A/N: My first BoB fic. Please R/R. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
-:For Elf Mage:-
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PiecesLewis Nixon was extremely drunk. Though this was nothing extraordinary, he had not been this drunk for the entire war, and that was saying something. Of course, he did not drink this much without reason. Oh, no, he would never be that juvenile. A man never got drunk just for the sake being drunk, unless, of course, he was unemployed. No, Lewis Nixon had his reasons. He couldn't say that it was because of the war, because thousands of other soldiers had the same excuse and some of them actually didn't drink, like his friend, Richard Winters. He had other reasons, yes, indeed. Earlier that afternoon, he had received word from home. His wife was filing for divorce, taking her kid and his dog, his dog, Goddamn it. Trust a woman to strip you of everything you own while you're halfway around the fucking world. But besides that, yes, he could use the war as an excuse. Without mentioning any other details, he had been through Bastogne. Enough said.
So he had gotten drunk. He had grabbed a few bottles of German whiskey from the liquor store he had busted into the night before, just as Easy Company pulled out. As if he didn't have enough bull shit to deal with, there wasn't one bottle of Vat 69 in the whole God damn continent. By the time he had read his wife's letter, he was at the end of his rope, if ever there was a man who was. He had yelled at Winters. Winters hadn't said anything. Typical, he thought, as he took another drink. Typical Winters. Always had to be so God damn noble. The man was flawless. Usually, he could live with it, but at the moment, the entire universe was really pissing him off. That's what he got for drinking German whiskey.
If he weren't so drunk, he would know that he was slumped on the floor, propped up against an armchair. It was dark in the empty house, and the silhouette of his stretched out body looked dead. He didn't need the light to think. He hated light. He could see his hell of a life perfectly clearly in the dark. He didn't have home to return to, he couldn't find Vat 69, he had yelled at Winters, and the war had been going on for three fucking years since he had shipped out to Europe. He must've committed a felony and this was his punishment, courtesy of God. Since when did he believe in God, anyway? Winters did. He supposed he did too, in some way. Hell, he was alive, wasn't he? Or was that a sign that there wasn't a God after all? He didn't know. He took another drink.
The robbery of his dog and lack of Vat 69 suddenly vanished, however, and all he could think of was the war. He could see Buck Compton hit the Breaking Point, and he took another drink. He could see Joe Toye's legs blown off, and he took another drink. He could see the hoard of Jewish men behind the barbed wire, and he took another drink. He could see the kid who died the night of their last patrol and hear him crying out in fear. He took another drink.
"I don't want to die, I don't want to die." He took another drink.
He could see Bastogne. He could see Operation Market Garden. He could see D-Day. He took another drink. He could here the old German men playing Beethoven's String Quartet in C Sharp Minor, and he took another drink. He could see Pvt. Blythe going blind, gaining confidence, and then getting shot in the neck. He took another drink. He could see the burning lake and the bodies at the aid station, Hoobler's frozen corpse and the men seated in the little French chapel after a Christmas in Bastogne, and he took another drink. Faces started going through his head – none of the living, only the dead. One by one, they appeared and faded. No blood. Just faces. They were all fine in basic. Somehow, things had gone wrong.
He didn't realize he had started to cry. It was as if he was completely detached from his body, and he couldn't feel the tears. All he could do was watch the visions in his head and keep drinking. Keep drinking, and it will all go away. Keep drinking, and you'll wake up. Keep drinking, and the pain will stop. But it wasn't working. Not this time. This time, there was no escape. He could almost ignore the ache in his chest. He could almost pretend like it was just the alcohol and his exhaustion. But he wasn't okay. He had never been okay. Perhaps he had been able to pretend all along, but it had never been the truth. Good old Major Nixon. He's always okay, so long as he has his booze. Yes, that's right.... Drinking made everything okay. It solved all his problems, gave him peace of mind, got him through whatever the war threw at him. He wasn't one of the ones who needed to go on sick leave. He wasn't broken like Buck Compton had been. He didn't need pep talks or optimistic bullshit or a pat on the back from Uncle Sam by way of another fucking medal. He didn't care if he had been demoted. He didn't care about anything or anyone. All he cared about was getting back to the home he no longer had. Nixon chuckled to himself at that thought. He took another drink.
