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deep-dreamer-bouquets-posts · 1 month ago

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100% AGREEEEEE SAM MY BELOVED WUAUFHDDUDUDEHHE W TAKE

hi again!

same anon who thanked you for writing sam drake —

I HAVE A QUESH FOR YOU!

what were your thoughts when it was revealed sam was lying about owning money and had been working with rafe? like i was upset from the betrayal (especially being in nathan’s shoes it was like WOW.) but i also understand where sam was coming from and still love him… but yeah i wanna know ur thoughts :0

hi hi hi i am SOOOO happy you've asked me this because it truly is something that's been on my mind recently hehe.

Your fault, however, sweet anon, is that you’ve provoked me to write a novella. I’m sorry.

Okay, so let’s talk about Sam (she says daily). The moment it’s revealed that he’s been lying about Alcazar and working with Rafe? It hits hard. Yes. Especially from Nathan’s perspective, it’s not just a betrayal; it’s a sucker-punch to the very core of their relationship. I remember the first time I played UC4 and hit that moment where it was revealed that Sam had been lying about Alcazar. I was stunned - completely thrown off. I actually paused the game, just sat there in shock for a minute, staring at the screen. I turned to my sister, and she was just as dumbstruck, sitting there in a stupor, both of us trying to process what had just happened. I think I even hollered a few choice words at him. Once it had sunk in, though, I knew that this wasn’t just about treasure. If Sam was motivated purely by greed, he could, and I’d argue would, have gone with anyone - stayed with Rafe, for instance, or taken Nate up on his Cutter offer. He didn’t need to manipulate Nate. No, there had to be something more to it. Then, lo and behold, we get the second flashback and the pieces began to fall into place.

I’ve seen a lot of people rush to label Sam as the “bad guy” after this reveal, and it frustrates me because the nuance gets lost and the flashback is overshadowed by blind rage from the player. Yes, Sam lied. He betrayed Nate's trust. That’s a bad thing to do. But the why is so important here, and it's something we shouldn’t just gloss over. Sam’s been rotting in a cell for over a decade, isolated and cut off from the world, while Nate was out there living this life full of adventures, relationships, and experiences. Sam didn’t get that. And that’s a huge part of why he did what he did. He didn’t lie out of some cruel desire to hurt his brother or get revenge. He lied because he was desperate. He wanted to do something with Nate again - one last grand adventure to make up for the years they lost. He was afraid Nate would say no, and in his desperation, he made a selfish decision to get what he thought was his last chance at redemption. Sam’s not a villain. He’s a complicated, flawed human being, and his motivations are rooted in something much deeper than greed alone, or malice.

Both before, and after the lie is out in the open, Sam proves again and again that he’d do anything for Nate. He fights for him throughout, and he’s willing to die for him. At least three times throughout the game, Sam risks his life without hesitation to protect his brother. That’s not the behaviour of someone who's malicious or evil. That’s the behaviour of someone who made a mistake, yes, but who loves his brother deeply. It’s messy, and the way he went about it is wrong, but that’s what makes Sam so compelling. He’s not a villain. He’s just a person who made a (big) mistake in an attempt to make up for the time and experiences he lost. He's also, I'd argue, attempting to quell any involuntary resentment he might feel towards Nathan for moving on.

And when you look at it from that angle, it’s heartbreaking. It’s never been about treasure or riches; it’s about Sam wanting to be seen, wanting to matter to his brother, after being invisible for so long, and having his position of importance that he’s held in Nate’s life since childhood overtaken by Sully and Elena.

I remember in my first playthrough when we got to the moment where Sam says to Nate, “No offence to these guys [Elena, Sully], but they don’t get it,” and Nate replies with, “Actually, Sam, they do,” and I was just flabbergasted. It hit me like a ton of bricks. That was the moment for me where the full weight of everything Sam had been carrying came into focus, and where the true complexity of the situation began to sink in. It was painful. It made (makes) me cry. But honestly, it was also where my understanding and, eventually, my forgiveness (for lack of a better term) for Sam really kicked in.

