Mycroft Holmes

"I can't say if that's a good or bad thing, maybe I should test out what causes the rants and you can feed it back to me?" He only really half joked, he knew the longer he was on M's mind the better, if for nothing else for more missions or at least for keeping a sharp eye out of keeping his cover.

Edgar had to consider the offer of help from Mycroft, he knew it was most likely directed at his condition and his folded arms shifted a little. He wasn't sure there was anything Mycroft could actually do to help in the moment. But the quick clarification that followed earned him a little amused and careful chuckle as he brought up how he had helped him once before.

It had been entirely possible that Edgar may reject the offer of assistance. To be quite honest, Mycroft wouldn't have blamed him if he had - after all, were the shoe on the other foot, he couldn't gaurenteed that he would have agreed himself! Whatever the case, he was glad to be met with something other than outright rejection, and he swiftly nodded in response to the request.

"I can do that, yes," he confirmed. "I'll be right back."

In typical Mycroft fashion, he didn't waste time dawdling. The biggest delay occurred when he paused to consider which drink to bring Edgar but, in the end, it didn't matter, Mycroft electing to get him both a whiskey and a glass of water. As an adult who could make his own decisions, and a man with a questional past when it came to risk taking and drinking habits, giving an option of both seemed like the optimal solution. Personally, Mycroft thought the water was a good idea, but he couldn't deny that he saw the appeal in the stronger drink too, and while he knew that painkillers and alcohol shouldn't be combined, he was not foolish enough to think Edgar had never done such a thing in the past, nor was he in ocent of such an offence either.

Whatever the case, though, it was unlikely that Matthew would turn him away, at least not for that. It didn't matter now, anyway. Mycroft made an interesting point as he continued, one that Matthew certainly agreed with. He hummed softly, giving a small tilt of his head. "I see your point." He did want to fit in here, wanted to find a way to make sense of this life that he was being put into. "I confess, I never considered fitting in quite as much as I do now."

As it was, though, it seemed he was making a genuine attempt to learn the ropes of his new life. Considering how he appeared to be planning on making the most of his situation, that was for the best. A man could pretend to fit in, but would grow tiring to spend his life that way. Mycroft knew that more than most. There were multiple element of life that he was making a conscious decision not to partake in, telling himself that it was in the name of his career, while knowing deep down that it was because he didn't want to have to play pretend every moment of every day.

"For what it's worth, I think you're doing a reasonably good job of fitting in so far. All things considered, of course." Mycroft complimented. That was simply what one was expected to do in such a conversation, no?

"Yes, it all does look rather lovely," he then said in reference to the gardens, making a point of looking around again. It was nice. Mycroft liked it. Of course, he preferred his own family home's grounds, but who wasn't biased towards what was familiar to them?

"Oh yes," he confirmed for the sightseeing and interesting surroundings. Edgar actually enjoyed history after all and while he would no doubt be indulging in any and all things local and luxury where he went, he would enjoy some time to be able to examine some of the historic sites. "There's plenty to look at from a good few thousand years of history and the culture is a lot to learn about," he offered as another breadcrumb for him.

Edgar moved his hand from his chin and let it rest on the arm of his chair again, a subtle little gesture to suggest that there was nothing more to learn from his shirt sleeve at least.

That wasn't the audible quiet, of course. Hospitals were terrible for that. Mycroft was constantly being subjected to the beeping and hum of machines, the sound of footsteps passing by, and nurses nattering away to each other as they gossiped about their latest patients. The noise in terms of information, however, was reduced.

Of course, it was still there in the background - Mycroft was just noticing less of it, and what he did notice wasn't leading to a chain reaction that grew louder and louder. If it were a permanent turn of events, he'd be distraught at the loss of what he considered to be his main driver of worth. That wasn't the case, though. He'd been reliably informed that the slowness was only temporary, so for now, why not indulge in a little peace for once?

