Chapter Text
“What is this feeling called love?
Why me? Why you?
Why here? Why now?
It doesn’t make no sense, no
It’s not convenient, no
It doesn’t fit my plans, oh
It’s something I don’t understand . . .”
~ Pulp, F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.
§
He could count on one hand the number of people he’d ever truly trusted. There had been his mother, once, though she felt less like a memory and more like a picture he had seen a long time ago. Perhaps he had only pieced her together from the fragments of other people’s lives, a mother that never was. Then there was Sam, who had been everything to him when he had nothing. Nate had orbited his older brother like a planet around the sun, drinking in his warmth even as he felt the cold of the world on his back. If it hadn’t been for the only other person to ever gain his trust, the loss of that warmth would probably have killed him.
That other now stood a few feet away at the console cruiser’s helm, his hands at ten and two, a cigar wasting to ash at the corner of his mouth. In the cracked-egg light of the setting sun, his hair was the color of Spanish gold. For the past eight years, Sully had been all he had in the world; not quite father, not quite friend, but something no words could ever describe. All he had, since he lost his primary star to a prison guard’s bullets. And now . . . now, there was her.
He snatched little glances of her as the day westered into night, and more still under the starlight that followed. It . . . unsettled him, to realize just how aware of her he was. How unaware she was, happy to bed down on the boat’s rocking deck beside a man she barely even knew. At first he had taken it for naivety, this apparent disregard for the dangers of the world . . . but he had learned a little more of her subterranean mysteries, since then. Perhaps it wasn’t so much foolhardiness, this need of hers to rush headlong into the unknown, as it was a determination to get what she came for. Nate thought that he could come to respect that.
They had set course for the coast of Peru while the fires still burned on Navarro’s ship. Nate had stared into the vapor trails that foamed in their wake for quite some time, his body a tripwire just waiting to be sprung. He knew, intellectually, that Navarro couldn’t be alive down there . . . but the thumping in his chest didn’t care much for the logic in his head. Not with the memory of the cursed El Dorado so recently in his mind. The sun set ahead of them and the island shrank behind, and at last Nate had collapsed against the crates of gold and let out a long, wordless sigh.
“Right there with you, cowboy,” he heard her say somewhere to his right. Her voice was like sunshine after three weeks lost in the dark. “I think I could sleep right into my thirties and I wouldn’t even notice.”
Nate quirked a lip, too weary even to smile. He already was in his thirties. But it occurred to him to wonder, with a jolt of compunction like a sucker-punch to the gut, just how young Elena Fisher really was.
Now, three hours later, he watched her sleeping face beside him and saw the answer for himself. They had made a nest of the tarpaulin, and settled into the space between the gold and the cockpit for a few hours’ desperately needed sleep. Sully could handle the helm just fine, he said: having missed out on the worst of the action, he had escaped with more reserves of energy left than the two of them put together. They could sleep, and he would wake them when he couldn’t keep his head up anymore.
Except that Nate could not sleep. His hands shook as he tugged and scrunched the tarp into something resembling a pillow—and as the adrenaline ebbed away he became aware of every stinging cut and every throbbing bruise. His head ached, and his feet burned. Somewhere in those three hours, he kicked off his sneakers and the shredded remains of his socks; and somewhere in those three hours, Elena fell asleep with her blonde head cushioned in the crook of her arm.
Nate watched her, and wished that he could be the one keeping her head from the deck. Wished that he had been brave enough to offer himself, when they settled down in this makeshift nest to sleep. Instead he lay awake as the sun dragged the daylight behind it, and cursed himself for a goddamn coward. He barely spared a glance for the Spanish gold that gleamed first bronze and then silver at her back. Barely felt his own protesting muscles and the claw marks in his side. He could sense Sully’s eyes on him, an itch at his back that he didn’t dare scratch . . . and he could sense when Elena slipped from dream into nightmare.
It was subtle, at first. Her fingers twitched spasmodically at her temple, and she muttered sounds that never quite made it into words. He saw a little crease begin to form at the top of her nose, and her knees curl unconsciously into her chest. No way of knowing which memory she relived in her dreams; she had been shot at, held at gunpoint, hunted by creatures more demon than man. She had been driven off a cliff and survived a helicopter crash. She had been forced to kill. Nate didn’t know which of those things had spread its stain into her dreams, if any of them; he only knew that the same nightmares waited for him when exhaustion finally won out. That was something to look forward to.
