Wells made an amused noise. “Two Christmases ago I was that impossible thing, a rock star physicist, with young people like you writing me adoring love letters. And this Christmas I’m the wise old man who can’t defend himself.”
“You’re not old,” Barry said. “Or very wise, if you think I wouldn’t write you more adoring love letters in a second. I just thought you’d prefer the scotch.”
Wells studied him for a moment and slid off his glasses, placing them on top of his tablet. “I think you know what I’d prefer.”