James hates evenings the most. He’s tired by the time Steve gets home from work, exhausted even. More than once Steve’s come in to find him snoring on the living room couch.
“Wanna try for the bed?” he asks, gently caressing the top of James’s head.
James gives him a sad smile in return. They both know what will happen next. The drowsiness will evaporate by the time they make it down the hall. James will be wide awake if he tries brushing his teeth and downright jittery once he falls into bed.
Steve tries medicating him, offering little blue capsules and a bottle of lukewarm beer along with James’s regular night meds. Sometimes it works and pushes him back towards the heavy dream state and drops him into unconsciousness, but more often it does the opposite makes him feel jumpy and sick, like he’s walking through a haunted house or out in the field searching down IEDs.
“I’m sorry,” he coughs one Tuesday night when he vomits up the cocktail and manages to catch the bed, the floor, and Steve in the mess. “I thought I was ok–” James heaves again, and Steve practically carries him to the bathroom before stripping off his soiled t-shirt and starting the shower.
The small room fills with warm, comforting fog, and after a few minutes of fruitless hacking, Steve helps James step over the lip of the tub and pull the curtain. James scrubs at his face and drinks water straight from the tap. Steve warns him about taking in too much too quickly, but he doesn’t listen. The warm spray dilutes the sourness on his tongue. That is, before it comes splashing back up onto Steve’s chest.
“So sorry,” James mutters into Steve’s collarbone. “I just– I thought–”
“Shh,” Steve whispers. “It’s ok. Just get your breath, ok?”
“Hm.” James rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder while Steve takes up the soap and starts to lather him up.
“Tired?” Steve asks.
“Not really,” James admits. “Just don’t feel so good.”
“My fault,” Steve says, exchanging the soap for shampoo. “I’m sorry, Buck.”
“No, it’s not–” James starts, but Steve adjusts the shower head, and the renewed spray hitting his face shuts him up.
“Well, I feel bad regardless,” Steve says. “You’re still exhausted, even if you don’t feel it.”
“Hm.” James goes back to one syllable answers as nausea swells again. He gags into the drain while Steve holds him up.
“Alright,” Steve pats him on the back, then turns off the water and wraps him in a clean towel. “You’re ok.”
“Mm-hm.” James’s teeth chatter as the chill of the bathroom sets in. Goosebumps erupt all over his body, but at least the change in temperature steals the churning from his stomach.
“Feel better?” Steve asks, pulling on his pajamas and offering James a set of his own.
“Yeah,” James says, taking up his toothbrush. “Kinda.”
“Kinda is good.” Steve smiles. “Wanna try for bed again? Or maybe a movie?”
“I don’t know,” James sighs, gravitating back into Steve’s arms. “You pick.”
“Ok.” Steve’s smile widens, showing his teeth. “I will. In a minute.”
“Huh?”
“Just let me hold you first,” Steve says. “I don’t think we do this often enough.”
“What, puke on you?” James teases hoarsely.
“Nah. Just enjoy the moment.” Steve kisses him on the top of the head. “I love you like this, you know. I love you all the time.”
“Yeah,” James replies. “Same here.