FIC: Fidelity III
Part 3
Words: 1991
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing(s): Eventual Speirs/Lipton; gen for now
Notes: Lipton-centric.
Summary: Lipton lived the war like a soldier. And that frightened him the most.
Synopsis: Wherein Lipton learns about life and death.
Rated: G
iv.
“You ever think about home, Lip?”
Lipton looked up lightly to meet Johnny Martin’s eyes over the rim of his cup, steam wafting up from something that almost seemed like coffee if he pretended enough. It was chillier than usual. Martin huddled mercifully close to him, their rifles leaning against a tree both of them had decided to sit by.
“Home?”
“Home,” Martin echoed with a nod. “Y’know, wife. Kids. House. Picket fence.” He let out a snort as he mentioned ‘picket fence’, like he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it aloud. But the idea was there, even as he eyed the troops walking past, waiting for a reply.
“…Not really,” Lipton admitted.
Martin sighed, closing his mouth as he stared out at the men, eventually dropping his gaze.
“Not even you, huh.”
Lipton looked puzzled for a moment. Martin wasn’t usually nostalgic or ambiguous. It was a feature that most of the soldiers prized. Even when he had gotten the news about Guarnere’s brother back in Aldbourne, he hadn’t minced words with neither Lipton nor Guarnere himself. Skirted the issue, sure, but he was always direct.
“Johnny?”
Martin didn’t speak for a moment, pensive, hesitant. He was teeming with something he couldn’t put into words, something that both excited and frightened him. His voice, however, was oddly hollow as he spoke in a confidential undertone. It was dull. Almost upset.
“Tell you the truth, I… I don’t even remember what she looks like anymore.”
Lipton’s mouth went a little dry. He lowered his coffee to his lap, expression patient, waiting.
Knowing.
Johnny Martin was a good man; strong, clear headed. He acted like a staff sergeant should act, never revealed weakness, never brought down morale. But Lipton was a close friend, and above all, a senior non-com that most of the men confided in. It was a burden he had to bear, but he bore it with pride. Considering the number of times Martin had come to him before, Lipton could only guess that he had been troubled for a while. Perhaps he hadn’t discovered what the dull ache of worry had been until then. Perhaps he hadn’t known how to express his fears.
“Just that, the work I did and the people I was with… I guess… I mean, you and I, we both got, y’know…” Martin trailed off, staring at the ground, unblinking.
Lipton knew exactly what Martin was thinking. He knew what he wanted to hear.
“It’s okay, Johnny,” Lipton soothed, a hand already patting his shoulder gently, squeezing. “When you’re away for so long, these things just happen. Things change. People change. You’re fighting a war, Johnny. And to be frank,” he paused a moment to make sure Martin looked him in the eye, saw how earnest he was.
“When we go back, nothing will ever be the same. And it’s okay.”
He saw Martin’s lip quiver, so very slightly. His voice remained steady, strong, but he saw the quiver and it didn’t stop for a while. Lipton empathised - Martin couldn’t know how close to home that had hit - but he could never admit that he had gone through the very same thing, the very same fears. He was a first sergeant, and first sergeants were supposed to be the unbreakable pillars of support of a company. He had told Speirs the night before that men looked to their superiors for encouragement. By that very principle, leaders could not reveal any flaws to their men. It was imperative.
Which was why Lipton never complained. He couldn’t. There had never been any COs for him to turn to before, not after Winters had been promoted, so he became used to shouldering the burden. So used to the burden that he lost the awareness of how much it truly did weigh, how much it took out of him day after day. The men could fathom the shape of it, could make out the silhouette of it, but never the density, the intensity. They couldn’t feel what Lipton felt. And to be frank, Lipton tried his best to not to let it show. He never knew that the men understood that need of his completely.
“It is, isn’t it?” Johnny Martin asked, almost (almost) desperately, accent coming out strong, pulling Lipton away from his thoughts. “It ain’t wrong, innit? Lip? It's-"
“It’s okay,” Lipton reassured him firmly, forgetting his coffee. “It’s okay."
* * *
"Do you think we'll go back someday?"
Lipton looked up, surprised.
He rarely heard Speirs talk about things unrelated to the war at hand. Nonetheless, the tone of his officer’s voice wasn’t wistful or nostalgic; it was firm, as though asking for an opinion regarding a combat patrol rather than his personal feelings. He didn't say anything for a moment, cautiously surveying the situation, the atmosphere, unsure of whether the question had been rhetorical or not. After a while, Speirs cast his dark eyes to the man, penetrating as usual, and by then Lipton had come to know that he wasn't doing that to intimidate him into saying what Speirs wanted to hear. That was just Speirs wanting an answer.
"Mourmelon?"
"No, Sergeant," Speirs’ eyes narrowed slightly, words sharp as always. "Home."
Lipton had the courtesy to look slightly sheepish. Speirs didn’t even blink.
Home. That word was popping up a bit too much for his liking.
"Honestly, sir?” Lipton decided he might as well be honest. “I don't know."
"Yeah," Speirs replied, tightening his lips together as he looked away, his tone not matching his noncommittal expression. "Yeah."
