His heart's racing as he steps inside.

He still can't quite get his head around it. A year. A whole bloody year, he's thought Stephen was dead. And maybe he is. Maybe this is just some cheap knockoff Helen's cooked up to fuck with the, but … it just doesn't feel like it. Standing in the room with him, not even a pane of glass to separate them, it just feels too damn real.

For his part, Stephen looks like he can't decide how he feels. His head snapped around as soon as Nick stepped through the door, but other than a brief widening of his eyes, his face stays impassive. Had he always been able to do that? Had the Stephen that Nick knew always been so guarded?

The answer makes Nick frown. Because the answer is, 'Yes.' Yes, he had. There were times he let the walls down, especially during those months they finally stopped dancing around each other and finally did what Nick realizes now they should've done from the start. But for the most part, Stephen's always held the world at a distance.

He probably has more reason for it than most.

"Suppose I might've knocked first," he says lightly. It's a bullocks attempt at a joke, but he had to say something. Someone had to break the terse stalemate that stretched on between them, neither moving or speaking, and it obviously wasn't going to be Stephen. "But I didn't think you'd answer."

He doesn't answer that, at least. He just stands there on the other side of the table, body sort of angled. Nick recognizes the meaning behind the stance. He's defensive. Uncomfortable. His eyes dart to the door behind Nick, and Nick has to bite back a sigh.

"There's four men just the other side of that door," he tells him patiently. "With guns." Which he isn't sure he really wanted to tell him. Stephen looks like a spooked animal, all wide eyes and clenched jaw; the last thing he wants to do is give him something else to fret about. Besides, he needs answers, and the best way he can think of to get them is to make whoever this is comfortable enough to get them.

Christ, though, but it is uncanny. Those eyes ... he knows how convincing the clones can be, but it's getting harder by the moment not to give up the scepticism altogether.

He watches those eyes dart back to the door again, sees the calculating look in them, and this time, he does sigh. "You're not going anywhere they don't want you. Not until they know you're not a threat. So, unless you feel like spending another night cooped up in here, I think it's time you break your vow of silence."

Nothing doing.

This is going to take longer than he thought, which isn't his idea of good news. He's tired, and his shoulder's really starting to smart. He's invested, but he's only human. A human with a hole in his shoulder, at that.

Making up his mind, he nods to the chair nearest him. "You mind?"

Still no answer. Silence is a form of consent.

When he takes a step towards the chair, though, Stephen stiffens. Nick recognizes it better than he likes to admit.

Stephen didn't really talk about his background much. The only things he'd casually mention were his credentials as an Olympic shooting prospect and football star in high school, and maybe, if he was heading towards pissed or just feeling particularly share-y, he might mention his conservation work. Just ... never in any detail.

There would be times, though, when he'd come back from holidays, sometimes a little scuffed up or bruised not unlike he is now, and he'd be so on edge for days on end that Nick would be half convinced he was afraid someone was out to get him. He'd never talk about it (Nick had put some pieces together, figured out that the kind of conservation work Stephen did was the kind that meant coming back from Africa with a bullet graze or from Iceland with a broken arm) but days like that, especially once he became his research assistant, Nick knew to approach with caution and handle with care.

And even though he hadn't gone on any of his conservation trips since the anomalies started cropping up, Nick still knows how to identify the signs. And how to do the dance.

Approach with caution, handle with care.

"Settle down," he tells him, closing the rest of the distance to the chair and sitting down. "I'm old and just out of the hospital, if you haven't heard. Stand if you like, but I'm sitting down."

Nick's aware he's being watched as he sits down. He watches the man (Stephen, supplies the unfailingly optimistic voice in the back of his head) furrow his brows, and that's when he notices that some of the dirt in his hair isn't dirt at all.

"Maybe you should've gone with me," he says, gesturing to his own brow, towards the top left. On the other, it's where his hair sort of falls into his face. Or is plastered to it, more like, by what looks to be dried blood. It seems recent. The bruising's starting to spread down the side of his face, visible through the grime only when Nick really looks. "Has anyone had a look at it?"

To his surprise, that actually gets a bit of a smile. More of a twitch of his lip, really, but Nick's willing to take what he can get. It takes him a second to figure it out, but when it dawns on him: that guard with the busted nose. He wonders now just how he'd come by it, and what he'd tried to do that'd earned it for him.

Stephen always did hate medical professionals.

