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The ground beneath his feet, a nearly disgusting mixture of snow and mud and who knows what else, squelches as Carwood makes his way outside of the CP. Even despite the discomforting feeling of water seeping through the leather of his boots, he finds he’s in a particularly good mood, one that’s persistent enough to persevere despite the weather and circumstances.
He’d been given the all clear that the pneumonia is finally gone (or at least as gone as it can be, given the circumstances). It had taken all of his willpower not to skip out of the Aid Station.
There’s still a persistent chill in the air, the kind that sometimes stings your insides if you breathe too deeply, so he tucks his hands deeper into his pockets and buries his chin into his scarf to hide as much of his face as possible from the bite of it. The CP isn’t warm - there’s too many holes in the walls and broken windows for that - but compared to the temperature outside, it’s almost toasty.
In spite of this, Carwood thinks, he was raised right, and can’t bring himself to smoke indoors like the other officers (he’s still clinging to the hope that he’ll be able to kick the habit before the woman who raised him this way ever knows about it). So he braves the cold dusk alone, fingering the pack of Lucky Strikes in his pocket.
He traverses the overgrown garden, stepping through knotted branches and broken stones, until he finds a nice spot, secluded and protected from the worst of the elements by a broken boundary wall and some still-standing trees (a miracle in its own right, given the shellings and the winter wind). Even after the late-winter sun has sunk below the blown-out buildings to be replaced by the moon and casting Haguenau in shadows, he can imagine what this garden looked like when it was under the care of the house’s previous occupants. There’s the remnants of rose-bushes, a moss and dirt covered stone bench and an arch that’s covered in brambles which may have been flowers, once upon a time.
It was probably a grand sight in its hey-day. Now, not so much.
With a sigh from his healed lungs, he flicks open the packet of cigarettes and pulls one out, plugging it into his mouth. Luz had kindly thrown them his way earlier, once he caught word of the all clear, informing him that this was a new perk of the job. All the men waxed poetry about Lucky Strikes, about how much they craved the taste, but Carwood wasn’t familiar enough with cigarette brands to know what exactly it is that makes them so special (he doesn’t say this aloud, though, figuring it’ll just ruffle feathers).
With frozen fingers, he reaches into the left breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out the silver engraved lighter Speirs had gifted him. The metal is warm from the combination of his body heat and layers of cloth, but it still takes him a few tries to flick it on and light the cigarette. He hopes he’ll get better with practice, while at the same time, hoping he won’t.
Taking the first drag of the cigarette, he makes sure to try and focus on the taste of it, before exhaling a plume of smoke. He bats the cloud away from his face with his right hand, the left firmly in his pocket protected from the elements. He twists his wedding with his thumb, a familiar gesture he’s taken to when his hands aren’t occupied (he’s not sure if it started to keep his fingers warm, or due to something else).
He’s in the middle of inhaling another drag of the cigarette when he just barely picks up on the sound of footsteps in the mud. His body stiffens automatically, his ears perk, and his hand reaches for the pistol at his hip, ready for any potential threat even if his mind reassures him that there isn’t one.
“Lieutenant Lipton, should you be out?” Speirs emerges from the shadows with a disapproving frown on his face. He ducks beneath an outstretched bough of a tree, prowling across the garden, coming closer and closer to Carwood. He’s illuminated solely by the light from a window inside which reflects off his eyes.
Like everyone else, he’s still bundled up, though the way he’s wearing his scarf leaves the line of his throat exposed and Carwood wonders if the winter wind is not biting on his skin.
He waits until the other man stands beside him, almost blocking him into the corner he’s in. “Just got the all clear, sir.” He announces around the cigarette. His voice is still rough, but there’s a renewed power behind it that he can’t help being relieved for.
Speirs sighs. “It’s Ron how many -” he sighs again, like he’s belaboured by Carwood’s adherence to rank, “are you certain you should be up and moving so soon?”
This feels like a repeat of many of the conversations they’ve had (the man has been dogged in his investment in his health), and while Speirs is an eloquent conversationalist who could make reading grocery lists interesting, Carwood can’t wait until they can finally put this specific topic to bed for good.
“Don’t worry, you know Doc wouldn’t let me go anywhere if he thought for a second I couldn’t handle it.” Even if Roe wasn’t committed to his job, no medic would let Carwood do anything if they weren’t certain he’d be fine for it, if for no other reason than to avoid Speirs’ disapproval. The man hasn’t been subtle in making his concern (is that what it is? is that too familiar? he wonders) for Carwood’s health known to the entire Company.
