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“So, what are you planning on doing now you’ve retired?”
Greg laughed silently, having expected just this question. Mycroft Holmes, genius, strategist, analyst, foreign affairs maven, was a brilliant man—but like many a reserved genius, his mastery of “small talk” began with “bloody weather, what?” and ended with “Well, after all, that’s England—God love her.” Greg had been counting on this…
“Doing?”
Mycroft squirmed, struggling for social ease. “Well. You know what they say. A man needs a hobby…”
Greg smiled, intentionally releasing the million-wattage smile. “Oh. Well. That. I was reckoning I’d try seducing you, for a start.” He waited for the other man to seize.
He wasn’t disappointed. Eyes flashed, and few wide. Breath started puffing like an oxygen tank was needed—soon. Nose and ears turned cherry pink.
“Excuse me?” It was a wonder Mycroft got it out.
“Yeah. You know. Flirt a bit. Go on the pull. See what makes Mycroft Holmes tick.”
Mycroft glowered, and snapped, “Excuse me, Detective Inspector. There are professional standards to uphold.”
“No more, there ent. That’s the point, yeah? Retired. No more limits, no more boundaries, no more professional standards.” He glittered his best at Mycroft, pleased to see that glittering had an effect. “Been waiting for this.”
“And if I decline to be seduced?”
“I’m a patient man.”
“Fortunate.” Mycroft’s voice was dry and chill, his eyes shifted to calm—he’d had a second to recover. Again, Greg was unsurprised. He’d expected no less. “I’m not given to licentious behavior, DI Lestrade…Mr. Lestrade, that is. And then there’s security. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m cautious about stepping outside the espionage community.”
“Touche. I am stabbed to the quick. Mere minutes retired and reduced to the status of security breach. Still—adds a bit of thrill, doesn’t it? Venturing over the line. Stepping outside the safe zone. “ He leered, waggling his eyebrows. “Walk on the wild side, Mike. Dare to dare.”
Mycroft straightened in his chair, puffing his chest and glowering. “I am not interested in being…seduced.”
“Well, no. Kinda the definition of ‘seducing,’ ain’t it? Start cold, work your way up to scorching. That’s the idea.”
“And if I don’t cooperate?”
Greg cocked his head, shrugged, and said, “Whatever,” using the exact tone that said he had no worries in that respect. To his delight The Umbrelliferous One grumbled in exasperation.
“I can avoid you.”
“Can.” Greg grinned bigger than ever. “Won’t.”
Mycroft glared. “What has got into you? You’ve never… I’ve never… This is entirely out of character.”
“Retirement changes a man,” Greg said, stretching long and lazy in the armchair, not even remotely unaware of the full-body display involved.
“You, perhaps. But I’m neither retired—nor so easily swayed. I shan’t be changing my mind.”
“Perhaps.”
“No ‘perhaps.’ Absolutely not. I can think of nothing—nothing at all—that would alter my position on the subject.”
“That’s all right,” Greg said, all amiability. “Seduction, you know: takes time for you to sort it all out in your mind. What you’d like me to do. What you’d like to do to me. What’s interesting about it. What’s not. We’ve got time, now. Keep working at it. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“I thought you were supposed to be seducing me. I suggest you do the work.”
Greg licked his lips, and radiated anticipation. “I intend to.” He rose, and bowed a slight half-bow to his former superior and old friend. “See you around, Mike. I figure now I’m retired I can enjoy that life-time membership in the Diogenes they gave me. Or take maybe run into you at the Opera. Be sure and let me know if you’ve got some consultation work in mind for me. Meanwhile….Ta. See you around.” He hooked a finger into the collar of the jacket lying on the nearby club chair, tossed it over his shoulder, and sauntered out, feeling Mycroft’s eyes boring into his back with every step of his retreat.
Once out to his car, he fell over the steering wheel laughing.
It had worked, just the way he’d hoped. He’d hooked Mycroft Holmes.
The man’s mind was not going to give him a day’s peace from this point on.
Lestrade’s words stayed with Mycroft, hissing through his mind like evil serpents in an otherwise innocent garden.
