"You can't send Galahad on a honey trap mission!" Mordred is nearly dancing with fury. "Send me!"
The Chief bursts out laughing, and Galahad almost laughs as well, even though he knows that Mordred can't bear to be laughed at. Sure enough, Mordred's sharp dark face crimsons, and for a moment it looks like he might fling himself across the desk and punch the Chief.
But then he calms. "You don't think I can do it," he says, and his voice is cool, almost detached. "I can, though."
He takes off his tie. He sets it lightly on the Chief's desk, and undoes the top button on his shirt, and reaches up to muss his neatly shellacked hair. He is standing differently than normal, too, no longer tense and sharp as a knife blade, but relaxed, almost languid, one hip canted against the Chief's desk.
He swings off his suit jacket next, draping it over the chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, right cuff, left cuff, rolls up his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms, thin bony wrists like a child's.
"Mordred - " the Chief starts.
Mordred looks up, his dark eyes wide, his expression almost surprised, doe-like is the word that pops into Galahad's mind. He leans forward, looking into the Chief's eyes, one lock of his disordered hair falling over his forehead. His voice soft, intimate, confiding in a way that Mordred never is, Mordred says, "Don't you think we should continue this conversation somewhere more... private?"
The Chief slaps a palm on the table. He levers himself to his feet and smacks Mordred's back, too, hail-fellow-well-met. "All right, son," he says. "If you want the job so much, it's yours." He bellows out a laugh. "By Jove! I never would have guessed you could act like such a tart!"
And the Chief leaves the office, still laughing. Mordred's color is high. He stiffens again, back tense, chin lifted, reversing his strip-tease: sleeves unrolled, cuffs buttoned, hair smoothed down with the quick finicky movements of a grooming cat.
Galahad is staring at him. "Which school did you go to?"
"Grammar school."
I didn't know they had tarts and bloods at grammar schools, Galahad thinks. But he doesn't say it. Mordred's voice has returned to normal: tense, taut, buttoned down.
He ties his tie and grabs up his jacket and looks at Galahad sharply. "What?"
"I could have done the mission," Galahad says.
Mordred snorts. He swings his jacket on, a swift graceful movement of his arms, a twitch of his shoulders as he settles it. "I'll do it better," he says. Then, over his shoulder as he leaves the office: "I always do."
no subject
***
"You can't send Galahad on a honey trap mission!" Mordred is nearly dancing with fury. "Send me!"
The Chief bursts out laughing, and Galahad almost laughs as well, even though he knows that Mordred can't bear to be laughed at. Sure enough, Mordred's sharp dark face crimsons, and for a moment it looks like he might fling himself across the desk and punch the Chief.
But then he calms. "You don't think I can do it," he says, and his voice is cool, almost detached. "I can, though."
He takes off his tie. He sets it lightly on the Chief's desk, and undoes the top button on his shirt, and reaches up to muss his neatly shellacked hair. He is standing differently than normal, too, no longer tense and sharp as a knife blade, but relaxed, almost languid, one hip canted against the Chief's desk.
He swings off his suit jacket next, draping it over the chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, right cuff, left cuff, rolls up his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms, thin bony wrists like a child's.
"Mordred - " the Chief starts.
Mordred looks up, his dark eyes wide, his expression almost surprised, doe-like is the word that pops into Galahad's mind. He leans forward, looking into the Chief's eyes, one lock of his disordered hair falling over his forehead. His voice soft, intimate, confiding in a way that Mordred never is, Mordred says, "Don't you think we should continue this conversation somewhere more... private?"
The Chief slaps a palm on the table. He levers himself to his feet and smacks Mordred's back, too, hail-fellow-well-met. "All right, son," he says. "If you want the job so much, it's yours." He bellows out a laugh. "By Jove! I never would have guessed you could act like such a tart!"
And the Chief leaves the office, still laughing. Mordred's color is high. He stiffens again, back tense, chin lifted, reversing his strip-tease: sleeves unrolled, cuffs buttoned, hair smoothed down with the quick finicky movements of a grooming cat.
Galahad is staring at him. "Which school did you go to?"
"Grammar school."
I didn't know they had tarts and bloods at grammar schools, Galahad thinks. But he doesn't say it. Mordred's voice has returned to normal: tense, taut, buttoned down.
He ties his tie and grabs up his jacket and looks at Galahad sharply. "What?"
"I could have done the mission," Galahad says.
Mordred snorts. He swings his jacket on, a swift graceful movement of his arms, a twitch of his shoulders as he settles it. "I'll do it better," he says. Then, over his shoulder as he leaves the office: "I always do."