It's not the first undercover mission that Nile's been on, and she knows it won't be her last. It is, however, the first time Nile has had to pretend to be married. She stares down at the diamond ring, nestled with a simple wedding band, perched on her finger and tries to decide if she's having feelings about it. She figured, back before all of this, that she'd get married someday; maybe once she was out of the military, in college being the world's oldest undergrad. Whatever, she's overthinking all of this. It's for a mission. They're taking down an arms dealer. They're taking down an arms dealer who is known for spending a week every year at a very exclusive couple's retreat on an island somewhere in the Caribbean. She can be married for a week if the end result is this asshole stop funneling guns to terrorist organizations or whoever the highest bidder is, morals be damned.
There's a noise behind her and she startles, looking up and hoping Booker didn't just catch her staring at this fake wedding ring (one of a half dozen the group kept stashed away just for times like this) like some sort of moon-struck teenager.
"Hey," she greets, turning to pick up and then drop the last of her clothing into their shared suitcase. "Are you ready for this?"
"Everything is packed." He leans against the doorway with a brief smile. "We're ready to go."
It was not what she asked but Booker isn't sure how to answer. His marriage was one of the good times of his life. His wife had been an incredible woman. Not that Nile wasn't incredible but pretending to be married to her felt strange.
They's get through it for the mission. This resort was very conservative and did not allow same sex couples or else this would've been Joe and Nicky's mission.
It shouldn't be long though. They should be in and out in a few days at most. They just had to kill the guy without anyone seeing. No problem. They've done crazier.
She catches the fact that he dodges the question slightly. Catches it, and lets it go because as hard as this might be for her, she's got to believe it's harder for him. He was actually married--and he loved his wife and kids. She lost family by deciding to stay with the family, sure, but it wasn't anything like losing a life you chose to build. When she thinks about that, it's a lot easier for her to understand what he did, and why he did it.
She's just glad they got him back. That they got Quyhn back. That she and Andy could reunite and work things out before--well. Before. But they have years to do it, and Nile isn't going to be dragged down thinking about an unknown future--not when she can focus on what's right here in front of her.
A mission. Where she's married to her friend. As they vacation on the beach. She twists to return that smile and hoists her backpack on her shoulder, motioning toward the suitcase.
"You better have added a swimsuit. We may be taking out a murderer," okay, murder-enabler, whatever , "but I will snorkel. And you will join me."
From the other room, Nicky's voice raises enough that he knows they both can hear him: 'If you take much longer, you will miss your flight!'.
Booker chuckles to himself. "I've got what we need." But if Nile wants to have a little vacation while on this mission he won't try and stop her.
He grabs up their bags and hikes them onto his shoulders. "You can drive us to the airport. I'm going to load the car before nonna worries to death about us."
Nicky curses him in Italian as he walks out of the safehouse to load them up in the trunk. He figures Nile will be right behind him after saying goodbye to Joe and Nicky.
They would be support if things went wrong but once he and Nile left they were basically on their own. It would be fine. They'd figure this out.
He breathes out as he closes the trunk. He would be fine.
Thing is, Nile's still half as well traveled as the rest of them. Including her time in the Marines, she'd only been out of the US once, and that was to ship out for Afghanistan. Her first weekend with Andy she went to more countries than she'd been to in her life. They keep adding to it, of course, missions in South America, in Africa, in Europe and a memorable time in Russia where she froze to death (it was the worst, she'd rather not repeat it), but they haven't been to the Caribbean and she's still never seen a beach like that.
Thankfully, she can work the newness into her cover story so she doesn't have to spend the entire time trying to hide the fact that she's excited. After all, if she's Booker's newly-wedded, much younger trophy wife, well. It'll ties in.
She laughs at the banter, actually understanding a few of Nicky's curse words (she's getting better at the languages), and gives him and Joe ridiculously tight hugs before joining Booker at the car. She catches his exhale and her face tightens, just a little--she wants to give him an out, say they don't have to do this, that she can work it out with Nicky or Joe, but they both know that won't work, and they also both know they have no choice.
Like he said, they'll figure this out.
As she rounds the back of the car to get in the passenger seat, she does brush her hand over his shoulder, as much comfort as she can give him for the moment.
Nile uses the ride to the airport to review their backstory. Where they supposedly met, when they got married, and those little things that couples know about each other.
"I'm just saying if we're faking our wedding, we should have picked a better location than New Jersey."
"What's wrong with New Jersey?" Booker glances over at her with an eyebrow raised. "Once you get away from the developed areas it's actually really nice. Look at the pictures of the location first before you judge it."
The story is they got married at Pleasantdale Chateau & Conference, which was a very lovely old mansion and quite grand. Which fit with their cover story. Booker was a tech genius and Nile his beautiful young trophy wife. They were rich, uncaring about anything but themselves, and basically everything Booker hated.
He'd still play it well. And unlike those other assholes he would treat Nile well.
"I've got some sense of taste," he says dryly. "Married you, didn't I?"
"It's New Jersey," She argues, because she may be a Chicago girl, but New York has one thing (and only one thing) right, and that's a deep distrust of The Garden State. But she listens and pulls out her phone to google pictures of their supposed wedding view. She gives a low hum--pretty much the only indication she plans to give him that he's right--and then smiles at his compliment.
Yeah. Of all the fake husbands in the world, she could do a whole lot worse.
She leans back a little in the chair and tests out reaching over and resting her hand on his, where it sits on the gearshift. If they're married, they've got to be okay with casual touching. People who are married do that, right? Even awful rich ones who don't care about anyone except for thinking about what people can do for them.
Booker's hands are warm, under hers, and she runs a finger along the back of his hand, tracing an absent pattern. "Alright, charmer. Yes, the venue was nice. You're lucky I didn't push you in that pool though--Nile totally would have. Fake-Nile was too worried about your very expensive suit."
