It's the only thing he can figure, since Brad's been all business. Nate's beginning to wonder if they're actually already at war and he hasn't slept in days, and so he's imagining things in some sort of crazed Ripped Fuel-induced insomniatic haze. Brad ignores him for the most part, spending his time with Ray and Poke working on the Humvees, and all his interactions with Nate are spare and direct. As much as it's a relief not to need ten miles every morning to actually be able to think, Nate can't help wondering if Brad was playing a game and Nate lost spectacularly. Thankfully, the camp's filled with a stronger sense of urgency as the BBC broadcasts tell them that Saddam's not backing down and Rumsfeld's determined to go in, guns blazing.

Nate keeps his distance, careful to direct the majority of his information to Ray, knowing that there's no better way to make sure everyone hears it. Brad just slouches on his rack or stares at his laptop, not making eye contact with Nate unless he's specifically addressed. Nate doesn't shy away from Brad, but he doesn't engage him unnecessarily either. Every time they do talk, Brad's eyes stay on Nate's and Nate doesn't look away. It's too tempting to let his gaze stray down over Brad's body and remember the feel of it against his hands.

It's been almost two weeks since it happened and Nate's taken to hiding in the head and jerking off every night before lights out so he doesn't dream about Brad. He's trying to figure out when he turned into a lovesick girl, busy imagining Brad's mouth around his cock when the thought occurs to him that maybe it wasn't a game to Brad. Maybe it was a test and, forget the fact that Nate made it through BRC, he failed this test spectacularly. Not only did he lose his fucking cherry to Brad Colbert's dangerous hands, not only does he still want Brad, but - if Brad's silence and seeming withdrawal is any indication - it's very possible he's lost the respect of his lead victor.

"Fuck." Nate groans under his breath and tucks himself back in his uniform, his erection fucked. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He's going into a fucking war zone with the famed fucking Iceman of the Recon Marines who thinks he's a pansy pushover. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He grabs his M4 and slams out of the head, storming back to his tent. There's a shamal forecast and he wishes it would hit and give him something to rage against. As it is, he spends the evening resecuring tents and berating Marines who don't know how to drive a stake into the fucking dirt, telling men that seem twice his size that if they could swing a sledgehammer half as well as they say they swing their dicks, they might keep their tents from collapsing. It doesn't do much for morale and it doesn't make him feel any better, but the grit in his eyes and in his teeth keeps his mind off all the shit he dumped in his own lap.

The next day, Bravo's tent is still standing as he walks by on his way to Godfather's command post, but he can see the swells of sand that let him know it wasn't always that way. He wants to smirk, but he doesn't take the time, merely nodding to Brad as he oversees the shoveling. He supposes he should just be grateful that his team actually managed the mess on their own instead of needing him to direct them. If he didn't feel like he'd fucked everything up, he'd be grateful Brad's in his company, but he's not sure he can get to that Zen of a place just yet, especially since his cock gives a twitch every time he sees or hears Brad.

He reports to Godfather, his brow furrowing as his gaze falls on the man in civvies standing uncomfortably to the side. Dread fills Nate's gut and he listens with half an ear as Godfather talks. "We have an embedded journalist, and he's going to ride with you."

"With all due respect, sir, I'd rather not."

Godfather nods and gestures toward the reporter with an incline of his head. "We have an embedded journalist, and he's going to ride with you."

"Aye aye, sir." Nate glances at the reporter and holds out his hand. "Lieutenant Nate Fick."

"Evan Wright. Rolling Stone."

Nate turns on his heel and starts to Bravo Company's tent, assuming the reporter will fall in line with him. He does the perfunctory introduction, talking to Pappy and not looking around for Brad. He does his best to keep his eyes focused straight ahead, making himself scarce and leaving the reporter to the company. If he can't survive the tent, there's no way in hell he'll make it through the war.

"Sir?"

Nate looks up from his sheaf of papers, his eyes going wide at the sight of Brad in the opening of his tent. Clearing his throat, Nate straightens. "What can I do for you, Brad?"

For a moment, the curve of Brad's smile is sinful and Nate feels an answering tug at his dick. He doesn't move, just keeps his gaze level on Brad. "We have a situation, sir. I thought I should apprise you of it."

"A situation? Don't tell me you guys ran the reporter off already?"

"No, sir. This is a little more serious." Brad steps inside the tent and moves over to the pile of boxes Nate's using as a table and chair. He sits opposite Nate, his long legs bent and his knees touching Nate's. "Ray's been injured, sir."

"Injured?" Nate's brows draw together. "We haven't gone to war yet, Sergeant."

"I'm aware of that, sir. However, that is the case, sir."

The stiffness of Brad's posture and tone force a sigh out of Nate and he rubs his forehead with the balls of his fingers. "Tell me."

"Well, sir. Rudy's camp stove malfunctioned and Ray got in the way."

"He's all right?"

"He's not dead. And I managed not to kill any of them."

"Right." Nate glances at Brad. "And where did this happen, Sergeant?"

