FIC: Routine
Title: Routine
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott, hinted Winters/Nixon
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Wordcount: 1,274
Summary: No matter what the news is saying, the war's not over and it's all the same as it's always been.
Notes: An AU in which Webster joined the war as an Officer.
He was relying on his NCO’s again.
He noticed. The men noticed. They were hard-pressed to mind. In combat, the NCO’s led the charge and Lieutenant David Kenyon Webster was known as the man most likely to have a plan. His tactics seemed influenced by that of Bonaparte, of Alexander, of the great generals of the First World War (those few there were). “They call you Harvard boy, you know,” Nixon commented as he handed him a flask.
“Better than incompetent,” was Webster’s opinion on the subject.
“And here I thought those were synonyms.” Their Harvard versus Yale rivalry had been a companion through Normandy, through Webster’s wound in Holland, and into the cold haunts of Bastogne. Now, in Haguenau, there were patrols to away and the rivalry had to sit back for a moment.
More importantly, as Nixon handed Webster the mission details, there were translators to be deployed.
“I’ll talk to him,” Webster sighed, after they discussed the need for prisoners. Nixon clapped him on the back before Webster ran a hand through his hair and made the short trip to the barracks. He’d seen better days, but they all had. Stubble, dirt, exhaustion hung at home on the men’s faces; all hallmarks of the accomplished soldier.
“Liebgott,” he summoned the man smoking lazily in the top bunk. He gave nods of recognition to the others while he watched Joe hop off the bed in order to join him in the hallway, a dangerous smile on his face.
“Already, huh?” he breathed out, pinning Webster against the wall. “What happened to discretion?”
“I’m not here for that.”
Almost instantly, the mood dissipated and firm touches became slack brushes. Joe’s whole attitude turned angry, that innate tendency of his to bury and burn through hate for his enemy was unlike anything else Webster had seen in the war. Sometimes, he felt like checking for the scorch marks of fingerprints on his skin, a tangible sign of proof that Joe poured every ounce of everything he hated and bled it out onto Webster’s skin.
“I need you on tonight’s patrol. I need a translator.”
“You speak German,” Liebgott accused. “You go.”
You do this. You do that. Maybe if they were both enlisted, it would make a difference and Webster could bear this burden for him.
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Webster chided him gently, the space between them not any more distant for Webster’s announcement. Joe’s fingers were bound up in the cuff of Webster’s shirt, pleading silently for a reprieve that wasn’t going to come. Webster knew that he had a resolve that came out rarely and this was one of those instances where he had to put it to use. “You’re on patrol with fourteen other men. Malarkey’s leading.”
“Jesus Christ, fucking kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you,” Liebgott bitched.
Webster cut Liebgott down with a sharp glare. “I am your Lieutenant. Do not talk to me like you have any kind of power over me.”
That was probably the wrong thing to say because Liebgott’s lips curled up in a cruel little shadow of a smirk and he leaned in, pinning Webster against the wall with his hips. Webster swallowed with difficulty and began to recite old lessons in his mind to keep from getting hard. He did it to keep Liebgott from winning.
ad vitam aut culpam
Liebgott craned his head to one side and pressed hot breath against Webster’s neck, against pale skin untouched by the war but for a scar to his upper arm and the bullet he took to the leg.
alterum non laedere
“Think you’re better than me, do you?” Liebgott nearly hissed at him. “Not what it feels like when you steal me away to do your dirty fucking sinning. You act like a whore,” he accused. “Lieutenant. Don’t pull your fucking power trips on me of all people. I’ll go on your fucking patrol, but don’t talk down to me.”
Webster glanced down into the scant space between them, mouth hanging open without a single word to say.
That night when the men were on patrol and the wind brought their shouts to Webster’s room, he sat with his pencil gripped too-tightly in his palm and started the mission report without knowing how it would end. When the reports came in that there was one casualty, he was instantly making his way to the barracks to see the body being dragged away.
The body’s eyes were lifeless and his skin was pale where it wasn’t destroyed by the effects of war in the form of guns, grenades, and bullets.
He looked up and caught Liebgott’s dirtied gaze in the shadows of the basement.
“Two prisoners,” Liebgott dully reported to him in German.
