The room is a little cool or he’s still feeling the chill from spending most of the day in a cold drizzle. He and Mycroft are settled in Mycroft’s den, watching a David Attenborough program, but Lestrade stands up, walks to the window, the wooden chest in front of it. “There was a blanket in here, yeah?” He flips open the lid, and yes, there’s the plush throw. When he lifts it out, there’s a slight plastic rustle, like DVD cases knocking together. He kneels beside the chest, leans in closer.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice has an uncertain edge to it. “I’m rather enjoying what’s on, thank you.”
“We don’t have to change it,” he says. “I’m just looking.” Mycroft’s other DVDs are confined to a single shelf in a cupboard beneath the television: Planet Earth, half a dozen season retrospectives on Tottenham Hotspur, all of the Branaugh Shakespeare and a few other adaptations. But that’s all. It makes sense—Mycroft hasn’t got a great deal of spare time, and he remembers everything. It’s not as though he’s going to forget how the plot resolved and need a refresher. “Maybe you’ve got something I haven’t seen.”
“Unlikely,” Mycroft says, and he gets up, comes to the side of the sofa. “There’s nothing there that would interest you.” His hand lands on the lid of the chest.
Lestrade puts his own beside it, holds it open as Mycroft attempts to close it. “Let me decide that.” He’s behaving strangely, like Lestrade’s stumbled across a collection of pornography, but as far as he can see, it’s only a collection of period dramas, people in velvet-trimmed coats and ridiculous hats and neckwear that he doesn’t even begin to understand. He steals a glance at Mycroft’s face, which is flushed, and he raises an eyebrow, opens one of the cases. Quite a different thing if he’s got different discs inside the plastic—but it’s not. Inside, it’s still Vanity Fair. Inside of the Sharpe’s Rifles case, the same. He can’t quite fathom Mycroft having any of these films—they’re really not that good. He’s seen all of Sharpe; he definitely didn’t watch it for the acting. And Mycroft is fairly brutal on his media—the scripts on these sorts of things would never hold up to his scrutiny.
He looks again at Mycroft, who’s looking everywhere but at him, the red tinge on his cheeks deepening. “You don’t watch these for the cinematography, do you?” Still, Mycroft’s reaction makes very little sense to him—regardless of what he’s got them for, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s not even proper nudity in the ones he’s seen, which is about a third of the collection. He studies the picture on one case: two women and a man. The bloke looks all right, though it’s impossible to tell what he’s hiding under all of those layers. Oh.
It’s just one word, but it’s laden with despair, embarrassment, and that won’t do. That won’t do at all. He puts the cases back where they were, but slowly, slides his fingers along the plastic before he closes the lid of the chest. He slides back onto the sofa, taking the blanket and tugging Mycroft with him. He pulls Mycroft’s back against his chest, and Mycroft lies against him a little stiffly for a while.
Lestrade slips his hands under the lapels of Mycroft’s waistcoat and they lie there for a while as Attenborough explains pikas, which are incredibly adorable and make completely improbable sounds. Eventually, Mycroft relaxes, his head resting on Lestrade’s shoulder.
He kisses the top of Mycroft’s ear. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
Mycroft stiffens again. “It’s fine.”
Lestrade tightens his arms a little bit, hugs him. “That’s the thing,” he says. “It is fine.” He slips one hand up to touch Mycroft’s cheek.
Mycroft turns his head more toward the telly. “It’s ridiculous. Can we please never speak of this again?”
“If you really don’t want to, all right.” He nuzzles his ear. “But I’d like to know about it. If it’s something you like.” He lets his fingertips stroke the thin cotton over Mycroft’s chest. “Please.”
Mycroft snorts. “There’s nothing to say about it.” His hand comes up to cover Lestrade’s, but he doesn’t push it away.
“Something to do about it, then?” Lestrade kisses the top of his ear again, nibbles a little. “Next time you have an evening free? Let’s watch one.” He rubs his foot up the inside of Mycroft’s ankle.
“Come on. It could be fun.” He bites. “Worst case scenario, you get me to watch that Jane Austen thing and Bits will be thrilled.” Best case scenario, they knock over a lamp trying to undress each other fast enough.
