Chapter Thirty-Eight: "Fools rush in / Where wise men never go / But wise men never fall in love / So how are they to know?" ~ Elvis Presley, Fools Rush In (Where Angels Fear to Tread)
How can a fully-clothed person look almost indecent? Must be the lack of a waistcoat and tie –– plus the fact that Mycroft actually has the top button of his shirt undone, in addition to his shirtsleeves rolled up. As warm and humid as it is tonight I can hardly blame him, but it's disconcerting as hell.
I also didn't expect him to answer the door like a regular person. Where are his staff? He wouldn't look after a place like this himself; there's got to be at least a housekeeper or valet or something –– an old-fashioned butler in stiff suit and bow-tie.
But at the moment there's just Mycroft, one hand on the door handle, the other resting in his trouser pocket, and he moves aside slightly, inviting me to enter. His eyes meet mine calmly, utterly composed; still, as he looks at me I'm sure I can see tension in the set of his jaw, a deepening of the faint lines around his eyes.
I know I probably look tense, too. I mean, how could this not be a little awkward? There's just so much. . .
I make a smile and murmur, "Thank you," brushing past him into a formal foyer; unsurprisingly, it looks just exactly like the proper entry to a grand country home ought. In fact, it looks so proper that it's almost a snide comment on propriety.
With a languid hand, he gestures me to follow into an equally impeccable sitting room. The fireplace isn't lit, of course, but the lights are turned to a subdued glow that recalls firelight gleaming off the aged, polished wood of the oak-panelled walls. Gesturing to a pair of comfortable leather arm-chairs facing the dark hearth, he goes to a side-table that's laden with a silver tray, a cut-crystal decanter, and a set of small wine glasses. He glances back at me. "Will you have a drink?"
"Sure. Whatever you're having," I reply absently. The other side of the sitting room is furnished for 'informal' dining, with a heavy oak table and ornate chairs. Flanking the table are . . . horses? Yep; two life-size statues of mounted soldiers or something. They lend a bizarre, museum-like quality to the room, but hey, whatever. I lay my red leather clutch on the table and park my bum beside it, listening to Mycroft talk as he carefully pours a small glass of wine from the posh decanter.
"I've been enjoying a rare treat," he comments. "A little splash of 1914 Leacock Madeira Boal. I acquired a few bottles some years ago, but it recently became apparent that one would have to be sacrificed to top up the others and keep them aging properly." He's talking a little too fast, a little too much. "There was a tad bit left after the top-up, so . . ."
He looks wary as he approaches me with the little glass of tawny-dark wine. "It was surprisingly difficult," he muses, "choosing which bottle would be sacrificed, since all had come so far and so long, and Leacock's is terribly hard to come by. However, needs must––"
My fingertip accidentally grazes his hand as I take the wine glass from him, and he gives a tiny but definite twitch, like it was an electric shock or something.
"Steady on there!" I tell him, laughing to try and diffuse the tension. "You can chill. It's not like I came here to assassinate you or something."
He raises an eyebrow, polite. "If you say so."
I roll my eyes and wave an impatient hand at my scant summer frock and strappy heels. "Where would I hide a weapon? I don't even own a bloody weapon."
"Well, then, perhaps you'd care to use mine," he says with studied nonchalance, and pulls his hand out of his pocket –– Bloody hell, he's holding a small pistol! But he's not threatening me with it; carefully placing it on the polished corner of the dining table beside my clutch, he gives me a Significant Look, then returns to the crystal decanter on its silver tray.
I stare at the hunk of sleek metal. I've never really looked at a gun before, I mean, really looked. This one is actually quite pretty. Well, aesthetic, anyway. The wood on the handle is lovely; it glows a pale gold with the sheen of fine maple, but the grain pattern is very, very strange, swirling and coiling like tawny smoke. I place my wine glass on the table to take up the little gun for a closer look.
It's surprisingly heavy, although I suppose it has to be. Solid steel, made to contain violent explosions and hurl spinning hunks of lead. What madman dreamed that up?
"Bird's eye maple," Mycroft comments. I look up; he has his back to me, slowly pouring another small glass of wine. "A rarity on this side of the Atlantic. It's a . . . memento. From an American colleague."
I run a fingertip over the lovely, odd grain. Maple. Dense, durable, tough. Hard to work, but hard to break. And, beautiful. The thing is a work of art, but its sole purpose is to maim and kill. I shiver with the realisation.
"It is loaded," he adds helpfully, then turns and carefully poses: one hand resting in his trouser pocket and the fingers of the other curled around the slender stem of his glass, leaning his bum back against the side-table and crossing one ankle over the other. "You have just cause, I should think." He wafts the little glass of dark wine under his nose and watches me, waiting.
Unbe-fucking-lievable. "Oh my god. Mycroft, you are SO over the top! You're not a drama king, you're a . . . a drama emperor!" I carefully place the gun back down, resisting the urge to wipe the feel of it off my fingers. "I'm no bloody vigilante. Do you honestly think that I could stand here and shoot you in cold blood?" I'm actually a bit offended. "Really?"
"No," he says to the madeira in his hand. "No, I really don't. You still care." He says 'care' the way some people would say 'cancer': with a mixture of pity and horror.
"It's not a bad thing."
He raises skeptical eyebrows in reply, adding, "There is nothing more disastrous than attachment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," he sniffs, like a Calvinist quoting his Bible.
I can't stand that smug, disdainful look. "What about Sherlock? What about Mummy? What about," I wave my hand around generally, "what about all this, England, everything?"
The smugness doesn't quite evaporate. "I look after what's mine," he says defensively.
"And you still say that you're totally immune to sentiment?"
His eyes go stony. "You've no idea. It's the only way to stay safe. It allows me to be effective."
"But you're not safe!" I counter. "You're not invulnerable to those nasty chemical defects. I'm proof of that." He gives me a condescending fake-smile, but I just keep bashing on. "I'm no accident, Mycroft! I was put in your path as bait ––"
The smug look unexpectedly returns, intensifies. "How could you possibly think that I didn't already know that?"
