prompt! Merlin assigned on a honeypot mission and Harry telling himself, no, I am not jealous of this girl he's having a simple, innocent interactions with.

"Alright, fine," Eggsy says, his tone exasperated. "You're not going to tell me about Barcelona. But can you tell me something so I don't feel like a complete knobhead for wasting my week trying to find out about it?"

Percival regards the younger man thoughtfully. In the brief span of their acquaintance, he's come to find that Eggsy is many things, and not least of all stubborn. But beneath that, beneath that quest to embarrass his mentor at all costs, Percival knows Eggsy cares for and respects Harry the same way a boy would his father. And not just Harry, no. He's seen Eggsy hanging around Merlin's lab more times than he can count, straddling a chair backwards and watching their wizard work.

So Percival decides to throw him a bone. Can't have him thinking too highly of them, now, can he?

"I don't suppose you've heard the story of the honeypot mission in France in '96?" Percival asks him.

"No," Eggsy says, suspiciously. "Why?"

"Merlin was the one chosen to seduce the target," Percival says, a smug smile curling at his lips. "And Harry blew the mission because he was jealous of said target."

"Wot," Eggsy says, his eyes as round as saucers.

"Oh yes," Percival says, his voice a pleased purr. "It was quite a spectacle."

"I don't suppose you'd like to share this spectacle?" Eggsy asks, leaning in eagerly.

Percival nods towards the stove. "Put a kettle on and then we can start."

[TOULOUSE, FRANCE; 1996]

Percival is not especially fond of honeypot missions if he's being honest with himself. Yes, it's something they all have to do now and again, but that doesn't mean he has to enjoy it. It all seems a bit unsavory to him. Kingsman are supposed to be gentlemen, and there's something very un-gentlemanly about seducing someone for the sake of an assignment. Be that as it may, it remains necessary, and so here they are.

Well, here he is, anyway. If there are three of them on this assignment, why does he feel like the only one who's doing any of the actual work? Merlin is busy engaging in quiet flirtation with their mark, but Harry… Harry's about to get them blown.

Galahad stands rigidly by the punch bowl, his jaw squared as he stares across the floor. They're supposed to be blending in, subtly observing, and yet there he stands, fair to burning eyes in the back of their mark's head. With a barely contained sigh, Percival glides across the dance floor towards him, expecting to pull him out of whatever stupor he's in, when it happens.

Merlin says something—Percival's not sure what—and their mark laughs, leaning in closer to him and saying something right back, her hand moving from where it had been at Merlin's knee to slide up his inner thigh. At the same exact moment, there is the sound of breaking glass and when Percival turns his head to look, he's greeted with the sight of Harry Hart, his face a mixture of perplexity and anger as the remains of his shattered punch glass lie at his feet or embedded in his palm.

Percival swears under his breath as he cuts through the crowd, grabbing Harry by his bicep and fairly dragging him towards the loo. He stealthily pulls two napkins from the tables they pass and thanks whatever deity may be watching that the stalls are unoccupied and they've got some privacy. He locks the door behind them as Harry takes to the sink without direction, hissing as the cool water hits the wounds.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Percival demands.

"He's uncomfortable," Harry grouses, allowing Percival to inspect the damage.

Percival sighs heavily. "I'm uncomfortable. I'm fairly certain we all are. But there's a mission to consider and your standing there looking fit to cave someone's face in is not what I would call conducive. Honestly, Galahad, what's gotten into you?"

"He's uncomfortable," Harry repeats firmly. "Merlin is more than capable of handling himself in this situation, so the fact that he's letting on… Something's not right, Percival."

"He looked perfectly at ease to me," Percival says, gently pulling shards of glass from Harry's hand with the tweezers he'd pulled from his jacket. "What makes you so certain something's wrong?"

"Merlin, he…"

When Percival glances up, Harry's face is twisted in a grimace—one which his gut tells him is not entirely due to the glass in his palm. Whatever he's about to say, it's not meant for Percival's ears and is carefully, quietly tucked away in favor of something else.

"I've worked with Merlin in the field on more occasions that you have, so believe me when I say I've learned how to tell when it's all gone to shit," Harry tells him.

"And you're certain it's that and not that you're jealous Merlin's whispering sweet nothings into her ear instead of yours?" Percival asks pointedly.

Harry's nostril's flare at the accusation, his face going a few shades redder. Percival looks back down to his work, plucking the remaining shards of glass from Harry's hand with a delicacy that says he's had to do this before.