I wouldn’t want to be alone right now. Call it cowardice if you want; I call it self-preservation. And again he wondered if Elena might have welcomed a shoulder to sleep on, had he found the courage to ask. It had been on the tip of his tongue to offer, the words cramming themselves sideways in his throat like a logjam in a river . . . but the moment had passed. Elena had curled herself up against the crates like a little white cat, and the words had crumbled to dust before they could even be said.
Snap out of it, Nate. A girl like her would never waste her time on a no-name thief like you. Even if you really were the heir to Sir Francis Drake, which you’re not. She’d never stoop so low.
But God help him, did he wish that she would.
She gave a sudden jolt in her sleep, lifting her face from the crook of her elbow to utter a single, melancholy sound. It sounded a lot like his name. Nate’s heart beat fitfully in his mouth with a taste like sour beer. For God’s sake, Nate, what more do you want, an invitation signed in blood? A notice taped to her forehead saying ‘Nathan Drake welcome here’? This is getting ridiculous. Just—just slide on over there, and put your arms around her. Go on. I dare you.
And that last sounded so much like Sully that Nate had to look back at the old man just to make sure that it wasn’t. But no—Sully was watching the far horizon, where the moon hung low over silver waters. He seemed completely—and deliberately—oblivious to the both of them. He always could read me like a book, Nate thought. And it’s nothing the old goat wouldn’t do himself, given half the chance. So Nate sucked in a breath, cast his eyes skyward in wordless supplication, and reached out an arm toward her.
But at the last moment he caught himself, stopped, with his hand barely a breath above her shoulder. He couldn’t do that to her. He had heard what he wanted to hear, that was all; and wasn’t she just as likely to be having bad dreams about him as good? The man that she had seen kill dozens on that island. The man that had lied to her to get her to fund this trip. The man that had put a gun in her hand, and expected her to use it. It would be the ultimate dick move, to startle her out of sleep by an unexpected touch.
The ocean breeze had stiffened and the day’s warmth was leaching away, but Nate lay paralyzed on his side of the tarpaulin, too afraid of rejection to offer what both so badly needed.
§
He was surprised to wake up because he didn’t remember falling asleep. For the longest time he only lay on his back with his face to the stars, watching their pale scatter across the velvet sky. That was how Sir Francis Drake would have mapped his way to the secret island, by stars and sextant and sea. No sign of the GPS now ticking away in the polished walnut helm; none of the digital displays and satellite maps under Sully’s steady hand. He wished he could have buried the old pirate up on the island’s surface, instead of leaving his bones to molder among the things that had killed him. Nate may not be his heir in anything but name (although he often wondered, in secret, if his mother’s obsession arose from a genuine belief that they were), but he felt that he owed Sir Francis at least that much. The ring sat like a boulder on his chest, and not for the first time he felt unworthy of its weight. Doesn’t matter. Greatness from small beginnings, Nate, that’s what you have to remember. You’ll make a name for yourself, one day, you’ll earn this damn thing on your chest even if it kills you. It’s what Sam would have wanted.
Elena had never really believed he was the heir of Sir Francis Drake, and had told him as much to his face—but she had saved the ring for him anyway. She had given it back to him, not because she believed in his lineage, but because she felt that he deserved it.
But I don’t deserve her. She’s just another part of the world that a guy like me can never have.
Nate watched the stars, watched the light of a swinging lantern throw its shadows across the deck, until finally both the stars and the light winked out. He slept.
He awoke to something warm pressed all along his right side. At first he resisted the waking, aware that his bruises had stiffened as he slept; but the weight at his side felt good despite the pain. His head still pounded and all he wanted to do was sleep, but Nate had learned a long time ago to nap like a cat in an alleyway. The ability to sleep with one eye open had saved his life on more than one occasion, and even his utter exhaustion couldn’t break him of the habit. Unwillingly he forced open his eyes. The lantern still swung against the diamond-black sky, and by its light he could make out the shape against his side, the blonde head on his shoulder. A steady swelling motion ebbed against his ribs, breathed moist and hot on his chest. Like the waves of a pirate ship, bobbing up and over the ocean waves.
