Chapter 2: Closer to what I've known

Sam had vanished when he turned 18, leaving Cassandra distraught and stricken in his absence. Nate didn't mind; Sam would wander back into his life when he was ready. She buried herself in work, allowing a curious Nate to help with the research, spinning legends of Marco Polo, Henry Avery and Francis Drake into vast projects for interested parties to find certain artifacts.

It was the first time Nate had been involved in this work, and it was riveting to search for lost legendary artifacts through vague clues, even with the hours of fruitless research and tedious translations. With his Mother's patient guidance and exasperated lessons at one too many questions, Nate picked up a working knowledge of ancient latin and greek. Through the monotony of mandatory public school, his only saving grace was coming home to endless interesting tidbits and history lessons from his mother.

When Nate turned 16, he decided to tell her everything; it's been just the two of them for years, and he wanted to shed the charade that had become as easy as breathing. It was a conversation over dinner that barely lasted five minutes until it devolved to an argument.

She was not at all understanding when Nate claimed he had repeated his life five times, nor that Sam and Nate had 101 and 112 years of memories, respectively, stashed in their brains. The next day, she'd attempted to convince Nate that therapy would solve his delusions, and expressed regret for involving him in her research on supernatural artifacts. Weeks passed in tension where easy conversation used to flow, and Nate was left with no choice when she attempted to force him into an institution 'for his health and safety.'

He packed a single bag and disappeared one night. Fortunately, Sam got his voicemail and met him a few towns over. They never looked back, and Nathan Morgan faded into obscurity as one of many runaways.

They didn't really need the money, there were other legal ways, but Nate needed the rush.

It made him feel alive, real, in the moment, and not stuck in over a hundred years of history that tethered him to him mud like great rusty shackles. It was fun and it made Nate forget: his fourth lifetime, his situation, the general unfairness, everything.

It eased the itchy restlessness that crawled beneath his skin and made his hair stand on end when he settled for too long.

Nate made a routine of it: travel to a large town or city, lift a dozen wallets off careless tourists, get a decent apartment, find a couple local clients in need of a quick lift, perhaps clean out some rich bastard's place, and skip town to start again. He'd visited three continents, thirteen countries, and 28 different cities in the span of seven years, and became fluent in Spanish and Portuguese.

It wasn't a good or easy living by any stretch of the imagination, but it was something and it was his.

In that time he'd made dozens of enemies and a handful of associates that he could almost call friends. Of course, there was no honor or friendship in this line of work, so Nate kept his distance, even it was a painfully lonely existence smattered by brief flings and tenuous friendships shattered the moment Nate skipped town.

Nate was in London, 20 years old with 116 years of memories, when he made a solid contact into the world of professional thievery. He tailed the mark—young, over confident, comfortable with a lot of money, t-shirt and jeans but a well tailored jacket, talking intently into a phone—for only a few blocks before making a move.

It should have been easy. Nate was dressed as a rebellious teenager, loose pants and dark hood shadowing his face; just a small bump as a distraction and the arrogant man with his hair slicked back perfectly to have a single wisp over his eye would be freed of his wallet.

It went off without a hitch, the man barked a curse his way and was a couple ounces lighter as he sauntered away. Nate turned down an alley, ready to beat a hasty retreat up one of the buildings, until he heard the British man's voice speak crisply into the phone.

"Excuse me, but I have a pest to take care of."

Nathan continued down the alley, hunching over to make himself appear weaker and smaller, scanning the walls for the optimal handholds for scaling.

"Pardon me, mate. But I couldn't help but notice you have something of mine." The man's voice drawled behind him, a sharp edge to his facetiously light tone.

"Sorry, mate. But if you can't keep hold of your stuff, I can't help you." Nate quipped, slathering on a half-way decent accent as an after-thought. Nate relished the rush of adrenaline for a moment, before bursting into action, vaulting atop a dumpster for extra leverage and reaching the roof top with little difficulty using the windowsills and drainpipes.

Nate turned back to the man in the alley, smirking at the surprise and irritation that twisted his features into an ugly mask.

