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cerysing · 7 days ago

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The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 13 | "You’re lucky he missed."

A variety of close-calls and all sorts of internal conundrums are digging their claws in.

masterlist ✨

Other chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

CW: blood & minor violence mention, barely proof read i just want RID <3

Word count: 5.5k x

Three hours.

Three fucking hours, you’ve been sat here.

You pull your legs up onto the seat and wrap your arms around your knees. A grown woman in a half-foetal position in the waiting room of an underfunded hospital. A picture of someone who has their life together.

Your phone buzzes again. Nothing new. Just a notification reminding you your battery is dying. You ignore it and unlock the screen anyway, going back to your chat with Sam.

Thanks for letting us crash. Hope we didn’t wake you.

Wake you they did. By crash, you assume he meant literally.

You didn’t sleep much - expected, really, after everything - but any faint hope of a lie-in was promptly dashed by the sound of Sam and Scott clattering around the kitchen at half six as if they were trying to assemble flat-pack furniture blindfolded. No goodbye. Just a slammed front door and the lingering smell of instant coffee.

You chew your thumbnail, staring at the message, half-hoping another will appear. Except it’s been over six hours since he sent it.

You were up all night thinking about it, the way he grabbed your face. The way he’d cut through the chaos - ignored the state of everything to prioritise you. You wish he’d done it again last night. Maybe if he was in a better mood, he would have. Because there’s…. There’s something there, right? Just one more second of bravery from either of you and maybe you’d know what the hell this is.

Unless… ugh, you hope you didn’t freak him out.

Telling him about the panic attack had felt necessary at the time, but maybe you misjudged. Like biting into a nectarine, mistaking a patch of bruised fruit for ripeness. Did it come across like you were trying too hard to bond? Or worse… cling? God, the look on his face. Like he’d been sucker-punched. Stunned into silence. And then, of course, he’d stayed silent.

You rub at the corner of your eye and sigh through your nose. What a stupid thing to dwell on.

And yet. And… agh… yet, here you are, still picturing him, right before the quiet kicked in. His brows all drawn together, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. There’s something about the way Sam sulks. It’s not performative, necessarily. It’s quieter. He removes himself from the room. Mulls in his own space. It’s amazing how someone so outspoken can keep so much zipped up inside.

You shove your phone back into your pocket and stretch your legs again, resisting the urge to pace. You should stay. Do as you’re told. At least that way, one: you’d have answers about your… episodes, and two: Sam can’t use your health as an excuse to keep you out of the loop anymore, and more importantly, to keep blaming himself. You just need information. And maybe a nap.

Still no sign of being called through to triage, let alone to see an actual doctor. The receptionist has taken to ignoring anyone who breathes in her direction. The kid in the corner has stopped crying and is now just… staring. At nothing. Possibly astral projecting. Despite the dribble of snot crawling its way out of his nostril, you sort of envy him.

You’re so fucking bored. which, given the last twenty-four hours, you should probably appreciate. But you can’t help it. You’ve been sitting here for three hours with no end in sight. And this is supposed to be the quick option. Thank you, government.

Your fingers drift up to the chain around your neck, tugging the locket out from under your collar. Scott never asked for it back. Not that he’d noticed anything beyond his own bruised ribs last night. You look down at the locket, thumbing the Arabic inscription engraved into the floral filigree.

Maybe you should try and make some use out of it before you give it back. Get back in the good books. Damsel-in-distress-turned-code-breaker ought to do it. You can picture it already: their eyebrows shooting up in surprised respect. Complete quashing of the tagalong liability status.

Chewing your lip, you grab your phone again, thumbing it open with muscle memory and hopping over to Google Translate. You snap a photo of the locket, holding it as still as you can, silently begging the image translator thing to actually work this time.

The little swirling icon appears on your screen, chasing its tail like a bored cat.

A text pings through.

Your eyes dart to the notification, heart quickening. Only to feel your face crumple when you see it’s from your boss, asking his best barmaid if she can cover the closing shift tonight.

You huff. It's a bit insane, really, to go back to work like everything’s normal, so soon after watching someone’s gaping skull ooze out on the floor in front of you. But then again, bills don’t wait. And you want to quit. Saving up is imperative.

You hesitate for a moment, thumb hovering. Then you tap out a reply:

Yeah, I can do it.

Back to the translation.

It’s finished loading now. One word, centre screen.

Ingress.

“Hmm.”

You roll it between your fingers again, lips affixed into a thoughtful pout as you search for synonyms. Ingress: Entrance. Opening. Beginning.

