James could still taste the Tabasco.
It was the first decent meal he'd had in way too long. Not to give himself too many props or anything, but his cooking had something to do with it—even if he could only go so far with the ingredients he had to work with.
It tasted good. That was all the mattered. Spicy, hot. It burned in his mouth and settled in his stomach, and that night he didn't listen to the noises his gut made before he spread out on his back, one elbow over the edge of his cot, and fell asleep.
He listened to Steve shifting in the cot across the way instead. And sleeping didn't come so easy.
In the morning he did twice the usual number of reps. Chin-ups, sit-ups and push-ups. Everything ups, even the stuff that was low down to the ground. He did his laundry and his rounds, once past the orphanage listening to all the noise inside. Everything sounded copacetic, somewhere better than okay.
By the afternoon his body was sore in a way it hadn't been since they were hauling ass all over the galaxy, sweet-talking Krogans—nobody was good at that—and siccing Thresher Maws on Reapers, curing the Genophage and losing Palaven. All of the old times, the good stuff.
And James was beginning to think he'd never see that kind of action again.
Nobody said he wasn't supposed to miss it. That was implied. What they fought for was what they got, and there wasn't any room for being disappointed.
It didn't make a lick of sense.
James's sides were aching, the muscles he hadn't pushed to their limits in too long reminding him they were there and they could get mad as hell when he wasn't respectful.
Good. At least they still knew what being mad was. At least he could still breathe heavy for a reason other than all the smog in the air, one of those famous things about London they didn't put in the pictures or in the tourist info.
James always thought it was supposed to be pretty. Obviously, after the Reapers were through making a wasteland of it, it wouldn't be—but he couldn't imagine getting to the point where it might be again, no matter how many sunsets they went through, no matter how many Turians broke their hammers trying.
Maybe it hadn't been so great in the first place. Maybe they were looking to rebuild something that never was.
Maybe it was better this way.
And maybe it wasn't just the muscles in James's sides that hurt but the muscles in his head. Sometimes his brain felt like it was the one doing twice as many reps, upping the ante every twenty-four hours, to say nothing of how hard his heart was beating.
But James didn't believe in days off, in resting. He believed in poker and huevos rancheros and relaxing after he'd pushed too hard, everything all at once, all in the same long day.
There was no such thing as going too far. There was no such thing as stopping.
There were groceries on his table when he got back to the shelter and spare parts next to the aquarium VI, something that looked like a wrench but probably wasn't.
There was no Steve, and James missed him—not like a hole but like something that'd been covered up half-assed with a tarp and some tack, like a hammer slipping in his hands, like something he still had left to finish without knowing how to begin.
Yeah. James's head hurt. He picked up the not-a-wrench and tossed it from one hand to the other, then put it back down again, not knowing whether or not it was in the same place as before.
The aquarium VI wasn't fixed, but one of the dents in the model Normandy SR-2's four miniature antiproton thrusters had been patiently hammered flat again.
It was always hammers.
James picked that up next, not the first model ship he'd owned but the first one he'd inherited. It was small, light in his hands, barely weighing anything at all. He wondered how much it'd cost, how many credits Shepard had forked over for it—and why. Shepard had the ship itself, the real deal, so what the hell did he need with something that'd make him feel too big, like he just didn't fit? Or was it that the real deal made him feel too small?
The way James saw it, he could do one of two things: put the ship up on a stand now that somebody had gone and fixed the dents, show it off, keep it on display—or give it away to a better home. Let some kid who didn't have anything else play with it. Mess it up, zoom it around, do all the noises. Crash it into the ground just like the real deal, only with fewer sparks in the end.
They'd love that ship. They'd recognize it. And James didn't want to get sentimental or anything, but it'd keep the Commander behind it alive—in a manner of speaking.
Dead, but not gone.
It was the least they could do.
James put the model ship back down. There had to be something to cover it up with, to get it out of the way of making dinner and working with the hot plate. Obviously the groceries were some kind of suggestion—although Steve could've just said he was hungry for more.
James could hear it in his voice. Hey—we should do this again sometime.
The back of James's right deltoid twitched. He reached over to rub the pain out, thumb digging in where it hurt the most, but it twisted him up all wrong trying to work through it. On his own, he couldn't get the right angle.
