#ink-phoenix

The reason that the Van Speech gets the traction that it does is not only for Joe’s incredible eye-watering declaration, nor for how it spins the common toxic masculinity machismo narrative in action movies on it’s head, but also because how for the subject matter it doesn’t feel out of place.

I’d like to expand more one day on how in The Old Guard, the villains have been considered ‘boring’ in reviews. But I’d like to argue that it’s that said ‘boring’ that MAKES them so frightening. They’re the same every day nasty people we all know and live with. Which is infinitely more terrifying than something fantastical, if you ask me.

Keeping that in mind, considering that the movie takes place I think in 2019, and the characters in question are ‘standard humans vs men in the 950′s’ there’s a terrifying real world humanness to the guard.

Nicky wakes up to very quiet chaos. He wakes up to Joe pleading quietly at him for him to do that (wake up), and arguing with the Guard’s who keep trying to silence him. (Ain’t that a metaphor). Nicky fully comes to consciousness to:

“What is he, your boyfriend?”

And promptly reacts with the long-suffering dreaded sigh of a very old gay man who knows exactly what is to come. And he’s waking up at the disadvantage in that scenario too. He’s struggling to shake the knock-out gas out of his system, bound hand and foot and barely has his eyes open, and that’s the first non-Joe thing he really registers.

And for queer people, it’s not just the words. It’s the fact that, historically and even today, we can NEVER be sure what is going to follow those words.

For queer people, hearing that biting, mocking tone is a sign of a few things, some being (but not limited to)

1. Further aggression. (Violence? Is it violence this time?)

2. Nothing. (We tend to hope for nothing, but are not always so lucky)

3. We don’t know. (Is he going to gang up with his buddies now? Is this a situation that’s about to go from ‘mildly irritating’ to ‘really deadly’?)

For queer people, the sigh is the dread of mental preparation, even if nothing IS going to escalate we don’t know that. Even if it it just ends with scoffing and mocking, we never know when it’s about to get worse.

The sigh can be everything from exhausted annoyance, to quick-thinking mental preparation that puts your entire body on high-alert. Ready to fight whatever is about to come.

And here’s the other, very important element of that. A gay, interracial and interfaith couple of the last 920 year is more than aware of that. This is honestly one tick on the “Been Aggressed for Centuries’ bingo card they’re both familiar with. And Joe knows that as well as Nicky. 

They are both quickly thinking the same thing here. They know they’re in danger (whether it’s minimal or possible) and being lead to the even more uncertain fate in Merrick’s lab. (Leigh’s original post, again excellent, explains why the van speech is for Nicky and not the guards, so I won’t go to deep into here). And Joe knows that Nicky is scared (Joe’s just as scared, but Joe’s got the benefit of full-consciousness here) and the added benefit of ‘protecting Nicky is second nature’.

With such fear and uncertainty at play, Joe IMMEDIATELY takes control of the situation.

“You’re a child.”

And that gets the guard’s attention (and interestingly, draws their attention away from Nicky for a moment) which Joe cues off on, and immediately has his eyes back on Nicky. Because now, with the instant threat away from Nicky, Joe can focus on him more clearly.

The entire rest of the speech is for him. For both of them. Joe is saying, in his speech, (without actually saying it), “I got you. We’ve done this before, we’ll do it again. You’re safe-I’m safe, these people are a blip on the radar, right babe? No matter what, we’ve faced worse people than them. We can do this, we’re used to this shit.”

Doesn’t make it EASIER mind, but it’s a good reminder. We are still in control. We will fight back. They are not separating us. Goons will not take you from me, okay?

And I like to think that by reassuring Nicky, that by watching Nicky’s face, by seeing him react, and absorbing him, Joe reassures himself too. Interestingly! I think Nicky nicely returns that reassurance. He has one line, but it’s more than enough.

“You incurable romantic”

You got me. I got you. I’m with you. We’re on the same page, we always have been, always were.

The kiss is also for them and them alone. Because if they never see each other again, if they never have the ability to be together again, then at least there’s one last time.

There’s the element of hope there too-and yeah, they do kill the guards and all, but that doesn’t really put the ball in their court. They still don’t know what’s coming after.

History is messy. History is up and down. There will have been periods of time in said history where Joe and Nicky had an easier time of things. More acceptable, more open-and periods of time where things were really fucking bad for them. And they can never really know which period or scenario that’s going to be. They’re always going to have one small element of ‘alertness’ in the back of their heads about it. Because they have  to. As a couple they have so many elements of ‘this is what society hates’ working against them.

And in other movies, that might be the ‘this is where we make it very sad and angst-ridden’ but in The Old Guard, they survive. Every time.

