He should have known better, he really should have known better. Assuming that Stephen Strange is going to let any sleeping dog lie was a fool's fucking errand. Nate barely manages to wrestle the annoyance down because he knows it isn't really warranted. ]
[ Said conversationally, the sound of clinking glass and ceramic in the background, getting on with little bits and pieces while he deals with something important. ]
[ Hold on, Nate has to briefly scroll back through their conversation to determine that he did not, in fact, truly respond to are you all right? He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before replying. ]
[ He stops short of did you know that?, because parroting words Nate's apologized for back at him at a time like this doesn't seem like a joke in good taste. That's direct avoidance number two. ]
I know you're handling it. I think you should consider not handling it for at least the rest of the day.
[ The heartless, breathless huff of a laugh that escapes him sounds strangled. "Not handling it" runs the risk of cracking him in a way he doesn't think he can presently sustain. ]
I told you we could keep him. It's not too late to send him back. [ To the bar. That sounds like a joke, but it isn't one. ] Or there are other places for you to be.
It's been a long few months, Nate.
[ Breathing space between catastrophes is precious. With every other week bringing something worse, sooner or later something's going to have to give. Something's going to be the straw that breaks his back if nothing's done to lighten the load. ]
[ It's hasty, defensive, hugging himself at the seams. He's never been very good at taking much-needed recovery time, always falling inelegantly from one disaster to the next, letting the rush fill the void and the bad jokes fill the traumatic silences.
Lance told him he should talk about it. Nate can't quite find the words. ]
...look, I can't sleep, so I'm just gonna go to the bar, or something.
[ There's a moment of quiet sitting in the ether, Stephen letting that statement rest and considering what to do with it. Another gentle click clack chime of something moved and put away. ]
Alright.
[ Not every conversation is a battleground and not every doctor is a therapist.
Doctor's orders? Friend's strong suggestion. ]
You know how to reach me.
[ The if there's anything you need goes left implied. ]
[ And actually, no. After a short breath it's time for something with an air of sheepish confession: ]
I'm already there, by the way.
[ He's spoken friend. There comes a time when when you need to stop manipulating your friends into position, whether with your words or with your silence, regardless of whether or not you think you know what's best for them. ]
[ There's a strange combination of relief and further anxiety, initially, at being let off the hook. Nate won't force anyone into doing something they expressly don't want to do, nor has he become accustomed to asking for help. The unfortunate downside of having a former safety net removed is realizing you sort of enjoyed its presence, took it for granted.
Nate is half a second away from hanging up and planning for some kind of private breakdown in the store room at Red Wings when the addendum follows and he huffs a less bitter laugh. ]
[ Asshole. Stephen's answering laugh is a coughed out breath sharpened by the edge of a smile. Yeah, he'll take it. ]
See you then.
[ And he lets the feed cut off, sets the security system to notify him when Nate's ID registers in the building. At least that way he can have a couple of minutes to acclimate before Stephen ascends to get in his business. ]
[ It's shamefully late. Even the flickering neon seems to crack under the weight of the hour, sulfurous yellows and the bright, vivid LED blues spilling out of storefronts, illuminating the occasional drunk on a stoop. Cold, stark light, incapable of holding the same warmth as the bars on Bourbon Street that he may never actually see again.
Red Wings suffuses the damp asphalt with primary colors, the holographic OPEN sign switched to CLOSED. Nate pings his ID on the sensor and lets himself inside, the twisted metal of the door from the monster assault creaking reluctantly as it slides shut behind him.
They've long since swept up the glass but it doesn't feel the same as when he first walked in: changed, irreparably, like its most frequent customers. Sliding behind the bar Nate reaches for a glass, setting it on the counter before looking to the stock on the shelves in indecision.
Maybe it would be better to remain sober for this. ]
There's no telltale hiss of opening hatches to signal Stephen's presence today. In its place, the distant clinking of glass coming closer, sounds slightly more tremulous as he navigates the obstacles of destruction on the final leg of climb up out of the safehouse - and then there he is, crate of salvaged glasses in arm, making his way through from out back.
All told he's given Nate maybe three minutes. Three minutes is better than none, and better also than too many more. Minds change fast when they're turbulent. ]
You made it.
