[ clara thinks he's dead. actually, she knows he's dead because she'd watched it with her very own eyes, her glance having happened to have watched the drunken man stumble onto the street, her voice to call out to him too late by the time the car slams into his body, tossing him nearly twenty some feet across the road.
by the time she runs over to him, there's a number of people gathering, but despite her petite frame, she's quick on her feet, sliding on her knees along his side to check for a pulse β nothing, of course. the scraps of his skin from the gravel spread across his face too, blisters that indicate the harshness of his landing, and she wonders if he'd died instantly from the blunt impact of the car or if he suffered as he landed.
biting her lip, she swallows hard. of course, there's nothing she could have done here. for all she's tried to save the world a number of times, she can't save eveybody. even if it hurts every damn time.
but then he breathes, a gasp coming from his mouth that forces her to widen her eyes as she peers back down at him, watching as the injuries upon his face heal on their own, blood stains cleaning themselves as if they hadn't been there at all.
and the first thing that comes to her mind is β alien.
whatever the reason for there being an alien in twenty-first century france, she'll find out later, knowing the best thing to do right now is get him away from the crowd that'll be bound to have a thousand questions on their mind, made even worse if the police or ambulances arrive.
trying to scope him up, despite his size being larger than her own, she tosses his arm across her shoulder, grunting as she attempts lifting him to his feet on her own. ] Don't worry! I'll get him to a hospital! [ she shouts it in english, but her tardis should be close enough to translate the words into french for her, more concerned with getting him away from the street before even waiting to see if he's properly woken up yet. ]
[ It starts with a grunt, and then a deep, hollow cough as his insides begin β slowly, agonizingly β to stitch themselves back together. He can almost hear the muscle and sinew, each of the bones on his fractured rib cage clicking back into place. He sure as hell can feel it, and Jesusfuck it hurts.
It's a cruel joke, each death followed by consciousness again and the teasing echo of a voice murmuring to him: welcome back, asshole. Ah, yes. Still on this godforsaken planet, still in one piece, still hurt, and j'en ai marre, he could really use a drink.
But this time his feet seem to move on their own accord and there's the firm press of a body against his urging him forward. In the back of his mind, maybe he's grateful that they're getting away from onlookers. He'd done enough without risking exposure (again) of what he can do, of what his family (wherever they are) can do. Better to stay out of sight. Besides, finding a new apartment in this financial climate was a bitch.
He winces rather violently when the last of his ribs comes together, stumbling like he's twelve drinks in (as opposed to the five he'd been at before he blacked out). He has to stop, just for a second, to catch his breath and inspect his rescuer β or kidnapper? ] β I'm fine, I'm fine.
[ It's been a while since he'd spoken anything other than his native tongue, and maybe his accent's gone a little thicker. ]
[ she thinks alien, but nothing comes immediate to mind in regards to a regenerating species, nothing but time lord, but β well, he wouldn't be. in the corner of her eye, she can still see him bearing the same face he'd worn when he'd gotten hint, suggesting that, as much as she grows anxious at the idea of finding another gallifreyan, she doubts he's one.
the important thing is getting him out of sight for now, that much she knows, and her first thought is to carry him to the tardis. except hers has proven a bit trickier to set up in cities without looking incredibly inconspicuous. logic had told her it was probably best not to plant a tardis trapped in the form of an american diner right in the heart of paris, but now that she was in a hurry, she realizes it would have been much more convenient if she'd parked it closer.
(for the first time, she actually realizes that a police phone box isn't the worst idea.)
when he suddenly speaks, she's so startled by it that she almost drops him, still circling the idea that he was very much dead just a few minutes ago. ]
You have a very funny definition of fine. [ she honestly doesn't think they're far enough yet, but the diner is still a few blocks away, so she instead settles on guiding him onto the nearest bench, lowering him carefully. ] You should lay down at least. That was a nasty hit you took.
[ 'Tis but a scratch. See how he doesn't protest against her leading him towards a spot to sit and rest while the last of his cracks and bruises heals, however.
The older he gets and the more impact he sustains, the more time it takes to heal. He'd warned Nile of that not so long ago, and the wound then β a grenade launched in the Guards' direction β had been much larger. But it always heals β and he's still not sure whether that knowledge is a comfort or a curse.
The clarity from the booze wearing off is also less than charming.
He breathes out. ]
Might I ask where you were taking me?
[ The hospital is in the other direction, and no, he won't be going there anyway β clearly. ]
[ Being back in present day Earth without the world trying to end on a daily basis is... strange, to say the least. The first few weeks had been nice, the team taking time to heal and recover from their non-stop ordeal, but then one by one they'd all gone their separate ways. Even though she'd known it was coming, Enoch's prediction a constant echo in the back of her mind, it still hurts like hell to watch her family split apart with promises to keep in touch.
In the end, she decides to follow Coulson's lead and take some time to reassess. Mack's laid out a dozen job options for her, and she knows she'd have a dozen more outside the agency if she wanted to make that move. But for now, she just needs time. So she's still Daisy Johnson, agent of SHIELD, but for now she's more of a consultant than an active agent.
It's in that consultant role that she finally has time to dive into some of the things sitting on SHIELD's backburner. Strange reports that turn out to be nothing and some... that might be something more. With the technological power of an entire spy agency at her fingertips, it's easy for her to slip through the tangled web of the internet and various government servers and databases to fit the pieces together. They're crazy pieces at times, but she can't help but wonder.
So that's how Daisy's ended up in Hong Kong of all places, wandering cramped alleys and cursing at Google Maps for failing her. She blends in better than the typical tourist, at least, moving with purpose through the crowds. After twenty minutes, she gives up and just asks someone for directions, using her extremely limited Cantonese to thank the shop owner before finally finding the bar in question. An old expat watering hole that had been around for nearly a century.
Hardly anyone turns to look at her as she enters, heading straight to the bar for a much needed beer. Drink in hand, she turns to lean back against the counter, surveying the crowd with feigned disinterest. ]
After months spent drunk and pathetic, wallowing in his own guilt, his own self-pity (and being an absolute sad-sack about it), it is a disastrous accident in Paris, risking nearly everything, that triggers Booker to do something about the way he'd been living. That and he's got no reason to stay here anymore.
He runs parallel to his family, never close enough to breach his punishment, which is well-deserved, but he likes to keep tabs. He picks up the small one-man jobs, the tasks that are not always pretty, not always ... ethically sound. But he does them for the right reasons, like he needs to prove to himself that he's still got a place in the Old Guard even if he can't physically be with them right now.
But it's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and all he's got are memories and hard-earned lessons to guide his way when he finds himself slipping back into old habits, his feet finding their way to the nearest bar he can find.
Tonight he's in the bustling, sleepless city of Hong Kong, post-a-thankfully-successful-mission involving an illegal arms deal, with a flight out in less than 10 hours. Hunched over in the dimly lit space at a corner table with a single glass, he's probably pretty easy to miss, which is rather the point. His clothing is nondescript, all darker shades, nothing fancy, and he keeps to himself, doesn't engage in conversation. But he happens to glance up when Daisy walks in, and in the time it takes for her to settle at the bar and order a drink, the niggling feeling at the base of his skull only grows.
He can't quite say why, maybe a feeling, maybe a combination of old age and experience, but something's not quite right about this. He stays where he is, keeping an eye out, and downs the rest of his liquor, lets the glass tap lightly against the surface of the table.
[ It doesn't take long for her to spot him at that corner table, her eyes skipping over his form like he's nothing special. But she's reaching down into herself, focusing her senses on that single vibration in a room full of buzzing, focusing on him until she can turn back around and still feel him there across the room.
Satisfied with the imperceptible tether, she strikes up an easy conversation with the guy who's come up beside her and is suddenly turning a very flirtatious gaze her way. Daisy's not interested but he doesn't need to know that, so she flirts right back, laughing at a bad joke and letting him buy her another beer. He keeps his hands to himself and it's not too bad. She can almost imagine this being real, just chatting up someone at the bar and having a good time.
Almost. It's been too long for it to feel truly natural. There are too many secrets and scars for her to relate to someone so normal as this guy clearly is; there's no way he could understand the life she's chosen to live. But for a few minutes, she can pretend while she waits to see if her target stays or chooses to go. ]
[ When the girl doesn't leave, Booker takes it as his cue to get up and do so himself. He has no idea who she is or what she's doing here but he has no intentions of sticking around to find out. His own life (for lack of a better word, considering how many he seems to have) might mean very little to him, but his capture could prove detrimental to the others and that is the last thing he wants. A hundred years would be nothing compared to the added guilt and pain he would accrue if he was the cause of his family's capture again.
He pushes back his seat and straightens, moving without urgency and seemingly without purpose. He passes the bartender on his way out with a polite 'thank you' in heavily accented Cantonese, and steps into the still-humid Hong Kong evening full of lights and chatter and activity.
Casual.
He starts off down the street; now it's his turn to wait. ]
[ That casualness is deceptive. Turning to watch him leave from the corner of her eye, she'd bet good money that he's spotted her clear as a neon sign at night. Rather than berate herself from what had not been a bad job, she instead appreciates his instincts and drive to avoid being found.
