Archive of Our Own

Hush in the dark

1986

Silence.

Silence , Nicky thinks as rough hands grab him and the hard barrel of a gun presses against his temple, unyielding and rough, is strange .

Silence is multifaceted.

When he sits silently next to Yusuf - or now Joe - watching the sunrise, silence feels like a light blanket, accentuating the peaceful atmosphere.

Silence is comfortable.

In Joe's arms just before falling asleep, they don't need words to communicate and Nicky likes to feel so safe and warm and secure because he can hear so much more without making noise: Joe's deep, steady breaths that show Nicky he's already asleep, Joe's soothing heartbeats that form a rhythm having deeply shaped Nicky's soul, Andy's and Booker's muffled voices in another room that tell Nicky his family is safe and here despite the shadows of the past.

Silence, then, means familiarity and safety.

Silence is comforting and soothing.

But there is also the kind of silence that saturates the air with the electrifying tang of menace, or crushes Nicky with its weight and makes it hard for him to breathe. He likes this silence less.

This silence is enforced.

When he can't tell Joe that he feels uncomfortable, or that he thinks a flower is pretty, or that he loves him because they can't reveal their whereabouts, or are being silenced or imprisoned by someone. Like now.

Nicky prefers to choose when and why to remain silent. Behind his sniper rifle, the silence helps him to ground himself, focus on his task and block out everything else. When he and Joe have sex, nothing but the sweetest of sounds, the warmth in his body and the love in his heart weave a cocoon of intimacy and closeness around them that belongs only to the two of them. All alone.

Silence means loving Joe irrevocably and deeply without saying a word.

What the men who forcibly drag Nicky out of the cell without heeding to Joe's protest noises do not understand, however, is that Nicky can be silent.

When they make him kneel in front of the cell, he looks at Joe, registering the concern in his dark eyes, the fear on his face, and the anger at not being able to do anything in his posture.

But Nicky is glad they took him and not one of the others, because while he is able to endure his pain, he cannot bear that of his family. He wants them to be fine .

What Nicky isn't happy about is how much it bothers Joe that Nicky was taken out of the cell by the drug dealers, because they all know what that means.

He tries to convey with a look to Joe that everything is going to be okay, because - regardless of what happens in the next few minutes, hours, hopefully it won't be days, he wants to bake bread - it is always like that. After all, they have time .

In response to his silent message, Joe's hands clasp the bars as if to bend the iron apart, and he leans his forehead against the metal in resignation without breaking their eye contact. I love you , Nicky reads in his gaze and he wants to give it back, but is forced with a sharp tug in his hair to look at a newcomer who positions himself in front of him.

"I take it you know who I am," the man begins to speak and Nicky doesn't bother to nod. Cameron Martinez, 39 years old, drug lord who has already blackmailed, threatened and killed countless people. "Unfortunately we have a tiny problem, because I don't know who you are." He walks up and down in front of Nicky, looking at Joe, Andy and Booker in the cell like circus attractions, then turns away from them again. "All I know is that you and your asshole fellows tried to ruin an important shipment for me a few hours ago."

As he talks to make an impression and emphasize his authority, Nicky lets his gaze wander through the bare room and over the other people present. It's not the first time any of them have been in such a position, and it won't be the last.

"So it's very simple," Cameron tells him and Nicky can see that he likes the way Nicky has to look up to him like a submissive dog to its master. "I'll ask you a few questions and you'll answer them honestly, otherwise it's going to get very uncomfortable for you, my friend." He pats Nicky's cheek, Nicky stares straight into his eyes without blinking. "If you lie to me, you'll be sorry because believe me, I'll break you." He gives Nicky an unfriendly smile. "The weakest links in the chain always break first."

"Good luck with that, motherfucker," Andy growls softly and Nicky hears Booker coughing with a chuckle.

Cameron's expression hardens. “Seems like your friends are getting bored. Time to offer them a good show, huh?”

They throw Nicky on a simple chair, handcuff his hands to the armrests, but leave his feet free and Nicky hooks them behind the front legs of the chair to wait for the right moment.

Cameron makes a show of pulling up a second chair. The chair legs make an unpleasant noise on the floor, which echoes too loudly in Nicky's ears. But he uses the time that Cameron wastes by pulling out his own weapon just as exaggeratedly, pointing it at Nicky and sitting down, to test the handcuffs.

If he dislocates the metacarpal bones, it would be easy to free his hands from the restraints, but he must not act hastily. Joe, Booker and Andy also have to be freed and Nicky cannot do that without a key.

"Let's start simple with your name," Cameron says, pressing his gun against Nicky's kneecap. "Speak."

“Nicolo di Genova. But my new name is Nicky,” Nicky duly replies. "I think it sounds funny."

At these words, Cameron laughs as if Nicky had said something hilarious and turns to his men. “Did you hear that, guys? Nicky thinks his name is funny. What an amusing guy he is!"

Joe growls suppressed.

Why the other men are laughing at what he said is unclear to Nicky and he eyes Cameron's men more closely until Cameron has regained control over his sneering laugh and looks at Nicky. "How old are you, Nicky?"

Thoughtfully, Nicky tilts his head, Cameron's request not to lie clear in mind. "If I'm not mistaken, 917," he says dryly and Booker bursts into barking laughter.

"Are you that old already?" He asks in French and Nicky allows himself to look at his family and find strength in the sight of them.

Booker has both arms hanging out between the bars in a relaxed manner as he stands leaning against the cell door as if he was completely comfortable in their environment.

"You should ask Joe," Andy comments with a wolfish grin, sitting on the cot, legs apart. "After all, he's the oldest man in the world."

"Says the oldest woman in the world," Joe counters nonchalantly, but Nicky can hear the unease in his voice. And he just wants to go home to try out the bread recipe that has been sitting in his notebook for weeks, crawl under a blanket with Joe, and let him hold him.

Encouraged by his family's teasing, Nicky says, "Yet Booker is the one who looks the oldest of us."

As hoped, Joe's lips twist into a smile that is capable of warming Nicky like a hug, and Andy snorts with laughter, while Booker mumbles a complaint with an eye roll, grinning.

Not only Cameron is taken aback by the conversation, but he thinks it's a joke, which Nicky can't blame him for. "Shut the fuck up!" He snaps, getting close enough to Nicky's face that Nicky can make out the individual pores of his skin. "Last chance to make up for your mistake."

"If I have made a mistake, it could be because I don't remember what day I was born." Cameron has the key to the cell and the angrier a person gets, the less observant they become. To get his family out of here, Nicky has to get into Cameron's pocket. If he -

His deliberation is brutally interrupted when Cameron shatters his kneecap with one shot.

