Chapter Text
Nicky takes comfort in simple pleasures. The warmth of a home-cooked meal, the well-worn pages of a familiar book, the particular flavor of a certain wine. These things ground him in an increasingly unstable world. His job is a whirlwind: a new country every week, different languages in his ears, a series of interchangeable targets in the crosshairs of his rifle. And he has learned how to improvise, how to—how did Joe put it once?—roll with the punches. But when he needs to center himself, he turns to the familiar.
So in this abandoned church in an unassuming Parisian suburb, with jet planes periodically roaring overhead and MI6 headquarters a smoking ruin—he cooks.
Dices vegetables, stirs the sauce as it thickens, boils water. Simple, almost boring. Soothing. It quiets his mind, lets him tune everything else out. He just breathes in the scents of garlic and tomato, onion and sausage. This he knows. This he can control.
He loses himself in the rhythm of it until he hears someone clearing their throat behind him. When he glances over his shoulder, Joe is there, offering him a tentative smile. "Need any help?"
"No, it's nearly done," Nicky says, which is mostly true. He's always felt awkward sharing a kitchen. Maybe because he so rarely has the occasion to. "But thank you. Is Andy awake as well?"
Joe and Andy only arrived in Goussainville early that morning, after an overnight flight from Brazil. They'd all spent a few hours hashing out the situation with MI6 and talking in circles around what they should do next despite the glaring lack of actionable intel, but eventually, even Andy had to admit she was crashing hard. Jet lag from continent-hopping is very real, and double-oh agents are not immune.
"Just about." Joe leans against the counter, unerringly finding the only piece of vacant real estate in this tiny kitchen. "It was deeply unsettling, you know, seeing her nap. I was pretty sure she never slept."
Nicky cracks a smile. "Hard to think of 007 as a mere mortal like the rest of us, isn't it?"
"I'm still not entirely convinced." Joe watches him finish up the vegetables and add them to the sauce. "Hey, hold on. Aren't you supposed to have that arm in a sling?"
"Ah." Nicky shrugs with his good shoulder. It's become a habit to avoid jostling the injured one. "According to Medical, probably, but it is more of an inconvenience than anything else at this point. And besides, with everything that's happened…" He shakes his head. "I think I will not be able to use medical leave as an excuse to sit this one out."
Joe frowns. "It's not an excuse, Nicky, it's a bloody gunshot wound."
"Not so bloody anymore. It's mostly healed, just a little stiff." And twinges like hell when he moves his arm wrong, but Joe doesn't need to know that. "Think of this as physical therapy."
Joe just looks at him for a bit longer, brows creased, clearly resistant. But Nicky can outlast him in any staring contest, and sure enough, Joe breaks first, shaking his head. "Fine. If you say so. I'll let the others know that dinner's almost ready."
"About ten minutes," Nicky confirms. When Joe pushes himself back off the counter, Nicky reaches out to catch his wrist, only for a moment. "Joe. I'm okay. Really."
"Okay," Joe says quietly. He presses his fingertips to the small of Nicky's back as he maneuvers around him to get out of the kitchen, the touch fleeting enough that Nicky would almost think he'd imagined it, if not for the answering shiver that slips up his own spine.
They're going to need to address this… whatever it is between them, he thinks. Soon. But not yet.
Dinner first.
"The vultures are circling already," Q tells them over a videocall late that evening. She has her background blanked out, and her face is grim. "The Prime Minister has ordered an inquiry."
Andy rolls her eyes. "Because in a time of crisis, what we really need is to play the blame game. No, thank you. Who are they trying to pin it on?"
"Copley, who else? Well, and M, I suppose, since she's conveniently deceased and unable to defend herself, but even Merrick is hesitant to throw a dead hero under the bus so soon."
"Sorry, who's Merrick?" Nicky asks.
Q pulls a face. "He's the new Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, and a pompous little weasel. Daddy's influence helped him cross over from the tech industry into government, and he has a lot of private backing."
"Oh, I remember him," Joe says darkly. "Fearmongering about terrorism in front of every camera he can find, talking up the joys of electronic surveillance—Big Brother with a hefty side of Islamophobia to wash it down."
"That's the one," Q agrees. "Talks a lot of nonsense about bringing British intelligence 'out of the Dark Ages and into the light.' He wants to scrap the double-oh program and replace you all with drone strikes."
Booker shakes his head. "Charming."
"Q," Andy says, eyes intent on the laptop screen. "What can we do to help?"
