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builder051 · 6 months

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Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies

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Chasing Ghosts. Warning for drug mentions/implied drug use. Meant to be stupid and funny.

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James sits at the table. He presses his cheek to its cool surface and wraps his arm around his head. He should go, he thinks. Somewhere. Not here. Or at least turn off the light.

The logical thing to do is plant himself in the bathroom and wait out his seasick headache. The thought of the bathroom sends James’s throat up to throb behind his clenched teeth. He won’t be turning off the light. He won’t be moving at all.

“It’s bad?”

Steve seems to have materialized in the kitchen. James doesn’t know how long he’s had an audience. He’d taken his hearing aids out a while ago. With his echolocation gone and his eyes hidden, James knows he’s a sitting duck. Not that Steve would ever hurt him. Well, not on purpose. He sometimes gets a little rough when administering first aid.

“Eh,” James says to the inside of his elbow. “You probably know better than I do.”

“Mm,” Steve muses. James imagines him stroking his chin in contemplation. “You have a headache and feel like you want to hurl?”

“Yeah…” James pauses to draw in a shaky breath. “I don’t know. When, I mean. If.”

“You never do know.”

There’s a scraping sound and a vibrating sensation as Steve pulls up a seat. James bites his lip. He’d rather taste blood than bile.

“I mean, I can guess. I can try to help. Hold your hair. Or a mop.” Now that he’s close, James hears the uncertainty in Steve’s voice.

“Yeah. Try consulting your magic 8 ball or something. ‘S as good as anything else.”

Steve gives a quiet laugh. “I would if I could.”

“Wait, what?” Tasha’s running up the hallway, her words going from muffled to sonorous. James pretends he doesn’t suppress an instinctive swallow. He can’t acknowledge what doesn’t exist. Logic bends as James’s head makes a particularly strong throb. He’s losing his grip on reality. He must be. Tasha awake and moving at this hour on a Saturday morning? James assumes it’s still morning. It was morning when his mild headache turned to extreme vertigo and sent him tilting toward a chair.

“Oh, hey, Tasha.” Steve says.

James forces out his own sound of greeting.

“Who has an 8 ball?” Tasha speaks quickly, tripping over her words. She’s probably on an upper already. Hopefully her very own, very legal Adderall. She has absolutely no need for cocaine.

“Nobody,” James groans. He lifts his head just enough to give his sister a scathing look. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a bathrobe that hangs far to low in the front.

“I heard you—“ Tasha starts.

“No.” James shuts his eyes and bows flat to the table again, this time cooling his aching forehead.

“It was, you know.” Steve sounds slightly embarrassed. Maybe because he won’t leave the bedroom in just boxers. Whose dignity he’s still pretending to protect, James will never ask.

Steve clears his throat and goes on. “Like, the toy kind? Where you ask it a question and shake it?”

“Oh.” Tasha’s disappointed. She recovers in a beat and says, “I had one of those once. As a kid. It was dumb. It wasn’t right about anything.”

“I was thinking about ordering one on Amazon.” Steve puts too much positivity into his tone. The man will do anything to avoid a confrontation.

“If you really want one, just give me a few bucks. I can have it by tonight.” James sincerely hopes she’s joking. Well, not joking, exactly. He hopes she won’t do it, whether to spite him or any other reason.

“That won’t be necessary.” James sees Steve’s gluey smile projected onto the backs of his eyelids.

“Might help your headache.” Tasha pokes James in the shoulder. He grunts and swallows frenetically, determined not to lose control.

“Tash…” James sighs. “Just leave it.”

“If you say so.”

Silence briefly ensues, then a cabinet opens and the sink starts running. Then the table jiggles again as Tasha joins them. She sips her water, then casually asks, “What question were you going to ask, anyway? The 8 ball?”

“Oh.” Steve laughs.

“You can tell her,” James says, then breathes deeply and focuses on the feeling of his nose squashing as he rests his forehead directly against the hardwood.

“It was, um,” Steve warms himself up. “We were going to ask, uh, whether or not James is going to puke.”

“Hm.” Tasha sets down her glass. “Well, duh. You could’ve just asked me.”

“What sayest you?” Steve gives James the floor. Which he may or may not be about to soil.

