One thing that Oxford, at times, rather appreciated about some of his fellow colleagues - one in particular - is that there were quite a number of predictable qualities that they have that make them easy to read, telepathy or no telepathy. If he were a less sociable individual, perhaps he would take up people watching on a more regular basis. For now, however, he was more suitable to being seated in the sumptuous leather armchair, positioned perfectly in the corner of his living room where he could see the front door. Shirt suitably unbuttoned (four buttons, enough to excite the imagination without ruining the fun) and a largely forgotten glass of scotch in his hand, he was the perfect image of a brooding hero from a Cold War novel, dark and mysterious and steeped in troublesome secrets. At least, Oxford liked to think so, with his ambient low lighting.
Early March. It was always an exciting and delectable time, the run up to the Boat Race. The Boat Race. A mixture of emotions and rivarly and a wonderful number of evenings waiting for a one Isaac Moore to turn up on his doorstep - or vice versa, from time to time - with that attractive pink flush in his cheeks and a fighting brightness in his eyes. That spark was all that Oxford wanted to see right now, a thrum of anticipation starting up in the back of his mind, seductive and low.
Cambridge liked to keep himself busy. Yes, he was prone to arriving late at the office (if only due to being a slow riser in that sense of the word) but it wasn't unusual for him not to leave again until gone seven in the evening. He was nothing if not a hard worker - and he liked to play just as hard as he worked.
That day in the office - like many in the run up to the Boat Race - was full of humorously antagonistic little barbs between himself and Oxford. Nothing outright or blatant, no, but little subtle digs. Pre-Race banter was all part of the extravagant battle of wits between the two men but both knew that action spoke louder than words. And so Cambridge turned up on Oxford's doorstep without any real invite but with both of them knowing that he would turn up eventually. It was all part of the game.
He didn't need to raise a single finger to ring the doorbell - nor did he think he even needed to ring it in the first place. He knew that Oxford would 'hear' him approach and he certainly knew that Oxford would be waiting in anticipation.
The walk towards his front door was slow and dallying, his feigned nonchalance as comically obvious as his apparent surprise upon opening the door. Leaning against the door frame, almost as if to block Cambridge's path, keep him stalled in the spring chill for a little longer. There's a little pause as he surveys his colleague, thoughtfully, calmly telling reminding himself that the slower everything happens, the better - Cambridge was always such an impatient man, and to play on that nerve always filled Oxford with an excellent sense of satisfaction. It was a familiar scene; appearing on each other's doorsteps at a moment's notice, if with any notice at all, had become a common way for them to pass their time.
"Good evening."
Taking a sip of scotch, Oxford's eyes never left Cambridge's for a moment, challenging and daring him to make the first move and start the ball rolling. The little power struggle was starting again, a fascinating shift in their dynamic where the desire to one up each other increased tenfold, as if this was somehow going to have some effect on the race itself.
Cambridge’s gaze sweeps the other man up and down - pausing to take in to account that shirt so purposefully half-unbuttoned with a smirk of glee - before inclining his head in a moderately reserved greeting.
"My dear Oxford."
It was a cool greeting that belied the darkly delighted twist in the pit of his stomach at the way Oxford surveyed him behind his glass of scotch. Cambridge lifted his chin defiantly, reveling in the odd frisson of feigned restraint between them that probably wouldn't last beyond the front door. He took a step forward, one hand raised against the wood of the doorframe that Oxford reclined against, and very deliberately began to think over every graphic detail of everything they had done the last time they were together. It was a calculated move on his part: an attempt to bait and tease the telepath in to dipping in to Cambridge’s mind with a promise of more to come.
In response to Cambridge's thoughts, Oxford fought back. He carelessly projected a familiar scene to his friend, hands running up his thighs, touching that sensitive spot on Cambridge's hip, the sound of his breath hitching appreciatively audible in both their minds. Specifically, he called to mind their breathy, low exchanges of encouragement and humour, never absent in their relationship, not even in the bedroom.
"I should, shouldn't I?" Oxford paused, his eyes narrowing critically. "Yet the question is are you going to make it worth my while? Your little quips was certainly lacking a little today, my boy. You can do better than the obvious Byron remarks, you know." Bait, it was always bait. Oxford couldn't deny that Cambridge was sometimes at his very best, his most clever and most entertaining, when his feathers had been distinctly ruffled. Unmoved, he stared at the younger man, waiting. There was a light condescension to his voice, like a teacher smugly reprimanding a student. "We haven't all day, Cambridge."
The good thing about being the victim of mental projections from a telepath was that they were all so deceptively real - not only was Cambridge treated to the visions and memories of that particular encounter but the sensations... a willing receptacle, Cambridge's mind was almost greedily empty in how keen he was to encourage Oxford in. A happy defeat, a willing concession, his initial projection had only served to bait Oxford in to doing the same back to him. He took a step forward and toed the threshold, face-to-face with Oxford and only a breath away.
"You should let me in," he repeats firmly, a knowing eyebrow raise accompanying a hand that he presses against the door. "I'm starting to get a little bored of the word games."
Early March. It was always an exciting and delectable time, the run up to the Boat Race. The Boat Race. A mixture of emotions and rivarly and a wonderful number of evenings waiting for a one Isaac Moore to turn up on his doorstep - or vice versa, from time to time - with that attractive pink flush in his cheeks and a fighting brightness in his eyes. That spark was all that Oxford wanted to see right now, a thrum of anticipation starting up in the back of his mind, seductive and low.
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That day in the office - like many in the run up to the Boat Race - was full of humorously antagonistic little barbs between himself and Oxford. Nothing outright or blatant, no, but little subtle digs. Pre-Race banter was all part of the extravagant battle of wits between the two men but both knew that action spoke louder than words. And so Cambridge turned up on Oxford's doorstep without any real invite but with both of them knowing that he would turn up eventually. It was all part of the game.
He didn't need to raise a single finger to ring the doorbell - nor did he think he even needed to ring it in the first place. He knew that Oxford would 'hear' him approach and he certainly knew that Oxford would be waiting in anticipation.
Reply
"Good evening."
Taking a sip of scotch, Oxford's eyes never left Cambridge's for a moment, challenging and daring him to make the first move and start the ball rolling. The little power struggle was starting again, a fascinating shift in their dynamic where the desire to one up each other increased tenfold, as if this was somehow going to have some effect on the race itself.
Reply
"My dear Oxford."
It was a cool greeting that belied the darkly delighted twist in the pit of his stomach at the way Oxford surveyed him behind his glass of scotch. Cambridge lifted his chin defiantly, reveling in the odd frisson of feigned restraint between them that probably wouldn't last beyond the front door. He took a step forward, one hand raised against the wood of the doorframe that Oxford reclined against, and very deliberately began to think over every graphic detail of everything they had done the last time they were together. It was a calculated move on his part: an attempt to bait and tease the telepath in to dipping in to Cambridge’s mind with a promise of more to come.
"I think you should let me in."
Reply
"I should, shouldn't I?" Oxford paused, his eyes narrowing critically. "Yet the question is are you going to make it worth my while? Your little quips was certainly lacking a little today, my boy. You can do better than the obvious Byron remarks, you know." Bait, it was always bait. Oxford couldn't deny that Cambridge was sometimes at his very best, his most clever and most entertaining, when his feathers had been distinctly ruffled. Unmoved, he stared at the younger man, waiting. There was a light condescension to his voice, like a teacher smugly reprimanding a student. "We haven't all day, Cambridge."
Reply
"You should let me in," he repeats firmly, a knowing eyebrow raise accompanying a hand that he presses against the door. "I'm starting to get a little bored of the word games."
Reply
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