And man if that doesn’t feel so good to see.

To some, the van scene might seem fantastical and out of place. Like Joe just suddenly has some big romantic declaration out of nowhere. But for queer audiences, for any audience that is used to living an existence where this is a regular scenario (homophobia, not being kidnapped) it’s very non-fantastical and very much not out of place.

Because it’s a reality we know in some way.

It’s brilliant. It’s intense, it’s raw. It’s one of the scenes I still can’t watch without a little bit of crying, and there’s SO much to a scene that lasts 1 minute and 24 seconds and it’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in a film.

At first, Joe didn’t think it was deliberate.

He woke up later than usual one morning, languid and slow. Relishing the fact that he’d had a full nights sleep and nowhere particularly pressing to be. Normally, Nicky would be up already, brewing coffee or tea and reading or doing a newspaper crossword. Small things to pass the time until Joe woke.

This morning, Joe wakes and Nicky’s still very much in bed. There is coffee, but it’s sitting on the nightstand, Nicky shirtless and gently massaging his fingers into Joe’s neck-something Joe imagined he’d been doing while Joe was still sleeping.

“What’s all that?” Joe asked, Nicky humming and not answering him.

“You seemed tired.” He says, finally, pressed by Joe’s curious gaze, “The cafe here opens early. It has the shot of vanilla you like too.”

“Do all cafe’s not open early?” Joe asked, forcing himself into a sitting position, Nicky moving to hand him the sweet smelling coffee. It had a very charming purple cup with white dots containing it, Nicky’d popped the lids opening, the smell already intoxicating.

“Drink your coffee, smartass.” Nicky said, Joe smirking and doing just that. 

--

Later in the week, they’d come back from doing some training, Joe moving to get the oil to clean his scimitar only to find it already all laid out for him, everything he’d need, even down to the clean cloths.

“Nicky?”

“I set it out before we left.” Nicky explained, like it was the most logical thing in the world. Joe sitting in the slightly too hard dining room chair, scimitar unsheathed in his lap, Nicky just across from him.

And well, of course it was to Nicky. Joe’s fond smiling remaining throughout the entirety of their silent, almost ritualistic cleaning.

--

It continued well into the next week.

Joe stepped out of the shower to the smell of cooking, wrapping a towel about his waist and attempting not to drown in the divine scent emanating from the small kitchen in the temporary apartment. Recognizing many of his favourite foods. One dish in particular Joe knew took several hours to prep. Another day, he’d been reading and fallen asleep on the sofa. Waking up to Nicky just coming back in from a trip to town, passing Joe a fresh charcoal set and new sketchbook. A beautiful, cord bound leather one, said leather dyed a dark blue.

“New tortillons too?” He questioned, carefully taking the purchases, rolling his fingers over the tightly bound paper.

Nicky simply kissed him and winked, vanishing to the kitchen.

--

Mid way into the third week, Joe was feeling more content and relaxed than he had in a long time. And he could tell Nicky was too. His tense shoulders hanging much looser beneath his shirt, neck cricking less in the mornings, and a gun further away than instant arms reach. Joe’d been feeling the same, and they walked through the mostly-empty street not quite touching, silent and content, taking in the different store fronts and odd car parked along the side of the road.

The silence was broken by only the faint traffic, the occasional dog and, suddenly, Nicky’s sneeze.

“Hmm?” Joe turned his head, “You alright?” 

They could heal fast, sure, but they were not immune to dust, cold or the odd nasal irritant.

“Yeah, I-” Another sneeze caught him off guard, Joe smiling faintly at the way Nicky’s nose scrunched up in distaste.

“Here.” Joe fiddled until he found a package of tissues buried deep in the depths of his coat pocket, holding one out. “What’s the superstition? Something about three in a row?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Nicky’s voice muffled by the tissue.  Pausing his steps.

Joe stopped with him, shoulders bumping, watching the way Nicky was eyeballing a nearby bin with perhaps a bit too much glee.

“Go on.” Joe grinned, a hand moving to Nicky’s lower back, already feeling his arm tense, “I know you want to.”

They’re about sixteen steps from the bin, a little too easy, Joe estimates.

So Joe tickles him just as he goes to throw. Catching him by surprise and delighting in the little squeak he gets. The tissue flying through the air, jolted by the messy throw.

It just makes it, Nicky turning a triumphant grin on him, spinning to face Joe, arms wrapping around his neck.

“My skills are immune to your sabotage.”

It’d be raining, and hard. The ground was a slick, muddied pathway for miles, and Yusuf would be glad to feel dried boots again. 

