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“We need a break. No, I need a break,” Andy had said four months ago, her voice tight as she had wiped the blood off her face.
Nicky remembers the day so vividly, yet he still can’t say why. It wasn’t a special day, it wasn’t anything new–they’d taken breaks before, but...not like this. Andy had cleaned her axe, checked her pistol, and looked at him, Joe, and Booker’s shocked expressions as though she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on them. There was instant confusion, and she didn’t offer much of an explanation, but what she did say was that the world could burn, none of this was worth it anymore. Which, her statement didn’t make anything any better, and in fact may have confused them more, but Nicky was never in a place to question that or her motives. He vividly recalled Joe spitting out a hefty bullet but staying silent while Booker got closer to Andy, asked her why now and how long.
She hadn’t even touched the blond, merely stepped to the side. “Until there’s a good enough reason to fight again,” she’d said, “I need some time off.”
It’d been a long time coming, and that much was apparent to Nicky, but that didn’t make it easier. Booker took it the hardest, but knowing that they weren’t totally alone in everything undoubtedly was the reason he hadn’t gone insane yet. To the best of Nicky’s knowledge, at least. It’d been a long time since they took a hard break like this, one where they all split apart to go their separate ways for an undetermined amount of time, and while Nicky was comfortable spending an undetermined amount of time with Joe, Booker didn’t have the luxury of a travel partner. Maybe he’d learn to relish the time alone, though Nicky knew he himself would never be able to after all these years and the lifetimes-long bond he’d forged. Nicky kept a blackberry, for communication purposes, and every couple of nights, at least once a week, he’d get a call from Booker asking how things were.
How’s the weather where you are? How’s Joe? Done anything fun, helped anyone? Where are you headed next? I miss you guys, it’s strange to be alone again so abruptly–especially for longer than a few weeks. Have you heard from Andy? How is she if you have? I haven’t heard a word either. I hope she’s not getting herself into too much fun without us.
Nicky takes the call no matter where he and Joe are. It usually comes before dinner, no matter where they are. Joe says hello if he’s nearby, asks Booker a few questions in return. Both Nicky and Joe have talked before about how difficult it must be for Booker, being alone, and at one or two points mentioned perhaps meeting up with him for a few days, though it never happens. They simply haven’t offered yet, both presuming that ultimately, he’ll be fine. In their line of work, and life for that matter, some weaknesses had to be outgrown. Booker getting to travel the world for however long will be good for him, Nicky figures.
Booker hasn’t called this week, though.
Andy never reaches out. She has a flip phone, and all of their numbers, but she simply chooses not to. In the past, when they’ve taken short breaks like this before, Andy’s always called them from a phone booth, and with some consistency to check in, but Nicky gets the feeling things are different now. He’s been stewing over the situation for the past week now, wondering if and when things will be different.
They arrived in Italy four days ago, driving to a small villa that had been in Nicky’s name for centuries, the interior just redone within the past sixty years. Three days ago, they arrived and spent a good part of the day cleaning up the dust and cobwebs, sleeping before they were done. Two days ago, they finished cleaning and found takeout for dinner. Yesterday, Nicky spent a large portion of his day pondering over whether or not to just call Booker himself, make sure he was alright, and Joe hunted around for more euros—most of the currency stashed in the villa was old and not legal tender (which was unfortunate, because what Nicky had in lire would’ve equated to a lot of money). Ultimately, Nicky decided not to call Booker, though he still isn’t too sure about his decision.
Today, Joe was taking him to the market down the hill. The clouds descended before they’d even awoken, and the drive down only further enunciates that it’s going to rain later. It’s cold enough that Nicky’s put on a heavier coat for the day, used to warmer climates from the past several months and how close they are to the coast definitely doesn’t help the temperature. Being home in Italy, however, is still a welcome change. Nicky still loves the way Joe looks in the scarf-pea coat combination, though he loves the way Joe looks in anything if he’s being honest.
Nicky is still distracted throughout the time they’re shopping. Joe holds up several different things to show Nicky as they walk through the market; various meats, fresh bread, a few bottles of wine and varying cheeses are primarily what he’s offered. He shrugs and nods to all of Joe’s suggestions, each time shooting a cold look over his shoulder to check and see if they’re being followed. It’s never the same people behind them when he looks, but he can’t shake the feeling anyways.
“Is something the matter, amore ?” Joe’s voice asks, snapping Nicky back to the present. “You’ve been out of it since we got here.”
Nicky shakes his head. “I’m alright, I think,” he says. He’s not sure if he is or not, but he’s definitely been feeling off since they left Paris, which was the last place they’d taken some time to settle down in.
Joe doesn’t seem sure, and though he can’t kiss Nicky’s forehead in the middle of the market, he can reach out and gently adjust Nicky’s jacket, his fingers trailing gently down his arm once it’s done. The gesture’s meaning still carries over.
“I just...can’t get the feeling of being followed out of my head. I know it has been four months, and I know that it is illogical to think it, but…”
“We can rest tonight, if you think we shouldn’t worry,” Joe tells him, his voice quiet and low like Nicky loves. “Have some fun, unwind. It could definitely do both of us some good. But, if you think we should be worried...”
