Band of Brothers Fic: and so this is what i have
and so this is what i have
it’s not about the lines for poets. winters gets to paris: this was the year where i learned to be tired; not everybody falls in love with the city. band of brothers. winters-centric. crossroads. 723 words, pg.
notes: first foray into this and most certainly not the last - i’m sure thisisironic won’t let me in any case, such this being dedicated to her. ♥
His hand is already moving as Paris starts to piece into view, swallowed to split the seconds as the train stops. The slips of paper skirt forward in his lap, the shuffle of boots lost to the slighting murmur of some excitement.
They wait for permission and always a good solider, even now as boys.
Laughter sighs relief at the station, the smell of smoke an easy comfort to him as he steps out into the platform. Winters tries to sigh, his teeth over his lip, and his hand tightening around the strap of his bag while the other shoves his papers inside.
You’d think he’d go back to the pictures, but Paris stays fleeting and out of reach; he was better at leaving the romanticism to home, to the men that were made of this kinda preaching. He grows uncomfortable with the rise of need, through ranks, and wonders how long he’s gonna go and bullshit everybody else.
“It’ll be good for us!” Somebody laughs. Hookers, whores, and the younger girls trying to break out staying young to play catch up are always eager. Worse than the damn SS, somebody else is already slurring to follow.
Winters shakes his head and passes it all, into the crowd. He waits. Nixon grows into his conscience again, civilization a breeze of irony. He really doesn’t know what to expect of the pass, the open city more daunting to him than the heaviness of the fields, the back countries and people hiding under thin roofs. He’s quiet though, bows his head and presses his fingers into fists. Relaxes. Then tenses again with open hands instead. His nails are gray and ink stretches to dry over his palms, a fit of amusement curling around his mouth.
But that fades as he starts to walk between the others, the nervous laughs and sighs and wills of Paris and this and that; it’s the singular craving, the mark of a man that’s either too new or has seen too little and rushes to forget so far away from the make of home - whatever that can be.
“Sir.”
He passes a nod again, old habits few and far between as he ignores the younger ones, the spin of awe that used to keep him in knots. Winters never misses the desk though and he’ll never say he misses the field, it’s the sort course of understanding that he really doesn’t have anymore.
But en’joy yourself, sir! and they’re in his head, even gone from under him, when he rolls out into the streets with the high noise of the day starting to swallow the ringing in his ears. The streets are too strange, too firm, and he picks a path to continue following. His boots are too fast, the click is gone, and he weighs a couple chances at circles just because he won’t get his goddamn head blown off.
There are still too many lights and laughs, too many corners, and too many people completely unaware of what’s come to pass. Voices get louder and the laughter seems too distant and too thin, tones foreign and far from what he remembers. He doesn’t stop though. He’s forward, always forward, and grips his bag as if his life still depended on it. It’s not about the lines for poets; people are never going to understand why he won’t close his eyes.
It’s going to be the same, here or there, waiting for Nixon to crack dry habits, the sound of sirens, and plans wrinkling between his fingers. He’s left thinking about everything and nothing, mostly nothing. He still has to cope.
So he walks to the end of a particular street with a particular shop and particular people that watch him with mixes of awe and unease. He tries to tell himself that okay, okay this is just another part of it all. Maybe, he’ll lie to himself too - but that’s later, much later, when he’s just tired, just tired of everything else.
But he passes and goes on, his gaze forward with his eyes wrinkling just a little bit. People are inherently the same or so the war goes. The faces will still cry, some back there say, and he remembers, of course, as nothing else.
Winters tries to smile; he doesn’t need to smell Paris anymore.
it’s not about the lines for poets. winters gets to paris: this was the year where i learned to be tired; not everybody falls in love with the city. band of brothers. winters-centric. crossroads. 723 words, pg.
notes: first foray into this and most certainly not the last - i’m sure thisisironic won’t let me in any case, such this being dedicated to her. ♥
His hand is already moving as Paris starts to piece into view, swallowed to split the seconds as the train stops. The slips of paper skirt forward in his lap, the shuffle of boots lost to the slighting murmur of some excitement.
They wait for permission and always a good solider, even now as boys.
Laughter sighs relief at the station, the smell of smoke an easy comfort to him as he steps out into the platform. Winters tries to sigh, his teeth over his lip, and his hand tightening around the strap of his bag while the other shoves his papers inside.
You’d think he’d go back to the pictures, but Paris stays fleeting and out of reach; he was better at leaving the romanticism to home, to the men that were made of this kinda preaching. He grows uncomfortable with the rise of need, through ranks, and wonders how long he’s gonna go and bullshit everybody else.
“It’ll be good for us!” Somebody laughs. Hookers, whores, and the younger girls trying to break out staying young to play catch up are always eager. Worse than the damn SS, somebody else is already slurring to follow.
Winters shakes his head and passes it all, into the crowd. He waits. Nixon grows into his conscience again, civilization a breeze of irony. He really doesn’t know what to expect of the pass, the open city more daunting to him than the heaviness of the fields, the back countries and people hiding under thin roofs. He’s quiet though, bows his head and presses his fingers into fists. Relaxes. Then tenses again with open hands instead. His nails are gray and ink stretches to dry over his palms, a fit of amusement curling around his mouth.
But that fades as he starts to walk between the others, the nervous laughs and sighs and wills of Paris and this and that; it’s the singular craving, the mark of a man that’s either too new or has seen too little and rushes to forget so far away from the make of home - whatever that can be.
“Sir.”
He passes a nod again, old habits few and far between as he ignores the younger ones, the spin of awe that used to keep him in knots. Winters never misses the desk though and he’ll never say he misses the field, it’s the sort course of understanding that he really doesn’t have anymore.
But en’joy yourself, sir! and they’re in his head, even gone from under him, when he rolls out into the streets with the high noise of the day starting to swallow the ringing in his ears. The streets are too strange, too firm, and he picks a path to continue following. His boots are too fast, the click is gone, and he weighs a couple chances at circles just because he won’t get his goddamn head blown off.
There are still too many lights and laughs, too many corners, and too many people completely unaware of what’s come to pass. Voices get louder and the laughter seems too distant and too thin, tones foreign and far from what he remembers. He doesn’t stop though. He’s forward, always forward, and grips his bag as if his life still depended on it. It’s not about the lines for poets; people are never going to understand why he won’t close his eyes.
It’s going to be the same, here or there, waiting for Nixon to crack dry habits, the sound of sirens, and plans wrinkling between his fingers. He’s left thinking about everything and nothing, mostly nothing. He still has to cope.
So he walks to the end of a particular street with a particular shop and particular people that watch him with mixes of awe and unease. He tries to tell himself that okay, okay this is just another part of it all. Maybe, he’ll lie to himself too - but that’s later, much later, when he’s just tired, just tired of everything else.
But he passes and goes on, his gaze forward with his eyes wrinkling just a little bit. People are inherently the same or so the war goes. The faces will still cry, some back there say, and he remembers, of course, as nothing else.
Winters tries to smile; he doesn’t need to smell Paris anymore.