Work Text:
Images, evenings filled with quiet contemplation and unspoken understanding, run through Jim’s mind. An entire friendship, borne of common interests, values, and ambitions passes by, and then one of the men demands, “Who the hell is this guy?”
He takes a moment, and he still can’t quite keep the disbelief off his face or out of his voice. “I don’t know.”
The scenes in his mind crack and shatter under the weight of the next words out of Nate’s mouth: “My name’s Nate Ford, and I’m a thief.”
Jim called it a draw, but maybe he’s lost something after all.