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Fall seven times. Stand up eight. That's what they say in PT.
Of course, eight times came a long time ago - probably when he was still back in Kuwait - but he's been informed that's not the point. The point after losing a leg to a djinn with great aim and bad timing is continuing to get up. And Riley's nothing if not willing to concede points to his superiors. It's been a valuable skill in the military.
In civilian life - well - sometimes.
It's a lot harder to tell who's your superior as a civilian.
And one small, quiet, long-muffled voice in the back of Riley's head is standing up on its own two feet and saying things like 'isn't it time we stopped following orders? I mean - look where orders got us.'
Riley hauls himself upright with an arm around a palm tree and stands up on his own one foot and his Cheetah and tells it to keep its opinions to itself. And that's an order.
It just doesn't stop being novel when his own brain laughs at him. Crazy, maybe. But there's novelty there too.
He bounces on the prosthetic, gets the feel for it again and pushes off. Jogging's a challenge, sure, but it's not like he's got much to do these days and it takes just enough concentration to keep him from thinking about that. He veers off the sidewalk to skirt a crowd of surfers and staggers on the uneven asphalt. Why was he looking for challenges again?
A surfer patters by on bare feet and Riley finds himself staring at the feet. At sand sticking to ten toes.
He's not the kind of guy to dwell - no, he is the kind of guy to dwell. He's a kind of guy to dwell who's been through every kind of recovery program the VA has to offer and the VA's big on being honest with yourself.
He's dwelling.
On toes.
He does see the humor in it. It's just not exactly generating that belly laugh right now.
Fortunately, those toes are standing at a drinking fountain and when they move, he's got a good excuse for being there. A guy's got to hydrate. "Excuse me."
"What? Oh yeah - sure, no prob - "
Water's splattering over the edge of the fountain washing sand off Graham's toes. And Riley's staring down at eyes bluer than blue in a dark tan and the kind of crows feet a young guy only gets when he pretty much lives in the sun every day. It's a tan that wouldn't be out of place on a street corner. "Graham."
In a wetsuit on the boardwalk.
With sand on his toes - all ten of them - and the sun in his eyes. Graham shades his eyes with a hand. "Riley."
"What're you doing in Venice?"
"Surfing." Graham looks Riley up and down and Riley stands a little taller. He can't tell if Graham's eyes widened or not - and yeah probably a dramatic part of him would've liked it if they did. He'll imagine they did. But Graham just asks, "How about you?"
"Jogging." His knee's shaking and his stump's starting to feel as raw as his knees and palms. "Okay, not so much jogging as pitching onto my face a lot. Are you hungry? You want to get something?" There's a taco van down the alley. "My treat."
The shade of Graham's hand isn't quite long enough to cover the grimace that says just how hungry he is. "I could eat."
They do eat and it becomes a regular thing - or as regular as a thing can become in one week between two guys who apparently have nothing better to do all day than jog or surf. Taco carts. The deli. Coffee shops. They go to the Abbot's Habit Wednesday on a whim after Riley sees a sign out front saying 'All are welcome, no matter how many legs.'
Who says he doesn't have a sense of humor?
They don't go anywhere too far to walk to though and they don't go anywhere that charges more than $10 a plate.
"I don't do handouts," Graham mentions once over a plate of nachos.
Of course, he says it while Riley's doing his best not to let the loaded nacho on its way to his mouth dribble beans and sour cream into his lap - or, well, end up all over his face or anything else embarrassing like that. "You call this a handout? I'm not even buying the large drinks."
"Okay," Graham agrees and takes another nacho.
It's at the Pinkberry over frozen yogurts that Riley gets around to asking the first big question - because who can take anything too seriously in a Pinkberry. And fine - he doesn't so much ask it as he hints around it: "So - I lost track of you after we bugged out of Veal Veang."
Graham licks his spoon and squints out into the sun. "That's right."
Hinting never did do much good with Graham. He girds himself with fro yo and asks like a man: "What happened?"
Graham scrapes a melted spoonful around the edge and slurps. "Don't Ask."
