Epilogue #2
“Then you did it right,” he said, meeting Shawn’s gaze directly. “You did what I didn’t.”
“Should it make it easier?” Shawn asked, and he was all too serious. Not baiting Aberlour into a fight, but asking, man to man—broken man to broken man—if it ought to make it easier.
Aberlour gave it the thought it deserved. He leaned forward, carefully examining every line—every scar—every wrinkle visible on Shawn’s face. He recalled the handsome face of years before, then weighed the misery and the loss and made up his mind.
“Yes.”
And Shawn held his gaze just like he had the very first time they’d met. As though waiting for Aberlour to look away and admit it was a lie—
He never looked away.
“I’ll try to remember that the next time I scare someone away,” Shawn responded, his laugh a little bitter.
“Not the grenade’s fault. It’s ‘cause you don’t smile,” Abe observed with a mischievous grin.
Shawn looked at him like he’d grown another head.
“What?”
Abe shrugged, unapologetic. “You’re a scary man when you’re frowning—always were, but when you smile,” he stopped speaking and looked away, down at his drink, then off at the thin crowd in the bar.
“But when I smile—?” Shawn asked, waiting for Abe to continue.
“You’re handsome when you smile.”
Shawn snorted and shook his head. “Was,” he corrected.
“Did I stutter? Did you lose your hearing on the way here, or were you always this dense? I said are, didn’t I?” He shook his head, looking bewildered.
“Then you need your eyes checked,” Shawn replied curtly, sounding flustered.
Aberlour chuckled.
“I have 20/20 vision, remember?” He didn’t even pretend to be humble.
“Is this how you flirt?” Shawn asked, baffled.
“What if it is?”
Conversation came to an abrupt halt. Aberlour realized they were now traversing terrain neither of them really knew how to navigate.
After setting off any number of landmines that usually crowded their silences, they were now faced with either vast emptiness, or a world of possibilities.
Aberlour was afraid of both in equal measure.
Shawn’s mouth dropped open with shock, and he made a sound somewhere between a baffled snort and a laugh. He reached for his glass again, forcing himself to use his injured arm. It was a slow process, and when he finally brought his glass to his lips, he tossed it back in one go.
Aberlour half expected him to get up and walk away, but he didn’t. He just grimaced as the alcohol burnt its way down.
“You live near here?” Shawn asked, turning his attention back to Abe.
“A few blocks away.”
“Good—” he said, looking pleased, as if his plan was working perfectly. “Bottoms up, Marine—we’re gonna need it.”
The retired Navy SEAL made no comment about the state of Aberlour’s house.
In fact, he said very little that his eyes didn’t clearly communicate.
They were on each other as soon as the door shut behind them.
A decade’s worth of delayed interest coming to a head as Shawn O’Reilly’s hands roamed the expanse of Aberlour’s body.
He had a single moment of hesitation—an uncharacteristic urge to explain the state of physical decline he’d suffered as of late, but as he pulled away from their searing kiss to do so, he found Shawn staring back at him, a similar hesitation pulling at his scars and buried in his blue gaze.
Aberlour felt incredibly relieved that Shawn was in the same boat.
Raising a hand tentatively to Shawn’s jaw, he gently stroked the mangled flesh with his thumb.
That piercing blue gaze didn’t shy away from Aberlour’s inspection, but Abe’s smile made his own grin stretch across his face, lighting his features in such a way that it made Aberlour recall the handsome man he’d met years ago.
Words were unnecessary. They made no apologies.
Their stories were written on their skin, and they could either worship the hell they’d trudged through and love their skin anew, or they could walk away.
With both of them given the same stakes, standing on the same line, the next step felt obvious.
He let himself be pinned to his front door, large capable hands digging into his flesh.
He let the bigger man undress him and take control.
God—what a fucking relief to let him take control.
To be nothing but whimper and need. There was nothing of Oliver in Shawn’s touch.
No hesitation, and very little tenderness.
There was need and want. Both unashamed and demanding.
They stumbled into Abe’s living room, tripping over their feet and pants as they struggled to remove them.
The couch was too small. It wouldn’t fit the two of them comfortably.
But as it turned out—it didn’t need to. Shawn pushed him down onto it, then sank to his knees, his gaze never straying from Abe’s.
Daring him, once more, to look away, but smirking in pleasure as Abe kept his eyes locked on Shawn’s face.