'You look like you could use some help with that,' Steve said from close by, somewhere over James's shoulder.
James's deltoid didn't stop twitching. If anything, it was getting worse. He smoothed his fingers out over the cotton and muscle and he almost reached the right spot. Almost, but not quite.
'…But if I know you, Mr. Vega—and I think I do—you aren't going to take me up on that offer.' James could hear Steve walking in. He turned, arm still twisted up, like he was patting himself on the back. 'Just felt like looking to see if I could round up something a little less…Tabasco than Tabasco. Turns out I couldn't. And now I'm pretty sure some people think I'm crazy—crazier than they already did, anyway.'
'You are crazy,' James said.
Not loco. But close.
'Yeah, well, they had no idea where I was getting fresh eggs from to begin with.' Steve glanced at James's hand and he finally dropped it. 'You have any idea about that?'
'You accusin' me of something, Esteban?' James asked. 'Cause if you are, you might as well come out and say it.'
'Not every question's an accusation,' Steve said.
'Just most of 'em,' James replied.
Steve sighed, coming close to rolling his eyes. They were big and blue and they didn't always take James by surprise—although he did always notice them. There had to be a difference in there somewhere worth a damn but it was a knot James couldn't reach, either, couldn't work out with his hands alone. Some things were too small; some things were too big.
'See something you don't like?' Steve asked.
James realized he was staring. 'It ain't that,' he said.
It was pretty much the opposite. And the truth stuck in his throat like the grit always did. James knew if he swallowed he could choke on it—that it was the small stuff that always took big things down. Same with Shepard and the Reapers; same with hammers and Turians. Same with the model Normandy, maybe, although how that fit into everything wasn't as obvious as the rest.
'Guess you didn't pick up anything to drink,' James added, while Steve watched him with those eyes. James felt them everywhere they landed, on his face mostly, probably picking up on all the small stuff, like the scars James touched in the night with his thumb. It wasn't too surprising that he couldn't feel anything there, all dead tissue, so he had to keep reminding himself of what he had. What his face looked like. The pieces of himself he'd lost along the way and the other pieces he'd built up twice—no, ten times as strong. They were all him, one hundred percent, and one hundred percent natural. He knew how wide his shoulders were and the exact shape cut across his right cheekbone all the way to the bridge of his nose.
He knew the hurt. He knew the result.
'No cerveza this time,' Steve said. 'I like it better when you're talking, not the beer.'
'You would,' James said.
'I do,' Steve agreed.
'Yeah,' James added, but it wasn't the banter he needed, just this word that fell flat. He moved toward the hotplate instead but Steve cleared his throat.
'Let's try this again.' Steve's eyes were on James's back, right on the spot that hurt. Not that it was hurting, exactly; it just bothered him more than it usually did, which was a whole different relay. 'You look like you could use some help with that.'
'Thought you wanted some of my famous huevos again.' James jerked his thumb to the groceries. ''Fact, you made it pretty obvious that's exactly what you wanted.'
'The huevos can wait, Vega,' Steve said.
In all the time they'd been on the ship together, James rubbing at his own shoulder halfway down the shuttle bay from where Steve was taking care of his own business—and Steve noticing, sharp-eyed and clear, since his job was picking out stuff they might run into and navigating around it—he'd never once offered something like this.
At least, James had to figure he meant a backrub.
It didn't sound so bad right about now, either. Somebody else's hands making sure everything was still there, even the dead scar tissue, the skin that wasn't skin anymore.
Through the tee James was wearing—but still.
James could feel that skin start to prickle under the already sweaty cotton. He hadn't changed yet, and he was close to just pulling the shirt off and saying to hell with it, only something held him back. He blamed the ship. He blamed thinking.
All too often, that got in the way of doing.
So James sat down on the one chair they had, knees spread open, trying to remember what it felt like to relax. If this'd been one of the docking bays back on the Citadel and there'd been a poker table in front of him, a bunch of cards laid out and credit chits spread around next to those, he would've been able to grunt and sigh and shake everything loose. Hell, he wouldn't have needed the rub down to begin with.
Then again, if this'd been one of the docking bays, nobody would've been standing behind him, sleeves rolled up to their elbows—except maybe Shepard, leaning in just a little closer to check out James's hand.
And that was different, too.