That all of Easy knows about it sits strangely in his stomach. He’s not sure how to handle the man’s attention privately, let alone with the knowledge that everyone else is aware that he is on the receiving end of it.
Speirs - Ron, he reminds himself - huffs through his nose derisively, his opinion on Roe’s assessment clear, and were it anyone else, Carwood would rise to the medic’s defence in an instant. He knows with a certainty that surprises even him, however, that the Captain means nothing by it, that it’s part of this back and forth they’ve been doing since he first got sick. So he forgoes calling it out in favour of wordlessly offering his cigarette.
There’s a glint of humour in Ron’s eyes as he takes it, and he’s reminded of a similar exchange between them not too long ago in another ruined house.
So much has changed since then already, but here they are: offering the other a smoke.
Ron relents. “Alright, I can see you’re determined to be up - even if I disagree. At least promise you won’t do anything too strenuous.” He tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms, the cigarette bouncing with the movement of his tongue. “And for Chrissake take a damn break every once in a while.”
He exhales smoke into the air around his words before handing the cigarette back.
Carwood takes in the exasperation on Ron’s face and ducks his head. For just a second, he can imagine the taste of schnapps and strudel instead of ash and nicotine. “I promise I will, si-Ron.”
Ron smiles, open-mouthed so that his canines are visible, at the use of his name, one that’s satisfied and sure and makes the crow’s feet around his eyes visible. He’s still unshaven, like most of them, and with his hair loose and shoulders relaxed he looks younger and softer than the Captain Ronald Speirs that’s spoken about in stories.
He wonders how many of the men have seen Ron like this, boyish and self-assured. He doesn’t think many of them have, and questions what that means for his position in Ron’s esteem. Satisfaction pools in his gut at the thought that it might be just him alone.
He takes another pull of the cigarette, hoping it will calm his sparking nerves - he’s probably verging too close to hubris with these thoughts. On the exhale, he realises that there’s no space at all, really, between them as the smoke curls around the other man’s body. They’re both sheltering from the cold wind in the junction of where the wall meets the house, and he could easily reach a finger out and touch the material of Ron’s jacket; he could reach out and touch Ron.
He hadn’t even noticed they were so close to one another - a failure on the part of his training, maybe.
“Can I ask why you’re out here, Ron?” He keeps his voice low as he speaks. The evening so far had been quiet, with only a few shots fired from both sides - testing and cautious, one side running away while the other digs in deeper. A winded way of saying he can’t think of any reason why the other man isn’t enjoying the (relative) comfort of their billet and is instead out here with him.
Ron plucks the cigarette from between his fingers and places it again in his own mouth (he tries not to look at how his lips mould around the paper and fails).
“Looking for you, Lieutenant.” He smiles again at Carwood, dispelling any burgeoning fears that there’s something serious that needs either of their attention. His nerves soothe just-so, to as relaxed as he’ll ever be on the frontline.
This, however, raises the question of why he’s looking for Carwood. “What can I do for you?”
Ron just shrugs. “It’s nothing urgent.” He hands the last remnants of the cigarette back. When it has burnt to ash, the cherry extinguished, Ron puts an arm on his shoulder, exerting just the bare minimum of pressure before falling away. “Come back inside. You’ve already tested fate once.”
He thinks about putting up a resistance, just for the sake of it, but the sensible voice in his head tells him that it’s too cold for that, so he follows the false order. They bump shoulders as they walk back towards the house, and Carwood reasons their close proximity to the need to shelter from the wind.
The backdoor creaks loudly to announce their return and a voice in the back of his head tells him to wipe his muddy boots (even though he thinks the bullet-holes and bombed out windows will probably upset the owner more). Inside the house is almost warm in comparison to the open air, and he nearly lets a sigh of relief escape his lips. The only thing stopping him being Speirs (because they no longer have privacy, so it’s Speirs, he reminds himself) with his ever watching eyes, who would no doubt take any sign of relief as a sign that he was right and it is too cold and too soon for Carwood to be outside for no good reason.
From further within, the sounds of the other officers drift down the dank hallway, adding to the warmth - boisterous voices, glasses clinking, laughter. They follow the noises until they are greeted with the sight of Nixon and Welsh, huddling over a game of cards, notes in the centre of the small table on offer as a prize, while Winters sits to the side on a torn leather seat, watching but not playing. There’s papers and lists, some scattered (near Nixon and Welsh) or piled neatly (beside Winters), indicative that the work they’d been doing when he’d left has since been abandoned.
