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& so yes,
there is an ocean between us the
distance of my arm & I have built
nothing for you that can survive it.& from here I am close enough to be
seen but not close enough to be cherished.& from here, I can see every possible
ending before we even touch.- Hanif Abdurraqib
At the precise moment Joe died for the first time, after the bullet from the sniper’s nest opened a nine-millimeter hole in his apartment and then his throat—Andy and Nile walked under a flickering streetlight in Romania, on their way to meet an informant; Nicky stood on a balcony near enough to provide a covert tactical advantage, finishing a cigarette, adjusting the scope of his rifle; and a sinkhole opened in Booker’s alcohol-soaked brain, five feet and one thin wall from Joe’s limp body, taking every memory with it.
He knows this because he saw it, even if he didn’t strictly understand what it was at the time.
Total retrograde amnesia. Joe asked him, a few weeks into their acquaintance—after all the shit had gone down, once he understood exactly what he’d gotten himself into—if it felt anything like dying.
He’d been working on a theory, you see, about death and memory and sinkholes. Something about the contrast. Joe’s wound had healed, the hole had closed in on itself, but sinkholes expand, big big mouths swallowing up their surroundings bit by bit. Maybe losing your memory is a bit like that, like one giant sinkhole, a constant dying.
“It doesn’t feel like anything,” Booker’d answered quietly.
And there went that hypothesis. Oh well. It didn’t make much sense anyway, Joe figured at the time. He supposed he was always more of a poet than a scholar, really.
Then again, he wasn’t much of a fighter before he died, either.
(Andy had told him, soon after they met, that he could never return home now. As if an immigrant boy from Tunisia had never heard that before. That was his first home; then the Netherlands, then the United States, and then he’d died in France. He knew what she meant though— that he would never be able to walk the neighbourhood his parents had grown up in, lest someone recognise his father’s dimpled face, or his mother’s eyes, and invite him in for a long tea that turned into a late dinner. He could never wander down the wide uneven paths near where his sister still lived in Amsterdam. He wouldn’t be able to cross a border carrying his own last name ever again.)
And now, well—he wouldn’t say he’s good, at least not by any of Andromache the I’ve-forgotten-more-ways-to-fight-than-you’ll-ever-learn Scythian’s standards, but he’s better. Knows how to throw a punch and take a hit without crying (on both counts, thank you very much) and how to handle a truly absurd variety of weapons, from guns, swords, to crossbows (because ‘you never know what you’ll have available when the time comes!’).
He wasn’t a traditional fighter, maybe, but he had fought to make space for his full name in almost every language on his tongue; had cut the dead weight of colonialism that dragged his family across the North African desert to Europe, and he’s fought for his right to exist within that culture as a gay Muslim man. This is the kind of fighting Joe is used to.
All this to say, he’s still—six months after his first death—mostly appointed to assisting recon missions. It sounded very exciting when he’d first heard of it, something sexy and dangerous that aligned more or less with his image of what being in an immortal mercenary group would entail.
The reality is somewhat banal. A lot of sitting in one room, listening to inane conversations through the radio transmitter in case someone says something important, or waiting days for targets that might, for the briefest of windows, appear in certain locations. There’s certainly more downtime than he expected, which he endures with varying levels of tolerance depending on how long and how alone he is.
Luckily, most of the time, Joe is assisting Nicky.
They’ve set up in the room of an abandoned floor in a south London apartment building, across the street from what might be Kozak’s new set-up. She’s been on their radar for some time now, with Copley attempting to track her movements, figuring out what she’s been up to.
Joe wasn’t there for the Merrick mess; that was Nile’s introduction to immortality. He knows Booker betrayed them (from his introduction to immortality); he knows Merrick used Booker’s intel with Copley’s help to capture Nicky from a safehouse in Goussainville; that Kozak had done experiments that ranged from ethically questionable to evil scientist-esque, including taking tissue, blood, and lung samples (he did not dry-heave when Nicky had told him that particular detail in much the same manner that one runs down a grocery list, but it was a close call), that Andy had lost her immortality somewhere in the process, and that Merrick didn’t leave the building in one piece.
