colin has beautiful, touchable curls.

Link

My high school English teacher was very into using movies to teach alongside literature, which was a great teaching tool. When we read Pride and Prejudice, he used both 2005 and 1995 for various scenes. What stands out to me all these years later was when it got to the part when Lizzy went to help Georgiana after Caroline dropped Mr. Wickham's name and Darcy gives Lizzy this look:

My teacher stopped the film and pointed at Darcy's face and said, "See that? That is THE look. If someone ever looks at you like that, you know they're in love." And what is hotter than that?

Also this teacher had two cats named Lizzy and Darcy. Not relevant to the poll but I wanted you all to know about them.

The best thing about the Colin Firth wet shirt scene is actually the scene that follows where him and Lizzie are both just dyinggg of embarrassment but Darcy pulls himself together refuses to lose his advantage and runs to get dressed and chase her down before she leaves - just the mix of cringe and hopefulness at seeing her again is so well done and so attractive!!! (this is just the bit where he's running after her but I love it all!)

[findusinaweek]

Top 10 movies

Tagged by @aeide​ like....29 days ago. Cool. A lot of stuff happened lately and also I had to think about this and remake the list at least 7 (now 9) times. So. This is probably not true but it has old favorites and current bias and I’ve put far too much thought into this. Under cut because of gifs causing loading/flashing. Uhhhhh. I feel weird about tagging this, since it’s been so long. I can’t remember who has done it and who hasn’t. Gonna tag folks who I don’t remember seeing. If you’ve done it, or you don’t want to, that’s cool! Sorry I took forever with it. @blue-mono​, @cataliinaa​, @whereforartthoumisthios​, @fikali​, anyone else who wants?

1) The Hours

It has music by Philip Glass! Meryl Streep plays a queer woman and that was important to me as a teenager. It’s very sad but it is always there for me when I feel bleak. It’s just a part of my psyche and I can’t really explain it at this point.

2)  Lord of the Rings 2: The Two Towers (Extended Version)

Every Thursday for about 8 years the closest group of cousins and I would watch a movie while we had our piano lessons and most of those years we just watched LOTR 2 and 3 extended versions. Every Thursday. For about 8 years. 2/4 people (including me) are most likely autistic, yes. 2/4 (not including me) can play the piano. We are very annoying about LOTR. Anyways, look! It’s Haldir! The first man I loved to die of a weapon through the head. Yeah. I love that guy. Also, this film has great french horn!

3) Pride and Prejudice (2005)

I cannot express how much I love this movie. I cannot explain all the things about it I love. I cannot. Music is by Dario Marianelli (I can play to the second page of the score to “Living Sculptures of Pemberly” on piano. It only took 5 years), Directed by Joe Wright, Kiera Knightley stars as Elizabeth Bennett. I adore the dresses, the hair, the casting, the music, the fact that Simon Wood’s hair continued growing red after filming, the statues in Pemberly, the tiling on the floors in Pemberly, the way Mary plays the piano, Georgiana, Darcy’s sideburns, the HAND FLEX, the weird pig scene, The flower Tom Hollander holds, the nod to Henry Purcell, ect. 4) Anna Karenina (2012)

Dario, Joe, Kiera, and a train walk into a movie. Do not get me started.

5) The Parent Trap (1998)

I saw this as a kid and made my mom watch it with me over and over and over again. She didn’t mind. She thinks she’s like Chessy, but she’s not. She doesn’t cook, for one. And she doesn’t wear a denim shirt. I do though. We still quote this to each other. Formative.

6) A Place Promised in Our Early Days

An earlier Makoto Shinkai movie. The plot is confusing and boring if I’m honest. The background animations are breathtaking. If you like anime but also like  realism in art, I’d highly recommend any Makoto Shinkai movie for visuals.

7) The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)

Do you ever just want to eat a sandwich and listen to old italian music and watch your enemy best friend and lover drown? No? huh. Amazing soundtrack! Spy drama! COSTUMING. It makes me laugh! Henry Cavill! Solo/Kuryakin/Teller should be canon. I was pretty upset about the whole Armie Hammer thing, tbh, because I really wanted a sequel to this. But I’m ok with that not happening.

8) Fly Away Home

The first media I wallowed in. Would rewind to the scene with Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “10,000′s miles” and sit way too close to the screen. When we got it on dvd my life changed. I could just press the button!? I didn’t care about the geese, really. I cared about the deep grief this kid was having. Someone probably should have questioned why I was watching it on repeat and gotten me into therapy a lot earlier. All in all, it’s a pretty movie.

9) A Single Man

I love this movie but I gotta admit I skip around watching it. It’s so depressing, I can’t watch it all at the same time. I like the music a lot, good cello. I love watching Colin Firth be miserable. I like crying with George. I don’t give a shit about Charley (except for her house and dress. Sorry Julianne Moore.) I hate Kenny. I want to live in George’s house. I want to live there. It is the J.W. Schaffer House. It’s a modernist house built in 1949 by John Lautner. I want to lick touch that woodwork. UGH. The glass. UGH. I love it. UGH. It’s such an impractical house. UGH. It’s so dumb. UGh. I want to go lay down on the floor, surrounded by books, in that house. uGH.

10) Underworld

What a dumb movie. Somewhere in my mom’s house is a Windows XP with a folder of photos of Selene that I thought were really cool, for some reason that I couldn’t figure out. That computer also has viruses from badly pirating the movie in 2008. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen and probably the first R rated movie I snuck. On this list because of the family computer destruction. And the ‘armor’, if you can call it that.

[greatunironic]

ok i know youre probably sick of these and im sorry in advance but i have a "most remarkable thing" question: does wanjeri ever get over her one sided blood feud with steve? bc on one hand like, totally get where she's coming from bc its super easy to be ride or die for one person and distrust the other when you only know a limited perspective of the whole story and with how dramatic eddie is i have zero doubt it's easy to get swept up in his heartache but on the other hand i'm like, damn, steve really can't win here! cut him some slack c'mon the man was also Going Through It he just wasn't singing about it!! + also how does eddie himself feel about the whole situation? bc i feel like having a close friend act like that about the love of your life without even really knowing them, even if it's because they want to protect you, probably wouldn't feel good or be good for your relationship in the long run. Anyways so sorry for the rambling, love this fic and can't wait to see more of this universe you've created! ♥♥

we will turn to alejandro for the short answer, which is “she’s gonna get over it if she knows what’s good for her.”

the longer answer: it takes her much shorter than she thinks it will. she’s prepared to hold this hurt in her heart for both her + ed, but the minute she sees them together —

shit, she thinks, watching steve watch ed across a crowded room at some party in the hollywoods hills, circa winter ‘03, surrounded by beautiful people hitting on steve (himself objectively movie star handsome even in his dorky ass sweater vest). and then eddie realizes he’s being watched? and eddie just — this smile on his fucking face, soft and gentle and shy — you know the scene in the film version of “tinker, tailor” where mark strong realizes colin firth is looking at him? that’s the shit i’m talking about. romancé!!!!!

wanjeri is watching them watch each other, and she’s seen ed make eyes at people, pick up dudes at bars, she’s watched him write lyric after lyric, rip his own heart from his chest on stage night after night —

but when she thinks about it, she doesn’t know if she’s ever seen him look happy, really + truly happy, and this, this moment right here?

if time travel was real, if she could, wanjeri would go back to 1989, when she’s wondering (not for the first time) who broke this poor boy’s heart — and she’d take young ed’s face in her hands and she’d tell him, “i get it now, i’m sorry i won’t for the longest time, but i get it — he’s worth it, you’re both worth it.”

(she tells ed later that she’s happy for him, and he hugs her, thanks her, tells her he knows how hard this is for her because she’s a big sister at heart, she only wants to keep him safe, and they both cry a little. then she says, “you know i have to dunk on you both for the rest of your lives though right? you wrote ballads for that asshole,” and ed’s like “oh no i know, i gotta give you our friend robin’s email, she’s been emotionally managing steve for years, the two of you can start a support group and also plan our roast.”)

[perksofbeingatallpotato]

Gray Suit

Harry Hart x Reader Warnings: Death Word Count: 1,355 A/N: I think it is fitting to wrap this month full of new Colin Firth content with a fic. Thanks to my over-caffeinated brain which came up with the idea for this at 1am and finished the whole fic in a few hours. The wonders of a brain overloaded with coffee. The proofreading took a while, and I also made a gif for this fic. You guys might’ve hated me if I ended this at that part, so I added a few more lines. Let me know what you think! Oh, and Happy Halloween if you celebrate! Stay safe!

You hit a wall. 

The books and folders you were carrying slipped from your hands. Well, it was a wall made of flesh and beauty.

Then the most handsome man you've seen on campus was apologizing to you. He crouched down to pick-up your things from the floor, and you tried to help him. Your hand accidentally brushed against his over the last book on the floor. 

You quickly retracted your hand and mumbled a sorry.

He stood up, as did you. He's tall, taller than you by a few good inches. He's wearing a double-breasted gray suit, a pair of glasses, and his hair was perfectly combed in place. It looks like he came straight out of a suit catalogue.

