So Much For the Poetry
Okay, so, this was originally supposed to be the final chapter of "College Boy Cowardice" but obviously, it is not. Webster and Liebgott had more to say to each other than expected and Winters and Nixon ended up turning into another chapter that absorbed what would've otherwise been the epilogue. Which is fine, I suppose, because a five part series isn't that much of a stretch from a four part series.
So, here it is, the almost last bit of the story.
Thanks for reading thus far and I hope you enjoy it. Yada yada yada. On with the dog and pony show...
Title: College Boy Cowardice, Part Four
Authors: m_buggie amd melliyna
Fandom: “Band of Brothers”
Pairings: implied unrequited yet eventual Winnix and Webgott, implied one-sided Sobel/Winters, possible Roe/Heffron if you squint and tilt your head just slightly to the left
Word Count: 1,510 for Part Four
Rating: PG-13
Standard Disclaimer: This is based off performances in the HBO miniseries, not the actual soldiers. The only thing I own is the computer I wrote this on. I make no profit and mean no disrespect so please don’t sue.
~x~x~
“Do you have any originality or do you just rip off Keats all the time?” Lewis Nixon quipped. The smirk on his face was lopsided and composed of equal parts playful scorn and inebriation.
David Webster - who was only slightly less drunk than Nixon was - narrowed his eyes and looked up from his paper, retorting in much the same tone, “That’s a laugh, coming from the man who keeps attempting to channel Blake.”
“At least I don’t sound like a mediocre imitation of Dickinson.”
Webster brandished his pencil at Nixon in as threatening a manner as one could wield a writing implement as a makeshift weapon. “You take that back.”
The two men sat across from each other at the makeshift desk they had cobbled together from bales of hay and wooden planks in the barn that Easy Company was billeted in. It was late at night and most of the men were either fast asleep, out drinking, or on patrol. Captain Lewis Nixon and Private David Webster were off to one side, muttering quietly back and forth by the light of a single lamp, sheets of paper spread out before them and half-worn pencils in their hands made clumsy from whisky and beer. It was the liquid courage they’d been ingesting for the better portion of the night which drove them to act on Harry Welsh’s words.
“Jesus Christ, fellas, you sound like you’ve been composing sappy love poems in your spare time,” Harry had laughed.
It was a throwaway remark, nothing to think twice on. At first Webster and Nixon had blushed and sputtered in embarrassment but after their umpteenth round of drinks, writing poetry confessing undying affections started sounding like a good idea. It sure as hell sounded easier than trying to own up to those feelings in person. So there they were, in Easy Company’s barn, writing. Or rather attempting to write, as the college boys turned paratroopers kept getting distracted by each other’s nitpicking over things like spelling and form. The legacy of Yale versus Harvard struck again.
“That sounds suspiciously Browning in tone,” Web commented, gesturing to the paper in Nix’s hand.
“Oh, as if you’ve managed to do better,” Nix retorted. “I hate to break this to you, Web, but you’re not the next Tennyson.”
More writing, more discarded works, more commentary on stilted prose and too-obvious influences from both sides.
“Aren’t you supposed to be good at this sort of thing?” Nix scoffed.
Web looked offended at that. “I am.”
Nix laughed.
“Better than you, in any case,” Web shot back.
“You keep thinking that.”
“For example: I’m not laboring under the misconception that I’m another John Donne,” Web countered. “Please, Nix, don’t try to draw any comparisons between Major Winters’ eyes and vases or I’ll never be able to look at the man again without wanting to laugh.”
Nix’s expression darkened as though the thought of anyone laughing at Major Richard D. Winters was personally offensive to him.
They were going to be at this all night if they weren’t careful.
Finally, Web put his head in his hands and sighed. “Amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus.”
Nix snorted and shook his head. “I’m still waiting on that honey.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” Web sighed. He racked his brain for more Latin phrases that were pertinent to their situation. “Amor est vitae essentia.”
“Do you know what I have to say to that?” Nix muttered. “Bibo ergo sum.”
“Really?” Web chuckled, the sarcasm still noticeable despite his state of lingering intoxication. “Why Sir, I never would’ve guessed, you don’t seem the type.”
“I know, it’s shocking isn’t it?” Nix said, sharing the laugh at his own expense. “But I can’t right now because my damned flask is empty.”
