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They’re in Hagenau when it happens, when George snaps.
Look, okay, it’s not that George doesn’t like Captain Speirs, alright? The guy’s a sociopath, sure, but he’s a hell of an improvement from Foxhole Norman, and George knows that Easy’s lucky to have him as their CO. He doesn’t have anything personal against the guy, either. Doesn’t particularly care as to whether or not all those damn rumors about Speirs that Malarkey and the others whisper like ghost stories are true or not. He really couldn’t give a shit, honest.
It’s just that—it’s Lip, okay? And nobody, not Captain Speirs, not Major Winters, not the goddamn Virgin Mary herself gets to talk to Lip like that. Gets to boss Lip around, barking orders at him like they’re still in fucking Toccoa and he’s Sobel reincarnate. Especially not while Lip is sick, inches from death-by-pneumonia, the newly appointed First Lieutenant’s nose dripping buckets, his face flushed crimson, his eyes weak and bleary and only just managing to flicker open when someone addresses him. No, no fucking way does Speirs get to huff and puff in Lip’s face right now—or ever, for that matter.
So, anyway, George is fucking pissed. He’s a single infraction away from downright livid.
He tells all this to Frank, who has recently returned to Easy despite the limp, a parting gift courtesy of a bullet in the ass in Foy. (Yeah, George really doesn’t miss Dike.) And as George is explaining his newfound ire regarding their latest CO to his best friend, Frank watches George with a weariness that the technician, frankly, does not care for one goddamn bit.
“Look, he seems like a decent captain, alright? Nobody’s arguing that. All I’m saying is, he’s got no goddamn right to talk to Lip like that.”
“George.” There’s a frown curling Frank’s lips as he speaks. “Don’t nobody want Lip bossed around or nothing, but, uh, he is our CO, ya know? It’s…well, I mean, it’s literally his job. Besides, wasn’t Speirs just tellin’ Lip to go rest? Albeit in a slightly abrasive manner, sure, but—”
George flashes his best friend a droll stare and promptly orders him to shut the fuck up.
“Shut the fuck up, Frank.”
Frank surrenders instantly, well accustomed to George’s more irritable moods, and waves a hand as he limps toward the door, presumably to find his platoon’s billet. “Alright, fine, get ya’self court martialed, see if I care.”
So, basically, Frank is useless. George isn’t surprised. He’s not even offended. (Secretly, he’s just so damn grateful that Frank is back. That he only took a bullet to the ass and not one to the chest. That he bothered to come back to Easy so quickly, though he undoubtedly could’a scraped by with at least another week in the hospital. It’s selfish of George, he knows that. But he’s thankful, anyway.) And the radio tech is left to stew in his growing rage—alone.
Well, not alone. ‘Cause Lip is there, of course.
It’s been over an hour since Captain Speirs had scolded Lip, bullying the First Lieutenant into one of the back rooms with a surly order that essentially boiled down to “rest or else”. George hasn’t heard much wheezing or coughing, so he hopes that Lip is finally asleep. Glancing at the looming tower of inventory he still has to catalogue, George decides to give in to impulse, allowing his desire to check on Lip to override his current duties. “Ah, fuck it.”
He makes a fresh cup of coffee first, thinking that something warm might do a bit of good for Lip’s throat, and treks down the long hallway to the back of the house. As he approaches Lip’s room, the low murmur of voices prickles his ear, and George feels a flush of irritation. He’s gonna kill whoever’s bothering Lip. Gonna kill Lip himself if the ailing man is still attempting to work. Jesus Christ, he’s supposed to be resting.
Only, as he reaches the open door, George Luz is rendered silent by the sight before him.
He’s gotta admit, Lip looks somewhat better. Sitting up in bed, arms wrapped around their CO’s torso, head cradled in the space between Speirs’s neck and shoulder, Lip is looking at George with a wide, alert gaze. Though his face is still flushed, George suspects it’s for an entirely different reason as the technician also notes that Lip’s nose seems to have stopped running. Any satisfaction George might have felt over the gradual improvement of Lip’s condition is ruined by the sight of Speirs’s hand cupping the back off Lip’s head, thumb gently stroking through the First Lieutenant’s hair.
