They pack up, they leave, but it is Declan that ends up flying the plane. Will sits copilot, leaving him to sit silently, boring a hole into a spot on the floor with his stare. He grips the straps with a nervous strength (he hates flying, always has) and can only breathe relief that their blizzard has subsided, though everything is cast in a morbid shade of grey. He doesn't speak, though he can hear them quietly (not so quietly, it is no private jet and even quiet is so, so loud) but even that too is grey, a dull ringing in the ears that just doesn't stop. He's had enough of it, he's tired, and so angry he's just about ready to go full HAP on the next thing that even dares encroach on the territory of shitstorm; and he thinks he very well might if there wasn't a shivering mass tucked in next to him, wearing a black beanie that is four trains and a taxi away from anything that he has taken to equate to Magnus.
And even that is a shade of grey that he is not comfortable with, magoi Magnus and her evil hench Will having so brilliantly fooled them up until she busts in and saves the day by throwing herself to brazenly into the fold (as usual) and he is so baffled at how he could have missed everything. ("It's in the little things, Henry." she reminds him) but he didn't care for the little things in that hell-pit, he was more concerned with the litter of bodies and the cold, covered corpse of one of his own kind strapped into the back right next to those little hibernating monsters. Details are Will's thing, are her thing, and he is just the guy holding the laptop and pass codes and it's days like these that make him have no desire to be anything misses being the tech guy, the one that sits in his blue lab with black and white computers wearing whatever-he-damn-feels-like colored clothes and not grey and miserable and having to bury his friend. Declan is too stiff with the stick suddenly because the whole plane quivers and Magnus' shivering body is pressed tighter into him and he hears her swear, and grapple for something to hold onto (which ends up being him) and for some reason it is exactly the thing he needs right then. She looks at him and flashes him the most charming of blue-lipped smiles and her jaw trembles as her teeth clack together. "Steady on, Henry." she all but yells to him, and his ears pop, and just like that they're landing. Declan, while a fine flier is not so proficient at his landings and for the next ten minutes everyone clings like mad and sways, a silent (or not so silent) prayer that everything stays were it is.
It's not Moscow, not even close, but all of Russia is the same to him (grey, always fucking grey) and he can see the ocean from here (but at least it's ocean. Ocean on the rocks maybe but there is definitely water there even if it's brackish). They're guided into a small hangar before Declan lets the engines putter out. "Where-" he starts but Will is way ahead of them. "Severomorsk. Just outside of Murmansk."
"Fuel line's frozen. Fat chance we have of warmin' her up without warmin' the ah..." Declan rubbed the back of his head, "cargo."
"Right. I'll call Luka." Magnus says, all professionalism besides the fact he just watched her shiver head to toe like a chill down the spine. She turns, and it is the first time he sees the small door in the side of the hangar. He stands there for a long minute, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "Maybe I should-"
"Henry." Will stops him with a hand on his shoulder. A firm grip, a friendly squeeze (good, he's the real thing). "Declan and I can handle this. You look like hell."
Yes, he imagines he does, but so does Declan. And Magnus. In fact, Will himself looks the least worse for the wear and doesn't Henry just want to punch him for it. But Declan gives him a small not and a 'Get some rest, mate' and he finds himself shuffling his feet, following the good doctor through the small door and into the smallest apartment he'd ever seen. Bigger than a storage closet, smaller than his lab back at home. It's so impersonal, the lone picture on the wall of Russian countryside is laughable. Magnus had already made herself at home, huddled in the kitchenette holding her hands to the flame of the stove (the most updated piece of technology in the room. An open flame in a plane hangar was nobody's friend) while she balanced the receiver of a phone that was straight out of the eighties. "...spasiba, Luka. do Svidaniya." she hangs up, rattling the industrial plastic with one shaking hand. She's not wearing her jacket, having cast it aside, but she's still wearing the hat. Stupid, but Magnus is a big girl. She can take care of herself. It was Terry's, Allistair's fiance. It had been ill fitted for Magnus, tall and stately, but no one was thinking about fashion at the time. They were more concerned about her catching hypothermia, about getting off that sinking ship, about keeping their party of four (seven, with extras) alive. But they're not now, and suddenly it seems very foreign, the idea of Magnus wearing a dead woman's coat.
She's staring at him. "Henry?" the way she says tells him that she'd been trying to get his attention. He looks up and away from the discarded coat and she has that soft, worried look on her face with searching eyes. As if she could try to spot what was ailing him. "Are you alright?" He just wanted to hug her.