Sam’s not just talking about the treasure or the thrill of the adventure - he’s talking about his entire purpose. Perhaps the one thing that has kept him alive and going during those long years in prison: the idea of doing something monumental with Nate, of rebuilding the bond they once shared. Honouring Cassandra. His hubris? Sure, that’s there - but it’s also been his salvation. That dream has been the one thing he’s clung to. And for Nate to dismiss it as an “obsession,” to basically reduce it to nothing - to essentially call Sam greedy - felt like such a monumentally cruel thing for him to say. Because it’s not about the treasure. It’s about what they lost - about their mother, about being brothers again. For Sam, this was the reason he kept pushing forward all those years. And here comes Nate, smacking the map back into his chest like it’s meaningless, telling him “we’re not those kids anymore.” It’s just crushing, because, to me, Nate doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand how much Sam needs this. For Sam, this isn’t just an obsession or an adventure; this is his last chance to feel connected to his brother again, to share something that matters, and to not be on the sidelines now he’s formed a life of his own. That, to me, was the most heartbreaking part of the game. It’s the one thing Sam has been fighting for, and Nate’s dismissive response makes it feel like all that hope is being stripped away.

So yeah, Sam’s choices were wrong, and his actions caused harm - no doubt about it. But that doesn’t make him a villain or a bad person. And it doesn’t erase the fact that, deep down, his motivations were rooted in a deep, human desire to reconnect with the person he loves most. This isn’t a story of a “good” guy vs. a “bad” guy. It’s about the complexities of the human experience, the desperation we sometimes feel, and the lengths we’ll go to to be valued by the people we care about. Sam made mistakes, but he’s also a man who is willing to risk everything for his brother, even at the cost of his own integrity.

Shutting up now. BIG LOVE <3333

#sam drake #uncharted

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deep-dreamer-bouquets-posts · 2 months ago

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WE EATING GOOD TONIGHT 🗣🗣❗️❗️❗️

The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 11 | 'How the hell do we explain this?'

alright so you might have to re-read c10 to get the gist, but here's their phone call from his perspective... and of course the aftermath. please mind any errors, grammatical or sensical. I'm sure i'll amend soon. mwah x

masterlist ✨

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

Just when Sam thought crossed wires would be the worst of his problems...

CW: blood, vomit, & graphic injury mention, general cringe

Word count: 4.4k-ish x

The British Library’s reading room isn’t exactly an arc-hive of chaos. If anything, it’s the opposite. The kind of quiet that makes one’s own breathing feel obnoxious. Just the occasional paper rustle, the pesky buzz of outdated fluorescents, and someone clearing their throat at oddly even intervals.

Sam leans back in a particularly creaky chair, one arm slung over the top of it, squinting at the screen in front of him as though it’s offended him. It flickers softly, whirring as he turns the dial, dusty even though he’s already wiped it down twice.

Bzzz.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, breaking the hush.

Sam fumbles it out, thumb clumsy on the screen. He stabs at the green button.

“Yeah?”

“Alright, Sammy?” Scott’s voice is chipper, plastering on a high-pitched exaggerated London accent. He snorts. Alongside his mockery of their companion, he hears a rhythmic thrum of what he presumes is car tyres on tarmac. “How’s the exciting world of yellowed paper and copyright law?”

Sam huffs through a grin. “Screw off.”

Scott laughs. “Hey, I did my time. Only fair you got your hands on the boring stuff for a day.”

“Been here four hours. I think my corneas have dried out.” He glances down at his coffee, tilting the cup towards his lips. Lukewarm. Fantastic. “Did you find anything today?”

“Maybe.” A rustle of paper on Scott’s end. “Got some papers… hard to tell what’s useful and what’s some aristocrat’s creative writing project, but I’m hoping it’s… something. There’s a weird little necklace thing in the mix too - worn engravings, yada yada. Looks old. Could be junk, but...” He pauses, clicking his tongue as if he’s pulling a load of thoughts together. “I figured we could take a look when we both get to the site. Should be another twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

Sam sighs, pulling his phone away from his face to check the time. 8:36pm. And he’s nowhere near done here. He pushes aside the slight discomfort he feels towards the fact that the phone understands the concept of eye contact, and tucks it back between his ear and shoulder.

