#capichewrites

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ROADTRIP AU

"Okay," says Simon, ever the practical one. "But where are we going?"

They're somewhere outside Linköping, parked at petrol station that's deserted save for the disinterested kid behind the counter who barely gives them a second glance when they pile through the door, giggling. Perhaps they look like any other group of teens, letting loose after another year of school. Perhaps, Wille thinks to himself, they look normal. The thought is euphoric.

There's a nudge to his side. "What're you smiling about?" asks Felice. He can hear Simon and Sara bickering about whether they should stay the night in Linköping or try to make it to Norrköping.

"C'mon -" that's Simon. "It's going to take another hour to get there and I'm starving."

There's a disparaging noise. "It's literally forty minutes, you'll live."

"Forty minutes!"

From his side, there's a soft laugh. "I see," says Felice. Wille tears his gaze away from Simon's smile to see Felice's knowing look.

"Sorry," he says, wincing. "I just, um."

"Say no more." Felice's smile is mischievous. "Any thoughts on how long the honeymoon period'll last?" Wille feels his cheeks go warm. "Right. It'll last forever, obviously."

"It's not going to last forever -" Wille protests, although she's probably not wrong, not if Wille gets his way on this.

"Just a very, very long time," Felice finishes for him, at the same time Simon laughs, loud and joyous, in a way Wille realises he hasn't heard Simon laugh in a long time.

Distracted, he says, "Yeah, that," before he can stop himself. "Stop laughing," he grouses, when Felice immediately starts snickering. "Okay, okay, you're probably right."

Simon tucks himself into the space beside him. "What's Felice right about?"

"Everything," Wille sighs, as Felice snickers harder. "I think I just need to start accepting that."

"Damn straight you do," Felice informs him before wandering off to see what Sara is up to, leaving Wille behind with Simon under his arm, warm, comforting.

"So," he says. A part of him still can't believe that he's here, standing in a random petrol station in the middle of nowhere, the love of his life beside him. Hardly anywhere he's been to has been anything less than utterly premeditated within an inch of its life and completely devoid of any warmth. "What'd you and Sara decide on?"

"Oh. Well, we settled on a compromise."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, we're having lunch here and then we're going to Norrköping for the night." Simon pauses, before pulling back to look at Wille. "Wait. What do you want to do, though? You and Felice. Sorry, we should've asked you guys first."

Wille shakes his head. "Anything's fine."

"Anything?"

"I mean, ideally we'd eat something edible at some point and sleep somewhere that's not in the car, but yeah." He watches Simon blink, visibly baffled, and feels compelled to add, "I'm not the Crown Prince anymore. I can do whatever I want now."

"Yeah, but -" Simon trails off.

"But what?"

There's a pause, then Simon squares his shoulders, the way he always does when he's summoning the courage to say something he doesn't want to say. "I just don't want you to feel like you're slumming it."

"I won't. I promise. Even if we sleep in a tent," he adds. "Actually, maybe especially if we sleep in a tent. Because the last time we did was -" Wille winces at the flood of shame. "Sorry. I never actually apologised for that. I never actually - oh god, I never apologised for so many things these past few months, have I? I'm sorry, Simon. For everything."

He looks up, still wincing, to see Simon biting his lip. "Sorry," he says again, for good measure. He wonders if he sounds like a broken record, although in fairness, he does have a lot to be apologetic about.

One of Simon's hands slips into Wille's. "Hey," says Simon. "It's okay. I forgive you." There's a squeeze to Wille's fingers when he opens his mouth. "I promise, Wille. It's okay. I mean, we should talk about it more at some point, but just know that I forgave you a long time ago."

The thing about Simon, Wille's discovered, is that he has a seemingly bottomless well of forgiveness and patience in his heart, one that Wille himself has been a beneficiary of since the day they've met. Now, he feels a surge of protectiveness, an urge to never let that heart be hurt again.

"Okay," he says, rather than giving voice to any of those thoughts which would earn him a fond sigh. He resolves to lock it into his own heart instead, hopes that it'll guide him for the rest of his life - which, even more hopefully, will be the rest of their lives.

Simon gently squeezes his hand again. "Okay?"

Wille nods, wrapping his free hand around Simon's, cradling those precious fingers between his palms. "Yeah. Let's talk about it more, but thank you. For forgiving me."

Simon's smile is the sun breaking through the clouds. "Let's go have lunch, now. I'm hungry."

"I know," Wille tells him, letting himself be tugged to the counter, where Felice and Sara are busy checking out what looks like a small mountain of snacks. "I heard. D'you think they heard your stomach grumbling all the way back at Hillerska?"

Simon's mouth drops open in outrage. "You take that back, my stomach does not grumble that loudly."

"Oh yeah it does."

"It does not -"

"Maybe I should call up Nils and see if he heard it -"

Wille gets tackled around the midriff. "You really should eat more," he says, mock-thoughtful, as they stagger about the store in a tangle of limbs. "It's like being attacked by a kitten."

"I am going to fucking -"

"Boys," says Felice from where she's tapping her card against the machine. "Can you keep it in your pants for two seconds?"

"Felice!" Wille yelps, feeling his cheeks go flaming red. Simon doesn't look like he's faring much better. Sara bites his lip, visibly holding back laughter.

"Hey," says the kid at the counter, looking engaged for the first time since they walked into the store. "You guys look familiar."

"Um," says Wille. They all exchange glances. "Do we?"

"Yeah. Aren't you like that guy from TV, the Crown Prince?"

"Oh, well, in that case, definitely no," Felice says. "No Crown Princes in this store."

"Nope," Simon agrees.

"Nada," says Sara.

"Oh, okay," says the kid. He shrugs, not looking too torn up. "Well, have a good day I guess."

