Work Text:
There is no possible way anyone could ever a pick a single girl out of the sea of waving people from this distance, but Nix scans the crowd anyway, craning his neck until it creaks. He can’t do much more than shuffle his feet in the press of men all trying to get down the gangplank at once. For most of them, this is one of the last acts they’ll perform as active members of the US Army. Soon they’ll be civilians instead of soldiers. That change will present its own challenges for all of them, but Nix is coming home to a woman who loves him and who has an idea of what it was like. That will make it easier. (It will, won’t it?) He doesn’t want to wait another second to find her and get his arms around her and their little boy and not let go of either one of them for about a hundred years.
When Nix’s boots finally hit the ground, when he’s standing on honest-to-God American soil for the first time in more than two years, he takes a deep breath in and almost cries. Dirty air has never smelled so good. The man in front of him stops short and Nix crashes into his back. The soldier turns, probably to apologize, but he and Nix just grin at one another in shared experience. Not a man here has it in him to be angry today. Nix claps him on the shoulder and tosses something between a wave and a salute over his own shoulder before moving on. He weaves his way through the men, women, and children greeting each other, laughing, kissing, and hugging. Everyone talking at once. The Star-Spangled banner floats over all the human noise, but Nix doesn’t really hear any of it. He is intent on making his way to the third streetlamp from the corner. It’s a good place to meet someone, far back enough that a girl and a baby would have room to breathe, easy enough to find, and it won’t take too long to get there.
He made one quick, staticky call to tell her what ship he’d be on, when she could expect it, and where to wait for him. This was after writing two letters and sending one telegram. Everything had wrapped up so quickly--and was so disorganized--that he wasn’t really surprised that he didn’t get a reply. Her letter is probably waiting for him in France now. She is waiting just a bit farther down the pavement.
The crowd starts to thin; there are still to many people in the way to see her, he wants to shove them out of his way. Nix’s heart is about to beat right out of his chest, his hands shake so he shoves them into his pockets. And there, she is with her face is turned to Richie’s tiny one, and he’s reaching for her chin. Nix’s breath catches in his throat. (He’s been thinking of this very second since he got his orders. True, he pictured moonlight and stars instead of a sunny afternoon, but who gives a good goddamn about the time of day?) He accidentally walks between a returning soldier and the woman he’s about to embrace. Nix mutters his apologies without looking at either of them. They don’t care anyway, they’re too busy kissing.
Nix doesn’t care, either, because he’s finally getting what he’s wanted since January. Richie’s gotten bigger, but then Nix has missed a quarter of his life. Rissy looks different, too, polished in a dark hat and coat--it’s new, that threadbare navy one is gone for good, thank God. She’d ended up giving the camel one he’d found to someone else. He stops just to watch, just to drink them up with his eyes. The last time Nix saw them, the day they’d left for home, Nix held Richie for the last time, the baby cooed and batted at his nose, then he molded his body to his father’s shoulder and fell asleep there. Rissy had been trying her damndest not to let him see she was about to burst into tears. He kissed her with the baby between them, not letting go until the minute she had to leave or be left behind.
He forgets all of that when she looks up.
Nix thought he would have called out, but that’s not what happens. He runs the last few yards, faster than he’s run anywhere in a rather long time, and drops his bag somewhere along the way. Rissy doesn’t get the chance to say anything, either. He kisses her, then the baby, then Rissy again. Once he’s sure he’s holding them both tight enough, he swings Rissy around in a circle so her feet leave the pavement. Nix smothers her exclamation with his lips. She doesn’t mind, she kisses him until her carefully-applied lipstick is all over both of their mouths. Richie laughs and reaches for Nix. He gets a kiss on the cheek and then Rissy gets a few more significantly longer ones. All three of their faces are covered in red smudges.
Finally, Nix straightens up.
“Hi,” he says. One corner of his mouth turns up and Rissy’s nose wrinkles. God, he missed her. He’s never been so happy to see anyone in his life.
“Hi,” she answers, lips puckered again. Nix pinches her but gives her one more light brush of his mouth before his arm goes around her waist and they go off in search of a cab. He scoops the baby up, holding him in one arm and Rissy in the other. It feels right, like coming home, even though they’re in the middle of the crowded sidewalk.
