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Del (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} big_bad_wolf) wrote,@ 2007-05-31 18:06:00 |
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Band of Brothers (4)
Title: Five Different Approaches to the Same Problem
Rating: PG for kissing
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 734
Pairing: Winters/Nixon (of course)
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
Note: Sequel to You Don't Remember Paris, Hon. I've decided to give in every single time I get a Band of Brothers plotbunny and the result appears to be that I write really short fics but I write them more-or-less constantly. I hope that's not what you want. :P
One.
So Lewis Nixon would say, in a contrite voice, "it can't have been that bad, I haven't been court-martialed," and it would turn out that Dick Winters had just been screwing with him and nothing weird had happened and it'd all be fine.
Except Dick didn't screw with him, and Lewis Nixon was worried that maybe Dick's silence was the only thing keeping him from being court-martialed for something he didn't even remember.
Two.
Maybe Nix could offer him something to drink, which he wouldn't take, and Nix'd decide not to drink anything either (just this once, until the conversation was over, or at least until Dick wasn't looking) and in that moment of unexpected companionship Dick would say something warmly and it would transpire that Nix had just fallen over in the street or sung something embarrassing and that would be that. Or if it was worse, Dick would tell him and he could actually apologise knowledgeably and with the appropriate phrasing.
Because God if he wasn't sick of the sterile coldness between them now, of knowing almost every word in several languages except the right ones.
Three.
The problem with trying to extract information from Captain Richard Winters, reflected his good friend Captain Nixon, was that it was fucking impossible. The man was a stone. He'd obviously made up his mind not to tell anyone, including or especially Captain Nixon, what had transpired in Paris. What had left Captain Nixon aching in unusual places, most notably his heart as he discovered that he needed this easy, ha, friendship like he needed air. Air and scotch.
All his ins were joking, and he wasn't sure joking was what would break the silence. "It can't have been that bad. I mean, I did behave in a manner almost befitting a soldier, didn't I?" being the best he could manage, and what if -
If he didn't, if it had been that bad, and everything between them hereafter was strictly business and chilly politeness, Captain Nixon wasn't sure he could stand that. Maybe he'd come to treat the certainty of Dick Winters as a crutch as much as the booze but he was damned if he was going to give up either. Somehow, somehow, he was going to have to find a way to make the two of them coexist comfortably.
Four.
I am forever "That Idiot From Intel, he thought miserably, to me even if to no one else. And That Idiot From Intel has clearly made a truly intelligent mistake that he really intelligently can't remember, and how can someone this stupid be doing my job? I should ask for a transfer to The Blundering Idiot division, but they'd probably just think I was angling for a promotion.
The glass was empty again. He rooted around in Dick's footlocker, refilled, and sat back down.
That Idiot From Intel should probably consider not stashing his booze in his buddy's locker. That's probably a good start. Though Dick would say That Idiot From Intel needs to just stop having a booze stash at all, although he wouldn't call me "That Idiot From Intel". And certainly not now.
He drained the glass. He's not calling me anything now.
Five.
Or Lew could skip the introduction and wait until they were truly alone and just slide his hand onto the back of Dick's neck in a friendly-and-then-some gesture, let his fingers linger a little too long at the place where nape became coarse red hair. And if Dick took that without flinching maybe Lew would press with his fingertips until dick turned his face to his, and maybe he'd touch his lips to Dick's as soft and slow as lighting a fire. And maybe Dick would open his mouth just a little, and Lew could kiss on safe in knowledge that if he lost himself in kissing he'd still find himself again in his friend.
And maybe that's what he'd done in Paris and that's what kept Dick's lips pressed together in a grim and heart-sinking line, the depth of his entirely platonic affection for Lew the only thing keeping the stupid imposition a secret.
Or maybe he should try. Maybe it'd go okay.
Lew stared into the bottom of his empty glass, his shoulders hunched against the rain falling outside the building. And maybe pigs would sprout wings and mount an air attack on Berlin.
