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Del (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} big_bad_wolf) wrote,@ 2007-05-31 18:01:00 |
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Band of Brothers (3)
Title: You Don't Remember Paris, Hon, But It Remembers You
Rating: PG
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 400 ish. Tiny!
Pairing: Implied Winters/Nixon
Disclaimer: You know the drill. They're not mine, this is not intended as disrespect, the horrible demons in my head made me do it, etc
When Lewis "What Do You Mean I Drank All The Scotch, There Was A Fucking Crate Of It" Nixon woke he was a little surprised to find himself back in familiar barracks. He'd been certain he was going back to Aldbourne, and he wasn't quite sure which day it was or whether he'd been. There was a troublesome gap in his memory that could have been one evening or a week, and his head felt like a whole company had used it for doing jumping jacks on.
That wasn't the surprising part, of course. Having a thumping headache and his stomach threatening to crawl out of his nose if he didn't open his mouth was standard procedure for the mornings; what was odd was that the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Captain "Five Litres Of Bordeaux Makes A Good Dinner" Nixon had this hunch that he still had some of his weekend leave left.
Dick was looking at him with the usual blend of amusement, mild sympathy and censure, tinged with what looked like wistfulness, although Nix could never really be sure because his identification of subtle facial expressions was never brilliant before breakfast. And anyway, this was Dick. It was some sort of physical requirement with him to be completely unreadable.
"This doesn't look like Aldbourne," Nix said, stretching under his blankets and feeling – with considerable alarm – unexpected aches and soreness in his shoulders and back and thighs. What the hell had he been doing? Had he taken it upon himself to lead PT while drunk, instead of applying his pay to the business acquiring the affections of young ladies? If that was the case he might as well get his head examined or filled with lead.
Dick's expression fell. It was, as ever, subtle, but it was there. Disappointment was one of the emotions Nix's dear friend found it hardest to conceal, and usually that was a driving force for the company – no one wanted to disappointed Captain Winters.
"You don't remember?"
Nix struggled upright in the narrow bed and tried to claw his brain back to functioning by rubbing at his eyesockets with his fists, with limited success. "What did I do?"
"You really don't remember?" Dick sounded – well, he probably sounded normal to anyone who didn't know him as well as Nix – quite displeased. Unhappy, even. His face was as composed as ever, but there was something Nix wasn't getting.
"… What did I do?" he repeated, and added, "and why does everything hurt?"
Dick turned away and examined the ceiling thoughtfully. "Let's just say that while you may not remember Paris, Paris is going to remember you for a long time."
Notes: "The Night You Can't Remember (The Night I Can't Forget)" by Magnetic Fields made me write this. I'm not smart enough or well-enough acquainted with wartime Paris to come up with whatever it was that occurred. Maybe someone else can.
Title: You Don't Remember Paris, Hon, But It Remembers You
Rating: PG
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 400 ish. Tiny!
Pairing: Implied Winters/Nixon
Disclaimer: You know the drill. They're not mine, this is not intended as disrespect, the horrible demons in my head made me do it, etc
When Lewis "What Do You Mean I Drank All The Scotch, There Was A Fucking Crate Of It" Nixon woke he was a little surprised to find himself back in familiar barracks. He'd been certain he was going back to Aldbourne, and he wasn't quite sure which day it was or whether he'd been. There was a troublesome gap in his memory that could have been one evening or a week, and his head felt like a whole company had used it for doing jumping jacks on.
That wasn't the surprising part, of course. Having a thumping headache and his stomach threatening to crawl out of his nose if he didn't open his mouth was standard procedure for the mornings; what was odd was that the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Captain "Five Litres Of Bordeaux Makes A Good Dinner" Nixon had this hunch that he still had some of his weekend leave left.
Dick was looking at him with the usual blend of amusement, mild sympathy and censure, tinged with what looked like wistfulness, although Nix could never really be sure because his identification of subtle facial expressions was never brilliant before breakfast. And anyway, this was Dick. It was some sort of physical requirement with him to be completely unreadable.
"This doesn't look like Aldbourne," Nix said, stretching under his blankets and feeling – with considerable alarm – unexpected aches and soreness in his shoulders and back and thighs. What the hell had he been doing? Had he taken it upon himself to lead PT while drunk, instead of applying his pay to the business acquiring the affections of young ladies? If that was the case he might as well get his head examined or filled with lead.
Dick's expression fell. It was, as ever, subtle, but it was there. Disappointment was one of the emotions Nix's dear friend found it hardest to conceal, and usually that was a driving force for the company – no one wanted to disappointed Captain Winters.
"You don't remember?"
Nix struggled upright in the narrow bed and tried to claw his brain back to functioning by rubbing at his eyesockets with his fists, with limited success. "What did I do?"
"You really don't remember?" Dick sounded – well, he probably sounded normal to anyone who didn't know him as well as Nix – quite displeased. Unhappy, even. His face was as composed as ever, but there was something Nix wasn't getting.
"… What did I do?" he repeated, and added, "and why does everything hurt?"
Dick turned away and examined the ceiling thoughtfully. "Let's just say that while you may not remember Paris, Paris is going to remember you for a long time."
Notes: "The Night You Can't Remember (The Night I Can't Forget)" by Magnetic Fields made me write this. I'm not smart enough or well-enough acquainted with wartime Paris to come up with whatever it was that occurred. Maybe someone else can.