Without a second thought Booker turns his hand over and laces their fingers together. Whatever rich married people do, this is what he does. Casual touches were reassuring. They spoke of intimacy and trust, things he believed any good marriage should have. And Booker refused to even pretend he wasn't a good husband.
"You should be more dismissive," Booker argues as he looks over at her for a moment. "Rich people have the money to buy more so who cares if you ruin one expensive thing? You can get another. In fact, you might as well buy two."
This would be Booker's biggest problem with the mission. He had never lost his Revolutionary zeal about the rich and wealthy. They were leeches sucking the lifeblood out of the poor and working class. He would always believe that.
Pretending to be married would be the easiest part.
"...okay, fair point," He's not wrong, the billionaire part of this was going to be a hell of a lot harder than the being married part. She keeps their hands laced together, smiling a little at the sight of them. He's a good man, no matter how much he tells himself otherwise, and she could be fake-married to worse.
But yeah, Nile's never been in a family with a lot of money. They weren't on the poverty line by any means, but they didn't have extras. A lot of love, a lot of duct tape and public school, and their mom going without so they had something, but it was always enough. Most of the people in her unit didn't come from money either. Jay and Dizzy were there for the same reason she was: GI Bill to pay for college. The idea of being a billionaire? That'll be hard.
"Alright. Rich people. With rich people hobbies. What do you think we do for fun? Wine tastings? Formula 1? Own--a yacht?"
"Yachting is good. I know how to sail. You... you know anything about tennis?" He looks her over. They needed a reason she was in such good shape besides being a trophy wife. "You don't look like someone who would enjoy golf."
Booker didn't enjoy gold either but he would probably half to fake it for this mission. A golf course would be a great place to make a kill. If he could get the target to agree to go with him that was.
"I have no idea what rich women talk about. Your, uh, your art history might be good for that. Collecting paintings is a rich person hobby, right?" He shrugs a shoulder.
"I've never been on a sailboat," She admits, before making a face at his tennis question. "And I mean, what every kid learns in PE. I can probably bullshit a conversation about it. Because yeah, I'm not into golf."
They're still holding hands, and Nile has no intention to stop until Booker makes her. It's--kind of nice, the grounding. The fact that they're talking about all of this, but it's also just the two of them here in this car. Sure they've got passports with fake names and fake wedding rings, but she can trust Booker, and that helps.
She's down for killing a rich arms dealer on a golf course though. That's a great idea. Fitting, somehow.
Nile snorts, because like she knows what rich women talk about, but he does clue on to a hobby they can both talk about with some passion. "Okay. We collect antiquities. Art. First Edition Books. Overpriced things that catch our fancy. I bet our arms dealer has enough random items in his auctions that aren't weapons that it might help us get in with him."
They pass under the first exit sign for the airport and Nile works on getting her game face on.
"Read some articles on the plane so you're a little up to date," he suggests with a little smirk. Golf is a stupid game in Booker's opinion as well but he'll play it and do reasonably well for a chance at the gun runner.
He gives her another look when she calls first editions overpriced things. Many of his first editions he bought when the books came out. He didn't overpay for anything. And even if he did for some books it's worth it. Books are always worth it.
"A good angle. Maybe Joe and Nicky can get a list for us. We might be able to approach him with that angle." Booker makes the exit and they join the slow stream of airport traffic. "Have you ever flown first class before?"
"Tennis articles, lucky me," She pouts, narrowing her eyes at that little smirk. Just for that, she's going to read the most boring parts out loud to him. So there.
And hey she also called the art overpriced. But mostly she meant they do art, books and other weird things rich people collect: he probably has three or four cars. One of them is red, at least. She probably uses a face cream that has crushed up diamonds in it, or something. They probably have spent a ridiculous amount on artifacts smuggled out of places where they rightfully belong. You know, like billionaires do.
"I'll just start listing off things Andy has in that cave," She teases, because she's still working on Andy giving them to a museum. It's not going well.
She shakes her head at his question. "Confession? Only other flying I've done is on military transport. Luxury isn't exactly at the forefront. Well, that and the drug runners Andy uses. And that one time we all flew coach to Brazil."
She could read whatever she wanted to him. Booker would listen because he might have to bullshit a conversation about tennis at some point. He might even bore himself by reading golf articles to make sure he's up to date.
"You're gonna like this. It's comfortable." He brings her hand up and kisses her knuckles before he turns for the expensive parking at the airport. They'll leave the car there so it didn't matter how much the lot cost. They'd never come back for the car.
He found a spot, parked, and finally let go of her hand. "Wipe down the inside I'll get the bags and wipe the outside." No fingerprints. Nile's were in the system. They didn't want to get flagged when someone searched the car.
Don't tempt her, Book. With an offer like that, she'll segue off tennis and head right into art history, and so far Joe's the only one who can handle that passion string. Andy fell asleep five minutes in. Nile grins at the idea of flying first class--she will definitely be ordering champagne--and then nods, shifting her attention to the task at hand.
She doesn't miss Booker touching her, because that would be ridiculous. Just a mission. Get your head on straight, Freeman.
The wipe down is quick, effective, and soon enough she's standing outside the car with her bags in hand. She steps up to Booker, slipping her arm in his, letting him lead the way into the airport. He's got their passports after all, and their boarding passes (all under fake names, she's going to have to get used to being Nia instead of Nile, but at least they're close enough she should react) and her job is to look pretty and be young. She's not exactly used to it, but, hey, rich people, right?
It's not until they're waiting in the security line that she leans up to him enough to whisper a conspiratorial: "And where's our VIP line for this, huh?"
Booker shoots her a look, one eyebrow raised. Once they're at the front of the line he hands over their passports and tickets. Then a woman in a nice skirt suit asked them to follow her. She led them through a very weak security check and only a walk through the metal detectors. She then escorted them to a private waiting lounge with plush leather armchairs and complimentary drinks.
"Is that enough VIP for you?" he teases as he settles into one of the chairs to wait. What he wants is to go look for the nearest airport junk store and get himself a cheap paperback but that's not what his identity would do.