"I'd always wondered what had happened in Barcelona," Percival drawls. "But I think I can make an educated guess."

Harry tears his hand away, his expression positively venomous. Percival doesn't blame him. Harry is probably registering this as an attack, but in truth, it's anything but. Percival had held his suspicions about the two of them—especially with the way mention of 'Barcelona' was thrown around—but this just confirms it. He sighs, leaning his hip against the sink.

"I'm not looking to out you, Harry," he assures him.

"And just why should I believe that?" Harry demands.

"Let's just say," Percival says slowly, "that were I to do so, I would be doing myself no favors. You're hardly Arthur's only disappointment in that arena, Harry."

Harry's eyebrows shoot nearly to his hairline. "You?"

Percival hands him the cloth he'd dampened. "When I was at Cambridge. He was… Well, he was him."

The silence that follows is louder than the noise of the party outside could ever hope to be. Percival doesn't tell him the full story. No, they don't have time for that. Mostly he doesn't feel like admitting he'd fallen in love like a complete and utter fool with a man who had only been looking for a bit of fun. It had been his own fault. But that was neither here nor now.

He knows that Harry's reservations don't simply come from having a relationship with another man. No, it's deeper than that. It's the fact that Merlin is, quite simply put, not one of them. He hadn't come from where they had. Oh yes, Percival knows just how Arthur feels about Merlin. Which is why he knows that Arthur discovering

"Besides which, you seem to be underestimating my fondness for our wizard," Percival says with a slow, smug smile. "And for you."

"Percy," Harry says, looking thoroughly humbled—not an easy feat with Harry Hart.

"Come on then, we've left him on his own long enough," Percival says. "Bind up that hand and let's see about this business of things going to shit."

Harry is uncharacteristically silent as they leave the men's room, following behind Percy until they've got Merlin in their sights again. Only it seems while they were gone, things had, in fact, gone to shit. To the casual observer, it would seem simply that their mark were getting rather comfortable with Merlin, but Percival's trained eye can see the Glock 26 pressed under his ribs. Merlin's eyes flicker towards them briefly, the message of 'stay away' coming through loud and clear.

Well, they've been blown. Not much to do now besides cleanup. If Harry had been simply jealous before, he's close to a raging bull now, but be that as it may Harry would never dream of allowing his temper to result in Merlin coming to harm. Percival knows this.

He's counting on it.

[PRESENT DAY]

"—and I really think the bit where Harry shot our mark in the leg was more out of revenge than necessity, but Harry will deny it to his last," Percival finishes, sipping his tea.

"Christ," Eggsy says, tea forgotten on the counter by his elbow. "How'd you explain it to Arthur?"

"I spun him something convincing enough; the mission was shot from the get-go, Harry figured it out before I did and we were lucky to get out of there with our lives," Percival answers with a shrug.

"Not the Toulouse story again," Merlin sighs, appearing in the kitchen with his mug.

"Don't pretend like it's not one of your favorites," Percival tuts.

"I don't have to pretend," Merlin says, refilling his mug with the still-hot tea. "Having a concealed weapon jammed up under my ribs was not the evening I'd anticipated. All because Harry couldn't keep his bloody eyes to himself."

"Oh, admit it. You liked it a little bit," Percival says, his grin widening.

Merlin offers him a long-suffering look as he stirs milk and sugar into his tea, but doesn't disagree. Instead he taps his spoon against the side of his mug before using it to gesture towards Eggsy.

"Stop filling his head with all these stories," he says.

"As an elder Knight, is it not my duty to instruct my youngers?" Percival asks innocently.

"Yeah, Merlin," Eggsy adds, his smile absolutely devilish. "Innit?"

Merlin snorts, plucking a biscuit from the plate between them before turning on his heel and making a swift exit from the kitchen. Percival watches him go, his smile lingering. He's not more than ten paces out the door before Harry appears from an adjacent corridor to join him. They walk closely beside one another, more one being than two as they each lean in towards the other. It's a happy change. One that does his heart well to see.

"So in the spirit of instructing your youngers," Eggsy interrupts smoothly, "maybe you could tell me about Barc—"

"Good talk, Eggsy," Percival says, taking his tea and all but fleeing from the kitchen.

He can hear Eggsy calling for him to come back, but he has no intention of doing so. The Toulouse story is his now, but Barcelona? Not even Percival is willing to touch that one.