"Hey," Marcus said as he washed the dishes, his guest still sitting in front of the table.

He was quiet, staring at the same spot his bowl had been over five minutes ago.

"I don't mean to be rude," he said as he turned around, folded arms in front of his chest, "but you're real right?"

"Clearly," bird-man said bluntly, scoffing then saying nothing more.

Not like a hallucination can tell me otherwise.

"Okay. Then what exactly are you?"

"Nothing you need to know about," he said, tone sharp. His harsh stare returned with a vengeance.

"Could I at least know your name? Bird-man just doesn't seem to fit you," Marcus asked.

The guy gave him a look of incredulity.

"Bird-man? Is that what you have been referring to me as? Bird-man?" he sounded more surprised than insulted, but plenty insulted.

Marcus shrugged.

"I dunno. You're a man with feathery wings. What else am I supposed to call you? Angel of our lord and savior?"

"Fucking bird-man?" his guest snapped, his anger showing bit by bit as he stood up.

"So what's your name then?" Marcus asked, eyes darting around the creature, not missing any sudden moves.

He was a kind, giving man, at least he thought he was, but he wasn't going to die because the person he was trying to help couldn't deal with a random nickname. Lucky for him, the cutlery drawer was only a stretch away, his old gun hidden under the spoons.

"...Kuzma."

"Kuzma," Marcus repeated, looking up at the ceiling as he got used to saying that name.

"Da," Kuzma grumbled, dropping back into his seat.

"Nice name. My name is Ma-"

"I do not care, human."

Marcus hummed in response to that, eyes shifting to the front door behind Kuzma before sighing and headed out of the kitchen.

Human. So he's not human then? Well that's disappointing. I was hoping for some kind of mutation involved in his genetic code.

"Okay. You can stay as long as you need but try not to bleed on everything. There's only so much I can burn and replace," he said with his voice slightly raised before slumping onto his bare couch, its previous covers, as well as the blood-stained rug, thrown into his washing machine in the laundry room on the kitchen left.

His television, however, was given a proper funeral, descending into the trash can beside his apartment building. Marcus was going to miss her and that thing she did when she changed the channel by herself, just turning off on him.

With his legs raised up, his back on the armrest, Marcus closed his eyes, ready to catch up on that Friday night sleep he couldn't properly get.

Though it would've seemed that fate was not going to let him.

"Is that all?"

Marcus took a deep breath in to keep himself from jumping in response to the unexpected voice so close to his ears.

Opening his eyes, he looked over the back of the couch to see Kuzma looming over him, head tilted to the right as he looked at Marcus' less than impressive body.

He had a bit of muscle, thanks to his time in the NYPD, but that had been five years ago and the last time he actually went to the gym was when he was dating. That was when he was twenty-eight, he thought. He couldn't really remember.

Either way, he did not think the way Kuzma grimaced at his belly was flattering.

"Is what all?" Marcus said as he grabbed one of the large couch pillows he had freed from its bloody cocoon and placed it on top of his torso.

"I was given the impression that humans were too curious for their own good. I expected persistence," Kuzma said, his Russian accent throwing Marcus off every time he heard it.

"I am curious," Marcus said as he yawned, "but I'm not going to force or pester you. You're ill and probably still tired so I wouldn't want to stress you. You know where the bedroom is. I'll need it tomorrow though because I've got work on Monday and all that," Marcus said before burrowing lower into his couch and closing his eyes, getting comfortable enough to sleep.

"I am not as weak as you humans. I shall be better in a day. And another thing, I could kill you while you sleep and you do so right in front of me. Do you not have a brain, human?" Kuzma said, his snapping tone and really thick accent adding to what Marcus took as an insult.

He didn't let it bother him, only sad that he probably wasn't going to get any sleep.

"If you kill me, then you kill me. Nothing I can do about it if I'm dead. Anything else? I'm really tired," Marcus said as he let out a long yawn.

Turning on his side to face where the broken television had been, Marcus placed his hand under his cheek and closed his eyes again.

"I am still hungry."

Marcus opened his eyes and was staring at Kuzma's legs, slowly looking up to see the unknown being facing the broken balcony door with a hand tracing his bandaged neck.

It was the grimace of pain that had Marcus sitting up, rubbing his face to keep himself awake.

"I can make you a bowl of oatmeal if you don't want anymore soup?" Marcus offered, ready to make his guest as comfortable as possible.

Whatever the guy had done, Marcus didn't think he deserved the pain and starvation and thirst.

After his soup, Kuzma had nearly thrown Marcus away to get to the faucet, gulping the water down like a man stuck in the middle of a desert.

"Why do you help me?" Kuzma asked, looking down at Marcus.

Again, Marcus shrugged.

"That is not an answer, human!" Kuzma yelled, his hands falling to his sides in balled up fists.

"You've got a temper on you, don't ya? You should work on that," Marcus said, standing up and staying in front of the taller man.

"...Where is this place? You do not sound Russian or Belgian," Kuzma asked, stepping away from Marcus to walk around the living room, stopping in front of the balcony.

"You're in the small town of Le Nouveau, Adams County in the state of Illinois found in the United States of America found in North America found on planet Earth found in the milky way galaxy that is found in the universe that is found in whatever else is out there." As surprising as it may be, Marcus did have his moments of dry wit and sarcasm.

Kuzma wasn't all that amused.

"Funny," the kid said in a growl.

There was total silence for a moment and it made Marcus think it was safe to get some sleep, after getting the guy some food of course. Until Kuzma talked again, though it was softer and sounded like Marcus wasn't meant to hear it.

"America. Did I fly here? Is this where I've been? It was hard to tell," Kuzma mumbled, probably to himself.

Marcus stood up straighter to see if the guy was going into another panic attack but was both relieved and curious when he saw Kuzma just gazing outside the balcony, fingers tracing the bandage around his neck.

Marcus just wished he knew what exactly was going on in his life all of a sudden. A guy with wings on his couch, the guy with wings apparently having some deep mental issues and the need to insult and threaten the people that helped him, the guy with wings that was apparently Russian and really far from home and Marcus having to burn blood-stained cloth and rug because of said guy with wings.

My weekends used to just involve cereal and cartoons, not strangers with fucking wings that wouldn't tell me what they bloody are.

And what exactly is Kuzma anyway?

Oh my gods above. For the first time in forever, I'm craving a fucking drink. This is too much thinking even for me.