Archive of Our Own

The van rattled like its bolts were about to give out, tires humming over uneven asphalt, Nile’s hands white-knuckled on the wheel. They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

Joe sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He could smell blood. Not fresh — the sour, dried kind, clinging to their skin and clothes, embedded in the floor mats, in the air between them. No one had said it, but the stench was them. It was Nicky.

Behind him, Nicky sat pressed against the window, shoulder brushing the man beside him — the one Joe couldn’t even think of as a man right now. Booker.

Booker was quiet, which helped absolutely nothing.

Joe’s fingers tapped against his thigh, restless. He thought about turning around. He thought about reaching back and slamming Booker’s face into the window until the glass spiderwebbed and gave. Would it feel good? Would it make a sound, a wet crack followed by silence? How many hits before his skull split open?

But Nicky was right there.

And he didn’t want Nicky to get blood on him again.

He’d had enough.

Joe forced his hand still and stared harder at the road.

Booker shifted. Joe’s eyes flicked to the mirror. Nicky didn’t flinch, didn’t react, didn’t move. But his whole body was tight. Joe saw it. Everyone else might’ve thought he was just tired, just tense. But Joe had learned every inch of Nicky’s body over centuries — and the way he held his breath right now, just for a second too long, was not tiredness. It was calculation. It was control.

Joe pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Thought about violence again.

What if he dragged Booker out of the van, right now, in the middle of nowhere? Pinned him to the pavement, hand around his throat? Would the others stop him? Would Nicky?

What if he crushed his windpipe and waited?

He’d come back. Of course he would. But there were so many ways to kill someone. Repeatedly. Eternally. Joe had time. He could learn them all.

Nile’s voice cut through the dark. “We should stop. We need a place to sleep.”

Joe opened his mouth, already ready to say I’ll go. He didn’t want Nicky out there, didn’t want him away, not even for a minute. But Nicky was faster.

“I’ll go,” he said, calm as breath. “Give me the map.”

And that was it.

Joe swallowed the words and the bile rising behind them, and let Nicky take it. Watch him lean over Booker to grab the folder. Watch him pretend nothing had happened, nothing was wrong. Watch him act like he wasn’t the one who got shot through the skull three hours ago.

Joe looked back out the windshield. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

He just thought about how many cinderblocks it would take to hold a body down in the ocean. How long Booker would scream before the water filled his lungs.

They pulled off the main road twenty minutes later, engine ticking as Nile parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. The area was dead quiet — no foot traffic, no lights, no neighbors. A good spot, if temporary. Joe still hated it.

He was already unbuckling, already sliding out, when Nicky’s voice cut through the tension like silk.

“There’s a place. Ten minutes out. Looks abandoned, but it’s not.” He held up his phone, screen glowing with a grainy listing photo.

Nile squinted. “An AirBnB? You think they’re gonna rent to us?”

Nicky just smiled, wide and too bright. His eyes still had that glassy sheen, like he wasn’t blinking enough. “Don’t worry,” he said, and from the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small black credit card.

“Merrick won’t miss it.”

Joe blinked.

Nile let out a snort. “You lifted his card?”

Nicky giggled. Giggled. Just a little. “He won’t need it.”

Andy stepped out of the van, wiping her blade down with a rag. “Stealing from the dead? You’re the worst priest I’ve ever heard of.”

Nicky didn’t miss a beat. “I get that a lot,” he said lightly, and giggled again, the sound almost normal. Almost.

Joe wanted to scream.

Then Booker moved. Reached for something. Joe’s body tensed like a trigger being pulled — ready to lunge, to strike — but all Booker did was take off his jacket and hold it out.

“Here,” he said to Nicky. “You’re the cleanest.”

It wasn’t true. Not really. Nicky was coated in dried blood and smoke and something chemical that clung to his skin. But on the outside — yes. His clothes weren’t torn, and the hole in the back of his head had disappeared like it had never been there. Joe knew better. Knew the silence in Nicky’s eyes. Knew the way he hadn’t sat back since the lab, hadn’t rested against anything. Like his spine remembered restraints and wouldn’t let him lean.