[ As if there were any doubt that he could. Stephen passes him to set the crate down on the bartop next to Nate's empty glass. Then, despite all of his best intentions, he turns to take stock of any physical ways in which Nate could be better, hunting out the need for any care he may not have properly given himself in the aftermath of whatever not-fight it was that left Sam bruised and Nate smarting in an altogether different way. ]
No vampire muggings on the way over?
[ Humour, to lighten the load of the undoubtedly obvious checking-over. ]
[ There are no more than the normal amount of fading bruises, the expected wear and tear of venturing into ill-advised places or banging his forearm really hard on a pipe while moving around the corner of a building ten stories up. He allows the scrutiny because he doesn't have much say in the matter and Stephen means well, not harm.
Nate returns the favor - force of habit - and Stephen appears a little tired. The usual, but it's also hours after close and while he's maintained the impression that neither of them know what regular sleeping looks like it's unsatisfying to have it confirmed. The street outside is empty and here they are, assessing each other.
His cup glides off the counter and Nate holds it under the bar sink's faucet, filling it with water. ]
I'm more than just a satisfying meal for bloodsuckers, you know.
[ Nothing too bad - at least, nothing beyond expectations. That's reassuring to a point.
They layer their shared study over with easier topics and it's almost as if they're not both sharing a moment of mutual disappointment in finding themselves the same as they've almost always known one another. Exhausted beyond what can be measured in puffed skin under the eyes and their presence in the workplace long after hours. ]
Oh? Good to know. I'll make a note.
[ What Stephen actually takes note of is Nate's choice of beverage. He's not here to drown sorrows.
Stephen settles himself back against the counter. His expression loses all of its playful corners, and that's all the warning Nate gets. ]
So it wasn't a happy reunion.
[ They could stand here all night beating around the bush. Have done, many nights, talking without saying much. But Stephen started this conversation. It's only fair that he guide it through the opening gates. ]
[ Nate's hip presses into the counter and he looks down into his cup, idly wishing it contained something stronger but knowing he'd really regret it if he fell apart in drunk frustration. At least this way he has that stranglehold of control, a non-existent hand around his own throat that makes it difficult to swallow when he takes a sip.
Refreshing and deeply unsatisfying. He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth. ]
I punched him in the jaw.
[ It hadn't felt good even during the act itself. Just another sickening reminder that Nate doesn't really know how to reconcile the Sam that strung him along and the Sam who raised him. Maybe he doesn't have to choose. Maybe it's just both, and he has to live with that.
Or not, given the direction things took. ]
He lied to me. And...I believed him. And now, I have nothing.
[ A steady breath in, released silently. It's been a long, long time since he last had family disputes, and there was never anything carrying this much weight. A pair of brothers who raised one another when they grew out of the orphanage. He can imagine it, piece it together from snatches: two against the world.
He lied to me. And now, I have nothing.
That's an incredibly raw thing to say. The seconds seem to stretch into one another in the following quiet and for a moment he regrets promising Nate his ear. There are better people for tender conversations that Stephen Strange. He knows his way around the human mind better with scalpels and synapses than call and response.
Then the moment of panic passes. It's hardly been any time at all. ]
He's asleep in your apartment. [ That's not nothing. It's just - ] Sooner or later our belief systems have to change.
[ And that's hard. It hurts. Life shifts in ways we could never have imagined, ways that leave us clutching a glass of water behind a free bar and talking of fists and jaws and complete and total loss.
For all that Nate watches his water, Stephen watches Nate. Gaze steady and constant, waiting to catch any glance cast his way and offer back his full attention, his active presence. He's here. He's listening. ]
[ Under any other circumstance Nate wouldn't say something so unabashedly maudlin, the kind of shit you see on daytime t.v. soap operas on Latin American cable. He had discussed something similar with Fenris, once, in vague terms: realizing that what you worked for and had was gone, and you were starting over from scratch. Realizing that your mistakes cost you everything. Loss is not a stranger to Nate, who has known it intimately since he was four years old.
This is something he isn't sure he can come back from.
Eye contact is a flighty thing, skipping from the quiet scrutiny of the man next to him, to the bottles lining the back wall of the bar, to the polished concrete floor and a weird stain that catches his attention. Looking down into his glass he can still hear the rush of the water beating the ragged cliffs of Panama, the wailing of the prison alarm. It took nearly a decade for those nightmares to stop. ]
You know, I thought he was dead? For fifteen years, he was dead. And that was on me. We had a job that went sideways and he got shot and I saw him fall five stories, and I left him. [ Your brother is dead. Either come with me, or join him. ] So he shows up out of the blue, asks for my help. Weaves a story I didn't even think to check.
