it's been a while and i'm sorry that it has, because i've wanted to upload way sooner, but uni has been tough, exams have been stressing me out since people started mentioning them in december, i've been looking into jobs (hasn't gone well), and, most importantly, this chapter went into rewrite twice with 13k, which ate up a lot of time in my schedule.
i do hope you're going to enjoy it anyway, considering it's more burn than slow burn now, though we're just short a couple of words of the magical 100k - i'm promising some fun things coming soon, by which i mean, most of it will have a bit of angst.


While, usually, a pretty average night's sleep did wonders on her outlook of things, she found that, on the next day, nothing seemed better than it had a couple of hours earlier. In fact, most of it seemed to have gotten worse. She wasn't even well-rested and she knew better than to blame the alcohol. Honestly, Darja couldn't say what she had expected to come out of it, but she sure as hell had expected something.

Well, that something turned out to be a weird tingle under her skin, this strange feeling of restlessness; she was sick of waiting and didn't know what to do with herself anymore – she had tried sitting it out, she had tried exercising, she had tried not thinking about it, but it all boiled down to the realization that there was no running from her thoughts, there was no calming or easing them, there just wasn't anything she could do about it.

It was like walking in circles to get to a destination; she came to understand why so many people liked to work by their own schedules – having to wait was filling her with an emotion close enough anxiety to make her skin crawl.

She ran a hand through her hair with a sigh before she braided it, putting it up into a bun with some strategically planned loose strings framing her face. Nothing she hadn't done before and she hadn't suddenly become self-conscious about her looks either, but there was a difference between dressing up because she wanted to and dressing up because she had to.

Slowly, she changed into the suit, slipping her weapons under the fabric, putting on the glasses, eventually watching her reflection mirror her movements – practical, and very much the opposite of uncomfortable, and she did like the way it looked on her. Maybe she would stick more to this kind of suit, after she made it out of all of this. Assuming she was still alive then.

One final time, she checked the knives and daggers and the gun, assuring herself they were all in top condition and would not fault her, letting out a deep breath. She was as ready as she could get.

A knock on the door interrupted her. For a moment, she hesitated.

"It's open," she called anyway, turning around – the handle pressed down, she was already busy preparing herself for all kinds of unpleasant encounters, breathing a small sigh of relief when it was Merlin who stepped into the room.

He, too, wore a suit, which was in itself nothing new, yes, but even she could tell that it was a different model, more high-end. She could also tell that it suited him, in every sense of the word.

"It looks good on you," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You've said as much before," she found herself saying, a smile sneaking on her face. It was calming, all of this.

"I have," he agreed, and then they stood there in silence for a moment; there were things on the tip of her tongue she wanted to say but she never got around doing it, there was something to them that made it incredibly hard to speak them, nearly impossible to get a hold of them. Whenever she thought she was close enough, they slipped from her mind and she was left standing there, without words, with a pounding heart.

Like right now.

"Are you ready?" he asked and she nodded, without having spared even the fraction of a second to consider it.

"Good," he said, but it didn't sound particularly good, he didn't sound particularly good. She could see it clearly now from where she was standing – just how bad had her eyesight been? Part of her didn't even want to know.

"Everything alright?" she asked, resisting the urge to either cross her arms or step closer.

"As all right as it can be," he answered, sighing, looking like he had aged at least a decade from one moment to the next. She wanted to do something, she wanted to help, but what? What could she do?

Darja arched an eyebrow in question, and the concerned expression on his face smoothed out, easing, becoming soft enough that her breath caught in her throat, making her wonder whether he would shatter into a thousand pieces if she touched him now.

"It's-" he paused, shoulders sinking further, the room too big and too small at the same time, too much distance between them and too little to breathe, she figured she'd just not breathe at all; it appeared to be the easier solution than to bother with all of this.

She stepped closer until she only had to extend her arm to reach him, but that would make it personal, very much more personal than it already was – funny that she was only now worrying about that.

"It's difficult," he said eventually, sounding defeated by not being able to phrase it better.

"It's going to be fine," she replied, mustering a cheeky smile. It made him huff, at least, even if he didn't quite believe her. She barely believed herself, after all.

"It hope it will," he answered quietly, pulling himself back up together, hiding away the doubt that must have been eating him. "Let's go."

She hummed in response, pushing down her own cares and swallowing them. Doubt wouldn't help her. Neither would security, she realized.