Neither did Nile, apparently. But she got back up again.
Kozak slipped away in the ensuing chaos. In the meantime, Andy’s prerogative has been to lay low and keep an eye out for whenever she inevitably resurfaces. They’d done some background, identified a few pressure points, and then a couple months ago, Copley sent through an encrypted email he’d found in Merrick Pharma Co.’s archives naming their shadow subsidiaries. After some cross-referencing, they’d narrowed down a list of the seven most likely companies she could have migrated to with her samples in tow, hoping to continue her research without a live subject. It's a process of elimination from there.
They’re on their third shift of the fourth one on the list, a company that specializes in biotechnical 3D printers. Or was it biomechanical engineering? Whatever. They print body parts; it seemed right up Kozak’s alley.
It’s about 10 pm; Booker and Nile will be coming to relieve them in twelve hours or so. The street below is bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights, casting long shadows on the quiet pavement. The usual city noise has faded, replaced by a gentle hum of distant traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool evening breeze.
The only light in their hideout is coming from outside the window, cutting shapes into Nicky’s body and face, which sits impassive and patient, waiting, watching through the scope of his sniper’s rifle.
Joe sits almost across from him, leaning back against the interior wall that faces the street, one ear pressed to a headphone that hasn’t picked up anything but the occasional bus going by below them.
Nicky doesn’t say much, which is pretty normal; he’s quiet when he’s like this. Focused. This is important to him, Joe knows.
Joe also knows, as much as Nicky does, that they’re not finding Kozak tonight. Miracles happen, of course—look at him, look at them—but something in his gut tells him this isn’t the one.
Some part of Nicky must agree, because when Joe sets the headphones down with a sigh, he doesn’t admonish him. Instead, in a rare moment of indulgence on the job, he sits back in his chair and sighs too, before reaching for his pack of cigarettes.
He lifts his hands, palms cupped like he’s cradling a baby bird as he clicks the lighter, furiously gentle, coaxing.
The smell of smoke reaches Joe’s nostrils in no time, and like a Pavlovian dog, he finds himself getting hard. He stares up at Nicky like he might get a treat if he’s good enough.
It’s only after Nicky takes his first drag that he looks at Joe properly.
“Tutto bene?”
Nicky is…unfathomable. Unfuckwithable. A sea wall with sea green eyes. No great incursion had shored up against it and won; no sinkhole could collapse it. When they first met (under less than desirable circumstances, mind you), before he knew anything about Nicky, Joe could intuit he was a dangerous human being just from the self-assured way he carried his body around, like it hadn’t ever failed him.
He also delights in telling people no in a way that’s only noticeable by the slightest uptick of his mouth or crinkle at his eye. He is tacit and serious about a lot of things, the mission, their (relative) safety, their role in the universe. Sometimes he sits down like he’s been holding the world on those big, broad shoulders of his, and his under-eyes are constantly bruised, like he doesn’t ever sleep well.
But then, out of nowhere, he’ll do something totally unexpected, like laugh at one of Joe’s terrible jokes, or place an atrocious bet against Booker sans prompt, or agree to do something fuckstupid just because Joe asked him at the right moment.
Like two companies ago, on the fifth shift that had already been four too many after they should have given up, Joe had stared too long at Nicky when he’d set up his sniper’s perch, and when Nicky had asked him everything ok? in that low, soft voice, vowels rolling into each other, Joe opened his mouth and his weapons-grade competence kink came out and asked if Nicky would step on him.
(He freezes. Joe does too.
“What,” his voice is exceptionally steady, which is precisely the giveaway that tells Jow how affected he actually is, “was that?”
