Tomorrow's Bleeding
Author: shutupandsing
Rating: T
Comments: My first jump into the Band of Brothers fandom. Just dipping toes into the water; angst is always the best way to go if you're starting out.
Disclaimer: I do not own the miniseries Band of Brothers nor do I hold claim to knowing the actual persons of the 101st Airborne. This is a work of fiction, not profit.
Nixon drinks to remember.
His carefully sloppy demeanor isn't just a fluke of chance; Nixon has reasons why he drowns himself in Vat 69 every time he gets the chance and hopes this time he doesn't go belly-up like some yuppie goldfish in his own pool of self-pity.
The war disintegrates him; grinds him down until there's nothing but cold embers and carefully placed sarcasm to hide the helplessness he feels out in the field. The war makes him a cold-blooded scoundrel when he's the least bit sober; filling him with a rage that can't be contained or quelled with any force known to man.
Nixon drinks to remember the reasons why he's there; why he's holed away in some goddamn mess of a country. Has to remember why it's so honorable to see a good friend blown away in the heat of the moment. The familiar, yet comforting, sting of the scotch sliding down his throat is more than enough to haze his emotions till he's one great puddle of man. He doesn't have to tell himself to force a smile or a barked laugh.
He drank the most right out of Bastogne; whatever he could get his hands on. Winters took notice right off; accustomed to his drinking habits, but Nixon knew he was in shit-deep when his best friend started to show worry.
He shrugged off the concerned questions that were played off as harmless inquires about his general health, often followed by a playful snub about his less-than-angelic lifestyle. It worried him that Winters was worried about him.
How far had he pushed his limits? How drunk could he get before he started remembering for real and forgetting completely? These thoughts always pushed him farther into another bottle, determined to blaze his reasons for fighting right into his liver if need be.
Long nights spent starting listlessly out a window or standing out in the cold, dead night of the street always brought him some sort of relief. It was then that the stars twinkled the brightest high above him and he almost forgets for a moment that he's actually in a war. Another short tip of his bottle reminds him. He doesn't expect to ever get out alive; figures he'll get shot somewhere close to where they're holed up now.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Nixon drinks to remember all the things that ever goes wrong; because he finds difficulty in trying to forget them. Blurred faces of newly-deceased comrades invades every minute of his life. Another tip.