Approx. 1.30am in New York, USA.


He grasped Cyrus' peppered hair by the nape of his neck, breathless, the older wizard braced over him in the large bed. The lights weren't on - they usually did it with the lights on - but Virgil hadn't wanted that tonight.

When he appeared at the brownstone doorstep, summoned and pulled in, he had plunged the house into darkness with a wave of wandless magic. Just touch and scent and heat. Hawthorne laughing against him, asking why Virgil had suddenly gotten so shy. Like he didn't know the answer - like he hadn't tried taking him apart[1] at The Pit.

       "You bit yourself," Cyrus touched his bottom lip.

Did he? V licked, tasting salt and metal on the pad of his thumb. He unhooked himself from around the other man and let his knees fall apart. "Don't go all vampire on me," he joked, though it came out weak and winded.

Hawthorne laughed and Virgil felt the weight of him shift on the mattress, bedside lamp coming on a moment later. It was a windowless room. Claustrophobic despite its size and minimalist furniture. He preferred fucking in the living room, where it was harder to forget the world existed.

       "How's Yav, then?" his host was getting up, tucking himself back in to his slacks. Still dressed.
"Yav is Yav," V muttered - too boneless to move and too shameless to dress.

He had only been back a fortnight or so[2] but of course Cyrus wanted to discuss Yavin.

"I read about Inglethorpe's interview[3]," he tried changing the subject as he stretched languidly across the khaki linen. "You think the bureau[4] has a point?"

Cyrus didn't look up, serious face limned by the blue glow of the phone screen as he tapped away. "A point about what?"

1.	17th June 2017 - Listen More Than You Think
2.	27th July 2017 - I Can Tell That Somebody Sold You
3.	3rd August 2017 - CAWW Warns of Muggle Aggression
4.	CAWW's Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance and No-Maj Obliviation

Maybe now wasn't the time, except Virgil was so tired of this song and dance. Why not now? Get it over with.

"About no-maj," he sat up against his elbows, letting himself look as debauched as he felt to appeal to Cyrus' good mood. "How they can't be trusted to be reasonable about magic. Do you suppose they're dangerous, really?"

Hawthorne kept his eyes on the phone. "Everyone and anyone is capable of being dangerous," he groused. "No-maj aren't special."

Such a non-answer. A starter for a more philosophical bent of conversation, which Virgil was usually game to follow.

"Thomas Daylight doesn't seem to think so," he didn't fall for the bait this time, drawling on carelessly. "Seems to think muggles will be the end of us."

Someone had slipped him the name of the bureau man who was meddling with Eldritch & Profane; it had been easier then expected, though he supposed it was no big secret that CAWW was always trying to corral the Agency.

Cyrus locked his phone and finally looked at him, expression unchanged.

It happened so suddenly that Virgil thought he had somehow lost the time it took Cyrus to get to him.

But no, he was very much conscious and wide-eyed and extremely aware of the hand around his throat. And the hand on his chest, which had knocked all the air out of him, digging in right where his clock tattoo whirred away. The shock conceded to brute pain.

Dead men don't talk he shot the thought into Hawthorne's head, wheezing as he struggled for air, legs pulling in to kick back.

      "You will." Cyrus spat out with an evenness only an Unspeakable of Death can carry off.

Every thought in Virgil's mind was a loud, overlapping spiral of words narrowing in on the pressure around his neck - the loudest telling him that this is it, this is how he's going to go, and wasn't it more of a life he ever expected? And wasn't it enou--

He shoved a sharp, sleek arrow of sensation into Cyrus' mind. A sliver of pure pain. The stranglehold released immediately and Hawthorne screamed, covering his eyes with both hands.

Virgil gasped hoarsely for air. "Get OFF!!" he kicked at him and scrambled off the bed as he reached for his button-up. Each new and wonderful breath stung, raw.

Hawthorne was already recovering but their wands were on the dresser. Virgil cleared his thoughts, fortified the boundaries of his mind. Their gazes locked and neither moved.

If Cyrus looked away, he would forfeit his mental attack - he wasn't so advanced at Legilimency that he could practice without eye contact. It was equally difficult to break the connection on V's side of the challenge.

       "You've been holding out on me," the other wizard choked out.

Virgil could feel the anger radiating off him, even with the bed between them. It was nauseating. They had just fucked on those sheets. He was buttoned up and started to reach for his jeans, slowly tugging them on without severing eye contact.

Cyrus trying again and again to find a weakness. A battering ram on castle doors.

"Me? Holding out?" Virgil wanted to cry - he didn't recognise his own voice, so wrecked were his chords. "What's Daylight to you, Thorn? What's worth choking me out for?"

       "You tell me," Cyrus wiped his nose - it was bleeding from his efforts. Good.

