Apogee
Nixon holds Winters still. Dick had icicles in his eyelashes. They had stuck together when he blinked. Now he couldn’t get his eyes open. Hands that turned blue from the paperwork of command can’t melt ice. Winters stops trying to touch his face and lets Nixon carefully pick out the ice from the lashes. Their faces are close when the eyes finally open. Winters sees Nix, the rest is lost to fog and twilight. There is a smile on Nix’s face and Winters blinks and open his eyes wide, enjoying the freedom to do so. Then there is a pat on the shoulder, and a self-deprecating joke about the Nixons always running hot, and a couple paces to the foxholes from the HQ they’d been in all day.
Nixon had built one hell of a foxhole. Winters had a smaller, closer to textbook, arrangement. A mound of dirt faced the German line. An entrenched fighting position, though quite far from the front. Winters spent the few hours he allowed himself to sleep in the palatial foxhole chez Nixon. It was warmer and safer with two in the hole, Nixon needed someone to watch out for him. It was pragmatic, but, more honestly, a comfort that Winters couldn’t deny himself. Winters could relax his rules sometimes. There was a drink on the day of firsts. Usually it was for the men. Most everything for Winters was for the men. But, there was also Lewis Nixon. But rules that were broken because of Nixon, were broken for sake of Winters.
Nixon sets up the hole as Winters brushes his teeth with half frozen water stored in an ammo box. It’s habit now, muscle memory that works without thought. Personal things are put away, he gets in the foxhole, replaces the tarp covering, take off his helmet and tries to form dirt into some sort of decent sleeping position. Though a big foxhole, it is still a foxhole, and so with two grown men there is not much room to spare.
Eyes adjust to darkness. Winters notices a glint of meager reflected light off of Nixon’s cheek and leans closer. Melting eyelashes make a tiny rivulet. Nix’s eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping yet - these are the things Toccoa men just know about each other - and Dick reaches to brush them off. The cheek feels warm against the back of cold fingers. Dark eyes open and peer out to find light ones.
Nixon can’t help but notice how tired, how cold, how drawn out and hollow Dick looks. He seems lost, just staring at his hand as the drops of water make their way down to his jacket sleeve. Dick looks up from his hand and meets Nix’s gaze. They take breaths in unison. They have been for some time and hadn’t noticed it. Winters drops his hand to Nix’s neck to check to see if it’s their hearts too. Nix isn’t surprised by the movement, or the answer.
There had been a moment, at the Crossroads, in Holland, where time had slowed for Winters. It was the only time something like that had happened in battle. Now it was happening again. That battle in Holland had made Winters’ military career - it was his apogee. They lean into each other, neither closing their eyes. It’s just the lightest of touches. They can’t really feel it. Lips are too cold and it’s too brief. Still, it was a new frontier and unforgettable.
Time returns to normal.
Nixon had built one hell of a foxhole. Winters had a smaller, closer to textbook, arrangement. A mound of dirt faced the German line. An entrenched fighting position, though quite far from the front. Winters spent the few hours he allowed himself to sleep in the palatial foxhole chez Nixon. It was warmer and safer with two in the hole, Nixon needed someone to watch out for him. It was pragmatic, but, more honestly, a comfort that Winters couldn’t deny himself. Winters could relax his rules sometimes. There was a drink on the day of firsts. Usually it was for the men. Most everything for Winters was for the men. But, there was also Lewis Nixon. But rules that were broken because of Nixon, were broken for sake of Winters.
Nixon sets up the hole as Winters brushes his teeth with half frozen water stored in an ammo box. It’s habit now, muscle memory that works without thought. Personal things are put away, he gets in the foxhole, replaces the tarp covering, take off his helmet and tries to form dirt into some sort of decent sleeping position. Though a big foxhole, it is still a foxhole, and so with two grown men there is not much room to spare.
Eyes adjust to darkness. Winters notices a glint of meager reflected light off of Nixon’s cheek and leans closer. Melting eyelashes make a tiny rivulet. Nix’s eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping yet - these are the things Toccoa men just know about each other - and Dick reaches to brush them off. The cheek feels warm against the back of cold fingers. Dark eyes open and peer out to find light ones.
Nixon can’t help but notice how tired, how cold, how drawn out and hollow Dick looks. He seems lost, just staring at his hand as the drops of water make their way down to his jacket sleeve. Dick looks up from his hand and meets Nix’s gaze. They take breaths in unison. They have been for some time and hadn’t noticed it. Winters drops his hand to Nix’s neck to check to see if it’s their hearts too. Nix isn’t surprised by the movement, or the answer.
There had been a moment, at the Crossroads, in Holland, where time had slowed for Winters. It was the only time something like that had happened in battle. Now it was happening again. That battle in Holland had made Winters’ military career - it was his apogee. They lean into each other, neither closing their eyes. It’s just the lightest of touches. They can’t really feel it. Lips are too cold and it’s too brief. Still, it was a new frontier and unforgettable.
Time returns to normal.