Fic | Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side | Webster/Liebgott | PG | for teaspoonery
Title: Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott
Summary: One meeting that never happened.
A/N: I abuse the second tense. For teaspoonery because I like you and your lovely brain. All mistakes are mine, my dear.
You imagine how you would meet in another place and another time. Close your eyes and let it come.
Like this.
You cross the street avoiding the puddle of water along the edge of the curb. The street lamps are a landing strip to the movie theater that lights your way. Nothing interesting playing, but it’s something to occupy the time.
He’s there leaning against the brick building inhaling from a cigarette. His eyes catch yours and there’s a spark, a flash that settles warm in your chest. You stand next to him, not too close but near enough to hear the slight rustle of his clothing as he shifts his weight.
Your name is David and you’ve played this game before. You call yourself an observer, watching and waiting as you anticipate a reaction. Here you stand and let him take the lead. It’s up to him to make the move or turn and walk inside. Right hand in his pocket, the left flicks the remains of his cigarette onto the sidewalk. One final push of grey from his lungs and he sidles up to you. A low voice asks if you have another.
You reach for your case and slip the cigarette to your mouth. You light it, focusing on his lips, a pink curve that you want to cover with your own. Hike his leg around your hip and press him to the wall, tasting shared smoke under the twinkling marquee.
Instead you take a draw and slip it into his fingers, feel the dry smoke blow through your nostrils and his cold fingertips. You smile and he does the same, reaching for you and his hand claps your shoulder. It’s like you’ve known each other for years. The movie is out of your mind as you walk with him, away from the bustle of Main Street and off to the nightclub.
His name is Joe and in the dark of the side street he loops an arm around your waist. You tuck your hand into his coat pocket. Your fingers find the weight of a full pack of cigarettes and you laugh. Press against him a little more and tell him he owes you one. That he’s smooth and should be glad he’s got a handsome face because he has to work on better moves.
Joe, my name is Joe, leads you to the narrow entrance of the club and winks. Reminds you that it worked and the door opens, the bounce of music rolling into the alley. His hand is in yours and you are alive.
In this time, in this city you dance with him. All attempts to lead stop with a sharp nudge of his foot into your ankle. You aren’t a dancer anyway so you sway nice and slow to music that crashes quick and lively. You kiss him, kiss his dry lips. His fingers are warming on your neck and you go home together. Quick step your way to his small apartment with a bed, mismatched furniture, and clothing hanging from a bar by the kitchen.
Your name is David and you are a literature student. Now your head is resting on a pile of pulp magazines. He shoves them to the floor and climbs above you, the mattress creaking. His hair sticks out in angles from where you ran your fingers through soft hair that smells clean. His lips are as red as a woman’s dress on a lurid novel cover, lips that kiss you again and again. He’s a blur until you shut your eyes.
All you feel is heat and the scratch of his sheets. The worn cotton socks he rolled to his toes and stopped removing because his hands had to be on you. This is Joe, a man who holds you like a lifeline as his skin slides on yours, the man you cling to like a drowning man to a buoy. Everything outside the apartment disappears, but you hear the jazz playing as you move with him.
There you feel safe. It’s not the hard, trampled rug of a cold room in a lonely grey house in a shelled out town. You tell him this when he’s kissing you with a sharp mouth, his hands pressing your shoulders to the floor. Any other time, you say as boots march by the door, we’d be in a warm bed in a big city.
There you are smiling.
He lets out a noise, a scoff. His eyes are tired, his face shadowed. Joe tells you to get your head out of the clouds, to stop dreaming. No, you have to keep these thoughts because it’s not the mud and the cold and the stink of antiseptic. It’s not your fingers wrapped around a weapon and the snap of ammo as you reload.
Now he’s a weight holding you down and his mouth thin and hard. He’s not the man you dance with when your mind drifts. Your head hurts and your eyes burn and he smells like sweat and metal. You squeeze your eyes shut, feel yourself grow numb and you want to fall through the floorboards, down three stories and-
There’s a press of fingers on your forehead and the click of his tongue. You open your eyes and he’s smiling, face soft as his fingers brush through your hair. He’s asking you what comes next, after he’s got you on the bed, after you both finish in the city that’s bright and roaring with life.
You don’t tell him. You reach out and wrap your arms around him and hold him close. You expect him to laugh and elbow you, call you sentimental and get up. Roll his eyes and move to the window and light a cigarette. Instead he drops his head to your chest and runs a hand along your side. The floor is hard and the bed is right there, but you don’t want to move. He’s heavy like a wool blanket and you kiss hair that smells like soap and sweat.