Oh, and he does not want to be found. She'd noticed more than once that a source in SHIELD's files had ceased to exist elsewhere in the world. Historical photos, newspaper articles, priceless paintings — they'd all been erased or moved into private collections beyond her reach. All that had been left were SHIELD's copies, which is why it had taken her so long to put the pieces together in the first place. Someone out there is watching his back and that makes her even more curious.
So she follows him. Of course, she does, giving a quick half-assed apology to her counter companion before slipping through the crowd to the door and out into the night. She can see him up ahead, moving like nothing's wrong at all, and—
You know what? Screw it.
She takes a few quick steps to get a bit closer and then raises her voice enough to be heard over the quiet din of people on the street around them. ] I'm alone, unarmed, and I just want to talk.
[ Booker slows his pace to a momentary pause, turning briefly to look in her direction properly this time. He makes an attempt to scroll through the mental rolodex of faces he might have come cross in his life thus far, but this woman's face is a new one and that only makes him feel a little more nervous. After Copley and Merrick, one might say that his ability to trust strangers has been shaken, worse now because it had cost the trust of his family. To say he isn't feeling particularly generous with conversation, particularly conversations about him (and what he is or isn't), would be an understatement.
He's already making assessments for the environment around them, exit strategies, and maybe ... maybe at the back of his mind, he's trying to figure out a way to bring this interaction to the attention of the Old Guard. A pathetic, feeble way to claw his way back to them, perhaps.
He can already imagine the anger and annoyance on Joe's face, the stony silence in Nicky's, but he ignores that for now. ]
[ She takes a few steps closer but there's still distance between them, more than enough for him to have an advantage if he runs. There are still people all around them, possible distractions and barriers and— Hostages aren't a consideration. Everything she's seen about this man has led her to believe he's trying to do good and she can't believe that he would use innocents as shields. And if she's wrong...
They'll be having a very different kind of conversation. ]
Making sure that no one else finds you the way I did. Not until you want to be found.
[ It's an offer of help, a show of understanding that he doesn't want to be known, but also a big red warning sign that he has been noticed. For people like them (is he really like her?), that is rarely a good thing. He needs help, whether from her or someone else, and he needs to be aware of that. ]
Although you may have a point, you'll have to forgive me β what reason is there for me to trust you?
[ There is an unnerving realization that this woman, whoever she is, is right in some sense, and it wars with the other part of him that wants to end this conversation here and now, disappear and fall back into the shadows. If she managed to find him, who else might be tracking his whereabouts, his habits, the way he lives his life? If someone could find him, could they figure out how to find the others?
It has him a little on edge, almost itchy with the prickly discomfort of feeling like prey slowly, languidly being hunted. It's too familiar, reminds him of how easy it was for Copley to track them down and lure them into a trap. Yes, they had made it out alive and in one piece (admittedly all thanks to Nile), but that kind of luck wasn't something they β he β could rely on. Copley wound up being ... something of an ally, someone who made mistakes like Booker did, but that wasn't going to be the case for everyone they came across. Booker is willing to bet the world was populated with more Merricks and his ilk than not.
So, where does this woman fit on the spectrum? Does Booker want to find out? ]
Edited (fixing up some dialogue) 2020-09-18 03:26 (UTC)
[ While their conversation may not be playing out exactly how she'd hoped, so far neither of them is attacking the other and that's a pretty good start in her book. She knows he's armed, no one fights for a living the way he seems to and doesn't walk around prepared to do what's necessary. But he hasn't pulled a gun or a knife on her yet — she's almost sad about the former, it would have made this part easier.
She glances around quickly, looking for something small and harmless. A gun would have been the best demonstration but alas. It's above them that she finds her answer: a florescent light that hums in the night. The crowd will be startled but the light will be assumed faulty, no one will guess it's actually her. So she holds up a hand, focuses—
The glass of the light vibrates, the fixture shakes, and then the glass shatters with a cracking pop, raining down between them. She steps back quickly to avoid it, wearing a half startled expression for the sake of the crowd, and then turns her attention back to the man a few yards away.
[ Booker is inclined to think that whatever just happened was a mere coincidence. Of course, he's often found that coincidences don't happen all that often in his line of work when even dreams themselves have meaning, and that lamp shattering ... felt too deliberate.
Impossible but ... deliberate. ] Well, that's different.
[ Booker doesn't ease up, letting his recklessness and the adrenaline drive him. If anything, every muscle in his body tenses, but stubborn as always he remains rooted to his spot even as the street clears with the cries and shouts of surprised passersby, most of them thankfully inebriated. Tomorrow morning, the suspicious ones will wake up questioning how much they'd had to drink. The others will quickly forget.
Moments pass until Booker and the woman are the only ones left, positioned at a distance from each other like they're involved in some kind of Wild West stand-off. And without quite realizing when, Booker has his gun in his hands like it's an extension of his arm, the barrel trained in the woman's direction. Perhaps a little too late to avoid the damage to city property, and certainly too late for the demonstration itself, but Book is done playing games now. ]
All right, you have my attention. [ He briefly flicks his gaze to the broken lamp. ] Who are you? How did you do that?
[ It might not have been the wisest display of her powers, Daisy contemplates as the crowd scurries away, but at least they do have the benefit of most people being some degree of drunk. Some of the startled stragglers even choose to duck back into bars they likely just left, so she's not overly worried about this event making any sort of headline. It's not like she'd used an arc of electricity to blow the light, or anything else that could be called flashy.
And then it's just the two of them. A good thing, really. There are so many secrets the public doesn't know about, so many things SHIELD has helped cover up over the years... She knows it can't last forever, they've been incredibly lucky so far as it is, but she'll help keep the charade going for as long as possible — even if her younger conspiracy theory loving self would despise the very idea. ]
My name is Daisy Johnson. I'm an enhanced person, like you. Able to do things normal people can't. [ She hesitates for just a moment, watching him carefully, debating... and choosing not to ask. Not yet. ] I make it my job to help protect people like us. Please, can we go somewhere and just talk?
[ Well that's got to be some kind of joke. He's heard many things over the years, most of them barely pinpointing the fact that they just live extra long lives; no new abilities, no extra strength, no β well, Booker couldn't force a lamp to explode, that's for sure. (That's the thing about keeping a low profile and, as Andy had wisely decided, never taking the same client twice: you get to live a life where no one really knows what you are, only what you can do for them.) Being referred to as 'enhanced' is admittedly a new one.
Unless she really does think he's capable of some extraordinary power, the same way some people used to think Andy was a god. She'd shown him and the others the evidence of people worshipping her some centuries ago, far before his time; there were paintings and statues and stories. Well, there would be no paintings or statues of Booker today or any other day. He just had the bad luck of not being able to die.
Still. ]
I have never seen you before. [ If she's an immortal like he and the others are, he hasn't dreamed of her yet. ] You don't sound new.
[ Which ... isn't a confirmation of his other theory, exactly, but it does give him pause. ]
[ It doesn't surprise her that he hasn't heard the term 'enhanced' used for people like them. The new doesn't talk much about people with powers, SHIELD has pretty good control over the flow of information after any incidents (she's helped clean up a number of digital trails over the years), but it's starting to happen more often now. Something's happening in the world, a subtle shift that's picking up speed, and she worries about what will happen when it all comes to a head.
But that's a problem for another day.
You don't sound new. His words give her pause for just a moment before she mostly dismisses them. She doesn't have the panicked edge to her anymore that she'd had in her first weeks after terrigenesis, so that must be what he meant. But deep down, some part of her keeps hold of those words, turning them over in her mind, wondering... ]
Thank you. Do you know a place we can go? [ Hopefully giving him control of their location will help provide a little peace of mind, if nothing else. ]
A city like Hong Kong, there is no shortage of places to go.
[ Especially at night when the city is arguably at its best β the shops, the bars, the restaurants, everything lends itself to a whole other side of the city that doesn't exist during the daylight hours. It's vibrant and it's loud, oftentimes deafening. It's easy to get lost in it, to be so overcome by the stimulation that you can let it quiet the thoughts in your head. It's why Booker enjoys spending time here when he can, the mission simply an added bonus.
He considers some of the Guards' old hangouts while he puts his gun away, albeit a bit reluctantly. Even if she were to shoot him, he wouldn't die, and there's something about her that reminds him of Andy, of the way she'd been with him when he first woke up after his first death in 1812. It's that quality that he clings to, that he hopes won't lead him into some manipulation that dooms him. ]
[ She knows what he says about the city is true, though she has no personal experience with it. This is her first time in the city, her years with SHIELD having taken her many places but never here. China as a whole is mostly foreign to her save the stories that have shared by May's family the few times she's met them. It's something she wants to learn and experience more of if given the occasion. ]
I'm half Chinese, I'm pretty sure I'm genetically predisposed to consider dumplings a main food group.
