Snow. He’s really come to hate snow, and winter in general. Maybe they should move to the south, or to Mexico, or Bali, or Aruba, or someplace else that never gets cold. He suggests as much to Dick on the second night of the snowstorm as they’re making dinner.
Or really, as Dick is making dinner and Lew is hovering around him, stealing bits of cheese from the pasta dish Dick is putting together while Dick glares at him without any real heat.
“Bali, Lew?” Dick laughs as if Lew’s joking, but Lew shakes his head and insists.
“I’ve always wanted to go. I hear the beaches are beautiful.” He waves a hand around as he speaks, trying to sound enticing. “You could swim every morning, I could watch you. We could have sex right there on the beach and probably no one would even blink.”
Dick blushes crimson at that, but laughs again and hands Lew a bowl full of lettuce and other greenery that holds no appeal for Lew. He looks down at the bowl and then up at Dick rather unhappily. Dick raises his eyebrows.
“I know you’d eat nothing but bacon sandwiches and cheeseburgers until your heart stopped,” Dick tells him with all the calm seriousness of an Army Major. “But I’m going to get some nutrition in you whether you like it or not.”
Lew rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and carries the bowl to set it on the dining room table. Dick can be annoyingly mother-henish sometimes, but he never comments on Lew’s drinking even though he doesn’t ever touch alcohol himself, so Lew considers it a compromise to allow some of Dick’s other lifestyle suggestions. Especially when he’s often the one who does the cooking.
“What about Morocco?” Lew says as he returns to the kitchen. “I could open up a little café or a lounge. You could perform every night, I’ll play the piano while you sit on top of it and sing.”
“Until Nazis come busting down the door, right?” Dick laughs. He wipes his hands on the apron wrapped around his waist and Lew finds the motion inexplicably charming.
“No, no, Dick,” Lew waves a hand and shakes his head, voice full feigned seriousness. “We already took care of them. Remember the year we spent traipsing around Europe?”
“I have some recollection, yes.”
Conversation shifts as the sit down to dinner, from Lew’s thoughts on travel to work at the plant, and Lew forgets all about the chill in the air until they’re getting into bed later.
“I hate snow.”
“At least it’s not Bastogne,” Dick says quietly into the dark room as he pulls the covers back across the bed.
“Exactly my point,” Lew says, climbing into the bed opposite Dick. “I don’t think I’ll ever need another winter after that. I’ve seen enough snow to last me two lifetimes.”
Dick murmurs his agreement and shifts across the bed to throw one arm and a leg over Lew’s chest and hip. He tucks his head into crook of Lew’s neck, presses the cold tip of his nose against Lew’s jaw, which makes Lew squirm a bit though he doesn’t pull away. His arms go to wrap around Dick out of habit, one hand curling through Dick’s slightly too long hair.
Sometimes he hates curling up with Dick; some nights it feels stifling, too warm and almost too comfortable and Lew just wants space around him, distance, wants to wedge himself into a corner with a good, stiff drink and be far away from Dick Winters’ calloused hands and warm weight and concerned eyes and Dick’s ever present push for Lew to be better and better and better, especially when Lew wakes in the middle of the night with images of blood and destruction and nightmares of Dick’s body blown apart still lingering in his head.
But he sees some benefit to the cold and the snow and the chill in the air around them. It gives him an excuse to push away the bad dreams and the need to be alone, and let Dick curl around him and to run his hands all over Dick; an excuse to touch and let himself be touched and take someone else’s weight upon his own. For the shared warmth, of course.