Malta

[peace_inthe_violence]

This is a fairy tale of blood and bullets
It is the story of three men and three women and a small island between Italy and Africa.
This is a story about tragedy and pain, about healing and hope, but mostly it is about
love.

Comments

[transfuge]

Three in the morning was not a time any sane man should be up but Booker was. He sat slumped in a chair shuffling a deck of cards between his fingers. There was an empty whiskey bottle at his elbow and a second half empty on the side table next to his chair.

His movements were methodical and smooth requiring none of his focus. He was lost in his own thoughts, staring in the middle distance at the wall across from him. This time in Malta should have been a vacation but instead Booker felt like he was drowning.

It was harder and harder to hide his drinking which meant most nights he went to bed not comfortably numb. That meant nightmares of drowning. Nightmares of his sons dying and his wife passing in his arms. The weight of everything they'd done and all that he had failed haunting him. The mission before this hadn't helped.

And there was no relief he could find except the sweet burn of whiskey. Booker shifted the cards to a single hand, still shuffling them, picked up his glass and drank another large swallow.

The burn chased away the linger ghosts of his son's voice in his head begging for help, begging him to make the pain stop, and then cursing him for his failure to do any of it.

[orgilotes]

Three in the morning wasn't time for much but leeping, and Andy would have been asleep soundly at this hour had she not rolled over and felt a cool spot where she should have felt Booker's warm solidity behind her. It got her up and out of bed to go look for him, pausing in the doorway when she saw him and the whiskey bottles.

They all drank: it was a hazard of their age as much as their occupation. She watched Booker drink, and sighed softly, padding over to his chair and letting her fingertips drift over his shoulder. It would take time for her to slip back into being overly demonstrative in her affection, though she hoped by now the others were secure in the knowledge that she loved them as dearly as she knew how.

"Book," she murmured quietly. "What's wrong?" Why wasn't he in bed, why was he drinking alone, sitting alone in another room without them: all the questions rolled into one, leaving Andy concerned and settling into a crouch by the edge of his chair.

[transfuge]

He should've known she would wake up eventually. Andy slept just about as poorly as he did. He rolled his head back against the chair, fingers still idly moving cards around.

For a moment he thought about lying to her. Booker could do it. He was a very good liar, a very good conman. If needed he could slip into a personality as easy as breathing. But maybe it was the alcohol or the lack of sleep but he just didn't have it in him.

"Do you ever... want to not wake up?" He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and then away. He felt... weak. Ashamed. Catholic guilt was in there too. "When I go down... I don't want to get back up."

Booker would like to stay down and... be dead. He really wanted to be dead so no more dreams, no more guilt, just... no more.

Same dance, different night.

[peace_inthe_violence]

This time it wasn't Andy who made their way up from the hallway that contained the bedrooms. Nicky had always been a light sleeper, and over the years that had turned into being something a troubled sleeper. Even with Joe's arms wrapped around him, sometimes his mind went to places that left him cold and nauseous.

So, he carefully crawled out of bed, making sure that Joe was curled around Andy and that they were both asleep before he made his way out of the bedroom. His intent was to get a glass of water from the kitchen and maybe something sweet to nibble on. Instead, he stopped next to Booker's elbow and picked up the half bottle from the table.

"You should be asleep with us, not out here alone."

There was no force in his words, however, and he lifted that bottle to his lips, draining it neatly.

[transfuge]

Booker frowned a little as Nicky took his whiskey and drank it all. He wasn't sure if it was to stop him from drinking more or if Nicky needed the drink himself.

"Sometimes I need space, Nicky." Booker did enjoy the affection but when these darker moods took him he didn't want to be tangled up with someone. Not that it worked with these bastards.

Since his confession to Andy they had all kept a close eye on him to make sure he was doing alright. It was very sweet of them and occasionally frustrating.

He gestured to the other empty chair. "Join me?"

002

[peace_inthe_violence]

Malta had always held a special place in Nicky's heart. It had been the first place that he and Joe--before they were even 'he and Joe', in fact--had found that could be considered 'safe'. A small island, close enough to Joe's home for the man to feel comfortable but similar enough to his own that he didn't feel too out of place. But, most importantly, it had been the first place other than their own hidden camps, where their two religions could live peacefully side by side.

Over the years, it had become something of a frequent 'b' between jumps from 'a' to 'c'. Somewhere between meeting Andy and Quynh for the first time and the end of that century, Nicky bought a parcel of land big enough to guarantee them privacy. Over the years, a house had been built. Then it was upgraded. Expanded. Upgraded again. Nicky didn't do all the work on his own, but he'd done a far chunk of it.

