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crack_van2010-05-31 11:22 am
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-05-31 11:22 am
Entry tags:
Dead Men and Dreamers by likethesun2 (R)
Fandom: BAND OF BROTHERS
Pairing: Speirs/Lipton
Length: 5,139
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Introduction
Why this must be read:
Because this author has Speirs down so well, with his quite detachment from the rest of the characters while keeping a sense that he does actually care about his fellow soldiers. There's a mystery to Ronald Speirs throughout the miniseries, and I liked that the author kept that mystery alive here.
He rounds a corner and comes upon Lipton wallowing in rubble with a few other soldiers, trying to treat a wounded man. He kneels near the man’s head in that odd attitude of his, half supplicant and half priest, holding one bloody forearm. Roe squats at the man’s feet, bandaging his leg, but Lipton seems equally absorbed in his own ministrations.
“First Sergeant,” calls Speirs.
Lipton glances over his shoulder. “Sir,” he says evenly, still gripping the man’s hand, “we need a jeep.”
“They’re pulling in at the crossroads now. Move him out.” Speirs comes up behind Lipton and says as he begins to rise, “Let the men take him. I need your report on casualties.”
The others pause, glancing to Lipton. He nods at Roe, who takes charge of the group and leads them down the street, staggering under their burden.
“Dike wasn’t their commander,” says Speirs almost absently, watching them go. He looks at Lipton then, shrewdly, and prompts, “Was he?”
“Lieutenant Dike was the acting CO of Easy Company, sir,” replies Lipton, rubbing at the blood on his hands.
“Did Lieutenant Dike ever ask you for a casualty report?”
“No,” says Lipton. He has a way of avoiding eye contact without making a point of it. Speirs finds it intriguing, so he waits there without speaking, ankle-deep in the rubble. “He didn’t,” says Lipton, and meets Speirs’s eyes briefly: a flicker of uninterrupted brown, remotely. No-man’s land.
“Give me a casualty report, Sergeant,” Speirs says. Lipton responds with an exhaustive list of losses and wounds suffered in the attack, concluding with the man who was just transported to the jeeps. Speirs understands instinctively the meaning of the delivery of this account, the subtle but unmistakable change of balance between them. He owns the company now, and if Lipton resents the displacement, he gives no more sign than he did when asked to surrender his patient to Roe. When it is done, Speirs thanks him, though it’s not regulation to thank inferior officers.
Lipton stands with his hands behind his back almost expectantly, although he doesn’t say a word. Speirs follows his gaze; he’s staring at the building that harbored the German sniper this morning—a high, crooked silhouette against the reddening sky.
“How many killed by the sniper?” Speirs asks.
Lipton stiffens slightly and says, “Four.” He reaches into his pocket and comes out with a fistful of something, which he extends to Speirs. Speirs takes it, not knowing what to expect. He feels the fine, smooth edges of the dead men’s dog tags, the liquid roll of their chains—and, before Lipton retreats, he feels how the other man’s hand shakes.
“I saw you,” he says.
Lipton looks at him obliquely, his face unreadable, and says, “Sir?”
“Running across the street before Powers got him.”
Lipton nods. “Shifty’s a good shot.”
“Good enough for you to risk that.” He intends it as a statement of fact, but Lipton says “Yes” quickly, as though he has questioned it. From the way Lipton’s shoulders rise, Speirs can tell that his hands are moving behind his back, clasping more tightly together.
“Risk doesn’t really matter,” Lipton says at last. “You ran through the German line to join up with I Company. It’s what you have to do. And when I did it, it didn’t really seem to matter; I just did it, that was enough.” His eyes seem to close down for a moment.
Speirs watches the play of muscles in his arms, imagines the hands behind his back clamping down as if on an open wound. He thinks of the timelessness of that run. How once he vaulted out of the lee of the building, all superfluity fell away; there was nothing behind him or before him, just the piston drive of legs and the cavernous sound of breathing and the slow flame of adrenaline, the way the running wore a groove in the world that he had only to follow. He knows Lipton felt it, too, and that’s why he’s still shivering. It’s cold in the vacuum, stripped of everything.
He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lets two drops into his hand. “You smoke?”
“Yes, sir. Just during wartime,” says Lipton, smiling a little.
