Ray shrugs. "I'm just saying that I thought we were like brothers."

"Why on earth would you think that, Ray? You're a backwoods, whiskey tango, incestuous, Jesus-loving NASCAR freak of nature. And I'm not."

"You forgot to specifically insult my mother, Brad." Ray sits up, pouting in Brad's direction. "You're really hurting me here."

"At some point did you have any intention of telling me what the fuck you're babbling about?"

"You know, I know I'm not all educated and shit, but even I know that was some fucked up grammar."

Brad takes a deep, calming breath. "Ray, do you have any idea how many ways I know how to kill a man?"

"Whatever." Ray skims his fingers through the sand, grabbing a rock and tossing it aside. "I just don't see why you didn't tell me."

Brad's tempted to throw his clipboard like a Chinese throwing star and see if he can decapitate Ray with one stroke. Only the amount of work he's put into the schematics keeps him from finding out. "Tell you what, Ray?"

"About you and the LT."

"What?"

"Look, it's cool. Everybody knows, Brad. And we're all cool with it. Except Trombley, but no one really cares what he thinks."

"No one," Brad agrees then shakes his head. "Wait, what about me and the LT?"

"You know."

"Pretend I don't. Enlighten me."

"Brad, don't play stupid. It's cool."

"Person, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"No, Brad, dude. Don't ask. Don't tell." Ray smiles like the idiot who took the small bus to school. "It's cool man. I just want you to know that we've got your back. Well, not in that way, because, dude, who's going to intrude on the LT's space, you know?"

"Ray, if you don't tell me, in direct and specific language, small words that even your cocksucking whore of a Wal-Mart discount mother can understand, I'm going to drop a grenade in your ass."

Ray flops back down into his grave. "You and the LT, Brad. Bangin'. Knocking combat boots. Dick smoking, fudge packing, Oscar Wilde reading, butt munching, hose hound ass bandits. We know. We're cool."

Brad blinks very slowly, his hand curved around the handle of his K-bar. Justifiable homicide. "Shut up, Ray."

"I'm just trying to let you know, you guys don't have to be so furtive and shit. I mean, yeah, it's best that you are because we don't need to see that shit, and I'm talking literally here, but you know, you guys can jerk off behind the Humvee together and no one's gonna say a word. Well, okay, we'll say shit, but we'd say shit no matter what. We're not going to say shit to anyone."

"Shut up, Ray." He bites off the words and forces himself to hold the K-bar in its sheath. Maybe he can have Walt back the fucking Humvee over the Ranger grave. No one would notice until it was too late. "And whatever it is you think you know, don't ever speak about it, because the truth of it is, Person, you don't fucking know shit about anything."

"I know shit about fucking, Brad, and you and the LT are riding each other's fucking carousel ponies, bouncing all over to get the golden ring. It's not even close to a secret. Hell, Rudy noticed, and he's gayer than a parade in the heart of the Castro district, dude."

"I need you to shut the fuck up, Ray." Brad rubs his temples slowly, trying very hard to concentrate. "Just…shut the fuck up." He gets to his feet and walks off, ignoring Ray's snort of laughter and not so subtle hints of where Brad might be headed. Friendly fire was obviously the answer. The question was where would he find another decent RTO in the middle of the fucking Iraqi desert?

"We have a problem." Brad leaned against the crate of munitions that served as Nate's table, hip hitched against the edge of the box.

Nate glanced up and then around at the empty tent, the majority of the command staff at yet another meeting on the grooming standard. "We're about to go into Iraq in tin-plated Humvees and outside our area of expertise. I'm assuming you mean beyond the obvious?"

"It's Person."

"So we're going with the obvious." Nate leans back against one of the support poles and rubs his eyes for a moment before looking at Brad. "What's he done now?"

"Apparently everyone thinks we're fucking." Brad crosses his arms over his chest and then straightens. "Sir."

"I'm…unclear how that involves me. Unless you are, in which case, you really shouldn't tell your commanding officer about this sort of thing, Sergeant. It's kind of frowned upon, because now I have to take some sort of action."

"Not me and Person, sir." He clears his throat and frowns viciously at his feet before looking up at Nate. "Me and you."

Nate's eyebrows lift and he swallows reflexively. "Well, to our advantage is the fact that nothing everybody believes is ever true."

"The sky is blue. The sand is hot. Schwetje is a complete fucking idiot. The bullet I'm going to put in Ray's skull is going to hurt."

"Brad, no one is going to believe that you and I are doing anything other than discussing plans for the upcoming operation."

Brad frowns and narrows his eyes, shifting back onto his heels. "And why is that, sir?"

"Because…well…" Nate flushes, the tips of his ears turning as pink as his cheeks. "Because you're…and I'm…"

"I think you really hit the salient points there, sir." Brad smirks and rests his elbow on the munitions box and then sets his chin in his hand. "A brilliantly reasoned argument. I can see how you made it into Dartmouth."

"Because we're not sleeping together."

"Denial as argument. Hmm. Less impressive, I think. Sort of the 'I know you are, but what am I' approach to things." He keeps Nate pinned with his glance. "I mean, I would expect maybe a little vehemence, maybe. Sort of 'I'm not a faggot' or 'I know Brad went to military school, but that doesn't make him gay'. You know, kind of standing up for your heterosexuality."

"If I protest, then I sound like I'm hiding something." Nate imitates Brad's posture, leaning forward on his makeshift table, his chin in his hand. "Besides, I'm a Recon Marine. How much more masculine can I get without steroids and a g-string?"

"I…" Brad huffs a laugh. "I don't even know what to say to that, sir."

"Let them think what they want, Brad. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we're not having sex. If picturing the two of us together is what gets them through this…"

"Is that what's going to get you through it, sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

Brad straightens and takes a step toward Nate. "You know the best way for them to stop thinking we're having sex?"

"What is that? Exactly?" Nate clears his throat and stands, looking at Brad defiantly. "Sergeant."

"We should have sex."

"We should."

"Oh, yes, sir. Dissipate the latent sexual tension building between us in this excessively homoerotic environment. Besides, everyone thinks we're doing it, right?" He steps closer still. "In fact, I've been assured by Person that they're all behind us, one hundred percent. Not in a gay way, but behind us nonetheless. So they don't even actually care that we're fucking."

"Except we're not."

"He was just pissed off that I hadn't told him."

"Well, I appreciate you having some regard for my reputation. I'd hate for it to get out that I'm easy. Especially since, you know, we're not fucking."

Brad laughs, low and as hot as the air around them as he takes another step toward Nate, backing him toward his bunk. "No, sir. We're not."

"That's right." Nate smirks, letting Brad guide him. "We're not."

Brad reaches for Nate's belt and tugs him close, whispering the words over his lips before claiming them. "Not yet."