[ It's meant to bring a bit of levity to things, but it's also true. That much, at least, she does know. And food is a good idea — food makes it easier to get through awkward pauses, gives them something to do with their hands, provides sustenance. Maybe, if it's really good food, it puts one more at ease. Given how this conversation started, she's ready to accept any help she can get in that department. ]
[ Booker's mouth briefly twists into something of an amused smile, but he nods, gestures towards the street ahead. Consider the levity brought; it does seem to put Booker a fraction more at ease, though he is by no means relaxed about this strange meeting. It was never a question of whether working alone could be easy because it wasn't. Not having someone to have his back if things went south was more than risky, it was a bit terrifying too.
He'd grown so used to being a part of a team, he'd taken it for granted when he thought only of himself, of Andy. But now was not the time to wallow in such thoughts. ]
All right then β follow me. It isn't too far from here.
[ Being lost without your team — that's something Daisy understands all too well. She might have been used to having her own back on missions, to fighting alone ever since Mack had been promoted to director, but the team had always been there. Her family had been there to support her in whatever way they could. Now, she's on her own completely, trying to decide what to do with her life. She has ideas, of course, and a half dozen offers to consider, but without her family to factor in... she just can't seem to take that leap.
Falling into step beside him, she keeps an arm's length between them and makes sure to keep her pace even with his. Moving behind him might put him on edge again, and she can't go in front because she doesn't know the way, so side by side it is. It makes it easier for her to get a good look at him up close, at least, and easier to casually pose a question. ]
How long until you leave the city? [ And before he can possibly ask, she adds: ] I've noticed you never stay in one place for very long.
[ Booker can't help the spine-tingling discomfort he feels knowing that she or anyone like her might have surreptitious eyes on him, tracking his movements around the world while he remains (mostly) unaware of their intentions. Likely none of them are good, of course, once they know what he can and cannot do; he'd learned his lesson well with Merrick. And yet, even knowing that, here he is β a fool β still making good time towards their destination without so much as a falter in his step.
Maybe it's the thought of Andy, and this woman's resemblance to his old friend, that he clings to. At the very least, he still has a couple of guns hidden in the upstairs hallway if Nicky or Joe hadn't gotten to them first. ]
[ He's not going to answer her question; she can tell as much from his casual side-step of it. Which, okay. That's fine. They're still building trust, so of course he wouldn't divulge that information to her. But she knows he will be leaving, and likely sooner rather than later since she's found him. She just has hope they can come to an understanding before he disappears again.
It's that thought that convinces her to jump straight into things. She's asking him for secrets — it's only fair that she shares one of her own. So, in a way that's too casual to actually be casual, she lays a piece of her soul at his feet. ]
[ Booker doesn't respond to her first comment, neither confirming nor denying β not at first, anyway. Maybe he's waiting for the hammer to fall, the troops to arrive, the shots to fire.
And when he finds himself still walking, the young woman keeping pace alongside him, that's the surprising part.
So, okay. He allows himself a question, an admission of fact, and takes note of the tense in her second statement. ]
[ It's the first admission he's made acknowledging that she was right about him. Up until this point, he could have just been some super paranoid guy who changes his address ridiculously often. Now... He's what she thought. At least, in part. There's always more to the story, details that never openly shared, but it's a start. ]
Some people called her that. To everyone else, it certainly seemed like it.
[ Even all these years later, it's still hard to talk about her mother. Her mom, the woman who should have been able to raise her. The caring figure she'd been Before and the broken thing she'd become After. It hurts even now. ]
[ Booker doesn't know how it works, how some people 'have the gift' (this is thought wryly) while others don't. It isn't genetic, that's for certain. If it were, perhaps Jean-Pierre would β
Well.
But the gears in his head are turning, trying to connect the dots between mother and daughter, whether that strange ability she'd demonstrated earlier is somehow connected to the randomness of immortality.
He's currently working with zero theories and a few more questions in its place. ]
[ It's all she can think to say, just a verbal acknowledgment of his words that make her heart ache with old grief so recently renewed. The first time she'd watched her mother die, it had been amidst the horrible revelation of how broken the woman had become in the wake of her treatment by Hydra. Jiaying had tried to kill countless innocent humans in the pursuit of protecting Inhumans, and she'd been willing to murder her own daughter in the process. But the second time she'd watched her mother die, she'd been introduced to the kind and generous woman she'd always been before, who loved her daughter with all her heart and would do anything to protect her.
Daisy owes so much of who she is to her mother. Her Inhuman genes had been passed down, granting Daisy a heritage she holds as so very precious. And she has to believe that some of her own boundless compassion came from her mother — and her father, at that. Hydra had torn her family apart, but she still carries them with her always.
She silent for a few moments, struggling to find something else to say in the wake of her grief, but then she sees a sign in the near distance and nods toward the building. ]
[ Booker is perfectly fine to continue on in silence for the rest of the time it takes to get to the small restaurant, and he chooses not to read into the quiet or the way the young woman's voice seems to soften at the edge of that one word.
One might say he has a knack for somehow being drawn to the grieving, due to his own deep (deep) seeded sorrow β but maybe it's simply that there are so many of them wandering around the world, lost in different ways it's easier than he thinks to find someone else like him.
The sign up ahead is a good distraction as any and as they approach the building, which has certainly seen better days, Booker simply waves a hand.
After you.
It's clear that the building might once have been attractive β years ago, in a former life perhaps β remnants of bright crimson exterior paint now dulled to a dirty reddish-orange, coming off in flakes to reveal chipped concrete beneath. The restaurant's sign in bright neon hums loudly in the otherwise quiet side street, but inside is the continuous sound of clinking plates, chopsticks, and chatter. It's quiet enough to hold a conversation over a small table of dumplings, but loud enough not to be overheard. People here leave each other alone, likely because the common clientele value their privacy.
Booker trails behind the young woman, lifting a hand to indicate a table for two. A server waves them towards a spot near the back. ]
( after a month of leads going dry, they finally know where michael is going to be β dean knows he hasn't been hiding, but he has been waiting, and that's probably worse. michael is methodical, does things with purpose, according to plan, whatever that plan might be (dean only knows the basics of it β enhanced monster army β but to what end exactly? there's a vital piece missing that they haven't quite been able to zero in on, so michael being this quiet makes him nervous, makes him even more anxious to hunt). now they're going to have to be patient themselves, which has never suited dean very well. he gets antsy. but he knows this isn't a fight they can just go in guns blazing.
he catches wind of a werewolf case out in omaha that might have ties to michael, might help them get the drop on him when the time comes β or it could just be another run of the mill monster job. either way, it's worth looking into, but he insists on leaving cas with jack because he doesn't wanna take the kid on a job so soon after getting him back (doesn't want to give him an incentive to burn off any pieces of his soul β he knows how much jack wants to help even at the cost of such a precious and finite resource; he's more like a winchester already than dean wants to admit). sam is off following up with rowena on some witchy business that might help them against michael, so dean's on his own for this one. it's probably better that way, he thinks. it'll give him a chance to burn off some of his nerves without any judging eyes.
when he finally tracks the thing down, he thinks he's too late: a body lies bloody and missing a heart outside what looks like an abandoned cabin. fuck. the wolf, if it's smart, is already gone, but dean checks the area anyway just to be sure. by the time he comes back to the body, ready to pull his phone out to call the police, he notices the hole in the man's chest is definitely not a hole anymore. instead of his phone, he reaches for his gun. waits. watches.
[ Booker has seen some very strange things in his long life thus far, and more than that, he's lived them. But men who turn into animals is a first, something he's only read in Gothic novels and seen on television. To see one is a sight on its own, but to be torn apart by one is something else entirely.
It's savage and emotionless, and it's admittedly one of the more terrifying experiences he can recall. He probably won't want a repeat of that again.
When he comes to, the pain isn't all that much different from a gunshot or a grenade being thrown in his direction, but there's a gun pointed in his face when he tilts his head to look up. And the man dressed in flannel, very American, looks like maybe he knows a thing or two about shooting things. Maybe he should worry about shooting werewolves instead of wounded men who cannot die.
Booker's laugh is empty of humour and sounds a little more like a cough near the end. He rolls over onto his back, stares up at the dilapidated awning of the old wood cabin instead. ]
As you can see, I am sadly missing the claws.
[ Yeah, he has had some time to check out the movies. And maybe read a comic or two. When you live this long β
He coughs again but already the hole in his chest has healed to nothing more than a red welt. ]
( not a lot of things can come back from the dead like that, so the list of things he's dealing with is, for once, pretty fucking short. frankly, it might be easier to cross off what he's not dealing with first β process of elimination tends to work in his favor in these particular cases.
so: definitely not a leviathan or an angel (no wolf, not even an alpha would have stood a chance against either of them); too soon to be a nazi thule bastard (they don't regenerate that fast); too old to be prometheus' kid (and wasn't that curse lifted when artemis killed zeus?) but he can't exactly rule demigod or any of the classical gods out of the question. could be a vampire if this was some kinda turf war, but surely a wolf wouldn't be stupid enough to go after a vampire without knowing how to kill one.
leaving ... well, not a lot. with all of the usuals out or at least very unlikely, he's starting to consider he might be dealing with something he's never seen before. which makes things a lot more complicated. and makes him far less inclined to lower his weapon. )
Nah, I don't think so.
