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Del (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} big_bad_wolf) wrote,@ 2007-05-31 17:54:00 |
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Band of Brothers (1)
Title: “Three Things That Never Happened To Lewis Nixon And Certainly Not In This Order”
Pairing: Winters/Nixon
Rating: PG-13? I’m useless at ratings.
Word Count: 1,348 (including subheadings)
Disclaimer: Oh, you know it. This is speculative fiction derived from the television series and is not meant as any kind of realistic depiction of or insult to the real men of Easy Company, etc, etc.
one: letter
Of course he doesn’t know, when he picks up the envelope and sees the postmark, that it means anything other than what it usually means; stories from home. Maybe a photograph. So he opens it in no particular hurry, unfolds it over an unsatisfactory breakfast (aren’t they all?) and reads it with the last hard crumbs still clinging to his teeth.
He’s doing fine until he gets to the part where she calls him Lew and he knows something’s up.
I was cleaning behind the trunk in the spare room
What the hell for?
And I think I found something of yours.
Ah.
I know it was a long time ago, Lew, so I guess I don’t see why you’d be keeping them still. I know she was just some girl from a real long time ago, but … I wish I hadn’t found them. It makes me ask all sorts of questions I didn’t want to think about.
Then why the hell was she cleaning down the back of the trunk in the spare room? Who in their right mind does that? He doesn’t realise he’s pacing, doesn’t realise that across the wooden floor Dick is giving him a half-concerned smile, doesn’t really notice much besides the next sentence:
But I thought about it, Lew, and I think I forgive you. I mean, it was a real long time ago, and it’s me you married. So I guess I don’t mind so much.
He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or angry. He settles for a compromise, goes for drunk. Shoos Dick off his own footlocker and hauls the bottle from it with one hand, trying without success to fold the letter with his free one.
“Good news?” Dick asks, watching the piece of paper whir uselessly in the air as Lew manages much more successfully at one-handed bottle-unscrewing. But then, he’s done that before.
“I don’t know,” Nix admits, drinking straight from the bottle. “I don’t know.”
two: rifle
He is not paying attention as he rounds the corner, and later he will kick himself for this. The woods are silent and Christmas-cake white, studded with ghostlike firs and shivering men hidden like hibernating bears beneath too-thin blankets. He’s thinking about a lot of things, sure, but none of them relate to the path in front of him and really most of them are wondering if he has any cigarettes left.
So he’s not keeping a close eye on what’s going on around him, which is okay, because in the eerie silence and smothered paths and the falling snow anyone making a movement would stick out a mile, and perhaps he’s got enough tobacco left at the bottom of the paper packet to roll one. His hands are cold. The air’s like knives, and he pulls his scarf up over his mouth to warm it before it hits his lungs.
At first he doesn’t register what he’s seeing, so sudden is the shock. Two glass-blue eyes staring at him from two feet way, maybe less. Close enough to bayonet him right in the guts. The German’s hands aren’t holding a bayonet, just two sheets of paper, and he’s got that startled-rabbit look that says he’s been interrupted sneaking off to whatever passes for the little boys’ room out here.
Lewis Nixon takes all this in, in under a minute. Time stretches like taffy, and he sees the snowflakes caught in the kid’s eyelashes – because he can’t be any older than eighteen, look at him, he hasn’t even the slightest suggestion of stubble or the scrapings of a razor - and Nix’s eyes take this in, takes in the dilated pupils and knows that they are both frozen like this, frozen in time like a pair of goddamned icicles, because one of them has to die.
He doesn’t want to die.
The hands that raise his rifle don’t feel like his own. The cold click of metal on metal comes from so far away he is not certain that he is hearing it at all. The deafening blast that shatters the Christmas-card woods and the silence and douses him – too close to use a fucking rifle, of course – with the German kid and his … comic book pages … that’s real, though. That’s so real there’s no room for anything else to be real again for a real long time, and he finds himself trotting forwards, his breath hanging in the air in waves, before he knows it.
When he arrives back at the officer’s tent Dick is reading a report. He can tell by the change in his friend’s face that something has changed about him.
“Nix,” Dick says softly.
Nix tries to look enquiring but can’t get the muscles in his face to play along.
“You have blood on your face.”
three: respite
Lewis Nixon will never know just how much like a gargoyle he looks, squatting up to his armpits in blessedly hot water and scowling at the air in front of him like it’s personally responsible for the entire war. The church decoration pose is offset by the bottle dangling from his right hand, outside of the bath, but not by much. He runs his hand through his too-long-in-need-of-cutting black hair and it stays when he lets his hand drop. Just stays, unlike every-fucking-thing else. He swings the bottle up, swig, and down again without thinking about it.
