Soldier's Things - Union
Jul. 15th, 2012 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dirigoHis marriage to Katharine had been beautiful. Even Nix, fairly toasted on the whiskey he'd been sipping all afternoon, had to admit that. She was a beautiful girl, and the church his parents had picked out had beautiful stained glass that cast beautiful dark blues, reds and golds across her face as she stood in her veil, listening to the pastor speak. Nix had been struggling to keep his vision focused, but he couldn't look away from her face. There was such a sweet curve to her lip, and her laughter always reached her eyes.
He hadn't deserved her.
He and Dick had spent the day at the plant, going through paperwork and trying to pretend either of them had any idea what they were doing. That had been reassuring - Nix had sort of figured they would both start in their respective positions with Nix bumbling his way through while Dick immediately took to the role of personnel manager. He was a born leader, after all, and they were both adept with beaurocracy. The trouble was, neither of them seemed to understand why any of this shit ("nonsense" if Dick were speaking) mattered. Plastics and fertilizer and everything a younger Lewis Nixon had dreaded as a college student. He didn't care. He couldn't care, and he found he slept better knowing that Dick Winters didn't really care either. He was dedicated, and his sense of responsibility kept Nix showing up day after day, but Nix could feel the hollowness of their work like the metallic clang of a boxcar door slamming shut.
But at the end of the day - with the late fall sun still high in the sky by the time they had trudged back up the hill to the house - that hollowness had already faded. Dick laughed easier day by day, and while Nix tracked the dark circles that seemed permenant under the man's eyes, he found himself easing into routine in a way he never had before. It was all right to wake up, drink his coffee, grab the lunch that had been made for him and trudge back down to the factories, so long as he wasn't trudging alone.
They sat on the back porch once they made it home at the end of the day, Dick sipping iced tea and Nix sipping whiskey, neither inclined to speak beyond the occasional suggestion of where they could go next. Anywhere but here, Nix felt in his bones. Everywhere, Dick seemed to feel in his. They'd seen the world, but Nix knew Dick didn't think it counted. They'd seen it through blood and grief and Dick wanted to see it through a clearer lens.
The one thing they hadn't talked about yet, unable to find space between world travel, waking war dreams and Nix running from his father, while Dick ran after Nix, was the divorce. Dick hadn't met Daniel yet, something Nix couldn't help dwelling on at one in the morning, with his temples throbbing and his veins screaming for a drink. It felt important. Dick needed to meet his son. In a strange way, he wanted Dick to meet Katharine. Look at this, he wanted to say, look at this good thing I had for a while, look at this good thing I helped make. Look at my son, isn't he beautiful?
He didn't deserve him.
The day he finally got the nerve to call Katharine's house, he'd been drinking since ten in the morning. A sunday, a day of rest. Dick was out in the garden, helping Lewis' mother with the garden - hauling out lawn clippings and bringing in soil. Nix had been watching from the window, glass in hand, watching the sun on Dick's hair, watching the sweat slowly stick his shirt to his back, watch the way he handled his mother so carefully. There were callouses on his hands, Nix knew from experience, but he didn't tear the roots of the plants he was asked to move. He gently worked them out of the soil, easing them free with long, pale fingers.
Eventually Nix had to step away, couldn't bear to watch this man any longer, not while whiskey hummed too warm through his veins. It was enough to get him to the phone, and even if he held the reciever in his hand for a good ten minutes before actually dialing the operator, he did dial the operator, did connect with Katharine's house - her parent's house, where she was staying - and he didn't even hang up when it was her father who answered. He asked for her and was denied. He'd been expecting that, and was mostly just grateful the man hadn't hung up on him completely.
His glass had been abandoned on a side table in the living room, but the flask sat - heavy and smooth - in his back pocket, the weight of it as reassuring as it had ever been as he attempted to get more than monosyllabic answers out of Katharine's father. He found himself reaching back to the flask more than once before pulling his hand back. Then again. Then again. He patted it once, listening to the man on the other end of the line speak in muffled tones to someone behind him.
"You can see Daniel."
Nix's hand came away from the flask for the last time and he braced it against the wall instead, watching as his fingers curled against the smooth, floral wallpaper. He could see Daniel. He'd been preparing himself for a number of things in the days and hours leading up to this telephone conversation, but the actual chance to see his son had not been one of them. The last time he and Katharine had actually spoken - without her parents acting as intermediary - had been before the war. And it had been a fight. His mind began to spin with all the things that could have possibly changed in her thinking to allow this (pity? Guilt? Forgiveness? Had Daniel given any hints as to missing his father? Daniel barely knew his father), but then Katharine's father was speaking again.