He apologized once again, yet it was probably your fault that you bumped into him. You were occupied thinking about the things you need to do, their deadlines, and who would cover your shifts at work, but now he's all you could think of.

"It's okay. I guess it was also kind of my fault. I'm sorry." You looked down, smiled, and you tucked your hair behind your ear. You looked back up at him and he flashed you a smile before he excused himself. He really seemed like he was in a rush.

With the way he walked and that tailored suit, there was no doubt that he’s a model from a magazine or a catalogue. You turned to watch him walk away, and you saw him enter the lecture hall beside the one you were just in. 

Your eyes widened. 

And you mentally facepalmed yourself. 

'Of course, he's a professor! Who walks around the campus in a suit like that? Duh!' You were slightly horrified that you almost tried to flirt with a professor.

At the very least, he's not your professor. You got excited by the idea that you’re going to see him every day. It's just a harmless little crush, you said to yourself.

And you left the campus smiling.

While waiting for Professor Arnold, Harry was thinking about that girl he bumped into.

He didn't know how to tell you it was really his fault. He already saw you from afar. A face of an angel, lost deep in her thoughts, walking straight ahead. 

It might be an exaggeration, but to him you were the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

He could've dodged you, stepped aside, and let you pass by. But as you were lost inside your mind, he felt like an arrow went straight through his heart.

He was never one for clichés, but suddenly he didn't know how to introduce himself. His years of training seemingly went out the window. And he doesn't want to simply let you pass by without knowing your name or seeing your smile. So, he did the ungentlemanly thing and let himself collide against you and pretend like it was an accident. Yet he still failed to introduce himself, or ask for your name.

Harry heard the door open and it snapped him out of his thoughts.

The next day, Harry was outside waiting for you.

"Hello." You heard a familiar voice. You turned to your right and there he was, the professor from yesterday, leaning against the wall. 

"I forgot to introduce myself and ask for your name.” Harry stood straight and walked towards you. “Do you mind?" and he extended his hand. "Harry Hart." "(Y/FN) (Y/LN)." And you shook it.

"Can I walk with you?" Harry asked. You wanted to say yes, but... “Can you? I mean, isn't that, you know, against the rules?" 

"Sorry, rules of what?” Harry paused. “Ah."

He chuckled. "Sorry to give you the wrong impression, but I don't teach here. Well, I am not a professor here or anywhere else for that matter."

"That's a relief." And then it was your turn to chuckle.

You and Harry continued the conversation as you left the campus. It was when the dusk started to settle that you realized you two were walking around aimlessly. 

"So, you live around here?" Harry probably had that realization too. "Uh, no. Do you?" "No, I do not. And here I thought I was walking you home like a proper gentleman." And as fate would have it, the two of you happened to stop in front of a quaint café. 

"Since we're here, how about we grab something to eat?" Harry asked you.

It was a casual dinner; the conversations came naturally. You could talk to him for days and it would be impossible to run out of things to talk about. You’ve only just known him for a few hours but it feels like you’ve already known him for years.

When it was starting to get late, you knew you needed to head home even though you didn’t want to part with him just yet.  

Over the next few days, Harry was always outside the campus waiting. Although he never revealed anything about his actual job, he would tell you when he's going to be busy with his work as a tailor and wouldn't be able to see you.

Harry knows how to respect your time and your space. Even if you're busy, he'd still wait for you outside your college or your work, sometimes with a single rose or a bouquet of flowers just to say hi, and then get you a cab. And whenever you need him, he is almost always there for you.

This continued on for weeks. The dates, the flowers, him waiting for you, until the waving good-bye when parting turned into hugs. 

He just seems too perfect to be real, but the smell of his perfume, his after shave, and his warm hugs are proof that he is as real as he could be.

It’s been months and your friends were bugging you to spill the details about your boyfriend, but he wasn't your boyfriend, not yet anyway.

You said to yourself that if he's not going to make the first move, then it's up to you. You invited him over at your place. You told him you have something important to finish and just really wanted to see him. But you were actually planning to cook for him and maybe take the relationship to the next level.

Harry arrived in his navy-blue pinstriped suit, still looking perfect after a day's work. He was surprised. "Well, you weren't lying, you really had something important to do." He smiled and gave you a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

After dinner, he helped you clean up and volunteered to wash the dishes. He took off his suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his white shirt. 

Harry Hart’s sexiness just went up a different level, and you thought he has already maxed that.

He looks so adorable while doing the dishes, that you couldn’t wait any longer. Once you placed the last plate you dried on the rack, you took the glass he was holding and placed it back on the sink.

He looked at you slightly confused.

You stood on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He leaned into you slowly.

You closed your eyes and anticipated his lips.

But Harry opened his eyes.

He looked around; a number of medical equipment was attached to him. A buzzer was placed near his hand, which he pressed once the reality set in.

You’ve heard about the explosion at the campus over social media when you arrived home that day. You asked your friends about it and about that professor you bumped into. Apparently, there was only one casualty, it was Professor Arnold. Poor guy, he seemed like a really smart and somewhat cool professor.

Yet no one seemed to know who the man in the gray suit was.

Months later, on your last day for the semester. Your heart skipped a beat. You saw a familiar figure in a gray suit standing at the end of the hallway. Once you reached the end, there he was, waiting.

“Hello.” He was not a ghost or a figment of your imagination.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

In your most recent post, you mentioned that the Snape/Hermione pairing tries desperately to pull off magic pride and prejudice (comparing fanon Snape to Tyrion was particularly inspired.)

How do you feel about Pride and Prejudice? Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth? Their relationship?

I actually like Pride and Prejudice, I just think it has a time and a place.

Granted, it’s not my favorite movie/book ever. I actually have never read the book and have only seen the movie once (I believe I have made it all the way through the five hour Colin Firth version one time, and have seen the three hour Kiera Knightly version). But I do like it, it’s nice.

The issue is, for me, when you try to apply it to Hermione Granger and Snape.

Now, I really shouldn’t go throwing stones. I play fast and loose with characterizations in my fics all the time. I never right a Harry Potter who comes straight from the books, I just can’t do it. He’s either suddenly a completely different character, I kept the traits he was intended to have, or I kept only some of his traits.

However, I like to think there’s a difference between that and romanticizing Severus Snape as Mr. Darcy.

Because that’s what it’s doing. It takes a man whose core characteristics throughout the franchise was being a dick to children and making him a sad, misunderstood, intellectual. And yes, he is miserable and he is something of an intellectual, but I also think that a part of him enjoys being miserable by the time we reach him in canon. Being miserable is just who he is, and even if presented happiness, he wouldn’t seek it.

And then to pair him with this girl who he routinely mocks in his own class?

Anyways, I’m getting off track.

I actually don’t have any real thoughts on Pride and Prejudice. To me it’s one of those staple stories you see referenced all over the place, that you should make a point of at least seeing if not reading (yes, I know, bad me for not reading it).

Like a lot of Austen novels it centers around the will they, won’t they, misunderstandings of many different characters who get together in the end. It’s charming and well written, so much so that I’m able to use Darcy and Elizabeth as tropes and you know exactly what I’m talking about.

That said, perhaps tellingly, it’s not a story I linger in. I watch it, watch the characters grow and get together, then go “Well, that was good, time for something else.” It’s not bad by any means, and it is very engaging, just to me not personally all that interesting.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

-----------------

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

[365days365movies]

January 16, 2021: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2014)

I am a massive comic book nerd. Not unusual these days, to be fair. But I’m definitely up there, as far as my obsession with Marvel and DC go. And, yeah, I stick mostly to those two houses, and their various imprints.

Why do I bring this up? Well...remember this movie?

Kick-Ass was a pretty big deal when it came out in 2010, as it was a Marvel Comics movie that was completely unrelated to the relatively new Marvel Cinematic Universe. Based of a 2008 comic book written by Mark Millar and drawn by John Romita Jr., the film was directed by Matthew Vaughn, and featured a more realistic take on how real-world superheroes would actually work.

Vaughn and Millar by this point at least, were friends. Around 2012, they’re getting drunk at a pub together, and talking movies. The topic of spy movies come up, and how there hasn’t really been a good, non-parody, fun spy movie, and that there should be. And that was the bulk of their conversation.

Enter Dave Gibbons, a legendary comic book artist, whom you may know from drawing the comic book that was turned into this:

Oh yeah, he’s a big deal. Gibbons and Millar end up getting together to write a fun spy comic book based on this idea. Vaughn, meanwhile, is getting ready to direct X-Men: Days of Future Past, the sequel to X-Men: First Class, which Vaughn directed. That’s a good movie, by the way, even if I have...issues...with the treatment of the X-Men in film. Maybe one day I’ll get into that, we’ll see what happens. Ask me about it if you’re curious.

Anyway, Millar goes to Vaughn with this script, and Vaughan looks at it and realizes that he needs to direct this movie before somebody else makes it. So he leaves Days of Future Past, and he signs on to...

