June 1999. The Empress Hotel. Moscow, Russia.


"Slow down!" Balfour laughs as he grabs Ira Almasy by around the waist, the two of them playfully kissing one other as they make their way down the hotel corridor - slim figures in navy and black robes standing out in contrast to gold cream wallpaper. "We'll never make it in at this rate," he manages to say drunkenly as she stops them to press her cold lips against his. Her tongue presses urgently to his. They both taste of champagne. She smells amazing, intensely floral with a hint of something deeper. Sandalwood.

He did not expect to run into the witch this night, certainly not after their last encounter in Tyumen. That she'd survived the fire was seemingly miraculous but they hadn't touched on the subject at all, had they? It was hard to speak of anything substantial at a crowded bar.

And now... well. Conversation isn't  priority.

They are at the entrance, it gives way to Ira's weight as he pushes her against it. "Is it I who must slow down?" she hisses flippantly and slams the door shut. From the corner of his eye, Balfour knows they're in the foyer of a dimly lit suite. He is already kicking off his shoes as she slips her hands beneath his untucked dress shirt, moving upwards to push off the black robes. Chandelier lights brighten slightly in response to their presence. "Drink?"

Never one to refuse, he nods unthinkingly and allows his mouth to trail after hers as she moves towards the bar area. Balfour watches for a moment while he pulls off his top, letting the heavy material drop to the marble floor. He is inebriated but it isn't difficult to regain bearings - his gaze tears away from the clinking of glasses, taking in the elegant archways leading to other rooms in the suite.

The wizard freezes in front of one.

It is the bedroom. Where there might have been a four poster against the great windows, however, is a single gilded chair and a small, well-dressed man strapped to it. Or not strapped. Balfour can't tell what holds him there except that a pool of thick, dark blood is collecting at his feet. Dripping. There are slits at the ankles, barely visible below folded trouser cuffs. The stranger's eyes are rolled back in their sockets. Catatonic perhaps.

Balfour does not react. He stares, barely aware of the glass being slipped into his hand. Ira stands next to him as they watch the life leaking from this... this unconscious heap of flesh.

"Unpleasant man," she remarks drolly and he finally looks at her, lightheaded. "Murderer. Don't concern yourself. He very much deserves it."

But everything she says is lost in the series of thoughts clicking away in his head. The fire in Tyumen and the fearful looks of the guests in the bar downstairs and the frigid glimmer of her wan eyes. It feels stupidly obvious in the light of realisation. He drops the glass and does not hear it fall.

Ira is already ahead of him. In a way, he suspects that she always will be. "You can't save him."

His hand twitches for his wand and stops. That won't work. This has been planned. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck why didn't he just bloody leave it alone when he saw her across the restaurant why didn't he just leave the hotel. Balfour steps forwards and he is shaking, he realises, though it doesn't stop him from stepping into the puddle of blood and leaning over to take the dying man by the sides of his face.

Ira is watching. Never mind. Perhaps she is conscious of what he is going to do - because she's right. Balfour can't save the man, who is minutes away from slipping into oblivion. But there is a kindness that might be done here. He grips the head tightly, jaw drawn taut, and with a forceful gesture wrenches it sideways.

A muted crack tells him that he's done it correctly. He has never had to do this before. There are voices in his head yelling at him but he knows that if he listens to them for even a second he will break.

--


She is enthralled, unable to look away.

Balfour Spectre feels like a complete mystery. Yes. His hands are trembling when he steps back but he is so in control of himself that Ira feels a rush of true fascination for the first instant in a long, long time. Bloody footprints on the polished floor as he turns to face her and she approaches him, swift, much too quickly for two people who have been meandering in leisurely paces all night. Her hands go to his ches--

-- no, his hands move first, going straight for her long white throat, and she gasps for air. Genuinely surprised. A sharp, painful sensation goes straight through the witch as Balfour rams her against the archway ridge. His knee forces her hip against it. The shock disappears quickly, however.

This is not her first dance.

And Ira is smiling, hysterically, relishing the throbbing ache of those fingers pressing bruises into her skin. Even in her manic permission of letting this happen - and his abrupt, defensive temper - she is able to drop her gaze to meet his. Balfour stops. She knows he has seen himself in the connection but before he can pull back, her wand is drawn.

How can she not reward him for that superior display of emotion.

Viciously, though not without grace, she stabs her wand into his side. It burns, a hot spike, and his scream is a wild animal. Ira wrests the wand upwards - she bares her teeth at him before pulling it out with a jerk. Balfour stumbles backwards. She flicks her wand, sending him to the floor.

"Don't fall asleep now." Ira drops on to him, one of her legs straddling his wounded stomach intimately as she pins him down by the arms. "We don't want you bleeding out now, do we?" she kisses him with as much gentleness as their earlier exchange, and feels the resistance. His shoulders pushing upwards, his face turning to the side. Ira bites down on his lip.

Balfour gives up.