It's like 5 am here and I have work but just had like 3 coffees and a sad menace of a philly cheesesteak which made me think of guarnere and heffron which made me twiddle my thumbs and think gay thoughts so take some BabeRoe, Winnix, and LuzToye headcanons. 😃
tw// idiotic hcs, lemony in some parts idk hope y'all are grown
BABEROE
Heffron cuddles on Doc's back when they're spooning; looking like a lil go-go jetpack.
He loves kissin' his Doc Roe. A big smoochie in the morning, a big smoochie at night.
Eugene likes to cook with a lot of flavor and seasonings, but the most flavor Babe's used to is the grease from Philly cheesesteaks, so the former needs to go light on the spice. Else, the Irishman turns beet-red and can't feel his face for the whole day.
Babe will outdrink Eugene, however. Like how. The dude's like 5'4, or some shit. He repels alcohol damage, just like how he repels noisy solicitors from coming to their house, which is nice (if Doc Roe's army of domesticated raccoons, cats, and gators don't scare them away).
"Béb, you keep calling me Gilby, der's no mo' beignets for you."
"All right, so I see that you're not a fan of the nickname. So is it okay if I call you Gilbert, then? Whaddya think? Gilbert's a pretty cute name, like something you call a grape."
The both of them don't snore, which is great. The only thing is, when they were out in the field, Spina snored. And Babe would sneak into Doc Roe's foxhole to sleep together, but for some reason, Spina kept sleeping in Roe's foxhole, too. How was it smart for two medics to be in the same foxhole? And when they're living here in the bayou, the fifty million frogs, cicadas, bats, whatever the hell's out there have their own symphony. Are the both of them going to change anything, however? No. Maybe getting aural damage from the mortars was actually a blessing in disguise.
"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.
Luz can't stop smacking Toye's ass when it's available. The booty be jiggling. The ass is ass-ing. Poor Joe has to cover his butt with his hands when he's stationary, especially when bending. The guy's a goddamned shark smelling blood when he sees Joe's firm ass.
Ron Speirs x Carwood Lipton, Dick Winters x Lewis Nixon, and Babe Heffron x Eugene Roe drabbles (from "Band of Brothers")
[SPEIRTON]
"An officer should take pride in keeping his uniform in an orderly fashion," Captain Speirs stated, reaching up to straighten Carwood's collar. "You do understand that; right, Lieutenant?"
Lip knew. Damn it all, he knew, but he wasn't sure what to say, how to respond, merely choosing to nod after a tentative gulp. He knew of the hand on his collar pointing to the tiniest bit of lipstick smeared at the edge, the smell of perfume he couldn't get out of the fabric fast enough. He tried to do some clean-up before he had to report to his superior, but 1800 came much too early after playing babysitter to the drunken enlisted.
Things weren't as what they portrayed. Captain Speirs knew, but perhaps this punishment came as a way in response to how Lip slighted him the last time, a payback in the run of this little teasing game they were playing. He knew the lipstick stains and the scent of roses came from the eager ladies in the victory parade; he knew Lip wasn't one to be loose with his pants, yet he still pulled at his collar.
Until they were cheek to cheek, his breath ghosting along Carwood's jaw.
"When an officer asks a question, you answer it."
[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.
Dawn was but a few hours away, and it felt like he finally slept since he'd first stepped foot onto the winter snow.
[SPEIRTON] Asshole executive and chef Ronald Speirs will tear anyone a new one for the slightest fuck-up. He commands the crew for his Michelin three-star restaurant named Dog Company, which prides itself as the most regimented dining experience in all of the Americas. He's the meanest motherfucker around, but can't help but to keep his gaze soft and longing at his clueless pastry chef Lipton, who's the only one who could talk Ron down from throwing hands at anybody in his way, especially the paparazzi that love to eat up his vicious notoriety. But maybe Carwood's not as oblivious as Speirs thinks; yet, maybe he is. Because Ron's mysterious admirer gifts him cakes and chocolates that're beyond delicious, and Speirs knows there's only one man who could win his heart with such ganache.
[BABEROE] Shy Doctor Roe who moved up to Philadelphia for a better position at the local hospital. He ends up treating Heffron, the president of a notorious Philly motorcycle club, who's absolutely smitten with Eugene the first time he's laying on a gurney, getting two bullets extracted out of him. From then on, he makes it his mission to protect his "Doc Roe", the two men fighting their sexuality and feelings while the dark, criminal secrets of the city threaten to tear them apart.
