Chapter Text
Lew’s finest moment begins right on the heels of one of his worst. He’s technically still on his forty-eight hour pass, so there’s no reason for him to be anywhere close to camp, but here he is in the middle of it. It’s hard to think of anywhere else to go when your own wife stands you up. She gave him a call a good five hours deep into Columbus after he had already checked in at the hotel they had booked a month ago and waited around like a moron for her to show up.
“I just think it’s better if we spent some time apart, Lewis,” she had told him. “Hasn’t it been a sort of relief to be out of each other’s pockets for once?”
No, he didn’t tell her. No, it hasn’t been a relief to be on an army base completing intensive officer training all day every day in the dead heat of April, May, and June. All the same, he let it go. It’s not like the daytime scene in Columbus is what you would call fun, anyway. (That’s mostly because he doesn’t know anyone in Columbus to show off to, but he’ll be damned before he admits that to himself.)
The first twenty-four hours of the forty-eight he spent lounging in that too-big hotel room calling up room service at his leisure. Anytime something looked good on paper, it miraculously showed up in person thirty minutes later. Bitterly, he thought of calling up a different kind of service because that would teach Kathy just how much he enjoys their time apart, but he ultimately thought better of it and ordered himself another round of strawberry wine instead.
Before he drifted off to a sleep he didn’t choose for himself, he thought drunkenly that he’s not without friends. He could've easily called up some of his fellow OCS students and invited them to rush to get a twenty-four hour pass. They could've spent it with him seeing what Columbus has to offer when you’re not worried about a wife who just hung the word “SEPARATED” over your head like a sword on a string. There’s gotta be someone else—anyone else—who he would rather spend a pass on.
In the afternoon, he didn’t bother with that last thought. He cured his hangover with some hair of the dog (really the whole spotted coat) and took the bus back to Fort Benning with the remains of his expensive city hotel lunch mixing in his stomach with chocolate ice cream and enough whiskey to tranquilize a bear. He’s never been prone to car sickness before, but it hit him then hard enough to knock the color out of his face and make his hands shake.
Now, the minute the bus lets him out, he’s stumbling as far away from civilization as he can manage, vaguely aware of how mortified and screwed he’d be if any of his superiors caught him so heavily drunk on base in the middle of the day. He has a good head for maps even when he's hammered, and he’s pretty sure of where to go so he won’t get caught.
Somewhere in the muddle, he loses half the room service lunch he paid so much for in some shallow part of the woods and keeps going, not even checking if his clothes are soiled. Eventually, it’s far enough that he’s reached the edge of his knowledge, and that’s far enough for him. He picks out one of the trees with great big roots sticking up out of the ground facing the sunlight and settles himself down there to nap off the worst of the effects.
He doesn’t know how long he’s there before a shadow passes over him that he can feel on every inch of his skin. When he squints his eyes open, there's this figure above him whose head is blocking out the sun. It's too bright to make out any of his features or rank, but it's immediately apparent that this soldier is tall and lean and looking down at him with a posture that can only be demonstrated by the unimpressed.
“Hey, buster,” he says, and he can hear his own slurring words ringing in his ears. “Could you move yourself a little thataways? You’re in my light.” And there it all ties itself up with ribbon: one of his worst moments in recent memory.
The figure crouches down, and it’s easier to see him now. His blue-gray eyes hold the beginnings of amusement, if that counts for anything. Said sunlight is making his red hair light up all golden-like. The name tag on his uniform reads “Winters” which is almost an irony. “You look a little worse for wear, soldier,” Winters says.
It takes Lew a minute to find himself. “Yeah?” he answers finally. “Well, you look—”
But however Winters looks, he is not to know. Rather than finish his sentence, Lew rolls over onto his side and loses that second half of his lunch. Puking is an activity he’s friendlier with than he’d like to be, he’s very familiar with the territory. It’s been a long time, however, since he’s had a hand on his back, patting him through the worst of it.
“Alright, alright,” Winters says. “That’s it. Just get it out. Good.”
Maybe if he was sober, Lew would’ve found it off-putting that this stranger is talking him through it and putting hands on him like a stray. And yet, with the murky water he’s been treading through since yesterday, a little light and a little clarity goes a long way. So, this stranger—Winters—has a hand on his back. So what, if it feels good? And it does feel good, warm in the way a downy comforter in a snowstorm is.
He finally makes himself sit up—on his knees first then back on his heels, wiping the spittle away from his mouth with the back of his hand. Winters doesn’t seem to shift, keeping steadily where he is like a solid rock, hand on Lew’s shoulder and everything as he searches his eyes. Probably, he realizes, to check for some sign of concussion or any other explanation for what he’s doing out here slumped over against a tree.
Whatever the intention, it doesn’t garner the desired effect. Rather, Lew stares back, taking advantage of the temporary clarity to really study this guy. Then, the thought comes to him without so much as a warning. Oh, you, he thinks. They’re gonna have a hard time keeping me away from you. And there it is: his very best moment—the decision of a lifetime wrapped in wine and earnestness.
“Okay,” Winters says, and for a moment Lew worries that he crawled into his thoughts and is agreeing with him. Then, he starts to hoist him to his feet. “Let’s get you back and get you cleaned up.”
Lew stumbles into Winters once he’s on two legs, but that seems to be expected by the way he’s already braced for it. They make a funny pair, with Lew having to stumble and skip to keep pace with Winters’s unwaveringly sure step. The way back is long, too, and the sun isn’t doing him any favors in the consciousness department. By the time they reach the barracks, it’s everything he can do just to keep himself on his feet. Winters stays sturdy even when Lew is passing out and collapsing on his bed with a strong hand bracing him by the scruff of his neck, thank God.