FIC: A Love Like The Sea 4/4
Title: A Love Like The Sea 4/4 the constant current
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They are very, very, very much not mine.
Word Count: 6,956
Summary: Joe Liebgott is roused in the middle of the night by a phone call (an intervention in disguise) and ends up anchored down to one place while he tries to reconcile the man he's become with the man who went to war.
Notes: Thanks plenty to thejazzter for the beta. This goes AU after Points, but not in any dire way besides the events of the story being clearly not how history played out.
PART ONE: He wanted to be loved in a way that was as infinite and endless as the ocean.
PART TWO: Liebgott wished he could say how many more he’d be there so he could start composing graceful verses of goodbyes, but that was a piece of knowledge as lost to him as was the man he’d lost when he became someone other than his mother’s boy.
PART THREE: And sometimes he hadn’t done anything at all, living off the charity of men and women who’d never had to go to war and never had to fight for their country.
They drove back to the house at five in the morning, when the world was dead silent but for the sound of the engine and the wayward animal-like cries from the dark landscape as they drove down the deserted road.
“It was an accident,” Webster finally piped up, somewhere along mile five. “I know you don’t believe me and I know you’ve gone suddenly overprotective, but it was an accident. The war is over, I’m not going to get shot, I’m not going to step on a mine, I’m not going to die.” He sounded ethereally calm and collected and Liebgott almost snapped and demanded to know how he could sound so distant before recalling that the doctor had shot him up before stitching him up. “You need to stop worrying.”
“Not til you get your clean bill of health,” Liebgott said stubbornly, clenching the steering wheel tighter than before and keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.
“I keep wondering why,” Webster kept ruminating, half to himself. “Why are you acting like this? And I still don’t know.”
Webster’s ignorance of the fact was probably the one saving grace in the whole situation. It was the one thing that kept Liebgott from bolting out the door when he got a chance. It was because Webster didn’t know that Joe didn’t put on his coat and tuck away his things and find the next dank place that would welcome him in. He’d made a promise to Web to take care of him and that meant he wasn’t going to run away. Not this time.
They got back home at six in the morning and instead of Liebgott going back to the couch, he dragged a chair into Webster’s room and slept in it beside the bed until two in the afternoon.
When he woke up, his back was more than wrecked, but he’d heard Web sleep peacefully for the span of hours and that meant that there might not be any more sudden middle of the night panic attacks. So, he traded a little bit of physical pain for emotional relief and bartered that the physical pain would go away. Sure, he wasn’t eighteen anymore, but it wasn’t like he was an old man ready to go to roost either. He could shake it off.
The one thing that he couldn’t shake, though, was one of the tasks that Liebgott had to do. It was one of the things the Doctor had talked about within the first five minutes of discussing what a caretaker would have to do and while Joe had been putting it off for a while, it was going to happen sooner or later. Better the sooner, Joe figured.
The fact was that Web was going to need a bath. Since he wasn’t supposed to get his dressings wet, that left the cleaning to Liebgott.
For all that they had worked with each other for the last three days, Webster still flushed every time he had to take his shirt off as if it put him in an uncomfortable position. The task of bathing Webster meant that they were suddenly hitting an all new level of intimacy that seemed to vault them into something that they either had to be ready for or would just muddle through anyway. Joe took his time in rousing Webster and started modifying the usual routine to get the both of them fed, drugged (for Webster) and stretched (in Joe’s case).
He’d drawn the bath until it was about a third filled with water, just enough to raise up to Webster’s hips, but not high enough that he’d get the stomach stitches wet. It was better than bringing a bucket of water into the bedroom and sponge-bathing Webster, but it was worse at the same time. If they had gone with sponge-bathing, then Webster could have kept part of his dignity. The chances were that Joe wouldn’t have been able to hold onto his. It would have been reduced to nothing but shambles in the face of Webster in close proximity on a bed. This was better. Barely so, but it was better.
Webster was hesitating and lurking in the doorway, all of his clothes still on him. His arms were crossed tightly, as if the tension would somehow dissipate if it remained coiled long enough.
“I really have to do this?” he asked warily, his voice barely audible. Liebgott could still hear the nerves as plain as day.
Liebgott glanced up over his shoulder and tried to ignore how much he wasn’t sure about this either. He’d had dreams about this, but those were never so hesitant and Webster was always more than willing to strip in them. In those dreams, the room was lit only by the dimmest of lamps, but here it was the sun setting on the California coast that gave the bathroom the light that it did.
In Liebgott’s strange dreams, Web also hadn’t been nearly gutted by fishing line, which was really so ironic that all the fish that Webster had ever caught were probably having a good laugh in Fish Heaven or wherever they went when they got themselves gutted and eaten for dinner.
“Web, you already stink,” Liebgott said, admitting to himself at the same time as he did to Webster that this had to happen. “Come on. You can pretend I’m some pretty well-endowed nurse and I’ll just pretend I’m giving a dog a bath or something. Shouldn’t be hard with that mat of hair on your chest.”
Webster didn’t even retort to that, just pried his t-shirt off so that he was wearing his jeans and an undershirt. And always, always he was wearing that look of uncertainty on his face.
Liebgott sat perched on the edge of the tub and sighed heavily. He didn’t even feel like bringing up that this was as much torture for him as it was for Webster -- more so, but to say that would involve an explanation and Liebgott doubted ‘I want to screw you’ really belonged in the bathroom when half of the present parties was about to strip off the remainder of their clothes and render themselves helpless in a tub.
Liebgott lifted a palm and coaxed Webster forward with a little crook of his fingers and little else, trying to get the man to come closer. Yeah, there was a lot that Liebgott wasn’t saying to him, but this was about getting Webster clean while he couldn’t do it for himself. Liebgott might have been a lot of things, but an impatient pervert he wasn’t. He could wait until the right time to have this conversation with Webster.
Slowly, Liebgott watched as Webster snaked his fingers into the belt-loops of his jeans and tugged them down an inch or so over his hips, removing the fingers to then undo the button and then slide the zipper down. Liebgott tried to keep his eyes off of the show, but it was proving fairly impossible. The jeans were shimmied out of and Webster was yet another step closer to being fully naked.
This felt like a very intimate striptease and Joe was the paying customer, waiting for the lapdance.
He lifted his head and stared up at Webster, who was staring right back down and neither were saying any of the words that they really should have been talking about. Liebgott slowly wet his lips while Webster dragged his t-shirt over his head, followed by his dog-tags. And then there were only the boxers.
“Take ‘em off, Web,” Liebgott insisted, his voice rough and hoarse and filled with enough emotion that he was sure in that moment that Webster knew everything. There was no way that he couldn’t.
Webster splayed his palms out over his hips and slowly pushed down the boxers until there wasn’t a shred left of him and he didn’t have any decency on display. He was completely naked and Joe was staring. He forced himself to look away and to lift up from the tub, turning and adjusting his loose jeans so that nothing was about to show.
“Alright, get in there and let’s get this over with,” Liebgott said, ready to rush through it for both of their sakes (though he imagined the reasons on either end were completely opposite). He stood facing the wall and kept his eyes on his reflection in the mirror and for once, he didn’t see a man who’d let the world down and didn’t see hands that had murdered boys. Yeah, that guy was still there, but all Joe saw when he looked in the mirror was a desperate and earnest man who was rapidly running out of time before he said things he’d been keeping inside of him.
There was a longing look in his eyes and Webster might have recognized the look on Joe’s face as familiar, being that it was the very same expression that he wore when talking about the sea.
Joe was in the deep waters now and if he let himself go, the current was going to take him far past the point of return. He kept his back turned until he heard the soft splash of water and turned with cloth in hand and soap in the other. Web had his knees drawn together and was sitting with posture so perfect that it looked as if someone had rammed a rod up his ass.
