Alone Together 3/4
Title: Alone Together 3/4
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13
Total Words: ~22,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Ed Tipper, Joe Liebgott, Jim "Moe" Alley, glimpses of the rest of the Easy Guys
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. This fic is based on the series and not the real men. I have always loved the scene in Carentan where Lieb comforts Tip and I based this fic on the friendship I created for them. This fic is gen, but if you squint and look sideways, it might be considered slash!lite if you like that kind of thing. It's a love story about friendship, if that makes any sense.
A/N 1: The first chapter is from Tip's POV, the second chapter will be from Liebgott's, and the third and fourth chapters will go back and forth between their POVs.
A/N 2: It used to break my heart some that Joe Liebgott never contacted the rest of the Easy Company guys and that he didn't tell his family he was in the war. And, although that makes me sad, I also understand his decision for distancing himself from what he went through and I respect him beyond words. I love how he pulled himself together and created a new life for himself. Most of all, I love that he found happiness. Joe Liebgott, I salute you. Psst. You too, Tip.
A/N 3: Thank you very much to hiyacynth and luckinfovely for the beta. If this is any good, it's because of them.
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
This is how Ed Tipper finds Joe Liebgott.
First, he calls Lieb's parents. Turns out they didn't even know he was back in the States. Tip remembers the name of the cab company Joe worked for and calls information for the number. A guy who sounds a lot like an asshole tells Tip Joe's been fired. When Tip asks for Joe's address, the guy says "It don't matter cuz I'm sure that low-life's been kicked out of his apartment by now."
Tip sits by the old bakelite phone and glares. He tries to send the cabbie asshole a case of syphilis via telepathy for a while, then makes another call. This time he asks the San Francisco operator directly for a Joe Liebgott. There's no Joe, but there's a J. Liebgott who hasn't paid his phone bill in three months.
The woman on the other end of the line is nice and Ed pours on the charm, or at least what he hopes charm sounds like. Tab would know. He tells the girl how he and Joe served together in the war and they're the best of friends and he's got to track Joe down to give him his Purple Heart. It's a huge, horrible, disgusting pile of bullshit and Tip feels guilty, but not guilty enough to hang up.
She gives him Joe's address and wishes Ed luck, and that's that.
* * *
Joe's behind the love seat getting shelled.
The shelling started with a garbage truck.
It's raining and a garbage truck skidded into a cable car. Nobody was seriously injured, but the sound was immense. It sounded like a tree getting sheered in half, like a mortar hitting a tank. Or Ed Tipper. It sounded like Christmas 1944.
The shells keep coming after that. After a while Joe flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He doesn't see white paint, he sees snow. He doesn't hear cars honking, he hears artillery fire, machine guns. He doesn't hear the police sirens, he hears the shriek of tracers and screaming meemies.
Joe has no idea where Alley is and he's pretty fuckin' pissed. Not to mention worried. He keeps callin' for the little bastard but there's never any answer. Another shell rattles the ground, his bones, and he ducks. He can't find his fuckin' helmet either.
Luz comes running out of the fog, dives into Joe's foxhole. He coughs, sputters. Miraculously, he's still smoking his cigarette.
Joe pats Luz on the back. "You seen Moe?"
Luz shakes his head. "I can hardly see myself in this shit!"
There's another explosion and the two of them are flung to the ground.
Only now the endless booming moves farther away. Maybe the Krauts are pulling back.
Joe opens his eyes. Stares at a table leg. He's lying on a sticky tile floor, not snow. George Luz is not in his kitchen. Joe rubs his face, trembling. Fuck. Not again.
He's not in Bastogne, but the pounding is still going on. There's a voice with it. "Joe? Open up. It's me, Tipper."
Holy fucking shit. He's still hallucinating. Jesus Christ. Another day of this and he's gonna jump out the fucking window. Or better yet, do a swan dive off the Golden Gate Bridge. That's more his style.
Joe sighs and pushes himself to his feet.
"Liebgott? Let me the fuck in or I'll bash your fucking door down." Pause. "I fucking mean it."
Lieb stands still in the middle of the stamp-sized room. This doesn't sound like a flashback. In fact, it hardly even sounds like Tipper.
Joe takes a step toward the door, hesitant. "Ed?"
He breaks into a cold sweat. More like flop sweat. He's soaked within the space of one step. He can't bear to let Tip see him this fucked, but he can't keep his hand away from the knob. He's worrying over nothing anyhow, it's just more crazy, Tip's not here. Tip's safe in Michigan doing whatever boring shit people do up there.
* * *
Ed's been pounding for nearly five minutes. Joe lives above a tiny little store in a tiny little apartment. The flight of stairs smells like tobacco, musty books, and body oder. Tip's pretty sure he's contributing that last part.
He's nervous as hell, which is just plain stupid because he knows Joe. But maybe he doesn't know this Joe because Ed can hear him banging around on the other side of the door and it really sounds like he's calling Jim Alley's name.
Maybe Joe's drunk. Maybe he's gone crazy. Tip takes a deep breath. He'd prefer a drunk Liebgott, since he's dealt with one of those before. But he'll take either one because a crazy Joe or drunk one is still an alive Joe, and that's a huge fucking relief. It's like he's been holding his breath for the past year and didn't even know it.
He keeps knocking, yells at Lieb to open the fucking door for good measure. Ed doesn't really want to break the door down, but he will.
He doesn't have to.
The door's yanked open and a gaunt man with too-bright eyes and greasy hair and face full of stubble stares at him. The man has a string of scars along one side of his neck and his cheek bones and elbows look sharp enough to draw blood. The man is what's left of Joe Liebgott.
Ed stares back at him. He meant to say something flip, something witty, something silly to ease the tension. He meant to say long time, no see or something equally stupid. But he's so happy and terrified to see Lieb he just barrels through the door and wraps Joe in a huge hug. He's pretty sure he can feel Joe's shoulder blades and he's really getting scared now, so he just holds on.
Joe smells horrible. He looks horrible. He looks sick. Like, TB or cancer sick.
Lieb just stands there while Ed hugs him. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything. Finally, Tip pulls away, looks at his friend. "I, uh, got your letter."
Joe nods. "I got yours."
Ed shuts the door carefully, head spinning. He had no idea what to expect, but he was hoping for more than Lieb standing there, looking bored. He looks past Joe to the rest of his place. It's a dump. A dive. There's paper everywhere, empty glasses, soup cans, rotten fruit. Fuck. This is bad. He has no idea what to do. He should have called Alley to come along. Or Lip. Lipton can do anything. Or maybe Doc Roe. Should he--
"You're not real," Joe says. He looks worn out. Like he hasn't slept in years. His voice is empty.
Ed blinks. He runs a hand through his hair. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it over the back of a chair. "What do you mean I'm not real? Joe, what the fuck? I'm not exactly Pinocchio, here."
Joe frowns, as if Ed's just said something extremely complicated. "You're out of uniform."
That's when Ed gets exactly how messed up Joe really is. Joe thinks they're still fighting, that's why he was calling for Alley, that's why he doesn't think Ed's really here. He's seeing things that aren't there. Tip thinks he's gonna lose it right then. He's gonna start bawling because Joe Liebgott is his best friend, Lieb is tougher than Ed will ever be and Ed was only in the war for about fifteen minutes and he's okay but Lieb, oh shit, Lieb's not.
"Joe," Ed whispers, "I'm here. It's me. I got your letter and I came to find you. I--I'm worried about you."
Joe tilts his head, regards Ed cautiously. "Tip?" That one syllable holds a world of hope. And fear.
Tip nods and now he is crying, but quietly. Tears leak down his face.
"Come on," he tells Joe, "I think you've gotta sit down." He steers Lieb toward the little sofa.
Joe walks on wooden legs and Tip guides him down. "Easy, easy," he says. "There you go." He wipes his face and laughter bubbles in his chest, his throat because now he's seeing things. He's back in Carentan and Joe's whispering comforts in his ear. Now Ed gives that comfort back because he has nothing else to give.
Lieb covers his face with his hands. His shoulders move, but he doesn't make a sound. He leans forward, rests his hidden face on his knees.
Tip puts a hand on Joe's back, rubs soothingly. "Hang in there buddy, okay? We're gonna get you fixed up, all right?"
Joe's not silent any more. He's making noises, little gasps. He lifts his head and he's laughing. "For Chrissakes, Tip, I don't got a broken leg. How the fuck am I gonna get fixed?"
Tip laughs too. "I don't know. I'm just repeating all the shit you told me."
Joe laughs harder, shakes his head, grins down at the floor.
Tip's chest aches, the laughter threatens to twist back to tears. That crooked smile, half sly, half innocent, is the epitome of Joe Liebgott. It's like sunlight after a month of night.
Lieb snorts, chuckles. "So you're sayin' I wasn't exactly helpful."
Tip stops laughing. He shifts on the sofa so he can see Lieb with his good eye. "No. I'm not saying that. You helped me Joe. You did. You saved my life."
Joe rolls his eyes.
Tip makes a face. "Shut up. You did. And now it's my turn to help you."
Lieb sighs, leans back on the couch. They sit in silence for a minute. Then Joe says, "Well pal, then I'd say you're pretty much fucked."
* * *
Every time Joe looks at Tip, he's still there. It's crazy on top of crazy.
Tip shows him the letter, but Lieb doesn't remember sending it. Figures.
Tip looks real good. The eye patch makes him look like a real tough guy. Which is funny since Ed's about as tough as a marshmallow. Joe looks away, guilty. Like he can talk. Ed's not the one crackin' up. Ed spent a year in the friggin' hospital. That's tough.
Ed keeps wanting him to talk about his feelings and shit. He keeps asking questions about Market-Garden and the Bulge, what it was like. Joe's no dancer but he can side step plenty. He talks about Frisco and the weather.
Tip lets him get away with it for a while, cuz that's the way Tip is. God, he's missed Tipper. Tip rolls up his sleeves and rummages around until he finds a broom and some garbage bags. Then they're a couple of house wives for most of the afternoon. Ed leaves for a while, comes back with a paper sack full of sandwiches, apples, a bottle of bleach and some sponges. Ed points to the bathroom.
"You've got latrine duty, I'l take KP."
Ed produces a radio from somewhere, plugs it in. Pretty soon Ella Fitzgerald joins them. Joe scrubs at the tub while Tip washes dishes.
Joe emerges from the water closet and heads straight for the window above the sink, throws it open. "Christ, the fumes are gonna kill me."
Tip rinses a soapy glass under the faucet. "Boo fuckin' hoo."
They take a break around three and sit at the wobbly table for egg salad sandwiches and soda pop. "This table's a piece of shit," Ed remarks between bites.
"You got a keen eye, buddy."
"It's the only one I got."
Joe watches Tip chew. Then he asks, "Is it hard?"
Tip lifts an eyebrow.
Joe gestures to his eye. "The patch? Losing the eye?"
Tip shrugs. "Not really. I tried wearing a plastic eye for a while but it felt like a fuckin' golf ball. The doc says they're making glass eyes now, so maybe I'll try one of those."
Joe nods. He runs his thumb along the edge of the table. He sets his half-eaten sandwich down. He's just gonna say it. Now, while he has the guts. "I'm...sorry I didn't write you back."
Ed waves a hand. "'s okay."
Vera Lang comes on the radio, singing about all the old familiar places. Joe can feel his face go hot, the sweat break out down his back, beneath his arms. Vera Lang sings, but Joe Toye's rich baritone fills the room. Joe yanks a hand through his matted hair.
"Turn it off," he croaks.
Ed doesn't even ask. He simply reaches out, switches the radio off. Silence joins them at the table.
* * *
Joe takes a bath, shaves. When he emerges from the bathroom, hair still wet, he looks years younger. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt, baggy pants. He's got a Lucky Strike tucked behind his ear. It's weird to see him without his tags. Ed misses the soft jingle of his own dog tags sometimes. They sounded like brotherhood.
Lieb's always in motion. Even when he sits, he bounces his leg, or taps his fingers. Or smokes. Now he's pacing.
Ed sits on the love seat again, a bottle of beer balanced on one knee. "Tell me what to do," he says.
Joe glares. "Like I fuckin' know," he huffs. "I don't know what to do."
"What about your parents?"
Joe stops pacing, nails Ed to the worn fabric with his gaze. "What about them?"
"Jeez Joe, they didn't even know you were home."
Most of the anger drains out of Lieb's face. He resumes his movement. "I know. I just can't...I can't talk to them right now."
"Okay. Can you talk to me?" That's the million dollar question.
Joe's hands ball into fists, he radiates frustration, fury. "I don't wanna fuckin' talk. Get that through your head, Tip."
