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durrtydawg · 4 days ago

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The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 7 | 'You up for a little spelunkin'?'

masterlist ✨

A nice chunky chapter for you, set slap-bang in the middle of Umm ar-Rasas.

CW: blood mention, bad language, mysterious goings on etc, etc.

Word count: 5k-ish. I promise they won't continue to be this long x

“You know,” Sam says, turning back to the jeep as he watches her lean against the hood, scrawling something into her notebook, “if this place doesn’t pan out, at least we’ve got that relic to fall back on.” He points at the pen in her hand, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing grin.

She looks down at the biro, instinctively brushing a thumb over its chewed-up barrel. “What, this?”

“Yes, that.” Sam deadpans. “Could fetch a fortune at Sotheby’s.”

“Oh, sure,” she shoots back, flipping to another page. “And if I frame your scowl next to it, we might even make the front page of National Geographic.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head. Hilarious. She’s quick. Too quick, sometimes.

The stars are out now, sharp pinpricks of light cutting through the deepening navy sky. Sam leans back against the passenger door, finishing off a cigarette, letting his eyes wander upward for a brief moment. The quiet vastness of it was the same as always - familiar, humbling. A way to ground him no matter where he is in the world.

He could still see her grinning at him across the car hire counter, the corners of her mouth tilting in that defiant way she had when she knew she was about to win an argument.

“Now or never,” she’d said, scribbling her signature on the insurance forms. She hadn’t even looked up when Sam had muttered about her lack of experience with left-hand drive cars, though the knowing twitch of her eyebrow told him she’d heard every word.

It had been a pointless debate, of course. She got her way, as usual, and Sam - begrudgingly - let it slide. Something about the sheer confidence of her felt immovable sometimes, and hell, it was getting harder to argue with that kind of enthusiasm.

They hadn't planned to come here until tomorrow, but after Petra's dead ends and an hour or two of thumb-twiddling back at the hotel, waiting around for the next day felt pointless.

Now or never, indeed.

His lips twitched, but before the thought could settle into anything softer, Scott’s voice yanked him back to the present.

“Flirting” was all he caught at first, and his head snapped toward the younger man, crouched near a crumbled pillar, smirk firmly in place. “You two done flirting,” Scott repeated, louder this time, “or do I need to come back later?”

Sam didn’t even have to look to know she was rolling her eyes, probably already armed with some sharp comeback. Shaking his head, he forces himself to focus on the ruins and not the way her laugh carries. He clears his throat, stubbing out the cigarette on the scuffed wheel trim.

“I can flirt with you if you want, Scott?” Sam retorts, barely missing a beat - much easier to play it cool whilst deflecting. His grin lingers as she shakes her head and flips through her notes.

The stars above remained steady, and unbothered. If only Sam could say the same about himself.

“Focus, gentlemen,” she says, shifting the subject back to their search, “There’s supposed to be an entrance here - at the east of the site. Something that goes underground. Maybe a stairwell, or-”

“Or a cleverly hidden trapdoor,” Sam interjects with a teasing squint. “Right next to the neon X marks the spot.”

“You’d know all about finding those, wouldn’t you, Captain Smart-arse?”

Before he can shoot back, she’s already on the move, her attention snapped up by a cluster of crumbling walls partially swallowed by dried out shrubbery.

“I’ll check over there. You two keep looking around here.”

“You sure you want to go solo?” Sam asks, his tone only half-joking. “Wouldn’t want you hogging all the treasure.”

His eyes narrow as she flashes a quick grin in his direction - the kind that’s starting to feel like a fist to the gut. Knock it off. “Thought this was a dead lead.”

As she skips off, notebook tucked under her arm, Sam watches her go for a moment longer than necessary. Scott clears his throat, shooting him a knowing look.

“What?” Sam mutters, voice clipped as he turns back toward the ruins. He doesn’t need Scott of all people reading into this. Even if the faint flush creeping up his neck betrays him.

Scott quickens his pace with an easy smirk, catching up to help her pull aside the wispy branches obscuring part of the ruins. Sam feels something twist in his chest. His jaw tightens. Task in hand.

He scans the area with a practised eye, approaching the others, before circling around to investigate the other side of the overgrown shrubbery. Just past the dense foliage, he spots a narrow gap in the crumbling wall. It’s clearer, more accessible, and immediately promising. Finally, something to work with.

“Hey, you two,” he calls out, motioning for them to join him. “Found a way in.”

Scott, of course, decides to take the plunge into the unknown first, the cocky ease in which he slides in grating on Sam more than it should as he shines his flashlight down into the gap. He’s half tempted to switch it off as the younger man finds his footing.

“It’s clear! Come on down!”

Sam lingers by the opening, hooking his torch securely onto his belt loops, glancing over his shoulder at her.

His lips quirk into a grin as he teases, “You up for a little spelunkin'?”

She steps closer, her notebook tucked under her arm. “Is that a euphemism?” She smirks, before throwing her bag, then herself through the gap.

Sam takes a look behind him, mouth twisted into a self-deprecating grimace for a moment, before he follows them in.

The narrow passage is quiet, save for the faint shuffle of their footsteps against the worn stone. Sam’s flashlight flickers briefly, then steadies, illuminating walls etched with faint carvings. Some numbers, some characters, Scott snapping photos as they go.

They walk for a while, wandering their way through narrow tunnels, dug purposefully - though they’re struggling to find anything specific so far.

“Hang on,” she calls, skidding to a stop. Her voice echoes faintly in the confined space.

Sam halts, turning back with a curious frown. “What is it?”

She points to a narrow staircase branching off to the left, partially hidden by a jut of stone. “Stairs.”

Sam’s expression hardens slightly, his protective instincts flaring… but as Scott looks at him expectantly, most likely waiting to unleash another smart remark that Sam’s not in the mood to tolerate, he doesn’t stop her. So, he nods.

“Be careful, alright? We’ll check out this room and be down in a minute.”

With a nod, she descends into the darkness, leaving the faint glow of Sam’s flashlight behind.

As she disappears down the stairs, Sam feels himself hesitate for a second, staring into the dark before Scott’s voice snaps him back.

“She’ll be fine, y’know.”

Sam grunts, his focus already shifting back to the carvings. Fine or not, he’s sticking close.

