wouldn't it be nice
Title: wouldn't be nice
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: Pg-13
Characters/Pairing: Lipton/Speirs, with a hint of Nixon/Winters
Summary: Carwood gets his advice from all the wrong places.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers and I mean no disrespect.
Notes or Warings: Fluff, fluff, Nixon being inappropriate, and then more fluff. title belongs to the beach boys. you should listen to wouldn't it be nice while you read this too because then it's cuter. ;3
Ron(ald) Speirs is the most difficult person to describe. There is no defining word to pin him down, and Carwood thinks that’s why he loves him. However, that also makes him the worst person to buy a gift for. So, that’s why Lipton is here at Nixon’s, well, mansion, because Carwood believes the best idea would come from Lewis, which is stupid because “no one should ever ask Nixon for advice, you’ll either end up drunk or broke or probably both” (Harry’s words, he swears).
He sent a letter warning his arrival a week ago, but unless Dick has been here since then, Nixon’s in for a surprise visit. He knocks gently on the towering door of the New Jersey estate, and a muffled “yeah, yeah” in Nixon’s familiar drawl drifts in his ears. A few seconds later, it creaks open and Carwood smiles at Lewis’s obviously week old beard and squinting eyes.
“Hey Lip! Fancy seein’ you here, when’d you get in town?” His expression lightens a little.
“I, um, sent a letter, sir.”
“None of that ‘sir’ bullshit, Lip. Come on inside, is it late enough to ask if you want a drink?”
Carwood laughs, following Nixon into the entry, “I read eleven hundred hours.”
“Bah, I’ll put you down for a coke then, I guess.”
They sit down in plush chairs in Nixon’s living room, two cokes resting on the table between them because “Dick says the whiskey’ll taste better once it’s six in the evening” which Carwood interprets as “I must love that Pennsylvanian farm boy otherwise neither of us would be drinking a soda in my house.”
“So, what exactly are you here to discuss, Carwood? Want me to be the best man at your wedding? Who’s the lucky girl? You’ll be glad to hear I accept.”
“Actually, it’s not that. I don’t really think it will ever come to that, Nixon.” He replies, scratching the back of his head in order to ease his discomfort.
“Why not?”
“I, um, need some advice. On what to get Ron for Valentine’s Day.” The last sentence he mumbles, barely audible.
Lewis Nixon, though, perceptive as a goddamn hawk, hears it and his face scrunches for a second before blossoming into a uniquely Nixon grin. “You and Ron? Ronald Speirs? Well, Christ, Carwood, how long has this been going on under my nose?”
“Haguenau?” He feels his cheeks heat up as a result. He realizes that coming here was probably the worst decision of his life.
And Nixon throws his head back and barks a laugh, totally genuine. “And you want me to help you shop for him? Oh, wait till Dick hears this, Jesus Christ.”
“That’s the idea. I mean, it’s our first Valentine’s since we got back from Austria and I, well I wanted to do something special.” He’s absolutely mortified.
“Have you given it up yet?” Nixon asks, face totally innocent.
“Given what up?”
And as if things couldn’t get any worse: “You know, had sex with him? Because that’s always a great gift.”
“What? No, no God no how does that even work?”
“Ron must love you, then, Jesus. You mean he hasn’t even told you how to go about it?”
“No!”
He figures death would probably be less painful than this.
“Well, Lip, it goes like this…”
-
The texture of his pressed suit is not doing anything to assuage his anxiety, he’s only wearing it because Nixon assured him that Ron appreciated the “suave sexy look” and he feels like he’s sweating and looks like some business monkey and then the front door is opening.
Carwood adjusts the tablecloth around his specially-made dinner, complete with candle light and roses and god knows what he was thinking when he actually believed Nixon about this crap. He tries to smile like he’s not about to pass out when Ron rounds the corner into the dining room.
He’s in his uniform, captain bars twinkling on his lapels. His hair frames his handsome face as if it were priceless art. Carwood’s whipped enough to say that Ron is.
He’s looking at his shoes when he says “Missed you at work today.”
He glances up, taking in everything, and his lips part. “Carwood…”
His tone alarms Lipton, who starts talking at a mile a minute, rushing out “It’s too much I know” and “Nixon put me up to it” and some “I’m sorry we should have just gone out for a movie”’s.
Ron approaches him, though, light smirk on his face, and kisses Lipton’s cheek. “It looks delicious.” He slips his fingers between Carwood’s.
“I love you, Ron.”
“I love you too.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“I doubt you can top this.”
Ron is just really setting himself up for this one, and Nixon’s little proverb of “don’t go shy on the dirty talk” is coming to use when Carwood replies, “You could top me though.”
Ron laughs, and that is really not the reaction Lipton was hoping for. “We’ll have to work on that, Carwood.” He kisses Lipton and presses something into his hand.
After breaking apart, he looks down at the pair of tickets in his palm.
“I figured we could go see Mrs. Lipton down in Huntington.”
All of Carwood’s anxiety melts away, replaced by a pleasant swelling in his chest.
“Dick said you would like it.”
“Nixon said you would like sex.”
“Well, I’m not going to stop liking that, so if you’re not ready, we can wait.”
“I’m ready.” There’s no hesitation in his voice.
“Will dinner stay warm?”
“That’s why ovens were invented.”
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
Lipton ghosts his lips over the corner of Ron’s mouth, barely brushing his skin.