James has reached his limit. If he speaks, if he so much as acknowledges his turn in the conversation, his jaw will unhinge and everything will fall to pieces. He steels himself and clenches his abdominal muscles as much as he can. “Yeah.” It comes out in a gasp that’s probably inaudible as he takes off in a rush toward the bathroom.

#fanfic #fanfiction #marvel #mcu #captain america #steve rogers #winter soldier #bucky barnes #black widow #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #chasing ghosts #college AU #sickfic #emeto #tw drug use #tw cocaine #this is stupid and funny

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builder051 · 11 months

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Interlude

Chasing Ghosts

tw for slight eating disorder talk, mental health talk, discussion of consent, alcohol and drug use… I think that’s it.

I know I said I wasn’t putting anything out while I work on the long-form fic. Unfortunately this story decided to take over my brain and provide hella distraction.

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Sunday

2:57 AM

Steve’s eyes fly open and he’s out of the bed in a flash. Knees hit carpet, and he’s disoriented for a second. His brain turns first conscious, then powered on as he rubs his eyes. Steve stays silent for a moment. Dead quiet rings out. He must be the only one awake.

Steve raises his gaze a few inches over the edge of the mattress. The back of James’s head is toward him, and the covers pulled across his stump shoulder give rise and gentle fall to his slow breathing. Steve is definitely the only one up. It never turns out like this; it’s always James who wakes first. The nightmare or bad memory or lack of balance on the way to the bathroom… they’re not Steve’s problems. Well, they are, in theory. He’s just generally not the one with an affliction.

That’s onerous towards James, though, so Steve stashes it back into a mental auto-delete folder. No, he doesn’t feel that way. He’s grateful for James’s trust. Forwardness to share his emotions about the opposing forces of healing and the self-loathing he’s grown over years of being wronged. Still, though. Steve can’t determine a time in recent memory when he’s felt this alone in the house.

The apartment is his—but only technically, he’s made very clear. Just by the lease and it’s tie to the account that holds the money for rent. He’s made very clear that the account isn’t a trust fund, even if he knows it is, even if just by a parsing or words. He keeps his bank passwords very private.

That’s the only place he has walls up, though. Steve’s surrounded in teamwork and academic camaraderie from all sides. Swimming has absorbed his free time, which he’d rarely spent alone anyway. Even this moment of silence and solitude feels strange. Like his ears are plugged and gently throbbing as they do when he keeps his head under for a long time in the deep end.

Steve would feel safer in the water. He’s not out of place there, practicing for competition with a rowdy team or tying up the ends of a group project in the library. None of it is meant to take the place of his home and family life. Something is definitely off about the atmosphere here in the house. He’s primed for danger. He feels like a fucking nightstalker.

He needs to get out of here, he decides. If there’s a monster under the bed, James will have to tackle it alone. Or Steve might accidentally tackle him.

Now that he’s settled into awareness, Steve feels anxious. He wonders if he’s breathing properly. His skin doesn’t feel hot, but he’s boiling. Maybe it’s his blood. Steve takes one more look at James’s slumbering form, then books it silently for the door.

The hallway is dark. Tasha’s bedroom door is closed, and there’s no light coming from underneath or around the doorknob. She’s asleep, Steve thinks. But no, it’s a weekend… She’s probably out, enjoying herself like the average coed in the false pool of safety that seems to surround the campus.

The average coed. That’s not Steve, not anymore. He’s probably never been close. He’s learned more since since he vacated the upstairs suite in his parents’ house than he ever had in his life up to that point. To say he didn’t come with street smarts… Steve packed and drove and moved across the country before he realized the dorm didn’t have a private bathroom. Thinking about it now, actually, makes Steve want to laugh at himself. At eighteen, he’d still been so young and helpless. He’d thought he was near invincible, though. Surviving the worst of pubescent gay lust in a high school locker room— that was a feat. That should’ve prepared him for everything. Steve never thought he’d be, for instance, stuck in the median of four lanes of traffic going both directions because he’d overestimated his walking speed relative to the squawking time signal.

James has always been accommodating of Steve’s relative lack of skills in self care. James always laughs it off and says the feeling’s mutual. It’s not, though. James isn’t that much older, it’s just that he’s lived through and with so many tresspasses of the unjust. The essay in Steve’s college admissions packet claimed to be the story of the worst day of his life. Somehow, he doesn’t look back and see his cut from freshman football in the same way anyone.

