A week goes by. Sam's mom calls him every few days to make sure he's doing all right and adjusting to being a civilian again. She asks him what he's up to, how things are going. Sam keeps his answers vague; 'yes, mom, I'm okay' and 'not up to much, just getting by, keeping busy. You know how it is.' She reminds him that he can stop by anytime; both of Sam's parents are still alive and well, living in the same row house in Sugar Hill that they've had for more than twenty years, and it wouldn't kill him to visit sometime.

Riley's mama doesn't ever call. Sam doesn't think Riley's heard from his folks since before their last deployment. He hasn't ever spoken to them before, because Riley said they were Southern Baptists and was pretty damn sure they didn't want to meet his new black boyfriend.

"My dad'll tell me to forget their number," Riley told him when Sam pressed him on the matter. It was December 2010, and they were shipping out in two days to spend at least six months in Afghanistan before the summer fighting season kicked off. Their orders had them stationed out of Bagram, but they both knew that was just what the papers said. The EXO-7 deployments were mission-based, and they'd come home when the Brass decided they'd flown enough rescues and extractions and not a moment sooner. "And my mama won't send us any of those nice care packages no more."

It was only their second tour as Falcons; their first was 203 days in Iraq and they'd only been in reset and retraining since March. That was what happened when the military only had two working wingpacks and two trained PJs to wear them. They were supposed to be expanding the project but funding was becoming an issue and the last Sam had heard their replacement operators had been medically disqualified.

"You're their son," Sam had said, as though that's all that should matter. His own parents didn't care who he dated, they were just happy that he was happy, so long as he was safe and loved. Sam's father was a preacher and his mother taught sixth graders at a public middle school. Riley said his dad used to be Army, and that he'd been born at Fort Hamilton and then grown up in Louisiana because they were stationed at Fort Polk when his old man finally retired. Somehow he never mentioned rank or branch in all the years they'd known each other and Sam didn't know what Riley's mama did other than cook.

Riley had smiled, a little tight at the edges, and didn't say anything to that.

Sam's father calls him every Sunday like clockwork since moved back to New York to ask why he didn't make it to the service, tells him that he holds it at the same time as he's always held it and that Sam should make an effort to show up. That a little gospel is good for the soul, even if he doesn't pay much attention to the sermon that day. Sam smiles and nods along, but his eyes are on Riley's closed door.

"You'll spend Easter with us, won't you?" his father asks, voice crackling on the line. It's the beginning of February now, and he's been back in Harlem for nearly two months. Sam hadn't spent last Christmas with his family; he'd spent it sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, back pressed to that closed door, crying and begging Riley to open it and let him in. He'd been in lockdown at the WTU for Thanksgiving before they'd released him from the service, and last Easter and the previous Christmas he'd been overseas.

It's long past due for him to spend a holiday with his parents. Sam knows he should promise his father that he'll be there, but he thinks it might be worse to break the promise than to not make it at all.

"I think it depends. I might not be able to," Sam says noncommittally. His father sighs.

He wants to explain that sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's hard. Sometimes Sam looks up from the TV and realizes that he can't remember when he last ate, that his eyes hurt and his head is throbbing because he's dehydrated. When that happens, he counts it as a success if he manages to brush his teeth, pour himself a glass of water, and go to bed so he can deal with everything in the morning.

Some days he feels like he's in free fall, like his hands don't quite work and he can't reach his ripcord, and he'll just stare at Riley's door until the wind dies down. Until the heat fades from his skin and the sand is brushed from his clothes. Until he doesn't need his parachute anymore.

Until the ground rushes up to meet him and he hits the DZ too hard and his knees buckle.

He wants to explain all that, but he doesn't know how, so he just listens to his father sigh and hears the disappointment the man won't put into words.

"Well," his father says. "When you're ready, you know where to find us."

Sam goes jogging, goes to his group therapy meetings, brings the mail up from the boxes in the lobby downstairs. Riley's mail piles up on the kitchen table until Sam just sweeps the stacks into the trash.

He finds himself loitering in the bread aisle the next time he goes shopping. Riley liked white bread, which used to make Sam snicker about stereotypes but now just makes his guts twist and roil. They used to joke about Sam picking up white bread for his white bred, used to argue about the nutritional value or lack thereof; Sam used to groan about a loaf not being worth the dollar if it was just sugar and starch, empty calories they didn't need when they had to keep to a certain weight for the EXO-7s they wore. Riley would whine and bitch until Sam relented, and then he'd make french toast the morning after every grocery run and tell Sam what a great guy he was.

