Work Text:
Joseph stares up at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep. It’s so late it’s now early. He might get up and pray Fajr, just because he’s already awake. He and Nicholas have been anticipating tomorrow for months now. They’re in America, in Philadelphia for the Centennial Exposition, and Joseph can’t stop thinking about the telephone.
“Why are you awake?” Nicholas mumbles, not fully awake himself.
“Do you think it’s real?” Joseph whispers.
Nicholas gives him a tired little huff. “It’s real. We saw it.” There were pictures in the newspaper, and they saw a display of the equipment. But that’s not what Joseph meant.
“But do you think it works?” Joseph clarifies.
Nicholas is patient and loving, no matter the name he goes by or the century. He rises to one elbow so he can look at Joseph. “We’ll see at the demonstration tomorrow.” He glances out the window. “Today, I suppose.”
Joseph moves in closer and brushes his nose against Nicholas’s. “Just think, Nicolò,” he murmurs. “We could be separated by the work we do and I could still hear your voice.” He traces a finger across Nicholas’s lips. “I love getting letters from you. But I miss hearing your voice so much when we’re apart.”
He’s earned himself one of Nicholas’s little smiles, the ones he reserves for Joseph alone. “You are such a romantic,” he says, but it’s far from a rebuke.
“How could I not be?” Joseph asks. “You are the perfect muse.”
Nicholas takes Joseph’s chin in his hand and kisses him. “I think I would like to hear you hum to me, across an ocean.”
“I think I would prefer us not to be an ocean apart,” Joseph points out. He doesn’t even like thinking about that. It’s been more than 700 years, but they’ve yet to be separated by an ocean. It’s not a milestone Joseph’s terribly interested in hitting.
Nicholas snorts. “You are the one who brought it up.”
Joseph kisses him again. “I will hum to you, I will sing to you, I will tell you anything you want to hear. No matter the distance.”
Nicholas’s smile grows. “This could be a very wonderful invention.”
“If it’s real,” Joseph says.
“If it’s real,” Nicholas agrees.
Joseph doesn’t get out of bed to pray after all, because Nicholas has better ideas. They can’t be loud, obviously; they’re in a boarding house, since they’ve already been here a month and are planning to stay at least another. They didn’t want to deal with a hotel for a long-term stay.
They took a room in one of the Italian-owned houses, since Nicholas’s accent had people pointing them that direction anyway, and the other boarders and the owner seem happy to decide Joseph must also have Italian heritage rather than ask him outright and dislike his answer. Everyone is being a bit more accommodating due to the international nature of the Exposition, so Joseph hasn’t had any major problems so far.
Andromache, who has gone by the name Anna on this continent for the last fifty years or so, has been staying with some of the women running the Women’s Pavilion after helping with the construction of the building, and Sebastien found a French family with children in need of an English tutor who hired him and are letting him live there as well.
This is one of the times where they’re simply traveling and living, not finding a war or a colonial project to help topple. Life can’t all be battle, no matter how much Anna seems to sometimes think it can be. It hasn’t been long since Sebastien’s youngest son died, so Joseph thinks it’s good that they’re enjoying life right now.
Joseph and Nicholas have gone to the Exposition almost every day since it opened. Anna is helping with the Women’s Pavilion, so they’ve gone to see her and the inventions there a few times. She and Sebastien came with them to look at the art gallery and the machinery, and they’re all meeting up today to see Alexander Graham Bell and his telephone device.
Joseph knows many of the farming and home inventions are very important. It isn’t that he doesn’t care about them; it’s just that the telephone has completely captured his fascination. He desperately needs to see it in use for himself.
The judges aren’t very enthusiastic. Joseph can’t fathom it. He can’t fathom how this exhibition hall isn’t packed to the rafters with people eager to see the demonstration. This is a device that will let them hear people’s voices across a distance. People don’t seem to realize the poetry of this. The unseasonably warm weather can’t account for it—surely anyone who understood the magnitude of this telephone would brave the heat.
Nicholas laughs a little at the look on Joseph’s face. “You are thinking more people should care.”
“I am!” Joseph agrees. “This invention could be the most important of all time.”
“Of all time?” Nicholas asks.
“If it means I can hear my lover’s voice from anywhere, then yes,” Joseph says, pressing a little closer to Nicholas under the guise of movement in the crowd.
“Hmm,” Nicholas says, dropping his voice a bit. “Your lover sounds very lucky to be so loved by you.”
Joseph’s biting down on a smile now. It isn’t that he can’t smile without arousing suspicion, but the smile that wants to let loose across his face now would be much too wide for a casual conversation with a friend.
“I consider myself the luckiest,” Joseph says, and then Nicholas is hiding his own smile.
“You really think this is going to work?” Anna asks skeptically.
“The reports say it already has,” Sebastien says. “It has been in the newspaper.”
“They put a lot of things in the newspaper,” Anna says. She’s not quite dismissive, but she’s a bit slower to trust new technology. Joseph can’t blame her. It’s always hard to know what’s going to last and what’s merely a passing fad.
“If this works, I can’t see it fading away,” Joseph says. “The opportunity to speak through a device! And hear each other!”
“You’ve already written poems about it, haven’t you?” Sebastien asks, teasing good-naturedly.
Nicholas laughs. “Of course he has.”
Joseph doesn’t answer them, because Mr. Bell is readying the demonstration now. Joseph all but holds his breath while they wait. Mr. Bell demonstrates how to speak into the device, and then they can hear the voice on the other end answering.
Joseph gasps. He clutches onto Nicholas’s arm, unable to contain himself. “It works,” he says, feeling breathless. “It really works!”
The crowd is buzzing, but most people seem more tempered, like Anna. They like the idea, but they don’t seem very hopeful that much will come of it. Joseph, though, is very hopeful. He’s been good at being hopeful for quite some time now, and he doesn’t intend to stop.
Later, as they leave the exhibition grounds, Nicholas bumps his hand against Joseph’s. “Are you happy?” he asks.
It makes Joseph laugh a bit. “I am,” he says. “I’m very happy.”
Nicholas smiles at him. “Good things to come, you think?”
“Oh, I know,” Joseph says. “There are always good things to come when you are blessed as I am.”
“Is that so?” Nicholas asks.
“My heart walks beside me,” Joseph says.
“That sounds painful,” Nicholas teases.
“Only when there is too much distance between us,” Joseph says. Nicholas is still smiling at him. “And soon even that distance can be eased.”
“With the telephone,” Nicholas says.
Joseph throws his arm around Nicholas’s shoulder, giddy and boisterous. “With the telephone!” he cries excitedly. “The miracles are not past.”
