Work Text:
Seattle, 1986
Nicky was cooking, humming softly as he worked, the smell filling the whole apartment.
Joe sat at the table reading, though his attention was more focused on his lover than the book in front of him.
“Nice neighborhood,” Andy said, shutting the front door behind her. “Whose place is this?”
“Booker’s,” Joe said without looking up at her. “He’s been out here a couple times, he said.”
“There’s a bar down the street,” she said. “He’s probably never been in the apartment for more than an hour.”
Nicky whacked her arm with his wooden spoon.
She grinned at him.
“Set the table, would you, boss?” Nicky asked. “Dinner’s ready.”
“What’d you make?” She asked.
Instead of answering, Nicky looked to Joe. “Please go tell Booker dinner’s ready.”
Joe put down his book, moving to press a kiss to Nicky’s cheek. “Of course.”
Often, Joe didn’t bother to knock, but this time he did, taking Booker’s low mutter as permission to enter.
Booker sat at his desk, his back to the door, not looking up when Joe entered. His fingers clicked away on a typewriter.
“Dinner’s ready,” Joe said, as he stepped forward and realized it wasn’t a typewriter that sat on the desk.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Booker said, nodding.
“What is that?” Joe asked, raising a brow at the machine on Booker’s desk.
Booker raised a brow back at him. “It’s a computer.”
“Like those giant things they use to build spaceships?”
Booker laughed. “It’s been more than a decade since then. They’ve made some improvements.”
“So, you’re not launching a spaceship, then?”
“No, but apparently I’m now making you an email address.”
“Email,” Joe repeated. “What is that?”
Booker sighed. “How little do you know about computers?”
“Spaceships,” Joe said. “I haven’t paid them much attention otherwise.”
“Okay, email is like... it’s like mail. Someone writes your address on the letter they want to send and it gets brought to you, right?”
“Yes, I understand mail, Booker.”
“Email’s the same way, except it’s a digital address.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You tell the email to come to this computer.” Booker gestured.
Joe blinked.
Booker put his head down on the desk and groaned. “It’s just a faster way to send messages.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that?”
“Why do I even bother?” He shook his head.
“What’s the point, though?” Joe asked. “Why send computer mail when you can make phone calls? Those are faster.”
“Well, you have to answer phone calls when they come. Email you can read and respond to whenever.”
“They have answering machines now,” Joe said. “I don’t think this email thing is going to be more than a fad.”
“I’ll take that bet. Thousand bucks, ten years?”
“Sure.” Joe shrugged. “Why not?”
“Hand me that disc?” Booker asked, pointing to his dresser where a thin plastic circle with a hole in the middle sat.
“What is this?” Joe tilted his head.
Booker chuckled. “A CD. It holds data.”
“CD,” Joe repeated.
He laughed again and stood. “Welcome to the eighties, my friend.”
“It’s been the eighties for several years.”
“I know. You have some catching up to do.”
“Yusuf!” Nicky called. “Are you two coming to dinner?”
“Coming!” Joe called back, Booker right behind him.
...
Rio de Janeiro, 1996
“Have we gotten an email back from our informant?” Nicky asked, mindlessly playing with Joe’s hair.
“Not yet,” Booker said, shifting his laptop off his lap. “But that reminds me, Joe, you owe me a thousand American.”
Joe groaned.
“What for?” Nicky raised a brow, not really looking surprised.
“He told me that email was a fad,” Booker said.
Joe fished out his wallet, forking over the money without a word.
“Don’t feel so smug,” Nicky said. “He also said that about the printing press.”
Booker’s face fell. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Nicky shook his head and suddenly both the other men looked very defeated.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Andy said, lurking in the doorway. “I knew someone who said that about writing.”
All three men groaned.