nathan drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sicparvasmagna) wrote2017-03-26 09:41 pm
sicparvasmagna) wrote2017-03-26 09:41 pm
[March 23]
Nate's been hit before. Nate's been hit a thousand goddamn times but this time he's pretty sure his entire face is broken. He'd known the guy was tall, he's not a complete moron, but there's a difference between tall and apparently made of fucking stone. He'd been impulsive and stupid and Sully would probably chew his ear off if he were here, but Nate doesn't need a verbal lashing because the physical one has been lesson enough.
His hand is broken. He can't move his fingers and the pain shoots up through his wrist and to his shoulder, throbbing harshly. He's broken bones before but this is somehow made worse by the embarrassment of it all, by the fact that he was put down quickly and without preamble, his ego as bruised as his fucking face. Which, is also broken. Nate's broken his nose before, been punched by enough steroid-loaded goons that it was just about inevitable, but this is worse. His cheekbone is fractured, swollen up around his eye so that he can hardly see out of it. Breathing hurts, talking hurts worse, and Nate's spat enough blood out onto the sidewalk to draw stares.
He needs to get off the street. That's the first point of call. He should probably go to the hospital, but he's nursing a hurt ego and a chip on his shoulder that steers him in the opposite direction instead. He just wants to go home. He wants to go home, cover his face in ice packs and then drink until he passes out, probably. He should text Sam, but his right fucking hand is broken and Nate's always been pretty useless with his left. The thought of trying to type anything legible is a lost cause, so he doesn't bother.
Instead, he picks himself up off the ground, blinks blood out of his eye and starts walking. At least his goddamn legs aren't broken.
His hand is broken. He can't move his fingers and the pain shoots up through his wrist and to his shoulder, throbbing harshly. He's broken bones before but this is somehow made worse by the embarrassment of it all, by the fact that he was put down quickly and without preamble, his ego as bruised as his fucking face. Which, is also broken. Nate's broken his nose before, been punched by enough steroid-loaded goons that it was just about inevitable, but this is worse. His cheekbone is fractured, swollen up around his eye so that he can hardly see out of it. Breathing hurts, talking hurts worse, and Nate's spat enough blood out onto the sidewalk to draw stares.
He needs to get off the street. That's the first point of call. He should probably go to the hospital, but he's nursing a hurt ego and a chip on his shoulder that steers him in the opposite direction instead. He just wants to go home. He wants to go home, cover his face in ice packs and then drink until he passes out, probably. He should text Sam, but his right fucking hand is broken and Nate's always been pretty useless with his left. The thought of trying to type anything legible is a lost cause, so he doesn't bother.
Instead, he picks himself up off the ground, blinks blood out of his eye and starts walking. At least his goddamn legs aren't broken.
no subject
Lila has set the breaks, that's the main thing. The bruising and the swelling will go down with ice and time, and in the meantime he just gets to look like he went ten rounds with a baseball bat. He'd let her do what she could when she found him, and then he'd retreated into the relative safety of his apartment to drink an entire bottle of whiskey.
Someone knocks at the door and Nate seriously considers not answering it. But then he hears Beth, and if there's one person in this city he'd never willingly avoid, it's her. He drags his sorry ass off the couch, holding the frozen peas to the worst of the bruising with his bandaged right hand and opening the door with his left.
"Hey," he says, looking from Beth to the deli bag on her arm, to the guitar. He hopes to hell it's for her to play and not him.
no subject
She's lucky she splurged on the hard guitar case, because she drops it hard enough just inside the door to break the instrument otherwise and she steps in, shuts the door behind her and blindly places the deli bag on a nearby table, all without looking away from Nate's face. Something really bad has happened to him and right now, given the loss she's still grieving, she's not even close to ready to lose someone else. Nate is too important to her.
"Sit down," she orders him, as if she wasn't the one knocking on the door and causing him to get to his feet in the first place. "And... jeez, Nate, have you taken any anti-inflammatories? I'll get you some water and some pills, do you have any? I have some in my bag, I think, if you don't." Then she spots the whiskey and turns to look at him again, shaking her head. "Uh-uh, no way. You're not drinking that in this state. You could have a concussion!"
no subject
"I'm okay," he protests, knowing that it won't do any good. But he is okay; Lila has mended the broken bones, and maybe he looks like shit but he's healed from worse. She doesn't sound like she's going to take no for an answer however, so he sits obediently at the table and points towards the kitchen. "There's painkillers." He doesn't have anti-inflammatories, hadn't think he'd need them in Darrow. Truth be told it's not the kind of thing he'd carried back home, either.
He's got his hand halfway to the whiskey bottle when her back is turned, but then she spots it and chastises him. He still picks it up, shaking his head at her. "I don't have a concussion." Nate's had a concussion, he knows what that feels like. He got punched, he didn't whack his head on the pavement, and he'd managed to walk all the way home. He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig, wincing a little.
no subject
She can still do whatever is necessary.
