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Tasha’s reappearance in his life in a lecture hall brought the two halves of his existence into conflict, a Venn diagram melding slowly together - the before and the after stretching out to meet, converge, and the confluence of those two parts of him would either be his undoing or salvation.
Now here they are three weeks into the semester in his living room, hunched over a cheap coffee table and assembling what he can only think of as atomic model tinker toys in preparation for an exam he’ll be happy to scape a pass out of.
Her hand is trembling as she reaches for the little colored baubles, meticulously constructing a representation of the compounds they have to deal with for this unit. Organic chemistry should have come with a warning about this particular endeavor for those lacking in all original parts, James muses, before he registers that the tremor is making it impossible for her to connect the little sphere to the corresponding cylinder.
“Tash?” he asks, voice low enough to be barely heard. The startle his question evokes scatters plastic atomic model pieces all over the carpet, and she curses before looking up at him.
“Dammit.”
The word is more hiss than anything, and he clenches his fist to keep from reaching out to her.
She presses balled up hands hard against her eyes, chest heaving as a gasping breath whistles through gritted teeth.
He wants to grab her, pull her across the space that divides them and hold her close. He wants to ask her what is going on, but he waits. Tasha hits harder than half the guys he fought alongside in the desert. Provoking her is a bad choice in the best of moments and right now it’s a particularly ill advised one. Long seconds pass before she looks up with red, watery eyes.
Her face contorts in what he supposes she intends to be a smile. It’s all teeth and no joy; lips chapped beneath perfectly applied stain. Deeply wired training makes every tiny detail stand out, each small tell seared into his consciousness and igniting instincts he thought he left behind in a home where every door held secrets and every utterance subtext he didn’t care to read.
“I hope you don’t think you’re getting out of telling me what that’s about,” he tells her dryly. Tasha doesn’t go for coddling. Better to be direct and hope for the closest thing to truth. She’s too good a liar to give him the actual thing, but he stands a decent chance at getting a shade of it.
“Give me my bag.”
He obeys, reaching behind him for her small canvas pack. There’s the rattle of a couple different plastic vials within as she rummages and withdraws a hand clutching a brightly labelled bottle. It promises magical fat burning and appetite suppression.
“Tasha,” he begins, his lips moving before his brain engages. No one on the planet needs to lose weight less than the girl in front of him. She’s always been thin, but this new version of his former baby sister is all sharp angles.
“Shut it,” she interrupts.
Spindly fingers dig a couple beige capsules from the bottle and she knocks them back without so much as a glance at him. Her throat works a couple times to get them down before she shakes her head one quick jerk and drops the bottle back into the depths of her bag.
She doesn’t look up when she speaks.
“It’s not like it’s cocaine.”
He doesn’t know why he still has her micro-expressions embedded in his brain, but right now it’s immensely helpful. She’s biting at the center of her lips, but the set of her forehead tells him it’s not nervousness. It’s searching for a believable lie.
“And we both know how safe you are with that,” James shoots back when the silence stretches a little too long.
“I’m not a fucking child.” The petulant look she gives him almost makes him regret the words. Almost.
“You never were. What’s up with the not cocaine, then?”
“Hangover,” she mutters.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I have a fucking hangover. I don’t have time for a fucking hangover, so I’m drugging up and moving on. I presume you’re familiar with the concept?”
Now that he looks closely, her eyes are a little bit on the glassy side. He’s wired to think of her as perpetually a little bit buzzed, though, so it hadn’t been noticeable as anything worthy of further study. He doesn’t know where he stands, what the boundaries are right now. Years ago, he knew her as well as he knew himself. Now she’s as good as a stranger, while also being absolutely his baby sister.
“You have a hangover, which means you’re dehydrated, and you’re popping amphetamines?”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious, for that astute contribution,” she snarks back.
He resists the urge to snap at her, to tell her she’s being an idiot. Instead, he heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of Gatorade, and passes it to her. She takes it without a sound, twisting off the orange lid and downing most of the contents in a few long draughts.
