“What’s with the crutches?” Ghost asked, his keen eyes narrowed with concern.
“Bullet tore through my abs. Standing is still a little difficult. Don’t worry, Ghost, I’ll be back to kicking your ass inno time,” Oli promised, his smile cheeky, even as it contrasted sharply with the dark circles under his eyes.
“’Just being dramatic so he can get paid leave,” Marcus teased.
Oliver jabbed him in the stomach, and all of them laughed.
“Actually,” Oliver said, clearing his throat, he turned just enough that Aberlour caught him in his peripheral vision. “I’ll be in the operations room. They’ve asked me to sit in on the mission since I know you guys inside and out.”
There were raucous shouts and laughter at that. All of his men were bouncing around and heckling each other like overgrown puppies incapable of reining in their excitement.
Aberlour turned away from the conversation, walked towards the back of the room and pretended to assess their supply of ammunition. Unsurprisingly, Oliver found him there a few minutes later.
“It’s impolite to run away from a cripple,” he teased. That got him no reaction.
Oliver dropped a folded piece of paper with Aberlour’s name scribbled on the top.
Aberlour looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
“Could have at least dropped by to say hi,” Oliver said, and although Aberlour knew the expression of hurt and sadness was genuine, Aberlour had trouble summoning any sympathy.
“Why? So Abby could talk my ear off? No thanks.”
“We’re friends. Friends check-in on each other.”
“Are we?” Aberlour shot back before he could really think it through. He dared to stand in front of Oliver then. His eyes were cold as he stared him down.
“Are we friends? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, I’m about the same as a used sock on your nightstand.”
He might have said it a tad too loud, or it might have been the fact that JD’s music suddenly stopped. Regardless of the cause, everyone stopped moving, staring at Oliver and Aberlour like it was a showdown at high noon.
It wasn’t a secret. Not really. Not anymore. Aberlour wasn’t sure it had ever been a secret. They hadn’t exactly been coy or subtle, but apart from Marcus, none of the guys had ever said they knew anything outright. JD had alluded to it, but he’d said himself he didn’t want to know anything more. Now though, it was hard for anyone to pretend otherwise. Aberlour had made it abundantly clear.
Oliver was the colour of a freshly boiled Maine lobster.
His head pivoted to stare at his friends, who were all gawking at Aberlour. He spun back around, his eyes wide with terror and confusion. There was anger simmering underneath, and Aberlour wondered if Oli would punch him just as he’d punched that sailor who’d called him a fag so long ago.
“Grow the fuck up, Oli,” Aberlour said, rolling his eyes at how dramatic Oliver’s reaction was.
“Right, you’re the one having a fucking hissy fit, butIshould grow up,” Oliver snarled, positively livid.
If he knew Oliver—and Abe hated just how well he knew him—it was most likely the embarrassment of realizing the team knew the truth about their relationship that was making Oliver angry, and not Aberlour’s behaviour.
There were so many things Abe could have said. So many possible responses. Each one nastier and harsher than the one before. However, as he watched Oli’s shoulders tense up and his face redden, Aberlour felt nothing but pity for him. Pity did not typically lead to harsh words and anger. There was nothing Aberlour could say that would outweigh the simple notion of his contempt.
He picked up the piece of folded paper Oliver had dropped and held it out for Oliver to take back.
“I’m glad you’re better,” he said, because he meant it. Losing Oliver would have been like losing a piece of himself, and that was true no matter what. “Your bedside was occupied. I busied myself elsewhere. I don’t know what else there is to say.”
It was oddly mature of him, and Oliver must have agreed because his anger seemed to drain away.
“Abby is probably looking for you,” Aberlour said, before Oliver could add anything else. He wouldn’t walk away. Wouldn’t turn, he’d simply wait and stare Oliver down. It was his turn to walk away.
Oliver looked like he wanted to argue, like he wasn’t quite done with the conversation.
Aberlour hitched an eyebrow, waiting for Oliver’s move.
It took a while.