"You too," they chorus. They manage to file out the store and back into the car, before Simon cracks, snorting, and promptly setting the rest of them off.

"Oh my god," says Sara. "Oh my god."

"D'you think he's going to post about it?"

"Who cares," says Wille, feeling incandescent. "Let him."

"Fucking amen," says Felice. "Alright. Where are we going for lunch?"

Simon and Sara share a look. "Okay, so I know you're not the Crown Prince and you don't represent Sweden anymore," begins Simon.

Oh no. "Where are we going?"

"IKEA," says Simon, and goes down laughing when Wille tackles him.

[hilarioushilarity]

More from the Wille goes to Marieberg with Simon (AU?)

Simon dragged Wille into the first quiet place he could think of when the bell went for morning break.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded the moment the door shut behind them. He had no doubt some asshole was probably off spreading rumours that they'd wasted no time christening the whole school or some other bullshit, but he spared no thought to it now, because now was Wille, inexplicably in front of him instead of at some fancy private school in Stockholm, his hair still in its classic conservative cut and his clothes still about ten times too expensive for Marieberg.

"Um," said Wille. "Going to school? Because I kind of quit my last job. Not-job. Thing. You know."

They stared at each other. Wille's lips twitched. Simon wasn't sure who started laughing first, but soon they were both clutching at one another, gasping for breath. It was probably a little hysterical, but with everything that had happened, Simon thought they were due a nervous breakdown or two.

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There's the heavy bass in the background reverberating in his chest, but all Simon can focus on is the feeling of Wille's forehead against his.

"Hey," he says. They're close enough that he knows Wille can hear, even over the music.

"Hey."

Simon lets his fingers curl against the fabric of Wille's jacket. "Wanna get out of here?"

There's a smile in Wille's voice. "I thought you'd never ask."

[hilarioushilarity]

The moment when you realise the reason why you couldn't write one (1) chapter for a whole year was because you had to write the whole damn thing from a different character's perspective first.

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After she had stabbed him a few times, Quynh became almost - almost - friendly.

“You live in a hovel,” she sniffed.

“You’re welcome to leave?” Sebastien tried. “The door is that way.”

The look he got in return warned of knives in soft places, so he wisely shut up as Quynh continued to survey the room. “I don’t understand how you live in this place. Are those cockroaches?”

Sebastien followed her gaze. “Um, yep, I’d say so.” It was probably time to clear out the fridge again.

“Disgusting.”

“I’m sure there’s a decent hotel nearby,” Sebastien offered. “Or you could, you know, go find your family.” Not our. It hurt more than he realised, another unpleasant reminder of all he had lost, of all he once had but never appreciated until too late. 

Quynh inspected the garish green splashback of his kitchen. “I can’t see them right now.”

“You...can?” Sebastien squinted. “I have their number.”

“I won’t see them right now, then.”

"Right.” Sebastien hesitated. “Um, please don’t stab me, but why? You don’t have to answer.”

“I drowned,” Quynh said. “For centuries.”

“They tried to find you,” Sebastien said. “I came with them a few times.” When he had been sober enough, that was. “They never gave up.”

Quynh’s lips thinned. “I know they tried.”

“Then why...?”

"For centuries they lived and breathed air while I died and only knew water in my lungs,” Quynh said evenly. “Resentment isn’t always logical. I loved them. I still love them. But you can love someone and be angry with them at the same time.”

Sebastien thought of the look in Joe’s eyes, the warmth of Andy’s hug, the tight-lipped, barely perceptible nod that Nicky had given him, six months ago in England. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll warn you, though. Nile’ll still be dreaming of you, and if she sees you with me they’ll all know where you are.”

“I know.”

“So if you don’t want to see them, you probably need to go,” Sebastien added, because Quynh did not seem at all bothered.

Quynh turned to face him. “I‘ll be leaving soon enough. But I thought I’d give you a choice. Stay in this hovel and continue drinking yourself into oblivion.”

“Or?” Sebastien asked, only a little warily.

“Come with me,” she said simply. “I don’t want to see them now. You can’t see them yet. Misery loves company, or haven’t you heard?”

The look in her eyes said she knew exactly when and to whom he had said this. Sebastien heart clenched. “I shouldn’t have said that, then.”

“Your decisions are yours, and yours alone,” Quynh said. “Perhaps in the future, you’ll decide to think differently and act accordingly.”

Sebastien stared at her.

Quynh shrugged. “I think you and I are two people out of time. So. You can either come with me and relearn the world around us, or...”

“Yes, yes, yes, drink myself into oblivion,” Sebastien muttered. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, yes, I want to come with you.”

And for the first time since he’d stumbled into his apartment, something like a smile tilted her lips. “Then let’s go.”

[hilarioushilarity]

Artist Joe & Bodyguard Nicky AU

Joe was in the middle of mixing up some new colours when a hand extended into his view, holding a plate of pasta. 

“Pasta?” he said stupidly. He followed the hand and up the (very nicely-muscled) arm to Nicolo’s face, which was, as usual, impassive.

“You should eat,” said Nicolo. “It’s been five hours.”

“I’m not hungry,�� Joe said automatically, just as his stomach growled. He flushed. “Right. Maybe a bit hungry.”

Nicolo raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“But I can make something for myself,” Joe added hastily.

Nicolo eyed him. “Do you not like pasta?”

“I love pasta,” Joe said honestly. “And this smells amazing.”

So eat the pasta then, said Nicolo’s expression, which was impressive considering it was the same expression he always had.

“You don’t have to cook for me,” Joe explained. “It’s not in your job description.”

“If you fall over and break your head on an easel because you forgot to eat, that’s a hazard.”

“I’m not going to forget to eat,” Joe said indignantly. “I’m an adult, I even do my own banking!”

