Chapter Text
Nile’s sword arcs out of her hand and onto the ground several feet away for the third time in as many minutes. She leans over to brace her hands on her knees, breathing hard.
“How are you so good at this?” she asks.
It’s a mostly hypothetical question. Hundreds of years of practice ought to make someone frustratingly adept at swordplay.
“Ah,” Joe says, grinning, “while you were busy being heterosexual, I studied the blade.”
It takes Nile a second.
“Ok, wow. Shut up. You’re not allowed to quote memes at me, old man."
“She is also not heterosexual, my love,” Nicky says from where he’s sitting in the shade with a book. His tone is lightly chastising. “You should not assume.”
“Oh.” Joe looks genuinely surprised. “I apologize. Are you not?”
“No? I’m bi.”
Joe considers this for a moment. “Bisexual?”
“Yeah.”
“I see. Booker is as well. Though it took him a few decades to realize.”
“It took him a few decades to admit,” Nicky argues. “I think he realized rather quickly, sharing such close quarters with us.”
“Oh my god,” Nile says, straightening. “Were you two responsible for Booker’s queer awakening?”
Joe spreads his arms as if to prove his innocence—though “innocent” is difficult to pull off when one hand has a sword in it.
“Nicolò is very pretty and makes equally pretty sounds given appropriate … stimulation. I was not responsible.”
“You were responsible for the sounds.” Nicky says dryly. “And I recall several years in Malta when you had a predilection for nudity and Booker had a predilection for getting drunk and commenting on the unfairness of your ass. I do not think that was jealousy, only, my love.”
“I do not recall this,” Joe says.
“I do,” Andy mutters.
She’s sitting on the opposite side of their little courtyard cleaning a rifle.
Nile hadn’t understood, at first, why the group was so adamant about renting a home with a private, stone-walled garden. After sparring with them for a few weeks every morning, healing countless wounds, some that may be fatal for a mortal, she gets it now. And that’s aside from Andy’s fondness for dismantling and reassembling weapons while sunbathing. Privacy is important.
“Regardless,” Nicky says, “are we using queer, now, as a term? Is that no longer derogatory, Nile?”
“Mm,” Nile says. “I mean. It’s still derogatory when some people use it but it’s also been pretty widely reclaimed. There’s a whole like, genre of scholarship called queer theory, now. You can get a degree in it.”
“Interesting,” Nicky says, tapping his book against one thigh. “We should go to college again. We haven’t done that in a while.”
Nile looks back and forth between them. “You’ve gone to college? Of course you have. Better question. How many degrees do you all have?”
“Andy has nearly a dozen. Mostly sciences, right boss?” Joe says.
“Two in biology,” Andy says, not looking up as she scrubs the bore of her 338 Lapua. “One each in microbiology, chemistry, cognitive science, astronomy and astrophysics. One in ecology. And one in music.”
“Music?” Nile repeats.
“Not just music,” Joe objects. “A degree from Julliard. Have her play the piano for you some time. Or the violin.”
Nile feels a headache coming on. “And you two?”
“Joe has a bachelor’s degree in studio art,” Nicky says, “a PhD in art history, a masters in art conservation, and a law degree. I have a bachelor’s in English, a PhD in religion, a doctorate in medicine, and a masters in medical ethics.”
“And Nico went to Culinary school twice,” Joe says proudly.
Nicky sighs. “Three times.”
“Ah, my heart. I apologize. Nico attended culinary school three times. But he only graduated twice.”
“What happened the third time?” Nile asks.
“We do not speak of it,” Nicky says.
“We could,” Joe suggests.
“Yusuf,” Nicky says.
Joe laughs. “Perhaps later. Again, Nile.”
Nile groans and retrieves her sword.
“Keep your elbow up this time,” Andy says, still not looking away from her gun.
Niles groans louder.
***
“Nile,” Joe says when they’re between bouts of sparring a few days later, “we’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Well,” Nile answers, sprawled in the center of the courtyard waiting for her spleen—is it her spleen? Nicky would be able to tell her—to knit back together again. “I’m all ears.”
“You never went to college, yes?”
“Not really. I did community college for a year. I always planned to go back later with the—” she winces as something muscular slots back into place “—GI bill and all that.”
“We were thinking,” Joe says, “that perhaps we should settle somewhere for a few years and you could do college now and only take occasional missions on weekends and holidays. We can ease you into the lifestyle and give ourselves a break at the same time. We all enjoy academia. It would be nice to attend classes again, as a group.”
Nile sits up on her elbows, carefully not looking at her stomach.
“Are you for real?”
“Yes,” Nicky says, picking up the thread. “You need training, but you should also have experiences like this while you are still young and have things in common with your peers. At least the first time.”
Nile thinks about all the degrees between them and realizes that collecting multiple degrees of her own is likely an eventuality.
