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Joe stumbles out of his studio dull-eyed, worn, and ravenous, only to find Andy sitting in his living room eating his leftovers.
"Oh, sure, help yourself," Joe says, too tired for his sarcasm to fully cover the part of him that genuinely means the words. Andy being Andy, she just looks at him without the slightest trace of guilt in her face and eats another forkful of his rice. "Did you actually check if that was still good before you started eating it?"
Andy shrugs. "Tastes okay," she says, with the easy confidence of someone who has been eating dubious foods since before germ theory was invented and hasn't died of it yet.
"Well, I wish you all the best with your food poisoning." Making his way around his couch towards his tiny kitchen, Joe asks more sincerely, "Did I really miss a check in?" He'd really thought he'd only been working for two days this time, and his next check in with Andy wasn't supposed to be until…Thursday? Far enough away that finding her here is a little concerning. His wards will always let her in when he's in the studio, but Andy doesn't tend to abuse that privilege.
Andy knows better than to expect him to hang around fresh out of the studio; she gets up, trailing after him as he crosses the room. "No, you didn't miss it. Today's Tuesday."
In the kitchen, Joe eyes the state of his fridge for a moment—sad, especially now that Andy's scavenged the last tentatively edible leftovers—and gives it up as a lost cause. There's one of those teddy bear jars of honey on his counter. Joe pops the cap off, tilts his head back, and pours honey straight into his mouth.
"Gross, Joe," Andy says, hopping up on the counter next to him.
Joe swallows his overly sweet mouthful with a grimace, and reaches for a clean glass. "Bold, coming from the woman talking with her mouth very full." Tap water never tastes great, but right now it goes down like manna from heaven. Joe chugs the whole glass, thinks a moment, and then fills it again.
Andy points at him with her fork, playfully accusatory. "I was raised by wolves," she says, with her most lupine grin—which, for Andromache the Deathless, forerider of the Wild Hunt, is very lupine indeed. "What's your excuse?"
The honest answer to that question is its very own can of worms, and Joe doesn’t care to re-open it at the moment. Instead he just waggles his eyebrows at her and says, "Oh, raised by wolves too, obviously. Weird that I never see you at family reunions."
Andy huffs a laugh and scoops up another mouthful of rice from his tupperware. For a little while, they stay together in silence, while Joe does the mental math on whether it's worth the energy to cook something before he falls unconscious for a solid twelve hours. Finally, Andy says, "You kinda look like shit, Joe."
"Yeah, I bet," Joe says, and scrubs a hand over his grimy, paint-streaked beard. He doesn't actually want to see what his hair looks like right now. "I left it too long. Fingers still feel twitchy." Food, Joe finally decides, is not happening tonight. "Is there something you need, boss? Not that I don't love your company, but in about twenty minutes I'm going to be asleep whether you're here or not."
"There's a job I could use you on." When Joe hums out an encouraging note, Andy goes on, "A mortal, trapped Underhill and unwilling, according to his sister. A kid." Ah. Joe's specialty, unfortunately.
"Summer court?" Joe asks, willing to be optimistic when he's feeling this tired. If it's Summer, Joe can probably get this sorted out within the week—at a cost, of course, but then nothing of value comes without one, not with the fair folk.
Andy shakes her head. "Winter."
Joe winces, an instinctive initial reaction. He makes himself acknowledge the flinch, step away from it, and then think about this logically. "Winter's dicey for me, boss. You know that."
"I've got an in with Winter; you don't need to worry about that. I need you there to keep an eye on the negotiations, watch out for loopholes." Andy gives him that wolfish grin again. "You know, all the fairy bullshit you love."
There's no point in pointing out that Andy is significantly more fae than he is: Andy's Wild fae specifically because of how much she hates all the 'fairy bullshit' that comes with courts. Joe, meanwhile, is court through and through. He can't afford not to be.
