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A quiet afternoon was passing slowly at Nix records. Nixon stocked the shelves, back to the door, enjoying being a part of his business again as The Stone Roses echoed lazily through the speakers. Babe was singing along, minding the customers in a manner far friendlier than Liebgott, or the oft-hung-over Nixon himself, had ever had. The bell rang as Nixon hummed, tapping his foot and placing a big stack of Motown onto the shelf.
“Oh hey! Mr Winters!”
Nixon blanched, frozen in place as Babe, bless his cotton socks, cheerfully greeted the newcomer into the shop.
“How are ya doin’ today?”
Jesus Christ, no, no, no. This could not be happening. Nixon refused to turn around, sensing movement behind him. Had he noticed him? Please god, he hoped not. What the fuck was he doing here? Did he still come here, after all this time? This was the worst possible thing that could have fucking happened to him today. Nixon plastered himself to the shelving, hoping to fade away into it, like a chameleon. He cursed himself for being in this situation, especially cursing himself for the fact that he hadn’t shaved, with 3 day stubble on his chin. He remembered that he was wearing a wrinkly checked shirt stretched over his shoulders. Nixon surmised that he must look like a hobo or an over-aged art student. Maybe he would just leave. Maybe he wouldn’t…
“Hi Lewis. I see that you’re back.” Icy tones rang out behind him. Shit. That man didn’t miss a thing. Winters’s words were clipped and short, polite as ever, annoyance bubbling as an undercurrent. Nixon sighed deeply, reluctantly turning around to face the one person he had been avoiding for almost eight years.
He drew breath shortly in an embarrassing gasp. Fuck. Of course Winters hadn’t changed at all. His hair was as neat as ever, that shiny copper that shone like a penny in the sun. He was still trim and strong looking, cutting an athletic figure in a neat shirt, the fact that Nixon knew viscerally what was lurking under that shirt making everything just a hint more painful. His skin was still just as pale, his eyes as big and honest. Nixon attempted a smile, flashing teeth awkwardly.
“Dick! Ah! Hi…Hey…how, um, are you?” Winters did not return his smile, keeping his expression extremely neutral. It was almost a shame; Nixon had always liked his smiles.
“I’m fine.” He averted his eyes, stood at attention like a soldier. Nixon tried another sheepish smile.
“Oh. That’s really great. I, um, didn’t know you still worked here. Thought you were an L.A. big shot now.” He coughed a laugh that Winters did not reciprocate.
“I still like to catch up with my staff here.” No flaws, no vices, no sense of humour.
“Ah.” Nixon replied. Slightly raising his eyebrow, Winters let his frustration slip, if only slightly, before he began another attempt at conversation.
“Harry told me that you had come back but I guess I didn’t really believe it until now.” His mouth twitched, holding back a lot of emotion in a way that was only perceptible to someone who really knew him. Someone like Nixon.
“Yeah. I thought.” God this was so fucking hard. Nixon winced as he allowed the next volley of awkward words free. “I thought it was time to get my life back together. Seeing as it was…kind of fucked, you know?”
This seemed to surprise Winters.
“Well that’s…good.” His brow wrinkled, obviously conflicted.
“Yeah.” Winters, Dick, looked at Nixon for a moment, his eyes softening with something that felt like an anvil landing on Nixon’s stomach. After a split second of wonderful vulnerability, he hardened again, back to his usual super capable, super perfect self, clearing his throat. He checked his watch.
“I’ve got to get back. Ah, see you later, Babe.” Babe, entranced by the situation, jumped and gave a wave. Winters glanced at Nixon. “Nix-“ He seemed like he might leave it at that, out of habit, but quickly corrected himself. “-On.”
With that admission that left a tinge of colour on his pale cheeks, Winters left, his efficient steps echoing through Nixon’s mind. He was ripped from his reverie by the curious youthful face of Babe, staring at him from the register.
“Wow! That was so awkward! I didn’t know you knew Mr Winters. He comes in here all the time.” He paused. “Did he recognise you from your ass?” Babe was grinning with amusement, something that Nixon did not really appreciate, at least not now. He gritted his teeth, eyes closed.
“Just. Just leave, Babe. Take the rest of the day off. I’ll look after the shop.”
Babe eyed him curiously.
“Okaaaay. Well, if you need me, I’ll probably be in The Battalion.”
Nixon would rather enjoy a swift drop into the flames of hell itself than enter The Battalion. There were other places to get a drink in the town, places that wouldn’t have his fucking beautiful ex, pretty much the one that got away, the one he royally fucked over, the love of his life and all that saccharine shit, as its owner. Namely Harry’s couch, the place where Nixon had been staying since he got back. There was a bottle of whiskey under his pillow, waiting for him. He sighed heavily and thanked the lord for liquor stores.
