#copingwithboredom

I mean, hey.

"I see. Am I? You must think yourself terribly witty for that baseless assumption. Unless, of course, you plan on surrendering a small country to me - then, by all means, I will be obliged to defer to your assessment.”

Doesn’t it? "As opposed to…?"

"Did you hope to flatter or to insult me with the amount of attention you’re paying to my… capillose prowess?"

"I think that a love affair with recreational chemistry is hardly the makings of a scandal in your family, hm?” The words were as cutting as a scalpel, and, when they flicked up (however briefly) so were his watery grey eyes – before slipping into a cordial, almost pleasant, neutrality. Mycroft scoffed, and the corner of his lips threatened to slip into an amused smile.”I wasn’t even aware that you ever cared for their opinion, and they’ll be divorced by the end of the year anyway, so could you please cease distracting me?”

In spite of the slow trek that his eyebrows were undertaking towards his hairline, the rest of Mycroft’s expression was perfectly solemn when he directed his attention from the glass he had set on the bar counter (a strong, pleasant malt – above average, for a luxury hotel) and onto that (disembodied) voice (that turned out, after all, to be attached to a person rather than floating midair; how very convenient that was). His fingers never retracting from the glass, he dissected his interlocutor at a leisurely pace, jotting down mental notes (little observations, here and there, from the twitch of his fingers to the cut of his clothes) but still, he smiled – a tepid, well-bred token and a sentiment that never reached his calculating eyes. How… peculiar."Not enough to answer that question," he replied slowly, almost mockingly, the edge to his voice hidden behind a curtain of politeness. "Can I help you, or have I fully satisfied your curiosity?"