Chapter Text
Mycroft glances at his phone again and a line appears between his eyebrows. He opens the email app and scrolls through his last five messages. As he’s reading, the phone chimes and a sixth comes in. He rolls his eyes and sighs. Sliding the phone open to reveal the keyboard, he taps out a quick reply.
“Stop it,” Greg says. His eyes are still on the road.
“No orders in public,” Mycroft replies. His phone chimes again and he covers the speaker with his thumb in a doomed attempt to make it quieter.
“We’re not in public, we’re in my car,” Greg says. “In the country. In the middle of nowhere. And believe it or not, England will not crumble if you are gone for a few days.”
Mycroft frowns. “They seem to think so.”
“Give it.” Greg holds out his hand.
Mycroft looks down at the phone. His fingers tighten around it. “But…”
“As long as you keep answering them, they’re going to keep coming,” Greg says. “They’re only asking you stuff because they’re lazy and you know everything. If you stop answering they’ll have to actually find the answers for themselves.”
“There could be an emergency,” Mycroft points out.
“Mycroft.” Greg’s lips press together in a hard line, and then he takes a deep breath and his voice loses some of the sharp edge. “We talked about this. Right? Didn’t we talk about this?”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Yes, I know. This is why I don’t go on holiday very often.”
“Or ever,” Greg replies. “Seriously, how long have you been doing whatever it is you do? Few years, right?”
“About twelve years,” Mycroft says. “More or less. Took me some time to get to my current position.”
Greg nods. “And before that, did the country exist? Did it somehow carry on without your constant supervision?”
Mycroft narrows his eyes. “It’s not necessary to mock me. I never suggested I was essential to the continued existence of our government. I only said it might be important, and it was not a good idea for me to be out of communication.”
“I’m not…” Greg snaps his mouth shut and hits the brakes. He takes them to the side of the road, pulling onto the soft shoulder. Then he turns and gives Mycroft a long, level stare. Mycroft lifts his chin and stares back. Greg takes one of his hands and wraps it in both of his, stroking his thumb over Mycroft’s palm. His eyes soften, and a wry smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay, I’m sorry,” Greg says.
Mycroft drops his gaze and lets the stiffness go out of his shoulders. “Thank you. I know we agreed that we’d both take some time off but my job is… difficult to escape. I’m trying.”
“You sure?” Greg holds a hand up when Mycroft opens his mouth to reply. “No, wait. Think about it. Are you really, honestly trying to get away? Is every message you’ve replied to crucial and something only you can handle?”
“Well,” Mycroft hedges. “No, I suppose not.” He offers an apologetic smile. “Habit.”
Greg nods. “Habit, I know. You do love your routines.” It’s fond and teasing the way he says it, and Mycroft feels something ease in his chest. He squeezes Greg’s hand.
“I do actually want the break,” Mycroft says. “Despite all appearances, I’m glad we’re getting away together. Your brother’s cabin sounds very appealing.”
“You’ll love it,” Greg says. “But it’s a long drive, we got up too early, and I’ve had way too much coffee. So how about a truce, huh? Leave the phone alone until we get there. I promise you can check your messages when we arrive, and if there is something that is truly important, you can respond.”
Mycroft nods and closes his eyes for a moment. He’s aware of Greg pulling the phone from his hand and he lets it go. He keeps his eyes closed; it’s easier that way. Greg’s fingers wrap around his wrists, holding him firmly, and he feels a wave of quiet wash over him. Last minute preparations for their trip kept him busy late into the evening at work for the past several days and, aside from sleeping, they’ve had very little time together.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Greg says. His voice has gone calm, cool, and just a bit sharp; the familiar tone of command. Mycroft smiles. “When I say, I want you to get in the backseat. You’ll find my bag on the floor behind me. Open it and pull out the wrist cuffs, you know the ones I mean. Put them on and lie down in the back seat on your side. Go.”
He’s moving before he can think about it, the hard edge of Greg’s voice like a hook pulling him forward. He finds the cuffs right where Greg said and slips into them, pressing the clasp shut against the door handle. He curls on his side with his arms folded over his chest, wrists snugly bound, and lets out a long breath.
“Good,” Greg says. “You needed that, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question but Mycroft nods. The backseat is fairly small but he likes it; the feeling of being pressed into the small space is comforting. He tucks his chin down against his chest and draws his knees up. The cuffs are a solid, reassuring weight. Greg reaches back and smoothes a hand over his shoulder and Mycroft leans into the touch.
“Quiet now,” Greg says. “Close your eyes. Let yourself ease down. The car is locked, the windows are tinted; there’s nobody out here and even if somebody came along they couldn’t see anything. Just relax. I’ll tell you when we get there.”
The material of the seat below him seems to become a thick liquid, giving way as he sinks into it. He lets the feeling envelop him and slides beneath the surface. He’s barely aware of movement as the car pulls back out onto the road.
*
A hand on his shoulder wakes him and he blinks sleepily. Greg smiles at him and brushes a kiss to his temple. “Up now,” he says. “Come on, back with me. Sit up and let me get at those cuffs.”
Mycroft sits up. He lifts his arms obediently and allows Greg to remove the cuffs. He looks around, gradually bringing his focus back to the real world. They’re surrounded by green, trees lush with summer growth crowded in around the car on all sides. Sunlight filters through the leaves to land in dappled patterns on the ground, and it’s very quiet. He can hear a scattered few birds, a soft murmur of branches moving in the breeze, and the tick of the car engine as it cools.
Greg gives him time. He sits beside Mycroft and loops an arm around his waist, and Mycroft leans against him, cheek resting on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes in. He can smell damp earth and leaves and nothing else.
