Chapter Text
The magician’s too attractive.
That’s Chris’s first thought, watching him.
Okay, maybe that’s not Chris’s first thought. The first thought contains a lot more incoherent stunned images involving possible future nudity and long legs and those quicksilver hands playing tricks across bare skin.
The too attractive thought comes next. He pauses, frowning. A few passersby bump into him, then glance at his face and his shoulders and his federal agent stance. They ricochet away in various stages of hurry. New York City, home of illusionists. Broadway shows and street performers. Pickpockets and fantasists. Dreams. And Chris’s badge tucked away under his coat: reality.
The street magician laughs, keeps up cheerful patter, flicks cards around on his table. He’s good; he’s attracted a small crowd, not an easy feat in the bustle of New York City. He’s getting someone to pick a card, any card. When he slips it back into the deck he smiles, and the world spins faster for a moment.
Again: too attractive. Disarmingly, distractingly so. An asset when defrauding customers. Chris inches closer. Tells himself it’s his job. Federal agent and all. Special Investigations. Right.
A small piece of his brain reminds him that this, specifically, is not in fact his job. Harassing random street performers--no matter how lovely their eyes are, an elliptical shade of water-grey that tantalizes old artist’s instincts--is not his assignment. No.
He’s in New York City because the man he’s building a case against--a slow, patient, frustrating kind of case, one that irritates Irish-kid Boston-boy fists--is supposedly in New York. Rumor has it that he’s planning something big, some mastermind scheme, some move to control the whole underworld. Of course, rumor also has it that this man, The Magician, is indeed a magician.
Chris sighs--not aloud--and watches the street performer laugh and merrily divest applauding patrons of their bets. The boy’s very good; Chris knows how forced-choice card-calls work, and he’s impressed despite himself. The current mark picks three of seven cards, eagerly; the boy smiles radiantly and brushes the other four away, but the next one’s a choice of two out of three, and instead of discarding he keeps both, and when the tourist picks one more, the boy tosses it and flips the other card.
Of course it’s the right card. Chris would bet that the mark hasn’t even figured out that the boy could’ve kept or discarded either set, depending on the pick. Steering the choice: exactly where he wants it.
The boy glances up through long eyelashes. Keeps talking, charming the crowd: “...oh, well, but would you like to try again, look, I’ll even make it easier on you, three cards, not seven, simple find-the-lady, sir, just watch my hands…”
His fingers move like water, like silk, in dusky city light. Steel and steam. Pale pavement at sundown.
Real magic doesn’t exist. The Magician’s not a magician. Rumor, nothing more. Urban legend that lurks around in the air like unfallen rain. Persistent underground mutters and tall tales: did you hear, have you heard, she can walk on air, he can make himself invisible, the true practitioners, they can anyway, my cousin’s wife’s sister once saw…
Chris has never seen anything to make him believe, in his chaotic tumble into rigid government service, that the rumors are true.
Still--
Still, the boy’s hands dance, he could swear they flow through each other once or twice, and for a second--
For a second his battered old heart gives an inexplicable leap. His heart, which’d once believed in childhood fairytales and backyard plays, staged in bedsheet-capes and daydreams.
He’s found himself right beside the boy’s table without noticing the movement. Pale eyes glance up, assessing--Chris could swear they evaluate everything from his coat to his hips, and sparkle flirtatiously. “Feel like trying your luck, sir?”
Sir. In that voice, an enchanted voice, low and lazy and rich as dark molasses, spiced with some undefinable faintest wildness: New York taking a stroll with a fairy-creature. Dressed up in black leather and black boots and a sinful clinging green-blue shirt.
And fairy-creatures shouldn’t exist. He straightens shoulders. Pulls out a twenty. Ignores guilt at getting distracted, not doing his job. Anyway the boy might know something. Magician, right? Surely that makes sense. “Fine. I’m in.”
“Then, by all means...find the lady. Sir.” With a curving smile; and, oh yes, the boy--if he is a boy; his gaze suggests otherwise, practiced walls up behind playfulness, tiny lines at the corners of snowdrop eyes--knows how to entice. Chris swallows hard. Focuses on his hands.
