No. [ No, it hasn't. He doesn't know the half of it but he could agree that with certainty even if he knew none at all. Nathan Drake is not a man to exaggerate his own suffering. ] So why should you choke on this, too?
[ Stephen's early brushes with the acutely unfair, isolated black holes in an otherwise more than comfortable life, he allowed to shape him into a chaotically egotistical asshole. Nate's seem to have formed an orderly line, the chaos manifesting in his life instead of his person, the man himself relentlessly kind. Maybe that's just what happens when there are too many instances to count.
It's no wonder he's adrift now. Not knowing what to do when any of it finally catches up to you is inevitable when you've never been given time enough to collapse between bouts.
Life is relentless here too, but there is at least the occasional lull in which to breathe - calms before and after storms. They're sporadic, but precious. They've reached one such now. ]
—Yes, I think you should cry. Or scream. Or curl up and not move for three days until you've figured out how you want to mourn. It isn't fair, you know that. You don't owe anybody another five months of acting like you're not in pain.
[ No matter how you look at it, self-sacrifice is just another form of self-harm. It's right there in the name. ]
[ When he's spent his life careening from one disaster to the next with all the grace and aplomb of some cosmic plaything - at this point, the universe either really hates him or really likes him - he tends not to stop to reassess. There's a sensation like that in diving: putting a new tank off until the last minute, pushing his own limits for no other reason than to do so simply because he can.
When Nate got certified for stress and rescue it contained the usual stuff he already knew about, dive tables and proper safety precautions, first aid, CPR. What he hadn't been anticipating was one of the final exercises when they were already fifty feet below, a test of cool-headedness. A test intended to induce panic and encourage an understanding of the stakes. Gear is bulky and yet weightless underwater, the perfect environment in which an instructor might loop around while participants aren't looking before twisting their first stage open and shutting off their air.
Three or four good, unknowing breaths before inhaling nothing, the bubbles of a last exhale floating toward sea level. The immediate fear of realizing there are only two options: finding another diver and reaching out for help, or attempting ascent, risking the bends and flirting with a pulmonary embolism - provided a diver can reach the surface in the first place while the pressures crushes into their chest cavity, while the nitrogen expands.
It's why scuba has a buddy system. Easier to ask for air than drown. ]
Okay.
[ Nate nods and it's grudging, but honest. He can hold his breath much longer than most people, has a higher likelihood of making it, but it doesn't mean he has to. Worrying his lip with his teeth for a long moment, his gaze skips around until it makes eye contact again. ]
[ It takes time, a decent amount of it, but the longer it takes the calmer Stephen grows. If there was going to be backlash it would have come quickly. People don't have to psyche themselves up to denial, or to the knee-jerk evasion of discomfort.
Nate nods. He looks everywhere but at Stephen, and then at him directly. Stephen's mouth twitches faintly in support, nodding just the barest nod in return as Nate sets his resolution. (An idea makes its way to mind in that same moment. A little resolution of his own.)
To try is really all we can do when faced with something we've never done before. It's important just to set that goal. ]
[ Then he draws in a small, deciding breath, and abruptly changes the subject. ]
— Did I ever tell you I'm a wizard?
[ It's a sharp about-face but it feels necessary to give Nate a few moments less observed after having laid himself out for dissection under his own scalpel and left himself bleeding and bare in the company of a surgeon ill-suited to this kind of work.
Turning that spotlight on himself is the best way Stephen knows how... and he needs it there. Only for a moment or two. Long enough to make some small sense of what's coming after. ]
Not the mentalist thing. Sorcerer, if we're being technical.
[ It's better than nothing and as Nate rubs his eyes, feeling the exhaustion creep in and expecting to be told to get some rest, Stephen speaks. His brow wrinkles almost immediately, leaning heavily on the precedent he knows the man set when they last sat down for real drinks in a real restaurant.
The reprieve is nice. ]
You're a sorcerer.
