Work Text:
First dates are a wonderful thing; neither party is prepared, not really, and the levels of awkwardness that float above each potential lover is unmissable. It wasn’t any different for Greg and Mycroft, and it seemed that being used to one another in a professional sense didn’t make it any easier to be intimate in a public place. Despite Greg’s efforts to keep things personal, his mind kept reverting back to what he was used to and bringing the conversation around to the easy subjects of Sherlock and work. To his surprise, it was Mycroft who eventually called time on the idle chat and brought the important stuff into the foreground.
“Gregory,” Mycroft cut across his nervous chatter. “Delighted as I am that Sherlock hasn’t got you into trouble in two weeks, I’m really not interested. We could have discussed my brother’s shortcomings in your office or mine. Did you really have Sherlock in mind when you booked the table here and asked me to join you for dinner?”
Greg’s cheeks flushed pink, visible even in the low lighting of the quiet restaurant, and he smiled shyly, mopping at his mouth delicately with the napkin that had been resting on his left thigh. “Of course not.” He reassured him. “I suppose I’m just a bit...nervous.”
“You and I have known one another for four years now, is there really any need for either of us to feel like we’re school children?” Mycroft asked though he couldn’t lie about feeling similarly awkward. He lifted his wine glass and sipped at the deep purple liquid. Greg smiled at him and mirrored his movements, sipping at his own glass of wine. “Why don’t we use this opportunity to ask one another questions without prying ears? Is that not the purpose of a dinner reservation, to get to know the person you’re with?”
Putting down his glass, Greg nodded his head. “Alright,” He smiled widely. “Why don’t you go first? I’m an open book.”
Nursing his glass in both hands, his elbows supporting him against the table where he leant forward over his half-eaten plate of leek linguine. “No holds barred?”
Greg swept his large right hand in front of him, “None at all,” He promised, crossing his index finger above his heart cheesily. “You ask, I answer honestly.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows as his mind ticked over the hundreds of potential subjects he longed to broach with him; he wanted to know all he could and was willing to ask as many questions and go on as many dates as it took to ensure he learned it all. He glanced around him, watching the couples around them laughing and eating, sharing food from their plates and smiling with loving eyes at one another. He looked back at Greg, liking the angles that the shadows from the low lights cast across his face, and took another sip from his glass. “How many first dates have you had that went past just dates?”
Greg pursed his lips, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s without a blink, and inhaled a quiet breath. “Three.” He said, nodding his head. “The first was with a girl I met at college, the second was with Angie, who became my wife. And one since, a guy I met at work in my first month here in London. It lasted a year with him.”
Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he was impressed at the low number, or considered that it was only low because of the manner in which he had asked the question. He decided to assume that Greg just wasn’t the kind of man to take people out without real feeling, and that made him feel secure. He was even less involved with other people and he knew that, if the question was reflected back at him, he’d present the man with an even shorter list.
“You and Angie had children, yes?” Mycroft asked, setting down his glass, and clasped his fingers together in front of his face. He was putting up a wall, albeit a slightly chain-linked fence style one. He was guarded, but trying not to be.
Greg nodded his head and smiled, “Two girls - Lauren and Jodie. We rarely see one another now, but I talk to them both most nights. Lauren is seventeen now, Jodie is fourteen.” Mycroft could see he was proud of his children and it endeared him to him that little bit more.
“When did your mind change?” Mycroft asked, then wondered if he had even worded the question right. “That is to say, did you and your wife divorce because of your...different feelings?”
Greg licked his lips, exhaled slowly like a sigh. “I’d never really been sure what I wanted, but I think it’s fair to say that Angie and I didn’t work because my heart was never truly in it. I loved her, perhaps I always will - she’s the mother of my children - but I don’t think it would ever have lasted any longer than it did because, well,” he shrugged, “Well, because of this - because this is what makes me happy.” He smiled a little. “You’re not put off that I have children?”
“Why should I be?” Mycroft responded quickly. “We are neither of us young men; of course, there is a life before the one we have now.”
Greg smiled. “Good.”
“How many more can I ask?” Mycroft enquired, lightening his voice.
“As many as you need to,” Greg said quietly. That response made Mycroft frown, wondering if he were perhaps pushing too hard against Greg’s pulse points or maybe prying into areas he really had no right to pry into.
