[Fucking....how dare this entitled, rich, apparently sadistic little prick tell him to take his own bloody hands off Nathan. The man who he's fairly positive tried to BDSM the younger Drake into an early grave is telling him that he needs to keep his hands to himself. And he's acting like his posh arse has any right to be in this fucking building? The absolute testicular fortitude it must've taken to actually vocalize that stuns Harry enough that Nate's able to shake him off with ease.
No, Drake, you do not got this.
So, of course, Harry does what any reasonable man of his ilk would do and punches this cunt right in his nose. His only regret is that he's wearing black and not some other clothes that bloodstains would totally ruin. Shame.]
[ Rafe knew the second the words passed his lips that it was an absurd statement, had bitten his tongue against any further slip. It's easier to loose it again once he has a solid response from Nate. Hardly matters how that response sounds, how it's another uncomfortable lurch of his gut to hear it, he's got it and part of the tension knotting his shoulders sloughs off for it.
Which is not that much of a state to be expecting a punch in the face.
Pain explodes from his nose outward, and the sick sound of bone crunching under Flynn's fist drowns out the softer tinkle of his aviators shattering as the shards slice at his skin, thin lines of red welling under his eye, the inside of an eyelid. It's a solid hit, that's for damned sure, enough that Rafe staggers back a couple of steps until he regains his senses — and with them a murderous wave of rage that demands retaliation, that wants nothing more than to fucking tackle this son of a bitch and shove a knee into his gut, see about his fucking smart mouth then.
Control. Stay in control. Keep your head on and keep some goddamn control. One punch is nothing. He's better than folding to this.
Stubborn pride keeps him from holding his nose, from mopping up the mess in spite of feeling blood streaming down his face. Pushes him to stand up straight, reach for the demolished frames and tug them off his ears, toss them to the floor. Any other time he'd find a trashcan but this place? The whole place is a fucking dump. One more bit of litter won't damn it any more than it already is. Nails bite into the meat of his palm from how tightly he balls his fists at his side but they stay there. ]
All right. [ To his credit, he manages to sound mostly normal. As if he's not bleeding from several points on his face and feeling it trickle down his throat. In fact, Rafe is doing his level best to ignore Harry's existence in its entirety right now. He isn't sure what he'd do otherwise. Something he'd... Well. Not regret but something that would definitely undo what he's come here for. ] I'm guessing not here.
[Nate has to step back just because he sees the quick wind-up, the inevitable crunch, knows the sort of violence that Harry Flynn can get up to because they've worked jobs on and off together for years. This relationship, whatever it is, is a recent development, but Flynn has always had the same sort of pre-fight, wry humor as Sam.
Give 'em a smile, sharp and cold, and let one fly out of fucking nowhere.]
Harry, holy sh-
[Blood pours out of Rafe's nose, a real gusher and the red dripping from Flynn's knuckles from the broken glass stains the already questionable floor. Nate, who engages in brawls regularly, doesn't even know if this one is worth it and he's ultimately surprised when Rafe tosses the cracked glasses away only to wait. For what? For him? Christ.]
Stop, just- [Pressing a hand to Harry's chest just to get him to back up - partly concerned Rafe might actually fly off the handle, partly concerned Harry will get cocky and go back for another haymaker - Nate stands between both parties, hands outstretched.] Fucking stop. Okay?
[If Harry said that he didn't get a near erotic thrill out of that crunch of glass and cartilage he'd be a fucking liar. He didn't expect the glasses to shatter like that, cut up the little princess's million dollar face like that. It's just a bonus, and he doesn't even have it in him to be pissed at the way he tosses them to the ground like the whole place is garbage.
Mmm, costing rich fucks money is always worth it.
He hadn't planned on anything like this happening. He's not a stickler for prep like others he's worked with before, but in the days before a job he likes to at least have a clear head and focus on the goal at hand. He gets jittery enough as it is, and this... This is...fuck. Drake's going to be off for days, at the very least, and the window of opportunity they've got is rapidly narrowing. It's got to be soon.
Nate pushes him away then, and Harry just lets him. His hands are trembling with the adrenaline rush that comes with trying to take a man down with one hig, and he takes a deep drag on his cigarette to try and calm himself, center his his thoughts on something productive. God save nicotine.]
I'm calling for some assistance. He's got eight minutes. [And then, as an afterthought, he wipes his bloody knuckles against the back of his jeans, nonchalant.] You've got a little red on you, mate.
What, can't finish the job yourself? [ Again, Rafe's best doesn't prove enough but he can't help taking the shot in spite of Nate between them. Fits with the track record he'd read on the flight down here and his lip curls in a sneer. Flynn seems to have a career in surrounding himself with his betters and he wonders how long it took him to start cashing in on having Nate at his beck and call. ] Typical.
[ Screw however Nate might react. There's no sane mind on earth that would fault him beating hell out of Harry if he has to take a second punch. But for now his hands stay down at his sides, even without Nate's attempt at playing human shield. A layman might actually think him relaxed and never mind the blood but any of a handful that knows Rafe would be able to see the razor-thin veneer of control that keeps him in check.
He clears his throat, nose and mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own blood as he blinks slow and reptilian. He can feel his skin getting tacky as the flow slows, starts to dry. Shit. If he'd rented a car there'd likely be tissues to take advantage of. Not like he trusts anything in here, or would request a rag out of Flynn's flat to mop up.
Minor annoyance. He'll live. ]
Nathan. [ And sure, he's addressing his ex-partner but he doesn't for a second take his eyes off Harry. ] Whenever you're ready.
[ He's gotten his assurance that Nate will talk. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than Harry sucker punching him to make Rafe let go of it now. ]
Eight minu- he's got however long I fucking wanna take, Harry.
[Nate almost spits the words out like something distasteful, already too nervous for anything resembling "friendly" conversation and wearing flecks of Rafe's blood on his shirt. Harry's assumption isn't incorrect, either: regardless of how this ends Nate won't be sleeping well for the next handful of nights, won't be able to find it in himself breathe deeply without wanting to choke on nothing but air.
He straightens and notices Flynn's shaky fingers, Rafe's clenched fists. Both wanting another swing and both needing the separation before Nate decides that none of this is worth the effort of suffering another second in the presence of people who want so desperately to fight over him.
He's tired.]
Just- gimme a second.
[With a suspicious look he backs into the kitchenette, retrieving one of the clean shirts he'd left drying over the back of a chair and a handful of ice from the freezer. From here the tension is less thick, and it would be so easy to shove the sash up on the window, slide onto the fire escape. Shimmy down the drainpipe. Run away. It sounds more and more tempting the longer he lingers over the cold air wafting from the icebox, prickling his sweaty skin. More than anything he just wants the nightmares to go away, but it's difficult when every other party present keeps trying to dig them back up.
Stuffing uneven cubes into the Henley before returning, shoving the thing in one of Rafe's hands, Nate maintains his practiced street youth glibness enough to shoot Harry a look.]
