Basement Level, House of Atreus Apartment Building in Knightsbridge. 0330 hours.


Balfour rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling utterly knackered as he waited for the elevator. It was not a healthy hour at which to be awake. Of course, nobody ever said that hosting an underground radio broadcast would be easy.

He blinked tiredly as the bronze doors drew open.

Ira Almasy stood in the centre of the elevator, smart navy heels against the white marble and a matching, silken dressing robe that miraculously executed prudence with style. The mirrored walls gave him the impression of multiplicity and he needed to blink again. Her thin lips were spread into a wry smile.

"You look like hell," she intoned humourlessly while he entered and the doors slid shut. "Beasts or the broadcast?"

There was nothing unpleasant about the way she meant it but that was how he knew it was the truth. His own reflections exhibited, without mercy, crumpled work clothes and smears of beast blood from a long day in the field. The weariness in his shoulders seemed to show in the wrinkled, rolled down shirtsleeves - and in the shadow beneath his eyes.

He searched his pockets for a cigarette, only to find her offering one from a black case of sobranies. "Thanks. Bit of both, I reckon." Balfour let her light it for him and watched the small flame flicker sweetly at the end of her steady wand. "Wasn't bloody expecting Johann Storm to call in." Everything he said tasted bitter, so he took in a first breath and exhaled gradually with closed eyes. The smoke grated on everything inside the wizard; scraped calmly in his lungs and lifted a cloud of heavy thought.

Ira made an amused sound.

"It was not necessary to air him." He opened his eyes at this, noted that she hadn't spoken with an expression of critique so much as curiosity. "You've forgotten. Your voice." Ira added and touched the tip of her wand to his Adam's apple - it took a modicum of restraint not to step back.

A tingle went through his throat, diminishing the charm that disguised his real voice with that of a deeper, American cadence.  Ira's gaze flickered from his neck to eyes, holding the connection patiently.

Smoke drifted between them. "I wouldn't deny our listeners a chance to hear from a dead man's son." Balfour replied with a hint of forced coldness. He didn't think it was strange that they were taking so long to reach his floor. "It's the sort of thing they tune in for, you know. Sensationalist. I trust you enjoyed?"

"Always, although I thought it might be... unfairly harsh on your Ministry?" A glimmer of playfulness in her eyes as she lowered the wand to trail down his chest, pausing lightly where his heart was beating at an uncomfortable rate. "Sharp words for a dulcet tenor."

Finally, the bright ding! of the elevator.

Balfour looked away, too tired to be flustered. He didn't know a great deal about whatever the hell Ira Almasy did in her spare time but it said something that he felt like he was handling a wild animal whenever they were in close proximity, this late at night. Like she was playing with her food. Daylight threw a better glamour on their friendship.

"Goodnight, Ira." Balfour avoided her gaze, only hearing her amused reply as he left the carriage. "A better one than yours, Spectre."