Day 2: not the same river
Title: not the same river
Fandom: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: G
Characters/pairings: Nick Fury/Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Warnings (including spoilers): Season 3 of Agents of Shield
Wordcount: 1,144 words
Author’s note: I can do Spanish. This French is Google Translate French. I beg of any charitable readers to correct me, cause I’m 90% sure it sounds stupid. Translations are at the end of the page.
Title is from a quote by Heraclitus: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”
Summary: The last time Nick was here, he locked the door behind him with his own key. This time, he’s hoping he’ll be allowed inside.
~~~~~
It was the first week of April when Nick Fury was killed and his agency burned to the ground. In the months afterwards, he had a lot of work to do, repairing the networks that had made SHIELD’s protection of the planet possible; there was more work in reconnecting with trusted contacts and convincing them that they could still trust him, despite what his life’s work had turned into.
By early December, Coulson’s fledgling agency is on its feet, and Gonzales and his gang are chasing the leads Nick wants them to chase. Nick’s personal network is up and running once again, although he’s had to cash in more than a few big favors. The wounds that nearly put him out of commission are mostly healed, thanks to a prototype serum, but he can still feel them aching in the cold as he walks up a pathway to a two-story house in northern Vermont.
The house is new, made in the last ten years, and it glows warmly, hemmed in by quiet forest. The nearest neighbor is a few hundred yards away, their lights just visible through the trees. In the light of the waxing moon, the house looks edged with gray, as early snowfall dulls its neat lines.
The placard to the left of the door reads ‘Daacad, Lécuyer, Johnson’.
Nick shakes his head, smiling.
His boots shake off white powder as he climbs the steps to the front door. Before he reaches out to the doorbell, Nick has to stop and take a breath of the cold stillness. It’s been a long time since he was here; the last time, he locked the door behind him with his own key. This time, he’s hoping he’ll be allowed inside.
He rings the doorbell. A gentle chime sounds within, and in a few seconds, footsteps can be heard in the hallway. The curtain is lifted from the window in the door, and a pale face looks out at him.
The curtain falls back into place. The door opens.
At five feet, three inches, Aimée has to tilt her head back to look Nick in the eye, even behind the door. Her dark blonde hair is wet and hangs past her shoulders, dripping on a white terry-cloth robe, the lapel of which she’s clutching tightly. Her dark eyes shimmer with reflected moonlight. “Mon cœur,” she whispers, so quietly that Nick only remembers what it sounds like.
“I know it’s late,” he says after a silent moment. “Can I come in?”
Aimée blinks and opens the glass outer door, waving him inside. She tugs at his coat, and he takes it off along with his shoes, placing each in their respective nooks. When he turns around, Aimée is still staring at him like she’s seen a ghost.
“They--”
“They were wrong,” Nick interrupts, already smiling as she grimaces and tears start dripping down her cheeks.
“I hate it when you do that,” she says. The last words are muffled by Nick’s chest as she falls into his arms. Nick holds her close and breathes in the smell of her hair.
“Do we have a guest?”
Nick’s body twitches, just the slightest amount. He can keep his cool in a firefight with aliens, but Aimée smirks up at him with watery eyes when she feels his heartbeat speed up against her ear.
Daacad descends the staircase, house slippers and thick carpeting muffling his heavy steps. He's watching his steps drowsily, and it is not until his feet hit the tile at the bottom of the stairs that he looks up.
Daacad is nearly Nick’s height, but much thinner. Years ago, when Nick tried and failed to teach him any sort of self-defence, Daacad could barely bruise with his hardest punch. Now, his expression is filled with enough rage that Nick guides Aimée to the side of the entryway, out of the potential danger zone.
“You-- ya kalb,” Daacad spits. His thin chest begins to heave as he stares at Nick. “How could you do this to us! Maria calls, she tells-- nous avons organisé des funérailles pour vous!” Daacad’s deep black cheeks glow and his whole body shakes from anger.
Nick doesn’t try to defend himself. To his right, Aimée leans back against the wall, holding her arms across her chest in a hug. She watches Daacad silently.
