If Harry Flynn hoped for privacy when they got back to the room, he did not get any. Nathan would not leave him alone for no more than a few minutes at a time, helping Flynn rinse the sand off in the tub before getting him into bed. Flynn did not want to sleep, the frustrated and trapped feeling was back, forced to endure an endless loop of his torment when he tried to even rest. Instead, angry, forlorn, he stared down at his intended suicide note and found himself already hating it. He was waiting for Drake to finish in the bathroom before clambering into bed and shutting off the lights. Why couldn't I write that I love this stupid kid? He always used to say I was like a brother, I used to think the same. Then I used to want him, more than a brother. How could I leave that burden on him, anyway? It would be breaking his heart all over again. Assuming he feels the same. You know what they say about the word 'assume', Flynn. Don't let it make an ass out of you and me.

Harry did not look up as Nathan shut off the lights and clambered onto the mattress on his side, dipping behind Flynn as the British man lay to face the wall. The notepad was clutched closer to his chest, not wishing Nathan to see. A warm arm hooked around his waist and Drake pressed into his back, becoming a habitual position between them. It used to be an unwanted invasion of Flynn's personal space, but now he was growing to find it soothing, almost craving it if he really wanted to admit it to himself. "Why did you decide to make it tonight?" Nathan whispered into his shoulder, his preferred spot to nestle into.

"This isn't exactly a great topic for pillow talk, mate," Flynn murmured, unable to help the snarky remark. Come on, Nate. I'm tired. Cut it out with the prying.

"I'm serious," Drake persisted, voice still soft. "Why tonight? Why there? Did… you even have a plan?"

"Not in the traditional sense," Flynn hissed. "I never wrote it down. I… thought about it two days ago. I just am so tired of this, Nate. I'm tired of being afraid all the time, even when I'm supposed to be safe now. I was only able to get the gun tonight… seems to be the fastest, easiest, fool-proof way, yeah?"

"Other than a damn grenade," Drake grumbled darkly.

"Yeah, other than that…"

There was a moment of hesitation, silence between them, just listening to each other's breathing in the stillness. Flynn was sure the conversation was over, that they were just going to drift off to sleep. But Nathan startled him in speaking again, lips still hushed into his shoulder. "How come if you felt this way, you didn't drop the grenade? Even… before we got in the chamber, if you didn't want to live."

Harry gave a slow, long exhale, growing agitated despite his weariness. I don't really know the answer to that one, mate. "Nathan," Flynn sighed at last, not knowing how he was going to explain his darkest thoughts to someone that did not begin to understand what that kind of suffering was like. "I didn't want to die then. Not really. I suppose… it all didn't sink in yet. I was still in survival-mode. Lazarevic was still alive, I had no idea where anyone was… I was alone. And facing that alone with a fuckin' grenade was not my idea of an ending. And if I dropped it… Nate, if I dropped it before anyone I knew got there, how would they know it was me? It… it would have been a mess. I needed to be seen, before I had to go, if that makes sense. But you took it out of my hands, so there's that. Hope you rammed it up Zoran's arse."

Flynn felt Nathan's lips curl into a faint smile on his shoulder, against some of the fresher scars. Why do you insist on being so close to me, mate? Why do you keep touching me when most people wouldn't? I'm tainted. I'm filth. Unfortunately, Flynn did not share the expression, keeping his face a neutral mask as he faced the wall. It was exhausting faking friendliness and grins when he felt so wrong on the inside.

"Hey, pal?" Nathan whispered again and Flynn was seriously doubting if he was going to be able to sleep at all. "Don't get cranky… But I called Sully before I left to look for you."

Oh ferfuckssake. "What?" Flynn's tone was not necessarily a question, more as a one-worded pissed-off statement that spoke volumes about his feelings on the matter.

"You disappeared and you left a damn suicide note. What the hell did you expect me to do? I called Sully and he's on his way back. If we leave Cancun, we're all going together. But right now, you can't be left alone. I'm sorry, Flynn."

Nathan, you asshole. Why the hell would you go and do that? "Call him back," Flynn growled, unable to contain the rippling of anger.

"Flynn—"

"No, call him back," Harry insisted, not wishing for an interruption. "Call him back, say you found me on the beach with a bottle of tequila or Jack and all is good. I'm serious, Nate, I'm not okay with this."