Nicholas laughs at his enthusiasm and turns his face into Joseph’s shoulder, just for a moment as they walk. “I look forward to seeing the miracles to come.”
He isn’t being sarcastic, as Sebastien or Anna might be. Nicholas believes in miracles as much as Joseph, if not more. They continue down the street together, and Joseph knows no technological advancement, welcome or wonderful as they may be, could ever beat out the miracle beside him.
Joseph sighs and stretches his neck. He looks over at André—Andromache has been posing as a man for nearly two decades now, which came very much in handy during the Great War—and sighs again, louder this time. She shakes her head without looking over at him and he sighs for a third time.
“Are you going to do any work?” she asks him quietly in Genoese. It’s recognizable enough as Italian not to draw attention, but less likely to be understood by anyone overhearing them.
“Not if I can help it,” he shoots back.
They've been working as bank clerks for nearly three weeks now. There's a rich man who is mistreating the women who work in his factory, and they’re going to rob him. But first they need to access his safe deposit box to get to his titre de propriété. Once they have it and any other documents they can find, they’re going to forge them and change the title over to the women. They’re also going to rob his house and give what they take to the women.
This is a job they’re doing for free, because André knows the mother of one of the young women who was hurt at the factory. The mother, of course, doesn’t know that André is the Andréanne she met forty years ago, but they were apparently good friends. Joseph hasn’t asked how good. He’ll let André keep that private.
Well, the job isn’t entirely free. They’re going to keep some of what they steal for themselves.
Joseph and André are working in the Banque Nationale de Crédit, while Nico and Sebastien have gone to work in the Crédit Lyonnais. They don’t actually know who the rich man banks with; it isn’t a subtle question to ask.
“Fine,” André says after a few more minutes. “Let’s call.”
Joseph jumps out of his chair entirely too fast. He really isn’t cut out for banking, he’s decided. He finds all of this financial information woefully boring. But this is his favorite part of the workday: the moment when he and André call over to Nico and Sebastien to see if they’ve found anything.
He waits for the operator to connect them, and then for the secretary at Crédit Lyonnais to fetch Nico. He stands up a little straighter, and then Nico says, “Yes?”
“Hello, Mr. Smith,” he says in his most formal French.
He hears Nico smother a laugh in the back of his throat. “Hello, Mr. Jones.”
“I haven’t told you I’m Mr. Jones yet,” Joseph points out. They’re supposed to be two business acquaintances, not two soulmates who know each other’s voices instantly.
“Ah…I am quite good with voices,” Nico says. It makes Joseph snort, but he covers it with a cough.
“Beg your pardon,” he says.
“You are excused.” Nico is laughing at him now, not that anyone else would be able to tell. Joseph can always tell. Nico’s laugh always makes him want to dance. It’s a beautiful sound, even when it’s silent.
“Well, my good sir—” now it’s Nico’s turn to snort—“I’m calling to inquire about the account documents we discussed last week.”
“Yes, I recall,” Nico says. “I have the documents ready for you.”
Joseph’s heart leaps. Finally. That means Nico and Sebastien have found the documents. More importantly, that means they can leave.
“What wonderful news,” Joseph says. André lets out a sigh of relief. She can act dutiful all she wants, but Joseph knows she was not made to be locked up in an office all day, either.
“Yes, I knew you’d be happy to hear,” Nico says.
“I’m very grateful to you,” Joseph says. “I hope you’ll allow me to show my gratitude.”
Nico makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “I think that can be arranged. I will speak to you later.”
“I look forward to it,” Joseph tells him before they hang up.
André’s laughing at them, but suddenly Joseph gets a mental image of Quýnh, of the two of them laughing at Yusuf and Nicolò together. Here is Joseph, talking to his love in another building entirely on this telephone device. People are saying governments are using these to speak across countries, even across oceans. But André’s love can’t be reached. André will not get to speak to Quýnh on a telephone.
He thinks of Sebastien, on Nico’s end, who had to see his wife and his sons die. He can’t call them. He can’t hear their voices again. Joseph feels equal parts grateful and guilty. The love of his life is alive and vibrant and he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting his voice.
“What?” André asks, noticing his mood dropping.
There is simply no way he’s going to tell her what he’s thinking. Maybe she’s thought it herself; he doesn’t know. All he knows is right now she’s still laughing, her face lit up happily, and he’s not going to be the one to bring the ghosts back to her eyes.
“Only…I’ve realized we still have to finish out the day,” he says. Leaving early would attract suspicion, and they don’t want to do that.
André snorts. “I think you’ll survive.”
“Hopefully,” he agrees.
Joseph mostly doodles for the rest of the day, and he presents André with a portrait of her, head bent in concentration, as they leave. She smiles at it and laughs a little. “Well, I’m glad you got something worthwhile done.”
“With a muse sitting beside me, I had no choice,” he says. He’s acting extra silly even though his heart aches. He loves to see her laugh. She doesn’t do it enough. Not since Quýnh.
The ship that sank a few years ago, the Titanic, was quite distressing for André, even over 400 years after losing Quýnh. André searched for every bit of news she could find. She got trapped in a cycle of hope and disappointment for weeks.
The initial sinking gave her nightmares, not that she wanted to admit that to the rest of them, and then she’d thought the rescue efforts might uncover something, anything, that could lead to Quýnh. But nothing of the sort happened, and Joseph, Nico, and Sebastien could only watch as another piece of her seemed to burn out.
Joseph’s a bit moody for the rest of the day, though Nico is mostly the only one who notices. He’s trying hard not to let it show, but of course Nico can see through him. Sebastien and André might, too, but they don’t say anything.
Sebastien sighs as they’re leaving Paris. “I was going to a party tonight.”
They’ve all been enjoying the Parisian night scene, though Sebastien has certainly been enjoying it the most. He’s been enjoying it with a lot of American jazz singers, from what Joseph understands, though he’s certainly not limiting himself to any one demographic. A lot of his money seems to be vanishing mysteriously quickly, so Joe has an idea of how he's passing his nights.
Nico pats Sebastien on the back, a little too solemn to be genuine, and says, “I am sorry you cannot contract syphilis again tonight.”
“It was only twice,” Sebastien grouses while André and Nico laugh.
They take the train to Boulogne-sur-Mer, where the rich factory owner has an estate. That’s extra good for them, since they were planning to head to Ireland next to check in on their revolution. Joseph and Sebastien spend most of the train journey working on the forgeries, so Joseph has an excuse not to speak much and hide his mood.
The estate on the seaside is huge and beautiful. It makes Joseph’s spirits drop even more. So many terrible people get so rewarded. And André and Sebastien, who do so much for others, have to endure pain and heartbreak. The women in those factories work harder than this rich man could ever dream of, yet they scrounge for every penny while he lies to them and harasses them and enjoys the spoils of their labor.