Go over the route with Charlie. I'll get back when I get back. I've got my phone.
[Nate, who are you talking to? Because Harry's sure you can't be talking to him. He doesn't answer, and instead slinks into the kitchen for- what? Is he getting ice? Harry goes after him, short a walk as it is.]
You're taking the piss. You-
[Oh. Oh, he's not.]
Nate. Nathan.
[But he's not listening, he's actually helping Alder, because of course he is. It ignites something small and nasty in his chest, and he almost wants to let it grow and consume him until he snaps and says something cruel enough to ruin Nate. But to even acknowledge that feeling would be to admit that there's anything he feels about Nathan Drake besides a mild friendship and camaraderie.
But, of course, he's still feeling extremely petty, and Nate is pissing him off. Harry yanks him back from the doorway and the cunt, pressing him into the wall separating the entrance way and the kitchenette. Before he can protest, Harry kisses him hard in full view of their visitor. Honestly, he doesn't care if Nate's into it, he just wants to remind him why he's in this city in the first place.
After a moment, Harry pushes away, replacing his cigarette once more.]
Fine. I lock the door at midnight, so. You know, try to be back by then, mate.
[ Rafe spends the interim moments very much on the same page as Nate — and silently calculating whether it would be worth the exertion to run wherever the window of this place let out (should've checked the layout first, stupid mistake, should've known better) or should he wait, regroup, start the search over again. Each minute that ticks on, the more he's sure Nate's bailed again and the readier he is to beat the living hell out of Flynn for exacerbating an already shaky situation.
But then Nate comes back. He comes back and sheer surprise leaves him wide-eyed and Rafe almost drops the bundle Nate pushes on him. What it is sinks in and he adjusts the cloth in his hand for a better grip — not that he'll apply it now, not in front of this prick. Eyes flickering toward the impromptu pack, he almost offers his thanks before...
Before he's forced to witness that.
His mouth is half-open toward the words he was about to say when Flynn shoves Nate against the wall and practically mauls him. The audible click of Rafe's jaw snapping shut likely goes unheard with how enthusiastically Harry marks his territory. Once more red claws at the edges of his visions, and once more Rafe feels his bones creak to contain it. His knuckles ache at his side but they stay there. ]
Classy. [ Hell freezes over at the tone of his voice, disdain dripping alongside the blood from his face before he steps aside to make room for Nate to pass. He's not leaving first (he's made that mistake before) and the sooner he can put himself between Nate and this asshole, all the fucking better. ] After you.
[Trapped in his own small bubble of concern Nate genuinely does not hear Harry's protests, doesn't see the jagged edge of his flatmate until he feels a hand snatching a fistful of his shirt. Dragged closer suddenly, too sudden to react, Nate feels himself swinging into the wall. He barely manages to brace a shoulder for impact before another assault comes from the front, a knee shoved between his legs and a mouth on his.
Harry Flynn isn't one for kissing and because of that Nate knows this is less "fond farewell for the afternoon" and more of a statement, like licking the last doughnut in front of everyone else at the table. There's nothing suave or sexy about it, either, just a forceful press and a snarl. He waits it out, sharp teeth and a tongue dipping into his mouth and all Nate can think about is how much he really doesn't want to be a saliva-claimed baked good.]
Yeah.
[Acknowledging the curfew is as much response as Harry can expect to receive, a small nod while Nate rubs at his lip with the back of his hand and then gestures fruitlessly into the hallway. Right, right. Nate first. Rafe probably wants himself between the offending subject and the impressionable kid brother of the former Samuel Drake.]
[ Please. As if it's for as petty and bullshit a reason as that.
...Okay, it's not the only reason. Rafe also has no idea what's in this area or how to get there, and knows better than to think he can choose the where when he's forced the when. Nate's agreed to this — it's his call where to continue it. Concessions that he wasn't sure he'd be willing to make for all he'd imagined this conversation but come easily now when reality leaves him silent.
All the rants Rafe had all but rehearsed the past few months fall to pieces now that he's got Nate in sight again. Nate had that effect— And Rafe prickles to find it still true.
Between that and the throbbing pain from his nose settles in and makes itself at home, the relief in getting away from the Bitch in Apartment 23 is short-lived. He doesn't bother with the pack itself, not really since the ice is half-melted already, but he does start dabbing carefully at the bloody mess on his face. There's a grimace when he jars his nose (that bastard can throw a punch, Christ) but Rafe's pride is still high bidder and keeps him from wincing aloud. ]
I assume you've got somewhere in mind for this.
[ The assumption also follows that the somewhere won't toss him out for a very obviously broken nose. And a couple cuts, he adds to the tally as he thumbs a sharp red line above his cheek.
He keeps his tone neutrally expectant as he trails after Nate down the stairs. Another time, a few months ago, he'd have teased. Now it's just a few loose ends to tie up. A business deal gone sour. That's another thing Rafe can be proud of. He's never let himself suffer delusions that this... Whatever the hell it was was ever anything more than that. He knows better. ]
Nate could have left Rafe in the hallway, could have shut the door, could have vaulted out the nearest window, could have, could have, could have. He knows Rafe and he thinks he knows what they are, or what they were, and how wrong his assumptions turned out to be when his disappointingly short life flashed before his eyes on the platform floor of that tent. He agreed because he wants closure of his own, even when it's bleeding and holding its frayed edges together.
Grunting the affirmative Nate can hear a careful curiosity in Rafe's tone, inquiring minds want to know where they're going and Hell, Nate would like the same, because the only thing he can think of right now is putting some distance between them and Harry. He can already imagine the guy pacing the area of his flat like a caged animal.
A couple more flights of stairs pass in relative silence until they're outside in the marginally less oppressive heat - here there's a breeze - and Nate leads Rafe down a block, around a corner, and into a small park. This time of day in this weather it's abandoned, with a decent proximity to a coffee shop if getting into a bathroom to clean his face is more Rafe's speed.
Nate sits on a park bench unprompted, something oily twisting in the pit of his stomach when he finally makes eye contact again. Pale, watery blue eyes under hooded lids, the swollen tell of a busted nose and the beginnings of tomorrow's shiners, a tightly-set jaw. Reaching for the reddened, wet shirt in Rafe's hands, Nate is quiet when he says,]
[ Those frayed edges unravel faster and faster no matter how tightly Rafe tries to wrap them back around himself. It's not supposed to still feel like this, goddamn it, it's been months since last seeing Nate and he was supposed to be done with it, supposed to be putting the last nail in the crate today before packing it away for good. That was the plan.
Christ. At the very least, and this he swears to himself, is that he's not going to lose control today. Not again and fingernails digging into the meat of his palm at his side add to the promise.