The descent feels endless as you make your way down the narrow, steep flight of stairs, your free hand skimming the uneven wall for balance whilst your other tightens its grip around your phone.

The air grows colder, more biting, each step stripping away layer after layer of humid heat lingering above ground.

You reach the bottom and pause at the threshold, fingers pressed into the rough sandstone as you survey the space ahead of you.

Shadows stretch long across the sandy stone walls, shifting in the beam of your phone’s light, and you watch them recoil and reform as you tilt the light.

Hmm.

You hop down the last step, gingerly unhooking your backpack from your shoulder. You pull out your notebook and rummage around for your signature biro, tossing the bag aside as you bite off the pen’s lid.

You flick to the next empty page and write:

Little cavern: ⚝ What is it for? ⚝ Any connection to TSI? ⚝ Bedouin warnings: oooo, ‘tragedy’, ohOooo, ‘whispering walls’, whatever that means.

It’s different down here - colder, darker, and heavy with an eerie sort of stillness. It excites you. Cools you down too, thank God. So you move further in. It’s some sort of burial chamber, you think. Small. There’s a small alcove - a shelf, for a shrine of sorts, perhaps?

The harsh light from your phone reveals weathered stone. Some kind of vessel - a sarcophagus of some type, you think. Plain, bar from a few engravings here and there, but unmistakably meaningful.

You hum in thought, chewing the pen lid. You teeter clumsily as you lean the open book against your thigh, holding your phone just high enough so you can see what you're writing.

⚝ What’s it for? ✔ I’m 92% certain it’s a mausoleum.

The distant murmur of Sam and Scott’s voices fades with each letter you scribble down, until all that surrounds you is quiet. You close your notebook, using the pen as a bookmark, placing it on top of your backpack.

You let out an anticipatory exhale as a tightness sets off in your chest - slight anxiety (you’re alone, eager to impress etc, etc), yes, but also excitement. The secret optimism of finding something and being able to say you got there first.

This place might not have anything to do with Emaan. But you’re eager to find something that quashes your doubts. More eager to stick a cheeky middle finger up at Sam and tell him ‘I told you so’. Anything to see him fumble for words. It’s cute when he fumbles.

Fuck, you want to find something here - you want to show S- show them that they were right to take you on this trip.

It’s neat, this small room. As though the design has been carefully thought out, despite the sandy veneer adding a rusty tint to it all.

And that’s… odd, right? Given that this place is so secluded. And unassuming. Just like any old cavernous ruins out in the open.

You lean in closer, running your fingertips over the engravings along the lid of the sarcophagus.

There’s a plaque affixed to the stone lid - the script is slightly worn, but you can tell it was done with careful craftsmanship that probably wasn’t cheap. Though the words are foreign to you, the arrangement of them - carefully etched - is enough to give you pause.

You brush off a claggy layer of sand and tilt your phone, bending over the stone to get a closer look.

The layout of the room, the casket’s reverent placement, the beautiful tiles lining the floor - the overall disparity between care and intricacy versus the secludedness and complete lack of grandeur of the exterior location… it all sets off a spiralling of questions in your head. Who built this? Who, or what was it made for? Why here?

You lean closer still, letting the light skim across the old inscription. The Arabic characters are faint, softly eroded by coarse sand over time. Totally illegible to you. What does it translate to? You return to your notebook.

⚝ Any connection to TSI? Who’s buried here?

With a frown, you call out up the stairwell.

“Hey, Scott?”

No reply. He must be too far away. Your mouth twists in thought as your eyes trail down the side of the sarcophagus, down to the floor.

The cavernous quiet of the tomb presses in as you kneel, one hand brushing across the dust-covered ground, flecks of debris and sand digging into the skin of your palm, making your eyes narrow instinctively as you take a moment to look at the relatively well preserved pattern on the tiles beneath you.

The torchlight follows your fingers as they trace along the rich gold and teal pattern painted on each rectangle. Again. The pattern is unique and the artistry is on point. There’s meaning behind all this that extends beyond ‘they died and I’m rich’. This was personal - money spent out of love, or appreciation, not out of vanity or the need to flaunt wealth.

Your hand moves over something rough and uneven - a ragged seam where the polished tile gives way to coarse cement, scarring the pattern. You shift the light, and there they are - dark stains splattered across the floor, clinging to the cracks in the grout, the patterns broken by the unmistakable rusted-brown of dried-

“Blood?” You whisper. Old, dried blood.

You squint to confirm your suspicion, bringing your phone’s beam closer. You pull your hand back, unsure whether to recoil or lean in, a sick, inexplicable urge tugging at you to reach out and feel it.

It’s unsettling, this compulsion - a thought you can’t shake, whispering that the blood, the room, this place, holds something meant for you. As though it recognises you. You swallow hard, resisting the pull, but you’re strangely rooted to the spot.

Something stirs. Your stomach tightens.

There, just beneath the surface grime and dust, are the remnants of something stemming from - potentially - violence, something that feels wrong amidst the centuries-old stillness.

You lean closer, squinting as the light glints across the blood, oddly fresh in a place so stale, like it’s waiting.

The urge to touch it creeps up on you, irrational and unsettling. You scoff at yourself. This place, these stains… it all feels... not lifeless, but patiently dormant, rather.

The compulsion sends a shiver crawling up your spine, but you stay there, transfixed.

“Scott?” You murmur once more, voice soft and thin in the dark.

No reply again. Only silence stretches out, taut and unfriendly. Something prickles at the nape of your neck. It almost feels like something’s here with you.

From the corner of your eye, a flicker of movement sends goosebumps rising across your forearms. Your head jerks up, scanning the room, torchlight sweeping over the empty walls and darkened corners.

Nothing. Until a small desert mouse darts across the cracked tiles, disappearing into a crevice along the wall. You flinch, heart racing, before exhaling in relief, your lips twitching in a half-smile.

You shake your head, half-scoffing at yourself. Get a grip, you think, glancing back to the floor. Though you still can’t shake the twinge of unease in your stomach.

You try Sam’s name next, but it comes out quieter, barely a murmur, and in that moment, the chill presses against your skin, heavier now, curling at your temples. You clear your throat.

A distant pressure builds in your head, dull at first. Then, almost as if you’ve lost control of your own movements, your fingertips stroke against the stained grout.

The pressure sharpens.

