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The first year
“What’s this, then?” asked Greg, amused, when he sat down at the breakfast table. He’d long since given in on breakfast at all – Mycroft was habitually an early riser, and also one for sitting down and actually enjoying his breakfast, even if it only consisted of a bowl of cold cereal and a pink grapefruit. Greg was much more likely to opt for a coffee and a croissant hastily grabbed from the corner market.
But sometimes, it was nice to sit and eat together, even if they were too busy reading the morning papers to actually talk to one another. And the croissants that mysteriously appeared in the kitchen every few days were a far cry better than the packaged bits of starch Greg could get from Mr. Chatterjee. He didn’t ask where Mycroft’s croissants came from. He was afraid he’d be horrified by the answer.
“It’s a Christmas cracker, Gregory,” Mycroft chided him as he set his grapefruit on the board. The dining room was nearly finished, but Greg hoped they’d continue eating breakfast in the kitchen, sitting on the stools on the center island. It was just so much more homey that way.
Plus, watching Mycroft try to balance on a stool while eating a grapefruit was often the highlight of Greg’s morning.
“I know it’s a Christmas cracker, but why is it on my breakfast plate?”
Mycroft’s sigh could have convinced world leaders to reevaluate their life choices. “If I have to tell you—“
Greg grinned and handed him one end. “Well, go on then, help me open it.”
Mycroft dutifully held one end while Greg pulled. There was a soft bang as the mild explosive went off, and Greg had a moment of regret, remembering past Christmases where everyone was covered in glitter for days.
No such decoration fell out of the cracker, however. Actually, very little fell out at all; Greg sat on his stool and peered inside to see the tightly rolled papers within. Mycroft paid him very little attention, already fast at work on his grapefruit as he read the international news – most of which, no doubt, was no longer news to him.
Greg pulled out the papers and unfurled them, before his mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Good God, Mycroft. This is a step above a paper crown and a crummy joke.”
“I should hope so,” said Mycroft, but Greg could hear the pleasure in his voice all the same.
“It’s…” Greg shook his head. “One week’s holiday, camping in the Highlands with the boys? Are you serious?”
“I am the one who made the arrangements and put them in a cracker,” said Mycroft.
Greg chuckled, reading over the brochure for the campsite again. “And here I was expecting a plastic ring and maybe some tinsel.”
“Oh,” said Mycroft. “Well, I’m sure I can arrange for a trade—“
“Noooo,” said Greg, clutching the papers to his chest. “This will do very nicely, thank you.”
Greg pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s temple – a kiss, somehow, seemed almost too perfunctory – and anyway, Mycroft’s mouth was full of grapefruit.
It seemed to be enough; Mycroft paused, and pressed back to Greg, and they leaned into each other for a long moment, quietly breathing and content, until Greg finally pulled back to look at his new holiday plans with glee, and Mycroft to finish his breakfast.
“You’re coming with, of course,” said Greg.
The grapefruit stalled halfway to Mycroft’s mouth.
*
The second year
The house was dark by the time Mycroft came home from work, except for well-placed lights in the foyer and the stairwell. It only made sense, Mycroft reasoned, since it was nearly midnight, and Greg would surely have gone to bed hours before.
He puttered around the first floor for a good fifteen minutes, in order to check his email and ensure that his mobile devices were plugged in, that the coffeemaker was already set and ready for breakfast, that there were no pieces of mail that required his attention. He considered having a bit of a snack – after all, it had been hours since dinner, and Mycroft was feeling a bit peckish – but really, he was more tired than anything else, and he had no doubt that he’d fall asleep the moment he slipped into the bed next to Greg.
Mycroft’s limbs felt very heavy as he climbed the stairs. The railing was a bit loose; he made a mental note to mention it to Gregory in the morning, at which point they’d have a lively discussion over whether or not Greg would see to it himself, or Mycroft would hire in. Really, it would depend entirely on which one of them attended to their respective solutions first.
The bedroom was quiet, except for the soft sound of Greg breathing.
Greg always left the dressing room light on for him when he was late, and it provided enough light for Mycroft to perform all the various things that needed to be done before sleep.
Mycroft turned off the light, crossed the bedroom easily, and slipped into the bed. He would be asleep before his head hit the pillow, without any---
CRUNCH.
Greg snorted a laugh.
“What the—“ wondered Mycroft, and twisted to turn on his bedside lamp.
“I can’t believe you didn’t see that,” said Greg, still chuckling into his pillow, clearly not asleep.
“Who put a Christmas cracker on my pillow?” asked Mycroft, still befuddled with exhaustion as he stared at the slightly squashed, brightly wrapped cylinder on his pillow.
“The bloody tooth fairy, who do you think?” Greg pushed himself up to sitting. “What the hell were you doing downstairs, anyway? You came home half an hour ago. I thought you’d be right up.”
