Chapter Text
Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence. - Ovid
She woke slowly, coming back to consciousness at a crawl. She dragged her eyes open, blinking until the sunlight coming in from the hotel windows was bearable, and saw Booker sitting up on the side of the bed, rubbing his hand through his hair, still gloriously naked.
“Morning,” she said, stretching her arm over her head. He turned, giving her a crooked little half-smile, and she returned it. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I am,” he said, motioning to where he sat, and she clucked her tongue. “Was gonna go get breakfast. I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”
She reached for him and he turned to face her properly, taking her hand in his. “Breakfast can wait,” she said, yawning between sentences. “Come back down here with me.”
He hummed, rubbed her knuckles, and then tilted his head as he regarded her. Then, he reached down, grabbed the bed covers, and tugged them down to her feet. She felt her smile grow, and she released his hand to crook her finger at him, hoping to entice him back down with her already. “I’d rather you touch me than just look, y’know.”
“I can do both,” he said lightly, laying his hand on her leg right above her knee. He rubbed her skin, slowly slid his palm up along her thigh, and said, “I wanted to see you in sunlight.”
She bit her lip, a pleasant flush of heat coming to her cheeks, and she spread her legs a little as his hand moved higher along her thigh. “You look pretty good in the sun, too.” And he did, Lord. The highlights of his hair and beard, his eyes, the lines of his shoulders, his arms...
“We’re talking about you right now,” he said, and she laughed. His lips twitched, and he dipped his fingers between her legs, trailing his fingertips up along the insides of her thighs.
He came down to her then, finally, lounging aside her legs, slowly stroking her skin, taking his time to go higher. His gaze settled between her legs as he turned his hand, stroked his knuckles high up over the apex of her thighs, over where her thigh met her hips. The attention, the focus on his face as he looked at her overwhelmed her, and she had to look away, face burning, lust blooming low in her gut. The fact that he could do this to her just by looking...
“If I had a canvas and paint right now,” he murmured, stroking the backs of his fingers over her slowly dampening lower lips, and she sighed his name and spread her legs wider, “I’d create my own private L'Origine du monde.”
All her breath left her at once, and she looked at him again, reaching down to cup the back of his head. He looked up and leaned down, ducked his head to press his mouth against her pussy in a lingering devoted kiss, eyes still on hers. She moaned, melting slowly as he kissed her again and again, slowly turning each kiss into something deeper, hungrier, until finally he closed his eyes and pressed in close, licking into her.
“God, that’s...that’s good,” she breathed, moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair, watching his mouth working her over. She gently pushed her hips toward him, and he responded by dragging his tongue over her clit and curving his palm over her belly, holding her as she moaned and rolled her hips.
He stayed between her legs, licking and kissing and eating her out like it was his sole motivation in life, until she fell apart, moaning his name (Sébastien), squeezing him between her thighs and clutching at his head.
“I,” she said breathlessly, loosening her fingers in his hair, “God, Book.”
He pressed one last kiss to the inside of her thigh, and pulled himself up slowly, cupping her hip. “Are you ready for breakfast now?”
She laughed weakly, opening her eyes to look down at him, still fully in recovery mode. “No, fuck. Get up here.”
Instead of Booker going out to retrieve breakfast alone, they went out to an absurdly busy biscuit place to pick it up together and then bring it back to the hotel to eat in peace with each other, and then after getting distracted after breakfast--
It was such a relief. She could just touch him whenever she wanted, could be touched by him whenever he wanted, and their wants just never seemed to be mismatched. She could walk up behind him as he trimmed his beard (with scissors and a comb, God), and hug him around his middle and see the expression on his face just change immediately into something that looked as relieved as she felt.
--they started packing.
“Hey,” she said, carefully rolling her clothing up, glancing over to where he was artfully stuffing everything into his bag, “We should stay a little longer in Marseille before going back up to Paris.”
He paused briefly, looking over at her. “You want to?”
“Yeah,” she smiled, sitting down on the bed and pulling her leg up as she watched him. “I love it there. It’ll be nice to be there together now that we’re...” she trailed off, tilting her head. He paused fully, then slowly smiled and sat down too.
“Alright,” he said, reaching over tentatively to lay his hand on her calf. Relief. “If you want to.”
She rubbed the back of his hand, and then, a little tentatively as well, said, “Also, I saw that Chanukah’s in a couple weeks. I thought it’d also be nice to be together for that?” She tapped her finger against his ring. The damn things had not once been removed from either of their hands. She wondered if the others would notice when she went back to see them.
