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crack_van2010-05-13 05:04 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-05-13 05:04 pm
Entry tags:
A Love Like The Sea by andrealyn (PG-13)
Fandom: BAND OF BROTHERS
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Length: 24,020
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: AndreaLyn's Archive
Why this must be read:
Six months after the end of the war Joe Liebgott is woken up by a phone call in the middle of the night and is drawn back to someone that he's tried so hard to forget. I loved how the author wrote Webster and Liebgott's relationship, from flashbacks with missing scenes from the miniseries, to the slow burning way they finally come together and learn to understand each other.
He was smoking outside the entrance doors to the hospital when they wheeled Webster out with his single-bag of possessions and wearing a too-big navy-blue long-sleeved shirt and a faded pair of denims. His dogtags gleamed in the sun and Liebgott squinted to watch him. He wrapped an arm around Webster’s waist to help him onto his feet (the other man still woozy from drugs and still listening to the tail-end of a lecture about his stitches and how he shouldn’t get the dressings wet unless he wanted to suffer a possible infection).
“He’s got it, Doc,” Liebgott promised as he wrapped his other arm around Webster’s waist temporarily to get him vertical.
Christenson had taken off earlier after a goodbye to Webster and it was just the two of them now with an old car and barely enough possessions cobbled between the two of them to be able to call them travelers. Slowly, they shuffled away from the hospital and Liebgott got Web settled in the passenger seat of the car.
“I need a pair of sunglasses,” Webster muttered, sounding like he was half-drunk.
“And I need my old job back,” Liebgott added easily, slamming the door (that creaked every time he opened it). “Can’t get what we want, Webster.” This was especially true when part of what you wanted was sitting three feet to the right of you and you didn’t exactly know what that was about, anyway, except a jealousy of the ocean. And didn’t that all sound stupid when he put it like that.
He gunned the gas as soon as he got the ignition started and drove the first ten miles too fast and played the music at least two volumes too loud and not once did Webster complain about it. In fact, he seemed well-removed from the world. The only time that he actually budged was halfway through the trip when he started to dig through his satchel and brought out a journal that was all-too-familiar to Joe. Its pages were more frayed than they had been six months ago and the ink looked faded to his eye, but it damn well sure was the same journal that had been with Webster through the war.
“When you write about this,” Liebgott shouted above the music, “Talk about how I swooped in and saved you like Prince Charming!”
He glanced sidewards in time to catch Webster’s reaction – a shake of his head and a fond smile – and that made Liebgott grin like a young kid who’d just been given his favorite treat. So maybe he wasn’t going to star in Webster’s journal, but if he could keep earning smiles like that, it didn’t matter.
He only turned down the music when Webster started giving directions. He even slowed down when Webster made a big deal of grabbing the dash and biting out a comment about how he hadn’t survived the war just to die in an auto accident. Then he’d gotten really sullen and silent and Liebgott didn’t need to be a genius to piece together that he was talking about Janovec and that day on guard duty.
They went from the sun-baked highway to suburban streets and kept driving past them until they wound their way closer to the ocean. The houses refused to dot the landscape as constantly as they had in suburbia and spans of space began to appear between each house as the sand overtook the road more often than not. Liebgott didn’t turn the ignition off until Webster pointed out a little house with the paint peeling off the outside walls. It couldn’t be more than four rooms and had a porch going all the way around the front of the house. The ocean was within a stone’s throw of the front door. Somehow, that was all Liebgott needed to know to know that this was definitely Webster’s house.
“This is it,” Webster said quietly, leaning closer to Liebgott in order to look at the property. There was a boat tied down to the dock and Liebgott suddenly felt like an intruder on a personal moment, even if all of the moments in Web’s near future were going to involve him. Without another word, Liebgott grabbed the bag of prescriptions and his own stuff and made his exit, slamming the creaking door shut as soon as he was clear of the car.
“Nice digs,” he appraised. “You own the place?”
“It was the family’s. Now it’s mine,” Webster agreed as he leaned his elbows on the roof of the car, squinting in the sunlight as if to prove just how much he needed those sunglasses. “Joe, your job? You didn’t get it back?”
“What can I say? Heavy demand, not enough fucking supply,” he said, trying to brush it off, wishing Webster had been too drugged up to properly remember his off-hand comment. He hitched his bag on his shoulder and made the walk from the driveway to the front door of the house, looking up to see shells hanging with fishing line from the ceiling amidst wind chimes, bird-feeders, and other paraphernalia. It looked like a home and Liebgott had been in short supply of those since he’d left his for the war.