[ He repeats slowly, and without thinking glances at Stephen's hands, one of the only things he hasn't pressed on. Again: old, probably from his world. If he'd come into this one and gotten injured here the repair work would have been a lot cleaner, if not entirely unnoticeable. ]
[ A slanting expression at Nate's chosen magician of the hour, but it slides otherwise off his back. Telling the tale isn't entirely the point. He needs the spotlight, but not for the full scope of his brief history of magic. ]
It's a story for another day. The point is, I trained in Kathmandu, we go by the Masters of the Mystic Arts, and as you can no doubt imagine from the name we have a lot of ancient and interesting magical tools and artefacts at our disposal. Such as—
[ And herein lies the purpose of the detour, arrived at with a thundering swiftness that's far from his past wont but perhaps serves the same smokescreen purpose. He looks away from Nate and down to his own chest with the kind of lingering draw that might be expected of the showman he'll claim not to be - a chest that's now glowing. Not from power use or from the bond, there's no subtle touch waiting on delayed emotional transference. He's glowing because something's emerging.
From the center of his glowing chest, apparently unconcerned by flesh or clothes and easing its way out of the light itself, comes a small metal object. It's oddly shaped, the design a muddle of rigid geometry and looser weaved rope etched into the old metal. Two metal loops curl underneath, making space for two fingers. ]
... If you could.
[ Retrieve it, he means. He's not sure whether Nate's done much experimenting with the objects they store in their chests, so the prompt is a just in case.
If he does take it, the essence that accompanies it is perpetual forward momentum. Infinite potential and desire to learn. Condensed, he's an eager freefall into bottomless wonder, and all of that drive is imbued into the little object lit up by blue and suspended in nothing, waiting to be plucked. ]
[ Having volunteered an otherwise exhausting amount of personal information Nate simply watches him, listens, opens his mouth at least once and shuts it again because his many questions - sudden, and numerous - spawning about the subject should be forced back down, and does his best to understand the connection.
It's a lot to absorb, more so when Stephen begins to glow and Nate's brow furrows at the small object that floats out like something from a bad, science-fiction B movie from the fifties. Except the effects are a little more impressive, and it's something he can actually touch. A kind of strange ring, some piece of jewelry in a style that looks vaguely familiar but only because of his wide exposure to various artifacts.
Stephen doesn't have to tell him twice. Ever tactile, Nate reaches out curiously without thinking and pulls it from the air.
The metal is warm and it feels a little bit like stepping off a building, a sensation with which Nate is regrettably familiar. Everything that follows is a flash in the pan, experience shockingly similar to what he already knows from personal experience, paired with a hunger for knowledge that Nate sees in a different light reflected in somebody else's mirror.
It's dangerous. Tempting. He's felt that before. Lightly: ]
[ It's the only response he really needs to give. Truthfully, he doesn't know what that little object feels like himself. But Nate has clearly felt it in the transfer, and that's all he needs. It works. That's good enough. ]
You can keep it for a while.
[ If he wants to. If it'll help. There's no obligation, but without any other means of offering respite it's all he can think to give. ]
[ Nate doesn't entirely know what to do with it, speaking with reluctance, rubbing his thumb against the ridged edges of something that looks as though it shouldn't actually have a physical form. His hand falls to his side and he assumes that if he doesn't drop it into his duffel bag or pocket, it'll sink into his skin when he's not looking.
That's how these things are supposed to go, right? ]
[ Paired with a sheepish smile— this really isn't his area of expertise, but the offering seems to have fallen somewhere close to the mark. That's good, even it leaves him suddenly adrift. He'd planned this far, not any further. A second feels a little like five.
Stephen abruptly sucks in a breath through his teeth, brows raising, and uses the shock of it to nudge the topic an inch or two to the left. ]
I think you can have a drink now. Something stronger, or shall I put on some tea?
[ Does alcohol still run the risk of feeling like a crutch, or would it be nice to have one or two? ]
[ Nate tucks it away into his back pocket and promptly tries to forget about the fact that he was extremely vulnerable three minutes prior, sucking his lip between his teeth and contemplating the wisdom in getting hideously drunk before sinking into a liquor-fueled sleep.
