"Equitine" by lootas for annjej76
Title: Equitine (Part 1 of 2)
Rating: PG13/light R
Characters/Pairings: Liebgott/Webster
Disclaimer: Band of Brothers does not belong to me, and I make no money in the writing of this fiction. This fiction is based on the television series and in no way reflects the actual lives of the men the characters are based on-it’s all fun and games here.
Summary: Liebgott always made strange associations, but he never thought that Webster might ever become the central focus of one.
Notes or Warnings: War violence, death, swearing, mild sexual themes. (This pairing kicked my rear end all the way to Wasoto County, and then made me buy it a cherry soda. But hopefully it came across okay. Last part will be up within the month.)
"And I can draw the line on the first date
I'll let you cross it
Let you take every line I've got
When the time gets late
But if stars, shouldn't shine
By the very first time
Then dear it's fine, so fine by me
'Cos we can give it time
So much time
With me"
--The XX (Stars)
There never seemed to be an overt reason that Liebgott particularly didn’t care for horses. He it was just that he never really had. Ever since he was a boy and one had bit him on the arm. Liebgott couldn’t really remember it very well, aside from the sudden movement of the long, sinuous neck and the quick snap of yellow teeth in the tender flesh of his arm.
He had cried, and his mother fussed, dabbing at the raw and purpling bruise as his father swore at the stable hand that tended the horses just outside of Detroit where his family had gone to visit a carnival one summer when he was very young.
“Oh, Joey.” She crooned softly. “Du bist gute.” His mother murmured, comforting and gentle as the deep throb of pain set in against his bones.
Liebgott listened uneasily as his father marched off towards them shouting over his shoulder as he went. “Quatch! Ich habe die Nase voll! Schrecklich Teir.”
There had formed around them a small crowd of onlookers. His parents conversed in rapid-fire German, and Liebgott listened, sniffing quietly as a few people muttered about foreigners. He hadn’t really understood at the time, but those early years, just after the first war, had changed people’s attitudes about Germans, and Liebgott never forgot the unpleasant connection.
The mental association was made so quickly and so irrevocably deep within his mind that he would never, to his dying day, pin-point the very source. But it was the horse that Liebgott had attached the pain, the guilt, the alien shame of standing in the wood-chip covered ground which was miserable and damp with March fog; sodden and muddy with a bruise already forming.
Liebgott wouldn’t soon forget the unknown sensation of feeling a very acute sort of private humiliation, which at the time had been unidentifiable. Only when he was older did the reasons come drifting to the murky surfaces.
‘Oh, you’re German?’ Teachers and parents and friends would ask, amused or uneasy, no doubt going back in their minds to the war across the ocean. Liebgott never really knew the correct way to answer this, so it was often met with a slight turn of his shoulder or a grunt.
It wasn’t until much later still when Liebgott would learn that there was no right answer to this question. Only the truth. And that never really ever did him much good anyway. The questions formed as a horse shaped shadow in his mind, and it made Liebgott squirm with disdain.
Later, years after the second war, the question evolved to, ‘oh, you’re a German Jew?’ And then he might as well have just had grown a second head. But it all trailed back to the muddy wood-chip ground and the carnival as his parents yelled at the stable hand, and then one another, as the grinning, uneasy faces of passerby’s expanded to nearly comical proportions of criminal glee in Liebgott’s mind.
It rained a lot in England, but far from being discouraged, Liebgott was reminded a little of home. San Francisco got about as much rain during the wet seasons in the summer and winter, and just about the same amount of fog. Grant, from the sunnier parts of California complained endlessly about the weather.
Liebgott could get used to moving around, and he even got to the point where he didn’t mind it. It seemed to bother a few of the other guys, but Liebgott, for the most part, could get used to just about anything.
Webster, however, was just irritating. He seemed to take every single abysmal thing in with childlike wonder.
“Look at that gelding!” Webster pointed out to a few of the guys walking next to him. “That’s a beautiful animal.”
“Really Web?” Martin asked, coming up from behind them. “Maybe you should buy her dinner.”
The guys howled with laughter and Cobb did a ridiculous impression of Webster having sex with a horse. This, under normal circumstances, would have probably just gotten him ignored, or a grumpy ‘shut the fuck up, Cobb.’ Though, as it was, with Webster being the subject, everyone just seemed to find it funny.
Liebgott laughed, smoking quietly to himself as Easy passed a farm with a quaint little pasture behind it. The brown horse that Webster had pointed to was grazing peaceably fifteen yards away. It glanced up when the men marched past, flicking an ear and chewing slowly on a mouthful of grass.
Liebgott sneered at it as Webster stammered. Angry he was being picked on, and the same time he was sort of pleased to have been noticed.
“Geldings have been castrated,” was the last thing Webster muttered to himself-that Liebgott could hear-as he strode out of earshot.
