I dragged my hand through my hair and sighed, deciding that a shower was in order. Scalding hot water was calling my name, along with the opportunity to try and clear my head under it. I disappeared into the master bedroom and grabbed a fresh towel, fresh briefs, jeans and a T-shirt. Socks. I'd go fuck around in the garage after this; clean my rifles or something.

Showering usually left me feeling at least somewhat refreshed, clean, but not that one. I towel dried my hair and tried to avoid visually confronting the man in the mirror–he'd done things he shouldn't have in there. That man didn't feel clean, he felt dirty, because he may or may not have rubbed one out to the thought of Marcus Anderson's magic mouth.

"You're fucked." I murmured, feeling ashamed as I went through the motions of my usual post-shower routine.

After putting some lotion on my face and deodorant, finger combing my damp hair and running some pomade through it to keep everything in place, I slipped into my clothing and then headed for the kitchen for more espresso, and cigarettes. It'd been at least three hours since my last smoke, and I was practically dying for the nicotine by then. After pulling myself a double shot and topping it with frothed heavy cream like the extra bitch I was, I retreated to the garage in hopes of truly clearing my mind there. Somehow I always managed to find a bit of peace when I was alone to tinker in my garage, even if nothing major came of said tinkering.

... and it was peaceful. I smoked a cig, finished my espresso, took my time to finish waxing the Corvette; at fifty-seven years old, she needed lots of tender loving care. Once I completed that, I decided to clean my AXSR. I'd taken it to an outdoor range a few days ago; I'd even driven the Corvette there since it was a clear day, and truth be told, the hour-and-a-half drive was great. I had high hopes that the entire journey would be mind-emptying, that I could forget about Marcus for the day. But it was to no avail. Round after round I sent downrange, and even then, I still couldn't get that night out of my head. Get him out of my mind.

I popped the cap on the CLP and set it aside while I dug through the tackle-box I kept my cleaning supplies in; the scent was pungent, industrial, but I had grown fond of it over the years. Something soothing about it, something calming about going through the motions of cleaning a rifle. I wished it were only that easy to clean out my own brain of moments and memories I'd rather forget. If only.

I grimaced a bit and stretched my neck out as I moved across the garage to my gun safe. My eyes traced the keypad as I input the code, the door swinging open with a soft "woosh". The safe smelt metallic, from the ammo, my rifles and sidearms, not to mention the lingering scent of C.L.P. and bore oil, as I'd made it a "rule" to never put a weapon away dirty. A rule I'd broken when I didn't clean my rifle out earlier than week after hitting the range.

I'd been breaking a lot of my own rules lately, it seemed.

Sighing, I grabbed the AXSR, the muzzle pointed at the floor and checked the chamber. Of course it wasn't loaded, and in fact, I had a habit of removing the firing pins on my rifles while not in use–I was a bit paranoid about some asshole breaking into my safe and making off with shit that didn't belong to them, and without the firing pins, they won't shoot. But of course, I also had the anal habit of ensuring every weapon was cleared before handling it too, although that was just basic firearm safety.

"Alrighty," I hummed. "Just you and me," I added, locking the safe before I returned to the workbench and began the process of cleaning her up. As I worked however, I couldn't stop thinking about that Beretta. I turned around and eyed the safe.

Don't do it.

I shook my head and muttered to myself. Today was a 'good' day compared to the others I'd had; Drew was going to the U.W. now.

But he's leaving.

"... he's never gonna come back." I said softly, and verbalizing what I knew to be true already hurt like a bitch. I knew it'd happen; knew once he got accepted that he'd never look back, but now it was actually happening. He'd probably go and stay at Marcus' parents' place on holiday weekends, whatever.

At least his parents would keep a decent eye on him. They were good people.

Even so, I couldn't bear the thought of what my lonely future held. Sure, Drew didn't talk to me, we didn't interact much. But the thought of living in an empty house again stung. In fact, it scared me. It's true, I wanted to kill myself, but having Drew here had been the one thing holding me back. Giving me hope—hope in vain, sure—but still a little hope that maybe, just maybe I could repair what I'd broken.

But now that hope was lost; he'd be gone and settled on Campus by the start of Winter quarter, and I'd be here. Alone. With my guns.

Fuck me.

