sicparvasmagna | [March 23]

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[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.

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Even after years in Darrow, Beth hasn't quite rid herself of the habit of showing up places without calling or texting first. She'd adapted fairly easily to the cell phone, even though she'd never had one before coming here, but she'd spent so long without one that it's more instinct just go somewhere when she needs to see someone. Nate has told her she's welcome, he's made jokes about learning to play guitar -- or maybe they're not quite jokes, which is why she's carrying her guitar with her -- and he's one of her best friends in the city, so she doesn't think twice about just heading over to his place to see him when she has some free time.

Lately it feels like she has less and less of that, but it's not so bad. She likes being busy. It means this whole music thing isn't totally pointless.

On her way over, she'd stopped to pick up some food, fresh sandwiches from a deli near Nate's building, and she has the bag in one hand as she heads town the hall toward his place. Shifting her guitar from one shoulder to the other, she knocks on Nate's door, then waits in the hall for him to come to the door. He might not be home, she realizes that a second later, but almost immediately she hears someone shuffling around inside and she pauses, waiting, then calls, "Nate? It's Beth."

He looks a bloody wreck and Marcus is surprised to feel a lurch of concern.

It looks as thought Nate is on his way home, though Marcus doesn't actually know where the man lives and so he's only making an assumption, but there's are bruises on his face and he's not walking all that well and Marcus is of the mind he should likely go to a hospital instead of his own apartment. He's also just as convinced Nate won't and so he takes several steps closer until he's at the other man's elbow, then touches his arm gently to let him know he's there.

"Lead on," he says simply, making it clear wherever Nate is going, Marcus is going to be following. With the state he's in, he's not about to just leave him there to make his own way home. It looks as though he's been punched, but at least it seems nothing is broken. "Tell me you're just out looking for painkillers and you're about to head right back home where you have ice packs waiting for you."

Nate has a bag of frozen peas over his eye, which is a mystery in and of itself. He doesn't remember ever buying them, he's not the kind of guy who buys peas, but there they were, sitting in his freezer. It's a good thing, because he's sure his face would be twice the size, otherwise.

Lila has set the breaks, that's the main thing. The bruising and the swelling will go down with ice and time, and in the meantime he just gets to look like he went ten rounds with a baseball bat. He'd let her do what she could when she found him, and then he'd retreated into the relative safety of his apartment to drink an entire bottle of whiskey.

Someone knocks at the door and Nate seriously considers not answering it. But then he hears Beth, and if there's one person in this city he'd never willingly avoid, it's her. He drags his sorry ass off the couch, holding the frozen peas to the worst of the bruising with his bandaged right hand and opening the door with his left.

"Hey," he says, looking from Beth to the deli bag on her arm, to the guitar. He hopes to hell it's for her to play and not him.

Nate doesn't know why he expected to be able to get from the boardwalk to home without anyone noticing him. There are days he can barely walk down to buy beer without running into someone in this city, and this time he's a sight for sore eyes.

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.

Edited 2017-03-26 14:47 (UTC)

"Nate!"

She's lucky she splurged on the hard guitar case, because she drops it hard enough just inside the door to break the instrument otherwise and she steps in, shuts the door behind her and blindly places the deli bag on a nearby table, all without looking away from Nate's face. Something really bad has happened to him and right now, given the loss she's still grieving, she's not even close to ready to lose someone else. Nate is too important to her.

"Sit down," she orders him, as if she wasn't the one knocking on the door and causing him to get to his feet in the first place. "And... jeez, Nate, have you taken any anti-inflammatories? I'll get you some water and some pills, do you have any? I have some in my bag, I think, if you don't." Then she spots the whiskey and turns to look at him again, shaking her head. "Uh-uh, no way. You're not drinking that in this state. You could have a concussion!"

"I doubt drowning yourself is really the solution to your ills," Marcus answers lightly, wondering just how long he's going to have to stay with Nate to make sure he's okay. It's not that he doesn't want to, he'll be perfectly happy to make sure he gets comfortable and as pain free as possible in his current state, but he's not exactly known for his bedside manner. There is probably someone much more qualified in Nate's life to care for him and Marcus supposes once he gets Nate into his apartment, he can ask the man who he might think to call.

"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.

Edited 2017-03-26 16:05 (UTC)

Lila's on her way home when she comes across Nate. She sees the gore before anything else, the bloody, broken face, not even realizing it's him at first. But it's only a moment, and when she recognizes him her stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch.

"Christ, what happened to you?" she asks, her long legs briskly carrying her over to him. She touches the side of his neck, trying to get a closer look. His nose is practically demolished.

Nate groans when he sees Lila. He'd wanted to get home without anyone spotting him, so just his luck it would be Lila who finds him. He knows that as soon as she gets over the shock of seeing his face such a mess she'll probably never let him live it down.

"You don't like the new look?" he quips, but it hurts to smile so the joke falls flat. He leans back when she touches him, knowing that if she comes near his face it's going to be more agony than it already is.

"Hey, steady." She actually looked concerned which Nate admittedlt isn't used to seeing. "I'm fine," he tells her, even though it hurts to talk.

