Archive of Our Own

The first time that Carwood Lipton kissed him should’ve been the last.

There was no one Speirs could blame but himself. It had been Speirs who secured a Mercedes cabriolet, much to a joyriding replacement’s dismay; it had been Speirs who stopped the car dead in its tracks at the sight of a lonely lieutenant making his morning round, Speirs who urged him to get in like the irresponsible devil on Lipton’s dutiful shoulders, him who geared up the engine and sped up the more Lipton laughed and shook his head. 

His wandering had led them to a clearing in the woods south of Berchtesgaden, a lake of crystalline waters at their feet crowned by the quiet blue skies of an early morning in May. Every sound, every smell, sensation and sight from that day was carved into his memory. The chirping of birds and the parting of the waters that made way for their weary bodies, kissing scars and washing pains away with the gentleness of spring— one forgotten in the depths of winter, seemingly unattainable but blooming before their eyes, in their lungs, pumping in their veins. The same pleasant warmth as that which pooled in Ron’s chest with every word and smile from his lieutenant’s lips. It was the taste of them that Ron remembered most vividly: still sweet with the taste of freshly-picked cherries, a little chapped underneath, warm and alive and pressing smiles into Ron’s before they opened slowly, tentatively. And all, all tenderness.

He tastes of peacetime, Ron had thought then, his trembling hand emerging to find Carwood’s face.

It should’ve ended at that. A giddy kiss on the summer’s prologue, with the promise of victory peeking over the horizon making them act like fools, a memory of youth never to be shared. Something that his future kids would never know, something that he’d push out of his mind come nightfall. Moments like those were never meant for the history books. Men like them weren’t.

But when Speirs opened his eyes again, he’d seen his downfall sculpted in Carwood’s face. The warmest of smiles greeted him, one that touched those hazel eyes that glimmered in the sunlight, full of hope and promises. Water droplets were falling from his hair down to his cheeks, catching on the scarred skin on the right side of his face. Beautiful as a vision and sweet as honey— resistance was futile.

“Ron,” his second lieutenant had whispered his name for the first time. “I had been dying to—” Lipton had kissed him again, shallow and swift this time, as if he could not help it. Ron should’ve never kissed him back. They were nose to nose when he spoke again, “Yes?”

For a split second, his throat closed up, choked with the certainty of danger and facing one truth too many about himself. Underwater, Lipton’s body— that toned, well-defined body that stole Ron’s attention and breath with insulting ease— slid closer to his, a strong hand finding his hip to tentatively pull him in.

There was nothing Ron could’ve denied him then. His lips were back on Carwood’s in less than the space between breaths, his arms wrapped around Carwood’s neck, and he was saying yes, yes, yes.

They had barely made it back to the car, let alone their billet. Later, Speirs had been ordered to turn the Mercedes over to regiment, and Lipton had laughed and shook his head once more as his captain encouraged Talbert to test the car’s bulletproof quality before it tragically fell off a cliff.

All summer long, Carwood Lipton kissed away his shame between Alpine mountains and sateen sheets. How patient he had been, even when Speirs’ fears got the better of him, even when he was pushed away, even when Speirs flinched at his touch. They had been so young, stealing away glances and moments of respite, drunk on victory and the promise of home and the soothing arms of a lover. A picture-perfect dream, the kind that didn’t last.

On the night Carwood told him he loved him, they were lying chest to chest, tangled together in a safe embrace, months away from the cold of war. His mouth had gone dry and a bitterness had crept up his throat— it was at that moment when Ron had known: he could not stay.

Ronald Speirs took the army for a lover and condemned himself to oblivion in Lipton’s memory. Ten years and another war later, the look on Carwood’s face when he heard his choice still haunted him. Those kind, caring features, fractured like broken china, turned supplicant and streaked with treacherous tears.

(This doesn’t have to be the end, Carwood had bargained. Not once did he ask to be chosen over duty. I’ll write. I’ll see you when you return. I’ll wait. It wouldn’t have been right, it wouldn’t have been fair. Ron, I swear.)

Lipton returned stateside. Speirs never said goodbye.

When Speirs thought of him now, that was the face he saw, that of a man who should’ve never been his to break, twisted with betrayal and resignation. And yet he remained the only person who could splatter a few words in ink and have Ron crossing states, even after a decade of being strangers.

The letter Lipton had sent him was tucked away neatly between the pages of the book on his duffle bag. It was addressed to Major Speirs , not Dear Ron like the ones that had gone unanswered back in ‘46. Time and distance had done away with familiarity, but Ron still heeded the call and was now on a train to Pittsburg, hours away from attending his first Easy Company reunion.

His hands were sweating as the locomotive came to a stop. The golden band around his ring finger felt tighter than ever. Alice had not wanted to travel in her state, and Ron couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved. 

The morning breeze eased his mind as he made his way through town. Even after almost two years of being stationed in the States, Speirs had never managed to climb the invisible wall that seemed to separate him from civilians. As if he were a ghost, or trapped inside a glass cage no one else appeared to notice, screaming voicelessly. It had started after he returned from Europe, and only gotten worse after his last deployment. On the rare occasion that he was home in Boston for more than a weekend at a time, the day-to-day outside of a military base was like peeking at another life, one removed from this universe, one that didn’t belong to him. One of a man who wouldn’t be leaving his wife in tears in a few weeks at best— it had been so long since Alice last begged him not to. With the army, the feeling vanished; beyond the access control point there was no doubt, no unease, no mourning the dead nor the living. There was only a man who bore his face but none of his burdens, a ranking officer who the men respected and stood at attention for; somebody who was seen, but not exposed. 

The hotel chosen to hold Easy’s ten-year reunion was a grand, red-bricked thing. It was rather extravagant, with high ceilings painted pale gold and a detailed glass chandelier looming over the reception. A sense of dread draped over him as he navigated the halls, but by dumb luck, he found no familiar faces on his way.

Speirs hadn’t been one for keeping in touch. Before the war ended, he’d made a point of knowing all the fortunes and misfortunes of his soldiers and fellow officers, writing to those who were in hospital, encouraging the veterans to take furloughs, being present so the men of Easy would see him as one of their own, even if he hadn’t been with them from the start. That side of him, as many others, he’d left buried somewhere in Austria. Plenty had written to him over the years. By now, most of the men he’d fought side by side with would’ve all but forgotten his name were it not for the rumors attached to it, he reckoned— none of them had heard of or seen their former Captain since the war ended. Only Winters, who made sure to write at least once or twice a year, knew what had become of him. 