"You shouldn't have done that." His heart's not in the scolding, though. "He was just doing his job."

It falls on deaf ears.

He tries his best, but in the face of yet another brush-off, Nick loses his patience. He stands, ignoring the blood rush and surge of pain, and braces his good arm on the table. "Damn it, why won't you say anything? I know you can speak; I heard you in the fire. So what is it? You don't trust us? Because I can tell you they," he points back towards the window, "don't trust you, either. And that's not going to change until you tell us who you are and why you're here. Are you Stephen Hart, or aren't you?"

Because that's what he really wants to know. That's what he needs to know, and he's well aware that the other could just lie to him. He could lie to his face, and Nick might not be any the wiser. But he likes to think he knew Stephen. Knows him, maybe.

He knows that his favourite football team is Liverpool, even though they've never won a Premier League title (and never will, says the Everton fan in him). He knows his favourite drink is Fuller's, but that he tolerates Nick's "Glenfiddich Fetish" for hard liquor. He knows he sleeps on his left side, hates to be cold, and loves to be touched as long as it's on his terms. He shoots like an ace, kisses like a dream, and fucks for England.

And he knows he's been hurt. He knows he has nightmares that would make lesser men break, that he's got nights he can't sleep until he's literally run himself down and days when the smell of gin makes him pale like he's waiting for a hit that doesn't come. He knows he still bins any post that comes from a specific address in Cressington, and he knows ... he knows that despite all that, Stephen is still the most courageous, passionate, devoted man he's ever met.

He knows that, now; he only wishes he'd seen it then, before it was too late.

"Well?" he says sharply. "Are you?"

"Does it matter?"

Nick has to do a double take. He nearly missed it, quiet as it was and flustered as he is. But it was there; he said something. Finally.

Unfortunately, what he said wasn't much better than the silence. Nick looks at him like he's daft. "Of course it bloody matters! Don't you understand? You shouldn't exist. You've got the face of a dead man. You've got his voice, his mannerisms. And you just show up like you did, out of nowhere, in the middle of the fire? What're we supposed to think?"

A laugh. At first, Nick can't believe it, but there's no denying it. The man's laughing, head bowed and shaking. "You think I'm working with Helen." It's not a question. He's smart, and it's not that difficult a puzzle to piece together.

"So tell me otherwise!" Nick snaps. It comes out sounding like a plea. He wants to hear it; he needs to hear it. And the sooner he gets an answer, the sooner he can figure out what the hell they're supposed to do. For his part, he hopes it's getting Stephen (knowing, at last, that it is Stephen) out of that room, getting his head looked at and whatever else he has wrong with him. Get him checked for smoke inhalation, for all the good it will do him now.

Straightening, he starts around the table. He tries not to pay any mind to the way the man takes a step back, to the way his fists clench at his sides. He tenses up, but he doesn't freeze. Everything about Stephen had always been so mobile, so fluid; he was a creature built for speed and agility rather than power. If this turns out to be him, or even someone with half his quickness, it'll be left to the soldiers outside to catch him if he tries to bolt, because there's nothing he'd be able to do. And although he trusts the men not to be overly brutal, he doesn't trust the situation not to escalate from there. No. He needs to do this on his own.

He takes a breath to calm and steel himself. "Easy," he tells him, his one good hand out in plain view as he takes another step. He doesn't want to corner him, doesn't want to threaten him. But he's been in this room for too bloody long. Clone or not, in that regard, it doesn't matter. He's still human. He doesn't deserve to be caged, to be injured and not treated, and even if he can understand why (he's not given them much choice, as evidenced by the soldier with the broken nose) it's time to put an end to this. "I'm not going to hurt you. No-one is." Another step. The man's breath comes faster. His nose flares. "Just help me understand."

Instead of an answer, though, all he gets are lips pressed in a tighter line and eyes darting once again to the door. Nick can practically hear him thinking, calculating.

He arches an eyebrow. "You really don't like it in here, do you?"

He isn't expecting an answer, and he's not sure what to make of the one he gets.

"I've been here too long." He shifts his weight to his back foot, then to his front. His fingers pull at a loose string on the sleeve of his shirt.

Damned if that doesn't send another pang through Nick's chest that has nothing to do with his shoulder. He recognizes the behaviours. They're all things Stephen did when he was stressed. Really stressed, and trying not to show it. He's chewed his lip nearly bloody, and his eyes just won't stop going to the door. He ventures a guess. "Somewhere you need to be?"

