Chapter Text
Mycroft sat at his desk, running his hands over his thin greying hair. It had been another long day. Another long week. He never seemed to get a break these days, since Smithson had taken leave for 'mental health reasons'. Mycroft had scoffed at that when he heard. Nothing was ever that serious in his cold mind. But now... he understood a little more.
Mycroft had recently taken over a position within the government that technically didn't exist. A spy network. Different from any of those 'spies' working for MI6; not James Bond types. These agents were better trained. Deadly. Unnoticable. And there was definitely no 'bond girls'.
It had been fine for the first week or so. More paperwork, longer hours, more stress. Nothing he couldn't handle of course. He'd scoffed at Greg when his husband had shown concern for him.
"It's nothing I can't handle, Gregory. Do stop fussing." He'd reminded him one morning when Greg insisted he straighted his tie in the kitchen.
"I'm not fussing," mumbled Greg. "God forbid a man care about his husband. I know you've got more on your plate than normal so just wanna make sure you look..." He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Mycroft understood what he was trying to say.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. He placed a soft hand on Greg's cheek, making him look up at him. He smiled gently. "Thank you."
Mycroft was shaken from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He sat up straight, touching his tie absent mindedly. Clearing his throat, he called out: "enter."
There stood the miserable man in his late 40s who had apparently assisted Smithson. That, Mycroft found hard to believe. The man was a chronic smoker, who had an unhappy marriage, possibly a repressed homosexual, and a man who wore shirts two sizes too small because he under the impression no one could tell. But you could. You really could.
"Yes, Martin?" Mycroft asked, his bored tone echoing around the wood paneled office he now occupied. He crossed his arms over his chest, a small smirk sliding onto his face. "Need help with your computer again?"
Martin didn't respond to Mycroft's antagonising. That would get him nowhere and, despite the man's reputation, he wasn't as stupid as he looked. "An agent to see you, Mr Holmes."
Ah. The meeting with the agent. Mycroft had almost forgotten. This would be his first time meeting someone who worked for him. He nodded to Martin, a signal to let the agent in. Martin turned and spoke quietly to someone outside the office. Mycroft heard a wooden chair scrape on the floor. The door creaked. His hand touched his tie again.
Someone walked into his office. 5' 8". Fresh injury to the right leg; slight limp. Attempting to hide the pain. Faint smell of nicotine. Dark circles under his eyes. He was young.... too young. 16? 17 at most. Christ... a kid. This was a kid.
Martin coughed loudly. Only then did he come back to himself. He glance at Martin, who sighed once and repeated his words. "Harry Collins. Mission Blue Fortress. Successful." Then the man turned on his heel and walked out of his room.
Now it was just Mycroft and this... boy. Mycroft didn't know quite what to say to the young man. He wasn't very good at conversations with fellow adults, let alone children. The boy was stood in the doorway, looking around at the dark office, taking it all in. Scanning it, no doubt what he was taught to do. He then made eye contact with Mycroft, and something flickered in his face.
"You the new boss?" He asked. The boy clearly already knew the answer. He'd shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes not leaving Mycroft's form.
"Yes. Mycroft Holmes. Pleasure to meet you, Harry Collins." Mycroft didn't extent a hand nor did he stand. The boy didn't move either. The two of them were on opposite sides of the room, eyes locked. Harry moved first, eyes leaving Mycroft's. He sat down in the chair opposite Mycroft's, eyes now on his own injured leg. The right one.
"Heard a lot about you." Harry said, voice low and untrusting already. His hand slid into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out an old, damaged box of cheap cigarettes. "Some of the nicer ones call you the 'Iceman'. Said you don't have emotions. Like a robot."
Mycroft didn't respond. He was well aware of all this. He knew he wasn't partially liked by the people that worked for him, or anyone, for that matter. Though that had never bothered him. In his mind, no one needed to like him, because he had Greg. Who else does a man need?
The click of a lighter and the glow of a flame caught Mycroft's eye. The boy was lighting a cigarette. In his new office. Immediately, Mycroft put a hand out. "No," was all he said. Harry locked eyes with him, the challenged evidenced on his face. "You are far too young to develop a smoking habit. How did you even get these through security?"
Harry grumbled something under his breath, though complied with Mycroft's silent demand. He clicked the lighter shut. The flame extinguished and he put it down on the desk. He then took the cigarette out of his mouth and put it back in the box, sliding the box back in his jacket pocket. Mycroft reached over the desk while the boy put the cigarettes away and took the lighter in his hand. It was a small, metallic, rectangular case with an engraving on it. Some simple initals: R.C. Mycroft suspected it was Harry's father's lighter. The initals matched, and it was clearly older than the boy himself. "Old boss didn't care about my fags."
"Well I'm not your old boss." Mycroft answered sharply back, putting the lighter on the table, just out of arms reach. He then looked back at the boy sat across the desk at him, attempting what he hoped was an approachable face. "How was the mission?"
Harry's eyes didn't leave the lighter. He clearly didn't trust Mycroft with it. "Mission was fine. Martin will give you the file later." He said shortly. "Want my lighter back."
"You can't have it." Mycroft said shortly. This clearly irritated the boy. He sat up a little straighter. "Young man like you has no need for a tool like this."
"Ain't yours though, is it? Only want it back." Harry glared up at Mycroft, eyes dark. Mycroft smirked slightly. He stretched his hand out again.
"Cigarettes."
"Have the bloody cigarettes." Harry all but threw the almost empty packet into Mycroft's hand. Mycroft took the packet and put it into the top drawer of his desk. He then held his own hand out expectantly. "Lighter."
Mycroft complied, moving slowly on purpose to irritate the young man. He placed the lighter into his palm, and Harry's fingers clamped around it, quickly pulling his hand back to his chest. He placed the lighter in the top pocket of his jacket. The ones closest to his heart. Mycroft noticed but didn't say anything. He leaned back on the leather seat opposite Harry, cocking his head to the side, trying to deduce anything more from the boy. He didn't have much to work on.
Harry was scruffy, short-tempered and irritable. Nothing out of the ordinary for a teenager. But that was something... he was a teenager. Working for the government as a spy where he would inevitably be put into life threatening situations. How did he get there? Why? Where were his parents? He was sure all the answers were in a file somewhere, but this would be more fun.
"How did you end up with this job then, Collins?" Mycroft asked, eyes piercing the young man, a smirk on his face. "Spying is not a game for children."
Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Neither is it for posh-arse wankers like you who think you know everything." He looked up and met Mycroft's. His eyes were still dark and glinting under the low light in the office. He clearly didn't like the older man.
Harry stood, hands put back in the pockets of his jeans. He kicked his chair back closer to the desk and looked at Mycroft, daring to say anything else. Now even Mycroft (who had poor social skills) could tell Harry didn't like him. He didn't challenege the boy as he strode to the door and opened it.
He left. The door stayed open.
Mycroft sighed and put his head back in his hands. This was going to be a long week.