Disclaimer: I do not own the Uncharted series. All rights go to Naughty Dog.

WARNING: There's descriptions of blood. If you're too squeamish then you know what to do. It's not anything too violent... I think.

*Ahem*- ENJOY!


He hears the bullets whizz pass his ear and slam into the concrete wall, mere inches away from hitting his face. Nathan's yanking him up by the arm with much difficulty and Sam doesn't blame him. Kid's lost a lotta weight in the past month and he's pretty sure the beating he took earlier weakened him a bit. On the bright side, they're finally getting the hell out of this shithole which means decent food and clothing await them.

Just as he finds his footing, that's when it happens.

As soon as he was getting ready to sprint, Nathan pushes him forward shielding his body from the guards aim. He hears the bastards fire and the sound of bullets lodging into his little brothers side. The oh God dies in his throat as it clogs with pure horror. He'll never forget the way they make eye contact, the way Nathan's blue-grey eyes widen in shock with realization as his lips part with a surprised cough.

He grabs him before he hits the floor.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as raw instinct kicks in. He's ignoring Rafe's demands to hurry up as he bends his knee, grabbing Nathan's right hand with his left and draping it over his shoulder. He squats and wraps his arm around the back of Nathan's right knee. He quickly hoist his brother over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and he's doing his best to ignore the sensation of blood soaking his shoulder. All he knows right now is that they gotta move. He's sprinting as fast as his legs can take him, dodging the tree branches and tightening his grip so Nathan won't fall. His muscles protest at the amount of physical labor, but Sam ignores them and continues to run and jump right behind Rafe.

"Sam," Nathan whispers, and Sam's surprised his ears picked up the faint voice through the shooting and shouting, but he's glad Nathan's not unconscious. That's a big plus.

"You're gonna be alright," he breathes, reminding his brother and himself while picking up the pace. He had to be.

"We're approaching the end the of the cliff!" Rafe shouts in warning, "Get ready to slide down!"

Sam instinctively tightens his grip even further and begins to slide down the muddy path. His heart hammers in his chest when he watches Rafe disappear first down bellow before shortly following. The ball of nervousness in his gut expands as they slide closer and closer to the edge. When his mud caked shoes reach the end of the path, gravity takes full control as he and Nathan are propelled in the air.

"Oh shiiiiiit!"

The wind roars in his ears and his heart feels like it lunges up to his throat when his grip on Nathan loosens. Nathan's screaming and he scrambles in the air for his arm. Too late. Their bodies slam into the cold water below and he ignores the panic that wells up in his chest as he searches in the deep blue for him. It doesn't really take a while to find him, but when you're underwater and your brother's shot and bleeding out, every second feels interminable. When Sam finally spots him, floating in the water, he's so damn relieved it's unexplainable. He swims towards Nathan. The need for air nudges his lungs from the free fall that has left him breathless. He wraps an arm around Nathan's torso and begins to swim upwards. He greedily sucks in the air and makes his way towards the boat.

He's extremely grateful it's not parked far way. When Sam reaches the end of the boat, he uses one arm to pull himself onto the washboard while still keeping his grip on Nathan. In one swift motion, he hauls his brother onto the board and he's once again reminded of just how light he his.

"Step on it, Rafe!" He shouts over his shoulder.

Sam quickly sits down on the platform, pulling Nathan to him before the boat has a chance to move. Good thing for his celerity or else they'd fall right back in the water.

He positions Nathan horizontally and cradles his head on his lap. When he gazes down, it's the first time he notices that his eyes are closed.

"Ah shit." He quickly shrugs off the blue prison uniform button up he wore over his shirt. Sam wrings it of excess water and bundles it tightly, pressing it on the wound. He represses the hysteria building up in his chest at the sight of blood gushing out of his brother's still form.

"Nathan?"

He places his free hand on the side of his cold damp face and he's firmly shaking him. He tries again a bit more desperately this time and swallows the lump that forms in his throat.

"Nathan?"

He watches his lashes flutter and lift slowly. Sam releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He's thanking God when he looks down into those blue eyes again. The boat suddenly rocks up and down causing Nathan to cry out in pain. Yep, the shock and adrenaline's definitely worn off by now.

"Shh," he's saying while carding a hand through his wet strands. "You're okay Nathan. You're okay."

Sam watches him grit his teeth and groan in pain. He feels guilt wash over him like a tidal wave. He knows he can't dwell on it now, so he pushes it back and focuses on stemming the bleeding.