You think about the rest of the inscription - characters neither you nor Google can decipher. They’re too worn down. Sand abrasion, maybe? Scott never told you where he found it and the locket won’t give up the rest easily.

Your mind drifts to the museum. The exhibition the three of you visited almost two months ago when you were just a curious onlooker. Now? You’ve drifted into footnote territory. You probably know more than anyone else in that room. Maybe even the curators. That’s a strange, thrilling thought.

What if something stands out now? What if you walk past a display case and suddenly, everything makes sense? Or at least… more sense.You'd settle for that.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

It’s selfish. You know that. You could be concussed. Or worse. A blackout and blood-covered hands aren’t just quirky symptoms to be ignored. But the longer you sit here, the more the idea claws at you. The locket. The exhibition. The possibility of learning something valuable.

A tiny spark of momentum in a week that felt like nothing short of a landslide.

You look up the exhibition. It ends today. The museum shuts in two hours. You glance at the clock. It'll take at least one hour to get there - maybe more if trains are up to their usual antics.

Okay. An ultimatum.

Either you’re called through in the next thirty minutes, or you go.

You push to your feet and almost instantly the doubt kicks up again - maybe this is stupid, maybe you should stay put, do the right thing.

You glance at the receptionist, still bashing away at her keyboard.

You take a slow breath, then walk up to the desk.

“Hi, sorry… do you know how long the wait might be?”

She glances up. Her eyes are dull with exhaustion. You empathise. “Not sure, love. Few hours at least.”

You nod. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

You linger a second too long, hoping she’ll change her mind, wave you through with some secret fast-track code. But she’s already squinting back at the blue light of her screen like you were never there.

You step back, trainers squeaking against the linoleum, and sigh. Fine.

It’s not the responsible thing to do, but there’s still no new messages from Scott or Sam. No divine intervention pushing you back into the sad plastic chair.

Fuck it.

***

The exhibition’s quieter than you expected, considering it’s on its way out. You scan your ticket at the rope and walk in, the sterile hush of climate-controlled air and reverent silence rendering you at peace for the first time in around forty-eight hours. Despite feeling compelled to hold your breath out of fear of disturbing the silence.

It’s barely been six weeks since you were last here. A month and a half since you were just tagging along, riding the coattails of Scott’s slightly intimidating charisma and Sam’s muted enthusiasm. Funny how you can go from being borderline clueless to a part of the story. Or the continuation of the story in its entirety. In some weird way.

Your eyes skim over the placards as you pass - names you recognise. Places that don’t sound fictional any more. It’s embedded in your brain now, even if your involvement has come at the cost of not sleeping through the night without seeing blood on your hands.

You almost didn’t get on the train. You’d had your jacket half on before you thought about how Sam might react. If he knew you bailed. That you left without a word. That you couldn’t wait around for a blood test and a half-hearted diagnosis from a stranger with a clipboard. That you needed this instead.

But if you find something here - really find something - he’ll understand. He has to. He’d do the same.

You stop just short of the display case. The same one where the three of you stood, shoulder to shoulder, awkward in your proximity, more focused on each other than what was in front of you. Sam’s hands buried in his jacket pockets. Scott, scribbling furiously. You, suddenly woven into this slightly dysfunctional, chaos-riddled tapestry full of optimism and eagerness to please.

You exhale and step forward, eyeing the tattered suit. The endless trinkets. Fragments of a saddlebag. Papers - that incomplete letter, still flat under the glass like a pressed flower.

You bend slightly, just like before, squinting to read the Arabic script - no longer a total stranger to it.

You straighten up slightly, eyes locked on the letter behind the glass. You read the translation again - the bits that haven't been torn away, remembering, to the best of your ability, Scott's translation.

There’s a tickle on your cheek. You blink, distracted by your reflection in the display case - and freeze.

What the hell? You’re… crying.

And then, without warning, your stomach lurches. Like missing a step on a staircase.

There’s a deep, inexplicable sadness lodged somewhere behind your ribs, like you've been walloped with a coagulating sense of grief.

You swipe at your face with the back of your sleeve, muttering a quiet, “what?” under your breath. You glance sideways to see if anyone’s noticed your weird little breakdown, but the elderly couple next to you are too engrossed in a bronze incense burner to care.

You sniff, shake your head like it might jostle the fog loose, and look back at the paper.

Then your attention slides to the suit again.

Just peeking out from beneath the cuff of the jacket - A cufflink.

Tiny. Gold. Partially obscured. You hadn't noticed it the first time.

You squint, lean in a little, but the lighting’s shit and the angle is worse.

So, naturally, you contort your body into something resembling a wounded flamingo, attracting the wary eye of the nearest security guard.

