Just wish they'd told me there was a war on

illusion

2007-02-16T15:43:26Z

title: illusion

characters: winnix

rating: g

category: daily drabble

disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

He doesn't sleep anymore; he simply lapses into alcohol induced unconsciousness. Usually he's at least in bed by the time it overtakes him; I think he's trying to further the illusion for all of us.

He's failing. For all of us.

I lie down between his body and the cold dirt wall of the foxhole, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He tips the flask to his mouth and I can hear him swallow. "S'empty." It's a slur, barely audible.

It's disheartening, even painful, to remember Nix as he was at Camp Toccoa, still a drunk but not like this.

what doesn't kill you, part 1

2007-02-15T22:41:16Z

title: what doesn't kill you

characters: winters/nixon, easy company

rating: pg-13

category: short story

disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

a/n: This is a multi-part story, written in the first-person POV. Points-of-view rotate with each part, and I'll preface each with who the POV character is.

-1-

POV: Nixon

At the sound of hushed shouting, I climb out of my and Dick's foxhole, poking my head out and feeling nothing short of a gopher on groundhog day. Only it's not my own shadow I'm ready to run from; it's the shadows of mortar shells that might come down on us anytime.

No shells in sight, though; just a handful of soldiers looking pretty damned concerned -- even for soldiers in the middle of this godforsaken war.

"What's going on?"

Lipton's the only one of the four who seems to notice me. He walks over, eyes on the ground. "Have you seen Captain Winters?"

Until now, I hadn't thought that it was possible to get any colder; as it was I couldn't feel my legs, and each time I heard one of the Easy men open fire, I wondered how their fingers even worked enough to pull the trigger. But as he spoke, the frigid air permeated my skin and sank into my stomach, turning it to a ball of solid ice. "No."

Dick hadn't been in our hole when I'd climbed out to check out the commotion, but it hadn't occurred to me to think anything of it. He's never there when I wake up; that's just Dick. The man couldn't sleep past six a.m. if his life depended on it.

"What's happened?"

"Luz found his helmet in the CP when he went to talk to him this morning," Lipton says quietly, as if there's anyone to hide the news from. I'm probably the only one they ought to hide it from, and the look in the sergeant's eyes says that he's quite aware of that fact. "No body, no blood, no sign of a struggle, but there's an awful lot of footprints in the snow."

That means only one thing and Lipton's smart enough to know what; I can see it in his face. Easy Company's fearless leader, long after he's stopped technically being their leader, has just become a POW.

"Show me."

Lipton looks uneasy but leads me back to where Malarkey and a couple other men, replacements whose names I haven't bothered to learn, are standing, staring at the snow. Dick's helmet is still sitting in the snow, bottom up, and the footprints Lipton talked about are slowly being dusted over with each gust of wind. I finally find my voice. "Well, he wasn't dragged away, at least." I glance at Lipton, hoping for reassurance, but he's looking to me with the same look in his eyes. After a second I remember that I'm supposed to be the senior officer here. None of them know what to do.

I don't know what to do. Dick makes these decisions; it's not in my job description and I like it just fine that way. But he can't very well make plans for his own damn rescue, can he?

I need a drink. Where's the fucking whiskey?

"Call regiment," I finally say. "I'm going to follow these tracks as far as I can without getting myself shot."

It's really an asinine thing to say because there's no possible way to do anything here to stop yourself getting shot, except maybe pray -- and as much as I know it drives Dick crazy, that's not really my thing.

Lipton wants to stop me; I even see him start to reach out toward my arm. But he pulls back just as I step away. I can feel his eyes on me even as I start deeper into the woods.

(tbc)

resolution

2006-12-31T21:52:05Z

In the year 2007 I resolve to:
Stop working my street corner.

Get your resolution here.

reason

2006-12-31T20:37:50Z

Title: reason

Characters: winters/nixon

Rating: pg-13/r for slight crudeness and language

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

"I told you when I started drinking, right Dick?" He nods; we've had this conversation before. Most of it, anyway.

"When you walked in on your father." He's humoring me.

I take another long drink and nod. "Yep. But that wasn't the reason, really."

He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

"Well it was, partly. There were two reasons, really. One was seeing my dad fuck the maid. The other…" This is the part he doesn't know. "The other was, after seeing her with her legs spread open like that, realizing I had absolutely no desire to do the same."

new year's resolutions

2006-12-30T23:53:09Z

In 2007, lynsey23 resolves to...

Give up damian lewis.
Find a better haguenau.
Backup my slash regularly.
Overcome my secret fear of airborne rangers.
Be nicer to neliana.
Admit my true feelings to mssamyx.

