Chapter Text
The first time Harry Hart met Gary Unwin, the lad had been playing rather intensely with a car set, expression hard as he tried to fit as many miniature cars onto a small plastic roundabout as possible. The truly tiny cub was staring at the piled cars with a look of frustration as he held a truck in his hand, clearly trying to figure out where it could go in the lineup, and was completely alienated from the grief his carrier was expressing.
Lee’s death had struck Harry rather hard; the Kingsman was an elite service, one populated almost exclusively with Dominant Roux, and each agent was chosen for their ability to play nice with others of their gender. Such a thing was almost unheard of for Dominants, and as such their selection process was easily – hands down, actually – one of the hardest to pass, for any spy agency. Because atop of learning their business, agents had to be able to suppress their nature enough to work together.
The Kingsman – once a name that was almost interchangeable with MI6 – was founded by a Dominant Roux who’d had the foresight (as far back as the forties) to realize that the world was changing and that someone (or something, like an organization) had to be in place to look after the welfare of Roux. The original Arthur had been obsessed not only with protecting the Roux of Britain but of the world and had sought to recruit open minded Roux who had enough grace to put aside their biology in favor of protecting the population as a whole. He seemed to understand that Roux needed to work together at some point to secure their race, even back then when how few they were growing in numbers was not widely known.
As such the Kingsman was an organization that operated without the knowledge of the human government - without the knowledge of any government - and sought to control not only Rogue Roux and humans who worked to change the status quo, but fought to protect their race in any manner that called for it. The Roux race could only continue to exist due to their secretive nature and anyone – Roux or human – that threatened that delicate balance was dealt with accordingly. While Roux of both gender, the Dominant male and the Submissive female, appeared at first glance very much a fit, attractive male human, any type of in depth medical exam would easily prove otherwise.
They were not human, they had come about on a completely different evolutionary track, and only the flesh and blood of the humans they lived amongst gave them enough nourishment to survive. They neither deficated nor urinated, using every inch of fuel their body was given, and Submissives males carried a womb where their upper and lower digestive tracks should have been.
While they were unknown save to a select group of humans (hunters, and didn’t they cause quite a headache, especially the Chinese ones) it took quite a bit of work to keep it that way. As technology grew – as science, both medical and otherwise - and more and more things became available to spot a Roux from a human was developed, the agency was busier than ever. They were incredibly few in number as a species, fewer still as Kingsman, and their continued existence hinged without a doubt on their secretive status, and as such great strides were made throughout their race to keep themselves unknown. Because there was no doubt anyone’s mind that if humans knew they of them they’d hunt them into nonexistence. Humans were the dominant species of this planet without question, and superior strength and prowess of a Roux aside, there was no way they could stand against the whole of the human race united. And so they killed when needed, suppressed information and technological advances until (if) they thought humans could handle it and had enough safe-guards to protect their own kind from said technology had been developed, and generally tried to better the lives of Roux around the world, even if they were really only known and prevalent in the UK. They were hoping to change that soon, they already had offices in most European countries, though the Roux of the US were staunchly independent creatures and those in their government and intelligence communities seemed unwilling to join the Kingsman in their crusade even if they recognized the validity of their mission. Typical Yank mentality, really.
The Kingsman served as a sort of social services for Roux, offering roles within their far-flung operation for Roux of any gender and age, as long as they were willing to undergo desensitizing training so they co-exist with non-relative members of their races. Even the lowest support position had to go through this and any type of failure - either in training or during their tenure with the Kingsman - meant an immediate removal. This was not only the loss of a job, but the loss of protection for their kills (the Kingsman guaranteed that even if they'd been caught or implicated, they would do their very best to erase it), as well as a rather aggressive paycheck (funded by bouts of mercenary jobs they took on the side), to loosing the house or flat they'd been gifted upon acceptance into the organization and funding for their children to attend the very best schools and universities around the world, as well as the promise of lucrative positions for said cubs should it prove appropriate.
