Chapter Text
James isn’t sure when the cross-country road trip became a good idea, or who thought it up in the first place. Tasha’s twitchy smile with the exacerbated dimple leaves him suspicious that she’s behind the whole thing. He isn’t inclined to go along with her crazy plans; they don’t tend to turn out well for him. Or for her, really, but it’s not his place to judge.
The trip becomes a good idea by default when Steve jumps on board, hitting up sales for new suitcases and washing and folding the jumble of gym socks and worn-once pajamas in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
James stands silently in the doorway, watching a pile of plaid boxers disappear into nylon lining that still smells like a big box store, like new car and cheap baked goods and somebody’s spilled shampoo.
“We don’t have to go, you know,” Steve says, leaving the half-filled suitcase to lay his hand on James’s stump arm. He finds the pressure point behind his shoulder and forces relaxation through the limb that isn’t there. No arm doesn’t mean no tension.
James almost scoffs at the thought. “Yeah, we do,” he mutters. “You’re packed. We’re getting Tasha in the morning.” He shrugs. Getting her makes her sound like a coffee order. Or the slips of paper the doctors at the VA hand out when they want him to go down to the basement for bloodwork. Tasha isn’t food, and she certainly isn’t a medical procedure, though sometimes she’s as annoying and unavoidable as both.
“We can cancel,” Steve offers. He squeezes gently down James’s stump, finding the still-red groove in his skin from the prosthetic he’s tired of wearing. Steve looks back to the suitcase almost wistfully. He doesn’t want to cancel, and James knows it. For some unfathomable reason, Steve likes Tasha. He likes to indulge her as much as James does, which shouldn’t make James jealous. He should just be happy they get along, that Mr. do-the-right-thing is content to quietly love Miss always-in-trouble.
“No, we can’t.” James is well aware he sounds like a child, defiant and attitudinal in a sleepy kind of way. He is tired, hasn’t slept well lately. “I told her yes.” He leans forward to rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “And you want to go.”
Steve goes still for a second, then breathes out in a long, slow movement that brings his chest flat against James’s. “Yeah,” he finally whispers. “I do. So does Tasha. And I think you do to. In more than just a make-everybody-happy kind of way.”
“I just…” James murmurs. “I don’t know. You’re probably right.” He smiles into Steve’s ear.
“You don’t always have to listen to me.”
“Hm.” James shrugs. “That’s what I want to do.”
“Fair enough.” Steve presses his warm palm between James’s shoulder blades. A moment of silence passes, then, “I still can’t believe you’ve never been to San Francisco.”
“Well…” James doesn’t have answer. But then again, he doesn’t need one.