Ron sighed and lit up a cigarette, staring absent-mindedly at the suit he had laid out for the night, a gray two-piece with thin striped lines. It was almost a costume, an artificial skin so he could resemble the young man they had known for a night without the weight of his dress uniform. Alice had loved it once, the suit and the man.

All the love he’d found he had killed.

In the evening, after a short walk and an overpriced meal, Ron made himself presentable and tried not to stare in the mirror more than what was strictly necessary. After a careful shave and combing his hair back, the tiredness that always haunted his expression was almost erased from his features. The bags under his eyes weren’t, but that was a fight he’d given up on long ago.

Soon, those who had been his men, his brothers, would see him, take in the sight of their old commander who had become an absolute stranger to them. Ever the odd one out, he’d written himself out of the company and knew precious little of the others’ fates except for what he managed to remember from Winters’ letters— he was no longer living in New Jersey, which surprised him, and Nixon was to remarry soon, and Harry’s son would be turning nine that year. It had been a delight to hear that Grant had made it.

Winters never mentioned Lipton in his letters. Maybe he’d known more than he let on, and the idea lurked at the edges of Ron’s conscience from time to time, terrible and paralyzing. 

Feeling rather exposed out of uniform, Ron pushed the thought out of his mind and made his way downstairs half an hour earlier. A small crowd was already gathered in the reception, the sound of chatter and anticipated reunions pouring through the halls. The first one Ron made out was no other than George Luz, who had a cigarette peeking from that sly fox smile that so often decorated his face and whose voice roared highest.

“How magnanimous of you to grace us with your presence, Buck!” Luz was hollering at Compton, loud enough for all to hear. “To what do we owe the honor, detective?”

“Ten bucks says you don’t even know what that word means,” Joe Toye muttered. Ron hadn’t known him well personally, but recognized him as the one lucky bastard his men had told stories of. 

Compton was informing Luz he was a deputy attorney now, thank you very much, when Ron silently made his way over to the group. Amongst them were Winters, with a soft smile painted on his face, Malarkey, and Randelman. 

“Now my eyes must truly be deceiving me,” Luz said, rubbing his eyes for effect. “Have I lost my mind or is that really you, Captain?”

All of them turned their heads toward him at once, each with a different level of surprise painted on their faces. Ron made a little show of extending his arms and giving a humble mock of a bow.

Winters was the first to smile, his eyebrows perked up for a second. “I believe it’s Major, now, isn’t it?” he corrected gently, reaching out to shake Ron’s hand while Buck teased Luz for being down on his luck that day. “It’s good to see you, Speirs.”

“Likewise. It’d been too long,” Ron replied, not letting the edge of regret bleed into his voice. He greeted each of them individually, exchanging pleasantries, surprisingly settling well into the comfort of their company. “How is Pennsylvania treating you, Dick?”

A shadow crossed Winters’ eyes for but a moment. “I can’t complain. The farm is coming along rather nicely, and I’ve been doing well for myself. It’s peaceful here, I like it.”

“Now that’s a man who’s ending up exactly as I woulda pictured,” Bull pitched in.

The interest moved to Winters, fluctuating between them as Buck politely asked him about Korea and Ron answered just enough to brush it off quickly, redirecting the attention towards Winters and how he had avoided being deployed. It had been grim. The rightfulness of ending the war in Europe had been absent. He tried not to think about it.

The reception was filled with familiar faces as they waited to go into the ballroom. Ron had been discreetly scanning the room, anxiety boiling in his chest. It was ridiculous. It had been a decade. How was Lipton’s presence or absence still capable of rattling him?

Ron excused himself when he made out Grant in the crowd. The last time he’d seen the Sergeant he’d been lying unconscious on a stretcher after his surgery, waiting to be evacuated. Now, he was laughing alongside Alton More, wearing his old uniform and looking perfectly healthy except for the arm held up by an orthopedic brace.

“Sergeant Grant,” Speirs said in greeting, holding out his hand. “You look well.”

Grant’s eyes lit up at the sight of him, which eased his nerves somewhat. “Captain Speirs! I hadn’t caught you in any of these before,” he commented, gesturing around the gathering before shaking the hand extended out to him with his left. “I never got the chance to thank you properly, sir.”

Ron waved it off. Grant had expressed his gratitude, most vehemently, in a letter, a year after the war ended. That one Speirs had responded to, and kept home alongside the others.

“Don’t mention it. I’m just glad to see you doing well. How has life treated you since?”

He listened intently as Grant recounted his long recovery, one that had luckily gone smoothly and only left him with a paralyzed arm and some minor speech impediment; how he’d found himself a wife and made a happy home. Ron felt genuinely happy for his good fortune, with no ugly envy beneath.

“Without you, I wouldn’t have any of it, sir,” he kept saying, ignoring Ron’s calls to drop the title. “Not a day has gone by where I was not grateful.”

More had been politely silent during their exchange. Ron gave him a look, appreciative but eager to switch the subject from Grant’s gratitude. “And More, how are those Hitler photo albums faring?”

The private smirked ruefully, like a child who had been caught in a lie after thinking he got away with it. “I still don’t have a clue where they ended up, sir.”

“Aha,” Speirs breathed, but he was smirking too.

Just when he was securing his footing in the situation and starting to curse himself for never attending before, the doors to the hotel swung open, twisting his stomach into knots.

Harry Welsh waltzed in with an arm draped over Lipton's shoulders, who had his over the smaller man in return and looked at him with a smile painted on his face.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut as if shots had been fired.

“Boys, look who I found doing his necktie in his rearview mirror! Our very own Lieutenant Lipton!” Harry proclaimed, cheerful as if he was already drunk, then stopped, noticing the group Speirs was in with Winters and some of the other officers that had arrived. “Oh, damn it, Lip, they have me beaten. How’d you get a hold of that, Dick?”

The room was positively bustling now, mere minutes from the official reunion time. Over two dozen men were gathered in the lobby, some with their wives and children at their side, and the other guests looked at them with curiosity as they walked in and out. There was laughter all around, chatter and cheerfulness as the men welcomed the embrace of old friends; smoke tainted the clean air of the hotel, making it indistinguishable from that in a war-torn house in Germany, had it not been a June night. A time capsule, contained in the warmth of their bonds to one another and a hotel in Pittsburg. Fragile, temporary, slipping through their fingers with every tick of the clock.