( he stares down at booker, eyes narrowed. he doesn't like being in the position of not knowing how to kill something, especially something that can apparently revive itself from getting torn to shreds. he's probably not in a position to be making demands here, either, but dean has always been the type of man to vastly overestimate his own importance. )
You're gonna tell me what the hell you are and maybe I'll consider putting the gun down. ( but probably not. ) Wouldn't test your luck.
Of course. [ Booker's accent is thick, but the words are very, very dry; easy enough to get the gist of how very done he's feeling anyway.
He lets the last of the wound close, wincing as his skin stitches together on its own accord, and then he breathes out. It would have been a truly idiotic way to die his final death, especially knowing as little as he does about the thing that tore him up and tried to make its escape, so he's relieved about that at least. But the rest of him feels tired and a little resigned. What a curse to be brought back again. ]
You could shoot me but we both know there's no use in it.
[ It will hurt when he wakes up again, but he will wake up again, and he's going to be rather pissed off.
Merde. ]
May I at least sit up while you point that thing at me?
[ After their escape from Merrick Pharmaceuticals, they need to find a secure location to lay low and for Andy to get patched up again, her stitches torn open and gunshot bleeding anew. As they drive away from the wailing sirens converging on the building in central London, Nile gets Copley on the phone and demands his assistance: the man, to his credit, delivers. He gives them the address of a recently abandoned CIA safe house in the city and meets them there to unlock the door β a sparsely furnished second floor apartment with blackout curtains and empty kitchen cupboards, it's the nicest hideout they've had in days. They wash the blood from their skin and hair; Joe and Nicky change into the spare clothes Copley brought from his own wardrobe and duck out for supplies; Nile and Booker remain behind with Andy the younger woman tasked with keeping an eye on the older man, although they all seem to have reached the unspoken understanding that it isn't necessary.
God, Andy is exhausted. She thought she knew what it felt like, but with her immortality gone, the ache settles deep. Nile had warned her barely hours ago: Wait 'til tomorrow. It isn't tomorrow yet, but when it comes, she'll be grateful for the painkillers taking the edge off. But whatever physical pain she's in is no match for the twisting in her gut; and as there's no dulling the feeling of betrayal, there's no dulling whatever Booker must be consumed by now. Shame, perhaps. Guilt. Andy can only imagine.
Although the drive had been mostly in silence, Joe's anger in the lab had only smouldered rather than been diminished entirely and he'd been the first to demand satisfaction the moment they were behind closed doors. And just like before, Nicky had tempered his steel. Not the time. Not the place. Andy first. So they went. But the silence from the car sits heavy in the air, and when Copley leaves to surveil the aftermath of what transpired at Merrick and the two men return, it's still there. Nicky tends to Andy's unhealed injuries, Joe cooks and Nile helps, restless but more certain of her place on their team now. Over dinner, Andy lays all their thoughts to rest with a firm decision on the matter of Booker: Tomorrow. We'll discuss it tomorrow.
Later that night, they try to get some rest. Nicky, Joe, and Nile in one bedroom and Booker with Andy in the other β her choice, and one made freely. It may be complicated but after living for millennia, one learns to leave behind pettiness. But despite how battered she feels inside and out, she only manages a few scant hours of sleep, either from force of habit or a mind too restless for unconsciousness. She drifts awake in the middle of the night with her muscles throbbing, her mouth dry. She's thirsty.
But when she tries to get up for the kitchen, her body screams in protest. Mortality and the fragility that comes with it are easy to forget after so long. Sitting up in bed, something so simple, is an action she never realised she'd taken for granted; but with a gunshot to the gut flaring white-hot, the effort to do so is almost herculean. ]
Fuck, [ she groans through grit teeth, the expletive a reflex as she sags back against the bare mattress. Guess she has to relearn what living, really living, feels like. Every bit of it. She glances to see if she's woken Booker; or, in fact, if was even asleep at all. ]
[ With the adrenaline of the fight passed, the temporary truce they'd all silently agreed upon at the lab begins to dissolve almost immediately. By the time they all make it through the doors of the CIA safehouse, the weight of what Booker had done, what could have happened had Nile really gone home to her family, settles over the group like a dark cloud and like an impossibly sharp and heavy blade in Booker's gut. So he keeps to himself as much as possible, doesn't say a word, obeys an order, answers a question when asked, but doesn't volunteer much else.
If it hadn't been painfully clear what his betrayal had cost them all before, it's clear now. He hates the feeling of it, of what he'd done to his family, but most of all he hates himself for thinking, for considering that it had been the right thing to do at all.
We fight for what we think is right, Nicky had said. But was that really what Booker had thinking when he gave themselves up to Copley and Merrick? He should have trusted Andy, he should have trusted what he'd seen of Merrick, he should have known the second that goddamned grenade hit him square in the chest, that this had been a bad plan. But Copley had been so genuine, and he liked the man despite his betrayal of them. His grief, so raw and honest, was a reflection of Booker's own, and no amount of time had dulled the pain of it. If anything, it only spurred him on like sharp pinpricks, driving him to do what he thought was right. But at what cost?
In the quiet of the evening, once they've all retired for the night, Booker settles into his side of the room shared with Andy, and doesn't sleep. Tomorrow, Andy had said. Tomorrow they would decide his fate and it roils something awful and afraid in his chest. They couldn't kill him, sure, but there are some things worse than death and for a team of trained immortal assassins, they knew those things like old friends. He keeps his eyes closed, but he's always been something of a light sleeper and most of his dreams had never been comforting to cling to anyway. So when Andy shifts in her sleep, Booker is already conscious, and when she swears into the darkness, he's fully awake.
The word 'boss' lingers on his tongue, but he says instead, ] Andy β [ and straightens out of his huddled position on the makeshift mattress on the floor made up of a couple loose rolls of foam and a bedsheet to look in her direction. ] β are you all right?
[ Good intentions die slow deaths, isn't that the saying? But in their line of work, death is often quick and brutal, and betrayal can gut a man as well as any blade. Copley and Booker might have meant well, or at the very least believed what they were doing was right β but belief is powerful and underestimating it, or its sway, is a risky game. Andy knows what it feels like to have belief torn from you, to lose that driving force and to wander aimlessly in search for something like it, desperate to fill the void with whatever burns like it. (For her, she hadn't even realised the fire had burnt down to embers over the decades, stoked back to life once in a while by Joe or Nicky, reignited now by Nile, although the flame still burns low in the wake of so much pain.) Can she blame Booker for chasing β whatever it was he was chasing?
She doesn't know. And perhaps between now and tomorrow's discussion, she'll find some kind of answer. It won't satisfy them all. That would be impossible. But her life is no longer what it was, so perhaps she's the only one who may need that kind of closure. Perhaps that's why she couldn't sleep deeply or for very long. Questions toss and turn where she physically cannot.
Booker's voice cuts through the haze of pain, no longer dulled by the pills she took after dinner. Her watering eyes turn towards the ceiling in lieu of the laugh caught in her chest (she knows she'll regret it if she lets it loose). Are you all right? Are any of them all right after everything? ]
I'm fine, [ she grunts instead, draping the back of her hand against her forehead and curling it into a fist, like she can focus everything she's feeling into that one point. Her eyes close, she takes a careful, steadying breath. Waits for the pain to abate. With more ease: ] Just thirsty. [ That's the simplest answer, isn't it? ] Got up too fast.
[ Booker is up anyway, spine cracking with the movement as he pushes himself to sit atop the thin piece of foam. Immortal or not, the body does what the body does and it feels good to unbend for a moment anyway.
He peers over to the other mattress, studying Andy in the dark, only the barest outline of her silhouette visible with the street lights outside filtering a dim glow through the blinds. He can make out the movement, can hear the way the mattress slowly sags and shifts when she hitches her breath from the pain. Something in his chest stings too, almost as though he could take her pain and absorb it into himself. But it does nothing. It doesn't take away what she feels and how badly she feels it. He hates that she can feel it all and that it isn't healing. He hates that these hours with her in this dark, shitty room might be their last together depending on what the group decides later today. That part, the mortality ... it isn't his fault and he knows that. But he can't help but blame himself, somehow, for it anyway. ]
[They were on a hiatus. Just for the month. With Quynh back, Andy and she had a lot of catching up to do, and Andyβs new mortality would put a time limit on that. Joe and Nicky took off somewhere on their own, to spend a romantic month together. That left Nile to find something to do. Each group offered to take her with them, but she didnβt want to be a spare wheel to them all. Besides, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.]
[Paris France.]
[As often as she texted Booker, she had no idea where he was hiding other than France. And though she wanted badly to see him, she wasnβt sure he would want to see her. Text was one thing, meeting up behind the backs of the others was another.]
[But she was in France, and her first stop would be the Louvre. She had always wanted to go. Always wanted to see it, but never did she have the money for it. Andy took care of that for her. Made sure she had enough to travel, enjoy a month abroad, and then meet back at the safe house they chose beforehand.]
[Seated at a bench inside the Louvre she pulled out her phone, pulled up his number and text him.]
It is a little early to be sending me a text, non?
[ Or, like she supposes, perhaps it's late in the evening for her. Either way, it's been long enough since their last conversation that he doesn't expect the check-in. And certainly not so early in the morning. (He hasn't even had his whiskey-laced coffee yet.)
