peace_inthe_violence

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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."

She still hadn't fully accepted that this was just her life now, though she hadn't tried to leave in a few days, and hadn't actually tried to leave aside from the once, her first day there and that hadn't worked anywhere near as well as she'd wanted it to, though there had been more than one instance of just needing to go outside for a few minutes so she didn't lash out at anyone. Especially when any version of 'you know how bad this looks, right?' was simply met with agreement.

But the two most important things she'd learned from her mother were when to pick her battles, and when -and how- to make the most of a bad situation. Which was why: gardening. She just eyed him for a moment at that answer, as if weighing the truth of it, finally just nodding once and cocking her head towards the mass of overgrowth she was working her way through, "Same."

It had been a good week for them. Maybe she was finally starting to understand that they hadn't kidnapped her and drugged her.

Probably not, but Nicky could hope.

Eyeing the overgrown food forest, Nicky arched a brow and dipped his head in a small bow. "Your task is much more intensive than mine. If it helps at all, I can tell you how I had it laid out? There should be boards keeping things at least somewhat contained, but they may have rotted away by now."

She was at least mostly sure now that it wasn't drugs, if only because there was no way for them to continue administering them, since everyone ate the same food and she didn't have any track marks or even any suspicious bug bites.

Which meant that she could believe that all of them -and she herself- had some kind of Wolverine healing powers, the fact remained that they had kidnapped her and were keeping her here against her will, and the fact that they admitted as much didn't change anything.

But she could bide her time. She could be patient when she needed to be, and aside from making sure she didn't, or couldn't, leave, she wasn't being mistreated, which should have made her suspicious and she knew it, but it didn't.

"Few pieces still there." She replied, because there were, and even the places where the boards had rotted were still more or less in the same shape as they had been, making it easier to tell where the beds were, "Going to have to get new lumber to put them back together though." And then, as was her habit upon unexpectedly finding one of them when she thought she was alone, she asked: "This your way of reminding me you're all keeping an eye on me?"

Her question earned a confused look from the man, his head tilting a little as he rolled it around in his head. Then, understanding dawned, and he snorted softly enough that she might not even be able to hear it.

"Nile, I watch out for everyone." The answer seemed simple enough to him. He was the last through a door so that he could cover everyone else's backs. He was set up in a sniper's nest, following them through his scope and murmuring in their ears. Even here, in the place he felt the safest in, he had still chosen the site of the house at the top of the largest hill of the property, and had cleared the trees in a wide circle around so that no matter what, he'd be able to see if someone was coming for them.

Standing up, he glanced around the roof once more before just turning and stepping off the edge he'd been standing on. He could have rolled with the landing or even jumped while still crouched, but instead he just landed with a grunt and waited a few heartbeats for his ankle to mend itself before he was strolling over to where Nile was working.

"Want to come with me to get boards? Stretch your legs a little bit? Or do you want to finish pulling everything out first?"

Andy sighed softly at the question asked in return, and she didn't bother asking this time before she sank down on the arm of his chair. "More then I've ever told you," she answered gently, reaching with remarkably steady fingers to cup Booker's chin and turn him towards her. "Why didn't you tell us, Book?"

The sudden sharp shock of hearing him say he wanted to die shouldn't have been a stunning blow, but it was. And it sent a frisson offs frightful wonder up Andy's spine: how close had they come to a breakdown on his part? How had they not noticed? She held her hands out to him, welcoming and absolutive though she was hardly saint enough to properly give it. She could offer, would offer, anything she could give to any of them: they were family. The only tie she still had left to this never-ending world.

"We need you here. I need you here." Andy couldn't do this alone, couldn't keep wandering from fight to fight and war to war without the others to keep her steady and sane. If she could have let him rest and end this endless curse that kept them all alive, she would have. But she couldn't

“I didn’t want to be a burden.” They all carried so much and only had each other to help. Booker couldn’t put his death wish on them. It would only make things harder and none of them needed that.

He leaned his head forward and rested it on Andy’s thigh. God, he loved her. It was a fierce loyalty and strong friendship and deep understanding. And he still felt awful for putting his grief on her.

“And I can’t die. What’s the point of saying it when it won’t happen for another thousand or more years?” True, he might not get up next mission but Booker didn’t think Fate that kind to him. It hadn’t been kind his entire life. “Might as well just... march on.”

And let the others have their moments of happiness and peace. Let Joe and Nicky be in love. Let Andy lean on him when she couldn’t be strong. Support the others while he drowned in flask after flask of whiskey or vodka or whatever he could get.

"You're not," she said softly, but quickly--quickly enough that there could have been no hesitation in her vehemence. "You're not a burden to us, you never were, Booker."

She stroked her fingertips over his hair when he laid his head on her thigh, brushing the pad of her thumb over his ear gently. "None of us know when it will happen. But that doesn't mean you have to suffer like this," she murmured, watching him and feeling her heart ache over how far the rest of them had let this get. "I don't want you to think we don't care, Book. You're our family."

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.

Booker knew they cared. They were all they had in the world so of course they cared and they loved him. He didn't doubt that. Was he worth it? Probably not. Booker didn't feel worth the effort.