Webster’s laughter grew, took on a life of its own. It was just so hysterical, all of it. How did they ever manage to find themselves in this odd predicament? They’d joined the Airborne to fight a war, not fall in love with two of their fellow soldiers. Web couldn’t stop laughing. The US Army had turned into a matchmaking service but with live ammunition involved. What would his recruitment officer say to that? Join the paratroops, kill the Germans…become painfully smitten with a comrade. Right, of course, because that was going to be on all the new recruiting posters this season.
“What the hell are you cackling about, college boy?” a sleepy, hoarse, and cranky voice hissed from the darkness.
Speak of the Devil, Webster mused to himself.
Technician Class 5 Joseph Liebgott stumbled from out of the shadows, grinding the heel of one hand against an eye. “Some of us are trying to sleep, you know?” he groused, but paused to clear his throat and straighten up a little upon seeing the second figure at the table. “Captain Nixon,” he uttered with a nod.
Nixon smirked and rose to his feet. “Well, fellas, considering how early it is in the morning I think it’s time I called it a night.” He nodded to both of them and shuffled off.
The barn was quiet then, filled only with the sounds of snoring. Web and Joe stared each other down, one drunk and the other exhausted.
“Sorry,” Web offered, “I…we didn’t mean to wake you or anything.”
Joe snorted and shrugged, shoving both hands into his pants pockets. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “I don’t get much sleep these days anyway.”
“Nightmares?”
“No, I just like having a glass of warm milk and honey before bed and we’ve been fresh out of that since Bastogne.”
Web nodded, slowly getting to his feet. “About Bastogne…”
“Fuck Bastogne.” Joe took a step back as Web rose, shaking his head. “Fuck you, too.”
“Yeah, fuck me, too, Joe.” Web sighed, increasingly frustrated. “You know you don’t have to push away everyone who reaches out to you.”
“I don’t push everyone away.”
“Oh, so that’s just me then, is it?”
Joe threw his hands in the air, growling in a harsh whisper, “Goddamn it, Web, not everything is about you.”
He moved to retreat but Web caught his arm and held it despite Joe’s hiss of disapproval and the violent jerk he gave to try and shake the other man off.
“Jesus Christ, Joe, what the hell do you want from me?” Web blurted out, trying not to raise his voice but wanting to get his message across.
Dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “Well you could start by taking your hand off me, you sorry son of a bitch.”
But this time Webster wasn’t backing down. This time…
“You’re right,” he uttered, not relinquishing his grip on Liebgott’s arm, meeting the other man’s eye practically nose to nose. “I am a sorry son of a bitch, Joe. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry about not being at Bastogne. I’m sorry I didn’t realize I’d want to be there until it was too late. I’m sorry that the Army’s got me so sick and tired of chickenshit and bullshit that by the time I got back to Easy Company things weren’t the same, couldn’t be the same. I’m sorry about Toye and Guarnere and all the others. I’m sorry about Jackson. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, Joe. But I’m here now. Do you hear me? I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.”
Joe Liebgott had nothing to say for a while and could do nothing but stare at Webster, all sorts of…things…flickering behind his eyes.
“I hate you,” Joe uttered almost inaudibly.
“I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere,” was the answer David Webster gave, quiet but determined.
Joe moved in a flash and Web winced, expecting to be head-butted or something equally violent. Instead he found himself in complete shock as Joe coiled fingers around the back of his neck and brought their mouths crashing together. A sharp inhale of breath opened Web’s mouth and Joe took full advantage, slipping his tongue in and tangling it with David’s own. After a short, hot moment Joe let go and pulled back.
There was a wild look in Joe’s eyes, challenging and desperate. He had thrown down the gauntlet and now braced himself for the freak out that he expected to follow. Web, meanwhile, blinked slowly while breathing hard and fast, his brain lurching in putting the pieces together. Oh, he thought…OH. And then it all clicked, a puzzle now complete.
Without a second thought Web looped an arm around Joe’s slender form and dragged him close, sealing their mouths together again with just as much, if not more, fervor as their first kiss. Joe made a surprised noise that got lost down Web’s throat and then they were pawing and groping every place they could reach, trying to devour each other with teeth and lips and tongues.
“Whaddya say we take this somewhere a little more private, huh, college boy?” Joe suggested, nipping at Web’s left ear.
“Absolutely,” Webster hurriedly replied, nodding his head enthusiastically.
The lamp went out.
Translations from the Latin:
“amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus” - love is rich with both honey and venom
“amor est vitae essentia” - love is the essence of life
“bibo ergo sum” - I drink, therefore I am
The ramblings until now:
Part One - In Which Nixon and Webster Drink and Discuss Intellectual Matters (meaning their boyfriends)
Part Two - In Which Harry Taunts Nixon and Webster
Part Three - Harry the Interrogator
(cross-posted to no_vices)
So, here it is, the almost last bit of the story.