Andromache and Quynh had gone off to a village some miles out for supplies, and would not return till that morning or the next due to the distance. Leaving himself and Nicolò to keep camp and hope to keep some of their provisions dry within the tent.

Yusuf did not know what had gotten them chatting about youth-boredom, perhaps, both tucked under their blankets and furs, clothes laid out flat in their meager space, glad they’d been able to at least lay the tent over some skins to keep from being soaked when laying down. Outside, the rain continued to fall in steady pathways that made the softest sounds against their covered cloth shelter.

He was talking animatedly, about some foolish exploit or another, eagerly amusing Nicolò with the intricate details of such things, when a particular story of how he’d tried to appear more well-read and impressive to some other family and had an unfortunate mishap with nearly setting his clothes on fire that had  Nicolò snorting, head twitching against Yusuf’s chest.

It silences Yusuf briefly, own eyes widening at the glorious, if fairly uncouth noise, Nicolò blushing hard enough that Yusuf can see it even in the minimal light their lamp provides.

“Nicolò?” 

He coughed, as if he’s trying to cover the sound. It seems both silly and endearing, there’s nothing Nicolò could do, not now, that could make him unattractive to Yusuf. 

“Perhaps your youthful foolishness is more amusing to me than I had entirely considered.” Nicolò mumbled against his chest, but there’s an open grin there that Yusuf can see, the blush near glowing. Yusuf harumphs, “Perhaps it be so, but I must admit curiosity, what part amuses you the most? For I do not find alighting ones clothing-near so as it was, entirely amusing. Or, perhaps now, but certainly not then.”

“You seem unbothered.”  Nicolò hums, and he’s right, Yusuf had been laughing himself when telling the story, after all.  “I can picture it, is all.”  Nicolò continues. “Your face is a canvas, you make expressions I knew not existed until we met. There is an entire world, an entire universe that exists within your expressions, Yusuf, I only need to let my eyes close and imagine the outrage written across it.”

As he spoke, Yusuf had been running his fingers across Nicolò’s cheek, and the other man’s near nuzzling into it by the end of his little speech. “If I can draw a laugh such as that from you, I will make my face as many canvases as you desire.”

As it happened, he’d not had to change a thing, of course. And it’s a good two hundred years later before Joe’d begun to notice that Nicky had never laughed that way with anyone else.

Still, it’s well into the 17th century before he mentions it. 

They’d been having a night off, sitting tucked away into a tavern so crowded Yusuf is briefly relishing their overall invisibility to the crowd. A turn in the conversation drags a low snort from Nicky into his drink, and Yusuf turns to him, all wide-eyed grin and curiosity,

“You never laugh that way for anyone else, have you noticed?”

Nicolò raised his head from his beverage, frowning as if he has to consider it himself, “Never?”

“No, never. Not for Andromache, not for Quynh. I am the only one who has had the pleasure to hear it.”

A hand finds his thigh beneath the table, briefly squeezing. Yusuf smiles, bringing his forehead to rest alongside Nicolò’s. “Suppose I never considered it.” He admits, “Would you..I feel that, it was..I know not how to explain it.”

“Ours.” Yusuf says, simply, quietly, “It is ours.”

“Aye,” Nicolò agreed, relieved Yusuf brought his thoughts together. “Ours.”

And now, in the 21st century and watching something on TV that Joe thinks is completely ridiculous and Nicky has called an ‘insufferable waste of time’, he makes an off handed comment to the improbability of the contest, and that snort follows, Nicky’s head tossed back, beautifully open and serene. Utterly, and completely awash in the delight that has always come with being at Joe’s side. And at Joe’s for the same.

Joe grins, laughing himself, reaching for the remote, but stopped by Nicky’s hand, the man still laughing. 

“Why torment ourselves further?” Joe asks, “When I can think of far better ways to make you laugh?”

01:52

Joe sighs again. There’s really no need for them to have been apart, but it happens. Separation can come with circumstance. Joe had been doing a work mission of surveillance, and it was too risky to send in more than one person. Even if his tiny barely-a-motel room feels hollow and empty.

His fingers are inches away from the motel’s phone, the lumpy pillow mocking him utterly, when a thought occurs to him.

What if he wasn’t where he was too be? They always have methods of finding each other, and they make sure of that. He’s aware he’s probably not thinking so logically, and while he slept okay the first two nights, today was quiet. And without so much work at the forefront of his mind, he’s left to lingered, wandering thoughts.

The alarm clock’s low red glare, faint, taunts him.

02:13

It’s silly. How much he misses him. His light red boxers feel too cool against his skin, the lack of body heat making him feel bereft.

