The Bold Guard

My fingers slipped and this happened.

First foray into The Old Guard fandom, over on ao3!

“I was just wondering,” Nicky asks the clerk, “are you sure you don’t have any others of this kind?” His accent is stronger, when he’s nervous—which is anytime he talks to strangers, really—and he winces a little, but the clerk doesn’t seem to notice.

“No, just that one,” the clerk says absently, eyeing the clock over the checkout counter with something that looks like longing. “Feel free to try it out, and if you like it we can order a different size for you.”

And he really wants to try it out, is the thing, because the articles he’s read say you should test a mattress for at least 15 minutes before committing. But there’s already a customer on this bed—a man, effortlessly beautiful in a way Nicky could never dream of being, with the softest black curls Nicky has ever seen, and a beard Nicky wants to feel against the inside of his thighs. And isn’t that an image to have in his head, right as the man opens his eyes to see Nicky standing awkwardly by the side of the bed.

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It’s been a long, long time, but I missed this so much and hope to be a little more active again in the near future. Anyway, this prompt inspired me so much, so have this little fic. I hope you enjoy it!! 💖

prompt: you want to forget me (ti vuoi dimenticare di me)

*

Nicolò feels like throwing up. He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers for what feels like the hundredth time.

Now. He’s going to ask it now. Okay, now then. On second thought, perhaps in a minute would be better.

Why is this so damn hard?

He knows why, of course. Because he has wrongfully besieged Yusuf’s home and killed him in the most horrifying ways possible. Because he has been a monster and would have to spend all his infinite lifetimes to atone for what he has done before he could ever be forgiven. Because asking Yusuf to stay together even though they have found the two women from their dreams and there is absolutely no sane reason for Yusuf to spend one more heartbeat in Nicolò’s abhorrent presence is the epitome of hubris.

What has possessed him to even consider this plan? 

He has come to know Yusuf’s kind heart. His warmth, his ever-smiling eyes. He has mistaken his innate kindness for something else, something impossible. He is a fool for putting so much hope in his delusions.

But it seems he has been a fool all his life. One more day won’t make a difference, will it?

It has to be now. Andromache and Quynh are out on a personal errand for a couple of days, and he doesn’t know if such an opportunity will present itself again in time.

God, this is worse than dying.

He opens his mouth to ask his question, the question, nerves sizzling through his body, but to his surprise, Yusuf speaks first.

(from booker’s character intro)

pants $5

rings $800

leather jackets $3,600

hats $150

There’s no clap of thunder, no shock of touch to instigate the realization – just a glance across the campfire at a man he’s come to trust.  Nicolò coughs, spreads his fingers above his breastbone as if he might contain the strange warmth that’s flooding his body, and stares, amazed at Yusuf’s face.

He had imagined, long ago, before the pitiless conflict that brought them together, that if love found him it would announce itself with poetry.  Such hopes had died inside the church, snuffed out by the press of duty, but he remembers the shape of them, the space they once took up in his mind, and he knows he imagined trumpets and pageantry, not a dusty road, scattered trees, the crackle of flame, and aching feet. Yet he does not doubt for an instant what he feels as he watches Yusuf bite into a date and spit out the pit, or what he must do now that he knows.  He climbs unsteadily to his feet, animated by the truth-telling that once made him search for god, and moves to sit by Yusuf’s side, heart beating in his throat.

“I must …” he says, and pauses to clear his throat. He glances up at Yusuf’s face and finds him watching with such clear affection that he is stunned anew.

“I’ve been waiting,” Yusuf says simply, and holds out his hand.

Nicolò takes it clumsily. “How long?”