He hesitated by the front door and waited for Webster, taking the moment to really look at the other man. He was still too thin and in need of a shave and haircut, but here (standing in the sun), it seemed like he had been born to live in this weather. His dark hair gleamed and his skin seemed to look healthy rather than sickly in the hospital lights. He joined Liebgott on the porch, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as he dug out the key and glanced warily at Joe.
“What?”
“It’s a mess. And…I only have the bedroom. I mean, the couch is nice and all, but it’s still a couch.”
“Stop your whining and open the door, Web. Jesus,” Liebgott exhaled as he shook his head. “You act like I’m here permanently.” The moment he said those words, he regretted it. No, he wasn’t going to be there to stay, but even a week could seem permanent now that they were fixed in one place. Guilt swarmed him and he made a mental note to apologize for that later, when he had the capacity to put what he was feeling into words.
Webster opened the door and wandered in as though he were going through the motions of old routine. His bag was dropped by the door and his keys went on top of a cedar table in the hall. He checked his reflection in the mirror (and winced) before heading inside, one hand protectively hovering over the wound on his torso. Liebgott was a little slower in following him, not sure how welcome he was and wanting to make sure he didn’t piss Web off within the first sixty seconds of being inside his home.
“So, this is it,” Webster said, gesturing to the space. The kitchen, den, and most everything else shared one large space. To the side was a bathroom and a bedroom and that was it. It was cozy and quaint and small and Liebgott had the sense that by the looks of it, Webster spent more time on his boat than he did inside.
Which brought something else to the fore that Liebgott had been putting off until now.
“You ain’t goin’ sailing, by the way,” Liebgott said sharply as he dropped his things on his couch (claiming it now because he had the feeling he’d be there a while). Before Webster could whine about it, Liebgott kept bulldozing forward with his words, “You heard what the Doc said. No getting the dressings wet.” The fact that Liebgott was likely going to have to help Webster bathe had occurred to him, but he wasn’t about to confront that fact, yet. “And I know you, Webster. You get out on the water, you’re going to get them soaked and then I’ll have to cart you right back to the hospital and I don’t feel like driving all that way just so I can watch them open you up again like a fucking practice kit for sewing.”
That seemed to get through to Webster, but he didn’t say a thing. He just managed to storm off to the bedroom looking sulky as hell while Liebgott settled in and picked up books from the coffee table, reading in a recumbent and lazy position while Web got settled in.
“We’ll redress the wounds tonight,” Liebgott called over after he gave Webster about five minutes. “Then I’ll get you looking like a decent human being again.” He put the book down, expecting a reply from Webster in the bedroom and instead finding him hovering above the couch and staring down at him. “What?” he asked, voice edged with mild anxiety.
“If you’re planning to make me look good and proper, does that mean I get to make sure you put weight on so you look less like a skeleton?” Webster demanded, sitting himself down where a brush of Webster’s hand would mean he was touching Liebgott’s feet. Suddenly, they were too close, but Liebgott didn’t say a word. All he wanted to do was argue that he wasn’t too thin and that just because the Army wasn’t pumping him full of protein and iron didn’t mean he wasn’t perfectly healthy.
“You cook?” Liebgott asked dubiously.
“No. You do. I’ll happily keep you well-supplied in food,” Webster promised, patting his hand on Liebgott’s thigh as he pushed himself to his feet and picked up one of the books from the table, wandering outside as if he hadn’t been in the hospital and hadn’t picked himself up a new houseguest and didn’t look like hell warmed over.
Liebgott always knew that Web was a fucking odd one along with being strange. He also knew that if he was going to be left alone and he had a comfortable couch, he was catching up on the sleep that he’d been denied because he was suddenly babysitter to a careless buddy in arms.
When Joe roused again, the light of the sky had changed severely and there was a smell in the house of freshly-fried vegetables and eggs simmering on the stove. He shifted and cracked one eye open to find two things. The first was that sometime in the day, Webster had covered him with a thick blanket and the second was that Webster was standing by the stove in a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt and was cooking omelettes and fried potatoes, sucking small tastes off his pinky every once in a while.
“Thought you didn’t cook,” Liebgott muttered sleepily, his words still groggy. He slowly shifted into a sitting position, watching Webster for a long moment. He waited until he was slightly more awake before sliding off the couch and approaching, rubbing his eyes tiredly and peering over Webster’s shoulder at the stove-top.
