gay

It was rather unfortunate that the goats, as it turned out, had had other ideas, and all too quickly, with a broken fence and a triumphant bray, his quiet chat and tentative investigation had turned into something much more physical and certainly more frustrating.

Still, to his credit, Mycroft had been game enough, and, he thinks, made quite the team, rounding up the errant escapees, and herding them back to where they belonged. They'd ended up back in the kitchen, panting with exertion and laughter both, and somehow it hadn't seemed like such a poor trade after all. It had been a long time, he'd have thought, as soon as he could focus on thoughts again, since he had felt so unburdened.

At the table, Mycroft runs his fingers uncomfortably beneath his tie, loosening it to hang over the back of a chair; neatly, of course. Even with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow, a streak of something indelicate and animal-gifted across his trouser leg, and his hair hanging damp and stuck against his forehead, he would never be so inconsiderate in someone else's home. Lestrade bites his cheek in an effort to suppress the laughter, and all the fondness he can no longer pretend doesn't come with it, before it escapes him. It almost works. Mycroft's head darts up, as he hurriedly turns the laugh into a cough and turns away to ladle them both out some lemonade instead.

"It was good of you to come out today, even if I'm sorry you had to be put to work," he says, apologetically. "I don't suppose there's much call to be wrangling with goats in Whitehall."

"I'd say you would be surprised, but people are people everywhere, even in Oxford," Mycroft replies. "It's a blessing to be trying to reason with animals who can't answer back."

"Then you clearly haven't spent enough time with them. Spend a few more days up here and you'll discovery how mouthy the little bastards can be."

He flinches a little, at the language that drops too easily, but Mycroft doesn't seem to care. He grins up at him as he reaches for the cup and drinks it too quickly, lips smacking at the tartness and fingers drumming at the table in delight. Lestrade watches as an errant bead drops from the edge of his mouth, over his chin and Mycroft huffs as if embarrassed before wiping it away. "I suppose I needed that a little too much."

"There's plenty more," Lestrade says, "made it myself."

"You are a multi-talented man."

He smiles at the compliment and feels his sun-touched ears pinken again. "I do what I can. Another?"

His own cup is untouched as he turns back to the bowl, ready to pour Mycroft another serving. He puts it to one side, and doesn't notice himself swallow back the dryness of his own throat. That splash of liquid at the corner of Mycroft's mouth distracts him enough, and the way his chest had squeezed too tight at how easily the praise had fallen from his tongue.

He doesn't hear the chair move, nor the step of Mycroft's foot, before he turns back, and finds himself looking directly into the other man's face.

"It's been an unexpected morning," Mycroft says. Lestrade nods, silently. There's a thoughtful turn to Mycroft's expression as he looks down; he has never been more aware of the difference in their heights. A muscle in his cheek twitches and something like resolution crosses over the uncertainty in his face.

"Forgive me," Mycroft says, as he leans in, "if I am wrong about this."