Nix throws his bag in the trunk of the taxicab. He lets Rissy slide in with Richie first and he climbs in after them. The closing door cuts off music and chatter from outdoors, and then the three of them are alone together. Nix leans forward to tell the driver their destination, and after that, well, the man must’ve picked up a lot of men returning from overseas. He must be used to what happens in his backseat by now. Nix’s hand slides over Rissy’s stocking, a little under her skirt, just a hair above her knee, but she doesn’t seem inclined to move it. Richie is perched in Nix’s lap, he plays happily with the shiny brass buttons. Rissy moves closer so she is practically draped across him. There is no other place on earth Nix would rather be.
It takes a very long time to reach the Plaza, where there one suite and a single room are waiting. That’s a bit ridiculous, but Rissy wants it that way, and what she wants, she shall have. He can understand it--himself, he doesn’t give a goddamn what anyone thinks, but Rissy’s held on to a few of her wholesome midwestern values. Maybe these kinds of differences were easier to ignore when he was sleeping in a foxhole and simply staying alive was a concern. It will be different now, here at home. They’ll figure it out; he’s not worried. He’ll tell her anything she needs to know and there’s so much he wants to show her. So if she wants to keep up the pretense a little while longer, it’s alright.
The bellboy takes Nix’s lone bag to his room. The tip Nix gives him leaves the kid practically skipping back towards the elevator.
It’s strange to be in a room by himself after the troop ship--not to mention the last three years and change--being shoe-horned in with so many people. There’s too much empty space despite all the furniture it contains. Rissy left him a present on the desk. A bottle with a red satin ribbon around the neck waits next to a heavy, thick-bottomed tumbler. The girl knows him well. Just one drink to steady his nerves and bring everything back to right, and he’ll wash his face and brush his teeth. When he’s calm and cleaned-up, it will be time for either a very late lunch or a very early supper. Unfortunately. There are things he’d rather do than sit downstairs in the restaurant, but Richie will need to eat. And Nix is hungry, too. He just doesn’t want to waste time eating.
He knocks on Rissy’s door with butterflies careening around in his stomach just as wildly as they had outside her door in Aldbourne. She opens it as eagerly as she did then, if not more so. She’s fixed her lipstick and changed the baby. She looks lady-like in her grey suit, Richie is chubby and dimpled in his fresh clothes. Nix is still in his uniform. He doesn’t have anything else to put on, and he doesn’t feel quite ready for civilian clothing anyway.
All through the meal, the best one he’s eaten in what seems like years, he can’t stop touching either of them. Or smiling until his cheeks start to ache.
The food is eaten and the coffee is cold and Richie starts to yawn.
“We should get him upstairs.” Nix palms his son’s cheek, Richie rests his head heavily in his father’s hand. He’s getting flushed and glassy-eyed. Rissy bites her lip and nods, their shared glance holds. I want to get you upstairs, Nix thinks. He’s not wrong in assuming she wants the same thing. Nix doesn’t think he has the patience to wait for the bill, it’ll get charged to the room.
“Let me get him to sleep and freshen up.” She laughs at the longing on his face. “Just for a few minutes. He’ll never go to sleep if you’re there, and then he’ll be miserable. And there are probably some people besides us who’d like to know you’re home. After that you can have me for the rest of the night.”
“Only the one night?”
“Why, Captain Nixon,” she murmurs, “you’re making me blush.”
“I intend to make you do a good deal more than that.” His smirk fades into a different expression. “And for much longer than one night.”
He kisses her at her door, leaning inside and reusing to leave until she starts to shut the door on him. They both laugh, until Richie starts to fuss.
“Alright, little one.” Nix kisses his little round cheek and then Rissy’s temple. “I’ll see you soon, young lady.” He tips her a wink and she shuts the door.
