#winroe

AO3:

Me:

Okay.

BabeRoe is soft awkward kisses, love, and hand holding. WinRoe is first times, and hidden romance and lust. WINROE

hey, it’s winroe. i’m an advocate for those near-extinct ships. 

Characters/Pairings: Artist!Gene!! WinRoe & past mentions of winnix, also lots of winnix friendship.

Summary: It’s 1950 and Richard Winters is feeling directionless after the war. He and Nix are no longer together, having broken up in Germany, but they still maintain a tenuous friendship. After the death of his father Nix decides he needs a fresh start and moves west to California, leaving Dick lonely and somewhat stranded. Having no more ties on the East coast, Dick decides to go visit Eugene Roe, after a chance meeting with Babe, who he runs into at the train station. Babe tells him that after a construction accident left him unable to work in construction anymore, Eugene lives now as an artist in an old church in Georgia. Curious, Winters goes to visit Gene for a week, in a hope to get his head straight, and ends up staying longer. 

It had been about a month since Richard Winters last heard from his best friend and ex-partner, Lewis Nixon. It was early July, 1950. But when Dick picked up the phone and heard his old friends, voice, it easily could have been the summer of ‘43 all over again. Nix didn’t even have to say hello, Dick knew him just by the way he cleared his throat.

“Spit it out, Nix.” Dick was half expecting the announcement of his 3rd engagement, but that was not yet to be.

“So, I hear California is nice this time of year.” Nix voice came out sorry over the receiver.  Dick heard the crackle of a sigh coming through hundreds of miles of phone lines. A pause, and then: “Dad died. His last fuck you was to leave us bankrupt. So I sold the company. Headin west.”

“Oh.” said Dick.

“I’m leaving at the end of the month. Dick…” Nix shifted his voice like a manual transmission. “I know I have no right to ask but...can you just help me this one last time?”

Richard Winters first learned of Eugene Roe’s new profession when he ran into Babe Heffron at the train station in Philly. The station was chaotic, many students said goodbye to loved ones as they headed off to college, and man and women kissed at the train doors. Children ran amok as their mother struggled to locate their tickets in her purse. That’s when Winters saw Babe.  He knew him by his goofy nose and copper hair. He herded the two boys back to their mother, who thanked him. Richard had spotted him first, but something in him hesitated to say something; Besides Floyd Talbert and Nix, he wasn’t sure what they would think of him now, outside the war. He feared there might be some resentment for what he put them through. Nix always rolled his eyes at this, in true Nix fashion. “I’m sure they hate you for getting them home alive.” But, if they felt like he did, Richard would understand: the part of him that survived the war still mourned the the parts of him that didn’t. He could understand if men like Toye, Gaurnere, and malarky resented him. There were fates worse than death.

It was Babe who said something first. He caught WInters staring and gasped aloud. “It was Babe who said something first. He caught Winters staring. "Well, I'll be damned, Major Winters!" Babe gave him a firm handshake and a slap on the back.

"It's just Richard now," he smiled weakly.

"Richard, huh? What are you doin' clear out here? Where ya headed?"

"New Jersey," Richard said.

Heffron smiled knowingly, "Going to rescue Captain Nixon from another bender?" He jested.

"Something like that." Thin parenthesis formed around Richard's mouth as he forced a thin, but polite smile. Somehow, it wasn't that Richard minded saving Nix from himself, he had been doing it since they met in officer candidate school. But he bristled when others implied Nix was a lush. He was, and Richard knew that, but Nix was his lush. If something had happened to nix in the war, if he got himself killed some other awful thing, he knew he wouldn’t have made it through the war. So where his drinking was concerned, he didn't mind putting up with it as long as it meant he was the only one who had to.

"Hey, yeah, speaking of nicknames and all," Babe carried on. "The reason I'm in this joint is I just got back from seeing Eugene Roe," Babe grinned wide. “Doc!”

"That so?" Richard said. "He still callin' you, Edward?"

Babe snorted, "Yeah, he's still callin me Edward. Livin in a church now, just like the goddamned nuns, too!" And then he added, "He did call me 'Babe' a few times though when he wasn't thinking." Babe smiled with pride.

"He's living in a church?" Richard repeated.

"Huh! Yeah! Worked construction til he injured his back. Can't do that no more, so he lives now as a painter." Babe prattled on.

"And the church?" Richard was failing to see how the church fit into all of this.

"Well, he was renovating this old church, ya see? But the other contractors lost interest. Too much damage. So Gene bought it. It's his studio now."

"Our Gene a painter. Huh." The most immediate memory of the former medic that came to mind was Eugene's blank face in Bastogne, his hands all red and Harry's screams of agony. Richard felt ashamed that was the first memory to come to mind, it wasn't fair to associate such an honorable man with his lowest point. It was his subconscious way of reminding himself he would never forgive himself for the way he had to let Gene break down.

