Cigarette-Themed Ficlets
[FANDOM] Band of Brothers
[PAIRINGS] SpeirTon, Winnix, BabeRoe, & RandleMartin
[PROMPT] Bonding over cigarettes and earning a kiss.
tw// (16+), kiss scenes, some mature and suggestive themes
SPEIRTON
"Lip. You've got a pack of cigarettes?"
Of course he did. The question wasn't if he had any. Captain Speirs knew that. He knew that. There was knowing in the way his superior regarded him in silent expectation, those dark eyes reflecting in the sheen of his gun and boots.
Lucky Strike or Chesterfields? Pall Mall, Old Gold, Camel? He wasn't so primitive to ever present Wings or Kool. Captain Speirs would smoke a twig before he smoked those, and Lip noted the unique reactions for every single brand consumed. He knew. He always knew.
Not that he was being a creep about it, though!
Not.
"Of course, Sir," he immediately responded, fishing in his chest pocket for a brand new pack of Lucky Strikes, with artwork on it that he knew his superior hadn't seen before. He'd paid double for that in the commissary. He'd paid double, and he'd sure as hell be willing to pay triple, if it meant the stealth of hand would lead to it being in Captain Ron Speirs' collection.
(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."
All night long.
