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The moonlit streets of Messina were filled with the melodious buzzing of cafés, tourists, and gunfire. Another bullet ricocheted off the walls as Lara dived sideways. She cut right in a crossing, sprinting, her feet slipping on the smooth cobblestone. Her pursuer had already emptied an entire clip in her direction, yet only one bullet had scraped her. Barely. Another flew past, and she rolled her eyes.
Amateur, she thought.
If only he’d let her ask questions before starting to shoot at her. If only she had shot him instead of asking questions. Too late for that now. She swerved left and right through the endless labyrinth of the backstreets. Out of breath and options, she vaulted a fence, turned sharply, and skidded to a halt, nearly crashing into a stone wall. A dead end. The small alley and its graffiti-covered walls looked familiar, but it was difficult to tell with these modern urban monstrosities being all a dime a dozen.
She peeked around the corner, perking her ears. By the looks of it, he was even worse at navigating the streets than she was, and by the sounds of it, he probably wasn’t actually in the same city or island anymore. Utterly useless. It was almost insulting, the kind of muppets who were sent after her. And during her supposed holiday, too.
Lara let out a long, exhausted sigh as she pressed her back against the cold wall, then winced. Although the stray bullet left just a scratch, the dull, insistent ache pestered Lara for attention. Tired yet restless, she made quick work of bandaging her arm and good use of her well-earned solitude in the dusky alleyway. The damp, dirty floor was hardly the classiest place for relaxation, but at least this one didn’t look rat-infested or reek of rubbish.
The mess in her backpack warranted its own excavation team. Junk, scraps of paper, flares, a long-forgotten chocolate bar. She wolfed it down, then continued searching. A vintage lighter that was not hers. Her heart skipped a beat. After one final cuss, she found the thing that had earned her a rain of bullets the past few days and studied it with pursed lips. Too ghastly to be put in one of her display cases, but clearly important enough for her lunatic employer to go out of his way to kill her for it. She flipped, turned, and took a closer look at it. With its uneven and worn edges, the clay artefact looked prehistoric, but the intricacy of its carvings lent it a hauntingly anachronistic appearance and gave Whatever that thing’s purpose was, it was not a good one.
Her eyes darted to the lighter once more.
Speaking of history and haunting.
An entirely different type of persistent ache pestered her as her thoughts were about to wander through another maze before she put a quick stop to it. Through years of harsh but valuable experience, Lara had learnt that the past was only ever worth paying attention to when it contained a shiny trinket she could display in her trophy room, or a steep ledge she could climb on. Nostalgia was a trap. And she had better things to do and more self-respect than to hold on to an ugly clay trinket or pined after a man who hadn’t contacted her for almost a year.
Shouts and gunshots dragged her thoughts back to the present. It’s time to move on. She scrambled back on her feet, but as she was about to get out of the alley, she crashed into something tall and robust. Or someone. With a loud yelp, they both stumbled backwards. In her flailing, the faint smell of gun oil mixed with tobacco caught her nose and reflexively, her stomach performed a backflip.
“Kurtis!”
“What the- You!”
He staggered. Her head spun.
Still on its way to catch up with her body and trying to comprehend the why, her brain had her convinced for a split second that this was another of those dreams, and she’d wake up anytime soon.
Then the streetlight died, leaving nothing but the dim moonlight and orange glow of his Chirugai to illuminate him. Looked real enough.
Speak of the devil…
Kurtis stood there as if summoned by fate or karma. As little as she believed in either, the idea of them turning her into some sort of punchline to make a point made her laugh bitterly. Hardly the strangest thing she’d had happen to her. She wished she knew what kind of point they were trying to make, though. A pang of indignation in her told Lara to ignore it and walk away. A more insistent and sentimental voice made her stay, like a pair of nails in her feet.
Rubbing their foreheads, they stared at each other in bemused silence for what felt like years. Clearly, he was as prepared to see her as she was.
He seemed considerably less worn than the last time she’d seen him, but still looked like his usual self. Still the same poor posture, dishevelled dark locks hiding his blue eyes, and a stubble in desperate need of shaving. Same world-weary look on his face. Still wearing the same shirt she bought him back in Istanbul after a particularly nasty encounter with the Cabal—
“Figures. Can't walk down the street without causing trouble, can you?” he asked.
—still exuding the same, almost aggressively blasé attitude. There was something about it she’d always liked.
“Can’t help it. Not when I have my own personal stalker come to my rescue when needed,” she said.