“I was reckoning I’d try to seduce you…”
Mycroft had never imagined that answer to a largely rhetorical question. Lestrade was retiring—an abysmal and depressing truth, but one Mycroft could not alter. What he did next was likely to involve very little beyond a tad of consulting, time spent in pubs, and not a lot more. Such was the way of things.
Mycroft, if asked, would have conceded that his some-time subordinate might seduce some barmaids. Was, indeed, likely to seduce them, to their mutual satisfaction. He recognized Lestrade was appealing to a wide spectrum of humanity, male and female. He recognized that Lestrade was bisexual—but tended toward female lovers more than male, if only on the basis of opportunity. He recognized that Lestrade was, when all was said and done, more in favor of an active sex-life than against.
It was not something he ordinarily gave much thought. He himself was gay more than bi and celibate more than gay. He considered it characteristic of himself that his primary sexual encounters had been in the line of duty, “for Queen and Country,” and had been predicated not on sex, gender identity, or even attraction, but instead on threat level and on access to desired information. Or, as he’d once conceded tartly, he could manage wood for anyone with a line to Top Secret or higher…but only if there were no less earthy way to obtain the data.
When there was another way (or another operative ready to lay down his or her virtue for the greater good) he was generally not active at all…and he worked to keep it that way. Life was quieter that way, and barring a bit of modest porn, he found that his libido served him best when he served it least.
He could not imagine what Lestrade thought he was up to. Trying to seduce Mycroft Holmes? The Ice Man? Good God, why?
And, beyond why, how? Mycroft’s agile mind attempted to formulate a plan of approach for his associate, and came up blank. He, Mycroft, would not easily succumb to offered dates. Or to being pawed in the back of the chauffeured limo provided by MI6. (Well, only an idiot would succumb in the back of that very-well bugged vehicle…) Mycroft would not soften at the hint of romantic mail—electronic or otherwise. Bouquets of flowers would amuse him for mere seconds—then bore him.
He could think of nothing Greg Lestrade could do that would appeal sufficiently to winkle Mycroft out of his happy celibacy.
Nothing.
Nothing whatsoever.
It was not that Lestrade was unattractive, Mycroft admitted to himself. Indeed, of all Mycroft’s associates, Greg Lestrade was amongst the most appealing. He was beautiful, with an open, boyish Celtic face that anyone would find charming. He was aging well—indeed, very well, having avoided the sudden collapse into dissolute blood-hound folds of skin and habitual sullen expressions. He was becoming a man of distinction and grace. All of this was true, and obvious. But to seduce Mycroft he would, eventually, have to lure Mycroft into action, and Mycroft could imagine nothing so commanding that this would ever occur.
What, for example, was Mycroft going to do if winked at? Patted upon various parts of his anatomy? What would Mycroft do if Lestrade licked his lips or waggled his eyebrows? If Lestrade touched his hand or traced the line of his arm?
Mycroft would note mere expressions with amused lethargy, and step away from actual contact with a quick and certain reprimand. Anything more forceful would end the association entirely.
He was safe. Quite safe.
So safe he determined that, for the sake of an answer, he would risk setting up a social lunch with Lestrade—just for the chance to ask him what he thought he could even do. After all, they were old associates, and even friends of a sort. A shared lunch even now that Lestrade was retired was no great event, and it did open doors to inquiry.
Lestrade agreed to lunch. He appeared in a suit that both amazed and amused Mycroft—a casual modern suit that hinted at straw boaters and summers by the sea in some Edwardian dream. It was a suit all made up of creams and tawny golden-tans, with a white, crisp shirt with a woven white stripe, and no necktie at all—just several buttons open revealing Lestrade’s ivory throat and a flash of upper chest.
He had chest hair—not openly displayed, exactly, but hinted at by the faintest sight of furze at the bottom-most open button. He appeared quite jaunty: chipper and relaxed. Indeed, more relaxed and happy than Mycroft could recall him being in decades. Looking at him as he sashayed into the little Greek restaurant Mycroft had reserved for the meal, he seemed to shine. In spite of age, there was a new spring in his step, a new glitter in his eyes, a new youth in his smile…
Mycroft scolded himself for noticing—and for being more than a little impressed. Lestrade had spent years passing as an attractive, but weary “Colombo” type of copper. Aging. Battered. Low key. The sparkle and bounce had been implied but seldom demonstrated. Now he was all bounce and ginger, fizzy as a soda and up-beat as an old Beach Boys record.
