Whisky Dreams

Debra Fran Baker


Blair woke up, but his eyes didn't want to open. His head was pounding. He must have gotten thoroughly drunk last night if the hangover was any clue. There was too much light, and the angle was wrong. The bed felt wrong, too. Okay. He was not in his own bed. And there was definitely someone lying next to him. Someone large. Someone warm. Someone...not female.

Oh, God. When did he go into a bar and pick up a *guy*? He hadn't done that in years, not since...not since he realized that if he did, Jim could smell it on him, and he did not want to face Jim smelling like that. When did he even go to a bar? He tried to remember last night, despite the pain in his head.

Okay...he and Jim had left the station a little late. They'd stopped off for take-out because it was Thursday, and the agreement was that Thursday was take-out night. He remembered being amused that *Jim* had suggested getting vegetarian Indian that night. It was a little on the spicy side, at least for Jim, but there was India Pale Ale in the fridge, so that worked fine. And then he'd unpacked his back-pack to do some work while watching the game.

And there was that bottle of single-malt that his chairman had given him that day, saying she hated scotch. Jim took one look at it and his eyes just lit up. So, figuring that the beers during lunch didn't count, Blair got a couple of glasses and let Jim pour them each a shot.

It was the first time Blair had ever had twelve-year old single-malt. It was a revelation - smooth, smoky with a wonderful bite and an even better aftertaste. Better still was *Jim's* face. The man was in ecstasy. He'd taken the merest sip of his glass, but it seemed to be enough.

"Chief, this is incredible. I can taste everything - the malt, the grains, the water, the oak casks. It's so complex, but harmonious. Symphonic. I'm tasting music here, Sandburg." And he touched his tongue to the scotch again, and his face glowed again. Blair tossed off his shot to distract himself from that face. Jim just grinned and poured him another.

Blair didn't remember anything past that second shot of liquor. But he obviously hadn't gone to a bar the night before. After two shots of whisky, he was lucky he could stand up straight, and Jim never would have let him leave the loft...

Oh, God. He forced his eyes open, and then forced them to focus. They didn't want to do either. As soon as they did, he closed them again. He was in Jim's bed. And that was Jim next to him. And...he felt himself. Yep. He was naked. He peeked at Jim again. Jim had tossed off his covers. And, yes...and that was the most gorgeous butt Blair had ever seen. But he knew that...he'd coveted it for years.

Okay. He was lying in Jim's bed. With Jim. Naked. Now what? Oh, God. He couldn't think. What had happened the night before? He wasn't sticky or sore anywhere. Maybe it was perfectly innocent...maybe they'd started talking and he'd fallen asleep up there. Except he'd be wearing clothes, or at least underwear. He *never* slept naked. If it weren't for Jim now, he'd be freezing.

*Great going, Sandburg. You finally have your biggest fantasy, and you don't even know what you did.*

Okay...no matter what else, he had to get out of bed. Jim would *never* forgive him if he didn't get to the bathroom soon. H