He and his identity would both order expensive whiskey which he does. "We have priority boarding as well. Just relax, dear, we'll be treated right. Like you're used to."
Okay, yeah, so a little different than military transports and Andy's idea of what's okay when it comes to flying when you can't die (seriously, the obsession with planes that seem more duct-tape than anything else has to be unhealthy) and Nile tries not to look like a kid who's seeing Disneyland for the first time.
She follows along behind him, silent the way she's supposed to be, and then settles easily into a chair near him, fighting the urge to tuck her feet up under her. Nile sits like she's never sat straight in her life, a sprawl reclaimed from military precision, Nia sits like she's actually been to finishing school--because, well, she has.
She orders a champagne after his whiskey and waits until she has it in hand before she answers. "Forgive me for doubting you, darling,"
The endearment slips off her tongue easier than she expects, even if it's one she wouldn't usually use herself. She takes a sip of the champagne, letting out a hum as the bubbles slip down her throat and nudges him with a high heeled shoe.
"I expect caviar too, you know," she teases, lips quirking.
Booker leans over and murmurs close to his ear like he is still very much in love with his new bride and not yet tired of her. "Have you ever had caviar? It's very salty."
He presses a quick kiss to her cheek before he settles back to wait for their flight. Physical affection is rare from him but they're a married couple which means she'll get plenty of it this trip. As long as she doesn't seem uncomfortable.
When they call for their flight Booker gets up and offers her a hand. He laces their fingers together for the walk to the gate. His whole posture is softer, gentler.
He taking on the role of Deacon, slowly but surely.
Booker's words against her ear send a soft shiver across Nile's body--not the words, maybe, but the feel of his breath, the closeness. She isn't used to it yet, still adjusting for the guard's closeness overall, but Booker especially seems to hold back on the PDA. It's not that she minds--she doesn't pull away, doesn't show anything outwardly, but her stomach flips in a way she really doesn't want to think too much about at the kiss, and so instead she focuses on the conversation. Caviar. Right.
"Of course I've had caviar," She hasn't. Nia has. Booker settles back and Nile follows suit, leaving one heel pressed up against his leg, one small point of connection, before turning to her phone, absently scrolling through news articles and clicking at ones that interest her at random.
Their flight is announced sooner than she expects, and again she lets Booker (Deacon, she's got to start thinking of him as his persona, or she's going to slip up--at least Booker is one she can play off as a nickname), but she follows quickly enough, smiling pleasantly at flight attendants as they hand over boarding passes and passports again, as they're ushered down the boarding gate and then onto the plane.
Her eyes widen, just slightly, at the sight of their first class accommodations and she slips into her spot easily, nodding at the offered champagne. With their healing she's drinking slow enough not to get anywhere near drunk, but she'll use it as a shield. People take women less seriously if they think they're a little tipsy.
She shouldn't, but she can't help leaning over to Booker before they're instructed to fasten their seatbelts and whispering in his ear:
"Is Deacon a member of the mile high club? Nia definitely is."
When they were settled into their seats Booker put his hand on Nile's knee and squeezed gently. And he kept his hand there. He rather likes the connection there and the little bit of affection. A married couple should be affection. It's how he was with his wife.
He raises an eyebrow at her question, smiling just a little. "Is that Nile projecting onto her role?" he asks softly, his voice a low rumble.
Booker has had sex in planes before. Not fancy planes like this but the rusty cargo planes and the other strange forms of transport they took to avoid detection.
He couldn't blame Nile for sex on a plane. She was young and would be for a very long time. Why not take risks? Why not have fun? He'd found a little of that again along with his will to live.
Nile doesn't know anything about being married, so she'll let Booker lead when it comes to affection and how much of it they should show. She's loathe to admit it (though she's sure it'll come up at some point), she's only had the two relationships: one with Tobias Anderson at her high school and another just before the military that didn't last through shipping out.
She laughs and shakes her head though, at the question.
"No. Nile's definitely not had sex on a plane. Too many grunts shoved on a military transport and then--what, like Andy would let me bring along a booty call on a mission?"
She gets the appeal, but--nah, she's never. Maybe in the future sometime, just to say she's done it. Like bungee jumping, or skydiving. Turns out when you know you can't die, it gets a little easier to check things off the adrenaline bucket list.
"But Nia totally has. Twice. Once after a trip to Cancun with her sorority sisters, and once on a private jet with an ex. Don't worry honey," She grins, wraps her hand over his on her knee. "You're much better."
Right. Nile is still adjusting to the whole open relationships they all have with each other. She wouldn't just ask for sex on the plane with one of them.
"That's fine. You're better than my two ex-wives," Booker says dryly. It seems like an appropriate amount for someone of his wealth and age to have. "No children."
Because not even Booker could handle having fake children. That was too big of a line to cross. His heart could never take anything with children very well. So, no children. Never any children in these fake identities.
"But maybe Nia can convince Deacon to join her," he teases and winks at the flight attendant as she passes.
Yeah. Give her a decade or two and maybe she will be used to how free the rest of them are with one another. The gentle touches, the free affection, whatever it is that happens behind closed doors -- doors that she's pretty sure are closed because she's there.
At the mention of children, she can't help but reach out with a hand, settling it on his knee and squeezing gently. She gets it, even if she can't say it out loud.
"If you were only telling me about children now, we'd be having a different conversation," She teases, gently, and then makes a face and swats at him. "And I better be better than your ex-wives--in personality and in whatever club we join together."
Excuse you, Booker, she's fantastic in bed. The flight attendant gives them both an indulgent smile, offers to fill their drinks and then is gone again.
Booker’s better. Not perfect but he’s learned to carry his baggage a little bit better. The only thing that cuts deep are children. He reaches out, takes her hand in his, and laces their fingers together.
He’s gotten better about accepting sympathy as well.