“I’m stuck here for a while. Still waitin’ on the marriage records pull-” Sam glances up, scanning the stacks for the nervous wreck of what he presumes is an intern he’d flagged down earlier. No sign of her. “Think I've been abandoned.”

Scott makes a sympathetic noise. “Shame.” There’s a pause before he clears his throat. “Well… you reckon Little Miss Sunshine could swing by instead?”

Sam goes still, the corner of his mouth twitching. He can’t tell if the nickname irritates him or not. He exhales, wry. “Your idea of a date night or somethin’?”

Scott chuckles under his breath. “What’s the matter? You gonna get all jealous if she rides shotgun with me instead of you?”

Sam twists his tongue into his molar, inexplicably miffed. “Funny.”

Scott laughs. “I just need a second pair of eyes, is all.”

Sam scrubs a hand over his mouth, masking a reluctant grin. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Scott continues, “Sweet. I’ll give her a ring, then.”

Sam straightens, hand tightening instinctively around the phone. It would be easier to let Scott handle it. Certainly, more logical. But the thought of Scott calling her, of his voice sliding easily into that teasing charm, of her laughing at something he says-

“I’ll call her,” Sam says, sharper than intended.

A beat.

“You sure?”

“Might as well. She trusts me more than you, anyway.”

Scott snorts. “Charm’s wasted on you, Drake.”

“Can’t all be blessed,” Sam deadpans.

“Let me know what she says.”

Sam hangs up with a quick hum of acknowledgment before Scott can say anything else, staring down at the phone now cradled in his palm.

He throws a glance around, casual-like, then fumbles with it. Screen’s too bright, for starters. He squints, jabs at it wrong once, then manages to scroll. His thumb hovers over her name. Then he backs out, checks the lock screen, and stares into space.

Screw it.

Pull yourself together.

He hits call and brings the phone to his ear.

The hell’s he even going to open with?

He thinks back to the tight-lipped librarian at the counter when he first arrived, and the pointed sign by the entrance: Reading Room materials may not be removed from the premises. The side-eye he got when he asked if they could make an exception. The stack of dusty registers now waiting for him at the desk because the digitised records ‘weren’t comprehensive’ or some such bullshit.

There's a click - the beeping stops - a faint rustle. He winces as he rifles through lines in his head.

Eureka.

“Did you know the British Library doesn’t actually let you check out books?” Nice and casual. But topical all the same.

Her voice crackles back through the line: “Every day's a school day, Samuel”, and something in his chest loosens. Still got it. He replies with his regular confidence.

She snorts. He loves that sound. It punches a laugh outta him, too loud for the sacred hush of the room and, in turn, the people in it.

Some guy in his peripheral shoots him a look.

With a smile, Sam mimics zipping his mouth shut. Classic. The British. Eternally pissed off by ya, but too polite to actually say anything about it. Highly skilled at simmering and casting judgment in absolute silence.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gamble number one.

“Eh.” He shrugs like she can see it, lowering his volume to appease his new buddy. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a beat. He suddenly becomes hyper aware of how close the guy at the next desk is. Oh dear. She didn’t like that, did she?

But then: “Oh yeah?”- light, a little scoff in it - and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, grin sliding back in place like it never left in the first place.

“Yeah.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“Guilty.”

Oh-kay, gamble number two, then.

Keep it ‘cheeky’ - she likes using that word, doesn’t she? Keep the mood up. Don’t scare her off with... whatever the hell this thing is clawing at his ribs.

He hears her driving - the shfffffff of tires over asphalt. He hears her smile, too. And when she asks about his week, he slips into gear without thinking.

“If I see one more oil painting of some smug bastard with mutton chops, I’m gonna start growin’ 'em in my sleep.”

She laughs. A full on, belly-laugh. He feels it deep, but doesn’t know what to do with it.

He ducks his head, like that’s gonna stop the grin creeping in, pressing the phone a little closer to his ear, and picking up the scratchy old biro from the desk - something to do with his hands. Suddenly, he feels like he’s twenty-five again, loitering by a payphone, thumbing around for a quarter before the line goes dead.

They volley words. Regular rhythm. Somewhere in the middle of the back-and-forth, he slides in the request, asking if she can help Scott out. Keeps it breezy. Just ticking a box.