"In Bravo's tent, sir."

"Where, Sergeant?"

Brad blinks a few times then smiles again, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"There's no need to beg, Sergeant." Nate straightens and shuffles his papers until he finds an after-action report. "I just want to make sure that I have all the details correct. The men were operating the camp stove outside the tent and Corporal Person was…"

"Servicing his weapon, sir."

"Of that I have no doubt."

Brad laughs at Nate's dry tone and Nate can't help but look up and smile. He meets Brad's gaze and can't quite look away. "Haven't seen you around the camp. Are you turning into one of those officers, sir?" Brad's eyes are intent on Nate. "Or have you been avoiding me?"

Nate shrugs and looks down at the paper, filling out the report with the requisite military bullshit. He's passed on messages to anyone but Brad lately and he's done his best to have Gunny Wynn or any other Marine present whenever they've been together. Not…avoiding. Self-preservation maybe. "You're my lead, Brad. I can't avoid you."

"You've been all business then, sir."

"As opposed to?" The words slip out before Nate realizes, the sudden touch of Brad's fingers against his knee a quick reminder that they're currently alone. He eases his hand away from Brad's. "I think it best that we're both all business, Sergeant. Now, I need to submit this report. Tell the men to keep their mouths shut or the whole fucking platoon will get NJP."

Brad's thumb rubs against the inside of Nate's knee for a moment before he pulls his hand away. "Yes, sir." He doesn't move, his body crowding the small space.

"We're done, Sergeant."

Brad's eyebrows rise swiftly and he nods once, getting to his feet. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Lieutenant."

Nate closes his eyes then turns back to the report, trying to ignore Brad's presence still in the tent. "Was there something else, Sergeant?"

Brad doesn't speak for a long moment, and Nate refuses to look back. "No, sir. Nothing at all."

As soon as he's sure Brad's gone, Nate gives in to the shiver he's been suppressing from the feel of Brad's gaze. He rubs his eyes and looks at the form in front of him. Willful perjury on the eve of war. God bless the Marine Corps.

He hands the form to Schwetje and stands at attention as he reads through it. "This happened?"

"Yes, sir. I observed it myself." Nate informs him. "Fortunately, Doc Bryan was there and Corporal Person received swift attention and should be fine, sir."

"You'll tell them to be more careful."

"Yes, sir. I will, sir."

"Okay." Schwetje frowns at the paper and then glances up at Nate. "I'll see if we can get you a new camp stove."

"Thank you, sir. That won't be necessary." Nate nods and leaves the tent, surprised to see Brad standing there. Strictly business is going to be hard to maintain if Brad keeps showing up unexpectedly. "This war can start any damn day now."

"Agreed, sir." Brad falls in step with him. "I was thinking, sir, that I could take the reporter to the PX. Use his civilian status to our advantage and get a few supplies."

"Yeah. Get as much as you can. See who wants to chip in. I've got some cash in my rack." He heads toward his tent and squats down beside his bedroll, digging his cash out of his rucksack. "Is there anything besides batteries that we're desperate for?"

"You mean besides everything else, sir?"

Nate laughs and straightens, turning around and finding Brad far too close. "Point, Sergeant." He hands over his money and Brad looks at it for a moment before reaching out, his fingers sliding along Nate's. "We're not doing this, Brad."

"I'm not doing anything, Lieutenant." Brad's thumb presses to Nate's wrist and Nate knows he can feel the unsteadiness of his hurried pulse. "I'll pick up some lotion. Don't want everyone all chafed from those combat jacks."

"I'm sure the men will thank you." Nate eases his hand from Brad's grip. "I have a debriefing to get to, Sergeant. Report in when you return from the Army post."

"Yes, sir." Brad glances toward the door of the tent and takes a step closer to Nate. His voice is low and rough, full of promise. "Nate."

"Excuse me, Sergeant. I don't want to keep Godfather waiting." Nate maneuvers around him, heading for the blinding bright day. His soft cover is crumpled in his fist and he jams it on his head as he hits the sunlight, wishing this didn't feel quite so much like he's running away. He's careful not to look back, instead nodding toward Gunny when he sees him and falling in step with him. He learned to compartmentalize in Dartmouth and he does it here, shoving Brad Colbert and the rest of the platoon to the back of his mind as he listens to Godfather. It's the same bullshit every time with nothing like information. He knows they all feel as completely cut off as he does, save for Schwetje probably, but it gets worse with every report with the words twisted to sound like it's something new.

Godfather dismisses them and he's almost out the door when he hears his name. Dread boils in his stomach as he realizes Schwetje is standing next to Godfather, which can only be a dangerous proposition. He baldface lies his report and manages not to choke on the thought of commendations. He may not be the Iceman, but he manages stoicism through it all. Schwetje gives him a strange look, and Nate thinks for a minute that maybe the man isn't as stupid as he looks, but it passes almost as soon as he thinks it. He thanks Godfather and leaves the tent, determined to put as much distance as he can get between himself and the command staff and, if he's honest, his platoon.

