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Later, Joe chalks it up to the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the same purpose that has carried him, exhausted and aching, up and up and up, through the sleek building to carry out Andy’s strategy. So it’s only when he offers the end of the rope to Nicky to tie around his arm, and the green eyes that stare back at him are blankly confused that he realises.
“São Pau-” but he doesn’t let Booker finish his sentence, doesn’t want Nicky stammering apologies for things beyond his control. So he cuts in, “I’ll make the entrance this time.” Loops the cord around his forearm a few times, tightens it. Swaps out his gun for Nicky’s. He has less ammunition in this one, but it’s bigger and louder and here his role is not to attack effectively, just to put them off balance, even for a moment. As he pulls away, Nicky’s fingers wrap around his wrist.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The tips of his fingers are still terribly cold.
Joe looks from Nicky’s solemn face to Booker’s. The guilt in him pours from his eyes, the slant of his mouth, the set of his shoulders. Pity and pain wage war inside Joe’s mind, but right now there are bigger things to take care of. They don’t need words, not after two centuries of brotherhood.
I’m trusting you, for this. For now. Keep him safe.
He waits three seconds after the fire door slams shut behind them to smash through the window.
--
In the elevator down, his eyes can’t stop drifting to Booker. He’s standing closest to the doors, gun gripped tight. Joe doesn’t want to bore holes in the back of his brother’s head, but he can't help himself. He can’t stop wondering. When? When? At what point did Booker decide that whatever family they had all built together, was never going to be enough? That night a decade or so ago, when he’d smashed the night’s wine bottle in a drunken rage and screamed at Andy and Nicky and him until Joe had cried? Or even before that, the last job in Russia in the seventies, when he refused to speak at all? When they’d laughed over Andy’s baklava? At what point had Booker decided that a chance of true, final death was worth the rest of them?
He feels the beginnings of tears in the backs of his eyes and before he can scrub at them to push them back, he feels a warm hand on the small of his back. Nicky. He refocuses on that small pressure, on the taste of blood in his mouth, the weight of his boots. He breathes, and does not cry. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in tears, but right now he needs to keep a steady head.
There’ll be time later.
The gunshots are faint but Nicky still jolts, pale eyes latching onto the ceiling. When the elevator doors open, he sprints, pushing past Booker. Joe’s not far behind, and they help Nile out of the car as her joints snap back into place, muscles reforming around shattered bone. Bonds made in blood, in pain. In love. Joe meets Nicky’s eyes through the dash mirror as they drive into something new.
--
They stop, after a while, because Andy’s still woozy from blood loss and the shock of actually feeling the physical pain through to its entirety. She and Joe swap, and after a brief argument in which Andy increasingly slurs her words in a way that’s alarming to all in the car, Nile takes her place in shotgun. Joe looks back after maybe half an hour and finds their fearless leader drooling a little on his beloved’s shoulder. Nicky’s drifted off a little too, days of almost constant pain catching up to him. They’re only human, after all. Some small selfish part of Joe wants to swap out and let himself nap too, but Nile’s new and has just taken a swan dive out of a skyscraper and doesn’t even know where to go, really, and Booker...
Logically, Joe knows that there’s no chance that Booker would drive them into another trap, another capture. This was his only plan, and he’s shed blood to make it right, however immediately. But this new sting of pain and horror is brand new and fresh in his chest, so he keeps driving, and ignores the way Booker’s eyes keep flicking to his in the mirror. Doesn’t acknowledge him the way Nicky has been doing, but for a different reason. Nicky retreats, when he’s angry- the problem shrinks in his mind, becomes somewhat invisible. His eyes slide over the issue like a river over a rock until it’s eventually worn away. His rage is deep and slow to dissipate. But for Joe? If he lets himself go, he knows exactly the type of venom he’s capable of spitting. And it’s as Andy said. Now just isn’t the time.
So, he drives.
--
Somehow between one blink and the next, they are at the safehouse. It’s almost dark now, the deepening sky wreathed in purples and blues in a way that makes him itch for his paints. If he had the energy for it. He feels worn down to the bone. Joe is just uncurling his aching fingers from the wheel, but Nile is already out of the car, stepping around to shake Andy awake. So young, for all of this already, and stronger than all of them. She’ll be the best of us . Most days he feels fine, is able to keep all of that time packed away, out of sight and out of mind. There’s always something new to see, to experience, to love. Today though, he just feels the weight of all the years.
(He’s so fucking tired.)
A gentle voice to his right, that odd mix of old Ligurian and Arabic that they’d invented, all on their own so many lifetimes ago. He’s smiling even before he knows why.
“Yusuf, love, let’s go. Let’s go.”