That’s gamble number three. Let’s see if she bites.

She does. But not how he expects.

There’s a pause - just a breath too long. Like she was elsewhere and had to yank herself back.

And that’s the thing. Lately, she has been elsewhere. Not just the last ten days - before that, too. Zoned out. Cagey in a way that doesn’t sit right. Like she’s wrapped herself in nettles. And when he or Scott get too close, she dodges, deflects, and treats their concern like it’s some radioactive thing she can’t risk touching.

He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the guessing game. The brittle edge to her voice when they push a little too far. But he’s not about to strong-arm it. That’s not the game.

What was it that she threw at him back in Jordan? Babysitting. That's it. Too protective. Too… close. Couldn’t give her room to breathe-

Hang on - Jesus, what’s with the over analysing, here?

This isn't… He’s not the guy who spirals over a phone call. He’s the guy with the exit strategy, the backup plan, and the one-liner on standby. Samuel flirts like he breathes. Samuel always knows the angle. Samuel doesn’t get... weird about stuff.

That’s the bit right? The roguish charm. Flash the grin. Crack the joke. Keep it moving.

He shakes it off, takes a gulp of his coffee, and it's - eurgh - cold, chalky, awful - spits it right back into the cup with a wince. Silver lining: at least it snapped him out of whatever whirlpool his thoughts were spinning into.

She says something snarky, all teeth and sass, and it pulls a smile from him before he can stop it.

Time to wrap this up.

“You goin’ or what?” he says, aiming for laid-back, tossing the words like they mean nothing.

“Of course I’m going.”

He twirls the pen between his fingers, lets it tap against the desk in a lazy rhythm. Not overthinking it. Not digging. Just riding the hum of her voice and the grin he can hear but can’t see.

Maybe that's why it slips out:

“Atta girl.”

He knows it’s trouble.

Not bad trouble, necessarily. Just the kind that makes your throat feel tight and your heartbeat a little irregular.

He didn’t mean for it to sound like that.

Or maybe he did.

There’s a hitch of silence. Not long. Barely a breath. But enough that Sam feels uncomfortable.

The pen stops dead between his fingers, and he leaves it hanging there, waiting.

For her to… snort, maybe? Or to tease him, the way others would’ve. The way he’s used to.

A smartass remark. A little flustered giggle. Some sort of acknowledgement.

Instead, the dvvvvt-screeeeee of the wipers and a brusque shift to: “Scott’s already there?”

Right. Okay.

Guess he misread the room.

Sam leans back in his chair, huffing out a slow breath through his nose as his jaw tightens just a tad. He’s mildly annoyed. yep. At himself, mostly. At her, maybe a little. At how easily the shift unsettles him. The pen stills in his hand, caught between fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

He rustles through his notes loud enough that maybe she’ll hear it and know he’s busy, That he’s not sitting here overthinking. “Yeah. Pokin' around.” Why the hell is he - he - overthinking? “I’ll get him to send you the details.”

“Sounds good.”

Short. Sweet. Relatively professional. Hm. He chews his lip.

Sam rubs a hand across his mouth, trying to swallow down the sour taste rising in the back of his throat. What the hell was he expecting, anyway? Pathetic. Christ. Get a grip.

Another pause. Longer this time.

He almost hangs up. Almost says ‘Alright, catch ya later, kid,’ like he doesn’t feel akin to a deflated balloon. Like it doesn't sting a little.

Instead-

“Hey,” he hears himself say.

It sounds rougher than he meant it to.

She hesitates. Of course she does. “…Yes?”

His jaw ticks. He rolls the pen across the table and lets it clatter to the floor.

"Be careful, alright?"

Stupid. Dumb. Amateur-hour bullshit. She doesn't need him hovering. And make sure you look both ways before you cross the road, dear!

There’s another stretch of quiet on the other end that needles him raw.

He shouldn't have said it. Should'a kept his mouth shut, kept it light, kept it cool, kept it Samuel.

When her voice comes back, it’s polite. Clipped. Like a pat on the head.

“I’ll be fine.”

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

Another awful moment, nothing.

Is he being dramatic? He’s… he's being dramatic.

“Alright,” he says, forcing nonchalance. “Go forth, kick some doors down. I’ll tell Scott to give you a buzz.”