The supplies boost everyone's spirits and Brad looks a lot like Santa Claus with Ray as his demented elf as he passes them out. He's grinning and Nate watches from just outside the tent as he tosses a package of adult diapers to Manimal. Q-Tip makes a crude comment that starts an entire riff on his redneck roots and Nate smiles. The problem with these idiots, he knows, is that they're almost all too smart for his own good.

"Hey, LT." Ray tosses him a bottle of lotion and Nate catches it handily. "You think this'll work to lube up anything other than Rudy?"

"I wouldn't know, Ray," Nate hefts the bottle and then tosses it back. "You let me know when you're done humping your hand."

"No, sir." Brad snatches the bottle from Ray and tosses it to Chaffin. "I'm sure he'll be humping someone else's hand. Remember, Ray, you don't know where Chaffin's been, but she was probably somebody's sister."

"More likely some farmer's goat."

"You'd know, Ray," Walt tosses off. "Given Chaffin was in line right behind you, settling for sloppy seconds."

"Ouch. Ouch, young Walt!" Ray stumbles backwards into Brad, slumping as Brad's arms settle under Ray's armpits. He clasps his hands over his heart. "You wound me."

"Like we all wish we could, Ray." Brad lets Ray go, smiling as he falls to the deck. Nate shakes his head and smiles, though he straightens as Brad's gaze cuts to him. "Any word, LT?"

"Nothing yet. Just be ready, gentlemen."

"We're always ready," Ray assures him. "We're fucking Boy Scouts."

Lilley laughs. "You probably are fucking Boy Scouts, brah."

"Probably have a badge in it." Walt adds.

Nate shrugs as he looks at Brad, watching him smile at the men like a benevolent king, overseeing all his fat, stupid princes. Nate wonders if that makes him a princess or worse, the court jester. No. Ray's the court jester. He supposes he can take comfort in that at least. Brad turns in Nate's direction and moves over to him, his arm at Nate's elbow to guide him out of the tent while the conversation they leave behind gets dirtier and more graphic.

"We're not exactly Ivy League."

"More like back alley," Nate agrees.

"But at least we're harmless."

Nate laughs. "He says of the trained killing machines."

"Okay, relatively harmless." Brad locks his hand around his wrist behind his back. "The call's going to come down soon."

"I don't think Saddam's going to back down, if that's what you're asking."

"No, sir. That's not what I'm asking." Brad kicks at the sand and sighs heavily. "You and I, sir."

"I'm afraid I'm not following, Sergeant."

"I just want to make sure that you and I are okay, sir."

"I'm unaware of any reason we wouldn't be, Sergeant." Nate keeps his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the fence.

"You are."

Nate knows it's not a question, but he nods at Brad anyway. Looking at him is a mistake, because Brad looks somewhere between frustrated and furious. "Yes."

"I see." Nate sees Brad's jaw hitch, grinding his words out. "Good. That's good. I'm glad to hear it, sir."

"I think we'll make a cohesive team, Sergeant. The men like and respect you, as do I. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't achieve our objectives and work well together. Assuming, of course, you have no problem with my leadership."

"No, sir. None at all, sir."

"Excellent." Nate stops and looks at Brad, sure that the bullshit is written all over his face. "Keep Ray away from the cooking equipment until we ship out, maybe."

"I will." Brad's face is set, empty. Nate searches his eyes, knowing he shouldn't, knowing if he sees anything, it's not going to be good. Brad looks directly at Nate. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Of course, Sergeant."

"We're not through."

Nate's eyes widen briefly and then he tilts his head, question clear in his stance. "I wasn't aware we started, Sergeant."

"Yes you were, sir. And if you weren't, then maybe I need to refresh your memory." It's clearly a threat - they're in the open, which is the only thing that keeps Nate from taking a step back from the fierce expression on Brad's face. "Do I?"

"No." Nate swallows hard and meets Brad's gaze. "You don't need to do anything, Sergeant. In fact, I think it would be best for both of us if you didn't do anything. We're heading into a war zone. I need your head in the game."

"Funny." Brad's voice sends heat flooding through Nate, the initial pulse low in his groin. "I'd lay odds that you want my head in you, Lieutenant. You want to take me up on that bet?"

"I'll bet, Sergeant, that you have duties to attend to." Nate doesn't look away from Brad's face, though his voice is dry as dust and his chest is tight. He steps close to Brad then passes him by. "As do I."

Gunny and Nate are headed to Schwetje's tent at a fast clip when one of the guys tells them there's pizza waiting. Gunny gives Nate a look and Nate curses under his breath, stalking off in the direction of the line of Marines. Schwetje's at one of the tables, stuffing his face as Nate approaches him. Nate has to draw on reserves of calm to manage not to kill his CO, settling for scraping the maps off the table and walking away.

"We're going to get killed by fucking incompetence," Nate mumbles, heading for Bravo's tent. Gunny smirks beside him and Nate glares in his direction. "Am I wrong?"

