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[ Something snags between Nate's suddenly flat tone and the invocation of Panama, catching at Rafe and he actually flinches. The former is too familiar in a bad way and the latter... Nate isn't the only one who tried to bury that day and the ones that came after. Not as deeply, mind, but he couldn't. Forgotten mistakes are easily made again and Rafe refused to let his control slip like that again. Vargas had deserved what he'd gotten, Rafe never lost sleep on that, but the timing had cost more than he'd expected to pay.

Rafe takes it as a reminder, a prompt to close his eyes, inhale slowly, exhale the same. He will not lose his temper on this goddamn roof. He won't. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is as flat as Nate's voice but the plastic isn't in his voice. Not yet, anyway. ]

If I'd wanted you dead, I'd have let Nadine finish it in the cathedral or Shoreline on the cliff. [ Christ knew it was how Nadine had wanted to play it. Pat and neat and over with. Maybe she's somewhere grousing about being right after all while Rafe got stuck here. ] Because as I've already told you, this wasn't supposed to happen.

[ Stupid and short-sighted and maybe it bit him in the ass in the end, but it's the truth. Whether or not Nate wants to believe that is on him. ]

I'm not expecting kumbaya here. But I'm also not about to start snapping if you start chatting up people I know. [ Sullenly, under his breath: ] I know how you operate too.

[ He doesn't know how many times Rafe has to defend the absurd idea that he wasn't fully planning for Nathan Drake's imminent demise, but once more won't hurt. Might even give him a chuckle, if he had the energy or enthusiasm for it. As far as he sees it right now, insisting that his death wasn't intentional just makes him look that much worse. What's the point? What does it change? A month spent running from and evading Rafe's hired army is a convincing argument all its own, with the bullets to back it up, footnotes shot into the fine print that is his flesh.

It doesn't make sense, and maybe he'll never understand it. Maybe he just doesn't want to.

The suggestion that he would willingly share information like a mamita hot on the latest gossip in the marketplace makes him bristle, though. Nate has never been loose-lipped like that, nor does he have any inclination to come across as a major asshole by doing so. No one would would have any reason to believe him, anyway. He's just a guy. ]

Excuse me?

[ He might have said as much if not for the utterly inexplicable statement mumbled so loud it might as well be a stage whisper. ]

What the Hell does that mean? How do I "operate?"

[ Rafe will say it as often as it takes, not as a defense but as a fact. Nate can disbelieve all he likes but Rafe will still be here, stubbornly pointing it out again because no matter how things have shaken out, no matter how things ended back home, the facts should be all that matter. Even if he knows how often they get left behind for the catchier headlines, the neater narrative, the distortions people accept so they're more comfortable at the end of the day.

The facts are what Nate has on his side now and Rafe is too painfully aware that that's what makes the legend around the man that much more formidable. All the ridiculous things that were too implausible, too incredible to be true — they were. Every crazy rumor was backed up with the more valuable finds, the bigger discoveries, the vaster knowledge. All of it more than enough to unbalance Rafe's side of the scale, stacked against the few paltry facts that'd always outweigh Rafe's own best efforts to escape them. ]

Crash landing into shit and still managing to come out on top, [ is the ready answer. If Rafe hadn't wanted Nate to hear, he wouldn't have said it aloud at all. ] With people just tripping over themselves to lend a hand along the way.

[ Not that Nate ever realizes this. Never did. Which almost makes him that much more hateable — provided distance enough to keep from being sucked in by that ineffable fucking quality he has about him. God, Rafe misses being able to be in a different hemisphere by morning. ]

[ Nate doesn't number finds like that. Doesn't count them quantitatively, simply follows stories back to the source, and whatever he comes up with is what he gets. On rare occasion there's treasure, an archaeological goldmine from which to tally worth, but the rest are just baubles. Pieces he pockets because they're there, most of which sit on shelves in his office, most of which never see an audience greater then one.

It strikes him how strange it is that Rafe Adler of all people should be angry about what Nate has or has not accomplished. He isn't published in National Geographic or Archaeology Now, he doesn't attend galas or fundraisers, there aren't museum wings with his name emblazoned above them, traveling exhibitions he curates. For all intents and purposes Nate doesn't exist in the legal realm of the business, and barely lifted his head above the water in the less-than-legal side. People approached him by word of mouth, he never had business cards or a brick and mortar set-up.

People talked, but not that much. Most shit was just hearsay, told and told again with embellishments and exaggerations, if there's anyone left to do the telling. Generally Nate tends to leave a trail of mercenary bodies in his wake, because in spite of the apparent reputation he has the paychecks are big enough to incentivize them to shoot at him in burning buildings until he shoots back.

For a long moment he looks at Rafe, brow wrinkled, confused. ]

...how would you even know that?

[ ...Well. That's precisely not what he expected Nate to take away from all that. Rafe blinks in the dark, incredulous (but not) at the glaring naivete on display before him. ]

It's a word of mouth business. Word travels. [ Duh. ] Especially when the tales are as tall as yours.

[ Nate is barely a blip professionally, legally, but the stories around him practically make him a myth. Larger than life. Maybe the fuzzy vagueness, the maybe-he-is-maybe-he-isn't is what makes it more palatable than the hard evidence Rafe brings in year after year. He doesn't know. All he does is that in any circle, any measuring, he's still short of whatever it takes for people to take him seriously. ]

[ Yeah, no shit word travels. But it only travels to those who are looking for it. Rafe wouldn't know fuck-all about Nate or his exploits if he didn't ask people, because that kind of information is liable to get you killed even in an industry this far underground. People don't volunteer details without copious drinks or money, everyone is in it for something, for their own benefit. There are reasons Nate left the business behind, and they're not just relegated toward the continued use of his kneecaps.

For a long moment Nate stares at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion, feeling increasingly discomfited that whatever reputation he has is apparently still kicking years after his retirement to a normal life, a normal livelihood. ]

Like what?

[ Rafe scoffs at the question, eyes rolling in exasperation and if it keeps him from having to meet that stare head-on for a moment, well. Then it does.

Half the shit he's heard is likely puff, exaggeration, the usual distortion that comes from it being told by friends of friends of a friend. Still leaves a hell of a lot in the realm of "probably". Still so much more than any other ten men can claim across the whole of their careers. He lists them off one by one, the greatest hits. ]

Ubar. El Dorado. Shambala.

Yeah, and?

[ They're not small accomplishments, he knows, and Nate has sketchbooks full of material on them, notes and scribbles about ancient lands, fragmentary pieces of history he pockets along the way. Things he can't sell or give to a museum for lack of provenance, things that gather dust in the boxes of his attic office.

None of it garners fame. It's not what he wants, anyway. ]

What do you care? It's not like any of that gets slapped on the cover of National Geographic.

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