George Strait on the stereo, brisket on the grill, can of Ranch Style beans on the counter (thank you, Momma) just waiting to be heated up. There was a case of beer in the fridge, a fifth of tequila in the freezer, and a three-day weekend looking him in the face. He'd thrown a batch of scrubs into the washer, thrown on his jeans and one of Rock's old t-shirts. He'd been gone for a few days, quick trip down to Panama to do some training and back. No injuries, no emergencies--just flying down, some fake fucking blood and assholes getting out of duty pretending to be injured, and flying home. Bing, bang, boom.

Rig wandered out to the backyard, gave Grim some fresh water, checked the brisket, threw a rock at the fence in hopes of shutting up that yapping fucking beast from next door, then headed back in. He grabbed a beer and settled on the couch, flipping past Jeopardy and Jenny Jones and stopping on Emergency Vets. Oooh ... the innards of a turtle. Pretty fucking cool.

The front door banged open, Rock's voice calling out. "Honey, I'm home!" Before he could reply, Rock's head popped around the wall. "I brought company--you decent?"

"In body if not in spirit, Rocketman." He grinned at his own personal marine. Shit, but the man looked good in BDUs. "Who came to play? Reed? Wendling? Gonzales?"

"Nope, new meat." Rock came around the corner, dragging a kid, not quite as tall as Rock, looking as green as this morning. "Come on, Dick-head."

"Name's not Dick-head," muttered the kid.

He nodded over, looking at Rock with one raised eyebrow. This didn't look like something Rock usually dragged home. "Hey kid, name's Rigger." He didn't move, just watched, taking a swig of his beer.

"Richard Main." The kid held out his hand and Rock smacked it.

"Grab a seat, Cherry-Pie." Rock flung himself down on the couch next to Rigger and grabbed his beer, helping himself to a long swig. "Friggin' barracks are full-up and the CO's got us teaming up with newbies straight out of basic. Dickie-boy here is my cherry and I get to keep him until something opens up. Supposed to be fast-tracking them up to speed or something. I don't know, I just do as I'm told."

"Pushy asshole. There's a case of longnecks in the friggin' icebox." He grinned and snatched his beer back. "So, you're set to abusing the young'uns again. You'd think they'd learned after what happened to the last set." Fuck, but he loved teasing the cherries.

"Last time?" The kid's voice squeaked.

"Mm-hmm." He stretched lazily, making sure Rock got a look at his crotch. "Was classified, of course, but I'm a medic on base, so I heard everything. Poor sweet kids."

The kid was looking from him to Rock and back again, mouth hanging open. Rock was just looking at his crotch.

"Either sit down or go fetch yourself a beer." He arched an eyebrow, shifting his hips. "You are legal, right kid?"

"I won't tell anyone if you don't. I mean--if he's gonna fuck me up the least you can do is give me a beer, right?" The kid looked at him a moment. "Fridge?"

He pointed through the arched doorway. "Kitchen. Watch for Grim. He's likely to be sleeping in there."

"Grim?" The kid was squeaking again.

"Yup. Mastiff. One hundred and ten pounds. White teeth, black nose and ears. Sleeps by the back door. You can't miss him." He'd kick Rock's ass if the asshole laughed now. Grim was quite possibly the biggest wuss in the state, but he looked like a killer--at least until his tail started wagging.

"Is he gonna think I'm stealing the fucking beer?"

"I hope not. They say you shouldn't act scared--it just pisses 'em off worse."

Dick snorted. "Gee thanks."

"Get me one, too, Dickweed." The kid flipped Rock off and headed toward the kitchen.

Rigger chuckled, "Damn, Rock. Could you have gotten a greener one?"