Ron would’ve sworn he couldn’t hear, feel, sense or see a damn thing. In but a few weeks, he would forget all the little details; the hand Winters had clasped on his shoulder, the roaring of his men, the smell of the tulips in the lobby buried in their golden ornamented flowerpots, and the red carpet meandering down the marble stairs like a cascade of blood.

All of it felt distant like the background of a dream, one that can be seen but never remembered or touched. The moment he met Carwood’s gaze everything else vanished,  the dam he’d constructed over the years to keep the memory of him sealed away began to crack like porcelain with a mere look. Ron was only vaguely aware that Carwood and Welsh were walking towards the group, still laughing and holding each other, but he was frozen, replaying how the smile on Carwood’s mouth had faltered almost imperceptibly at the sight of him.

Carwood hadn’t expected him to show up. That Ron couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or disappointed wasn’t helping— once upon a time, he’d known all of Carwood’s tells, but the man in front of him was a stranger.

A couple of pats on his back and Winters’ voice brought him back to Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. “Well, it took a little know-how and years of insisting, but it wouldn’t have done to be without our old captain on the tenth anniversary of D-Day, would it?”

Ron made an effort to school his face into something respectable, though if he succeded he’d never know. His voice sounded like someone else’s in his ears. “Harry Welsh,” he managed a smile, holding out his hand. “Where’d you leave your dear Kitty?”

“I wouldn’t bring her to this crows’ feast for the world,” Harry joked, making a face as he took Ron’s hand only to pull him into a hug. “Kind of you to finally show up around here, Sparky. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” he mumbled in response, then Harry moved on to greet the rest of the men. There was an awkward pause as he waited for Carwood to be free of Luz’s most enthusiastic welcome. Watching them made Ron smile despite himself— he had hardly managed to get a word in since Luz got a hold of him, but Lipton still laughed just as softly, and the radioman teased him as if time hadn’t passed between them. 

Age had been kind to Lipton. He didn’t look a day older than he had ten years ago, even if his smile lines were more pronounced and his face was slightly rounder from years of good health. The scar that used to be on his cheek was impossible to make out now, Ron noted with a pang of sadness. He thought of waterdrops, a lake in Austria, and an old Mercedes.

Finally, Carwood rid himself of George’s ceaseless chatter and turned to face him. A smile spread on his lips, and Ron knew it to be genuine. His heart skipped a beat.

“Major Speirs,” Carwood said, shaking the hand Ron held out for him and blanketing it with his other. His hands were soft now, not cracked from the cold or calloused from hard work, and Ron held onto them for a moment too long. The distinct lack of a ring on them didn’t escape him. “I’m glad you made it, sir.”

The title put distance between them and felt familiar at once. All too late, Ron realized the only way Carwood would have to be aware of his new rank was through Winters. A lump of confusion, hope and unease in equal parts formed in his throat.

Still, a fondness appeared in Ron’s green eyes. “Must we have this conversation again after all this time, Lieutenant?”

Carwood laughed with his mouth closed, deep in his throat, and it dissipated some of the tension between them. Ron’s hand was still held between his. “Well, you remain in the army. And it has been a long time. You look well, Ron.”

Did he? Had he ever looked, or felt, happy and well since—

Ron killed that train of thought, and let go of Carwood’s hands at last.

Carwood sure did. His face was clean-shaven and clear, and the bags he’d had under his eyes during the war were gone along with his scar. The suit he wore looked to be of an even higher quality than Ron’s, if not the same— it was almond brown and tailored to fit perfectly around Lipton’s broad shoulders, with a blue and white necktie in the middle, a testament of just how well life was treating him. 

“You too, Carwood. Things have gone well for you, I hope?”

The hope was genuine. A good life for Carwood was all he had wanted back on that cursed summer night, and he would not resent it now.

“I can’t complain. I have a good position in a glass-making company, and I’m living up in Syracuse. Things are good,” he nodded, looking away for a second with a tight-lipped smile. The conversation around them slowly started to fade out as the men headed into the ballroom. “I hear you’ve done well for yourself as well, Major. Congratulations.”

The assumption spared Ron an unwanted conversation, and he was grateful for it. It would come up, eventually, his wife and the child they had on the way, but hopefully by the time it did Ron would have enough alcohol in his bloodstream to drown out the dread it made him feel. Guilt crept up on him at the thought.

A nod was all he gave Lipton for an answer. “Shall we?” he prompted, gesturing to the men pouring into the ballroom. 

Once inside, Harry somehow materialized at Ron’s side, dragging him away to demand an explanation for going AWOL for so long. When questioned about who he was meant to request official leave from exactly, Harry just answered, “Me, of course. Though I wouldn’t have approved it.”

They sat together at one of the tables closest to the stage, on the opposite side of the bar. Guarnere gave a brief speech in honor of the 10th anniversary of the company being dissolved. He had taken to running the reunions, Winters had mentioned, and he spoke fiercely and emotionally of their time together, their time apart, and ended it with a toast to the fallen and to those who remained. And, of course, a rallying cry of Currahee!

It was still early in the evening, but most of the men who indulged had a drink in hand shortly after the speech ended, congregating in different groups around the tables. Ron had a whiskey in his, and ended up at a table alongside Harry, Winters, Buck, Luz, and Carwood. He made an effort to focus on anyone but the latter, intentionally striking conversation with the rest, although it was quickly made clear that Carwood still managed to steal his attention without even trying. 

The details of Compton’s latest case slipped through his head in favor of what he could overhear from the other side of the table. So far, Ron had learned that Lipton had taken an interest in wood carving over the years and had a small wooden zoo of his own making at home, that he had lived in four different cities in the past five years but tried to spend his summers home in Huntington, and that his mother was recovering from a minor debridement surgery on her calf and he had been driving to see her every other weekend since. 

Carwood Lipton might not have been a man he knew then, but he had changed little, and there was comfort in that. The years had refined his features, made his smile shed the boyish aspect it had possessed in the Alps and grow more dignified, more confident. His laughter still echoed softly in Ron’s head like languid notes from a guitar string, and his face was as kind as it had ever been while he listened to the men, promising to sculpt a little something for Winters’ new farm, asking Harry about his son’s baseball practice and Buck about his wife’s health.