It didn’t even look half-bad. Not that he was about to say that aloud and give Webster any kind of praise. Web turned his head slightly and suddenly Liebgott felt like if he inched forward, their noses would be touching. He eased back just as Web pointed to the food with the spatula. “It’s an omelette, Joe, it’s not exactly fine cuisine,” he pointed out with a shrug, giving Liebgott’s hip a light nudge with the back of his palm. “Go sit down. I’ll feed you before you fix me up.”
Liebgott sat at the oval table and flicked at the dulled lightbulb hanging above them with a finger, settling only when Web slid the plate in front of him. Liebgott didn’t even make a comment about the fact that there was twice as much on his plate as was on Web’s.
“You’ve lost weight since the war,” was all Webster said when he saw the look on Liebgott’s face. “You look like skin and bones. No nice Jewish girl is going to have you looking like that.”
Joe let out a quiet scoff accompanied by a half-giddy smile. “You remember that day?”
“How could I forget?” Webster asked, gesturing with his chin into the den. “There are comics in there because of you. I was…persuaded to give them a shot.” He caught Liebgott’s near-manic grin and let out a small laugh. “Yes, you can read them any time. They’re not exactly collector’s items. They’re just under the television.” He sat down beside Liebgott after bringing the collection of food to the table.
Neither of them said grace and nothing was discussed beyond the plot arcs of the Dick Tracy series that Liebgott loved so much. Liebgott reached over to help Webster cut food when his hand seemed to weaken thanks to the wound and he dug out the pills after enough was consumed.
Webster eyed the two pills warily and then raised his glance to Liebgott. “Web, you gotta,” Liebgott insisted quietly, pushing the tall glass of water over along with it. “It’ll help the pain and the healing. Besides, the haircut and shave will breeze by if you take ‘em. Promise.”
He didn’t get an argument past that and Joe watched those pills until Webster swallowed them down, gulping back half a glass of water with them. Liebgott gave an assured nod and gestured for him to stand. “Come on. I’ll clean up while you’re resting later.” He left the room before Webster did, getting everything ready from the razor to the scissors to the dressings to turning on the light to make sure everything would shine brightly.
If he was going to drag Webster back into the real world and wound up an unwilling passenger, he was doing it in good lighting.
A Love Like The Sea
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Length: 24,020
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: AndreaLyn's Archive
Why this must be read:
Six months after the end of the war Joe Liebgott is woken up by a phone call in the middle of the night and is drawn back to someone that he's tried so hard to forget. I loved how the author wrote Webster and Liebgott's relationship, from flashbacks with missing scenes from the miniseries, to the slow burning way they finally come together and learn to understand each other.
He was smoking outside the entrance doors to the hospital when they wheeled Webster out with his single-bag of possessions and wearing a too-big navy-blue long-sleeved shirt and a faded pair of denims. His dogtags gleamed in the sun and Liebgott squinted to watch him. He wrapped an arm around Webster’s waist to help him onto his feet (the other man still woozy from drugs and still listening to the tail-end of a lecture about his stitches and how he shouldn’t get the dressings wet unless he wanted to suffer a possible infection).
“He’s got it, Doc,” Liebgott promised as he wrapped his other arm around Webster’s waist temporarily to get him vertical.
Christenson had taken off earlier after a goodbye to Webster and it was just the two of them now with an old car and barely enough possessions cobbled between the two of them to be able to call them travelers. Slowly, they shuffled away from the hospital and Liebgott got Web settled in the passenger seat of the car.
“I need a pair of sunglasses,” Webster muttered, sounding like he was half-drunk.
“And I need my old job back,” Liebgott added easily, slamming the door (that creaked every time he opened it). “Can’t get what we want, Webster.” This was especially true when part of what you wanted was sitting three feet to the right of you and you didn’t exactly know what that was about, anyway, except a jealousy of the ocean. And didn’t that all sound stupid when he put it like that.
He gunned the gas as soon as he got the ignition started and drove the first ten miles too fast and played the music at least two volumes too loud and not once did Webster complain about it. In fact, he seemed well-removed from the world. The only time that he actually budged was halfway through the trip when he started to dig through his satchel and brought out a journal that was all-too-familiar to Joe. Its pages were more frayed than they had been six months ago and the ink looked faded to his eye, but it damn well sure was the same journal that had been with Webster through the war.
“When you write about this,” Liebgott shouted above the music, “Talk about how I swooped in and saved you like Prince Charming!”