She lets out a breath. Probably glad to be getting off the phone.

“Thanks, Sam.”

He smiles like it doesn’t feel a little… itchy.

“Yeah.”

He ends the call before he can embarrass himself any further.

The phone hits the desk with a clatter. He slumps back, scrubs both hands over his face, and stares up at the ceiling like maybe its slightly-yellow-round-the-edges water stains will morph into answers.

A throat clears softly nearby.

He glances over to see the nervous intern from earlier - the one he’d practically begged to double-check the archive - holding a grey box like she’s afraid Sam might bite her if she lowers it any further. He raises his brows expectantly.

“Found this,” she mutters, setting it down with a clumsy thud. “From the overflow. No digital record. Couldn’t see it on the inventory list. Sorry.”

“Perfect,” Sam grunts, already reaching for the box. "Thanks."

The kid skitters off with a curt nod, probably thrilled to be rid of him. He can't blame her. If he had to be stuck down here, day in, day out, pleasantries would be the last thing on his mind.

He cracks the lid open. Paper and dust hit him in the face. Great. Manual search it is.

Forty-five minutes and one eye-watering sneeze later, he’s popped a new reel into the microfiche reader. It clicks through slowly, the whirring wheel sounding ten times louder in the quiet than it probably is.

He’s on the verge of giving up, already mentally drafting the text to Scott that says 'Found sweet fuck-all, might’ve inhaled a Victorian disease…' - when something flickers past.

He scrolls back. Slower this time.

Sussex County Records. 1892.

Marriage Registry:

Campbell, Esq. William Charles

Sam stills.

Then leans forward, squinting at a crossed out set of Arabic characters.

ماي بشار

His heart gives a slow, hard thud.

Next to it, in a slightly fainter, more careful hand:

Bashar, Mai

He rifles through his own notes - creases, scribbles, loose sheets tucked into the back of a notebook - until he finds what he's looking for.

Layla Bashar.

Mai. Mai Bashar.

So the surname tracks. Could be a stretch… but if this Mai was Layla’s daughter, then she might also be Emaan’s.

A Sadir, married to Campbell.

The potential link between William and Emaan. It's too much of a coincidence to ignore.

He stares at the document for a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure.

Has he just single handedly solved the case of Emaan’s mystery child? Now that... that might be worth the tedium.

An hour later and they’re closing up. He’s scanned what he can, jotted the rest down in his notebook, taken the odd prohibited photo, and given the intern at the front desk a tired thumbs-up on the way out.

Rain’s coming down in an irritating, indecisive drizzle - fine and misty but just heavy enough to soak your shoulders if you stand still too long.

He ducks under the narrow awning outside the station, flicks his lighter once, twice, then sparks a smoke to kill a few minutes before his train.

Bzzz.

She's sent him a picture of the exact sort of portrait he was complaining about earlier, and a remark to match.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, takes a drag, and squints at the screen.

One-handed replies are a nightmare. He doesn’t even bother trying. Just taps out two emojis instead:

Me :👴🏼❌

He hovers on the message, then debates texting her about the registry. The name. The potential link.

But... nah. Better to tell them both in person. Have his moment. Two birds. One dramatic reveal.

Fuck it.

He drops the cigarette, grinds it out with his boot, kicks it into the gutter and starts towards the entrance, thumb clumsily tapping out one more line as he pushes through the glass doors:

Me: Did I use those correctly?

He’s grinning to himself as he boards the near-empty train, collapsing into the window seat with all the grace of a man who’s been hunched over dusty reels and papers for nigh-on five hours. The carriage rocks gently as it pulls away from the platform, the overhead lights humming in time with the rain against the glass.

As the city fades into more rural surroundings, his phone buzzes again. This time, with an incoming call from her.

***

You wake like something’s grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and smacked your head against the floor. No slow drift back to consciousness - just thwack.

You’re face-down on. Head pounding behind your eyes like someone’s taken a blunt axe to between your brows.

You blink hard. Once. Twice. Through a ringing, static haze that won’t quite go away. God, your head is pounding. The air reeks of iron and sweat and rotting wood. You dry heave.

