Chapter Seventeen: Finding the Equation.

"What do you want for dinner? I can do pasta, stir-fry, almost much anything with mince..."

Greg twisted round from his position on the sofa to look towards the kitchen where Mycroft was rummaging through his cupboards. "Do you have to cook? I feel awful that you've been doing all this work whilst I just lie here being useless..."

Mycroft's head appeared around the doorway with an 'are-we-really-having-this-conversation-again?' expression. "Gregory," he said in the deliberate, slow manner which was normally reserved for the Shadow Cabinet, "you are a recovering invalid and I am looking after you."

"Yes, but-"

"And I am happy to do so." Mycroft wandered into the living room with an amused smile and perched himself on the arm of the settee by Greg's head. "The doctor ordered that you have complete rest," he reminded the detective inspector sternly, "and I have taken the responsibility to ensure you follow that order. To the letter."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean that you have to wait on me," Greg protested, slumping back down against his nest of pillows with a low groan.

Concerned by the pain Lestrade was obviously in, Mycroft pursed his lips, wishing he was able to offer the proper comfort required in situations such as these. It was frustrating to them both – although neither would dream of mentioning it to the other – that this had happened at such an early point, where the inevitable awkwardness of a new relationship had not yet had time to wear down into something more comfortable.

Forcing away the trepidation which always accompanied the possibility of physical contact, Mycroft reached out a timid hand and combed his fingers through Greg's hair, hoping ardently that one day soon it would stop coming as a surprise when the other man didn't spring away in horror. Feeling the slight movement of Greg leaning into rather than way from his touch, Mycroft smiled – relaxing himself as consent was granted. "So," he murmured, stroking the hair lightly, "you don't want me to cook for you, you're forbidden from moving from the settee... Are we to starve tonight?"

Chuckling contentedly, Greg leaned back to look upside-down at him, "I was thinking it might be nice just to veg out with a film and takeaway tonight. Maybe Dominos?"

Mycroft looked down at him blankly. "Dominos?"

"Yeah. You know, pizza?"

Mycroft couldn't honestly say that he did know. "I suppose this is a possibility," he said doubtfully. "And where are we to get this?"

"Far right cupboard, top drawer."

Mycroft followed the instructions and returned shortly with a large wad of pamphlets. He passed them to Greg who received them with the air of a professional about to impart his hard-earned knowledge to an amateur.

"Right," he said briskly, rearranging his legs to make room for Mycroft beside him as he picked out the brightly-coloured pizza menu and discarded the other on the floor, "I recommend this one, although this one is pretty good too...that one's a bit suspect, and that one should be avoided at all cost. And whatever we do decide on, we have to get cookies – it is imperative." He glanced sideways, "What do you think?"

Mycroft was staring at the brightly coloured menu in utter bewilderment. "Umm...yes?"

Greg laughed. "Very well; you choose what to stick on and I'll employ my pizza expertise to choose the food. DVDs are in that box over there."

After Mycroft's first five choices of film had been dismissed out of hand – "You won't like that one, saw that one last week, Caroline's, that'll annoy you, not on a first-" – they finally agreed on Batman on Greg's insistence that 'you cannot call yourself a real person until you have seen Batman!' although Mycroft had scoured the reviews, had dithered over the DVD, and privately thought there was a reason he had yet to see it... But these were the days of compromise and it was a small sacrifice that he was willing to make.

What he was less convinced by was Greg's insistence that they eat out of the box with their fingers.

"Oh, stop complaining and press play!" was all the sympathy he received from Lestrade, who was busy balancing the box on his legs which were now draped across Mycroft's. "It's all part of the experience."

The instinctive retort of, 'this is not necessarily an experience I wish to endure' teetered on the edge of falling but, to his surprise, Mycroft found himself retracting the words upon the peculiar realisation that, in actual fact, it was.

Greg smiled to himself as he furtively watched Mycroft's mind go through the motions of determining the acceptability of the situation, before settling on a decision – the right decision, it seemed by the way he settled back and relaxed into the sofa.

"Pizza?" Lestrade pushed the box a little further towards Mycroft as the title sequence flashed up.

Mycroft lifted a slice gingerly and examined it with a sceptical expression. It appeared less than appetising...

"It won't bite you if you bite it first," said Greg, amused.

