Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You ever wonder, with different choices, how we might have ended up?

No, I like the hand we've been dealt.

Despite his relatively few years of formal education, Nathan always knew he was smart.

Which is why when he died the first time and woke up as an infant, he rightfully freaked the fuck out.

Everything stung: the lights, the far off voices, the harsh grip as he was pulled and prodded and wrapped. He was born Nathan Morgan, for a second time, to a loving mother, a distant father, and a conflicted brother.

And so it began again.

In his first lifetime, Nathan Morgan witnessed a mere 15 years of life. His mother had divorced his father after one too many glasses of bourbon were thrown at her head. Nathan was only 2 at the time and didn't remember much of the man, but his brother, Sam, would scowl with echoes of conflicted anger and would hastily change the subject if the man's name was so much as mentioned.

It was too bad Sam inherited the man's tendency to drown himself in alcohol.

Sam had swung by to pick up Nate from a late night school event an hour late with alcohol on his breath. They argued, each accusing the other of being selfish and stupid. This was the third time in as many weeks, and Nate felt slighted and was worried for his brother.

The last time Nate saw Sam, his eyes were blood-shot, his breath was putrid, and spittle flew from his mouth as he turned to shout at Nate. There was the blinding white of headlights, the obnoxious blare of a truck horn, and the crunching screech of twisting metal.

They didn't last long on the two lane freeway, not with the way Sam was driving.

The next time he saw his brother, Nate was a newborn infant that could hardly keep his eyes open and any change of environment elicited a sudden urge to cry. The world was out of focus, the lights too bright, the noises sharp and thunderous, and it was all too much. Later, his mother would remark with a sad smile that Nate didn't stop crying for two whole days except to eat and sleep.

It would be mortifying if Nate wasn't so confused.

"Here, Sam, say hello to your new brother." Cassandra Morgan placed the 3 day old baby in Sam's arms gently, carefully coaching the 5 year old on how to hold a baby. She turned to her husband and they spoke in low tones as Sam took a few steps away for privacy.

Sam peered down at his brother, face an ugly blotchy red with tears threatening to spill. Nathan wanted to scream and cry. You did this, Nate thought viciously, you took my life from me.

"Hi, Nate." The five year old whispered hoarsely, "hi again. I'm sorry. I swear I won't screw up this time, I swear." Sam leaned down and kissed Nathan's forehead, "I'm so sorry, Nathan."

The words were slurred and indistinct in a typical child-like fashion, but Nate understood. He turned his face away from his brother and fought the urge to cry, stupid baby instincts.

This was the same Sam as before, and just like Nate, he remembered. Nate didn't know if it was for better or worse.

And so began the second lifetime of Nathan Morgan.

Nate hated the feeling of utter helplessness. He kept track of his true age as each year passes, 17 years of memories and unable to wipe his own ass. It was utterly humiliating, but Nate learned to deal with it even through Sam's gentle teasing.

It took some time, without the help of teeth for communication and general baby weakness, to get any message across to Sam. It didn't help that Nate's emotions ran right under the surface like a normal child, leading to alphabet blocks thrown against the wall in frustration and spontaneous crying. Those same multi-colored alphabet blocks were a form of slow communication for many weeks until Sam found an old book on morse code.

Sam was a surprisingly good older brother this time around. Randomly alternating between over-protective and distant at times, as if he couldn't stand to be around Nate, but he cared and loved and wasn't jealous or hurtful like before.

Nate never was one to hold a grudge, but it still took years to forgive Sam and let go the blame for his first violent death.

In retrospect, it helped that Nate's second lifetime only lasted six years.

Cassandra Morgan did not divorce John Morgan in this lifetime, the gradual erosion of self-esteem beneath his words and growing depression left her too vulnerable.

Instead she took her own life in the dining room when Nathan was five.

Guiltily, at his lowest point in this lifetime, Nate thought her weak and selfish.

"Nathan, hide in the closet, don't come out." Sam pleaded breathlessly as the cursing and stomping echoed up the stair outside their shared bedroom. Nate did as he was told, fear clenching like iron bands around his chest; even if he's seen 21 years of life, his childlike emotional state skewed his perception and made his terror more pronounced.

The door slammed open, punching hole in the wall opposite with the loose door knob.

Nate blocked his ears as best he could and curled in on himself among the dirty laundry piled in the closet, waiting for it to stop. It usually only took a few minutes before John grew bored and stumbled away, with one or both of the brothers left worse for wear.

This time was different. Sam screamed in pain, and Sam never reacted beyond a pained grunt; always said he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction. Then there was only silence. Without a moment's hesitation, Nate burst out of the closet, kicking and shouting at their father as he loomed over Sam, a fist clenched around the neck of a bottle.

"Sam!" Nate screamed, his voice raising to a high-pitched screech of panic. He pushed his father away from his older brother, unmoving and curled into the fetal position on the carpet, a tumulus mix of fear and anger gifting Nate with the strength to knock his father off-balance. "Stop it! Get away from him!"

He crouched over Sam's motionless body, a trail of blood dripping from his forehead. Fear and the pounding of blood in his ears drowned out his father's cursing and yelling as Nate shook Sam's shoulder.

"Sam. Sammy, come on, wake up!" Nate shouted, shaking him harder. But there was no rise and fall of breath, no life in the body beneath his hands.

Nate didn't notice his father raise the bottle again.

And so began the third lifetime of Nathan Morgan.

"Do you ever wonder…" Nate trailed off, staring at the smattering of stars from his reclined position on the roof.

This was their third lifetime, and it had gone much better than the second and much the same as the first. Cassandra escaped John Morgan and started a quiet life as a single mother to two surprisingly well-behaved and considerate children. This time she contracted out as an expert historian and amateur archeologist several times over the years, leaving on week long trips, trusting them to take care of each other. She always brought trinkets home as gifts, and that was enough for their little family.

Nate was fifteen again, skipping school for the day and hiding on the roof of their home until dawn. Sam found him a few hours later, and joined him in silence. It was the day they both died in the first lifetime, Nate didn't know whether to celebrate making it further than before or grieve a life he lost.

"Gonna finish your thought, or did ya fall asleep on me again." Sam muttered quietly beside him, perhaps hoping his little brother was asleep.

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?" Nate asked.

"Well, you went all moody teenager on me and I couldn't leave poor little Nate to freeze to death on the roof by himself." Sam replied with a thin smirk that was lost in the near darkness, purposefully misinterpreting the question and hoping Nate would get the hint.

"No, I mean, with what happens to us, every time we di—"

"I know what you mean. We've talked about this." Sam interrupted with a weary sigh, reluctant to speak about it again.

"I know, I know. But I just think, is this right? Are we making the right choices and doing everything right this time?" Nate wondered idly aloud, reaching upward and barely discerning the silhouette of his open hand in the moonless night.

"We're not dead yet, so we gotta be doing something right." Sam assured with a derisive snort.

"Yeah, but why us? Why not some other kids with shitty lives to fix? And why now? With the infinite possibilities in repeating a lifetime, that first life couldn't have literally been our first. Does everyone repeat and start over once they die, but just forget their previous life? And why both of us? Why—"

"Aw, come on." Sam groaned in exasperation; he should have expected an angst fest and existential crisis on this day. Sam could more or less happily motor along without thinking about their condition, but Nathan was too much of a thinker (obsessive, their mother would say) to simply accept it and move on.

"I mean, you have 51 years of memories, and I have 36. I remember two violent deaths to have nightmares about," Sam flinched minutely, but Nate didn't notice and continued to speak candidly into the darkness. "I remember what it's like to be born, twice. I remember three different lifetimes, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between them all. And this is the first time I've ever made it past fifteen years, where's the fairness in that?"