God, how many times had they played this game?
And how rewarding to find their true characters remained intact—having somehow managed to weather all of their storms.
There was nothing coy about the way Shawn unravelled him.
At first, using his hands, then later with his mouth.
His enthusiasm fueled solely—like adding gasoline to a housefire—by the moans and the pleas that Aberlour couldn’t hold back.
And when at last, Aberlour was spent, Shawn did not coddle him.
Instead, he dared him with his beautifully arrogant smirk, bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Show me what you got, Marine.’
And Abe did. Not gently. Not in the way he would once have held his Darling.
There was no tender whispering. No coxing him into it softly.
Rather, Abe gave as good as he got. Bobbing up and down on the Navy SEAL’s cock with brazen speed and enthusiasm.
Shawn was loud as he took his pleasure. Growling loud enough for the neighbours to hear.
When he was close, his entire body drawing taut with need, Aberlour grabbed the man’s large hands and shoved them into his hair, demanding wordlessly that Shawn use him.
No begging appeared to be necessary, since the SEAL immediately began using Aberlour to pull the trigger on his erection with the same aggressive efficiency as he would have used when he triggered his rifle.
And God, Aberlour reveled in the bold, shameless way Shawn laughed as he watched Abe swallow his load.
In the aftermath, Aberlour fell to the couch next to the big man, laughing and staring with disbelief at this amazing, naked god of a man he might just get to keep for his very own.
“Your house sucks,” Shawn told him. “You have the interior decorating skills of a rat.”
Aberlour chuckled, still out of breath and barely human. It had been a long time since he’d felt so content.
“Yours much better?” Aberlour asked with a smirk.
“Moved out of mine. Lived on base—and I can’t do that anymore,” he explained, casually.
“If this is your way of asking to move in here, you’ve got flattery mixed up with insult.”
He shrugged, still smiling. “I’m moving away. Going north, maybe—” he shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m planning on doing a road trip and finding a place where I want to settle down.” Then he turned to look at Aberlour with that familiar dare in his eyes.
“I hate this place,” Aberlour acknowledged, having heard the silent question. He gestured around the room. “Nothing holding me here.” He stated it plainly because he was too old for games, and he had it on good authority that Shawn was, too.
“Then you should come with me,” Shawn suggested casually. It was genuine though. Like he’d thought it out and was at peace with it. Come or don’t—either way, Shawn would move along.
Aberlour could have pretended to think about it. Hesitate—make a show of it. But—
“Okay.”
“I can’t promise you anything. I’m not really good company, and my exes would say I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.” Shawn’s candor was one of the reasons why Aberlour admired him so much.
“My only ex is dead,” Aberlour countered, the words both bitter and funny.
Shawn’s eyes creased as he smiled, though there was a hint of something sad to it.
“Then let’s do it—” he declared with a satisfied nod. He struggled to his feet and offered Aberlour a hand.
Aberlour clutched it, smiling as he let the bigger man pull him up.
“Tomorrow—right now, I need sleep. I’m wiped.”
“Wow—and here I thought Marines had stamina,” Shawn said, shaking his head in mock disappointment, even while letting Aberlour lead him by the hand into his bedroom.
Aberlour clucked his tongue and shook his head. Then he spun Shawn around until he had his back to the bed.
“Abe or Aberlour. I’m not a Marine anymore. I’m just Abe,” he corrected him, before he shot him one of his newfound smiles and shoved him back and onto the bed.
“Abe—just Abe,” Shawn said, testing it on his lips. “I like the sound of that,” he said, before he reached for Aberlour and pulled him down next to him.
For once, Abe was the little spoon and, as he drifted off to sleep wrapped up in Shawn’s arms, he felt different.
As though, in a way, Gavin Aberlour died that night.
Not the man—but the Marine, the squad leader, the brother.
He died in that trashy little bar when he decided to accept Shawn O’Reilly’s invitation to call for a drink.
He left him behind for good. Left the dart board and his perfect aim in that shitty hole in a wall.
Left old Betsy the Booth exactly where she was, and he never returned.
Try as you may, after that night, no one around there ever heard from Gavin Aberlour again.
But somewhere in a small house by the ocean, lives a man with half a face, and a man who uses half his name. They have a dog and not much else. And, believe it or not—
Ils ne regrettent rien.