The thing is, it wasn’t like they hadn’t fucked before. This thing between them started three months ago and has been full steam ahead from the get-go. Joe is pretty sure he’s been in love with Nicky since he appeared like an angel above him upon waking up from the dead. And yeah, sure, it’s a little obvious that Nicky has a thing for Joe’s reckless enthusiasm for a firm touch, will do just about anything to get it, to please his partner, that Joe perhaps follows directions a little too quickly on the rare occasion Nicky gives them-but none of that indicates getting kinky on the job is anywhere on Nicky’s radar.
But, because Joe’s brain is broken (he blames the oxygen it was deprived before he died the first time), instead of backtracking, or apologizing, or pretending he never said anything, he doubles down.
“I uh, I said,” he clears his throat, eyes lingering on the scope. “Step on me? Please?”
Nicky looks at him for a moment. He says, “Hm.” And then, “Okay,” and then he sits down on the chair, knees open, boots firmly planted on the ground either side of the stand.
Getting into position, Joe’s mind supplies, staring at them. Preparing to fire.
Nicky makes a noise of mild impatience, and Joe scrambles to kneel, wincing only slightly at the way his knees hit the ground a little too hard in his hastiness. He was already half-hard, blood thrumming in anticipation, beyond excited at getting a rare glimpse of Nicky’s maverick side coming out to play.
And then he lifts one heavy, well-made leather boot and places it directly between Joe’s legs. He presses down on Joe’s dick with gentle, firm pressure. Testing the waters. Watching Joe’s face.
His thighs tremble, eyes falling shut and then opening again on Nicky’s face.
He is the picture of feigned interest, only the slight unevenness to his breathing and his blown-out pupils giving him away.
“Good?”
“Hah,” is all Joe can muster in response. Too much firing all at once. The promise of what he wants is positively intoxicating. His brain is reduced to soupy melted mess.
Nicky presses harder.
“Speak up— use your words.”
Joe groans, long and deep. His face is on fire. “Fuck—”
He cups the heel of the offending boot. Can’t help rolling his hips into it, just a little, teeth grinding together.
A tut, and then Nicky relents.
Joe lets out a soft noise of protest.
“Shh. Be good for me,” he says, dismissively, as if that isn’t supposed to make Joe even more squirmy and desperate.
It goes on like this for some time. Nicky eventually shifts his focus to the scope again, leaving Joe to press himself close as he pleases, occasionally giving in and offering Joe that sweet blinding pain.
After a while, he lights a cigarette and starts smoking it.
Joe can’t help the noise that escapes him.
“Desperate, hm? It’s not so surprising. You could not even wait until we got home before you begged for this. Dio. Joe. Go on. You can come.”
The gentle degradation is, frankly, incandescent. Breath short, throat tight, Joe does come, curled over, shuddering into Nicky’s knee as he spills into his underwear.)
All this to say, when Nicky asks him that question again—everything ok?—Joe is not entirely responsible for what comes next. Nicky is at least an accessory, if not an equal culprit in this crime.
“No, Nicky, I think I’m dying of boredom. There’s no way Kozak is using this place as a cover.”
“I agree,” he says. “It is very unlikely. And…I suppose it is a bit dull,” he flashes one of his barely-there smiles before taking another drag. “But it’s a nice night, no?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Joe nods, taking note of the mild temperature. “But hey, you know what would make it an even nicer night? If we abandoned the mission for a few hours and made out instead.”
“Would it be?” Nicky’s brow is raised, and Joe is 95% sure it’s because he used an obnoxiously American word to seduce him.
“Definitely. Maybe I’ll even let you get to second base.”
Nicky’s eyes flash with something for the briefest of moments, like a quickfire warning shot, before he wrests his mouth into an unamused line.
“To second base, is that right?”
Baseball metaphor. That’s two for two now. At this rate, he might even get annoyed enough to rail Joe into the floor, mission be damned. His back will hate him for it, but it’ll be worth it.
