There's a reason Lara Croft doesn't go clubbing very often.
And it's only now, as she's slamming a pervert's head into the bar, Sam barely able to hold her back as security scrambles into entirely-too-delayed action, that she realizes why. After two days of hell, the last thing she wanted to feel was an unwashed savage of a man grabbing her.
A sickening crunch echoes in Lara's mind, but she knows she hasn't killed the man. Only a short while ago, she probably would have killed him.
But that was Yamatai. That was survival.
This was recovery.
And she hated it.
The doors can't fly open fast enough for Lara as she leaves. The rain pours down, making her mood even worse. She can tell herself it's not Yamatai. She can tell herself it's not a goddess-created storm, that she's safe at home, that everything's alright…but she knows that the third thing is a lie.
She's not alright.
It takes only a few minutes for Sam to catch up to Lara. It takes even less for the two to get home. Croft Manor. A sprawling, rich legacy of treasure hunters and archaeologists. But it is a lonely home. Winston is a butler, not a caregiver, and even if Lara was Batman and he was Alfred, she would still feel the pain. For years she tried to live a normal archaeologist's life. Push the disappearance of her parents aside, not touching a single cent of her fortune so she could cling to the only good memories she had.
And Yamatai tore that apart.
"Lara. Please. Stop. I'm sorry…" Sam begins, reaching for her, before pulling back out of fear.
Lara doesn't get mad. She cries. Her hair, a wild, tangled mess, splays out on the pillow as she cries in her bed. Sam knows what to do. Sam, her only real best friend, her closest confidant…
"Sam…oh God, Sam…"
Lara's hand reaches for Sam's. It doesn't quite make it. It instead brushes the Japanese-American girl's raven hair. It's silky smooth from a mixture of shampoo, rain, and liquor. Lara lets out a slight gasp. The alcohol she consumed earlier is still working its way through her. Sam blushes at the sudden attention and comes closer to Lara. One hand rests on Lara's side. The other brushes Lara's dark hair, looking like a forest of broken, burned wood as her pale hand drifts through it like the wind. Sam's heart begins to pound as she touches her. Alcohol buzzes faintly on her lips and its suggestion draws them closer. A wordless kiss. A silent touch. A rustle of sheets.
Then she turns out the lights and the rest is a blur.
Neither of them can remember what happened.
So it comes as a shock when Lara finds her tank top and bra lying in a heap by the back of her head, and her friend's panties around her fingertips. Sam's lipstick is smudged and Lara's eyeliner has been running.
"Lara? Unf…what happened last night?"
Sam blushes furiously as she recognizes her shade of lipstick all over Lara's body.
Lara blushes even more when she realizes her fingers are damp and her friend looks blissed out.
"Um…Um…"
The words don't come to Lara, but she knows what happened last night.
And so does Sam.
"Sam, please don't be mad, or get the wrong idea, or…"
Sam doesn't stop grinning.
"Lara! I'm finally getting through to you! You finally put that body to use hitting something other than books! And here I thought you were gonna be frigid forever!"
Lara says nothing.
"I…I didn't know what I was doing…I shouldn't have…I didn't ask you…"
Sam just laughs.
"I've been wishing you would."
There is a silence, though "silence" is perhaps an inaccurate term. There is a cessation of speech as the rainstorm continues outside. The aged window panes of Croft Manor run slick with precipitation as a dark, oppressive sky looms on the horizon. Neither woman speaks—for women they are, Yamatai having forged them, a dark crucible of storms and blades, creating the rational from the irrational. Lara's eyes meet with Sam's. It is hard for her to believe she looks upon the descendant of a virtual goddess…but her beauty provides no doubt of that. It is hard for her to believe that her friend, who she just spent a drunken night of passion with, whose gentle eyes and tone have given her considerable comfort, is the direct descendant of a violent tyrant.
The female of the species is deadlier than the male.
That phrase echoes through Lara's mind as she caresses her friend again. Still, something draws her to Sam, something more than friendship, something even more than love. In a way, she supposes, Father Mathias had been right. Neither she nor Sam were heroes. But they were survivors, they were a family, they were one—something that the Solarii had claimed to have.
Still, if Lara saw another samurai, it would be too soon.
Sam yawns as she gets up.
"I think we should shower, Lara. As nice as last night was, we can't go out like this."
Lara looks herself over and sees one of her scars outlined in lipstick. She can't agree more.
"There's probably still alcohol on my breath…how DO you talk me into these things, Sam?"
"You've never been able to resist my pretty face. Also, the fact I keep tugging your arm and making puppy-dog eyes at you till you cave is another reason."
Lara agrees.
There are still days where Lara's bones click and grind, the tension never quite wearing off from her experiences on Yamatai. There are still moments where she feels the phantom pain of the rebar impaling her stomach. In the last few days the tears have finally stopped coming when those moments happen. Even so, it doesn't settle her stomach any better.
Sam has problems too, and Lara knows it, but she's definitely handling them better than her. Lara knows she's cold at times and she wishes she could be more open, but she's just not ready. The real Lara Croft is someone few people have ever seen, and even she isn't sure how they'd react if they saw her unresolved emotional issues pour out. Only Sam, Roth, and maybe Grim even had a hint of the real personality behind the polished marble statue that is Lara's façade.
They shower together, but Sam, playful as she is, can tell Lara isn't in the mood for any funny business. Instead, she just lathers Lara's hair for her, reaching up above her to remove the elastic holding Lara's ponytail in place. Her dark hair cascades about her shoulders and it never fails to take Sam's breath away. Slowly, gently, she wipes away the lipstick covering Lara's scars. Lara moans gently at the touch. She blushes, her face already red from the heat and steam of the shower. Both girls have missed this. Yamatai provided few comforts and if they washed at all it was with icy cold water. Sam's shampoo fills the air with a scent of cherries and strawberries, something half innocent, half sensual. It takes Sam all of her might to not press Lara against the wall and kiss her.
Lara does it instead.
"Promise you'll keep this quiet, Sam? I'm not sure if I'm ready for anything, and I just need…quiet. It just…feels right, doing it like this."
Sam just winks irreverently.
"Alright, Miss big shot superspy. On Her Majesty's Secret Service and all that jazz."
"Please. I'm not going to get shot. Again."
There are certain unwritten rules in the Croft household, and one of them is that you have to have seen at least one James Bond film. And Quantum of Solace only half counts—you have to watch Moonraker too for it to actually count. In Lara's eyes, each counts as about half of a Bond film. Sam made the choice of GoldenEye, which Lara both respected and sighed at.
"You just like it for Sean Bean!" Lara had protested.
"Don't act like you wouldn't hit that." Sam retorted.
Lara admitted she might, if Sean Bean could hold off on dying long enough.
The shower continues, each of them washing the other, holding each other close for comfort. Yamatai had left invisible scars on the both of them, and only something physical, something real, could heal them. Lara sighs, feeling the hot steam slowly untying the knots in her shoulders. Sam nearly slips and Lara catches her.
"I'm falling for you." Sam quips the moment she's on her feet again.
Lara smiles and turns off the water.
In a few moments she and Sam are in matching towels, resting on a wooden bench in the bathroom, sighing with delight. It feels like a weight has been lifted.
But for Lara, her mind is still stumbling, still wearing a backpack full of things she swore she hadn't meant to pick up.
A climbing axe. A loaded gun. Dead souls. Guilt.
And her best friend's panties, wrapped around her fingertips.