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.