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The Redhanded League

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Greg's nose perked up at the unmistakable smell of fried chicken. God, he really regretted not stopping for lunch. But he'd been focused on carving a half hour out of his day to visit Mycroft. They'd only been dating for six weeks and were at that stage where they'd go to any lengths to spend time together. If he'd been able to spare the time he would have picked something up for them to share. Have an impromptu picnic at Mycroft's ridiculously large desk. Hold hands over the egg salad. Next time.

Anthea wasn't at her post and Greg glanced at the box on her desk. The discreet light glowed green. Good, Mycroft was available. Tapping on the door, Greg reached for the handle, ear tuned for the expected, "Come in." Hearing it, Greg opened the door, "Hey, Mycroft--"

The other man looked up, startled, as a guilty look passed over his face. "Er, Greg..." Years of being a cop--and being cheated on--made the hairs on Greg's neck stand upright.

"Hey," he said slowly, "Thought I'd surprise you." 

"You have," Mycroft assured him, standing. He cast a brief glance down at something near his feet before turning a bright smile at Greg, "Why don't we go for a walk? It's so stuffy in here."

"Smells like chicken in here," Greg said, looking closely at Mycroft's face. Was there a greasy shine on his lips? "Surprised anyone in these hallowed halls eats anything so plebeian."

Mycroft raised a hand toward his mouth, caught the keen look Greg had directed at him, and lowered his hand to his blotter. "Ah, yes...no doubt one of the interns." 

Greg drifted closer, "Hmm, yeah, no doubt."

Mycroft shifted, smile a bit forced, "I'll speak to them about using the break-room for their meals."

"You do that," Greg agreed, planting both hands on the desk and leaning over. Mycroft leaned toward him, expecting a kiss. He yelped in surprise when Greg ducked to peer over the edge of the far side of the desk. Mycroft tried to kick his waste basket into the foot well, but wasn't quick enough. "Ah ha!" Greg said, pouncing on a crumb of golden-fried breading nestled in the fold of Mycroft's tie. "KFC!"

Mycroft went pink, "It's--"

"If you tell me it's Anthea's, I'm breaking up with you," Greg threatened, biting back a smirk.

Mycroft drew himself up with dignity, "It is mine." He was pale, but composed, "I ate the chicken." Quietly he awaited the verdict. 

Greg would have laughed--the poor fellow looked as if he was standing before a firing squad--but there was an air of distress about Mycroft that he couldn't find funny. They both had trouble trusting, both from past hurts and from the practical aspects of their jobs, and Mycroft knew how very deeply a lie would have upset him. But this wasn't anything serious. In fact, Greg couldn't quite understand why Mycroft had been trying to cover it up to begin with. "Wish you'd saved me some," Greg said, popping the crumb of breading into his mouth and sighed wistfully down at the betraying packaging in the waste basket. "I missed lunch."

"I can call for something to be delivered--"

Greg leaned over the desk, this time intending a real kiss, and Mycroft met him with palpable relief. "No time," Greg murmured, bringing a hand up to stroke Mycroft's cheek. "Gotta head out in ten minutes. Just popped in to kiss you silly." He smiled against Mycroft's soft lips, "'f you've got time..."

"I do believe I can pencil ten minutes in for silliness," Mycroft said silkily, hauling him closer. 

******

They didn't get to see each other again for most of the week, which wasn't unusual, given how busy they both were. There were texts aplenty, however, and a few phone calls. Friday evening Greg sent Mycroft a hopeful selfie of himself in comfy clothes, wrapped up like a burrito on his sofa. Some company would be nice... he'd written, and left it at that. When his buzzer sounded a little after seven, he was deep in a crappy paperback mystery, resigned to heating up a frozen curry and eating alone. His spirits perked at the sound of Mycroft's voice on the intercom and he buzzed him in with out delay. Greg had the door open and was waiting with a big grin when Mycroft mounted the stairs and came into view. His grin widened when he spied the familiar bag he was carrying.

Mycroft strolled toward him, eyes bright, "I've no pressing matters to attend to until Monday morning--what is it the kids say? Netflix and chill?"

"Are you courting me with fried chicken, Mycroft?"

"Do you object?" Mycroft brushed past him, fumbling to toe off his shoes. He was dressed for relaxing in cords and a jumper.

"Hell no!" Greg locked the door and put his arms around Mycroft from behind. "C'mere, sexy..."

"My, my, we are eager," Mycroft laughed, turning his head back to kiss Greg. "Missed me, did you? I must thank the PM for keeping me busy this week."

"I was talking to the chicken." 

"Beast," Mycroft chided, swinging the bag out of Greg's reach.

"Gimme," Greg made grabby hands at the bag.

"How quickly your lust for me fades when food is involved."

"But it's chicken," Greg said plaintively.

"I see how it is," Mycroft said airily, "Six or seven quick ones and it's off with the boys."

"Did you just quote Young Frankenstein to me?" Greg asked, delighted.

"I told you I was paying attention," Mycroft smiled, setting down the bag and pulling Greg close. "Now, let us eat an obscene amount of fried chicken and watch another silly film." 

"Pencilled me in again, did you?" Greg murmured, grazing Mycroft's throat with his lips. He smiled at the shiver it earned him.

"I do like to be accommodating," Mycroft sighed, raking his fingers up into Greg's hair.

"Good, then you'll let me have all the dark meat!" Greg snatched up the bag and jumped onto the couch, cackling.

"Vile betrayer!" Mycroft yelped, diving after him, face flushed, eyes happy. Greg clutched the bag to him, trying to fend Mycroft off with his feet, giggling madly. A truly undignified tussle ensued, leaving them both rumpled, panting and shaking with laughter. "What have you reduced me to?" Mycroft asked, combing his fingers through Greg's hair where his head lay on Mycroft's heaving belly.

Greg raised his head and grinned at him, "Gotta work off those calories somehow."

Mycroft gleamed, "I can think of several highly energetic activities should you be so inclined, Inspector."

Greg crawled up him, nuzzling Mycroft's nose, "I'll take you up on that--after the chicken."

"As long as I come somewhere on that list," Mycroft sighed, martyred, eyes amused. 

Greg smiled with promise, "Oh, you'll come alright, darlin,' I guarantee it."