Chapter Text
The ringing of his phone wakes him up. He groans, tugging an arm free of the weight pinning it, and rolls over to grab it from the nightstand. The glowing screen tells him that it's four o'clock in the morning, and the caller is listed as a private number.
Fuck.
He answers before the second ring, and Miss Freema-Nile's voice comes through, low and tight. "Is Booker there?" she asks without any pleasantries. And that's when Copley knows something is wrong. Nile is the bubbliest and most talkative out of the entire team, to hear her this curt is jarring. Wrong.
"He's here,' Copley says, casting a glance over to where Booker is curled up in a way that looks almost almost painful under the sheets beside him, an arm thrown over his face. There's no use denying it, they are all well aware of the nature of his and Booker's working relationship.
"Tell him he needs to come down to Berlin, now." Copley doesn't ask why, Nile's tone and the own instinctive feeling of dread that rises in his stomach is enough. He's heard that tone before. But he waits for her to confirm it. "Andy is hurt. She's hurt bad." Nile says after a pause. "Tell him to hurry up and get down here. He'll know where to go." Then the call clicks off, and Copley is left sitting with the darkening phone in his hand. Shit.
He knows it's urgent, to say time-sensitive would be a fucking joke, but he still gives himself a precious minute before he reaches over to wake Booker up. A minute in which to consider the worst case scenario, which is Andy dying. It's a certain possibility. Why else would Nile have called? The team is able to independently contact the doctor he's engaged for them, and so far none of the doctor's services that have been rendered have mediated an ominous phone call in the dead of night.
A minute to consider that, and then another to consider what it means for Booker if Andy does die. He would be devastated in a way Copley is not equipped to handle, or to even understand. Booker has once admitted that Copley is a grounding force in his life, but Copley is not arrogant enough to think that the flimsy sway he's managed to build will be of any use to him then.
He shakes Booker awake with a hand on his knee, gently, so Booker won't startle - he's made the mistake of abruptly waking him and nearly got himself shot - and has never felt as guilty as he does then, when Booker groans awake and sits up, resting his weight on one elbow and shoving his hair out of his face to smile at Copley once he gets his bearings.
"Is something wrong?" he asks when Copley doesn't respond in kind, his accent more pronounced and scratchy with sleep, and that alone makes Copley hesitate for a few more crucial seconds.
"Nile just called from Berlin." Copley says slowly, watches as Booker's face lights up in interest, and why shouldn't it? All of Nile's previous calls have been benign. Uplifting. "...she said Andy was hurt. She wants you to come."
Booker's face has gone pale now in the dim pre-morning twilight, there's no trace of the excitement that was there seconds ago. He slips from the bed and goes for his scattered clothes, pulling them on methodically, finishing to retrieve the gun he's stowed under his pillow.
Copley follows suit, dressing and taking his own weapon like Booker's shadow. "I'll take you over," he offers, and Booker only nods, to his immense relief.
They arrive at the Berlin safehouse to find Andy comatose, and Nile sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, while the doctor fusses over the equipment hooked up to her. The look on Booker's face when he steps into the room and sees her is absolutely heartrending. Copley swallows, suddenly in another place for a minute, another room, his wife's face peering up at him from the midst of snaking tubes. God. God.
Booker goes over to Andy, taking her free hand, mumbling in French, reaching up to touch her face with trembling fingers. "Andy, Andy, répondez moi plus tard," he says softly, and Copley quietly leaves the room. He's not part of this, this moment, and whatever comes after is solely Booker's.
They stay there for two days, and Copley keeps himself tucked away in various corners, waiting for it, for something to break. On the second night, despite all odds, Andy wakes up. Copley hears the exuberant French exclamation heralding her recovery from two rooms away, and let his eyes drop shut in relief.
When he comes to wish her well she's groggy and pale, but she's alive. Booker is nowhere to be seen, strangely. "He left when the others came in." Nile tells him when he inquires, and Andy gives a weak huff.
"Go bring that idiot back here." she orders. Copley goes.
But Booker won't come back, no matter how Copley coaxes, because the man is stubborn and a self-flagellating idiot. Joe and Nicky finally appear to collect them, and when Joe tries to approach Booker, he ducks his head and steps away, going for and out the door. Copley follows him without a glance back.
"We should go now." Booker says thickly when Copley catches up to him.
"She wants to see you."
"She already saw me. Please, let's go."
So they go.
Booker disappears for a week when they come back, and Copley finds on him on the tail-end of a drinking binge in Paris when he goes looking. Booker staggers to his feet when Copley comes into the apartment, and Copley gets to him in time to catch him. He's been at it for a while, if the inability to walk in a straight line is any indicator. He should have never let him out of his sight when they returned from Berlin, but the man is fucking wily when he wants to be.
