When hit with an experimental fear toxin, Percival finds himself unable to complete his mission, but he's far from alone.

From Wikipedia:

"A white feather has been a traditional symbol of cowardice, used and recognised especially within the British Army and in countries associated with the British Empire since the 18th century, especially by far-right nationalists and early feminists in order to humiliate men who were not soldiers. It also carries opposite meanings, however: in some cases of pacifism, and in the United States, of extraordinary bravery and excellence in combat marksmanship."

I thought the duality of the symbolism fit nicely with the theme of the chapter. Taken in the traditional sense it means one thing, but entirely the opposite in another sense. Some of the older, more traditional members of Kingsman might say Percival abandoned his mission; turned tail and ran. But I suspect Harry and Merlin would think the opposite... don't you? ;3

[LEEDS, ENGLAND; 1993]

Martin sags against the wall, breath coming in a sharp whine as he slides downward, bespoke catching on the grime of the damp alleyway as he lowers to a crouch. He hugs his knees to his chest like a child, tears coursing down his face as he shivers and quakes in the rainy night air. He's suffocating, he's sure of it. Running all this way surely hasn't helped matters, but he's choking on air and tears and the maelstrom tearing him apart from the inside.

"Percival."

He hears the voice in his ear, sharp and commanding. It's familiar, but he flinches away from it, curling further in on himself.

"Percival? Perc—… Martin, please. I need you to talk to me. Let me know you can hear me."

Not supposed to use names. They're not supposed to use names, it's why they have codenames. It's why they have them, it's why he's Percival, it's why this has all gone wrong. His chest expands fit to burst with each breath, but he's not getting enough air.

"Martin, it'll be alright. Just listen to my voice and do as I say."

Do as I say.

Do as I say.

He remembers those words, remembers sharp, angry eyes. Shouting. Screaming. Broken glass. His face had stung. They'd been so disappointed in him, so very disappointed. He sucks in breath rabbit-quick, his eyes pried open like he's forgotten how to blink.

"Are you sitting? Sit down, now. It's alright, just sit yourself down. We'll get you through this."

Not his father's voice. This isn't his father.

"Mer… M-Mer…"

He can't even get the man's full codename out.

"I'm here, Martin, I'm here. Harry's on his way to bring you home. Don't worry about the mission, don't worry about any of it. Just focus on my voice and let me take care of you."

Martin sobs. He's afraid. He's failed. He's botched this mission. Is he dying? He thinks he's dying. It's just as well. It's just as well because everything's gone to hell and it's all his fault and oh god he doesn't want to die, please, god, just let him die, just let this stop—

"Breathe, Martin. You need to breathe. In and out, now. In… and out. In… and out. Breathe with me, just like this."

He listens to the exaggerated breaths that Merlin makes over the comm line, trying to coach him into following. Nodding jerkily despite the fact that he knows Merlin can't see it, he does his best to follow the older man's instruction, hiccupping around each lungful of air. It hurts. His chest is on fire and his heart feels like it's going to explode.

"Good, good. Just like that. You're doing well, just fantastic."

Merlin stays in his ear, murmuring quiet, soothing things that make this whole situation seem a fraction less hellish. He closes his eyes, shutting them tight and does his best to focus on the sound of their tech wizard's voice. It had never occurred to him how… calm Merlin is. How level he remains. Merlin has been his handler any number of times since he'd joined Kingsman, but this is the first time he's ever really had occasion to focus less on what he's saying and more on how he says it.

The voice coming across the comm line is soft and kind, hardly louder than a whisper and smooth as velvet. The man's Scottish brogue—something which does so much to separate him from the others—stays gentle and even against the dark cloud crackling with lightning and thunder inside his chest.

Let me take care of you, he had said.

Martin had never… It had never really occurred to him to allow anyone to do so. From distant parents to uninterested nannies, he's had to rely on himself for as long as he can remember. He's always done everything on his own, been so independent, he's never actually thought he needs this. He's never trusted anyone with that task and yet, here, now, he finds himself believing every word of what Merlin says to him.

"I've found him, Merlin."

That voice is Harry's. He sounds… worried. Out of breath. Martin opens his eyes only when he feels hands framing either side of his face. He pants as he stares back at Harry's face, the older Knight's warm brown eyes filled to the brim with concern. Martin shivers against the chill of the rainy night, unable to find the words he needs when Harry's hand brushes back the hair that had fallen into his eyes, damp with sweat and rainwater.