The drawing room they occupy - he thinks that’s the right word for a space such as this - bears evidence of the home-owner’s tastes. Floral doilies are placed upon each wooden table, faded photographs in cracked frames hang on the walls, thick heavy curtains flank the windows, and a large open fireplace provides the greatest source of warmth - though right now its embers look to be on the more unimpressive side.
“You two decided to stop torturing yourselves?” Harry doesn’t look up from his cards, and his furrowed brow is a testament to his focus on the game. “S’too damn cold to be outside.”
Nixon swirls the amber liquid in the glass (no doubt whisky) he holds in his left hand. “Speirs, I’m not surprised, but I never took you for a masochist, Lipton.” He looks over to him, and there’s a look in his dark eyes that makes Carwood want to cringe, but he resists the urge - just barely. Then Nixon snorts, and turns back to his cards.
“I was taught never to smoke inside, sir, and I think I’ve disappointed my ma enough by smoking at all,” he jokes along, still not used to the fact that he’s part of this group of men.
Harry laughs. “Can’t fault you that. Though enough of this ‘sir’ bullshit - there’s no need to let his head get any bigger.” Nixon responds by playfully kicking the other’s leg, while Winters shakes his head, watching fondly.
The large silver clock on the mantelpiece (that Speirs has been eyeing and only remains because Nixon had put his foot down and insisted that they needed some way to tell the time that wasn’t just their watches), points towards nine o’clock. Winters looks up towards it and sighs.
“We should be all heading to bed. We’re moving out tomorrow.” He unfolds his legs, as though moving to get up, and Carwood thinks he hears Nixon mutter ‘spoil sport’. Winters rolling his eyes is the only indication that he heard it.
Carwood perks up. “We’re being pulled off the line, sir?” A wave of relief hits him. He tries to keep it tampered down - he’s been betrayed on too many times on this front, but he thinks of how tired everyone is, how desperate they are for rest, that he can’t help but be relieved.
“Thought Sparky went out to tell you that? Yeah, looks like we’re finally getting a break, Lip.” Harry raises his glass in a mock toast.
Carwood turns to Speirs and raises a questioning brow. The other man rolls his eyes in response. “I was just about to mention it once I got you out of the damned cold.”
“So you’d better start making plans for Hell to break loose, Lip,” Nixon jokes, “Mourmelon and Paris await.”
He shakes his head, “I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you, even if I tried.”
“I’d recommend not trying.” Winters interjects, resulting in a perfectly timed eye roll from Nixon - like this was part of a familiar routine.
They say their goodnights not long after, Carwood refusing an offer to drink and be dealt a hand and Speirs, to his surprise (or maybe not so much), doing the same.
He steps back out into the hallway, the other on his heels. “You know, you don’t need to worry so much about my health that you forget to tell me things.” He sighs, then he freezes, wondering if accusing Speirs of caring so much that he worries is crossing a line.
The other man focuses on a point over his shoulder, biting his bottom lip so it disappears into his mouth, before meeting Carwood’s gaze (that he could make Speirs of all people hesitate in staring makes that feeling from earlier rear its head). “I was going to say it, does it matter if I had a smoke first?” He gestures forward. “Besides, I figured if I told you, you’d run off to make sure everyone else was prepared before looking after yourself.”
He places one of his hands, calloused in the shape of an M1, on his shoulder, and guides him (though he doesn’t need to exert much force, Carwood goes willingly) deeper into the house. Carwood makes a noise of question when he’s pushed past the stairway leading up to their shared room, but Speirs ignores him, guiding until they’re in the old, large kitchen.
They’re alone here. The voices of the other officers are muffled through the walls and unlike the living room, there’s no fire, however measly, lit, leaving the kitchen damp and dark. There’s an old oil lamp set into the wall that they’ve been using, and Carwood lights it so that they’re bathed in a soft (too soft) orange glow.
It’s not much, but at least they can see.
He watches silently as Speirs surveys the room, no doubt looking for something, anything, of worth that he’s somehow missed to this point. He thinks of the lighter in his pocket once again - as far as Carwood knows, no one else in the Company has been gifted anything from the man.
Carwood is reminded, then, of the growing collection in their room, piled on top of the mahogany vanity that once, perhaps, displayed make-up and other beauty products. Speirs’ collection of pilfered things: silver frames, cutlery, even the odd necklace, are neatly stacked, waiting for the man to get the opportunity to drop them down to Vest and send them wherever it is he sends all he collects to.