"Here you go. Wouldn't want to leave you with nothing." With his toes hanging over open air, he gave the man a lazy salute and tossed down the pilfered wallet, much lighter without the crisp hundred pound bills inside. "Have a lovely day!"

Nate turned to dash across the rooftops with a spring in his step, reaching higher vantage points to slide down electric lines to beat a hasty escape. Several rooftops and a couple street over, Nate eased back on his pace and continued to climb over the rooftops and fire escapes to reach the apartment he'd been eyeing in the area.

"Idiot, carrying 600 pounds in cash on him." Nate remarked quietly to himself, not believing his good luck. "Now I can get that apartment and a new pair of—"

The gutter Nate clung to by his fingertips creaked in warning as it detached from the roof and collapsed inward. "Oh, crap!" He cursed in alarm and swung to the side, breaking his fall with a roll onto a rooftop below and scattering the gravel that layered it.

"Okay… less talking, more climbing." Nate breathed as he rolled to his feet, peering at his sliced fingers from the gutter metal with a vaguely concerned eye, "I hope that doesn't get infected."

"That would be the least of your problems, love." An english voice drawled behind him, slightly out of breath. When Nate gaped in surprise, he smirked and said, "Don't think you are the only one that can climb, little thief."

And that, Harry Flynn would later remark over a couple beers, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

And that 'beautiful friendship' was the reason Nate even picked up the phone in the first place. They'd run a couple jobs together over the years, but Nate's reluctance to use a gun grated on Flynn's nerves and it caused some difficulty between the pair during prolonged partnerships. Nate was a thief, first and foremost, but he had morals he refused to bend. Sam had taken more jobs with Flynn once Nate introduced them, finding kinship and a drinking buddy where Nate couldn't.

Over the years, the bad luck caught up to Sam. The thievery, the rush, had landed Sam in a Brazilian prison for breaking and entering, and Nate needed enough money to grease a few palms to get him out. Hence, Nate taking a job a bit outside his expertise.

He rarely took museum heists, too high profile, too many variables, too dangerous; it was what got Sam caught in the first place. But Sam had been sitting pretty in that hell hole for six months before Nate realized his brother hadn't touched base in a while, and another three months passed as Nate scoured their few contacts and regular haunts to find him. Nate didn't even have enough money to get five minutes with his brother.

Then he got a call from a friend that Nate and Sam had parted with on favorable terms. Harry Flynn: sarcastic, dismissive, British, and damn good at what he does. Harry Flynn needed a partner on this job, a museum heist for some rich bastard that was a Genghis Khan fanboy and wanted some of the jewelry traded in Khara Khorum for personal collection. The jewelry was said to be designed by Guillaume Boucher, the goldsmith who designed the legendary silver fountain in the Palace of the Great Khan that enamored all who passed through its gates. Usually, Nate would be all over the lore, the stories, he had the tendency to research any legend that caught his eye, but this was short notice and Nate was more interested in the money than the historical artifact this time.

"So, you in?" Flynn asked unnecessarily. Nate could almost hear the damned smirk through the tinny speaker on the phone. He didn't know whether to relax back into the familiar banter or throw the phone against the wall in frustration.

"In like Flynn." Nate sighed.

"Oh, you think you're so funny."

Three days later in Texas, Nate met the team in the client's drawing room; having to stow away on a flight and rent a beat-up truck he had little intention of returning to make it from Brazil with only his pocket change.

"Ah, and here he is: our thief, Nathan Morgan." Flynn introduced Nate to the team when the butler showed him to the room, lined with luxuries gilded in gold that were sickeningly ornate and frivolous.

In fact, the whole mansion was cloyingly frivolous and exorbitantly lavish; the servants were well trained mannequins, the banister was shiny enough to see his reflection and the crystal chandelier hid no dust. The client was an owner, not a collector. He wanted to own the item, not for its own merit, but because he wanted the artifact to be assimilated into his ego for bragging rights.

Nate despised these jobs, but 'desperate times' and all that jazz.

