Work Text:
After fifteen years with the Guard, Nile has a pretty good handle on just about any language you could think of.
Nile can give a eulogy in Spanish, ask for directions in Pashto, negotiate a weapons deal in Russian, woo a honeypot target in Italian, con a businessman in Greek, and navigate trade in Arabic. She can read, write, and speak Ancient Greek (circa Nicky and Joe's era) and is passable in several dead languages from the Steppe and Southern Asia. She's decent at Mandarin, getting pretty fucking good at Vietnamese, and doing her damnedest to learn Hindi. (It's a struggle.)
The one language she hasn't picked up yet is French.
It isn't for lack of trying. Her grasp at French is enough to not get her killed, but most of her practice has been with Quebecois or the dialects spoken in Morocco. Basically, if she spoke French in France, they would laugh at her, and her comprehension isn't great
"When Booker comes back, he'll teach you," Andy promises. "He has the most modern French between the five of us. It will do you better to learn from him."
"That doesn't do me any good in the interim," Nile points out.
"He'll be back any day now," Andy says. "Trust me, he'll crack soon."
...
Nile gets to their most recent safehouse late after a long night of schmoozing. She hates long cons, hates that some of humanity's evil can only be taken down with espionage and not brute force.
Her feet are killing her. These sky high boots make her ass look amazing, but her leg muscles regret every life choice she's ever made. It really isn't easy looking this good.
The TV is on, even though Joe and Nicky are supposed to be on recon. With Andy and Quyhn in Istanbul following a lead (to keep a grouchy Andy off of desk duty for a weekend), Nile's senses are on high alert.
She enters carefully, gun drawn.
"Don't shoot," Booker says, hands up. He smiles slightly. "I would have messaged, but I don't have your latest code."
"I still have the Nokia you gave me," Nile points out. "Andy could have told you that."
"Maybe I wanted to surprise you."
"You definitely have too much of a death wish for someone who can't die."
Booker doesn't have a comeback for that. Nile holsters her gun.
"Hug me, you sneaky bastard. It's been literal years."
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He crosses the room in two strides and steps into her waiting arms.
When they collide, it knocks the wind out of Nile's lungs. Breathing is irrelevant anyway, when she's in Booker's arms.
"I missed you, asshole," Nile says into his shoulder, probably getting makeup on his dumb denim shirt.
"I missed you too. I'm sorry that I did not visit sooner." Booker rubs one massive hand over her back. "Your feet probably hurt. I should let you get changed."
"One more minute."
Later, when Nile has had time to change into an oversized t-shirt and Nike shorts, her wig back on its mannequin head, Nile sits down with her feet in Booker's lap and grills him for information.
"I got sober about five years ago." Booker rubs her feet without hesitation, well-trained from centuries with Andy. "I haven't had a drop since."
Nile nudges his chest with the foot he isn't massaging.
"I'm proud of you. It can't have been easy."
"It wasn't." Booker bats her foot away. "It was worth it, though. You deserve a better teammate - you all do. Besides, I don't need to spend the rest of my immortality intoxicated. Six thousand years is a long time to be drunk."
"So what have you been doing since?"
"I spent a lot of time Journaling, processing my emotions. I worked in several literacy programs across the world, staying long enough to help but not too long." Booker shrugs. "Safer that way, I guess."
"Did you bring me pictures?"
"Of course. I have no clue how you keep finding film for Polaroid knockoffs though. It's twenty-thirty-five."
"I have my ways." Nile makes grabby hands in his direction. "Pictures. Please tell me there's pictures of you holding cute children you're teaching to read."
"Of course there is." Booker finds the envelope in his bag, careful not to dislodge her.
The tiny gesture is so fucking heartwarming it hurts.
"I have training in literacy coaching in English and French, so I've worked just about everywhere."
The photos are fucking adorable. Nile flips through them with glee, enjoying the tiny humans and huge Booker sharing textbooks and screens. One little girl in particular pops up in several.
"That's Adelaide," Booker says when Nile holds one up. "I stayed in Port Au Prince for almost a solid year, because I couldn't bear being another to abandon them. When she was adopted by a family in the church, I decided it was time for me to come home myself."
"That reminds me. You're back, which means I finally get to learn proper French."
Booker hesitates.
"Come on, Book, I know you have the qualifications." Nile retrieves her feet so she can kneel by his side on the couch. "You promised. Andy promised. No one else will teach me."
"Nicky hates French," Booker points out.
"I know, and everyone else is too stubborn. They all want you to teach me." Nile fidgets with his rolled-up sleeve. "I want you to teach me."
One good bat of her eyelashes later, and Booker finally agrees.
"Fine, fine, I will teach you French."
"Yes!"
"Eventually. For now, you need rest. Andy will insist on a stupidly early call tomorrow."
...
Six months later, and Booker hasn't said three words to Nile in French. He uses it on jobs, with Joe and Andy, when he talks to himself, but not with her.
They end up in Calais for three days, longer than expected, and Nile bugs him to go out with her.
"Come on, you can teach me in the field. I can practice." Nile pokes him in the arm. "You can laugh at my shitty attempts to use your language, and then you can correct me. Fun and educational!"
"I have too much to do, Nile. I have to make sure this program runs properly, or else we can't get on that plane." Booker waves her off. "Go read something. We have more books than sense here."
