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The tent reeked of unwashed socks.

Not that camp odors were often wonderful, given they were in the middle of a jungle and there were weeks the rain just never let up, but this?

This was uncalled for.

They hadn't been under attack for a week, they had fresh water (wonder of wonders), they had soap, they had higher-ups who would be just pleased as punch to have something new to yell about, and yet. And Yet.

"Oh my God, Jefferies, that'd better not be you." Klaus calls out as he's nasally assaulted after a long hard day of being sober and running barbed wire and not getting any limbs blasted off (he's found, shocker, that being sober does wonders for his general odds of 'not stepping on a land mind and getting blown to bits'. Look, he doesn't trust that little girl upstairs not to send him back to go on existing as bits, okay?

His protests are echoed by those in his squad (though he took point, of course he did, you can't dramatically fling the tent flaps back when you're following, and goddamn did he earn a little dramatic flap flinging).

"Shut up, Hargreeves." The man of the hour retorts, a pudding-faced jerk who has only been in-country for a few weeks now, and who hasn't quite come to terms with the whole thing. That's fair, Klaus would agree, but he's pretty sure this guy has never had to fend for himself before, like, ever. It's tragic. The smell of his socks is extra tragic. Jefferies is just laying there on his cot, his socks a crusty nasty-ass mess, making the jungle air just that much more ripe. Ass.

"Man, I'm going to ball those up and make you eat them." Klaus threatens with a manic sort of grin, one that he's found works well both for getting people to suddenly become less curious about why he's so lucky sometimes in the field, and to completely throw Jefferies for a loop. Jefferies splutters in the most satisfying way, especially when no one speaks up for him to counter the threat. Look, they were all thinking the same thing, Klaus just gives zero shits and says these things.

"Like you could." Jefferies sniffs, ignoring the way the tent goes quiet. "Little pole-bean like you, what are you gonna do, huh?"

And look, of course they all take the mickey out of each other. They've all been shoved together a little too long, a bunch of disparate personalities all smushed together in this jungle hell. But here's the thing: They've been here together, for way too long. Sure, laugh as much as you want at the 'band of brothers' trope, but Klaus knows most of these guys better than his brothers. Certainly knows how they fight better than he'd know Luther or Diego, at this point.

Over there is Chavez, who is even more chatty than Klaus in the middle of a fight - the lunatic never shuts up, ever, they literally gagged the man once on a march and he'd still mumbled away to himself. Adrenaline's a hell of a drug.

And two cots down is Weber, the surest dead-eye shot Klaus has ever seen outside of Diego... and honestly, he's not sure he'd put his money on Diego in a fair competition. Having that guy in sniper position is one of the most reassuring things ever. He could probably even shoot mosquitos out of the air, if the Army would cover the ammunition cost.

Across the way is O'Leery, a compact little man who punches like a pile-driver, and has a disturbing fondness for knives. Like, he thought Diego was obsessed, but nah, this guy's got a thing. Klaus would dig for details, but he's a little afraid the man would dig back, with the pointy end first.

Klaus?

Klaus is known for fighting mean - ugly and vicious and giggling all the way down - both because it still cracks him up that he's the Hargreeves kid that ended up as a soldier, and it freaks out the VCs. Every little bit counts, right Daddio? Oh that's right, you're not dead yet. Whatever. It helps he learned his hand-to-hand skills almost before he could walk - they're ingrained enough to not require thought, and he learned to fight fearlessly before he could learn to be afraid of dying.

So when Jefferies, who hasn't yet exhibited much fighting skill beyond 'hasn't shot himself in the foot' and 'points his gun in the vaguely correct direction' gets mouthy, no one really wants to get in the way of that.

And Klaus knows that. Now, there's plenty of guys here Klaus has no interest in fighting. He tried O'Leery once, when they were both drunk and everything had seemed hilarious, but it turned out to be an epic amount of not worth it and a glorious black eye he'd worn for ages.

Those socks smell wretched. Klaus lets his grin slide a little wider, a little more unhinged, an stares, pointedly.

Jefferies, hearing a distinct lack of support from the rest of the tent, faced with a bare-chested, wild-haired man who won't stop grinning and who is edging closer, suddenly grows one (1) brain cell.

"Fine, Christ, I gotta do the wash anyway." He huffs, stuffing his feet into his boots (without checking them first, Klaus notes, stupid) and storming off. The tent erupts into jeers and hooting, the tension broken and the smell somewhat alleviated with the retreat. Klaus slouches to his cot and flops down, joined by Dave, who elbows him.

"Sarge would have had you digging latrines again." Dave notes, no longer trying to hide his laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, but that dip stick doesn't know it. Charlie won't have to hear us with that guy around, they can smell us from miles away. Anyway. HEY!" Klaus pitches his voice up, having learned how to be heard above a racket (having learned that people here want to hear him above a racket, sometimes). "Who's got the cards, anyway? I sweet-talked the kitchen staff out of some chocolate, and I wanna rob you all blind."

Klaus really isn't that good at cards when he isn't cheating, and the ghosts that hang around the tent wouldn't help him cheat on fellow soldiers anyway. Mostly he doesn't want to end up with a stash of slowly-melting chocolate that he has to deal with on his own, and this is the most expedient way of dishing it out.

And the most fun. Well. Second-most fun, but he's pretty sure he and Dave are the only ones into the most-fun option.

Their loss.