Who they'll kiss before they go home (Speirs/Lip, Speirs/Nix) R
Title: Who they'll kiss before they go home
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Pairing: Speirs/Lip, Speirs/Nix
Rating: R
Word Count: 3700
Summary: But while the rest of the men may be alright with just waltzing into Hitler's empty house and pissing on his couch, once they make it to the Eagle's Nest he can't help that sinking feeling that there's no place for them to go now but down.
Author's Notes: Based on the characters in the HBO series, no disrespect is intended. Written for the nothing_hip 'Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis' prompt. And for BoBtide, obvs. [uh, also if there are any inaccuracies in the details, feel free to correct!]


**

When word comes that they'll take Berchtesgaden, it's everything. It's that fantasy that helped them push through those frozen nights in shallow dirt, and it's happening. The ride up the mountainside is ripe with anticipation, men throwing curses at the sky, laughing with the altitude cracking in their ears. "Easy's comin' for your ass, Adolf!" someone hollers at the clouds above their heads, knowing full-well that he's really in the ground somewhere with a bullet in his brain. That he still got to make the choice, in the end.

Speirs knows it doesn't matter to them, not really. That justice is justice, and death is death. They've seen enough of it by now to know that there's never much dignity in it, no matter who pulls the trigger. But while the rest of the men may be alright with just waltzing into Hitler's empty house and pissing on his couch, once they make it to the Eagle's Nest he can't help that sinking feeling that there's no place for them to go now but down.

His boots are heavy on the stone floor as he walks room to room, more slowly than usual, picking up souvenirs with a leisure he usually reserves for a good after-dinner smoke. He misses a lot of good shit because of it, he's sure. Looting's become somewhat of a profession for him these past weeks, like he's picking apart the German empire piece by fucking silver piece. Everyone does it, sure, but he's the best at it. He can fuckin' smell Kraut loot, or that's what Nixon says anyhow.

He hears the other officers clambering around in the next room and when he sticks his head in Welsh whistles for him to follow him and Nix out onto the balcony. "Come on, Sparky," Harry waves him over. "Take a break. Hitler ain't comin' back for it." He's got bottles of something expensive clanking together in his right hand, so he follows.

"Christ, now this. This is what I'm talking about," Nix collapses onto a wooden lounge chair that looks out at the mountain scape. The sky here is like nothing he's ever seen. Harry blows the top off a bottle of champagne and hands it over to him before moving on to another, the corks popping like firecrackers on the fourth of July. He sits down on the foot of the lounger and clinks bottles with Nix and they guzzle it down, a moments prize that could be gone tomorrow. He doesn't much need it, they've already put on a buzz since they separated themselves from the other men. Welsh is scrambling, trying to catch the foam rushing from his bottle with his mouth, and Nix is lying there behind him, grinning like an idiot and bumping his foot lazily against his back.

"That's quite a mouthful you got there, Harry," Nix says, laughing.

"Yeah, I hear that from Kitty all the time," Welsh snorts back at him. "You got a woman back home, right Ron?"

"He'd better," Nix says, tapping his foot against him again, but on purpose this time. "Otherwise where's he sending all that shit he's been scrounging?"

"Can't blame me for being after something a little more valuable than whiskey."

"Ah, to each his own, my friend." Nix leans forward to tap their bottles together again before taking another long drink.

"About how high would you say this is?" Welsh asks, craning his head way over the rail.

"Well, my sources tell me we're about 8,000 feet up, boys." Nix leans back against the chair, his eyes resting closed.

"Jesus," Harry whistles, dropping back down onto his seat. "You'd think Hitler thought he was God himself."

"That," Ron says without smiling. "Or he wanted to be a paratrooper."

This makes them laugh loud, their voices bouncing back and forth in the valley below them. He'd always been a real sedate drunk, but Nix and Harry could laugh until their sides ached for hours. Even here at the top of the world, higher than God even, his lips only stretch into a thin, languid smile as they drink and joke about fashioning a jump shoot out of one of those big Nazi banners. By the time Major Winters and Lipton walk out onto the balcony Welsh has spent ten minutes trying to pronounce Alderhorst and Nix is stumbling (and basically yelling) through one of his many "Hitler walked into a bar" jokes.

The Germans surrendered, that he's sober enough to understand. While Harry and Lip hug and Winters and Nixon head off to God knows where, his head starts feeling light. He's lies back in the lounger and closes his eyes tight.