He reminded himself that there was no place in his life or his career for that much bumptious charm. It would get in the way—as no doubt Lestrade had understood during his own years of espionage. Still, he was there…and easily enjoyed as a variation on Mycroft’s norms. Scolding himself for making too much of a predictable pleasure, Mycroft ordered for both of them, though he explained as he went and altered his choices in response to Lestrade’s reactions. Soon they had a meze-style array of bits and bobs, with more ordered.
Mycroft drank a vigorous red Greek retsina, nibbled grilled octopus, licked the garlicy, rich insides out of mussel shells—and listened as Lestrade kept up a happy, rumbling monolog on his life since retirement. Going by his narrative it was one long sail through paradise, with occasional comic passages. He described doing work with not only Sherlock, but for his old Met team—and the pleasure of turning down cases when it suited him. He discussed neighbors, building projects in his flat, learning how to manage his time without the constant pressure of two careers bearing down on him.
“Even got a moggie,” he said, laughing. “Silly thing, that—all these years I’ve thought people were crazy to get pets…but the neighbor upstairs dies and there’s this big orange fellah, no one wants ‘im ‘cause he’s too old—fellow’s like seven, which is ‘too old.’ So I say to let ‘im stay wi’ me till they find him someplace—an’ two days later I’m calling ‘em up telling ‘em not to bother looking for someplace, ‘cause I’m keepin’ ‘im. Silly old boy, he is—big baby. Sleeps in bed with me, lies on my lap when I read. Puts his head right up under my chin and purrs and purrs and purrs…”
His smile was so sweet. So bright. Mycroft realized, in shock, that his heart had fallen into a wicked, pounding pace, and his brain started to hiss and pop as though static was running through his neurons. He forced himself to look away, and calmed himself. This was ridiculous. A man of his age, behaving this way over a man of Lestrade’s age! A man of his quiet, sedentary character behaving this way…
He poured himself more retsina, nibbled on sour olives, and said, warily, “It seems you’ve found sufficient to keep yourself busy, then. May I remove fear of seduction from my current danger list?”
The laughter in Lestrade’s eyes was far from reassuring—indeed, it set the hair on the nape of Mycroft’s head rising with an electric shiver. “Off the danger list? Not a chance, sunshine…” He raised his own glass of retsina, toasted Mycroft, and sipped…
Sipping retsina was not supposed to be salacious, Mycroft thought sullenly. “I don’t see how you intend to go about it,” he said—and paused, hearing the whine in his voice. He cleared his throat. “Seriously, Lestrade—I’m a terrible subject. I’ve spent the past two months trying to determine even the most remotely probable of approaches that might allow you to succeed, and have got nowhere with it. I am a veritable fortress. A tower of resolve. Between me and your intended goal, Gandalf himself stands, staff in hand, shouting ‘None shall pass!’”
“Staff in hand?” The laughter flashed, and white teeth shone in the dim, cool private room. “I take it Gandalf brought along his bit of wood…”
He had beautiful eyes—dark, merry, aware…
Eyes were nothing. Laughter was nothing. Mycroft huffed, and said, “You’re vulgar, Lestrade. And it’s a perfect illustration of why you’re doomed. Another might find the wit and charm sufficient to overcome the vulgarity—and to justify giving in to temptation. I, however, am immune. I am aware of your charm, aware of your wit, but unlikely to let it move me to risk my heart for such moonshine. Some are born spinsters.”
The other man considered, cocking his silver head and pursing his mouth. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you?”
“I’m hardly worried.”
“Good! And it will be more of a surprise this way.”
Mycroft grumbled. “You’re missing the point. It’s a waste of your time attempting to seduce me.”
“Good thing I’m retired, then—time to waste.”
Mycroft glowered. “You’re quite adept that this ‘cheerful muggins’ thing. Unfortunately I don’t find that attractive, either.”