Funny, but that still made Joe smirk, even if there was a joke lying in there about what he would have liked to do to Web that involved things up his ass. Of course, he didn’t think that courting the guy (even if it was just for sex) would work with those kinds of jokes. He didn’t think he’d see much success if he went down that route. He straddled the stool he’d brought in with him and leaned over to ruffle Web’s hair, gaining the other man’s attention for a brief moment.
“What?” Webster asked, unsure.
“Don’t look like I’m about to torture you,” Liebgott pointed out. “Jesus, you look like one poke and you’ll explode,” he noted with a genuine grin on his face. He leaned forward and dipped the cloth in water, fingers brushing Webster’s calf as he did and there went Liebgott’s stomach again, bottoming out on him.
Maybe Web wasn’t the one set to explode under the right circumstances.
Joe let his fingers trail up Webster’s knee and shifted so that he was scrubbing with soap and the cloth, keeping his eyes resolutely on the expanse of skin that he was presented. He refused, he refused to look Web in the eye in the event he saw something there that he couldn’t deal with, like disgust. Or worse, in the event that he saw something reciprocated there. He wasn’t sure how much of that he could take before jumping Webster in the tub and the man wasn’t supposed to get wet.
Liebgott pushed out a long and deep breath, trying to just get a grip on himself. It’s just Web. You’re just helping him. That mantra became more difficult when Liebgott’s hand pushed up Webster’s thigh and he swore to God that he heard Webster let out a shaky exhalation.
Liebgott sat there wondering if it was too late to call Web’s family or something to come and take over for him so he didn’t have to sit there and do this. He didn’t know how much longer he could take it. What the hell happened to Joe that he wasn’t doing this with some leggy brunette with a great rack? What happened to his post-war plans that he’d been so keen on telling Webster about? He definitely wasn’t marrying some nice Jewish girl as was the plan.
He wasn’t sure he cared anymore. He was so far removed from the man he thought he was going to be that one more sharp turn away from it all seemed like it was a long time coming, by now.
He resolved to finish the task and kept his mind occupied with only one thing and one thing alone and that was washing down Webster and making sure that he avoided the abdomen’s stitches and those on the arm. By the time he was at Webster’s shoulders, he tapped just lightly. “Turn,” Liebgott ordered. “On your knees, elbows leaning out.” It would keep him from getting wet, but allow Joe a better angle to work at his back. It was probably also torture in a couple countries of the world, but Liebgott steadfastly ignored it all and kept his eyes firmly on the nape of Webster’s neck as he washed him down and made sure to get him more than clean enough that they could avoid doing this for another three or four days.
He didn’t think he’d be able to last if it happened every day. He’d fold like a weak house of cards and every last ace of hearts would get ripped apart because of his impulses.
He dropped the soap and the cloth into the tub when he was finished with scrubbing Webster’s heel (one of the safest parts of him) and lifted himself to his feet, turning around again to give Webster some privacy. When he looked into the mirror, it was too dark to see his reflection, but he didn’t even dare to turn on the light for fear of what he would see if he did.
“Alright, Web, up you get and into bed,” Joe spoke and his voice was hoarse as anything as he gripped the sink with both hands to steady himself. “You can put your precious clothes back on.”
Webster had to be mired in the thickest denial that was ever known to mankind if he was somehow oblivious to every sign that Joe was giving off (intentionally and un), but the fact was that he still wasn’t saying word one about any of it and it made Liebgott grateful for that thick swath of denial because it prevented him from getting hurt. He gave Webster a little extra time than he probably needed and when he turned around, he was standing shirtless in his pajama pants and had extended the dressings and the salve to Joe so they could go through the same routine as they always did.
They lived on short routines sprinkled through the day and it actually helped Liebgott keep a handle on things. There were only so many periods of unknowns for things to go wrong. Every meal was laid out, every pill-taking moment. Each time Liebgott dressed the wounds for Webster was the same and the routine before bed hit the same notes night after night. It was only in between these safe times that Joe ever had to worry about things going off-track.
He patted Webster lightly on the small of his back when he was finished. “Done,” he announced and slid out the bathroom past Webster before they could, god forbid, talk about anything. If he could just avoid ever talking about it, he could maybe walk out of this house with his dignity intact and his head held high. He wouldn’t ever have to give anything of himself away and he could go back to…
Well, what would he go back to, was the question.
He could go back to nothing. His life held absolutely no promises and Joe hadn’t blanked on the fact that this was the high point of the last six months for him. His life had turned into just surviving when he’d gotten off that train and now that he had a purpose higher than making sure he came into every day breathing and went out the same, it felt almost good.
It made him wonder why he was in such a rush to get out of there just to preserve his dignity. His dignity could be an easy sacrifice if it meant his life had some kind of joy and determination to it. He lingered just outside the bathroom door and for that moment right there, for one absolutely crazy moment, Joe had decided to say something. He was all ready. He even had the approximate words (even though he doubted they’d come out smoothly). He was all ready to go and then Webster just passed him without a word, tugging on his long-sleeved shirt and went straight to bed without even so much as a ‘goodnight’.
So much for good timing, thought Joe.
He sighed and let his back hit the wall of the house and muttered a quiet curse of frustration before picking up and heading straight to the couch. His back was killing him completely and he was exhausted from yet another night at the hospital, but all his brain could process was the feel of Web’s skin under his fingertips and he wondered just how much of a mark he would leave if he gripped at Web’s thighs hard enough.
Yeah, it definitely wasn’t going to be an easy feat to reconcile the man he currently was with the one he thought he’d be. Of course, it was even harder to put himself together when he thought about the man he’d become living on the street more often than not.
He fell asleep with a dozen different trains of thought disembarking the station in his head and he had no idea if any of them were going to make it to completion before he lost them completely.
*
There hadn’t been a single visitor in the eight days that Joe had been staying at Webster’s place with him. So it came as a sudden shock when there was a heavy pound at the door during Liebgott’s weekly shave of Webster.
Webster exchanged a long look with Liebgott, who shook his head. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t tell anyone I was here.”
“It’s probably Chris,” Webster admitted, standing up and grasping the towel to dry his cheeks off as he went. Liebgott followed reluctantly and slowly, trying to keep himself out of the way in the event that it was Christenson. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms and Liebgott found he had absolutely nothing to say to the man. Webster drew the door open and stood there in abject shock.
At least, he did until a single word tripped past his lips.
“Shit.” It was said with joy and Webster absolutely lit up as he launched himself into the total stranger’s arms, hugging him as tightly as two men ever got. Liebgott stamped down the flare of jealousy as he stepped forward because while the man was a stranger, he knew exactly who it was through pictures, stories, and too many letters sent home in warning.
Liebgott tried his best to plaster a friendly smile on his face, knowing that pissing this guy off would be the first step in a line of very stupid things to do. Liebgott had to be very nice and he had to do it fast before he got himself a black mark on his head.
“John Webster, huh,” Liebgott announced as he crossed the small home to greet the man at the front door, extending a hand to be shaken. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve heard. Your brother just doesn’t shut up sometimes,” he complained with a smirk, shaking John’s hand vehemently and clapping him on the back. “Swear to god, though, you’re the spitting image of him.”
John grinned and shrugged good-naturedly, his dog-tags gleaming in the light. They were stamped the same as Joe and Web’s, as a paratrooper (despite Mrs. Webster’s best arguments otherwise, as Webster had always told while they were in Europe). He was like them, even if he hadn’t endured Currahee and wasn’t a Toccoa man. He was Web’s blood and he was Web’s family and he was a paratrooper, which meant he was a tough son of a bitch and Liebgott had to admire him for all three of those things.
