Taking a deep breath, I braced myself. "All right, guys, time to go," I called through the base.

Tucker popped his head around the corner confusedly. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to dinner. Come on."

"Dinner?" Church asked, walking out from his bedroom. "Why—"

"We're going to do Thanksgiving properly," I said determinedly. "Caboose is already there. So let's go."

"Where exactly is 'there,' may I ask?" Tucker replied.

I looked at him disparagingly. "Who else do you think has the talent—or the patience—to cook Thanksgiving dinner around here?"

"No damn way," Church huffed. "We are not going over to Red base again. We're supposed to be at war here!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Fine. I'm going over there and enjoying Donut's whole roast turkey by myself, then."

The Blues frowned as I headed toward the entrance. I smiled with my back to them.

3… 2… 1…

"Okay, okay, I give. I haven't had a decent meal in way too long. I'm coming." Tucker grabbed his helmet and headed toward the door, catching up with me. Church sighed and followed him too.

As we started to leave, Church stopped. "You gonna ask Wash if he wants to come?"

I hesitated. Wash wasn't exactly in a grumpy mood anymore, but his abrasiveness had increased exponentially. I had never heard so much sarcasm in my life.

…And coming from me, that was saying something.

Most of his rudeness came from snide comments directed toward me. I was used to that—I had been ever since the end of Project Freelancer. They just came in higher quantities, especially if I were within five feet of Tucker.

I sighed. I figured that we might as well invite him, because I certainly wasn't going to bother bringing food back for him.

I left the Blues at the entrance and made my way toward Wash's room, knocking lightly on the door.

"Yes?"

"Wash, we're going to have Thanksgiving with the Reds. I'm not bringing you back anything, so if you're going to eat tonight, you'll have to come."

I heard Wash get up and walk through the room. He opened the door and rolled his eyes as he saw me.

"What, is carrying a plate of food across Blood Gulch to difficult for you?"

"Yeah," I growled. "Difficult because I'll be too tempted to spit in the turkey before giving it to you."

"Oh, I'm flattered. Really," Wash replied coarsely. "Ugh, fine. I'll come."

When I had met back up with the Reds the day we arrived back at Blood Gulch, I hadn't even thought to mention Wash. Unfortunately, this caused a bit of a shock to the team. Sarge was absolutely beside himself with fury, thinking the Blues were suddenly up by another man. I had to yell over his furious death threats to get him to understand that Wash was working with me and not them, but it wasn't until Simmons helped to restrain him that he calmed down and stopped trying to douse Wash with the mashed potatoes. Even Donut was acting extremely cold toward the gray soldier—and for good reason.

"If you're going to throw food on him, don't waste the mashed potatoes. I used the last of the whole milk on them!" Donut said grumpily as he tossed a rather extravagant salad. "At least chuck the dinner rolls at him. Those burned, so they're more like hockey pucks now anyway."

I stifled a laugh as Wash glanced over at the bread rolls.

"Looks like someone's upset at you for shooting him," Church smirked.

Wash sighed and turned to Donut. "Okay, okay. Donut, I'm sorry for shooting you, all right?"

Donut's annoyed frown lessened a bit. He wouldn't stay mad for long. It wasn't his personality.

"It's all right," he replied, taking another rack of less-burnt dinner rolls from the oven. "Just… don't do it again. I don't really appreciate getting killed."

"I wouldn't either," Wash consented.

Donut lightened up considerably after that. He calmed down, and the rest of the Reds slowly followed. Once dinner was well under way—and each of the Blood Gulchers had a couple drinks—the mood became much more content. Even Wash refrained from his insult-Eleven-just-to-be-a-douchebag sarcasm.

Not only did the conversation start to flow easily because of the liquor, but the food put everyone in better spirits. Donut had absolutely outdone himself. It was his best meal yet.

I was surprised—we had no more problems. Sarge finally believed that Wash wasn't still working with the Blues, and Wash seemed to be paying special attention to Donut's cooking, complimenting it at every opportunity. Frankly, I couldn't tell whether he really felt badly for shooting Donut, he was just trying to be professional (for once), or the drinks were getting to him. Or all three.

Once the meal ended, we helped Donut do the dishes (with much complaining from Grif's end) and played a couple rounds of cards. However, Caboose almost fell on top of the deck in his attempt not to fall asleep, so the Blues decided to call it an early night and head home.