Thanks for reading thus far and I hope you enjoy it. Yada yada yada. On with the dog and pony show...
Title: College Boy Cowardice, Part Four
Authors: m_buggie amd melliyna
Fandom: “Band of Brothers”
Pairings: implied unrequited yet eventual Winnix and Webgott, implied one-sided Sobel/Winters, possible Roe/Heffron if you squint and tilt your head just slightly to the left
Word Count: 1,510 for Part Four
Rating: PG-13
Standard Disclaimer: This is based off performances in the HBO miniseries, not the actual soldiers. The only thing I own is the computer I wrote this on. I make no profit and mean no disrespect so please don’t sue.
~x~x~
“Do you have any originality or do you just rip off Keats all the time?” Lewis Nixon quipped. The smirk on his face was lopsided and composed of equal parts playful scorn and inebriation.
David Webster - who was only slightly less drunk than Nixon was - narrowed his eyes and looked up from his paper, retorting in much the same tone, “That’s a laugh, coming from the man who keeps attempting to channel Blake.”
“At least I don’t sound like a mediocre imitation of Dickinson.”
Webster brandished his pencil at Nixon in as threatening a manner as one could wield a writing implement as a makeshift weapon. “You take that back.”
The two men sat across from each other at the makeshift desk they had cobbled together from bales of hay and wooden planks in the barn that Easy Company was billeted in. It was late at night and most of the men were either fast asleep, out drinking, or on patrol. Captain Lewis Nixon and Private David Webster were off to one side, muttering quietly back and forth by the light of a single lamp, sheets of paper spread out before them and half-worn pencils in their hands made clumsy from whisky and beer. It was the liquid courage they’d been ingesting for the better portion of the night which drove them to act on Harry Welsh’s words.
“Jesus Christ, fellas, you sound like you’ve been composing sappy love poems in your spare time,” Harry had laughed.
It was a throwaway remark, nothing to think twice on. At first Webster and Nixon had blushed and sputtered in embarrassment but after their umpteenth round of drinks, writing poetry confessing undying affections started sounding like a good idea. It sure as hell sounded easier than trying to own up to those feelings in person. So there they were, in Easy Company’s barn, writing. Or rather attempting to write, as the college boys turned paratroopers kept getting distracted by each other’s nitpicking over things like spelling and form. The legacy of Yale versus Harvard struck again.
“That sounds suspiciously Browning in tone,” Web commented, gesturing to the paper in Nix’s hand.
“Oh, as if you’ve managed to do better,” Nix retorted. “I hate to break this to you, Web, but you’re not the next Tennyson.”
More writing, more discarded works, more commentary on stilted prose and too-obvious influences from both sides.
“Aren’t you supposed to be good at this sort of thing?” Nix scoffed.
Web looked offended at that. “I am.”
Nix laughed.
“Better than you, in any case,” Web shot back.
“You keep thinking that.”
“For example: I’m not laboring under the misconception that I’m another John Donne,” Web countered. “Please, Nix, don’t try to draw any comparisons between Major Winters’ eyes and vases or I’ll never be able to look at the man again without wanting to laugh.”
Nix’s expression darkened as though the thought of anyone laughing at Major Richard D. Winters was personally offensive to him.
They were going to be at this all night if they weren’t careful.
Finally, Web put his head in his hands and sighed. “Amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus.”
Nix snorted and shook his head. “I’m still waiting on that honey.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” Web sighed. He racked his brain for more Latin phrases that were pertinent to their situation. “Amor est vitae essentia.”
“Do you know what I have to say to that?” Nix muttered. “Bibo ergo sum.”
“Really?” Web chuckled, the sarcasm still noticeable despite his state of lingering intoxication. “Why Sir, I never would’ve guessed, you don’t seem the type.”
“I know, it’s shocking isn’t it?” Nix said, sharing the laugh at his own expense. “But I can’t right now because my damned flask is empty.”
Webster’s laughter grew, took on a life of its own. It was just so hysterical, all of it. How did they ever manage to find themselves in this odd predicament? They’d joined the Airborne to fight a war, not fall in love with two of their fellow soldiers. Web couldn’t stop laughing. The US Army had turned into a matchmaking service but with live ammunition involved. What would his recruitment officer say to that? Join the paratroops, kill the Germans…become painfully smitten with a comrade. Right, of course, because that was going to be on all the new recruiting posters this season.
