Chapter Text
Chapter Three: Resilience
The movements were quite formal to begin with. Joe could easily make out the repeated patterns of lunges with practiced cuts, slices and thrusts, followed by various examples of parry and riposte against his invisible opponent. He recognised fencing moves best used with a foil or rapier, some more suited to a sabre or scimitar, even some created for a katana, each move now executed with ease with his more cumbersome longsword. Over their many hundred years spent together, his Nicolo had always remained a student of the sword, learning from whomever, where ever and whenever he possibly could.
They had travelled the World together, visiting some places by choice, others because they felt compelled to do so, to help where they could, some they were simply contracted to go to on a mission.
In some countries they were lucky enough to get to stay for a few years and make a home of sorts. Mixing with the locals, dining on native cuisine, maybe even learning the language...or at least picking up enough words to get by. They could never fully put down roots, always moving on well before someone could get suspicious of their lack of aging and there were only a few special places that they'd return to a generation or two later. But regardless of where they were living, be it a city, town or remote village, Joe would always make a point of immersing himself in the culture and would insist on them visiting as many museums, galleries and libraries as they could.
He's well aware of the fact that Nicolo didn't appreciate every stage performance he was brought to and to be fair there'd been a few turnips over the years, 'Shakespeare on Stilts' springs to mind but as he usually reminded him 'in order to appreciate the good, you must also experience the bad'. And his Nicolo was more than willing to put up with the bad and the art that he didn't quite 'get' because he knew it was important to him. The Italian loved him more than enough and understood him completely to be there with him, for Joe and Joe loved him even more for that selfless act.
Yusuf was born an artist and a poet at heart, they would always be traits at the very core of his being. But circumstances at the time of his early mortal days didn't have much need for his artistry. His poems and sketches would not put food in hungry bellies and his father insisted that he learned other skills, which of course he did. He eventually became a skilled warrior and was prepared to use those skills against the infidels invading the Holy Land but Nicolo...he was born for the blade.
One could easily be forgiven for assuming erroneously that Joe was the more dangerous of the two, especially by those that didn't truly know them. Outwardly it would seem so, Joe was demonstrably passionate, reactive and animated. He could argue loudly and forcibly about something but his temper was as quick to dissipate as it was to appear, like a blindingly bright firework, short lived but impressive.
Nicky appeared to be the more reasonable partner, those dulcet tones acting as the voice of calm and reason, the negotiator, the pacifier, never one to overreact, all cool and collected.
But his family knew the truth. Beneath that tranquil personna a beast lay hidden.
Andy had once quite accurately compared him to Vesuvio, an active volcano that spends most of its time in a dormant phase. Dormant but not extinct, buried beneath the surface a chamber of magma, molten rock lying in wait until the pressure becomes too much and then all hell brakes lose. Threatening or hurting anyone of their close knit group is one of his pressure points. When that threat is directed at Joe, all they can really do is sit back and watch Mr. Serenity erupt.
They've seen him on the battlefield, a destructive force of nature laying waste to their enemies, carving a path though limbs with brutal efficient force, a bloody and barbaric sight. They had all lived through more savage times, when the way of the sword or axe was common place, they had all received and inflicted grievous wounds over the centuries and were no stranger to this level of violence but Nicky made it look like an art form. And it was this very art form that Joe now observed . And it was art, different yes to his own preferences of paintings, sculptures and poetry but art nonetheless. It could be dangerous and destructive but it was also skillful, beautiful and imaginative.
As they traveled the continents, they also saw the inside of many a Salle d'Armes and dōjō, sometimes Nicky would befriend a skilled swordsman and receive instruction in a barn or field. He was always willing to learn regardless of the teachers social status or the location. He studied Kendo and Kenjutsu in Japan, La Verdadera Destreza in Spain, Scots fencing in Edinburgh, the Kunst des Fechtens in Frankfurt. He's trained with the espanda, silat, khopesh, rapier, dao, kopis, shasqua, claymore the list goes on. Joe himself had even given his lover some lessons on how best to handle the Turkish scimitar. Nicky's own fighting style was now a wonderful blend of all those fighting traditions studied over the last millennia.