But each step more shadowing Nate shakes his resolve that much more. It's only luck that it's all open space now, no convenient wall to shove Nate up against and demand an answer. ...Of course, all the questions Rafe could pose, all the pithy phrases devolve instead into some pathetic, desperate thing in his head even as he imagines it and god. What is wrong with him. Little wonder Nate bailed when he did. Rafe certainly would, faced with himself.
The park around them barely earns a cursory glance before he takes the spot next to Nate — though with a more than fair space between them. When he finds Rafe's eyes, it isn't for long— Not when Rafe lets his gaze slide somewhere down and to the left. He can't seem to look at Nate, not head-on, not when they're this close again. Quiet in kind, he answers, ]
You don't have to do that.
[ But that's all the fight he offers, letting the fabric slip away in spite of an irrational thought to keep it, take it back with him, let him have something left from all this. Stupid, pointless, and what's worse is how Rafe knows it is and can't stop himself from wanting it anyway. It's better to focus on staying perfectly still under Nate's tentative touches, as if the smallest motion will set him off and running again. Rafe knows too well it might. Knows too well that he can't blame Nate for it either. ]
[Rafe doesn't look at him - can't, maybe - and half-heartedly protests the offer even as he relinquishes the wet shirt back to its original owner. Nate wrestles it out of a ball and his own words seep into him slowly, the same way one of those stray ice cubes steadily melts on the concrete. Like some misplaced but apropos metaphor. He doesn't know. It sounds a little Byronic, and he watches Rafe's gaze concentrating heavily on something in the middle distance.]
It's broken.
[Nate is patient, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of him but happens all the same and can in part be attributed to his private concerns about what may or may not happen when he returns to Harry's flat. The silent treatment and the sofa, no doubt, slinking back in like a dog with its tail between its legs. With a delicacy he doesn't often utilize he mops up the crusting blood on Rafe's chin, tidies the small, slim cuts under his eyes, dabs carefully around the mess that is his nose.
Almost distantly Nate registers that he so rarely sees Rafe bleed - and that was part of the problem, wasn't it? He had so determinedly placed someone on a pedestal with expectations of control that it was strange to see the pillar crumble, remember that he has the same goddamn insecurities as everyone else. It wasn't fair, but it doesn't change the fact that Rafe gripped him too tightly. All that pressure was bound to snap.]
[ Talk about your apropos metaphors. Nate hits it so square on the nose that Rafe grimaces more hearing the words rather than any touches to his actual nose. Which still fucking hurts, by the by. Not that he lets it show. Pride again, and something more.
Nate may have put him on a pedestal but it's somewhere Rafe had stepped onto years before ever meeting Nate. His standards have always been high but none more so than those he holds himself to and failing to meet them is nothing short of mortifying. He should never have lost control of himself the way he did in Scotland. He should never have let the situation deteriorate to that point in the first place. He should have been better. He should have fixed it somehow. Worked harder.
But he didn't, so here they sit and yeah. It is that bad. ]
Why do you think.
[ Not any real answer but it's easier than fumbling for something that won't sound feeble in his own ears. The ones Rafe had lined up rank and file as finally valid enough to go through with this conversation, none of them seem to hold water now. He shrugs a shoulder, the motion tugging against knots tied up and down his back from the effort of keeping a civil tongue in his head with Flynn, of staying still now and...God, he's tired but it isn't in him to retreat. He doesn't know how.
A haphazard hand rakes through his hair, a distracted attempt to smooth back any flyaways loosed by humidity and Flynn's right hook. ]
[It's probably the most honest thing he's admitted in weeks, because Rafe's snippy argument with Harry suggests a motive Hell-bent on taking things personally, but were that the case he would have attacked Nate instead. Direct. Without flourish. Plain speech is the hallmark of how Rafe treated him, once. He'd expect the same courtesy now.]
I really doubt you came this far south just to cut me my last check in person.
[He neither wants nor needs it, having forfeited it the night he ducked out of the tent with a half-empty satchel on his back and not so much as a backward glance. Run, his mind had screamed at him when it had enough oxygen to form the word. Run. Keep running. Don't stop.
Stopping long enough here had proven that he neglected his own fucking advice, and would now pay for it.
Nate's eyes follow the lean track of Rafe's arm as he pushes back his neatly-trimmed bangs, a gesture so effortlessly nostalgic that it feels like being kicked by a déjà vu horse. His fingers stutter briefly while he cleans off the last of Rafe's nose and allows him to hold the shirt.]
[ Rafe huffs distractedly, a soft exhale as he shifts in his seat and reaches into a back pocket for a folded envelope, holding it out between two fingers for Nate to take. Nate never had set up his direct deposit— yet another anachronism in a long and then-amusing series of them. Even this is a step up from Nate's usual as Rafe remembers the once or twice Nate complained, said how much easier it'd be with straight cash.
But the check is an obvious afterthought. One more flimsy trimming to make the main easier to swallow along with all the rest: a last check; shouting rages because how unprofessional can a guy be; sneering promises of how Nate would regret giving up on this treasure. Convincing enough camouflage for even Rafe to buy into until actually here where the truth hits him like... Well. Not to belabor the fact, but like a knuckle sandwich. ]
I'm here because you left.
[ That much is the truth. But even as the words slip out, Rafe regrets them, hates the sound of his own voice. Weak, childish, almost petulant and he doesn't do this. More to the point, he doesn't know how. Rafe can stare down a boardroom of men and women twice his age, play the game and run circles around them until they're ragged but this? Softness never became him in the first place and it sure as hell wasn't useful, leaving him now to fumble with syntax of a language he never thought to learn.
Probably comes off like a complete fucking idiot to boot. ]
[It is with an expression of resignation that Nate takes the proffered envelope, knowing entirely too well what it is and how Rafe would refuse to take it back if he said no. Folding it in half, Nate tucks it into his back pocket with a vaguely damp hand. The check, of course, an excuse for the trip all the way down here, rooting through emails and texts and eyewitness sightings that he might found a couple hundred miles away. Maybe he should have gone further.
Right to it.]
I left because you scared the shit out of me, and I wasn't thinking.
[No, that's a lie: he was thinking too quickly, on impulse and without in-depth consideration. Consequences were the last thing on Nate's mind when he caught his breath and shakily clambered to his feet, walking to the inventory tent on auto-pilot for spare supplies and a backpack. The same gut reaction he'd had once more, years ago, a deep and abiding panic and Rafe had dragged it out by the roots.
Whatever internal turmoil Rafe is attempting to mitigate in himself doesn't even register to Nate, who wants to take the anxiety at face value, to consider that he may have actually meant something.]
Didn't think I had to spell that one out for you after you were done wringing my neck.
[There is no malice, only sad statement of fact, when Nate tries to look at him again.]
[ Another wince, eyes screwed shut against the reminder. Of course it would come up, it was inevitable but it doesn't make the shame of it sting less. Rafe has spent most of his life fighting for control, making it one of the few things Rafe can well and truly claim as his own and he's taken no small amount of pride in it. It's never been easy but Christ above, it's gotten so much harder since he'd met Nate. Rafe's grip on it had been slipping inch by inch for months and he'd tried to hold on the tighter for every bit that squeezed through his clenched fists.
