Disclaimer: The aliens are mine. Everyone else is not.

7. Christmas Day, 2000

All things considered, it is perhaps odd that Mycroft gets to age 27 and a few months before he is kidnapped by aliens.

(It still discombobulates him.)

"This is all your fault," he grumbles in a rare display of childishness, elbowing the man he is tied back to back with. He's chained up in a (thankfully empty) stainless steel tank that still smells horribly strongly of acridic, low-quality wine, however, so he decides he is entitled to childishness.

"Can't really argue with that," concedes Harkness with – Mycroft is sure, even if he can't see him – one of his dazzling smiles.

(Brilliant teeth and warm eyes will do him no good this time. Mycroft has already decided that good sex will not excuse this mess, and he is perfectly able to suppress any reaction besides the icy disapproval the man deserves, thank you very much.)

"I can't believe this is happening to me." (This is really more Sherlock's area – Mycroft has never had that streak of reckless foolishness in him. Consequently, he is not well-equipped to cope with the situation and this is adding to his irritation steadily.)

He tugs at his chains again, ineffectually. (At a different angle than any earlier attempts, of course, in the hope of stumbling on a useful one. Why has he never learned to break out of manacles? It is obviously an unacceptable hole in his education.)

"What, never been kidnapped by aliens before?" asks Jack with laughter in his voice – which does things to Mycroft that not all the medical texts he's read can truly explain. (Nothing can truly explain Mycroft's odd reactions to a man that, when it comes right down to it, he barely knows. But by now, he's used to it.)

(It doesn't mean he will let Jack off the hook. The chains are digging in his wrists. No amount of sex can make up for this.)

Harkness is calm, relaxed even; it's like he's enjoying himself. "You should take this easy. It might even be fun."

"We're tied up."

"There is a lot of fun to be had with this kind of setup, if you're of a mind to," replies Jack unfazed and Mycroft just about bangs his head against the wall.

"Relax, kid. Think of it as hands-on experience. Will look good on your C.V. Well, it would, if you could tell anyone about this, is what I mean."

"My C.V. is excellent," replies Mycroft testily, "and does not need anything like this added to it."

"It's always good to have some… ah... hold on..."

The man is wriggling awfully now – the pull on the chains is turning rather painful – and Mycroft hopes he is working on freeing them because if he is not, God help him, he'll tear him a new hide, and what is taking him so long, anyway, surely he is trained for this sort of things?

"...Yes!… practical experience," Jack concludes with a wrench that Mycroft interprets as gaining a more favourable position to work on the shackles.

"I don't do legwork," sniffs Mycroft disdainfully, moving slightly in the way he calculates will help Harkness' efforts the most. "I have minions for this sort of things!"

"No you don't."

"Well, I will. One day. Soon." It has just become a priority goal of his, after all.

"Oh, come on. This isn't so bad, really."

"It's been two hours," says Mycroft through gritted teeth – though admittedly they have only been in this tank for twenty minutes; before that there was an awfully bumpy ride in an obviously stolen car, however, which wasn't much better.

He is cold, he is uncomfortable, his nose is saturated with the acridic smell permeating everywhere and he still doesn't know whether the aliens that kidnapped them are in league with those fools who are trying to use mind-controlled geese for a takeover of Earth's best vineyards (unlikely, even those simpletons are better organized than this) or interplanetary pirates who thought (erroneously) that Earth would be a good neutral hideout for their booty (it would explain the kind of locks he spotted) or commonplace smugglers equipped with propulsion technology they should clearly not be allowed to use (he is leaning towards the last), and he also has no idea of what possible importance are the painted avian bones they wear – obviously – as symbols of… something. (He can't stand not knowing things.)

"Time flies when you're having fun!" calls out Jack far too cheerfully.

The chains ding on the steel wall when he gets up (finally!) and he turns to free Mycroft with – he knew it! – that too-brilliant smile of his firmly in place.

Mycroft glares all the way out of the tank, into the alien felons' hiding place (which is really far too easy to find, do they have no brains? Well, he can see they do have brains, their skulls are reminescent of lacework, but are those brains functioning, he must wonder?), through the extremely thorough dressing down he delivers (if they must kidnap people, can't they at least do it properly? They didn't even leave a guard behind!) and the tart critique of their operation he doesn't spare them (Mycroft has not only deduced it in its entirety at last, but also figured out three ways to improve it and six ways to obtain the same results faster with different methods) while Harkness' small team (including their alarming leader who, Mycroft deigns to point out, is dangerously unbalanced and close to breaking point, not that anyone bothers to heed his warning) proceed to arrest the pitiful smugglers and hoard any technology they can find (none of which is of much worth, but Mycroft doesn't bother commenting on it) and then until the very uncomfortable phone call with his less than understanding nominal boss (what part of 'covered by NDA' can she not understand?) is concluded and he can snap the cell phone shut with a satisfyingly loud click.

Then he leaves.

He passes by the pouting Harkness without a second glance. He needs a shower and a drink and some good music – possibly some chocolate cake too. He also needs to be away from that infuriating man.

(No, the undoubtedly excellent sex would not be enough to brighten his mood. He doesn't do legwork – nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable…!

He needs minions.)

What with one thing and another, Mycroft never gets around to ask Harkness' opinion of the Doctor, whom he has had a chance to meet the previous spring.

(In a rather convoluted set of circumstances that involved a rather aggressive teenager, a rather impressive adventuress, a rather unoriginal murderer obsessed with the number seven, too many explosives for anyone's peace of mind, innovative use of the Doctor's collection of spanners, and a duck; circumstances that Mycroft does his best to forget afterwards, and that make his reammission to the Diogenes Club that he co-founded irritatingly problematic).

His own general impression of the short fellow with bulgy eyebrows and an incongruous Scottish accent (although he is aware that the way the Time Lord looks is somewhat ancillary) who, despite his mask of eccentric, light-hearted buffoon, actually has a Machiavellian streak to rival Mycroft's own and a cunning ability to manipulate any situation however he wishes (...and questionable fashion sense. Except for the umbrella. Mycroft might just have to procure himself an umbrella, because as the Time Lord proved, they are very versatile tools - excellent for disarming and tripping opponents, unnerving suspicious characters, hiding useful things into, as grappling hooks, as measuring rods, as walking-canes and even simply to lean onto. While looking good. And their intended purpose is rather useful in London's weather. Yes, Mycroft will find himself an umbrella post haste) is not very favourable.

In fact, Mycroft does not like the Doctor.

As a general rule, he does not like anything he cannot control, and that particular alien is the very definition of 'uncontrollable'.

He acknowledges the Time Lord's (various and unique) contributions to the protection of Mycroft's planet (he does have manners) but he rather thinks Queen Victoria had the right measure of the man.