“Mr. Le Livre looks after your finances,” Nicolo said. “Also, yesterday you didn’t eat for seven hours.”

Had he? Joe couldn’t remember. “That was an anomaly?” he tried.

Nicolo’s brow furrowed, an expression Joe’s fingers itched to sketch. “You did the same thing the day before that.”

“Oh.”

Nicolo held out the plate and fork.

“Okay, okay.” Joe caved, reaching over. The plate almost fell from suddenly nerveless fingers as they brushed Nicolo’s. “Thank you. But please, don’t feel like you have to do this.”

“I can’t have you withering away from hunger while I’m on the job, your manager would probably have me shot.” Nicolo crossed his arms. “Or sued. My contract states that all parts of your body are to be looked after.”

“Booker wouldn’t do that,” Joe said automatically, before the rest of the statement caught up with him, and he choked as his mind helpfully came up with all the other places that Nicolo could look after because nope, nope, he wouldn’t be the sleazebag that hit on people who were technically his employees.

“You’re not eating,” Nicolo said pointedly, apparently oblivious to Joe’s inner turmoil.

“I’m eating,” Joe said, quickly shoving a forkful into his mouth. “I’m - oh my God.” He broke off on a long moan. “Oh my God.”

He looked up to thank Nicolo, only to stop short at the sight of those pale cheeks flushed, for the first time in the whole two weeks he’d known the other man.

“Glad you like it,” Nicolo said quickly, voice a little thin. “I’m going to let you get back to your work. Please finish the whole plate, and drink this glass of water, too,” he added, sounding like himself again. And then he was gone, leaving Joe to stare after him baffled.

“What’s up with him?” he asked the plate of pasta, which, predictably, stayed silent. “Oh well, I’ll have to thank him later.”

I saw this post on Tumblr yesterday about Joe being an artist with Nicky as his bodyguard, but couldn’t find it to reblog with this snippet? (Please if someone could link me so I can give credit to whoever came up with the idea, I would be very grateful. I am, to my great shame, not great with this site).

Here is the original post by @veryoldmuchguard, and thank you @you-dropped-your-forgiveness for linking me!

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Quynh and Booker’s Roadtrip AU

They hit a roadbump one day into the trip that would hopefully save Sebastien’s soul. Or at least his liver.

“No,” Sebastien said.

Quynh was unmoved. “You must.”

“Listen,” Sebastien said desperately. “I can’t pretend to be your husband.”

Quynh looked at him sceptically. “I know you’re no actor,” she said, only the slightest bit pointed. “But I do know you can lie.”

Sebastien winced. “Alright, let me rephrase. I won’t pretend to be your husband.”

Quynh snorted. “Am I not beautiful enough to be your beloved?”

“No, you’re Andy’s beloved, and Andy also happens to have a very sharp axe which she likes to stab people with.”

“So you’re scared,” Quynh surmised.

“Yes, I’m scared,” Sebastien said. “I like to keep my guts where they are, thank you very much.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Siblings?” Sebastien tried. “Cousins?”

Quynh rolled her eyes. “If you say we’re related, we’ll be that ‘sweet interracial family’ that stays in people’s memories.”

“Friends on a road trip?”

“That sweet couple who claimed to be ‘just friends’.”

“Hey, a man and a woman can be friends,” Sebastien said.

Quynh sighed. “That is true, but still no. We want to be as unremarkable as possible.”

“But-”

“Now hurry up, I want to sleep,” Quynh said, and promptly shoved him into the hotel foyer.

***

“If Andy hunts us down and kills me,” Sebastien said, when they finally got into their room, “I want you to know that it’s one hundred per cent your fault.”

“Am I meant to feel guilty?” Quynh asked, from where she was already starfished on the one bed she had already called dibs on. “You’ll just come back and continue drinking like a fish.”

“Shut up, no I won’t,” Sebastien grumbled. He fished around the linen cabinet and took out two blankets. “Also, how come you get the bed?”

“Because I’m older and wiser.”

"Does that usually work for you?” Sebastien mused. “Did Joe and Nicky always go ‘Quynh’s like a billion years old, better respect my elders’?”

“Yusuf and Nicolo have manners,” Quynh sniffed. “The same for which can’t be said for you.”

“Hey, I’m French!”

Quynh just looked at him. “Are you attempting to prove my case?”

“Forget I said anything,” Sebastien sighed. He was surrounded by a bunch of smartasses.

“I try to,” Quynh informed him smartly, turning on her side and apparently falling asleep immediately.

“‘Go on a trip’, they said, ‘It’ll be fun’. Yeah, right.” Sebastien gathered up a change of clothes, and he was self-aware enough to admit that the way he thumped down the suitcase was a touch sulky. “Sorry,” he said quietly, a little bit contritely, in Quynh’s direction; it was only half because he didn’t want another knife in his gut.

He went into the bathroom, and when he came out, the shadows had lengthened and the last vestiges of late-evening daylight had fled before the night. Quynh was a dark lump atop the bed covers. Sebastien considered waking her up for her turn in the bathroom, then dismissed it.

He wasn’t a heavy sleeper; quicker to rouse than Joe (but that wasn’t hard), but slower than Andy and Nicky, both of whom went from sleeping to fully alert in the space of a breath, maybe two at most. Even so, when he startled awake barely two hours after falling asleep, it took him a moment to register what had caused it.

“Quynh,” he whispered. The quiet, choked-off cries didn’t stop. “Quynh?”

He rolled off the couch. “Quynh,” Sebastien repeated, a little louder. Nightmares didn’t tend to afflict the others - usually, it was him who had to be roused from dreams of Quynh drowning. He gently reached out and laid a hand on her forearm. “Hey, wake up - it’s -” okay, he wanted to say, but suddenly couldn’t because of the knife in his throat. 

