Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker has an average tolerance for alcohol. It could be better, based on his general constitution, but it could be a lot worse. He’s come pretty far since his early college days. If he never sees another jello shot he will be very happy. But he’s not exactly a sophisticated drinker.
Tonight, two and a half hours into the Memorial Day weekend dayshift shindig at Dana’s house, he’s finishing up a gin and tonic. It feels less juvenile than, say, jack and coke. It’s also not something he’s going to drink up too fast. He likes it (he thinks), but gin is pretty aggressive, especially in a highball, bolstered by the weird bitterness of tonic and garnished with a wedge of lemon.
This is all to say he’s drunk right now, but not out of control. Yet.
He doesn’t feel it much when he’s sitting on the little couch on the patio, smashed between Trinity and Samira, who are talking across him excitedly like he’s not even there. Samira is hammered, and his roommate, despite being the designated driver and thus entirely sober, is somehow very, very charmed. It would be cute if it wasn’t so loud. When he stands up, they don’t even notice he’s leaving.
But that’s when he realizes he’s more than just tipsy, which means he’s probably going to be farther gone than he’d normally like to be at the kind of party where people bring trays of veggies from the grocery store and homemade pies. Naturally, when he ducks back inside and looks around, he finds himself gravitating to the one place he probably shouldn’t be: Dana’s basement bar.
Because Dr. Jack Abbot is at the bar. It’s his night off, and it seems a lot like he came to the party just to make drinks. Jack Abbot is maybe the sexiest man Dennis has ever met. Who cares if he has easily twenty years on him. It was his steady hand that made gin and tonic numbers one and two. Those absolutely distracting arms reached for the lemon instead of the lime because he was making them with Beefeater. Dennis just nodded his head and tried not to stare at the shift of his shoulder muscles under his shirt.
This time when Dennis drifts up to the bar, he immediately sits down, finding that a less dizzying prospect than standing. Abbot raises an eyebrow and comes to plant himself there in front of him.
“I’m not making you another G & T,” Abbot finally says.
“Good,” he replies. “I’m kinda drunk.”
“Sure. Kinda.”
Abbot nods his head, and Dennis sees a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
“How come you’re sober?” he asks.
“I’m not. Not entirely.” Abbot reaches for the open beer nearby and waves it in his direction. “But I gotta keep my wits about me to play bartender.”
“No you don’t,” he murmurs. “Especially since this party doesn’t need a bartender.”
Abbot’s face scrunches up in mock irritation, then he mutters:
“Fine way to treat the man who made your drinks.”
“Good drinks. But are you gonna tell me you’re not bartending so you can hide away in the house?”
“Not hiding,” Abbot says with a frown.
“Almost everybody else is outside.”
Abbot gives him a slow grin, saying, “You’re here.”
He feels his cheeks heat a little, above the general flush the liquor has already given him. He’s absolutely sure he’s not supposed to be feeling that grin all along his nerves, the ones that tingle and give you gooseflesh. Then again, Abbot has stepped up to the bar now and is close enough to touch him. Not that he has.
Not that he would, he thinks. Right?
“I’m here for the same reason as you,” Dennis mutters, “presumably.”
“And what’s that?”
“Quiet. Like, adjacent to the happy people and everything, but less…intense.”
Abbot is a friendly guy, once you learn to read his sarcasm and grousing, but he’s not always as open as he is now, smiling at Dennis because he realizes he’s been seen.
To ward off the serious vibes that are threatening at the moment, Dennis says, “Maybe I should have something to sip on, if I’m going to hang around here for a while.”
At that, he swears he sees Abbot’s face bloom into a grin before he turns away and moves toward the shelf of clean drinkware to grab a rocks glass.
Like everybody else, he’s been drinking out of a solo cup, so he gives Abbot a quizzical face.
“Dana won’t mind,” he says. “Now what do you usually drink?” Abbot says.
“Shots.”
Abbot just shakes his head. Dennis tries to focus on the way his silvering curls catch the light, not the fact that he’s giving him a kind of exasperated face.
“Well, I’m not pouring you shots,” Abbot says. “Not at the moment. Not ever, really. Do you like the taste of alcohol at all, or just the effects?”
