Fic: In The Cards; Band of Brothers; Nixon/Speirs

[nakeno]

Title: In the Cards
Author: Nakeno
Pairing: Nixon/Speirs, implications of Nixon/Winters
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing and this certainly isn't meant to disrespect anyone.
Summary: Blunt and forthcoming: “Think I'm too drunk to get it up.” A beat. “Sir.”
A/N: There's nothing redeeming about this; porn, porn, porn.



It was almost as if he'd seen their faces before they were laid out.

Laid out with a snap of wrist.

"Pair of ladies."

Matter-of-fact. Not smug. He'd forgotten, in his inebriated haze, snap-quick precise actions was how Speirs always moved.

"Sonofa..."

Speirs fumbles with the bottle on the table, the liquid sloshed. Okay. Almost always. Correction; when he isn't drunk. Lewis can't recall ever seeing Speirs drunk. Ever. And the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are etched in deep, visible now that he was smiling. He was smiling. Lew doesn't recall much of that, either. Save that humorless pull of the lips Speirs sometimes gave.

Nix spreads a hand across his pair of lousy sevens.

"That's it. You've cleaned me out."

"Shame. Though I doubt it."

That was Speirs. Didn't need to be drunk to be brutally honest.

Nixon squints at him. Those laugh lines were definitely still there, even though Speirs practically has his face in his cup. Not cup. Goblet. Where the hell did he find that? Nix didn't know anything about the stories that surrounded Speirs the way mosquitoes did sweaty young troops amid a Georgia summer. At least, not any of the stories that didn't come directly from Dick himself. Like the one about playing hop-scotch with German MG fire up along a trench and not in it like a normal, God-fearing soul... What he did know was Speirs was direct, stern, rarely raised his voice except in ceremony or combat, and had very, very light fingers for all things German, valuable, and 'lost.'

He also knew that Speirs was born in Scotland, but not raised there. And was very easy to look upon. Apparently, as well, also swayed a bit whilst being inebriated and lazy-eyed-- straight posture near intact.

"That's it. I'm calling it a--" He took a moment to narrow his watch into view, tapping it with a heavy index finger. "A very, very early morning."

"Okay." Speirs is staring into his trinket-cum-cup when Nix gets up from the table, a little unsteady but he's had mounds of practice at 'drunk walking' and the bed wasn't far. The clean, exquisitely comfortable, too-large-for-anyone's-own-good mattress stretching out like the sea of this particular room.

It's not until he's out of the top-half of his O.D.'s, leaving the white shirt on underneath, and collapsing that Speirs speaks up. He must have just noticed because...

"Wrong room. Wrong bed."

Lew deigns to lift his head, though he doesn't need to to actually see Ron. Who is facing him in his chair, bottle dangling between his knees, hand around the too-thick stem of his drink. It's silver and elegantly embroidered and embellished with even more silver. It winks at Nix a little painfully in the lamp light.

"Hm?"

"You're in my bed." Speirs ducks his head in Nix's direction.

Nix pats it lightly, smiling as he places his cheek to the comforter. "It's a nice one."

"It's mine."

"How are you ever gonna mail it back to the states, Ron?"

There's a musing sound in response. As if Speirs is actually considering the possibility.

"You've packaged up everything else you could get your grubby hands on, I think--"

"A happy side-effect of an unforeseen accident."

Lew blinks again, watches the still-seated Speirs swim into view. His hair is a bit skewed. Probably from the way Ron keeps reaching up with hemmed fingernails to itch at his scalp. As if he can't quite get used to either having a too-dirty scalp, or a too-clean one. He'd noticed it in Haguenau. Maybe the helmet brought on the itching...

"What accident?" Can't help himself. Considering he's comfortably buzzed, laid out on his stomach and there's bottles and bottles and bottles of the finest in wines, liquors, and champagnes in good and ready supply. Going to sleep knowing he's well-stocked leaves him happy.

He watches Speirs tilt his goblet toward himself and his face toward the cup without ever really lifting it from the table. There's a pause-- unusual for Ron-- before he mutters-- something not unusual for Ron, he's many times seen those lips moving and been unable to catch the words, "Living."