You lift your phone, snap a photo. And as you zoom in, you catch the glint of a pattern.

Floral filigree. Encasing an engraving of Arabic characters.

You hum in surprise.

It’s the same as the locket. Well, similar.

You try to sharpen the image, nudge the exposure, but it’s no use. The angle’s off and the light’s too low. The translator can’t make sense of the inscription. Still, you know it’s not identical to the locket’s wording. Different curves.

You bite your lip. Scott might know more, so, ignoring the odd flurry of emotion and persistent anxiety about doing the right thing, you thumb out a text to him, just before your phone dies:

Working from 8. Can you both come by tonight? Need to go over some stuff. Sam knows the place :)

***

“Key.”

“Key?” She echoes, brows raised as she leans her forearms against the bar, weight shifting so she can lean over and inspect the photo again. Scott cracks a smirk, his healing split lip shadowed against those obnoxiously perfect fucking teeth.

“Mhm. Key.”

“You’re... you’re certain it says key?” she's squinting at him like maybe he’s winding her up. He lifts his pint in a lazy toast.

“Yes. Certain. Key.”

Sam snorts softly. “Jesus. Does it, by any chance, translate to ‘key’?”

She barks a laugh that cuts through the dad rock rumbling through the sound system, and Sam can’t help grinning into his beer. He’s two and a half pints in and feeling it. Not enough to slur, but certainly enough to go soft around the edges.

Scott’s gaze drifts away, distant. Something’s turning behind his eyes.

She clocks it and hums playfully. “So… we’ve got a 'key' and… 'ingress' - a door? Bit on the nose for something that's taken us so long to get to, don’t you think?”

Scott doesn’t answer, too deep in whatever half-formed theory he’s stitching together in that labyrinthine brain of his.

“Might be metaphorical,” Sam offers with a shrug, raising his glass for another sip.

His eyes widen as he knocks back another swig. He swallows too fast, nearly choking.

Shit. Mai.

He hasn’t even told her about that yet. At all. Not even a mention. Whoops. He turns toward her, mouth already halfway open-

“When you’re ready, love - we’re gasping!”

The shout cuts through the low hubbub of the room. A customer, elbow hooked over a bar stool, waving a hand in their direction.

The gilet-wearing, Rolex-wielding gaggle is already half-pickled. Sam eyes the ringleader - slick hair, beer-bellied, older than the four or five clones behind him - exhibiting a severe case of Napoleon complex as he taps his card on the counter like an impatient metronome. Tap. Tap. Tap. She doesn’t flinch.

He listens to her exhale, tight smile twitching at her lips as she peels away from her side of the bar.

“Hold that thought, handsome.” she says brightly.

She’s gone before Sam can neither think of something clever to say, nor register that she's just tapped him on the nose. Checked tea towel tossed over one shoulder, phone disappearing into her back pocket after sliding it away from Scott, shuffling down to the till end of the bar like she’s done this forever.

He hates to see her leave but…

There’s no point pretending he’s not enjoying watching her go. Pints, punters, towel to the spill. She’s in her element, and she’s luminous in it. All confidence and fast hands and crinkle-eyed smiles. The hair clipped back. Sleeves rolled. The sort of beauty you don’t realise has floored you until you’re blinking at the foam sliding down the edge of your pint glass, wondering if you’ve just grinned at nothing.

Heh. Handsome.

God. Look at her. Laughing with a knot of self-professed ‘lads’ in sharp-collared shirts and loosened ties, the sort who spend hours on their hair but probably haven't changed their sheets in months. She’s teasing one with a moustache as she pulls his pint, unfazed by the loud voices or mock machismo. Shoulders relaxed, smile easy, hands confident, never fumbling. She leans across the bar, says something to Beer Belly that cuts through their bravado and has them all barking out startled laughter, suddenly boys again, caught off guard.

Sam lets out a breath through his nose, head turning away, but eyes remaining glued.

She hates it here. He knows that now. Not the pub itself, maybe, but what it stands for. The compromise. The smallness. The waiting. He’s heard it in her voice when she talks about all the things she could be doing instead. Yet, she fits here in a way that almost makes him forget she doesn’t want to. For once, she’s the expert in the room. At ease. In control. Nobody here knows what she’s been through. She’s not letting it show. There’s something… magnetic about it. From here, you’d never guess she was still reeling from an attack. You’d never guess she’d come to, not two days ago, in a pool of blood that didn't belong to her.

She's functioning like none of that ever happened. A ruse which is either admirable or deeply, deeply concerning. He’s not sure which yet.