At that moment, however, his lovely wallowing was interrupted when the door opened somewhere behind him and the intruder called out his name. It was Dick Winters. Wasn't it always? He waited for the other man to come closer, vaguely listening to the sound of his boots clicking on the floorboards. A minute late, he was in the man's shadow. Nixon grinned, just as he always did.
"Dick," he said, sounding good-natured. "How marvelous of you to join me."
"Nix," Winters started. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, you know," Nixon began, standing up and stumbling about, holding his whiskey bottle up near his head. "Just drinking away the world." His tone was pleasant enough, and he grinned at his friend, who only eyed him in that way Winters always did.
"Don't look at me like that, Dick," he said, swaying toward his comrade. "You always have to be so serious." He flung his hand up to Dick's shoulder, looking at him narrowly, and taking another drink.
"You act as if there's no reason to celebrate our lives." Winters did not reply, as usual, but he did not miss the faint gleam of tears on Nixon's face. He couldn't be sure in the dark, but he was surprised, nonetheless. Nixon's cynical sarcasm did nothing to ease his mind either, and he did not remember a time when his friend had been more drunk. "I mean, come on," the alcoholic continued, turning away from Winters and plopping into the armchair.
"Here we are," Nixon said. "In fucking Europe. Women would kill to come here. Hell, I know my wife would. Well, my ex-wife, that is. And, you know, I don't think my dog would mind visiting either. In fact, I think he'd enjoy himself." Winters kept silent, his eyes locked on his friend, but Nixon was too drunk to be annoyed now.
"And we're alive, Dick. We survived three years of World War 2. That's a fucking accomplishment, don't you think? I mean, we could be out in the pile with all of the other men in our company who got nailed, though I can't remember their names right now, but we're not, Dick. That is just fucking amazing, isn't it? We still get to enjoy life and Europe and all the other recreational activities that come with our vacation here – like killing, for example. We can't kill anyone when we go home, Dick. It's illegal. Did you know that? It's illegal to kill people back home." He laughed and took another drink, still unaware of the tears. Winters remained unmoving and silent, though sadness stirred inside him as he listened to his friend.
"And you know, 3 weeks now, and I still can't find Vat 69," he said. "Not a bottle in this whole damn continent, Dick. Not one fucking bottle. That's why I broke into that liquor store before we left, you know. Did you know that? I was the one who busted that window last night. That whole fucking window was stocked with booze, and not one Goddamn bottle of Vat 69. Just my luck, right?" The whiskey was running out, but he hardly noticed as it flowed down his throat.
"I need my Vat 69, Dick. How the hell am I supposed to get through the rest of this war without it? It's the only reason I am not completely emotionally fucked up, you know? Now, what's going to happen, I wonder? Maybe I'll die, Dick. Maybe, after three fucking years, they'll finally get me. I should have already kicked the bucket, anyway. You remember, Dick. Operation Market Garden? We were surrendering for the fucking time? And there we were, minding our own business, and I got shot in the fucking head." Though Nixon couldn't see it, Winters was in tears by now, finally having to deal with his emotions regarding that afternoon, when he had almost lost his alcoholic friend. He had never had time until now to deal with it, and to hear Nixon talking this way, regretting the fact that he didn't die, brought it all out of Richard Winters.
"But I didn't die," Nixon chuckled. "No, I didn't fucking die. The bullet somehow ricocheted off my helmet and went clean through at some fucked up angle. We both thought I was through, remember Dick? You looked at me like I was dead. I have to admit, that was pretty fucking scary. I drank that night, though. It was okay the next morning. The funny thing is, Dick, I think you were more scared than I was."
