Chapter Text
It was always during the most intense meetings. The ones involving dreadful negotiations, teeth gritting and high flying diplomatic strategies over insignifiant trifle. Generally with low scale dictators just powerful enough to be a pain in the backside in term of international terrorism.
Dull, he could handle : multitasking was not a problem. That and an eidetic memory made the time well used no matter what.
Fumbling technocrats were somewhat entertaining. Observing the bumbling idiots was not his favorite pastime, but he could relax, playing the well rehearsed Ice Man act and watch them quiver.
High level negotiations, with cool-headed and professional alter egos were the most fulfilling. His brain power running at full capacity, his attention focused like a laser beam. Adrenaline. Control. Feeling alive and playing the most satisfying of games.
But those second rate tyrants ? They were the worst. Over sensitive, temperamental overgrown children wasting his time. Too much like his own brother.
And appart from siblings related ones, these situations were the rare ones when the stress could escalate. From mild annoyance, to irritation to cold murderous rage.
In Mycroft Holmes.
This particular specimen of nuisance had managed to send him to the seething with anger level in only two days. This second zone moron, a near crash when landing in this goddamned country resulting in a constantly painful shoulder and persistant migraine, his own brother in hospital after some criminal chasing antics and tea that was an insult to the name. A few more hours and the ice facade would start cracking.
Time for crisis management.
Mycroft interrupted the inane chatter his host was spewing.
“ Oh yes, this is indeed a most crucial subject. I have a file about it that I would like to consult. In a yellow folder, if I remember well. Would you happen to have it on hand, Anthea ?”
“ Of course, sir. In the briefcase.
– Well, if you would allow us half an hour, I could be of much more assistance after reviewing this document, Mister President.”
The greasy self-satisfied douche bag grazed everyone's ears with his high-pitched laugh.
“ Of course my friend. If the great Mycroft Holmes needs his notes, who am I to deny it ?
– Thank you for your graciousness. I will see you in half an hour.”
***
“Anthea” had been counting the minutes toward the coloured folder code.
She knew Mycroft's emotional and physical state, his addiction to excellent tea and his abhorrence of petty dictators.
And why did this moron insist on speaking English when the whole team could speak his language far better ? The accent alone was screaming murder, notwithstanding the lexical approximations.
She had been analyzing her boss's behavior during the course of the morning and had seen the tale tell signs. He was now like a caged lion, ready to pounce on the ignoramus. And he would have, if not for the slight detail of the hostages.
She smiled fondly, even if discreetly. Oh, how glorious it would have been ! She loved seeing this powerful man shred imbeciles to pieces without raising his voice. Sitting near him during meetings like that, she could practically feel his powerful aura radiating.
Now, Mycroft had used a lot of his self-control to stand up and calmly move to the door. « My friend » had been the last straw.
Michael, their bodyguard, got out first and opened the way to the large office they had been given a few doors further. Anthea was following Mycroft, shielded briefcase in hand.
Without a word, Michael got inside, glanced across the heavily ornate room and closed the velvet curtains.
Meanwhile, Anthea opened the briefcase on a side of the large desk. She retrieved a jammer from inside and switched it on to muffle their conversation while Michael took the scanner and checked the walls and furniture for hidden spying devices.
As she was opening a concealed part of the case, Mycroft was practically vibrating, pacing around the rug between the large couch and the desk. She pondered just a second before unfolding a fine microfiber towel and spreading it on the large desk.
Fortunately, Anthea was used to this level of tension in the tall man. She knew he had to release it no matter what.
And she was ready.
Truth be told, she had been looking ahead for it since the dork had asked if his police trainees from the academy could lead the MI6 special ops team when they would be retrieving the hostages.
When her boss had asked for the yellow folder, she had nearly moaned in relief.
Having detected no imminent danger, no concealed cameras or spy microphones, Michael nodded and headed to the door, ready to stand guard in the corridor.
Anthea had just finished arranging several small items, now precisely positioned in the briefcase for an easy access.