Bloody hell. "You. . . knew? But, but––"
"I'm perfectly aware of who ultimately owns the Agency, and what his agenda is. I've known for a very long time."
"Then, why do you––?"
"––go along with his designs for me?" A rare, genuine smile flits across Mycroft's face. "Because, Angel, the very best way to control a person is to let them think that they control you. This individual believes that I am dangling helplessly from his strings; I've even allowed him to jerk a few to prove the point." Mycroft shrugs philosophically and sips his wine. "It diverts him from pursuing other avenues of control."
"Sherlock is convinced that bloke owns you," I warn, and Mycroft sighs.
"I know. My brother's lack of faith pains me. I tell him the truth time and again, yet he will not believe."
"Well, don't you lie to him, like, constantly?"
"Not always," Mycroft insists.
"Of course, you only tell the truth when he's unlikely to believe you. Right?" Mycroft rewards me with a snort of mild amusement, and I pick up my glass again to swirl it around under my nose. The incredibly complex aroma of very old madeira wafts up: wine mellowed by time and art into something extraordinary. There's the sharp bite of alcohol –– madeira is fortified to something like 40 proof, so it's more like a liqueur than a wine –– and a generic winey smell, but under that is an amazing bouquet of toffee, nuts, ginger and oranges and . . . burnt toast. This stuff is almost 100 years old; I'm kind of afraid to drink it.
But at least sniffing it gives me something to do as I'm marshalling my thoughts; finally I blurt out, "Okay, so you knew about Magnussen and the Agency –– which, by the way, I only found out recently. Did you also know that McCutcheon planned to send me in after the Torch codebook? And what was the deal with that whole Torch thing, anyway? And Doreshchenko ––"
"Oh, good Lord," Mycroft interrupts with a look of genteel horror. "So it's to be the asking of questions and the revealing of secrets, is it? Is that why you came?" He swallows the last tawny drop from his glass, setting it back on the silver tray with a soft clink. "I'd actually just as soon you take up the gun and try to shoot me; at least that would be something interesting."
"There are some things I don't understand," I say stubbornly. "Some things I need to know, that I have a right to know."
"Really?" He folds his bare forearms loosely across his chest. "I've said to you before, whatever gave you the idea that you have a right to know anything?"
I know my consternation is probably showing on my face, but I can't help it. This isn't how it was supposed to go. He is supposed to explain things to me, because . . . because I want him to? Because I've played along, so I deserve answers? That's silly. As a matter of fact, anything I can think of as a reason at the moment sounds pathetically silly.
It's his look of condescending amusement that chafes me more than anything, though; the only thing worse than not being able to win is not being able to win against . . . against THAT! I actually think for a second –– just a second, mind you –– about the gun lying on the table, right to hand. I could threaten him, make him tell me ––
"If you're going to do it, then just do it, Angel! Your indecision is fairly annoying," he drawls.
How the bloody hell did he ––? Never mind. I shake my head, No. "Even if I actually wanted to, which I don't, you've probably planned out six ways to disarm me before I could pull the trigger. No point."
"Eight. Unless, of course, I decided on the spur of the moment to let you do it."
He is so strange. "You'd stand there and let me shoot you? Why?"
He gazes at me for a moment, silent, then his eyes slide down and away as I realise, Of course. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes, you just get tired. Of everything.
This needs to get settled once and for all. In three gulps I swallow down my glass; the fortified wine burns smoothly, leaving a liquid trail of fire from my mouth to my belly, and a lingering medley of wine and toffee, nuts and spice and burnt oranges rolling over my tongue. I place my glass on the table beside the little pistol, and stroll the few steps over to him.
Mycroft fully stands before I get there, drawing himself tall and then trying to add an extra bit of height with a tilt of his head –– but I'm wearing high-heeled sandals, so it's futile. I stop within arm's reach, directly in front of him: far too close, but he refuses to budge.
"You don't deserve to die. That would be too easy," I tell him. Standing this close, I can smell the fine cologne he wears, and see the quick beat of pulse on the side of his neck, the slight sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat. "I didn't come here to exact vengeance; it's not that black-and-white, and I'm sure as hell not qualified to judge you. Steen made some stupid choices, and I don't think it was up to you to save him from them. And Calypso. . ." I leave it at that, because something, something flashes through his azure eyes at the name, and is gone. Calypso. I stow away my flicker of jealousy, saving it up for later.
"Why the change of heart?" he asks me suddenly. "Why aren't you afraid, running for your life? I'm no less dangerous to you now than before, you know. Quite the contrary."
I feel a grin tugging again at the corners of my mouth. "I ought to give you tit-for-tat about not revealing things, it would serve you right. . . but, let's just say that you've some real fans at MI6 –– or, rather, Argus does. There were a bunch of files from the 90's declassified just a few weeks ago, and my teammates told me all about them . . ." I allow myself a conspiratorial smile. "You're not exactly the person that you'd have other people think, are you?"
The look that crosses his face is hard to describe: Proud embarrassment? Abashed pride? Whatever it is, it flits by and is gone almost as soon as I notice it. "So, there's that. But also," I continue, "I finally get how you operate. You don't break the law. You might work the loopholes like a granny with a crochet hook, but you never break the law because that wouldn't be right, and you are always right. Sherlock is the outlaw, not you."
I think I scared him with that, because he betrays absolutely no reaction, not even a fake one. His face, his breath, everything about him becomes absolutely frozen, inanimate. I know I'm not wrong, but was it really a good idea to tell him? I plunge on, reckless. "So the safest place to be, really, is right here with you, isn't it? You're like McCavity the cat, the bad shit only happens when you're not there." No answer, no response except that his eyes narrow just a fraction, thoughtful. "What I don't quite understand, though, is how you manage to get people to get themselves killed exactly when you need them to."
"Well," Mycroft slides both hands into his pockets, looking down and away from my gaze; I'm still too close, but he won't step away. "Well," he repeats, "human behaviour isn't all that complicated, is it? Stimulus, response –– the patterns don't vary too much. It's all rather predictable," he sighs.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" I know I shouldn't do it, but I simply can't resist: I reach as if to rest my hands on his shoulders. His reaction is immediate –– and completely predictable. He glances up, whipping his hands around to push mine down and away, then his fingers slowly curl around my wrists, capturing them in a firm grip; although he doesn't draw them up behind my back like he used to, since that would pull me into his arms.