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: Pg-13
Characters/Pairing: Lipton/Speirs, with a hint of Nixon/Winters
Summary: Carwood gets his advice from all the wrong places.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers and I mean no disrespect.
Notes or Warings: Fluff, fluff, Nixon being inappropriate, and then more fluff. title belongs to the beach boys. you should listen to wouldn't it be nice while you read this too because then it's cuter. ;3
Ron(ald) Speirs is the most difficult person to describe. There is no defining word to pin him down, and Carwood thinks that’s why he loves him. However, that also makes him the worst person to buy a gift for. So, that’s why Lipton is here at Nixon’s, well, mansion, because Carwood believes the best idea would come from Lewis, which is stupid because “no one should ever ask Nixon for advice, you’ll either end up drunk or broke or probably both” (Harry’s words, he swears).
He sent a letter warning his arrival a week ago, but unless Dick has been here since then, Nixon’s in for a surprise visit. He knocks gently on the towering door of the New Jersey estate, and a muffled “yeah, yeah” in Nixon’s familiar drawl drifts in his ears. A few seconds later, it creaks open and Carwood smiles at Lewis’s obviously week old beard and squinting eyes.
“Hey Lip! Fancy seein’ you here, when’d you get in town?” His expression lightens a little.
“I, um, sent a letter, sir.”
“None of that ‘sir’ bullshit, Lip. Come on inside, is it late enough to ask if you want a drink?”
Carwood laughs, following Nixon into the entry, “I read eleven hundred hours.”
“Bah, I’ll put you down for a coke then, I guess.”
They sit down in plush chairs in Nixon’s living room, two cokes resting on the table between them because “Dick says the whiskey’ll taste better once it’s six in the evening” which Carwood interprets as “I must love that Pennsylvanian farm boy otherwise neither of us would be drinking a soda in my house.”
“So, what exactly are you here to discuss, Carwood? Want me to be the best man at your wedding? Who’s the lucky girl? You’ll be glad to hear I accept.”
“Actually, it’s not that. I don’t really think it will ever come to that, Nixon.” He replies, scratching the back of his head in order to ease his discomfort.
“Why not?”
“I, um, need some advice. On what to get Ron for Valentine’s Day.” The last sentence he mumbles, barely audible.
Lewis Nixon, though, perceptive as a goddamn hawk, hears it and his face scrunches for a second before blossoming into a uniquely Nixon grin. “You and Ron? Ronald Speirs? Well, Christ, Carwood, how long has this been going on under my nose?”
“Haguenau?” He feels his cheeks heat up as a result. He realizes that coming here was probably the worst decision of his life.
And Nixon throws his head back and barks a laugh, totally genuine. “And you want me to help you shop for him? Oh, wait till Dick hears this, Jesus Christ.”
“That’s the idea. I mean, it’s our first Valentine’s since we got back from Austria and I, well I wanted to do something special.” He’s absolutely mortified.
“Have you given it up yet?” Nixon asks, face totally innocent.
“Given what up?”
And as if things couldn’t get any worse: “You know, had sex with him? Because that’s always a great gift.”
“What? No, no God no how does that even work?”
“Ron must love you, then, Jesus. You mean he hasn’t even told you how to go about it?”
“No!”
He figures death would probably be less painful than this.
“Well, Lip, it goes like this…”
-
The texture of his pressed suit is not doing anything to assuage his anxiety, he’s only wearing it because Nixon assured him that Ron appreciated the “suave sexy look” and he feels like he’s sweating and looks like some business monkey and then the front door is opening.
Carwood adjusts the tablecloth around his specially-made dinner, complete with candle light and roses and god knows what he was thinking when he actually believed Nixon about this crap. He tries to smile like he’s not about to pass out when Ron rounds the corner into the dining room.
He’s in his uniform, captain bars twinkling on his lapels. His hair frames his handsome face as if it were priceless art. Carwood’s whipped enough to say that Ron is.
He’s looking at his shoes when he says “Missed you at work today.”
He glances up, taking in everything, and his lips part. “Carwood…”
His tone alarms Lipton, who starts talking at a mile a minute, rushing out “It’s too much I know” and “Nixon put me up to it” and some “I’m sorry we should have just gone out for a movie”’s.
Ron approaches him, though, light smirk on his face, and kisses Lipton’s cheek. “It looks delicious.” He slips his fingers between Carwood’s.
“I love you, Ron.”
“I love you too.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“I doubt you can top this.”
Ron is just really setting himself up for this one, and Nixon’s little proverb of “don’t go shy on the dirty talk” is coming to use when Carwood replies, “You could top me though.”
Ron laughs, and that is really not the reaction Lipton was hoping for. “We’ll have to work on that, Carwood.” He kisses Lipton and presses something into his hand.
After breaking apart, he looks down at the pair of tickets in his palm.
“I figured we could go see Mrs. Lipton down in Huntington.”
All of Carwood’s anxiety melts away, replaced by a pleasant swelling in his chest.
“Dick said you would like it.”
“Nixon said you would like sex.”
“Well, I’m not going to stop liking that, so if you’re not ready, we can wait.”
“I’m ready.” There’s no hesitation in his voice.
“Will dinner stay warm?”
“That’s why ovens were invented.”
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
Lipton ghosts his lips over the corner of Ron’s mouth, barely brushing his skin.