It isn't what you think, kiki ;)

escape

2006-12-27T05:15:10Z

Title: escape

Characters: nixon

Rating: g

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: written for challenge 21a, 'escape'

Dick's gaze is like heat on my skin, even in the frozen hell of Bastogne, with every drink I take.

Doesn't he get it? After all this time, doesn't he realize that it's my escape, my way out of this frozen hell?

It's always been. First from all the pomp and circumstance of owning a town and then from Sobel's delicate ministrations at Toccoa. Then from the memories of jumps under tracer fire, the burning hulks of planes and friends, the bullet that should have left me on the ground permanently. Now from cold and pain and death and living.

Merry Christmas

2006-12-25T04:44:05Z

It's just 19 minutes shy of Christmas Day, where I am, so as I drink wine and eat my Christmas gift of cheesecake (!) and watch Band of Brothers, I wish you all Merry Christmas.

My brother (who I just learned is an NCO in... wait for it... E Company of his regiment (though they call it Echo not Easy)) made it home yesterday, in time for Christmas. He's made it through a year in Iraq and will be heading out again sometime next year, but for now, he's home.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Or whatever holidays you celebrate. I hope they find you happy and well.

sooner

2006-12-25T04:40:26Z

Title: sooner

Characters: winters

Rating: g

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

The hell that is Landsberg… I can only wish we'd found it sooner. Sooner so that fewer men and women might have suffered, lost their lives to the senseless killing. Sooner so that those who suffered might have spent a little less time in agony.

Sooner so that my men might have had an earlier reminder of what they were fighting for. It might not have saved lives, but it might have made the losses a little easier to bear, made the strain a little more sufferable.

But of course, my greatest wish is that it never happened at all.

perfect

2006-12-22T02:48:40Z

Title: perfect

Characters: winters/nixon

Rating: pg

Category: ficlet

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: I truly struggle to conclude things lately....

One of the men shot himself today, in front of a couple of the other boys in the company. Dick didn't see it but I think he felt it most of all; tonight is the first night he's let me hold him since we reached Bastogne. He's worried that someone will need him and find him in a compromising position. I've told him I don't think anyone will care; there are more important things. He won't listen. He's too damn hung up on being perfect for the men. I can't convince him that trying too hard to be perfect is an imperfection.

But now he rests his head on my chest and I kiss his hair, his forehead. His shoulders tremble and though I can't feel his tears through my uniform, I know they're falling. I reach for the bottle resting against the side of our hole but think better of it and run my hand down his arm instead. He shifts and turns so his face is against my neck. I can feel tears now, cold against my chilled bare skin. I circle my arms around him and, after too many minutes, he's no longer shaking.

With one hand I tilt his chin up to look into his eyes. If we weren't so cold, they'd probably be red and puffy. But in the moonlight slipping through gaps in the tarp over our heads, all I can make out are tears frozen on his cheeks. I feel like I'm years away, looking at a snapshot from another point in time.

But Dick is real and this is now and as much as I wish we were anyplace else, I wouldn't want him to be anything but. I lean down and just barely touch his lips. He leans up, kissing me harder and deeper than I think he's ever done. It's not passion, really, or desperation. I've seen him desperate and passionate, and it blows me away each time. This is so much more basic, simple. Need. It blows me away even more.

He doesn't like to need people; it might be the most fundamental tenet of his personality. Well, aside from that crazy desire to be the one getting shot at that he displays on occasion. But there are times, few and far between as they might be, that he simply needs me. And I've never felt more useful or worth something in my life.

He's still now, his breathing even, and I know he's fallen asleep. My neck feels slightly frozen but if it lets him sleep, it's worth it. He's earned it. Because even perfect men need to rest, relax, remind themselves that there's a reason for everything they've lost.

explain

2006-12-20T22:29:07Z

Title: explain

Characters: winters

Rating: G

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: meh

In 1942 we reached Tocca. In 1944 we dropped into Normandy. It's 1945 now; we've been at war for 434 days.

Shifty's words echo through my head. "I don't rightly know how I'm going to explain all this." I told him all that mattered was that he'd served well, but he was right. It's impossible to explain what we've done.

Seen.

Survived.

It's one of the scariest things I've done, to leave behind these men I've known for a lifetime. And it is a lifetime. We left our old lives behind the day we jumped off a perfectly good airplane.

question: rosters

2006-12-20T16:39:42Z

Is there any breakdown that anyone knows of with a list of the company roster and who was in what platoon, roundabout Bastogne/Foy?

ETA: What do the non-coms do versus the platoon leaders like Buck? After Market Garden, the platoons form up on Bull, Guarnere... was this for lack of lieutenants?

