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Tasha’s crying. It’s not loud, more a series of soft, muffled exhalations than anything else. Probably wouldn’t be noticeable at all if his pillow wasn’t next to the outlet between their rooms. But it is, and he definitely hears her. Tasha’s been in the house long enough to have outlasted a fair few of the come and go teens that tend to find refuge here. It’s not a home, really, more a stopping off point before they age out and move along.
James is more than skilled enough at the art of silent breakdowns to shuffle through the various response options without giving them much thought at all. It’s Tasha. Tough as nails, brutal in a fight, and once in a long while, when she’s high enough that the walls come down, scared of everything locked up in the farther reaches of her consciousness.
He slips out of bed, careful not to wake the other two guys in the room. They’re still just names to him, passing through on their way to anywhere else. A quick grab into the hall closet nets him a wire clothes hanger. Tasha keeps her door locked at night. He doesn’t usually consider violating that sanctuary. But the quiet sounds are ramping up into garbled words, and he knows what comes next. He’s heard her begging in her sleep and seen the drugged out aftermath often enough to leave no doubt that she’s not good on her own just now. It’s not the first time new guys in the house rob her of rest. James hasn’t asked, and never will, but he knows there’s a story there that Tasha’s going to need to tell someone, sometime, before it eats her alive. A quiet thud from inside the room tells him she’s woken up and hit the floor, not necessarily in that order.
He passes the tip of the hanger into the flimsy locking mechanism of the doorknob, twists it, and eases the door open just enough to enter. A quick survey of the dim space tells him Tasha’s already departed the bed for the safer ground beneath it.
They’ve fallen into a routine for these nights. James stretches out on his belly, flat to the floor and out of reach of the space under the bed. She’ll come to him when she’s ready and not one moment before.
“Hey Tasha,” he murmurs.
“M’sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You okay under there?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Y’got words, babe?”
“Fuck you.”
Those will do. If she can respond coherently, she’s grounded enough to not go tripping headlong into a panic attack. Wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last, but if they don’t have to navigate that and the aftermath, there’s a better chance of her getting through the day without being high as a kite and that’s victory enough. She’s too young for the things she does. She was too young for the things that drive her to her pills and powders. He’s not brave enough to tell her either of those truths. Instead, he stays silent, listening to her gradually slowing breaths.
There’s a soft rasp of fabric against hardwood and she’s next to him, still half under the bed frame but spindly fingers interlinking with his as she edges her way out of her shelter as far as she’s willing. They don’t talk about this. He’s certain that she’s been hurt and badly by someone with no right to touch her. So he stays still, offers grounding, and waits out the night with a girl he claims as sister, blood be damned