Nicky took the jacket with a murmured grazie, slipping it on like it didn’t weigh a hundred pounds. Then he found a beanie in someone’s duffel bag and tugged it low over his hair. It was still matted with blood, near the crown — a wet patch hidden under wool.

He turned to go, phone in one hand, shoulders squared.

“No,” Joe said. It came out sharper than he meant. “You don’t have to— Let me—”

Nicky stepped in, low and quiet, and murmured in Arabic, soft and familiar:

“I’ll be right back, my love. I promise. Just ten minutes.”

Joe’s throat closed.

“I’ll find something safe,” Nicky added, still in Arabic. “Then you can fall apart.”

And then he smiled — that same too-bright grin, teeth bared like he was still amused by this whole cosmic joke.

Joe watched him go, and every inch of him wanted to bolt after him. He imagined Booker grabbing Nicky’s wrist. He imagined cutting off that hand. He imagined kneeling on Booker’s chest and using his own ribs as stakes. He imagined pushing him off a roof, again and again, just for the sound he’d make on the way down.

He didn’t care how long it took. One death wasn’t enough.

Not anymore.

The gravel cracked under feet as the Nicky came back. Joe was rushing forward before he stopped moving.

Nicky stepped forward, silhouetted in the headlights of the van, still wearing Booker’s jacket and that stupid beanie pulled low like it could hide the fact that his hair was stiff with dried blood underneath. He smiled when he saw Joe. Too soft, too clean. Like he hadn’t just died screaming two days ago.

“We’re good,” he said, casual. “No cameras. The lock’s crap, but I fixed it.”

He moved to the back of the van and opened the door. Andy hissed as she shifted — her side was bad. Healing, but slow. Bone maybe. Muscle torn. She wouldn’t say. It was weird to think of her as mortal. She wasn't fragile. She was just... Andy.

Nicky didn’t wait though. He ducked under her arm and took her weight onto his shoulder like it meant nothing. Joe caught her other side without thinking, his hand brushing Nicky’s back. Solid. Whole. Warm.

Joe wanted to fall to his knees.

Instead, they brought Andy into the house — the three of them moving like a single shape, like muscle memory — and Nicky immediately started giving orders.

“Towels are clean,” he said. “Kitchen’s stocked enough for tonight. Don’t drink the tap water, it smells like iron. I’ll check upstairs for rot.”

Andy slumped onto the couch with a sigh. Nicky was already gone.

When Joe followed, he found him in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, wiping a streak of dried blood off the wall with a rag and water. The rags smelled like bleach and a little like death. The water had gone pink.

He hadn’t even taken off the jacket.

Joe opened his mouth. Didn’t know what to say. Closed it again.

Nicky moved through the house like a penitent. Like he was paying for something. The way he’d done in Rome, after their first kill together, scrubbing the altar steps in silence for three hours with a bucket and a prayer. His mouth hadn’t moved then either. Just his hands. Just his shoulders. Just the silence between him and the God who had stopped answering.

Joe’s fists were clenched.

Nicky gathered blankets. Nicky made a fire. Nicky handed Booker a bottle of clean water and said, “Here.” Like they hadn’t found his name on the lab files. Like he hadn't shot Andy.

Joe’s vision went white around the edges.

He wanted to put Booker through a wall. Not kill him — ruin him. Crack his spine. Split his face open like a melon. Tie him to a chair and break his knees over and over until even he started praying.

Instead, Joe stood in the hallway and watched Nicky act like none of this mattered.

“You’re bleeding,” Nile said, gently, stepping up next to him.

Joe didn’t answer. It was probably true.

She followed his gaze. Nicky had moved to the sink, methodically washing out the rags, fingers red up to the wrists like he was baptizing something. His lips were moving now — but not words. Just a hum. Something old and half-sacred. A chant stripped of its God.

“Is he always like this?” Nile asked softly.

Joe swallowed.

“He was a priest in his past life,” he said finally. “And that’s the thing no one understands about priests. It doesn’t leave you.”

Nile tilted her head. “What doesn’t?”

Joe looked at Nicky — hunched over the sink like it was a confessional.

“That thing,” he said. “The belief that service is holy. That to love is to suffer. That if you’re hurting, it means you’re doing it right. It gets into the bones. Into the soul, if you believe in that.”

He exhaled shakily.

