@ddrxke asked: “the past comes back to haunt me, and i can’t chase the ghosts away.” ( prompt / accepting )
THE SMALL SHACK THEY called home for the night seemed a bit smaller in that moment. as if his words took up all the available space. crowding the walls, pressing them closer together. she was in the middle of sewing up a rip in his shirt. a rather domestic thing to do in an undomesticated setting. her own pants were off, the emergency blanket draped over her legs. the holes in them were too much for hiking through the wilderness of russia. she’d offered to do his as well, making a comment about how the whole world didn’t need to see that much drake. they were battered, beaten, worn -- and that wasn’t just their clothing. she could see behind his facade now. see past the jokes and quick whit that made up NATHAN DRAKE. her fingers missed the next stitch and she caught her thumb, passing it into her mouth as she looked at him. weighing his words. weighing him. “you’re a man filled with ghosts, aren’t you, drake?” she asked, her own words chasing his away and bringing breathing space back into their surroundings. thumb still pressed against her own lips, her eyes darted back down to the stained and worn blue fabric. “we can’t fight the past. all we can do is look to the future. a very, very wise man told me that once.”