Oh man, we’re gonna lose the deposit on this room, he thought, and then died.

***

When his eyes opened, the lights had been turned to full brightness. He was stretched out on the bed. Quynh, nearby, sat with her head in her hands.

“Um -” Sebastien started, then had to clear his throat because throat wounds always left him with phlegm. “Sorry - I think I startled you.”

Quynh sighed. “I - apologise as well.”

“Well, you know, it’s not like it stuck.”

“It was unnecessary.”

Sebastien reached out a hand, then dropped it. “It’s okay. I’m okay now.” He hesitated. “Did - do you know, what caused it?”

The line of Quynh’s shoulders were a bow string, drawn taught. “The room was too dark,” she said finally.

“Too -” Oh. Oh no. “I - do you - would talking about -” he swallowed, taking in the way her shoulder drew impossibly tighter. “Will it help if we keep the lights at least slightly on?” he said instead. Quynh nodded. “Okay. Then we’ll just make sure we always sleep somewhere with light.”

“Very well.”

“And maybe a shower-” he stopped dead, suddenly impossibly frustrated with his own foolishness. “No.”

Quynh half-smiled; it was a brittle, exhausted thing. “No,” she agreed.

His eyes prickled, and he promptly felt like a heel for crying when he hadn’t even been the one to spend five hundred years at the bottom of the ocean. “I’m sorry,” he said, foolishly, helplessly; he was a coward who had never found the courage to face his own feelings, let alone others’. “I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything I can do to be helpful.”

Quynh’s sigh was unfathomably exhausted. She flopped backwards, onto the other pillow. “Sometimes things can’t be solved by trying hard enough. Sometimes, they just are.”

They lay there in silence, until a thought occurred to him.

“Hey,” Sebastien said. “You been to a supermarket yet?”

Part 1, Part 2

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AU where Joe and Nicky just hijack the plane that’s taking them to Merrick like “it’s a nice plane. hope you’re not too attached to it.”

The plane shuddered, and then there was the unmistakable sensation of rapid descent. Anchored to their pilot’s chair, Joe took Nicky’s hand in his own.

"Just like that time in the Alps,” he said lightly.

“1910?”

“The other time. 1980.”

“Ah,” Nicky said. “I think the resemblance ends at ‘plane’.”

“That is true, last time the plane could actually fly,” Joe concedes.

“This plane could fly. And it’s nicer. Well. Was,” Nicky corrects, with a rueful glance at the blood splattered interior around them.

They had almost reached the ground. “Nicky,” Joe said. When those beloved eyes turned to him, he said: “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Nicky said. His hands held Joe’s tightly. “I’ll see you when we wake up, my love.”

Update: now with a continuation here

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The first time Nile played Scrabble with the others also ended up being the last. 

“Scrabble?” Joe repeated, when Nile asked. “Are you sure you want to go there?”

Nile squinted. “It’s just Scrabble.”

“Oh, it’s never just Scrabble,” Joe muttered, which explained nothing. “But you know what? It’s been a while since we last played, I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Andy peered over his shoulder and let out an actual cackle when she caught sight of the box. “Oh boy. Someone call Nicky.”

“Um,” Nile said, just as Nicky came in. Booker slumped in a moment later, clearly nursing several choice bruises received during training. When his eyes landed on the box, he groaned aloud. 

“Why are we playing Scrabble again?” he said plaintively. “I thought we banned it in the sixties.”

“Nile wants to play,” Joe said significantly. “So we’re all going to be very civil and humane about this.” He said this mock-pointedly at Nicky, who sniffed. 

“As if you were much better,” he said. 

“My love, we agreed that we wouldn’t use words from before the turn of the century.”

“Nicky has a great memory,” Andy confided to Nile as Joe and Nicky bickered, leaning back with the amused air of a cat who had found its favourite playtoy. “I’m pretty sure he still remembers every word he’s ever learnt.”‘

“And he uses them in Scrabble?”

“Oh yeah,” Booker said grimly. “With great impunity.”

“Let’s play already!” Andy said loudly, downing a glass of something that was hopefully water, given that she’d reached her alcohol quota for the day. 

“Can we please stick to modern-day English,” Nile begged. 

“Define ‘modern day’,” Nicky said, just as Booker said loudly, “Yes, seconded.”

“Do not bet anything,” Joe advised her in an aside, just as Nicky said to Booker, “Takeaway privileges for a year.” 

“You’re on,” Booker said, looking significantly more enthused than he had a moment ago. “Get ready to eat pizza for one whole year, Nicky.”

“This one time, Booker was in charge of takeout dinners and we ate shitty pizza for a whole week,” Joe supplied to Nile. “Nicky never forgave him for it.”

“Oh boy, Nicky’s really playing to win this time,” Andy muttered. 

And really, it all went downhill from there.

***

Two spilt beers later, one disagreement about the definition of ‘modern-day’ that had gone to verbally sparring, and one disagreement about slang that had to be taken outside, Nile thoroughly regretted her decision. 

“What the fuck is ‘YOLO’,” Andy demanded, actually shaking her fist a little at Joe. “That isn’t a word, Joe.”

“Yes it is,” he argued, waggling his phone. “The Internet says ‘yes’.”

“The Internet is wrong.”

Everyone looked at Nile, who had somehow become the adjudicator and arbiter of justice. 

“It’s a word,” she decided. Chaos erupted at the table, as it had for the past half hour.

“See?” Joe crowed loudly. Andy skulled the rest of her not-water and scowled. 

“Hmm,” was all Nicky said. The hairs on the back of Nile’s neck stood up slightly, which was vindicated when he considered the tiles in front of him. Several tiles clacked into place on the board. When Nicky sat back, it was with a flourish, that said: Go on. I’ll wait.