Harry saw his chance to snoop after that. “Speaking of, how come I still don’t see a wedding band around your finger, Lip? Still playing hard to get?”

Ron downed what was left of his third (third? third sounded right) drink and didn’t even attempt to conceal his interest, although he tried not to stare too directly at Lipton. 

If he felt Ron’s eyes on him— which he did, certainly; hell, there had been times, what felt like a lifetime ago, where he had caught his captain staring from a balcony and met his eyes with a grin from below—, Carwood gave no signs. Neither did the question appear to make him uncomfortable in the slightest.

“If I know our Lip at all, he’s married to the job,” Luz cut in before giving he got a chance to speak.

Carwood shook his head, but conceded, “Pretty much, yeah. I’ve been moving around a lot lately so marriage hasn’t really been on my radar, that’s all.” 

Ron couldn’t help but wonder if he was lonely, and kept discovering that time and distance hadn’t sealed away his remorse for good. He wondered if Carwood had taken other lovers, if weeks went by without Ron crossing his mind at all. But he figured it didn’t matter much, married or not. For the past decade, loneliness had been a vise that never let go of him, not in the warmth of his men nor on his wedding day. Carwood seemed perfectly content without a ring, and Ron was miserable with his.

It had all been for nothing.

“My wife would kill me if I tried to drag her from Warwick,” Luz puffed out around a cigarette. “Swear there’s nothing to do there, but she loves it more than she does me.”

“I think she just needs some peace and quiet given she’s married to you, Luz,” Carwood said, and Luz put a hand on his chest like it was the greatest offense he’d ever heard.

Laughing cost Ron dearly. Harry pointed a finger at him. “And how about you, Sparky? C’mon, I see it, drop the air of mystery. When’d that happen? And why wasn’t I invited?”

Absent-mindedly, Ron fidgeted with the ring on his left hand, smiling with his mouth closed. He saw Lipton’s eyes drop to his hand, as if he had only just noticed the wedding band, and they lingered on Ron while he spoke. “Two years ago now.” Somehow, it felt like he was speaking about someone else’s life, as if he’d lived his marriage through another man’s eyes. “Time flies. Huh, her name is Alice, we met when I returned from Korea. Married shortly after.”

“Truly spared no detail there, Captain,” Luz teased, earning himself some laughs.

“We’re expecting a child,” Ron announced, his gaze on the rim of his empty glass. “Alice didn’t want to travel while… yeah.”

The table erupted in congratulations and cut him off. Suddenly, Ron was surrounded by smiling faces, friendly teasing, and supportive pats falling on his back. That he was going to be a father still sounded unreal, an intangible thing far removed from the Major that he was— all he was ever supposed to be. Although the memory of Alice throwing her arms around him the second he opened the door, her parents crying with joy in their living room, was vivid like the sun on an August day. That had been two weeks ago, and whether it brought him that same boundless happiness he couldn’t say.

Between platitudes, thank yous, and practiced smiles, Ron spared a look at Carwood, unsure what he expected or hoped to find there. There was a smile on Carwood’s lips that touched his eyes that Ron wasn’t sure how to read.

When the conversation moved on, Ron excused himself and got another drink, one that he downed on the spot before getting another. His head started to swim, barely following the conversation he knew himself to be having with John Martin at the bar. His mind was anywhere but. Over the course of the night, it had dawned on him that his absence from previous reunions had been both noticed and grieved. The men stopped by at the sight of him, greeted him enthusiastically, and insisted on sharing a drink or a smoke— the latter between teasing grins. All those nights he’d missed that he’d never get back hurt more the more he drank.

A long-buried ache clawed itself out of its grave. Watching the table he’d been sitting at from the bar, he could almost see the ghost of the man he had been before the tides of life washed over him and left him poisoned with wars and longings and regrets. A young Ronald Speirs, joking with his fellow officers over poker, with victory secured in his hands and just as eager to return home as he had been to touch the man in front of him, seemed to look sadly back at him, asking— for what?  

Fear was a soldier’s most insidious enemy. It made its way up one’s throat at crucial moments, left them petrified, then nestled in their bones and made them most vulnerable, ready for the kill. At war, Ron rid himself of it, of all instincts of self-preservation, and focused on reaching the objective at all costs; nothing else mattered. But peacetime had a more vicious way with him, with its seemingly false sense of safety and the dread of a future to build, full of things worth holding onto, worth living for.

Carwood had been his. His love had unmade him.

Ten years later, the hole Ron had carved out of his heart when he chose the army over that love was desolate, rotting away into necrotic tissue. A lifetime wouldn’t have been enough to fill his absence.

His glass was half-empty, and Ron had lost count. Hours had passed in minutes somehow. The sun was going down between the red maples on the gardens outside, and soon this little dream of Easy would disband, making the past unreachable once more.

Ron ran a hand through his hair, slumped over the bar counter, the sound of conversation and music around him distant. When he asked for another drink, sliding over his glass until it almost danced off the edge, the bartender questioned it. Then Speirs fixed him with a glare, the kind that he gave unruly privates to set them on the straight and narrow and that had the young man behind the counter shifting under it, there were no more suggestions.

There was a mirror on the bar wall that Ron was starting to resent. The ballroom was barely visible in its reflection, obstructed by bottles of alcohol, but he could make himself out between them, miserable and old with the reunion in full roar behind him. A couple of kids were running around between the tables, some of the married men had taken their darlings out for a dance, and there was laughter, laughter, so much laughter. It echoed in his head, made him bitter and lonely in that bustling place, and the whiskey didn’t drown out the feeling. Quite the contrary, in fact.

Maybe he was just addicted to that hurt.

After the bartender apprehensively handed him another glass, Ron felt a hand on his shoulder, and flinched away from the sudden touch as if he’d been tapped by the very devil.

Winters held his palms up. “Easy,” he smiled, as if he was taming a wild animal. Irritated, Ron looked back down at his glass, swaying what little liquid was left in it. “You wanna get some air? The smoke in this place’s a bit much for my liking.”

“I’m good.”

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging,” Winters said kindly, the hand returning to his shoulder, more carefully this time. “Just come out to the garden with me for a bit.”

“I said I’m good!”

It took a few seconds to realize just how much he had raised his voice. Some of the conversations in the bar went quiet, and Ron sensed the stares on his nape from the closest tables. It was Lipton’s eyes he felt on him most ardently, without needing to turn around to ensure they were on him. Shame came to him in waves, then anger, and finally he opted to get up and walk away with nothing but a whispered fuck .