“I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Never sleep on a stakeout, that’s the first rule,” said Greg. “Well, go on, open it!”
Mycroft handed one end to Greg, and then pulled. A crack, a puff of smoke, and a disturbingly large amount of glitter scattered over the bed.
“Oh, bollocks, I forgot about the glitter,” groaned Greg, looking at their sparkling bed in dismay.
It took twenty minutes to change out the sheets, both careful to not shake more glitter onto the floor than absolutely necessary. It took another ten for both of them to rinse in the shower – the water was particularly festive going down the drain, thought Mycroft. It wasn’t until they were both back in the bed, Greg on his side facing him, already half asleep, that Mycroft remembered the cracker.
It was nearly empty – just a single sheet of paper, which Mycroft pulled out with a finger. He stared at it, with a bit of a frown.
A phone number, an address, and a date in February.
“Gregory,” he said slowly, “what is this?”
“I checked your work calendar,” said Greg, sleepily. “Well, I had Anthea check it.”
“I’m attending a day-long conference in Aberdeen that day,” said Mycroft, and Greg scoffed.
“Yeah, you would know that off the top of your head, wouldn’t you? And no, you’re not, because Anthea put that on your calendar in order to make sure you didn’t schedule anything else. Because on February 20, you’re going to that address in Wales, and ringing that phone number, and then you’re going to spend the day as a special guest on the set of the new James Bond movie, watching them film.”
Mycroft stared at the paper, and then turned to stare at Greg.
“You know how you’re always on about how wrong they are,” said Greg.
“They are wrong,” said Mycroft, still not quite able to wrap his head around the concept. “Whether compared to the original novels or the world of espionage itself. Perfectly adequate for entertainment, but as actual pieces that explore the intricate world of international relations—“
“Now you can tell them,” said Greg. “But I’d wait until the end of the day. I think you’re having lunch with the director and maybe Daniel Craig.”
Mycroft could barely speak.
“Gregory.”
“Happy Christmas,” said Greg, a little bit smug and a whole lot sleepy. “Can I go to sleep now?”
“No,” said Mycroft, and turned off the lights.
*
The third year
Mycroft wasn’t sure how he was going to top Greg’s cracker from the previous year. This was not a case where he could simply throw money at a problem in order to solve it, not when Greg had put such thought and consideration into his cracker for Mycroft the previous year.
No. The crackers were not about money. They were about something else entirely.
And Mycroft was going to win.
It took a week for him to think of the perfect gift.
Greg was going to love it.
And he’d never be able to top it the following year, either.
*
The fourth year
Greg started planning early. That’s what one did, when one was trying not only to surprise the most intelligent and perceptive man in Britain, but also to come up with a bloody good cracker for him that would beat the bloody pants off all crackers that came before.
And Greg had absolutely every intention of ensuring that his cracker was going to put all other crackers to shame.
Which is why he started early.
Which is how he came up with the most brilliant of plans.
Mycroft was going to love it.
And he’d never be able to top it the following year, either.
*
A few years after that…
Ben had a key to his uncles’ house in St. Johns Wood; part of the deal with his mother allowing him to attend the day school around the corner was that he use the house for the late nights when after school activities kept him past dinnertime. Since she’d moved to the very outskirts of London, it was considered much too far for him to travel on a daily basis – but Uncle Greg and Uncle Mycroft’s house was just around the corner, and neither man minded Ben crashing there two or three nights a week.
He even had his own room now, with some of his uniforms and clothes hanging in the closet, and a desk with a second set of school supplies so he could do in homework with ease.
They’d settled into a routine now that the year was half over; Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and some Fridays, Ben would stay with his uncles. One or the other was always there by dinnertime. Depending on if it was Greg or Mycroft, they would have an actual meal (Mycroft, who insisted on vegetables and protein and side salads and fruit and then a slice of cake), or take-out from around the corner (Greg, who swore Ben to secrecy about the amount of fried food they were ingesting, and insisted on fresh fruit for dessert in order to soak up the grease).
Sometimes, it was both of them, and those were the best nights, when Ben would sit and watch his uncles talk. They always included him in the conversation as if he was an adult, and not fifteen years old with barely enough scruff to shave. Ben liked to pretend he was part of a more typical family unit than just him and his mum.
(Not that Mum wasn’t great. She was fantastic, and he loved her and was totally happy with it just being them, now that his brothers were off to uni, but... sometimes he missed being part of the stereotypical nuclear family with a mum and a dad and the dog and the cat. Every so often, it was nice to put on the trappings of one, to see what it’d be like, and it didn’t make him love his own family any less, and bollocks to anyone who didn’t get that distinction.)
Tuesday night, and Ben fully expected the house to be empty for at least another half hour. When he opened the front door, he was surprised to hear the sudden crash from Uncle Mycroft’s office, and for a brief moment, Ben wondered if he’d just walked in on a burglary.