Booker leaned over to look, and promptly spluttered in outrage. “That is not a word. Nile, tell him!”

THOT, read the tiles. Nile choked on air. 

“My love, are you sure that’s a word?” Joe said, already reaching for his phone. 

Andy snorted. “That cannot be a word.”

Nile winced. “It...is? Only in the loosest of senses.” Nile stared at Nicky, who smiled back innocently. “How do you even know this word?”

Nicky shrugged. “When we researching for that job in the nightclub, in Madrid, Booker and I split up the sites we searched for intel.”

“Are you telling me while I had to read ten million dusty newspapers, you were learning young people slang on the Internet?” Booker said incredulously. “Nicky!”

"The intel was good, was it not?”

“Yes, yes, yes but what does it even mean?” Andy groused. “I stopped keeping up to date after the mortals came up with ‘fuck’.”

Everyone looked at Nile. She groaned, but there was no escaping it. 

She told them. 

***

“No modern day slang,” Andy ground out, while Nile patiently typed up the new rules. “If the word can’t be found in an official dictionary, it’s not going in.”

“Just so you know, some of the slang terms still make it into the official dictionaries,” Nile said. 

“I fucking hate modern day words.” 

[hilarioushilarity]

More Artist Joe & Bodyguard Nicky AU

“You know,” Booker said thoughtfully, at their weekly progress review. “When I said ‘try to get along with your bodyguard’, I didn’t mean ‘draw him in twenty different ways’.”

“What?”

Booker turned the sketchbook around. Nicolo, lovingly rendered in strokes of charcoal, stared back at him.

“It’s just a sketch,” Joe defended.

Booker flipped to the next page. 

“Some warmup sketches,” Joe tried weakly, but he was sweating now. Just how many had he drawn? It was difficult to keep track when the lines of Nicolo’s small smile, his hands, begged to be committed to paper.

Booker looked at him sceptically.

“It’s...he’s just very sketchable,” Joe admitted.

“You’ve got your Brandhorst showing in less than a year now,” Booker said. “Unless you want to explain to them how a study on the human condition turned into the study of one hot dude, we need to be looking at something other than twenty pictures of your bodyguard this time next week.”

“You just don’t appreciate art,” Joe grumbled. “Fine. There’ll be at least something workable.”

“That’s all I ask for,” Booker said. He handed back the sketchbook, which Joe definitely didn’t hug to his chest. “I didn’t expect you to get along so well with Nicolo,” he added, assessingly.

“He’s very charming,” Joe said defensively. “He’s a wonderful person.”

“Alright, let me rephrase,” Booker said. “I didn’t expect you to fall for your bodyguard in less than a month. Especially when you spent the first week of it hating his guts.”

Joe winced. “I haven’t - totally fallen,” he mumbled. “It’s. Just. Falling. At most.”

“How is that better?” Booker demanded.

“Well, there’s still time to un-fall!”

“That’s not how it works!”

“Sure it is,” Joe said. “You just wait and see.”

A continuation of this AU because things are just coming to me. Also, again, the original idea wasn’t mine, but I’m having difficulty finding the original post. If it was yours, please let me know and I will make sure everything is credited.

Here is the original post by @veryoldmuchguard, and thank you @you-dropped-your-forgiveness for linking me!

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Artist Joe & Bodyguard Nicky AU Part 3

Joe had barely started to feel just this side of faint when a warm arm wound its way around his back, a hand settling home on his hip. He found himself leaning in but caught himself just in time.

“My love,” Nicolo said, looking for all the world a doting partner. “How are you enjoying the night?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” Joe said, meaning every word, even as his head throbbed unpleasantly and his eyes prickled. A polite cough to his right almost caused him to groan reflexively, but he swallowed it and instead added, “Nicolo, this is Mr Wetherington.”

“A pleasure,” Wetherington said. The smile on his face was all politeness, but the look he gave Nicolo was assessing. Nicolo smiled guilelessly back.

Harold Wetherington was the kind of old money that would’ve made Joe’s skin crawl even without knowing the kinds of pies he had fingers in, even without having helped bankrupt the cosmetics arm of Wetherington Industries by exposing the underbelly of unethical animal testing practices - and, well could treating animals as testing subjects ever be ethical?

Harold Wetherington was the kind of man who would put out a hit on Joe in a heartbeat, if he knew just who had been behind the social media campaign that shut down his labs. People like Wetherington was why Nicolo was here, ostensibly as Joe’s partner, rather than hovering behind Joe and raising the question of why a mild-mannered artist like Joe would even need a bodyguard at a charity ball. 

Joe tensed as the pressure behind his eyes spiked painfully. The arm around him tightened slightly, and then, apropos of nothing, lips were pressed to Joe’s forehead. When Nicolo pulled back, he met Joe’s bemusement with a smile that looked a touch strained.

“Shall we go home?” Nicolo asked. “It’s quite late. Would that be alright, my love?”

“Um,” Joe said, articulately. His head was too sore to keep up with this dizzying turn of events. “Yes? Yes, let’s go. Harold, see you at the next one of these?” He made himself wait for a reply and the polite exchange of goodbyes before letting Nicolo gently guide him through coat-check and into their car. The arm around him only left his shoulders when he slid into the car, and he told himself that he didn’t miss it.

Nicolo pulled them into the flow of traffic. “How long have you been unwell for?” he asked.

“What?” Joe was caught off guard. “I’m not unwell?”

Without ever taking his eyes off the road, Nicolo reached over and placed the back of his hand against Joe’s forehead. “You are quite warm,” he said, almost to himself. He sounded unhappy.

“Not hot?” Joe tried for a suggestive smile, but the hand on his forehead was large and steady, and it was hard not to just sink into the soft leather seat. “I guess...my head’s been hurting a little lately.”

