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It’s from Webster that Lipton first learns of Pavlov’s dogs. Later he won’t remember how it comes up in conversation, only that Webster’s voice carries loudly over the rattle of the transport truck; Liebgott calls it his professor voice. The boys rib Web for his high falutin’ words, but when he sets in in earnest, one by one they drift into silence. It’s not a hush of rapt attention, or any kind of attention at all. Luz fakes a jaw-cracking yawn. Lipton hides his smile; between mortar shells and empty stomachs, it seems like Easy never sleeps so well as when Webster’s droning on.
Even so, Lipton listens. Webster wears his education like a Catholic with a rosary or some of the men with snapshots of their sweethearts, tucked close to their hearts. It’s both his slice of home and an article of faith. Lipton might not have taken much to schooling himself, but he recognises there are certain things that deserve a man’s respect. Besides, he takes an odd kind of pleasure in puzzling through what Webster doles out to them in drips and drabs. He pontificates on subjects that are logical, reasoned in a way that war can never be.
Lipton doesn’t find his usual comfort in Web’s account of Pavlov’s work. For once, the clean lines of science resemble nothing so much as cruelty. What kind of man would hurt a dog to prove a point that seems so trivial? In the midst of all this suffering, it sickens him that men would ever choose to manufacture more.
Lipton rubs at the bags beneath his eyes.
“Give it rest, huh, Web?” he says gently, inclining his head towards the dozing men. Webster scratches the back of his neck, abashed, and shuts up.
+
In Arnhem, Webster takes a bullet to the leg and is sent back from the front. Pavlov and his spectre dogs linger in his absence.
+
It seems absurd that of all the men, Norman Dike should leave a legacy, but here it is, embodied in Lipton, and not something he can shake. Conditioned, that’s the word that Webster used. As much as he doesn’t want to, Lipton reckons he fits the bill. Easy’d been burned again and again by Dike’s excuses and his indecision so it’s only natural if he pays close attention to their new CO. Closer, maybe, than is really warranted.
That Captain Speirs is nothing like Dike doesn’t seem to make a whit of difference.
Conditioned, he tells himself. That’s all.
+
On the top floor of the CP, Lipton watches the horizon through a broken attic window. The room is bare. What little furniture there was has been chopped up to feed the fires. The wind whips through too bitterly cold for anyone to bunk there. As a vantage point, though, it serves well, overlooking the river and the whole of Haguenau town. Smoke still hangs in the sky where the German OP was blown to heck and back. Lipton lights a cigarette; the ash mingles with what's already in the air.
He hears Speirs's heavy tread on the wooden floors, recognising the cadence of his gait long before the door swings open and clicks neatly shut behind him. Speirs crosses the room in long strides. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, with only the burning end of Lipton's cigarette to illuminate the room. "Not out celebrating, Second Lieutenant?"
He can't help the smile that curls his lips at the mention of his new commission. He glances up to find Speirs smiling too, and quickly looks away; the back of his neck prickles. "Captain Winters ordered the men to get a good night's sleep, sir." He shrugs, confessing, "I can't think of a better way to celebrate."
Speirs's smile becomes an all out grin, something Lipton only rarely sees; it's rarer still to know he's caused it. In one swift movement, Speirs cups the back of Lipton’s neck to hold him steady; his thumb taps an absent, staccato rhythm to the scar on Lipton's cheek. With his other hand, he plucks the cigarette imperiously from Lipton’s lips, taking a final drag of the Lucky Strike before he stubs it out.
He raises his eyebrows mischievously, clapping Lipton on the shoulder. "A slumber party it is then. Come on."
His keeps his hand on Lipton's arm.
Lipton laughs and shuffles his feet. He tugs at the collar of his overcoat, unsure if he imagines it when Speirs's fingers dig in, holding tighter as he demurs.
"Oh no, sir," he says softly, the memory of the night before—his illness and his weakness demoting Captain Speirs to the floor— looming fresh in the rising flush of his cheeks. "I'm feeling right as rain. I thought I'd stay up here, let you take a run at those fresh sheets."
Speirs’s answer is immediate and forceful. "Don't be an ass." Faint lines crease his brow. He wets his lips with the tip of the tongue, considering Lipton quizzically. "You'll catch it again twice as bad loitering up here in the cold."
Lipton's skin feels scalded, hot to the touch with shame and something else. A little chill has never been more welcome. He's as close to disobeying an order as he's ever been, the command clear in Speirs's tone if not his words. Speirs turns to go, keeping Lipton in his hold but Lipton stumbles, his feet heavy, unable to move.
It happens as quick as the space between breaths; Lipton reaches out and his fingers latch onto Speirs's hip, tight in a solid grip, holding himself steady. And instead of pulling away as he should, in place of the stuttered apology that's curdling on his tongue, he clutches tighter. He moulds his fingers around the hard crest of bone, pressing the flat of his palm to muscles and sinew; the rough fabric of Speirs's pants chafes against his skin.
Speirs doesn't pull away.
Lipton's breathing comes in heaving gulps. He doesn't know what to say, to think, so he doesn't try. Speirs shifts his weight, almost, nearly, but not quite leaning into Lipton's touch and with that, Lipton’s gaze flies from the floor to Speirs's face. He finds it as unreadable as it has ever been. If Speirs shoots him now, Lipton thinks, at least he can trust he’ll be honourable, not tell the men the reason why. There's a comfort in that, somehow.
