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Lara Croft is used to being late. It's not a trait of hers she's particularly proud of, but it's a useless one to deny. For a brief time, at uni, she'd thought she'd been cured of the condition having dedicated herself to the studious use of alarms and reminders and personal calendars to cope with her course load and the unexpected emergence of her increasingly rich social life. But after Yamatai, she'd slipped back into old habits, had resigned herself once again to the fact lateness was, perhaps, another aspect of the Croft legacy she'd inherited.
She'd been like this as a child, too, after all. So had her parents. They'd all had a tendency to lose themself in some task or other, often so deep in a project that the hours would slip away like sand in a sieve. Despite Winston's most valiant efforts to the contrary, it wasn't uncommon for meals to be eaten late or missed entirely, for social engagements and commitments to only commence hours after the agreed upon time with much frazzled apologies from the Croft at fault. Things had been marginally better when her mother had been around, the most equipped out of the three of them to balance obligation with obsession, but once she'd died, Lara's father had seemed to make even less effort than ever before.
So it had been a relief to believe, for a time, that she had mastered this bad habit of hers. And then, when chaos had thrown her world into disarray, it had become just one of many other troubles Lara had pushed to the back of her mind to deal with later. When you were running for your life through the jungle, or tracking down supernatural artifacts, or battling egomaniacal villains hellbent on world domination, lateness sort of came with the territory.
Unfortunately for Lara, she didn't have any extraordinary, reality-warping or roguishly near-fatal excuses to cite this time: she'd simply slept through her bloody alarm.
The mundanity of the failure was, frankly, insulting to her pride. For better or for the worse, Lara had become an extremely light sleeper over the years. If anything, getting enough sleep had been her issue, frequently finding herself woken up too early by the slightest disturbance and too wired afterwards to stay in bed.
So of course it was last night of all nights, when she had plans to meet Sam for brunch the next morning, is when Lara's much-relied-upon and finely honed accumulated stress responses decided to fail her.
Could I blame jet lag? she asks herself, typing a one handed sorry. running late text to Sam, then thinks no, I've been back from Belize for three days already. Rushing, she tries futilely to slide her socked feet into her boots, but they're still laced too tightly from yesterday. She collapses to the floor with an impatient groan to wrestle them on, fumbling with her phone, accidentally sending a cryptic 🙈 emoji to Sam as an unintended follow-up. "Damn," she mutters, leaving the screen to time out, focusing on loosening her boots enough to put them on properly.
By the time Lara makes it to the cafe where they were supposed to meet, she can feel sweat running down the small of her back - not from exertion, but as a companion to the sudden knot in her guts.
She and Sam have done so much to repair their relationship since stumbling their way into the Pithos conspiracy. It's been good between them. So good, in fact, that Lara can hardly believe she'd allowed things to deteriorate so badly before that they hadn't even been on speaking terms. So good that she was terrified of mucking it all up again.
After all, they had seen each other last night. After an evening at the pub with Zip and Jonah and Abby, Lara had insisted on walking Sam home. She'd followed Sam all the way to the door of her flat, not content to linger outside of the building and wait for a text confirming Sam's safe arrival in her home. Texts could be faked and Sam hadn't yet moved apartments, despite Lara's wheedling. And so Lara had tried to be casual in insisting she walk Sam to the door and Sam had seen through her utterly and indulged her anyway. And they had lingered there in the hallway, neither quite ready to part, and Sam had opened her mouth and for a brief, brilliant moment of terrifying clarity Lara had been certain she was about to say Lara, do you want to come in?
And Lara had not known what to do or say in the face of that. Because yes she had been inside of Sam's apartment after a night out drinking many times before and yes she wanted to go inside very badly but things between them had been so different this time. This pull, this desire to be with Sam, close to her, was different than ever before. Not totally foreign, but stronger. Everything between them felt charged, lent simple questions like do you want to come in? a sort of high-wire element of risk.
Something was changing between them. Some long buried seed, finally coming to sprout. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. Lara wasn't sure she knew what on earth she was supposed to do with something so important and so fragile. She suspected this was a problem that could not be solved with a climbing axe and a bit of hand-to-hand combat.