“What’re you doing here, John?” Webster asked warily. “I wasn’t expecting any family visitors.”
“I was just swinging up the coast, figured I’d drop in and see if you were still alive. Ann’s worried,” John pointed out.
“You can tell Sister that I’m fine.”
“Sister?” Liebgott echoed with a derisive snort, earning himself matching Webster glares from the two men. It was downright eerie how similar they looked when they did that, so Joe shook his head and removed himself from the conversation to avoid getting any more glares leveled his way. He was still laughing quietly as he went, shaking his head and dropping himself on the couch to pick up one of the Dick Tracy books and bury his nose in there.
The friendly chatter from the porch only lasted for so long and soon it became insincere kindness before giving way to outright anger. It happened so smoothly that Liebgott was impressed that the Webters could apparently be a dysfunctional family to play with the best of them.
“What the hell are you doing, anyway?” John was saying. “Dad wants you to go back to school and I’m starting to see his side. You’re just bumming around and playing house with some skinny little …”
“Don’t you dare,” Webster interrupted and if it wasn’t for that, Liebgott might have already been on his feet to cross the distance and land one hell of a punch to John’s face. Web’s family or not, no one talked about him like that. He fought a war, goddammit, he wasn’t even a fucking replacement like John Webster and he deserved respect. Never mind the fact that he was taking care of Web instead of John and that didn’t mean he was going to get relegated to getting thought of as some kept man.
They squabbled in low voices that ran together and hushed to the point that Joe couldn’t eavesdrop on them without becoming extremely obvious that he was doing it, so he just resigned himself to reading the flashy pages of each new square of space and idly kept his nose out of the family business. He didn’t have to constantly poke his nose into crap that didn’t belong to him.
Besides, he was pretty much going to make Webster give him the play-by-play later on.
They fought like that for the better part of an hour and Joe managed to get through another three books before Webster staggered back inside looking like he’d gone five rounds with an officer of the SS. John wasn’t with him and by the sound of a car pealing off the lot, Liebgott had the feeling that something happened between the two of them that didn’t end well.
“Shit,” muttered Webster in stark contract to the joy he had shown when John had first turned up on his doorstep. Joe looked up at him with wariness in his face, not sure if he was supposed to say anything or if he ought to encourage Web to go after his brother or what. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Family Man these days and he was pretty sure that when he didn’t even know what the argument was about, he shouldn’t be encouraging they patch things up.
Liebgott just kept his gaze on Web and followed him around the room until he sank down on the couch next to Joe.
“Bad conversation, huh?”
“He’s going back to my father and might tell him everything,” Webster said with a strangled laugh. “Yeah. I’d say that wound up a pretty bad conversation.” He turned to Liebgott with something like an unsure and boyish look on his face, all his maturity falling away. That image in Liebgott’s mind of the older man from that first night in the house had all faded away and was now replaced by this kid who didn’t know what to do with his life. “Maybe I need to find an actual job soon.”
“Or work twice as hard getting that book sold,” Liebgott pointed out the obvious. He leaned over and nudged Webster using only his shoulder, managing a light smile. “Hey,” he said seriously. “Things are good. You’re not out of it half as much from those pills, you’re getting better, and before you know it, you’ll be back on that boat of yours. So the fuck what your brother sides with your Dad.”
That seemed to do the trick in getting a smile out of Webster and Liebgott leaned back with a delighted smirk at managing to do something good.
“Come on,” Liebgott encouraged. “You can come teach me how to fish with your fancy rigs. Except, I dunno…it did nearly gut you…”
“Shut up,” Webster laughed lightly as he forcibly shoved Joe off the couch. “Come on, let’s go before I change my mind and start groveling on my knees for John’s forgiveness.”
Liebgott definitely wasn’t about to let that happen. If he had to, he would knock Webster unconscious and claim it as accident to make sure that didn’t occur. Lucky for the man, he seemed to have no regrets about letting his brother storm off and possibly out of his life. As it was, he got a decent afternoon out of it and saw smiles of David Webster that hadn’t been so bright since before the war had broken him down. For a bad day, Joe Liebgott came out of it thinking it wasn’t so terrible at all.
*
On the ninth night that Liebgott stayed with Webster, the dinner routine changed in a haphazard and chaotic way. It changed so abruptly that absolutely nothing was left in its place where it was supposed to be. Things were still sore from John’s visit and Webster hadn’t exactly opened up about the incident. Then, of all things, some high school sweetheart of Web’s had to turn up and Joe just didn’t want to have to deal with it when she simpered and she swayed and she only seemed as if she wanted Webster to go out with her because she wanted a nice night on the town thanks to Webster’s money. The way she’d been talking, it almost seemed like it was a regular thing, too. Like she turned up once a month to get wined and dined with someone else’s money and then left. Webster had been deep in the house working on painting the bedroom and Liebgott had turned her away at the door, thinking he could avoid the issue.
While he was waiting for the pasta to boil, he found out that it wasn’t the case.
“I got a phone call today while you were resting,” Webster said, voice clipped as he snapped celery stalks to add to the salad. “It was Laura. She said she dropped by and some rude guy told her to fuck off.”
Liebgott kept stirring the pasta, completely ignorant of all the words that Webster was saying. Things were coming to a sharp head and Liebgott knew he was running out of time to say what he’d been meaning to for ages. After John Webster’s visit, he knew he had to say something or he’d lose Webster forever to his family back in New York and that would be it. Webster would say a proper goodbye and they would close the book on whatever-they-were.
“She just wanted to suck money out of you, Web. You oughta be thanking me for doing you a favor,” Liebgott said evenly and calmly, leaning over to add a dash more salt to the pot. He kept stirring it slowly, carefully watching the pasta spin so that he didn’t have to look up and see the ire in Web’s blue eyes. “Besides, didn’t you say you never even got to nail her every time you went out? So what, you’d try and finish the job and then turf her out?” He was getting defensive in order to avoid letting his feelings show, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the pot lest Webster see the way he was actively hurting at having to say any of this.
He didn’t want his words to cut and bleed the way they did in the war. He didn’t want to be the same guy who destroyed things more than he helped. Once upon a time, that had been helpful to a cause, but it wasn’t any longer. The war was over and Liebgott didn’t need to bear weapons on his back every day. He didn’t need to use his words as an attack just to keep himself safe. Now, he was just trying to keep himself from getting hurt in a very different way.
He would have been more than content to keep prepping dinner, but Webster forcibly grabbed his forearm and wrenched him around until he was standing eye to eye with Web with barely any space between them.
This was the first time since Liebgott had crashed with Webster that he’d seen a hint of that angry flare that all of Easy knew Web had to him. The one that spiked and peaked every once in a while and burned white hot before dying down into embers. Here it was and it was directed at him. “What the hell is going on?” Webster demanded. “You’ve been here nine days and I have never been so confused in all my fucking life!”
“You’re confused? You’re the one who put me down as his emergency contact!” Liebgott shouted right back. “I didn’t come running. Christenson had to find me and nearly drag me.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Webster scoffed with incredulity, his expression wounded and fallen. “You just keep acting strangely, Joe! You keep acting as if you don’t want to be anywhere else and then I catch you looking at the door like you’re about to bolt. I don’t get it!” he admitted bluntly. “I don’t get it and I don’t get you. And if it’s going to keep being this confusing, maybe you should just go and I can go back to New York and apologize and go back to Harvard and…”
Webster was saying each and every one of Joe’s fears aloud and every time another word came out about the east coast, something like panic struck at Joe and plucked every single string in perfect harmony to make him say what he did next.