"No, sir." Gunny shakes his head. "I'll go grab Colbert and the rest of the team leaders. Get the boys on the stick and see if we can't get this shit ready to go by sundown."

"Forty-eight hours. And he was going to tell us tomorrow." Nate rips off his soft cover as he enters the tent. "Eating his fucking pizza."

"You want some pizza, LT?"

Nate glares at Gunny again. "Just gather the troops."

Gunny laughs. "Yes, sir."

Nate slumps against the boxes, shoving aside a skin mag and looking at the maps. They're familiar already from Brad's Blue Force, but it's still nice to hold the damn things in his hands. He was beginning to think they were going to head into war without them. He traces the path they're projected to follow, remembering his discussion with Brad. Surprise is the only thing that's going to work for them in this, if they even still have that on their side.

"Kuwaitis make some fucked up pizza," Garza bitches as he walks into the tent, shoving half a piece in his mouth. Nate's stomach grumbles at the smell and he wishes he'd told Gunny to grab him something. The guys filter in behind him, still in the process of wolfing down their food, some of them with boxes in their hands. Ray and Brad come in just before Gunny, and Ray's got sauce smeared across the lower half of his face.

Nate blinks. "Ray, did no one ever teach you to eat?"

"Only thing he knows how to do right is suck on his Mama's tit, sir," Lilley informs him. "Marines told him he couldn't do that no more, so he's got to make do."

"All right, all right." Nate holds up a hand and the laughing group falls silent. He can feel the excitement humming in the air. "Colbert, Espera. Pappy. Lovell. Maps of the AO. Brad, pretend you're not ahead of us the rest of us so no one gets an inferiority complex."

"Brad can't help that, LT," Ray mumbles around a mouthful of pizza.

"Damn straight," Poke adds. "Everyone gets an inferiority complex around Brad."

Nate passes out the maps, ignoring the banter. "I'm pretty sure Brad puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us."

"Yeah, but he's got to tuck his cock too," Ray reminds them. "So it's gotta count as a third."

Nate feels a flush stain the back of his neck in memory as he slaps his map down on the boxes. "Well, let's hope the Sergeant isn't freeballing then. Now, gentlemen, I want the team leaders to learn this. We've got a lot of ground that we're going to cover before we get to the Euphrates, and I want my drivers and my team leaders on top of things. I realize we should have had the maps weeks ago, but we've got them now, so make use of them. Also, General Mattis issued the warning order, so we should expect the call within the next 48 hours. We got the word late, but I don't want us caught with our pants around our ankles again. I expect everything loaded and ready to go by o'dark hundred. We are First Recon Marines, gentlemen. Let's prove it." 'Oorah' echoes around him along with the obligatory shouts of 'Get some' and 'Fuck yeah'. Nate smiles at Brad without thinking and Brad smiles back, his eyebrow going up suggestively. Nate feels another blush and he picks up his map, slapping it against his thigh. "They're all yours, Sergeant."

Brad nods and salutes him. "Thank you, sir."

The Humvees are set to go and Nate surveys them with a sense of pride. Alpha and Charlie are still getting their gear stowed even with a head start and Bravo's ready to roll.

"PFM, LT." Brad assures him as Ray and Trombley stow the last of their gear. "Even the reporter is set."

"I admire your aptitude, Sergeant."

"Is that all you admire, sir?" Brad gives him an honest grin and Nate has to laugh. "Come on. Maybe my dashing good looks? My muscled body?" He bats his lashes. "My gorgeous come-hither eyes?"

"Your clothes sense is pretty impressive." Nate grins. "Who does your tailoring?"

"Uncle Sam." Brad glances to Nate's Humvee and then to his own. "Any idea when we're Oscar Mike?"

"Not really. The captain hadn't planned to say anything until the briefing tomorrow, so it could be as late as tomorrow afternoon or evening. No one knows. Enjoy civilization while you can."

"I'm pretty sick of civilization, to be honest, sir. I think all of us are."

"Yeah." Nate scuffs the ground with the toe of his boot then glances at Brad. "Still, you should at least finish your pizza. I saw there was one in your rack."

Brad looks at him, confused, and then laughs. "That one's not mine, sir. That's for you. It's cold, but it's all yours."

"You got me a pizza?"

"You could use a little meat on your bones, sir. Like you said, enjoy civilization while you can."

Nate can't help his smile. "You got me pizza."

"Shut up and go eat." Brad shoves him in the direction of the nearly empty tent. "Sir."

The MOPP suits bring groans and the look on everyone's face when he answers Poke's question about Cas-Evac seems to bring the reality of it all home to them. Of course, the gravity of the situation is broken when Brad pulls his suit out. "Woodland camouflage? Anyone happen to remember we're invading a fucking desert country?"

Nate gives him a look and Brad cocks an eyebrow, making Nate wonder if he just told Brad to drop it or if he promised retribution later. Either way, he watches them get suited up and dismisses them to their Humvees to move out before opening his own MOPP. Brad trails behind, waving off Ray when he starts to ask him a question. Ray rolls his eyes and wraps his arm around the reporter, asking him about the quality of pussy a Rolling Stone writer gets compared to a Hustler writer.