Alone again in his room, Nix draws he chair away from the desk and drops into it. He fills his glass, empties it, and fills it again. Then he picks up the telephone, heaves a sigh, and dials. He makes three calls, all of them short. His father first, so he can use his other calls as an excuse to keep this one quick, then his mother, who is less difficult, and then his sister. Blanche is the only one who doesn’t try to keep him on the line longer. She blows him a smacking kiss, tells him she’ll give him a day or two, and then she expects to meet this girl he’s so wild about, and the kid she hopes is better-looking than Nix is.
“We’ll have lunch somewhere,” she says.
“Only if you promise not to scare them.”
“How could I? They already know you.” She hangs up before he does.
Nix laughs, stubs out his cigarette, and stretches. He’s waited long enough. The key to the room across the hall is in his pocket, just waiting to be used. He pours one more drink and stands up, and then takes the bottle along as well.
Rissy’s got the baby asleep already. She’s maternal in a way he’d never experienced, always cooing and cuddling, affectionate and attentive. It fascinates Nix that he and Rissy brought an entire new person into being one very cold night under a sky full of stars. She’d been playful, teasing in her affection, throwing him sideways glances and touching him. She asked him for a kiss and he gave her a sweet, chaste one because he knew that wasn’t what she meant. She found that damn spot under his ear--she could get him to do anything, really--and he growled and left her a quivering mess, a pregnant, quivering mess. But it had turned out alright after all, hadn’t it?
Nix watches Rissy flit around her room from the doorway--exactly the way she did all the way back in Aldbourne the first night they spent together. She was nervous then and she’s nervous now--or just jumpy with anticipation. Hell, he’s a little wound up himself. He takes one more swallow, and the he sets the bottle and glass down.
Rissy’s blouse offsets the creamy skin of her throat and bare arms under the tiny sleeves; the delicate fabric is almost sheer enough to see through. This is almost as distracting as the way her skirt hugs her bottom. She twirls and poses, showing off just a little. This is for his benefit, so he can take notice of what he missed, not that he needs any help for that. Her humming turns into quiet singing. Nix recognizes the song--It’s Been a Long, Long Time. Which indeed it has.
Of course it’s that song. The first time he heard it, it made him think of her, even though she wasn’t more than a short train-trip away by that point. He has to admit, he’s lucky--for the most part, she’d never been all that far away and he certainly got to see her more often than most men got to see their girls. That changed when he put her on a ship in January. Of course he was glad she was going home, safe and sound, all in one piece, but that didn’t stop him from being lonesome for her. Her absence left an empty space no one else could fill. They’d been apart before, but never by so much distance.
After Rissy and Richie left there was no reason to keep the little house with the leaded glass windows and nauseating salmon bathroom. It was the best home he ever had; he’d been content and loved there. They had packed everything that was theirs, clothes and cosmetics and toys, books and the odds and ends that made the place their own. It seemed so empty when Nix came to collect the few belongings he left behind. Truthfully, none of it was anything he couldn’t easily replace; he just wanted to go there one last time. His boots left dusty prints on the bare wood floors. He took a last look at the threadbare sofa, the worn tables and chairs, the comically small bathtub, the bed that had been his and Rissy’s, the empty room that had nominally been Richie’s although he’d hardly slept in it. His bassinette had been packed up and sent home. Nix walked through the entire house, then he left, locking the door behind him, and dropping the key in the mailbox. The owner would be by to collect it. Nix didn’t want to think about anyone else staying there.
He procured a bottle or two on his way to the train station. Nix filled his flask covertly, ingested its contents, and filled it again--that was before taking his seat. Nix stared out the window and smoked cigarette after cigarette. He didn’t speak to anyone.
A surly Nix stalked back to the bedroom he called his, flopped onto the bed, and propped his boots up on the footboard. He flipped the radio on and that damn song was playing. Nix found a glass and filled it with the last of his bottle. Then he drank, tipping his head back with angry swallows. His eyes burned with tears he stubbornly refused to let fall or even acknowledge. Kitty Kallen was still singing when Dick knocked and entered without waiting. After all, there was no way that he’d catch Nix in a compromising position with his girl since said woman was currently on her way across the Atlantic.
