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Steve sets the table for dinner first, brining the napkins and forks and glasses of water to the edges of the placemats before beginning to serve up the meal. He doesn’t realize James has already sat down in the tiny dining room set between the kitchen and the couch until he turns around, asking, “One scoop, Buck? Or two?”
James has his water glass to his lips, but he quickly sets it down and opens his mouth to answer. Instead of words, though, what comes out is a cough. It’s harsh and wet, and he turns his face into his elbow, either for dignity or the fear of the water - or anything else - from coming back up.
“Swallow too fast?” Steve puts down the spaghetti ladle and comes to give him a pat on the back.
James coughs aging and puts up his hand, signaling that he’s fine, but the tremor quickly developing in his wrist and fingers tell a different story.
“It’s ok.” Steve gives James a gentle clap between the shoulder blades. “Just water down the wrong pipe.”
“N-no. Stop,” James manages, flailing weakly with his torso and stump arm to push Steve away. He hacks again, and something thick and yellow drips onto the floor.
“Buck?” Steve looks at him, confused, but nonetheless ready to provide care.
“I don’t— I can’t—“. James clears his throat, the sound loud and rough. Steve bends over him and sees James’s eyes are tightly shut.
“It’s me,” Steve says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
James opens his mouth, deflates, in an enormous sigh, and begins to pant loudly. More fluid drips from his mouth. Steve sees it leaking from his eyes and nose as well. He places his hand carefully on James’s stump shoulder and whispers, “You’re home. You’re safe.”
James sniffles, then slackens backward toward Steve’s touch. He glances down at his damp, sick-stained sleeve, then seems to piece together what’s happened. “I’m…”. James swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s ok,” Steve says. “Are you ok?”
“Mm,” James replies, no emotion in his tone. ‘It’s just… sometimes. To get intel. You know. They…”. He trails off, looking at the floor.
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. James was tortured overseas, he knows. But the specifics, James rarely mentions, and most of what Steve’s heard about them comes out in splintered bits, either in panic attacks or random needs to spew out truth.
“No one deserves… that,” Steve says. I James won’t say it, he won’t either. Giving the water boarding a proper title makes it seem somehow passable, a reminder that sometimes the US government does it too.
James jams his fingers into his eye sockets to stem the flow of tears. “I guess I should…” He pauses. “Clean up…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says. “I’ll get it. Put everything away. Why don’t you go lie down for a while?”
He expects James to head for the bedroom, but instead he opts for the shorter walk to the living room sofa. Steve’s about to tell him to go somewhere more comfortable, but he stops himself. If James wants to be close, he should be close. And when he thinks about it, that’s what Steve wants as well.