Safe, Post #16
Jun. 10th, 2018 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
usedtobeljsThe last week has been one of all-day work meetings and far too much time spent thinking about workplace connections and politics. The very bad thing is then opening Twitter and seeing real-world politics blowing up everywhere, too.
Aside from retreating to old Dorothy Sayers novels (which I am now doing), writing on my original project, and considering my next volunteering, I also find myself musing on my OTPs. Mycroft and Anthea are no doubt beside themselves, and so -- a double drabble.
Outside, the Quebec sky was a rich summer blue. The hotel rose, stately and safe. But inside –
"Fuck," said Mycroft, and threw his briefcase on the hotel-room bed.
"I know," said Anthea, and threw her phone next to the briefcase.
Then they turned to each other, linking hands, sharing gazes. "What the bloody hell was that?" they said together.
It had been the worst G7 in either of their memories, due to the miserable belligerence and stupidity of that fucking orange lunatic. Mycroft had managed his share of idiots in positions of power, but this… "Insanity," he said.
"Well, darling, you've seen the neurological workup," Anthea said. "But…much worse than that. So much worse."
Together they sighed, for she was understating it.
"I need a hug," she said, and Mycroft opened his arms and brought her in. Her fingers stole under his unbuttoned jacket around to his back, where she held fast to his braces. He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair, and palmed her bottom with the other. They leaned into each other.
Then she kissed his neck, just above his starched collar. He kissed her temple. Together they sighed.
Here they were almost safe again.
Hugs to all who need 'em.
Aside from retreating to old Dorothy Sayers novels (which I am now doing), writing on my original project, and considering my next volunteering, I also find myself musing on my OTPs. Mycroft and Anthea are no doubt beside themselves, and so -- a double drabble.
Outside, the Quebec sky was a rich summer blue. The hotel rose, stately and safe. But inside –
"Fuck," said Mycroft, and threw his briefcase on the hotel-room bed.
"I know," said Anthea, and threw her phone next to the briefcase.
Then they turned to each other, linking hands, sharing gazes. "What the bloody hell was that?" they said together.
It had been the worst G7 in either of their memories, due to the miserable belligerence and stupidity of that fucking orange lunatic. Mycroft had managed his share of idiots in positions of power, but this… "Insanity," he said.
"Well, darling, you've seen the neurological workup," Anthea said. "But…much worse than that. So much worse."
Together they sighed, for she was understating it.
"I need a hug," she said, and Mycroft opened his arms and brought her in. Her fingers stole under his unbuttoned jacket around to his back, where she held fast to his braces. He threaded the fingers of one hand through her hair, and palmed her bottom with the other. They leaned into each other.
Then she kissed his neck, just above his starched collar. He kissed her temple. Together they sighed.
Here they were almost safe again.
Hugs to all who need 'em.