They ended up walking to the hangar, in silence, absolute silence, she could barely even hear her own heartbeat in her chest, she could barely hear anything at all. Strange. So very, very strange; was there a word for it? She didn't think there was.

It wasn't nervousness, no, that felt different and she had it long left behind, pretty much after the first time she had risked her life. This had settled in her stomach and her chest, not letting itself contained by her tries of regaining control, always worming its way back to the surface.

What was there to do? Nothing but wait. And she hated waiting.

"Are you sure you can stand being around Kay?" he asked then, after what seemed like forever, and her eyebrow shot up. Where was he coming from, what was he getting at?

"As long as he isn't being that much of an asshole, I'll at least won't think about breaking his nose," she replied and his expression grew soft again, causing a lump in her throat. Just … god, just looking at him made her worry, worry about so many things at once, worry about him and whatever was coming for them, just – worry.

"That's not what I meant," he said with a sigh.

"I know," she replied, lifting her shoulders to a shrug. "It's alright, Merlin. I can deal with it."

"I suppose," he said, something about him making her wonder.

She stopped, considering her words, even if she didn't know what she wanted to say – he slowed to a stop as well, studying her, concern written all over him, and she wasn't blaming him, but she did question why he worried so much. Then again, did she feel any different? No.

Darja managed a smile, hoping that it would calm him, even though she was mildly aware that that was nearly impossible to do; how could she hope to ease his mind when she could barely ease her own? He would know that it was all white lies, told to smooth him, since he would probably do the same, without hesitation.

He sighed, again, heavier than the first time. "I'm afraid I can't be positive about it," he replied, approaching her.

"You don't have to," she told him, looking at him for a long moment, the next couple of words stuck in her head, wouldn't leave her alone. "But I also don't want your worries to eat you, Merlin. It's written all over you."

"It might," he admitted, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said, the silence settling in between them, heavy with so many things neither of them had voiced until now and perhaps never would at all, and she had made her peace with it – maybe it was better some things were never spoken at all. Maybe. She wasn't the best judge on the matter.

"But I am," he said, "for worrying you and everyone else."

She studied him, mulling it over in her head, before she reached out and settled a hand on his arm. "Merlin," she said, a lump forming in her throat again, something strange about the situation she didn't understand, "it's alright. I understand. I think everyone else does too."

He nodded, but it didn't seem like he had gotten what she meant, it didn't seem like he had gotten what she had been trying to say – which was fair. She wasn't really sure what she had been trying to say either.

In silence, they continued their way, next to each other, yet, farther away from each other than before, not in the sense of drifting apart but in the sense of being caught up in their own minds, with no real way out of them.

The hangar was all steel and cement, high ceilings and only metallic beams in between, cold creeping through the fabric of her clothes, settling under her skin. In the middle of it sat a plane, waiting – she had flown before, on several occasions, but suddenly she found herself preferring an aircraft loaded with several dozen strangers than one that would only hold three people.

Eventually, they had crossed the distance that had seemed to stretch to eternity, never to end; the two young agents stand there, stiff and motionless, nodding at them – no words left to speak. She at least had none. If Merlin had any, he kept them; she felt sorry for him.

Then, a calm settled in her chest, the kind she experienced before a fight: her heartbeat and breathing grew steady, the blood rushing through her veins slowed. Now, it didn't matter that all odds were against them. It didn't matter how much could go wrong.

"I'll be leaving the headquarters in your hands," Merlin told them before he ascended the stairs, unresolved tensions filling the air, weighting on them.

The interior was unlike any she had seen before: polished wood and pale leather, as if she had stepped into a room from the seventies – she had never taken a private jet before either, which had a number of reasons, the most prominent one being that they usually drew much more attention than she was willing to attract.

Darja settled into one of the chairs, stretching out her legs. Merlin sat down opposite from her, quiet lingering between the two of them; the craft started, concrete and steel moving above them, making her heart stop in her chest during the takeoff, like it always did. While she did place her trust in human engineering, she often didn't place her trust in other people. Nothing personal.


The flight went smoothly enough, no disturbances, enough silence to fill a world, creeping into her bones and settling there, making her wish she had something else to do, a reason to speak and not be confined to only her thoughts inside her head.

Having landed, they switched to a car; night had set in minutes ago, the sun vanishing from the horizon, wrapping them in absolute darkness the farther they left civilization behind. Fields stretched, no lights to go by, even the car was mostly just … dark, reminding her to why she stuck close to cities when given the choice.