People pretended to look away on his way out. Ron couldn’t say he cared— Lipton’s gaze followed him, whether with concern or reproach he couldn’t tell, but it was enough to shrink him to half of a man.

Winters hadn’t tried to follow him. Standing up so abruptly had made his vision hazy, but Speirs still stormed off towards the exit with as much dignity as he could muster— back straight, not stumbling, avoiding all eye contact.

A down-on-his-luck bastard had the misfortune of bumping into him on the door to the lobby. It was one of the men, but Speirs had forgotten his face. Ron’s shoulder had clashed violently with the man’s, but he didn’t bother stopping. His single-minded objective was getting out of that room crawling with Christmas-past ghosts.

“Watch where you’re going, Christ!” a voice called behind him, and Ron knew turning around was a mistake, even as the man’s resolutive face crumbled under his blank stare, even as he stepped forward to grab him by the lapels of his dress uniform and knocked him into the wall by the doorframe with a heavy thud.

Before the man’s head hit the paneled wall, there was a chorus of hey, hey, what the fuck’s your problem, get off him, around him, but it faded into the background, and Ron was only vaguely aware of it. His breathing shuddered, and he saw his hands tremble where they were fisted into the fabric of the other soldier’s dress uniform, his knuckles white. The man was pushing back against him, struggling with Ron’s wrists to keep him at bay without much use.

Throw the first punch, Ron thought, please.

It wasn’t a mirror, but the man’s hair was dark and with his uniform on it was almost a match.

Speirs had to leave. He knew that. He’d already tainted the jolly gathering enough with his bittering presence— it was always going to be this; horror, otherness, and belligerence. Just as he started to loosen his grip on the man, he felt two hands on him, forcefully shoving him away. Ron didn’t resist.

Randleman was staring him down, stepping between him and whoever the man was.

“Walk it off, Speirs,” Bull barked around his cigar. “Go.”

There was no challenge there, just a warning. Ron tried and failed to come up with a response, clenching his jaw. The reunion had quieted down significantly as most watched the commotion, their stares like daggers cutting Speirs to shreds. He felt the urge to just run. 

Instead, he nodded belatedly, mumbled something that wasn’t an apology, and dragged himself back to his room with too much alcohol in his blood and more shame than he’d ever known.

The room he was staying in was elegant and fancy and disgusting. All beige and brown tones with some splashes of orange and gold here and there. Ron hated everything about it, hated everything about that night, and every decision he’d ever made.

Exhausted from traveling and drinking and remembering, he collapsed against a wall, then let his weary legs give out and flopped down to the floor before throwing his shoes away as if they were to blame for bringing him here. The room was on the third floor and silent like a grave, felt like one too, too far from the reunion dying downstairs.

For long, long minutes, Ron just sat there, alone with his regrets and his pounding head. He should’ve known, he kept thinking. What the hell had he expected? Some people just weren’t made for living, and Speirs should’ve haunted forests in Belgium rather than his own home.

After what felt like an eternity— but couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes—, he heard a gentle knock, the door that had been left ajar creaking open inch by inch, and his name called, pulling him out of his trance-like state. Raising his head from where it had been nestled on his knees, Ron looked up, his eyes watery and vision cloudy.

Carwood was there, like a holy apparition, and the anger on his face quickly gave way to concern when he saw him.

Ron pressed his eyes shut again, dropping his head. 

“Ron,” Carwood repeated, and a second later he was shutting the door and crossing the room to come to his side. “Are you— are you alright? What on earth was that, Ron?”

It was the last thing he’d wanted, for Carwood to see him like that, ripped open at the seams and misery pouring out of his every pore. To know he had tried and failed to live without him. For Carwood to see him , the way only he ever had.

“Go away,” he mumbled, still refusing to look at Lipton. 

“No,” came the simple answer, the kind that left no room for argument and would not be deterred. “You’re lucky Shifty didn’t escalate things. And he would’ve been within his right to. Picking a fight, really? This isn’t like you, Ron.”

A humorless laugh escaped Ron’s lips, and he finally opened his eyes, if only to look away. “Oh, you know what’s like me now?”

Carwood sighed, exasperated, armed with that never-ending patience of a sergeant. “Yes, I know you. Or I did, once.” His voice was calm, even, but Ron felt something in him shatter all the same, just when he thought there was nothing but ruin left. Carwood crouched down next to him, and he turned his face further away. “Can you at least look at me?”

Still the gentle but firm touch of his army voice. Ron couldn’t bear it.

“I don’t want to,” he muttered like a little kid, and his own voice sounded fragile and pathetic to his ears.

“Ron,” Lipton repeated once more, and each time his name dug deeper, ached more mercilessly. How lovingly it had been spoken, once. How exasperated it sounded the next time, punctuated with Carwood’s hand cupping his cheek carefully but decidedly, forcing Ron to face him. “Goddamnit, Ron, look at me!”

The touch burned almost like acid, unyielding, seeping into his very bones. A gasp escaped Ron when confronted with the sight of him, a shaky, pitiful gasp, accompanied with tears welling up in his eyes.

There it was— the determination, the confidence, and the undeniable beauty of Carwood’s face, rightful and wrathful like an archangel’s. His must’ve been twisted into something ugly, and it made Carwood’s soften ever so slightly.

“What?” Ron barked, but it wasn’t a question. Just one last time, he had to push Lipton away. It should be easier, now.

It was anything but easy.

“What is this, Ron? What are you doing?”

Ron just shook his head, ignoring his concerns. “Coming here was a mistake.”

Carwood’s eyes dropped for only a moment, masking the disappointment in them with a solemn nod. Blinking, Ron tried to hold back the tears threatening to expose him fully; a vain effort, he knew. Carwood knew.

“Well, why did you?” Lipton asked, locking his gaze on Ron’s. His tone was somewhere between hurt and anger and ached like being torn apart. “You could’ve ignored that letter like you did all others.”

That hurt. Ron reckoned he deserved it, the resentment, the disappointed look in Carwood’s eyes, the pain in his voice. Hell, how could he even fault Carwood for hating him? He had every right to. 

Ron remembered— a morning in a lake, a summer of bliss, a night that turned grim. The heart of his lover, entrusted to him, shattered in his hands.