“Son of a bitch.”
The declaration slips passed his lips without his approval. Lip’s gaze turns fearful, though the CO’s stare is—as always—menacingly empty. Leave it to George to not know when to shut up.
Snorting, George proffers the mug of rationed coffee. “Thought you might need a hot drink.”
“George—” Lip croaks, turning from Speirs to reach for the paratrooper in the doorway. The captain isn’t having it. He keeps Lip all but trapped in his lap, locking his arms around his ill subordinate, and the violation ignites a fire of rage inside of George. “Hey, man, what the fuck do you think—”
“George.”
The tone of Lip’s reprimand is enough to quell George’s tongue, if only momentarily, and in the silence that follows, Lip gazes at Speirs, something passing between them. It’s an intimate moment. There’s adoration in Lip’s gaze and something not quite mean in Speirs’s. George hates it. He hates the familiarity there. Realizing that whatever’s happening here appears to be occurring with Lip’s consent, George nods, mostly to himself. “Right.”
Before he can leave, however, Speirs drags his gaze away from Lip long enough to toss a brusque, “Are you coming in or not?”
The question throws George for a loop—not because he doesn’t understand what is suddenly being offered, but because he does understand and yet is so goddamn confused as to the why. He could pretend to be ignorant. Could mumble “oh, sure,” and take Lip the coffee before he excuses himself, forgetting that he ever saw the company commander with his arms wrapped around one of Toccoa’s best in an embrace that is downright affectionate. Of course, he could decline with a cry of outrage because he’s not a fucking fairy, alright? He could even report them—but he knows he would never do that to Lip. Or George could simply say nothing at all and take his leave.
But there’s something in the way that Lip is blushing in his direction, eyes and cheeks speaking volumes though his friend’s lips are so quiet. It has George mouthing off a retort, rather than leaving.
“Didn’t realize I was invited.”
The reply is obviously pointed at Lip, who tucks his chin against his own chest to hide the way the crimson coloring his face escalates, climbing up his nose and over his eyebrows, disappearing into his hairline. Lip licks his lips, takes a shaky breath, and begins to explain. “George, you must know, I’ve—”
Speirs, apparently, doesn’t have time for whatever Lip is about to say because he cuts the First Lieutenant off with a kiss. It’s a quick affair, a chaste peck of lips against skin dropped to Lip’s forehead. But once again, the familiarity of the gesture makes George’s stomach clench with a possessive anger.
This motherfucker barely knows Lip. He’s been with the company for less a month, for Christ’s sake!
If the CO senses George’s impending fury, he is utterly unbothered by it. Which only serves to further fan the flames of the radio tech’s indignation. With an impatient glance, Speirs quips, “Your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, Luz. Now, hurry up and close the goddamn door.”
If it had been anyone other than Lip in that room, George would have lost his shit. But the calming demeanor of the Company’s First Lieutenant—of George’s good friend, one of his best—gives George pause. “Lip?”
He watches Lip swallow, watches the nerves cascade over the other man’s skin, sheened with fever-sweat, watches Lip attempt to find the right words to convince George to yes, come inside please, I want this, I want this with you, with both of you, I know it’s not right and it’s not fair, but I do, and I’m sick, so very ill, and I need this, I need you both, I need, I want, please, George. The realization that Lip wants him is like an electric shock. George feels like he’s just connected two faulty radio wires and been zapped halfway to Heaven and back. “Holy shit, Lip.”
“I’m sorry—” Lip begins, but Speirs once more coaxes the man to relax, glaring at George over Lip’s head. “Don’t,” the captain warns, and it’s that which does it, which solidifies that George isn’t gonna leave that fucking room. No way, over his dead body. Because Ronald Speirs is out of his goddamn mind if he thinks he knows Carwood Lipton better than George Luz.
With a growl in his voice, George steps into the room with a word of warning. “Just so you know, I’m not much of a sharer.”
Speirs’s dark gaze is unwavering as it meets George’s. “Neither am I…but I suppose we’ll both have to make concessions. For First Lieutenant Lipton, of course.”
When Lip sucks in a sharp breath, George reaches back and closes the door.