“It’ll be about eight hours.” The resort is almost halfway across the country from where they were now. It would be a long, hopefully relaxing flight that would give them time to get into character.
“Once we get there we can unpack and adjust. I don’t think we need to meet our friend right away.” Booker means the target. They can take the time to set up in their private resort cabin and adjust to any jet lag before they go to mingle and make friends.
These sort of missions take a long time. Booker almost wished they could have found a way for Nicky to set up and shoot the bastard. It would be messier but quicker. “It’s good you’re getting into it. Put just enough truth in the character to live it.”
[ Being back in present-day Earth without the world trying to end on a daily basis is... strange, to say the least. The first few weeks had been nice, the team taking time to heal and recover from their non-stop ordeal, but then one by one they'd all gone their separate ways. Even though she'd known it was coming, Enoch's prediction a constant echo in the back of her mind, it still hurts like hell to watch her family split apart with promises to keep in touch.
In the end, she decides to follow Coulson's lead and take some time to reassess. Mack's laid out a dozen job options for her, and she knows she'd have a dozen more outside the agency if she wanted to make that move. But for now, she just needs time. So she's still Daisy Johnson, agent of SHIELD, but for now, she's more of a consultant than an active agent.
It's in that consultant role that she finally has time to dive into some of the things sitting on SHIELD's backburner. Strange reports that turn out to be nothing and some... that might be something more. With the technological power of an entire spy agency at her fingertips, it's easy for her to slip through the tangled web of the internet and various government servers and databases to fit the pieces together. They're crazy pieces at times, but she can't help but wonder.
So that's how Daisy's ended up in Hong Kong of all places, wandering cramped alleys and cursing at Google Maps for failing her. She blends in better than the typical tourist, at least, moving with purpose through the crowds. After twenty minutes, she gives up and just asks someone for directions, using her extremely limited Cantonese to thank the shop owner before finally finding the bar in question. An old expat watering hole that had been around for nearly a century.
Hardly anyone turns to look at her as she enters, heading straight to the bar for a much-needed beer. Drink in hand, she turns to lean back against the counter, surveying the crowd with feigned disinterest. ]
[ Before the Guard, Nile Freeman had been a grand total of three places in her life. Southside Chicago. Basic Training. Afghanistan. Six months in a family of four immortals and she's been more places than she can count; criss-crossing her way across Europe and Asia on missions while the boys and Andy pretend like they aren't keeping her away from America, and she pretends like she doesn't notice exactly what they're doing.
Hong Kong, though? Hong Kong's quickly become one of her favorite places they've settled--the press of bodies, the sharp sweet smell of stores, the loud calls in the markets, the contradictions of impossibly modern structures surrounded by bamboo scaffolding. She could get lost in this city for decades, she thinks, time spinning away from her and back again, slow spirals before anyone started to notice she looks the same as she did the first day she arrived--
--maybe it's always like this for Them. Maybe that's what it's like, when you're staring down the barrel of forever with an unending mission at your fingertips. Maybe that's what keeps you from going mad with all of it; falling in love with the places they pass through and the people that inhabit them.
It's that or be swallowed by the inevitability of a life that outlives everyone and everything she knows. Love seems like the easier of the two options, in the end, even if it means sacrificing the parts of her that are the most familiar and trying to embrace the world that's unfolding, step by step.
Point of the matter is that Hong Kong is Hong Kong and it lends itself to contradictions and sometimes she's lost in existentialism of forever and sometimes she just wants a damn drink because she was once a Marine and supposedly that means she always will be.
So she's here, in a bar filled with voices that could almost be familiar, various accents on English, nursing a bottle of Budweiser like it's a lifeline. It's as shitty here as it is back home, but it does have the advantage of tasting like something she knows. By the time Daisy makes her way to the bar, Nile's settled in a back corner booth (good sight-lines, hard to notice from the door) and gone through a beer and a half and is doing her best to reduce the label of the second to a pile of scraps.
They're both watching the crowd, interested or not, and when their eyes inevitably eventually meet, Nile tilts her head and cocks an eyebrow, curious despite herself.
It's not like the bar is crawling with people their age and, well, Nile's not opposed to making an interesting acquaintance. The second eyebrow joins the first and she tips her beer forward, toward the empty seat across from her in the cramped space; an easy invitation if Daisy wants to take it, but subtle enough she can pretend she missed the cue if she's got other plans.
Nile's voice, when the other woman is close enough to hear it, is warm even for all that it's guarded ]
You don't seem like the usual clientele for this kind of place.
[ The invitation is unexpected but entirely welcome. The other woman is who she's come here to see, after all, and being invited to join her is so much easier than Daisy trying to casually shove her way in. If the woman in question hadn't been at the bar that night, she would have asked around and gone on the hunt, so to speak, so she's counting herself lucky that the stars have aligned in her favor for once.
(It probably won't last. This sort of thing rarely does for her, but she'll make the most of it while she can.)
Winding her way through the crowd, she offers a friendly smile when she finally reaches the table with her drink in hand. ]
Neither do you. I guess the other under 40s are somewhere more... not like this. [ She slides into the seat across the booth and offers her hand. ] I'm Daisy.
[ Four years later, all roads lead once more to Morocco.
Tonight, Booker is holed up in a bar attached to the casino next door; both somewhat off the beaten path, a little unsavoury. It’s as good a place as any to disappear, and there’s enough French speakers that he can fade into the background.
And the immortals don’t dream of each other any longer, but he still feels it like a thread wound tight, the oxygen getting sucked out of the room when Nile Freeman walks into the bar. A weight snapping his attention towards her. The part of Sebastien that will always, always know his family; that has memorised the particular rhythm of Andromache’s footsteps on creaking floorboards; the sound of Yusuf clearing his throat; the particular clink of Niccolo’s coffee cup hitting the table.
Booker doesn’t look great: he’s in a rumpled suit, loosened tie, shirtsleeves rolled up and jacket slung over the back of his chair. Drunk, as he so often is: a heavy-liddedness to his eyes, hair slipping into his face, stubble unshaven as ever. The years of exile haven’t been kind, and a decade hasn’t even passed yet.