Then throbs.

And suddenly the colours beneath you seem too bright, too close, almost as if they’re pressing against your mind with a force not your own. You hiss in discomfort.

Your head swims, and the room blurs; an invisible weight pulls you downward and - “s-shit-”, it feels like your brain is swelling- as though something is prying your skill apart, clawing its way inside. You grunt, teeth clenched, clutching your temples with one hand as the other is fixed against the floor, forcefully, sharp grit digging into your skin. It hurts.

Static creeps at the edges of your vision, but your eyes refuse to close, held open, locked in place, forced to endure whatever is happening to you.

What’s happening?

Your fingers clench, nails scraping painfully against the grout, as you try to stop your hand’s abrasion against the floor, but your body doesn’t respond; you can’t move on your own accord, can’t cry as the skin on your palm is punctured to the point of bleeding, only watch as the walls close in around you, shadows seething, pulsing in time with your erratic heartbeat.

You try to turn your head. Open your mouth - scream out for someone to come and pull you up, but your body won’t allow it. You’re frozen in place, dizziness taking you over, and a whisper - foreign, angry, alive - starts echoing in the back of your mind - it feels like someone’s behind you. Watching your torment. Enjoying it.

Then, all of a sudden, it stops.

Your breath hitches, suspended in thick, frigid silence as the excruciation that gripped you vanishes in an instant, leaving a cold, almost hollow sensation in its wake. The pressure in your head dissipates so abruptly it’s as if it was never there; the force that had held you still simply… gone.

The grip of invisible hands lets go, and you crumple forwards, palm smacking the ground to steady yourself, feeling weakened and absolutely fucking bewildered.

Tremors still flit through your hands, your fingertips clammy against the chill of the floor, but the silence that follows is unnervingly… normal. It’s as if whatever fuckery that had stretched out and swallowed the room, that had taken a bite out of you, has released its hold and retreated back to wherever it came from.

“F-fucking hell,” you just about manage.

You look at your stinging palm - grazed as if you've tripped, skin scuffed with small pricks of blood rising to the surface. You look at the floor, tiny flecks of your own blood freshly smudged over the oxidised brown already there.

And then - footsteps. Soft, unhurried, descending down the stairs.

“Hey,” Scott’s voice carries, casual, cutting through the silence like he’s interrupting nothing more than a daydream. He appears at the top of the stairs, flashlight bouncing lazily as he peers down. “You call me?”

Your heart is still hammering, but his presence snaps you back, grounding you against the unsettling silence. You push yourself up, stumbling as you try to shake off the lingering chill.

“Uh-” you stammer, still dazed, your pulse loud in your ears. The sight of him feels surreal, a return to normalcy that’s almost jarring. You blink, struggling to focus on his words as he cocks his head, his flashlight partially blinding you.

“Y-yeah,” you manage. You barely recognise the sound of your own voice.

Scott cocks an eyebrow, hopping down the last few steps with casual curiosity. “You alright?” His tone is wary. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His tone is casual, but his eyes study you with unusual intensity. You glance down at the stained tiles, and back at him, feeling… absurdly rattled by it all.

“Yeah-” You clear your throat again, scrunching your sore hand at your side, feeling the flecks of sand and stone crumble off of your stinging skin. “I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a small, nervous smile. “Just…” Do you tell him?

No. You’re already burdening them by being here. Keep your mouth shut.

You pick up your phone, scratching your eyebrow in a deliberate display of nonchalance.

“This room is something else. Creepy. But… different compared to up there.” You say, pointing up the stairs behind him.

Scott watches you carefully, a flicker of something not entirely unamused crossing his face. He raises a brow as he waits for you to expand.

“I, uh, thought you could translate this?” You gesture to the plaque, wanting a distraction from the unsettled feeling still festering in your chest. “Hoping there’s… a name somewhere there.”

He steps down to join you, his gaze flicking to where you pointed with an inquisitive frown. He crouches, shining his flashlight over the area, his expression unreadable as he briefly examines the stains.

“S’that blood? Ominous,” he mutters to himself with an almost amused chuckle, before brushing some sand off a cracked plaque you referred to.

You let out a heavy sigh, willing yourself to feel normal again. “Where’s Sam?”

Scott doesn’t look up from the plaque. “He found some alcove he wanted to check out. Told him I’d catch up.” He pauses, inspecting the stone under his hand. “Can’t miss it.“

“Right. I’ll go grab him,” you murmur, swiping your phone before backing away.

You turn towards the stairs, focusing on the rhythm of your steps, trying to shake off the strange hold this place still has on you. But as you reach up to steady yourself against the wall, you pause.

And then there’s… wet. Something warm against your upper lip. You swallow tightly, the taste of copper thick against the back of your throat.

Your hand jerks up, fingertips coming back stained red. You watch, half-dazed, as the warm droplets splatter against the stone at your feet, starkly rich against the dusty floor.

“Shit.” You murmur, pressing the back of your wrist under your nose to stanch the flow, feeling your point of view tilt slightly as you sway in place.

The pounding headache returns with an overwhelming vengeance, and before you can blink, the dim shapes of the stairs in front of you fade.

Scott’s voice seems to echo strangely, growing distant as your pulse drums louder, drowning everything out.

“Are you-”

But his voice warps out of earshot, and everything blurs as you feel your spine smack against the ground...

The next thing you’re aware of is the throbbing throughout your head and a ringing in your ears. Then the hard tile beneath you, the relative coolness seeping through your t-shirt. After, the slight coppery taste at the roof of your mouth and a dull ache across your shoulders as you blink yourself into focus.

And there's a tightness around your wrist, just erring on painful... you’re abruptly aware of a hand clamped around it, knuckles white against your skin.

“Scott?” Your voice cracks, weak and disoriented, and he quickly loosens his grip, his expression wavering between confusion and something else you can’t quite place.

“You-” he starts, before his mouth presses shut, brow furrowed. There’s a wariness in his eyes that leaves you uneasy. “You passed out.” His eyes flick to your face, and his fingers raise in an instinctive gesture as he lets go of you, before falling away, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. “Gave me a hell of a scare, girl.”

You press a hand to your temple, grimacing. “Ugh… what- how long was I out?”

Scott hesitates, his expression uncharacteristically unsettled. “You, uh… you were gone for a good few seconds. Like I said, scared the shit outta me.”