“You’ll be a lifelong smoker, then,” observes Speirs flatly, and offers him one. Without hesitation, Lipton takes it between two rough, surprisingly nimble fingers and waits as Speirs produces a lighter. The flame catches between them and holds, making pools and valleys of shadow on their faces. Speirs takes Lipton by the wrist to hold his cigarette steady for lighting, but it’s strange: Lipton’s hand only shakes more violently.
The last man in the work detail has been resting by the side of the road. Speirs stands above him until, laboriously, as if granting a favor, the man climbs to his feet. He waits before Speirs, watching the ground.
“Do you want a cigarette?” asks Speirs, keeping the box close to his body.
“Please,” says the German, with a heavy accent.
Speirs reaches out and takes the man’s chin in his hand—his thumb finding the curve of the jaw, the tip of his forefinger touching the strange stiffness of cartilage—and forces his head up. The man looks at him with eyes sheer and bright and brittle as glass. The thin throat slides in a swallow. He could easily be an American soldier, one of the grimy, stricken boys in Dog; and Speirs idly thinks of the rumor that he knows has already started about his shooting one of his own men for drunkenness. He lights a cigarette, opens the German’s mouth like a hinge, and places it inside. Leaning in close, he says, his lips brushing the hard little knob of the German’s ear, “This doesn’t matter.”
When he moves away, the German falls back a step. A bruise is coalescing cloud-like on the underside of his face, and Speirs’s heart races momentarily, his breathing quickens. He has left a mark. The sergeant is watching him in puzzlement, so he inhales and returns to his place on the mounded earth overlooking the prisoners.
The German picks up a shovel, but when he digs, Speirs knows from the uneven rhythm of his strokes that he still thinks he has a chance. His body doesn’t believe what it has been consigned to.
Speirs looks down at them all, and adjusts the Thompson on his hip.
Later that day, Speirs suggests to Captain Winters that First Sergeant Lipton deserves some sort of recognition, for his handling of the sniper among other things. Winters agrees, and a notification of Sink’s approval comes down within hours.
When he sees Lipton that night in the solemn, soporific warmth of the church, Speirs thinks that his story about Tertius is true: it doesn’t do for a soldier to reveal his whole hand. It makes him vulnerable. So he smiles and congratulates Lipton, but gives no sign that he had any part in this at all.
Dead Men and Dreamers
Pairing: Speirs/Lipton
Length: 5,139
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Introduction
Why this must be read:
Because this author has Speirs down so well, with his quite detachment from the rest of the characters while keeping a sense that he does actually care about his fellow soldiers. There's a mystery to Ronald Speirs throughout the miniseries, and I liked that the author kept that mystery alive here.
He rounds a corner and comes upon Lipton wallowing in rubble with a few other soldiers, trying to treat a wounded man. He kneels near the man’s head in that odd attitude of his, half supplicant and half priest, holding one bloody forearm. Roe squats at the man’s feet, bandaging his leg, but Lipton seems equally absorbed in his own ministrations.
“First Sergeant,” calls Speirs.
Lipton glances over his shoulder. “Sir,” he says evenly, still gripping the man’s hand, “we need a jeep.”
“They’re pulling in at the crossroads now. Move him out.” Speirs comes up behind Lipton and says as he begins to rise, “Let the men take him. I need your report on casualties.”
The others pause, glancing to Lipton. He nods at Roe, who takes charge of the group and leads them down the street, staggering under their burden.
“Dike wasn’t their commander,” says Speirs almost absently, watching them go. He looks at Lipton then, shrewdly, and prompts, “Was he?”
“Lieutenant Dike was the acting CO of Easy Company, sir,” replies Lipton, rubbing at the blood on his hands.
“Did Lieutenant Dike ever ask you for a casualty report?”
“No,” says Lipton. He has a way of avoiding eye contact without making a point of it. Speirs finds it intriguing, so he waits there without speaking, ankle-deep in the rubble. “He didn’t,” says Lipton, and meets Speirs’s eyes briefly: a flicker of uninterrupted brown, remotely. No-man’s land.
“Give me a casualty report, Sergeant,” Speirs says. Lipton responds with an exhaustive list of losses and wounds suffered in the attack, concluding with the man who was just transported to the jeeps. Speirs understands instinctively the meaning of the delivery of this account, the subtle but unmistakable change of balance between them. He owns the company now, and if Lipton resents the displacement, he gives no more sign than he did when asked to surrender his patient to Roe. When it is done, Speirs thanks him, though it’s not regulation to thank inferior officers.
