"I didn't date the homecoming queen." Nate smiles wryly, his voice as dry as the desert air.

Brad settles onto the ground next to Nate, his back against the Humvee and his arms resting on top of his knees. They're shipping out soon, but for now they're in the relative real world of Mathilda, waiting for orders. This is the twilight time, when no one knows when the darkness is going to fall and everyone's waiting on night to cloak them in it so they can attack. Hearts speed up and slow down, blood flows hot and then like ice. They're all torn between demon and angel. "You had to have dated the homecoming queen."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because, Ivy League, you're the type. You're the apple of every mother's eye. You're the guy that every girl in class swoons over. You're the guy every mom wants her daughter to marry and every dad hopes to clap his hand on your shoulder and call you son-in-law. You're the bright future. Serving your country and doing your duty so you can go home and hold your head high, getting by on scholarships while everyone else is struggling through community college on the GI Bill."

"Wow, nice that you hold me in such high regard, Sergeant."

"I mean it with all due respect," Brad assures him, voice dry.

"Next I suppose you think I'll serve apple pie and ice cream at my wedding to continue the theme of glorious Americana you've branded me with." Nate folds the letter, rubbing it against the envelope in the dry air. "But I didn't date the homecoming queen. In fact, I didn't go to homecoming. I also didn't go to my prom."

"You went to your prom." Brad's voice is thick with incredulity and Nate can't help but smile.

"Yeah, okay. I went to my prom." He unfolds the letter and hands it to Brad. "Did you?"

"What?" Brad glances down at the letter and sees it's one of the generic letters from kids that they keep getting, wishes for peace and for war and everything in between.

"Did you go to your prom?"

Brad turns his head and looks at Nate for a long moment, one eyebrow going up before it lowers and the amusement in his eyes disappears. "Yeah."

"Right." Nate takes the letter back and thumps his head against the Humvee. He tries to change the subject. "Hurry up and wait."

"What was her name?"

"Who?"

Brad rolls his eyes and tugs his cover down over his face as he stretches out on the ground beside Nate. He pillows his head in his hands and Nate watches his breathing slow as he relaxes in the middle of nowhere with war on the horizon. God bless the Marine Corps. "Your prom date, dipshit."

"I'm your commanding officer, need I remind you?"

"Your prom date, Lieutenant Dipshit."

Nate swallows his laugh and glances up at the sheer blue of the sky. "Amanda. She wore a white dress and I wore a black tux and I bought this corsage of red roses that were almost black. She was beautiful." He grabs a rock from the dirt beside him and tosses it across the ground, watching it skitter and throw a trail of dust. "You?"

"I don't remember. Different life." Brad turns his head, his eyes as blue as the sky, bright from the sun. "I think she wore gray."

Nate knows the history, can't help but know it thanks to Ray, but it doesn't give him the right to pour salt in Brad's wounds. "She must have been something."

"What makes you say that?"

Nate shrugs and boosts himself off the ground, grinding the letter into the dirt with the heel of his hand. "You're still thinking about her."

Reveille sounds and they all roll out of bed in silence. The bitching and the pissing and moaning are secondary to the conditioning, and that means they're dressed and hitting the ground running before they're even fully awake. Instinct is what makes them who they are, what keeps them alive. Nate hits his stride and keeps moving, following the perimeter of the camp without even realizing Colbert's fallen in step beside him.

They don't speak, though Nate can hear some of the others get their voices, calling out marching chants and bullshit, talking about parentage and porn, sometimes in the same breath. Brad's chest rises and falls in rhythm with Nate's as they swing the last corner, heading for the showers. It's a companionable silence, and one Nate does nothing to shatter. He can hear Ray in the distance, flipping Poke shit about an Indian rain dance, and half the guys are hooting at Rudy for running with his pack but without his shirt. Nate shuts off his brain and shuts out the sound and just runs, listening to Brad breathe roughly nearby.

Brad ducks into his tent and grabs his gear, tugging off his sweat-soaked t-shirt as he goes. Nate watches for a moment then heads to his own tent, rubbing at a day's worth of stubble on his chin. The officer's head is nearly empty, too many of them forgoing the morning run for crap coffee and pretending they know anything more than what they get off a hand-cranked radio filtering the BBC. He glances over as Brad disappears into the NCO head, fighting through the mess of sweaty bodies, shoving and insulting in the way only Brad seems able to do. No one takes offense here, except the young and stupid, but Brad elevates insults to a Shakespearean level, vicious and cutting. The Iceman, they call him, stone cold in word and deed.

Nate showers quickly and shaves, scrubbing at his face with his hands long after it's clean. His green eyes look back at him in the mirror, telling him nothing he doesn't already know. Rubbing his hand through his hair, he heads back to his tent, taking care of his things before heading to his morning meeting. Nothing's changed in the four weeks they've been here, fresh off the ship that was supposed to take them to clean up Timor. All they've done is sit around, waiting for the rest of the world to decide what they're doing and how. A soldier's life is hurry up and wait, but it's better, he supposes, to have some sort of purpose than nothing at all.