[LuzToye] Infamous street-fighter Toye's used to the limelight, the crowds, the money, the booze, the way the night brings about another profile to the city he grew up. When a goofy construction worker named Luz finds him and insists that he's the "Joey" he grew up with together at Toccoa Orphanage, Joe's stunned to find his best friend and the boy that disappeared. Now, it's up to Toye to look inward and see if he wants to uncover truth about "Georgie" Luz, his first love who betrayed him, and why he's come back to find him.
[WEBGOTT] Mob boss Liebgott hasn't made it to the top for no fucking reason. He's got the entire city under his control, and this year, he's finally convinced the local government to give him the green light to developing the coastline with his own business ventures. Everyone kowtows to him, save for one ditzy Harvard drop-out turned souvenir shop owner named David Webster, who’s the most infuriating bastard Joe ever met. The man owns the parcel of land Liebgott's determined to turn into a cathouse, and absolutely refuses to sell, arguing that further developments would cause damage to nearby sharks. Crazy how countless intimidations, late night surprises, boring ichthyology books, and chocolate could have these two men falling hard and fast for each other under the California sun.
They sleep using one blanket because Speirs doesn’t give a shit about comfort and actually enjoys the tug-of-war.
Lipton actually enjoys black coffee more than Speirs. Speirs likes his cup with either nothing or coma-inducing amounts of sugar and cream, no in-between.
Carwood likes to light his cigarette first before lighting up Ron’s own with the burning end of his, a ritual of deference he never got over.
Speirs won’t admit it, but in bed he likes it when Lipton moans out “Sir”. Count that as his ritual he never got over.
The best and worst cheater in cards. No one can ever prove Speirs cheats in spades or poker, but there’s just no way he can win every time with such utter boredom on his face. Must be why he’s able to sneak in sudden kisses at the table when the other former officers aren’t looking, embarrassing Carwood when he’s told to hurry up since it’s already his turn.
Ron’s favorite food combination: whiskey and cold steak with a side of stale cigarettes.
Carwood’s favorite food combination: Mom’s meatloaf with a glass of sarsaparilla.
Speirs likes to silently watch Lipton as he does yard work or fixes their cars in an old tank top through the kitchen window. He can map out every single bead of perspiration rolling into the valley of his juicy pecs. He says nothing about this particular behavior, and Carwood will never know.
The neighborhood kids are scared of the ominous figure that emerges out of the immaculate hedges when their ball gets lost on their property. Lipton takes it upon himself to be the one to return the balls when possible, if only to avoid the kiddos turning white as a sheet when their precious toy gets held hostage by the mysterious Mr. Speirs. In the end, the children decide to play ball outside only when Mr. Lipton is around.
Speirs makes no noise when he sleeps, and he barely moves.
Lipton can move around here and there, with gentle snores, which Speirs finds comforting when he awakes to being in California and not the freezing woods of France.
Babe likes to hold Doc when they sleep, even when they have an unsettled argument. He likes to wrap his arms around him, with either Eugene resting his head on his chest or him spooning from behind. Nothing’s ever going to change this ritual. Ever.
Eugene finds Babe easy to cook for, but the issue is that he may be too easy to cook for, in that the latter will eat sawdust and poison if the former gave it to him. Which is odd, considering the fact that Heffron goes off on Guarnere for food having the slightest burn, and Luz complains that he’s the pickiest eater. So Eugene takes it upon himself to cook properly, if only to make Babe taste beyond his affections.
Roe won’t admit it, but the five o’clock shadow that Heffron sometimes grows out of laziness does something to him. The way he shaves, too, the manner in which he meticulously maneuvers the straight razor to take care of business. Babe didn’t ever have to know this fact.
Heffron likes to watch Doc dress up in the mornings, especially when he slides his boxers up that perfect, bare ass, partly red from Babe’s own hands. He has to pretend that he’s still asleep, which hinders the view, but he’ll take what he can get. If he dares to bolt up and stare directly at Doc’s behind, he knows he’ll be forever punished and unable to have this view ever again.
There’s better candy and chocolates out there, but they choose to keep buying Hershey bars, no matter how many years pass.
Working at the docks, checking cargo and getting familiar with ships, isn’t the type of work Heffron expected to do after years of working at a distillery, but it’s not too bad. The shifts are more flexible, allowing Babe to be more at home and welcome Doc to various homemade meals and soft kisses.
There’s nothing Doc can’t fix or make. Being a construction contractor’s just a monetary extension of his numerous abilities. Babe always brags about it until Guarnere tells him to shut up over the phone.
Heffron likes to fuck with the windows open.
Mr. Roe’s a well-liked and respected member of their town community. No one gave him any trouble, especially with all he did during the war. However, for those that dare, they’re quickly warned by others to not even try, unless they wanted a sudden visit at night by a mysterious figure that’ll teach them how to mind their own business. If someone in town cries out that they were kidnapped and beaten up, left to rot by the docks, they knew how to zip it up and keep on moving.