Mycroft huffs. “No, worst case scenario—” He doesn’t finish it. He reaches for the remote.
Lestrade catches his hand, and he muscles Mycroft over to face him, which isn’t particularly easy when Mycroft doesn’t wish to be moved. But after a moment, he relents, though he keeps his gaze fixed on Lestrade’s eyebrows.
“You know it annoys the piss out of me when you do that.” He puts his fingertip on Mycroft’s chin and nudges his face down until Mycroft’s got no choice but to look him in the eye. “Do you really think I’d mock something like this?” Tottenham Hotspur and Mycroft’s insistence on wearing a tie if they do so much as take a walk, yes. “Answer me.”
“No,” he says.
Lestrade says, “Exactly.” And he leans in, kisses him.
It’s hard sneaking anything into Mycroft’s flat without his knowledge, but he’s happy enough to see Lestrade with the duffle that means he’s staying over, and Lestrade claims that he’s brought his running things for the morning. A good reason for a lot more bulk in the bag than usual. Mycroft attempts to distract him from the actual reason he’s over—the promised film night—by protesting that his shirt and jacket, at least, should be on a hanger until morning.
“No. Sofa. Now.” And he steers Mycroft out of his own bedroom, a hand on his back, and he makes him sit, puts a glass of wine in his hand, the bottle in its bucket of ice on the coffee table. He puts the DVD into the player, and Mycroft’s sitting so stiffly on the edge of the sofa that it’s nearly laughable. So Lestrade does the only thing he can do: he stretches his full length along the sofa, puts his head in Mycroft’s lap. And he hits play.
For the first few minutes, Mycroft’s posture is as rigid as Lestrade’s ever known it to be; even his fingers, where Lestrade’s holding his hand against his chest, are unresponsive. Mostly, it’s a lot of women in what he thinks are particularly unattractive dresses, and that guy from that American show about the female President Marisol likes. He strokes the back of Mycroft’s hand, gently, and he watches as the scene shifts to an overly formal dance.
At least the dialogue is good, and it’s pretty, all the choreography, and he’s kind of getting caught up in the plot when Mycroft shifts just barely beneath him. What he wants to do is look at his face, to see what he’s looking at, specifically, when his fingers tighten just barely around his own.
Lestrade tries to look at the film objectively: it is a really pretty project, and Mr. Darcy is a bit of all right, and Bingley’s a lot of all right. But Mycroft doesn’t react to attractive people simply because they’re attractive. So it’s something else: the clothes, the trappings of the scene. The music, maybe, though it’s not necessarily the kind of thing that Mycroft usually listens to. The important thing is this: even though he doesn’t exactly understand it, Mycroft’s fingertips slide half an inch over his own. And Lestrade can feel the cadence of his breath change as the film winds on: even though Wickham’s a bastard, his uniform is really sharp. And he’s no expert on history or on costuming, but everything looks legitimate, looks well-done.
He finds himself sinking into the detail. The story is fine—he already knows what’s going to happen. Betsy’s talked about it enough. There is, too, the feeling of Mycroft relaxing little by little, and Lestrade inches himself a tiny bit closer in his lap. Mycroft’s fingertip dips into the hollow of his throat, strokes absently. Behind the back of his head, he can feel the plush weight of Mycroft’s half-hard prick.
When the film gets to Pemberly, he steals a glance up at Mycroft. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and even in the pale glow of the screen and the lamp, there’s a hint of colour in his cheeks. He turns his face back toward the television, rubs his own cheek against Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft’s fingertip touches his lips, and he kisses it softly before he sucks on the pad. Mycroft’s other hand brushes the back of his head—adjusting—and when Lestrade feels his hand start to draw away, he reaches back, presses his fingers back where they’d been over his prick. And he keeps his hand there, too.
This time, Mycroft’s reactionary startle lasts only the space of a few breaths, and then his fingers flatten against the fabric of his trousers. The angle’s not good for properly helping with the task, but it’s nice to feel Mycroft giving in. Particularly as the film is finishing because Lestrade finds himself distracted, too.
