James was not an addict, but he was not stranger to cocaine. When you partied when the Manhattan elite, it was a bit of a prerequisite. He had snorted his fair share of lines over the years. But this was shit. It was far from pure, tasted like it was more aspirin than anything else, but in times of desperation, he supposed it would fill a void, and from the look on the other man's face, he could see that he wasn't wrong.
"I haven't decided yet." James took a seat on the bed, the bag in front of him, Fisher still standing by the door. "I'm not going to bite," he announced, his way of telling him to come and sit down, though a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips just after he'd said it. "Well, I might." He allowed a dry laugh to part his lips as his eyes took in the other man's face. "Though I doubt you'd mind it much."