“Then what’s got your knickers in a bunch?” There was real curiosity in Lestrade’s voice—in his expression, his bodily position. He radiated cheerful intrigue.
“You’re…wasting your time. And you’re jerking my chain. I do not appreciate being manipulated, DI Lestrade.”
“Greg. Not a DI anymore—well, except as a courtesy title. But what’s a courtesy title between old friends, especially when you won’t have anything but that whole ‘minor position’ thing. So make it ‘Greg.’”
“Is that your strategy?” Mycroft studied his companion’s face with greater care than he’d dared since the other man arrived. “Ease yourself in, up the levels of intimacy, ooze into my trust?”
“Mike—you’re overreacting.”
“So how are you planning to do it? I’m not a sexually interested person. And with no insult intended, for all your attractions I am not driven to break a life-time’s habit of celibate quietude on the mere shift to a first-name basis.”
Lestrade laughed. “Got no plans, Mycroft. Not such as you’d consider plans, anyway.”
“You must have something you think I’ll find sufficient to overcome my aversion to any advances you might make.”
“Not making advances, love.”
“DI Lestrade—“
“Greg.”
“Greg, I’m not your love.”
“Not yet. Give it time, yeah?”
Mycroft, for one brief second, came close to snapping. Forcing calm, he set his wine glass neatly on the table. “You do understand—no ambush, no surprise assault, no teasing approach, no fondling, no attempt at snogging—nothing of the sort will serve your goals?”
“No, no. Will of steel. Man like you won’t give way till he wants to give way.”
“And I do not wish to give way.”
“Yet.”
“And you have no strategy to cause me to want to give way.” The sentence was almost accusatory, as though Greg were letting down the team by failing to at least put in some basic effort at advance planning.
“Don’t need it.”
“Why?”
“You tell me.” Greg sparkled more prettily than ever. “After all—you’re the one being seduced. It’s all going to be down to what you want. What’s sexy enough to change your mind?”
“Nothing.” Had Mycroft been a cat, his tail would have been a twitching blur of pent up frustration—a switching, quivering flag announcing his lack of a clue. “Nothing will change my mind.”
“Then you’re safe.”
“And you don’t believe it.”
“Not really.” The damned man dimpled….Dimpled!
“Why not?”
Lestrade popped one last curly octopus tentacle into his mouth, taking a brief second to slip his tongue through the coiled tip before closing rosy lips. “You’re the Holmes. You solve it.” Then, beaming, he breezed past Mycroft. On the way he paused, leaning in—then quickly back out. He aimed his finger like a pistol, and faked a shot. “Bang. Nearly faked you out—but I promise. No kiss ambushes. I’m seducing you fair and square. If it drives you crazy—just figure out what you’d find sexy enough to overcome all…that.”
“All what?”
Lestrade gestured—a graceful, oddly kind gesture, indicating all Mycroft standing quivering before him. “All that—the tension, the frustration, the determination not to be tempted. Just figure out what would be enough to make you want to quit the game.”
“Nothing.”
“In which case, you win. I lose.” Lestrade looked at him.
His eyes were brown, and beautiful, and patient. Amused, but with a moderating melancholy.
“You’re impossible,” Mycroft said, voice suddenly wobbly.
“I know.” Then, very slowly, he turned and walked away, the lovely, pale summer suit gleaming in the dim light of the restaurant. And then he was gone.
Mycroft was beyond annoyed. He spent the better part of that month pretending to himself that it was all a game—a prolonged practical joke. Or perhaps the first signs of senile dementia setting in. Lestrade had decided to retire young—just over fifty-five. Maybe there had been a reason for that?
When he could no longer lie to himself—pretend indifference and amused superiority—he changed tactics. First, he put out subtle feelers, working to determine who, if anyone, Lestrade had as allies, unconscious or otherwise. Anthea? Sherlock? John Watson or his clever, clever Mary? Who did Lestrade stay in touch with, and how did he tap their information regarding Mycroft?