He knows better than to do that, unfortunately. Propping his elbow on the counter while the tension bleeds from his shoulders, Nate smiles. ]
Actually...and this is gonna sound surprising, but. Tea sounds nice. Got any varieties from Nepal?
[ A playful little lift of a brow - Do I? - and Stephen raises a finger to indicate Nate should wait there, "One minute", before disappearing off to the kitchen to set up the brew. The perks of owning a bar with a commercial kitchen, you never have to wait for hot water.
He doesn't have any Nepali blends that authentically pack the full punch of the leaves he's used to, but he does have a batch of Himalayan leaves that Silena kindly amped up to fit the flavour for him. It's close enough.
He returns with two ceramic, handleless tea cups in one hand and a tea kettle in the other, setting down the cups so he can shift a bar towel to protect the counter before putting the kettle down too. ]
Salvaged from the wreckage of the safehouse, no less.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Stephen's early brushes with the acutely unfair, isolated black holes in an otherwise more than comfortable life, he allowed to shape him into a chaotically egotistical asshole. Nate's seem to have formed an orderly line, the chaos manifesting in his life instead of his person, the man himself relentlessly kind. Maybe that's just what happens when there are too many instances to count.
It's no wonder he's adrift now. Not knowing what to do when any of it finally catches up to you is inevitable when you've never been given time enough to collapse between bouts.
Life is relentless here too, but there is at least the occasional lull in which to breathe - calms before and after storms. They're sporadic, but precious. They've reached one such now. ]
—Yes, I think you should cry. Or scream. Or curl up and not move for three days until you've figured out how you want to mourn. It isn't fair, you know that. You don't owe anybody another five months of acting like you're not in pain.
[ No matter how you look at it, self-sacrifice is just another form of self-harm. It's right there in the name. ]
You are in pain. Own it for a while.
no subject
When Nate got certified for stress and rescue it contained the usual stuff he already knew about, dive tables and proper safety precautions, first aid, CPR. What he hadn't been anticipating was one of the final exercises when they were already fifty feet below, a test of cool-headedness. A test intended to induce panic and encourage an understanding of the stakes. Gear is bulky and yet weightless underwater, the perfect environment in which an instructor might loop around while participants aren't looking before twisting their first stage open and shutting off their air.
Three or four good, unknowing breaths before inhaling nothing, the bubbles of a last exhale floating toward sea level. The immediate fear of realizing there are only two options: finding another diver and reaching out for help, or attempting ascent, risking the bends and flirting with a pulmonary embolism - provided a diver can reach the surface in the first place while the pressures crushes into their chest cavity, while the nitrogen expands.
It's why scuba has a buddy system. Easier to ask for air than drown. ]
Okay.
[ Nate nods and it's grudging, but honest. He can hold his breath much longer than most people, has a higher likelihood of making it, but it doesn't mean he has to. Worrying his lip with his teeth for a long moment, his gaze skips around until it makes eye contact again. ]
I'll try.
1/2
Nate nods. He looks everywhere but at Stephen, and then at him directly. Stephen's mouth twitches faintly in support, nodding just the barest nod in return as Nate sets his resolution. (An idea makes its way to mind in that same moment. A little resolution of his own.)
To try is really all we can do when faced with something we've never done before. It's important just to set that goal. ]
no subject
— Did I ever tell you I'm a wizard?
[ It's a sharp about-face but it feels necessary to give Nate a few moments less observed after having laid himself out for dissection under his own scalpel and left himself bleeding and bare in the company of a surgeon ill-suited to this kind of work.
Turning that spotlight on himself is the best way Stephen knows how... and he needs it there. Only for a moment or two. Long enough to make some small sense of what's coming after. ]
Not the mentalist thing. Sorcerer, if we're being technical.
no subject
The reprieve is nice. ]
You're a sorcerer.
