Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You meet him at a function in which you were performing. Your occupation: a cellist, currently on one of your specified breaks for the evening. You head to the bar, ignoring the nagging voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your mother reminding you to eat something. Olives are food, you argue back, teeth peeling some off the toothpick from your vodka martini.

You feel eyes on you, and not in the way you've felt all night. For someone with a bad case of stage fright and generalized anxiety, you certainly signed up for the wrong job (until you begin to play and you think this is exactly where you are supposed to be.)

You've already downed your martini, and motion causes your eyes to dart to the left. There's a man walking your way. Your eyes dart back to the counter, staring past your empty glass to a smudge on the otherwise spotless black counter because surely he is not headed towards you.

He is next to you now, and you hope your face is as passive and cool as you think it is. You try to comfort yourself, thinking if you were at all indicative of how you felt, this man would have left out of fear.

"Another?" He asks you, but he was never really asking, because he's already got the bartender getting it.

You are not drunk. You've only had one, and you're working, god dammit, you're a professional. You could be high, though, off of adrenaline and your nerves because before you think, you say, "trying to get me drunk? you could learn my name, first." You've surprised yourself. You are not normally so forward but hey, you don't get out much.

You bite your cheek to keep a habitual nervous smile off your face as you turn to really look at him. Your nerves skyrocket. If you had a heart monitor you think it'd be at 140 bpm. 

You wonder exactly what you did to get someone who looks like this to talk to someone like you. Your eyes meet. The hair on the back of your neck rises, and you're certain you've flat lined. Is he trouble? Or are you just being you?

His eyes scan your face and you scan his, trying to gauge exactly how he was going to react to that. He isn't offended, is he... surprised? You can't read him. He has a practiced smile on his face. It's a far cry from a full-blown grin, but instead a small upturn of his mouth that tells you at the very least you've amused him.

"I've just never seen someone down a drink so fast," he quips.

"Ha. You should see me when I'm not working," you say and regret the words as soon as you say them. You turn and take a deliberate slow sip of the drink in front of you, to prove you are most certainly not an alcoholic.

"Maybe I should," he says, and you're glad you're not facing him because you think your face is on fire. You know your heart is.

 -

Raphael Adler does not do things lightly. You learn this fast. You go home after your first date, exhilarated. He is not wont to sit around much like you had been accustomed to, and you welcome this with open arms. You nearly sink after closing the door like a scene from a romance movie but instead opt for rolling around on the couch, thumbs frantic on your phone, recanting the night to your friends who question his existence until someone sends a link in your group chat.

"lmaoo wtf this guy?? how even did you MEET"

"get it"

"marry him. murder him. marry me"

He is rich, though you gathered this much. What you did not gather is that he is very rich. It's an inheritance, a business passed down, though you didn't recognize his last name or his father's. You did not notice the quirk of the eyebrow, the look of insight as he realizes you don't know who he is. (In retrospect, this must have made you more appealing to him.) You read the whole thing and pretend you didn't. You want to hear from him, converse with him, and also not have to deal with the I read about you online chat.

You also pretend you are not afraid that knowing who he is will make you lose your novelty.

-

Treasure hunting. You almost laughed when he told you. It's fantastical, a job with no guaranteed payoff, it's what you imagine is one wild goose chase after another, and the last thing you expected Rafe to be into.  He still manages his parents business, but that does not light his eyes the way Avery's treasure does. (You do not tell him what you think, which is that it is most definitely not real.)

But he is so certain, so full of conviction, he's almost convinced you. Finding four hundred million is far from the worst thing to be wrong about, though he is the last person who's wanting for money, which is what you think this is about at first.

You are preparing to play when epiphany strikes. It's the greatness that follows, the glory of discovery.

You realize he needs this and you'll be damned if you let yourself or anyone else get in his way.

You quiet the buzzing of your brain with your cello, drowning out the thoughts that you have never seen anyone who posed a problem more than once, have you?

-

He meets your mother. You watch her like a hawk, much like she watches him; a triangle of people trying to read books in a language they don't understand. If there's anything the two of them have in common, it's their poker face. Your mother, ever in her passive aggressive way, prods him for information, trying to get him to slip; any reason to not think this man is deserving of her child's love and devotion. You don't think he does but unlike you she's never missed a detail in her life.

"I like him," she tells you, when he excuses himself. You would be relieved, surprised even, if not for the 'but...' that hangs in the air. You ask for her real thoughts with a practiced calm as ever as you sip from your glass, but you're desperate, don't confirm your suspicion--

"Just... be careful," is all she says to you, reaching to brush her hand across your cheek. It's frustratingly cryptic, and unsettling, and you think back to all the times something in the back of your brain told you something wasn't right.

You wish she had instead said that she never hated anyone more.