“Great.” You sigh, wiping a smear of slightly tacky blood from beneath your nose as you pull yourself upright. You frown.

“You alright?” he asks, voice softer now, though his tone still holds the note of surprise that seems so weirdly... not like him.

“Think so.” You grimace, wiping at your nose again with the edge of your sleeve, though the motion only spreads the drying blood. You feel a rush of irritation - not just at the mess, but at the situation itself.

Humiliation, too.

Your head still feels foggy, and the skin along your spine prickles. “Well, my head’s spinning a bit, but yeah - I’m good.” you say, trying to inject more certainty into your voice than you feel.

Scott doesn’t look convinced, but before he can respond, footsteps echo from the stairwell.

“Hey, so I found a-” Sam’s voice cuts off abruptly as soon as he sees you. He locks on the blood smeared across your chin, flickering to Scott and back to you with razor-sharp focus. “What the hell happened? Y’alright?”

Here we go.

You groan inwardly, forcing yourself to muster a weak, dismissive smile. “I’m fine. Just - I lost my balance, I think.”

Sam’s jaw tightens, and he finishes his descent down the narrow staircase, his eyes scanning you with the kind of intensity that makes you want to squirm a bit.

Sam doesn’t bite. His brow furrows as he steps closer, eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Lost your balance.” His voice is low, edged with sarcasm.

“She passed out,” Scott interjects, his tone measured but still carrying a little tension. “Had a bit of a fall. She seemed… I don’t know… spooked when I came down here.”

This makes you tut.

Sam doesn’t reply right away, his eyes still locked on you, scrutiny grating on your already frazzled nerves.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you insist, though the words come out more clipped than you intend. “Really.” You turn to Scott. “And ‘she’ wasn’t ‘spooked’,” you lie, “whatever that means. I was concentrating.”

Scott purses his lips, raising his hands in defence.

Sam’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepens. “Uh-huh. And the blood?”

“Dry air. Nosebleed. It happens.” you snap, then sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. You hate how defensive you sound, but the tightness in your chest won’t ease. You’re done with this room. You need out. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Can we move on?”

Sam folds his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Not if you’re gonna keel over again.”

Your irritation spikes. “I’m not gonna keel o- Jesus.”

“Maybe some fresh air, then.” Scott adds, his voice calm. “Look, no harm in stepping outside for a bit, right?”

The patronising tone - however subtle - sets your teeth on edge. “What I need is for everyone to stop talking for me.” You stand slowly, ignoring the way your knees wobble slightly. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you two go check out whatever it is Sam found, and I’ll head back to the car? Alone.”

Sam’s frown deepens, and he glances toward Scott, who shrugs lightly. “I don’t think-”

“I’m fine,” you say again, cutting him off. “I’ll drink some water, take a minute, and sit down. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Sam hesitates, his jaw working as he weighs his options. Finally, he huffs out a breath, stepping aside to let you pass but not without muttering under his breath, “Stubborn as hell.”

Oh, the irony.

Scott claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, grinning faintly. “C’mon, man.”

You ignore the subtle pang of guilt that lingers as you head back up the stairs, Sam glancing over his shoulder one last time.

You make your way up slowly, gripping the uneven wall for balance as your head continues to throb. Every step feels heavier than it should, your legs trembling faintly under the strain.

It’s not just exhaustion, though - it’s something deeper, a dull pulsating that seems to ricochet through your skull. It starts faintly, a bit like an errant heartbeat behind your temples, but it begins to intensify the closer to the top of the stairs you get.

You grit your teeth and keep walking. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you just need to rest. You’ve been thinking too hard - too overexcited. Not sleeping. Maybe it’s beginning to all catch up on you.

You pause just as you see the soft moonlight coming from the exit round the corner, leaning heavily against the wall to catch your breath. The sensation intensifies, sharper - more rhythmic now, as if the ruins are drawing you back in, pressing their presence into your skin and beckoning you near.

Like it’s saying you’re not done here yet.

The idea seems ridiculous, yet it’s impossible to ignore. Your hand drifts absently to your temple, pressing against it as if that might alleviate the strange pressure.

Does it hurt? Not particularly, though it is uncomfortable

Your logical brain protests. It’s just a wall. You’re exhausted. You need to get to the car and sit down.

But your body doesn’t listen. Mere seconds later, your fingers brushing over the edges of the stone, tracing its faint irregularities.

And as you do so, the discomfort begins to wane - only slightly, but it’s enough to persuade you to keep going.

The sensation is strongest near one particular part of the wall - a small arch no bigger than the width of your shoulders, just slightly more untidily constructed than the surrounding rock. A strange compulsion washes over you - it’s… irrational, you tell yourself, but you’re undeniably drawn to it. Just like the blood downstairs.

You press your palm against the stone experimentally. It doesn’t feel quite as solid as it should; there’s a subtle give beneath your hand, a faint shift that sets your pulse racing.

Before you realise what you’re doing, you remove your water bottle from your bag and swing it lightly against the base of the stone.

Thunk.

The sound echoes, louder than you expected. A fine puff of dust sifts down from the crack, making you cough. You glance over your shoulder instinctively, half-expecting to hear Sam’s voice berating you for still being here or Scott’s cool, curious tone asking what you’ve found. But there’s nothing - just silence. Good.

You roll your shoulders and swing the bottle again, harder this time. The metal clangs and the stone shifts further, crumbling at the edges. By the fourth hit, the brittle mortar at the top of the arch gives way entirely, and a portion of the stone collapses inward, revealing a hollowed-out niche. Dust billows out in a faint cloud, making you cough.

“Ha.” You mutter in mild disbelief, wiping dust from your face with the back of your hand.

You put your bottle down and turn your phone torch back on to shine it around inside the gap. Standing on the toes of your trainers, you try to get a better look, but the angle is awkward, and you’re still too short to see properly.

And then you pause, letting your heels drop back to the ground.

A thread of doubt curls in.

What are you doing?

You’ve been chasing a few mere sentences from a man serving tea, working yourself up to the point of passing out. Overactive imagination making a mountain out of a molehill.

Was Sam right?

Was Scott?

You were just struck with a migraine. That’s all. Was it? Ugh.

You can practically hear them now - Sam, irritated but worried, Scott’s patronising charm softening the blow.

