Stranger With Your Eyes

He’s drunk.

When he’s drunk, he wants to talk.

When he wants to talk, he finds Dick.

Pushing his chair back, hearing the rough wood scrape across the floor, he stands, a bit unsteady at first though it would take a good eye to see it, and grinning waves his goodbye to Harry who’s on the other side of the pub. Pocketing his flask, he strides toward the exit.

Allowing the heavy door to shut behind him, he finds himself surrounded by the quiet of the night, soft sounds drifting out from here and there behind closed doors and windows to meet his ears.

The streets are dark and only the slightest bit of moonlight slips through the clouds overhead. It’s okay, though. Even when drunk, even in the darkness, he knows where he’s going. It’s a skill he prides himself on, this ability to navigate through town completely plastered.

Stumbling up the wooden steps of the quarters he shares with Dick, he attempts to be quiet but suspects he fails miserably, especially when he knocks something over in his fumbling and hears it clatter on the cobblestones below. So much for stealth, he thinks, swinging the door open to be greeted with the soft glow of a lamp on the table.

Opening his mouth to call out to Dick, the words never leave his throat as he sees his friend hunched over the table, back toward him, head in his hands. Moving closer, he sees his shoulder moving up and down. Dick is silent but Nixon can feel the pain coming off him in waves.

He’s uncertain now and feels himself sober up a bit at the sight before him.

“Dick?” he calls out, hoping against hope his words don’t sound as slurred to Dick as they do even to him.

Another step forward and he’s able to see the papers spread on the table, lists of names and addresses. He’s confused, but it doesn’t take long for the realization of what Dick has been doing to hit him. The letters to the families of those killed in action.

Damn it, he knew he’d promised to help with something tonight, but had been unable to remember what. Therefore, he found himself in the pub, laughing it up with Compton and Welsh, as carefree as he could be in the middle of a war.

Damn it, he’d told Dick he’d help with the letters.

But here they were now, only a few letters finished, himself rather drunk, and Winters suffering before him.

“Dick,” he called out again, a bit more forcefully this time, causing Winters’ head to snap up and his hands to drop to his lap. He looked trapped, ashamed to be seen in such a state.

“Dick, there was nothing you could have done. It’s war. Men are going to die.”

He’s beginning to wonder if Dick had heard him at all when he finally does respond.

“They were good men.”

“Yeah, Dick, they were. They’re all good men but that doesn’t make a difference. The Krauts don’t care if you’re the best or the worst soldier out there. It’s a level playing field.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Sighing loudly, Dick begins shuffling the papers in front of him into several stacks.

“That doesn’t make it any easier to take, though.”

The weariness in Dick’s voice is what gives him pause, what makes him stop and distance himself from this moment and take a good hard look at his friend of the past two years. What he sees shocks and saddens him. How could he have lived with this man, fought along side this man, trained with this man and not seen the changes which had gradually taken hold.

The light had gone out of his eyes, the expression of hope he had seen so many times was only a distant memory now. The lines around his mouth were deeper and new ones had set in around his eyes. The man who sat before him was no longer the picture of health, strength and vitality he had once been. Instead, he saw a stranger with Dick’s red hair and blue eyes, a stranger who looked exhausted and beaten down, a stranger who was much too thin and weary looking for his comfort.

Pulling out a chair, he sank into it, lamplight casting deep shadows in the corners of the room. Reaching for his flask, he suddenly froze. How many nights, he wondered, had he come in drunk, knowing Dick would be there to make sure he didn’t kill himself stumbling around, to make sure he made it to bed, to listen to him as he rambled on and on. But what the hell kind of friend had he been? The changes in Dick hadn’t happened overnight, he just hadn’t taken the time to look. The scratch of a pen across paper caught his attention. Dick was writing again.

“Dick. Don’t do this to yourself. Go to bed, you’re not doing yourself any good right now.”

Dick met his eyes, the anguish in them slowly fading to steely resolve. And looking back down, the scritch-scritch sound of his writing filled the silence once more.

Maybe he did need that drink after all.