Pubs had always been her favourite places. Regardless of the country, they were always dark and smoky but still welcoming. Something about all the polish wood and soft leather, she supposed. They reminded her of the old bars back home. The one she was at now was much nicer than the ones she'd grown up around. This one was a honest to goodness British pub, one she simply "had to visit." She had taken the word of her favourite Brit and stopped in as promised. And now there was a half-finished drink in front of her and still no show. She shouldn't have been surprised. He had probably gotten tangled up in something and would have a story to tell when he finally made it back. And, as always, she would listen to it, hanging on every word.

She swirled her drink around, listening to the ice cubes clang around in the glass, and sighed. She cared about his adventures but he had this awful habit of exaggerating just about everything. How many houses he'd broken into, how many treasures he's stolen, how great of a lover he was. Now thathadn't been an exaggeration.

The bartender caught her smile and sent one back. "Want another, love?"

Everyone here had a habit of calling her love or dear. It was heartwarming, really. He would sometimes call her love, but most of the time it was Marjorie. Despite her demands he call her something else, he had clung to that name, completely oblivious to how much it bothered her.

"Why not." She said after looking at her watch. She had hoped for shot of Aguardiente, but that was nearly impossible to find unless she was home. So she settled for a rum and coke instead. He had tried to get her to drink whiskey but it wasn't to her taste.

"Rum and coke for the lady." The bartender presented the drink to her with a grin and settled across the bar from her. "Waiting for someone?"

"Unfortunately. He has a habit of being late."

"Most men do." The man laughed and wiped at the dark wood. Marjorie nodded, knowing it was the truth. Men had a habit of being late for everything. One man was nineteen years late for his return.

Brooding over him was worthless and she only every allowed herself to do so when she was feeling particularly low. With one last look at her watch, she gave up, took a swallow of her drink and let herself wallow in self pity.

She had spent a ridiculous amount of her life thinking about him, about the boy who had been her brother for a year. It had been so long it almost wasn't worth it any more. But he had been there when no one else was. He had been her family for that short while. She remembered calling him Francis and the sour looks she would get for doing so. She'd been a street kid her whole life, little more than "girl," or "pest." But he had given her a name. It had just started off as some sort of joke but it meant so much more now. It was a part of who she was. If she had a passport, Marjorie would be there under nameas clear as day. He deserved a thank you she had never been able to give him.

He also deserved a punch in the gut and a serious telling off for abandoning her. She didn't even know who he'd run off with, only that she had stayed up for three days in their little alleyway home waiting for him to come back.

Familiar frustration made her hands clench. She'd spent seven years on the street doing just fine and in under a year she had come to rely on one boy so much that it hurt every time she thought about him. She didn't want to think about him but he wormed his way into her thoughts every day. Nineteen years! She didn't even know what he looked like anymore. He had probably changed his name from the stupid one she'd given him. He had probably moved on and forgotten about their makeshift family.

Knowing him, he was probably dead.

Marjorie dumped whatever change she had in her pocket onto the counter and slid off of the stool. One of Flynn's stories wasn't worth what she was putting herself through.

London had been alive with life when she'd entered the pub, but now the streets were empty and quiet. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and headed down the street. Little snowflakes caught in her hair and melted against her face, making the wind feel ice cold as it whipped down the road. It was never cold in Columbia. She'd been ten before she'd first seen snow. No one else had understood her fascination with it, how one flake would melt when you touched it but if you squeezed a handful together, it would stay frozen. One day when she'd been young she did nothing but admire the frost on the window. She liked the way her breath fogged when she breathed in the winter. She liked the way her cheeks turned pink from the cold.

Harry hated the snow. He'd grown up with it and therefore couldn't possibly understand why she found it so mesmerizing. He liked to tease her about it at every chance he got. She liked to tell him that he had lost his sense of wonder. Then he would call her a child for having such a stupid argument.

There were times when all his cocky, better-than-thou antics were too much. She remembered sitting across from him, a plane ticket on the table, sandwiched by two cups of coffee. He had said something, done something … the details escaped her as they always did, but she never forgot the anger. Or the disappointment.

"Marjorie, you'd being a child."

"Flynn, there's a flight to Columbia leaving in two hours. You can either see me off at the gate or we part here." She had hoped, prayed that he would have swallowed whatever snotty remark was forming in his mind and simply said yes and take her to the airport. They could have parted as friends.

His face turned sour and he looked away, as if he couldn't stand the sight of her anymore. "Then you'd better hail a cab."

She had stood then and muttered a goodbye to him. He told her that she'd be back, that they always came back.

And she had. Like some lost girl she had found him again and made a conscious effort to forget every past argument they had had.

A familiar anger wrapped around her, dulling the chill of the night. It was anger at Flynn and his stupid, cocky grin, it was anger at the boy she missed to dearly, but it was also directed at her. A sick sense of self-loathing coiled in her gut and it made her relive every mistake she had ever made. The walk to the hotel felt long despite the short distance. The bright lobby brought no comfort, nor did the plush sheets of the bed in her room. Frustrated and restless, she paced the room, walking from one end of the wide window to the other. She opened the mini-fridge and poured a drink for Flynn; he always liked a drink when he got back from a job.

She stood by the window, watching the door for an hour and an hour more. The drink had gone warm in her hand, something he would point out as soon as he took a sip. Then he would lounge out on the bed and tell her about his newest job, exaggerating to impress her or to boost his ego. Then, once his drink was finished, he would pull her towards him and press his body against hers.

The lock clicked open and slowly, almost cautiously, he appeared from behind the door. He smiled and straightened, saying something about wondering where she'd been.

She imagined throwing the drink at his face, watching the glass shatter his handsome face, leaving glistening shards on the carpet. She wanted to yell at him, as she always did when she was in these moods, she wanted to make him yell at her. She wanted to make him stop treating her like a child, like she was dispensable. She wanted to hurt him or have a fight that left them both breathless.

Instead she held his drink out and climbed beside him onto the bed.

"Warm," he muttered after his first taste. "How long have you been here?"

"Doesn't matter."

Flynn looked at her for a moment, brows pulling down briefly before he continued.

"Well, I wouldn't say it was easy, but I hardly broke a sweat. In and out in under an hour. How's that for efficient?"

Marjorie gave a "hm" of agreement and settled against his chest, listening to his words rumble in his chest.

Uncharted (c) Naughty Dog