"It's like Ray has a new playmate." Nate opens his suit, smirking at the greens and browns. "You know his article is going to be all about Ray and how the Marines are employing a bunch of psychotic, hyped up idiot savants."

"Better that than he writes about Trombley just being psychotic." Brad watches as Nate tugs the suit on. "I see we're using the same tailor now. That green really brings out your eyes."

"I'll tell you the truth, I ordered them this way just for that reason." Nate tugs on the suspenders, adjusting the fit. "You should join your men."

"I want to talk to you."

"This isn't one of those things where you tell me you've decided to become a conscientious objector and aren't really going to fight, is it?"

"Does that happen to you a lot, Lieutenant?"

"No, but the way this has gone so far, I wouldn't be surprised." Nate tugs up the arms of the suit and closes it up before looking at Brad again. "Talk."

"I've served with most of those guys for a while now, sir. Through Afghanistan and a lot more shit besides. They're good men."

"I know that."

"I know you do and I want you to know that I appreciate that you do know that. Trust us to do our jobs, sir, and we won't let you down."

Nate exhales and nods. "Thank you. I hope I won't let you down either."

"You won't."

"And because the famed Iceman says it, it must be so?" Nate smiles, surprised at how relaxed he is, on the brink of war and alone with Brad. He feels alive again after six weeks of training, even more so as Brad takes a step closer. "I have to admit, I wasn't sure what you were going to say."

"No?" Brad slides his hand along the side of Nate's neck and pulls him in, kissing him hard and swift. Nate barely has time to react before he's gone again, halfway across the room in the way that only Brad's long strides can manage. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't…that, maybe?" Nate rubs his mouth, feeling the burning imprint of Brad's kiss. "You need to stop doing that."

"I haven't done that for a long time, sir. Longer than I'd like."

"We're going to war, Brad."

"Yes, sir. And I would venture to say that I'm going to have my fair share of combat jacks during this war." He smiles wolfishly and lets his gaze run down Nate's body. "I won't be needing any of the reporter's Hustler back issues."

"Brad…"

"Don't worry, sir. I'm not going to let you get me killed." He moves closer again and Nate can't help but meet him halfway. His body is keyed up on excitement and arousal and he knows better, but that doesn't keep his feet still.

"We're not doing this, Brad."

"No, sir." Brad crowds him, breath fanning over Nate's parted lips. "We're not."

"We're not," Nate agrees as Brad pulls away from him, heading for the door.

"Not yet."

Nate groans under his breath and trails Brad out of the tent, grabbing his Kevlar and M4 as he goes. The victors are lined up and ready to go and the men are gathered in front of them, waiting to fall in. Nate catches up with Brad and moves past him, hurrying to his position. Brad mutters something under his breath about Nate's ass and Nate ignores him, managing not to stumble or make a fool out of himself. He'd congratulate himself on the fact if he wasn't so sure it was the first time in a long time he's actually succeeded at it.

"We're an elite fighting force trained for everything but what we're about to do in the way we're about to do it, going up against a citizenry who may or may not welcome us fighting people who may or may not look like soldiers." Nate nods at the report and gives Gunny a knowing look. "So I get to go tell a bunch of Marines that no one knows who they're supposed to be shooting at."

"Sounds about right, sir. Pretty much standard warfare since Vietnam." Gunny spits into his bottle. "Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll all just stand there, fully uniformed and in a line for us to pick off like sitting ducks."

"I don't have that kind of luck." Nate informs him wryly. "Everyone has their cami-nets up?"

"Yes, sir. Everyone's good to go."

"Right." Nate inhales the dry, dusty air and looks at Gunny. "How many times can I get away with saying this comes straight from command before it sounds like I'm a pussy?"

"If it's stupid, sir, just blame it on the captain, sir. No one will doubt you."

"It can't really all be his fault, can it?"

Gunny gives him a shrewd look. "Don't make any bets on that, sir. Besides, even if it isn't, the men will believe it is. It's a win-win."

"And the fact that the ROE sound like we want to walk into an ambush or get killed by any Iraqis smart enough not to wear their uniforms?"

"Like I said, sir. Sounds like the military to me." Gunny clasps his hand on Nate's shoulder. "Just give 'em the speech, sir. You'll make it sound good, put the fear of Godfather into 'em and we'll go blow some shit up."

"You mean liberate a country, Gunny."

"Right. Yeah." Gunny grins. "That too."

Nate gives him a look and heads over to where Bravo is already gathered. Their woodland camouflage MOPP suits look ridiculous in the bright sunlight and soak up the heat. Nate can feel the sun beating on his shoulders like a meat tenderizer. All of his men look at him, serious and trusting and he feels a swell of pride. There are good men in all of the First Recon, the best men, but Nate can't help but feel that when you brush away all the loud mouthed bullshit, he has the best of the best.

