Fic: "Strange Allies, Warring Hearts" - Prologue (Webgott, R)
Title : Strange Allies, Warring Hearts - Prologue
Author : valmontheights
Pairing : Joe Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Disclaimer : “Band of Brothers” is a property of HBO, and while the series itself is based on the true story of Easy Company, this story is purely a work of fiction, based on the fictionalized movieverse with no disrespect intended towards the actual people and events on which it is based.
The first time was in Haguenau.
It began with the touch of a finger.
Just the one, pressing gently against a solid leather spine inlaid with golden bands, slow and tentative. You were surprised that nobody had thought of taking them already, but then again these things may not be what your fellow soldiers considered to be valuable. You knew better, though. You’re different, that’s what you’ve always believed. These books, lovingly bound and engraved, a wealth of knowledge at your fingertips, an abundance of words before which you stood wordless. They weren’t made for you. They were made for better people, better times, and this is why your hand hesitated from just plucking one of them out of the massive shelf. It would be a betrayal of your real purpose for being there. There was a war still being fought, and people were still dying. It seemed wrong to indulge yourself like this, even as the men around you helped themselves to whatever was left behind. You’ve done it before-watches, pistols, flags, anything that caught your eye. But this was different. They caught something else inside of you.
Perco and Vest were still arguing over the distribution of Hershey bars in the next room when Captain Nixon walked in, casting a look sideways before he saw you. Had you noticed him, you would’ve seen him stare awhile, and the little smirk across his face as he walked over.
“Webster.”
You were startled, a little bit, but you were quick to recover. “Captain Nixon, Sir.”
“Find anything interesting?”
You stared back and forth between him and the bookshelf you’d just been perusing. “I…well, I just noticed it myself, Sir.”
Nixon, like the other officers, looked reasonably cleaner than the enlisted men, but the look in his face was just as haggard, tired, the corners of his eyes creased with lines and a week’s worth of dark stubble obscuring his handsome jawline. As you looked at your own cleanly-shaven reflection in one of the gilded mirrors, it added to your growing sense of unease, the feeling that your place in this company, wherever it might’ve once been, was lost. In their eyes you were clean, untouched, and despite whatever excuse you may offer about the leg and all, you were unscarred.
“Webster?”
His voice jarred you. “Sir?”
“I said, I think you might like this one,” Nixon was holding out one of the books. You hadn’t even seen him pick it off the shelf.
It was a handsome volume, thick enough to ensure a long and enjoyable read, the title in elegant golden script in the cover. Leatherbound. You’ve always liked that word. It seems to speak of greater and finer things, and the book didn’t look at all out of place in Captain Nixon’s hands.
Ludwig II, Konig von Bayern.
“I think I’ve read about him somewhere,” you said as you took the book from his outstretched hand. Leatherbound. It felt good in your hold.
“You’re in Harvard right? Literature,” Nixon said.
“Yes, Sir.”
It looked enticing in your hands, which trembled slightly. This is why you hesitated so much. You knew that once you crossed the line, there would be no coming back. It’s dangerous, this indulgence, because it left you vulnerable to neglecting what really mattered. It offered a convenient escape. Ludwig II, King of Bavaria. Sure sounded romantic. A figure of history from Germany’s past, before it even became Germany, before its name became synonimous with all things evil and hated in this world. Before Hitler and the Nazis. You read the inscription in the inside cover, under an illustration of Ludwig himself. 1845-1886. A hundred years ago exactly. He died young. You remembered enough to know that some sort of tragedy befell him. Did Nixon know?
“He’s an…interesting man, that Ludwig,” the captain said, and you couldn’t detect the intent behind his flat voice.
“He seems to be, Sir.”
Nixon went to Yale. Rich to his bones. Born to an upper-class New Jersey family who probably owned a whole city, for all you knew. Your background and upbringing wasn’t quite as illustrious but you’d be stupid not to note the similarities. He’s well-traveled, well-educated, like you. He could’ve easily avoided even taking part in this war, but he chose to come here, just like you. A man who perhaps felt out of place at first, just like you once did and feel again now. In the times you’ve taken to observe him, as you did everyone else around you, it seemed that he was trying to escape something. You, on the other hand, were trying to find something. It pained you to think that his quest might’ve been far more successful than yours.
But unlike you, he stayed. He was never wounded, at least not to your knowledge, but he could’ve chosen to spend the Ardennes campaign making his plans and decisions far from the line. Instead, he spent the bitter nights under Bastogne’s splintering woods just like everyone else, huddled inside a foxhole dug into the snow, surviving barrage after barrage of Kraut artillery, putting his life in danger when he didn’t need to. You thought you knew why he stayed, for whom he stayed. You understood his reasons.
The others--the men in whose eyes you were once a friend, or at the very least an equal--would never understand yours.
“This is an impressive collection,” he said.
