The Old Guard didn't take the mission in the end. Copley put together enough information to make it feasible and up to his operational standards when they met again, but then the USA government decided to clean its own messes, apparently. That should have been it, case closed, time to disappear in the crowd, clean everything and get as far from Copley as possible, so as to not leave too many traces. He didn't. Copley was the first human being in... years, maybe decades? That he had talked to for more than one time, that seemed to understand that sometimes letting himself sink into the grief you felt was the only way to remember, your own mourning ritual, now shared with someone else. Dragging himself to start again hurt, and he feared it, for what it could mean. He kept in contact with Copley for all the wrong reasons, and he couldn't even fool himself about it.
It wasn't like Andy and Achilles, where he helped her recover a fragment of herself. Or the way Joe and Nicky would sometimes settle in a city or village in the countryside of a forgotten country, tend to animals, maybe adopt a cat. And then, when it became obvious they couldn't stay without arousing suspicion, leave as if they had to take care of an elderly relative in a far away place, preferably on the other side of the world. It had been hell to delete all he could find from their little vacations, but he couldn't begrudge them peace for as long as they wanted, not when he could see the shadows of years in Niccolo's gaze, or the weariness of passing centuries in Yusuf's shoulders. Even in their worst moments, they were reflections of each other, though with their own twists. He wished he could find somewhere to be in peace like that.
The few times he had tried, his drinking had caught the attention of some of the community's womenfolk, some of them offering to keep him company. The times he had accepted, he realised later on that he was seen by most of them as the 'broken man', needing only a 'good woman' to put him on the right track. It was upsetting to be reduced like that. In those moments he could understand partly what Andy felt when someone thought she was "only" a woman, the eye-candy or the prize. No wonder she kept breaking bones. He didn't do anything drastic, only picking himself up and moving. The next tries only gave him an admiration at how Nicky and Joe blended and mixed with their chosen communities so well. On a few of his attempts, the feeling of isolation ended up being worse, even when he could marginally connect with neighbors, as he couldn't tell them many true things about himself. Say he was a forger? Most people would decide he was a criminal. A soldier? "Oh, where did you train/fight? Thank you for your service!". It never felt right, the experience was his, but that wasn't who he was. And even if he told them all of the normal, mundane bits - father, husband, unwilling survivor, the pity grated on his nerves, unwanted, something he didn't deserve. And he could lie, of course, with the best of them. But he didn't want to, not when it came to this.
So he wallowed, preferring Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Lisboa. Big cities where most people were used to some anonymity, not caring whether their client would come back or not, not asking too many questions so long as he paid rent, didn't break anything and didn't die (permanently) in the apartment. Words from his landlord. Fair enough, considering that even when he tried, he couldn't get immortality to stop working, he doubted that it would in the months he would be staying in that residence just to spit his landlord. Hope springs eternal, so he had still drunk enough to overdose, passing out before he started throwing up and his breathing stopped. Not his favorite type of death, but better than attracting too much attention with a gunshot. The place was marginally well kept, and close enough to the channel that it facilitated his... Friendship? Mourning club? Grief buddy? He doesn't know how to define the connection he felt with Copley.
Moving on may be healthier than whatever they were doing, but it didn't mean they were ready for it. He could see the agent one day feeling less hurt, or perhaps the hurt of missing memories wounding less than it did now. He hoped so, for him. Because while Andy was right, the remaining memories tore him up to pieces, it wasn't just that - what the time allowed him to remember and have, but also what he forgot, the absence that one day helped make up a fragment of who he was. In what order did he teach Marc the techniques on how to age a document, so it wouldn't instantly draw attention because of its newness? Was he the one who first taught Jaime how to fight? The guilt ate him up. He hadn't been able to save them, and he couldn't even remember details of their lives. Failure upon failure.
For now, he appreciated not being alone, even if he knew he should disappear. It was already riskier than anything else he had done, those reunions in Parisian cafés or bars, always different ones, hopping and experimenting versions of all the familiar dishes, and some he hadn't eaten before with an ex-CIA agent, someone that had worked with intelligence, who had dedicated his life to finding links between seemingly disparate occurrences. He hasn't found the strength yet, even five months after the day they meet in England.
Shaking his head, Booker approached today's bar. They prioritized places with good food and reasonably priced drinks - most of the time, he was the only one taking advantage of that later item, Copley's poison of choice was work: whereas before his retirement he hunted down information as a CIA agent, now he compared patterns, verified stories, looked for signs of ethical misconduct or anything that could be damaging to a company's research process. It was palpable, how much he cared, how passionate he was about the protocols in place so the people testing the drugs weren't taken advantage of, that they knew the risks and were treated with dignity.
His wife's passing had ignited a drive in him - to try and find a cure, as if that would redeem himself, would make the grief easier, or the silent places inside a changed house bearable. He, of all people shouldn't throw rocks on glass houses, especially when his own coping mechanism was normally more damaging than what Copley did - it wasn't as if paperwork would revolt and knife him between the ribs, though on some weeks James looked as if his search for data had entered the night, crossed into daylight and extended over several days, until he looked like a very well dressed and sharp zombie, his hands trembling when going for the cup of tea or food he had ordered, his voice rougher than broken glass. Like now.
