#bofb slash

(And wouldn't he want that so bad? Having it harvested like this. Collected. Like a curator in a grand museum, collecting only the best pieces and met with such praise, acceptance. What Carwood Lipton wouldn't say was what Carwood Lipton wanted to see: His offering, his tribute, displayed in that neat velvet-lined case of cigarette art.

Was he crazy to feel such joy at a mutt offering its most beloved stick to its owner?)

"You know it's just us, Lip." It wasn't only when it was just them that Lip obediently brought spark to flame, and lit up his captain's cigarette. "It's just us."

Yet, here and now, It was just them. And he got his just rewards, looking into dark eyes crinkling at the edges in humor, before firm lips pressed to his, and awe and veneration and war and grit and losing good men so young were consumed by the haze that wasn't from the glowing tab. He was transfixed, heady. Following a sure lead with blind trust, trust he'd given to the man that had him swearing eternal loyalty from the first time he'd stared into that knowing gaze, and he'd run right into direct fire without question if he was told to.

"Attentive as usual. My favorite," his captain whispered against the scruff of his cheek, and that lack of clarification on exactly what, the cigarettes or, daresay, himself, had him itching, hungering, hanging onto the end of every word.

"You always did know what my favorite was."

WINNIX

"My watch, my compass, notepad, flask," Nix wryly noted, unable to stifle a grin at Dick's dry expression at the last item mentioned. "What?"

A resigned sigh was his primary response. "Nothing, Lew. Nothing."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay.

"Anyway. Flask—Hah! Found it. Good." Good enough to shove into the inner pocket of his coat. But not good enough to be by itself, an identical twin making its way into the pocket of the other side. "Matches, cash, and cigarettes—

"Cigarettes. Where the hell are my smokes?" And his mood instantly turned awry. Not so much that it was a total turn, but enough to mar his face, and Dick looked on in drawn out silence before he was unable to resist.

No rest, no discipline, no measure of control was enough to ironically control himself. When it came to Lewis Nixon III, saying no was harder than any warfare he could ever bear. He'd never been able to say no since those piercing eyes grabbed ahold of him with no mercy, and when exactly was that?

Day one, of course. The first minute. Looking at him like he knew what Richard Winters was going to be, where he was going to be, who he was going to be, and how. Knew that they'd end up with here, with Captain Dick Winters being okay with blood on his hands, if it meant Captain Nixon would never have to fire a single bullet at all.

He couldn't ever resist. And that was how he succumbed to a kiss that started off as a reward, a tantalizing "good boy" whispered against his jaw, when he presented a sealed pack of smokes, bought immediately with his paycheck from the officer's club. He wasn't a smoker. Hell, he abstained from everything the joes consumed in order to fill the void, and approving of the consumers was something he'd never do, either.

"Parliaments, and just for me?" Oh, you shouldn't have. That Cheshire grin of approval was what made him do the "should have" invariably, and they both knew it. "A man after my own heart."

If only Lew knew how far he was willing to go after it.

"Don't forget an extra pair of socks, Lew."

BABEROE

"Menthols. The bastard tried to scam me with menthols. The hell I look like? Some desk jockey?" Babe ground out after stubbing out his smoke, a fresh one already crammed into his mouth without reprieve. "If Bill didn't stop me, I'd have gutted that fucker and let those first battalion dogs clean that shit up."

"Béb, don' forget now what I done said to you before. You know dose boys ain' trutful upfron'. No means messin' wi' dem for anytin'." Eugene sighed for the twentieth time. "Yet, you went off and listened none, sounds like."

There was that sheepish look. An apologetic flash of teeth tinged with the lack of regret. He wasn't sorry about nearly killing a man for a deal gone bad, but he was sorry about making his doc worry, and worry did Eugene Roe ever when it came to Edward James Heffron. It was the "boys will be boys" type of scenario, and was he to be the maman resigned to watch the wild child wreak havoc with a glint in his eye? Seemed like it.