The next day, after a long night of whiskey and forced forgetfulness, Nixon returned to the record shop to continue his maintenance of both the store and the small studio in the back/garage area. It hadn’t been used in such a long time that all of the electricity was pretty fucked and it was taking Nixon, with his dark sunglasses and slight hangover, a while to get the hang of it.
“Hey, Nix.” Nixon rolled his eyes and continued fiddling with the light fixture. Liebgott, abandoning his post at the desk of the store again, Nixon really had no idea why he had hired him, was poking his nose into the studio where Nixon was balanced precariously on a step-ladder.
“What do you want, Joe?”
“Babe mentioned that Dick Winters came into the shop yesterday and that you were acting weird about it.” The step-ladder wobbled viciously. Trust Liebgott to choose the time that he was the most physically vulnerable with no means of escape to force him into this conversation.
“Joe, I-“
“And Harry has been worried about you. He told me at the coffee shop.”
Nixon grunted. Great. An intervention. He had received more than his fair share of those and he never enjoyed them.
“Nix, we all know what went on between you two. Well, Babe doesn’t, but the band knows and the staff at the battalion that have been there long enough do too. We all think that you’re acting like a real jackass. Just go talk to him.” Nixon stopped messing with the light and turned to Liebgott, a headache forming at the very front of his cranium.
“Talk to him?!? And say what exactly? I’m sorry I broke up with you because my record label failed and I felt too pathetic to even look you in the eye? I’m sorry I moved away and never even attempted to talk to you? I’m sorry I drank too much and acted like a dick the entire time?” After raising his voice and flailing his alms dramatically, he calmed, saddened. “I don’t have anything to say that would make it any better.”
Liebogtt shifted uncomfortably, his hands in his pockets. He was no more suited for dealing with ~emotional turmoil~ than Nixon was. Harry should have sent Malarkey or Roe or Lipton from the bar to do his dirty work. Not Liebgott, who was so emotionally rubbish he couldn’t even admit to his own boyfriend that he loved him.
“I dunno,” He started, biting at his cheek. “Just say somethin’? You can’t ignore him forever if you’re gonna be back here working on the band. Think about it, for all our sakes.”
Nixon was struck with the horrible realisation that he was right.
So there he was, waiting at the back door of the Battalion next to the old beer barrels, not unlike he did a good 12 years ago, when they had first met. Nixon had been an idealistic young Yale graduate, escaped from his family’s expectations and excited to start his own record shop on the west coast. Winters was the student and part-time barman of a run-down joint in the middle of town, as disciplined and hard working as Nixon was hard partying and raucous. They had, against the odds, gotten on like a house on fire. It was because despite their different backgrounds and approaches they both had a passion that they strove for. Nixon had opened the shop and started the label whilst Winters used his business degree to work his way up to management and then, when the old owner retired, ownership of the bar. Their connection was deeper than friendship, a fact they stopped fighting about a year into knowing one another, when Nixon grabbed Winters from across the bar on a quiet Sunday afternoon and kissed him until he thought he was going to pass out. They were inseparable, living above the record store in that tiny apartment in comfortable, loving domesticity and encouraging each other every day. That was, until the label fell through. Then it was San Francisco, bathrobes and whiskey breakfasts for Nixon, best enjoyed alone.
Nixon wanted to catch Winter alone but he really had no idea whether he would leave through that exit. Maybe he avoided it now, associating it with too many memories of one-sided drunken make-out sessions or when Nixon used to come up especially to bring Dick lunch when he couldn’t spare five minutes, exchanging it for a quick wink and a peck on the cheek before they returned to their respective jobs. He still came to the record store though, with apparent regularity, which had to mean something. So Nixon waited.
About 15 minutes later, Winters emerged, as predicted, from the back door. He was wiping down his hands on his dark trousers. Of course he was doing manual work in there, despite being the boss of both The Battalion and another, larger establishment, he just couldn’t stop himself from helping out. Nixon couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face but quickly corrected into a straight, beseeching look as Winter’s caught sight of him. He stepped back slightly and wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion. Nixon held up his hands.
“Hey.” Winters gave him an incredulous stare.
“Hi?”
“I came to aplogise…for being weird in the store. I didn’t expect-” Winters looked away. Nixon was being a coward. He was losing him by avoiding the issue at hand, like he always did.
“It’s fine.” Interrupted Winters, attempting to get past him. Shit. Nixon’s arm shot out to cut him off, a move he regretted almost immediately as Winter’s patented neutral expression twisted into anger. He dropped his arm, letting it hang uselessly at his side.
“Wait. I, um, need to apologise for other things too.” Winters raised his eyebrow.
“Oh really?” He could be very sarcastic when he wanted to be.
“Yeah.” Nixon blustered. “For everything. I was a complete tool. I’m sorry.”
Winters stared off into the middle distance and nodded slightly. Slightly desperate, Nixon continued.
