“Pretty sure you said the same thing about Rosalinda,” Ghost said. It was so rare to hear Ghost roast someone that they all snorted in approval.
“Rosalinda was a mistake,” Marcus said, waving his hand dismissively, like it was all in the past.
“A mistake that you drunk dialled a week ago,” JD pointed out.
“God forbid a man has a moment of weakness!” he drawled out dramatically. “This one is different. Her name is Sabine, and I just met her at the convenience store. Tell me that’s not fucking fate right there!”
“That’s not fucking fate right there!” Oliver quickly repeated. He laughed, in the way he always did, head thrown back, boisterous, and loud. Oliver was his own best critic when it came to humor, and he never seemed to mind. He reached into the fridge, grabbed three beers, and handed one to Marcus.
“You’re not invited to the wedding,” Marcus said disapprovingly, pointing an accusing finger at him, although he still reached for the beer.
“Thank God!” Oliver declared with another laugh.
Marcus scowled at him, but he dropped the act quickly, his easy smile back in place.
He looked good. Aberlour had been worried about him during the last few weeks of their most recent deployment. Marcus was a social butterfly through and through. He needed people around him to keep his energy up. After six months hunting assholes in various jungles and deserts, his battery had been running dangerously low. It was nice to see him smiling again. He’d shaved as soon as his combat boots had touchedAmerican soil, but his afro was still longer than regulation. Like Oliver, haircuts didn’t seem to be at the top of the list of grooming priorities.
“Can I be the best man?” JD asked. He’d left the kitchen to plop down in the expensive Chesterfield that Aberlour hadn’t dared to touch. JD’s beer was precariously balanced on the top of his knee. He didn’t look worried about it because, surely, the hundred-year-old leather could use a shower of cheap beer.
“Abe’s my best man,” Marcus said, shaking his head.
“Fuck no, I ain’t,” he denied with a snort, not bothering to sit up or even look over at Marcus.
“If Oli’s not doing the job, then you sure as hell are,” Marcus argued. “JD’ll be too busy eating and fucking the bridesmaids to help, Ghost is too shy, and Carlos’ll confuse people with some kind of fucked up bilingual speech,” he rattled off, quickly and methodically counting off each person’s status as if he’d already worked this out.
“I’m not doing a damned speech,” Abe argued half-heartedly.
“We’ll talk,” Marcus muttered before tossing back his beer. Abe rolled his eyes.
“Yo, hermano, pizza guy’s here,” Carlos yelled as he walked in, a slice hanging out of his mouth.
“Is it any good?” Oliver asked, sarcastically.
“It’s free,” Carlos said, shrugging like that was a stupid question.
Oliver patted his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet, and handed Carlos the other beer as he walked over to him. He’d already finished his first and had the second half finished. He’d be tipsy before Abe would even manage a buzz. Oli was a cheap drunk. No matter how much training Aberlour had put him through since bootcamp.
“By the way Carlos, you missed it. Marcus said you write fucked up speeches,” Oliver tossed into the conversation, just as he stepped out of the house to go pay for the pizza. Fuelling chaos and then running off. The coward.
“¡Hijo de puta!”
Aberlour shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning his head back again on the headrest, content to listen to the sound of his team as all hell broke loose in the kitchen. He peeked once, when Carlos began running around the kitchen island, chasing Marcus with a knife—a butter knife, but still. He didn’t need to intervene because Oli brought pizzas into the kitchen, managing to calm down the knuckleheads like the mother hen that he was.
“Pepperoni, no mushrooms,” Oliver said, his voice was much closer than the rest of the chaos.
Aberlour blinked his eyes open, glad to see Oliver standing over him holding a white paper plate, two beers cradled in his other hand.
“Fuck yeah,” he said, grabbing the plate with a muttered thanks.
Oli sank down on the couch next to him and handed over the beer. There was a space on the other side of Oli. Probably so others had a place to sit, but it meant that Oli was pressed against the length of Abe from shoulders to knees.
“You boys ever hear of personal space?” Carlos said, as he sat on the barstool next to the counter.
“No,” Abe and Oli replied in unison, mostly to piss off Carlos.
“My baes,” Marcus said fondly, as he sat down on Oli’s right. It was a tight fit for all three of them, but they’d certainly shared smaller spaces on Navy ships during deployment.
“Oh? We’re cool again?” Oliver asked, between bites of his pizza.