Edited 2017-03-26 22:10 (UTC)

"Oh yeah, you look fine. I'm serious, Nate, what happened?" Lila demands, her palms itching to unsheathe the blades hidden on her body to make whoever did this pay. His nose is broken, and some of the fingers of the hand he's cradling in his other are bent in ways fingers do not bend. Someone attacked him, maybe more than just someone. She gently presses her own hand along his stomach, looking for a reaction that would tell her if he has any cracked or broken ribs.

"I'm going to kill whoever did this to you, so make it easier on me and tell me who they are."

The guitar hits the ground and Nate winces. He knows how much it means to Beth and he hopes it hasn't broken, but she doesn't seem to pay it any mind. The door shuts behind her and she's in his apartment before he really has time to properly invite her in.

"I'm okay," he protests, knowing that it won't do any good. But he is okay; Lila has mended the broken bones, and maybe he looks like shit but he's healed from worse. She doesn't sound like she's going to take no for an answer however, so he sits obediently at the table and points towards the kitchen. "There's painkillers." He doesn't have anti-inflammatories, hadn't think he'd need them in Darrow. Truth be told it's not the kind of thing he'd carried back home, either.

He's got his hand halfway to the whiskey bottle when her back is turned, but then she spots it and chastises him. He still picks it up, shaking his head at her. "I don't have a concussion." Nate's had a concussion, he knows what that feels like. He got punched, he didn't whack his head on the pavement, and he'd managed to walk all the way home. He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig, wincing a little.

It sounds like the perfect solution to his ills, but who is Nate to argue with a priest? He smiles a little when Marcus says he looks like shit, though it ends up more of a grimace when the pain blossoms at the movement.

"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.

"Got hit," he says, even though that much is obvious. It's his own fault for getting himself into that kind of situation in the first place. He should have walked away, he'd meant to walk away, but he'd just been so goddamn smug and the second he hit something of a nerve the writing was on the wall. Sully taught him better than that, he thinks, but all it took was a moment and Nate was twenty goddamn years old again, spoiling for a fight.

"Doesn't matter who," he tells her, shaking his head. He can see her itching to go and do something about it, but he's not about to send her into that guy's path. He's not human, and Nate's not convinced that Lila and all her knives could make a scratch on him. Besides which, it was only a punch. Nate's pissed off and he wants retaliation but Lila wants blood, and it doesn't call for that.

She presses against his stomach and he waves her away. His ribs are fine. "Lila, 'm fine," he mutters, shrugging her off.

It's beer day with Nathan, and Sam's got a different craft beer this time from a microbrewery in the countryside. He's had it before, and figures it'd be a nice switch from Darrow IPA.

He doesn't even bother knocking anymore before he lets himself in. He just drops his things off on the counter and gets out two bottles. He looks around, realizes there's nothing to eat set out or anything, and frowns.

"Don't tell me you forgot," he calls, grabbing the bottles. "It was your turn to supply the snacks, Little brother." He grabs his keys — because he's the kind of guy to keep a bottle opener on his keychain now, who knew? — and flips the lid off of one before offering it to Nate.

Then he freezes.

"Jesus Christ, you look like shit," he says, tone caught somewhere between matter-of-fact and trying-not-to-panic.

It doesn't occur to him until Sam's standing in his living room that he was supposed to buy snacks. He was supposed to buy snacks and that's why he'd been out in the first place, before he'd gotten his ass handed to him by some jerk. Now, he has no snacks, and a broken face, so he's down nil for two.

"Thanks," he says, taking the beer gratefully and pressing the cold bottle to his cheek for a moment before he takes a swig. He feels like shit, too, but at least there's beer now. "It's this new anti-wrinkle thing I'm trying out. No good?"

He'd managed, at least, to bandage his hand by himself, though being one-handed it's a pretty sloppy job. The last thing he plans on doing is going to the ER though. For one, Lila has fixed any actual broken bones, so there's no point. Plus, they'd probably ask how he fixed the broken bones, and that's not his secret to tell. Plus, he'd have to admit he got in a fight with a giant made of steel and lost in about three seconds, and that's kind of embarrassing.

"'Severe shellfish allergy' doesn't really cover it," Sam replies. If Nathan wants to keep this light, Sam'll oblige, at least for now. He sets his beer down on the coffee table and heads into the kitchen for some paper towels and a cotton towel. He grabs a plastic bag and fills it with a few ice chips and water as cold as he can make it, then wraps that in the cotton towel. Then he gets the paper towels nice and warm and soapy before he makes his way back in.

"Here, c'mere, get that shit away from your face." He gently nudges the beer away and, with surprising gentleness, starts to dab the blood away from his face.

"You look like you fought a mountain and lost," he notes.

Nate lets him move around the apartment, used to Sam treating it more or less like his own. When he comes back with an ice pack and paper towels, there's a small part of Nate that feels like he's fifteen again and Sam is cleaning him up after some dumb fight. He always did have a tendency to pick fights with guys twice his size, and apparently nothing's changed.