“'Always me last.' That’s Nicky. Every damn time. Even when he’s bleeding. Even when he’s dead. He’s the strong one. The one who says the prayers while the world burns down.”

Nile didn’t say anything.

Nicky turned back toward them, cradling the clean towels like offerings.

And Joe thought: You have no idea how much blood he’s lost just to be this soft.

Nicky’s hair was still rust-red at the crown, dried blood caked in thick, dark clots where the bullet had exited. He’d tried to wash it out. Joe could smell the soap from across the room. It hadn’t worked.

It looked like a halo.

A martyr’s crown.

A target.

Joe couldn’t stop looking at it.

Nicky moved through the safehouse like a man preparing for siege. Not frenzied — precise. Each action was measured, deliberate, methodical. He carried out tasks no one asked him to do. Reset the perimeter alarms. Found the breaker box and fixed a faulty fuse. Lit candles in the corners of the living room like he was performing a quiet ritual, though he’d say it was just in case the power went again.

No one questioned it.

Booker sat on the couch with Andy, both of them wrapped in their own silence. Andy was cleaning her blade with mechanical detachment. Booker nursed a cracked rib and kept his eyes on the floor. They watched Nicky move but didn’t interfere. Like they’d seen this before. Like it was normal.

It wasn’t.

Joe’s hands trembled at his sides.

He stepped in quietly, watched Nicky folding a towel with almost reverent care. “Nicoló,” he said softly, just the name. It was enough, usually.

Nicky didn’t look up.

“Nicoló, stop. Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Said fast, automatic, like a reflex. “We need to boil drinking water. The pipes—”

“You don’t need to—” Joe reached for his arm.

Nicky sidestepped. Not rudely. Not even deliberately. Just… smoothly. Like a dancer stepping out of reach. The towel found its place on a shelf. The rag disappeared into a bucket. The beanie remained pulled low, blood seeping through the fibers.

Joe wanted to tear the hat off and scream.

He tried again, quieter. “Please. Look at me.”

Nicky didn’t. He grabbed a stack of batteries from his pack and headed toward the back hallway to check the lanterns.

Joe stared after him, chest heaving. The rage felt like it was eating him alive. Not at Nicoló. Never at him. But at the room. At the silence. At the way no one else cared that he was unraveling right in front of them.

Only four hours.

Only four hours since the escape.

Since the blood. Since the smell of burning skin.

Joe had been unconscious most of it. They’d drugged him — held him under.

Nicky hadn’t had that mercy.

Joe had heard him.

Through the haze. Through the drugs. He’d woken once, strapped to a table, throat raw from trying to scream when he couldn’t even move. And the only thing he remembered — clearer than the lights, the restraints, the metal in his mouth — was his Nicoló across from him, also bound, smiling faintly despite the sweat and blood and tremors in his limbs.

“As much as I like watching you sleep,” he’d said, voice gentle, so gentle, “I’m glad you’re awake.”

And then he’d screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

Joe had seen the samples later. Tissue. Muscle. Bone. They’d taken pieces of him.

Now he was folding towels.

Joe turned to Nile, voice low and sharp. “He’s not fine.”

She glanced up, expression unreadable. “I know.”

“Then why the hell—?”

“Because he won’t let anyone help him. Except you.” She paused. “And you will.”

Joe swallowed hard. His breath caught in his chest. Nile put a hand on his arm — steadying, not comforting.

“He’s surviving,” she said. “Until he doesn’t have to anymore.”

And then she walked away.

Joe stood alone in the hallway, watching Nicoló slip room to room, every movement saying:

I’m fine.

I’m useful.

Don’t look at me too long.

And all Joe could see was blood at the back of his head.

Andy disappeared into one of the back rooms, limping but silent. Nile followed a beat later with a quiet, “Night,” not waiting for an answer. She knew. She trusted him to handle it.

Booker stepped outside without a word.

Good.

Joe hoped he stayed out there long enough for frost to settle in his bones. Long enough for guilt to start growing roots in his stomach and rot him from the inside. Joe imagined pinning him to the porch with rebar. Imagined pressing a blade into his stomach and whispering, How does it feel to betray your family? before slicing upward.

He closed the door instead.

The house was quiet now.