"When have our lives ever been fair?" Sam bit out harshly. He hated these conversations; left to his own devices, Nate could talk himself in infinite circles trying to make rhyme or reason to their situation.

"But—" Nate attempted to continue.

"No, Nathan. Our lives aren't fair, they're not supposed to be fair. Because that's just the hand we've been dealt, and we gotta keep going and try not to screw up so bad." Sam said firmly, dropping an arm over his eyes in exasperation.

"Yeah…" Nate trailed off, still staring intently at the smattering of stars piercing through millions of lightyears of empty space to reach their eyes as if they held the answers. There were only a couple dozen Nate could see with the light pollution when living on the outskirts of a city, but he was always enamored by their steady light.

They both knew that wouldn't be the end of it.

It could have been hours or mere minutes they lay in silence, in darkness, listening to the wind rustling the leaves and the soft sound of steady breathing, "Hey, Nate?"

"Hmm?" Nate acknowledged, barely awake as dawn broke over the treetops, staining the sky red and orange like dye dropped on tapestry. It was a new day, one Nate or Sam had never seen before in any life time.

"Happy First Death-day, little brother." Sam said with a unsteady smirk, reaching across the distance between them for the first time to ruffle Nate's long mop of hair. A smile quirked Nate's lips at the action, a feeling of rekindled warmth settling deep within his gut after a night beneath the stars.

Nate quickly swatted the hand away and punched Sam's arm in retaliation, barely allowing himself a moment to relish in the light-hearted comfort. Sam chuckled in response, the vulnerable expression was replaced by a real smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes in mirth.

"Right, Happy Death-day, Sam."

…

Nate completed public school and immediately enrolled in college, stretching his brain muscles as a historian of ancient civilizations and a part-time archaeologist, just like his mother. He enjoyed it: teaching seminars part-time, contracting on dig sights, spending days in the sun and hours rambling stories to dozens of fresh-faced students. But there was always a nagging feeling, a itch beneath his skin, that he wasn't quite there yet.

Sam bought a motorcycle soon after that day on the roof and would vanish for weeks at a time, settling for a few months at a job until he had just enough money to jump on his bike and disappear again. They kept in contact, but neither wanted to live in the other's pocket anymore. He learned to repair his bike when it broke down and took an interest in working on cars, but the restlessness refused to let him settle down.

Nate turned 32 and married a long-time girlfriend, Venessa, because that's what was next on the agenda and he hoped it would calm the itching restlessness that crawled beneath his skin like countless ants in long moments of inaction. She was a good person and an excellent friend; it was years before Nate realized he loved her but wasn't in love with her. He stayed with her, because they were happy enough when together, but the wanderlust refused to be stated.

Sam died in his 48th year, 79 years worth of memories at his disposal, and he died alone in a filthy gas station bathroom with bruises on his ribs and too much heroine shooting through his veins. He hadn't checked on his little brother in three years. Nate got the call and disappeared for months overseas, burying himself in work to drown out the guilt and anger.

Nathan Morgan was shot and killed at the age of 62 when a band of mercenaries ambushed his archeological dig site, hired by some rich douchebag to clean out the ruins. Nate didn't know why he was surprised, after he bled out with a couple holes in his gut, that he emerged in a vulnerable state once more between one blink and the next.

And so began the fourth lifetime of Nathan Morgan.

Sam wasn't there when Nate was born. Nate found it odd that neither John nor Cassandra mentioned him when they took him home from the hospital. There was no older brother meet and greet like all the lifetimes before, no joyful or sad reunion between the two.

Sam wasn't there at all. The bedroom that once held band posters, pirate paraphernalia, and random kid nik-naks, was empty and converted to a impersonal guest room. It took years of snooping in his father's office when he was at work, and sneaking away from his mother while she was busy to figure out what went wrong.

Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; Sam never made it one year.

Nate would never see his brother in this lifetime.

As the years passed in a haze, Nate never realized how he depended on his brother in the early years. Rooted in the understanding of shared lives between them and the unconditional support that helped him get through those horrifying and humiliating early years, Nate felt alone and trapped in his own head without Sam.

Cassandra committed suicide early than in the second lifetime, a result of a guilty conscience and depression over Sam's death, Nate's abnormal behavior, and the constant verbal abuse.

Nate was left alone with his Father.

John blamed Nate for his wife's illness, blamed him for Sam—the perfect son in his eyes, oh how Sam would laugh—, blamed him for looking too much like her, blamed him for the abuse. He accused Nate of everything and anything wrong with the world when John caught sight of him.

The first ten years were always the hardest, in any lifetime, and without Sam as support, a friendly face to reassure Nate that he wasn't utterly insane, it was almost impossible. Nate ran away for the first time when he was 12, and within a few days he was caught by police and returned home with only dirty clothes and a bruised face to show for his troubles. It was five more tries, with plans and preparations, until he finally got away and left the state with the help of some unsavory characters.

The gang did not take kindly to Nate trying to weasel out of the deal when they crossed state lines.

The next year was not the best. Nate attempted to tough it out for months, waiting for an opportunity to cut clean and run. But if he couldn't escape his father and the police without help, it would be impossible to disappear from the gang's far reach.

They had him pickpocket and drop off packages in random locations across the new city, sometimes watching for cops a couple streets over when a transaction was occurring in a warehouse, but the longer he stayed the more they pushed. They put a gun in his hands and were amused to find he was a good shot. Nate was terrified of what they had in store for him, and had ditched jobs and ignored orders several times. Always taking the punishments silently when caught, the other kids just stared or turned away. Some sneered at him, he will break soon, they thought.

He saw things he would never speak of again. Nate did things that would sear the script of sin deeply in his soul; he will never mention them willingly.

Then the gang grew impatient with his shit and shut him in a room with a man, tied up, and obviously tortured, with the command to finish him off or they would put a bullet in Nate's head. Either he would put an end to his games, or they would.

Nate didn't know how his choices could lead him to this point. He surveyed the rolling table which held multiple deadly tools with a wince of distaste, all stained and dented from use. Nate picked up a knife at random after one of the gang leader barked a command behind him.

"No, please, stop!" The man begged, struggling against the ropes as Nate approached, large knife clutched tightly in a trembling grip. "I have a wife and son. Please, don't do this!"

Nate's breath came heavy and fast, eyes wide and dilated as he held a knife to the man's throat.

This wasn't him, this wasn't Nate. He didn't want to do this.

"Hurry up and kill him." The gang member sneered in a bored tone and the seconds ticked by, his hand loosely resting on the pummel of his pistol, both a threat and a warning.

"No. no-no-no-no-no. please." The man begged quietly, swallowing heavily, tears and sweat and blood mixing on his face. Adam's apple bobbing beneath the pressure of the blade, a thin line of blood beaded to the surface as Nate's hands shook unsteadily.

He couldn't do this.

If Sam inherited John's addictive tendency, then Nate received his mother's weakness.

Left on his own, he had no reason to stay anymore.

The shock on the imprisoned man's face shuttered for an instant, and Nate sent off a brief prayer to see his brother again, before he was back to the beginning.

And so the fifth life of Nathan Morgan began.

Years passed in childhood until Nate was able to moved past his fourth lifetime. He never told Sam what happened, despite his incessant questions. Sam learned to let it go after being stone walled time and time again; it was a shitty lifetime for the both of them. Their 3rd and 4th lifetimes continued to hang between them like a great weight suspended by a frayed thread, it turned their teasing comments caustic and their bond, more than 100-years strong, became strained.