Searing pain explodes in his leg, eating its way through his nerve cords and putting his brain on alert, but Nicky himself makes no sound. All he does is blink slowly at Cameron, and for the first time he sees something like uncertainty flicker across the latter's face.

Darkness. Rough, hoarse words, a poker.

For Nicky, pain is a living thing that nests in his body and, when awakened, sinks its claws and teeth into anything it can reach. All his long life it has been with him, starting in a small kitchen, the outline of which he has long since forgotten - not so the scars inside him.

Through their immortality, the wounds on their bodies heal, but the memories of them often go deeper, the echoes of the past remaining.

Cold stone under bruised knees, rattling breath, a cross, tears, prayers, no mercy.

Pain.

Pain has been Nicky's teacher, has taught him lessons, has become a part of him, and Nicky carries it. Like a burden on his shoulders that no one can see and only he can feel. Nicky has lived too many centuries to remember it all, but certain impressions remain: smells, noises, feelings, that take hold and never let go until they too have turned to ashes that blow away in the wind.

"Who sent you?"

"No one." To strangers who don't know him, Nicky's voice sounds firm and calm, but Nicky knows Joe can detect the barely audible tremor, as can Andy and even Booker.

"He's telling the truth!" Joe interjects, urgently trying to save Nicky from further injuries, even though Nicky can already feel destroyed tissue and bones in his knee reassembling. "We don't work for anyone."

When Cameron shoots his other kneecap, it's Joe who screams and a cry of pain rises in Nicky's throat, but something blocks it from leaving his mouth and so Nicky swallows everything down and locks it inside.

Cameron clicks his tongue almost chidingly, something Nicky only registers secondarily. “You are acting really tough, aren't you? Very impressive."

"You fucking bastard, stop it!" Joe demands sharply of him, hitting the cell bars in frustration.

"How sweet, is there someone worried about you, Nicky?" Because he's pretty sure Cameron means this mocking question rhetorically, Nicky focuses on his breathing, the steady in and out .

"Jealous because your wife left you for a cashier?" Booker interjects, raising his hands defensively as Cameron's head snaps around to him. “Oh, sorry, did I reopen old wounds? Must really hurt when someone prefers decency and honesty to crime and violence."

"What's her name again?" Andy taps her chin and then opens her eyes wide with enlightenment. “Oh yes, Maria Torres. I'm surprised you haven't killed her new husband yet, but I guess murdering her love wouldn't do well as a wooing."

"Shut up, bitch, or I'll make you!" Cameron orders, a vein in his forehead having started to throb.

Booker raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure you have enough balls for that?"

"You jackass." Cameron stands up, his men 's attention resting on their leader and Nicky would have the chance to free the first hand from its restraints, but decides against it for fear the clank will draw the focus back to him. "I’m going to..."

"Kill me? Go ahead, nothing I haven't tried already,” Booker says with a deep sigh, not moving an inch. His deep black sarcasm and the resignation with which Booker accepts his threatened death only irritate Cameron and his people further and Nicky hopes that the blood and the fabric of his pants can hide his healed knees and their secret a little longer.

While his family intentionally tries to keep Cameron occupied in order to spare Nicky further torture, Nicky counts the weapons of the surrounding men, deliberately ignoring the sharp-edged utensils spread out on a leather sheath and waiting on the small table to be tried out on him by Cameron.

"Any further comment will be punished, understood?" Like many people who consider themselves better and superior, Cameron uses the announcement of violence to get what he wants.

"Now I'm really scared," Andy says, leaning against the wall as if she were bored.

Since Cameron's back is to Nicky, he can't see his face, but he thinks it's quite likely that Cameron isn't particularly pleased with the others' cheeky behavior. "Who hired you?"

Joe pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing dramatically. “Since you keep asking the same question without taking note of our answers, I'm starting to worry you might have a problem with your ears. We weren't hired by anyone, okay? N-O-O-N-E."

"Last offer?"

“I can write it down for you if you want,” Booker offers. "Give me pen and paper so I can ram it into your eye."

"Or in your ear, if that doesn't work anyway." Andy shifts her weight on the cot, but her blue eyes are fixed on Nicky. He knows his older sister well enough not to let himself be convinced by the mask of experienced control. But why is she afraid?

"Good. If that's the case. ”Cameron returns to his chair and Nicky weighs his next steps. If he takes action, it is possible that they will kill him before he can get to Cameron's pocket, and in the worst case scenario, they will be there for his resurrection, shipping them off somewhere even harder to get out.

There's no life in his eyes , Nicky thinks, looking back and forth between Cameron's dark eyes. Not like Yusuf's. Yusuf's eyes are warm.

"Here's the deal, Nicky." Cameron props his elbows on his knees. “You can tell me what I want to know, or you can get acquainted with the new tools I just got the other day."

Nicky inwardly counts to five before answering, sealing his fate: "If I told you what you wanted to know instead of what it really is like, I would be lying."

Fortunately for him, Cameron sticks to non-life-threatening injuries in his torture methods, so Nicky's immortality remains a secret for the time being. Hiding his abnormal healing, on the other hand, turns out to be more difficult.

The bones Cameron breaks him with hammer, fist or iron bar cannot be seen openly and the laughter of Cameron's people and his snarled questions are loud enough to drown out the cracking of the straightening bones. The problem is more the cuts Cameron does to him, the pulled fingernails and a few other things.

Each of Cameron's repeatedly asked questions Nicky answers as he did before, but makes fun of phrasing the answer differently every time, which only makes Cameron more furious - and that's exactly Nicky's goal. When a person gets so angry that they lose their head, they are acting without a thought and Nicky needs a careless act from Cameron to get the keys.

In addition to the responses, which Cameron doesn't like at all, Nicky's lack of screams and sounds of pain seem to increasingly annoy him and his punches become cruder and more forceful.

"I'll make you scream," Cameron promises Nicky, panting heavily and wiping the sweat from his face, the bloody blade in his hand that he has just tried on Nicky's cheek. "And when the time comes, you'll be begging for mercy, you son of a bitch."

Nicky smears the blood on his cheek a bit with the help of his shoulder in the tiny hope of keeping their otherness in the dark a little longer. “Then you should get started soon. I don't have all day. "

Cameron's punch breaks his nose and flings his head back.

It hurts.

So Nicky stays silent.

He knows people moan or curse or scream when they have to endure pain, has seen it often enough in his life and seen his family members doing too. And he also knows that it worries people that Nicky isn't doing precisely that.

A couple of times he tried to express his pain, tried hard to hiss when he stubbed his toe or moaned when he got shot, but he couldn't. There is a blockage inside him, sealing him off and not letting anything out.

Until there is no more room and the dam breaks , a low voice whispers in his head. It's a warning Nicky is all too familiar with, as is his family, whose faces show various kinds of tension behind the bars.

