Vino and Veritas
by Mab
It should have been more disappointing than it was. After all, Mel was a nice woman, a catch by anyone's standards, good looking, intelligent, warm. Having the 'I think you're a really nice man, but this isn't working out' speech laid on him should have hurt more, although, even in the failure there was something pleasantly normal about it. They'd dated, had sex, enjoyed each other's company, even while noting that perhaps it wasn't quite right, and not once had she tried to kill him, which was always a plus.
So that left him, sitting on the couch, nursing a beer, and listening to Sandburg bitching in his room about what to wear to go out drinking - sorry - socialising, with a group of friends from Rainier.
"Dammit, I knew I should have sponged that mark, scratch that shirt...where the fuck are my boots...I could try convincing Jim to lend me that red shirt, except of course draping my cuffs in the spaghetti sauce would kinda negate any good impression...where the hell is my wallet - ah, right..."
And then Hurricane Blair was out and heading straight for the door before veering to the couch.
"You could come if you wanted. I'm sure everyone'd be cool, maybe not Jessamine, but to be honest I think that Billy's going to give her the push pretty shortly."
Jim shrugged, and meted out a polite smile. "Nah, I'm ready for a quiet night."
"You sure?" Sandburg's face sobered, and he offered the ultimate sacrifice. "I could stay in if you want the company."
"Go away, Chief. I want the peace, and you have one serious dose of hyperactivity to unload. You hoping to impress some girl in the group, or you just going to use them as a base of operations?"
Sandburg's face lit with enthusiasm, and he punched Jim neatly on the biceps.
"Just don't wait up man. Definitely don't wait up."
And then he was gone, whirling out the door in a cloud of hair gel, aftershave and the unexpressed hope that he might get laid, or at least spot hope of that landfall on the horizon. It seemed it was a case of be careful what you ask for, you might get it, because Jim found all that peace was a little overwhelming, even with sports on the tv. It was a fine thing when a man had a night that didn't involve stakeouts or shift work (or an annoying anthropologist blathering in his ear) and he didn't know what to do with it, except wonder why he wasn't more upset that his love life had just gone belly-up.
About 10.30, Jim went to bed and went to sleep. About 12.30 he woke up again, identified the noise as Sandburg coming in and prepared to drop back into sleep when he heard a muffled thump and, "Ow, shit." He leaned his head over the railings to see his friend sitting on the floor, rubbing a knee.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, man, just didn't notice that a lace wasn't tied properly. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
"Your technique fail you tonight, huh?"
Sandburg giggled, and Jim realised that success at the drinking end of the evening was definitely achieved.
"Sometimes you have it, and sometimes you don't." Sandburg made to get up, and then sat down again. That was all the excuse that Jim needed and he pulled on his robe and went to investigate. By the time he was down the stairs, Sandburg was on his feet and hobbling to one of the dining chairs.
"Hey, Jim, no biggie, just combination sore knee and booze, man, you go on back to bed." He made shooing gestures, which Jim ignored.
"Some ice would help, Chief. I'll get it." And while he was at it, he'd better get a very large drink of water and some prophylactic Tylenol. Sandburg was feeling no pain now, but it was a purely temporary state of affairs. Jim returned to survey a red-faced and slightly belligerent young man.
"I don't need a nursemaid. You were supposed to be having a nice quiet night."
"No problem, Sandburg, keep your voice down and maybe the neighbours can have one too."
Sandburg's hand went over his mouth, and his next words were nearly whispered.
"Oops, sorry."
Jim had an unpleasant thought.
"Don't tell me you drove like this."
"Hell no, Billy drove my car, and Jessamine drove his car, 'cause this is sort of on the way back to Jessamine's place anyway."
"Fine, Chief. Drink your water like a good boy, and stick this," he presented an ice pack, "on your knee."
"So, I don't have to take my pants off or anything?"
