#hbowarshort23

It’s smooth – just like him.

Passing you in one of the hallways, Talbert smiles at you as he approaches. To anyone watching, the gesture seems friendly enough. But somehow, even with Nixon – of all people – walking with you, Talbert manages to press the slip of paper into your hand without detection. When you feel the edge of the folded paper poke your palm, you can barely suppress your smile until you’re alone.

Meet me tonight, the note says in Tab’s handwriting.

The rest of the day can’t pass quickly enough. Still, you try to pace yourself. You attend meetings, diligently taking notes for Colonel Sink and typing up letters as you normally would. Maybe your foot taps a bit impatiently under the table – but if anyone notices, they have the decency not to point it out. Besides, you keep having to remind yourself, Talbert is just a friend.

“Is there a reason that you’re risking losing your pass over fraternizing with me, Floyd?”

At the sound of your voice, Talbert glances up, smiling at you. He smiles at a lot of girls. You can’t help but wonder if the smiles that he throws their way are this bright, though.

Talbert extends a hand to you. Without hesitation, you take it, and he leads you to the edge of the huge, sprawling camp. “Didn’t want you to miss this.”

Through the trees, dusk is setting in. Humidity rises from the day’s heat, turning the atmosphere a soft shade of blue. A few last golden rays of sunlight are softening now, fading into the clouds as the bright orb sinks below the horizon. After a moment, in the distance far above, a few twinkling lights emerge in the darkening sky. The scene, this transition from day to night, is beautiful. It probably looks just as pretty as this every evening, but you’re ashamed to realize that if that’s true, you’ve never noticed it before. But Talbert did.

Another realization hits you at the same time: he’s still holding your hand.

His skin is warm and soft against yours. Maybe you should say nothing, at the risk of ending this moment too soon.

“This is beautiful,” you whisper.

He turns to you, his smile as bright as the stars. “I thought you might like that.”

Hands still joined, you squeeze his. He looks down, eyes widening as he comes to the same conclusion that you did a few moments before. “I like this,” you say.

. . .

The war might be over, but its conclusion has brought you nothing but a flurry of time sensitive paperwork. Still, if one good thing has happened, it’s that the rules barely apply in Austria these days, and no one seems to have a problem with Talbert stopping in to visit you. The handsome paratrooper sitting on the corner of your desk, cracking jokes, flashing those striking smiles at anyone who passes by, becomes a common sight in the office. If you can’t be out there having a good time with everyone else, you’re grateful that you get to spend time with him in here.

It's getting late. Even the colonel has turned in for the night. Aside from the clacking of the keys on your typewriter as you diligently finish typing up a letter for him, the building that has been commandeered for these offices is quite – except for the sound of approaching footsteps.

Footsteps that you would recognize anywhere. You smile before you even glance up, even hear his voice call out to you in greeting.

“You’re brave, (Y/N),” Talbert says. “Being alone in here.”

You sit back in your chair, smiling. “I was just waiting for you.” It’s been so long ago now that you can’t be sure if he remembers that evening in Toccoa, but you do. You incline your head toward a door behind you that leads out to a balcony. “I want to show you something.”

Outside, the soft glow of the stars that light the sky are diminished by the lights of the city down below. Like stars fallen to earth, the buildings are lit up with soldiers staying up late, celebrating the day they’ve waited years for. You noticed the scene a few evenings before, on another day of industriously working late. It had reminded you of that evening, all that time ago. Not the same scene you once enjoyed together, but beautiful in its own way. But really, everything beautiful reminds you of Tab.

“Didn’t want you to miss this,” you say, a callback.

Floyd smiles, and you know then that he remembers, too. On cue, he squeezes your hand. “It’s beautiful. Like you.”

You smile, no longer having to hide affections like that; not after everything the two of you have been through in this war. “I thought you might like that.”

He leans in, close, so that even in the darkness you can make out his every feature. “I like this,” he says, then closes the gap between you.