Winters stood in his place, not moving, not making a sound, just staring down at his best friend and letting himself cry in the dark. He remembered the way Nixon's body had violently flinched when the bullet hit, and the way the bullet sounded when it met his helmet. He remembered crying out his friend's name, rushing to the other soldier's side, and taking Nixon's head in his hand. He recalled the overwhelming relief that flooded him when Nixon had stared back at him, alive, and how that feeling had almost made him sick to his stomach. That was the first real time he had lost his composure in the war. D-Day barely fazed him, but coming that close to losing Nix was on the brink of self-destruction.
"Aren't you tired of it all, Dick?" Nixon asked, after drinking some more. "Don't you just want to die already?"
"No," Winters finally answered, keeping a calm tone. "I would never want to die in this war, Nix. If I really wanted to, I could've shot myself long ago. But I don't."
"Well, maybe that's the answer to my problems, Dick. Maybe I'll just fucking shoot myself right here and now, and end this fucking misery." He had brandished the Luger he kept in his pocket and pressed it against his temple, whiskey bottle still in his other hand. Dick's eyes had widened in horror when he recognized the shape in the dark, and he had lunged at it desperately, snatching it away from his friend without any resistance from Nix. The alcoholic's hand fell limp at his side again, and he took another drink. "You ruined my plan, Dick."
"Don't you ever," Winters trembled, holding the gun in both hands. Tears were streaming down his face and he shook with undefined emotion. He wasn't sure if it was fear or rage or anguish and suspected it was probably all three mingled together. "Don't you ever do something so selfish."
"Selfish?" Nixon echoed. "Who I am being selfish to? I don't owe a fucking thing to anybody. And what are you going to do if I don't listen to you, huh? Kill me?" He laughed sardonically, took another drink, and continued. "You going to demote me, Dick? You going to stop speaking to me?" He snickered again, drinking some more, and Dick's eyes were blurred with tears, his chest aching.
"Why do you even fucking care?" Nixon asked bitterly. " I'm just one more soldier on death row. I'm just like all the others. One of them dies, you move on. One of them leaves with one less limb, you keep breathing. I die, you keep fighting. Doesn't mean shit."
"You're wrong," Dick choked, his hands shaking around the German pistol.
"Am I, Dick? Am I always so wrong? Do you actually have feelings like the rest of us? I thought you were immortal, perfect Dick Winters, our pillar of strength. Am I wrong on that too?" He looked to his friend and turned away again, almost finishing his whiskey.
"I care," Winters uttered, the lump in his throat little less painful than the knot in his chest. "I care about every one of my men. I cared about every one of them who died. I care about you."
"Well, I am so touched," Nixon replied coldly. "I now have a reason to live." He finished off the whiskey, and his mood declined in sudden lack of alcohol.
"You're my friend," Winters said, helplessly, tears rolling through his eyelashes and down his cheeks. "You're my one and only friend in this whole army. I care about you, Nix. I don't what I'd do without you."
"If you cared, you would let me go out of this hell, but you don't give a damn," Nixon spat, throwing the empty bottle aside angrily. The sound of the glass shattering twinkled in the darkness as Dick Winters' heart broke, and the pieces were splayed out on the floor like an accidental mosaic.
"If you want to kill yourself, I'm not going to stop you," Winters said numbly. "But I will care. I will cry." He could feel the ribbons of his soul begin to unravel, and he didn't know what to do but stand there in the dark.
"You're already crying, Dick," Nixon said, flatly. And without another bottle to drink from, he hung his head in defeat. Winters waited for a moment, unsure of himself, a wounded, bewildered expression in his eyes that no battle had succeeded in bringing thus far. After a minute of silence and hesitation, he moved toward Nixon and paused again as he stood in front of him, tears disappearing into Nixon's hair. The alcoholic was shaking, his shoulders about to collapse, and he sobbed, just as Winters slid his arms around him. Nixon cried into Dick's wrinkled clothes, waiting for a moment, before wrapping his arms around his friend's waist. The alcoholic trembled in the other soldier's embrace, but Winters only stood with his head bowed and wept. They remained this way for a long while, the broken glass eventually catching a pale beam of moonlight from the window and glinting, with the remainder of the whiskey clinging to corners, not drunk.