He quickly concluded that Lestrade had remained in touch with all his old companions from his professional years—and that he showed no sign of tapping them for particular information regarding Mycroft. At least, nothing beyond the ordinary, predictable benign gossip spread among professional and personal circles. Mycroft had no doubt that if he had an exciting new mission under way and Sherlock heard about it, Lestrade would hear, too—at length, with full chorus of complaints and insults. Anthea would leak to John and Lestrade if she was worried about Mycroft’s health or work levels, but only very delicately, and only to determine if John could confirm—and Lestrade could provide backup. Mary would be tapped only if Lestrade’s other contacts had given him serious reason for concern regarding his old friend.
No—Associate, Mycroft told himself firmly. He and Lestrade were associates, and on good terms. Even…fond. Not friends, though. Certainly nothing as personal as friends.
Lestrade appeared to be living a contented life as a retiree, with a comfortable little flat near Kensington that he could afford mainly as a result of two parallel careers combined with more than a little bit of hazard pay and damage rewards. He worked on a case at a time basis with old colleagues. He spent sunny afternoons in pubs—or in the Diogenes. Indeed, to Mycroft’s uneasy surprise, Lestrade was often on the premises at the same time Lestrade was, but showed no sign of trying to rendezvous.
How was the man supposed to seduce Mycroft if he never even showed his face? He was slacking. He was failing to even institute his stated endeavor. He was taunting Mycroft—not bad enough he teased him by stating a goal he never actually entertained—or even planned for!—but he was wasting possible moments to advance his campaign, as though he could just lean back and wait for Mycroft to come to him.
Vain, arrogant, sodding bastard.
Mycroft emailed him. “I hear you’ve been at the Diogenes regularly lately, and never bothered to rendezvous with me. Given up?”
“Nope. Feeling pretty confident, if you must know. If you know I’ve been there, why not contact me? It’s not like I’m doing much but drinking good single-malt and exchanging bullshit with the latest 007. He wants to know if the current Q is a Holmes Boy.”
“Distant cousin, and you can’t get away with changing the subject or turning it back on me. Next time you’re at the Diogenes, look me up.”
“No need. But I wouldn’t mind meeting up for fish and chips next Friday. Interested?”
“Occupied. Putin. And I do not like fish and chips.”
“Everybody likes fish and chips, Mike. If you don’t like cod you like Saveloy and chips, for God’s sake. Or prawns. Be reasonable.”
“’Reasonable’ is for other people. But…if I can get away from Putin I’ll get back to you.” The truth was that a nice platter of fried king prawns and chips with good beer and Lestrade’s company seemed good, all of a sudden. Comforting to a man with ruffled sensibilities, which Mycroft felt described him perfectly. Ruffled and out of sorts.
Later, he reviewed the status of things. Lestrade, for all his boasting and cocky assurance, was leading a spotless life of retired celibacy—or if not, he was flying under the radar and not involving Mycroft. Either answer would be sufficient, though Mycroft found to his annoyance that he preferred Lestradian celibacy to Lestradian diplomacy and tact. After all, it was hardly a matter for his concern. Mycroft had no intention of playing dog-in-the-manger and growling at those better able to take Lestrade up on sensual invitations than Mycroft was or ever could be. Letting Lestrade linger in celibacy was a waste of the man’s God given potential, after all….better some lonely woman or man get the benefits of Greg’s attentions. There were so many out there, and so many could offer the retired detective so much.
No. Mycroft would be gracious and good natured and hope Lestrade found someone who could really offer him value for value.
Mycroft couldn’t himself see why Lestrade had even thought to consider him. He knew himself quite well. Emotionally constipated, physically marked by a lifetime struggle against weight, intellectually excellent to a level that could prove unappealing to lesser mortals, socially handicapped to a degree that made “unappealing” almost inevitable. He didn’t have Sherlock’s beauty, drama, or panache. He didn’t have John Watson’s warmth or sturdy, serviceable good looks. Mycroft knew where he excelled, and it was not in the tourney of love. In that arena Lestrade was the obvious victor: beautiful, kind, generous, patient, skilled and experienced without being cynical and sour.