“If this is making you uncomfortable,” Mycroft began, shifting his position as he spoke, “We can return to talking about my brother.”
Greg reached out his hand across the table and touched Mycroft’s arm. “I’m not uncomfortable. I told you, I’m an open book.” He sat back again. “Besides, talking about your brother was killing the mood.”
Mycroft looked down at his plate, hiding a small smile. “He has that effect.”
Greg reached for his wine glass, “How about I ask you a question?”
Mycroft looked up at him and drew down his arms. “Yes, of course.” He nodded, “Indulge your whim.”
Greg shifted in his seat, moving his bottom back to allow him to lean forwards against the table, bringing him closer to Mycroft if only by an inch or two. He pushed his plate forward, giving himself more space, and took a sip from his glass. He licked his lips as he drew the glass away. “So, I can read a few things about you off the bat. The way you move, your manner and vernacular. You scream public school and you walk like you’ve got the Queen at your feet. I want to know how true it is.” Greg kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s, half expecting to see him harden his face and become affronted. He didn’t.
“My parents were academics; particularly my mother, who was a well-schooled woman with a personality that one felt drawn to. She gave up her mathematical career in favour of becoming a mother, but my father continued to teach English and History at school and universities. We were afforded things others were not, and that included boarding school.” Mycroft answered and Greg was surprised at his honesty, but felt cheated out of real emotion. “Sherlock and I were raised to use our brains and it has brought us both great pleasure as well as making us stand out like the Earl of Rochester when the syphilis won out.”
Greg laughed, his shoulders rocking and his teeth on show. He looked happy, appealing, and Mycroft smiled in return. When Greg’s laughter softened, Mycroft noticed his face turn slightly sad and it worried him. Had he lost him?
“You said was,” Greg tilted his head slightly. “You said, your mother was a well-schooled woman.” He shook his head in slight shock. “You and your brother never mentioned before that she’d passed away.” Mycroft swallowed and Greg could see that true openness, should he choose to remain that way, was about to meet him head on.
“Almost a year ago.” Mycroft replied, reaching for his wine.
Greg’s face softened sadly and his eyes widened, focused sympathetically on Mycroft. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”
Mycroft shook his head, “All lives end, Gregory.” He waved his hand and Greg felt sure the bonding was over. “Sentiment, though unavoidable, is soul-destroying.”
“But she was your mother.” Greg’s voice remained soft, fatherly, almost, and Mycroft was warmed by his genuine concern.
“It was not the first life we’ve lost within our family.” Mycroft set down his glass. “One learns to grieve and move forward without creating a stage production about it.” He watched Greg frown. “I’m not heartless.” He added, and Greg’s eyebrows raised immediately.
“I know that.” Greg assured him.
Mycroft stiffened his chin, “I just know that the placing of value of your own life’s worth in the lives of others leaves you without strength should that value be taken away.” He blinked slowly. “I fear I may have lost you with my brutal honesty, Gregory.”
Greg shook his head quickly. “No.”
“I wouldn’t feel any great offence if you decided that our professional relationship required stabilising over the pursuit…” Mycroft stopped talking as he watched Greg stand. He feared the man was walking out, truly turned off by his obvious cold heart. He looked up, watching Greg’s face as he pushed his chair away from him.
Greg moved around the table and stood at Mycroft’s side. His eyebrows were quirked in the centre, making his wide eyes look imploring and child-like as he reached out his hand and captured the sides of Mycroft’s face. He bent at the waist and pressed his lips against Mycroft’s softly before slowly straightening up and losing his hands from the man’s jaw.
Mycroft blinked robotically, glancing around him at the few occupied tables in fear that they had caused a spectacle. Nobody was watching, nobody cared. He licked his lips and took a sobering breath as he watched Greg return to his seat.
“How’s that for an answer to any questions you might have?” Greg asked, smiling along the right side of his mouth, his brown eyes glossy in the light.
Mycroft swallowed and began to smile, his mouth quirking slightly as he tried to fight it off before he let the smile break, stretching his cheeks and brightening his eyes. “Perfectly sound response.” He said, his voice pitching mid-sentence.
Greg’s eyes crinkled in the corners as his smile grew. “So I get a second date, then?”
Mycroft nodded, beginning to sober himself. “Yes, of course.”