I laugh at him softly, and he replies with a We-Are-Not-Amused look –– but he doesn't let go.
He doesn't let go, and oh! God, the feel of his long, strong fingers circling my wrists is fluttering white-hot up my arms, fanning through my body in a sudden rush of heat and wet. For fuck's sake, why?! The intensity of my reaction is acutely embarrassing, especially since he's looking me full in the eyes, and his Not Amused expression has shifted to Very Amused Indeed.
Bastard. We'll see who laughs last! Defiantly holding his gaze, I pull my arms back, strong and slow, bringing his hands with me. He resists, bracing himself slightly, but I'm a bit stronger than he is. Mycroft is faced with a dilemma: he can either hold on and step in closer to me, or he can let go of my wrists and step away.
I can feel his balance begin to wobble; the fool is going to fall over if he doesn't make up his mind.
Finally, almost overbalanced, he steps toward me, a frown creasing between his eyebrows. Our bodies are now hovering centimetres from one another, his long, thin nose almost touching mine.
"Angel, this is very inadvisable," he warns in a voice barely above a whisper.
"Then let go," I challenge.
But he doesn't let go, even when I draw my arms up behind me and cross them behind my back. He doesn't let go, but he doesn't move forward to press himself against me, either. His arms are encircling me, hands clenching my wrists, I can feel the heat of him through the front of my light silk dress –– but he stands there looking quite unmoved, almost bored . . .
Except that his whole body is subtly vibrating, like a violin string under the bow.
The space between us fairly crackles, yet he will move no closer. I want more. I need more. I tilt my face the tiniest bit toward his and think about a kiss, but he reads my intent and blinks; a muscle in his cheek twitches. Lips would be too much.
So I kiss him without touching. Over his chin –– along the curve of his jaw –– down the column of his neck –– across his wildly beating pulse: I play my lips in the air a centimetre above his skin, softly caressing him with my breath, certain that he can feel my heat breaking over him like a wave.
He gives a sudden, massive shudder as his fingers tighten around my wrists, hard, almost causing me to cry out in pain; I raise my head to see his face twitch as he gasps softly two, three, four times.
"Did you just ––?"
Regaining composure, he glares at me coldly. "It would seem so."
"That is HOT," I moan, but he answers with a grimace of deep distaste.
"No. Messy."
"Uh-uh. That is absofuckinglootly hot as hades." There's got to be a bedroom or three around here somewhere, although I don't want to wait long enough to find one. One of those comfy leather chairs would do nicely, or even that big wooden table over there. I want to be sliding the leather braces from his shoulders and diving at the buttons on that crisp white shirt, NOW.
I wriggle and pull against his grip, but Mycroft tightens his hold; I've put myself at enough of a mechanical disadvantage to make it difficult to break free.
"Angel! Stop it." He gives my wrists a little shake. "Listen to me. There is a choice to be made."
I can barely think in words right now. "Yes –– do we do it in a chair, or on the table? What do you think?"
"No!" He looks a little alarmed. "No, that isn't ––! YOU have to choose."
"It's completely up to me?" That's new.
"Yes, you must decide what you want, right now."
I answer without hesitation, "Okay, what I want right now is to fuck your brains out in one of those armchairs. And then maybe we'll find a comfy bed someplace and do it again. And then ––"
"Could you at least try being rational for a moment?" Mycroft snaps at me, his sudden exasperation palpable. "Is that even a remote possibility for you? Or is it simply asking too much?"
There he goes, blowing hot and cold again! Fuck him. Furious, I violently twist myself out of his grasp and push away. "What the hell do you want?" I've bloody had it; I'm so frustrated I could scream. "You asked me what I want right now, and I told you! What is your problem?"
"My problem?" He closes his eyes with a sigh. "At the moment, I wouldn't even know where to begin answering that."
"Whatever." I throw myself into one of the armchairs so hard that it scoots a little across the floor. I hope the scratch on the polished wood makes him wince.
Eyes still closed, he stays where he is, leaning back against the little table again. Mycroft really is a champion leaner; he somehow manages to make it look like he's holding the object up instead of the other way around.
"Angel, the choice you must make has to come first, before any other . . . activities. No matter how tempting." He sighs again, opens his eyes to peer at me gravely. "First, please understand that I never, ever indulge in intimate associations with my subordinates or my colleagues. That rule is inviolable, and I should think the reasons for it are obvious. It follows, then," he pauses for emphasis, "that you must decide what you want."
I'm listening, but I'm still not sure exactly what he's saying. "Why does your little rule for yourself mean that I have to –– Oh!" it dawns on me of a sudden. "Am I being offered a position?" I ask cautiously.
Mycroft lets that hang in the air as he turns and busies himself with the decanter, pouring another glass of the madeira. As he leans back against the table with the filled glass in his hand, I see him subtly shift his hips around; that little bit of mess in his pants is probably driving him mad, although he seems proudly determined to pretend it never happened.
Finally he answers me. "In a word, yes."
Whoa. I didn't expect that. "So, what exactly would I be doing? Would I be working directly for you?"
"Not directly, no. Very indirectly, in fact. As for what you would be doing, well," he shrugs and takes a sip. "A person with your skill-set could make herself very useful. And I can guarantee that the assignments would be interesting. Sometimes, exciting."
"You need somebody to replace Calypso, is that it?" I ask pointedly, but he doesn't flinch.
"Alice Potts was an informant, not an operative, and we were not the only organisation she contributed to. It was a very . . . complicated situation."
"Of course it was. Would the situation with me be any less complicated?"
"That would be nice, but I don't hold out much hope, really," he says in a resigned sort of way. "You seem to have a talent for attracting complications."
Well, I can't deny that. "So, I would be like, your staff Mata Hari or something?"
"Or something," he agrees.
"Hm. And I would have to give up. . .?"
"Any intimate association with me, as well as any pretence that such had ever existed."
"Clean slate?"
"Clean slate."
