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It was moments like this that made Nicky regret not acquainting Joe and himself better to technology.
Booker had said time and again that there are ways to use cell phones without leaving digital crumbs that couldn’t be contained and wiped out cleanly. But they, in their hubris that Nicky attributed to them growing too old to keep up with modern conveniences, refused to use the devices outside of the most high-risk missions. He distinctly remembered that he and Joe had agreed that this decision would have made it easier for Booker to wipe their digital tracks because they wouldn’t leave any.
Nicky kicked himself mentally.
He arranged the ingredients in the pantry for the nth time and checked the oven was still working. Then he stared at the doorway again.
Andy and their new sister – Nile, her name is Nile, Booker had informed them, because Booker had had a good sense to equip himself with helpful technology and had somehow managed to trick Andy into carrying it with her so he could pester her for live updates – were in the sky somewhere heading their way. They could arrive any moment.
Joe was taking too long.
Whose brilliant idea is it to make cassoulet for dinner?
She’s American. Americans love casserole. And Nicky had been determined to make a great first impression, something that would make her feel at home during her abrupt and turbulent uprooting from everything and everyone she knew. If that something would also showcase Nicky’s skill as a cook, that’s a bonus. Pride goeth before a fall and all that.
And now Joe is terribly late.
The nearest supermarket is half an hour’s drive away – a Carrefour. There are four other supermarkets in its vicinity – two Aldis, a Carrefour express and a Lidl. Say, Joe went to all four to get all the items in his – Nicky’s – shopping list; he was still well within a reasonable timeline. Not to mention the possible traffic.
Nicky nods to himself, turning a bottle of dried thyme, so its label is facing the correct way, forming a neat row with the other dried herb bottles like good uniformed soldiers on his kitchen counter.
But Goussainville is not Paris during rush hour.
Nicky absolutely hated catching himself spiralling, distorting his own thoughts into ugly, misshapen things. He should do something – read, make snacks, pretend he’s interested in Booker’s video game, needle Booker some more for his Frenchness – anything to take his mind off of possible dire scenarios that could keep Joe from coming home to him on time.
Like how he might have run into whoever set the ambush in Sudan, into whoever had piled high those little shoes as a macabrely convincing detail that had got all four of them killed at the same time in well over a century.
Maybe he’s gotten kidnapped and was currently tied and gagged inside a nondescript vehicle somewhere, waiting for interrogation and possible torture.
Maybe he’s got into an accident and must now show witnesses a convincing act of being injured. Or literally play dead, trying not to shiver in a cold, cold morgue somewhere.
Maybe Nicky was being ridiculous. But how many times, during the almost a millennia of their time together, that something terrible had happened right after they had thought that they were safe?
Maybe Nicky should start thinking about ways to come to his rescue when all that happened.
Then the heavy wooden door creaked, and Nicky almost tripped on his legs in his haste to see who was coming. He didn’t even register that he had knocked some of his dried herb bottles over, destroying their neat line.
The knot around his chest loosened at the sight of Joe shouldering his way inside, both of his hands carrying bulky grocery bags.
“Hayati,” he says, beaming. “I’m home.”
Whatever face Nicky was making, it stopped Joe in his tracks. His smile faded into a frown.
Nicky took a step forward but stopped a pace away, eyes automatically scanning Joe's body for any injuries. None found, so he wanted explanation.
“You’re late,” he said and winced at hearing the harshness of his own words.
Evidently, there was a disconnect between his heart, brain and mouth.
Joe opened his mouth but aborted his reply as his eyes searched Nicky’s. He stepped in, transferring the bags into one hand, freeing the other to close the door behind him.
Nicky intended to say something apologetic and then chide him some more for being late. But Joe had come home, bringing the outside cold air and groceries Nicky couldn’t care less at the moment.
He stepped into Joe’s space and kissed him. Closing his eyes, he pressed closer and breathed his presence. His hands come up to cradle Joe’s head, feeling the texture of him – his beard, his curls, the wind-chafed skin he itched to warm with his own.
He felt Joe go still for a moment as if Nicky were made of glass, and he was afraid that one move could break him.
But then his free hand came up, splaying over the back of Nicky’s head, fingers carding through his hair oh so gently.
Nicky exhaled against his lips, and Joe parted them for him. Nicky moaned into their kiss, and Joe tightened his grip on his hair. And for a while, they had no need for words – only the warmth and shape of each other.
Nicky drank in the dark brown of Joe’s eyes when they parted like it could sustain him.
Joe grinned. His lips glistened from the kiss. “I got goose fat,” he says.
“Vecchio asino,” Nicky cursed. It’s been a long, long time since he used that one on Joe. The disconnect between his head and heart and mouth persisted, it seemed.
But Joe laughed and crushed Nicky’s torso to his own. “Il tuo vecchio asino,” he replied, winking, recognising Nicky’s misshapen thoughts, like always, as something precious to behold.
“Where did you even find it?” Nicky mumbled irritably, burying his face in Joe’s chest.
“Not at the supermarkets,” Joe mumbled into Nicky’s hair. “I was prepared to bear the consequences of coming home with a substitute, but there was this lovely farm on the way back. The lady of the house had some to spare, and I couldn’t say no to a quick tea after that. Forgive me.”
Nicky sighed. “Quick tea, you said. Might as well have run off with the fair farm maiden.”
Joe’s shoulders shook with more laughter. “Farm maiden is eighty,” he informed Nicky. “Waaaay too young for me.”
Nicky smiled against Joe’s collarbone and bit it a little because he could. He had half a mind to kiss Joe silly some more.
But Joe beat him to it. Nuzzling his ear, he whispers, “I’ll happily let you devour me, Nicolo. But we don’t want to starve our new sister.”
Nicky nodded, feeling settled. “Later, then.”
“Later,” his love agreed.
***