As moments pass, tears fall from Daacad’s eyes. He continues to glare at Nick as he cries.
“I’m sorry,” Nick says at last. “I should have called. I didn’t want to make any promises I’d have to break.”
“Like your promise to return?” Daacad hisses. His voice breaks on a sob. His fists clench tighter, nails digging into his palms. “To stay in touch? That it is not the end for us?”
Aimée lets her head fall back to the wall, eyes closing.
“I’m here now.”
“What if we don’t want you here now? What if you left us and we are better without you! What if we make you leave like you leave before!”
Aimée turns her head away. She never liked raised voices, and Daacad’s shouts are deafening in the hallway. But there’s nothing to do but listen.
“You say you cannot be Director and have a family. Fine then, go away, make your spies your family.” Daacad makes a violent gesture toward the door, encompassing SHIELD. “Why do you come back, when we matter so little to you?”
“The two of you mean everything to me,” Nick says calmly. “That’s why I left.”
“You are not a coward,” Daacad goes on, breathing heavily. “So you did not run in fear. You must decide, the risk is not worth it.”
“One envelope of anthrax powder and you pack your bags,” Aimée murmurs, dark eyes accusing.
“I decided you two were too important to risk!” Anger rises in Nick’s chest despite his promise to remain calm. They always had a tendency to light a fire under him, always knew just what to say. “I was trying to protect you!”
“We didn’t want that kind of protection, Marcus,” Aimée says, quiet but firm. “Notre maison était si vide sans toi.”
Something tense like a wire, that has been straining inside him for years, finally snaps. “I needed to know you were safe,” Marcus Johnson tells them. “I couldn’t do anything at all without looking over my shoulder. I was always afraid something would happen to you.”
“Then why are you here now? Is there no more danger?” Daacad scoffs.
“There’s always danger,” Marcus tells Daacad. “But I’m not the one making the calls anymore. I’m retired.”
Daacad snorts and looks out the window. His hair is different, grown out and tied in rows against his scalp rather than the close cut Marcus remembers. There are new lines on his face. But he’s wearing Marcus’ old Army Rangers sweater, the one he stole back when they started dating and kept pretending to misplace so he didn’t have to give it back.
“Would you leave again?” Aimée asks. Marcus turns to her and realizes that she looks and sounds ten years older, in this moment, than she really is. He takes her hand.
“There will still be work for me. But I’m effectively out of intelligence.”
“You will never be out,” Daacad says, but when Marcus looks, there is a hint of humor in his frown. He rubs his fingers at the divots he left in his palms, ruefully.
“If you want me to leave, I’ll understand,” Marcus promises. He hesitates, probably for the first time since he left them. “If you really feel better off with me gone--”
“I didn’t--” Daacad shakes his head, clenches his jaw.
Aimée squeezes his hand. “We healed the wounds from your loss, Marcus. But it would take much more time to fill the space you left behind. If you wish to return, and you will not run away again--” she looks at Daacad, and they communicate in an eyeblink of time. Aimée smiles at Marcus with only her eyes. “We could not turn away a piece of our heart.”
Daacad steps forward, and then Marcus is holding both of his lovers in his arms again. Aimée’s long nails tickle his back through his sweater and Daacad’s breath warms his neck. Hot fingers on his cheek turn Marcus’s face and Daacad kisses him. It's close-mouthed and slow and easily the best thing he’s felt in years. Daacad’s breath catches when he lets go, and Aimée murmurs sympathetically before pulling at Marcus’s neck to claim her own soft kiss.
“You belong here,” Daacad whispers into his ear.
“Ne pas oser oublier,” Aimée finishes.
Marcus closes his eyes and smiles.
Translations:
Mon cœur: French, My heart
ya kalb: Arabic, you bastard
nous avons organisé des funérailles pour vous!: French, we held a funeral for you!
Notre maison était si vide sans toi.: Our house was so empty without you.
Ne pas oser oublier: Don't you dare forget it.