"I don't think you can stop my suffering either," he said as he turned his head to look up at her. "We're not helping. We're just throwing ourselves at endless conflicts. I... I'm a coward. I never wanted to fight especially endlessly. Especially when it does nothing."

If he was cursed with this immortality why throw himself at nothing. At pointless things? Booker couldn't wrap his mind around it. The whiskey might be helping with that. It was a little hard to think through the haze.

"But I don't want to send you to fight without me just because I'm a fucking coward."

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."

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.

Andromache let out a soft breath, shaking her head wordlessly but fondly. "You should let us try, Book. You're not a coward, not any more than Joe and Nicky are or I am. Not wanting to do this forever doesn't make you one."

She was how many dozens of times over his age, and Andy couldn't contemplate it sometimes. It was why they'd all come here to begin with. "Come on. Talk to me, Sebastien. Let us take care of you for once."

"Talk to you about what?" Booker didn't know how to put his grief into words that would make her understand. None of them had lost children. None of them had watched their child die while they had the power to save them if they could just figure out how to share it.

None of them chose to go back to their family and watch them die one by one. The memories haunted Booker. And then two hundred years of dreaming about Quynh on top of that it was a wonder he was still sane.

"The happiest I ever was... was being a father. No parent should outlive their child. I lost all three because I couldn't give this to them." It should have been his sons, not him, that had this. They would've done more. "I can't remember my wife's face clearly anymore. I can see Jean-Pierre but only while he's cursing me. My other sons are vague. It hurts."

She listened, still and serious. What he was saying was important, and Andy would listen without interruption: he was right. None of them knew what it was like to lose a child, but Nicky and Joe had lost enough being what they were and who they were to each other, and Andy had lost Quynh, and Lykon, both of them supposedly immortal the same as she. Neither of them she'd expected to part with, much less so permanently.

So she didn't answer immediately, bending down to press a soft kiss to Booker's head, taking a deep breath in and out, ruffling his hair the way her nose was pressed against it. "You're all we have, too." Andy could haul him out of the chair, and walk him upstairs, fingers twined with his as they made it to the bedroom Joe and Nicky occupied. The bed was big enough for the four of them if they were tight. And they would be.

"Nicky," she murmured, just enough to make sure they wouldn't get summarily stabbed for tumbling into bed without warning. "It's us. Scoot over."

"Excuse me." Joe replied, lifting his hand away from his work so as not to blur any of the lines with too much pressure, "She deserves better than that." There was no heat in the exclamation, and with Andy's arm pressed against his belly she could quite probably feel the flickering tension that came with holding back a laugh, "This is Andy we're talking about, she deserves a whole flock of them, winged ones, flying in formation," Which was when that laugh finally broke through, shaking his head even as he continued, "and yes, of course beautifully rendered."

The laugh bubbled free for a moment before receding again, though the smile remained, setting back to work with a warm: "I promise it isn't. I like keeping my hands intact and not dying before breakfast."

It was a flock of ravens, or crows, four standing together, one standing further off and one circling overhead. It was something he'd been meaning to sketch out for a while and hadn't yet sat down to do so, and with the pigment already being black -and figuring that Andy would be the one to take it as it was intended- he'd figured now was as good a time as any.

He was reluctant to get up and go with her but it was almost instinctive to follow her. Where she went, they followed. That was how it was for decades for him. Drunk as he was Booker barely swayed on the journey.

At first, he wasn't sure where she was taking him. Somewhere private to talk? That didn't make sense because they were the only ones up. Everywhere in the house was private.

The others made sense, Booker supposed, since this was too much for her to take on. Fuck, he was a burden anyway. Joe and Nicky were sleeping. He shouldn't bother them with this. They had their happiness. He shouldn't taint that.

"Go back to sleep..."

"You gonna tell me what you're drawing back there?" she asked, turning her head just enough to speak without it being distorted, not enough to take away the feel of her arm laid against Joe's stomach.

"It better not be flying dicks, either."

Three in the morning was a turbulent time for any of them. It was a toss up as to who was awake and who was asleep, and on this particular night Nicky had managed to win the exhaustion lottery. It helped that they'd been here for a bit, the memories of what had driven them there to begin with starting to dull around the edges. Joe's arms around him, his breath against his shoulder, and Nicky was dead to the world.

Until the bedroom door opened. He was sitting up and snatching the gun from his bedside table without really focusing, but it never really managed to get aimed before Andy's voice cut through his sleep haze.

"Andy? Booker?" He was confused, but he had absolutely no second thoughts about dropping the gun back on the night stand and shifting to give the other two room on the bed. He knew without having to think about it just the right places to put his fingers to urge his husband to move over without disturbing him too much. "Vieni ora, spostati..."

On the couch, Nicky snorted out a laugh, his grin wide and open for the first time in a long while. He was relaxed and pliant, not really paying any attention to the tv in favor of watching his husband's skilled hands on Andy's back.

"Well, they could be flying dicks, depending on the century."

Malta

no subject

no subject

no subject

002

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

they need some happy things damnit

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject