Disclaimer: This story falls under the category of "slash", which means that it deals with homosexual relationships. I do not speak lightly when I say this: if a story exploring certain homosexual innuendo or undertones of these characters makes you uncomfortable, please do not read on. I'm afraid I will never change my stance on slash, and I am in no way trying to change yours - it would be in both of our best interests to leave one another alone. Again, this deals with homosexual undertones and innuendo in the miniseries "Band of Brothers". You've been forewarned.

I'm also aware that fanfiction of this nature does not rest well with some readers, considering the accuracy of the miniseries and the fact that the men these characters are based off of are still around. I've been accused once or twice of insulting, dishonoring, and lying about the heroes of the 101st Airbourne. I would like to make this perfectly clear: I have never met any man in the 101st Airbourne, nor do I think I ever will. Their relationships, friendly or otherwise, with each other are none of my business. I am not implying that this did happen, could have happened, should have happened, nor do I prefer it to the true events.

This fanfiction is based on the actors that portrayed these characters in the miniseries (namely Ron Livingston and Damien Lewis). It is them and the chemistry that they have on screen that I am interested in, not the real veterans and their relationships. Again, if this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read on. I've defended my position in writing Band of Brothers slash, I doubt very much that I will change it. And, once more, I do not mean to change yours.

As a last note: I do not write slash to do harm, seeing as I don't see homosexuality as a negativity or a perversion. I write to explore the deeper side of these characters, their psyches, and ultimately write stories about love. So if you are still with me, without further ado...

It is only when Nixon gets to the bottom of the bottle (warm eyes through warm glass, smiling with half his mouth) that he begins to say the things that should not be said.

Outside of liquor he is, if not immaculate, roughly discreet. The touches are absent, buddy-buddy, accidentally-on-purpose, he lives his life next to Dick Winters as though by absurd fortuity. When their hips brush (an inch too close as he strains forwards, grabs the maps, smiles,) Dick no longer tenses up like he used too (napping on Dick's shoulder on the train, feeling the tight rope of muscle through his neck stiffen and jump like a live wire) accepts these touches as par for the course. Why not? Nixon has seen the men, they have grown up, grown into each other (Skip pulling Muck close in Bastogne, Doc Roe gently pushing the flat of his palm against Alley's slick forehead, Liebgott blowing smoke into Webster's mouth and laughing as the California boy blushes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand) these touches between him and Dick Winters, they are nothing, nothing (the flat of his hand against the back of Dick's cool, pale neck) they are nothing.

I don't know why I'm still doing this. That's what Nixon had said (raising his flask, trying not to smile) wondered if Dick knew how hard he was lying.

Why don't you just give it up? Dick had asked that, his words were heavy through that first bite of the drink (Christ, that was the stuff). Hiding it in my footlocker? The answer was there, pressed between Nixon's lips, he had to swallow hard and stare at the bottle for a moment to pull it back in.

Because I'm running out of excuses.

But that was years ago (seemed like years ago) and he and Dick are both older now. They both know there is no more giving up. Nixon is affectionate when drunk, grabbing at the buttons on Dick's uniform and falling forwards into him, feeling the bite of the officer's bars against his mouth. And Dick Winters, bless his god damn soul, does not laugh or swear or shake him off. He pulls him in close.

Let's get you back to base, soldier. He always says that.

Fuck you, Nixon replies. Fuck you, I'm a god damn intelligence officer. I'll get me back to base.

But he let's himself be lead anyway. He is running out of excuses.

Sometimes he thinks back to Toccoa and the sound of Dick breathing; raspy, serene, steady. Cut by the march of late night training runs and the whispers of crickets, Dick's breath was evenly spaced always, except for the occasional hitch (nightmare) the catch in his throat, it would wake Nixon up, something as silent as that. And he would spend the next few minutes with his eyes open, thinking of clean uniforms and sun burned skin and a lithe, hard body curled up next to his.

Again, years ago. Nixon always recollects the damnedest things when he's drunk, all of them he passes onto Dick who stores them away in his resolute, clean way.

Kids, he tells him, only slurs a little. We were god damn kids.

I know we were, Dick smiles.

Dick Winters, Pennsylvania farmer, teetotaller. Nixon hadn't asked for him (that smile, Christ almighty that smile), he is the last man in the world Nixon could possibly think of asking for. Dick made things more complicated in his own quiet way. And yet, paradoxically, he also made things simpler. An easy man, Nixon thinks in what he supposes to be poetic fluidity and what is really just a drunk stupor. A fine, upstanding young lad, that's what Dick Winters is (always there, casual, he calls him Nix instead of Lewis, raw elegance and those eyes) a fine, upstanding young American who will do his best for his country and eventually settle down on...Nixon doesn't know, a farm somewhere, seems fitting enough for a man like Dick Winters.

How you doin' there, Nix?

Great. Just great. I can't feel my face, Dick.

Sometimes Dick gets the better of him during their banter (Sounds picturesque), hits him with a real zinger and all Nixon can do is laugh, shake his head and laugh. It's at those moments he thinks (allows himself, just a few moments) that maybe there is something to this, something weighty and meaningful, their eyes catch and Dick smiles and Nixon is smiling too. Then the moment is gone and there is nothing left but a half empty bottle of whiskey in Nixon's hands (hell, why not?) and he thinks drink up, drink up.

Nixon's bed is a dark blur in a darker night. How did they get through the house (beautiful houses here, absolutely stinkin' rich, these nazis) without Nixon remembering? Dick loosens his grip, Nixon slides gracelessly out of his embrace and even though he aches to be back in those arms again (thin, strong, sinewy) he is running out of excuses. Suddenly tired, he drops to the mattress, begins shucking off his boots.

So you off to a wild night at the pubs, Major? Now that you've tucked me in?

Winters smiles, used to the teasing. He tells him that he has some reports to type up, not even trying to keep the bitter slant from his voice anymore. Nixon knows. When he runs his hand (pale, slender, sunlit wheat stalks) through his hair it musses it, Nixon cannot stop his knees. He stands.

A subtle change, the click of a door far far away, the turning of shadows, the sudden breath of tension between them. The smiles are not gone, but Winters looks suddenly so very pale (it's the depths of winter here, Nixon knows it no other way).

Lie down, Nix.

Nixon swallows, throat constricts, loosens, sometimes he feels as though he is drowning.

You could stay here if you wanted to.

There it is, the hitch in Dick's breath, the beautiful way his throat catches and his eyes suddenly seem harder, blazing. Nixon is reminded (vivid) of the smell of freshly mown grass and hot sun and crowded showers and clean, crisp uniforms and...

Here we go. The things that should not be said.

Lie down, Dick repeats, he is all concern and responsibility and taste and touch and...alright, beautiful. Here, in this room, in this place, Nixon lets himself admit it. Dick Winters is beautiful.

Dick, he says.

Nix. Please.

It happens suddenly, rushes upon them, they press together like the way cards slide up against one another and stick. It happens, they knew it would happen, it is the third time it has happened and already Dick is pushing Nixon towards the bed (lie down, Nix) and this time (don't stop) Nixon doesn't waste his time (please don't stop) still drunk, still running out of excuses, still listening for that hitch in Dick's breath that means he is doing something right, doing something right (don't ever stop).

Christ, Nix, don't stop, Winters groans these words and Nixon won't. He won't.