Chapter Text
The silence in the jeep was thick as storm clouds. Nix couldn’t say how he knew, exactly, but Dick was quivering with rage beside him. He was more pissed than Nix had ever seen him, dangerous as an unexploded mortar. Nix kept his clasped hands between his knees and—for once—resisted the urge to test the waters.
Darkness had gathered over CP, and Nix took the liberty of dismissing the men who milled around, preparing to move them into Foy. There was no sense in packing up all their crap now, at least not by Nix’s estimation. Now was the time to debrief over a stiff drink or five.
Of course Dick would need it packed up and moved into town right away. They’d doubtless be planning and strategizing well into the night, and chances were good the higher-ups would have some special instructions for the S2 that didn’t involve drinking, or sleeping for that matter.
But he pushed the thoughts aside and sent the privates away, and for a moment, it was just the two of them in the tent. Dick was bent over a table, leaning on his palms. If he thought anything of Nix ordering those men to clear out, he showed no sign. In the half-light, Nix thought he looked like he was trying to catch his breath.
Nix opened his mouth, certain the words would come like they always did—but in his second’s hesitation, Dick moved. With a snap of one long arm, he grabbed something off of a crate to his right and flung it as hard as he could into the woods, uttering a grunt of animal fury.
All the air went out of Nix’s lungs. He thought, distantly, that it was a good thing he’d dismissed the others. His friend deserved a chance to react without all eyes on him. For a long moment they just stood there, staring at each other as Dick huffed clouds of vapor into the icy air, letting the rage dissipate with them.
Finally, he dropped his gaze, glancing around the hulking shadows of the deserted CP before looking down at his upturned hand. Nix saw something fall from his knuckles to the ground, and realized whatever he’d thrown into the trees must’ve sliced his palm open.
It was an excuse to break the silence. In two strides he closed the gap between them and took Dick’s hand lightly. “Here, let me,” he said.
Dick didn’t react at all, so Nix busied himself with the injury, keeping his eyes away from Dick’s face. He fished in his pockets until he came up with a scrap of cloth, and began winding it around Dick’s hand, pressing both thumbs into the palm where the blood still welled up from a long laceration.
He took his time binding the injury, and as he did so, a hazy memory surfaced. It made no sense, seemed only half real in the cracked hindsight he had of the past days: Dick sliding into his foxhole before dawn, shaking so hard it made Nix’s own teeth rattle. Lying there half-conscious with his knees hitched up into the crook of Nix’s own, breathing into the back of Nix’s neck. Slipping in and out of sleep in a darkness so bleak they couldn’t see each other, though Nix had known who it was without either needing to make a sound.
“Skinny farm boy,” Nix had teased, when they were all tangled up, a confusion of blankets and limbs, and still nothing could make Dick’s shivering stop.
“Shut up,” Dick had said, coaxing a surprised smile out of Nix. It was about all the talking they could manage, but Nix cupped Dick’s hands in his own and blew into the hollow of his palms to warm them.
Standing in the silent CP, tying off the makeshift bandage around Dick’s palm, Nix had the crazy urge to hold it to his lips the way he’d done in the foxhole. It was the stupidest thought to ever cross his mind, but with the wound now tightly bound, there was no reason to stand there just holding Dick’s hand.
He didn’t let go, though. Instead, he slid his fingers into Dick’s sleeve, pressing a light touch to the inside of his wrist where the pulse came fast and strong. He counted the beats idly, for no other reason than to keep his thoughts quiet. It only lasted a moment, standing there with his eyes downcast and Dick’s hand cupped between both of his. His cheeks were hot and his breaths shallow as he moved to pull away.
Dick moved faster. His free hand shot out and gripped Nix by the forearm, preventing him from drawing back. Nix glanced up, startled, but Dick was still staring down at their joined hands. It was a strange configuration, standing there in the dark, hands clasped and holding each other by the wrists, and Nix found his heart was hammering for no reason he cared to name.
Finally, agonizingly, they were forced to meet one another’s gaze.
“You alright?” Nix asked.
Dick looked tight-lipped and steely. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing just perceptibly tighter. “Better get those men back in here.”
Nix swallowed hard and mumbled his assent. For a beat they stood motionless, and Nix studied Dick’s face, trying not to give anything away. Then Dick released him and turned, and the whole moment felt as distant as that night in the foxhole.
