Swearing, Stan turned away and sat down at the edge of the bed. That was what he thought the kid had said. "She wasn't going to tell me," he said, a little blankly. After all those damn fights over how he hadn't coughed up the details of the damned war, over "lying," then she. Wasn't. Going. To. Tell. Him. "I really, really want to hate you," Stan informed the younger man, in the same deadened tone.