"Martin," Harry says, his voice pitched low like Merlin's. "It's alright. I've come to take you home."

Martin nods shakily, hesitantly allowing Harry to pull him to his feet. He wobbles once upright, his legs unsteady beneath him, but Harry ducks under his arm and makes quick work of propping Martin against him. He's so bloody tired all of a sudden…

"Just make it to the jet, Martin, then you can sleep," Merlin says in his ear, as though psychic. "Harry's got your back."

"…the m-mission…" Martin mutters, teeth chattering.

"Hang the mission," Harry grunts, getting them walking towards a car waiting outside the alleyway. "There will be other missions."

"Arthur…" Martin argues weakly.

"You leave that to us," Harry says stiffly.

As Harry loads him into the passenger's seat, Martin can't help but wonder at the way Harry had spoken those words. His head lolls against the car seat, the flash of passing street lights too bright, too fast, making his heart race, prompting him to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head away from the window. The dark cloud in his chest crackles ominously, a rolling wave of nausea coming with it, but he doesn't realize his breathing has picked up until Harry's hand comes to rest atop his head.

"Nearly there now," Harry promises.

He hasn't even the strength to nod, so he just stays still and trusts in Harry's word. When they arrive at the jet, Harry all but carries him inside as his head swims and his legs refuse to cooperate. Their Galahad is quick to get him on the sofa and wrapped in all manner of blankets in an effort to quell the tremors which have taken over his body. Martin lies on his side at Harry's insistence, shame beginning to edge into his consciousness as the fear continues to subside.

"Merlin?" Harry says.

"Here."

"Stay with him while I fly us back. Keep talking to him," Harry says.

"Aye," Merlin answers. "Will do."

Martin feels like a child, curled up on the sofa and shaking like a leaf, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. But neither Harry nor Merlin deign to treat him as such, never even hint that their opinion of him has changed in any way. As Harry speeds them back towards Central, Merlin stays in his ear, murmuring slow, soothing things until Martin sinks into blessed unconsciousness.

The first time he wakes, it's to shouting. His head feels heavy as he turns it towards the source of the noise. Harry and Merlin stand side-by-side before Arthur, arguing vehemently over… something. The mission, most likely. Martin's never seen either of them so positively livid. Harry has been known to mouth off on occasion, but this is the first time Martin can recall Merlin ever so much as thinking of opposing Arthur. Yet there they both are, fair to snarling like angry dogs.

"That's enough of that now."

Martin's view is obstructed by Morgana as she tugs the curtain closed, blocking his line of sight. He blinks sluggishly up at her as she examines him, groaning faintly when she flashes her penlight in his eyes.

"I take it you feel positively rotten," she says, making a few notes on her clipboard.

He nods. She hums in understanding, running her fingers through his hair.

"Well, you'll be alright after some proper rest," she tells him. "Let me see about moving those noisy fools out of here so you can get back to it."

He'd like to thank her. He'd like to say something. But as it is, he can barely keep his eyes open long enough to hear her angrily cut through the fierce argument just outside.

Martin feels markedly better the next time he wakes; still absolutely dreadful, but not as though he were dying, thankfully. He hears quiet conversation happening somewhere around the foot of his bed and once he's properly blinked himself awake, he glances down. Harry and Merlin are engaged in a game of cards atop his shins, one of them seated on either side of his bed. Noticing he's awake, their playful banter quickly comes to a close.

"Percival," Harry says with a smile and a nod of his head. "Glad to have you back with us."

"How are you feeling?" Merlin inquires.

"Awful," Martin croaks, struggling to sit up. "But alive."

"According to Morgana's analysis, you were sprayed with something which is essentially an experimental fear toxin," Merlin says, adjusting the bed so he's upright. "The chemical you were exposed to induced a state of hysteria—uncontrollable feelings of fear, panic, difficulty maintaining a grasp on reality, feelings of dread and impending death."

That certainly sounded like how he'd felt. Like he was being swallowed up. He swallows thickly, nodding his head at what Merlin's told him, feeling queasy and worn. This whole thing has been a disaster. He'd abandoned his mission, run from the place all-but screaming only to hide in an alleyway, sobbing and terrified like a little boy until he could be rescued. Shame wells up inside him like a geyser ready to burst as he replays the events of the previous night over in his mind.