After they get the documents and a few choice stolen items to a contact who will get them where they need to go, they settle in to spend the night in the now-sparser estate before their ship passage in the morning. They don’t have to all sleep in one room, of course, but it seems wiser. If they’re discovered, they’ll need to all flee together.
Joseph and Nico pick their corner together while Sebastien and André situate themselves across the room. Joseph has Nico warm and safe in his arms and it’s making tears start to well up in his eyes. He doesn’t know why it’s all hitting him so hard just now.
Nico looks over his shoulder, obviously able to hear and feel Joseph’s breath hitching. He looks concerned, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns in Joseph’s arms to face him, but Joseph can’t make eye contact. Sharing a room with the others is nothing new, and they don’t hide the way they entwine themselves to sleep. But the intimacy of whispering in the dark, of soft kisses before they fall asleep, seems unbearably cruel with the thoughts Joseph’s been having tonight.
After André and Sebastian have fallen asleep, Nico taps Joseph’s hand and inclines his head, so the two of them tiptoe out of the room. Joseph knew this was coming. There’s no way Nico would just let it pass.
“What is wrong?” Nico asks when they’re outside. He puts his hand on Joseph’s cheek. “Has something happened?”
Joseph leans forward and presses his face into Nico’s neck. “I was just thinking that we are so very lucky to hear each other’s voice on the telephone.”
Nico gets it in an instant. He lets out a sad little sigh and wraps his arms around Joseph. “You feel badly that we get this and Andromache and Sebastien don’t.”
Joseph nods against Nico’s head, trying to stop himself from well and truly crying. This seems ridiculous. It’s been 400 years since they lost Quýnh and nearly 60 since Sebastien’s wife died, 50 since his last son died. Joseph doesn’t know why he’s crying over all this now.
It’s the telephone, though. He’d been so excited for the promises it held. He is still excited for the promises it holds, and he gets a thrill every time he gets to pick up the listening part and hear Nico’s voice.
But it just doesn’t seem fair.
“I don’t know why we get so blessed and others don’t,” he murmurs.
Nico sighs. “I know,” he says. “I don’t, either. I wish we could spare them the pain.”
“And I am so happy that I don’t know that pain,” Joseph whispers, throat choked. “I feel almost guilty to be happy about it.”
Nico shakes his head. He squeezes Joseph tighter and kisses the side of his head. “No, my love. We cannot think that way. We will not duck our heads and hope our joy is unoffensive.” He turns Joseph’s face to his and kisses him. “We will appreciate what we have. Because we know the alternative.”
Joseph kisses him, a little desperate, still crying just a little. “You are so poetic when you choose to be,” he says, making Nico laugh a little.
“I leave the poetry to you,” Nico says. “In your words and your looks.”
They go farther from the house before they make love under the light of the moon. Appreciating what they have doesn’t mean making André and Sebastien witness it. They try not to let anyone become accidental voyeurs.
They creep their way back into the house. Joe feels much more settled now, and not just because of the sex. Nico always knows how to talk sense into him. Not just sense but comfort. Perspective. Nico squeezes his hand before they go back to the bedchamber.
“I promise I will never take for granted that I can speak to you on the telephone,” he whispers.
It makes Joseph smile. It might seem silly to other people, but he knows Nico means it. He kisses Nico quickly. “I won’t, either,” he promises. They sneak back into the room and settle into bed. He presses his face into the crook of Nico’s shoulder, and he appreciates this, too.
Joe shouldn’t be using the phone, not really. This isn’t an official call, but this is an official aid organization, and their telephone calls are audited, if not outright monitored. But he can’t help it. It’s been a bad day in a bad week in a bad month.
He’s in Algeria as they fight to push the French out. He’s in Algeria by himself; Nicky, Andy, and Booker wouldn’t exactly be trusted readily by the FLN, and the Red Cross needed more volunteers in the camps in Morocco. They’re going to join him, or at least Nicky is, whenever they can, but it’s been a month now with Joe here on his own and he can’t go another day without hearing Nicky’s voice.
All around him it is has been blood and screams and torture and starvation and death. More and more often, this is the way of things. It’s been war after war since the Great War, with no sign of humanity slowing down. The Great War isn’t even the right name for it anymore, since the world went and had another one. Joe can’t remember the last time they took a break for longer than a month.
There’s a certain irony, he thinks—Yusuf, the deathless man, spending centuries up to his elbows in nothing but. The problem, he supposes, is that he isn’t deathless. He is, in actuality, one of the most death-full humans in existence.
He is surrounded by death. His own deaths, again and again, temporary as they may be. The deaths he tries but ultimately fails to prevent. And the deaths he metes out, uncountable at this point. He is war-sick and heartsick and exhausted down to his very soul. There is no cure, but the treatment he needs now is Nicolò.
It’s already taken three days to get this phone call set up. Joe tried the aid office in Morocco the first day and had to request somebody to run out to find Nicky, which had proven impossible because Nicky won’t stop helping until he’s dragged away, especially if Joe’s not there. Then Nicky tried to call back the next day, but Joe was surveilling a detention camp to determine the best way to liberate the people inside and didn’t find out until another aid worker let him know.
Now Joe’s in the office and he’s going to stay here until he talks to Nicky. He doesn’t care if he has to stay for three more days. He’s not leaving.
Luckily, Nicky seems to have had the same idea, because the line connects more quickly than it ever has after the operator puts it through. After a pause, Nicky’s voice says, “Joe?”
“It’s me,” Joe manages to say, and Nicky’s breath whooshes out in a sigh. Joe speaks in the Sumerian language Andy and Quýnh taught them 800-odd years ago.
It was the first language that came to his mind that wouldn’t possibly be understood by anyone who happens to listen in. If he and Nicky try to get too complex in this conversation, they’re going to have to switch to something else, because Joe hardly remembers Sumerian.
“Hello,” Nicky says. He doesn’t say anything about the choice of language, just follows Joe’s lead.
“Hi,” Joe answers, and then they sit in silence for a few seconds. There is so much to say it leaves them with nothing to say, although Joe feels very conscious of the time ticking past and the cost. Not because of his own money; the aid organization only has so much in the budget, and he has no idea how to give them money without attracting attention.
Joe just needed to feel like Nicky is close, even if he quite literally isn’t. Hearing Nicky’s breathing is already so much better than hearing nothing at all from him. They’ve tried sending letters, but the postal system has obviously been less reliable in recent times than they might hope.