Nix lifted the tumbler that dangled from his fingertips, letting the warm lamplight dance over its facets before filling it from the bottle in his hand. The liquor came out piss-colored, splashing into the glass and over the rim, a stiffer measure than he’d really meant to pour. He sighed and held Dick’s gaze for a second before downing it, fighting the involuntary grimace that followed. German whiskey was shit, and he glared at Dick as though he were somehow to blame. Dick glared back, not giving an inch, then exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to his desk.
A demotion and a corresponding penance of paperwork was nothing Nix couldn’t handle. And a divorce too? Yeah sure, why the fuck not? But Dick’s mounting judgment—his disappointment —well, that was just rich, on top of everything else. Nix’s gaze burned into the back of Dick’s head as he loudly poured himself another, clinking the glassware roughly against the bottle, making sure it was, audibly, a strong one. He tossed it back in one rough swallow while Dick continued to ignore him with perfect poise. He’d been up here twice now for a refill, and Dick continued to sit his desk like a glacier, frosty and unmoveable.
Nix thunked the bottle back onto the bureau and sank into a squat against the heavy wooden drawers, letting the tumbler fall next to his boot, working his hands over his face and back into his hair.
“Chrissakes,” he grumbled.
This got Dick’s attention. He swiveled again in his chair, still only turning halfway away from his desk, but watching Nix with his usual focused gaze. After a moment’s consideration he rose and came to mirror Nix’s squat with one hand raised, fingertips lightly brushing Nix’s knee.
He waited until Nix looked up. “I need you to hang tough,” he said.
Nix felt wild laughter building in his chest, like a kid in church. HIs lips twitched with it, though nothing was funny in the slightest. He furrowed his brow at Dick, incredulous. “Hang tough ?” he repeated, knowing as he said it that his voice dripped with more bitterness than Dick deserved. But that feeling was rising in his chest like a helium balloon, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Shitty alcohol hummed hot in his veins and burned under his cheekbones. It was almost like anger. One way or another, it was going to come out.
Dick was still staring at him. If he’d approached with a measure of kindness at first, that had evaporated and been replaced with pure steel.
Nix wrinkled his nose. “Hang tough?” he said again, louder. And then he moved, out of control, and shoved Dick by the shoulders, so that he fell back on his ass on the floorboards. Nix stood up too fast, his head spinning with alcohol and the adrenaline of instant regret. He took two steps, stopped, and turned back.
“Those are human beings we found out there in that camp,” he half-shouted. “And human beings who burned up in that plane. Or have you forgotten the meaning of the term?” It was wildly unfair; a throwback to the way he used to fight with Kathy, with his father. His face was on fire, and he knew he needed to stop, but he was panting like he’d just run Currahee, and there was no release, no place for this feeling to go.
Dick was still sitting there with his knees up, one hand braced on the floor behind him and the other draped against his thigh. It wasn’t a fighting posture. He looked lithe and wiry, and he unfolded slowly, as if taking the moment to think over his words. Dick was always doing that, and in the interim, Nix found his breathing beginning to slow. Two spots still flared white-hot on his cheeks, behind his eyes, burning with rage and shame.
Dick came to stand in front of him, his face as impassive as ever, and Nix fixed his gaze on the wall, as close as he could get to standing at attention, preparing himself to take whatever Dick decided he deserved.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Dick said softly. “But right now, I don’t have the luxury of human feeling.” If there was regret in these words, or any emotion at all, Nix couldn’t hear it. Dick’s tone was level and precise. He may as well have been reading from one of his neatly typed pages. Nix kept his eyes ahead.
He saw Dick raise a hand out of the corner of his eye, and to his credit, he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t for Dick to push back an unruly lock from his forehead. He couldn’t help it if his gaze flickered to Dick’s face, after that.
But Dick wasn’t meeting his gaze, either. His eyes were following his fingers, lightly brushing through Nix’s tangles. “But, Lew?” Dick said, and now their eyes met in earnest, and Nix was afraid of what Dick might be reading on his face. “I’m glad you got off that plane,” Dick finished.
