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3. Christmas Day, 1988
Mycroft is spending Christmas Day alone and he seems to be the only person in the world who does not consider this a problem.
He is, in fact, completely and utterly indifferent about it; he is not religious after all (no rational man could be, he feels) and he sees no reason why spending this particular day alone should be worse than spending yesterday or tomorrow in such a fashion. (Or why anyone should feel entitled to comment on how he spends Christmas, for that matter.) Yet even Mummy is upset.
She wanted him to take a plane as soon as his holidays started and join them in Vancouver, where they are spending the festivities again (Mummy was invited to the the World Exposition on Transportation and Communication of two years past because of her book on the dynamics of combustion and Father fell in love with the Canadian city, much to Mycroft's bafflement – there is nothing there that isn't better in London!) but Mycroft flat out refused.
College might only be marginally more challenging than high school, but it does require a tad more hard work, especially for a fifteen-years-old planning to graduate in less than a year. He needs to study and has a number of papers due and most importantly, he does not wish to be roped in yet another of Sherlock's increasingly complex 'pirates' games.
(It isn't that he dislikes indulging the child, although of course, Mycroft plays a Commodore in His Majesty's Navy rather than a pirate, as is only proper; it's that he feels it is his duty, as the eldest, to guide his younger brother towards less childish pursuits now that the time to consider his future with a degree of seriousness is drawing ever closer – Lord knows their parents won't, they can barely cope with Sherlock's present; so someone needs to, before the choice is made for Sherlock. After all, his brother can hardly expect piracy to be a real career choice!)
Jack Harkness showing up out of the blue throws his plans in dismaying disarray.
It takes Mycroft very little time to recognize him this time, because it might have been years, but the slight fear the man had elicited has remained at the back of Mycroft's mind all along.
(Besides, the man is virtually unchanged. How is it even possible?)
He hasn't thought of the American except occasionally, but he has kept the knowledge of his existence, and of his awareness of Mycroft's existence, in mind.
He knows his parents have, too. Mummy and Father have maintained contacts they might otherwise have let slide as they retire to an ever more private life, with people that might be of help in protecting their children from that kind of interest. He himself has made choices, in his studies and future career path, that might not have attracted him were he not wary of Jack Harkness' secret organization.
It has not proved necessary (yet), but Mycroft isn't one for just dismissing even a potentially imaginary threat.
(More so because Jack Harkness doesn't seem to exist. Mycroft checked. As thoroughly as possible. Repeatedly. Either the American is using an alias – which is a possibility – or… his organization is very, very good. Also possible. Both scenarios are worrisome.)
"Not here to recruit you!" Harkness forestalls with an easy laugh.
Mycroft is unnerved by the 'yet' he can hear in the sentence, and even more by how easily this man reads him (when his own parents can't). He focuses on his irritation to keep himself calm; it's been years (again) since the American's last visit, why show up now that Mycroft is so busy? And why is he calling so late in the evening? It's plain rude, it is.
Jack Harkness throws himself on a chair as if he'd been invited and relaxes back as if he was welcome.
"Merry Christmas!" he says blithely and it irritates Mycroft even more.
"Merry Christmas," he replies frostily. "What do you want?"
"I thought I could take you out tonight," the man says as if it was a reasonable proposition.
Mycroft flat out refuses of course, and when that doesn't work, he protests, then argues, complains, refutes, raises objections (very reasonable ones, too, and well-formed) and generally opposes Harkness' cajoling with all his strength. He attempts to reason, persuade, even raise a fuss (it seems to work well for Sherlock... it was worth a try) and otherwise express his dissent.
To his slight shock, nothing seems to work. For the first times in years, Mycroft is utterly unable to have his own way. He gets effectively ignored. This man is infuriating.
Mycroft is baffled, slightly unnerved, and the tiniest bit admiring. He needs to learn how to do that – act entitled so naturally that everybody will fall in line despite themselves, without even eliciting resentment, mind – but before that, he needs to learn how to counter it or handle it or oppose it successfully or something.
Jack Harkness has decided to take Mycroft out into London, among the invetered revellers determined to avoid cold turkey and awkward family reconnections by means of too-loud music, too much alcohol and too many strangers rather than by doing something useful, and nothing sways him from his purpose. The man is like a force of nature, except not, because he is not powerful or striking in any way except for his irritating handsomness.
