59
A Pin's Drop
The metal of the grenade was like a ball of ice in his quivering hand but he dared not drop it. Not yet, anyway. He supposed it would be easier to drop it now and get it over with, go out with a literal fantastic bang. It would be quick, certainly quicker than letting his life's blood pump out of his chest with each panicked flutter of his heart. He used to last of his waning strength to walk out of his hiding place to meet them, the three that dogged their forces' heels all the way to the Tree Of Life and the great stone of Shambhala itself.
Harry Flynn could not help but smile, a force of habit if anything at this rate, it was his neutral smug expression. There was no smugness now. As he looked upon the three he was currently bleeding for, they could see his expression was of resignation and sadness. Grief. Flynn had to admit, he had not wanted to die here. To see Shambhala was an explorer's, adventurer's and treasure-hunter's wet-dream but he had no intention of it being his gravesite when he first signed on. He thought up until Zoran Lazaravic put a bullet in his chest that he was going to slip out of it worse for wear but alive to tell the story. The adrenaline before had run its course, the shock numbing the possibly mortal injury now ebbing and pain beginning to throb in tune with his pulse. He could taste blood, but whether it was the beating beforehand or the actual shooting that caused it, he could not be sure. He was vaguely aware how heavy his arm was getting. Simply holding the explosive above his head to show his unwilling audience was exhausting. Blood loss was weakening him, as his legs giving out against the pillar had shown moments before.
He had been swift enough to avoid being bludgeoned by a Guardian on the way up the temple stairs but other than the elbow to the face by Chloe Fraser on their escape from custody on entering Shambhala, he was untouched. Out of breath and legs burning with the flying stride he was forced to take up all those damn stairs, maybe a bit sweaty. Upon first reaching the Cintimani Chamber, Harry was too deeply enamored by the gigantic electric blue sapphire of resin and its stunning beauty to hear heavy boots descend on him… Zoran's shadow fell over vision before he could move away, retreat with self-preservation. He remembered a fist like iron colliding with his jaw hard enough for supernovas to rupture across his sight. The next punch knocked him unconscious… for how long? Flynn did not know. But he dragged himself back into the world of the living, jerked from the daze at the unquestionable click of the safety being taken off a side-arm. He had just the time to instinctively flinch away from the blast, taking his heart from the direct path of the bullet. It did not immediately kill him, to the war-criminal's amusement. Harry Flynn was left to writhe on the floor for an undetermined amount of time, all the while the Serbian commander pacing around him with cruel delight. Next thing he knew, a grenade was thrust into his hand as he lay on the floor in a wounded heap. Make yourself useful, Lazaravic growled down at him. Kill them when they come. Those were the last words the madman said to him, or Flynn hoped they were the last. To see that asshole again would be too damn soon.
He took pride in his handsome features normally, flirting regardless of the target's gender on a casual basis. It was clear by the three's reaction, Flynn knew he looked like shit. To see their stunned faces, their hushed words of… what, pity? It sent a deep lurch of shame down into his abdomen. He didn't want them to see him like this… But what was worse than dying alone? Bleeding out in the chamber, he considered dropping the grenade when he was by himself, Zoran and his army already carrying on to the Tree or held back with battling the waves of Guardians defending their home. But, Christ, would it be messy… The dread of having his body blown to pieces and pink mist was chilling to face on his own. To be whole, alive one moment and be left in unrecognizable and identity-less gore the next. Would they stop to pay their respects? Would they even know it's him? Would his own ex-fiancée and former best friend be able to determine what happened? To see them distraught to find him battered and bleeding but alive and whole was one choice he preferred over the other possible outcome. Harry did not know what to call the impulse, but he wanted his last moments to be observed by somebody.
But could he do it? Could he kill his former allies in a final act of selfishness? Suicide was a given. He hardly had the choice, he was already dead. Harry Flynn grimaced to himself as he suppressed a violent shiver. He was already so fucking cold. He hated how freezing Nepal was before but being shot and bleeding out chilled him to the bone. His fingers were numb around the grenade, he had to clench his hand tight to remember it was still there.
A blonde woman he did not know personally stepped forward, she had promised to help him if he would allow it. I'm already dead, Flynn wanted to say, forget me, dove. How could these same people want to help him after all this? He wondered why he could have found himself in such a position, what series of actions had begun his act of betrayal. He was told life flashes before one's eyes as they were near death. In a way, Flynn could say it was true. Staring at the three people there to witness his unfortunate passing brought it all racing back.
He did not know the blonde reporter personally by name, just that his boss was aware of her tracking their activities due to his past war crimes. The first time he realized she was a factor at all was when Zoran's scouting group captured them shortly after finding the temple in Shangri-La. Lazaravic executed the wounded American in front of them all, another body to add to the foundations of this wild goose chase-turned-massacre. Harry wished then she left this hunt for good. But here she was.
Chloe Frazer, the sultry-voiced, dark-haired goddess that stole his heart along with his wallet when they first met. He knew then they were two birds of a feather. They scored all sorts of jobs together over the years before this latest one. Right before they took on the job to steal an oil lamp from an Istanbul museum for Zoran Lazaravic, he had proposed. They were drunk. She never gave him a solid 'yes', but not a straight 'no'. He simply assumed she needed time. And he loved her. So damn fiercely, even though she did not return those feelings as he inevitably found out.
Nathan Drake. Flynn never had family to speak of, but he once thought Drake as a brother. A clumsier dorky little brother, someone he loved to tease and joke and laugh with. They had history before this, one that he believed would weather the turbulence of this current job. That proved untrue. They were betraying each other from the beginning. His trust in both Nathan and Chloe proved to be disposable for their own means. That night, after meeting Drake in the lobby with Chloe to discuss the details of their plans, Flynn overheard it all after heading to their bedrooms. Those hotel walls were tragically thin, as he could attest to. His beloved fiancée had snuck into the room of his best friend and conspired to score the treasure and bail. Without him. He would not have believed it if he had not heard it all, word for word. He understood Chloe's actions, she was a wild card that he could never really turn his back on without worrying about his valuables. But Nate? The goody-goody Nathan Drake? Harry had to admit to himself that indiscretion hurt more than his love interest did. He grappled with a tsunami of emotions that night, jealousy and grief mixed with equal parts of rage. He thought of confronting them there that night, storming into the room. But that was never his style. He had to continue as scheduled until he found a way to ditch Drake. It went swimmingly at the museum. Nathan never suspected a thing until he pulled the rope up behind him, abandoning Drake to the security to discover. What was a few months in a Turkish prison? Or so he believed. Things just went downhill from there.