[ It would have been easy, but Nate took it at face value. Why wouldn't he? ]
[ God. It's staggering how many tragedies can play out in the space of a few sentences, and he feels another lingering on the horizon.
Stephen shifts from his perch against the bar, turns his body to lean just the one hip against the counter, Nate's mirror image. It's only a small change, a positional correction: Stephen's spent years watching better people than him comfort the families of the terminally ill, the fatally wounded, the recently deceased. The trick seems to be to go toward instead of away. And to wait.
You don't always need to have something to say. Sometimes it's best just to listen. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Hello and welcome to the land of the educated guess. ]
I'll let him know and we'll keep him here. Take all the time you need.
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something else
it's not important. i sent him the address to my place so he won't bother you for much longer.
talk to you later.
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Ring ring, Nate. ]
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He should have known better, he really should have known better. Assuming that Stephen Strange is going to let any sleeping dog lie was a fool's fucking errand. Nate barely manages to wrestle the annoyance down because he knows it isn't really warranted. ]
Fancy hearing from you.
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[ Said conversationally, the sound of clinking glass and ceramic in the background, getting on with little bits and pieces while he deals with something important. ]
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[ Hold on, Nate has to briefly scroll back through their conversation to determine that he did not, in fact, truly respond to are you all right? He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before replying. ]
I'm handling it.
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[ He stops short of did you know that?, because parroting words Nate's apologized for back at him at a time like this doesn't seem like a joke in good taste. That's direct avoidance number two. ]
I know you're handling it. I think you should consider not handling it for at least the rest of the day.
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Doctor's orders?
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[ There are instances when he's happy to be frivolous. This isn't one. ]
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[ It's soft, a little surprised. Like opening up a drawer and finding something you thought you misplaced years ago. ]
I'm not really in a good place to not handle it.
[ Physically. Sam's snoring on the couch in the living room and Nate is suffocating. ]
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It's been a long few months, Nate.
[ Breathing space between catastrophes is precious. With every other week bringing something worse, sooner or later something's going to have to give. Something's going to be the straw that breaks his back if nothing's done to lighten the load. ]
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[ It's hasty, defensive, hugging himself at the seams. He's never been very good at taking much-needed recovery time, always falling inelegantly from one disaster to the next, letting the rush fill the void and the bad jokes fill the traumatic silences.
Lance told him he should talk about it. Nate can't quite find the words. ]
...look, I can't sleep, so I'm just gonna go to the bar, or something.
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Alright.
[ Not every conversation is a battleground and not every doctor is a therapist.
Doctor's orders? Friend's strong suggestion. ]
You know how to reach me.
[ The if there's anything you need goes left implied. ]
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I'm already there, by the way.
[ He's spoken friend. There comes a time when when you need to stop manipulating your friends into position, whether with your words or with your silence, regardless of whether or not you think you know what's best for them. ]
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Nate is half a second away from hanging up and planning for some kind of private breakdown in the store room at Red Wings when the addendum follows and he huffs a less bitter laugh. ]
Asshole.
[ There's no vitriol in it. ]
I'll be there soon.
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See you then.
[ And he lets the feed cut off, sets the security system to notify him when Nate's ID registers in the building. At least that way he can have a couple of minutes to acclimate before Stephen ascends to get in his business. ]
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Red Wings suffuses the damp asphalt with primary colors, the holographic OPEN sign switched to CLOSED. Nate pings his ID on the sensor and lets himself inside, the twisted metal of the door from the monster assault creaking reluctantly as it slides shut behind him.
They've long since swept up the glass but it doesn't feel the same as when he first walked in: changed, irreparably, like its most frequent customers. Sliding behind the bar Nate reaches for a glass, setting it on the counter before looking to the stock on the shelves in indecision.
Maybe it would be better to remain sober for this. ]
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There's no telltale hiss of opening hatches to signal Stephen's presence today. In its place, the distant clinking of glass coming closer, sounds slightly more tremulous as he navigates the obstacles of destruction on the final leg of climb up out of the safehouse - and then there he is, crate of salvaged glasses in arm, making his way through from out back.