“I like the taste,” he says. “I just don’t know much about it. Haven’t had a reason to learn.”
“Did you like the gin?”
He rolls his eyes and says, “I’ve had gin before tonight, which is why I asked for it. I like it, mostly.”
“Want something smoother?”
He just nods, then he adds, “I mean, I don’t mind the strong flavor, but I guess I’m more used to stupid fruity rum drinks or whatever.”
Abbot drops out of sight to rummage in the cabinets below the bar, where Dana has apparently stashed the good stuff. He reappears with a bottle of tequila.
“Ever had tequila?” he asks, then he puts up a hand and adds, “Besides in a margarita?”
He shakes his head a little too vigorously, which makes him feel…not dizzy, exactly, but fuzzy. He’s pretty sure there’s a lazy smile on his face, but so far Abbot doesn’t seem bothered by him being a little sloppy.
Dennis says, “The only thing I’ve ever had straight is whiskey. But I’m game to try that.”
“As far as I remember – and I’m not an expert – there are basically three types of tequila. Blanco is the youngest, aging-wise. Means white, because it’s clear. It’s kind of peppery. This is the next step up, reposado. Can’t remember what the Spanish means, but it’s aged a little longer, in oak barrels. That makes it richer and sweeter, although it still has a kick to it.”
Abbot pours up just enough of the amber liquid to cover the bottom of the glass and slides it over.
He says, “I know people do all that horseshit with salt and lime, but it’s not necessary. Take a second to smell it, then try a sip, see what you think.”
He brings the glass to his nose, and even though he feels a little silly, he breathes it in carefully, smelling an interesting combination of vanilla sweetness and warm spice. The sip he takes burns a little, but it leaves a pleasant aftertaste. He nods, then he takes another sip.
“You like it?” Abbot says.
“It’s nice. Maybe not something I want all the time, but it’s…interesting.”
“Backhanded compliment if I’ve ever heard one.”
“No no no. I’m serious. It’s just…a lot. But it’s a good taste.”
Abbot tilts his head a little, as if he’s judging whether to believe him. Evidently he does, because he pours him a little more.
“That’s why you just pour out a finger or two and sip it,” Abbot says as he leans back against the counter behind him.
“So why tequila?” Dennis asks.
“Hmm?”
“I get that you’re helping me learn to drink like an adult, which I appreciate, but why did you pick tequila?”
Abbot smiles and crosses his (very distracting) arms as he considers how to respond.
“The real question is why this tequila. If you liked gin more, I would’ve started you on blanco. Not that they’re anything alike, but they’re both kind of aggressive. Now, if Dana had any añejo around, I would’ve poured you some of that. That’s the one that’s the most aged, even more than this. But I happen to like reposado the best.” Abbot pauses then, searching his face for a moment, before he adds, “And you’ve been looking like you wanna kiss me for the last ten minutes, so I went with something I like the taste of.”
Dennis feels his heart suddenly throb into a faster rhythm, but he can’t make himself feel too mortified. Actually, he’s kind of glad to have it out in the open, because he absolutely was looking at him like he wanted to kiss him. A lot more than that, actually, but it would be a start.
Maybe that heady mix of reactions is written all over his face, because Abbot ducks his head a little.
“Just teasing you,” he says.
As if he can just lean there against the counter and act cool. As if Dennis isn’t starting to see right through him.
“No you weren’t,” Dennis says.
Abbot goes red now. “I didn’t mean to…”
“To what?” he asks, fixing the man in his gaze in a way that he hopes is utterly unambiguous.
“Whitaker.”
“Abbot.” He motions to him with his finger, saying, “Come here.”
A little warily, Abbot steps forward, right into place across the bar from him.
Dennis says, “Wanna show me what it looks like when you actually tease somebody?”
Abbot’s eyes go wide, but he holds his composure. What he doesn’t maintain is the careful facade of easy and mostly platonic friendliness that’s apparently been there all evening. Now the man very obviously looks at his mouth, then his eyes drift down over his chest before he snaps them back up to his face.
“I could do that,” Abbot says.
Dennis feels a bolt of arousal at the mischievous glint in the man’s hazel eyes, adorned by the sexiest fucking wrinkles, but then he’s watching Abbot’s expression flip from easy and flirty to kind of serious.