Lee Unwin had understood the importance of their mission, enough so to fight the demands of his biology and to become one of Harry Hart’s most respected friends. As such, Harry was loathed to think of his mate and cub abandoned with no aid. And so he had visited, had made his promises to appease his guilt. After all, a life debt was perhaps the only thing that triumphed over any other social more in their culture and Harry would be damned if he didn’t respect that.
That wasn’t to say that his visit had been appreciated.
Michael Unwin had been less than accepting of his promises, expressing his devotion to the belief that Lee’s death (quite rightfully) rested solely on Harry’s shoulders. His imposition upon them could almost be seen as a threat to Michael, who'd Lee had long moaned about's resistance to the idea of mixing with other Roux. It was hardly uncommon for Dominant Roux to kill the children of other bloodlines, a left over biological quirk that was meant to ensure only the strongest of their kind survived, but Harry had no intention of taking Michael as a mate and as such, Lee’s cub was quite safe. Michael stubbornly refused to see reason, though.
As the years passed Harry had become quite confident that he’d never hear from the Submissive cub, so strong was Michael's revulsion at the thought of asking him for aid. So the surprise he’d felt when he received the notification that someone had called in giving the password for aid he’d set up solely for Lee Unwin’s child…well, it was quite a shock indeed. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Gary ‘Eggsy' Unwin, beat to hell as he rested against a park bench as if it was the only thing holding him up, an even tinier cub suckling against his breast, and the urge to protect swept over the agent so strong that it was almost blinding.
At twenty-two Eggsy Unwin was considered an adult by several years by human standards. For a Roux though, he was still considered hardly more than a child. Roux reached sexual maturity at thirty and until then they were viewed as quite young. As a (very possibly) dying race, cubs were considered untouchable and operated outside of the complex social norms of their race – except, of course, if there was a mating Dominant in the picture that was not their sire.
Eggsy knew that all too well.
Dean Coor had mated with his carrier a little over a year ago. At twenty-two, Eggsy couldn’t understand his carrier’s urge to re-mate all that well. So far from his majority, Eggsy felt neither lust nor romantic love for anyone, and as such he didn’t understand Michael Unwin’s driving need to be mated, to have a Dominant, though he tried to get it, he really did. Even if he didn't understand, Eggsy wanted his carrier to be happy, and it was clear that being unmated made Michael a ghost of what he once had been. At first, Dean hadn’t seemed that bad and Michael had been so happy, almost like he'd been when Eggsy's sire had still been alive and Eggsy had thought, well he'd hoped... Dean’d be willing to – at the very least – tolerate Eggsy existence. And while the Submissive found nothing about Dean Coor that would have ever have called to him as mate (again, most of this was understanding by proxy, as Eggsy could never imagine wanting a mate period) he’d loved that his carrier – his mother – was so happy.
But in the end Michael had chosen his new beau over them and Dean was terrible. It had only taken a handful of months after he’d successfully shared a heat with Michael for him to become abusive to both Eggsy and even on occasion to Michael, so much so that Eggsy honest to god feared for his life more often than not. Both Submissives had thought Dean’s abusive would lessen when he’d successfully cubed Michael, the presence of his own continued bloodline should have been enough to solidify the Dominant’s claim and presence in their life, but it had seemingly done the opposite.
Even though Dashiell – affectionately called Dash by any that knew him – was another Dominant and therefore everything Dean supposedly wanted, Dean’s aggression towards Eggsy had only intensified. What’s more, the elder Roux seemingly wanted nothing to do with Dash. While such belligerent neglect could be ignored – even forgiven in their society with Eggsy so attentive to the baby– the moment he’d struck Dash, Eggsy was just done.
Because Eggsy, even at his tender age, knew that any abuse towards a cub just couldn’t be forgiven and he couldn't reconcile the image of his carrier with what Michael had become. A lot of it was the drugs. A lot of it was the drugs, as they affected Roux just as they did humans. Michael’s seemingly flippant, uncaring approach to the fact that both of his children were being abused was easy enough to understand when you saw the not so small laundry list of drugs he was taking. But Eggsy had never indulged in the stuff, no matter what kind of bliss it promised, and he couldn’t forgive the ugly colored bruise across Dash’s forehead. All because Dash was colicky and couldn’t stop crying. It was natural, for Christ’s sake. He was just a baby, not even six months old yet.