Including the roof. Which had, over the last fifty or so years since they'd last been there, had developed a small but annoying leak. Well, almost leak. It was threatening to leak. It was threatening to leak enough that Nicky had taken it upon himself to clamber up onto the tiles, carefully picking his way around to try and find the ones that had cracked.

Which would probably explain the steady, quiet stream of Italian curses that could be heard by anyone who happened to have a window open or be outside in the garden that wasn't really a garden anymore.

[notariver]

It wasn't really a garden anymore, but it would be if Nile had any say in the matter, because if they were going to be here a while they were damn well going to have fresh tomatoes and fresh string beans just as a start -because they were easy to grow, and both things she had a little bit of experience with- she figured if they stayed longer, she could build from there.

At the noise, however, she stepped back from where she'd been clearing greenery that wasn't just 'dried out' so much as 'completely mummified' at that point, taking only a moment to spot Nicky and she arched a brow, "You okay up there?"

[peace_inthe_violence]

Nile might be pleasantly surprised once she cut through the wild amount of over growth. Nicky had once had a fairly decent garden space and no doubt at least a few of the vegetables had reseeded themselves over the years. There would be nothing at all resembling rows or order, but there was probably at least a few random tomato plants gone wild.

He hadn't been expecting an answer from anyone, let alone the newest member of their little family, so there was a confused moment of looking around before he finally spotted her. His sour look lifted a little and he squatted down as if those few feet could help her hear him from the roof.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm...assessing."

they need some happy things damnit

[orgilotes]

It had been almost seven weeks in the house on Malta, and...they were beginning to come together. It was hard to shed the tough exterior even amongst themselves sometimes, but Andy had frankly put her foot down and said they were all eating pizza that night and staying in the same room. The purpose of even coming here together was defeated otherwise, and so after dinner where they'd all exchanged playful jabs and stories and laughter, they were settled sprawled on the chairs and sofa around whatever background noise the TV was turned to.

Andy peronally was laying shirtless, face-down on Joe's lap as he drew something on her back: she'd found a temporary sort of tattoo kit that stained the skin and was much, much less hassle to use than henna paste was. She'd let Joe choose the design, only telling him not to do anything stupid, and stretched out to give him her back as a canvas. He was an artist in every other way, she trusted him to do this to her, though given Nicky's interest in the proceedings and Booker giving them both thoughtful glances, she didn't see it taking long to spread to the rest of them.

[peace_inthe_violence]

After a day of kneading pizza dough and finding just the right toppings down in the little village an hour away from the house, Nicky was sprawled on the couch, looking very much like he was almost asleep. The only thing that gave him away was the content little smile that was on his lips and the way he'd drum his fingers over his pleasantly stuffed stomach every once in a while.

He'd made enough pizza for everyone to have what they wanted, but like the true Italian that he was, he'd taken his entire pizza and defended it with as many fork stabbings as it took for people to leave it alone. Never try to share a pizza with an Italian. That isn't how it works. Sitting down with a pizza was like sitting down with a challenge to finish said pizza. A journey, so to speak.

A challenge that Nicky had finished.

"You are lucky my husband is an honorable man, Boss. Otherwise, you'd end up with a strikingly detailed and beautifully lined phallus on your person."

[orgilotes]

Andy only made a noise somewhere between a snort of laughter and a sigh, mostly unmoving. She didn't want to move around too much and jostle the man actively staining a design into her skin.

"I'm lucky your husband remembers I can kill him seventeen different ways before breakfast if he does," she replied, only slightly muffled by the thigh on which her face rested, her discarded shirt balled up under to make a pillow.

[transfuge]

It was the middle of the afternoon on what felt like the hottest day of the summer. Booker was in the middle of the pool floating on his back naked as the day he was born. The water was cool and much better than even modern air conditioning.

Not that he had anything against modern air conditioning. Like modern plumbing it was a brilliant invention.

The water lapping at his skin while the sun beat down on him put Booker into a clear, peaceful mood. There wasn't a damn problem in the world right now. It was just him and the water and a nice afternoon in the sun.

Maybe in a little bit he'd actually swim and get some exercise. He didn't want to completely waste the day. Well, maybe he did. It'd be nice just to float the rest of the day away until it got too cold to be in the water.

Luckily, there were high fences around the pool so none of the neighbors would be scandalized by a middle aged man skinny dipping in the middle of the day.