“Really?” he asked, watching her closely, his expression kind of thoughtful, kind of something else she couldn’t quite figure out. As strongly as she felt for him, she was still learning seemingly every day new things about him, and she figured it was probably the same for him. “Ah...if you’d like to,” he said finally, and he turned his hand over to let her hold it. “It’s...more of a holiday for children.”
“Oh,” she said, and she bit her lip as she studied his face. “Is that...we don’t have to do anything. If it's too much. I just thought--”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted with a quiet smile, and then he leaned over and gave her a soft lingering kiss. Relief. She returned it, cupping his cheek with her free hand, feeling like a knot in her brain had come untied. “I want you with me regardless of the reason.” His voice always went soft when he said these kinds of things, like he wanted to hide it just between the two of them. Even when they were alone.
She had to kiss him again for it. “Okay,” she said, smiling. “I don’t wanna be, uh, dumb about all of this. Tell me when I get shit wrong, okay?”
He let out a breath, brow furrowing just enough for her to notice, and he kissed her again. “You’re not dumb.” Slowly he pulled back, then tilted his head slightly. “But...you should tell me, too. Okay?”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Yeah, okay.” He was a different man with romance backing his words, she thought. She loved both versions.
“That, ah,” he said, sitting up a little straighter, still holding her hand. “We do need to...talk. About after this.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, not wanting to but knowing he was right. Knowing she’d been dreading the idea and struggling to figure out what the next step needed to be. “I do miss them, I want to go back and see them again. But...I don’t wanna leave you. I didn’t want to before and now I especially don’t.”
She could almost see the little grey cloud forming over his head as he closed his eyes, and she held tight to his hand just in case he might think about pulling it back. “I don’t know if you should...tell them about us.”
“Why?” she asked steadily, lacing her fingers through his.
“I think they may,” he said, opening his eyes again to look uncertainly at her, “Be angry with you. Or feel sorry . Or think I’ve...” He trailed off helplessly and with a sigh.
“You’ve what?” she pressed, scooting closer.
“I think,” he said after a few quiet moments of gazing at her, “You’ve fully taken over most of my brain, chérie.”
She was immediately distracted by the endearment, first, and then secondly the rest of his words, and she lay her hand on his cheek again, his scissor-trimmed beard. “That’s very sweet, but it doesn’t tell me what you’re afraid of.”
He sighed, but turned toward her hand and let her stroke her fingers over his brow. “I worry,” he said quietly, “That they will think I’m using you to come back. But, I thought as I tried to tell you that, you’d tell me I was being stupid.”
“I wouldn’t say it like that,” she said, frowning, watching as he pulled her hand down to kiss her thumb, “But no, they’re not gonna think that.” He didn’t say anything in reply, and she moved close enough that she could wrap her arms around him, relieved again when he returned the hug, burying his face against her shoulder. He was really pretty affectionate when given the chance. “And I’m not gonna lie about us.” She lay her cheek against his hair, sighing and closing her eyes as he began rubbing her back.
“If you ever find me as exhausting as I find myself,” he mumbled against her shirt, “That’s also something you should tell me.”
She couldn’t tell how to take that, exactly. His voice gave little away; he could be joking, trying to lighten the mood, or he could mean it seriously. Probably both. She decided to let it be a joke, to let him change the tone of the conversation. “You definitely tire me out, yeah,” she said, turning her head to kiss the top of his ear. “You wanna do it again right now?”
He laughed, tightened his arms around her, and she grinned. Okay, they hadn’t solved their logistics problem yet, but...they had time.
The flights back to Marseille were fine, as far as flights went. She didn’t sleep at all, couldn’t, and instead tried to read one of the books Sébastien had recommended her, David Graeber’s Possibilities: Essays on Hierarchy, Rebellion, and Desire. Just some light reading, there. In exchange she’d made him a full playlist to try to drown out the airplane engines. He had good musical taste, his legitimately-vintage jazz and blues record collection back in Marseille attested to that, but she’d figured he could use a little updating to his music library.
He’d seemed touched by it.
Returning to Marseille felt good and right. When they met up again post-flight, he seemed happy about it too, the headphones she’d made him buy securely around his neck, her phone tucked in the front pocket of his jacket. It was all very domestic. She should have felt overwhelmed by it, probably. Instead, she was just happy.
