Darling, You Look So Afraid (5/?)
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Pairing(s): Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Joseph Liebgott/Kenyon Webster, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters, Kitty Grogan/Harry Welsh, Muck/Malarkey
Character(s) various other guys from Easy
Summary: The universe likes to play with people, soulmates are a thing, and the guys of Easy Company make unnecessary drama for themselves.
Disclaimer: This is soley based off the HBO show Band of Brothers. No relation to the real men, and no disrespect meant. Along with that, nothing belongs to me.
Skip Muck and Donald Malarkey become friends the very moment they meet.
At Toccoa, their bunks are next to each other, they share a stand, and Sobel targets them almost immediately. It’s not hard to forge some sort of bond through all that, but there’s more to it. Obviously, neither of them is willing to admit to the pull they feel toward each other, but that doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent.
(Penkala always feels a little bit left out, but he doesn’t say a word.)
So, they become closer and closer as years and friends and places pass. Their friendship evolves from good mornings and sitting next to each other in the mess hall, to “wake the fuck up, fucker” and an on-going and unspoken war to scare the shit out of each other.
Muck sometimes lies in bed and thinks “I could live with Don Malarkey for the rest of my life,” but dismisses it with thoughts of strong friendships and happiness. He doesn’t let himself think of how sometimes he wants to puke-in-a-good-way around Don, or how he catches himself staring sometimes, or how Don gives him this certain look and he doesn’t know what it means, but he sure as hell isn’t going to think too much about it.
---
It’s Nixon and Winters, the infamously oblivious duo, that clue him in.
He watches with muted amusement as Winters checks on everyone and pointedly answers anything about Nixon’s whereabouts with a curt “He’s sleeping.” Of course, they all know their beloved intelligence officer is probably drunk off his ass, but there’s something in Winters’ frustration and the tone of his voice that clues into more. Muck can’t define it, but everyone and their mother can see that the situation is much more personal than Nixon’s drinking problem.
(And how anything can be more personal than having an alcoholic best friend in the middle of a war, he’s not sure, but there are feelings involved, and that’s all he needs to know.)
After Winters leaves, he turns to Don to crack some joke about “mommy and daddy,” but he gets beaten to the punch by Moore, who says with a sigh, “I wish they’d consider how hard a divorce would be on all their children.”
Everyone laughs.
Don quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head toward Muck, saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, I want Mom to have full custody, she’s more fun.”
There’s another round of laughter, and Muck can’t stop himself from grinning at the half-assed joke.
(He feels ridiculous.)
---
He’s going to blame everything, later, on the war and the Krauts and his sudden aversion to thinking logically and being self-aware.
There are letters curled neatly on his right wrist, and he knows what it means but he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it. He ignores the name there, forces himself to not read it, and forgets.
(And he knows it appeared two years ago, but that isn’t something he needs to linger on at all.)
So when he finally lets his guard down-in the back of a truck bump its way toward somewhere cold, contemplating in a huddle of warm bodies about how much he would like some of Mama Muck’s cooking-his eyes alight on the name and his entire world crumbles.
Donald G. Malarkey is squeezed onto his inner wrist, and he feels a burning sensation in him that has nothing to do with his magical tattoo.
Someone asks if he’s alright and he says a quick, cheerful, “Yeah, it’s all good. Just freezin’ my ass off.” Then crosses his arms and stuffs his hands inside his thin coat, pressing his wrist to his chest and feeling a little bit like he’d be better off deserting if it means not having to look Don in the face.
The ride to whatever hellhole they’re being stationed at next is long and filled with complaining men and Liebgott repeating every few minutes that he really fucking needs to take a piss. Muck curls into himself and tries to ignore the persistent attempts of Don and Alex to engage him in some of the good-natured ribbing being thrown around.
They get there and it’s an absolute shitfest.
He forces himself to forget his own angst for a moment and starts mooching supplies off the returning soldiers, feeling a twinge of remorse, and cracks a nervous joke with a wide-eyed Babe. The soldiers that shuffle past look like death and hell wrapped in bandages and empty eyes, and Muck thinks it’s the most frightening thing he’ll see the entire war.
Eventually, they move out and Muck finds gravitating toward Don without really thinking about it. With an internal sigh, he stops fighting it and instead returns his best friend’s smile and instead focuses on the uneven road the company struggles on, already tired and cold.