It was easier to pretend that the hundred years of brotherhood didn't exist, even of it was impossible to erase the memories and history between them.

"Sam! What the hell are you doing up there?" Nate shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice as he stared incredulously at his brother clinging to the side of a building by his finger tips.

"Nathan? I— uh, Nothin'!" Sam called back quietly, slightly out of breath as he heaved himself around the precarious handholds of the building to the rusty fire escape.

"Get down from there! You're going to break your neck!" Nate yelled, crossing his arms in irritation as he waited for Sam.

"Shut up. You're gonna blow my cover." Sam half-whispered as he made his way down to Nate from the fire escape.

Nate peered up and down the deserted street, noting the burned out streetlights, scratched parked cars, dented stop signs, and the cookie-cutter brown apartment buildings that remain silent and dark in the dead of night. He'd just wanted to go on a walk without his Mother's incessant coddling or Sam's caustic teasing. Nate loved his mother, but with 106 years of memories under his belt it was frustrating to not be allowed anywhere alone.

Sam kicked down the fire-escape ladder and it landed at Nate's feet with a resounding clank that echoed down the empty street. He slid down with a self-satisfied grin on his face even as he panted from exertion; dusting himself off and shrugging his shoulders arrogantly, he said, "What do ya think, little brother? Pretty sweet moves, huh?"

"Right," Nate responded dryly with a roll of his eyes, "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go." Sam shrugged, still grinning he turned back to the three story apartment building, "Besides, from that height I'd only break a leg or two, nothing a few months won't fix up."

"Yeah, or you could break your spine and be stuck in a wheelchair the rest of your life." Nate remarked, then sighed after seeing his older brother wasn't listening to him and had instead begun to stroll down the street. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"

"Ah, well, you know, climbing and stuff, much more fun than trees." Sam said easily, turning away to avoid Nate's gaze.

Nate's eyes narrowed as Sam's voice wavered minutely. Sam should know that he could never lie to Nate, they've know each other too long for that to fly.

"Uh-huh, best time to climb, 2 am." Nate said sardonically and looked up at the building, noticing the scuff marks along the window sills from Sam's boots, the window propped open with a board, and the bulging pack slung across Sam's shoulders. Nate's eyes widened in realization as he ran to catch up with his brother sauntering down the road without a care.

"Sam! You didn't just —" Nate started to say.

Suddenly a shout of rage echoed down the street as the ajar window was slammed all the way open, cracking the scuffed wood along the frame, and light spilled out onto the dark road.

"Aw shit," Sam cursed under his breath, "come on, Nate, we gotta go!" Sam snatched Nate's wrist and pulled him down a side alley just as a flashlight beam illuminated the main road. They could hear thundering footsteps reverberate down the fire escape as the man cursed up a storm behind them.

"What did you do!" Nate accused as he finally yanked his hand away from Sam's tight grasp and came to a halt. Sam spun around, trying to pull his brother into a run again; his eyes tight with simmering frustration and fear.

"I'll explain later, we gotta go now!—"

The sound of a gun cocking echoed loudly from the mouth of the alley, silencing the two as an uneasy chill shot up Nate's spine. "You fucking kids! I'm gonna kill ya!"

Nate's breath quickened, and he didn't resist when Sam grabbed his arm again and yanked him deeper into the labyrinth of dim alleyways. Within minutes of running further and further without a care in which direction they turned, they reached a dead end. A filth incrusted brick wall in a narrow alley, too tall to climb over, with two story buildings on either side.

"Damn it." Sam cursed and turned around to dash down a different alley, but he could still hear the man in pursuit behind them. Only hesitating for a moment, Sam hauled himself onto a nearby industrial sized air conditioning unit, and used a windowsill to climb to the roof of the building, "Come on, up here."

Nate struggled to follow. He was only 10 years old in this body, and the childlike panic was wiping away the years of tempered experience and cool-headed logic. He pulled himself on top of the air conditioner, having to kick his feet in open air to get leverage, but the windowsill was too far to reach even if he jumped.

"Sam, wait, I can't get up there." Nate whispered, fear making his childish voice come out as a squeak, just as Sam got to the roof.

"Okay, okay… uh, different plan." Sam said to himself, dropping down beside Nate, boots clanking on the metal loud enough to make Nate flinch. Sam took a knee and laced his fingers together to make a foot hold, "here, I'll boost you up."

Nate nodded, climbing up as fast as he can as the cursing and stomping grew louder, blood pounded in his ears as Nate planted his feet on Sam's shoulders and he stood to his full height. The edge of the roof was still a few inches out of reach.

"Hurry up." Sam called uncertainly below him as he turned to watch the mouth of the alley. He could just make out the edge of a flashlight beam illuminating the litter and garbage along the walls like glittering jewels among the filth.

"I can't reach it!" Nate said, reaching as far as he can with his chest scrapping roughly against the brick wall, but his fingers only brushed the edge.

"Jump for it!" Sam demanded.

Nate took a deep breath, bent his knees, and jumped; his fingers gripped the edge and he was about to pull himself up when one of his hands slipped. His feet kicked uselessly in the air for a moment under his shoes found purchase on the brick. With his pounding heart drowning out the fear and Sam's panicked voice, he scrambled onto the roof and away from the edge.

Sam was close behind; he didn't say a word when he grabbed Nate's wrist to pull him to crouch behind a concrete barrier. Adrenaline brought the world into hyper focus and his chest heaved from exertion, but Nate listened closely with anticipation as the man turned down the alley and saw his vanished quarry. There was cursing enough to make his mother's ears bleed, and a bang echoed suddenly from below from the man kicking the air conditioner in frustration. The stomping retreated back down the alley to one of the forks, and a shocked silence followed, only broken by the chirping of summer crickets.

It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours later, that Sam heaved a sigh of relief and collapse back against the concrete barrier for support. Nate followed suit, trusting his brother's instincts over his own in the moment, even as his heart still beat a wild tattoo against his rib cage.

"Whatever you stole…" Nate started, curling in on himself as his breathing finally returned to a normal pace, "it better be damn good, because we're not doing that again."

Sam snorted, then chuckled, and started actually laughing; those chest deep guffaws that made his stomach cramp, that laugh that violently reminded Nate of when they actually enjoyed spending time together. Nate tried to scowled in response, but the adrenaline rush and sudden relief gave him a giddy feeling he wasn't used to; Nate couldn't stop the desperate laughs that snuck their way out. Sam slung an arm around Nate's shoulders, pulling him in for a one armed hug and a quick hair ruffle, like they were a couple of normal delinquent kids getting in over their heads.

"Well, you can't say life ain't interesting." Sam said quietly in the low light, a few rogue snickers still filtering out from behind his wide grin.

"Definitely not for us." Nate agreed, enjoying the feeling of his brother beside him and the years behind them wiped clean for a moment.

Even as the euphoria died away and blood beaded on his palms from being mercilessly scraped against the gravely roof, Nate never felt more alive.

Chapter Text

Sam had vanished when he turned 18, leaving Cassandra distraught and stricken in his absence. Nate didn't mind; Sam would wander back into his life when he was ready. She buried herself in work, allowing a curious Nate to help with the research, spinning legends of Marco Polo, Henry Avery and Francis Drake into vast projects for interested parties to find certain artifacts.

It was the first time Nate had been involved in this work, and it was riveting to search for lost legendary artifacts through vague clues, even with the hours of fruitless research and tedious translations. With his Mother's patient guidance and exasperated lessons at one too many questions, Nate picked up a working knowledge of ancient latin and greek. Through the monotony of mandatory public school, his only saving grace was coming home to endless interesting tidbits and history lessons from his mother.

