A/N: YAY!!! BoB fic Number 2!!!! I was re-watching some BoB today and yesterday, and this little thing came to me. I was in a fluffy mood this morning, and a bunch of plot bunnies came unto my doorstep. I have taken them in to cuddle, and this one happened to be first.

NO SLASH!!! I think I should like to be remembered as the Patron Saint of Friendship Fluff. snort That'd be pretty screwed up if they called me a saint after I died. Anyway, please Read and Review!!! More bunnies to come!

You know what I think is a good Solider Angst song? "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls. I was listening to it while writing this, though this isn't as angsty as the song.

Coffee Interlude in Bastogne

"It's snowing again."

"Thank you for informing me, Nix. I couldn't tell."

Lewis Nixon swaggered toward the miserable little cot, turning his back on the door flap he had let fall shut. He smiled because the lump of blankets wasn't a naturally sarcastic creature and another swig of whiskey followed. At the moment, he didn't mind the cold so much, what with the alcohol warming his brain, but the lump didn't drink. He was beginning to pity it more and more. Hell, he should pity himself. But then again, he had booze in this ice patch of hell, and that made him the most blessed man in France.

"You know," he started, interrupting himself with another sip, "you shouldn't be here, Dick." The alcoholic had stopped halfway to the cot, his weight tilted to one foot, while his eyes wandered his surroundings as if he could see the snow through the tent.

"I told you," came the sickly reply. "I'm not leaving the men." Dick Winters happened to be that pitiable lump on that pathetic cot, hidden away except for his face and a renegade tuft of red hair. He had curled up in a ball, wrapped awkwardly in the three, thin blankets he had miraculously acquired when all of his men only had one each. He had, of course, refused such a luxurious advantage at first, but Nixon had rejected his friend's heroic bull shit yesterday morning and had sent for two more blankets. Winters had thanked him, despite that fact that he had repeated that he didn't want them, but Nix knew he was just being noble even though the average human part of Dick would have literally killed for more warmth. The blankets were too thin to begin with, so they didn't give anyone an amazing amount of help, but Nixon would do anything he could to aid his friend. It wasn't like Lewis Nixon to get nervous, so he didn't express the fact that he was really damn scared that Winters would join those who had died of this flu. He only did what he could, occasionally prayed, and hoped it was all enough.

"Dick, when are you going to realize and admit that Easy Company can take care of itself?" he asked, those brown eyes big with the tent's lack of light. Winters only looked at him and shook, his expression unreadable. Nixon sighed. "You're sick, you know that, right? And you can't be much help to anyone if you're curled up and dying in this damn tent."

" 'M not dying," Winters protested.

"Well, you will be if you stay here," Nixon countered. "Go to the aid station. Get help."

Winters shook his head stiffly. "I can't." His nose was stuffy and red, bold against his otherwise pale face. Nixon was beginning to think that Winters did have a flaw and that it was definitely obstinacy.

"Damn it, Dick," he snapped. "I'm not going to stand by and let you die of a fucking flu just because you're too damn noble to leave the men when all they're doing is freezing their ass off in foxholes."

Again, Winters only stared at him, those pale blue eyes lacking the warmth they often held. They were too light a color, too skilled at hiding emotion, and Nixon almost made up for them with his own, too dark and letting too much come to surface. But somehow, those too light, stoic eyes of the redhead never failed in leveling Nixon wordlessly. And now was no different. They locked gazes, until Nixon's shoulders sunk in defeat with another sigh that left white clouds dying in the air. Winters looked away, eyelids drooping on the verge of sleep that would give him no relief from exhaustion, no matter how long that sleep was. Nixon at last picked up his feet, going to his friend like a defeated king goes to his conqueror, humbled. He lifted the only blanket corner left unwrapped, and Winters let the rest of the blankets come loose from his own aching, frozen body. His friend slipped in, tentative at first that the cot would break under the weight of two grown men. After a minute, he relaxed, tucking one arm under his head to make drinking easier. The whiskey still tipped back and forth, like the tide against his lips. Those eyes stared up into the heavy tent cloth, meant to be a ceiling, but he couldn't see any snowflakes making it through the damp threads. Winters was curled against his friend, and Nixon didn't find it strange. Winters rested his head against Nixon's chest, relieved to have a real pillow again for the first time in months.