And so he’d scoped the cub up, ignoring the raging shouts of Dean as he sprinted away from the flat, his carrier completely checked out and seemingly content and happy on the sofa. He’d called the number on his medal out of sheer desperation, aware that if he’d returned Dean would kill him for taking his cub and what would become of Dash then, with no one to give enough shits about him to ensure he had a clean clothes on or a full belly?
The park was abandoned at such a late hour and so Eggsy carefully rucked his hoodie and t-shirt up, a razor sharp nail cutting deep into the skin just above his nipple. He winced, face scrunching in a look of distaste and disbelief as he raised Dash up to feed just like he’d seen his carrier do a thousand times. He was yet mature – his blood hardly had the antibodies and nutrition that an adult Submissive's would carry – yet Dash settled all the same, his warm little body going limp in Eggsy’s hold as he suckled Eggsy's blood. It would be better if they had some human blood around, something he could mix with some formula to give Dash everything he needed, but...well...it would just have to do, wouldn't it?
The sound of footsteps drew his attention and Eggsy froze, tensing, as the wind carried the scent of a Dominant Roux in his prime to him. The man who stepped into the light of the park’s street light could only be described as posh, tailored head to toe in bespoke clothing, and for a moment Eggsy wondered if this was the end of him, if he’d finally stretched his luck too far. But then a memory arose, one so carefully associated with a another almost as old as he was, and Eggsy’s fear settled somewhat. He knew, even before the bloke opened his mouth, that this was the Dominant that had visited them all those years ago, that had visited Eggsy, and given him the medal he still wore around his neck. The elder Roux (he looked perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Eggsy, well into his majority) stilled a handful of steps before them, his eyes unreadable as he took in the sight of Eggsy and the feeding Dash.
“Good evening, Eggsy.” The Dominant greeted after a moment and Eggsy shuddered, eyes shuttering till they were mere slits, unwilling to look away from the possible threat even as he recognized aid that he’d sent for.
After that things had moved very quickly. Eggsy found himself in a large home in the suburbs, homed by an ancient Submissive Roux – a rare, fine man by the name of Alistair Holmes, who was more than willing to take in abandoned or orphaned cubs – and Eggsy quite forgot about Harry Hart. In fact, he’d forgotten about almost everything from his old life, caught up in lesson after lesson the elder Roux pushed upon him. Everything from how he dressed to how he spoke (though try as he might, Eggsy really couldn't get rid of the South London accent), to how took his tea was evaluated and re-evaluated, until Eggsy could hardly recognize himself in the mirror. What, he wondered, would his friends in the old neighborhood think of him now if they saw him? Taking on such airs?
But Eggsy had no complaints, Alistair made sure they were well fed and well educated, made sure that Eggsy was fit for grade so to speak, determined that he’d make him into the perfect Submissive. The training (and it could very well be called training, thank you very much) was more intense – was more attention – than Michael had ever bothered to give him, and as the years passed and Dash not only grew but thrived, Eggsy could hardly complain.
Alistair gave them a good life, and the loyalty and debt he felt to the old bat and – by proxy – to Harry Hart, was undoubtable. It was a good life and for a long time Eggsy was quite happy, quite happy in his quiet little suburb, but then - well, nothing ever stayed the same, did it?
Eggsy had quite forgotten about Harry Hart as the years passed. In honesty, he hadn’t even really thought about the Dominant until need called him to, not until Alistair Holmes had died quietly on his porch swing, old age victorious at last.
Eggsy had been out when it had happened, picking Dash from his school and another cub they’d taken in, Paulo, from his daycare. The sight of the elder Submissive, still and unmoving and somehow utterly peaceful, had been devastating to him. Eggsy had known it was coming; the Roux was nearly a hundred and sixty-two, positively ancient for their race, but the sight of his pale and cold body had been quite a sight.