I feel like it’s an obligation, as a comic book dude, to watch this film. I should also read the book, but I didn’t do that with Kick-Ass, so to hell with it! Let’s get this recap started! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

Starting off with some Money for Nothing, and somewhere in the Middle East, 1997! We go into a stone temple, where some kind of mission is taking place. A surprise grenade causes the loss of one of the agents. The surviving agents are Merlin (Mark Strong), Lancelot AKA James Spencer (Jack Davenport), and Galahad, AKA Harry Hart (Colin Firth).

Hart, feeling guilty over the death of this agent, tells his wife, Michelle (Samantha Womack) and child Eggsy (yes, Eggsy) of his sacrifice, and gives Eggsy a medal.

From there, we jump forward 17 years, to Argentina where...Mark Hamill?

Holy shit, it’s Mark Hamill! Apparently, he’s playing Professor James Arnold, and being held hostage by a group of mysterious men. Just then, he’s rescued by Lancelot, showing up with some classic James Bond-style swagger and asking for a cup of sugar, sardonically.

He kicks the asses of these guys, but is SLICED IN HALF BY A MAN WITH SWORD LEGS WHAT THE FUCK????

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was watching the best thing I’ve ever goddamn seen. And as if that weren’t enough, she’s working for Samuel L. “Motherfucker” Jackson, playing Richmond Valentine. I am...I am so pleased.

We go to the Kingsmen headquarters, where Lancelot is being mourned by the Kingmen and their leader MICHAEL CAINE, REALLY, HOLY SHIT

Ahem. Sorry, uh...the star-studded cast has basically caused me to have a minor aneurysm. Caine plays Arthur, the leader of the Kingsmen. Get it? I can dig it, I’m a sucker for a good Arthurian reference. Anyway, now that Lancelot’s dead, it’s time to find a new candidate. Apparently, the man that died 17 years ago was part of an “experiment” by Hart, which Arthur says has failed. Galahad calls Arthur a snob, and says that they need to evolve with the times. \

Speaking of that former candidate, how’s his son doing?

Not stellar, it seems. His mom is dating a very unsavory gentleman, and not really taking good care of her youngest daughter. Eggsy (Taron Egerton), on the other hand, is a carefree delinquent. After engaging in an entertaining backwards car chase with the police (it’s cool), he gets arrested. He refuses to give up his friends, and he instead asks for a phone call.He looks at the medallion around his neck, and remembers that he can use the number of the back to contact someone for help. He uses a specific code phrase, but it appears not to have worked. But then, Eggsy is turned loose with little more than a phone call. That’s when Eggsy meets Hart.

We find out that Eggsy has a high IQ and Olympic-level athletics, but has dropped out of the Marines, and has been arrested for drugs and other illegal activities. After being read out by Hart, Eggsy goes on an anger-filled diatribe about the differences in privilege between the two of them. Although it’s short, it’s a powerful speech.

But that speech is interrupted by the owner of the car that Eggsy stole the previous night, as well as his gang. They’re yearning for a fight with Eggsy, and they threaten Hart. He doesn’t take that well, as he shuts the doors and windoes to the pub. Time to teach a lesson.

Yup, I’m giving this fight the posted video award. It might be short, but it’s also one of the best and coolest sequences I’ve ever seen in a spy movie. And OH, it’s giving me that gadget shit I was missing from the Bond movies.

After one of the most enjoyable fight sequences I’ve seen in a while, Eggsy’s understandably stunned. So is his stepfather Dean (Geoff Bell), the leader of the gang that Hart beat up in the pub. He’s not happy, and he beats Eggsy in their apartment, and that scene is...WHOOF. Much to their surprise, however, Hart’s left a device on Eggsy’s back. He threatens Dean through the device, and tells Eggsy to meet him at a tailor that he’d mentioned.

Once Eggsy escapes from Dean and the gang via nest parkour tricks, he makes his way to the tailor, where Hart officially brings him into the fold, giving him the opportunity to become a Kingsman. He exposits the history of the agency as a private group of spies, meant to protect the world while not bowing to the bureaucracy that plagues government-affiliated spy institutions.

We get to go to Kingsman Headquarters proper, and yeah...yeah, it’s cool. As compared to the other recruits, Eggsy’s pretty obviously out of place. This, of course, is part of the point, as Hart believes the Kingsmen could use someone with different life experiences and background. That would be the experiment mentioned earlier.

Eggsy’s competitors include Roxy (Sophie Cookson), who appears to actually be polite to him, unlike most of the potentials. They settle in for the night...but not for long. Their quarters fills with water, as the entirety of the Kingsmen head towards the showerheads and toilets for air. While they all succeed, Eggsy is the one who actually gets everyone out, by literally punching the window.

Unfortunately, for one of the candidates...it’s too late. These candidates could die in the hiring process. Rough.

Sadly, Mark Hamill also doesn’t quite make it, as Hart finds him, surprisingly freed from Valentine’s capture. As he’s questioned, Valentine is forced to kill him via Suicide Squad implant, and barely escaped from his men. Valentine and his henchwoman, Gazelle (Sofia Boutella) are trying to figure out who the Kingsmen are, to no avail at the moment.

Back with Merlin, who’s training the Kingsman candidates! They’re all told to get a puppy! Aw. Eggsy chooses J.B. a pug, under the mistaken impression that it’s a bulldog. And I’m not a pug person...but that puppy is cute as shit.

Time marches on, and the Kingsmen continue their training. Eggsy’s colleagues continue to discriminate against him, especially Charlie (Edward Holcroft). Hart, who was knocked out by the explosion, eventually wakes up. Valentine goes around to political leaders and proposes his plan to “save the world,” whatever that’s about to mean. Apparently, that includes giving the King of Sweden a surgical implant of some kind. Huh.

This, of course includes some, uh...conflict with Gazelle.

Awesome.

Eggsy’s in the final 6! As Hart congratulates him over this, we finally get some exposition on Richmond Valentine’s plan. See, that implant is the Suicide Squad bomb that killed Hamill, and Gazelle also has one. Additionally, he’s released a plan to the world that will provide free internet and phone data...forever. Not ominous at all, that.

After a cool skydiving training sequence, only three candidates are left. Hart, meanwhile, poses as a wealthy philanthropist, donating to Valentine’s cause. As a result, he’s treated to an extravagant dinner...of McDonald’s. Yes, it is the best product placement I’ve seen in a while, in case you were wondering. That reveal was hilarious.

Anyway, their conversation turns from talking about climate change studies and concerns, to their opinion of James Bond movies, in a lovely little piece of meta flavor. At this point, they would appear to understand each other’s role in the play, as it were. Forgot to mention, Valentine’s been kidnapping anyone who disagrees with his goals, while also distributing his free internet cards. So, there’s that. But he’s also trying to figure out what exactly the “Kingsmen” are. Speaking of...

Our three remaining Kingsman candidates are assigned a mission to seduce a young dignitary. However, all three of them make a mistake, and allow themselves to get drugged at a party, by someone wanting to know who Hart and Kingsmen are. When Eggsy wakes up, he’s been strapped to train tracks. Uh oh.

Despite an oncoming train, Eggsy doesn’t give the man any formation. Which, of course, was the point. It’s Hart, helping to give the Kingsman candidates a little loyalty test, which both Eggsy and Roxy pass with flying colors. But Charlie...Charlie’s a coward who immediately gives everything up, including Arthur himself.

Eggsy gets to spend 24 hours with Hart, before being thrown headfirst into a mission. Hart explains that being a Kingsman means being a gentleman, which Eggsy isn’t. Hart, of course, plans to fix that.

They head to the tailor, and check out some spy gadgets. And much to their surprise, Valentine is also there, under the guise of getting a suit. Hart takes the opportunity to recommend a hatter, who gives him a top hat with built in listening devices. I love it.

Eggsy, meanwhile, speaks with Arthur at Kingsman HQ. He’s commanded to perform one final test: kill his pug, J.B. Which...yeah, damn, that sucks. He doesn’t do it, understandably. Unfortunately...Roxy does kill her dog. She succeeds...and Eggsy’s kicked out of the Kingsman candidacy. Which feels like a bullshit play, if I’m honest.

Eggsy steals Arthur’s car, then goes back home. As he’s about to confront his stepfather, Hart brings back the car via remote access, then explains to Eggsy that the gun was filled with blanks, and that Eggsy ended up giving up his shot. He also reveals that the first candidate to die...didn’t actually die! It’s been a ruse all along, meant to test the candidates under the strictest of conditions. Which sucks, obviously, because Eggsy’s out of the program.

And at that point, Valentine says something of note, revealing that he plans to go to a hate church in Kentucky to begin his master plan. Hart heads there, and tells Eggsy to stay put.

We get treated to just...just the loveliest of sermons. Disgusting. But then...

...that’s the point, isn’t it?

Because Valentine uses the SIM cards to create a signal that drives the parishioners crazy. Hart’s also in the church, however, and he also starts going crazy. Which leaves the question: what happens when a highly trained spy goes up against untrained civilians, has a bunch of gadgets...and has absolutely no restraint whatsoever?

A MASSACRE, THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS. And most surprisingly, it’s a massacre that we actually SEE. Hart basically kills almost EVERYBODY in the church. I’ll put the video up, but...y’know, be warned here. It ain’t pretty.

