Mae Govannen,

There is not much to say save for I am a very slow writer, but you all probably know this already :)

Namarïe

Part Three

Illya is not entirely sure how he manages to end up with the duty of babysitting The Magpie.

The Russian's home consists of a three-room flat situated in one of the slightly quieter corners of the city. It is modest, with grey walls and no cheer, but he has all he needs. A bed, a kitchen, a roof over his head...

The thief has been silent since the drive from the bunker, his blue eyes shrouded in secrets, gazing away off into the distance as Illya navigated the 'safer' roads with care. He cannot be older than Thirty-two, if Illya were to hazard a guess. He's well built… perhaps even beautiful. Illya can see that now, his gaze tracking The Magpie as he wanders around the living-room. His face, under the bruises, is pale and elegant, with dark lashes to frame his startling blue eyes. He moves in small bursts, fingers twitching with a restless energy.

It is making Illya antsy.

"Would you sit down?" he snaps, turning to seize the other man and forcibly push him into a chair. Corded muscle tenses under Illya's hands, and for a moment he thinks the thief will fight back, but he allows the man-handling- sinking down onto the piece of furniture. His bruised face is smeared with streaks of dried blood, but he manages to flash Illya a small, crooked smile.

"Sorry, I pace when I get nervous."

Illya does too, but he is far from willing to offer that up.

Now, in the stillness, Illya takes his first uninterrupted look at the man he has been looming over. The dark curls mattered with sweat and blood… eyes the color of a summer sky… O' boheze, but Illya misses the sky… the way it would unspool in an endless ribbon over the city. In his memory, the buildings are untarnished, the clouds drifting on a slight breeze as a little boy runs amongst the leaves in a park, blond hair shining in the sunlight. Nothing has hurt him yet. Perhaps nothing ever will… if Illya does not blink.

He shakes himself, angry, though he is not sure why or at whom, and takes in the clothes the other man is clad in- how they are stained and creased. Illya frowns. It is getting dark outside- he can see the gloom settling though the small window in his kitchen.

"You will be alright here? On couch?" he asks, and The Magpie inclines his head with a crooked smile.

"Do you need a change of clothes? You can wash the ones you are wearing. Is no bother."

A long moment passes, where the thief proceeds to gaze at Illya in what might be surprise. He's not sure. All he knows is that it makes his skin feel too warm.

The Magpie shakes himself. "If it's on offer."

Illya shows him where to find the washer and dryer- tucked into the closed under the sink. He points to the wicker hamper lurking by the hall door. "Is full of clean clothes," he says shortly, but not unkindly. It had been a long day and he probably needs to sleep before his English deteriorates beyond all comprehension.

The Magpie nods, spinning the ring on his finger- the bird's claret eyes flash in the dim light overhead. Illya knows that he does not have to worry himself over the man trying to escape tonight. The silver cuff Waverly had clasped about his ankle is proof enough.

He could not leave Illya's home if he tried.

Waverly arrives the next morning when Illya's clock declares it eleven, dressed in a smart charcoal grey suit with a black tie. Illya says nothing, letting the man into his home, and sliding a mug of strong coffee across the table in offering. He can hear the water running, knows the Magpie must be washing the blood from his face, and sits down opposite Waverly to wait.

The Englishman gives Illya a small smile, and then says, "You and our friend back there will be under my command for the duration of this mission. I thought it would be best if you didn't have to worry about Oleg breathing down your backs."

The relief that sweeps over Illya renders him speechless for a long while, his jaw working as he tries to find something to say. This is better than he could have hoped for, he knows. Truly luck must be on his side for once. Eventually, all he can manage is a hoarse, "Thank you." Which falls far short of what he longs to say, but before he can try again, a soft scuff of feet announces The Magpie's arrival as he edges into the room.