He’s had just enough to drink that keeping the lid on everything he’s not supposed to feel feels like more work than it’s worth. The alcohol softens the edges of his usual doubts. Blurs the warnings that usually keep him back.

She kissed him once - on the cheek, not even anything serious - and it short-circuited his entire fucking evening. He couldn’t think straight for hours.

She fell asleep on his shoulder in that hotel room and, somehow, somehow, he subsequently had the best sleep he’d had in weeks. Maybe months. He doesn’t sleep well. But she was warm against him and he didn't want to wake her, and whatever chemical cocktail her presence brewed in his system had knocked his defences flat. He'd put it down to a total hormonal misfire, but now… he doesn’t know.

Agh, shit, he doesn’t fall like this! He’s the one that makes them fall. That’s how this usually works.

She turns, moving to the fridge to grab a bottle of something, and catches him watching her.

She doesn’t miss a beat and flashes him a grin. A cheeky, knowing, God, you’re obvious grin. A little tilt of her head, as if to say: Oi. What are you looking at?

He smiles back over the rim of his pint, eyes closing slowly as he feels his cheeks encroach on his vision.

Yeah. He’s definitely tipsy. Perhaps a tad beyond tipsy. Empty stomach was a bad move. Or a good one, depending on how you look at it.

He’s tried to keep his distance. Honestly, he has. But when she smiles at him like that-

Smack

Scott’s phone hits the bar hard, jolting Sam so bad he nearly spills what’s left of his pint.

He shoots him a look. “Christ - what?”

But Scott’s already tapping the screen with urgent fingers, the light bouncing off his grin.

“Look.”

“What… am I looking at here?”

“There. There. Tell me that’s not the same pattern as the locket.”

Sam leans in, elbow bumping the bar, face a little too close to the cracked screen.

And there it is.

Stone. Weathered. Carved into the side of the sarcophagus back at Umm ar-Rasas - the one she collapsed in front of. He glances back to her momentarily as she taps something into the till, then back to the picture. That delicate, winding floral pattern. Slightly larger. A little less refined. But the shape? The flow? It's damn near identical. It’s even on the floor tiles.

Sam leans in again, pulled back to the moment. “Cufflink, too.”

He squints harder, scrunching his face like it’ll physically wring out the alcohol, trying to make the image settle right.

Scott’s grin only widens.

“Even better. Look here.”

He swipes to a different photo - an angle from the top of the tomb. The carvings are more defined here.

Sam blinks again. “That… that’s the same one, isn’t it?”

Scott nods, smug. “Ingress.”

Sam lets the word rattle around in his head, echoing off what little sobriety he has left.

Everything’s starting to link.

“Alright. I’m calling it. Need a piss before my ribs seize up. Go tell her the good news.”

Sam snorts, half-focused, still staring at the photo. “Thanks for the update.”

Scott flips him off on his way toward the bathroom.

Sam glances back toward her, expecting to find her deep in some conversation. Instead, she’s standing near the end of the bar, wiping down the counter with a dishcloth, subtly listening in on the group of lads still camping out nearby.

One of them - with the expensive haircut and pre-pubescent beard - is miming something obscene with a pint glass. His mates howl with laughter.

She doesn’t flinch.

But Sam sees the tension ripple down her spine. He knows her well enough now to read the shift.

She moves closer to take an order from someone else, and Sam drifts toward her end of the bar under the pretence of stretching his legs. She clocks him approaching, raises an eyebrow as she hops over to pull a pint.

“Everything alright, soldier?” She says, concentrating on the liquid filling the glass.

“Spectacular, actually, ma’am.” He says with a subtle smirk, both feeling the full effect of inebriation, as well as excitement from their latest discovery. “I’ve got tons to update you on when you’ve got a sec-”

“Oi! Sweetheart!”

The shout comes from the office boys’ corner of the bar they’ve set up camp in.Beer Belly is shouting over the till again.

“Fuckin’ hell. You done sniffin’ round her or what?”

Sam watches her frown in the side of his vision and tut in annoyance as she returns to another customer with their drink. Sam, meanwhile, feels his jaw tighten a little.

“I’m sorry, are you talkin’ to me?” He purrs with a condescending smile.

“I’m tor-kin to whoever’s blocking the bar,” the man sneers. “Some of us are thirsty.”

She cuts in fast, smile stiff as she comes to the till to grab some change. “Alright, alright, play nice. I’ll be right with you-”

“No rush, babe,” the man replies, loud enough for the entire bar to hear. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your foreplay.”

Something in Sam’s chest goes cold.

She scoffs in disgust.

He turns to the man, voice even. “Wonderful manners, I must say.”