"You think we'll make it out of the war, Dick?"

"Mm," said Winters. Nixon smiled.

"I think so, too. You're very encouraging," Nixon remarked. He kept grinning as he felt Winters smile against him, suspecting it was the first smile from his friend in weeks. It almost felt like Winters would only smile in Nixon's company, as if that uncommon smile was a secret between the two. Nixon took another drink, and Winters listened to his friend's heart beating with his eyes closed. The sound was distant.

"You know, I was thinking," Nix said. "Maybe we should get more of that coffee from the aid station, that stuff that tastes like horse shit but is still something hot in this God damn snow globe."

"Snow globes are supposed to be cheerful," Winters said after a muffled chuckle.

"And going to Europe is supposed to be the ultimate vacation," Nixon added, and Dick snorted, almost laughing out loud despite himself. A long minute passed them by before the brunette asked if they should send for coffee again.

"If I drink some, will you stop insisting I leave camp?" Winters questioned, and Nix smiled before another drink.

"I guess so," he said. "Something hot should do you some good, no matter what it tastes like."

"All right then," Winters agreed, and he drifted closer to sleep's outstretched hand. Nixon's breathing was silent, but his chest rose and fell under his friend's head and soothed Winters enough. They allowed a long while to pass without anymore conversation. Winters lingered on the edge of sleep, and Nixon thought about the men outside, huddled together in their foxholes with the snow failing to melt on their helmets. Instead, it would cling to those thin and useless blankets, and their breath would fill the sky with more clouds for more snow and sunless days. Half of them would stay up on watch, ready to run into death, and maybe they would talk or maybe they would sit alone with their thoughts. The waking would tremble with cold, the sleeping would lie still and pale as the dead, and everyone but Doc Roe would have someone to sit with. Nixon wondered after the demons of Eugene Roe, and he thought about every man who their good Doc couldn't save. He almost laughed when he acknowledged the fact that a good lot of them would kick his ass if they found it he had alcohol.

And as these thoughts flowed through his head, Nixon wondered what tomorrow would be like. The best thing he could hope for was that it would be like today, quiet and without loss of life or limbs or mental stability. Hell, he was hoping they would just get through the night without anymore German fireworks. Maybe tomorrow night. But tonight, he needed it to be quiet. He needed it to be all right. And maybe tomorrow they would get their limbs blown off. Maybe tomorrow they would get shot up beyond recognition. Maybe they would freeze or maybe they would shoot themselves. Maybe they would wake up in a bed that didn't seem normal anymore, not knowing where the last few years had gone or where their friends were. "War? What war?" their wives would say. And maybe it would all be a dream in the end. But as Lewis Nixon lay there with his sick friend sleeping against him, he came to the almost disturbing realization that if it was a choice between staying in Bastogne or waking up to find that he had never met a man named Dick Winters, he would stay in God damn France until the end of the world. Because Winters was worth it.

"You're shaking, Dick," he said softly, almost unaware that he had spoken. The redhead was already too far into sleep to hear him, and it wasn't a lie. Winters was shivering against Nixon, even in sleep, even under three blankets. Nix set the bottle of Vat 69 down on the dirt, tucked that arm under his head, and moved the other out from under his hair to curl around Winters. He held Dick against him, eyes closing, head tilting a little. Winters didn't stop shaking with Nixon's arm around him, but the alcoholic didn't care. He only hoped that his body was enough to keep Winters warm and that what was left of the whiskey wouldn't freeze over while they slept. When was the last time he had slept? He couldn't remember. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, Dick's chest moving against him with each breath, and he remembered his dog and his fireplace and that burger joint in town that he had always liked. How fucked up was it that all this time he was in this God damn, piece of shit country called France, and he had never had the pleasure of a real French fry? He needed a cigarette. Winters shifted and snaked an arm across Nixon's chest, holding on. Before Nix fell asleep, he realized Winters had stopped shaking. He almost smiled, decided not to, thought of the men outside in the ground and the irony of foxholes for soldiers that would end up dying. Damn it, Dick, you better live, he thought. And then he pondered how lovely it would be if he could give Winters real coffee for Christmas.