A/N: This is for my dearest friend, the lovely, amazing and talented Yellowfur. Her birthday is today so here is her present- Tucker centric, slightly angsty (as angsty as you can get for Tucker) slashy goodness.

Enjoy~

Happy seventeenth birthday!

Pussy.

That was usually the word on Private Laverinus Tucker's lips.

That, or his favorite phrase: Bow chicka bow wow.

But lazing under a tree in Blood Gulch, the sun that never set blazing through his armor, he allowed his thoughts to turn somewhere quite different.

Or rather, turn to someone quite different.

"Tucker!"

Flailing limbs, rookie blue armor glinting in the sun.

"What, Caboose?"

He snapped, not even bothering to lift his eyes or pay attention to Caboose's ramblings on crayons or sandwiches or whatever the fuck was going on in his pebble sized brain at that particular moment.

"And so then I…" Caboose stopped for a moment, "Tucker, are you sleeping? It's not sleepytime yet!"

"No, I'm not sleeping," Tucker tried and failed to hide his yawn. "I think Sheila wants you or something. Lopez told me."

Before Caboose could even consider the logical flaw in this argument he was gone, his arms spread wide open for his lady- tank- love.

Whatever.

If Caboose wanted to fuck a three ton hunk of metal it was so not his problem.

He allowed himself to chuckle over the mental image- though it was mind scarring as well. Not that it was out of the realm of possibility, considering where they were.

Anything was possible in Blood Gulch, he thought, the rare blush rising in his cheeks- he knew exactly what "anything" he wanted to happen.

"Tucker!"

A different voice this time, with a slight Southern drawl.

Tucker ignored the feeling he got at the pit of his stomach, putting on the usual act, "Why the fuck are you people opposed to a little sleep?"

"Maybe because you stole my sniper rifle," came back the laughing taunt.

Tucker looked to his side.

Shit.

He swore that damn rifle had a life of its own. Sure, Tucker spent the brainpower he wasn't using to covet women into coveting said rifle (or rather, the owner of said rifle) but it still managed to show up on the oddest of places, as if it was stalking him.

Such as the shower inside the base. Or on top of the cliff. Or right now, when he hadn't even touched it all day.

Weird.

"Get your ass over here before I have to kill you."

Tucker didn't move. His cobalt blue clad friend was a notoriously poor shot.

Whether it was luck, or God, though- Tucker never would find out- a lit grenade appeared by his side, courtesy of said "best friend."

"Son of a bitch!"

Tucker scrambled to his feet, making it to the base only seconds before the grenade exploded.

"Way to almost kill me, you douche!"

Tucker would bet that damned sniper rifle that Church was grinning under his helmet in that careless way of his, as if he didn't give a shit about life in general.

But even though he knew enough about his best friend to be sure of that smile, he couldn't help but wonder if Church felt the same way about Tucker as Tucker did for him.

Little did Tucker know that a certain Private Leonard L. Church was wondering the exact same thing.