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Irritably, Greg shrugged out of his coat, hung it up, and made a beeline for the kitchen. The pile of pots next to the sink, chopping board littered with bits of discarded tomato and mushroom, and smell of lasagne pervading the house told Greg that his husband was home, but his sights were so fixed on the fridge that he missed the other man, sans jacket and sleeves pushed up to the elbows, sitting at the island reading a book.
“Oh, baby, you look so good,” Greg cooed, reaching for a bottle of Peroni. Getting the lid off was the work of seconds, and, raising the bottle to his lips, he continued, “but I bet you taste better.” The first taste was bliss, and, for a brief moment, Greg’s bad mood faded into the background, pushed away by the bubbles dancing across his tongue. The second mouthful chased the first, and the third swiftly after that, and soon the bottle was as good as empty. “God, I needed you.”
“If only you still spoke to me so,” Mycroft sighed mournfully, finally drawing Greg’s attention. He lowered his bottle and directed his attention at the other man, who was, to all intents and purposes, still focussed on his book, a cup of tea sitting on its saucer beside him. “Yes, dear, my day was fine, thank you for asking. Dinner is in the oven; I hope you don’t mind lasagne.”
“I, ah, sorry, love,” Greg apologised, crossing to where his husband was sitting. A glance at the book showed something in a language Greg didn’t recognise, but it was an old, well worn volume, and Mycroft only ever returned to his favourites when a lingering bad day wouldn’t spoil them. Sheepishly, he used two fingers under Mycroft’s chin to tilt his face for a kiss. “Bit of a bad day.”
“Hmm, I’d surmised as much; the enthusiastic assault on your beer supply was something of a clue.” Mycroft drew the kiss out, sweet and affectionate, and Greg felt himself relax further as a strong arm wrapped around his back. “Perhaps we should go out at the weekend. We could try that Indian restaurant you mentioned.”
“Sounds perfect,” Greg replied, smiling. They’d always been busy men with demanding jobs, but recently they were lucky if they were getting two nights together out of seven, and Greg was desperate for some real time together. “Kapoor was raving about it in the staff room the other day, and he’s the harshest curry critic I’ve met.”
“High praise indeed. I’ll have a table booked for Friday.” Mycroft slipped a hand under Greg’s jacket and stroked his back. “Now, what about today was so awful that I came second to a bottle of subpar beer?”
With a groan, Greg dropped his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder and inhaled his scent. It was familiar and reassuring and perfect. “I met my new Deputy Assistant Commissioner today. Robert Strickland,” he started, pulling the threads of the day together as he went. He’d been promoted to DCI last month, after years of encouragement to go for it from family and friends. He’d always put off progressing to next rung on the career ladder, not wanting to end up tied to a desk while the people under him did the proper work, but his newly dodgy back and sometimes achy knees had convinced him that it was time to take a less physically demanding job. What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that the promotion would involve being immediately put out to pasture.
“I’ve met him.” Mycroft’s hand circled on Greg’s lower back, warm through the fabric of his shirt. “He over reaches his remit occasionally, but he is well connected and good at his job.”
“Yeah, there were rumours about him ‘over reaching’ a few years back. Something about getting caught up with MI5 business and a spook taking a bullet.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Mycroft replied blandly. “What is the problem? He’s a much better officer than the imbecile you’ve been serving under.”
“It’s not him that’s the problem.” Greg stepped back, sorry to lose contact but in need of another drink. He crossed the kitchen, retrieved and opened another bottle, and took the seat next to his husband at the island-come-breakfast-bar. “Have you heard of UCOS? The Unsolved Crime and Open Case Squad.” To Greg’s complete lack of surprise, Mycroft inclined his head. “Right, well, he wants to put me in there, solving cold cases with a team of dinosaurs from the eighties.”
He had been expecting sympathy at the very least, if not indignation on his behalf, not the neutral expression of a man who had failed to grasp the problem at hand. “I fail to see the problem.”
“You fail to...Mycroft, it’s adult daycare for over the hill cops! The first senior officer to run it was forced into it so the Met could save face after she fucked up, the second was the wife of a DAC who was ‘promoted’ right before she discovered his affair, and that’s before I even think about the old timers they’ve brought out of retirement to work the cases!” Greg ranted, gesturing expressively with his bottle. “It’s the Met’s scrap heap, and I’m not ready to be scrapped!”
“I’m sure they’re not trying to ‘scrap’ you,” Mycroft replied, squeezing Greg’s left knee reassuringly.
“But they are! Since I turned fifty five, HR’ve been flooding my inbox with messages about my pension and ways to go part time, and now they’re trying to send me to copper daycare.” Greg slumped, feeling every one of his fifty five years. “I’m getting old.”
A small smile curled Mycroft’s lips. “Tell me, my dear, are you familiar with the concept of paranoia?”
“I’m not paranoid!” Greg snapped. “I’m getting old, and I’ve even got the bad back and grandson to prove it.”
“You wouldn’t have a bad back if you’d waited for me before attempting to move the cabinet, and having a grandchild is not an indicator of old age. Unless, of course, you’re suggesting that I am also old,” Mycroft replied, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. “Where is this nonsense coming from?”
“Of course I'm not; you’re a young, super sexy granddad.” Sighing, because he’d never won an argument with Mycroft and he didn’t think his luck was going to change now, Greg picked at his bottle’s label. “It’s just...I’m being put in charge of a team of old age pensioners, I’m knackered all the time, and, not to put too fine a point on it, we haven’t had sex for weeks. We could barely keep our hands off each other when we got together, but now we’re lucky if we go to bed at the same time, never mind getting up to anything in it. I just...Christ, I just feel old.”
“There’s no need for hyperbole, dear; we had sex nine days ago, after you woke up at three o’clock in the morning and begged to be buggered.” Mycroft picked his cup up and sipped his tea. “You are not old. Might I remind you that we got together after ten years of sexual tension? We’re middle aged men with demanding jobs; it’s hardly surprising that we haven’t been able to maintain that frequency of intercourse. Believe me, you’re no less desirable now than you were then.”
Greg flushed, a technicolour replay of that early morning wake up flashing across his mind. “And a hell of a buggering it was, too.”
“Hmm, yes, it was,” Mycroft smiled. “Now, as for this ridiculous notion that you’re being ‘scrapped’. I think it far more likely that DAC Strickland is taking advantage of a newly promoted Detective Chief Inspector with a reputation for solving difficult and unusual cases, and happens to have fourteen years’ experience working with an extremely challenging civilian consultant.”
Absorbing that, Greg finished his beer. As much as he wanted to argue, Mycroft’s words made sense, and the remaining tension drained out of him. “Alright. I suppose that makes sense,” he agreed. “HR are still sending me too many emails about retirement and pensions though.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Of course they are; you’ve reached an age at which many of your colleagues are considering retirement. I imagine that those emails are standard procedure.”
“Right, yeah, maybe,” Greg conceded, peeling the last of the label from his bottle. “But I still don’t like it.”
“No, I imagine not,” Mycroft smiled. Taking Greg’s hand, the younger man stood and tugged Greg up with him. “Now, if you’ve quite finished sulking, how do you feel about ending our nine day dry spell?”
Unable to repress a smile, Greg stepped into Mycroft’s personal space and stole a kiss. “Oh, I think I can manage that.”