Katharine and her mother would meet him in the town that stood between them, in a large park, and he could see his son - for an hour. While these stipulations were laid out, Nix just shut his eyes and nodded, as though the other man could see him do so. He was in the middle of thanking him when her father hung up, leaving Nix with a lifeless telephone. He touched the flask again, hung up, pulled the flask out, looked at it, put it back, paused, took it out again...
"Who was that?"
Dick's voice brought him out of the struggle, and the flask slid back into his pocket silently. He turned in time to see his friend wiping dirt off his face with a handkerchief. Dick smiled at him and for a split second, Lewis was certain he would throw up.
"Lew?"
"Uh, Katharine's father. I tried the house, today. Did my best to actually talk to her, but of course-" he shrugged as though it didn't keep him up at night, thinking of all the ways he had broken her heart. "They're letting me visit with Daniel this Sunday. In Metuchen, though, they aren't bringing him here."
Katharine's family had never liked his family. He knew it was mostly because they didn't want to see Stanhope Nixon. But surely they didn't much trust Lewis Nixon much either. "If you wanted," he continued, pausing to cough, touch the flask, cross his arms over his chest, "um, if you wanted, you could come with me."
Dick watched him in the pause that followed, those blue eyes focused sharply and his expression expectant. Nix shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fought to keep the gaze, as though this were some sort of contest instead of just Dick's way of getting his best friend to say what he really wanted to say.
"I'd like it," Lew said, giving in, "if you met him. I'd like it a lot."
The next smile made Nix as nauseous as the first one had, and he wondered if he looked pale, because Dick stepped up to grab his shoulder, give him a small, loving shake. It was the kind of rough affection he'd always craved from his dad, and had never gotten. Stanhope had barely looked at his son, much less touched him. The smile on Dick's face gained a concerned edge, the pleased glow fading into a slightly creased brow, and he gave Nix another gentle shake, stepping in even closer, until Nix could see the soft, fine, pale gold hair that faded down his jaw from his sideburns.
"I'd like it too," he murmured, making Nix close his eyes in the same way a child does in the hopes he might disappear. "I'd like it too, Nix," Dick repeated, voice reaching him anyway, "I'd like it a lot."
He hadn't deserved her.
He and Dick had spent the day at the plant, going through paperwork and trying to pretend either of them had any idea what they were doing. That had been reassuring - Nix had sort of figured they would both start in their respective positions with Nix bumbling his way through while Dick immediately took to the role of personnel manager. He was a born leader, after all, and they were both adept with beaurocracy. The trouble was, neither of them seemed to understand why any of this shit ("nonsense" if Dick were speaking) mattered. Plastics and fertilizer and everything a younger Lewis Nixon had dreaded as a college student. He didn't care. He couldn't care, and he found he slept better knowing that Dick Winters didn't really care either. He was dedicated, and his sense of responsibility kept Nix showing up day after day, but Nix could feel the hollowness of their work like the metallic clang of a boxcar door slamming shut.
But at the end of the day - with the late fall sun still high in the sky by the time they had trudged back up the hill to the house - that hollowness had already faded. Dick laughed easier day by day, and while Nix tracked the dark circles that seemed permenant under the man's eyes, he found himself easing into routine in a way he never had before. It was all right to wake up, drink his coffee, grab the lunch that had been made for him and trudge back down to the factories, so long as he wasn't trudging alone.
They sat on the back porch once they made it home at the end of the day, Dick sipping iced tea and Nix sipping whiskey, neither inclined to speak beyond the occasional suggestion of where they could go next. Anywhere but here, Nix felt in his bones. Everywhere, Dick seemed to feel in his. They'd seen the world, but Nix knew Dick didn't think it counted. They'd seen it through blood and grief and Dick wanted to see it through a clearer lens.
The one thing they hadn't talked about yet, unable to find space between world travel, waking war dreams and Nix running from his father, while Dick ran after Nix, was the divorce. Dick hadn't met Daniel yet, something Nix couldn't help dwelling on at one in the morning, with his temples throbbing and his veins screaming for a drink. It felt important. Dick needed to meet his son. In a strange way, he wanted Dick to meet Katharine. Look at this, he wanted to say, look at this good thing I had for a while, look at this good thing I helped make. Look at my son, isn't he beautiful?