He never expected Carwood to understand that sacrifice. And still—

“I wanted…” he started, dumbly and drunkenly, voice cracking. “I never said goodbye.”

Carwood blinked, a soft snort coming from deep in his throat. Ron hid behind the hand that still cupped his cheek. The dam would come crashing down any second now.

“You came here to… say goodbye? To me?” he asked in disbelief. “A little late for that now, isn’t it?”

In broken bits, Ron met his eyes once again. They were clouded in something that didn’t belong in Carwood’s expression, ever bright like the sun shining over lake waters. Ron never wanted to be responsible for that look again, and it moved him to try to explain, to try to make him understand. His words felt clumsy pouring out of his mouth, slurred by the whiskey in his veins.

“I wanted to. In France,” he whimpered. His lips trembled when a thumb grazed their corner. “The morning you left. When you knocked, I heard… I sat by the door until you left. I feared— feared I would give in. Leave the army.”

The honesty, or maybe his broken tone, made Carwood consider him carefully, more than he had all night. There were ghosts in his face as he studied Ron’s. He audibly swallowed a lump in his throat, half-asking, half-stating, “You didn’t want to stay.”

“No,” Ron laughed, unsmiling. “No, I never wanted— I was scared.”

A sigh left Lipton, one heavy with pain and understanding. Then a whisper, so gentle it belonged in a room in Austria, not here, a decade after and a world between them— “God, Ron.”

It seemed to say: you could’ve talked to me. Ron had always known, deep down, that was what Carwood would’ve told him, with kindness and swallowed sadness. He had grappled with shame and duty plenty back then, but Carwood had never faulted him for it.

(I understand, he had gently told Ron once, after the words dirty and impure found their way out of his throat somehow, flooding him with regret as soon as they were spoken. We’ve all felt that, I believe, at one point or another. But we’re not dirty, he kept saying, both of his hands holding Speirs in one piece. We’re not dirty.)

“I was scared,” Ron admitted again in a low, guttural voice, and a single tear broke loose down his cheek. “Scared, and ashamed, and a coward.”

“Fighting was easier than living.”

Ron nodded wearily. “I haven’t lived a day since.”

Another hand found Ron’s shoulder, as if to keep him from falling apart. It was too late. From the second he laid eyes on Carwood Lipton, in a camp in Georgia, when their futures were uncertain and their hearts strangers, it had always been too late.

The room fell silent, its atmosphere loaded and tense, about to snap. Wordlessly, Ron reached a hand up to Carwood’s right wrist, pulling it mere inches from where it had been cupping his face. Ignoring the questioning look on the other’s face, he found the edge of his sleeve, pulling it back with shaky fingers.

Those scars had faded too. Relief tainted with yearning traveled through him, and Ron found himself pressing his thumb to Carwood’s radial artery, just to feel the pulse there, the proof of the life he’d given up his own for.

“Most of them have faded,” Carwood explained pointlessly. 

“Good,” Ron whispered, and meant it. War was behind Lipton, and its marks vanished, and the tendrils of the army couldn’t tarnish him anymore. “That’s good.”

Ron’s fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist for a long moment. If he let go, he might just shatter entirely, he thought. Carwood hooked his index under Ron’s jaw, raising his head. “Let’s get you up off the floor, c’mon.”

Despite Speirs’ attempt to refuse his help, Carwood helped him up, then held him in place when he swayed on his feet. That, too, was familiar— a room in Hagenau in the cold of winter, and God’s most stubborn First Sergeant who fell short of wrestling his superior over who should take the bed in their billet. Speirs had ended up sitting him down by force, with both of his hands on Lipton’s shoulders, barking out that another protest from his mouth would be considered insubordination. Lipton had smiled, Ron remembered that clear as day.

To Ron’s credit, he didn’t put up half a fight when led to the bed in his hotel room. He just sat down sheepishly, his shoulders slumped, and buried his face in his hands.

“You should go,” Ron tried, desperately, too close to being taken over by the tidal wave overflowing his defenses. His fingers tingled with the memory of Carwood’s skin. It made him look away again, to the desk, the mahogany wardrobe, and the moon outside the window, the only source of light in the room until Lipton turned on the lamp on the nightstand.

Instead of an answer, Carwood crossed his arms in front of him. 

“Straighten your back, Captain. It’s unbecoming.”

Ron choked out a dry laugh, caught off guard, and looked at him, amused, with a disbelieving smile despite how watery his eyes still were. Carwood waited on him.

“I’m fine, Carwood,” Ron promised weakly, knowing he wasn’t selling it but straightening his back for the attempt. “You don’t have to look after me. It’s not your job anymore.”

“It never was, and I did it all the same,” Carwood said easily, sitting down on the bed next to him at an appropriate distance, one that felt too great, unsalvageable. His eyes were intent on Ron's face, all-seeing and undoing. “I won’t leave you like this.”

“Carwood,” he began, but the rest of his protests and promises died on his throat. Instead, he watched Carwood’s hand fidget with the bedding, not nervously but as if looking for something to hold on to. Ron’s fingers crawled closer to his without his permission, so close he could reach out with his pinky and touch him. His gaze landed on Carwood’s face again, and he couldn’t reign in the decade’s worth of yearning that made him whisper, “I missed you.”

No answer came, only a sad, little smile appeared on Lipton’s lips. His hand stilled, and Ron touched his little finger to a knuckle, then the next, slithering over like a spider until his palm blanketed the back of that hand and he could slide his fingers between Carwood’s. Barely aware that he had been shaking, Ron’s thundering pulse settled when Carwood closed his fist around his fingers in return.

For a moment, they simply sat there hand in hand, time finally frozen to allow a moment of respite between old lovers. Then Carwood turned his over, bringing their palms together, but before Ron had a chance to relish in his touch, he lifted their laced hands, holding out Ron’s ring finger for him to see. As if fearing he’d forgotten it was there.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his gaze leaving the wedding band on his finger to linger on Lipton. “Would it change anything if it wasn’t there?”

Carwood tilted his head— a melancholic, tired gesture. His eyes fell closed, and that was all the answer he needed.

Alice’s shape came to him in fragments, her red curls framing her smile on the night Ron first asked her to dance, the tears in her blue eyes when he got down on one knee, the empty expression she wore each time she watched her husband leave. He had tried to love her, wanted to. There was no way he could explain— to Speirs, love had a scar on the right cheek, freckled shoulders and short ashen-blonde hair.