"Lieutenant Fick."

Nate glances up from his maps at Brad and stops. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"I was wrong."

"About?" Nate can't help the surprise in his voice. Brad is never wrong.

"My prom date. She wore blue."

"Oh. Well. I'll take that under advisement, Sergeant." Nate watches Brad closely for any sign of emotion, for any hint as to what the color change might mean. "As for now, Captain McGraw and Captain Schwetje."

"You have my utmost sympathies, Sir."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Nate nods at Brad and jogs off toward the command tent, taking great care to keep his eyes front and not look back to see what Brad does next.

Brad's a whiz with gadgets and Nate watches him as he plays with the maps, scrolling through and talking about the capabilities the GPS gives them. Nate's eyes constantly go to Brad's hands, the long fingers tracing lines and highways on the grids.

Towns with names they wouldn't have known how to pronounce before Afghanistan are falling off their tongues as easily as 'San Diego' and 'Hartford' and 'Dayton'. Brad talks about the bridges, the Euphrates and the Tigris, and Nate can't help but remember Bible school and the stories he learned. Something shivers along his spine and he shakes it away, flushing slightly as Brad raises his eyes and gives Nate a questioning look. He doesn't respond and Brad turns his gaze back to the map, continuing his discussion like nothing happened. Ray starts to say something but segues into something else, his almost-seamless transition making the heat rise farther in Nate's face.

Trombley asks a question and bickering starts in earnest, Poke and Garza getting into the mix. Brad laughs and rolls out of the Humvee. He leaves them arguing the merits of porn magazines and Ray's mother's place in them, or something equally absurd and thus perfectly natural for this place, walking for a bit before looking back at Nate. Nate moves after him, content to leave the chatter behind and fall in line with Brad again. They walk slowly, discussing strategy and theory. Brad's more than qualified to be an officer, but he laughs the thought off time and again, reminding everyone that he prefers to earn his living. Still, he offers his insights to Nate and they spend more time agreeing than disagreeing with each other.

"So, you think they'll blow the bridges," Nate says.

"That's what I'd do. It's protocol, right? You have an invading force coming from the south with the only access to your main city available by bride over a major waterway, you blow the bridge. Whether you whistle doing it or not."

"They blow both bridges, slowing us down, if not stopping us." Nate clasps his hands behind his back and keeps walking. "So the only real chance we have is surprise, but wouldn't you think they'd have blown them already?"

"Saddam's cocky." Brad copies Nate's posture as they walk the perimeter, an echo of their early morning run. "He thinks he'll succeed or he thinks he's got the overwhelming fighting force. He's not going to admit that the US and the UN and everyone else that's gunning for him are smarter. That's like admitting defeat. So he won't blow them early."

"So surprise."

"Surprise." Brad stops and looks out at the vast plain of desert in front of them. "We're short on supplies."

"I know."

"Not going to have much luck surprising anyone if we can't see where we're going and end up in a ditch because we don't have batteries."

"I know."

"Not to mention the Humvees are shit and we've got fuck-all for repairs. We're running on empty, LT, and we haven't even started the push."

"I know." Nate sighs, straightening as he looks out at the miles of sand. "I'm doing everything I can, Brad. And, trust me, we all know what the situation is."

"No, Sir. I don't believe that." Brad's face is implacable, his eyes steely. "I believe you know it. I believe Gunny and Patterson know it, but that's about it. Godfather's looking to be General Patton and no one gives a fuck that we're going to take it up the ass without lube."

Nate sighs and shrugs. "What do you want me to do, Brad? I've put in the requisitions. I've pushed as hard as I can, but I'm not exactly at the top of the chain of command. Afghanistan was reasoned warfare compared to this. Afghanistan wasn't fueled with emotions and fear. The push is going to come and we're probably not going to have anything we need to make it through. But we're Marines."

Brad nods solemnly and his gaze never falters, but Nate still feels like he's let him down. "We make do."

Rumors fly faster in a Marine camp than in a high school, the only difference the number of 'fuck's per sentence. Everyone knows the push is coming soon, and there's the growing sense of readiness that's half unease. Nate watches the men try to pretend it's not there, reading magazines and bullshitting, mocking Rudy and talking sex. Everyone has the same look in their eyes, though, when he stops in to give the next set of commands, to prepare them on what, if anything, is going on. Rumors of an in-country date are hot, whipping around the camp as viciously as the shamal.

Brad stands apart from it all, his hands behind his back as he looks at the desert surrounding them. Nate watches him from a distance for a long time before moving closer, crossing his arms over his chest as he stops beside him. Neither of them speak, and the only movement is the wind rippling against their clothes.