But something finally cuts through the haze and sharpens him as he sees Nile. He wonders if she’s here on a job. She’s got to be here on a job. Or after one? Does that mean the others are in town?
The two of them have been texting, here and there, breaking the rules. Not enough to know where in the world she is at all times. Not enough to know she’d be here. But enough that—
Maybe it doesn’t quite feel fully forbidden. Just an extension of what they’ve already been doing. The next inevitable step. He waits until she notices him, their gazes locking across the crowded room — as if no one else exists — and he raises his half-empty glass to her, with a crooked smile. Waits just long enough to see if Nile’s going to stonewall him, if his approach might risk her cover on an op; and when she doesn’t wave him away, he slides off his chair and weaves his way through the crowd to join her.
He probably should’ve waited longer. But that thread’s pulling taut, and something in his heart leapt for the first time in long years the moment he saw her face. ]
Of all the gin joints in all the world, [ Booker says as he pulls up next to her, his voice still low gravel. ]
[ The early evening air in January in Morocco isn't exactly what anyone would consider cold, but it's got just enough of a breeze to excuse Nile slipping into a random bar to avoid putting on the jacket draped over her arm. It's enough that it seems natural for her tug open the door and leave the mark she's been quietly tailing for the evening; now that he's made his way home.
She's off duty. At least until the morning.
The wash of voices and clink of glassware is somehow familiar despite being a place she's never been before. But she guesses that's the sort of thing you learn four years into their lives; people in a bar are people in a bar no matter what language they're speaking. It's enough to settle something in her shoulders, unwind the tension of the job, of the work they do. She can get lost in a bar full of people--
--except, as it happens, one of the people in this bar happens to be Sébastien Le Livre.
Her eyes flick down to her purse strap when she spots him, as if she can see her phone through the leather, wondering if he texted her, if he somehow knew she would be here. But the thought is dismissed as quickly as she has it--the last time they texted she was in Brussels months ago. He doesn't track them. He wouldn't track them. Despite all of it, despite the mistakes he's made, despite the exile, she trusts him.
And so she doesn't leave. So she goes to the bar, orders a drink, meets his eyes and can't help but return that crooked grin of his with her own. Her heartrate spikes, she can feel it, the sharp thump, thump, thump that sounds in her ears even as she works to play it like she's not bothered.
He stands, and she turns toward the bar, snagging her drink, rolling it between her hands as he settles in. Her heart still beats, but she's got the damn thing back under control, slow and steady. Slow and steady.
It's not breaking his exile if no one else knows about it. Neither of them planned it. Just a chance meeting between two friends--even if that word is somehow not nearly enough.]
Am I Ilsa in this scenario? [ She turns her head to the side to catch his eyes again, clinking her glass against his in a welcome as much as a 'cheers' ] And if so, who's playing my husband?
[ Booker laughs, genuinely surprised, a little amused: ]
Jury’s still out. Maybe you’re looking for one here.
[ After their glasses clink, he takes a deep swig of his whiskey, stealing the opportunity to look at her a little too long askance, a man parched for seeing a familiar face, hearing a warm affectionate word. He hasn’t yet memorised all the angles of Nile’s face — he hadn’t had the chance before — but he still drinks her in. A welcome harbour. ]
Kinda thought you might not have seen the movie, [ he says, a rueful smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth, lightly teasing.
She is, after all, just a baby. This was the comfortable banter they were supposed to have, and which he suspects the others have long-since fallen into with her: he’d done his time as the youngest of the group and he was supposed to be able to turn around and do the same to their newest recruit. One of the few privileges of age. That fond mockery between family, siblings, lovers, everything they are to each other, whatever undefinable thing they are to each other.
And somehow it still feels like he just saw Nile yesterday. Four years is technically nothing to them: a blink of an eye, a drop in the ocean compared to all the days and months and years they’ve lived and will live. (Four down, ninety-six to go. Christ, he’s tired.) ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
>>for booker
There's a noise behind her and she startles, looking up and hoping Booker didn't just catch her staring at this fake wedding ring (one of a half dozen the group kept stashed away just for times like this) like some sort of moon-struck teenager.
"Hey," she greets, turning to pick up and then drop the last of her clothing into their shared suitcase. "Are you ready for this?"
no subject
It was not what she asked but Booker isn't sure how to answer. His marriage was one of the good times of his life. His wife had been an incredible woman. Not that Nile wasn't incredible but pretending to be married to her felt strange.
They's get through it for the mission. This resort was very conservative and did not allow same sex couples or else this would've been Joe and Nicky's mission.
It shouldn't be long though. They should be in and out in a few days at most. They just had to kill the guy without anyone seeing. No problem. They've done crazier.
no subject
She's just glad they got him back. That they got Quyhn back. That she and Andy could reunite and work things out before--well. Before. But they have years to do it, and Nile isn't going to be dragged down thinking about an unknown future--not when she can focus on what's right here in front of her.
A mission. Where she's married to her friend. As they vacation on the beach. She twists to return that smile and hoists her backpack on her shoulder, motioning toward the suitcase.
"You better have added a swimsuit. We may be taking out a murderer," okay, murder-enabler, whatever , "but I will snorkel. And you will join me."
From the other room, Nicky's voice raises enough that he knows they both can hear him: 'If you take much longer, you will miss your flight!'.
"I think we're being summoned."
no subject
He grabs up their bags and hikes them onto his shoulders. "You can drive us to the airport. I'm going to load the car before nonna worries to death about us."
Nicky curses him in Italian as he walks out of the safehouse to load them up in the trunk. He figures Nile will be right behind him after saying goodbye to Joe and Nicky.
They would be support if things went wrong but once he and Nile left they were basically on their own. It would be fine. They'd figure this out.