With a shift, your cheek peels from the floor. Something cracks in your neck, and your fingers twitch. Your knees drag against splintered wood - your entire body feels like it’s just run a marathon. Your hands are wet. Covered in sticky viscosity.

Every muscle aches. Your mouth tastes foul, something metallic, crusted thick around your lips and chin.

Blood.

Except it’s not just dried on your face. It’s everywhere.

Your eyes finally begin to re-adjust to the moonlight filtering through the boarded window. Your palms have been planted in it. Your sleeves are saturated. It coats your fingers, crusted under your nails, mottled and tacky on your wrists.

Oh God - There’s a body beside you - a man. Face down, Still. A dark puddle beneath his skull that’s spread across the floor and pooled beneath you. His head’s twisted at an unnatural angle. You can’t see his face. A saving grace, perhaps.

It’s… it’s the one that was on top of you before everything went black.

You recoil, scrambling up to your elbows and rolling onto your back with a strangled gasp. Your stomach pitches, heart slamming against your ribs - this - this blood isn’t all yours.

You don’t remember-

How long has it been?

You turn frantically and - Scott.

He’s here.

Standing over the man, facing away from you.

His hands are bloodied, too. One hovering over his mouth, the other hanging by his side, both shaking. He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising with each inhale like he might throw up, eyes locked on the man. Like he’s waiting for him to twitch.

You try to speak. His name comes out hoarse.

His head jerks towards you, eyes wide.

For a second, he looks just as confused as you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes roughly, stumbling a half-step backwards, “You’re- you’re awake.”

You push yourself upright too fast and the room spins. You land flat on your ass, knuckles smacking against the floor.

Knuckles?

Something’s clutched in your right hand - it’s sharp, digging into your palm. Your skin is sore - the whole thing feels like it’s been balled up tight enough to crack - you didn’t even notice.

You bring the hand up, letting the thin stream of moonlight streaking into the room illuminate it - a thin chain is tangled around your fingers - you unclench your fist, the small pendant of a necklace now dangling from your palm, blood-covered and trembling violently along with you.

You swallow thickly - your throat feels tight and dry, like you could choke on nothing.

You look at Scott.

You look back at your hands.

You look at the man on the floor.

All while starting to hyperventilate.

“I don’t- didn’t-” you whisper, voice cracking, hands shaking so violently you nearly drop the locket. You swallow again in a desperate, but ultimately fruitless attempt at grounding yourself.. “Scott- what happened?”

He doesn’t answer. He just continues to stare down at the body, like he’s only just registering it all.

Your eyes dart to the necklace still dangling from your palm. The chain is looped around your fingers. Any tighter and it'd be cutting off your circulation. You have no idea when you grabbed it, or how long it’s been there.

But something in you refuses to let go.

Scott had it before. That much you remember. What is it that guy - the - HA - the dead guy lying on the floor said? ‘Took this from your buddy over there’... or something similar. Which means you’re not giving it up now.

You look back at the body.

Back at the blood smeared across your arms.

Back at Scott - red-knuckled and wide-eyed - as he slowly turns himself to face you fully.

There’s something fraying at the edges of his composure - panic, disbelief, pain. His face is streaked with blood, a shallow cut beneath one eye still weeping. His jaw is clenched hard enough to tremble, doing very little to help the gash on his lip. You can see how stiffly he’s holding himself now - like his ribs ache every time he breathes. He’s probably almost as disoriented as you.

“I-" he sputters, his voice cracking, eyes flitting over the ceramic shards littering the floor around you all. A vase, you think.

After clearing his throat, he continues, “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.” His brows pinch inward as he speaks, like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as you. His eyes flick down to your bloodied arms, then jerk away, back to the body. “I woke up and… he was on top of you. I didn’t know if- if he’d hurt you or-”

You follow his eyes to a gash in the back of the man’s head. His hair is matted thick with blood and bits of….

Your stomach flips.

You reel sideways, crawling backwards in a blind scramble until your back hits the wall and before you can control it, you retch, bitter bile burning its way up your throat, landing onto the floorboards. You choke on an acidic sob and he finally moves.

Scott steps towards you. Bloodied hand running through his hair, shaking.

