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?"
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
![[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?"
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we fight forever —
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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. ]
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