Living. An accident. Taking out the last gun at Brecourt Manor, haphazard and alone. Sprinting across No-Man's Land in Foy, like he'd merely been ordered to take Currahee double-time. There'd been quite a few incidents like that that Lew had heard of. Most people wrote it off to Speirs not knowing fear like others. Fearless, fierce. Exhausted. Wasn't that Ron didn't know fear; it was just that Speirs never really considered making it through the war. At all.

It's like dawn. Like a slap-down wave in the ocean. Epiphany. Speirs didn't have a death-wish, but he'd seemed to think that someone, somewhere in this whole bloody mess of a war was carrying a bullet for him. (Not that he hadn't caught one, just not a fatal one.) Suddenly, it seemed, that Speirs was a little lost by the fact that it hadn't found him.

"...Ron?"

Speirs looks up at him with those heavy-lidded eyes. Stares. Shadowed, but the crow's feet at their corners was visible proof that Ron, at least at some point, knew how to hold a smile. A proper one. Laughed, even.

Lew props himself up onto his side some and pats the edge of the bed. "C'mere..."

"Okay." In that way that Speirs always gave him the word; flat and even, never colored one way or the other. Nix hated the way Ron did that. Hated it. He pats harder rather than speaking. Head ducked, eyes closed, but he hears those paratrooper boots thumping over the carpet. Picking his head up only when he feels the bed dip and there's Speirs sitting at the edge of the side with the bottle but not the goblet in tow.

Like earlier today, when Speirs had been sitting at his feet on the stretch-chair when he'd been talking to Welsh. Where they'd all three been starting to tie one on. Save for Dick. Even after the V-E-Day present.

Tomorrow-- today-- they'd be shipping out in the morning. (It would end up being the afternoon.)

At the moment, here he was, drunk and a little dumbfounded with Speirs here and his “happy side-effect...”

Lew isn't laying properly in the bed. His socked feet are toward the pillow and his head toward the foot of the mattress, thus it's not hard to reach out and place a warm, steady hand on Ron's thigh.

Ron simply looks at it and takes another pull from the bottle.

Now Nixon himself takes quite snide to any individual telling him when he's had enough, but in this moment, Nix says the words he's had repeated to him by loved ones and strangers alike. He takes hold of the width of the champagne bottle, confiscates it.

“Think you've had about enough.”

Speirs considers his now empty hand, curling and uncurling his fingers before he drops it. Mumbling, “Coming from you that's...” But he doesn't finish his thought.

Which is good, because Lew would hate for the moment to be ruined. The moment he pushes into motion by squeezing the fatigue-covered thigh he has his hand on as he lifts himself into a part-way seated position.

Kissing Ronald Speirs is nothing like he'd thought it would be. His lips are full and soft, tinged with alcohol and nicotine, and part readily. Not the tight-lipped, hard sort of engagement he'd first considered when the idea arose to him.

Salty-sweet and opening right up for him.

He doesn't hesitate slicking his tongue inside. Catches the soft sound and the surge of wet-warm tongue moving to greet him. Simple and easy.

For as long as Speirs allows it, anyway-- mouths slipping apart as Ron's furrowed brow tilts against his and the other man huffs quietly. Mutters incoherently before pulling back to blink at Lew slowly, eyelids remaining half-mast.

“What are you doing?” Plain-voiced and honestly sounding curious.

Nix draws a thumb along the round of clean-shaven chin, lets the pads of his fingers rest at the hinge of the jaw.

“Let's just... call it the American invasion of Scottish territory. A happy side-effect of an accident.”

Speirs' eyebrows quirk upward. Along with a corner of his mouth like perhaps Nix is the most droll thing he's ever laid eyes on.

Blunt and forthcoming: “Think I'm too drunk to get it up.” A beat. “Sir.”

Nix's face splits into a grin-- not because that can't be entirely possible, but because Speirs seems to be taking to this idea with as much cool stride as he does anything else-- before he grips the back of Ron's neck and draws him that short distance in, kisses him hard and fast. The way he'd expected Speirs to kiss. Ron softens it with the barest flicker of tongue. Captain Speirs always did have a way of defying expectations.

“Guess we'll find out...”

“Recon?” Speirs' eyes are closed and Lew doesn't know why that simple fact is damn near more intoxicating than every bottle of liquor, wine, and champagne they have laying about.

“Something like that.”