A smile flickers across Q's face, ever so briefly. "You can stay the hell out of London, at least until this particular storm blows over. Double-ohs tend to make Parliament twitchy, and Copley and I need to set up a new shop in the interim. But I'm still wary of that breach into our systems." Her tone sharpens. "There's been a rat in our house, Andromache. I want it dead."
Andy's green eyes glint like steel. "Loose cannons, darling. Just point us in the right direction."
"I intend to."
Nicky clears his throat, uncertain if he should be the one to bring it up. "What of the rest of our cohort? There are five other active double-oh agents…"
"All present and accounted for in their own safehouses for the moment," Q says. "And in reserve should we need them, though 003 was in the middle of an unrelated mission I'm rather anxious she return to. But none of them are team players. You're the ones Andromache trusts, so consider her your CO from this point onwards." Her lips flatten into a thin line. "I'll provide you as much support as I'm able, but frankly, I'd rather you fly under the radar for as long as possible. A formal inquiry means increased oversight from Merrick in particular, and I don't trust the man as far as I can throw him. The less he knows about your activities, the better." She takes a deep breath, then gives them a wry smile. "Now might I have a moment alone with Andy, please?"
Once Andy has retreated to the sectioned-off sleeping space for some privacy, Booker digs a bottle of wine out of a cabinet and pours them each a glass, and they settle into the mismatched dining chairs around the empty table. Booker drains his own glass and refills it in silence; Nicky doesn't gulp his, exactly, but it's not good enough to be worth savoring and he could use the alcohol. Even Joe sips his own wine absently, though Nicky knows he generally abstains.
"The last 002," Joe finally says. "How thoroughly did M clean house after his defection?"
Booker grimaces. "There was a bitch of an internal investigation, but he turned out to be a lone wolf, as far as they could tell. Still. It would make sense. Keane had been in the service for nearly a decade, he certainly knew MI6 inside and out. I don't remember him being much of a tech wiz, though, and I was probably closest to him of the other double-ohs. Which isn't saying much. Keane never cared about making friends."
It would be nice to lay all this devastation at the feet of one who'd already proven himself a villain. Nicky wishes he could believe it were that simple. "Who would have the technological capability to pull off such an attack?"
"I think we can safely assume that the cyberattack was directly related to the hard drive we lost," Joe says. "So whoever did the actual hacking was an outsider."
"They knew precisely what to target, though, for maximum damage," Nicky points out. "That's not exactly common, is it, weaponizing the environmental controls like that? To know exactly where M's office was, and spark the explosion there. One could figure it out, of course, with time and effort, but there were no earlier incursions into Q's systems, and this dark web auction only happened a few days ago, if your CIA contact is to be believed. They were remarkably effective for how quick their turnaround must have been."
Booker props his head up on one hand. "If Keane was behind the auction, that means he's the one with the hard drive. And that means SPECTRE. Which means another dead end for us, because in twelve years with MI6, I've never seen a single scrap of hard intel on that fucking organization. We barely even have confirmation that it exists."
SPECTRE is the boogeyman of national intelligence, a shadow network of criminals and murderers with no known agenda beyond, perhaps, general chaos. Nicky has only ever heard of it in whispers. He mostly thinks it is a convenient scapegoat for when you can't find an actual person to pin a crime on.
"Well, we won't learn anything new from here," Joe says, scrubbing a hand across his face. He wrinkles his nose at his wine, as though noticing it for the first time, and sets his glass down. "I need some air, I'll be back in a bit."
Nicky can't help but watch as he goes, staring absently at the door closing behind Joe until he shakes himself out of it. He must be more tired than he realized. When his attention returns to the table, Booker is giving him a pointed look.
"What?"
Booker just shakes his head and pours them both another glass.
For a second night, Nicky sleeps fitfully in the abandoned church, listening to the occasional roar of a jet engine overhead and trying to ignore the lingering ache in his shoulder. At least his ribs feel fully healed. That's something.
In the morning, Q calls Andy with news.
Booker did a run into the village for coffee and pastries, which is a perk of having a safehouse in France. Pretty much anywhere on the Continent does both of those things better than the English. So at least they're all reasonably caffeinated by the time Andy rings off and joins them at the table.
"All right, do you want the good news first or the bad news?" Andy grabs a chocolate croissant and shoves at least half of it into her mouth while she waits for them to answer.
Booker and Joe stare each other down for a moment, before Booker rolls his eyes and concedes. "Good, I guess."
"The Americans have a solid lead on the man Andrei assassinated in São Paulo, and they're willing to share," Andy tells them. "Better yet, our new best friend is still in town, Joe, so you're gonna go meet her later today."
Joe brightens, cracking a smile for the first time all morning. It really is like watching the sun come out. "Nile? Excellent. You joining us?"
