by brooklinegirl (witchbaby)
A little series of Christmas vignettes for my favorite slashers.
Christmas in Vietnam wasn’t very much like Christmas at all. But you made do. Made it the best you could and that had to be enough. There was no snow, but there was moonlight spilling in through the tiny window. There was no Christmas tree, but there had been presents, their newspaper-wrapping still lying torn where it had fallen. There was no silent night – you could still hear the last of the shells going off, holiday truce be damned - though they were distant now.
But there was Myron in his arms, standing there with an honest-to-god smile on his face. Letting himself be held in the glimmer of moonlight, letting himself be happy. And Zeke’s heart was full of love and hope, and that made it Christmas just the same.
“McKay, would you shut up?”
“Why do you want to go to sleep this early anyway, Goldman? It’s Christmas.”
“Get up. Come have a drink with me.”
Myron cracked open one eye. “Let me sleep.”
“Nope. Get up. It’s still early and the guys are waiting. They want to buy a drink for their favorite lieutenant.” He paused, and grinned. “And one for you, too, of course.”
It took a lot of effort for Myron to maintain his grumpiness, but he managed.
“C’mon, Goldman, it’s Christmas.”
“It’s Christmas anyway, Myron.” Johnny’s voice was soft this time and Myron opened both eyes. Caught Johnny looking at him, no grin this time, his eyes real open and his expression saying more than Myron was meant to see, maybe. There was a moment there and then the grin reappeared. Johnny held out a hand. “C’mon, Myron.”
Myron took his hand and let himself be pulled up.
Not too many precious memories of goddamn Vietnam, but this – this you’re gonna want to remember. Silent night – not so much. But a crowded bar, guys drinking too much and laughing too hard and trying so carefully to forget what it is that they’re missing.
Christmas. In fucking Vietnam.
The air was full of noisy, desperate happiness. Music and laughter and shouts, rounds being bought, tall tales being told, soldiers remembering and trying to forget every goddamn thing.
And it’s Christmas so the LT is here, drinking with us. Nursing his one scotch and waving away any offers of a fresh one, but still buying rounds for the men.
He’s not smiling, really, but he’s happy. I can see it. Happy enough, I guess. ‘Cause even though it’s Christmas in goddamn Vietnam, I’m real close beside him. The bar is crowded, so we’re against the wall at a table. He’s right next to me and he’s studying his glass and I’m listening to one of Taylor’s stories. But all I’m focusing on is the feel of the LT pressed right up against me. The way it should be. Not always this way, but we get to be close right now and it’s good.
I’m laughing at Taylor’s story, and glance up, catch the LT’s eye. A real smile crosses his face for just an instant and I remember him saying he loves me, just an hour or so ago, and I tell myself again – remember this.
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