Curiosity burns within him over the identity of their recipient. He’s heard that the other man is married, but only through the proverbial grapevine, and Speirs hasn’t done or said anything to indicate if there’s any truth to it - though, he now realises, they haven’t had time for many in depth conversations about one another’s lives. Between Carwood getting sick and day-to-day tasks, it feels like they’ve skipped several stages in their friendship (he thinks it’s safe to call it that, at least) and ended up where they are now by happenstance.
If he were a betting man, however, he’d put money on there not being anything left in these drawers and shelves. Which raises the question of why they’re here and not in the (still relative) comfort of their room.
“Not in the mood for sleep, sir?”
Speirs’ eyes roll so far back in his head it’s a miracle they don’t get lost, and it takes considerable effort to conceal the smile that pushes at his lips. “‘Sir’, Jesus Lieutenant, do I need to make using my name an order?”
Carwood shrugs. “It’d probably help if you stopped calling me Lieutenant, you know. You can just call me Carwood.”
“Carwood.” He tests the word in his mouth. “We don’t need to sleep just yet, do we Carwood?” He crosses the room and sits against the wooden table in its centre, arms stretched out to balance him. He tilts his head to the side and gives him a smile that’s just this side of soft.
It goes straight to his gut in a way that has him twisting his wedding ring all over again. Ron’s eyes track the movement. “You’re married, right? I only ask because I realise we’ve never really had a chance to…”
“Get to know one another?” Ron nods, unaware of his ability to read Carwood’s mind. “And yes, yes I am. We got married back while I was in bootcamp but we were together before the war.” It wasn’t a desperate, last act, he wants to say.
Ron nods, tilting his head to the other side, the action making his curls sway. “So that’s why you don’t go into Paris with the other men? ‘Raising Hell’.” He grins, once again showing off his crow’s feet. “You’ll be spending your time with me. then.”
Carwood clears his throat, the ring on his finger suddenly feeling as cold as ice. “I suppose I will be. Though, don't you want to go to Paris or maybe back to London?”
Ron shrugs, his lips down-turning in an exaggerated manner. “Probably not, there’ll be training to do and I doubt any of the men will relax if they see me out with them.”
“You deserve to relax too,” he says, and he almost laughs at himself for sounding every bit the stereotype some of the others have made of him.
Ron’s grin changes into something almost wolfish. “There’s other ways to relax, Carwood.” His thighs just barely part, and Carwood curses himself for even noticing - because he knows that Ron knows that he noticed.
He clears his throat once, then twice, focusing his gaze on the cracked glass of the crockery drawer over Ron’s shoulder. “They might show some new movies,” he tries, and it sounds lame even to his own ears.
Ron snorts. “I’ll take you to the movies then, is that what you want? And for Chrissake stop standing around, take a seat,” he kicks out one of the wooden chairs pushed up to the table next to him, “you’re making me anxious.”
Carwood follows the order, pulling out the chair closest to where Ron leans against the table. “It’s strange,” he starts, speaking to make sure they don’t fall into silence, “knowing we’re going to be pulled off the line - finally.”
He’s half expecting for the rug to be pulled out from beneath them again, and he’s sure Ron is too. The idea of getting a rest, and being hale and healthy enough to appreciate it, sounds so heavenly right now - he’s only afraid that hoping for it will lead to disappointment.
“We probably won’t be resting long - the war may be ‘winding down’ but it still has to be fought.” For once, Carwood finds himself exasperated by the other’s characteristic bluntness, and it must be obvious on his face because Ron continues. “But for now, why don’t we have the last of the schnapps - to celebrate?”
“Is there any left?” He has plenty of memories of consuming schnapps (some clearer than others) over the last few weeks, and it’s hard to imagine there being a drop left unspilled.
Ron scratches beneath his scarf on his neck. “I hope so, or else we’re taking a bottle from Nixon.” Then, he pushes himself off the table and starts rummaging through the drawers -an advantage, amongst many, of being in a billet shared only by the officers is that they don’t have to worry about the other men taking their things (he doesn’t think any man here is brave enough to steal from Ron either way).
He quickly finds a bottle, half-full if the sound of liquid sloshing inside indicates anything, and returns to his perch, one hand gripped around the neck of it.
Suddenly, right as his other hand wraps around the cork, Ron’s eyes narrow, and he looks over to Carwood. “And you’re sure you’re ok?” He leans forward, looming over him, as though searching for any sign that Carwood’s lying about his health.
