#these quotes were so fucking good and so on the nose. like i'm a puddle of emotions right now. i need to write MORE of them.

[non-un-topo]

You asked for writing prompts and since I've been thinking about the Nicky+Booker sibling dynamic a lot (Dying of the Light and My Brother Spits Blood my beloveds!!!) I'll humbly request a little Nicky+Booker snippet inspired by these quotes:

Have a peaceful night/day!

Hello! Thank you so much for this ask, and your interest in my Nicky&Booker stuff!! These are such good quotes, and I love writing these two. <3

(Warning for some canon-typical violence and mentions of drowning)

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“Hey,” announces Booker, “I’ll bet you 700 they landed in the trees.”

He hears Nicky grunt, but there’s too much smoke in his eyes to see. Then, his voice, in a tone that’s usually followed with a lethal swing of a sword: “Can it wait until we are not about to be set on fire?”

Booker can’t argue with that, he supposes. As quick as he can, he crawls on his belly onto the grass, out of the smoking wreckage of the helicopter.

He makes it to his feet, which are both intact. No lasting injuries that he can feel. He coughs through another plume of smoke as he takes in the damage.

There’s a long, deep trench where the helicopter slid over the valley, and the tail rotor is lying in pieces a ways back. The helicopter’s not going to blow up, he doesn’t think. No. It won’t. They only do that in films. But it sure is smoking, releasing a jet-black cloud high enough to see for kilometres.

“At least they’ll know where we are,” he shouts over the metallic grind of the propellers slowing. He’s aiming for dry humour, but he doubts it’s gonna make Nicky want to kill him less in this moment.

As expected, Nicky makes a sound like a snarl, and Booker thinks he’s about to be cussed out in a litany of old Ligurian before he sees Nicky’s head make its appearance through the crumpled door, his bloodied hand shoving the broken metal aside. Out he goes onto the dirt, and he pulls his leg free last, which is looking… pretty disfigured. So that’s where the snarl came from, then. Nicky is the type who’d rather break his foot off pulling it from a bear trap than die pinned.

“They—" Nicky starts, turning over, “I saw it. I saw them fall.”

“In the trees,” Booker says again, and gestures widely to the dense jungle behind them.

“No.” Nicky scoots away from the wreckage. His voice is dull when he says, “They hit the water.”

Booker shuts up, because he’d be an idiot to say anything when Nicky’s voice sounds like that. When Andy and Joe might still be in the water, drowning, sinking, being cast away.

“Come on,” he says instead, rapping Nicky on the shoulder as he sits there and coughs. “It hasn’t been long.” The crash was quick. They’ve probably only been in the water for a few minutes, depending on how long he and Nicky were blacked out. That’s how many drownings, at most? Three? Six? Ten? Not many, in the grand scheme. Booker’s fared worse on his own.

But Nicky’s still sitting there.

Booker says his name, nudges him with his boot this time, and wordlessly Nicky begins to pull the handgun from the holster on his undamaged ankle. He checks the slide and then says, without looking at Booker, “You shouldn’t have done it.”

And Booker likes to think after all these bloody years he’s been alive he’s gotten better at keeping a placid façade, but he feels the way he glares. There’s no question as to what Nicky’s talking about.

“You would have gone down alone,” Booker says. Then, harsh, because maybe it’s what’ll get Nicky’s ass up off the ground, “Or is that what you were counting on?” To let Booker escape, to let him join Joe and Andy. If Booker hadn’t tried to get him to let go of the fucking yoke.

Nicky is as bad at trying to land a helicopter as he is at backing down from a fight.

“This wasn’t an opportunity to be noble,” Booker argues. “And anyway, that’s what you’re forever going on about—sticking together as a ‘team’, as an ‘army’.”

Nicky closes his eyes, and his mouth twists strangely, subtly, almost a smile. His ankle pops grotesquely then, and the only sign he flinches at all is in the twitch of his cheek.

“Get up,” Booker orders. “Let’s find them.”

Nicky slides a new magazine into the handgun, taps it against his knee, and hands it to Booker. Booker grabs it more than accepts it, and before Nicky’s lowered his hand, grabs his hand as well.

Finally, Nicky’s looking him in the eyes. They’re bloodshot from the smoke, and deeply shadowed. He plants his good foot on the ground and lets Booker haul him up. With Nicky’s hand still held tightly in his, he pats him roughly on the back before turning to face the jungle.

“Scout ahead,” says Nicky firmly over the sounds of velcro ripping as he’s probably looking for another weapon. “My leg is still—"

“Fuck that,” Booker grunts. “Gimme your arm.”

Nicky surrenders, because he has enough common sense to accept that they ought to move their asses. If not to find the other half of their party, then at least to put some distance between them and the burning pile of machinery. Booker takes his wrist and hauls his arm over his shoulders, takes Nicky’s weight as he leans on his good leg.

He can take the weight, just as Nicky has taken his too many times to count. It’s the very least he can do.

“This is a two-man mission,” Booker explains, despite knowing there’s no need. “Of course I’d follow you down.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Nicky’s half-smile. Politely, thankfully, Nicky doesn’t say anything. He just lets Booker do this, and together they enter the jungle.