Disclaimer: I make no profit from this, it's just for fun.
6. Christmas Day, 1997
After their last meeting, Mycroft came to the conclusion that if Harkness will not give him any more answers, he will have to find them himself. Tedious, but far from difficult at this point.
It does not take long before he stumbles upon mentions of the Torchwood Institute. It takes even less to track down or deduce enough information to know more about that organization than most Torchwood employees do.
It takes considerably longer than he is initially prepared to wait before he can confront Harkness about it, (and about the disturbing conclusions he has drawn about the man's interest in Mycroft himself), but the three years before the next Christmas Day meeting are well spent.
He has to be careful in his inquiries – very, very careful: people have a distressing tendency to disappear when they get too close to the truth of that particular organization.
It is a pleasant challenge, a way to distract himself from the stressful managing of two royal divorces, the widening of EU borders, the peace talks in the Balkans, the uproar about Roslin Institute's research, the situation with Scotland's Parliament and Tony Blair's campaign.
(Or rather, the stressful managing of the idiots who are supposed to handle those things, but obviously can't be trusted to – if they but did what Mycroft suggests without having to be led through every baby step, the nation would be much better off, that's for sure. He isn't yet at the stage where he can afford to point this out, however. Influence is built on goodwill and all that.)
Most of his time is taken up by the administrative position he is working in officially, and the many other positions he is working in (or assisting with) unofficially; most of his attention is devoted to consolidate his allies and secure the niche he has carved for himself in the government (and avoid being thrust into the limelight, but that at least is easy, since most other politicians want exactly that).
Governing a nation without governing a nation might just be the ultimate thrill and he is so close.
(It's a pity his brother can't find the same satisfaction in politics; but alas, he has accepted that they are different. He just wishes Sherlock would find the same satisfaction in something; he has the brain of a philosopher or a scientist, yet he doesn't seem inclined to make any use of it. The waste of it bothers Mycroft more than the accounting imbalances he systematically uncovers and… deals with.)
Alien business is just a side concern for Mycroft, in the end – but he does compile a comprehensive mental dossier about Torchwood; if nothing else, for the challenge of it. They have a solid tradition of secrecy, after all, that makes them marginally difficult to pin down; but he is far too smart for them to hide anything from him.
His research eventually leads him to a well-defined conclusion.
He does not like Torchwood.
Oh, their goals are sound enough (protecting one's home, whatever the definition of it, is only sensible), if a bit distastefully phrased (all those references to the superiority of the human race – have these people learned nothing from history?) but Yvonne Hartman is an idiot of dangerous proportions (Mycroft has no patience for fanatics): it is all very well to serve Queen and Country to the bitter end, but arrogance and recklessness do not go well together (his own brother is quite the example of this).
Their near-sighted attitude towards alien technology is especially pathetic – what is the point of stealing and reverse engineering anything if it is not then made available to the rest of the world? Apart from the obvious, generalized advantages (...but Torchwood was never about bettering human lives, after all, was it?) there is the lost opportunity. Mycroft could use the royalties from such sales, the budget is always lacking for all that needs to be done and expenditure reviews are any administrator's nightmare, even if he has long ago worked out how to get anything he wishes approved.
Really, Mycroft could do such a better job at running Torchwood.
(He toys with the idea; but ultimately, he prefers the challenge of gently guiding an entire nation exactly where he wants it to go, and balancing his influence over the rest of the world to his country's benefit. He is so close to his goal. A simple Institute, no matter how peculiar, cannot compare.)
(They're servants of the British Empire by charter, besides. One day, they'll answer to him anyway.)
On the right Christmas Day, Mycroft is smoking in Mummy's garden while he waits.
(Sherlock is throwing an overly dramatic tantrum that involves refusing to come home to 'people who understand so very little', and probably spending the day playing his violin for pennies by the side of the road or something equally foolish, in a fit of immature, independence-seeking idiocy – Sherlock took to adolescence with a vengeance from the start and now, after a few years, has this kind of melodramatic rebellious posturing down to an art form – so Mycroft has made the effort to be at his parents' for the festivities, despite the demands of his job; it's unbelievably expensive in terms of phone calls, but it makes Mummy feel better.)
He would prefer to be elsewhere, but he knows Harkness will find him anywhere and why not here, where it all began? There is some poetry in it.
The man does not disappoint.
"Those are bad for you," he comments with a smile, drawing his bulky vintage coat around himself to sit beside Mycroft, who hadn't noticed his arrival until he spoke but refuses to show it bothers him.
He also refuses to acknowledge Harkness' light scolding. The man has no business criticizing his choice of vice. Nor will he admit the man's rich baritone sends pleasant shivers down his back. It's irrelevant anyway.
"Why isn't Torchwood after me?" Mycroft asks far too bluntly. (Jack has a way of getting under his skin like no-one else in the world. It is only bearable because he has noticed that he can affect Jack in turn.)