Dick tossed half a sandwich onto the bed before he dumped a stack of folders and forms on Nix’s desk. He pulled an apple out of one of his pockets, sat down, and got to work. Nix ate the sandwich, watching him and listening to Dick’s pen scratch across his papers. The comforting sound lulled Nix to sleep. Dick was still there when he woke up. He’d fallen asleep himself in the one semi-comfortable chair, magazine clutched to his chest. Afterwards they ate supper together and then they talked about nothing in Nix’s room. When that damn song came on the radio again, Dick spun the dial until he found something instrumental. He lowered the volume and turned to Nix.
“Do you know who this is?”
“That really is Mozart.” Nix reached for his flask and Dick handed him a canteen instead. “Thanks. I guess looking after me is your job again.”
“Someone has to. There’s no need for me to stop now.”
They fell asleep on the double bed, still dressed but in sock feet. In the morning, a freshly-showered and spanking-neat Dick was working his way through another sheaf of papers at Nix’s desk. He always knew how to make his presence matter-of-fact, so you didn’t feel like an obligation. Nix’d be lost without him, not as lost as he’d be if Rissy really left him, but lost all the same.
There is no need to worry about any of that any longer, he and his girl are in the same room, their baby is asleep in his crib, and his Dick will be on his way home in a matter of weeks. He’s eaten, the telephone calls have been made, the door is shut and locked. He and Rissy are all alone, and she is wearing entirely too many clothes.
They don’t even make it into the bedroom. What happens happens on the chaise.
It’s hurried, insistent, and hardly any clothes come off, things are unfastened and moved aside but it’s still about needing and wanting and loving. Afterwards they soak in hot water, where Rissy leans back against him, resting there, content to be close. She leaves him alone to wash. Nix lets himself float, lets his arms and legs become weightless in water that comes right up to his chin. He scrubs his entire body clean, taking his time with it. Could he have ever been used to such thick towels and washcloths? There is a goddamn towel-warmer in the corner. When Nix emerges from the bathroom, skin flushed pink with unaccustomed warmth, Rissy is waiting on the bed in his undershirt and nothing else. He climbs in after her and takes his time there, too.
The morning comes all too quickly. Nix steps over the remnants of a late-night picnic on the floor--they’d expended enough energy to make fortifications necessary. He slips across the hall to wash up and dress--but only because his clothes are there. This is a nuisance but he’s happy to indulge Rissy. All his toiletries are over there, too.
Nix stands in front of his bathroom mirror, warm towel around his hips, brushing his shaving soap onto his face. It smells subtle, expensive. He draws a comb through his hair until the part is straight. Then Nix is ready to get dressed. He puts on his Ike jacket--Rissy always liked that one best. Nix feels caught between two distinct halves of his life. Not halves, really, because the life he had before the Army seems like it happened to someone else. He shakes his head to dispel the thoughts, he can wait for some other time to be maudlin. Nix stops to look in the mirror and adjust his tie, and then he’s ready to collect Rissy and Richie for breakfast.
Rissy reaches to make her own adjustments to his tie. “We’ll have to get you some clothes.”
“I’ll be alright for a few days.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? I felt like I was playing dress-up for weeks. And I never wore a uniform.”
“You look beautiful.”
“These just aren’t the kind of clothes I had before.” She takes a lady-like bite of her breakfast. “Sometimes I wonder what happened to all my old things. It seems like they just melted away. Lew, is there anything you need, or want from--well, anywhere?”
Rissy’s trying to find a delicate way to ask if Kathy might have any of his belongings. She’d probably burned anything he’d left with her. Or cut his things up into pieces and then burned them. He couldn’t blame her if she had. So he just shakes his head and drinks his coffee; it’s good, rich and strong and black. No motor-oil swill here. “We’ll go shopping. You can dress me up.”
“As long as I can undress you later.” She gives him her puckered smile, but then her expression softens. “You’re not quite ready to take your uniform off, are you?”
Nix shakes his head. That’s strange, too. He’d been itching to get out of it and into any other clothes. Now that he can, and he still wants to, it seems like peeling off a layer of his own skin. One can’t walk around in his underwear, though, so here we are.