"Why are you here?"

Nate starts and straightens further, his shoulders back. The answer is on the tip of his tongue, but he feels it there for a long time before answering Brad. "I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to do something."

"You're meant for better things that this, you know. You know how to speak, how to lead men. You know how to make them trust and respect you, follow you into battle."

"Well, I don't know how true that is, given that you're going to be four victors in front of me." Nate huffs a soft laugh and Brad smiles, shaking his head slightly. "I'm doing my job, Brad. Just like you."

"You should be somewhere better than this. Washington or…hell, I don't know. Married to your prom date and having kids, making the world a better place through consumerism."

"Are you calling me a bad Marine, Sergeant?"

"No, sir." Brad's voice is truthful but hard, tense in ways Nate can't figure out. "You're good at what you do, but you're stuck with what you've got."

"I've got the best of the best, Brad." Nate glances at Brad, watching the fading sunlight shadow his face in reds and oranges. "Bravo Company is the elite."

"Yeah, and our command structure, present company excluded, sir, is a fuck-up of the highest order." Brad's jaw tightens and he shrugs slightly, his muscles tense beneath his t-shirt. "Diamonds buried in the bullshit, sir."

"Better than just bullshit."

Brad's body jerks with a laugh and he glances sidelong at Nate. "You're like the goddamned good fairy, basketful of silver fucking linings, aren't you, sir?"

"I don't know, Brad. It doesn't matter if the glass is half full or half empty so long as there's alcohol in it, right?" Brad doesn't laugh again, but his smile is more open than Nate thinks he's ever seen. He reaches out, brushing his palm against the small of Brad's back, fingers ghosting over Brad's wrists.

"Sir." Brad steps away and gives Nate the slightest shake of his head. "I should get back to the tent, sir." He meets Nate's stare and shakes his head again, more blatantly this time. "This is going to end for you, sir. You're going to go back to the real world and get married, have kids, get a job and be a good, upstanding citizen. This is the real world for me."

"So we can't be friends?"

"Rank aside, sir?"

Nate nods, his tongue running worriedly against the back of his bottom teeth. "Rank aside."

"No, sir. I'm sorry." Brad frowns, his forehead lined. "Lieutenant Fick-"

"Nate."

"I can't call you Nate."

Nate tilts his head and moves around, facing Brad head-on. "Do it."

"Lieutenant…"

"Do it, Sergeant."

Brad's mouth purses and the look he gives Nate is narrowed and angry. "Nate."

Nate carefully suppresses the shiver that threatens at the sound of his name on Brad's lips, barely managing a smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"I'm a Recon Marine. Difficulty level isn't the question, sir." Brad exhales slowly, his breath escaping him almost like a sigh. "You know we can't be friends. None of us are friends, sir. Brothers, yes. But we're not friends. Friends get you killed."

"Brothers don't?" Nate's surprised by the flush on Brad's cheeks, surprised to see him even slightly flustered. "So you can't be friends with me because you're afraid I'm going to get my dumb ass dead?"

"I can't be friends with you because you're my commanding officer and because I have to show you the respect you deserve, sir. You're the voice of authority over my life and when you say go, I go. When you say shit, I shit."

"I defer to your own judgment in shitting, Sergeant."

"Damn it, Nate."

Nate smiles, trying not to laugh at the barely restrained annoyance that's threatening the Iceman's legendary composure. "Did you spend last night thinking about her, Sergeant?"

Brad drops his gaze to Nate's and a frisson of danger runs along Nate's spine. "No, sir."

Nate smiles. "I didn't think so."

"We can't be friends."

"I know." Nate nods and glances back to camp before looking Brad in the eye. "But then, I never said that friendship was what I wanted." He takes a step back and pivots his turn, precision in the muscle memory of movement. "Goodnight, Sergeant."

The shamal is tearing through the camp like a blitzkrieg. Nate rubs his eyes; even within the canvas of the tent, he can feel the grit in his eyes and against his skin. He's alone for now, the rest of the command staff caught on the other side of the camp by the wind. He can hear shouts - no doubt another tent's gone down - but he doesn't move other than to rub at the back of his neck.

The sound of the wind changes and he looks up, not entirely surprised to see Brad standing inside his tent. Leave it to Colbert to brave a fucking windstorm to have the last word. "Can I help you, Sergeant?"

"I do not appreciate being fucked with, sir."

"Then I'm afraid you're in the wrong line of work." Nate doesn't crack a smile as Brad walks over, barely concealed agitation in every step. It's rare to see Brad at a loss, and if nothing else, Nate's incredibly proud of the fact that he's managed to ruffle Brad's feathers.

"What are you trying to do?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow, Sergeant." Nate stood up, unwilling to lose his advantage by being so much shorter than Brad.