Still, despite that, Mycroft would like to solve a puzzle. He had never been good at letting questions go unanswered, especially when they'd been presented to him like a challenge.

"Mm, yes, I suppose that does sound ideal," Mycroft agreed. "I must admit that I am glad to not be going myself, though. It will be far too hot for my liking. As you may recall, I burn terribly easily."

It was a probably they'd come across a few times over the years. One hint of sunshine and Mycroft was in trouble.

Old Meme. Mycroft is shot with an arrow.

Arrows were expected on the battlefield, lethal, horrible things but it wasn't often though really should have been anticipated, that an arrow would be fired while simply walking the walls of Camelot with Mycroft.

He heard it before he saw it, the familiar and gut wrenching thunk of an arrow hitting a body. Arthur couldn't feel the arrow in him though, he'd been hit before and he'd always known about it. Which made his heart sink as if it wasn't him, then it could have only been Mycroft.

Arthur turned and made to catch Mycroft as best as he could, both to stop him from falling and potentially making the wound far worse and to get him to the cover the walls provided in case of another shot. He gently pressed a hand against Mycroft to keep him upright and behind the cover of the wall.

Mycroft could still die. It was difficult, but it was possible. Over the many years, he'd had a few close scrapes, accumulated knowledge giving him an unfair advantage which ultimately helped him to come out on top. Most of those moments had been high pressure and dramatic, though. This? This was embarrassing. if Mycroft was to die, he did not want it to happen at the hands of an unexpected arrow!

If it weren't for the initial shock of the assault, he'd have been muttering curses to himself about the audacity of the situation. As it was, though, Mycroft was silent as Arthur caught him and pulled him behind cover, momentarily deadweight before, a few seconds later, managing to regain control of himself.

As he motioned to his shoulder with an uncharacteristically shaky hand, the arrow still embedded in the flesh there, Mycroft also looked to it to assess the damage. It was hard for him to see it properly, but he was certain it didn't look good. Whether it would kill him remained to be seen. It didn't seem like irreparable damage, but wounds could so easily become infected, and the archer was still out there.

"Don't pull it out," Mycroft warned Arthur, his hand moving to grab the other man's wrist just in case he decided to ignore the instruction. "It's too risky here, and we don't have the correct tools." Nor did they have anybody suitable for the job. Mycroft wasn't going to be up to it himself - it would be too hard to position himself correctly, even without the lingering tremor still on display - and while Arthur was a man of many talents, arrow removal was not one of them.

He secured the drawer and held onto the key before standing. The idea of allowing Mycroft to pay set off paranoid alarm bells for him though and for a moment he hesitated where he stood and watched him. "There's no need, if anything the FBI has a business card for late night work and collaborative meeting spaces." He tried to suggest as an alternative, "I hear conversion charges can be pretty brutal too." An attempt to dissuade him further. "Thank you for the offer though."

"Well, I suppose this does count as a business dinner of sort," Mycroft replied, putting forth no further argument. If he were back at home, he would have attempted to insist on paying at least once more, following the socially expected back and forth of polite society. Here, though, he'd made his attempt, and considering how he was hungry, in another country, and talking with a man who was likely to start double guessing his motivations, there seemed little reason to continue that dance.

With his own coat over one arm for now, as well as his ever present umbrella in hand, Mycroft followed Beneventi. "Mm, the whole service industry in this country can be too friendly for our liking," he agreed. "it feels terribly false to us, and we tend to prefer to be left unbothered when we are attempting to eat."

Mycroft had always found business dinners - actual ones, where he was attempting to slip a deal of some sort into the discussion or dig up information - a nightmare in America. Just how was he supposed to have a proper conversion when the waiter insisted on constantly refilling his water and checking if he was okay? Honestly, considering the things people in such roles must overhear, it was a wonder there weren't more problems with leaks coming out of Washington and the other big cities!

