Chapter Text
Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I
Do equally desire your company;
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast.
Ben Jonson
They find themselves in Italy in the spring, in a safe house in Rome: a small apartment tucked away in Trastevere with defensible windows, thick walls, and a couple of bedrooms.
It’s mostly Nile and Joe and Nicky. Andy stays with them for week as a shallow stab wound from a previous mission heals before she disappears, seeking space in mortality. They’re still careful not to discuss Booker, two years into his exile.
Nile spends her time exploring Rome, falling in love with the city a neighborhood at a time, sometimes with Joe and Nicky, and sometimes on her own. They’re planning to lay low for a few months, and she pulls the city over her shoulders and into her heart like a new jacket, and she buys herself one of those, too, an expensive leather one, thanks to the intricate tangle of bank accounts they've given her access to.
She spends a series of afternoons wandering reverently through the Villa Borghese, breaks a man’s fingers on the Spanish Steps for trying to pick a tourist’s pocket, and flings a euro over her shoulder into the Trevi Fountain when Joe hands her a coin with a knowing grin.
Nicky buys them tickets to visit the Vatican when she asks, and they dress to impress: he puts on a suit she didn’t know he owned, which is tight across his shoulders and his ass and makes Joe walk straight into a door frame. When Nicky kisses him goodbye, petting at the fading red mark on his forehead, Nile has to wrench him out of the apartment as Joe threatens to drag him back into their bedroom.
They move quietly through the rooms in the Vatican, turning their heads to avoid being captured on the security cameras, and when they reach the Sistine Chapel Nicky stands firm and tall, and lets her lean against him as she tips her head back to stare at the ceiling.
“Joe hated Michelangelo,” Nicky says conversationally, as they walk back into the crowded city, subdued by the splendor. The painted ceilings and opulence had made Nile feel small, instead of reverent, and it’s the most perfect thing he could have said.
“Jesus fuck,” she says with feeling, and he laughs, wide and bright at her shoulder. “Sometimes I forget how old you guys are.”
She loses Nicky to Joe when they make it back to their apartment, and she changes into more comfortable clothes and slips back into the city, leaving them to themselves.
She’s settling into this immortality thing on her own terms, learning where she fits into her new family, and riding the sting of losing her old family as it comes in waves. Some days are more difficult than others, but she’s in Italy in the springtime, and Rome is beautiful.
She takes up running, discovering the city through long loops across the Seven Hills, as Frank Ocean croons in her earbuds. She runs across traffic, fearless and lithe, shouts at mopeds in 14th century Italian she’s picked up from Nicky as they swerve into her path, and she breathes and settles into living without end.
+
In mid-April, as the trees outside start to bud and bloom, she runs into Joe and Nicky in the kitchen just before sunrise.
Joe is sitting cross-legged on the counter, his hair wild and his eyes half-closed, eating a large bowl of oatmeal with one eye on the clock, and the other on Nicky, who is singing something in what sounds like Latin as he pulls things from the pantry. She cracks eggs into a pan, yawning.
Joe ducks out of the kitchen before Nile is done scrambling her eggs to pray Fajr, placing a lingering kiss on Nicky’s mouth, and a swift one on Nile’s forehead as he goes, and when Nile’s food is done she takes a plate to the table and watches Nicky work.
He’s grinding fresh spices in a small mortar and pestle – coriander and cloves and cardamom – and gives her a gentle grin when she sniffs curiously at the air, and tips a tiny pile of ground spice on her plate to try. She licks her finger to taste it, laughing at the way the sharpness makes her sneeze.
She rinses her plate and sets a fresh pot of coffee to brew while Nicky minces garlic and slices chilis and chiffonades handfuls of mint and cilantro. When she offers to help he hands her onions and tomatoes and a knife, and he mixes the small mounds of ground spices with his minced garlic and herbs, her diced onions and tomatoes, and a large pot of yoghurt, then pulls a rack of lamb wrapped in butcher’s paper from the fridge and slathers it with the marinade.
“Biryani,” he tells Nile, when she brings him a cup of fresh coffee and a question. “For iftar.” He blows on the coffee and smiles. “It’s Joe’s favorite. We had it in Hyderabad, in….” He pauses, and looks at the ceiling, then bites his lip, and shrugs. “A long time ago.”