He accepts the smoke Don offers him silently and tells himself they’re standing so close to keep warm.
“You alright?” Don asks after almost an hour of silence.
“Yeah.” Muck says, voice cracking a little. “I’m just fine, Don. Thanks.”
Don gives him an incredulous look but doesn’t push it. Instead, he says, “Just try not to get too thoughtful on me, Penk decided to think all week.”
“Hey!” Alex protests. “I think all the time, just not before I speak.”
“Yeah, now you’re never going to talk.”
“The dead of winter is the best time to think, alright, Don.”
Muck snorts. “If you’re actually warm, sure.”
“Stop bringing me down, guys.” Alex complains. “We’re all tired; I figured I may as well get some childhood traumas talked out with myself before anything bad happens.”
“Just don’t think too hard.” Muck advises. “You don’t want to make yourself implode.”
Alex rolls his eyes and Don grins, elbowing him. His voice is quiet and hurt and understanding all at once when he says, “There you are.”
“Yeah.” He agrees, tightening his arms around himself. “Here I am.”
***
Throughout his entire career as a paratrooper, Webster never thought he would be the one to go AWOL from the hospital.
Sure, he’s heard all the heroic tales, heard of how it’s strongly encouraged, but he’s not here to be a hero, and he’s definitely not here to die in a remote forest in the dead of winter.
Regardless, he stops feeling sorry for himself one day and wakes the fuck up. He stops thinking too much, stops composing lyrical prose, stops regretting his choices and his existence, and gets up.
There are people he cares about, for one, and he does, in fact, have some sense of pride. Heroism may not be his goal, but you can’t be a soldier without dreaming of the Medal of Honor. So, he limps out of the hospital and, not long after, hops off a jeep to yells of, “Hey, Webster! College boy decided to join us!” and “Never thought I’d see the day.”
He’s not sure who says what, but then he’s engulfed in slaps on the back and people congratulating him on growing some balls and it doesn’t really matter. He gives them a tight smile and says, “Couldn’t let you all die alone, right?” And then everyone laughs and he feels a little bit like he’s come home.
(He doesn’t miss how the one person he wants to see doesn’t greet him, but instead slinks away with a dark look. He reports to Winters without another word.)
(He also makes a point to ignore the growing sense of panic in his stomach and the fact that this was all probably a bad idea but, well, you can’t make friends and write a good story without risking your life more than once.)
“Glad you decided to go AWOL, Private.” Winters says with a friendly smile. “We could use all the men we can get.”
“The hospital got boring, anyway.” Web says nonchalantly. “I missed sleeping in strange places and eating one meal a day.”
Winters laughs a little at that then pats his shoulder. “Go find Peacock or Compton, they’ll set you up with a nice foxhole.”
Webs salutes and thanks Winters, then leaves.
Without the newness of his Triumphant Return gathering everyone around him, he finally gets to observe the forest. And, even this far into the war, he can’t help but compose some sort of prose-a way to describe the world around him, words to convey the cold and the beauty and the absolute feeling of death.
For one, Bastogne sparkles.
There are broken trees and broken soldiers, but nature lives in its sparkle and shine, in the patches of untouched snow, in the warm cups of water passed between friends and acquaintances alike. There is a sort of fierce protectiveness that comes with Bastogne, Web realizes, in which replacements are treated more fair than he ever remembered. Food and water and foxholes and body heat are shared, and all sense of personal space is eliminated. The overhanging darkness oppresses the weak sunlight snaking through tree branches and makes the place feel like a final resting place. (For many, it is.)
Overall, though, Bastogne makes Easy more of a family than before, and Webster can’t help but feel proud of the resilience of human life, even on the front lines of what’s turning into a hopeless and never ending battle.
Lost in thought, God smiles maliciously down on him and he stumbles into Joseph Liebgott’s.
After the initial confused yells of “what the hell?” there is dead silence. After a beat, Alley scrambles out and away, looking vaguely terrified and wildly gesturing at Doc Roe to turn around and run the other way.
Joe stares at him.
“Joey!” Web blurts. He stands and steadies himself uncertainly, looking down at a blank-faced Joe. “I, uh-”
“When the fuck did we get close enough for you to call me Joey?” There’s anger and resentment and something akin to guilt, but Web elects to ignore all those in favor of sitting back down gingerly in front of Joe. When the silence begins leaning toward awkward, he speaks up again. “And watch where you’re going, Webster.”
