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Early one morning, as the sun rose slowly, pushing warm rays against the last dregs of night-time clouds, after battling the stress of his job and the horrible process of his divorce, Greg discovered solace while taking a walk through the park near his flat. He had begun ambling along aimlessly, taking in what little sunshine he could get in the mornings and finding peace in the knowledge that no one at the park expected anything from him. He continued the practice into the next year, growing more at home among the trees, walking by the small lake, and sitting on a park bench. He started taking his breakfast there, when it wasn’t raining, and eating it in the peacefulness of the early morning, surrounded by nature. It helped him start his day on a positive note until one day, his mornings improved even more.
Around six months later, Greg made a friend. Stephan, as he was named, joined Greg in his early morning routine. They would gather at the bench in the park and eat breakfast together: coffee and breakfast sandwich, and a bagel. Stephan was a sharp-eyed intelligent sort of chap.
He was also a crow. Corvus corax, to be precise.
Stephan had approached Greg one morning as he was halfway through a bagel from that cafe between his flat and the park. The corvid had hopped up to his bench and tilted his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the half-eaten bagel in Greg’s hand. Greg looked down at him. “Morning.”
The crow hopped closer and tilted his head again.
Greg glanced down at the bagel in his hand and back up at the crow before pulling it slightly into his chest. “This is mine.”
The crow continued to fixate upon the bread in Greg’s hand.
With a soft sigh, Greg tore off a small segment and tossed it to the ground at his feet. The crow hopped over to him and delicately grasped the bread in his beak. He hopped back a few paces, bobbed his head at Greg in what appeared to be thanks, and then flew away. Greg watched him go with a grin forming on his face and a low chuckle in his chest. “You’re welcome.”
Meeting in the park with Stephan became a daily occurrence and eventually, Greg bought a whole bagel just for his new companion whom he had named, and they sat together for a while every morning until Stephan grew tired of this company and flew away with his prize. The fact that he managed to fly away with the entirety of a bagel hanging from his beak never failed to impress Greg.
After a few weeks of sharing breakfast and talking to him, Greg was growing rather fond of Stephan and looked forward to his morning meetings with his new-found feathered friend. He learned that Stephan’s preferred kind of bagel was blueberry, and whenever he brought blueberry, Stephan seemed to sense it and swooped to him faster than normal to peck at the bread. It was nice to have consistent company, even if it was from a bird. Work kept him busy, but during the quiet hours, Greg couldn’t help the swooping feeling of loneliness in his stomach. He tried not to judge himself too harshly for considering Stephan to be one of his closest relationships, because he just didn’t have the time for anything else. Any dates he attempted to go on quickly fizzled out when he was called out for a case. People weren’t willing to put up with his lifestyle, and he wasn’t willing to give up his work. So, he settled into the knowledge that he was destined to be alone and Stephen was his new best friend. Pathetic, but how it needed to be.
~&~
In the early hours of an early spring day, as the sun sent warm orange rays through the previous night’s blue, Mycroft opened the door of his flat and stepped out onto the small stair. A black Audi was waiting for him at the curb, parked temporarily in-between the two Pimlico mimosas that framed his flat. He twisted his key into the lock and slipped it into his pocket, patting it once to check it had arrived in its intended destination. He straightened his jacket and took a step forward, and his face hit a bagel that had fallen from the sky.
He whirled back against the door, spluttering in utter shock, and he heard the door of his car open and the feet of his bodyguard, Rees, swiftly approaching him, gun drawn.
“Sir?” Rees reached out a hand in a silent instruction for Mycroft to stay where he was pressed against his door and swept the area visually before inspecting the bagel with the toe of his polished black dress shoe. “Are you alright?”
Mycroft straightened and tugged at his jacket, straightening himself out. Alarmed to feel himself flustered by what amounted to a mere circle of boiled bread lying on the pavement. “Quite, thank you. Is that... a bagel?”
Rees nodded. “Yes, Sir. Blueberry, it seems.”
“Where did it come from?” Mycroft craned his neck to look above him.
“Unsure, Sir.”
“Right. Well, I am in no danger from bread.” He fished a pen out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Bending, he scooped the bagel up using the pen and tossed it into a nearby bin. “That’s that. Back to the car, Rees.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The day after a bagel had mysteriously fallen from the sky onto his face, Mycroft emerged from his flat, stepping out onto the small stair. He locked the door behind him and pocketed the key, patting the pocket. He straightened his jacket, observed his waiting ride, and took a step forward only to be met by another face full of bagel without warning. Against his will, Mycroft let out a high-pitched screech and ducked swiftly, batting at the impending bread with his hands. Realizing it was only another bagel, he rushed to straighten himself, a flush rising in his cheeks at his embarrassing display of weakness. A rustling in the branches above drew his attention, and he observed a Corvus corax hopping on a branch above him, peering down at him. He huffed to himself. “Let’s pretend you didn’t see that, shall we?” He fished out his pen and repeated the process of binning the bagel as he had the previous day before walking into his waiting car, sparing a glare to the offending creature.