"Oh yes, yes," he answered, shifting his weight to his toes so he could plant a kiss to Mycroft's cheek as was the appropriate greeting for just such a reunion. One could always count on Jasper to keep busy in some functional form or another: Mycroft would find his home quite clean and tidy, although with a bit of decor and some other things moved in ways that were decided superior in the absence of his express opinion. "Only a bit lonely. I'd love to hear the details of your trip, when you aren't too tired—

Were it anyone else, Mycroft would have refused to indulge such a thing. Jasper was an exception, though. The fact that he'd managed to establish himself as such a thing was the cornerstone of their relationship, and though Mycroft was not going to admit it to anybody outside of their four walls, it was something he found himself quietly grateful for. His life was undeniably better now. The stress and pressure of his work was still there, but he had a reason to go home at a reasonable time, and it felt as though he had something more to his life than duty and high expectations.

While he didn't kiss Jasper in return, Mycroft was affectionate in his own way - allowing a glimpse of a small smile, and lightly resting one of his hands on the other man's waist. "If dinner is a possibility, I certainly wouldn't complain about it," he replied. Truth be told, he'd expected that Jasper would offer. In fact, Mycroft had been looking forward to it. After being away from home, the prospect of food made by familiar hands was almost as exciting as Jasper's general presence.

Hand remaining where it was, letting the touch linger for now, Mycroft subtly began to glance around, sharp eyes looking for anything different. If he could, he would find an opportunity at a later time to reset a number of the adjustments Jasper had made during his absence. He would leave some as they were, though. It was a silent compromise that, if done correctly, would leave them both feeling as though they got their way.

"If you would like, I could trade you dinner for a gift I have bought you?"

Mycroft had his curiosities though and Romulus considered himself for a moment, swirling the wine in the glass again absently while he thought about the different aspects of development he might have been talking about.

"When the Empire was active, I could see no end in sight to what it was that might one day emerge from it. Much like our mutual friends I considered myself truly immortal," he was of course, given he was still around but his Empire was long gone and it still confused him. "I saw developments come and go," he cracked a smile, "I saw the spoked wheel emerge and stick around for so long that when tyres appeared, even I did not think they would become what they are today." He mused for a moment and switched hands for his wine glass, using the other now to adjust his seat to be more comfortable, leaning back, one ankle landing on the opposite knee and his gaze off to the corner of the room to the left of Mycroft's head.

Well, there'd be less logic to it, anyway. Romulus and his kind's mere existance saw to it that the whole thing would never make complete sense, no matter how hard Mycroft tried to understand it all. To human eyes, they were, at their core, impossibly illogical beings.

It was interesting to hear the other man talk of history, even as lacking in detail as his words were. Mycroft imagined he could spend a great deal of time indulging in questions of the specifics were he allowed to, but alas, he couldn't envision that happening. Romulus seemed perfectly keen to talk about the past - he was even smiling as he did so! - but Mycroft was a busy man. If he weren't waiting on a response issuing instructions for what he should do about the other man's presence, an impromptu conversation like the one they were having certainly wouldn't fit into his tightly planned schedule!

Which wasn't to say he had no free time at all, of course. Sometimes, usually an evening, he managed to find a few hours for himself. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could arrange for a longer conversation then? It wouldn't be inappropriate to do so, Mycroft didn't thing. It wasn't like he would be asking questions about anyone he had personal links to (lest he find himself on the receiving end of some strong ire as a result), and with his observational abilities, he'd undoubtedly find himself picking up some useful information outside of personal indulgences throughout the conversation.

"I pray to whichever gods deemed most appropriate that I never find myself in that situation. While I'm sure I could do some good work with endless time at my hands, I do not believe myself suited for immortality. I fear it would drive me to insanity before long."

Between actual noise and the information he was rapidly processing from all directions, life was already too loud for Mycroft. Presumably, it would only grow worse as time went on. Subjecting himself to that was far from something he longed for.