“I’ve never had biryani,” she tells him. “But I like Indian food.”
“It’ll be ready at sundown,” he tells her. “I think you’ll like it.” He covers the bowl full of marinated lamb with a towel, and Nile stands up to help him clean the dishes and the kitchen with military precision, scrubbing at a spot on the stove until it shines.
+
As the sun rises in the sky, Joe takes everyone’s weapons and lays them out on the rug in front of the TV, and sets himself up with a whetstone to sharpen everything by hand.
“By hand?” Nile asks, aghast, when she finds him. “Joe. There are machines that do that, I’m pretty sure.”
“They don’t work as well,” he tells her calmly. “Will you get me the bayonet from the umbrella stand? And the knife Andy gave you, if you want it sharpened.” He runs the whetstone down the edge of Nicky’s longsword with a flourish, and Nile fetches him the rifle with the bayonet attached with a sigh, nearly stepping on Nicky when she returns to the living room.
He’s squatting beside Joe, unloading a selection of weapons: another sword, what’s she’s pretty sure is a katana, three filigreed daggers and two heavy chef’s knives that he was using earlier that morning. Nile adds the bayonet to the pile of weaponry in front of Joe, and stands.
“Nile,” Nicky says, adding a final sword to the pile, a slim rapier with a shining hilt that looks like it’s inlaid with real gems. “I’m going to the market, do you want to come?”
“I hate this sword,” Joe says, picking up the rapier. “And the prince who gave it to you.”
“It’s a good sword,” Nicky says mildly. “Market, Nile?”
Nile hides her grin at Joe’s outraged muttering. “I’ll get my wallet.”
+
“Is it a good idea to leave your boyfriend with a large pile of weapons and a football game?” Nile asks as they walk down the stairs to street level.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nicky says, and then: “I expect we’ll see when we get back.” He holds the door for her, and she rolls her eyes to make him laugh, and ducks through it.
+
Their safehouse has a courtyard and an orange tree, and there’s a cafe around the corner with handsome baristas and the best cornetti Nile has ever eaten.
Today, they stop at the café for sandwiches and espresso, which Nile is developing a taste for, and they sip and eat quietly until Nicky taps his foot against hers and murmurs: “That barista is looking at you,” and Nile nearly spills her coffee all over her new jacket.
“Shut up, he is not,” she hisses, angling her body so she can glance over his shoulders. “Which one?”
“The handsome one,” Nicky says, handing her a small pile of napkins.
“They’re both handsome,” Nile whispers, taking another furtive glance. “Be more specific.”
“The one with brown hair,” he says, turning to look while she tries to hide behind her sandwich. “Behind the till.”
“Don’t look at him, come on,” Nile says, kicking him in the shin beneath the counter they’re standing at. “A good wingman is subtle, okay?”
Nicky hides his wide smile behind his tiny espresso cup, his eyes dancing with mirth over the ceramic rim. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll be a good wingman.”
The barista with the brown hair comes over to take their empty cups and saucers, and he’s even more handsome in person, with dark skin and loose curls. Nicky trails him to the till, fishing euro coins out of his pockets to pay for their coffee and sandwiches, murmuring in rapid-fire Italian that Nile is sure is going to lead to an embarrassing situation. But he just comes back with a receipt and follows her out of the cafe, letting her walk half a block before turning the receipt over and handing it to her, grinning when she stops in her tracks and stares at the hastily scrawled phone number scribbled on the flimsy paper.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Nicky, what did you tell him?”
“I was subtle,” he promises, taking her arm, “Come on, we’re going across the river.”
He leads her across the Ponte Garibaldi to a bustling market, and she trails him closely in the crowd, smiling helplessly as he fights cheerfully with each vendor over the price of everything he picks up – spinach, onions, a brown paper bag full of dates, cardamom pods and cinnamon sticks.
He fills two canvas bags with fresh produce for the week ahead and insists on carrying both, and when they walk past a church on their way back to the safe house: Nile notices Nicky notice it, his spine straightening a little, his shoulders tensing. She nudges him in the side, gently at first and then harder, finally digging her elbow into his ribs until he twists away, towards the church, biting down on his smile.
