He Lets Himself Grieve

He hates this.

He hates being stuck behind a desk in a cramped little room writing after action combat reports while Easy Company is out there in the midst of the action.

He has been doggedly working on one of these reports for hours when he hears footsteps making their way up the stairwell leading to his room. When the door swings open to revel not Zielinski as he had feared, but rather Nixon, he is relieved beyond words. In all honesty, he is not sure if he could handle having to review and sign something else just now.

Nix holds up his flask and wiggles it slightly, indicating he's here for a refill. With a sigh, he stands and makes his way over to his footlocker, opening it for Nix to retrieve his Vat69.

"So, how are things going?" he asks, carefully pouring the liquor into the silver container, concentrating on not spilling a drop.

"How do you think, Nix?" he replies a bit sharper than he intended to. Oh well, if he's going to be short tempered with anyone, it might as well be Nixon who at least understands him better than anyone else he knows.

"Sorry. I guess that was a stupid question. Should have figured you'd be wishing you were back with Easy."

"I never said I wanted-"

Nix cuts him off abruptly. "You know, Dick, I'm not the intelligence officer for nothing. You didn't have to say anything. It's written plain as day all over your face."

"Is it really that obvious?"

"Dick, I've seen German MG fire that was more subtle that that. Look, I know this doesn't make this any easier, but the company's in good hands. Hell, if you're that worried, why not go have a chat with Moose? Reassure yourself they're fine."

"I guess you have a point," Winters sighed. "I just hate feeling so useless. Writing reports on operations that have already occurred isn't exactly my idea of fighting a war."

"I know, Dick, but hey, this may be only temporary. Who knows when we'll be moving out again?"

"It's just…it's just, I…"

"Hey, Dick, what's wrong?"

Without warning, he feels the tears begin to slide down his cheeks, dripping off his chin to land on the papers below. "Every time I have to account for a combat death in one of these reports, I can't help but wonder if I could have done more, if I could have prevented it."

"Dick –"

Ignoring him, he continued. "Why did they have to die? They were good men who fought bravely under my command, followed my orders and yet I feel I let them down, that they trusted me to bring them through safely and instead I let them die."

By now the tears were flowing freely and if asked, he wasn't sure if he could have explained why his emotions were choosing this particular moment to catch up with him.

Nixon didn't say anything, instead, he feels Nix pull him close, letting his head come to rest on his shoulder, arms wrapped firmly around his back.

And, in a tiny attic room held securely by his best friend, he finally lets himself grieve.