(no subject)
I posted this up on my journal, and untitled06 insisted I put it up on C_T. So here we go.
Lewis Nixon curses.
The first time Winters met him, he stood on the Toccoan earth yelling expletives in a jeep driver's direction. He remembers how his first judgement was negative, a faint amusement, perhaps, but part of him had screamed 'just another spoiled, rich college guy with an attitude problem' at him, and he'd firmly decided to stick with that judgement.
It lasted for all of two minutes, when the man turned around to face him, and plastered that smirk on his face, one that stunned him where he stood. "Hey," Nixon had offered, "What bit you in your fuckin' ass?" And Winters had realized two things, right there; how stupid he must've been looking, with his eyebrows battling between amusement and irritation. And how there was something about how the new guy moved, smiled, existed. Then he'd taken the offered hand.
"I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters."
And he'd decided right then and there that sharing values with his friends wasn't necessary. At all.
Lewis Nixon smokes.
Every man in the company does; wherever he goes, Winters can smell it, the thick clouds of white seeping into the fabric of his clothes. There is something different about the way Nixon does, though. Something that keeps him fascinated, something that almost makes him wish that he smoked, just to get a little closer in some way. But as always he'd stayed true; his mother had always taught him not to.
His mother had always told him to stay clean and sober, and above all, pure. Because only the pure of heart and the pure of mind went to the kingdom of heaven. He'd long since abandoned the notion that this might go for anyone; because if it did, Heaven would've been a lonely place. Certainly no place he'd want to be.
But none the less, he never thought of it. Except for when he saw Nixon lift another one to his lips, slip it through, light it, inhale.
Then for just a moment, the tiniest of moments, he wished he did.
And he feels guilty.
Lewis Nixon drinks.
How many times he's found bottles of VAT 69 in his footlocker, he can't even remember. It stopped suprising him a long time ago. These days, it provides him with comfort, the knowledge that somehow, Nix is still out there, thinking of him. As long as he finds a bottle in his footlocker every week, he knows Nix isn't out there somewhere, bleeding on the ground amidst the Germans. As long as the bottle's there, Nix is safe.
He's tried to make him stop so many times, he can't even remember. It's taxing on Nix's ability to think, and it wouldn't suprise him if it did the body harm. But no matter what he tried, Nix never listened to him, always went on, slipping himself a glass of whiskey whenever he had the chance. Winters had always predicted it'd get him in trouble some day, and now, having to bring him the news of his demotion, he knows he was right.
Unfortunately.
He wished it didn't have to be. He wished that Nixon could be pure, so that his mother would be pleased. So he could take Nix home with him without having to worry.
Lewis Nixon gambles.
He knows that just a few hours from now, Nix will be over there, again, throwing the cards. Nix claims it keeps him grounded, keeps him in contact with the rest of the soldiers, though most of them, Winters knows, Nix would never want to associate himself with.
None the less, when Nix did ask him, he was tempted. Just for another hour in the man's company. Sometimes he reasons that a game of cards couldn't possibly be any harm, and it'd be worth it. But he can't. He has to stay the example, he has to stay certain, sure of almost everything. No flaws, no vices.
He can't show weakness to the men he's berated for the very same thing he was so close to doing when Nix fixed his brown eyes on him.
But now, there's something different. Nix is sitting there, surrounded by empty bottles and cigarettes, his eyes fixed on the heavens and spewing a million swearwords. He seems so desperate, in need of anything to hold on to. It almost keeps Winters from giving him the news about his demotion. It keeps Winters long enough for him to realize the impact of what Nix has just said. But not for long enough that he doesn't say, and he's almost suprised by the lack of concern on Nix's part.
And then Nix stands up, and walks towards him, looking so weary and beaten all of a sudden that Dick's entire body seems to ache for him. But this doesn't last for long, and Winters is suprised. Pleasantly so.
There is a moment's hesitation in Winters' body as that one little thing he's hoped and feared for happens, at last. With Nix's hands on his body, Nix's lips on his own, the hesitation slows, vanishes, almost, but not entirely. It's not hesitation about himself; he's afraid something pure will be soiled tonight, and it won't be him.