Sorry, trying to figure stuff out for my next fic!

letter to santa

2006-12-20T15:41:41Z

Dear Santa...

Dear Santa,

This year I've been busy!

Last Wednesday sarahtalk and I robbed a bank (-50 points). Last Friday I put money in miraxcorran's expired parking meter (14 points). In June I helped dearkiki hide a body (-173 points). In September I got in line at the supermarket at the same time as someone else and I didn't yield (-8 points). Last Saturday I punched anne_jumps in the arm (-10 points).

Overall, I've been naughty (-227 points). For Christmas I deserve a moldy sandwich!

Sincerely,
lynsey23

whiskey-driven, part 3

2006-12-20T14:51:30Z

Title: whiskey-driven

Characters: winters/nixon

Rating: PG

Category: short story

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: This is part 3 of 3

I find Nix sitting on the floor in his quarters, surrounded by maps of every country Easy's been through. His flask lies on its side and a bottle appears to be conjoined to his lip. There are little tabs of colored tape over Normandy and Carentan, Eindhoven and Foy. "The darker the color, the more we lost," he says softly.

Normandy is black.

I crouch beside him and reach for the bottle. Most times he'd have let me take it. This time he pulls away and takes another drink, draining it. "Nix."

"Do me a favor, Dick, and leave me alone. Please."

"No." I use both hands this time, one on his wrist and the other to finally pull the bottle from his grasp. But the effort leaves me off balance and he yanks his arm away before pushing me backward. I end up flat on my back as he struggles to his feet.

This isn't how it's supposed to be going.

He's on to another bottle by the time I stand up, leaning against the wall and staring at his maps, splayed across the floor. I'm not sure where this one came from, but I don't try to take it away. Exercise in futility.

I kneel in front of him and take his free hand in mine. "Nix, listen to me, okay?"

"No."

He might be the most stubborn man in Easy. That's a hard thing to accomplish.

I push the bottle from his lips but don't try to take it from him. "You walked out too soon," I tell him softly.

He looks at me, the glassy-eyed stare of a man who's had one drink more than a few too many, and shakes his head. "Not soon enough. Shouldn't have--"

"I'm glad you did." And I realize, despite the chaos rumbling through my brain right now, I am. Because I wouldn't have the courage otherwise to do while he's awake what I've only ever done while he was asleep. I touch my lips to his forehead with just enough pressure that I won't be able to deny that I've done it.

I hear his breath catch in his throat, can feel his pulse race beneath my fingertips, still resting on his wrist.

"Dick--"

"Quiet." I brush my lips over his cheek and then, slowly, across his lips. I can taste whiskey even before he opens his mouth and kisses me back, softer than I'd expected.

I break it off, our foreheads almost touching. "I've never thought I was like that." The words are awkward coming off my tongue. "But maybe it's because I wouldn't let myself think I was."

"You're not making any sense, Dick."

"Sure I'm not, Nix." I give him a smile and he gives me one in return. But before I can say anything else, his head dips and his eyes flutter closed. And in habit borne of too many days on the battlefield, I move my fingers back to his wrist, checking for a pulse.

It's still there, strong as ever.

~fin~

( go to part 2 )

( go to part 1 )

twelve days of christmas

2006-12-19T20:45:23Z

On the twelfth day of Christmas, lynsey23 sent to me...

Twelve pairatimes drumming

Eleven anne_jumps piping

Ten dick winters a-leaping

Nine scott grimes dancing

Eight soldiers a-milking

Seven drabbles a-writing

Six paratroopers a-reading

Five airbo-o-o-orne rangers

Four special forces

Three damian lewis

Two ronald speirs

...and a bastogne in a world war ii.

question: bastogne/foy

2006-12-19T18:01:34Z

In "Breaking Point" Lipton indicates that they realized the Germans had been shelling their old position, and Toye whines about his foxhole. When were they there before? I haven't read the books, so I'm confused. They were at two different positions for Foy and Bastogne, right?

whiskey-driven, part 2

2006-12-19T16:04:25Z

Nix is, predictably, still fast asleep by the time I wake up and when I return from my run he still hasn't moved except to entangle himself deeper in the covers. I shake his shoulder, unwilling to let him sleep the day away even though we've been left to our own devices for the day -- at least, until the Germans decide otherwise.

I shake his shoulder and after a few minutes he opens his eyes slowly. I can practically see his mind working, trying to recall where he is and what happened last night. I back up to give him time to sort out his brain.

I can see the moment it all clicks because the dazed expression disappears and he looks away from me. Nix climbs out of the bed, fighting with the sheet for a moment before giving up. "I'm going to find breakfast. And 69."

