The cold pizza on the table is now colder and missing a pair of slices, after the two of you forced yourselves to have at least a small amount of supper. Sam doesn't have any press or media stuff to deal with tomorrow, therefore you agree that a talk might be in order. And then it was declared that the day needed to end and you are now curled on your side with Sam moulded against your back, the covers of the bed pulled up to your chins. She's relaxed herself about as much as she can, but you can't stop picking at your stitches. Which is an action that she interprets as you fidgeting because of pain. This again is really not the best time to start the "I seem to keep sabotaging myself for some reason" conversation, so you play along. Unfortunately, that has the side effect of alarming her, and she ends up poking around at the wound herself before she offers to get up to grab your painkillers for you. You had forgotten about them, mainly because you aren't actually in pain. You don't really answer, and instead make a noncommittal humming noise. She's staring at you, waiting for you to properly yay or nay at her, waiting for you to do something other than give a vacant non-response. The stall drags on as you think about how you know you're in for some terrible dreams tonight, and how you might actually be able to prevent them. You're concentrating as if you're working out some complex math equation, rather than deciding whether to swallow a few pills or not. Sam's tapping her fingers against her thigh. "Right. So should I go, or?" She drags out the last word, killing the ugly silence.

Well, it can't hurt to test a theory. It might have been a one time freak coincidence, or maybe you've actually gotten lucky enough to find something to help you sleep. If unnecessarily taking prescription painkillers is actually somehow a lucky thing. But you end up saying please and then when she comes back with the bottle and a glass of water you follow up with a thank you. A short while after downing the pills, you start feeling the same drowsiness that you recognize from last night. Before you drift off completely, you remember that neither of you followed up on your respective couch apologies. "Sam?" You're not sure if she's still awake. Turns out that she kind of is. She responds by muttering "yahuh?" into your back. This isn't really an ideal situation, but even a sleep riddled answer might ease your mind a bit. "Why were you sorry?"

She shifts around a bit. "Wha?"

You should just leave this until tomorrow. You don't though. "Earlier, on the couch. I was trying to apologize to you for, you know, but you were apologizing to me as well."

"Oh." Her sleepy voice seems to get smaller, and she almost sounds ashamed as she cuddles closer to you. "S'posed to protec you. S'my job."

Her job is protecting you? You don't remember when that happened. "Sam, what are you talking about?"

She's clearly not at all awake enough to be talking about this, and she nuzzles her face against the back of your neck. You can feel her breath as she mumbles, "Tol' me t' stop with the innerviews. Hafta keep the assholes happy wifout botherin' you."

Oh God. You didn't, you still don't want to deal with any publicity, but you didn't realize she was taking it so seriously, so strictly. You should have clued in when you stopped even getting phone calls asking about TV spots or magazine pages or anything. You should stop her now, talk about it in the morning. She's slightly incoherent and you're not sure she even knows that she's actually talking to you. But she's still mumbling, and because you've already fucked up so much today, a little more probably won't make a difference and so you let her keep going.

"Don' needta deal wif tha' schuff. Shouldn' hafta. Said you din wanna so I won't make ya. Won't let ya. S'my fault. Don' know how I di'n know 'bout that show. 'Specially since you watch it so much."

No. This wasn't- or was this what you wanted? You realize that yeah, it is what you wanted, but you didn't want Sam to have to go through all the stuff that you yourself refused to. Though obviously if you weren't doing it, somebody else had to. How did you not realize that? How did you not equate what she's been doing for you as the exact same things that you would have to go through? She's been out almost every day dealing with people, trying to contain everything that you've let loose. And you didn't even take two seconds to think about how it might be affecting her.

"Messed up. Missed it. Gon' hafta watch t' make sure s'not anythin' too bad."

And now you understand why she gets so upset at all the bullshit rumours and such, everything that you've not cared about about. You don't care because you aren't the one watching their efforts end up pointless.

"I'll fix it, k? Jus' give me a little, k? M'sorry."

You feel like somebody just reached into your chest, grabbed your heart and crushed it a little.

"Don' get mad please. Didn' know. Futz'd up. Tryin m'best. Not mad?"

You really should have waited to ask about this. You also really should taken even just one thought about what Sam's been doing for you. You're such an idiot sometimes. "No Sam, I'm not mad at you. It's alright. We can figure everything out. Together."

"M'kay. Still sorry though."

