"Food."

"I get that. Not that it looks like food, but it looks vaguely food-like, so I'll buy into the fact that it's going to, at some point, be food. I'm just a little curious as to why there is food."

"You said you were hungry."

"I did. About four hours ago, before you tied me to the bed and proceeded to do things to me that are illegal in five states."

"You didn't complain."

"I complained a little."

Brad nods. "True. But only when I stopped."

"True." Nate smiles as Brad opens a jar of something. "So what are you making?"

"Food." He grins and opens a cupboard above his head and pulls out two wine glasses. Nate raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything as Brad fills them both from a low, flat-bottomed decanter. "Now, don't ask so many questions."

"Just tell me that you're not going to put it in tinfoil and make me squeeze it out."

"God, you're a kinky bastard, Fick." Brad hands him a glass and then leans back, waiting for Nate's first sip. Nate rolls his eyes, but lifts the glass to his mouth, inhaling the faint smoky scent before taking a drink.

"Oh. Wow. You didn't get this from a box."

"You think I'm a complete heathen, don't you?" Brad takes a drink of his own wine and then goes back to the assorted spices. "Go watch TV or something."

"I flew all the way across the country to spend time with you and you're banishing me to watch the liberal media?"

"Hey, you're the one living in fucking Massachusetts, blue-state boy." He raises an eyebrow. "Don't think the fate of your political leanings now that you're a pansy ass Ivy Leaguer again isn't a topic of frequent conversation amongst us hard-ass Republicans."

"Oh, you're just being mean now." Nate takes another sip of his wine then slides off the counter, moving into the living room. He doesn't go far, leaning on the counter that separates the two rooms, watching as Brad takes out marinated filets of fish and starts chopping and slicing and moving his knife like he was raised at the knee of Julia Child. Brad's fingers look different, curved around the smooth polished wood handle of his kitchen knife, out of place and yet perfectly right around the bell of his wine glass. "I didn't know you could cook."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me." Brad offers him a slow grin before turning his attention back to the vegetables he's steaming. "My mom taught me to cook."

"Yeah?" Nate leans in further, resting his elbow on the counter. Brad doesn't talk much about his family, about his life outside the Corps. Nate knows he's close to them, but they're also like something from another life, one that Brad hangs on to loosely because it's not real enough when he puts it beside everything else he does. "You like it?"

"Well, I'm not doing this to get you into bed." Brad stirs something in one pot and gives Nate a knowing look. "There's never anyone to cook for."

"You could have a party."

"Yeah. I'm a regular fucking Martha Stewart, Nate."

Nate settles back on the stool and shrugs, backing away from whatever antagonism is brewing, adding a sharp tang of discord to the other scents in the room. "It smells amazing."

"Thanks." Brad checks something in the oven and Nate watches his face, seeing the flush from the heat darken Brad's skin. It's already tinged slightly pink and Nate realizes Brad's embarrassed about this for some reason.

"I am proficient at microwaves and toasters. When push comes to shove, I can order take out." Nate smiles, shaking his head. "No one's ever cooked for me before."

"I find that hard to believe. I'm sure half the girls you dated were little Betty Crockers in the making."

"Oh, sure. I got cookies and cakes and pies and one girl even made me homemade granola, but no one's ever…" Nate waves his hand around at the kitchen. "It's nice. Though I kind of feel like I should go sit on the couch with my hand down my pants, watching TV and waiting for you to tell me dinner's ready."

"If you've recovered enough to have a need to stick your hand down your pants already, I'd like to know what kind of shit you're getting from the kids on the street corners in Boston."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can set the table." Brad nods to a different cupboard. "Plates are in there."

Nate moves back into the kitchen and gathers plates and silverware, setting them neatly on Brad's small table. There's a real table in the dining room, but it's covered with computer parts and blueprints and a large compartmentalized box filled with metal miniatures, some of which are scattered over a huge laminated map of Iraq. Nate snags his wineglass as well as Brad's, refilling them from the decanter. "So what are we having?"

"Sweet bourbon glazed filet of sole, risotto, steamed vegetables and rolls." Brad eases a sizzling dish out of the oven and starts dishing things up, adding freshly crushed mint to the top of the fish and garlic roasted mushrooms on the risotto.

"You are a man of many talents, Brad Colbert."

"Like you needed me to feed you to know that, sir." Brad still looks pleased, even as he ignores the compliment. "I hope you like it."

"If you're as good at this as you are at your other skills, I'm sure I will." Nate grins and rubs his bare foot against the side of Brad's. He takes his first bite and groans low in his throat. "Oh…wow. You forgot to mention that your mom was Julia Child."

"There's dessert too."

"Really?" Nate grins. "Do we have to eat that in here?"