libertalia | 🏴‍☠️

🏴‍☠️

text / prompts / starters / etc.

[ Chloe Frazer, aching and waterlogged and half-dead on her feet even with a whole pizza sitting in her stomach, needs a shower and a bed — not necessarily in that order if she's being honest. Because yeah, she's had worse nights, and they did make it out alive with the treasure — both big wins — but shit, she's buggered, and she needs a place to crash that isn't a cot in the backroom of Meenu's shop. (It's sweet of the kid to offer. In fact, it's where they patched themselves up with whatever rudimentary first-aid they could find at the nearest pharmacy. Chloe once again bought her little friend's silence with pizza — and a trinket she'd lifted from the Hoysala ruins. As a thank you.) In the life of a treasure hunter, only a few things about the job are certain: it's dangerous, it's dirty, it's lonely, the hours are long, the pay is shit unless you know what you're doing, and if you aren't camped out in some mosquito-infested tent in the jungle, then you're dragging your muddy ass to the nearest Holiday Inn — because like McDonald's, it's the same no matter what country you're in and who could ask for anything more?

She'd stashed her cash and cards before embarking on her quest for the Tusk so even without a generous payoff on the horizon, she can still afford something better than a hostel full of American backpackers "finding themselves." Nadine does her one better and offers to help her cover rooms for all three of them, and even if the gesture is small, it's another kindness Chloe won't forget. Even so, private rooms are a godsend because partners or not, she needs some alone time — and she's not letting the Tusk out of her sight, no matter how much she trusts Sam and Nadine (one more than the other). Not after all they did to get it. Not after she learned what her father did to come even close.

Jesus, her father. She can't even think about that right now. The past few days have torn open old scars and her emotions feel rubbed raw because of it, exacerbated by the exhaustion. Nope, not touching that shit with a ten foot pole. Not now. Now is for stumbling into a scalding hot shower and washing away days of sweat, mud, rain, and centuries' old grit. The water running down the drain is filthy; it streaks with rust when she starts to scrub at dried blood, wincing as her overworked muscles pull taut even under the hot spray. But it isn't until she's peering at her reflection in the steamy mirror that she can really take stock of what she earned on this gig and wow, does she look like crap: angry bruising mottled across her ribs and ringing her throat in the shape of Asav's fingerprints, some tenderness around her nose courtesy of Nadine's fist that's sure to bruise in the morning (okay, she deserved that one), myriad cuts, scrapes, and bullet grazes, one high on her cheekbone and the rest everywhere else.

She rebandages what she can reach, pulls on a pair of sweats and a clean shirt, cracks open a bottle of water, and sits on the edge of her bed to wash down a couple painkillers for her headache (and everything else). And that's when someone knocks. ]

God damn it. [ Under her breath. She knocks back those pills in a hurry, tosses the packaging on the blanket as she eases back to her feet with a grimace, crossing the room first to make sure the Tusk is well hidden, then to pick up her gun, and then to answer the door. She has no doubt Asav's militia scattered without his fanatical leadership, but she does have an ancient jewel-encrusted relic on her person so that's still worth some caution. ] The sign says "Do Not Disturb," [ she calls out as she peers through the peephole, ] so if you could just —

[ Oh, Christ's sake. ]

Sam, [ she groans, resting her forehead against her door, eyes squeezing shut and gun dropping to her side. ] We've got a three hour drive to the nearest airport, [ and a two hour flight to New Delhi, home to the Ministry of Culture, ] surely this can wait until we're all trapped in a car together.

( it's been a long couple of weeks, to say the least. he almost misses sullivan — because at least with sully they're usually in and out in a couple days, and if they're not, there's usually a decent motel and a couple of women at the end of the day. this job really put him through the ringer again — and, frankly, he probably should have seen it coming considering who he was partnering up with. he's got nothing against nathan's old contacts, but they usually come with reputations, and in this business those reputations are usually calling cards to get you killed or at least shot at several times over.

not that he doesn't enjoy the sense of adventure, the danger that comes with it. no, that's the kind of thing that makes him feel alive after spending so long in a goddamn prison. but it's reliving the hostage situation he's not overly fond of; getting kidnapped by a damn lunatic and getting the shit kicked out of him again isn't exactly his idea of a good time. been there, done that, sunk the damn pirate ship with rafe on it. and, then, to top it all off, chloe brings in nadine, who is, frankly, the last person he thought he'd ever have to have a peachy little reunion with (it was, in fact, not peachy).

still, he's gotta admit: girls get shit done. and they find the tusk, which makes the whole affair not a total loss. (ironic how nathan only ever seems to destroy lost cities and walk away with nothing, and here sam's been to two and managed to actually find what they were looking for and take it with them, cities mostly intact. granted, he only got out of libertalia with a handful of avery's treasure, but a handful of ancient pirate gold is still worth more than nothing. maybe it's all reparation for his stint in prison, actually getting something out of these quests.)

