Archive of Our Own

"Watched turkeys never broil," Nicky quips, gesturing with his spatula.

"Shut up and let me think." Booker runs down his checklist, more glad than ever that Andy and Quyhn took Nile into London for the day.

If he's going to pull this off, he has to focus.

Copley arrives bearing sweet potato casserole, looking cozy and very American in his obnoxious turkey sweater.

"My mum sent this last year," Copley explains. "Something about traditions and ugly sweaters. I thought Nile would appreciate it."

"She is going to love it," Joe declares. "You look ridiculous."

"Thank you. I believe that is the objective of this atrocity." Copley sets the casserole on the counter. "I checked Nile's old instagram. Her mom uses marshmallows, so I adapted my mom's recipe accordingly."

"You are a godsend," Booker says. "I wouldn't have thought to look."

"How is everything else coming?" Copley asks, looking around the kitchen.

"I am finishing the salad, and Nicky is putting the last touches on the potatoes," Joe explains. "Booker is worrying over the turkey."

"The pumpkin pie is cooling, and there is a pecan pie on the counter." Nicky barely avoids flinging potatoes as he talks. "We ordered the pecan pie, to avoid fucking it up."

"I made the cranberry sauce last night," Booker adds. "The green bean casserole and the stuffing are baking."

"Smart." Copley sits out of the way. "Safer that way. As one of the few fragile humans, I'd like to avoid salmonella today."

"Booker is going to give himself heartburn before we even begin to eat," Joe teases.

"It's our first Thanksgiving together," Booker argues. "As a couple, as an entire family with everyone in one place. I want to do this right."

"You are adorable," Nicky says. "Breathe. She is going to be thrilled that you tried, no matter what."

It's one thing for Nicky to say it.

It's another to see the light in Nile's eyes when she walks into the kitchen and sees the table set for a proper American Thanksgiving.

"Booker, this is amazing!" She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him once, twice, three times. "You didn't have to do all this for me, Book, Christ."

"I would do anything for you, ma sirène." Booker kisses her again. "Go get washed up for dinner."

Nile cracks up when she finally sees Copley and his absurd sweater.

"James, what the fuck are you wearing?"

"A present from my mother," Copley says, eyes twinkling. "Is this not traditional American Thanksgiving attire?"

Nile laughs even harder. "You're a mess."

Booker's heart is so full it hurts.

Later, the whole family gathered around a table heavy-laden with food, Nile insists they all name something they're thankful for.

"I am thankful for antibiotics," Andy starts.

"Family, new and old," Quynh adds.

Nicky thinks it over a moment. "New opportunities for growth."

"I am thankful for my Nicolo," Joe says, surprising no one.

"I'm thankful for full American Thanksgiving meals in Surrey," Nile says. "That, and the wonderful man who orchestrated it to help me feel less homesick. And you somehow managed to make it a surprise!"

"It was an undertaking," Booker says, chuckling. He thinks his answer over for a long moment. "I'm thankful for love that refuses to be ignored, no matter how stubborn I am."

That earns him a kiss.

"Okay, now we can eat," Nile says, grinning. "Pass the sweet potatoes."

...

December:

Jean-Pierre died on December 15th. Booker has the date inscribed on his soul.

He forces himself to put on a brave face for Nile, at least until she leaves for work with Copley. Booker crawls back into bed, like maybe the duvet will shield him from his memories.

Booker doesn't cry. He can't reach the emotion necessary for it. All he feels is numb, drowning in the darkness of his grief.

When Nile comes home, she finds him sitting on the floor in the lounge, staring at a closed bottle of whisky on the coffee table.

"Oh, Bas..."

"I haven't opened it," Booker says bluntly. "I haven't. But fuck, Nile, I want to."

He expects her to take the bottle, lock it away, throw it out.

Instead, Nile sits on the floor beside him.

"I'm here."

It opens a valve.

Booker crumbles into her lap, tears finally falling.

"I shouldn't have left you," Nile says, rubbing his back. "I'm sorry, baby. You shouldn't have to do this alone."

Booker has been doing it alone for over two hundred years. Usually he does it drunk enough to black out - one time, drunk enough to die and come back in the alley behind a bar in Monte Carlo.

"Let it out, Sébastien. You can cry. I've got you."

This is his first December 15th sober.

There's no way in hell Booker would survive this alone.

"That's it, deep breaths." Nile gently moves his hair out of his eyes. "Shh, I've got you, baby. You're okay. We're okay."

Booker loses time as he runs out of tears.

"I'm sorry," he finally rasps. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for," Nile says softly. "Come on, let's eat something and go to bed, yeah? Maybe we can take a bath?"

Any other day, he would bristle at being coddled. December 15th is not any other day.

Later, curled up in bed, Booker tells Nile about his boys. He tells her about their lives, their deaths. He tells her Jean-Pierre's last words to him, the anguish in his face when Booker explained he couldn't pass on the miracle he couldn't understand.

Booker tells her everything, and she doesn't sneer or revile him.

She just listens.

When Booker runs out of words, Nile kisses him softly and holds him close.

"You and Sophie raised good men. You gave them all you could. Now, you honor their memory." Nile tightens her embrace. "I love you. Let yourself rest, Sébastien."

It's the permission he needs to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

...

February:

"You don't think the pink is too much?" Nile asks, looking at herself in the hand mirror.

Booker doesn't look up from the braid he's working on, trying to get the transition from Nile's natural hair into the pink add-ons to lie properly.