Web clears his throat. “Thanks for the warm welcome.” He says.
(And that’s not really what he meant to say but Joe always does this to him goddamn.)
“You’re welcome.” Joe answers with a half-sneer. “Glad to see you had fun in the hospital for two months.”
(I missed you.) “Still having pissing contests, then?”
“If it passes the time in this place.” The shred of honesty in Joe’s voice throws him for a moment, and he’s left scrambling for something to say.
“Who needs Berlin, right?”
Joe snorts. “Right.”
Before he can really stop himself, Web says, “I’m sorry.”
Joe straightens up. “You better fuckin’ be.”
Web frowns. “You didn’t ask what I’m sorry for.”
“Well, I don’t have to. I figure there’re a dozen things for you to say sorry for.”
Later, he’ll wonder how months hasn’t waned Joe Liebgott’s ability to rile him up within seconds. For now, though, he stands and doesn’t try to mask his anger. “You’re such a pompous ass.”
Joe laughs loudly at that, waving his arms in what Web assumes is supposed to be an imitation of him. (And there’s a flash there, of something dark and elaborate and his stomach drops right through him and into the ground.) “Pompous? Really? Big words don’t make you any more insulting, Webster.”
A million things pass through his throat and mind, but all that comes out is, “fuck you.” And then he’s storming away with the grace of a five-year-old.
Web hates himself for assuming he could have a civil and meaningful conversation with someone like Joseph Liebgott, but he hates himself more for not telling Joe he could damn well see David K. Webster written on the inside of his wrist.
***
Carwood Lipton is first introduced to Ronald Speirs on D-Day.
Rather, one of the boys points him out, cites a story about a drunken Private, shudders, then walks way.
Carwood is immediately enchanted.
Besides the initial mystery factor that comes with a fearless CO like Speirs, there’s something about the toothy smiles he gives Winters. There’s something about the way he walks and the way he holds his gun and the way his voice is perfect for the army. The ruthlessness in his body language and the coldness in his eyes have Carwood obliquely asking after him more than once. More than once, though, he’s given with a vague answer and a wave somewhere to the right or left. More than once, he barely misses an opportunity to actually speak to Speirs.
But something stronger than the Carwood’s stalkerish tendencies and the cohesiveness of the Airborne draws them together and, finally, they speak.
“Carwood Lipton,” Speirs says with this signature smile. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“And you, sir.” Carwood replies, shaking his hand firmly (a thrill). “Although, I wasn’t aware that anyone outside of Easy knew my name.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Lieutenant.” He says evenly. “But I have taken a significant interest in you.”
“Really?” Carwood almost raises an eyebrow, but decides that’s too much and instead angles himself closer. There’s a warm feeling blooming through him and he’s this close to figuring out just where their conversation is going.
“Well,” Speirs says with the casualty of someone ordering wine, “considering your name is tattooed on my body, you’re kind of hard to avoid.”
He tugs up the sleeve on his right arm and holds out it out, turning his arm over so Carwood can get a better look at the inside of his wrist. “Clifford C. Lipton, huh?”
Carwood knows he should be shocked or at least in denial of some sort about this, but instead he stares at his name, then at Speirs’ face, then lingers on the genuine smile that’s threatening to tug at the older man’s lips. He smiles a bit. “I feel more justified in following you around, now.”
Speirs raises an eyebrow. “That explains why it feels like we’ve been going in circles.”
Carwood laughs and lets himself relax. “At least we aren’t winding around and around the same issue like Winters and Nixon.”
But then Speirs is kissing him, holding Carwood’s chin in one of his hands, gentle and loving. The past ten minutes were probably the very last thing Carwood ever expected to come out of Holland, but now Speirs is here and he feels complete in a way he’s never felt.
(Not complete, he thinks vaguely, more like-I’ve been looking for one thing my whole life, and now it’s finally here and I can be happy.)
(He doesn’t mention any of these thoughts to Speirs.)