He grips at fatigues and Speirs merely turns his body at a better angle, facing Nix. And it is probably one of the sexiest things when he sees those eyelids get heavier as Speirs is tilting his head on that long neck, swooping in for Nixon's parting mouth even as he's gripping at the cloth on a knee, a shoulder, trying to get himself upward more. Would desperately be trying to get up over him, on him, if Ron would give him half a chance.

Pushing, strong hands at his chest, he can feel a palm press the hard metal of his dogtags into his skin.

Ron is pushing him and for a second Nixon can't figure out quite why until he's shoved. Blinking at the kaleidescope of the ceiling for a blurry moment before he can lift his head and see Speirs on his knees and the button-up fatigue top being shed double-time.

Tucked in tank-top and dogtags winking beneath-- along with the added pleasure of bared, strong arms. The tone and ripple of muscle and Nixon has his bottom lip between his teeth because, for a scary second, he considers the possibility that the Yale boy has bitten off more than he can chew.

Then he decides, fuck it, chewing doesn't sound like that badly conceived of a plan.

Ron seems to catch some hint of hesitance with those animalistic senses of his because he's paused there, waiting. Watching. Silent and almost looking bored rather than expectant and Nixon has an uncomfortable feeling that Speirs could remain that way for the rest of the night unless he does something about it.

Which he does.

The movements are sequential and rapid-fire: press both hands to the bed, sit up, reach for him, and tumble back together.

Nixon's socked toes are sliding against the sides and laces of Army-issued jump boots, thighs parting, hips surging, hands scrambling over the bunch-release of powerful muscle and skin. Up under the back of that shirt, he hadn't even notice he'd untucked it until his head is tilted upward and Ron's teeth are just beneath his jaw.

His fingernails dig in and Speirs surges against him a bit. He likes that, then.

“Fuck.” Nixon. Hissing.

Ron merely grunts, as if in agreement. He doesn't know if it's to the general sentiment or the specific thought of actual fucking. Whichever it is, it sends a quick skittering thrill down Lew's spine.

Speirs presses for leverage, settling up over him on his knees, divesting him of his plain T-shirt. Nix tries to help.

Again, another pause from Ron and Lewis wets his lips anxiously, peering upward to find that Ron's focus isn't his own expression but the glitter of metal tags.

Speirs laces his fingers through these; the only sound is the clink of metal and the harsh rush of men breathing thick and intent. Ron's green eyes flicker upward and, again, he's rewarded with one of those lopsided quirks of the mouth before Speirs has ducked down to take a kiss.

Take is the perfect word and Nixon is reeling in the exquisite nature of it. The fireworks, the mortar and MG fire that's going off all along his nerve-endings. It's the most brilliant kind of artillery and Speirs is steadily pulling the trigger.

His hands are quick and strong-fingered, calloused at the tips and exploring without regard to ownership. Deft, adept, looting sort of hands.

Nixon gets that damn tanktop off him; wants to see. And, boy, is it glorious. Bared from the waist up save for chain and tags, fatigue bottoms and boots intact. Hard, fast planes and angles, all tone and that perfect bottom lip darkened and wet from kissing. From kissing him.

Speirs lets him fist that dark hair, lets him draw him down again, against him. Where Ron once looked sleepy he now appears intent, lines on his face sketching out his determination.

Nix paws up his thighs, dips a hand between them and is more than a touch drunk-happy with the result. Speirs responds with a cant of his hips, sucking in a hard breath through his teeth. Not so drunk then.

All things cold and aloof are slipping off of Ron like shadows to the light.

Won't be so in control soon, won't be so hard and efficient. The stone man with life breathed in, Nixon isn't much for poetry, but he likes the idea. A fair amount. Shed off the perfect soldier and find the man, flesh and bone, beneath.

Champagne-touched breaths colliding with every hard-battled kiss. It's a whole new world of combat and, in this second, Nixon isn't sure he's not going to come out dead on the other side of it.

There are worse ways to go out.

He's got Captain Speirs panting, don't fucking let up now.

Hands reaching up, cupping around the balls of shoulders, gripping tight with fingers spread and he pushes. Arches.

Ron grips the back of his neck with a hand, the angle of a hip through material with the other and pushes right back. Harder. He can feel breathing against his collarbone, feel the tickle of hair against his nose like feathers, he groans. Someone growls. He's sure it's not him.

Speirs shifting up, giving himself room: buckle, button, zipper and Nixon can feel the brush of dogtags skim-sliding over his chest with each roll of their bodies together. Which hasn't stopped, despite working fingers.