If Lestrade had meant to seduce Mycroft—and it was now evident that he honestly had no such intention—he would have quite a lot to offer. Not, mind you, enough to draw Mycroft from his chosen path of celibate solitude. But even Mycroft could admit that warm brown eyes, flirtatious genius, a sunbeam smile, kind hands, and the background to know what to do with those hands might even give Mycroft Holmes pause. Assuming a Mycroft Holmes willing to be paused for so much as a second. Which he was not.
In the least.
But should Mycroft have chosen to dally, Lestrade would have provided quite a lot of creative, effective notions to dally with.
Mycroft had reviewed the possible lines of attack once already. More than once. So many arts and charms Lestrade could have brought to bear on the “seduction.” None of which Mycroft would have succumbed to, of course, but it was at least a respectable armory he could have offered up. As soon as Mycroft realized he was under assault, though, his protective conditioning would have cut off that line of advance.
He could close his eyes and imagine the various plays that might have been put in motion. A subtle finger stroking over his knuckles—up his arm. Lestrade leaning in to kiss him, slow and confidant, breath fluttering across Mycroft’s lips. Long hours spent on dates. Special treats offered out of the blue. Conversations running late into the night, over good sherry, both men slightly tiddly by the end—a goodbye at the door turning into more.
Each one Mycroft could imagine, admire—and still feel the instant shift of internal stance that would have defended him against any such move. He was invulnerable to such seductions.
He wondered to himself what he might have found too devastating to turn away from. Oddly the answer was a peculiar, muted response, hard to pin down—harder to comprehend. He imagined eyes upon him—dark, patient eyes. He imagined himself acting and choosing within the natural scope of those eyes. He saw his own hand reach out—and Lestrade, watching, eyes granting Mycroft’s gesture a potency it lacked without an observer to observe.
It shivered in him. What would it mean to act under the witness of those eyes?
He shoved the notion aside. This wasn’t about him, after all. It was about Lestrade and his idiotic idea of seducing Mycroft, and there was no action Lestrade could take that would so attract Mycroft as to make him set aside his safety. He slept that night with ferocious security, and woke to focused drive, working all morning with an intensity that rattled even Anthea, who knew him and his ways.
That afternoon he had her call and arrange another lunch.
“Anywhere in particular?” she asked, bewildered.
“Nowhere special,” Mycroft lilted back over the com link between the offices. “A fish and chips place, maybe. Nothing fancy. Everyone likes fish and chips.”
She blinked, trying to imagine her finicky boss in a common chip shop. After due consideration she found a respectable version fit to entertain the Queen, at least on the more raucous public events such as might have happened in her youth, to raise the morale of a war-torn England. “Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret attend the opening of a community center; eat chips later amongst cheering Cockneys.”
At least she was sure it would not give him food poisoning so long as he remembered to stay clear of the saveloy sausages.
He was stunned to be reminded of the appointment later that week.
“I never did,” he exclaimed. “Fish and chips? No. Ridiculous.”
But the event by then was unavoidable without giving insult where no insult was intended.
Mycroft showed up less collected than he usually was, rushing from a late afternoon meeting with Putin that ended on a sour note. He was unable to tidy himself, and the traffic was so bad that he chose to slip out of the car and walk the last block or two rather than put his driver through the agony of navigating the crush. As a result he was a bit wind-swept, a bit jostled by the Friday evening crowd, and just a bit late. He hurried in to the restaurant, was guided by a harried Maitre D’ to a dark alcove in the back, and made his way across the plain wood flooring toward Lestrade in a flutter, off his normal sense of secure and placid control.
As he progressed, he realized he was watched. That Lestrade sat, secure in the little seating area, a drink at his hand, starters already on the table, looking up at his companion hurrying forward. His eyes bloomed, radiant…and still, he watched, making no move, his attention to Mycroft full and entire and sufficient.
Something in Mycroft shook at the revelation. He had been watched with similar attention, of course. In his profession one was, hard though he might try to avoid it. But he could not recall being watched with such openness, or such a fixed regard. It was as if Lestrade could see with x-ray vision—spot the old breaks in long-since mended bones, the chips left by bullets on his ribs, the complicated, ugly spiral break of his thigh from childhood, when Sherlock, attempting a rather petty prank, instead tangled his elder brother in rope before tipping him down a twisting stairwell.