The boy bats those ridiculous eyelashes at him. Shows off: darting cards around one-handed. This should make the answer obvious; Chris is instantly suspicious. Big blue-grey eyes wait expectantly.
Chris looks at the cards. They smirk back: no obvious tells, no bent corners, no ink-smudges. He can’t see any way to fit a sneaky one up that slim sleeve. “Did you lose track, sir?” the boy asks helpfully.
Chris glares. Points. “That one.”
“Let’s see if he’s right.” Elegant fingers flip the card. “Ah, no. Sorry. One more? Better luck?”
And that’s a twenty gone, and he hasn’t had dinner yet, and he’s going to have to call in and explain to Mr Jackson that, no, he hasn’t found any connections, only those blasted rumors again, hushed signs against evil and awed whispers about what The Magician can do--
The boy smiles at him, slim and tempting and dangerous as a stray panther, dressed in onyx leather and glittering rings and stage-performer eyeliner.
“No,” Chris says too sharply, and turns away. If this is a lead he’s not willing to pursue it. Not with those eyes. The street magician likely knows nothing about The Magician anyway.
He tugs his jacket more closely around him as the night sets in. He walks through the oncoming cold back to his hotel--as nice as the FBI ‘s willing to pay for, which is maybe three steps up from terrible and trying bashfully to be better--and slumps into a seat at the battered bar, which looks like he feels; and he reaches for his wallet, at which point he realizes--
His wallet’s gone.
He’s immediately certain he knows exactly where it is.
He’s certain, with no proof at all, that it’s in the possession of a street magician with a kitten-innocent smile and demon-fast hands.
The fire escape is shrouded with darkness and Sebastian blends right into it, boots dangling over the edge nine flights up. He’s always been scared of heights, always been attracted to things that make his pulse rocket, and up here he has the perfect view into Special Agent Christopher Evans’ hotel room. The FBI have no idea how to care for their agents at all. He’s staying in a dump. A dive even Sebastian judges as unworthy, and he’s spent more than one night of his life sleeping behind dumpsters.
Sebastian is, he would like it to be clear, not stalking a federal agent. He’s just curious. Curiosity has always been a bit of a problem for him. Besides, Special Agent Evans most likely wants to put him in handcuffs and throw away the key. In situations like this one, it is always best to know your enemy.
Not that Special Agent Evans… Christopher… is his enemy. Not yet, at least. He’s just a mark. A mark Sebastian should never have taken.
He runs his fingers lightly over the edge of a stolen wallet. It’s soft leather and well made. Old though, worn at the edges. Greatly loved. A gift, most likely. Maybe from one of the smiling faces that gaze up at him from a folded photograph inside, dislike and recrimination behind their perfect smiles.
He considers returning the wallet directly to the FBI - with a note to please ensure their Agents, kind and hardworking and excited by magic, are housed in places that do not serve their gourmet breakfasts out of vacuum sealed boxes, thank you.
It probably wouldn’t go down very well with Special Agent Evans. Embarrassing. Possibly even harmful to his career. His wallet lifted by a street magician. Sebastian doesn’t want that.
Christopher Evans is, he thinks with a trust in instincts that have never once failed him, a good man. Not a harmless man, not with muscles so clearly built by practical use and not sculpted in a gym and not with palms rough from handling guns. Not harmless, but not cruel.
If he caught Sebastian, he wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe that’s why he stole his wallet in the first place. Curiosity, and certainty. Not for the money. There’s not even forty bucks tucked into the folds. Sebastian has more money stashed in the lining of his boots, a strict limit imposed on anyone and everyone who walks up to his act. He performs on the streets to delight and entertain, not to rob people blind. Besides, most people can handle losing a little cash without feeling the need to beat on the guy who won it from them. Sebastian is never short of people wanting to try their luck and the money is his from the second the light of a challenge ignites in their eyes. He’s not greedy. When he needs real money he has other sources of revenue to tap into. Less deserving of the money in their wallets and less considerate of the ways they make it.