Will was the type to let the dogs in the bed. Truthfully, he most often resided long-term in his family home that wasn’t in the Capitol. It allowed the space and privacy to do so. They had enough space to roam freely, unobstructed by the rules or the firm grasp on civility, where they were allowed to merely be dogs. Relatively well-behaved and trained. But still tracked their muddy paws on pebble-stone entrances or roughhousing when they didn't expend their energy often enough.

If course, this didn't mean that he didn't appreciate the animals too. Orwell was evidence of his own fondness for a canine companion, especially with how patient he was for the old dog. However, Mycroft was no fan for the loud, the unstructured, or the unexpected. A whole kennel of any animal under one roof was his idea of Hell!

Too many human beings under one roof had the same effect, though that was an unavoidable situation for him. Truth be told, he'd been assuming than even Will alone might upset his carefully maintained sense of order. Mycroft suspected this may still be the case but, thankfully, so far their time together had been tolerable.

"Mm, politicians can be tricky," Mycroft agreed. What he didn't say, though, was that he thrived on such a puzzle. If he'd been allowed to, he would have found a career in politics. In fact, it had been his original aim, back before he had been adopted. That dream had come crashing down around him in the end, though. Unfortunately, despite his lack of any actual royal blood, meddling in politics was simply out of question. Mycroft understood this, but it still disappointed him.

Another career he'd considered was espionage. That situation was a similar out of bounds if it was public knowledge, but behind closed doors... Well, suffice to say, as long as it was kept secret (as any good spy work should be), there were opportunities to be had there, should the situation arise. Mycroft wasn't going to say it aloud as it would be seen as wishing for trouble, but he really did hope he'd get the chance one day. It was something he was certain he would be good at, and a future of only charity work and public appearances seemed so dreadfully dull to him.

Amusingly, or perhaps not, the flaw in the man that he'd have cared about least was, very likely, his desire to torment Sherlock. The younger Holmes brother may have been his mother's favourite child, but his father wanted nothing to do with him. The only reason he would care about that whole situation was because it reflected badly on the Holmes family name, and because he would have had to pretend to be terribly upset should Moriarty have achieved his aims.

And, speaking of Sherlock: "That would hardly be out of line. It is no secretly that my brother was never at home here."

Again, that was never something that had been spoken, but Mycroft knew a man such as Moriarty was capable of intuiting it, especially after having heard tales of Sherlock in his youth over the years.

"I think he always preferred the cottage we lived in for a while after the fire, while the house was being rebuilt." His mother owned that house now. Her sons still visited her there from time to time, always somewhat begrudgingly. Sherlock, however, never visited Musgrave Hall to see their father.

Pleased that Moriarty seemed to appreciate the house, Mycroft's previous annoyed look slowly faded away. It was an impressive home. It was only correct that it shlhld be admired.

"Perhaps I will show you the grounds in the light of day tomorrow. My father still keeps them maintained as they used to be, just in case he needs to entertain important guests again. If you are lucky, you may also see some deer."

While the offer to show him the grounds, Moriarty supposed was nice, he wasn't all that interested. Unless of course there was some considerable maths involved in how Siger had laid out the gardens, which he highly doubted, then there wouldn't really be much of interest to him. Save perhaps for some pigeons but there was no chance he would be left to feed them again and certainly not on the estate. He'd have done it out of spite if he knew he could get away with it but he had to be on his best behaviour for now.

"What kind of deer do you have around here?" He asked politely though no, would not take all that much interest in seeing one, while he could appreciate that such a sighting might be idyllic for himself it would serve little purpose other than an acknowledgement that he had seen a rare large wild animal from the British Isles. No, he'd much rather have seen his comet so with that, Moriarty turned away from the house in the hopes that Mycroft would return to walking to their destination.