Wordlessly, Ron reached to take the ring off his finger, settling it on the night table beside him. A weight lifted off his shoulders, allowing him to be nothing but the man Carwood had once known and held for the illusion of a moment.

“It’s not your burden to bear,” Ron told him, bringing their intertwined hands to his face, breath ghosting over Carwood’s fingers.

“Don’t do this. Don’t give me another taste of something I can never have.”

In that whisper, Ron could hear it— the longing in Carwood’s voice, the unspoken need, impossible yet loud like machine gunfire; the promise he had sworn once, somewhere in France, and the hope it carried. Duty and vows and sin vanished from his mind, and it was quiet there for once when Ron let go of Carwood’s hand only to find his face.

Lipton’s eyes closed, then opened again at the sound of his name, uttered like a plea, desire undisclosed and there for him to take or leave. 

Carwood had never been one to leave.

Something was haunting Carwood’s eyes before he leaned in— duty, although not his own, or maybe the bittersweetness of their intimate reunion, but he leaned in all the same, closed countless nights of distance and solitude and pressed his lips to the corner of Ron’s mouth. Ron couldn’t stifle the sob that broke out of him when Carwood’s lips claimed his. Poisoned with a decade of deprivation, he breathed in his scent, let his mouth go numb against the gentle push of Carwood’s, his trust in the man that held him unshakeable despite their time apart. Carwood was as lovely as he had ever been, and still tasted of cherries and lake water and sunshine.

Despite the hitch in his breath and the few tears that finally broke free from his eyes, Ron clung onto him, his touch growing more insistent on Carwood’s face, the back of his nape, his shoulders. All of him, he needed to touch all of Carwood Lipton and burn the memory of his hands, his lips, his body deep into his skin and soul, where it had always belonged. When Carwood pulled mere inches away to look at him, all tenderness and care, his eyes took in the sight of Ron, and he knew himself to be seen, to be exposed, to be known.

The thought didn’t hurt anymore.

“Ron,” Carwood whispered between breaths when Ron dived right back in, as if he couldn’t bear more than a second away from the lifeline of his lips. His kisses grew hungrier, needier, and Carwood, selfless as he had ever been, allowed Ron to have his fill.

“Yes,” Ron sighed, melting into him, returning home after a lifetime at war. “Yes,” he repeated, aching for more even as Carwood indulged him. “Yes.”

Each brush of their lips brought a part of Ron back to himself, the remnants of a young soldier, drunk on champagne and love, the taste of the life that never was, the illusion of a chance at getting it all back. While Ron was drinking him in open-mouthed and greedy, Carwood’s lips were tentative, finding their pace slowly and pressing firmly against Ron’s almost like it pained him to.

That trace of insecurity was unlike Carwood, and Ron wanted it gone. So he made up his mind, damned his vows and himself along with them, and straddled Carwood’s thighs, both of his hands on Carwood’s neck to make him meet his eyes as he rid both of them of their jackets. His body felt glorious under Ron, lean and powerful and able to take the storm of a man he had on his lap, and a shudder ran through both of their spines in unison, bringing back together pieces of themselves that should’ve never been separated in the first place.

Ron’s hands were deft, making short work of Carwood’s necktie and the buttons of his shirt, splaying his fingers over the width of his chest as soon as it was bare. In peacetime and health, Carwood’s body was unscarred, strong even though his muscles were softer now, but still as radiant as Ron remembered, with the promise of a firm and safe embrace and the marvelous thumping of the kindest of hearts under his palms. Ron’s eyes took in the sight shamelessly, lingering here and there where he knew scars and wounds had once been, and his lips ached to follow in the wake of his touch.

When he took off his own shirt, Carwood was still watching his movements, wide-eyed and intent, taking a light hold of Ron’s hips and making him shiver.

It had been too long since someone touched Speirs like they wanted to protect him.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Ron muttered shakily, holding Lipton’s face close to his. One last way out— he owed him that much at least.

Neither of them moved.

“You should stop.”

“But you don’t want me to,” Ron breathed against his cheek with his mouth half-open, and his answer came in the form of Carwood’s tongue pushing into his mouth. The sudden demand took Ron by surprise and made him moan into the kiss, spurring Carwood to crawl back on the bed with Ron’s weight on top of him until they were lying in the middle of it, chest to chest and hearts on opposite ends.

Their first time had been in the back of that cabriolet, an ocean away, clumsy and awkward and brimming with laughter and smiles. That same scorching desire still burned between them, but the joy of it was absent, replaced with sorrows soothed only by long-awaited touches that neither of them had thought they would ever feel again. There was doubt in the way Carwood’s hands rested on Ron’s hips, indecisive, as if he was still struggling to allow himself to really touch.

Ron blanketed his hands with his own, pressing them into his skin, desperately needing that point of contact and for Carwood to rise above the moral dilemma holding him back. Although he didn’t say it, his face screamed please.

And finally, Carwood let go— his fingers crawled up and down Ron’s side, tracing scars that were unknown to him from a war that hadn’t been his, soothing regrets on their way. He hauled Ron closer with both hands on the small of his back, making Ron’s head fall back when he cupped him through his trousers, bodies flushed against each other. 

“God, I missed you,” Ron murmured against his neck, nipping at the skin there and the freckles sprayed over Carwood’s shoulders. They had always been his favorite. “I missed you,” he repeated, because twice wasn’t enough, and the sudden need to let Carwood know that his place in Ron’s heart was certain as the sunrise became his drunken mind’s priority. “No one’s ever touched me like you.”

Carwood raised an eyebrow, both curious and just the smallest hint of playful. “There haven’t been others?”

“No. Just you, Carwood,” Ron promised in his ear, gasping as his fly was undone. “Only you.”

If Carwood had any doubts about whether he was speaking true, they surely disappeared when he snuck a hand between them and Ron’s head fell back at the first brush of fingers against his arousal. That he was rattled so easily provoked a surge of pride in Lipton, one with which Ron was extremely well-acquainted— Try to look a little less pleased with yourself, Lieutenant, he’d reprimanded once, naked and sore and with a cigarette dangling between his lips—, realizing that he still knew Ron’s body and pleasure after all this time, that it was still his, and he was moved to action, quickly stripping what was left of Ron’s clothes. 