Running the water, she fills a glass for Nate, then rummages around until she finds the painkillers and when she returns to the living room, she sets the water down on the table and then takes the whiskey bottle from Nate's hand and gently uncurls his fingers so she can place two of the pills in his palm.
"Take those," she says as she caps the whiskey, although she doesn't put it away. She isn't going to fight with him over whether or not he should be drinking, even though she thinks he shouldn't be. What she's going to do is make sure he takes the painkillers, make sure he drinks plenty of water and eats the sandwich she brought for him, even if it hurts a little bit to do so.
no subject
She's not talking much, and Nate's not sure if it's because she disapproves or what, but he doesn't have the energy to question it. If she wants to chew him out he'll sit here and listen, but it's a lecture he's heard time and time again and he still keeps winding up in the same place. That probably says something about him, but he can't be bothered thinking about that, either.
"Thanks," he tells her, because he does appreciate her being here and what she's doing for him. He knows he'd be worse off alone, but being looked after like this isn't something he's used to, either. "Really, I'm fine."
no subject
And he can protest if he wants, maybe he'll be able to get his shoes off by himself and that's fine, but she isn't about to leave him here alone no matter how much he complains about it.
"Can you see properly?" she asks. "You wanna watch a movie or somethin'? I brought sandwiches, you should probably eat if you think you can stomach it and as long as none of your teeth are broken."
no subject
Taking his shoes off one-handed is more effort than it should be, so he settles for toeing them off his heels and not bothering with the laces. He glances up at her like he's making a point that he managed all by himself, and then he kicks them into a corner of the room. He's just glad Cassius didn't see fit to break his feet or his kneecaps or something. He doesn't know what he would have done if he couldn't walk.
"Who said that?" he jokes, rolling his head to smile at her a little lopsidedly. One of his eyes is still swollen but it's better than it was, and he can see, if a little blearily. "Teeth're fine," he assures her, making grabby hands for the sandwich. He's starving he realises with surprise. Getting your ass kicked gives a guy an appetite, who knew?
no subject
Swinging back toward the door, she picks up the bag from the deli and then goes to sit with Nate, unpacking the sandwiches and holding his out toward him. Maybe he doesn't need a babysitter, but she'd come here planning to hang out with him anyway, so it's not like she has any reason to leave, any pressing appointment she has to get to. It'll be safer for her to stay with him, she thinks, just in case he does have a concussion despite what he says.
"Besides, if you showed up at my place and I looked like this, I know you'd worry," she points out. "You can't pretend you wouldn't." And that just makes sense to her. People worry about each other, even when they insist they're fine.
no subject
Nate takes the sandwich from her, unwrapping it eagerly and taking a bite. His jaw protests a little but he ploughs on anyway. Food is more important than discomfort, and Nate's not about to turn down a good sandwich. She's bought the ones he likes, even.
She does have a point there. However, Nate is of the opinion that this is an entirely different situation, being that it's him with a pummelled in face, not her. He doesn't need to pretend he wouldn't worry, he'd worry a lot, but that doesn't mean this is the same. "Yeah but that would be something to worry about," he protests, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. "This is different. This is practically par for the course." Admittedly, it has been a while since he had to nurse wounds like this, but it's hardly the first time. It's not even the second, or third, or... he could go on.
no subject
She pauses then to take a bite, then shrugs her shoulders as she considers what she's just said. Once she's chewed and swallowed, she continues, "Okay, maybe the ass kicking is a bit of a stretch, but I bet I'm at least as good a shot as you are. Maybe better."
Her aim is scary good. Before Daryl it had been pretty decent, but then he'd taught her how to use the crossbow and ever since then it's been almost second nature to her. And even though she may seem mostly sweet, she's also not the type of person to walk away from a conflict if there's someone who needs help, someone who might need defending. Beth will take a few hits for that.
no subject
"Oh, you wanna bet?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. She's undoubtedly had to shoot a zombie or two in her time, but so has Nate. He shot his first gun when he was a teenager and he's had a gun in his hand more often than not since then. It's not necessarily something he's proud of, but somewhere along the way it became something of a necessity.
If he stops to think about the amount of blood on his hands for too long he starts to lose his mind, so he doesn't. But he knows he's a good shot. Better than good. "When my face is less broken," he starts, nudging her, "you're on."
no subject
Which is probably exactly what he wants, too.
"We can start with guns and then see if you're any good with the crossbow," she tells him with a self-satisfied smile. "Maybe even a bow and arrow." Kili's is really too small for either of them to use, but they might be able to find something else, and she wants to keep shooting because it makes her feel closer to him. He'd always loved it and he'd loved teaching her, which is why she'd taken the bow and arrow after he disappeared.
"Ten bucks says I hit the target more often than you do."