He's pissed.
If he's being honest, he was probably past the line two glasses ago. But the scotch is good, and the buzz is better, and the company's not as bad as he thought, either. Stephen's not smashed like he is, he doesn't think. It's not fair. He's refilled his Spice Girls mug a couple times, but other than a warm flush to his cheeks, he looks like he's still fighting fit.
Damn youth. Probably won't even have a proper hangover in the morning. The world really is cruel.
"We should've done this someplace else," says the research assistant in question. It's entirely too practical a notion for someone that's just helped Nick to polish off three-quarters of a bottle of scotch.
"Bit late now."
Stephen nods and drains his mug. "That it is." His lips curl. It's not quite a frown, nor is it a smile. It just is. Funny how that seems to define so much of who he is. Stephen is neither here nor there in so many respects; he just is.
Yet another reason Nick envies him.
"We should get you home."
"'We?'"
Stephen stands, taking his mug and the one Nick's been drinking from. Nick starts to protest (he wasn't finished), but the protest dies when Stephen knocks back the rest of its contents, too. Most people have reservations about that sort of thing, drinking after someone else. But then, Stephen does seem to have different ideas on boundaries than most.
He takes the mugs to the sink along the wall by the lab table. It's The Rule." He somehow manages to capitalize the words with his voice. Not just a rule, but The Rule.
"What rule?"
"If you get someone pissed, you have to see them home safely. Make sure they don't choke on their own vomit. That sort of thing. Standard university student procedure."
Nick bristles, and he's not even sure why. "I haven't had that much to drunk." Maybe he plans to, before the night's out, but that's for him to know. As it is, he's just having trouble getting his tongue to work properly. It feels thicker and heavier than usual. Clumsy.
Same goes for the rest of him, as it turns out. When he stands, he does so with a hand on his desk and a squint to his eyes. He knows the world isn't actually shifting around so much under his feet, and he tells himself it's just his inner ear getting adjusted. He's fine. He's pissed, but he's not fall-over drunk.
"You alright?"
"I'm fine."
"So I'm taking you to yours, then?"
Nick hesitates then sits back down.
Stephen's halfway through tugging on his jacket, but he pauses with one arm still hanging out. "Why are you doing that? Why are you sitting back down?"
"I'm staying here."
"Pretty shoddy place for a sleepover, if you ask me."
Which Nick didn't. "Go home, Stephen. I'll be fine here."
"No, you won't." Not a protest, but a statement of fact.
Nick's temper burns a little hotter. He's not some inept little university student that's had too much drink and can't handle it after. He's a professor. He's got multiple degrees under his belt, literally decades of experience in the field, and what's more, he's a grown sodding man. And Stephen, some barely-past-his-teenage-years student thinks he can tell Nick what's what? He thinks he knows best?
He doesn't know anything.
And he sure as hell doesn't get to tell Nick Cutter what to do.
"I said go home, Stephen. You got what you wanted. You got your answers." He's told him pretty much everything he knows over the past few hours, in between drinks. Everything he told the constables, and everything they told him in turn. He's done. "Now leave."
"So you can sulk alone? I don't think so." He shakes his head, and the stubborn bastard actually takes his coat off and drops back into the chair he pulled up when they were drinking. The crossed arms are just icing on the shite cake that is Stephen's attitude. "I'm not leaving until you do."
Scowling, Nick actually lets out a growl. He's infuriating, Stephen is. This is a new side of him Nick's only ever seen glimpses of before. Now faced with the brunt of it, he decidedly doesn't like it. "You're being childish."
"Does that make you the pot or the kettle?" Stephen asks, unaffected as always.
"Oh, go to hell," Nick snaps. "Don't you understand? Helen's gone. My wife is missing. Best case is she's left me without word or warning; worst case, she's dead somewhere, rotting without so much as a proper burial!"
"I know that, Cutter. You told me."
"And you still don't get it!" He's shouting, now. A few drinks ago, he might have wondered if he was being too loud, if someone might overhear. But he's too pissed, in more ways than one, and too bloody fragmented to care. It's night time anyway. Most everyone's gone. And even if they weren't, he wouldn't be arsed to care. The dam's broken, and he can't stem the flow. He's not even sure he wants to try. "I don't know if you're just not listening, or if you're really as slow as Helen said you were, but she's gone!"
Nick knows he's gone too far the moment he finishes speaking, but it's too late. Stephen's already standing, like snapping up like a spring with enough force to send the chair toppling over. "Fuck you, Cutter!" There's a venom in his voice that make Nick's heated blood run cold. And those damn riverbed eyes are burning. "You're not the only one that cares about Helen! You're not the only one that's worried about her. You think you know everything?" He snorts derisively. "You're just a bitter old bastard."
"I—" Nick starts to say. He's not sure yet if it's going to be an apology or a protest, although knowing himself as well as he does, he thinks smart money's on the latter. But he doesn't get the chance to find out, because Stephen cuts him off with a sharp sigh. He's trying to calm himself down.
He looks...cagey. That's the best word Nick can think of for it. He's shifting his weight like he's about to pace, but doesn't ever quite get there, and he swipes a hand through his hair that makes it stick up in even wilder spikes than before. "You're hurt—I get it," he says finally. It's a notch down from where it was before, but still not his usual levelness.
He's trying; Nick can tell. He tries to do the same, but his blood's still boiling. Stephen's next words don't help that much.
"You don't want to go home because she's not there. You're scared for Helen, and you're hurt, and you're angry at the world for shitting on you. Believe me, I get it. You need someone to take it out on, and I'm convenient."
