Mycroft regrets for a moment that he is doing this rather unpleasant task face-to-face instead of via the usual skyping or late-night emails. But his working bond with Nick needs to remain strong, even if he is determined to end their physical relationship, so best to talk it through in a civilized manner.
In the past, with other lovers, Mycroft has more often than not been on the receiving end of these sorts of conversations, so he would like to make this one as painless as possible. Unless of course, there is an indication that Nick is amenable to some pain—which he usually is. In that case, Mycroft will do all in his power to “bring the motherfucking pain,” as Nick likes to say with that utterly devastating smile.
For old times sake, if Nick is very, very good, Mycroft will use the custom-made, black leather and pewter restraints one last time and penetrate his partner with some of their favorite toys until Nick has had quite enough. Mycroft doublechecks the latest safeword Nick emailed a few weeks ago. Ah yes: risotto. He recalls one of their most recent dates—and the earthy flavors of the mushroom risotto Nick prepared.
Mycroft pulls out his monogrammed handkerchief to dab at the corners of his mouth, unexpectedly overflowing with saliva. He’s not sure whether it’s the thought of Director Fury straining against the buckles and straps or the risotto. Probably both.
Food and sex are so delightfully intertwined in this relationship, and this is one of the things Mycroft will miss most. He hopes Nick will appreciate that he has arranged for their meeting to take place over afternoon tea. The man takes a primal, sensual pleasure in eating tiny, spongy sandwiches and buttery pastries, and this is a trait Mycroft simply adores.
Mycroft’s flight from London arrived a bit early, so he’ll have to wait a few minutes. He settles into a quiet corner table at the Metropolitan Museum’s café, then places his umbrella and small satchel of equipment against the nearby wall. (He doesn’t want to presume, but break-up sex is quite common, he’s learned on the Internet. Good to be prepared.) He orders a full tea with extra watercress sandwiches and blackberry tartlets, which the waitress says are sinfully delicious and in season now.
Mycroft closes his eyes and allows one sentimental image to dance across his mind. His sense memories of Nick will always include the taste of sticky, tangy blackberry preserves on his lips. Breakfasts of toast and preserves the first time they went away for a weekend together. Area 51 might not be everyone’s idea of the perfect trysting spot, but dear Lord, they did enjoy themselves. The feel of Nick’s solid, powerful torso beneath him in the desert sand, full moon and a vast New Mexico sky above. Endless caverns of top secret government documents and the remains of alien spaceships far below. Nick’s breath catching each time another cactus spine pierced his skin. Good times. Such good times.
They’ve had a fine run, Mycroft thinks, and neither of them ever thought it would last forever. Perhaps Fury won’t even be upset. They’re too much alike and too consumed by their work. Mycroft is ever grateful to Nick for the help he’s provided to the Service and to him personally. They’d never have got Sherlock out of the country or protected him from Moran’s post-Moriarty plots if hadn’t been for SHIELD’s agents and connections. And the way Romanov and Barton prevented the Olympics bombing was sheer genius.
There are other things to be grateful for, of course. Nick’s leather fetish opened up a thrilling new world, didn’t it? Mycroft wonders if his new crush will be amenable to flogging. He’s sure he can talk the D.I. into trying the wrist and ankle cuffs. But he has no intention of covering that beautiful face with a mask. Honestly, Mycroft never understood why the Director was so enamored of masks and capes. Didn’t he get enough of that at work? In truth, Mycroft prefers comfort—silk and fur—not all that metal and cowhide. Still, he was happy to oblige his partner. And Nick was so willing to comply with any of Mycroft’s orders, so eager to comply, that Mycroft really couldn’t complain about the aesthetics of the gags and collars, could he? That would be ungentlemanly.
“Mycroft fucking Holmes, you beautiful limey bastard! You look good enough to eat! How the hell are you?!” And suddenly the handsome, black-clad mountain of a man is before him, arms open and insisting on a crushing embrace. Mycroft supposes he should feel honored. The number of people Nick Fury has hugged in his life could be counted on one hand, or so he’s been told. He submits to the rib-bruising embrace and then waves at a chair.
“I’m well—very well, Nick. Please sit down.”
Fury leans over the table towards Mycroft. “So I can tell you came here with either a favor to ask or some bad news. Or else you wouldn’t have sprung for the extra sandwiches.” He picks up a handful of sandwiches and pops them in his mouth. “Why don’t you just spill it now, and we can get on with our tea. Do you need SHIELD to pull your flabby English ass out of some disaster or what? Tell me before I dig into this pile of scones that’s so fucking beautiful I want to marry it.”