He could feel it before Steve even touched him, before he dropped that final distance and settled in with palms that weren't as warm as they might've been, pressed on either side of James's neck. James knew what his pulse did when he was hit with a shot of adrenaline—still all natural—and this was it, the rush and the thrill he couldn't get anywhere else, at least outside of wartime.
Sometimes he faked it 'til he made it, getting his blood up, pumping as much iron as he could. He could hear the kids laughing while they played with rocks and Turian-busted hammers and whatever else they shouldn't be messing with that they needed to pretend were toys.
Yeah, James thought. He was gonna have to give that model ship away. Only problem was they'd all want it, and a lot of somebodies were gonna end up disappointed.
Then, skin to skin, Steve's right thumb brushed over James's second-favorite tattoo.
It used to be his first favorite. But that was before he got his N-7 one, way back in Cargo Hold C, what felt like a lifetime ago. Even the pain had dulled into nothing—nothing that mattered, anyway.
Now it was all healed up and it wasn't something people saw all too often, not like the one on James's throat. That was for flash, for show, for proving he had what it took to hurt. And Steve's thumb, no nail, pushed against the flesh, where there wasn't any ink, where there wasn't any close-shaved stubble, where it was just the vein and the pulse and the adrenaline and everything all natural.
James's mouth was dry. It wasn't the first time. He couldn't swallow but it wasn't because of the grit; the whole thing was a fucking bad idea but then again, so was everything he did. I made a few mistakes in my time, Loco, he remembered telling Shepard once, but he had to be drunk to admit it, woozy and grinning and just having beat Major Alenko at cards six ways to Sunday. No mercy. Not on the Normandy.
It's the mistakes you don't make that you'll regret the most, James, Shepard told him.
James laughed at the time, tipping his beer. I'll drink to that, he'd said.
'This it?' Steve asked, digging his knuckles into the spot.
Like he didn't already know.
'Shit, yeah,' James said. He felt the muscles protest, flexing and stiffening up; he heard the chair scrape while he almost shifted gravity and leaned all the way forward to get away from the touch. Steve let up but James didn't want him to. He'd taken worse. He knew he could take this. Even if he couldn't, he'd work it out.
He needed to work it out.
Steve didn't let up for long. He was a pretty ruthless guy, going straight for the knot, bracing one hand at the back of James's neck while the other had at it. James grunted a couple of times, nothing big, nothing close to a wince or anything, and finally—it took a lot of effort and he didn't know why—he bowed his head into it, chin hiding in nothing but shadow.
It was dark. He could smell his own sweat. He closed his eyes and Steve gave him this little rub with the fingers he was using to brace himself while his knuckles just kept going at it, deeper and deeper.
It felt good—but not the kind of good Alenko was always using to say Don't ask me anymore, I'm not okay and not the kind of good they bargained around like the new version of credit chits. How you doing? I'm good, man, I can't complain. Or How's this look? It's good, right? Yeah, sure, it's good. It was a catch-all but it didn't mean anything, and at the end of the day all the goods came up empty, just like James's hotplate.
'Yeah, I can feel it,' Steve said. He didn't ask, Is this good? James was grateful for that. Actually, he was grateful for a lot of things, Steve's hands among 'em, sliding his fingers around to James's shoulder and holding on tight. The chair rocked, one leg that much longer than the other legs, enough to make it bounce. James's weight was also enough to brace it, but not all the time. Not all the way. There were moments it didn't cut it and those moments made him feel like he wasn't even on the ground.
No gravity situation. Free-falling. Out there in space.
The back of James's neck strained. 'Hey, relax,' Steve said, somewhere closer to James's ear than he'd expected. Breath and callused fingers and soft palms.
It could go on forever or it could stop, but there wasn't any in-between.
Everything that'd been hard was starting to get soft and some things that should've stayed soft had started to get hard. James realized his own elbow was jammed into his thigh from how he was leaning on it. 'C'mon, straighten up or you really will throw your back out,' Steve said, both hands on James's shoulders, at the caps of James's sleeves, then on his biceps. He helped out with the alignment.
For old times' sake, James said, 'Aw, Esteban. You really do care.'
It was just one of those things.
Steve gave his biceps a squeeze. 'How's that working for you?' he asked.
'It's good,' James said, hating the taste of it in his mouth. That word that didn't mean anything, that had no size at all.