"Like I could lie to Sully," Drake snorted, giving his head a shake. "That guy can sniff out a lie for miles. Come on. You need help. But I can't keep my eye on you all the time, this was too damn close a call. I think we need to get away from the beach. I know you feel at home here, but home can be anywhere for guys like us. Granted, you'll take some time getting better, but I have no plans. We can be partners, right? Like old times."

Flynn hated the sound of everything Drake proposed but he was in no position to argue. As impulsive as it was, Harry knew his suicide attempt was going to be met with scrutiny in the eyes of the more mentally-stable men charged with his care. "I'm not becoming a fuckin' tourist, Drake," Flynn snarled, the thought of travelling with no real goal was laughable. "You want me to tail you two while you go wild on the kind of adventures I'd kill to do again? No. I'd rather you send me to an invalid home."

"You're not permanently maimed, Flynn," Nathan sighed, gently running a flat palm up Flynn's expanse of spine, across the ripple of scars. "You're in bad shape right now, but you're going to be better. If you just want to sit in the hotel room and be a stick in the mud, fine. But I'm not leaving you to kill yourself. I said I care about you, I damn-well mean it."

You can care about a dog too, that doesn't mean a thing, mate. "Shut up, Nathan," Flynn only could murmur into his pillow, clutching onto the ring looped on the necklace he kept dear. "Go to sleep."


It was raining for the first time in a long time for Flynn, the next morning waking up to a grey and miserable day that steadily poured sheets of precipitation. It lashed the windows and made him tense harshly. As a native of London, Britain, Harry Flynn was no stranger to rain. That did not change the fact he hated it, which is why he fled his home country the moment he had the chance. It reminded him too much of his childhood, of his mother, of the nights where he was desperate for a place warm and dry to sleep. Certain unwanted memories seemed ready to spring into play, especially when his mother's ring was tight in his grasp. Like the time when he was only four years old, terrified of the thunderstorm raging outside his bedroom window, he fled to his mother's room. She was irritable, hungover, aiming mean-spirited slaps at his face until he was forced to leave. He made it a point to not go to her for comfort a year or so after that, he was not the fastest learner when it came to his mother. Or the memory of his time on the streets, sleeping in leaky dumpsters or squalid abandoned buildings if he felt safe enough, often it was not. Gangs and homeless squatters were not kind to relinquish their territory to a skinny street kid, he had seen the depths of addiction on other human beings and what it can make them do. He was determined to never fall into that trap, and so far, he remained unscathed other than his unfortunate birth circumstance.

Another blast of ocean wind brought another crashing flare of rain against the glass, Flynn could not help but coil himself smaller and shudder. That disturbed his bed-partner, still half-tangled around him, legs entwined with Harry's. Nathan uttered a soft lazy yawn, actually peeking over Flynn's shoulder to meet his eyes as if checking if he was awake. "Hey buddy," Drake murmured softly, returning to his spot at Flynn's back. "Wassup? You're shaking."

You don't need to know why, you nosey shit. Flynn was more than a little annoyed with the constant prying. He never had so much of his life laid out bare to someone, and yet it was not enough. Drake wanted to know everything about him. "Cold," he lied instead, forcing himself to stretch and try to appear more at ease. "Drake, riddle me this. Would Sullivan call anyone else about my slip-up?" That question was nagging at him the moment Nathan admitted to calling his mentor, enraged at the invasion of privacy yet again.

"I doubt it," Nathan yawned, idly extending both arms above his head before letting them pile onto Harry, a lazy hug. "Hey, it's a new day. Let's not think about that, alright? I'm gonna grab a shower, okay? I'm leaving the bathroom door open, Flynn. I'm serious, you try to sneak out, I'm going to hear you. Just hang tight, watch tv, entertain yourself."

Harry tried to ignore the pang of resentment, not enjoying the thought of being essentially babysat. He hid it, however, the way he knew best: catty jokes and flirting. "Oh really," Flynn grumbled, shoving Nathan's arms off. "If I didn't know you, I'd think you were trying to be a tease and give me a show. Now hurry up and get on with it, you floozy."

He did not have to see Nathan's face as he got up to know he was blushing, the lobes of his ears were already pink. "Yeah, yeah, you'd love it. I'm serious, Flynn. Not playing around. Rain or shine, you sneak out again, I'm tackling you in the street."