And that night when Webster dragged Liebgott with him to his bed in a bombed-out shattered bedroom in the house where all the officers had been put up, neither of them talked about the patrol or the fact that the war ought to be over and their men were still dying. In the morning when Webster woke up, Liebgott was draped over him and the sun reflected lightly off pale and bare skin.
“Sink is going to want another patrol,” Webster murmured when Liebgott finally roused just enough to be capable of conversation. “It would be what I’d do. If I had prisoners, I’d want more based on the…” He swallowed the word ‘success’, “…ability to bring in the Germans.”
“Lieutenant Webster,” Liebgott said with a hint of deferred and humbled respect in his voice. “Kindly shut the fuck up before I do it for you.”
He caught Joe’s gaze and let out a weary laugh as he sank back into the comfortable mattress provided by merit only of having attended OCS. “What would you have done if I was enlisted, like you?”
“Slept on worse beds,” Liebgott grumbled, using a pillow to smack Webster in the face before re-settling and turning away from him. “I mean it. Shut the fuck up so I can catch some shut-eye and try to forget about this fucking war.”
Webster almost wished him good luck, but he knew better. Instead, he roused for the day and began to make his rounds before the inevitability of another patrol, another campaign, another front approached.
It never ended.
He met up with Nixon outside one of the houses by the river, cigarette burning fresh and dangling from his mouth. He probably smelled of dirt and sex, but he knew Nixon wouldn’t say a word.
“They did well.”
“Yeah.”
“Sink wants them to go again.”
“I figured.”
They stood at the base of the river and listened to a German scream in agony on the other bank, neither man making a single move for their gun or a grenade. “So,” Webster murmured as he pried the cigarette from his lips. “You planning on dropping by to see Winters?” There was just a vague hint of teasing in his voice, as if schoolboys joking about a crush deeply engrained. “Give him my regards if you do. When you’re not too busy making those big fond eyes at him.”
“Like you’re any better.”
“Harvard says so,” Webster said smugly.
“Yeah, well, your Harvard ass can kiss my Yale one.”
They spent another few moments in the shadow of the river and the dying man before parting ways. By the time Webster returned to his bed, Liebgott was gone and the sheets were rumpled. Sink was calling a briefing and there was a service being held to mourn Jackson.
It was just another day.
THE END
Pairing: Webster/Liebgott, hinted Winters/Nixon
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Wordcount: 1,274
Summary: No matter what the news is saying, the war's not over and it's all the same as it's always been.
Notes: An AU in which Webster joined the war as an Officer.
He was relying on his NCO’s again.
He noticed. The men noticed. They were hard-pressed to mind. In combat, the NCO’s led the charge and Lieutenant David Kenyon Webster was known as the man most likely to have a plan. His tactics seemed influenced by that of Bonaparte, of Alexander, of the great generals of the First World War (those few there were). “They call you Harvard boy, you know,” Nixon commented as he handed him a flask.
“Better than incompetent,” was Webster’s opinion on the subject.
“And here I thought those were synonyms.” Their Harvard versus Yale rivalry had been a companion through Normandy, through Webster’s wound in Holland, and into the cold haunts of Bastogne. Now, in Haguenau, there were patrols to away and the rivalry had to sit back for a moment.
More importantly, as Nixon handed Webster the mission details, there were translators to be deployed.
“I’ll talk to him,” Webster sighed, after they discussed the need for prisoners. Nixon clapped him on the back before Webster ran a hand through his hair and made the short trip to the barracks. He’d seen better days, but they all had. Stubble, dirt, exhaustion hung at home on the men’s faces; all hallmarks of the accomplished soldier.
“Liebgott,” he summoned the man smoking lazily in the top bunk. He gave nods of recognition to the others while he watched Joe hop off the bed in order to join him in the hallway, a dangerous smile on his face.
“Already, huh?” he breathed out, pinning Webster against the wall. “What happened to discretion?”
“I’m not here for that.”
Almost instantly, the mood dissipated and firm touches became slack brushes. Joe’s whole attitude turned angry, that innate tendency of his to bury and burn through hate for his enemy was unlike anything else Webster had seen in the war. Sometimes, he felt like checking for the scorch marks of fingerprints on his skin, a tangible sign of proof that Joe poured every ounce of everything he hated and bled it out onto Webster’s skin.
“I need you on tonight’s patrol. I need a translator.”
“You speak German,” Liebgott accused. “You go.”