“Shut up,” Liebgott interrupted the litany of plans to go back to the past and try and relive a life that couldn’t be picked up again. “Dave, just shut up,” he insisted in a panic, using Webster’s first name for the first time in his whole life. Desperate times called for large measures, though. He reached forward and grabbed Webster by the shirt and hauled him in close. “You look at everything here like it’s made a life for you, that it’s going to keep you going. And I’ve been living alone and being on my own and that’s fine, but it means you have to be able to live with yourself and Jesus Christ, Web, I hate myself for what I did over there,” he said with a scoff. “But then you look at me sometimes the way you look at that goddamn boat or the ocean and I think there’s hope for me and I ought to matter more than a fucking ocean.”
“Joe…”
“If you tell me you’re still confused, I will punch you,” Liebgott promised, his voice low and hoarse. He was standing his ground and he refused to budge because after everything he had seen and done, he wasn’t going to be this weak when it had already taken him nine days to screw up the courage to get to this point. He didn’t release Webster just yet; he just had to get through this. “I got back to the States and I just vanished, Web. I lost myself and I don’t even know that I deserved being found. You looked at me this once in Austria and I’ve been chasing anything that got me close to that again and here you are. You’re right here.”
Liebgott knew he was being fairly confusing and he wouldn’t blame Webster if he didn’t understand, but he was ramping up to it.
“You can’t go. Not yet,” Joe pleaded. “Because right now, I need you to look at me that way again. I need to feel like I matter to someone in the world that’s seen my worst flaws and all.”
There was a long resounding silence between them as Liebgott finally let go of Webster and drifted back all of a foot.
“Joe.”
“What?” Joe muttered, voice barely audible.
“You remember when we talked about the last time either of us had gotten laid?” Webster was drifting in closer than before, a determined look in his eye that went along with the irritation that had yet to fade away. “The last time I had sex was with a tall lanky doctor who pressed me up against a table in the closet of the hospital and who, in the dark, could pretend I wasn’t a man.”
Liebgott’s face flickered with confusion before the sudden epiphany struck as hard as lightning did and he let loose a ‘fuck’ of panic before he met Webster’s gaze and saw that look again. Except now he didn’t know what to do. He could bolt and run away from all of this and it wouldn’t ever bother him again. He could go.
Except he was trapped in the makings of something he had created himself.
“You just wanted me to look at you like I look at the sea?” Webster asked as if that wasn’t a difficult feat. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I swear, you never looked at me if you didn’t see it on my face at every turn. You’re my first contact, Joe. You’re the person I trust to be there after everything I did over there, both cowardly and ugly.” He shook his head as if he wasn’t believing what he was saying and then before Joe could put forth a reprimand or an argument or anything, Webster leaned in and grabbed hold of Joe by the wrist, gripping so hard that it probably would bruise and darting in to press a needy and hungry kiss to Joe’s lips, desperate through every inch and moment of it.
They stumbled back until Liebgott’s back slammed against the wall and one of Web’s framed pictures went falling to the floor, glass shattering and earning the both of them seven more years of bad luck on top of what they were already serving.
Webster hauled off Liebgott long enough to shakily inhale a breath before he was pulled back by Liebgott, yanking him atop him while they fought for control of the kiss. There were frustrated moans and grappling from each of them with their hands, and a furious need for control. Eventually, Liebgott got it when he buried one hand in Webster’s hair and tugged hard enough to get a yelp out of Webster, hard enough to coax Webster’s hands lower.
Their clothes went rapidly and Liebgott almost made a wisecrack about how fast Webster was willing to get his clothes off when there was something pleasurable at the end of the road as opposed to every other time.
They went staggering over furniture and nearly broke limbs and tables before Liebgott’s back hit the couch with a heavy thump. He squirmed and writhed and watched as Webster slowly crawled on top of him.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Liebgott warned sharply.
“I won’t,” Webster promised with a sure nod. He clasped hard to Liebgott’s thigh and spun them until he was on the bottom and Liebgott was hovering precariously above him, not wanting to put too much pressure on delicate places that could end up hurting Web in the end. He leaned down and brushed his nose against Web’s neck, feeling the pulse there for a long moment before he started stripping them down even more, getting them ready for the next big push in this small and private campaign of theirs.
If he got lost in this, it would be somewhat worth it. He could drown and still find something in it. When Webster brought him down for another bruising kiss, Liebgott felt like he couldn’t get enough air in.
He started to drown, but he came back from it.
Webster would make sure of that.
*
The next time there was a knock at the door, Liebgott was hesitant to answer it. It had been two weeks since John’s visit and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be John coming back or it could be worse - it could be Mr. Webster himself. Joe glanced over at Webster (who was sketching something in that notebook of his while Liebgott idly toyed with Web’s feet in his lap, trying to unknot some muscle that he’d pulled while working on the boat in the morning).
Webster shifted his feet off of Liebgott’s lap and rose to his feet.
“You really want to get that?” Joe asked, leaning forward until he was almost hovering off the couch and anticipating whatever dreadful visitor was there to dispel the life they had started to cobble together from the remnants and ashes of the lives that had come home with them from the war. “Web, it could be your brother or…”
“So what, we’re just going to hide in the three-room house with sprawling windows and the curtains?” Webster asked dubiously and took the steps towards the door.
Liebgott was really wishing there was a back door to escape out of right about then. He shuffled back onto the couch and crossed his arms over his torso. There were blankets yet on the couch, but the pillow that Liebgott had been using was moved to the bedroom after they had gone to bed there together two nights in a row after That Night. It just made sense and it wasn’t exactly a small bed, either. Webster had admitted in retrospect that he probably should have offered to share in the first place.
It wasn’t any of Web’s blood-family at the door, but it was someone as close as that. Liebgott’s fears were suddenly allayed and he vaulted closer to the door to greet Christenson with a broad smile (a stark contrast to how they had parted in the hospital all those weeks ago). It was as if it had all washed away and they all had a clean slate.
“Come to check up on me, huh?” Liebgott was the first to speak when both Webster and Christenson seemed to be faltering for words. Sure, Chris probably cared about whether Web was healing or not, but it had been Liebgott that had apparently needed the intervention all those weeks ago. He stood just an inch closer to Webster than he might have before, some protective instinct driving him to do so. “I’m good, thanks. And Web’s still standing here alive, so I guess I did something right, huh?” He smirked at Christenson and clapped Webster on the back, leaving the two of them to talk alone about any topic they wanted. He even made sure he was out of earshot so that if he was the topic, they wouldn’t really worry about him eavesdropping.
He picked up his things and set up in the washroom to do his daily shave. Usually he would do it by feel, but today he took the chance of looking at his reflection in the mirror and attempting to look at himself. He stared at his face and his eyes and the way he didn’t seem as gaunt as before. He passed a palm over the stubble on his cheek and leaned forward over the sink to try and connect with the man he was looking at.
He looked so much older than he once had before going to war. Part of Liebgott knew he was never going to get that man back, though, and he had to take what he was going to get.
He didn’t flinch once while he shaved and he stared at his reflection the whole of the time. He even began to think one single thought and actually believed himself when it stuck in his mind:
Maybe, just maybe, I can live with myself. It might not be perfect, but fuck if it isn’t good enough.
*
Every week, Webster would go out on that boat of his and Liebgott would send him off with a packed meal and hushed words in German that meant something between the two of them, but couldn’t be interpreted by the rest of the world. He would stand on the dock and watch the sails unfurl and catch the wind, bringing Webster closer to the horizon until he was a speck in the distance. That was when Joe would pick his way up and go back inside to make sure the house was picked up, that Webster’s book was getting in good shape to send off to the publisher and he would take customers for haircuts until the sun dipped in the sky.
Joe would return to the dock at that point and set out in the chair with a beer and watch what the wind brought in.
Without doubt, without fail, every time it would bring in Webster. The sea always brought him back to Joe. Every single time, Webster would return from the sea to give his love back to Joe after the ocean had borrowed it for the day.