"Not unless you want to," Jim said dryly, and decided that he didn't hear Sandburg mutter, "maybe". "You are one drunk puppy, Chief."
"Nah, I'm just a little buzzed, man. You're not drunk until you have to hold on to the floor."
"You've already done that tonight."
"Told you..."
"Yeah, it was your laces." Jim checked out Sandburg's side-zippered boots and valiantly withheld comment.
"So, man, you drown your sorrows over the delectable Mel?"
"I had one beer, and in the morning we're both really going to wish that you'd had one beer too."
"I'm serious, Jim. I mean, I felt a little guilty going out and leaving you on your own like that. A friend in need, you know..." Sandburg stopped, and blinked owlishly, obviously forgetting what he was going to say.
"Stand up, let's get you into bed."
" 'cause I can really relate to the drowning sorrows thing, man, really," and Jim put his hand under Sandburg's elbow on the side of the bad knee and hoisted him up as Sandburg went "hooo boy," and the two of them made an unsteady and slow progression to the room under the stairs. Sandburg kept talking all the way, and Jim was tuning it out when something percolated through. "...if you wanted to take my pants off, man, I wouldn't say no, just you, y'know Jim, 'cause I really, really love you man, I mean you're my friend and I'd do anything..."
Jim was oddly touched. Sandburg's earnest sincerity rose nearly as powerfully as the distillery-strength fumes wafting around them.
"I'll keep it in mind, Chief."
Sandburg took offence at this.
"You're not taking me seriously, Jim." He turned to face Jim, winding one arm around Jim's neck and the other around his waist. "If you want to fuck me that's fine, and if you want to marry some amazon and have cute little sentinel babies that's fine too, man. Although you probably don't want to do both at the same time, 'cause most women kinda object to that..." Sandburg trailed off confusedly.
Jim was starting to wonder if he wasn't getting the benefit of all the alcohol that was diffusing off Sandburg's body, because the last time he had a conversation this weird he was sure he was toasted himself. And toasted was maybe the word, because he was feeling incredibly warm, especially down his front where Sandburg was plastered against him, the hand that was previously around his waist reaching inside Jim's robe.
"I always take you seriously," Jim said reassuringly, humouring the drunk and removing the hand.
"No you don't," said the drunk, who was trying to stand on tiptoe, and tilting his head back in a way that clearly spelled out, 'kiss me'.
"Come on, Sandburg, you've had too much to drink." Jim gave up any pretence of leaving the other man his dignity, and putting one hand around his waist he half walked, half dragged him into his room and sat him on the futon.
"Come on, shoes off." He dragged them off, and Sandburg started giggling again.
"Pants off?" he suggested hopefully. Jim looked at the pants in question and decided they weren't tight enough to justify taking any stupid risks.
"Maybe another night," said Jim, nearly giving himself a heart attack. He looked at Sandburg, and realised that, yes, maybe another night, if Sandburg still had the same opinions sober that he seemed to have when he was drunk. He leaned down to kiss his friend on the lips as a sort of promise, ignoring the smell, and an unsubtle invitation to tongue wrestle. "You couldn't do anything anyway."
Sandburg fell back and put his arm over his eyes.
"Oh, yeah, the curse of brewers droop."
"What?"
"Megan."
Luckily, Jim understood this cryptic remark. Sandburg and Connor were enjoying a lively and ongoing debate as to why the other party (the other party in Connor's case being the entire USA) couldn't speak English.
"Ah. Go to sleep, Chief."
Jim went to find a bucket, which he placed by the side of the bed, thinking that it was a damn strange moment to figure out why he wasn't that upset about Mel. Then on reflection, he shifted books and papers out of the potential splatter zone, and turned a by-now snoring Sandburg onto his side. Jim crouched by the side of the futon, and considered the view. Sandburg was not at his best, dishevelled, still flushed, and drooling a little.
"What the hell am I going to do with you?" Jim asked, pushing Sandburg's hair back from his face. He knew it was a rhetorical question.
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