"Hey, it's me. It's not like - "
Graham's looking at him with that patient expression. The one that waits for farmer boy to catch up with the program.
Riley catches up with the program. "Oh. Oh."
"Don't ask, don't tell - but nobody mentioned don't get caught. You'd think it wouldn't be necessary." Graham shrugs and lops the tip off his peak of frozen yogurt and ponders it like it's got all the answers. "You'd be thinking wrong, of course."
Riley wouldn't mind his frozen yogurt coming up with a few answers but it just sits there in his hand, melting.
"Problem?"
He gives it some thought. "No. But that's a lousy way to repay a guy for seven years' good service."
Graham eats a raspberry. "You're not wrong."
Riley wants to ask if he has a place to live but there's no way to make it come out sounding right. He's not sure there's a right way for it to come out sounding.
One big question's enough for the week.
Graham bullies him into running with a group in Santa Monica. There's a heck of a lot of rainbow and pink going on in the group attire and a guy with an 'I'm not gay but my boyfriend is' tee shirt and it occurs to Riley he's not in Iowa anymore.
But it's kind or reassuring running with a group again and if Graham paces him step for step like it comes naturally, well maybe it does. And the group's diverse enough that Riley doesn't quite feel out of place bending over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath at the end of the run. "Thanks," he says eventually.
"They do fun runs in Griffith Park too." Graham's not looking at him, trying his shoelace. "Tuesdays and Saturdays. Everybody's welcome."
It occurs to Riley neither one of them has anything better to do. It also occurs to him he's got nothing to lose by the company he keeps and that horse is already out of the barn for Graham. "I've got the Jeep."
Graham looks up at him through those bleached eyelashes for a second. "Yeah, okay. Five thirty at Pacific and Venice."
It's not the first time it occurs to Riley he hasn't asked where Graham lives. It'd be easy to say: 'Hey, I'll pick you up at your place. What's the address?' but he's done the under cover thing. It never goes well. So he just says, "Sure. I'll pick up doughnuts."
"Okay - but if you buy maple again you're eating it."
"My secret strategy revealed."
He realizes Graham's giving him the look that means his humor was the kind only he got.
"There's always a doughnut left for you when you're the guy who eats maple frosteds."
"Sick, man."
"It takes a sick man to assure total doughnut domination." He's pretty sure that's another one only he's going to find funny but with Graham, it's surprisingly easy to say it anyway.
"Were you always this strange?"
"Nah. Apparently, I used to be normal."
They make their way to the drinking fountain once the line's cleared and Riley sticks his head under the stream of water until it trickles around his ears and down his jaw.
He rubs it around the back of his neck and stoops for a drink. "For all I know, I might still be normal."
Graham's giving him a look that suggests it's pretty unlikely. But he just says, "There's worse things than normal."
"I've found it can be kind of overrated."
That's not to say Riley copes much better with surprises these days than he used to. They say a man who's seen battle comes home ill-prepared for coping with shocks to the system.
In this case, they're right.
He just wasn't expecting how much a shock to the system it'd be to see Graham pinned to a light post, thighs bracketing the skinny blond guy who's pinning him there and putting that blissed out look on Graham's face.
He also wasn't expecting himself to gun the engine, peel off down Pacific and circle the block at a crawl before Graham can see him.
When he pulls up again, Graham's standing there alone with a cup of coffee in one hand and there's no sign of the guy. "Hey." Graham opens the door and climbs in like a guy who wasn't just sucking face with another guy on a public street.
But Riley's going to play it cool. "Hey. Doughnuts on the back seat."
"Cool. Thanks." Graham says like a guy who's a lot better fed than he was a week ago.
Riley's driving.
Playing it cool.
Totally cool. "So, blonds," he says. But coolly.
Okay, cool has never exactly been his thing and he's gripping the steering wheel kind of hard. At least he can say he gave it a shot.
"I was wondering if that was you running the light on Pacific."
Apparently, Riley never even approached the general vicinity of cool. "Yeah, sorry about that."
