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All men must die.
It was something Nicky thought of in the vaguest sense of the words. All men must die, yes absolutely, but Nicky had never been such a man. He lived and breathed after swords slashed him from limb to limb, after bullets tore through soft flesh and embedded themselves into bone, after those bones had broken, after arteries torn.
All men must die, but still Nicky lived.
But not for forever.
It takes Joe’s quiet, forceful curse for Nicky to realize something was wrong.
He feels like he’s owed a slow-reaction time. His side is gaping open, blood spilling to the hard concrete floors in rivulets even as Nicky clutches at it with one hand. In the other, he fires round after round into the dusty blackness. Some bullets find their mark in the flesh of the faceless, nameless men who aided a human trafficking operations that claimed the lives of thousands of children.
Others don’t and the men keep coming.
“There’s too many of them.” Nicky agrees, changing out a clip of bullets into his gun and sliding in his last one. His side still aches, head going light in the way it does before he passes out. But there is work to be done like there always is.
They have to figure out a way to keep these men distracted for long enough that Booker and Nile can get the remaining kids to safety.
A tinny voice buzzes in his ear, “We’re almost out.”
Nicky grunts in affirmation for Nile’s benefit-- a heard we will give them everything we got-- when Nicky pauses. And looks up at Joe.
Joe, who’s gazing in tight horror at Nicky’s side. Nicky looks down reflexively, and the blood continues to ooze. Black spots begin to dance on the edges of Nicky’s vision.
Oddly enough, it reminds him of a battlefield, nearly a millenia ago, when a sword ran through his heart for the first time.
He says a low, “Joe.”
And stumbles.
But, like always, Joe catches him before he hits the ground.
“No,” Joe says first in English then a hundred times in a mix of Italian and Arabic. His grip is tight on Nicky’s waist as he hauls them both from out in the open to behind concrete pillars “Not yet, my love. You have to wait.”
Wait, Nicky thinks distantly, wait wait wait for what? He’s done a thousand years of waiting.
Joe collapses onto his knees and props Nicky up against the pillar. His eyes, dark, deep brown like the soil of the Earth, are tight. He stares at Nicky’s side like the power of his gaze can heal him like Nicky’s body had healed him for centuries.
“You’re not healing.” Joe’s voice is oddly calm, even as he takes over pressing on the wound. The pain is sharp, but Nicky grasps his own bloodied hand around Joe’s wrist. “Nicky-”
“It’s time.” Like Lykon, dead even before Nicky and Joe had been alive. Like Andy, who went peacefully years before. “Joe-”
“Nicolo.” Joe’s eyes close tightly, head bowing and pressing his forehead against Nicky’s own. Nicky smiles and the pain fades away-- how could it exist when he’s surrounded by the man he’s been utterly devoted to since the beginning.
He sees them suddenly, a thousand years before, staring across a bloodied field at each other. The scene of death and rot and fear had been ripe in the early morning air, but Nicky had noticed only the man. He had gripped his sword, pointed it at him; fearless in challenge. Nicky had grinned, shoulder aching from hours and weeks of battle.
And then they had charged.
His world had never been the same.
A bullet catches on the pillar he and Joe are taking shelter behind and bits of concrete and plaster spray down on them. Joe hunches protectively over Nicky, shielding him from most of the dust.
“Romantic.” Nicky gets out, as teasingly as he’s able. But the taste of copper is suddenly on his tongue and his head feels much too heavy for his body. Joe traces dirtied fingers down Nicky’s cheek, eyes searching. Nicky tries to be present for him, but it's getting harder. He clutches at Joe’s wrist again, “You have to get out of here.”
Joe smiles and does no such thing. He sits back on his haunches and unclips his belt. Nicky realizes what he’s going for in seconds. He shakes his head, but senses there is no point. Joe unclips and pulls free several grenades.
He slips into Italian, “There is no guarantee that it’ll work.”
“It will work.”
“What if it's not your time?” Nicky finds himself panicked at the thought; panicked that he will die and Joe will live and-- he’s seen what loneliness and grief had done to Booker. He saw the pain Andy lived with for centuries. What if that same grief grabs hold of Joe and mangles him from the inside out?
And what if Nicky passes into death and he’s alone for the first time in centuries.
But Joe doesn’t seem perturbed at all. He brushes back strands of bloodied hair from Nicky’s face and uses one hand to arm a grenade. He hands one to Nicky, who takes it and slips the pin out.
“My time, my body, my heart-- it’s with you. It follows you, always.” Joe took a breath, “In life and in what comes after.”
“I love you,” Nicky says in Italian, and then again in Arabic. “You are my heart.”
“My heart,” Joe agrees and shuffles on his knees to lean against the pillar next to Nicky. “Where you go, I go.”
The bullets are getting closer and the men who fire close in. Joe speaks softly into the com, but Nicky cannot follow the conversation, too exhausted with finalty and blood loss. But he hears Nile’s voice get a little louder and then fade out. He hears her tell them she loves them both, that she and Booker are both clear of the building with the children.
Joe offers out his free hand and Nicky grasps it.
Nicky let’s out a pained breath and notices that there are the barest hint of tears slipping from his eyes. “I’ll see you soon then.”
Joe smiles at him, leans over and kisses him. Nicky’s eyes slip shut.
The men with guns surround them now from all sides. Joe smiles and relaxes his hand, letting the grenade do the rest of the work.