Heffron's always ready to throw down with that Mr. "Tough Guy From The Streets" attitude. And what bird-brained idiot dares to ask him if he's from Philly? Got a problem with that? Meet him at the motherfuckin' tree line if a fucker wants to duke one out. He'll make him eat shit without bloodying his knuckles.
Roe. Eugene. Doc. Sweetheart from the bayou. Mon Cher. Chocolates and quiet assurance: the man who's always there in a heartbeat, even through the spray of bullets.
The love of Heffron's life if he can admit it, but he's got too much bite, too much grit from the city life, compounded by being a grunt. Won't ever see his ass strumming a guitar and confessing his undying love in the rain to Eugene. And Eugene knows that.
But when Babe always covers him with a blanket in the cold. Gives him first dibs on any loot he snags. Smokes the broken, ruined cigs so Eugene could have clean, dry ones. He'll tell off the other grunts to make sure Eugene eats first, gets on the truck first, to not "waste Doc's fuckin' time". Trails after him like a hound, and even if Babe thinks Eugene doesn't notice, Eugene'll always notice.
Too bad Heffron doesn't notice that he does. Thinks pining like a lovesick fool, undeserving of anything good in his life mars his view. So when Eugene is the one to kiss him first, he's frozen. Shocked. Where's the usual Mr. Tough Guy? Sure hard to be tough when he's the one quaking, a statue flushed in red, barely holding onto his machine gun. Looks at Roe like he's God, as if merely being able to see him requires permission. When he finally comes to, he asks, no, begs, for another, but only in the softest whisper betraying the image he projects to all the other men, but never could to Eugene.
Eugene knows. He always notices. And maybe this time, Babe will notice that Eugene's equally trembling, blossoming in heat, barely holding onto the Hershey's melting between their lips.
He's too grown for his heart to feel like it's gonna to explode out of his chest. But, Heffron's gone crazy. Fucking crazy, and shit's bad if he's already sworn on his Ma that a man can possibly find another man ridiculously adorable.
Because his ears turn red. Holy shit. Doc's ears turn fucking red, the tips of them the brightest cherries that made Babe's mouth water. All this just from soft, gentle kisses; more teasing on his end, really, without any tongue. He wants to get there eventually, but he ain't that much of a bastard to start pushing things too fast, not when Doc's settled into his lap and letting him smooth his lips over his jaw.
He ain't the most patient, and certainly not a saint, but there's a lot of things about Eugene Roe that's making him abandon the fast lane and take things slow. This ain't Philly, this ain't the city, and Babe Heffron from Front Street better not rush things if he's tryna hit a home run. Making miracles. Fireworks.
In his damned pants if Doc kept shakily exhaling against his cheek when Heffron nipped at his ears. Can't help it. Those things were calling his name, tempting him to get a taste, to nibble on flushed lobes that were warm on his tongue. His brain's telling him to stop or else there's gonna really be a mess in his fatigues, but fuck it. Self-control's for when he's out slinging bullets, taking aim and firing into the enemy line. But ice cream and Doc?
[PROMPT] Drabbles on just how easily Lewis captured Dick's attention.
Taking another drink with those lips Dick loved so much, and if Lew kept on looking at him with those dark eyes that called him to worship, he'd end up seizing every last bottle of Vat 69 in the country to offer as tribute.
He didn't have to be here. Out of all the people to not have their boots smudged with filth and gore and the stench of death, it'd have to be Lewix Nixon III. He didn't have to trudge through war-torn Europe, brace through long nights that consisted of writing condolence letters to parents and widows, watch bullets rip through flesh and bone, or take part in the burden of the common class that had no choice but to listen to the whims of politicians.
He didn't have to be here. He could've been wearing a pressed suit, sipping gin and tonic at boring board meetings before heading to a getaway in the Alps. This wasn't the requirement for a son born with a golden spoon in his mouth. He'd have avoided the draft easily, if one even dared to approach the Nixon family with such frippery. He didn't have to be here. He didn't need to be here.
"Where the hell else would I be, then, Dick?"
But he was here. He was here in the flesh, watching Dick with that gaze that spoke of Lewis Nixon III being nowhere else but here with full intention. Here. In this damned war, in this damned blown-out building.
In this bed, next to Richard Davis Winters, who needed to be here, yet nothing about this was damning.
"I'm glad you're here, Lew," Dick gently whispered, and he smiled when the leg thrown over his body tightened around him. "Thank you."
"Remember: I want three sugars in my coffee tomorrow."
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"You always use those pretty blue eyes to get what you want. Don't you, Dick?"