Speirs is slick-wet at the head, fucking burning to the touch because Nixon can feel it against his stomach when the other lays up against him with a groan. He can feel knuckles too.

Lew has to watch this for a moment; Speirs touching himself, draped over him and making these noises. Hard, harsh little sounds of effort.

When Ron bites down on his damn collarbone is when Nixon reaches between them to forcibly remove those long fingers in favor of his own-- hotdamphard in his grip. His thumb slicks up along the head of him and Speirs shudders against him without looking up.

It's good. Too good. A kind of burn that works throughout every fiber of him, bringing a bow-string tautness to his middle but the tension is beautiful. If Nix closes his eyes everything spins too fast, as if he's missing it so he keeps a slitted gaze on a portion of the ceiling just beyond Ron's shoulder.

Focus himself. The kind of focus needed to keep jerking off a fellow officer whilst his fatigue bottoms are being undone post-haste.

Speirs' touch is exact and deadly, causing him to buck up off the mattress momentarily, right into that sure hand.

“Fuck-- Ron...”

That dark head comes up. Those pupils are blown wide.

“What?” Like he's not even out of breath.

“Nothingnothingnothing.”

Ron squeezes. Nixon's free hand leaves half-moon indentations on a shoulder, blunt nails digging in.

Speirs' mouth drops open for a moment, as if he means to speak. He doesn't. All the better, he merely acts. Ron is good at that-- direct action.

This particular action, however, leaves Nix whining as his hand is taken by the wrist and pressed into the pillow. Held tight. Speirs doesn't yield-- most likely ever Nixon's 'recon' is informing him.

But it's better. So much better, even when Speirs releases his cock in order to force his other hand down, allowing bare erections and stomachs to press and slide. Rock-thrusting against him time and again.

Nix's eyes roll back and his head follows the course, throat exposed to the one man it probably shouldn't be as he frots right the fuck back.

He's gonna get off. Just like this. With Ron Speirs pinning him down and thrusting against him like he can honest-to-God fuck him this way.

Nixon's fingers curl inward, flexing with each wave of too-long-unfelt pleasure roiling through him. His toes do the same in his socks and he whimpers like that red-lipped, blue-eyed mistress he had in Aldbourne.

His brain is awash in sensation, alcohol, and want; the words come without permission. He arches desperately, hips working in unison to keep the friction constant-- slick-hot foreskin shifting against his stomach, Ron's and his own-- and, “fuckmefuckmefuckme.” Eyes screwed shut, face red from far more than V-E-Day celebrations.

Lewis can feel it in his center, knows he's far too close to hold back, mouth open and breath lodged in his throat like its something solid.

Behind closed eyelids another face flickers, drawn tight in pleasure and that's it. Over with. Nix's hands are fisted and he's making this God-awful sound of helplessness as he spills over between them, shuddering hard and violent.

Ron is biting into his goddamn earlobe and making that throaty growl-purr noise that spikes desire even now as the waves of release are finally letting him breathe.

There's the feel of their dogtags pressed between sweat-slippery chests when he feels Speirs go tight all over. Nothing but tension and knotted muscle before it snaps loose in a hard, long shiver and, though he's not positive due to the rushing sound of his own blood pounding through his ears, he thinks he hears a quiet 'ah.'

Breathing. Tattered around the edges and thick. Ron's face is buried in Nix's shoulder and his hands are readjusting around Nixon's white-ringed wrists but not letting go. Those particular wrists will be slightly blue-tinged come daylight, but that's neither here nor there.

He twists them to release the pressure and Speirs relents.

It's easy for Ron to find room to roll free of him, so he does, onto his back with that nicely coiffed hair sweat-darkened and mussed.

Nix pinches at the bridge of his own nose, scrunching his face and he mentally presses back the pang of something in his chest he will not define.

When he finally drops his hand away to take in his surroundings, Speirs is sitting up. Unlacing his boots.

Lew entertains the idea of pulling Ron back against him after those boots thump to the floor, one after the other, but he's not sure if Speirs would allow it. He's not much of a cuddler himself, but a warm body against him is more than welcome.

Not that it matters because once the boots come off, the tanktop goes back on.

Wordless, Ron gets to his feet, yanking up the fatigue bottoms ringed around socked feet and holding them up cocked on a hip as he pads out of the room.

