At Attention (Out of Uniform 2)

“You don’t cough.” Chloe studied Dylan carefully. “Baba always coughs when he reads the book.”

Damn. Now Dylan’s throat was painfully tight. Poor Apollo, forced to see reminders of the guy he’d loved just so the girls kept his memory alive. What a sucky position to be in.

“Let’s eat,” he said, blinking hard.

“I want to play dress-up while you cook.” Sophia scampered off in the direction of the dress-up box. The living room had one wall devoted to kid stuff—play kitchen, dollhouse, carefully labeled bins and shelves with other toys, and a fanciful dress-up corner that Dylan bet was the handiwork of Mrs. Floros.

By the time Dylan reheated the lasagna and got a vegetable ready, the girls had completely destroyed the organization in the living room.

“We need to clean up,” Dylan told them after they ate.

“Ya-Ya never makes us clean.” Chloe frowned. “Baba will clean when he comes home.”

“Baba does not need to come home to a mess,” Dylan said. This was the first time he had to get firm with the girls. “Now, can we make a game of it?”

“A game?” Sophia perked up.

“Yeah. Let’s pretend we’re giant trash trucks eating up all the mess!” Dylan summoned a last burst of energy, because damn, it had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. Apollo’s sheet with the bedtime routine had cleaning followed by pajamas and stories, and Dylan tried to stick to it even though drama over needing to find Kitty the Elephant pushed them thirty minutes behind schedule.

“Dylan?” Chloe said sleepily from her side of the room as Dylan closed the story book.

“Yeah, pumpkin?”

“I’m glad you’re here.” She cuddled Bee Baby closer and shut her eyes.

“I’m glad I’m here too.” Dylan’s throat felt wrapped in wet wool. Please don’t let me mess things up for this family. “Sleep tight.”

* * *

Apollo groaned as he hefted himself out of the car. He’d left for base at oh-six-hundred, and while sixteen-hour days were hardly anything new for him, he was still beat. Working for SEAL operations was different than being out with his team, and he was still getting used to the changed routine. Fewer runs, less time in the grinder, no more challenges and inter-team contests. Instead, he was the one helping to devise the training exercises that all teams relied on, and that meant long days of meetings, triple-checking logistics, and being ready to explain when things didn’t go according to plan.

He opened the door to the house carefully, prepared to pick up a line of toys littering the entryway. But to his surprise, the entry was clear, and the living room looked like the twins hadn’t even played in there, everything back in its place. A quick peek upstairs revealed two girls sleeping in a room that had clearly been picked up before bed, stuffed animals and dolls in a neat line on the shelves.

Huh. Well that certainly meant less cleaning time. Now he could just focus on the kitchen before bed. But the kitchen wasn’t empty, and it certainly wasn’t the mess Apollo had expected. Instead, the counter and table gleamed and the sink was empty. Dylan had earbuds in and was sweeping the floor, a little smile on his face as he nodded along with whatever he was listening to.

Apollo cleared his throat loudly, narrowly missing bumping into Dylan.

“Oh! You’re home.” Dylan yanked his earbuds out. “Emergency handled?”

Apollo nodded because he really couldn’t say more than that. All the training-related work he did was strictly confidential, and as much as he might like to bitch about a jump training exercise where everything short of injury that could go wrong had gone wrong, he kept his mouth shut.

“You couldn’t tell me if it was all FUBAR, could you?” Dylan laughed. The kid had clearly picked up some SEAL lingo from his brother. “But thanks for telling me it wasn’t Dustin’s team.”

“I knew you’d worry.” Apollo opened the fridge. Everything was back in its place, with the exception of a dinner plate covered with plastic wrap. Big portion of lasagna, steamed broccoli, and a slice of bread. “This mine?”

“Yeah.” Dylan took the plate from him. “Let me heat it up for you. Want a beer?” He gestured at a half-drank bottle of Heineken on the counter. “I know I needed one after chasing—”

“You were home alone and you drank? What if one of the girls had gotten sick? Or there was an emergency—”

“Chill.” Dylan got right in his face, clearly not cowed by his anger. “I know you have the overprotective thing going, but give me a little credit. I had two huge servings of your lasagna—really good meat sauce by the way—and I’ve been nursing half a beer while I cleaned. After the kids were asleep, I might add. I doubt my BAC is more than strong mouthwash at this point. I’m twenty-three now, not fifteen and sneaking a beer. Dustin and your other friends had several beers each at the barbecue, and I didn’t see you wringing your hands about whether they should drive.”