They got as far as Borneo before Harry Flynn was hopelessly over his head. Finding any clues to Marco Polo's lost crew dragged on for three agonizing and terrifying months without any progress but finding rotting ship remains and useless trinkets. No matter the prize at the end of the trail, if he knew what kind of psychopath Zoran Lazaravic was, he would have gotten the fuck out of there faster than a bat out of hell. Zoran may not have been certifiably insane as Chloe whispered to him once, he knew exactly what he was doing. And that was the scariest part. Harry loved history, he just devoured books on conquests, empires, wars, imperials, and even war-lords and dictators. He never imagined he see one face-to-face, let alone be working for one in intimately frightening circumstances. The man was intimidating enough with his gargantuan build and loyalty-or-die rhetoric, but the burn scars from the assassination attempt that overlapped his features and marred the side of his head added to the monster that would no doubt haunt Harry's nightmares. The man's eyes betrayed no kindness, no humanity, no pity. Not even while executing his own men for minor infractions. The first execution he witnessed still gave him nightmares. He never seen a man die violently like that in front of him before. It was not like the movies. It was the first of many experiences he wished he could forget.
Flynn knew a thing or two about hell, he's been acquainted with it in the past. But Borneo was an emerald green, deceptively beautiful hell. He had never seen trees so massive in his life, taller than skyscrapers and roots thick as sewer pipes twisting simple paths into labyrinths. The wildlife that was not frightened away by their presence was fascinating, vividly coloured parrots and curious monkeys. Cascading rivers and roaring waterfalls criss-crossing their trek. The beauty had its vicious side. It was just so bloody hot and humid. Dehydration was a constant risk. One misstep into a swamp could drown a man by pulling him into thick inescapable mud. They lay down wooden walkways and base camps to stop it becoming an issue. If the mosquitos and flies were not terrible enough, there were also toxic spiders and tarantulas and fuckin' snakes. Harry absolutely loathed snakes. He would try to keep his cool around his boss, the men, and Chloe… But snakes were something he'd rather stay the hell away from. As if the environment were not a struggle enough, Lazaravic breathing down the back of his neck the entire way with threats hanging over his head made it a waking nightmare. Chloe had not been witness to all the actions he done to terrorize his new employee. Harry wondered if that was intentional on Zoran's end, but the man gave no hints in his actions or motives. Just to instill ever-loving fear in him. He would try to smooth things out, to try and flatten out wrinkles in their plans, to buy more time. But each extension cost him. Zoran was sure to leave no marks that would be seen, or often resorting to the psychological sort of trauma. After watching Zoran ruthlessly slaughter one of his own, slitting the man's throat for an attempt of AWOL, he was ordered to Zoran's private tent. The vision still fresh in his mind, the dying gurgles still ringing in his ears, Zoran ordered Flynn to his knees… and stuck a loaded pistol in his mouth. Flynn shoved the memory down, forcing himself back to his current agonizing reality.
The front of his brown leather jacket was saturated in blood, stemming from the small entrance wound at his breast. In the clammy chill of the chamber, he was beginning to strain to breathe. Each inhale sent icy needles through his lungs, but he felt his chest was under pressure. Flynn was no medical expert, but he knew it was blood and air depressing his chest cavity. His vision was greying at the edges, colour leeching from the world. Shit. He was already so damn tired. His cot in his tent felt a million miles away but he would have wanted it there now more than anything. Talking hurt, his face felt like it was smashed to a bloody pulp and he did not have to reach up and touch it to know it was bad. How many times did Zoran hit him after he blacked out? Enough to get his jollies off, Flynn thought with a mirthless smile. Harry tried to stay on the war-lord's good side, try and appease him as much as he could when things looked close to boiling over. It rarely worked, or from what Flynn could gather because the man's brooding rages never altered, only redirecting itself onto another target. He tried to keep those tantrums off Chloe, and for the most part she only saw his threats directed at others than her. Except when they reached Shambhala. Zoran was prepared to execute them all systematically before the Guardians attacked. And it only seemed he prolonged the inevitable. Zoran cornered Harry in the end and murdered him all the same. Murdered. I'm already dead. A fuckin' shame.
He entertained the thought of escaping before the dynamic trio arrived, to ditch the grenade and bail. Lazaravic saw an end to that idea. Left on the floor in relative shock, bleeding and with a grenade in hand, he knew it was only a pipe-dream. Flynn was barely able to get his arse up off the ground, clutching onto the undetonated explosive for dear life. He had enough strength to hide himself behind a pillar and wait for … what, rescue? No, it was not going to happen. He thought of throwing the grenade down the stairs after Zoran, but already he knew he could not throw it far enough. He was too winded to even get a safe distance away. So he waited. And now, seeing their despairing eyes all regarding him with sadness and pity, he wondered how they could even stomach it. He would have been too disgusted with his own actions to mourn a traitor. Traitor. The word loomed heavy over his head for weeks. Shooting Nathan on the train was something he hardly believed he was capable of doing a year ago. Especially Nathan. He loved that kid. How had everything gotten so screwed?
It was quiet in the chamber, the silence so still and unnerving with the absence of gunfire and roars from enraged Guardians. They would be able to hear a pin drop. Like a grenade pin, the one Flynn was so sorely lacking and probably still looped on Zoran's finger as a trophy or reminder. One less pain in the ass to deal with. He doubted the man even felt the slightest bit of remorse, despite his months of tedious work and treading on eggshells to ease his boss' temper. Flynn could only hear his own laboured breathing and pounding heartbeat in his ears. He hoped they did not hear it as loud as he could. And what was he waiting for? Holding the grenade in his numbing hand, the muscles in his arm screaming as he held it above his head, Flynn did not know. Nathan, Chloe, and the blonde reporter were frozen in place, unsure how to act.
"Parting gift from Lazaravic… Pity he took the pin," Harry Flynn rasped with a smirk. He was smiling but he was not sure why. He almost dropped it right then, his arm so goddamn tired. He just wanted it all to end. He could see all their eyes widen in horror, Chloe already moving backwards out of the blast radius. The blonde was the closest, Nathan at her back. If he dropped it now, he'd take them with him. Zoran's intentions, one final order that went adversely against his morals. As exhausted as he was, he let his arm drop down to his side, still clasping the explosive tight. He couldn't do it. As frustrating, horrific, and maddening as this whole journey was, he did not have it in him to be what Zoran tried to groom him into. A killer. He did not know the reporter woman. He saw the cameraman, her tag-along and fellow American journalist, murdered in cold blood. But as much as she might have been a thorn in his side, he could not take her with him. "Listen," Flynn hissed, licking his lips to try and moisten them but only tasting blood. "Go. Now. He's going to the Tree. Fuckin' get out of here. You gotta stop that prick."
Their reactions to his request was plain shock, as if this day were not already full of surprises. Immediately, Nathan's arm went to the blonde's waist and luring her back towards Chloe. It seemed his girl was making new friends, as Chloe grasped onto the other woman's wrist and tugged her back despite a sound of protest from the blonde. Flynn felt a flutter of affection. She was always the unpredictable one. Chloe rarely took well to competition. Drake was already gearing up to argue, he could see that stubborn look he knew all too well, the younger man striding, no, racing over to him. "Flynn, wait a min-"
"Just stop, mate… I can't keep up. I'm done for." The words were frightening to utter, he could feel the creeping fear underlying all the exhaustion, the pain, the frustration of it all. To say them aloud meant it was real. He was too proud to tell them anything else, like his real feelings on the matter. And goodbyes were too pathetic. He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his tone, try as he might. "He wanted me to finish you all off. Too bad I was never one for orders, yeah?" Like hell he was going to blow them all up. Not after Lazaravic gave him his most recent souvenir bleeding him out. Obedience was never his strong suit. Or loyalty to those that did not earn it.