"Drake, keep it up, I'm going to flush while you're in there," Flynn muttered, piling pillows to partially sit up and get comfortable as he waited. "Maybe if you hurry, we can get something to eat, yeah?" Harry was nowhere close to hungry, but he was willing to distract the younger man with food if it meant getting him off his back long enough to breathe.

"Gotcha, right," Nathan chirped almost cheerily, keeping his word on leaving the bathroom door open, much to Flynn's distaste. But, surprisingly shy, Drake actually undressed in the shower, out of sightline and taking a towel with him. Not that Flynn minded. It would just be a sore reminder of what he craved and being unfit for it.

The television channels were all still in Spanish, so Harry took to snooping. Absently, he pawed through the nightstand on Nathan's side, fingers catching a leather-bound cover. Flynn froze, a coy grin curling his lips. Nathan Drake's journal. Well, well. What do we have here? Ever since he had known Drake, the young man had a habit of pocketing a journal regardless of where he was or what the job entailed. Whenever given a spare minute or opportunity, Nathan would whip it out with a weathered pencil, mostly preferring sketches to writings. He was not terribly secretive about his musings, but Flynn never had the chance to flick through the pages himself and certainly not alone without Nathan staring at him for gauging his reactions for his artwork. Ignoring any little guilty pangs and going with the thrill instead, Flynn sat back with the small book in hand and snapped on the night-lamp.

The first two pages were the contacts Nathan wanted to keep in touch with, Flynn felt a weak smile when he remembered the time he had gleefully given his number to Drake, pleased to find a like-minded thief to get into shenanigans with. The expression changed when he noticed how it had been crossed out, running a fingertip over the paper. Deeply embedded, hastily and angrily marked. There it is. Proof. I knew I'd find something about me in here, especially on what I did to him. I'm sorry, mate. Really.

Near his own was another crossed out name, Eddie Raja. Flynn could not help but suppress a small chuckle there. Drake and Eddie never did like each other. Always with the damn name-calling. Too similar in personalities maybe. Poor Eddie. Heard how he bit the dust. Nathan had relayed to him everything that happened regarding the fabled El Dorado, not a city but a single effigy statue that was actually a sarcophagus to a cursed mummy. If Nathan did not meticulously record everything in his journal and had trinkets to match his incredible, unbelievable story, Flynn would have said it was all a heaping pile of bullshit. Harry almost wished he was there to see it himself. Almost. Hearing about those strange naked, feral Descendants that crawled at lightning speeds on all fours and attacked with teeth and claws freaked him out. Eddie found out the hard way how deadly those fangs could be. Well, better you than me, Eddie ol' boy. Maybe I'll see ya around soon enough.

Flipping idly through some of the pages, he stopped to admire Nathan's artistic handiwork. The vibrantly coloured depiction of the Cintamani Stone in legend made him pause, rather captured by the beauty of it. The photograph of Drake and Sully grinning, fresh from their previous adventure made him smile along, unable to help it with such obvious joy and triumph there. A golden doubloon, stamped with a Nazi mark that Nate found in an abandoned U-boat in the middle of the jungle. Pieces of the pamphlet Flynn had given Drake were stapled in the pages, as well as a photo of the lantern they broke and found the fragments of resin in that glowed the most gorgeous blue Harry ever seen. Drake's own humor scattered the pages in the doodles, such as Sullivan's common facial expressions with goofy caricatures featuring mainly eyebrows and a moustache, a 'creep' meter on the things that freaked Nathan out, little scribbles of jokes here and there. There were a lot of other texts and notes hidden amongst the pages, excerpts from Marco Polo's journal, handwritten clips, yellowed parchment and a chilling depiction of one of the yeti guardians Flynn had first seen before they realized it was a mere costume. Flynn recognized a lot of the puzzles and passages himself, feeling a little pang of resentment with a curious blend of jealousy. Excerpts from Sir Frances Drake's journals and writings, the pieces to the puzzle that were missing. Here Lazarebitch is riding my ass about my lack of progress and Nate had all the answers, right fuckin' here in his hands. Every place we got fuckin' stuck, like that damn monastery, here Drake knew exactly the combination or code to get in. No wonder he made it so far. Lucky little shit.