Magnus made a small gasp when he wrapped her in his arms, surprised, if only for a moment. "You're rather warm." she sounded half-pleased, and he squeezed gently before releasing her. "What was that for?"
"I don't like people dying."
Realization hit her. "Oh. Oh, Henry." her fingers are still cold, and clammy, and she rests her hand on the side of his face, gently brushing the side of his hair.
That's all she really needs to say. It is an endearment, and Helen Magnus is fluid, with a tight lipped smirk and wily intelligence flashing just beyond the eyes. And he adores her for it. Helen Magnus might have been a good liar, but there were a handful of things that not even she could keep from the world. (too cheesy?) She waits from him to say something, rubbing her thumb in small circles. "They were gonna get married, you know?" He has to repeat everything that he had said to them, the other them, the them-that-was-really-magoi-and-tried-to-kill-them them. "A step in the right direction."
For a moment he considers Tesla, mad man that he was. Last of the sanguine vampiris, and no one was even going to bother to tell the guy that it's okay, he can say vampire. Last time they'd dealt with Mr. Feats and Fangs, he was perfectly content where he was; behind a plush desk gloriously accepting his endangered specieshood with a personal wine rack and a lady friend who referred to him as 'Nikky'. The same Tesla who'd lived through five lifetimes and could live through five more before he thought about trying again. Henry didn't have that long. His time was tangled and squished and tugged at so much he couldn't tell what was happening. Erika was so come and go with pregnancy even still, and the others...they weren't nearly as progressive. And all that stress and discomfort and then this and now he just can't put it back in order but standing there with her he can half imagine it can. Because it's Magnus, and she is a rock.
"Henry." is all she can say and it is her turn to hug him tightly and when she does it's like a weight is temporarily lifted off his chest. "None of us were ready for this. None of this was your-"
"I know." he cuts her off a little more forcefully than he intends, a little more terse, and he feels her tense against him and step away. The only thing he knows how to do is rub the back of his neck sheepishly. "I ah...already had this conversation. With you." the silence is awkward and thick and he hates it. "Other you."
She is more than gracious enough to drop the subject right then with a small cough covered by her hand which turns into a yawn which turns into a little shiver. "Ah, Luka assures me transport is enroute to our location. Could you go check on Declan and Will please?" she ducks her head for a moment and the errant fringe peeking out from her little hat falls over her eyes. "I am in desperate need of something hot, lest I freeze. And you know what Will would say about that." she says the last bit with an upturn of her lips (no longer blue, but a slightly warmer pink again) and it's infectious and he can't help but grin back at her just a little. "Sometimes I think you're just a little crazy, Doc."
Her laughter chimes after him, pulling tight his parka and returning to the plane.
Together, they'd laid out the blocks of magoi near to the hangar entrance where it'd hopefully be cooler. Beside them three black bags, body sized, zipped shut. Henry tries not to look at them, and instead he thinks to Magnus sitting alone in the apartment and with the promise of moderate respite and tea (or no doubt she'd fixed them all a mug of hot water if it meant that she didn't have to attempt to brew something she probably equated to drinking poison); Henry and Declan walk in to find her curled up on the small couch pushed awkwardly against one wall, a small cabinet not quite closed, presumably where she'd found what he was going to forever consider the ugliest quilt ever made. She looks up at the two of them, having been staring into the grey-blue mugs she must have also procured from somewhere. "Tea?" is the only thing out of Declan's mouth and Magnus gestures with her head to three identical mugs in a row on the counter. He makes a beeline for them, but Henry just stands there, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. "I'll just-ah...Take these out to Will then. Keep an eye on things." Declan gives him a small nod and is gone.
Henry doesn't want to go out there again. He doesn't want to be anywhere near them, those things. He didn't often thing so darkly upon abnormals but they'd killed his friends, and in a sense a part of himself and the more he stares at them the more he'd somehow pull the fault on Magnus. However, the woman with mess of curls wrapped in a blanket, smiling at him over a mug of thin tea...he would never be mad at her. "Would you like to sit down?"
He takes her cue, and she tucks her feet in closer (she's not wearing socks. just boots. No socks was better than freezing into the ones she was wearing previously they figured. but not for long). She sets down her mug on the table. "You look exhausted."
"That's what everyone keeps saying." he sighs. And again, it's like she's telepathic. 113 years later, she very well might be. Henry finds himself in her embrace once more, head held in the crook of her neck. She has recovered quickly he has to note, mug warmed fingers tickling the finer hairs on the back of his neck. Breath hot against his ear, he could hear her heart beat, steady. "You did well, Henry." she told him quietly, kissing his forehead.