"We can't just leave him here," the blonde insisted, straining against Chloe's protective grip. To her credit, she did not let go despite the conflict clear on her features. Normally, she was the one to move onward the fastest if someone in the group had been wounded. But he was never part of their group. Former lover, ex-fiancée, but still very much a thief in nature like him. She would have never left him before the contract they took to this hellhole. The incident on the train had immeasurably and irreparably damaged their relationship. He still felt regret about it, but he did feel it was the right course of action considering the alternatives. Lazaravic would have slit Drake's throat and threw him overboard off the tracks. If he saw Chloe protecting him, he would have slaughtered her too for the treachery. No doubt Flynn would have followed her into the shallow grave, if the warlord granted them that much dignity. But they did not know that. They did not know the demons he grappled with on a daily basis working of the madman. They only saw a traitor. The fact they were still hesitating was entirely due to their good human nature, not out of Flynn's own character. There used to be resentment over that fact but blood loss put things into perspective and brought clarity. They were the better people for their actions and he knew it. He was an asshole, proved it already.
"Sure you could, love," Flynn murmured, his eyelids feeling heavy as he fought to keep them open. "Just go. I would've." Harry was not sure, but he must have closed his eyes just for a second. His strength was waning badly. But next thing he knew, Nathan was crouched in front of him, both hands clasped tight around the grenade in his icy fingers. The heat of his touch, the hot-blooded, never-cold Nathan Drake, brought Harry back into full conscious. He meant to jerk the hand away, to keep the explosive to himself where it belonged. But he was so damn weak already. "Fershitsake, Nate, get the fu-"
"Flynn, shut up," the younger man almost groaned, and Flynn had to focus his eyes on Nathan's face with some effort in response to the tone. It sounded thick, harsh with the emotion of it and the unshed tears in those blue-green eyes confirmed what he thought he heard. "Just shut up… Give it to me. C'mon, don't be any more of a prick than you already been."
If he was not so exhausted and drifting back into a grey, fuzzy fog that remained of the world with blood loss, Harry Flynn would have bickered back. He would have fought back somehow. But his hand gave up the explosive without incident, any words of argument dying in his throat. He could only pant for breath at this point, his lungs under pressure. The sound was a rattling wheeze that sounded wet, as blood was beginning to flood into his punctured chest. Frothy red bubbles clung to his lips. Fuck, this is bad. This is so fuckin' bad. The panicked monologue seemed to drone on in the back of his mind, but at the same time it was like a background radio channel, white noise. "Drake, please…" Harry hissed, he could not raise his voice to speak a normal volume. "Kill him. Kill Zoran."
"Oh, believe me, I don't need to be told twice," the young Drake almost laughed, but it was forced. His emotions seemed better in control now, but it was clear Flynn's condition was difficult to witness for him. "Hang in there, buddy… Elena, Chloe, I have to go do this. I need to give this toy back to the asshole who lost it." Nathan straightened and was already sprinting out of Harry's limited vision with the grenade in hand. "Take him to the elevator. Get him to the entrance, do what you can. We're getting the hell out of here."
Harry Flynn did not hear anything else. He fought off the creeping unconsciousness long enough and he surrendered to it. He was ready.
There are fleeting moments of consciousness, small tidbits of memory that unfolded like he was not truly experiencing them himself. It felt like he was watching a film. And each time a mini-film came on air, he was more and more surprised it was happening at all. After all, Harry Flynn was positive he was a dead man in that Cintimani Stone chamber.
What is death really like? No one alive can tell you unless they experienced it for themselves. Flynn had seen plenty of death already, but never the peaceful sort. Maybe exsanguinating on the floor of some ancient chamber made it seem peaceful with other choices he saw. Every hope, dream, memory, fear, every little abstract characteristic that made Harry Flynn was fading away every second. He could feel it. It was like they ceased to be important. If he was really dying, he supposed that was true. But other than his apathetic limbo, the clips of fleeting consciousness kept him clinging to that little spark. He needed to keep that tiny glimmer of fight alive if he wanted to see another day.
The first time he was brought back from darkness, it was an effort to wrestle his eyelids open. He could hear Chloe's voice in his ear, but it sounded so far like his head was underwater. He still felt so miserably cold, and it took a moment to allow his eyes to focus and absorb what he was seeing. A tile floor was gliding by, like he was floating over it but he could see his boots dragging listlessly across them. He coughed hard, to clear his throat of the buildup that formed and found it was clotting blood. It elicit a shrill shout of his name in his ear, and Flynn cringed awake for a few seconds. Both his arms were slung over each of the women's shoulders, they were practically dragging him along, Chloe at his left, the blonde (Elena?) on his right. Everything else beyond them was so distant, a mirage that shifted and remained muffled and alien. It took him a moment to realize the women were stumbling not under his weight, but the floor under them kept fracturing and quaking. Fuck, this place is falling apart. They were being pelted with debris that steadily showered down from the crumbling ceiling. Flynn was trying to maneuver his body, to at least move his feet along but he might as well been watching from the backseat. The only thing he could seem to accomplish was breathing, or a poor imitation of it. The wheezing and hacking was awful to listen to. "C'mon, Harry," Chloe chided into his ear, her tone taut with worry. "You'll be alright… Hang on a while longer." Flynn strained to lift his head, it felt encased in iron and weighed more than he ever thought possible. He managed to see just up ahead in time for the bridge to unfold before them to the entrance to Shambhala. Earth-shattering explosions were splintering the columns, ignited by the tangles of unidentified trees with flammable sap. He saw it only for another fleeting second, before another wave of blackness swept over his senses and left him in his existential limbo.