A part of him had truly believed Alistair to stubborn to die.
Eggsy had mourned for the man – for the closest thing that he could call a mother – before moving one of their pack and plays outside, placing Dash and Paulo (safely tucked into his basket) in it. He’d thought about calling Harry then; the Dominant had been very clear when he’d left his number that Eggsy was to call if he needed anything, that Lee’s life-debt had yet to be paid. But in the end he’d settled for calling the devil he knew over the one he didn’t.
Eggsy had first met the Holmes brothers when they’d started summering with Alistair. Apparently there was a movement among the Roux, at least by the well-to-do Roux, to essentially re-structure Roux society. By their very nature Roux were hardly pack creatures, in fact if they were to be compared to any other species it would most likely be some sort of big cat like a jaguar, as they could hardly stand being around each other if they were not blood-relatives or united through a mating.
But the Roux were a dying breed, on the very cusp of extinction really, and the powers-that-be in the Roux world, at least in the UK, were determined to change the way things were done. And so the Holmes cubs were sent to spend time with their queer Uncle Alistair, who harbored many other children who were unrelated to them. It seemed that Mr. and Mr. Holmes had big plans for their children (both were in the government, as such it went without saying that their sons would end up in just as prominent positions) wanted their children desensitized to being around unrelated Roux. It had been a strain for Eggsy as well, who had to get used to being around two nearly adult Dominants and both Mycroft and Sherlock were very opinionated creatures, more than willing to cut to the wick with a handful of simple words, and Sherlock in particular was more than capable of being stupidly, cruelly rude. The youngest Holmes brother was alright, though. Alcott “Call me Al again and I’ll cut you, ‘Eggsy’” was another Submissive and around Eggsy's age, so he mostly spent his time with him.
Mycroft and Sherlock were hardly ever allowed to part, Alistair seemingly willing to force them into comfort around each other out of sheer force. Something which was quite difficult, as even brother Dominants got along less and less the older they got. They were also on babysitting duty more often than not, caring for Dash or Eggsy and Alcott most of the time. Whether or not this had its intended purpose of muting a Dominant Roux’s need to eliminate cubs not of their own bloodline or to work together with another of their gender, Eggsy didn’t know.
All of the Holmes boys were annoyingly stoic about everything.
The day was unseasonably cold today, wasn't it? That's nice, Eggsy. Dash learned to walk on his own - did you see that? That's nice, Eggsy. The house next door is on fire! That's nice, Eggsy. Don't get mad, but I managed to hack into the pentagon without Alcott's help and the NSA may have noticed. That's nice, Eggsy.
Honestly.
They were just the worst.
Eggsy really liked Alcott though. The two were close enough to chat and email during the rest of the year, which wasn’t considered that much of a triumph as they were both immature Submissives, and it was kind of a known fact that Submissives got along better with each other, especially when there was no competition for mates or if they were introduced early enough. Alcott was really good with computers – he’d even talked Alistair into buying Eggsy a new model every year or so – and under his guidance Eggsy had gotten pretty damn good at it himself. Good enough to be hired on a consultant white hat, working from his home when the kids were in daycare or after they’d gone to bed, building firewalls and testing for weaknesses. And if sometimes he did change that hat for a black one and did a little bit of hacking at foreign databases…well, that was no one’s business but his and the Queen's, right?
Eggsy’d been mid-shovel, sweating and hurting but determined to give his mentor a proper burial underneath the boughs of a shady oak he’d always loved in their backyard, when Sherlock and Alcott had arrived.
The Dominant had stood at the edges of the shallow grave, looking quite as he had all those years ago before he’d maturity, face serious and contrite, and the aging cub had said nothing as he was pulled from the grave, cradling a frightfully upset Dash against his chest as he sat next to where Alcott was busy shifting Paulo’s from his carrier onto his lap, nose squished in distaste. Sherlock had been unnaturally quiet that night, though Alcott had explained to him later that it had less to do with Alistair’s death and more to do with a Submissive (his name was Victor Trevor, god he was so outside of Sherlock’s league, but…well) and a failed courting than anything else.