Hart comes to, and realizes exactly what he’s done. He leaves, only to be confronted by Valentine and his men. The Bond metaphor finally comes full-circle, explained directly by Valentine. But instead of explaining his whole plan and devising some complicated way to kill Hart that he’ll inevitably escape from...

He just shoots Hart in the head. Holy shit. And this is while Merlin, Arthur, and yes, Eggsy watch on through Hart’s home feed. Looks like a new Kingsman is needed.

Arthur tells Merlin to assemble the Kingsmen. But Eggsy...Eggsy has other plans. Thinking on Hart’s words about wanting to do something good with his life. He goes to Arthur to talk to him about Hart’s death. Arthur invites him in for brandy. And that’s...when my mind exploded.

HE’S FUCKING IN ON IT?!? Michael Caine, NOOOO! Turns out that Valentine’s convinced Arthur of his true plan: a culling. He believes that the Earth’s temperature because there’s simply too much humanity, like a body trying to kill a virus. And so...he’s going to make the virus exterminate itself. And that argument’s enough to win Caine over.

Turns out that the implant is meant to protect those individuals against a neurological signal emitted by the SIM cards, the same one that went off in the church. Arthur, realizing that Eggsy understands exactly what’s going on, poisons him, then asks if he would like to join them. Eggsy refuses...and Arthur sets off the remote poison to kill him.

But NOPE! EGGSY SWITCHED THE FUCKIN’ GLASSES! I love this movie. Arthur dies, and Eggsy uses the opportunity to dig the implant from his neck. He takes that and Arthur’s phone to Merlin and Lancelot, who realize that they can’t trust anyone at this point. And so, the three of them - yes, the three of them - go to stop Valentine.

And, yeah...I can dig it. OH HOW I CAN DIG it.

Roxy goes up in an experimental vehicle to bring down the satellite, Merlin is flying the plane, and Eggsy...Eggsy’s the one going in disguised as Arthur, in order to infiltrate the mountain lair of Valentine. Here, he and the other beneficiaries wait it out, while the world literally tears itself apart. Now wearing a bespoke suit and playing the role of a gentleman, Eggsy enters the lion’s den.

But as expected, it’s time to hit some snags. Roxy waits juuuuuust a little too long, and one of the balloons in her craft pops. As for Eggsy, he meets an old “friend” of his in the form of Charlie, who’s now working for Valentine.

The missile’s fired just in time, as Charlie’s taken out and Eggsy runs for the plane. AWESOME climax here as Eggsy escapes. I mean it; it is VERY cool. They succeed JUST in time, and the satellite is destroyed. However, Valentine’s still managed to partially start the process, and they can’t do anything about that.

Eggsy’s gotta go BACK in, before Valentine gets another satellite to trigger the signal worldwide. Now armed with Hart’s AWESOME umbrella, he makes his way there under heavy gunshot. They’re also teaming up against Merlin in the plane, so he’s not doing great. And that when Eggsy has the idea...to turn the implants on. ALL of them.

It’s amazing. Violence in fireworks. So, it’s too bad that it doesn’t stop the signal. It works, and people start to tear each other apart all across the world. But only for was long as Valentine has his hands on the desk. Eggsy manages to stop that by laying down some suppressive fire.

That provokes a response.

..This movie is, for lack of a better term, fucking rad.

Gazelle and Eggsy have an awesome fight, worthy of any James Bond movie, seriously. I really want to give it the video post honor, but I’ve done that too much already. For god’s sake, I literally JUST did that.

Gazelle dies (it’s kinda goofy how she dies, if I’m honest), and Eggsy kills Valentine with her prosthetic leg. It’s over, as the signal ends, and Eggsy even gets the girl. Not Roxy, the Princess of Sweden. Not going into it, but it’s funny.

And that’s Kingsman: The Secret Service! Honestly, I gotta say, that was a rad-as-shit movie, and...

Ooh, a mid-credits scene! Eggsy goes back home, to the pub, where his stepfather and mom are hanging out with the gang. And let’s just say...Dean’s gonna get a little comeuppance. Manners, after all, maketh man.

OK, THAT’S Kingsman: The Secret Service! And that, again, was pretty rad. See you in the Epilogue in a few!

[stellaluna33]

The Phone Call

A preview of what’s coming next in my Gilmore fic The Long And Winding Road, as a phone conversation between Jess and Luke. (You now know more than Rory will in the next chapter... No one knows this except Jess and Luke... and you.)

"Hello?"

"Hey, Luke."

"Jess.  How's it going?"

"Oh, you know.  Just fine.  You still in Nantucket?"

"Yeah.  Rory and Richie came with, as you probably know.  But we also have a, let's say, 'surprise' visitor up here today."

"Reeeeally.  Who's that?"

"Oh, none other than the great Logan Huntzberger himself, who finally deigned to see his son because he could pass it off as a polite visit to a family friend while he was 'in the area.'"

"Jeez.  He still hasn't told anyone, has he?"

"Apparently not.  Claims he's 'waiting for the right moment,' or some kinda bullsh**."

"Bastard."

"You're tellin' me.  But why'd you call?  You don't usually call this time of day."

"Yeah.  Well, I, uh… I got some news today."

"Oh yeah?  What's that?"

"So, I don't know if you remember me talking about that writer's residency program in Argentina last year?"

"Oh yeah, weren't you thinking about applying for that?"

"Yeah.  I did apply for it, actually.  There was a pretty long waiting list, though."

"Oh, I see.  So, d'you hear something about that?"

"Yeah.  Today, actually.  I, uh… I got in."

"Jess, that is fantastic news!  Good for you.  That's a really great opportunity for you."

"Yeah.  Yeah, it is.  I, uh… just… I'm not sure if I wanna take it."

"What?!!  Jess, you can't be serious!  You've been wanting to do something like this for God knows how long!  And now you've got this opportunity and you're just going to let it pass you by?"

"I don't know, it's just… I don't know if it's a good time for me to be leaving the country right now."

"What, you got something goin' on at work?"

"No...  No, it's not that, it's…  I don't know."

"Well?  What is it?  What's stopping you?"

"I just… part of me thinks that I should be here, right now.  In case… you know, in case a... friend might need me."

"In case a friend might-  Oh jeez. Jess.  Tell me you're not talking about Rory."

Jess took a deep breath and then exhaled heavily through his nose.

"Are you serious?!  Jess!  You told me you were over that!  Long over, if I remember it correctly."

"Yeah, well, I was over it!  At least, I thought I was…"

"Oh, Jess."

"I know!  I know.  I'm pathetic.  I swore I would never end up like you, and yet here I am."

"Hey!  Things didn't turn out so bad for me in the end, you know."

"I know.  You're right.  I'm worse.  I already had my chance with Rory, and I screwed it up so badly that she wishes our entire relationship had never happened."

"Jess, you were just a kid. I'm sure that's not true."

"Oh no?  Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that's exactly the way she remembers it."

"Ah jeez.  She put that in that book she's writing?"

"Yup."

"And you've been reading over it, right?"

"Yup."

"Well, sh**.  I'm sorry, Jess."

"Yeah, well, it is what it is, and it's my own damned fault, so I don't really have the right to be put out about it."

"Well, ok, but… that being the case, don't you think it's time to let this go?"

"Past time.  But that's the worst part… I've tried.  G-d, I've tried.  And I thought I was mostly ok with it, you know?  There's been occasional relapses of… regret or… moments when I've wished things could've turned out differently, but… I haven't been hoping for anything.  I've been trying to move on.  I've had relationships."

"You only went on, like, two dates with that last girl, what was her name?"

"Sylvia?"

"Yes, Sylvia!  But two dates, Jess!  You give up that quickly and you call that trying?"

"That's what I'm getting to, though.  This year has been… different.  It wasn't so bad when I only saw her for a few minutes every couple years or so, but between the wedding and the book and everything that's been going on with her lately, Rory and I have been talking all the time, and I just… I still like her more than any other woman I've ever met, Luke.  And I told myself that she hasn't wanted me for over a decade now.  She made her feelings abundantly clear, and I have offered myself up like an idiot over and over and over again, just on the off chance that she might have changed her mind, and she has turned me down every single time.  I mean, how many times does she need to say it before I get a clue?  'No means no,' right?  I'm done.  I'm not doing that again.  So, I guess we're friends now.  She really likes me as a friend, she says, so I'll be her friend and be grateful I get to spend time with her at all.  And I'm doing my best to be ok with that.  So I finally asked Sylvia out, and it was nice.  She's beautiful and interesting, and maybe it coulda gone somewhere… but then you had to go and tell Rory about it.  And she got weird, man.  She called me up, and she was comparing me to Mr. Darcy, and-"

"Am I supposed to know who the hell that is?"

"Are you serious?  You've lived with Lorelai for, what, ten years now, and she hasn't tied you down and made you watch all six f***ing hours of that BBC monstrosity?  Pride and Prejudice?  Jane Austen?  Lorelai going on and on about Colin Firth emerging from a lake in a wet shirt and breeches?  Ring any bells?"

"Ah, maybe.  I think I fell asleep about five minutes in."