"Look, I can handle orders that make no sense. I follow orders; it's what I do. I don't worry about right or wrong or smart or fucked. I just do what I'm told and come out alive on the other side. But I don't appreciate this, sir."

"I'm afraid still at a loss, Sergeant."

Brad closes the distance between them, moving in until Nate can feel the heat of Brad's body. "What do you want?"

"Why are you here, Brad?"

"It's windy outside. Didn't want to end up in Oz."

"Oz is where we started. You've got the story backwards." Nate's eyes trace the line of Brad's jaw to his full lower lip, then lift up to meet Brad's gaze. "Are you going to let something that happened years ago dictate the rest of your life?"

"Isn't that how it works?"

"Do you wish you were living in some ranch house in California, surfing every morning before you go off to the office, getting home by six for dinner on the table and listening to your two-point-five kids fight over whose turn it is to play the X-box?" Nate shakes his head. "Because honestly, I can't see it. Maybe that's the man you thought you were or maybe it's the man you think you're supposed to be, or maybe you're just missing what you think you're missing out on, but the Brad Colbert I know isn't the way he is because his prom date dumped him for his best friend."

"Maybe you don't know Brad Colbert as well as you think you do."

"Maybe I don't." Nate agrees with a nod. "And maybe this has nothing to do with her and her blue dress."

"It doesn't."

Nate doesn't look away, but he does sigh softly. "Why are you here, Brad?"

Brad licks his lips and glances at Nate's mouth before stepping back and shaking his head. "Your cup is half full, sir. I drink straight from the bottle."

"I don't think you miss it." Nate presses his advantage, stepping in toward Brad and not allowing him to put distance between them. "I don't think you miss him or her. I don't think you even think about them."

"I don't."

"But you think about what happened. You think about brotherhood" His voice softens and he can see the hit score in Brad's eyes. "That's what bothers you, right? That he was your best friend and he betrayed you. That's why you're here. That's why you need this. You need them." He nods toward the tent flap and the rest of the camp on the other side of the canvas wall. "You need them to need you, you need to need them."

"And here I thought you studied the classics, Lieutenant, not psychology."

"I'm not going to betray you, Brad."

"I don't recall suggesting you would, sir. I simply recall a conversation that involved the rights and privileges of rank and the potential for disaster if one of a lower rank does not observe the rules therein contained. I trust you, sir, and I respect you, and I will do everything in my power to insure that my performance proves that."

"Ice in your veins and a stick up your ass." Nate sighs and rubs the back of his neck, offering Brad a slight smile and a shake of his head. "Dismissed, Sergeant."

"Excuse me, sir?" Brad's voice is dangerously tight, higher than normal. His eyes narrow as he stands stock-still looking hard at Nate.

"I said you're dismissed, Sergeant."

"What the fuck, Nate." Brad stalks toward him. "You want to tell me what the goddamn fuck this is about?"

"I'm just curious. You get hurt, and I get that. But why give up on love but join the Marines?"

"I was already a Marine."

"Then why stick with them? He was your best friend, like a brother, right? He betrayed you too."

"The Marines are a better class of brothers."

Nate nods, shrugging slightly, frowning when Brad smiles. "What?"

"Are you worried I'm not going to get some in our next libo, sir? If that's your concern, I can assure you, I don't confuse sex with love."

"I'd never accuse you of that." Nate's mouth quirks in a not-quite smile. "And I've seen you in action, Sergeant. I'm not worried about any of your abilities."

Brad frowns and narrows his eyes further, his gaze intent on Nate. Nate resists the urge to take a step back, though the two inches of height Brad has on him suddenly seem like much more. He ignores the tightening of his body, keeping his eyes on Brad's face. Brad watches Nate's eyes and takes another step closer. "Then what's this about, Nate?"

"You're dismissed, Sergeant."

Brad's hand lifts, moving the air besides Nate's jaw without actually touching him. "Nate?"

Every instinct in Nate's brain screams at him to move into Brad's implied touch, but Nate jerks his chin up and meets Brad's gaze. Brad smiles slowly and Nate feels his body tighten further, his dick harden at the challenge Brad's blatantly throwing down.

Brad steps back, but his smile remains in place. "Wind's died down."

Nate nods once, realizing the roaring sound is the rush of blood in his ears. "Dismissed, Sergeant."

"You said that, sir." Brad drops his eyes to Nate's mouth and Nate can't stop the impulse to lick his lips. Brad exhales a rough breath, the sound loud in the silence. "This doesn't mean anything."

Nate's brow furrows. "What doesn't?"

"This," Brad growls, his hand firm against Nate's jaw as he eliminates the distance between them, mouth hard against Nate's. Nate makes a noise, something between a gasp and a groan, opening his mouth against the practiced assault of Brad's. Brad's tongue invades, tangling with Nate's, deepening the kiss.