The next day is an ordeal. The lunch with his mother is bad enough, but dinner with his father is a nightmare. Rissy doesn’t say much on in the cab’s backseat and Nix doesn’t, either. Even Richie is quiet, but that’s because his little belly is full and he’s sleepy. He doesn’t know enough to be on edge. After all, everyone he’s known in his life has loved him. Nix reaches for Rissy’s hand in the dark, she grasps his fingers.
“Oh my God, Lew,” she whispers when they come to a stop.
“I told you it was like a damn museum.”
At the table, Nix seats himself between Rissy and his father, which is not the way one would usually do things, but he wants to be a buffer for her. He has a feeling that this dinner be an exercise in restraint, especially after a cool greeting and an almost indifferent glance at Richie. The baby charmed his grandmother but made no such effect on his grandfather. Nix is not wrong. Uncomfortable silences interrupt stilted conversation all through the meal. Silverware clinks against china.
Rissy’s company smile is pained around the edges. She glances toward the door every few minutes, in the direction in which a young woman carried a nearly sleeping Richie.
Stanhope becomes more conversational after he’s emptied his glass a few times. He’s hardly spoken to Rissy at all, making his disapproval quite clear. Now he leans forward in his chair to look at her around Nix. “Lewis said you grew upon some kind of farm. You can teach him how to work.” Is this a slight on him or Rissy? Both, probably. “And you can make something of yourself.” This is directed solely at Nix, who hopes he was never such an ass when he was drunk.
Nix doesn't respond to the remark, and neither does Rissy, so the needling continues.
“You spent the war behind a desk, didn't you?”
Under the table, Rissy’s fingers squeeze Nix’s until they ache. The muscles in her jaw clench, and Nix loves her for it. She was nervous earlier but now she's just angry on his behalf. One glance tells him she’s thinking of everything he did, saw, or endured. He made the plans to send men he’d known for years and the best friend he ever had into harm’s way from behind a desk, and that gnawed at him more than anything else. Because if he’d been wrong--well, let’s not think of that, it’s over now.
“Your home is lovely.” Rissy is trying, and only someone who knows her well could hear the strain in her voice.
The withering look she receives leaves Nix seething.
“That painting is beautiful,” she continues, looking at the one hanging over the empty fireplace. “It reminds me of one Lew showed me in--where were we?”
He knows exactly what she means. She’d been captivated, standing still for almost ten minutes, eyes moving back and forth, lips slightly parted. He wondered if she saw something of herself in the heart-broken girl in a white dress, with trinkets from her lover scattered in the grass around her. Rissy was finally done grieving, and Nix promised himself that he’d do anything he could to to keep her safe and happy. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely successful in that, but he’s making an effort. “That was in London, sweetheart.”
Rissy smiles at the memory. “It was from the romantic era, I think. This one is, too, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” His father’s dismissive tone ends the attempt at polite conversation. The silence is both palpable and uneasy.
“You would like the one we have upstairs, Rissy. It’s right outside my bedroom; I’ll show you after we eat.”
Stanhope clears is throat. “You could stay here tonight.” He pauses to swallow. “Lewis.”
This time Nix squeezes Rissy’s hand. “We have to get our son to bed.” It’s only his second night home, he doesn’t want to spend it here, especially without his girl and their baby. The invitation was only given out of spite anyway.
Dinner drags on.
He does take Rissy on a little tour, mostly so he can apologize and make sure she’s alright. He does show her the painting, a forest scene with golden light filtered through mossy trees, and then his childhood bedroom, the piano he practiced on, the places he used when he and Blanche played hide-and-seek, a few framed photographs of himself and his sister. When there’s nothing else interesting enough to see, he asks if she’s ready to go back downstairs.
“I suppose. I want Richie.”
“We’ll go soon, I promise. We’re almost done.” He pats her bottom. “Once more into the breach.”
Rissy heaves a huge sigh and gives him a crooked smile. “Let’s go then.”
Stanhope invites Nix to stay the night again over whiskey. Rissy sits with her hands folded in her lap and ankles respectably crossed, sipping at a glass of wine. She’s quiet, just listening to the superficial exchange between the men. After fifteen or so minutes, Rissy excuses herself. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Nix’s father turns to him.
