He'd considered getting off and turning back every single time the train stopped. The ride from Nixon, New Jersey, to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, wasn't really so long, but that didn't mean he didn't have opportunity to doubt, second guess, completely change his mind, only to change it back five minutes later. Part of the problem was that he'd never called ahead, never sent so much as a telegram. Dick had no idea he was coming. Nix didn't even know if Dick was still in Lancaster. He'd had waking nightmares wherein he'd arrived, only to discover that Dick had disappeared out west, found some great job, some great girl, some great anything, far, far away from Lewis Nixon. He would show up at the farm Dick had once described in loving detail, and Dick's parents would frown, look at each other and shake their heads, wondering who this irresonsible young man could be. Certainly not someone good, reliable, kind Richard would have befriended.

Those were the moments when he would actually get out of his seat, go and wait at the door of the train so he could leap off the second the car stopped. Inevitably, he would turn back, move slowly to his seat and remain there for another half hour before returning to the door. He paced the length of the train car multiple times as it carried him southwest, and not once did he notice the stares of his fellow passengers.

Lancaster was bigger than he'd expected. Somehow he couldn't picture Dick calling a city home, but this was definitely a city - certainly bigger than Nixon, New Jersey. Of course, he should have known that it would be another hour before he was actually walking up the long dirt driveway that led to the Winters homestead. From out here, he figured as the taxi pulled away, you would be able to see the glow of the city at night, but not the city itself. No, it was just rolling hills and the thick treeline at the bottom of the slope. Corn swept across the open fields - the stalks still short, too short to sway in the breeze that chased at the heels of the disappearing taxi.

Nix hefted his bag further up over his shoulder and started down the driveway. His feet crunched over raked dirt and he kicked at rocks as he went, his pace slowing the closer he got to the house. Nothing obscured his view of the large front porch and the stately red barn except a few tall oaks. The tree closest to the house had a swing dangling from one of the taller, straighter branches and Nix was suddenly struck by the vivid image of a young Dick Winters pumping gangly legs to take himself higher, high enough to touch the leaves with his toes. Nix paused, halfway down the driveway, and touched his eyes for a moment. A large part of him still couldn't believe he'd done this, still didn't think it was a good plan. He was so scared, he realized, swallowing back a thick lump in his throat. He was so goddamn scared.

The breeze kicked up again as he stood there and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. Nix let his palm slide down the rough canvas strap of his bag, hefting the weight one more time. Clothes, boots, books, his wallet with cash and a photograph of Jack. No booze - no bottles, no flask. It was as though he could feel the absence of that weight and his hand dropped from his eyes. If nothing else, he owed it to Dick. He owed it to him to make sure he knew Nix was doing something good for once.

Nix could hear the sounds of the farm waking up. The window was open, the curtains moving, and someone was at the pump near the barn. It squeaked, a dog barked and was shushed. He rolled onto his back and a spring dug into his spine. There were many wonderful things to be said about the Winters homestead, but comfortable beds were not among them. The sound of boots thumping on the stairs had Nix sitting up, the blankets spilling down to his lap. He moved slowly, carefully, as he had ever since he'd stopped drinking, as though still half afraid another headache might burst into life, or that he might simply shake apart should he step wrong. The footsteps faded down the hallway until all Nix could hear was the faint creak of old floor boards. Whoever had been at the pump went back inside, the screen door slapping twice behind them. He put his own feet on the ground and stood, reaching behind him to rub at a spot right in the small of his back.

The boots were still moving around down the hall - a dresser drawer scraped open and Nix crossed his room to where he'd draped his clothes on the back of a tall rocking chair. He opened the door to his room as he buttoned his shirt and stuck his head out. The bedroom at the end of the hall had been unoccupied the night before, but now he could see the shadow of someone moving around. The door was half shut and Nix found himself waiting for it to open, slowly finding each button with numb fingertips. He fumbled once and looked down, tugging gently at the troublesome button until he got it through the eyelet. When he looked back up, Dick was standing in the doorway at the end of the hall, and it was clear from the look on his face that he had not yet been told that Lewis Nixon had showed up, and had spent the night in the spare bedroom.

Nix let his hands drop down to his sides and he didn't know if he'd managed to get every button, or if they were even in the right holes. He met Dick's eyes, drinking in each twitch of surprise, each line at the corner of his eyes, and then - most intoxicatingly - the barest upward curve at the corner of the man's lip.

"I got here yesterday," he said, feeling as though someone else were in charge of his voice, "around four. Your parents told me you were gone for the night, they insisted I stay." He was not the first buddy who'd showed up on their doorstep, apparently. A few men from Easy had come calling in the months since the war had ended - some arriving when Dick had still been in New Jersey, some more recently. His parents had welcomed every single one. Many had stayed a few nights in the very bed Nixon had just occupied. They'd smiled, fed him too much food and waved their hands in dismissal when he'd tried to wash the dishes.

Now, he stood at one end of the hall and Dick stood at the other. He waited for the man to talk, and the fear was almost overwhelming. The screen door slapped again and Nix turned his head to look back through the doorway to the open window. Curtains billowed slightly and a scratching sound - like a dog trying to get inside the house - carried up to his ears. He watched the soft cotton move in the breeze and wondered at how his fingers had gone numb. Nothing had ever felt quite so much like the end before. Not jumping out of a plane into war, not watching men burn, not freezing off layers of skin, not lying on the floor of his father's study in an empty house with an empty heart.

A warm hand slid first over his shoulder, then to his throat and Nix felt a strong thumb press against his jaw, bringing his head back around, so that when Dick leaned in, their foreheads touched, met, and Nix could see smiling green eyes.

Was this forgiveness? The lead in his chest seemed to melt away into the sunlight. Was this what it felt like to know you weren't a monster? Dick's hand was solid, but not heavy, and Nix tipped his head just barely toward the touch of that hand.

"I made it," he whispered, then licked dry lips.

The thumb smoothed down the line of his throat and he felt the muted light of Dick's smile on his cheeks like the first touch of a summer morning.

"I knew you would."