“Ohh,” the guy crows, slapping one of his friends on the back. “We’ve got a Yank with an attitude.”

“And you… if that watch’a yours is anything to go by, have probably got a tiny dick.” The group erupts; half-shock, half-laughter. One of the boys nearly chokes on his pint.

Sam’s smirk tugs wider. He knows it’s childish. He knows. He also knows it was worth it.

God, he’s definitely had too much to drink.

The stool scrapes.

Sam doesn’t flinch.

The man takes a lumbering step forward - not enough to stand right in front of him, but enough to raise tension. The room hasn’t gone quiet yet, but there’s a shift.

She slips an arm over the bar, sliding between them fast. “Okay. That’s enough. Sam-” She looks at him, eyebrows sternly raised, “Stop it.”

The man’s eyes don’t leave Sam. “First name basis, eh? She yours, then?”

“I’m not-” she says.

Sam’s voice is low, intercepting her with a provocative smirk as he finally stands straight. “Mine?”

“Mhm.” He steps in, close enough to smell the gin on his breath. “Girl like her, hanging off you? Don’t seem natural.”

Sam blinks slowly. He’s very aware of the pint glass still in his hand. The shaking in his knuckles despite his cool demeanour. She’s equally aware.

“Okay,” she says sharply, stepping forward now. “You’ve had your joke. Let me get your drink, and you can all enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?”

He ignores her, eyes still on Sam. “Or is it one of those situations where you’re hoping for more? You know. Stuck in the friend zone. Bit of a pity shag if you’re lucky.”

Sam smiles, eyes narrow. “You always this confident with your mouth full’a shit?”

The man leans forward. “You threatening me, mate?”

“If I were, you’d already be unconscious.”

That gets a few oohs from his colleagues. Not supportive ones, mind. More like jackals waiting for blood.

She cuts in again, firmer now. “Enough. Or I’m shutting shop. Seriously. Here.” She reaches across, pours a fresh pint with expert speed and slams it on the bar. “Take your drink and go sit down. On the house.”

He turns toward her now. “You know,” he says, voice low and slurred with smugness, “if you smiled more, maybe you’d have a ring on your finger instead of being stuck serving drinks and opening your legs for strays.”

There’s a beat of silence so taut it could snap. She stands with her mouth wide, lost for words.

Sam sets his pint down.

“Don’t,” he says softly, dangerously, “fuckin’ talk to her like that.”

“Y’know what?” The man’s smile falters, twisting into something meaner. “I’ve had just about enough of your lip-” He swings.

She shouts out in annoyed protest, but Sam steps clean out of the way. The punch sails past. Sloppy and wide and fuelled by one unit too many.

And he laughs. A short, incredulous breath of amusement that makes Beer Belly turn redder. And then without hesitation, Sam drives his forehead into the man’s nose with a sickening crunch.

***

She shoves him inside the store cupboard by the arm. He stumbles over a crate of orange juice cartons, giggling like a schoolboy and wiping at the blood streaking down from his nose with a wad of blue paper towel. It’s already bled through.

“He really didn’t like that.”

She slams the door shut behind them and turns the lock, teeth gritted. “You absolute moron.”

The cupboard smells like bleach and damp cardboard. Fluorescent light flickering above, mop buckets in one corner, spare pint glasses stacked haphazardly in crates. Sam squints under the harsh bulb overhead, still grinning as he leans against the shelves stacked with multipacks of Coke and those fluorescent orange puffed corn snacks - what do they call 'em here? Wotsits. Weird.

“What? I was defending your honour.”

“My honour,” she parrots under her breath with a scoff, grabbing the first aid box from the shelf and flicking it open with a sigh. “You’re drunk, Sam. No excuse to swing your ego at everyone who mouths off in your vicinity. Sit.”

He does, slumping onto an upturned crate with a groan. His smile is lopsided, and he feels pleased with himself. Much, he assumes, to her chagrin.

“I had that handled,” she mutters, crouching in front of him.

“You say that,” Sam mumbles through the tissue. “But you were about to hand him free booze and call it a night.”

She wets a cotton pad with antiseptic, then reaches up, gently pressing it to the shallow cut on his cheekbone.

“I was de-escalating.”

“Right, well. I was...escalating.” He snorts, then winces. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Idiot.”

He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head obligingly when she moves closer, gently reapplying the antiseptic wipe just below his eye.

“Jesus,” he hisses, flinching with a pout. “That stings.”

“Good.”

They’re close in here. The shelves narrow the space to a metre at most, and she’s standing right between his knees, one hand steadying his face as she dabs at the blood with clinical precision. Her expression is stormy, focused, her hand bracing on his thigh once or twice as she reaches back into the first aid kit. There's tightness in her jaw, the way her bottom lip curls inward as she presses too hard on the wipe. He can't help but smile into the paper towel.

