(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)
"So, you can't get drunk?" Howard asked.
"I don't think so," Steve replied. "I still like the taste, but I don't seem to be affected by it." He shrugged. "It's handy."
"It's sad, my friend." Howard patted Steve on the arm. He was at the mellow, love the world, stage of an evening out with the Howling Commandos. He wasn't allowed to play blackjack with them after they discovered that he instinctively recalled everything that had been dealt and figured the odds as they went along, so he was sitting this hand out at a table in the corner, waiting for them to go back to poker, where bluffing was more important than math. "Everyone needs to get a little pie-eyed once in a while."
Steve grinned at him. "Well, someone also needs to be sober enough to drive the jeep back to barracks, so it works out."
"Hey, drunk or sober, I can drive or fly anything." Howard leaned closer to Steve. "Now I'm curious. WHY can't you get drunk?"
Steve shrugged and drank his beer. "I guess I digest it too quickly."
"No. No, see here, that's not possible." Howard's whiskey glass was in the way. He gulped it down and put it to one side, where it fell to the floor. No one noticed the small crash in the general cheerful noise. "The primary decay product of ethyl alchoohol is poisonous, so if too much builds up, you'd be really, really sick, and probably die. And you haven't, so it's not that. Mostly we metalibilize thirteen milliliters of alcohool per hour in a Zero Order Reaction."
"Ok," Steve said agreeably, patting Howard on the back. "Maybe I digest it differently."
"Uh huh. Maybe. Oh, hey, if you're a rum-dum, then you produce more alchohol dehydrogenase... stuff... and can metabolictise up to thirty-eight milliliters per hour!"
"I think you've had enough, Howard." Steve sounded amused even as he picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey.
"Shhs. I'm thinking here." Howard shook his head. "No. Can't be that, either, because then you'd be producing too much NADH-- it's a long bunch of words-- and that, no, that would make you FAT, and hypoglycemic," Howard paused, pleased that he'd got 'hypoglycemic' out properly.
"Well, maybe if I did drink a lot, Howard." Steve poured the whiskey into his empty beer glass and drank it, mainly to keep it away from Howard. "I'm pretty sure whatever you're talking about requires some serious, long-term drinking."
"Hmm... got to be an answer. There's an answer for everything." Howard reached for the bottle, miscalculated and wound up plastered against Steve's chest, hanging onto his uniform shirt. "Wow. Big khaki wall here. When did they redecorate?"
Steve laughed. "I think you're looking through whiskey-colored glasses."
"Huh. Hang on a moment." Howard began unbuttoning Steve's shirt.
"Howard. I am not a dame. How drunk are you?" Steve made a half-hearted attempt to stop him. While he couldn't get drunk, there was a sort of 'group drunk' going on in the tavern, so it seemed rude to act sober.
Howard batted Steve's hands away. "I'm just... verifying. An... hypo.. idea. You smell like whiskey."
"Howard, everyone here smells like whiskey. The tables and chairs and ceiling smell like whiskey."
Howard got Steve's shirt open, and tugged down on the white undershirt, baring a few inches of collarbone. "Don't stand in the way of scientific progress."
Steve sighed and rolled his eyes. "Fine."
Howard leaned closer. And licked Steve's chest.
"AHH!" Steve yelped and fell backward, landing on the sawdust strewn floor with Howard on top of him. "HOWARD!"
"EUREKA! You sweat whiskey!" Howard got up and waved around the room. "Steve sweats booze!"
Steve covered his face with both hands. "I am never going drinking with a Stark again."