peace, in yusuf al-kaysani's line of work, is nothing more than a brief interlude.
it's sharing baklava with andy, watching her normally distant blue eyes light up with excitement, her pleased smile broadening as she savours every bite as if it was her first.
it's playing cards with booker (pretending to ignore when he openly cheats) during cold evenings between assignments, a quiet comradery settling between them, hours flying by as they pretend to argue over the smallest details.
it's sharing meals with nile, answering all her questions about being immortal and having so much knowledge about the world (not that yusuf even thinks he knows that much).
and peace is nicolò - in every soft smile they share in passing, on the warmth of his skin whenever he brushes past, in his steadfast belief in the good in people. when nicolò takes yusuf's hand in his like it belongs there, their fingers intertwining like perfect puzzle pieces, yusuf savors it like the treasure it is.
he's at peace. he is made it home.