Nix’s cheeks still felt awfully hot, and he closed his eyes as Dick’s thumbs swept the hair back over his ears. They were standing so close that their chests were almost touching, and even though it made the booze churn in Nix’s belly, he let his head droop forward until their foreheads met. Dick didn’t jump backwards like he should’ve, and Nix thought he might be caught in some drunken fever dream, because Dick was still touching him, fingers on the nape of his neck and the line of his jaw. His heart was hammering so hard he felt his body might shake apart, and he nuzzled Dick’s nose with his own, breathing the light scent of shaving cream.
He had to do something with his hands, and the only place for them was on Dick’s waist. Dick was cupping his head, holding their faces together as they brushed lightly against one another’s skin, not kissing, but something so close to it that Nix felt he was standing on a cliff’s edge and leaning out, already falling. A pulse of pure want throbbed deep in his belly.
“I can’t,” Dick murmured, and the words brought his lips into feather-light contact with Nix’s. “We can’t.” He said it into his cheekbone and his temple and his brow, holding Nix with gentle fingers as he did so, not kissing him but breathing the words into his skin, “I can’t, I can’t.” Nix’s fingers tightened on Dick’s hips. He didn’t trust himself to say anything. He turned his head to nuzzle under Dick’s jawline, breathing deeply against his pulse point. The feeling in his stomach settled lower, tighter. They were both holding on, lightly but firmly, to a moment that couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t last.
When they pulled back, Nix could see the flush in Dick’s cheeks and lips, and the glint of something wild in his eyes. His hands were still on Dick’s hips, but then Dick stepped just out of reach, so that they fell limp at Nix’s sides.
They were staring each other down, fearful and reckless, and then Dick said, “I’m sorry.”
Nix’s body was full of molten heat, and he tried for his usual rakish smile, because he had never seen so much fear in his friend’s eyes, and now with this gulf between them, there was no other way to soothe it. His lips quirked, and maybe he got close to the grin he intended, and he said, “don’t worry about it.”
“Lew?” Dick was searching his face, and suddenly Nix found that he felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He clapped a hand to Dick’s shoulder and squeezed, a brotherly gesture. “Seriously. It’s alright.” He moved to retrieve his bottle and tumbler. “Get some rest,” he added, with a small smile. Then he ducked out the door, and hoped Dick didn’t see him hitching his pants up, trying to relieve the unrelenting tightness below his belt.
Nix awoke with a screaming hangover. His skull was splitting, his skin stretched over a vessel full of steel wool and gasoline. He lay still for a few moments, curled on his side, letting the room stop spinning. Goering’s fucking wine .
Slowly, he tested one eye, and then the other. It was still dark, just approaching dawn, and the room was deep in shadow. Nix pressed one palm to the mattress, as though even lying down it took effort not to sway.
It was with a sluggish sort of resignation that he admitted to himself two things: he was still a little drunk, and he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was.
It wasn’t his own room, that was for damn sure. The furniture he could see outlined in the half-light lacked his usual clutter, and the floor was missing the mess of crates and bottles he knew he’d left the night before. Still huddled in a near-fetal position, he struggled to retrace his steps. Stumbling through the street arm-in-arm with Harry, swinging open bottles in both hands. Moonlight and lamplight and the sounds of ongoing revelry. He was pretty sure Harry had been adamant about putting him to bed. Hazily, he recalled the two of them attacking the stairs together, falling into the banisters and laughing.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, where the untrimmed hair was past being called stubble. Had he let Harry tuck him in and then managed to sneak out again?
It had been a long time since a hangover had actually woken him, and every inch of his body cried out for more sleep. But he knew this game, had played and lost too many times: the discomfort was too great, and he was going to have to feel every second of it. There was nothing to do but face it like a man, and he’d have to begin by getting his bearings. Slowly, and with great protest from his stomach and head, he rolled over.
He wasn’t alone.
He could feel the weight and warmth of another body next to his on the mattress, but he’d already squeezed his eyes shut to avoid looking. Whose goddamn bed had he landed himself in? And how in the hell was he going to sneak his still-drunk ass out of here without rousing some unimpressed partner and facing their full wrath at five in the fucking morning?
Grimacing, he made himself look.
The surge of adrenaline almost made him black out. It was Dick. He was lying stinking drunk in Dick’s bed before dawn, and Dick wasn’t awake yet. Nix lay frozen, trying to slow his shallow breathing, trying to think, trying to plan. Every cell in his body was screaming to retreat, but his brain was three steps behind, and supplied only the extravagantly stupid observation that he’d never seen Dick sleeping before.