Look where it's gotten him. Guilt joins the shame as he settles farther back in his seat (taking an inch for himself in the process, cowardly as it is). Nate's shirt is damp in his hands, fabric catching between his fingers as he rubs at it idly.
When he finally answers, his voice is quiet. ]
I shouldn't have done that.
[ It falls woefully short, but what the hell else can Rafe say that doesn't sound just as useless? I didn't mean to. I didn't want it to happen. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Stuff little kids babbled when they got caught that did nothing to change what was already done. Never fixed anything. At the least he doesn't try to defend himself. That would be the only way to make this even worse. ]
I'm sorry. [ The words are barely audible and still nowhere near enough but it's akin to pulling teeth and Rafe is all too quick to move past it. ] It healed up well.
[ Nate sounds as he always had, and any bruises have long since healed. No permanent damage — at least physically, Rafe knows better about the rest. ]
[he mumbles, because generally a response to an untimely interruption doesn't involve copious amounts of strangling while hissing don't fucking interrupt me in someone's face. If Nate sleeps hard enough, if the dreams allow it, he can sometimes feel the flecks of saliva on his cheek, a twisted expression hanging over his own like a fucking night terror out of a Goya painting.
Here Rafe is passive, bordering on submissive, staring down at Nate's shirt and the red bleeding through damp fabric. It's an agony to watch because Rafe doesn't do this and Nate knows it, has seen the way he never backs down, never apologizes, never makes amends. A cutthroat businessman humbling himself after a brief period of stalker-like behavior.
Nate doesn't want to forgive him. He really doesn't.]
Can we just...cut the crap? The whole small-talk thing? [There's a beat, while Nate gathers his druthers.] I'm healed up, it just bruised a little. I got scared. I left the camp. I came here.
You followed me here. For what answers, Rafe? You knew why I left. You had to know that.
[ As much as Rafe is grateful to be spared muddling through more bullshit that hardly means anything, Nate's question unceremoniously drags him out into a spot that is just as uncomfortable. ]
I came because—
[ He stops short, because he sure as hell doesn't have an answer. Not any that he can put into words, not any that he understands. A year ago this would've had Rafe laughing because there was always an answer and he always had it, cut and dry and pat as anything. Not for the first time he asks himself what the hell happened. ]
...Because I owed you as much. [ Forgetting anything else that may or may not have been between them, Nate was a partner. Rafe may be cutthroat in the boardroom, ready and willing and able to do what he could to win, but there was still a code. You watch out for each other, bring each other along, don't stab each other in the back. Or...strangle each other, as the case may be. The clear lesson to take from all this is he's better off working alone; his track record for partners is abysmal so far. ] You deserved better.
[ The passivity flickers away behind a nasty frown, thoughts trailing back up to Flynn's flat where the prick is waiting for Nate. It isn't any of Rafe's business — never was, probably, given he'd never had a legitimate claim in the first place — who Nate bends over for now but the idea galls him too much to accept it. ]
You can't- You can't pull that, Rafe. I know he broke your fuckin' nose, but Harry is- I mean, he's an okay guy, and I've worked with him before, he's just...
[Nate can't even muster an attempt at an excuse, having already picked up on the inherent disliked just based on his knowledge of both parties. He knows them both, he's fucked them both, and while they're not equals in a lot of respects they're still good at doing what they do.
They're all assholes, in their own ways.]
I dunno, he was there after I ran away. Didn't really have the guts to face Sully after that argument. He never wanted me to work with you.
[Silent for a long moment that transcends awkwardness and plateaus into something too sad, too worn for someone in his mid-twenties, Nate sighs through his nose. It's a very pretty thought, to imagine that he's earned more than this. That there isn't something slightly masochistic about the situations in which he keeps placing himself.]
I don't really deserve much more than what I have.
Bullshit, [ is the immediate denial as Rafe rolls his eyes and does his best to talk over Nate before he gets too far into it. ] and it's nothing to do with that—
[ But Nate keeps speaking and Rafe's fingers twitch around the damp shirt he's still twisting because fucking interruptions don't you dare interrupt me but no. No. He can wait even if he's boiling over and spikes again hearing what Nate thinks he deserves. ]
You're one of the best in this business and Flynn's track record proves him second-rate, at best. You've done more in less time, you're smarter than he is, and you could find better work anywhere else, legitimate or not, partnered with anyone else. If not Sullivan then somebody who wouldn't just be taking advantage because he knows the asset they'd landed with you.
[ One of the few virtues Rafe has is his honesty. Maybe he's blunt to the point of cruel, but he's never said a thing he didn't mean and never given praise that wasn't earned and then some. ]
What does it even matter what Victor thought of me after— Christ. [ It's no surprise to hear Sullivan disapproved of him; the old man could join a long and varied club there and put in for a jacket. He can't imagine why Nate wouldn't have gone back to him with the story of one more rich boy playing around where he had no right to. ] If you needed it, I'd have set you up with contacts. Introductions. A fucking plane to... Instead of just walking out.
[ That last line is the only place Rafe's all-business tone starts to fade, for something close to what Nate says to surface but bleaker. More resigned. Just because he's telling the truth doesn't mean he doesn't realize just what he'd screwed himself out of. He'll keep looking for Avery (doesn't know how to stop) but it'll be harder without Nate there. ]
I wouldn't have partnered up with you if you weren't better than this. And better than that asshole back there.
[Bullshit and Nate almost stares at him in shock. Rafe picks up his tangent quickly and steamrolls any opportunity for a reply, his fingers tightening in Nate's shirt, his enunciation crisp and direct. He means what he says and he says what he means, which is more than can be admitted about the grand majority of people, but that doesn't make the truth any easier to swallow.
Harry Flynn knows that Nate has talent, Harry Flynn is a decent hand at his own job, Harry Flynn likes fucking Nate: these are all facts.
Harry Flynn taking advantage of Nate feeling like he has nowhere else to go? Maybe, yeah.
Yeah.]
You partnered up with me because Sam died, [Nate replies calmly.] Because you didn't have a choice. I was like a...Diet Avery Expert.
[Call a spade a spade - Nate isn't about to pretend their original arrangement wasn't just for convenience's sake. Rafe had to make do with a replacement and Nate was adrift in his own cluttered thoughts, a mess of misdirection and exhaustion, struggling to carry the burden that was his grief.]
I partnered up with you because I felt lost. And I felt less lost with you.
[ Once again there merest mention of Sam almost bowls Rafe over and if the first time was unexpected, now it's worse because it's coming from Nate. His guard isn't up as it should be and the grimace lingers a minute before Rafe shakes his head. ]
We were partners before that. I signed on with both of you, not just your brother, and if you think I didn't do my homework on both of you before that to make sure I was getting my money's worth? You're out of your mind. [ It's a minor detail on the surface but it's more than large enough for Rafe to hammer home before admitting the truth in what Nate says. ] And all right, so I didn't want to give up out the gate. So I still needed a guy who knew what he was doing, so I brought you along. Where you proved quick enough you're just as smart as your brother.