Nicolo took his hand away, and Joe tried and failed to not mourn its loss. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you wouldn’t have let me go to the charity ball.”

“You hate these events,” Nicolo pointed out. “And also, name one time I’ve been able to successfully stop you from doing anything.”

Joe sighed, and let his head fall backwards. “You need only ever ask, my love,” he murmured absently.

“What?” Nicolo asked, voice a little strangled.

“Hmm?” Joe said, his eyes sliding closed. The pressure in his head dulled a little, but not by much. “Oh - sorry, and I mean...I do hate these things, but it’s for charity and some money does go to people who need it...not all of it goes back into rich peoples’ pockets, and um...”

“That’s not-” Nicolo broke off, then sighed, a small, quiet thing. “You should get some sleep. I’ll call for a doctor.”

Joe wanted to ask him what was wrong, but the soft plushness beneath his head called him, and his head did hurt so very much. He could ask him about it later, Joe resolved. Later, when the throbbing at his temples and the rawness of his eyes receded. “’kay,” Joe mumbled. “Thank you, Nicky.”

***

It could have been seconds later, or minutes, or hours. A hand was on his arm. “Joe?”

Sleep was reluctant to let him go, and the pain in his head was blinding. “I’m here,” he whispered.

Fingers gently touched his forehead, and he turned towards them absently. “He - he’s burning!” someone gasped. It sounded like Booker. “Nicolo, can you get him up into bed? I’m going to call the doctor right now.”

Two hands gently cupped his face. “Joe, can you open your eyes for me?”

There was so much Joe would do for that voice. He opened his eyes with great effort, to see Nicolo crouched beside the open car door.

“There you are,” Nicolo said, his voice softer than Joe had ever heard it. It did funny things to his insides. “Do you think you can get to your room?”

His room was so far away. But the thought of a bed, his bed, with its warm blankets and the smell of sleep, called. “I think so,” Joe mumbled.

“Lean on me?” Nicolo said, taking his arms and helping him out of the car. “Here we go, you’re doing great. We’ll be there soon.”

There were around two hundred steps between the garage and his room, but later, all Joe would remember of them would be the smell of the shampoo Nicolo liked to use, the press of a firm, broad shoulder beneath his arm. He wouldn’t remember the way he was lowered onto the bed, gently, carefully. Nor would he remember the way he said, “Nicky - will you stay with me, please? I- if you want to,” and the way something raw had passed over Nicolo’s face. That night, amidst the murmurs of the doctor and Booker and Nicolo, he would dream of a man sitting beside his bed, of cool, soft hands smoothing hair away from his burning forehead and feeding him water.

And in the morning, when he woke up, there would be the slightest of impressions in the blankets beside him, still warm, as if someone had stayed the entire night by his side.

A continuation of this and that. Here is the original post by @veryoldmuchguard. Yes, this is 100% just softness, but sometimes it’s okay to not polish a piece up to a brilliant shine. I do have some ideas for plot, and you might be able to see some inklings beginning in this piece.

[hilarioushilarity]

Joe and Nicky’s Two-Person War Against Misogny, circa. 1150

Imagine Joe and Nicky, encountering misogny in all its forms throughout the ages.

One day, they come across a nobleman who, being a Twat(TM), is holding an archery competition. The prize is, of course, the hand of one of his daughters in marriage. All of this is announced in the central square of a town Joe and Nicky are passing through, with the daughter in question standing behind her father, face impassive, fists clenched.

Yusuf looked to Nicolo, who was already looking back.

“Do you think...?” Yusuf said.

“Yes,” said Nicolo, and that was that.

***

When the morning of the competition dawned, every eligible man from miles around showed up, all eager to show off their prowess in archery and blatant misogny alike. One archer stood near the ends of the line-up, hood drawn. He didn’t crack a smile when the others around him joked loudly their eagerness for the wedding night. When one particularly boisterous man waxed lyrical about how he wasn’t expecting too much from the wedding night but how he was sure his wife-to-be would learn in time, complete with lascivious winks, the hooded man abruptly straightened.

“Perhaps you ought to worry more about your own performance,” he said, pointedly. “You don’t look like a man with particularly good aim.”

“Why - you - how dare you show such disrespect!” the other man spluttered.

“Show some respect for women, then,” the hooded man said, evenly. “Or would you like for every woman to go around making disgusting remarks about you?”

A scuffle probably would’ve broken out then and there, had the announcer not called the start of the competition. 

One by one, each man stepped up to the line to take their three shots. The numbers were halved, then halved again as the rounds went on. Finally, only the hooded man and the boisterous man were left.

“I’ll show you how good my aim is,” the boisterous man ground out.

“I’m sure you will,” agreed the other man serenely.

The first man took his time lining up his arm. He licked a finger, testing for the wind. When he deemed the heavens aligned and all odds in his favour, he loosed his first shot. It landed just within the innermost ring. A smug look was promptly tossed over to the other man.

“Amazing,” said the hooded man. “Truly astonishing.”

“Your turn, then,” said the boisterous man, feeling magnanimous.

“Why thank you.” The hooded man raised his bow with the arrow already notched. He took a moment to adjust the aim, then fired.

It landed on the bullseye.

“That wasn’t so bad,” said the boisterous man. In another person, his tone might have even been called admiring, but unfortunately this fellow was more likely to praise his own hands for having fingers than he was to praise another’s for skill. With confidence, he shot his second arrow. It landed slightly closer to the bullseye.

The hooded man took his second shot. It landed slightly askew from bullseye.

“Better luck next time,” the boisterous man said, possibly aiming for sympathetic but landing firmly on condescending. He took his third, and final shot. This one landed on bullseye.