A woman's crackly voice called out over the PA, "Last call for Princeton,"

"That's you, huh?" Babe said. He pulled a small notebook out of the inner pocket of his wool coat. He ripped a page from it and held it out. "Gene's address. I don't need it, got it memorized. For what it's worth I think he would like to hear from ya, Major." Babe shoved the paper into Richard's hand.

"Thanks,” he said, absently.

When Richard boarded the train he was relieved to snag a few empty rows of seats to himself. He wasn’t up for idle conversation with strangers which would inevitably turn to the war and his service. It was another reminder he didn’t need. He was in one of his “moods” today, as Nix would affectionately refer to them.

Richard pulled the half-crumpled paper with Gene’s address out of his jacket pocket where he had shoved it when boarding the train earlier. He considered the paper and its potential. Eugene. He recalled memories of Gene’s tender hands pulling a ricochet out of his leg, the caring way he always brought him coffee after most of their battles. He shouldn’t feel special, Gene made coffee for plenty of the men numerous times, but he always seemed to make it a point to with Richard. Gene made everybody feel safe. For all his joking it was the morphine he administered, everybody felt better when Gene was around. His touch, his voice- it soothed like aloe on a sunburn.

Richard recalled one particular time, a time he avoided thinking about but thought about all the same, was in Germany, shortly after Nix had been served divorce papers and demoted. He’d been drunk, naturally, and he’d been angry. In a fit of rage, he had swiped a bottle of whiskey off the wooden table, where it hit the wall and shattered.

Ashamed and enraged, Nix had disappeared into the night. Dick had crouched down to begin cleaning up the mess, and the glass shards cut his fingers. He slipped on the whiskey and lost his balance. He caught himself in a handful of glass. Defeated he collapsed to sit on the floor and he slapped his hand against the wood in frustration, driving the smaller bits of glass deeper into his palms. He sat for a moment, pants wet from the liquor and hands bloody and raw, and he wept.

He had shown up to Eugene’s billet that night, sheepish with a bloody hand and smelling like a whiskey he didn’t drink. It looked much worse than it actually was, he told himself. He was half there because Doc was the only one he trusted to see him in such a state and half there out of loneliness. Gene carefully cleaned and stitched his wounds, only saying the occasional this might sting. Reverently he wrapped white bandages around Richard’s palm. Richard’s eyes stung with tears. Eugene had that same look in his eye when they announced Jackson’s death in a dank basement in Hagenau. He could tell Gene was holding back something he had wanted to say, and after he and Harry had nearly killed Moose in Holland, Richard had a mind to know what he was thinking.

After procrastinating for too long, I’m finally getting around to putting all my ficlets on AO3! I’ve backdated them all to avoid clogging the tags, but I thought a roundup post would be a good idea for those that missed any of them the first time around! I have edited some of them slightly, but only minor tweaks to wording--nothing major. 

Wide Open Spaces Nix dreams of Dick’s happiness more than he dreams of his own. Pairing: Richard Winters/Lewis Nixon Rating: Teen Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Orphanage, Teenagers, Sneaking Out

Of a Lonely Star After it’s over, after Bastogne and after Foy, Dick finds Gene and takes him aside, intending to thank him. Pairing: Eugene Roe/Richard Winters Rating: General Audiences Additional Tags: None

Fill This Space Why should they keep themselves confined to this bed, this room? Why not fill every corner with the sound of this, the way they love each other? Pairing: Richard Winters/Lewis Nixon Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot

Twelve Empty Bottles Dick finds Lew’s stash—all of Lew’s stash. Pairing: Richard Winters/Lewis Nixon Rating: Teen Additional Tags: Alcoholism/Alcohol Abuse, Intervention

Howling Outside Your Door They broke up a while ago, but Ron keeps coming back. Pairing: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs Rating: Teen Additional Tags: Exes, Unhealthy Relationships

Sparsile: of a star, not included in any constellation

The words ‘you oughta know’ ring in his head, as does the way the Doc’s face looked, his expression contorted with anger, his eyes hard and dark like they were hiding something a little more like fear. It all sticks with him, eating at him, making him feel childish and stupid. And never more so than when they’re in Bastogne, and he knows Gene is taking care of the men better than he ever could. He’s stuck back away from the line, after all. Hearing the explosions, hearing the cries of the men. The screams of Medic! He can picture Gene running between foxholes, bringing healing or, failing that, comfort.

After it’s over, after Bastogne and after Foy, Dick finds Gene and takes him aside, intending to thank him, but when they are standing there in the dark with no one else around, he finds he doesn’t have the words. What are thank yous in the face of the burden Gene bears? What right does Dick have to thank him anyway, like Gene did him a personal favor? As much as he feels like these men are his, maybe he’s sharing that responsibility, that sense of ownership, more than he wants to admit. Nix scraped some of it away from him by sheer genius and tenacity. Gene has paid for it in blood—other men’s blood.

“You alright?” is all he can bring himself to say in the end. Gene looks weary now; it’s in the slump of his shoulders, in the thin line of his mouth. His fingernails are dirty, and Dick doesn’t think it’s dirt.