at least until chloe decides she's donating the tusk to the ministry of culture, which sam still hasn't wrapped his head around. all that effort, almost getting killed, almost drowning, barely avoiding the instigation of a civil war ... and she's donating the single most valuable object in all of india to the ministry of culture. unbelievable.

by the time he eventually decides to pay chloe a visit (not necessarily to talk her out of the whole donation thing in private without little girls kicking him in the shins, but maybe partly) it's well into the evening already. sam still looks like shit, but at least he looks like fresher shit than he did a few hours ago. the bruise under his eye isn't nearly as angry; the cuts on his face and everywhere else mostly washed out with a hot shower, his hand rebandaged. he didn't exactly expect to get kidnapped into the goddamn jungle, so whatever he'd packed initially for this little excursion is long gone; the clean shirt he's wearing now was gracefully given to him by the shin-kicker after chloe managed to convince her with a trinket or two.

when chloe eventually answers through the door, she sounds about as exasperated as sam had expected. not to worry. he came prepared. )

Thought you might need a drink after ... everything. ( see, he comes bearing gifts in the form of his winning personality and an unlabeled bottle of alcohol that chloe probably doesn't want to know where he got it from. ) I think they called it tharra? Supposed to taste like rum. ( he probably could have just gotten rum somewhere, but where's the fun in that? when in india, drink as the locals do. or, at least, drink as the locals who don't buy imported liquor from the states do. ) C'mon, you gonna let me in or am I gonna have to drink all this myself?

( don't put it past him. he's still trying to drown out the ministry of culture betrayal. )

[ She could say no. Nothing's stopping her and honestly, turning down company for a solid 12 hours of sleep is something she deserves after everything. But after everything also means owing Samuel Drake a drink at the very least. This was her gig with her plan, her intel; in return, he was held hostage on her watch, got the shit kicked out of him to force her cooperation in the end. And the treasure that should have been more than worth the trouble is being surrendered to the authorities — and whatever reward they're offered, no matter how generous, will pale in comparison to the payoff he signed up for.

Chloe sighs, barely audible with the wood between them. Yeah, she owes him this much. And she does need a drink. ]

Nadine turned you down, eh, [ she says as she opens the door, brows raised and tone wry. She doubts he even bothered trying; but then again, he just might have, especially if he was still feeling sore about her decision. But looking at him now, she doesn't sense any bitterness and the offer seems genuine enough. She purses her lips a beat, like she's considering it, then twitches her head back to invite him in. ] Get your arse in here, then.

[ She shuts and locks the door behind them and comes back into the main room, setting her gun back on the table as she passes it. The Tusk is out of sight and she knows he won't try to go rummaging for it (not with her around, at least), but she won't blame him for doing a quick pass on the room out of reflex. She'd do the same. That's just the job. While he's settling in, she's eyeing the bottle in his hands — unmarked, contents cloudy.

He's right, she doesn't want to know where he got it. ]

That stuff'll make you go blind, you know. [ It's mildly said, her tone and the nonchalant way she begins unwinding the towel from her head undercutting the warning. She shakes her damp hair back, tossing the towel across the room where it lands on a chair. ] Between prison and the pirates, I would've assumed you'd had enough of rum and bad moonshine.

Edited 2021-05-13 15:57 (UTC)

[ It's a cool, rainy evening in the uplands of Bali, a quiet region reminiscent of the Western Ghats they narrowly escaped but without the oppressive humidity (and gunfire). A little too early in the year for the monsoon to come rolling through, but tonight's downpour is steady, the breeze coming off the rice paddies fragrant with petrichor and frangipani blossoms, tickling the bamboo chimes hanging off the terrace of Chloe's little joglo. It's modest but feels bigger than it is with how she keeps the sliding doors open to the elements, retaining the local architecture with high ceilings and exposed beams, wooden floors undulating gently with years of wear, carved painted panels and cement countertops. There isn't much of a personal touch because Chloe isn't the sentimental type (mostly) but here and there are little trinkets she's picked up from her travels (some paid for, some not).

This is the closest place she can call home these days and barely anyone knows about it (until she invited Sam to crash). The perfect halfway point between Sydney and the rest of the world, enough tourists and expats to blend in with, a peaceful community of locals, great food, and most importantly — safely outside the realm of treasure hunting. Not that she's ever minded the work (she wouldn't still be in the life if she did), but this is a break they both sorely needed, no matter how much they enjoy the thrill of the chase and the reward at the end of it. It's just that India was more than anyone bargained for.

Depending on who you asked, it was in fact a lot less than anyone bargained for.

So this was Chloe's attempt at making it up to Sam. (Nadine, she thinks, didn't need as much of an apology. She had loose ends to take care of but they'll be back on the road soon enough.) You get a guy kidnapped on your shitty intel and donate the priceless relic that would've made all the trouble worth it, the least she could do was offer some R&R where no one would punch him in the face for a few weeks. (If he picks a fight at one of the bars in Kuta, that's not her bloody fault.)