What gives him the right to be so damn sensible in all this? So damn sympathetic. Or is that empathy? He can't tell. He blames the alcohol.
"Fine."
Nick stops. Fine? Is that what he said? "What?"
Stephen holds his arms out, like an invitation. "I said 'fine.' It's okay. Yell. Shout. Throw things if you like, so long as you know I'm not picking them up later. If it makes you feel better, then have at it."
It's sort of baffling, Nick thinks, because he seems to actually mean it. He's just standing there, waiting for Nick to fling whatever shite at him he wants to. Like it doesn't even bother him. Like he's fine with being Nick's own personal whipping boy.
Maybe baffling's not the right word for it. It's almost disconcerting in a way. He knows Stephen's not some pushover, some doormat. Maybe he's secure enough with himself that whatever Nick has to say, it won't stick with him. But that's hard to believe. No one's that bulletproof.
It doesn't matter. Stephen's right; Nick's all of those things, much as he hates to admit it. He's scared for Helen, hurt, angry. And sometimes he really does feel like a bitter old man. But he's not the kind of arse that takes out his frustrations on someone that doesn't deserve it, even if he gave the go-ahead.
This time, it's his turn to sigh. He scrubs a hand over his face, and suddenly, he can't decide if he's too drunk or not drunk enough. Maybe it's a little bit of both.
Stephen's right about one more thing, too. "We need to go."
"'We?'"
It shouldn't be as much of a relief as it is that Stephen seems to be back to his usual even-mannered self, but in light of recent events, he's willing to take what he can get. "The Rule still stands, doesn't it?"
For a moment, Stephen doesn't answer. But then he gives a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes and pulls his coat back on.
It occurs to Nick on the way out that he's only seen him smile properly twice that he can remember: once, when, they brought him along for an expedition in the rainforest and he managed to find the wounded animal they were trying to locate after ten days of tracking it; and another time, when Helen praised him for his marksman abilities (which are more than impressive, Nick has to admit) when he hit a fleeing tamarind monkey with a tranquilizer dart from more than a football field's distance away.
The last is why Nick has to fight back a wince when, on the porch of Nick's house, Stephen breaks the silence that has reigned since they left Nick's office. "What you said before," he says sort of slowly, and Nick turns around, his back to the now-open door and one foot past the threshold. He frowns, like he's trying to decide if he actually wants to say what he's about to say. But he can't seem to help himself. "Did Helen...did she really tell you I was slow?"
He sounds offhand enough, like he's asking out of genuine curiosity. But Nick's finding the alcohol is providing a certain sense of clarity, and he's slowly learning that Stephen might not be as aloof and distant as he seems. His eyes are ... telling. And right now, they're telling Nick that the answer he gives matters, as much as Stephen pretends it doesn't. He's been holding onto this since Nick said it, after all. Someone doesn't do that if they don't care.
It's out of newfound respect for Stephen, the product of a year of working framed by this one night and a few too many fingers of whisky, that Nick doesn't give him a brush off answer. He actually thinks about it.
Because she did say it. Maybe not in those words exactly, and it isn't as if Helen wasn't generally complimentary of him. It's just that her compliments didn't generally stray to his massive intellect. Which Nick is starting to think wasn't necessarily fair. He may not be on Helen's level when it comes to book smarts, but he's clever, and when it comes to hunting, tracking, and survival in the wilderness, he's not sure he's met anyone with more knowledge or natural intuition. In that, he's a sodding savant.
And as much as Nick believes in telling things like they are, he's not so wrapped up in his own pain that he can't see that Stephen's suffering, too. At twenty-three, every loss is a new and uncharted tragedy, and if Stephen can brave his own pain in consideration of Nick, then Nick thinks he ought to at least try to do the same. So he tries something between the line of brutal honesty and a saccharine lie.
"That's not what she said," he tells him. It's true; that's not exactly what she said. It'll do. "I was angry; I said things I shouldn't have said. Helen admired you, Stephen." He's not sure why the past tense comes so naturally, now. He thinks it should be harder. Maybe it will be in the morning, when there's nothing left of the haze in his head but banging drums. But for now, everything is ... simpler. "She cared about you, too."
Stephen seems settled by that, somehow. The tension in his shoulders eases a bit. "She might still be out there," he offers mildly. It sounds like a formality. He wonders if Stephen's saying it more for Nick's sake, or his own.
He supposed it doesn't really matter.
"Aye, she might," he says.
They just stand there after that. It's probably only seconds, but it feels like longer. Nick knows he should back up, go through his door, shut it, and let Stephen find his way home. He should. But he doesn't. It's like some odd sort of magnetism, holding him rooted to the spot (or maybe to Stephen, but he's not sure he's pissed enough to entertain that notion just now).
It's Stephen that clears his throat. "I should go."
"No."
Stephen looks a bit thrown; Nick feels that way. Honestly, he's not sure why he said it. But he did, and he finds he doesn't want to take it back.
Instead, he steps to the side and gestures for Stephen to go in. "The Rule," is the only explanation he offers, and holds up what remains of the bottle of scotch he'd carried with him from the office.
They spend the night polishing off the bottle and talking about nothing at all, and when he wakes up, it's to the pounding of drums in his skull. The hangover's horrible, and the memory of why makes his chest constrict.
But when he goes downstairs and sees Stephen still sprawled out on the couch, empty bottle of whisky hugged to his chest like a stuffed toy, he feels a little better.
Stephen was right the night before: the house feels wrong without Helen there, and he's scared and hurt and angry at the world for shitting on him. But having Stephen there ... small of one as it is, it's a comfort.
Helen's gone, but at least he's not alone.