"You have a problem with me kissing men?" Graham asks like it's not a big deal. Riley supposes it's not after everything he's been through.
He thinks it through all the way to the freeway.
"No."
"That's good."
Graham doesn't ask what Riley had a problem with and he's grateful for that because he's not sure he's got an answer.
But what he does have is doughnuts - maple - and Graham giving him directions to Griffith Park from the passenger seat and he's always been the kind of guy who tries to focus on the good so he gets on with doing that.
With any luck, a good run's all he needs to clear his head.
He takes a bite of his doughnut.
"Hey!"
"What?" Graham licks maple frosting off his thumb.
"Maple was my master plan."
Graham just grins at him. "Hey, you sold me on it."
"See if I ever share my evil plans with you again." Riley takes a bite of chocolate frosted and steers with his left hand.
"Aw, I share." Graham holds the doughnut over in front of Riley's face.
Riley doesn't even think about it before taking half the doughnut in one big bite.
Graham looks kind of impressed.
But it's a while before Riley can answer. It takes time to chew that much doughnut in one go. "Unfortunately for you, I didn't reveal my evil backup plan."
"That's why they paid you the big bucks to be in charge."
"Somebody had to do it."
And when Graham offers his coffee, Riley doesn't say no. Because that was a lot more doughnut than any sane man would want to take in at once. "Thanks."
"Still there to cover your ass."
Graham keeps on being there to cover Riley's ass and he can't say he's not grateful because it's a long hop back to the Jeep on one foot.
"You know what I miss about having two feet?" Riley asks like this is a completely normal question.
"I wouldn't know where to start."
"Real feet don't shatter on an uphill sprint." Because it's unsettling when your foot shatters out from under you just about when you're starting to get used to it being there.
"There is that." Graham resettles Riley's arm around his shoulders. "Although, there was that one oni with the ice hooves in Kamikawa."
"I think it only shattered them in self-defence."
"Really?"
"Pretty sure." Riley still has the scar on his thigh and counts himself lucky to this day that the oni didn't have better aim. He'd elaborate but the road's a lot longer on one foot than two and he's only got so much breath.
So when Graham suggests they stop, "Hey, let's stop and sit for a while," Riley doesn't object because he's saving his breath. That's all.
Now, collapsing on his back on the grass, that's entirely because he was about ready to sit down right there on the path if Graham hadn't suggested a break. "Hopping," he says eventually when there's enough breath to make words happen again, "would be a great addition to basic training."
"Don't give them any ideas." Graham nudges his thigh with an equally sweaty knee. "It was sadistic enough."
"You know what would have made it less sadistic?"
"Waking up at a decent hour in the morning?"
Graham never had been a morning person.
And Riley's vaguely ashamed that he always has been. "Well, maybe. But not what I had in mind."
"What did you have in mind?"
Riley pulls himself upright against a tree. "Beer. Which I have in plenty in my refrigerator."
Graham's giving him a look Riley might describe as assessing. "Got limes?"
"We'll stop by Vons."
Graham stands up, Riley's shattered Cheetah in hand and ducks under Riley's extended arm. "You're on."
At home, Riley not only has beer but also his walking foot which is a lot easier to stagger around on when buzzed. He brings two more beers out onto the balcony and passes one to Graham.
"Thanks."
They clink bottles.
"Nice place."
Riley's vaguely ashamed of that too because it is a nice place. But VA-sponsored loans, service bonuses and a housing slump tend to add up to places like this for guys like Riley. Which adds up to an awkward pause in the conversation with a guy like Graham. Riley's polite upbringing lets him settle for, "I like it."
"Yeah. I like a beach view too."
Riley still hasn't asked.
Graham surprises him by telling. "I sleep on couches or stay the night when I can but it's not really a big deal when I can't most of the year." He shrugs and drinks. "L.A.'s good for that."
Riley also doesn't ask about staying the night.
Graham surprises him again. "That guy this morning - he's a friend I go dancing with sometimes. He's a go-go in West Hollywood."
