Gunrunners // A Harry Styles AU

16. The Day We Met

Harry

Wednesday 29th January

"Well, I've gotta say Styles," Sparky sighs, crouching down in front of Harry with a slightly forlorn expression, "I thought you'd at least put up a bit of a fight for me."

Harry laughs once; a sound that only holds an ounce of humour while he nods towards the floor.

He's currently in Nikita's previous position - tied up to a chair in that dingy warehouse with perhaps a few more bruises than she had thanks to Sparky's boys playing punching bag with him while he was knocked out. And Sparky's right - it was easy for him. On a particularly hard hitting day for Harry mourning the loss of one of his closest friends by finding the bottom of every possible bottle, he'd given himself up.

Or so it would seem.

He'd been on the wrong side of town, and Harry knew that. He'd taken a particularly long walk after waking up feeling more down than usual. Half the things he had to be down about were no longer an issue, but things weren't at their best either. He'd had a shower before he'd left the house, and then he'd walked from his house on the Balham side of Streatham, all the way to Mitcham. Even though Mitcham is technically unclaimed territory; no man's land, if you put a foot wrong, Sparky will know about it. And when the man putting his foot wrong was Harry, he'd wasted no time.

Whether there was intention behind Harry's wrong footing or not, the beating he'd gotten for it was probably a little excessive. He'd dipped into The King's Arms and waited, because he knew what was coming, anyway. He'd waited longer than he'd expected - so long that when I say the bottom of a bottle, I mean it. And I'm talking the expensive shit.

You'd think after necking almost an entire bottle of Laphroig he'd be a little worse for wear - and that's not to say he's not in an absolute state, because he definitely is -, but the staff at The King's Arms know how to spot a man in trouble, and fortunately for Harry were extremely accommodating. The only problem they had was when Sparky showed up. Even though Mitcham is more Sparky's side of town than it is Harry's, the locals aren't particularly fond of the prick. And no one blames them, either.

"Haven't exactly left me with much to fight for." Harry spits, lifting his head to pout pitifully.

"Aw," Sparky coos spitefully, patting Harry's cheek twice with his free hand, "always 'av 'ad an exceptional talent for feeling sorry for y'self, haven't ya?"

"You're not the first person t'say that." Harry laughs again, though this time he is amused.

"You're awfully chipper for a bloke without much to his name." Sparky muses, standing straight again with a soft crease in his brow.

Harry's shrug is restricted, but he's still smirking. "I don't know, guess I'm just starting to accept the afterlife might be a nice place after all."

"Jesus," Gregg cringes, tucking the firearm he had been holding in his right hand into the back of his jeans, before folding his arms across his chest, "I'm starting to wish I'd left you in the shit hole pub in Mitcham I found you in. You're depressing me, for fucks sake."

"Would've been a waste of time for you, though." Harry reasons, bobbing his head from side to side. "Can get what you always wanted if you do what you came here to do in the first place."

Sparky narrows his eyes. "So what are you biding your time for?"

And just like clockwork, a figure appears in the human sized hole in the wall of shrapnel behind the rival gang leader. It's a distinct figure - Harry thinks probably his favourite silhouette, and right now she's stood there in all her slightly warped glory thanks to his inebriated head.