It has been a few weeks. Two, give or take a few days — time moves slower out here, which gives their beat up bones a chance to heal and for their friendship to figure itself out. Since their talk at the hotel after shit hit the fan, Sam and Chloe have come to an understanding: with their shared histories of chasing the legacy left by a dead archaeologist parent, it's kind of hard not to see eye to eye on the matching baggage they've lugged around their whole lives. In fact, it's kind of nice to have someone who gets it. Still sucks, but, you know — less so with company. That's another thing that's been nice.

Of course they get on. She's worked solo for years, she'd forgotten what it's like to have a partner or two watching her back. Sam's sense of humour didn't escape prison or Chloe's sarcasm unscathed, but they still snipe playfully back and forth as he tries to fix up the old scooter in her carport. Sometimes they head to the beach, have a wander into town, but mostly they're just hanging out like they are tonight — having a couple beers, enjoying the uneventful evening, laughing about some dumb shit they did days or years ago. ]

Oh, nah, mate. [ They're sitting on her sofa, cushions scattered, barefoot and dressed down for the night. Chloe had her legs draped over Sam's lap but she swings them off now, tucking them under herself as she leans up on her knees and into his space. ] Every, [ she begins, ] bloody time you say "I shit you not," you are — [ pointing at him now ] — one hundred percent — [ leaning in for the stage whisper: ] — full of it.

[ She grins, eyes alight, nose wrinkled. ]

I know your tells by now, Drake. Either spin me a better story or give me a real one.

( to his credit, his face the past few weeks has remained pleasantly unblemished — though there might have been a few close calls in a bar or two over the weeks, it's been nothing he hasn't been able to handle with a few well-chosen words and a very dumb american accent. (every now and then, playing the naive tourist comes in handy.) besides, as thriving and diverse as the bar scene is in kuta, sam's found his present company much more entertaining as the weeks have stretched on. maybe he's just tired. or maybe it's just nice to have a drink with someone who actually understands you.

or maybe it's nice not to have to lie for once.

even if — well, yes, the story he's just told about an inmate stealing the warden's wife's underwear was a complete fabrication. but it's not the same as lying about who you are, why you're there, what you're doing later. sure, half-truths are easy enough in this corner of the world, but there's still something ... comforting, almost, in knowing that he doesn't have to try to be anyone but exactly who he is when he's around chloe. when they're together like this ... it's natural, really. it's a rapport he hasn't had with anyone in a long time. (the fact that she invited him to her secret hideout at all still hasn't fully sunk in, nor has the fact that he said yes when he could have just as easily fucked off on his own somewhere else or gone back to slumming it with sully. he's here less because chloe wants to make the tusk fiasco up to him and more because, well, she asked. and he hasn't been able to say no to her this far.)

sam finishes his latest bottle as chloe pushes herself onto her knees, calling him out on his obvious bluff with a pointed finger. he shrugs with the bottle in hand, then leans over to set it with its empty brethren on the coffee table. a practical move as much as it is tactical, because it's dangerous to stare at chloe too long when her face lights up like that, wrinkled nose and mischievous eyes — even harder not to give into her request. )

Alright, alright. ( half-laughed, because she's got him there. there's really no denying it at this point; she knows him way too well. that, and he's running out of bullshit prison stories. but he's not in the mood to dredge up anything too real, so he settles for a compromise: something mostly true, with a few minor embellishments to make the story more exciting than it actually was. ) I got one more for ya: before I got kicked out of the orphanage — and, believe me, they were as thrilled to see me go as I was to leave — I was sort of on again off again with this girl Crystal. Typical rebellious Catholic girl, textbook delinquent Catholic boy, right. We were quite the pair, lemme tell you. Sneaking out after curfew, fooling around at Bible Camp, the works. Lost track of how many times I got written up for inappropriate behavior. Almost every time we got caught, someone snitched on us.

So, anyway, it comes time for the annual sex ed lecture, which mostly consists of "no sex before marriage or you'll burn in Hell" and "Samuel is the prime example of what not to do." Figured I'd take the win, but just to really rub it in their faces, I decided to convince Crystal the bathrooms needed a little redecorating. Lo and behold, the next day I'm getting dragged into see Father Duffy by a hysterical Sister Catherine because someone spray painted "Rail Mary" on the bathroom wall and who else could have done it but Samuel! But, see, she didn't have any proof, or any witnesses, so I got off scot-free. Meanwhile, over in the girls' orphanage, Crystal is getting absolutely reamed for getting caught carving "Taint Joseph" into one of the bathroom stalls.

( which is, objectively, hysterical, even to this day. he can't help but laugh, bright with almost childlike glee. like he's reliving that moment for the first time all over again. and if chloe doesn't look convinced, he raises a hand as if to swear on it. )

Hand to God. True story. ( again, mostly. the part with crystal he might have made up. he can't really remember if they were on again at the time or not. but, hey, for the sake of a good story, they may as well have been. ) Pretty sure Crystal broke up with me after that.