“Is it very bad?” Nicky’s voice is tinny over the phone and it hurts Joe’s chest, in the aching spot that’s been cold and empty the whole time he’s been here. “Do not lie to me, Yusuf.”
“It’s very bad,” Joe admits, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to start sobbing in this office, but he started tearing up the instant he heard Nicky’s voice.
He is so very tired. It would be hard to be here, to be seeing all this and feeling so useless, but to do it without Nicky beside him makes it exponentially worse, and Nicky using his actual name is a surefire way to get to him.
“Oh, my love,” Nicky breathes sympathetically, and Joe starts to cry in earnest. He presses a hand over his eyes.
“I wish you were here,” he chokes out, but then he changes his mind. “No, I don’t want you seeing this. I wish I was there.” But he doesn’t, not really. He can’t leave any time soon. There is so much to be done.
“Two more weeks,” Nicky soothes. His voice is thick. He can’t hear Joe’s pain and not feel pain himself. “I will be there soon.” He knows Joe can’t leave, and he won’t ask him to. “I will hold you in my arms.”
“Nicolò,” Joe says, and now he is sobbing in the office.
He watched a toddler die in front of his eyes today. He pulled a French soldier off a girl who was barely in her teens. He picked up the bullet-ridden body of a pregnant woman who’d been thrown into the street like trash.
It’s not the first time he’s seen such things. It won’t be the last, he knows that for certain. But these are not things a person gets used to, no matter how many centuries he’s been alive. These are not things Joe can brush off.
“I know, hayati,” Nicky murmurs, crying a little himself. “I’m so sorry, Joe. Oh, Joe, I’m sorry.”
Joe tries to get himself under control. It isn’t as if Nicky’s having a holiday himself. Those camps are overcrowded and underfunded and full of terror and disease and pain and hunger, too. Nicky’s not out picnicking.
“What about you?” Joe asks. “Is it very bad?”
Nicky doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Yes,” he admits. His breath shudders and Joe has to cover his face again, crying at the things Nicky must be seeing, crying at the things the people must be enduring.
“When will people stop killing each other?” Joe asks.
“I don’t think that will ever happen, not even in our lifetimes,” Nicky says. In terms of cheering Joe up, it’s terrible, but he knows it’s the truth as well as Nicky does.
“We shouldn’t stay on the line long,” Joe says reluctantly, wiping at his face with a filthy handkerchief. “Much as I love to hear your voice.”
Nicky sighs. “You’re right,” he says. “I miss you, my life. I was going to say I miss you like a limb, but I miss you far worse than I’ve ever missed any of my limbs.”
Joe laughs a little, but he’s crying again. “I needed this,” he says. “I needed to hear you.”
“I did, as well,” Nicky says. “But what I really need is to be with you again. I need to kiss you.”
“I need your arms,” Joe says.
“I need yours.” There’s a noise on Nicky’s end, then he says, “Andy and Booker are here.”
It makes Joe’s heart stutter a little, in a good way. They’re his family, all of them. Nicky is his greatest comfort and strength, but he’s not his only comfort and strength.
“Hi, Joe,” Andy’s voice comes on the line. It makes Joe cry again. Not that he ever quite stopped. Andy doesn’t bother asking how he’s doing; either Nicky’s face tells her enough, or she’s just using common sense. She knows he’s not doing well.
“Andy,” he says.
He wishes he could see her face, gauge how exhausted and disillusioned she’s feeling by the set of her chin and how often her eyes meet his. The part of her that was flung into the ocean with Quýnh left a crack that keeps growing wider with every mass death they witness, and Joe is terrified one day she will simply leave and not come back.
“We’re coming soon.” It’s comforting to hear, not just because of his current situation but because of his dark thoughts. He doesn’t think she really will leave. Not permanently. Someday, maybe she’ll stop fighting again, like the break she once took to live with her mortal lover. But she always comes back to them, just as she promises.
“There is so much to do here,” he tells her, voice breaking.
“I know,” she says softly. “There always is. But it’ll be better when we’re all back in once place again.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He always feels better when they’re all together.
“Stay strong,” she tells him. It’s an order and a comfort in one.
Then Booker’s voice comes through. “Hey, Joe.”
“Sebastien,” Joe says.
“Formal, huh?” Booker makes a sound that aims for a laugh but is more like a sigh. It’s all weighing on him. All the jobs weigh on him, Joe knows. He drinks more and more, with Andy and by himself. “We’re trying to keep Nicky from working himself to death.”
“Thank you,” Joe says sincerely. “And yourselves, too, please.”
Booker snorts. “Well, I guess we’ll try.”
“I’m glad I got to hear from you both, too,” Joe says. His voice is still choked.
Booker sighs. “We’re coming,” he promises, voice gentle. “Just hold on.”
“You, too,” Joe says.
Nicky comes back. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you.” Joe’s eyes are swimming with tears at the prospect of hanging up, but he knows they have to. This call has already been astronomically expensive.
“Listen to my voice,” Nicky commands softly. “You know I am always here.”
“Always,” Joe agrees. “I carry your heart with me.”
Nicky hums. “E.E. Cummings,” he remembers.
Joe manages a little laugh. “Good job.”
“Anywhere I go you go,” Nicky recites. Joe had been incredibly taken by this particular poem, for obvious reasons. Nicky had loved it, too, though he hadn’t been quite as crazy as Joe.
“I fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet).” This isn’t really helping Joe to stop crying, but that’s okay.
“Two weeks,” Nicky says again.
“Two weeks,” Joe parrots. “We’ll make it.”
“Of course,” Nicky says. “Please try to sleep when you can.”
“I will if you will,” Joe says, knowing neither of them will. “Are you eating?”
“Not much,” Nicky says. He doesn’t bother lying; they never do. “But I will try to eat more. For you.”
“Thank you, my heart,” Joe says. “I won’t say goodbye. I can’t bear to.”
“Okay,” Nicky says. His breath stutters for a second and it rips at Joe’s heart.
Hanging up is a different kind of devastating than the devastation Joe’s seeing every day, but it’s devastation all the same. Joe’s grateful beyond words but not entirely surprised when Nicky shows up four days later with no warning. They could have endured the full two weeks, as originally planned. It would have hurt, but they would have made it.
But they were fraying without each other. They’re not good at being apart; it’s a skill they haven’t picked up in their almost 900 years. In another 900 years, they won’t be any better. It’s a skill Joe has no interest in learning.
Instead, he takes the hand Nicky offers and the strength it brings. The telephone is a wonderful invention, letting Joe hear Nicky’s voice. But nothing could ever hope to be as wonderful as Nicky right beside him.
“This is not looking good,” Booker says. A burst of gunfire outside, closer than the last one, punctuates his words.
