She’s not drunk, exactly. A little wobbly, certainly, but in these shoes who wouldn’t be? She totters along next to her boss, frowning at her uncooperative thumbs as they stumble across the keypad of her Blackberry.
She glances sidelong at Mycroft. She’s never seen him over-indulge, but after one too many rounds of a ridiculous drinking game with the Polish ambassador, there’s a blotchy flush across his cheeks tonight that makes him look more human than he’s ever been. It’s completely endearing. He reaches up and loosens his tie before he realises she’s still watching.
“It’s fine, sir. I won’t tell anyone,” she teases. Without thinking, she reaches out to loosen it further. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop her.
“S’nice,” she says, staring up at him. “Seeing you like this.”
For a moment, it looks as if he’s going to say something, but he bites it back. He runs a hand through her hair and then pulls away as if he’s burnt, as if he hadn’t quite realised what he was doing.
“I apologise, Anthea.” Mycroft’s voice is clipped as he steps away, cool air rushing between them.
With a resigned sigh, she nods and straightens herself out. “Sometimes I wish you… we…” She bites her lip before she can finish her sentence. He smiles down at her one last time.
“Sometimes, I wish the same.”