"Can we wait a day?" Joe asks, giving into inevitability. Andy asked: of course he's going to help. "I need to sleep. Settle...all of that," he waves a hand vaguely in the direction of his studio, trusting her to catch his meaning.
Andy shrugs. "You know how time works Underhill. We were going to meet up on Thursday anyway. Take a day to sleep, and come then. I'll introduce you." She sets his empty tupperware down and hops off his counter.
"I'd offer you a hug," Joe says, "but I think some of this paint might still be wet."
"Yeah, no thank you. I'll see myself out, Joe. You go sleep."
Joe throws her an ironic salute. "Fair roads, Andy."
"Thursday!" she calls in response, and then she's out his door, leaving his wards whispering in her wake.
…
The thing about where Andy lives is that it's a shithole. That's not even really a subjective bit of judgment, it's an objective fact: Andy's requirements for living spaces are that they have three walls and a roof, and sometimes the roof is even optional. Since Andy gets tired of hearing Joe's bitching about her crappy hospitality—and since even the great Andromache isn't immune to the lure of booze—when they meet up, they tend to meet at bars. When they meet about fae business, they meet at one bar in particular.
Despite its name, Top Shelf's merits as a bar are pretty minimal. The drink selection is passable, but not great; the floor never quite sticks to your shoes when you step on it, but it also never quite looks clean; there's always music playing from the speakers set throughout the place, and while it's never so loud that Joe can't hear himself think, it's also never good.
What it does have going for it—and this is a tremendous plus—is that it's Booker's dingy bar.
At 4PM on a Thursday, Top Shelf is empty of all but Booker's surliest and most devoted mortal regulars when Joe steps through the front door. There's some new white guy behind the bar who gives Joe a quick wave as Joe passes through, so Joe gives a friendly nod back, but doesn't stop to buy a drink. He moves past the first few rows of booths with their cracked faux-leather surfaces, dodges around a few unsteady and close-packed tables, and turns toward the hallway leading back to the bar's lackluster kitchen. Then just at the start of the hallway he makes a sharp right turn towards a small wooden archway that splits off from one of the support beams. Within the archway is a curved, streaky-surfaced mirror, and sloppily carved in the wood above that are the words la confiance aveugle, because Booker is under the persistent misapprehension that he's funny.
Joe closes his eyes, taps his fingers gently to the mirror's edge, and steps through the archway.
As always, there is the momentary sensation as though his ears have just popped while he's sprayed with a fine mist—then the moment passes and Booker's glamour parts to let him through.
The room Joe blinks his eyes open to on the other side of the glamour isn't exactly nice, but it's certainly nicer than the mortal side. The far side of the room is lined with tall bookshelves, all of which are tightly packed with books: everything from pristine first editions to dog-eared mass market paperbacks line the shelves of Booker's library.
The space between the glamoured entranceway and Booker's shelves is filled with somewhat eclectic seating. In one corner, a large pile of furs and pillows stuffed with down sprawls across the floor. Another area is occupied by multiple semi-circles of felled logs that looks like nothing so much as seats around a child's campfire, the wood worn smooth by use over time. Yet in contrast to the more natural decor, the area closest to the bar is taken up by a selection of sleek, dark leather couches and glass topped coffee tables, like the decor of some minimalist modern cafe.
And spread amidst all of these disparate areas are plants: some common houseplants, some more exotic species Joe can't quite put a name to, and even some full grown trees which by purely Euclidian geometry should not fit within the confines of the building. The one unifying factor that all the plants have in common is that they are all in the process of withering or dying, leaves curling limp and brown and sometimes fluttering slowly to the floor: dying, but never fully dead.
It only takes Joe a moment to confirm that Andy isn't seated anywhere yet. Biding his time, Joe makes his way to the bar, which Booker is currently manning himself. At this hour, Joe suspects that Booker has spent his time behind the bar putting more liquor into himself than he has his few customers. "Booker!" Joe calls out lightly as he comes close, "you are looking as unkempt as ever, my friend."
