Work Text:
June 2014,
They hadn’t reconnected in a few years when they got their next mission. An anonymous source asked them to handle a group of extremists that was projecting to unearth some 70 years-old World War Two bombs on the French North-West coast. There was word of a terrorist attack on the day of the Normandy landings anniversary to blow up the President. The celebration couldn’t be postponed as the government was already too weak to let down this event but the threat was too great to be ignored. It might ignite a fire that would have Europe fall. Andy had contacted the rest of her team as soon as she was sure the authority couldn’t handle the problem. She had led revolutions before but in the modern era such demonstration of utter violence would only set the world on fire. Joe and Nicky had quickly joined her in Peru where she was spending some time helping, but there was no news of the third one. Andy had an hunch why her call had had a silent answer but she wasn’t going to let Booker get away with it so easily. She took the first plane to Montreal where Booker would often go. Indeed, she found him in the basement of one of their hideouts. He had survived on a strict diet of bread, flavourless cheese and watered down wine.
« Booker. I called for you almost two weeks ago.
- Andy, Andy...I...I don’t think I’ll be going with you guys, he hesitated. You don’t really need me anyway, right ? It's a standard mission, you’ll be great.
- Book...that wasn’t a question, she shot back. We’re a team. So you get up, pack whatever you need and I’m taking you with me.
He knew for one that she was absolutely capable of knocking if out until they’d set foot on french soil.
- Do we really need to do it though ? Can’t we let the army or I don’t know the GIGN handle it ?
He tried to appeal to her, his voice faltering a little.
- What is it now ? » Her tone warm like the one of a mother. This wasn’t the first time Booker refused to follow them to France but he never really argued when she would go find him in person. There was something wrong here. Her question was met with silence. « Come on Booker, it’ll be just for a few days if we can be quick. Or would you rather I bring Nicky to keep harping you on about it until you want to dig your own grave ? »
Her joke seemed to work on the French and soon enough they were all meeting back in northern France, in the small town of Wissant. Joe and Nicky had booked a lovely little farm not too far from the coast, protected from the strong winds by a barrier of lush trees. However, they couldn’t do much about the rain. They tried to get Booker out of the house at some point but the man wouldn’t step a foot out, lying about how he needed all the time he could afford for the search of the group they were after. Instead, Booker would spend his days listening to old french songs, eating chocolate bars one after the other, and making tea then let it get cold without touching it. All the while complaining about the weather, the Internet speed or even the lightening of the room.
- - - - - - -
A week later, the job was done and the team tired as they got back to the farm for their last night. Nicky had gone out a few hours ago to get some groceries with Joe. Booker was slumped in a leathery armchair, a book in his hands but reading the same sentence again and again. Andy sat on the sofa. Her shoulders were still tainted by blood, her hair caked with blood and maybe some brain matter and dirt, and she was pretty sure her shoes still had sand in them. She sighed heavily, her sore back bent like an angry cat.
« Booker. » She hesitated and stopped. They hadn’t discussed his stiffness when coming back to France and it felt like if they didn’t now, they would drop the topic forever. She needed for him to express himself, she knew way too well what damage retaining thought and negative emotions could hurt. « Booker, we should talk.
- What is it boss ? » He didn’t look up the book, almost crouching behind it.
« What’s wrong ? I know you didn’t want to be here. Tell me why, don’t keep that to yourself. You know you can talk freely to me, yeah Book ? » He nodded, lowering his literary shield. « Talk to me. What is it- »
The door opened and Joe and Nicky came in. Booker sent an apologetic look at Andy. The chance had slipped, they would not talk about it, not now and not ever. Not realizing that they had arrived at the wrong moment, or maybe ignoring the heavy atmosphere, Joe went in the kitchen dump the groceries. Nicky took a seat on the sofa next to Andy and pointed a finger at Booker, almost threatening.
« What in the everloving hell is that machine with the bread ?! '' Booker looked at him, dumbfounded.
- Do you mean...the bread distributor ?
- Yes ! How could you not warn me about those ? I mean you guys are supposed to be the king of the baguette or something. Even in Italy we don’t have this kind of horror.
- I mean...it’s just a distributor...in case you need bread...there’s even butter in those. » Nicky stood up suddenly and stormed off. Booker looked at Andy for some support but she was as flabbergasted as Nicky. « Okay, I guess this is weird... »
- - - - - - - -
They all settled at the table when Nicky called them, Booker’s eyes purposefully avoiding Andy’s. Joe and Nicky going back and forth on where they should go afterwards. Their voices filled the room with happy prospects, slowly getting more excited about possible activities or memories to revisit. Booker, on his end of the table, was eyeing the food. It had been a long time since he’d have this kind of meal. A hundred years at least. Maybe more. The pieces of beef coated in dark brown sauce smelled heavenly with a hint of gingerbread. He took a bite. The meat almost melting on his tongue, releasing its sugary flavour. But there was something else, something more, something so familiar he almost didn't notice it. Cloves. Only his mother put cloves in Carbonade Flamande. She would put them because she knew he loved the smell. She was the only one with this recipe. How could...how could Nicky know ?