Even if Nicky doesn't always understand himself, he knows himself and some of the triggers that cause the bursting of his dam. Both he and the others have been aware when he was taken out of the cell that this situation could become such a trigger in the worst case.

Pain is nothing new to him, but humanity is good at devising more creative, cruel ways of inflicting it on someone.

Booker laughed smokily at Nicky's comment, but stopped abruptly when Cameron's fist made contact with Nicky's nose, and now he's pacing restlessly back and forth the cell. Andy's jaw keeps grinding and her nostrils flare as if she were already figuring out all possible ways to kill Cameron and his men. And Joe, his beautiful, strong Yusuf , just looks at him, wide eyes in which whole starry skies lie, giving Nicky the opportunity to escape this unfriendly world for a split second.

Cameron's harsh words snap Nicky back to the reality that is treating them with so much violence. "What's wrong with you, huh?" He taps Nicky's forehead roughly and Joe hisses in Arabic for Cameron to get his fucking hands off of him. “Are you mentally retarded or something? Or does your brain have some other damage that you cannot feel pain? Have you been dropped by your mother or what?”

Nausea begins to simmer in Nicky's stomach and he wants to rub the hem of his shirt between his fingers to focus on that, but he's still tied up. Darkness, suffocating darkness, a belt, crude words, rough hands, no light.

“You must be a fucking burden to your people. How the hell can they even rely on you if your brain is fucked up?” As Cameron spits in his face, Nicky closes his eyes and grits his teeth, breathing in and out .

He's not the first to say something like that to Nicky, and he won't be the last either.

Joe hits the bars anyway. “I'm going to kill you, asshole. And you will regret every word."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll see if you can babble that much when it's your turn." Cameron doesn't look at Joe and saunters to his torture tools, tenderly running his fingers over them. "Well, I guess we have no use for Nicky then, huh? Broken toys are no fun."

In his hands Cameron holds some kind of stake, causing slight confusion in Nicky, which vanishes into thin air when Cameron rams the piece of wood into his chest with force.

“ Merde !” Booker yells, and Nicky distantly wonders whose mother he's insulting afterwards.

He notices how the wood grazes one of his ribs, misses his heart and punctures his lungs. And it hurts , and Nicky doesn't know what he wants to do. Maybe moan or cry, scream or just lose consciousness because he's tired and there are too many people here wanting to hurt others and Nicky doesn't understand why .

Besides the pain roaring and raging inside Nicky like a devastating inferno, Nicky's consciousness clings to how close Cameron is to him because this is the chance he has been waiting for. His fingers brush the fabric of Cameron's jacket, which means the right pocket of his pants is not far away.

Key.

Right pocket.

"Have fun dying," Cameron whispers in his ear, and Nicky pulls the key for the cell out of his pocket and hides it in his clenched fist while the edges of his field of vision begin to flicker.

"Nicky!" Joe shouts but Nicky doesn't have the energy to look at his love, using all his strength to breathe, to breathe, to breathe , to keep the pain inside that tears his body apart from within and seems to sever his nerve cords.

"Who's in the mood for a drink?" Cameron asks his gang and pats one of them on the back on his way to the door. "Until he's dead, we can take a break. It's not like the others will run away."

"Where do you want us to dump his body when we're done?"

Cameron opens the door of the basement and gestures outside in an exaggerated manner. "We can have a relaxed chat about that over mojitos, rum and whatever your heart desires, boys."

The door slams shut, the voices grow quieter, and while Nicky's lungs are on fire, he frees his first hand from the cuffs with a crunch.

"Hng..." Without further ado, he grasps the stake and pulls it out of his chest with a jerk, causing Booker to wince sympathetically.

“Very good, Nicky. You're almost there,” Andy says, who is already on her feet and standing next to Joe at the door of the cell. "We'll be out of this shit hole soon."

Nicky pulls his second hand out of the cuff but remains on the chair, the key so tight in the palm of his hand that the metal digs into his skin.

Of course, Joe immediately notices the minimal change in Nicky's demeanor. "Nicky? Nicolo, what is it?"

There is something wrong.

That's what Nicky actually wants to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a gush of blood and he falls to the ground as if the strings of a marionette had been cut. Before he can consciously give his body the command, his hands go to his chest, where the wound from the stake has already healed.

“ Habibi , please talk to me! Nicky!” Joe's words and the shouts of Andy and Booker get lost in the roaring in Nicky's ears.

He can't breathe .

As he tries to suck air into his lungs, the taste of copper floods his mouth and Nicky coughs again the red, hot liquid that has accompanied them through all the centuries, mostly along with death.

Gasping, his body struggles in spasms against the foreign body in his lungs, which Nicky cannot get rid of because something inside him is wrong . And when Nicky's gaze falls on the blood-smeared stake he dropped, he senses evil.

Joe, meanwhile, is begging him in their language to tell him what's going on and Nicky dies before he can tell him.

Red, hot, burning - gasping for air, Nicky comes back to life, only for his body to realize that it cannot take in oxygen.

"...colo! Can you hear me? Please, hayati ,” Joe's concerned voice filters through to Nicky as if through cotton wool.

He is busy coughing his guts out, spreading a spray of caustic blood over the floor and himself. Air. Key.

"S-S-Spl...in...ter,” he chokes out, pointing flutteringly at the stake, and the penny drops for his family.

"Fuck!" Andy buries both hands in her dark hair. “Okay, don't panic. We're going to get out of here. “

"He's choking on his own blood and you want me to stay calm?" Joe snaps, and Nicky wants to tell them to be quiet because he can't hear his own thoughts, around which thorns seem to entwine with agonizing slowness.

Booker crouches down and extends an arm through the bars. "Can you manage to slide the key over here, buddy?"

With the first movement toward the cell, there is a searing pain inside Nicky that paralyzes him and makes his muscles quiver with the inability to let out what Nicky is feeling. Now Nicky feels the splinter rubbing uncomfortably against a rib, having pierced his lungs and making breathing a hell of a run.

He dies again without being able to make any further effort.

At the next resurrection, Nicky clumsily grabs the only object he can reach. The stake is far from being as pointed and sharp as it would have been best for Nicky's purpose, but it's all Nicky has.

No time, they have no time. Key. Cameron. Cell.

No.

Time.

Joe exhales shakily as he guesses what Nicky is up to. “No, Nicky. We'll find another solution. You just have to hold on and...” He breaks off and Nicky soaks up the night sky in Joe's eyes, trying for a few seconds to just breathe and ground himself.

He cannot reach one of Cameron's knives on the table,  nor the cell. They are running out of time. It's their only option, and when Nicky looks at Booker's face, the corners of the mouth of his younger brother curl down unhappily.

