[snippets] bob nix/winters, liebgott/webster
inanities. band of brothers.
liebgott/webster.
Liebgott fights tooth and nail, body pushing into Webster’s in fury. His fingers twist around the creases in Webster’s shirt and yank him forward until his harsh breathing warms his cheeks, and then his fist is up and swinging. The fight is quick, Webster gets the upper hand, and he’s pinned to the floor with an arm around his neck in minutes. Struggling, Liebgott manages to gain a few inches and bite into his arm -- “Hey!” Webster exclaims, and lets go.
When Liebgott stands up Webster’s brushing dirt off his pants and shaking out his sore arm. “What the hell was that, Liebgott?”
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, kicking at a pebble. There’s dust and dirt clouded all over his boots, and he feels a sharp stab of satisfaction at this small proof of a fight. Who the hell cares about spit-shining now.
Webster is regarding him like he’s just kicked his favorite puppy, not just played dirty in a fight, so Liebgott puts two cigarettes to his lips and lights them, offering Webster one in a cloud of smoke. “Thanks,” he says, even though a nod would get the meaning across just fine, because he’s polite and well-bred like that. Liebgott snorts around his cigarette.
Webster raises his eyebrows at him.
Liebgott just taps his hat down slightly in a pantomime of ‘cheers!’ and breathes in smoke. Webster doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t leave, and his sleeve brushes against Liebgott’s when he leans back to look at the sky. It’s getting dark. Somewhere out there, Liebgott thinks, that Nazi bastard’s body is stiffening as death finally pushes the last of life out of its veins, just a corpse left to mark the fields like any other casualty during battle. And somewhere in his head, he remembers, Webster is still judging him.
His fists curl, red-hot anger flashing through his body again, and Webster tilts toward him as though he can feel the change. “I’m ready to go home,” Webster says. His eyes meet Liebgott’s easily and casually, coming down from their gaze at the heavens.
“Yeah?” Liebgott says, “Yeah, well so the fuck is everyone.”
“Right,” Webster says, with a slight catch of laughter in it. Liebgott drops his cigarette and grinds it into the ground, thinking: what the hell is so funny about that. But Webster’s smiling at him like he’s just figured something out, and Liebgott kicks the crushed cigarette toward his boots. “Right,” Webster repeats, “Well, I’m going to turn in now.”
“Like you need to tell me,” Liebgot snorts. “I’m not your nanny.”
Webster smiles at him and pulls the half-finished cigarette from his lips, hands it to Liebgott and walks away. Liebgott stares at it for a moment and then tosses it to the ground, and laughs. Fuckin’ Webster, he thinks. He stays out and smokes two more cigarettes before he can remember what he’s supposed to be doing.
unfinished snippet. band of brothers
nix/winters.
“We’re old men,” Lew says. “We’re old men in young men’s bodies. Not even young bodies anymore. We’re just old.”
Dick touches a hand to his thigh. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“I know.” Lew presses the bottle against his shin and waits for the cold dew to settle in against his skin. The summer air is so saturated with heat, and he can feel his shirt soaking through. His jacket has already been cast off, carelessly onto the ground, along with his tie and every other shred of professionalism he manages to upkeep.
Dick has loosened his tie and unbuttoned a single button, and when a bead of sweat slips down his chin it settles into the hollow of his neck. His knee bumps against Lew’s as he leans forward, the concern on his face almost tangible and too close for Lew’s comfort.
“Christ,” he swears. He fists a hand in Dick’s shirt and pulls him forward, watches his eyes dilate. He remembers a thousand other moments just like this: knee to knee, Dick so green and nervous with his canteen always filled with water, Dick in a train with his fate caught up in his hands, Dick silhouetted with the sky lined in fire, Dick with lake water running in rivulets past the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. Memories that are almost a goddamn poem, but Dick likes things clean and simple, straight and honest so Lew just presses his lips hard to his mouth.
And “ah,” Dick says.
“Ah?” Lew repeats. He regards Dick for a minute, and then he starts laughing. His best tin-can laughter, all rimmed with sarcasm. “I’m getting a divorce,” he says.
Dick pauses for a beat. “Do you get to keep the dog this time?”