It strikes him, in that moment, how peculiar this all is - that he's verging on being exasperated by Ronald Speirs, of all people, taking care of him. This man, who he’s defended from spurious looks and hushed whispers, has spent the past few weeks caring for him so thoroughly that he’s somehow (miraculously if the doctors are to be believed) beat pneumonia without ever leaving the frontline.
It might be hubristic to think it, but he thinks he’s sure no one else has seen this side of the man.
“I’m certain, Ron.” He holds his gaze to try and emphasise his point.
The other man holds up a hand, as though in surrender (he’s definitely sure that no one else has seen that), and takes a swig from the bottle, not breaking eye contact.
Once again, heat curls within the base of his gut, and he adjusts his seat, hoping to find something, anything, in the room to take his mind off the track it’s going down. The bob of the other man’s throat as he swallows makes that impossible.
Ron passes the bottle to him.
He grips it around the neck and brings it to his lips. The taste is all too familiar, but Carwood still needs to screw his face when the first drops travel down his throat.
“Do you miss her?”
Carwood blinks. It takes too long for him to realise who the ‘her’ in question is. He ponders the question (probably another bad sign). It’s been so long since he’s seen his wife, since before they left for England, that the image of her in his mind is starting to blur, and when he reads the letters she sends (in response to his censored and half-true letters), he struggles to remember how exactly she would say the words, what sounds she would emphasise. The loss, however, hasn’t weighed heavily on him - perhaps because he simply hasn’t had the time to think it over longer than a moment.
Something, maybe guilt, sits heavily in his stomach.
“I think so,” he says, though he instantly feels uncomfortable by the raise of Ron’s brow. “I don’t think I’ve let myself think about her.”
Ron hums. “Nothing wrong with focusing on the war.”
He’s not wrong - there’s so much happening, so much that can go wrong (Bastogne was a testament to that) that worrying about home will do nothing but make things harder. It doesn’t make him feel any better though.
Maybe it’s the lingering pneumonia, maybe it’s the war, or maybe it’s whatever it is that’s been going on between them, but in this moment, Carwood feels exhausted.
“Why did you take such good care of me?” The question slips through his lips before he can think it through.
Ron leans back, standing upright (calling attention to how close to each other they’d grown).
Suddenly, despite the thoughtlessness of the question, Carwood finds that he’s desperate for an answer, because he’s defended this man, has made peace with the violence. His only requirement was, and still is, that Ron Speirs does not turn that violence towards the men of Easy.
Yet, he went above and beyond that when it came to Carwood.
He carried Carwood, sometimes taking on all of his weight, when he was too ill to even stand, berated him into taking better care of himself, found schnapps and strudel in the middle of destroyed cities because an old couple had insisted that it would make him feel better. The same hands that cause so much violence, that are permanently scarred in the shape of a gun, were the same that checked his forehead, tucked the accumulated blankets tighter to his body, and even held water to his lips to make sure not a drop was spilled. These weren’t the actions that belonged to the man that was the subject of so many horror stories. Hell, even the best CO in the world probably wouldn’t do for Carwood what Ron had done.
Which leaves him wondering why he did do all of it.
Ron’s eyes widen, and maybe it would be comical if this didn’t feel so strange and important. “Am I not allowed to take care of my men?” He asks and Carwood feels something uncurl in his stomach in response.
“Of course, you know-” you know that’s what I want from you, he almost says.
It doesn’t matter that the words don’t come out, Ron hears them all the same. Balancing on the table, he closes the distance between them again, leaning forward. “And you know I will always take care of them.”
“I know.”
Ron lifts his right hand and cups Carwood’s face. His palm is cold and rough against his skin, but the act is so tender, so unusual for either of them, that he feels warm all the same.
Neither of them say anything, both as silent as the grave. The bottle of schnapps is forgotten in his limp grip. Ron’s eyes rove his face, as though he’s looking for something - searching.
“Please.”
Carwood knows, somehow, with a certainty he’s not sure when he earned, that if he said no, the other would lean away, and nothing would change. Neither of them would mention it to each other, and certainly not to anyone else. A voice in his head tells him he should take this option - he has a wife waiting, dutifully, for him, and this is not only extremely dangerous in the here-and-now, but a betrayal of the vows he swore to her. The vows he (at the time) wanted to swear to her.
He nods.
Ron lunges forward. His lips are dry and cracked from the cold weather, but they’re still the sweetest he’s kissed, especially when they start moving with his own.
