Band of Brothers - Winters/Nixon
Title: This Book Is Not About Heroes
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Characters: Winters/Nixon
Word Count: 1270, give or take.
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and this is based on the fictionalized portrayals of realish people (which is to say, this has nothing to do with the real Winters and Nixon).
Summary: He's not a soldier anymore, but maybe he always will be one.
Authors Notes: Title from Wilfred Owen. Parenthetical. Post-war.
[This book is not about heroes]
Part I.
Nixon, NJ
Three miles up and three miles down, hi ho silver, up up and away. Sweat in your eye, blood in your mouth (you bit your tongue, startled, and that shouldn't happen anymore). You taste: copper and salt and good old Vat 69, tears and sweat and the sharp bite of adrenaline (of fear, mind-numbing and heart-stopping and). You're running (you're always running) and jumping and flying and the wind whips at your face and you fall.
You wake. New Jersey in August, and it's hot (you can't breathe, it's fucking hot as hell and the air's heavier than three packs and a case of whiskey). The sheets stick to your skin, and you really did bite your tongue (your mouth tastes like dirty pennies). You want: water, ice, a cool breeze, a drink. You want a smoke. You can't sleep. You don't want to.
Because you'll close your eyes, and: Currahee, Bastogne, Sobel and his ridiculous duck run, blood and guts and that goddamned camp, flashes and sparks and Dick, lying there, paler than usual and you're sure he must be dying. This house is too empty. Wife number two's packed and gone ("one, two, three strikes, you're out-"), and you miss the sound of someone else breathing next to you. Someone else to prove you're still. Alive. Here. You wish it would rain already.
(“-in the old ballgame”)
*
Sleeping, dreaming: can't breathe for the cold, the fucking ice is burning through your lungs, and the moment of panicked counting of toes and fingers and other extremities (ten and ten and one and two, and fuck it's too cold to take a leak).
“Gotta see a,” you say, only no one's there. No Dick, no Lipton, no Malarkey no Buck no Doc Roe. Only you, and the snow, and the fucking trees. Only you, and the roar of heavy artillery, and the staccato rat-a-tat-tat of the guns. “Man about a dog,” you finish, because Nixon's finish what they start (or at least that's what dear old dad always said), and, anyway, you've always liked the sound of your own voice (“too much,” your mother used to say, “that boy likes the sound of his own voice far too much”).
*
Home: is where the heart is, is where the name on town hall matches your own. Dick sits across the table from you, reading the paper and drinking coffee. He does this, sometimes, after the wives and girlfriends pack their things and leave, after the bad nights (and how he always knows, well, is something you're not looking into too deeply). You always offer him (more) eggs, or pancakes, or, hell, a hamburger or filet mignon or escar-fucking-gots; he always smiles that smile and says, “just coffee's fine, I ate at home.”
Home, according to Richard Winters: a place to call one's own. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay; a homecooked meal, and friends with whom to share it. You read the sports page; Dick is engrossed in current events.
*
Dick doesn't drink, so you do it for him. You still haven't taken him to Chicago.
“Nix,” Dick says. You're telling him about the Drake, making up details of that night on the town you don't really remember (that your imaginary madcap adventures are probably less risque than what actually happened, though, you keep to yourself: this is Dick, after all).
“You can get the time off,” you say. “I know you have it owed to you. And even if you didn't-”
“-you know the owner,” you both say, in boot camp unison.
Dick shakes his head. “You know I don't like,” he says, “to.” He sighs; you've had this fight before. He drinks his coffee and you begin to plan: transportation, accomodations, food and drink. You'll take him to all the best restaurants, show him the sights: only the best for Richard Winters, that's your (brand-spanking-new) motto.
“We'll leave next Tuesday,” you say. “Start packing.”
Dick folds the paper, places it on the table. He's smiling. So are you.
Part II.
Chicago, IL
You wake up; Dick is on the floor next to your bed, and his nose is bleeding. Your hand hurts. Your throat is sore. You think you were-
“-screaming,” Dick says, as:
you say, “You're bleeding.”
Dick blushes. “Well, you were,” he says. He's trying to staunch the bleeding with the edge of a sheet. “I should've known.”
You should've known. There was a girl, pretty in all the right ways, and you should've taken her up on her offer. At least you wouldn't be here, lying in bed, looking down at your best friend (who is sitting on the ground, shorts rucked up high on his thighs, a sheet turning to rust as he holds it to his face). At least you know better than to apologize (Dick would never accept).