"You need to let me go, Cutter. Now. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Nick replies calmly. "I'm trying to get answers, but you're not being cooperative. If you'd just answer my questions—"

"I don't have time for your questions, Nick!" He's shouting, now. It catches Nick a bit by surprise. He'd been so quiet to that point, but it seems like he's passed the limits of his patience. He lets out a growl, turning away from Nick. He doesn't quite put his back to him, he notices, more walking at an angle from him like before. His hands scrub roughly through his hair. "I have to go," he says, voice low and almost frenzied. "I have to go, before she does."

"Helen?" It's not that difficult a conjecture to make.

The man doesn't even look at him. "If I don't find her, I could lose her. I have to find her."

"Why do you want to find Helen so badly?" He has to admit: it's a troubling thought. He remembers back in the fire, when he'd started to chase after Helen. He only changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe he was afraid she'd leave him behind. The clones don't seem to have much of a mind of their own; he saw his own clone lost without her to guide him. Maybe that's what this man's afraid of. Maybe he's afraid of being lost. "What is she to you?"

Another laugh. This one's higher than the last, more terse. Incredulous, almost. "You're asking me that question?" he says, and this time, he actually does look at Nick.

"I just did, didn't I?"

"You don't think I'm me, either, do you?" His bright blue eyes are narrowed and he's back in a fever pitch. "What? You think I'm one of her clones? One of her lackeys?" With each question, he seems to get more agitated. He glances again at the door. "What time is it?"

Well, that was a bit out of the blue.

When he doesn't get an answer immediately, he repeats himself. "What time is it, Nick? They took my watch. I need to know the time."

Nick checks his own without thinking. "It's nearly half-past seven."

Stephen swears.

"Why does it even matter?"

"Because!" Nick's suddenly rounded on, and there's a look in the other's eyes that nearly makes him take a step back. Sheer stubbornness and force of will keep him rooted to the spot, but he suddenly feels ... uneasy. "Because I have to stop her, Nick! You can't do it, Lester can't do it, your little soldier boys can't do it! So I have to."

A swell of almost childish indignation rises in Nick's chest. He wasn't expecting a full critique. Bloody hell. "We're managing."

"You nearly died!" And there's something in his voice as he says it, a roughness that can't just be smoke. Nick watches his Adam's apple bob beneath the shadow of his scruff, but then his jaw tightens again. The muscles stand out visibly under the skin. His face is thinner than Nick remembers, with harder lines and darker shadows. If this is his Stephen (his Stephen, as if he somehow has the right to call him that after everything those last few months) then the year was a hard one. He doesn't look bad, just ... different. And now, he looks angry, that barely-restrained fire he only ever got when he thought he knew best and no-one else was seeing reason. "You don't understand! When she's in this time, it's already too late. The planning's done. The arrangements are made. You're just waiting for the aftermath!"

"And yet, here we stand."

"Because I knew!"

Before Nick can react, the man surges forward, hand gripping the front of Nick's shirt. He doesn't jostle him, doesn't hurt him, but Nick's faced with the startling awareness that if he wanted to, there wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot he could do to stop it. He's seething, but his eyes are locked with Nick's, and for the first time, Nick feels like it's real. Like he's real. Stephen. How many times has he seen that look? That intensity, that passion. He knows it like he knows his own reflection, and he can't believe that any clone could ever replicate that fire.

It's Stephen. He's here, and Nick suddenly can't breathe. His pulse roars in his ears, so loud he nearly doesn't hear what Stephen says next.

"I knew what she was planning. I followed her back to try to stop it, and you still got a bullet in you. If I hadn't—" He stops before he can finish, but then, he doesn't need to finish. Nick knows just fine what would've happened if Stephen didn't show up when he did. (Christ, he's acknowledged it; it's real, now.) "You're not managing, Cutter. You're damage control."

And before his words can really sink in, the door opens. Stephen doesn't look at it anymore, though. Nick can see the awareness in his eyes, but he doesn't break his staring match with Nick. He knows what's coming, but he seems to think this is more important.

"You have to let me go, Nick," he tells him, voice quiet but intense. Hurried. "You have to make them let me go, before she finds another anomaly. She knows I'm here, now. Alive. She's going to run before I can follow her. She's going to run." He blows out a breath through his nose, and for a moment, Nick can't help thinking he looks ... sad. "I can't stay here, Nick. I'm sorry."