Because unlike him, Lewis Nixon hasn't got any blood on his hands.
Lewis Nixon curses.
The first time Winters met him, he stood on the Toccoan earth yelling expletives in a jeep driver's direction. He remembers how his first judgement was negative, a faint amusement, perhaps, but part of him had screamed 'just another spoiled, rich college guy with an attitude problem' at him, and he'd firmly decided to stick with that judgement.
It lasted for all of two minutes, when the man turned around to face him, and plastered that smirk on his face, one that stunned him where he stood. "Hey," Nixon had offered, "What bit you in your fuckin' ass?" And Winters had realized two things, right there; how stupid he must've been looking, with his eyebrows battling between amusement and irritation. And how there was something about how the new guy moved, smiled, existed. Then he'd taken the offered hand.
"I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters."
And he'd decided right then and there that sharing values with his friends wasn't necessary. At all.
Lewis Nixon smokes.
Every man in the company does; wherever he goes, Winters can smell it, the thick clouds of white seeping into the fabric of his clothes. There is something different about the way Nixon does, though. Something that keeps him fascinated, something that almost makes him wish that he smoked, just to get a little closer in some way. But as always he'd stayed true; his mother had always taught him not to.
His mother had always told him to stay clean and sober, and above all, pure. Because only the pure of heart and the pure of mind went to the kingdom of heaven. He'd long since abandoned the notion that this might go for anyone; because if it did, Heaven would've been a lonely place. Certainly no place he'd want to be.
But none the less, he never thought of it. Except for when he saw Nixon lift another one to his lips, slip it through, light it, inhale.
Then for just a moment, the tiniest of moments, he wished he did.
And he feels guilty.
Lewis Nixon drinks.
How many times he's found bottles of VAT 69 in his footlocker, he can't even remember. It stopped suprising him a long time ago. These days, it provides him with comfort, the knowledge that somehow, Nix is still out there, thinking of him. As long as he finds a bottle in his footlocker every week, he knows Nix isn't out there somewhere, bleeding on the ground amidst the Germans. As long as the bottle's there, Nix is safe.
He's tried to make him stop so many times, he can't even remember. It's taxing on Nix's ability to think, and it wouldn't suprise him if it did the body harm. But no matter what he tried, Nix never listened to him, always went on, slipping himself a glass of whiskey whenever he had the chance. Winters had always predicted it'd get him in trouble some day, and now, having to bring him the news of his demotion, he knows he was right.
Unfortunately.
He wished it didn't have to be. He wished that Nixon could be pure, so that his mother would be pleased. So he could take Nix home with him without having to worry.
Lewis Nixon gambles.
He knows that just a few hours from now, Nix will be over there, again, throwing the cards. Nix claims it keeps him grounded, keeps him in contact with the rest of the soldiers, though most of them, Winters knows, Nix would never want to associate himself with.
None the less, when Nix did ask him, he was tempted. Just for another hour in the man's company. Sometimes he reasons that a game of cards couldn't possibly be any harm, and it'd be worth it. But he can't. He has to stay the example, he has to stay certain, sure of almost everything. No flaws, no vices.
He can't show weakness to the men he's berated for the very same thing he was so close to doing when Nix fixed his brown eyes on him.
But now, there's something different. Nix is sitting there, surrounded by empty bottles and cigarettes, his eyes fixed on the heavens and spewing a million swearwords. He seems so desperate, in need of anything to hold on to. It almost keeps Winters from giving him the news about his demotion. It keeps Winters long enough for him to realize the impact of what Nix has just said. But not for long enough that he doesn't say, and he's almost suprised by the lack of concern on Nix's part.
And then Nix stands up, and walks towards him, looking so weary and beaten all of a sudden that Dick's entire body seems to ache for him. But this doesn't last for long, and Winters is suprised. Pleasantly so.
There is a moment's hesitation in Winters' body as that one little thing he's hoped and feared for happens, at last. With Nix's hands on his body, Nix's lips on his own, the hesitation slows, vanishes, almost, but not entirely. It's not hesitation about himself; he's afraid something pure will be soiled tonight, and it won't be him.
Because unlike him, Lewis Nixon hasn't got any blood on his hands.