“You’re being ridiculous,” they’d say. “You’re not thinking straight.”

Are they right? Are you imagining things, clutching at straws because you’re desperate to find something - anything - that justifies being here? That proves you belong here with them? The late nights, the over-excitement, the way your mind won’t quiet itself - it’s all spiralling into this headache, this… this irrational load of what can only be described as nonsense.

No.

You clench your jaw, swallowing the rising frustration. You’re not about to let yourself be babied any longer.

Turning back to the arch, you glance over your shoulder. Your surroundings are silent; they haven’t heard you.

What have you got to lose?

Taking a deep breath, you plant your hands against the rough stone and pull yourself up, gritting your teeth as you hook your arms over the now-broken archway, the sore skin of your palm agitated against the rock, shoes dug into the uneven stone to relieve the pressure and keep yourself held in place.

You hesitate, squinting into the darkness, the light on your phone only doing so much. Your head throbs harder now, the pulsating feeling so intense it makes you wince. With trembling fingers, you reach inside, brushing against something coarse and rough. Leather, perhaps.

Your hand curls around it, and you let yourself fall back to the ground with a dusty thud.

You look down at a small, worn book, the edges of its cover frayed and cracked with age.

Your lips part in search of words. But for the time being, you can’t find any.

It’s heavier than it looks, and as you turn it over in your hands, you notice faint embossed designs along the spine - Arabic calligraphy, though the letters are worn. The leather smells of earth and age, the scent stirring a strange, fleeting sense of déjà vu in your chest.

And then the pressure in your head eases.

Not entirely, but enough to make you exhale shakily. It’s like a taut string inside you has loosened. The hum lingers faintly, but it’s different now - softer, almost satisfied.

You stare down at the book, your fingers brushing lightly over the worn cover. Surely not. This… this has to be a coincidence.

It’s just a book.

Right?

Forcing yourself to move, you climb the last few steps and emerge into the open air. The warm breeze brushes over your skin, grounding you somewhat, though your chest still feels tight with unease.

You press forward.

The car is parked just beyond the ruins.

You make your way to it, your hand brushing over the bonnet as you lean against it and exhale shakily.

You set the book down on the warm metal and carefully flip open the cover.

The first few pages are blank, the edges yellowed.

But as you turn further, names begin to appear.

Arabic script fills the left-hand margins, and, much to your excitement, English - what you assume are - translations run alongside them in elegant, looping handwriting. The ink is faded in places, names, numbers, and currencies from all over the world are written, and some crossed out, but one name catches your eye, repeated over and over:

Emaan Sadir.

What was this book? A ledger? A diary? You’re not sure yet, but the sheer weight of its presence and the slightly sickening bubbling of excitement in your stomach makes your chest tighten.

The sound of voices echoes faintly from the ruins behind you, drawing your attention back. Sam and Scott must be wrapping up. Quickly, you tuck the book back into your bag, zipping it shut as you slide off the bonnet.

Whatever this is, it feels significant - far too significant to just brush off. And far, far too significant to give them the satisfaction of knowing about just yet.

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

fun fact, I actually had a heavy nosebleed in the shower a mere 5 minutes after writing the nosebleed bit. this means that i will also fuck samuel drake for real one day.

#sam drake #samuel drake #uncharted #sam drake x reader #samuel drake x reader #tsi

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durrtydawg · 14 days ago

Text

The Sadir Inheritance

{Sam Drake x F!Reader} Chapter 6 | 'We just need a lead.'

masterlist ✨

HA! it's been two and a half years. On we move. I've done this trek. It's a killer. oh! also! someone sent me an ask about what Scott looks like in my head but i accidentally deleted it!! I kind of see... Adam Martin from Yellowjackets, but with sliiiightly lighter hair. Hehe. Enjoy xox

CW: none - just bad language and poor writing skill as per x

Word count: 4.2k

Sam is no stranger to a sleepless night. His mind is far too practised at dredging up the past when he least wants it.

It usually takes hours of distraction - thumbing through a dog-eared old book, nursing a bottle, researching an obscure lead - just to dull the edges enough to finally let his guard down.

Tonight, though, none of that seems to be working. It’s a frustrating complication that he’s not prepared to deal with.

He paces by the window a few times, peeling back the blinds now and then to stare out at the quiet pool where they'd been just an hour before.

At one point, he lingers longer.

His eyes travel up a few floors to a balcony above, where he spots a figure. A man, alone, perched on a cheap plastic chair and staring down at his phone screen, his face faintly illuminated by its bluish glare. There’s something familiar in the man’s posture - the way he slouches over his screen, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting for something, tapping his thumb impatiently against it.

Sam feels an odd flicker of relief. He’s not the only one unable to sleep tonight, pacing through quiet unrest. The man raises his head, and Sam watches him scan the pool, his expression unreadable, though his gaze seems to linger on the spot where they'd been sat earlier. Sam watches, noticing the man’s hand twitch as he slips his phone into his pocket and rises, crossing to the open door with measured steps.

But then the man’s stare shifts down, as if sensing he’s being watched, and for the briefest moment, Sam is certain he catches his eye. The guy stiffens, his expression hardening, and then he quickly turns away, vanishing back into the shadowed interior of his room.

The movement draws Sam’s curiosity - maybe even suspicion. He frowns. He’s just a man, standing on a balcony in the middle of the night. And Sam's exhausted. It's probably just a case of sleepless paranoia, he tells himself.

Still, the nagging feeling remains, scratching at the edges of Sam’s awareness as he draws the blinds and steps back from the window.

The air in his room feels stifling, despite the low hum of the aircon coming from above him.

His eyes drift to his open cigarette packet lying nearby, though he doesn’t reach for it. Sam’s jaw clenches.

The laptop on the dressing table glows back to life as he resumes his half-hearted research, skimming through what he can find on Karam Sadir and the Petra excavation records. The icy screen hurts his eyes.

He squints with a tut.

It’s already at its lowest brightness setting. Nathan told him how to put some weird orangey filter over it once that made his eyes sting less but he can’t remember how to do it.

With a resigned huff, he slumps back in his chair, eyes tracing the waves of moonlight stretching across the ceiling.