"I know, Sam." That hand clenched around your heart squeezes again. "Let's go back to sleep." Not that you were ever asleep, and not that she was really awake. You feel her nod against you anyway. "Oh, and Sam?" You do want to let her sleep, but you've got one more thing you need to say, especially after all that. She makes a low humming noise to indicate she's still listening as you begin to fumble your words. "I love you. I don't know if I say that often enough, so, just… I love you. A lot." It sounded slightly more elegant in your head, but your mouth didn't really keep on track with your brain.

Your phrasing doesn't really seem to matter to her, as she snuggles even closer to you somehow, and then sighs. She's gone silent and you assume she's properly asleep now, but just as your own breathing starts to even out you barely catch her belated response. "Nah," The breath you were taking gets caught in your throat and you're scared of what her next sleepy statement might be. "Love y'more." Oh, God. You remember to breathe again and you cough slightly as the phantom hand sneaks back into your chest and gives your heart one more poke, for good measure.

As you fall deeper into your own slumber, you wonder if she'll remember this in the morning, and you pray to whoever's listening that the dreamkiller pills weren't a one time trick.

In the morning, you feel gloriously rested. The pills did what you had hoped for, and although that worries you slightly, it was fantastic to have a dreamless night. Twice in a row, even. As you sit up you start thinking about this situation and your eyebrows furrow as you frown. You don't think you like where this is leading. Still, you find yourself weighing the cost against the benefits. When Sam wakes up, you're still sitting and frowning off into space. Having dealt with a similar situation before, she automatically assumes that you've had a dream that wasn't so good. After arguing about whether it even was a dream that had you brooding, you end up using the good old "I just don't want to talk about it" excuse.

Over the last few days, you've realized that your entire life at the moment is categorized under "I just don't want to talk about it". Now that you've noticed this fact, you figure that it isn't the best option for your mental health. Far too late to make it sound like it was actually a part of the excuse to begin with, you force yourself to tack the words "right now" onto the end of the sentence. Sam was already getting out of bed, but she stops and does a double take. "Er, during breakfast?" You suggest. She's still just staring at you, apparently dumbfounded by the fact that you want to make an attempt to open up. The silence is unnerving and you make another suggestion, "Or we could eat first, and then talk?"

She looks slightly lost for a moment before she responds, "You're. Okay, yeah… we can, uh, yeah. Sure."

The amount of surprise that she's showing just because you agreed to talk about even just one little thing makes you uncomfortable. You feel more uncomfortable when you tell yourself that you're going to talk about more than just one little thing. And now the fact that simply the thought of talking about these things is making you uncomfortable makes you feel even more uncomfortable, if that's possible.

Somehow you convince Sam to allow you to cook breakfast again. It almost feels like she's fighting you about it just to provoke you and something about it feels off. You'll think about that later, you decide, and add hash browns to the menu. Making the extra food is partially a delay, as after Sam started speaking in full sentences again, she decided that she wanted to talk while eating. Presumably so you would have less time to worm your way out of it, which is fair enough, you think. However, you aren't the only one that needs to open up about things, so at least you can play the "right-back-at-you" card if need be.

When you finish cooking, you bring full plates to the dining area again. You skip the flourish this time, and just sit down after the plates hit the table. You start spreading jam on your toast, and Sam grabs a handful of bacon, looking more pleased with the amount of crispness this morning. You concentrate much more than necessary on making sure that the jam is evenly spread over your toast, and Sam seems very invested in the arrangement of eggs on her place. When you've finally had enough of this is a painfully awkward "meal", you decide to make the first move. For some reason you settle on simply saying one word, as if it'll bust down all the walls the two of you have fortified. "So."

Sam looks up from her plate and taps her fork restlessly against the table. "I guess it's time to start talking?" She makes a face that you interpret as a move meant to lighten the mood. "Are you going to tell me about the dreams you've been having now?"

That wasn't really the plan. While you were frying the eggs you remembered the mental list you had made yesterday, although the order of topics were jumbled. Still, your dreams weren't really high on the list. Before you realize that it's a very incorrect answer, you reply, "I'd rather not."

She sighs and looks away from you. "Did we not just agree on this, like, an hour ago?"

You never specified that your dreams were the main subject. "I don't recall agreeing on anything specific."

Seemingly frustrated, she exhales loudly. "What exactly have I agreed to talk about, then?"

Well. You never came up with a topic title. "Everything?" is the best answer you can come up with, on the spot.

"Everything." Your answer was more of a question, and her question is much more of a statement. The amount of fun you're having has already plummeted into three digit negatives, not that you were expecting anything otherwise.