[ She's been alone for a long time. Not that she's ever minded it or sought to remedy it, mostly because she never felt it needed remedying — but the point stands. Chloe's life has been transient and private by choice, always on the move and always playing her cards close to her chest. She's a self-preservationist as a rule and most relationships — professional or otherwise — have been kept at arm's length simply because it's cleaner that way (she learned, years ago, what happens when you let business and pleasure intersect: it's messier and more brutal than she ever anticipated).

The India job is the first time she's allowed the streams to cross again. If the outcome had been any different, she'd remember what a mistake it was to let her personal shit get in the way of a gig, but they all made it out alive with a nice chunk of change to boot so she allows herself the luxury of sitting back and enjoying that. Because it is nice to cut the bullshit, to remember what it's like to have friends, to bask in the rare and specific instance of being known by them and not retreating or denying any of it.

Zero pretense. No peacocking like is usual with their lot. (Okay, less peacocking.) For Chloe in particular, the past two weeks have meant learning to let her guard down and letting people in. Uncomfortable, a little mortifying, but not in a bad way. Sam and Nadine are the few privy to her tragic backstory — it's the only reason they allowed her to make the call she did on the Tusk — so now there's no need to stand on ceremony, to keep up appearances, to brush them off with a quip and a quirked brow. It's exhausting and she's getting too old to care what people think, anyway. So this? Just hanging out for the sake of it? It's been so long — since Harry, since Charlie, since Nate, since — it feels almost new. But she could get used to it... again.

Yeah, she's been pretty damn lonely even if she won't admit it to anyone including herself. Easy to forget — or easy to feel the lack more keenly — when you're sat with someone who turns that around. God, Sam is fun. Even when they were going over the plans for the Tusk, she thought so. Yeah, he's also obnoxious, irritating, clever as shit (like his brother) with an edge and dodgy moral compass that feels a lot like her own. They're not the type to always do the right thing, but they can when it counts. Hard to forget. Harder not to appreciate.

His story, though? ]

Jesus Christ, [ she huffs as he lays it out for her, shifting into an easy sprawl at his side as she leans over for her own drink. Someone snitched on us, he says, and she snorts around the lip of the bottle: ] Story of our lives, eh.

[ She's shaking her head as he continues, grinning all the while, unsurprised that teen Sam is no different from grown Sam. (More surprised that Nate turned out as different as he is similar.) Rail Mary gets a bark of laughter out of her and she makes the mistake of knocking back her last mouthful of beer by the time Taint Joseph comes around, nearly choking on it when she fully bursts out laughing. It's not even that funny! But it's the way he tells it, animated, larger than life, accent broad and good-natured, his voice filling the space like he was entertaining an entire bar and not just her. ]

No way. [ Even as he swears to it. Chloe swipes the back of her hand over her mouth to get the beer off, still chuckling as she sets her bottle aside next to his, then reaches up to dab the tears from the corners of her eyes. ] Sounds like Crystal couldn't take the pressure. I mean, come on, vandalism? Please. Why bail when the fun's just getting started?

[ She slouches back against the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, face tipped to the sloping ceiling before rolling just enough to meet his gaze. ]

Her loss.

Edited 2021-08-02 19:46 (UTC)

( there's no better feeling that making someone laugh — genuinely laugh, from their whole chest. it spreads beneath his own, that warm, proud feeling he always gets when someone laughs at his jokes — even if, most of the time, they are terrible. it's impossible not to want more of that, to not want to chase that feeling, which is probably why he's always relied on humor to get him through the worst of his life — and, hell, even the best of it, because now certainly isn't bad, far from it. his face lights up, eyes crinkling at the edges, and he can't help but laugh with her, nodding as if to say i know, right? )

Guess she did live up to her name, huh? Crystal, pretty fragile.

( honestly, he doesn't really remember too much about her, just that she was his first sort of girlfriend, whatever the hell that actually means. he's pretty sure he's never had a "girlfriend" since; committed relationships aren't exactly his forte and they never have been. even with crystal, he was never actually sure what she wanted from him, except for maybe his dick — and yet when they eventually bailed that fateful night after evelyn's, crystal's virginity was still honorably intact. for all their fooling around, they'd never made it past second base. and when they weren't fooling around, well, sam was more concerned with nathan's wellbeing than crystal's emotional or romantic needs. probably why they were always so off again. then again, communication, even then, was not exactly sam's strongest suit.

truthfully, he's still working on it. but it's easier with chloe. in fact, it might be easiest with chloe. even with nathan, there's always something sam feels like he needs to hide, for some reason or the other. it's not like their relationship was built on total honesty, after all. sam's always been the one who needed to protect nathan, so, you know, a few white lies came with the territory — especially after their mother died. nathan only needed to remember the good parts, not all the bad. damage control has been the story of sam's life (though more often than not it's because of something he did — or didn't say — and nathan's always been too smart for his own good; unless, of course, it doesn't suit him to see past the bullshit).