Riley's really really not going to ask.
But this time Graham doesn't tell.
Not going to ask.
Nope.
Not in a million - oh damn it. "Why don't you do that?"
"Riley." Graham's giving him that reproachful look.
Riley is reproached. He waits to find out what he's reproached with. "What?"
"You've seen me dance."
Oh.
Right.
"I mean - it's not that I'm questioning how you live your life or anything."
"I know."
"Or - oh."
They share a couple of smiles. Riley's pretty sure his is one of the embarrassed variety.
"I'm not ready to do the forty hours and a paycheck thing yet," Graham says after a few awkward seconds. He doesn't elaborate and like that they're back into the not asking and silently getting each other territory.
Because that's just the way things go for guys who've been in their line of work; some of them never actually figure out how to be civilians again. That's why the severance package is so generous.
If a guy lasts long enough to get it.
Riley feels vaguely ashamed again. "My couch is always available."
"Thanks," Graham says. But he doesn't accept.
And Riley doesn't actually expect him to.
The Cheetah is dead, long live the Cheetah. So Riley doesn't make it down to Santa Monica for the next jog.
He's not expecting Santa Monica to come to him.
But he's pretty sure it did when the purple Land Rover pulls up outside his apartment proclaiming to the world Boy, your lovin' is all I think about I just can't get you out of my head.
It's well into the third round of la la la la la la la las when it pulls away without Graham and the six pack he's carrying.
"The go go dancer?" Riley asks him at the door.
"His boyfriend," Graham says on the way in. "Cold beer."
"You know where the kitchen is. Help yourself."
"Thanks."
Riley's pondering the apparently flexible affections of Graham's group of friends when Graham comes back with two beers and a bag of chips. "You know, most people with boyfriends don't make spectacles of themselves on street corners," his grandmother says from the depths of his subconscious without apparent consultation with Riley's conscious.
Graham looks a lot less horrified about it than Riley. "Yeah. Shawn's basically a ho but what're you going to do?"
Riley's not sure that's a question he'll have an answer for in this lifetime. "I don't even know where to start looking for an answer to that question."
"That's okay. It was rhetorical." Graham puts his feet up on the coffee table. "What're we watching?"
It's too late to change the incriminating evidence.
There's no denial.
No hiding.
"Let's see what the judges thought of Ewan's Paso Doble."
Riley clears his throat.
Graham grins. "Are you sure you're not gay?"
"You know what? Chips." Riley holds up the bag. "They call for dip, don't you think?"
Bruno gives Ewan a ten.
It becomes part of their Wednesday routine. Jog with the Frontrunners. Pick up beer. Come back to Riley's place.
And kill time with the dancing stars.
"I could do that," Riley says one Wednesday evening.
"There's a gay ballroom club on Mondays," Graham says and takes a chip. He seems to be much better connected than Riley ever knew.
Their Wednesday routine ends with the show because the news is depressing and then Graham goes home.
Or - wherever.
Riley still hasn't asked. And the telling hasn't gotten around to it yet. As a routine, it works for them. Right up until the night they fall asleep to Christina Applegate and wake up to a rain of toads.
Or at least really big drops of water.
Riley pulls rank and makes up the couch.
Then he retreats without comment to the bathroom to take a shower because he's pretty good at the don't ask, don't tell and he didn't make Captain by not knowing when to order a strategic retreat.
He doesn't see Graham again until morning. Standing in his kitchen in the apron Riley's never bothered to wear making -
"Oh, pancakes. I think I love you." He leans his crutch in the corner between the fridge and counter and sits down just in time for a steaming short stack to land on the table in front of him.
"That's because you're easy." Graham carries another stack around to the other side of the two-seater table and Riley finds out it's kind of novel having someone sitting there. It's a first.
He feels a little bad he only has one placemat. It seems unintentionally inhospitable. But Graham doesn't seem to mind.
And the pancakes are a lot better than expected for an ex-army guy. They're so good, Riley feels a powerful need to explain the lack of placemats. "Sam and I split a few years ago."