All told he's given Nate maybe three minutes. Three minutes is better than none, and better also than too many more. Minds change fast when they're turbulent. ]
You made it.
[ As if there were any doubt that he could. Stephen passes him to set the crate down on the bartop next to Nate's empty glass. Then, despite all of his best intentions, he turns to take stock of any physical ways in which Nate could be better, hunting out the need for any care he may not have properly given himself in the aftermath of whatever not-fight it was that left Sam bruised and Nate smarting in an altogether different way. ]
No vampire muggings on the way over?
[ Humour, to lighten the load of the undoubtedly obvious checking-over. ]
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[ There are no more than the normal amount of fading bruises, the expected wear and tear of venturing into ill-advised places or banging his forearm really hard on a pipe while moving around the corner of a building ten stories up. He allows the scrutiny because he doesn't have much say in the matter and Stephen means well, not harm.
Nate returns the favor - force of habit - and Stephen appears a little tired. The usual, but it's also hours after close and while he's maintained the impression that neither of them know what regular sleeping looks like it's unsatisfying to have it confirmed. The street outside is empty and here they are, assessing each other.
His cup glides off the counter and Nate holds it under the bar sink's faucet, filling it with water. ]
I'm more than just a satisfying meal for bloodsuckers, you know.
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They layer their shared study over with easier topics and it's almost as if they're not both sharing a moment of mutual disappointment in finding themselves the same as they've almost always known one another. Exhausted beyond what can be measured in puffed skin under the eyes and their presence in the workplace long after hours. ]
Oh? Good to know. I'll make a note.
[ What Stephen actually takes note of is Nate's choice of beverage. He's not here to drown sorrows.
Stephen settles himself back against the counter. His expression loses all of its playful corners, and that's all the warning Nate gets. ]
So it wasn't a happy reunion.
[ They could stand here all night beating around the bush. Have done, many nights, talking without saying much. But Stephen started this conversation. It's only fair that he guide it through the opening gates. ]
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Refreshing and deeply unsatisfying. He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth. ]
I punched him in the jaw.
[ It hadn't felt good even during the act itself. Just another sickening reminder that Nate doesn't really know how to reconcile the Sam that strung him along and the Sam who raised him. Maybe he doesn't have to choose. Maybe it's just both, and he has to live with that.
Or not, given the direction things took. ]
He lied to me. And...I believed him. And now, I have nothing.
no subject
He lied to me. And now, I have nothing.
That's an incredibly raw thing to say. The seconds seem to stretch into one another in the following quiet and for a moment he regrets promising Nate his ear. There are better people for tender conversations that Stephen Strange. He knows his way around the human mind better with scalpels and synapses than call and response.
Then the moment of panic passes. It's hardly been any time at all. ]
He's asleep in your apartment. [ That's not nothing. It's just - ] Sooner or later our belief systems have to change.
[ And that's hard. It hurts. Life shifts in ways we could never have imagined, ways that leave us clutching a glass of water behind a free bar and talking of fists and jaws and complete and total loss.
For all that Nate watches his water, Stephen watches Nate. Gaze steady and constant, waiting to catch any glance cast his way and offer back his full attention, his active presence. He's here. He's listening. ]
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This is something he isn't sure he can come back from.
Eye contact is a flighty thing, skipping from the quiet scrutiny of the man next to him, to the bottles lining the back wall of the bar, to the polished concrete floor and a weird stain that catches his attention. Looking down into his glass he can still hear the rush of the water beating the ragged cliffs of Panama, the wailing of the prison alarm. It took nearly a decade for those nightmares to stop. ]
You know, I thought he was dead? For fifteen years, he was dead. And that was on me. We had a job that went sideways and he got shot and I saw him fall five stories, and I left him. [ Your brother is dead. Either come with me, or join him. ] So he shows up out of the blue, asks for my help. Weaves a story I didn't even think to check.
[ It would have been easy, but Nate took it at face value. Why wouldn't he? ]
I owed him.
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Stephen shifts from his perch against the bar, turns his body to lean just the one hip against the counter, Nate's mirror image. It's only a small change, a positional correction: Stephen's spent years watching better people than him comfort the families of the terminally ill, the fatally wounded, the recently deceased. The trick seems to be to go toward instead of away. And to wait.
You don't always need to have something to say. Sometimes it's best just to listen. ]
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