"You should probably sleep sometime between rounds of working, last I knew, eight hours of sleep were still the required time for someone to not die." Booker remarked, sitting opposite to Copley, eyes flitting over the dark circles under his eyes, his faintly pinched expression and the way James was squinting under the lights, even though the interior of the bar was not brightly lit.
"I could say the same about your consumption of alcohol, considering your breath stinks of it. I am quite sure you should have died already with how much you drink, liver prickled and ready to be exposed as a warning of what not to do with your body" Copley said, nostrils briefly flaring and lips twisted. The other sign he had been working too much: his bad temper. It was amusing how even when he had a headache and looked like he should be passed out somewhere in a dreamless sleep the man could retain some of his tightly held control. Not enough to work as a handler again, but more than most would be able to. He felt his lips twitch. He had died to his crutch, more times than he would care to count, but being immortal, he could afford it. The same couldn't be said about James.
"Destiny, fate or chance decided it wasn't my time yet. So here I am, no matter how much my carcass wishes otherwise. Besides, it takes years to die of drinking, but if you keep skipping rest, meals and sunlight, I would give you maybe four years maximum. You are not fresh out of college, with your body taking whatever abuse you throw at it and recovering easily. " Booker retorted, calling the attention of their waiter, asking for drinks and food, before focusing again on James.
The man truly looked like a corpse fresh out of the grave, and he wasn't surprised when he could hear his stomach growl, James' eyes instinctively avoiding his for a moment before he focused back. Booker couldn't help the quirk of his lips for a second, though he didn't comment. His mood today was somewhat better than usual, the aches and pains from his body uncharacteristically muted and Joe and Nicky had sent their infamous postcards. He was still incredulous they could always find new positions and take more and more daring pictures while they were in their favorite places, but it soothed him too, this part of their post-mission routine.
Hopefully, James' humor would rise when he ate something. It would probably be better if they didn't take too long either, with how tired the man was. But then again, that was unpredictable. Sometimes they traded stories with each other, of what they had lost. Others, they drank and ate in silence, or talked about anything but what they had in common. This time, it seemed they would stay in silence. It was what happened most frequently when James was chasing some thread of information, bothered with a detail that eluded him, or a suspicion of something unethical was occurring in the research he reviewed, or at least what he supposed caused them, as his fellow widow was always secretive about what he was working on, very aware of the non-disclosure agreements he had to sign to work in the area he did.
The quiet was peaceful, no inane conversation to break it, though Booker had become used to how James would recount movies he had watched, books he had read, voice rising and falling, lulling him out of his memories, keeping him rooted. Sometimes, he reciprocated, with books he himself read, his favorite styles and personal interpretations of favorite passages.
Booker looked at the rest of the bar, people-watching for a moment, before looking again at James. For a moment, it was as if someone had walked on his grave. A heavy feeling pressing down on him. He shook his head - considering where he would rather be, that could be a good omen, for his standards.
Their food arrived, and after a few bites, James seemed more human, less likely to pass out on him and have to be carried back to his house, thankfully. Uncharacteristically, James was observing him, as if there was something new or strange since they last met. For a second he wanted to check if he was bleeding, or something, but he didn't feel any pain. Normally, he attributed those spells of his companion to the focus he applied on whatever problem he was chasing after, but those were different - James withdrew far away, mind flying to the facts and conjectures he had. This... was an examination, a close one. He frowned, did he have a piece of food stuck on his teeth? Had James somehow figured out he was immortal? Was it something completely different that he didn't know about? He did his best to appear relaxed, looking back at Copley. Whether because he hadn't noticed he had been staring, or for some other reason, the ex-CIA avoided his eyes, looking at his plate, before taking a sip of his tea and cleaning his throat.
"I have... a favour to ask. I decided to try and... store or give away some of my wife's belongings, and was wondering if you could help me with it?" Oh, he could understand James' hesitation now. He clenched his teeth, wondering what he should answer. He hadn't expected that question. And would have preferred being asked about his immortality, to be honest. But... he also didn't want to waste the trust James had shown him by asking.
Stumbling on his words, he agreed even if he still wasn't sure of it himself. Even if he had to go back to England (thankfully, he would be able to avoid staying too long in London). He hoped he would be able to help James, and that the other man didn't regret asking him. A reflection in a flash of a hospital room.
The rest of their dinner was uneventful, James seemed relieved, but still tired, and he hurried to eat his own food, torn between wondering what exactly he would be helping with, he didn't think he was the best person to be someone else's moral support... And fighting the urge to drink himself into a stupor. He could start researching grief help on Youtube, later today or even tomorrow. By common accord, they parted easily on the bar's door. He didn't bother asking for a date - it wasn't like he had a lot to do beyond drift drunk through the days and wait for news from the others. His hand automatically went to his canteen. The no-mark cognac in it was cheap, easy to down, and the fire from it kept him warm until he arrived in his room, escaping from his memories.
He sets an alarm for tomorrow, just so he could look up as much as he could on the internet, before taking out as many bottles with liquor on it as he could from all the places he could remember putting them, as a way to pass the night.