(Ben wished he was half as smart as Mycroft’s brother Sherlock, because then he’d know who or what it was just by the way the air moved. Instead, Ben’s muscles went tense and he held his breath as he listened carefully.)
“Greg?”
Ben relaxed. “It’s me, Uncle Mycroft.”
“Ah,” said Mycroft, and Ben closed the front door and went into Mycroft’s office. “Yes, I suppose you do come home just now, don’t you?”
Home. Ben couldn’t help grinning at Mycroft’s slip; though really, it was Mycroft’s home, even if it was only Ben’s home three nights a week.
“Don’t see you home this early,” said Ben, throwing his bag on the sofa and stretching out, determined to take the home comment and run with it. “Finish dominating the world for today?”
“There’s only so much one can do in a single day,” said Mycroft idly as he fiddled with a cardboard tube. “I’ll need to return later this evening, but – ah, there. Done.”
Mycroft held the tube aloft, quite proudly, and looked at Ben with a stern gaze. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Will you have to kill me if I don’t?” asked Ben cheekily, but he rose to his feet and leaned over Mycroft’s desk to see what Mycroft held.
“Your Uncle Greg’s Christmas cracker,” said Mycroft, quite pleased with himself. “It’s my turn this year, and I’m quite certain he won’t be able to top it.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “TMI, Uncle Mike.”
Mycroft sighed heavily. “That is not—“
Ben was already peering into the cracker. “What is it, a contest?”
“Adults do not turn gifts into contests, Benjamin,” said Mycroft dryly.
Ben’s eyes went wide as he recognized the cracker’s contents. “Cor blimey, Uncle Mycroft. Really? In a cracker?”
“It is what it is,” said Mycroft, and it might have sounded humble from anyone else. From Mycroft, it simply sounded smug.
Ben gingerly put the cracker back down on the desk. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
“And he won’t be able to top it next year,” said Mycroft, and the sudden deviousness made Ben wonder how exactly Mycroft defined contest, anyway.
“I’ll just go do my homework before Uncle Greg gets home,” he said, and fled upstairs to his room.
“Not a word to your uncle!” Mycroft called after him.
Ben was still working on his homework after dinner, when Mycroft returned to the office. He heard his uncles talking in the foyer below, and then the sound of the front door closing. It was quiet for a few minutes – and then a telltale thump thump thump thump as someone jogged up the two sets of stairs to the second floor where Ben slept.
“Benny,” said Greg, leaning into his room. “How’s the homework? Would you like a bit of a break in, say, ten minutes’ time?”
“Sure,” said Ben, after a quick glance at the rest of his maths problems. He’d probably be done in ten minutes, or at least the maths would be done with him.
“Great,” said Greg. “Grab your coat and meet me downstairs.”
Ben put it out of his head, and turned back to his calculus.
Fifteen minutes later, he and Greg were walking at a brisk pace down the street, heading toward the shops.
“Not a word to your uncle,” Greg cautioned him. “Top secret stuff, this.”
“All right,” said Ben.
“I’ve been working on this for months,” said Greg, filled with glee. “He’s going to love it.”
“What is it?” asked Ben.
“You’ll see,” said Greg, mysterious and excited, and stopped in front of a darkened door to a darkened store.
“Uncle Greg,” said Ben. “It’s closed.”
“For everyone else,” said Greg, and knocked. Shave and a haircut.
The light flicked on, and the door opened. “There you are,” said the shopkeeper, and ushered them inside. “It’s all ready for you.”
“Great,” said Greg, clearly bouncing out of his skin with excitement. “Let’s see it.”
The shopkeeper put on every bit of showman skills he possessed; he brought to them both to the counter, and unveiled the thing with all the pageantry he could muster.
Greg chortled with glee.
“It’s perfect.” He pulled a cardboard cylinder out of his pocket.
Ben stared at it. “Um… what is it?”
“Your Uncle Mycroft’s Christmas cracker,” explained Greg, and slid the object inside. “It’s his year, this year, but I’m going to surprise him. He won’t even see it coming.”
Ben nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”
“He’s going to love it,” said Greg, about ready to burst with excitement, “and he won’t even have a chance to top it until next Christmas.”
Ben resisted the urge to bang his head against the counter.
“Uncle Greg,” said Ben slowly, “do you think it’s possible that you and Uncle Mycroft aren’t redefining the term Christmas crackers?”
Greg laughed, and slapped his nephew’s back.
“He’s gonna love it,” Greg promised him.
“I’m sure he will,” said Ben, and gave up.
*
Paper crowns and tinsel, terrible jokes and plastic rings. James’s cracker had a set of army men, and he and Will spent the rest of Christmas dinner managing to stick them in every single dish on the table without their mother even noticing.
Ben sat back in his chair, the tissue-paper crown slipping over his eyes, watched as his mother found the sixth army man in the potatoes, and thought about their perfectly normal, every-day Christmas crackers, and grinned.