Booker reaches over the bar to clasp Joe's hand, and then uses that grasp to tug Joe into a quick hug. "Eh," Booker says as he releases Joe, "I do that as a favor to you. If I really cleaned up, no one would spare you a glance."
Joe lays his hand over his heart, feigning offense even as he laughs. "You must have a generous heart, if you've kept that look up this long just for my sake."
"I am very generous," Booker agrees. He slides Joe a glass across the bar, and says, with a pointed look at the glass, "Your water, on the house."
"A kindness," Joe acknowledges, and takes the glass to have something to do with his hands. Resting his elbows on the bar, Joe leans in and asks a bit more quietly, "Is Andy calling you in for this one as well?"
"You know how it is," Booker says, dryly. "Andy seems to be under the mistaken impression that I'm dependable."
"An impression you could shake very easily by choosing to say no if she calls," Joe points out.
"Yeah, well. You try saying no to Andy first, and I'll learn from your example." Booker raises his eyebrows at Joe, and Joe huffs a laugh and raises his glass to Booker in return. The water tastes cool and clear on his tongue as he swallows it down, and the glass makes a pleasant clinking sound as he sets it down on the bar top.
"So we've got you, me, Andy, and presumably Andy's new mortal friend. Do you know if anyone else is coming? Andy said she 'had an in with Winter', and I've been trying not to let that worry me all day."
"Well, we're about to find out," Booker says, and nods towards the entrance. "Boss incoming."
Joe could wait for Andy to come to him, but he's always had too much curiosity and not enough patience; he turns to see Andy walking through the glamour. A moment later, another woman crosses the boundary just behind Andy: a young black woman with tightly braided hair who is immediately and very clearly one of Andy's mortals. For one thing, she’s beautiful, which all of Andy’s favorite mortals tend to be—for another, more important thing, she’s wary. Most mortals walking through a glamour for the first time would come out the other side confused and lost, but this one is immediately sizing up the room she's walked into and everyone standing in it as if checking for threats. Joe would be willing to bet a substantial amount on her being military, or recently ex-military. Something about the careful way she maintains her posture.
"Andy!" Joe calls—not because he thinks Andy's in any danger of overlooking him, but because he's hoping a cheerful, friendly greeting might set the tone.
Andy's efficient pace crosses the distance between them quickly, with her mortal close behind her. When they reach the bar, Andy hops onto one of the wooden barstools with all the regal ease of a queen taking her rightful throne. Andy's mortal sits as well, but more stiffly.
Booker doesn't ask Andy what she wants; he's just finished pouring a glass of whiskey as Andy sits, and slides it to her with a nod. Andy shoots Booker a pleased little smile and takes the drink without comment. Booker turns and flashes the mortal a charming, louche grin. "Before we get into it, can I get anything for you?" Booker offers.
The mortal mets Booker's eyes and snorts. "Pretty sure there's like a thousand stories out there about how I shouldn't eat or drink anything you offer me," she says, "so that's gonna be a no."
A little whoop of pleased laughter breaks from Joe, and the rakish grin falls off Booker's face. Without saying a word, Booker fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and takes out a few crisp bank notes, handing them over to Andy. When he looks back to the mortal woman, a smile that's less smooth and more genuine than his last has spread across his face. "Sorry," he says, and holds up his hands in surrender. "It's in my nature to try. I wouldn't have held you to anything."
The mortal leans forward, not looking particularly impressed with this whole interaction. "Was that a test? Or just an asshole move?"
Booker's grin turns self-deprecating. "Can't it be both?"
"Alright," Andy says, and just like that Joe feels himself come to attention; behind the bar, Booker has also straightened up. "Introductions. The jerk behind the bar is Booker. Shitty sense of humor aside, he's useful in a fight and even better at moving people through the crossroads unnoticed; he'll be coming with us. The one over there with the big doe eyes is Joe." Joe tips his head towards the mortal; she nods back at him. With a particularly teasing tone, Andy gives her assessment of Joe: "He speaks fairy."
