#nick herbert

For a moment, Cormoran just stands there, half-leaning his large torso against Nick’s impeding palms. Nick can see the cogs turning in his mate’s bull-headed, intoxicated brain. Slowly. Fuelled by rage that seems to have become a terrifying, constant companion of his lately. But Oggy is thinking, and that’s a start.

“Hey, come on, mate.” Nick pats his shoulder. “One stupid army slur is not worth it. The guy had no idea what he was talking about. Spoiled hipster brat.”

Nostrils flaring once more, Cormoran exhales. Then he grunts and shakes his head, like an angry bull who’s decided to let the matador live another day. 

“Lucky I din’ kick ‘is teeth all the way to Kabul,” he grumbles. With a huff, he turns away and almost loses his balance doing so.

“Whoa, okay!” Nick rushes to grab Cormoran by the arm and steady him. There’s quite an alarming amount of blood on his face by now, originating from a wound by his hairline. “Let’s take a few steps and go somewhere I can look at you without the police swooping in. Not sure someone didn’t call them.”

He leads a still-reluctant Cormoran down the street and around two corners until he finds a bench under a streetlight and sits his big friend down. 

“Lemme see that,” he announces and reaches out to inspect Cormoran’s forehead. 

“Oy!” Cormoran swats at him. “What the fuck-”

“You’re bleeding.” 

“So what?”

Annoyed, Cormoran wipes at his face, smearing the blood all over his cheek. 

“‘S nuthin’,” he states when he looks at his reddened hand.

Nick sighs. Stupid Cornish bravado.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Med school already gettin’ to yer head, is it?” Cormoran raises one condescending eyebrow but Nick isn’t offended. This is the alcohol talking, amplifying their usual brotherly teasing of each other.

“Well, tonight, my medical training may help keep you out of A&E, and I know how much you love going there, so shut the hell up and let me see that stupid head of yours!”

Grudgingly, Cormoran surrenders. He holds still, exuding indignance and beer fumes while Nick tilts his head and looks for the source of the bleeding. He finds a cut that is partially hidden in Cormorans very short but very dense curls and extends almost to his temple. The area around it is swollen and already starting to turn purple. 

“You’re gonna look really pretty tomorrow, mate,” Nick says, prodding gently.

“Ow!” Cormoran flinches dramatically.

“Oh, come on…”

“Wha’? That hurts.”

Nicks rolls his eyes. His friend has clearly entered the pouty stage of tonight’s bender, and, from experience, melancholia will follow close behind. Both are better than all that pent-up anger Cormoran has been carrying around lately with no place to go. Nick knows that every person grieves differently, but it’s been more than a year that Leda died, and Cormoran seems to have become stuck in the rage stage. And Charlotte’s latest escapades haven’t helped with that.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Nick is waving his hand in front of his friend’s face.

Cormoran squints. “Three.” 

“Good. Follow my finger with your eyes.”

Nick runs him through the basic concussion protocol, satisfied that Cormoran’s disbalance and slurred speech seem to be a result of too many beers rather than being caused by the head wound. The cut, however, is still bleeding sluggishly.

“I’m sorry, Oggy, but this’ll need stitches.”

It’s Cormoran’s turn to sigh now, deeper and longer than Nick. He looks up at him with doleful eyes.

“Can’t you do it? Stitch me up?” 

Frowning, Nick studies his best friend for a moment. Intimidating and utterly terrifying only minutes ago, Cormoran now manages to look small and forlorn, misery rolling off those broad, drooping shoulders like a heavy mist.

“Alright,” Nick finally agrees. He’s not a certified doctor yet, and, technically, he should take Cormoran to an ER. But what harm can a little suturing do? He’s certainly practiced it enough. “We’ll have to make it to my place, though. And I’m not a plastic surgeon. It will leave a scar.”

Cormoran waves a floppy hand.

“Who cares. `S not like there’s anything to ruin.”

There it comes. Melancholia.

“Alright.” Nick fishes a fresh paper tissue from his jacket pocket and pushes it against the wound. This time, Cormoran barely flinches. “Keep pressure on that while we walk.” He hooks one hand under his friend’s armpit and pulls. “Up you go, come on!”

Groaning like Atlas, the world on his shoulders, Cormoran pushes himself up off the bench and, not minding Nick’s supporting arm, they begin their trek to Nick’s apartment.