Chapter Text
The forest groaned under the weight of ice and silence.
There was no real front line in Bastogne, just an endless blur of trees, smoke, and men trying not to die. The sky stayed white, cruel and mute. Winters didn’t know how many days they’d been here—only that he hadn’t taken his boots off in any of them. His toes were going numb. He told himself it was the cold, not the fear.
"Jesus Christ," Nixon muttered beside him, breath misting the air. He was huddled under his greatcoat, the flask in his hand nearly empty again. "You ever think this place is what hell froze over into?"
Winters didn’t answer. He just kept scanning the tree line.
“You could try talking once in a while, Dick,” Nixon said, shifting closer, enough that their shoulders brushed under the camouflage netting. “We’re not statues.”
“I talk,” Winters said quietly. “When there’s something to say.”
That got a snort. “I guess the war’s not interesting enough for you.”
Winters turned to look at him then. There were dark hollows under Nixon’s eyes—he hadn’t slept more than an hour in days. The bottle was a constant, and so was the way he curled in on himself like he expected to be shot at any second.
“You should get some rest,” Winters said. It wasn’t an order, but it nearly was.
“I can’t,” Nixon said, voice clipped. “I close my eyes and I hear artillery. Then I open them and I still hear artillery. Fucking incredible.”
The silence returned, pressing in around them like the snow. And then Nixon said, very quietly:
“You ever think about what you’ll do if we make it out of this?”
Winters didn’t answer.
Nixon let the quiet stretch for a while before he sighed. “Of course you don’t. You’re probably already planning the next battle.”
Winters looked down at his gloved hands. Flexed them once. “I think about getting everyone home.”
“Yeah,” Nixon said, voice almost a whisper. “But what about you?”
The firelight from a distant foxhole caught his face for just a second. That’s when Winters saw it: not just the tiredness, not just the fear, but something else—something raw. Something directed right at him.
He didn’t move. Just watched. Felt the weight of Nixon’s gaze.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Nixon said. “But I’m fucking terrified of what comes after.”
Winters’ throat tightened. His voice, when it came, was low. “We get through this.”
“Sure,” Nixon said. “But then what, Dick? We go home? Pretend we didn’t survive hell together? Pretend we don’t—”
He stopped himself. The air between them vibrated, a wire pulled too tight.
The flask dropped softly onto the snow. Nixon reached for him—not suddenly, but with a strange, steady purpose. His gloved fingers touched the collar of Winters’ jacket.
And Winters let him.
The touch didn’t last long. Just long enough to mean everything.
Winters didn’t flinch.
He should have. He was an officer. Nixon was drunk. The line between them—rank, regulation, reason—was a thick one. But out here, under frozen branches and fireless skies, none of that seemed to matter. Just the pulse in his neck and the way Lewis Nixon’s fingers had stayed there a second too long.
“Lew,” Winters said, so quietly it barely escaped.
Nixon’s eyes found his in the dark. They didn’t blink. “I know. Don’t worry. You’ll say it didn’t happen tomorrow.”
He pulled away, just an inch, just enough for Winters to breathe again.
“I’m not drunk enough to make that a mistake,” Nixon added, voice rough with cold and truth.
Winters stared at him—really looked. The snow clung to Nixon’s lashes. His jaw was clenched tight. He looked like a man ready to shatter and laugh while doing it. But in his eyes, there was something steadier. Older. Something that had been waiting too long.
“You should sleep,” Winters said, again, softer this time. A lie of safety.
Nixon smirked, but didn’t argue. He curled into the side of the foxhole, knees pulled up, flask abandoned. His head tipped back against the dirt wall, but before he closed his eyes, he murmured:
“You’re not gonna let me forget it, are you?”
Winters didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t know—but because he did.
He sat back, rifle across his lap, heart hammering in his chest while the snow fell silent around them.
And for the first time in days, he stopped feeling cold.
You got it, just a lil more, but we’re going deep—because what’s one more brush with danger between two men standing on the edge of everything?
The night didn’t stay quiet.
At around 03:00, mortars cracked through the forest. The world lit up in red and ash. Men scrambled—yells from nearby foxholes, dirt raining down in violent bursts.
Winters was on his feet before he could think, dragging Nixon up by the collar. “Move!”
They threw themselves flat as another shell hit just past the tree line. Earth buckled. Something hot and metallic screamed overhead.
Nixon was breathing too fast. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Winters grabbed his arm, gripped it hard, forcing eye contact.
“Hey!” Winters barked. “Focus. Look at me.”
And Nixon did. He looked like he was going to vomit or cry or both. His voice cracked when he said, “I can’t do this again. I can’t—”
“You already are,” Winters snapped. “You’re alive. Stay with me.”
Something in Nixon’s chest heaved—some awful, choking sound that never fully escaped. He leaned in too close, face inches from Winters’, eyes wide and wet.
And then it happened.
Not a kiss. Not yet. But a press of foreheads—desperate, grounding.
“Jesus,” Nixon whispered. “If we die out here—”
“We won’t,” Winters said, and meant it like a vow. His hand slid to the back of Nixon’s neck, holding him there. Not for comfort. For control.
Nixon didn’t pull away.
He just closed his eyes and breathed like it was the only thing keeping him human.