Joe rolls his eyes. By way of clarification, he tells the mortal, "She means that I do the negotiating."
"And this," Andy says, gesturing to the woman at her side, "is Freeman." It's not an alias, Joe can tell right away—it's a part of the mortal's name, something she's been called and answered to, but not the way she thinks of herself. A half-Name, something she could offer Andy without giving up any part of herself while still having claim to hospitality. Freeman really has done her research. "Three weeks ago, Freeman's brother went missing. She has good reason to think he's trapped in Winter. And speaking of Winter—"
From behind Joe, there is the sound of someone's weight shifting; the air takes on the cold, crisp smell of Winter glamourie. Joe has just enough time to think that it's not a good sign if Andy's Winter contact felt the need to hide themself as they approached—
And then he turns and standing behind him, looking pale and tired, is none other than Nicolò di Genova.
Joe's heart leaps into his throat; his fingers twist, sketching the first stroke of a warding into the air; he spits out, through near-choking rage, "Nicolò—"
And Nicolò, with a particularly heavy look in his seaglass eyes, says, "Yusuf."
Two things happen at once, then:
Nicolò's Name rings true. It parts from Joe's lips like a stone dropped into a still pond: its ripples spread, and the air between them shivers as they pass. In the face of the Naming, Nicolò's glamour falters for just a moment—for the space of a single blink, Nicolò is no longer a white-skinned human man with dark bags under his eyes but rather something more angular and less forgiving, hewn from sharp and cracking ice.
At the same time, the name Yusuf leaves Nicolò's lips and falls from the air like a wingless bird, a sour note, an empty, meaningless thing. Powerless.
Nicolò's eyes go wide, and he flinches back bodily, the shock seeming to hit him harder than the effects of the Naming. "How?" Nicolò asks, hoarsely. His eyes flick up and down Joe's body as though looking for injury. "You're severed from your Name, but you're alive. How did you—"
Joe smiles then like an animal baring its teeth. "Nice try, asshole," he says. Then, heart still beating double time in his chest, he turns on Andy. "This? This is your in with Winter? You know we can't trust him."
Andy reaches out one hand, catching Joe's forearm. "Hey. I know what you're thinking, but I promise we can trust Nicky for this. Listen to me, Joe. Am I lying to you?"
Disgusted—with himself, with Andy, with Nicolò fucking di Genova—Joe shakes off her arm. "I'm out, boss." He spares a look to Freeman just long enough to sincerely say, "I really hope you're able to rescue your brother," and then he's turning away.
Leaving the back room isn't enough—Joe's struck with the urge to leave the bar, the town, the country: to run and not stop. There's something of the Hunt with him, as he goes; he moves too quickly, not quite like a two-legged thing. The mortals in the front of the bar try to see him as he passes, but he has at least enough presence of mind to weave a glamour, and then their eyes slide away from him.
Of course, Joe's glamourie has no hold against most fae, and Nicolò follows after him doggedly. Through the bar and into the street beyond, Nicolò hounds him, calling out, "Yusuf, wait—Yusuf!" Each time it's spoken, the Naming fails—Nicolò cannot Name Joe, he cannot—and yet still Nicolò follows after, swift as a loosed arrow and twice as difficult to evade. There's something desperate in his voice as he calls out after Joe, "Yusuf, please. What would it take—"
And all at once, suddenly, it's too much to bear. Joe stops dead in the street and says, carefully, "Nicolò di Genova."
If a Naming is sonorous, a true Naming is like standing on the inside of a vast, ringing bell: concussive in its purity. Joe, never inclined to misuse trust when it's offered to him, has only felt this particular sensation once before; the difference between that moment and this one is stark. When the ringing stops, Joe reaches up a hand to brush the tears from his eyes before he speaks. "You want to know what it would take for me to go along with this, Nicolò? Alright. By your Name, freely granted, I bind you."