Special Agent Evans would likely not approve. Somehow that sits uneasily in Sebastian’s stomach. Uncomfortable longing for approval in the green-blue eyes of a man Sebastian not only doesn’t know, but has stolen from. He’s officially been on his own for too long.
He slips the wallet into an inside pocket of his jacket and jumps off the edge of the fire escape.
He doesn’t hit the ground hard, like he should, but catches himself lightly on the bottom level then springs down to the street, bouncing on his toes, balance perfect and practiced. Silent. No one sees him. Not the people on the street just a few feet away and not Special Agent Evans.
The man sat outside the 24 Hour cafe opposite, he doesn’t see Sebastian either, but Sebastian sees him. Sees him reading the same paper, over and over. He’s not terrible at undercover work and he does turn the page every few minutes but when he gets to the end he just… starts all over again, one eye on the text, the other on the entrance to the hotel.
Sebastian isn’t the only person to have followed his Special Agent tonight.
The following day, Chris stands in the empty apartment--barely worthy of the name, peeling walls and empty cupboards and flickering lights--that belongs to one Jack Benjamin, alias James B. Barnes, alias TJ Hammond, alias Lance Tucker, and probably a whole host of other false identities as well. He glares at the cracked countertops, which ignore him. They’ve no doubt seen worse.
He’s good at his job, dammit. Following leads. Tracking. He’d spent the morning asking idly around: about the boy, about places he’s been seen, about places he might go. A few other street performers, clad in jangling jewelry and waving mystical hands, had suggested a coffee-shop; no honor among magicians, evidently, or they’d only chosen not to provoke Chris’s badge. The boy apparently likes coffee, and orders his under several names at several different places, and pays for multiple boltholes in varying degrees of decent. The Jack Benjamin name had taken a fair amount of legwork and some minor threats to a feisty elderly landlady, and there’s nothing here.
Tired, frustrated, wallet-less, he pokes around the time-worn kitchen. No leads. No clues.
Lance Tucker rents a luxury penthouse suite that seems to be unoccupied save for an extensive bath-product collection. James Barnes buys plums and blueberries from market-folk but doesn’t have an address. TJ Hammond evidently supports a whole family of illegal Eastern European immigrants in a Brooklyn loft, and they’d quivered at Chris’s questions as if he’d come swinging a nightstick and vowing to deport them. No, they didn’t know who was helping them. No, they hadn’t seen his face. They had no money and no resources, promised jobs and immigration assistance had never materialized, but the kind young man had offered a place to stay and sometimes they find money in unexpected places, under floorboards, in the refrigerator, and they’re very sorry but they know nothing more…
Of course they didn’t, even if they did. Chris had sighed, thanked them politely, and given the little girl who’d been peeking inside his coat the banana he’d saved from the slim pickings of hotel breakfast. Her eyes’d lit up with glee.
He’s quite sure that all these young men are one young man, and that that man has his wallet and his identification and his credit cards. He’s also torn between wanting to strangle the boy and--reluctantly, grouchily--liking the person who rescues families with small children, and who hasn’t yet used any of the credit cards.
He wanders back out into the other room; there’s only one. Bare scuffed carpet sprawls out insouciantly in late-morning light. Mocking him: this is a side problem, a diversion, keeping him from his main mission.
Maybe the boy is in league with The Magician.
He’s also starting to wonder whether he’s being followed. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he’s spotted a recognizably bland face and hat at least twice today. Could be coincidence. New York’s a big city. And people with similar interests--magic, illusionists, quirky performance art, the bright tapestried swirls of the sidewalk world--might end up in similar places.
His line of work, his gut, his spine, collectively tingle and tell him it’s not coincidence.
He looks back at a spot of sunshine on the floor, one he’d glanced into a scarce moment before, and blinks, and blinks again. Nope, that’s his wallet. Definitely his: old and time-softened, with the scuff on that corner. Sitting on the dirty carpet where no wallet’d been before.
“Hello?” he asks the empty room full of sunlight.
No answer. No surprise.
“If you’re here,” he tries, “I just want to talk.” About what? About pickpocketing federal agents and subsequent consequences? About any rumors regarding disappeared street people and quiet amassing of power and favors owed? If this boy is shadowing him and trying to distract him, that’d be the stupidest opening question ever.