Call him un peu suspicious, but you don't live for as long as he has without noticing the minute details of an interaction. (Not unless you're absolutely devastatingly depressed and choose to ignore them, which leads you to the reason why you're not with your family in the first place, but β that's another thing all together.) ]
Depends on the part of the world I'm in, doesn't it? Maybe it's late. What time is it where you are? Or did you mean it's too early for you?
[If he's where she thinks he is, then it's the same time as her, and that was what she wanted. Wanted to meet up. This was her vacation after all. She was in the location she wanted to be, and she thought that maybe, just maybe he was here.]
[And if he was, maybe she can convince him to meet with her.]
[ He's about to get up and grab his coffee and spike it with whiskey and maybe wander the streets again. You know, the usual. He's a very busy man with a very full schedule. ]
[ Booker can't help the edges of worry that lace his texts even when they seem harmless enough. Just simple curiousity, right?
Andy had given them all a (mandatory) break back in 2019, before they ever knew Nile existed, said they all needed the time off and of course Booker had known it was more than that at the time because it was more than that for him as well. While he has no right to ask for more detail, and it could really just be that β a vacation β it still weighs on him. What had happened. What he did. What led to this.
[Not everything is YOUR fault, Booker. No, this was more something that Nile needed for herself. When you get swept away form your life to a new one, and your brain is so full of unknowns, questions and maybes. Family troubles and sleepless nights. Not to mention dreaming of the one she hadn't met yet? It all started to pile up on her.]
[She still wasn't trusting her choice with her family, and she nearly broke on one job. Joe and Nicky wanted to go back to Malta anyhow. So why not a short vacation? This was all on Nile's shoulders, and she was trying her best to NOT think of why she was here. After all her first few days were spent drunk and angry. She's trying her best not to be any of that.]
One short month. I need to get some things out of my system is all.
8 billion years later i have returned i'm so sorry
What destinations have you chosen in this short vacation?
[ It's a daring question because it could tempt him to make very coincidental trips to, at the very least, catch a glimpse of the newest member in their Guard family ... but he'd like to think he has a little better self-control than that. Maybe. ]
[She sips coffee and watches the world around her for now. This is time better spent. She had been far too annoyed with herself the last few days, and drink wasn't helping that. Being here though, being somewhere she had always wanted to go, that helped distract her mind.]
[Talking to Booker helped as well.]
Right now? The Louvre. There are a great and many paintings I want to visit.
Which should bluntly tell you I am in France. Which I am PRETTY sure is close to your hidden location, no? Which is to say, you should come find me at the Louvre.
[ it's pouring outside with droplets hitting the ground in loud splatters. they sound like bullets, waiting to pelt down anyone who dares to venture out into its cold, wet embrace. he shudders unpleasantly at the thought, his ringed fingers dancing idly on top of the only wooden table in the inn.
Do we have to go out today? [ rhetorical. he already knows the answer. there's a scheduled drop in a few hours on the opposite side of town. plus, they need to stock up on groceries before the weather gets worse. it always gets worse. ] Next time we do this, we gotta plan it around the weather forecasts.
[ he needs to buy more packets of ramen and replenish their alcohol supply. what else? there's something else, isn't there?
oh yeaβ ] Books. I need to stop by the bookshop. I finished all the ones I got the other day.
[ he knows he's not supposed to be in contact, especially when he himself had been so firm on the terms, unrelenting under the influence of heartbreak. the worst nicky will do when he inevitably comes clean will shake his head, offer comfort. the others he might not tell but at this point, he has to wonder if more of them have extended a hand to booker even briefly. hard not to when being apart feels much like missing a limb, which is to say joe misses him, but the pain of the severing has barely begun to dull. ]
I found this.
[ no preamble. this is an attached photo of a page from one of joe's sketchbooks, lines of charcoal recreating the shapes and faces of three boys, only teenagers then. booker's sons, drawn from an old photo that might have been lost to time by now. he can almost remember when he'd first done it but the memory is blurry: the five of them in an old hotel, maybe, passing the hours of a long stakeout. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
β¨ hopefully this is okay!!
by the time she runs over to him, there's a number of people gathering, but despite her petite frame, she's quick on her feet, sliding on her knees along his side to check for a pulse β nothing, of course. the scraps of his skin from the gravel spread across his face too, blisters that indicate the harshness of his landing, and she wonders if he'd died instantly from the blunt impact of the car or if he suffered as he landed.
biting her lip, she swallows hard. of course, there's nothing she could have done here. for all she's tried to save the world a number of times, she can't save eveybody. even if it hurts every damn time.
but then he breathes, a gasp coming from his mouth that forces her to widen her eyes as she peers back down at him, watching as the injuries upon his face heal on their own, blood stains cleaning themselves as if they hadn't been there at all.
and the first thing that comes to her mind is β alien.
whatever the reason for there being an alien in twenty-first century france, she'll find out later, knowing the best thing to do right now is get him away from the crowd that'll be bound to have a thousand questions on their mind, made even worse if the police or ambulances arrive.
trying to scope him up, despite his size being larger than her own, she tosses his arm across her shoulder, grunting as she attempts lifting him to his feet on her own. ] Don't worry! I'll get him to a hospital! [ she shouts it in english, but her tardis should be close enough to translate the words into french for her, more concerned with getting him away from the street before even waiting to see if he's properly woken up yet. ]
it's beautiful
It's a cruel joke, each death followed by consciousness again and the teasing echo of a voice murmuring to him: welcome back, asshole. Ah, yes. Still on this godforsaken planet, still in one piece, still hurt, and j'en ai marre, he could really use a drink.
But this time his feet seem to move on their own accord and there's the firm press of a body against his urging him forward. In the back of his mind, maybe he's grateful that they're getting away from onlookers. He'd done enough without risking exposure (again) of what he can do, of what his family (wherever they are) can do. Better to stay out of sight. Besides, finding a new apartment in this financial climate was a bitch.
He winces rather violently when the last of his ribs comes together, stumbling like he's twelve drinks in (as opposed to the five he'd been at before he blacked out). He has to stop, just for a second, to catch his breath and inspect his rescuer β or kidnapper? ] β I'm fine, I'm fine.
[ It's been a while since he'd spoken anything other than his native tongue, and maybe his accent's gone a little thicker. ]
Here will do.
β‘β‘β‘
the important thing is getting him out of sight for now, that much she knows, and her first thought is to carry him to the tardis. except hers has proven a bit trickier to set up in cities without looking incredibly inconspicuous. logic had told her it was probably best not to plant a tardis trapped in the form of an american diner right in the heart of paris, but now that she was in a hurry, she realizes it would have been much more convenient if she'd parked it closer.
(for the first time, she actually realizes that a police phone box isn't the worst idea.)
when he suddenly speaks, she's so startled by it that she almost drops him, still circling the idea that he was very much dead just a few minutes ago. ]
You have a very funny definition of fine. [ she honestly doesn't think they're far enough yet, but the diner is still a few blocks away, so she instead settles on guiding him onto the nearest bench, lowering him carefully. ] You should lay down at least. That was a nasty hit you took.
smooch
[ 'Tis but a scratch. See how he doesn't protest against her leading him towards a spot to sit and rest while the last of his cracks and bruises heals, however.
The older he gets and the more impact he sustains, the more time it takes to heal. He'd warned Nile of that not so long ago, and the wound then β a grenade launched in the Guards' direction β had been much larger. But it always heals β and he's still not sure whether that knowledge is a comfort or a curse.
The clarity from the booze wearing off is also less than charming.
He breathes out. ]
Might I ask where you were taking me?
[ The hospital is in the other direction, and no, he won't be going there anyway β clearly. ]
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In the end, she decides to follow Coulson's lead and take some time to reassess. Mack's laid out a dozen job options for her, and she knows she'd have a dozen more outside the agency if she wanted to make that move. But for now, she just needs time. So she's still Daisy Johnson, agent of SHIELD, but for now she's more of a consultant than an active agent.
It's in that consultant role that she finally has time to dive into some of the things sitting on SHIELD's backburner. Strange reports that turn out to be nothing and some... that might be something more. With the technological power of an entire spy agency at her fingertips, it's easy for her to slip through the tangled web of the internet and various government servers and databases to fit the pieces together. They're crazy pieces at times, but she can't help but wonder.
So that's how Daisy's ended up in Hong Kong of all places, wandering cramped alleys and cursing at Google Maps for failing her. She blends in better than the typical tourist, at least, moving with purpose through the crowds. After twenty minutes, she gives up and just asks someone for directions, using her extremely limited Cantonese to thank the shop owner before finally finding the bar in question. An old expat watering hole that had been around for nearly a century.
Hardly anyone turns to look at her as she enters, heading straight to the bar for a much needed beer. Drink in hand, she turns to lean back against the counter, surveying the crowd with feigned disinterest. ]
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He can do this.
(He can't do this.)
After months spent drunk and pathetic, wallowing in his own guilt, his own self-pity (and being an absolute sad-sack about it), it is a disastrous accident in Paris, risking nearly everything, that triggers Booker to do something about the way he'd been living. That and he's got no reason to stay here anymore.