There’s light somewhere at the other end of the apartment. In the living room, or maybe the kitchen. It’s dim, though. One of them probably forgot to turn off the glow under the microwave. None of them has figured out how to work its on/off timer, so Steve’s come to work it manually, which is to say he’s constantly turning it off. He says he’s saving power, which he supposes he is. It’s kind of an act; showing the others that he cares about the utility bill, even though he can always pay without even looking at the usage fee. Steve mainly wants to keep the light from bothering James’s sensitivities and headaches, not that he’d ever admit it.

A sudden shadow moves in the kitchen area. Steve hears the door of the fridge slam shut, then the sound of a running faucet. Unless they have a hungry burglar, it must mean that Tasha’s home and rustling up some dinner. Maybe breakfast. Steve’s sure it’s past midnight, though he hasn’t checked the clock to calculate hours remaining until sunrise.

“Hi.” Steve announces his presence and stands next to the table. He doesn’t want to scare Tasha; it’s pure chance as to whether she’s on an upper or a downer or something hallucinogenic. “Um. Good morning?”

The water stops running. “Fucking Christ…” Tasha’s braced in front of the sink with tight, overextended elbows. Her knees display an obvious tremor. When she lifts her head, the low light creates a halo of liquid amber around the messy bun atop her head.

Tasha flashes a glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t make eye contact with Steve, but it’s apparent she knows he’s there. “Fuck,” she curses again. It’s apparent how she feels about Steve standing there watching her, but now they’ve acknowledged each other’s presence, Steve can’t just turn around and go back to bed. Better to make sure Tasha’s ok rather than just frighten her and vanish. A ghost would probably be kinder than that. And Steve doesn’t want her to get the idea that the house has become haunted.

Tasha’s head dips out of sight, and weak coughing echoes from the walls of the sink. She gags. Spits. Then she looses one hand from her stabilizing grip, and her shadow shrinks down even more.

Steve steps forward, wondering if she’s about to faint. It seems a very real possibility, though Steve’s own stomach sinks as he puts two and two together.

“You ok?” Steve doesn’t know what else to say. It’s plain that Tasha is not ok in the slightest, but he wants to announce his progress across the room before just appearing behind her back and grabbing her shoulder. Steve feels the instinct to put hands on her. Protectively, of course. In good faith. He’s learned enough about trauma, though, that well-intended doesn’t always translate to appropriate.

“Yeah.” Tasha retches hard and pulls slimy fingers out of her mouth. “Go away.” Strings of ropy mucous hang off her fingertips, the dim light making them stand out like lines of freshly woven spiderweb.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” It’s a stupid thing to say; Tasha will probably take it as insincere pandering. Steve doesn’t plan on going away, though. Not with her body shaking like that. He’d prefer not to find her passed out on the floor when he and James sit down for morning coffee.

Tasha retches again, and this time it’s productive. Liquid spatters into the garbage disposal, and Tasha turns the water on again. It does a poor job of masking the sound, now that Steve’s only a few feet away and definitely aware of what she’s doing.

“Just, uh, clearing things out? Before you hit the sack?” It’s intrusive, and Steve knows it.

“Eh.” It comes out muffled; Tasha’s hand is down her throat again. She shrugs one shoulder, then hacks and dribbles more sick into the sink. She appears to have no shame, which Steve isn’t sure whether it’s actual boldness or putting on airs.

Steve decides to be bold back, though he prays he doesn’t cross the line and seem overly intrusive. “You want some water? Or something to, like, flush out?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he prattles on. “I can fill a cup in the bathroom so it doesn’t… disturb you?”

It takes a moment for Tasha to answer; she first unloads another splash of sick and wipes her mouth on the back of her dirty hand. “Are you getting off on this?” She turns her head sideways just enough to face Steve, as if she wants him to know she’s speaking to him directly. “Like, watching me?” Tasha clears her throat. “That’s really depraved. You don’t have hidden cameras in the bathrooms, do you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Steve replies with abject disgust. He feels the need to defend himself. “I just woke up. I’m not spying on you or anything.”

“Then can you go the fuck away?” Tasha shakes her hand, and flecks of vomit hit the sink, the faucet, and the window in front of her.