"Sam," Nathan grunts, breathing heavily through his nostrils. "Whe-

"Shush Nathan, don't talk. Save your strength." They can deal with questions later. All that matters now is preventing Nathan from passing out. His hand and the front of his shirt are completely stained with crimson. He's happy his hands are steady in contrast to his voice because he sounds as anxious as he feels.

"Just try to stay awake, alright?"

He presses down harder on the wound and nearly jumps out of his skin when Nathan's hand clamps on his arm. He feels a little guilty at that, worsening the pain, but it's a necessary evil. "I have to stop the bleeding," he assures him. Christ knows he's trying.

Suddenly, Nathan's slamming his hand away with his own and if Nathan wasn't shot, he'd slap him hard on the back of his head for making such a stupid move. The new wave of blood that gushes out from his side fuels both his fear and anger.

"The hell are you doing? Stop!" He snaps angrily while slapping Nathan's hand away.

Sam watches him screw his eyes shut in pain. He makes these little wheezing noises in the back his throat like that of a wounded animal and he's breathing more heavily than before.

"Hurts," he groans.

That one word mollifies Sam because it's impossible for him to remain angry at Nathan while he's in such a ghastly state.

"I know little brother, I know," he's saying, whilst grabbing the hand he slapped away so they can put pressure on the wound together. The other reason is to prevent him from ramming his hand away again. Sam's pretty sure his body can't afford another stunt like that. He squeezes the hand underneath his reassuringly. He winces when Nathan tries to tug it back, because even he knows that hurts like hell. Nathan whimpers aloud and as if that doesn't yank on his heart strings.

"Shhh." He can't help himself when he instinctively smooths Nathan's hair back and plants a kiss on his forehead. If he was in his right state of mind, Sam's sure Nathan would push him away, wipe his forehead in embarrassment while looking around to see if anyone had seen, and whine about how he's not three anymore.

It's annoying though when Nathan seems to have a complete disregard about his previous instruction because he continues to speak.

"I'm...n-not d-dying...Sam."

But instructions be damned because that's putting a smile on his face. For once he is happy with Nathan's stubbornness, refusing to give up and all. If he keeps pushing through they just might make it.

"Yeah, yeah I know you're not," he nervously chuckles, "'Takes more than a bullet to kill you." It was a reminder for Nathan and himself. They've been through hell and they've managed thus far. They can push through this.

"Damn..agh...s-straight."

For a minute there was peace which was a miracle in and of itself because their current situation was anything but peaceful. He manages to stem the bleeding, and they're drawing closer and closer to land which means Nathan's gonna get patched up soon. Nathan keeps breathing and he'd go as far to say his demeanor seems a bit more calm compared to what it was a couple minutes ago. He's rubbing circles with his thumb through the soft hair at his temples, so that's probably why.

For some strange reason, Sam is reminded of the time Nathan broke his leg while trying to climb onto the roof of St. Francis by himself. He remembers visiting the eight-year-old in the hospital room, completely terrified when he heard the words "your brother's in the hospital." Their moms death was still slightly fresh in his mind, despite it having been three years. His entire left leg had been swallowed by the white cast. When he practically sprinted to the bed, Nathan looked down at his hands in shame as if preparing himself for a lecture. Poor kid had probably gotten fifty from the nuns, so rather than scolding him, Sam praised him for his bravery and made him promise to try again when he gets better, this time with Sam. He'll never forget the way those bright blue eyes lit up as if it were Christmas that day.

He remembers lying down on his bed one afternoon, reading a book about Mongol reign, when eight-year-old Nathan hobbled into the room with his crutches, tears in his eyes. None of the other kids had wanted to sign his cast and in that moment Sam had wanted to bash all of their heads in with a baseball bat. Sam told him to come here, patting the place beside him on the bed. He had thrown and arm around the boy's shoulders saying he knew just the thing. He propped Nathan's cast over his lap and took out a black marker. They drew funny pictures (taking turns of course) of their father, the nuns, and eventually each other. Nathan's drawing were rather impressive for his age. Personally, he couldn't draw stick figures even if his life depended on it. When Nathan smiled, the left corner of his mouth lifted in content, he knew it was a mission accomplished. They signed their names on what little white space they had left when they were finished.

"Sam," Nathan mumbles, snapping Sam out of his daze,"...d-don't feel..too..ugh.. good."

"Shit," he guiltily curses. Kid's not lookin' too good either. "How much longer Rafe!"

"We're almost there!"

