Fisher sneered at James. "No, it was not your mom, actually," he informed him. "Although she's still tailing you, if you must know." And she was- Sloane was drifting about in the corner looking weepy and lost. She knew trying to talk to her son was useless, so now she sort of followed him about when she could and stared at him longingly.
As he watched James make a drunken ass of himself, Fisher couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pity. He had been in James' position before many, many times. It was sad on that side and it was sad on this one too. "I'm not trying to get hammered," he told James, "and I'm not toasting anything with you. Because even if you're ambivilant towards me, I have a definite opinion of you." He decided not to voice this opinion, not yet at least. James was probably still sober enough to take a swing.
Taking the bottle of scotch, Fisher got to his feet and placed it onto the shelf behind the bar, safely out of the drunken demon's reach. "You're cut off," he told James, while taking a sip of his own beverage. "In fact, we both are." He drained the rest of his glass, grimmaced, then slid it down the bar aways. "I'm not supposed to be drinking at all," he confessed. "Rehab and whatnot." He eyed his glassy-eyes companion up and down, trying to decide what you did with a short-tempered drunkard you didn't like in the least. "What the hell are you drinking about, anyway?" he wondered aloud. "You didn't seem real choked upi about your mom's death, so that can't be it. Can't be lack of sex, you had some girl more than willing just a minute ago. Can't be loneliness. Guy like you probably has friends dripping off him, both real ones and bought." Fisher tapped a finger against his soft lips. "So... what could it be, then?"