When Nate turned 16, he decided to tell her everything; it's been just the two of them for years, and he wanted to shed the charade that had become as easy as breathing. It was a conversation over dinner that barely lasted five minutes until it devolved to an argument.

She was not at all understanding when Nate claimed he had repeated his life five times, nor that Sam and Nate had 101 and 112 years of memories, respectively, stashed in their brains. The next day, she'd attempted to convince Nate that therapy would solve his delusions, and expressed regret for involving him in her research on supernatural artifacts. Weeks passed in tension where easy conversation used to flow, and Nate was left with no choice when she attempted to force him into an institution 'for his health and safety.'

He packed a single bag and disappeared one night. Fortunately, Sam got his voicemail and met him a few towns over. They never looked back, and Nathan Morgan faded into obscurity as one of many runaways.

They didn't really need the money, there were other legal ways, but Nate needed the rush.

It made him feel alive, real, in the moment, and not stuck in over a hundred years of history that tethered him to him mud like great rusty shackles. It was fun and it made Nate forget: his fourth lifetime, his situation, the general unfairness, everything.

It eased the itchy restlessness that crawled beneath his skin and made his hair stand on end when he settled for too long.

Nate made a routine of it: travel to a large town or city, lift a dozen wallets off careless tourists, get a decent apartment, find a couple local clients in need of a quick lift, perhaps clean out some rich bastard's place, and skip town to start again. He'd visited three continents, thirteen countries, and 28 different cities in the span of seven years, and became fluent in Spanish and Portuguese.

It wasn't a good or easy living by any stretch of the imagination, but it was something and it was his.

In that time he'd made dozens of enemies and a handful of associates that he could almost call friends. Of course, there was no honor or friendship in this line of work, so Nate kept his distance, even it was a painfully lonely existence smattered by brief flings and tenuous friendships shattered the moment Nate skipped town.

Nate was in London, 20 years old with 116 years of memories, when he made a solid contact into the world of professional thievery. He tailed the mark—young, over confident, comfortable with a lot of money, t-shirt and jeans but a well tailored jacket, talking intently into a phone—for only a few blocks before making a move.

It should have been easy. Nate was dressed as a rebellious teenager, loose pants and dark hood shadowing his face; just a small bump as a distraction and the arrogant man with his hair slicked back perfectly to have a single wisp over his eye would be freed of his wallet.

It went off without a hitch, the man barked a curse his way and was a couple ounces lighter as he sauntered away. Nate turned down an alley, ready to beat a hasty retreat up one of the buildings, until he heard the British man's voice speak crisply into the phone.

"Excuse me, but I have a pest to take care of."

Nathan continued down the alley, hunching over to make himself appear weaker and smaller, scanning the walls for the optimal handholds for scaling.

"Pardon me, mate. But I couldn't help but notice you have something of mine." The man's voice drawled behind him, a sharp edge to his facetiously light tone.

"Sorry, mate. But if you can't keep hold of your stuff, I can't help you." Nate quipped, slathering on a half-way decent accent as an after-thought. Nate relished the rush of adrenaline for a moment, before bursting into action, vaulting atop a dumpster for extra leverage and reaching the roof top with little difficulty using the windowsills and drainpipes.

Nate turned back to the man in the alley, smirking at the surprise and irritation that twisted his features into an ugly mask.

"Here you go. Wouldn't want to leave you with nothing." With his toes hanging over open air, he gave the man a lazy salute and tossed down the pilfered wallet, much lighter without the crisp hundred pound bills inside. "Have a lovely day!"

Nate turned to dash across the rooftops with a spring in his step, reaching higher vantage points to slide down electric lines to beat a hasty escape. Several rooftops and a couple street over, Nate eased back on his pace and continued to climb over the rooftops and fire escapes to reach the apartment he'd been eyeing in the area.

"Idiot, carrying 600 pounds in cash on him." Nate remarked quietly to himself, not believing his good luck. "Now I can get that apartment and a new pair of—"

The gutter Nate clung to by his fingertips creaked in warning as it detached from the roof and collapsed inward. "Oh, crap!" He cursed in alarm and swung to the side, breaking his fall with a roll onto a rooftop below and scattering the gravel that layered it.

"Okay… less talking, more climbing." Nate breathed as he rolled to his feet, peering at his sliced fingers from the gutter metal with a vaguely concerned eye, "I hope that doesn't get infected."

"That would be the least of your problems, love." An english voice drawled behind him, slightly out of breath. When Nate gaped in surprise, he smirked and said, "Don't think you are the only one that can climb, little thief."

And that, Harry Flynn would later remark over a couple beers, was the start of a beautiful friendship.

And that 'beautiful friendship' was the reason Nate even picked up the phone in the first place. They'd run a couple jobs together over the years, but Nate's reluctance to use a gun grated on Flynn's nerves and it caused some difficulty between the pair during prolonged partnerships. Nate was a thief, first and foremost, but he had morals he refused to bend. Sam had taken more jobs with Flynn once Nate introduced them, finding kinship and a drinking buddy where Nate couldn't.

Over the years, the bad luck caught up to Sam. The thievery, the rush, had landed Sam in a Brazilian prison for breaking and entering, and Nate needed enough money to grease a few palms to get him out. Hence, Nate taking a job a bit outside his expertise.

He rarely took museum heists, too high profile, too many variables, too dangerous; it was what got Sam caught in the first place. But Sam had been sitting pretty in that hell hole for six months before Nate realized his brother hadn't touched base in a while, and another three months passed as Nate scoured their few contacts and regular haunts to find him. Nate didn't even have enough money to get five minutes with his brother.

Then he got a call from a friend that Nate and Sam had parted with on favorable terms. Harry Flynn: sarcastic, dismissive, British, and damn good at what he does. Harry Flynn needed a partner on this job, a museum heist for some rich bastard that was a Genghis Khan fanboy and wanted some of the jewelry traded in Khara Khorum for personal collection. The jewelry was said to be designed by Guillaume Boucher, the goldsmith who designed the legendary silver fountain in the Palace of the Great Khan that enamored all who passed through its gates. Usually, Nate would be all over the lore, the stories, he had the tendency to research any legend that caught his eye, but this was short notice and Nate was more interested in the money than the historical artifact this time.

"So, you in?" Flynn asked unnecessarily. Nate could almost hear the damned smirk through the tinny speaker on the phone. He didn't know whether to relax back into the familiar banter or throw the phone against the wall in frustration.

"In like Flynn." Nate sighed.

"Oh, you think you're so funny."

Three days later in Texas, Nate met the team in the client's drawing room; having to stow away on a flight and rent a beat-up truck he had little intention of returning to make it from Brazil with only his pocket change.

"Ah, and here he is: our thief, Nathan Morgan." Flynn introduced Nate to the team when the butler showed him to the room, lined with luxuries gilded in gold that were sickeningly ornate and frivolous.

In fact, the whole mansion was cloyingly frivolous and exorbitantly lavish; the servants were well trained mannequins, the banister was shiny enough to see his reflection and the crystal chandelier hid no dust. The client was an owner, not a collector. He wanted to own the item, not for its own merit, but because he wanted the artifact to be assimilated into his ego for bragging rights.

Nate despised these jobs, but 'desperate times' and all that jazz.

"You know I prefer professional acquirer, Flynn. It makes me sound more… sophisticated," Nate said, greeting Flynn with a too-wide grin and a quick hug, his fingers deftly diving into his pockets to lift Flynn's wallet and tuck it into Nate's jacket.