Graham's waiting and chewing patiently like a man waiting for the rest of the non-sequitur.
"That's why I only have one placemat." Riley cuts an edge of his stack of pancakes and runs it through the syrup. "Um, that wasn't as random as it sounded."
Graham just kind of smiles around a mouth of pancakes and reaches for the syrup. "I'll try not to make a mess."
By Saturday, Riley's the proud owner of three sets of four placemats in a variety of festive colors and matching guest towels.
He admits he might have gone a little overboard.
It's not gay.
It's house proud.
And homey.
And hospitable.
And even if it was kind of gay, he's not in the army anymore.
He can ask or tell if he wants to.
Not that he is - or does. Or - it's not that he has anything against it. He hasn't got anything at all against it. In fact, now that the possibility's not actually directly against orders, he's got a pretty good idea he might have something for it. But it seems kind of unnecessarily dramatic going around making declarations of okayness.
He meets Graham across from the ranger station at Griffith Park where Graham's climbing off a beat up old Honda CB350 in running shorts and sneakers and fastening a sun-bleached helmet to the seat.
"Nice wheels."
Graham looks like he agrees. "Picked up an odd job."
It feels a little silly to be proud of placemats now but Riley's comfortable with his own private silliness. "Good deal."
"A friend of mine's letting me keep it in his garage off the beach."
And it's even sillier to feel jealous of motorcycle storage. "Nice friend."
"Yeah. I've been keeping my pack and board in his shed." Graham breaks into a trot toward the group and Riley falls in with him. He doesn't say 'I've got a shed' or offer his garage because he's not ready to be that irrational yet.
Baby steps.
"Nice," Riley says and warms up.
The new Cheetah holds up for the uphill sprint and this week they make it to the long coasting stretch where there's potential to do more than wheeze in two part harmony. If there is such a thing as two part harmony. "Is it called two part harmony when it's two parts?" Riley asks when they're breathing like a pair of guys in decent shape again.
"Sure." Graham doesn't ask why.
"Okay, good."
It's nice to be able to take basic understanding for granted and Riley appreciates that.
"I thought you listened to country music."
He does. To his secret shame. "They don't exactly sing about two part harmony. In it, sure. But they're more about saving the horse and riding the cowboy lyrically."
"I thought they were about cowboys frequently secretly fond of each other."
"They do say inside every cowboy there's a lady who'd love to slip out."
"Yeah," Graham agrees. "But I just don't have the legs for heels."
Neither does Riley - especially now - but the thought doesn't even occur to him until they're way down the road and talking about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
It's funny how they never see hide, hair or fang of vampires these days. It's also funny that Riley doesn't miss it and he's pretty sure Graham doesn't either.
"You ever miss it?"
Graham's giving him the patiently waiting look but it's only sidelong because he's fiddling with the Sirius and he knows Riley will get along to explaining himself eventually whether Graham's looking at him or not. It occurs to Riley he's reading a lot into Graham's looks these days.
"It?" Graham prompts eventually, proving Riley might be reading a lot but he's reading pretty well.
"Saving the world from demons."
"No hostiles?"
"We're pretty hostile too. Humans." He's a civilian now and it seems pointless not to talk like one.
"No." Graham settles on Lithium because 'Jerry Was A Race Car Driver' never gets old. "Not really. You?"
"Had my fill." A man needs to know when it's his time to retire. Losing a leg was a pretty big hint.
But there's a djinn out there somewhere who's earned his respect. He guesses he can't blame it for doing what djinns do better than he did what soldiers do.
"Decided what you're going to do next?"
Riley thinks about it through a couple of hey, na-na-na-na, hey that's somethings.
"I guess I'm not ready yet either."
"That's cool."
Graham doesn't say anything when he lays his palm over Riley's thigh. His skin's cool because the windows are down and Graham's palm is hot.
He puts his hand on top.
Graham doesn't ask before he leans over and kisses him at the stoplight on Santa Monica and Fairfax.
He didn't need to.