THE END
Pairing: Liebgott/Webster
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They are very, very, very much not mine.
Word Count: 6,956
Summary: Joe Liebgott is roused in the middle of the night by a phone call (an intervention in disguise) and ends up anchored down to one place while he tries to reconcile the man he's become with the man who went to war.
Notes: Thanks plenty to thejazzter for the beta. This goes AU after Points, but not in any dire way besides the events of the story being clearly not how history played out.
PART ONE: He wanted to be loved in a way that was as infinite and endless as the ocean.
PART TWO: Liebgott wished he could say how many more he’d be there so he could start composing graceful verses of goodbyes, but that was a piece of knowledge as lost to him as was the man he’d lost when he became someone other than his mother’s boy.
PART THREE: And sometimes he hadn’t done anything at all, living off the charity of men and women who’d never had to go to war and never had to fight for their country.
They drove back to the house at five in the morning, when the world was dead silent but for the sound of the engine and the wayward animal-like cries from the dark landscape as they drove down the deserted road.
“It was an accident,” Webster finally piped up, somewhere along mile five. “I know you don’t believe me and I know you’ve gone suddenly overprotective, but it was an accident. The war is over, I’m not going to get shot, I’m not going to step on a mine, I’m not going to die.” He sounded ethereally calm and collected and Liebgott almost snapped and demanded to know how he could sound so distant before recalling that the doctor had shot him up before stitching him up. “You need to stop worrying.”
“Not til you get your clean bill of health,” Liebgott said stubbornly, clenching the steering wheel tighter than before and keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.
“I keep wondering why,” Webster kept ruminating, half to himself. “Why are you acting like this? And I still don’t know.”
Webster’s ignorance of the fact was probably the one saving grace in the whole situation. It was the one thing that kept Liebgott from bolting out the door when he got a chance. It was because Webster didn’t know that Joe didn’t put on his coat and tuck away his things and find the next dank place that would welcome him in. He’d made a promise to Web to take care of him and that meant he wasn’t going to run away. Not this time.
They got back home at six in the morning and instead of Liebgott going back to the couch, he dragged a chair into Webster’s room and slept in it beside the bed until two in the afternoon.
When he woke up, his back was more than wrecked, but he’d heard Web sleep peacefully for the span of hours and that meant that there might not be any more sudden middle of the night panic attacks. So, he traded a little bit of physical pain for emotional relief and bartered that the physical pain would go away. Sure, he wasn’t eighteen anymore, but it wasn’t like he was an old man ready to go to roost either. He could shake it off.
The one thing that he couldn’t shake, though, was one of the tasks that Liebgott had to do. It was one of the things the Doctor had talked about within the first five minutes of discussing what a caretaker would have to do and while Joe had been putting it off for a while, it was going to happen sooner or later. Better the sooner, Joe figured.
The fact was that Web was going to need a bath. Since he wasn’t supposed to get his dressings wet, that left the cleaning to Liebgott.
For all that they had worked with each other for the last three days, Webster still flushed every time he had to take his shirt off as if it put him in an uncomfortable position. The task of bathing Webster meant that they were suddenly hitting an all new level of intimacy that seemed to vault them into something that they either had to be ready for or would just muddle through anyway. Joe took his time in rousing Webster and started modifying the usual routine to get the both of them fed, drugged (for Webster) and stretched (in Joe’s case).
He’d drawn the bath until it was about a third filled with water, just enough to raise up to Webster’s hips, but not high enough that he’d get the stomach stitches wet. It was better than bringing a bucket of water into the bedroom and sponge-bathing Webster, but it was worse at the same time. If they had gone with sponge-bathing, then Webster could have kept part of his dignity. The chances were that Joe wouldn’t have been able to hold onto his. It would have been reduced to nothing but shambles in the face of Webster in close proximity on a bed. This was better. Barely so, but it was better.
Webster was hesitating and lurking in the doorway, all of his clothes still on him. His arms were crossed tightly, as if the tension would somehow dissipate if it remained coiled long enough.
“I really have to do this?” he asked warily, his voice barely audible. Liebgott could still hear the nerves as plain as day.
Liebgott glanced up over his shoulder and tried to ignore how much he wasn’t sure about this either. He’d had dreams about this, but those were never so hesitant and Webster was always more than willing to strip in them. In those dreams, the room was lit only by the dimmest of lamps, but here it was the sun setting on the California coast that gave the bathroom the light that it did.
In Liebgott’s strange dreams, Web also hadn’t been nearly gutted by fishing line, which was really so ironic that all the fish that Webster had ever caught were probably having a good laugh in Fish Heaven or wherever they went when they got themselves gutted and eaten for dinner.
“Web, you already stink,” Liebgott said, admitting to himself at the same time as he did to Webster that this had to happen. “Come on. You can pretend I’m some pretty well-endowed nurse and I’ll just pretend I’m giving a dog a bath or something. Shouldn’t be hard with that mat of hair on your chest.”
Webster didn’t even retort to that, just pried his t-shirt off so that he was wearing his jeans and an undershirt. And always, always he was wearing that look of uncertainty on his face.
Liebgott sat perched on the edge of the tub and sighed heavily. He didn’t even feel like bringing up that this was as much torture for him as it was for Webster -- more so, but to say that would involve an explanation and Liebgott doubted ‘I want to screw you’ really belonged in the bathroom when half of the present parties was about to strip off the remainder of their clothes and render themselves helpless in a tub.
Liebgott lifted a palm and coaxed Webster forward with a little crook of his fingers and little else, trying to get the man to come closer. Yeah, there was a lot that Liebgott wasn’t saying to him, but this was about getting Webster clean while he couldn’t do it for himself. Liebgott might have been a lot of things, but an impatient pervert he wasn’t. He could wait until the right time to have this conversation with Webster.
Slowly, Liebgott watched as Webster snaked his fingers into the belt-loops of his jeans and tugged them down an inch or so over his hips, removing the fingers to then undo the button and then slide the zipper down. Liebgott tried to keep his eyes off of the show, but it was proving fairly impossible. The jeans were shimmied out of and Webster was yet another step closer to being fully naked.
This felt like a very intimate striptease and Joe was the paying customer, waiting for the lapdance.
He lifted his head and stared up at Webster, who was staring right back down and neither were saying any of the words that they really should have been talking about. Liebgott slowly wet his lips while Webster dragged his t-shirt over his head, followed by his dog-tags. And then there were only the boxers.
“Take ‘em off, Web,” Liebgott insisted, his voice rough and hoarse and filled with enough emotion that he was sure in that moment that Webster knew everything. There was no way that he couldn’t.
Webster splayed his palms out over his hips and slowly pushed down the boxers until there wasn’t a shred left of him and he didn’t have any decency on display. He was completely naked and Joe was staring. He forced himself to look away and to lift up from the tub, turning and adjusting his loose jeans so that nothing was about to show.
“Alright, get in there and let’s get this over with,” Liebgott said, ready to rush through it for both of their sakes (though he imagined the reasons on either end were completely opposite). He stood facing the wall and kept his eyes on his reflection in the mirror and for once, he didn’t see a man who’d let the world down and didn’t see hands that had murdered boys. Yeah, that guy was still there, but all Joe saw when he looked in the mirror was a desperate and earnest man who was rapidly running out of time before he said things he’d been keeping inside of him.
There was a longing look in his eyes and Webster might have recognized the look on Joe’s face as familiar, being that it was the very same expression that he wore when talking about the sea.
Joe was in the deep waters now and if he let himself go, the current was going to take him far past the point of return. He kept his back turned until he heard the soft splash of water and turned with cloth in hand and soap in the other. Web had his knees drawn together and was sitting with posture so perfect that it looked as if someone had rammed a rod up his ass.