Ron often wondered about the how's and why's as a puzzle he must resolve at any cost. Most likely, he wondered about those matters that didn't really need a resolution outside the battlefield.

Whenever a dead soldier’s face appeared in his dreams—a name he could barely remember—and Ron’s façade would crumble down, asking himself, ‘Why are we still fighting?’

He had no idea.

Following orders felt natural to him. In and of itself, Speirs belonged to that certainty and what it involved: the rush.

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, and not a single doubt disturbing him. Later, Ron'd think about how in the hell he was still alive.

He wouldn't tell anyone about his thoughts.

Perhaps it was luck. Some people were lucky, and some were not. These questions always got him into an endless spiral, and he dawned on a new, unfair question.

Ron was so far beyond surprise he couldn't even open his mouth. He stared at Carwood, half-heartedly hearing Harry and Nixon, cards strewn all over the table, and drinks of whiskey Nix looted for each of them.

And Speirs wondered and wondered and wondered. Even after losing another hand.

He slumped his shoulders; what a lost cause.

How was it possible that Lieutenant Lipton was able to so easily read all of his moves? Infuriating. And what was more than infuriating? The unsolved why.

Why did he keep waiting for it? To be read by him?

Was it the rush?

Was it the way Lipton, with his lazy smirk and flushed, rosy cheeks, glanced at him like he knew what he was doing?

Probably.

Lip looked back at him through his lidded eyes, and Ron took a deep breath to ground himself.

He was getting sidetracked.

They had been drinking for hours when Harry and Nix called it a night. Ron could tell by Harry’s slurred speech and the unsteadiness of his feet that he was tipsy. Nix stood up, completely unaffected by what he’d drunk, and mocked a cheerful Lipton—the drunkest of them—by telling him to drink more wisely the next time. Nix, of all people.

Ron promised them to take care of him before the officers left.

He began to regret it.

Who would have thought Lipton was the silliest and most talkative drunk?

The room seemed to float around like a boat, making Lipton stumble around when he tried to stand. He was about to take the whole bottle, but Speirs stopped him by his wrist.

"Don't."

Lip read the stern expression on Ron's face and shook his head. "I'm not that drunk, sir."

"You’ve had too much. I can’t give you any more."

Ron placed a hand over Lip's shoulders, and he leaned into his touch. Not a single complaint from Carwood, just following his CO. As usual.

He carried him to their shared billet. Ron squinted at the darkness, swallowing the light, and was careful in his walking. A difficult task when Lipton couldn't stop talking soothingly into his ear.

"Remember when… you ran straight through the German line at Foy… and came back unscathed?"

Ron's eyes crinkled; he couldn't hold his smile for much longer.

"I remember it."

"You were… the bravest man I've ever seen… I’ll never forget that… as long as I live."

Lip did not speak afterward; his eyes were fixed on Speirs. His heart might burst at any moment, mesmerized by the sight.

Ron found he was still staring.

"Like what you see?"

That snapped Lipton out of the trance, blinking in his direction. He laughed, and his hot breath sent shivers down Ron's spine.

"I always do, sir." Lip said, matter-of-factly.

The conviction in Carwood's voice surprised Ron. They have been keeping things professional, but the major breakthrough came almost by accident.

Ron smiled, and controlled by a force outside himself, he whispered, tongue in cheek, "Are you flirting with me, Lieutenant?"

Lipton was silent for a good minute. It was so long that Speirs checked if he was still awake.

"Now that I think of it… I am, sir."

A straightforward answer that caught Ron off guard. Again. His face turned up to Lip in awe as he continued.

"I know… I'm not supposed to want you." Lipton closed his eyes. The words were just too difficult to force out of his own mouth. Finally, he managed to slur, "But I do."

And of course, Speirs wouldn't waste Lip's honesty.

"So you want me?"

Lipton glanced at Ron's lips, unaware that Ron was doing the same.