There is a stretched silence before Jack says tightly: "They are under the impression that I'm grooming you."
Mycroft nods thoughtfully – as always, he was right; suspicions grown over years have been confirmed in one sentence; nothing more needs saying – but Jack seems anxious to explain himself, even if it's not necessary.
"I didn't want you in their clutches – I still don't – but we're supposed to report minds like yours, and I knew you'd attract attention, it was inevitable, so I… It was the only way I could think of!" He runs a hand through his dark hair, eliciting a coolly raised eyebrow. "It wasn't too suspicious, t's not the first time I keep an eye on a kid from a distance- never mind; that's not important, I never interact with her. It's just..."
He sighs and fidgets, readjusting the coat around himself. "They would have ruined your life," he says miserably, as if Mycroft didn't know. "That's pretty much the thing they're best at. You… you were so amazing. This slip of a kid, so clearly a genius – you deduced so much without knowing that aliens even exist… I didn't want them to get their hands on you."
Mycroft doesn't need any explanation. He can figure most of it out by himself. He would prefer to figure it out himself (without the pointlessly sentimental spin, if you please).
"Sherlock?" he asks only (and he is too visibly tense, but it is his brother, and it is the one thing he can't just guess, and he needs to know...)
Jack shakes his head frantically: "I lied – reported him as 'unstable'. His behaviour… ah…" He shrugs with some delicacy. "You know."
Mycroft nods, because he knows – oh, he knows. "Good," he says simply.
It is enough. It should be enough – Mycroft needs nothing more, he doesn't want aything more, belabouring the point is a waste of time – but Jack insists and it's uncomfortable and superfluous but Mycroft can't just turn his hearing off and he also can't decide if the man wants something from him, and if he does, what, and it is awkward. (He can't stand being uncertain.)
(Why doesn't the man just leave well enough alone? Mycroft understands, nothing else needs saying.)
"I didn't know how to protect you," insists Jack softly, almost pleadingly. "Keeping an eye on you myself was the best compromise I could come up with." He swallows. "Still is."
It is not a surprise, of course.
(Mycroft had deduced it all on his own. It is a very logical, economic solution, rather elegant all in all...)
It is a staggering surprise.
(Protect you, he said. Why would the man do this? Do such a thing, for him? Maybe he'd have done it for any child, of course, maybe it isn't about Mycroft at all, except that Mycroft is the child he has been protecting and he said – or as good as - that he's a special case and Mycroft can't just disregard this…)
In one of his rare episodes of inability to analyse and filter his emotions quickly, Mycroft finds himself on the verge of hyperventilating in Mummy's garden.
(He'll wonder later what about Jack Harkness provoked this – why it is that Jack Harkness can discomfit him so, when no-one else can; first he must recover his mind's customary systematic efficiency and deal with himself.)
Mycroft feels something he isn't entirely sure he can identify and he needs to, he needs to think; frame every aspect of this in understandable terms – he needs to freeze the world until he can properly lable the emotions he is being confronted with, evaluate their utility, and box everything neatly away as is only commonsense to do, because to allow feelings to remain unruly is not a sensible option. (Why didn't the man just let this go? Mycroft only needed confirmation of his suspicion, not- this!)
He is grateful confused triumphant wary vindicated unnerved indignant hopeful satisfied astonished irritated and he doesn't like it (he doesn't do feelings, not like this, not for this long – feelings are pointless, feelings are bothersome, the fly in the ointment, grit on the lenses of the instrument; emotion gets in the way of rational thinking) but that's alright, he merely needs the time to categorize, analyze, accept: he just needs a moment to think, then he'll be able to discard anything that it would not be useful to further express, suppressing and ignoring what has no reason to influence him; he just needs to think.
He sits very still, forcing himself to examine the confirmation of all his hypotheses on the topic with ruthless rationality, to properly engage his cognitive facilities in the evaluation of his relationship with Jack Harkness – it's taking longer than it should, but once he has, he'll be in control again, Mycroft never lets himself be boggled down by such nonsense, he always keeps himself sufficiently distant.
(They call him icy, or granitic, or insensible, but in truth he is simply rational: even with Mummy, and Father – even with Sherlock – he doesn't let emotion cloud his judgement, because there is no point. Caring is not an advantage).
(Except that there is the possibility that the man cares for him and he isn't sure how to react to this.)
He hates that it is taking effort to keep this contained maelstrom in check while he tames it – he is usually much better than this at dealing with his own emotional responses – and he hates that Harkness is witnessing this – he does not, as a rule, display any emotion for others to see unless he has consciously decided that it is socially required to do so: why should this be any different? (Why should Jack – who is not even family, who is barely an aquaintance – be any different?)
(He always is.)
(It's infuriating – caring is not an advantage.)
He'll have to get over this somehow, obviously, but, but… but...
He smokes the rest of his cigarette in silence, and Jack lets him.