Early hours of the morning. Mature for language.


He needed sleep.

When Balfour returned to Atreus from the hospital, he found that the mess they left behind had been cleaned - no doubt by some poor, bewildered house elf. He stepped into the elevator and stared into space as it began a slow, thoughtful ascent. Each of the reflections moved restlessly in their frames, pacing and muttering and throwing harsh looks at some absent presence. The doors slid open without their usual ring.


The apartment was dark, though he had forgotten that it should not have been - that Johann’s trail of glowing blue sick no longer cast an eerie glow in the foyer and living room, that none of the creatures he kept were there to welcome him home. It felt right to be returning alone: dingy isolation was comfort after the onslaught of activity that had been his night. Quiet, peace.

People lie all the time. At some point in life, you learn to accept this. Balfour learned, certainly. Acceptance did little to cushion his heart. Or at least he thought it was the heart. Something inside of him hurt and he was too exhausted to pinpoint the emotion behind it, afraid that a cruel realisation would manifest.

"Don't - don't leave - I can't - I lo- I - I love you."

Balfour held a hand to his chest as he dropped into one of the leather armchairs, gaze shifting to the unlit fireplace as the memory of Johann's delirium came to him like an echo. Was it really the delirium speaking? Was it a truth, a confession? And why did it make him so weak, to hear it? It made him wish he were still there at St.Mungo's. Waiting. Leaving his partner there felt like a cruel mistake. He shouldn't have. He should go back, never mind the screams and vomit.

Vomit.

“Fuck.” He muttered, and then surprised himself with an abrupt and hysterical laugh. The child covered in glowing sick. Arcturus covered in it. Flailing limbs. Wolfgang in the elevator. Christ. Balfour laughed again, low and unreasonable, the feverishness of it simmering so deep in his gut that it shook his shoulders.

And all the other screaming patients. He keeled forward, head in hands, unable to stop the laughter.

          ”Have I missed something funny?”

That did it. Balfour looked up in a flash, cut off. Ira Almasy was suddenly there in the living room with her back to the windows and her ashen eyes gleaming down at him, curious. It was difficult to tell in the dark  and the distraction of lights outside, but he could make out the black silk robe she wore; the way it melted into shadow. His attention met its hem first - resting in contrast just above the sharp swell of her knees - and drew up to meet the query. He remembered when they first met. She was barefoot then, too. Fae child.

All at once he picked up on the omission of his pets. This wasn't a careless social visit - she'd come one business. And she wouldn't have come if she knew that Johann were here. Balfour leaned back in his chair and lifted his chin, expression sobered.

"You cleaned up?" The very idea of a homely Ira was mystifying. She didn't seem amused.
            "He made quite the mess, your boy." A beat - this was true after all. "He is well?"
"Ah, you're here to tell me off? He's fine. In a manner of speaking."

Johann was the last thing he wanted to discuss with her. He watched as she crossed the space between them, from the end of the mantle to his chair, and saw that she was nursing a glass of scotch. Balfour accepted it. Her manner was practical - the sort of thing you'd give a hysterical person. Smack across the face and some liquor. A good thing she didn't need to do the former.

Ira being here was enough of a jolt to his drowsy senses.

"What do you want?" Balfour sipped the scotch, crossing his legs in as much a pretence of confidence that he could muster. His shaking hand gave the game away. The older woman reached down, spindly fingers encircling his wrists firmly to steady it. She stood before his chair like a concerned matron.

            "Oh, Balfour. What did he do to you..." her brow lowered into a gentle, disquieting look.

It wasn’t a question. There was no doubt between the two of them that Johann had done something to him. He ignored the insinuation and drank deeper, shaking her off. The glass emptied. Ira pressed the back of her hand against his temples, catching the auburn curls as he lowered the drink. He wished she would step away. He wished he didn't feel like he needed to be understood right now.

"You're not here for that." With better nerve, Balfour delicately took her arm and drove it away - she withdrew politely, as if though nothing were the matter. "What is it now? What ugly news do you have for me, Ira?" he stared hard at her, utterly refusing to let the subject be swayed. "You can't keep doing this. I don't know how you know the things you know, or if you're involved, but--"

            "It has been done on purpose. And with purpose." Ira interrupted cooly.
"What? What has?"
            "The potions.

He tried to sit up straighter, only his limbs suddenly felt heavy. "The potions? Wait. Say that again. The sleeping potions?" It felt like she was in his head.  "Are you trying to tell me you knew about this?" Bloody hell, why hadn't she told him sooner! Not that... well. Not that he could have done anything about it. He hadn't known about Johann's habits. Hadn't been let in.

As always, Ira was ahead. So far ahead. She looked like she was on the other side of the room now, but he could still feel her shins grazing against his knees. "Sleeping potions. Healing potions. Among others. You will take care of what you consume?" her voice rang distantly.

Shit. Balfour's grip tightened on the arm of the chair. He tried to get up but all notion of movement remained in his head.

"What did you put in my drink?” he mumbled, closing his eyes to a sudden throb of pain in the ears. "I have... fuck. I have things to do." Why was she drugging him now of all hours? He felt her hand again, this time running through his hair in a fond and patronising manner. Her fingers were warm and they shook through the sweat of his night's labour.

            "Language." Ira appeared to be fading into a dreamless black. "You ought to show him what you do to men who cross you." Her voice drifted altogether from him - quickly, in a hiss, each word thrusting its consonants sleekly into the next. "You ought to return the favour."

And then nothing.

Balfour Spectre’s head fell back as he dropped into a drugged rest. Ira waited for his breathing to even out, until she knew for certain he was not of the waking realm. And then she knelt to the floor, hooking his slippers with her fingers and pulling them off.

She sensed rather then saw the German Shepherd behind her, watching the oddly domestic gesture.

“He only sleeps.” Ira informed the creature and drew her wand, lighting the fireplace with a flick of the wrist: a large flame leapt up as if though it had been waiting eagerly the entire time to come into existence.

The living room flickered in an out of glowing, orange light. Ira tossed the slippers into the fire. An earthy, sharp smell drifted from the smoke. Something magic, burning. She had charmed them - a year ago now, was it? - with an old Russian enchantment of luck and protection. Even once cleansed, the Almighty knew what Hellebore bile might do to magic like that. Warp it, one might reason. She would have to give him something for Christmas that he might wear more frequently.

Whiskey padded his way to Balfour’s bare feet and laid there, managing to look all at once protective of his owner and welcoming of the witch’s presence. Ira placed a soft, purposeful kiss on her friend’s cheek before she made to leave.

The cats came out of hiding only once she she was gone - they scampered nimbly on to the armchair, and curled up on their owner’s lap, purring deeply.