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[ it's not sudden, exactly, but the statement is stark. his last conversation involving that line meant telling harry he had died. eggsy doubts thomas has news that unsettling, but he very rarely receives good news, so. ]

Okay. [ the reply comes quick, instinctive more than anything else. ] Should I — [ do something? go somewhere? ] — I just mean, uh, go ahead.

[ smooth. ]

[ the reply is quick, but there's still a moment of hesitation after it and it prompts thomas to add: ] It isn't bad.

[ not as such, though he'd certainly cursed it for a while, wished that it wasn't the case. wished that he could have just died of old age, that he could have let go of everything.

he doesn't wish that anymore. ]

But I think you should know that I'm considerably older than I look.

[ older could mean anything. like how harry looks good for his age 'cause he's a bloody spy. ]

Oh. [ said mainly because it's something to say, to fill the air, to react. he sounds almost relieved (after all, it's not thomas telling him off for flirting or admitting something frightening). a beat. ] How much older?

Seventy years older, give or take.

[ he was born around the turn of the century. if he looks to be in his early forties, which he assumes is where eggsy would put him, too, that means one has to add at least 70 years to get close to his real age. ]

[ he does the math. of course he does. and exhales, too many questions coming to mind to vocalise any single curiosity. eggsy almost makes a joke, then, about thomas' age being higher than his upper limits on tinder and grinder, but then he'd have to explain grinder... and he doubts thomas would appreciate an overly light tough to this sensitive matter. not that eggsy has any idea how he should feel about this, or even how he actually feels. ]

Fucking hell. [ ah, that's probably not appreciated either. ] You look bloody fantastic for your age, guv. [ but. ] How do you look — how do look like you do?

[ even as he asks, he considers answers. magic. fucking magic. ]

[ it's neither appropriate nor entirely appreciated, but thomas can't blame eggsy for the reaction, either. he'd been rather disbelieving when he'd noticed, too. now, he's more worried about recrimination, about disgust or anger. he doesn't actually think eggsy will react that way, but -- still. ]

Magic.

[ yeah. that is absolutely the correct answer. ] I started ageing backward at some point, I think in my eighties. I'm not quite sure why. [ but magic was returning to the world at the time, after everyone had rather assumed it was declining, disappearing entirely. ]

[ in his eighties. right, because he’s been eighty. well, he’s over eighty presently. eggsy remains stuck in the processing stage of this revelation. ]

Jesus. [ breathed more than said. ] Are you still going backwards?

[ sometimes, thomas still feels like he's in the processing stage, too. especially because there are no real answers. (it's a good thing, perhaps, that he mostly cares that things work, not how.) ]

No. I don't think so.

[ there’s a long pause before he responds. ]

And you’re okay?

[ he doesn’t know why he asks that other than he thinks going backwards might hurt somewhow, even with the magic. ]

Quite.

[ he's fine. he's physically fine. these days, he's mentally and emotionally all right, too, or at least -- better.

(he'd wanted to die, at some point. everyone else had.) ]

[ boy, this is a doozy of a phone call. ]

Good. [ and it is a relief to hear. ] Can I come over?

Of course.

[ any time, really. ]

Okay. See you in fifteen.

[ knock knock. ]

[ there's tea being kept warm on the stove when eggsy knocks on the door, thomas in a suit as always -- three pieces, heavy wool this time. ]

Eggsy.

[ a greeting. thomas steps back to let him in. ]

[ for a moment, he stares at thomas, searching his for clues to his actual age or the magic. belatedly, with his hands tucked in the pockets of his black trackies, he smiles and steps through the doorway. ]

Hey. [ clearing his throat. ] Nice suit.

[ then, he hovers, waiting for thomas to lead the way wherever he's welcome. ]

[ there are none, but thomas still lets eggsy look for a long moment, still. ]

Thank you.

[ the living room is small, things for tea set out. ] Are you hungry? [ he has scones, if eggsy wants them. ]

[ at that, he nods. he’s pretty much always hungry...even when he’s here for more important endeavours, like sussing our nightingale. once he has tea and scones and a comfy seat in an armchair, however, he resolves to poke around more. ]

Is there anything else the magic does — that you do?

[ besides age backwards, for fuck’s sake. ]

[ scones and tea are a comfort, even if the scones are store-bought rather than made by molly. (nightingale imagines he can taste the difference.) ]

If it does, I don't know about it.

[ for a moment, he looks out over eggsy's shoulder. then: ] I don't know why I started ageing backwards.

[ maybe it’s selfish, for eggsy to be relieved there are no more magic bombshells coming his way, especially when thomas admits he doesn’t know why it happened. wouldn’t that be concerning? ]

It wasn’t intentional? Not even a little bit?

[ most people would like to stay young, wouldn’t they? ]

Ah.

[ nightingale thinks he knows what eggsy is asking. he wishes he could answer affirmatively, but - ]

No.

[ the truth is that he'd been quite ready to die of old age, seeing how nothing else had managed to kill him. he's not actively suicidal, never has been, not even after the war, but -- he'd long given up on actively wanting to continue on. ]

Oh.

[ he inhales sharply, pausing as the weight of thomas’ answer registers. way to stick your foot in your mouth, unwin. he wants to reach out to thomas, but there’s a distance between them (physically small but exacerbated by the other questions whirring in eggsy’s head.) ]

Are you, uh, ageing normally now?

[ even if he isn’t going backwards...could he be stuck? ]

[ the questions don't have the power to hurt thomas, not really. it's everything surrounding them that can, but the questions themselves, eggsy's curiosity, those things are not even a bother. ]

As far as I or anyone else can tell, I'm not ageing at all.

[ stuck indeed. ]

I met one other person with the same affliction. She had no explanation, either.

Jesus Christ, Thomas.

[ he cards a hand through his hair, already disheveled on his day off. not that eggsy would worry over mussing his hair, honestly, after everything thomas has told him. months training with james have taught him the power of magic, but this is still shocking. ]

That sounds like it fucking blows. [ perhaps not being young, exactly, but not having a say in any of it. he shifts his gaze to focus on thomas. ]

[ thomas takes another sip of his tea. maybe he should have spiked it. ]

It is what it is.

[ that's all he has to say on the matter. it "fucking blows", yes, but what point is there in lingering on it? at least with peter as his apprentice, he'd -- well, found a renewed sense of purpose. here, he doesn't have that, but he has more people he's cared about than he's let himself have since the war.

that outweighs the heavy fog of grief at the loss of his world, most days. ]

[ he sets his plate aside to lean forward on his knees, watching thomas now. it is what it is. hadn't that been eggsy's reaction to his shitty circumstances? yeah. 'cause all you can do is go on. ]

Thanks. [ a beat. ] For telling me, I mean, and answering my questions.

[ he thinks he might have more to ask, but — that's enough for one day. ]

voice.

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