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.
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Even with the bones set the way they should be, he knows he still looks like a wreck. Someone comes up alongside him and touches his elbow and Nate doesn't flinch but for a moment he prepares to fight again. His peripheral vision is shot to pieces but then he hears the voice and he turns to see Marcus.
Painkillers. Goddamn, he hopes he has painkillers at home. "I'm going to drown myself in an ice bath," he counters. Then, when he's feeling less like he's been through a meat grinder, he's going to find a way to get back at that asshole.
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"You look terrible," he continues as they walk. "What happened to you?"
He no longer has a gun, having lost it long ago, and that lovely young woman who had helped him on his first day here is still in possession of his rather brutal crucifix, but he's certain he can find another weapon if he needs to. If there's someone, perhaps, who shouldn't have laid their hands on Nate.
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"Word of advice," he starts, glancing over, "don't get in a fight with one of those superpowered types." He doesn't know what that guy was exactly, but his bones were like steel and punching him had felt like punching a wall. The fist that connected with his face had a strength behind it that shouldn't have been possible in a man, but he'd thrown it like it was nothing. He must have known exactly what was going to happen as soon as he started in with the goading, and Nate should have known better than to fall for it.
But it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him. He just needs to get home, bandage his hand, get ice on his face and probably drink until he can't feel it anymore.
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He's joking, of course, speaking mostly to take Nate's mind off the pain he's feeling as Marcus walks him home. Whatever he had run into today, it's not likely a demon, although Marcus supposes he can't be entirely certain of that. Maybe this world offers demons of a different breed altogether and maybe he's going to have to discover a new way to combat them.
"Just how much alcohol do you have at your apartment and will it be enough?" he asks as they walk. There's no use pretending Nate isn't going to drink once he gets home, but if that's the plan, Marcus wonders if he should stay just to make sure nothing bad happens to him the moment he passes out. The injuries look as if they'll all heal, but Marcus has seen fewer bruises on possession victims.
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He almost wishes it had been something closer to Marcus's expertise. Nate's dealt with curses and magic both here and back home, and maybe it's harder to understand but it's also less likely to sneer at him like Cassius had. Maybe then he'd feel less sheepish about the fact that he got his ass handed to him.
"I'm pretty sure I have a bottle of whiskey," he says with a shrug. It's somewhere in his cupboard, being saved for an emergency. Nate's pretty sure this counts. It'll be enough to take the edge off, both the pain and the desire to turn around and find Cassius instead of going home.
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"Whiskey, perfect, it'll be just like old times," he continues, referencing St. Patrick's Day, an evening which he doesn't entirely remember, although he's aware he and Nate had downed a good deal of green whiskey.
"What happened?" he asks. "I've been led to believe superpowered types tend not to pick fights with those of us who can't quite defend ourselves against them. I suppose that's just one more thing Darrow gets to turn on its head."
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Nate is definitely sure that the whiskey in his apartment isn't green, thank god. He doesn't know that he'd be able to stomach that today. It does make him smile though, remembering what an entertaining drunk Marcus is.
"He told me to lick his shoes," Nate says, and just remembering it flares up the anger again. Nate's usually pretty good at letting things roll off his shoulders, but bullies piss him off, especially when they keep calling him a lowcolour, whatever the fuck that i.
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He'd shot his own father at age seven just to avoid bearing the brunt of the man's evil after he'd killed Marcus' mother.
"That's dangerous," he says thoughtfully after a moment. "A man like that wandering around." Men with that sort of attitude are dangerous enough without being impossible to put them down. No one should be so arrogant, though it's not as if Marcus is known for his modesty.
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He's learned the hard way that things were a lot different back home, when he usually had a gun and backup.
"Shouldn't have tried to hit him," Nate says with half a shrug. He's lucky he has friends like Lila who could repair most of the damage without needing to go to hospital. Nate doesn't do well with being cooped up, particularly not in a hospital bed. "Healed the worst of it, though." He flexes the fingers of his right hand gently. They're still bloody and a little stiff, but at least the bones are mended.
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He's quiet for a moment, absorbing what else Nate has said, and Marcus can't deny such an ability would have been useful to him at home. Nate, though, has never struck him as anything but a particularly adventurous regular man, and he narrows his eyes slightly, looking him over.
"You healed the worst of it?" he asks. "Or someone else?"
What he wouldn't give to have been able to heal Gabriel. To banish the Baptist from his soul and to heal his body, to brush away the burns and the bruises with just a little spot of magic. The boy's death will follow him for the rest of his life, as will the murders of Mother Bernadette and all the lovely women of that convent.
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He smiles a little, surprised to hear a priest say something like that to begin with, even an excommunicated one. He can't remember how many times Father Duffy lectured Nate about fighting, and here's Marcus, advocating for someone to punch Cassius in his perfect teeth.
He'd expected him to question the healing, but now that he has, Nate's not all that sure how to proceed. Magic is common enough in Darrow and he expects that Marcus will come across it quickly enough, but he doesn't know if he has yet, if this will be something that freaks him out. Then again, the guy exorcised demons for a living so Nate guesses there's probably not a lot that freaks him out. "A friend," he says vaguely. Telling him about magic is one thing, telling him who is something else. Lila's abilities aren't his secret to tell.
"There are people here who can do stuff," he explains, waving a hand. "Magic stuff. I was smart enough to make friends with one or two." In reality, his friendship with Lila had come as something of an accident, and he hadn't seen the proper extent of her magic until she'd had to bust him out of prison. But he sure is glad for it now. "She fixed up the broken bones, at least."
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Wouldn't that have been something? An ex-priest with a crush on a man he assumes to be straight, is fifteen years his junior, and can do magic. The entire situation amuses him at the best of times, though, so it would have just been one little extra tidbit to add to all of that. It's a hopeless crush, he feels almost entirely sure of that, but it's still rather nice all the same. To not be so caught up in the Church and its politics that he can allow himself to feel that pleasant little tug in his stomach whenever he sees someone. It's been a good long while since he's had that.
"I'm glad she did," he says honestly, then glances up at the apartment block that's coming into view. Though he's a little worried about Nate's present state, the information that someone magic has helped to heal him eases the knot of tension in Marcus' chest a little. If anything were seriously wrong, he feels as if she would have fixed it for him already. "Is this you, then? Tell me it is, I'd love for nothing more than to be able to plant you down on the couch and pour you a drink."
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He doesn't ask for detail about who Lila is, for which Nate is grateful. He could lie, but it's pretty debatable whether he's any good at that, and it feels wrong to lie to a priest.
Nate glances up at Candlewood in front of them and nods. "Home sweet home," he says, and maybe it's just a shoebox of a bare apartment but it is more home than he's ever had before. And getting sweeter by the minute with Marcus's offer to pour him a drink.
He leads him upstairs, fumbles for the key in his pocket and eventually gets the door open, letting Marcus in. "Make yourself at home."
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He uses the nearby table to pour them both a drink, then heads toward Nate, passing him one of the glasses before he sinks down on the couch.
"Still wanting that ice bath?" he asks with a lifted brow, trying not to look too amused before he takes a sip of the whiskey. For a man who's not particularly used to drinking, he's gotten fairly good at it over the past several months and is more than happy to engage in the activity whenever it presents itself.