Fic: The world fell down with some people still around [Webster/Liebgott, Band of Brothers]
Title: The world fell down with some people still around
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The contents of this story are entirely fictional and they don’t concern the real men from World War II, but the actors. I don’t own anything.
Warnings: Minor spoilers for Band of Brothers, episode nine.
A/N: Thanks and credit goes to flwrpwr_vampyre for beta'ing! Also, the title and the lyrics at the end are taken from Lisa Germano's song From A Shell -- as I found myself thinking about it a lot while writing this fic.
Summary: At this moment, Webster too tries to write around the edges, but even then it seems impossible. There are simply no words for it, he thinks. He stares at the empty page, a pen in hand, but he doesn’t find the words. Not one.
The world fell down with some people still around
It’s dark, inside as well as outside. It even crawled behind their skin, as the gray sky reflects their thoughts and the horror in their eyes and the repercussion of all the fights they won. All the fights they lost. Letters sent home with words like honor, hero, good cause, written around the edges of tragedy, as if graceful words diminish the loss. Written by strangers.
At this moment, Webster too tries to write around the edges, but even then it seems impossible. There are simply no words for it, he thinks. He stares at the empty page, a pen in hand, but he doesn’t find the words. Not one.
And it’s curious, he thinks. You try to fit the hollow faces into the world as you know it, but it changes everything. It paints a black shadow into history and you see the other - once familiar - colors with different eyes. Eyes that saw too much, or just all the wrong things. All their suffering.
They are the walking dead that tear you away from the fairytale, pulling you back to earth with more force than gravity. What was done to them makes you doubt your former knowledge of evil deeds and all that is wrong, because they are reality - they are humans like you - and it’s not a fairytale. But then again, it’s also not warfare. So what is it? Put it into words and you get genocide, but that doesn’t enclose the impiety of this - this vice graver than the seven deadly sins.
Webster sighs and throws the pen down. No writing today.
Just then someone behind him speaks exactly those words, in a worn out voice. Only it is a question.
And it’s him. Webster knows before he turns around, not only because of the voice that he would recognize anywhere, but because there’s only one person that could have found him here - in this desolate room on the second floor of the house in which they’ve been stationed. Only one person gravitates around him like the moon does around the earth.
‘No writing today?’ Said in a voice that sounded distant, effete.
When he turns around and fixes his gaze on Liebgott, he sees the man’s eyes, still red and swollen, still reflecting a gruesome abyss. That shouldn’t be, Webster thinks, those eyes should be challenging and vicious and arrogant.
Today he wants them to be.
And he thinks: how do you write about a crying Liebgott with graceful words? Heartbreak. Despair. Wretched. Not even close. How do you write about him at all? You can try, but it all seems wrong. Yes, today there are also no words for Joseph Liebgott. He’s a thousand empty pages.
And how Webster wishes to fill them - with the words of others if his aren’t sufficient. But whose poems tell about this? About the ugliness of war and blank eyes and friends with torn hearts. Maybe this war has no need for poems.
Maybe this war will speak its solemn words in silence.
‘I can’t find the right words,’ he answers, his gaze locked on the other’s face.
Liebgott steps closer, drawn in on him like his very own satellite and Webster wonders why he’s here. Knows why he’s here. Not for consolation, not to have someone to vent his anger on. He’s here just for him.
‘There are no right and wrong words, Web,’ Liebgott says in a flat voice, forcing a bitter smile. ‘There is no right and wrong anymore.’ His eyes shine with something close to madness - something close to the Liebgott he knows, but at the same time it’s totally different. He watches the other sink to his knees.
Webster falls down in front of him only a second later, his hands reaching for the man’s face. He touches him, sooths him, wants those burning eyes to see him, to see the world, not the walking dead of the camp that are people like them - and more then that, Liebgott’s people.
‘Joe, look at me.’ Pleading, urging.
He looks, slowly. His eyes are like a fever, blazing hot and ice cold all at once. Webster feels chills going down his spine - an ambivalent feeling draining him to the core. Joe, his satellite, he thinks again. He smiles.
‘If you’re sad then cry,’ he says, ‘if you’re angry then scream. But don’t go mad, don’t lose it.’ His fingertips swipe softly over the other’s lips and then he whispers something that sounds a lot like, stay with me.
At those words Liebgott really looks and after a couple of seconds the fever in his eyes goes downs, changes into something else. He pushes Webster’s hands away, then grabs him by his vest and pulls him closer, until he’s close enough for his breath to ghost between their lips. Until he’s right where he always should have been.
‘Really,’ Liebgott mutters, ‘there are just words, neither right nor wrong… And then there’s the shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes.’ He threads his free hand through Webster’s hair, clenching it into a fist. It hurts and when their teeth clash together it hurts even more; but Webster thinks finally.
And then he can’t think anymore, because their mouths move together and it turns into a kiss and Liebgott’s lips and slender hands rip his thoughts away. Then his clothes. Then his soul.
That’s how the moon breaks free from his infinite orbit and crashes into the earth.
That’s how they are silently reduced to dust.
