Chapter Text
Greg navigates the busy highway, with Mycroft seated beside him. The early afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the landscape, but his attention is divided. He is about to introduce Mycroft as his partner, and the thought fills him with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. His fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel, a rhythmic tapping that matches the upbeat tempo of the music playing softly from the car radio. Mycroft's voice, calm and reassuring, floats through the air, providing a counterpoint to his jumbled thoughts. His parents are aware of his bisexuality, a fact he had shared with them long ago. However, this is the first time he feels serious enough about a relationship with another man to make such an introduction. The weight of the moment lingers in the car like a tangible presence, as they draw closer to their destination.
"Gregory, you're not helping!" He moans, his voice a mix of frustration and tension, as he anxiously bounces his knees up and down while perched in the passenger seat. The car hums softly around them, the dashboard lights casting a faint glow on their faces. Despite the anxiety swirling inside him, there's a flicker of warmth in his heart. He loves the idea that Gregory considers their relationship serious enough to introduce him to his parents, a gesture that feels monumental, like crossing a significant threshold together.
"Sorry, babe," he murmurs, his voice carrying a hint of concern as he reaches over to gently clasp his hand. The warmth of the touch is comforting, a silent promise of companionship. "How about we pull over and grab a bite to eat? It's just about lunchtime," he suggests, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. "We can stretch our legs, shake off the stiffness of the drive, and inhale some fresh air." The idea paints the promise of a welcome break from the confines of the car, a moment to pause and rejuvenate amidst their journey.
He closes his eyes, seeking a moment of tranquility, and nods in agreement. "Food sounds good, and I could use a stretch," he remarks, feeling the tightness creeping into his muscles. His legs are beginning to stiffen, a consequence of the unfamiliar position. Sitting in the front seat is a rarity for him, and his body is protesting the change with a dull ache that begs for movement.
Greg veers off at the next exit, navigating his car into the bustling rest area. The assortment of eateries is pretty standard fare, with the usual array of fast-food joints lining the perimeter. However, one establishment stands out—a cozy barbecue restaurant, the only one offering sit-down service. Its rustic charm and promise of smoky flavors appeal to him, but he's aware that Mycroft may not share his enthusiasm for such casual dining. "Is the barbecue place okay with you?" he asks, glancing over to gauge his reaction.
"I do indulge every now and then. It's perfectly fine while we're traveling," Mycroft remarks as he gracefully exits the car alongside Gregory. The door clicks shut behind them with a soft thud, and the cool breeze greets them as they step onto the pavement.
"I'm planning to grab some petrol and a pack of beef jerky after we finish our meal," Greg announces as they stroll towards the restaurant. The sun casts a warm glow over the bustling street, and the aroma of sizzling food wafts through the air, mingling with the chatter of diners and the clinking of cutlery.
“Why beef jerky?” Mycroft inquires, pushing open the heavy wooden door of the restaurant. The aroma of sizzling dishes and the hum of conversation spill out to greet them.
"Beef jerky is my classic road trip snack," Greg explains with a grin as they settle into a cozy booth. The table is covered with a brown paper tablecloth, invitingly adorned with a scattering of crayons. He finds this quirky touch peculiar yet oddly charming, a playful canvas for creativity amidst the lively atmosphere.
Mycroft offers Gregory a warm smile. In particular matters, Gregory is as firmly rooted in his habits as Mycroft himself. They proceed to order their drinks and meals, the clinking of glasses and the ambient murmur of the restaurant surrounding them. Afterward, he reaches for a crayon, its waxy texture familiar in his fingers, and begins to sketch Gregory's likeness on the coarse paper tablecloth. The lines and curves gradually form a portrait, capturing the essence of his features with each deliberate stroke.
"I had no idea you could draw. That's truly remarkable. I discover something new about you every day," Greg remarks with genuine admiration, his eyes lingering on the sketch. Suddenly, the melodious chime of his mobile interrupts the moment. "It's my mum," he says, glancing at the screen before answering. "Hi, mum," he greets warmly. "We're almost there. We just paused for a quick lunch and to fill up on petrol. We'll be there soon." His voice carries a comforting assurance. "I'm glad you're excited to meet him. He's eager to meet you too," he adds, his tone softening with affection. "We’ll definitely be down before dinner." After a brief pause, he concludes, "Bye, mum," and hangs up, a smile lingering on his face.
"You stretched the truth a bit. I wouldn't say I'm exactly thrilled about meeting your parents, but I am quite intrigued to encounter the individuals who shaped you into who you are," Mycroft admits candidly, a hint of curiosity lacing his words.
"What was I supposed to say? Was I expected to reveal that you are utterly petrified at the thought of meeting them? I can't imagine that admission would have gone over well."