"How are you holding up?" Merlin asked.

Darja just shrugged her shoulders, not really sure what she was supposed to answer. She was holding up, yes, but that was pretty much all there was to it, and she didn't want to tell him that the calm she had felt earlier gradually had been replaced by restlessness.

"Good enough," she replied eventually, when the silence became too much to bear.

He nodded, the movement barely visible; then they returned to the quiet, where her heart seemed to beat louder and quicker in her chest.

Why was this so different from everything she had done as a hitman? She didn't get it. It was, to a degree, the very same thing. The very same thing she had never been restless about before, the very same thing she had done so often that she had to be careful not to get bored. She had attended parties full of pretentious rich people, she had attended events full of drunk people, she had drawn obtained information from people she despised and put herself in dangerous situation, knowing that it could end badly.

And yet, this time, it didn't feel like it was just another job.

After a while, lights appeared in the distance. Apparently, they were approaching their destination – no going back now. Not that she would have, but the thought came with a strange feeling in her stomach, like even now, still several miles away, she could feel that there was something wrong about it.

As they got closer, a line of cars appeared, all polished and gleaming in the headlights, all terribly expensive, right in front of a house that looked like a movie prop.

"It's not what I would have expected," Merlin muttered, a deep frown on his face.

Even Kay, in the driver's seat, seemed uneasy.

She hummed in response, figuring that it didn't look overly British or overly old either; she scanned the windows and doors, the roof, looking for any signs that would give away a trap all too easily. None. So, this was a very elaborate, strange, convoluted way of setting something up or it wasn't a trap at all, which she found even more terrifying to imagine, since, if this wasn't one, what the hell was it instead?

Merlin glanced at her before he extended a hand, settling it on her shoulder. "I'm right here with you."

"That's not what I'm worried about," she replied, pushing up her glasses. By now, she feared she'd never get used to their weight. Once more, silence, long and heavy between them, full of words neither of them would ever speak, full of things burning away at the tips of their tongues.

Eventually, they made it to the entrance, the car slowed, adrenaline started trickling into her bloodstream as if her body knew something she didn't.

Many unfamiliar faces wrapped up in conversation, between glitter and gold and everything expensive, everything bright and sparkling, everything screaming money so much it was deafening; sure, she was no stranger to several zeros attached to numbers, especially not on her paycheck, but even all the money she had acquired in her entire life didn't compare to these family heirlooms these people were parading around.

Maybe it should make her sick, all that wealth, when she knew there were enough humans who didn't have anything at all. Maybe she had grown numb enough to it that it didn't matter anymore. Or maybe she was starting to shut off feelings that weren't helping at the moment.

Stairs let up to the entrance, in half a circle, and she figured, by day you could overlook a garden or endless fields or both quite well. Now, it was just plain darkness, so thick and full that she didn't know if there was any getting out of it. Didn't matter. She was here for a job or at least something she could think of as a job.

Focus. She had to focus.

Merlin got out of the car first, offering her his hand when he opened the door, and she took it, trying not to dwell on the warmth of his skin, but it stuck out against the chill of the air, clinging to her as if to annoy her.

He then offered her his arm and they made their way up the stairs, too many eyes watching and lingering for her liking; it was the prying kind of attention she couldn't really put into words – there was a difference between the critical gaze of a killer and the arrogant eyes of the high society, but she failed to see the difference. Honestly, she'd rather take someone trying to kill her than whatever this right here was turning into.

A pair of large doors stood open; inside, a stretch of carpet marked the entire way from the entrance to the next room. Chandeliers sent down warm light, the atmosphere strangely clean. None of it helped making her feel welcome, even though it probably had been the very intention of it all.

A man in a formal suit stepped in their way. Darja figured he was somewhere in his thirties and apparently also part of the staff, carrying papers around with him. He took a sleek, black pen from a pocket, looking at them as if he was expecting something.

God. Which century had they walked into?

"And you are …?" he questioned in a tone that suggested they were being difficult. Yeah, she didn't like him. Not only for that, but there was a gut feeling to it, and she had done well to trust her gut feeling up until now.

"My name is Craig Matasan," Merlin replied in a polite tone, yet holding tension in his jaw and shoulders.

The man studied him critically for a moment, then glanced at his list, before checking off something.

