Brook really shouldn't drink whiskey. Fifty years of just the meager store of low quality grog and even lower quality sake combined with his penchant to stroll a little too deeply down memory lane whenever any alcohol passed his lips (not that he had any, Skull joke!) all meant he really should have said no to the first cup.

Yes. If he hadn't said yes to the first one he definitely wouldn't have said yes to its happy brothers that had come after it. It was just a great party…and the village insisted they provide the best music and the best booze and wouldn't it be impolite to refuse their desire that he relax and drink with his new crew?

Somewhere along the way his head rested on the bar (cushioned nicely by his afro) and let the music drift him back to them…or he must be really gone because it is not them so much as it's HIM. Captain Yorki.

The times he had to sweep his captain back to his quarters when he had a few too many and they ended up burning off the liquor with some rather pleasurable physical activity. Activity he hasn't had since before the captain became ill actually.

What he wouldn't give to feel his captains skin against his (not that he had any now...Yohoho!) one more time?

A thump and Brook was looking at his captain passed out on the bar to his right. Blond hair falling across his face and cowboy hat askew carelessly.

It isn't until he has him upstairs in a borrowed bedroom, the door locked, that some things seem off. He's too skinny. His chin has scruff not tattoos. The swirly eyebrow seems wrong.

He ignores those things as minor and begins to undress him.

Damn whiskey.