Nick wants to ask why, but he never gets the chance. Stephen lets him go, suddenly, and takes a step back. And if it was anyone else, Nick might've thought it was coincidence that Stephen released his grip just before one of the soldiers grabbed him. But it's not anyone else. He really believes that, now. He's tried objectivity, but no clone could mimic that look.

And when Stephen let him go, it was just in time that Nick doesn't get dragged along with him when the soldier pushes him up against the wall.

"Easy with him," he finds himself saying as the first soldier and his partner fight to wrestle his arms behind his back. He's not screaming or thrashing; Nick half expected that he would, the way he's been acting. Wild. Like an animal.

But he isn't.

He's just not making it easy on them.

"Cutter, I think you should come with me," Becker says from behind him. He's watching the display with a look Nick can't quite place, only that he's not happy. Nick can sympathize.

"What are they going to do with him?" he asks. They have Stephen's arms zip-tied behind his back, now, and they're leading him out of the room. And he doesn't say a word. It's like he's shut down. He still fights, in a way. Nick can tell the soldiers are having to push him forward and hold their grips tight. But it's nothing compared to what Nick knows Stephen can do.

Becker just frowns. "The minister's ordered some tests, now that Jenny's managed to secure a lab to send them to."

It's enough to snap Nick out of the daze he's been in. "Tests?" He feels a strange, almost protective instinct swell in his chest. He doesn't like the sound of that: tests. "I want to go with him." He tells himself it's practical. He knows the most about Stephen; he thinks he can offer valuable insights.

If he's being honest, though, he's just afraid to let him out of his sight. Afraid it'll somehow all turn out to be a hoax after all, when he's not looking.

"It's essential personnel only," Becker tells him. "Sorry."

And it's only because Nick believes he really is that he doesn't fight him on it. That, and the throbbing in his shoulder that's increased tenfold now that the adrenaline's wearing off. He tries a different approach.

"Can't they try giving him a bed and a meal first, at least?" he says. "I think they might find him a mite more agreeable when he's not sleep-deprived and half-starved. And the man did save my life; surely that's got to count for something."

"We tried, Cutter. The meal, at least. He wouldn't eat it."

"He's scared."

"He's a security risk."

But when Nick turns around to him, he sees an expression at odds with the words. Like he says them as a matter of course, rather than a matter of personal conviction. "Tell me honestly," he says on a whim, "do you think he's dangerous, Captain?"

Becker actually seems to think on his answer before he gives it, which Nick appreciates. For all everyone accuses him of being a trigger happy soldier boy, the man's actually very thoughtful when it's appropriate. "I think he's an unknown," he says finally. "And here, unknowns are dangerous. Especially now."

"But?" Nick can sense a 'but' to that statement.

Only, Becker shakes his head. "That's the end of it." And as much as Nick hates that answer, he knows that for a man like Becker, it has to be. He's there to protect them, and danger is danger. "Come on, Professor. Lester needs to speak to you."

What can Nick do but follow him? Sighing, hand going to the blister pack of pills in his pocket, he starts past Becker out of the room.

"Professor?"

He slows down, and Becker falls into step beside him.

"I can't put any more of my men at unnecessary risk," he says. "But I'll see what I can do for your hero."

That bit, Nick didn't see coming. "Thank you."

Becker might shrug, but it's hard to tell with the set of his shoulders. He doesn't know if the captain does anything so pedestrian as that, at least while he was in his uniform. "It's the least I can do. It's like you said: he saved your life."

For the second time that day, Nick doesn't get the chance to ask for an explanation. Becker walks ahead, and he knows that's meant to end the conversation.

Luckily, this time, he sort of figures it out for himself. That expression he wasn't quite able to figure out ... it was guilt. He was blaming himself, and now, Nick thinks he knows what for. It's Becker's job to protect them. If Nick died in the fire, even if it wouldn't have been the captain's fault, Nick can't help wondering if he might have taken it as some sort of personal failure. And a man like Becker doesn't take kindly to failure like that. There's a weight on that man's shoulders that seems like far too much for someone his age.

He wonders if maybe he sees Stephen as a kindred spirit, at least in that regard.

At any rate, Stephen's actions spared him a loss. So maybe Becker doesn't know Stephen, but there's a respect there that means something in its own right. The thought sort of impresses him. Seems he might not have given the captain enough credit.

Then again, it seems he's been wrong about a lot of things.