#the scene where hes wrapped up in ghe blanket specifically

[12112122angel]

crying during succession again

[builder051]

some things never change

Chasing ghosts

Warnings for mentions of alcohol/drug use and SA

__________________

James wakes in the LaZBoy in the corner lf the living room, his head barely supported by the throw pillow jammed between the chair's arm and cushioned back. Light streams through the cheap blinds. James wonders what time it is. Then, vaguely, what day it its.

He rubs his eyes, which feel full of the haze of leftover burning smoke. His mouth tastes like smoke, too. Sort of like tobacco. A little like weed. He's evidentially been partying, even though that's not typically his thing. At least, not anymore.

James stretches and punches in the chair's footrest with his heels. It makes a popping sound, and that arouses a gran from the sofa across the rom.

"God, you're fucking loud," a small, hoarse voice complains.

"Tash?" James squints to distinguish her mop of red hair from the mound of quilts and afghans. There's a trash bin on ghe floor near what would appear to be Tasha's head. James assumes she's been partying too. Maybe she's the reason he's been partying in the first place.

"Hmph," the pile of blankets replies. James takes it as an affirmative.

"Ok." James pushes to his feet. Dizziness threatens to send him reeling for a moment, but he manages to shuffle into the kitchen and pour water into the coffeepot before his stomach bottoms out and he retches into the sink.

James's mouth and nose burn with bile, and he stifles a hacking cough.

"You ok?" Someone asks from behind James's shoulder.

James tries to keep his natural fight or flight response at bay whilst also stopping another dry retch before it finds its way into his throat. "Huh?" he says quickly. "I-- I'm--"

"Buck," Steve murmurs apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"It's ok," James chokes. He swallows hard and forces a smile.

Steve looks at him a little doubtfully. Then furrows his brows in an expression of real concern.

"What happened last night?" he asks in a low voice.

"I'm..." James swallows again, then turns back to the sink and spits. "Still trying to figure that out."

"You came home at two-thirty," Steve offers. "If that helps."

James shrugs. "My guess is that the supposed knight in shining armor wound up getting... pretty busted up."

"You're not all beat up, though," Steve says. "And you weren't that out of it. James is sure he's giving the mildest report humanly possible.

"I know I was high," James immediately admits, putting up his hands in honest innocence. "On what, I have practically no idea."

Regular cigarettes and pot can usually blur the edges for him a little, but it takes something heavier to drop him on his ass. Prescription grade, at least. Though he doesn't explicitly tell Steve that.

"Well," Steve says, glancing toward the living room to see Tasha's current grade of consciousness. "If you were high, she was fucking blitzed." Steve pauses. "And I don't know if it's, like, a thing, or something. I've never partied like that, but--"

"Just spit it out," James says with a sigh, taking the towel from the handle of the dishwasher to wipe his face.

"She didn't have any pants." Steve looks fairly mortified. "Like, you had her all covered with your jacket, like a dress, and all..." He trails off.

That partially explains why there are so many blankets on the sofa. Also why there are no sounds of the laundry machines tumbling all traces of last night out of Tasha's scant clothes.

"Meh." James shrugs. He puts the towel back. "Happens sometimes. Especially if there's something like... an unplanned interruption."

Steve takes a deep breath. "Wow." Then, "If you knew it was, well, that kind of party, why'd you let her go?"

"No question of letting her," James says, suddenly exhausted. "She's 18. She can make her own decisions."

"But, alcohol?" Steve ask. "Drugs? Guys?"

"She doesn't like guys," James says quickly, and with a snarky smile.

"But she was, obviously, well, you know--"

"Transactional," James says. "At least that's probably how it started." He looks into the living room to see if Tasha has stirred any more, which she hasn't. Drunken wakings are like that-- coming and going a bit before one knows what's really real. He hopes that's where Tasha is right now.

James glances at Steve, who still has the same curious look. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"y

"No," Steve says, "But--?"

"Well, share your body and I'll share my drugs is one thing." It still brings a disgusted look to James's face. "But when you go in there to get her and she's naked and trying to break her own thumb to escape the handcuffs and the second guy's dropping his pants to take his turn..." James squeezes his eyes shut. He feels sick all over again, though he's already emptied the contents of his stomach.

"You want to take her in?" Steve suggests, his eyes wide. "Do a kit or something?"

"You can ask her when she gets up," James says doubtfully. "But if she's behaving anything like her regular self, she's gonna say she agreed to the first guy, and all he's guilty of is being rough. I'm pretty sure I punched the second guy out before he got on her.

"That's just..." Steve pauses..."Nuts. That you know this. That you aren't freaking out about this."

"Yeah, well, I learned pretty quickly that there better be specific relevant details when I first tried taking her to the ER after she turned 18. Hadn't moved out of the home yet, but was still trying to party like a college singleton."

"How'd you... take that?" Steve finally asks.

"Went with her when I could. Surveilled from a distance when she wouldn't let me. Only took her to the ER once after a rough one, and I found out real quick that statutory didn't apply anymore. Of course she agreed she'd consented, and I was the one who looked like a fool."

"What're you doing?" a miserable voice comes from the vicinity of the living room. "Are you talking about me?"

"Shit," James mutters. He wonders if she heard him talking about last night. He hopes not, lest she think he's broken some kind of unspoken sibling confidentiality rule of which they have yet to factor Steve into as something between boyfriend and brother-in-law. “Morning, Tash,” he says, giving Steve a glare that’s clearly meant to say their previous conversation is strictly under wraps.

“Hi.” Tasha slowly gets to her feet from her couch bed, still wearing the bottom blanket as a sort of toga dress over James’s backward hoodie. She stumbles a little, and James practically runs to keep her from falling, even though he’s not completely steady himself.

