This will be my husband’s and mine’s “code”.
"I’m going upstairs. Mr. Reese we have a new number."
Bond sat on the bench and settled down to wait. But his body was still alert and tense, as he was trained to do. He was not so far long in the tooth as to forget all training.
Unexpectedly, a lithe young thing, sat, nay, alighted beside him, the promise of a smooth and flexible body undiminished even under the oversized coat, suggestively angled toward him. Long lashes and delicious eyes hiding behind huge, thick spectacles. And masses of curly hair, hair he would love to slide his long fingers in, then tug so he could kiss the Greek head the tendrils were framing.
Bond shifted in his seat.
“This makes me feel a bit melancholy,” he pined and it took Bond a second to realize he was referring to the painting. However with the quick mind that served him well in the field, he quickly recovered and was already framing a reply designed to pull this lovely thing into his bed.
However his next words were a cold shower aimed directly at his lap. “Grand old warship being ignonimously hauled away for scrap.” There was no mistaking the barb.
“The inevitability of time, don’t you think?” The smartass turned those deep dark pools to his, and let him glance the trace of a dimple. So it was only to pique his interest. Bond was already halfway to forgiving him.
“What do you see?” he asked impishly. Bond inwardly whimpered, and wondered briefly how the museum would react if he took the young devil then and there.
But he was recalled to his sense of duty. “Bloody big ship,” he replied curtly. “Excuse me.” He would have to regrettably let him go.
“Double o seven,” the lovely young thing said quickly before he could get away. Hope blossomed just as quickly and painfully in Bond’s chest. They would see each other often then.
“I’m your new quartermaster.”
Bond groaned in his head. He could imagine the old Q slapping his thigh and making jokes at his expense. “Serves you right, double o seven,” he would cackle.
“You must be joking.”
“Why? Is it because I’m not wearing a lab coat?” Unbidden, he pictured this lithe body in a lab coat, and nothing else.
“Because you still have spots.” He didn’t. He was flawless. But it was the best he could do at short notice to rein in the rampaging lust coursing through him.
The new quartermaster smirked, knowing exactly why Bond threw that at him. “My complexion is hardly relevant.”
“But your competence is.”
“Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”
“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.” Bond squirmed, if they were like this now, he could only imagine how they would be in bed, when their tongues would slide and clash for real.
“Word has it I could do more damage with my laptop, sitting in my pyjamas, before I have my first cup of O’gray than you could do in the field in a year.”
The young devil was deliberately taunting him with images of him in his pyjamas.
“So why do you need me?” Damn it, the tests have sapped him of his confidence, made him painfully aware that he should be put to pasture by now.
“Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.” But by his look Bond knew that Q would just love to pull his trigger.
“Or not pulled,” he countered suggestively. “It’s hard to know which —- in your pyjamas.” He lingered on those words deliberately and looked at this bewitching young thing unwaveringly, so he would not mistake the meaning.
“Q,” Bond couldn’t have announced their proposed level of intimacy in his tone more clearly save for groping the other then and there.
The dimple was fully visible now. “Double o seven,” he said again, shaking the other’s hand, proposal accepted. His skin was as soft as he imagined it, as their palms slid against each other, foreshadowing the clasping and straining to come.
Q went on to detail the equipment he was giving to Bond, and his spy brain automatically recorded it, knowing he would later replay Q’s caressing words in the darkness of his hotel room, pretending he was beside him whispering to his ear.
For the next few moments they were all business but when Q stood up to go he had to turn back and say, “Good luck out there in the field.”
So he did care.
“And please return all the equipment in one piece.”
Bond grinned and couldn’t help but drop his gaze to that delightful derriere as it sashayed out of the floor.
Mycroft just received a troubling communique. It wasn’t altogether surprising, but it was a scenario that he had only given a less than 1% probability of happening. Sometimes he did wonder if the enemy had a team of mind readers working for them. He ran a tight ship, the lines of communication were air tight.
But Mycroft was never one for wasting his time on fancies, unless they were conclusively proven. He ran different counter-scenarios for an hour, resolutely withdrawing his hand from the whiskey bottle. The matter was not that grave, and he would have to spend another hour on that infernal running machine to remove its effects from his belly.
Eventually he did come up with a solution. Not so much of a solution than a temporary remedy.
“It will have to do. For now,” he whispered to the room, just his way of sealing it in his mind.
Without realizing it was four pm, he got up from his chair and strayed to the window. As always he was reminded to speak to Anthea to remove that curtain with the ridiculous shade of lavender, and as always he would forget to do so.
He took cursory note of the usual passerbys. There’s Mrs. Landsdowne shuffling from her 3:00 doctor’s appointment, looking as high as a kite from her prescription. The gaggle of joggers from the college, noisier ribbing, is it past their A-levels already? The bike messenger, heavier load, ah yes, tax season.
Then at the far corner, there was Greg. Dear, dear Greg, having his usual four pm fish and chips. He liked ketchup, Mycroft shuddered, detestable but endearing. The wind was ruffling his already disheveled hair. He looked drowsy but his brow was clear. If it were furrowed Mycroft would immediately reach in his jacket pocket for his phone and call Sherlock, and instruct him to be subtle about giving Lestrade clues. They knew that Lestrade did like to solve cases on his own, and would only approach Sherlock if it were truly, truly a fantastic nut to crack. But Mycroft could not stand to see that brow furrowed.
“I see. Ready to admit you fancy him?” Sherlock had tried teasing once.
“Not at all, Sherlock,” he countered in a well-rehearsed even tone. “I am merely doing my public duty. And it is quite irritating to see a member of our country’s police vex over such a simple problem.”
Greg was licking his fingers (another disgusting yet adorable trait), wiped them with a napkin and tossed the lot to the rubbish before turning his back to return to the police station with a casual step, another good sign.
“Till tomorrow, Love,” Mycroft whispered, before turning too and going back to work.
Somebody tell me the resemblance is obvious. Has it been spoofed to POI?
Fuck. Greg regretted saying it right away, but even then he couldn’t make himself break their locked gaze.
But neither did Mycroft. His breathing was heavier, and he had colour in his cheeks, and Jesus christ did Greg need to find a way to break this tension before something…happened. He wasn’t feeling enough in his right mind to handle whatever the hell was going on here.
Could someone tell me what’s going on in this picture? My Japanese is non-existent, and I’m eaten up by curiosity.
Wakakaeri Greg vol 2. (Greg turned young)
John: (Greg, Did you make the girls cry back then? (and this is your payback) (You have to tell me all about it next time.)
Sherlock: (the external features, the personality is Lestrade but… )
Greg: (too close, too close)
I havent been up to date, but that last thing with them walking together, are the writers building up Root as a Grace replacement?