Ed's first instinct is to argue, go back to their old late-night routine, but he knows exactly where that will get him. Instead, he taps his head, fakes a smile. "It's a little cracked, everything keeps falling out."
Joe shoots Tip an incredulous look. "Jesus, knock it off." He sractches his elbow, stares at Ed. "What? You got like, brain damage or somethin'?"
Now it's Ed's turn to be annoyed. "God Joe, you're such an asshole. No, I don't have brain damage. Although another few hours with you and we'll see."
Joe grins, winks. "Heh. Good one." He shakes himself a little, like he's just coming awake. He resumes pacing, but he's slower now, calmer. He lights his cigarette, inhales, exhales smoke through his nose.
Tip taps the empty beer bottle against his knee. It's now or never. He's gotta say what he came here to tell Joe. He sets the bottle on the floor, rubs sweaty palms over his trousers. "Look, Lieb. I'm sorry I got hit. I'm sorry I wasn't with you when you needed--" he almost says me but that's way too corny so he substitues "--somebody. I can't imagine how shitty everything was. I read the stories, about the siege around Bastogne and what you guys did."
Joe cuts him off. "First of all, who are you, Popeye? Don't apologize for getting wounded. Second, you know what we did in Bastogne? We froze our asses off. You didn't miss much."
Ed studies the pink pock marks along Joe's neck. "Yeah, I think I did." He jiggles his eyebrows. "Besides, you must have been lonely as hell. I mean, Alley's a good guy, but he's not me."
Joe manages a crooked grin. "He tried to be. Got hit by a grenade in Holland. That guy had more metal in him than a hardware store."
Tip knows. Moe wrote him. But he can't resist adding a soft, "Jesus."
Joe reaches for Tip's empty bottle, taps some ash into it. He looks at the cigarette, follows the trail of smoke with his eyes. "He came back in time for Bastogne."
"Joe?"
Lieb says "Yeah?" but Ed can tell his friend's only partly here. His body's sitting next to Tip, but Joe's mind is somewhere in Holland or Belgium or Germany.
"Why'd you say that? Why'd you say you wish you'd been hit instead of me?" He doesn't think Joe's going to answer, but Joe surprises him. He usually does.
"Because," Lieb says, "if I'da been hit I'd probably be dead." He smiles, far away. "Or at the very least, blind."
* * *
Ed makes a dismayed noise, a what the fuck kind of noise. "Don't even say that," Tip says. He almost sounds angry. "You don't want to be blind, Joe."
Joe takes another drag on the cigarette, flashes a hard smile. "How do you know what I want?"
Tip rummages in his pocket, pulls out a new pack of Lucky Strikes. He doesn't smoke anymore, but he bought them just in case. Just in case Joe still did. He hands them to Joe.
Joe stares at them, then at Tip. "Jesus Christ," he huffs, "don't you ever get tired of being right?"
Tip purses his lips. "Not so far."
Lieb grabs the pack, tamps it on the back of one hand, opens it. Beautiful. He holds the cigarette butt to a fresh smoke, breathes in. It lights and he flicks the butt into the bottle. He looks at the cherry glow of filter. "I could take this cigarette and stick it in my eyeball right now. First one, then the other. I could turns my eyes to jelly and it wouldn't make a fuckin' difference. You know why?"
Tip's eye goes wide. He shakes his head a little too hard.
"Cuz I can't burn out the memories. It's too late." He takes another drag, blows blue smoke toward the ceiling. "I saw what I saw, Tip."
Now Ed just looks sad. "But--"
"I see it like this," Joe says, waving Tip's interruption away. "If I got hit instead of you, I wouldn't have seen that fuckin' Nazi kid. I wouldn't have seen Joe and Bill get their fuckin' legs blown off. I wouldn'ta heard Hoobler die, or been there when Muck and Penk got blown to fuckin' bits."
Ed swallows. Joe watches his Adam's apple go up and down. "Skip and Alex? Oh Christ, Joe." He looks like Joe just sucker punched him. Maybe he did.
Joe nods. "There wasn't anything left, Ed. Nothing. They were just gone. Like some kind of fuckin' magic trick." He scratches his head. His hair is clean. It smells like soap, and faintly, of bleach. Maybe that's what he needs. A nice dose of bleach. Or maybe a shower. Rinse off with a little Zyklon B.