Nate jerks back, his chest heaving. There's absolutely no expression on Brad's face. Nate hears the sound of voices growing closer and he bites his lower lip, feeling the swollen flesh.

"Don't do that," Brad warns him softly. Nate looks up at him, swallowing hard at the hungry look in Brad's eyes. Nate releases his lip, sucking it into his mouth to soothe the bite marks. Brad curses under his breath and turns away, moving to the opposite side of the tent, heading for the door. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

"Sergeant." Nate looks down, surprised to see his hands against the table, his knuckles white from clenching the edge. He breathes carefully, slowing his heart rate before heading to his rack, wondering what the fuck just happened.

"Did you and Dad have a fight?"

Nate steels his face to keep from laughing as he looks evenly at Ray. "I'm sorry, corporal, but did you just intimate that your commanding officer is the equivalent of your pole-dancing, whiskey tango mother?"

"No, sir. I was thinking more of a 'My Two Dads' situation, sir."

"Excuse him, sir." Poke jabs Ray hard in the ribs. "He doesn't know who his daddy was, so he's a little bitter. We're just wondering, sir, if you and Sergeant Colbert had a falling out." He pauses briefly then blinks. "Sir."

"And why would you be wondering that, gentlemen?"

"Well, sir," Poke gives Ray a warning glance as he starts to open his mouth. "Sergeant Colbert has been a little…"

"Brad's been pissier than a prom queen on her period," Ray interjects. "He's fucking moody."

"And we'd noticed, sir-" Tony's smile reminds Nate that he's surrounded by men whose entire job is to notice. "That you and Brad hadn't been keeping to your routine."

"Our routine?" Nate works to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant Colbert and I have a…"

"Routine." Ray nods. "Yes, sir."

"Well," Nate swallows and wonders briefly if he'll get lucky and someone will start the goddamned war already. "You'll have to ask Sergeant Colbert. To my knowledge, he and I are fine."

Ray looks dubious, but Poke wraps his hand around the back of Ray's neck, forcibly turning him, nodding in Nate's direction. "Thanks, LT."

Nate covers his eyes with his hands, sighing heavily. He checks his watch and resumes heading for his debriefing. He glances toward Bravo's tent and then quickly looks away, wary of seeing Brad or, worse yet, catching his eye.

He listens to Godfather and Schwetje, raising the question of supplies and timetables again. The BBC broadcast is turned into military lingo and the promise of a movie in the mess. He rubs his eyes, wondering how to spin things to his men so he doesn't sound completely incompetent.

"Mention that it's an Adam Sandler movie."

Nate looks up, not at all surprised to see Brad. "Listening in?"

"Just happened by." Brad smiles. "I understand that you and I are having some sort of marital spat?"

"I got more parental. I don't think Ray's willing to give up his spot as Brad Colbert's little woman."

Brad's smile is all teeth and full lower lip, amused and not predatory. "He claims we're divorced."

"And you and I got the kids? This is getting incestuous."

"Well, we are talking about Ray. He's used to that. Hell, you're from New England. Image you've got your own up there. Just call it purebred instead of inbred."

"We can afford the requisite surgery to correct any physical defects."

"Whereas Ray's family takes pride in them." Brad pushes off the post he's leaning against. "You a fan of Adam Sandler, Lieutenant?"

Nate swallows and shakes his head. "Not particularly."

"Me either." Brad sketches a salute at Nate and head back to Bravo Company's tent. Nate watches him for a moment then takes a few hurried strides to catch up with him.

"Were you aware we have a routine?"

"Do we?"

"Apparently."

"Huh. Ray didn't mention that. Just asked me if I was going to get back to kissing your hot ass soon."

Nate gives Brad a look, smirking at him despite the flare in his chest - a mix of panic and interest. "You used to kiss my ass? Did I miss that?"

Brad smirks back, his eyes hot. "You think you could miss me doing that, sir?"

"No. I imagine I'd remember anything you did to my ass, Sergeant." Nate watches Brad carefully. "Save it. Kiss it." He shrugs, feeling the burn of Brad's gaze.

"Yes sir," Brad nods. "I would do my best to make sure any actions to your ass were memorable."

"Jesus Christ, Brad." Ray's voice breaks the tension escalating between them. "Just kiss and make the fuck up already. I don't want to worry about your bullshit instead of watching 'Happy Gilmore'."

"Don't worry, Ray," Nate assures him. "Sergeant Colbert and I have resolved any differences that might interfere with your recreational enjoyment."

"So you can get back to jerking off while thinking about us," Brad adds.

"Yeah, but does that mean you're both going to be pains in my ass on the job?"

"Ray?" Brad's voice is dryly acidic. "Shut the fuck up."

"Christ. Know you're not freeballin' it, since you panties are in a fucking twist." He flips Brad off casually before ducking back under cover.

