#coxford

“Do you see him? The young man with the brown hair in the well-tailored coat?” Bond tilts his head for a better look, picking up a box of instant Quaker oats, he nods, keeping tabs on said man. He isn’t sure where Q is going with this, or what he must’ve seen to cause his deep interest, but Bond is willing to ride this one out. Their dinner plans can wait.

The man in question is contemplating jams, pale lashes curtaining his eyes, lips twisted in thought as he rocks the jars in his hands. Bond reckons that he is probably far more athletic in build under that coat - vintage? - but it is the way he turns at the call of a smooth familiar voice that has Bond freezing up.

“Conrad, what about these?”

M strides past them, shoes falling on the floor in rhythmic beats. The top buttons of his shirt is undone, tie gone. There is a relaxed quality to his smile, and when the man looks up from his jams and a smile graces his plush lips, there is a bright and almost fond light in his blue eyes.

Q wraps a deceptively soft hand around his wrist and pulls him to a corner. Together, they pretend to consider the merits between Peaches and Cream, and Blueberries and Cream while unsureptiously spying on what looks like their boss and his… Boyfriend? Lover? The way M rakes his eyes over his Conrad’s face is anything but familial.

They look on as M steps closer to the man, smiling as they lean into each other, head bent close. Bond can’t help but be charmed by the way M’s hand lingers on the younger man’s waist, body language clear with familairity and ease. Q seems to have come to the same conclusion that this was clearly as private a moment a couple could have in a place like Tescos at three in the morning.

He’s struck by a realisation, in that moment, turning to Q; the way M looks at his Conrad, is more than a little, exactly like the way he looks at Q. Bond has to stifle the urge to laugh then. Feeling like a voyeur, he slides a hand over Q’s shoulder, steering him back to the milk.

“Come on. There’s nothing to see here,” He murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to the side of his head. Q, to his credit, doesn’t disagree.

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“Mallory,” Conrad’s eyes twinkle with mischief and teasing. “Your men are horrible at spycraft.”

He sighs, bagging their groceries and loading them back into the trolley. Bond and Q will be too professional to bring this little discovery of theirs up in the office, but he does feel disconcerted that they would be bumping into each other in a Tesco of all places.

“Mallory?”

Conrad’s touch on the back of his hand is light. “Not everyone can be Kingsmen, you know?” He chuckles, slipping their palms together. Conrad smiles, and gives the trolley a push.

“I’m sure that if you talked to Harry, he’d open up a slot for you without question,” Conrad says.

Conrad runs his thumb over his lips, heart fluttering with happiness at the memory of what they got up to in the sleeping quarters on the plane. For all that Eggsy had teased him about dating Mallory, clearly not seeing himself with Galahad, the man had a romantic streak a mile wide. And looking over the vista from their private bungalow, he can't help but feel like he is the luckiest duck to be the object of Mallory's affections.

"What do you think?"

Conrad turns, breath catching in his throat which he quickly smoothes into a cough. He deftly hides his smile behind his hand. Mallory waggles his eyebrows, stepping out onto the balcony next to him, making a turn to show off the absolutely hideous Hawaiian patterned shirt he has on and the, for lack of better descriptives, neon green Speedos. Gone was his prim and proper, utterly dressed to the bespoke nines lover, and here was...

"Yes?" Mallory grins, hands on his hips, posing. "Good?"

"If I let you out into public like this, I'll never forgive myself," Conrad says eventually, the laughter tumbling out of him. He drags Mallory back into the privacy of their room, shutting the sliding door behind them. His skin pebbles under the sudden cool air from the air-conditioning unit, but it doesn't distract him from pulling Mallory with him when he back walks and falls onto their bed. "No one gets to see you like this," He murmurs, running a hand up his chest, fingers carding through the hairs.

"Mm, possessive," Mallory hums, clear eyes bright with mischief. "I think I like this about you."

"You like everything about me," Conrad chuckles, biting his bottom lip. Mallory leans down, brushing their mouths together, teasing the barest of a kiss.

"That's very true," He breathes. With a heavy, deliberate drag of his hand up Conrad's sun-heated skin, he presses down under his ribs. "Want to know what I love best about you?"