Funny, but that still made Joe smirk, even if there was a joke lying in there about what he would have liked to do to Web that involved things up his ass. Of course, he didn’t think that courting the guy (even if it was just for sex) would work with those kinds of jokes. He didn’t think he’d see much success if he went down that route. He straddled the stool he’d brought in with him and leaned over to ruffle Web’s hair, gaining the other man’s attention for a brief moment.
“What?” Webster asked, unsure.
“Don’t look like I’m about to torture you,” Liebgott pointed out. “Jesus, you look like one poke and you’ll explode,” he noted with a genuine grin on his face. He leaned forward and dipped the cloth in water, fingers brushing Webster’s calf as he did and there went Liebgott’s stomach again, bottoming out on him.
Maybe Web wasn’t the one set to explode under the right circumstances.
Joe let his fingers trail up Webster’s knee and shifted so that he was scrubbing with soap and the cloth, keeping his eyes resolutely on the expanse of skin that he was presented. He refused, he refused to look Web in the eye in the event he saw something there that he couldn’t deal with, like disgust. Or worse, in the event that he saw something reciprocated there. He wasn’t sure how much of that he could take before jumping Webster in the tub and the man wasn’t supposed to get wet.
Liebgott pushed out a long and deep breath, trying to just get a grip on himself. It’s just Web. You’re just helping him. That mantra became more difficult when Liebgott’s hand pushed up Webster’s thigh and he swore to God that he heard Webster let out a shaky exhalation.
Liebgott sat there wondering if it was too late to call Web’s family or something to come and take over for him so he didn’t have to sit there and do this. He didn’t know how much longer he could take it. What the hell happened to Joe that he wasn’t doing this with some leggy brunette with a great rack? What happened to his post-war plans that he’d been so keen on telling Webster about? He definitely wasn’t marrying some nice Jewish girl as was the plan.
He wasn’t sure he cared anymore. He was so far removed from the man he thought he was going to be that one more sharp turn away from it all seemed like it was a long time coming, by now.
He resolved to finish the task and kept his mind occupied with only one thing and one thing alone and that was washing down Webster and making sure that he avoided the abdomen’s stitches and those on the arm. By the time he was at Webster’s shoulders, he tapped just lightly. “Turn,” Liebgott ordered. “On your knees, elbows leaning out.” It would keep him from getting wet, but allow Joe a better angle to work at his back. It was probably also torture in a couple countries of the world, but Liebgott steadfastly ignored it all and kept his eyes firmly on the nape of Webster’s neck as he washed him down and made sure to get him more than clean enough that they could avoid doing this for another three or four days.
He didn’t think he’d be able to last if it happened every day. He’d fold like a weak house of cards and every last ace of hearts would get ripped apart because of his impulses.
He dropped the soap and the cloth into the tub when he was finished with scrubbing Webster’s heel (one of the safest parts of him) and lifted himself to his feet, turning around again to give Webster some privacy. When he looked into the mirror, it was too dark to see his reflection, but he didn’t even dare to turn on the light for fear of what he would see if he did.
“Alright, Web, up you get and into bed,” Joe spoke and his voice was hoarse as anything as he gripped the sink with both hands to steady himself. “You can put your precious clothes back on.”
Webster had to be mired in the thickest denial that was ever known to mankind if he was somehow oblivious to every sign that Joe was giving off (intentionally and un), but the fact was that he still wasn’t saying word one about any of it and it made Liebgott grateful for that thick swath of denial because it prevented him from getting hurt. He gave Webster a little extra time than he probably needed and when he turned around, he was standing shirtless in his pajama pants and had extended the dressings and the salve to Joe so they could go through the same routine as they always did.
They lived on short routines sprinkled through the day and it actually helped Liebgott keep a handle on things. There were only so many periods of unknowns for things to go wrong. Every meal was laid out, every pill-taking moment. Each time Liebgott dressed the wounds for Webster was the same and the routine before bed hit the same notes night after night. It was only in between these safe times that Joe ever had to worry about things going off-track.
He patted Webster lightly on the small of his back when he was finished. “Done,” he announced and slid out the bathroom past Webster before they could, god forbid, talk about anything. If he could just avoid ever talking about it, he could maybe walk out of this house with his dignity intact and his head held high. He wouldn’t ever have to give anything of himself away and he could go back to…
Well, what would he go back to, was the question.
He could go back to nothing. His life held absolutely no promises and Joe hadn’t blanked on the fact that this was the high point of the last six months for him. His life had turned into just surviving when he’d gotten off that train and now that he had a purpose higher than making sure he came into every day breathing and went out the same, it felt almost good.
It made him wonder why he was in such a rush to get out of there just to preserve his dignity. His dignity could be an easy sacrifice if it meant his life had some kind of joy and determination to it. He lingered just outside the bathroom door and for that moment right there, for one absolutely crazy moment, Joe had decided to say something. He was all ready. He even had the approximate words (even though he doubted they’d come out smoothly). He was all ready to go and then Webster just passed him without a word, tugging on his long-sleeved shirt and went straight to bed without even so much as a ‘goodnight’.
So much for good timing, thought Joe.
He sighed and let his back hit the wall of the house and muttered a quiet curse of frustration before picking up and heading straight to the couch. His back was killing him completely and he was exhausted from yet another night at the hospital, but all his brain could process was the feel of Web’s skin under his fingertips and he wondered just how much of a mark he would leave if he gripped at Web’s thighs hard enough.
Yeah, it definitely wasn’t going to be an easy feat to reconcile the man he currently was with the one he thought he’d be. Of course, it was even harder to put himself together when he thought about the man he’d become living on the street more often than not.
He fell asleep with a dozen different trains of thought disembarking the station in his head and he had no idea if any of them were going to make it to completion before he lost them completely.
*
There hadn’t been a single visitor in the eight days that Joe had been staying at Webster’s place with him. So it came as a sudden shock when there was a heavy pound at the door during Liebgott’s weekly shave of Webster.
Webster exchanged a long look with Liebgott, who shook his head. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t tell anyone I was here.”
“It’s probably Chris,” Webster admitted, standing up and grasping the towel to dry his cheeks off as he went. Liebgott followed reluctantly and slowly, trying to keep himself out of the way in the event that it was Christenson. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms and Liebgott found he had absolutely nothing to say to the man. Webster drew the door open and stood there in abject shock.
At least, he did until a single word tripped past his lips.
“Shit.” It was said with joy and Webster absolutely lit up as he launched himself into the total stranger’s arms, hugging him as tightly as two men ever got. Liebgott stamped down the flare of jealousy as he stepped forward because while the man was a stranger, he knew exactly who it was through pictures, stories, and too many letters sent home in warning.
Liebgott tried his best to plaster a friendly smile on his face, knowing that pissing this guy off would be the first step in a line of very stupid things to do. Liebgott had to be very nice and he had to do it fast before he got himself a black mark on his head.
“John Webster, huh,” Liebgott announced as he crossed the small home to greet the man at the front door, extending a hand to be shaken. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve heard. Your brother just doesn’t shut up sometimes,” he complained with a smirk, shaking John’s hand vehemently and clapping him on the back. “Swear to god, though, you’re the spitting image of him.”
John grinned and shrugged good-naturedly, his dog-tags gleaming in the light. They were stamped the same as Joe and Web’s, as a paratrooper (despite Mrs. Webster’s best arguments otherwise, as Webster had always told while they were in Europe). He was like them, even if he hadn’t endured Currahee and wasn’t a Toccoa man. He was Web’s blood and he was Web’s family and he was a paratrooper, which meant he was a tough son of a bitch and Liebgott had to admire him for all three of those things.
“What’re you doing here, John?” Webster asked warily. “I wasn’t expecting any family visitors.”