He thought it over. They’d dozed together in foxholes in Bastogne, and they’d billeted together often, even sharing a pallet or bed now and then, if space constraints required it. It was always Dick who mustered Nix at the crack of dawn, all combed and shaved and fresh. But of course Nix had come in late some nights, after drinking, to find Dick already sacked out in their shared rooms. So he’d seen . He’d just never really looked before.
He couldn’t stop himself from looking now. He was staring, drinking in the sight of Dick’s sleeping features. So much of what made Dick Dick was smoothed away, gentled by sleep. His eyes and mouth were soft. He looked young.
There was something charged inside Nix, something sharp and delicate that had sprung to life on that day in Landsberg, that day when—as he’d reminded himself often—Dick didn’t kiss him. Strange things happened in wartime; Nix knew this better than many. It was no trouble to do the right thing, and slip back into the easy friendship they’d always shared. But now when they touched, Nix hummed inside, and he liked it, and he didn’t.
It was just one more item on the list of things Nix knew better than to think about: he wanted to be nose to nose with Dick again, not kissing. Or maybe kissing. Or maybe something more.
Yet here he was, close enough to Dick that they were breathing the same air, and he was paralyzed with fear. He shoved the thoughts out of his mind, heart hammering. Some part of him felt certain that if he thought about it too loudly, here in Dick’s bed, Dick would hear it, and then everything would surely come crashing down.
At least the adrenaline was a good antidote to the hangover. He was bunching his fist in the blanket that covered them, preparing to make his move, when Dick stirred. This Mennonite son of a bitch was probably about to wake up stone sober and go for a vigorous run, and Nix couldn’t decide whether it was worse to be caught sharing his pillow, or halfway out the door.
The decision was already out of his hands. Dick’s eyelids fluttered and opened, and he woke to Nix staring directly into his eyes.
Dick took a quick breath and let it out slowly, and his lips moved in the ghost of a smile. “Hey,” he said.
Nix stared, unable to form a single word.
“I figured you’d be out for hours yet,” Dick said. His voice was soft—impossible to speak aloud in the gray light of this quiet hour.
“Hangover,” Nix mumbled, his voice thick and untested.
Dick murmured his understanding, and then a heavy silence fell between them.
“How did I, uh—?” Nix started, glancing from side to side to indicate their odd sleeping arrangement.
Dick huffed a small laugh. “You don’t remember?” Nix shook his head sheepishly. “Harry brought you up here around three,” Dick said, still wearing that little smile. “You were pretty far gone. He was trying to put you to bed, but you were insisting that you could convince me to come down for a drink. At some point he gave up, and I agreed to deal with you.”
Nix’s heart was pounding, and it was making him woozy. He had no idea how to ask after his own bad behavior. “Ah,” he pressed, “so then I, what? Tried to steal your bed?”
Nix could’ve sworn Dick was smiling at some private joke. “Something like that,” Dick said.
“Sorry,” Nix said, squinting a little, forcing himself not to close his eyes in shame.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dick said. “You were a perfect gentleman.”
Nix arched an eyebrow at that. “What else did you expect?” he couldn’t help prodding. The flow of this conversation was doing little to soothe his anxiety, and his palms were clammy where they still gripped the blanket.
Dick made no response, and once again Nix felt frozen, lying there looking his best friend in the eyes across maybe six inches of pillow. He couldn’t explain what happened after that. He moved, maybe to throw off the blanket, and Dick moved too, taking Nix’s face in both his hands and pulling him in. Nix didn’t understand how his move to get up ended with one of his hands in the curve of Dick’s waist and the other pressed to his chest, but now they were nose to nose again, and Dick was finishing what they’d started in Landsberg, brushing Nix’s lips with his own so lightly, sending little electric jolts straight to his toes.
Nix’s brain was swirling out of control— what are we doing?— but at the same time he was deepening the kiss, sucking Dick’s lower lip, pressing him to open his mouth a little. Dick felt soft and pliable, and Nix wondered distantly how much kissing he’d really done in his lifetime, and the thought dropped hot into his belly and pooled there, thick as honey. He might’ve made a little sound then, a tiny whimper that he absolutely did not intend, and Dick pulled back from the kiss to press their foreheads together, while Nix’s cheeks felt scorched. Dick was rubbing a thumb over the flushed skin, and Nix was melting under the touch, melting with so much hot need.
