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For the past two weeks, Chloe has been keeping busy, moving Nate's notes from his apartment to her own, going through the things he'd left behind and deciding what to do with it all. It's a little bit like someone has died, she realizes as she folds the last of his shirts and packs them away to give to charity, going through the same motions she'd gone through when she and her mother had finally accepted her father was dead.
That's the thought that does it. Nathan Drake isn't dead, but that moment still happens, where she drops one last shirt into a box and realizes she's done this all before.
And fuck that.
There's nothing important left behind, all his notebooks are already at her place, so she hastily labels the box for charity, then gets the hell out of that apartment where they'd spent so many nights together over the past few months. There is no way in hell she's acting as if Nate is dead, not when this is hardly the first time one of them has walked away from the other. That's what they were known for. They would get together, do a job, fall into bed, then one of them would turn their back on the other. She's not mourning something that's happened a dozen times before.
That night she puts in a little extra time, dabbing on some lipstick, choosing a pair of boots that don't look like she's spent the last three hours hiking through mud, as well as her favourite jeans and a red tank top. To hell with a pity party, she's simply not going to do it. Tonight she's going to find herself a bar and she's going to get herself a drink and she's going to have fun.
She bypasses the loud clubs and pulls her car into the lot of a slightly tamer place, only because that's what she needs tonight. There will be time for a party, but not now. Right now she wants a bar where she can talk to a stranger if they interest her. A place where she doesn't have to shout to be a heard.
A place, apparently, where she can find Sam Winchester. As she pushes open the door, he's the first thing she spots, taller than anyone else nearby, and she heads in that direction with a faint smile. Maybe he'll let her take him for a drive.
That's the thought that does it. Nathan Drake isn't dead, but that moment still happens, where she drops one last shirt into a box and realizes she's done this all before.
And fuck that.
There's nothing important left behind, all his notebooks are already at her place, so she hastily labels the box for charity, then gets the hell out of that apartment where they'd spent so many nights together over the past few months. There is no way in hell she's acting as if Nate is dead, not when this is hardly the first time one of them has walked away from the other. That's what they were known for. They would get together, do a job, fall into bed, then one of them would turn their back on the other. She's not mourning something that's happened a dozen times before.
That night she puts in a little extra time, dabbing on some lipstick, choosing a pair of boots that don't look like she's spent the last three hours hiking through mud, as well as her favourite jeans and a red tank top. To hell with a pity party, she's simply not going to do it. Tonight she's going to find herself a bar and she's going to get herself a drink and she's going to have fun.
She bypasses the loud clubs and pulls her car into the lot of a slightly tamer place, only because that's what she needs tonight. There will be time for a party, but not now. Right now she wants a bar where she can talk to a stranger if they interest her. A place where she doesn't have to shout to be a heard.
A place, apparently, where she can find Sam Winchester. As she pushes open the door, he's the first thing she spots, taller than anyone else nearby, and she heads in that direction with a faint smile. Maybe he'll let her take him for a drive.
