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
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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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."