He looks at them all, twenty-two men, and meets each set of eyes individually. Nate's led men before, but not these men, not like this. He knows they respect his rank. He needs them to respect him.

"You're being called upon to kill." He doesn't mince words, telling them what to expect from what little they know. Most of them were in Afghanistan, and he's relatively sure that this is going to be nothing like that. Afghanistan felt cohesive, search and destroy, planned like a covert op. This feels disjointed and thrown together, but even so, the men look back at him without fear or hesitation despite the uncertainty of the enemy, with the knowledge that they're likely going in alone. None of this is what First Recon does, but they'll do it, because it needs to be done.

The gas warning sends them all scrambling for cover and, even in his own haste, Nate keeps an eye on his company, watching as they move with precision. The reporter stumbles, but Nate isn't responsible for him, so he just heads to his Humvee on Gunny's heels. He hears the all clear and looks back to see Brad, Garza and Doc standing over him.

"What do you think, Gunny?"

"I think that reporter probably has a better chance of surviving in Iraq than Captain Schwetje does."

Nate manages not to laugh, but he can't quite hide his smile. "Yeah, well, Captain Schwetje probably has more to worry about from friendly fire than anything the Iraqis can throw at him."

"There is that, sir." Gunny grins and sits down in the passenger seat of the Humvee. "You going to take Sergeant Colbert along to the briefing with Godfather?"

"Yeah. I want Brad to know what we're riding into, since he's going to be on point. I trust his instincts."

"He's a steady hand. The men look at him for guidance. He'll be cool under pressure." Gunny nods. "He'll respect and defer to you too, sir, which is the other thing you'll need from him. But remember, just because they call him Iceman, don't mistake that he doesn't need to blow it off from time to time."

"I'll take that under advisement, Gunny."

"Yeah." Gunny grins and spits into the dirt. "I'll be assured, sir."

Nate rolls his eyes. "I'll see you at the briefing."

"Aye aye, sir."

Nate listens to Godfather, wondering when the man is actually going to say something that will give them something to work with. It's mostly the same bullshit talk they're hearing on the radios - all talk and no balls behind it - and he can feel Brad's annoyance on the back of his neck. It doesn't help that Patterson looks as disgusted with it all as Nate feels and isn't making any secret of it as Nate sees Brad glance at Alpha's Captain.

They move out behind Patterson once they're dismissed, heading back for Bravo with Gunny and Kocher behind them. Brad's not any happier once they can speak freely, his disgust thick in his voice. "We're getting ready to invade a country, and this is what our leader offers us. Moustaches."

Nate's well aware of the irony as he speaks. "I trust you, Brad, to keep your personal feelings to yourself." He's careful not to look at him, knowing full well that everyone around them feels the same as Brad. The thing that scares Nate most is that Schwetje seems to be the only one thinking along those same lines as Godfather, and that might mean they're more screwed than Nate thinks.

Speaking of, Schwetje stops them to get their opinion on his duct taped windows and Nate does everything he can to keep his mouth shut. It helps when Gunnery Sergeant Greigo comes up and gives Brad an outlet for his irritation, though it's only likely to make things worse in the long run. Still, Nate's pretty sure Brad's fine just stirring the pot with everyone, which makes Nate wonder if that's just what Brad's doing with him.

Of course, with everyone else, Brad's issue seems to be incompetence. With Nate, he just seems to be intent on fucking with Nate's head. Nate's thankful for the difference if only because he hopes it means that Brad thinks he's not a complete and utter fuckup. He shakes that thought off - Brad and fucking in any sense of the word is not something he needs to focus on right now - as Captain McGraw comes up to them. Just another sign of the inability of the Marines to communicate when he calls back to Captain Schwetje about the armor escort.

"We got word a couple hours ago. We're not getting escort tanks or Cobras going over the border."

Nate wants to scream. Instead he just shifts, as if he can contain his anger if he moves. "Any reason you waited until now to tell me about this?"

Schwetje shrugs and Nate turns almost slowly and strides off, his gait angry enough to keep up with even Brad's long stride. His control slips and he nods disbelieving. "We've lost our armor escort. We get no ass going over the LOD. That's a low priority to pass on?"

"Personal feelings, sir."

Nate glares at Brad, wondering if it's physically possible to kick his ass. Not that Nate should or would, but the temptation to shove his personal feelings up Brad's… Nate forces his mind back to the moment, meeting Brad's smirking gaze as McGraw melts down. Kocher looks longingly in the direction of the rest of Bravo company, and Nate knows some people have it worse.

"Have your men sleep while they can, Brad. Who knows when they'll have another solid chance."

"Yes, sir." Brad rocks back on his heels and looks toward the line of camouflaged Humvees. "Let slip the dogs of war."

"Brad…"

"Eighteen hundred, sir."

"Excuse me?"

"We're about to invade a country, Nate. Risk life and limb in support of a democratically elected government, to uphold the constitution and free a nation from an oppressive dictator who has WMDs and no problem with a little genocide." Brad turns to look at Nate, the sunlight washing out his eyes. "Meet me at eighteen hundred."