“You’re lucky he missed,” she mutters. “If he’d caught you properly-”

“But he didn’t,” Sam says, voice soft, smug.

She stops dabbing and meets his eyes. “I'll give you the black eye he failed to in a second.”

He grins, teeth tasting a little bloodied as he pulls the makeshift tissue from his nose. The bleeding has seemingly stopped. “You say that with a lotta affection.”

She goes back to the cut, but her voice is quieter now. “You didn’t have to get involved.”

He shrugs a shoulder.

“I mean it.” She chides.

He looks at her properly then, the slight sway of drink in his posture arrested by the way her fingers have gone still against his jaw.

She doesn’t drop her hand, but tries for casual, sighing as she finally concedes.

“To be honest, I didn’t like the way he called me 'sweetheart'.”

Sam blinks. His nose scrunches in this earnest, vaguely bewildered sort of way as she dabs at his face again. “I call you that all the time.”

Her hand finally lowers, but she doesn’t back away. “Yeah,” she says softly, eyes flicking back up to meet his. “That’s why it bothered me. Wasn't the same."

The slight husk to her voice hits him like a static shock and something inside him lurches.

His smile falters. Not entirely, but the bravest part of it has been peeled back. His mouth opens. Closes again.

He looks at her and his hand curls further around the edge of the shelf beside him. She’s not even trying to flirt.

There’s no bravado to it. No one-liner, no setup. Wait - was that…? Alarm bells. Fuck. Was that an invitation?

It floors him more than any teasing quip ever could. Beer goggles be damned, she’s so fucking pretty.

He wants to be selfish. To say 'screw it' and lean in and taste the way her breath catches, find out what she sounds like when she stops trying to impress him. God, she impresses him.

She’s still looking at him. Thumb light under the cut on his cheek, like she’s memorising him by touch. He lifts his hazy vision from her wrist to her face, and she’s already watching him, like she’s been waiting for him to catch up. Her parted lips. Her eyes… Jesus - they’re full of something. Expectation? Uncertainty?

Outside the cupboard, the clatter of Scott locking up echoes faintly through the pub. He’d had to jump in and play boss after it all kicked off. Said it was fine. Said he’d cover for them. Cool off Beer Belly and his band of belligerent minions. Of course he would. And, of course, Sam - Sam hates that. He hates needing someone else to clean up after him, always the cost of his defence landing on someone else’s shoulders. He’s tried so hard to be better, but tonight he cracked like a fucking glowstick the second someone came at her sideways. 'Idiot', 'moron' - She might be onto something.

So instead, he looks at the floor. The linoleum is scuffed to hell. So is his voice, when it eventually comes.

“I found Emaan’s kid.”

It lands clumsily, all thick and wonky on his tongue. Her thumb stills beneath the cut on his cheek. She doesn’t say anything right away and he feels his heart sink.

Eventually, “Oh.”

She sounds… sad, maybe. He thinks so. Like she’s remembering, all over again, what this is - what they are. What they’re not.

"That's…" It takes her a second to move her hand. When she does, it’s slow, as if she hadn’t quite meant to let go yet. As if she hadn’t realised how tightly they’d been holding that thread until it slipped. "That's big."

He keeps his eyes on the floor, bloody tissue scrunched up in one hand as the other moves from the shelf behind him to the back of his neck.

He nods, forcing himself to stay still, to not apologise for pulling the ripcord.

“Gets bigger.”

Another beat.

She looks up at him now, properly. There’s curiosity there. She’s trying, he can see that, but it’s gentled by something else. Restraint. The same disappointment he feels.

“Bigger?”

He nods his head, glancing up, and her eyes flick away like they’re embarrassed to be caught.

“Mai Bashar,” he says, voice low. “She married William Campbell.”

He registers something in her posture flinch. Barely there, but he’s looking for it, so he sees it. Her thumb rises to her temple, rubs in a slow, absent circle like something’s tugged sharp behind her eyes.

“Hey,” he says, brow knitting. “You okay? The, uh… hospital thing. How was it?”

“Fine.” She shrugs, a little too fast. That familiar brush-off move she uses when something is wrong but she doesn’t want it to matter. “Mild concussion, apparently. Bit of high blood pressure. TL;DR is I’m not gonna drop dead on you.”

It’s meant to be reassuring. Sam lets it be for now, because he doesn’t feel like he’s in any place to push it.