"Hmmm..." Mycroft raised the pizza with both hands and nibbled cautiously. His eyebrows shot up in surprise – It tasted good!

Triumphant, Greg smirked and picked up a piece of his own, offering a low, "Told you so," before devouring the pizza in several large bites.

Mycroft's mouth was too full of pepperoni to argue.

The film was loud, predictably inconsistent, and Mycroft soon found himself losing interest in whatever it was that was going on on the screen. The pizza – which had been consumed far too quickly to be decent – had settled in a most uncomfortable position at the bottom of his stomach and refused to shift; he had cramp in his legs, and a desperate desire for tea, but was acutely aware that he was stuck in his position at least until the film ended.

Greg was in a not much better position himself; he could see the discomfort spreading across Mycroft's expression, and was suddenly very keenly aware of every little flaw, every tiny continuity error within the film. Everything that had previously elicited giggles from him, now made Greg cringe, and he berated himself for inflicting his appalling taste in home cinema upon Mycroft.

Pizza and a film... It had seemed like a perfectly logical idea in his head. After all, that's what people did when they were 'dating', wasn't it? He felt the muscles in Mycroft's legs twitch restlessly beneath his own and sighed internally, feeling like a prize idiot – they weren't teenagers in the first passionate throes of romance, they were two middle-aged men with an appalling history of failed relationships, trying an age-old equation and forcing themselves to fit it.

Batman and pizza... it was like trying to make two plus two equal five – a pointless effort. Deciding that continuing would be the least productive way forward, Greg shifted awkwardly and reached for the remote, resolutely switching off the television.

Surprised, Mycroft glanced sideways. "Everything okay?"

Greg swung his legs around with a slight grimace of pain and pushed himself up, wobbling slightly as his legs were forced to remember how to support him. "Tea?"

Mycroft rose immediately. "I'll make it-"

"No, no," Greg limped towards the kitchen before Mycroft could protest further. "You sit down. I'll bring it in."

Obeying reluctantly, Mycroft watched Greg's retreating back with an incredible heaviness – in absolutely no way was this going well. He sighed and let his head flop back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a brief moment of solitary contemplation. He had honestly – and, perhaps, naively – assumed that the tallest hurdle had been crossed, that surely the excruciating pressure of admitting their feelings meant that it could only become easier, that any progress they made would surely be positive...

Mycroft allowed his mind to wander back to the rarely-visited memories of twenty years ago, trying to recall how the beginning had been with Harry. It was far from consoling.

"Here."

He opened his eyes at the chink of ceramic on glass as Greg set down the two mugs he was carrying on the coffee table.

Mycroft looked down at the tea. "Tetley's?"

Greg laughed and collapsed back down beside him. "Nah, PG Tips. It's a special occasion."

Mycroft wasn't exactly sure how he was supposed to respond to that, and so busied himself with the careful examination of his mug, turning it slowly three-hundred and sixty degree with feigned interest.

A softly spoken murmur of his name accompanied by a hand resting gently on his knee made Mycroft flinch before he could stop himself. As much as he avoided leg-work at all costs, at that moment all he could feel was the almost overwhelming desire to run, to just bolt...It was like an irrepressible phobia; as much as he wished he was different, as much as he wanted this, Mycroft could not help the way his body was screaming in protest. It felt like an allergy, with his head pounding with the pressure, his mouth dry and his cheeks burning.

Why anyone would willingly put themselves through that was an absolute mystery, thought Mycroft, panicking slightly as Greg shifted closer – his intentions as plain as day. Since the moment in the hospital, their physical displays of affection had been very much limited to brief, chaste kisses of either 'hello' or 'goodbye', and the odd, shortly-lived touch here and there, and Mycroft had been privately dreading the inevitable moment that Greg demand their relationship follow the natural progression to more.

Lestrade stopped and frowned, his nose less than two inches from Mycroft's. "What's wrong?" he asked, a little putout that his advances where being met less-than enthusiastically. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"Yes you are. You're looking as though I am springing this from nowhere."

Mycroft had no adequate argument against this.

Greg groaned in annoyance and snatched up his mug.

Copying his movements with a soft sigh of regret, Mycroft crossed his leg – now distinctly devoid of Greg's hand – over the other.