"And you are going to need all the sophistication you can get, little thief." Flynn teased acerbically, as he slowly reached into Nate's jacket to retrieve the briefly stolen wallet. "Now, is that my wallet in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Nate barked out a startled laugh, and smiled genuinely this time, "Maybe I'm always happy to see you, Flynn."

"Hope you don't greet all your pals that way, kid." One of the men stated dryly, an amused smirk pulling at his lips while the lit cigar remained balanced. In the low light, Nate could only make out an old fashioned Hawaiian shirt and khakis. Two other men stood behind him, younger, with a few facial scars, most likely ex-military, and wearing bullet proof vests; odd but not unheard of for hired mercenaries.

"Only those who get too close." Nate remarked, "and call me Morgan."

"This is our esteemed client, Mark Tallis, a collector of rare artifacts." Flynn introduced cordially, and although each word seemed to be steeped in sarcasm and veiled insult, none seemed any the wiser. Although the older man smoking the cigar snorted quietly at Flynn's words.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tallis. I hope we can come to an agreement tonight." Nate stated neutrally. Nate shook his hand and assessed the man, noting his pale complexion, sweaty brow despite the cool breeze, the too tight pants that struggled to contain his girth, and the ornate rings, pocket watch and diamond tie pin. This was a man used to hearing what he wanted to hear, and getting exactly what he wanted when he threw money at it.

Nate struggled to contain a victorious smirk; the job may be difficult but the rewards would exceed Nate's initial expectations. He would have to thank Flynn with a couple beers for hooking him up with an easy mark.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Morgan. I am assured by Mr. Flynn that you are the man for the job." Tallis simpered, his words falling greasily upon Nate's ears.

"Yes, well, we'll have to take a look at exactly what is needed for this job." Nate subtly reassured, discreetly wiping his hand on his jeans to get the clamminess off, as Flynn slapped a hand on his back to continue with introductions.

"These two are ex-special forces, Frank Crease and Juan Perez," Flynn said, gesturing vaguely to the two men in bullet proof vest, "they're our spotter and getaway driver for this job." Nate exchanged a short nod of acknowledgement with the two men.

"And this sorry old man is a 'professional acquirer,' as you say," Flynn remarked snidely with veiled criticism, "Victor Sullivan."

"I've heard about you, Sullivan." Nate greeted with a small smile, remembering the few rants from Flynn about a 'sorry old sack of shit' and a 'bastard with the devil's charm' after Sullivan had the gull to steal a girl from under Flynn's nose at a bar in Germany. Nate had to cover the microphone to keep Flynn from hearing his muffled snickers.

"All good things, I hope." Sullivan remarked flippantly with a smirk, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke into the air, each motion easy-going and self-assured even as he watched with sharp eyes.

"What else?" Nate said, then turned to the center table which was helpfully laden with maps of the museum and the surrounding area, "now that we're all here, let's get down to business."

"Looks like a storm." A low voice stated behind him, a bit raspy from those cigars he seemed to enjoy to an almost obsessive level. Peering over Nate's shoulder out the window, Sullivan scrunched his nose in distaste at the darkening sky.

Nate hummed absentmindedly to show he was listening but continued to stare out the window of the car, surveying the premises and mentally mapping multiple routes of entry and escape. The spot lights covering the rooftop and the security cameras along the edge of the building weren't going to be an issue if Flynn did his job right.

It had been four days since their initial meet and greet, a price had been set and a remarkably simple plan had been hatched. Sullivan and Nate had talked a few times as they were going to work closely in the next part of the plan and had struck up a tentative friendship. As in the 'share-beer-and-cigars' and 'brag-about-past-conquests' sort of acquaintance, nothing very substantial, but it was enough for now.

"Hey, kid." Sullivan said, tucking a silenced tranquilizer gun into his holster and handing another to Nate.

"I'm not a kid, I'm 24 years old," Nate said absentmindedly, no bite to his words as it was a fifth time Nate repeated the same phrase. In a way, it was nice, 120 years of experience and there will always be people who knew more than Nate and would treat him like a rookie.

"Everyone's a kid to me, boyo." Sullivan replied, quirking an eyebrow. "You ready?"

Nate palmed the gun for a moment, glad that their client had insisted on discretion, before tucking it away and pulling up a dark bandana to cover his face. Stealth and discretion, that's what he was know for in these circles, even if no one knew how god damn difficult it was to stay that way.

"Yeah, let's go."

The plan was simple. Flynn would cut the power to the roof spotlights, Crease would call out guard positions, and Nate and Sullivan would sneak in through an unlocked window to grab the stuff. Nate even got the artifacts tucked safely away in his belt pouch without having to fire a single tranquilizer; everything went off without a hitch.

It was supposed to be easy in, easy out. Maybe that's why everything went to shit so quickly.

"Move, kid!" Sullivan called, ducking behind cover as a hail of bullets rained from the other rooftop.

"Moving! I'm moving!" Nate yelled back in a panic, boots pounding on the inclined roof of the museum as he dived behind cover next to Sullivan; they blind fired over the thin concrete ledge that was slowly being gnawed away by the security guards' fire.

Why the hell did these guards have assault rifles?

The radio clipped to Nate's belt crackled and a tinny version of Flynn's snarky voice emanated from the speaker, barely audible over the shots, "Nate? What the fuck is happening—"

Nate instantly snatched the radio up and shouted back over the fire, "I thought Crease was our spotter, not a damn sniper with an itchy trigger finger!"

"Ah." Flynn edged carefully, entirely too calm for Nate's liking, "well, you know how it is, love—"

"No! I don't know how it is! If I did, I wouldn't have taken the damn job!" Nate seethed, pausing only briefly to return fire with the flimsy and useless tranquilizer gun. He wanted to run and climb, that's what he was good at, not this direct old west style battle, but there was no break in the gunfire to take advantage of.

"Morgan, we gotta get moving, save your martial spat for later!" Sullivan yelled, gesturing to the half dozen guard that appeared at their flank. With a quick nod of acknowledgement to Nate, he took off across the three story rooftops, leaping across the chasms and climbing drain pipes as Nate returned covering fire, thankfully downing a few men.

Nate ignored the married comment to reload his almost useless gun and shout one last time into the radio before tucking it away, "If I die, I'm going to murder you Harry!"

Flynn didn't know that Nate could uphold that vow.

Rolling out from behind cover, he dashed after Sullivan, ignoring the pistol shots that nipped at his heels. He got four rooftops over, expertly rolling to break his fall and clinging to handhold with tense fingers.

Of course, with Nate involved, things had to go from pretty damn bad to 'oh-my-God-the-universe-hates-me' in seconds. The skies opened and dumped thick, heavy rain over Nate's head; the kind of rain the soaks you in an instant, the kind of rain that makes the ground like an oil slick.

There was a loud bang, and a searing pain laced up Nate's leg. "Shit! Please be a graze, please be a graze."Nate pleaded to himself, attempting to ignore the agonizing pain and heat the emanated from side of his right leg, but his pace stuttered unevenly as he began to limp.

Then he slipped, and things went from 'the-universe-hates-me' to 'sam-is-gonna-literally-kill-me.'

"Oh, crap!" Nate cursed, his voice echoing over the hammering rain and shots as his footing slipped on the slick inclined roof. "Ow, crap-crap-crap-crap-crap." Nate called as banged his leg, his vision whiting out for a moment, and slid uncontrollably down the inclined roof toward a three story drop into a narrow alley. He desperately trying to grab something on the way down, but everything was slick with water. Adrenaline pumped and the rush of blood drowned out the slow stuttering off of gunfire as the guards lost sight of their targets.