[ If not smarter. Even Rafe knows the poor taste it would be in to bring up his initial doubts while Nate wandered the camp in a fog, a zombie shell that hardly questioned what he was told, and the regret that he was now stuck with the lesser Drake. Knows it'd be even worse to say how Rafe had caught himself more than once, after Nate had woken up and started showing what he could accomplish, in the middle of a grateful thought that if he had to lose one of them? He was glad it was Sam.
Knows it's pointless to share the hollow thump of guilt that followed those stray thoughts because its his own and none of Nate's business. ]
If you hadn't, if I thought it was a waste of time working with you? I'd have sent you back to the States after a month.
[ A partner's obligation only goes so far, and a plane ticket coupled with a hefty severance package would've let Rafe sleep easy if Nate hadn't proven he was worth it. But he had and that was more than enough in exchange for Rafe guiding him through those nebulous few weeks after Panama, in Scotland. Of course Rafe knew eventually his credit would run dry. Eventually Nate would get un-lost and then it would all depend on Avery and results to keep him on the map.
Rafe hadn't been able to deliver either of those things. And so here they sit. ]
You keep talking like you didn't have any other options but you did. You always did.
[It all sounds like a half-assed excuse for keeping him on the project and maybe that's because Nate's been telling himself it was for months. No one was better than Sam at this, not the research or the climbing, pick-pocketing or persuasion. Nate is never going to amount to the skill and dexterity of his older brother, freely acknowledges that he's a light version of the same drink. Rafe might as well be speaking a different language, saying that he's just as smart as Sam.
As if.
Nate's eyes track over the walkway in front of them, the cracks in the cement with little plants sprouting out of darkness. Hands settled on his knees he lets Rafe continue until he's exhausted his words.]
I still feel lost, [he admits, part and parcel of the reason he went to Flynn, knowing he couldn't very well slink back to Sully's after the fight they'd had. Nate eyes the bloody shirt between them.] I know you don't get it. I was never gonna- I can't take a hand-out. I can't take charity like that. I couldn't find the thing you wanted, I was so fucked up in the head I couldn't figure out what I wanted. I still don't-
[-know. Nate chews on the silence for a long moment, looking toward the pond.]
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uncalendula) wrote2016-10-19 11:19 am
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No, Drake, you do not got this.
So, of course, Harry does what any reasonable man of his ilk would do and punches this cunt right in his nose. His only regret is that he's wearing black and not some other clothes that bloodstains would totally ruin. Shame.]
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Which is not that much of a state to be expecting a punch in the face.
Pain explodes from his nose outward, and the sick sound of bone crunching under Flynn's fist drowns out the softer tinkle of his aviators shattering as the shards slice at his skin, thin lines of red welling under his eye, the inside of an eyelid. It's a solid hit, that's for damned sure, enough that Rafe staggers back a couple of steps until he regains his senses — and with them a murderous wave of rage that demands retaliation, that wants nothing more than to fucking tackle this son of a bitch and shove a knee into his gut, see about his fucking smart mouth then.
Control. Stay in control. Keep your head on and keep some goddamn control. One punch is nothing. He's better than folding to this.
Stubborn pride keeps him from holding his nose, from mopping up the mess in spite of feeling blood streaming down his face. Pushes him to stand up straight, reach for the demolished frames and tug them off his ears, toss them to the floor. Any other time he'd find a trashcan but this place? The whole place is a fucking dump. One more bit of litter won't damn it any more than it already is. Nails bite into the meat of his palm from how tightly he balls his fists at his side but they stay there. ]
All right. [ To his credit, he manages to sound mostly normal. As if he's not bleeding from several points on his face and feeling it trickle down his throat. In fact, Rafe is doing his level best to ignore Harry's existence in its entirety right now. He isn't sure what he'd do otherwise. Something he'd... Well. Not regret but something that would definitely undo what he's come here for. ] I'm guessing not here.
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[Nate has to step back just because he sees the quick wind-up, the inevitable crunch, knows the sort of violence that Harry Flynn can get up to because they've worked jobs on and off together for years. This relationship, whatever it is, is a recent development, but Flynn has always had the same sort of pre-fight, wry humor as Sam.
Give 'em a smile, sharp and cold, and let one fly out of fucking nowhere.]
Harry, holy sh-
[Blood pours out of Rafe's nose, a real gusher and the red dripping from Flynn's knuckles from the broken glass stains the already questionable floor. Nate, who engages in brawls regularly, doesn't even know if this one is worth it and he's ultimately surprised when Rafe tosses the cracked glasses away only to wait. For what? For him? Christ.]
Stop, just- [Pressing a hand to Harry's chest just to get him to back up - partly concerned Rafe might actually fly off the handle, partly concerned Harry will get cocky and go back for another haymaker - Nate stands between both parties, hands outstretched.] Fucking stop. Okay?
[A pleading look at Harry.]
C'mon. Don't do this.
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Mmm, costing rich fucks money is always worth it.
He hadn't planned on anything like this happening. He's not a stickler for prep like others he's worked with before, but in the days before a job he likes to at least have a clear head and focus on the goal at hand. He gets jittery enough as it is, and this... This is...fuck. Drake's going to be off for days, at the very least, and the window of opportunity they've got is rapidly narrowing. It's got to be soon.
Nate pushes him away then, and Harry just lets him. His hands are trembling with the adrenaline rush that comes with trying to take a man down with one hig, and he takes a deep drag on his cigarette to try and calm himself, center his his thoughts on something productive. God save nicotine.]
I'm calling for some assistance. He's got eight minutes. [And then, as an afterthought, he wipes his bloody knuckles against the back of his jeans, nonchalant.] You've got a little red on you, mate.
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[ Screw however Nate might react. There's no sane mind on earth that would fault him beating hell out of Harry if he has to take a second punch. But for now his hands stay down at his sides, even without Nate's attempt at playing human shield. A layman might actually think him relaxed and never mind the blood but any of a handful that knows Rafe would be able to see the razor-thin veneer of control that keeps him in check.
He clears his throat, nose and mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own blood as he blinks slow and reptilian. He can feel his skin getting tacky as the flow slows, starts to dry. Shit. If he'd rented a car there'd likely be tissues to take advantage of. Not like he trusts anything in here, or would request a rag out of Flynn's flat to mop up.
Minor annoyance. He'll live. ]
Nathan. [ And sure, he's addressing his ex-partner but he doesn't for a second take his eyes off Harry. ] Whenever you're ready.
