Work Text
It's date night. They both have the day off tomorrow (barring the actual start of World War 3) and intend to take full advantage of the unusual bit of
synchronicity. Greg suggests a movie in Myc's posh and plush screening room. They snuggle on the sofa, with bottled water, popcorn, choco-bites and peach gummy rings that Greg loves to eat off his fingers in a manner perpetually distracting to his boyfriend.
Greg's selection is
Bad Times at the El Royale.
He likes the layered character arcs and mystery to it, as well as the pervasive coolness of a film like this. Mycroft appreciates the vibrant cinematography, as well as the soundtrack. Something only Greg and Sherlock are aware of is his bizarre love of music from the 1960s. Not so much the Beatles (though inherent patriotism demands he like at least 3 of their songs) but the Temptations and the Shirelles, Jimi Hendrix and odd bands like that which had nearly featured a member of the Who (Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich of "Hold Tight" fame. The first time Gregory caught him listening to it, he'd spun Mycroft around into his arms and shimmied them all over the kitchen. It's one of many instances Mycroft could reference as concrete proof of how he knew he loved the man currently snuggling against his shoulder in the semi-darkness.)
Once it's concluded and they're getting ready for bed, discussion turns to the film as a whole and the parts they liked more or less in it. Greg in particular had enjoyed the ending, even if the roulette torture scenes left him a bit distracted by memories of a case, and Mycroft had declared Chris Hemsworth's character to be the best in the film, though he liked Cynthia Erivo's struggling singer and the choices she'd had to make as a compellingly close second. The only parts he had not cared for were the spy-ish and sneaky bits, mostly because he thought he could've done a much better job, even with the technology of the time.
Poking his head in from the bathroom, Greg shifts foam in his mouth and points his toothbrush in a mock threatening "come clean and confess!" gesture, teasing his boyfriend that what he'd
really
liked (as he couldn't possibly think Thor as a cult leader is any sort of good guy) was when Billy Lee got all undone and started dancing around.
Mycroft's ears pink in a telling manner, and Greg chuckles as he steps back in to rinse. Greg knows his body is only one of a long list of things his boyfriend likes about him, and he's kept himself well fit for a copper his age. But that isn't to say that they both don't have their celebrity crushes, and Mycroft has it bad for a few inhabitants of the MCU, the eldest Hemsworth in particular.
"He adequately portrayed a charismatic man who elected to use his looks and wits to manipulate others and lure them to the dark side. It's an appreciation of his skill as an actor, Gregory- nothing more." The night's chill is intruding a bit, so Mycroft turns on their thermal space heater. It has a screen displaying flickering firelight, and is set into the recess of his former fireplace, as traditional fires actually draw more heat from a room than they provide. But they're both suckers for fire and candlelight, especially on cold nights when they share skin, and Gregory had convinced him to order the contraption online. The faux glow could be turned off or set on a timer, though it's so comforting they usually leave it on.
Gregory emerges from the en suite, mouth minty fresh, and starts unbuttoning his untucked shirt. Normally on a night off, they'd both have gotten into pjs and casual wear before the opening credits, but they'd both been unofficially 'on call' til 11, and work had intervened on the last two occasions they'd changed prematurely. Greg cheekily suggested staying in their work clothes (sans jackets, shoes and waistcoats) was a concession to the possibility without tempting fate.
It seems to have worked, but now is the time to strip down, get cosy and settled and ready for bed. They have the whole day tomorrow to spend as they like, and Greg is secretly determined they not have to deal with clothing until noon at the earliest.
He works at his cuffs and smirks fondly at the trouserless redhead who's settled at the foot of their bed to take off his socks. "Just admit you liked it. S'fine."
Mycroft rolls his eyes with a heavy dose of implied affection but doesn't say anything, too absorbed in the luxuriant feel of the carpet as he scrunches his freed toes. Greg's smirk deepens as an idea starts to form, and a light that has nothing to do with the fake fire behind him enters his eyes, warming them unnoticed from espresso to honeyed brandy.
Slipping his phone from his jeans pocket, Greg cues a song to start over the bluetooth speakers he'd set up in the bathroom so they could have music in the shower or during their bubble baths. Then he slides it back onto the mantel and assumes a little pose... and waits.
Mycroft's head snaps up at the first werewolf howl that echoes off the walls and tile floor, a wrinkle of confusion creasing his forehead at the second. Then a spark of recognition flares as the opening drumbeats of "Hush" by Deep Purple spill from the speakers, no doubt instantly recalling the relevant scene from the film. But his mental processes skip like a scratched record as Greg rolls on the balls of his bare feet and starts swinging his jean-clad hips to the beat. He's lost all cognitive ability when the man whips around dramatically at the 40 second mark.