His clothes are clean, if no longer immaculate, the white shirt and black waistcoat with the silver buttons remind Illya strongly of the bird the thief is named after, with his black trousers and boots completing the look. His hair is drying into small, soft-looking curls, and Illya is struck by the sudden want to run his fingers through them. To find out if they really are as velvety as they look. The famous white streak of hair that runs along the left side of his head is almost blinding now that it is clean. Pure and untarnished, and Illya knows that it is natural, but even he doubts it in that second.

There is an ugly bruise on the thief's jaw, and a scabbed-over cut just above one vibrant eye, but other than this, he looks well enough. The ring on his finger glints as he pulls up a chair at the table, beside Illya so they are both facing Waverly.

"How are you feeling?" Waverly asks gently, and the thief laughs- a short burst of sound, almost harsh in the silence.

"Fine," he says, and if Illya hadn't been paying such close attention to him, then he might have missed the hint of bitterness lurking in the smooth tone. The Russian can see those black lines on the pale skin of The Magpie's bicep again- though the rip in his shirtsleeve. It is definitely a wing; he can see now. A magpie's wing, if the dark streaks are anything to go by. "I should mention that I have a clientele meeting tomorrow… it might be a good place for Kuryakin to start. Have him seen with me… so they don't get too suspicious when we go after Vinciguerra."

"Indeed." Waverly looks to Illya, who nods. Yes, that sounds like a good plan. To get to know the snakes he is going after. "Is there anything you need for this?"

The Magpie flashes a brittle grin, ice frosting the blue of his eyes. "It would help if I could get escorted by my place, yes. I can hardly show up to my meeting looking like I was being interrogated all day."

And it strikes Illya there, very clearly, that this man has the potential to be very, very dangerous.

Illya drives The Magpie to his home in his old grey car, drumming his fingers rapidly on the steering wheel. Contrary to the Russian's belief, the thief does not live within the rich corner of town. Rather, he directs Illya to an old, chipped brown stone building within the central quarter. One that has clearly seen better days.

And while it might be a shade nicer than the dreary grey block that Illya lives in, it is still below what Illya has come to think of The Magpie's standards.

The thief seems to notice this when Illya parks the car on the faded curb and unfolds from his seat with a careful look of neutrality on his face.

"A thief who surrounds himself with glitter and prestige is as good as dead," says the dark-haired man, fishing a set of copper keys from a pocket in his waistcoat. "Besides… I can't stand snobs."

"You work for snobs," says Illya, a hard edge to his tone. He knows he is judging… damn it. "Criminal snobs." People who inflict pain for the joy of it… who love the feel of handling the hangman's noose. Of dangling that what you reach for so desperately just above your aching hands.

What does that say about you?

The Magpie shrugs, shouldering the door open before he leads the way into the foyer.

He starts for the hall at the end of the room, but Illya lingers, head tilted back to study the dome of the ceiling- painted with flowers and stars and curling ribbons of wind. There is a tear in the wallpaper along the first floor's landing- the kind of tear that makes him think that a portrait might have hung there once, long ago. An grand old fireplace takes up another wall, its stones crumbling and dusting the floor with its decay. In the hearth, he thinks he can see the ashy forms of books.

He wonders why they had been burnt.

He wonders if they will hold their shape if he dared to touch them.

They head up a groaning staircase- the carpets worn through with the shadows of feet, the color a dusty maroon. Perhaps it had once been velvet?

The ceiling is high, the banister rail painted a gaudy gold, flakes of the color gleaming in what remains of the carpet like far-away stars. The halls they pass on their ascent are arched with an old sense of grandeur, the brass lamps lining the wall now mutated to run on electricity instead of oil or gas. The windows are smoky with the residue of candles that have burned for decades, now a mere ghost lost to time. Illya thinks that this place might have once been a theatre, or even a hotel. He can imagine the carpets, new back then, as a deep claret; The rail gleaming as hands slid along it, polishing it to a blinding sheen; how the windows must have glowed with the light from the flames dancing in their bowls on the windowsills… how the chatter of voices would have made the building come alive.