[orgilotes]

The sight of Booker laying out naked in the pool almost got a laugh out of Andy, coming around the side of the water with the warm terracotta tiles under her bare feet; she hardly bothered with a swimsuit even though Joe had bought her one once. She crouched by the edge of the pool and flicked her hand through the water, splashing droplets over Booker's face before she slid in and under.

She had no faith Booker would let her surprise him, but playfighting was something they all did, and water made it no different.

[transfuge]

Booker didn't bother opening his eyes. He knew Andy's steps as well as his own. He did make a sound of protest when she splashed his face. Damn it, he was trying to relax.

Of course, he knew what he was in for when she joined him in the water. Booker twisted around and braced himself to get dragged under the water for a bit of wrestling.

Not that he was against that. Once Andy burned off the energy they could probably relax together.

[peace_inthe_violence]

There were fences, but they weren't for neighbors. They were purely for the option of shade and to act as something for the vines to climb. By now, one could barely see the original fence. The gate however was still visible, mostly because Nicky had cut back the vines that had overtaken it since he'd last been there.

It also squeaked, just oh so slightly, which may or may not alert the man in the pool that he was no longer alone.

Nicky didn't try to be quiet as he strolled over to one of the deck lounges, but centuries of practice made his step nearly silent on the stones that made up the deck area. He settled himself in the chair, kicking off his flip flops and peeling off his shirt to soak in some sun as he opened a book and started reading.

[transfuge]

Booker tilted his head back far enough to see who had entered the pool deck. He smiled a little when he saw Nicky. He smiled a little.

"What are you reading?" he asked as he floated gently towards the edge of the pool closer to Nicky.

Because if there was a book Booker wanted to know what it was. He folded his arms on the edge of the pool and rested his chin on his arms. Nothing wrong with admiring Nicky reading in the sun either.

Some Time Later...

[notariver]

What had started as a ploy to convince them she wasn't going to take off again (when in fact she was just waiting for an opening) had turned into a project she actually quite enjoyed.

The garden was back in full force, an entire horde of tomatoes of all kinds, while she'd pulled out most of the zucchini plants she had left one, along with the yellow crook-neck squash and the pattypan, ones that her brother had always referred to as 'UFO Squash', as well as some root vegetables -carrots and radishes- and some broad-leaf spinach. She'd also set a row of sentries, tall sunflowers, along the south edge so that they could follow the sun all day, and would give the birds something to eat besides seedlings.

That particular morning, one of the feral cats, a calico that she had taken to calling 'Buckshot' for its habit of trying to scramble away in every direction at once whenever it was spotted, had left her a present of a dead bird, probably a barn swallow, which she had almost immediately tossed into the compost bin.

But what she was really out there for that morning, while it was still cool, was to dust for mites and to check on the pumpkins, or what she was fairly sure were pumpkins, as they were a volunteer plant in one of the new beds. She'd brought music with her for the task, by way of an old-school boombox powered by about nine pounds of D batteries and the one cassette tape she'd been able to find on their last outing. She wasn't sure that the Greatest Stadium Rock Hits Of The 80s was going to be the best thing for the plants, but it couldn't hurt, either.

Re: Some Time Later...

[transfuge]

As a man who grew up in a port city he had no idea what to do with a garden. That he left for Nicky and apparently their newest one, Nile. It was just... the siren sound of Bruce Springsteen made him investigate what was going on in the garden early in the morning.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorway and cleared his throat to make sure he didn't startle her. She was still fairly jumpy around them, untrusting which he understood. They had basically kidnapped her.

"Were you alive when any of these songs were popular?" It was his tape. Booker had a deep appreciation of 70s and 80s music. Well, until it got too pop for him. He was very selective about modern music.

[peace_inthe_violence]

Nicky had woken up that morning slowly, bit by bit and with the help of a leisurely shower and a delightful cappuccino that he'd drank far too quickly to be healthy. It was a good morning, a promise of a beautiful day, and Nicky took a deep breath of the cool morning air as he stepped out of the house.

He wanted to cook. Not just put together a meal or a snack, but really cook. Work on something all day and then watch the look on his family's face as they ate it. Andy was in luck.

He was humming softly as he strolled towards the garden that Nile had made flourish, an empty basket hanging from the crook of his elbow. He wanted to sneak in and grab some tomatoes and some herbs before Nile was up and about. Not because he didn't want to see her, but because the last time he'd tried to have a conversation with her in the garden, it hadn't exactly gone well.