He breathes out as he closes the trunk. He would be fine.
no subject
Thankfully, she can work the newness into her cover story so she doesn't have to spend the entire time trying to hide the fact that she's excited. After all, if she's Booker's newly-wedded, much younger trophy wife, well. It'll ties in.
She laughs at the banter, actually understanding a few of Nicky's curse words (she's getting better at the languages), and gives him and Joe ridiculously tight hugs before joining Booker at the car. She catches his exhale and her face tightens, just a little--she wants to give him an out, say they don't have to do this, that she can work it out with Nicky or Joe, but they both know that won't work, and they also both know they have no choice.
Like he said, they'll figure this out.
As she rounds the back of the car to get in the passenger seat, she does brush her hand over his shoulder, as much comfort as she can give him for the moment.
Nile uses the ride to the airport to review their backstory. Where they supposedly met, when they got married, and those little things that couples know about each other.
"I'm just saying if we're faking our wedding, we should have picked a better location than New Jersey."
no subject
The story is they got married at Pleasantdale Chateau & Conference, which was a very lovely old mansion and quite grand. Which fit with their cover story. Booker was a tech genius and Nile his beautiful young trophy wife. They were rich, uncaring about anything but themselves, and basically everything Booker hated.
He'd still play it well. And unlike those other assholes he would treat Nile well.
"I've got some sense of taste," he says dryly. "Married you, didn't I?"
no subject
Yeah. Of all the fake husbands in the world, she could do a whole lot worse.
She leans back a little in the chair and tests out reaching over and resting her hand on his, where it sits on the gearshift. If they're married, they've got to be okay with casual touching. People who are married do that, right? Even awful rich ones who don't care about anyone except for thinking about what people can do for them.
Booker's hands are warm, under hers, and she runs a finger along the back of his hand, tracing an absent pattern. "Alright, charmer. Yes, the venue was nice. You're lucky I didn't push you in that pool though--Nile totally would have. Fake-Nile was too worried about your very expensive suit."
no subject
"You should be more dismissive," Booker argues as he looks over at her for a moment. "Rich people have the money to buy more so who cares if you ruin one expensive thing? You can get another. In fact, you might as well buy two."
This would be Booker's biggest problem with the mission. He had never lost his Revolutionary zeal about the rich and wealthy. They were leeches sucking the lifeblood out of the poor and working class. He would always believe that.
Pretending to be married would be the easiest part.
Being a heartless billionaire? Fuck.
no subject
But yeah, Nile's never been in a family with a lot of money. They weren't on the poverty line by any means, but they didn't have extras. A lot of love, a lot of duct tape and public school, and their mom going without so they had something, but it was always enough. Most of the people in her unit didn't come from money either. Jay and Dizzy were there for the same reason she was: GI Bill to pay for college. The idea of being a billionaire? That'll be hard.
"Alright. Rich people. With rich people hobbies. What do you think we do for fun? Wine tastings? Formula 1? Own--a yacht?"
no subject
Booker didn't enjoy gold either but he would probably half to fake it for this mission. A golf course would be a great place to make a kill. If he could get the target to agree to go with him that was.
"I have no idea what rich women talk about. Your, uh, your art history might be good for that. Collecting paintings is a rich person hobby, right?" He shrugs a shoulder.
no subject
They're still holding hands, and Nile has no intention to stop until Booker makes her. It's--kind of nice, the grounding. The fact that they're talking about all of this, but it's also just the two of them here in this car. Sure they've got passports with fake names and fake wedding rings, but she can trust Booker, and that helps.
She's down for killing a rich arms dealer on a golf course though. That's a great idea. Fitting, somehow.
Nile snorts, because like she knows what rich women talk about, but he does clue on to a hobby they can both talk about with some passion. "Okay. We collect antiquities. Art. First Edition Books. Overpriced things that catch our fancy. I bet our arms dealer has enough random items in his auctions that aren't weapons that it might help us get in with him."
They pass under the first exit sign for the airport and Nile works on getting her game face on.
no subject
He gives her another look when she calls first editions overpriced things. Many of his first editions he bought when the books came out. He didn't overpay for anything. And even if he did for some books it's worth it. Books are always worth it.
"A good angle. Maybe Joe and Nicky can get a list for us. We might be able to approach him with that angle." Booker makes the exit and they join the slow stream of airport traffic. "Have you ever flown first class before?"
no subject
And hey she also called the art overpriced. But mostly she meant they do art, books and other weird things rich people collect: he probably has three or four cars. One of them is red, at least. She probably uses a face cream that has crushed up diamonds in it, or something. They probably have spent a ridiculous amount on artifacts smuggled out of places where they rightfully belong. You know, like billionaires do.
"I'll just start listing off things Andy has in that cave," She teases, because she's still working on Andy giving them to a museum. It's not going well.
She shakes her head at his question. "Confession? Only other flying I've done is on military transport. Luxury isn't exactly at the forefront. Well, that and the drug runners Andy uses. And that one time we all flew coach to Brazil."
no subject
"You're gonna like this. It's comfortable." He brings her hand up and kisses her knuckles before he turns for the expensive parking at the airport. They'll leave the car there so it didn't matter how much the lot cost. They'd never come back for the car.
He found a spot, parked, and finally let go of her hand. "Wipe down the inside I'll get the bags and wipe the outside." No fingerprints. Nile's were in the system. They didn't want to get flagged when someone searched the car.
no subject
She doesn't miss Booker touching her, because that would be ridiculous. Just a mission. Get your head on straight, Freeman.
The wipe down is quick, effective, and soon enough she's standing outside the car with her bags in hand. She steps up to Booker, slipping her arm in his, letting him lead the way into the airport. He's got their passports after all, and their boarding passes (all under fake names, she's going to have to get used to being Nia instead of Nile, but at least they're close enough she should react) and her job is to look pretty and be young. She's not exactly used to it, but, hey, rich people, right?
