I don't like author's notes before the story. Everything will always be at the end starting in 3, 2

You've been through two weeks of hospitals and excessive resting. You assume you'd be climbing up the walls if you weren't so tired that you feel you deserve a breather after all you've been through. Or a bunch of breathers. You aren't sure how long the standard breather lasts. Either way, you've been exhausted for two weeks, you've been exhausted for longer than two weeks. You've been exhausted since you set foot on- no, since you were tossed unceremoniously onto that damn island.

You've been watching an unauthorized, unofficial, and rather inaccurate documentary series on Netflix. Reading would be preferable, but the last time you tried that you spent twenty minutes reading the same page because you had to keep rewinding two sentences to remind yourself the context of your current sentence. The effort was so frustrating, and embarrassing, if you're being honest, that you've not cared to try again. Nothing substantial, anyway. You've been keeping up on the stories about you in all those trashy magazines that Sam brings home. So rather wonky (and consequently rather entertaining) documentaries have been your main source of entertainment. There isn't much else to do when people keep telling you that the best thing that you can do for recovery is literally nothing. Especially when you have one Samantha Nishimura watching over you as you do nothing, ready to leap into action to prevent you from potentially doing a something.

It's only when you hear the doorbell ring, followed by the door being opened loudly, and a loud announcement of arrival from Sam after loud footsteps enter the door (the day after you were released from the hospital you had a small freak out when she joined you in the living room after you hadn't noticed her enter the house. She's been making a big deal of letting you know where she is since then.) that you realize you've been staring at the "are you still watching" screen for what has probably been a long time. You quickly stab at the remote to get episode thirty-something playing as your right hand absentmindedly twitches at your abdomen. Your fingers feel kind of sticky, which is strange because you haven't been snacking on anything. As Sam enters the room your return greeting is cut off when she quietly gasps. You follow her line of sight down to your own stomach. Oh.

She quickly rounds the sofa and drops down beside you. "Oh, sweetie," she says softly as she pushes your sticky red fingers aside. "You're bleeding." Which is exactly what you are doing, although you don't remember it ever starting. "I-" Your words die on your lips because you can't explain what you don't know. "Yeah. I'm… I guess I am." You let the stitch that you suddenly feel between your fingers drop onto the stain you've made on the sofa, before Sam notices it mixed in with the blood covering your hand. She starts lecturing you on how you need to be more careful because popping your stitches might make you worse, especially if you ignore it when it happens. And you just nod at her as you hold your bloodied hand out in front of you, wondering when exactly you started ripping them out. You quickly drop the hand when you realize that you should probably pay more attention to her. "Why didn't you call me? You know I would've come home right away to take you to get patched back up." You do know she would've, and you don't have an answer. But she's staring at you with nothing but love and concern, so you settle with a quiet, short apology as she fusses about to find some bandages to control the bleeding during the car trip back to the hospital. While you wait for her, you stay sitting in the slowly spreading stain of your own blood. You don't really care about your clothes, but you idly think about how you're going to have to buy a new sofa. Sam returns with some supplies and you, almost vacantly, watch as she wraps your wound with the same caution one would use when handling a newborn kitten.

Eventually she lets you up, and after you follow her to the car you try to grasp at some words again. "I didn't," you start to explain. After a long pause you decide to just let whatever it was that you were going to say drop and instead apologize once more. Sam looks at you with an expression on her face that you've seen a lot of lately, although you can't decipher what it means. You know you fucked up, but that look just makes you feel worse for some reason and you still can't think of anything to say before she turns her eyes to the road and puts the car into first. You say sorry one more time, belatedly, and the apology awkwardly tumbles out of your mouth along with "I love you," and "thank you," and everything sounds so jumbled to you that you wish you could scoop the words up and shove them back into your mouth. She understands it all clearly though, and forgives you without a thought. When you hit a stop light she turns back to you with that same expression on her face and breaks the silence with a simple response. "I love you too, Lara." Her expression changes and now she's smiling at you, albeit a somewhat sad smile. Your stomach drops along with your gaze and your fingers twitch at your abdomen again.

When you return with a brand new set of stitches you find yourself feeling even more exhausted, which you didn't know was possible. While you unpack the takeout that was picked up on the drive home you hear rustling coming from the living room. As you walk into the room a few minutes later, two full plates in hand, you notice the garish paisley blanket that's been draped over where you had been sitting. Very subtle. Handing a plate to Sam, you sit down beside her, placing yourself back at the what you feel to be the scene of a crime. She starts to playfully argue with you about whether you get to resume episode thirty-something of your documentary, or if she gets the remote for a change. You argue back, and poke fun at her choice of television, partially for the feeling of normality you get from it.

As you get ready for bed, Sam insists on wrapping a bandage over your wound. As if it will somehow prevent your stitches from accidentally tearing again. You know they won't, unless you've suddenly become proficient at tearing at them in your sleep. Not that you were exactly conscious of what you were doing earlier in the day, but you think that sleep-stitch ripping is probably a bit of a stretch. Either way, you let her do it because you know that it'll make her feel better, let her sleep better knowing you're safe.