Lipton stands with his hands behind his back almost expectantly, although he doesn’t say a word. Speirs follows his gaze; he’s staring at the building that harbored the German sniper this morning—a high, crooked silhouette against the reddening sky.
“How many killed by the sniper?” Speirs asks.
Lipton stiffens slightly and says, “Four.” He reaches into his pocket and comes out with a fistful of something, which he extends to Speirs. Speirs takes it, not knowing what to expect. He feels the fine, smooth edges of the dead men’s dog tags, the liquid roll of their chains—and, before Lipton retreats, he feels how the other man’s hand shakes.
“I saw you,” he says.
Lipton looks at him obliquely, his face unreadable, and says, “Sir?”
“Running across the street before Powers got him.”
Lipton nods. “Shifty’s a good shot.”
“Good enough for you to risk that.” He intends it as a statement of fact, but Lipton says “Yes” quickly, as though he has questioned it. From the way Lipton’s shoulders rise, Speirs can tell that his hands are moving behind his back, clasping more tightly together.
“Risk doesn’t really matter,” Lipton says at last. “You ran through the German line to join up with I Company. It’s what you have to do. And when I did it, it didn’t really seem to matter; I just did it, that was enough.” His eyes seem to close down for a moment.
Speirs watches the play of muscles in his arms, imagines the hands behind his back clamping down as if on an open wound. He thinks of the timelessness of that run. How once he vaulted out of the lee of the building, all superfluity fell away; there was nothing behind him or before him, just the piston drive of legs and the cavernous sound of breathing and the slow flame of adrenaline, the way the running wore a groove in the world that he had only to follow. He knows Lipton felt it, too, and that’s why he’s still shivering. It’s cold in the vacuum, stripped of everything.
He takes out a pack of cigarettes and lets two drops into his hand. “You smoke?”
“Yes, sir. Just during wartime,” says Lipton, smiling a little.
“You’ll be a lifelong smoker, then,” observes Speirs flatly, and offers him one. Without hesitation, Lipton takes it between two rough, surprisingly nimble fingers and waits as Speirs produces a lighter. The flame catches between them and holds, making pools and valleys of shadow on their faces. Speirs takes Lipton by the wrist to hold his cigarette steady for lighting, but it’s strange: Lipton’s hand only shakes more violently.
The last man in the work detail has been resting by the side of the road. Speirs stands above him until, laboriously, as if granting a favor, the man climbs to his feet. He waits before Speirs, watching the ground.
“Do you want a cigarette?” asks Speirs, keeping the box close to his body.
“Please,” says the German, with a heavy accent.
Speirs reaches out and takes the man’s chin in his hand—his thumb finding the curve of the jaw, the tip of his forefinger touching the strange stiffness of cartilage—and forces his head up. The man looks at him with eyes sheer and bright and brittle as glass. The thin throat slides in a swallow. He could easily be an American soldier, one of the grimy, stricken boys in Dog; and Speirs idly thinks of the rumor that he knows has already started about his shooting one of his own men for drunkenness. He lights a cigarette, opens the German’s mouth like a hinge, and places it inside. Leaning in close, he says, his lips brushing the hard little knob of the German’s ear, “This doesn’t matter.”
When he moves away, the German falls back a step. A bruise is coalescing cloud-like on the underside of his face, and Speirs’s heart races momentarily, his breathing quickens. He has left a mark. The sergeant is watching him in puzzlement, so he inhales and returns to his place on the mounded earth overlooking the prisoners.
The German picks up a shovel, but when he digs, Speirs knows from the uneven rhythm of his strokes that he still thinks he has a chance. His body doesn’t believe what it has been consigned to.
Speirs looks down at them all, and adjusts the Thompson on his hip.
Later that day, Speirs suggests to Captain Winters that First Sergeant Lipton deserves some sort of recognition, for his handling of the sniper among other things. Winters agrees, and a notification of Sink’s approval comes down within hours.
When he sees Lipton that night in the solemn, soporific warmth of the church, Speirs thinks that his story about Tertius is true: it doesn’t do for a soldier to reveal his whole hand. It makes him vulnerable. So he smiles and congratulates Lipton, but gives no sign that he had any part in this at all.
Dead Men and Dreamers