"It is very festive, ma sirène." Booker curses, unravels a bit, and starts again. "Seasonal. Besides, it is beautiful with your skin."

"It matches the bra I bought in Seoul," Nile says.

"I noticed." Booker loves that bra. "You look radiant in pink, no matter the season or application."

"You flatter me. How's it coming?"

"Two more braids, and this one just won't do what I want it to." Booker bites the corner of his cheek as he focuses.

He ignores the fond look Nile is angling him in the hand mirror. He can't fuck these up, not this close to the end.

"You've gotten pretty damn good at this, Book."

"I've had a great teacher," Booker says, finally finishing the penultimate braid. "Fucking finally."

"You're doing well, baby. Just relax." Nile pats his arm. "One more, and then I can get dressed for dinner."

The last braid manages to behave, and Booker releases her to admire his handiwork.

They're absurdly long, brilliantly pink, and Nile looks fucking thrilled.

"These are so out of reg, it's hilarious. I can't wait to do bright pink space buns." Nile kisses him soundly. "Thank you."

Later, when she emerges from the bedroom in her date-night ensemble, flashes of pink lace are visible over the neckline of her slinky black dress.

They do not make their dinner reservations.

...

March:

Why has it always gotta be kids?

Booker hates hostage situations on any day, but kids?

Nile covers his back as he rigs the explosive on the door, signaling everyone to duck as he blows it open.

Andy goes in first, Booker and Nile on her heels.

Andy takes down one of the armed guards, but not before he fires. Booker tugs her between himself and Nile, taking the bullet and handing Andy another gun from his back.

Nile takes down the other guard while Booker covers the door, giving Andy and Nile a chance to get to the kids.

The two tiny children are tied to folding chairs in the corner of the room, scared and shivering and hungry.

Nile pulls snacks out of her pockets as Andy cuts their zipties.

"Hi, little ones. Your mommy sent us," Nile says in her softly-accented French. "We're here to take you home."

"What is the word?" Victoire demands, a protective order sister even as shit gets weird.

"Babar," Nile says.

Edgar throws himself into her arms, sobbing his tiny lungs out. Victoire is more reserved in her relief, but she gobbles down the granola bar and fruit snacks Andy offers her.

Nile straps Edgar to her back, swimming in a bulletproof vest. He clings to her harness.

"Who is he?" Victoire asks when he sees Booker.

"My partner," Nile says with a fond smile. "He helped us find you."

Victoire sizes him up and finds him sufficient. She doesn't argue when Booker sweeps her into his arms to carry her out of the compound.

Quynh is waiting in the van when they get out, ready with fresh clothes and a satellite call to the Ambassador.

Edgar refuses to release Nile, so she buckles them both in. He falls asleep as soon as his belly is full.

"Why is it always kids?" Nile asks quietly.

"People are hateful," Booker says flatly. "Kids are vulnerable. I'm glad they had you."

"And I'm glad I have you." Nile kisses him, and Victoire shrieks "gross," in obnoxious, Americanized English.

God bless television.

...

June:

Cap Coz is beautiful this time of year.

Admittedly, the cove Andy owns is always beautiful, but summer is the best time to visit.

"We need to make this a tradition," Nile says, lounging on her favorite rock in a minuscule blue bikini.

Booker has been meaning to reread Le Père Goriot for months, but he can't seem to focus.

Imagine that.

"What, coming to the beach? Or driving me to distraction?"

Nile lowers her comically large sunglasses to look at him.

"Driving you to distraction is a daily habit, baby, not a tradition. I meant coming to the beach. Do you think Andy will mind?"

"She and Quynh aren't huge fans of the beach anymore." Understandable. "I think we could commandeer the place and she would never notice."

"It's a plan." Nile stretches and rolls over, showing off her Brazilian bikini to the best affect.

Booker is losing his mind, but you won't find him arguing.

"Is it a new suit, ma sirène?"

"It is." Nile wiggles her hips. "Is my siren song working?"

It takes two seconds to stow his book, and less than ten to join Nile on the rock.

Later, sunburned and healed and sunburned once more, they finally go back inside.

"I'm starving," Nile says. "Somehow, I worked up an appetite."

"I wonder how." Booker smirks.

"You should make dinner while I shower," Nike suggests.

"We should shower together. It's more economical."

Nile snorts. "Economical?"

"Better for the environment, then. Whatever argument you need that will end up with my soapy hands on your body, ma sirène."

They're barely out of the shower when the burner phone rings on the mantle. Andy is the only one with the number, which means she must really need them.

"Fuck." Booker picks up the phone while Nile rummages in the fridge. "What, boss?"

"You know I wouldn't call if it didn't matter," Andy starts. It is not reassuring.

Forty-eight hours, two plane rides, a military junta, two CIA agents, and a regrown foot later, Booker swears he'll hang up next time.

"Bitch later," Nile says, taking out two targets over his left shoulder and stabilizing him all at once. "Focus now."

Booker slides a knife out from between her back and her bag, throwing it at the throat of the last militant on his side of the room and retrieving the man's gun.

"New tradition," he suggests. "No more answering the phone while we're on vacation. No more emergency jobs."

Nile laughs as she liberates a new pair of boots for him.

"That's never going to happen, and you know it."

"A man can dream."

"We'll be home soon," Nile says gently, a stark contrast to their surroundings.

Booker has never heard sweeter words.