He subconsciously registers some wolf whistling and a loud “hell yeah, they know how it’s supposed to go,” but mostly he’s focused on Speirs’ stubble and his own name breathed against his lips by the most enigmatic and threatening man in the entire ETO.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Pairing(s): Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Joseph Liebgott/Kenyon Webster, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters, Kitty Grogan/Harry Welsh, Muck/Malarkey
Character(s) various other guys from Easy
Summary: The universe likes to play with people, soulmates are a thing, and the guys of Easy Company make unnecessary drama for themselves.
Disclaimer: This is soley based off the HBO show Band of Brothers. No relation to the real men, and no disrespect meant. Along with that, nothing belongs to me.
Skip Muck and Donald Malarkey become friends the very moment they meet.
At Toccoa, their bunks are next to each other, they share a stand, and Sobel targets them almost immediately. It’s not hard to forge some sort of bond through all that, but there’s more to it. Obviously, neither of them is willing to admit to the pull they feel toward each other, but that doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent.
(Penkala always feels a little bit left out, but he doesn’t say a word.)
So, they become closer and closer as years and friends and places pass. Their friendship evolves from good mornings and sitting next to each other in the mess hall, to “wake the fuck up, fucker” and an on-going and unspoken war to scare the shit out of each other.
Muck sometimes lies in bed and thinks “I could live with Don Malarkey for the rest of my life,” but dismisses it with thoughts of strong friendships and happiness. He doesn’t let himself think of how sometimes he wants to puke-in-a-good-way around Don, or how he catches himself staring sometimes, or how Don gives him this certain look and he doesn’t know what it means, but he sure as hell isn’t going to think too much about it.
---
It’s Nixon and Winters, the infamously oblivious duo, that clue him in.
He watches with muted amusement as Winters checks on everyone and pointedly answers anything about Nixon’s whereabouts with a curt “He’s sleeping.” Of course, they all know their beloved intelligence officer is probably drunk off his ass, but there’s something in Winters’ frustration and the tone of his voice that clues into more. Muck can’t define it, but everyone and their mother can see that the situation is much more personal than Nixon’s drinking problem.
(And how anything can be more personal than having an alcoholic best friend in the middle of a war, he’s not sure, but there are feelings involved, and that’s all he needs to know.)
After Winters leaves, he turns to Don to crack some joke about “mommy and daddy,” but he gets beaten to the punch by Moore, who says with a sigh, “I wish they’d consider how hard a divorce would be on all their children.”
Everyone laughs.
Don quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head toward Muck, saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, I want Mom to have full custody, she’s more fun.”
There’s another round of laughter, and Muck can’t stop himself from grinning at the half-assed joke.
(He feels ridiculous.)
---
He’s going to blame everything, later, on the war and the Krauts and his sudden aversion to thinking logically and being self-aware.
There are letters curled neatly on his right wrist, and he knows what it means but he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it. He ignores the name there, forces himself to not read it, and forgets.
(And he knows it appeared two years ago, but that isn’t something he needs to linger on at all.)
So when he finally lets his guard down-in the back of a truck bump its way toward somewhere cold, contemplating in a huddle of warm bodies about how much he would like some of Mama Muck’s cooking-his eyes alight on the name and his entire world crumbles.
Donald G. Malarkey is squeezed onto his inner wrist, and he feels a burning sensation in him that has nothing to do with his magical tattoo.
Someone asks if he’s alright and he says a quick, cheerful, “Yeah, it’s all good. Just freezin’ my ass off.” Then crosses his arms and stuffs his hands inside his thin coat, pressing his wrist to his chest and feeling a little bit like he’d be better off deserting if it means not having to look Don in the face.
The ride to whatever hellhole they’re being stationed at next is long and filled with complaining men and Liebgott repeating every few minutes that he really fucking needs to take a piss. Muck curls into himself and tries to ignore the persistent attempts of Don and Alex to engage him in some of the good-natured ribbing being thrown around.
They get there and it’s an absolute shitfest.
He forces himself to forget his own angst for a moment and starts mooching supplies off the returning soldiers, feeling a twinge of remorse, and cracks a nervous joke with a wide-eyed Babe. The soldiers that shuffle past look like death and hell wrapped in bandages and empty eyes, and Muck thinks it’s the most frightening thing he’ll see the entire war.
Eventually, they move out and Muck finds gravitating toward Don without really thinking about it. With an internal sigh, he stops fighting it and instead returns his best friend’s smile and instead focuses on the uneven road the company struggles on, already tired and cold.