The Duke, perhaps having an inkling of the thoughts of escape in his head, was waiting outside on the plush seating outside the door of the fitting room with a placid smile and a twinkle in his icy eyes as if saying 'Aha! Caught you!'. Conrad's lips twist in displeasure but he straightens his spine and boldly steps forward into the shop floor. They're alone; the lone tailor who had been at the cloth long since abandoning them for the private spaces in the backrooms.

His cane raps on the floor when he pushes himself to his feet. Conrad barely catches the instinctual need to step backwards that had been beaten into him by the hands of mothers and aunt, and the rough shakings of fathers and uncles who lived lives on the land of the gentry. He feels his cheeks warm, turning his face away in illogical embarrassment. It shouldn't matter so much in this time of war, but it does, and Conrad is still desperately aware of the distance that divides the two of them in so many ways than just social standing, even if he thinks the Duke is--

Well. There has never been any point delving into those unspoken desires he has never made real, even if he has woken up caught in the tail ends of a dream with far too much passion and illicit kisses with one who tasted more like tobacco and sweat, than perfume and candied fruit.

"Could do with a bit of taking in around the waist," The Duke's careful voice accompanies the tap-tapping of his cane on the floorboards. "You will need to be able to move freely. What you are about to embark on will require much of you."

With a gentle touch of his cane to the side of his new leather shoes, Conrad turns his attention back to the Duke. "What do you think, Conrad?"

"I think look like a right tool," Conrad says in a rush, before stuttering out a quick, "Your Grace."

The corners of thin lips lift in a curl of amusement. Sharp blue eyes regard him with clear warmth, and it puts him immediately at ease. His distracted thoughts of pleasure at being the recipient of that smile is the only reason why he does not realise it until the Duke has a hand over the back of his own, standing close enough to him that he is giddy with the scent of his cologne and the cool, crisp way his presence feels next to him.

"Good," He says, and Conrad has to stifle the way the curl of his tongue around those syllables has his knees knocking and buckling.

"How long are you going to lie there?"

"For as long as I need to," Conrad replies easily, blinking slowly as he tilts his head to eye the sight of the Duke of Oxford watching him with a careful gaze. "Your Grace," He smiles, curling the syllables of his address around his tongue like a kitchen cat savouring the finest of creams.

To anyone who may stumble on them like this, there is no crime being committed between them; no untoward advances from the man in the finest summer linen, no inappropriate touches, nothing that could signal the advent of sin. Not when all evidence of that belongs to the quiet of the Duke's library at midnight, to the road between the home and a London tailor's.

The Duke makes no move to close the distance between them. Conrad looks away. In turn, he makes no effort to hide the way his lips curl into sullenness. Rolling onto his feet, he goes to a stand, keeping his arms at his side, eyes guarded.

It is ridiculous that he should feel slighted like this when he knows the times they are living in. He can as much claim ownership of the man's heart, as the crashing sea waves can claim the sandy shores.

"Is there anything you need, sir?" He says with as much practised decorum as he can muster with a hurting heart.

"I had wondered what you were up to," The Duke says. Blue eyes steely, he doesn't break the hold of their gaze when he steps forth in measured tenderness. "Perhaps I should have not come looking after all?"

Conrad licks his lips, pressing them together in consideration. Taking a half step back towards the edge of the dock. "Would it have mattered in the end? Not knowing what I was up to?"

The Duke shakes his head. "No, it would not." His eyes stay Conrad's feet from fleeing. "It never mattered at all, because I know that you will come back to me when you tire of your wanderings."

A warm hand reaches for his arm, and he allows it. He sucks in a sharp inhale of breath over the disbelieving stutter of his heart. Conrad fights back the habitual urge to look around them, to check for prying eyes and malicious intent. The touch on his arm travels upwards, settling heavy on the jut of his shoulder.

The Duke steps closer still. Conrad looks up, lips slightly parted. "Are you sure?" He whispers. Touching him featherlight at the elbow, he squeezes, saying with the press of skin to skin, You can walk away from me, I don't mind, I understand.