Carwood didn't bother to consider the consequences. The whiskey was causing him to say things he wouldn't have said otherwise, and he might blame himself for it in the morning, but not tonight.

"Yessir."

Ron hummed in response, amused.

Speirs had to hold himself back from kissing him. He knew by then that he never wanted anything more than to have Carwood's lips over his.

He thought about catching the nape of Carwood's neck and pulling him forward, cherishing a sweet gasp from his mouth. Ron let his thoughts run wild, Lip's fingers tangled into his curls to hold him closer, and the taste of whiskey in—

That would have to wait.

It was just a moment, but Ron's question had already been answered.

Neither of them said a word, just looking into each other's eyes and knowing the untold truth.

Carwood tilted his head from side to side, frowning. He had started to feel the effects of the alcohol long before he sobered up, so Ron made him drink a full glass of water before allowing him to lie down and sleep.

Settling in for his shut-eye, Lip mumbled.

"Good night, sir."

Ron chuckled unabashedly. How funny. Calling him "sir" after confessing his feelings, drunk and sloppy.

He pondered how Lipton would behave during his inevitable morning hangover.

"It's Ron."

Lip repeated to himself his name, a tender whisper, and he didn't know the effect it had on Speirs.

The pub was packed, half of the patrons were the American soldiers and the other half were young people from Aldbourne (and surrounding villages), eager to catch a peak at them. Your friends quickly began their drinking, never without a pint. You decided to pace yourself, ready to keep an eye on them.

When Betty nearly fell out of her chair on her way to get another round, you suggested she accompany you to the bathroom. You helped splash her face and fix her hair. Then you made your way back out. You did a little head count, making sure no little sheep got lost.

You only counted four. There was a fifth, where was the fifth? You sat Betty down at the table and asked the girls to look after each other while you found your fifth. You strained to look through the crowd, the loud hubbub of conversation distracting you. Then you spotted her. Her red hair wasn't hard to miss, it matched Betty's so sweetly.

Clara was not your friend really, she was Betty's little sister who 'just had to come see the men' with you all. She was freshly 18 and a very naive 18 at that. You waded through the crowd to grab her attention when you noticed something off. She had cornered a man, a very handsome man.

She had him backed against a booth seat and her hand was placed rather high on his leg. His face was nothing short of discomfort.

You didn't mean to be quite so violent but you pulled her arm hard to get her away.

"Clara! What do you think you're doing?" You shouted and pushed her not-so-gently back towards your table. You turned to the man and asked, "Are you alright?"

He seemed to snap out of some distant expression and turned on the charm. "Better now you're here."

You saw through it though, "I won't make excuses for her but I do feel I should apologise for her behaviour."

The soldier sniffed and tried to shrug it off, "Nah it's flattering to get that kind of attention."

You decided to let it go, but continued, pointing over your shoulder, "Look I have to herd them all home but if you wanted me to walk with you too, or come back here and check in with you I can."

He got a strange little smile on his face. "I think I'd like that."

You did exactly as you said, coming back to find the man nursing another beer.

He smiled up at you gently as if he didn't expect you to follow through.

"You know you can tell me honestly, are you okay? What Clara did isn't right."

He looked into his pint glass as if it had the answers but instead he found nothing. He just shook his head.

You nodded in understanding and instead held your hand out to shake his. You gave him your name and he gave his.

Chuck Grant. Well it certainly sounded like an American name.

"Hey do you wanna get out of here?" He said suddenly.

"Uh, I'm not sure that's a good idea after… you know…"

Chuck laughed a little too loud and clarified. "No I meant just for a walk or something, it's too loud in here."

You weren't sure why but you agreed. He offered his arm for you to link up and led you outside, ignoring the whistles and catcalls.

While you walked, you spoke about many things. Life back home, what you'd be doing if it weren't for the war, and what you hoped life would be like after. About ten minutes in, you began to shiver. It was much colder than you expected.

