Work Text:
The trouble with posh lovers is they always want to improve your mind.
Worryingly, Lestrade's starting to get quite a taste for it.
Conditioned reflex, probably: watching opera DVDs on Maurice's very comfortable sofa leads to snogging, which leads inevitably to other things. Last time some bastard put on Classic FM while Lestrade was waiting to see the DCI, the trio from Così gave him an erection even Management Bullshit Bingo couldn't quash.
And now it's French film. Three hours of it. At the BFI, so not much chance of a shag. Have to see this one on the big screen, according to Maurice.
The film’s bursting with life: the backstage chaos of pierrots and lions, acrobats and strongmen, the rowdy audience yelling their pleasure and scorn up in the gods, the crowds swarming all over the Boulevard du Crime.
Finally there’s a quiet interlude, hero and heroine gazing down at the lights of Paris while she tells him about her childhood and he falls in love with her. Lestrade catches his breath: he knows that dazed just-woken-up look on the hero's face. It's the look Maurice gave him, the first time they went to bed together: Is it really you at last?
He kisses Maurice’s ear and whispers “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Jean-Louis Barrault?”