The hand cupping his face is joined by the other as Ron kisses and kisses him, closing the distance between their bodies until the wooden chair is groaning under their combined weight. Carwood moves his own hands; one grabbing Ron’s waist, feeling the heat of his body through the too-thin material of their clothes, the other running through the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck. Stubble burns against stubble and the sensations are so new and so wonderful that he wonders if he could become dependent on Ron’s mouth and body the way he has cigarettes.
They do have to, eventually, pull apart for breath, but neither moves away, still breathing into one another’s open mouths. From this close, he can see that Ron’s pupils are blown wide and he feels a thrill of satisfaction at knowing that he’s responsible for it.
Ron balances himself, his right hand resting on Carwood’s left shoulder. “Does that answer the question?”
The original question has slipped his mind, he’s too caught up in the other man’s blown out pupils, his red, wet lips, and his mussed hair. Carwood inhales, the smell of cigarettes and schnapps overwhelming his senses. “I think so.”
Carwood swallows, almost audibly. Somewhere in the house (his heart is beating too loudly for him to pinpoint where exactly), he hears the other officers shuffle about, voices muffled through the walls. It’s a startling reminder that he’s not at home, safe, where he can do as he pleases, but is instead still in the war - in a house filled with others.
Ron stands upright, body stiff and almost at attention, like a dog that’s picked up a faraway sound. “We should go to our room.” It’s almost an order (Ron still has yet to cross that line with him), and Carwood obliges.
He does indulge himself by grabbing Ron’s waist as he stands, ostensibly to balance himself, but if he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of his solid body beneath his hands, there’s no one here to judge him.
The upward quirk of Ron’s lips tells him that he doesn’t mind, at the very least.
Ron leads him towards their room, taking on that familiar, almost mechanical pace (yet still somehow not making a sound when he moves up the old wooden stairs).
Their room is the same as how they left it, the double-bed Carwood had been reluctantly sleeping is neatly made and pressed against the wall, while the bedroll Ron had been using, despite Carwood’s objections, lay on the ground next to it. There’s little light seeping in through the large window opposite the door - the night too dark and cloudy for it, and the lingering remnants of light discipline mean that it won’t get much brighter.
Still, it somehow feels different to how it was before. Maybe it’s because, in these past few hours, something has radically shifted within Carwood, leaving him on unfamiliar ground. Or maybe it’s because he knows this (might) be his last night here.
Ron turns on his heel, hands moving to pull the scarf from his neck, revealing the pale flesh beneath. He throws the garment over the end of the bedboard, before moving to take off his jacket. All the while, Carwood watches, unsure and dumbfounded. He so desperately wants to reach out and touch the other man, to feel his body beneath his hands with fewer layers separating them.
It must show on his face.
“Christ, Carwood, you don’t need to wait until the war’s over.” He has that strange, boyish and excited grin on his face that only grows wider when Carwood takes a step closer. His face is so open, so eager that, for a moment, he almost struggles to merge this Speirs with the one who ran across Foy, who kills prisoners and drunken soldiers (but never Carwood’s).
It’s only his eyes that keep the connection secure in his mind. They look at him with the same intensity that Ron approaches anything, as if the energy needed to hold Carwood is the same required to shoot and kill. That same steadfast fervour that identifies him as Speirs. Whether it’s Captain or Ron before the word, it’s the same man - Carwood just happens to be the only person in Europe (perhaps the world) who gets to see them both.
A shiver crawls its way up from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.
“The war could end tomorrow.” He knows it’s not true, knows that Ron knows it’s not true, but it feels like an important point to raise.
Whatever they’re doing, whatever it is that they’re following each other into, the war could still end without their knowing - without their permission.
And where will that leave them?
Ron’s dog-tags catch in the light.
“It could. It won’t, but it could. So, if we only have until the war’s over, then all we have is tonight.”
That seems too short - unfairly so. Even if the war were to last for another hundred years, Carwood feels as though that wouldn’t be enough time for him to explore this. He finds himself standing at a crossroad, one that’s been on his map for a long time now (since the field outside Foy, since that sigh of relief that they were moving forward even if it was towards guns), but he’s only just finally reached it.
“We’ve longer than tonight,” he says with a surety he suddenly believes.
Questions of what they are doing, and what this means for him, roll around inside his skull until he realises he’ll find no answers there. So, he looks across at the other man, who shoots him a lop-sided smile, and is resolved to stick beside him, to return the favour Ron has offered him these past weeks, for as long as possible.
Something in his brain slots into place and everything that’s transpired between the two of them starts making sense.
With confident steps, he closes the last of the gap between them.