Instead, he shifts his weight, glancing toward the doorway. “There was a shipping manifest I found this morning. The two of ‘em set sail for Cornwall after they married. There’s a delivery address for their belongings… total coastal wasteland now, according to the internet, but I want to check it out. See if anything’s there before we go back to Jordan.”

She nods slowly. He can see she has questions.

“So…” she says, a little too lightly, “Hang on. Back to Jordan?”

He exhales. Opens his mouth to answer-

“Place is empty. Arseholes are gone. One of ’em puked in the doorway, so I doubt they’ll remember any of this tomorrow.”

Sam straightens with a wince as Scott appears in the doorway, dusting his hands off like he’s just cleared a battlefield. She thanks him quietly.

“I told her about the shipping stuff,” Sam says quickly, already stepping past them. “You gotta show her… uh- those pictures. I need to…” He gestures vaguely to his face, already heading for the exit. Just before the door back out into the empty pub, he glances sideways, and catches her watching him go. She looks away first.

Scott’s voice starts up in the background, explaining something about the tomb and the florals but Sam barely hears it.

His palms brace against the edge of the sink once he reaches the bathroom, bloody tissue tossed away.

Cool water. Deep breath. Rein it the fuck in, Samuel.

#aaaaaAAAAAH ohhhHHHhhh mY gOD #love it love it love it love it #sam drake #uncharted

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cerysing · 14 days ago

Text

To sum up: they still think that trans peoples human rights are an online conversation, and expect the series to run for 10 consecutive years.

So let's get ahead of this right now.

I propose a media-wide blackout of everything Harry Potter related when the first season is released. No tweeting about it, not even to trash it. No posting online about it at all - No Instagram stories or posts, no TikToks, no snaps, no memes on FB, not a word on here, nothing. They will not commit themselves to 10 consecutive years of something if the first season flops. They might attempt a second season, but we can shoot that down, too.

I cannot still be dealing with the hate this woman has for us in 10 years. I cannot still be having this conversation when I'm in my mid-30s. I need her to be dead & forgotten by then, or used as a cautionary tale after her death. We can revive the fandom after she has died, depending what her will stipulates will be done with her bloodmoney. Okay? Is that a good enough compromise for you? You just have to wait for her to die, and not leave her estate & bank account to anti-trans stuff, and then you can get back to loving Potter. Deal?

But in the meantime, we need Warner Bros. to see that they cannot make money from this show. We need them to lose money. We need them to lose enough money that even JKR funding the entire project won't be enough for them to take the risk. Right now, they're saying that JKR's reputation & blatant transphobia have not impacted their ability to find more than enough people to audition for the series. We need them to rethink that. We need them to see that this is not the next Marvel-length franchise to get rich on.

Since I know some of you haven't participated in a media blackout protest before, here's how it'll work:

Don't hype the series / fandom / author / cast up in the lead-up to the series being released. Don't trash it, either. Ignore it. Forget about it. || This means that they won't get good word-of-mouth rates online, which means they will need to really push advertising to get enough people interested.

Don't watch the adverts online. Don't like or comment on the videos, not even with hate or pro-trans stuff. || Engaging with online ads or videos in any way gives them positive data, because it feeds the algorithm & let's them make money from the adverts. We don't want that.

When the series is released, don't watch it. Don't talk about it. Don't tweet about it. Don't post about it. Don't tiktok about it. Don't complain about it. Don't trash it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Ignore it. Forget about it. || They need their launch to earn them money, and even if you're posting about how bad it is, or posting anti-JKR content using the show's hashtags, even if you're watching it in order to know exactly what to complain about & critique, you are still giving them money. They still earn royalties from you watching it, regardless of your intentions. They still get word-of-mouth and clout from you posting about it, even if what you're saying is negative. You know the expression "There's no such thing as bad press"? This is what that refers to. It doesn't matter if you're sharing love or hate for the franchise, because you're still promoting it by saying its name. Also, an overwhelming amount of negative press online can and does lead to other people deciding to watch it to see why everyone is complaining, and arguing about it online, all of which feeds the creators more royalties. We don't want them to earn money from this.

Spread news about other shows & films & franchises & books. Get a fandom which has been dead for 10+ years trending again. Get anime shows & Futurama & ATLA & Adventure Time & Owl House & Over the garden Wall & some really obscure franchises trending across all social media platforms. Get something from the 80s trending in the Top 3 on Twitter. Engage with fandoms you're not even part of. Get BL shows trending in Netflix's Top 5. || This will completely skew analytics online, and it will flood people's dashboards with cmenough content that they won't see promotional content for the series we are blacking out. It will also show spikee data for which genres & shows are more popular & getting more attention & more royalties.

