Chapter Text
Autumn in Vermont, as it turned out, was piercingly cold for Sam’s tastes. He honestly thought his balls would freeze off. He might have missed the cold at some point after all those years he spent in Panama, but he could not stand this kind of cold: sharp and biting and cruel. Jetlagged and with barely three hours of sleep, the drive—though scenic at best—became a torment. If it weren’t for his numbing hands around the wheel of his rental car, or the fact that the heater failed to offer him the warmth he sorely needed, he would have taken the time to pause from the long drive, roll down his window, maybe light a cigarette and bask in the view that unraveled around him like a nostalgic Polaroid picture: morning fog veiling the stretch of the freeway; rows of maples and aspens aflame in scalding shades of gold; hills of red and orange and ochre, as if the entire landscape waged a private war against the sky’s dreary and cloudless gray.
But Sam kept driving. No offense to the spectacular colours of fall, but all he could think about was how he was still supposed to be somewhere in India just right about now.
Maybe this entire freezing weather wouldn’t have been half as bad if his recent expedition throughout the Western Ghats had not spoiled him too much of the pleasant summer heat, the exquisite food, the thrilling views—all of which he could never be afforded on this side of the world. That or his long-ass flight from Mumbai to New York simply made it unbearable to adjust to the sickly shift in season. It was a good thing he had some sense to pack warm clothes for the road; there was certainly no way in hell he would have survived in Victor’s old yet tastefully floral Havana shirts and cargo pants. Questionable fashion choices be damned, but he had to admit: those had been immensely comfortable. Even little Meenu was charmed to see him in those clothes.
Either way, he’s already here. What else was he left to do? He should probably just focus on finding that godforsaken cottage, so he could finally warm himself up with a drink or two…
But even as Sam drifted past foggier hills and even redder mountains, and with the sordid space of the cheap Chevy not getting any warmer, he was beginning to regret heeding Nathan’s advice to postpone his supposedly extended Indian summer.
Frankly, he was beginning to regret agreeing to this whole Thanksgiving affair at all.
Of course, this was all their stupid idea. At the time—still woozy from the euphoric, Libertalia high—they had gladly obliged to celebrate at least one holiday from there on out. But now, turning down the invitation was out of the question, not when Sam had promised Nathan (and even Elena, too, for Christ’s sake, what was he thinking?) that he would give this family tradition a try. And Sam, being a man of his word (or at least, he tried to be) wanted to deliver. He even brought the finest bottle of pinot noir for the occasion. Sure, he may be a lot of other awful things, but breaker of promises was certainly something he was not keen to add to his growing repertoire of crimes. Especially not after what he had done to Nathan.
Most especially not after that.
He had already failed his brother more than he should have. Participation on a trivial holiday such as this one or otherwise, he was not going to fail him again.
Besides, what harm could one Thanksgiving dinner possibly do, anyway?
Well, I’d probably end up questioning my life choices, he suddenly thought miserably. We’d all be sitting at the dinner table and Nathan will tell me everything there is to know about their new joint venture, their pleasant life in New Orleans, all the while I’d tell them the most entertaining story of how I almost got myself killed in India, how I’m failing to get my shit together, how I’m the incomparable good-for-nothing in this goddamn family —
A soft and a rather sensual moan shoved him out of that spiraling thought. And then another. It was coming from his jacket pocket; he fished the thing out—which, of course, had to be his phone and its extremely inappropriate ringtone—and saw an unknown number on the screen. He answered by the fourth moan.
“For the love of god’s balls, if this is another insurance offer I’m gonna—”
“Please tell me you’re already on your way here,” the worried voice on the other line said by way of greeting. It was Nathan.
“Oh. Hi there, little brother —”
“So? Where on earth are you? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday morning—“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—relax,” said Sam placatingly, somewhat a little startled with his brother’s annoyance. “I only got here this morning,” he went on to explain. “My flight from Mumbai got delayed, then I had to book a rental car from JFK since my flight going here to Vermont got canceled, but yeah, sure—I’m on my way.”
“And by ‘on my way’, where exactly are you now?”
“Huh.” Sam drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, assessed the area that rolled before him: more maples and aspens and its swollen-red leaves; majestic oaks and its moss-encrusted trunks; an abundance of dew-soaked thickets; an endless foliage of green and gold. The forest around him breathed mist and fog. No nearby house nor sign in sight.