"And this is my fiancée, Nika Romanova," he added, tilting his head towards her with a small smile she returned, even if she wanted nothing more than to settle a hand on the grip of her gun, just to have a little comfort. It was stupid, she knew, because a weapon couldn't give her security if she got no chance of using it.

"It's a pleasure to have you here," the man said with a smile of his own that didn't reach his eyes after he had checked off her name too, "enjoy your evening."

Merlin nodded and she forced herself to mirror the gesture, before they continued, a strange emotion coiling in her stomach; it didn't make sense. Nothing about this did. But it were feelings and feelings rarely made sense, much less immediately in the moment she wanted them to.

"Everything here is telling me to leave," she muttered, the words barely loud enough that she could hear them herself.

"I get the same impression," he agreed, tensing, as if there was something else to it that he had noticed and was keeping to himself.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, after having glanced at him for a while, trying to figure it out on her own, only to fail.

"I don't like being here," he admitted, as she studied him for longer, worry creeping up on her – was he really that uncomfortable? She wouldn't have guessed. Wasn't there anything she could do to make it easier on him?

"Neither do I," she answered eventually. "Is it the plan?"

The expression on his face grew darker. "Or the lack of thereof," he replied and they lapsed into silence once more, too much silence for her, even if it was filled with steps and chatter and a whole ensemble of other noises, but it was all just background noise, something she could easily drown out. It didn't stop her thought from running wild or coming up with bad scenarios.

Perhaps that was the worst about it all, that her own mind kept haunting her and holding her reason hostage. Or perhaps the worst was that getting drunk wasn't an option.

She tugged a few strings of her hair back behind her ear, swallowing as she looked on ahead.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, or her imagination had started playing tricks on her, she didn't know; the entrance already lay far behind him and they still hadn't reached the end of it. Something about it made her feel small, and she hated that feeling.

Eventually, however, luckily, they reached the next room – large and wide; another high ceiling and gleaming chandeliers, giant paintings, wide windows mirroring darkness, and more people than she could count, all dressed in expensive suits, jewelry, sparkling dresses, heels made for stabbing. Great. They weren't even dressed well, not all of them at least. It made it easy to figure out who came from old money and who didn't.

She drew in a deep breath, exhaling, trying to brace herself and forget about feeling out of place. Most of places she went, she didn't fit in. Her specialty was pretending that she did.

"Are you all right?" Merlin asked.

"Perfectly," she replied, voice dripping with more sarcasm than she had intended to; she didn't want to be mean to him, but the tension was getting to her and her inability to properly deal with it was coming back to bite her.

He studied her for a moment, she was well aware that he knew that she wasn't doing fine, and she was also well aware that neither of them had a solution for that.

"I'm here," he reminded her.

"That's not why," she replied quietly, shoving her fingers deeper into the pockets of her pants and clenching them into fists until her nails dug into the palms of her hands. Sure. She didn't like any of this. It wasn't the first time that she did, however, it was the first time that it gave her so much trouble.

Their gazes met, briefly, only for a matter of seconds, proof of an understanding unlike any other passing between them. There was comfort in that, to a certain degree.

"What is it then?" he asked, something soft in his voice that made her chest ache.

"I don't know," she replied with a sigh, a weight on her shoulders crushing her, pushing her down. What the hell was it? And why couldn't she just shake it? What was her subconsciousness trying to tell her?

Merlin watched her for another moment before he offered his arm again and she took it, still feeling her stomach coil tightly up to the point where she expected to throw up. She didn't. Yet. But she was yet to talk to people.

As if to prove her suspicions right, two people approached them – a part of her hoped that they were more interested in talking to someone they already knew, so, someone else, but it didn't look like she was particularly lucky tonight.

The man's hair had already grayed, even though she wouldn't say he was much older than fifty, and the suit he was wearing didn't seem to be tailored; there was something off about him. He didn't look like he belonged here, which was funny, considering no one around here truly did. Was it paranoia? No. Something was up.

The woman on his side must have been pretty once, but she hadn't aged well and plastic surgery didn't flatter her either; she suspected it was a case of substance abuse beneath it. Her dress looked like a unique piece, covered in gemstones.

"Good evening," the man said, offering both of them his hand. Darja forced herself to shake it even though she'd rather pass up on the opportunity. "My name is Maxwell Gladstone and this is my wife, Edith." With a nod, she managed a smile; they had entered a game and they needed to play by its rules if they wanted to get anywhere. Didn't mean she liked it.