"Lew." He stops; it's not all that often I call him that -- usually when I'm concerned about his drinking -- and reacts as such. "I'm a big boy, Dick. If I want to have a drink I'm gonna have a damn drink."

"That's not what I want to talk to you about."

He stares at me without staring, if that's possible. His eyes are fixed on me but at the same time he's looking down, avoiding eye contact, and it's obvious he knows what I do want to talk about.

"Look, Dick, I've been rejected enough times that I know it when I see it. So let's just forget about last night, you go dive into one of those books you keep writing for Sink's entertainment, I'll go climb inside a bottle of 69, and we'll call it even."

It's a tempting thought; it's the safe way out and will let me bury once and for all the uncomfortable thoughts that didn't really let me sleep last night. But I can see, from the look in Nix's eyes, that it's too late for that.

"No." I want to tell Nix that it wasn't a rejection but I can't, because I'm not sure what it actually was.

Well, that's not entirely true. I know one thing it was.

"It was me being a coward, Nix. That's all." The first part is the truth. The second, not so much.

"You don't know how to be a coward," Nix protests. "I'm the coward in this outfit."

Now isn't the time to tell him that no one who's voluntarily spent as much time on the line as he has -- because he didn't have to freeze at Bastogne; he chose to be there with us, with me -- should ever consider himself a coward. At least not the way he means. So I let the last comment slide. "There are a lot of ways to be a coward."

He lifts an eyebrow and frowns at me. "Dick, you're a pretty forthright guy. Dancing around a subject doesn't suit you and it just annoys me, so just say whatever you're trying to say so you can get back to your reports and I can get back to my whiskey."

"I don't know, Nix." My voice is a lot quieter than I'd meant for it to be.

"Well, okay then. Conversation over." He hops off the bed with a grin I'm used to seeing, though it looks a little different now. "Breakfast sounds good."

I put my arm across the door as he goes to leave and for a second he looks ready to push me out of the way. He's used to escaping, though it's usually into the bottle he's heading for now, and he isn't used to being trapped. "I need to think."

He's my best friend, one of my only in this war. We've been physically, emotionally closer than most men could ever dream of being -- or, really, ever want to be -- and because of that I don't really know what I'm feeling.

I've never been in love. Nix hasn't either, I don't think, despite being married, having a daughter. I do love Nix; I love most of my men. It's impossible not to once you've watched friends die together, nearly died together yourselves.

But loving someone doesn't equate to being in love with someone.

"So think." He tries to go.

"Why are you running away?" I even surprise myself with the words.

"Because I clearly made a mistake last night and I don't want to put you in the awkward position of trying not to hurt me. We're both men here, so let's act like the grown-ups we are."

"That's the problem," I say before I really meant to say it.

"What?" He stops trying to leave.

""We're both men." I don't want to have this conversation. Why didn't I let Nix go? "I'm not-- I mean, I've never…" I trail off, unable to finish a coherent thought. "I'm not like that."

It's Lew's turn to look uncomfortable. "My mistake." He pushes by me before I can add that I'm starting to wonder.

( go to part 1 )

( go to part 3 )

keep going

2006-12-19T14:58:43Z

Title: keep going

Characters: Lipton

Rating: G

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: An attempt to capture, through Lip's eyes, my own thoughts when Guarnere was hit in Breaking Point.

Each time, that far into the war, that we lost a Toccoa man, we lost more than just a friend. We'd never tried to convince ourselves that anyone was invincible. But Guarnere, Toye… Buck… these were men who bounced back. They were Easy's foundation. They were the ones the replacements looked to as a reminder that it was possible to survive, and the ones that kept the rest of us, myself included I'm not ashamed to admit, going.

It was at that point outside Foy that I wondered, for the first time since D-day, if we really could keep going.

whiskey-driven, part 1

2006-12-18T20:00:16Z

Title: whiskey-driven

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: PG

Category: short story

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: This is part 1 of 3

"Nix, wait." I push him back and hold his shoulders at arm's length. "What are you doing?"

"If you don't know what I was doing," he replies, "you're purer than Easy thinks you are." Nix pauses. "There's something seriously wrong with that sentence."

There is, I think to myself, but I'm not about to voice it out loud.

"I," Nix points at himself in an exaggerated gesture, "want you." Again with the exaggeration.

Well, yes. I've figured that much out, thanks. The kiss he'd just laid on me sort of delivered that message in and of itself. I watch him for a moment, wondering if he's going to say any more -- really, if he's going to say anything that I didn't already know. After a minute or two, silence growing more awkward strained by the second, it becomes clear that he's not.

"You're drunk and upset," I start to say but he cuts me off.