"That's not hard, when you're dumb." It's petty, infantile, but it gets Booker to smile and that's enough. "Fine. Don't think it's the end of this, though. You promised to teach me."
"I know, ma cherie, and I will. But for now, entertain yourself."
Nile grumbles. "I am forty-one years old. Don't act like I'm a child."
"I know you aren't a child. However, you are being a brat, so shoo."
"Asshole."
Nile pokes through the books in Booker's latest pile and fishes out something newer and trashy. Brainless. It'll do.
(And if she gets him to throw couch pillows at her by doing dramatic readings of the worst bits, all the better.)
...
Booker has been back in the fold for almost a year.
"Booker, you promised."
A year, and Nile is still just as shit with French - except for the curse words. She knows a whole stable of curse words now.
"Ask Andy."
Nile huffs. "I've been asking Andy for almost sixteen years, Booker. She says you'd be the best one to teach me."
"I don't know about that," Booker says, frowning.
"You're the French one."
"They've spoken French since it was invented."
Nile sighs. "Forget it. I'm going for a run."
She slides her ancient Nokia into her armband and pulls on her sneakers. A run will clear her head.
He doesn't say anything when she leaves. Nile tries not to take it personally.
They're in Istanbul, following up on the lead Andy and Quyhn have been chasing down. They're going to the Hippodrome in the morning, but for now, Nile has the evening to herself.
Why does this whole French thing piss her off so much?
(Nile isn't an idiot. She knows why.)
Maybe she'd be less irritated if he hadn't started singing recently.
It's nothing too obvious, just little snippets of old-sounding songs in a version of French that is either impossible for her to spell, too old for Google Translate, or both.
Nile turns a corner, mentally marking her distance as her feet hit the pavement.
Maybe she wouldn't care as much if Booker sang when the others were around, but he doesn't. It's just when it's the two of them.
Booker is asleep in the armchair by the time Nile gets back. She pokes and prods at him until he's awake enough to shuffle back to the bedroom.
"We've got a long day tomorrow." Nile shakes him gently. "Don't fall asleep in your boots."
"M'good," Booker says, then mumbles something incomprehensible in French.
"Goodnight, Booker."
"Bonne nuit, ma cherie," Booker says.
Nile can figure that much out.
...
The next morning, Nile wakes to singing and the smell of breakfast. She pulls on a hoodie and shuffles out of her room, scarf still on because fuck it.
"G'morning," she says, muffled by a yawn. "Coffee?"
Booker pours her a cup as she sits at the table. Before she's done with the coffee, an omelet appears before her.
"You are the fucking best." Nile digs in, content to enjoy the moment.
Good food, good company, and surprisingly good singing.
Nile is halfway through her omelet, Booker still be-bopping around the kitchen singing, when Quyhn and Andy get in from their morning run.
Both freeze in the doorway before Booker can notice, but Nile watches their minds race.
"Good morning," Nile says.
Quyhn whispers something in Andy's ear, and they walk quickly back to their bedroom.
Booker seems to realize they're there about the moment quiet giggling comes down the halls.
Nile didn't realize Andy could do anything other than chuckle gruffly these days.
Booker blushes bright red and his eyes go wide.
"Booker, your breakfast," Nile points out before it can burn.
"Fuck." Booker rescues his omelet. "I should go talk to them."
Nile stands, hemming him into the kitchen.
"Why are they giggling, Book?"
Booker refuses to make eye contact, but Nile doesn't back down.
She's been a mercenary for a decade and a half. She's faced down gangsters and serial killers and oligarchs. She can handle pinning Booker down with a glare.
"They, ah..." Booker rubs the back of his neck. "They speak French?"
"I know they speak French. Why were they giggling?"
Booker finally makes eye contact.
"They're love songs, Nile. I've been... I've been singing sappy shit from my youth, because I knew you wouldn't understand."
"That's why you wouldn't teach me."
It isn't a question, but Booker nods anyway.
"I was scared," he finally admits. "Scared for you to know."
Nile wants to say something meaningful. Wants to sweep him off his feet, wants to kiss him stupid, wants everything in the world.
Instead, she steps back.
"We have a job to do. Tonight, if you want to, if you're ready, I want you to translate your songs for me. Then we can talk, yeah?"
"I-" Booker nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that works for me."
She turns on her heel to go get ready for the day, leaving Booker in the kitchen staring after her, baffled.
...
Later, blood and mud spattered and healing from a sizeable fall from a horse, Nile limps into her bedroom. She manages to get most of her layers off and into a basket to see if they can be salvaged, but her ribs are still healing so bending too much is out of the question.
Getting her bra off is an Olympic event.
Booker doesn't knock until after she's showered.
"Come in."
"I brought you... well, the translations." Booker holds out a new-feeling leather journal. "I wrote down all the ones I could think of. You can read them, and I'll just-"
"Sit," Nile says before he can escape. "Please, stay."
Nile reads, connecting words to tunes he's been singing for weeks.
They're sappy, fond, romantic, saucy. Nile enjoys peeking up at Booker to see him blush almost as much as the love confession she's holding in her hands.
When she reaches the end of the lyrics, Nile crosses the tiny bedroom and looks Booker in the eyes.
"Booker?"
"Yes?"
"Are you ready to teach me French?"
Booker nods, blushing. "If you would like, ma cherie."
Nile finally kisses him. "I would like that very much."