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
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.