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Story Notes:
I don't own Uncharted or any of its characters. Boom.
Author's Chapter Notes:
*cracks knuckles* Like I can ever resist making it a double thing. Anyone roll their eyes at that yet? Ha~ Honestly don't know what the final pairing will be at this point. I'll just have fun until then.
“You want me to what?”

If the chill in your tone doesn’t convey your immediate displeasure at his statement then your crossing arms and narrowing eyes paint a much clearer picture. Leaning against a dresser in your seedy hotel room, you watch the older Drake as he offers one of his nervous smiles from his spot on the end of your unmade bed, a beer bottle, dripping condensation onto the carpet, cradled between his hands.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, babe. Honest.”

You wave a dismissive hand at his words, especially the last one and his insistent need to call you by terms of endearment and never your actual name. “Honest. Right, something you very rarely are. I don’t know what takes the most balls, Sam: you popping up out of nowhere, with Nate in tow, after leaving me with a piss poor excuse of a note two years ago, or you thinking that I’m supposed to just forgive you and drop whatever I’m doing because you need a favor. Another one.

“Come on, I left because I had no choice-.”

You offer a snort of dry laughter at that, not even caring enough to let him finish. “Yeah, you were doing it to protect me. Always a saint. Always the selfless one. How long will it be this time? A few days? Weeks?”

“It’s different this time, babe. We’re finally on the right track. All these years we’ve been searching-.”

“No.” One word, final, like the ax of an executioner falling home as you place your full weight back on both feet and start heading for the door.

“Dammit, will you just hear me out for five seconds?”

A calloused hand, damp and chilled by the bottle, settles around your forearm as you pass, Sam rising to his feet with the motion and you half turn with a glare that used to force his retreat. For two years this man left a hole in your life, an emptiness you could never accurately gauge until he reappeared again three days ago. There had been a time when you had loved him, a secret you had hid among the mountain of his, and would have followed him to the ends of the earth guided by nothing more than his sense of wonder and the gleam in his eye for the mysteries of the world. More than anything he had been a friend, the one atop a very miniscule list, and even with the shattered fragments he left in his wake, you still count those times as treasures worth far more than the trinkets he’s so desperate to find.

That’s why you pull your arm from his hold. Through the burn of anger and reopened wounds you still feel that flare of what if trying to rekindle with a spark that never truly died.

But men are nothing if not creatures of habit and you would rather walk away with your emptiness than give him a chance to find something else left to break.

“No,” you repeat for his stubborn sense of hearing as well as for yourself, the slamming of the door a perfect exclamation for your exit.
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