Fisher Majors (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} hearitbleed) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} halcyon_halls, |
There was a commotion by the door, causing Fisher to look up from his drink. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he whispered angrily as James stumbled into the bar. When he heard his own name shouted to every patron who was still sonscious enough to hear, he turned that awful shade of red that no pale man should ever turn. Bending lower over the bar, Fisher hoped he could simply disappear like on of his ghost friends. "Oh, God..." he moaned.
As James sat down and made himself comfortable, Fisher gave him his most insincere smile in the hope against hopes that James was still sober enough to realize he wasn't wanted. Of courswe, it didn't work. But the smile was stopped short anyway when Fisher got a whiff of James. Not an altogether unpleasant aroma- a lovely, spiced cologne with a huge dash of whatever alcohol they use to preserve the dead. Apparently, James had been drinking formaldahyde, or its alcoholic equivilant. In abundance.
"God," Fisher couched, rearing his head back. "Pickling yourself?" His voice was low, so no one with a normal sense of hearing could hear. ('Luckily' for Fisher, James did not have normal senses.) As the bottle of scotch was placed in front of the two of them, along with another glass, Fisher looked around for the girl James had obviously been meaning to ditch. She was long gone (after an angry glare at him, and what the hell did Fisher ever do to her?), so why was James still sitting with him?
As James burst out laughing, Fisher did not know whether to laugh with him or knock him out. But he remembered their last scuffle all too well, and remember that James was a craaazy motherfucker. "Yes," he answered seriously to the question, shuddering a little. He'd encountered Sasha and it had changed him, and not for the good. In fact, that was kind of why he was here... "What the fuck are you doing?" Fisher demanded suddenly. "Your little bit of jailbait is gone, you obviously have enough cash to drink youself to death, and that is clearly what you wish to do. So why are you bothering me? Because last time I recalled, you don't even like me and I'm just as happy with you never darkening my doorstep again."
As James sat down and made himself comfortable, Fisher gave him his most insincere smile in the hope against hopes that James was still sober enough to realize he wasn't wanted. Of courswe, it didn't work. But the smile was stopped short anyway when Fisher got a whiff of James. Not an altogether unpleasant aroma- a lovely, spiced cologne with a huge dash of whatever alcohol they use to preserve the dead. Apparently, James had been drinking formaldahyde, or its alcoholic equivilant. In abundance.
"God," Fisher couched, rearing his head back. "Pickling yourself?" His voice was low, so no one with a normal sense of hearing could hear. ('Luckily' for Fisher, James did not have normal senses.) As the bottle of scotch was placed in front of the two of them, along with another glass, Fisher looked around for the girl James had obviously been meaning to ditch. She was long gone (after an angry glare at him, and what the hell did Fisher ever do to her?), so why was James still sitting with him?
As James burst out laughing, Fisher did not know whether to laugh with him or knock him out. But he remembered their last scuffle all too well, and remember that James was a craaazy motherfucker. "Yes," he answered seriously to the question, shuddering a little. He'd encountered Sasha and it had changed him, and not for the good. In fact, that was kind of why he was here... "What the fuck are you doing?" Fisher demanded suddenly. "Your little bit of jailbait is gone, you obviously have enough cash to drink youself to death, and that is clearly what you wish to do. So why are you bothering me? Because last time I recalled, you don't even like me and I'm just as happy with you never darkening my doorstep again."