Is that even possible? Maybe for him; even then, I don't know. "Is this why you've spent the past two months testing me?"
That patronising fake-smile comes back. "You have a sadly exaggerated self-importance, Angel, to think that it has all been about you."
"I think it has, at least some of it," I insist, although I'm not going to admit I have no idea of what parts were which. "Although, most of it was about you, wasn't it?" I add accusingly, and he has the grace to look slightly abashed, "So, it sure as hell would go a long way for you to let me in on it."
Mycroft looks amused and shakes his head, No. I fold my arms and lower my head mulishly. "Why not? I mean, it will make me more effective. . ." My voice trails off as I realise something. "This is the final exam, isn't it?"
He completely ignores my question, and me, holding his glass of madeira up to the light so he can admire the colour. I let the question hang in the air, and wait. I wager he'll get bored soon enough and give me some sort of answer.
It doesn't take that long. "The scalpel doesn't question the surgeon. One that did would be quite limited in its usefulness."
"So that's what I am? A potential tool?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing so prosaic. A good operative is an instrument, not a mere tool."
"Same difference."
"No, there's a world of difference."
"Semantics," I argue, gazing pensively at the empty hearth.
Ignoring me, he takes another appreciative sip of his wine, rolling it around his palate with a pleased look. "This Boal really is coming along nicely. It's still fairly young, as madeira goes, but given enough time, say, another 50 years, it could be an exceptional vintage." Still admiring the colour of his wine, he prods, "Well? What is your decision, then?"
"I think . . . I think that the chair really won't be suitable after all; the leather is a bit sticky in this warm weather. The table is much the better option." It's not the answer he was expecting, I know it's not. I give him a cheeky grin when he stares at me.
"Angel . . ." His brow furrows, appalled. "Angel, it's not worth it. If you're turning down this offer because you think you and I might . . . then don't, because that is never going to happen. Please don't delude yourself. I'm not . . . I don't . . . it would only ever be. . . ." He stops his nattering and takes a deep breath. "Don't settle for that. You could make so much more of yourself than you think, it would be a criminal waste for you not to try." He gazes past me, out the darkened window, frowning. "Women so easily settle for less."
Say what? Bloody wanker! "Oh, dear, and here's me with my life's ambition to be your chavvy little bit on the side," I snark. "Another dream, crushed." He presses his lips, narrows his eyes, and I can tell there is a nasty retort on its way; before things can get ugly, I add, candidly, "Okay, so there actually was a time when I felt like that, but not any more. Now . . . well, to be honest, I think that you'd make a rubbish boyfriend. And a rubbish regular friend as well, so I'm not sure what's the use of you –– except, I'm serious about the table."
He shoves his tongue in his cheek for a moment, then shakes his head. "I do not understand you at all," he confesses.
My sandals are very cute, but the straps are starting to feel too tight; I undo the buckles and let them fall to the floor beside the chair with a clatter. "I'm flattered to be offered a situation, but I regret to say that I already have other plans."
"Such as?"
I curl my bare legs under me comfortably. "Well, for starters, I've decided that before I do anything else, I want to finish school."
He actually looks surprised. "To what end, if I may ask?"
"Because . . . well, just because. Because I'll always feel a bit of a loser if I don't complete that degree. And," I almost don't want to admit this out loud, "and, because Jason and Aaron told me that I would need one to apply for a real job with the SIS . . ."
He perks up at that. "A degree will be unnecessary if you have a personal recommendation from me; it will save you years of time, and considerable expense and effort." He notices the stubborn look I'm giving him. "Don't be foolish. It's how these things are done."
"No." I tell him flatly. "No. I want to do this on my own merit, not based on who I know."
"Ah, the idealism of youth! Such purity." He almost lays the sarcasm on too thick. "On your own merit? Having the right people in your corner IS your own merit, the only sort that matters."
"Maybe. And maybe I'll tap you for a recommendation when I apply. But, I'm going back to school first. I need to finish that before I can get on with the rest of my life."
"You're being very foolish, and wasting valuable time," he says crossly, finishing the rest of his wine.
"Whose valuable time? Mine? Or yours?" He doesn't answer. "You probably already have an assignment that you need me for or something," I accuse. He shrugs and places his empty glass on the tray again, putting his hands into pockets with his poker-face back in place, revealing nothing. "Anyway, since I'm going to be a student for a while, then I'm neither one of your colleagues, nor your trainee." I smile suggestively, chin on interlaced fingers. "So your inviolable rule doesn't apply, does it?" I am bloody well going to get naked with him one way or another tonight.
He gives me a speculative look. "Then I suppose it would be germane to discuss your fee. . . "
"No, it won't." I haven't thought this through, so I'm flying by the seat of my pants here: What a surprise. "No fee. No retainer. No money."
"I must insist," he says firmly. "As you've told me, your job is not an easy one. You deserve adequate compensation."
"No. I mean, Yes! I do deserve compensation, but no, not from you. Not anymore."
He looks utterly nonplussed. "Why not?"
"Because it's an emotional transaction now, not a monetary one."
He scoffs. "I don't do social transactions. I know how, of course; I've observed how real people do them, so I'm well-versed ––"
"Wait, did you say, 'real people' just now?"
"Yes. What of it?" He's suddenly a little too casual.
"Then, what does that make you? One of the unreal people? Counterfeit?" He rolls his eyes at me and pours himself another glass of wine from the nearly-empty decanter, regarding me sourly as he savours it. His third glass since I got here. Nervous much?
"As I said," he pauses for emphasis. "I really prefer to avoid social transactions. Especially when it concerns sex. Things are much easier and more manageable if kept in the realm of monetary transaction, don't you agree?"
"Not really. And you are diverting from my question. Why are you not a real person?"
"Just a figure of speech. Drop it," he growls.
He's starting to look really cross, so I let it be. "Okay. Okay! Transactions," I shake my head. "Just doesn't feel right for me to take your money anymore."
Mycroft sighs theatrically. "Doesn't feel right? Could you possibly be any more vague?"
