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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She also realizes, now that she's gotten over her initial shock of finding him bloody and beaten, that she hasn't seen him in awhile. On purpose, on her end. So it's probably not her place either way. She'd been horrified after the enchantment had been lifted, maybe not entirely that she told him he was like a father to her, but the way she'd said it, and the way he'd rejected her affection. She doesn't blame him, who wants someone simpering to them about how they wish they were their parent? In short, it had been embarrassing, a feeling Lila does not appreciate. And deep down it hit too hard, making her think of Barron, who back home really had been the closest thing to a father she'd ever had. And how she'd never been kind to him the way he'd always been with her.
She lets them both into Bramford, ushering Nate into the elevator to take them up to her apartment. "Come on. Try not to get any blood on the couch, at least."
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They get to Bramford and Nate remembers suddenly that this is exactly where Cassius was trying to get to before he took a detour to ruin Nate's face. He glances around but there's no one else here for the moment, which is lucky. If he were to show up, Nate would paint on the bravado again quick as he could, but the thought of having to do that right now is exhausting.
When they get to elevator he leans against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment to fight off the dizziness as it starts to move. He's grateful when it's over and he can follow Lila inside, though he does give her a weak smile at the joke. "I'll try to keep it on my person."
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The elevator pings to her floor, and she helps Nate to her apartment, not bothering to dig around for the key. She opens her door with her magic and guides him over to the couch. "There you go," she says, plopping down next to him with a sigh. She shrugs her coat off and brings out a small knife from under her shirt sleeve. "This is probably going to be weird for you."
Lila hasn't done a whole ton of healing with her magic before, so she cuts her arm deeper than usual to bring up more blood. Gathering it on the pads of three of her fingers, she presses them Nate's broken hand. "As Hasari." Heal.
It's a slow process, and she keeps her fingers in place as the spell works on mending him.
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He sinks into the couch and breathes out heavily, leaning back. She pulls a knife out and for a moment Nate tenses, though why it even occurs to him that she might want to hurt him, he doesn't know. He's about to tell her he's seen weird and whatever she has planned probably won't measure up, but then she's slicing into her arm and he makes a noise of protest, leaning forward to shake his head.
"Hey, woah, no," he argues, looking for something to tie the cut off with. There's nothing lying around so his next thought is to rip his shirt and tie the material around her arm, but before he can she coats her fingers in blood and presses them against his hand. He's seen Lila do magic before but not like this. He resists the urge to flinch at the first press of her fingers, but then he can feel it, feel the bones resetting and mending.
It doesn't hurt but it feels absolutely cringe-worthy and Nate makes a face as he watches his hand heal, but it's still better than going to hospital. "That's a handy skill," he tells her, talking to keep his mind off what she's doing more than anything else.
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She gently covers his hand with hers as the magic works to help keep him from watching. She remembers how unsettling it had been when she'd first experienced it, but by now she's so familiar with the magic it's like second nature to her.
"It beats wearing a splint or cast. So if you ever find yourself in trouble again, you can come here if you want," she offers, a little awkwardly. She isn't used to being the one to help, or dole out kindnesses, but Nate isn't one she'd want to see suffer.
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When he feels like he can move his fingers again, he pushes her hand gently away and looks at it. There's still some bruising around his knuckles and blood has dried in spots on his skin, but the bones are healed and he can move it. He wriggles his fingers, huffing a small laugh. "Really handy trick," he notes, glancing back up at her.
She seems hesitant all of a sudden, a little caught out, and Nate wonders if she's ever made that kind of offer before. It's not like he plans to go and get himself beat up again, but he supposes it's helpful to know that he can come here instead of the emergency room should he need to. "I don't plan on taking you up on that," he says, shaking his head. "I kind of thought I'd try and keep my bones not broken for a while, but thanks."
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"No more picking fights?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. Not that she has any ground to stand on, she's picked more fights than she can count. "What'd they do, anyway, to get you so pissed?"
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"Can't promise that," he admits. Elena has asked him to make that promise time and time again, and he always comes up short. He doesn't mean to pick fights, but apparently Nate has the kind of face and attitude that invites punching, who knew? "He kept talking like I was some kind of slave," Nate answers, and he'd wrinkle his nose in distaste if he didn't know that would hurt like hell right now. "Told me to lick his shoes."
It's not even the worst that anyone has ever said to him, but it rubbed him the wrong way, hit a nerve that hasn't been struck in a long time. Nate worked hard to get himself off the streets and try and make something of himself, and he's not about to let some douchebag throw it all back in his face and treat him like he's nothing.
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"Wait a minute," she says, frowning now, "was he really tall, gold eyes and hair?"