La Fortune Favorise l'Hardi ( Uncharted, Various )
Title: La Fortune Favorise l'Hardi (Fortune Favors the Bold)
Summary: A collection of five drabbles, in no particular order or setting, spanning through the first and second Uncharted. It's more of my way of dipping my toes into a particular fandom than anything else, but I hope that you enjoy it.
Author: Mercilouslia
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 993
Character(s): Nathan Drake, Elena Fisher, Harry Flynn
Pairing(s): Nate/Elena!platonic, Harry -> Nate
Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing, really. Brief mentions of very minor events in UC2. Very mild, if any, swearing.
One ( 1 ) Leather Watch
He remembers when his life was boring. He remembers when it could be predicted, and the only thing that provided any sort of rush was going eighty in a forty-five zone, and then trying to weasel out of the ticket when he was pulled over.
But it was something, something there and real and so tangible, that it only escalated to where he was making a meager living out of jumping across rooftops, scraping his fingers against the sky, shooting at the stars, and watching his world flash before his eyes so many times that he can look away bored when there’s supposed to be a heart-wrenching moment playing like a broken film.
Nate thinks about it rather fondly, when he’s tuning his watch - so bored, so mind-numbingly dull that he smiles and shakes his head, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the glass of the face.
He supposes that there’s something to be proud of in the mundane.
Twenty-four ( 24 ) Hours in a Day
Snoring, he pulls the pillow closer to his face, smearing the small streams of drool against his stubble, he cheek, and he snorts, gruffly-expression changing that to displeasure. He snorts again, choking lightly on the quick intake of air as he rolls over, not-so-quietly deciding that that part of the couch is not made for his particular body type, and cuddles the pillow just that much closer.
And it’s then, Elena decides, that she cannot wait for Nate to wake up. If only to knock him back out with the swift punch to the temple that she’s planning for the reckless asshat.
Eight ( 8 ) Journals
The pages are worn, ragged, smooth under his fingertips as he glides over the pencil sketches, the haphazard maps, the little notes and the theories of what should be considered a madman. They stretch for years and years, and he can’t help but be amused by each step in Nate’s growing, and how he sees the other’s life spoken with each page that gets the pleasure of skimming over.
It smells like old leather and travel-has that faint scent of the overpriced cologne that Nate uses almost religiously (whenever he gets the chance, at least. Months away from home build up a different type of smell in a person). He finds it endearing. It makes his heart hurt, just a bit.
Don’t blame him, he murmurs, stuffing a journal into the inside pocket of his jacket, not really listening as Nate chatters on about something that he’s excited over. He just wants a trinket, a little memento to remind himself of the “good old days,” when Harry’s certain that those days were coming to a swift end.
He can’t help it if he wants to hold on, to that little piece of light, and it just so happens to be in volume four of Nathan Drake’s particularly interesting doodles.
Two ( 2 ) Kisses
The first one is an accident. They’re both aware of that. It’s the surge of excitement and adrenaline that washes over the body in incomprehensible waves when - they, of all people, some ragtag pair of thieves just barely getting by - there are treasures tucked under their arms and rock pounding underneath their shoes and they’ve made it out of there. Their first heist: a complete success, if they ignored both of their inability to knock out the guards effectively the first, second, and third times.
And it’s brief. It’s a new emotion that neither of them know how to deal with, and it takes awkward shape as a kiss that’s too quick, that misses both of their mouths and Nate ends up pursing his lips against the corner of the other’s mouth; and Harry, after trying to rectify it, ends up missing and nearly kissing his nose.
They’re both embarrassed, and after clearing his throat, Nate returns to being giddy over their newly-acquired “fortune,” disregarding the bills and debt that he’s accumulated so far - he’s made a fortune! He’ll be rich and living on easy-street for the rest of his life!
Harry, however, rubs at the side of his mouth, the shame not quite leaving him as quickly. It picks at him. It gnaws at him.
They grin. They drink to their luck, and the museum’s bad fortune.
They steal again in the morning.
One thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-two ( 1,862 ) Apologies
The emotional range of Nathan Drake can be spread on a saltine.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing. There are fine-picked emotions that are spread-and while they are certainly meaningful and important, they are general and he cannot comb through them with as much grace or finesse as other, better-groomed men may.
And it’s also in these saltine-emotions that he spews apologies. Some of them for the sake of saying them - oftentimes they’re good at diffusing a situation - and others, with more force or meaning behind them; and Nate is especially prone to fancying the ones where they can just roll off of his lips. It means that there’s nothing to be worried about. It means that everything is right in his little world, and he can continue climbing, swinging, drinking and enjoying the sunlight playing across his face and the wonderful world that has been splayed out around him for his enjoyment.
It makes him nervous when there’s feeling behind it. It makes him uncomfortable, and he gets anxious, and it ends up lining the road for more apologies and he wishes, with all of his heart, that people would understand that even when he says it without hesitation-it doesn’t ever lack in meaning.
He winces, putting a hand over the man’s eyes as he closes them gently, not wanting to see the unfocused muddy eyes staring straight up, as the blood leaks into the white of his eyes and Nate, in his guilt, glances away.
