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The Jeep bounces over frozen ruts, jostling them together in the cab. Beetle's shoulders shake with laughter, his whole body alight from Sarge's razor-sharp jab at the mess hall cook. It's rare to see Sarge's smirk in daylight—usually reserved for stolen moments behind the supply shed—and Beetle's ribs ache with joy.
Then warmth spreads. The realization hits mid-giggle. His thighs go sticky, the wool of his uniform darkening. Beetle's laughter dies in his throat. Sarge glances over, nostrils flaring as the scent hits. Beetle scrambles backward against the door, hands raised.
"I didn't—Sarge, I swear—" Tears well up, blurring Sarge's unreadable face.
A calloused thumb catches the first tear. "Damn, Private. That's a first."
Sarge's laugh is rough, but his grip on Beetle's knee is gentle. He pulls over by a creek, shrugging off his coat to wrap around Beetle's trembling shoulders. The snow crunches under Sarge's boots as he kneels to rinse Beetle's pants with creek water, his touch methodical, almost tender.
Beetle sniffles, watching Sarge wring out the fabric. "You ain't gonna...?"
Sarge flicks his ear. "Nah. Now, shut up and hold still."