The credits roll, though, and Mycroft shifts back, moves his hand, reaches for the remote. Lestrade sits up, lets him stop the film, but he slides into Mycroft’s lap before he can get up. He presses close, right against his prick, and kisses him.
“That was all right, yeah?” He strokes Mycroft’s shoulders. Next time, though, he’s going to suck him off during the film.
“I prefer this,” Mycroft says, and he nips at the underside of Lestrade’s jaw, strokes over the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His gaze flicks down over the red fabric, and Lestrade thinks he’s being dressed up in Mycroft’s mind. He tucks his face against Mycroft’s neck for a moment so he won’t see the grin.
“Hold that thought a minute.” He stands up, makes his way down the hall, and he makes his steps as quiet as he can when he doubles back from Mycroft’s bedroom with his bag.
The trousers and the boots are easy enough, though there’s a bit of a heel and that’s odd. Getting the long shirt over his head and tucked in properly, without any strange wrinkles is a little more difficult, but eventually he’s got the suspenders and the waistcoat and its eleven dozen buttons and the jacket managed. And then it’s just him and the cravat.
He cues up the little video he’d taken on his phone at the shop where he’d hired the whole costume. And it doesn’t feel like any costume he’s ever worn—it feels like proper clothing, solid, well-made, and it isn’t as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. He tries to focus on that as he winds the blue silk around his throat carefully, following the woman’s instructions. It takes two tries to get it right, but when it’s done, when it’s secured with the pin, he barely recognizes himself. He walks back to the den carefully, hoping Mycroft doesn’t turn around at the sound the boots make on the floor, and when he glances into the room, Mycroft is moving slowly through some of the production stills in the special features. Lestrade cranes his neck to be able to see around the arm of the sofa, and Mycroft’s left palm presses between his legs.
And while he’d really like continuing to watch that particular show, he didn’t spend an afternoon getting groped by a very friendly costumer to stand in the hallway.
When he steps into the room, Mycroft’s left hand is back on his thigh and he’s taking the screen back to the film’s main menu.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He pauses at the edge of the sofa as Mycroft turns his head guiltily toward him. And Mycroft simply stares for a moment, and the expression on his face—Lestrade feels the heat pooling in his groin.
Eventually, Mycroft stands, takes a step closer, and he circles him, not touching, not speaking. Only looking. Lestrade feels his own throat tighten, and he has to bite his lip to keep from reaching for him. But this is for Mycroft—however he wants to enjoy it, he may.
A few times, too, Mycroft nearly touches—his hand following the shape of his shoulder, but an inch from the fabric. When he gives in, he still doesn’t put his hands on the fabric. He catches the tips of Lestrade’s fingers, pulls him back toward the sofa, and he sits, positions Lestrade between his knees. He holds out Lestrade’s hands, palms tipped back so he can see his wrists, his shirt-cuffs, the blue spinel cufflinks. Mycroft looks from the deep blue stone to the silk around his neck, and his tongue flickers across his bottom lip.
“Oh, Gregory,” he says. And finally Mycroft touches him, properly, puts his hands on the outside of his hips. Lestrade holds the sides of his jacket open a little, so Mycroft can see the hem of the waistcoat, the horn buttons. And Mycroft glances up at him, his eyes all heat and his grin all mischief. Lestrade’s stomach goes tight and fluttery and it doesn’t matter what it cost or how warm all of these layers are or how awkward he felt even walking into that shop: this has already been worth it.
Mycroft’s hands slide down his thighs, over his knees, and skim the tops of his boots. They’re real leather, and they smell good, and Mycroft strokes the smooth leather for a moment before his hands travel back up Lestrade’s legs, up and over the waistcoat. Without unseating his jacket, without being able to see what he’s doing, Mycroft’s fingertips slide from the brown cloth to the thin linen shirt beneath, and Mycroft’s eyes drift shut.
Then the jacket comes off under Mycroft’s hands, and then he’s pulling one of Lestrade’s hands onto his own shoulder as Mycroft eases the boots off. Then he cups Lestrade’s stockinged foot, bends, kisses the top of it. He clutches at Mycroft’s shoulder, the iridescent back of his waistcoat, and laughs a little.