“Feeling better?” Greg asks.
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Thank you. I’m sorry about before.”
Greg flicks his fingers dismissively. “We were both out of sorts. Doesn’t matter.” He leans back and grins out the open window. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“Mmm.” Mycroft takes another deep breath. “It’s very quiet.”
“Yeah.” Greg gives him a sidelong glance. “Guess you’ll be wanting your phone back now.”
“Actually, no,” Mycroft says. “That’s all right. Keep it.”
“You sure? I did promise you could check.”
“I’m sure.” Mycroft stretches and settles more comfortably against Greg’s side. “I told Delia that she should consider me unreachable. It will be interesting to see how they perform in my absence.”
“Delia… your assistant, right?” Greg asks. “She was Lily when I met her.”
“She does that,” Mycroft says. “I’ve often wondered how she chooses her names. It will be something else by the time I get back.”
Greg makes an amused sound, and then straightens, patting his knee briskly. “Right,” he says. “We’ve got unpacking to do. Come on and help me. I’ve got a surprise for you when we’re done.”
Mycroft raises a curious eyebrow and does as he is told. The inside of the cabin is dusty but reasonably neat; most of the furniture is covered with sheets but there is a stack of dry firewood and the water runs just fine when Greg tests the kitchen sink. They haul in clothes and bedding and food. Greg directs and Mycroft does most of the actual moving.
He wouldn’t normally care for manual labor but when it’s Greg’s calm, even voice telling him exactly what to do it feels soothing. Every order is a simple task, requiring no thought, and every time he obeys it gives him a quiet sense of accomplishment. He lets his body do the work and allows his mind to skip over the surface, coasting aimlessly. He's smiling absently and humming to himself by the time they've put everything away. When he finishes, Greg pulls him close.
“Good job,” Greg murmurs to him. “My dear Mycroft. I have something I think you’ll like.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a narrow cloth pouch out of his pocket. Mycroft focuses on it, mind whirring busily, and he’s deduced the contents before Greg can say a word. His eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat. He stares at Greg.
Greg laughs softly. “Should’ve known you’d figure it out. It’s just while we’re here, okay? Just for this trip. I know it’s not something we can get away with at home.”
Mycroft gives a slight nod. His eyes are fixed on Greg’s hands as he turns the pouch over in them. He licks his lips, vaguely aware that he’s breathing hard. His fingers feel numb and there is a distant rushing in his ears.
“Shh,” Greg says. “I’ll only put this on you if you want me to. Steady now, you’ve gone all pale.”
“I want you to,” Mycroft says quickly. “I do, I’ve wanted… can I see it? Please?”
“Kneel first.”
Mycroft drops down hard, barely feeling his knees hitting the wooden floor. He looks up at Greg in wordless pleading.
“Easy, hush,” Greg soothes him. He puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezes. Mycroft goes still. He only realizes he's been trembling when it stops. Greg’s hand strokes down his cheek and he turns to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Greg smiles. “Good,” he says. “That’s right, calm.”
He opens the pouch. The collar he pulls out is the same rich dark brown colour as his eyes. It is soft leather, slim and flexible, with a silver clasp. Mycroft swallows and sways, leaning closer to Greg.
“Do you accept this collar and everything it means?” Greg asks: the traditional words.
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Please. Yes.”
Greg’s face changes; the steady calm flickers and for a moment there is something fierce and possessive there. Something that makes Mycroft bow his head and bare the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes as he feels Greg’s hands encircle his throat. The leather is warm; it’s been in Greg’s pocket, close to his body, and has retained his heat. The inner surface is fine suede, soft against his skin. A shiver goes through him when the buckle snaps shut.
Greg squeezes his shoulders and draws him forward until Mycroft’s cheek rests against his belly. He strokes Mycroft’s hair, and then lower, trailing down the back of his neck, fingers playing over the edges of the collar. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
Mycroft wraps his arms around Greg’s thighs and presses his face harder against the other man’s shirt. He says nothing. There are so many things crowded in his chest, pressing into his mouth, and clamoring for release that he can’t know for sure what will come out.
“Come on,” Greg says. He tugs at Mycroft, turning him, and drops into a chair. Mycroft stays with him. He sinks back on his heels and rests his chin on Greg’s knee. He keeps his eyes shut tight. He can feel the collar with every breath, every small movement. His fingers curl into the material of Greg’s shirt and clutch at it, and he scoots as close as he can.
Greg strokes his hair and shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Mycroft nods automatically. He takes a deep breath, somewhat startled when it comes back out in a ragged series of hitches. “Yes. Mostly. I’ve never…”
“I know,” Greg says quietly. “It’s all right; it’s just for this week.”
That does not make him feel better at all. Mycroft clenches his jaw and his chest hitches again. He presses his lips together to remain silent.
“Mycroft?” Greg pushes at his shoulders to get him to straighten, and cups his jaw in one hand, lifting Mycroft’s face. “Talk to me.”
He’s blurry when Mycroft opens his eyes, and he blinks several times. “I love it,” he says. “Don’t think otherwise, I really do. It’s, I can’t… I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
“Okay,” Greg says. He lets Mycroft lean against him again and squeezes the back of his neck. The warmth of his palm over top of the soft leather is an entirely new feeling and Mycroft quivers.
He told Greg part of the truth; he is a bit overwhelmed. It’s such a simple thing but it carries so much meaning. A collared sub belongs to one person and only one person as long as the collar is worn. It is a constant physical reminder that Greg wants him; that he is desired and that Greg will not share. It identifies him as a sub at a glance and is something he has never dared to wear.
All he can think is how hard it will be to take it off.