Chapter Text
Barnaby is drunk.
Nathan knows - because he's decided to become so in her bar.
Nathan knows - because the bartender called her when he started crying.
Barnaby is supposed to be finding himself, but unless the him he's looking for is at the bottom of a cosmopolitan she doesn't think he's going to accomplish that. (And really, if it wasn't in the first four, why on Earth would it be in the next one?)
She mutters to herself, annoyed, as she drives down the empty streets. She cares about him, she really does, but it's after one in the morning and he'd pulled her out of her very warm bed (and away from her very warm bed partner) for this. (She counts her blessings that Keith had merely mumbled sleepily before John took her spot cuddling up to him - she wouldn't want to worry him with this kind of thing, especially after he spent most of the night patrolling.)
Barnaby isn't at the bar when she walks in and Sydney helpfully points her toward one of the gender neutral washrooms in the back.
She finds him there, curled up in a miserable little ball next to the sink - he's leaning against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest, his face tilted down and hidden by a mess of blonde curls. He doesn't look up when she walks in, and she'd worry he was passed out if it weren't for the way she can see his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
She's happy to have him back in Sternbild, but perhaps it isn't the best place for him to be. She thinks he really did find himself while he was away, that he took the time to figure out who he is and what he likes without the fear of his memory being manipulated if he stepped off track - but now that he's back, it seems like he's having a hard time fitting in. When he'd left, he'd been all sharp, jagged edges - and now that he's smoothed out, the pieces don't quite fit back together. He can't easily slide back into the groove he left behind.
She purses her lips, sets a hand on her hip. She wonders how much of that is due to the other gaping hole still here. She wonders if Barnaby felt this badly while he was away, or if he'd suppressed it all under the guise of "personal growth".
Men, she thinks, as she crouches down next to him and brushes a lock of hair away from his face.
He flinches at the contact, glances at her, and she sees his face is red and tear streaked, no glasses in place for him to hide behind. For a fraction of a second he looks almost hopeful, but then his expression crumples and he sobs loudly as he all but throws himself into her arms.
Startled, she has to brace herself with one hand against the wall, the other coming up to wrap around his waist.
"Oh, honey." She murmurs, awkwardly shifting until she can sit on the floor. Barnaby moves with her, until he's all but sitting in her lap, crying into her shoulder. He's almost certainly ruining the feathers on her collar, but she couldn't care less about that right now. She holds him tightly with one arm, the other coming up to run her fingers through his tangled hair. He doesn't move, so she rests her hand there, fingers gently scratching at his scalp, and hopes she's providing him with at least a modicum of comfort.