"The funny thing is, I thought Bastogne was bad. And it was. We had guys lose toes, fingers, hands, feet. I never thought I'd get warm again. Sometimes I think this is all a dream, I'm still back there, in the woods, freezin' to death."
"Well you're not," Ed snaps, and reaches for the pack of Luckies. He holds his hand out impatiently.
Joe drops his lighter into it. "Thought you quit."
"So did I," Tip says and lights up. He moves the makeshift ashtray between them. "I read about the camps. Buchenwald. How the 42nd Infantry Division helped liberate it."
Joe flicks ash onto the floor. "Don't go there," he says. It's a warning. He steers Ed in another direction. "After Bastogne," Lieb says, "I talked to Webster a lot. Mostly because he wasn't there. He was okay. Smart. Kind of an ass."
Ed gives Joe a knowing look. "No wonder you liked him."
Joe laughs a little. "Yeah."
"Did Webster make it?"
Lieb thinks about a jeep ride on a dirt road, how Web won't look at him, Skinny doesn't speak until the next morning. "He ain't dead, if that's what you mean."
Joe pushes himself off the love seat, pads to the ice box, looks inside. There's a couple ham sandwiches. Granny Smith apples. Apples make him think of Holland. So does rain. He's not hungry. If he'd felt like this back in Europe, he'd have bitched a lot less about Joe Domingus' cooking.
His cigarette's nearly gone. He tosses it in the sink. It makes a little hissing noise which makes him think of Landsberg. Everything makes him think of something else. Joe's never been good at math, not really, but the world's full of fuckin' algebra now. X + Y = Z. Smoke + burnt meat = Landsberg. Apples + rain = Eindhoven. He wants a new equation.
He asks Tip: "You any good at math?"
Tip looks nonplussed, but tries to cover. Good ol' Tipper. "Uh. Sure. I mean, I dunno. Kind of average I guess."
Joe leans against the refrigerator, arms folded. "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? Average, my ass."
"Huh?"
"Christ, ya moron, I'm givin' you a compliment."
Ed laughs, amused. "I must have dozed off there. Better say it again."
Joe leans his head against the metal door. "You're the best soldier in our platoon, buddy. Never saw anybody read a map like you." Guilt sits on one shoulder, regret on the other. "And you actually checked to make sure that house was clear, like we were supposed to. I took one look and was out the door." He closes his eyes, rolls his head from side to side, disgusted.
"And a fat lot of good that did me," Tip says mildly.
He doesn't even sound bitter.
Joe's pretty sure he'd be bitter. He didn't lose a leg or an eye, he didn't lose anything, and he's still bitter. Well, except for his faith in humanity. That's in a trash can in England along with the rest of his shit.
It's almost ten and he's tired. Thank God he's done with night watches and patrols. It's been months since he's slept in the same room as somebody else and it feels...okay. Comforting, even. Shit, he's turned into a fuckin' girl.
Unless.
Unless Tip's leaving. He doesn't even know. "You, ah, need some place to crash?" Joe asks, nonchalant. "Nonchalant" is a word he stole from Web.
Ed looks embarrassed and happy all at once. "I was hoping maybe I could stay here." He offers Joe a goofy grin. "If that's weird, I guess I can dig a foxhole out back or something."
"Gimme a fuckin' break. Of course you can stay. You take the bed, I'll take this." Lieb nods at the love seat.
"Forget it. I'll sleep on the floor. I'm the one who just showed up on your door step."
Joe frowns. It feels shitty to make Ed sleep on the floor.
"Quit worrying. I'm gonna go get my stuff. Back in a sec."
Within a half hour, Ed's got a nest of pillows and sofa cushions arranged on the floor. Joe's in bed, hands clasped behind his head. The apartment's dark, but squares of moonlight form a pale mosaic on the wall.
"Maybe you can show me the sights tomorrow," Ed suggests through a yawn.
"Sure. You like clam chowder? I can take ya to Fisherman's Wharf." Yeah. That'd be good. Show Ed the Wharf, the Bay, Coit Tower. Joe's got a little money left. He's glad to spend it on Tip. In fact, he's kinda looking forward to getting out of the apartment, actually doing something for a change.
Joe almost wishes Alley were here too. The three of them, back together. That'd be nice. Still, it's enough to have Ed. Even if it's just for a while.