He repeats the words in his head like a mantra and looks down at his lap to find Nathan's eyes closed again, only this time it's eerily different. This time, it feels as if he'll never open them. Panic swells within him like a ballon threatening to pop.

"Oh no you don't." He clamps his hand onto the back of Nathan's neck and he gives his head a little shake. "Stay with me Nathan," he pleads. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

He desperately gazes into Nathan's face as if looking hard's gonna make him wake up. He knows it's not, and hates himself for what he is about to do. He smacks the side of Nathan's face hard and his eyes fly open. Thank God.

"Stay with me, little brother." He tenderly places his hand back on his cheek. Damn. His face feels as cold as ice.

Nathan's grinning like an idiot and he doesn't know why for the life of him. He's lost it. It doesn't matter because it's causing him to grin like an idiot. "Something funny?"

Just when things are looking better, the damn boat decides to violently rock up and down now. Nathan's mouth opens in a soundless cry and Sam feels his gut do a somersault.

"Nathan?"

He's tapping the side of his face again and his breath hitches in his throat when Nathan's eyes roll to the back of his head. Everything stills.

"Nathan!"

"What happened?" He hears Rafe shout.

"No, no, no, no, no." He's gripping his hair and tugging harshly at it with blood stained hands. Nathan...he-

"Sam! Snap out of it and communicate goddammit!"

Sam does. Because he's not one to settle and fate be damned because there's no way in hell he's losing Nathan. There's just no way.

"Did you call that Doctor?" He yells back, biting back a sob and resisting the urge to cradle Nathan's body to his chest.

"Yeah he's waiting for us at the apartment! Just stick to the plan!"

The plan. Nathan getting shot wasn't part of the plan. But even though Rafe was probably using them to his benefit, Sam's extremely thankful for him nonetheless. If it weren't for his contacts and cash, Nathan's chance of survival would've been none guaranteed.

The boat pulls up to the dock and Sam can see the black getaway car parked near by with their names on it. He's quickly putting an arm underneath Nathan's knees and another underneath his upper back. Sam tucks his chin over Nathan's head to prevent it from bobbing. In one swift motion, he lifts his little brothers limp body into his arms and he's sprinting towards the car with Rafe following beside them.

He manages to get the car door open and as soon as they're in he slams it shut. He hasn't let Nathan go and he's not planning to. His brothers face is so pale and he looks so damn young. Not that he isn't young to begin with; he's only twenty-three. He's too young. He screws his eyes shut, refusing to let any tears fall. Nathan's not dead, so it would wrong of him to mourn like he already is.

The tires screech with every turn at the amount of speed, and it feels like an eternity when they arrive at the apartment. Sam's climbing the steps as fast as he can. Of course it had to be on the second floor. He almost breaks the door down by slamming it open with his foot. The middle aged man sitting on the bed, whose presumably the doctor, jumps out of his skin when he enters with Nathan. Sam rushes to the bed with his arms still full. The Doc is talking in his ear but Sam can't hear him. It's when Rafe is practically ripping his vice like grip away from his brother when he realizes he hasn't let him go. His brain and body must still be on autopilot. He gently lays Nathan down, head first, onto the bed before being pulled back.

He tries his best not to hover over the Doctor's shoulder, knowing he needs his space to work. Rafe collapses into the chair beside the bed in exhaustion. Sam? Sam can't sit down even if you chained him to a chair. Not until he knows Nathan will make it. Not 'till he has proof. He's been relying on faith alone, but that's not enough. He needs facts.

"Sam, let the man do his work," Rafe's ordering tiredly when the Doctor's shooting him a pleading glare.

"I am, I am," he's muttering, stepping a couple inches back and speeding up his pacing.

"Look, why don't we step out for a cigarette break?"

It's such a tempting offer because he's under so much stress that he could smoke two packs in one sitting, but the thought of leaving the room, of leaving Nathan alone unattended, doesn't sit well with him. He's gets a little pissed at Rafe for even suggesting that he leave, but then quickly dismisses it. The man offers it for his benefit and it's not like he doesn't look like he needs one. He does. Desperately.

"No, it's alright," he shakes his head, "you go on without me."

Rafe runs a hand through his hair and sighs disappointedly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He hears the door shut behind him, and he rubs his hands together nervously. He can't wait until all of this is over. He's got questions.

He clears his throat. "SeƱor, how is he?"

The Doctor probably speaks Spanish, but it's worth a shot. Not that he can't speak it himself, it's just he wants to speak a language he's comfortable with. Plus, keeping an eye out for grammatical errors while speaking the language is the least of his worries right now. Besides, Rafe did hire him, and if it's one thing Sam knows it's that Rafe's Spanish is as equally shitty as his Latin.