"Captain?" A hand is heavy on his shoulder, and when he opens his eyes again Lip is sitting on the lounger next to his. "Captain Speirs, you alright, sir?"

Christ, Lip. Call me Ron already, he thinks. Really all he does is nod and close his eyes again.

Harry wanders off somewhere and he can feel Lip settle into the lounger, finally giving it a rest and putting his feet up, taking a breath like he's been holding it since Normandy. They sit there for a long time, not saying much. They usually don't unless there's something to say.

"You think we'll be jumping on Japan then." It's a question, but Lipton doesn't ask it like one.

"Yes," he answers. He hopes.

**

The sun starts to set on Berchtesgaden and he thinks that maybe night comes up faster this high. It's a stupid thing to think though, night comes at the same goddamn time, it's just that right now he's more exhausted, more drunk. The bed in his room is perfectly comfortable, but he can't sleep even though he tries. Instead he turns a light on and sits on the cold floor to shine his boots.

"Ron." Nix stumbles into the room with hardly a knock, brandishing a bottle of liquor in his hand. "Have a drink with me, will ya? I can't get the Quaker to live a little."

It's somewhat of a strange request, Lewis Nixon has never much minded drinking alone. He accepts the bottle, lets the alcohol sear down his throat. "I've got a whole bag full of this shit," Nix grins, sliding down onto the floor next to him without a moment's thought. He doesn't think to ask why they're sitting on the floor when there's a room full of perfectly decent chairs all around them. "VE-Day present."

"VE-Day." Speirs repeats and drains more from the bottle before handing it back and returning to work out a particularly stubborn scuff on his right toe.

"Fuck, Ron," Nixon rolls his eyes. He takes the boot right from Ron's hands and chucks it across the room. They both watch it bump across the floor. "Austria's not judging you on your footwear, you know."

If it had been anyone else, he may have had a harsh word or two with him then, but Lew was a friend, sort of. Besides, he never really seemed to put himself above or below anybody. Never asked Ron whether those rumors about Normandy were true and, if he were to, it's not likely that he'd really care either way. He always had this sadness about him, like he wasn't fighting the same war as the rest of them.

Nixon slumps against him, his hair smelling thick with cigarette smoke. "We're moving out tomorrow, then. Though I'm not real sure what we're supposed to be doing now without Krauts to shoot."

"There's always the Japs," Nixon shrugs, reading the label carefully on the bottle in his hand. He was talking about the Big Jump, then. The one no one really wanted to talk about unless under the protective hood of alcohol.

"There's been news?" It makes sense that Nix would know first, he usually does.

"Dick," he explains. "He's talking about transferring over to the Pacific theater now, instead of waiting around."

"And you'll go with him," Ron nods. It's not a question. "Planning on making a life out of following him, or what?"

Nix is quiet for a moment. "Was thinking about it. There are worse things. Worse men."

He was right about that at least. Most men were worse men than Dick Winters.

There's a familiarity in the way Lew's hip fits against his, how he always sits with his shoulders slumped a little forward so that theirs overlap. It reminds him of those nights in Aldbourne, between fighting, when the men were getting rowdy in town and the officers didn't quite fit in with the fun. Dick would always close himself up in his quarters, typing away, and he and Lew would share a drink and try to remember what it was like to be among the living.

"I think he'd like New Jersey," Nixon says, maybe not having the conversation with him any longer.

At this point they all wanted something to take home after all this. Something to prove that these years, these hardships, weren't just for nothing. Things would be different when they got home, it was inevitable. Wives will have left, girlfriends moved on, families will be trying to live the life they had before pieces of it went away. They all wanted something real to keep Bastogne, Normandy, Holland, with them. Ron, he would do with some of Hitler's finest china, plus anything else he could get his hands on, but Lew? Lew just wanted Winters.

"He's a good man," Ron says, resting the bottle next to his thigh. He was, too. At the start of this war, Ron hadn't thought anyone could really survive it by being a good man, but Winters did somehow. It turns out that men like Nixon and himself need good men like Winters to help them get through.

Lew tastes like booze and cheap cigarettes, as he always does, and Ron doesn't regret the man that he is. Dead men can have no real sins.

**

To be honest, he never expected to make it this far. Hell, he'd pretty much done everything he could not to make it this far. To be able to glimpse that faint light at the end of the tunnel, the one that he's not really even sure that he's ready to meet. The men around him are beginning to relax, beginning to get used to the idea of making it home. They're singing, laughing. Hell, even swimming. It's like a goddamn Austrian vacation. But they're drinking too. Too much, really.

