Ache
Title: Ache
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: Pg-13
Characters/Pairings: Nixon/Winters
Summary: Poison over perfection.
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers and I mean no disrespect.
Notes or Warnings: This has got to be the saddest thing I have ever written I apologize in advance.
The pine wood of the bar counter is tarnished, lacking the hackneyed sheen most other timber holds. The ribs of it feel almost like sandpaper, rough against his fingertips. The rest of the dive doesn’t rival the low quality of it. It’s as if the leaning walls reflect what he suffers. Shady characters surround him, mostly sipping their poison by themselves, as he is.
If he could have his way, he’d be nursing a whiskey in his living room, a cage of gold and china and priceless paint on priced canvas. Only him and the wandering acrylic eyes and the familiar warmth in his throat. A peachy situation, with a distinct absence of any self reflection or regret.
The known lukewarm quality of his insides isn’t in attendance today, rather a ragged burn, a searing coat of pain all the way to the depths of himself, like it’s the first time again. If it was any other situation he’d be relishing that high, the fresh flame of which in every drink after he’d spent trying to match.
There’s something desperate in the way he clings to the glass. It has no words, no answers, like it had always before. No calming whispers to take him above himself, just the steel toes of his boots heavy against the barstool. He is firmly in this world. He is rooted to this misery.
Each time he had ever reached the bottom of another bottle the brusque ache returned, a fetter that has forever bound him to grasping more. There was the addiction, in essence, the vicious cycle of permanent wretchedness.
So he sits and drinks, and he tries to forget. He wants to shake the memory of the angelic face and how it faltered. He pleads with the tainted scotch-whiskey to bring him away from his own life. Yet, he closes his eyes, and on the back of his lids rests the recollection of it. A transient smile, almost hopeful, and his choice. An impossibly beautiful frown, turning away from him, and the loss of everything he could have treasured.
He waits for his stomach to swill, waits patiently for nothing to be in his system but the alcohol. He waves his hand frequently, and there slides another glass, but nothing becomes of it. Down his throat and into the hollow of his soul. He expects the warm tears that accumulate in his eyes to be of the same token, a bitter thought.
He is in too deep to salvage any of it. All that’s left is his empty heart, and his worthless identity pressed onto the glass.
The sandpaper bar is the opposite of Dick’s skin.
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: Pg-13
Characters/Pairings: Nixon/Winters
Summary: Poison over perfection.
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers and I mean no disrespect.
Notes or Warnings: This has got to be the saddest thing I have ever written I apologize in advance.
The pine wood of the bar counter is tarnished, lacking the hackneyed sheen most other timber holds. The ribs of it feel almost like sandpaper, rough against his fingertips. The rest of the dive doesn’t rival the low quality of it. It’s as if the leaning walls reflect what he suffers. Shady characters surround him, mostly sipping their poison by themselves, as he is.
If he could have his way, he’d be nursing a whiskey in his living room, a cage of gold and china and priceless paint on priced canvas. Only him and the wandering acrylic eyes and the familiar warmth in his throat. A peachy situation, with a distinct absence of any self reflection or regret.
The known lukewarm quality of his insides isn’t in attendance today, rather a ragged burn, a searing coat of pain all the way to the depths of himself, like it’s the first time again. If it was any other situation he’d be relishing that high, the fresh flame of which in every drink after he’d spent trying to match.
There’s something desperate in the way he clings to the glass. It has no words, no answers, like it had always before. No calming whispers to take him above himself, just the steel toes of his boots heavy against the barstool. He is firmly in this world. He is rooted to this misery.
Each time he had ever reached the bottom of another bottle the brusque ache returned, a fetter that has forever bound him to grasping more. There was the addiction, in essence, the vicious cycle of permanent wretchedness.
So he sits and drinks, and he tries to forget. He wants to shake the memory of the angelic face and how it faltered. He pleads with the tainted scotch-whiskey to bring him away from his own life. Yet, he closes his eyes, and on the back of his lids rests the recollection of it. A transient smile, almost hopeful, and his choice. An impossibly beautiful frown, turning away from him, and the loss of everything he could have treasured.
He waits for his stomach to swill, waits patiently for nothing to be in his system but the alcohol. He waves his hand frequently, and there slides another glass, but nothing becomes of it. Down his throat and into the hollow of his soul. He expects the warm tears that accumulate in his eyes to be of the same token, a bitter thought.
He is in too deep to salvage any of it. All that’s left is his empty heart, and his worthless identity pressed onto the glass.
The sandpaper bar is the opposite of Dick’s skin.