Carson luxuriated in the opportunity to explore China's body without the distraction of sex. Soaping up his palms, he traced the planes of hard flesh and hills of muscles that defined the big man's towering frame. His fingertips gently outlined the vivid wounds.

There were tactile differences to them. The surgical sutures were smooth and neat, like the seams of his jeans. The bullet wound felt like irregular lumps, raised, twisted, as if the horrors that caused them were too much to be contained solely within the man.

With a tug and a murmured word, Carson drew China under the spray, rinsing away the rivers of suds until his hands caressed only firm, wet skin. He

pressed up close, his chest to China's back, his arms slipped around his lover's waist, his forehead resting on the curve of China's ramrod straight spine.

China turned in his arms and swept Carson into a tight embrace, cradling Carson's head to his broad chest, his breath sweet puffs against Carson's cheek. Carson chuckled, the sound lost in the splash of water. Even in the shower, the big man was all soldier—defender and guardian. Carson impulsively rose up on tiptoe and kissed China, a caring but chaste caress of mouths. China accepted it, asking for nothing more, seeming content to let Carson make the first moves.

The water sputtered to lukewarm and they retreated to the bedroom where several comforters and an electric blanket waited for them. Wrapped in flannels sheets and layers of down-filled linen, they lay in each other's arms.

Against China's chest, Carson raised his head so he could see China's face, read his reactions to what Carson was pretty sure would be an unwelcome idea. “Do you have to go back?”

“What?”

It was hard to take China by surprise but Carson could see he had done just that. But there was no turning back now. He had to ask.

“Go back. To active duty. Do you have to? Can't you still ask for a medical discharge?”

China stared, a frown giving Carson his answer. He was feeling too vulnerable to care. He'd been handed a shot at happiness and he wasn't go to let it go easily. He knew China took is obligations to the Army seriously, just like Jim had, but he wanted the man to consider things from Carson's point of view, too. “I don't want you to get hurt again. Or worse.”

China pulled Carson up to lay more fully on this chest with an ease that startled and thrilled him. They were near eye-to-eye and he saw every weathered line on China's face, saw the slight beginning of that dimple on his cheek, and got caught in the intensity of China's understanding but determined stare.

“I can't do that, Carson.”

It was the answer he had expected but he felt compelled to fight it. “Why not? You said you only have a few months to go. What's a few months?”

“The difference between being where I'm needed, where other's lives depend on me, and not. I couldn't leave the rest of my unit hanging. They lost enough.”

“What about—”

“But I do promise this. I won't re-up at the end of my tour.”

“Anything could happen in five months.”

“Carson, I'm not the kind of guy that quits. I'm an Army Ranger. A Ranger doesn't run from danger, he looks it square in the eye. I have an obligation to Will, Brad and Vincent to see them through until my times up. It's what I do, Carson. Who I am.” China ran a hand through Carson’s tangled hair, dark eyes intense and determined. “But I plan on you being a part of my life from now on. That won't change.”

“What if someone finds out and tells? Can't you just leave now?” Carson couldn’t help it, the fear of further exposure and official retaliation against China all too real in his mind.

“'Don't ask, don't tell' is their policy but mine is ‘don't run, either’.”

He could see there was no point in resisting. “It'll be the longest five months of my life,” Carson pressed harder against China’s comforting hand, returning the same intense and determined stare, “but I'm not running either.”

Jumping Off Places

Z. A. Maxfield

Because of the Brave

As if he needed one, Peter Hsu discovered another reason to hate flying commercial. The first, and most obvious, was that they wouldn’t let him jump out of the plane.

He also hated being trapped into the tiny but affordable coach seats, even though he wasn’t the biggest guy in the world. A man needed breathing room. He was torn by his desire to watch the sky out the window and the need to establish his right to get up and move around the cabin from the aisle seat, something he hated to do over two sets of knees. He’d opted for the window today because fast moving clouds would be opening up to glimpses of cultivated green farmland. Since he was flying into Minnesota, the land of ten thousand lakes, it would look like someone dropped a mirror, the bright scattered bits and chunks blown all to hell on dark earth. He regretted that decision when he saw Aisle Seat Guy.

Aisle Seat Guy shoved his large rolling pilot case up in the overhead bin, making it impossible to retrieve the case with Peter’s laptop. He was also around six foot five inches tall, clocking in at 300 easily, and Peter knew if he had a beer he’d probably have to pee in a paper cup because there would be no moving the big man if he fell asleep.

It was when Aisle Seat Guy leaned over to say a great big “Howdy, hello, how’re ya doing, dontcha just love flyin’? Doesn’t it get your blood goin’?” that Peter briefly considered which of the passengers might be an air marshal and whether he’d notice if Peter reached over and cut Aisle Seat Guy’s throat just a little.

“My therapist said I shouldn’t talk to anyone until I get to the rehab center, just to be on the safe side.” Peter was careful to keep his expression blank. Okay, maybe the rehab thing was a lie, but nobody had to know that.

Aisle Seat Guy apparently couldn’t take a hint. Later in the flight he’d had to add, “I’m sorry, I think I should let you know that even if the seatbelt sign is on, if I tell you I need my medication you’re going to have to move fast, okay? Just so there’s no…” Peter let his eyes say the rest, and for the remainder of the flight no one made eye contact with him. Which was just the way he liked it.

Peter Hsu was going home.

The cab passed the house a third time. The driver told him that he’d be happy to keep driving back and forth past the rural home all night, except sooner or later he’d have to go back to town for gas. Peter figured as long as his cash held out he would never actually have to go inside the two story blue building where his mother was living, but knew that wasn’t very fair.

Hopewald House seemed like a nice place, actually. It was a color he associated with his mother’s pricey porcelain vases, and it had a lot of windows, but not in that staring-at-you kind of way. His aunt had converted the overlarge farmhouse in the eighties when her husband had died and—from all accounts— was happier now that she ran a residence for hospice patients.

Four square windows glowed with faint light, from a hallway maybe, on the top floor in a row, two downstairs besides the extra large picture window that seemed to look in on a television room. The porch was pleasantly lit now that it was dusk on this northern early summer night. The facility-as Peter had been calling it-was accessible to the handicapped, and featured ramps and pathways hemmed in with bright spring flowers. He recognized tulips and daffodils, all tucked into a riot of plants that all looked gray in this light but were so thick and

lush that if someone fell it could cushion them so well they probably wouldn’t choose to get up again.

All in all, Peter hated it on sight.

Its very cheeriness mocked him from where he sat in the back of the cab on the fourth trip. He wasn’t feeling cheery. He didn’t want to do this. Home was the first stop on the way to nowhere, and he didn’t want to go there.