Mycroft insists with his protests, of course. He isn't inclined to that kind of so-called merrymaking even on the best of days ("Ah, you're such a young fogey!") and right now, he has too much to do ("All work and no play...!" Harkness sing-songs) and besides he is too young ("You're going to wake up forty and regret skipping adolescence, mark my word..."), what is the man even thinking, really?
(Mycroft has his suspicions about what the man is up to. He's trying to decide how to react. To his bafflement, it seems as if it doesn't matter what he decides; he might well not be given a choice.)
He tries irritation, griping, remonstrations ("Dull as dishwater!" accuses Harkness gayly, pushing him towards the wardrobe) criticising the man's brainpower ("I don't see how giving you some street smarts is foolish, kid!" he counters, rooting among his belts), but in the end, Mycroft's resistance is steadily losing ground simply because he is bewildered.
Harkness is systematically disregarding anything he says! He needs to practice how to handle this kind of situations and turn them to his advantage, because this feeling of hapelessness is intolerable.
He finds himself bundled into too-casual clothes (and how dares Harkness bemoan Mycroft's 'sober and outdated' style, there is nothing wrong with sweater vests, and anyway, the man is wearing his grandfather's World War II coat! There is no reason to laugh himself silly when Mycroft points this out, either!) and out into the greyish cold of London while still protesting (ineffectually. He needs to practice his complaints as well).
Mycroft glares at the dull collections of sparkly lights and forced cheer he is surrounded by. Harkness is taking him clubbing, which is ludicrous for so many reasons it takes a while to list them all. (Mycroft knows exactly how long, because he has listed them, with appropriate level of detail. It has not swayed the man in the least.)
"I'm not old enough to drink," he points out (again).
"You aren't here to drink, merely to learn about drinking," Harkness says with the kind of logic Sherlock might try on his dimmest teachers. The amused patience with which he regards Mycroft is maddening.
"It's pointless," he complains (again), "and boring."
But Harkness doesn't pay him any mind and simply drags him to yet another hellhole, loud with awful music (Mycroft is thinking longingly of his recordings – Rossini, Ravel; perhaps some Bizet… as soon as he gets home, he promises himself).
Harkness shines that ridiculous smile of his at him (and at anyone else within reach, thus providing Mycroft with a panoply of shades of pleased-blushing-intrigued-embarrassed-delighted reactions to blatant flirting, which is marginally interesting) and proceeds to educate him on the many forms of alcoholic beverages available in modern society and how to judge their quality ("If someone buys you a drink, it might as well be a good one, kid!") and teaches him how to pretend he's drinking while not being affected by the alcohol ("Good for info gathering," he says with a charming smile - and Mycroft rolls his eyes because seriously?) and how to play the drunk ("What makes you think I'll ever do such an undignified thing?" asks Mycroft, but his disdain is met with a cheerful: "Oh, you never know!").
It is boring. But it is not entirely pointless.
Mycroft might have been influenced in his choice of path, but he has found that he likes it. The art and science of governing a nation is an excellent playing field for his keen mind (not that he is anywhere near the actual part of it, yet; but it is just a matter of time).
Politics, however, has the unfortunate drawback of dealing with people. And people, he has realized with some distaste, regularly engage in various forms of social interactions, of whose nuances he needs extensive knowledge.
There is no denying that alcohol is often a conspicuous component of such dynamic sequences of social actions at many levels and he had feared that he would eventually resign himself to a study of all alcohol-related social practices, once his age would no longer protect him from the tediousness of it, lest he finds himself fumbling unconvincing explanations about his uncommon ignorance of the matter.
Thanks to Harkness, pub crawling with a bunch of moronic college students is no longer a necessity. He can safely eschew gatherings where drinking is the only means of socialization. The presence of alcohol in a social setting will no longer put him at risk of being excluded against his will...
In short, tonight will help him, in the future, mingle and fit in whenever he needs to, without requiring any more effort on his part.
This aspect of his social education is covered, and it is, admittedly, a relief. Harkness has made sure he knows everything he needs to know about this kind of… entertainment. All in one night. That's efficiency Mycroft can appreciate.
He doesn't remember going home that night (morning?), but Harkness kept him safe and Mycroft reluctantly, grudgingly, starts to consider the possibility that the man might be at least partially trustworthy.