Booker sags against him, burying his face in Copley's shoulder, and Copley pulls the bottle from his fingers and eases him down onto the couch. It takes quite a while, five or six minutes, for Booker to become lucid. He blinks blearily up at Copley, who reaches for him, some useless endearment on the tip of his tongue. Booker catches his hand, redirects it back and away, and drags himself upright, his eyes falling away from Copley's.
"I can't do this anymore." he says, addressing the floor between his feet, and Copley feels a cold chill run down his spine. No, don't say it, don't say it, don't- "It's over, I can't...we can't do this anymore."
Fuck. Copley digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, absorbing the words. He had a notion something like this was coming, he'd seen it in Booker's face when he got his first look at Andy, at what mortality meant. He just didn't know it would be this bad.
"Sebastien," he begins hesitantly, the word heavy on his tongue. He doesn't casually abuse Booker's real name, they are still mostly Copley and Booker to one another, James is what his wife used to call him, and Sebastien Le Livre is a person that Booker has made clear doesn't exist anymore.
But Booker's eyes lock on his at the sound of his name, red and haunted, and oh so old, Jesus Christ, and any arguments stop there. Copley draws in a breath, runs his hands over his head, and accepts the inevitable. "I understand." he says, and his voice doesn't shake, not once. "I'll see you around, then." he adds, because he doesn't know what else to say, and practically runs out.
Life is unfair. Life is so fucking unfair. He goes back home, moves a few pins around on his board, calls to inquire after Andy, and bullshits his way through the conversation when asked about Booker. Yes, he's back in Paris. Yes, I've seen him lately, just yesterday, in fact. Will he be seeing him again tonight? Well, that's none of your business. Tell him I want to talk to him. Will do, when I see him again.
A few days pass, he deliberately swamps himself in work to keep from feeling like utter shit, but there's an acute needling at the edge of his subconscious, just waiting to become an explosion of pain. He's counting on a few more days to build up the wherewithal to contact Booker, because he still has a fucking job, regardless of personal investment.
Booker saves him the trouble by appearing that night in his study, he walks in to find him quiet and huddled in one of his leather armchairs. Copley doesn't ask how he got in, there's no point, it could have been any one of a hundred ways.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, and he doesn't mean to sound so cold, but Booker isn't the only one hurting, and although he cares for the man - cares more deeply than he knows is wise to - he's being put through the ringer already. Booker winces, doesn't look him in the eyes. Copley walks past him, places the papers he's holding onto his desk, and waits.
A shaky breath, and then Booker is finally looking at him, and Copley feels the first stirrings of alarm. He looks like shit. Booker braces his hands on his knees, his jaw working for a moment, and then drops his eyes back the ground. "I'm sorry," he says, so low Copley has to strain to hear the words, even in the quiet of the room. "What I said, I didn't...I...je merdé, je merdé -"
Copley goes over to him slowly, puts a hand on his shoulder and crouches down to be level with him, giving him the means to make Booker looking at him unavoidable. "It's alright," he says softly, his demeanor gentling with relief. Booker's fingers close around his wrist, they're trembling. "It's alright," he says again, more firmly.
"No, no," Booker's fingers tighten convulsively, squeezing but not hurting. "You don't understand, you're going to die someday-" then he's trailing off in French, reverting to his native tongue in the way Copley has come to know. "-comme tout le monde, et je serai de nouveau seul-"
Copley knows French well enough to understand that, and even if he didn't, Booker's cracking voice would tell him all he needed to know. He works his hand free of Booker's grip, puts it on the back of his neck, curling his fingers against the skin.
"I'm here now, Sebastien. And I'll be here for as long as I can." The immortality thing may be the holy grail to people such as the late Merrick, but Copley isn't as stupid as to think it's a gift anymore. Booker has made sure to teach him well otherwise.
Booker lets out a bark of laughter, it's bitter, grating. "For as long as you can." he whispers back. Copley only nods, holding eye contact with him. He's in it for the long run, there isn't any going back, not where Booker is concerned, not with the team. This is it for him now. He'll live the rest of his life running alongside them.
Booker laughs again. "You deserve better."
Copley shrugs, and guides Booker's head down enough to be able to plant a kiss on his temple. "Maybe so. But I want you." For many, many reasons.
Booker mumbles something unintelligible in French, and his whole body suddenly sags towards Copley, his head dropping onto his shoulder. Copley runs a soothing hand down his back, feels him shudder, feels him press closer.
He holds him, and the weight of the recent grief and worry on the man's shoulders. There will be future calls, future situations much, much rougher than this, but they are here now, the both of them, and that will have to do. It's all they have to work with. It's not ideal, but it's enough.
Translations are as follows:
"come back to me,"
"I fucked up, I fucked up,"
"-like everyone else, and I'll be alone again-"