His apartment was just as they’d left it, beautiful and quiet and not miles in the air, and stepping back through the doors left her with a sudden and powerful sleepiness. “Fuck, I’m tired,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping as he shut and locked the door behind them. “Can we just nap before worrying about food?”
“If you’d like,” he said, taking her bag and heading towards the bedroom. “I could cook something while you sleep.”
“No, no,” she said, grabbing hold of his sides as she hurried up behind him, smiling when he laughed a little and slowed down. “You’re napping with me. In our bed.”
He didn’t reply, but he lead her into the bedroom and dropped the bags on the floor, then himself on the bed and pulled her close, between his knees. It was mid-day, but the curtains over the windows kept the room darker than the rest of the apartment. Perfect for naps. She settled her arms over his shoulders, yawning.
“Our bed,” he repeated, resting his hands on her hips, looking up at her with one of those still-unreadable Booker Expressions.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling and leaning down to kiss him, making a soft delighted noise when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her even closer. “It was ours before,” she murmured after the kiss, trailing her fingers over his back, the seams of his jacket.
“It was,” he agreed quietly, closing his eyes as he held her. “Okay. Let’s nap.”
They shed most of their clothing, getting down to underwear, and then crawled under the covers. She buried her face in the pillowcase he’d bought her, and he curled himself against her back, laying his arm alongside hers, kissing her shoulder as her eyelids got heavier and heavier.
“Should order pizza,” she mumbled, nearly falling asleep, “Later.”
He was apparently already asleep; she assumed his silence was agreement. She let herself follow him over into dreamland.
There was so much. Sound. Rushing. Laughter. Everything moving, the earth and sea and the sky quaking. Anger-understanding-relief-grief. A mirror looking in, a curiosity. A noise that should have been deafening, muffled. A constant distant thud that leaves a feeling of ill-defined malaise in its wake. A long empty street? Then-- yelling? Soft fabric.
Nile woke suddenly, gasping, arms and legs jerking as she was pulled abruptly back into consciousness. Beside her, Booker woke with her, twisting in the sheets before groaning and falling back with her, and she grabbed his arm, needing to make sure he was really there, that she wasn’t still dreaming.
“That,” she said breathlessly when she could, and he dropped his hand from his face, eyes meeting hers in the dark. “It was...”
“She’s out,” he said, and her heart clenched.
“She...are you sure?” she asked, her fingers feeling shaky where she was holding him. “Fuck, I thought...I thought I was being too...”
“I don’t know,” he relented, in English, closing his eyes as he sighed, the weight of all the years he’d been alive in the breath he took after. “I don’t...I don’t know.”
“Maybe she is,” she said, closing her eyes, trying to go through the images behind her eyes. They were already fading away. “I swear, I heard people talking.”
“Yelling,” he said quietly, and she nodded.
“Yeah...yeah, yelling. How could we both dream that if...” She swallowed, reached over to grab her phone from the bedside table to check the time. “Should we call them?”
He looked lost when she looked at him again. She imagined she looked the same way. “I don’t know,” he said weakly. “If we’re just...if we’re wrong...”
“I know,” she said. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. What would the others want them to do? She didn’t want to get their hopes up, she didn’t want to get Andy’s hopes up. What if-- what if?
“Did you see,” he said, slowly pulling himself up to a sitting position, rubbing his hand over his face, “I thought I saw a...a globe. Or a map.”
She looked at him, struggling to remember. “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. The dreams since they’d gotten back into Marseille a few days before had been blurry and odd, unsettling but not enough to startle either of them awake. This sudden change was alarming, but nothing was sure enough. “God, I just...I wish we could be certain.” He squeezed her hand, attempting to reassure both of them, and she sighed, putting her phone down. “Maybe we should call them.”
“Maybe,” he said. He looked as uneasy as she felt. “Maybe.”
“But maybe tomorrow,” she said after a few moments. “We should, um. Try to get some rest tonight. And then call them tomorrow. Instead of in the middle of the night, right?”
He nodded slowly, and she sighed. She felt like they were just delaying the inevitable, but. Shit. Neither of them even knew if this was the right thing to do, still. Maybe more rest would help them decide. Maybe.
They both settled back down into bed together. They hadn’t even decided on what to do about when she’d leave, but-- maybe they wouldn’t need to. If their dreams were really what they seemed to be...
Maybe their problem was going to be rapidly secondary to a much more important issue.
She turned in his arms, tucked her head under his chin, and let his slowly relaxing breath lull her back into an uneasy sleep.
The morning brought harsh light, but after some coffee and toast it was a little easier to deal with. They talked quietly at the kitchen table about their options.
