Work Text:
The man’s voice was bright, cutting through the bustle of the busy café. He was too happy, Mycroft thought sourly as he glanced up, eyeing the man now at the front of the line for drinks. Much too cheerful for seven o’clock on a dreary Saturday morning. Considerably more cheerful than he ought to be with that bag overflowing with paperwork. Mycroft certainly wasn’t so thrilled about his own mountain of papers laid out on the slight-sticky table before him.
Coming here had been a mistake. A dreadful, horrid mistake.
Makes work loads more fun, Alicia had said in that wheedling tone of hers. Even going by yourself. Just soak in the atmosphere. An appraising glance at his awkward figure. Might be good to socialise yourself a bit.
Socialise himself. As if he were an animal preparing for reassignment to the petting zoo.
She was right, perhaps, Mycroft thought even as he bristled. But he sought the opposite of socialisation, really. The colder, the icier, the less approachable he could be, the better.
So Mycroft tried very, very hard to emit an aura of irritation and unfriendliness as the happy man collected his drink and turned to seek a table. He wouldn’t find one, Mycroft knew; the tiny place was disgustingly busy for so early in the morning. Nearly every seat was filled.
Except the one opposite Mycroft.
Mycroft kept his eyes determinedly on the report he was editing, clenching his pen tightly in his fist. Do not dare, he thought desperately. Do not even consider approaching me.
All too soon, though, Mycroft heard footsteps coming far too close to him.
“Hey,” the man said, touching the edge of Mycroft’s table. “So sorry to bother you.”
Mycroft, still not looking at him, just raised his eyebrows, practising the ice-cold expression that he would need at work once he was important. Soon, he knew. Soon.
“There’s not another chair in the bloody place,” the stranger explained. “Mind if I sit? Won’t bother you, I swear.”
Mycroft, with well-calculated timing, flicked his gaze up to fix the man with a frigid glare.
The effect was rather ruined, though, by the boyish smile the man offered him. Mycroft’s traitorous heart skipped a few beats, rather taken by the incredibly good-looking stranger. His grin was endearingly crooked, bright features framed by tousled brown hair, shot through with silver, that tumbled over his forehead. Deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners as Mycroft nodded, gesturing with slightly trembling fingers for him to sit.
“Appreciate you, mate, really,” the stranger said, setting down his overflowing bag and coffee.
Not quite trusting himself to speak, Mycroft just inclined his head.
“PC Lestrade,” the man said, extending his hand. As Mycroft shook it, the man winked. “You can call me Greg.”
Mycroft should have been madly offended at the very suggestion of being on first-name terms with this handsome stranger. Much less on first-name terms with a handsome stranger who had just had the utter nerve to wink at him.
Instead, though, Mycroft felt heat rush across his face. “Mycroft,” he heard himself say, voice far more breathless than he ever permitted it to be. “Mycroft Holmes.”
The man smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Mycroft. Thanks for the table.”
He quieted, then, drawing a veritable mountain of papers from his bag and sighing before he started sorting through them.
Mycroft could sympathise with the deep frown on his face as they both worked. Paperwork was the worst.
Greg was a good tablemate, he had to admit. He was quiet and stayed on his own side, ensuring neither his papers nor his feet beneath the table crossing the midline. He also didn’t make any misguided attempts to read Mycroft’s work upside-down, which was kind of him.
Mycroft did not grant him the same courtesy, of course. His work seemed to mostly be reports; confirming and correcting accounts between witnesses and profiles from old cases. It looked agonisingly dull.
“Alright,” Greg said after a half-hour or so of work. He stretched his arms over his head, leaning back in his chair. “Gonna get another coffee. Got to take a break from this shite for a few. Want anything?”
Mycroft looked up in surprise. Did he want anything? His cup was empty. “Yes,” he said, startling himself. “I had the— the blackberry tea.”
“Great,” Greg said, scooping up both of their empty cups. “Back in a sec, then.”
He came back just a moment later, two cups and a muffin in hand.
“Right,” Greg said, setting down their drinks and glancing up at the wall clock. “Gonna take five minutes’ break. Want to do it with me?”
Mycroft just looked at him, confused.
Greg shrugged, his face falling a bit. “You don’t have to. Just, er, just fancied a bit of a chat, is all. You can say no.”
“No,” Mycroft said hurriedly, setting down his pen. “Yes, I mean. The idea of a break sounds rather lovely, Greg.”
And there was that brilliant smile, its very appearance warming Mycroft’s chest.
“Great,” Greg said, looking fairly relieved. “Right. Got your name, but not much else. What’re you working on?”