He nodded in response to Moriarty's comments about foxes and cats. Not for the first time, Mycroft was struck with the thought that he rather missed having a feline companion. His childhood one had made him happy, so it wasn't hard to imagine he'd feel the same way as an adult. But the hair made them impractical, and besides, he'd hardly see the animal! A little happiness didn't seem worth the investment.

"Did you lure the pigeons in too, or was feeding them a habit strictly kept for public spaces?" Mycroft asked. Did Moriarty have similar thoughts to his own about cats? The pigeons were nice, but not worth the nusicance of having them making a home in his garden? He imagined that would be the case. Pigeons were interesting, but they could be terribly noisy sometimes.

The other perk of the accommodation would be Edgar's presence. It would be nice to have his company, just as it would also be nice to know that should some kind of nefarious party be seeking to hurt Mycroft while he was aboard, they'd have to get through a human weapon shaped guard dog first.

Were Edgar allowed to step foot anywhere Mycroft owned a home, he would have made the same offer in return. As it was, though, he was saved from that particular obligation by that other man's practical exile. Mind you, this was, to some extent, a shame. Were anybody to have to stay with him, Mycroft felt as though Edgar would be the best option. The two of them were similar enough that they could survive within four walls together for at least some time without being at each other's throats.

As for hearing about Edgar, yes, Mycroft was certain that he would. He Imagined that would be the case even if he hadn't purposefully set himself and his career up to receive every available snippet of information he could, what with the way the other man worked and all. Edgar got results, but it was not uncommon for him to leave chaos in his wake in he process. Somebody had to clean that up, and that rarely happened without some kind of grumbled complaint.

The joke on anyone cursing his name earned a little chuckle from Edgar in turn and he shook his head that they likely would not really agree with Mycroft in his attempt to point out that men like Edgar were the ones doing the scary, dangerous and often very dirty ground work for whatever they wanted done. "It's easier to sit in an office and complain that those on the field are reckless and out of control without ever having foot into such a world." He agreed and gave Mycroft a curtesy look over with some respect, "you at least will have experience with both and that might serve to silence agents on either side of a desk."

Not Edgar though, he knew he would continue to be a pain because he could get away with it now and he rather enjoyed the fun of getting under people's skin from time to time.

Another man may have lied under the illusion that it was kind to give another hope. Mycroft, however, was a firm believer in the benefits of reality. It would be cruel to give Edgar false hope - and besides, after so long having to stay away, would he even believe a lie than claimed he may be able to return at some point? It seemed unlikely; the man was not a fool.

"I'm afraid I have heard nothing that could be in any way construed as positive. I have no reason to think that is going to change," Mycroft told Edgar. Could he have delivered the news more gently? Perhaps, but he could have also been blunter too. An effort had been made to be nice, but notably not one hidden being a facade of political manipulation. Personally, Mycroft felt that meant more than any other potential response.

Of course, he understood why the other man would want to see his home again. Anybody even remotely patriotic (which Edgar had to be by default, considering his work) would be. Really, it was a shame that it simply wouldn't be possible. Mycroft would have liked to have spent time with Edgar on familiar ground. Their meetings abroad were perfectly fine, but it was just a shame to not been able to see each other in their home country.

"Have you cisdering visiting the Appalachians instead," Mycroft then suggested. "Before the continents split, they were a part of the same mountain range of much of the UK, the Scottish Highlands included. Perhaps it would be like a home away from home?"

In Mycroft's opinion, an evolving plan was no proper plan at all. It was improvisation under a safer sounding name - an attempt to fool oneself into believing preparations had been made when, in fact, quite the opposite was true.

Knowing that Will had no real plan of action was not a relief, though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing either. On one hand, it made the situation a lot more malleable. On the other, a lack of plan also made it a lot more unpredictable. Mycroft could only hope that he managed to spot and redirect the other man if he began to pivot down an unwanted path.