"This isn't Mathilda, Brad, and whatever this is…"

"Nate." Brad cuts him off sharply. "Once we cross the LOD, it's on. We're ass deep in our jobs, artillery and whatever the fuck else the throw at us. You say we're not doing this, and I say we're not done, but there's also a chance we're going to get dead. So meet me at eighteen fucking hundred. Sir."

"Where?"

"You're a Recon Marine. Figure it out."

Nate watches Brad walk away, completely unclear on what just transpired. Whatever it was though, Brad is right and beyond that, whatever it is, Nate knows he wants it.

He finds Brad in the back of a supply truck, his fingers trailing over stockpiles of ordinance. It's stifling in the truck; something beyond the sour sweat smell that Nate is beginning to think lives at the back of his throat. "I'm pretty sure Ray would be forced to say something about phallic symbols if he saw you fondling those, Sergeant."

"Ray would say something about phallic symbols if he was swimming in a sea of pussy." Brad turns and hoists himself on a box of Claymores. "You're late."

"Half the men here can't find their asshole with a map. I found mine without one."

Brad laughs, the sound thick in the heated air. "Is that what I am, sir?"

"It's one of the myriad of names I've called you." Nate's not sure if the look on Brad's face is offended or amused. "Not all of them have been so complimentary."

"Come here."

It's a flat-out order from a subordinate, but Nate goes anyway. Brad's hand settles on Nate's shoulder, guiding him in close, standing between Brad's spread legs. Nate settles his hands on Brad's thighs as if to steady himself, but the feel of Brad's body against his palm makes him more unsteady than anything.

"It's going to be the shit in there, sir. We're going in in sardine cans without supplies, loaded for bear with no ass to support us. There's barely going to be time to think, sir, so I sure as fuck don't need to be thinking about you." Brad's fingers trail up Nate's arms. "Get the fuck out of my head, LT."

"Your head?" Nate almost laughs, catching the sound before it has the chance to turn hysterical.

"What do you want from me, sir? Because your orders aren't clear at all."

"I'm not giving you orders, Brad."

"What are you giving me then? What do you want, because I can't fucking figure it out, Nate. I think I know. I think I've got it figured out and then you…" He breaks off and shakes his head. "I think you want me. I think that's what this is all about, sir, but I'm just a Marine, and I'm not supposed to think, so maybe you should tell me. Am I right, sir?"

"You started this. You…All I wanted was for you to realize that there's more out there, still out there."

"You're out there, sir."

Nate shakes his head as well, closing his eyes to sort through the tumble of information, confusion in his head. "No. Yes. No. I…I mean…" Nate swallows hard. "I'm not giving you orders, Sergeant."

"I think you are, sir, but maybe you're not aware of it." His gaze drops to Nate's mouth and Brad licks his lips. "Of course, generally I'm alone out there with my team, so maybe I'll just interpret them to the best of my ability." Brad slides off the Claymores, his body pressed against Nate's. His gaze goes directly to Nate's mouth. "I'm going to jerk you off." He says the words softly, his hands moving between them to work at Nate's MOPP suit. "Tight and fast and hot and I'm going to hear you say my name like you did the last time."

"Brad. Fuck." He barely stifles his groan as Brad's hand snakes past the protective clothing, intent on his objective.

"Not quite like that, Nate." The way he says his name make Nate shudder, the movement followed by a more vicious shake as Brad's hand slips past Nate's briefs to wrap around his dick. "But you're getting there."

Nate kisses Brad just to shut him up, groaning at the taste of him. Nate's not a fan of the taste of tobacco, but sucked off Brad's tongue, he's not sure he can get enough. His fingers fumble with Brad's MOPP suit, his dexterity gone to shit at the feel of Brad's fingers curled around him. The Velcro sounds loud in the empty truck, but Nate's absolutely sure he doesn't care when he slides his palm down Brad's length.

"We're fucked if there's a gas attack," Brad laughs huskily as his thumb slides over the head of Nate's cock. "All kinds of dirty."

Nate laughs as well, the sound rough. He leans in, resting heavily on Brad's shoulder. He strokes down Brad's dick again then, thumb against the base of it, he slips his fingers down and cups Brad's balls.

Brad groans just below Nate's ear, the sound hot on his skin. "Christ, LT. Again."

Nate squeezes again, rubbing the silky, taut skin. He feels Brad groan again and turns his head, meeting Brad's mouth with his own. Bringing his fingers back to Brad's cock, he resumes stroking, the action causing Brad to tighten his own hand, moving it in the same steady rhythm as Nate.

Brad's free hand holds the back of Nate's neck, keeping him from pulling away from the kiss. When they finally break apart, Nate's mouth feels bruised and swollen. He shifts closer, pushing at Brad's uniform until he can feel Brad against him. He adjusts his hand, wrapping it around both of them.