“Do you think it’s time?” Joe asks.
“Traitors!” a man yells outside. Joe and Booker both curse and scramble for the back door. It is undoubtedly time to leave. They’ve been packed up for days, just in case, after one of their contacts warned them they’ve been discovered.
They’ve been in Darfur forging visas so people can get to safety, though the people have to get to one safety first and then onward to whatever country the visa says. Safety is a bit of a moving target under these conditions, but at least the visas give them a chance.
Andy and Nicky left three weeks ago; Joe and Booker are much better at forging documents, so Andy and Nicky left for the Canadian disease organization to check in on the research on the virus everyone’s worried about going global.
The Canadians have said they’ve cracked the virus’s genetic code, and Andy and Nicky are somewhat on standby in case the Canadian government refuses to share their data. That’s less often a problem with the Canadians, but they’ve lived through too many plagues to trust any government at all.
There seem to be more and more jobs to undertake these days, all overlapping. They help one group of people and can’t get to another. Sometimes they have to shut off the news and try not to listen, because four people, even immortal, can only stretch so far.
Joe and Booker had been planning to stay another week, but that’s not going to be possible now. They deliver the last of the documents to their contact and then it takes another two days to get into Egypt with another contact so that they can fly out.
They’re not going on the same flight, since they have to fly commercially and they don’t want to risk being seen together. It’s a nightmare. Joe appreciates air travel in the sense that he’ll be landing in about 12 hours instead of spending a few months on a ship, but the surveillance involved is becoming more and more difficult to escape.
“Tomorrow evening, right?” Joe checks. He’s leaving first. He feels very nervous about leaving Booker here on his own.
Booker waves a hand at him. “Yes, tomorrow in the evening. Go so you don’t miss yours.”
“Be safe, Sebastien,” Joe says, patting his shoulder.
Booker nods. “You, too.”
Joe gets on the plane with no problems. He is so exhausted he can’t actually sleep, worried about the people they left behind, worried about Booker, worried about Andy and Nicky, worried, worried, worried. He’s had a pit in his stomach for years, he thinks, though it’s been far worse for the last three weeks without Nicky.
Getting through customs is easier than if he’d gone to the US, but it’s still no easy stroll in the park with the current war going on. The United States has sent soldiers into Iraq now, in addition to the ones already in Afghanistan, and Canada has some troops involved. Joe normally shaves if he has to fly commercially into North America, but he obviously hadn’t had time. The customs agents aren’t terribly pleased to see him, especially since he’s coming in from Cairo, and he even catches some nervous looks from other passengers waiting in line.
He is so tired of it all. He’s tired of the hatred and the suspicion and he is absolutely exhausted by the way humanity continues to find new ways to kill each other. For a time, he’d been optimistic, naïve, even. He’d thought someday he would see an era of peace. Wouldn’t that be the point of all these advancements everyone’s making? But no. All of the advancements eventually end in new weapons.
His passport declares him Joseph Jones from Germany, so at least his name and country don’t raise any flags. A passport calling him Yusuf al-Kaysani from Tunisia would certainly not help at the moment, even if sometimes he wishes he had some piece of information with his real name and heritage on it.
Joe sighs as he makes his way through the airport. Somehow, the broken sleep he snatched on the plane has made him more tired. He feels sick with fatigue, almost delirious. He passes a payphone and pauses for a beat. This is usually the time he calls Nicky. They’ve been able to call nearly every day in the weeks they’ve been apart, but they haven’t spoken since Joe and Booker had to make their escape. Nicky must be worried—that was three days ago.
But he doesn’t want to delay getting to Nicky just for the instant gratification of hearing his voice. One thing about living for centuries is a man gets very good at patience. And he knows Nicky will forgive him for the worry when he shows up on the doorstep.
He flags a bit in the cab, but now anticipation is perking him up. Not much; there’s only so much adrenaline he can possibly have left after the past few months and especially the journey he’s taken to get here. But he’s not collapsing in a taxicab that smells so strongly of leather polish he can only guess someone recently vomited.
He pays the man, not even noticing how many bills he’s handing out and accidentally tipping him extremely generously, and drags himself up a set of sagging front steps. The rowhouse is nondescript, neither nice enough nor crumbling enough to attract attention.
He doesn’t have to knock; he knows where the key will be hidden, even though he’s never been here. 900 or so years—he’s not going to do the math right now, but he’ll do it later—and some things, at least, have stayed constant for a few decades now.
When he opens the door, he hears footsteps almost immediately. Nicky heard him, of course. Nothing escapes that man’s attention. He comes around the corner carefully, cautious but not afraid. He doesn’t have much to fear, after all.
He must’ve just gotten out of bed. He’s shirtless, goosebumps rising on his skin from the cool spring air Joe just let in, and his hair is sticking up a bit on one side. It’s getting long, like those singing brothers who were so popular a few years ago, and Booker’s spent months humming that blasted song every time Nicky’s hair blows in the wind.
Nicky’s holding the cordless phone receiver in his hand, since it’s the time Joe usually calls. Joe gets a mental image of him carrying it around for three days since Joe hasn’t been able to call, and it makes his chest ache. He never wants to cause Nicky pain or worry. It wasn’t his fault, obviously, and Nicky will understand that, but Joe still regrets any time Nicky spent anxious.
Nicky’s wearing a pair of sweats that Joe must’ve bought for himself. They don’t have much separate clothing, since they’re basically the same size, but Nicky’s legs are just a little bit shorter but thicker than Joe’s, so the sweats are dragging at his feet and stretched a bit across his thighs. He’s the most beautiful sight Joe’s ever seen.
“You silly fool,” Nicky says. He drops the phone and comes right to Joe. “You said another week. You lied to me. Not many men live to say that.”
“No, I omitted, my love,” Joe counters, pressing his face into Nicky’s neck. “And I only live by your grace every day, anyway.” It makes Nicky snort, but he doesn’t protest and he only holds Joe tighter. “I didn’t actually know,” Joe adds quietly. “We had to leave in a hurry. I’m sorry you worried, amore.”
“You were discovered?” Nicky asks.
“It was a bit of a close call,” Joe admits. “Booker’s still in Cairo for a few more hours.”
They’re standing in the doorway, visible to everyone on the street, but Joe doesn’t care. He drops his bag and lifts Nicky up into his arms. Nicky obligingly wraps his legs around Joe’s waist.
Nicky kisses the side of Joe’s head and Joe turns his face so their lips can meet. “I missed you,” Nicky murmurs. It’s not really necessary to voice it. They both felt it and they both know. But it’s a sweet kind of ache, hearing it now when they’re reunited.
