bluebellofbakerstreet:
green-violin-bow:
bluebellofbakerstreet:
“Got a Light?”
In which an up-and-coming young member of the British Government encounters Punk!Greg.
@muerame, @green-violin-bow, @glenmoresparks, @splix71, @punklock and special thanks to the nice nonny who made the suggestion.
HELP ME. OMG I’M NOT OKAY. @bluebellofbakerstreet this is…ahashdhjdjdlakzsk
When it’s not 3:30am I’m going to write a ficlet to go with this
Oooh! That would be fabulous!
I LIED. I QUITE LITERALLY COULDN’T SLEEP BECAUSE YOUR ART IS SO AMAZING. OMFG.
*
The air is heavy with the soft, dusky warmth of a summer night in London. Mycroft walks, for something to do; Sherlock is missing, has evaded all attempts to locate him for more than three days. Mycroft has been worrying, alone in his office, for hours.
“Got a light?” the voice, slightly rough and with a strong Estuary accent, startles him. Mycroft freezes, looking up.
The man’s deep brown eyes catch his attention first; soft and wide, they are framed by luxuriant eyelashes. His mouth tips in an irreverent, rebellious smile; his jawline is… Mycroft realises he’s just staring at the very unsuitable young man. Alongside the beauty of his appearance goes a choice of dress that would usually make Mycroft shudder. He tries to ignore the fact that, on this occasion, the ripped jeans are simply making him want to touch the expanse of knee pushing through the ruined fabric.
His first coherent thought is no, I have not, but then he realises that he actually – has. Fingers clumsy, he steps forward and flicks the lighter into life; the man leans in, drawing his cigarette alight with a practiced pull of air.
“Not been smoking long?” he asks, the corner of his mouth turning up. He shields the flame with his left hand, soft skin brushing the heel of Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft is uncomfortably aware that, usually, he would do anything to avoid skin-to-skin contact with a man who chooses to dress like this.
“Are these the searching questions you seek to ask of authority?” he asks, eyes dipping to the man’s t-shirt. He hears how snide he sounds as he speaks.
He’s surprised to hear a grin in the man’s voice. Mycroft glances up and finds himself disarmed by the power of a rakish smile that makes something shake itself almost audibly loose inside Mycroft’s chest.
“Are you authority?” grins the man.
Mycroft looks down at the toes of his carefully-cleaned, shiny shoes. He has a horrible feeling he might be blushing. “What makes you say that I am new to smoking?” he deflects, coldly.
“Way you hold the lighter. You hesitated when I asked. Might be because you just don’t want to talk to someone like me, but then why come closer instead of just throwing it?” the man puts his head on one side and smiles again. “Or maybe you just didn’t trust I’d throw it back.”
There’s a gentleness to his voice that relaxes Mycroft, somehow. The man sits back, resting against the statue, and blows out a stream of smoke through softly-pouting lips.
“You have the instincts of a detective.” Mycroft snaps his lighter closed and puts it back into the inner pocket of his jacket.
The man’s lips twist in contempt. “With what that lot do to us? Not bloody likely.”
Mycroft’s gaze flicks down. Lying next to the man is a worn, battered leather jacket. Pinned to the lapel is a faded, scratched enamel badge: a pink triangle on a black background.
He’s gay. Something tightens in Mycroft’s chest. He blinks, looking down at the floor.
“So then, Authority,” says the man, taking a drag on his cigarette. “What are you? Not police, are you.” It’s not really a question.
Mycroft glances up, and finds himself caught in the dark brown gaze. “Not police,” he agrees. “I work for – the government. Nothing – nothing important.”
The man grins. “Council, yeah? Arranging bin collections or something?” His eyes rake Mycroft from head to toe. “Seems about right, mm?”
Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Thank you very much,” he says, primly, but he’s having to fight off a smile. The man’s hairstyle is terrifying. I wonder what it looks like soft, ungelled, spilled across a pillow –
He winces at his own thoughts and looks quickly away. “I should… Goodnight,” he says, abruptly, turning to go.
There’s a note of urgency in the man’s voice, suddenly, that makes him sound much younger. “Hang on.” He’s scrabbling in his jacket; he draws out a pen and a piece of paper – a receipt, notes Mycroft’s brain automatically. The man transfers his cigarette to his left hand so he can scribble hurriedly on the back of the receipt. He folds it up and pushes it into Mycroft’s hand. “Call me,” he says, and he sounds completely sincere.
Mycroft blinks and clears his throat. He can feel himself definitely – damn – blushing now. He nods, awkwardly, once, and turns away.
At a safe distance, he unfolds the note. There’s a London phone number, and underneath:
Greg. My other t-shirt says ‘Fuck Authority’. x
Beltainefaerie's Flights of Fancy 