-

There isn't really a discussion about you moving in, you just kind of do, though you continue to pay rent on your old place. You aren't spending much money on anything else, lately, and the idea of having no solid place to fall back on terrifies you.
You don't confront the idea of why you might need somewhere to go (be careful) because you are happy. You don't feel you're in any danger, physically or mentally. It is a weird uncertainty, a question of morality that looms in the back of your mind. Can you let yourself sit idly by, to be with, to share a bed with a thief? A criminal? A murderer?

He goes straight into the bathroom when he comes home from the business he does not deign to tell you, because you do not ask. You rise, cautious, nauseous, alert. "Rafe," you call down the hall. No response. You reach the door and knock softly.

"In a minute." His voice tells you everything you need to know and nothing at all. Reluctantly you walk back towards the couch, but don't pick up the book you had been reading. You stare down the hall, waiting for the door to open.

When it does, neither of you say anything as he sits next to you. You make the first move, turning towards him and scooting forward on your knees. If either of you spoke, you think everything would shatter. He cups your face and pulls you forward into a kiss. Uou close your eyes and the smell, beneath the soap and his cologne, is metallic, sulfuric. It reminds you of fireworks.

You pretend this doesn't mean what you think (you know) it means.

You don't know when you two moved, when you got pushed up against the wall; you've lost yourself in wet spots on your neck, cold from the air, and the feeling of teeth dragging down the curve of your throat.

"I'll be the legend," he all but growls, near inaudible, not meant for you, and even if he is with you right here, you think he is also somewhere else entirely.

-

Tonight has been overly lavish. He has never been unkind to you, and every night you spend is far more privileged than anyone in the entire country, but there is something different. You childishly wonder... no.

He isn't that kind of man.

"I've purchased land," he says, and you almost laugh at the abruptness of his statement. "in Scotland. Saint Dismas Cathedral." 

Your brain goes to I'm sorry? and what? but all you say is "oh" because you know what this means. You're biting the very inside of your lip and digging fingernails into your palms because did no one tell him you do not do it up when you're going to leave someone? How foolish were you to think...

"(y/n)." You didn't realize he'd been talking.

"I'm... sorry. what?"

WWith anyone else he may have been impatient, irritated that he was speaking and they weren't listening, and now he has to repeat himself. But it isn't anyone else, it's you. He leans forward with the same not-quite-a-smile look he always has. "I was thinking you were coming with me. Was I wrong?"

You hope you haven't spent too long open-mouthed and staring. "When do we leave?"

His not-quite-smile widens. You think maybe it reaches his eyes this time. He closes his eyes to press his lips to your forehead, and you grip the front of his jacket a little too tight, telling yourself this is adventurous, and different, and all the things you never experienced before. You knew this going in, and you welcomed it.

Is this not what you wanted?

Chapter Text

He says he's going to Panama, and he'll be back soon. You do not ask what for and he doesn't tell you. When he returns, it's with a man you've never seen before. He's nice, and he's funny, and smokes more cigarettes in an hour than you can count. You almost once asked how they met, but the tension between him and Rafe is smothering and you don't think you'll like the answer.

"You two married?" the man asks, but you know he sees no ring on your finger.

"You think he's the marrying type?" you reply. You're trying to be deadpan but you can't resist smiling because the idea is too funny to you. It has to be.

He leans in close to you, and (your heart skips) the skill you've acquired to not let anyone know how they've made you feel shows itself. "Are you?"

You squint your eyes a little as the smile you wear widens a bit defensively. He pulls away as Rafe calls him away, looking between the two of you.

That night you aren't sure if he really is kissing you harder or if you want to imagine that.

-

"Fucking Drake," you hear Rafe spit, from down the stairs of this section in the cathedral.

"You can't say I didn't warn you," a familiar accent says. Nadine. You haven't spoken much, but you like her. You respect her, and you are definitely scared shitless of her. However, the over the top demolishing of this place is... distasteful to you.

You've spent your last hour up in this untouched tower, taking in what you can before it's ruined by dynamite. There was an hourglass left in the cathedral that you pocketed in a halfhearted attempt to save some part of history. You don't think it's very accurate because the glass is cracked and some sand has leaked out.

"Save it," his voice is louder now as they ascend, "just find him. No, better yet, follow him. He isn't going to stop looking. He knows something or else he wouldn't have left." They reach the top and you act like you've been busy and not listening at all, honestly. "You know what to do," he says to her dismissively as they see you. Nadine leaves and Rafe comes to stand in front of you.

You think he can tell that you heard, and there's so many secrets you keep, you let this one slide. You abandon all effort to hide, your hand raising up to trace the side of his face, his cheek, his jawline. "You'll get it," you tell him as he leans into your touch. He kisses your palm as he pulls away, slow to remove his hand from yours before he turns and leaves the room.