“Why do you have a hangover on a Tuesday night?” he asks her. Even as the words pass his lips, he sees the problem. She’s going to hear accusation, and she’s bound to shut down hard. He hears the word on a ghost of a memory – incoming.
It’s not a projectile heading his way or a kid with a gun bigger than his arms. But it’s no less hard to witness. Tasha’s face transforms into marble, cold, hard, empty.
“I don’t have to answer that.” The words hold no inflection but they are true. She doesn’t. She has no obligation to him or anyone else to explain the hows and whys of what she does to her body. It doesn’t stop him wanting her to offer them, but it does keep his lips closed and the rest of the questions unasked.
Are you drinking every day? How much? Are you sleeping? Well? Food? Are you safe? – All the things he wants to know and can’t badger her with. Pushing too hard is a recipe for being shut out entirely. Failing to push tells her he doesn’t give a fuck. Tasha’s an expert at subtext, skilled enough that she can find it where it doesn’t exist. Every time.
“Point,” he says instead, before kneeling at the floor and gathering the model components and placing them back in front of her. It’s message enough that he’s heard her, that he’s giving her space to say what she’s ready for, and to keep her silence if she isn’t. He’ll keep the electrolyte drinks coming, stick a bottle of Motrin on the counter, and wait until she’s ready to explain. Patience has never been his virtue, but tactical planning – that’s a thing he knows well. Tasha is often best approached as a mission with unclear parameters. He has plenty of experience with those.
They’ve put together a half dozen more compounds when she stands, walking with long strides down the hall and hitting the rug before the toilet with a soft thump of knees on shaggy discount store fluff. He hears her cough a few times before the Gatorade makes its reappearance. Going to her and rubbing her back, holding her curls, offering comfort, all of those options filter through his mind and are discarded. He was on her path from the room. If she wanted him, she would have grabbed his hand and pulled him along. It was always her way as a child and so little else has changed he can’t imagine that has either.
The toilet flushes a third time before stumbling footsteps announce her return. Her face is a sickly grey, a vague flush beneath prominent cheekbones. He pats the space next to him and she drops into it, knees drawn to her chest as she slips sideways against what is now only some of an arm. A moment of alarm as he wonders if she’s going to be upset by the prosthetic. She doesn’t stare at the glove on his hand the way most people do, but that’s a far cry from cuddling metal and silicone.
A tiny sniffle pulls him from his insecurities. Tasha doesn’t do tears. Except she’s going to now. She plops her head onto his shoulder and he reacts on instinct, curling her into his body and wrapping his arms around in the embrace they knew as kids. She’s boneless, her trembling form going where he guides as he holds on for all he’s worth. She’s not crying, exactly. More like leaking saltwater from clenched eyelids while her breath forces warmth through the fabric of his shirt in shallow gasps. Regardless, he begins the litany he learned in another world.
“Just breathe,” he tells her. It’s all the comfort she’s ever allowed. He could tell her she’s not alone, that she’s safe, that he’s got her, but none of those have ever helped. Simple orders, direct but gentle, those are the way to go when Tasha needs whatever it is she needs right now.
“I have a new caseworker,” she whispers when her body has stilled. “She called me darlin.”
They’ve never really discussed specifics of what happened to Tash before she turned up in the group care home. James does know that there are words, phrases, snippets of everyday life that send her hurtling back to places she’ll do terrible things to herself to stop seeing.
“How long?”
“First visit was yesterday morning,” she murmurs. “I started drinking when she left.”
James doesn’t need to ask how much she had. He can’t smell alcohol on her so she must have had little enough to not leach it through her pores. That doesn’t rule out an exceptional amount consumed, but it does mean that it’s not a habit, not in a way that he needs to worry for her safety. He’s no idiot. Tasha needs her vices the way other people need oxygen. For now, he can trust that she’s hungover on a Tuesday evening but that she’s safe enough in her skin.