"Of course you did.  Well, all you need to know is that he's the romantic hero of the story, but he's a complete ass for like, two thirds of the book, which is obviously where the resemblance lies.  So she's on a roll with that, and hey, I deserve it, but then she throws in the fact that he changes and fixes everything and the heroine can't help falling in love with him in the end.  And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?  Because last I knew, we were talking about me, and that would imply that… I don't know.  All I know is that she got all flustered and started grilling me about my date with Sylvia, that you told her about, thanks so much, and then she starts going on about how she hopes I'll be very happy and how I deserve to be happy and I deserve to be with 'someone who has her life together.'  And then she started crying and frickin' hung up on me!"

"Huh."

"Yeah!  So, that whole thing kinda threw me, and all of a sudden, I'm not so sure where I stand anymore.  I mean, am I crazy?  Is that a normal reaction to hearing that a friend is seeing someone?"

"I don't know, Jess.  It's weird, I'll give you that… but who knows, with pregnant women…"

"Well, yeah, there's that, too… But I went out with Sylvia again, because I was trying, you know?  I owed it to myself and to her to give it an honest shot, but… I couldn't… I couldn't stop thinking about that phone call, Luke.  I couldn't stop thinking about her.  Because what if this was finally, finally a chance after all these years, and could I really just let that slip away?  Could I start a relationship with someone else, knowing that I might be throwing away a shot with Rory?  And I've been saying that there wasn't any chemistry with Sylvia and me, but the truth is, I know that's all on me.  It was awkward because of me, because I was distracted and I was distant and I wasn't sure I wanted to be there.  And Sylvia deserves better than that.  It was better to end it before anybody got hurt."

"Ah, jeez, Jess."

"It's true.  I'll go ahead and say it:  I sabotaged my own attempt at having a happy relationship because I'm still hung up on my highschool girlfriend.  And there it is.  I'm such a pathetic loser."

"You're not a loser, Jess.  You've come a long way.  But she's got a baby now."

"I know that.  And even if she has changed her mind about me, the timing is so bad...  She needs me to be a friend she can depend on right now.  The last thing she needs is the stress of fending off yet more unwanted advances from her crazy ex-boyfriend who can't take no for an answer.  And I can't go there again, I just can't.  So, I'm stuck in this no-man's-land."

"So how is all this stopping you from going to Argentina?  Maybe a few months away from all this would be good for you."

"Maybe… maybe.  But I just… I broke her trust before by leaving.  I made a lot of mistakes, but that?  That was the one she couldn't forgive me for.  And I want to be there for her, I want her to know that she can count on me now, that if she needs me, I am there.  But I can't do that if I'm halfway across the world.  I'd be of no more use to her than Logan is, and I… God help me, I want her to think of me as someone who can give her something that he can't.  And if I go, I can't do that.  And I have this feeling that if I go now, that'll be it for her.  The end.  Three strikes, I'm out.  For good this time."

"Were you planning on leaving without telling her?"

"Well, no, of course I wasn't..."

"'Cause I think that was a big part of the problem last time…"

"Yeah.  I get that.  But what if she doesn't see it that way?"

"Jess, all I can say is maybe you should talk to Rory about it.  See how she feels about it."

"I guess I'll have to."

"For my part, I think you should go.  And she won't be alone, Jess.  She's got Lorelai, and me, and Lane..."

"You're right.  Who'm I kidding?  She doesn't need me anyway."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Yeah, well, it's probably true anyway.  But it's good to know that she's got you looking out for her.  I'd need you to promise me that, if I'm gonna even consider this."

"You got it."

"Well… thanks for listening.  I guess I'd better go.  I'm gonna call Rory, like you said."

"I think that'd be a good idea."

"Yeah.  Well, talk to you later, Uncle Luke."

"Later, kid.  You… you take care of yourself, alright?"

"I always do.  But thanks."

Thank you for reading. Please, PLEASE share any comments or ask any questions you’re wondering about!  I crave your opinion. What do you think of this?  My muse is in desperate need of encouragement so I can finish writing Chapter 9 sooner rather than later!

[aziraphalescloset]

Aziraphale at the Bastille Part 1

This costume is going to be a long process so I’m going to post about it in chunks. 

I think everyone who watched Good Omens who cares a whit for fashion fell in love with this confection of a costume: the angel Aziraphale in lace and frills and white satin pumps in a French jail, possibly about to be guillotined, until he’s rescued by a tall, dark demon.

(The left two pictures in the second image show the executioner, now wearing Aziraphale’s wasitcoat and frock coat, after Aziraphale miracled a costume swap.) Close examination of the costume reveals a couple of things: first, it’s actually kind of shabby-looking, and second, it’s out of date for 1793; by that time, men’s waistcoats and frock coats had become much shorter and more svelte, with smaller cuffs and coat fronts that sweep back, exposing more leg. Naturally, that’s what Crowley is wearing in the scene, though he’s dressed as more of a plebe than Aziraphale.

Now, Aziraphale looks a little shabby in modern times -- his waistcoat especially is very worn around the buttons and hem, presumably because it’s the same one he’s owned since Victorian times. But I’m not going to go to all the trouble of making this outfit and make it shabby, so I’m going to upgrade it when I make it in doll form.

Process photos after the jump.

First, I need a shirt. Again I’m turning to Thimbles and Acorns via Pixie Faire for the pattern for an 18th Century men’s shirt and stock. At this time, a man’s shirt served exactly the same purpose as a woman’s shift: it was a simple, comfortable, readily washable garment that separated the human (with its attendant grime and odor) from the clothes (which might be made of harsh fabrics and dyes). The tails were very long in order that they could tuck between the legs to act as a sort of underwear. In fact, the shirt was regarded basically as underwear; it was unseemly for more than the cuffs and collar to be visible, and the collar was always held closed with a tied neckcloth called a stock. The basic design of the men’s shirt remained unchanged for centuries. For those of you who are fans of the 1995 TV version of Pride and Prejudice, this is the garment that Colin Firth goes for a swim in, and for Elizabeth to stumble upon him, post-swim, still clad only in shirt and breeches, was really quite shocking!

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

The Thimbles and Acorns pattern is fairly simple with a self-ruffle at the cuffs and neck. For Aziraphale I upgraded the cuffs to two layers of lace, and I added lace ends to the stock. I originally planned to use a very thin cotton batiste but it was just too transparent and was too stiff. So I’m using a white synthetic fabric of some kind, rayon or nylon or something. It’s a little staticky but it has a beautiful soft drape.

There is a lot of fiddly hand-sewing in these patterns to make facings that cover seams. This is the view through my magnifying lamp while I’m sewing the facing down over the front neck opening with its self-ruffle.

Finished shirt, without the buttons and button loops yet.

The next thing I did was adapt this pattern for Crowley. I have a Crowley doll that is a different type than Aziradoll. Aziradoll is an American Girl, which has a pretty wide, soft body compared to most such dolls. I found on eBay a used doll of a skinnier type, Just Pretend, Inc., with extremely weird pink eyes and red hair. It is roughly the same measurements as more popular skinny 18-inch dolls like Kids N Cats and Carpatina. So I modified the width of the shirt and made a few other changes to convert the pattern to Crowley’s size. No lacy frills for Crowley; it’s crisper self-fabric cuffs and stock. The fabric is just a regular acetate lining. It’s a little shiny, which seems suitable for a flash bastard like Crowley. Here’s a process photo of those self-fabric cuffs.

It’s still loose -- these shirts are supposed to be loose -- but fits the doll pretty well. Here’s a photo without buttons or stock.

Next step is breeches. Again, Thimbles and Acorns provides with this pattern for a George Washington military costume. I made the breeches almost straight from the pattern, using a really luscious-feeling crepe-backed satin. (The parts on the left are for a waistcoat, which I’ll post about another day.) The parts for these breeches are weirdly shaped -- these bear no similarity whatever to the cut of modern men’s trousers.

I discovered while making these that crepe-backed satin is a pain in the butt to work with. It seems like a very fine fabric, but it’s made of rather wide warp threads with very thin weft threads, and once cut it really wants to fall apart. It’s also desperately easy to accidentally pull a little weft thread and create what looks like a run in the fabric. My first assembly attempt ended in failure because the fabric started disintegrating around the tight corner at the junction of the drop front and the trouser leg.

I cut some new parts and substantially beefed up the interfacing around that seam. I also used a more stable cotton fabric for the invisible inner facings of the drop front and vents. It seems to be holding.

More assembly pics. Really interesting topologically.

Leg plackets. The detail in this bit is exquisite. If I ever need to sew a placket on any garment I’m creating from scratch, I’ll work from this pattern.

Drop front is sorted. It got a little off-center, I’m actually not at all sure how, but it didn’t matter in the end.

Adding the waistband.

Test fit. The next step after this was the sheer terror of buttonholes. I hate buttonholes. BUT I DID IT.

At least the terror of sewing buttonholes comes with the pleasure of selecting buttons. After a lot of agonizing (and, I’ll admit, some shopping), I eventually used some vintage pearl and mother-of-pearl buttons for the breeches. They’re Heavenly.