"I guess the coming attraction announcement beat us."

Brad huffs a slight laugh and shakes his head before inclining it toward Nate. "Not the coming attraction I'm interested in, sir."

"Movie's at eighteen-hundred." Nate's breath feels short, tight in his chest, and his words sound soft to his ears.

"Think I'll run a diagnostic on the Blue Force." Brad nods toward the motor pool. "If you get tired of golf."

"I won't be in the way?"

"Commanding officers are never in the way, sir."

Nate laughs, reveling in Brad's open smile. "We both know that's rarely true."

"I'll see you at eighteen-hundred, Nate."

He nods, trying to catch his breath, wondering if this is going to happen every time Brad says his name. "I thought I was supposed to give the orders."

Brad's voice drops to a rough whisper that Nate has to strain to hear. "Be there." He doesn't stay to see Nate nod, but Nate suspects Brad's well aware Nate will be exactly where Brad wants him.

The sound of roughly 5000 men laughing is strangely quiet in the middle of the desert, especially compared to the blood pounding in Nate's ears. He listens for the telltale sounds of loiterers or men who'd rather jack in the relative privacy afforded by movie night, but mostly he's concentrated on the distant light of the motor pool and the now familiar sight of Brad's Humvee.

"Hey." Brad's stripped down to the waist, his shirt hanging through the passenger window. "Remember when I used to be a diver?"

"Vaguely." Nate leans against the Humvee, watching as Brad leans over the engine, the waxy yellow lights shining on the sheen of sweat along Brad's spine. "It's okay to admit it, you know. You signed up because you knew no woman could resist a guy who can hold his breath for four minutes."

"That's why you joined?" Brad looks sidelong at Nate.

Nate shakes his head. "No." He shifts so that his hip is against the victor, his arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, he reaches out slowly, knowing Brad's watching. His fingers graze Brad's hip where the bone juts hard against the camouflage. Brad's eyes narrow, not quite closing. Nate almost smiles. "You're a butch Marine Republican."

"Getting a little redundant there, college boy."

"I wasn't an English major."

"And you're a pansy-ass, Mama's boy, boarding school, Ivy League punk."

"Who just happens to be a butch Marine Republican." Nate's fingers slide higher, tracing just above Brad's waistband, fingers against his tanned skin. "What the fuck is this, Brad?"

"Ray doesn't put out." There's a joke in Brad's tone, but Nate frowns.

"I'm not interested in being second."

"It was a joke." Brad's voice is strained, his eyes on Nate's fingers as they slide along his skin. "Nate…"

Nate glances up at him. Brad's tongue is sliding along his lower lip, his eyes like liquid silver, locked on Nate's mouth. Nate flattens his palm against Brad's side; thumb stroking at the plane of his abdomen. Heat slices through Nate and he can barely breathe. Nate moves his hand, fingers fanning over the hardness of Brad's muscles, and feels Brad suck in his breath. "You want my mouth here, Brad?"

Brad bites back a groan and shifts closer to Nate so he can feel the heat emanating from Brad's body all along his own. "Fuck. Yes, sir."

Nate bites his lower lip, which causes Brad to make another sound, this one completely instinctual, primal. Nate's cock jerks and he swallows hard, barely keeping from moving closer to Brad. "I…We…"

Brad nods, obviously forcing himself to step back. He reaches past Nate to grab his shirt, the heavy scent of lust and sweat and Brad overwhelming. Nate reaches out again, his hand brushing against the front of Brad's pants, over the hard bulge of his cock. Brad crushes his shirt in his grip and shudders hard. "Nate," he rasps.

"I want to taste you, Brad."

"Not on the fucking command deck." Brad's laugh is shaky.

"They call you Iceman." Nate's hand moves slowly, feeling the contours of Brad's erection. "You're burning up."

"That's because you're a goddamned fuck more dangerous than Al-Qaeda and the fucking Iraqi army combined." Brad turns his head, his breath hot on Nate's jaw. "Not here, sir."

Nate closes his eyes and turns his head, his mouth lined up with Brad's, feeling the breath on his parted lips now. "Where?"

"Fuck if I know, sir. You're the strategist. I'm just a grunt."

"You're more than that." Nate licks his lips, his eyes on Brad's mouth and his breath coming faster than any respectable Recon Marine should allow. "I wonder, Brad, will you make noises when I take your cock in my mouth?"

Brad's teeth snap together and he breathes through his nose, the noise rough and loud. Nate starts to speak again, but Brad shakes his head and goes silent, shoving Nate back until they're past the back door of the Humvee. Brad jerks it open and nods inside, following Nate as he scrambles in.

"We're going to make out in the back of a Humvee?" Nate's voice is low and amused, but he reaches for Brad and slides his hands up his sides, feeling the hot skin in earnest now, letting his palms flatten over Brad's back as he pulls him close.