They all know what Nicky's undertaking could cause, but Nicky has to protect them and he's the only one who's not locked up. At least until Cameron returns.

"Nicky," Andy implores him to look at her, and his older sister nods encouragingly. "We're all here with you, okay?"

The nod he returns is not particularly confident due to the blood running from his mouth and the protruding veins on his face from the difficulty of breathing.

The splinter has to get out. So Nicky doesn't waste another thought on his plan and begins.

After the first five deaths, he stops counting how many times he chokes on his blood, dies from blood loss or from the shock of ripping open his own chest with a stake and sticking a hand into the wound before it can close.

Because the splinter has to come out.

He is vaguely aware that Joe and Andy and Booker are talking to him, but he doesn't understand their words and is pulled down by waves crashing over him, rendering him deaf and mute and exposing him to the merciless force of nature that turns his innards to ash and makes his blood boil.

The pain is unbearable, his fingers so slick with his own blood that they slip off the stake several times and he has to repeat the whole process, over and over and over and over and over again. Endlessly.

Faster.

Cameron and his men could reappear at any moment.

It hurts.

I said you should be quiet! Otherwise I'll make you regret it!

Loveless hands.

Be quiet.

Nicky's feet scrape helplessly across the stone floor in the fight for survival, he retches and vomits and suffocates and dies.

"Red." The word is so soft, merely breathed, that it is almost not understood. "R...ed, red, r-red, red."

Nicky only realizes that he is the one saying it when Joe kicks and hits the bars in frustration, wild and desperate. “Shhhh, I know, Nicky. I know, hang in there, okay? We are right here with you. Listen to my voice. I'm..."

Life leaves Nicky's body before Joe can finish his sentence.

When his fingers finally get hold of the splinter in his chest and pull it out, Nicky feels like he has swallowed liters of his own blood, so full and sticky feels the inside of his mouth, and copper is everywhere.

No time. Key.

With loud, heavy breaths, he can breathe , Nicky crawls as fast as he can to the cell that separates him from his family and slides the key with a shaking hand to Booker. He hears Booker unlock the door, but Nicky doesn't care because there is barbed wire in his mind, stinging him.

Trembling, he rolls onto his back, having no energy for more, and clutches the hem of his shirt. He feels the fabric between his fingers that is not enough and Nicky has trouble swallowing, losing to the rising nausea. He throws up.

"Hey, hey, habibi ." Joe is there. Joe is there . “Nicolo, can you hear me? Please, my heart, focus on my voice, okay?”

Joe's face hovers over him, and the infinite relief of seeing Joe and being able to breathe is like a growing sprout being crushed by a shoe because Nicky wants to go home and doesn't understand.

"Yusuf," he whispers, and Joe nods, eyes shining. "The color is red."

"Okay," Joe replies in a whisper and the tear that finds its way down Joe's cheek confuses Nicky. “May I touch you, Nicky? We'll be out of here soon."

Nicky's body is bruised, his mind tired and sore, and he takes all the pain he feels and locks it away .

Be quiet! Sobs that stop abruptly. Pain.

Instead of a verbal answer, Nicky feels for Joe's hand, seeking comfort in the familiar physical contact, the warmth, Joe as he loses himself. With soothing sounds, Joe pulls him onto his lap so that he is holding Nicky in his arms and kisses his forehead, one of his tears dripping onto Nicky's lip.

Salt and metal and pain, that's what Nicky tastes, and he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the cruel world that makes Joe cry. "Don't."

“Don't what, Nicolo? It's going to be alright, Andy and Booker take care of these bastards and we'll be home soon."

Where is their home? They are so old, have been walking around for so long in a world that is always changing. My family is my home .

Nicky squints against the fake light from the strange lamps in the basement, his gaze slow to focus on Joe. "Don't cry, Yusuf." He frowns. "Oh. Your name is now Joe."

Far away, gunshots and screams sound, fading one by one as Andy and Booker work their way through the building where they had been held captive. Joe hunches over Nicky as if to shield him from everything and everyone, and Nicky buries himself in the darkness of Joe's jacket.

"How can I not cry when my heart is crying?" Joe asks him, his voice like gentle rain in the desert, his hand on the back of Nicky's head.

"Oh,” is all Nicky does when he touches his cheek and feels moisture that isn't from blood. He has always wondered why tears are salty when not all emotions taste like that. "The color is red, Joe."

He doesn't know the car Nicky finds himself in and it's all so hectic and Joe continues to hold him in his arms, clutching him as if he were afraid Nicky would be swept away and Andy throws herself onto the driver's seat and Booker puts a blanket around his shoulders, which Nicky doesn't understand because no one seems to realize that it's too loud outside.

"Turn off the noise." He barely recognizes his own voice and can only hardly hear his words through the static in his ears. "It's too loud ! I don't want any noise!”

Joe softly starts to sing Bella Notte and Booker on Nicky's other side hums along barely audible, his body heat like a radiator next to him. But the noise prevents Nicky from concentrating on the song and he tugs at his hem, yanks a strand of hair. Everything to make this too much less.

"Stop it! Stop it! Why won't it stop? I don't understand...” There is a stinging need deeply anchored in him, caused by a prickle under Nicky's skin and he starts scratching himself, banging his fist against his head.

"Shhh, Nicky, come on, count with me." Joe rubs his shoulder and Nicky really does his best despite the volume that none of the others want to regulate. "One."

"...One." Be quiet.

“Very good, my love. Two."

Nicky thinks it's too tight, his head twitching. "Two." A sob out of his own mouth surprises him. "It's too LOUD."

"Nicky, sweetheart, it'll be quieter in a minute," Andy says.

Too loud. Too much. Be quiet.

The realization that the incredible, raging storm is inside him and no one else can hear the high-pitched noise because it's in Nicky's head and there is something wrong with him creeps through his veins like ice water.

But he doesn't want to be a burden.

“I don't want to be a burden,” he says affirmatively, repeating it louder when no one reacts. "I don't want to be a burden!"

Booker squeezes his knee until Nicky looks at him, and his blue-gray eyes are surprisingly soft and kind. “You are not a burden, Nicky. That motherfucker Cameron only said that to get under your skin. We would be lost without you. Who else would make sure we have food on the table? Or covers us with a sniper rifle, huh?”

"Only you can effectively get Joe to shut up,” Andy interjects from the driver's seat.

“What can I say, Nicolo is very skilled with his hands. Or his mouth. Or his...” Joe gives a short laugh as Booker punches him. It's a rusty laugh that doesn't make Joe's chest rumble the way Nicky likes.

“Why are we even talking about that?” Booker complains. "We have more important things to do."