Title: Five Different Approaches to the Same Problem
Rating: PG for kissing
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Word Count: 734
Pairing: Winters/Nixon (of course)
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
Note: Sequel to You Don't Remember Paris, Hon. I've decided to give in every single time I get a Band of Brothers plotbunny and the result appears to be that I write really short fics but I write them more-or-less constantly. I hope that's not what you want. :P
One.
So Lewis Nixon would say, in a contrite voice, "it can't have been that bad, I haven't been court-martialed," and it would turn out that Dick Winters had just been screwing with him and nothing weird had happened and it'd all be fine.
Except Dick didn't screw with him, and Lewis Nixon was worried that maybe Dick's silence was the only thing keeping him from being court-martialed for something he didn't even remember.
Two.
Maybe Nix could offer him something to drink, which he wouldn't take, and Nix'd decide not to drink anything either (just this once, until the conversation was over, or at least until Dick wasn't looking) and in that moment of unexpected companionship Dick would say something warmly and it would transpire that Nix had just fallen over in the street or sung something embarrassing and that would be that. Or if it was worse, Dick would tell him and he could actually apologise knowledgeably and with the appropriate phrasing.
Because God if he wasn't sick of the sterile coldness between them now, of knowing almost every word in several languages except the right ones.
Three.
The problem with trying to extract information from Captain Richard Winters, reflected his good friend Captain Nixon, was that it was fucking impossible. The man was a stone. He'd obviously made up his mind not to tell anyone, including or especially Captain Nixon, what had transpired in Paris. What had left Captain Nixon aching in unusual places, most notably his heart as he discovered that he needed this easy, ha, friendship like he needed air. Air and scotch.
All his ins were joking, and he wasn't sure joking was what would break the silence. "It can't have been that bad. I mean, I did behave in a manner almost befitting a soldier, didn't I?" being the best he could manage, and what if -
If he didn't, if it had been that bad, and everything between them hereafter was strictly business and chilly politeness, Captain Nixon wasn't sure he could stand that. Maybe he'd come to treat the certainty of Dick Winters as a crutch as much as the booze but he was damned if he was going to give up either. Somehow, somehow, he was going to have to find a way to make the two of them coexist comfortably.
Four.
I am forever "That Idiot From Intel, he thought miserably, to me even if to no one else. And That Idiot From Intel has clearly made a truly intelligent mistake that he really intelligently can't remember, and how can someone this stupid be doing my job? I should ask for a transfer to The Blundering Idiot division, but they'd probably just think I was angling for a promotion.
The glass was empty again. He rooted around in Dick's footlocker, refilled, and sat back down.
That Idiot From Intel should probably consider not stashing his booze in his buddy's locker. That's probably a good start. Though Dick would say That Idiot From Intel needs to just stop having a booze stash at all, although he wouldn't call me "That Idiot From Intel". And certainly not now.
He drained the glass. He's not calling me anything now.
Five.
Or Lew could skip the introduction and wait until they were truly alone and just slide his hand onto the back of Dick's neck in a friendly-and-then-some gesture, let his fingers linger a little too long at the place where nape became coarse red hair. And if Dick took that without flinching maybe Lew would press with his fingertips until dick turned his face to his, and maybe he'd touch his lips to Dick's as soft and slow as lighting a fire. And maybe Dick would open his mouth just a little, and Lew could kiss on safe in knowledge that if he lost himself in kissing he'd still find himself again in his friend.
And maybe that's what he'd done in Paris and that's what kept Dick's lips pressed together in a grim and heart-sinking line, the depth of his entirely platonic affection for Lew the only thing keeping the stupid imposition a secret.
Or maybe he should try. Maybe it'd go okay.
Lew stared into the bottom of his empty glass, his shoulders hunched against the rain falling outside the building. And maybe pigs would sprout wings and mount an air attack on Berlin.