It was said so casually between another draw of his cigarette, and Dick wondered if Lew knew just how much every single word he uttered affected him. How one haphazard phrase had heat rush up the base of his spine, deploying out to his skin and raising every single hair on end, a familiar reaction Dick had no control over. He wondered if he was able to take another breath, and if it was anyone else but Harry sitting next to him, poise was the last thing he'd think about.
"Dick does indeed have some pretty eyes," his lieutenant jovially stated, grinning as he leaned back into his seat with a full glass of beer. "The prettiest in the company, if I may say so myself.
"Hope I'm not stepping out of bounds, Sir."
There was a snort from Lew that was shielded by the signature Welsh chuckle. Dick, however, couldn't shield a ruddy flush from creeping onto his cheeks, and it was obviously no fault of the lively bar's fireplace. It was also no fault of Harry's commentary, either.
It was the open collar and the peep of Lew's skin. It was the dark hair, the dark eyes, their sheen that held Dick captive. It was the comfortable lay of the other man's body on the couch, how his legs confidently splayed open as if the leather and wood were his throne. That dastardly lazy flash of teeth. The cacophony all around them couldn't mute each inhale and exhale of the other man's breath.
It took all Dick had to remember to breathe himself.
"I'm sure he knows that, Harry, considering how he always gets what he wants from us."
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In Dick's eyes, Lew had no flaws.
They said perfection was impossible to exist after Jesus Christ, but Dick believed in Lew as much as he poured over the Bible he tucked into chest pocket. Lew was the five loaves of bread and two fish, the good Samaritan, and the Sea of Galilee. Lew was every miracle personified in the churn of blood and guts and grunts that were all too good at killing. Lew didn't kill because he was everything that was good, and Dick never wanted him to have to fire a single bullet in this damned war.
He made it his mission for Lew to never have to shoot. The Son of Man never had to wield a weapon, and he was protected by his disciples.
Dick never wrestled with being anyone else but that.
"What're you looking at, Dick?" Lew slurred, taking another dram of the whisky he loved so much. Taking another drink with those lips Dick loved so much, and if Lew kept on looking at him with those dark eyes that called him to worship, he'd end up seizing every last bottle of Vat 69 in the country to offer as tribute.
"Hmm? What're you looking at?"
You.
You, and no one else.
You, Lew.
Veneration was the least of what he could do to have him look at Dick like he wasn't a sinner.
"It's Saturday, Lew. Sky's blue, and the weather's swell. How about we go for a drive in the country?"
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It wasn't obvious. He hoped that it wasn't, and he ensured that not a single crumb of what he and Lew had was comprehensible to the outside world. At least, he thought he did.
But then again, Harry was invariably more perceptive than most. So the knowing grin he gave Dick one morning, quickly whipping his eyes to Lew before settling on the latter, nearly made Dick choke on his cup of joe. He knew.
Damage control was futile. Not that Welshie would utter a word, but still. Dick knew he failed. The next time, however, wouldn't exist. There'd be no room for a next time.
What he didn't realize was that Buck was already ahead of Harry. Dick raked through his head at when he'd dropped the ball, but it didn't matter. Buck knew.
If Buck knew, that meant poor and proper Lieutenant Lipton knew, as well. Buck couldn't keep a secret between his fellow officers for anything. Dick could tell by Lipton's awkward coughs and curious glances whenever he told Lew he needed to speak to him in private.
(Lew always needed to do more in private. Hands on his tie, his lips ghosting over Dick's jaw to his own lips. Lew's body trapping him against his desk...)
That left Sparky. He didn't want to think about that, but he'd have to bite the bullet, or at least test the waters. Did old Sparky know? No, he couldn't have. Sparky was as good and proper as Dick.
Well, perhaps better than him, considering how he didn't have a game of charades around his relations. Better than Dick who made it a habit to check himself in a mirror before daring to head out. Better than Dick who could never say no to Lew's devious plans throughout the day.
Could never say no to that hunger he'd equally match without a qualm.
So, could Lieutenant Speirs have potentially known?
"He's seen you all up on me in our tent that first night when Dog Company joined us," Lew casually stated, and Dick swore he nearly drowned from the canteen water that shot up his nose. "I'll never forget how...passionate two glasses of cheap, salvaged cabernet could make you. When we get home, you'll be glad to see I stocked the cellars with only the best."
When we get home.
Besides needing to hide in a foxhole alone from the mortification, Dick memorized that promise. When we get home. Lew said it: It wasn't an if or a musing on prospects. He said when.
When they were going home, they were going home together. To New Jersey. Lew would show him that fancy cellar and take Dick to all the places he promised to take him to.
And Dick promised, in turn, to ensure that when was nothing but the only possibility.