"No, you're right. That wouldn't have been a good idea," Mycroft admits, a hint of tension in his voice. His usual composed demeanour is disrupted, not by overexcitement, but by a simmering nervousness that gnaws at him. "I'm nervous. I want to make a good first impression," he confesses, his brow furrowing slightly. Part of his discomfort stems from his attire—or lack thereof. He is uncharacteristically dressed down, missing the familiar weight and structure of his customary three-piece suit. The absence of the crisp, tailored fabric leaves him feeling exposed and unsettled, as if he is missing a part of his own identity.
"You will make a good first impression. I'm certain of that," Greg assures, his voice warm and confident. He leans across the table, the soft glow of the nearby lamp casting a golden hue over their surroundings. With a gentle yet firm touch, he clasps Mycroft's hand, the contact conveying reassurance and strength. Mycroft feels the steadiness in Greg's grip, a silent promise of support that calms the fluttering nerves within him.
"Why are you so certain? How do you know your parents are going to be okay with this?" Mycroft inquires, his voice carrying a weighty seriousness that hangs in the air. To Greg, Mycroft's tone betrays an undercurrent of nervousness, as if he were treading carefully over fragile ground, wary of the potential consequences that lay ahead.
"Because I know you well. You possess the grace and finesse of a seasoned diplomat, and I have every confidence that you'll handle everything with ease. Your charm is undeniable, a magnetic quality that draws others in."
"But you've never even gotten close to bringing a same-sex partner home to meet your parents. You can't predict how they'll react. Their expressions might shift from surprise to confusion, their brows furrowing as they try to process the unexpected news. You don't know if their voices will rise in disbelief or calm with understanding. It's a mystery, a blank canvas without any strokes to hint at the outcome."
“Not exactly, but they’re aware that I’m bisexual. I came out to them when I was sixteen, and ever since then, they’ve known about this integral part of who I am.”
"Believe me when I say that it's one thing to sit down and tell your parents that you're bisexual or, as in my situation, gay. But introducing a same-sex partner to them is an entirely different challenge. It's a more complex and daunting experience, layered with emotions and uncertainties. Trust me on this—I've been there, and I know firsthand how much more difficult it can be."
"Your mother?" Greg inquires cautiously as they share their meal. He is well aware of how challenging Mummy Holmes can be, her sharp wit and unyielding nature often making every encounter a test of endurance. The tension in the air is palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the formidable presence that looms even in her absence.
"No, my father. He never quite grasped the essence of it all. Even now, I'm uncertain if he fully comprehends, but he has come to tolerate my relationships. He observes the joy that radiates from me, a joy he cannot deny. Yet, the moments I've spent with you have been the pinnacle of my happiness."
"You do realize that even if my parents respond poorly, nothing between us will change, right? Their disapproval won't alter my feelings or my commitment to you. I promise, I wouldn’t give you up for anything in the world, not for their acceptance or any other reason."
"Now, don't make promises you might struggle to keep. Remember, they're still your parents, and I understand how much family means to you. The bonds of kinship run deep, and the weight of those relationships is something you hold close to your heart."
"Why do you think my parents hold more importance in my life than you do? I'm a grown man," Greg questions as they settle back into the car, the door clicking shut behind them. His voice carries a mix of frustration and earnestness, eyes searching for understanding. "You are the man I love," he continues, his tone softening, infused with sincerity. "My parents won't make me give you up. Please, believe me," he implores, reaching out to take his partner's hand, hoping to convey the depth of his commitment and the unwavering nature of his feelings.
"I truly believe you. I just hope that you won't find yourself let down by your parents' response. Parents often have reactions that are much stronger than we anticipate, like a sudden storm that catches us unprepared."
"God, stop being so paranoid," Greg implores, his voice tinged with both exasperation and concern. He glances at Mycroft, whose furrowed brow and restless hands betrayed his inner turmoil. "If I thought it would have helped, I would have ordered you a strong drink back at the restaurant." His attempt to reassure him is earnest, his eyes searching for any sign of calm in his companion's demeanor. "You're making me more nervous, you know," he adds, a hint of anxiety creeping into his own voice as he observes his unease.
"I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but I've navigated this situation several times before. I understand how unpredictable these encounters can be. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach just thinking about it. The last time I faced something like this, my partner's parents unleashed their attack dogs on us, their snarling jaws and menacing barks echoing in my memory."
“Oh my God. I can see why you're on edge," Greg says, his eyes widening with understanding as he absorbs Mycroft's tense demeanour. "But rest assured, I promise you, that won’t happen today.” Greg's voice is calm and reassuring, attempting to dispel the apprehension that hangs in the air between them.
"Only because your parents don’t have attack dogs," Mycroft says with a playful glint in his eye, his voice laced with teasing humor, trying to lighten the mood in the car.
"Well, that's true, but also because my parents would never unleash an animal to pursue someone, except for that one feisty chicken we had when I was young."
"I'm not even going to ask. I don't think I want to know," Mycroft says, his voice tinged with bemusement. He shakes his head slowly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he tries to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside him. His eyes glint with a mix of curiosity and amusement, betraying the struggle to maintain composure.