"And that would be different from every other day exactly how?" For someone so drunk, his gaze is surprisingly lucid and I can't ignore the stirrings I'm starting to feel below my belt. I shift and he notices, though he's enough of a gentleman -- Nix, a gentleman? -- to ignore it.

"Good point," I reply, and it's the truth. Nix has been half in the bag for at least three-quarters of the war. And I've never doubted before that he knew of which he spoke. There's really no one I'd trust more, when it counted.

So… what does this mean, then? If Nix is as coherent now as he ever is, then he's talking truth and he won't be regretting whiskey-driven words in the morning.

Well, he might.

"Good point," I say again. I reach a hand out to touch his cheek, against my better judgment. "Nix, on the off chance that you've had a little more to drink than usual, I'm going to say that we both need to sleep on this and we'll talk about it in the morning."

Nix responds by leaning back in bed -- in my bed -- and resting his head on my pillow. My only pillow. "Okay then," he slurs at me before rolling onto his side, his back against the wall.

I'd love to go to bed right now but given the circumstances I can't bring myself to lie down on my own bed. So I sit down across the room and think. Mostly about the war.

Nix would tell me I do that enough as it is, that I don't need to be doing it at two in the morning.

Before I can redirect my thoughts they redirect themselves to focus on the drunken figure asleep in my bed. Rather, on my bed, since he didn't manage to get himself under the blanket. I'm still a little uncomfortable and I shift in the chair, grateful for our loose uniforms.

I'm trying to figure out why I'm so surprised. I may have Quakerish tendencies, as Guarnere's been so willing to point out, but I'm still human. We've been on the line for a long time with just men for company.

In a group like this sex is rarely very far from anyone's minds. And then, I've been in pretty close quarters with Nix quite a bit and I'd have to be blind, deaf and dead to not notice him, even like that.

Well, I'm neither blind nor deaf, and I'm certainly not dead.

Yet. Though that could change anytime.

And, well, it wouldn't be the first time a thought like that has crossed my mind, and not just about Nix. I've just made a practice of ignoring them.

Nix rolls over and he looks so much like a little boy that my heart hurts a little in my chest. Normally he seems older than most of the others. It might be the drinking, but he just exudes this bitter, seen-it-all air and I forget that he's really no older than I am, or the others, and that he belongs here as little as all of us.

I stand and cross the room, stripping down to shorts and my undershirt, and tug the blanket out from under Nix. I drape it over him and then climb under myself and after a minute or so rest an arm over his shoulders. His eyes flicker open and the expression on his face is less lust and more need than it was after he kissed me and he presses against me, his head against my chest.

I tighten my arm around him and rationalize it in that 'everyone needs a little human contact' sort of way, and ignore the fact that Nix and I have plenty of human contact with each other, more than most of the men in Easy.

We'll talk it out in the morning when he's less drunk and more reasonable, and I'm less tired and more rational.

Though I'm not entirely sure I want to be more rational. And as much as I'd prefer Nix to be less drunk most of the time, I'm not sure I want him more reasonable.

I love him how he is.

I feel Nix's lips brush against my chest through my shirt and I rest my cheek against his head.

( part 2 )

where it belonged

2006-12-18T17:52:39Z

Title: where it belonged

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: G

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: Just a snippet, doesn't really have an end

I didn't take Nix's job offer. He never asked why and I'm glad, because I couldn't have told him then and I don't know now. But there's a bottle of Vat 69 in a corner of the kitchen counter where it's sat unopened for decades. There are enough pictures of Nix, bottle in hand, that I'm sure my wife knows what it represents, but she never says a word. And when our daughter went into a fit of spring cleaning one year and shoved it in a cabinet, Ethel was even the one to put it back where it belonged.

why

2006-12-18T06:12:54Z

Title: why

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: R

Category: ficlet

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

Warning: It's rated R for a reason, and it ain't for language or violence.

A/N: First time I've written something like this, so I really don't know how it is. Nixon's point of view.

It started out like this, with that fast, hard, life-affirming sex that we both need once in a while just to remind ourselves that we're still alive, still breathing air. That our blood is still where it belongs inside our bodies. That we weren't left for dead on the streets of Carentan, at Market Garden.

He's moving beneath me, moaning and gasping. The desperation in his voice as he cries my name would scare me anywhere else. But here, now, it just urges me on and I move faster. His body tenses under my hands, his voice growing louder. He's trembling and I'm shaking. Then he comes, with one final gasp, my name still on his lips. His body tightens around me and I shout his name as it pushes me over the edge, loud enough for most of Easy to hear, I'm sure.