Mycroft resisted the urge to shove his papers away into his bag, suddenly nervously protective of them. “I work for the government,” he said evasively. “A minor position. And yourself?” he asked immediately, turning attention away from his occupation.
Greg, however, saw right through that. “Minor position, hm?” he repeated, grinning. “Sounds like spy work.”
Mycroft managed a casual laugh. “I am not a spy.”
Greg raised his hands in mock-surrender. “All I’m saying is that’s what a spy would say,” he said, laughing as he spoke. “Can’t tell me or you’ll have to kill me, yeah?” And, quick as a flash, there was that almost conspiratorial wink again.
Mycroft felt his ears warm as his polite laugh turned real. “Something like that,” he agreed. “I take it you are also a spy, then?”
“Nah, not quite,” Greg answered. “PC Lestrade, remember? I’m with the Met. Gonna be a detective someday.”
“Someday soon, I imagine.”
“Eh… probably not. Got a long way to go. Lots to learn, still. But I’m patient.” Greg looked just a touch dejected about that. The faint sadness in his eyes made Mycroft’s chest twinge.
“Nonsense,” he said, waving an airy hand. “You’ve already deduced my incredibly classified spying occupation, which was a secret from even myself. You’ll be Detective Inspector Lestrade in no time at all.”
Greg laughed at his weak attempt at humour, the slight heaviness lifting from his face immediately. “Glad you’ve got faith in me. Go on, ‘s your turn, now. I asked the first question. Give us an easy one, yeah?”
Mycroft considered for a moment. “Are you originally from London?”
“Yep. Born and raised. You?”
“More or less.”
Greg didn’t press, instead firing back another question. “Favourite place you’ve ever travelled?”
“Huế,” Mycroft answered easily. “Vietnam. Yours?”
“The Camargue. France.”
Mycroft considered his question for just a moment. “What took you to France?”
“Got family there. Why were you in Vietnam?”
“Work. It dictates much of my life,” Mycroft admitted.
“Christ, that’s the truth,” Greg laughed. “Dictates mine, too. Have you got a favourite film?”
Mycroft felt himself blush a little. “I’ve always been partial to Shane. From the fifties.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t see you as a cowboy man.”
Mycroft just shrugged, inclining his head for Greg to answer.
Greg grinned. “You seen Die Hard? Came out when I was, what, sixteen? I watch it at least twice a year.”
“A police film with such egregious breaches of protocol doesn’t seem quite your style, either.”
Greg shrugged, mirroring Mycroft’s response. “It’s a cool movie.”
“You are twenty-three, then? Twenty-four?”
Greg nodded. “Look at you, knowing your movies. We’re about the same age, yeah?”
“Twenty-two,” Mycroft answered.
Greg took the next question, though Mycroft wasn’t quite certain his had counted. “Favourite colour? Mine’s red.”
His boyish grin made Mycroft’s heart flutter. “Favourite for clothing or decor?” Mycroft asked in return.
“Is there a difference?”
“Of course.”
“Both, then.”
“Blue to wear,” Mycroft answered, “and forest green with which to decorate.”
“Sophisticated,” Greg said. “I like it. That’s our five minutes, then, yeah?”
Mycroft glanced up at the clock in surprise. It had been eight, actually. Eight very pleasant minutes with Greg.
“Back to it, I suppose,” Mycroft said, picking up his pen and flipping open another page of his report. “Have you much to do?”
“God, loads,” Greg groaned. “Probably be here two more hours, if not more.”
Mycroft resisted the urge to fidget. “Shall we take another break in, say… three-quarters of an hour?”
Greg smiled. “Perfect. You’re on timekeeping. I’m obviously shit at it.”
Mycroft smiled to himself as they settled back into silence, both refocusing on their work.
It was an exceptionally productive session.
At the forty-five-minute mark, Mycroft decided it was his turn. He had been assigned to timekeeping, after all. He set down his pen, folding down the front page of his work to at least partially conceal its content. He stood up slowly, nervously brushing down the front of his waistcoat.
Greg looked up at him curiously.
“Another coffee?” Mycroft offered.
Greg gifted him another of those ever-so-handsome smiles. “I’d love one.”
Mycroft came back a few moments later with Greg’s coffee and a third tea for himself, setting them both down carefully. He resettled into his chair, blowing on his tea.
Greg murmured a thanks, not looking up from his paperwork.
Mycroft couldn’t help feeling just a bit disappointed. He waited a minute or two, gathering his courage. “I do think you promised me a proper break,” he said finally. “We’re well past forty-five minutes of work, now.”
Greg looked up,that gorgeous hair tumbling into his face. “Shit, really? Didn’t even realise.” He grinned, laughing a little. “Didn’t even think of it when you got me another coffee. Christ. It’s been a long week.”