Somehow he doesn’t think those eyes, that sparkle of genuine playfulness and compassion, would work for a criminal kingpin.
“Do you need money?” He doesn’t have a lot, but he’ll offer if it’s needed. “You didn’t use my credit cards…do you need cash?” Then again, given the multiple living arrangements, money’s not an issue. “Why’d you pick me, anyway?”
Only quiet, spreading out to fill up the space; but not an unfriendly sort of quiet. Listening, maybe. Intent.
When he picks up his wallet, a note flutters out. Thought you’d want this back. And please go have a decent meal. Cafe three blocks west, with the green awnings. Try the chocolate-chip muffins, Special Agent.
His identification’s still there. Credit cards. Family photos: his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews smile up at him from a creased moment out of time.
His cash is not only still there but seems to’ve doubled. He considers this, glances out the window--not expecting to find anyone, and he’s right--and says, “Thanks,” to the sunlight.
And then he heads out, leaving the apartment that no one lives in, leaving it to its muted sunshine and solitude; he’s going to go pursue a lead about a pavement artist who’d disappeared inexplicably the week before, whose name’d come up again today as a friend or at least acquaintance of James Barnes, and he’s going to get back to his job.
First he’s going to go buy a chocolate-chip muffin. Because…
Because someone gave his wallet back, and suggested he try something new.
Sunbeams pool like optimism across his shoulders when he steps outside.
Sebastian holds his breath as the door closes and then allows himself to step out into the now empty apartment. He stares at spaces that have just shared occupancy with a stranger for the first time since he has owned them and marvels at the giddy thrill that rises in his chest.
For someone who has spent most of his life running from someone or something, he’s never once entertained even the possibility of wanting to get caught. Of course, no one has ever gotten this close before; one alias away from the truth of who Sebastian is and all of that done without a raised voice or waved gun. Chris – he’s Chris now: they have shared a space and Sebastian has attempted to see him fed proper food so being on first name terms seems right – is smart. Sebastian does love smart. And kind. Kind to the children Sebastian finds housing for, and the baristas of his favorite coffee shops, and the landlady who hates Sebastian so much but nevertheless tries to keep him out of trouble when she sees him.
Most of the government officials Sebastian has encountered have proven to be quite different. He’s not sure if Chris is a break from the norm, of if he’s just had the worst of the bunch cross his path.
But Chris asked if he needed the money in a voice that suggested he would have gone and found more for Sebastian if he’d said yes. Genuine care. No threats or violence or anger. It’s enough to leave Sebastian a little besotted by the man who would hunt him down over a stolen wallet, then extend a hand of compassion instead of condemnation.
It’s that, more than anything, which tells Sebastian he needs to step away from this. From Chris. From kind eyes and broad shoulders and a worried note in a scotch rough voice. Chris might skirt the edges of his world, might be more aware of the dangers and the darkness than most on the outside, but he’s not part of it. He deserves better than to chase Sebastian any further into it.
There’s just the little problem of Chris’ tail. Sebastian’s tail, by proxy, and someone that neither of them can afford to let report back on wild goose chases across the city and federal agents who are perhaps too soft on people he should not be soft with.
Sebastian can’t leave Chris without warning him. He can’t warn him without drawing him in. Which leaves plan C. Less favorable. Close contact. Lines crossed that he tries to avoid crossing.
He follows the man who follows Chris from his apartment, hiding in plain sight when he can and with a few deftly applied tricks when he can’t, and when a corner turns into a busy cross-section – Chris quietly slipping away into a subway station – Sebastian reaches out, taps Chris’ tail on the shoulder and fixes on his sweetest smile.
Hypnosis is a matter of suggestion. Sebastian is very suggesting, and the idea that not everyone can be hypnotized is, in his experience, inaccurate to say the least. Caught by surprise, almost everyone can be drawn in. This man is no different at all.
Sebastian sends him home with fuzzy memories of an uneventful day and a suggestion to treat himself to takeout and enjoy a nice warm bath, two things he plans on doing himself.