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Sam's gotten quite used to the constant drip, drip, drip, from one of the broken downspouts oustide that he hears in his cell at night. It brings a soothing comfort, most times. Thirteen years he's been stuck here, reflecting every night, wondering, and eating at himself about what life could've, should've been like. He wishes he never brought Rafe along. Wonders if they could've found another way inside the prison.
He wonders about Nate, about what he's doing, if he's happy, and if he thinks of him.
A selfish part of him hopes that Nate thinks of him every damn day. But he also hopes Nate's happy. Safe. Alive. Is he married? Does he have his own family? The idea of that eats at Sam a little. The idea that Nate has something Sam's no longer apart of, that he's now just a piece of a puzzle that no longer fits.
There's someone else that scratches around in Sam's brain, but he's locked those memories down so deep they're practically as buried as he is on paper. And yet tonight, with his arms behind his head and eyes closed, with nothing but the sounds of the dripping and his cellmate snoring away, Sam opens that little box. It's like he's unveiling a dirty secret to himself. It's something not even Nate knows, knew?
God, can you believe that? He never even told Nate. Sam took up most, if not all the space in the girl's apartment that wasn't occupied by library tomes and he didn't even tell Nate. But he was young then, and stupid. And if he could go back, he'd smack himself upside the head and introduce them to one another. Nate would've loved her.
But those memories are more than just the regrets. More than the view of her too small apartment as Sam would say, and she'd say that it'd look much bigger if Sam could pick his shit off the floor. He'd deep clean her apartment if it meant he could go back. If it meant entering through the door with a lock that constantly jams, and tripping over his own sneakers he's left haphazardly on the floor just to see her again. He'd organize her books by time period, just how she liked it. He'd do anything, anything to go back.
He's buried the memories deep. Every smell, sensation, even taste. He's kept that locked up like it's some sort of secret, or maybe even a treat. Just for him. Just for moments like these when it's all too much, too loud and he's already exhausted himself by creating every scenario where Nate doesn't need him anymore.
Does she need Sam, though? He's never wondered about that. In his mind, she exists both as a person and something akin to a deity. People pray to Mary Magdalene too.
In Sam's mind, there's still a place for him in her life. There's still his side of the bed that's always made up, the bedside table still has an extra pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee that he never finished. There's still his shoes by the door, his coat thrown over the chair. His books, too. They were sparse, but they were always neatly stacked on the coffee table, along with his little notes.
Yes he wasn't a boyfriend, a fiancee, a husband. And she wasn't any of those things either. But they were a something. An unwritten, unspoken something that only they understood. He didn't really live live with her, didn't pay rent, didn't cook. But she didn't kick him out or leave him stranded on her stiff couch. She never asked anything of him, and he never asked anything of her.
She knew about Nate, about the adventures, the treasure. But she never prodded. Never made Sam feel like he has to introduce her to Nate so their bond would mean something.
Sam regrets that. He had no hang ups about Nate meeting her. In fact, he was a little excited at the possibility of his two favourite people meeting. She's big on literature, history. Has helped Sam's ass more times than he can count. In a way he feels bad, she helped him with gathering information about Avery, talked his ear off about her process of acquiring those books. Not all of it was legal, of course. And even though she had affirmed time and time again that she's much happier to help him with the maps and the riddles, Sam felt guilty about leaving to Panama without her nontheless.
The last time he saw her was the night before the flight. The night itself was nothing spectacular. But now, it looks like a perfect painting of domesticity. Of what a home should be.
She helped pack up his bags, double, triple checked everything he may or may not need. Had even packed him a snack.
"They're not gonna feed you well in prison, y'know." She'd said whilst shuffling his items around.
"Uh, yeah. That's why I didn't really bother packing anything that I won't need while we're in prison." Sam spoke.
He was leaning in the door way, arms crossed on his chest, he'd long given up trying to interfere with her process. She'd said it was golden, that she'd done it for her trips routinely. Sam had chuckled at that, remarked on how she's an archeology major so yeah, any packing she needed to do was listed and delivered to her in a little e-mail.
"Y'know," she piped up "once you're done playing house in, well, prison, the guy leading my next expedition offered to hire you. And Nate, of course."
Sam didn't say anything, he'd heard her. But he was also too entranced in the way she was putting away his things as if they were her own. She wasn't even looking at the items, just grabbing from instinct and the knowledge that she knew what she held in her hands.
"Do you hear me?" The shuffling stopped, she turned to look at him whilst still clutching one of his shirts in her hand.
Sam nodded. "Mm. Work. Expedition. I just, y'know, I.." He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. "What would me and Nate even do? You're the archeologist."
"Student. Not an archeologist, yet." She grinned, throwing his shirt over her shoulder. "Besides after this Avery thing, you guys are gonna be fuckin' minted."
A scoff escaped his mouth. "So we're what, investors?"
She moved to put away the shirt draped over her shoulder, folding it up before placing it neatly in the duffel and zipping it up.
"No." She spoke softly, hands fidgeting with the zipper. "But you'd be helping me, probably some dangerous grunt work. And then whilst I'm doing all the digging and the uh.."
"The desecrating of history?"
She snapped her fingers and turned towards him. "Yeah, that. But with y'know, brushes and shit. Not the hooks you guys lug around. Whilst I'm doing that you can look for some.. treasure."
They stared at each other for a moment before Sam picked up the duffel and placed it in the hallway next to the door. When he returned she was busying herself with fluffing the pillows, a nervous fidget he'd long picked up on that she'd do the night before every trip of his.
"You can just say you miss me, you know." Sam teased.
"I do. I do miss you. I miss helping you more though."
Sam laid down on the bed, turning towards her side of it and patting the duvet, a silent invite for her to lay down beside him. He felt the bed dip before he saw her, body turning towards him, their noses bumping.
He tucked some hair behind her ear, "Once we've successfully hunted down Avery's treasure and cemented ourselves as legends, you and I and.. Nate," he grumbled, "can go to uh.. Uh,"
"Cairo." She filled in for him.
Sam grinned, "Cairo. Yeah. Gonna be sweaty as hell but, y'know."
"I'm used to it." She placed a small peck against his lips. "You're sweaty all the time, Sam."
He feigned a hurt expression, placing his hand over his heart. "I am not!"
"Yeah? Good luck in Panama, they're gonna smell you coming from miles away. Hope you're not turned away at the prison gate."
Sam guffawed at that, staring at her in disbelief. Here was someone he'd loved so dearly, and she'd just called him sweaty. The rest of the evening was somewhat of a blur, a touch there, a peck here. It was either all-consuming or Sam couldn't recall the sensations at all. But he vividly remembers staying up late, laying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She'd been knocked out cold for a while, sweet, silent murmurs coming from her mouth. Nothing intelligible, not to Sam at least. He can still feel the warmth of her palms splayed across his chest. His eyes drooping, fighting sleep, wanting to hold onto her consciously just a second longer.
And when he does finally succumb to sleep, it feels like a blink, and his eyes are open again. But he's not home, not the apartment, not her warm embrace.
He's in prison, in Panama. And he's alone, and he's cold despite the constant warmth of the country and the heat that never escapes through the concrete prison walls. But he knows, he knows that somewhere there is someone who loves him. And there is a place for him there, at their table. And suddenly his cell feels much, much smaller, and he feels much more alone than he felt before.