He lets himself lean on Nicky, just a little, as they slouch towards the door that Nile’s taken Andy through. She doesn’t try turning on the lights, but he does, and Nile jolts like she’s been shocked when they actually flick on. Booker closes the door behind them with a soft click. Still trying to blend away into the background. They stand there in the atrium for a moment, still covered in dust and smoke and blood. The house is large and it swallows the sounds of their ragged breaths.
“Some of our safehouses aren’t abandoned churches and caves.” Nicky’s voice has gone even softer with fatigue. “Hot water works, too. The rooms have ensuites.” He doesn’t say anything else before he begins leading Joe up the stairs.
Joe, as tired as he is, is pleased to know that Nicky at least remembers these little things. It means he’s healing well.
The bedroom door locks behind them and they strip off their clothes in a pile in the corner. They’ll have to burn it all tomorrow. Now, Joe goes hunting for where they’d kept their spares while Nicky finds the soap and starts the hot water running. When he returns, Nicky is already submerged to his neck. They’d allowed themselves to splurge in buying this place, and when Joe seats himself behind Nicky there’s plenty of room to move. Nevertheless, his heart leans back, damp head on his shoulder. They sit for a moment. Soak in the quiet of it all. They’ll have to rinse themselves off properly later, but for now they let the steam pool and swirl and fill the slightly dusty bathroom.
“How much?”
Sometimes, when one of them suffers a catastrophic head injury, it takes a while to remember it all. The last time had been Booker, and he’d been blown to bits by a mine and died three more times before they could piece enough of him back together for it to matter. They’d taken turns, him and Nicky and Andy, for the few days after, filling in all the gaps that Booker couldn’t recall at the time. The memories all came back eventually, but at least there was a warning. Some things just shouldn’t be remembered alone.
Between the two of them, it had been Joe the last time things were forgotten. He’d been dead and in the process of healing before the tank had rolled over his head, killing him again. He'd awoken to a hysterical Nicky, blood all over his face and hands. Trying to piece his pulverised skull back together. He hadn’t remembered what exactly had brought him to this place, but he’d tried to wipe away Nicky’s tears, first. Always, Nicky first. That kiss had tasted of blood. When it was either of them, they usually just told tales to each other. They’d been together for all of it, hadn’t they?
There is not a single piece of his soul that he hadn’t already bared.
“Just little... Little pieces. Tell me.” Nicky has switched to Arabic, rounding out the sounds in his throat. Joe can feel the rumble of his chest, knows without looking that Nicky’s eyes are closed. He grabs the soap, starts working on what he can reach. Nicky’s sifting back through a millennium of memory. He can help speed things along.
Nicky leans forwards and Joe leans with him, lathering soap down the length of his spine. He considers. He begins, his voice a bare whisper, barely sound. Pure thought passed from one half to another.
“You are Nicolo di Genova. You are Nicholas, and Nico, and Nicky to those who love you. You are loved, dearly. You are the other side of my beating heart. You are the son to parents who did not care for you and deserve no care in return. You are the friend and brother to Andromache of Scythia, and Sébastien le Livre, and… Nile Freeman. She’s new. She saved us. He betrayed us.
We have lived thousands of lives, side by side. I have killed you, and you have killed me. Our deaths are the same. Our lives align. When that final night comes, it shall come for us both. We have walked through war, and peace, through hatred and with love, always. We hurt those who harm. We protect those who cannot protect themselves. You are good with children, and small animals. You have practised kindness until it has become the bedrock on which you build your soul.
You dream, and you think harder than any of us, because out of us you are the one who knows the danger of action without reason. You are the philosopher to my poet. You make sense of my art. You sing, when you can, and it is always the most beautiful sound to my ears, comparable only to your voice, and the beat of your heart.
You speak only when you need to. Your patience is boundless. You inflicted great harm once, on me, on my people and on others. But you learn, and you have grown. You are forgiven. You are always learning, eager for knowledge. Your curiosity is the best part of you, in my opinion. Along with all the rest.
You have purpose. You are good. Always, I love you.”
Nicky’s hair has grown back in exactly the same way it had been before Keane shot him, but the skin is tender under his wet fingers. They turn around in the bathtub, splashing water out the sides, and he feels Nicky’s hands on his shoulders now, easing away the grime.
“And you?” Nicky’s voice is breathless, teasing. Somewhere, somehow in between getting into the water and now, the weight has lifted from Joe’s bones, has set aside that grief and guilt and anger and fear. It’s still there, but he’ll deal with it in the morning. The sun will rise, as it always has, and there will be time later to card through everything and pack it away. Now, however, is cooling water and gentle fingers and cheap hotel soap from decades gone by. Now is the quiet after the storm. The house is shaken, but still standing. Everyone he holds in his heart is still here .
“I am Yusuf, I am Joe. I am yours. And I will never let you go.”