"Shit," Brad groans and finds Nate's mouth, sucking on his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth before sliding his tongue against Nate's teeth and pushing it deep. Nate opens to him, wanting Brad as deep as he can go, sucking on Brad's tongue hungrily. Brad braces himself over Nate, muscles in his arms flexing on either side of Nate's head and he brings his hands up over Brad's broad shoulders to run down them to Brad's elbows and then back up, sliding down the vee of Brad's body to his hips. Brad groans again, shifting so his legs are between Nate's, rolling into him with a slow thrust as Nate answers Brad's groan with one of his own.

"God, we can't do this," Nate murmurs against Brad's neck, his tongue licking the salty sweat from Brad's skin. The edge of the driver rear seat digs into his back, the edge of the passenger seat angling his hips up against Brad's. "Fuck." His mouth tastes more skin, nipping at the taut muscle at the base of Brad's throat as he wraps a leg around the back of Brad's. "Fuck, Brad."

Brad's mouth is worrying Nate's neck, his breath snaking down beneath Nate's collar and fanning over his skin as Brad's teeth scrape the flesh above it. He growls low in his throat, the sound reverberating against Nate. "Shut the fuck up, sir."

Barely suppressing a laugh, Nate turns his head and finds Brad's mouth again, capturing it and thrusting his tongue deep, tracing the surfaces of Brad's teeth and tongue, trailing along the roof before he catches Brad's tongue. His hands keep sliding along the surface of Brad's back, pressing him closer until all Nate can feel is Brad.

Brad breaks the kiss, moving in again with another, hard and bruising this time as he shifts, thrusting against Nate in the process. Nate bites at Brad's lower lip and then tilts his head back as Brad pulls away again, moving to Nate's neck once more. Nate's hands skim Brad's waistband again then push beneath it, fingers sliding along the top of Brad's briefs. Brad stops sucking at Nate's neck to breathe, panting roughly against his skin. "Killing me."

"Not the verb I'm interested in, Sergeant." Nate slides his hand past the briefs, fingers teasing along the crack of Brad's ass. "Not even close."

"Nate," Brad grates out between his teeth, his hips rough against Nate's. Even through the fabric of their uniforms Nate can feel the hard thrust of Brad's cock sliding against his as they both seek out the friction, moving together. "Fuck. Nate."

Nate presses against Brad's ass and thrusts up at the same time, finger sliding down. Brad shudders and it takes everything in Nate not to come from the sensation. He strains up toward Brad, making a questioning sound as Brad shifts back and pulls away. "W-wh-Brad shakes his head and shifts, sitting on the seat between Nate's legs. It's clear that Brad's still turned on, his cock clearly visible against his pants, and Nate's sprawled like some sort of cheap high school date on the back seat. "What the fuck?"

Brad tilts his head toward the window, struggling to control his breathing. Nate props himself up on his elbows and listens, cursing under his breath at the sound of voices. He grasps the edges of the seat and pulls himself into a sitting position, rubbing his face with his hands and wondering what he looks like as he glances over at Brad. Brad's trying to be stoic, but his lower lip looks swollen and his cheekbones are flushed with color. He tugs his shirt over his head and clears his throat, rubbing under his nose.

Nate scrambles for conversation, knowing that they both look guilty and if anyone approaches, they'll need to sound like they were doing something other than writhing against each other, desperate to get off. "I put in another requisition for batteries."

Brad turns to look at him, completely lost until realization sparks in his eyes. "Good. We'll need them."

"Hey, there you are." Ray and Garza approach the Humvee, Walt bringing up the rear. Nate nods to them and then slips out his door, leaving Brad to deal with them. He's more than willing to let the Iceman reputation do its work. As for him, all he wants is a private place and a few minutes alone, given that he's not likely to get another chance alone with Brad soon enough to get rid of the erection he's got.

Nate's running, four miles down before reveille sounds. He's sweating, feeling it run down his spine. His pack is maxed, 135 pounds weighing on his back and shoulders. Everything is sticking to his skin and his boots stir up the pale dust with every stride. He pushes harder as the bugle dies, moving past men as they fall in line. He keeps his mind unfocused on the run, keeping it on anything but the pounding of his feet, the burning in his lungs or the thought of Brad Colbert.

He finishes ten miles in the time it takes most of the men to finish their five and he stands outside his tent breathing hard. He drops his pack to the deck and bends over, feeling the fabric of his uniform come loose from his skin. His limbs are unsteady, but he forces himself to stand up straight. Gunny's standing a few feet in front of him, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"If I'm running everyone leaves me alone," Nate informs him, only slightly breathless. "If I'm jacking off, they all feel the need to ask me a question."

"I didn't say a word."

"You didn't have to, Gunny. You never have to." Nate rubs his fingers through his hair roughly, feeling the sweat go flying. "What now?"