“Still somewhere in Sutton. I guess,” he answered uncertainly.
“You guess?” Nathan laughed. Sam was certain he heard the slightest sound of mockery from it. “You sure you’re not lost?”
Sam scoffed loudly. “Am I lost?” Lost in my own mind, maybe. “Nathan, I never get lost.”
“Oh. Of course,” Nathan said rather feebly. “Okay.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s this really about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you never call just to check in on me. Everything alright?”
A sudden, inexplicable silence. On the other line seeped the thick wail of a saxophone, the shrill peals of laughter, and his brother’s obvious hesitation. It was either Nathan was hiding something from him, or something was awfully wrong.
Usually, his money was on the latter.
“Uh, yeah,” Nathan said after a strained pause. “Everything’s fine.”
“Nathan.”
“What?”
“I could literally hear your bullshit all the way out here.”
“I… uh, hang on a sec—” Nathan’s voice faltered and was quickly followed by a muffled noise, unsteady footsteps, a slam of the door. And then another silence, more unbearable than the last.
“Uh, Nathan? Still there?”
No answer.
This time, Sam pulled over the side of the road. He was dreadfully cold and, all thanks to his brother, was now also growing dreadfully anxious.
“Nathan,” Sam said impatiently, dragging a weary hand over his face, “I swear, you’re literally killing me here—”
“Hi. Sorry.” Nathan cleared his throat, letting out an audibly weary exhale. Wherever he was, it had gone completely quiet. “Right. Okay, there.”
“Now what the hell’s going on—”
“I’m going to be a dad.”
A dumbstruck silence. Then, in an almost unnerving wave of relief, Sam burst out laughing.
“I’m being serious here,” Nathan said irritably.
“Yeah I know—Jesus, Nathan,” Sam said, pressing his forehead against the wheel, “for fuck’s sake—for a moment here I thought you’d be telling me that you’re sick and dying. But, anyway. I’m happy for you, little brother! How far along is Elena? Or perhaps you’re referring to another baby momma here—“
“Goddamnit, of course it’s Elena.”
“Right. Just had to make sure. So. How far along is she?”
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks? Wow, that’s…” Sam trailed off, his eyes narrowing on the road. He was absently watching the swirl of leaves that danced with the autumn breeze until an amusing realization finally dawned on him.
“Now you wait just a fucking second.”
“What now?”
“Really? Ten weeks?”
“Did I fucking stutter?”
“Holy goddamn shit, you son of a bitch!” Sam said, unable to hold back his laughter. “I can’t believe you did it in fucking Libertalia—”
“No, no, no—we are not gonna have this conversation."
“Of course we’re not gonna have this conversation," Sam offered helpfully. “At least, not for now. Because I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason why you called me, right? I mean, this could’ve waited until I get there and yet here we are.”
They were quiet again. Outside, the sky had visibly darkened. Drops of rain slowly pittered against the windows.
“It’s just…” Nathan drew out a sigh, paused, and sighed again. “It’s, well, I just… I’m happy, you have to know that. I really am. But… fuck, I don’t know, Sam. I’m kind of freaking out. What if I mess this up? What if my kid—”
“Whoa, okay—slow down, alright?” Sam leaned back in his seat. “Nathan,” he slowly began, “I know for a fact that you are gonna be a good dad but first of all: have you had the chance to sit down and talk to Elena to… you know, sort your feelings out?
“Yes. Kind of.”
“Nathan.”
“Okay, fine—no, I... we haven’t talked about it. She’s been busy—well, we both have been busy ironing things out with the new firm. We haven’t had the chance. We haven’t had the time—”
“Then make time for it.” As soon as the words left Sam, he realized how sharp and cutting the way he had said it that he immediately regretted being so callous. But if his brother needed to hear his piece of mind, then he might as well tell him what he needed to hear. “Look,” he went on, “I don’t know shit about being a parent or being someone’s husband, and I know I’m not the wisest brother out here and I’ve done stupid things, but I’m not that stupid not to know one thing here. And that one thing I am sure of is that your wife needs you to open up to her. She needs you now, more than ever. So please do us both a favour and calm down and go talk to Elena, ya hear me?”