sam huffs a laugh, his mouth sloped to one side as his eyes drag over the column of chloe's neck, craned toward the ceiling until she lowers her chin, her eyes slowly returning to center, meeting his gaze with an air of suggestion that goes unsaid. it doesn't need to be said; he can feel it in the way the air shifts slightly between them, chloe's eyes dark but playful. the point where their shoulders touch is practically a furnace, warm and palpable, and for a moment sam wonders what it would feel like without all the layers, just skin to skin.

it's been a while since he was close with anyone, but this — this isn't just about the physicality (if it were, they probably would have fallen into bed with one another weeks ago). there's something more to it that he can't quite put his finger on, but it feels like something that ought to be respected, revered. and for the first time in his life, he's practiced restraint.

but with the way chloe is looking at him, really looking, like she isn't just seeing some painted version of himself, the distant sound of her barking laughter still ringing in his ears, the way her loss hangs between them like an invitation, he can't help but think he's resisted long enough.

he leans forward, head tilting toward her like two planets aligning. his teeth worry his bottom lip for barely a second. )

Would it be weird if I kissed you?

( not quite nervous, a little husky. the curse of overthinking. and how can he not, knowing the history chloe has had with certain people in his social and familial circles? it's hardly a consideration anymore, not when nathan is so far out of the picture, but it is still something that nags at the back of his mind — she's been with one drake; does she consider this trading up or trading down? )

[ Her loss, she says, because every whirlwind moment spent with Sam has been her gain. Whether it was the long nights spent researching together, Chloe patiently teaching him the finer points of Hindu mythology to pass as an expert consultant, or being stuck in the muddy jungle with bullets pinging off trees — it's been a genuine pleasure getting to know him better, to find the parts that overlap with what she knows about Drakes and the parts that are just distinctly him, separate from his brother. Because they are different and if she knew what Sam was thinking now, she'd answer in an instant: being in his company is trading up. No question.

(And no offense to Nate. They had their fun, but they got on like a house on fire — too well, too reckless, too headstrong, too easy to get carried away — ultimately destructive in the end. They were meant for only one point in time and coming back together was never really an option; or at least, never a good option. It was a ride while it lasted. But every ride, however wild, must end.)

There's a steadiness here that she hasn't found in years. Maybe there was a glimpse with Charlie, but she was still reeling from Tibet and he was only ever an anchor in a storm. This, with Sam, feels more like a harbour. Familiar. (Too new to say home, but it's safe like one, and they're in the safest place in the world to be who they are without pretense and prying eyes.) So when the laughter fizzles out but the air stays warm from it — or maybe that's the electricity sparking anew — it doesn't surprise her when it fills with his next question.

It feels like they've known each other long enough that she almost sees it coming (but that doesn't stop the thrill shooting up her spine when she hears it). It's probably why she's already shaking her head before the words are barely out of his mouth, her weight shifting as she turns more towards him, hand sliding over his thigh and lips curving and voice a low murmur to match his. ]

No, [ she says with a gentle tip of her head, noses brushing, gaze meeting his before dropping to his lips, ] not weird.

[ And it's not. God, it's not. Her skin is buzzing and it isn't from the alcohol. The moment hangs suspended between them for a heartbeat, two, and it's hard to say who closes the gap between them first — maybe it's mutual, both responding to some unspoken signal, and then they connect, a kiss that starts slow but catches and burns a second later because the reverence remains, but — fuck restraint. ]

Edited 2022-01-24 03:21 (UTC)

( maybe he's rusty, or maybe he just hasn't been with anyone recently where details more than their first names were relevant to the proceedings. it's ... new and a little strange that he doesn't feel like he's back in his twenties like all the other times (late night flings in seedy motels in almost forgotten parts of the world, chasing the thrill of a good time, but nothing ever too deep, and never around for too long) — no, this feels more grounded, like he really is here in the moment and not reaching desperately back in time for all the time he lost. he can make up for that lost time right here, right now, without having to pretend like he hasn't gotten older.

despite all the stories from his past colored into their conversations, he knows chloe isn't really interested in that sam, not like that. that sam doesn't really exist anymore, after all; in a way, he did die in that prison, and when he got out he wasn't the same sam that went in. close enough, sure, but if he learned anything from the avery quest, it's that he can't just go back to the way things were. nathan's changed, he's changed, the world has changed all around him and there's nothing he could have done to stop that. there's nothing he can do about it now but move forward, find a different way to close that gap.

chloe, he realizes, is his bridge. the one person who never knew him before (never even knew he existed before), who only knows him as he is now. chloe, with all her history, slots everything into place, fills in all the missing pieces, but without the burden of trying to recognize him as someone he once was. their frequencies match without any interference, broadcasting on the same wavelength in perfect sync. it's just right.

oh, thank christ, he thinks as soon as the words not weird leave her lips — a thought that almost makes it to his lips, only it's lost in the tide of reverent desire as their mouths collide, a bonfire roaring to life in his chest out of weeks, months of carefully placed tinder and wood, chloe's hand on his thigh the flint that sparks it all to life, her lips against his fanning that flame to burn hotter, brighter. no turning back now.