The two solid pages filled with women's numbers from assorted cities across the globe brought the jealousy again, much stronger than he would like to admit to himself. Flynn was a flirt and that much was true. But when he committed in a relationship, he gave it his all. He was loyal. The prominence of Elena's photo near the top proved Nate's fixation with the girl, but there was also a unique cluster of dried flowers to represent each woman, the many other numbers. Sorry Elena love, seems Natey-boy has a problem with commitment. Or a wandering eye as well as wandering feet. Flynn noticed Chloe's own name was near the bottom, the resentment back again. That asshole. He could have told me they had history. I should have known. The look on his face when he saw her at the bar, I should have fuckin' known. How could you have been so stupid, Flynn? They both played you for a fool.

Angrily, Flynn flicked through a few more doodles of statues, of the phurba dagger that turned out to be a key, of the numerous symbols regarding the legend. Curiously, Nathan also noticed the skeletons from Marco Polo's crew had black teeth. Flynn pondered the significance of this for many long weeks after the discovery. Hardly matters now, doesn't it? The Tree is gone, Shambhala is gone, all that resin is pretty much gone. No point. Harry flipped through, noticing he was near the end of their journey to Shambhala through the pages. One of the children from the Nepalese village was drawn remarkably well on one, a flag from Tibet stapled to the other. There was a drawn depiction of the Tree effigy Harry had seared into his memory, noticing Drake's eagle-eye missed many details. The height of the stone and the size was wrong, the branches along the ceiling crudely drawn. He did not draw it there, he's doing it from memory. That's because he was focused on you, Flynn. Don't be an idiot. How could he really focus on that when you were bleeding all over the place? But to Harry's surprise, the journal had several more weathered, used pages. The hell? What else did he see or do since then that occupied him like this? Drake was not a relentless journalist about his thoughts or experiences, he was picture-oriented and preferred a subject.

Flipping to the next page answered his question, Flynn's puffy green eyes widening. It's me. He's been drawing me. For… weeks? Harry had assumed that the plain absence of himself in Nathan's journal up until this point was due to his betrayal, and perhaps that was true. The first image was striking enough, fresh from his rescue and after surgery, no doubt sketched by Nathan perched at his side. It was life-like, startlingly so, shading painstakingly outlining bruises like shadows. Flynn realized it was how he looked before the rapid weight loss and before the stress taxed his health, still a world away from how he felt now. After all, that was less than 24 hours after his near-fatal injury. The posture was almost like that of a classic painting, the delicate crane of the neck, the almost blissfully portrayed sleep. It was as if Nathan was purposely ignoring the prevalence of the medical standpoint, trying to capture only the subject in essence.

There almost was a time-progression taking place with each page, Flynn slow progress with recovery, or as he saw it, his lengthened suffering. He got thinner, but he was now appearing somewhat alive in the images, eyes opened in some. But the image was different than what he saw in the mirror. Nathan did not get the eyes right. That's how your eyes maybe used to look. Sly, smug, but confident all at once. Maybe Nathan did not want to draw that sad reality. Maybe it was easier to pretend otherwise.

One small drawn image was a close-up of Flynn's mother's ring, the one he would adamantly protect but loathed at the same time. Little scribbles indicated the colour of the stone, a blood-red ruby that Nathan actually concluded was a real gem. Huh. If Nate can't spot that as a fake, then it must be a real stone. Looks like Mum didn't con me with a fake ring. Question is, where did she get it?

There were traces of Drake's inconsolable rage in some images, one actually depicting Harry's exposed naked back. Flynn's stomach twisted uncomfortably. The grid-mark of criss-crossed scars was articulated accurately onto paper. The brand-like gory signature on his ass was nowhere to be seen, maybe too shameful for normally such a cheery medium. Flynn did not blame him. He was not sure how he could handle seeing that even on paper, in a drawing.

There was a viciously drawn depiction of Zoran Lazarevic himself, not the terrifying, towering beast of a man he was familiar with but bloodied, beaten and in the process of being bludgeoned by brutish large shapes no doubt the Guardians. It was almost too cruel even for Drake, to sketch such a level of violence was not him. But considering what the warlord was personally responsible for… Harry did not blame him at all. In fact, he got a secret little thrill from the picture, smirking to himself as he tried to take in every detail. Oh, I really do hope that's how it happened. That would have been a huge dose of karma. Let him feel helpless and small for once, the asshole.