“Your little milk maid knows how to behave herself.”
“Don't.” Nix sets his glass down so hard the whiskey nearly sloshes onto the table. He picks up his cigarette, inhales, and stubs it out. Rissy milked cows, but her mother also taught her to be a lady and her father taught her the value of intelligence. She has pretty manners and she is kind and loving and brave, which is more than he can say for his own father.
“She's got you now. And you’re sure--?” There is no polite response to that.
“Yes.” The one word comes out as a hiss between clenched teeth. Nix’s pulse beats in his temple.
“You don’t have to marry that girl.”
“I know.” He finishes what’s left in his glass in one swallow. His face is warm, he feels flushed. “But that’s what I’m going to do, because that’s what I want.”
When he looks up, Rissy is in the doorway holding Richie. He’s awake, a pink-cheeked cherub with a shock of dark hair and chubby arms. He sees Nix and a gummy smile breaks across his little face, then he yawns.
“He's tired, Lew.”
“We can’t have that. It’s time to take him back, then.” Nix gets to his feet. “Good night, Dad.” He tries to smile but it feels like a grimace.
“You need someone to drive, don’t you? You still like your whiskey, that hasn’t changed.”
For expedience's sake, Nix takes the offer of the car. He doesn’t care if it’s a dig at his alcohol consumption or his lack of planning, or if his father just wants to be rid of him. Nix wants to get Rissy and their baby out of this nightmare of an evening.
“Good-night, Lewis.” As an afterthought, he adds, “It was nice to meet you, Miss Mitchell.”
“Likewise.” Her response is perfectly correct, but her voice says the evening wasn’t nice at all.
When they are finally alone again, on their way back to their rooms, Nix asks her if she’s sure she wants to marry into that. He’s only partly kidding.
“I’m sure I want to marry you. I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” she tells him.
Nix watches the city lights from the armchair while Rissy tucks their son into his bassinette. He wonders sometimes if he's too much his father’s son. Self-indulgent and self-serving. Selfish. He can be a little pretentious, petulant sometimes--but can’t be all that bad. If he worries about it, he probably isn't. He hopes.
Nix draws smoke into his lungs, letting it out in a hazy exhale. It floats over his head and hangs there.
Rissy is silhouetted in the doorway, just watching him. Her unpinned hair falls down around her shoulders in curls. There’s just enough light from the window to see her lips curve upward. Her red lipstick is the only color. It’s like living in a film noir.
The tender smile turns into a puzzled frowned. She comes to him with doe-like steps, climbs into his lap to straddle him. Her dress puddles around her thighs, exposing bare skin and garters above her stockings. The blue velvet is soft under Nix’s hands but the dress itself is more structured than anything he’s ever seen her wear. He holds her waist and gazes up at her. Whatever she sees in his face has her concerned.
“What’s wrong?” Her fingers skate up his neck, to play with the short hairs at the nape. It feels nice, soothing and familiar.
“Rissy, I never--I mean, I treat you well, don't I?”
“Of course you do.”
He turns his face to her throat so his voice is muffled. He doesn’t want to look at her while he asks his question. “Even though sometimes--when we're in bed--because it's only--”
“Lew, it's a game we play that we both enjoy. That's all it is--you--you love me so much.” She pulls him closer, and he can hear her heart. “Don’t you think I know that?” She presses her lips to the crown of his head. “You’re a good man.”
“I don't want to be like him.”
“You're not.” His cheek rests on velvet the color of the sky at midnight over summer fields. It reminds him of one she used to have, one she wore until it was too worn to wear anymore. It had been simpler then, in a way, when they were just two people. It's strange to see her in a suit--or a dress like this one--her clothes had always been more sweet than chic, when they weren’t plain and utilitarian. He misses the soft colors and light fabrics.
“Rissy, I--” He has no idea what he's about to say, but that's alright, she takes care of that.
“Shh, my baby.” Her fingertips trace his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lip. “Shh, I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Richie starts to cry.
“Our lord and master calls.” She looks back over her shoulder. “They said he was very good. He hardly fussed at all, so I suppose he can cry a little now.”