That’s it for shirt and breeches for Aziraphale. I’m working on the waistcoat, but more urgently, I need to replace those plain brown shoes with some gorgeous satin pumps. I also need to adapt that topologically weird breeches pattern for the smaller Just Pretend doll for Crowley. 

In the meantime, here are the two Ineffables lounging around in, basically, their underwear. How indecent!

[katierosefun]

caroline your TAGS on the EMMA POST ok I havent seen 2009 EMMA but okay I see you!

asdfsdfsdfsd anon how did you see that so fast--but also,,,,you know what!!!! i stand by it!!!!!! i am sure emma (2020) is absolutely lovely, and i will def. see it, but like,,,emma (2009) knightley??? hello???? he both exudes wonderful dad energy and also...[mumble mumble mumble mumble] 

okay okay okay but like,,,,no the way mr. knightley is literally one of my biggest fictional crushes ever puh-LEASE (caroline do you have a type? yes, yes i do now shut up), but like?? good with children?? bickers and banters?? gentle?????? bookish???????? literally the sweetest person who patiently listens to mr. woodhouse’s annoying rambles and dances with harriet smith because she doesn’t have a dance partner??? “if i loved you less, i could talk about it more” like COME ON,,,,COME ON 

and anyways yes i’ve only ever seen one (1) interpretation of emma, and that was the 2009 miniseries, but jonny lee miller,,,,,and the YearningTM and the also mild exasperation and frustration with emma,,,,,,,,,,the bitter teary laugh when he says “friends indeed”,,,,,,,,,no i’m gonna go nuts--that said, i am sure that knightley in emma (2020) is also wonderful, but,,,,listen, you know how some people are like,,,,,obsessed with colin firth’s version of mr. darcy in the pride and prejudice miniseries??? like, the mr. darcy in pride and prejudice (2005) is wonderful, but like some people will always see colin firth as their mr. darcy--well, jonny lee miller will always be my mr. knightley and anyways i will shut up now but y’all,,,,,yeah this caroline isn’t just feral about obi-wan, no, she is also feral about another dignified man who is perpetually exasperated with his love interest and also very much so good with children and also a  bit condescending but a lovely person HNGNGNGNNGGNGNGN 

[hippohead]

I was recently tagged by the wonderful @jazziergin to list my top ten female characters and today I was tagged by the equally wonderful @anderhummel to list my top ten male characters so here they all are:

Also, wait - I am absolutely going to overthink this so bare with me. Also also feel free to ignore this as I will absolutely be rambling rather than listing.

1. Ann Perkins from Parks and Recreation. This slot is very easy to fill because she is my absolute favourite character, period. My whole heart belongs to her truly and if I could go back in time, I would go back to 2009 and let the Parks writers know that she’s a lesbian (someone let me do my Operation Ann re-write, PLEASE) 2. The next one is easy as well and it’s Leslie Knope, also from Parks and Recreation. Have I expressed how much Parks means to me? Anyway, ily to my favourite blonde steamroller xx 3. This is where I get stressed? I love so many women. Help. Okay I am going to say Abbi Abrams from Broad City because I am literally her and she is wonderful and fills my heart with happiness. 4. Can I say characters from novels or are we just doing shows? I am making up the rules and I say I can so: Anne Elliot from Persuasion by Jane Austen. i love u, u pining idiot, i do! 5. And continuing with making up the rules, I am going to do movies, too: Catherine Stewart of Cutie Pies from Amy Poehler’s film directorial debut, Wine Country (2019). If you haven’t already, watch this film and then agree with me that Cath & Tammy are in love and then read my fic about it 6 & 7. Okay the next two are both from Glee and I adore them: Mercedes Jones and Tina Cohen Chang. I wish we got more and I’m grateful for everything we were given 8 & 9. Paris Geller and Lorelai Gilmore from Gilmore Girls. Paris falls into the same category as Ann in the sense that she, too, is a lesbian! or at least sapphic. ASP let me chat to you! And, I mean, Lauren Graham? Need I say more? 10. Last spot goes to Valencia Perez from Crazy Ex Girlfriend. Honestly I LOVE all the women on that show but Valencia has my heart the most (don’t worry Paula, ur right there too xx) and her s4 storyline? thank you to god (Rachel Bloom) for that amen

1. This spot belong to Kurt E. Hummel and as it should! God, I just adore him so much and I WILL get emotional if I get into it too much so I won’t but. he’s number one and that’s important. 2. I feel like a monster for not immediately putting Blaine but if I am being totally honest, number two spot belongs to Patrick Brewster in my heart. Watching Schitt’s Creek was such a special experience for me and meeting Patrick for the first time and watching his arc unfold was so very, very important to me.  3. Ok and NOW it is time for Kurt’s HUSBAND Blaine Devon Anderson. what a dummy! i love him so much! My relationship with is Blaine is this: Blaine is Mona-Lisa Saperstein saying, “I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life” and I am Dr. Saperstein saying, “I know this, and I love you” 4. For legal reasons, I have to put the ice clown himself, Ben Wyatt from Parks and Recreation, here because, like, are you kidding me? That man is the ONLY man. i love u calzone-boy xo 5. I keep splitting up the husbands and I’m so sorry but David Rose from Schitt’s Creek because he’s everything and also a mess and I love him. 6. WILL COOPER I LOVE YOU. Ok I almost forgot about Will for a hot sec but I take back what I said when I said that Ben Wyatt is the only man because there are two men and the second one is Will Cooper from Single Parents (rip to my little heart sitcom i miss you dearly every single day) 6. Mr. Darcy but SPECIFICALLY Colin Firth’s Darcy from the 1995 BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice. I would die for that man.  7. Chidi Anagonye from The Good Place for being a Hot Mess and relatable and listen,,, William Harper Jackson can Get It  8. I must not forget my moody diner-owner Luke Danes from Gilmore Girls. If I knew that man in real life I would simply have to shake some sense into him sometimes but alas, I cannot blame Luke for ASP’s downfalls and really what I must do is listen to my heart and my heart say ily Luke Danes.  9. I’m going to give this one to Burt Hummel because I love him. Everybody else was just playing around but Mike O’Malley was doing the most.  10. I’m running out of men so... Remus Lupin, because even though we don’t acknowledge the terf, this man has lived in my heart since the Prisoner of Azkaban book release and that’s special.

I... apologise. It’s just that when I’m given an opportunity to talk about something I love I tend to take it and run with it and, anyway, feel free to skim this or not read it at all. But here is some of my heart! I’m absolutely going to think of people I missed and stress (already: Xena! Donna Meagle! Katherine Mayfair!) but this was fun!

[halictus-writer]

Welcome to Seattle (Ch. 5 of 5)

They spent the entirety of the next day together. They had exchanged a few texts last night before Sirius asked Remus if he would like to get coffee with him (as a date, Sirius had written in a second message before Remus could respond to the first). Remus instantly responded affirmatively, and asked if Sirius was free in the morning.

Remus left his apartment a little earlier than he had to, and eventually found himself walking up towards the Starbucks in Pike Place Market that Sirius had insisted on meeting at (it’s not basic because this store is the original Starbucks. It’s very hipster actually) a whole ten minutes early. Surprisingly, Sirius was already there to meet him, occupying a spot in the line that extended down the sidewalk. Evidently, being the original Starbucks meant it attracted a lot of customers.

Sirius’s dark hair was pulled away from his face in an elaborate half-up half-down style, with small braids that reminded Remus of majestic elves. He wore black Doc Martens and a matching leather jacket. His face lit into a bright smile when he spotted Remus.

“Good morning!” Sirius said, and opened his arms for a hug. Remus let the embrace last an extra second as he tried to will his face to stop blushing.

“Good morning,” he finally returned, pulling away. “How was the rest of your shift last night?”

“Pretty easy, actually! It quieted down a bit after you left, and I was extra-motivated to close quickly, because the most adorable diner gave me his phone number and an absolutely ridiculous note.”

“Oh really?”

“Mm hm.”

They both laughed softly. Remus felt light. With his hands tucked into his pockets, he turned to nudge Sirius’s shoulder with his own. Sirius returned the nudge, but stayed close afterwards, their arms barely touching.

The line moved quickly, and eventually they were leaving the store with their drinks in hand, Remus with a simple iced drip coffee, and Sirius with an elaborate pumpkin-spice sugar bomb cold brew concoction. The barista had actually shuddered when Sirius had asked for an extra shot of “pumpkin-spice syrup,” something which Remus was horrified to learn existed at all.

They walked through Pike Place Market and into Victor Steinbruick park, while sipping their drinks. The city was offering a rare clear morning sky, so they kept walking outdoors to enjoy it. Small talk flowed easily, and soon they were learning all about each other’s lives and hobbies.

“Okay, you have two seconds,” Sirius began suddenly, “favorite movie. Go.”

“Pride and Prejudice,” Remus replied instantly, “but not the 2005 one, the 1995 mini-series from BBC.”

“Oh my god,” Sirius emphasized. “Of course you would say something like that.”

“It’s good!” Remus defended. “The drama, the pining, young Colin Firth, did I mention the drama?”

Sirius laughed. “Maybe once or twice.”

