Nicky’s no longer sure how the fight began, or exactly when they agreed to move past bickering into silence, but it feels good to have a focus for his anger. He can’t lash out at Booker; he can’t fix Andy’s pain; he can’t carry Nile’s grief for her as she adjusts to losing everything. But he can yell at Joe, feel the satisfaction of having Joe yell back, drop barbs and sarcastic comments like grenades, know that Joe will love him no matter what. And now this nasty quiet, an absence of comfort. It feels good to drive and fume and say nothing at all.
It’s a shitty, painful dance once they reach the safe house, taking turns in the bathroom, preparing food, tending to Andy’s wound, but it satisfies something barbed and greedy that’s burrowed into Nicky’s chest. He knows Joe feels it too, perhaps even more acutely, this gnawing ache shaped by Booker’s betrayal. Nicky spares a thought for Booker, left at Copley’s home with his guilt and regret, but he can’t yet muster empathy. He can’t feel anything that can bridge the gap between the four of them, eating a simple meal, free because of Nile’s head and heart, and the gasping torture Booker arranged.
Meal done, they slowly, doggedly persuade Andy to rest, settle Nile on the other bed in the same room. Left alone and restless, Nicky runs water to wash the bowls and spoons, and Joe comes into the kitchen, picks up a tea towel and dries. It’s all so familiar and awkward and jarringly wrong that Nicky’s teeth ache with hating it, and it’s perhaps no wonder he fumbles the handoff of a mug that slips out of Joe’s hand and shatters on the floor.
Nicky has words at the ready, blame to pour out, but everything that’s animated him since London crowds into his throat and dies. He closes his eyes, jams his hands against the counter and leans heavily against the sink, and when Joe moves behind him and slips his arms around his body, he chokes out a breath as his defenses give.
“I’m sorry,” Joe says, nose pressed below Nicky’s ear, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Nicky turns in his arms, wraps his own arms around Joe’s shoulders and presses him as close as he’s able. “Me too,” he manages, one hand shifting to cup the back of Joe’s head, and when he sways, Joe steadies him, and when Joe’s breath hitches, he shifts and kisses him desperately, his every touch an apology. “I love you, god, so much, I’m sorry …”
Joe presses their foreheads together, fists his hands in the sleeves of Nicky’s shirt. “We’re okay,” he whispers.
And where Nicky felt anger he feels a reckless gratitude build. “We’re okay,” he agrees softly, and lets Joe pull him toward bed, toward whatever sleep they can manage, toward the tangled warmth of their bodies and the absolution of living still.