“You always were beautiful,” Carwood panted, undoing his own fly to take both of them in one hand and leaving a wet trail of kisses down his chest. Ron felt himself blush furiously, but it didn’t stop his hips from bucking, moving in time with Carwood’s pulls. Only Carwood could reduce him to instinctual desire and flesh to be adored, and he wouldn’t want it from anyone else.

The air grew heavy and hot in the room the more Carwood touched him, stroking him with the ruthless straightforwardness he knew Ron preferred and looking up at him, unblinking as if hypnotized. “Please. I need—” Ron uttered, and he didn’t need to say anymore. The plea in his voice was enough, and Carwood seemed to understand.

Carwood held his gaze while his fingers curled inside him, swift and gentle. Shortly after, too eager to wait any longer, Ron sank down on him with his arms locked around Carwood’s neck, eyes fluttering and back arching, easing into the sensation he’d been seeking for so long— this man, no other, under him, giving him everything he’d denied himself for most of his life, holding him as if he was something precious and fragile and not a killing machine devoid of hope and desires. His moans were indulgent and too loud even within the safety of the hotel room, muffled only by Carwood’s mouth on his and the soothing, sweet words spilling from it.

All his senses were attuned to Carwood. Ron could hear his ragged breathing, his heartbeat, the sound of his skin against his own. There was nowhere to look but brown eyes and the adoring face no longer sliced with a scar, and Ron’s wandering hands mapped the constellations of freckles on his skin, branding his touch into Carwood. The stench of sweat was masked by the fragrance of a vanilla shampoo and that which was categorized in his brain as Carwood’s smell underneath. His taste lingered on Ron’s lips, honeyed with a hint of coffee.

Don’t forget this, Ron told himself. There is nothing else.

“I’ve got you,” Carwood said, and Ron fiercely wanted to believe it— wanted to believe, if only for a moment, that this would last and he wouldn’t be alone with old regrets and the same looming shame that haunted him across continents come morning. “I’ve got you.”

It ended all too soon, too damn soon; he came before even getting the chance to undress Carwood properly, without making sure the crisscross of scars on his upper thigh was gone. It wasn’t long until Carwood followed him over the edge, calling his name over and over like a mantra that could heal the wounds they shared.

Ron’s body gave out, too poisoned and exhausted despite the electricity coursing through it, and he collapsed against Carwood, nuzzling his neck in a silent apology. Still cradling him in his arms, Carwood fell back against the rumpled sheets, taking a shuddering Ron along with him.

The silence they shared then was too loud, too tense, unlike any other they’d ever sat through. Ron stubbornly tangled their limbs together, his arms draped over Lipton’s stomach while fingers moved black hair out of his face, and their chests rose and fell as one. It was too soon. Ron refused to let go.

He blamed the alcohol when he mumbled, his face hidden in Carwood’s chest, “I think I’ll always be in love with you.”

A decade late and a heart short.

“You should stop,” Carwood replied, his voice even, and to anyone else it would’ve sounded cold, but he was still rubbing circles into his nape. “The place you held in my heart will always be yours,” he started, making Ron look up and frowning regretfully at the sight of his glassy eyes. “But I won’t see you again, Ron. You won’t see me again. You have a family to look after.”

Oh, Carwood’s last mercy, wasn’t it? 

The sound Ron made was a broken, ugly noise, and he stuttered but said nothing. When faced with it himself, the sacrifice felt cruel rather than selfless, even if it was the right choice— the only choice. What they had should’ve stayed in the ashes of oblivion where it belonged, but the stupid, loveless beast in him had clawed its way out and reached for Carwood again. 

Carwood would go on as he had all those years, and Ron would exist only on the scattered dream of that night, a prisoner to memory. Coming to Pittsburg had been a mistake, one that he would pay for until the very end.

And yet, Ron didn’t find it in himself to regret this last breath of himself before he went back to the hell of being Major Speirs, husband Speirs, empty Speirs, where he would be trapped forever. Not with Carwood’s arms still around him.

“Tell me you understand.”

Ron didn’t have any more fight left in him to hide away his cries. His voice wavered, but he nodded, slowly, painfully, as if agreeing to be marched to the abattoir. “I understand.”

Goodbye was due, had been since 1945. Yet Carwood lingered for a few more minutes, set his clothes to rights but didn’t pull away. Ron wondered if his chest felt as tight as his, if the impossible pain that crushed his ribcage traveled through the air to Carwood’s, or if he was well and truly alone once more. In Europe, it hurt less, and he had lost more. He stopped trying to make sense of his heart. It was pointless, Carwood Lipton would take it back to Syracuse with him and that would be the last Ron saw of it.

Duty had won over the heart once more. Silent tears fell from his face to tarnish Carwood’s skin.

“I’m sorry,” Ron felt compelled to say, because he had no right to cry in Carwood’s arms. Because he had left, because he hadn’t answered any of Carwood’s letters, because he chose to fight his demons away gun in hand, because he wished he were anything but this.

Carwood’s hands reached to his cheeks blindly, smothering tears away. “You deserve better than this. In another life, I would’ve loved to give it all to you.”

Ron let his eyes fall closed briefly, then looked up at him from his chest. Carwood’s heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears were all he could hear. “It could’ve been in this one, had I not—”

Carwood put a thumb over his lips. “No point dwelling on that now.”

They rested their foreheads together for a long, excruciating moment. When they separated, Carwood’s eyes were flooded with misery and pity, and his mouth seemed to be unable to voice the words. Ron did it for him. “You have to go.”

Carwood closed his eyes. “I have to go.”

Silence. Arms clutched tighter. The lake was a desert now.

For the last time, Carwood cupped his face with both of his hands as if he were holding a bird without wings, and planted a firm, shallow kiss on Ron’s mouth. They mumbled their goodbyes on each other’s lips, and the world didn’t end when he let go of Carwood even though it should have.

Ron watched him get dressed with the efficacy the army had instilled in them both, lying naked and exposed and damned on the bed.

Stay, he wanted to say, he’d beg if he had to for one more minute in his hold. Instead, he sat up to fetch a cigarette from his trousers and didn’t look at Carwood again.

A part of him would be Carwood Lipton’s, forever. There was no changing that, and Ron was through fighting it. He’d have to go on living with half a heart.

There were steps on the carpet leading towards the door, but Ron denied himself and kept his eyes on the floor, on the ashes burning away between his fingers. Before the door closed, Carwood’s voice cut through the air one last time, merciful and soft.

“The army will kill you, Ron. Don’t let it.”