"No, but Nicky should go with you, if he's up for it."
He hates the way they all turn to look at him, assessing. As though a sore shoulder makes him incapable of handling a simple meeting with an ally. "Of course I am," he says, a touch crossly. "What will you be doing instead?"
"That's the bad news," Andy says. "Whoever stole the hard drive has finally decrypted it. They posted the first five agents' names on the list on YouTube this morning. Along with photos and the names of the terrorist cells they're embedded in. Q scrubbed the video, of course, but the damage is done. And they've promised to post five more next week, and the week after."
It's not really a surprise, but it's awful all the same. Nicky's stomach clenches, and he abandons the second half of his croissant. Hard not to think of this as his own fault. If he'd only managed to catch up to Andrei sooner, back in Istanbul—if he'd been able to neutralize him on that fucking train—
He realizes that Joe's eyes are fixed on him, that same gut-churning mixture of guilt and regret and empathy reflected in their warm brown depths, and Nicky has to look away.
"Copley must be livid," Booker says roughly. "Any chance of extracting them?"
Andy shakes her head. "I don't like the odds. Anyway. Best we can do to help is put a stop to whoever's doing this before the next names get posted. So you and me, Book, we're going hunting."
They meet Joe's American friend in Paris, in a touristy cafe by the Seine. It's the sort of busy, public space that makes Nicky feel all too exposed, even though he knows the anonymity of the crowd is on their side. He can't help but case the area for the best spots to set up a sniper's nest.
The CIA agent looks like she could easily be yet another tourist exploring the city, young and carefree. Only the sharpness of her eyes and the hint of military bearing in her posture give her away. She greets Joe like an old friend, and shakes Nicky's hand with a firm grip before gesturing for them both to sit. "What happened to Andy?"
"Called away on business," Joe says. "You can imagine."
Nile nods. "I'm sorry for your loss," she tells them, with charming sincerity. "I know it's cold comfort, but hopefully we can help steer you toward whoever's responsible for it."
"That is our hope as well," Nicky says. "What can you tell us?"
"The assassination Joe and Andy failed to prevent in São Paulo. We've finally got something more than an alias for the dead guy." Nile reaches into her purse and pulls out a pencil and small pad of paper, setting it neatly on the table before her. "His real name was Marco Sciarra. Italian national. We were looking at him for the bombing in Mexico City last year—he wasn't the bomber himself, you understand. Just the contractor. That seems to have been his thing, acting as middleman for all kinds of unsavory transactions, like the dark web auction that led to your current...situation." She writes quickly on the pad, then passes the paper across the table to them: an address, date and time.
Nicky taps the paper thoughtfully. "That's just outside of Rome. Wealthy area, I believe."
"Yeah, well, that's where Sciarra's funeral will be held, day after tomorrow," Nile says. "Might be interesting to see who attends it."
"It might," Joe agrees, but he's not looking at the note. Nicky can feel the weight of his gaze. He refuses to meet it. Instead, he memorizes the information Nile provided and then tears the paper into very small pieces, tucking the shreds into his pocket to dispose of later.
"This could have been a phone call," Nicky points out. "Not that I'm not very pleased to have met you in person."
The corner of Nile's mouth twists into a smile, her cheek dimpling. "Well, since I was already in the area, it seemed expedient. But you're right, I've got one more thing." She returns the pad to her purse and retrieves a new item instead, which she proffers in the palm of her hand. "Sciarra was wearing this when he died."
Joe is the one to take it from her: a heavy silver ring, emblazoned with what might be a stylized octopus. "Can't say I share his taste in jewelry."
Nicky's eyes are drawn to Joe's hands: calloused yet elegant, with long, tapered fingers. Joe sometimes wears a few rings of his own, silver like Sciarra's, but far more intricate and geometric in design. Not when he's in the field, though; Nicky only ever glimpsed them in London. He remembers the faint scrape of the metal against his bare skin, that one good night they'd spent together.
He has to bodily drag himself out of the unexpected, intense sense memory, forcing his attention back to Nile's face across the table. Neither she nor Joe seem to have noticed his momentary distraction, both still looking at the octopus ring. Nicky coughs to clear his throat. "Does it have a particular meaning, the symbol?"
Nile shrugs. "Don't know for sure, maybe the guy was secretly a marine biologist. But it seemed pretty unusual. Keep an eye out at the funeral."
"We will," Nicky promises.
Joe gives him a hard look, then sighs and pockets the ring. "May I ask what Langley is getting out of this? I know we're allies, but you've gone above and beyond these past few days. I hope you're not gonna get in trouble for it."