“What’s yours?” Remus asked.

“Easy. Shrek 2.”

Remus dissolved into laughter, and eventually gained enough air to ask why it was specifically the second Shrek movie.

“Simple answer. The soundtrack. Counting Crows? Funkytown? The finale where Jennifer Saunders as the Fairy Godmother sings Holding Out For a Hero? Remus, it is simply the greatest film to exist.”

Remus continued to laugh, “of course you know her name, oh my god.”

“Okay, our second date should be a movie night, we can watch both of our favorites together,” Sirius said, looking at Remus and pausing, “and decide which is superior,” he finished, eyes narrowed playfully.

Remus felt a small excited feeling in his stomach at Sirius already talking about a second date. “I would love that.” He said sincerely, looking directly into Sirius’s eyes.

“Although,” Remus began with a very matter-of-fact tone, turning to the horizon, “Pride and Prejudice is five and a half hours long.”

“What?!” Sirius said incredulously.

“But it’s so worth it!” Remus reassured. “We can make coffee, it’ll be fine.”

“You,” Sirius said, eyebrows raised, “are ridiculous. But I love it.”

Remus felt that little rush of excitement again. He wondered if he would ever get used to Sirius, and not feel those butterflies anymore. He hoped not.

Their conversation topics included deeper things as well. Remus learned about Sirius’s troubles with his family, and how he was abruptly cut-off financially from them in the middle of his second year of college.

“I had been working part-time at the restaurant, but then I just couldn’t afford the full tuition and the stress so I ended up withdrawing from school,” Sirius explained. “Once I took care of myself mentally and had a more stable life, I started enrolling in the occasional online community college class. I’ll actually be able to graduate with a full Bachelor’s degree in a year, which, I’m already twenty-six, so I know it’s super late, but…” his voice trailed off at the end.

“What, no, Sirius.” Remus reassured him. “That’s amazing, that must have been so hard to accomplish, but you’ve managed to stick with it anyway, I’m, well, you should be proud of yourself,” he finished lamely.

Sirius looked at Remus for a beat before responding. “Thank you, that means a lot.”

“What do you want to do after graduating?” Remus asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to more familiar ground. He was more than willing to talk about something hard if Sirius needed it, but he didn’t want to give patronizing advice on how Sirius should be feeling about his problems if Sirius wasn’t asking for it.

Sirius’s face lit up. “Actually, and this may sound kind of stupid, but I really want to be a Kindergarten teacher.”

“Oh my god,” Remus laughed, “you would be absolutely perfect for that.”

Eventually, Sirius asked Remus about his visit to the restaurant last night. Remus remembered his own emotional state, and that Sirius had definitely seen some of it.

“Um, yeah, last night didn’t really go well for me before you saw me.” Remus began somewhat awkwardly. He explained in vague terms the fact that he had been on a first date with someone who he was not planning on seeing ever again. “But I also deleted my Tinder account last night, so, don’t worry.”

“The steakhouse man was bad enough to make you give up on online dating forever?” Sirius asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, actually.” Remus answered. “I only officially deactivated it after you texted me.”

***

Sirius was ridiculous. He was absolutely determined to make Remus laugh, even if it was by doing something stupid himself. After Remus accidentally stumbled on a protruding sidewalk curb, Sirius dramatically flung himself against a telephone pole. As they walked past the Space Needle, Sirius insisted on photobombing every tourist he could, and then made Remus take photos of himself copying their poses, either pinching the top of the Space Needle or kicking it.

There was a youthful energy in Sirius’s everyday motions, it seemed to Remus, and it successfully brought out Remus’s own youthful side. Their morning coffee turned into lunch, where they ordered sandwiches and one gigantic brownie to share. After Sirius told a joke that left Remus almost crying in laughter, Remus decided it was time.

“So, I feel like I have to say this.” He began, then gave a sheepish smile. “I kind of hate tiramisu.”

Sirius cackled, “I knew it!”

“What?!”

“I realized you didn’t like it after the first time I brought it to you. But I didn’t know what else to do to get your attention, because for some reason that’s the only dessert we sell!”

“So you brought me green beans instead?”

Sirius waved his arms defensively. “I was smitten, Remus. I didn’t know what to do.”

Remus just smiled.

***

Sirius didn’t have to be back at the restaurant until his shift started at 5, so on their way back from lunch they took the scenic route. They were walking in comfortable silence when a clap of thunder sounded overhead. Suddenly, sheets of rain began dumping from the sky.

Remus’s first reaction was to look for a taxi, or duck into a storefront, or hide from the weather somehow. But, Sirius let out a whoop of pure excitement.

“YES, it’s raining!” Sirius said, turning to grin at Remus.

“This is Seattle, it does that a lot–” Remus started, but was cut off when Sirius grabbed his hand, and pulled him, running through the rain.

Remus looked at him in astonishment, before he laced their fingers together and ran faster. If he felt light before, at the start of their date, now he felt weightless. Pure joy flowed through him as the sky continued its downpour and Sirius spun him in a sloppy ballroom dance twirl, their hands still linked.

On the middle of a small pedestrian bridge spanning a roaring creek, they stopped running. Panting from the run, cheeks flushed from the adventure, and completely soaked in water, time stopped as Sirius turned to face Remus.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Sirius breathed.

“Good,” Remus said, and closed the gap.

***

One month later, Remus found himself in a successful LTR.

[the-busy-ghost]

TSP S02E06 Thoughts

Ok I’m late to the party today so I assume everyone has commented on most of this already and therefore I was just going to quickly sum up any other observations. But I’m only twenty minutes in and I already have SO MANY THOUGHTS

- Apparently Cardinal Wolsey is not allowed to speak to anyone now and if he does this is Suspicious. But since Katherine isn’t exactly talking to her daughter either, tbh Henry is actually quite fair to be all ‘Why would you care’.

- When Henry gets all bitchy towards Wolsey re: the chancellorship, both Wolsey and Katherine’s poker faces should be a reaction image. 

- Poor Mary at least she has Margaret Pole

- Ok I would love to go back in time and save all the historical infants from an early death if I could but I STILL don’t understand how the Duke of Ross is still alive. Poor kid should have left the scene six years earlier. AND STILL NO MARGARET DOUGLAS. While I’d like to be hopeful and assume that @glorianas hatesex idea is going to pan out, tbh with the way they’re developing Angus’ character I worry this will be another badly handled r*pe scene, IF they bother to add Margaret Douglas’ birth in at all.

- Smol James is Smol. I would die for all of the children in this show. Protect them at all costs.

- But anyway who tf is ‘Hal’ Stewart. I might be wrong (I haven’t read every source ever) but tbh ‘Hal’ is not a common abbreviation of Henry in Scotland- Harry (Harrie) is much more common as a form of Henry, and is indeed the nickname that Margaret’s third husband was commonly known by. Sadly, ‘Hal’ just makes me want to snigger and make ‘England and St George’ type speeches (though even in that line, tbh, it’s Harry not Hal). “Hal Stewart” sounds like he should have a handlebar moustache and say ‘jolly good’ and fly spitfires. Or like he’s the descendant of expat Scots living in Canada. 

- I would be a lot more surprised that Angus is sneaking in and out of places if you weren’t all literally living in a very open house which would be very difficult to defend, I mean what do you expect to happen if you have obvious enemies, very few attendants, and you park yourself in HOLYROOD PALACE

- Cut it off Meg

- Oh wait so YOU’RE not safe there and your own children aren’t safe there but you’re perfectly happy just leaving James IV’s kids there? I should say ‘kid’ singular but I think we’re past waiting for the TSP writers to use google and realise that all of James IV’s other children are over the age of eighteen by 1520. But if Margaret DID have custody of them (which seems unlikely) she’s just dumped a young girl (maybe nine years old? We don’t know but that’s my guess) in a palace with her apparently shitty ex-husband and buggered off up to Edinburgh. Agnes Stewart come pick up your daughter please, don’t leave her here, or at least send your niece back to do it since she already knows the way

- Why are they even including so many offhand remarks bout James IV’s kids so much at all if they plainly don’t know anything about them? Is this ever going to be relevant to the plot? Or did they just want to have them in the first episode to show how ‘hard done by’ Margaret is but then realised they couldn’t just ditch them without losing the audience’s sympathy for her.

- Margaret getting the conveniently placed big old book on marriage law down from the shelf (every household should have one)- but really Meg, you must have seen enough shady divorces in 16th century Scotland to know the name of a good lawyer who could do this for you

- Once again though, does Angus have NO kinsmen or retainers any more? Or was he just cutting about the Canongate on his day off from Being Evil and thought ‘I’ll go check in on the wife then shall I, she’ll have Drink which is also now something I am to be associated with’

- I am LOVING the blatantly Georgian architecture at the gates to a very disappointing Field of the Cloth of Gold. Really TSP should have just gone full Reign and embraced its inaccuracies to make a fun teen show with a load of ridiculous modern dresses, would have been more bearable than this

- I would like to address however, the fact that this show has been going on about how terrible it is for princesses to be married off to older men all season, but what are we now supposed to root for four-year-old Mary to be betrothed to the much older HRE, rather than the dauphin who is MUCH closer in age? Can the writers make their minds up? Who are we supposed to think is in the right?