The Doctor is a small man in his early fifties. He has what people would call a kind face, but judging from experience, it means nothing to Sam.

"He has two bullet wounds and a graze," he says with surprisingly no accent at all.

He looks down at his feet and swallows with much difficulty. He waits for more information, but it doesn't come. He hesitates to ask the one vital question that hasn't stopped pestering his mind since they got here. Sam just hopes his voice doesn't quiver when asking it.

"Will he make it?"

Doc spares him a glance this time before returning to his work. The man hesitates to answer and he doesn't take that as a good sign.

"He might."

He inhales sharply at that, hoping for a he will instead, but he knows it's never been that easy for them. He looks at Nathan's face, all pale and dirty, and he wishes more than anything for those thick lashes to lift. He keeps his eyes on Nathan's face for the whole duration of the operation in hope for stirring, twitching, something.

When the Doc's done sewing the flesh together he helps him with the pressure bandages. He stands at the head of the bed, slipping his arms around Nathan's torso and then gently lifting him a couple inches off the bed. The man dresses the wound and Sam knows that's his final signature. He gently sets Nathan down, hand halting in the air when it wants to card through his hair again, but he lets it fall to his side because he remembers that they have company.

"Good news," Doc announces whilst snapping off his rubber gloves. "Both bullet wounds have clean exits, so there was no need to remove any bullets."

"And the bad news?" He finds himself asking and stuffs his hands into his front pockets.

"He's lost about two pints of blood."

"Jesus Christ." Two pints. He runs a hand through his hair. Those cigarettes are looking extremely tempting right now.

The man nods. He takes out of his black briefcase of what seems like more bandages. He folds them neatly and places them on the bed beside Nathan's feet.

"You'll have to bandage the wounds again once they become soaked through with blood. I suspect he will gain consciousness within a couple of days. It will take two to three weeks for his body to completely restore the amount of blood loss. Feed him foods with plenty of iron when he wakes up and keep him hydrated." He reaches in his bag again and hands Sam a bottle of pain killers. "Give him those when he wakes up."

Sam almost smiles, liking the choice of the word when. He offers his hand and the Doctor cracks a small grin as he shakes his hand earnestly.

"Thank you," he says, pouring all the gratitude he was feeling into those two words. If it weren't for this man, his brother would have been long gone. He doesn't dwell on the thought for very long.

The man simply nods, closing the black bag. He bids him goodbye and Sam watches him exit the room; a complete stranger who has done him an imperative service. He sighs and sets the bottle of painkillers on the small table beside his chair. His eyes travel to the still figure on the bed.

Nathan looks so frail, like any harsh contact can potentially break him. It's a strange, pitiful sight because he can normally take a punch, kick, slap, anything really. So to see him so unlike himself, usually indefatigable and bustling with life, now lying still, fragile as ever. It's a sight he hopes he'll never have to see again.

The guilt he had suppressed on the boat resurfaces. What the hell was he doing? He's supposed to be looking after the one family member he's got, not allowing him to get shot, emaciated- he's practically in a coma! Sam shakes his head at that thought, gazing up at the ceiling.

He chose this life- we chose this life.

Yeah, they did choose this life, but that doesn't translate into get reckless or neglect your brother. It should've been his ass to get shot, but no. Nathan did what he should have done, and that's protect him. Why?

"'Cause I'm the older brother," he mutters to himself whilst scrubbing a hand over his face.

...

The first two days pass by like a breeze because he doesn't worry as much, knowing that Nathan needs time to recuperate from such an egregious physical blow. The third day leaves him uneasy because he was hoping Nathan would wake from his "nap" already.

It is currently the third day of Nathan's convalescence, and Sam desperately needs a shower. He ignores his phone on his way to the bathroom when it vibrates again. Rafe's calling him from his three day long cigarette break and Sam doesn't want to deal with him right now. He'll call him back when all this shit is over and done with. He's peeling off the blood stained shirt that sticks to his skin. He does his best to scrub all the blood, dirt, and grime off his face, body, and hair. He and Nathan had packed a duffle filled with emergency clothes and cleaning supplies as they always did after busting out of prison. After all, it would be unwise to go walking around town in a prison uniform after recently breaking out.