“I’m sorry,” Dick murmured, eyes closed, and Nix almost growled aloud in frustration. “I’m sorry, Lew. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He opened his eyes then and met Nix’s gaze, and Nix could feel his own chest rising and falling with his rapid, shallow breaths.
Nix had to know: “Is this what we—? Last night? Did I—?”
Dick shook his head firmly. “No. We… talked.”
“We talked ?” Nix raised both eyebrows, suspicious. “About what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dick said. His soft lips were still upturned in the tiniest hint of a smile, and Nix needed— needed —to taste that mouth with his own.
He pushed Dick down into the pillow with his kiss, leaning up over him, urging their mouths open, and Dick’s hand on the back of his neck was pulling him in, breath catching in his chest as he softened under Nix’s touch. Nix was consumed with need, throwing one knee over Dick’s thigh and bringing their bodies into total contact from lips to toes.
Dick’s hips rose up to meet him. Tangled in the sheets, they were grinding into each other as though seeking a closer contact, flesh burning through undershirts and boxers. All trace of the hangover was forgotten; he was hard, so hard he couldn’t think straight.
“Lew.” Dick said his name into the unshaven skin of his neck, and there was something in his voice that made Nix stop, uncomfortably aware of his erection throbbing against Dick’s thigh. “Lew,” he said again.
Nix was shaking his head, eyes shut tight against all the realistic considerations he could hear in Dick’s tone. Dick’s hands were still playing through his hair, and he brushed his lips over Dick’s cheekbone, wishing he could stop the words he knew were coming.
“We need to think this through,” Dick said, “before we do something we’ll both regret.”
Nix pushed himself back on one arm to look Dick in the eyes. “Do you regret what happened in Landsberg?” They had never talked about it, never given any indication that there was anything to say. Nix had almost convinced himself that there wasn’t, that it was just an odd trick of the booze and the stress and their platonic closeness, but as soon as the words rushed out of him he knew just how deeply he’d been lying to himself.
Dick met his gaze steadily. “No. Do you?”
Nix wanted to whine with frustration, but he forced himself to match Dick’s even tone. “No.”
He could’ve sworn something softened in Dick’s eyes then, and he lowered himself enough to nuzzle Dick’s nose, breathing together the way they had that night, when they’d stopped themselves the first time.
“I want to touch you all the time,” he whispered.
“I know,” Dick said. “You said so last night.”
Self-consciousness crashed through him, and he finally let himself roll off of Dick’s body, with the full force of his hangover churning back into high gear. He curled in on himself a little, hoping he wasn’t going to throw up. “Sorry,” he managed to mumble through gritted teeth. “Sounds like you were the real gentleman.”
He felt Dick’s hand in his hair again, soothing. “It’s alright.”
“You could’ve ordered me to clear out, you know,” Nix added, rolling on his back, eyes still closed, trying to find the strength to stand.
“I didn’t want you to go,” Dick said.
Nix opened his eyes and looked at him sidelong. Dick was leaning his head on one hand, watching him with a contemplative look. Nix scoffed. “Well, damnit Dick, what do you want? Because I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me mixed signals right now.”
“I think,” Dick began, and then he sighed. “I'm not sure I remember how to want anything, to be honest.”
Nix felt his lips quirk, neither a smile nor a frown. Admiration and tenderness swelled in him, sweeping away the bitterness of vexed desire. “You don't have the luxury,” he murmured, brushing Dick’s cheek lightly with his knuckles.
Dick held his gaze, wordlessly agreeing, and Nix wondered if this was what a breaking heart felt like.
Stranger still was the oddly weightless sensation of having nothing to lose. “I want you,” he said.
“I know,” Dick said, and he was smiling.
“I suppose I said so last night,” Nix huffed.
“Something like that,” Dick said.
Dick took Nix's hand from his cheek, laced their fingers together, and closed his eyes. Nix watched him like that for a long time, before closing his own eyes and forcing himself to relax, trying his damnedest not to hurt so much, as the morning light swelled to pink and gold all around them.