I dropped the old rag I was using and sighed, closed my eyes to try and swallow my pain. I'd lost everything that mattered to me in this life—some of it my fault, some of it the result of a war we never should have gotten involved with. People I couldn't forget, faces locked in a state of death, mangled bodies. That kinda shit.

I remember the way the dead looked almost fake; like a movie prop, except it was very real. I remembered Elliot, the way his sky-blue eyes glassed over, void of life. Some people don't believe in souls, but I certainly do. Something leaves when you die; something happens when you take your last breath, and the light leaves your eyes. You become an empty vessel... just a sack of flesh, and everything that makes you, 'you', disappears.

I stared at Elliot's body for hours in that Humvee as we returned to base. But somehow, he didn't look like himself, even if it was his eyes staring back at me, he'd long since left me the moment his heart stopped. So many times, I wished I'd joined him; or perhaps that it should have been me instead of him. Elliot had everything to live for. I had a wife and son who didn't want anything to do with me; I'd have been doing them a favor.

And deep down this all had me wondering if I'd loved him; like, really loved him. Loved him more than a friend. Loved him in ways he might have reciprocated. But we'd never gone there, and now... well, now, I thought that was a damn shame.

His life had been too short—would it have mattered if I'd loved him then? Even if Fate had always intended that he die early? On a fucking Monday too, out of all available days of the week; the shittiest Monday out of all the Mondays I'd ever had the displeasure of living through.

Do it.

My hands began to shake as I finished cleaning the bore; and I tried to push the thought to the darkest recess of my mind. Perhaps I should try to stay alive long enough to see him graduate, I considered. What was two more years in the grand scheme of things? Drew had done that Running Start thing in high school, from what I understood, so he had his associates. That meant it'd be two more years to complete his Bachelor of Science.

You can't wait two years, and you know it. Just finish it.

I cleared my throat and grabbed at my chest—heart racing so fast it was suddenly hard to catch my breath. Was I really gonna do it? No... not now, of course. Not with the boys in the house. That would be cruel, and I should finish that letter to Drew, anyway.

It was like time stood still, and I just lingered there at my seat by the work bench, mind fighting an invisible battle for what felt like hours. Do it, don't do it, do it, don't do it. If I'm gonna do it, then when? Not now. Later? Maybe tonight. When I was alone.

No, no, after he moves out. Do it then.

An emotional numbness fell upon my body, over my soul the longer I considered myself; considered the possibility of ending it. Leaving this world behind to join the next. It wouldn't hurt; it'd be painless. Simple as snuffing out a candle at the end of the evening. I'd sent forty-two humans to meet their maker over my years of service in the Marine Corps, and one poor donkey.

They lived inside my mind, all of them, along with Elliot, and several other men who met their untimely death in Afghanistan. But now it was my turn. It'd been my turn for years—I just hadn't been man enough to do it. That had changed, though, and it wasn't a matter of 'if' anymore, it was a matter of 'when'. I rose to my feet and moved to the safe like I was on autopilot; unlocked it, and my eyes settled on that old Beretta immediately.

"You're gonna help me out one last time..." I whispered under my breath, trailing my eyes over the barrel, down to the wooden grip. Weapon had a nice, smooth kick to it. "... fuck it, who am I kidding?"

I grimaced at the pain swelling in my chest, knowing full well that I couldn't wait two more years. Two more years of agony. It'd be a wonder if I could make it through the rest of Autumn.

Tonight, then. After the boys leave. It's settled.

I pulled out the Beretta and shut the safe, laid it out on the work bench in silence. I'd clean it one last time, for old times' sake. Just as I sat back down, I heard the familiar 'click' of the garage side-door opening. I nearly jumped in my seat, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Please don't be who I think it is..

'Swish-swish', went the sound of slippers against the concrete flooring, and my heart skipped at least four beats. My hands shook, my heart went batshit crazy, my stomach turned.

"... and he's lurking in the garage now, I see." Marcus hummed, voice low and playful.

I wanted to vomit, but instead, I just went back to cleaning my rifle. He'd fucking caught me—he didn't know he had—but he'd caught me plotting to blow my brains out, and for some reason I hated that. Such thoughts and plans were deeply private.