“Grazie,” he murmurs, and she follows him through the heavy, wooden door, letting a breath out slowly through her nose as they step into the silent darkness of the nave. It’s a modest space, but the ceiling is painted with cracked blue paint that seems to glow, and the pews are solidly built, dotted with small velvet cushions.
Nile dips her finger into a shallow marble bowl of holy water and crosses herself, then tucks a euro into the offering box, picking up a tea candle, and feels momentarily guilty when Nicky pulls a fifty euro note from his pocket and stuffs it in after her offering. He takes a candle too, and lights it solemnly, bowing his head over it for a long time, his lips moving soundlessly.
He crosses himself after he places the candle, and sits down in a pew near the back, folding his hands together. Nile closes her fist over the cross she still wears, bringing it to her lips as she prays for her dad and her mom and her brother, squeezes her eyes tight and imagines them safe and happy, and then wanders around the edges of the nave, peeking at the gold-painted altar, and the wooden statues of saints tucked into alcoves that line the walls.
Nicky finds her by a statue of the Virgin Mary, studying the tiny, mother of pearl tears on her cheeks. He loops his arm through hers and they step back into the sunshine, squinting.
“Who do you pray for?” She asks as they dodge around tourists on their way home.
“You,” he says, hip-checking her gently. “And Andy. Quynh. Joe. The families we have all left behind.” He sucks his teeth and looks away. “Booker.”
“Really?” She asks.
“He is our family,” he says simply. “I have always prayed that my family remains safe.”
She nods, and wraps her arms around herself, frowning at the street ahead.
“Why do you pray for?” He asks her gently, and she sighs.
“My family, too. I pray for them to be safe and happy. To.” She takes a breath. “To forget me.”
He tightens his hand on her arm, squeezing tightly for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, and she appreciates him for that, and for the way he matches her stride for stride as she stomps down the street, maneuvering deftly around a group of students that spill boisterously into the street, silent and steady at her side.
“What if I call that barista and he doesn’t speak English?” She asks, when she’s mostly sure her voice won’t crack when she speaks.
“Hmm? Ah.” He shrugs. “I’ll translate for you.”
“Oh god,” she says. “No.”
“Joe will translate for you,” he offers, his eyes twinkling.
“No,” she says firmly. “That would be worse.”
“He can be very romantic in Italian,” Nicky says, and laughs when she grimaces.
“Too much information,” she says, flapping a hand at him. “Please stop talking.”
+
They carry their purchases up the stairs and put them away quietly: in the living room, the weapons are sharpened and polished, and Joe is asleep on the couch with a book splayed open on his chest. Nicky watches him with the smile he reserves for Joe, the one that lurks at the corners of his mouth, and lifts his feet to make room on the couch to sit, plucking the book from his chest and opening it to where Joe left off. Joe rouses sleepily, and Nicky quiets him with a hand on his ankle and a word in Italian, and Nile goes into her own room to listen to music until the heavy, lonely feeling in her heart lightens.
+
Nicky knocks quietly on the door a few hours before sundown, and sticks his head into her bedroom. “I could use a hand with the biryani,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Nile says, rolling to her feet. She grabs her phone from the bedside table and unplugs her headphones. “I call dibs on music selection.”
They work side by side in the kitchen as the rest of the biryani comes together, and Nile finds a playlist of Motown classics that makes Nicky smile. She slices onions and he browns them patiently, then cooks the meat in even more spices until the air in their apartment is thick with a savory, spicy smell.
Nile washes the rice, then adds milk and crumbles fine threads of saffron into it, stirring carefully under Nicky’s watchful eye.
He builds the biryani in a heavy, cast iron pot: layering rice and meat and onions, rice and meat and onions, then pats of butter. When it’s in the oven, they wash the dishes side by side, bumping elbows as Nile shimmies along with The Supremes.
Joe is in the living room when the kitchen is clean again, perched on a windowsill, watching the sun set slowly, drenching the room in a perfect orange light that mellows and fades gently.
The smells in the apartment deepen and sweeten, and when Nile’s stomach starts grumbling, as the last of the light fades out of the sky, she finds Nicky in the kitchen arranging a small handful of dates in a porcelain saucer.
