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“I would,” Marco said, listening to the call's background noise. But it sounds like Sloane has hit a particularly nasty snag in his attempts to organize your communal disaster. So you might want to go and help before he breaks something.”

“I’m trying to avoid it,” Dean informed him quickly. “But I’m guessing that means you’re home and want to unwind.”

“It’s almost like you know me,” Marco proclaimed, loosening his tie and tossing it over the armchair.

“Weird how that works, huh? So, you’re good to come if we actually get our shit together?”

“I’m sure I can make it.”

“Awesome. I guess I’ll go help my boyfriend before he loses his mind. Talk to you later, Marco.”

He ended the call and flopped down on the couch with a weary sigh. Marco loved what he did. It engaged his mind, at least when it required his brain to fixate on codes and malfunctions rather than people. He liked people just fine, loved them even, but that didn’t change the fact that when it came to their work-related problems, they were exhausting. As much as he loved what he did, he looked forward to Friday evenings.

Marco stared at his reflection in the dark TV, frowning. He couldn’t quite make out the dark eyes and bronze skin he’d inherited from his mother, but he could see the weariness of his face. His hair, which against all odds was his father’s copper instead of his mother’s muddy brown, stuck up in every direction. He didn’t remember swiping his hands through it enough to cause that.

He looked like a disheveled mess, albeit one with a nice shirt, slacks, and a tie thrown over a nearby chair. He wondered when he’d last gone out and enjoyed himself. It had been weeks, perhaps even months, and the thought pulled at him, dragging his mood down a notch.

He wasn’t the party boy he’d once been, but sometimes he missed those days. It mixed strangely with the ache of loneliness that found him when he thought about his life. Oh sure, he had a great job and an income that would keep him going comfortably, but something was missing.

Someone was missing.

That settled it. As soon as the loneliness rose and threatened to curl comfortably around his chest, Marco knew what he had to do. Going out for the night wouldn’t solve his loneliness, but it would stave it off for a while. And if he should happen to find someone to spend the night with, well, that would stave it off for a bit longer.

Grunting, he pushed off the couch and began unbuttoning his shirt. There was still plenty of time to get some good food in him before getting ready for the night.

CARTER

He was being watched.

Carter couldn’t say preciselyhowhe knew, only that he did. His skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, and the sensation of eyes on him. Rather than look around the small, cramped space of the bar, he picked his beer up. Bitterness washed over his tongue, but he barely noticed, having already had more than a dozen.

Years of special forces training had honed his senses, and he trusted them, even if his logical mind told him there was no reason for anyone to be watching him. Sure, his team leader was dead, his team disbanded, and he’d been thrown back to the States because of ‘disorderly conduct,’ but that didn’t change his training or his instincts.

“Another,” he grunted to the bartender, thumping the bottle on the bar.

The bartender looked at him under heavily lidded eyes but said nothing as he took the empty bottle away and retrieved another. Carter knew how many he’d had, but that changed nothing. He could have quite a few more before he had to retreat to the base, to the barracks where they’d finally slapped him after sending him home, separating him from his team.

He had no idea where they were, which didn’t surprise him. The military was like the damned government. When they wanted to keep a secret, they threw it in a hole and buried it in the dead of night. He wouldn’t know where the remnants of his team were unless he was meant to know.

The bartender’s eyes slid over to him again, grunting. “You from the base?”

“Yep,” Carter said, taking a deep pull from the bottle.

“Don’t get many of you boys around here,” he told him.

Carter shrugged. “I like the quiet.”

And the barwasquiet. Dirty and dimly lit, but it was quiet. Port Dale had more than enough bars to drink his brains out in, and he’d chosen at random. Carter had been told repeatedly by experts and people in charge that he should avoid alcohol at all costs.

It would bring up bad memories, they said.

It would make coping difficult, they said.

It would make the road to recovery difficult, they said.

Carter snorted, taking another deep pull at the thoughts. Half the people he’d spent the last half a decade with were dead, and the rest were scattered to the winds without any contact with one another. What did these ‘experts’ know about healing? Alcohol worked just fine for him. At least it helped him sleep.

The bartender’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. “Well, dunno how you feel about keepin’ that quiet of yours, but uh, you got some fans.”