Relief flooded Mycroft’s chest. “Your week has been as interminable as mine, then?”
“Been a bloody nightmare. Probably not quite as awful as yours, though. Must encounter some weird things on your spying adventures.”
Mycroft snorted a laugh. “Indeed.”
“Mycroft,” Greg said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Quite a name, that.”
“Mm. My brother is called Sherlock, if that adds anything.”
Greg nodded, laughing a little. “Matching pair, that. Why’s it Mycroft? ‘S there a story there?”
Mycroft shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with my mother. She’s terribly cryptic about it all.”
“You get on with her?”
Mycroft laughed drily. “God, no. Do you get on with yours?”
“She’s alright,” Greg smiled. “Bet you’d like her. She wears a lot of blue.”
It was such a tiny thing. Just an hour ago, if that. A little detail to remember. An easy one. But it struck Mycroft that Greg had remembered it. Remembered his favourite colour to wear.
Greg really was good-looking.
Mycroft realised that it had been quiet a little too long. He was staring at Greg with a no-doubt dopey expression. Ridiculous. Mycroft straightened up immediately, feeling heat flash across his face.
Greg grinned, resting his chin on his hand. “Are you ginger, secretly? ‘S that hair dye?”
Mycroft was flabbergasted. No one had ever guessed. Were his roots showing that badly? “Yes,” he said disbelievingly. “You really will be a detective quite soon if you could tell that.”
“Are you really?” Greg looked delighted. “Lucky guess, actually. I was setting up a stupid joke about makin’ you blush. ‘Cause gingers blush a lot? No way.”
Mycroft knew he was blushing yet more. He said nothing, hiding in his teacup.
“Bet you look great with it natural,” Greg continued.
Mycroft couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or if he was actively trying to send Mycroft into a veritable tizzy. In his head, Mycroft had already thrown away the boxes of dark dye beneath his bathroom sink.
Greg sighed, then, his face falling. “Can’t help mine,” he said, running a hand through it. “Started going grey last year, if you’ll believe it. Just haven’t had the chance to dye it yet.”
“No, it’s—” Sexy, his brain filled in unhelpfully. Mycroft felt his face flood with heat and colour yet again. He had never in his life described something as sexy— “distinguished.”
Greg brightened immediately, grinning brightly. “Think so?”
“Of course.”
This was comfortable, somehow, sweet and nice and… and comfortable. Mycroft had never felt comfortable with someone before, much less a stranger in a busy café.
He opened his mouth to speak, to smile, to do he didn’t know what, but his mobile decided to take that moment to ring shrilly from his briefcase.
He fished it out quickly, smiling slightly at Greg’s murmured “ooh, fancy, that,” and answered.
The conversation was brief. Fewer words were always better, Mycroft had learned. Especially over an insecure connection. The few words dejected him, though.
As soon as he rang off, Mycroft began to gather his papers, folding them neatly away.
Greg’s face fell. “Work?” he asked, the expression on his face understanding.
Mycroft nodded. Leaving. He had to abandon his new acquaintance his new… friend, perhaps? His incredibly handsome new friend, too. His chest twinged as he stood, briefcase snapped quickly shut.
“Thank you for the tea,” he said stiffly. “And the conversation.”
“Yeah,” Greg said softly. “You, too.”
Mycroft turned, taking the first two steps a little slower than he usually would. Savouring the moment, perhaps. Savouring the company.
“Hey, Mycroft—”
Mycroft froze immediately, turning back to meet Greg’s eyes. “Yes?”
Greg scribbled something on a scrap of paper, folding it in half and holding it out to him. “Sorry if I’ve got the wrong impression, but…” He grinned, a little nervously, that crooked smile making Mycroft’s knees tremble. “Call me sometime? I’d love to do this again.”
Mycroft accepted the paper, tucking it safely into his inside breast pocket. “I will,” he promised, and he knew he meant it. He would call. A day or two from now; Alicia always said it was poor etiquette to appear too interested. But he couldn’t make the man wait too long. Not when he was looking at Mycroft like that, his eyes soft, his features hopefully rounded.
Perhaps Mycroft would call sooner than that. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps the moment he returned home, just to hear Greg’s voice again. Just to hear that laugh.
Mycroft knew he was blushing. Oddly, he didn’t mind. Mycroft reached out to shake Greg’s hand once more, gripping it tight. “It was lovely to meet you, Greg.”
“And you,” Greg murmured back, holding his hand just a moment longer than necessary.
And then Mycroft was gone, leaving the café behind with a spring in his step, an uncharacteristically bright smile, and a string of scribbled digits tucked close to his heart.