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. ]
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that why you were asking if i was all right? because he told you to park the car in harvard yard?
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He's here, has been for hours. You aren't.
[ He can only assume from the growing combination of factors that the reunion could've been happier. ]
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I'll keep him fed and watered. If you need any messages passed along, drop me a line.
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5 minutes later
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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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