Keep quiet and try to get more information from future dreams: if Quỳnh really were out, though, wouldn’t all of them need to mobilize to try to reach her and keep her safe from a world she’d been missing from for hundreds of years?
Tell the others the dreams had changed but provide no further details: get hopes up over nothing. Tell the others the dreams had changed and also tell them they thought she might have gotten free: hopes raised further, risking unbearable heartbreak if their guesses were wrong.
Assume she was out and try to find her based on the few details they’d managed to get from their dreams: improbable but not impossible. He introduced another idea to add to that one: what if she didn’t want to be found, yet or ever? He’d been dreaming of her for two-hundred years. Even in the short time Nile had been dreaming of her, she thought she’d begun to get hints of Quỳnh’s thoughts, her feelings. Nothing distinct, just enough for the dreams to never feel sterile, enough for them to always be rough and visceral and thoroughly human. Booker, with the extra experience, thought she might be angry, or too mad to be let near Andy, or--
He’d trailed off, tired eyes meeting hers, and she could only nod. How do you even begin to understand what someone’s mind would do after hundreds of years of drowning in a box on the bottom of the ocean?
They finally came to a decision: they’d give it one more night of sleep to see if they could discern any other details, and then they’d call the others. As much of a risk as it was, as terrifying as Nile found it to contemplate what they would all go through if their dreams had misled them-- what else could they do but be honest?
With the decision made, shakily, they left the apartment to head out to the beach for some fresh air. It was quiet, the sky growing darker from an approaching rain, and they only stayed a short while. They were both too in their own heads on top of not wanting to get rained on, and anyway, they needed to pick up some groceries and get started on dinner.
“Hey,” she said as she approached him where he stood in front of shelves full of preserves. “I wanna make a cake.”
He looked over, giving her a slight smile, and asked, “What kind?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh, resting her head on his shoulder, trying to be lightheartedly dramatic but mostly just needing the support. “Chocolate something.”
“Okay,” he gave her a kiss to the top of her head, “We’ll make a chocolate something cake.”
“Good,” she said, smiling in spite of their collective mood. “You got a preference on the ‘something’ part?”
He hummed thoughtfully, then finally picked out a jar of peach-mango preserves from the shelf. “Surprise me.”
The surprise ended up being a carton of strawberries, although it wasn’t much of a surprise since he was right there when she put them in the basket. But whatever, a chocolate cake topped with strawberries would be perfect regardless. She wasn’t sure it’d exactly go with the escabeche he'd be making, but she’d already made up her mind about baking that damn cake. So she was gonna make the damn cake.
They got back to the apartment right as it started raining.
“We spent too long looking at the chocolate,” she complained as they headed up the stairs, patting at her braids to flick away the drops of water she’d been unable to avoid as they’d hurried to get inside his building. “Definitely blaming that shop for having too many options.”
He laughed quietly as they reached the apartment door, and he pulled his keys out, giving her a sideways look. “Next time, just get the first thing you pick up.”
“Terrible advice,” she said, grinning. He just shrugged, eyes a little playful.
He went to unlock the door, but instead of unlocking it, the doorknob turned without resistance, and they both froze. He pulled his hand back, looked at her, and she pressed her lips together. She had no weapon, and neither did he-- why would they? They were on vacation. She suddenly felt like an idiot.
They stared at each other for several moments, trying to decide together what to do without talking. Maybe they’d just somehow left the door unlocked when they’d left? They had both been distracted. It didn’t seem likely.
He finally moved, gave her a slight nod, and stepped in front of her, moved her off to the side. He was already opening the door when she grabbed his arm, tried to pull him back, instantly irritated at him for deciding right then was a great time to be chivalrous. He ignored her and pushed the door open, moving into the doorway to block it, and her, from whatever might be beyond it.
He stepped inside cautiously, and past him she saw nothing but his living room. She moved in behind him, heart pounding, trying to remember where the closest gun was. The table by the couch?
“Nile, Booker.”
He was already turning when the voice startled her, and his arm shot out to push her behind him-- the suddenness of everything made ignoring him throwing himself in front of her unavoidable-- and then she turned too and saw...
“Quỳnh,” Nile breathed, shock washing over her as she stared at the woman who now stood in the kitchen doorway: dressed in red, a glass of water in hand, a steady calm in her eyes as she regarded them.
“It’s nice to finally meet you both,” the other woman said, her gaze moving steadily between the two of them, and slowly she took a sip of her water.