(no reason why he'd want to turn back. not now or ever. he can't say he's ever been in love — honestly, can't say he really knows what that word means outside of family, and even then it's always been complicated, messy, duty and obligation wrapped up with a bow; he'd do anything for nathan, of course he would, he'd lay down his damn life, it's just that everything in between i and love and you (the lies, the half-truths, the yawning gap of fifteen years) make it so much harder to say — but whatever it is chloe makes him feel might be the closest thing.)

his tongue slips past chloe's lips, his hand brushing up her thigh and over the curve of her ass, dragging her toward him, beckoning her into his lap. )

Anyone ever tell you you've got a great ass? ( pressed against her lips with a twitch of a smirk, a comment that's obviously rhetorical and also a joke, because of course he already knows the answer: everyone has told her that; he's not the first, and he won't be the last. he's just reiterating the point. it would be rude not to. )

[ They came close to doing this once before in India — not that either of them remembers much (or thinks the other remembers at all). They'd had a lot to sketchy booze to drink and the hangover the next day guaranteed they didn't get up to anything frisky even after they were sober, but Chloe does have a hazy memory of them sitting together a lot like this: shoulder-to-shoulder, warm, faces a little too close as they slurred through shared pasts and fucked up presents. They'd trailed off at some point, probably almost stumbled into what would have been a sloppy kiss, but the spell broke.

Honestly, up until now, Chloe wasn't even sure she'd made it all up. Sam's easy to fantasise about — all broad shoulders and big hands, a mouth made to be punched or kissed. But there's no fantasising now.

Those hands drag her into his lap and she doesn't resist their pull; her arms drape around those shoulders so she can weave her fingers into his hair; that mouth — fuck, tastes like beer and cigarettes, stubble scraping and lips parting to hers. Yeah, she's wanted this for a while now, and whatever concerns she might've had about their friendship being too tenuous to survive this go running out the damn door. They've been through some shit and come out of it stronger and this? How the hell could this wreck that when it feels so damn right?

Chloe starts laughing against him when he speaks again, obligingly rocking her hips back into his hands so he can better appreciate her curves. Yeah, yeah, tell her something she's never heard before. ]

No, never, [ she purrs, amusement crackling through her voice, ] you're the first. [ Please, Samuel. She cocks her head down at him with a grin, leaning in so their lips brush again as she whispers into the heated air between them, ] How long've you been waiting to get your hands on — [ she grinds her hips into his for emphasis ] — this? [ And now she kisses him again, languid, exploratory, before breaking away again. ] You can tell me.

( he's been waiting a long time — which is all relative, really, but a month for someone in the business of one-night stands and cutting and running may as well be a decade. it's felt like years, maybe because of all the kidnapping and time losing all meaning in the middle of the ghats, but there's also something about the way he's connected with chloe over the past month that makes him feel like he's known her since they were kids, like he really has been waiting that long to finally make a move, to beat the nerves of whatever's been tangling him up about it. there are still nerves, but they're less tangled than they were before.

he grunts against her mouth when she grinds into him, a huff of a laugh evaporating between their mouths. )

If you'd been any other girl, ( he admits slyly, his roaming hands sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, tugging it up and over ) I'd've been all over you from day one.

( he's not bluffing, either. part of him almost wishes he was — but it's true. if they hadn't very quickly found out about their equal degree of separation from one nathan drake, sam might not have held back for so long. might have taken the invitation to stay at her apartment in nashik as an invitation for something else too. he'd thought about it — of course he had; god didn't put him on this earth blind, and the thought of chloe whispering his name in his ear, her tits pressed flush to his chest kept him going most days when things got a little too rough with asav — but the niggling in the back of his brain never let him look past the obvious nathan-shaped elephant in the room, even with chloe walking around half naked in the middle of the night, even with the necessary proximity they had to maintain while they worked. it wasn't until he'd waltzed into her hotel room with a bottle of unscrupulous booze and their drunken commiseration nearly led to a moment all-too similar to this one that he even entertained the idea for longer than a second or two. he can't remember who startled first — had it been her hand on his chest? his hand on her thigh? the sudden dread of i'm too fucked up for this? maybe it had just been the alcohol muddying everything up, the spark doused before it ever had a chance to burn.

there's nothing muddying anything now. the way he feels is crystal clear, white hot, a star bursting to life, his desire pooling low in his belly, his chest swelling with the warmth of familiarity as if they've done this a hundred times before even as his skin buzzes as if he's never done this before in his life. what does she like? is this good enough? does she want more? he dives forward, pushing aside his racing thoughts, planting his mouth at the column of her neck, sucking sensitive skin between his teeth, one hand sliding between them, kneading her breast under his palm. he leaves a trail of kisses along her jaw in the wake of a blossoming bruise above her collarbone, his breath hot against the shell of her ear when he whispers, )

Pretty sure Victor intentionally withheld the fact that you're a goddamn bombshell just to see the look on my face when I first saw you.