[ He repeats slowly, and without thinking glances at Stephen's hands, one of the only things he hasn't pressed on. Again: old, probably from his world. If he'd come into this one and gotten injured here the repair work would have been a lot cleaner, if not entirely unnoticeable. ]
Okay, Howard Thurston. Go on.
no subject
It's a story for another day. The point is, I trained in Kathmandu, we go by the Masters of the Mystic Arts, and as you can no doubt imagine from the name we have a lot of ancient and interesting magical tools and artefacts at our disposal. Such as—
[ And herein lies the purpose of the detour, arrived at with a thundering swiftness that's far from his past wont but perhaps serves the same smokescreen purpose. He looks away from Nate and down to his own chest with the kind of lingering draw that might be expected of the showman he'll claim not to be - a chest that's now glowing. Not from power use or from the bond, there's no subtle touch waiting on delayed emotional transference. He's glowing because something's emerging.
From the center of his glowing chest, apparently unconcerned by flesh or clothes and easing its way out of the light itself, comes a small metal object. It's oddly shaped, the design a muddle of rigid geometry and looser weaved rope etched into the old metal. Two metal loops curl underneath, making space for two fingers. ]
... If you could.
[ Retrieve it, he means. He's not sure whether Nate's done much experimenting with the objects they store in their chests, so the prompt is a just in case.
If he does take it, the essence that accompanies it is perpetual forward momentum. Infinite potential and desire to learn. Condensed, he's an eager freefall into bottomless wonder, and all of that drive is imbued into the little object lit up by blue and suspended in nothing, waiting to be plucked. ]
no subject
It's a lot to absorb, more so when Stephen begins to glow and Nate's brow furrows at the small object that floats out like something from a bad, science-fiction B movie from the fifties. Except the effects are a little more impressive, and it's something he can actually touch. A kind of strange ring, some piece of jewelry in a style that looks vaguely familiar but only because of his wide exposure to various artifacts.
Stephen doesn't have to tell him twice. Ever tactile, Nate reaches out curiously without thinking and pulls it from the air.
The metal is warm and it feels a little bit like stepping off a building, a sensation with which Nate is regrettably familiar. Everything that follows is a flash in the pan, experience shockingly similar to what he already knows from personal experience, paired with a hunger for knowledge that Nate sees in a different light reflected in somebody else's mirror.
It's dangerous. Tempting. He's felt that before. Lightly: ]
Oh.
no subject
[ It's the only response he really needs to give. Truthfully, he doesn't know what that little object feels like himself. But Nate has clearly felt it in the transfer, and that's all he needs. It works. That's good enough. ]
You can keep it for a while.
[ If he wants to. If it'll help. There's no obligation, but without any other means of offering respite it's all he can think to give. ]
no subject
[ Nate doesn't entirely know what to do with it, speaking with reluctance, rubbing his thumb against the ridged edges of something that looks as though it shouldn't actually have a physical form. His hand falls to his side and he assumes that if he doesn't drop it into his duffel bag or pocket, it'll sink into his skin when he's not looking.
That's how these things are supposed to go, right? ]
I mean it.
no subject
[ Paired with a sheepish smile— this really isn't his area of expertise, but the offering seems to have fallen somewhere close to the mark. That's good, even it leaves him suddenly adrift. He'd planned this far, not any further. A second feels a little like five.
Stephen abruptly sucks in a breath through his teeth, brows raising, and uses the shock of it to nudge the topic an inch or two to the left. ]
I think you can have a drink now. Something stronger, or shall I put on some tea?
[ Does alcohol still run the risk of feeling like a crutch, or would it be nice to have one or two? ]
no subject
He knows better than to do that, unfortunately. Propping his elbow on the counter while the tension bleeds from his shoulders, Nate smiles. ]
Actually...and this is gonna sound surprising, but. Tea sounds nice. Got any varieties from Nepal?
no subject
He doesn't have any Nepali blends that authentically pack the full punch of the leaves he's used to, but he does have a batch of Himalayan leaves that Silena kindly amped up to fit the flavour for him. It's close enough.
He returns with two ceramic, handleless tea cups in one hand and a tea kettle in the other, setting down the cups so he can shift a bar towel to protect the counter before putting the kettle down too. ]
Salvaged from the wreckage of the safehouse, no less.