*
You offer: brunch at the Ritz-Carlton, breakfast in bed, coffee and the paper, and your last two smokes. Dick says, in your head Dick says, “Breakfast in bed” (the Dick in your head isn't hungry, and he isn't dressed, shoes shined and every hair in place). Dick says (the real Dick, the sane one, spit and polish Richard Winters), “How about we get some coffee and eggs downstairs.”
You say, “Of course.” Of course, you say, and you're blushing because that wasn't what you meant at all. You tuck in your shirt. Fingercomb your hair. You can't find your shoes (they're under the bed).
You think: I have to stop doing this, we have to stop meeting like this, I need to get married (again). You think: I wonder if there's a ballgame today, I wonder if Dick'd like to go. You think: Dick's hair looks soft (you think: I've touched that hair before).
Wife number two'd, before she'd left, said, “You don't know what you really want, Lewis Nixon, that's your real problem. That and your a petty little son of a bitch.” You miss her. Her leaving isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to you (Sobel, Hitler, war, peace), but that doesn't mean it's not pretty damned bad.
“C'mon,” you say. Nix is sitting on the bed, and then he's not. He's standing, and his hand's on your shoulder. Your elbow. Your hand; his hand is wrapped around yours, and your mouth is too dry to ask (“Why?”, “Why now?”, “Why not then?”).
*
Dick's grip is strong; he's not a soldier anymore, but maybe he always will be one.
*
(Unlike me, you want to say. Only what does that fucking mean?)
*
Your palms are sweaty. You say, “But I never even fired my-”
Dick laughs. His fingers are calloused. He kisses you (you stop breathing, start again; you don't kiss him back, and he pulls away). His cheeks are red. His mouth opens, shuts, opens: “You look like a fucking fish,” you say.
And you kiss him. You haven't even had your morning smoke yet.
*
It's like a flashback, like confusing thunder for weapon-fire (which no one who has ever experienced the latter should ever do), and his fingers aren't shaking as he unzips your fly. Which is how you know this isn't a (nightmare, those are nightmares) dream: in your sleep, when he does this, his hands tremble and his breathing is harsh and unsteady. In your dreams, you're the suave one, all prep school calm and been-there-done-that, and he's blushing and virginal and stuttering.
This is nothing like that. This is nothing like that at all.
*fin.
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Characters: Winters/Nixon
Word Count: 1270, give or take.
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and this is based on the fictionalized portrayals of realish people (which is to say, this has nothing to do with the real Winters and Nixon).
Summary: He's not a soldier anymore, but maybe he always will be one.
Authors Notes: Title from Wilfred Owen. Parenthetical. Post-war.
[This book is not about heroes]
Part I.
Nixon, NJ
Three miles up and three miles down, hi ho silver, up up and away. Sweat in your eye, blood in your mouth (you bit your tongue, startled, and that shouldn't happen anymore). You taste: copper and salt and good old Vat 69, tears and sweat and the sharp bite of adrenaline (of fear, mind-numbing and heart-stopping and). You're running (you're always running) and jumping and flying and the wind whips at your face and you fall.
You wake. New Jersey in August, and it's hot (you can't breathe, it's fucking hot as hell and the air's heavier than three packs and a case of whiskey). The sheets stick to your skin, and you really did bite your tongue (your mouth tastes like dirty pennies). You want: water, ice, a cool breeze, a drink. You want a smoke. You can't sleep. You don't want to.
Because you'll close your eyes, and: Currahee, Bastogne, Sobel and his ridiculous duck run, blood and guts and that goddamned camp, flashes and sparks and Dick, lying there, paler than usual and you're sure he must be dying. This house is too empty. Wife number two's packed and gone ("one, two, three strikes, you're out-"), and you miss the sound of someone else breathing next to you. Someone else to prove you're still. Alive. Here. You wish it would rain already.
(“-in the old ballgame”)
*
Sleeping, dreaming: can't breathe for the cold, the fucking ice is burning through your lungs, and the moment of panicked counting of toes and fingers and other extremities (ten and ten and one and two, and fuck it's too cold to take a leak).
“Gotta see a,” you say, only no one's there. No Dick, no Lipton, no Malarkey no Buck no Doc Roe. Only you, and the snow, and the fucking trees. Only you, and the roar of heavy artillery, and the staccato rat-a-tat-tat of the guns. “Man about a dog,” you finish, because Nixon's finish what they start (or at least that's what dear old dad always said), and, anyway, you've always liked the sound of your own voice (“too much,” your mother used to say, “that boy likes the sound of his own voice far too much”).