“I do not think we should worry, not at all.” He hesitates after he says it, but cracks a small smile at Joe. “I could go for a night of fun. Relaxing may help me shake the feeling.”
Joe slips another bottle of wine in their basket as if Nicky wouldn’t notice, paying for all of it less than five minutes after. There’s fruit that Nicky missed being added that he sees now, but his focus is mostly on observing the rest of the market. There’s nothing there worth being concerned about, but Nicky can’t help but look. Maybe he’s still getting used to not going job to job, or maybe he’s just wary of something tailing them. The second one is still deemed illogical almost instantly, but–
“Nicolò?”
Nicky is once again snapped back to reality, looking at Joe.
“Si, si. Scusa.” Nicky shakes his head and picks up the bags that Joe hasn’t already, tailing him out to the car.
Joe was definitely right, he needed to have a few peaceful nights. Even after four months off the job, Nicky hasn’t been able to relax; would that ever change? At this rate, Nicky couldn’t be entirely sure. Maybe taking jobs again would help lower the edge just a bit, though traveling around with Joe was never something he’d turn down. Alternatively to the prior thought (and adding on to the latter piece of it), maybe just traveling with Joe and trying to forget work would lower the edge more successfully.
When they get back home, the air is damp and their road is wet. They must’ve been lucky, driving up between the rainfalls. Joe and Nicky are quick to get everything inside and put away, and before the hour is up, it has begun to rain once more. The rain in January is one of Nicky’s favorite things; watching the cold droplets fall brings him peace of mind more often than not, and the memories of January rain before Joe was there to wrap his arms around him are slim.
It’s cold inside, even with the heat on low, the tile floors making the lower temperature even more noticeable. Joe lights a fire before too much time has passed, and Nicky begins to make dinner. A stereo from the other room turning on initially surprises Nicky, and though he doesn’t jump in his skin, he’s damned close. Next thing he knows, as he’s poking around in a pot, Joe is next to him with a glass of white wine.
“It’s a bit sweeter than I thought, but still crisp,” Joe tells him, holding out the glass carefully.
Nicky takes it by the stem, giving it a swirl out of habit alone and raising it to his lips. He holds the glass there for a moment, inhaling to get initial thoughts before he sipped. Sweeter was right, though he’d still classify it as dry, but it is a perfect temperature; pear comes to mind first, but with a bit of citrus underneath, faintly oaky under that.
“It’s fantastic,” Nicky decides shortly. “Sweet or not. You picked well.”
Joe grins, leaning on the fridge to watch Nicky at work. “I try, I really do,” he says. “We may have to open a different bottle for dinner, I’m not sure how well they’ll go together.”
Nicky scoffs. “And waste a perfectly good bottle?”
“Better get a move on with your glass then.” Joe laughs quietly as he says it, finishing his own glass immediately after. “I can’t finish it alone.”
“I’d never ask you to, my love.” Nicky smiles–a big, broad smile–the first of its kind since they’ve gotten back to Italy, and it seems to be the reason that Joe smiles just as big in return.
Joe brings the bottle into the kitchen, the music still faintly playing in the background. Nicky can barely make it out now, but it sounds like something modern that Joe would’ve put on to have a little fun. Now, Joe sits on the counter near him, handing him anything he asks for and refilling his glass every time it gets low, making idle chatter as he does. Not that Nicky is worried about being drunk, with the whole immortal thing, it’s always been a little harder for him to get his body to relax for long enough to allow him to feel the sweet, bubbly intoxication. Joe is oftentimes what gets him the closest to that feeling, at least without all the work. Yet, as Joe pours the final drops of the bottle into Nicky’s glass, he’s beginning to suspect tonight might be the night that he manages to get drunk for the first time in however many years.
He’s not particularly upset about it either.
Joe is hunting for another bottle while Nicky plates their dinner and takes it into the dining room. It’s set already, which is surprising to Nicky as he sets the plates down. It’s a small table, they can sit across from each other and still be close. The white wine Joe picked was even better than the first one, and it paired excellently with the cream sauce. Nicky would hand it to himself–he was a pretty damn good cook, and Joe’s muffled hums and frequent “thank yous” lead him to believe it even more.
By the time they finish the meal, the second bottle is empty. Nicky feels pleasantly warm inside while he picks at bread, dragging it around what little remains in his bowl.
“Do you want more? Wine, I mean,” Joe offers. “I picked up a moscato, could be a good dessert.”
Nicky’s laugh is quiet, but he nods. “I would love nothing more.”
It’s still raining outside when Joe pulls Nicky from the table, glasses filled and sweet wine on Nicky’s tongue. Joe’s kisses are sloppier than usual already, but there’s something pleasantly endearing about it, and Nicky returns the kiss with a little more heat. Switching out the CD playing shortly after, Nicky finds himself grinning, a quiet giggle escaping him when he recognizes what Joe turns on.
He sips the moscato before speaking, the sweetness still stinging his tongue as he speaks. “I always forget your... questionable taste at times.”