He could do it. He could do it. He just had to time it just right.

His fingers barely grasped the overflowing gutter as he slid passed, ripping the nails from the edge of the roof with the force of his momentum. Filthy water poured over Nate's head, blinding his vision for a single crucial moment.

The gutter detached with a gut-wrenching groan of twisting metal and dropped him into three stories of open air.

The fall seemed to hover between one breath and the next, taking entirely too long and much too short a time. Nate reached with desperate and scrambling hands, to grab a windowsill or handhold or anything to stop his fall. But the wall was smooth, and there was no convenient rope or fire escape to break his momentum.

Wouldn't be the worst way to go.

Protect your head. Nate's thoughts randomly spouted Sam's half-hearted advice from years ago when they first started climbing together. He laced his fingers behind his head, and valiantly tried to prepare himself for one hell of a impact.

Nate hit the ground hard, feet first, tucking and rolling after his ankles slammed into the dirt. There was a sickening crack that resounded through the blood rushing to Nate's head, and adrenaline numbed the multitude of injuries for a moment. The air was knocked from his lungs, his head loosened in his grip, and water seemed to fill his nose and mouth as he collapsed face first in the mud.

He had a moment, to breathe, and realize he wasn't dead. Then it hit him all at once, an overwhelming wave of searing acidic, blisteringly hot agony that licked up his ankle to scorch a trail around his ribcage.

Oh god. It fucking hurt.

Nate wasn't aware of much besides the burning pain in his leg and the excruciating torture like shattered beer bottles being shoved repeated into his right ankle. He could see nothing but endless static whiteness, he could hear the shouting of Sullivan in the background, but nothing registered in his mind beyond his agonizing existence.

Move. Breathe. Move.

But he couldn't, it was too hard, it was too much. It could have been seconds or hours when Nate could finally breath through the water dripping down his face and his ears cleared to hear more than the pumping of life blood and adrenaline.

"Flynn! Cut the power to the alleyways!" Nate could hear Sullivan's thin voice echo from the radio on his belt. Nate had enough presence of mind over the agonizing pain to hysterically thank god the thing was waterproof.

"A bit busy with escaping from endless gunfire and death, you understand surely." Flynn snarked easily, only sounding slightly out of breath.

"Morgan fell! The guards lost sight of us in the rain, but I can't get down to him with the spotlights on." Sullivan said, something like panic and worry forcing his words out in a rush.

Oh, it was spotlights shining in his face not the endless agony whiting out his vision, Nate wasn't sure before.

"…Does he have the artifacts?" Flynn asked abruptly.

"Yeah, sure, just cut the power damn it!" Sullivan cursed, and the radio crackled once with a wordless cry of frustration as the line went dead.

"Y-you're o-okay." Nate stuttered in a pathetic whisper to himself as he tried to steady his breathing, tear unbidden mixed with the rainwater on his face, "you're o-okay. It do-doesn't hurt too b-b-bad. Just get up, s-simple and-and easy."

He wished Sam was there. Sam would know what to do. Even if technically Nate was older because of poor life decisions and bad luck, Sam would always be his big brother. God, he missed him.

Thunder boomed overhead, helpfully drowning out the shout of pain as Nate tried to push himself to his feet. Everything hurt, he couldn't do it, not without help, not even with the advantage of 120 years of memories and experience could Nate push the pain away and move. Nate rolled onto his back, gasping as a wave of agony rose and crashed over him in retaliation for daring to attempt standing.

"Kid—Morgan!" Sullivan called, his voice crackling through the radio, "Don't move, okay? I'm coming for you, just sit tight."

With what felt like a momentous amount of effort that left him breathless, Nate pulled the radio from his belt, his hand shaking as he held down the button to croak quietly, "c-can't do much else—."

He cut himself off with a wave of hacking coughs that seemed to wrack his whole body, tightening the iron bands around his ribcage.

"Good to know you're alive, Morgan," was the blunt reply on the radio. Was that concern, worry? Of course not, what did he expect, they were just business partners, and he held the artifacts.

"Yeah, yeah, alive, j-just a b-bit worse for wear." Nate stuttered, his teeth beginning to chatter involuntarily as the rain chilled him to the bones. He just stared at the sky, feeling the involuntary urge to reach up (an itchy crawl beneath the skin) and try to touch the smattering of stars; they were always the same, no matter where he was, no matter when he was.

"You're not gonna pass out on me, are you? Cause I am not carrying your ass home, kid." Sullivan's voice fizzled quietly through the radio, a little gruff.

"Nah. C-course not. I wouldn't d-do that to you, S-Sully—" Nate faltered slightly on the name, breaking off, coughing so hard his vision started to turn into grey static at the edges.

"—keep talking, kid. What did you call me?" Sullivan asked, amusement masking his alarming concern.

"What?" Nate wheezed, focusing on the conversation, not on the burning pain that had begun to lick up his leg like fire, "Don't like it? I t-think I've known you long enough to—to give you a n-nickname."

"I've seen how you greet your friends. I'm not sure I want to have my wallet stolen every time I bump into you." Sullivan teased good-naturedly, humoring Nate in a way that even Sam refused to anymore. Thankfully, he didn't mention that they only met four day ago.

"W-Well, it's a risk you r-run… talking to m-me. You'll l-learn to expect it." Nate struggled through the words, starting and stopping again like a faulty engine.

"Seems worth it," was the brusque reply, and it made Nate smile at nothing in particular, his eyes falling closed to rest for a moment.

"Sully?"

"Yeah, kid?" And maybe, just maybe, Nate could hear the old man smile through the shitty speaker on the radio.

"Y-You can call me Nate."

"Oh, please continue." Flynn interrupted on the radio, sounding breathless and frustrated. "This melodrama is even better than my Soaps. It's not like I just backtracked around 20 guards to get to the control panel again for you two dimwits."

"You w-watch Soaps?" Because that was the most important part of whatever drivel spewed out of Flynn's mouth.

"No, now shut up like a good little liability, and listen to me." Flynn snapped and this time Nate could hear gunfire in the background, "In ten seconds, the whole grid is going down. In 30 seconds, there's going to be a tiny distraction in North side of the museum. You two better be at the South exit in 3 minutes, or we're gone without you."

"Always knew y-you loved me, H-Harry." Nate teased lightly, something warm, something like hope rekindled in his chest.

"Oh, darling," Flynn replied in a faux-gentle voice, "shut up!"

There was a crack, thunder boomed overhead, and the lights all across the compound shut off, leaving a void of darkness on the moonless night and spots dancing in front of Nate's vision.

Within a seconds, Sully was standing over him, his voice clear and worried now that it wasn't distorted through the radio, "Let's get you moving, kid." He leaned down, yanking on one of Nate's arms to pull him up, and the sudden agony jolted a muffled scream from his throat and his vision turned to static.

He must have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing he remembered was standing upright, leaning heavily against the older man, as an explosion rocked the museum grounds. A cloud of smoke rose up from the opposite side of the compound, and sirens could be heard whining in the distance.

"That's your cue, love, now move your asses." Flynn snarled, although it was much less impressive through the tinny quality of the radio speaker.

Nate didn't remember much after that, everything hurt, the agony obliterated each coherent thought as he forced himself to place one foot in front of the other. He focused on Sully's voice to ground him, to keep at bay the gray that infringed upon the edges of his vision.