Their purposeful strides towards each other stopped short when she noticed a wariness under his amusement. He stared at her, waiting for her to say something. A confession? An apology? There was nothing to confess, and it wasn’t like she was the one who upped and disappeared without a trace. Again. He could have been dead, rotting away god knows where, and she’d have had no way of knowing. And she was not going to chase after him, not this time. If anything, he owed the apology.
Hesitant to close the gap, but unwilling to leave, they moved, circling each other with careful steps. A familiar dance whose choreography she remembered all too well. Wittingly or unwittingly, the space between them narrowed with every step, each click of their boots serving as a punctuation mark in a conversation she had been both anticipating and dreading.
“Took you long enough to find me, Stranger.” Lara smiled wryly.
“I wasn’t looking for you, Miss Croft. Just followed the sound of gunfire.”
“You mean this is all only a coincidence? Lucky me. What brings you here, then?”
After a bit of hesitation, he replied, “Told you I needed a holiday.”
A fresh set of bruises and cuts resting on his knuckles and face. A bleeding arm carefully wrapped in bandages that matches hers. It seemed his notion of a relaxing holiday may not have been too different from hers. Just as quiet and idle.
“And you're”—his gaze fell on the item in her hand—“busy pissing off doomsday cults, I see.”
“Doomsday cults?”
“Bunch of crazies who are convinced they can ‘cleanse’ humanity by summoning demons and other abominations. Been hunting them for weeks. They are hoarding all kinds of cursed or possessed artefacts for some type of ritual.” He pointed at the idol. “Like the one you stole.”
Of course. Had her do the dirty work for them, then tried to kill her once she’s been done. These cults seemed to follow the same instruction manual. No wonder her employer was so delighted to hear she’d do it for free; less hassle with paperwork. Though he was probably going to be less delighted to see her again.
“Well,” she said, sighing, “at least that explains why I’m being shot at all of a sudden.”
“That's just the effect you’ve got on men.” A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Oh? I recall having a completely different effect on you, Love.” She tilted her head.
That got his total attention. Their dance came to a standstill, and Lara handed him the artefact, but he stood there, still as the brick wall behind him, as his Chirugai jittered around with an anxious shake. The nervous tic of a psychic.
“So, what do you propose?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Whatever this thing is,” he said, examining it, “it’s better off back wherever you took it from before someone, or something, notices it’s gone. Or else we’ve got bigger problems than cultists.”
“All this trouble to get the artefact, just for you to show up to take it from me,” Lara mused. History did enjoy repeating itself.
He was weighing the idol, watching her from the corner of his eye. She was weighing her words as she watched him bite his lip, a rather distracting habit he did whenever deep in thought.
“No time to waste then. Let’s go before anyone starts missing anybody,” she said hurriedly.
“Why?” His tone sounded incredulous.
A deafeningly loud silence engulfed them. The air shifted, turning humidity into the second heaviest thing in the alley right after that seemingly simple question. It had been lingering around since they crashed into each other, like an unwelcome guest who had long overstayed its welcome. Lara put her hands on her hips. Perhaps it was about time someone showed it the door.
He took a step closer and pointed the idol at her. “Didn’t you say back in Turkey that team play is not your forte? And you ‘prefer being alone’?”
Lara huffed. “I thought it was clear you're an exception to the rule,” she said.
“You even called me an ‘insufferable prat’...”
“No,” she interjected, “that was after you said you're not a people person, I believe. See? We’re even.”
“...And now here you are, wanting to work with me again.” He folded his arms over his chest, like he made some sort of point.
“No, here you are,” she shot back. “After brooding and avoiding instead of calling me.” She took a step into his personal space, this time deliberately. “Did you really spend all this time thinking about me and our chit-chats? How romantic.” Her voice was low.
No answer needed. His complaints and stubborn silence gave all she’d needed to her ‘why’, but was only less relieved to realise that he owed two apologies now: one for her and another for himself.
It was never about apathy, but rather, the complete lack of it. Kurtis’ commitment and loyalty to his word were nothing short of admirable, but he was also adamant about driving himself and her crazy with him overthinking everything and anything—including a simple drunk conversation—picking the most complicated solution to a problem, then spending a long time overthinking it again. All part of his charm. She truly wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d spent the past year arguing with a mirror.
And they say I have a flair for the dramatic.
“At least I can now stop wondering if you even thought about me at all,” she said, unable to resist the opportunity for one more jab.