"I don't want to be a burden," Nicky repeats weakly and Booker takes his hand.

"You're not a burden." Joe presses his forehead against Nicky's temple.

"Really not?"

Booker squeezes his hand twice.

The house they are staying at is two towns over in a neighborhood where no one is surprised to see four people enter through the back entrance in the dark of night, loaded with bags and suspiciously dark splatters on their faces.

There's no discussion when Andy and Joe lead Nicky to the bathroom, giving him the privilege of the first shower while Booker inspects the kitchen. But when Joe makes a move to follow him into the bathroom, as they always do, Nicky places a hand on his chest, a barely existing contact of Nicky's fingers and Joe's shirt, the color of which Nicky likes even though he doesn't know what it is called. Still, he immediately stops Joe in his tracks.

"Nicky?"

Blood cannot be digested by the stomach. And Nicky has seen, lost, breathed and tasted a lot of blood in the past hours.

In both Joe's and Andy's faces he thinks he sees great concern, and when he doesn't answer Joe's question, Andy cautiously takes the floor.

“Nicky, are you able to talk to us? Take your time."

His head is filled with barbed wire and broken glass and noise, and Nicky just wants a break. “I want to be alone,” he says, picking at his hem, scratching his neck where blood has dried to an appalling crust. Joe knows how much Nicky hates it when the blood starts to itch. "Alone. Please."

In the time Joe and Andy look at him in silence, Nicky inwardly repeats a dialogue scene from Pinocchio because it gives him something to hold onto. For a brief moment.

The love of his life and his big sister don't tell him that it would be better if Nicky wasn't left alone, but the sorrow in Joe's eyes speaks for itself.

"I'll bring you clean clothes and Minnie, all right?" Joe touches him delicately on the elbow. "And I'll be right outside the door in case you need anything, okay?"

"Yes." Nicky lowers his head, blocking out everything that squeezes his heart in a tight grip and relying on the fact that he loves Yusuf. "Thank you." I love you.

"Always," Joe returns. I love you too.

Andy smiles at him, a weight in the corners of her mouth. "Whatever you need, Nicky."

Whatever you need , Nicky repeats in his head after he closes the door, leaning his ear against the cold, hard wood, anxious to hear what is happening on the other side without being seen. I don't know what I need.

"Where's Nicky?" Booker's voice rings out, muffled.

Andy answers him. "In the bathroom. He wants to be alone."

A heavy exhalation. "Shit." Silence. “Well, I could make a simple stew for tonight. It won't be a five-star dish with these few ingredients, but we'll get something warm in our stomachs."

"Good. I'll clean our weapons and then we'll discuss where to disappear tomorrow. I don't give a fuck, the main thing is to get out of this shithole,” Andy says firmly. "Joe?"

"I..." Joe starts and Nicky puts a hand flat on the door.

"It'll all work out, Joe," Booker assures him. “It won't help Nicky if you don't take care of yourself, so try not to worry too much. We'll do everything we can.”

"I know." Joe's voice approaches, there is a slightly muffled sound and Nicky is sure Joe has pressed his forehead against the door. "I just wish I could take the burden off his shoulders."

Nicky doesn't hear any replies from Andy and Booker, stepping jerkily back from the door and covering his ears. What's wrong with you, huh? Memories flash brightly before his mind's eye, blinding him. Be quiet! His body remembers the past hours with an accuracy as clear as glass and as sharp as a blade. They are immune to death, but not to the injuries they have experienced, which lodge themselves in them, sometimes setting their bodies back by making something ache that has long since healed.

Phantom pain.

Nicky's shot kneecaps, punches, broken bones, cuts, and especially the stake.

Why do people use a stake in the 20th century?

He doesn't understand.

I will find you. You can't hide forever.

Be quiet.

To get the blood out of his stomach, Nicky unceremoniously sticks his finger down his throat and spits into the toilet bowl until only stomach acid comes out of his mouth, but the coating of copper remains on his tongue.

He rinses his mouth out, hands clasping the sink.

The water is hot and turns bright red when Nicky stands under the spray, oddly comforted by the roar of the shower that competes with the noise in his mind. With eyes closed and nervous humming and twitching, Nicky lowers his head and lets the drops patter on the back of his neck. Cameron's torture plays like an unwelcome recording in his mind, a never-ending loop that revolves around the stake, just the stake, the wood in Nicky's chest.

Tearing, burning, violence, blood.

For a few minutes Nicky does nothing, watching with a detachment that makes him dizzy as the bright red disappears down the drain, washing away the visible marks imprinted on Nicky's soul.

Be quiet.

Mechanically, he begins to lather himself, rubbing his torso, his neck and his face harder than necessary, not wanting to be stuck in his skin anymore, which has been damaged and yet is still whole. There is a painful pull through his scalp as he tugs at his hair and he chews his lip, digging his nails into his palm.

Joe has said to focus on something else when he's hurting himself, so Nicky squeezes the shampoo bottle as hard as he can and then rips off the label and crumples it in his fist.

Now the water is pink like the sky at sunrise, but not as beautiful, and Nicky breathes , conscious, deep, grounding breaths that cannot dispel the restlessness in his cramping muscles.

He's sitting in the shower under the spray, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them as the door opens and Joe walks in. Nicky's back is to him, but Nicky knows his steps.

"I put Minnie and clean clothes on the stool for you," Joe informs him softly, but abides by Nicky's demand to be alone and makes no further move to approach him. "I love you, Nicky."

Nicky wants to kiss him.

He stays seated, blinks water and tears from his eyes and counts the joints on the floor as Joe leaves the room as quietly as he came.

His thick hoodie is soft and the smell of Joe and his fabric softener and the familiar weight of Minnie in his hands act like an anchor that is there but has not yet found a hold on the seabed.

Before leaving the bathroom, where he has been hiding from the others, be quiet, I'll find you , Nicky draws a few lines on the steamy mirror, but only looks at his finger and not the image of himself. He doesn't like the emptiness in his eyes when his thoughts are shattered into shards and Nicky cuts himself by putting them back together.

He opens the door a crack first and peers into the hallway, then pushes through when no one is in sight. It's hard to convince himself to shuffle into the kitchen, where hushed voices and the smell of food come from, so vulnerable and exposed and irritated Nicky feels. Overstimulated. Wrong. Broken.

Upon his entrance, the conversation doesn't die down, for which Nicky is quite grateful, but everyone present turns partially toward him. Booker is filling a couple of bowls with the aforementioned stew, Andy sets aside the gun she has been cleaning and Joe moves to one side on the bench, an offer for Nicky to join him, but not a must.

"Stew, Nicky?" Booker lifts the pot and at the sight of the thick stew, Nicky's stomach abruptly cramps and he clenches his jaws, causing Joe's hand to tighten around his water glass like a reflection of Nicky.