“Here.” Steve tears a paper towel from the roll and leans in to clean up the residue. His arm slides close to Tasha’s, and he’s sure their pricked hairs intertwine as he reaches past her. Steve breaks out in goosebumps, and he tries not to flinch. “Sorry,” he mutters before swiping the paper towel across the window glass.

“Right.” Tasha gives Steve a look of disdain. He’s in her way, and she’s definitely not thrilled about it. “I’m sorry.”

Tasha doesn’t acknowledge the apology. She looks miserable, her eyes swollen to puffy slits and her wet, red lips pulled into a thin line. Her nose drips, and she inhales hard with a loud snuffle that seems to displace more gunk than it saves. Steve catches her slight wince and heavy swallow.

Knowing his time is up, Steve looks away first. He deserves to have Tasha gawk at him for a while. It’s more than a fair trade. He busies himself with crumpling the soiled paper towel. Steve isn’t sure what to do with it, though, as Tasha’s knees block the access to the trash bin in the cabinet under the sink.

As he looks down at the damp towel in his hand, Steve notices the color of what he’s just wiped up. Pinkish red. His mind jumps to the worst case scenario, even though it’s more likely to be a thousand things more innocuous than blood.

“You’re not spitting blood, are you?” Steve asks anxiously.

“Huh?” Tasha drags her focus away from her hand, which is halfway to her mouth again, and looks at Steve.

He lifts the towel to show her. “I… um… Is your throat ok? Or your stomach?”

“Oh.” Tasha’s mouth twists as she sucks on her tongue and the insides of her cheeks. Having to stop and think as to whether she tastes blood… It can’t be a good sign.

“Have you ever heard of a strawberry daiquiri?” Tasha looks at Steve as if he’s lost it. “Vodka and cranberry?”

Steve’s still suspicious. As far as he knows, Tasha isn’t one to drink her calories. Or eat them, if she can get away with it. Poweraid zero? That comes in red, right? But the thought of Tasha managing her lytes is definitely fictitious. James is usually the one pressing her to hydrate once she leaves her room and drags her hungover zombie body into the main part of the house. Typically sometime after noon.

Tasha shakes her head and sneers at Steve. “You’re the one who crammed a whole pan of lasagna in the fridge.”

So it was a binge? Or maybe she was just hungry. Ate too fast or something like that. It shocks Steve all over again that it’s the middle of the night and that he and Tasha are actually having this conversation. They’re sharing secrets, even if the action is completely forced and only present via circumstance.

“You, um…” Steve isn’t sure how to phrase it without being awkward. A moment’s thought gives him no help, so he plows ahead in brutal honesty powered by guilt. “You don’t have to, like, stop. On my part, I mean.”

“Ok.” Tasha’s face goes ashen. She opens her mouth, then closes it and holds her wrist over her eyes. It barely blocks any part of her face, she’s so bony.

“I just want to be sure you’re ok,” Steve says, though he knows it’s pointless. “But you do you and all that stuff.” He takes a breath and says the rest in a rush. “And you don’t have to eat my cooking. You know?”

“Yeah.” Tasha’s voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “But maybe I will anyway. Free will and shit?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Tasha bends back over the sink, her jaw sagging and strings of spit spilling over her lower lip. “So you’re going to go away, right? If I offend you, you don’t have to watch.”

“I don’t.” Steve’ll give her that one. He decides to give himself one more shot at explaining his behavior while they’re at it. It’ll at least eat up the time before Tasha inevitably pukes again. “But it’s like, I don’t know. The buddy system?”

“You’re not asking for an invite are you?” Tasha sounds disgusted. “You wouldn’t like my kind of parties, anyway.” More disgusted than one usually would when they’re that sick. Drunk. High. Exercising their right to test the limits of a youthful metabolism against the brute force of an eating disorder.

“No, no, not that,” Steve says quickly. It’s all he has time for. Tasha gives an immense dry heave, then breaks into another coughing fit.

“But can I, like… Stay with you?” Steve presses.

“Ugh.” Tasha spits and sticks out her tongue. “Why? I’m all messed up. Always a disappointment.”

“You’re not—“

“And if you keep trying to be sympathetic, I’m going to kick you in the balls.”

“Well.” Steve tries not to show any signs of amusement. “That’d be your choice, the, wouldn’t it?”

“Involuntary reflex.” Tasha’s expression changes as she acknowledges her own joke, though it evaporates just as quickly.