There is a long, silent moment between them. Joe doesn't turn around to look at Nicolò. Finally, his voice rough, Nicolò says, "I'm listening."
It does occur to Joe to be cruel—of course it does. What could Joe possibly do that Nicolò wouldn't deserve, after all? Doesn't Nicolò owe him a little suffering, after everything? For just a second, wouldn't it feel amazing to get his pound of flesh?
Joe swallows. His throat feels like a desert. "Fuck," he says, quietly, to himself. Sometimes being a good person sucks. Then, more loudly, he says, "You'll stand a trial, Nicolò." Now Joe does turn. He needs to watch this. "Your terms are these: For a year and a day, you will not try to touch, hold, or bind me. You will do no knowing harm to me or to any of those I love. You will not speak in half-truths or mislead me. You will not betray me or any of those I love."
As Joe speaks, the words that leave his lips take form, each like a little blot of spilled ink. They pool in the air for a moment and then fly, streaking through the space between him and Nicolò to batter against the pale bared skin of Nicolò's forearms. If the strikes hurt, Nicolò gives no sign of it; Nicolò only stands, expression grave, and takes each word. By the time the last of them strike, the words have formed thick dark bands around each of Nicolò's forearms: shackles, binding Nicolò to Joe's terms.
It's funny, but Joe didn't actually realize how much of his anger was actually fear until this moment, when he no longer needs to be afraid. Nicolò is bound. Joe is safe.
After a long moment, Nicolò says, speaking softly, "It isn't finished yet. What happens if I fail?"
An answer bubbles up on Joe's tongue, and this time he's not a good enough man to hold it back. "If you fail, Nicolò, then your own power will bind you, and you will wait just as I once waited."
There's no time for Joe to think better of his words, even if he wanted to: as soon as he finishes the binding terms, the words along Nicolò's forearms sink in, disappearing in the way that a drowning body will vanish into deep water. Nicolò grunts, the faintest little sound of pain, and then lets out a deep, shaking breath. "Well," he says, his voice very level. "No one can say you are not a fair man."
Joe's lips twist, and he reaches up to scrub a hand over his mouth. "Yeah. At least there's that." Suddenly he's very aware that they're standing in the little side street next to Booker's mediocre bar, and mortals are passing by somewhere close enough that Joe can hear them talking. Now that he's listening, the mundane sounds of modern life are all around them: laughter, chatter, the honk of a car horn, an overenthusiastic barking dog, the distant blare of an siren. Mortals all around him just living their lives, and here Joe is calling on the power of a true Naming in broad daylight. Joe can't afford to be that kind of stupid.
"Fuck," Joe says, with feeling. "I'm going back inside. I need a drink."
He doesn't look to see if Nicolò follows him.
(Nicolò does, always staying just distant enough that no movement of Nicolò's could make them accidentally touch: that far, and no further.)
…
"Sorry about that," Joe says, as he settles back onto his bar stool. "Had to stretch my legs a little."
He gives a little defiant look to Nicolò as he says it. It's a blatant enough lie that any of the fair folk could use it against him in a heartbeat, but of the three sitting here at this bar, Andy and Booker wouldn't, and Nicolò can't. Joe can lie all he wants here, now that Nicolò is bound.
If it bothers Nicolò, the other man doesn't let it show; he just settles mildly onto the bar stool next to Joe's and turns his attention to Freeman. "You have our apologies," Nicolò says, his voice very sincere. "We had to settle some old business, but we are ready to help now."
Freeman looks back and forth between the two of them slowly. "Okaaay. So you guys are just…good now? Just like that?"
Joe looks over at Nicolò, eyebrow raised. Nicolò looks back and says nothing. "Yeah," Joe says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Just like that." Then, because Nicolò has taken way more of his focus than the man deserves today, Joe looks away, back to Freeman. "I'm listening now. Tell me more about your brother."