For the prompt: Merlin embarrassed about his rough Scottish accent among the other posh English recruits like Harry.

Although he may not be jumping and clicking his heels, Harry is certain there must at least be a noticeable spring in his step as he and Merlin exit their hotel. It's rare that he and Merlin are assigned to work together, for whatever reason, and being that this is only their second outing together since Barcelona, he's feeling like that cat that swallowed the canary.

"I think our mark may suspect something is amiss if you skip towards them," Merlin notes, his voice tinged with amusement.

"I'm not skipping," Harry insists. "I'm merely pleased at the chance to work with you again."

Merlin quirks an interested eyebrow at that. "Are you, now?"

"Oh, don't start. You know very much how I feel about you. You're not like the others. You're interesting," Harry explains.

Merlin gives him a strange look at that—one whose meaning Harry can't quite pin down—but being that they're approaching their mark, he finds himself with no time to dwell on it. He greets the Swedish couple enthusiastically, shaking each of their hands in a firm, friendly grip and doing his best to ramp up the charm. He motions to Merlin, standing at his side, and introduces him as his business partner… which is when things get strange.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Merlin says, shaking their hands. "Gregory's told me a great deal about your company and I must admit I'm eager to tour your facilities."

Merlin says this, yes, but not in the thick, Scottish brogue Harry has come to admire. Instead, the words emerge in a crisp, clean British accent. He stares for a moment, his expression slack, before he catches himself and works to repair his blunder.

"You'll have to excuse me," he says, his voice filled with laughter. "It's just that Simon's had a devil of a head cold for the past week and I think that may be the first time I've heard him speak proper since! Must be all this lovely fresh air doing him good."

Their marks laugh, clearly tickled by their antics, and Harry can only be thankful that his attempt to save face went so well. As they head off together with the intent of getting drinks and talking business, Harry wonders what all that had been about. Unable to do anything to compromise their cover, he decides to go along with it and makes a mental note to have a long, long discussion with Merlin at the first chance he gets.

"Why on earth did you fake an accent?" Harry asks as they sit together at dinner.

"I'd have thought it was obvious," Merlin says, his brogue back in full force. "For the sake of our cover."

"Clearly, but why?" Harry presses, topping off Merlin's wine glass and then his own. "What difference should it make to them?"

"If we're meant to be persuading them into believing we're wealthy business partners, your accent beside mine won't do," Merlin explains, the stem of his wine glass held between long, slender fingers. "They're going to be a mite suspicious if one of us sounds like he graduated Oxford and the other sounds like he crawled out of a gutter in Glasgow."

"I suppose I see your point," Harry says with a frown.

Merlin says nothing more, looking away towards where some couples have taken to the small dance floor in the center of the room and sipping quietly from his glass. It's a good enough reason, and yet… there's something more there. Something that means Harry can't quite put it aside yet. And then it strikes him: Merlin is embarrassed. His choice of words is proof enough of that. Harry frowns, trying to think of something to say, something that might nudge Merlin towards opening up about the subject. It's as he's contemplating the matter that a new song starts and he has his idea. He rises from his seat, shooting Merlin a charming smile as he does so.

"Would you care to dance?" Harry asks, holding a hand out.

There is a minute shift in the younger man's demeanor at his words; not uncomfortable, not quite, but far from the relaxed mood of the evening. He looks to be in no great hurry to leave his seat and Harry's offered hand is left awkwardly hanging in midair.

"I don't dance," Merlin replies.

Ah. So that's it.

"Don't dance," Harry says slowly, his palms resting flat on their table as he leans in towards Merlin, "or can't dance?"

Harry doesn't miss the way the muscle of Merlin's jaw jumps at the question. If he had seemed unwilling to move from his seat before, he is positively glued to it now.

"You should let me teach you," Harry says, his light smile barely masking a predatory edge. "I don't doubt it could be an enjoyable learning experience for you."

"Actually, I have work to do. And so do you," Merlin says sharply, rising from his seat as though he'd just sat on a tack. "Goodnight, Galahad."