You, on the other hand, do not sleep better. You have dreams every night, but they vary from somewhat pleasant to rather upsetting. They don't really vary in content much but the context is what matters. They are in nearly every dream and they are always dead and they always either forgive you or try to get you to join them. The former is bad because it's your goddamn fault that they're gone and why in the world should that be forgiven? The latter is worse because you miss them so goddamn much that you'd give anything to spend just another day with them and the implication of that entire mess of a dream is something you try not to think about too much. At the same time the first is good because you are forgiven and Christ, does it feel good to have that weight lifted from your chest, even if it settles right back down where it had been when you wake up. And the second is good because you could join them and sometimes you actually do, which is when it loops back around to why it's much more of a bad dream than a good one. But at the time, when you're dreaming it? It feels pretty good. Which out of the four dreams you dream seems to depend on your how headspace has been throughout the day.

Tonight though, tonight it's an off night where your dreams are downright nightmares and are instead filled with screaming Solarii, ghostly images of Himiko, and Mathias' grinning face. Whenever any of those drop by for the night, you never end up getting much sleep. So when you snap awake in a cold sweat for the second time in three hours, you decide to give up for the night. As you rise from the bed, you give Sam a quick peck on the forehead (which causes her to flinch in an adorable manner that almost makes up for the sleep you'll be missing), then head out to fill a glass with water. You snag a couple of the prescription painkillers that Sam insisted you fill, because your new stitches actually do slightly hurt and you just can't be bothered with that right now. You walk softly into the living room and sit down on the opposite side of the couch, ready to resume episode thirty-something.

When you open your eyes again you feel your shoulder rocking back and forth. As you blink the sleep away you realize that the rocking is Sam lightly shaking you awake. You'd think that somebody who wants you to get as much recovery sleep as possible wouldn't be spending their time waking you up, but then she asks why you've been sleeping sitting up on the sofa and you realize that she might be a little concerned about you. You don't actually remember falling asleep, but you had felt a little cloudy after the painkillers and the episode after episode thirty-something is a blur. A quick glance at the TV and you see that episode thirty-something is now episode forty-something, and the screen is paused and is once again asking if you're still watching. Your attention snaps back to Sam, and, despite the fuss you know she'll make of the issue, you start to explain how your nightmares kept waking you up. You get to the part about how the painkillers must have helped you drift off for good when you suddenly realize something and the thought drops from your brain to your mouth and you're saying it out loud before you even realize that maybe you don't actually want to mention it. "I didn't have any more dreams after I fell asleep out here on the sofa." You wince at the connection you think you've made but it floats over Sam's head because she's just relieved that you ended up getting some sleep. Although she does take the time to point out that it would be better if you actually stayed in bed. Another "I know I fucked up I'm sorry" apology starts to form on your tongue but you don't get the chance to say it, as Sam keeps going off at you. "And I know you know that staring at a bright screen isn't going to help you fall asleep in any way, shape or form," Yeah, you've lectured her on using her iPad in bed too many times to have the right to refute that, even if you weren't really trying to fall asleep. Her tone is less harsh as she finishes. "Besides, you should know by now that I will never get upset at you if you wake me up in the middle of the night to talk about anything."

What good is talking going to do? The only thing that would accomplish would be ruining Sam's sleep as well as your own. She doesn't need that, and you know damn well that she's been having nightmares too. You've woken up some nights only to hear her muttering to somebody who exists only in a dream. Sometimes you even wake up to her ever so lightly thrashing in her sleep. She hasn't woken you up to talk about it, and while bringing that fact up might actually lead to a healthy conversation, you're just so tired. Even though you just woke up. What a bloody mess you are. You rub at your temples, which Sam seems to take as another sign of poor sleep and you can feel another diatribe is coming up so before she starts, you stand up and start towards the kitchen. She swiftly steps in front of you.

"Woah, woah, woah. Where exactly do you think you're headed to?" Oh God, not this again. "You didn't sleep right, I think I can handle breakfast today." What she really means is "I'll bring you some blackened lumps of what used to be bread in a few minutes." You can cook yourself breakfast, for Christ's sake. You know she just wants to take care of you but sometimes she makes you feel like you're the damn Bubble Boy.

"Sam, please, just let me fry up some bacon. Maybe some eggs too, you know, just to mix things up for a change?" You'd also enjoy some toast that's a little closer to "rare" than it is to "so past well done that you could mistake what's on your plate for volcanic ash", but you keep that bit to yourself. "Nutrition, Sam. You know a big recovering girl like me needs her nutrition, right? Especially after a shit sleep." She sighs and crosses her arms and she's given in a lot easier than you thought she would.

"Fine," she huffs, and she probably does have some inkling that you're trying not to insult her cooking skills (or lack thereof), "but I'm going to come sit on the counter and be completely in your way after I go take a quick pee." Her tone switches to dead seriousness. "I'll have you know, I was so worried when I woke up and you were gone that I came to find you the moment I noticed you weren't beside me. I wasn't even completely awake, right? And I tripped over your bunny slippers. Serious injuries could have followed." Then she quirks her head sideways, and smirks at you. You know she was just poking fun to lighten the situation after her lectures, but lately she's dropped the poker face while joking and instead seems to make sure you clearly know when she isn't being serious.