"You know I prefer professional acquirer, Flynn. It makes me sound more… sophisticated," Nate said, greeting Flynn with a too-wide grin and a quick hug, his fingers deftly diving into his pockets to lift Flynn's wallet and tuck it into Nate's jacket.

"And you are going to need all the sophistication you can get, little thief." Flynn teased acerbically, as he slowly reached into Nate's jacket to retrieve the briefly stolen wallet. "Now, is that my wallet in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Nate barked out a startled laugh, and smiled genuinely this time, "Maybe I'm always happy to see you, Flynn."

"Hope you don't greet all your pals that way, kid." One of the men stated dryly, an amused smirk pulling at his lips while the lit cigar remained balanced. In the low light, Nate could only make out an old fashioned Hawaiian shirt and khakis. Two other men stood behind him, younger, with a few facial scars, most likely ex-military, and wearing bullet proof vests; odd but not unheard of for hired mercenaries.

"Only those who get too close." Nate remarked, "and call me Morgan."

"This is our esteemed client, Mark Tallis, a collector of rare artifacts." Flynn introduced cordially, and although each word seemed to be steeped in sarcasm and veiled insult, none seemed any the wiser. Although the older man smoking the cigar snorted quietly at Flynn's words.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tallis. I hope we can come to an agreement tonight." Nate stated neutrally. Nate shook his hand and assessed the man, noting his pale complexion, sweaty brow despite the cool breeze, the too tight pants that struggled to contain his girth, and the ornate rings, pocket watch and diamond tie pin. This was a man used to hearing what he wanted to hear, and getting exactly what he wanted when he threw money at it.

Nate struggled to contain a victorious smirk; the job may be difficult but the rewards would exceed Nate's initial expectations. He would have to thank Flynn with a couple beers for hooking him up with an easy mark.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Morgan. I am assured by Mr. Flynn that you are the man for the job." Tallis simpered, his words falling greasily upon Nate's ears.

"Yes, well, we'll have to take a look at exactly what is needed for this job." Nate subtly reassured, discreetly wiping his hand on his jeans to get the clamminess off, as Flynn slapped a hand on his back to continue with introductions.

"These two are ex-special forces, Frank Crease and Juan Perez," Flynn said, gesturing vaguely to the two men in bullet proof vest, "they're our spotter and getaway driver for this job." Nate exchanged a short nod of acknowledgement with the two men.

"And this sorry old man is a 'professional acquirer,' as you say," Flynn remarked snidely with veiled criticism, "Victor Sullivan."

"I've heard about you, Sullivan." Nate greeted with a small smile, remembering the few rants from Flynn about a 'sorry old sack of shit' and a 'bastard with the devil's charm' after Sullivan had the gull to steal a girl from under Flynn's nose at a bar in Germany. Nate had to cover the microphone to keep Flynn from hearing his muffled snickers.

"All good things, I hope." Sullivan remarked flippantly with a smirk, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke into the air, each motion easy-going and self-assured even as he watched with sharp eyes.

"What else?" Nate said, then turned to the center table which was helpfully laden with maps of the museum and the surrounding area, "now that we're all here, let's get down to business."

"Looks like a storm." A low voice stated behind him, a bit raspy from those cigars he seemed to enjoy to an almost obsessive level. Peering over Nate's shoulder out the window, Sullivan scrunched his nose in distaste at the darkening sky.

Nate hummed absentmindedly to show he was listening but continued to stare out the window of the car, surveying the premises and mentally mapping multiple routes of entry and escape. The spot lights covering the rooftop and the security cameras along the edge of the building weren't going to be an issue if Flynn did his job right.

It had been four days since their initial meet and greet, a price had been set and a remarkably simple plan had been hatched. Sullivan and Nate had talked a few times as they were going to work closely in the next part of the plan and had struck up a tentative friendship. As in the 'share-beer-and-cigars' and 'brag-about-past-conquests' sort of acquaintance, nothing very substantial, but it was enough for now.

