"Come where?"
"My wedding. In March."
Elliot stared at him. "Why?"
"What do you meanwhy?"
"Why are you inviting me to your wedding?"
"Because we're friends?" Reed deadpanned.
"Are we?"
"Jesus Christ, Shaw. Yes. We're friends. Normal people invite friends to their weddings."
Elliot considered pointing out he wasn't normal, but he didn’t. "I don't do well at weddings."
"Nobody does. That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
"You show up, you drink free alcohol, and you celebrate because you're my friend and you give a shit."
"I don't give a shit."
"Liar."
Elliot almost smiled. "Fine. I might give a small amount of shit."
"I'll take it." Reed signaled for another round. "And just so you know, Hudson's not coming. Couldn’t get leave."
Elliot's hand tightened on his beer bottle. "Noted."
Reed shot him a look. "Shaw. Come on."
"I haven't thought about Hale in over two years."
"Right. Sure. Well, now you can not think about him at my wedding."
Elliot had spent the last year relieved that Hale wouldn't be there. Twelve months of thinking he’d dodged a bullet.
And now, two fucking days before the rehearsal dinner, everything had changed.
Elliot forced himself to focus on practical logistics. He had the whole weekend off, having requested leave weeks ago. His dress uniform hung pressed and ready. Haircut yesterday, shoes shined, everything squared away.
He could do this. He’d coordinated missions under hostile fire with incomplete intelligence and zero margin for error. A wedding was not a combat zone.
Hale was not a threat.
His phone buzzed, again.
Reed:also
Jesus Christ, what now?
Reed:still not bringing a plus one?
A plus one. Right. Because that was what people did at weddings. He suddenly wished he had one.
