As we all know and love about him, nothing shakes the great, intelligent, impeccable, reasonably-endowed Nathan Drake.

He has a magical, well-learned way of keeping his cool and pushing forward in even the most dire, most dangerous circumstances. At least when it comes to himself. 

Most times, it doesn’t even cross his mind that a certain jump or climb or crawl would be difficult for his companion (It’s a miracle Sully’s eyeballs haven’t gotten stuck in the back of his head from their sheer amount of rolling). 

But he promises he’s trying his hardest to be better about it. 

He likes to have some sort of physical touch with his partner whenever the tension starts to pick up: preparing for a getaway, sneaking around a security-packed manor, a civilian-packed market, sporting scarves and shawls to blend into the crowd. He prefers a hand held, but he often makes do with a hovering touch to the shoulder or waist. Any more will make him seem too worried, and he knows he has to be the rock the second shit maneuvers off-plan.

He couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

And on one particularly windy mission morning, a Bolivian cliffside gap leaves you both between a rock and a hard place, Nathan’s hand immediately going to your waist.

“Who do you want to go first?” – You can mostly hear his concerned baritone over the wind.

After a lifetime of spontaneous jumps, he finally asks love first.

But, unfortunately, the answer comes easy— and you prod frightenedly at his shoulder for the go-ahead. Maybe it’s just stage fright when he jumps and lands with such casual presion that you barely have the courage to even reach for the rope once it backswings up to you.

“C’mon, shortie!” He calls with a smile, no matter how tall you are. 

“Nathan…” You inch, switching one hand for the cliffside when a slight breeze rocks your stance. 

Because what fucking idiot doesn’t tell their partner that they’re afraid of heights before scaling the goddamn Andes?

After a few moments too long, and with no movement to show for it, the wind only grows stronger and your legs: trembling harder, Nathan’s face finally screws up in understanding. He musters up a toothy, encouraging smile.

“Don’t worry about it, hun. Just… just start talking.”

What?

“What?”

 “Anything you can think of. Talk about how stupid I am, if you have to.” 

(Depending on your preferred dynamic with him:) “But then I won’t be talking at all. 🥺“ or “BUT THEN I’LL BE TALKING FOREVER!”

But as soon as another particularly strong breeze whistles by, your boot wobbling on the edge and sending a few pebbles skittering off the side, Nate’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes go soft. There’s no time for jokes anymore.

“C’mon, hun. Anything.” 

You think for a moment. 

And you really, really try.

“Did…” You wet your lip, and you can just barely see Nate’s chest rise with a soft, bated, hopeful breath. “Did you ever think Sallah in the Indiana Jones movies was hot?”

Nathan looks at you like you just spoke fucking Mandarin. Except he probably understands Mandarin ten times better than whatever the fuck you just said.

“What?” He asks incredulously, lips wide in a crooked, accidental smile.

“Sallah? He’s like the best friend guy? He wears a little red ha—” 

“Yes-I-know-who-Sallah-is-thank-you.”

“W-whatever! He’s nice, okay?! Closing statement.” 

But whatever embarrassment your flushed face portrays is canceled out by Nathan bursting out into melodious laughter.

And by some chance or miracle, your feet find themselves inching forward. Maybe just in the hopes of hearing that beautiful laugh just a little bit clearer.

“Oh, what?! Like you haven’t thought about it? You don’t think Indy has? Just the two of them together, digging holes on those cold, lonely desert nights…” You ooze dreamily, just to spur his giggles further.

“That’s my girl! Keep talking about diggin’ holes, hun!” Nathan rallies with clapping hands like he’s at a goddamn football game.

And now you’re joining right in on his laughter.

Your feet: forward. Forward. Forward. Nice and easy,

“Oh… wouldn’t you love me to keep talking about holes.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you love me to love you keep talking about holes!” He jeers right back, and your eyes are too crinkled with smiles to notice how his eyeline dips up and down between your own and the ledge below.

Somewhere above, a creature skitters. A mouse amongst the bush. 

A quick shuffling sound. A few pebbles fall.

Fall.

Fall.

Landslide.

And you gasp in fear when the movement has the rock ledge crumbling where your trembling foot was only a moment before. The only registerable sense is the sound of your own heart beating in your ear, your body reminding, begging you of its own mortality. Blood against its cage. You will fall. It’s already happening.

Holy shit… you’re going to die.

“It’s the beard, isn’t it?” But Nathan’s sweet voice snaps through the fog. 

“Huh?” You barely manage to warble out.

“It’s the beard! Sallah’s big, gigantic beard is why you think he’s so hot!” He gasps in facetious discovery, and a little bit of a careful smile shies out of the corner of your mouth. “Which means you secretly do want me to grow one! I knew it!”

You’re not sure if it’s joy or genuine terror that makes you reply as boisterously as you do. 

“You BETTER not!” But it doesn’t matter, because both make you break out into a laugh so hard it hurts, anyway. “I said he’s nice and that I like his stupid ha—!”

“No, no, you’re right! I didn’t think of it like that before. You’re just brilliant, honey.” 

How handsome he is only makes him that much more punchable. 

And in fact—

You just might—

“BEARDED MEN TELL NO TALES, NATHAN DRAKE!” You wail, and without even thinking, your body is pouncing, soaring through the air— the ledge behind crumbling into the sea and survival finding abrupt home in his arms.

The burning sweat at your forehead, your shaking arms, your noodling legs: you only feel them when you finally have no reason to.

Nathan’s smile: puffing air at your temple in a breathy, relieved chuckle. His hands: wrapped around every part of your body he can possibly manage, desperate to hold it, to protect it with his own.

And just when you think you’re about to suffocate against his pillowy barrel of a chest—

“I mean, his accent helps…” You mumble dumbly, flushed face squished against his (wonderfully) stank-smeared henley.

“Oh! Gotcha! So do you want me to—”

“Nathan, you talking in that accent is the last thing I want you to do.”

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