“But, actually,” Abbot says, “I’d like to kiss you like I mean it.”
“Yeah?”
“But I need to make sure you’re not too–”
Dennis is up off the stool in a heartbeat, elbows digging into the bar to give him some stability and height so he can he crush their mouths together. Quickly, he feels one of Abbot’s strong hands wrap around his neck. The man is giggling a little against his mouth, but he wastes very little time before he starts really kissing him in earnest, laving his tongue over his bottom lip and thrusting it inside. He meets it with his own, and he hears Abbot make a small, low sound of need as they fall into a rhythm, completely unconcerned that one of their colleagues could walk in and find them sucking face over the bar.
The kiss lasts for fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes, he’s not sure which. Before it’s all over, Abbot’s fingers are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck and he’s anchored himself to the man himself instead of the bar, his hand clutching Abbot’s right bicep, which is strong and tight enough to make him feel a little greedy – and, quite frankly, resentful of the furniture between them.
When Abbot pulls out of the kiss, he steps back, looking flushed and surprised and so fucking cute it’s ridiculous.
So Dennis grins and says, “You are so fucking cute it’s ridiculous, you know that?”
Abbot snorts, his hand coming up to rub over his face. Then he says, “We’ll see if you feel that way when you’re sober.”
Dennis is still leaned over the bar a little, and he looks up at Abbot, holding his gaze for a long beat before he says:
“Do you honestly think this is the first time I’ve noticed how attractive you are? How attracted I am to you?”
“I guess not,” he replies with a sheepish but very delighted smile. He looks him over for an even longer beat, then he adds, “You’re goddamn adorable, by the way.”
Dennis grins. “Really?”
“Why are you surprised?” he replies.
Dennis just repeats it back to him: “Why are you surprised?”
“Because I’m old enough to be your dad.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “And irrelevant.” He bites his lip – at first out of habit, then, seeing the way Abbot reacts to that, intentionally – and says, “Unless you’re saying you have nothing but paternal feelings toward me.”
Abbot coughs out a laugh, shaking his head, saying, “Hell no. But I’m not dragging your drunk ass back to my bed.”
“Tonight,” Dennis clarifies.
Abbot grins and lets out a breath. “Correct. Not tonight.”
Abbot is looking at him like he’s waiting for him to make the next move. And, holy fuck, of course he is.
“I’m off on Sunday,” Dennis says. He musters every bit of confidence he has, reaching out to squeeze his hand as he says, “You wanna get lunch and then see if we still wanna–”
The door to the patio suddenly opens, letting in the humidity and the noise of the backyard party, and there’s Cassie McKay, making a beeline for the bathroom.
When they’re alone again, Abbot reaches out and grasps his shoulder.
“I think we’ll still wanna,” he says. “However that sentence was going to end.”
Dennis says, “At the very least, it was going to involve me getting on my knees.”
At that, Abbot lets go and finally steps back. “Whitaker,” he says, shaking his head and smiling.
“Abbot.” As he gets up from the stool, he adds, “Next time, I wanna try an añejo.”
Abbot smiles and nods at him. “That can be arranged.”
“Oh, by the way, you probably shouldn’t give Samira anything else.”
“I didn’t give her drink number three,” he says with an eye roll. “That was your roomie. What’s going on there?”
“No idea, but I’m sure I’ll hear all about it one way or another.”
Abbot huffs out a warm laugh, and as he turns to go, the man signals for him to wait. He quickly produces two bottles of water and hands them to him.
“One for you. Don’t argue. Tell Santos to give her the other one.” He raises an eyebrow, and Abbot adds, “Trust me.”
Dennis grins and heads for the patio door, trying not to think about how Abbot is probably watching him walk away, has maybe been watching him all night, or even longer.
“Okay,” he says, tossing the words over his shoulder. “I’m serious about texting you on Sunday.”
“Good,” Abbot replies. “Drink that water, okay?”
“Yes, dad,” he replies sarcastically.
He isn’t drunk enough to be happy that that came out of his mouth, but when he looks back, Abbot is shaking his head and smiling again. The man does, however, flip him off.
“Promises, promises,” Dennis murmurs, just loud enough to be heard, before he slips out the door.