Well, no point in fighting it, he supposed. He raised a brow at the bandaged cut above the other man's own brow, and fussed with the dressing that Spina haphazardly slapped on. Intentional, of course, understood with a sly wink at his sloppy job, allowing himself to get chided by his fellow medic until Eugene realized it all too late. He saw those five bucks Babe slipped the other man, and if he wasn't bandaging the last grunt at 0400 from the giant inter-company fight, he'd have given all those idiots a good donner le diable until he saw the whites of their eyes.

And yet.

His eyes fell on the cause of all the chaos in the first place. A simple carton of smokes, but with contents that reminded him of the place he desperately longed for. Hand-rolled tabs of Perique tobacco, right from St. James parish. Only a good pipe would do it full justice, but just having the smell, the comfort of something so unique from his people, was enough for him to remember his home so vividly.

Enough for him to forgo whatever ego he had and slot his lips over eager ones that mimicked his intentions, followed his direction. A kiss of worry. A kiss of scolding. A kiss of "don' you ever do dat again." A kiss of "Doc, I can't make any promises."

But mostly, a kiss of thanks. A kiss that conveyed gratitude, if not humorously flavored with exasperation at the lengths Babe went to impress him, and the other man seemed to have a swell time with accepting such chiding if it meant they could mack all night. He cracked one tired open and got right back to bandaging another cut right where Babe never noticed.

"Ow! Shit! The hell that come from?"

Eugene snorted and soothed the inflamed spot with a gentle rub. He wasn't sorry about letting Babe learn a hard-earned lesson, but he was sorry about not being able to light up one of the enticing cigarettes immediately.

"Sit still and be a good bow 'til I'm done. Ya heard me?" And he sure wasn't sorry enough to keep the bayou from slipping into his voice.

RANDLEMARTIN

"They say the smokes'll keep you slim and trim, but it sure as hell ain't doin' too much for a guy like me," Bull remarked offhandedly, and if John wasn't so in tune with the big fella, he'd have thought nothing of it. "Not sure if I should smoke some more, or if these leaves just ain't workin' on me in general."

Something was up. There, they lay, smoking, him snug as a bug in a rug against Bull's bare chest, and somehow...the other man seemed not as snug. Not at ease after the night they had: full on drinks, good food, getting involved in some random fistfight Guarnere wanted to randomly get them all involved in, and a private hotel that was pretty cushy. There was something there biting, and Johnny wanted to know what. What was the thorn bothering them on this rare leave?

What was, on deeper thought, with every deeper pull of his smoke, the bit that had Denver not going to town at dinner? Had him smoking like a damned chimney. Watchful in ways that Martin didn't want him to be. He wanted the big guy to be worry-free, always grinning, doing whatever he wanted, peaceful. He wanted himself to have all the doubts and the flak for being some negative bastard. Not Bull Randleman.

Bull deserved to just be without a furrow in his brow. And it was that deserving that had Johnny already knowing. He knew, all right. He knew. He knew, and he didn't agree, and the only thing he really thought about was how to thrash someone to high heavens for even polluting such a pure mind.

"Who put that idea in your head, Bull? I'll kill 'em," he said without missing a beat. He was serious. Bull seemed taken aback, somehow making himself seem smaller than the stature he currently had. "Tell me their names and you'll never have to deal with 'em for good."

"I...Well...No, I just...Now, how did you know—"

"I'll kill 'em. Don't worry, Baby. I'll kill 'em."

"Martin."

"You won't have to deal with the aftermath, either, so why don't you go on right ahead and tell me the perps' names?" He looked back and up at the gentle giant, who was at a loss for words and couldn't help to mitigate a hidden anxiety marring his usual countenance. He didn't like that. Didn't like that one bit. "Don't worry. It'll all be very discreet—"

"It's all me," Bull suddenly interrupted, and Johnny paused in his maniacal thoughts of getting away with murder. "It's just that...When I...When I see you with the others...Welp.

"You're in great shape, Johnny."

What?

Denver raised up an arm and began to rub the back of his head, an instinctive habit he did when things weren't right and words were failing him. "You're lean and trim...and the other joes: They're like that, too."

"More like I'm like a skinny shortstack, as Bill said, but all right."

"What? No. You're perfect. Now, do I have to go and kill Bill?"

"Not if you give the names of the bastards I have to kill first."

"Martin."

"C'mon, Baby," he cooed at Bull, gingerly bringing down the hand expressing doubt to hold it in his own. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why do I have a feelin' you already know what I'm gettin' at?"

"Words, Baby."

"All right, all right," the other man said after a good bit of silence he could never maintain. He seemed to slump into the pillow he used to prop the both of them up against the headboard. Johnny once again didn't like that one bit. He wanted to nip that shit in the bud as soon as possible. "Captain Winters been havin' that photographer 'round, takin' pics of everyone doin' whatever they're doin'. Took some particular shots of you and Toye and the other grunts goin' through P.T.

"Said that y'all looked good, 'cause the leaner the better. Won't be no bulkies or joes outta shape."

As he suspected. He stubbed out his stick into the ashtray on the nightstand and turned to look fully at Bull. Such vulnerable and unsure eyes. So this was what was eating him up?

"I looked at the pics and I thought...Maybe he was right. There was that one pic where I was talkin' to you about somethin', and if I'm bein' honest, can't say I looked too good compared to you when you're with the other boys."

More like this was what had him smoking like a damned freight train and not eat? He knew. He definitely knew, but getting the confirmation in this way was not doing himself any favors, and ire rose in his gut, which he controlled at the last minute before it broke out onto his face. If he mean mugged, poor Denver would think his doubts were right, and then withdraw into himself. Sure as hell didn't want that.

He carefully cupped Bull's cheek and held his face into place, stroking the scruff emerging on his jawline with full affection. Such a caring and gentle man. His beautiful mind all ruined by some officer still high off chasing the ass of some rich boy with daddy issues.

"So the person I have to kill is Captain Winters."

"Martin."

Bigger challenge than he expected. "Okay. Not as easy as I thought, but still possi—"

"There'll be no fraggin'."

"Hm..."

"Promise me, Martin."

No promises, Baby. "Only if you understand that you're perfect the way you are."

There was a pregnant pause. A cigarette slowly extinguished on the ashtray besides his last smoke. And then, finally, the bid for reassurance that Johnny was more than happy to accept, in the form of a sudden kiss.

"...You really mean that, Johnny?"

When did I ever think otherwise? "You want me to prove that to you right now, Baby? Because I'm very in the mood to right now if that's what you want."

Very.

"Matter of fact," he suggestively stated, arms caging in a very surprised, and very delicious, Bull Randleman, "why don't I prove it to you just how much I mean what I say."

"What a fuckin' coincidence that guy disappeared. Wow. Crazy news. Bastard had it coming—Doc, c'mon! What? Nah, no way I've got something to do with it! Just sayin' the dude was a dumb shithead who pressed his luck way too much."

What a coincidence that every negative encounter Eugene had with someone, something happened. They ran away when they see him one day. Or they're gone. Disappeared. Eugene's pretty sure what, or who, the cause is, but he's not one to confront Babe who smilies cheerfully at him over delicious homemade dinner.

The carpet matches the drapes. Très Beau. Eugene loves it. Rouge, just like how Babe is when Eugene nips at the underside of the other man's jaw in the heat of the moment.

The refractory period didn't exist for Babe. Must've been the thousands of pounds of potatoes he ate per year, or something. Something was definitely keeping him in his prime.

When Babe's especially in the mood, he likes to initiate things from the back. Doc's nape does some wild shit to his jock, so don't blame him from tasting. Don't fault him for sliding his lips on the back of his neck down to heaving shoulders. Fuckin' delicious.

Don't tell Babe that it's quite...endearing to see him macking all over Doc Roe's back while needing to do so standing on the mattress or on the stairs for a height advantage. The last time he played his hand, he turned quite glum at realizing his seduction didn't work as Eugene was doing the dishes. Poor Babe's lips would only reach the upper part of the other man's back.