"Good evening to you, too," Merlin replied, so well versed in these strange rules that she wasn't sure whether to be impressed or concerned, "I am Craig Matasan and this is my fiancée, Nika Romanova."

"I'm glad to make your acquaintance," she said, exaggerating her accent, faintly registering someone snorting over the com.

"Romanov as in the Russian royal family?" Maxwell asked, surprised, but not quite real.

"Like in the Disney film?" Kay asked.

"It's not a Disney film," Eggsy answered.

"It's just the same name," she replied with an apologetic smile; swallowing other words she had wanted to say, directed at someone else. It had something surreal, listening to two people arguing about a film in a situation like this, though it was nearly keeping her grounded. Nearly.

There was a moment of silence and she suddenly wished for some fancy glasses filled with some fancy alcoholic beverage she usually didn't drink, because it felt appropriate to sip during such a pause. She didn't even particularly care about potential poisoning.

The woman, Edith, had been studying her, not in the subtle or the polite way, before she finally mustered enough courage to address whatever was bothering her. "I don't mean to be rude," she said in a tone that suggested she couldn't care less about being rude, "but have we met before?"

Had they? Fuck. She couldn't remember and she did have a good memory when it came to faces or voices, so, no, they probably hadn't. Why was she asking then – a trap? Everything about this was one giant trap, how was she supposed to figure out what meant what and what was to blame on people being people?

"I don't think we have," she replied with a tilt of her head, thinking for another moment, only to come to the same conclusion. "Perhaps we've passed each other before? I've been meeting so many people, I'm afraid it's starting to become difficult to keep track of all of them." She gave another apologetic smile, and the couple nodded in understanding; she still couldn't shake the impression that their gazes were looking a little too deep.

"Don't worry about it, love," Merlin said, looking right at her, "I'm sure that's a common issue." He smiled, a soft, pretty smile, and she thought her heart was going to stop beating forever.

Great. Just great.

It was an act and she knew all about acts; she knew that it was stupid, that feelings were stupid, that everything was just incredibly stupid, and yet she couldn't just pretend it was fine, because she never had been that good.

There were some words reeking of fake pity and something about people and so many social obligations for the high class, but Darja wasn't really sure if she was actually understanding any of it; static filled her head and she couldn't drown it out, she just could cling to the non-verbal clues and hope she acted accordingly.

She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, trying to focus on the conversation again, trying to forget about the feelings. When they made it out alive, she could perhaps worry about them. Not sooner and most certainly not now.

The Gladstones smiled – was there something wrong about it or was she starting to imagine things? Was it just another feeling or did she have a reason to mistrust them, based on a tiny detail she couldn't put into words?

Before any of them could say something, to make the situation perhaps even more awkward, people around them set into motion, their destination somewhere at the other end of the room. No matter how much she squinted her eyes, she couldn't see anything worthy of note.

Maxwell followed her gaze, a slim smile appearing on his face, the kind that certainly didn't make him seem any more trustworthy. "It seems, Roman has unveiled his newest idea," he said, "no doubt we'll be hearing about it for the next week."

Merlin displayed a pitiful look, while she only managed deep skepticism; rich people's ideas rarely meant anything good.

They all set into motion then, too, giving her restless muscles something to do, at least, even if it kept the tension building in her body, something urging her to keep her breaths calm and steady in preparation for a fight she suspected would never come; everything seemed wrong, out of place, just not right, and she couldn't say why.

"I'm sorry if I what I said earlier was too much," Merlin said after a moment, quietly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He glanced at her, his concern genuine – not that she had expected anything else, but the weird emotions flickering through her chest surprised her enough to give her pause.

"Don't worry," she told him, voice threatening to give out as her heart rate picked up again; god, so many stupid feelings, how was she ever supposed to get rid of them? "It was alright."

"It doesn't sound like it was," he replied, looking at her in a way that made her wonder if she had forgotten how to act. "I should have been more considerate."

"It's not your fault," she answered, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Besides, we're all pretending here."

"That's not the point," he said, hesitant at the end of the sentence as if he wanted to call her by her name, stopping himself last minute.

"I know," she echoed, quietly, a bitter taste filling her mouth. It wasn't the point, she knew, because the point were all the things they never dared saying at all, since they were personal and intimate and vulnerable and neither of them was very good at being any of these.