“I missed you so,” Joe says. He leans back against the wall. Frankly, he can’t hold Nicky like this for long. Joe’s been eating sparsely for months now, and he’s so weary his muscles are weak. But he’d rather they both topple over than put Nicky down of his own accord.
“Put me down and come inside,” Nicky says. He can probably feel Joe’s arms shaking and he knows it isn’t simply the relief of being reunited. “I’m going to feed you and then we’re going to make love until you’re unconscious.”
“I’m afraid it won’t take much,” Joe admits apologetically as Nicky slides down. Joe’s almost weaving on his feet.
Nicky frowns a little, more a wrinkle between his eyebrows than a real frown, and he takes Joe’s bag in one hand and his hand in the other. He tugs Joe along behind him and says, “Well, we can do things out of order if we need.”
“We’ll make love first?” Joe teases. “I’m okay with that.”
Nicky makes him eat, of course, sitting close and holding onto Joe the whole time. Joe’s head keeps drooping and his eyes are torn between wanting to close and wanting to stay open to look at Nicky. Nicky finally tsks and takes Joe’s fork.
“Come,” he says. “Sleep.”
“I should wash first,” Joe points out.
“I will wash the bedding when you wake up,” Nicky says firmly. “You are too tired now.”
He’s not wrong. Joe isn’t sure he’d be able to hold himself up for even the briefest of showers. Nicky would hold him up, of course, but Nicky doesn’t care enough about clean sheets to make him. Nicky strips Joe out of his clothes, and Joe’s asleep before he even hits the bed.
Joe wakes up to a beeping sound. He wonders, lazily, if it’s a bomb, but the bombs in the area don’t usually give any warning. But Nicky’s in his arms, and it reminds him he’s in Toronto now, in a safehouse.
“What is that?” Nicky mumbles. “Bomb?”
Joe would laugh at their instincts if their instincts weren’t forged through experience. If it were a bomb, they’d be dying soon, because neither of them are moving. But he has an inkling of what it is.
“You left the phone by the door,” Joe reminds him sleepily.
Nicky curses under his breath. “It has to charge.”
Joe laughs, punch-drunk with jetlag and giddiness at being here with Nicky. “Who knew these infernal contraptions would require so much upkeep?”
Nicky turns and peppers Joe’s face and neck with kisses. “Not infernal,” he murmurs into Joe’s skin. “Blessed, because they mean I get to hear your voice no matter the distance.” He pulls back just enough to give Joe a look. “You were the one who was so romantic about it during their invention.”
Joe laughs again. How can he do anything else? He has Nicky here and solid in his arms. “I swear you will never hear me utter a word against them,” he promises. “Not when they have brought me so much joy.”
He starts to sit up and Nicky presses a hand to his chest. “What are you doing?”
“We need to make sure the phone works,” Joe says. “So Booker can call when he lands.”
Nicky searches his face for a moment. “You’re worried he missed the flight.”
Joe sighs. “He was focused and we finished the job, as much as we could,” he says. That’s never in question; Booker always pulls through in the work. “But left on his own…”
Nicky nods. They both worry about Booker’s drinking. Andy’s, too, but she usually holds herself together better than Booker. “Okay,” Nicky says. He leans in and kisses Joe. “I will do it. You stay here and rest.”
He doesn’t let Joe argue, just gets up and walks out of the room. Joe watches him go and sighs contentedly. Andy must not be here, for Nicky to be walking out naked like that. Though she’s seen it all before; 900 years of traveling and fighting together doesn’t leave much modesty intact.
“What a wonderful view,” Joe says, and Nicky shimmies his hips a bit on his way out of the door to make Joe laugh some more. After a few minutes when Nicky’s still not back, Joe calls out, “Where are you, my love?”
“I’m coming!” Nicky yells back down the hall.
“You could be, if you’d hurry!”
He hears Nicky laughing even from the other room. Just as Joe’s about to defy Nicky and go searching for him, Nicky comes back. He has a mug of tea and a plate with some toast. “You need this,” he says.
Joe snorts. “Darling, I know I look a bit thin, but you did just feed me.”
Nicky puts the tea on the bedside table and brings the toast into bed. He pushes Joe over a bit so he can sit behind him and settle Joe’s back against his chest. “That was yesterday, my light.”
“What?” Joe asks.
“You have been asleep almost 14 hours,” Nicky says, pressing his fingers through Joe’s hair and scratching at his scalp. “Andy came and went.” Before Joe can protest not getting to see her, he says, “She’ll be back tonight.”
Joe doesn’t bother asking why Nicky didn’t wake him. He needed the rest. Nicky uses his free hand to lift a piece of toast to Joe’s mouth and Joe takes a bite obediently. He is hungry, but he’s been operating at a low level of hunger for a while now. He hardly noticed until now.
“You take such good care of me,” Joe says, rubbing a hand down Nicky’s leg. Nicky takes a drink from the mug before offering it to Joe.
“I learned from you,” Nicky murmurs. He kisses Joe’s shoulder and feeds him more toast. They alternate bites until the toast is gone, and Nicky makes Joe finish the tea, too. Then he sets aside the dishes and pulls Joe back down to lie on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Perfect now,” Joe says, brushing their noses together.
“You were right about telephones,” Nicky says. “You said it could be the most important invention ever. Hearing your voice when you’re away is the greatest part of this modern age.”
Joe smiles. “Better than electric cooktops?” Nicky does love how much easier cooking is now.
“Yes,” Nicky says. “I would trade all of that for you.”
Joe rolls them both, Nicky going with him easily, and pins Nicky’s arms against the bed. “Well, here we are now,” he says, letting his voice go low the way Nicky loves. “Not on a phone line. Together. You made me some promises when I got here.”
Nicky’s smile is sweetened by the heat gathering in his eyes. “I am a man of my word.”
He proves it, though he doesn’t leave Joe unconscious afterward. They do eventually make their way out of bed and into the shower, and then Nicky won’t let Joe help strip the bed. They’re in the kitchen so Nicky can feed him again when Andy comes in.
“Oh, he lives,” she says, grinning at Joe. She comes over and gives him a hug, laughing when he lifts her off her feet. She’s lighter than Nicky, and he’s eaten and slept and has been invigorated by Nicky, so it’s easier to lift her.
“You miss me, boss?” Joe asks.
“Always,” she promises. “How many times has he fed you?”
“Only twice,” Nicky says. “And once was only toast! I will not apologize for making sure he eats.”
“No, of course not,” Joe says, pressing himself against Nicky’s back. Nicky doesn’t stop cooking, but he doesn’t swat Joe away, either.