Liebgot flicked his cigarette over his shoulder in Webster’s general direction and shot him an intimidating look. He really didn’t like Webster, for reasons that he couldn’t identify, and part of it probably had to do with the fact that Webster liked gay things like horses and Hesse (the kinds of books his grandfather liked to read).
More than that, it was the presence Webster exuded. Liebgott thought it might have been the reason the other guys teased him mercilessly. It was the sort of things girls fell over themselves when confronted with. The noble intellect and the near encyclopedic knowledge of every identifiable thing under the sun that spoke of a mind that worked like a brilliant machine.
Webster just embodied it. He wore it like his skin, and it looked good on him too. That was what Liebgott had the hardest time swallowing. He knew guys like Webster would go home after the war, be able to gather their wits and words and put into ink and paper the things they had seen and done. They would give name and voice to the war that millions of people had been a part of.
And people would listen to them. People would remember the war that they themselves had not been a part of, because of guys like Webster.
Webster was the light that showed people things that were hidden. Liebgott squirmed under that kind of scrutiny. He would just as soon go back to the States and put this whole business behind him. He would be more than happy to forget.
And the problem with Webster, Liebgott came to realize, was that he wouldn’t let him forget.
“Hey, Joe, c’mer.”
Liebgott had been walking to the mess when Webster had called him over to look at something he had apparently found under a post.
Liebgott had stopped, stared at Webster hard-Webster, who was standing next to a wooden stake in the ground and signaling excitedly for him to come at look at something that was on the ground. Liebgott’s first impression was that Webster was playing some kind of joke on him.
“Come here.” Webster insisted.
“Why?” Liebgott called.
“Just come here.” Webster said, rolling his eyes. Liebgott was reminded of his mother for a moment. “It’s nothing bad.”
Liebgott wasn’t sure if that assurance should put him at ease or make him nervous. He started towards Webster anyway, going slowly and trying to scan the ground to see if there was anything dangerous or suspicious lying there.
Webster waited patiently, as if he expected this sort of reaction for Liebgott. “It’s really okay, just look. I found them this morning.”
Liebgott edged up to where Webster was pointing. “Here,” he said, kneeling down and pushing a patch of grass away so Liebgott could see. Which would have been helpful, except Liebgott couldn’t see anything. He squinted and craned his neck a little, and just when he was about to accuse Webster of tricking him into coming all the way over to a stupid fence post and looking at something that wasn’t there, Webster urged him a little closer.
“Come here.” He said, pulling him down by his shoulder. Liebgott opened his mouth to protest, put paused when he saw something very small shift a little in the grass.
“See.” Webster said, smiling widely as he noticed that Liebgott finally saw what he was looking at. “They’re only a few days old.”
Liebgott, despite himself, leaned a little closer.
Rabbits. They were young rabbits.
“Toye told me you had a rabbit when you were a kid. I found these little guys and thought you might want to take a look.”
Liebgott swallowed a couple of times, trying to fish for an appropriate response to this. He was kneeling on the outskirts of some field in England with Webster, during a war, looking at a nest of rabbits. But it was true; Liebgott had pet rabbit when he was a boy. Bugs, his father had named him, noticing that Liebgott had a particular fondness for the cartoon pictures they played at the movies.
The rabbit was grey, soft and friendly. It had been killed by a neighbor’s cat when he went off to camp one summer. Liebgott had been devastated. His father had apologized, even allowed him to cry about it for a day.
Liebgott couldn’t really recall telling Toye about the rabbit, or the circumstance in which he would. But he must have, because here was Webster, looking hopeful and accomplished and just a little fond as they stooped on the ground together-alone except for the newborn kits.
Liebgott leaned back after a moment, feeling dizzy and a little confused. He chanced a quick glance towards Webster, and then away, towards the buildings that made up Mackall.
He stood up quickly, catching some deeper meaning lurking behind Webster’s sky-blue eyes.
“Yeah, quit wasting my time, Webster.” Liebgott snapped, turning to walk away, realizing with a sickening lurch that, the reason Webster had called him over in the first place, had nothing to do with the rabbits.
The next time Liebgott spared Webster more than a passing glance was at Mare-du-Monte, after easy had hooked up. After they had jumped into France.
Webster was looking sadly at a grizzly pile of dead horses that had been heaped over each other. The work was messy and done quickly, with little intent to clean up. The road had to be cleared, tanks had to get through. The bodies would be moved someplace further away later.
There was a red mud where the blood had mixed in with the dirt. Liebgott had never seen so much animal blood in one place.
Webster glanced over at him, seemingly aware that he was being watched, and Liebgott, unable to turn away, just met his sad gaze. There was something wise and knowing in Webster’s eyes. ‘Civilians aren’t the only casualties of war,’ they seemed to say.