[ He's gotten his assurance that Nate will talk. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than Harry sucker punching him to make Rafe let go of it now. ]
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[Nate almost spits the words out like something distasteful, already too nervous for anything resembling "friendly" conversation and wearing flecks of Rafe's blood on his shirt. Harry's assumption isn't incorrect, either: regardless of how this ends Nate won't be sleeping well for the next handful of nights, won't be able to find it in himself breathe deeply without wanting to choke on nothing but air.
He straightens and notices Flynn's shaky fingers, Rafe's clenched fists. Both wanting another swing and both needing the separation before Nate decides that none of this is worth the effort of suffering another second in the presence of people who want so desperately to fight over him.
He's tired.]
Just- gimme a second.
[With a suspicious look he backs into the kitchenette, retrieving one of the clean shirts he'd left drying over the back of a chair and a handful of ice from the freezer. From here the tension is less thick, and it would be so easy to shove the sash up on the window, slide onto the fire escape. Shimmy down the drainpipe. Run away. It sounds more and more tempting the longer he lingers over the cold air wafting from the icebox, prickling his sweaty skin. More than anything he just wants the nightmares to go away, but it's difficult when every other party present keeps trying to dig them back up.
Stuffing uneven cubes into the Henley before returning, shoving the thing in one of Rafe's hands, Nate maintains his practiced street youth glibness enough to shoot Harry a look.]
Go over the route with Charlie. I'll get back when I get back. I've got my phone.
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[Nate, who are you talking to? Because Harry's sure you can't be talking to him. He doesn't answer, and instead slinks into the kitchen for- what? Is he getting ice? Harry goes after him, short a walk as it is.]
You're taking the piss. You-
[Oh. Oh, he's not.]
Nate. Nathan.
[But he's not listening, he's actually helping Alder, because of course he is. It ignites something small and nasty in his chest, and he almost wants to let it grow and consume him until he snaps and says something cruel enough to ruin Nate. But to even acknowledge that feeling would be to admit that there's anything he feels about Nathan Drake besides a mild friendship and camaraderie.
But, of course, he's still feeling extremely petty, and Nate is pissing him off. Harry yanks him back from the doorway and the cunt, pressing him into the wall separating the entrance way and the kitchenette. Before he can protest, Harry kisses him hard in full view of their visitor. Honestly, he doesn't care if Nate's into it, he just wants to remind him why he's in this city in the first place.
After a moment, Harry pushes away, replacing his cigarette once more.]
Fine. I lock the door at midnight, so. You know, try to be back by then, mate.
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But then Nate comes back. He comes back and sheer surprise leaves him wide-eyed and Rafe almost drops the bundle Nate pushes on him. What it is sinks in and he adjusts the cloth in his hand for a better grip — not that he'll apply it now, not in front of this prick. Eyes flickering toward the impromptu pack, he almost offers his thanks before...
Before he's forced to witness that.
His mouth is half-open toward the words he was about to say when Flynn shoves Nate against the wall and practically mauls him. The audible click of Rafe's jaw snapping shut likely goes unheard with how enthusiastically Harry marks his territory. Once more red claws at the edges of his visions, and once more Rafe feels his bones creak to contain it. His knuckles ache at his side but they stay there. ]
Classy. [ Hell freezes over at the tone of his voice, disdain dripping alongside the blood from his face before he steps aside to make room for Nate to pass. He's not leaving first (he's made that mistake before) and the sooner he can put himself between Nate and this asshole, all the fucking better. ] After you.
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Harry Flynn isn't one for kissing and because of that Nate knows this is less "fond farewell for the afternoon" and more of a statement, like licking the last doughnut in front of everyone else at the table. There's nothing suave or sexy about it, either, just a forceful press and a snarl. He waits it out, sharp teeth and a tongue dipping into his mouth and all Nate can think about is how much he really doesn't want to be a saliva-claimed baked good.]
Yeah.
[Acknowledging the curfew is as much response as Harry can expect to receive, a small nod while Nate rubs at his lip with the back of his hand and then gestures fruitlessly into the hallway. Right, right. Nate first. Rafe probably wants himself between the offending subject and the impressionable kid brother of the former Samuel Drake.]
Let's go.
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...Okay, it's not the only reason. Rafe also has no idea what's in this area or how to get there, and knows better than to think he can choose the where when he's forced the when. Nate's agreed to this — it's his call where to continue it. Concessions that he wasn't sure he'd be willing to make for all he'd imagined this conversation but come easily now when reality leaves him silent.
All the rants Rafe had all but rehearsed the past few months fall to pieces now that he's got Nate in sight again. Nate had that effect— And Rafe prickles to find it still true.
Between that and the throbbing pain from his nose settles in and makes itself at home, the relief in getting away from the Bitch in Apartment 23 is short-lived. He doesn't bother with the pack itself, not really since the ice is half-melted already, but he does start dabbing carefully at the bloody mess on his face. There's a grimace when he jars his nose (that bastard can throw a punch, Christ) but Rafe's pride is still high bidder and keeps him from wincing aloud. ]
I assume you've got somewhere in mind for this.
[ The assumption also follows that the somewhere won't toss him out for a very obviously broken nose. And a couple cuts, he adds to the tally as he thumbs a sharp red line above his cheek.
He keeps his tone neutrally expectant as he trails after Nate down the stairs. Another time, a few months ago, he'd have teased. Now it's just a few loose ends to tie up. A business deal gone sour. That's another thing Rafe can be proud of. He's never let himself suffer delusions that this... Whatever the hell it was was ever anything more than that. He knows better. ]
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Nate could have left Rafe in the hallway, could have shut the door, could have vaulted out the nearest window, could have, could have, could have. He knows Rafe and he thinks he knows what they are, or what they were, and how wrong his assumptions turned out to be when his disappointingly short life flashed before his eyes on the platform floor of that tent. He agreed because he wants closure of his own, even when it's bleeding and holding its frayed edges together.
Grunting the affirmative Nate can hear a careful curiosity in Rafe's tone, inquiring minds want to know where they're going and Hell, Nate would like the same, because the only thing he can think of right now is putting some distance between them and Harry. He can already imagine the guy pacing the area of his flat like a caged animal.
A couple more flights of stairs pass in relative silence until they're outside in the marginally less oppressive heat - here there's a breeze - and Nate leads Rafe down a block, around a corner, and into a small park. This time of day in this weather it's abandoned, with a decent proximity to a coffee shop if getting into a bathroom to clean his face is more Rafe's speed.
Nate sits on a park bench unprompted, something oily twisting in the pit of his stomach when he finally makes eye contact again. Pale, watery blue eyes under hooded lids, the swollen tell of a busted nose and the beginnings of tomorrow's shiners, a tightly-set jaw. Reaching for the reddened, wet shirt in Rafe's hands, Nate is quiet when he says,]
Let me.
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Christ. At the very least, and this he swears to himself, is that he's not going to lose control today. Not again and fingernails digging into the meat of his palm at his side add to the promise.