"Look, if you really want me to unpack it, here goes," I don't even have to think about it; the pattern is suddenly quite obvious to me. "If you pay me, you stay in control. You have the power. You give me money, I consent for you to take your pleasure. That's how it works for you, isn't it?" I'm on a roll, and I keep rolling, despite the way he looks down at his drink and shifts uncomfortably. "You TAKE your pleasure, you don't let anyone give pleasure to you, because they might not do it right.
"On the other hand, if there's no money or other barter involved, that means you would have to accept what I choose to give, and you have to hope that I might––just might!––get it right. As well as trust that you could survive my getting it wrong.
"And it means that you might get it wrong as well; you might fail to please me. Even worse, I might reject you . . ."
I don't think any of this is news to him. He tells his wine glass, "All of which is why I said, to begin with, that I prefer the monetary transaction."
"You may prefer it, but I don't! Right now. . . right now, I don't need the money as much as I need other things and . . . and . . . stuff." I want to say, 'You. I need you,' but that would be too much; like the touch of lips, it would be too much, so I don't even think it. Some things are better left unsaid.
I don't speak another word, and neither does he, as he finishes that third glass. Then he puts it down on the tray and walks over to the chair where I'm sat, leans over to take my hands, pulling me up.
Just as I gain my feet, he pulls me forward hard, and I lurch against him –– payback! He grips my upper arms, pulling me in as his mouth targets mine, smashing hard enough to take my breath away. His tongue flicks between parted lips, redolent of rich wine, and I lean further in to him, pressing myself as fully as I can against the length of his body, opening my mouth to his. I would say yes, for god's sake yes, but my mouth is so busy all that can escape me is a groan deep in my throat.
His hands slide down to clasp my hips, fingers digging into the muscle, driving me harder against him. I wriggle and grind, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, holding him to me. He runs his lips and teeth over my neck then, not at all gentle, nipping and biting as I run my nails lightly down his back, feeling the muscles shift and stretch under his shirt. My knees go a little weak, and I have to work to keep standing.
He raises his head to look at me, mocking. "Is this what you want, then?" he asks.
I moan and move to clamp my lips back on his. "Yes!"
He stops me, pressing his hands on either side of my face to hold me still, and asks intently, "Why?"
My language-brain isn't working too good right now, so I just look at him blankly, trying to figure out what the hell he's asking. Why what?
He repeats again, "Why?"
"Why . . . do I want you?" I whisper, not trusting my full voice. "Is that what you mean?"
"Yes." His eyes are searching mine, although I don't know what he could possibly be looking for. I've got so few answers.
"Because. . . because I do. Because you're you, I guess. Just, because."
He shakes his head slowly; I can tell he doesn't quite believe me. "What can you possibly hope to gain?"
"Um, at least one really nice orgasm?" I hazard; then, impulsively I add, "You do know that you'll never be more to me than a pleasant diversion, right? You get that?"
Surprised, he pulls back slightly to peer at me better. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
"No, it's mine. And I mean it. Don't do this thinking that you'll gain more control over me, because you won't. Don't fool yourself."
I'm looking at him, dead serious; he still looks skeptical, but whatever. It needed to be said.
Mycroft carefully extends two fingers and traces my straggly long fringe, tidying the hair away from my face. "You need to have a professional do something about your hair," he says matter-of-factly. "It's an abomination."
Recognising his diversion, I laugh. "Am I hideous?"
"Perfectly." He draws near again, zeroing in on my ear, breathing softly into it as he nips along the curve, sending shivers up and down my spine. Like I've been longing to, I attack the pearly buttons on the front of his shirt, popping them open one at a time. I know that he's got the inevitable undershirt on beneath, but I crave undoing those buttons and slipping my hands inside.
I can't believe he's letting me touch him so freely; it's like an embargo has suddenly been lifted, and I'm giddy with opportunity.
As I slide the braces from his shoulders, I glance over at the side of the sitting room guarded by the mounted soldiers. "Table for two?" Impish, I tug him toward the dining area.
He grimaces. "No, thank you. I eat there!"
"Then you'll have a nice memory to accompany future meals! Come on . . ." I tug again, and Mycroft frowns at me stubbornly.
"No!" he insists, so I wind my fist in the waistband of his trousers and playfully start towing him over to the table. He grabs my wrist, and a nanosecond later he's behind me and has me restrained in an armlock. It's not painful, but I can forget moving until he loosens his grip. His mouth is right beside my ear, and his heated breath plays across my skin. "Not in here," he murmurs. "There is a guest suite . . . much more suitable."
Oh, yes!
By the time we make it down the hallway to the guest rooms, somehow the positions are reversed; I've got him in an armlock, and we fall to the huge bed grappling. This isn't slap-and-tickle, though; it's dead serious wrestling for alpha. I'm stronger and faster, but he has the advantage in technique; it ends a draw, with us both half-arse pinning the other. With a supreme effort, I roll myself on top of him, legs straddling over his hips, and he looks up at me, hands on my wrists again; he could take control of the scuffle, but he'd have to let go to do it –– and he doesn't. I begin to ride him slowly, working my dripping crotch over the bulge in his trousers.
"Messy," I taunt. "It's going to get extremely messy. You might have to burn these trousers and pants after I'm done with you."
He doesn't smile or join in my joking, just holds my wrists, his lips parted, breathing heavily as he watches me in the lone glow of the bedside lamp. I lean over, kissing him hard, thrusting my tongue in time to the sway of my hips for a moment, then rock back, stretching, before stilling myself with a sigh. I hate to interrupt the heat of the moment for cold practicalities, but it's gotta be done.
"Look, I have to tell you, I can't be sure of my health status. I was unconscious for six hours in Amsterdam, and Dijkstra or his goons could have done anything to me. I've been tested and everything is negative right now, but . . . " I shrug. "There are a couple of nasties that could still surface. So I'm not fluid-safe, right? Just so you know."
"I had thought of that, of course, but thank you for pointing it out. Decent of you. There are condoms in the night-table drawer."
"Good planning," I leer. "We might need a few."
"A few?" He looks mildly alarmed. "Good lord, I'm not nineteen any more, Angel."
"Nor am I. And I bet even when you were nineteen, you weren't nineteen, if you know what I mean."