[ It rained through the night — not that either of them noticed, caught up as they were in each others' arms and mouths, a passionate encounter driven by a very simple hunger, connection, and a few drinks. Sam spent the night in her bed, lazy kisses in the aftermath drifting into sleep some time after midnight, enveloped in warmth, sweat-cooled skin, fluttering mosquito nets draped like a canopy. It could almost be romantic if it were any other couple. Maybe it is, a little. (They won't tell.) Feels like they've been circling since they met all those months ago and that night in India could've gone another way if circumstances were just slightly different. Last night was exactly that. It was nice — really nice, as it happens. Probably the nicest thing either of them has had in a stretch. No wonder they sleep so soundly after. (No hands reaching for her throat in her dreams, just Sam's on her shoulder.)

Chloe stirs awake when it's still dark out, the other side of her mattress rumpled and empty. There's a rooster crowing somewhere across the ricefields, distant but carrying; she rolls onto her back to take in the stillness of the early morning through closed eyes and the breeze skimming over her bare breasts. Sam could be anywhere and somehow, it doesn't bother her that he isn't here because she'll find him or he'll find her. Their rhythm is steady, comfortable that way. When sleep doesn't pull her back under, she gives up on it, getting out of bed and helping herself to his discarded shirt on the floor before wandering barefoot and bedheaded to the kitchen, buttoning it up as she goes. There's no finding her hair elastic now so she leaves her mane loose and unruly over her shoulders.

She notices the smell of cigarette smoke on the breeze before she sees him. Sam's back is silhouetted by the greenish pre-dawn light, camped out on the terrace overlooking the paddies surrounding her little joglo. The sun isn't up yet, hasn't had a chance to burn off the mist clinging to the flooded fields. Chloe doesn't approach yet (she knows he can hear her); instead, she boils some water and mixes two mugs of instant coffee from the string of sachets on the counter. Nothing fancy. They can sip on cappuccinos in Italy someday but this is the simplicity she craves when she's not on the road. And it's with the same lack of fanfare that she comes up to Sam, sets their coffees on the table next to him, and drops herself unceremoniously in the nearest chair. The wood is cool against her bare thighs; his shirt is barely long enough to cover them.

Chloe enjoys the view for a moment, savouring the quiet, the scent of her 2-in-1 mixing with his Winstons, the early morning chill on her skin; then her eyes drift over to his profile, languid and comfortable. ]

You're up early. [ Her voice is somehow even huskier first thing, her lips curled in an easy smile. It'll be sunrise soon, but there's something special about catching each other when the shadows are still clinging to the world. Like it's still last night, and everything that came with it. Morning won't change that, but it still feels like they've gotten away with something together. She likes that. ] Sleep all right?

Edited 2021-10-29 06:23 (UTC)

( the itch always wakes him early, dragging him out of bed before the sun has even begun to yawn, but there's something surreal about this particular morning, blinking awake to the weight of chloe's arm draped around his waist, her soft skin pressed flush against his chest. he does his best not to disturb her as he slides out of bed and carefully treads down the hall to grab his pack of smokes and his lighter, throwing on a pair of lounge pants even though there's no one around for miles. what's strange is the peace he feels before he even lights his first cigarette, the cool dawn breeze in his hair, the comfort of knowing chloe is sleeping just in the other room, keeping the bed warm while he's away. even stranger still, the impatient tug of desire to run to her rather than away.

the strong scent of freshly brewed coffee signals chloe's arrival before the padding of her feet — he must have woken her after all — and it's mid-inhale, his gaze caught somewhere on the horizon, that he finally hears her voice, still a little rough from sleep. the corners of his mouth curl into a breathless laugh as he releases the smoke upward, huffing a slightly more breathy laugh in its wake. )

Better than I have in ages. ( probably the best he's had in ages (which seems a natural byproduct of the best sex he's had in ages). he was always too wired or too stressed about avery to ever find decent sleep in the years with rafe, readjusting to his newfound freedom after thirteen years behind bars. if he wasn't researching, he was out wasting rafe's money on stupid shit — booze, a new tattoo, vintage motorcycles, cigarettes — or picking up women who just wanted to have a good time. his bed wasn't always empty come morning, but the magic of the one-night stand was already gone by the time sam lit up with the sun, the wafting of cigarettes and coffee inevitably followed by the chorus of yeah, that was fun, you should go.

even after avery, after fulfilling the legacy left to him by his mother, he always felt too restless, like there was some unfinished work still left to do. maybe that work is here, taking the time for some kind of self-reflection, rather than out there, chasing treasure that doesn't hold the same meaning anymore. what does it mean to be sam drake? where does he go from here? who does he really want to be?

unlike the stream of women sam has had the pleasure of knowing intimately, chloe isn't just some body to keep his bed warm; she keeps his mind at bay, too, the comfort of her presence quieting the noise inside his head, the safety of her arms disarming the alarm system that usually keeps his body on red alert. (it'll take longer than two years to rewire that particular system, but having a place he feels safe, sharing that space with someone he feels safe with is certainly a start.) he hasn't dreamt this peacefully in a long time — hasn't had anything really good to dream about until now.