And Nicoló — his Nicoló — was setting up the bed like they were just two men settling in for the night after a long drive. Folding back the sheets. Adjusting the pillow. His movements calm, practiced. Devout.

Joe watched from the doorway.

The back of Nicky’s head gleamed faintly in the lamplight, that rust-red patch of blood still clinging to his hair like a halo of martyrdom. Dried, flaking, but still there. Like proof. Like punishment.

He’d been shot.

He’d been screaming.

He’d been the one who pulled a man off of Joe, took the barrel to the mouth, bullet to the back of his skull, and died saving him.

And now he was smoothing the blanket.

Joe couldn’t breathe.

He crossed the room in two strides and slammed into him.

Nicky grunted, stumbling back a half-step. “Joe—”

But Joe was already tearing at his clothes. Hands in fists, yanking the bloodstained shirt up over his head, forcing the fabric past his arms. He shoved his pants down roughly, pushing him to the edge of the bed with the movement.

“Joe.”

“Let me see.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t.” Joe’s voice was low, rough, full of something black. “Don’t you dare say you’re fine.”

He pressed Nicky down, not to hurt — but not gentle, either. Not now. His hands roamed over him with feral purpose, sliding down ribs, across hips, over thighs. Every touch a scan for trauma. His thumbs dug into bruises that had already faded. He pressed his fingers into the spaces between bones like he was searching for fractures that had healed out of spite.

He moved behind him, cradling the back of Nicky’s skull in one palm, peeling the beanie off with the other. The blood was crusted against strands of gold. It stuck to his skin. Joe stared at the place the bullet had exited. There was no wound left, not even a bump — just hair stiff with rust-colored memory and the faint, terrible echo of the way Nicky had dropped to the floor.

Joe closed his eyes. His throat was tight enough to strangle.

Nicky shifted. “Yusuf, I’m okay—”

“No, you’re not.” He gripped the sides of Nicky’s face and turned him, forcing him to look up.

“You died for me,” Joe said, voice low and shaking. “You threw yourself into that, and you think—what, Nicoló? That pain is love? That God is watching and nodding? That this proves your worth?”

Nicky’s breath caught. Just for a second.

Joe leaned in — close, too close — and pressed their foreheads together. “You think you’re being holy, don’t you? Carrying it all? Bleeding quiet and alone because someone has to? You think you’re a saint.”

“I think you’re angry,” Nicky whispered. “And you have every right to be. But I’m here. I’m alive.”

“You were awake,” Joe said, so quietly it was almost a prayer. “They drugged me. But you—” His voice broke. “You were awake.”

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t meant to be comforting. It was fierce and full of salt, wild hands still gripping too hard, mouths colliding with too much need and too much grief. Joe kissed him like he was trying to drag him back from the grave.

He pulled away only when he had to — breath gone, chest heaving, hands still clinging to Nicky’s jaw.

And Nicky just froze.

His lips were parted. His eyes wide and wet. His whole body trembled faintly, like a string held taut too long. One breath. Then two.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Joe didn’t let go.

Nicoló didn’t move.

His breath came shallow. Eyes wide, shining. His lips still parted from the kiss, but no sound came out.

Joe kept his hands on his face — so gently now. His thumbs barely touched his skin, like pressing harder might shatter him. His palms cradled him like he was holy.

Because he was.

“Nicoló,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

Nicoló tried to look away. Just a flick of the eyes. A minute twist of his neck. But Joe didn’t let him.

“No,” Joe said. Soft. Firm. “Don’t hide. Don’t.”

The fight was still there, just under the surface. Joe felt it — the muscles in his jaw flexing, neck going taut, spine straightening like he could will himself solid again. As if obedience and silence could be armor enough.

Nicoló’s eyes were brimming now. Shining like stained glass lit from behind. Not blinking. Just—filling.

And then the tears began to slip down. Slow at first. A leaking vessel.

Joe leaned in until their foreheads touched again.

“I see you,” he whispered. “I see you, Nicoló.”

A shudder ran through him.

And still — still — Nicoló tried.

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away again. His chest hitched with the effort of restraint. His hands trembled at his sides. Joe saw every muscle tighten — especially the jaw, clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. Like he thought if he just held it, if he buried it deep enough, it would stay.

