Chapter Text
The boat rocked gently beneath their feet as it slid into port, diesel engines coughing to a stop. Joe stood at the railing, his fingers curled tightly around rust-worn steel that bit coldly against his palms, gaze fixed on the shore. The sea stretched behind them, impossibly blue under the afternoon sun. It was beautiful, but he just could not enjoy the sights, not now, not with that quiet dread curling in his gut, warning him that something was wrong.
He hadn't heard from Booker in three weeks.
That wasn't unusual—not technically. Booker had always been an expert at vanishing into his own ghosts, disappearing into bottles and silence until the world felt manageable again. But something about this silence gnawed deeper. Too sharp. Too long. The last message had been barely two words: Still here. No emoji, no follow-up, no response to Joe's careful check-ins since. Joe could feel it in his ribs, in the pit of his gut where intuition lived. Something wasn't right. And the only window to check on him was now, in this sliver of time between safehouses and regroupings, when they could scatter like dandelion seeds on the wind.
It had been six months since the lab. Six months since Merrick's sterile white rooms and the taste of his own blood. Six months since they'd feared being separated, left to be tortured over and over again. They hadn't been alone since. Not once. Every safe house had been crowded with recovery—Andy’s mortality hanging over them like a sword, Copley’s guilt ever-present but softened by how seamlessly he’d slotted into their team, and Nile—young, clever, a breath of fresh air—eager to learn and already so good at what she did. But even with the joy of training missions and the spark of new energy, Joe still felt the absence of quiet. Just him and Nicky. A quiet morning.
The ache for Nicky—for just them, for the soft, wordless moments that healed all wounds—had turned bone-deep.
Joe dreamed of mornings in their bed in Malta, of Nicky's sleep-rough voice and coffee that tasted like coming home. The linen would still carry the faint scent of sea air and lemon, like a memory that hadn’t quite faded. Joe would press his face into the crook of Nicky’s neck, listening to the distant bells from the harbor as they curled around each other like ivy. A touch that asked nothing but to stay. That memory made the present silence feel colder—like something vital had gone missing from his bones.
But worse than the ache was the lie.
Nicky hadn't asked him anything directly. He hadn't needed to. Joe could feel it in the quiet glances, in the way Nicky's brow furrowed when Joe's phone buzzed. In the way Nicky's fingers lingered just a second too long when brushing against his, like he was trying to read the secrets Joe carried in his skin. They knew each other too well. After nine hundred years, lies had no shelter between them. Even white ones. Even necessary ones.
So Joe hadn't lied to him in years - there had never been a need to. But he was about to.
They disembarked slowly, each of them stepping onto the stone dock taking in the sights. The sea air carried salt and diesel fumes, the cry of gulls overhead mixing with the rumble of cars along the waterfront. Joe kept his eyes down, watching the scuffed toe of his boot as it hit weathered stone. He didn't look at Nicky.
Couldn't .
Because if he did, it would all unravel. He'd confess everything. That he was terrified—not of death, never of death, but of losing Nicky. That he couldn't stop seeing him dead, body broken and lifeless on that lab table, lying in a halo of blood and brain matter on the cold concrete floor. Even now, months later, he still woke up some nights with the image carved behind his eyelids, tightening his grip around Nicky’s waist, grounding himself in the rise and fall of Nicky's breath—just to make sure he was still there. Warm. Breathing. Alive.
That he wasn't leaving because he didn't want to be with Nicky. He was leaving because he couldn’t risk losing him again—not to a bullet, not to anything. And Booker—reckless, suicidal, guilt-ridden Booker—was exactly the kind of trouble that got people killed or taken again. He couldn’t risk it. And Nicky—Nicky was still healing from what Merrick had done to them, still sometimes waking with nightmares of white walls and steel tables.
He knew Nicky was still dealing with the hurt, still dealing with the pain and memories and he didn’t want to force Nicky into facing Booker so soon, and a part of him, the real part of keeping this, deep down he still had trust issues with Booker and he just had this overwhelming feeling of needing to protect Nicky to keep him
safe
, to keep him away from Booker - not because Nicky was weak, because Joe was. He was so afraid Nicky would be taken again, and he just needed to keep Nicky away, just for now. He just needed to check on Booker then he could leave and join Nicky.
"The weather's perfect," Andy was saying to Copley, shouldering her duffel bag. "It finally feels like summer."
Nicky stepped beside him, tilting his head slightly toward the sun, Joe’s favourite sunglasses perched on his nose. A small thing—borrowed once during a mission in Morocco, then stolen permanently because Joe loved the way they looked on him. And Nicky? He loved the way Joe looked at him when he wore them—that slow smile spreading across his face like a sunrise.