The next clip of consciousness left him pleasantly surprised that it happened at all. The crisis of Shambhala caving in around them when he was possibly dying was as big of a cliff-hanger as any. Flynn felt cold, nothing new, but this time he felt fresh cool air against his face and ruffling his sweaty locks. A breeze tickled through his eyelashes and it took a lot to open them. Blue skies. If it was not for the horrific sucking breaths he was forced to make, he was sure he was dead this time. The back of his head felt wet, he dragged one arm up across the ground at his side to touch it. His fingertips came away bloody. Christ, of course. Bloody butterfingers. They dropped me and let me split my head on the floor. There was no resentment, not even so much as a tinge of annoyance. In the haze of blood loss, his emotions were rendered relatively flat. It would have been nice, laying there, staring up at the sky like it were merely a lazy afternoon at a park. His reality came crashing back at hearing Chloe scream, not a sound to be taken lightly. Chloe never screamed. That chilling cry brought a surge of adrenaline he was sure was not possible in his state, his world swimming back into sharp focus. Flynn brought both heavy, clumsy arms at each side and shoved himself upright, and his breath caught in his throat to see what unfolded. Shambhala was in smoldering ruins, in the process of death throes. A blue fire lit the Tree and cast an electric azure glow over it all, a torch of reckoning. The bridge was collapsing, but what caught his eye was one of those immense Guardians towering over him, his massive hands ensnared around Chloe's throat and lifting her clear off the ground in an attempt to throttle the life from her. Elena was crouched nearby, firing wildly at the beast as it boomed its ancient language at them. That did the trick, it dropped Chloe and lunged for Elena instead. Not today, asshole. Without knowing exactly what he intended to do, Flynn flung both arms around the tree-trunk sized leg of the Guardian before it could attack the other woman. "Harry, what are you doing?!" Chloe barked out, her voice hoarse from the near-throttling. Not entirely sure, love. I'll let you know when I find out. He could only grit his blood-stained teeth as he fought to keep the monster from rocketing itself at the women. He only delayed the Guardian for mere seconds, its bestial strength was nothing compared to a dying thief. Harry Flynn was jerked about on the ground for a shake or two, before the giant bastard had enough and stomped down with his other foot on the downed man's face. Flynn did not see or hear anything else after that. It was simply another fragment of fleeting life.
When he was sure that was the end of the movie reel, which the story of Harry Flynn ended with a boot to the head by a mutant ancestor Guardian, he was surprised when he could hear a voice calling to him. A man's voice, one familiar and that he associated with good past memories, not the sad recent ones. Nathan Drake was yelling, hoarse with exhaustion and anxiety, demanding him to stay awake. Nate? You're not dead, are you? Forcing his eyes open again had added difficulty, it seemed his left eye was swelling and refusing to cooperate. A black silhouette outlined by blinding white light. Cold wind was whistling through his ears and wracking another shiver from him.
"Oh God, Flynn, hey. Hey now. Buddy, stay with me." Nathan's face was the first thing that focused, and Flynn had to take a moment to see the evidence of Zoran Lazaravic's wrath on the younger man's features. Ugly dark bands of bruising encircled his broad throat, scrapes and scratches littering his skin from the occasional scrap. But young Drake was still very much alive, and looking very good despite the life-or-death struggle against a homicidal dictator war lord. It took a moment for his good eye to take in his surroundings, drifting about lazily. Nathan Drake had Harry in his arms, one supporting his shoulders and the other had been resting under both legs. The younger man was desperately trying to warm him up, rubbing his unresponsive body in an attempt to generate heat and shielding him from the icy blasts of wind that pierced him using his own bulk. They were in the snow, seated on a stone slab in the monastery outside the secret entrance underneath the tree. They made it. Two other shapes were hovering above Nathan, standing while they were on the ground. Elena had her hands covering her mouth in piteous sadness, close at Chloe's side. Chloe's dark eyes were glazed with unshed tears, but she said nothing. It took him a bit to realize why they were hardly making any sounds were because the women were straining to listen to his laboured breathing above the howl of wind. To see them all unharmed and alive was a flood of relief. Flynn could not help but smile, less of a smug smirk and more of genuine happiness. Nathan tried to mimic it, but it was remarkably forced and steeped in grief. "Just hang in there, ass-wipe. You owe me big time. But that's no good if you die here, alright? Stay awake. Stay here with us. Don't go anywhere."
"Wouldn't dream of it, mate…" Harry rasped. It hurt to talk. His throat was clenching and dry, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. His eyelids were already drifting closed, the few moments of consciousness giving away what little strength he had stored. He was so damn tired. Nathan was so warm.
"Hey, come on," Nathan urged softly, giving the older man's battered cheek a tap. "Stay here. Help is on the way, you just have to hang on. Sully will be here any minute. The cavalry is coming. There's going to be a doctor onboard. You'll be okay. Goddammit, Flynn, how could you be so stupid? You couldn't fight anything in your condition. That Guardian almost had to scrape you off his boot. If I hadn't gotten there, you'd be toe-jam."
Flynn chuckled. Nathan could always get a giggle out of him, his dry humor paired well with his own. It felt good to have something to finally laugh about, all these long months in hell deprived him of a good joke. He would have said something smartass back, but his words emerged as a cough and splutter, whooping for air between the spasms. Every violent contraction of his chest brought blood to his lips and chin, sometimes as a fine red mist. His weak, limp hands became claws as he desperately fought for oxygen, flying to his chest and throat and hopelessly palming at the internal obstruction. Drowning in his own blood was turning out to be an awful way to go. "Easy," Drake whispered soothingly, placing one of his hands over Flynn's at his chest. Nathan's eyes were despairing, wide with the horror of Flynn's state. "Take it easy. Stay here with us. I know you been through shit, but you can hang in a while longer. Flynn, come on, talk to me. Tell me, where is your favourite beach?"
Able to finally suck in some oxygen, Flynn was panting with the effort to expand his lungs, but he clutched for Nathan's jacket in a weak attempt to drag himself into the warmth. His green eyes, usually so sharp and alight with humor, were distant and fogged like he were intoxicated. Harry did not feel cold anymore. He did not feel pain, he was just numb. The numbness was only an idle concern when Flynn should have known he was slipping into shock. A beach… A favourite beach… Flynn's thoughts were sluggish, crawling along as his chin rested on his chest. He loved the beach. Any beach, really. As long as there was sand, water and a drink, he was happy. The warmer, the better, but right now, he'd be content with a beach in fuckin' Northern Alaska. "Cancun…. The tequilas'h cheap…" Flynn's words were slurring, eyelids drooping closed. It was so hard to stay awake. Not bad last words. Could've been better, but I'm so damn ready for a nap. Or a coma.
Flynn's smile was rapidly fading, along with his consciousness. He could feel his body slump as each straining, quivering muscle slackened. As he dipped back under into the black nothingness, he could hear Drake's voice raise in panic. "Flynn? Flynn?! C'mon… Harry, please hang on, Sully's right over there." It echoed in the dark, a ripple that gradually disappeared.
Harry Flynn was sure that was the last time he was going to wake. At best, he thought he would have bled out in his former friend's arms and finally died. Dying at the monastery would not have been so bad, he would have known that all the madness, heartbreak, blood, sweat and tears was not for nothing. Shambhala has fallen. Zoran Lazaravic is dead. The Tree of Life is gone. All the hell that madman would have unleashed on the entire planet is no longer a problem. Maybe this was peace he felt, a lasting relief to months of bubbling anxieties that kept him awake at night. The monastery was even a beautiful final resting place. Too cold for his tastes, but there were worse places to be buried.
He was not sure how much time had passed, it could have been anywhere in the space of minutes to days. It was a sharp stabbing pain in his side between his ribs that did not seem to fade at all, but worsen. As if it were not possible, it was drowning out the ache of the gunshot wound in his chest. Harry would have screamed if he were not so weak, he could not stand how agonizing the new pain had soared to. He went to grab at the source, to yank it away, but before he could make decent progress someone's grip was at his wrist and pinning it to his side. Voices were drifting up to meet him, babbling incoherently in the background, rising in volume steadily until he could make out the words. Piss off, he wanted to growl, but his throat felt packed with dry cotton. He was so thirsty. Flynn's struggle must have been noted, because the voice shouted back down again.
