Chapter Text
“Dad! Home!”
“Hi, Ells!” Greg called back, not looking away from the telly. “Mycroft’s here!”
Mycroft strained to hear her coming in over the volume of the football game. Arsenal were winning, apparently. Greg seemed unreasonably excited about this. The noise was a bit much, but not so loud that Mycroft couldn’t focus on his reading, so he let it lie. He listened to Ellie’s boots get kicked off and knock against the wall—a little wince, there—and her keys flung onto the kitchen bench.
She came into the room a moment later, laden down with brightly-coloured shopping bags and a bright smile. She dumped the bags on the coffee table, beginning to root through one.
“Everything go okay?” Greg asked absently.
“Yeah, great,” she said, drawing an electric blue blouse from the bag and studying it, a tiny furrow between her brows. Tags still hung from it.
It was quite pretty, Mycroft thought. The colour would suit her. He filed away a picture of it in his mind, reminding himself to comment on it when she wore it. He was getting good at talking to Ellie, he thought. Growing accustomed to the quirks of a teenage girl was no easy feat, but he thought he was managing fairly well. He saw her perhaps every other week, these days; Greg still kept a careful degree of separation between his daughter and his love life. And Mycroft took absolutely no offence to that.
“How’s Soph?” Greg asked. This was clearly a routine.
“She’s fine. Says to tell you hi.
“Tell her I—”
“Already got it.”
Mycroft smiled to himself, glancing back down at his book. Greg and Ellie were so comfortable to be around. It wasn’t always sunshine, of course—nothing was with a teenager—but much of the time, everything was sweet and simple. It was rather lovely, this family domesticity. Mycroft cherished the times he was able to share in it.
“Gonna show me what you got, then?” Greg asked. “Go on, give us the runway show.”
Ellie grinned, fishing a few things out of the bag. “Okay.” She vanished, then, hurrying off to another room.
Mycroft was a bit confused by the whole thing, but he decided to watch it play out rather than asking for details.
Ellie came back after only a minute or two, clad in a new outfit, the tags still hanging. “Thought this top was fun,” she said, twirling around in front of the telly.
Greg glanced at her very briefly before returning his focus to the game. “Wow, very cute.”
She smiled brightly, then grabbed something else and hurried out again. Interesting. Mycroft waited patiently for her to return in something new. A dress, this time, casual and comfortable-looking.
“Oh, that one’s nice, love,” Greg said, his gaze never flickering from the telly.
Mycroft sighed.
Ellie didn’t seem to mind, though, just grinning and doing a little twirl. “Got a cool cut-out thing, too. Makes my back a little cold, but I like it.”
Mycroft closed his book, deciding to devote his full attention to this funny little ritual. It seemed to be a routine, some sort of process done frequently. A bit of shopping; a little fashion show. Greg was paying rather little attention, but Ellie didn’t seem to mind at all. He glanced at each outfit and said something sweet. That seemed to be enough.
Was it even about the clothes? Mycroft wondered. Or had this routine become so practised that it didn’t really matter to either of them anymore?
Well.
It mattered to Mycroft.
“D’you like these, Dad?” Ellie came back in a pair of brightly-coloured trousers that flared out around her ankles, offering him a little spin. “I think I do, but they’re a little wild, yeah?”
Greg glanced up for a few seconds, looking them over. “They’re very nice,” he said. “Fun colour.”
“Do you intend to pair them with that blouse?” Mycroft ventured, a little nervously. “I think they’d rather suit something fitted.”
She looked at him a moment, tilting her head.
Mycroft froze. Had he ruined everything? Had he insulted her, in his misguided attempt to offer advice? Had this been a step too far? He did not understand this ritual, admittedly; was advising not meant to be part of it?
“Of course, you d—” he tried to say, but she interrupted him with a raised hand.
“No, hang on,” Ellie said, diving into another of her overflowing shopping bags. She drew out a little top, something summery that looked like it would fit her a little more closely than the billowing sleeves of her current shirt. “Like this one?”
Mycroft breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. “Yes,” he tentatively agreed. “It is only my inexpert opinion, of course.”
“No,” she said slowly, looking down at it as she held it against herself, “I think you’re right.” She scampered off, returning less than a minute later with the same bright trousers and the new top. “Do we like this better? I think I like this better.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, a little nervously. “It suits you quite well. A lovely contrast with your colouring.”
Ellie smiled, soft and bright and seemingly genuine. “Thanks, Mycroft.”
“Of course.”
“Hey, will you—” Ellie pulled a dress from the bag, holding it up against herself. “I’m gonna put this on. Can’t decide if I should keep it. Soph made me get it because she swore it was pretty, but I think the colour might be a bit weird.”
Mycroft blinked, a little bewildered as she scampered off to change. Was she… seeking his advice? On her clothing? He had not made a fatal mistake in offering his expertise?
Alright. He could make an attempt.
Beside him, Greg made a wounded noise of defeat.
Mycroft glanced over, bemused, to see Greg burying his face in his hands. “Arsenal not faring well?” he asked.
“No,” Greg groaned. “Everything was great until bloody fucking— can’t even— if they would just—”
Mycroft had gotten very good at watching football with Greg. It was a skill he rather impressed himself with, to be honest. He knew most of the Arsenal players’ names, now, and could make appropriately agreeable or disagreeable faces whenever Greg mentioned those he liked or disliked. He nodded along as Greg launched into a play-by-play tirade, rather convincingly pretending that he understood.
Both of them knew that Mycroft hadn’t the foggiest idea nor care about the footie, but Greg liked it and that was what mattered.
“Ooh, that’s lovely, Ells,” Greg said, interrupting his own disappointed rant to look up at her.
Ellie had come back in in a dress that was admittedly rather pretty, but didn’t quite suit her. She had been right; the lighting of home no doubt made the colour different from in-store.
Most importantly, though, Ellie didn’t look comfortable in it. She tugged on the hem a bit and smoothed her hands over her hips a few times, adjusting things more than necessary. It was wearing her, really, rather than her wearing the dress.
“I dunno about this one,” Ellie explained, offering a little twirl. “I’m not sure it’s for me.”
“Very pretty,” Greg said, smiling warmly at her.
Ellie just looked at Mycroft, though, holding his gaze with a tiny frown. “What do you think?”
Mycroft chose his words very, very carefully. “It’s very pretty,” he agreed, “but I fear you may be right.”
Ellie’s face opened immediately. “The colour’s weird, isn’t it? And I don’t like the— the—” She ran a hand down the side of the dress, indicating the gathered seam.
“Ruching?” Mycroft supplied.
“Yes. It feels weird.”
“A lighter blue would suit you,” Mycroft offered. “Perhaps something slightly less fitted in that way? A more flared skirt, perhaps?”
Ellie nodded. “I like that idea. That sounds good. I’ll take this one back, then.” She turned back to the table, peering into another bag.
Mycroft breathed slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart. He had never been good with children. Or humans, really. This was incredibly difficult. But he would do it. He would get good at it. For Greg. And for Ellie.
“Will you go with me?” Ellie asked it casually as she folded a pair of trousers back into its bag, not making eye contact. She shrugged a little bit, facing away. “Help me pick out something better? I hate returning things by myself.”
Mycroft felt more than saw Greg suddenly return to paying attention. Mycroft wasn’t sure he was breathing. Will you go with me? This was a step, he knew. A big step. Inviting your dad’s boyfriend to go shopping with you was… really something.
Greg shifted a little to lay a hand on Mycroft’s knee, the touch warm and comforting. A quiet reassurance. Acquiescence, even.
“Of course,” Mycroft said, his voice catching on the words a little. “I would love to.”