His Chirugai stopped jittering around. His eyes snapped to hers, and with a furrowed brow, he eyed her as if he was trying to read her mind. For a second, Lara’s stomach tightened into a knot at the possibility that he actually was doing that. He had refused to give her a proper answer if that was one of his many abilities. He was more than welcome, to try, though. She had nothing to hide.
Eyes darted all over her face, then, like a man who had just solved an extraordinarily difficult puzzle, his expression lit up. All remnants of indignancy had vanished, and his lips curled into that infuriatingly smug smile she knew all too well; the one he had whenever he was about to say something outrageous just to get a reaction out of her.
Come on, big boy, hit me with your best shot.
“Missed me, didn’tcha?” he said.
Her expression darkened. As though he declared an undeniable fact.
She didn’t miss him, not in the slightest. At least that’s not the word she would have used; it was too loaded. And nostalgic. Perhaps she had been very much aware of his lack of presence, the same way she may have been aware of the lack of ammunition during a gunfight. Or the lack of room as his misplaced knick-knacks continued to take up space in her backpack and home. The same way he was taking space in that damp, dead-ended street she’d hid in before he literally crashed back into her life, only to mock her. In her space.
Maybe it was a good thing that he was not a mind reader, after all.
“A touching notion,” she said cooly, snatching the idol out of his hand. “But I don’t have time for this nonsense, Trent. If you don’t want my help, just say it.”
Chuckling, he grabbed her top. “Hey, hold on a second.” He pulled on her, and though she wavered, Lara still held her ground.
“Look, I’m sorry, Lara.” His voice softened as his grip on her top tightened, tugging on the seam. “But you can’t get rid of me this easily, you know,” he quickly added with a grin.
“As if I ever wanted to.” She shook her head. “I guess I should’ve made it clearer…”
“Maybe...” He trailed off. “Next time, use handcuffs.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Now there’s an idea.”
“But I’m the cult expert here, so you’re stuck with me anyway. And you”—he gently took the idol out of her grip to slip it into her backpack—“know a thing or two about prehistoric artefacts. And pulling levers,” he said, then pulled out his vintage lighter. “Knew you had it,” he muttered, leaving his hand resting on the back of her neck. “Then we can have a decent holiday. Sound good?”
A part of her chastised her for letting him disarm her like that, without pressing a weapon into her throat, but another part was distracted by the way his thumb brushed over her skin. A treacherous jump in her pulse gave her away, and he grinned like he’d won, his insolent chuckle a slap on her ego. He was being awfully cocky for a man who'd spent the last months in a nervous breakdown. She forced out a groan. Even with that infuriating attitude of his, he was making it exceedingly difficult to be angry with him.
He still owed her, though.
He played with a loose thread on her top, unravelling it around his fingers. Slowly, she exhaled, letting her shoulders relax.
“I don’t know, you’re asking a lot here…” She sighed theatrically. “But I suppose this is convenient.”
“For you, right?”
“Shut up, you insufferable prat.”
She yanked him by his holster. He did not protest as he staggered, his body crashed against hers, knocking the wind out of her, like it did just a few minutes ago. The space between them was no more. After all those months wasted in stubborn silence, he was back in her life, and Lara welcomed him with open arms. And open lips.
His weight pressed against hers, warm breath tickling her skin, leaving goosebumps on her. Took him long enough. She raked her hands through his hair with nails tangled in the coarse mess, and he groaned, deep yet quiet, a familiar sound she hadn’t realised she’d missed. His fingers dug desperately into her spine, like she was about to run away. She gripped him. He pulled her. If there ever was a chance of either of them leaving, there wasn’t anymore.
A satisfied groan left her when she brushed her lips against his, his mouth rougher and warmer than she’d remembered. He still kissed with the same softness, the same restrained heat that left her wanting more. An apology for his stupidity and a punishment for hers. When he caressed the nape of her neck, on the same spot he had a year ago at that airport, she nearly forgot why she was angry with him. His breath shook, and the taste of black coffee on it dug up a memory of a shared breakfast in that Turkish hotel, something she’d forgotten. Or pretended to.
His fingers grazed her ear, and she let out a sigh of defeat as she had also lost a year-long pointless fight against herself.
Nostalgia was a trap. But frankly, only the most fun places had traps.
He deepened their kiss, making her heart trip over itself. Good enough for an apology. Almost. He could make it all up to her properly later once they were back at her manor. Still, she was not above holding onto petty grudges. She bit down on his lower lip hard enough to make him wince, then grinned. That ought to teach him not to give her the slip again.
He touched his lip with an apologetic smile. “Actually, I was looking for you.”
“So was I,” Lara conceded with a begrudging sigh.