“Yeah,” Joe smiles wide, lets one of his legs fall a little more open. “If you’re lucky.”
Nicky swallows, eyes dipping down.
There’s a click in his throat as he reloads,
Aims his sight back onto Joe,
And fires.
“If I’m lucky?”
Joe folds instantly, capitulating the game; time to pivot to sincere begging.
“Come on, Nicky,” he’s pouting, for crying out loud. “Please? I’ll be quiet for the rest of the night.”
“Hm.” It’s a doubtful sound. It goes straight to Joe’s dick.
“Surely, I mean. A man with all your experience-” that makes something in Nicky’s face tick, “can focus on more than one thing at once?”
An unimpressed look. “Do you insult the intelligence of all the men you invite into bed, or am I special?”
“You’re special,” Joe rushes to say, and his breathless face must show a little too transparently how much that’s true, because Nicky’s eyes instantly soften.
He drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it beneath his boot.
Got ‘em.
“Come here then.”
Because, and get this, because this is the crux of it really, the pièce de résistance: Nicky seems to like spoiling Joe even more than he likes resisting his own impulses (another relevant fact about Nicky: before he died in the Crusades, he was an honest to god priest. And apparently, some habits die harder than Nicky prefers to be before he’ll let Joe touch him).
He’s up in Nicky’s lap in no time, nose buried in the collar of his shirt to breathe him in, mouth catching on the skin of his shoulder, his neck, his jaw-
“Joe—”
Nicky catches his chin by the thumb and brings their lips together, frying pan hands spanning the line of his jaw and sliding up his back and why the fuck are they ever doing anything other than this, Joe thinks, as he slips his fingers underneath Nicky’s shirt.
(Elsewhere, a lone night heron swoops silently from one rooftop to another, wings ghost-like against the dim night sky. A couple walks slowly down the ancient roads of Genoa, talking in hushed voices, their words blending with the distant city hum. The ocean air is cool, fresh with the hint of salt lining the horizon. As they pass under a tree, a small bird, disturbed from its sleep, flits to a higher branch, barely making a sound.)
Sometimes Joe imagines he sees a crack in the sea wall. Somewhere the light can still get in.
Nicky’s hands slide up, tugging on Joe’s hair before landing at the nape of his neck.
Joe lets out a groan. Then the hand follows the curve of Joe’s skin until it rests at his throat, palm pressed to sternum, and the noise turns broken and soft. Yes, something deep and terrible screams within him. Yes, please, yes.
More insistent pressure, and Joe’s brain catches up enough to take the cue, pulling back enough to catch Nicky’s eyes. The tips of his ears are red; Joe knows if he took his shirt off, a similar flush would be sprawling up his chest.
“Take off your clothes and lie down for me.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice (okay, well that’s a bold-faced lie. Sometimes he does, but usually that’s because Nicky might hit him for it, which is just good clean faking it for fun, no harm done), standing back up to whip off his shirt before going to the button of his jeans.
Before he goes to lie down, Nicky shoves a blanket in his hands.
“Put this down first. For your back.”
Joe stops. Looks over where Nicky is leant over his to-go bag producing a bottle of lube, and smothers a smile.
He’d brought a blanket. And lube. Because he’d been thinking about this too, even planned it so Joe could be comfortable, but he’d made Joe beg for it instead of asking for it himself. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if Joe would want to. Maybe because he was sure Joe would, and because he knows what it does to Joe when Nicky gets him to beg.
Oh, Joe is completely in love.
He’s also completely shit out of luck, because Nicky turns around and he’s still just standing there holding the blanket.
“Yusuf.”
“On it.”
He stores away the thought for later. Right next to sinkholes, and dying, and memories of home.
The blanket is soft on his back when he lies down. From his place on it, if he tilts his head back just so, he can just about see a waning moon in the frame of the window.
A hand at his jaw brings him back into the room. It slips down and fists his cock, causing Joe to hiss.