For a moment, Nix doesn't even think the bastard's coming back.

Speirs does, however. Lukewarm rag in hand and his trousers redone. Top tucked in.

Ron settles himself on the edge of the bed, near Nix's bare hip. He hands over the rag and the smile of gratitude that had been forming on Lew's face vanishes as quickly as cigarette smoke.

“Either he doesn't know or he said 'no.'”

Nix settles himself up against the headboard a bit and his hand is grasped around the rag, wet-cooling in his slightly loosened fingers. Speirs is regarding him with what seems to be open interest. Hardly an expression Ron gives unless they're all bent over a map and military strategies are in play.

He recovers, tightens his grip on the cloth and glances down at his own come-glistening stomach. “...Huh?”

“You weren't in bed with me when you came.” Speirs' head is cocked just a little as he considers Nixon there still bared and quickly turning redder in the face as the realization comes along by seconds.

Only the snap of a Zippo brings his eyes back to Ron's face, Lucky Strike perched on that bottom lip like it was made there.

There's no point in lying.

Nixon feels a swell of defiance, movements a little stiff as he kicks off his fatigue bottoms and lays in his socks. He tosses the soiled cloth aside and hopes, somewhat petulantly, that it finds Ron's boots.

Through a screen of expelled smoke Speirs actually grins at him.

“Doesn't know.” It's not a question so Nix says nothing, merely plucks away that cigarette and takes a drag for himself.

Ignoring the fact that he can still feel fond of the season of winter even after Bastogne, Nix lets his head loll, breathes smoke and says, “So I was gone for a second. I'm back.” Drawled. His limbs feel heavy and he's aware, quite suddenly, of how exhausted he feels. He's not as drunk as he quite was before and he wishes he was.

Ron chuckles, leans over to the nightstand to pick up his packet of cigarettes again. Apparently they couldn't share the one. Which was fine by Nixon, who drags deep and hard on the one between his fingers.

Head tipped back a bit and with another cigarette in his mouth, Speirs shrugs slightly.

“Didn't picture this with you.” Short, to the point.

Oh. Oh.

Nixon pushes himself a little more upright, feeling his back stick to the headboard a bit when he adjusts. He finds himself relieved to be in like company suddenly. Reaching out, tapping ash into an ashtray on the bedstand, relaxed now.

“Who?” He doesn't expect to be answered.

He learns, then and there, for good this time, never to expect the expected from Ron.

Speirs grunts, hand to his mouth, sucking that cigarette in a way that gives Nix too many mental images. The cherry of it glows bright and brief.

“Dark-haired boy. Medic.”

“Roe?” It's honest surprise that tilts Nix's voice upward. “I would have thought--” Speirs gives him a sharp look and the twinge in his gut tells him his assumption is right, no matter what comes out of Ron's mouth.

He remembers the smile in Speirs' tone when he'd addressed the other before Dick had informed them of Germany's surrender. It was answer enough.

As for himself, was he that damnably obvious?

Fuck it.

After a few moments of the kind of silence that means two individuals are appreciating the ridiculousness of their own predicaments Nix reaches out his free hand toward Speirs.

Fuck it.

“Hand me that bottle would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

In the morning Dick grins at the state of him when he's squinting in the front room though there's hardly too much sunlight slanting in with the richness of the drapery. He knows how rough he must appear and for a second he's tempted to be snide. Then he catches the sight of Ron stepping in from the hallway from the corner of his vision. Clean, kempt, and arrow-straight, soldier-boy perfect, nodding to the pair of them coolly but with something like piqued interest in his eyes.

Dick is still grinning at him and Nix returns Dick's grin with a smirk instead of words.

*---*

Later, in Austria, beside a lake from a picture-book he'll settle down next to Dick, his stomach in knots as his friend shuffles through photographs.

He'll ask Winters what he thinks he might do. After.

Dick will be unintentionally obtuse for a second, like when Nix had casually informed him he had contraband hidden away in Dick's footlocker. Nix will cut his eyes at Dick momentarily when the other isn't looking, half resenting him for a heartbeat.

Nixon will feel heartsick for a moment, realizing Sink has beaten him to the punch. If Dick stays in the army, Nix knows he will too. If.

So he'll swallow down the tangle in his throat and throw out his cards.

And he'll pray for something other than a pair of lousy sevens.

-End-