“If it means anything to you, I think I hurt myself far more than anyone else. For you, it was probably a good thing. Because, I, um, I’m a fucking mess. You’re lucky you got away from me.” He laughed slightly. Winters was still staring away, refusing to meet his eyes and jaw tight. After a short moment of silence, he replied, speaking through gritted teeth like every word was painful.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not a fucking mess?” Winters turned to look at him now, eyes bright with fury.
“No. You are. But you didn’t hurt yourself more, believe me.”
“I – “
“You don’t even know, do you? How I felt when you left?” The look he gave him was like a cannonball to the ribs. “You drown it in whiskey and sardonic comments, I don’t…I had nothing.”
Nixon felt overwhelmed. Even in the many years he had known him, he had never seen Dick like this. Angry, confused, sad. This was a side of him he always hid. In fact, Nixon had no idea that it even existed. He was the strong one, always supporting him, never one to break down. When he left, Dick didn’t even get mad. He just stared at him, said ‘fine’ in a monotone voice and left, betraying nothing. Nixon assumed that he was the one that had been destroyed, that Dick was fine, like he always had been. Nixon had been such an idiot. Such a fucking imbecile. This was breaking his heart.
“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. Dick, I’m so sorry.” He felt his voice wavering. This was awful. He had to make it right.
Barely knowing what he was doing but wanting to comfort in the only way he remembered how, Nixon grabbed him by his collar and kissed him.
Nostalgia is a strange beast. It can put a rosy glow on past experiences that weren’t even that enjoyable in the first place.
But fuck if it didn’t feel amazing to be kissing Dick Winters again.
Only when he pulled away did Nixon realise the terrible mistake he had made. He was too caught up in the moment; he was acting like an arsehole yet again, stomping all over Dick’s heart and then expecting to be allowed intimacy. So selfish. Dick was probably going to punch him in the face and he would fully deserve it.
The punch didn’t come. Nixon slowly opened one of his screwed up eyes. Winters was looking at him in utter bewilderment. He then reached up and drew Nixon into another slow, less frantic kiss that had Nixon almost stumbling into the beer barrels in surprise.
After a couple moments of heavenly respite, Winters released Nixon’s shoulders, face slightly awed.
Overcome with a sudden rush of emotion and, fuck it, love, Nixon started babbling.
“Shit. Dick, you know it was only you. It’s been so bad without you. I hate myself for fucking us over. It was only you. I still love you.” Winters silenced him by placing a finger over his lips with an impatient expression.
“I love you too.” Nixon really didn’t deserve this kind of happiness. “ But this doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, Lew. You’re gonna have to do a lot of stuff for me to make it up.”
Nixon flashed Winters his most charming grin.
“Anything.”
“Those barrels need to be moved.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
There were at least 15 barrels. Winters was not going to make this easy and Nixon couldn’t be more excited.
At the record store, Nixon was finally putting together the new soundboards for the studio. Liebgott appeared from around the corner, a huge, mean smile on his face. Nixon knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.
“I heard you and Winters got back together.”
Nixon continued working on the soundboard.
“Oh yeah? Who told you that?”
“Bull, the bouncer. Saw you two in the alley near the back door.”
Liebgott’s crowing was unnerving. He obviously credited himself with this romantic revival. Nixon decided to break his mood with another revelation.
“I want my old apartment back.” Liebgott’s face fell dramatically. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Well now I regret this whole thing.”
A few weeks later, Nixon was sat at the bar at The Battalion, pleased to find that they still served his preferred brand of whiskey. The band was down too, Liebgott shooting him death glares every now and again, upset at losing his treasured apartment, Lipton sending him encouraging smiles, when not occupied in deep conversation by the darkly handsome but frighteningly intense new night manager. George Luz, always a joy, settled down next to him at the bar.
George Luz grinned lazily. “Doc gives me double shots ‘cuz I’m his favourite.”
“Nah,” Nixon sipped his whiskey, amused. “Babe is his favourite.”
“How do you know?”
“Dick told me.” George Luz threw up his hands. “Winters and Doc talk about that kind of thing? They don’t really seem like the gossiping types.”
“No, Dick just knows Roe really well. He says it’s obvious.”
“The state of your relationship, gossiping about your workers. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Nixon snorted.
“You should hear what we say about you, Luz. Brutal.” Luz clutched his heart in mock scandal. “Also, you know those shots aren’t actually free? You just haven’t noticed he’s charging you extra.”
“What? Shit. Sneaky son of a bitch.”
“Clever man, taking advantage of a light weight.” Luz sniffed, taking another gulp of his drink.
“Just because I don’t have VAT 69 running through my veins instead of blood doesn’t make me a light weight.” Nixon gestured in the air with the side of his hand, indicating that Luz was short.
“Ay! Perconte is shorter than me!”
“And yet, less of a light weight.”
Winters came out of the backroom with Lipton as Nixon swallowed the last of his drink and got up.
“Going my way?” He was smiling. Nixon smiled back.
“Of course.”