"Flynn, cut it out! Hey settle down! You're safe, we're on Sully's plane." Nathan Drake. Harry wanted to settle down, he really did, but the ice-pick stabbing in his ribs was too much to ignore. "I know it hurts right now, pal. The doctor is putting a chest tube in. We need to get you breathing right."
Makes sense. Explains that much. Flynn's arm stopped writhing in Drake's grasp, trying to grin and bear it to the best of his ability. He forced his working eye open, trying to take in his surroundings again. There was a steady rumbling drone in the background, the engines of the aircraft Victor Sullivan piloted drowning out all else. Owing Victor a debt was not something Harry looked forward to, he only tolerated the man for Nathan's sake. If Flynn had his say, they would have ditched the old man years ago. But that was not Drake. He was loyal to the core. He was staring up at the rounded metal ceiling of the plane, laying on a cot in the back passenger area. Flynn had never been on Sully's plane. He was aware the first had blown up a couple years back and the replacement was a sad excuse for what was missing. There was still attempts to make it homey, posters of pin-ups and landscapes and beaches stuck up along the walls. Another shiver raced through Harry and he groaned, the first sound he managed so far. He was so damn cold. His upper body was completely bare, the blood-drenched jacket and shirt discarded heaps on the floor. It would not have been the first time he was shirtless around Drake, but he felt a flush of shame. Flynn acquired some new marks and scars since he was last bared, courtesy of his former employer's depraved temper. He only hoped they would not be the trigger to Nathan's attention.
The younger man was focused down on the doctor's work instead, brow furrowed and absently chewing his bottom lip like he was working out a puzzle. The doctor, presumably, was someone Flynn did not recognize or know, a middle-aged woman that did not speak at all. She might not even know English, as she was dressed in Nepalese-styled clothing like the people that lived in the village outside the monastery where Zoran's forces brutalized the population with a tank. There was a small twitch of guilt deep inside himself, a role he played against the people now helping him. Flynn did not look down at her work, he dreaded what was causing the nauseating agony. The women were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had their fill of blood for the day. An IV bag filled with dark red fluid was hanging from a ceiling hook, a clear thin tube running down and no doubt attached to him somehow. Blood donation. Good. Thought I was a goner.
Flynn was trying to shape the words in his mouth, but his tongue was swollen and dry. Christ, I'd kill for a drink. A glass of lukewarm water would be a treat. When he realized verbal commands were beyond him, Flynn tried to use hand gestures but Drake stubbornly bore down on his arm again. Nate, fergodsake, water. You idiot, help me out here. Licking his cracked, bloody lips, Flynn could only stare up at the younger man and hope somehow telepathy would work now of all times. A jedi mind-trick. Anything.
"Flynn? You okay? She's going to try and put in the tube now. I won't lie, it's going to hurt like hell. I got you, alright pal?"
Wait, so that pain was not the tube already? Goddammit, how much worse can it-
The thought ended abruptly before he can even end the train of thought, white hot excruciating agony lighting up his entire abdomen and webbing up his torso. Something blunted was being jammed into the spot, and Harry's spine arched taut against the cot with a dry, cracking howl. It sounded like a bobcat with its tail caught in a doorjamb, and it took a moment to realize the noise was coming from him. He could only feel Drake's hands on him now, his eyes were squeezed tightly shut as he tried to cope with the mindless pain. Flynn would have given anything for it to stop, would have given his left nut if there was an option. He could only writhe in the cot, his breath a harsh gasp to try to heave in oxygen. Then he was out again. He accepted the black nothingness thankfully, grateful for an escape from the torment. He could hear Drake's raising shouts of panic again, dropping away until he could only hear the suggestions of a whisper. And then it was dark.
There were moments in between where Harry appeared to regain lucidity and consciousness, but he would not remember any of the events beyond the insertion of the chest tube on Sullivan's plane. It was as if his subconscious mind had acted to protect and shield itself on what information can be deemed traumatic. Flynn had lost much of his blood volume, affecting his brain on how it can process memory.
Four days after his rescue, Flynn had endured a terrible infection that nearly claimed his life. His sun-kissed skin was ghostly pale, clammy and damp from perspiration although he never seemed to stop shaking. The wound on his chest was a hot, angry red and purple, pus seeping from between the stitches. Nathan Drake never left his side but had noticed something unusual about the latest symptoms despite some of the others brushing it off as recovery. Flynn's eyes occasionally flicked open, unfocused and staring blindly. Even when Nathan tried to get his attention, there was no recognition there. His breathing was harsh, feathery pants that appeared stressed. And hauntingly, Harry never spoke, not once. It scared the living shit out of Nathan, he had never seen Harry like that ever. It was not until Flynn actually begun to seize up when the doctor sprang into action, the final symptom no longer able to be ignored or trivialized. He was going septic. Flynn's wounds were infected, if they did not treat it, he would die.
The antibiotics were not in the village, much to Drake's dismay and sorrow. It took about a day for them to be flown in with Sully's help, the longest 24 hours of Drake's young life. Harry's condition had not deteriorated but remained stable, stubborn to hold on as Nathan hoped. But during that long wait, Drake witnessed something that made his blood run cold.
Flynn and Drake were left alone, Nathan had actually contributed a lot in cleaning the wounds and maintaining Harry's bandages with his insistence. With an infection, Drake had to be sure everything was kept clean, and he was not entirely trusting of the doctor's definition. To Nathan's dread and disgust, the bullet wound and obvious gouges on Harry's rugged, handsome face were not his only injuries. His broad, tanned back was marred with numerous slits and deep slices inflicted by a blade. When he found out that was not the worst trauma, Nathan nearly puked. Harry's thighs were gored up, a crude 'Z.L' carved into his left asscheek. The wounds were older, no longer needing stitches and some fresh knitted pink scar tissue already erupting under the scabs. It was hard to see Flynn like that. But despite the gruesome recovery, Flynn was unresponsive. It was so unlike him, it was chilling.
Nathan was dozing when it happened. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Flynn was sitting up straight, hands limp in his lap, staring dead ahead of him although the room was empty other than themselves. No amount of calling his name would rouse him from that bizarre trance. But when Drake touched his shoulder, just to lure him back onto the mattress, Flynn screamed. It was not a pained cry, a startled yelp, or a spooked howl. It was a terrified, mindless shriek that tore from his vocal cords and nearly deafened Drake from the proximity. Flynn's bandaged hands disappeared into his auburn locks, almost pulling if not for Nathan's actions of grabbing his wrists. The episode ended as fast as it begun. Flynn went slack in Nathan's hold, collapsing down and nearly face-planting into his own legs. The awful sounds stopped. Flynn's eyes closed and he was back to that exhausted rasping.
Nathan never mentioned it to anyone, not even Chloe when she asked what the hell that screaming was. He played it off as an eagle nearby overhead. It was not hard to believe, there were eagles everywhere along the mountain.