"If I gain weight," Sam would warn every time as he poured more syrup over his breakfast. "You are recalibrating my wingpack."

Riley doesn't make french toast anymore. Sam got white bread last time and had to eat the whole loaf by himself. He doesn't know if he can stand doing that again this week. Sighing, he looks down the aisle and debates the risk of getting wheat or one of those fancy kinds with six different types of oats and nuts in it. Riley couldn't stand those, and maybe it would be enough to pull him into a confrontation. They haven't yelled at each other since Afghanistan, and while Sam doesn't want a fight he'll take what he can get these days. They used to fight all the time.

"I can't fuckin' believe you're giving me a negative counseling statement for this shit," Riley snarled, stomping into the borrowed office on the unfamiliar air base. Sam closed the door quickly, hoping to block in the sound of whatever fight they're about to have. It was their LT's office, borrowed on account of Sam not having his own. As a team leader with only one airman under him, Sam had never needed to have an office before, some place out of sight to dole out punishments and counseling statements.

"Shut up, Riley."

"He deserved it, an' I ain't sorry," Riley retorted. Sam gaped at him.

"Are you kidding? I don't care if he deserved it, Riley, you're a Senior fucking Airman and you ought to hold yourself to a higher standard –"

"Higher standard?" he interrupted, scoffing. "Fuck your 'higher standard,' Wilson! Did you hear what he said to me? You oughta have my back on this!"

"I can't!" Sam screamed at him, lurching forward to grab Riley by both arms and shake him. "I'm your first-line supervisor. The LT is already asking me shit about you, about us, you idiot! Everybody knows we're close, Riley, and if they find out how close, then one of us is getting transferred off the goddamn team, okay? So, I can't, all right? I can't have your back and protect your career at the same time."

". . . My career?" Riley repeated, his face twisting into an expression of shocked rage. He planted both hands on Sam's chest and shoved him back roughly. Sam stumbled and caught himself on the LT's desk. "Don't feed me that shit, man, I ain't stupid. My career is not the one at stake, and we both know it. You're the team leader, remember? I'm your subordinate."

"Oh no," Sam said, putting up a hand to wave off the accusation. "You don't get to play this off like that. I didn't take advantage of you; you came onto me in that bar. You knew exactly what we were doing and what we were going to have to do to stay in this together. So don't you put this on me like –"

"Like what? Like maybe sometimes I need you to be my boyfriend and not my NCO?" Riley snapped. Sam grabbed at him again, and they struggled, twisting and pulling at each other's uniform, feet slipping and repositioning until he slammed Riley up against the wall, chest pressing into chest and his hands fisted in Riley's collar.

"You listen to me, you asshole," Sam bit out through clenched teeth, leaning in so close that their noses bumped. "I'm gonna write you up and suggest to the LT that he put you on extra duty for a week and give you a reprimand, and then I'm gonna get down on my fucking knees and beg the Commander not to court-martial you, and to suspend your reduction until this tour is up, because I love you and I'm not above sacrificing my pride to keep you on this team when you rough up people we can't afford to piss off. You don't want me to be your NCO? You don't want me to have your back next time we go up in the air? Who do you want up there with you more than me, huh? You say the fucking word, Riley, and I swear to God, I'll put in for a transfer right now. I'll be your boyfriend from Kadena or goddamn Lakenheath while you're flyin' an' fryin' here in Bagram."

"That's not. . ." Riley furrowed his brow, scowling. "That's not what I want. I just. . . Damnit, Wilson, I just wish you had my back down here on the ground, too."

Sam kissed him, hard and quick so they wouldn't get caught, and whispered, "I got you, baby. I always got you, okay? Just trust me on this. You trust me?"

"You know I do," Riley had said, and everything wasn't okay but they were okay and that was really all that mattered to Sam.

Riley didn't get that second Article 15, though he certainly deserved it. The whole incident had been swept up under the rug, a perk of being on a special team during a deployment when no one wanted to waste time and resources putting together a court-martial. That tour had been cut short, anyway. Sam takes a deep breath, runs a hand over his face and shakes his head, trying to force himself back into the present. It's just bread, he tells himself. It's not that big a deal. Sam grabs a loaf at random and tosses it into the cart before heading for the cashier.