he gestures vaguely to the horizon, freshly lit cigarette still poised between his fingers. he's been up long enough to burn through two already, crumpled cigarette butts left abandoned in the ashtray on the patio table, his lighter and a pack of winstons dropped nearby. )

Still running on prison time, I guess. ( he says, by way of apology — for why he's out here so early and not greeting her with his lips pressed to her forehead, or his mouth trailing kisses along her neck — returning her easy smile with one of his own. there's something lighter in his eyes, like some invisible weight has been lifted, like for the first time since walking out of prison he finally feels free. ) Never had room service in the clink, though. ( nodding to the mugs on the table, hints of steam still wisping in the cool morning air. he trades his cigarette for a mug, drinking the sight of chloe in with a long sip of much-needed coffee, his mouth curved appreciatively around the edge of the mug — not just for the coffee, but for the view: her loose hair splayed behind her, the way she sits relaxed and content in the chair next to him, the light beige of his shirt contrasting her olive complexion. )

See you helped yourself to my shirt. ( which isn't an accusation as much as it is an amused, mildly suggestive observation meant to distract from the heat of his cheeks, the sudden weight between his legs. he's definitely not complaining; the shirt itself leaves very little to the imagination the way it nearly hangs off one shoulder, her tits barely contained behind half-buttoned fabric, the hem creeping up her thighs like an invitation. jesus christ, she looks good. would look even better with those buttons undone, exposed to his hungry eyes, her skin glowing with the morning sun. the curve of his mouth widens mischievously as he pulls the mug away, his tongue darting out over his lips. ) Missed me that much already?

[ It's two days until Christmas but thieves don't keep holiday hours. They do, however, accept holiday bonuses and this one was too handsome to turn down. So Sam and Chloe have spent the past few days working a relatively low-effort gig for a private collector in Tunisia, one keen on a particularly lovely necklace unearthed from an ancient Roman hoard in a remote archaeological dig. The find hadn't even been publicised yet which made stealing it even easier than it had any right to be for how much they were getting paid. (Guess the guy was desperate to impress someone with this gift.) After their last shared job in India, it was nice to take it easy for once. And yeah, they haven't seen much of each other since that stretch of weeks in Bali at the tail-end of summer — so it's been nice to reunite over seaside ruins and shisha too, however brief.

Too brief, really. But that's the life. Chloe has spent most of hers on the road, itinerary loose and bags packed light, at least four different currencies tucked away and passport ready to go. The spontaneity of her job has never quite lost its novelty; in fact, it's expected and she embraces it. But there are still some moments that take her by surprise: Sam Drake's last-minute detour outside Tunis-Carthage International Airport is one of the books. You wanna get out of here? he asked, to which she'd laughed, We are, thinking of her meandering flight path back to Indonesia and his to the States to see his brother. And then he'd countered, No, I mean, together, and she'd been taken aback, thinking — What the hell? And then, Why the hell not.

She doesn't know what prompted it. She doesn't ask. At least, not in the moment. They pick the first available flight to Europe and don't blink at the cost — they've just been paid — and in a few short hours they're in Cologne, Germany. It's a little like whiplash, going from the milder North African winter to snow flurries, but if it didn't feel like Christmas before, it does now. And maybe that was the point. Chloe's never been big on the holidays, they've always just been dates on a calendar, but Sam's been in prison for so many of them and he seems so genuinely excited at the prospect of celebrating it in a literal Christmas card of a city that she can't help but feel the same way.

Who is she to turn down a new experience with a friend, huh?

They arrive in the afternoon, plenty of time to wrangle some miraculous last-minute hotel room at peak tourist season and get situated before they go exploring. The concierge has helpfully provided a guide to the best the city has to offer and top of the list, of course, are the Christmas markets Germany is world famous for. They'll look their best — and be their busiest — after dark but Chloe wants to shower off the desert before they hit the cobblestones. ]

I had a thought, [ she says as she reemerges from the steamy bathroom in a complimentary robe, hair piled high on her head. ] Do you know any German? I mean, it's probably not gonna be like Tunis, [ where her Arabic was rudimentary but her French was fluent so it still came in handy, ] but it couldn't hurt. Especially if you're planning on eating your weight in currywurst. Hey — [ She rummages in her bag. ] You seen my phone?

manscaping on you would be like trying to clean up an oil spill with a dixie cup

kinda weird but also a little flattering that you've thought about my pubic hair in that much detail

first of all it's not just that area, it's the whole body

second of all, trust me this was not purposeful nor flattering
just an unavoidable observation after watching you stumble half blind and alive to the coffeemaker in your boxers too many times

huh figured you'd be more interested in the girls that followed to notice

i'm as interested in what you manage to drag into bed as i am in you
aka nil

still doesn't stop me from being as detail oriented as i unfortunately am

gotta say rafe that sounds like a personal problem

agreed, you are a problem on every level especially personal

i appreciate your self-awareness on this matter

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