“I was just swinging up the coast, figured I’d drop in and see if you were still alive. Ann’s worried,” John pointed out.
“You can tell Sister that I’m fine.”
“Sister?” Liebgott echoed with a derisive snort, earning himself matching Webster glares from the two men. It was downright eerie how similar they looked when they did that, so Joe shook his head and removed himself from the conversation to avoid getting any more glares leveled his way. He was still laughing quietly as he went, shaking his head and dropping himself on the couch to pick up one of the Dick Tracy books and bury his nose in there.
The friendly chatter from the porch only lasted for so long and soon it became insincere kindness before giving way to outright anger. It happened so smoothly that Liebgott was impressed that the Webters could apparently be a dysfunctional family to play with the best of them.
“What the hell are you doing, anyway?” John was saying. “Dad wants you to go back to school and I’m starting to see his side. You’re just bumming around and playing house with some skinny little …”
“Don’t you dare,” Webster interrupted and if it wasn’t for that, Liebgott might have already been on his feet to cross the distance and land one hell of a punch to John’s face. Web’s family or not, no one talked about him like that. He fought a war, goddammit, he wasn’t even a fucking replacement like John Webster and he deserved respect. Never mind the fact that he was taking care of Web instead of John and that didn’t mean he was going to get relegated to getting thought of as some kept man.
They squabbled in low voices that ran together and hushed to the point that Joe couldn’t eavesdrop on them without becoming extremely obvious that he was doing it, so he just resigned himself to reading the flashy pages of each new square of space and idly kept his nose out of the family business. He didn’t have to constantly poke his nose into crap that didn’t belong to him.
Besides, he was pretty much going to make Webster give him the play-by-play later on.
They fought like that for the better part of an hour and Joe managed to get through another three books before Webster staggered back inside looking like he’d gone five rounds with an officer of the SS. John wasn’t with him and by the sound of a car pealing off the lot, Liebgott had the feeling that something happened between the two of them that didn’t end well.
“Shit,” muttered Webster in stark contract to the joy he had shown when John had first turned up on his doorstep. Joe looked up at him with wariness in his face, not sure if he was supposed to say anything or if he ought to encourage Web to go after his brother or what. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Family Man these days and he was pretty sure that when he didn’t even know what the argument was about, he shouldn’t be encouraging they patch things up.
Liebgott just kept his gaze on Web and followed him around the room until he sank down on the couch next to Joe.
“Bad conversation, huh?”
“He’s going back to my father and might tell him everything,” Webster said with a strangled laugh. “Yeah. I’d say that wound up a pretty bad conversation.” He turned to Liebgott with something like an unsure and boyish look on his face, all his maturity falling away. That image in Liebgott’s mind of the older man from that first night in the house had all faded away and was now replaced by this kid who didn’t know what to do with his life. “Maybe I need to find an actual job soon.”
“Or work twice as hard getting that book sold,” Liebgott pointed out the obvious. He leaned over and nudged Webster using only his shoulder, managing a light smile. “Hey,” he said seriously. “Things are good. You’re not out of it half as much from those pills, you’re getting better, and before you know it, you’ll be back on that boat of yours. So the fuck what your brother sides with your Dad.”
That seemed to do the trick in getting a smile out of Webster and Liebgott leaned back with a delighted smirk at managing to do something good.
“Come on,” Liebgott encouraged. “You can come teach me how to fish with your fancy rigs. Except, I dunno…it did nearly gut you…”
“Shut up,” Webster laughed lightly as he forcibly shoved Joe off the couch. “Come on, let’s go before I change my mind and start groveling on my knees for John’s forgiveness.”
Liebgott definitely wasn’t about to let that happen. If he had to, he would knock Webster unconscious and claim it as accident to make sure that didn’t occur. Lucky for the man, he seemed to have no regrets about letting his brother storm off and possibly out of his life. As it was, he got a decent afternoon out of it and saw smiles of David Webster that hadn’t been so bright since before the war had broken him down. For a bad day, Joe Liebgott came out of it thinking it wasn’t so terrible at all.
*
On the ninth night that Liebgott stayed with Webster, the dinner routine changed in a haphazard and chaotic way. It changed so abruptly that absolutely nothing was left in its place where it was supposed to be. Things were still sore from John’s visit and Webster hadn’t exactly opened up about the incident. Then, of all things, some high school sweetheart of Web’s had to turn up and Joe just didn’t want to have to deal with it when she simpered and she swayed and she only seemed as if she wanted Webster to go out with her because she wanted a nice night on the town thanks to Webster’s money. The way she’d been talking, it almost seemed like it was a regular thing, too. Like she turned up once a month to get wined and dined with someone else’s money and then left. Webster had been deep in the house working on painting the bedroom and Liebgott had turned her away at the door, thinking he could avoid the issue.
While he was waiting for the pasta to boil, he found out that it wasn’t the case.
“I got a phone call today while you were resting,” Webster said, voice clipped as he snapped celery stalks to add to the salad. “It was Laura. She said she dropped by and some rude guy told her to fuck off.”
Liebgott kept stirring the pasta, completely ignorant of all the words that Webster was saying. Things were coming to a sharp head and Liebgott knew he was running out of time to say what he’d been meaning to for ages. After John Webster’s visit, he knew he had to say something or he’d lose Webster forever to his family back in New York and that would be it. Webster would say a proper goodbye and they would close the book on whatever-they-were.
“She just wanted to suck money out of you, Web. You oughta be thanking me for doing you a favor,” Liebgott said evenly and calmly, leaning over to add a dash more salt to the pot. He kept stirring it slowly, carefully watching the pasta spin so that he didn’t have to look up and see the ire in Web’s blue eyes. “Besides, didn’t you say you never even got to nail her every time you went out? So what, you’d try and finish the job and then turf her out?” He was getting defensive in order to avoid letting his feelings show, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the pot lest Webster see the way he was actively hurting at having to say any of this.
He didn’t want his words to cut and bleed the way they did in the war. He didn’t want to be the same guy who destroyed things more than he helped. Once upon a time, that had been helpful to a cause, but it wasn’t any longer. The war was over and Liebgott didn’t need to bear weapons on his back every day. He didn’t need to use his words as an attack just to keep himself safe. Now, he was just trying to keep himself from getting hurt in a very different way.
He would have been more than content to keep prepping dinner, but Webster forcibly grabbed his forearm and wrenched him around until he was standing eye to eye with Web with barely any space between them.
This was the first time since Liebgott had crashed with Webster that he’d seen a hint of that angry flare that all of Easy knew Web had to him. The one that spiked and peaked every once in a while and burned white hot before dying down into embers. Here it was and it was directed at him. “What the hell is going on?” Webster demanded. “You’ve been here nine days and I have never been so confused in all my fucking life!”
“You’re confused? You’re the one who put me down as his emergency contact!” Liebgott shouted right back. “I didn’t come running. Christenson had to find me and nearly drag me.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Webster scoffed with incredulity, his expression wounded and fallen. “You just keep acting strangely, Joe! You keep acting as if you don’t want to be anywhere else and then I catch you looking at the door like you’re about to bolt. I don’t get it!” he admitted bluntly. “I don’t get it and I don’t get you. And if it’s going to keep being this confusing, maybe you should just go and I can go back to New York and apologize and go back to Harvard and…”
Webster was saying each and every one of Joe’s fears aloud and every time another word came out about the east coast, something like panic struck at Joe and plucked every single string in perfect harmony to make him say what he did next.