Share media with transgender actors / directors / crew. Share media with LGBTQIA+ storylines. Share pro-trans & pro-LGBTQIA+ content. Share & donate to fundraisers which help Trans & LGBTQIA+ people. Share Trans & LGBTQIA+ history. Show & Share Trans & LGBTQIA+ positivity & love & pride. Do all of this without acknowledging the series or creator we are blacking out. || This will show overwhelmingly positive & inclusive analytics, which will prioritise showing more of the same content. This is what we want the data to show.

Do not give in to temptation to look the show up. Do not look up the cast. Do not look up the directors or producers or executives. Do not look up the soundtrack. Do not put anything remotely related to the series into a search bar of any kind. || Search algorithms still store data, and if enough people look the same stuff up, it will show positive online engagement. We do not want this.

Do not give the actors hate. Do not tag them in hateful content online. Do not abuse them & do not bully them. || This is just unnecessary.

Give the blackout a cool-down period. Continue to ignore it for at least 10 days after the launch. || This forces the show's analytics to fall into negatives. If you suddenly start engaging with something immediately after blacking out the launch, the analytics show a delayed uptake - but it still shows them that people will engage with it, and that they will make money from it. We do not want this.

After the cool down period, mock it. Remember the mocmery that the Velma show got? And you've seen the mockery of the Rachel Zeigler version of Snow White is getting? And how that is impacting the ratings for Songbirds & Snakes because people don't want to watch her, at all, in anything? That is what we need to create on purpose. || If a show gets hate, the creators can use it to feed controversial interest in the show - 'Come watch this to see why people are hating!'. It's as beneficial as positive reviews. They can recover from it. But mockery? Mockery & dismissal is far more difficult to recover from, as it does more damage to their names and reputation. People do not want to be associated with a project which was mocked after it lost them a lot of money. Audiences are also much less likely to engage with a series which has been publicly mocked, compared to hated.

Only mock it for the same amount of time as the cool-down period. || This prevents the series from getting a large spike in analytics.

After this, ignore it. Move on. Talk & post about other stuff. Watch other stuff. || This will result in the show's analytics returning to negatives, and remaining there.

This is a strategy which is proven to work. It has worked for multiple franchises. It is behavioural analytics. It will work for this, but only if we commit to it & get enough people taking part.

All we have to do is:

Do not watch the HBO HP series

Do not post about it online

Ignore it

Do not play, stream or buy any games related to HP

Do not rematch the movies on a streaming service - JKR will still earn royalties from that

Do not post about JKR during the media blackout

Share pro-trans & pro-LGBTQIA+ content & history instead

Support trans creators & actors

Mock the series after the cool down time & then move on

Stick to this method. It WILL work.

And to dispute any attempted justifications for engaging with it:

"But she won't be involved!" || She is listed as an executive producer for the show

"But it's not the actors' fault!" || Actually, it is. The adult actors should know better than to involve themselves with this franchise, and the child actors' parents should know better than to exploit their children's desire to be famous &/ or their love of the series, because the adults should be socially aware enough to know that this franchise will harm their children in the long run.

"But what about my childhood nostalgia!" || What about trans people's human rights & dignity? What about trans children who don't think they'll make it to 18? What about the fact our Prime Minister is selling out transgender rights of his people for Trump? Wht about all of the trans people in the UK who are now facing the possibility of losing more of our rights? What about all of the little trans girls & boys & envies who saw those TERFs celebrating stealing their legal right to identify as their gender, with champagne on national TV? What about trans children who won't be able to go on 100% reversible hormone blockers because JKR funded the vitriol which made them illegal? What about all of the trans women & girls who just lost their legal rights this week? What about our right to legally exist? What about privacy rights and medical & legal autonomy for women & afab people in the UK? What about all the trans people who just watched 21 years of work & progress go down the drain in one afternoon? Are we not worth as much as one of the many memories of your childhood?

Nobody is saying you're not allowed to watch the DVDs or pirate it or read the books or listen to CDs or records of it. Just do not use streaming services for any of it, do not use YouTube, do not talk about it on Twitch & don't post about it online.

We need this franchise to die. We need the producers to see they can't make enough money from this to justify continuing it after the first season. We cannot still be having this argument in the mid 2030s.

We need to get ahead of this right now and stamp the fire out before it kills more trans people.

You understand that buying a Tesla = supporting the Elongated Muskrat & Trump. You understand that buying McDonald's or Starbucks funds Isreal & harms Palestinians. You understand that watching Sandman supports Neil Gaimen.

So why is it so hard for you to apply that exact same logic to JKR, when you can see the harm she is causing in real time to real people?

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