He winces a little as Sam dabs at his face but he lets him, arms hanging at his sides, beer bottle dangling from the fingers of his left hand. He knows it would feel a thousand times worse without Lila's intervention so he focuses on that. He's been stabbed and shot and left for dead time and time again, he can suck up a couple of broken bones and a black eye.

Nate considers it for a moment. "That's actually not far from the truth," he admits. He'd been thinner than a mountain, but certainly as hard and unrelenting. Practically as tall. Nate's a goddamn idiot.

"Given what this city does, I'm a little afraid to ask," Sam admits. Once he can actually see the skin again, he puts the make-shift ice pack over Nate's face. By now, it's actually comfortably cold, so it should help . . . a little.

Other people might get angry, Beth has seen what fear can do to people, but she's never been that way. After her suicide attempt, she'd changed, she'd gotten better at being in stressful situations, she'd gotten better at taking charge or accepting her assignment, whatever was called for, and she snaps into that mode easily now. Sometimes she worries she's going soft. Too long away from danger might make it so she struggles when her strength is finally called on again, but then something like this happens and she knows it isn't the truth.

She can still do whatever is necessary.

Running the water, she fills a glass for Nate, then rummages around until she finds the painkillers and when she returns to the living room, she sets the water down on the table and then takes the whiskey bottle from Nate's hand and gently uncurls his fingers so she can place two of the pills in his palm.

"Take those," she says as she caps the whiskey, although she doesn't put it away. She isn't going to fight with him over whether or not he should be drinking, even though she thinks he shouldn't be. What she's going to do is make sure he takes the painkillers, make sure he drinks plenty of water and eats the sandwich she brought for him, even if it hurts a little bit to do so.

Edited 2017-03-27 20:26 (UTC)

"You're a stubborn ass, you know that?" Lila says gruffly, irritated that he won't tell her. She'll find out on her own, then, it isn't like she doesn't have an overabundance of time in this place.

"Come on, I'll take care of you," she adds with a sigh, taking his good arm in hers and leading him toward her apartment. They aren't too terribly far from it, and it will afford them some privacy while she fixes his nose and hand. "You weren't mugged, I hope?"

"I've made an entire career out of fighting something similar," Marcus reminds him with a small smile. "Though I do tend to use religious scripture rather than my fists, so perhaps you should be asking me to train you for the next time you run into something a little bit stronger than you expect."

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.

He's heard that before, so he lets it roll off his shoulders without complaint. Better that she be pissed with him than go off and get into a fight that could end up with her the same way as him.

She takes his arm and Nate follows obediently. Maybe he is a stubborn ass but he knows better than to completely avoid help. At least she's not calling an ambulance, so he trusts that she's taking him home rather than to hospital.

"No," he says, shaking his head a fraction. It makes his head spin so he stops quickly. "Picked a fight I shouldn't have." He's not sure who started it exactly; Cassius was being a dick but it's Nate who threw the first punch. He still has his wallet on him so it was hardly a mugging, more a matter of proving a point.

Nate knocks back the painkillers as instructed, finishing half the glass of water. His fingers itch for the whiskey bottle but he leaves it for now, watching her set it aside. She probably has a point in that he shouldn't be drinking, but he can't say he's ever been all that responsible. Still, he does have enough presence of mind to recognise that a hangover in this state is going to be far from enjoyable, so he holds off.

She's not talking much, and Nate's not sure if it's because she disapproves or what, but he doesn't have the energy to question it. If she wants to chew him out he'll sit here and listen, but it's a lecture he's heard time and time again and he still keeps winding up in the same place. That probably says something about him, but he can't be bothered thinking about that, either.

"Thanks," he tells her, because he does appreciate her being here and what she's doing for him. He knows he'd be worse off alone, but being looked after like this isn't something he's used to, either. "Really, I'm fine."

"Can you exorcise asshole out of someone?" Nate asks him with a grimace. Marcus is used to fighting demons and Nate knows a little about that, maybe, but this is something different. There's nothing spiritual or demonic about this, just a guy with an attitude problem and Nate being too easy to bait.

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.

Nate takes the ice pack from him, holding it against his cheek. "Thanks," he mutters, taking a swig of his beer. The ice is a relief as soon as it touches his skin and he groans a little in relief. If it looks bad now he knows it's only going to get worse, turning an array of colours as it heals, but there's not much he can do about that.

"Some asshole," Nate says, shrugging one shoulder. He takes his beer to the couch, flops onto it and leans his head back, closing his eyes briefly. "Giant, bones-of-steel, smug goddamn face asshole."

Exactly the kind of guy Nate and Sam have always picked fights with, only this time Nate bit off more than he could chew.

"Oh, I'd be willing to give it a go," Marcus answers, mostly to keep Nate distracted, to keep him focused on something other than the pain. As Marcus has thoroughly enjoyed noticing on more than on occasion, Nate isn't an overly small man and while Marcus has been known to hold his own in a fight -- Brother Simon would attest to that if he were still alive -- he has a feeling if Nate has been left in this state, he wouldn't fare much better himself.

"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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[March 23]

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