He accepts the smoke Don offers him silently and tells himself they’re standing so close to keep warm.
“You alright?” Don asks after almost an hour of silence.
“Yeah.” Muck says, voice cracking a little. “I’m just fine, Don. Thanks.”
Don gives him an incredulous look but doesn’t push it. Instead, he says, “Just try not to get too thoughtful on me, Penk decided to think all week.”
“Hey!” Alex protests. “I think all the time, just not before I speak.”
“Yeah, now you’re never going to talk.”
“The dead of winter is the best time to think, alright, Don.”
Muck snorts. “If you’re actually warm, sure.”
“Stop bringing me down, guys.” Alex complains. “We’re all tired; I figured I may as well get some childhood traumas talked out with myself before anything bad happens.”
“Just don’t think too hard.” Muck advises. “You don’t want to make yourself implode.”
Alex rolls his eyes and Don grins, elbowing him. His voice is quiet and hurt and understanding all at once when he says, “There you are.”
“Yeah.” He agrees, tightening his arms around himself. “Here I am.”
***
Throughout his entire career as a paratrooper, Webster never thought he would be the one to go AWOL from the hospital.
Sure, he’s heard all the heroic tales, heard of how it’s strongly encouraged, but he’s not here to be a hero, and he’s definitely not here to die in a remote forest in the dead of winter.
Regardless, he stops feeling sorry for himself one day and wakes the fuck up. He stops thinking too much, stops composing lyrical prose, stops regretting his choices and his existence, and gets up.
There are people he cares about, for one, and he does, in fact, have some sense of pride. Heroism may not be his goal, but you can’t be a soldier without dreaming of the Medal of Honor. So, he limps out of the hospital and, not long after, hops off a jeep to yells of, “Hey, Webster! College boy decided to join us!” and “Never thought I’d see the day.”
He’s not sure who says what, but then he’s engulfed in slaps on the back and people congratulating him on growing some balls and it doesn’t really matter. He gives them a tight smile and says, “Couldn’t let you all die alone, right?” And then everyone laughs and he feels a little bit like he’s come home.
(He doesn’t miss how the one person he wants to see doesn’t greet him, but instead slinks away with a dark look. He reports to Winters without another word.)
(He also makes a point to ignore the growing sense of panic in his stomach and the fact that this was all probably a bad idea but, well, you can’t make friends and write a good story without risking your life more than once.)
“Glad you decided to go AWOL, Private.” Winters says with a friendly smile. “We could use all the men we can get.”
“The hospital got boring, anyway.” Web says nonchalantly. “I missed sleeping in strange places and eating one meal a day.”
Winters laughs a little at that then pats his shoulder. “Go find Peacock or Compton, they’ll set you up with a nice foxhole.”
Webs salutes and thanks Winters, then leaves.
Without the newness of his Triumphant Return gathering everyone around him, he finally gets to observe the forest. And, even this far into the war, he can’t help but compose some sort of prose-a way to describe the world around him, words to convey the cold and the beauty and the absolute feeling of death.
For one, Bastogne sparkles.
There are broken trees and broken soldiers, but nature lives in its sparkle and shine, in the patches of untouched snow, in the warm cups of water passed between friends and acquaintances alike. There is a sort of fierce protectiveness that comes with Bastogne, Web realizes, in which replacements are treated more fair than he ever remembered. Food and water and foxholes and body heat are shared, and all sense of personal space is eliminated. The overhanging darkness oppresses the weak sunlight snaking through tree branches and makes the place feel like a final resting place. (For many, it is.)
Overall, though, Bastogne makes Easy more of a family than before, and Webster can’t help but feel proud of the resilience of human life, even on the front lines of what’s turning into a hopeless and never ending battle.
Lost in thought, God smiles maliciously down on him and he stumbles into Joseph Liebgott’s.
After the initial confused yells of “what the hell?” there is dead silence. After a beat, Alley scrambles out and away, looking vaguely terrified and wildly gesturing at Doc Roe to turn around and run the other way.
Joe stares at him.
“Joey!” Web blurts. He stands and steadies himself uncertainly, looking down at a blank-faced Joe. “I, uh-”
“When the fuck did we get close enough for you to call me Joey?” There’s anger and resentment and something akin to guilt, but Web elects to ignore all those in favor of sitting back down gingerly in front of Joe. When the silence begins leaning toward awkward, he speaks up again. “And watch where you’re going, Webster.”
