“don’t start. jeezus, wouldya sit down, already? you’re standin’ there like my goddamn parole officer.”
Rafe lingers for a second or two longer, indignant, but eventually concedes. The couch isn’t as uncomfortable as he’d imagined it to be ( except for the springs, and the way the fabric feels when he touches it, and how grimy it looks––but everything looks grimy in this apartment compared to the Adler’s manor ). “ I thought you were just picking something up. ”
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i am..so exhausted w/ tumblr...and the people...on this website..like if i had the patience or energy to argue with y’all i would come for every single one of you no holds barred but i’m old and i’m tired and literally can’t be bothered to even be annoyed for longer than 0.5 seconds before i’m just. over it lmfao
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“Hey, you’d know better than me. Last I heard, he was followin’ up on a lead — but knowing Sam, it’s either gonna take him an hour or a week. Looks like you’re stuck with me ‘til then. Excited yet?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Feeling a little left out here, Nate? I’m not the one with the stick up my ass over working together –– that’s all you, asshole.”
“– look, sometimes cheap ‘n reliable is the way to go. don’t knock it, moneybags.” incredulous, she huffs, chin tilted proudly. “i’unno why we have to do this schpeel every time. i wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t important because that means i could get it myself, but anyway – i need a key that’s not a key. vague, i know. that can open up the unopenable and other such dr. seuss nonsense.”
Moneybags. His lip curls in a half-sneer, something a little less amicable; like a warning to tread carefully over those waters. You’re just footing the bill. His gaze draws over her as if she were anything to take in, and draws this conclusion: cheap, just as she said. Reliable is still up for debate. After a moment of silent deliberation, he speaks, expression neutral. “I’ve never been a fan of riddles. They’re a waste of my time. You want my help? You’re gonna have to work with me. Can’t find a key that’s not a key if I don’t know what it unlocks.”
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“That’s … not really narrowing it down. Don’t suppose you wanna tell me what you do have the patience for — ?”
“Well, the list is much shorter. Far easier for you to follow along, I’m sure, considering your attention span is the size of my thumbnail –– unfortunately, I don’t have the patience for that, either. Where’s your goddamn brother?”
“ – i feel like i’m gonna have tea with the queen of sheba with how complicated findin’ you has been. all of this for a lousy cursed teapot.” // @ignobledeath
“What can I say? You made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so let’s cut the bullshit and you tell me exactly what we’re looking for and why it’s so goddamn important. Don’t tell me the off-brand Walmart teakettle let you down this soon.”
His pulse is erratic. Heavy. It jumps beneath the press of steel held to his throat. He has him now, right where he wants him.
There’s something warm and wet dripping from his hairline. Blood mixing with dirt, the sweat on his temple. There’s something else –– something that hurts like a fresh bruise, but all over his body. Fractured bones and contused skin, open wounds that pulse and ache with exertion.
Adrenaline might be the only thing holding him upright.
“You want to stay and burn with this ship, you be my guest.”
He inhales and tastes gunpowder in the back of his throat. The air is thick with it, heady as the sweltering heat of this blazing inferno around them, but the one inside of him is worse.
It serves as fodder, this resentment; the scrim of hatred that scorches and boils in his blood, a merciless reminder of just how much had been sacrificed. How much of his life had been dedicated to finding Avery’s treasure? How much blood had to be spilled, how much sweat, how much time and energy and wherewithal had Rafe poured into this?
Fifteen years worth. It’s all that he is, all that he’s become, and like hell if he’s going to let Nathan Drake take that away from him.
“You got me.”
Muscles twinge and protest against the strain, the swift parry and slash of his sword; the foot he kicks out against Nathan’s chest knocks him unto his back and this is his moment –– this is the weight of the weapon, this is the sweat that saturates his palms, the blood in his mouth and the fierce determination in his heart.
“You know what, Nate? Underneath all the bravado, you’re just a sad little boy with delusions of grandeur.”
This is everything he has ever wanted, everything he has earned, everything he deserves.
“So long, Nathan Drake.”
Death is lingering somewhere amidst the flames and grey smoke, cloaked in black; a life hangs in the balance, suspended, as if it were tangible. Rafe hears the pound of his own heart and the blood rushing in his ears.
His arm volleys back. All he sees is red.
“Nathan!”
Jarred by the disruption, his focus wavers, flickering from the man laid out before him to another. Barely breathing the last Rafe saw of him, pinned underneath fallen debris; a wooden beam slightly degraded with an infestation of rot, but still heavy enough to keep him out of the way.
The name is half-formed on his tongue –– Samuel –– by the time a grasp is made for the abandoned cutlass previously wrenched from the younger brother’s hand.
The opportunity isn’t lost.
“You don’t know when to give up, do you?”
Three attacks, all angled vertically, all in quick succession, blocked by his opponent’s newly reacquired blade.
“That’s good.”
His breath comes in a hitch, and stuck somewhere behind is a titter of crazed laughter that hasn’t yet found a means of escape.
“Don’t hand it to me.”
Rafe attacks a fourth time, then a fifth. The raucous clash of metal is still ringing in his ears when he speaks.
“I’ve had everything handed to me ...”
Both hands now wield the sword, the fingers of one closed around the grip, the fingers of the other around his own fist.