He glanced sidewards in time to catch Webster’s reaction – a shake of his head and a fond smile – and that made Liebgott grin like a young kid who’d just been given his favorite treat. So maybe he wasn’t going to star in Webster’s journal, but if he could keep earning smiles like that, it didn’t matter.
He only turned down the music when Webster started giving directions. He even slowed down when Webster made a big deal of grabbing the dash and biting out a comment about how he hadn’t survived the war just to die in an auto accident. Then he’d gotten really sullen and silent and Liebgott didn’t need to be a genius to piece together that he was talking about Janovec and that day on guard duty.
They went from the sun-baked highway to suburban streets and kept driving past them until they wound their way closer to the ocean. The houses refused to dot the landscape as constantly as they had in suburbia and spans of space began to appear between each house as the sand overtook the road more often than not. Liebgott didn’t turn the ignition off until Webster pointed out a little house with the paint peeling off the outside walls. It couldn’t be more than four rooms and had a porch going all the way around the front of the house. The ocean was within a stone’s throw of the front door. Somehow, that was all Liebgott needed to know to know that this was definitely Webster’s house.
“This is it,” Webster said quietly, leaning closer to Liebgott in order to look at the property. There was a boat tied down to the dock and Liebgott suddenly felt like an intruder on a personal moment, even if all of the moments in Web’s near future were going to involve him. Without another word, Liebgott grabbed the bag of prescriptions and his own stuff and made his exit, slamming the creaking door shut as soon as he was clear of the car.
“Nice digs,” he appraised. “You own the place?”
“It was the family’s. Now it’s mine,” Webster agreed as he leaned his elbows on the roof of the car, squinting in the sunlight as if to prove just how much he needed those sunglasses. “Joe, your job? You didn’t get it back?”
“What can I say? Heavy demand, not enough fucking supply,” he said, trying to brush it off, wishing Webster had been too drugged up to properly remember his off-hand comment. He hitched his bag on his shoulder and made the walk from the driveway to the front door of the house, looking up to see shells hanging with fishing line from the ceiling amidst wind chimes, bird-feeders, and other paraphernalia. It looked like a home and Liebgott had been in short supply of those since he’d left his for the war.
He hesitated by the front door and waited for Webster, taking the moment to really look at the other man. He was still too thin and in need of a shave and haircut, but here (standing in the sun), it seemed like he had been born to live in this weather. His dark hair gleamed and his skin seemed to look healthy rather than sickly in the hospital lights. He joined Liebgott on the porch, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as he dug out the key and glanced warily at Joe.
“What?”
“It’s a mess. And…I only have the bedroom. I mean, the couch is nice and all, but it’s still a couch.”
“Stop your whining and open the door, Web. Jesus,” Liebgott exhaled as he shook his head. “You act like I’m here permanently.” The moment he said those words, he regretted it. No, he wasn’t going to be there to stay, but even a week could seem permanent now that they were fixed in one place. Guilt swarmed him and he made a mental note to apologize for that later, when he had the capacity to put what he was feeling into words.
Webster opened the door and wandered in as though he were going through the motions of old routine. His bag was dropped by the door and his keys went on top of a cedar table in the hall. He checked his reflection in the mirror (and winced) before heading inside, one hand protectively hovering over the wound on his torso. Liebgott was a little slower in following him, not sure how welcome he was and wanting to make sure he didn’t piss Web off within the first sixty seconds of being inside his home.
“So, this is it,” Webster said, gesturing to the space. The kitchen, den, and most everything else shared one large space. To the side was a bathroom and a bedroom and that was it. It was cozy and quaint and small and Liebgott had the sense that by the looks of it, Webster spent more time on his boat than he did inside.
Which brought something else to the fore that Liebgott had been putting off until now.
“You ain’t goin’ sailing, by the way,” Liebgott said sharply as he dropped his things on his couch (claiming it now because he had the feeling he’d be there a while). Before Webster could whine about it, Liebgott kept bulldozing forward with his words, “You heard what the Doc said. No getting the dressings wet.” The fact that Liebgott was likely going to have to help Webster bathe had occurred to him, but he wasn’t about to confront that fact, yet. “And I know you, Webster. You get out on the water, you’re going to get them soaked and then I’ll have to cart you right back to the hospital and I don’t feel like driving all that way just so I can watch them open you up again like a fucking practice kit for sewing.”
