It's more than okay. After everything, a celebration sounds perfect.
Inside, Sullivan has already made himself at home in the kitchen, beer in hand, mid-argument with Garcia about football statistics. Santos is setting up takeout containers on the counter, and Hayes has queued music through the house speakers at a reasonable volume.
"There she is!" Sullivan raises his beer. "The woman who brought down a criminal enterprise with spreadsheets and stubbornness."
"That's not exactly?—"
"Close enough." He hands me a beer. "To Dr. Abernathy, who saved the hospital's equipment budget and gave our captain something to smile about."
"I smile," Thatcher protests.
"Since when?" Garcia asks.
"I've seen it happen," Sullivan adds. "Twice. Both times involved the doc."
They toast anyway, and I find myself pulled into the easy camaraderie of men who've served together, bled together, trust each other implicitly. Sullivan makes increasingly inappropriate toasts that make me laugh despite myself, while Garcia shares stories about training mishaps that have Thatcher shaking his head.
"Remember that op in Djibouti?" Sullivan says. "Captain here insisted we could make the insertion window if we ran the entire beach approach."
"We made it," Thatcher counters.
"Barely. Santos puked twice."
Santos, quiet as always, just shrugs. "Heat exhaustion. Happens."
Hayes turns to me. "The captain made us run it again the next day. In full gear. To prove a point."
"The point being that you could do it without complaining," Thatcher says.
"We complained the entire time," Garcia adds. "You just ignored us."
I watch the dynamic unfold. This is Thatcher's family. The men who have his back no matter what.
Santos, who's been quiet through most of the evening, approaches me while the others are arguing about the Djibouti incident. His expression is serious, thoughtful in a way that makes me pay attention.
"He's different now," Santos says quietly. "Better. Thank you."
The simple statement catches me off guard. "I didn't do anything."
"You did." He glances across the room at Thatcher. "We've been worried about him. After he lost Suzy, he went through the motions but wasn't really living. Then you showed up." Santos meets my eyes. "So thank you."
I don't know what to say to that. The weight of responsibility, the knowledge that I've become that important to someone, should feel overwhelming. Instead it just feels right.
By the time the team leaves, it's past nine. Sullivan makes one final inappropriate comment about what we'll be doing now that we're alone, and Garcia physically drags him out the door before I can throw something at him.
Thatcher closes the door behind them, and suddenly the house feels very quiet.
"Sorry about Sullivan," he says. "He has no filter."
"I noticed." I start gathering empty beer bottles, carrying them to the kitchen. "I like them. Your team."
"They like you too." He follows me, collecting containers and napkins.
We fall into an easy rhythm, cleaning up together. I lean against the counter, watching him wipe down the surfaces with the same methodical efficiency he brings to tactical operations. It's domestic. Normal. Like we've been doing this for years.
He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