But each step more shadowing Nate shakes his resolve that much more. It's only luck that it's all open space now, no convenient wall to shove Nate up against and demand an answer. ...Of course, all the questions Rafe could pose, all the pithy phrases devolve instead into some pathetic, desperate thing in his head even as he imagines it and god. What is wrong with him. Little wonder Nate bailed when he did. Rafe certainly would, faced with himself.
The park around them barely earns a cursory glance before he takes the spot next to Nate — though with a more than fair space between them. When he finds Rafe's eyes, it isn't for long— Not when Rafe lets his gaze slide somewhere down and to the left. He can't seem to look at Nate, not head-on, not when they're this close again. Quiet in kind, he answers, ]
You don't have to do that.
[ But that's all the fight he offers, letting the fabric slip away in spite of an irrational thought to keep it, take it back with him, let him have something left from all this. Stupid, pointless, and what's worse is how Rafe knows it is and can't stop himself from wanting it anyway. It's better to focus on staying perfectly still under Nate's tentative touches, as if the smallest motion will set him off and running again. Rafe knows too well it might. Knows too well that he can't blame Nate for it either. ]
It's not that bad.
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[Rafe doesn't look at him - can't, maybe - and half-heartedly protests the offer even as he relinquishes the wet shirt back to its original owner. Nate wrestles it out of a ball and his own words seep into him slowly, the same way one of those stray ice cubes steadily melts on the concrete. Like some misplaced but apropos metaphor. He doesn't know. It sounds a little Byronic, and he watches Rafe's gaze concentrating heavily on something in the middle distance.]
It's broken.
[Nate is patient, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of him but happens all the same and can in part be attributed to his private concerns about what may or may not happen when he returns to Harry's flat. The silent treatment and the sofa, no doubt, slinking back in like a dog with its tail between its legs. With a delicacy he doesn't often utilize he mops up the crusting blood on Rafe's chin, tidies the small, slim cuts under his eyes, dabs carefully around the mess that is his nose.
Almost distantly Nate registers that he so rarely sees Rafe bleed - and that was part of the problem, wasn't it? He had so determinedly placed someone on a pedestal with expectations of control that it was strange to see the pillar crumble, remember that he has the same goddamn insecurities as everyone else. It wasn't fair, but it doesn't change the fact that Rafe gripped him too tightly. All that pressure was bound to snap.]
Why are you really here?
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Nate may have put him on a pedestal but it's somewhere Rafe had stepped onto years before ever meeting Nate. His standards have always been high but none more so than those he holds himself to and failing to meet them is nothing short of mortifying. He should never have lost control of himself the way he did in Scotland. He should never have let the situation deteriorate to that point in the first place. He should have been better. He should have fixed it somehow. Worked harder.
But he didn't, so here they sit and yeah. It is that bad. ]
Why do you think.
[ Not any real answer but it's easier than fumbling for something that won't sound feeble in his own ears. The ones Rafe had lined up rank and file as finally valid enough to go through with this conversation, none of them seem to hold water now. He shrugs a shoulder, the motion tugging against knots tied up and down his back from the effort of keeping a civil tongue in his head with Flynn, of staying still now and...God, he's tired but it isn't in him to retreat. He doesn't know how.
A haphazard hand rakes through his hair, a distracted attempt to smooth back any flyaways loosed by humidity and Flynn's right hook. ]
I figured you wouldn't pick up the phone.
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[It's probably the most honest thing he's admitted in weeks, because Rafe's snippy argument with Harry suggests a motive Hell-bent on taking things personally, but were that the case he would have attacked Nate instead. Direct. Without flourish. Plain speech is the hallmark of how Rafe treated him, once. He'd expect the same courtesy now.]
I really doubt you came this far south just to cut me my last check in person.
[He neither wants nor needs it, having forfeited it the night he ducked out of the tent with a half-empty satchel on his back and not so much as a backward glance. Run, his mind had screamed at him when it had enough oxygen to form the word. Run. Keep running. Don't stop.
Stopping long enough here had proven that he neglected his own fucking advice, and would now pay for it.
Nate's eyes follow the lean track of Rafe's arm as he pushes back his neatly-trimmed bangs, a gesture so effortlessly nostalgic that it feels like being kicked by a déjà vu horse. His fingers stutter briefly while he cleans off the last of Rafe's nose and allows him to hold the shirt.]
...you're right, though. I wouldn't have.
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But the check is an obvious afterthought. One more flimsy trimming to make the main easier to swallow along with all the rest: a last check; shouting rages because how unprofessional can a guy be; sneering promises of how Nate would regret giving up on this treasure. Convincing enough camouflage for even Rafe to buy into until actually here where the truth hits him like... Well. Not to belabor the fact, but like a knuckle sandwich. ]
I'm here because you left.
[ That much is the truth. But even as the words slip out, Rafe regrets them, hates the sound of his own voice. Weak, childish, almost petulant and he doesn't do this. More to the point, he doesn't know how. Rafe can stare down a boardroom of men and women twice his age, play the game and run circles around them until they're ragged but this? Softness never became him in the first place and it sure as hell wasn't useful, leaving him now to fumble with syntax of a language he never thought to learn.
Probably comes off like a complete fucking idiot to boot. ]
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Right to it.]
I left because you scared the shit out of me, and I wasn't thinking.
[No, that's a lie: he was thinking too quickly, on impulse and without in-depth consideration. Consequences were the last thing on Nate's mind when he caught his breath and shakily clambered to his feet, walking to the inventory tent on auto-pilot for spare supplies and a backpack. The same gut reaction he'd had once more, years ago, a deep and abiding panic and Rafe had dragged it out by the roots.
Whatever internal turmoil Rafe is attempting to mitigate in himself doesn't even register to Nate, who wants to take the anxiety at face value, to consider that he may have actually meant something.]
Didn't think I had to spell that one out for you after you were done wringing my neck.
[There is no malice, only sad statement of fact, when Nate tries to look at him again.]
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Look where it's gotten him. Guilt joins the shame as he settles farther back in his seat (taking an inch for himself in the process, cowardly as it is). Nate's shirt is damp in his hands, fabric catching between his fingers as he rubs at it idly.
When he finally answers, his voice is quiet. ]
I shouldn't have done that.
[ It falls woefully short, but what the hell else can Rafe say that doesn't sound just as useless? I didn't mean to. I didn't want it to happen. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Stuff little kids babbled when they got caught that did nothing to change what was already done. Never fixed anything. At the least he doesn't try to defend himself. That would be the only way to make this even worse. ]
I'm sorry. [ The words are barely audible and still nowhere near enough but it's akin to pulling teeth and Rafe is all too quick to move past it. ] It healed up well.
[ Nate sounds as he always had, and any bruises have long since healed. No permanent damage — at least physically, Rafe knows better about the rest. ]
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[he mumbles, because generally a response to an untimely interruption doesn't involve copious amounts of strangling while hissing don't fucking interrupt me in someone's face. If Nate sleeps hard enough, if the dreams allow it, he can sometimes feel the flecks of saliva on his cheek, a twisted expression hanging over his own like a fucking night terror out of a Goya painting.