There was a temptation to point out how, with Will's desire to run from his duty, he was glad to not be one of his subjects. Thankfully, though, Mycroft managed to resist that urge. He knew such a statement was unlikely to go down well, even if he believed it to be entirely justified. Considering how open and agreeable Will was being - which wasn't to say he was being overly open and agreeable, but certainly more so than he had been before - breaking whatever strange trust had formed between them hardly seemed wise.

Plus, on some level, Mycroft understood. While didn't want to distance himself from his family, there were certain elements of what came with them which he wished he could avoid - most notably, the public appearances. Oh, how Mycroft wished he could keep himself hidden away and not have to bother with the tedious masses. In the future, when his status as not the one to inherit the throne meant his importance dwindled after his father's death, he could probably get out of the majority of it all. What then, though? Mycroft wasn't allowed to have any meaningful employment, especially so in the areas he was interested in (that being, mostly politics). The charity work and opening hospitals may drive him insane sometimes, but it at least gave him something to do!

His want for escape was selfish; he could freely acknowledge it. But there were few others in this world who existed first as sons or daughters to the nations they were born. There had never really been a real choice for Will, or anyone else who shared similar circumstances of birth. He could forsake everything he knew, everything he worked so hard for, everything that shackled him to responsibilities, and lose it all. It didn’t feel like a fair deal. So he doesn’t apologize for the manner in which he is inconsiderate.

"To some extent, I would say you still are a disobedient prince, and should a situation arise where I risk falling into disarray, I cannot claim I don't believe you wouldn't watch events unfold with great amusement, perhaps even encouraging me along the way. However, I am pleased to hear you confirm that you are not actively seeking my downfall."

The development between them continued to feel beneficial. Mycroft far preferred everything to be out in the open, especially when Will was not actually seeking to cause any major problems. And really, what was a little mischief in the grand scheme of things? A certain level of it could be brushed away with no consequences, and considering his reputation as a dreadfully dull young man, Mycroft believed he could ane any other problems on the other prince and great away with it with little more than a light scolding. Not that he wanted to do such a thing, of course. He held no ill will towards Will, and he'd always been incredibly keen to avoid a telling off of any kind, no matter how minor it may be.

Besides, the nonsense wasn't new. Despite his own avoidance of it, Mycroft's family liked a little mischief - the King included! It was to be kept behind closed doors, though, and official business was not to be disturbed.

"I must keep you away from my youngest sister," Mycroft informed Will. "She is a troublemaker. If you are only aiming for the inconsequential, then I fear she may become a bad influence on you and cause you to drift in a direction you were hoping to avoid."

They would get onwell, Mycroft thought. Potentially too well. Even if it were only some kind of partners in crime arrangement, the risk of trouble was far too high for his liking. The two of them needed to be kept apart, even if excuses has to be created to make that possible.

He hummed in agreement to the observation about bruised egos. Yes, Mycroft had experienced that all too often. Politicians were notoriously fragile underneath all their bravado. One only needed to watch a snippet of PMQs to see the way they tried to cover up their fragility with insults and jeers hurled across the room. The FBI was undoubtedly similar. Mycroft could picture it clearly - all the individuals trying to prove their worth, taking the credit for every little thing they could and pushing each other out of the way in the process.

Beneventi, at least, wasn't like that. Combined with his relative competency, it was one of the main reasons why Mycroft was content to continue working with him.

"Every man has his use," Mycroft agreed. He was no stranger to the concept of taking advantage of another's motivations. Ego had a habit of putting blinkers on people. Make them think they were getting what they wanted and they were so blinded by it that they rarely realised they were being played until it was too late. This was especially useful when Mycroft found himself in a situation where somebody would need to take the fall for something. That way, he could kill two birds with one stone - offer up a sacrifice, and get and irritant out of the way. After all, there was rarely a point in trying to hold on to these examples of ego. They were a type of personality where there were always plenty more fish in the barrel.

