XxX It'll all be tea and bickies XxX
They hike up into the hills that night. Logan has spent a few weeks checking the location, but he is glad for the cover of darkness as they approach the building on the narrow the street. This apartment would give them cover for the next day.
Moira likes this apartment: it has geraniums growing from a small balcony that looked down onto the street, a comfortable bed, chairs and more importantly hot showers. Luxury. Or it would be a luxury if Logan wasn't sharpening his six deadly blades and Erik wasn't silently assembling weapons. Typical and true to form Charles was cooking. X had a weapon, but his opinion was that if it actually came down to shooting, well you weren't a very good spy anyway, and he'd rather talk his way out. In France this had saved their lives a couple of times, speaking French helped out of course. Charles didn't speak Hungarian, but Logan did, Erik spoke polish and they all had serviceable German and Russian. German and French were still pretty common. Moira could speak fluent Russian on top of the three languages the others spoke, Moira also could translate the Russian code; Moira was head of the service communications. Language at least was not going to be not an issue. Xavier finished making the sauce, glancing at Erik's compact semi-automatic, black and gleaming sitting idly on the lounge. Charles made pasta and invited the others to eat.
They ate in their own spaces with little conversation, plans lingering like threats in their minds. Outside someone was playing a guitar, simply, but beautifully. Charles said something to Moira in French, she giggled. Smiling he put aside the pasta. Their eyes lock.
"You don't mind if we…?" He indicates the only bedroom.
."Knock yourselves out bub." Logan lights another cigar.
Erik drifts out to the landing to smoke his face carefully neutral.
X
Later
Logan is quiet; he has a small glass of Canadian whiskey in his hand. Charles brought it for him. Moira is as sleep in the other room, Erik too is asleep. He nods to Logan and goes out for fresh air.
The guitar is still playing. Charles looks for its source. There is a taxi parked on the side of the street, inside a young man with red hair is stretched out in the front seat. He stands in the doorway and listens some more. He is sure the boy is playing something Irish. There is no one else in the street. Charles cannot resist.
"That's quite a talent you've got there." Charles says openly in English. A huge risk but he suspects from the melody that the boy is from somewhere in the west.
"You want a ride somewhere Mr?" The boy looks about fifteen. "Don't get many English tourists around here?"
"Don't get many Irish taxi drivers either." Charles counters with a small smile. The boy startles, his accent he had thought pretty well hidden. He eyes the Englishman warily. "Are you sleeping out here?" Charles takes in the boy's appearance: his clothes are worn out; he has no jacket, the boy must be freezing.
"Yes." The boy is even more defensive now. Where was the boy's family, an Irish kid in the middle of Hungary? There was more to that story. He appraised the boy one more time, noting that his skin has goosebumps and his red hair has not been brushed. Homeless Charles concludes. Alone. The boy has hair two shades lighter than his sisters. "Here," Charles says taking off his coat and pushing it into the cab. The boy jumps and moves backwards in the seat, as Charles passes the wool coat forward. "Take it, you're cold." He says gently.
"No thanks." The urchin says, but fingers the material it is warm and finely woven, it is expensive looking. "People will think I stole it."
"Cut some holes in it; patch it they'll never know." The boy thinks about it. Charles can see the child badly wants to take it.
"What do you want in return?" The boy is not naïve; many people have ridden in his taxi. Accepting gifts from Rich older men implied a certain kind of transaction that the boy would not deal in. But the man doesn't look like that kind, his face is too open, and his smile too real. The man looks almost as if he is having fun.
"I want nothing." Charles is surprised for a moment and then realizes the boy will not take it for nothing. "Keep it as payment for your song, my wife and I enjoyed quite a lot." He grins to himself, and then thinks of how that song drew him into the street. "Though if I were you I'd learn something a little more local."
The boy feels afraid again, but he nods as if it is wise advice. "I didn't know anyone was listening."
"In these times, there is always someone listening." The man's eyes are a little sad, but he smiles quickly again, "that I suppose is normally a good thing for a budding musician."
"That's not a fair trade. If you're really a tourist maybe I could give you a ride somewhere." Charles has grown more aware of the time and without his coat, the cold as well, he should go back in. He thinks about tomorrow. The young man watches the other's face change it becomes more serious, and almost worried. He seems older again.
"I don't need a ride anywhere," Charles hesitates, he shouldn't ask. Shouldn't have anything more to do with this kid least he get drawn into the danger.
"Is there something I can help you with? I could show you where all the best spas are? I used to do it a lot you know, but we an'it had tourists here in a long time." The boy eyes him thoughtfully, from behind his mop of red hair and green eyes.
Charles leans closer to the car keeping his voice low, "haven't 'erm you seen anyone a bit out of place around here lately?"
The boy's eyes go round. In his mind the boy has given the small English man a new name: spy. A nice spy though, he thinks. "I saw a man with a cigar and a lot of side burns come up here a couple of days ago." Logan, Charles smiles on the inside, James should shave off those handle bars of his they were too distinctive.
"Anyone else odd?"
"Only you." Charles is relieved and grins outright at the jest, the boy grins back. Charles pulls back from the cab. He has to go; he likes this kid very much. "You gunna be around tomorrow mister?"
Tomorrow. Tomorrow could be very dangerous for this boy if he is sitting here in this cab and things go wrong. "You know what my dear minstrel; tomorrow's a good day to go down to the city." The green eyes go very serious. The boy has gotten the hint. He watches the man as he leaves, he is small and unassuming, against the apartment walls bathed in moonlight.