“There you are.”
“Mean,” Joe mutters. The cool lube warms quickly enough though. And then he’s cursing, softly, as Nicky continues to stroke him, palms warm and soft as they slip over and over the head of his cock.
He tries to reach for Nicky, but his hands are batted away.
“A man of your experience should try focusing on just the one thing, maybe,” he chides.
That makes Joe laugh; in lieu of joining, Nicky’s grip goes too tight for a white-hot second in response, making him cry out and arch his back. Then the hand is gone altogether.
Before he has time to beg, Nicky straddles him properly and starts to sink down onto his cock.
“Fuck. Nicky.” It comes out ragged. Joe’s hands run up and down his thighs, unsure what to do in the tight hot pressure surrounding his dick.
Nicky’s head is thrown back slightly, mouth slightly parted to release a small, barely-there sigh. That, the slight tremble in his left thigh, and the flush creeping up his neck.
He looks down at Joe and swears.
“Christ, look at you,” his voice is shaking. “You feel so good. God. Joe.”
There’s no way he had time to prep himself properly, Joe thinks. The stretch must be devastating; he’s so tight that when Joe blinks he sees stars.
Nicky’s eyebrows pinch as he focuses on taking the rest inside. When he’s finally seated, Joe watches, rapt, the dip and roll of his shoulder; relaxed. Full.
Joe clenches his abdomen, and Nicky makes a noise in his throat like a wounded animal. So Joe does it again, and Nicky retaliates by clenching around him until he’s breathless, before sliding his hand up to Joe’s throat.
Last time after Joe came, when he could think clearly again, he scrambled for Nicky’s pants, muttering pleases and let mes and thank yous as Nicky helped maneuver his own cock out of his underwear, and then Joe choked trying to get it as far down his throat as humanly possible.
(“Joe, fuck- for Christ’s sake,” he laughed though, voice uneven with desire, and gripped Joe’s hair to pull him off so he could breathe. “You’re going to kill yourself on my cock. Here then, open your throat,” his cock slid back in as his fingers found the flutter of the pulse below Joe’s jaw, “now swallow—”)
He thinks he wouldn’t mind choking to death on Nicky’s cock. Autoerotic asphyxiation. Or just erotic asphyxiation, maybe?
It probably wouldn’t be as hot as it sounds. After all, Joe did technically die, choking on his own blood. It didn’t feel particularly sexy then.
Nile had died in a similar way, not long before him. When she’d told him as much, they’d high-fived, much to Booker’s amusement and Nicky’s deep chagrin.
Andy had looked worried. She thinks, like the man who killed Joe did, that something is coming. Something big. That’s why he and Nile had surfaced so quickly, after so long without a new immortal. The universe is ramping up for a fight, but nobody knows the stakes, or the sides, or the cost it’ll run up.
Something big and terrible. But then, isn’t something always coming for them? Unexpected loss. Another iron coffin. The bullet wound that suddenly doesn’t heal. Total retrograde amnesia. What is left that could break them?
All Joe knows is, he died on the business end of a sniper rifle six months ago, and now he’s getting fucked on the floor within an inch of his life by a man who died over a thousand years before him.
When Nicky applies a scant amount of pressure, Joe swears and blurts out, “Fuck, Nicky, fuck, I wish it’d been you that killed me.”
Shit.
Joe snaps his eyes open but only has a second or two to panic before he sees Nicky’s reaction- the dark pupils of his eyes before he squeezes them shut and groans deeply, takes himself in hand, and finishes with a shocked gasp all over Joe’s stomach.
He can’t bear it; there are no words but please, can I, Nicky, I’m so close, and so Nicky finally closes his hand enough to make Joe’s lungs squeeze with effort and then everything goes molten and blurry as his orgasm rolls through him.
—
After Nicky cleans them both up and refolds the blanket, he pauses to look over at Joe.
“I wish it could have been you, too.”