“You probably need to eat, too,” Nicky tells Andy. “And Booker will be here soon, yes? I should make a whole meal.”
When the phone rings, and Booker reports that he’s landed in Toronto and is on his way, Joe’s heart starts to let go of some of the pain from the mission. Nicky’s in his arms, Andy’s across the room, and Booker’s safe in the country. It wasn’t entirely mission accomplished in Darfur; it couldn’t be, not really, because forged visas can help but can’t stop a genocide.
But it was mission accomplished for them, for their little band of warriors. Their family. They helped. It wasn’t enough—it never is—but it’s all they can do. Tonight, after they drink together and Joe slips back into bed with Nicky, he will probably weep over how inadequate it was.
But they will be together again, the four of them. They are safe. No matter what happens on jobs or in battle, that counts as a victory at the end of the day. His mind flashes to Quýnh, completely out of their reach, and he thinks yes, a victory.
“Shit!” Nile yells as they run to the car, dodging bullets. Joe takes one in the calf and curses, dragging his leg behind him. Nile grabs his arm and practically throws him into the car before running around to the driver’s side and peeling out.
Andy and Nicky were in a different building, with their own evac route, so they don’t need to go find them. Even still, it will never feel right to drive away without either of them, especially Nicky. Joe’s heart is pounding.
He doesn’t like when they get separated like this, but it happens. This is why they have plans in place for when it does. Nile drives while Joe trashes their phones and opens the new ones they had ready. Then he goes through the list of Nicky’s burner numbers until he gets an answer.
“Are you out?” Nicky asks in lieu of greeting.
“On the road now,” Joe assures him. “You?”
“We had to evac earlier. We’re back at the house already,” Nicky says, and Joe lets out a relieved breath. Obviously, his relief is for Nicky’s safety, but it’s for Andy’s even more. Nicky’s safety is always on Joe’s mind, but Nicky’s safety is a bit more assured than Andy’s is these days.
“We’re going to have to stop for gas,” Nile warns.
“Do we need any supplies?” Joe asks Nicky.
“We could use some bandages,” Nicky says. Joe’s stomach lurches. There’s only person who needs bandages.
“How bad?” he asks.
“Not bad,” Nicky says. “I promise.”
“I trust you,” Joe says. It’s almost ridiculous to even say it out loud, such a foregone conclusion that voicing it sounds like a joke. “Should I get some antiseptics or anything like that?”
“I have some,” Nicky assures him. Then he says, “Can you get olive oil?”
Joe snorts. “I will, but do you promise that’s what you want and you’re not going to be cross about it?”
He can’t see Nicky, but he knows Nicky’s rolling his eyes. “I do use olive oil frequently, you know. I am only unhappy with olive oil when I have to use it as a substitution. And I’m never cross with you about it.”
Joe laughs, the adrenaline still coursing through him and making him loud and a bit brash. “Of course. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
“Yusuf,” Nicky says before he hangs up. “You’re healed?”
“Perfect as ever, my love,” Joe promises softly. Nicky laughs a little. “I assume you are, as well?”
“Good as new,” Nicky says.
“Mm, I guess I’ll need to be the judge of that later,” Joe says.
Nicky huffs in his ear. “Well, if you insist.”
“I’ll see you soon, bello.”
“Come quickly,” Nicky requests.
Joe’s still smiling when he hangs up. “All good?” Nile asks.
“We’re going to have to get bandages,” Joe says. “It isn’t serious, but I don’t know what happened. That was Nicky,” he thinks to add.
Nile snorts. “Uh, yeah, obviously.”
Joe looks over at her. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, I don’t even understand whatever language that was,” Nile points out. It was Tūnsi, mostly, though at this point he and Nicky tend to slip through languages without noticing when they’re speaking only to each other. “But it’s totally obvious you were talking to him.”
“Is that bad?” Joe asks. He can imagine what she means—he always feels so happy to hear Nicky’s voice, he figures it must show. He could see how that might be a problem in a volatile situation, but Nile was the only one here to witness it just now.
“No,” Nile assures him. “It’s kind of cute.” She glances over him. “I mean, as cute as two dudes who’ve been killing people for 1000 years can be.”
“We can be extremely cute,” Joe warns her solemnly. It makes her laugh, which he thinks is quite cute, too.
They stop at a gas station and Nile gets out to pump the gas. She waves a hand at Joe, toward the mini-mart. “You’re the one who knows what we need,” she points out.
“Would you like anything specific?” he asks. “Takis?”
She grins at him. “Oh, you know me.”
He salutes her and heads inside. He surveys the bandage selection first. Nicky didn’t give him an idea of how big an area Andy needs to cover, but it can’t be too out of the ordinary or he would’ve said. Joe grabs an assortment of sizes of Band-Aids and grabs some gauze, too, just to cover his bases. The Takis are easier. Nile likes the original flavor best of all.
He’s not hoping for much by way of olive oil. It’s a rural gas station in the middle of America. He’s surprised to see there are even two options. The problem is, neither of these options will be what Nicky wants. Joe knows his love.
He sighs and calls Nicky again. Nicky answers by asking, “Problem?”
“There’s no extra virgin,” Joe reports, pinching the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he examines the bottles on the shelf.
“Oh, what kind of place is this?” Nicky complains.
“It is a mini-mart, love,” Joe reminds him. “There are gas pumps outside.” He glances out the window to where Nile’s putting gas in their rusty little car.
Nicky sighs. “Well, I know. Still. I thought it was supposed to stock the essentials.”
That makes Joe smile. To Nicky, proper olive oil is definitely an essential. “I can bring you the one that swears it is authentic from Italy. Just like you.”
“Is there Greek?” Nicky asks. After all this time, he accepts being called Italian, but he’ll never be the one to say it himself. He knows Joe does it to tease him.
“Sweetheart, there is Italy or there is California,” Joe says, a little exasperated now as he tries to juggle the bottles back onto the shelf. “Those are your choices.”
“Does it say where in Italy or where in California?”
Joe starts to laugh. He’s standing in a cramped market with olive oil next to cat food and a rack of condoms behind him, and Nicky thinks the olive oil is going to be detailed. “If you keep this up, I’m going to bring you Crisco,” Joe threatens through his laughter. There’s a tub of it to Joe’s left, right next to the peanut butter.
“You will not walk into this house with Crisco,” Nicky says darkly. “I will not let you in.”
“I think you will,” Joe sing-songs.
“I am very stubborn,” Nicky reminds him. “I can withstand it.”
“Nicolò, please,” Joe begs. “Please let me come home.” A safehouse can be home, if that’s where Nicky is.