No woman has ever done this to me and I tell myself that the intensity is because of the circumstances, a result of living from day to day never knowing if we'll survive to see the next sunrise. I don't want to think that there might be any other cause.

But as I pull out of him, slide off to lie beside him, he kisses me and thoughts of why are the furthest thing from my mind.

His fifty-syllable, Harvard-boy insults

2006-12-15T21:15:57Z

Title: His fifty-syllable, Harvard-boy insults

Characters: Liebgott/Webster (implied)

Rating: PG-13

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: I'm not at all really satisfied with this, but I've never written Liebgott before and it nagged at me, so... criticism welcomed

I can feel Web's eyes boring a fucking hole in my back and I wish he'd just come out and say whatever he's thinking in that too big brain of his. This staring crap is getting old.

Who's he to judge me anyway? Screaming at the Germans like that with all his fifty-syllable, Harvard-boy insults.

Because screaming at the Germans is no different from shooting at them. Right. I can't even make myself believe it.

He's changed; I have too. Maybe it's time we go our separate ways. There's sure as fuck no way of going back now.

I think I could get to like whiskey

2006-12-15T15:24:09Z

Title: I think I could get to like whiskey

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: PG

Category: ficlet

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: I'm not real sure about the characterization... flustered!winters meets jealous!winters meets subtle-as-sledgehammer!winters... came about because, thanks to stewardess_lotr, I can absolutely not watch the scene with Nix and Dobie in "Crossroads" without seeing Dick become jealous out of his mind.

So that's what Nix wants, someone to leer at him in briefings. Fine then. I can do that.

The thought of playing what Harry so affectionately calls "grab fanny" with Lew in front of Colonel Sink pops into my head. I feel a little nauseous.

Maybe I can't.

He comes into my room in search of his whiskey and I open my footlocker and leave him to go at it. He prattles about quitting drinking, though we both know he isn't serious. And I abandon my work to stare at him.

It takes a while but he finally starts staring back -- like I'm crazy. He takes a sip, glances away, and then looks back. Then he starts making faces at me and I give up.

"Dick, you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." Done looking at him, but fine.

"Right." He crosses the room and sits, perches even, on the edge of my desk, one foot on the floor and the other on my chair. "What's up?"

Moment of truth. Talk or type. I return to the confounded machine.

"Why aren't you out with Dobie?"

His eyes hit his hairline. "Why would I be?" Did I say that out loud? For Pete's sake…

"Well, the way you were looking at him at regiment, the temperature went up a good twenty degrees." I think I'm channeling Nix. Good God, help me.

His eyes are still wide open. "Dick Winters, are you jealous?"

"No, of course I'm not." Yes, I might be. "No."

"You are!"

"What would I be jealous about?" Nix is a much better actor than I am.

"You tell me, you dog."

"I'm not jealous. You and Dobie just seemed like you'd enjoy each other's company." Is that what we're calling it these days? "I assumed you'd be out with him."

"Dobie," he exhales hard, "is a blowhard and more interested in hearing himself talk than anything else."

"Like what?"

"Dick, what are you going on about?"

This isn't getting me anywhere so I clamp my mouth shut and return to staring. I try to copy the look Dobie gave him after Nix was told to help him out, but all it gets me is a burst of laughter from Nix's general vicinity.

"God damn, Dick." He leaves bottle and glass on the table and crosses the room. "I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before." He cocks his head and stares at me. "I think I like it."

I shift, suddenly very uncomfortable, and when he leans down I realize that maybe my pitiful attempt at leering actually did get me somewhere.

His lips touch mine and I expect him to pull him back and run. But he presses harder, tongue tracing my lips and urging them open. I can taste the Vat 69 on his tongue.

I think I could get to like whiskey if only I could drink it like this.

Long way from Bastogne

2006-12-14T20:10:20Z

Title: Long way from Bastogne

Characters: Lipton

Rating: G

Category: daily drabble

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

A/N: Nothing special about this, just a little missing moment type of thing, inspired by the icon.

Consulting for air shows. Accepting the surrender of German generals. We're a long way from Bastogne.

Winters isn't fooling anyone. Everybody knows what he's doing, and they appreciate it that much more. There aren't many men who'd bother.

I take a drink that someone pushes into my hand, one of few I've had during my stay in Europe. Strong German beer that most of the boys have been into for hours now. I'm amazed Liebgott is still standing.

I raise my glass in a silent toast to Winters, drinking soda a few feet away. It's a nice change of pace.

Sick of waiting

2006-12-14T05:32:21Z

Title: Sick of waiting

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: PG-13

Category: vignette

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

Warning: Deals with suicide but no character deaths.