Harry Flynn did not remember if he dreamed. All he knew was being awake and screaming on Sully's plane and then blacking out. He came to some semblance consciousness at last when he became aware he could feel his whole body aching. He was suspended in a haze, it felt like he was packed in a snow-drift or buried after an avalanche. It was that cold, at least. He was shivering, each tremor bringing a new wave of soreness. He could breathe. Flynn took an experimental inhale, surprised to feel his lungs fully expand and not suffocating, despite the tenderness of his ribs. He took a mental calculation of his faculties. Alright… Arms, check. Legs, check. Not paralyzed. Not sure about brain damage, though. That ugly shit kicks hard. He was still very thirsty. There was a wicked headache throbbing behind his eyeballs that sent electric shocks into his skull. As he was taking note of his various ailments, he had become aware of numerous hushed sounds in the environment. A soft rhythmic beeping somewhere close, he recognized it as a heartrate monitor. There was a quiet snore immediately to his left, right next to him. Someone was keeping vigil at his bedside. Flynn was a little taken aback. He was sure everyone's faith in him had shaken to the point they'd help him enough to live and leave him be. A traitor's exile. Forcing his eyes open, Harry winced as he craned his neck enough to glance about. His natural curiosity won over any desire to nap through the pain.
Flynn was no longer in an aircraft but a small cabin, dimly lit with a lantern on a nearby table. Where the hell is this? The construction was wood logs and panels, brightly painted and decorated with colour flags strung across the ceiling like streamers. Furniture was sparse and simple. The bed he was occupying was low to the ground as his visitor revealed, actually more or less sitting on the carpeted floor. Mostly. Nathan Drake himself was asleep at his bedside, arms folded and face pressed down into the blankets, dark cropped hair in his immediate view. The cabin was small, allowing him to see they were the only ones in the room. There was medical equipment and supplies scattered about, loose bandages waiting nearby in sterile white. It took him a moment or two to get his bearings. Nepal. That village in fuckin' Nepal. Saw enough of it smashed to pieces by Zoran's crew to know that. Saw what a lot of those houses looked like on the inside when they explode. Flynn glanced up above him, observing an IV bag, this time full with a clear saline. The telltale heart-rate monitor was above his head at the top of the bed, a rather dated design of equipment that made him realize how far he was from a modern hospital.
Leave it to Drake to wake me with his snoring. 'Least he eased off the chainsaw a bit. His throat was too dry to even try and muscle out a word, he doubted it would be heard at all through the quiet white noise. Flynn opted for the bolder move, fighting back a groan as he slid his trembling arm along the rough-spun wool blankets. Drake could sleep heavy, especially when he was exhausted. Until you touched him. Daringly, he slid a few bandaged fingers through the brunette locks, sweeping the tussled mess backwards from his scraped forehead. The younger man stretched, oddly feline-like, stirring out of his nap and propping his chin on his arms to see the patient he was waiting on. There was a split second of confusion in those blue-green eyes, flitting up to Harry then honing in. Flynn must have looked like shit, not as shitty as before, but still shit. Drake's expressions were always an open book, the man wore his heart on his sleeve. Nathan's brow furrowed with worry, snapping himself up straighter on the cushion he was seated on.
"Flynn, holy shit… Hey, pal," the American murmured softly, a tone of concern and a mothering instinct Flynn would have thoroughly enjoyed busting Nathan's balls over if he was not so damn drained. "We thought we lost you there for a while. You… you weren't well, buddy. Just save your strength, alright? Your fever broke last night. The infection is almost fully under control, but it took time. You been out a week."
A fuckin' week. You must be shittin' me. It took time for him to bring himself back from the brink. Harry Flynn would have chuckled, but it came as a rusty croak. The damn thirst was going to be the bane of his new existence. Weakly, he clutched at his own throat, miming a glass of water for himself to drink by bringing the invisible vessel to his lips. To his pleased astonishment, the younger man's head perked up and he went stiffly scrambling for a pitcher of water perched on a nearby table. Drake was scanning the room for a cup, a glass, but Harry growled with urgency. Piss on the glass, gimme the whole damn thing, mate. C'mon.
"Okay, okay, keep your pants on. Little sips at first, right? If you choked, Chloe would kick my ass." Drinking out of the pitcher proved to be a bit clumsy but beyond satisfying. Cool water ran down his chin and chest, but Harry greedily swallowed as much down as he felt he could physically manage without vomiting. Drake was supporting his shoulders with one hand, the other holding the pitcher. "Okay, that's it. Not too much yet, you'll puke."
Reluctantly, Flynn stopped convulsively swallowing water and took a shaky, whooping breath. He coughed, sending shockwaves of agony through his body, but at the same time it felt the best he had since first coming upon Shambhala. He slumped back into the pillow, grinning in spite of his situation. Nathan Drake was frowning gently, his brow furrowed and the beginnings of lines indenting into the skin. "Th-…Thanks, mate," Harry hissed, grimacing and clutching at his throat. So that's what a coma for a week feels like. A throat lined with broken glass. Christ, I'd love a pint. Flynn considered looking down at his body, to maybe evaluate the damage he sustained but the mounds of rough-spun blankets and covers vetoed that. It was too bitterly freezing to give them up, although Drake himself was not perturbed by the chill. He was wearing a brightly dyed red-maroon sweater, courtesy of their hosts.
"Just don't talk too much, Flynn. I know that's tough for you, but it's for the best. You lost a lot of blood. Scared the shit out of all of us. The doctor…" Drake trailed off, that troubled look crossing his face again. Flynn knew that look. He saw it when Drake got that hero-complex running, needing to save the wounded no matter how hopeless. "She said if we were maybe five minutes later, you wouldn't be here. It was close, Flynn. You almost died. Hell, if Sully did not pull some crazy maneuvers on the way… We've been taking shifts at your bed. Elena, Chloe, me… Sully took over a few times. The surgery took about a day. We had to test for blood donors. Tenzin was a match, and a couple others. We had entire lineups for people getting tested. Everyone stepped up. You know what they say, it takes a village."
Flynn was not sure what to make of that. The very people he victimized and targeted and threatened were fighting to save his life. Not just Drake and his mismatch band of do-gooders but the people of this small village he nearly helped wipe off the map. If he was in their shoes, he could not say he would do the same. Harry knew that's what made him decidedly different from them. In plain terms, he worked for the bad guy. He could admit his own motives were selfish at times. But were they all selfish as thieves? But before all that could be faced, he had to accept facts. Time to take his medicine.
Harry strained to whisper, making sure he moved his lips more exaggerated than usual to help Nathan understand him. His voice was a small hiss and using as few words as possible to minimize his suffering. "How bad?"