She leans in when he pulls the biryani from the oven, tipping up the lid to peek at it, and inhaling deeply at the smell.
She helps him set the table as the biryani rests, and when the last edge of the sun sinks below the horizon he fills a large glass with cold water, and puts more water on to boil. Nile goes to fetch the candlesticks from the living room to spruce up the table, and when she gets back, Joe is in the kitchen, looking at Nicky like he hung the moon.
He’s drinking the glass of water slowly, and his curls are neatly oiled, and his feet are bare beneath a crisp kurta, and nudged against Nicky’s socked feet. The kettle whistles on the stove behind them, and Nile turns off the burner, watching Joe and Nicky out of the corner of her eye.
When Joe finishes his water, Nicky picks up a date from the saucer and feeds it to him gently, before handing him the whole plate and turning back to the stove.
He takes the kettle off the heat, and makes a small pot of thick, fragrant coffee with fluid, practiced motions, handing Nile three small, ceramic cups to add to the table after ladling coffee and sugar into each.
Joe takes a deep sip of coffee, then presses a kiss to Nicky’s cheek, ducking out of the kitchen into the bedroom he shares with Nicky to pray Maghrib. His low, sweet voice echoes through the small safe house and Nile washes his saucer quickly, then leans against the counter, watching Nicky adjust the silverware on the table, mouthing along with the prayer Joe is singing.
“It’s biryani, right?” Joe asks, when he steps back into the kitchen. He reaches for the lid of the pot and laughs when Nicky shoos him to the table. “Lamb biryani?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” Nicky says, and Nile follows Joe to the table, both watching as Nicky carries the pot to the table and takes off the lid, leaning over it with a frown.
Joe, predictably, puts a fond hand on Nicky’s waist, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. “I think I did it well this time,” Nicky says, picking up a spoon and prodding dubiously at the onions.
“Let me taste it, habibi,” Joe says. “Come on, it smells so good.”
“Maybe I should have marinated the lamb overnight,” Nicky says.
“If you don’t serve us some right now, I’m going to stab you with my spoon,” Joe says cheerfully. “Nile will hold you down, and we’ll eat it all ourselves.”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Nile says, tipping her chair onto its back legs with a grin.
“The spice might not be right,” Nicky warns them, and Joe scoffs, tugging the serving spoon from Nicky’s hand and standing to serve them all generous portions.
“Sit down,” he tells Nicky when their plates have been filled, picking up his fork and using the tines to shred the lamb meat. “It’s perfect, look how tender it is. Sit down. Here, next to me.”
Nicky sighs and sits, pressing his shoulder to Joe’s as he takes one bite, and then another and another.
“Habibi, it’s perfect,” Joe tells him softly. “You did it perfectly.”
“I hate that I’m going to be the third wheel for eternity,” Nile says, rolling her eyes at them. She picks up her fork to take a bite. “Oh, holy shit, Nicky.”
“You see?” Joe says. “Nicky. It’s perfect.”
“It’s fine,” Nicky says, biting down on a smile.
“What did you two do today when you went to the market?” Joe asks, leaning over his plate, and further into Nicky’s space.
“Nicky fought everyone in sight,” Nile says promptly, and Nicky laughs. “He was ready to fistfight this little old lady selling onions.”
“I haggled with her,” Nicky corrects her. “For a fair price. Five euro for a bag of onions is too much.”
Joe laughs, and Nile joins in, shaking her head.
“Nile, did you text your handsome barista?” Nicky asks, his eyebrows raised, and his eyes full of mischief.
“You met a handsome barista?” Joe asks with his mouth full, one cheek full of biryani, and his eyes dancing. “Was he as handsome as Nicky?”
“No one’s as handsome as Nicky,” Nile says dutifully with an eye roll, and Joe nods, tipping his fork in her direction in a salute.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Nicky tells Joe. “We have to romance him for Nile.”
“That is one hundred percent not happening,” Nile says. “And we don’t know if he doesn’t speak English.”
“I can be very romantic in Italian,” Joe says, and she groans. “What does he look like?”
Nile pushes her plate at the two of them. “Give me some more biryani and I’ll tell you.”