"Arthur must have been—"

"Arthur has been debriefed on the situation," Harry cuts in sharply. "You needn't worry."

There is a curious, heavy silence between Harry and Merlin that tells Martin it all isn't as cut and dry as they're making it out to be. Not after that ferocious argument he'd woken to. He decides to try a different approach.

"You broke protocol to retrieve me," Martin says. "Why?"

The two share a long look before either of them choose to offer him an answer.

"It's against Kingsman protocol to perform an extraction if doing so risks disrupting the mission," Harry says slowly. "We believed your mission had run its course."

"And that expecting you to remain out of fear of compromising any other Knights was… cruel," Merlin adds.

"Compromised," Martin echoes.

"Retrieving you required some effort," Harry says, trying to make the comment as offhanded as possible.

"Galahad," Martin says. He waits until Harry's eyes leave his hands folded in his lap to meet his. "What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Harry answers.

There's more to this. Harry's answer is firm and final, but Martin knows there's something he's not being told, something he may never be told. It's only now that he notices the bandages around Harry's left hand. Had he been injured that night? Martin had been in such a state he was barely aware of himself, let alone other people. What lengths had these two men gone to in order to bring him home?

"You still haven't answered my question," Martin declares.

"What question might that be?" Merlin asks.

"Why?" Martin asks again.

It's a few years before Martin truly understands what Merlin means when he pats Martin's knee and says, "Because some things are more important than propriety."

Merlin checks to make sure the door to Control is locked before he crosses the room to sit beside Harry on the sofa. He's fiddling with his bandages again and Merlin reaches over to still his hands with his own.

"Enough. It's been taken care of," Merlin murmurs.

"And what of the next time? What then?" Harry demands. "It was nearly Rhodes all over again."

"Harry, those are two completely different circumstances," Merlin reminds him.

"An agent in the field dosed with an unknown chemical weapon and Arthur refuses to do anything about it," Harry growls. "Precisely what makes them so different?"

"We know the risks," Merlin says.

"Don't you start with me," Harry says, bristling.

"No. You listen to me," Merlin says, rounding on him. "We know the risks. Percival knows them, just as I did, and we can't blame anyone for what happens to us just because we suddenly find the rules of the game disagreeable. Don't try to make this out to be that I'm not on your side—you know very well that I am and that I always have been. But you must keep a level head. Alright?"

Harry takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his shoulders drooping marginally. Some of the tension leaves his body with the simple action.

"You were hardly level when you were shouting in Arthur's face," Harry points out.

"As I recall, I wasn't exactly alone in that," Merlin says, arching an eyebrow.

"No. No, you weren't," Harry says, his hand coming to rest atop Merlin's.

Merlin sighs heavily, turning his hand palm-up to lace his fingers with Harry's. Arthur isn't wrong in that their mission must come first. They've signed up for it. They know this. It's just that in cases such as this, duty to the job becomes difficult to adhere to over duty to one another.

Martin had given himself completely to Kingsman. For his choice to become a tailor instead of taking over his father's company—the position he had been groomed for since birth—he'd been disowned by his parents, struck from the will and burned from the family tree. As far as Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough were concerned, they didn't have a son. For all intents and purposes, Kingsman is all that Martin has. It's certainly something that Merlin can relate to.

"You and I have been lucky enough to have someone to look out for us. And to have had each other," Merlin says slowly.

"Then perhaps we ought to see to it that Percival has the same luck," Harry says.

A slight smile tugs at the corners of Merlin's lips. He knows that Harry will do so. Their youngest Knight is the quiet sort, stoic and efficient, and Harry wouldn't be Harry if he didn't try to get Percival to warm up to him. Perhaps Harry sees something of himself in Martin, or at the very least feels a sense of camaraderie in their both having distant fathers. Whatever the reason, Harry has taken a liking to Martin in much the same way Merlin has and this incident has essentially finalized their decision to take the newest Knight under their wing.

"Good. Now let's change those dressings," Merlin says.

"Must we?" Harry sighs, sounding entirely put upon.

"You say that as though you don't want me to undress you," Merlin says, already moving towards his first aid kit.

"Mm, point."

"That's what I thought."