"I was something of a late bloomer, I suppose," he admits.
I turn my wrists slowly, and he responds by softening his hands, allowing me to shift out of his grip and turn it into a caress, hand to hand. "How old were you? Your first time?"
He considers for a second; not remembering, but deliberating, as our fingers twine and turn over each other. "Twenty-five. He was a bit older than I, quite a bit . . ."
"And let me guess, he was beautiful, tall and blond, blue eyes and perfect cheekbones."
A smile ghosts across Mycroft's face; he doesn't need to answer.
Still kneeling astride him, I skin off my light summer dress, wanting to show off the gorgeous satin bra and knicker set that I picked up in Amsterdam. I move his hands to my breasts, cupping them around so he can stroke the expensive ivory silk –– and my tight, straining nipples as well. I shiver as he obliges, and I run my hands down and around under his open shirt, over the fine cotton jersey underneath.
"You have too many clothes on," I tell him. "I need to be touching you."
"I thought that was MY perversion," he says, but I shake my head.
"That's everyone's perversion. It's all just variations on the theme."
He looks thoughtful at that, and continues to be thoughtful as he sits up to quickly pull off his clothes. Maybe it's because his pants and trousers are sullied –– maybe he plans to burn them for real! –– but he doesn't carefully fold his things as he removes them. It's weird to watch this man, he of the clothes rack and creased trousers, literally toss garments onto the floor. On the other hand, this is his home; maybe he has different habits here.
When his undershirt comes off, his back is to me, and I gingerly run a fingertip over a scattershot of identical small, white scars dimpling across his back.
"What are those from?" I ask as he slides his pants down and off, letting them drop on the floor.
"A fragmentation mine," he replies, lying down beside me and running a hand over the curve of my hip. "A Yugoslavian MRUD, to be precise. A crude device, but effective. I calculated the projectile spread and ricochet with 90% accuracy. . . but that meant some of the pellets still found me. Very painful."
"Oh! That's from the Sarajevo mission, isn't it? When you went in yourself and got your agents out. Aaron told me all about that, he was really impressed." I touch another one of the little dimpled scars, this one on the top of Mycroft's shoulder. "You were a regular Action Man in the 90's, weren't you."
He shakes his head, "Only when it was unavoidable. I despise fieldwork! It requires mingling, and chatting, and other things involving people. And bad food, and nasty accommodations, and very often, it results in getting hurt. I hate getting hurt."
I don't know if he's intending to be funny or not, but I am certainly laughing. "Okay, I get it. But you know, to hear them tell it, Argus was like 007, only with more brain and fewer casualties."
Mycroft gets that look again, that embarrassed-proud-smug look, and practically purrs; suspicion flares through me. What are the odds, really? How terribly convenient. . . The thought must have shown on my face, because his smug look immediately vanishes, smoothed away into a bland smile. Okay, now I'm not just suspicious ––now I'm sure. Bloody hell!
"You! You arranged for the Argus files to be declassified, didn't you? That was no coincidence! That was your doing!" I accuse. "You manipulated me."
He doesn't bother denying it, he just pulls me toward him, and his eyes hold a mocking smile as he glides his fingers over the cleft of my arse, tracing sensitive skin through the thin satin. "Don't you know, everyone loves a hero."
Oh, that's just rich, that is. He is so full of shit. "Hero!" I throw a leg over and put him on his back, settling myself astride his hips again. My soaking wet knickers slide around on his bare skin, and I feel him growing rock-hard under me as I wriggle my arse. Mmm. "You're no fucking hero, Mycroft."
He raises an eyebrow, running his hands up my thighs, grasping my hips to guide their gyrations and adding his own. "No?"
I trace my fingertips lightly over his bare chest, zeroing in on his nipples, lightly flicking them with the barest contact; he twitches a little with each small touch. "No. Heroes put themselves at risk for the greater good. All you do is take care of what matters to you. You're just unbelievably selfish, is all."
"If it has the same effect, what matters the motivation?" he asks lazily as I writhe against him, my pulse pounding between my legs, breath rising.
"Matters." Words are getting difficult again.
"Doesn't." He's rising up slightly, pushing himself against me now; our tempo quickens, both of us in sync.
"Liar."
"As if you could tell when I lie," he scoffs, sliding his hands up to spill my breasts out of their satin cups, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples, pinching them hard in the way that I like. How the fuck does he know I like that? I like that. I like.
"I can tell, test me!" I am bouncing on the edge of an orgasm, my whole body tingling and jangling. "Lie to me!" I laugh, daring him. "Lie!"
"If you insist," he says, and does MY rollover trick, the one where the other person is suddenly on the bottom and has no idea how they got there; I'm pinned under him, still writhing. He bends his face close to mine, breathes, "I adore you."
It has the effect of a bucket of cold water; I freeze, eyes wide. Did he just say what I thought he did? And then I recognise the glint of deviltry in those blue eyes, the mocking smirk.
"You dick! You absolute BAG of dicks," I slam his shoulder with my fist, but I can't help laughing. "Okay, fine, never mind. You are the prince of lies, the sultan of deception. I concede defeat."
"Well. It's about time you came to your senses." He shifts over so he can reach down, pushing aside the slick satin to glide two fingers inside me, applying deep friction in just the right spot to make me arch up with a gasp, clutching at his shoulders and moaning. It feels so, so, so goooood! Then he sets his mouth and teeth to work my nipples, and I'm almost overloaded. Quick and fierce, the intensity builds until my moaning erupts in a wide-throated howl, sweeping me out and away.
I'm still quivering with the aftershocks when I hear a drawer slide open and shut; he rolls me onto my side, pushing my knickers down out of the way, his soft stomach curling against my bum, hands guiding my hips; a moment later he fills me, thrusting hard and deep. His fingers are on me again, this time rubbing my still-swollen clit in time to his rocking hips. Needing to hang onto something, I reach behind me to grab a cheek of his arse, gripping into the muscle as it tightens and rolls, urging him into me harder and deeper as his fingers stroke faster. I feel his breath panting rough in my ear as my brain shatters itself again, although this time I don't quite howl.