It's a big place, and they're yet to find a starting point. This is the sort of work he’d normally sink his teeth right into, let it pull him away from whatever anxieties were clawing at him - but right now, it’s all blurred words and faded images. A distraction, just enough to keep his mind occupied, but annoyingly not enough to pull him away from the nagging ache that's been festering in his gut for the past sixty minutes or so.

He glances down at the last line he highlighted on the Sadir’s contributions to Petra and any sites surrounding, but the words bleed together, slipping through his tired brain. Not that they matter much, anyway - he’s hardly taking any of it in.

“Jesus Christ.” He mutters to no one but himself.

The heel of his hand rubs up and down his bare chest, before his fingers dig into his shoulder. He instinctively glances down, wincing at the tightness of his muscles.

He finds himself drifting again as he massages out a knot, thoughts pulled back to that playful glint she always seems to have when she’s testing his patience. It hasn’t taken her long to develop a knack for it. It’s all just fun and games, surely. Her shit-eating grin as she poked his star tattoo - she’d dug her nail in - for a second, it hurt. The slight pause after he’d joked about ‘getting with each other’. The way her weight felt in his arms, just in those fleeting seconds, warm and soft and... The knot pops and he rubs his temples, frustrated at his own wandering mind, forcing himself back to the screen.

He’s been down this road before, the signs all too familiar. It starts innocently enough, with a look or a laugh, but then it starts to unravel and tug at something more… convoluted. And he’d thought he’d kept it buried this time, told himself he was too old for this. That he wasn’t about to go entertaining thoughts he’s got no business having. Idiot.

With a muttered curse, Sam slams the laptop shut.

She’s young, lively, with a way of seeing the world that he’s not sure he ever had despite it being his everything . And it’s precisely that, he tells himself, that has him so twisted up. He admires her optimism. That’s it.

He pushes his way into the bathroom and flips on the faucet, splashing water onto his face. The cold shock helps. Not.

He stares at himself in the mirror, and runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, flexing it as if it might somehow make him look a decade younger.

Sam’s hardly insecure by nature, but the way Scott had shown up, caught her eye, confident and unruffled, pressed on him, subtly but surely. Add in the difference in age, and suddenly it feels like he’s staring straight at every wasted year that’s passed since his twenties, when he could count on his face and body without thinking twice. For the first time in... well, ever... he feels a small, nibbling urge to check, as if hoping he’d find some sign of that guy looking back at him.

He scoffs, chewing the inside of his cheek for a second before grabbing his toothbrush.

What the hell does it matter anyway? He knows who he is, what he’s been through, and has always been good at not letting those old doubts about himself creep in. So what’s changed?

He squeezes a splodge of toothpaste onto the dampened bristles and brushes, the motions automatic, almost meditative, as if a rinse and scrub will clear out the doubt creeping up from whatever strange feelings he’s caught himself having. He spits, rinses, then finally flips off the light.

Flopping onto the mattress, Sam knows full-well he won’t sleep much, though lying in the dark feels a little more forgiving.

By the time his alarm chimes, he’s showered and dressed, already stubbing out a cigarette on the patio, glancing back to the balcony he saw the man on last night. He swishes his mouth out again, tossing his things together and glancing out the window, trying to shake off the strange mix of anticipation and unease lodged in his chest.

Pushing the feeling down as deep as possible, he shoulders his small backpack, resolving to keep things... professional. Whatever had lingered from last night was just that - last night . He had work to do, and so did she, and Sam’s nothing if not a pro at compartmentalising.

The sound of her door opening beside his quickly followed by soft humming of what he thinks is ' What's Up ' by 4 Non Blondes is his cue.

He stands, cracking his neck as he tries to shake off the drowsy weight clinging to him.

God, he's tired.

He’ll grab a coffee on their walk down to the site - it's strong here - maybe he'll squeeze in another smoke before they arrive. At least a few hours in the ancient city might give him some clarity, the search giving his mind something concrete to focus on.

He gives himself a final shake, swallowing down the emotions rattling in his chest, and steps out into the hallway.

The dust, the heat, the people - it all feels like a heady swirl as you make your way through Petra’s narrow gorges and carefully excavated ruins. You’re somewhere between awe and disbelief, taking photos of every angle, every shadowed crevice and sunlit crack in the rocks and ruins. It feels like the focal point of a pilgrimage, history seeping into your every pore, and you’re so immersed in it all that you’ve been unable to stop yourself from grinning all morning.

You glance back at Sam, who walks with his usual sturdy, slightly impatient stride, his gaze occasionally shifting to the flood of tourists around you. Scott’s beside him, a good-natured, half-smirk on his face as he points out details along the route.

You can’t deny Scott’s enthusiasm - it’s infectious, and he’s been a more-than-capable guide. Occasionally, you notice him stopping to examine a detail, his fingers brushing over the carvings with practised ease, as though he’s been here a dozen times.

You catch sight of Sam a few paces back, his expression shaded by his sunglasses and a slight frown as he stops to read an information plaque. It’s not that he’s being rude exactly - he’s just, well… he’s quieter than usual today. And you can’t quite tell if it’s the heat, the crowds, or something else. His eye line flickers between you and Scott, his mouth pressing into a thin line before he looks away.

“He’s not much of a tourist spot guy, is he?” you murmur to Scott as the three of you veer closer to the start of the steep, winding staircase to the second Treasury.

Scott chuckles. "Eh, I suppose it’s not for everyone,” he says diplomatically. “Probably thinks he’s already seen it all.”

You hum in acknowledgement, and Scott gives you a sympathetic look, before heading a few steps ahead to read another plaque, leaving you and Sam to walk in silence. His stride is relaxed, unhurried, almost apathetic. You want to talk to him, find a way to draw him out of whatever mood he’s in, but every attempt to catch his eye seems to come up short.

A touch of irritation prickles at the back of your mind. Maybe you’ve been a little too enthusiastic, but so what? You give Sam a brief wave as he pulls away from another frame of text with a slight pout, hoping to draw him in, but he only nods, keeping his pace slow and steady.

Fuck it. God loves a trier.

“So,” You say, keeping your voice as light, but not sickeningly upbeat as you make it impossible for him to ignore you. “I take it you didn’t sleep much, either in the end?”

It’s silent for a few seconds before he speaks - he bristles slightly, like you’ve - rightfully - called him out for being weird.