That seemed to get through to Webster, but he didn’t say a thing. He just managed to storm off to the bedroom looking sulky as hell while Liebgott settled in and picked up books from the coffee table, reading in a recumbent and lazy position while Web got settled in.
“We’ll redress the wounds tonight,” Liebgott called over after he gave Webster about five minutes. “Then I’ll get you looking like a decent human being again.” He put the book down, expecting a reply from Webster in the bedroom and instead finding him hovering above the couch and staring down at him. “What?” he asked, voice edged with mild anxiety.
“If you’re planning to make me look good and proper, does that mean I get to make sure you put weight on so you look less like a skeleton?” Webster demanded, sitting himself down where a brush of Webster’s hand would mean he was touching Liebgott’s feet. Suddenly, they were too close, but Liebgott didn’t say a word. All he wanted to do was argue that he wasn’t too thin and that just because the Army wasn’t pumping him full of protein and iron didn’t mean he wasn’t perfectly healthy.
“You cook?” Liebgott asked dubiously.
“No. You do. I’ll happily keep you well-supplied in food,” Webster promised, patting his hand on Liebgott’s thigh as he pushed himself to his feet and picked up one of the books from the table, wandering outside as if he hadn’t been in the hospital and hadn’t picked himself up a new houseguest and didn’t look like hell warmed over.
Liebgott always knew that Web was a fucking odd one along with being strange. He also knew that if he was going to be left alone and he had a comfortable couch, he was catching up on the sleep that he’d been denied because he was suddenly babysitter to a careless buddy in arms.
When Joe roused again, the light of the sky had changed severely and there was a smell in the house of freshly-fried vegetables and eggs simmering on the stove. He shifted and cracked one eye open to find two things. The first was that sometime in the day, Webster had covered him with a thick blanket and the second was that Webster was standing by the stove in a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt and was cooking omelettes and fried potatoes, sucking small tastes off his pinky every once in a while.
“Thought you didn’t cook,” Liebgott muttered sleepily, his words still groggy. He slowly shifted into a sitting position, watching Webster for a long moment. He waited until he was slightly more awake before sliding off the couch and approaching, rubbing his eyes tiredly and peering over Webster’s shoulder at the stove-top.
It didn’t even look half-bad. Not that he was about to say that aloud and give Webster any kind of praise. Web turned his head slightly and suddenly Liebgott felt like if he inched forward, their noses would be touching. He eased back just as Web pointed to the food with the spatula. “It’s an omelette, Joe, it’s not exactly fine cuisine,” he pointed out with a shrug, giving Liebgott’s hip a light nudge with the back of his palm. “Go sit down. I’ll feed you before you fix me up.”
Liebgott sat at the oval table and flicked at the dulled lightbulb hanging above them with a finger, settling only when Web slid the plate in front of him. Liebgott didn’t even make a comment about the fact that there was twice as much on his plate as was on Web’s.
“You’ve lost weight since the war,” was all Webster said when he saw the look on Liebgott’s face. “You look like skin and bones. No nice Jewish girl is going to have you looking like that.”
Joe let out a quiet scoff accompanied by a half-giddy smile. “You remember that day?”
“How could I forget?” Webster asked, gesturing with his chin into the den. “There are comics in there because of you. I was…persuaded to give them a shot.” He caught Liebgott’s near-manic grin and let out a small laugh. “Yes, you can read them any time. They’re not exactly collector’s items. They’re just under the television.” He sat down beside Liebgott after bringing the collection of food to the table.
Neither of them said grace and nothing was discussed beyond the plot arcs of the Dick Tracy series that Liebgott loved so much. Liebgott reached over to help Webster cut food when his hand seemed to weaken thanks to the wound and he dug out the pills after enough was consumed.
Webster eyed the two pills warily and then raised his glance to Liebgott. “Web, you gotta,” Liebgott insisted quietly, pushing the tall glass of water over along with it. “It’ll help the pain and the healing. Besides, the haircut and shave will breeze by if you take ‘em. Promise.”
He didn’t get an argument past that and Joe watched those pills until Webster swallowed them down, gulping back half a glass of water with them. Liebgott gave an assured nod and gestured for him to stand. “Come on. I’ll clean up while you’re resting later.” He left the room before Webster did, getting everything ready from the razor to the scissors to the dressings to turning on the light to make sure everything would shine brightly.
If he was going to drag Webster back into the real world and wound up an unwilling passenger, he was doing it in good lighting.
A Love Like The Sea