“Shut up,” Liebgott interrupted the litany of plans to go back to the past and try and relive a life that couldn’t be picked up again. “Dave, just shut up,” he insisted in a panic, using Webster’s first name for the first time in his whole life. Desperate times called for large measures, though. He reached forward and grabbed Webster by the shirt and hauled him in close. “You look at everything here like it’s made a life for you, that it’s going to keep you going. And I’ve been living alone and being on my own and that’s fine, but it means you have to be able to live with yourself and Jesus Christ, Web, I hate myself for what I did over there,” he said with a scoff. “But then you look at me sometimes the way you look at that goddamn boat or the ocean and I think there’s hope for me and I ought to matter more than a fucking ocean.”
“Joe…”
“If you tell me you’re still confused, I will punch you,” Liebgott promised, his voice low and hoarse. He was standing his ground and he refused to budge because after everything he had seen and done, he wasn’t going to be this weak when it had already taken him nine days to screw up the courage to get to this point. He didn’t release Webster just yet; he just had to get through this. “I got back to the States and I just vanished, Web. I lost myself and I don’t even know that I deserved being found. You looked at me this once in Austria and I’ve been chasing anything that got me close to that again and here you are. You’re right here.”
Liebgott knew he was being fairly confusing and he wouldn’t blame Webster if he didn’t understand, but he was ramping up to it.
“You can’t go. Not yet,” Joe pleaded. “Because right now, I need you to look at me that way again. I need to feel like I matter to someone in the world that’s seen my worst flaws and all.”
There was a long resounding silence between them as Liebgott finally let go of Webster and drifted back all of a foot.
“Joe.”
“What?” Joe muttered, voice barely audible.
“You remember when we talked about the last time either of us had gotten laid?” Webster was drifting in closer than before, a determined look in his eye that went along with the irritation that had yet to fade away. “The last time I had sex was with a tall lanky doctor who pressed me up against a table in the closet of the hospital and who, in the dark, could pretend I wasn’t a man.”
Liebgott’s face flickered with confusion before the sudden epiphany struck as hard as lightning did and he let loose a ‘fuck’ of panic before he met Webster’s gaze and saw that look again. Except now he didn’t know what to do. He could bolt and run away from all of this and it wouldn’t ever bother him again. He could go.
Except he was trapped in the makings of something he had created himself.
“You just wanted me to look at you like I look at the sea?” Webster asked as if that wasn’t a difficult feat. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I swear, you never looked at me if you didn’t see it on my face at every turn. You’re my first contact, Joe. You’re the person I trust to be there after everything I did over there, both cowardly and ugly.” He shook his head as if he wasn’t believing what he was saying and then before Joe could put forth a reprimand or an argument or anything, Webster leaned in and grabbed hold of Joe by the wrist, gripping so hard that it probably would bruise and darting in to press a needy and hungry kiss to Joe’s lips, desperate through every inch and moment of it.
They stumbled back until Liebgott’s back slammed against the wall and one of Web’s framed pictures went falling to the floor, glass shattering and earning the both of them seven more years of bad luck on top of what they were already serving.
Webster hauled off Liebgott long enough to shakily inhale a breath before he was pulled back by Liebgott, yanking him atop him while they fought for control of the kiss. There were frustrated moans and grappling from each of them with their hands, and a furious need for control. Eventually, Liebgott got it when he buried one hand in Webster’s hair and tugged hard enough to get a yelp out of Webster, hard enough to coax Webster’s hands lower.
Their clothes went rapidly and Liebgott almost made a wisecrack about how fast Webster was willing to get his clothes off when there was something pleasurable at the end of the road as opposed to every other time.
They went staggering over furniture and nearly broke limbs and tables before Liebgott’s back hit the couch with a heavy thump. He squirmed and writhed and watched as Webster slowly crawled on top of him.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Liebgott warned sharply.
“I won’t,” Webster promised with a sure nod. He clasped hard to Liebgott’s thigh and spun them until he was on the bottom and Liebgott was hovering precariously above him, not wanting to put too much pressure on delicate places that could end up hurting Web in the end. He leaned down and brushed his nose against Web’s neck, feeling the pulse there for a long moment before he started stripping them down even more, getting them ready for the next big push in this small and private campaign of theirs.
If he got lost in this, it would be somewhat worth it. He could drown and still find something in it. When Webster brought him down for another bruising kiss, Liebgott felt like he couldn’t get enough air in.
He started to drown, but he came back from it.
Webster would make sure of that.
*
The next time there was a knock at the door, Liebgott was hesitant to answer it. It had been two weeks since John’s visit and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be John coming back or it could be worse - it could be Mr. Webster himself. Joe glanced over at Webster (who was sketching something in that notebook of his while Liebgott idly toyed with Web’s feet in his lap, trying to unknot some muscle that he’d pulled while working on the boat in the morning).
Webster shifted his feet off of Liebgott’s lap and rose to his feet.
“You really want to get that?” Joe asked, leaning forward until he was almost hovering off the couch and anticipating whatever dreadful visitor was there to dispel the life they had started to cobble together from the remnants and ashes of the lives that had come home with them from the war. “Web, it could be your brother or…”
“So what, we’re just going to hide in the three-room house with sprawling windows and the curtains?” Webster asked dubiously and took the steps towards the door.
Liebgott was really wishing there was a back door to escape out of right about then. He shuffled back onto the couch and crossed his arms over his torso. There were blankets yet on the couch, but the pillow that Liebgott had been using was moved to the bedroom after they had gone to bed there together two nights in a row after That Night. It just made sense and it wasn’t exactly a small bed, either. Webster had admitted in retrospect that he probably should have offered to share in the first place.
It wasn’t any of Web’s blood-family at the door, but it was someone as close as that. Liebgott’s fears were suddenly allayed and he vaulted closer to the door to greet Christenson with a broad smile (a stark contrast to how they had parted in the hospital all those weeks ago). It was as if it had all washed away and they all had a clean slate.
“Come to check up on me, huh?” Liebgott was the first to speak when both Webster and Christenson seemed to be faltering for words. Sure, Chris probably cared about whether Web was healing or not, but it had been Liebgott that had apparently needed the intervention all those weeks ago. He stood just an inch closer to Webster than he might have before, some protective instinct driving him to do so. “I’m good, thanks. And Web’s still standing here alive, so I guess I did something right, huh?” He smirked at Christenson and clapped Webster on the back, leaving the two of them to talk alone about any topic they wanted. He even made sure he was out of earshot so that if he was the topic, they wouldn’t really worry about him eavesdropping.
He picked up his things and set up in the washroom to do his daily shave. Usually he would do it by feel, but today he took the chance of looking at his reflection in the mirror and attempting to look at himself. He stared at his face and his eyes and the way he didn’t seem as gaunt as before. He passed a palm over the stubble on his cheek and leaned forward over the sink to try and connect with the man he was looking at.
He looked so much older than he once had before going to war. Part of Liebgott knew he was never going to get that man back, though, and he had to take what he was going to get.
He didn’t flinch once while he shaved and he stared at his reflection the whole of the time. He even began to think one single thought and actually believed himself when it stuck in his mind:
Maybe, just maybe, I can live with myself. It might not be perfect, but fuck if it isn’t good enough.
*
Every week, Webster would go out on that boat of his and Liebgott would send him off with a packed meal and hushed words in German that meant something between the two of them, but couldn’t be interpreted by the rest of the world. He would stand on the dock and watch the sails unfurl and catch the wind, bringing Webster closer to the horizon until he was a speck in the distance. That was when Joe would pick his way up and go back inside to make sure the house was picked up, that Webster’s book was getting in good shape to send off to the publisher and he would take customers for haircuts until the sun dipped in the sky.
Joe would return to the dock at that point and set out in the chair with a beer and watch what the wind brought in.
Without doubt, without fail, every time it would bring in Webster. The sea always brought him back to Joe. Every single time, Webster would return from the sea to give his love back to Joe after the ocean had borrowed it for the day.
THE END