“The what?”
“Come see.” Marc straightened up and took Jamie’s arm almost absently, struck once again by hownormalsuch intimate interactions had fast become. How easy. He towed Jamie to the neglected conservatory at the end of the hall, a bright open space that had, in effect, become a greenhouse. “My mate Nat is a bit of a Charlie Dimmock. He sent me a chilli plant for Christmas.”
Of all that Marc had shared with Jamie, apparently the fact that he had a stash of fresh chillies in amongst a collection of neglected herbs and houseplants was the most enlightening. Jamie pushed past Marc and picked up the ever-growing chilli bush—damn thing was three times the size it had been when it arrived from sunny Hereford.
“These are Scotch bonnets,” Jamie said with the widest grin he’d treated Marc to so far. “They’re just what we need. Can I take a bay leaf too?”
“A what?”
“One of those.” Jamie pointed to another of Nat’s attempts to make Marc’s existence less utilitarian.
“Sure. Have at it.”
Jamie squeezed his way to the dusty pot in the corner and plucked a few leaves from a small tree that looked like it needed a holiday from Marc’s indifference, and a handful of bright-orange chillies. When he came back, he had a colour in his cheeks that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.
“I’d feed you six times a day if it meant you smiled like that,” Marc blurted.
Jamie’s grin turned shy and his slight flush deepened. “Um, thanks, but you’re not going to feed me. I’m going to feedyou, if you don’t mind me using your kitchen?”
Marc wasn’t about to object to anyone rescuing him from a solitary night of tea and toast, especially if that someone was Jamie. They went back to the kitchen and unearthed the final few things Jamie needed for his chicken dinner. Then Marc leaned against the counter and watched Jamie cook, and wondered if he’d been dropped into an alternative reality of blessed domestication—a reality that felt damn good. “That smells amazing.”
The shyness returned to Jamie’s smile. “It’s nice, isn’t it? I used to make a vegan version with tofu for the canteen, but I like the chicken better. It was the first real food I ate when I came out of rehab.”
“So it’s your comfort food?”
“Maybe, but all food is like that for me, ’cause I still remember what it was like to not have any.”
“Ah, see I went the opposite way. I got so used to eating sachets of bangers and beans that I forgot how much I liked fresh food. I had to train myself not to live the rest of my life on tinned ravioli.”
“Is Army food that bad?”
“Worse, but we ate every meal with a tube of extra-hot mustard, so we didn’t taste anything anyway.”
Jamie grinned wickedly and chucked another chilli in the pot—whole, seeds and all. “I like spicy food. It gives me a buzz, a healthy one, you know?”
“I get that from the treadmill when I get round to using it.”
“I can’t picture you as a gym bunny.”
Marc chuckled. “I’m not. I have a treadmill downstairs for when I’m not feeling up to pounding the streets, and the rest of the time I use the house to keep me fit.”
“Eh?”
Marc pushed off the counter and retreated to the kitchen doorway. He reached up to the bar he’d fixed in the doorframe and pulled himself up with one arm. “The benefits of super high doors and ceilings.”
Jamie opened his mouth. Shut it again. “Wow. You’re strong.”
“Not really. I can’t do shit with my legs.”
“But you can run?”
“Jog a bit. I’ve got a special blade that fits to my prosthesis in place of the foot. It’s weird and bouncy, but I go nuts when I don’t get out.”
“I can’t imagine you a bit nuts either. You’re so together.”
“Am I?” Marc lowered himself back to the ground and returned to loitering at Jamie’s side. “I don’t feel it some days, but my mental health is better now all the surgery is behind me.”
Jamie turned the chicken over in the pan and added the dubious tin of coconut milk Marc had dug out of the pantry. “You don’t need any more?”