AN: I know that this is at least remarkably self-indulgent. May or may not be remarkably out of character. Leaving this to die here because I'm embarrassed of it. Oneshot.
The scotch was almost gone and it was late enough for the rest of the men to have gone to bed. That left Joe with Bill, sitting on a too-small bed with too many things bouncing around in his skull.
Joe was a man who held his alcohol. Bill was good, too, he took more shots than most other men could handle in the company. But a man could only handle so much before he got wasted. Joe was pleased he could be in his company when he was.
"My daddy always told me to stay away from girls with red hair," Bill said. There was a slur in his voice heavier than the one his underbite gave. "Said they had a temper. But my ma had red hair. Guy said it to make her mad. Still ain't fucked one."
Alcohol made things slower for him, made it easier to think. He wondered why Bill told him that. It gave him a little window into Bill's life before. Which of his parents had he got his square jawline from?
His smile spread into a grin after he took a sip. "Guess Doc Roe better be watchin' his ass."
Joe liked watching Bill figure things out. His eyebrows rose and his jaw worked double time. Babe had red hair.
"You ain't sayin'-" Bill started to smile back at him.
"Oh, yeah."
Bill set his jaw. Joe thought he'd punch him. He saw him fight Liebgott and wanted none of that whether he'd worked in mines all his life or not.
"I don't stand for that."
"Oh, yeah?" Joe said it like a question then. A little inflection as he looked at Bill under hooded eyelids.
The punch was coming. Bill looked at him with intensity that made his skin crawl. Wouldn't have happened with anyone but Bill.
Bill's chapped lips pressed against Joe's just as aggressively as a punch. Joe was left more surprised than he would've had it been one.
But Bill's mouth was hard on his; he was dragging his tongue over Joe's lower lip. Joe had never been a man to let surprise get the better of him.
Bill grunted when he slipped his tongue in his mouth, twitched a little. Then he reciprocated.
It seemed like Bill wasn't going to touch him, but Joe wanted to see what earned him one of his lesser-known nicknames- the one replacements whispered in awe- Bill "Three Continents" Guarnere. He held back. He'd gotten this far and he wouldn't scare him off.
Then he put his hands on him, and Joe couldn't keep his still.
He broke away from Bill and pushed him onto the bed, looking down at him with his hands on either side of his head. "How many times you been on your back, Gonorrhea?"
Bill grinned. "Lotsa times, Joe. Dolls love takin' charge."
Joe blushed, which was new for him. He leaned in close and grabbed Bill by the lapels of his shirt. "You're fuckin' hilarious." He had no idea what to do. He was better at sex when he wasn't drunk.
"Don't tell me the last time you got laid was high school." Bill said.
"Never went to high school, you shit." He was self-conscious and he had a sinking feeling Bill knew. "At least I ain't sleepin' around and gettin' gonorrhea."
Bill jutted out his jaw and set his hand on the back of Joe's head, eyes flitting all over his face. "Oh, yeah?"
He was throwing the question back, just like Joe said it, and it made him remarkably uncomfortable
Joe was distracted enough for Bill to roll them over. "It ain't so bad, is it, cowboy?"
"You implyin' something with that?" Joe asked. He ground up on him. Bill made an odd noise in the back of his throat, hips twitching. "You wanna…" he couldn't force the words out of his throat.
"I didn't say that, fuckin' idiot," Bill snapped. He leaned down and kissed him again, probably to shut him up. And fuck, Joe didn't give a shit what Bill wanted to do so long as it kept his lips on him.
He slid his tongue on Bill's, let his hands slide up to the top button of the other paratrooper's shirt. When Bill didn't pull back, he made quick work of it, unbuttoning it just enough to pull it over his head. He untucked his undershirt, ran his hands up his chest, and looked up at him with a smirk.
"Guess all the drinkin' you do don't do nothing." Joe said. He slipped Bill's off and then his own, having been rational enough before drinking to know booze was hard to get out of the uniforms.
"Could say the same thing for you, Joe."
/
Joe jolted and opened his eyes. His leg straightened out. Joe felt the other one, swore it was still there, but the sheets went flat after a rounded stump.
"Fuck," he muttered, and rubbed his thigh. It had been a few months since they got out of Bastogne, and the sensation of a phantom limb was strange. At least the field hospital was silent and Joe could replay his dream. That was one of the last times he and Bill had done anything together, as getting your leg blown off didn't warrant much sexual activity.
"Mornin', Joe," Bill said from the bed beside him. Joe stiffened, felt heat spread from his neck to his face.
"It's night, dumbass," he replied. Then, quietly, he added. "You remember that time in England?"
Bill snorted. He could almost see him grinning. "Yeah. What for?"
"You think we could do that? With one leg each?" He'd been getting the gall to ask that question. Bill never talked about what they did, but he had kissed him wordlessly on the nights when they first got to the hospital and he woke up panting and shaking and telling himself it was his fault.
Bill was silent for a moment. Joe prepared himself for a refusal. "Ain't nobody up," he told him, and Joe could hear the purr in his tone. "Get your ass over here and we'll see."