So she'd panicked, asked Sam to brunch the next morning instead, just to see her again, just to have something to say. And when Sam had accepted, blinking slightly in confusion and then smiling that slow, warm, slightly smug smile she saved for moments when Lara was acting like a bit of an idiot Lara had found herself saying Good! Too loud. Excellent! Better. Nine o'clock sharp at Taft's.
Lara had extended the invitation, had set the location, had set the time.
And now she was late.
And this is why things with Sam had felt so terrifying lately. Lara had no idea how to become the kind of person someone would be able to endure being in a relationship with. She and Sam had only just gotten their friendship back. How could she even think about asking for more? Lara was aware of her faults, aware of the myriad ways she'd disappointed and failed the people close to her so many times before by being an impulsive, unreliable workaholic who was never there when you needed her.
She sees Sam on the little cafe patio, at a table for two. She's leaning back in her seat, talking animatedly with a pair of silver-haired older women who look amused and delighted by whatever she's telling them. Lara hovers on the street for a moment, just watching her, annoying more than a few hurried pedestrians that mutter to themselves as they shuffle around her. She knows she should go over to her already but she can't bring herself to stop looking just yet. In the morning light, cheeks slightly flushed from laughter, Sam looks radiant.
One of the old women says something and Sam turns around, seeing Lara and waving at her with a smile and an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She turns back to the women and says something that has them laughing once again and Lara feels herself flush, hurrying inside.
If she's furious with you, she has a right to be, Lara tells herself, awkwardly dithering between the front door and the low metal fence surrounding the patio before finally deciding to hop over it as inconspicuously as possible. She notices the small gate she could have used almost immediately after.
"Sam," Lara says, drawing in a deep breath, "I am so—"
"Lara!" Sam greets with a grin, surging up to throw her arms around Lara's shoulders. A quick, solid hug. She takes Lara's hand and turns back to the women. "Lara, meet my new friends, Vera and Rose."
"Er, hello," Lara says, waving her free hand awkwardly. "Pleasure."
The women greet her back warmly and politely return to their meal. Lara sinks down into the seat opposite Sam and tries apologizing again. "I'm so sorry I-"
A waiter appears out of nowhere, depositing a plate of crépes in front of Lara, dusted with powdered sugar, a bright lemony scent rising off of them. He sets a trendy looking piece of avocado and tomato slathered toast in front of Sam.
"Oh," Lara says and then adds, dumbly, "these are my favorite."
"Duh, that's why I ordered them," Sam grins. "You're so predictable, you always get, like, the same five things when we go out. And I knew if I waited for you, you would have ordered something boring and healthy instead of the thing you really wanted so I took care of it for you. That'll teach you to be late."
"Sam, I'm very sorry. I didn't—" no, no, stop making excuses. "I overslept. It's entirely my fault."
"What's the big deal?" Sam asks, crunching into her toast. "You texted. Besides, I'm glad you got some good rest. You've been looking a little zombified since you got back, sweetie."
Gradually, with citrus and sugar bursting on her tongue, with Sam across from her, vibrant and loose, Lara feels the tension in her own spine begin to unwind. The words flow easily - Sam talks about the last-minute reshoots she'd had to do for her salvaged art theft project that had kept her here in London while Lara had responded to a contact's request for her help at a dig site outside of Santa Elena.
When the old women get up to go, they announce their intention to pay Lara and Sam's bill. Lara tries to demure, but the women insist. Just as Lara takes in another breath to assure them it's not necessary, she feels the gentle but unmistakable pressure of Sam's foot pressing down atop her boot under the table. "That would be so kind. Thank you so much, ladies."
"Why did you let them do that?" Lara asks, after the women have gone. "Sam, we're rich."
"Okay, I know I can't expect you to know these things, but Rose was actually rockin' Duchesse Rose by Penhaligon. A little too much of it, actually, which is how I could tell. Anyway, that stuff is like over two hundred pounds a bottle. It's not like they're hurting for it," Sam rolls her eyes
"But we—"
"Lara," Sam says, drawing out her name with a soft sigh that makes Lara's mouth snap shut and her face heat a little. Sam smiles indulgently and continues, "Sometimes you have to just let people do something nice for you, not because you can't do it yourself but because they want to do it for you. It makes people feel good about themselves. And about you."