He wasn't avoiding her. He was giving her space. Even after they'd gone to collect her and Andy, he'd made sure that she was okay and whole and well and then he'd backed off and let her have her own space.

Hearing the music first, he slowed his gait, watching the girl with amusement in his eyes. He didn't approach her, though. Merely set his basket by the boombox that he'd completely forgotten that he owned and tucked his hands into his pockets as he turned around to head back to the house. He'd send Joe out to pick what he wanted later.

[orgilotes]

Anyone who said 'start small' when it came to things like potentially dangerous hobbies wasn't someone, frankly speaking, Andy was going to listen to. She was not a 'start small' kind of woman.

Hence her standing thoughtfully in front of the still-heating forge she and Booker had built out of heatproof bricks and perlite-mix concrete, waiting on the relatively skinny bar of metal currently turning orange to get to the right stage. She already had a few finished items done, mostly small things for the others, cooling or sitting on the table waiting for their recipients in linen wraps. She liked making things for people--there had been a few winters where sweaters had been very necessary--and this was no different. Just hotter.

[nicely_tousled]

It wasn't long before Joe emerged from the house, a glass in hand, making sure that he wasn't sneaking up on her while she worked, they all knew that would only end in tears, and not just metaphorical ones, either.

He handed the glass over with an explanation of: "Rosemary lemonade. Nile's been making herbal syrups so that the herbs don't just run rampant, figured you could use the hydration out here."

Even *MORE* later

[notariver]

It had been about three months since everything had gone down and everyone had come back more or less in one piece. Even before all of that, Nile had had occasional bouts of insomnia, generally she read or played stupid phone games until she fell asleep again or gave up on it and started her day far too early.

She was usually an early riser as it was, and here she could wander out to the garden for a while check up on things before it got too warm. But that morning she had something else in mind, it was something she'd been planning for a few weeks as it was, adding ingredients to grocery and supply lists a few at a time, and as she'd already been awake for nearly an hour, despite the fact that it was only yet just past three in the morning, she figured now was as good a time as any.

She knew how to make proper yeast beignets, but didn't like bothering with the yeast and the rise time if she didn't have to, so instead used the baking soda 'quick' beignet recipe that had been handed down alongside the traditional one.

Which was to say that by four am, still well before actual dawn, there was the unmistakable smell of fried dough wafting up from the kitchen, along with occasional, quiet snatches of song while Nile worked.

[orgilotes]

It took Andy a while to drag herself out of sleep to the smell of fried dough: it took even longer for her to wriggle herself out of bed from under the pile of the boys' bodies. Joe had reached out and snagged her underwear band and she'd proceeded to shimmy out of them before heading to the stairs. Following the smell--and pulling on pants she was half sure were Nicky's--meant she had to wake up a bit.

"Early for breakfast, isn't it?" she asked around a yawn, raking her fingers through her unkempt hair. "I'm not complaining, though."

Training Hard

[transfuge]

This time Booker was up early for a good reason. There was no alcohol. Just him and a cool morning air in the roughly made garage gym. Booker had both garage doors swung open to let in the cool morning air and the first early rays of sunlight.

He squared off against a heavy punching bag. This was his last set for the morning. Booker caught his breath, shook his shoulders, and then landed a fury of blows. Hard. Fast. Solid. The bag swung slightly on its hook. Booker did it ten more times until his arms ached and his shoulders burned.

Even though it was chilly a slight steam rose off him from the exertion. Booker felt good. Training was always a rush and he liked the physical exercise now that he wasn't drowning in his own mind.

Booker grabbed a towel and rubbed the sweat from his face. After a long drink of water he picked up his saber. It was a weapon he hadn't used in maybe seventy years. It was one of the first things he stopped using as depression set in. The old weapon was a painful reminder of his past and still felt heavy in his hand.

But he needed the practice.

[nicely_tousled]

"You want to just keep swinging at ghosts, or would you prefer something that'll fight back?" It was early yet, but the combination of bread-baking and gumbo that was already getting started in the kitchen was likely to be an all-day affair, which meant that he'd essentially been banished so that he wasn't underfoot.

He was also reasonably sure that Booker wasn't in one of his 'no company whatsoever' moods, and it had been a while since one of those had come up, and more than that, the actual sparring would probably do them both some good. To that point and purpose, and perhaps a little presumptuously, he'd brought a sword along, not the scimitar he used when they were actually on a job, but a newer, somewhat lighter one that worked well for practice.