He clasps me to him as my tremors and waves subside into a warm glow, and I can feel him still filling me; I don't think he's come yet. Yeah. My turn.
I'm rag-dolly relaxed, but incredibly energised; I rise onto my knees and manoeuvre myself between his legs, deftly rolling up and removing the slick, wet condom and carefully tucking it where it will stay slick and wet.
"I hate the taste of latex," I answer to his puzzled look, and, not waiting for him to argue, watch the warring emotions play across his face when I lean down and flick my tongue expertly over his most sensitive places. Pleasure and annoyance mingle and alternate as he raises up on his elbows, almost says something, flops back down again, sighs, closes his eyes with a groan; then rears up again, squirming away slightly.
"Angel, really, I don't ––"
"Receive pleasure very well? I know, you need practice."
"I mean, I don't really enjoy ––"
"That's not what I'm seeing down here." I swirl my tongue around in a slippery twirl, feeling his pulse swelling in my circling hand. "Everybody down here seems quite jolly, thanks. Why don't you just lie back and enjoy the ride?"
He groans again, theatrically flopping back against the pillows, and I happily go to it with my mad, mad skills.
I've never understood how people can say, 'It's just a blow-job. No big deal.' JUST a bj? Right. Teeth placement, jaw stress, suction, gag reflex. Bobbing up and down AND trying to breathe. Easy? Ri-i-i-ght. But, like a lot of difficult things, rewarding. I play him to the edge of an orgasm twice, watching the rise of his breath, feeling his muscles tense under my hands, and backing off before it peaks; I want this to last, and I aim to completely blow his fucking mind.
When it feels like time for the homestretch, I reach for the slippery condom, slide it over my finger, and glide it around the soft pucker of his arsehole, all without breaking the rhythm of my tongue and lips; he doesn't pull away or tighten up, but instead flexes his knees a little, and I smile around my mouthful: Green light. I probe my finger further as I take him deeper into my mouth, gradually desensitising my gag reflex as I also ease into him, slipping past the first circle of muscle and teasing through the second, inner one.
When I'm in up to the knuckle, I crook my finger to prod into his sweet spot, at the same time taking him in my throat so deep that my lips brush against dark, curling hair. I can only take short snorts of air now, but it hardly matters; I'm so turned on, so into the feel of him writhing and moaning under my hands and mouth that I don't care if I ever breathe again.
When he comes, it's a literal explosion; he bucks and rocks and roars, fists pounding the mattress as he arches up, straining madly, and I push deeper into him as well, matching his thrusts until he's utterly spent and can only lie there, trembling.
"Jesusfuckingchrist," he gasps weakly. "You're trying to kill me after all. Assassin."
"Not even!" I protest. "I'm an innocent bystander." I toss the used condom into the bedside trash and burrow down beside Mycroft's sweating, still-twitching body; I predict that he will shortly gather himself and make an abrupt exit, so I have to snag my cuddles before he fully recovers.
There is no sound but our tandem breathing, and neither one of us moves for a while. Then his breath pattern shifts, and he suddenly asks, "Which university?"
I knew he'd ask. "City University London. That's where I started out."
"What? Why would you want to waste your time there?"
"It's where I started out," I maintain stubbornly. "And they've got a great criminal psychology department."
"It's not even a real school," he insists, eyes still closed, and the frown-line is back between his brows. He looks pained.
"Okay, so it's not exactly in the Russell Goup, but it's a decent place, and I don't have to justify anything to you. It's not up for discussion."
"Of course," he agrees without agreeing. "Still. You could do much better than that, you know. I could arrange ––"
"No." I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted, though. He could probably get me into a really good uni, even might help pay for it . . . and the hidden cost would be him dictating to me constantly, managing me, and I would feel like I couldn't say no. Uh-uh. No bloody way. "I appreciate the thought, but no thank you."
He just sighs; a deep, disappointed sigh. Oh, the drama! I smile to myself, and burrow a little closer; he doesn't shift away from me, but I can tell he's getting ready to break and run.
"I suppose it's also none of my concern how you intend to support yourself . . . "
"That's right, it's not." The less he knows about my plans for part-time work, the better.
"I don't suppose you'd consider ––"
"No. Thank you, but no." Again, I'm not half tempted to take him up on it, but I know beyond a shadow of doubt that it would be a disaster. He wouldn't be able to stop trying to run things, and I have had it with being run.
Mycroft sighs again, but this time rises from the bed, scooping up his discarded clothes with a scowl. I suppose he might have rewarded me by staying longer if I capitulated, but I'm not that desperate for cuddles.
He pauses by the open door, his clothing bundled over one arm, his shoes dangling from two fingers. "Well. Is there anything at all that you would graciously consider allowing me to do for you?" he asks archly.
"Absolutely yes." It takes a bit of effort for me to sit up; I didn't realise how tired I was. "You could ring me every now and then. We could have dinner, or something."
He looks me over with more of a frown than the situation warrants. "Very well. If you like," he says, reluctant, then warns, "It would be very infrequent, you understand. I'm busy."
"That's good, actually. Some things are best in small doses," I tell him pointedly.
Not quite smiling, he nods and turns to leave, then hesitates and swings back around. "May I ask you, Angel ––"
"Now that, right there, needs to change," I interrupt. "My name isn't Angel."
From his look, I realise that once again I've baffled him. "No, but that's what you're called, isn't it?"
"That's what my clients call me. It's my stage-name." He still isn't getting it. "My name is Angelica."
He blinks, then nods. "I see," he says. "Well, then," he continues, "Angelica, I wanted to ask, if you could say, when least you saw Sherlock . . . did he seem well to you?"
I think back, to that night at the strip-club, "He seemed just fine. Very energetic," I reassure. "Why? Is he ill again?"
"I wouldn't necessarily know. He's become very . . . elusive lately. More so than usual, and my efforts to keep him distracted aren't working." Mycroft's brow furrows deeper. "I do worry about him."
I don't know which of them I feel sorrier for, because I have an inkling of what it would be like to have Mycroft worry about you. "I don't think he understands why you do what you do, you know? I don't think he gets it."
"He knows I'll always look after him."