Two weeks of enduring perpetual bagels later, on a clear brisk morning, Mycroft emerged from his flat, stepping out onto the small stair. He immediately opened his black umbrella, grasping the yellow handle firmly while his other hand manipulated the key into the lock, slipped the key into his pocket, and patted said pocket. He turned and faced the car and strode towards it, hearing, just like clockwork, the heavy thud on the top of his umbrella as a bagel was dropped onto him, as he discovered, by the crow, non-affectionately named Puck, who now had taken up residence above his doorway every morning. The bagel bounced off of his umbrella and to the side of the pavement where he would remove it when he returned home from work. The matter of Puck and the bagel had driven him nearly to insanity as it swiftly became a habit for Puck to drop him the unwanted gift each morning, designing to hit him in the face every time. No amount of trickery, threats, cajoling, or bribery could sway Puck from his newfound joy of plopping a bagel onto Mycroft’s face every morning. And, of course, Mycroft could not bring himself to even consider getting rid of Puck in a more permanent fashion. Inconvenienced though he was, he was not a monster.
After a full month of enduring countless bagels dumped upon his umbrella with the intent of striking his person, Mycroft had had it and decided to take things in hand. Surely, if he discovered the origin of the bagels, he would be able to cease this incessant foolery. And so, instead of heading in to work, Mycroft stepped outside of the house, threw the predicted bagel away, and returned into his home, setting up residence in the front window with a clear view of the bird. He couldn’t terminate Puck, but he could follow him.
Mid-morning, Puck took flight from his perch outside Mycroft’s flat and took to the air. Mycroft hastily followed, ordering his driver to follow the bird. Mycroft peered out the window, giving directions to his driver as they weaved through roads, backtracked across areas of London, and circumvented other cars in the hope of following the same bird. Finally, they pulled up to the entrance of a park. Mycroft ordered his driver to stop and leapt out of the car. He walked quickly—it was most definitely not a jog, he would never jog in public—into the park, gaze focused on the black bird flying lazily above him, unaware of the near-crazed individual stalking his movements. Puck finally settled into a tree which rested gently over a worn bench facing a field. After a brief glance, Mycroft observed the plethora of crumbs scattered across the bench and the ground, confirming that this is where Puck had obtained the bagel. Some absolute imbecilic individual was feeding the crow willingly. Of all the stupid, senseless—Mycroft quickly took a calming breath. The individual was most likely unaware of Puck’s malicious intentions with the individual’s morning gifts. That would have to be addressed as soon as possible, which left only one option in his mind. A stakeout.
The next morning at 5am, Mycroft took up residence in the park a fair way from the bench so as to not spook whoever was feeding Puck those damned bagels, but close enough so he could observe and prevent it from ever happening again. He had settled at the base of a tree, sitting on a small blanket with his back resting against a tree. The morning air pushed against his face, and he burrowed into his scarf as he sat in wait.
As the morning approached 7:30, Mycroft was positively freezing, huddled in his coat with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Only the occasional runner had passed by the bench and none had drawn the attention of Puck, who was perched in the tree above. Perhaps the mysterious benefactor of bagels had broken their 5-week habit. Perhaps they had moved. Perhaps they had died. Mycroft’s lips twitched in the irony. The bagel benefactor had passed away in peace while Mycroft was freezing his arse off in a park like a fool. He glanced away to observe the morning. Fog was just drifting away from the corners of the park, and it was turning into a beautiful clear morning. Footsteps upon the path drew Mycroft’s focus back to his mission.
To his great surprise, the familiar figure of the devastatingly handsome Detective Inspector Lestrade strode down the path, a takeaway coffee in hand and a brown bag crinkling in the other. Mycroft sat up straight against the tree and observed as DI Lestrade settled onto the bench, setting the brown bag next to him. He pulled out a breakfast sandwich and laid it on a napkin on the bench before reaching into the bag and pulling out... a bagel. At the sight of the treat, Puck swooped down from the tree and landed in front of Lestrade, head tilted in anticipation.
Mycroft leapt up from where he was sitting, wincing as his knees protested at the swift, youthful movement, and strode towards the bench. He pointed a finger in accusation as he came to stand in front of the bench, sending Puck hopping to the side. “It’s YOU!”