She waves this off. "Nah. Whenever you figure out who Sciarra was working for, we'll expect a fair exchange of intel. But mostly it's your Quartermaster who's footing the bill for this one, so don't worry about it."
Nile takes her leave of them shortly thereafter, and Joe just barely manages to hold his tongue until they're back in the privacy of their car. "Nicky, you can't seriously think I'd let you take the lead on this one."
"If the funeral were happening anywhere else, I would not argue with you," Nicky says evenly. "But it is in Rome. And I have an obvious advantage."
"I do speak some Italian, you know."
"I'm sure you do, you are very gifted with languages. But it is not your mother tongue." Nicky notices Joe's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Joe has never been a nervous driver, and the Parisian traffic is not so bad today. "I will be fine. And it's not like it will be physically taxing, anyway. It's a funeral."
"Just so long as it isn't yours," Joe mutters.
Nicky hesitates, then rests his hand atop the gear shift. "You know I would be going with you all the same, even if it were not Rome."
After a long moment, Joe drops one hand from the wheel to cover Nicky's, ever so briefly. "I know. But I don't have to like it."
Andy and Booker have long since departed the church by the time they get back to Goussainville. It's been Andy's safehouse for many years, so of course they find an impressive armory under the floorboards of what once was the rectory.
"Travel documentation?" Joe asks, repacking his duffel bag.
Nicky tosses him a new set of passports. "Courtesy of Q, before we left London."
Joe hums appreciatively and tucks them into his jacket.
By mutual agreement, they're not chancing a commercial flight to Rome, even with Q's new documentation. As Joe points out wryly, he's not willing to risk the mission on a "random" search—something Nicky has not really considered before. He's never been pulled aside by airport security, not once, not even when he really has been smuggling illegal items across international borders.
With Sciarra's funeral set for the day after tomorrow, they can afford to take a slower route, and settle on an overnight train as the best option. Driving could be more convenient—it's always nice to have complete control of one's own transportation—but slower, and the fifteen-hour drive would just exhaust them both for no real reason. So the train it is.
"I haven't been on a sleeper train in years," Joe remarks, once they've settled into their shared compartment. It's small and cozy, just two bunks on opposite walls with a narrow stretch of floor and shared table to separate them. But at least it's private. "They feel so old-fashioned, you know? Like traveling on the Orient Express or something."
"Let us hope there will be no murder mystery to solve," Nicky says drily.
Joe flashes him a grin. "We are technically investigating a murder, in a certain light. It's just that the mystery part is why Sciarra was killed, not whodunnit."
"Well, we won't find any answers on the train, anyway. Dinner, though, if we're lucky."
They eat in comfortable silence together in the restaurant car. Nicky mostly tunes out the low buzz of conversation from other passengers, working through the question of Sciarra and the ring and the upcoming funeral. He has no real plan, which bothers him on a fundamental level. Joe is much better at jumping into situations blind. Nicky prefers to know every angle before selecting his shot.
Maybe he should just let Joe take the lead on this. But as far as he knows, Joe's Italian is only passable, and this is a subtler sort of information gathering than is his forte. So Nicky will be the one to attend the funeral, to listen and watch and pray to God that something comes out of it, while Joe observes from a distance, at the ready if Nicky needs backup for any reason. He shouldn't. It's just a funeral. But in their line of work, it's always advisable to have an exit strategy.
They linger over coffee until most of the other passengers have dispersed. Nicky starts when Joe's hand covers his own on the table, jolted out of his ruminations.
"C'mon," Joe says, a faint smile creasing the corners of his eyes. "We could both use some sleep, I think. Isn't that the whole reason we took the train?"
Once back in their compartment, Nicky pulls his sleep clothes out of his backpack, then hesitates. They don't have a private bathroom, and he feels silly going all the way down the hall just to change. So he just shrugs mentally and tugs his shirt off over his head, hissing a little when the movement stretches his shoulder in the wrong way. On the positive side, that means he's been feeling well enough to completely forget about the injury. Which is good, because he might have accidentally-on-purpose left the sling behind in Goussainville.
"You okay?" Joe asks from where he sits on his own bunk.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just this stupid—no, really, it's fine, don't look at me like that."
But Joe is still staring at his shoulder, where the puckered scar is visibly reddish at the edges. Nicky has a few other new scars scattered across his chest, where fragments of shrapnel grazed him, and those were not even remotely Joe's fault. But the bullet wound is the most prominent, and that's clearly what Joe is looking at.
"There will be no real lasting damage, I promise," Nicky tells him. "The bullet didn't hit anything important. So your aim was not so terrible after all."