“Hey,” Tasha groans, grasping James’s arm as he pulls her into a hug. “I feel gross.” She pulls away, holding her hand an inch or so in front of her mouth.

“Yeah, I’m not all sunshine and daisies myself,” James admits.

“What were you rolling on?” Tasha asks skeptically. “Tylenol?”

“Tash, be serious, please.” James wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t want to exacerbate his current headache.

“Oxy?” Tasha tries again.

“Hey,” Steve snaps, suddenly up with the program.

“Don’t worry about it,” James tells him. “My privacy really isn’t the issue here.”

“So you were finally giving in to your cravings.” Tasha touches her tongue to her upper lip.

“So maybe I was.” James does his best not to let anger creep into his voice. He goes with cold, hard honesty instead. “I actually can’t remember what the fuck I took last night. Did. Drank.” James runs his hand through his hair.

“The sink says Guinness,” Steve supplies. “And your clothes say weed.”

James nods. It’s a fair enough assessment. He’s pretty sure pills were involved as well, lest it not be his type of party. The oxy makes sense. He probably rolled a little ecstasy with it, as he thinks he recalls lying on the couch in the house for some unknown period of time before reality set back in and he had to find Tasha.

Lying on the couch. That’s what Tasha ought to be doing right now. More drugs than what piped through James have probably hit her miniscule system. The fact that shey’s up, no matter how unsteady, seems to be a feat to be reckoned with.

“And what’re you on?” James asks, though he knows he’s unlikely to get an answer. At least an honest one.

“Same as you.” Tasha shrugs. “Maybe a little more. Maybe a little less.” She nudges the not exactly empty trash bin beside the couch with her foot. There isn’t much in it substance-wise, but the yellow bile at the bottom appears to be streaked with blood.

Broken capillaries at the back of the throat aren’t necessarily uncommon, James reminds himself, but the whole scene is a little unsettling. Sort of like the fact that she’s still wearing her temporary coat-and-blanket dress, making no move toward increased modesty. It’s as if the partying of the previous night has, for both of them, brought on exhaustion and an expulsion of cold, hard honesty. Something of the type James is more likely to spill; something mature that implies she’s out-aged the fun of the previous night.

It’s weird for Tasha, acting like the miniature grown-up that James knows she isn’t. But then he thinks back to the way he found her last night, and how he’s told her story to Steve without her express permission. Guilt fills James’s stomach, and he doesn’t feel beyond vomiting again. He just hopes Steve does have the sense not to let her know what he knows.

“Do you want to go to bed?” James asks Tasha, gesturing down the hall. “I don’t know what time it is, but it seems as good a time as any to crash.”

“Hm.” Tasha looks at him skeptically.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol. Gatorade, even.”

Tasha gives him a long, hard look that turns her skepticism into something else. James can nearly swear he sees tears at the corners of her eyes, but when he blinks, they’re gone.

“Can I bunk with you?” Tasha’s obvious attempt not to look teary gives her away, but now she seems congested as fuck, wiping her nose on the sleeve of James’s jacket.

“Yeah,” James replies, pulling two bottles of sports drink from the fridge, then putting his arm around Tasha. “Of course.”

“You do too much for me,” Tasha mutters into James’s shoulder. “I know you know it.”

James shrugs. He still feels a little on the toasted side himself, and, to be honest, his little sister’s warm comfort, no matter how binged or beaten, is a positive presence in his life. He wants her to be ok. It makes him ok. If one day she decides she’s not, they’ll handle it. Together. But for now, sleep is in order.

Tasha sandwiches herself between Steve and James in their not exactly spacious bed, stealing the covers and complaining of hot and cold in cycles as the drugs work their way out of her system. She clings to James, then to Steve for a while.

“She won’t freak out if she wakes up and I’m the one with her?” Steve asks conscientiously.

“No,” James replies with purpose. “You’re nice to her, and there’s nothing to be gained by banging you.” James smiles a bit to buffer the ragged truthfulness of the words, but Steve just sighs and nods.

“She’s never had an ‘older brother’s boyfriend,’ has she?” Steve asks.

James shakes his head

“I mean, like, some non-relative to take care of her.”

James raises his brows, but Steve quickly cuts in with a “you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, one that she’s not screwing or getting drugs from, or getting drugs for… There’s a reason so many of them in gangs, you know?” James says.

“You mean,” Steve starts. “She was—“

“Let’s pretend I didn’t bring that up.” James feels warm and sweaty, and Tasha’s unconscious body lies between them, lips subtly parted and hair draped wildly across the pillow.

“Ok,” Steve nods solemnly.

“Home life was tough. College seems like it’s maybe just as bad. Could be a little worse…” James shakes his head.

“And, well, you’re both better at picking at flaws on the other one,” Steve quietly points out

“Yeah,” James sighs. “That’s… probably the truest thing I’ve heard all night.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Steve says with a grin, “But it’s definitely morning. Maybe even noon by now.”

“Fucker…” James reaches over Tasha’s sleeping form to grasp Steve’s upper arm.

Steve shrugs. “Maybe. But I do suggest getting some sleep.” He nods down to Tasha’s curled, heavy-breathing frame.

“You’re kind of full of it, aren’t you?” James smiles. “Finding ways to take care of us?”

“Well, I have to somehow. And if it’s by throwing blankets on the couch and washing puke out of the sink, I’m here for it, I guess.”

“You’re—“

“Helpful?” Steve suggests, grinning. “Kind? Loving? Necessary?”

“Sure.” James reaches carefully over Tasha to give Steve a kiss on the cheek.

“Now,” Steve says, nuzzling James’s forehead as Tasha’s hair comes up to tickle his chin, “We get our well-deserved rest.”