Chapter Notes: I've made changes to previous chapters (including replacing the old chapter four with a new one that introduces Gideon Wilson to the story and moving the scene with Sam's mom to the new chapter seven). There has been a lot of rearranging, so if you were reading this story when I was first uploading it you will need to start over, sorry! On the bright side, I think the story flows better now.

Sam gets trashed after his father finally leaves. The alcohol burns and he doesn't even bother cutting it with anything, because all he wants to do is just forget. Forget their talk tonight and the last few months of trying to adjust and the heavy taste of failure on his tongue. He wants to forget the last year and the WTU, the heat on his skin and the desert sand and the empty bedroom in his apartment. He isn't strong enough for this shit.

He ends up sitting on the floor with his back to Riley's door, the bottle by his hip, crying into his glass until he finally passes out.

Sam wakes up disoriented, his head pounding and his vision blurry. The room tilts and sways unsteadily and he kind of wants to throw up. He thinks the last time he was this hungover was 2007, and he'd just woken up in the passenger seat of Riley's shitty old truck with his back aching, staring at the side of the road and trying to figure out where the hell he was.

"Riley," Sam had groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again because oh god everything was awful. Everything was awful and it hurt and it was Wednesday morning and they were definitely not on post. He threw his arm out towards the driver's side and felt the back of his hand connect with Riley's chest where his wingman was slumped forward in his seat against the steering wheel. "Riley, what the hell?"

Riley jerked awake with an unintelligible noise, rubbing at his eyes and then scrubbing a hand over his whole face before grabbing the wheel. He looked around for a moment and then dropped his head back and swore, "Aw, fuck. Fuck. I didn't mean to sleep that long, we're gonna be late. Shit."

"Why were you sleeping at all?!" Sam dug his fingers into Riley's shirt, partly to steady himself and partly as a display of annoyance. Riley hadn't been drinking last night because he didn't drink, which left him responsible for getting them back on post so they could make it to PT on time. "Where the hell are we?"

Sam groped for the phone in his pocket to check the time. PT started in half an hour, and they were still in their party clothes. Riley's makeup was smeared around his eyes and his lipstick was faded and smudged and he was wearing a tight pink tank top that definitely wasn't bought in the men's section. Shit.

"Hey, fuck you, Wilson," Riley snapped, fumbling with the truck keys. "You oughta be glad you didn't wake up in a damn ditch. I thought I was gonna pass out, so I pulled over, okay?"

Sam turned his head too quickly and felt vomit rise in his throat. He was going to throw up all over the inside of Riley's truck and it served that asshole right for taking Sam out on a damn work night. Sam took a deep breath in through his nose and swallowed hard. There were only three things they had to do to be good airmen – be in the right place, at the right time, and in the right uniform – and they were about to fuck up all of them.

"Riley, you dumb piece of shit," Sam said, and shoved his door open. He struggled for a moment with his seatbelt before he finally unbuckled it and stumbled out of the truck. Riley gaped at him as he made his way around the hood to the driver's door and Riley's rolled down window. "Gimme the damn keys."

"Oh my god, are you still drunk?" Riley asked, his voice a horrified whisper, but was already unbuckling his own seatbelt when Sam wrenched the door open. He handed over the keys as ordered and scrambled over the center console into the passenger seat to get out of Sam's way.

"Where's your rescue bag?" Sam asked as he got in and started the truck up. He adjusted his seat and the rearview mirror.

"Aw, fuck," Riley said, and twisted in his seat to pull his medic supply pack out from the back of the cab. Sam held out his right arm expectantly, fingers curled into a fist, as he pulled back onto the road.

"Stick me," Sam barked.

Riley whined, "While you're driving, man?" Sam glared at him again and Riley bounced petulantly in his seat, a wordless noise of frustration and displeasure escaping him. But he dug out an IV and some saline from his bag, all the same. "We're not even gonna make it back in time, just call the sergeant, it'll be fi– "

"Riley," Sam growled, eyes trained on the road. The lines didn't really look quite straight and his vision was still swimming. He pressed down harder on the gas and the truck sped up, engine purring loudly. "Stick. Me. Now."

Riley grumbled but did as he was told, wrapping an elastic around Sam's bicep and poking at the large vein on the inside of his elbow until it stood up. He got the needle in on the first try, and Sam kept that arm straight as he brought his hand back to the steering wheel. Sam took the fluid pack with his left hand and propped that arm up on the door, so that it was up higher to let gravity help the process. Hopefully he'd be hydrated enough by the time they got back to base that he wouldn't pass out in front of the barracks building.

"You better have extra PTs in here."

Riley rolled his eyes and twisted in his seat again, coming back this time with a gym bag. "Yeah, yeah, but I don't have extra running shoes for you."

"Just get changed, we're not gonna be late. And don't forget about your face."

Sam had taken them back to post through a little used side gate to bypass the morning traffic, had handed the guard there his and Riley's ID cards with a glare. Riley had been in the middle of wiggling out of his tight jeans, and Sam and the guard both got an eyeful of his little green panties before Riley got his PT shorts on. They made it back to the barracks with five minutes to spare, four of which Sam used up stripping in the parking lot and squeezing himself into Riley's spare uniform. They slid into formation just as the platoon sergeant called for everyone to, "Fall in!"

In the present, Sam squeezes his eyes shut and starts a slow crawl to the bathroom to throw up. It doesn't matter now how much he drinks or how much he remembers because Riley is still dead and his body is just a ruddy smear and some stray chunks of meat left out to rot in the hot Afghan sand. Nobody could have survived a direct hit like that, not from an RPG, and even if he had, somehow, he would have died from the fall. They're only men, after all, and there's only so much abuse the body can take.

Sam empties his stomach, clutching at the porcelain rim of the toilet as he does so. Thinking about Riley hurts so damn much. It was easier when he was lying to himself, when his mind was being traitorous and protecting him from the awful truth. Riley's parents haven't been calling because there's no reason to, because they buried an empty casket down in Louisiana almost a year ago. The second bedroom in his apartment is empty because Riley has never fucking lived here in New York with him.

His movements after that are jerky and automatic. He forces himself up from his knees to stand, flushes the toilet and washes his mouth out in the bathroom sink. Sam lathers up his hands and forearms with soap and washes them too. He pulls his first aid kit out from the cabinet under the sink and sits on the closed lid of the toilet to prepare an IV for himself because while he didn't die from alcohol poisoning last night he'd rather be safe than sorry. His hands are shaking, unsteady.

He misses Riley's hands, the way they were calloused and strong, the roughness of his skin contrasting with the gentleness of his touch. Sam fumbles the first stick and overshoots his vein entirely, stabbing into the tendon on the inside of his elbow on accident. He botches the second attempt as well. After the third try he just throws the needle onto the tiles and puts his throbbing head in his hands.

His breath is coming hard and fast, panted out and too loud in the still morning air. It's too damn quiet, has been too quiet for almost a year because Riley isn't there and Sam's got to figure this shit out on his own.

Gideon's right. Sam can't just stay here in his apartment, thinking about Riley and their time together. At some point, he has to. . . to. . . not forget, because he wouldn't. He won't ever forget Riley, and his big dumb smile and the way he kissed or laughed or sang along with the radio all off-key and out of tune. The way he fought and the way he loved and the way he would get scared, sometimes. But Sam didn't die in Afghanistan, and at some point, he knows that he has to make a choice between living in the present and letting himself choke to death on the memories of the past.