You flip the hourglass before you follow.

-

You accompany him to Italy. This is it, he told you, getting this cross. This is it.

There are a lot of people. There are also a lot of men with guns surrounding the estate. You hope no one noticed how fast you went to the bar. You consider staying in this stool the entire night, because your Italian is limited and you're used to playing for these people, not being among them. You give polite fake smiles to people who do not return them and your ears are burning. You stand to scan the room, looking for a white guy in a white jacket which isn't very easy to find in this room, kicking yourself for losing him. You close your eyes and step back because that is just so many people.

Someone almost stumbles into you. You open your eyes and turn to apologize, eyes first seeing the uniform of a waiter. Your breath catches as you see a familiar face. You recognize him and he recognizes you. You look away first, feigning offense.

"You should really be more careful," you say with the air of someone who attends this sort of event regularly.

You don't mean the spilled champagne and think that he knows.

Eventually, you see Rafe, and quickly join his side. You consider saying something about what just happened, and you have the chance to, but his eyes shift to someone behind you. You look over your shoulder and see Nadine talking to an older man. He doesn't have to say anything, you know this means something and he might be seething. You hear 'Drake' and guilt sits in your stomach.

"Last I heard he settled down, got married," the man says.

"Well, then he might as well be dead, right?" Rafe says, practiced grin on his face. You smile as you keep several steps behind him, taking a moment to collect the hypothetical knife from your chest. They converse as cordially as two people who must have ended on a bad note can. You zone out, thinking of getting out of these clothes and into your pajamas and in your bed. You don't notice the change in tension, the shift in the air, until you're brought out of your reverie with the smash of a glass. Rafe is threatening the man outright now, finger in his chest, and Nadine beats you to the punch you weren't sure you had the faculty to throw.

The room is staring, silent except for the music. You feel hot. Your skin is tingling. Rafe laughs it off, brushing the shoulders of the man, like it was a joke. Is the room moving? He talks lower, makes what you're sure is another threat. Everyone's lost their attention. You slip away wordlessly.

You make your way out to the nearest balcony, gasping as soon as the fresh air hits you, relieved at the absence of people. You loosen your tight grip around the stem of your glass, steadying yourself against the railing.

Your mind is so busy and utterly blank as you try to ground yourself, breathe in for seven seconds and out for eleven. You try to focus only on the ocean and the breeze that's like ice water against your skin.

You're still as a statue when you're calm again, calm as you can be. You turn to go back inside, and as soon as you open the door the lights go out. You freeze, as if you did this. When the backup power comes on, the cross is gone.

You drown the guilt of your silence in the flight home at the wet bar. You make up for the crime he doesn't know you committed when he enters the bedroom of the jet.

-

The quest leads to Madagascar. You go with him not for the experience, which is what you'd tell anyone who asked, but because you think if you were left alone in Scotland or America, you might leave. You know you should leave. Why don't you leave?

Why don't you want to leave?

(He's nice to you. When this is over, things will be different. You have changed yourself to fit the mold only because you think in the end you can change him. You realize that's not fair. You realize you haven't tried once.)

There's an episode on an education channel about pirates.

You turn the TV off and finish your drink in the dark.

-

The last time you see Rafe Adler is in your hotel room. Where he's going, it's not safe, too uncertain, better if you stay here.

"Much as I'd like you to see this through with me," he says before leaving, hand on your face. You watch the 4x4 drive off, staring at the path long after it's gone.

Days pass without contact and you doubt there's service where he's gone, but there's still a pit at the bottom of your stomach and a constant tightness of your throat.

Those days turn into weeks and you are still alone in Madagascar.

You make two phone calls. One goes to a familiar voicemail, immediately. The other answers.

"I'm sorry," Nadine says, "don't call again." She doesn't need to say much else, and doesn't.  You can tell she is sorry- either for one thing or a thousand things-- sorry he's gone sorry you fell in with this sorry you fell for him

You sit with the phone silent to your ear, call long since over. You suspected this. You knew. It doesn't stop you from throwing your phone against the wall and screaming into your hands until you're hoarse.

You're questioned by authorities once in Madagascar (twice more in Scotland and America), even though you filed the report. There is no evidence linked to you, or anyone, because he's somewhere on an island no one will ever find. You do not mention the Drakes and you do not mention Nadine Ross. The "case" is dropped because there are no leads and there are more pressing matters because who's to say he didn't just leave?

You pack your things from where you stayed in Scotland and only your things. You even leave most of what he bought you. You don't know who will take care of the rest and you don't care.

When you arrive home (his home, another piece someone else can pick up once you're done here), there is an envelope for you. There is no return address, and there is no letter inside. No, instead, you find several strange coins.

You think you smell smoke.