It certainly was. CP was being housed in a building that was once, no doubt, the most elegant home in Haguenau this side of the river. Even in its rubble and ruin, the traces of its past glory can still be seen clearly. Velvet embroidered draperies, the rich deep blue of the peeling wallpaper, the gilded furniture with their ornamental loops and crowns, the crystal chandelier that hung sadly lopsided from the ceiling. The room you were standing in could’ve been the drawing room, or the sitting room, or the salon, or whatever it was that rich European folk called their fabric-swathed enclaves of wealth and refinement where they aimed to impress their no-less wealthy guests. The bookshelf occupied the whole height and half the length of a wall, made of sturdy lacquered wood carved with ornate vinery. The books stood in neat rows, so neat that you wondered if they were here only for show. The one in your hand felt new and un-thumbed. You could almost imagine the whole ostentatious display taunting you to take what you want, take it if you dare, see if you consider yourself worthy. Nixon either thought so, or he simply didn’t give a shit. You suspected it was the latter.
“Some of these books are older than I am,” you said.
“They may outlive you, as well…” he replied.
“Maybe, Sir.”
“You’re in the patrol tonight?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His smile was more akin to a sympathetic grimace. Wasn’t his idea, you heard him say earlier. Nothing he could do about it. “Good luck, then…oh, and help yourself to as many of these as you’d like…” he gestured at the bookshelf, jerking his thumb casually as if to undermine its grandeur. “Don’t think anyone else would want them.”
“I…thank you, Sir.”
He gave you a nod and left the room, boots heavy on the floorboard where the carpets had been ripped away. Someone else’s prize, no doubt. You stared down at the book in your hands, holding it open at the first page. The face of the king looked up at you, from under his folds of ermine and the heavy golden medal that hung from his neck and broad shoulders. A handsome man with subtle features, a full head of dark hair arranged into curls on either side. The look in his eyes-aloof and a little detached, as if he desperately wanted to be someplace else.
Well, maybe you and the king will turn out to have something in common, as well.
You brought the book with you back to OP2, up to the room overlooking the river where most of the bunks were. The others were about, walking up and down the stairs, talking quietly, smoking, drinking the brew they had somehow agreed could pass as coffee. You sat down, set your M-1 aside, and started reading. You’d only gotten to the introduction when a shadow appeared before you.
“You ain’t using the rest of this space, are you?”
Joe was standing there, Liebgott, his eyes indicating the space on the slim mattress beside you. You shook your head and moved a bit closer to the edge, allowing him to lie himself down at your side. Didn’t even bother to ask about the book, which you thought strange. If anything, the book would’ve been a chance for him to have another go at you, be his mocking and cynical self at your expense. He curled up and looked to be asleep almost immediately. Either that, or he simply didn’t want to talk to you right now. You chose to take that as a good sign.
After all, you did get him out of this patrol.
Author : valmontheights
Pairing : Joe Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster
Disclaimer : “Band of Brothers” is a property of HBO, and while the series itself is based on the true story of Easy Company, this story is purely a work of fiction, based on the fictionalized movieverse with no disrespect intended towards the actual people and events on which it is based.
The first time was in Haguenau.
It began with the touch of a finger.
Just the one, pressing gently against a solid leather spine inlaid with golden bands, slow and tentative. You were surprised that nobody had thought of taking them already, but then again these things may not be what your fellow soldiers considered to be valuable. You knew better, though. You’re different, that’s what you’ve always believed. These books, lovingly bound and engraved, a wealth of knowledge at your fingertips, an abundance of words before which you stood wordless. They weren’t made for you. They were made for better people, better times, and this is why your hand hesitated from just plucking one of them out of the massive shelf. It would be a betrayal of your real purpose for being there. There was a war still being fought, and people were still dying. It seemed wrong to indulge yourself like this, even as the men around you helped themselves to whatever was left behind. You’ve done it before-watches, pistols, flags, anything that caught your eye. But this was different. They caught something else inside of you.
Perco and Vest were still arguing over the distribution of Hershey bars in the next room when Captain Nixon walked in, casting a look sideways before he saw you. Had you noticed him, you would’ve seen him stare awhile, and the little smirk across his face as he walked over.
“Webster.”
You were startled, a little bit, but you were quick to recover. “Captain Nixon, Sir.”
“Find anything interesting?”
You stared back and forth between him and the bookshelf you’d just been perusing. “I…well, I just noticed it myself, Sir.”
Nixon, like the other officers, looked reasonably cleaner than the enlisted men, but the look in his face was just as haggard, tired, the corners of his eyes creased with lines and a week’s worth of dark stubble obscuring his handsome jawline. As you looked at your own cleanly-shaven reflection in one of the gilded mirrors, it added to your growing sense of unease, the feeling that your place in this company, wherever it might’ve once been, was lost. In their eyes you were clean, untouched, and despite whatever excuse you may offer about the leg and all, you were unscarred.
“Webster?”
His voice jarred you. “Sir?”
“I said, I think you might like this one,” Nixon was holding out one of the books. You hadn’t even seen him pick it off the shelf.
It was a handsome volume, thick enough to ensure a long and enjoyable read, the title in elegant golden script in the cover. Leatherbound. You’ve always liked that word. It seems to speak of greater and finer things, and the book didn’t look at all out of place in Captain Nixon’s hands.