“Fine,” Nicky relents immediately, because he is very stubborn but he’s most of all stubbornly in love with Joe, even when he’s being a clown. “But if you bring Crisco, it had better be because that place didn’t have anything better for lube.”
“Well, now I’m definitely bringing it.”
“It stains the sheets, Joe!”
Joe is laughing again. He does more of the washing than Nicky, though they prefer, as with anything, to do it together. Nicky does more cooking, and he doesn’t like laundry, so it only seems fair for Joe to do as much as possible. But Nicky is laughing in his ear now, one of the best sounds Joe knows.
“Hey,” Nile says behind him. She’s spinning the keyring on her finger. “You ready?”
“Nicky, dear, Nile’s ready to go,” Joe says. He has to switch to English. He’s not sure why, but he can only call him Nicky in English. “Italy or California?” He’s already grabbing for the bottle, because he knows which one Nicky will choose.
Nicky sighs. “Italy,” he decides, exactly as Joe predicted. “But I don’t want to hear a word about the flavor.”
“I would never,” Joe promises. “A wise man never bites the hand that feeds him.”
“You bite me quite frequently,” Nicky points out.
“Only when you ask.”
“Okay, ew,” Nile butts in. She can’t hear Nicky, but it’s not as if Joe’s side of the conversation is subtle. “We’re in public.” They’re the only people in this mini-mart, but Joe takes her point.
He pays a frankly ridiculous price for the amount he’s buying, but he knows these mini-marts always charge more. He and Nile share the bag of Takis on the way back to the safehouse. Andy’s lying on the couch when they get inside, a towel pressed to her shoulder.
“All good?” Joe asks, keeping his voice light. She doesn’t like when they baby her. And she considers any sign of concern babying.
“It’s not even bad,” Andy says, rolling her eyes. “Nicky’s paranoid.”
“Nicky's pragmatic,” Joe corrects. He tosses the Band-Aids and gauze at her and says, “I assume you’re going to choose to take care of that yourself?”
“I’m perfectly capable,” she says.
Now Nile rolls her eyes. “You’re perfectly capable of wrapping the back of your shoulder?”
Andy gives her a dirty look and then passes it on to Joe when he laughs. He leaves Nile to argue with Andy and goes to the kitchen to find Nicky. “I come bearing inferior olive oil,” he says.
“Well, I forgive you,” Nicky says.
He doesn’t stop stirring the pot on the stove, but he leans over to offer Joe his lips for a kiss. Joe happily takes him up on the offer and then hands over the olive oil. For this, Nicky stops stirring, handing the spoon to Joe. Joe decides not to be offended.
Nicky huffs as he checks the back of the bottle, apparently unimpressed with whatever he sees, but he doesn’t comment further. He sets the bottle down and looks Joe up and down, stopping on the bloodstain on his leg. “Just a graze,” Joe answers the question Nicky didn’t ask yet.
“Let me see?” Nicky asks, as if Joe would say no. Joe just nods, still stirring, and lets Nicky pull up his pant leg to check. Nicky presses a quick kiss to the healed skin that makes Joe laugh.
“Where do I get to check on you?” Joe asks, quirking an eyebrow at Nicky. “Anywhere exciting?”
Nicky snorts and gently hip-checks him away from the stove. “I had a knife in my hand.”
“You were holding a knife?” Joe asks.
“No,” Nicky says. He holds up his left hand, not that there’s any indication a knife had been there. “Right through the palm.”
“That must have been terribly painful,” Joe says, catching Nicky’s wrist and kissing his palm. He kisses the back of Nicky’s hand, too, for good measure, since the knife went all the way through, and then kisses his wrist just because he wants to, over the veins that stand out under Nicky’s skin.
“Worth it, for this,” Nicky says. “And because I caught it before it went into Andy’s neck.” Joe frowns at that, but there’s no point dwelling since they’re already past it. Nicky adds some olive oil to the pan waiting on the other burner and says, “Can you get me the—”
Joe grabs the cutting board of vegetables and dumps it into the pan, earning himself a smile and another kiss. The only payment he could ever need from Nicky. It is so amazing, Joe thinks, that in nearly 1000 years Nicky’s smile has never dimmed and has never stopped being Joe’s favorite sight in any room.
They finish cooking the meal in Joe’s favorite way, together, and then Nile and Andy join them. Andy has clean gauze wrapped around her shoulder and the set of her jaw says she’s daring anyone to mention it.
Joe and Nicky are smarter than that, so they keep quiet. Joe catches Nile’s eye and has to stifle a little laugh. Andy is the oldest living person in the entire world, someone who has killed whole armies and faced down every kind of death humanity has thought up, and Nile got her to concede with some firm words and possibly some puppy dog eyes.
But mentioning it would only make Andy annoyed, and Joe doesn’t want to risk Nile’s firm words and puppy dog eyes not working next time, so he rests a hand on Nicky’s leg and eats his food.
“Did you talk to Copley?” Nicky asks.
“Yeah, he has a drop site for us to leave the flash drive at on our way out of town,” Nile says.
“Where are we going next?” Joe asks.
“I was thinking Russia,” Andy says.
Nile makes a face. “Russia? In the winter? Can’t we go somewhere like…Aruba?”
“Aruba?” Nicky echoes. “Why would we go to Aruba? We are needed in Russia.”
“And you need to work on your Russian,” Andy tells Nile. That seems to be some kind of inside joke between them, from the way they lean their heads closer together and giggle. Andy would decry the word choice, but there’s no other word for it. They’re giggling.
“I want to go somewhere warm,” Nile says.
“I wouldn’t mind tropical,” Joe muses. “It’s been a while.” He’s thinking of Malta now, and he squeezes Nicky’s thigh.
“The tensions are escalating in Russia,” Nicky argues. He’s clearly not on Joe’s wavelength.
“I like Russia in winter,” Andy says, just to make everyone mad. “Or we could go to Mongolia. If the horses can stand the winter, you should be able to.”
Nicky stops bothering to point out the human implications, since Andy’s just being contrary, and Nile starts making a case for Aruba. Nicky shakes his head and eats his food, occasionally offering help to either side of the argument just for fun.
Joe lets the sound of everybody’s voices wash over him. He loves these moments. There’s no immediate danger, they’re eating and laughing and arguing good-naturedly. He doesn’t let himself dwell on whose voices are missing or why.
This is what he loves. The sounds of his family. The way Andy laughs and fires back a quick response. The way Nile’s voice dips a little when she’s being sarcastic. And Nicky, of course. His even, steady voice, always the sound in Joe’s head.
Joe misses the words, but everyone laughs and he laughs along, happy to hear their happiness. Nicky smiles over at him, taking his hand, and Joe lets the warmth of his family give him rest and strength.