Silence fell between them, causing her to grow very much aware of all the conversations around them, full of words she didn't all catch and much louder than they should be. To calm herself, she felt for her gun, briefly, hidden away beneath the suit, but except from being there it did very little to comfort her.

Eventually, they reached a door that had been opened soundlessly, even though she didn't know how. Something this size was bound to make noise, wasn't it? It could also have been a gate, made out of dark wood she didn't recognize and covered with golden decorations.

A set of stairs lead down; she hadn't been aware such a building could even have a basement. Now that she was, she wasn't thrilled to find out what was down there, for several reasons, which all boiled down to a very bad feeling she had that wasn't improving.

It wasn't that she had always had the same issues with basements than she had with elevators, but it was just … ridiculous, to a degree? Over the top? Confusing? Sure, she didn't claim to understand rich people, yet, someone had put much more effort into this right here, whatever it was; abducting and killing someone was a whole lot easier than putting on an elaborate show with social traps and falls, trying to tie the target up in it.

Sighing, she pushed on, Merlin right behind her, who shot her a calming smile when she glanced at him.

The room they entered was dimly lit, nearly completely dark, and felt more like a shady underground bar run as cover by some criminal organization than a fun trip for obscenely rich people who probably never had set foot into an actual bar.

The unmistakable smell of strong liquor filled the air, drowning out everything else to the point where it nearly made her nauseous. Darja spotted pool tables, like she had walked into a casino, except that … it really wasn't one. It wasn't even really a bar, it was missing the key features of either establishment, resulting in something that made her incredibly uneasy – was that really the idea of fun the high society had? She had thought they had standards.

"I don't like it," she told Merlin.

"Neither do I," he replied and they shared a skeptical glance, before she surveyed the room once more, deciding whether there was something she wanted to investigate. No, she didn't think there was, it was rather the opposite, but since – bound by the twisted expectations of what was considered polite or not – they were going to be stuck here for a while, it would end up being terribly boring if she didn't find something to do.

Gently, she placed a hand on Merlin's arm, nudging him forward. He followed her, a frown appearing on his face when he realized that their destination was the bar. She raised an eyebrow at him in return, asking a question she wasn't even sure off herself. Her reply came in the form of a small, barely visible shake of his head as his expression softened.

Darja sat down on one of the stools, studying the menu, even though she didn't particularly care for what kind of drink she got, she just cared that she got one; she had reached the point where she was sick of it all and needed something to ease the strain on her mind and alcohol was really the only relatively safe option that would do.

They placed their orders and barely a moment later, the bartender set two glasses down in front of them, filled with swirling liquid.

"How can you be sure it's not poisoned?" Kay asked and she maybe would have jumped if she hadn't gotten used to it.

"Expertise," Merlin replied, examining the contents of his glass, amber, with a distinct smell she had never liked.

"Another way to become familiar with poisons is to have a friend who specializes in killing with them," she replied, eyeing the vodka in her glass, sipping at it, waiting for the familiar burn in her throat.

Kay muttered something under his breath, inaudible, and then there was a brief, heavy silence, filled with noise all around them.

"Perhaps we should try gathering information," Merlin suggested then but the words sounded hesitant from his mouth, nearly like he had wanted to say something else entirely; she silenced the thought and nodded. Honestly, she had no interest in talking to people, but she rarely had and she recognized that some things needed to be done. They shared another glance before he vanished in the crowd, swallowed by it. Darja forced herself not to look for him, forced herself not to think about how all she could currently do was this.

Anger rose in her throat or maybe the alcohol didn't work well with her this time; there was heat and burning and restlessness. She swallowed it, concealing it, keeping it to herself, and started by chatting around the bar, to the bartenders and other guest some of which seemed borderline drunk already – she would take advantage of that when she absolutely had to and no sooner. After all, some people grew awfully affectionate when they were intoxicated.

By the time she was about to get up, having decided that there wasn't anything useful she could learn, a man approached her. Nothing unusual about that, except that, very, very suddenly, her gut feeling turned bad. She looked at him and knew immediately that there was something off about him, something wrong, in a different way than about this place.

"Excuse me," he said. He was, maybe, sixty, but seemed much older than that; deep shadows and wrinkles and sparse gray hair, the suit he wore didn't quite fit him. It might have. Several years ago.

