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The Christmas market in Hyde Park is a dazzling maze of lights, stalls, and… rollercoasters. It is the epitome of everything that Mycroft would normally go out of his way to avoid. Gregory, of course, sees it as the best of the family festive cheer. So, here Mycroft is against every bit of sense he has, wrapped in a cashmere overcoat and profound scepticism, standing rigidly at the edge of the bustling scene.
Greg stands right beside him, not nearly as warm but practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on, Mycroft, it’s not going to kill you.”
“That remains to be seen,” Mycroft replies dryly, eyeing a nearby vendor with unfounded suspicion as they sprinkle crispy onions onto a larger than necessary hotdog.
“It’s not,” Greg repeats, rolling his eyes. “It’s a bit of fun, and it’s Christmas!”
“I fail to see the appeal of consuming overpriced seasonal beverages and unidentified meatstuffs while jostling through a crowd of excessively enthusiastic strangers.”
Greg rolls his eyes the other way, tugging gently on Mycroft’s sleeve. “You’re such a Grinch. Just try it. One hour, that’s all I ask. If you hate it, we’ll leave, and you can go back to whatever it is you do when you’re not busy running the country.”
“Half an hour,” Mycroft counters, grimacing at the customer now eating the atrocious monstrosity.
“You can handle forty-five minutes,” Greg haggles, and Mycroft begrudgingly allows himself to be led further into the market.
The first stop is thankfully nothing edible. Greg is taken in by a stall selling hand-carved ornaments and trinkets. He picks up a wooden reindeer, turning it over in his hands. “What do you think? I love stuff like this.”
“Charming, if rustic,” Mycroft remarks, though his tone lacks its usual acerbity. He knows Gregory enjoys the results of hard work, and especially when one can appreciate that creativity in others. He glances around the rest and his gaze settles on a delicate glass bauble painted with a snowy London skyline. Without a word, he reaches out and purchases it.
Greg raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
“Consider it an exercise in cultural immersion,” Mycroft says, slipping the bauble into a discreet paper bag with tissue padding. “Or perhaps I am simply indulging your insistence on the spirit of the season.”
“Well, whichever one it is, I’ll take it,” Greg says with a laugh. He pays for the reindeer and its similar yet distinct twin.
It doesn’t take long for Greg to start insisting on sampling any and all food stalls that they pass. Much to Mycroft’s concern, he claims to have starved himself all day in preparation for the occasion. He dismisses Mycroft’s admittedly dramatic offers to buy him literally anything else outside of the markets. Mycroft watches with a mixture of disgust and reluctant amusement as Greg devours a sausage roll, followed by a supposed beef burger, some roasted chestnuts, and a rather alarming amount of fudge.
“You are certainly going to regret that later.”
Greg shrugs, unbothered. “Worth it,” he says around a mouthful of chocolate. He at least has the good sense to cover his mouth with a hand. “Besides, you’re the one always going on about moderation and balance. Consider this me moderating a balance for all the salads I’ve eaten recently.”
“That isn’t at all what I meant and you know it.”
“I know nothing,” Greg counters, a mischievous face giving away his self aware ridiculousness.
“How reassuring,” Mycroft sneers, but his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile.
The real surprise comes when they stumble upon a small stage when trying to give Mycroft a break from the crowd. Upon the stage is a children’s choir performing carols. Greg stops in his tracks, hand still on Mycroft’s arm where he’d basically been dragging him along, and his face lights up as they launch into “O Holy Night”.
“Now this,” Greg says softly, hand flexing, “is proper Christmas magic.”
Mycroft stands beside him, watching between the choir and Gregory. He says nothing but his air of aloof detachment softens into the mood of the evening. As the music swells around them, Mycroft notes the curves and lines in Greg’s face as he gets pulled into the performance. There is a spark in his eyes that Mycroft would do anything to see over and over again.
He is inwardly disappointed when the choir sings their final note. Although he’s incredibly pleased when those sparkling eyes now turn to him, joined by a satisfied smile. “See? Not so bad, right?”
Not bad at all, Mycroft will not admit. He doesn’t need to give himself away in public when Greg can see right through him anyway. Instead, he inclines his head with a small smile of his own. “I will concede that the performance was… agreeable.”
“More than agreeable, you tosser,” Greg scoffs and lightly cuffs Mycroft’s arm with his knuckles. “Come on, let’s get you some mulled wine. Might even put a smile on your face.”
They are both ignoring the smile already on Mycroft’s face in favour of their familiar tete-a-tete. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Mycroft allows Greg to steer him through the crowd once more. Neither of them mention that it has been longer than the agreed upon forty-five minutes already.
They still don’t mention it when they’re leaving the markets much later.
Greg glances over at Mycroft as they step away from the main flow of people at the main entrance. “So? Verdict?”
Mycroft can see that the man is fidgeting even though his hands are now stuffed deep in his pockets. He sighs a put upon sigh. “While the experience itself is nothing I wish to make tradition, I cannot fault the festivities themselves nor the company with which I spent my time.”
Greg laughs and claps him on the back. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you had fun.”
Greg grins and Mycroft can’t stop the flush of his cheeks. He doesn’t want to stop the growing smile, either.
“Merry Christmas, Gregory.”
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”