There it was again. That sympathetic little furrow of his eyebrows, the kicked-puppy look when Nathan saw something that tugged at his heartstrings. He always was a sap. "Bad. Very bad. You stopped breathing at the monastery. Right after you spoke last. We took turns with CPR until Sully got there. We weren't going to lose you, Flynn. I wasn't going to let you go without a fight, I know Chloe and Elena wanted the same. The doctor started surgery right away. The bullet didn't pass through, took some time to get at it… No offense bud, but I couldn't see that. I stuck around for as much as I could, but everybody has their limits. Turns out, that was not even the start. Flynn that Guardian nearly caved your face in. One kick and he gave you an immediate concussion. You needed I don't know how many stitches. One of your teeth got knocked out. Three broken ribs. Punctured lung. That's what nearly got you. The bullet missed your heart but got your lung. Then the infection afterwards… Jesus. Flynn, you nearly died. They had to treat with some strong antibiotics. The fever was burning you out. You were screaming in your sleep, buddy. I thought it was the pain, but I guess you were delirious. I doubt you remember it. You were pretty out of it."
Lovely. No stranger to a beating, but some of that is fuckin' new. His tongue had wandered to probe the empty socket where his missing tooth should be, a back molar. How the hell do you punch out a back molar tooth? Zoran must have steel plates in his gloves. He did not know a man could punch so fucking hard. Up until Shambhala, Lazaravic never struck him using his full strength and never in the face. Flynn never asked why, he was afraid asking might give the asshole a reason to do so. He did not remember anything else other than waking on the plane. It was a bit unnerving to think he was reacting automatically and he did not recall even a glimmer. It was not a stretch of the imagination to think what nightmares was causing his night terrors.
His quiet reflection was interrupted, the younger man leaning closer, that sympathetic bleeding-heart look not wavering. Flynn felt a flicker of nervousness. "Flynn, if I knew what he was doing to you, I would have convinced you to come with us. Jesus, how come you didn't say anything? The doctor was looking you over… You have injuries on you lasting months, pal. She said they looked like they were inflicted with a knife. Chloe said she never –"
Fuck. Flynn's hand jerked out and grabbed Nathan's wrist, clutching it tight. Drake flinched at the suddenness, caught off-guard but managing to not pull away. If there is one thing he swore he would keep to himself, it was the terms of working under Zoran Lazaravic. Flynn was sure he was going to take those secrets to the grave. No one could know. He did not spend all the fucking time in Borneo dodging Chloe for the fact Zoran was beating him nightly and carving him up for his enjoyment would have become obvious. And Chloe? Elena? Victor goddamn Sullivan? Who else knows? Flynn had to know. "Who… who knows about that?" Harry's voice came out no more as a groan.
Staring at Nathan seemed to make him uncomfortable regarding this topic, he was squirming under Flynn's gaze, dropping his light eyes bashfully. He'd give anything to know what the younger man was thinking. The scrapes and cuts Nathan got during his battle of Shambhala were discolouring bruises and scabs. He always healed quickly without incident. "Other than the doctor? I do. Chloe might suspect… Elena too. She speaks Tibetan, more than I do. I know we aren't close anymore, Flynn. I don't know what I did to piss you off like that—"
"Fuckin' stow it, mate," Flynn barked out, a volume he did not think he could utter shocking Nathan into silence. His throat burned, but not as much as his raging temper. The realization all his determination to keep that secret being wasted stung. The fact Drake was pretending he did not know what he did wrong was a slap in the face. It was like being kicked while already down. "You know what you did… My fuckin' fiancée, Drake? Really? That's why, sweetheart. My bloody hotel room was beside yours. Conspiring with the woman I was to marry, you prick. That. Is what you did to piss me off." Harry released Drake's wrist like the man's skin was crawling underneath his touch, unable to bear holding it any longer. His fury burned him out, what strength he had essentially wasted. His throat was clenching painfully, trying to swallow past an obstruction that felt like it was smothering him. Tears were burning in his eyes. God-fuckin-dammit, I can't cry in front of this lad. I won't. Not after all this. He refused to let them fall, blinking them away quick. Even looking at the younger man was challenging, so he stared up at the wood-beam ceiling, glaring at it as it were the cause of this latest grievance.
There was a faint stirring at the side of his bed, Nathan was shifting in his seat. Good. Harry hoped his ass was numb, that both his legs were asleep and now prickling with pins and needles. It was petty, but it would have made him feel a bit better. For a while, no one spoke. Flynn had reached his verbal capacity, craving more water but too proud to ask for it. The silence was a barrier, a stillness that only solidified the shattered bond between them. The only sound in the quiet was the heart rate monitor faithfully beeping in tune with the patient's pulse.
Nathan broke it after maybe minutes, but it felt like it had been a lifetime. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Flynn. Christ, I… I don't know what I was thinking. It was her idea from the start, she even got me out of that prison you put me in. I just… Shit. It's a shitty excuse. I know it is. I… shouldn't have agreed to it. It wasn't even about Chloe. It was about Marco Polo's lost fleet. Dammit. If I knew what I know now, I would have convinced you to walk away from it. I would have convinced you both. It was never worth it. Too many people died for that … resin. All we were doing was adding to the pile. Flynn… Hey. Lazaravic is dead. He's gone. The Tree is gone. Shambhala is nothing but ruins. All that turned out to be a death trap. If we were half as smart as we think we are, we'd move on. Maybe you can still work things out with Chloe. You're still alive, pal. That means something. You can go anywhere from here."
Harry Flynn was not one to be double-crossed, especially by someone he considered his brother. A near-mortal injury, however, grants a peculiar clarity. He would have normally told Drake to fuck himself, but his rage ebbed to a mild irritation. He got it. Harry understood all too well. If Chloe jumped his bones like that with a wild proposition, he would have been along for the ride soon enough. He never could deny her anything. He doubted the younger man had better restraint. But Drake was so naïve for someone his age. For a while, he was sure Nathan played dumb on purpose but Harry could see by Nathan's floundering of various relationships of the fairer sex that he was … not necessarily inexperienced, just naïve. Chloe would not take him back. After Nathan blown up half the train, Chloe had rounded on him with a fury he had been stunned by. She threw the ring back, now occupying his pocket and speaking levels about how that went. Flynn still busted his ass trying to shield her from the warlord, even though her allegiances were discovered. Drake was right. He could go anywhere from here. But he cannot go back to the life he had before. It's gone. "… Nate." Flynn's voice was a harsh whisper again, but he had to speak his mind. He waited long enough. "… I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. Chloe and I are through. She's clear on that. I… have nothing. No job. No home. I sold everything for this… and it blew up with the bloody fuckin' Tree." It was hard not to feel bitter about that. As much of a living nightmare Zoran was, he was a paycheck. And now his boss is deceased, without a chance of collecting on what was owed.
Flynn dared shift his head on the pillow to glance to Drake, mild irritation becoming full annoyance to see that sympathetic, 'can we take it home' look. If Nathan fired back a bit with some trademark sass, it would have been more tolerable. But he was all sympathy. It was pissing him off.
Nathan Drake's brows were gently furrowed, his eyes softened from the temperamental spark that often lingered there. His lips were pressed together tight, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Flynn. It's been a shitshow from the start. I guess I never realized what was happening with you… I just thought you went with who was paying you. I… saw Lazaravic do some things, like at the monastery. I didn't think he was doing anything else than threatening you. How… how could I know? Listen, if you want to talk about it—"
"No." The response was curt, a finalized decision.
