Work Text:
He scrolls through the news under the awning of the stylish new cafe they are frequenting, to his far right, his companion is employing a sleight of hand to add whiskey to his coffee from a small silver flask.
Copley is pretending not to notice. If the other man were any other man, he'd be concerned. Definitely horrified. However, the other man is an immortal well over a century old, immortality that comes with such perks as being able to drink hard liquor with concerting ease.
"This is going to be a hard one to cover up," he says out of the corner of his mouth, tilting his phone to give Booker a clear view of what's on the screen. "MYSTERY DAREDEVIL COMPLETES DEATH-DEFYING STUNT FROM FIFTEEN-STORY BUILDING" the headline screams.
"Mon Dieu," Booker says, taking a liberal gulp of his spiked latte, showing as much interest in Copley's words as particularly lazy cat (if the cat was a chronic alcoholic and French) might show an owner attempting to entice it, "she must have developed a taste for jumping off buildings."
"That's not funny."
"No, no, I'm being serious. It's-" he waves a hand, searching for the words. "-her signature move now. We all have one."
Fucking really? "Miss Freeman should make an effort to limit her stunts. Subtlety is of the utmost importance here." Copley says, because maybe if he uses big words and an authoritative and urgent tone, Booker will be more inclined to to actually listen. (In short, he needs to learn how to sound like Andy, who he's seen browbeat Booker into compliance with a single word. Over the phone. From half a continent away.)
Booker, who hasn't given a shit for any type of authority or tone of thereof since he deserted his army and survived forging a passport with the name Andromeda Scythe on it for Andy, (she didn't think it was funny at all, the killjoy) remains completely unfazed.
"She's a kid, Copley. Let her enjoy herself."
Which is all fine and dandy, Copley has no desire to police the interests of bright young mind, but he wants to point out that Nile seems hellbent on enjoying herself enough for ten people. Or maybe just Booker. God knows the miserable bastard abhors any type of joy.
"I don't know how you expect me to do my job when you people continue to do shit like this." Copley snaps, waving his phone under Booker's nose.
"But it's your job to figure out how keep everything under wraps." Booker points out mildly, breaking out the flask again. Copley snatches it from him.
"You could try working with me here!"
"You're the brains of this outfit now, mon cher agent intelligent, and I am but a simple man who faithfully follows your lead." Booker purrs, tugging fruitlessly at the flask. Copley gives him a look that says are you fucking kidding me in so many words and slips it into his jacket.
"Listen, you-you-" he stumbles for an insult that would most accurately convey the depths of his frustration, and Booker chuckles, amused and light, reaches over the gap between them, puts a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Bébé, ça va, ça va, fais-moi confiance, s'il te plaît," he says, and lets his hand slide from Copley's shoulder, down between them to tangle their fingers together. Copley sighs, letting Booker's hand slip into his, rubbing his thumb aimlessly across skin.
Of all the assholes he managed to end up with. If he'd known what Booker was actually like - well, he supposes it doesn't matter. Booker is his asshole now, and all the rest of them too. Everyday is just another adventure. But then again -
"Well?" he says, because despite his sudden sentimentality, he still has something to deal with, and Booker won't be brushing him off that easily.
"Well what?" Booker is grinning toothily, and Copley is going to fucking strangle him. It won't take, of course, but it'll make him feel much, much better. He takes a deep breath, wills himself not to cause a public incident. If Nile skydiving off a building midday caused a storm, a supposed murder in central Paris would just mean more trouble.
"She needs to keep a low profile. At least until a few years have passed, and everyone she knows moves on."
"Tell Andy to talk to her." Booker says after a moment of quiet. "Andy will make her understand." Copley looks at him, immediately noting the change in his voice. He's downcast now, his eyes in his coffee cup. Nile never spurs moments of melancholy the way the very mention of his other teammates will, she does not have the same bitter connotations attached as they do.
Copley shifts closer, presses his lips to the edge of Booker's jaw, near the tapering bit of his beard. Booker has an interesting aversion to public affection that he's shortly explained has come from centuries of living in close quarters with Joe and Nicky, and refuses to elaborate further, but he'll permit things like this. Booker is still quiet after, but then he smiles, balancing his cup on his knee.
"Ma douce," he says, turning the full force of his smile on Copley, and reaches out to him, skimming the back of his hand across Copley's cheek. Copley lets his eyes close at the touch, reveling in the moment.
He comes down from it a few moments later, to discover that Booker has nicked the flask out of his jacket while he was distracted. Copley groans, falling back against his cushioned chair, shoving a knuckle between his eyes to ward off the twitch in his eyes. The little fucker. It's going to be long day.
Translations are as follows:
"My God,"
"My dear intelligent agent,"
"baby, it's fine, it's fine, trust me on that, please"
"My sweet,"