All that remains now are the ghosts heard in the creaking of the stairs underfoot. Or the scratching in the walls.

The faint thud as someone distant lets something fall behind a closed door.

The whistling of a draft curling its cold fingers through the chinks around the windows.

A tiny spider evades Illya's hand on the rail as they continue their climb, scrambling for safety. Past the third floor… the fourth…

Once, he thinks he catches the glimpse of what might be a face- peering out at him from a door… but, when he leans back to see, it vanishes in a blink.

Finally, at the fifth floor, The Magpie leaves the spiral of stairs for the gloom of the hall. The doors that line it like broken teeth all have large, faded numbers painted on them in yellow and red. Though the ones that christen the thief's door are long gone away- mere specks of visceral sunlight to show where they once had been.

Inside is far nicer than outside. The walls are wood paneled, and the carpet is newer and dusky red, like the color of blood a few days old. The two doors leading off the main room are closed, and The Magpie heads straight at the one on the left, shucking off his waistcoat and torn undershirt as he goes. Illya has to fight the urge to trace the sleek, strong lines of his back with his eyes- snowed with a small collection of pale scars- as he shoulders the door open. The thief turns at the last minute, and Illya stubbornly forces his gaze to remain on the man's face.

"There's coffee in the kitchen if you want," says the man, undoing his belt one-handed and drawing it through the loops of his trousers before winding it about his hand with ease. Illya finally sees the full spread of black lines on his bicep, and yes. It is a magpie. And a rather elegant one too. He wonders who did it. "I'll be a while."

"When is your…" Illya mostly manages to keep the distaste from his voice when he speaks, "…client meeting?"

The thief laughs, but he sounds amused rather than angry, so perhaps Illya has succeeded. "Don't feel the need to hide your distain from me, sweetheart," -Illya's gut clenches at the word- "I don't care."

He flashes a glance at the clock on the wall. It reads quarter-to-one. His smooth drawl is somewhat flat when he adds, "My meeting is at six. The bar is on the other side of the city."

Illya nods, and the man vanishes- closing the door behind him.

Part Four

Illya is finishing his third coffee, this one laced with the scotch he uncovered in the old, stained cabinet alongside the mugs, when The Magpie finally reappears through the door.

The Russian's brain has been trundling a long loop of scenarios for tonight… running plans, trying to guess which bar will be the floor for the battle he is about to partake in… whether he is dressed well enough.

This seems to be the first thought on the thief's mind too, for he looks Illya up and down- taking in the supple suede coat that brushes to Illya's knees, the shade of hazel leather pairing quite well with his pale hair, and the black turtleneck underneath.

He tilts his head, then nods once. "You'll do," he says in answer to Illya's unspoken question.

And the Russian does not trust himself to reply. How can he, when the other man stands there, in his black waistcoat and pants, white undershirt faintly embroidered with the forms of birds in flight. With his blue eyes shining from under dark lashes, a dusting of deep purple powder shimmering on his eyelids. His curls are artfully tousled, inky in the light of the room, reminding Illya of an oil spill; the dark hiding small gleams of iridescent colors; the white streak a shine of mystery amongst the black. His smile is a devastating thing- all sharp and crooked, and Illya does not trust his tongue, so he says nothing.

"I see you found the whisky," comments the thief, moving to brush past Illya so he can pick the bottle up off the counter. His rings, for he is now wearing two more along with the one Illya has seen before, sounding a sharp ting! against the glass as he takes a long swallow. "I never pegged you for a lover of Irish Coffee."

"I am not," grits Illya, scowling as The Magpie drinks again from the bottle. "Is to help me stay awake…"

Why is it that being near this man sends his English skulking off into a corner?

Illya plucks the bottle away, corking it. "Will do no good if you are drunk for meeting, da?"