So he's back to Galahad, then.

"Don't be like that, Merlin, it was just—"

"A joke yes. You seem to have plenty of them. As do the rest of your friends," Merlin says crisply, his eyes cutting into Harry like so many knives. "Goodnight, Galahad."

Harry is left alone, standing beside their table and watching Merlin hastily retreat through the crowd. So much for being excited to work together.

It's close to an hour after merlin had left him that Harry finds his way back to their hotel room. He could have followed close behind, but he'd assumed that Merlin would appreciate some space and that giving the matter some time to settle would do them both well. The wizard's call to come in when he knocks doesn't sound uninviting, but it hardly sounds thrilled, either.

Merlin doesn't even so much as glance at him as he walks into the room, taking his time with removing his jacket and loosening his tie. The younger man seems to be engrossed by the files in his lap, deep into the work he'd claimed he needed to do. Harry hovers uncertainly, trying and failing several times to initiate a conversation before giving up and heading over to his own twin bed. He flops back gracefully, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach.

"I really meant no offense, Merlin," Harry says at length.

"One doesn't always need to intend offense to cause it, sir," Merlin says, not bothering to look up from his work.

At this, Harry's frustration finally bubbles over and he sighs annoyedly, "'Sir,' 'sir,' why must you always call me 'sir'?"

"Because whatever you may think of me, I at least know how to follow orders."

"Orders?" Harry echoes, shooting up from where he lies. "What bloody orders?"

Merlin raises an eyebrow, looking up at Harry as though he's gone mad.

"Arthur's, sir. Knights are to be referred to by their code name or 'sir' if not both," Merlin says slowly.

For a moment, Harry's brain fails to process this. And then he sees red. The old Merlin had never been required to call any of them 'sir' but then, he'd been one of them, hadn't he? Harry has no doubt that Merlin has a chip on his shoulder, but it's obvious now that Harry's been made a fool.

"You don't ever call me 'sir' again, do you understand?" he says darkly.

Merlin's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "But Arthur—"

"I don't give a damn what Arthur says!" Harry explodes, jumping to his feet. "You do not. Call. Me. Sir."

Merlin watches him warily, apparently unsure of how to respond. Harry can't blame him. Here he's been teasing and prodding as though Merlin is no different from the rest of them all while the wizard had been playing by different rules. That and shouting at him probably have done little to help his case.

He sits himself on Merlin's bed, hovering at the foot in the event that he's unwelcome, but Merlin makes no move to throw him off. He watches Harry silently, patiently, his eyes guarded.

"Arthur is... He doesn't understand. Really, none of us do, but him least of all. I thought I did and that was foolish of me," Harry tells him, his hands folded in his lap. "I've treated you as I would any of the others, thinking that would make you more comfortable. But we are different, you and I. Our experiences are. And I will try to be more mindful of that in the future, but please believe me when I say that I do truly believe you to be every bit as worthy of being here as the rest of us. More so, in some cases. An unpolished diamond may not look as valuable, but it's worth just as much as the ones that are."

"Well, actually, an unpolished diamond isn't—"

"Yes, yes, it was a horrible analogy, shut up," Harry gripes, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

When he looks up again, Merlin is watching him quietly, work forgotten. He looks at Harry as he had on that night in Barcelona with that open, unguarded expression that he's come to realize is a very rare thing indeed. For a moment, Harry has half a mind to lean in and kiss him, to take him back to that time and that place, but he stops himself short. Best not to chance it after a night like tonight. Another time, perhaps.

"Thank you, Harry," Merlin says quietly, any hint of formality having dropped from his voice. "For what it's worth, I could stand to learn not to be so... quick to judge."

Harry nods, accepting the apology, and for a moment they simply sit watching one another in comfortable silence. After a time, Merlin dips his head, staring down at his own hands as he fiddles with his pen.

"I don't suppose that offer of dance lessons still stands?"

Harry grins at that, holding a hand out as he'd done hours before. There's no music, save for his humming, but Merlin hardly seems to mind.