- Wee Mary’s face when Katherine spoke to her for the first time- that’s probably the first time the kid has ever heard the fancy queen lady actually talk to her though, so I’m not surprised but genuinely it was quite funny.

- Someone save this child please.

- IS THAT CHARLES V- WHY IS CHARLES V HERE?? GOD IT IS JUST UNINVITED GUESTS GALORE THIS EPISODE

- Also I may be wrong but I’m pretty sure he can’t just ride across France to get to the English Pale with only a couple of attendants and w/o a safe conduct or any other notification that he’s coming? This is just Margaret Tudor riding unattended through the Borders all over again.

- Gotta love Katherine just producing him out of nowhere though, the writers really do not care about the holes they dig themselves into but the implication that Katherine can just summon emperors whenever she likes is fantastic (does she keep him in a box??)

- Katherine about the horse- “He’s trained to kill a man with a single kick”. Don’t even hesitate Guerrero, you have four legs and there’s apparently three sixteenth century kings in the area, go to town

- Charles V just buggering off again, fading into the background like he was just Katherine’s own personal imperial amazon delivery man

- Have they decided to have the Evil May Day in 1520? Why?

- *Henry and Francis approach* *Theme from the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly plays*

- FUCK WOLSEY’S DAVID ATTENBOROUGH NARRATION REALLY MADE ME LAUGH, CHRIST I THINK I BROKE SOMETHING

“What a magnificent sight, two kings meeting for the first time, this rare species, almost never seen in daylight, both approach the watering hole...”

TBH I think their coordinated bow should also have had some narration Wolsey, if you really want Attenborough’s job after him. But it’s even funnier because they both genuinely looked so awkward stepping slowly towards each other, I just can’t

- Henry’s been buying his crowns from the same Burger King Autumn Range as Chris Pine in Outlaw King I see

- FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT PLEASE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER I GENUINELY THINK THAT WOULD BE FUNNY I HAVE SEEN POSH BOYS FIGHTING THEY’RE TERRIBLE BUT IT’S REALLY FUNNY

- Pfft Wolsey’s evident panic is funny but I would like to copyright Stafford’s little eyebrow twitch where he’s obviously thinking ‘Let me hold your coat Henry’

- Katherine of Aragon following at a slower pace while Claude gives her a sideways glance is also mildly amusing, like KOA could not look less bothered. I know the wrestling was historically accurate but honestly Henry and Francis being all aggressive like they’re actually willing to kill each other when I bet they just get outside and hug weirdly is probably going to be hilarious.

- Once again Maggie, please take that child and RUN

- I was right, it IS funny.  Please Wolsey we need more Attenborough narration for this fight.

- Everyone standing around occasionally clapping awkwardly and looking vaguely unimpressed is like what would have happened in Bridget Jones if Hugh Grant and Colin Firth’s fight scene wasn’t soundtracked.

- Yeah so the wrestling was accurate but tbh I’m not sure that Henry staggering out of the ring looking like James II right before a stabbing is. In my experience if a ginger monarch in tights is wearing that expression you run, no matter who you are. 

[natsugia]

10 Comfort Movies + Wild Card

I got tagged by @ksfd89​ and @jessmcriano​ for my top 10 comfort movies (plus one more) and this was really hard because I’m so much more a tv and anime person than a movie person nowadays, but here we go. Ranked by favorites.

1. BBC North and South

I’m starting off the list with a 4 part miniseries and I don’t care. Just think of it as a four hour long movie lol. And this one has everything you need. Misunderstandings. Pining. Rejected proposals. Hands. All the hands. Unrequited requited love. It’s the grittier sister to Pride and Prejudice with more focus on class warfare and I absolutely love it. You can watch it on Netflix, but if you can find it elsewhere, (legally preferably) please do. Netflix cut some footage that it didn’t deem necessary, and it was a mistake.

2. BBC Pride and Prejudice (1995)

And another miniseries... *cough cough* I mean six hour long movie. If you guys haven’t watched it by now and you’ve heard of it, then quite frankly, it’s probably too good for you. jkjkjkjkjk. Colin Firth soaking wet. That’s all you need. You know about Emma 2020 with Knightley taking off his clothes in lovesick frustration? Well, Colin’s Darcy did it first. Find it on Amazon Prime (or BBC/BBC One I think?)

3. Pride and Prejudice (2005)

Didn’t I just put P&P on the list? Yes I did. Do I care? No. Cause Pride and Prejudice is so good you need two adaptations on the list. This one is amazing in its own right because of the costume designs and the music and the softness of light, and the acting, and the hand flex, (did I mention the hand flex?), and the... you get my drift. Again, if you haven’t seen it, what have you been doing with your life? Sadly, I don’t think it’s available to stream legally for free. I think you have to rent or buy it, but it’s totally worth it.

4. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Um... Can you guys see the theme I’m working with here? Bwahahaha. Yes, I love my period dramas. This one is no exception. Lily James gets engaged and leaves her new fiancé behind in New York to go after a story in another country (after WW2) and ends up meeting her soulmate (who wrote to her about a book -- anyone else getting Lit vibes or just me?) Also Matthew Goode is her best friend. Enough said. You can find it on Netflix.

5. The Notebook

Again with the Lit vibes. I’ve really got a type you guys. If it has books, banter, sexual chemistry, pining, and angst, sign me up. I’m your girl. I mean, just look at them. Um, excuse me? I’d like that for myself thanks. Not available to stream at the moment (seriously what is wrong with people?), but you can rent or buy it.

6. Anne of Green Gables + The Sequel (1985 and 1987 Kevin Sullivan films)

You want a pretty faithful adaptation of the original Anne of Green Gables? Look no further than this film. It’s honestly the best adaptation I’ve ever seen. Megan Follows is the only Anne for me. The Sequel takes some liberties with the subsequent novels (Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Anne of Windy Poplars), but all the important parts are there, plus Johnathan Crombie’s Gilbert Blythe is amazing (RIP). Also Colleen Dewhurst as Marilla is A++. If you’ve seen Anne With an E and are devastated by the cancellation, watch this. It’s the superior adaptation anyways. It’s a travesty this is not on streaming (they’ve even taken the movie in parts off youtube). However, you can buy it on dvd from Amazon, Sullivan Entertainment, etc...

7. Iron Man

And now we take a break from your scheduled period dramas. Take me back to the beginning. That’s right. This is where the MCU started it all, and honestly, a lot of the films in the MCU after can’t beat it. It’s the perfect origin story in which we watch billionaire playboy philanthropist Tony Stark actually grow a heart and care about something other than sex and money. There’s classic rock. Gwyneth as Pepper Potts. Jeff Bridges is an amazing villian. Just forget that Terrence Howard plays Rhodey in this one. We all do. Also, Iron Man is just so fucking cool. Find it on Hulu and Disney+.

8) The Cutting Edge

Not exactly a period drama, but trade in books for ice skating and long corset dresses for sparkly skirts and tights, and it’s pretty much more of the same thing. Rough hockey boy meet ice princess for a chance to win gold at the Olympics. Banter, sexual chemistry, pining, and angst. Watch it on Hulu and Amazon Prime.

9. Tangled

A Disney film? Yes I know. But technically, it’s still a period drama! Well, musical really, but still! A pure and innocent film about going after your dream with a thief who turns out to be your soul mate. Your mom you’ve lived with all your life and keeps you locked away in a tower? Yeah, she’s actually an evil witch who kidnapped you to stay young. Those lanterns you’ve been dreaming of all your life? They’re actually a sign from your real family -- the king and queen -- to come home. I mean, who wouldn’t want to find out that secretly you’re a lost princess? Also, Mandy Moore’s voice. Find it on Disney+.

10. The Lady Vanishes 

Probably my favorite Hitchcock film of all time. Remember my type? Well, this one has a traveling music historian pair up with a newly engaged stuffy rich girl to solve the mystery of the missing lady on a train. Is there banter? Absolutely. Is there sexual chemistry? Absolutely. Pining and angst? You got it. No books, but the suspense more than makes up for it. And surprisingly, you can find it on Tubi for free! I’m so shocked.

Wild Card. Haikyuu!!

Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself that Iron Man should be in this spot, and really, out of all the movies, you’d probably be right. However, Iron Man is still technically a movie, and as I’ve stated before, I really watch tv and a lot of anime, so the wild card goes to an anime tv show. I had to throw one in there, and this is my absolute all time favorite anime. If you’re ever wanting to dip your toes into the anime scene and want to watch something that’s light-hearted and pure, this is for you. Yes, it’s technically a sports anime about volleyball, but really it’s about friendship, hard work, and giving 110% to be the best person/player you can be, and honestly, I think all of us can use that kind of inspiration right now. You can find the first two seasons on Netflix and Hulu. The entire series you can find on Crunchyroll (VRV has up to Season 3).

All right. I’m tagging @austennerdita2533​, @pizzabookbuying​, @lej418​, and anyone else who wants to do this :) (tag me if you do so I can read your responses. I’d love to get to know you better <3)