"I didn't mean right now, you shouldn't be talking. Flynn, I… I took responsibility for changing the bandages. I saw what he did to you. I admit, I was pissed at you for shooting me. I get it now. But I had no idea he was doing this. Christ, Flynn…"
"Shut it," Flynn grumbled wearily. "Make yerself useful… water."
The drink was a welcome distraction. Nathan helped him sit up and brought the pitcher close again. Harry drained the rest of it and slumped back with a gasp. It gave him a minute to gather his thoughts. Flynn was no-fucking-where near ready to confess what happened in the emerald hell of Borneo, or in the chilling peaks of Nepal. He would have preferred to stuff it down, lock it away, barricade it behind mental doors until an inevitable mental breakdown happened and he went on a wild bender. It has been a while since Harry resorted to using that unhealthy coping mechanism, maybe fifteen years, when he was in his early twenties. He was never good at therapeutic hobbies or productive talk-outs, he was not raised that way. And, how could he even begin to explain what it was like to go through the worst days of his entire life? He lost the love of his life, the trust of his friend, the score of a century, and his very fucking dignity. He gave up everything, even his own body. Zoran saw to that personally. It was something he never would have agreed to if he known what deal he was making with what kind of devil. But, if anything, he supposed there were worse things than being dead.
Nathan was trying to keep his hands busy. Flynn knew how fidgety the younger man could be, doodling in one of the many leather-bound journals he always had on hand in a spare minute. This time, he was smoothing out the blankets, tucking them under to keep his patient warm. The older man watched him for a time. He was mad at Drake, on the train he wanted to kill him for interfering and possibly getting all of them murdered. How can I be mad at the one that saved me? Nathan-damn-Drake. You little shit. A rueful smirk curled at his lips. Look at him fuss. A mother hen. If he wasn't so good at it, I'd bust him for it. Flynn had to admit, he was thankful for the younger man's gentle nursing. Drake would bottle-feed kittens he found in alleys, he could never turn down a hurting soul. That kindness might even be the death of him one day. But Nathan was who he was. Gentle to pet every animal he saw, but at times ruthless enough to clear out nearly all of Zoran Lazaravic's personal army. It was nice to see him do something other than defend himself or sneaking about.
Nathan caught the smile, mimicking it for himself. It was more natural this time. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You're lucky. So fucking lucky, Flynn. You must have a horseshoe in your ass or something. You have no idea how many scares you gave us. We thought of finding your next of kin. In case, you know."
"Got none," Flynn simply stated. He did not want to get into that particular topic, but it seems Drake has got his entire off-limits list of conversational starters. They never discussed each other's family, parents, siblings, anything significant. Harry had a feeling there was a good reason on Drake's end, like he had one for his own. They simply danced around the subject, talking hours about just anything else. Families in a thief's line of work made it complicated. Maintaining relationships beyond blood relations when always travelling was a task in of itself. As a rule, people in their line of business did not talk families. "Would have been best to dig a hole and toss me in it."
The good-natured grin fell abruptly from the younger man's face, a solemn woe replacing it. Flynn decided it was a poor choice of words, but Drake brought it up. It was strange. Death was a fact of their daily life, it was steeped in their business. All the treasures, the secrets, the bounties they searched for belonged to long-dead explorers. The tombs they scavenged were stacked with bones, bodies of a past age. It was impossible to ignore it all. But discussing their own final wills? What to do with their remains? Who the hell wants to think about that? Drake's eyes were ringed with dark circles, wearily rubbing at them with a soft sigh. Christ, he looks like hell. Natey-boy hasn't been sleeping. Would bet my ass he took up most those bed-side shifts. Sullivan made him take a break. Why else would that sad old shit be here?
"Harry," Nathan murmured, and Flynn could hear the shift in the younger man's voice. Nathan rarely called him by his first name. He was struggling with the concept of his friend dying, his tone soft and somber. "I… couldn't leave you here. You hate it here. You always bitched about the cold." That brought a small smirk to Flynn's sore lips. It was true. Any jobs with a mild chill involved earned his ire. "I know you wouldn't be in… your body if you died. But I couldn't stand the thought of you here, cold in the ground. It wasn't right. I would have brought you home… where ever home is for you. I'm sure Chloe wouldn't have allowed you to be buried here neither. We would have flown you out for treatment, but your condition was too unstable. And now winter is here. We'll have to wait for the spring to set out or at least milder weather, and hopefully by then you'll be able to fly the hell out of here."
Of-fuckin-course it is winter. Zoran, I swear, I hope there is a special circle in Hell for shits like you. Flynn fought a shiver, gritting his teeth bitterly to stop them from chattering. No wonder he felt like he was a block of ice. His throat felt a bit better, the second dose of water helped. He hated that the apparent secret Tree of Life happened to reside in the coldest corner of the planet. He hated being somewhere completely unknown and foreign to him and left to strangers' mercy. He hated the helplessness of it.
A wisp of movement and Harry flinched to feel a warm hand settle on his forehead. "Hey. It's okay, Flynn. You're safe now. You're gonna be okay." A calloused thumb pressed between his eyebrows, kneading gentle circles there. The touch was surprisingly tender for such a typically clumsy and heavy-fisted man such as Drake. If he was not so exhausted, Flynn would have resisted and shot warning words in response. The sensation was actually rather nice, soothing the spiking headache. "I'm so sorry, Flynn. I should have got you out of there. We've dealt with assholes like him before, but… That was something new. It doesn't matter anymore. You're safe. You're okay."
Drake, you naïve little shit. You can't save everyone. Harry closed his eyes, feeling them burn again with tears, a lump in his throat threatening a sob if he allowed it. I'm not going to cry in front of this lad. I can't. I won't let it. He thinks I'm a battered, broken hostage. I fuckin' stayed. I made that choice. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip, feeling a sharp sting as the healing split was put under pressure. "Nate… You couldn't save me. Zoran did not have a fuckin' gun to my head. He had one to Chloe's. I would have died for her. I still would." There was a stab a guilt and grief deep down in the core of his being. The engagement to Chloe was a temporary solution to a very permanent problem Harry dealt with since as long as he could fathom. He had a big empty hole deep inside, a pit that left him feeling hollow and incomplete. He supposed most people had families and networks of friends to make up that. He got down on his knee to the first woman he fell for in a hope to make things right. Maybe she sensed something in him, a sixth sense more adjusted people seem to have to sniff out flakiness or imposters trying to fit into domestic life. Maybe Chloe could smell out the fact he was already broken, a parody of a healthy functioning adult, a mask he could put on to lure in others. And now I'm alone again. How am I going to get through this? Fuck. No amount of restraint could stop the tears now. Even squeezing his eyes shut, hot tracks ran from underneath and crept down his skin. That fuckin' grenade. I should have kept it. Let it go before they got in there to stop me.
Nathan felt the tears before he saw them, his gentle massage pausing before allowing the soothing pace to continue. Flynn was grateful Drake did not acknowledge them.