*
Home: is where the heart is, is where the name on town hall matches your own. Dick sits across the table from you, reading the paper and drinking coffee. He does this, sometimes, after the wives and girlfriends pack their things and leave, after the bad nights (and how he always knows, well, is something you're not looking into too deeply). You always offer him (more) eggs, or pancakes, or, hell, a hamburger or filet mignon or escar-fucking-gots; he always smiles that smile and says, “just coffee's fine, I ate at home.”
Home, according to Richard Winters: a place to call one's own. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay; a homecooked meal, and friends with whom to share it. You read the sports page; Dick is engrossed in current events.
*
Dick doesn't drink, so you do it for him. You still haven't taken him to Chicago.
“Nix,” Dick says. You're telling him about the Drake, making up details of that night on the town you don't really remember (that your imaginary madcap adventures are probably less risque than what actually happened, though, you keep to yourself: this is Dick, after all).
“You can get the time off,” you say. “I know you have it owed to you. And even if you didn't-”
“-you know the owner,” you both say, in boot camp unison.
Dick shakes his head. “You know I don't like,” he says, “to.” He sighs; you've had this fight before. He drinks his coffee and you begin to plan: transportation, accomodations, food and drink. You'll take him to all the best restaurants, show him the sights: only the best for Richard Winters, that's your (brand-spanking-new) motto.
“We'll leave next Tuesday,” you say. “Start packing.”
Dick folds the paper, places it on the table. He's smiling. So are you.
Part II.
Chicago, IL
You wake up; Dick is on the floor next to your bed, and his nose is bleeding. Your hand hurts. Your throat is sore. You think you were-
“-screaming,” Dick says, as:
you say, “You're bleeding.”
Dick blushes. “Well, you were,” he says. He's trying to staunch the bleeding with the edge of a sheet. “I should've known.”
You should've known. There was a girl, pretty in all the right ways, and you should've taken her up on her offer. At least you wouldn't be here, lying in bed, looking down at your best friend (who is sitting on the ground, shorts rucked up high on his thighs, a sheet turning to rust as he holds it to his face). At least you know better than to apologize (Dick would never accept).
*
You offer: brunch at the Ritz-Carlton, breakfast in bed, coffee and the paper, and your last two smokes. Dick says, in your head Dick says, “Breakfast in bed” (the Dick in your head isn't hungry, and he isn't dressed, shoes shined and every hair in place). Dick says (the real Dick, the sane one, spit and polish Richard Winters), “How about we get some coffee and eggs downstairs.”
You say, “Of course.” Of course, you say, and you're blushing because that wasn't what you meant at all. You tuck in your shirt. Fingercomb your hair. You can't find your shoes (they're under the bed).
You think: I have to stop doing this, we have to stop meeting like this, I need to get married (again). You think: I wonder if there's a ballgame today, I wonder if Dick'd like to go. You think: Dick's hair looks soft (you think: I've touched that hair before).
Wife number two'd, before she'd left, said, “You don't know what you really want, Lewis Nixon, that's your real problem. That and your a petty little son of a bitch.” You miss her. Her leaving isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to you (Sobel, Hitler, war, peace), but that doesn't mean it's not pretty damned bad.
“C'mon,” you say. Nix is sitting on the bed, and then he's not. He's standing, and his hand's on your shoulder. Your elbow. Your hand; his hand is wrapped around yours, and your mouth is too dry to ask (“Why?”, “Why now?”, “Why not then?”).
*
Dick's grip is strong; he's not a soldier anymore, but maybe he always will be one.
*
(Unlike me, you want to say. Only what does that fucking mean?)
*
Your palms are sweaty. You say, “But I never even fired my-”
Dick laughs. His fingers are calloused. He kisses you (you stop breathing, start again; you don't kiss him back, and he pulls away). His cheeks are red. His mouth opens, shuts, opens: “You look like a fucking fish,” you say.
And you kiss him. You haven't even had your morning smoke yet.
*
It's like a flashback, like confusing thunder for weapon-fire (which no one who has ever experienced the latter should ever do), and his fingers aren't shaking as he unzips your fly. Which is how you know this isn't a (nightmare, those are nightmares) dream: in your sleep, when he does this, his hands tremble and his breathing is harsh and unsteady. In your dreams, you're the suave one, all prep school calm and been-there-done-that, and he's blushing and virginal and stuttering.
This is nothing like that. This is nothing like that at all.
*fin.