"Oh," Lara says. "Well, yes. Of course."
"Like in our first year at UCL when I let you tutor me in Chem."
"’Let me,?’" Lara splutters, aghast. "You needed me. You were hopeless!"
"Was I, Lara?" Sam asks smugly. "Was I really?'
"Yes."
Instead of arguing, Sam stands up from her chair, crossing the scant distance between them to stand behind Lara. She makes to get up, but Sam's gentle hand on her shoulder pins Lara to her seat.
"Sorry," Sam says and Lara feels fingers in her hair, tracing down her braid and uncoiling the hairband keeping it tied. "This was starting to drive me crazy."
"What do you mean?" Lara asks, quashing the urge to bat Sam's hands away. She already undid the braid, making her stop now would just make things worse.
But they are outside. In public. And Sam is braiding her hair like they're girls at a sleepover while other cafe patrons and passers-by on the street cast glances at them. Lara restrains the urge to glare back at them or hunch her shoulders and slouch and instead tries to project an air of confident nonchalance like Sam.
"You rolled straight out of bed to come here, didn't you?" Sam asks. Lara's hair hangs down in a wavy curtain halfway down her back now. She feels Sam's fingers combing through it, careful of tangles, raking long, soothing lines from Lara's scalp down to the ends of her hair.
"You could tell?" Lara asks, sheepishly. She hadn't even thought about how she looked, really, had mostly been concerned with walking out fully clothed so an arrest for indecent exposure wouldn't leave Sam waiting for her even longer.
"Don't worry, you still look outrageously, effortlessly hot, like always," Sam says, gathering Lara's hair at the base of her neck and starting to separate three strands to weave together again.
"Like always?" Lara repeats, warming inside. She can’t stop the silly smile spreading across her face.
"But I know you were gonna be really annoyed if I let you walk around with your hair messy all day," Sam hurries on, braiding Lara's hair carefully and efficiently. "'Sa-am, I cawn't bel-eeve you let me galavant all around the ton like this!'"
"I do not sound like that!" Lara squawks. "And I do not say galavant. And I don't say ton. And you're using that word wrong anyway!"
"But you admit the rest of it is true?" Sam presses.
"Well," Lara begins and pauses, thinking about it. "Yes."
She doesn't have to be able to see Sam's face to know exactly what her satisfied grin looks like.
"Alright," Sam says, apparently finished. She slides around to Lara's side, taking Lara by the chin and tilting her head up and to the side so she can stare down at her. "There you go," Sam says, softly, all of the teasing drained from her voice. She carefully smooths a few remaining flyaway hairs back from Lara's hairline. "Perfect."
"Thank you," Lara says, wondering how they must look. Sam ordering for her, embracing her, doting on her, tidying her hair, smiling down on her like this. They must look for all the world like a couple.
Then she thinks about all the other times they've done this — Sam clinging to her at parties, tucked into her side on walks at night, curled up with her in bed to watch movies on Lara's laptops, in handcuffs outside of an old church in Brazil, tucked into each other at a bar in New Orleans, off in some corner together making each other laugh while their friends look on and shake their heads - and realizes that they probably look like a couple a quite a lot of the time.
"Hey." A light tap on the nose makes Lara blink back to herself, finding Sam still gazing down at her, face a little pinker than before. "Where'd you go just now?"
Impulsively, Lara reaches up, grasps Sam's hand. Now that she's got it, she's not sure what she meant to do with it exactly, so she does the next thing that feels right and pulls it to her lips, presses a delicate kiss to the backs of Sam's knuckles. Sam doesn't pull away, just smiles a little wider, slow and sweet.
"Okay, Sir Croft," Sam teases, but Lara knows she's pleased. "What was that for?"
"For fixing my hair," Lara says instead of the much heavier, though still true, because I couldn't imagine doing anything else. "And for saving my reputation amongst the ton."
Sam's laugh is bright and beautiful and more warming than the morning sun.