So when the set movements of the patterns and kata Joe was studying so intently suddenly became less formal, he knew the Italian was now simply being himself. His precious longsword becoming an extention of his own body, wielded with ease and a fluidity that Joe often coveted.
His footwork the envy of Fred Astaire, his grace and strength worthy of Baryshnikov, ok so maybe he was waxing a bit lyrical, but a man is entitled to be effusive about the love of his life, besides he looked so damn sexy with all that sweat glistening off his body.
His mind began to wander and think of other more pleasant situations where his Nicolo was equally as sweaty but he was rudely pulled from his musings when those forthy inches of sharpened steel whizzed past his face. He looked up to see then tail end of a pirouette of sorts and the barbarian was actually smiling at him.
“Keep it clean,” he warned, then winked and continued without missing a beat.
'Busted', Joe thought, Nicky always knew when his mind was in the proverbial gutter, but it couldn't be helped, the man could corrupt a Saint. Still he could continue to watch and behave himself...sort of.
Nicky was dropping a shoulder and feinting a downward blow only to whip his blade up and attack his 'opponents' head, he was pretty sure the move would have resulted in a decapitation. There was little room for etiquette in real life situations and Nicky could play dirty with the best of them and just because he was brandishing a sword in a fight didn't mean he wasn't above shooting an enemy in the head with a Glock 17 or smashing a face in with the pommel. Next he used a Musashi tactic, which ended with his invisible foe being impaled. Finally he ended his exercise session with a series of lightning strikes, designed to inflict maximum damage before an adversary even knew what hit them. They would bleed out in seconds.
During his many years spent in northern Africa he had seen the damage and death inflicted by many venomous snakes, the Egyptian Cobra, the Puff Adder and the Black Mamba to name but a few, some aggressive, some only when threatened, all potentially deadly, all striking with lethal precision a little bit like his Nicolo.
As he finished, he performed a few more stretches and took a few deep breaths to centre himself not that he was out of breath, he generally used techniques similar to combat tactical breathing when sparring, probably just as well. The sight of the man all sweaty and breathless and Joe might not be responsible for his actions.
Nicky returned to the stool Joe was sitting on and carefully reached over his lovers head to place his longsword down on the piece of tapestry beside his partner's scimitar. They would collect their swords as well as some fire arms later before they retired for the night. Booker would be taking first watch anyway.
“How do you feel habibi?” he asked softly, looking up into the man's eyes.
“Better,” Nicky replied with a soft smile, succinct as always.
Joe knew he was being honest, some of the storm had left his beautiful orbs. There was tiredness still but he seemed less troubled and Joe found his own peace in that truth.
Nicky cast his gaze to the forgotten plate of pasta and made a grimace. The thoughts of eating cold mac and cheese was considerably less appealing than eating it hot. Joe followed his lover's sightline and had a pretty good idea what was going through the man's mind.
“Go shower and I'll reheat it for you...can't be any worse...I think...maybe,” he joked.
Nicky leaned over and cupped his beloved's face in his large hands and kissed him. It was sweet and tender and Joe lamented it's loss when Nicky eventually pulled away.
“Mi vizi amore mio,” Nicky purred, then rubbed his fingers through Joe's ample curls, before leaving to go wash up.
Joe sighed at the sight of his lover leaving the room, one day he'll stop acting like a randy teenager but today is not that day. He reached across the table and lifted up the cold congealed plate of pasta and made a little grimace of his own. As he stood up his gaze fell upon their two swords lying side by side, oddly reminiscent of their own sleeping arrangements. He smiled at them fondly. Both blades having withstood the test of time, their layers and layers of folded tempered steel making them strong and resilient, not unlike their owners.
'Hmmm,' he thought to himself as he made his way to the kitchen, 'could be a good poem in there somewhere...now what rhymes with resilient?'
~ooOoo~
Well that's it folks! I really hoped you enjoyed this little fic, first time in this fandom but I hope to make a return, the characters are just to good to leave be :) Very grateful for the kudos and comments, please let me know what you think of it. I have no idea if Shakespeare has ever been performed on stilts, it's just a weird notion that popped into my head!
Mi vizi amore mio ~ You spoil me, my love (google translate)
La Verdadera Destreza - Spanish tradition of fencing ~ the true skill/art
Kunst de Fechtens - German school of fencing ~ art of fencing