This is how bedtime usually goes for you two:

You're both past the age where a quick fuck before turning in is practically required. But hell, if someone starts something, they'd better damn well finish it up. He gets off. You make sure of that. Wanna keep him happy, after all. You get off. Simple. How you do it, that's where the variation is.

Either way, you both get off. He and you lie there together a few minutes, panting and sweating, but never in each other's arms. It's just not what you do. He's not much one for cuddling, and neither are you. Things work out well that way. You do look over at him, though, and y'gotta admit – there's some sort of… well, for lack of a better word, sweetness about him. Not the sickening, big blue eyes kind of sweet. Just… he's lying there, his guard finally down for you (and you're the only one who can get his guard down long enough to get him to surrender like this – just that knowledge alone gets you off) with his dark hair a ruffled mess and his dark eyes shut, lost in his own heartbeat and breath.

Sooner or later, he pulls himself away from the warmth of the bed, muttering something about "goin' to take a fuckin' shower" as he makes his way to the bathroom. The way he's carrying himself afterwards, it's just like a dog at its most submissive. You smirk to yourself as he slams the door shut, and a few seconds later the sound of water running through the rusted pipes of the building fills the room.

Usually, you pull yourself together in these moments before he comes out again. You pull out the sheets and settle in. You're tired, sure, but not tired enough to actually fall asleep. Besides, even if you fell asleep, he'd wake you up twenty minutes from now by giving you an affectionate kick to the thigh in his "sleep". Yeah. You know when he's faking it, especially when he's lying there snickering to himself. The little shithead.

The book on the bedside table – opened and set facedown to a random page – is more for show than anything else. You're not much of a reader, never have been. Nothin' you can't learn in a book you can't learn better by doin' yourself, you always say. He agrees with you. Then again… he generally always agrees with you.

You pick up the thing as you hear the shower shut off and then pretend to be deeply engrossed in the still-unfamiliar story when he finally steps out of the bathroom. Only piece of cloth he's wearing is a towel he's draped over his shoulders like he's some fuckin' prizefighter, and his skin's dark red and slicked with water. You look up at him slowly (more for effect than anything else, let's be honest), and grin a little self-righteous smirk at him. "Had fun?" you can't help but ask.

He nods. Still doesn't turn around to look at you. He won't for a while. You know him. The Bear Jew always tops, always, dammit. Except when it comes to his commanding officer, 'course. Then he'll bare his throat like a good little pup who knows his place.

You go back to the book for a bit as he finishes toweling himself off – you know his routine well, you don't need to watch him. Legs, arms, chest, stomach, hair's always last. He musses it up even more with the towel until it's sorta dry and sticking up at odd angles, and then throws the wet towel at the general direction of the bathroom door. There it'll stay until morning. And, more likely than not, half the afternoon until one of you finally trips over it.

He curls up next to you, buries himself underneath the sheets. "Thanks for, y'know, warming the bed…" he says. He twists and turns and tosses until he finally settles on the same position he always settles on – his stomach, resting his cheek against the pillow and arms hidden underneath. "Night, Lieutenant."

"Night, Sergeant." Same as back in the war. Same as always.

This is how tonight is different:

Once Donny is fast asleep and snoring soundly, the apartment feels… odd. Not entirely wrong. You'd know if there was an intruder – so would Donny. He'd be awake, ears pricked and outta bed lookin' for his infamous baseball bat just in case. The point is, the two of you would just know. But Donny snores on next to you, oblivious to the upset to the atmosphere.

Maybe it's just you.

Nonsense. Can't be. You're Aldo the Apache, damn it. Something's gotta be really wrong here.

Frowning, you set the book back down on the bedside table. Reach over for your trusty knife. Old habits die hard – you tighten your hold on its handle as you put it under your pillow. Alright, assess the situation. No intruders, nothin' like that. If anything, the place feels empty as an old Kraut bunker, even if you've got one of the most loyal soldiers in the world asleep next to you.

You suddenly miss those days in France. Sleepin' in the forest, maybe not so much. But there were your men, all loyal to one big alpha wolf – you. You weren't alone. "Pack mentality." You remember trying to explain it to Donny one day. "You've got yer packmates runnin' 'round, listenin' to you. Whatever you say goes, no questions asked. Understand now?" Donny simply smiled, nodded. Calmly pulled off the rest of the gold-colored scalp with a wet tearing noise and handed it over to you.

Packs were close. His men had been close, too. In the case of you and Donny, maybe a little too close.

Nothin' quite like sleepin' with the pack, you finally admit. Out comes the knife. Set back down on the bedside table for another long night of feeling more like a decoration than a functioning tool.

Something nuzzles up against your arm, like a dog begging for some scraps or a good scritch behind the ear.

But Donny Donowitz does not beg.

You watch as he settles in closer to you, eyes still shut as he rests his forehead against your upper arm and calms back down. His snoring starts up again, a piece of his dark hair just in front of his nose fluttering in time with his breath. You smirk, brush it away, but it falls back into place stubbornly.

This is about as cuddly as you two will ever get, and it's just enough.

You lie back down, mind finally at ease and reassured that someone else misses the old pack too. Just as you start to drift off, an arm wraps itself around your waist. And you'll swear on your life you heard someone mutter, "Night, Lieutenant."

A smirk graces your lips as you finally begin to fall asleep. Turns out the kid's quite good at faking his sleep after all.

A/N: The usual disclaimers apply here – Aldo and Donny are Quentin's; I'm merely borrowing them for a little while to play with. And they were fun to play with! Maybe I'll do it again sometime.

I've had this idea in my head for a while now. I just kinda wanted to get it out onto 'paper' and see how people liked it. I hope I did Aldo and Donny some justice here… I'm so nervous to see what you guys think!

Anyways, this is obviously wildly AU headcanon – both because Donny dies at the end of IB, and the pairing Aldo/Donny wasn't necessarily established as canon. I dunno. I pictured their relationship as such: not cutesy, not overly affectionate in any way, but the devotion is one hundred percent there. Had Donny survived to the very end of the movie, I'm more than slightly convinced that he would've followed Aldo Raine out of France and to the ends of the earth. I tried to portray that "distant, but still there" sort of relationship here, and I hope I succeeded.

If this at all makes sense, I tried to write from his point of view, but still somewhat disconnected – hence why the accent's not always present. I just hope that, when the accent is present, I didn't fuck it up (because I just naturally suck at accents like that…).

If you liked it, review! Don't be shy, let me know what you think! If you have any feedback on anything, let me know. Anything I may need to improve on? Bring it up, and I'll keep it in mind for next time. :) I'll even try and respond to your review personally, if possible. You read the story and wrote up a review, so I should let you know how thankful I am!

I hope to write more for you guys soon, and I hope you enjoyed my first fanfic on this account. :)

Yao Guai

02.25.2010