Work Text:
Greg’s crashed out on the sofa by the time Mycroft makes it home. His feet are bare, the cuffs of his jeans ragged and worn, denim faded out to white in places. They look soft, comfortable, much like Greg himself, moulded to his legs from years of use. Mycroft slips out of his jacket and tugs impatiently at his tie, at the buttons that hold his starched collar stiff against his throat. His workday armour is constraint now, sharp lines keeping him rigid and stiff, even in the familiar space of Greg’s sitting room.
The TV’s still on in the corner, halfway through Match of the Day Two now, spilling green and blue light over Greg’s dozing form. The rest of the lamps in the room are off, and Mycroft smiles to think of Greg stretching out on the sofa hours earlier, warm and exhausted, waiting for him to come home. It’s almost a shame to wake him now, and Mycroft takes his time removing his cufflinks and shoving his sleeves up his arms, toeing his shoes off to pad across the threadbare carpet in just his socks.
He knows when Greg wakes because the pattern of his breathing changes, his lips twitching up in a smile as Mycroft leans over him. He smells of coffee and laundry detergent, a long shift out in the cold air and a brisk shower to warm his bones. Mycroft presses his lips to Greg’s carefully, closing his eyes to better feel the way Greg’s mouth moulds to his own.
“Hello,” Greg murmurs, and his hand comes up to cup the back of Mycroft’s head, directing him ever so gently as his tongue flickers out to taste Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft sighs into the kiss, letting Greg take control, arching a little into the strong fingers that stroke over the nape of his neck.
Sleep still clings to Greg, softening his face, and Mycroft wants nothing more than to climb onto the sofa too and press himself against the warmth of Greg’s body, to nuzzle into the space where his neck meets his shoulder and inhale the scent of him. He hums a little into the kiss just to taste Greg’s smile, and then Greg’s hand is sliding down his back, sliding into the loops of his trousers and tugging him down.
It’s not the biggest sofa in the world, and it takes Mycroft longer than it ought to to work out how to position all of his limbs. Greg laughs softly, lying back against the pillows and sliding his hand up to stroke over the nape of Mycroft’s neck again, coaxing him down until he’s sprawled across Greg’s chest, his legs bracketed by Greg’s own.
“There,” Greg rumbles when they’re finally settled, and then he’s kissing Mycroft again, slow, shallow little kisses, his fingers dancing on the back of Mycroft’s neck as though Mycroft is something precious, something to be treasured and treated gently. It prickles in his stomach, heavy and sharp, and Mycroft has to swallow tightly to force it down, arching up into Greg’s hands to ground himself.
“Long day?” Greg asks him, running his hands down Mycroft’s back with the perfect amount of pressure.
“Hmm.” Mycroft lets his head drop down to rest against Greg’s collarbone, breathing in the warmth of him, the trace of mint in his shower gel, the slightly sweet smell of his washing powder. They don’t get to be like this often, too busy saving the world for more than sweet and desperate kisses, stolen hours between meetings and suits and paperwork. It’s too comfortable a moment to waste on talk of business.
“Shh,” Greg says, shifting beneath him, and then he’s cradling Mycroft close, enfolding him within Greg’s body until Mycroft is held, small and safe, in the circle of his arms. “You’re exhausted, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the endearment gets tangled up somewhere in Mycroft’s ribcage.
Greg’s hands sweep down his back, warm and smooth, and Mycroft feels his body relax by inches, warming and untangling under Greg’s hands. He kisses the exposed skin just above the collar of Greg’s t-shirt, a gentle press of his lips against corded muscle and soft skin.
Greg’s neck is his favourite erogenous zone. Mycroft has a mental catalogue of the best places to lick and kiss and suck on to have Greg writhing and needy beneath him, desperate to get off just from having Mycroft’s lips on him. He avoids those places now, kissing his way carefully up to Greg’s lips again, sliding his arms up around Greg’s neck for balance as he presses their lips together again. Greg’s mouth opens easily beneath his own, and Mycroft licks in slowly, savouring the slide of slick tongues. Greg tastes faintly of coffee and the cigarettes he rarely smokes, bitter and warm and familiar. He sighs as Mycroft kisses him, stretching out a little more and sliding a hand up into Mycroft’s hair.
“I could kiss you for hours,” Mycroft tells him, quietly enough that he can imagine that the words slip between them unnoticed. Greg hums in acknowledgement, kissing back gently, still cradling Mycroft close as though they have hours to spare on just this.. He makes no effort slide his hands under Mycroft’s clothes, to deepen their kisses into foreplay, instead content to lie curled around Mycroft on the battered sofa and kiss him slowly into oblivion.
Mycroft hears himself make soft, contented noises into the space between them, chasing Greg’s lips whenever he pulls back. He waits for Greg to tire, waits for him to pull away and complain that his neck aches, and he has to be up in the morning, and that kissing is far more fun while naked in bed. It doesn’t happen. Greg simply holds him and kisses him as though they have all the time in the world, even as the television slides into news programmes and eventually shuts off completely.
Midnight passes with the muffled chimes of bells, and Greg slides both hands down Mycroft’s neck, ruffling the short hairs on the back of his neck with his thumbs as he eases Mycroft’s mouth off his.
“We should go to bed,” he whispers, fingers stroking tiny spirals on the back of Mycroft’s neck. Greg’s lips are swollen with kisses, and Mycroft can’t help but swipe the pad of his thumb across them, cupping Greg’s face in his hand for a moment. Greg turns his head and presses a kiss to the centre of Mycroft’s palm, and Mycroft has to duck his head, embarrassed by the soft and open smile that spills across Greg’s face.
He moves slowly, untangling himself from Greg’s warmth by increments, and it’s not until he’s standing again that he realises how deep his exhaustion goes. Greg’s hands are rough with wear, but they are so very gentle on Mycroft’s skin, curling around his waist as Greg guides them both towards the bedroom. Mycroft is fuzzy with warmth and sleep, stumbling through the dark flat half-blind with only Greg, solid and sure, beside him to guide the way.
They strip slowly, with the ease of familiar lovers, and Mycroft smiles at the curve of Greg’s belly, the soft trail of hair that disappears into his boxers. He smiles back at Mycroft, lazy and genuine, and Mycroft can’t help but lean in and taste the sweetness of it, curving his own mouth to match the shape, pressed skin to skin and warm with one another.
Their bed is cold, and Mycroft shivers as he crawls under the sheets. Greg slides in after him, pressing his warmth against Mycroft’s side and curling an arm around his waist.
“Come here,” he says softly, and then he’s tugging at Mycroft carefully, rolling them both over until Mycroft is settled on his chest again, chin resting on his crossed arms. Greg’s face is softened by the darkness, flattened out into shadows and pale planes of light and Mycroft reaches out and traces over the bridge of his nose, down to the tip, over the bow of his lips. He’s not ready to sleep just yet, not ready for morning and exhaustion and climbing out bed just as Greg leaves for work, for quick kisses that taste of toothpaste.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Greg says, and then he wraps his arms across Mycroft’s back, settling him differently, until somehow they fit again, and Mycroft’s cheek is pressed against Greg’s clavicle. Greg’s fingers slide into his hair, just resting now, and Mycroft arches into the touch just a little, closing his eyes and pressing a soft kiss to Greg’s throat.
The morning will creep in under the blinds far too fast, and they’ll be lost to the whirlwind of pressed collars and ink-smudged fingers and snatched text messages in code between meetings and briefings and saving the world. For now though, Mycroft lets himself rest, lets himself time his breathing against the constant, steady thump of Greg’s heart and allows himself a stolen hour of peace.