But laying down on the bed, however...height didn't seem to matter. 😁

WINNIX

Dick has to do everything for him. Prepare the coffee and the newspaper. His hair. Shave his face, wake him up, fix his collar. And it's no problem. He's happy to be with Lew for another day.

Lew makes one haphazard remark about his "nice" abdominals after Dick comes back from a run, and the latter takes it upon himself to improve the performance and look of them everyday. This just shows how amazing Lew is at recognizing the important things. A soldier always needs to be physically fit along with having mental clarity and fortitude. His words made so much sense! It's such a blessing and so amazing that Lew gives such wisdom for Dick to improve himself for the better (that one day after three months of consistent work, with Lew pushing him down fresh after a shower, his tongue tracing down the ridges of his abdominals and belly button! He'll keep in shape the rest of his life if it meant the gravelly feedback against his skin can drown hm forever).

Smoking is behavior Dick can't stand; seeing his men, officers and enlisted alike, go through cartons and cartons of those disgusting sticks made him shake his head. Discipline is one thing: Attempting to correct a behavior from his own personal vice is another. Thus, he invariably chooses to hold his tongue when one lit up, albeit a slight display of his distaste may have slipped out every now and then. It isn't uncommon for someone who wishes to have a personal conversation with him to put out his cigarette. Lew, on the other hand...Lew is different. Dick didn't see Lew smoking as smoking. The word isn't right. Lew just has a flighty impulse. Just breathes differently. A quick thing. No, it's not disgusting because it isn't a habit. Lew never has any bad habits, never has anything bad, because he is good. He is everything good in this world, in this war. He just—

Lew is perfect. End of.

The things Lew did to him, he didn't know such things can exist. There's a flush flooding into his skin, and Dick can't help but to think of what the other man had him do in the dark of the night. There's blood roaring in his head, thoughts rushing. There's the graphic recollection of skin and teeth and hands, sounds, memories surrounding dark hair and dark eyes, the satisfied flash of teeth. How he's standing there dumbly, watching Colonel Sink's mouth move, yet he's only able to think about how Lew's mouth devoured his manhood for the fifth time since 0200. He wonders if Lewis Nixon knows the power he has over Richard Winters. He still wonders when he awkwardly comes to attention in the nick of time to address his superior. He wonders and wonders and wonders, and continues to wonder about Lew, like he always does.

Their favorite ice cream flavor to eat together is chocolate. Dick gets Neapolitan ice cream and makes sure to tell the vendor to make chocolate the biggest flavor in the glass. Lew impresses him all the time with how cleanly he eats the dessert (which is a lie, but as they say, love is blind).

"This doesn't taste good. The hell kind of whiskey is in this cup?"

"That's water, Lew."

LUZTOYE

It's nice. That bullet that grazed him earlier hurts like shit, but whatever. It's nice right now. There's something therapeutic about laying in the shittyass cot, in the shittyass cold, in some blown-out part of France he forgets the name of, patched up. Eating chocolate with a fire going. Listening to Georgie Boy yap about his favorite trains and airplanes, baseball and comics, and it's nice having a smoke when a warm hand's gently petting his head. Yeah. It's nice. Joe can't complain.

"All right, big boy, love hearing you talk about clowns with chainsaws, but how 'bout we get back to gettin' each other off?" Saying shit like that's something Joseph Toye thinks he'll never have to say, but then again, this is George Luz he has in this makeshift bed. This is today's quote of the day. Yesterday's was something regarding reassurance, 'cause he's a gentleman like that. "Yeah, you got a fat ass that jiggles, George. Yeah, I like it." There's also another one along the lines of "If you were strapped to a rocket and blasted off into space, I'd make President Roosevelt give me a rocket to go into space so I'd get you back after I lay some pipe on the fuckin' moon—for fuck's sake why is there a squirrel in your pants?.