"I have been handling my meetings on my own long before you showed up," grouses the thief sourly, but he takes a coat down off the peg behind the door and shrugs into it. It is split up the back and flares as he walks, black material embossed with the faint tracery of feathers. "Shall we go then?"

Illya frowns at the clock on the wall. "Is too early."

The Magpie scoffs, but a slight grin tugs at his lip. "I prefer to be early… gives me an advantage."

Illya can most certainly respect that. Neither will he argue further. He would like to have time to scout out the bar, give himself time to plane escape routes for if things go south. "Very well."

The Magpie takes the stars two at a time, like a child impatient to be somewhere that only they can possibly find important. His boots scratch on the worn carpet and his rings shriek on the steel of the railings, and all the noises make Illya want to claw his ears clean off.

Outside, the sun had begun to dip, lurking behind the clouds. It leaves bright scars behind Illya's eyelids as he blinks, not having been fast enough in looking away.

When he starts the car, it coughs and splutters like a dying cow before it grumbles to life. The Magpie says nothing, but Illya gets the feeling he wants too. He is grateful for the other man's restraint, however.

The radio hisses with static, and the thief reaches out, but hesitates- fingers hovering over the dials.

"Um… may I?"

Illya gives a sharp nod, before winding his window down- losing his hearing to the rush of wind in his ears. Faintly, he can hear the station that The Magpie settles on, playing a song so old it might as well have cobwebs all over it.

It is nice though, the words a soft crooning voice. Female. The quality not as good as it could be without the help it sorely needs.

Not that Illya says any of this out loud. There seems to be something stuck in his throat, so he merely swallows and follows the road, trying not to pay attention to the man sitting beside him.

Trying to tell himself that nothing is wrong.

"Did you grow up in Russia?" asks the thief suddenly. There is no malice in his tone- only curiosity. "I just assumed… you sound so…well, Russian."

Illya clenches his jaw so hard that he knows he will have a headache later and says, "I was seven when we moved here. Only ever spoke Russian in the house. It is hard to lose the accent."

"Ah."

Illya glances at the man. "You?"

The Magpie wets his lips, spinning one of his rings around a finger. Restless. There is a shadow that steals over his eyes swift as a breeze. Then it is gone. "Brooklyn," is all he says, and then turns his head to gaze out his window and offers nothing more.

There is an itch under Illya's skin as something deep inside him wonders if he had said something wrong. And yet he cannot keep himself from blurting, "Then why not stay there? Bombs never fell on Brooklyn, if I remember correctly?"

The Magpie never turns from the window, but his shoulders become one long, hard line. He says, so softly that Illya almost misses it, "My father never gave us a choice on the matter."

"Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place, and have a drink or two…" croons the voice on the radio. Male now. "And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, 'I love you'."

"I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before.

"And though it's just a line to you, for me it's true, and never seemed so right before."

It sounds like an elevator song. Illya grumbles as much as he waits for the lights to turn green, the streetlamps flooding the car with a faded glow.

"It's Frank Sinatra," says the thief. "Of course it sounds like a fucking elevator song."

The bar is in a seedy part of the south quarter. Bleeding lurid lighting all over the streets. It is a low-slung building, with wooden walls and an awning of green and gold. And from what Illya can make out of the doorknocker, it looks like a horseshoe. Music is echoing faintly from the large arched and frosted windowpanes as The Magpie directs Illya to a carpark located out the back of the building. It's cleaner than the Russian had thought it would be, and so is the bar's entrance hall.

Velvet carpets in the shade of shamrock, old, dusty paintings hung crooked on the walls. The roar of chatter and laughter ringing out as they head deeper into the lamplight. The Magpie has his hand in the small of Illya's back now, steering him along, and for once, Illya is glad of it. With his senses this bombarded, it is a wonder he can manage to walk in a straight line.

The bar-room itself is far larger than it looked from without. And it is not full, but there are at least fifty or sixty people here so far, and plenty of space for more.

