Fills Post
Jul. 22nd, 2020 10:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theoldguardkinkmemeThis Fills Post is now closed to new fills. New fills should go in Fills Post #2.
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FILL: Nicky/Joe, told to shut up
Date: 2020-08-30 05:20 pm (UTC)Content warning: Homophobia
- - - - - - - - -
They are in a pub, because that is often where they go when they finish a mission. Dark wood walls, long wooden bar, some football game playing on the tv: Manchester United versus someone. There’s a low murmur of conversation rom the small crowd, tables full of a mix of college students letting off steam and older men here to watch the game. It’s easy enough to blend in at a pub—no one looks too closely at the others around them, and those that spend enough time to notice are usually drunk. This is not the sort of pub where one picks up a date for the weekend so they are able, to the best of their ability, to fly under the radar.
Nicky, for his part, leans back against the bar, elbows propped behind him as he leans, waiting for the round he’s just ordered them all. From here, he can see the whole group and he drinks them in like a man who is dying from thirst.
His Joe is laughing, gesturing widely with his hands, one still wrapped around his half empty drink, causing some of the beer to escape the edge to splash on Nile who is laughing along with him, her eyes bright with youth and mirth even as she threatens him with a fork for splashing her. Andy is regarding them both with an expression he thinks is supposed to be ire, but is ruined by the smile that keeps tugging at her lips.
The seat next to them (empty, though it shouldn’t be) tugs at Nicky. It’s not that he doesn’t agree with Booker’s sentence—it will be a long time until he can sleep without the visions of Joe’s face contorted in pain as that woman extracted yet another sample—it’s simply that, perhaps, he misses his family despite it. It did not take him a millennia to realize things often are quite complicated.
Watching from here, he can see the moment Joe launches into the story. Nicky’s not sure which one it is, he can’t hear this far away from the table, but he can see the expressions that cross his Yusuf’s face, the gestures that go along with it. Ah, it’s a sweet one, based on that smile alone. If Booker were here, leaning against the bar, Nicky might toss down a bet: a hundred says it’s either the time in Brazil in ’42 or the Alps in ’89. Nile leans forward to hear him better, while Andy rolls her eyes in good natured humor and links her hands behind her head, leaning back – she’s heard this one before.
Behind him, the bartender clears her throat and Nicky turns, apologetic, giving her a bright smile and a quiet ‘scusa grazie’ as he gathers the drinks.
He’s halfway back to the table when he finally catches Joe’s voice:
“And there he is, standing in his coat—you know the kind, the puffy ones, and his scarf—Nicolo hates the cold—” Ah, it is the Alps then. “—but the worst of the entire thing was his hat—” Nicky shakes his head, and is too busy being fond (this man has his heart, more than anyone or anything else in the world—he cannot imagine a time without him) to notice the intruder at first.
“He has purchased this hat in town you see. And my Nicolo is many things, Nile, but also maybe he is colorblind—”
“Hey, you want to shut the fuck up?” The gruff voice cuts the space between Nicky and Joe like a knife. Joe falls silent, out of surprise more than anything else, Nicky assumes, and looks over to the speaker.
A tall man, broad and mean who stands at their table, eyes dark and face twisted in anger. At the table, the mood has shifted from the giddy high of finishing a mission and all of them being alive (not something to take for granted anymore) to tense silence: he watches Nile reach under the table toward her boot, Andy’s hand tightens around her drink. Joe blinks and starts with:
“I’m not sure—”
“I said, you want to shut the fuck up?” The guy repeats again, leaning forward toward, hands pressed on the edge of the table, toward Joe, “We’re trying to watch the game and we don’t need to listen to a bunch’a queers--”
“That is enough.”
Nicky sets the drinks on the table. It would not do to spill them—he has just purchased them, after all, and he is looking forward to trying the cider he’s never had before. His voice is cold and does not leave much room for argument.
“The fuck did you say?” The man turns his attention to Nicky—mistakenly deciding he seems the easier target, thin and tall as he is. Nicky does not move.
“Do not tell my husband what to do,” He replies, ignoring the twist of the man’s lip at the word ’husband’.
“Listen here, you little—” the sentence is cut off with a hiss of breath as Nicky presses himself into the man, using his bulk against him, a sharp twist of his wrist between them, Nicky’s hand wrapped tightly around it, the pressure just shy of breaking.
“I would not finish that sentence, if I were you,” Nicky instructs, quietly, “because as it stands, I have your hand and if the mood strikes I could break it, quite easily. All it would take is a bit more pressure,” He tilts forward just enough to show what he means—he can see the sweat begin to bead on this thug’s upper lip. They never are so tough, once you prove they’re breakable, “and your wrist will break in three places. I do not have much experience with it, but as I understand the recovery period is somewhere near eight weeks. Perhaps even you will need surgery,” He twists a fraction more—there will be a fracture now, most likely, hairline though—it should not bother him too much if he will wear a brace. “Is two months of recovery worth interrupting a man who is telling a story?”
He waits, but the thug does not reply, looking at him with eyes that are now both furious and, wisely, slowly filling with fear. Nicky does not let go of his hand, but continues:
“It would be a shame to break you, as I like this pub, and I’d like to sit with my husband and finish my drink. I also would like to hear the end of this story, because he changes it every time. I am going to bet the tall woman over there on the ending, and I am going to make a hundred dollars and we will not,” He pauses again, a hint of a smile on his lips, a hair more twist, a bit more pain, “be bothered again, sì?”
“Yeah, whatever,” the guy retorts, a full sheen of sweat on his face now, and Nicky nods, releasing him with a pat on his shoulder, and a not subtle shove toward his table. He stays standing, watching as the man rubs over his wrist and winces, making sure he takes his seat and that the thug’s friends don’t feel the need to defend his honor. The group turns and looks at their table once, collectively, and whatever they see dissuades them enough they turn back to their beers and the television nearby. Good.
“Always nice to make new friends,” Nicky offers, blandly as he begins to pass out drinks, mostly to hear Nile’s barked laugh and to see Andy’s smile.
He slips back into his chair, tucked between Andromache and the light of his life and takes a long drink from his cider. Ah, they’re getting better at this. It nearly tastes as good as it did two hundred years ago. His hand finds Joe’s under the table and he squeezes, gently, resting their joined fingers on Joe’s knee. The man smiles at him, achingly fond, and steals a kiss. Nicky insists on letting it linger—for their new friend’s sake.
When they break, Joe launches back into it: “The hat, Nile, the hat is orange, but with pink stripes knitted in—”
Beside him, Nicky leans to Andy and whispers: “Fifty I end up dying in a cave this time.”
She laughs and shakes her head, but tugs out the money anyway.
At his side, Joe talks on.
Re: FILL: Nicky/Joe, told to shut up
Date: 2020-08-31 03:13 am (UTC)Re: FILL: Nicky/Joe, told to shut up
Date: 2020-08-31 02:10 pm (UTC)Re: FILL: Nicky/Joe, told to shut up
Date: 2020-08-31 04:46 pm (UTC)