Chuck stopped and began to shuck off his jacket, ready to offer it to you. You protested immediately and offered shyly if you could share it.

He smiled and held his arm up for you to tuck under. You looked for confirmation before wrapping your arm around his waist.

Going home was harder than Babe could’ve ever expected, somehow. War seemed like hell, but it wasn’t until it was over that he realized how used to it he’d become. And he wasn’t even one of the guys who had been in it from the start.

He thought about how this was the last time he’d have any reason to wear this uniform on the train home. Unless Hitler had a brother he didn’t know about, or something.

No more uniform, no more explosions, no more death. That should be a comforting thought. But when he laid back down on his real bed at home the first night, he didn’t sleep at all. He got up and went for a walk around his neighborhood as though floating, just a presence rather than a person. It was his home, and somehow he felt like he no longer belonged to it.

His family wanted to celebrate his safe return, but it only reminded him of Bill’s not-so-safe return, and made him upset. They opted for a special dinner of all of Babe’s favorite foods, but resisted inviting the entirety of Pennsylvania over and kept it to close family only. It was nice, but Babe was mostly quiet.

Anytime someone asked him a question about what he saw while he was gone, he just shook his head. There was no way he was going to ruin the innocence of his loved ones by giving them even a hint of what it really was to feed their imaginations. Imaginations were usually worse than reality when it came to thinking of horrors, but Babe thought this might be the only exception. What he saw was worse than anything a mind could conjure up.

Days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually his family gave up on asking him if he was okay. They knew the answer would always be the same lie.

Working a regular job was weird. He woke up to his mother’s soft voice calling to him instead of screaming or explosions. He’d go in, talk to his coworkers, many of whom were in the exact same situation as him, and pretend like nothing was wrong.

He visited Bill a lot after work, so much so that Bill’s ma stopped asking who was at the door when he knocked, instead just opening it for him with a smile.

Sometimes he and Bill talked, other times they said not much at all. This time had been different, though. Bill wasn’t exactly the most intuitive guy, but even he could tell something was on Babe’s mind.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

“Have you talked to any of the guys? Since?” Babe mumbled, fumbling with his sleeve to get some of his nervous energy out. He kept his eyes downcast, but he could feel Bill staring holes into his face.

“A little,” Bill answered with a small shrug that Babe couldn’t see. “Mostly Toye. I thought about writing to Winters just to say…well, I don’t know what. Somethin’. But I haven’t yet. Why?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout them. A lot. ‘Specially Gene,” Babe admits quietly, glancing up and then back down quickly, as though afraid of what Bill’s reaction would be.

Bill nodded slowly, rubbing his chin with his hand. “Hard not to. You took a liking to him, I seem to remember.”

Babe doesn’t deny it.

“Well? Didya write to him?”

“No. I don’t know what to say.”

“Then go see him.”

“What?” Babe exclaims, eyes wide. “Unannounced? That’s kinda rude…”

“Oh, Christ, Heffron. I can’t believe you of all people are worryin’ about manners.” Bill rolls his eyes and shifts on his bed.

“But if I don’t know what to say now, how the hell will I when I’m standin’ right in front of him?”

“If you really miss him, you’ll have something to say,” Bill says simply, almost dismissively. Babe knew then that he’d lost.

Then he was on the front steps of Eugene’s house, taking it in as if it were something more grand than it really was. When he’d gotten off his bus and asked the first person he saw for directions, he immediately recognized the accent and only then did he truly know how much he’d wanted to hear it again.

He’d much prefer it coming from the mouth of his friend, which would come true if he could bring himself to knock on the damn door. He sits down on the steps instead.

“Edward.”

Babe nearly jumps out of his skin and turns to look over his shoulder. After the war, he’d been so sensitized to sound, but he hadn’t even heard the door open. Gene was always like that, silent.

“How did you know I was out here?” Babe asks dumbly, too stunned to think of anything a little more touching. He quickly takes in the sight of Gene in civilian clothes, almost stunned by it. Like he’d been expecting him to open the door to his home with that same red cross on his arm.

