Work Text:
Movie night is a time-honored tradition of all normal college experiences. Or so Steve keeps assuring them, and James stopped trying to argue him out of it a while ago. They’re in the tiny living room of their apartment, Tasha half asleep on his shoulder and Steve on his way back from the kitchen with another round of beers and some popcorn covered in a combination of butter and dry ranch seasoning. Also, apparently, tradition. Steve’s the only one who’ll touch the stuff, but James and Tasha humor him and don’t start the films until he has his bowl of fresh popped travesty.
Steve starts the film, and the screen fills with a set of red, disembodied lips. Also, collegiate tradition. Halloween is just past, and the restored art deco theater downtown will host a midnight showing of Rocky Horror next Saturday. Steve is adamant they need to watch it to refamiliarize themselves with the various audience cues. James smiles and nods when these sorts of hallowed traditions come up. He’ll gladly throw toilet paper across the audience and wear his newspaper on his head if it makes Steve happy. Tasha calls him a pathetic sap for it, but he loves the guy and it’s such a simple way to show it.
An iconic set of high heels are descending onto the screen when Tasha lurches upright. James grabs for her, used to grounding her when she wakes up disoriented. She shakes her head, one hand clenched in a fist and pressed to her lips as her eyes go wide.
Steve catches on faster than James does, and the now emptied bowl is shoved into Tasha’s lap just before she loses the first rush of sick into it, the liquid pinging against the metal bottom in a sound that James finds just a little too reminiscent of metal basins in Kandahar. He takes a deep breath to clear the sensory memory, forcing himself to focus on Tasha.
“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” he tells her, feeling like an idiot the moment the words are out.
Even gasping for breath Tasha has the presence of mind to elbow him for that blatant lie. She glares at him before returning her attention to choking up what little is in her stomach after the beer makes its second appearance.
Once she’s down to hiccups and the occasional dry gag, Steve takes the bowl from her and heads off to rinse it out.
“You empty or should we get you to the bathroom?” James asks her.
“Think I’m good,” she murmurs.
“You might give me a little warning next time?”
“If I have any,” she shoots back, biting at her lower lip and looking at her knees.
“Anything I need to know?” It wouldn’t be the first time Tasha’s made shit decisions that end up kicking her ass.
Tasha shrugs, and leans back against James’ shoulder. He wraps one arm around her to keep her close and kisses the top of her curly hair. If she’s not offering answers, he knows better than to try to pry them out of her. When she’s ready to discuss the little amber bottles in the bottom of her purse, he’ll be waiting.