Chapter Text
Alex does not like being on missions in merry-old England.
It’s always raining and kind of murky, and honestly? He sticks out like a sore thumb.
The wedding reception held at Buckingham Palace is posh and elaborate, too-expensive and gaudy in a place dripping with centuries of wealth.
Classical music plays as he makes his way around, uncomfortable in his suit and his all-American, weather-worn cowboy boots and Stetson. Zahra insisted on keeping up the facade, and the hat helps keep his face away from the cameras.
The mission, of course, does not go well. Another reason he doesn’t like being in merry-old England: Agent Galahad, or whatever his real name is.
Neither of them really know one another, truly. They’ve crossed paths once before, during the Rio Olympics. They had their respective missions, both made mutually aware that there would be a person from another agency that was not to be addressed, followed by a general description and the name “Galahad”. They told him he’d be wearing Oxfords, and would have a dark Alex was so excited for his first solo mission. He was scanning the room and as his eyes passed through the crowd, he noticed him immediately. Blond hair, glasses, an impeccably tailored dark blue suit and an absurdly boring tie. He could have been any of the rich Galahad, clearly seasoned in the institution, had looked at him with a sheer coldness that could have been mistaken for downright disgust.
Alex wasn’t sure what on earth could have made Galahad look at him that way, briefly considering that it could possibly be his race (as was the unfortunate reality of the world; he knows Queen Mary’s racism is the palace’s not-so-best-kept-secret) or his Southern American persona, but when he described the encounter with Zahra, June, and Nora, they simply frowned and told him that it was a good thing that they were on opposite sides of the pond.
But anyways.
Knowing he was on Galahad’s stomping ground didn’t help his mood, and he just hoped that in the off chance they ran into each other here, it’d be at most a brush of the elbows.
It is resolutely not a simple brush of the elbows.
Alex has no idea what assignment Galahad was even trying to complete, but he knows he was so damn close to completing his .
And that’s the most frustrating part of it all. His assignment was to figure out exactly where the bomb was that Statesman had found the signals for. Nora had pinpointed it to be inside the Palace, and his job was to make sure it didn’t go off and find the man who was responsible for placing it.
He had the task sufficiently handled, where he is presently in one of the broom closets in the adjoining kitchen with a man bound to one of the ridiculously expensive looking shelves with the industrial, bullet-proof rope Nora had designed.
Alex hangs up his hat on the wall, takes out his pistol, and aims it at the man’s face. His answer to where the bomb was placed makes Alex short-circuit.
“You put it in the cake ?” Alex hisses, thinking of the several-tiered cake covered in buttercream frosting. “How the fuck am I supposed to disarm that?”
“There’s no way to do so,” the man says, eyeing the pistol nervously. “I was just hired to place it in the cake.”
“So you baked it? Who hired you?”
“I cannot say.” Alex cocks the gun and points it directly between the man’s eyebrows. “I do not know, I do not know their names. They would not tell me. But he was American.”
Alex curses, sighs. “He could be Canadian, you know. It isn’t always us. We have similar accents.”
“He had an American flag on his suit,” the Frenchman continues vehemently. “He was older. Not very kind.”
Alex frowns at the baker. “You baked a cake with a bomb in it.”
“He threatened my family,” the baker says, anxious and shaky in his restraints.
And Alex, goddamn it, believes him. “You said there’s no way to disarm it?” he says, checking the clock. He knows that they’re going to cut the cake soon. “How is it activated?”
“When the Prince and the Princess cut into it,” he says quickly. “But there is a detonator under the table just in case.”
Alex sighs again, and lowers the gun. “I always have to get my hands so fucking dirty,” he mutters to himself. “You’re staying here. People are being sent to come get you as we speak.”
“My family–”
“Will be safe,” Alex assures him, putting his hat back on and holstering his gun under his suit jacket. He leaves the closet and returns to the reception with a task at hand.
Two out of three of his tasks were done. He’d found the one who placed it, technically. Found where it was located (the $75,000 fucking cake in the center of the room), he just had to disarm it.
And that’s always the hardest part. Made even harder with Agent Galahad glaring at him from across the room.
Alex eyes the cake, approaching it casually, slowly.
“Ginger Ale, I’m not quite sure how to disarm it,” he mutters to the lip of his whiskey glass to cover up his words.
“Can you get any closer?” Nora says. He can hear her typing in the background, not exactly sure what she’s doing but sure she’s good at it and working furiously.
“I can try.” Alex drops a US States coin and kicks it underneath the table. He hears the whoosh of it activating, scanning the cake, and locating the bomb within the pounds of flour and frosting. Nora whoops in victory.
“I beg you to not,” a cool voice says, indifference in his tone. Galahad, sleek and collected, comes up next to him, drinking a vodka martini. He takes a sip, looks coldly at Alex. “You’ll get us made. Or worse, killed.”
“Is that Galahad?” comes Nora’s voice in his earpiece. The camera in his Stetson buckle gives her a live feed of what he’s seeing, albeit a bit higher than his eyeline.
Alex nods, hoping Nora will see the motion and understand it.
“What are you doing here, your majesty?” he hisses as Galahad stands next to him, adjusting his watch. He hears a faint beep and frowns at it.
“Tequila,” Nora warns through his earpiece. “Do not get made. You will get the whole palace blown to bits.”
Galahad barely glances at Alex, choosing to stay focused on Prince Phillip and Princess Martha. He tucks his hand under the table, and something snaps into place. “It’ll be disarmed in a minute if we can keep the happy couple away from the cake.”
“ I was assigned to disarm it.”
“And have you figured it out?” Begrudgingly, Alex hasn’t been able to do so, too busy trying to ask the baker questions, and having him escorted safely out by Statesman operatives for further interrogation.
“No,” Alex says, gritting his jaw.
“Then follow my lead.”
“Ginger Ale?” Alex says, waiting for her cue.
“There’s something else going on,” she says reluctantly. “I’m trying to figure it out… we’re getting intel from Kingsman right now.” Alex, annoyed at being kept in the dark, nods at Galahad.
“Merlin, it’s set to be removed,” he hears Galahad mutter.
“ Removed– ?”
“Come on, Tequila,” Galahad says, leaving no room for argument. “We have to get the crowd into the other room for it–”
There’s a beeping, unmistakable. Faint. A threatening, ominous sound. The Royal Guards stationed along the perimeter immediately start to move. They’re ordering all the guests to the other room, voices strict and urgent. The guests all start to move, and Alex is being pushed along with them.
“Merlin, what’s going on–?” Galahad starts.
“Tequila, shield! Shield NOW!” Nora yells at him through his earpiece. Springing into action, he breaks free of the Royal Guards, too busy trying to protect the actual royalty, and Alex swings his lasso to land around the cake. Galahad jumps to his side, and he almost sees it in slow motion:
The cake implodes, flour everywhere. Alex jumps in front of Galahad on instinct, knowing that the lasso can only do so much. A burst of flames that the lasso’s fire extinguishing system and forcefield absorbing the force of it, keeping it contained as much as it can hold. Enough to remain in the room and not damage the rest of the Palace and celebratory affair, but not enough to keep the shockwaves from shattering glass and sending Alex and Galahad backwards.
He lands on shards of glass, a piece of shrapnel slicing into his thigh. A graze wound, deep and painful, but no less frustrating. The implosion fizzles out and the lasso’s forcefield light dims.
They’re covered in frosting and bits of glass. Alex’s thigh is bleeding a worrying amount of blood, and he’s laying next to Galahad on the royal carpets. And Galahad, of course, is unharmed.
Alex really, really hates coming to England.