Joe gently shook his head. “No, love. Don’t. You don’t have to hold it.”

Nicoló gasped — a sound halfway between a breath and a sob — and that was the break.

His knees buckled. He fell forward, crumpling like a cathedral collapsing inward. Joe caught him instantly, arms wrapping around his shoulders as Nicoló dropped to the floor at his feet. His hands clutched at Joe’s shirt. His whole body shook, shuddering so hard it bordered on convulsing.

Then the sobs tore out of him. Raw, broken, violent.

No restraint now. No quiet martyrdom. Just ruin.

He gagged on air between gasps, choking on the depth of it, like it hurt to breathe. Joe dropped to his knees with him, holding him tighter, whispering nonsense in Arabic — soft things, grounding things. But Nicoló was far beyond language now.

“It’s—” Nicoló choked, “It’s not just the lab—” He dragged in a breath like a drowning man. “It’s him. It’s Booker—”

Joe’s hands froze on his back.

“That is our brother,” Nicoló sobbed, voice cracked and hoarse, “In all but blood, Yusuf. We bled beside him for centuries. We carried him—loved him. And he sold us. Sold you.”

Joe shut his eyes.

Nicoló’s fists slammed once against Joe’s chest, not in anger at him, but at the universe. “He sold you, Yusuf. You. How could he—? How could he?”

Joe held on.

And then the theology bled in.

“I prayed,” Nicoló gasped. “Every night. Even when I stopped believing in heaven, I still prayed. For him. For us. For meaning. And what does God do?”

He sat back slightly, looking up, face blotched and wet and ruined. “He stands there. Watches. Watches while they carved me open. Watches while Booker sells us out. Watches while we suffer.”

His voice cracked again. “If He’s a father, He’s a cruel one. If He’s a shepherd, we are sheep led to the slaughter and He does nothing.”

Joe didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The pain in Nicoló’s voice was too old, too deep — centuries-deep. There were no answers left in scripture. They’d burned those out a long time ago.

“And now I…” Nicoló shook his head, breath hitching again. “I can’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And God would. God already has.”

Another sob burst loose. “What kind of priest does that make me? What kind of man?”

Joe pressed their foreheads together again.

“It makes you human,” he whispered.

But Nicoló was breaking apart in his arms — broken not just by blades and bullets, but by the betrayal of the man who should have known better, and the silence of the God who never answered.

Joe didn’t speak again. He just held him, tight and steady, as Nicoló cried himself hollow in his arms.

When the sobs finally began to lose their violence, Joe eased a hand beneath Nicoló’s arms and pulled him upward, careful and slow.

“Come,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Let me get you to bed.”

Nicoló shook his head immediately, weakly. “No, I—I’m disgusting. I’ll get blood on the—”

“Shhh.” Joe kissed his forehead this time, thumbing gently at his cheek. “The sheets can be washed. You can’t.”

He guided him back, walking him the few feet to the bed like a wounded soldier, like something holy and heavy and cracked. When they reached it, Nicoló hesitated again. Joe simply pulled him down into his lap, cradling him like he’d cradle a child — like a saint off the cross.

Nicoló didn’t resist.

He curled in slowly, still trembling. His forehead found Joe’s collarbone. His hands clutched the fabric of Joe’s shirt like it was an anchor, like it might hold him down on the earth if the grief tried to lift him off of it.

Joe stroked a hand through his bloodstiff hair. It flaked under his fingers like rust. He kissed the top of Nicoló’s head, again and again, like a metronome.

“I have died for Him,” Nicoló whispered into Joe’s chest. “I have preached Him, carried Him. I have told others to love Him, even when I wasn’t sure I still could. I’ve held children as they died, told them He would be loving, would greet them with open arms. I’ve consoled grieving widows, told them ‘He has a plan.’” He sniffled, wiping his face on his shirt. 

Joe kept stroking his hair.

“And yet He turns His face from me.” Nicoló’s voice was watery, ragged. “He loves all, doesn’t He? But I feel nothing from Him. No comfort. No sign. And if He loves all, then the only answer is that I am unlovable.”

“No,” Joe said, instantly, voice iron-wrapped velvet. “No. Nicoló. Don’t you dare believe that.”