A sharp, obnoxious ring jerks Joe from his thoughts, scrambling to grab the phone without even bothering to find a light. Joe’s voice groggy in the receiver.

“Hello?” He’s been awake, sure, but mobile connections do little justice for his voice.

“Sorry, uh, Mr. Jones?” The motel clerk sounds as bored and tired as he is. “Sorry but there’s a call coming in?”

Panic is first. The only people who should know Joe’s motel room usually wouldn’t be calling him on a mission. Even in it’s ‘off’ hours. “Okay.” Because what else could he say over the lump in his throat.

Static for a moment, then, “Joe?”

Fuck. Even hearing Nicky’s voice is enough to soothe the raising tidal wave of panic he’d been working towards, ‘Nicky, are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry I just.” He can hear him breathing, and Joe’s faintly aware Nicky didn’t ask if he woke him. It’s soothing, in a way, how Nicky just knows.

“I know, me either.” Joe sighs.

“It’s ridiculous.” Nicky grunts, “We’re not in year one hundred or whatever, its not like this is fresh, but..”

Joe chuckles, letting his hand drop to his stomach, already, his skin feels almost warmer. A phantom sensation brought from the assurance of consistency. “It’s wrong.” Simple enough a statement. “You’re not supposed to be in another bed. Where I can’t reach.”

“No, I’m not.” Nicky sighs, Joe wonders if Andy is awake too or curled into her own bed in the other hotel. “Did you curl around the pillow?”

“Tried too.” Joe glances down in the dark, finding the abandoned pillow near his thighs, “A poor substitute. Unfathomably lumpy, and flat.”

“You’ve told me I have more bulk” A bemused tone filling Joe’s ears. God he misses him. 

“Among other things. How’s the wall serving you?”

“Terribly. It’s near the radiator. But I think it’s broken. It’s cold and flat.”

“A tragedy.” Joe laments, leaning further back into the bedding, hand out to seek a touch he knows he won’t find. Not right now anyway. “Tomorrow night, I think.”

“You have to sleep before then.” Nicky urges. “At some point.”

“So do you.” Joe retorts. “I’m sure we could think of something.”

“I told you in ‘67 and I’m telling you now, phone lines are not sexy.”

“I never said the phone was sexy.” Joe argues. “I said your voice is sexy, and so is the rest of you.”

He gets a tongue click in his ear that’s strangely loud. “But I can’t see you, or touch you.”

Endless romantic, Nicky is. Despite him claiming the opposite, ‘No Joe, you’re the romantic’.

(Joe argues they both are)

“You know my touch by now. If I recall, you’ve been able to enact it before in creative ways.”

“Yes, but you’re normally in the room.” The sigh loud and defeated, Joe rolling over again, gripping the pillow unconsciously. Shuffling tells him Nicky’s burrowing down, probably curling inward to give himself something to focus on.

“Listen to us.” Joe laughs, quietly, fond. “Acting like those newlyweds on television programs...”

“You love those television programs. The cheesier the better.”

“I could be like someone and addicted to cooking shows.”

“At least one can learn something from those cooking shows.”

“Touché, touché.” Joe coincides defeat, “You never know, one could learn something from a good, dramatic script.”

“Joe, if Aunt Delilah’s herniated disc can be possessed by the ghost of her dead brother in law to sabotage her marriage to her second husband and claim the family fortune in milk stocks..”

“Never said it was a worthwhile lesson.” Joe snickered, “Besides, Aunt Delilah was the one who went to that haunted house..”

There’s a fwumph on the other end, silencing Joe a moment.

“Did you just throw a pillow at the phone?”

“It’s a close to you as I can get, consider it a rain check. I even aimed at the receiver.”

“How clever, your aim is impeccable as always.”

“Thank you, I’ve worked hard to hone this skill.” Nicky says, sounding mildly triumphant. Less from actual ego and more because he knows Joe loves the tone of voice he uses when he’s being smug. 

“I reap the benefits.” Joe yawns, suddenly, eyes feeling far heavier than they did before. On the other end, he can hear Nicky shuffling, yawning alongside him.

02:57

“Almost 3″ Joe comments, “Less than a day now.”

“Mm, can’t wait.” Nicky’s well and truly yawning now, struggling to stay awake. It’s not their ideal, but it works.

“You first?”

“Together.”

Of course.

They pause at the same time, unseen to each other, phones hovering close to the receivers.

“Good Night, Nico.” Joe whispers, low and soft.

“Love you, Yusuf.”

Joe’s heart clenches, soothed and warmed. “I love you, get some sleep.”

