Drinking hides a multitude of things from Nixon, most of which, if he was actually aware of the fact, he'd be grateful to remain blissfully ignorant of. However, there are moments, tiny spots in time, that are easily overlooked, brushed aside, and discarded into the black nothingness of pain and indifference. Perhaps, if he knew how much he was missing, he'd look a little harder, try a little harder, ignore a little less.
He'll stumble in, weak moonlight filtering through grimy windows the only indication of how late it really is. Sometimes, Winters will be up, sometimes he'll be asleep, most of the time, he won't remember one way or the other.
What he does know, is that sometimes, when Winters is actually awake (or, perhaps, more accurately, when he's been woken by Nix crashing blindly about the room), Nixon will want to talk, which he manages to do rather well for someone who's had as much to drink as he has.
Nixon will not remember the things he says or the responses he receives in return.
But on some rare mornings, when he awakens before Winters, he'll glance over to where his friend lies sleeping.
And wonder why there are dried tear tracks on his face.
But he'll never remember.