Ludwig II, Konig von Bayern.
“I think I’ve read about him somewhere,” you said as you took the book from his outstretched hand. Leatherbound. It felt good in your hold.
“You’re in Harvard right? Literature,” Nixon said.
“Yes, Sir.”
It looked enticing in your hands, which trembled slightly. This is why you hesitated so much. You knew that once you crossed the line, there would be no coming back. It’s dangerous, this indulgence, because it left you vulnerable to neglecting what really mattered. It offered a convenient escape. Ludwig II, King of Bavaria. Sure sounded romantic. A figure of history from Germany’s past, before it even became Germany, before its name became synonimous with all things evil and hated in this world. Before Hitler and the Nazis. You read the inscription in the inside cover, under an illustration of Ludwig himself. 1845-1886. A hundred years ago exactly. He died young. You remembered enough to know that some sort of tragedy befell him. Did Nixon know?
“He’s an…interesting man, that Ludwig,” the captain said, and you couldn’t detect the intent behind his flat voice.
“He seems to be, Sir.”
Nixon went to Yale. Rich to his bones. Born to an upper-class New Jersey family who probably owned a whole city, for all you knew. Your background and upbringing wasn’t quite as illustrious but you’d be stupid not to note the similarities. He’s well-traveled, well-educated, like you. He could’ve easily avoided even taking part in this war, but he chose to come here, just like you. A man who perhaps felt out of place at first, just like you once did and feel again now. In the times you’ve taken to observe him, as you did everyone else around you, it seemed that he was trying to escape something. You, on the other hand, were trying to find something. It pained you to think that his quest might’ve been far more successful than yours.
But unlike you, he stayed. He was never wounded, at least not to your knowledge, but he could’ve chosen to spend the Ardennes campaign making his plans and decisions far from the line. Instead, he spent the bitter nights under Bastogne’s splintering woods just like everyone else, huddled inside a foxhole dug into the snow, surviving barrage after barrage of Kraut artillery, putting his life in danger when he didn’t need to. You thought you knew why he stayed, for whom he stayed. You understood his reasons.
The others--the men in whose eyes you were once a friend, or at the very least an equal--would never understand yours.
“This is an impressive collection,” he said.
It certainly was. CP was being housed in a building that was once, no doubt, the most elegant home in Haguenau this side of the river. Even in its rubble and ruin, the traces of its past glory can still be seen clearly. Velvet embroidered draperies, the rich deep blue of the peeling wallpaper, the gilded furniture with their ornamental loops and crowns, the crystal chandelier that hung sadly lopsided from the ceiling. The room you were standing in could’ve been the drawing room, or the sitting room, or the salon, or whatever it was that rich European folk called their fabric-swathed enclaves of wealth and refinement where they aimed to impress their no-less wealthy guests. The bookshelf occupied the whole height and half the length of a wall, made of sturdy lacquered wood carved with ornate vinery. The books stood in neat rows, so neat that you wondered if they were here only for show. The one in your hand felt new and un-thumbed. You could almost imagine the whole ostentatious display taunting you to take what you want, take it if you dare, see if you consider yourself worthy. Nixon either thought so, or he simply didn’t give a shit. You suspected it was the latter.
“Some of these books are older than I am,” you said.
“They may outlive you, as well…” he replied.
“Maybe, Sir.”
“You’re in the patrol tonight?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His smile was more akin to a sympathetic grimace. Wasn’t his idea, you heard him say earlier. Nothing he could do about it. “Good luck, then…oh, and help yourself to as many of these as you’d like…” he gestured at the bookshelf, jerking his thumb casually as if to undermine its grandeur. “Don’t think anyone else would want them.”
“I…thank you, Sir.”
He gave you a nod and left the room, boots heavy on the floorboard where the carpets had been ripped away. Someone else’s prize, no doubt. You stared down at the book in your hands, holding it open at the first page. The face of the king looked up at you, from under his folds of ermine and the heavy golden medal that hung from his neck and broad shoulders. A handsome man with subtle features, a full head of dark hair arranged into curls on either side. The look in his eyes-aloof and a little detached, as if he desperately wanted to be someplace else.
Well, maybe you and the king will turn out to have something in common, as well.
You brought the book with you back to OP2, up to the room overlooking the river where most of the bunks were. The others were about, walking up and down the stairs, talking quietly, smoking, drinking the brew they had somehow agreed could pass as coffee. You sat down, set your M-1 aside, and started reading. You’d only gotten to the introduction when a shadow appeared before you.
“You ain’t using the rest of this space, are you?”
Joe was standing there, Liebgott, his eyes indicating the space on the slim mattress beside you. You shook your head and moved a bit closer to the edge, allowing him to lie himself down at your side. Didn’t even bother to ask about the book, which you thought strange. If anything, the book would’ve been a chance for him to have another go at you, be his mocking and cynical self at your expense. He curled up and looked to be asleep almost immediately. Either that, or he simply didn’t want to talk to you right now. You chose to take that as a good sign.
After all, you did get him out of this patrol.