raith_rogue | To Kill a Puck--In Vino, Veritas (And tequila, and scotch...)

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To Kill a Puck--In Vino, Veritas (And tequila, and scotch...)

Thomas had stocked up on liquor, buying the good stuff (of course) and running up a bill that made even him wince a little, but he'd seen Robin drink before, and he wanted to make sure he had enough. Besides, it wasn't like any of it would go to waste if he didn't need it tonight.

The beer was chilling in the fridge, and one bottle of vodka, scotch, tequila and gin. He'd even come up with a plausible way to get Robin to drink heavily, not that he was entirely sure he'd need one.

Now he just had to wait for Robin to get here. He wandered toward the bedroom to take a shower, so it wouldn't look like he was actually waiting.

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It had been a long day at work, and Robin was late in getting home, already kind of tired and in a mood that reflected the nervous energy that seemed to surround him lately. Ever since the second sirrush attack a couple of weeks ago he'd been waiting for something else to jump out of the woodwork, and it was an unpleasant way to go about your day, thinking something was about to jump out and stab you. Or shoot you. Or try to disembowel you.

He heard the shower running when he came in, and immediately went into the bedroom to take off his shoes and jacket.

Thomas showered perfunctorily and then turned the water off, drying off quickly before walking into the bedroom naked, using the towel to rub his hair dry. He'd heard Robin come in and knew he wasn't alone, so he was looking for Robin as he stepped through the bathroom door. "Hey. How was work?"

Robin's eyes drifted over Thomas' body for a moment as if he hadn't heard a word he said, but then he seemed to snap back into focus. "Prosperous yet boring," he said.

Thomas grinned but shook his head and pulled a pair of jeans on. "Good, and typical," he retorted. "Want a drink?" He crossed the room, heading for the hallway.

"Do I," Robin said, actually sounding a little grateful. He shrugged unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of his shirt and the cuffs of his sleeve, rolling them up his forearms.

Thomas nodded without turning, striding to the kitchen and getting himself a beer from the fridge, then cracking open the scotch for Robin. "Rocks or neat?" he called over his shoulder.

"Neat," said Robin, sliding onto one of the barstools. "Hey, did you get a new bottle?"

Thomas poured a healthy double for Robin and set it in front of him, leaning on the counter to nurse his beer with a nod. "We were running low on a few things, so I stocked up."

Robin looked like he was feeling better already. "Between this and the gratuitous nudity you're really starting to endear yourself," he said cheerfully before knocking back the drink and then setting the empty glass on the counter.

"Like any of it was solely for your benefit," Thomas retorted with a grin, already reaching for the bottle and refilling Robin's glass, then leaving the bottle in front of him.

Robin drank. And refilled. Hardly even thinking about it, really. It had been a long day. Long week. Long fucking life.

"Don't pretend that my presence in your life doesn't make it immeasurably brighter," Robin said. "You're going to miss me when I'm gone."

Pause.

"From your apartment, I mean." Pour.

Thomas was quick to reply. "Please. You steal the blankets," he teased, taking another swig of beer before setting it down with a faint grimace. "I need something stronger. I think I'll join you." He turned to get a second glass down, pouring some of the scotch for himself.

"Excellent," said Robin. "I drink better with company." And it gave him an excuse to continue, though he was actually surprised Thomas wasn't trying to stop him at all. "I guess I should ask about your day. Any interesting meals?"

Thomas snorted and shook his head. Truthfully, he rarely 'ate out' these days, other than the snacking he did at work. Robin was keeping him pretty damn well-fed, and there was no danger of killing someone when he fed on the puck--though he was starting to worry about Robin becoming addicted to him.

"Just worked, went shopping for alcohol, and came home." He took a sip of scotch and then swirled the rest of it in the glass, looking thoughtful. "...What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Robin shrugged. "Fleecing some customers, trying not to get shot at... same old, same old."

He ruffled his own hair and added, "Do you think I need a haircut? Maybe I should come by."

"That wasn't where I was going," Thomas replied, not actually thrilled by the thought of Robin in his salon. "I was just thinking that we should have a drinking contest, and wondering if you could fit 'nursing a hangover' into your busy schedule." He grinned.

Robin looked at him for a second and then let out a guffaw of laughter. "A drinking context? With you? What's the point?"

Thomas gave him a direct stare. "You think you're that good? Prove it," he challenged, calm, almost cold.

Robin still thought it was stupid, and wondered why the hell Thomas wanted to, but he'd already had about five shots, and it didn't seem like a bad idea.

"Fine," he said, and flashed a white-toothed smile. "Pour."

Thomas nodded, and poured, and poured again, and occasionally took swigs from his beer so he could carefully deposit some of his shots into it.

He was definitely feeling unsteady even with his best efforts after a while, though, and the next pair of drinks sloshed onto the counter a little.

Robin, too, was unsteady on his feet. Though this was only because of the head start and Thomas' beer chasers (of which he was blissfully unaware). Because Robin could drink.

But even he had his limits, and right now, he was fucking sloshed.

"So... when do I win?" he asked, resting his head on his arms.

"Well, I'm still standing," Thomas slurred, but he pushed the glasses away. Robin was plenty drunk by now. "But I think I'm good, if you are."

"Does that mean you concede?" Robin asked, perfectly willing to do another shot if it meant victory. "What do... what do I win?"

"I'm not conceding," Thomas corrected, not willing to admit defeat to Robin. "I'm suggesting it's a draw."

Robin lifted his head, looked at him for a second, and then picked up the bottle, poured two more shots, and slid one across the counter to Thomas.

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To Kill a Puck--In Vino, Veritas (And tequila, and scotch...)

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