His attempt to lighten the mood falls flat. Joe winces, looking away, but his gaze is drawn back again a moment later, like he can't help himself. "Nicky…"
"I really am fine," Nicky says gently. He hesitates, then bridges the gap between them, sitting beside Joe at the edge of his bunk and twisting so that Joe can see the matching exit wound from the back. "See? In and out, and already healed."
Joe reaches out uncertainly, his fingertips barely brushing Nicky's shoulder blade, skirting around the edge of the scar. Gooseflesh rises on Nicky's skin at his light touch. He holds himself very still and suppresses a shiver. Even so, Joe just as quickly flinches away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Nicky does his best to catch Joe's gaze and hold it. "Joe. It's all right. Really."
This time, Joe's touch is less tentative, though no less gentle. He traces the outline of the scar with the pad of his thumb, then strokes downward to flatten his palm against the small of Nicky's back, as though reassuring himself that the rest of Nicky's body is whole and solid. There is no sound in their small compartment except the hum of the train moving swiftly along the tracks, the soft intake and exhale of breaths, and Nicky's own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He doesn't think Joe can hear that, but he can't be sure. It feels so very loud to him.
Ducking his head, Joe presses his lips to Nicky's back, right on the spot where his bullet had gone. All the breath leaves Nicky's lungs. He thinks he might actually be trembling from the effort to remain motionless. The kiss is fleeting, and so very soft.
Joe lifts his head to meet Nicky's eyes, a question there. His face is so open, so endlessly expressive, even when Nicky can't quite read what's written across it. It's a language he aches to learn. He swallows hard, and nods, not sure quite what he's agreeing to, but yes, yes.
With a gentle nudge, his hand still warm and firm at Nicky's spine, Joe turns Nicky just enough to fully face each other. This time, he kisses the first scar, where the bullet had entered Nicky's body. "Too close," Joe murmurs, his beard tickling Nicky's bare chest. He kisses a line down to just over Nicky's heart and then pauses there. "Only a few inches off. Nicky, that's too close, I can't—"
"Don't," Nicky says. "It didn't happen that way."
"But it could have."
Nicky dares to run a hand over Joe's soft curls, then cups his cheek to tilt his face back up again. "Be here with me now, Joe, please."
Joe's eyes are so deep and dark when they meet his. He almost looks…scared. Vulnerable, in a way Nicky never would have thought he'd allow himself to be. Not with Nicky. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know, but you started it." Nicky gives him a small smile, stroking his cheek, and Joe huffs out an involuntary laugh. More seriously, he adds, "What would you like it to be? One good night, again?"
He hates himself a little for even suggesting it, but Joe had set very clear terms, the first and only time they'd done this. This terrible, terrible idea they'd had. If that's all Joe can give him, Nicky is just selfish enough to take it.
But Joe is already shaking his head. "I think I want a lot more than that."
"Oh, thank God," Nicky says in a rush. He presses his forehead to Joe's. "I don't know what this is, Joe, I don't know what we're doing, all I know is that the world is on fire and I just really need to hold you."
Joe makes an inarticulate sound in the back of his throat, and then he's kissing him, urgently, one hand coming up to clasp the nape of Nicky's neck, the other still pressed firm against his lower back. Nicky is bracketed in by him, surrounded, crowded together on this narrow bunk in this claustrophobic train compartment, yet somehow he feels more grounded and secure than he has in a very long time. He holds on as hard as he can and meets Joe kiss for kiss, touch for touch, helps him out of his own inconvenient clothing to rediscover the vast expanse of Joe's lovely skin.
The bunk is nowhere near large enough for two adult men, but they make do admirably. Nicky presses Joe down into the thin mattress, drinking in the sight of him stretched lean and yearning beneath him. He won't be able to hold himself in this position for long—his shoulder is already twinging in warning—but God, Joe is so beautiful like this, loose-limbed and wanton. Not that Joe is less beautiful at any other time, but this is something private, a side of him that the rest of the world does not get to see.
The last (first) time they'd fucked, Nicky had been desperate to commit as much of the experience as possible to memory, knowing it would likely be his only chance. He'd been so caught up in trying to capture every last detail that he hadn't really been able to just give in and enjoy himself. And to what purpose? No thin memory could possibly match up to the reality of how Joe's skin feels, warm and pliant against his own; the scent of his neck when Nicky leaves open-mouthed kisses along the underside of his jaw; the heat in his rich brown eyes and the hoarseness in his voice when he breathes Nicky's name. Nicky could never possibly recreate this moment in the lonely confines of his own mind. He won't waste another heartbeat trying.
He blankets Joe with the weight of his body and gives himself over to sensation.