He didn't deserve him.
The day he finally got the nerve to call Katharine's house, he'd been drinking since ten in the morning. A sunday, a day of rest. Dick was out in the garden, helping Lewis' mother with the garden - hauling out lawn clippings and bringing in soil. Nix had been watching from the window, glass in hand, watching the sun on Dick's hair, watching the sweat slowly stick his shirt to his back, watch the way he handled his mother so carefully. There were callouses on his hands, Nix knew from experience, but he didn't tear the roots of the plants he was asked to move. He gently worked them out of the soil, easing them free with long, pale fingers.
Eventually Nix had to step away, couldn't bear to watch this man any longer, not while whiskey hummed too warm through his veins. It was enough to get him to the phone, and even if he held the reciever in his hand for a good ten minutes before actually dialing the operator, he did dial the operator, did connect with Katharine's house - her parent's house, where she was staying - and he didn't even hang up when it was her father who answered. He asked for her and was denied. He'd been expecting that, and was mostly just grateful the man hadn't hung up on him completely.
His glass had been abandoned on a side table in the living room, but the flask sat - heavy and smooth - in his back pocket, the weight of it as reassuring as it had ever been as he attempted to get more than monosyllabic answers out of Katharine's father. He found himself reaching back to the flask more than once before pulling his hand back. Then again. Then again. He patted it once, listening to the man on the other end of the line speak in muffled tones to someone behind him.
"You can see Daniel."
Nix's hand came away from the flask for the last time and he braced it against the wall instead, watching as his fingers curled against the smooth, floral wallpaper. He could see Daniel. He'd been preparing himself for a number of things in the days and hours leading up to this telephone conversation, but the actual chance to see his son had not been one of them. The last time he and Katharine had actually spoken - without her parents acting as intermediary - had been before the war. And it had been a fight. His mind began to spin with all the things that could have possibly changed in her thinking to allow this (pity? Guilt? Forgiveness? Had Daniel given any hints as to missing his father? Daniel barely knew his father), but then Katharine's father was speaking again.
Katharine and her mother would meet him in the town that stood between them, in a large park, and he could see his son - for an hour. While these stipulations were laid out, Nix just shut his eyes and nodded, as though the other man could see him do so. He was in the middle of thanking him when her father hung up, leaving Nix with a lifeless telephone. He touched the flask again, hung up, pulled the flask out, looked at it, put it back, paused, took it out again...
"Who was that?"
Dick's voice brought him out of the struggle, and the flask slid back into his pocket silently. He turned in time to see his friend wiping dirt off his face with a handkerchief. Dick smiled at him and for a split second, Lewis was certain he would throw up.
"Lew?"
"Uh, Katharine's father. I tried the house, today. Did my best to actually talk to her, but of course-" he shrugged as though it didn't keep him up at night, thinking of all the ways he had broken her heart. "They're letting me visit with Daniel this Sunday. In Metuchen, though, they aren't bringing him here."
Katharine's family had never liked his family. He knew it was mostly because they didn't want to see Stanhope Nixon. But surely they didn't much trust Lewis Nixon much either. "If you wanted," he continued, pausing to cough, touch the flask, cross his arms over his chest, "um, if you wanted, you could come with me."
Dick watched him in the pause that followed, those blue eyes focused sharply and his expression expectant. Nix shifted his weight from one foot to the other and fought to keep the gaze, as though this were some sort of contest instead of just Dick's way of getting his best friend to say what he really wanted to say.
"I'd like it," Lew said, giving in, "if you met him. I'd like it a lot."
The next smile made Nix as nauseous as the first one had, and he wondered if he looked pale, because Dick stepped up to grab his shoulder, give him a small, loving shake. It was the kind of rough affection he'd always craved from his dad, and had never gotten. Stanhope had barely looked at his son, much less touched him. The smile on Dick's face gained a concerned edge, the pleased glow fading into a slightly creased brow, and he gave Nix another gentle shake, stepping in even closer, until Nix could see the soft, fine, pale gold hair that faded down his jaw from his sideburns.
"I'd like it too," he murmured, making Nix close his eyes in the same way a child does in the hopes he might disappear. "I'd like it too, Nix," Dick repeated, voice reaching him anyway, "I'd like it a lot."
