"Sorry," Fisher said, a little hurt. "I was just talking." He wanted to tell James that he was only trying to make sure the kid didn't stumble off into a ditch somewhere and die. He wanted to tell him that everyone needed someone to look after them, and that James should be grateful that Fisher was wasting his time on him. He wanted to say all that, but he couldn't. Because James was selfish and needy and didn't care about anyone but himself. And that alone raised a very good point as to why the hell Fisher was bothering. Because he wished someone had bothered to try and save him, and no one had. But you could only be pushed so far.
"Okay," Fisher said quietly, his voice small. "You're right. I don't like you. At all. I just thought... I wish someone had tried this hard for me when I was... there." He knew that James knew what he meant by "there"- the bottom of the barrell, the only place where there really was nowhere to go. When you felt like you just died inside.
"Here's your scotch," he said, tossing the bottle on the ground in front of him. It was pretty much empty now. "Thanks for the shots, James." He turned and started walking, which wasn't as successful as he'd liked, since the world was shifting out from underneath him. Goddamn James. Why had he tried so hard (and drank so much) for that guy? Now he had a queasy feeling in his gut and unsteady feet. And then, unexpectedly, he threw up.