His head shot up like a bullet, his eyes opened like he’d just seen a ghost. But all there was was the fresh smell of lavender his mother would colour the house with, the memories of deep summer and the afternoon spent with his only parent, her laugh when she would look at his poor drawings and her ever present warmth, the joy in her voice, the love she would give even in trying times. She’d always been there, supported him. She wasn’t there when he’d founded his family but she would always live in his heart. After the war, after he’d lost Anne-Marie and his sons, he’d thought he’d lost her as well. The memories flooded his mind.
He couldn’t hold back the tears. They rolled down his cheeks and his chin trembbled. He forgot how to breath for an instant. Finally Andy’s concerned voice got to him. « Booker ? Booker what is it ? What is wrong ? » Booker looked her in the eyes, or well..in her direction.
- It’s the Carbonade. It’s- » He couldn’t finish his sentences before another streak of tears went down his chin. Nicky let a small gasp. He stood up ready to take the dish back in the kitchen. Joe instinctively put a hand on his arm to stop him.
« I’m sorry Book, I thought this would remind you of home-
- No no it’s okay, it’s...thoughtful. It’s just that...my mom used to do it like this. I’ve never tasted it with cloves when it wasn’t her doing it. »
Nicky sat back, still a little hesitant. Joe offered a small smile and a gentle squeeze to comfort him. He gave Booker a handkerchief. « You okay Sebastien ?
- Yeah, it’s just...I don’t know, maybe the stress or whatever » he brushed off with a half-hearted laugh. But before he could add anything, Andy’s voice ringed in.
« That’s what you get for avoiding your country for a hundred years. You should enjoy your culture while it’s still around, who knows maybe in another hundred years everyone will be eating quinoa and nobody’ll be able to make Carbonade. Cherish that instead. »
Even through her strict tone, Booker could see the joke in her eyes and the sad reality of her own traditions now gone forever, even from her memory. He smiled at her, a little embarrassed, but she didn’t dwell on her own sorrow. She never did. Maybe one day they’d talk about it, the two of them.
« Now now Nicky, don’t tell me you intend to starve two alcoholics of their favourite meal ? Why is there only water on the table ? Where’s the wine ?
- You’re eating it boss.
- Don’t tell me..., she half threatened.
- All in the food, chirped in Joe, very amused by the situation.
- Well that’s a great evening, isn’t it ? » she shot back with a laugh.
They finished the meal and changed the subject. The dinner done, Booker went to the sink to wash the dishes that Joe would give him. He had suggested watching a football match that was on tv tonight. Nicky was already in the living room, setting up everything.
« I heard a woman when we were doing the groceries this afternoon and she said something like « si c’est nictent tourne tincul au vent torade l’air » and I still have no idea what that was about.
Booker almost choked and burst out laughing.
- I don’t think...I don’t..., he breathed a little less nervously. I think she said something like « Si t’es nin contint, tourne tin cul au vent t’aura de l’air ! » ?
- Yeah something like that.
- It just means I don’t care, but as in...if you’re not happy, turn your ass to the wind, you’ll have air.
- Poetic. Charming dialect, really. Joe put away the cutlery and the cleaning towel.
- You wanna learn some more ? Booker asked, a devilish glint in his eyes.
- Shoot away. Joe walked away in the living room where Nicky was waiting for them, already laying on the couch.
- Repeat this : « Frotte tin cul avec eune brique, te l’auras rouche ! »
- Frotte tin cul avec eune brique...
- Te l’auras rouche.
- Te l’auras rouche ! I got it. What’d it mean ?
Booker took a break, then shot a knowing smile at Andy.
- Kiss my ass. »
He was met with the loud laugh of their friend, joined with Andy’s. With a little nod, she told him to come sit. He sat next to her, a little suspicious of what was going to happen, but she didn’t lecture him. Well, not exactly. Instead she went to the fridge and took out a magnificent piece of Maroille. The cheese smell took immediately and invaded the kitchen. It was strong but so good. Like ash and salt. She put it on the table, took a knife out of her pocket and cut some slices. They savoured them in silence. She needn’t say anything. He was already grateful for the little family that had found him. All of them thoughtful, all of them supportive and loving. He’d felt for a long time that France, and family was behind him, that no matter what it was over for him. Just hurtful memories. But Andy knew him better than he would admit, and she always put a smile back on his face.
Booker stole a glance at the two men in the living room cuddled against each other, at the tiles on the walls of the kitchen, the dimming light outside, the sun in his memories, the smell of old cheese, the warmth of Andy’s smile. And finally he felt it, the burning comfort of a new family.