A/N: This was inspired by Tuesday night's episode of House, in which everyone's favorite acerbic medical genius could well have killed himself with alcohol and painkillers. So here's a sort of what-if, if Winters had gone looking for Nix that night he went in search of booze in Sturzelburg, Germany.

I'm writing a letter home when Lipton comes by to tell me that someone might want to go looking for Nixon. Apparently, his sudden departures from their poker games have become slightly commonplace, but Lip's worried this time. He just can't say why. So I leave my letter that I couldn't manage to finish anyway and head out into the storm.

Mentally, I know that the rain is cold. But compared to Bastogne, nothing is actually cold anymore, except my bones. I don't know if they'll ever be warm again.

I find Nix leaning against a wall, looking unsteady on his feet despite the solid brick behind him. His uniform is drenched, though he's under an overhang now. His head is back, a bottle I can't identify tipped against his lips. He looks like he's about to drop it.

And yet, he has a death grip on the .45 in his right hand.

"Lew?" We've all learned by now, mostly thanks to Tab, the dangers of approaching our own men too quietly. But I don't want to startle him either. I keep my voice steady; inside, I'm shaking.

He lowers the bottle and blinks, bleary-eyed at me just before it slips from nerveless fingers, shattering against the uneven pavement. He doesn't even blink.

I move out of the rain to stand beside him and reach slowly for the gun. I don't like the way he's holding it; I don't like that he's holding it at all. "Nix, give it to me."

He jerks his hand back and stares at me in one brief moment of lucidity and says flatly, "No."

He's speaking in the same tone as earlier, after the jump, and his words echo uncomfortably in my head. They blew up over Germany somewhere. Boom. "Why?"

"Because…" he begins but trails off in a way that makes it look like he's forgotten he was talking. He glances down at the remains of his bottle. "Damn." He kicks at the glass once or twice before raising his head again. And when he speaks, he tells me everything he didn't say that morning, in just three slurred words.

"Shoulda been me."

Nix isn't the first to say that. He is, though, the first to say it with a gun in his hand and too much alcohol in his blood. Tears mix with the rain already on his face and track down his cheeks as I shake my head. "No."

But he isn't looking at me and doesn't seem to hear; his eyes are fixed on the .45. "You believe in God, right Dick?"

"You know I do." I risk a step toward him and he takes two back.

"You believe He's got some kinda fucked up plan for all of us? That why we lived on D-day and Meehan went down?"

"I…" Nothing I can say will make any of this better; it's almost guaranteed I'll make it worse. "I don't know." I can't tell if it's rain or tears running down my face.

"I think He does. He hand-picks the lucky ones, the ones who get to escape this fucking hell on earth…" Lew's eyes drift down again toward the broken bottle. "Why didn't He pick me?"

His voice is small but so bitter and pained that there's no question that it's tears on my cheeks. "I don't know." There's nothing else I can possibly say.

"I'm sick of waiting, Dick." The misplaced clarity is back in his voice. "Sick of watching guys get shot, get their legs blown off, get blown up still in the fucking plane. When's it my turn?"

"Never, I hope." My throat closes as he gestures with the gun.

"Maybe I should make it my turn. No more watching, or waiting, or other guys dying when it oughta be me. Because as much as I liked Meehan and Toye and Muck and all of them, I don't want to dream about 'em anymore. I want to close my eyes and not see blood or bodies or blown-off arms and legs or guys hanging in their chutes with their chests full of holes." He surveys the broken glass again. "I want a drink."

"You've had enough." I don't step forward but I do extend a hand. "Please give me the gun, Lew."

He doesn't pull back this time, just shakes his head. "Sorry, Dick. But you'll be okay. You always are, right? Don't bat an eye when Hoob shoots himself, or Muck and Penkala get blown to smithereens. I mean, yeah, you looked a little worried after Market Garden, but, hey, once the shock wore off you'd have been back to your old self again." He slaps me on the shoulder with his left hand.

"I don't know how you do it, Dick."

I remind myself that this is alcohol talking, that Nix knows me well enough to know that what he's saying isn't true, that he doesn't really believe that I don't care.

"I don't."

His eyes widen. "See, Dick, that's not really what I wanted to hear. Because if you don't get over it, there's not much hope for the rest of us, is there?" His eyes lock on the .45, mine on his face.

"There's always hope, Lew."

"No there isn't." His voice is completely empty of emotion, save for the drunken slur, but I can feel mine growing thicker with every word I say.

"There has to be."

He shakes his head and when he speaks it sounds as if he's channeling Speirs and that scares me more than almost anything but the gun he's still clutching. "Even if we live long enough to leave Europe, we're already dead, Dick. Do you really want to live the rest of your life with nightmares every damn night about all the guys we lost, all the bodies and the blood…" He's rambling and repeating himself and I focus more on where his hands are, where the gun is.