“You’re supposed to be pleased that you’re not being shot at,” Dick says, by way of introduction.
Nix doesn’t look up. “I don’t get shot at.”
“That’s right.” Dick offers, closer to the bath. “Rub it in.”
Nix looks up now, briefly. Dick is shirtless, working on the complicated business of removing his trousers. His arms and chest are paler than the whites of Nix’s eyes, though less bloodshot. Hah. Nix finds himself counting freckles and stops himself with another drink; they’re not landmarks, they’re not troops. They don’t need reports made on them. Thank God.
“Move along,” Dick says, naked as a baby and paler than the shade of Death.
“There’s enough hot water for two baths,” Nix says, as reflexive as the swing of his bottle.
“But not for two baths and showers for the men.” Dick has already dropped to a crouch, to sit, his legs sliding the length of the enamel on either side of Nix.
Nix has to concede that he has a point. He sighs and swings his bottle up again, but it never makes it to his mouth. The neck, and his fingers, are caught in Dick’s hand, and he hasn’t the heart to pull. He looks to his friend to frown, and Dick gives him a tiny disapproving quirk of the mouth. “Not in the bath, Nix.”
He lets the bottle drop to the floor (and damn right it lands on the base and doesn’t spill any or crack, he’s not stupid) and rocks his weight back onto the balls of his feet. Hot water on his muscles, uncoiling the aches and stripping the sweat with steam.
Dick’s shut his eyes and he’s letting the warmth reduce him to bonelessness. Nix envies him, right there; how he can relax so completely without a single drink and how Nix is sitting still stiff and sore after four. Or five. Perhaps it was six.
He looks down the length of the bath at Dick’s half-asleep smile and his arms, draped over the curved edges of the bath, and his chest, dog tags floating in front of it like heralds. Wants, without warning or reason, to rest his head there and soak up the calm, like it’s transferred by osmosis. Like he can just putting his head against Dick’s collarbone and then he’ll be just as peaceful, for a minute. Right now.
Nix sits back on his heels and runs his hand through his hair again and watches Dick’s chest rise and fall slowly and he says nothing and he does nothing and …
“What are you waiting for?” Dick asks from mostly-closed lips and mostly-closed eyes.
Title: “Three Things That Never Happened To Lewis Nixon And Certainly Not In This Order”
Pairing: Winters/Nixon
Rating: PG-13? I’m useless at ratings.
Word Count: 1,348 (including subheadings)
Disclaimer: Oh, you know it. This is speculative fiction derived from the television series and is not meant as any kind of realistic depiction of or insult to the real men of Easy Company, etc, etc.
one: letter
Of course he doesn’t know, when he picks up the envelope and sees the postmark, that it means anything other than what it usually means; stories from home. Maybe a photograph. So he opens it in no particular hurry, unfolds it over an unsatisfactory breakfast (aren’t they all?) and reads it with the last hard crumbs still clinging to his teeth.
He’s doing fine until he gets to the part where she calls him Lew and he knows something’s up.
I was cleaning behind the trunk in the spare room
What the hell for?
And I think I found something of yours.
Ah.
I know it was a long time ago, Lew, so I guess I don’t see why you’d be keeping them still. I know she was just some girl from a real long time ago, but … I wish I hadn’t found them. It makes me ask all sorts of questions I didn’t want to think about.
Then why the hell was she cleaning down the back of the trunk in the spare room? Who in their right mind does that? He doesn’t realise he’s pacing, doesn’t realise that across the wooden floor Dick is giving him a half-concerned smile, doesn’t really notice much besides the next sentence:
But I thought about it, Lew, and I think I forgive you. I mean, it was a real long time ago, and it’s me you married. So I guess I don’t mind so much.
He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or angry. He settles for a compromise, goes for drunk. Shoos Dick off his own footlocker and hauls the bottle from it with one hand, trying without success to fold the letter with his free one.
“Good news?” Dick asks, watching the piece of paper whir uselessly in the air as Lew manages much more successfully at one-handed bottle-unscrewing. But then, he’s done that before.
“I don’t know,” Nix admits, drinking straight from the bottle. “I don’t know.”
two: rifle
He is not paying attention as he rounds the corner, and later he will kick himself for this. The woods are silent and Christmas-cake white, studded with ghostlike firs and shivering men hidden like hibernating bears beneath too-thin blankets. He’s thinking about a lot of things, sure, but none of them relate to the path in front of him and really most of them are wondering if he has any cigarettes left.