A century or so earlier and there would have been no hope of Mycroft surviving the complex fracture that resulted from the fall. His bones had protruded through the muscle and skin of his thigh; before antibiotics, anesthetics, and advanced surgery with steel pins he would have developed septicemia and soon died, with little Sherlock quite likely to have been found guilty of murder. At ten the child would have hanged for the crime, considered as the assassination of his rightful superior; his father’s proper heir.
He felt as though Lestrade could have reached out and traced the lines of healing, the old places the steel pins had once been set, the remaining marks of the surgery on his thighs. He shivered, imagining showing Lestrade those injuries, telling him the panic he’d felt for his brother’s safety as well as his own as he’d gone under anesthesia, unsure he would live. He imagined Lestrade’s hand tracking up the white, tender skin of his inner thigh, murmuring over the fear of the young man who’d been so hurt, ignoring the twitch and dance of Mycroft’s cock as he contemplated the far more intimate truth of young Mycroft’s fear and love and pain.
They had a good meal together. Mycroft ordered coley, explaining his desire to maintain the world’s cod stocks. Lestrade had ray, commenting on his appreciation for the dense, sweet meat and the heavy mouth-feel. It was not something Mycroft would have considered in regards to Lestrade—that the man would be so sensually aware.
It had to be a mood on his own part, he thought. He could detect nothing changed about Lestrade. Even the attentive watching was not unique, when Mycroft forced himself to evaluate it in dispassionate precision. Lestrade was a copper, an undercover agent, a detective. He had always seen, watched, observed, evaluated, paid attention with all his senses.
It was Mycroft who was changed, wondering for the first time what it would be like to be so observed. Finding entire blocks of knowledge about himself changed by the question.
He had a dangerous, brief fantasy of removing his jacket and waistcoat, removing his tie, opening the collar of his shirt before Lestrade’s watching eyes, witnessed by Lestrade’s precise mind. Lestrade would know how the weight of the wool would drop away, how the chill air would cool the cotton of Mycroft’s shirt, how naked Mycroft’s neck would feel. He might even guess at goosebumps rising and nipples tightening from the unexpected cool air and closeness to revelation. One layer of cloth between Mycroft’s body and the world’s eyes—Lestrade’s eyes.
Mycroft started a very stupid fight with Lestrade over the exact meaning of the legal term “actori incumbent probation,” and left in a hurry, punching at his mobile phone to call the car even as he raced back out of the restaurant.
Lestrade had done nothing, he pointed out to himself. He had made no move. He had not made a pass. He had kept his hands to himself. He’d even kept his eyes to himself, not leering or winking.
It was in Mycroft’s own sense of the balance and meaning of things that change had occurred. It terrified him the degree to which gleaming, seal-dark eyes could study him with such peaceful attention and alter his entire sense of himself and his world. It morphed his very soul…
That night he dreamed of what he might do with Lestrade. Do for Lestrade. He imagined standing naked, shivering, allowing Lestrade to look. In his sleep his breath quickened, his heart beat, his cock came to a tall stand, as he imagined Lestrade watching him, letting his eyes study Mycroft. Mycroft dreamed of them, together, alone at Mycroft’s flat. Mycroft would make dinner. Offer Lestrade cups of hot tea. They would listen to music together. They would sit together on the sofa—Mycroft quite naked, Lestrade sober and dressed and observing everything. The dream ended in confetti and fireworks as he considered them clearing out the dishes, and Lestrade standing behind Mycroft, who worked at the sink—Lestrade’s hand came forward to cradle the curve of Mycroft’s bum, tracing the lower curve, observing the nakedness of him.
It was the weekend, of course. And even with Putin in town, Mycroft had comparatively little scheduled. He was cursed to lie in that following morning, mind haunted not by all the things Lestrade might to do seduce Mycroft, but all the thing Mycroft might do which turned seductive when he imagined them seen by Lestrade’s beautiful eyes; imagined them interpreted by his steady, kindly mind.