Your name is David. Here you are alive.
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott
Summary: One meeting that never happened.
A/N: I abuse the second tense. For teaspoonery because I like you and your lovely brain. All mistakes are mine, my dear.
You imagine how you would meet in another place and another time. Close your eyes and let it come.
Like this.
You cross the street avoiding the puddle of water along the edge of the curb. The street lamps are a landing strip to the movie theater that lights your way. Nothing interesting playing, but it’s something to occupy the time.
He’s there leaning against the brick building inhaling from a cigarette. His eyes catch yours and there’s a spark, a flash that settles warm in your chest. You stand next to him, not too close but near enough to hear the slight rustle of his clothing as he shifts his weight.
Your name is David and you’ve played this game before. You call yourself an observer, watching and waiting as you anticipate a reaction. Here you stand and let him take the lead. It’s up to him to make the move or turn and walk inside. Right hand in his pocket, the left flicks the remains of his cigarette onto the sidewalk. One final push of grey from his lungs and he sidles up to you. A low voice asks if you have another.
You reach for your case and slip the cigarette to your mouth. You light it, focusing on his lips, a pink curve that you want to cover with your own. Hike his leg around your hip and press him to the wall, tasting shared smoke under the twinkling marquee.
Instead you take a draw and slip it into his fingers, feel the dry smoke blow through your nostrils and his cold fingertips. You smile and he does the same, reaching for you and his hand claps your shoulder. It’s like you’ve known each other for years. The movie is out of your mind as you walk with him, away from the bustle of Main Street and off to the nightclub.
His name is Joe and in the dark of the side street he loops an arm around your waist. You tuck your hand into his coat pocket. Your fingers find the weight of a full pack of cigarettes and you laugh. Press against him a little more and tell him he owes you one. That he’s smooth and should be glad he’s got a handsome face because he has to work on better moves.
Joe, my name is Joe, leads you to the narrow entrance of the club and winks. Reminds you that it worked and the door opens, the bounce of music rolling into the alley. His hand is in yours and you are alive.
In this time, in this city you dance with him. All attempts to lead stop with a sharp nudge of his foot into your ankle. You aren’t a dancer anyway so you sway nice and slow to music that crashes quick and lively. You kiss him, kiss his dry lips. His fingers are warming on your neck and you go home together. Quick step your way to his small apartment with a bed, mismatched furniture, and clothing hanging from a bar by the kitchen.
Your name is David and you are a literature student. Now your head is resting on a pile of pulp magazines. He shoves them to the floor and climbs above you, the mattress creaking. His hair sticks out in angles from where you ran your fingers through soft hair that smells clean. His lips are as red as a woman’s dress on a lurid novel cover, lips that kiss you again and again. He’s a blur until you shut your eyes.
All you feel is heat and the scratch of his sheets. The worn cotton socks he rolled to his toes and stopped removing because his hands had to be on you. This is Joe, a man who holds you like a lifeline as his skin slides on yours, the man you cling to like a drowning man to a buoy. Everything outside the apartment disappears, but you hear the jazz playing as you move with him.
There you feel safe. It’s not the hard, trampled rug of a cold room in a lonely grey house in a shelled out town. You tell him this when he’s kissing you with a sharp mouth, his hands pressing your shoulders to the floor. Any other time, you say as boots march by the door, we’d be in a warm bed in a big city.
There you are smiling.
He lets out a noise, a scoff. His eyes are tired, his face shadowed. Joe tells you to get your head out of the clouds, to stop dreaming. No, you have to keep these thoughts because it’s not the mud and the cold and the stink of antiseptic. It’s not your fingers wrapped around a weapon and the snap of ammo as you reload.
Now he’s a weight holding you down and his mouth thin and hard. He’s not the man you dance with when your mind drifts. Your head hurts and your eyes burn and he smells like sweat and metal. You squeeze your eyes shut, feel yourself grow numb and you want to fall through the floorboards, down three stories and-
There’s a press of fingers on your forehead and the click of his tongue. You open your eyes and he’s smiling, face soft as his fingers brush through your hair. He’s asking you what comes next, after he’s got you on the bed, after you both finish in the city that’s bright and roaring with life.
You don’t tell him. You reach out and wrap your arms around him and hold him close. You expect him to laugh and elbow you, call you sentimental and get up. Roll his eyes and move to the window and light a cigarette. Instead he drops his head to your chest and runs a hand along your side. The floor is hard and the bed is right there, but you don’t want to move. He’s heavy like a wool blanket and you kiss hair that smells like soap and sweat.
Your name is David. Here you are alive.