Mycroft can’t help smiling, even as he feels the disapproving gazes of all the café patrons upon them. Although he is quite coarse, Mycroft does very much enjoy Nick’s way with words. “Yes. You’re right. No use postponing it. Nick, I’m afraid that I’ve met someone, and in the interest of pursuing that relationship, I feel I must end ours. I don’t think we should continue our sexual congress in the future.”
“Goddamn motherfucking hell, Holmes! Are you serious? That really is bad news. You sure this guy wouldn’t want to just join us? I mean, together I’m sure we could show him a good time.” Fury takes a mouthful of bread and jam and nods as Mycroft plays mother and pours the tea. Fury continues to talk as he chews.
“Who is he, anyway? You’re not going after Putin, again, are you? Because I can tell you from experience, you do not want to get caught in that man’s dungeon. You guys are too much alike, anyway—both fucking world-class doms. But he is so far in denial, and it's getting ugly. And he doesn’t know when to quit. Do I have to remind you how I lost this eye to that remote-controlled dildo? Fucking outdated, malfunctioning shitty Soviet technology—I can’t believe I . . . “
Mycroft wipes a hand across his face and asks quietly, but firmly, “Please, stop. How do you say it? TMI? I’ve put my infatuation with Putin behind me now, and my new object of affection is a rather ordinary man, with—I assume—rather ordinary tastes. You wouldn’t know him. But I find that I . . . I’m . . .” Mycroft stammers and looks down at the steam rising from his teacup.
“Oh hell, Holmes, don’t tell me you’re in love? Shit. Holy fucking . . . well, I guess that’s it then. If you find out he’s up for a threesome, you’ve got my number,” Fury winks and punches Mycroft lightly on the sleeve. Mycroft responds with a smile and then on impulse grinds the heel of his right shoe into the toe of Fury’s left boot. Hard. Just testing the waters.
Fury closes his good eye and sighs. Mycroft grinds his heel deeper until he sees Nick begin to wince and beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
Mycroft feels his own cock thickening and lengthening in his trousers. He is sure the same phenomenon is occurring on the other side of the table. The shiny trace of butter on Nick’s lower lip is proving really, just too too irresisible.
Fury opens his eye and looks at Mycroft. In need of reassurance that he and the limey bastard are on the same page.
Mycroft lets one hand slip down to unbutton his jacket and opens it ever so slightly to reveal that he is wearing the black leather waistcoat. The one Fury adores. The one he has learned to unbutton with his teeth. Fury lets out a needy, low groan. Then he casts his eyes down, obviously already desperate for Mycroft’s long, white fingers on his brown flesh.
Mycroft is glad he remembered to bring the collapsible tungsten handcuffs Tony offered to let them test.
Mycroft smiles. Reaching across the table, he strokes Nick’s hand, so pleased they’ll have a last afternoon together. So pleased. He slips a key card into Nicholas’s hand.
“I’ve booked the basement at the Plaza, as I know you enjoyed it last time. You’ll meet me there in thirty minutes.” He hands over the satchel of toys and straps and chains and scowls when Fury accidentally meets his gaze. “Just because this is the last time, doesn’t mean I’m going to be lax in my expectations, Nick. If you can’t maintain your discipline and respect, I’ll be forced to tell Crowley you’ve been misbehaving and then . . .”
“No sir, no . . . I understand. I’ll be good. I promise.”
Mycroft smiles again. He wanted it to be a surprise, but now he’s bursting to reveal it. As Fury rises awkwardly, trying to conceal his erection with the satchel, Mycroft takes his hand one more time.
“And as a special treat, Nick, I’ve asked Clinton and Blair to join us. Fortunately, neither of them is too busy right now.” Mycroft feels fingers clench around his and the sudden rapid thrumming of Fury’s pulse. “And they both want you to top, my dear.”
Fury is suppressing giggles as he races out the door. He glances back with a questioning quirk of his brow. "And Hillary?"
Mycroft shrugs. "She says she just wants to watch this time."
Nick sighs, and waves farewell.
Mycroft is delighted. This breaking up business isn’t so hard to do, as the songs all claim. He checks his pocketwatch. Just enough time for one more cup of tea.
He butters a slice of bread and dollops on a generous portion of peach preserves, making sure to leave traces at the corners of his mouth as he eats. As he recalls, peaches are Bill's favorite.