Seen from that perspective, even the old, safe litany of things Lestrade could do to try to seduce him changed. Things Mycroft had found entirely shallow and petty, easily set aside, loomed as mountain ranges of sensual possibility when he thought of them as acts of observation. If Lestrade made a pass at him, would Mycroft blush? Would Lestrade notice, and know? Knowing, would he push harder, touch Mycroft’s hand? Attempt a kiss in the shadows of the chauffeured car? If Lestrade kissed him, would Mycroft, newly hypersensitive, respond well? Or would he botch the embrace, giving away his comparative lack of experience and his shattered nerves? Would Lestrade know? Would he press his advantage? Would he have mercy, and let Mycroft draw back, shivering and shy?
The entire concept of seduction turned into an infinite regression of observations of observations, of vulnerability perceived and expanded upon. Worse, Mycroft found that sense of vulnerability, nakedness, of being observed, to be insanely erotic. More and more he dreamed himself, naked beside a clothed Lestrade, making himself open to Lestrade’s eyes, his hands, his mouth—worst of all, his mind. Lestrade would see that nakedness for what it was. He would know how the blood coursed through Mycroft’s body just imagining being seen that way.
He panted for it. He woke up hard for it. He fought to avoid indulging himself, yet more than once he’d crashed into the new day with his hand around his cock and his body in mid-release, dreaming of Lestrade mere feet away, watching—watching and knowing Mycroft did it with him in mind.
He knew then that he would do things for Lestrade’s patient regard that he would do for no one else—and that he would submit his body to extremes just to experience the thrill of Lestrade sharing that revelation with him.
“You’re not making much progress on your seduction plans,” he wrote to Lestrade, over a month after the fish and chips dinner. “I’d expected at least a foray into footsie under the table.”
“No need,” Lestrade wrote back. “I’m already ahead of my expected schedule.”
Mycroft, considering his night fantasies, his mid-day hungers, his driven need, wryly conceded that, little though he might actually realize it, Lestrade was in better shape with his campaign than he had any right to be.
“How do you define ‘seduction’?” he wrote.
“The process by which one partner convinces another to pursue intimacy originally considered undesirable. Or something like that. It’s all about pull.”
“Changing hearts and changing minds. How very diplomatic of you.”
“Well—‘foreign affairs.’ It always did sound romantic.”
Mycroft could hear the laughter in Lestrade’s voice, even though the words were typed and glowed on the screen. He considered his hunger for Lestrade’s notice—his witness.
“Interested in dinner at mine?” he typed, then pushed send before he could talk himself out of it.
“Aye. Can’t think of a reason not,” Lestrade responded. “Sixish?”
“Sixish is good.”
“Bring anything with?”
“Good bread.”
“Can do.”
The bread was heavy and warm—a cottage loaf with a crumb top and gorgeous slashing. It rested in Mycroft’s hands like a warm puppy, and it smelled of yeast and desire. Lestrade had brought a half-pound of fermented French butter, double-cream.
Mycroft had made steamed mussels and sliced vegetables and dip—finger food. He hated himself for it…so obvious. Finger food. Food to handle and suck on and dip and lick off the skin and pair with the bread. He’d added a fruity Alsace pinot gris. After, they drank strong tea.
Mycroft had almost no idea what they said. He kept watching Lestrade’s eyes, wondering what the other man observed—what he thought. Did he know Mycroft had condoms and lubricant in the top drawer by his bed? That there was a daring sex toy tucked in the bottom drawer? That Mycroft dreamed of himself, naked under Lestrade, his hands tied to the headboard, his legs spread wide, open to Lestrade’s exploration?
He’d dressed in linen drawstring pants and a light peasant shirt—so easily removed. He’d worried over his hair. His cologne.
They cleared the table together, washed dishes together, put the kitchen in order together. Mycroft’ wiped away a small slick of double-cream butter from Lestrade’s lower lip, using the corner of the dish towel. He turned off the kitchen lights. In the half-light shining in from the rooms beyond, he said, “Seduce me, Greg.”
“Don’t think I need to,” Lestrade said, pulling the younger man close, nuzzling into the turn of his neck. “I think you’ve done the job for me.”
And, on a longing sigh, Mycroft realized he was right—and surrendered to the greater general.