In Zell Am See he gives the order for the men to keep their boozing indoors because they're all feeling a little restless, himself included. Men are getting hurt, ones that should be on a plane home by now, and even dying. Christ, there's no more fucking Krauts, but men are dying. His men.

The lines of battle don't rule them out here any longer and all they're left with is bureaucratic bullshit. Points and passes, useless field exercises and even more useless calisthenics. He entertains the idea of turning down the chance to go home, even though he's no fucking use to anyone in a place like this anyway. The best he can hope for is to keep the men in line until the Big Jump.

Easy enough, or so he thought.

He gets word about Grant being shot from Doc Roe, and next thing he knows he's standing over a dying man, holding his hand and telling him that he'll fix it, telling him that he's going to be fine. Or even if he's not saying it out loud, he's thinking it. He's thinking it so fucking loud that he's sure God (or whoever the fuck is up there higher than the Eagle's Nest) can't possibly ignore it.

But even their fucking medic's a drunk and says he can't do a damn thing. The Kraut doc is less dismissive; maybe because of the gun, maybe because he's a real goddamn doctor. Either way, he's silent while he works. Chuck's fingers are threaded through his, but they're weak, his grip loose and his hands clammy like he's already dead. He looks dead. The bandage around his head is soaked through and he wonders how the fuck he's supposed to put all this in a letter home to Chuck's folks. Across from him Doc Roe moves his lips in prayer.

"Chuck," he says to him, because all the sudden he has to say something. Anything to keep this kid alive. "It's a million dollar wound if I've ever seen one. You're going home, fuck the points."

He looks back up at Roe when he thinks he feels Grant gripping back a little, but Eugene's still staring at the wound, concentrating. There's blood up to his elbows. It was probably just himself squeezing a little harder anyway.

**

He knows they got him because he can hear the yelling and cursing of the men practically across town. When some of them talk about what battle feels like, in the thick of it, they say how their blood heats up like a fire until they're just doing things without thinking, without seeing. It's not like that for him. For him it's usually all noise, but when he's charging into the fight everything just goes quiet and sharp. He can move faster, think clear. He picks up speed, the familiar calm settling into his bones as he draws nearer, palming his sidearm as he tears through the door.

The men get quiet when he busts in. They break apart, make room. The kid's got blood all over his face and all he can see clearly is Doc Roe's stained hand holding down that bandage. The blood on this man isn't even his anymore, it's Chuck's. It's all Chuck's. The men who are closest take a step back and he can see it in their eyes, the recognition of what happens next. He's got his gun pointed between the kid's eyes, not unlike the last time he shot another man wearing his same uniform.

The piece of shit replacement is breathing hard, his eyes crossed, staring into the barrel of his gun. Men around him are looking down or away, the ones who know him, that is. The newer boys are just staring at the gun with wide eyes. The muscles in his forearm start twitching and he can feel the seconds in his fingertips as they pass. Four... five... six. He puts down the gun.

**

His head is a mess. A goddamn motherfucking shitted up mess. He doesn't even know where he's headed, he just goes. His hand is still clenched around the gun, and so when he stumbles upon a lone street sign he lets loose on it, his head clearing more with every shot. When he's out of rounds he throws the whole goddamn thing at the sign before his legs fold under him and he collapses down onto the grass.

"Captain?" he hears Lipton ask, walking out from the shadows somewhere to his right. Fuck. It's his own no-fire rule he's just violated. "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Every thing's fine, Lieutenant." Speirs waves him off, hoping he'll just go without him having to order it.

Lipton's boots crunch through the grass towards him and he crouches down a few feet back. Speirs notices he's got his gear, but he doesn't look to be out on patrol. He must've heard.

"Grant's okay?" Lip asks, answering his question.

Okay. Yeah, something like that. He reaches into his jacket for a cigarette pack, his fingers still shaking from the shots, or maybe even still from Chuck's limp, cold hand. He puts two between his lips and flicks open his lighter, holding it to their ends until they glow red in the dark. The smoke hits deep and hot in his lungs and he hands one to Lip.

"He'll live," he says finally. Whatever that means. They sit there for however long, until his cigarette has burned down to his fingers. When he tosses it away the red glow arcs into the sky before falling away.