It's not until they're waiting in the security line that she leans up to him enough to whisper a conspiratorial: "And where's our VIP line for this, huh?"
no subject
"Is that enough VIP for you?" he teases as he settles into one of the chairs to wait. What he wants is to go look for the nearest airport junk store and get himself a cheap paperback but that's not what his identity would do.
He and his identity would both order expensive whiskey which he does. "We have priority boarding as well. Just relax, dear, we'll be treated right. Like you're used to."
no subject
She follows along behind him, silent the way she's supposed to be, and then settles easily into a chair near him, fighting the urge to tuck her feet up under her. Nile sits like she's never sat straight in her life, a sprawl reclaimed from military precision, Nia sits like she's actually been to finishing school--because, well, she has.
She orders a champagne after his whiskey and waits until she has it in hand before she answers. "Forgive me for doubting you, darling,"
The endearment slips off her tongue easier than she expects, even if it's one she wouldn't usually use herself. She takes a sip of the champagne, letting out a hum as the bubbles slip down her throat and nudges him with a high heeled shoe.
"I expect caviar too, you know," she teases, lips quirking.
no subject
He presses a quick kiss to her cheek before he settles back to wait for their flight. Physical affection is rare from him but they're a married couple which means she'll get plenty of it this trip. As long as she doesn't seem uncomfortable.
When they call for their flight Booker gets up and offers her a hand. He laces their fingers together for the walk to the gate. His whole posture is softer, gentler.
He taking on the role of Deacon, slowly but surely.
no subject
"Of course I've had caviar," She hasn't. Nia has. Booker settles back and Nile follows suit, leaving one heel pressed up against his leg, one small point of connection, before turning to her phone, absently scrolling through news articles and clicking at ones that interest her at random.
Their flight is announced sooner than she expects, and again she lets Booker (Deacon, she's got to start thinking of him as his persona, or she's going to slip up--at least Booker is one she can play off as a nickname), but she follows quickly enough, smiling pleasantly at flight attendants as they hand over boarding passes and passports again, as they're ushered down the boarding gate and then onto the plane.
Her eyes widen, just slightly, at the sight of their first class accommodations and she slips into her spot easily, nodding at the offered champagne. With their healing she's drinking slow enough not to get anywhere near drunk, but she'll use it as a shield. People take women less seriously if they think they're a little tipsy.
She shouldn't, but she can't help leaning over to Booker before they're instructed to fasten their seatbelts and whispering in his ear:
"Is Deacon a member of the mile high club? Nia definitely is."
no subject
He raises an eyebrow at her question, smiling just a little. "Is that Nile projecting onto her role?" he asks softly, his voice a low rumble.
Booker has had sex in planes before. Not fancy planes like this but the rusty cargo planes and the other strange forms of transport they took to avoid detection.
He couldn't blame Nile for sex on a plane. She was young and would be for a very long time. Why not take risks? Why not have fun? He'd found a little of that again along with his will to live.
no subject
She laughs and shakes her head though, at the question.
"No. Nile's definitely not had sex on a plane. Too many grunts shoved on a military transport and then--what, like Andy would let me bring along a booty call on a mission?"
She gets the appeal, but--nah, she's never. Maybe in the future sometime, just to say she's done it. Like bungee jumping, or skydiving. Turns out when you know you can't die, it gets a little easier to check things off the adrenaline bucket list.
"But Nia totally has. Twice. Once after a trip to Cancun with her sorority sisters, and once on a private jet with an ex. Don't worry honey," She grins, wraps her hand over his on her knee. "You're much better."
no subject
"That's fine. You're better than my two ex-wives," Booker says dryly. It seems like an appropriate amount for someone of his wealth and age to have. "No children."
Because not even Booker could handle having fake children. That was too big of a line to cross. His heart could never take anything with children very well. So, no children. Never any children in these fake identities.
"But maybe Nia can convince Deacon to join her," he teases and winks at the flight attendant as she passes.
no subject
At the mention of children, she can't help but reach out with a hand, settling it on his knee and squeezing gently. She gets it, even if she can't say it out loud.
"If you were only telling me about children now, we'd be having a different conversation," She teases, gently, and then makes a face and swats at him. "And I better be better than your ex-wives--in personality and in whatever club we join together."
Excuse you, Booker, she's fantastic in bed. The flight attendant gives them both an indulgent smile, offers to fill their drinks and then is gone again.
"How long of a flight are we in for, again?"
no subject
He’s gotten better about accepting sympathy as well.
“It’ll be about eight hours.” The resort is almost halfway across the country from where they were now. It would be a long, hopefully relaxing flight that would give them time to get into character.
“Once we get there we can unpack and adjust. I don’t think we need to meet our friend right away.” Booker means the target. They can take the time to set up in their private resort cabin and adjust to any jet lag before they go to mingle and make friends.
These sort of missions take a long time. Booker almost wished they could have found a way for Nicky to set up and shoot the bastard. It would be messier but quicker. “It’s good you’re getting into it. Put just enough truth in the character to live it.”
A good lie always had a kernel of truth.
we fight forever —
no subject
Hong Kong, though? Hong Kong's quickly become one of her favorite places they've settled--the press of bodies, the sharp sweet smell of stores, the loud calls in the markets, the contradictions of impossibly modern structures surrounded by bamboo scaffolding. She could get lost in this city for decades, she thinks, time spinning away from her and back again, slow spirals before anyone started to notice she looks the same as she did the first day she arrived--
--maybe it's always like this for Them. Maybe that's what it's like, when you're staring down the barrel of forever with an unending mission at your fingertips. Maybe that's what keeps you from going mad with all of it; falling in love with the places they pass through and the people that inhabit them.
It's that or be swallowed by the inevitability of a life that outlives everyone and everything she knows. Love seems like the easier of the two options, in the end, even if it means sacrificing the parts of her that are the most familiar and trying to embrace the world that's unfolding, step by step.
Point of the matter is that Hong Kong is Hong Kong and it lends itself to contradictions and sometimes she's lost in existentialism of forever and sometimes she just wants a damn drink because she was once a Marine and supposedly that means she always will be.