"But he thinks you do it all out of . . . of a pathological sense of propriety or something. That's what he said, anyway."
Mycroft opens his mouth, closes it again, then shakes his head. "I can't change that," he says quietly, and turns away again toward the door. "If you like, you may stay the night here; I'll have Morrison bring you breakfast at eight." He pauses in the hallway, looking back. "Is that too early?"
"No, eight will be fine. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Angelica." He gives me a curt nod and is gone, padding barefoot down the hall.
Even though I awaken in the morning far earlier than I usually do, by the time I've had a shower and dressed there is already a tray outside my door with tea, toast, and an egg on it, as well as tiny vase of tiny yellow roses. The big house is utterly silent, and after I've eaten, I leave the guest suite in hopes of finding my way back to the sitting room and my handbag; I need to be back at my hotel shortly, and then to Sara's afterward.
I'm intercepted in the hallway by the butler, Morrison. He's in a suit and a bow-tie, all right, but there's nothing old-fashioned about him beyond that; he's young and very, very good-looking. Of course.
We introduce ourselves, he inquires after my comfort and other such niceties, then out of the blue he hands me a mobile phone.
"Mr. Holmes said I was to give you this, with his compliments."
I take the mobile curiously, looking it over. It's new, and expensive. Of course. After a tiny hesitation, I slide it into my clutch; I don't doubt that it's tagged and traced, and probably wire-tapped as well. I certainly won't use it for or around anything that I want to stay private, but it would be rude to decline the offering.
Morrison has been watching me examine the phone with a discreet smile; when I tuck it away, he adds, "I'm also to drive you back to your hotel, to spare you the trouble of hiring a cab. Shall we?"
A few minutes later, I'm sitting in yet another black Jaguar –– Same car every time? Different car? I can't tell –– gazing out the window at the leafy suburbs rolling by. It's a drizzly day, but not at all chilly. A warm, light rain washes everything clean, making the trees and shrubs and grass along the verge glow vibrant green, shrouding the horizon in mist.
We arrive in Mayfair quicker than I would've thought, but then, Sunday traffic is a bit easier than other days. Morrison pulls the Jag up to the kerb and pops around to open the door for me, returning my thanks with his handsome smile and holding an umbrella overhead to walk me the six feet to the hotel marquee; it's a nice, though unnecessary, touch.
Once I'm inside, I realise that old habits die hard: I'm striding with exaggerated purpose through the lobby, looking as businesslike as possible so no one will question my right to be here, or ask where I'm going or who I'm seeing. That's pretty silly, because now the shoe is on the other foot, and it's going to stay there. Deep breath, slow down.
I stop in front of the polished brass doors of the lobby lifts, tapping the lift call button and stepping back to smile at my reflection: yeah, Mycroft is right about my hair. That untidy gingerish mop has to go. I think I'll have it bleached back to my natural colour, but trimmed into a new shape, something edgy and fresh. Not retro, I don't think that look suits me anymore.
But, what does suit me now? I don't even have the faintest idea. Before I can have a crisis over it, though, a faint chime sounds from my handbag; there's an incoming text on the new phone.
Knightsbridge is 23 minutes away from Northampton Square via the N19 bus, and 33 minutes by bicycle via the Embankment. MH
Oh, good lord, man, give it a rest! City Uni is in Northampton Square; I reckon he's offering me to stay at the Knightsbridge flat again, and planning my commute for me in the bargain. I move aside to lean a shoulder against the cool, tiled wall beside the brass doors, ignoring the sparse stream of people going in and out the lifts as I tap out a response to Mycroft's unasked question: No, thank you
I do feel a pang of uncertainty after I hit 'send', though; I didn't half love that little flat on Ennismore Mews. Perhaps I should reconsider?
He replies immediately, Perhaps you might reconsider later. MH
How does he do that? How does he know? Probably quite a lot of educated guessing.
Another message arrives on the heels of the first, I can be very persuasive. MH
Now, see, that's one text too far, isn't it? Maybe he thinks he's being playful, but it comes out creepy. On the other hand, he might be perfectly aware of the creep factor and not give a fuck. Either way, I don't like it.
I text back, Thats a bit menacing?
A moment later, he tries again: I meant I would like a chance to talk it over with you. Dinner Thursday?
Well, that would be nice . . . but will he think I'm desperate if I say yes right away? If I say no or make it hard to schedule, though, he might think I don't want to spend time with him after all, which isn't really the case. . . Maybe I should compromise and say no, and then yes? Or maybe . . .
Maybe I should stop being a moron and decide based on what I want, not on guessing what he wants, hey? Old habits do die hard. I text a simple, Ok.
My driver will collect you at half seven from your hotel lobby. MH
There he goes again! I reply, Try again
Would you be agreeable to being collected from your hotel lobby, perhaps, at half seven on Thursday? MH
Good enough. Yes, I text. Its a date.
No, he responds immediately. It is not a date. MH
Oh, good grief. There he goes with the semantics again. My mouth quirks into a grin as I text, An arrangement?
Yes. An arrangement. MH
Whatever. Ok c u later
I look up from sending that, straight into a pair of intense hazel eyes; they belong to a middle-aged gentleman who is standing quite close to me, waiting for the lift. He smiles broadly when I catch him staring.
"Such a pretty smile on such a pretty girl. Are you texting your boyfriend?" He's very well-dressed, expensive suit and briefcase, high-end corporate. Possibly in banking, accent sounds American. Married, but on the pull. Definitely on the pull.
The lift doors rumble open for us, and I slip the phone into my clutch, returning his smile with interest. "Sorry, no. I don't have a boyfriend."
By the time the lift stops at my floor, I have a "date" for tomorrow night with the American, along with his promise that he'll be "very generous" afterwards. We'll get down to specifically how generous he needs to be later. Right now, I'm in a rush, as I have to get ready for the client coming to meet with me shortly, and then straight away I'm headed to Sara's for Sunday roast. No rest for the wicked, as my mother used to say –– although she also told me that idle hands did the devil's work. There's a paradox in there somewhere, but I can't be arsed to work it out just now. I'm too busy patching up my halo.
~The End~