So he’s not keeping a close eye on what’s going on around him, which is okay, because in the eerie silence and smothered paths and the falling snow anyone making a movement would stick out a mile, and perhaps he’s got enough tobacco left at the bottom of the paper packet to roll one. His hands are cold. The air’s like knives, and he pulls his scarf up over his mouth to warm it before it hits his lungs.
At first he doesn’t register what he’s seeing, so sudden is the shock. Two glass-blue eyes staring at him from two feet way, maybe less. Close enough to bayonet him right in the guts. The German’s hands aren’t holding a bayonet, just two sheets of paper, and he’s got that startled-rabbit look that says he’s been interrupted sneaking off to whatever passes for the little boys’ room out here.
Lewis Nixon takes all this in, in under a minute. Time stretches like taffy, and he sees the snowflakes caught in the kid’s eyelashes – because he can’t be any older than eighteen, look at him, he hasn’t even the slightest suggestion of stubble or the scrapings of a razor - and Nix’s eyes take this in, takes in the dilated pupils and knows that they are both frozen like this, frozen in time like a pair of goddamned icicles, because one of them has to die.
He doesn’t want to die.
The hands that raise his rifle don’t feel like his own. The cold click of metal on metal comes from so far away he is not certain that he is hearing it at all. The deafening blast that shatters the Christmas-card woods and the silence and douses him – too close to use a fucking rifle, of course – with the German kid and his … comic book pages … that’s real, though. That’s so real there’s no room for anything else to be real again for a real long time, and he finds himself trotting forwards, his breath hanging in the air in waves, before he knows it.
When he arrives back at the officer’s tent Dick is reading a report. He can tell by the change in his friend’s face that something has changed about him.
“Nix,” Dick says softly.
Nix tries to look enquiring but can’t get the muscles in his face to play along.
“You have blood on your face.”
three: respite
Lewis Nixon will never know just how much like a gargoyle he looks, squatting up to his armpits in blessedly hot water and scowling at the air in front of him like it’s personally responsible for the entire war. The church decoration pose is offset by the bottle dangling from his right hand, outside of the bath, but not by much. He runs his hand through his too-long-in-need-of-cutting black hair and it stays when he lets his hand drop. Just stays, unlike every-fucking-thing else. He swings the bottle up, swig, and down again without thinking about it.
“You’re supposed to be pleased that you’re not being shot at,” Dick says, by way of introduction.
Nix doesn’t look up. “I don’t get shot at.”
“That’s right.” Dick offers, closer to the bath. “Rub it in.”
Nix looks up now, briefly. Dick is shirtless, working on the complicated business of removing his trousers. His arms and chest are paler than the whites of Nix’s eyes, though less bloodshot. Hah. Nix finds himself counting freckles and stops himself with another drink; they’re not landmarks, they’re not troops. They don’t need reports made on them. Thank God.
“Move along,” Dick says, naked as a baby and paler than the shade of Death.
“There’s enough hot water for two baths,” Nix says, as reflexive as the swing of his bottle.
“But not for two baths and showers for the men.” Dick has already dropped to a crouch, to sit, his legs sliding the length of the enamel on either side of Nix.
Nix has to concede that he has a point. He sighs and swings his bottle up again, but it never makes it to his mouth. The neck, and his fingers, are caught in Dick’s hand, and he hasn’t the heart to pull. He looks to his friend to frown, and Dick gives him a tiny disapproving quirk of the mouth. “Not in the bath, Nix.”
He lets the bottle drop to the floor (and damn right it lands on the base and doesn’t spill any or crack, he’s not stupid) and rocks his weight back onto the balls of his feet. Hot water on his muscles, uncoiling the aches and stripping the sweat with steam.
Dick’s shut his eyes and he’s letting the warmth reduce him to bonelessness. Nix envies him, right there; how he can relax so completely without a single drink and how Nix is sitting still stiff and sore after four. Or five. Perhaps it was six.
He looks down the length of the bath at Dick’s half-asleep smile and his arms, draped over the curved edges of the bath, and his chest, dog tags floating in front of it like heralds. Wants, without warning or reason, to rest his head there and soak up the calm, like it’s transferred by osmosis. Like he can just putting his head against Dick’s collarbone and then he’ll be just as peaceful, for a minute. Right now.
Nix sits back on his heels and runs his hand through his hair again and watches Dick’s chest rise and fall slowly and he says nothing and he does nothing and …
“What are you waiting for?” Dick asks from mostly-closed lips and mostly-closed eyes.