A woman sways with her cello over by a small stage flanked by two fireplaces, her voice throaty as she sings,

"And so I look to karma,

"And if try not to harm another,

"I will not be harmed by anything."

She spots the thief beside Illya and a grin stretches her face as she sweeps out a hand to indicate him and adds,

"If I salute The Magpie, knock on wood,

"Will I be doing any good?

"Am I strung up or do I pull the string?"

The Magpie laughs and blows her a kiss, to which she rolls her eyes and returns to her song. It is quite good; Illya has to admit.

A shout rings out and a man forces his way through the crowd to their side. "Oi, Maggers!"

The thief chuckles as the man, face as red as his hair, throws an arm about his shoulders, effectively dislodging his hand from Illya, who digs in his heels and stands his ground. "Had a few to many there, Brian?"

"Nah," says the man, even as he lets out a muffled belch. Illya cannot quite stop his nose from wrinkling in distaste. It smells of heady liquor in here. A shade close to too heavy, and Illya finds himself edging closer to The Magpie, not wanting to be left alone amongst these corridors of people and pint glasses.

"Oh, ho! And who's this then?" Brian's eyes glint as he tilts his head up to inspect Illya. He grins. "This your new squeeze, Maggers?"

"No," says the thief, darting a glance at Illya. There seems to be a shade of worry in his eyes at Brian's words. Illya's not sure why-

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

A quick darting glance tells him all he needs to know. The number of women present: four. The Location of the bar: South Quarter.

…The two young men at the back who are indulging in an activity that Illya really does not want to get a closer look at….

Panic sets in.

He cannot let Oleg find out he even set foot in here. In this hellhole. Boheze, what would the man say?

It matters not that Illya is like them. It has never mattered. It only proves further that something is broken inside him. Something irreparable, twisted and… and wrong.

So, he jerks away from The Magpie's hand-now like a branding iron on his spine-, away from his concerned eyes, and flees, darting into the hall.

He seizes his coat off the hook, hides his face in it, and leans against the wall.

He has a mission.

A duty.

Perhaps Waverly would understand his being in this place… but Oleg…

A full-body shudder wrecks Illya's frame, that red mist lurking at the edges of his vision. No. No, no, no. Not here. Please not here.

And then the thief is there. Calm and quiet. Not saying a word.

Illya is struggling to breathe, to fist his shaking hands that continue to spring open, against his will.

You are weak, Kuryakin, echoes the sneer. Weak and such a liability to us all.

"I probably should have asked if you were straight," says The Magpie, scratching at the base of his neck, awkward. "Before I… uh… before I brought you here."

"I…" Illya's numb, nerveless fingers drop the jacket. He is cold, his head spinning. "I… am not. Even though I… I should be." He shakes with the admission. The secret scalding out in the open.

The Magpie seems have pity on him, reaching out to take one of Illya's trembling hands in his.

The Russian flinches at the contact, scared. He can feel the fog of an episode dulling the corners of his mind, can feel the shudder creeping like a crawling shadow up through his body. Not now. Please not now! There is no one here who knows how to contain him- to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone-

Illya is halted in his fast downward spiral to a soft thumping under his palm. Startled to sanity for a brief moment, he looks up hazily to find the Magpie is holding his broad palm to his chest. To his heart. The Thief's eyes are closed, his body relaxed, calm. As though Illya were not now close enough to the man to hurt him. To… Illya swallows, darting a glance around the hall, but it is only the two of them here- alone in the shadows.

Illya struggles for a breath that rasps in his dry throat, tries to calm down, and then the thief says- without ever opening his own-,

"Close your eyes."

Illya's whole body fights this idea, but some small part of him wins it over. They slide closed, leaving him to blackness. It is almost comforting, that dark void coupled with the steady beat of the other man's heart under his palm. A living metronome… slow and sound.