"Hey, kid." Sullivan said, tucking a silenced tranquilizer gun into his holster and handing another to Nate.

"I'm not a kid, I'm 24 years old," Nate said absentmindedly, no bite to his words as it was a fifth time Nate repeated the same phrase. In a way, it was nice, 120 years of experience and there will always be people who knew more than Nate and would treat him like a rookie.

"Everyone's a kid to me, boyo." Sullivan replied, quirking an eyebrow. "You ready?"

Nate palmed the gun for a moment, glad that their client had insisted on discretion, before tucking it away and pulling up a dark bandana to cover his face. Stealth and discretion, that's what he was know for in these circles, even if no one knew how god damn difficult it was to stay that way.

"Yeah, let's go."

The plan was simple. Flynn would cut the power to the roof spotlights, Crease would call out guard positions, and Nate and Sullivan would sneak in through an unlocked window to grab the stuff. Nate even got the artifacts tucked safely away in his belt pouch without having to fire a single tranquilizer; everything went off without a hitch.

It was supposed to be easy in, easy out. Maybe that's why everything went to shit so quickly.

"Move, kid!" Sullivan called, ducking behind cover as a hail of bullets rained from the other rooftop.

"Moving! I'm moving!" Nate yelled back in a panic, boots pounding on the inclined roof of the museum as he dived behind cover next to Sullivan; they blind fired over the thin concrete ledge that was slowly being gnawed away by the security guards' fire.

Why the hell did these guards have assault rifles?

The radio clipped to Nate's belt crackled and a tinny version of Flynn's snarky voice emanated from the speaker, barely audible over the shots, "Nate? What the fuck is happening—"

Nate instantly snatched the radio up and shouted back over the fire, "I thought Crease was our spotter, not a damn sniper with an itchy trigger finger!"

"Ah." Flynn edged carefully, entirely too calm for Nate's liking, "well, you know how it is, love—"

"No! I don't know how it is! If I did, I wouldn't have taken the damn job!" Nate seethed, pausing only briefly to return fire with the flimsy and useless tranquilizer gun. He wanted to run and climb, that's what he was good at, not this direct old west style battle, but there was no break in the gunfire to take advantage of.

"Morgan, we gotta get moving, save your martial spat for later!" Sullivan yelled, gesturing to the half dozen guard that appeared at their flank. With a quick nod of acknowledgement to Nate, he took off across the three story rooftops, leaping across the chasms and climbing drain pipes as Nate returned covering fire, thankfully downing a few men.

Nate ignored the married comment to reload his almost useless gun and shout one last time into the radio before tucking it away, "If I die, I'm going to murder you Harry!"

Flynn didn't know that Nate could uphold that vow.

Rolling out from behind cover, he dashed after Sullivan, ignoring the pistol shots that nipped at his heels. He got four rooftops over, expertly rolling to break his fall and clinging to handhold with tense fingers.

Of course, with Nate involved, things had to go from pretty damn bad to 'oh-my-God-the-universe-hates-me' in seconds. The skies opened and dumped thick, heavy rain over Nate's head; the kind of rain the soaks you in an instant, the kind of rain that makes the ground like an oil slick.

There was a loud bang, and a searing pain laced up Nate's leg. "Shit! Please be a graze, please be a graze."Nate pleaded to himself, attempting to ignore the agonizing pain and heat the emanated from side of his right leg, but his pace stuttered unevenly as he began to limp.

Then he slipped, and things went from 'the-universe-hates-me' to 'sam-is-gonna-literally-kill-me.'

"Oh, crap!" Nate cursed, his voice echoing over the hammering rain and shots as his footing slipped on the slick inclined roof. "Ow, crap-crap-crap-crap-crap." Nate called as banged his leg, his vision whiting out for a moment, and slid uncontrollably down the inclined roof toward a three story drop into a narrow alley. He desperately trying to grab something on the way down, but everything was slick with water. Adrenaline pumped and the rush of blood drowned out the slow stuttering off of gunfire as the guards lost sight of their targets.

He could do it. He could do it. He just had to time it just right.