The warm glow of their bedside lamps kisses the shifting muscles of his chest and torso with soft gold. Flickering faux firelight limns his silver hair and shines dimly through the hanging fabric of his undone shirt. He has a look of seductive resolve on his face, and if Mycroft were asked to give up everything and follow this man to the ends of the earth, he'd gladly do it. (He already would, and Anthea's been leaving Harry Winston and estate sale catalogues with tabs on relevant pages on his desk for almost a month now.) But in this moment, he can understand the mesmerizing qualities possessed of cult leaders and other charismatic charlatans. Not for the first time is he grateful Gregory uses his powers for good, and fights on the side of the angels.
At the moment however, the captivating allure of his serpentine undulations seems downright sinful. He looks capable of devouring Mycroft whole, and Mycroft wants nothing more than to let him. He gets within a yard and spins on his heels, arms in the air and butt wiggling in Mycroft's direction. One long-fingered hand is a breath away from contact with that divinely sculpted feature when its owner twirls again, and it catches a hip instead.
A warm hand cups Mycroft's face, the slight callouses on the thumb stroking over his cheekbone making shivers of delight skip and down his spine. Then it slides down, resting over his syncopated heartbeat a moment before shoving him down onto his back. Lean calves and hard muscled thighs, still wrapped in cotton-soft denim, settle on either side of his narrow hips as strong arms capable of delivering necessary violence and the gentlest embrace bracket his head. The body above his own is still swaying and swinging to a half-speed rhythm from the shoulders down, and the teasing contact it causes between them is driving him quietly out of his mind.
Shaky and light as a butterfly's flutter, his hands slide under the panels of fabric hanging loose to caress the smooth skin stretched over defined muscle, and settle over the rolling planes of his lover's broad back. Breath is teasing over his lips, and he's aware his pupils are blown black with longing, reflected in the pools of molten dark chocolate staring down at him with heartstopping fondness.
Greg arches, claiming Myc's mouth in a
kiss
and grinding their hips together in an erotic rotation simultaneously. Mycroft's fingers tighten against his back, and he lets himself down the rest of the way, legs sliding out and tangling with his boyfriend's obscenely long limbs, rolling them to the side so he can wrap his arms around him too.
Deep Purple is winding down in the background as they break for much-needed oxygen. Greg marvels at the open affection and naked lust he sees in Mycroft's eyes, a blue reflection of his own. His fingers thread into those auburn locks of their own accord, and he breathes, deep and slow as contentment settles into his bones.
"I love you. You know that, right?" It's the first time he's put it into words, though he's been saying it one way or another for the last several months they've been together. Hell, he's probably been saying it by deed since shortly after his first kidnapping, at least a portion of his heart neatly carved out and left on the floor of a storehouse at this man's feet.
Initially, the only response is a hard swallow. Mycroft's eyes are misting with emotion. The inscrutable political poker face tends to melt away when he's with Greg, a hard-won confidence in the safety of letting go.
"I... love you, as well. Hopelessly."
Greg surges in to capture his lips in a
kiss
so sweet and tender it wrings a muted whimper from him. He pulls back a little to pepper Mycroft's face with soft kisses, ending with one to the tip of his nose before settling back down, heads gently pressed together like children sharing secrets.
"Nah, gorgeous. S'not hopeless," he breathes. "It's hopeful." Mycroft feels the softest squeeze in his heart, as though Gregory had reached right into his chest and cradled the misused organ in the palm of his loving hand. "And we can talk more about it tomorrow."
Bless him.
Gregory understands well his need for time to deal with... the inconvenience of sentiment. "For now... whaddya say we get the rest of these clothes off, climb into bed and I can show you some more of my...
moves?"
He's blushing. He can feel it painting his skin like the first fingers of morning streaking the dawn sky. Still, in for a penny... He steers into the slide.
"Ahh, Inspector. You truly are a genius at times."
A few hours later they lie wrapped together in a nest of covers, muscles pleasantly aching, melted bones attempting to re-solidify. They share a drowsy kiss and murmur sleepy goodnights that go unfinished, and dream.
An open-top Cadillac convertible on a long empty highway. Mountain air and sunshine. The radio softly blaring classic tunes. A smiling rogue in jeans and a white tee at the wheel, one arm around Mycroft clad in a short-sleeved buttondown and linen trousers, turned at an angle to lean against his lover, legs crossed at the ankle and bare feet propped on the sideview mirror. Sunglasses, wind ruffling their hair, indescribable happiness soaking into them like Vitamin D.