Lipton curls his fingers tighter, five points of pressure connecting him to Speirs. He shakes his head as if he can shake himself out of it, but he can't, even as Speirs's eyes seem to cut through him to the bone. He whispers, desperate in his confusion, "Sir?"
His words, or maybe the uncertain crack in his voice, spur his commander into action; Speirs crosses the distance between them, as decisive as he’d been when taking Foy. He pushes forward, always forward, pressing Lipton up against the wall. His hands pin Lipton’s shoulders in place and he shoves his knee, rough and right, between his legs. He wets his lips, their mouths just shy of touching and he studies Lipton’s face.
Speirs stands tall. It forces Lipton up on his toes to keep his balance. He twists in what little space there is left between Speirs’s body and the wall; Speirs’s thigh is firm, unyielding, pressed inescapably tight to the hollow between his legs. He burns to think it but he’s writhing against his captain’s body, humping his leg like a dog in heat. For one haunting, humiliating moment he wonders if that is all this is, one man’s inexplicable kindness to an animal that should by all rights be shot, when Speirs’s mouth finally lands on his. His kiss is firm but as gentle as it is commanding. He parts his lips, coaxing Lipton’s tongue with teasing licks.
His stubble is rough, scratching Lipton’s nerves raw. He feels their kisses in a heady throb that pulses through him, settling in his groin. Speirs’s hands slide off his shoulders, stroking down his chest to the buckles of his overcoat. He strips the heavy canvas off him with the same cool efficiency Lipton’s come to know him for. And when he adjusts his stance and grinds against him, making Lipton groan in pleasure, his grin is dirtier and more devious than Lipton has ever seen it.
Speirs’s mouth is on his neck. His teeth graze the curve of his jaw, scrape against his adam’s apple. He tugs Lipton’s shirt untucked to slip a hand beneath it. He spreads his palm across Lipton’s stomach, teasing him with maddening touches, close but never quite where Lipton wants him most. Lipton pulls at Speirs’s waist, grabs at his shoulders, trying to urge him closer still. He pushes Speirs’s suspenders down and is rewarded for his initiative with the grind of Speirs’s arousal against his hip.
Lipton’s cock is hard, full and heavy now. His clothes feel too tight; Speirs’s thumb hooks under the waistband of his pants, fingers rubbing firmly along his fly. Lipton groans, biting his lip to mute the sound.
Speirs’s shirt is the same as his, identical to what Lipton’s been putting on and taking off every day since D-Day but in his eagerness he fumbles, hands shaking, unable to navigate the journey of his buttonholes.
Speirs’s fingers close around his wrist, holding firm until the trembling subsides.
“Carwood,” he says, always so calm no matter how overwhelming the situation. Even in this moment of respite, Lipton can’t stop his hips from thrusting. Speirs grunts, a raw, animalistic sound he can’t seem to restrain. “Yes,” he pants. “Come on.”
With steady fingers now, Lipton unbuttons Speirs’s shirt, pushes it off his shoulders and to the floor. He splays his hands across his chest, feeling the breadth of it, the solidity of his muscles. He rubs over one of Speirs’s nipples, feels his own draw tight and aching as Speirs’s harden under his touch. He drags his knuckles down, over the rise and fall of Speirs’s ribs to rest his fingers on the buttons of his fly. Speirs squeezes where he still cups him, not stopping when Lipton moans, silencing him with a messy kiss instead.
He thumbs open Lipton’s fly to push aside his skivvies. The head of Lipton’s cock slips free. He's flushed and squirming, after everything still ashamed to stand exposed before another man. But in that shame, there’s excitement too, and pride in the way Speirs shivers against him, wanting. Speirs kisses him, hard and bruising, stubble grinding rough against his skin.
Then, oh, Speirs, his captain, is dropping to his knees. It’s all Lipton can do not to collapse down with him, aching at the loss of his body pressed against the length of his. Speirs leans in, thumbs smoothly over the jut of his hipbones, easing Lipton’s pants lower still. And Lip, he’s not naïve; he’s heard all of Luz’s stories about the things a gal will do in Paris for a price. But still he’s unprepared. Speirs’s mouth is like nothing he’s ever felt, like nothing he could ever imagine. His lips are plump and soft and wet. With one hand, he pins Lipton still while the other caresses the mess of scars on his inner thigh. Speirs ducks his head quicker, sucks harder and everything crests, all at once too much for Lipton to take. He spills his release across his tongue.
Lipton’s legs give out from under him. He slides down, Speirs’s hands still petting him even as he turns his head to spit, staining the hardwood floor. Speirs scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth and sits back on his heels. He takes in the sight of Lipton flushed and panting, with a smug, possessive smirk. And Lipton is suddenly grinning too, giddy. He grasps at Speirs, toppling him over to sprawl atop him.
He kisses Speirs greedily as he works his hand into his pants. The angle is awkward, hurting his wrist but it’s worth it, worth it when Speirs jerks against him, biting Lipton’s lip as he peaks. His breath is heavy and warm on Lipton’s neck; he rubs his nose against Lipton’s jaw before he pulls away.
They sit on the floor with their backs to the wall and their legs still tangled together. Lipton fishes a half-crushed pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket and lights two at once. Speirs rubs the back of his knuckles against Lipton’s cheek, taking one of the cigarettes from him.
They smoke together in companionable silence, slowly putting their clothes to rights. Speirs stands, offering a hand to Lipton to pull him up too.
“Can we finally get out of this goddamned cold then, Lipton?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, still smiling. “I think we can.”