His fingers barely grasped the overflowing gutter as he slid passed, ripping the nails from the edge of the roof with the force of his momentum. Filthy water poured over Nate's head, blinding his vision for a single crucial moment.

The gutter detached with a gut-wrenching groan of twisting metal and dropped him into three stories of open air.

The fall seemed to hover between one breath and the next, taking entirely too long and much too short a time. Nate reached with desperate and scrambling hands, to grab a windowsill or handhold or anything to stop his fall. But the wall was smooth, and there was no convenient rope or fire escape to break his momentum.

Wouldn't be the worst way to go.

Protect your head. Nate's thoughts randomly spouted Sam's half-hearted advice from years ago when they first started climbing together. He laced his fingers behind his head, and valiantly tried to prepare himself for one hell of a impact.

Nate hit the ground hard, feet first, tucking and rolling after his ankles slammed into the dirt. There was a sickening crack that resounded through the blood rushing to Nate's head, and adrenaline numbed the multitude of injuries for a moment. The air was knocked from his lungs, his head loosened in his grip, and water seemed to fill his nose and mouth as he collapsed face first in the mud.

He had a moment, to breathe, and realize he wasn't dead. Then it hit him all at once, an overwhelming wave of searing acidic, blisteringly hot agony that licked up his ankle to scorch a trail around his ribcage.

Oh god. It fucking hurt.

Nate wasn't aware of much besides the burning pain in his leg and the excruciating torture like shattered beer bottles being shoved repeated into his right ankle. He could see nothing but endless static whiteness, he could hear the shouting of Sullivan in the background, but nothing registered in his mind beyond his agonizing existence.

Move. Breathe. Move.

But he couldn't, it was too hard, it was too much. It could have been seconds or hours when Nate could finally breath through the water dripping down his face and his ears cleared to hear more than the pumping of life blood and adrenaline.

"Flynn! Cut the power to the alleyways!" Nate could hear Sullivan's thin voice echo from the radio on his belt. Nate had enough presence of mind over the agonizing pain to hysterically thank god the thing was waterproof.

"A bit busy with escaping from endless gunfire and death, you understand surely." Flynn snarked easily, only sounding slightly out of breath.

"Morgan fell! The guards lost sight of us in the rain, but I can't get down to him with the spotlights on." Sullivan said, something like panic and worry forcing his words out in a rush.

Oh, it was spotlights shining in his face not the endless agony whiting out his vision, Nate wasn't sure before.

"…Does he have the artifacts?" Flynn asked abruptly.

"Yeah, sure, just cut the power damn it!" Sullivan cursed, and the radio crackled once with a wordless cry of frustration as the line went dead.

"Y-you're o-okay." Nate stuttered in a pathetic whisper to himself as he tried to steady his breathing, tear unbidden mixed with the rainwater on his face, "you're o-okay. It do-doesn't hurt too b-b-bad. Just get up, s-simple and-and easy."

He wished Sam was there. Sam would know what to do. Even if technically Nate was older because of poor life decisions and bad luck, Sam would always be his big brother. God, he missed him.

Thunder boomed overhead, helpfully drowning out the shout of pain as Nate tried to push himself to his feet. Everything hurt, he couldn't do it, not without help, not even with the advantage of 120 years of memories and experience could Nate push the pain away and move. Nate rolled onto his back, gasping as a wave of agony rose and crashed over him in retaliation for daring to attempt standing.

"Kid—Morgan!" Sullivan called, his voice crackling through the radio, "Don't move, okay? I'm coming for you, just sit tight."

With what felt like a momentous amount of effort that left him breathless, Nate pulled the radio from his belt, his hand shaking as he held down the button to croak quietly, "c-can't do much else—."

He cut himself off with a wave of hacking coughs that seemed to wrack his whole body, tightening the iron bands around his ribcage.

"Good to know you're alive, Morgan," was the blunt reply on the radio. Was that concern, worry? Of course not, what did he expect, they were just business partners, and he held the artifacts.