Lipton shot him one of his mild smiles, this time one that looked slightly uncertain, and returned to the papers in his hand, not really knowing what to do from then on. He wasn’t particularly occupied with the new roster anymore, but he wanted to keep himself from being idle. And for some reason, his entire body seemed to weigh down on him, head the slightest bit foggy. He’d get headaches when he over-thought things, and so to remedy that, Lipton would generally try to focus on simple tasks until he had something else to do. He managed a few more minutes of silence before the headache began to creep up on him, grip him tight in a painful vice. He rubbed his temple with a bruised finger, trying to soothe it still.
"Lipton."
"Sir?” He looked up automatically.
Speirs eyed him, taking a moment before speaking.
“You’re fatigued.”
“I’m not,” Lipton protested immediately, hurriedly adding, “Sir,” embarrassed for sounding petulant.
Speirs arched a brow, giving him a look.
“You didn’t hear a word I said.”
“Well…” He tried. But he hadn’t heard. “…I wasn’t paying attention, I’m sorry. What was it, sir?”
Speirs stared at him then. That wasn’t something Lipton normally did. He allowed it to slide, but there was a warning glint in his eye that informed the First Sergeant that Speirs was well aware of certain things, whatever those things were. Lipton, however, barely recognised the look, mind starting to haze over once again.
"I said, Sergeant Lipton, that I'm married."
Lipton's eyes snapped open.
"What?"
He saw the corners of Speirs' eyes crinkle, accompanying the amused smirk, but it barely registered. He had all of Lipton's attention now, brain up faster than a cold shower in Bastogne. Fact was that Speirs wasn't giving Lipton's brain enough time to catch up, and he struggled so plainly to take in everything he was being told that Speirs couldn’t help the smile that eventually widened on his face.
"Got hitched in Aldbourne. Widow. Husband was a soldier."
Lipton was at a total loss.
Speirs broke his pack of smokes then, idly placing one between his lips and lighting it before offering another to Lipton - to which the sergeant didn't move to accept nor reject. Speirs let his hand stay outstretched for a minute, expression unreadable, before bringing it back, removing a single cigarette and lighting it.
"She's pregnant with my kid."
He approached, hand stopping a few inches short of Lipton's face. Lipton finally took it with a reluctant hand.
"Congratulations," he finally offered, tone weak. Speirs shot him another amused smirk.
"I figured you for more of a talker, Lipton."
"Ah," Lipton replied gingerly. "Just that I figured you for... less of a talker, sir. All due respect."
"Suppose it seems that way," he removed his cigarette, exhaling slowly. He didn't sound like he believed Lipton, which made the man worry a little. Right then, he wasn’t sure why, but when he would be thrashing in a soft bed in a rotten house in Haguenau, he would know exactly why. "You're married, right?"
“What?” Lipton sounded disoriented, a bit tired, eyes swinging to meet Speirs’.
He didn’t respond, merely taking a seat and looking away, mouth hardened into a line.
Lipton wracked his brain, not wanting to admit defeat in this. He was by no means afraid of Speirs, but he did not want to be bullied into resting when he had to be awake for the other boys lest another Johnny Martin came up to him, to talk. He forced himself, think, think, think. Harder. On the tip. Of tongue. Important. Very important.
You’re married, right?
Lipton felt like he’d asked himself this question a thousand times throughout the war. He knew the other men had asked this question not just of him, but of themselves as well. Remembrance. They owed that much to the thin strip of gold on their finger that promised a whole other world, a world of comfort and silence and the smell of women clinging to soft sheets. In other words, something no one knew anymore. Something that would never mean what it had meant a long, long time ago.
Lipton hesitated.
“...back in the States, yes, I was married.”
He knew, somehow, that Speirs probably thought that he was being nosy and that Lipton didn't want to talk. He could tell that Speirs, in that stilted, clumsy way of his, wanted to invite Lipton to speak, as candidly as he had the night before. Lipton wanted to. He wanted to so badly. But there was something inside him that forced him down, clouded his thoughts, made everything strange and imperceptible. He felt guilt, he felt nausea, he felt excitement, and it confused him. He wondered, briefly, why Speirs wanted to know. Right then, he was still an enlisted man - officers and enlisted men weren’t supposed to buddy up - and Speirs was not the type to be intimate. But that notion passed quickly and his thoughts fell into further disarray.
Lipton didn’t know what the whispers of stars and cigarettes meant to either of them, didn't know about a lot of things, but he knew one thing: he didn’t want to shut Speirs out. He wanted to reach out, grab the man's hand that was being so tentatively offered to him. He was supposed to be Easy's First Sergeant, the man with all the right words, but he could never conjure anything when he constantly lost himself in black eyes that could see beyond the ghosts of a dream of freedom and how they shackled Lipton down. Black eyes that were cold and empty, but held understanding.
Now that he had finally met a man who knew exactly what his burden looked and felt like, Lipton couldn't let himself be overtly cautious and keep away. He didn’t want the burden anymore. It hurt so much to carry it alone. Lipton knew that he had to make a choice.
Lipton took a deep drag of his cigarette before he closed his eyes and laid his head back.
"...I'm... from Huntington, West Virginia..."