Virgil felt for the mobile in his pocket, unable to look down at the screen. He didn't have any quick escapes. Yav gave him a Stygian Orb. He was meant to be his own escape. The battering ram kept on.

"You're no muggle-hater," V unlocked the phone blindly, trying to focus on the taps it would take to get to his emergency number. "You don't want this, you don't want what Daylight wants. You're not a murd..."

The words died on his lips.

He didn't know. Maybe Cyrus was the kind of person who would risk mass murder to keep his place of power. Virgil hadn't thought he was the kind of man who would try to kill him, either.

Something in Cyrus' face wavered, as if he'd seen this doubt in Virgil. As if he were suddenly seeing the situation they were in.

       "You don't understand," he talked through gritted teeth, the strain of maintaining the assault, "what's at risk here."

B e e p - b e e p - bee-- Virgil managed a call and they'd picked up quickly enough. He hoped he got it right and it wasn't, like, the local pizza joint.

"Do you understand, Hawthorne?" V spoke louder for the benefit of their listener, grimacing at the pain in his throat. "Do you really? Yavin doesn't think so. He thinks you've deluded yourself into compromise."
 
Cyrus stepped around the bed and Virgil took a commensurate step back, jumpy.

      "Yavin's not one of us anymore," the older man blinked several times and steadied himself against the bed post.
"This is bigger than your grudge," V racked his brains for more cues. "Do you think getting rid of me will stop him?"

And that really was the last of it for him - his voice was a rasp, parched, he couldn't keep talking while holding Hawthorne at bay. He had to end this someh--

In a sudden renewal of effort, Cyrus threw an immense amount of force against Virgil's defence. V was ready for it - he let his walls drop for a half-second, disorienting the other wizard. Like throwing the doors open just as someone is trying to knock it down.

That half-second was all he needed.

2.30am in a high-rise, Manhattan.

Silas Carstairs, DIMC Liason for CAWW Affairs.

The apartment was hideous. Expensive, sure, but it was all glass and metal and made one feel alienated from the streets below.

However, the apartment was also safe. This was where Silas Carstairs lived on paper - the official flat for his position as a liaison. It was nothing but two en suites, a kitchen and a living room that looked over the city through wall-to-ceiling windows. None of the furniture suggested itself as personal.

He deposited Virgil on an equally hideous leather sofa and sat on the edge, patiently waiting for the younger wizard to rouse.

This was messy. Silas knew it would be when he saw Angie's boy at The Pit. He hadn't been surprised to get the phone call but it had been something of a jolt to find him stumbling down the steps from Hawthorne's brownstone.

       "Silas?" Virgil croaked, trying to sit up.
"Yes," he replied and gripped his arm to steady him. "Old Silas, Right here. Alright, V?"

No answer. He was looking around, tense, uncertain. He touched the fresh bruises on his neck and flinched. "Where are we?"

"Safe," Silas assured, scratching his scruff thoughtfully. "Is there someone I should owl? Natalie?"

This seemed to snap V out of his stupor. He shook his head vigorously. Right. That really counted the girl out of Morgenthau's plans. Whatever those were.

He left Virgil to ponder his life choices, took his time to fetch the boy some water and a blanket. The call had dragged Silas out of a party but he was neither buzzed nor tired. Minor blessings. When he returned, his cousin was in the same propped up position. Staring into space.

Silas Carstairs, DIMC Liason for CAWW Affairs.

"Drink," he ordered, and the boy drank. "I know you can't tell me anything."

From what he gathered earlier the Unspeakable had left Hawthorne unconscious in his own house. "I'm going to let you rest up. We'll deal with those," he indicated the bruises pointedly, "tomorrow."

A nod. Virgil put down the glass and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms.

It was such a pitiful gesture that Silas almost laughed. He hugged him instead, affectionate, startling only a little at the arms slipping tightly round his ribs.

Virgil glanced up with half-asleep eyes. And then, without warning, kissed him. Silas kissed back on instinct - recognising a hungry lunge for comfort - but peeled himself off.

     "Fuck," the younger man instantly buried his face in his hands. "Shit. Sorry, stupid. That was stupid."
"Very." Silas agreed firmly, corners of his eyes crinkling. "It's fine. It's okay. Lie down. You need to sleep."

Virgil did as much without a word: turned to face the back of the couch and curled up, allowing for the blanket to be tucked around him. Tomorrow would bring a new set of troubles. They would see if Hawthorne was out for blood.

Until then, there was nothing else to be done. So much of this job involved sitting around and waiting for things to happen. You couldn't do it if you weren't the kind of person who can simply sit.

Silas got up and crossed the room to collapse into an armchair, his back to the view. He watched Angie's boy sleep.