Greg nearly dropped his coffee in shock. “Wh- Mycroft?” His dark brown eyes were wide with surprise. “What the hell? What are you doing here?”
Mycroft scowled at him, determined to not be swayed by having those delicious brown eyes aimed at him. “Stop feeding Puck bagels! He doesn’t eat them; instead, he drops them on me when I try to leave for work!”
Greg blinked and opened his mouth before shutting it, suppressing a chuckle. He opened it again. “Who’s Puck?”
Mycroft snarled and waved a hand at the crow examining them both. “That. The bird.”
Greg looked at the crow and blinked. “You mean Stephan?”
With a scoff, Mycroft straightened. “You named it Stephan?”
Affronted and a bit embarrassed, Greg looked at the breakfast sandwich in his hands. What must Mycroft think of him, sitting here alone making friends with a crow. “Well, yeah,” he said, shrugging. After a moment, he glanced up at Mycroft, a smile twitching at his lips. “But, you named him Puck?”
Mycroft crossed his arms and sniffed. “An apt name for a bringer of mischief.”
With a glance at the crow, Greg grinned. “Bringer of mischief, eh? Have you been dropping the bagels I bought for you on poor Mycroft here?” he asked the bird, who had the audacity to look smug and a little chastised.
“He purposefully aims for my face. He forces me to utilize my umbrella.” Mycroft huffed.
“That must be awful.” Greg looked at him, his face serious with sympathy, but his eyes sparkled.
Mycroft growled. “You’re mocking me.”
“No, no, come on now. It’s not every day the great Mycroft Holmes, protector of the British people, gets targeted by a crow only wanting to share breakfast with him.”
“Right.” Mycroft turned to go.
“Now, hold on.” Greg set his coffee on the bench, stood, and grasped his arm. “Don’t be like that. I was just having a bit of a go. I’m really sorry he was dropping bagels on you. I didn’t know that’s what he was doing with them. I’ll stop giving them to him.”
Mycroft paused, momentarily mollified. “Thank you. Bread is terrible for birds anyways.”
“Oh, yeah?” Greg scratched at his jaw. “Didn’t know that. What should I give him?”
Mycroft shrugged. “Corn. Peas. Peanuts.”
“Right. Will do.”
Mycroft nodded, glancing down at where Greg’s hand was still wrapped firmly about his upper arm.
Clearing his throat, Greg released his hold and stepped back. “How did you find me?”
A sheepish expression blossomed on Mycroft’s face and he avoided Greg’s gaze. “... I may have followed the crow here yesterday and returned this morning to sit in wait.”
Eyebrows raised and biting his lip to hide a smirk; Greg looked at him. “How long were you waiting?”
Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened in an attempt to look more commanding than he knew his response would give him. “Since five.”
“Jesus Christ, Myc.” Greg barked out a laugh. “You’re insane.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at the nickname. “I’m not the one who believes a crow to be their only friend.”
At that, Greg jerked back. “Oi.”
“It is correct, is it not?”
Greg glanced at the crow. “Not my only friend. But it’s nice to have company for breakfast.”
“Have you not found a suitable partner with whom to share the mornings?”
Greg shook his head. “Suitable, no. Interested, also no.”
Mycroft scoffed. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Do you?” Greg looked at him, his brown eyes sweeping over Mycroft’s face.
A faint flush swept across Mycroft’s cheeks. He waved a hand. “You must know you’re a catch, Detective Inspector.”
“Call me Greg, please.” Greg’s tone grew soft, his eyes crinkling as a small smile lifted his cheeks.
“Gregory.”
“Greg.”
“Gregory.”
With a huff, Greg shook his head, but his eyes sparkled. “Would you like to get breakfast?”
Mycroft blinked, feeling wrong-footed. “With you?”
“No, with the bird. Of course, with me.” Brown eyes gazed into blue.
A slight nod and Mycroft loosened his scarf, for despite the chill, he was beginning to feel a bit warm.
“Bagel?” Greg offered with a wink.
~&~
A month later, the sun rose, stretching its beams over the city, weaving light through clouds and two men sit on a bench, take away coffees in on one hand, a breakfast sandwich for one and a blueberry bagel for the other. They walked from the flat they now share to the bench they now call their own. Most mornings, they choose to eat breakfast there, if the weather is good, before heading to the car, which drops Greg off at Scotland Yard before taking Mycroft to work. Their relationship is new, but strong. And every time they sit at their bench, they’re sure to bring along the small sack that rests on their entryway table and sprinkle along the path—the custom mixture of corn, peas, and peanuts specifically tailored to the tastes of their black-feathered friend. He was called Puck upon mutual agreement, for he had successfully brought lovers together.