"Yeah. The whole Yamatai situation we have going on right now, I suppose."

She facepalms, rather dramatically. "Okay, so, let me get this straight." She looks up at you through the hand that is still over her face. "You refuse to have a serious discussion for weeks, and now all of a sudden you want to talk about "the Yamatai situation". Which I'm going to translate into "the current state of our lives". Is that about right?"

You nod.

"Lara Croft, you are infuriating." You won't try and refute that. She taps her fork a few more times before waving it in the air. "Well, isn't it handy that neither of us have anything to do today?"

After you finished being infuriating, Sam declared that she wanted to finish eating before she started talking. Apparently anything beyond your dreams isn't polite breakfast discussion. When the two of you eventually finish and clean up, she starts to make herself another coffee and you decide to spend that time making yourself a tea.

The hot drinks that are about to be forgotten about are resting on the coffee table beside you, and you're both now sitting on The Sofa. You're propped up against opposite sides, both of you with your legs pulled up in front of you. She reaches out with her foot and pokes you with it. "So how about we start with why you won't tell me about your dreams?"

One question, and you're already feeling defensive. "Well, you haven't even told me that you've been have dreams."

"Wait. No, I… But…" You've successfully tripped her up, and as you give yourself a mental high five you realize that by doing so, you've started to destroy the point of this conversation. She recovers though. "You said you were going to talk."

Technically, you are. "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

She makes a displeased noise. "About yourself."

"I don't think that's what I said." It actually isn't. All you did say is that you would talk about "it", and "it" was never defined.

You've never seen her roll her eyes so dramatically. But before she can say anything, you cut her off. "Sam, I can't talk about this without you reciprocating. We're a pair, we're both struggling, and your problems are mine as much as mine are yours. Besides, you confirmed to me last night that you agreed that we're both avoiding pretty much everything that we should be confronting."

She slaps her palms against her knees and huffs. "I did, didn't I? Dammit. Fine. But 50/50. And you first, if only because you've been deflecting everything so far." She's suddenly the one on the defensive and you wonder what else she hasn't been telling you. You wonder why you never even tried to ask.

You gesture your agreement, and decide to get things rolling with something simple. "I kind of panic whenever I even think about what happened on Yamatai." After it leaves your mouth, you think that maybe your answer was a little too simple.

"You don't say." Her voice is completely flat, and she's making it as obvious as possible that she's staring at a bleach stain.

Your voice raises ever so subtly. "Well, we have to start somewhere, Sam."

As you watch her in silence, she takes a deep breath and puffs out her cheeks. After holding it for a second or two, she releases it. "Okay, okay. You're right." You think that's all she's going to say, and you start to figure out where to steer the conversation. She interrupts your thoughts when she asks, "Lara? Why do you suddenly want to talk all of a sudden?"

Because the last two days have made you realize that you're slightly batshit and that you've barely talked about anything that's troubling you. That you've barely talked, period. Because you also realized that there are a lot of things troubling you that you never noticed, or more likely, ignored. Also because you suspect that Sam might be in the same boat, although you can't confirm that, as you've been such an idiot that you haven't bothered spending much time to inquire or think about her state.

"Wow, alright. Well that's… certainly an answer, isn't it?." Sam's eyebrows are raised pretty high.

"It…" You squint at her. Answer? "I said that all out loud, didn't I?" You groan. "You know that I didn't really mean? The part about you being batshit? That's not necessarily what I should-"

She interrupts to make a frustrated sound at you, and stares at you with a faux expression of displeasure on her face, although you think you can see some real relief in there as well. "Sweetie, I'm not too concerned about every word you say right now, so long as you keep saying them. You said that you wanted to talk, so talk." She leans forward and reaches over to brush some hair out of your face, and then lightly taps your head with her knuckle. "You've been locking everything up in there. You can't keep on that way." She crosses her arms when she leans back, she looks away from you. "And since we're finally sharing, I'll state the obvious; I'm guilty of that too, okay?"

"I could have at least been a little more tactful though," You start an apology. "Really, I'm sor-"

She seems displeased with your apology and doesn't give you a chance to finish before her voice raises a few decibels. "If you. Say sorry. One. More. Time. I will… fuck, I don't know." Through your shock at her outburst, you watch her think of a threat. "I'll… I will fucking cancel your fucking Netflix."

The amount of malice dripping from the rather pathetic threat causes you to pretend to scratch your chin, so you can hide the snort that you're finding rather difficult to hold in. "I'm very afraid?" You decide it wouldn't be wise to point out that you could resubscribe within minutes of her cancelling.