“Sorry.”
Summary: A collection of five drabbles, in no particular order or setting, spanning through the first and second Uncharted. It's more of my way of dipping my toes into a particular fandom than anything else, but I hope that you enjoy it.
Author: Mercilouslia
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 993
Character(s): Nathan Drake, Elena Fisher, Harry Flynn
Pairing(s): Nate/Elena!platonic, Harry -> Nate
Spoilers/Warnings: Nothing, really. Brief mentions of very minor events in UC2. Very mild, if any, swearing.
One ( 1 ) Leather Watch
He remembers when his life was boring. He remembers when it could be predicted, and the only thing that provided any sort of rush was going eighty in a forty-five zone, and then trying to weasel out of the ticket when he was pulled over.
But it was something, something there and real and so tangible, that it only escalated to where he was making a meager living out of jumping across rooftops, scraping his fingers against the sky, shooting at the stars, and watching his world flash before his eyes so many times that he can look away bored when there’s supposed to be a heart-wrenching moment playing like a broken film.
Nate thinks about it rather fondly, when he’s tuning his watch - so bored, so mind-numbingly dull that he smiles and shakes his head, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the glass of the face.
He supposes that there’s something to be proud of in the mundane.
Twenty-four ( 24 ) Hours in a Day
Snoring, he pulls the pillow closer to his face, smearing the small streams of drool against his stubble, he cheek, and he snorts, gruffly-expression changing that to displeasure. He snorts again, choking lightly on the quick intake of air as he rolls over, not-so-quietly deciding that that part of the couch is not made for his particular body type, and cuddles the pillow just that much closer.
And it’s then, Elena decides, that she cannot wait for Nate to wake up. If only to knock him back out with the swift punch to the temple that she’s planning for the reckless asshat.
Eight ( 8 ) Journals
The pages are worn, ragged, smooth under his fingertips as he glides over the pencil sketches, the haphazard maps, the little notes and the theories of what should be considered a madman. They stretch for years and years, and he can’t help but be amused by each step in Nate’s growing, and how he sees the other’s life spoken with each page that gets the pleasure of skimming over.
It smells like old leather and travel-has that faint scent of the overpriced cologne that Nate uses almost religiously (whenever he gets the chance, at least. Months away from home build up a different type of smell in a person). He finds it endearing. It makes his heart hurt, just a bit.
Don’t blame him, he murmurs, stuffing a journal into the inside pocket of his jacket, not really listening as Nate chatters on about something that he’s excited over. He just wants a trinket, a little memento to remind himself of the “good old days,” when Harry’s certain that those days were coming to a swift end.
He can’t help it if he wants to hold on, to that little piece of light, and it just so happens to be in volume four of Nathan Drake’s particularly interesting doodles.
Two ( 2 ) Kisses
The first one is an accident. They’re both aware of that. It’s the surge of excitement and adrenaline that washes over the body in incomprehensible waves when - they, of all people, some ragtag pair of thieves just barely getting by - there are treasures tucked under their arms and rock pounding underneath their shoes and they’ve made it out of there. Their first heist: a complete success, if they ignored both of their inability to knock out the guards effectively the first, second, and third times.
And it’s brief. It’s a new emotion that neither of them know how to deal with, and it takes awkward shape as a kiss that’s too quick, that misses both of their mouths and Nate ends up pursing his lips against the corner of the other’s mouth; and Harry, after trying to rectify it, ends up missing and nearly kissing his nose.
They’re both embarrassed, and after clearing his throat, Nate returns to being giddy over their newly-acquired “fortune,” disregarding the bills and debt that he’s accumulated so far - he’s made a fortune! He’ll be rich and living on easy-street for the rest of his life!
Harry, however, rubs at the side of his mouth, the shame not quite leaving him as quickly. It picks at him. It gnaws at him.
They grin. They drink to their luck, and the museum’s bad fortune.
They steal again in the morning.
One thousand, eight hundred, and sixty-two ( 1,862 ) Apologies
The emotional range of Nathan Drake can be spread on a saltine.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing. There are fine-picked emotions that are spread-and while they are certainly meaningful and important, they are general and he cannot comb through them with as much grace or finesse as other, better-groomed men may.
And it’s also in these saltine-emotions that he spews apologies. Some of them for the sake of saying them - oftentimes they’re good at diffusing a situation - and others, with more force or meaning behind them; and Nate is especially prone to fancying the ones where they can just roll off of his lips. It means that there’s nothing to be worried about. It means that everything is right in his little world, and he can continue climbing, swinging, drinking and enjoying the sunlight playing across his face and the wonderful world that has been splayed out around him for his enjoyment.
It makes him nervous when there’s feeling behind it. It makes him uncomfortable, and he gets anxious, and it ends up lining the road for more apologies and he wishes, with all of his heart, that people would understand that even when he says it without hesitation-it doesn’t ever lack in meaning.
He winces, putting a hand over the man’s eyes as he closes them gently, not wanting to see the unfocused muddy eyes staring straight up, as the blood leaks into the white of his eyes and Nate, in his guilt, glances away.
“Sorry.”