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“Director, may I ask…”
Any semblance of the amicable mood that existed between them was dispersed by Albert parking himself behind Mycroft’s desk. He had wedged himself between the mahogany and the chair that the Director himself currently sat in, leaving no more than a foot between them. Albert leaned back, placed his palms flat on his mahogany desk, and set his rump on the perfectly manicured edge of it.
Whenever Albert requested something of him, it always came down to this: this flaunting and coquetting. It reminded him much of a peacock’s vibrant display.
Thusly, Mycroft had begun to ignore anything that Albert said when it came down to this, and part of him knew that was exactly why Albert still did it. It was as if he couldn’t exist if he wasn’t pushing Mycroft’s buttons in some way. Why must he act like a child so derived of attention?
The papers that made up the report in his hand shuffled out of place, in need of a staple. Mycroft looked up, knowing the desired item was out of view, obscured by this pest of a lord who looked down at him expectantly, lips curved into a coy smile, awaiting a nonexistent answer to whatever question he had posed.
A vein above his eye twitched. This was certainly the last straw.
The thing about peacocks - their beauty was as much their pride as it was their downfall. If Albert was the peacock, then he was the leopard waiting to strike because those feathers gave him nothing but a damned headache.
The opportunity to put Albert in his place presented itself, and Mycroft took it. He leapt up from his chair, reveling in the satisfaction that came from the sudden surprise in Albert’s eyes just before Mycroft dealt the blow. Albert yelped when Mycroft’s palm slammed into his chest, throwing him back onto the desk. His legs flew upwards, now framing Mycroft’s waist. The force sent a wave of air that ruffled a stack of papers, sending the topmost sheets fluttering to the floor. The inkwell that Albert’s arm had narrowly missed clattered but did not tip; a perfectly predicted and controlled trajectory.
The wind having been thoroughly knocked out of him, Albert only looked up in shock, the look of a criminal that had absolutely expected to get away with his crimes and was astonished by the consequences.
That expression was seared into Mycroft’s mind, and it was something he wasn’t going to soon forget.
That gratification aside, Mycroft reached over Albert’s body for the stapler on the edge of the desk, still keeping him pinned by using his chest as a balancing point. When he had retrieved the desired item, he clacked it over Albert’s face in a gesture of mild annoyance, then used the leverage he still had to push himself back, releasing Albert in the process. He picked up his bundle of papers from where he had dropped them on his chair and sat, then nonchalantly stapled them together.
It took Albert a second to recover, and he did so with a cough. His hand covered the point of contact on his chest, and he stared at Mycroft, offended.
The Director stared back with his usual stoicness. “What?”
Albert sputtered, and scoffed. “‘What?’ That’s all you have to say?”
Mycroft tossed the report on the stack, which was now slightly askew. Some of its contents still remained on the floor. “You were in my way.”
“Well! You didn’t have to manhandle me!”
Someone else in the room coughed awkwardly. During the incident, neither of them had noticed Moneypenny slip into the office. She stood by the door, clutching a folder to her chest, her eyes widened and her cheeks tinted pink. “Um. Did I interrupt something important?”
“No,” said Mycroft, just as Albert coughed out the same.