Author's Note: I love Psychonauts, and I adore Sasha/Milla, so here's some Sasha/Milla I should have gotten out long ago. Hopefully not the last from me.

Damn you, present tense. Stop getting in the way when I'm clearly not writing you in this story! Frag.

WHAT THE HELL. I just registered that I had a dream that was a cross between Psychonauts, Silent Hill and Heroes (which I've never even watched). All I remember is Sasha being really mean, me being Raz, and Mohinder being really hot. Jeeze that was weird.

Disclaimer: I don't own Psychonauts.

Color

She was out again, coaxed to music and the London club scene as a moth to flame. Sasha couldn't be paid to leave the hotel; he wasn't fond of England's damp streets, cobbled or otherwise, and the way vehicles never failed to splash water on him, regardless of whether a puddle was present.

The mission – which, in the lull between evil masterminds trying to conquer the world, had been ridiculously simple – was complete and they already had plane tickets back to HQ, packed and fresh to leave at eight AM. It was presently ten PM the night before, moonlight dull through the clouds, vaguely illuminating the metal shells of cars hundreds of feet below. Sasha was on the balcony on the uppermost floor (being world-renowned secret agents – somewhat of a contradiction, he liked to think – afforded such select luxuries) nursing a martini and flicking ash from the tip of a cigarette. He watched with detached interest as it fluttered downward like snow and was whisked away by the wind. It was out of sight before he had the chance to care.

With a sigh of unaffected irritation – a habit that accompanied looking at the world in its true colors – he removed his sunglasses. The skyline brightened the slightest bit; the clouds blushed a paler shade, and the moon was a clearer sphere against the smog. London was actually quite lovely at night, if one was inclined to glance past the street lights and ignore the barking of dogs or squealing of tires – which Sasha was not. It seemed a district of monotony, like art in a way, but free of the abstract. Agent Nein was characteristically particular about the vistas he enjoyed, this particular section of England not being among them.

There was a subtle creaking; Milla had returned. He did not turn to greet her, but kept his eyes on a darkened pub far below him, observing (with the same imperceptible curiosity with which he held the ash) as a man in torn clothes ambled by the hotel entrance with a shopping buggy. There was more soft rustling behind him: the sounds of the fridge closing, cupboards opening, liquid sloshing into a glass. Then heels clicking as Milla stepped onto the terrace and joined him, keeping a respectful distance.

Between wisps of city air and fresh rain, he caught the scent of sweat and other womens' perfume. It was something so distinctly Milla that he could not bring himself to dislike it, but he didn't welcome it either.

"Enjoying the view?" Sasha supposed it was around ten-thirty by now, too late to talk, but Milla never did care about punctuality – not the kind concerning propriety, anyway. Luckily, she knew it was too late to say, "You should have come," along with her charming pet-name.

"No more than usual." He thought fondly of the drab walls in HQ, the populated cafeteria smelling strongly of cheap coffee and mystery meat, and of course the sound of Morry cursing as he stalked by Sasha's office. It was decidedly favorable to the view from the terrace, but Milla's presence brought a touch of home for which he was grateful.

"Brooding, darling? Doesn't suit you here. All that grey and you might fade into the wall." She sipped water, though he could smell whispers of alcohol around her – the expensive kind, probably only a cosmopolitan or two, to keep her bouncing (not that she needed it, with her contagious vitality). He glanced at his empty martini glass but did not sigh.

"We can't all be as bright as you." Her dress gave him a slight headache without darkened glass to shield him from it. It was a loud, careless blend of pink and orange, but she was probably dim against the lights of the club, and the less-than-modest cut above her knees was most likely humbled by the things girls wore these days. Out of sheer respect he didn't put his glasses on.

"Ah, but that's why I'm here, now, isn't it? To give the world a bit of color." The railing was dirty and she cared more about her sleeves than he did about his, so she didn't lean against it – just clicked as she walked over to him, standing elbow to elbow, comfortable touching him. "London needs it. So do you."

Too late to be philosophical, he thought. Perhaps she was trying to be ironic. She was actually very good at irony, when she wanted to be, and this was certainly the place for it. "Better you than a lamp."

He was not surprised that she laughed, a slight laugh, bubbling and gentle and understanding of the different ways he appreciated things. "It's good to know you care, darling." She slid her bare hand over his gloved one and squeezed softly, then placed a polite kiss on his cheek. "Good night. Dream up some color tonight, won't you?"

Sasha nodded, though didn't think it necessary. He watched the filmy outline of the moon climb a hair's breadth higher, felt the dampness of London through his gloves – he listened to her heels click then pad as she stepped onto the carpet, and thought how he had so much color already.