"Yeah, yeah, alive, j-just a b-bit worse for wear." Nate stuttered, his teeth beginning to chatter involuntarily as the rain chilled him to the bones. He just stared at the sky, feeling the involuntary urge to reach up (an itchy crawl beneath the skin) and try to touch the smattering of stars; they were always the same, no matter where he was, no matter when he was.

"You're not gonna pass out on me, are you? Cause I am not carrying your ass home, kid." Sullivan's voice fizzled quietly through the radio, a little gruff.

"Nah. C-course not. I wouldn't d-do that to you, S-Sully—" Nate faltered slightly on the name, breaking off, coughing so hard his vision started to turn into grey static at the edges.

"—keep talking, kid. What did you call me?" Sullivan asked, amusement masking his alarming concern.

"What?" Nate wheezed, focusing on the conversation, not on the burning pain that had begun to lick up his leg like fire, "Don't like it? I t-think I've known you long enough to—to give you a n-nickname."

"I've seen how you greet your friends. I'm not sure I want to have my wallet stolen every time I bump into you." Sullivan teased good-naturedly, humoring Nate in a way that even Sam refused to anymore. Thankfully, he didn't mention that they only met four day ago.

"W-Well, it's a risk you r-run… talking to m-me. You'll l-learn to expect it." Nate struggled through the words, starting and stopping again like a faulty engine.

"Seems worth it," was the brusque reply, and it made Nate smile at nothing in particular, his eyes falling closed to rest for a moment.

"Sully?"

"Yeah, kid?" And maybe, just maybe, Nate could hear the old man smile through the shitty speaker on the radio.

"Y-You can call me Nate."

"Oh, please continue." Flynn interrupted on the radio, sounding breathless and frustrated. "This melodrama is even better than my Soaps. It's not like I just backtracked around 20 guards to get to the control panel again for you two dimwits."

"You w-watch Soaps?" Because that was the most important part of whatever drivel spewed out of Flynn's mouth.

"No, now shut up like a good little liability, and listen to me." Flynn snapped and this time Nate could hear gunfire in the background, "In ten seconds, the whole grid is going down. In 30 seconds, there's going to be a tiny distraction in North side of the museum. You two better be at the South exit in 3 minutes, or we're gone without you."

"Always knew y-you loved me, H-Harry." Nate teased lightly, something warm, something like hope rekindled in his chest.

"Oh, darling," Flynn replied in a faux-gentle voice, "shut up!"

There was a crack, thunder boomed overhead, and the lights all across the compound shut off, leaving a void of darkness on the moonless night and spots dancing in front of Nate's vision.

Within a seconds, Sully was standing over him, his voice clear and worried now that it wasn't distorted through the radio, "Let's get you moving, kid." He leaned down, yanking on one of Nate's arms to pull him up, and the sudden agony jolted a muffled scream from his throat and his vision turned to static.

He must have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing he remembered was standing upright, leaning heavily against the older man, as an explosion rocked the museum grounds. A cloud of smoke rose up from the opposite side of the compound, and sirens could be heard whining in the distance.

"That's your cue, love, now move your asses." Flynn snarled, although it was much less impressive through the tinny quality of the radio speaker.

Nate didn't remember much after that, everything hurt, the agony obliterated each coherent thought as he forced himself to place one foot in front of the other. He focused on Sully's voice to ground him, to keep at bay the gray that infringed upon the edges of his vision.

Maybe it was his inner-child talking, or over a hundred years of unconditional support, but he really wished Sam was there, to ruffle his hair and tell him it'd all be okay. But Sam was stuck in prison, and Nate's best attempt to get him out landed him at a three story drop.

"—ate. Nate! Come on, stay with me, kid—"

Maybe it's Murphy's law, or Nate's own brand of stupid luck, but he fell into the blissful unfeeling of the void.

Nate wondered if he would wake up this time.

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-oOo-

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A/N: Here's another chapter, hope you enjoyed! I love Sully, he's so awesome, there will be a bit more of him in the future! And look forward to seeing other favorite characters.

As always, let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading,

Rezz