“Could ya tell?” he says, a touch gruffly, but there’s a hint of something softer in his tone. You shrug, tucking your phone into the pocket of your shorts. “Just… one of those nights, y’know? Too much running through my head.”

It’s hardly a revelation, but there’s an openness to it that he usually keeps under tighter wraps. You nod, shooting him a look of understanding. “Yuck. Those are the worst. All the thinking that gets you nowhere.”

His mouth quirks slightly, almost a smile, but it’s tinged with something closer to defeat. “Right. Problem is, you’d think after all these years, I’d have some sort of trick to shut it all off.”

You let that hang for a moment, the two of you sidestepping a cluster of tourists crowded around a camel sitting, unbothered on the sand. It’s surprisingly… nice, to be let into his world, even if only a crack. He’s always felt so solid, so sure, but there’s something about seeing him unsettled that makes him feel oddly more human. The faint vulnerability catches you off guard, but hell, you'd be lying if you didn't appreciate it. Want it, even.

“Maybe you need more than a trick,” you offer gently, risking a small smile. “Like a change of scenery, or… I dunno, a bit of fresh motivation?”

He glances at you, expression unreadable behind the sunglasses, but there’s a tilt of his head as if he’s sizing you up. “That right?”

“Yeah,” you say, undeterred. “Might be why you’re here. This whole Sadir thing - maybe it’s not just a job. Maybe it’s something more. We just need a lead.” You shrug, trying not to seem too invested, but Sam’s brow furrows, and there’s something searching in his eyes now.

“Hmm.” he hums, a little quieter, his shoulders jostling as if he's chuckling to himself. You're not sure about mirth, though.

He seems about to say something more, but then he pulls himself away, rubbing a hand along his jaw.

"Well, if all else fails, maybe I can arrange a swift frying pan to the back of the head so you can get a good bit of shut-eye."

He actually laughs at this, but before he can respond, Scott calls out to you both from a few steps ahead, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Hey, are we climbing these steps or chatting the whole day?”

You roll your eyes playfully and turn back to Sam, who gives a resigned shake of his head.

Onto the Monastery Trail. Just under one-thousand craggy rock steps making up a two-plus mile uphill climb. You're not fit. But you hope your enthusiasm will keep it tolerable.

"Cardio time, baby." You say with a click of the fingers, adjusting your backpack straps.

About ten minutes later, you're still motivated but, unfortunately, painfully aware you're nowhere near as fit as the men you're with.

Sam throws a glance back, raising an eyebrow at your silence. “You know, it’s weird hearing you so quiet,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. “What, savin' your breath?” He bares his teeth in a smirk.

“I’m sooo sorry that I’m not... a mountain goat,” you huff, voice drenched in almost as much sarcasm as your forehead is with sweat.

Scott's chuckle that follows is immediate, warm and a bit smug.

The two continue their chatter as they walk, their words punctuated by Sam’s occasional mutter of “show-off” whenever Scott throws in some tidbit about the ancient Nabateans or Petra’s construction. You listen to them as you trail behind, using their conversation to keep your mind off of your burning thighs and sore lungs - ugh the steps are definitely getting steeper.

“So how’d you pick up Arabic? I know Chloe said you both studied for a bit over in... Oman, was it?” Sam asks Scott, curiosity laced with a hint of begrudging respect.

“Yep. Picked it up a little more colloquially while working with a few archaeological digs near Jerash once I'd graduated. Came in handy since most of the crew spoke it. Nailed the basics, then took some proper classes,” Scott replies with a shrug, looking completely at ease as he hikes up the jagged steps. “I find it helps a lot with locals when I can talk to them in their language. Makes people… open up a bit more, you know?”

Sam scoffs lightly. “Gotta say, I'm - Arabic's one I could never get my head 'round.”

“Yeah, I mean my grandfather was stationed out this way in the forties too, so his stories gave me the enthusiasm from childhood.” Scott grins, then glances back at you, still valiantly pressing forward. “Speaking of enthusiasm, how are you holding up, darl'?" He teases, knowing the answer full-well.

You give him an exaggerated glare, wiping your brow. “Stop taking the piss while I can't defend myself.” Great. That sentence alone halved your lung capacity.

Sam just laughs, enjoying your persistence, you hope. “We're almost halfway there. You're doin' fine.”

“Oh, that’s encouraging.” you reply dryly, though she’s oddly glad he’s checking in.

After a long and exhausting climb, you finally reach the top. Well, almost. Just ahead of you, at a ledge overlooking the expanse of Petra, you spot another brief set of steps - the highest viewpoint, accompanied by one of the many Bedouin vendors with a small table set up. A kettle sits in the centre, steam rising into the air, and a small group of tourists huddles around.

You’re drawn to it immediately.

“Gents, this has been… horrible.” You sigh, your heart slowly becoming more steady as you take off your baseball cap and fan your face with it. “I’m gonna grab some tea,” You remove your backpack and take out your little notebook, “read up on a few things, and take in the view. I’ll keep my eyes peeled and come and find you when I can breathe properly… See you in a few?”

Sam stands a few paces away with Scott near the stone-hewn monastery, a local tour guide gesturing energetically to a group of tourists they've managed to integrate themselves into (three cheers for the unassuming baseball cap!), prattling facts about Petra’s history. But Sam’s mind isn’t entirely there. He keeps glancing around, his eyes skimming over the thinning crowd, half-listening as Scott peppers the guide with questions about excavation sites and artefacts.

“…so, nothing significant has been found here in recent years?” Scott’s voice is smooth, with that confident tone that always seems to get people to open up. Something about the Australian accent seems to give people who have it an instant boost to charisma. Sam notes the way the tour guide leans toward Scott, clearly charmed and eager to impress.

“No, no. No treasures have been found here in centuries.” The guide’s words are tinged with disappointment, but Scott doesn’t miss a beat, nudging him with another line of enquiry about restricted areas and less-documented sites.

But Sam’s focus wavers as he catches sight of a figure standing further off, hovering by the edge of a ruin. He squints. The person looks familiar, and it takes him a second before recognition dawns - the same guy from the balcony last night.

The man isn’t close enough to be eavesdropping, but he’s angled just enough to appear like he’s watching them, hands stuffed casually into his pockets as he leans against a stone column.

Scott catches Sam’s distant expression and steps closer, brows knitting together in concern. "Hey, mate. You with us?"

