Maybe James would have had some smart ass remark to say in response to the whole "pickling himself" suggestion, but he honestly didn't hear it, regardless of his heightened senses. The Patron had done a number on his head and though his senses were normally amplified, they were no better than a normal, average, run of the mill human right about now. Perhaps that was a good thing.
"Really? Wasn't my mum this time?" He asked, and then laughed sharply and abruptly before the sound died away and he focused his intense gaze upon the glass as he opened up the bottle and filled it up to the brim, trying not to spill a single drop. "What does it look like I'm doing? Same thing you are, I'd wager." Though that last part wasn't even right.
"First of all, Fisher, I stidinctly remember that it was you who darkened my doorstep to begin with." Yes, he had certainly fucked up that one word, but he kept on talking like he didn't even notice, and he didn't. "And second of all, I don't recall saying I don't like you. I don't even know you. I just don't like what you were trying to sell." He nodded his head. "There's a difference."
"Now come on, mate..." He said, holding up his now full glass of Scotch. "How about a toast?" Of course what they were toasting, he wasn't really sure. "We can toast to... to... Well hell, let's toast to not giving a fuck. Sound good?" He didn't wait before he moved his glass forward, clinking an imaginary glass that Fisher could have been holding, and then downed the amber liquid with a shudder.