“... on a goddamn silver platter.”
The swords come together with a deafening sound, steel to steel, one perpendicular to the other. This time, Rafe doesn’t retreat. Instead, he levers himself forward on the ball of his foot, using his non-dominant hand to bear down his full weight on the blade.
Beneath him, Nathan struggles to counter that weight with his own –– resistance met with resistance, one unstoppable force against another.
Blood spills in red rivulets through the spaces of Nate’s fingers and his arm trembles, weak and tired. It would be so easy to let go. The innate instinct to preserve his own life spurs him onward, and with that comes a charge of resolve.
Nate throws back against Rafe’s weight, causing him to stumble. The parry momentarily gives him pause before he regains his equilibrium, counters, teeth bared in a show of aggression.
“Everything––except––this!”
His attacks are ruthless. They hit hard and fast, a nuclear force between every word, until the blade of the cutlass snaps apart.
It clatters away, stills somewhere beyond arm’s length, though the grip remains held tight in his hand.
This was it.
With Death on his shoulder and hatred in his beating heart, Rafe holds him at sword-point, closing in –– one step, then two. The pitiful heap of a man crawls backward on the round of his elbows as if that would prolong the inevitable. It makes him grin.
“I earned this."
A breath is drawn in, then released.
His lungs are burdened with smoke. His chest feels tight, feels heavy, like something has fastened around his ribcage. It’s pulling inward towards the heart.
“All of it.”
There’s an old rope tied to a pulley to Nathan’s right, rigging plunder and treasure high toward the ceiling of the cargo hold. Four, five, six of them netted, all hanging overhead. It was one of the first things Rafe had noticed when he stepped over the threshold. Just how much was out of his reach.
“You want the treasure, Rafe?”
Glancing across to the pulley system, a thought crosses Drake’s mind.
“It’s all yours.”
Nathan twists onto his side and slashes the tethered rope with what little remained of his blade.
Time slows to a near halt. The treasure collapses. Everything goes black.
these sheets have a higher thread count than he has money in the bank. it’s been an exercise in commitment — barring those thirteen years in a cell, sam can’t remember the last time he stayed in one place for this long. can’t remember the last time he stayed for someone, either. god help him when that someone turned out to be rafe adler. ( god help the both of them, if he’s being honest. which is another thing. he’s not usually this honest. )
ever since the hospital had finally cut him loose, rafe’s hobbies have included denying that he’s in any pain, snapping at his staff, trying to skip physical therapy, sulking for hours when sam doesn’t let him skip physical therapy —
and, of course, this.
he’d felt the shift beside him, and it’s no mean feat to keep his expression neutral. to pretend he’s asleep when, in reality, he was wondering when rafe would venture down this road again. not that he’s about to complain. his eyes are still closed when the chuckle starts to resonate in his chest, and he reaches to land a palm around the back of rafe’s neck.
“i was tryin’ to get some shut - eye, but i’m not gonna turn down a better offer.” he looks at him then, with the lazy slant of a smile. “like, ah … shit, i don’t know. you?”
A better offer. He knows what that means. It means warm hands and an inviting mouth that worships every inch of him –– from his shoulders to his chest, his abdomen and the trail of dark hair leading him beneath the sheet and between his legs. Rafe loves this; he loves giving to him like he always wanted to, but what’s better is knowing that Samuel wants him just as bad. That this is something he loves, too.
Not in the way every man loves a mouth around his cock, but the fact that it’s him. Rafe, and his mouth, and his tongue, and how he looks at him from between his legs with those fucking eyes. That’s what Sam likes to call them. Those fucking eyes. He misses the praise he gets when he does that.
The hand at the nape of his neck is just as inviting as the previous thought. He leans over to kiss him and catches himself getting a little too eager, a little too soon. His weight is supported on an elbow propped against the mattress, and he uses it to lever back before Sam can take advantage of it. He has a habit of doing that, Rafe noticed; maybe he just makes it too easy for him.
“I’ll be honest with you, Samuel,” his own hand rests at Sam’s lower abdomen, just above where the sheet is rucked around his hips. He feels for the hair there, then leans in just so –– the promise of a kiss lingers but isn’t fulfilled. “I’m not entirely convinced you deserve it.”
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He doesn’t understand it. This feeling, how it rushes him and sinks down into his marrow; the warmth that spreads through him when he looks at Samuel, watches him sleep with one arm thrown over his head and one across his abdomen. The sheet only covers the lower half of his body, and the duvet has been completely pushed off.
It’s like sleeping next to a furnace, he tells him –– Rafe catches the innuendo every time, if only because he can damn near see it in the way he smirks. Guess you’re just too goddamn hot. He said this two nights ago; Rafe had scowled and rolled his eyes, but his cheeks flushed deep red and within mere minutes afterward, he found himself laid on his back with Samuel pressing in close to kiss him.
Rafe wants to return that gesture now, but his confidence flickers like a dwindling flame.
He doesn’t have a very good range of motion. He’s stiff, limited to certain movements and there are still things he can’t do. Things that he can’t give to Sam yet. Things he can, sparingly, like a warm and eager mouth. He knows how much he likes that.
“I know what you’re hoping for sleeping in this late, you manipulative son of a bitch.” @fortuneseek