She looked so young, in sleep. A rash of sunburn had colored her nose and the top of her cheeks, but under it she still looked pale as milk in the moonlit night. There was no sign, now, of the nightmares that had trapped those little whimpers in her throat. She slept peacefully against him, her nose to his shoulder and her breath a steady whisper on his chest.
“We can’t keep her, kid,” came Sully’s abrupt voice, from somewhere off to his left. “You do know that, right?”
He did. But maybe he just wanted to pretend, for a while.
§
A day later, Nate sat on the balcony of his hotel room and watched the same black sky over the streets of Lima. The city was lousy with street lights and nightlife, stitched across the darkness like phosphorous on a cave wall—but up here the night was quiet and still. He watched it all from above as a bird might watch the desert, caught in the updraft of his own silence. And in the sky overhead, cloudless and crystal and bright with stars, a crescent moon cast its soft white light over the bright white city.
Sully had dropped them off at the docks just after dusk, and taken the boat and its cargo upcoast to a fence he knew in Chimbote. He had left Nate with a wink and a hastily-palmed credit card—and finding themselves suddenly alone, battered and bruised and more weary than they had ever been in their entire lives, Nate and Elena had reverted to the polite incuriosity of strangers. They barely spoke as they staggered along the nighttime streets, and their eyes rested anywhere but on each other. At the hotel, Nate held the door open for Elena; Elena caught Nate by the arm when he found himself stumbling at the reception. And as they stood outside their neighboring rooms, Nate almost blurted out the word that had been on his lips ever since they bedded down on the deck of that stolen boat: Stay. But Elena had conquered her keycard before him, and she had already been slipping through the door before Nate could even open his mouth to speak.
His room was dark, but cool with the scent of salt and sea. The white drapes billowed against the open window. Nate dropped the credit card onto the bed, didn’t bother to turn on the light, and then stumbled into the bathroom on legs that felt like rubber. I must be outta shape, he thought, as he switched on the fluorescent light and began to tug ineffectually at his shirt. Feels like I just ran the London marathon and then went ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. Twice.
Not even. Only several rounds with Indonesian pirates, slippery naked guys(1), and a madman who thought selling a cursed object as a bioweapon was a genius idea. Just another day in my life, then, he thought darkly. Nothin’ to see here, move along.
The water ran bloody on the slick white tile. In the unforgiving light of the shower stall, Nate discovered pains he didn’t even know he had—and once again, he found himself wishing that he had asked Elena to stay. They could have patched each other up, at least. They could have talked about it all. And if his thoughts strayed just a little to what she might look like under the pounding water, her straight pale limbs and her high, small breasts, well . . . no one need know it but him.
Now, wrapped in a hotel robe while his own clothes drip-dried in the shower stall, Nate looked out over the basin of the busy town. The ocean was a near-inaudible swell at the edges of his ears; the sound of passing vehicles was constant, but unhurried enough that they had become a single homogenous hum. He had always loved the first few hours in some new city: loved the feeling of immersion that could never be had from guide books and internet tours alone. The cadence of some unfamiliar tongue on the lips of its inhabitants; the smell of exotic street food in his nose and the strange new colors in his eyes. The sense of possibility.
But here, today, the only possibility he cared about was sleeping away her demons in the room next door.
Get it together, Nate. A little fun while you’re here is one thing—but you know what girls like that are like. She’d want to put a label on everything, she’d want to know all about your life, and that right there is a recipe for disaster. Sully’s right. The sonuvabitch is always right. You can’t keep her.
Sully. Just one more person who deserved more from him than he could possibly give, and yet kept giving to him in return. You might have checked for a pulse before runnin’ off and leaving me for dead, Sully had accused, and in the quiet places of his heart Nate knew that he was right. He should have gone back once Navarro’s men were out of the picture. He should have made sure that the only family he had left to him was truly dead. He could tell himself that he had a duty to Elena, a responsibility to see her safely out of the temple and away from Navarro’s army . . . but the truth only looked on from the rafters of his mind and laughed. You did what you always do, you dipshit. You ran away because it was easier than having to deal with your own mess. And you were too much of a coward to even look back.