He runs parallel to his family, never close enough to breach his punishment, which is well-deserved, but he likes to keep tabs. He picks up the small one-man jobs, the tasks that are not always pretty, not always ... ethically sound. But he does them for the right reasons, like he needs to prove to himself that he's still got a place in the Old Guard even if he can't physically be with them right now.
But it's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and all he's got are memories and hard-earned lessons to guide his way when he finds himself slipping back into old habits, his feet finding their way to the nearest bar he can find.
Tonight he's in the bustling, sleepless city of Hong Kong, post-a-thankfully-successful-mission involving an illegal arms deal, with a flight out in less than 10 hours. Hunched over in the dimly lit space at a corner table with a single glass, he's probably pretty easy to miss, which is rather the point. His clothing is nondescript, all darker shades, nothing fancy, and he keeps to himself, doesn't engage in conversation. But he happens to glance up when Daisy walks in, and in the time it takes for her to settle at the bar and order a drink, the niggling feeling at the base of his skull only grows.
He can't quite say why, maybe a feeling, maybe a combination of old age and experience, but something's not quite right about this. He stays where he is, keeping an eye out, and downs the rest of his liquor, lets the glass tap lightly against the surface of the table.
Don't engage. Maybe he's just being paranoid.
Sure. ]
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Satisfied with the imperceptible tether, she strikes up an easy conversation with the guy who's come up beside her and is suddenly turning a very flirtatious gaze her way. Daisy's not interested but he doesn't need to know that, so she flirts right back, laughing at a bad joke and letting him buy her another beer. He keeps his hands to himself and it's not too bad. She can almost imagine this being real, just chatting up someone at the bar and having a good time.
Almost. It's been too long for it to feel truly natural. There are too many secrets and scars for her to relate to someone so normal as this guy clearly is; there's no way he could understand the life she's chosen to live. But for a few minutes, she can pretend while she waits to see if her target stays or chooses to go. ]
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He pushes back his seat and straightens, moving without urgency and seemingly without purpose. He passes the bartender on his way out with a polite 'thank you' in heavily accented Cantonese, and steps into the still-humid Hong Kong evening full of lights and chatter and activity.
Casual.
He starts off down the street; now it's his turn to wait. ]
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Oh, and he does not want to be found. She'd noticed more than once that a source in SHIELD's files had ceased to exist elsewhere in the world. Historical photos, newspaper articles, priceless paintings — they'd all been erased or moved into private collections beyond her reach. All that had been left were SHIELD's copies, which is why it had taken her so long to put the pieces together in the first place. Someone out there is watching his back and that makes her even more curious.
So she follows him. Of course, she does, giving a quick half-assed apology to her counter companion before slipping through the crowd to the door and out into the night. She can see him up ahead, moving like nothing's wrong at all, and—
You know what? Screw it.
She takes a few quick steps to get a bit closer and then raises her voice enough to be heard over the quiet din of people on the street around them. ] I'm alone, unarmed, and I just want to talk.
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[ Booker slows his pace to a momentary pause, turning briefly to look in her direction properly this time. He makes an attempt to scroll through the mental rolodex of faces he might have come cross in his life thus far, but this woman's face is a new one and that only makes him feel a little more nervous. After Copley and Merrick, one might say that his ability to trust strangers has been shaken, worse now because it had cost the trust of his family. To say he isn't feeling particularly generous with conversation, particularly conversations about him (and what he is or isn't), would be an understatement.
He's already making assessments for the environment around them, exit strategies, and maybe ... maybe at the back of his mind, he's trying to figure out a way to bring this interaction to the attention of the Old Guard. A pathetic, feeble way to claw his way back to them, perhaps.
He can already imagine the anger and annoyance on Joe's face, the stony silence in Nicky's, but he ignores that for now. ]
no subject
They'll be having a very different kind of conversation. ]
Making sure that no one else finds you the way I did. Not until you want to be found.
[ It's an offer of help, a show of understanding that he doesn't want to be known, but also a big red warning sign that he has been noticed. For people like them (is he really like her?), that is rarely a good thing. He needs help, whether from her or someone else, and he needs to be aware of that. ]
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[ There is an unnerving realization that this woman, whoever she is, is right in some sense, and it wars with the other part of him that wants to end this conversation here and now, disappear and fall back into the shadows. If she managed to find him, who else might be tracking his whereabouts, his habits, the way he lives his life? If someone could find him, could they figure out how to find the others?
It has him a little on edge, almost itchy with the prickly discomfort of feeling like prey slowly, languidly being hunted. It's too familiar, reminds him of how easy it was for Copley to track them down and lure them into a trap. Yes, they had made it out alive and in one piece (admittedly all thanks to Nile), but that kind of luck wasn't something they β he β could rely on. Copley wound up being ... something of an ally, someone who made mistakes like Booker did, but that wasn't going to be the case for everyone they came across. Booker is willing to bet the world was populated with more Merricks and his ilk than not.
So, where does this woman fit on the spectrum? Does Booker want to find out? ]
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[ While their conversation may not be playing out exactly how she'd hoped, so far neither of them is attacking the other and that's a pretty good start in her book. She knows he's armed, no one fights for a living the way he seems to and doesn't walk around prepared to do what's necessary. But he hasn't pulled a gun or a knife on her yet — she's almost sad about the former, it would have made this part easier.
She glances around quickly, looking for something small and harmless. A gun would have been the best demonstration but alas. It's above them that she finds her answer: a florescent light that hums in the night. The crowd will be startled but the light will be assumed faulty, no one will guess it's actually her. So she holds up a hand, focuses—
The glass of the light vibrates, the fixture shakes, and then the glass shatters with a cracking pop, raining down between them. She steps back quickly to avoid it, wearing a half startled expression for the sake of the crowd, and then turns her attention back to the man a few yards away.
Watching. Waiting expectantly. ]
no subject
Impossible but ... deliberate. ] Well, that's different.
[ Booker doesn't ease up, letting his recklessness and the adrenaline drive him. If anything, every muscle in his body tenses, but stubborn as always he remains rooted to his spot even as the street clears with the cries and shouts of surprised passersby, most of them thankfully inebriated. Tomorrow morning, the suspicious ones will wake up questioning how much they'd had to drink. The others will quickly forget.
Moments pass until Booker and the woman are the only ones left, positioned at a distance from each other like they're involved in some kind of Wild West stand-off. And without quite realizing when, Booker has his gun in his hands like it's an extension of his arm, the barrel trained in the woman's direction. Perhaps a little too late to avoid the damage to city property, and certainly too late for the demonstration itself, but Book is done playing games now. ]
All right, you have my attention. [ He briefly flicks his gaze to the broken lamp. ] Who are you? How did you do that?
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And then it's just the two of them. A good thing, really. There are so many secrets the public doesn't know about, so many things SHIELD has helped cover up over the years... She knows it can't last forever, they've been incredibly lucky so far as it is, but she'll help keep the charade going for as long as possible — even if her younger conspiracy theory loving self would despise the very idea. ]
My name is Daisy Johnson. I'm an enhanced person, like you. Able to do things normal people can't. [ She hesitates for just a moment, watching him carefully, debating... and choosing not to ask. Not yet. ] I make it my job to help protect people like us. Please, can we go somewhere and just talk?
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[ Well that's got to be some kind of joke. He's heard many things over the years, most of them barely pinpointing the fact that they just live extra long lives; no new abilities, no extra strength, no β well, Booker couldn't force a lamp to explode, that's for sure. (That's the thing about keeping a low profile and, as Andy had wisely decided, never taking the same client twice: you get to live a life where no one really knows what you are, only what you can do for them.) Being referred to as 'enhanced' is admittedly a new one.
Unless she really does think he's capable of some extraordinary power, the same way some people used to think Andy was a god. She'd shown him and the others the evidence of people worshipping her some centuries ago, far before his time; there were paintings and statues and stories. Well, there would be no paintings or statues of Booker today or any other day. He just had the bad luck of not being able to die.
Still. ]
I have never seen you before. [ If she's an immortal like he and the others are, he hasn't dreamed of her yet. ] You don't sound new.
[ Which ... isn't a confirmation of his other theory, exactly, but it does give him pause. ]
Okay. Let's talk.
no subject
But that's a problem for another day.
You don't sound new. His words give her pause for just a moment before she mostly dismisses them. She doesn't have the panicked edge to her anymore that she'd had in her first weeks after terrigenesis, so that must be what he meant. But deep down, some part of her keeps hold of those words, turning them over in her mind, wondering... ]
Thank you. Do you know a place we can go? [ Hopefully giving him control of their location will help provide a little peace of mind, if nothing else. ]
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[ Especially at night when the city is arguably at its best β the shops, the bars, the restaurants, everything lends itself to a whole other side of the city that doesn't exist during the daylight hours. It's vibrant and it's loud, oftentimes deafening. It's easy to get lost in it, to be so overcome by the stimulation that you can let it quiet the thoughts in your head. It's why Booker enjoys spending time here when he can, the mission simply an added bonus.