“I’m not as flexible as you are,” he says.
Mycroft holds his foot a little longer before he puts it down, takes his other boot. His fingers skim up the seams of the trousers, and then his fingers touch the lowest of the buttons. He looks up at Lestrade as he opens them, slowly. Lestrade doesn’t know how he’s going to survive this, as patient as Mycroft is.
Eventually, though, the buttons are all undone, and Mycroft slips the brown fabric away, and then he turns his attention to the cravat. He touches the soft material, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, before he undoes the pin, pulls it safely away. He puts it on the coffee table, and the blue silk falls free, and Mycroft nuzzles against the material, pulls him in even closer as he slips the braces down his shoulders.
When Lestrade would take out the cufflinks, pull off the shirt, Mycroft catches his hands, stays him. He just kisses his wrists, slides the trousers down and off. There aren’t any pants; he was told they weren’t authentic. The long linen shirt nearly reaches his knees, and when he looks down, it seems ridiculous, particularly with the jut of his prick there. But Mycroft leans in, presses his forehead to Lestrade’s stomach before he slides the tail of his shirt up over his thighs, over his prick, up to his stomach. The delicate slide nearly tickles, frustratingly light.
Without warning, Mycroft leans in, takes his prick in his mouth, sucks him hard and fast and nearly viciously, one hand knotting the shirt at his back to keep it out of the way. Lestrade rubs one hand through Mycroft’s hair, feels the soft, fine strands between his fingers, lets his hand come to rest lightly on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“Mycroft,” he pants as Mycroft tugs him a little closer, as Mycroft’s tongue flattens along the underside of his prick. Mycroft’s fingertips flex more in the linen, and his other hand scratches down the back of Lestrade’s thigh. “I—yes.”
When Mycroft swallows, he pulls Lestrade into his lap, and they kiss there, the shirt pooled around his thighs, and Lestrade reaches between them to rub Mycroft’s prick through the cloth of his trousers. Mycroft bites back a hiss, and their hands together open Mycroft’s belt and flies as quickly as they can.
Lestrade reaches around him, between the sofa cushions, comes up with the small tube of lubricant they’d put there the last time they’d watched football together. “Here,” he says, and he can’t finish because he has to kiss him again, has to bite at his lip and his neck before Lestrade moves over, kneels on the sofa, braces himself on the sofa’s arm. Mycroft kneels behind him, and then there’s a cool slickness between his thighs. Mycroft’s fingertips slip smoothly against his balls, the sensitive spot behind, and Lestrade moans. When Mycroft’s prick slides between his legs, even just that much, all heat and velvet, he can’t help but sigh, press back against him more as Mycroft’s hips rock against his arse.
Mycroft pushes the shirt up again, over his back, and he kisses, licks the knots of his spine. Lestrade arches, Mycroft’s teeth scraping across the bottom of his shoulderblade, and then Mycroft pulls him in tighter, his forearm a bar around his ribs, as he spends himself between Lestrade’s thighs, the last few strokes frantic and messy and perfect.
They collapse together against the arm of the couch, both of Mycroft’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Mycroft’s breath is ragged against the back of his ear, and Mycroft presses kiss after kiss to the back of his neck until Lestrade cannot help but laugh, shrug away the tickle.
“You liked that,” he says, taking one of Mycroft’s fingers and kissing the tip. He can feel Mycroft swallow hard behind him.
“Yes. I did.” He sighs contentedly. “Thank you,” he says, and he peeks over his shoulder at Lestrade’s face.
Before he can say anything else, Lestrade rolls over to face him. Mycroft’s still fully dressed, just a little undone, and he’s a mess. It’s…really good. He hasn’t lost either of the cufflinks yet, too, and he puts his hand on Mycroft’s cheek, the white linen and the blue stone against the high colour in his cheek, and Mycroft turns his head to kiss his palm.
“I heard,” Lestrade says, “that there’s a six-hour version of the same story.” He slides his hand back, lets his thumb drift along Mycroft’s ear. “Do you have that one?”
Mycroft’s eyes close as he nods, and he pulls Lestrade in, tangles their legs together, ignores his own clothes. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”