“I mean. That would be great. Can we? Do we have the money and the, uh—we’d need fake IDs and paperwork and stuff, right? And like. A place to live. Where would we go?”
“Andy’s making a list of places she deems acceptable. We’ll contact Booker for the aliases and Copley will see we’re admitted. We just wanted to make sure it was something you were interested in first.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, of course. Wait—is Booker coming too?”
Nile hasn’t been able to get his face out of her head. His eyes. The expression of devastation; something worse than devastation, maybe, when they left him.
They talk about Booker often, like it’s a habit. But Nile finds she can’t be as cavalier as the others when his name comes up in conversation.
“No,” Nicky says. “He’s our forger, though. He will make the documents.”
Nile rolls up into a proper sit. “So you’re going to ask him to make us a bunch of fake documents so we can all go to university together and bond and shit while he’s alone?”
“It’s only a hundred years,” Joe says.
“There’s nothing only about the punishment you gave him.”
“You’re young,” Joe says, “you don’t understand.”
“No,” Nile says, pushing herself to her feet. “I don’t understand. Because you looked at a man—an alcoholic who was so lonely and desperate and in so much pain, that he went searching for a way to end his life. You looked at that man and decided that the best cure for his desperation was even worse isolation. Either you’re being intentionally cruel or you’re not nearly as smart as your multiple degrees would suggest. Maybe you should be a psych major this time.”
“Nile,” Joe says. “Come now.”
She slams the door when she enters the kitchen, then immediately turns to press her ear against it.
“She has a point,” Nicky murmurs. “A very good point.”
“Nico,” Joe murmurs.
“I’m not excusing his actions,” Nicky says. “But if I did not have you—if I’d lost you. I cannot say I would not have done the same. He did not mean to hurt us. He only meant to hurt himself. And now we have hurt him even more.”
“But he did hurt us,” Joe says. “Accident or not he was responsible for the things they did to you. The things I had to watch them do to you when I could do nothing to stop them.”
“Tell me,” Nicky says, “tell me you are certain you would not have taken similar measures if I died and left you alone. Tell me honestly, habibi, and I will never bring up my opposition again.”
Several seconds of silence follow.
“You want me to speak to Andy,” Joe says. He sounds tired.
“I want us to speak to Andy,” Nicky answers. “I think she will agree this was not the right course of action, now that we have some distance. Now that we are not so angry.”
“Fine,” Joe says. He slips into Italian and Nile, feeling somewhat proud, heads to her room to shower. Her shirt, like many before it, goes straight into the trash can.
***
Nicky can’t sleep that night.
Joe is tucked behind him as usual and the room is dark and quiet and nothing is amiss.
Except that the cadence of Joe’s breathing is off.
His hand, wrapped like a proprietary habit around Nicky’s wrist, has yet to go sleep-slack.
“You are still awake,” he murmurs.
“As are you,” Joe aptly points out.
Nicky turns in Joe’s arms, slotting their legs together, lifting his fingers to the slightly-too-sharp cut of Joe’s cheekbone.
They both still wear subtle signs of their ordeal, immortal as they are.
“My love,” Nicky says, “I can tell you are troubled.”
He says it in Arabic, so Joe knows he’s serious.
“I don’t think I can forgive him,” Joe admits.
Nicky isn’t surprised.
He pets Joe’s cheek for several seconds, then traces the shadow from the window that halves his face with moonlight.
He lets his thumb linger on Joe’s bottom lip.
“Do you remember,” Nicky murmurs, “After Jerusalem. Even after I defected. After I fought against my own countrymen. I gave you a thousand apologies and they meant nothing in the wake of the destruction I had facilitated. Do you remember how angry you were then?”
“Of course,” Joe says.
“It was justified, your anger. It was justified then and it is justified now and if you had never forgiven me I would have understood.”
Nicky pauses, pressing a dry kiss to Joe’s mouth purely because the relief is still so raw, even after all these years, that Joe could love him despite his failings.
“I was angry with myself,” he continues. “The guilt I felt—I knew it did not compare to your pain, which, perhaps, made it even worse, but I did not think I could ever repent enough. I did not think I could ever redeem myself for things I did. Or the things I allowed with my inaction.I was certain that I could never earn forgiveness. That I could never deserve you.”
“Nicolò.”
“And I think…perhaps Booker feels the same, right now. And I know that one should not be alone with those kinds of feelings.”
Joe says nothing.
“I had you,” Nicky whispers, “when I struggled all those years. Before you forgave me, you were still there. You did not abandon me, despite your anger, and I am so glad for it. I am so grateful for that kindness. I don’t know what would have happened had I been alone. What I would have become.”
Joe tightens his grip on Nicky and presses his lips, not really a kiss, just an affirmation, to his forehead.