"You did the right thing, sir."

Something in his gut clicks when Lip says it. Or more like snaps. He flies to his feet, fisting his hands into the collar of Lip's jacket and hauling him up from the ground.

"The right thing?" He gets right in Lip's face, yanking him closer. "I should've killed that sonofabitch. I should've put him in the fucking ground."

Lip's staring right back, the heavy puffs of breath between them smelling of cheap tobacco. He thinks of the men's eyes back there, the men who moments earlier had been beating the living shit out of that kid all on their own, but then looked at him with that mix of fear and relief that they wouldn't have to actually finish the job themselves. Lip never looked at him like that, not even now. He maybe always respected him, but he was never afraid.

"So why didn't you," he says.

They stand there for another few seconds, just staring each other down. Finally he just pushes him away, hard, and falls back onto the grass to light another smoke. Lipton sits back down beside him.

"It might not have been the right man, that's why," he says with little conviction.

Lip just nods. "Or, you didn't want another kid to die. We've seen a lot of kids die, Ron."

He looks over at him and Lip plucks the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a puff before handing it back. He can't remember if he's ever called him Ron. "It's war. Kids die."

"Yeah, but," Lip sighs, finally taking his helmet off and putting it in the grass beside him. "Wars over. Everyone just wants to get home. Even you, right?"

"We're already dead men," he shrugs, handing the cigarette back. "You really think that's gonna change just cause we're back home with the living?"

Lip shakes his head at him, releasing the smoke slow from his nostrils. "You and me, we're some of the only guys in E company with wives, you know that? We got homes to go back to. I'd say we're some of the lucky ones."

"It's different for you." He flicks the cigarette butt away, that red glow rising and falling into nothing. "You're a good man, you'll have a place. I'm not so sure where men like me fit in when this wars over."

"You do what needs to be done. Doesn't make you a worse man than any of the rest of us, Ron. All of us have done things we'd like to forget."

Except tonight, he thinks. Tonight he didn't do what needed to be done, tonight he failed. Failed Chuck, failed that Brit officer with a hole in his head who'll never be getting home. He looks over at Lip and there's no decision to be made, that's how he knows it's the right thing. He snatches up Lip's handgun and takes off with it back towards town. He feels him shouting something behind him, but doesn't hear it. His head's clear and he knows. Lip catches up, shouting still, but he shrugs him off easily and charges ahead. His hand isn't shaking this time, it's steady and sure.

He's not expecting the force of it when Lip catches up again and throws him back against the nearest wall. Ron pushes back hard against his shoulders, but Lipton's stronger somehow and his shoulder cracks against the brick behind him again. Lip is pinning both his shoulders back against the building, his face red and sweating. He cocks the gun.

"Get out of the way," he breathes, the barrel pressing into the soft underside of his chin.

"Shoot me, then," Lip stares back, his eyes hard and unwavering. Still without fear like always.

The gun falls somewhere between them, he hears it hit the ground after he grabs onto Lip's jacket, pulling him in so that their mouths are crashing together over and over. All of the sudden he's the stronger one again, turning Lip so that he's pressed back against the wall, trapping his legs between his and pushing their hips together. Lip's hand is gripping the back of his neck, pulling hard. He can feel his dick against Lip's thigh and they're both tearing at their uniforms with free hands.

Lip's been drinking, which seems out of place for him. He can taste the liquor on his tongue and it makes him think back to Alsace, back to how the schnapps smelled on Lip's breath and how he shook as his fever broke that night. Lip makes an almost-sound into his mouth, so he pushes harder, moving his hand under heavy fabric, against skin.

His breaths get shorter, sharper, his head falling back heavy against the brick. He says Ron again before closing his eyes. Ron wonders what he sees when he does, whether he can still see home. It's been a long time since he's been able to picture his wife behind closed eyelids.

They break apart and he crouches to find the gun in the dark, handing it back to Lip before he walks away without a word between them. Somewhere that fucking recruit is still breathing. Painfully, maybe, but still. He ends up back at the infirmary and tells Roe, who's still there watching over Grant, that he'll take it from here.

"Everything alright, sir?" Roe asks on his way to the door. There's a question in his eyes, one that's asking whether there's gonna be another kid's life left in his hands tonight.

"Yeah," he nods. "Get some sleep."

Roe nods before he walks out into the night and Ron finds a chair to wait there till dawn, just watching Chuck breathe and trying his best to picture home.

**