“Yessir,” Gene says. Dick isn’t much for being called ‘sir’, but he loves the way Gene’s voice sounds when he says it—’yessah’. Just the sound of that voice calls up warmer places in his mind, places he’s never even been, where it’s so hot and humid he might forget the Ardennes exists.

“You would tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?” he says, reaching out to put a hand on Gene’s shoulder. It’s so Gene knows he’s serious, he tells himself. Not just to touch him, to feel him real and solid and present, but so he knows Dick means every word. “I know you had a hard time of it.”

“Easier than Toye and Gaurnere.” Gene sways so he’s leaning into Dick’s hand, so Dick is almost holding him up. “Easier than Muck and—”

“Alright,” Dick says. He doesn’t need a list of the casualties. The list is etched on the back of his eyelids, stenciled inside his brain forever. “Alright. I just want you to know that you can come to me if you need to talk.”

They are cut from the same cloth, Dick thinks. Put one foot in front of the other. Don’t think too hard about it. Do your duty because you have to, and do it well, and all the rest doesn’t matter. Even if ‘all the rest’ is laying awake at night and wondering if you could have done something differently, saved another life. Often Dick feels like he’s doing all this alone, even with Nix so close they could be sharing skin. And that’s okay for him, but he doesn’t want Gene to feel alone too.

“I know, sir,” Gene says. He nods slowly, blinks slower, like he could fall asleep right there.

The urge to pull Gene into his arms wells up hot and insistent in Dick’s chest, but he can’t do it. Won’t. It’d be too close to admitting how hard this is. Instead, he palms the side of Gene’s face, a gesture he means to be paternal but ends up feeling like so much more than that, especially when he can’t resist skimming his thumb across Gene’s cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of dirt.

“Get some rest, Eugene,” he half-whispers. His hand falls back to his side, and he turns to go.

“Sir?” Gene calls. Dick turns around and raises his eyebrows. “You get some rest too, alright?”

Dick doesn’t know why, having sifted through all the personnel files that he has, all the Toccoa men and replacements and transfers, all the discharges and commissions, this has been one date that stuck. Doesn’t know why he remembers it days prior, why he even thinks it’d make a difference. It sure feels inappropriate enough, and Dick bites his cheek and mulls it over and ends up right where he started, wanting and not wanting, the fog and cold and something unnerving like desire all billowed into one.

Gene finds him first, the morning of. Lists what they have---less with every report---, and looks at Dick almost apologetically, like it’s his fault that they’re surrounded with no air support, that casualties are bleeding through their bandages faster than he can replace them. Dick knows Gene will feel responsible no matter what he says to him. It feels disingenuous even just to try.

Dick hates to turn him away empty-handed, to send him to another Battalion altogether. Dick’s temper is short-fused these days, makes him grind his teeth and start too many lone patrols, makes him round on Nix even. Nix deflects it easily, puts a hand on his shoulder and says he’ll try again. They all will. It’s just the way things are.

Dick contemplates bringing it up then, something in his chest warming, hurdling at the thought, but then something moves in the fog nearby, and they duck, and Dick’s rifle is at the ready, the German cumbersome when it rolls off his tongue, an aftertaste he doesn’t feel like getting used to.

***

“Happy Birthday, Eugene.” Dick made sure to check in on every foxhole on his way over, almost talked himself out of it twice. The shadows are already cutting deep across the snow. Soon enough the shelling will start up. Already some of the foxholes will be unoccupied.

Gene’s frown deepens, and for a moment Dick worries he got it all wrong.

“December 17th?” he offers.

Gene squints at him. After a moment he lets out a soft whistling sound, his shoulders relaxing. “It is, isn’t it.”

It really does sound like a question. Something passes across Gene’s face, easy, unadulterated, something that takes Dick way back and churns his stomach in the process, albeit not in an entirely unpleasant way. Something past Aldbourne and the blur of pre-deployment, something all the way to Camp Croft maybe, with the good barracks and the warm temperatures, the war roaming far away still, Dick’s hands clean, and itching, itching for something to do.

“I, uh.” Dick retrieves two syrettes from one of his chest pockets and holds them out to Roe.

“It’s Captain Nixon’s. And mine. I would’ve gotten them to you sooner but---” McAuliffe, empty-handed. Julian still where he fell. Closing those gaps. Holding that line. Something in Dick’s mouth turns sour.

“No, it’s---” Gene starts and breaks off again. Inappropriate, Dick thinks. Humiliating, somewhat. Not enough by any means. The lines on Gene’s face smooth out, and he offers Dick a smile, tight-lipped but genuine.

“It might be a while until I can make it into town. Thank you, Sir.”

Dick nods. He can’t actually offer him anything else, they both know that. Gene holds Dick’s gaze, looks at him like he’s waiting for him to say something more. Dick waits for that smile to harden and slip, but it doesn’t, curls soft like homebound clouds around the edges. Dick’s mind flashes with the possibility of reaching out, of touching a shoulder, elbow, forearm, anything. Then someone cries incoming, and they duck, and the war roars up around them again.