You shake your head, unable to process it all. It hits the wall as you slump back, breath hitching, silent tears tracking down your cheeks. They sting as you wipe your mouth on your shoulder, crusted blood peeling off of your skin.

Scott draws in a deep, shaky breath, visibly trying to pull himself together. He wipes his own face with the heel of his hand, smearing sweat and blood into a tired blur across his cheek as he swears under his breath.

“What- what do we do?” you whisper through sporadic pants.

He glances back toward the body. You do too, briefly, and your stomach twists all over again at the sight.

“We leave,” Scott says, the words clipped, like he’s already made the decision and just needs you to agree.

“What?” Your voice cracks with disbelief. “We- we can’t just leave- he’s fucking dead.”

“He’s not dead,” Scott cuts in sharply, and for a second his composure wavers again, voice cracking in denial. “I think. I don’t know. But we can’t stay.”

You shake your head, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, forgetting how sodden it is. “We have to call someone - an ambulance - or - or, the police-”

“No,” Scott says, firmer now, making you flinch. He pushes himself down to your level with a wince, bracing a hand on the wall. “No CCTV here. No one saw us come in. This place is secluded as hell, we don’t even know who he is. We’re trespassing. If we call someone now, we open up a whole can of shit we can’t afford.”

“You can’t be serious,” you whisper, shrinking back from the hardness in his voice. “We leave him? Just- pretend this didn’t happen? What… what about the other guy? What if he’s coming back?”

Scott exhales shakily, grimacing.

“Then we make sure we’re gone before he does. Whoever they were, they weren’t here for a friendly chat. If we stick around, we’re putting ourselves in their hands. And you…” He trails off, eyes flicking to your bloodied clothes, your shaking hands. “We don't have time for that.”

You don’t answer. You can’t answer. Your pulse is still thrumming in your ears, your limbs numb, throat closed tight.

He lowers his voice again, gentler this time. “Please. Let’s just go. Get cleaned up.”

He extends a hand out to help you up.

You pause, glancing down at your hand, still shaking - the necklace’s chain still looped tight around your fingers like you’ve been clinging onto it for dear life. You hesitate, then hold it out toward Scott, your voice wrung out.

“This is yours.”

He looks at it, frowning for a moment before he looks back at you. “Keep it,” he says, quieter now. “We’ll take a proper look once we’ve got our heads screwed on.”

You nod, reluctant, not sure you even want to hold it anymore, but not trusting yourself to let go either, as you allow him to pull you to your feet. You wipe your fingers on the edge of your sleeve and look around, searching shakily for your bag.

It takes a second to register what’s missing.

“My notebook…” Your voice falters, eyes scanning the dark room again in a blind, rising panic. “It’s gone.”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest. You push away from the wall too quickly, the room pitching as you turn in a frantic circle, hands shaking. “No- no, it was right there - in my bag-”

Scott’s expression hardens, voice going flat. “Cunt took the fucking ledger, too.”

You swallow down a noise that might be a sob, the room closing in. Your breath comes fast and shallow. You press a trembling hand to your mouth and stare down at the bloody mess on the floor, the open, repulsive, mushy mess splurging out from the skull just inches from where you’d been lying.

Just like that, a second wave crashes over you.

“Oh God,” you whisper, staggering back a step. “Oh God - oh fuck, I-”

And then-

A sound from the hall.

A bash, then a creak of a floorboard. Footsteps.

Scott straightens instinctively, posture tight as your eyes widen. He shifts in front of you without thinking, arm half-extended as if to keep you behind him. You both freeze. Your breath catches on an involuntary hiccup.

Then a voice- your names, loud, from just down the corridor.

Sam.

Scott's shoulders drop but he shoots you a quick look still - wide-eyed, breath tight - as if to say how the hell do we explain this?

And then he's there too, bursting through the doorway you'd tried to escape from, chest heaving, your phone clutched in his hand.

His eyes take in everything at once- your wild, teary expression, Scott’s bloodied knuckles, the corpse on the floor.

As he does so, his face changes - contorting in slow, dawning horror.

“...Jesus Christ.”

____

please trust me when i say: this will all make sense <3

#sam drake #samuel drake #uncharted #sam drake x reader #samuel drake x reader

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