“You do not need to forgive him,” Nicky says, “but show him the same kindness you showed me, please.”
Joe nods and then places a proper kiss to each of Nicky’s eyelids. To his cheeks. To his mouth.
“That I can do,” Joe says.
“I know,” Nicky says.
One of Joe’s hands creeps up beneath Nicky’s shirt. He presses his thumb to the trench between his third and fourth ribs: the intercostal space where Joe’s saber had found Nicky’s heart exactly thirteen times before they’d finally laid aside their weapons.
“I’m sorry it took so long to forgive you, justified as my anger might have been.”
“That you forgave me at all is a blessing.”
“Still.”
Joe switches to English: “Tell me every terrible thing you ever did,” he quotes, “and let me love you anyway.”
“Sade Zabala,” Nicky agrees. “She has a new book out, did you know? I will get it for you.”
“And I will read it to you.”
Nicky kisses him because he doesn’t know what else to do and because he can and because he wants to.
“I love you,” he says, because it’s true and because he never tires of saying it.
“As I love you,” Joe answers.
They shift back into their normal positions and Nicky finds, with relief, that Joe’s breath eases quickly into a familiar pattern. Nicky drifts to the slow cadence of Joe’s chest, rising and falling and rising again—a comforting metronome that he knows better than his own heartbeat.
He sleeps.
***
Andy picks Booker up from the airport a week later.
Nile had volunteered, but Andy wanted—
It’s her responsibility. He is her responsibility.
She’s still so angry with him, but she also still loves him. He is––was––the closest thing she had to a best friend. And she’s more than a little afraid she’ll be picking up a shell of a man.
Except when Booker comes out of the arrivals doors, with a leather bag over his shoulder and a rolling suitcase in the other hand, he looks good. Shockingly good. The bags under his eyes are gone and the pinched lines around his mouth have vanished. He looks young—perhaps younger by a decade, even, which shouldn’t be possible. He probably looks the best she’s ever seen him.
“Sebastian,” she says.
“Andromache.”
She hadn’t been planning to hug him, but she finds herself doing it anyway.
He’s warm and solid and Booker and something hollow and bereft in her chest—she really hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again—eases when his hand closes around the back of her neck and clings.
She missed him.
The hug lasts long enough that they both look a little awkward about it when they finally step away from each other.
“You look good,” she says.
“I’m, uh. Four months sober.”
And that is even more shocking than his appearance. She can’t remember a time that he didn’t have a flask in his jacket.
She looks at him again and suddenly the changes make sense.
“That’s…good?”
“I think so,” he says.
She opens the trunk and he swings his bags into it.
“So,” she says, once they’re in the cab and merging with the rest of the traffic exiting the airport. “Anything I need to know? Anything we need to do? I can get rid of the alcohol in the house.”
“No. It’s fine. Or it should be fine, I think.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, avoiding her eyes. “You should probably know, though. The kid has been sending me messages. Through Copley at first and then email.”
“Nile?” Andy asks.
Andy had no idea that Nile had been in communication with Copley, much less Booker. She’s grudgingly impressed.
“Nile,” Booker agrees. “Yes.”
Andy doesn’t particularly like the way Nile’s name fits, familiar and fond, in Booker’s mouth.
She loves Booker, but he would need a whole hell of a lot of therapy before Andy would trust him and his trauma alone in a room with Nile.
“And,” Book says, low and halting, like he’s expecting judgement. “I’ve been seeing a therapist. I…edit. The things I tell her. Obviously. But it’s been good, I think. We meet once a week on the computer. She’s been helping me stay sober.”
Huh.
“You’re seeing a psychologist?” Andy repeats. Just to be sure.
Booker laughs like he can’t quite believe it himself.
“For nearly six months, now. Don’t worry, she just thinks I’m a former soldier who’s experienced an undue amount of tragedy in his short life.”
“No, that’s not—I trust you.”
She shouldn’t, after everything. But she does.
“I’m proud of you, Book.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Why now?” she has to ask.
Booker rubs the back of his neck.
He shrugs.
“Nile asked me to.”
Andy has no idea how to respond to that.
“She told me to try therapy for a month and if it didn’t help she’d stop bothering me about it. So I went. I didn’t think it would change anything, but.”
“It helped?”
“It helped.”
“Hell,” Andy says. “Maybe I should try therapy.”
“Probably.”
She punches his shoulder gently. “I’ll consider it.”
She studies his profile as he studies the passing scenery; the relaxed slope to his shoulders; the way his hands sit, without fidgeting, on his thighs.
“So,” Andy says, because it’s still not making sense. “You started all this—completely changed your life—because Nile asked you to.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “And no, I don’t understand why either.”
Andy leans her head back and exhales in a whistle.
Well. At least they’re on the same page.