Mycroft nervously grabbed a small bottle and rubbed his hands with some clear gel while she lazily removed her high heels and carelessly pushed them under the desk. Her mouth was freed of lipstick, the tissue used for that instance neatly folded and discarded in a waterproof ziploc bag afterward.
The young woman was familiar with the concept of stress leading to fight or flight response. She knew that science had recently added the freeze response, which could really be helpful if you met a wild boar or some kinds of snake that can't see immobile preys.
But she doubted many scientist had studied stress response in politicians. So she felt privileged to know there was a fourth response :
Fuck.
Five seconds after the door was fully closed, Mycroft pounced.
Claimed her lips.
Kissed her like she was his oxygen.
Trapped her against the desk and ground his hips against hers.
Anthea welcomed the assault, having waited for it the whole morning. While the local imbecile was rambling and murdering Shakespeare's language, she had daydreamed in the invisible way Mycroft had taught her.
Remembering the time on the American ambassador's desk in Columbia, the time on the inner garden's fountain in Morocco, and her favorite one : against the wall in a Vatican meeting room.
For those kind of high tension meetings, she now knew better than to don underwear. After a few ripped knickers and tights shredded to pieces in eagerness, she had dropped the subject entirely. She now favoured a dark half-slip under a black skirt suit for a minimum of modesty and a maximum of accessibility.
Already Mycroft's hands had slipped against her thighs, pushing up her skirt. She loved the feel of his long fingers against her skin.
She exhaled loudly when he found her already wet for him. He whispered against her neck : “Always ready for me, my dear ? You're my personal miracle.”
He grabbed her under her thighs and sat her on the desk, just upon the strategically placed towel. She arranged her skirt higher, to be able to open her legs to welcome him against her core.
Deftly opening his fly while kissing her again, he took the condom she had grabbed from the briefcase and rolled it with ease, in spite of his multiple constricting layers of clothing. He asked in a breath :
“Yes ?”
Anthea nodded with a smile and crossed her ankles behind his back as he entered her slowly. His shoulders relaxed as soon as he settled in her warm tightness. Soon, she urged him closer with her thighs. That was his signal to grab her waist and start pounding harshly.
The only noises in the room were the crude sounds of flesh on flesh, choked moans and strangled grunts.
To anyone witnessing them, it would be obvious that they were chasing the quickest way toward release in a limited amount of time.
A few moments later, Mycroft came with a shuddering sight.
Breathing heavily, he rested his head on Anthea's shoulder, his arms sliding around her waist in a loose hug.
She brushed his hair and rubbed his back lightly while his heart rate slowed down. After a few seconds, he stood, calmer, and murmured in her neck : “Alright ?”
She nodded and smiled, then unclenched her ankles to free him.
With precise movements, he disposed of the condom in the ziplock bag and grabbed a wipe for a quick clean-up. He threw out the wipe in the plastic bag, then reajusted his clothing.
He then helped Anthea down the desk and cleansed her with a gentle touch, then discarded the wipe. He slid the half-slip down her legs, then her skirt, and smoothed the fabric. His hands always caring and patient.
His mind at ease.
Mycroft gingerly brought her right hand to his lips and kissed the ring there with reverence. He whispered :
“I'm sorry, my love.”
The young woman scolded him gently.
“No need, you know that.
– I...”
She put a finger on his lips.
“ Shh. Tonight. Now go and kick that baboon's ass. ”
He kissed her palm a last time before they worked in tandem to erase every trace of their activities. The unused condoms, lube and wipes went back into the hidden compartment, every object with potential DNA on it was carefully stored in the sealed plastic bag, towel included. The scanner and jammer were put away in the briefcase. They shared a small bottle of water. Then Anthea put her lipstick back on with a pocket mirror.
Lastly, they looked at each other, arranging each stray hair, smoothing down every crease, acting like each other's mirror until they were back in their personas of impeccable diplomat and discreet assistant.
Only then, did they exited the room and Mycroft went and kicked the baboon's ass with a flourish.
___________________________
Don't hate me. You'll understand why this is acceptable in the next chapter. Or maybe you've already spotted the clue ? *wink wink*