The tea was good, he found to his surprise as he sipped cautiously – a distinct improvement on the Tetley's, and obviously brewed with significantly more care. 'A special occasion', Greg had said. Perhaps it was meant merely as a flippant comment, perhaps not...Mycroft couldn't rightly say. He risked a glance over the rim of his mug at Greg, who was glowering down at his own tea with a distinct expression of disappointment. "I'm sorry," he said softly, sincerely.

Greg glanced up glumly. "Mmm."

Mycroft swallowed hard, knowing that the only possible route forward was to take a step away from his comfort-zone. "Don't think it's a reflection on us."

This was met with a hollow laugh. "Well, what else am I supposed to think?" Greg challenged. "I go to kiss you and you behave as though it's an attack! Christ, Mycroft! I appreciate you taking care of me and all, but you're my boyfriend, not my bloody nurse and I'm sorry I want to treat you as such!"

But Mycroft had stopped being able to listen, the word 'boyfriend' – so casually released into the ether – lingering between them like a brick wall.

He hadn't even considered 'boyfriend', either in the sense of being one or having one...Mycroft tested it silently on his tongue, then tentatively out loud, trying it for size, "Boyfriend..."

Greg's expression dropped from frustration to crestfallen. "Not boyfriend?"

"No no!" said Mycroft hastily. "I didn't mean it like that! I only meant..." he blushed and dipped his head a fraction. "It holds so much weight, I...I wasn't quite prepared for it."

Greg cocked his head to the side. "Weight?"

"Mmm." Mycroft nodded, searching for the right words to articulate what was going through his head. "It implies a –" he licked his lips, struggling to force the words out into the open, "a certain permanence, or, at least, a degree of stability, and a modicum of...commitment? I could be entirely wrong, of course," he added in a fast gabble, feeling his ears burning. "Please correct me if-"

"Mycroft?"

He looked up tremulously from his fidgeting hands. "Yes?"

The 'shut up and stop being silly' was implied as Greg moved forwards and tilted a soft, encouraging kiss upon Mycroft's lips, lingering long enough to prove the point before pulling away with a smile. "Be my boyfriend?" he asked with the coyness of an adolescent.

Pleasure crinkled Mycroft's eyes and twitched his lips – still tingling with the ghost of the kiss. He nodded gladly. "Although I doubt I'll be much good at it," he warned, slipping his hands into Greg's and squeezing, "I'm afraid it's not something I know a great deal about."

"Have you ever..." Greg began cautiously, but stopped as he felt Mycroft begin to freeze up again – a pained expression briefly marring the pleasure they had finally achieved.

Mycroft's gaze dropped uncomfortably. "I don't...I can't..."

"It's okay," Greg stopped him quickly, stroking the sharp knuckles with his thumb. "It's not a conversation we need to have now." Although it was clearly one that needed explaining before too long, but Mycroft's expression of acute relief made Greg put it aside for the time being.

"So, what precisely does it entail being," the pleased smile spread once again across Mycroft's face, the word still very much a novelty, "boyfriends."

"Well," Greg shifted and, deciding that their new agreement gave him liberty to be more forthright, slipped an arm around Mycroft's shoulders (he celebrated internally when there was no sign of discomfort or protest) "for one thing, we ought to make it facebook official, otherwise it doesn't count –" Mycroft shot him a scathing, contemptuous glance, then burst out laughing, throwing back his head and resting it against the arm behind him. It occurred to Greg that he greatly liked it, seeing the normally perfectly composed man relinquish all sense of formality in such a way, and made it his personal goal to make it a regular occurrence then and there. "It also means we're allowed to be terribly unprofessional with one another outside of our homes," he continued very seriously, "aaand it means you must reign in your insatiable tendency towards sexual deviancy, and wear a badge saying 'Out of Bounds' at all times. Okay?"

Mycroft chuckled lightly and slid down a little way to rest his head properly against the broad shoulder he found fit him perfectly.

They looked sideways at each other and discovered the comfortable place they had both been waiting for.

Greg sighed and rested his cheek against Mycroft's head, feeling the most contented he had been in more years than he cared to count. "In all honesty, Mycroft, I haven't a clue either. I reckon we'll just have to work it out as we go along. See how it goes, and all that."

He felt Mycroft hum approvingly as he added a decisive, "Slowly," to the table,

"Yes," Greg pressed a warm kiss to the crown of his head. "At our own pace."