Nate shook himself, and drained the last of his beer in one long swallow. Sully had almost died. It was easy not to process things in the moment—but now, above the vibrant hum of Lima and the deeper hum of beer in his veins, Nate could finally admit the truth: he had almost lost Sully. Thought he had lost him, for a time. He wished the old conman had come to the hotel with them, instead of so jealously guarding their treasure. Being alone only reminded him of how he had almost become permanently alone.
I can’t go through that again. Not ever. All the more reason to cut Elena loose before I go and get her killed, too.
He was about to head back inside when a flare of light ignited on the balcony to his left. It fell gauzy and golden across the cement, the glow of a lamp through soft white drapes. Nate could taste the sudden throbbing of his pulse, the way it beat quicker-quicker-quicker like a bird in a cage. If he listened hard enough—a skill he had acquired by necessity over the years—he could just make out the sound of her feet on the carpet next door. Barefoot, and probably naked under the complimentary robe while her own clothes dried, as he was. Nate clenched his fists, and forced himself to take a steadying breath that went right down to his toes. He couldn’t let his mind wander all over again to thoughts of her long damp hair, the scent of soap on her skin: to how her mouth might open under his like a flower to the sun. He couldn’t let himself imagine unwrapping her, like a gift that the universe had somehow, mistakenly, given to him.
She gave herself to you, you jackass. On the boat. What was that, if it wasn’t permission to pursue . . . whatever the hell this is? But that was a line of thought he immediately shot dead, bang, like a shotgun blast to the face. It had been an involuntary reaction on her part, an unconscious drawing toward the only familiar thing in an unfamiliar land. That was all. And she had said nothing when, almost six hours later, Sully had reluctantly woken him to take his turn at the helm.
You keep telling yourself that, Nate. It’s easier than starting something you know you can’t finish, isn’t it? Better to convince yourself she wouldn’t even want you to begin with. Better to never touch something than to break it beyond repair.
But he could still feel how perfectly her body fit against his, nestled into his side with her head on his chest. Could feel her hands on him in a dozen different places—examining his ring as it lay around his neck, clasping his wrist as he pulled her onto the bridge. Twined into his as he leaned in for a kiss that never was, that might never be. Unless he stopped being a total chickenshit and actually did something about it, that is.
Like what, exactly? You gonna go over there and apologize for giving her nightmares, is that it? Maybe check under her bed for monsters like some kind of goddamn bodyguard?
Yes, actually. That was exactly what he was going to do.
With a determined clank of his now-empty bottle on the table, Nate ducked back inside to collect two more beers from the minibar. He hesitated once he was back on the balcony, looking undecidedly between the two bottles in his hands; then he tightened the belt of his robe and plumped them neatly down his neckline. The glass was startlingly, blissfully cold against his bare chest. They rattled a little, but seemed unlikely to break.
They rattled even more as he vaulted over the waist-high balustrade. The space between his balcony and hers was perhaps six feet, the kind of jump that he could usually make with his eyes closed—but then he had not usually been beaten, battered, and clawed through a hostile jungle full of nightmares. He had not usually skipped several meals and at least one good night’s sleep. His bruised ribs screamed, and a knot in his leg had grown teeth and bitten deep—but miraculously the bottles did not break. That was all he cared about as he leaped across the gap, and caught hold of her balustrade with a resonant thunk. It would be pretty embarrassing to land in a bloody heap on her balcony, soaked in beer and stuck all over with glass like an imitation porcupine. He wasn’t about to do that again anytime soon.
Elena’s balcony door stood open, the drapes first inhaled and then exhaled by the ghost of a hilltop breeze. Through their sheer whiteness he could make out a golden ball of light, probably from a bedside lamp, and her shadow hunched against it like a boulder against the sun. And again he was stricken dumb by the notion that he should not be here. That she would only laugh at his efforts, or worse, that she would try to let him down gently. Nate had never been one for false modesty; he knew that he was handsome, and charming, and just elusive enough that women wanted to unravel him like a complicated knot. But already he knew that that wouldn’t be enough for Elena Fisher. Of all the women he’d dallied with, she was the only one who might actually be able to untangle the mess he had become. And it scared him far more than slippery naked guys who used to be Spaniards ever could.