“Exactly.” Steve capitalizes the opportunity to continue explaining himself, even though he’s probably extending past his moment. “Same as being here to catch you if you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass—“ Tasha cuts herself off with a heave, this one seeming to come on unexpectedly.

“I know you’re not,” Steve says, although she’s shaking so much now that he wants to lay a hand over the bumps of her spine. Her delicate body may not stay in one piece if she tumbles backward. Steve imagines her head cracked on the linoleum floor. Then there would be blood for sure. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. It’s infinitesimally more disturbing than the idea of Tasha spitting up blood, and Steve is left wondering why.

“You’re not supposed to care about me like that.” Tasha’s knees begin to buckle, and Steve puts much more stock into her actions than her words.

“It’s not like you can really stop me.” Steve hovers at her shoulder. “I’m allowed to keep you from hitting the floor, right?”

“Wow. Consent.” Tasha props herself up on her elbows and rests her forehead on the edge of the sink.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not…” Steve trails off, shaking his head. “It’s my floor.”

“Huh?”

Is she becoming foggy? Does that mean danger is imminent? Steve pushes down his anxiety and says, “If I pay the rent, I’m the owner of the apartment?” Coming out, it sounds utterly ridiculous. Pretentious. And more than a touch belittling.

“Fine, take the kitchen. But my room is my room.”

“You’re not actually on the lease,” Steve points out. “But, yeah, your room is yours. Like your body. Your choices.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.” Tasha catches Steve’s eye. He knows she’s being serious.

“You wouldn’t on purpose.” It’s the best Steve can do.

“Yeah, I’m not that kind of fucked up. Save that for James…”

“Sure.” Steve decides to leave that one where it lies. “I guess I just don’t want you to hork yourself to death. Not in the middle of the night. Not all by yourself.”

“But I can commit my other sins in private, right?” She turns her head completely, looking up at Steve while she rests on one ear.

“Eat or drink or, what, inhale?” Steve gives a single breath of laughter. He’s sure he isn’t phrasing it correctly. At the same time, though, he’s sure that Tasha knows he’s doing his best.

“I’m not on paint fumes.” Tasha shakes her head and does nothing to hide her growing grin. “That’s little kid stuff.”

“Ok, well, needle or under the tongue or swallow with a jello shot…” Steve’s reached the limit of his knowledge on that topic, and he’s completely fine with showing his naiveté. They’re baring their souls, after all. “And what you do with your food. Even if I cooked it, you’re still free to—whatever.”

“Yes, sir, captain.” Tasha’s slurring a little. Whether she’s succumbing to fatigue or drunkenness, Steve isn’t sure. And he isn’t going to ask.

Steve nods. He doesn’t want to muck up the conversation even more.

“I’m going to bed,” Tasha declares. “You’re not going to escort me or hold my elbow or whatever, right?”

“Oh, no.” Steve’s glad he didn’t give in to the urge to touch her, now or earlier. “I know you’re alright. That much, at least.”

“Yeah, very reassuring.” Tasha straightens up and rubs the heel of her hand into her eye socket. “You going to sleep, too? Or there’s milk in the fridge.” Tasha shrugs. “Lasagna.”

“Sleep, I think,” Steve says. It seems somehow wrong to stay in the kitchen once Tasha’s vacated it. “I’ll just hit this.” He crosses the kitchen to the microwave and beeps the dial a few times. The bright reflection bouncing back over the stovetop cuts out. Darkness presses in, but Steve still sees Tasha’s skinny outline.

“If I’m allowed to ask,” Tasha starts, “Why’d you get up in the first place?”

Steve tells no tales of gallantry or subconscious protectiveness. “I knew I forgot to turn that stupid light timer off.” It’s not like he’s sure or anything. It just sounds right.

“I can hit it when I get home,” Tasha offers.

Steve detects no pretense or sarcasm, so he just says, “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Cool.” Tasha gives a curt nod, as if they’re sealing the deal. And they are, in a way. Steve doesn’t intend to break Tasha’s confidence. And he knows she won’t rat him out, either. Waking up to turn off the light? Steve’d be glad to leave that one to the annals of memory, too.

#sickfic #marvel #mcu #fanfic #emeto #captain america #emetophilia #fanfiction #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #steve rogers #chasing ghosts #angst #mental health #ed tw #eating disorders #self induced vomiting

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