Chapter Notes: I based Gideon's description off a cross of Anthony Mackie's real brother (Calvin Mackie) and the 616-version of the character from the comics. Also, in the military, we call someone who is not a team player a 'buddy fucker' or (in sneaky Army code) a 'blue falcon.' The joke Riley is making is a terrible pun.
It's Sam's older brother who stops by first, knocks on the apartment door and refuses to leave even though it takes Sam nearly twenty minutes to haul himself out of bed and into a pair of sweats. He pulls yesterday's shirt back on and opens the front door to reveal Gideon's judging frown and Sam can feel his whole body tense up in preparation for whatever bullshit is about to go down. Gideon has a cup of coffee in each gloved hand, the collar of his jacket pulled up to keep the wind off his neck and a slouchy black beanie to cover up his skull. It must be cold outside.
Gideon and Sam don't much look alike, despite being brothers. They've got the same dark eyes and black hair, when Gideon lets his grow out, but his older brother is a lighter shade of brown, cool yellow undertones that make him look so much paler than Sam ever does. His head is shaved bald right now, no fuss, and Sam's pretty sure that Gideon does it himself instead of visiting the local barber shop their father used to take them to. They've both got that pointed Wilson jaw, a little under-defined at the chin, and Gideon's got thicker brows and a flatter nose. He's broader across the shoulders than Sam, too, a bit heavier set now that he's no longer playing defensive end for their high school football team, but he still comes across looking like a mean cuss that shouldn't be bumped in the subway. Sam has to look up just a bit because Gideon has had about three inches on him his whole life.
"It's ten o'clock in the morning," Gideon says, instead of saying hello. Sam reminds himself that it would be rude to slam the door shut in his brother's face, and steps out of the way to let him in. Gideon brushes past him in the narrow entryway on his way into the apartment, heading for the couch in the living room because Sam's kitchen is only about four feet across in the back and there certainly isn't room for a table in there unless he drops it in the opening from the hallway, right smack in front of the oven and the sink. Sam follows after him at a slower pace, reciting the pararescue creed to himself like a calming mantra. A few days ago someone in group therapy mentioned it was helpful in keeping them grounded in the present when they felt like getting lost in their thoughts, and Sam's starting to admit that he could use the help.
It is my duty as a pararescueman to save life and to aid the injured.
"What are you doing today?" Gideon asks, placing one of the cups of coffee down on the table in front of Sam. Sam stares at it for a moment, then glances back to Riley's closed door. I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently. He shrugs and picks up the coffee. Gideon nods like he expected as much. "Have you thought about getting a job? Your savings aren't going to last forever, and unless you want to move back in with Mom and Dad –"
"Is that why you're here?" Sam interrupts. Gideon rolls his eyes. There's ten years between them and too much history from when Sam was younger and they were both still figuring themselves out for this to just be because his brother is worried about his future. Gideon wasn't a pacifist by any stretch of the imagination, but he was staunchly anti-military and there'd been a lot of angry backroom conversations when Sam left New York to join the Air Force. Gideon's a preacher now, like their father, with a grown son and a buried wife.
"I'm here because Sarah called you seven times yesterday and you wouldn't answer your phone. Is your phone still on? Did you pay your bill?"
"'Deon," Sam says, perhaps a little too harshly. "I'm thirty-three, not thirteen. I don't need you to come over and –"
"You need somethin'," Gideon says, huffing a deep breath. He takes a long drink from his coffee. "You need to do something. Look, I'm. . . I'm not going to pretend that I know what you're going through."
Sam closes his eyes, trying to focus on the next part of the creed while Gideon keeps talking. To perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts.He thinks maybe he should have picked a different mantra for today.
"But I did this, you know? I've already done this thing where, after the fact, I shut everybody out and pretended that I was making progress when I was really just spinning my wheels. You can't just stay here, Sam. You've got to move forward."
These things I do, that others may live.
"You think I don't know that?" Sam asks, and he almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. Of course he knows that. The way he's living now isn't sustainable, but he can't imagine how he's going to hold down a job right now when he can't even keep track of what day of the week it is. The people at his group therapy meetings keep saying this is normal, that adjustment takes time, that separating from the service isn't like just leaving the workforce. It's losing a way of life, losing a community and a family and a set of values and there's just so much gone that Sam doesn't know how he's supposed to be able to function without it.
It would be so much easier, he thinks, with Riley beside him.
"When Aaliyah died," Gideon says gravely, and Sam looks up because his brother doesn't ever talk about the wife he lost to breast cancer when Sam was still in college. "You came over to my apartment every single day."
It is my duty to save life and aid the injured.
"You had a toddler," Sam says blankly, remembering how small his nephew had been back then. He's not sure where this conversation is going anymore; it's not exactly a similar situation.