I wasn't ready to go back. Wash was tipsy and in a good mood, so I didn't want to be the one to interrupt that—I knew that if we started talking, he would inevitably become all irritable and rude again.

I decided to spend the night with the Reds. Besides, I owed Donut a slumber party. As the Blues left (Tucker planted a slightly drunk and sloppy kiss on my cheek before heading out), I stayed behind and helped Donut with the last of the dishes. We packed up the last of the turkey in a Tupperware, and Donut offered to give it to the Blues for sandwiches the next day. I tried to radio the Blues to ask if they wanted the leftovers, but none of them answered. Not even Wash. I shrugged and decided to take the food back to Blue base the next day anyway. They were probably asleep and wouldn't mind some extra turkey anyway.

We finished cleaning, and Donut was thoroughly excited we were finally having our sleepover; he immediately started making a fresh pot of tea.

Sarge watched us prepare our sleeping area disapprovingly, muttering under his breath about how unprofessionally we were behaving. Grif and Simmons were still busy with the cards and didn't pay us much attention, so we did get a little bit of peace and quiet. While the water was boiling, we dragged all the blankets from Donut's room to the main living room, setting up a tent as if we were about ten years old.

Okay, I was enjoying myself. I hadn't done this in years.

Once we had set up a respectable tent with the couches and various brooms as stakes, Donut and I grabbed our tea and third slices of pumpkin pie, bringing an extra flashlight with us beneath the blankets.

"So…" Donut began once we were settled in, a mischievous look in his eye. "You have a bit of explaining to do."

I frowned, biting into my pie. "What do you mean?"

Donut smiled knowingly. "Come on, Ells. You know what I'm talking about. There's something serious going on between you two."

Shit. He'd been watching Tucker. My face reddened.

"Okay, listen, we… I don't know what's going on. That kiss—he shouldn't have done that. Tucker—"

"Tucker?" asked Donut confusedly. "I wasn't surprised that he did that! He talks about kissing girls all the time. Besides, he'd had a few too many drinks. I was talking about Wash!"

I stopped. "…Wash?"

"Oh, please. Don't give me that innocent look. You said you'd dated him before. Something's happened since then. I can tell."

"How did you know?"

"He flat out ignored you the whole damn night. That's not normal. Remember the formal, when he kept trying to get into your pants? Stuff like that doesn't change unless something prompts it to."

"Jesus, Donut, you sound like an article out of Cosmo."

Donut grinned. "Well, where do you think I get all my great Pilates exercises?"

I sighed. "I don't know what's up with him," I said. "I really don't. I mean… you don't know the whole story about us, do you?"

"Only what you've told me. All you said was that he was your psychotic ex."

"Yeah, well, he is. Ever since we broke up, he's been a complete asshole to me. He takes any chance to insult me. At the UNSC formal, he then did something new—the whole nasty pervert deal. I don't know what was up with that, but we're just always getting into fights. No matter how professional I try to be, he always has to do something to piss me off."

Donut took a sip of his tea. "Do you know why?"

"I have no idea, but—"

I stopped, hearing a strange noise. It was too far away to make out properly, but, from what I could hear, it sounded somewhat like a scratchy echo. As if the sound were coming from a far distance.

"Did you hear that?" I whispered. Donut nodded, and we both listened quietly. The sound got louder, popped jerkily, and then died abruptly.

Silence.

"Guys, did you just hear that?" Simmons asked, striding into the room. I lifted the flap of our homemade tent and glanced worriedly at the maroon soldier.

"Yeah," Donut replied. Sarge walked into the room followed closely by Grif. "What do you think it was?"

"I… I'm not sure," I said. "I've never heard a sound like that before. Do you think it came from Blue base?"

"Let's not get our hopes up just yet…" Sarge muttered.

We waited in silence for the strange noise to return, but nothing more happened.

Grif yawned widely. "If it were anything bad, the Blues probably would have radioed us about it. Besides, if they're dead, that's one less thing we have to do, right? No offense, Eleven."

I shrugged. For once, the orange soldier was probably right. If anything had happened, the Blues would have contacted us somehow.

Donut and I returned to our tent. I checked my radio multiple times, but none of the Blues had tried to say anything to me.

"Don't worry, Ells," Donut said as I picked at my unfinished slice of pie. "They would have contacted us if something had happened. I'm sure nothing's wrong."