"I suppose it might be a bit of both," he acknowledged, "Growing up where I did," which he didn't doubt Mycroft already knew was Queens rather than Manhattan, "you had to watch what you said or someone looking to start a fight would take any excuse to do so, but I am able to admit that I am a corporate man, I know my handbooks and employability rules very well, which would be the training side of it." Theo cracked a smile, "I can sometimes be thankful for my obsessions and compulsions, they do have their uses."

Theo had grown to trust Mycroft more and more, though it would not grant him access to his private life, it was something Theo viciously guarded due to his paranoia but also for the assurance that his family were kept safe, not to mention to keep his various worlds of family, friends, Delta Green and the FBI as separated as possible. Professionally though, Mycroft had managed to wriggle his way into his FBI life without much reason to resist. Theo knew he was a powerful man from Britain but he had no reason to believe that he would double cross him. Paranoia would creep in now and again but he was mostly able to mitigate against it when it did.

Nepotism did, on occasion, have it's uses - one of those being a trickle of upcoming talent which had been taught what to expect from a young age by parents wishing to see their own legacies continued. Needless to say, many of them did still manage to find their way in, but the rules to make hiring fairer had reduced the number of parents treating their offspring like dolls they could manipulate into any future they wanted.

This wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was nice, yes, but nice could be detrimental. Mycroft certainly had thoughts about the whole matter, but he supposed they didn't particularly mean much. After all, he had no children of his own, and it seemed very unlikely this would ever change. He had no skin in the game, so to speak, and while it could take a little longer, he did still manage to fill all of the vacancies he was involved in the hiring process for with suitable candidates.

"We have high standards. The British have traditionally been leaders in areas requiring careful words and secrecy. Many of your American organisations were based on ours, and while you've always liked to think of yourselves as important players at the table, there are countless stories of your dependency on us. Not that I am trying to dimmish your achievements, of course, and I can acknowledge that things do change over time, but I like to think I am helping to keep that history alive just a little longer."

The standards for espionage were not going to fall under Mycroft's watch, that was for certain. He did worry about what would happen once he was gone, though. He liked to think he'd have set up an environment thay would prevent anything too terrible from occurring, but one could never know for certain, could they?

"I do think we could do with more people with lived experiences," Mycroft then said returning to discuss the other man. Beneventi interested him. There was clearly more to him than met the eye - and more than Mycroft could work out through observation alone, which was interesting due to how infrequently that happen. With his curiosity piqued, it was inevitable that he'd want to know more.

Besides, he knew how to handle himself. He may not have been of this higher class, but he had been a member of society. People knew him, and they depended on him. He knew how to avoid a scandal. And even if he didn't, he wasn't the sort to put his foot in his mouth like that. "I appreciate the warning, but I've never been the sort to invite scandal."

Did he want to learn things about people, though? Perhaps once, as a working man, it may have been useful, but he was no Mycroft. His life was not one of listening and secrets. Matthew had always believed in honesty, and he didn't intend for that to change. "Is that what you do, Mr. Holmes?" There was more humor in his tone than accusation, but he was curious. "Listen to other people, waiting for mention of ruin?" He should pull back. He was risking offending the man he barely knew, and he didn't want to do that. Even so, that sounded like a terrible life. Always listening, waiting for something he could use. And what would he use it for? Sure, Mycroft laughed, and Matthew was in no rush to cause anything to sour between them, but it was...interesting.

Not that he particularly cared what the other man thought, mind you. Not on a personal level, anyway. However, on a professional level, it wouldn't do to turn him against him while he needed to stay in his home, and when it came to appearances, Mycroft hardly wanted to encourage any kind of negative reputation for himself or his family.

"It is not about what I do or don't do," Mycroft chose to point out. "It is about what other people do. You can choose to abstain from such behaviour, but you cannot control the rest of society. Unless you're willing to embrace being seen as an oddity, you're stuck having to conform."