"So," Nicky asked gently, like it was just another day, just another holiday to plan together, "do you have any idea where we can go?"
There was hope in his voice. Excitement, barely contained. Joe knew exactly where Nicky was thinking—Malta, their little house overlooking the harbor, the lemon tree in the courtyard that Nicky tended like it was made of gold. He'd probably already mentally planned their first meal, what wine they'd open, which books they'd read on the terrace.
Joe's mouth went dry.
He couldn't see Nicky's eyes behind the dark lenses, but he could feel them. The sincerity. The love. The trust.
"I was thinking…" Joe's voice caught then steadied with forced casualness. "Some time alone."
The words tasted like rust and betrayal.
He saw it—felt it—the way Nicky's whole body shifted. The subtle drop of his shoulders. The way his head tilted slightly, like he'd misheard. The pause before his lips parted in a surprised little "Huh?" that barely qualified as a word.
The sunglasses hid the flash of hurt, but Joe knew it was there. He'd put it there.
"Just a few days to myself," he added, fumbling now, hating how the words sounded. Hollow. Wrong.
He hated himself.
Nicky nodded slowly, processing. "Okay," he said, but it was soft. Careful. Like something brittle held between his teeth, afraid to bite down too hard.
Around them, the world kept moving. Tourists with oversized cameras, dock workers hauling rope, the distant sound of a street musician's accordion. None of it mattered. All that existed was the space between them, the growing chasm Joe had just torn open.
Andy passed behind him, squeezed the back of his neck in that rough, affectionate way she had. "Try and have some fun without me, boys."
Joe managed a smile—muscle memory, nothing more.
It vanished the moment Nicky said quietly, "Bye, Boss."
What would have been a happy farewell now sounded resigned. Distant.
Joe couldn't speak. His throat had closed completely. He couldn't break now, not in front of everyone, not when he was barely holding it together.
So he stepped forward, nudged Nicky's shoulder gently with his own— but it didn't feel like enough. It felt like a lie wrapped in familiar packaging.
"Ti amo," Nicky murmured behind him, soft enough that only Joe could hear.
Joe flinched like he'd been struck. The words followed him as he walked away, the sun bright and meaningless above, his hand curled into a fist around the backpack’s strap. Every step was a betrayal. Behind him, he could hear Nile asking Nicky something, Andy's gruff voice giving directions to Copley. Normal sounds growing distant.
He reached the taxi stand and didn't look back. Couldn't. If he saw Nicky still standing there, still wearing Joe's sunglasses, still probably confused and hurt, he'd run back. He'd confess everything and beg forgiveness and they'd go to Malta together.
But Booker still hasn’t messaged, and he couldn’t rest until he found out what was happening.
The cab pulled away, and scenery slipped by in colors Joe couldn't name. All he could think about was lemon trees and sea air and Nicky beside him, hand warm against his thigh. If this went well—if Booker was just drunk and ignoring his phone like usual—in three days they'd be there. Joe would explain everything, and Nicky would forgive him because Nicky always did, and they'd have their time together.
He just had to make it through this first.
Two hours later, Joe stared out the train window. The journey to Paris was a marathon of connections and delays. The landscape changed outside his windows—Italian countryside giving way to Swiss peaks, then French farmland rolling past in shades of green and gold. Joe watched it all with unseeing eyes, his reflection a constant ghost in the glass. He looked like a man carrying secrets, and he supposed he was.
By the time they reached Gare de Lyon, the sun was setting, painting Paris in shades of amber and rose. Joe shouldered his bag and walked out into the familiar chaos of the station—announcements echoing in three languages, the smell of coffee and pastries, tourists consulting maps with the particular desperation of the lost.
He stopped at a market just outside the station, muscle memory guiding him through the narrow aisles. Fresh lemons, heavy and bright. Rosemary that smelled like summers in Sicily. A bottle of olive oil with a hand-drawn label. Bread still warm from the oven. Things that grounded him. Things that reminded him of the nights he and Nicky cooked together, music playing low, laughter spilling into wine glasses and onto each other's lips.
He needed something familiar.
He needed to feel like he was doing this for them.
The walk to Booker's apartment took him through the winding streets, past cafés with outdoor seating and bookshops with windows full of poetry. It should have been beautiful—Paris always was, especially at this hour when the streetlights began to flicker on and the city settled into its evening rhythm. But each step pulled tighter at the unease in his chest.
The neighborhood felt… off. Quieter than it should have been for a Friday night. Shadows stretching too long between the street lamps. Windows dark that should have been glowing with dinner preparations.