Maybe it was his inner-child talking, or over a hundred years of unconditional support, but he really wished Sam was there, to ruffle his hair and tell him it'd all be okay. But Sam was stuck in prison, and Nate's best attempt to get him out landed him at a three story drop.

"—ate. Nate! Come on, stay with me, kid—"

Maybe it's Murphy's law, or Nate's own brand of stupid luck, but he fell into the blissful unfeeling of the void.

Nate wondered if he would wake up this time.

Chapter Text

Nate wiggled his toes, feeling them press futilely against the stifling heat of the cotton inside the cast. It itched, but Nate couldn't jam a bent coat hanger or pencil down the boot without Sullivan snapping at him and reprimanding him like a petulant child. He even threatened to take his chocolate ice-cream away as a primary caregiver tax, if he continued to mope and moan.

Nate was 120 years old, in mind if not body, who was he, a man less than a third his age, to threaten to take his ice-cream and to accuse him of being immature!

It wasn't that he was ungrateful; he was just so bored.

Almost two weeks had passed since the botched museum job, the goods were delivered and he got his cut. Sully was able to finagle medical costs from their client as a bonus while Nate was hopped up on morphine at a local hospital. Overall, the fall could have been worse, it only broke his right leg and left ankle, and left his entire torso a mottled smear of purple and blue like an abstract work of art.

Either way, he got his money. Now he could get Sam out.

If only he could take more than three steps without his knees buckling.

Flynn had cut clean and took off within hours of receiving his thick white envelope from Tallis, without even a 'ta-ta for now' or 'don't die, mate' in goodbye. Just a text message beeping obnoxiously on his cellphone: Drinks on you. Well, considering Flynn, that's par for the course.

Then Sullivan swept in, signing Nate out of the hospital without so much as a 'by-your-leave,' (Nate might have actually given permission, but, well, morphine) and dragged him onto a rickety sea plane that had more than a few dents and dings from bullets. Apparently, Sullivan got it in his head that the kid needed a caregiver for the next couple months, or Nate was liable to hack off the cast himself and climb a mountain as a physical therapy exercise.

Honestly, Nate was surprised that Sully knew him so well just after a few days.

Two week had passed, and Nate was already going stir crazy. He was gratefully staying in Sullivan's Florida beach house, stuck indoors until he can hobble around on crutches without collapsing.

It was actually mortifying, the number of times Nate had broken out in cold sweats and shaky knees in the first few days off the hard stuff. He was forced to wait for Sully to find him slumped against the wall to help him back to the bed.

It was humiliating. It was ridiculous, even, for a man his age, but he needed help, even if his pride prevented him from admitting it.

One late evening, day thirteen since they first met, they both settled in the cheap deck chairs that creaked beneath their weight to watch the stars shimmer over the sea and talked about everything important and nothing in particular. Sully settled into the roll of story-teller easily with a glass of bourbon and lit cigar dangling precariously from his fingertips as he spoke lyrical about grand adventures in treasure hunting: the conquests, the failures, and everything in between.

Nate listened closely, nursing his soda with a mildly irritated air ("you're still on painkillers, kid, like hell I'm giving you beer") that quickly melted into childish wonder. For once, he was enamored by the stories that criss-crossed the globe in the search for fortune through historical hear-say and pure luck. It seemed impossible, ridiculous, something out of a B-rate adventure movie, until he remembered his own situation. 120 years, and Nate still had a lot to learn about the world.

"So why'd you take Tallis' gig anyway?" Nate asked once the story drifted off to be scattered in the gentle wind among the billion grains of sand, "doesn't seem like your kind of job."

"Well, retirement doesn't pay for itself." Sully remarked dryly, gesturing to the docked sea plane and the beach house itself, his lit cigar creating a thin smoke screen before his face.

Nate hummed, eyes sharpening at the half-truth that tasted a bit sour after the honesty of the tales, but didn't push. He wasn't entitled to someone else's truth.

"What about you?"

"Flynn called me," Nate began truthfully, slumping back in the cheap plastic as much as possible to ease the pressure on his injuries. Sully's face seemed to twist in distaste for a moment before he took a sip of whiskey as a distraction, although Nate didn't know why.

"Said he had an 'easy' job with high reward." Nate air quoted with a well-hidden strained smile, "And as they say, a thief's gotta eat."

"I'll drink to that." Sully agreed, raising his glass and clinking it against Nate's soda in a toast. A comfortable silence fell between them, both unwilling and not needing to start another conversation.

The stars had come out, dull and spattered in a non-sensical pattern across the midnight sky; Nate's eyes had glazed over slightly as he felt that insatiable urge to reach up and touch the lights. But as he shifted to do just that, a jolt of aching heat raced up his leg, piercing through the formidable painkillers, and Nate was back on Earth, crammed in an uncomfortable plastic chair with a tingling sensation that itched beneath the skin.

"Hey, Sully."

"Hm?"

"… let's go inside."

"Sure thing, kid."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go." Sam said with a cocky grin, peering up at the three story drop, gutter hanging loose and dripping from the edge of the roof.

The horrible sound of twisted metal, Nate screamed as Sam swerved again into on-coming traffic. Headlights blinded his world to white moments before impact, and the sensation of being gooey and cold and vulnerable was like a shock of icy water, it was all just too much.

Sam was motionless on the carpet, blood dripping from his temple, eyes slightly open and vacant, empty and glazed. Nate shook him, calling his name over and over, too shocked to realized that his brother was dead, again. He didn't notice the bottle raised behind his head, he didn't feel anything besides an insignificant sharp pain. Then he was back at the beginning, vulnerable, overwhelmed, screaming and crying, but beyond thankful that that wasn't the end of Nathan or Sam Morgan.

Sam was dead, 14 years now, succumbing to an addiction of alcohol and heroin. Nate should have realized, he should have stopped him, he should have watched out for his brother, but he didn't. After three years of silence, he got a cold emotionless call from the police department and a corpse delivered overnight. Now, Nate was bleeding out with a two huge slugs deep in his gut, sapping the life from him, and he idly listened to the terrified screams of his archeology crew as they scattered into the forest infested with mercenaries. All he could think about was how he failed his brother, and how he could make it up the next time.

But there was no next time, not for Sam. Through some cruel twist of fate, Sam was dead before Nate was reborn. It took a knife to his own throat, the moments of choking on his blood as his body continued to struggle to breathe, despite the mind surrendering to a new beginning, to realize that he was so very weak when alone.

The Nate was falling. Falling through the years, the moments, feeling his bones fracture and reform beneath the stress, wondering when he would hit the ground and if he would get back up. Laying in the mud, fire licking up his legs only to be numbed by the endless rain, with the stars above, warm beacons in the night that beckoned like sirens, Nate wondered if this was the moment. The moment when he shut his eyes for the last time, the moment when Nate didn't emerge small, vulnerable, cold and helpless.

In some ways, it would be a relief to finally rest.

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go." Nate repeated to himself.

With hot blood gushing out of the gut shot, hands becoming slick as they futilely pressed on the wound; with a deep cut across the throat that muffled all attempts at speech to pitiful choking noises; with matted hair and glass on the back of his head; with thick twisted metal crushing the breath out of his rib cage; with his legs broken and useless to support his weight, Nate stared at the stars above and hoped he didn't have to get back up.

"Well, you can't say life ain't interesting."

Beneath the real stars, Nate sat on the front porch steps. Hair mussed and matted, sleeping clothes damp with sweat, Nate rubbed at his eyes to wipe away the remains of the memories that plagued his nighttime hours.