"Schwetje wants to see all the company commanders."

"Of course he does." Nate sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "All right. I'm going."

"You want to take a shower first? I'll tell them you're in the head?"

"No. No. Let's get this over." He falls in step with Gunny and heads toward the command tent. "What do you think?"

"I think if you're going to run ten miles every time you get frustrated with this job, you're going to be dead before we even hit the LOD." Gunny shrugs. "But if you're talking about the meeting, I think it's going to be a lot of moto bullshit that he's going to get half-wrong, and it'll most likely be the half that gets us dead."

"You're a ball of sunshine, Gunny."

"Call 'em like I see 'em, sir."

Nate laughs, tugging on his soft cover as they head to the command tent. Gunny spits into his bottle as they walk and Nate can't help but glance at the motor pool. The sight of Brad's Humvee sends a shiver along his spine and he forces his mind back to the moment at hand. Gunny keeps talking and Nate focuses on the words, pretty sure that, if he's not careful, Brad Colbert is going to get him killed.

The head stinks to high heaven and Nate does his best to avoid it during the best of times. But right now, he's pretty much at the end of his rope and completely incapable of another ten mile run. Instead, he grabs one of the magazines from his rucksack, trying not to laugh at the complete absurdity of hoping that some big-breasted woman pretending to finger herself is going to get his mind off the 6'4" Sergeant that currently has Nate's brain spinning. Slamming the rolled up magazine against his leg, he grabs the door handle, freezing as it opens against his grip.

"Clearly someone is having fun fucking with me."

Brad doesn't say anything for a long moment then he exhales as his brow furrows. "An interesting turn of phrase, Lieutenant."

"Brad." Nate's not sure if it's really his voice, low and desperately wanting. He grabs Brad's t-shirt and pushes him back into the latrine, snapping the lock to 'occupied'. Brad doesn't hesitate, unhooking Nate's M4 and stowing it along with his own before unbuttoning Nate's jacket. Nate bites his lower lip and watches Brad's hands for a moment before reaching out, his own hands shaking and tugging Brad's shirt from his pants.

Brad ignores Nate's shirt and wrenches his belt free, fabric slapping at Nate's thigh as Brad's fingers undo his fly. It's controlled but frantic, urgent, and Nate can't help but watch. Brad's fingers are insanely long and tapered and the sudden thought of them inside him causes Nate's cock to jerk against Brad. Brad doesn't speak, just kisses Nate, his own personal attack force as he gets Nate free of his pants, shoving them down to the floor before wrapping his hand around Nate's dick.

"Fuck," Nate groans, hips angling up into Brad's touch. "Jesus, fuck."

Brad's free hand works at his own belt and pants, shoving them down. Nate helps, his hands trembling as they stroke over Brad's black briefs, feeling him through the thin cotton. He shudders and looks at Brad, breathing hard. They don't move and then Brad's hand strokes him, rough and firm and Nate hisses, pushing Brad's briefs out of the way and returning the favor, wrapping his own hand around Brad's length.

Brad leans in, his arm against the wall and his forehead resting on it, his breath hot on Nate's neck as he strokes Nate hard and fast. His hand is rough and callused, the ball of his hand stroking against the ridge of Nate's cock. Nate closes his eyes, feeling everything, his free hand at the small of Brad's back, holding him close. He can feel the steady pump of Brad's fist against his own. "Brad."

"What the fuck are we doing, sir?" Brad's voice is unsteady, almost a laugh.

Nate groans. "Don't tell me you don't know."

Brad growls in return. "You know what I mean."

"I'm not…you're…oh…fuck, yes." Nate thrusts into Brad's hand, burying his face against Brad's shoulder. He gasps, inhaling Brad, his body drawn taut and sharp. "B-Brad."

"Fuck, shut up, Nate." Brad nips at Nate's earlobe, short-circuiting Nate's brain and sending him over the edge. He comes hard, entire body shuddering. Brad sucks Nate's earlobe into his mouth, the pressure enough of a hint of what Brad's mouth would feel like around him that Nate's cock gives another jerk and his hand tightens, pushing Brad to orgasm as well.

Brad doesn't move, his breath against Nate's wet skin making Nate shiver. After a long moment, he pulls back and reaches for the roll of toilet paper, cleaning off his hand before offering some to Nate. Nate cleans himself up, feeling a hot flush stain his cheeks as he tucks himself back in his uniform.

Brad looks at Nate, his face unreadable, his eyes dark. "You dropped your magazine, sir."

Nate nods uselessly as Brad unlocks the door, grabs his rifle and disappears out of the head. After a moment, Nate picks up the magazine and looks at it, dropping it beside the commode as he picks up his rifle. He's not going to be needing it again. After that, Hustler's not going to come close to solving Nate's problems.