“He left everything to you,” Alcott had said casually as they stood before the covered grave, “will you be alright here on your own? I can find someone…”
But the other Submissive had sounded as weary at the idea as Eggsy had felt. Alistair had been a rare Roux indeed, a maiden Aunt so to speak, and despite what changes the new guard wanted to make, the fact that he’d had opened his doors for so many abandoned cubs of others – such a thing was unheard of in their community and Eggsy doubted it would be easy to find another like him. He didn’t know if there was another Alistair Holmes in the entire world.
“I reach my majority in a year,” Eggsy had pointed out, Dash a heavy and cumbersome weight in his arms, yet the young Submissive could not find it in himself to set the other cub down. “I’m fully capable of hunting for us. We’ll be fine.”
Thankfully neither Sherlock nor Alcott had challenged him on that.
They had stayed just long enough to share a hastily made meal of sandwiches and tea, just long enough for it to be awkward because Jesus Sherlock was in a mood, enough to actually worry Eggsy, because Sherlock wasn't the type of bloke to let anything get under his skin for long, before leaving for the city.
And suddenly Eggsy was alone.
And a home owner.
And a state-licensed foster parent.
Christ.
But they’d been alright, really they had been. Mycroft called often to check in on him, as did Alcott, and living so close to London meant that it was easy enough to hunt – even with so many cubs – and any time things got rough Eggsy knew he could always call Mycroft and the Dominant would get them something, if only out a of a sense of duty more than any sort of fondness.
But then Andrew Graves had appeared a handful of years later, a Dominant who seemed uncaring that Eggsy was raising not only his younger brother but a handful of other cubs – their household now numbered four with the addition of Naveen, whose sire and carrier had died in a house fire – and Eggsy somehow found himself filling the vacuum Alistair’s death had created, incapable of turning away the cub when he’d been delivered wailing and screaming, bum chapped from a shamefully dry diaper he didn't even need, and Eggsy was so unsure, so very, very unsure, on how to continue.
Andrew seemed like a good man, a gentleroux who worked as a social worker, and perhaps it was that which made him so fine with Eggsy’s occupation as a foster dad (well, one of his occupations, but Eggsy had signed some rather serious confidentiality agreements, so there was a good chance Andrew would never learn about the other job)? But there was no way the newly adult Roux was willing to risk his babies, because despite how genuine and good natured Andrew seemed - he’d been attempting to coax Eggsy into a courting for nearly six months, always backing down when the Submissive warned him to - the Dominant’s simple acceptance of other cubs was something to be suspicious of. Eggsy wanted to think otherwise, Andrew was very handsome and very sweet, but the young Submissive was unwilling to take any chances. Because it wasn’t uncommon at all in their culture for a Dominant to sweep in and kill cubs that weren’t his blood, or to abuse them, just like Dean had done to Eggsy.
In a normal, nuclear Roux family there would be Dominant and Submissive father to guide him through a courting, to protect and advise him, and Eggsy felt the loss of his sire and his carrier’s negligence harder than he had in years. But he also felt stuck.
Because Eggsy also wanted a mate.
He wanted one very badly.
The Change – a shift in biology that all Roux had when they reached maturity and their sexual organs finally became viable – had left Eggsy with a deep seated need to mate and produce his own offspring despite living in a house filled with cubs, and the young Roux found himself wanting what Andrew was offering just a little too much. Just enough that he couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t imagine going to Mycroft or Sherlock about this…just…just no. Mycroft was so busy and so stern - Eggsy gagged uncomfortably at the thought of just asking the stern man to chaperon much less having the Dominant watch him court - and the last Eggsy had heard Sherlock was lost in his world of drugs, and again, after what he'd grown up with, there was no way in hell Eggsy was letting that around him or his cubs. And so he called the number for Harry Hart for the first time in nearly eleven years, desperate for any kind of guidance.
Still, Eggsy was surprised when the Dominant suddenly appeared, looking prim and proper in a well cut suit and neigh a hair out of place, at his garden gate less than a day later.