"No," Nicky squeezes out and the corners of Booker's mouth drop slightly, but he accepts the answer with a nod. Nevertheless, Nicky feels he has to justify himself for refusing to eat, which would probably be beneficial to his body. "I can still taste it."

No one asks what exactly he means - the blood-splattered, beaten faces of his family say enough.

He slides onto the seat next to Joe, so close that they're clearly touching and Joe presses back with his body at least as hard, an insurance for both of them. Nicky's fingers trace Minnie's outline, touching each of the feathers she has on her head, one by one, discovering the contours of the fabric even though Nicky has had her in his hands countless times.

"I'll make you some tea." Booker grins slightly at him as he passes out the bowls on the table. "With so much honey that your taste buds will only be able to filter 'sweet'."

No one judges Nicky for not returning the grin, but he nods, knees bobbing restlessly. Joe lays his hand palm up on the table, and after three heartbeats, Nicky lifts his own and puts their palms together.

Unlike the inside of his head, their hands fit together like two halves of a whole, and in Nicky the knot loosens a little. Even the faint clink of cutlery as the others begin to eat is semi-bearable, and Nicky soothes himself by petting Minnie periodically in his lap, where the little owl is a comforting, solid body.

With a slight nod, which is actually supposed to express gratitude, but is just a jerky, choppy motion Nicky accepts the teacup from Booker and, after minimal consideration, grabs Booker's flask.

Nobody stops him as he unscrews it, trembling, and tips some of the pungent smelling liquid into his tea. It is far too hot and tastes absolutely unpleasant due to the honey, which Booker really seems to have put in the tea in buckets, and the alcohol, but Nicky is fine with anything to avoid having to taste any more blood.

In another situation he would have complained that the tea in bags has nothing in common with real tea, but now he practically gulps down the boiling tea, burning his mouth and esophagus, tasting nothing, not wanting to taste anything.

Something wet drips onto the tabletop in front of him and then onto Minnie, and Nicky wipes his face angrily at himself because he's crying again.

Be quiet.

It is quiet.

The others eat in silence, Joe's hand not even letting go of Nicky's as he does so, nor does his attention leave him. At one point, Nicky dares to look at his soulmate, to face the worry and steady affection he sees on Joe's face, but he feels so bad right after because he doesn't want to hurt his family by his condition.

Time seems to have dropouts, because one moment Nicky is still sitting at the kitchen table and in another Joe guides him with loving words that wrap around Nicky like a mental hug, and gentle touches in front of the fireplace, which Booker lights with swift movements while Andy does the dishes.

It is not until Nicky sits on the floor in front of the fireplace and the flickering, glowing flames warm his face like a breath of summer, that he realizes how cold he is. And that he is trembling. His whole body shakes so much that he can barely see Minnie properly in his hands, as much as she waggles, but his teeth don't chatter.

Joe says his name several times and crouches next to him, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"What did you say?" Nicky asks slowly, his tongue a numb muscle in his mouth.

With a pinched expression, Joe's eyes roam over Nicky, his gaze the echo of an intimate touch. "Are you in pain, my heart?"

Lies have never had a place in their incredibly long relationship, which has overcome more hurdles than Nicky can count, and Joe knows him better than anyone in the world anyway. It is not possible for Nicky to lie, and he knows Joe trusts him. Just like Nicky trusts him, with his life and more.

"Yes." His answer is brittle and croaky and Nicky hates it. “My head feels like it's going to burst and the shards cut deep. Why do people hurt each other, Yusuf? Why do we get hurt?"

Booker rummages through their things in the background, but doesn't interfere in their conversation, so Joe's abrupt sob, an outburst of his emotions, is clearly audible. "I don't know, Nicky." So slowly that Nicky would have the chance to shy away, he leans forward until their foreheads touch and Nicky closes his eyes, tears a hot river on his cheek. "Oh habibi , sometimes I'm afraid you're drowning in your pain and there is no way to reach you."

Joe is blurred by the tears in Nicky's eyes and the tremor in his body, but he looks absolutely perfect to Nicky. Despite the broken thoughts in his head rubbing against each other uncomfortably and electrifying Nicky's nerves at intervals, he doesn't even really have to think about his words. "I will never leave you, hayati."

A single tear hangs from Joe's eyelash like a precious drop of glass and diamond, and Nicky wonders if he should raise his finger and catch it because Joe's tears should never be wasted.

“And even if I'm trapped in my head sometimes and nothing makes sense to me, I know you are there when I need you. It's hard with me at moments like this, I am aware of that too.” Nicky reaches with both hands for Joe's which are already moving towards him, meaning they are holding onto each other with Minnie in their midst.

"But whenever everything is too loud and I feel broken and mismatched" Joe makes a throaty noise. “it gets quieter in your presence. Each of you helps me with your presence to find a fix point in all the...” Over the centuries, Nicky has tried many terms for this very state. "...chaos of my brain."

Words mean a lot of effort to Nicky, when he can't even separate his own thoughts because everything is like a ball of wool that needs to be untangled first. That's one of the reasons why he doesn't like to talk while inner pain rages like a tornado, leaving only destruction in its wake.

Words mean cutting himself on the shards of glass scattered across his mind.

But for Joe, he's willing to bleed a little more, always. And the other way around, too. So he forces himself to keep talking, even though every syllable comes from his heart. "So..." It takes him several attempts to swallow because his mouth is dry as dust. "...so...it is not important that there is no way to reach me because...you are always my target."

I said you should be quiet!

His mouth clicks shut and Joe kisses Nicky's hands, Minnie disappearing briefly under his beard. "Nicky." A second kiss follows, then a third and a fourth until Joe has gently kissed all of Nicky's fingers. “Gather your strength, cuore mio , you have already gifted me with enough words. There aren't enough languages in this world to express my love for you.” Joe's sniff is accompanied by a similar sound from behind Nicky. Booker. “You are the strongest person I know. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Nicky unclenches his aching jaw. "I love you with all my heart, Yusuf," he tells Joe with sincerity - the one thread in the ball of yarn that Nicky never has to look for. "Thank you."

"I'm so grateful to have you, Nicolo." Nicky likes the way his name sounds coming out of Joe's mouth, and then he likes the feel of Joe's lips on his when they kiss, all light and warmth, sweet dates, sea salt and honey.

As Nicky said, the noise inside him fades into the background as soon as they share that kiss, and keep kissing, and keep kissing, and Joe cups his face in skillful, wonderful hands, using guns and paint brushes, caressing book spines, writing poetry, always moving and treating Nicky with the utmost care, every touch a gift from heaven.