And the Earth spins round
while the people fall down
And the world stands still
not a sound, not a sound
- Lisa Germano, From A Shell
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The contents of this story are entirely fictional and they don’t concern the real men from World War II, but the actors. I don’t own anything.
Warnings: Minor spoilers for Band of Brothers, episode nine.
A/N: Thanks and credit goes to flwrpwr_vampyre for beta'ing! Also, the title and the lyrics at the end are taken from Lisa Germano's song From A Shell -- as I found myself thinking about it a lot while writing this fic.
Summary: At this moment, Webster too tries to write around the edges, but even then it seems impossible. There are simply no words for it, he thinks. He stares at the empty page, a pen in hand, but he doesn’t find the words. Not one.
The world fell down with some people still around
It’s dark, inside as well as outside. It even crawled behind their skin, as the gray sky reflects their thoughts and the horror in their eyes and the repercussion of all the fights they won. All the fights they lost. Letters sent home with words like honor, hero, good cause, written around the edges of tragedy, as if graceful words diminish the loss. Written by strangers.
At this moment, Webster too tries to write around the edges, but even then it seems impossible. There are simply no words for it, he thinks. He stares at the empty page, a pen in hand, but he doesn’t find the words. Not one.
And it’s curious, he thinks. You try to fit the hollow faces into the world as you know it, but it changes everything. It paints a black shadow into history and you see the other - once familiar - colors with different eyes. Eyes that saw too much, or just all the wrong things. All their suffering.
They are the walking dead that tear you away from the fairytale, pulling you back to earth with more force than gravity. What was done to them makes you doubt your former knowledge of evil deeds and all that is wrong, because they are reality - they are humans like you - and it’s not a fairytale. But then again, it’s also not warfare. So what is it? Put it into words and you get genocide, but that doesn’t enclose the impiety of this - this vice graver than the seven deadly sins.
Webster sighs and throws the pen down. No writing today.
Just then someone behind him speaks exactly those words, in a worn out voice. Only it is a question.
And it’s him. Webster knows before he turns around, not only because of the voice that he would recognize anywhere, but because there’s only one person that could have found him here - in this desolate room on the second floor of the house in which they’ve been stationed. Only one person gravitates around him like the moon does around the earth.
‘No writing today?’ Said in a voice that sounded distant, effete.
When he turns around and fixes his gaze on Liebgott, he sees the man’s eyes, still red and swollen, still reflecting a gruesome abyss. That shouldn’t be, Webster thinks, those eyes should be challenging and vicious and arrogant.
Today he wants them to be.
And he thinks: how do you write about a crying Liebgott with graceful words? Heartbreak. Despair. Wretched. Not even close. How do you write about him at all? You can try, but it all seems wrong. Yes, today there are also no words for Joseph Liebgott. He’s a thousand empty pages.
And how Webster wishes to fill them - with the words of others if his aren’t sufficient. But whose poems tell about this? About the ugliness of war and blank eyes and friends with torn hearts. Maybe this war has no need for poems.
Maybe this war will speak its solemn words in silence.
‘I can’t find the right words,’ he answers, his gaze locked on the other’s face.
Liebgott steps closer, drawn in on him like his very own satellite and Webster wonders why he’s here. Knows why he’s here. Not for consolation, not to have someone to vent his anger on. He’s here just for him.
‘There are no right and wrong words, Web,’ Liebgott says in a flat voice, forcing a bitter smile. ‘There is no right and wrong anymore.’ His eyes shine with something close to madness - something close to the Liebgott he knows, but at the same time it’s totally different. He watches the other sink to his knees.
Webster falls down in front of him only a second later, his hands reaching for the man’s face. He touches him, sooths him, wants those burning eyes to see him, to see the world, not the walking dead of the camp that are people like them - and more then that, Liebgott’s people.
‘Joe, look at me.’ Pleading, urging.
He looks, slowly. His eyes are like a fever, blazing hot and ice cold all at once. Webster feels chills going down his spine - an ambivalent feeling draining him to the core. Joe, his satellite, he thinks again. He smiles.
‘If you’re sad then cry,’ he says, ‘if you’re angry then scream. But don’t go mad, don’t lose it.’ His fingertips swipe softly over the other’s lips and then he whispers something that sounds a lot like, stay with me.
At those words Liebgott really looks and after a couple of seconds the fever in his eyes goes downs, changes into something else. He pushes Webster’s hands away, then grabs him by his vest and pulls him closer, until he’s close enough for his breath to ghost between their lips. Until he’s right where he always should have been.
‘Really,’ Liebgott mutters, ‘there are just words, neither right nor wrong… And then there’s the shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes.’ He threads his free hand through Webster’s hair, clenching it into a fist. It hurts and when their teeth clash together it hurts even more; but Webster thinks finally.
And then he can’t think anymore, because their mouths move together and it turns into a kiss and Liebgott’s lips and slender hands rip his thoughts away. Then his clothes. Then his soul.
That’s how the moon breaks free from his infinite orbit and crashes into the earth.
That’s how they are silently reduced to dust.
And the Earth spins round
while the people fall down
And the world stands still
not a sound, not a sound
- Lisa Germano, From A Shell