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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"I'm good," he tells him, leaning back into the couch. At the very least he has an apartment to recuperate in now, with a bed and a couch and a shower. It's already way better than any of the other times he's been badly injured, trying to patch himself up in the middle of a fire-fight or in the middle of the fucking desert.
He rolls his beer bottle in his fingers. "Most excitement I've had in a while, actually." His face hurts and his hand hurts and none of that is ideal, but he can't deny that he'd enjoyed the adrenaline rush at the time. He hasn't been in a fight in almost a year, hasn't had anything out of the ordinary happen except for the thousand parties the people in this city like to throw and an occasional bout of crazy city magic.
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Even if Nathan hadn't gotten the snacks.
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He's glad to see that Sam has relaxed now though. The initial concern on his face had been something Nate hasn't seen in a long time, not since they were kids. He used to look at him like that when Nate got into fights with the other kids at the orphanage and met Sam on the roof after. It had been a little odd to see it here; Nathan's a grown man and for the most part he's looked after himself for the last fifteen years or so. Sam wasn't there and while Sully stepped in, he never tried all that hard to stop Nate's reckless streak.
He remembers again how Sam has told him he's supposed to be retired now, married and settled down, talking about starting a family. Maybe he hadn't heeded Sully or Sam, but apparently he heeded Elena.
"I'll keep that in mind if I see him again."
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"My face seems to encourage people to hit it," he muses, only half-joking. He knows it's more likely his tendency to run his mouth than anything else, but he has gotten hit an awful lot in his life, and he doesn't think that can all be blamed on him. "This asshole turned up and he was being an asshole," Nate explains, repeating for emphasis. "Said a bunch of crap about me being a good for nothing lowcolour - whatever that means - and then told me get on my knees and lick his shoes. So I hit him."
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