He considers some of the Guards' old hangouts while he puts his gun away, albeit a bit reluctantly. Even if she were to shoot him, he wouldn't die, and there's something about her that reminds him of Andy, of the way she'd been with him when he first woke up after his first death in 1812. It's that quality that he clings to, that he hopes won't lead him into some manipulation that dooms him. ]
What are your thoughts on dumplings?
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I'm half Chinese, I'm pretty sure I'm genetically predisposed to consider dumplings a main food group.
[ It's meant to bring a bit of levity to things, but it's also true. That much, at least, she does know. And food is a good idea — food makes it easier to get through awkward pauses, gives them something to do with their hands, provides sustenance. Maybe, if it's really good food, it puts one more at ease. Given how this conversation started, she's ready to accept any help she can get in that department. ]
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He'd grown so used to being a part of a team, he'd taken it for granted when he thought only of himself, of Andy. But now was not the time to wallow in such thoughts. ]
All right then β follow me. It isn't too far from here.
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Falling into step beside him, she keeps an arm's length between them and makes sure to keep her pace even with his. Moving behind him might put him on edge again, and she can't go in front because she doesn't know the way, so side by side it is. It makes it easier for her to get a good look at him up close, at least, and easier to casually pose a question. ]
How long until you leave the city? [ And before he can possibly ask, she adds: ] I've noticed you never stay in one place for very long.
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[ Booker can't help the spine-tingling discomfort he feels knowing that she or anyone like her might have surreptitious eyes on him, tracking his movements around the world while he remains (mostly) unaware of their intentions. Likely none of them are good, of course, once they know what he can and cannot do; he'd learned his lesson well with Merrick. And yet, even knowing that, here he is β a fool β still making good time towards their destination without so much as a falter in his step.
Maybe it's the thought of Andy, and this woman's resemblance to his old friend, that he clings to. At the very least, he still has a couple of guns hidden in the upstairs hallway if Nicky or Joe hadn't gotten to them first. ]
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[ He's not going to answer her question; she can tell as much from his casual side-step of it. Which, okay. That's fine. They're still building trust, so of course he wouldn't divulge that information to her. But she knows he will be leaving, and likely sooner rather than later since she's found him. She just has hope they can come to an understanding before he disappears again.
It's that thought that convinces her to jump straight into things. She's asking him for secrets — it's only fair that she shares one of her own. So, in a way that's too casual to actually be casual, she lays a piece of her soul at his feet. ]
My mother didn't either.
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And when he finds himself still walking, the young woman keeping pace alongside him, that's the surprising part.
So, okay. He allows himself a question, an admission of fact, and takes note of the tense in her second statement. ]
She was an immortal?
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Some people called her that. To everyone else, it certainly seemed like it.
[ Even all these years later, it's still hard to talk about her mother. Her mom, the woman who should have been able to raise her. The caring figure she'd been Before and the broken thing she'd become After. It hurts even now. ]
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[ Booker doesn't know how it works, how some people 'have the gift' (this is thought wryly) while others don't. It isn't genetic, that's for certain. If it were, perhaps Jean-Pierre would β
Well.
But the gears in his head are turning, trying to connect the dots between mother and daughter, whether that strange ability she'd demonstrated earlier is somehow connected to the randomness of immortality.
He's currently working with zero theories and a few more questions in its place. ]
'Nothing that lives lives forever.'
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[ It's all she can think to say, just a verbal acknowledgment of his words that make her heart ache with old grief so recently renewed. The first time she'd watched her mother die, it had been amidst the horrible revelation of how broken the woman had become in the wake of her treatment by Hydra. Jiaying had tried to kill countless innocent humans in the pursuit of protecting Inhumans, and she'd been willing to murder her own daughter in the process. But the second time she'd watched her mother die, she'd been introduced to the kind and generous woman she'd always been before, who loved her daughter with all her heart and would do anything to protect her.
Daisy owes so much of who she is to her mother. Her Inhuman genes had been passed down, granting Daisy a heritage she holds as so very precious. And she has to believe that some of her own boundless compassion came from her mother — and her father, at that. Hydra had torn her family apart, but she still carries them with her always.
She silent for a few moments, struggling to find something else to say in the wake of her grief, but then she sees a sign in the near distance and nods toward the building. ]
Is that the place?
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One might say he has a knack for somehow being drawn to the grieving, due to his own deep (deep) seeded sorrow β but maybe it's simply that there are so many of them wandering around the world, lost in different ways it's easier than he thinks to find someone else like him.
The sign up ahead is a good distraction as any and as they approach the building, which has certainly seen better days, Booker simply waves a hand.
After you.
It's clear that the building might once have been attractive β years ago, in a former life perhaps β remnants of bright crimson exterior paint now dulled to a dirty reddish-orange, coming off in flakes to reveal chipped concrete beneath. The restaurant's sign in bright neon hums loudly in the otherwise quiet side street, but inside is the continuous sound of clinking plates, chopsticks, and chatter. It's quiet enough to hold a conversation over a small table of dumplings, but loud enough not to be overheard. People here leave each other alone, likely because the common clientele value their privacy.
Booker trails behind the young woman, lifting a hand to indicate a table for two. A server waves them towards a spot near the back. ]
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he catches wind of a werewolf case out in omaha that might have ties to michael, might help them get the drop on him when the time comes β or it could just be another run of the mill monster job. either way, it's worth looking into, but he insists on leaving cas with jack because he doesn't wanna take the kid on a job so soon after getting him back (doesn't want to give him an incentive to burn off any pieces of his soul β he knows how much jack wants to help even at the cost of such a precious and finite resource; he's more like a winchester already than dean wants to admit). sam is off following up with rowena on some witchy business that might help them against michael, so dean's on his own for this one. it's probably better that way, he thinks. it'll give him a chance to burn off some of his nerves without any judging eyes.
when he finally tracks the thing down, he thinks he's too late: a body lies bloody and missing a heart outside what looks like an abandoned cabin. fuck. the wolf, if it's smart, is already gone, but dean checks the area anyway just to be sure. by the time he comes back to the body, ready to pull his phone out to call the police, he notices the hole in the man's chest is definitely not a hole anymore. instead of his phone, he reaches for his gun. waits. watches.
the man gasps.
dean points his gun clear at the man's face. )
Not so fast, Wolverine.
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It's savage and emotionless, and it's admittedly one of the more terrifying experiences he can recall. He probably won't want a repeat of that again.
When he comes to, the pain isn't all that much different from a gunshot or a grenade being thrown in his direction, but there's a gun pointed in his face when he tilts his head to look up. And the man dressed in flannel, very American, looks like maybe he knows a thing or two about shooting things. Maybe he should worry about shooting werewolves instead of wounded men who cannot die.
Booker's laugh is empty of humour and sounds a little more like a cough near the end. He rolls over onto his back, stares up at the dilapidated awning of the old wood cabin instead. ]
As you can see, I am sadly missing the claws.
[ Yeah, he has had some time to check out the movies. And maybe read a comic or two. When you live this long β
He coughs again but already the hole in his chest has healed to nothing more than a red welt. ]
You should put that thing down.
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so: definitely not a leviathan or an angel (no wolf, not even an alpha would have stood a chance against either of them); too soon to be a nazi thule bastard (they don't regenerate that fast); too old to be prometheus' kid (and wasn't that curse lifted when artemis killed zeus?) but he can't exactly rule demigod or any of the classical gods out of the question. could be a vampire if this was some kinda turf war, but surely a wolf wouldn't be stupid enough to go after a vampire without knowing how to kill one.
leaving ... well, not a lot. with all of the usuals out or at least very unlikely, he's starting to consider he might be dealing with something he's never seen before. which makes things a lot more complicated. and makes him far less inclined to lower his weapon. )
Nah, I don't think so.
( he stares down at booker, eyes narrowed. he doesn't like being in the position of not knowing how to kill something, especially something that can apparently revive itself from getting torn to shreds. he's probably not in a position to be making demands here, either, but dean has always been the type of man to vastly overestimate his own importance. )
You're gonna tell me what the hell you are and maybe I'll consider putting the gun down. ( but probably not. ) Wouldn't test your luck.
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He lets the last of the wound close, wincing as his skin stitches together on its own accord, and then he breathes out. It would have been a truly idiotic way to die his final death, especially knowing as little as he does about the thing that tore him up and tried to make its escape, so he's relieved about that at least. But the rest of him feels tired and a little resigned. What a curse to be brought back again. ]
You could shoot me but we both know there's no use in it.
[ It will hurt when he wakes up again, but he will wake up again, and he's going to be rather pissed off.
Merde. ]
May I at least sit up while you point that thing at me?
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God, Andy is exhausted. She thought she knew what it felt like, but with her immortality gone, the ache settles deep. Nile had warned her barely hours ago: Wait 'til tomorrow. It isn't tomorrow yet, but when it comes, she'll be grateful for the painkillers taking the edge off. But whatever physical pain she's in is no match for the twisting in her gut; and as there's no dulling the feeling of betrayal, there's no dulling whatever Booker must be consumed by now. Shame, perhaps. Guilt. Andy can only imagine.