“There! What a mighty fine shot that was, I say! The wind wasn’t quite right, those first two shots.”

“Well I hope the wind goes in my favour,” the hooded man said. He lifted his own bow, and paused. If his face had not been obscured the boisterous man might have seen the amused smile that suddenly bloomed. Ever so minutely, his arm tilted, then let the arrow fly.

There was silence as both men surveyed the board.

“Looks like it was,” the hooded man said cheerfully. The boisterous man, who was no longer boisterous, stared at the arrow that had neatly split his own in half.

“We have our champion!” shouted the announcer, leading the crowd in a raucous clapping. The nobleman led his daughter out to the hooded man, who bowed politely to her.

“What is your name, good sir?” asked the nobleman. 

“Nicolo di Genova,” said the hooded man.

***

“That was the funniest thing I’d ever seen in my quite long life,” Yusuf said to Nicolo, as soon as Nicolo could slip away from the madness. “Also, very, very attractive, may I add.”

Nicolo pulled his hood down. “It was entertaining,” he said. “Also, all these men are obnoxious. Tell me I shouldn’t shoot them all.”

“You shouldn’t shoot them all,” Yusuf said dutifully, although his own expression said otherwise. “The lady?”

“She’s alright.” Nicolo handed Yusuf his bow and quiver, to be stashed away safely with their things at camp, deep in the forest. “Just, as we suspected, extremely eager to escape her father, who has never seen her as anything more than a walking, talking doll.”

“What an absolute idiot,” Yusuf said flatly. “Did you tell her of our plans?”

Nicolo laughed. “Oh, I did. She said that taking her dowry and setting up a new life far away from here was the best thing she’d ever heard of in her life. Her only request was that she bring her two sisters along.”

“That’s doable,” Yusuf said cheerfully. “The more the merrier.”

“I thought you’d think so.” Nicolo reached out and drew Yusuf close. “I think I’ll have to go through with the infernal wedding though.”

“Oh?” Yusuf rested their foreheads together. “I’m afraid that you, my love, are already a married man,” he teased, then pulled back to take in Nicolo’s expression. “Wait. You’re actually worried about this, aren’t you?”

Nicolo bit his lip. “It’s just...you’re my husband.”

“Yes,” Yusuf agreed. “For this life, and all the lives ahead of us.”

Nicolo’s forehead was still creased. “It seems unfaithful.”

“Ah,” Yusuf said. “My love, do you plan on taking those vows to the lady seriously?”

Nicolo looked agast. “No!”

“And does she plan on taking those vows seriously?”

“The moment we were behind closed doors she told me to not get my hopes up because she hated my guts.”

“This was before you told her of our plan?” Yusuf checked. Nicolo nodded. “Well, that lady has got guts,” he said approvingly. “But also -”

“She retracted the statement after I told her of the plan,” Nicolo clarified.

“Good, because I like your guts where they are.” Yusuf leaned back in to kiss the tip of Nicolo’s nose. “Alright. Are you feeling better now? Not worried you’ll be cuckolding me?”

“Much better,” Nicolo agreed. “But maybe you should kiss me again, just to be sure.”

“Maybe I’ll kiss you twice, just to be extra sure,” Yusuf said, then kissed him thrice, just because he could.

[hilarioushilarity]

Continuation of this AU where Joe and Nicky hijack the plane taking them to Merrick, because someone mentioned how crap it’d be if one of them woke up before the other and my hand...slipped...

When Nicky woke up it was to agonising pain - which was depressingly normal - and to the wreckage of a plane - which was not so much. It took half a moment for his memories to come back, but when they did, he immediately pushed himself up on still healing arms.

"Yusuf? Where - oh no -" he staggered across to collapse beside where Yusuf lay. "Yusuf, wake up, we must leave the area quickly."

There was no response. Yusuf's chest was still under Nicky's hands, and two fingertips at Yusuf's neck found no pulse. In Nicky's own chest, a cold hand reached between his ribs and clenched. He took a deep breath. Then another.

It had been his idea to hijack the plane, communicated to Yusuf through a meaningful glance at the cockpit and the guns held by the heavily armed guards. More than enough firepower to destabilise a commercial plane. In his hubris, he had gambled with their lives - with Yusuf’s life -  

Yusuf gasped to life.

"That long?" he coughed out, as Nicky sat back on his heels with a litany of prayers spilling from his lips. "Nicolo, I'm fine, I'm - "

"You were not fine," Nicky gritted out. "What if you hadn't revived?"

"But I did," Yusuf said, completely unhelpfully. "And it was a good idea, taking down the plane."

"It was a horrible idea."

"It was a fantastic idea."

"It almost got you killed. Please, do not," he pleaded, when Yusuf made to make the obvious rejoinder.

Yusuf paused, then softened. "My love, come here."

"We have to leave-"

"I know, call this selfish - it would make me feel much better to hold you for a moment."

Nicky wavered, then all but collapsed into Yusuf's arms. They swayed together.

"You took so long to wake up, this time," he mumbled, resting his forehead against the waiting shoulder. "I shouldn't have suggested this plan."

"It was a good plan," Yusuf repeated. "Who knows what would've awaited us on the other end? You always come up with great ideas."

Nicky found himself smiling. Holding Yusuf close to him quietened the fears still roiling in his stomach. "That's not what you said that time in the Congo."

"Okay, that time? Was not your finest moment," Yusuf conceded. "But can we agree that there's a world of difference between losing a hand to an alligator and a little plane crash?"

Nicky raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, yes, this was not a little plane crash, but I do so hate regrowing limbs," Yusuf grumbled.

"Yes, I know you do, my love. And I will keep trying to make sure that you do not need to do so." Nicky leaned back in to hold Yusuf tightly, taking in a deep breath. "Alright. We need to move."