"Fuck." It's part sigh and part moan, buried in Nate's mouth as Brad kisses him again. Nate grips harder, skin against skin, slick flesh hot and hard. Brad slides his hands to Nate's lower back, guiding him the few steps back across the small aisle before pinning Nate to a stack of boxes. Leaning into him, Brad assaults him with searing, bruising kisses that steal Nate's breath, though his hand never falters. Brad's famed control slips, his breathing heavy and ragged. His mouth grazes Nate's jaw, teeth nipping at the skin. "Fuck. Christ, Nate."

Nate's hand slides up to the heads, fingers riding the hard ridge. Brad's breath stutters and Nate can't breathe at all as he comes, shuddering through his orgasm. Brad moans hot and low, his own orgasm coating Nate's hand.

"Fuck." Nate sways in against Brad, gasping. His body feels wrung out and exhausted, and he's afraid if he doesn't move, he'll stay right here forever.

"This is gonna be a long, goddamned war." He looks up at Brad's words and frowns, not sure he's capable of more. "If we do this on the drive, we're both going to tend up dead." He trails his fingers along Nate's jaw. "So you're right. We're not doing this."

Nate eases his hand from between them, causing Brad to gasp and his cock to jerk against Nate. Nate can't move, still pinned to the boxes by Brad's body. He knows his face is flushed, hot with embarrassment."

"Nate." Brad rests a finger beneath Nate's chin, tilting his head up so he's looking Brad in the eye. Whatever else he's about to say is cut off by the cries echoing through the air, shouting a gas warning. The both react instinctively, masks on and hiding swollen lips as they slap the MOPP suits back into place. They hurry out of the truck, heading for the platoon at a run.

Nate ends up next to Gunny under their cami-net, trying not to breathe too quickly, the stale plastic-scented air of his mask burning his lungs. His heart is racing and he can feel his palm still slick inside his glove. He doesn't look over toward Brad's victor as they wait out the attack. Gunny glances at him from time to time, and Nate ignores him until the all clear sounds.

"You okay?"

Nate nods as he jerks off his gloves, digging in the Humvee for a baby wipe from their stash and scrubbing at his hands. "Just ready to go."

"Amen to that, sir." Gunny pushes his Kevlar back. "Everyone's got fresh batteries for the Pec-fours and Pec-thirteens as well as the thermals. Not going to last us long, but we'll start out seeing where we're going."

The radio squawks and Nate listens, moving over to respond. He looks at Gunny and nods as the battalion moves swiftly to action, rolling up the cami-nets. Getting on the radio himself, Nate calls out to his teams. Two hours and they're Oscar Mike.

Welcome to Iraq.

Nate doesn't think in-country. He can't think because he's fairly certain right off the bat that it's contrary to orders. So even the enforced closeness of the constant TL meetings and the regular sound of Brad's voice through the comms don't register beyond the fact that it's Brad and Nate trusts him. There are down times where it would be easy to find Brad and spend time with him, but Nate knows that the other men need Brad more than he does, more than he's allowed to. He still watches though, seeing the way Brad handles his men and handles his orders, wondering what it takes to be like ice, cold and cool in every situation.

Not that Brad is that. Time and again, Nate sees the cracks in the façade, the fissures that emit heat like some sort of underground hot spring. Steam sizzling in Brad's blue eyes, sometimes just directed at the complete fucked-up situation and other times directed specifically at Nate. The fact that Brad's disappointed in him weighs on Nate more than he wants to admit. He trusts Brad's judgment, but Nate's the man in the middle - between command and the men who do the actual fighting - and so he gets the worst of both worlds.

That changes at Al Kut more than anywhere else. He feels absolute certainty as he races from victor to victor, whizzing bullets passing danger close. He's sure they're going to die from someone's complete ineptitude and he'll be fucked if it's going to be his.

Brad comes up to him afterwards, standing silently for a long moment before he slams Nate against the side of his Humvee and presses close enough to him that Nate can smell him over the sweat and dust and MOPP suit. "You stay in your goddamn fucking truck, sir."

Nate looks at him, staring into the impossible blue of Brad's eyes, shadowed with concern and fear and adrenaline. "You'd be dead."

"That's my job."

"Well, my job is to keep you alive." He shifts in Brad's grip, their bodies rubbing together through the layers of clothing. Nate closes his eyes, feeling the hard press of Brad's body, half-hard from excitement and cheating death. "I take my work very seriously."

Brad laughs and pushes away, his eyes on Nate's lower lip, causing Nate to suck it into his mouth. Brad shakes his head, his voice rough. "You're killing me, sir."

"No dying, Sergeant. Not on my watch." He licks his lips and listens to the LAVs come up on them, moving past Bravo Three toward the bridge. "Better get back to your team. We're going to be Oscar Mike as soon as the LAVs are through."

"Yes, sir." Brad turns, following orders, starting across the field.

"Brad?"

"Yeah?"

Nate watches him turn around, finding it hard to breathe. "I'm sorry."

"No, sir. You were following orders."