Although the drive had been mostly in silence, Joe's anger in the lab had only smouldered rather than been diminished entirely and he'd been the first to demand satisfaction the moment they were behind closed doors. And just like before, Nicky had tempered his steel. Not the time. Not the place. Andy first. So they went. But the silence from the car sits heavy in the air, and when Copley leaves to surveil the aftermath of what transpired at Merrick and the two men return, it's still there. Nicky tends to Andy's unhealed injuries, Joe cooks and Nile helps, restless but more certain of her place on their team now. Over dinner, Andy lays all their thoughts to rest with a firm decision on the matter of Booker: Tomorrow. We'll discuss it tomorrow.
Later that night, they try to get some rest. Nicky, Joe, and Nile in one bedroom and Booker with Andy in the other β her choice, and one made freely. It may be complicated but after living for millennia, one learns to leave behind pettiness. But despite how battered she feels inside and out, she only manages a few scant hours of sleep, either from force of habit or a mind too restless for unconsciousness. She drifts awake in the middle of the night with her muscles throbbing, her mouth dry. She's thirsty.
But when she tries to get up for the kitchen, her body screams in protest. Mortality and the fragility that comes with it are easy to forget after so long. Sitting up in bed, something so simple, is an action she never realised she'd taken for granted; but with a gunshot to the gut flaring white-hot, the effort to do so is almost herculean. ]
Fuck, [ she groans through grit teeth, the expletive a reflex as she sags back against the bare mattress. Guess she has to relearn what living, really living, feels like. Every bit of it. She glances to see if she's woken Booker; or, in fact, if was even asleep at all. ]
god i love this so much
If it hadn't been painfully clear what his betrayal had cost them all before, it's clear now. He hates the feeling of it, of what he'd done to his family, but most of all he hates himself for thinking, for considering that it had been the right thing to do at all.
We fight for what we think is right, Nicky had said. But was that really what Booker had thinking when he gave themselves up to Copley and Merrick? He should have trusted Andy, he should have trusted what he'd seen of Merrick, he should have known the second that goddamned grenade hit him square in the chest, that this had been a bad plan. But Copley had been so genuine, and he liked the man despite his betrayal of them. His grief, so raw and honest, was a reflection of Booker's own, and no amount of time had dulled the pain of it. If anything, it only spurred him on like sharp pinpricks, driving him to do what he thought was right. But at what cost?
In the quiet of the evening, once they've all retired for the night, Booker settles into his side of the room shared with Andy, and doesn't sleep. Tomorrow, Andy had said. Tomorrow they would decide his fate and it roils something awful and afraid in his chest. They couldn't kill him, sure, but there are some things worse than death and for a team of trained immortal assassins, they knew those things like old friends. He keeps his eyes closed, but he's always been something of a light sleeper and most of his dreams had never been comforting to cling to anyway. So when Andy shifts in her sleep, Booker is already conscious, and when she swears into the darkness, he's fully awake.
The word 'boss' lingers on his tongue, but he says instead, ] Andy β [ and straightens out of his huddled position on the makeshift mattress on the floor made up of a couple loose rolls of foam and a bedsheet to look in her direction. ] β are you all right?
crawls back in years later
She doesn't know. And perhaps between now and tomorrow's discussion, she'll find some kind of answer. It won't satisfy them all. That would be impossible. But her life is no longer what it was, so perhaps she's the only one who may need that kind of closure. Perhaps that's why she couldn't sleep deeply or for very long. Questions toss and turn where she physically cannot.
Booker's voice cuts through the haze of pain, no longer dulled by the pills she took after dinner. Her watering eyes turn towards the ceiling in lieu of the laugh caught in her chest (she knows she'll regret it if she lets it loose). Are you all right? Are any of them all right after everything? ]
I'm fine, [ she grunts instead, draping the back of her hand against her forehead and curling it into a fist, like she can focus everything she's feeling into that one point. Her eyes close, she takes a careful, steadying breath. Waits for the pain to abate. With more ease: ] Just thirsty. [ That's the simplest answer, isn't it? ] Got up too fast.
lmao same hat tho
He peers over to the other mattress, studying Andy in the dark, only the barest outline of her silhouette visible with the street lights outside filtering a dim glow through the blinds. He can make out the movement, can hear the way the mattress slowly sags and shifts when she hitches her breath from the pain. Something in his chest stings too, almost as though he could take her pain and absorb it into himself. But it does nothing. It doesn't take away what she feels and how badly she feels it. He hates that she can feel it all and that it isn't healing. He hates that these hours with her in this dark, shitty room might be their last together depending on what the group decides later today. That part, the mortality ... it isn't his fault and he knows that. But he can't help but blame himself, somehow, for it anyway. ]
Let me grab some water for you.
[ Honestly, it's the least he can do. ]
Hope this works <3
[Paris France.]
[As often as she texted Booker, she had no idea where he was hiding other than France. And though she wanted badly to see him, she wasnβt sure he would want to see her. Text was one thing, meeting up behind the backs of the others was another.]
[But she was in France, and her first stop would be the Louvre. She had always wanted to go. Always wanted to see it, but never did she have the money for it. Andy took care of that for her. Made sure she had enough to travel, enjoy a month abroad, and then meet back at the safe house they chose beforehand.]
[Seated at a bench inside the Louvre she pulled out her phone, pulled up his number and text him.]
You up?
[If he was in France, he should be awake by now. She hoped he was around here somewhere. She sat back, drinking a coffee near the cafΓ©, and tapped her phone, waiting for a reply. For all he knew she was on the other side of the world at night time.]
ccc:
It is a little early to be sending me a text, non?
[ Or, like she supposes, perhaps it's late in the evening for her. Either way, it's been long enough since their last conversation that he doesn't expect the check-in. And certainly not so early in the morning. (He hasn't even had his whiskey-laced coffee yet.)
Call him un peu suspicious, but you don't live for as long as he has without noticing the minute details of an interaction. (Not unless you're absolutely devastatingly depressed and choose to ignore them, which leads you to the reason why you're not with your family in the first place, but β that's another thing all together.) ]
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[If he's where she thinks he is, then it's the same time as her, and that was what she wanted. Wanted to meet up. This was her vacation after all. She was in the location she wanted to be, and she thought that maybe, just maybe he was here.]
[And if he was, maybe she can convince him to meet with her.]
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It is the morning for me
[ He's about to get up and grab his coffee and spike it with whiskey and maybe wander the streets again. You know, the usual. He's a very busy man with a very full schedule. ]
So is it late for you, then?
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I'm on a vacation period right now. Getting some travel in.
[She had a smug smile on her face, sipping coffee. Better fit her into that busy schedule, Booker. She's going to twist your arm.]
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[ Booker can't help the edges of worry that lace his texts even when they seem harmless enough. Just simple curiousity, right?
Andy had given them all a (mandatory) break back in 2019, before they ever knew Nile existed, said they all needed the time off and of course Booker had known it was more than that at the time because it was more than that for him as well. While he has no right to ask for more detail, and it could really just be that β a vacation β it still weighs on him. What had happened. What he did. What led to this.
No point in bumming Nile out, though. ]
How long?
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[She still wasn't trusting her choice with her family, and she nearly broke on one job. Joe and Nicky wanted to go back to Malta anyhow. So why not a short vacation? This was all on Nile's shoulders, and she was trying her best to NOT think of why she was here. After all her first few days were spent drunk and angry. She's trying her best not to be any of that.]
One short month. I need to get some things out of my system is all.
8 billion years later i have returned i'm so sorry
What destinations have you chosen in this short vacation?
[ It's a daring question because it could tempt him to make very coincidental trips to, at the very least, catch a glimpse of the newest member in their Guard family ... but he'd like to think he has a little better self-control than that. Maybe. ]
No worries, I'm super late as well. <3
[Talking to Booker helped as well.]
Right now? The Louvre. There are a great and many paintings I want to visit.
Which should bluntly tell you I am in France. Which I am PRETTY sure is close to your hidden location, no? Which is to say, you should come find me at the Louvre.
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[ it's pouring outside with droplets hitting the ground in loud splatters. they sound like bullets, waiting to pelt down anyone who dares to venture out into its cold, wet embrace. he shudders unpleasantly at the thought, his ringed fingers dancing idly on top of the only wooden table in the inn.
tap, tap, tap. stop. tap, tap, tap. stop and repeat. ]
Do we have to go out today? [ rhetorical. he already knows the answer. there's a scheduled drop in a few hours on the opposite side of town. plus, they need to stock up on groceries before the weather gets worse. it always gets worse. ] Next time we do this, we gotta plan it around the weather forecasts.
[ he needs to buy more packets of ramen and replenish their alcohol supply. what else? there's something else, isn't there?
oh yeaβ ] Books. I need to stop by the bookshop. I finished all the ones I got the other day.
you said bros in pain !!!
I found this.
[ no preamble. this is an attached photo of a page from one of joe's sketchbooks, lines of charcoal recreating the shapes and faces of three boys, only teenagers then. booker's sons, drawn from an old photo that might have been lost to time by now. he can almost remember when he'd first done it but the memory is blurry: the five of them in an old hotel, maybe, passing the hours of a long stakeout. ]
It would have been wrong to keep it to myself.