You smile back at her, and roll your eyes. "God forbid your bladder suffers even a second for my sake," you quip back, following up with a dismissive wave towards the bathroom. And despite any evidence otherwise, you still maintain that those are not your slippers, you were not the one that purchased them and well, okay, so what if they are kind of comfy? For the sake of keeping up the joke (and only for that reason), you quickly retrieve the offending bunnies and slip them onto your feet. You return to the kitchen, and soon you're placing some bacon into a sizzling pan. As you reach for some eggs to fry up, you spot the bottle of painkillers on the counter, tucked between a bowl of fruit and the fridge. The lack of dreams… that was just a coincidence, right? Staring dumbly at the bottle of meds that you didn't even want in the first place, you keep your back to your quickly crisping bacon. A second later, Sam energetically pops into the kitchen and you tear your eyes from the pills and return to the bacon, realizing that you need to get it out of the pan ASAP or Sam is going to have some new cooking ammo against you. As you scramble to find the flipper, she, as promised, hops up onto the counter and leans over, obscuring roughly 80% of your vision. "I hate to be the one to bring this up," she says, tapping her fingers on the counter, "but this cow is looking crispy as hell, Lara." Trust her to bring that up. You're pretty sure that you might find her over the fence of some farm one day, fork in hand and ready to chew on whichever poor animal makes the first moo. For being the over-cooker of the century, you'd think she'd at least be a fan of well done meat.

Despite the face following in front of your own, you do get the bacon out of the pan before it's in a state that Sam would deem inedible (unless she was the cook, of course). She harumphs as she leans over the plate, and pushes on one of the pieces until it snaps. You turn to give her a look, but she's already giving you one, a single eyebrow quirked up as if some slightly crisp bacon is proof that you're not fit to be cooking. You settle for a scoff instead, and lightly whack her hand with the flipper. The reward for that is a gasp of "how dare you?" as she hops off the counter to wash the grease from her hand. Returning your attention to the pan, you smile to yourself at the normality of the morning, especially after the slightly rocky start. You can't get upset with her though, because you know that part of her worry is that you'll just be gone one day. She won't admit it, but you know that she feels better, safer, when you're around, hence the counter hopping and lack of personal space bubble. And if you're honest, things go better with you when she's around. If she hadn't needed to leave the house yesterday, you probably would still have the same stitches you had less than twenty four hours ago. So yeah, you can live with the lectures (maybe you actually do deserve some of them), you can live with a Sam-shaped blindspot when she's feeling especially clingy, and you can live with the over-protectiveness. You can also admit that you share a lot of the same concerns, you just don't show it the way she does. You wish you could show it better, but you have a hard time showing much of anything lately, except when things somehow end up normal for a bit like they are right now. Sam comes back, hands sparkling clean, just as you're about to slide the eggs out of the pan and onto some plates. She follows you to the small table in the designated non-sofa dining area, and after you exaggerate the presentation of what is probably the simplest meal ever, you take a swift bow. Sam chuckles and plays along with a tame golf clap, but you don't miss the way her eyes dart to your abdomen as your bow stretches it quicker than you assume she thinks it should. You falter for a moment as you sit down, contemplating confessing the case of the torn stitches. But by the time you've picked up your utensils you dismiss telling the disaster inducing story and you find yourself looking back up at her, a smile back on your face. She makes a big deal of searching for the least cooked pieces of bacon, and you roll your eyes at her. In a sad attempt to de-crisp some of the bacon, she soaks the strips in the yolk from her eggs. Sighing, you shake your head and chuckle at her antics. But despite the short return to normality and despite the laughter since lecture time ended, you feel that all this is is avoidance. It's obvious to you now that there are a lot of conversations that you should be having. You aren't though, and with that realization, you can't help but worry about exactly how badly fucked up the both of you might be.

i still feel the cadence of a former life

Hi! So you've perhaps worked out that this is not the place to be if you want action adventure exploration Lara. It's all good, just figured I'd point it out so you can jump ship if you'd prefer to read about tombs being raided. Go ahead and take that as a double entendre, there's not gonna be any frickfracking either, sorry.

Anyway, there might be things in these first few chapters that contradict themselves. I know. Bear with me.

The end of each chapter will probably have a line or two of lyrics from a song that I feel fits the chapter. I like music. It's nice.

I'll also point out that the only canon that's gonna be acknowledged here is the game. I haven't read 10,000 Immortals yet, from what I've heard about it I probably don't want to? I have been reading the comics, but I don't want to deal with their continuity, although I don't think I'm going to catch up to where I presume they start, timeline-wise. However, if my writing keeps actually following what I've planned, then the end of this will, in a way, tie into the ROTTR trailer.

I'd love to promise steady updates. I have a decent chunk written (for my track record, anyway), but if my mood changes, my writing speed does too. So I apologize in advance for any excessive breaks.

Anything else? I don't think so.

Please enjoy reading as I enjoy making my faves suffer.

Next time: The Alley