There was one last picture, tucked behind that page. Flynn felt the heat rise to his face as he found it, cheeks flushing with a strange, excited stirring in his gut. It was another image of Flynn, another sleeping subject, this time sprawled into Nathan's own midsection. The doodle was an odd point of view, almost a snap-shot of the quiet intimacy there. Flynn's cheek was pressed to Drake's chest, snuggled in tightly, his own hand tucked protectively close to his features. Harry's legs were almost straddling Drake's, to get in as close as possible. So, he drew this of me that night I passed out on him. The same morning we woke up to Sullivan in the room. Jesus, what if Sullivan has a clue about Nate's … what, feelings? Does he really have feelings for me? No. Pity, yeah. Empathy, sure. Maybe friendship feelings, okay. But… real romantic feelings? Flynn found himself almost flattered, but mainly just sad for his friend. Poor kid. He might be as desperate for love as I am. Seems he crushes on anyone looking in his direction. I mean, I got feelings for him, but I'm so screwed up I have no idea where to start with that. I'm so broken, it wouldn't take much for me to fall for anyone who is nice to me. But why would he feel that way for me? I mean… I know I was ruggedly handsome before. But that was before. Why now?

"Hey, you still alive in there?" Drake's voice rang out, startling Flynn into nearly dropping the journal on his chest, hands fumbling as the book almost wanted to levitate out from gravity and his clumsiness. Catching it, he replaced it hurriedly back in the nightstand as he found it.

"Hurry up, Nate," Flynn answered back, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. He hoped Nathan would not notice him reacting bizarrely with his discovery. He had to whip out his acting skills again, not a true gift but one he honed over years. "I would like some hot water left."


The pouring rain never stopped, flaring up Nathan Drake's stubborn protectiveness much to Harry Flynn's utter annoyance and dismay. The American actually insisted that Harry, a Native Brit, should stay in and avoid the rain in case it would worsen his condition. Flynn would have been disgruntled enough to argue but the chilly downpour outside was not at all tempting. Such a cheap motel shithole did not have room service for dining, leading them to order in. Cancun did not offer a whole lot of variety. Drake was in the middle of pondering it out and Harry was soaking in the tub when the motel door banged open and Flynn could feel his heart damn-near fly out of his chest. His damp hand flew up to the hammering under his ribs, hearing a familiar and irritable voice growl out. It was hard not to, the bathroom door was open on Drake's insistence in supervision.

"Goddammit! I thought the point of Mexico is that we don't have to deal with this kind of weather!" Victor Sullivan. Harry could feel dread sink in, slowly lying flat in the tub and wishing to disappear under the thin foam of bubbles. Shit. He got here faster than I thought.

"Hey, it was nice before you came into town," Drake complained loudly, but not without his trademark dry humor. "You must have brought it with you from the north. How are things, Sully?"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to tell you," Sully snarled again, voice lowering. "We need to get going. Ideally, tires up and in the sky within the hour. Seems a certain cartel knows we're in town and they're still sore about the deals about those fake paintings."

"Aw, Sully, seriously? That was almost five years ago! Is there such thing as a vacation without getting chased out of town?" Nathan whined, but by the rustling taking place, he was already packing their meagre belongings. "How many cities are we either banned from or being chased out of again?"

"Nate, I stopped counting after the second trip in Montreal. Hurry up. And Flynn, is he—"

"Fine, he's in the tub right now," Nathan quickly interrupted, not wishing to broach the subject at this point in time when they had bigger problems. "Hey, Flynn? Time to get going, pal."

With a heavy sigh, Flynn pulled the plug and hauled himself up, quick to wrap a towel around his waist before stepping out into view of the main bedroom. He was not at all pleased about the disturbance but if there was one matter he did not want to contend with, it was the cartel. The levels of savage butchery and cruelty they used was notorious even among the criminals. Seems we have to put breakfast off. That's fine. I'm already sick of this place, anyway. "I'm coming, keep your panties on," Harry grumbled, already stepping into a pair of jeans and hefting them up under the towel, before letting the damp material fall to the floor and puddle at his feet. "Hand me a shirt, yeah? Freezing my arse off."

The trip out of Cancun was deeply tense until they were in the air, but otherwise uneventful. Harry's deep, dark little fears of being kidnapped by the Mexican cartel was unfounded. Thank God. Wouldn't that be my luck? As if tangling with a Serbian war criminal wasn't bad enough. Sullivan had the sense to borrow a car with a roof instead of an open-top jeep, but they did not bother with even returning it to its rightful owner, leaving it at the airstrip. Now half-sprawled on the same checkered-plaid couch they sat in before, Flynn was regarding Nathan with a bored glance, not a clue where he was headed and finding he did not particularly care. His right leg was hooked over Nathan's knee, nearly reclining as he sat sideways, the left tucked up under his body. When Flynn got bored, he got restless. Bu when he got restless, it brought Nathan's attention. Already, the younger man was watching him with questioning aquamarine eyes, brow quirking upwards inquiringly.

