Webgott Fic
Title: Cold
Challenge: #30 - Regret
Rating: PG
Word Count: 240
Series/Characters/Pairings: Band of Brothers/Webster
Disclaimer: Nothing portrayed in this story holds any truth and I mean no offense by writing it.
Author’s Notes: This is only the second BoB fic I've ever wrote, so go easy on me, yeah?
The mug is heavy in his hands as he perches himself on top of the table, carefully tucking his legs beneath him. He looks down into the porcelain cup and sees his reflection in the steaming black liquid, eyes gaunt and haunted, fingers numb and lacking the ability to feel the heat the coffee should have created.
Lately, he has found that nothing is worth feeling anymore. Nothing is worth chasing the numbness, the cold, away from his hands. Nothing is worth forgetting. Or remembering.
But he remembers the cold so well, the relentless pain and frustration of not being able to feel his own fingertips or lips, no matter how many times he rubbed them, coaxing warmth that would never come.
He looks to the window, watches the simplicity of rain pitter-patter against the glass and envies it. Rain could not feel pain, could not remember, could not hate nor love. How he wishes to be like the rain. Fall from the skies and slide down glass, free from lurid thoughts and realistic nightmares.
He walks to the sink, the ancient floorboards groaning beneath his weight, no matter how light he is, and stares into the mug one last time. Empty eyes, hollow cheeks and steam like cigarette smoke rising from the black murky liquid the cup contained. He bites back a cry as he pours the coffee over his fingers.
After all, it’s Joe’s cold, not his. It never was.
Challenge: #30 - Regret
Rating: PG
Word Count: 240
Series/Characters/Pairings: Band of Brothers/Webster
Disclaimer: Nothing portrayed in this story holds any truth and I mean no offense by writing it.
Author’s Notes: This is only the second BoB fic I've ever wrote, so go easy on me, yeah?
The mug is heavy in his hands as he perches himself on top of the table, carefully tucking his legs beneath him. He looks down into the porcelain cup and sees his reflection in the steaming black liquid, eyes gaunt and haunted, fingers numb and lacking the ability to feel the heat the coffee should have created.
Lately, he has found that nothing is worth feeling anymore. Nothing is worth chasing the numbness, the cold, away from his hands. Nothing is worth forgetting. Or remembering.
But he remembers the cold so well, the relentless pain and frustration of not being able to feel his own fingertips or lips, no matter how many times he rubbed them, coaxing warmth that would never come.
He looks to the window, watches the simplicity of rain pitter-patter against the glass and envies it. Rain could not feel pain, could not remember, could not hate nor love. How he wishes to be like the rain. Fall from the skies and slide down glass, free from lurid thoughts and realistic nightmares.
He walks to the sink, the ancient floorboards groaning beneath his weight, no matter how light he is, and stares into the mug one last time. Empty eyes, hollow cheeks and steam like cigarette smoke rising from the black murky liquid the cup contained. He bites back a cry as he pours the coffee over his fingers.
After all, it’s Joe’s cold, not his. It never was.