And who wanted to be seen as different? Mycroft certainly didn't, and he hardly thought Matthew did either. The other man seemed keen to fit in, which was completely understandable given his circumstances. Having been thrown into an unfamiliar world filled with expectations, of course he wanted to do what he could to be seen as one of the group.

He was not totally delusional, he knew if he lived that he would eventually have to accept retirement in some greater from, he would be too old to carry on doing what he was doing and his body or mind would eventually give out if someone didn't kill him before that. Edgar was just not of the mind that he was anywhere near that point yet but he worried for his own condition, not because it was life threatening or any such normal worry, but for how his injuries would take longer to heal, would come back with further aches that deprived him of proper sleep or slowed him down just enough that he would take more and more hits in the years to come.

He let out a deep sigh, he winced for it but he also knew there was very little he could do to hide that from Mycroft. He at least had the common decency not to bring it up with him.

Of course, this was hardly the end of the world. People had a habit of slipping up and revealing more than they wanted when they were so enraged they couldn't help but rant for a while. It likely went without saying, but Mycroft was more than willing to use this to his advantage.

It wasn't like these slip ups were particularly big, either. Not when it came to M, anyway. The same could be said for a good number of people involved in espionage, Edgar included. Were Mycroft not Mycroft, it would most likely all go unnoticed. Alas, though, his infamous observational capabilities didn't pause for anyone or anything - and even if he could turn them off, why would he do such a thing when around such a traditionally untrustworthy group of individuals? After all, they did all spy on people for money.

Needless to say, Edgar's pained movement didn't go unnoticed either. "Can I do anything to help?" Mycroft asked. He made no reference to what exactly he was referring to with the question, but it seemed obvious (to him, at least) that he was talking about the other man's injuries.

"Of course," Lucifer accepted his reluctance to talk about his troubles, he didn't need to but he could play polite for now while he decided if he was going to directly meddle in Mycroft's current work or if he would be patient and let it fall apart by just a few choice words in the right ears again. Oh, humans were so terribly fun to manipulate. He only took another short sip from his glass and returned to observing Mycroft, happy to let him believe he was just a particularly sneaky spy, which he supposed in some ways he was.

"Oh nothing half as interesting as you, I'm sure," he smiled and then gave a little shrug, "I dabble through my revolving interests mostly," more like hinder, manipulate and destroy but dabble sounded much more charming, didn't it? He made himself comfortable in the chair again, setting one ankle on his knee and leaning more to the left arm of the chair while holding his drink oh so casually. A purposeful shift in positioning to annoy Mycroft, first for being so casual around a stranger and second because it would supposedly snatch away any sense of progress on who he might have been if he switched what persona was being presented.

"I see."

The simple response gave Mycroft another couple of seconds to think. This wasn't usually needed, but the situation was somewhat of an unprecedented one. That made it dangerous. It also made it interesting, though, and it was safe to say that Mycroft's curiosity was piqued. If that weren't the case, he would have found a way to exit the conversation already

"Well, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place if you were looking for stimulating discussion on the topic. I trust it hasn't escaped your notices that the club doesn't exactly cater to the most chatty of personalities?"

Mycroft had never mentioned owning the Diogenes Club. It was a matter of public record, but it wasn't something that strangers were in the habit of knowing. 'Lou', as he called himself, was very quickly making it undeniable how he had looked into Mycroft, and it surely had to be on purpose. The man was calculating. He was playing a game of high level chess, and it was as fascinating as it was infuriating.

The way he was sitting only furthered Mycroft's suspicions - though, irritatingly, it didn't actually give him any solid information about his conversational partner. He'd managed to shift his portray of himself through the movement, demonstrating the façade in play. It was masterful work. Were he given the chance to sit and observe, Mycroft could likely learn a thing or two from it. That wouldn't be possible, though. Not when there was the more pressing matter of what the hell this man actually wanted to consider first.

"So, you're freelance, then?" Mycroft asked after taking a sip from his glance. "Who is your current contract with?"