Gene’s lips pull into one of his almost-smiles, small and subtle, and Babe feels like he might cry. “I saw your shadow through the window. Thought maybe you were a ghost.”

“Funny, I kind of feel like I am.”

“Is that why you’re here? I can’t bring back a dead person.” It’s meant to be a joke, but Gene’s eyes are empty as he says it.

“Gene, I-” Babe’s own throat won’t let him speak, and his eyes burn.

Eugene tilts his head a little, gently closes the door behind him and approaches Babe. When Babe continues to say nothing, he sits down on the step beside him. Babe just looks at him.

Babe inhales sharply. “I thought I’d know what to say.”

“Then maybe you don’t need to say anything at all.”

''You have a nice room, Sledgehammer.'' His voice came out lower, higher-pitched, and more strained than what he had planned to say in his head. The words almost reached his lips like tiny daggers, creating wounds in his throat. Eugene caught Merriell's eyes on his own and wouldn't let go. He said thank you and waited. He would push Meriell to the end. Merriell looked away. He waited for a few seconds in the middle of the room, looking helplessly at the carpet.

''The food was very nice.'' Again a thank you came from Eugene and he waited again. His eyes are fixed on Merriell. Merriell waited too, the bitter water rising from his stomach to his throat. He finally made up his mind, he could postpone while he ate and chatted with Eugene's family, he could postpone while Eugene's father showed him their land, he could postpone while he listened to his brother reminisce about the war in Europe, but here he was in Eugene's room in Alabama, the two of them alone and he found himself in a kind of trial in Eugene's eyes. He couldn't put it off any longer, feeling like prisoner b5rought tıo court. He had nowhere to run and no excuse to escape. He lifted his eyes from the carpet and stared into the big brown eyes watching him.

''Eugene, I…''

''Why did you come?'' Eugene's voice was angry.

''To see you.'' He looked away, his voice a whisper.

Why? Why did you come to see the man you've seen too much to even say goodbye to? Suddenly, months later?

The anger in Eugene's voice grew with each word, but the anger in his voice couldn't hide the underlying pain. Eugene's pain reached Merriell. Snafu's heart ached again, with pain at the same frequency as Eugene's, a pain that had not stopped since the moment he got off the train.

Eugene rose from where he was leaning and stood upright. He clenched his hands into fists and pressed his nails into his palms.

Ever since they returned - one to Alabama, the other to Louisiana - from the endless forests of the Pacific, its hills, its rains, its muddy soil, and its endless islands that had turned into graveyards Merriell, who had always been overconfident, had been struggling with indecision. Eugene, who had a calm nature since his early youth, was angry. Everything they knew about life was rewritten in the Pacific.

He just couldn't return. He couldn't turn around and couldn't even say goodbye. He couldn't shake his hand and look into his eyes for the last time. He wanted to, but he was undecided and could not do it. His heart couldn't stand it. This was too much. He was asked to realize a reality that had never been more real until the train entered the station. Suddenly, he is asked to leave behind the last years of his life, the person was created from him in the war, the skills he was taught to fight, the brutality, the death, the blood, and the only person he has ever learned to trust and love - Eugene - and return to a life like nothing ever happened, many times he doubted its existence when he was in the muds of Okinawa. Which one was the dream? Louisiana or Okinawa? Which one was the reality?

If he had turned back and said goodbye to Eugene as he got off the train in Louisiana, he would have lost everything. He would lose those times, the times their existence was disgusting but still too valuable to lose, but most importantly, he would lose Eugene forever, his memory.

He was undecided until the last moment. While choosing what to wear - casual clothes, a suit, or even he thought about his marine uniform uniform -, while he was taking his best suit to his sister because he couldn't iron it himself, while taking leave from work, while buying the ticket for the train to Alabama, while waiting for the train to arrive at the station, while getting on the train, while sitting in his seat, while finding Eugene's house, while walking down the road to Eugene's house, while knocking on the door of Eugene's house, and yet he had come this far. Now he was standing in the middle of Eugene's room, looking into his eyes contains anger and pain.