"Yes?" she asked and arched an eyebrow in question, feeling the need to make sure her gun was still there where it had been earlier. She didn't, for the lack of better options and the fact that it would do little to disarm the situation.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he went on, a Russian accent becoming apparent, "my name is Dmitri Vasiliev." He paused, briefly, like he had run out of air. "I was just wondering – you remind me of someone." His hands shook – was he nervous or was it a side-effect of old age?

"Do I?" she replied, a chill in her voice, heart in her throat. She was distinctly aware that she looked similar to her mother and the very fact was causing panic; maybe this was also just another sick game. Or maybe she looked like someone else, too.

The man avoided returning her gaze. "I thought so," he said quietly.

She didn't like him, her gut feeling didn't like him, he was up to something and that didn't mean anything good. It was only going to be a problem when she couldn't get rid of him; perhaps she was hoping a little too much that would happen, since it would mean she got to break some of his bones.

"I'm afraid you must be mistaking me," she told him, forcing herself to speak calmly, even though nothing about her was calm. "Now, I have to be somewhere." She pushed past him, through too many people, hoping he didn't get the idea that she still, somehow, wanted to talk to him, when it was obvious that she didn't.

Fortunately, he didn't.

"Creep," Eggsy muttered and she hummed in response, heart still in her throat, for more than a single reason, all terrible.

Slipping through the crowd, she found Merlin at one of the tables, undisturbed for a moment, yet still looking uncomfortable, even though it barely lasted a moment before it was gone, and she approached him, eventually sitting down on the chair next to him with a tired sigh.

He glanced at her, expression almost immediately softening. "Are you alright?" he asked, she just nodded her head. "But it still bothers you."

"Yeah," she replied, drumming her fingers against the table.

They fell silent, nearly comfortable, if it wasn't for the overall tension.

"So," she said eventually, after the silence got a little too much, "anything interesting?" It was probably the worst possible thing she could have asked and she knew it the moment it come out of her mouth, but there was no taking it back now.

"No," he said with a shake of his head and they were quiet again, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable quite yet; there were things that both of them could, maybe, talk about, but never did, just like right now.

Slowly, she inhaled, waiting, not sure for what, resigning herself to watching people in the dimply lit room, trying to pick out details with which she could her mind occupied and stop it from running wild, only to realize that there wasn't any way to escape the bad feeling.

Worse was probably that she couldn't even properly voice it; somehow, she felt like being watched, somehow, she felt like there was a trap right in front of her, somehow, there was nothing tangible about it.

She leaned back, staring at her surroundings for a moment longer before she turned towards him, meeting his gaze for what seemed to be a little eternity, even if it only lasted a fraction of a second.

"Something is definitely wrong here," she told him, again perhaps.

"There is," he agreed, pausing as if the next words were difficult to speak. Maybe they were. Every word was difficult now, after all, as they were so close to all these things they never dared to speak. "I have yet to determine what it is."

"Everything?" she suggested, arching an eyebrow, part of her wanting to look away but she didn't, couldn't. It wouldn't make anything better though. Honestly, she didn't know if anything could make that situation better.

The corners of his mouth twitched, not pulling into a smile though, and they fell silent once more; it was like a rhythm they had established, their very own time they worked by.

Around them, people started to get drunk, the ugly kind of drunk, that made Merlin visibly bristle with the same dislike she felt; there was little that could convince her to make polite conversation now. In fact, she was sure there was nothing that could sway her.

"Perhaps it's time to excuse ourselves," he suggested.

Darja couldn't hide her surprise when she looked at him, having figured he'd discard his discomfort for the sake of the mission or whatever, swallowing the sigh of relief that would have made its way out of her throat otherwise.

"Are you sure?" she asked then, using different words than she wanted to, because she wanted to thank him; the weight on her shoulders crumbled when he nodded, confirming that she no longer had to endure people she couldn't stand in way too high numbers.

After another moment they got up and left, seemingly unnoticed by everyone else; the mansion appeared hostile, as empty as it was while they wandered it, paying close attention to the hallways and doors, all leading somewhere but never to anything in particular, it felt a little like walking in circles.

Eventually, they found the room, another empty hallway ahead of them, dim lights flickering occasionally like they were about to go out, making her suspicious of the darkness lingering in the corners as if to jump them – she knew that darkness didn't do that but people in it. And since she wasn't convinced that this building was safe, so she reached for her gun, keeping her eyes on the shadows.