At his next words I jerk my head up so fast I hear my neck crack. "At least I haven't killed anyone. How 'bout that? I could be the only person I ever kill."

"You know why I drink, Dick?" He's starting to sway away from the wall.

"Why?" I reach out to take his hand and he lets me, though he moves his gun hand out of reach. The rain picks up and, despite the overhang, my clothes are drenched. Nix is shaking.

"Because everything hurts when I don't."

As simple as that. Everything hurts.

"I don't dream if I'm drunk. I get to forget about everything. I like it better that way."

At this moment I can picture him as a child, hiding in the back of a closet while his parents scream at each other. Maybe his father was a drunk. Maybe his mother was. Maybe both, neither.

"It doesn't work anymore, Dick." His shoulders shudder. "I don't forget anymore."

"Maybe you shouldn't forget." It's the wrong thing to say and I realize it half a second after the words cross my lips.

He yanks his hand from mine and stumbles backward, out into the downpour. "I want to fucking forget!" He waves the gun around and tears mix with rainwater, streaking down his face, before pressing the barrel against his head. "I want it to stop. Forever."

My knees buckle as he draws the hammer back and I swear I can hear the click even over the noise of the storm.

"I want to die, Dick. I want it all to be over for good. Please."

I can't do anything more than shake my head and in those seconds, I see and hear nothing but him. "Please don't do this." I don't know how he can hear me but he does and shakes his head, pressing the barrel even harder against his temple.

"I can't do it anymore, Dick."

"I won't stop you." It's the hardest thing I've ever had to say and I don't know that I could survive seeing him shoot himself. My heart aches, heavy and tight in my chest, and I can't see for tears in my eyes. "But please, Nix, I can't do this without you."

"You did it without Meehan and Hall and Julian and Hoob and Muck and Penkala and --" I cut off his litany of Easy's dead. I can't take it, not with him minutes, seconds away from joining them.

"No. It's not the same." It's not that Nix's life is worth more than any of those men, but… "I don't want to lose you, Nix. I can't."

His finger is still on the trigger and now his hand is shaking, and I'm terrified that he's going to fire by accident. "I don't think I could live without you."

The gun moves a little farther from his head and his grip loosens. I reach for his .45 and he lets me draw his arm down, but won't let go. "I can't do it anymore," he whispers.

"I know," I murmur, pulling him toward me. He comes and his gun hand drops down by his side. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, feeling only the sobs racking his body and my own trembling.

I want to kiss him, take him back to my quarters, hold him until the end of this war that's just claimed another good man. But I settle for hearing the click as he releases the hammer, the clatter as the gun hits the ground.

It's the least and the most I can do for him

2006-12-13T19:26:29Z

Title: It's the least and the most I can do for him

Characters: Winters/Nixon

Rating: G

Category: ficlet

Disclaimer: I don't own Band of Brothers. This is entirely fictional and based off the characters as portrayed in the miniseries, not the men themselves. I mean no offense to these men, whom I respect very much.

There are signs, occasionally, that it's all taking its toll on him. He never smiled much, only usually for me, but now those precious smiles are even rarer, and it hurts me. Even when he does smile, it's tight and forced and it looks like he's only smiling because he feels like he has to, for me.

He doesn't jump anymore, at the sound of mortars or a sniper's rifle or even machine gun fire. That worries me a little, because I'm not too confident he's going to get out of the way if he ever has to. I don't mean he'd let himself get shot. But he's a little too… used to it all. Not that we all aren't.

It most shows at night, though. He wakes up every hour, the expression on his face one of resigned recollection. He breaks into a cold sweat even in his sleep. He shakes, and it's obvious that it isn't from the cold.

His eyes fly open and he stares at the dirt wall of our foxhole. It takes a few seconds but then he inches just a bit closer to me, just enough that our legs are touching, as if all he needs to make it through is just a simple human touch.

I know it isn't enough. I know because he does so much more than that for me and I'm still barely hanging on. Most of the men would say I'm not hanging onto anything but the bottle. But it's all I can do because I don't know how to do anything more.

He rests his head against mine, his cheek against my shoulder, and he searches out my hand. I hold it, because it's the least and the most I can do for him. He falls back to sleep and somehow, in the darkness, I make out the time on my watch. It's close to four, which means the next time a nightmare wakes him, he'll be up for the day.

The men all make jokes about him, about Lipton, being up before the sun. But I've been sleeping with Dick long enough to know why he wakes up so God damn early.

I'd bet Lip's the same.