Joe scoffs, though he’s grinning when he does. “Don’t try to tell me that this is not the greatest band you’ve come across in the past hundred years–”
It’s ABBA–a compilation album, but it’s the best one, at least (ABBA Gold, and Nicky stands firmly by that opinion). The condensation on Joe’s glass stains his fingers so that when Joe takes Nicky’s hand to tug him just a little closer, it’s slightly damp and cold like the rain outside.
“I will openly disagree with you,” Nicky says, straightening out and trying to keep a straight face. “There’s...there’s a lot of better–more better? No, better–”
It devolves into confused giggles, followed by another drink. Nicky’s grinning now, too, his head resting on Joe’s shoulder for a brief moment. He shuts his eyes for a moment too long, and when he opens them, the lights are almost prettier than before–if that’s even possible. A soft, subtle shade of gold that covers them and their bodies; it shines perfectly off of the white wine, and it shines beautifully off of Joe. Nicky is relaxed, for maybe the first elongated time in four months, but he’s so happy at the same time from being home in the beautiful lights and the January rain, the god awful music paired with moscato after chardonnay and Joe’s presence–though that last one alone could definitely be a reason for Nicky’s happiness at any given time.
Nicky has pulled away from Joe, briefly, leaning back on the table behind him. His empty glass is abandoned on the table shortly, Nicky groaning at the sound of bad synths greeting his ears. He bites his bottom lip as though it’ll keep him from smiling more, but he can’t help it.
Joe is giggling too, now. “I know you like this song, don’t deny–”
Nicky openly admits that he isn’t much of a singer to begin with, especially not while drunk, but that doesn’t stop him from cutting Joe off with the half past twelve that is far too high a note for him to actually hit properly. It makes Joe laugh, though, a beautiful sound that Nicky adores more and more each passing moment right now.
Joe sings with him, an infinitely better singer according to Nicky, even if the words are slightly slurred and he’s still definitely off key too. But Nicky doesn’t care, not right now, when he’s having far too much fun singing terribly and his dancing is even worse. He can’t even help the dancing, he just wants to move when he hears music right now, and who is he to deny himself? Supposedly, Joe is also the better dancer according to Nicky, but it’s another instance in which the answer would be different if one were to ask anyone else they knew.
The album is on shuffle. It makes things more fun for Nicky at least, though he’s accepted that the way he’s moving is not how it’s supposed to be when it comes to Does Your Mother Know and Lay All Your Love on Me; Joe is still dancing with him, sometimes falling victim to the drunken giggle and sometimes Nicky just has to pull him back in for a brief kiss. As if the wine wasn’t intoxicating enough, Joe’s mouth finishes the job with little struggle. When the immutable hit Dancing Queen comes on, any semblance of reality is thrown out the window while the pair of immortal hitmen dance drunkenly on a three hundred year old rug in the middle of a villa that should be older than them, but isn’t.
Nicky has to hand it to Miss Abba–whichever one of them sang it, he doesn’t know, so they are just a singular Miss Abba for now–he really is having the time of his life, and maybe he can dance and jive.
It’s been awhile since Nicky has witnessed the complete duality of man, which he now defines as going from dancing wildly to having his head on Joe’s shoulder, swaying gently along to Thank You for the Music with his fingers laced in Joe’s. The hand on the small of his back added to the feeling of bliss, and the kiss on the temple may have just sent him further over the edge. Nothing else matters now but this moment alone.
“Your head is going to be pounding in the morning, you know,” Joe murmurs, though Nicky’s eyebrows furrow together briefly and he shushes him quickly.
“I know, but I like this song.”
“God, I love you.”
Nicky can feel Joe’s smile against his cheek, which is honestly all he ever needed in life, and they both giggle softly again, in unison. In return, he moves closer to rest his head in the crook of Joe’s neck, fitting like a perfect puzzle piece. Plus, Joe has the bonus of smelling like fresh laundry, which tangoes with his usual citrus like a dream.
“We don’t have to do anything tomorrow, right?” Nicky’s voice has taken a different tone–it’s laced with concern now, and his eyes are shut once more. He doesn’t even notice that he’s switched to Italian. “It’s just us, here, not–not doing anything, yes?”
Joe seems to humor him at least. “I don’t think I’ll be able to function until around one, so I really hope the answer is no. Unless you count spending all day in bed with more wine and fruit as something we have to do.”
Nicky shakes his head. “No, god, no. As long as it’s not more moscato, because I think my body might decide it is my time if I have any tomorrow.”
That one gets a laugh from Joe. “I have some reds, I bought snacks while we were out. It’s just us, darling, let us make the most of it.”
“I could never ask for a better lover,” Nicky muses, looking up at Joe now. “I mean it, I really do.”
“If we’re lucky, it may still be raining tomorrow,” Joe tells him.
“I would absolutely love it if it were.”
This time, Nicky is the one to be giving the sloppy kiss. He hardly thinks twice about it, but Joe tastes sweeter tonight than usual, and though it’s most definitely the wine, Nicky hardly cares. The rain is gentle, the wine sweet, the lights gold, and Fernando quietly plays in the background–he wouldn’t want it any other way.