He tipped Nicoló’s chin up, kissed the tear-tracked cheek. “He doesn’t get to decide if you’re loved. He never did. You are loved. By me. By Nile. By Andy, despite the way she grumbles. And even by that bastard outside, though I wish you didn’t love him back. And He loves you too. I promise you. He wouldn’t make you so handsome, kind, sweet, loving, and adorable if He didn’t. You are a miracle, my love. Only God could make you.”

Nicoló sobbed again — softer now, less violent — and let his head fall against Joe’s neck.

“And the Lab…” he whispered. “It hurt. It really fucking hurt, Yusuf.”

Joe’s arms tightened. “Tell me what happened, Nicky. Don’t bullshit me either.”

“They explained it to me. Like they were proud of it. They kept you under to see if we healed faster unconscious. But me…” His voice hitched again. “They wanted to know how pain changed things. What happened to my nervous system. My spine. My eyes.”

Joe froze. His fingers stopped mid-stroke.

“They pulled nerves out of my lower back,” Nicoló said softly, like it was nothing. “Sliced a wedge of muscle from my shoulder. Took tissue from my eye — I couldn’t see for what felt like hours. I felt all of it. Heard them logging data. Heard the machines beeping.”

Joe’s breath was a blade in his throat.

“I tried not to scream,” Nicoló whispered. “But I did.”

Joe’s mouth was dry. “I heard you.”

Nicoló swallowed hard. “They told me what they were doing. Step by step. They thought they were doing science.”

Joe gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.

He wanted to tear every man involved into pieces. Not quick. Slow. Fingernail by fingernail. Molar by molar. Take them apart the way they took Nicoló. Piece by bleeding piece.

“They were proud,” Nicoló said again, voice going distant. “Like craftsmen. They’d stop. Let me heal. Then do it again.”

He laughed once — short, sharp, hollow. “You should’ve heard the doctor. He sounded so proud of how efficient the process was.”

Joe’s mouth was at his temple now. “I want to kill them.”

“I know.”

“I want to kill all of them. Rip them apart. One by one.”

“I know,” Nicoló whispered again.

They stayed like that — Joe wrapped around him, Nicoló curled like a child, shaking with the aftermath of pain and the betrayal that no amount of holy training could soften. His sobs had quieted, but his eyes were still wet, still far away.

Joe kept stroking his hair. Kissing his scalp. Murmuring things in Arabic and Italian, prayer-like, rhythmic, not for God but for him.

Because God had never earned his loyalty.

But Nicoló had.

“We need to shower,” Joe said gently, brushing a knuckle under Nicoló’s eye. “We both smell like sweat and death. And your hair’s… well. We should do something about it.”

Nicoló made a small noise of protest but didn’t argue.

Joe helped him up, guided him to the bathroom. The space was laughably small — an old porcelain tub with a curtain barely clinging to its rings, a fogged mirror over a cracked sink, the kind of water pressure that sounded more threatening than cleansing.

He turned on the tap and let the water run until it stopped coughing.

Nicoló stood uncertain in the doorway, arms wrapped around himself. Still barefoot. Still crusted with blood. His knees looked bruised.

Joe placed both hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “Sit on the toilet, habibi. I’ll go first. Then you, okay?”

Nicoló sat without a word, shoulders curled in like a penitent again, but his eyes never left Joe. That was enough.

Joe undressed quickly, peeling off the sweat- and soot-stiff shirt, the pants that had dried with blood at the seams. His muscles ached. The scars from the lab were gone, but the memory of pain lingered like bruises under the skin.

He stepped under the spray, flinching at the temperature. Cold. Good. Cleansing.

“Nicoló,” he called over the sound of the water, voice light, “remember Constantinople? The second time, not the first.”

A soft grunt. Joe smiled.

“You tried to scale the wrong wall. I warned you, but no, you said, ‘it’s faster this way.’ And then your foot went through the stone. You dangled there, upside down, muttering psalms while I tried not to laugh.”

A faint huff of air. Almost a chuckle.

Joe ran shampoo through his hair, scrubbing quick and brutal. “And remember Palermo? The noblewoman with the very sharp knives and the pet panther?”

“She liked you,” Nicoló said softly. Voice dry, raspy.