He's in and out of the shower within five minutes tops. Sam's gotta admit, the shower makes him feel less shitty now that he's clean and his mouth doesn't taste like crap. He wets a clean rag he manages to find in the kitchen, wringing it of excess water. He grabs the duffel that was in the trunk of the getaway car and returns to the bedroom. He gently cleans Nathan's face with the rag, cautious of some of the cuts and bruising on his face. He throws it over his shoulder momentarily and fishes out a grey long-sleeve shirt. Sam grabs his pocket knife from his back pocket and uses it to cut and free Nathan of the uniform, first cutting the button up then the undershirt. Good riddance. He tosses the shredded clothes to the corner and he grabs that rag again and wipes it gently under his neck, over his chest, and arms scrubbing off dirt and blood. It's not a complete makeover per se, but it will have to do for now.

When Sam's fitting the shirt over his head and getting his arms through the sleeves, mindful of the IV, he remembers his mom dressing baby Nathan with much difficulty. Nathan had always been a fussy baby and it was practically impossible to feed and dress him. Sam would know. When his mom and father were out working, Sam was taught how to look after the chubby brat. He had just turned six at the time. He chuckles sadly. Certain memories clearly have impeccable timing.

He plops in the chair when he's finished, stifling a yawn. After being awake for thirty-six hours, he had rested on the second day for about three hours. He isn't gonna lie- he's absolutely exhausted, but he can't sleep for reasons that are so evident now they don't need explaining.

Today's the day he inculcates to himself. Nathan will wake up today and they can return to their Avery business after a good weeks rest. He'll contact Rafe, they'll go to Scotland, find the treasure, and live the life they're meant to be living. Everything will be back to normal.

However, on the morning of the fourth day, he can feel his hope begin to slowly dwindle away. He knows it's gonna take Nathan longer wake up compared to most people, especially because they weren't, couldn't go to a hospital, but does it normally take this long? Sam's pretty sure it doesn't and that thought triggers something in his gut.

He feels the desperation begin to gnaw at his empty stomach. He springs out of the chair, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and trusty lighter, and heads outside unable to bear the pitiful sight any longer. Nathan, the bed, the IV, the fucking walls all feel like they are closing in on him and he can't take this shit anymore. He's leaning over the balcony now and it's like a fountain springing forth in the middle of the desert when he inhales that first puff. He rubs the corner of his eye in an attempt to elude sleep and exhales, smoke temporarily clouding his vision.

He doesn't know what he's gonna do if... Sam rests his heavy head on his forearm and his hand ghosts over the cross in his pocket. Maybe it's not too late.

...

It's the fifth day.

He's slumped in the chair, eyes burning holes in the ceiling. Nathan hasn't woken up. He knows the yet part is missing from that sentence, but whose he kidding. His throat clogs with raw emotion and his eyes settle warily on his brother.

He doesn't know what the hell he's gonna do if he looses Nathan. He's already lost their mom. Sam's not sure if he can handle loosing the only blood he has left. He squeezes his eyes shut and retrieves the golden cross from his front pocket. He runs his thumb over the edges remembering a time where it hung gracefully around his mother's neck. Now it lay pooled, barren of its proper owner, in his palm. His eyes burn and he bows his head and rests his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms together.

For the first time in years, he begins to pray. He's not a religious man- that much is clear, but at this point it's the only thing he can think of doing. It's the only thing even left to do besides waiting. He had his facts and now all he has left to choose is faith. If he doesn't, he'll be left with nothing. Sam can't afford being anchor-less and allowed to drift off in the waves of uncertainty. Besides, this was mainly for Nathan in the first place. He swallows his pride.

"L-Lord," he whispers, clearing his throat at the awkwardness. Man, it's been a long time. "I ask...for forgiveness of my sins and Nathan's, uh," he tightens his grip on the golden cross and for once in his life stops beating around the bush. "Lord, I-I can't lose him," he confesses. "I'm asking for a miracle, here. His life is in your hands, so..." He pauses again for a moment, swallowing thickly, his breath hitching. "Don't take him away from me. Please. Through Christ's name, I pray, amen."

He opens his eyes and looks up from his hands. He can't describe what he feels when he eagerly looks at his little brother's face, only to find that his eyes remain closed. Through all the kaleidoscope of emotions he's felt in the past five days- the dread, anger, concern, love, and even loss- he now feels numb.

Sam leans back into the chair crossing his arms and folding one foot on top of the other. The last thing he focuses on is the rise and fall of Nathan's chest before that too is gone. He closes his eyes, finally listening to his body's demands for rest. His head dips down to his chest and it's not long before he's sleeping, hand still wrapped around their mother's cross.

Tbc...