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The entire fucking Humvee rattles like a terrified skeleton, but there's one particular rattle, a squeaky, high-pitched motherfucker, that's drilling its way into Ray's brain and he's about to fucking flip his lid about it when Brad reaches up, presses his hand against the roof, and the rattle stops. Ray takes a deep breath and relaxes. Brad keeps his hand in place for fifteen minutes, and when he lets go, when the rattle comes back, Ray can ignore it.
They're digging in, and Reporter's heading for Brad, notebook in one hand and camera in the other. Ray cuts him off, tempts him away from Brad with the prospect of Rudy and Pappy showing him the M-40 and explaining how sniping works. Reporter glances over at Brad, busy repacking the Humvee, then follows Ray away.
Ray's got an insect bite on his heel that's sending him crazy, but he can't scratch it because he needs all his limbs to drive. Next to him, Brad kicks at his own heel, jaw tight, and Ray gets a moment of relief before the itch is back.
They're on another fucking street patrol in Baghdad when Ray looks up to the roof of a nearby building and sees a rifle barrel. It's aimed at Brad and Ray's got his mouth open to yell a warning when Brad steps, shadow-quick, behind the Humvee, and when Ray looks up again the rifle's gone and he's not even sure it was ever there. He glances over at Brad, back up at the roof, then turns his attention to a kid who's trying to get hold of his shades.
They're set up on the tank stand, their part of the invasion over and done with, by the time Ray looks over at Brad, and says, "Is it just me or are we actually in each other's minds?"
"Don't talk bullshit, Ray," Brad says, and carries on with his inventory.
"Think of a number," Ray says, and Brad looks up. "Thirty-two," Ray says, and Brad frowns.
"Your turn," Brad says, and as soon as Ray settles on his number, Brad says, "One thousand and seven."
Ray nods.
"Interesting," Brad says, and taps his pen against his clipboard. "Have you got a dehydration headache?"
"A bit," Ray admits.
"Explains why it wasn't going, no matter how much I drank," Brad says, and nods to his own water bottle. "Drink up."
Ray frowns at him. "You aren't freaking out. Why aren't you freaking out? I'm totally invading your privacy here. I'm going to find out all your deep and dirty secrets and-"
"And keep them to yourself," Brad interrupts.
Ray grins, and shrugs. "Well, yeah."