"Are you tired, Nicky?" Through Joe's hands, Nicky's face is as warm as if it had been kissed by the sun. It's obvious that the day hasn't left Joe unscathed either, and Nicky's fingers knead Minnie because Joe still puts Nicky's well-being first.

"I am exhausted." It is not only the fatigue of the body but also the disgusting one of the mind that cannot always be dispelled by sleep.

Booker flops down with a grunt onto the only armchair, which creaks and cracks audibly and apparently has some noticeable springs the way Booker grumbles under his breath. "There's a bed here you can take." He nudges Nicky very lightly and deliberately with his foot. "As long as you promise to be quiet, of course."

"You don't hear anything once you're gone anyway," Joe accuses him with a hint of a laugh, and Nicky tugs at the fibers of the carpet, which has seen better days.

"You're one to talk", Booker shoots back. "You are sleepy Joe here."

"Then you are...drowsy Booker."

“I can live with that.” Booker shrugs. “I've already packed a blanket out for you and because I'm such an extremely nice person, it's the one that doesn't scratch. That one I gave to Andy."

"Hey! Watch it, dumbass! If Nicky and Joe get the bed, we'll have to share the living room and I won't sleep on the floor,” Andy announces with a snort, who struts into the room at the right timing with the mention of her name.

Booker purposely doesn't retract his long legs to clear a path for her and acknowledges her mild kick with a grin. "Neither do I. So we can either sleep on top of each other or..."

"Or I'll throw you off the couch," Andy finishes the sentence dryly, and Nicky memorizes the exact way in which the affection for her family soaks the letters more with every word just like she tends to pour syrup over her pancakes.

"I don't want to sleep," Nicky informs no one in particular. It seems better to him to tell the others as early as possible, so Andy can take the bed, or Booker, but the timing is, as always, not very good. However, it is currently too complicated for Nicky to pay attention to the timing of his sentences when it is difficult enough to put them together.

Pain.

Flashes. Red blood.

Darkness.

When he sleeps, there is darkness.

He can't stand darkness. Not now.

His soft voice has effectively brought Andy and Booker's fun chatter to a standstill, and he feels the warmth of Andy's hand hovering over his shoulder before her fingers gently curl around the curve of his shoulder.

"You don't want to sleep, sweetheart?" Her tone is not judgmental, her bright eyes, which sometimes seem to be for Nicky like his own, show him that Andy loves him and doesn't consider him a burden .

How the hell can they even rely on you if your brain is fucked up?

"No. You can sleep in the bed. I don't want to.” It minimally reassures him that he can see Minnie again without the wiggle-image effect of his severe shivering, but he still feels cold and exposed and wants to hide. Nowhere. Anywhere.

Joe doesn't urge him to elaborate and nods instead. "What do you want, Nicky?"

He gets a kiss on the head from Andy before she settles on the sofa while he gnaws on his bottom lip, trying to look at himself and Joe's question from an outside perspective. "Being held." It sounds like a timid suggestion, and Nicky is annoyed that he is unable to express himself with the firmness with which he means it. "From you," he adds afterwards. "Please."

"It would be my pleasure, ya amar. " Joe's smile works like the sun on morning mist on his annoyance with himself. "I'll be right back."

A little later, Nicky finds himself in Joe's arms, both of them wrapped tightly in the non-scratching blanket, Nicky's back against Joe's chest, sitting on the floor between his legs, in front of the fireplace with Minnie in his lap.

He's so tired, but the thought of the darkness lurking all around him and inside him deters him from the idea of letting Joe's breath lull him to sleep. You can't hide forever.

I will find you!

"What color, Nicky?" It's Booker asking in a casual tone, one of his rare smiles on his lips that don't look sad.

"Dark orange." But Nicky feels protected in the blanket and arms of his soulmate, the pain bearable. For the moment.

They all try to stay up with him, and his family means everything to Nicky. But soon Booker is snoring in a painful looking contortion in the armchair, which he will most likely complain about in the morning, and Andy's breathing is also getting increasingly deeper and even behind them on the sofa.

Only Joe, always his beloved Yusuf , keeps him company that night, whispering poetry softly in his ear, intimately as if he were telling Nicky a secret, the elaborate metaphors meant only for the two of them. Nicky loves Joe so much it hurts.

Lost in thought they watch the flickering blaze of colors of the flames and Nicky holds Joe's hands in his lap and plays around with his fingers, listening to the sweet nothings Joe tells him and presses himself even closer, although that is hardly possible.

" Like the sweetest vine, I devour your love, my body a vessel for the echo of your spirit ," Joe whispers and Nicky squeezes his hand once very tight.

After this mission, they settle on the coast in Greece, in a small house far away from society, to gather themselves. But Nicky is aware that they are just waiting for him to process the aftermath of their capture by Cameron's men.

And it's hard for Nicky.

He doesn't sleep properly for two weeks: at night he refuses to go to bed and surround himself with darkness as he sleeps. He only sleeps during the day and only when his body has reached the limit so he gets the sleep he needs on his own. But Nicky never sleeps long, never uninterrupted and never deep, always on the verge of awakening, disturbed by the rough scraping of his thoughts and the harsh words in his head. Be quiet!

He doesn't eat properly for two weeks: his appetite is as lost as his concentration, and only reluctantly does he let Joe, Andy and Booker coax him into eating fruits, soups, or anything else light because the feeling of his caustic, hot blood is always present on his tongue and hands.

He doesn't cook for two weeks because the knives remind him of Cameron's torture and the stake , brutal, aching, merciless in his chest, his hand guiding it to cut and tear. Life has no color but red and Nicky can't cook when everything tastes like metal and is just as red .

He doesn't read for two weeks, doesn't do puzzles for two weeks, doesn't do crossword puzzles, doesn't crochet, doesn't swim, doesn't hike, doesn't live . He doesn't participate in casual game nights, rarely accompanies the others to the beach and then sits silently on the sand, Minnie always with him.

He has many panic attacks that surprise him with their suddenness, in which he trembles and cries and has difficulty swallowing the lump forming in his throat and retreats to the bathroom or to his and Joe's room. Always alone until the attack has subsided and he feels able to expose himself to the gaze of the people he loves.

His family is very worried, Nicky sees this in how often Booker brings him an interesting stone, a new book or something else from his strolls or how close Andy sits next to him and even offers him her well-kept pastries to get him to eat or how understanding Joe is about the fact that they have barely kissed since Cameron and Nicky has been withdrawing to solitude more often.

They support and help him as best as they can and Nicky loves them all.

It's a slow process of recovery, but Nicky tries hard.