And then, in plain unaccented French, the Magpie begins to sing softly,

"Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot,

"Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot,

"Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu,

"Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu…"

The words are a caress, soothing, and Illya knows it is a lullaby, but right now he does not care. It calms his shaking, eases his chest long enough so he can drag in a gulp of air. The looming threat of mindless rage loosens its noose, and he can breathe.

Somewhere between blinks, The Magpie's free hand has slid to cup the back of the tense line of Illya's neck, fingers warm on his taut skin. He draws Illya closer, now humming the same tune.

It does not feel wrong. He knows it should. He should not want this… this touch. But the rage has vanished from his body like the mist before a rising sun and Illya's legs give way. He sits down hard on the hallway bench, hands coming up to hold onto The Magpie's shoulders as he lets his forehead rest against the thief's chest. He can still feel the heartbeat- throbbing in time to the receding pressure at his temple.

Surprisingly, the thief says nothing, freed hand moving to card through Illya's short blond hair. When he feels a kiss, pressed like a whisper to the top of his head, he is too tired to try and flinch away.

"How long have you been living with this?" murmurs The Magpie against his skull.

Illya thinks he can feel the vibrations shuddering down his spine. How Is the thief still this close to him? Most people just leave. Oleg likes to remind him how he is… damaged. That it is somehow his own fault that he is like this. This terrible anger… the desperation for time to loop back on himself so he could tell his parents 'I love you' one last time, knowing now that he would never see them again.

Somewhere, he finds the strength to rasp, "Since bombing. It…" He knows that his English is deteriorating thanks to his inner turmoil, but he presses on anyway. For once, someone is listening. "It… I … getting worse." He has turned twenty-nine this year, the spells closer together than when they had first begun. It scares him.

"Have you been referred to a psychiatrist?" The Magpie's voice never lifts from that soft, calm murmur.

"No."

"Why?"

Illya swallows. There is glass edging his throat all the way down, and his voice is fragile when at last he says, "They said I was not worth the bother."

He will never forget the way those blue eyes go hard. How they sharpen into knives, the thief's mouth a hard line. "You listen to me, Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin," -he startles at the use of his full name. how had the man known? - "You fucking well are worth every bit of bother. You hear me?" He takes Illya's face into gentle fingers, shaking him ever so slightly. "Do you hear me?"

The man's vehemence is so surprising that Illya does not bother to argue. What can he do but try and take it all in?

The Russian manages a soft, "Da."

Because this man is so beautiful, with his blazing eyes and cheeks now dusted with a pale pink. He is like some kind of avenging angel… and Illya wonders if it would really be a sin to love someone like him…

"My father told me I was worthless, every goddamn day after my mother died," says The Magpie, and Illya is astonished at how close to a snarl his voice has become. "Until he got sent six-feet-under. And yet, here I am. People who say things like that, sweetheart, they're trying to break you down. To control you. Don't let them win, for fuck's sake. Never let them win."

The thief's chest is heaving, his mouth a cross between something fierce and something broken. Illya is struck by the sudden urge to kiss him, yet he manages to tramp it down. But it is a close thing: This man shines brighter than the stars that Illya used dream of.

Instead, he just hugs the thief closer, and murmurs into his chest,

"Thank you, Soroka."

The client meeting doesn't take long. A portly, middle-aged man gives The Magpie the details of a rare artwork he wants to acquire, and the thief tells him to give him a month or two.

This might be because the artwork in question is in a vault in Paris.

And then it is over.

Illya ends up dancing with The Magpie. Somehow. Perhaps he had one to many shots of the cherry vodka they keep behind the bar. Perhaps it is because he is feeling lighter than he has in years.

Somehow, he ends up with that nimble body in his hands, following those quick, clever steps. And when he dips the thief, the man laughs- with his blue eyes sparkling, and his cheeks frostbitten with the tinge of a blush the color of a new rose.

And Illya wonders if it would really be so bad.

To love a man like this.

To love a Magpie.