[hilarioushilarity]

Something more from this premise, where Quynh and Booker go on a roadtrip to rediscover the world, or at least save Booker’s liver. cw: mentions of wanting to vomit.

“I want to try new food,” Quynh had declared. “There must be something in this wretched new world to redeem itself,” which was how they ended up in the deep south of the USA, silently daring each other over plates of turducken to, well, chicken out.

Sebastien gave in first, pushing his plate away. Quynh doggedly ate two more mouthfuls, before putting her own fork down. She looked a little green.

“The Zomato deemed this dish ‘wonderful’.” She frowned. “This is worse than carrion.”

Sebastien stared at her. “And you would know...how?” He backtracked quickly when he saw the gleam in her eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t want to know.”

Too late.

“Well, you see,” Quynh said, because she was Joe and Nicky at their most mischievous, except ten times worse. “Once upon a time, I collapsed in a desert. Then, I died a few times, as alas, there was no food to be found. Because I was in a desert.”

“Yes, okay -”

“And then,” Quynh continued over the top of him, more animated then he had seen her yet, “one day, I had stumbled, fallen to my knees. Above, scavengers circled. And just as I had resigned myself to dying once again, I came across the carcass of an animal that had perished. It had half-rotted, half-spoiled, but the gnawing in my belly made it a gift from the heavens.”

Sebastien rested his forehead on the table, resisting the urge to cry, or perhaps puke up the three regretful mouthfuls of turducken he had choked down. “And then you ate it.”

“And then I ate it,” she agreed. He didn’t need to be looking at her to know she was smiling widely.

“I kind of hate you right now,” he said, swallowing deeply.

Quynh peered at him, cataloguing what was probably his deeply unattractive pallor. “Will you survive?”

“Maybe not.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Yeah, I know, try to hold back your tears.”

"That will not be difficult, as there will not be any,” Quynh said, but she pushed over her barely touched glass of water, which he took gratefully and downed. Without a word, Quynh raised a hand and called a waiter with a water jug over.

“Drink more,” she said, not looking at him. “I can’t have you dying on me.”

Sebastien paused. “You don’t want some?”

“I do not require it.”

When had been the last time he had seen her drink water? With a start, he realised it had been in his kitchen, but even then it had been one sip at the most before the glass had been abandoned. “Okay,” Sebastien said. “Okay.”

I do apologise if I offended anyone who likes turducken. There’s nothing wrong with liking turducken? The concept of it just amuses me a lot (and also horrifies me a lot in equal parts), but that’s neither here nor there.

[hilarioushilarity]

Sometimes, I like to just sit and think about the fact that the Old Guard fam, with more time than we could probably fathom on their hands, have definitely gone to university. Many times. I also like to think about how their attitude to higher education has always been less “I must be able to make a lot of money out of this” and more “on a scale of one to ten, how entertaining and educational will this be?” 

And then this came to me: 

"Arts, Fine Arts, Classical Art, some languages, and engineering. Many times over." At Booker's questioning look Joe shrugs. "The mortals keep discovering new things. I have to keep up."

"My love, how could you leave out your degree in Orthinology?" asks Nicky innocently.

"The study of birds," Andy says helpfully, when Booker only looks baffled. Joe drops his head into his hands with a little moan.

Booker looks between the two of them uncertainly. "Is that...an euphemism?"

Joe sighing is audible even over Andy’s cackling. "No, as in he literally has a degree about birds."

"Why -"

"It's a useful subject, wouldn't you say?" Nicky says, angelic smile in place.

"By far the most useful of your degrees," Andy agrees. 

"But why," says Booker desperately, "did you go to university to study birds?"

“Why not?” Joe crosses his arms. “It was interesting.”

“This one time, Joe saved all our asses because he recognised a bird wasn’t native to the area,” Andy says in a stage whisper. Nicky laughs, while Joe just huffs. 

[hilarioushilarity]

I’m very exhausted by Everything That Was Today, so have a feel-good, self-indulgent snippet. 

“How do I say this diplomatically,” Andy said. “No.”

“That was diplomatic at all,” Nile said crossly. “Did you even try?”

“She did,” Joe told her. “Trust me. This is Andy trying.”

Nile contemplated the pot of stew in front of her, which she personally thought hadn’t been half bad. Maybe she skimped on flavour, sure, but what it lacked in taste it more than made up for in being edible, which was a pass as far as Nile was concerned. 

Still though, yesterday Joe and Nicky had made a shakshuka from scratch that had almost made Nile cry with happiness. Even Andy, for all her propensity to go the easy route with stir fry, had a handful of tried and true recipes perfected over six millenia. Despite having no names other than “the spicy dish” and “that chocolate cake”, they, too, were consistently delicious. 

As if he’d read her thoughts, Nicky nudged her gently. “The stew is good,” he said, and when Nile opened her mouth to point out that actually, it was just under-salted water, he shook his head firmly. “No. You tried your best, and that makes it more delicious than some of the dishes in the finest restaurants.”

“He’s right,” Joe agreed, eating another spoonful of stew with satisfaction. 

Andy didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I was thinking of making of the chocolate cake tomorrow,” she said finally. “Did you want to join me, Nile?”

The table went still. 

“The chocolate cake!” Joe crowed. “It’s been at least three decades since you last made it.”

“The chocolate cake is truly delicious,” Nicky told Nile earnestly. “Andy only makes it when the mood strikes.”

"It’s a religious experience.”

“Well, she was worshipped as a god for a few centuries. Maybe even as the god of cake.” 

“Alright, alright, can it,” Andy said, but she was smiling. “So. Nile?”

Nile realised with a start, that she was smiling too, her heart lighter than it had been a while. “I’d love to.”