"And you made sure that nothing bad happened to Jim while I was out of my mind," Gideon finishes for him. Sam frowns. That's not how he remembers it. He doesn't remember Gideon acting crazy or even being angry. Mostly he remembers helping his parents get Jim dressed in the mornings and take his baths in the evenings. They brought food over and made sure everyone ate at least once that day. Their sister Sarah had still been in high school then, but the two of them would come over after classes and play with Jim in his room. Gideon spent a lot of time with their father, talking about faith and trying not to lose his. "Sam, we might not always like each other, but we're family. And family takes care of its own."
Gideon puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Sam drinks his coffee and refocuses his attention on the coffee table. He had left last night's dishes out here and the remains of his dinner are crusted to the plate now in a gross, congealed mess. It probably smells, too, but Sam's too used to it to notice.
Sam's enough of an adult to acknowledge that, objectively speaking, he's a little bit of a shit show at the moment.
"Hey," Gideon says. "Talk to me."
"Thanks," Sam says thickly. "For coming over today." Gideon snorts.
"I didn't really want to be alone, either. The first one is always the hardest."
It hits Sam then that it's Valentine's Day. That the reason Gideon didn't want him to be alone today, of all days, was because of the holiday. He'd knocked on Riley's door that morning to ask if Riley needed anything, but there wasn't any reply. Gideon probably didn't much like this holiday anymore, now that he was a widower, but Sam isn't, he didn't –
"How come we gotta have such stupid call signs, anyway?" Riley had asked, nudging the chocolate spread from his MRE closer to Sam's leg. Sam looked down at it, then up at Riley's stupid hopeful smile, like maybe he thought that Sam wasn't going to accept presents while they were out mission. He rolled his eyes but picked it up out of the dirt and brushed it off anyway. Sam tore open a corner and held it up to his mouth, gesturing with his free hand for Riley to continue complaining. "I mean, why we gotta use numbers? We could use primary colors, or somethin', man. Like, I could be 'Red Falcon,' how 'bout that? That'd be cool, huh?"
"Uh-huh."
"Yeah." Riley shook his head, chuckling a little before he raised his brows cheekily and added, "Yeah, and you can be blue."
"Really, Riley?" Sam gaped for a moment, then punched Riley in the shoulder. "Really? Blue Falcon? That's how it's gonna be?"
"Well, you're fuckin' your buddy, aintcha?" he asked, grinning. Riley rocked back from the hit, then leaned in close so that their shoulders pressed together. It was about as close to cuddling as they could get, sitting side by side on the rocks with all their gear and body armor on.
Sam snorted, and finished eating. "Not tonight I'm not."
"Aw, Wilson, don't be like that," Riley whined. "I gave you chocolate. An' brought you out to a secluded, romantic position in overwatch –"
"I don't think Kandahar is all that romantic, frankly," Sam admitted, squinting at the dull grey and tan ridge line. The sun was coming up and his flight goggles were pushed up onto his helmet, and he'd need to switch out the clear lenses with his shaded ones before they headed out.
"– with nobody even shootin' at us. This is about as classy as Afghanistan is gonna get on short notice," Riley said. "Though I guess we could shoot off a star cluster, or something. Mood lighting. Hell, I'm feeling so romantic, I'd let you do it to Marvin Gaye or whoever you felt like."
"I'm gonna fuck you to Four Tops when we get back, just to be obnoxious," Sam warned, but he was smiling when he said it. Riley laughed, and Sam thought he looked beautiful, sitting there in the dust and the sand with the day's first light on his dirty face where he was still peeling a little from a sun-burn. His own goggles were hanging around his neck so Sam could see the brightness of his hazel eyes, the way he was happy to be out here in the shit as long as they were out in it together. Sam nudged him with his shoulder. "Hey. I love you."
Riley kissed him at the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet, and murmured, "Happy Valentine's Day."
Sam sucks in a shaky, uneven breath. Gideon is still holding onto him, still sitting next to him on the couch. It isn't 2011 anymore and Sam's pretty sure that Riley isn't going to come out today. I will. . . I will be prepared at all times, he thinks desperately, clinging to the creed because Gideon's right and damnit, Sam needs something so why not this?
"I. . ." he starts, but his voice sounds all wrong, sounds choked up and strained and like he's struggling not to lose it. His eyes feel all scratchy and dry, like there's fine desert sand scraping against his corneas. Gideon waits for him to swallow it all down, to compose himself. He even takes the cup from Sam's shaking hands and puts it down on the coffee table before Sam spills it all over his lap. Maybe spending the last seven years apart has done them some good, put some of those misunderstandings to rest. Gideon won't ever be his confidant, per se, but that doesn't mean Sam can't accept his familial concern. "Y-yeah. I guess I could use the company."