Liebgott couldn’t help it. He thought back to the rabbits.
In Nuenen, Liebgott had had a little too much to drink.
He stumbled blindly down a side street, holding onto any section of wall he could reach. The moon swung crazily in the sky above his head. He fell a few times, trying to right himself and cursing all the while.
His head ached, and he hated Grant and Guarnere more than he could ever remember hating anyone else in that moment. Why had he drunk so much scotch? What had been so important to prove at the time? Liebgott felt like he couldn’t remember, probably never would.
Someone called him a Jew. This was something Liebgott would never be able to recall this with much accuracy, but that was what had happened. And it was true, Liebgott was a Jew. But something in the way that private-whatever his name was-had said it. Like he had called Liebgott a dirty name. Then he had made some obscene comment about his dick, and it had been all over.
The scotch stopped burning after a while, and it was as if Liebgott was drinking water. Things were funny for a time, then he became angry, hit the private, just to show that Jews could hold their drinks and throw a punch at the same time.
Now he was stumbling down a little road, Holland or Switzerland, somewhere. He didn’t know where he was. And that meant he was lost.
Liebgott sunk to the ground, where the world wasn’t spinning. He gazed stupidly up at the night sky, muttering to himself in German without really realizing he was doing it. Only when he turned his face back down the stretch of crooked European cobblestone did he see the horse.
Liebgott squinted, glared, and studied the shape that presented itself not five years before him. There was a lamp some feet behind it, casting its outline in gold, but its body was all black. Solid, unbroken jet-black, and would have blended in perfectly with the night if it weren’t for the lamplight.
“Yeah,” Liebgott muttered. “Call me a fuckin’ Jew. Stupid…stupid animal.”
The horse twitched an ear, its breath was panting from its nostrils in clouds of white mist.
“What the fuck’re you looking at, huh?” He was getting angry; he could feel it, rising inside his chest. The alcohol had taken away the restraints that kept it down and secure. “Think you’re so much…better than me? You’re not…you’re not…”
Liebgott was muttering nonsense. He was all too aware of this, somewhere in the rational part of his mind, untouched by the drink. The horse, however, only continued to watch him.
Liebgott tried to stand, still muttering and swearing. He was fixing to say something, or do something.
“Hey, Joe.” The horse said, and Liebgott started when it spoke in Webster’s voice. “There’s no point in this really. You had too much to drink is all, and you need to get back to your billet.” The horse was surprisingly rational. But then, Liebgott reasoned, Webster was rational, so this made sense.
“Joe...Joe, just get up.” But Liebgott couldn’t, despite his wonder. He sank to his rear, making a face. The horse made a very human sound of exasperation. “Oh, really, this is ridiculous.”
But when Liebgott blinked to clear his eyes, the horse was gone.
In its place was Webster. Standing in front of him on two legs and looking disappointed. He reached down for Liebgott’s arm, hauling him up onto his feet and steadying him with his solid, warm weight.
“How’d you do that Web?” he asked as Webster maneuvered them back to their billet. “How’d you turn into a horse like that?”
Webster laughed. “You’re losing it.” He said, and sat Joe down on his cot. Randleman glanced up from a book he was reading, nodded and turned a page.
Webster patted Liebgott’s knee. “Go to sleep.” And Liebgott did.
Webster was glaring at the back of Liebgott’s head. He had been staring at him for the better part of an hour since finding their way back to base. Sisk tried to break the silence by pointing out a few rocks that looked like John Wayne. He gave up eventually, settling into nervous repose.
As soon as the jeep was parked Liebgott jumped out and slammed the door shut harder than was necessary and marched away. He didn’t look up at Nixon who said something to him. He didn’t bother even looking up at Perconte. Liebgott kept his eyes trained on the gravel road, glaring at it as thought it had offended him personally.
And the sad thing was that Austria was beautiful, but Liebgott wasn’t seeing very much it of these days.
He hadn’t really looked at much outside his own troubled thoughts. Since the camp, Liebgott figured he had gotten his justification. He had gotten all the permission he needed to hate, and this time it wasn’t some murky shadow in the back of his mind.
Because Liebgott couldn’t decide what was worse-the pity or the scorn, for the world would surely see this.
“Joe!” Liebgott stiffened but didn’t stop. “Hey, just hang on!”
He hunched his shoulders in, trying to make himself small. He didn’t realize he was walking into the small wooded area at the south end of the town.
“I know you can hear me!” Webster called. Webster had followed him.
Liebgott wheeled around after a few more angry paces. Webster stopped abruptly. He was examining Liebgott the way he might a dangerous animal. Around them, the forest had grown dense and dark.