"Wassup?" Drake asked over the drone of the engine, often they did not speak at all to stop from repeating themselves if the other misheard.

Flynn only shrugged, more than annoyed with his fluttering anxieties always brewing deep in his core. Trying to be nonchalant and naïve about what Flynn saw in Drake's journals was never what he would practice. Usually, he would have been open in his approach on Drake, asking even loud enough for Sully to overhear if he dared it. What happened to you, Flynn? I know what happened. Lazarevic happened. Like it or not, he's a part of who you are now. It was a disturbing, even repulsive thought but it held true all the same. A person can leave a mark on another human being like a natural disaster can on a landscape. It can scar them indefinitely, shaping their identity from that point forth. Flynn's own identity had transformed into a meek parody of what he used to be, or what he could gather from his own observations. There was a time Flynn would not have been shy to kiss Nathan the way he craved. Now he was finding himself afraid of it. Why am I afraid of Nathan? He'd never hurt anybody without a good reason. I don't think he'd hurt me. Even if he wanted to.

Nathan did not relent. He bobbed his head once, another nonverbal cue, a silent question.

'What's wrong?' Nothing's wrong, Nate. I'm a fuckin' disaster with a huge capital 'd'. I'm just wondering what the hell you see in me for me to be your muse. Flynn felt a shaky grin play across his lips, nudging a foot against Nathan's thigh. "M'fine. Stop asking. Where the hell we going?"

A soft smirk curled at Nathan's own lips, unable to help himself with mimicking Flynn's expression. "What's the matter? Got a place you need to be right now?" the younger man teased again, giving Flynn a soft bump with his elbow.

I could think of half a dozen places, mate. None of which are in the fuckin' sky. Flynn hated flying. He knew Drake was used to it, he travelled everywhere with Sully by plane since he was a teen. Harry huffed, rolling his eyes as he glanced out the window despite the flutter of anxiety. "Maybe a few. Seriously, mate. Where?"

"I'm not sure," Drake continued, almost cheerfully ready to start a conversation at the drop of a pin. "We got some work to do, Sully has got some contacts in London that are eager to get in contact with us—"

Flynn tensed harshly at the sound of his birth-city, almost considering for a wild minute to storm to the cockpit and order Sullivan to turn the fuck around, but Nathan caught the look and laid his hand on Flynn's knee. "Hey, relax. Not actually going. Let's just say they're not friends? We got something they want, but we got other plans right now. I think he mentioned the west coast, we might be hanging around much further north. Really, it's just to lay low for now. Hate to say it, buddy, but even small towns might be preferred at this point."

Fuck, better than London. Hell, it'll be too soon going back there. I'm not ready. It'll be nice to see Cutter again but that city has too many bad memories. "Nathan, I honestly would not give a shit if it was Canada we decided to crash. Let's just stay away from cartels and war criminals, yeah?" Or anyone else remotely dangerous right now. I could deal with a break from danger for a while. Flynn never thought he'd actually think those words, the more adventure and bullets flying overhead were often the better in his opinion. But times have changed, the shot to the chest brought his mortality into perspective. Harry just felt he wanted a long, well-deserved vacation from adrenaline rushes and explosions. He doubted the insatiable Nathan Drake felt the same, which did worry him. Flynn would not be able to keep up. And it will be over my fuckin dead body the day they start treating me as a senior citizen. I'm not yet fuckin' 40. But Christ, do I feel old.

"You got it, buddy," Nathan laughed, giving Harry's knee a pat before resuming the reading of the historical text he had in hand. Nate had a stash of books around Sullivan's plane, Flynn would have no doubt the young man would have acquired a library if he had a permanent address. Flynn instead enjoyed the view, Nathan's gently furrowed brow of concentration as he found an interesting passage, the occasional jab of a finger at a particular sentence. Yeah. I know I'm crushing on this kid, it's been a couple years since I first noticed it. But Nate is the only constant I got. He's a rock. He's a stable foundation when mine was built on sand. Flynn had to stuff down the swell of emotions, a soft smile on his scarred lips as he watched Nathan read.