I shut my eyes for a beat and let out a shaky exhale. "... how can I help you, Marcus?" I opened my eyes to find Marcus giving the Corvette a little look over. He rounded it, trailed his fingertips over some of the frame in silent interest, then drew near, settling alongside me at the work bench.

He crossed his arms and eyed me pointedly. I tried to avoid making eye-contact.

"What?"

"You know what."

I shut my eyes and stretched my neck from side to side, trying to loosen the overwhelming desire I had for this man from my bones. "I'm not gonna fuck you, if that's what you're getting at."

Marcus raised a brow, and his expression hardened. "... what, no rough sex before you blow your brains out? That's a damn shame."

We locked eyes and I could feel myself glaring now. "That's quite the accusation."

Marcus scoffed, his gaze dropping to the weapons laid out, lingering heavily on the Beretta.
"So, what, you're gonna put that one in your mouth?" he tapped the grip, expression on his face stony and wrought with disappointment.

He doesn't know the pain I'm living with, who the fuck is he to judge?

I chuckled morosely and relaxed into my seat, propped my face up in my hand and flashed the most fucked up grin his way; the façade of being right in the head dissipating entirely. "That's a fucked-up thing to say."

Marcus wrapped his arms around himself and furrowed his brow at me; the fabric of his sweater bunched up at the elbows where he'd rolled the sleeves up. The cardigan itself dwarfed him. He reached out and brushed his fingers through my hair, but for whatever reason, I let him. My feet felt rooted to the floor. I couldn't retract, couldn't speak.

"You're one selfish motherfucker." He finally murmured. "... spend Drew's childhood gone, missing out on all the shit that counted, only to leave forever the second something good happens in his life."

My mouth felt like it was full of molasses; I truly wasn't sure how to respond... because he was right. His words cut deep; split my heart in two. I couldn't be the father he needed then, yet here I was dreaming of checking out now. Pathetic.

Even so, it was hard to admit it out loud. "Fuck off, Marcus." I hissed.

"No thanks," he bit back, hopping up onto the workbench.

My gaze trailed from the Beretta to his legs, crossed at the thigh, that fucking miniskirt exposing his round ass and some lacy little number from the way he'd positioned himself. He swept some of my cleaning supplies aside and leaned back on his hands, then proceeded to get comfortable, much to displeasure.

... or pleasure. Fuck, no, what am I thinking?

"You know, Gid, you seem to think you're the only one in this house who's considered ending it, and it's insulting, honestly." He brushed his alabaster hands through his hair and sighed. "... anyway, suicide is fucking stupid, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you."

"Since when I have ever needed your permission, old man?" brown eyes grazed their way over my numb form, centering uncomfortably on my face. "I can say whatever the hell I want."

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were just asking to get hit." I growled, tightening my fists the longer he stared.

"Go ahead, it'll just make me hard." He laughed, eyes darkening with anger and lust. "... but hey, choke me while you're at it, yeah? I like it rough. I like it when they make me bleed."

I swallowed hard and averted my attention back to my rifle, honest to God not sure what to say to that. Who the hell admits to something like that so openly? Fuck, Marcus Anderson was a freak in bed.

"You're fucking crazy."

"Crazy? Nah, Daddy. Look, I may be a freak but at least I'm honest with myself, unlike you."

I cursed under my breath and lit up another smoke. This wasn't happening. "Marcus, go away."

"No." he fired back. "I'm not about to let you put a round in your head, Gid. You really think Imma just pretend I don't know and leave you to your own devices? You're fucking stupid if you think I'd let this slide."

I'm fucking done.

"That's it," I snapped, grabbing the collar of his cardigan. "Get the fuck out. You have no fucking idea what goes on in my head; the mental anguish I suffer day and day out with no fucking reprieve. My son hates me, my ex-wife is dead. Don't talk to me as if you understand a goddamn thing about me or my life, Marcus. Now fuck off before I fuck up your pretty face."

He smirked. "You think my face is pretty?"

I groaned and let go of him in defeat. "... unbelievable." I wandered over to the corvette and leaned against the hood, desperate for my cigarette to somehow fix what I couldn't. As crazy as Marcus had me feeling, I couldn't bring myself to actually fuck him up; I could be an asshole, but not the abusive kind. I just hated the way he called my bluff so easily; along with seeing through every wall I worked so hard to build up over the years.