Nathan said nothing. Another silence. Sam was waiting for a witty remark, a snappy comeback, anything.
Instead, what Nathan said next was: “Thank you. And can I just say… you’re not dumb, Sam. You never were. If you could just find Darcy again—”
“Okay, don’t even go there.”
“Right, sorry—oh wait, hold on—” Nathan abruptly broke off. Absolute silence. Then, a series of indistinct noises followed by a voice that was unmistakably Victor’s. Sam waited. Nathan came on again and said, “Sorry about that. Look, I—uh, Elena’s looking for me. We’ll talk later once you get here.”
“Right.” Sam exhaled a weary sigh. “Then try not to lose your shit before I get there, yeah?”
“Ha-ha, cute. Be seein’ ya,” Nathan said and before Sam could even say another word, his brother had already hung up.
Sam sat in solemn silence. Rain drummed heavily against the roof of his rental car as he let Nathan’s news marinate in his head. I’m gonna be a dad. Strange to think how years ago, back when they aimlessly roamed the streets of São Paulo armed with nothing but their stuttering Portuguese, the city brutally carving capable men out of their teenage bodies and testing their will to survive, he and Nathan only used to crack jokes about the mere possibility of this, of settling down just for the heck of it: being the best man at each other’s weddings, buying a house somewhere in the tropics, watching over each other’s kids. It all sounded ridiculous at the time. It all sounded so ridiculous simply because they believed that an ordinary life was something they certainly could never afford in their lifetime.
Now here we are and my brother’s going to be a father, Sam thought over and over, and I’m going to be someone’s uncle. Shit.
Sam dwelled on that thought more than he should have. And for reasons unbeknownst to him, he was suddenly reminded of Hector Alcázar. Who would have thought that there was once a time that a notorious drug lord had tempted him with the very prospect of a quiet, normal life? How bad could it be to have a family of your own, to have someone you can come home to, mi hermano? Alcázar would ask Sam whenever their conversations steered too close to their own personal affairs. He did not mind. It was not like they had anything better to do with all the time they had in the dark and dismal quarters of their prison cell. And with the way the man fondly recounted many an anecdote about how he had met his late wife, Sam was almost convinced that murderous cartel kingpin or no, everyone’s infamous Butcher of Panama surprisingly owned a goddamn heart.
Is it really all that bad? Sam had chewed on that question for years like a bubblegum slowly losing its taste. As far as the Drake brothers’ wayward ways were concerned, all this talk about an ordinary life never appealed to both Sam and Nathan back then. They already had each other. They were the family they needed. Why ask for more than they could possibly have? And besides, ordinary meant easy. And they were never meant for anything easy. They were meant for street brawls and petty thievery, for unearthing ancient relics and treasures of dead men.
But if Sam were to be truly honest—and since honesty came so unnaturally to him, this was a monumental feat—to have an easy life, or at least some semblance of it, did not seem such a bad idea at all. In fact, that was all he ever wanted since their shitty father abandoned them to fend for themselves. Because no matter how many times he had expressed his distaste at even the slightest notion of entertaining such ordinariness, a part of him wanted it. More than he was willing to admit, that part of him still starved for it. Because an easy life also meant a good life. And a good life—a comfortable life after all the shit they have been through—was everything Sam wanted not just for himself, but also for his brother.
So Sam could only be proud of Nathan for finally finding a good life worth settling for. He was happy for him. He should be happy for him.
And yet...
A treacherous train of thought. Its relentless shriek leaving echoes of all the what-ifs. Maybe if he hadn’t lost the last thirteen years of his life rotting in a prison cell, he might have had a shot at something good, too. Heck, had he made better decisions before Panama, or before São Paulo, or before London even, he might have had something better than good. Maybe he wouldn’t even have these nightmares plaguing him every night. If good and normal and painfully ordinary meant not having to wake up in the most ungodly hour desperately clawing at the bullets that no longer dwelled inside his body, then by all means—he would gladly settle with that. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be sitting in a cheap rental car in the middle of freezing Vermont, wallowing and miserable and bitter, wrestling against the horrible feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe he really was the jealous one. And he hated himself for it.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sam thought. He finally rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.