"Maybe I'll do it anyway." She mutters, mostly to herself. "If you don't have anything to stare at for hours on end, you might actually leave the house."

Huh? Why would she have to do that to get you to… your train of thought screeches to a halt when a quick mental recount tells you that you haven't gone out anywhere other than to the hospital, when mandatory, since you tried to do the disastrous interview. "When was the last time I…" The sentence trails off and you don't bother trying to catch it, starting a new one instead. "I haven't gone outside at all." It's a blunt statement, and you sound a bit defeated as you say it.

Sam looks at you incredulously, as if she can't believe that you weren't aware that you had basically become a shut-in. "Well," She pauses and pretends to think really hard. "You did step out to get the paper that one day when it wasn't quite on the doorstep." She snaps her fingers and then points at you, like she's solved a puzzle. Then, just like that, she switches back to complete seriousness. "Lara, did you really not know that you have barely left the couch since we've been home?" And now she's staring at you with that look. The one that you've finally figured out.

The look that you now realize means something along the lines of "Lara you're kinda messed up and you don't seem to notice that which worries me but I don't know what to say or do so I'm going to look at you in a way that makes you feel bad". You assume (hope?) that the making you feel bad portion was probably unintentional.

"How long have you been watching me act like a total head case without saying anything?" Almost none of the questions that have been asked have been answered, but for whatever reason you feel compelled to know exactly how long Sam's been watching you struggle without stepping in.

She waits a beat before answering. "The day you came home from the hospital?" The way she says it implies that you should take a look back over the last few weeks. You do, and through many of the things you remember, it becomes evident that she's tried at least a few times to gently push you to talk. You just refused roughly ninety-nine percent of her efforts, and shut down the other one percent. You've been silent for a few moments while recalling events, and you're not sure how Sam interprets it, but she seems to feel awkward about it and expands on her answer. "But to be fair, it's not like you've been running around with a knife all stabby-stabby psycho style or anything. You just seem to be," She's searching for a word, probably the one that she thinks will be the least hard for you to hear. "Not quite yourself lately. Lately like, since we got our asses off of Yamatai. So actually, that's a relatively short amount of time." Holding her hand up, she pinches the air, indicating a small size of something.

Is the point of this not that the whole problem here is because of Yamatai? "But you wouldn't even have to worry about me "running around all stabby-stabby" if we hadn't needed to get our asses off of Yamatai to begin with."

She shrugs at you. "Does it matter at this point?" You suppose not. "What matters now is that we figure this all out. Together." Her words are eerily similar to what you told her during her sleepy confession-slash-apology and you wonder if she does remember it. You ponder bringing it up right now. As you're weighing the pros and cons of doing so, she slaps her hands on her thighs and smiles weakly at you. "How about we go back a bit now, and pick a topic? You've been changing every subject that's been brought up." You raise an eyebrow. "Fine, fine." She holds her hands up in surrender. "It wasn't all you. Now, it's fun time!" She over-enthusiastically claps her hands together but follows up with a tired sigh. "Pick your poison. Dreams, obsessive apologizing, being glued to the couch, or that whole panicking deal?" She's been counting on her fingers, and taps at her thumbs as she adds, "Or something else you might have on your mind?"

None of the above, you want to say. You feel slightly ill and you're sort of starting to regret your decision to talk.

i see the fear in your eyes, i feel the pain in your heart, how can something so well put together be so torn apart?

*plz listen to Sadie Bolger's cover of this song, if you've been listening to the songs I've been pulling lyrics from. If you haven't please make this the one that you do.

I wasn't intending to split their talk over two chapters, but it got a little out of hand. I got as sidetracked as Lara and Sam did.

woah more dialogue in this chapter than in the last ~10,000 words. When I sat these two dummies down for their talk, I spent quite some time deciding how Lara was going to talk. As in, was she actually going to have dialogue or would she mostly talk by thinking to herself and then relaying it to Sam and have her communicate through body language often. As much as I liked the idea of staying in her head as much as possible, I decided that I'd rather give her a voice. How you think isn't necessarily how you end up talking, I suppose, and I think things are a bit more interesting seeing somebody not say quite what they're thinking or meaning to say. Woah I'm rambling way too much. High five if you're still reading.

Also, I don't really mind autocorrect too much, but when I'm trying to spell things wrong on purpose a lot of angry yelling becomes involved. Turning it off would be easier but I'm too lazy to click a few buttons.

Coming soon: The Cancellation