When George's stressed, he tends to binge-eat chocolate. Joe's gotta keep a watchful eye on Georgie Boy; its not hard to get a reading on the other man, especially when his eyes dart left and right and he turns real quiet. He has his highs, and he has his lows, and when George has his lows, somber's the least of it. Joe gets it; shooting and killing and blowing shit up: A grunt's supposed to own his shit and get used to it after a while, but saying that total familiarity's an expectation is horseshit. He needs that person to gently remind him to top off on water, eat real grub, get some shut-eye; that person being Joe's never been a question.

There's some ego at play here, but Luz makes a simple comment about Joe being big and buff, and how he likes that, and words like that are just asking for bedframe-breaking action to be had right then and there. Then there's the other side of it, which is his caveman tendencies getting to him, and it's great for the officer's that Joe's putting mad work into his physique. Who's surprised that Joe beats every G.I. in their physical fitness tests? Guarnere sees right through it and calls his ass out, smirking at Luz, with Joe telling him to shut his goddamned mouth (Joe never denies the allegations, though).

There's dirty talk, and then there's Joe Toye's way of talking. It's not dirty talk if Joe speaks the way he always does, and by always, the filth is natural. The carnality is natural. Depending on how much George is scrambling for Joe's back as the latter mouths slopping kisses on his neck and ear, the words can be words spoken through gravel, or they can be the very things that make Luz delirious. It's no secret that George likes to run his mouth, but it's a savory secret that he loves to listen. Toye's confident that he's the only one who can leave Luz speechless when his lips are upon red ears.

[WINNIX]

There was Vat 69 running down the length of his throat. His collar was loose, jacket strewn aside. Stubble cast a rough shadow on his face. And his voice was shot to hell with liquor and imported cigars that bit into Dick's sensibilities.

"Chicago, New York, Detroit: We'll go to all of those damn places, Dick," Lew drunkenly remarked, taking another swig of whisky straight from the bottle.

"I'll take you anywhere you fucking want."

Yet, like any other time, there was nothing that could tear Dick away from Nix's dastardly grin, the grin that he'd go to hell and back for. There was no one else who could compare. There was no one else who had Dick's attention in complete rapture since the day they met. Lewis Nixon III: an absolute contrast to Richard Davis Winters. Yet, Lew: the utmost compliment to Dick, and if his best friend kept looking at him like that...

"I'll take you anywhere, as long as you'll let it be me."

He'd tremble. Be still. Forget to breathe when a sure hand pulled him down onto the bed.

Because If his best friend kept on holding him like that, pressing into him like that, kissing him like that...

"I'll take you up on it."

For the rest of my life.

He'd never want this war to end if it meant they could be this way forever.

[BABEROE]

"Bèb."

That was all Babe needed to hear to reach out with a firm hold and guide Doc under the upper beam of the bunk. There was a hesitancy present in the other man's body language, but it didn't stop Heffron from tucking him into his shoulder without a word. Soft snores from the other grunts filled in the gaps between his breathing and Roe's. In the distance, door hinges creaked amidst the sound of distant shelling.

It was another one of those nights. Funny, but not so funny, it wasn't just Doc who was up. He himself had been up for hours, and sleep unfortunately eluded them both, it seemed.

Sleep didn't come for those who remembered the friends they lost. No mercy at how bullets and mortars poured down on them to sow death. No rest for those with blood on their hands, except Doc had blood seeping into his fingertips from granting salvation, and Babe...

Edward Heffron rained death from above. He killed. How many, he didn't know. He killed, and he was fucking good at it, and...

"I got ya, Doc," he gently whispered, curling Eugene in even further onto his tiny mattress. "I got ya."

And if killing day after day, night after night, meant he'd feel Doc Roe's breath fanning his cheeks, feel his heartbeat beating in sync with his, while he held onto his rosary, he'd do it. He'd kill. He'd kill so he could live, live for Doc, even if sleep eluded him for years to come. He'd do it, and he'd do it for no one else with such willingness.