Joe grinned. “Only until she figured out I was sleeping with her bodyguard.”

“She tried to kill us.”

“She tried to kill you. I was fine.”

“She threw a dagger into your thigh.”

Joe rinsed the soap off his face. “Details.”

Nicoló huffed again. Joe could almost hear the ghost of a smile.

“Or the time in Cairo,” Joe went on, quieter now, more intimate, “when I nearly got caught in that brothel sting. And you barged in dressed as a Roman cardinal to ‘deliver me from sin.’”

“I was a cardinal.”

“You were half-hard under the robes.”

“I was multitasking.”

Joe laughed, genuine now, the sound echoing off the tile. He tilted his head back into the water and let it run over his face, trying to wash away the blood and ash. His muscles felt a little looser. A little less brittle.

“You remember Prague?” he asked next. “The first time. With the snow, and the opera house, and that tiny bed where we didn’t sleep at all?”

Nicoló didn’t answer right away.

Joe turned, eyes meeting his over the curve of the curtain. Nicoló was watching him — knees pulled up, eyes glassy but warm. Present.

“I remember,” he said, and his voice cracked just slightly.

Joe nodded, gently. “I remember thinking you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Snow in your hair, mouth on my throat, telling me I was worth salvation.”

“You are,” Nicoló whispered.

“So are you.”

Joe shut the water off, stepping out and grabbing a towel. He dried off quickly, the air biting cold against his skin. Still, he moved slow, careful — showing himself to Nicoló like he wasn’t afraid to be seen. No armor. Just a man. Just his man.

He crouched in front of him, hands warm on Nicoló’s bare knees. “Your turn, love.”

Nicoló nodded.

But he didn’t stand up right away.

He reached, instead — touched Joe’s jaw with two fingers, reverent. Not trying to start anything, not even a kiss. Just touching, like he had to reassure himself that Joe was real. That he was safe. That the body beside him wasn’t another dream he’d wake up strapped to a table from.

Joe leaned into it. Closed his eyes. Kissed his palm.

Then stood, and reached for the water again.

Nicoló tried to climb into the shower like it was a chore.

Like he could scrub himself raw and be done with it.

But Joe caught him gently by the arm. “La, habibi. Come.”

Nicoló blinked at him, unsure.

Joe turned on the tap in the clawfoot tub, adjusting the temperature with care. The water flowed warm, clean, quiet.

He settled Nicoló down onto the little towel-covered bench by the tub, then helped him step in — slow and patient, like lowering a relic into a reliquary.

“Sit,” he said gently.

Nicoló obeyed.

Joe knelt beside the bath, sleeves pushed up, a washcloth in one hand. No haste. No tension. Just purpose. Ritual.

The water rose around Nicoló’s hips. It turned pink at first. Then darker. Then faded to clear again. Joe dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and began with his chest — careful swipes across dried blood and fading bruises.

“You know,” Joe said softly, “your collarbones drive me insane.”

Nicoló exhaled a slow, tremulous breath. Said nothing.

Joe smiled faintly, dipping the cloth again. “They always have. Sharp as knives. Like God carved you with more precision than the rest of us.”

He moved lower — over his ribs, down his arms. Slow. Reverent. He touched each knuckle with care, fingers reverently gliding across old calluses and new soreness.

“I love your hands,” Joe murmured. “You touch like a priest. You fight like a soldier. I’ve seen you heal and destroy with these hands, Nicoló.”

Still, Nicoló didn’t speak. But his shoulders had loosened.

Joe washed down his thighs, his shins, the backs of his knees. He didn’t rush. Didn’t avoid. When he touched the deepest bruises — the ones no one else had seen — he kissed the inside of Nicoló’s knee. Brief. Gentle.

“Your legs carried me through fire in Syria,” Joe said, voice quiet. “You remember? When I couldn’t walk? You didn’t even hesitate.”

Nicoló’s breath caught.

“And now you think you have to be strong for me. Even after all this. Even now.” Joe leaned in, brushing his lips to Nicoló’s damp shoulder. “Let me carry you.”

Still silence — but now Nicoló’s hands were curled over the edge of the tub like he was gripping the earth itself.

Joe dipped a pitcher into the bathwater and poured it gently down Nicoló’s back. “Lean forward,” he said softly.