Merlin watched her but said nothing, she thought his hand hovered close to a potential weapon too. He unlocked the door with the key that had come with the invitation, pushing it open. Their luggage sat by the entrance, neatly.

Behind it lay the room in darkness, night pouring through wide and tall windows, the silence so eerie she stopped her own breath to listen, only for all the noise to be drowned out by the pounding of her heart. It wasn't that she was afraid, because she wasn't, there was a thrill to the situation, adrenaline in her veins, the expectation of a fight that never came.

Gradually, she leveled her breath while they checked every room, only then turning on the lights which didn't make the place look any better.

She studied her surroundings for a moment before shaking her head and walking over to the mini fridge, taking a bottle of alcohol from it, not even bothering to pay attention to what it was. Getting drunk wasn't a good idea, hell, it wasn't even an option, but getting enough of it into her system that she, maybe, could sleep after all was something she had to consider, if she didn't want to ruin tomorrow.

Then she picked up two glasses from a drawer and placed them on the table in front of the couch, sitting down; Merlin frowned at the gesture, half a room away.

"Bad idea?" she guessed, not sure what to make out of the way he looked at her – there was worry and something else, running much deeper, making her … she didn't know. It was Merlin. She trusted him. But there was still an ache in her chest pressing all the air out of her lungs.

"Probably," he replied with a sigh, before crossing the distance between them, sitting down next to her, but not without leaving some space. He looked tired, up close. So, yeah, alcohol probably was a bad idea, but that didn't change the fact that it had a temporary effect.

Having unscrewed the bottle, she poured the liquor into both glasses, then setting it back down, deciding to kick off her shoes and take off her jacket. Didn't really help with being more comfortable though. Every nerve inside her body had tensed, up to the point where she was sure it was going to cause her physical pain soon.

Absolutely great.

Merlin took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose; she got the impression that he wanted to say something but didn't or couldn't. Perhaps it was one of these many unspoken things neither of them had really bothered addressing.

"Darja," he said and paused, looking at her, and she hummed in response, looking right at him. The moment caught them, freezing them right there, only for as long as neither of the dared to breathe, which seemed like an eternity; there was something to it that made her wonder, there was even more that halted her thoughts and made her heart slam to a stop in her chest. It was no fear, no, but it certainly was nervousness, no matter how much she tried denying it.

"I-" He paused, again, as if it all wasn't unusual enough for him. "I'm starting to think that this might be much bigger than any of us could have anticipated. There is a much bigger threat."

"So?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. She was pretty sure both of them had realized that, so why was he bringing it up?

"I worry about you," he said then, the expression on his face making her feel like a knife was sinking into her chest.

"I know," she replied.

"I worry very much about you."

"I know."

He seemed frustrated, as if 'worry' wasn't the word he wanted to use and now he was trying to wrap his head around finding another word, but … she didn't really know; she knew what he meant. She thought she did, at least.

"I don't want you to die," he said, still not satisfied with the phrasing.

"I don't want you to die either," she replied, watching him, trying to find a way to put the way she was feeling into words, the aching in her chest, the strange sense of loss, her stomach turning. Darja gave up, quickly.

There was doubt on his face, and guilt, doubt and guilt; they both were aware that she could very much protect herself, yet, facts usually did little to smooth irrational thoughts. She was an expert on those, on having them at least.

Silently, she put down her glass, moving closer, just an inch, half an inch, before she reached out, settling her hands on his shoulders, fabric squishing under her fingers.

"I'm not going to die," she told him, convinced she wouldn't because she hadn't until now. Couldn't get much worse than that, could it?

"I know," he replied with a sigh as he reached for her hands, slowly pulling them together between his fingers. "But I can't help but fear that you might – anyone might."

"You're not always responsible for everything, Merlin," she said, furrowing her brows. "I know it hurts seeing people die, but it also hurts seeing someone you care about getting eaten up by guilt." Not the best point. Not at all.

He exhaled, falling silent then.

"It's not easy," she continued, voice growing soft, "and I don't expect you to be able to do something about it immediately, so don't expect you to do it now either, just, maybe … try not to run yourself into the ground."

"Thank you," he said after a moment, managing something like a smile, "I'm glad to have you here." He was speaking so quietly she thought she must have misheard him, but the softness on his face and in his eyes proved her wrong, sending a sputtering burst of warmth through her body.

"As am I," she replied, smiling, wanting to blame it on the alcohol even though she knew she couldn't.