When Oscar stumbles into Beca's apartment a few hours later with a passed-out Beca in his arms, Stacie's up and on the couch.
"Who're you?" Stacie asks, surveying the situation.
"Oscar. Just bringing her back then I'm out of here," he knows a protective friend when he sees one.
Stacie's glare softens. "How is she?"
Unceremoniously, Oscar drops Beca onto her bed and turns off her phone. He takes the charge cord from beside her bed back out to the living room where Stacie is. "Not great," he admits, and plugs her phone in on the kitchen island. He pulls the invite, now wrinkled, out of his pocket and tosses it onto the coffee table in front of Stacie.
"What happened?" Stacie asks, sitting on the arm of the couch. Oscar sighs.
"Not much. We drank. She didn't really want to talk, and I get that, so we drank more instead. Lil Bit can hold her liquor when she wants to. It took forever to get her to the crying stage, but I think it helped her in the long-run." He chuckles a little sadly. "It usually does. She should be good now for a couple of weeks at least, if history's anything to go by."
Stacie's noticeably blanched. "She cried? In a bar? In public?"
Oscar nods like it's no big deal.
"Fuck," Stacie breathes out.
"Just give her some ibuprofen and water in the morning before her coffee and it'll be fine. Been here before," Oscar explains. "She'll be okay. She'll get over the redhead."
He walks away and closes the door behind him before Stacie can correct him.
"No, she can't," Stacie whispers, and then goes to fetch the meds and water for her friend.