Here Rafe is passive, bordering on submissive, staring down at Nate's shirt and the red bleeding through damp fabric. It's an agony to watch because Rafe doesn't do this and Nate knows it, has seen the way he never backs down, never apologizes, never makes amends. A cutthroat businessman humbling himself after a brief period of stalker-like behavior.
Nate doesn't want to forgive him. He really doesn't.]
Can we just...cut the crap? The whole small-talk thing? [There's a beat, while Nate gathers his druthers.] I'm healed up, it just bruised a little. I got scared. I left the camp. I came here.
You followed me here. For what answers, Rafe? You knew why I left. You had to know that.
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I came because—
[ He stops short, because he sure as hell doesn't have an answer. Not any that he can put into words, not any that he understands. A year ago this would've had Rafe laughing because there was always an answer and he always had it, cut and dry and pat as anything. Not for the first time he asks himself what the hell happened. ]
...Because I owed you as much. [ Forgetting anything else that may or may not have been between them, Nate was a partner. Rafe may be cutthroat in the boardroom, ready and willing and able to do what he could to win, but there was still a code. You watch out for each other, bring each other along, don't stab each other in the back. Or...strangle each other, as the case may be. The clear lesson to take from all this is he's better off working alone; his track record for partners is abysmal so far. ] You deserved better.
[ The passivity flickers away behind a nasty frown, thoughts trailing back up to Flynn's flat where the prick is waiting for Nate. It isn't any of Rafe's business — never was, probably, given he'd never had a legitimate claim in the first place — who Nate bends over for now but the idea galls him too much to accept it. ]
You still do.
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[Nate can't even muster an attempt at an excuse, having already picked up on the inherent disliked just based on his knowledge of both parties. He knows them both, he's fucked them both, and while they're not equals in a lot of respects they're still good at doing what they do.
They're all assholes, in their own ways.]
I dunno, he was there after I ran away. Didn't really have the guts to face Sully after that argument. He never wanted me to work with you.
[Silent for a long moment that transcends awkwardness and plateaus into something too sad, too worn for someone in his mid-twenties, Nate sighs through his nose. It's a very pretty thought, to imagine that he's earned more than this. That there isn't something slightly masochistic about the situations in which he keeps placing himself.]
I don't really deserve much more than what I have.
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[ But Nate keeps speaking and Rafe's fingers twitch around the damp shirt he's still twisting because fucking interruptions don't you dare interrupt me but no. No. He can wait even if he's boiling over and spikes again hearing what Nate thinks he deserves. ]
You're one of the best in this business and Flynn's track record proves him second-rate, at best. You've done more in less time, you're smarter than he is, and you could find better work anywhere else, legitimate or not, partnered with anyone else. If not Sullivan then somebody who wouldn't just be taking advantage because he knows the asset they'd landed with you.
[ One of the few virtues Rafe has is his honesty. Maybe he's blunt to the point of cruel, but he's never said a thing he didn't mean and never given praise that wasn't earned and then some. ]
What does it even matter what Victor thought of me after— Christ. [ It's no surprise to hear Sullivan disapproved of him; the old man could join a long and varied club there and put in for a jacket. He can't imagine why Nate wouldn't have gone back to him with the story of one more rich boy playing around where he had no right to. ] If you needed it, I'd have set you up with contacts. Introductions. A fucking plane to... Instead of just walking out.
[ That last line is the only place Rafe's all-business tone starts to fade, for something close to what Nate says to surface but bleaker. More resigned. Just because he's telling the truth doesn't mean he doesn't realize just what he'd screwed himself out of. He'll keep looking for Avery (doesn't know how to stop) but it'll be harder without Nate there. ]
I wouldn't have partnered up with you if you weren't better than this. And better than that asshole back there.
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Harry Flynn knows that Nate has talent, Harry Flynn is a decent hand at his own job, Harry Flynn likes fucking Nate: these are all facts.
Harry Flynn taking advantage of Nate feeling like he has nowhere else to go? Maybe, yeah.
Yeah.]
You partnered up with me because Sam died, [Nate replies calmly.] Because you didn't have a choice. I was like a...Diet Avery Expert.
[Call a spade a spade - Nate isn't about to pretend their original arrangement wasn't just for convenience's sake. Rafe had to make do with a replacement and Nate was adrift in his own cluttered thoughts, a mess of misdirection and exhaustion, struggling to carry the burden that was his grief.]
I partnered up with you because I felt lost. And I felt less lost with you.
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We were partners before that. I signed on with both of you, not just your brother, and if you think I didn't do my homework on both of you before that to make sure I was getting my money's worth? You're out of your mind. [ It's a minor detail on the surface but it's more than large enough for Rafe to hammer home before admitting the truth in what Nate says. ] And all right, so I didn't want to give up out the gate. So I still needed a guy who knew what he was doing, so I brought you along. Where you proved quick enough you're just as smart as your brother.
[ If not smarter. Even Rafe knows the poor taste it would be in to bring up his initial doubts while Nate wandered the camp in a fog, a zombie shell that hardly questioned what he was told, and the regret that he was now stuck with the lesser Drake. Knows it'd be even worse to say how Rafe had caught himself more than once, after Nate had woken up and started showing what he could accomplish, in the middle of a grateful thought that if he had to lose one of them? He was glad it was Sam.
Knows it's pointless to share the hollow thump of guilt that followed those stray thoughts because its his own and none of Nate's business. ]
If you hadn't, if I thought it was a waste of time working with you? I'd have sent you back to the States after a month.
[ A partner's obligation only goes so far, and a plane ticket coupled with a hefty severance package would've let Rafe sleep easy if Nate hadn't proven he was worth it. But he had and that was more than enough in exchange for Rafe guiding him through those nebulous few weeks after Panama, in Scotland. Of course Rafe knew eventually his credit would run dry. Eventually Nate would get un-lost and then it would all depend on Avery and results to keep him on the map.
Rafe hadn't been able to deliver either of those things. And so here they sit. ]
You keep talking like you didn't have any other options but you did. You always did.
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As if.
Nate's eyes track over the walkway in front of them, the cracks in the cement with little plants sprouting out of darkness. Hands settled on his knees he lets Rafe continue until he's exhausted his words.]
I still feel lost, [he admits, part and parcel of the reason he went to Flynn, knowing he couldn't very well slink back to Sully's after the fight they'd had. Nate eyes the bloody shirt between them.] I know you don't get it. I was never gonna- I can't take a hand-out. I can't take charity like that. I couldn't find the thing you wanted, I was so fucked up in the head I couldn't figure out what I wanted. I still don't-
[-know. Nate chews on the silence for a long moment, looking toward the pond.]
Is this you apologizing, or something?
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