Web clears his throat. “Thanks for the warm welcome.” He says.
(And that’s not really what he meant to say but Joe always does this to him goddamn.)
“You’re welcome.” Joe answers with a half-sneer. “Glad to see you had fun in the hospital for two months.”
(I missed you.) “Still having pissing contests, then?”
“If it passes the time in this place.” The shred of honesty in Joe’s voice throws him for a moment, and he’s left scrambling for something to say.
“Who needs Berlin, right?”
Joe snorts. “Right.”
Before he can really stop himself, Web says, “I’m sorry.”
Joe straightens up. “You better fuckin’ be.”
Web frowns. “You didn’t ask what I’m sorry for.”
“Well, I don’t have to. I figure there’re a dozen things for you to say sorry for.”
Later, he’ll wonder how months hasn’t waned Joe Liebgott’s ability to rile him up within seconds. For now, though, he stands and doesn’t try to mask his anger. “You’re such a pompous ass.”
Joe laughs loudly at that, waving his arms in what Web assumes is supposed to be an imitation of him. (And there’s a flash there, of something dark and elaborate and his stomach drops right through him and into the ground.) “Pompous? Really? Big words don’t make you any more insulting, Webster.”
A million things pass through his throat and mind, but all that comes out is, “fuck you.” And then he’s storming away with the grace of a five-year-old.
Web hates himself for assuming he could have a civil and meaningful conversation with someone like Joseph Liebgott, but he hates himself more for not telling Joe he could damn well see David K. Webster written on the inside of his wrist.
***
Carwood Lipton is first introduced to Ronald Speirs on D-Day.
Rather, one of the boys points him out, cites a story about a drunken Private, shudders, then walks way.
Carwood is immediately enchanted.
Besides the initial mystery factor that comes with a fearless CO like Speirs, there’s something about the toothy smiles he gives Winters. There’s something about the way he walks and the way he holds his gun and the way his voice is perfect for the army. The ruthlessness in his body language and the coldness in his eyes have Carwood obliquely asking after him more than once. More than once, though, he’s given with a vague answer and a wave somewhere to the right or left. More than once, he barely misses an opportunity to actually speak to Speirs.
But something stronger than the Carwood’s stalkerish tendencies and the cohesiveness of the Airborne draws them together and, finally, they speak.
“Carwood Lipton,” Speirs says with this signature smile. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“And you, sir.” Carwood replies, shaking his hand firmly (a thrill). “Although, I wasn’t aware that anyone outside of Easy knew my name.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Lieutenant.” He says evenly. “But I have taken a significant interest in you.”
“Really?” Carwood almost raises an eyebrow, but decides that’s too much and instead angles himself closer. There’s a warm feeling blooming through him and he’s this close to figuring out just where their conversation is going.
“Well,” Speirs says with the casualty of someone ordering wine, “considering your name is tattooed on my body, you’re kind of hard to avoid.”
He tugs up the sleeve on his right arm and holds out it out, turning his arm over so Carwood can get a better look at the inside of his wrist. “Clifford C. Lipton, huh?”
Carwood knows he should be shocked or at least in denial of some sort about this, but instead he stares at his name, then at Speirs’ face, then lingers on the genuine smile that’s threatening to tug at the older man’s lips. He smiles a bit. “I feel more justified in following you around, now.”
Speirs raises an eyebrow. “That explains why it feels like we’ve been going in circles.”
Carwood laughs and lets himself relax. “At least we aren’t winding around and around the same issue like Winters and Nixon.”
But then Speirs is kissing him, holding Carwood’s chin in one of his hands, gentle and loving. The past ten minutes were probably the very last thing Carwood ever expected to come out of Holland, but now Speirs is here and he feels complete in a way he’s never felt.
(Not complete, he thinks vaguely, more like-I’ve been looking for one thing my whole life, and now it’s finally here and I can be happy.)
(He doesn’t mention any of these thoughts to Speirs.)
He subconsciously registers some wolf whistling and a loud “hell yeah, they know how it’s supposed to go,” but mostly he’s focused on Speirs’ stubble and his own name breathed against his lips by the most enigmatic and threatening man in the entire ETO.