In the bedroom, Rissy strips the dress off and lays it over a chair. The slip and stockings and a few underthings join it. Once she’s in nothing but her panties she looks like his Rissy again.
The three of them lie in the bed, the baby nurses, Nix and Rissy murmur back and forth over his head. Rissy’s words start to space out, and before long both Richie and his mother are asleep. Nix picks up his son’s heavy little body up and lays him in the hotel's bassinet. Once his son is tucked in, Nix stands between the bed and the bassinette in underwear and bare feet.
He wants a drink. The Vat 69 is calling him. Just one, then he can come back to bed. It won’t take long.
He leans to kiss Rissy’s cheek. The corner of her mouth, the one that he can see, turns up in a half-smile. “Love you, Lew,” she sighs, but her eyes stay closed and her breathing is still deep and regular. Her words are slurred with sleep, but he can decipher them.
Nix is torn. He wants his whiskey, but drinking alone in the dark doesn’t hold any appeal tonight. On the other hand, he’d be warm in bed, the sheets are of a ridiculously high thread count, the pillows have been fluffed. And the girl thinks of him even when she’s sleeping. That decides it. He scoots close enough to feel the heat rising from her skin. It still takes him a long time to fall asleep.
In the morning, Nix goes through the ritual of showering, shaving and dressing in his own room again. He frowns at himself in the mirror when he’s done. This is just an interim, he’s ready for his real life to begin. He's tired of living out of bags and foot lockers, he doesn’t want to live out of a hotel. Tomorrow, he'll take Rissy to the house in Nixon that he and Kathy never moved into; they can do it up however she likes. He'll stay there and he’ll find her a little place to live in until they’re married. Nix has a feeling he might spend more than a few nights there himself.
Taking Rissy clothes shopping is fun. She watches him get measured, helps select the shirts and shoes and neckties, the various underthings and other necessary items. She’s the one who has to look at him. Then comes the more casual clothing. Most of it is in blues and grays, nothing dull olive or a brown darker than khaki.
Once he’s got everything he needs, they buy a few things for her, even though she protests. He has to stop her from looking at the price tags. One of her new dresses is pale yellow, sprigged with muguet. The skirt will flare out if she twirls--not too much, because the regulations for those things are still in place. The kind of thing he imagined her in, pretty and fresh.
Before dinner, Nix showers again. The seemingly endless supply of hot water, soap that doesn’t leave your skin dry, and the warm towel for his face after shaving are all still novelties. So is not having to worry that you’ll be sent somewhere to freeze your ass off or sweat to death while trying not to die. It won’t take long to get used to the comforts of post-war life, other aspects will take more time.
He leaves the bathroom naked and clean. Nix’s body bears no real scars, everything is in place, it’s well-muscled and lean. (Though not as lean as it had been.) His Army uniform is where he left it, crumpled on the as-yet-unslept-in bed. He picks it up piece-by-piece, places each item carefully on a hanger, and hangs it in the closet. The shoes go beneath the trousers, the hat on the shelf above the single set of clothes hanging inside. Then he shuts the door on them.
The socks and dull green undershorts get discarded. He’s not sentimental over those at all.
Rissy understood that he needed to do this alone. It wasn’t just putting on clothing, it was a process of shedding years, seeing what fit from before and what did not, deciding what should be culled and what should be kept. The yield from this afternoon’s shopping wasn’t over-much; Nix didn't really want too many choices. He dresses slowly, one item at a time, underpants and socks, grey flannel trousers and a crisp blue shirt, so pale it could almost be white. Striped tie, belt of fragrant leather. And finally shoes. All things with no history. He is dressed in civilian clothes from the skin out for the first time in three years.
Nix combs his hair once more, just to keep his mind occupied while he gets accustomed to his reflection. He fixes the part the way he likes--his hair is still in a regulation cut, but it suits him. There's nothing left to do. He is hungry and the woman and child who love him are waiting, right across the hall, behind a door with little brass numbers on it.
He takes a deep breath, ignores the bottle on the desk, and steps into the hall. The key to her room is burning a hole in his pocket, but he knocks anyway.