“What the hell are you cackling about, college boy?” a sleepy, hoarse, and cranky voice hissed from the darkness.
Speak of the Devil, Webster mused to himself.
Technician Class 5 Joseph Liebgott stumbled from out of the shadows, grinding the heel of one hand against an eye. “Some of us are trying to sleep, you know?” he groused, but paused to clear his throat and straighten up a little upon seeing the second figure at the table. “Captain Nixon,” he uttered with a nod.
Nixon smirked and rose to his feet. “Well, fellas, considering how early it is in the morning I think it’s time I called it a night.” He nodded to both of them and shuffled off.
The barn was quiet then, filled only with the sounds of snoring. Web and Joe stared each other down, one drunk and the other exhausted.
“Sorry,” Web offered, “I…we didn’t mean to wake you or anything.”
Joe snorted and shrugged, shoving both hands into his pants pockets. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “I don’t get much sleep these days anyway.”
“Nightmares?”
“No, I just like having a glass of warm milk and honey before bed and we’ve been fresh out of that since Bastogne.”
Web nodded, slowly getting to his feet. “About Bastogne…”
“Fuck Bastogne.” Joe took a step back as Web rose, shaking his head. “Fuck you, too.”
“Yeah, fuck me, too, Joe.” Web sighed, increasingly frustrated. “You know you don’t have to push away everyone who reaches out to you.”
“I don’t push everyone away.”
“Oh, so that’s just me then, is it?”
Joe threw his hands in the air, growling in a harsh whisper, “Goddamn it, Web, not everything is about you.”
He moved to retreat but Web caught his arm and held it despite Joe’s hiss of disapproval and the violent jerk he gave to try and shake the other man off.
“Jesus Christ, Joe, what the hell do you want from me?” Web blurted out, trying not to raise his voice but wanting to get his message across.
Dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “Well you could start by taking your hand off me, you sorry son of a bitch.”
But this time Webster wasn’t backing down. This time…
“You’re right,” he uttered, not relinquishing his grip on Liebgott’s arm, meeting the other man’s eye practically nose to nose. “I am a sorry son of a bitch, Joe. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry about not being at Bastogne. I’m sorry I didn’t realize I’d want to be there until it was too late. I’m sorry that the Army’s got me so sick and tired of chickenshit and bullshit that by the time I got back to Easy Company things weren’t the same, couldn’t be the same. I’m sorry about Toye and Guarnere and all the others. I’m sorry about Jackson. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me, Joe. But I’m here now. Do you hear me? I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.”
Joe Liebgott had nothing to say for a while and could do nothing but stare at Webster, all sorts of…things…flickering behind his eyes.
“I hate you,” Joe uttered almost inaudibly.
“I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere,” was the answer David Webster gave, quiet but determined.
Joe moved in a flash and Web winced, expecting to be head-butted or something equally violent. Instead he found himself in complete shock as Joe coiled fingers around the back of his neck and brought their mouths crashing together. A sharp inhale of breath opened Web’s mouth and Joe took full advantage, slipping his tongue in and tangling it with David’s own. After a short, hot moment Joe let go and pulled back.
There was a wild look in Joe’s eyes, challenging and desperate. He had thrown down the gauntlet and now braced himself for the freak out that he expected to follow. Web, meanwhile, blinked slowly while breathing hard and fast, his brain lurching in putting the pieces together. Oh, he thought…OH. And then it all clicked, a puzzle now complete.
Without a second thought Web looped an arm around Joe’s slender form and dragged him close, sealing their mouths together again with just as much, if not more, fervor as their first kiss. Joe made a surprised noise that got lost down Web’s throat and then they were pawing and groping every place they could reach, trying to devour each other with teeth and lips and tongues.
“Whaddya say we take this somewhere a little more private, huh, college boy?” Joe suggested, nipping at Web’s left ear.
“Absolutely,” Webster hurriedly replied, nodding his head enthusiastically.
The lamp went out.
Translations from the Latin:
“amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus” - love is rich with both honey and venom
“amor est vitae essentia” - love is the essence of life
“bibo ergo sum” - I drink, therefore I am
The ramblings until now:
Part One - In Which Nixon and Webster Drink and Discuss Intellectual Matters (meaning their boyfriends)
Part Two - In Which Harry Taunts Nixon and Webster
Part Three - Harry the Interrogator
(cross-posted to no_vices)