Nicky caves first, the phone clicking. Joe hardly remembers nothing after his own drops from his hand.

03:09

Still-Joe’s been waiting for over an hour. And if nothing else, he’d like to at least get confirmation that it’s safe to go home. So he stands, pushing the chair back and leaving it partially tucked into the table, debating about how best to approach Sir Might Hiss At Me.

“Excuse me.” Joe tries,  because it’s better than just ‘Hi’. He hopes. “You’re clearly very busy, I’m just wondering, are you uh, Harlow?”

Mr Perhaps Considering Using Claws glances up, and seems just as perplexed as Joe by the question. Now that he’s closer than five feet, Joe can tell from his eyes that he’s not quite as angry looking as he had at first surmised, and just seems startled and-if the slightly deep, dark circles are anything to go by exhausted. “No, sorry.” He says, before Joe actually registers he’s said it. His eyes are a fascinating blue-green-grey combination that looks like staring straight into a post-storm ocean.

Fascinating.

“Hello?” Joe blinks, and to his credit-not Harlow seems just as slightly dazed. Joe can just barely see lettering on the long-faded hoodie not-Harlow is wearing and blinks again, “Sorry, then, to bother you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” And Not-Harlow smiles, it looks tired, but friendly. “Waiting for someone? Could be somewhere else.”

“No, it’s.” Nobody puts ‘tell total stranger you’ve been horribly stood up’ in conversation etiquette books. “My friend” At least Joe’s conversation skills come in handy at times. “Set me up on a date, but well..”

“Was it a date you wanted, or a date your friend wanted?” Not-Harlow asked, and Joe laughs immediately, both startled and charmed by the bluntness. “He wanted it, he’s a pest. But in a good way, I guess. Harmless.”

“They say that about lots of pests.” Not-Harlow says, and Joe definitely needs a name now, because this is ridiculous. 

“What sort of pests come to mind?” He asks, because-they’re talking now and neither of them seem that interested in breaking apart the conversation just yet.

Not-Harlow pockets his phone, propping his hip against the counter in a way that is far more attractive to Joe than it should be, brushing back errant strands of hair that may or may not have product in it for the slightly static appearance. (Though Joe would guess not).

“I can think of many, but I think I’d rather have your name. Because whoever stood you up may be missing out. But I’m hardly interested in being a repeat, should we keep talking.”

Damn.

Joe’s not sure if he’s impressed or slightly intimidated. “Joe.” Deciding to go with a healthy mix of both. 

Since he gets a charming, if edged smile that does things to Joe’s brain that he’d rather save for those late night TV channels, he figures it was the right call. “Nicky” Not-Harlow, no, Nicky offers, extending his hand.

His grip is tight, slightly calloused, and perhaps a bit too mesmerizing.

“Nicky.” Joe repeats, smiling back, a little amused when Nicky, for all his confidence, ducks his head, “Care for a drink?”

“I do.”

--

(Joe gets a text hours later that is one line of peak nonsense from Harlow that he promptly deletes, along with the number. Even if Nicky tells him he should have kept it ‘just in case’.)

‘Nic-” It’s as breathless as he feels, echoed and gasped into his own mouth, and fades to nothing when Nicky surges forward again, clutching at Yusuf like his own flesh and blood depends on his kisses to find sustenance. Like he requires the touch, the knowledge of safety and security again.

They healed ages ago, even if they’re both dirty and bloodied. He can feel holes in Yusuf’s coat, in the shirt beneath, keening despite himself when his fingers find a slash, a tear, clutching at him all the more.

He’s not aware Joe’s speaking, or trying to when he can find the energy the ability to draw his mouth from Nicky’s, fingers rubbing into his cheeks where soot and grime coat them. Covering the skin with raw, grey ash and browning dirt.

“I’m here, hey,” Nicky didn’t think he was crying, but there’s streaks in his cheeks, a burn in his eyes, making them all the more scratchy.

“If the earth has to shake so violently, it can do so without finding it necessary to drag us apart.” Nicky babbles, nonsensically, clawing at Yusuf again like he’s trying to find a path inside him and never let go. It’s so utterly human. So base. And maybe some who would know of their undying would consider them to be above such ‘human’ fears; but they all know better.

It is not going to be some freak of nature disaster that takes you from me. Nicky thinks, perhaps a bit ridiculously, perhaps a bit hysterically. There’s the surge of raw, heated despair and anger coiling, soothed by Yusuf’s hands in his hair, drawing him in, and in. He can’t taste dirt anymore, can’t taste water; only the taste known to him for so long he could detail it in his sleep. A taste he’ll take to the grave.