Nicoló obeyed.

Joe filled the pitcher again and poured another stream over his head. The blood ran in rust-red rivulets down his neck. Joe reached for the shampoo, worked it into his hair with slow, steady fingers.

“I love your hair,” he said. “Even when it’s full of blood. Even when it’s tangled. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Nicoló made a soft noise — not quite a sob, not quite a breath. He was trembling again, but he didn’t stop him.

Joe washed his hair twice. The first pass turned the water pink again. The second, clean.

He rinsed gently, tilting Nicoló’s head back with one hand, shielding his eyes with the other.

He didn’t miss the way Nicoló’s lower lip trembled.

Joe kissed it. Once. Soft. Devout.

Then he cupped his face, water dripping down his wrists. “You’re not unlovable,” he said. “And God is not the one who gets to decide your worth.”

Nicoló blinked hard. His eyes were glassy again.

Joe kissed his forehead. “I see you. I love all of you. The blood, the pain, the rage, the faith you haven’t let go of even when it’s strangling you.”

Nicoló leaned forward, pressing his face against Joe’s chest, breath hitching once. Just once. The last of the sobs gone, but the wreckage still there.

Joe held him in the steam. The bath had gone still. The light overhead flickered once, soft.

It felt like church.

After the bath, Nicoló let Joe dry him off with quiet obedience. His eyes were half-lidded, his body loose in the way only the thoroughly broken ever got — soft, pliant, bone-weary.

Joe helped him step into clean boxers, then pulled one of his own shirts over Nicoló’s head. It hung loose on him, swallowing his torso and brushing the tops of his thighs.

He looked tiny.

Which was absurd, because Nicoló was only two inches shorter. He was broad-shouldered, solid, strong as ever. He’d broken a man’s skull with a pipe the week before.

But now, bare-legged and blinking slowly, his hair still damp and sticking to his forehead, he looked like something Joe should wrap in silk and hide from the world.

Joe guided him to bed with a hand on his lower back.

Nicoló didn’t argue. Didn’t even hesitate.

He lay down, curled onto his side, and was asleep before Joe had even turned off the light. It was nearly silent — just a slow breath, a soft exhale — and then nothing. No tossing. No adjusting. Just… gone.

It scared Joe more than anything else that night.

He climbed in behind him carefully, pulling the blanket up over both of them. Then he pressed in — spooned close, chest to back, one arm sliding under Nicoló’s neck, the other wrapping over his waist.

Nicoló sighed in his sleep and immediately nuzzled back into him. His head tucked against Joe’s bicep, one hand lightly curling over the wrist that held him.

Joe exhaled into his golden hair.

He couldn’t help the smile.

So sweet.

So fucking sweet.

The man had fought crusaders, held back warlords, led revolutions — and now he was breathing softly into Joe’s arm like a stray kitten. His hair was still damp, soft as ever. Joe nuzzled his nose into it, pressing a kiss behind his ear. Then another at the base of his skull.

He kept whispering little things. Useless things. Not even words, half the time. Just sound. Just comfort.

His fingers traced idle circles on Nicoló’s stomach, brushing just under the hem of the shirt. His other hand stroked slowly through his short hair, easing through the damp ends. Nicoló made a soft noise in his sleep and turned his head just slightly — chasing the contact.

Joe pressed another kiss to his temple. “Beautiful thing,” he whispered.

Because he was.

Even shattered.

Especially shattered.

How dare they touch him.

How dare they look at him like data.

How dare Booker stand by.

Joe clenched his jaw against the rage curling in his chest.

A shadow passed under the door.

Joe’s eyes snapped open — already narrowed.

The door creaked open just a little.

Booker’s head appeared, hesitant. Guilt written across every line of his face.

Joe’s gaze locked onto him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared.

And something in that silence must have spoken loud enough, because Booker hesitated only a second before backing out again, the door clicking gently shut.

Joe exhaled. Tight. Controlled. His hand resumed stroking Nicoló’s hair.

He looked so small like this.

So fragile.

Joe tucked the blanket up under his chin, kissed the top of his head again, and let his lips rest there, eyes wide open in the dark.

You will all suffer.

Starting with you, Sebastien.