Sam’s eyes dart back to him, and he forces a smirk to cover his momentary lapse. "Yeah, yeah, I’m here," he replies, crossing his arms in a show of nonchalance. "Just… thought I saw someone I recognised."

Scott raises an eyebrow, glancing around before shrugging, his usual easy charm returning. He gestures back to the tour guide, who is wrapping up his explanation with an apologetic shrug, obviously not the wealth of information they’d been hoping for.

"So no dice on the inheritance?" Sam asks, slightly relieved to shift his focus back to their original purpose.

"Nah. Just the standard spiel." Scott sighs, offering the tour guide a polite smile before turning back to Sam. "Guess we’ll have to keep digging."

Sam nods, but he can’t shake the feeling that they’re being... watched. He catches a glimpse of the man again, just on the edge of his peripheral vision, standing with his arms folded, half-hidden by a weathered stone column. This time, Sam’s certain it’s the same guy.

"You okay, man?" Scott’s voice cuts through again, sharper this time, his eyes steady and probing.

They're staying in one of the cheapest hotels closest to one of the world's most famous heritage sites. They're bound to come across the same people during their stay. Snap out of it.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Just - long night. Didn’t get much sleep."

Scott studies him a beat longer, and Sam feels a flash of irritation at being read so closely. Scott’s perceptiveness borders on uncanny, the kind of thing that usually annoys him when it’s turned his way. But Scott’s well-meaning smile disarms him.

The silence between them breaks as the missing part of the trio skids to a stop beside them, her energy lifting the tension immediately. She’s practically glowing, a wide grin plastered on her face, notebook in hand, the edges dog-eared and a little torn from use.

“Alright,” she pants, catching her breath as she waves the notebook with an eager grin. "Umm ar-Rasas."

Sam’s lips twitch, grateful for the distraction, while Scott’s face lights up, already leaning in, genuinely interested.

"Umm ar what ?" Sam asks with a lopsided grin.

She pauses, looking between them both. "Wait - what have you two found?"

"Jack shit." Scott huffs, scratching his neat beard, "Go on, then. Umm ar-"

"Rasas. Yes. The Bedouin bloke was saying-"

Sam’s head whips around, a frown deepening. “You told him we’re looking for something?”

He watches her bristle a little, feeling the bit of accusation he'd thrown at her. “Not exactly. I didn’t spill everything, if that’s what you’re worried about. He saw the name at the top of my page. Got enthusiastic. That's all.”

"So he saw your damn notes?" He asks, sceptically.

She sighs. "Fuck sake, Sam, the word 'Sadir' in green bubble writing hardly told him we're disturbing the peace. A quick mention of my dissertation convinced him to spill."

Sam bites his lip, narrowing his eyes a little. He nods, though he's inexplicably on edge. She clears her throat.

"They're old Roman city ruins - a couple hours from here. Karam had a hand in the start of its excavation. Apparently..." She stops to go over her notes, "him and his wife -"

"Emaan's parents?" Scott interjects, arms folded in interest.

"Yep - they put in a bid for it when official funding for the excavation stopped in favour of Petra. He was convinced there was more there to be found, and wanted to fund it himself."

"So the Sadirs... owned this site?"

"That's what I've surmised. Yeah. Could’ve used it for anything."

Scott nods, pouting in a way that reads 'not bad'. She lights up. Sam lowers his sunglasses again just in time to roll his eyes.

"I'm going to presume that's our next stop then?" He asks.

"Thought you weren't convinced." She glouts, raising her brows up at him, head tilted.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "You're right." He sniffs, nodding. "It's more than we've found."

She gives him a relieved half-smile. It's laced with what he thinks is some sort of sympathy.

"Alright, well," Scott says, thumping them both on the back as he begins to walk ahead of them both, "I'm off to act like a tourist for the rest of the day. We can suss out next steps tonight."

As Scott strides off, blatantly giddy, Sam watches him disappear into the crowd, feeling a momentary pang of relief. But that comfort is short-lived as he glances back at her. She’s still looking up at him, brow slightly raised, waiting for him to say something. It's awkward, but she's unrelenting. A London thing, perhaps? He shifts uncomfortably, a bit too aware of her proximity and the glint of expectation in her crinkled brows. Oh, she's ballsy.

He sighs. “Look, I wasn’t-” He stops himself, catching the slightest hint of frustration flickering across her face. He doesn’t want to make this into a whole thing, doesn’t want to admit outright he might’ve overreacted or sounded harsh. “Just… good work.” he mutters instead, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking off to the horizon. He can feel the moment teeter on the edge of unresolved tension, and he isn’t quite sure how to balance it.

But she only drops her shoulders and smiles, that same easy, understanding smile that somehow always makes him feel like the asshole in the room. “Don’t worry,” she says, amusement softening her voice. “I didn’t tell him we’re planning to raid his ancestors’ graves. Yet.”

“Glad to know you can keep it subtle,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

The awkward moment stretches, her expression softening as she tilts her head. “Maybe next time you’ll trust me to handle things without…” She trails off, and he braces himself for the jab that never quite lands. Instead, she holds up her phone, grinning, tonguing her teeth. “Actually, if you’re serious about making it up to me, then maybe I’ll settle for a picture.”

He scoffs, shifting his weight. “You serious?”

Her smile is downright playful. “Oh, come on. You owe me at least one nice memory from this godforsaken climb. Besides,” she taps his arm teasingly, “think of it as evidence of the fact that we actually get on very well when you haven't got a pole rammed up your arse.”

Before he can protest, she nudges up beside him, raising her phone, her arm hooked around his shoulders as she leans in. He barely has time to force a smile, but she catches him off-guard - leaning up, she presses her lips to his cheek as the shutter clicks.

The instant it registers, his bravado turns to dust. She steps back, grinning, scrolling through the photo while he’s left blinking, thrown off by the sudden, chaste affection.

“Perfect,” she chirps, giving him a quick wink. “Now, let’s get down from here before I succumb to altitude sickness.”

She heads off, leaving Sam standing there, blinking after her, mind spinning with the confusion of that sudden kiss and how effortlessly she brushed it off. A corner of his mouth twitches as he watches her go.

Ah, shit.

#sam drake #samuel drake #uncharted #sam drake x reader #samuel drake x reader #tsi

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