“Is this about the commander? Listen…he would have died in the long run. He was…involved. The war is won. Justice was coming to them anyway. When people find out about the camps…”
“And you’ll be the one to tell them, wont you Web?” Liebgott snapped, lunging forward. “Tell them what happened to all those Jews. Like you know, like you have any idea.”
Liebgott had advanced closer and closer until he was right in Webster’s face. He could see the outline of the shadow on his jaw. He could make out the ice blue ring around both irises. And yet somehow, despite Liebgott’s proximity, Webster didn’t flinch away.
“Because I’ll tell you right now…Web, that’s just what I fucking needed.” And he was aware of how dangerously close to the truth he was getting. Webster, a smart man, would see it immediately.
“Is that it?” Webster asked; a sort of strength gathering under the plaintive tone he had adopted. “You think people will treat you differently?”
Liebgott shoved Webster against a tree. No warning, just a quick, sharp movement of his hand had one strong shoulder pinned to the bark. Liebgott’s breath was ragged and furious.
“What do you know about it? What do you think it’s been like before this? Rainbows and kittens and shit? You think people never treated me different before?” Liebgott was shouting. He could hear his voice rattling around in his chest, and it felt far more fragile inside him, than it was roaring in the open.
“I’m a Jew!” He said, so close to Webster that he could feel his heat against his lips, smell the grease he put in his hair to tame it back. “I will always be a Jew to them!”
Webster’s eyes were wide. Not with horror, Liebgott probably guessed, but with something like discovery. Like his hypotheses had been tried, tested and found correct.
“And so now…now I go home and wormy fucks like you give the words ‘German Jew’ a new meaning, a new reason to stare and try to…shit, console me. Like it was me in one of those…” Liebgott broke off, unsure of where he was going with that, or how he was going to continue.
“No one is going to hold you…Joe, Christ, no one is going to hold you or anyone else but Nazi’s accountable for this.” Webster said, sounding bewildered. Liebgott knew better.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point Web!” Liebgott snarled. “That’s not the point…you don’t get it…” Liebgott retreated a few inches. He didn’t move his hand, however.
“No.” Webster said after a long pause. “No I don’t get it. But I do understand this. What happened here, all over Europe…you we never a victim. You’re strong Joe. You’re a hero, and you don’t have to…apologize or justify anything to anyone.”
Webster placed a hand on Liebgott’s shoulder, gently. “You’ve given everything anyone’s capable of giving. That doesn’t make you weak.”
Liebgott felt the atmospheric pressure inside his head shift, lose air rapidly, and for a brief moment he thought this was what it felt like to come falling back to earth.
He wanted to hide his eyes from Webster, too afraid of the truth the man had already seen in him.
“You don’t have to feel ashamed for the actions of monsters.”
And like that, something shifted and snapped inside of Liebgott. His heart possibly. It wouldn’t have mattered much anyway, since it was busy flying out of his chest. This was probably the reason he lunged forward, captured Webster’s mouth in a quick, brutal kiss.
There might as well not even be a world existing outside of the little cluster of trees. Pressed up against Webster, listening to his grunt of surprise, Liebgott felt like he could give in to his rebelling inhibitions. Just this once.
“Oh…’ Webster breathed, sounding overwhelmed and terrified and elated all at once. “Joe…I don’t…you can’t…”
“Can’t what Webster?” Liebgott challenged, feeling the barest tug of resistance from Webster’s part thrill him. Probably, presented with none, he would have fled. “What can’t I do?”
“We can’t do this here.” Webster sounded at a loss. Liebgott could have crowed with how pleased that made him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Dunno, shit Web, I dunno. Does there have’ta be a reason?”
“No, no, I guess not. I…I...” Webster gasped. “I wanted this…” He relented on a puff of surrender. “Since…on that transport. When you…when you hit Bill for calling Sobel a Jew.”
Liebgott paused for a moment to take that in. It had been nearly two years ago. Webster had been holding out for that long? The implications nearly made Liebgott draw back for good. But what Webster said next stopped him.
“I thought you were the bravest person I had ever seen.”
Brave. Liebgott marveled. He had never been called that before.
“Fuck, an’ all this time my teachers told me I was bein’ combative.” Webster laughed. Liebgott pulled away from him, aware of the ache that set off in his chest. Webster gazed up at him curiously, and something in his expression made Liebgott want to go to him right then.
But Webster was right. They couldn’t do this. At least not out in the open the way they were.
“Warte auf mich.” Liebgott murmured, quietly. “Can you do that, huh Web?”
Webster’s eyes were huge, impossibly so. But he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Joe. I can wait.”
“Aber…wann?” Webster asked, sounding unsure and excited.
“Later.” Liebgott said, backing away towards the town where he should have checked in with Nixon half an hour ago. “Spater. Kannst du das? Just for a little while. I need…I need to think.”
Webster nodded, even as Joe backed away. He could do that. He could wait.