Joe tightened his grip on the plastic bag of groceries and climbed the narrow stairs to Booker's building. The old wood creaked under his feet, a sound that usually felt like home—he'd made this climb dozens of times over the past few decades, bringing food or books or just his presence when Booker needed reminding that he wasn't alone in the world.
That was when he saw the door.
Booker's door. The one with the small dent near the handle where Booker had drunkenly tried to kick it open three years ago. Splintered at the frame. Hanging half-open. Smeared with blood.
The plastic bag slipped from Joe's suddenly nerveless fingers. Lemons rolled across the narrow hallway, bright yellow against dark wood. The bottle of olive oil hit the floor but didn't break, rolling until it came to rest against the baseboard with a hollow thunk.
The hallway reeked of iron and fear and something else—something sharp and chemical that made Joe's nostrils burn. His training kicked in, senses sharpening to combat focus. He reached for the gun tucked against the small of his back, fingers finding the familiar weight of it.
He pushed the door open slowly with his foot, weapon raised. Didn't call out—didn't need to. The silence was complete, heavy as a shroud.
He knew it was empty.
Booker's careful minimalism shattered into chaos. The small dining table overturned, one leg snapped completely off. Books scattered everywhere, pages torn and trampled. A chair lay broken near the window, stuffing spilling from slashed cushions like exposed organs. The Persian rug Booker had bought at a market in Istanbul—the one he'd been ridiculously proud of—was soaked with blood, the intricate pattern obliterated by dark stains.
But it was the walls that made Joe's breath catch. Blood spattered in wild arcs across the white paint, some of it high enough to suggest someone had been thrown. Hard. The kind of violence that spoke of rage, of personal vendetta.
Joe moved through the apartment methodically, checking corners, clearing rooms. The bedroom was untouched except for signs of a struggle near the doorway—more blood, a lamp knocked over, the mirror above Booker's dresser spider-webbed with cracks. The bathroom was clean. The kitchen—
And then—
On the floor near the overturned table.
A pair of sunglasses.
Joe's sunglasses. The sunglasses Nicky had been wearing just over twenty-four hours ago.
One arm cracked. Blood stained lenses.
Joe dropped to his knees so hard the impact sent shockwaves up his spine. His weapon clattered forgotten across the wooden floor.
He reached for them with trembling fingers, lifting them gently as if they might fall apart completely in his hands. He turned the frame, squinting at the inside of the band where Nicky always—
There. Faint, but still there. Scratched into the black plastic: a tiny heart.
His joke. " Now it belongs to both of us. " he'd said when he'd done it, the soft smile, eyes bright.
Joe choked on a sound that wasn't a scream but wasn't anything human either. It tore out of his chest like something with claws, raw and broken.
Nicky had been here. Nicky had followed him, probably worried sick, probably knowing Joe was lying and unable to let him face whatever danger he'd sensed alone. And now—
Booker was gone.
*Nicky* was gone.
Joe was alone in a blood-soaked apartment in Paris, holding the shattered remains of sunglasses that had been on his love's face. He remembered a sunlit morning on the Amalfi coast, Nicky laughing as he leaned over the side of their tiny rental boat, those same sunglasses tilted crooked after he leaned too far, and Joe had reached out instinctively to straighten them —his fingers brushing Nicky’s jaw, earning a smile that felt warmer than the Mediterranean sun. The air had smelled like salt and lemons and the faint sandalwood of Nicky’s aftershave. That memory had felt eternal. Now, the same glasses were slick with blood, cracked, ruined—like everything else Joe had tried to protect.
He clutched them to his chest and finally, finally let himself break.
“No, no… please no,” he whispered over and over again, the words tumbling out with the breathless panic of someone falling through darkness. The air tasted like dust and blood, and for a moment, the scent snapped him back to the lab, to Nicky's body on that table, unmoving. Only this time, he couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t scream loud enough to wake him. This was his nightmare, the very nightmare he was trying to avoid, and now, because of his lie, it was happening.
Nicky was gone, and his mind couldn’t help but run through the last moments with Nicky, the hurt, the confusion, Nicky’s soft "Ti amo," now echoing in his head. Why didn’t he say it back? Why didn’t he kiss him with all the love and desperation like he normally always felt, why didn’t he just be honest. The fear and overwhelming guilt crashed and he broke.
The sound of his sobbing echoed off the walls, mixing with the distant noise of traffic and life continuing outside, oblivious to the fact that Joe's world had just ended for the second time in six months.
But this time, he wasn’t going to wait for a miracle.
This time, he wouldn’t pray, or hope, or plead.
This time, he would burn the world to ash if that’s what it took to find Nicky.
Because this time—this time—it was his fault. And he would make damn sure someone paid for it.