When Eugene got off the train months ago, he didn't think anything, he didn't feel anything. In the months that followed, anger came to visit him. Why didn't he shake him by the shoulder and wake him up? Why hadn't he just woken him and said a goodbye? All this time, they had lived as if they had never met, they have never knew each other? After everything they've been through together in this world, who could understand them better than each other?Why didn't he even wake him up and say goodbye, didn't he even love him that much?

I wish I were like the men who wrote those thick books he saw in Eugene's hands, Merriell thought. Maybe I could explain it then. Snafu had made up his mind. In one breath, he said all the words that suddenly appeared in his mind.

''I couldn't say anything to you that day because I, because you… I can't say goodbye to you. I can't say goodbye to you because if I did, you would leave and I didn't want you to go. I didn't want anything to go away we lived together. I didn't know how to do it.''

Eugene listend him. Now he had figured out how to calm down. He smiled faintly, gently. He looked into the emerald green eyes of the man he loved. His eyes wandered over the dark curly hair falling on his forehead. Almost he had never seen him so helpless before.

''If you had woken me up, we would have found a way together. Don't run away from me, Snafu.''

The clouds had drawn low and close by the time Dick exited his billet. His hosts were lovely English folks, but he still needed his alone time now and again. The main drag of Aldbourne was quietly bustling as the afternoon drew to a close, and Dick let its simplicity envelop him. Neat hedges, flowers by windows, and bright Union Jacks on were every corner of the cookie-cutter town. The Americans had sensed the upset of their arrival at first, but the town gradually grew to acclimate them. And just as things settled, they would have to unsettle them. According to the plans, they were supposed to jump soon - but that was doubtful given the current weather. Everything seemed even and still and quiet, but Dick could tell the rain and wind would arrive soon enough. 

Lewis had arrived soon enough as well, bearing his usual grin and charisma. His dark hair had been mussed by his overseas cap, and Dick longed to run his hands through it. And it was more calming than he could say, to be in Lew’s presence. His best friend was like a cool glass of water on a hot summer’s day. 

“Something on your mind?” asked Lew, breaking Dick from his reverie. His smooth voice flowed over Dick slow and smooth as molasses. He looked over at his friend, who had a wry smile on his face.

“Maybe, Lew,” said Dick, blushing. The wind picked up for a moment, and Dick tried to calm his nerves.

“Hey,” said Lew, “it’s just me, alright? Just me.” His face was warm and open and so full of affection that Dick could hardly bear it. And just in front of them was an alley between two buildings, shielded from prying eyes and wavering winds.

Dick grabbed the olive drab of Lew’s jump jacket and pulled him into the alley, then pressed his face into his shoulder. Lew’s arms came up to encircle him, with one at his waist and one on his head. They stood for a moment and swayed, breathing deeply.

“We’re all right,” said Lew. He rested his chin on top of Dick’s head, breathing him in. “We’re all right, and we’re gonna stay all right.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” mumbled Dick, face still buried. He felt Lew sigh against him.

“I don’t like seeing you stressed,” he said. “And me saying things like that might make you less stressed.”

Dick raised his head and sighed. “It’s war, Lew. We’re both going to be stressed.”

“But I’m the cool and collected one.”

“You’re the drunk one.”

“Oh, shut up, Dick,” said Lew with a grin.

“Make me,” Dick replied.

Lew laughed and placed a hand on Dick’s cheek, pulling him in for a kiss. It was sweet and slow, and when they broke apart they were smiling at each other. They let their breathing slow until Lew spoke.

“Did that take away some of the stress?” he asked.

“Some,” Dick said with a knowing smile.

“Well, then I guess I’d better do it again to get rid of the rest.”