You do this. You do that. Maybe if they were both enlisted, it would make a difference and Webster could bear this burden for him.
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Webster chided him gently, the space between them not any more distant for Webster’s announcement. Joe’s fingers were bound up in the cuff of Webster’s shirt, pleading silently for a reprieve that wasn’t going to come. Webster knew that he had a resolve that came out rarely and this was one of those instances where he had to put it to use. “You’re on patrol with fourteen other men. Malarkey’s leading.”
“Jesus Christ, fucking kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you,” Liebgott bitched.
Webster cut Liebgott down with a sharp glare. “I am your Lieutenant. Do not talk to me like you have any kind of power over me.”
That was probably the wrong thing to say because Liebgott’s lips curled up in a cruel little shadow of a smirk and he leaned in, pinning Webster against the wall with his hips. Webster swallowed with difficulty and began to recite old lessons in his mind to keep from getting hard. He did it to keep Liebgott from winning.
ad vitam aut culpam
Liebgott craned his head to one side and pressed hot breath against Webster’s neck, against pale skin untouched by the war but for a scar to his upper arm and the bullet he took to the leg.
alterum non laedere
“Think you’re better than me, do you?” Liebgott nearly hissed at him. “Not what it feels like when you steal me away to do your dirty fucking sinning. You act like a whore,” he accused. “Lieutenant. Don’t pull your fucking power trips on me of all people. I’ll go on your fucking patrol, but don’t talk down to me.”
Webster glanced down into the scant space between them, mouth hanging open without a single word to say.
That night when the men were on patrol and the wind brought their shouts to Webster’s room, he sat with his pencil gripped too-tightly in his palm and started the mission report without knowing how it would end. When the reports came in that there was one casualty, he was instantly making his way to the barracks to see the body being dragged away.
The body’s eyes were lifeless and his skin was pale where it wasn’t destroyed by the effects of war in the form of guns, grenades, and bullets.
He looked up and caught Liebgott’s dirtied gaze in the shadows of the basement.
“Two prisoners,” Liebgott dully reported to him in German.
And that night when Webster dragged Liebgott with him to his bed in a bombed-out shattered bedroom in the house where all the officers had been put up, neither of them talked about the patrol or the fact that the war ought to be over and their men were still dying. In the morning when Webster woke up, Liebgott was draped over him and the sun reflected lightly off pale and bare skin.
“Sink is going to want another patrol,” Webster murmured when Liebgott finally roused just enough to be capable of conversation. “It would be what I’d do. If I had prisoners, I’d want more based on the…” He swallowed the word ‘success’, “…ability to bring in the Germans.”
“Lieutenant Webster,” Liebgott said with a hint of deferred and humbled respect in his voice. “Kindly shut the fuck up before I do it for you.”
He caught Joe’s gaze and let out a weary laugh as he sank back into the comfortable mattress provided by merit only of having attended OCS. “What would you have done if I was enlisted, like you?”
“Slept on worse beds,” Liebgott grumbled, using a pillow to smack Webster in the face before re-settling and turning away from him. “I mean it. Shut the fuck up so I can catch some shut-eye and try to forget about this fucking war.”
Webster almost wished him good luck, but he knew better. Instead, he roused for the day and began to make his rounds before the inevitability of another patrol, another campaign, another front approached.
It never ended.
He met up with Nixon outside one of the houses by the river, cigarette burning fresh and dangling from his mouth. He probably smelled of dirt and sex, but he knew Nixon wouldn’t say a word.
“They did well.”
“Yeah.”
“Sink wants them to go again.”
“I figured.”
They stood at the base of the river and listened to a German scream in agony on the other bank, neither man making a single move for their gun or a grenade. “So,” Webster murmured as he pried the cigarette from his lips. “You planning on dropping by to see Winters?” There was just a vague hint of teasing in his voice, as if schoolboys joking about a crush deeply engrained. “Give him my regards if you do. When you’re not too busy making those big fond eyes at him.”
“Like you’re any better.”
“Harvard says so,” Webster said smugly.
“Yeah, well, your Harvard ass can kiss my Yale one.”
They spent another few moments in the shadow of the river and the dying man before parting ways. By the time Webster returned to his bed, Liebgott was gone and the sheets were rumpled. Sink was calling a briefing and there was a service being held to mourn Jackson.
It was just another day.
THE END