It could have been minutes or hours later that Nate stared at those fragments of light, counting the meteorites as they burned in the atmosphere and tracing the trails of satellites that streaked across the sky. He was listless, empty, vacant, void of humanity and life as he lost himself to the mosaic, away from the savage shattered glass of his memories that threatened to slice him open again and again.

"Nate?"

The man, feeling each of his 120 years, didn't startle at the voice, and instead let his eyes slide shut.

"Here, looks like you need it." A glass with two fingers of whiskey appeared beside his hand; Nate took it without a usual smart comment, the burn down his throat was welcome in the numbness that had settled over him. Wearing sweats and shivering slightly in the cool breeze, Sully settled beside him with respectful silence.

"Bad dreams?"

"Just memories." Nate rasped back, his voice thick and dry from disuse.

"Ah, those are worse." Sully sympathized, lighting a cigar to fill the silence, the flicker of the match briefly illuminating the glazed look in Nate's eyes.

How odd it must be, for two men who've know each other for barely a month, to find such kinship together. Nate thought it strange; he hadn't much luck with meaningful friendships in this lifetime.

Little by little, sitting beside a friendly face and warm presence, the etherial stillness that trapped him the the fragile vestiges of his mind turned to gentle shaking and the awareness that his skin was cold and clammy. Nate came back to himself, little by little, smelling the tobacco in the air, watching the smoke spin gentle patterns before dissipating, and was glad someone sat beside him during one of his darkest hours.

"Hey, Sully."

"Hm?"

"Thanks for getting me outta there."

"You're welcome, kid. Just don't make it a habit."

"Kid, you're pretty good, but you got a lot to learn if you want to play in the big leagues." Sully remarked dryly, finishing up another amazing tale of treasure hunting. It had become common, these late-night conversations, and the easy stories that passed between them.

"I can still out run you, old man."

"Not on that leg, you can't." Sully smirked around the cigar, tapping the once white cast with his foot, now covered in Nate's little doodles. "I mean it, Nate. If you want, I can teach you. I can see great things in our future."

"Sounds tempting," Nate said after a pause, and although his heart yearned for the adventure, he couldn't. "But not right now. I gotta get Sam first."

"Sam?"

"My older brother."

"Kid? Nate, what's wrong?" Sully's well-veiled alarm seemed muffled in Nate's ears despite being right next to him. He was underwater, he was drowning, just a little.

Sully didn't speak Portuguese; he didn't understand what the prison warden just said, flippantly, like it was a unimportant side note.

"What."

"This guy?" The Warden said slowly with a roll of his eyes, as if Nate was a typical stupid american, tapping the blurry mug shot in the file. A picture of Samuel Morgan, cracked lip and dark bruise blooming on his cheek, exhausted but with that defiant glint still strong in his eyes. "Dead. Hung himself a month ago."

Nate licked his cracked lips, holding himself together with sheer force of will for a few more minutes, "where is he?"

The warden shrugged in irritation and said, "All the dead are dumped in the mass grave out back."

"His stuff?" His was voice void of emotion, but his mind was in turmoil. Dead, Sam was dead again, at 29 years old and 109 years of age.

"How should I know? The prisoners picked the body clean before we got there." The warden turned away, obviously done with the impromptu interrogation.

Nate had no reason to stay any longer. He turned on his heels and walked out, oblivious to Sully calling his name his shoulder was forcibly grabbed. Nate slapped his hand away, eyes wide and dilated, "don't touch me!"

"Kid…" Sully trailed off in surprise, even in their short time together, he'd never known Nate to snap like that.

Nate took off, scaling buildings and vaulting across rooftops, muscles burning in minutes from months of disuse. Hours passed as he jumped across impossibly wide gaps between buildings, and rolled to break ten foot long drops. His breath came in short gasps, his eyes watered, and everything burned.

Hung himself.

Suicide. Guess it runs in the fucking family.

A month ago.

The night he lost himself for a few hours in the enticing glow of the stars. The night that sleep tormented his mind with polluted memories. The night he vividly remembered all their deaths, together and apart.

A month ago, Nate had been relaxing with Sully, sharing stories and biding time until his leg healed. Living it up in a beach house, with the key to Sam's release in a white envelope untouched in his duffle, but unwilling to limp his way to Brazil.

Nate ran harder, ignoring the aching pain that jolted up his leg with every step, the gravel and splinters that had embedded in his palms, the multiple scrapes and cuts from rolling across rooftops. It was all a welcome distraction, a lite punishment, for what he'd done. Self-blame and guilt raced like acid through his veins, searing a message of failure and disappointment next to the heavy sins carried from other lifetimes.

Sam was dead. 29 years old, a good run considering their track record in 5 lifetimes.

Nate stumbled and fell to his knees, chest heaving, little aches and pains vying for his attention, an faint outline of a bloody handprint remained on the concrete as he sat heavily on the edge of the roof. With his feet dangling in open air above a fifty foot drop, he surveyed the city, beautiful at another time, but simply sinister and devoid of meaning now. Nate had collapsed on the roof of a Catholic Church, and the effigy of Jesus suffering on the crucifix silently accused Nate of wrongdoing. The emptiness was banished in a moment, anger at God, at people, at their curse filled the void.

He doesn't remember the next few minutes.

"Nate."

When he became aware once more, his hands and arms were scratched, blood beading slowly to the surface, and the crucifix lay shattered on the ground. Heresy seared itself into the list of sins that shackled his soul. Sully stood on the other end of the rooftop, an inscrutable expression straining his eyes. Nate hung his head, shame and guilt piercing through his usually complex emotions. He walked to the edge of the roof, toes hanging over open air, as he peered over the city once more and tried to find the words.

"He's dead." Nate said hoarsely, because Sully should know, even if Nate felt the words would

"I know, kid." Sully said and stood beside Nate, silent and watchful with his sharp eyes on Nate, even as he lit a cigar as a nervous gesture. He didn't question Nate; he didn't demand an explanation; he didn't complain about chasing the kid across town for the better part of an hour, Sully just stood by his side and waited until Nate had the inclination to move.

You'd think it would get easier.

All the deaths he's witnessed and experienced, but the grief and shock is always the same to Nate. Peering down listlessly at the blood smeared on his hands, Nate wondered how many he'd killed through his choices.

"Sure this is what you want?"

"Yeah, as sure as I'm gonna be. Call me if you need any research done, or if you're in the area, we can get some drinks."

"Sure thing, kid. I know this might be a bad time, but my offer will still be there when you're ready."

"Maybe next time, Sully."

Nate stopped stealing, but he didn't stop moving. He settled into a routine: get a job, find an apartment, settle down for a year or two, then pack a single bag and disappear on a random train or boat or bus one day. It was a hard life, one that swung between poor but alive and poor but happy, but it kept the incessant urge to move at bay.

Sully would call periodically to catch up, the routine was kind of nice, and they'd meet for drinks whenever Sully's antiquities trade sent him only a few countries away. Occasionally, he'd call with an offer for research and access to rare historical texts and artifacts that he couldn't make heads to tails of. Nate loved those little jobs, the offered money didn't hurt either, but he stayed well away from any direct action. Nate wandered, immersed himself in rich cultures and one of a kind experiences.

Whatever whim Nate had, whatever inclination or offer he received, he always took the chance. He kept moving, and he kept living.

Perhaps he was searching for something, but he never found it.

Accidentally caught between tribal warfare in Niger when assisting a humanitarian mission group, Nate was shot down at the age of 47 with so many others as the small village burned to ash around him.

As always, between one strangled breath and the next, Nate emerged vulnerable, cold, and sound in the knowledge that he'd received another chance at life.

And so began the sixth lifetime of Nathan Morgan.