Then comes the day when he pours himself a cup of tea in the morning and, as he walks past Joe's chair to sit down, tears off a piece of the latter's breakfast and puts it in his mouth. Joe pauses with the coffee cup on its way to his mouth before beaming like the sun itself, so Nicky can't help but smile back. And it doesn't feel wrong.

"I'm beginning to feel that today is going to be a fantastic day!" Joe's enthusiasm and beaming smile are balm for Nicky's soul, and he leans forward as Joe offers him another bite of his pastry. So they leisurely share breakfast and Nicky's facial muscles hurt slightly because he's smiling properly for the first time in weeks.

"Shall we go for a walk on the beach afterwards, habibi ?" Despite phrasing it as a question, it's just a suggestion from Joe and Nicky reaches out his hand and removes a bit of sugar from the corner of Joe's mouth, which he then licks off his finger.

"Sounds good to me. Can we run some errands on the way back?"

Joe's dark eyes have watched intently as Nicky's finger disappears into his mouth, and Nicky greets the old familiar warmth pooling in his belly with an inward sigh of relief. "Absolutely! How could I refuse my love?” Joe's dimples are the most beautiful thing Nicky has ever seen.

When Booker and Andy, who had left the house before breakfast to meet someone for new passports, return, Nicky is in the process of making spinach pita.

Joe eagerly assists him, half-singing along to the song Nicky has quietly intoned, occasionally rocking them back and forth in a fun way, and Nicky begins to feel like himself again. Nevertheless, he winces slightly when Booker practically yanks open the kitchen door and bursts into the room.

"Oh, hey, Book." Joe waves a flour-dusted hand and presents a grin that's full of joy again. "I hope you are hungry."

Booker doesn't give Joe a glance, just stares at Nicky without saying anything, then folds his hands together as if in prayer. " Dieu merci !" With a few steps he is at Nicky's side, wrapping him so carefully and slowly into an embrace as if he were expecting Nicky to recoil from his touch. "It was so quiet without your singing and fuck, did I miss your cooking! If I have to eat one more of Andy's own creations, I'm going to throw myself out the window."

Joe laughs amused. "How fortunate that we're on the first floor."

Since Booker is sparing with his hugs, Nicky returns it harder than he would have expected from himself and enjoys it while it lasts. “And here I thought you had missed me . You only reduce me to my cooking? I'm hurt, Sebastien."

For a split second, Booker tenses, searching Nicky's face for a clue about Nicky's emotional state, but when he spots the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth, he snorts a laugh. "We all only reduce you to your cooking skills."

"Hey!" Joe protests exaggeratedly horrified.

"Don't put me on Nicky's blacklist, Book!" Andy hits Booker in the back of the head as she walks in and pushes him aside. "I haven't spent the last few days trying to cook something for nothing, only to have to deal with Nicky's disappointment now."

She also hugs him tightly and presses a kiss on his cheek, and the edges of her face lose their sharpness when he squeezes her hand. “It's good to see you like this, Nicky. The next time Booker nags about dinner, he'll lose all rights to the TV in our next place to stay."

Booker is not bothered by this threat. "Since Joe still has the rights to the TV then, I'll still be able to watch football."

"Not if I give my rights to Nicky." Joe wraps his arms around Nicky from behind and rests his chin on Nicky's shoulder. "Then Nicky will have double TV rights."

"And you won't have any," Andy says with a grin, chuckling as Booker lets out a dramatic, deep sigh and lets his forehead fall against the refrigerator. "So do yourself a favor and don't shoot yourself in the foot."

Booker shakes his head and says to the fridge, "I'm not, now that Nicky is back in charge of the kitchen again, so I've got no reason to nag because the porridge tastes like clay."

Pain, a poker, darkness.

Be quiet! But this time the awful voice is almost entirely lost in the casual joking around of his family, which Nicky has missed so much that he notices tears gathering in the corners of his eye, but they are not bad tears.

"Green," Nicky awkwardly interrupts Andy and Booker's discussion with Joe's amused interjections because he feels he has to tell his family. To let them know he is better and they have helped him and that he is happy to have them. "The color is green."

In the time when nobody says anything, Nicky calculates how long the food will take to finish and rubs the hem of his shirt between his fingers. Was the moment too inappropriate? Did he remind the others again of the sadness of the past few weeks?

But then Andy's lips twist into a warm, heartfelt smile and she cups the back of his head before her hand moves to his neck, gently running through his hair. "I'm fucking glad to hear that. You scared the shit out of me, Nicky."

"I'm sorry," Nicky replies, ducking his head.

"Hey, no, none of that." Andy softly squeezes his neck until Nicky looks at her again, breaking eye contact after a few seconds, gaze moving around the kitchen. “You never have to apologize for that, you understand? We all love you and I'm sorry to break the news to you, but you're not getting rid of us. Booker in particular is like a tick."

"I figured you would have to destroy this emotional moment," Booker remarks sarcastically, but he grins and winks at Nicky. "You're the only one who gets the tick bonus."

Joe throws the kitchen towel at Booker, who effortlessly fishes it out of the air and tosses it back. "You're just trying to score bonus points and distract from the fact that you said earlier you missed Nicky's cooking the most and not him."

Innocently, Booker raises both hands. "Would never occur to me."

While Andy and Booker go ahead and set the table, Joe gently turns Nicky around to face him and puts a hand on his cheek, his ring a cool contrast against Nicky's warm skin. “Can you look at me, hayati ? And show me your beautiful eyes?"

How could Nicky refuse his soulmate this tender request? When his bright eyes meet the expressive dark eyes of Joe, the world around him comes to a standstill and begins to revolve around Joe as the orbit of his life. "There you are." Joe gives him a small, mischievous smile and Nicky gingerly traces his laugh lines. “I am incredibly proud of you, Nicolo. Your strength and dedication to your family inspire me every day. We all have moments when it is difficult for us to move on, but just as you are there for us, we are there for you. Always."

"Hmmm." Nicky smiles back, tracing Joe's soft lips. "My incurable romantic."

"Just for you," Joe assures him with a low chuckle.

“Boo,” Booker goes. "If I can't play this card, you can't either!"

"You bet I'm allowed to! As Nicky's significant other, I have privileges."

Booker pretends to throw a plate at Joe, but duly places it on the table as Joe takes cover behind Nicky. “Privileges, my ass. I'm starting a petition for team privileges."

"Good luck with that," Andy says with a laugh.

There is silence while eating, which is a very good sign, meaning that Nicky's family likes it. The atmosphere is relaxed and familiar, a layer like a blanket that promises safety and confidence, and Nicky smiles contentedly as Andy takes a second helping, snatching the bread he was aiming for from under Booker's nose. Booker snorts with a grunt, but takes another without protest, and Joe next to Nicky also eats with a clearly visible appetite.

And yes, this silence Nicky likes most.