For Mousie - Anticipation of Pleasure

[brotherthine]

Mycroft had arranged entire countries over the course of a few days, but he never felt the thrill of pleasure and anticipation that came from clearing his Tuesday evening to meet with Gregory Lestrade. He had done a solid eight hours of work on Sunday, going through emails, red-lettering reports, writing five of his own. Monday he went in and told Anthea precisely what he needed over the next forty-eight hours, and like the miracle that she was, she made sure his schedule ran like clock-work.

With sandwiches, salad, tea and a review on the Government's policy for romantic engagements and privacy disclaimers, no less. Not to mention not one, but two cigarette breaks.

He bought her a new holster for her slinky-dress .22, and made sure she had tickets to the ballet that she had been dying to see. It was the very least he could do considering he was getting precisely what he wanted.

...well, mostly what he wanted. Tuesday night was rolling around towards 8 pm, and he was slowly considering calling in favors to have President Donald Trump and his entire staff of idiots bombed out of existence by some very disgruntled Canadians. Instead, he checked the timer on his lasagna, made sure that his salad was freshly cut, and then proceeded to give a Trump a blistering review of his entire life than left everyone in the Oval Office silent for some time, before someone croaked, 'You can't possibly know all that -'

Which was the point that Mycroft sucked in a breath, heard the ring of the doorbell and went to pull open the door and gesture Gregory inside without a backwards glance. It was unfortunate, but all of his focus now had to go into the next two minutes so he could finish this deal and have the rest of his evening.

"I could so possibly. I could possibly ruin every last one of you sniveling idiots with a stroke of my pen and my whisper in the ear of any of the many, many American publications. I know it all, gentlemen and ladies. I know about the bought sex. I know about the wire transfers. I most definitely know about the abortions that would politically cripple all of you within your own party. I also know that the last time a fascist leader tried to pull this sort of threat to the British Government, the British Government did not budge an inch. Neither, gentlemen, will I. Sign the agreement. Smile for the cameras. Or be prepared to be on the front of every newspaper in the world, and in jail within the next eighteen months. Good. Night."

He clicked off his phone, and exhaled, rubbing one hand over his face. "My apologies - the new American President is unfortunately as thick as a post. I also meant to go and put my suit coat back on from the kitchen but that did not occur either."

So here he was in his favorite dark grey suit - or at least most of it. Comfortable trousers, deep blue tie, and he had at least shaven today. Otherwise, he knew he still had his persona of the British Government up and running, so he took another breath so he could finally look properly at Gregory, and soak in the other man's charm and warmth, as well as peer to see what the other man was flaunting with his broad shoulders.

Comments

[yarddog]

Greg got off work an hour early and spent almost every moment of that hour trying to figure out what to wear.

He finally settled on a pair of khakis, a nice button down shirt and a jacket. Nothing near the level of nice that Mycroft was wearing when he stepped into the house. Even without the jacket he looked...really nice.

He stepped into the house, closing the door behind him and trying not to listen to Mycroft snarl at someone on the phone, about how he's ruin them with a well places comment or two. Even when Mycroft turned and apologized and Greg was suddenly subject to the full look at the outfit.

Christ. He was lethal dressed like that. Shirt sleeves rolled up, vest, no suit jacket. That style should be licensed as a deadly weapon. In fact, he might have to arrest him.

And...he wasn't sure if he'd said any of that out loud with the way Mycroft was looking at him at that moment. He settled for clearing his throat and looking around again.

"Nice place you have here. You could fit eight of my places in here." His eyes widened in horror. He had said that out loud.
"Sorry, I didn't mean that. Shite. I need to learn how to keep my gob shut."

Perfect way to start off this date Lestrade he chastised.

"So, do you need any help with dinner?" he offered instead.