So she's here, in a bar filled with voices that could almost be familiar, various accents on English, nursing a bottle of Budweiser like it's a lifeline. It's as shitty here as it is back home, but it does have the advantage of tasting like something she knows. By the time Daisy makes her way to the bar, Nile's settled in a back corner booth (good sight-lines, hard to notice from the door) and gone through a beer and a half and is doing her best to reduce the label of the second to a pile of scraps.
They're both watching the crowd, interested or not, and when their eyes inevitably eventually meet, Nile tilts her head and cocks an eyebrow, curious despite herself.
It's not like the bar is crawling with people their age and, well, Nile's not opposed to making an interesting acquaintance. The second eyebrow joins the first and she tips her beer forward, toward the empty seat across from her in the cramped space; an easy invitation if Daisy wants to take it, but subtle enough she can pretend she missed the cue if she's got other plans.
Nile's voice, when the other woman is close enough to hear it, is warm even for all that it's guarded ]
You don't seem like the usual clientele for this kind of place.
no subject
(It probably won't last. This sort of thing rarely does for her, but she'll make the most of it while she can.)
Winding her way through the crowd, she offers a friendly smile when she finally reaches the table with her drink in hand. ]
Neither do you. I guess the other under 40s are somewhere more... not like this. [ She slides into the seat across the booth and offers her hand. ] I'm Daisy.
casablanca;
Tonight, Booker is holed up in a bar attached to the casino next door; both somewhat off the beaten path, a little unsavoury. It’s as good a place as any to disappear, and there’s enough French speakers that he can fade into the background.
And the immortals don’t dream of each other any longer, but he still feels it like a thread wound tight, the oxygen getting sucked out of the room when Nile Freeman walks into the bar. A weight snapping his attention towards her. The part of Sebastien that will always, always know his family; that has memorised the particular rhythm of Andromache’s footsteps on creaking floorboards; the sound of Yusuf clearing his throat; the particular clink of Niccolo’s coffee cup hitting the table.
Booker doesn’t look great: he’s in a rumpled suit, loosened tie, shirtsleeves rolled up and jacket slung over the back of his chair. Drunk, as he so often is: a heavy-liddedness to his eyes, hair slipping into his face, stubble unshaven as ever. The years of exile haven’t been kind, and a decade hasn’t even passed yet.
But something finally cuts through the haze and sharpens him as he sees Nile. He wonders if she’s here on a job. She’s got to be here on a job. Or after one? Does that mean the others are in town?
The two of them have been texting, here and there, breaking the rules. Not enough to know where in the world she is at all times. Not enough to know she’d be here. But enough that—
Maybe it doesn’t quite feel fully forbidden. Just an extension of what they’ve already been doing. The next inevitable step. He waits until she notices him, their gazes locking across the crowded room — as if no one else exists — and he raises his half-empty glass to her, with a crooked smile. Waits just long enough to see if Nile’s going to stonewall him, if his approach might risk her cover on an op; and when she doesn’t wave him away, he slides off his chair and weaves his way through the crowd to join her.
He probably should’ve waited longer. But that thread’s pulling taut, and something in his heart leapt for the first time in long years the moment he saw her face. ]
Of all the gin joints in all the world, [ Booker says as he pulls up next to her, his voice still low gravel. ]
no subject
She's off duty. At least until the morning.
The wash of voices and clink of glassware is somehow familiar despite being a place she's never been before. But she guesses that's the sort of thing you learn four years into their lives; people in a bar are people in a bar no matter what language they're speaking. It's enough to settle something in her shoulders, unwind the tension of the job, of the work they do. She can get lost in a bar full of people--
--except, as it happens, one of the people in this bar happens to be Sébastien Le Livre.
Her eyes flick down to her purse strap when she spots him, as if she can see her phone through the leather, wondering if he texted her, if he somehow knew she would be here. But the thought is dismissed as quickly as she has it--the last time they texted she was in Brussels months ago. He doesn't track them. He wouldn't track them. Despite all of it, despite the mistakes he's made, despite the exile, she trusts him.
And so she doesn't leave. So she goes to the bar, orders a drink, meets his eyes and can't help but return that crooked grin of his with her own. Her heartrate spikes, she can feel it, the sharp thump, thump, thump that sounds in her ears even as she works to play it like she's not bothered.
He stands, and she turns toward the bar, snagging her drink, rolling it between her hands as he settles in. Her heart still beats, but she's got the damn thing back under control, slow and steady. Slow and steady.
It's not breaking his exile if no one else knows about it. Neither of them planned it. Just a chance meeting between two friends--even if that word is somehow not nearly enough.]
Am I Ilsa in this scenario? [ She turns her head to the side to catch his eyes again, clinking her glass against his in a welcome as much as a 'cheers' ] And if so, who's playing my husband?
no subject
Jury’s still out. Maybe you’re looking for one here.
[ After their glasses clink, he takes a deep swig of his whiskey, stealing the opportunity to look at her a little too long askance, a man parched for seeing a familiar face, hearing a warm affectionate word. He hasn’t yet memorised all the angles of Nile’s face — he hadn’t had the chance before — but he still drinks her in. A welcome harbour. ]
Kinda thought you might not have seen the movie, [ he says, a rueful smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth, lightly teasing.
She is, after all, just a baby. This was the comfortable banter they were supposed to have, and which he suspects the others have long-since fallen into with her: he’d done his time as the youngest of the group and he was supposed to be able to turn around and do the same to their newest recruit. One of the few privileges of age. That fond mockery between family, siblings, lovers, everything they are to each other, whatever undefinable thing they are to each other.
And somehow it still feels like he just saw Nile yesterday. Four years is technically nothing to them: a blink of an eye, a drop in the ocean compared to all the days and months and years they’ve lived and will live. (Four down, ninety-six to go. Christ, he’s tired.) ]