And “Fuck you,” Lew says, and kisses him again, makes sure to get his hands tangled in Dick’s red hair and pull a little, this time.
liebgott/webster.
Liebgott fights tooth and nail, body pushing into Webster’s in fury. His fingers twist around the creases in Webster’s shirt and yank him forward until his harsh breathing warms his cheeks, and then his fist is up and swinging. The fight is quick, Webster gets the upper hand, and he’s pinned to the floor with an arm around his neck in minutes. Struggling, Liebgott manages to gain a few inches and bite into his arm -- “Hey!” Webster exclaims, and lets go.
When Liebgott stands up Webster’s brushing dirt off his pants and shaking out his sore arm. “What the hell was that, Liebgott?”
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, kicking at a pebble. There’s dust and dirt clouded all over his boots, and he feels a sharp stab of satisfaction at this small proof of a fight. Who the hell cares about spit-shining now.
Webster is regarding him like he’s just kicked his favorite puppy, not just played dirty in a fight, so Liebgott puts two cigarettes to his lips and lights them, offering Webster one in a cloud of smoke. “Thanks,” he says, even though a nod would get the meaning across just fine, because he’s polite and well-bred like that. Liebgott snorts around his cigarette.
Webster raises his eyebrows at him.
Liebgott just taps his hat down slightly in a pantomime of ‘cheers!’ and breathes in smoke. Webster doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t leave, and his sleeve brushes against Liebgott’s when he leans back to look at the sky. It’s getting dark. Somewhere out there, Liebgott thinks, that Nazi bastard’s body is stiffening as death finally pushes the last of life out of its veins, just a corpse left to mark the fields like any other casualty during battle. And somewhere in his head, he remembers, Webster is still judging him.
His fists curl, red-hot anger flashing through his body again, and Webster tilts toward him as though he can feel the change. “I’m ready to go home,” Webster says. His eyes meet Liebgott’s easily and casually, coming down from their gaze at the heavens.
“Yeah?” Liebgott says, “Yeah, well so the fuck is everyone.”
“Right,” Webster says, with a slight catch of laughter in it. Liebgott drops his cigarette and grinds it into the ground, thinking: what the hell is so funny about that. But Webster’s smiling at him like he’s just figured something out, and Liebgott kicks the crushed cigarette toward his boots. “Right,” Webster repeats, “Well, I’m going to turn in now.”
“Like you need to tell me,” Liebgot snorts. “I’m not your nanny.”
Webster smiles at him and pulls the half-finished cigarette from his lips, hands it to Liebgott and walks away. Liebgott stares at it for a moment and then tosses it to the ground, and laughs. Fuckin’ Webster, he thinks. He stays out and smokes two more cigarettes before he can remember what he’s supposed to be doing.
unfinished snippet. band of brothers
nix/winters.
“We’re old men,” Lew says. “We’re old men in young men’s bodies. Not even young bodies anymore. We’re just old.”
Dick touches a hand to his thigh. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“I know.” Lew presses the bottle against his shin and waits for the cold dew to settle in against his skin. The summer air is so saturated with heat, and he can feel his shirt soaking through. His jacket has already been cast off, carelessly onto the ground, along with his tie and every other shred of professionalism he manages to upkeep.
Dick has loosened his tie and unbuttoned a single button, and when a bead of sweat slips down his chin it settles into the hollow of his neck. His knee bumps against Lew’s as he leans forward, the concern on his face almost tangible and too close for Lew’s comfort.
“Christ,” he swears. He fists a hand in Dick’s shirt and pulls him forward, watches his eyes dilate. He remembers a thousand other moments just like this: knee to knee, Dick so green and nervous with his canteen always filled with water, Dick in a train with his fate caught up in his hands, Dick silhouetted with the sky lined in fire, Dick with lake water running in rivulets past the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. Memories that are almost a goddamn poem, but Dick likes things clean and simple, straight and honest so Lew just presses his lips hard to his mouth.
And “ah,” Dick says.
“Ah?” Lew repeats. He regards Dick for a minute, and then he starts laughing. His best tin-can laughter, all rimmed with sarcasm. “I’m getting a divorce,” he says.
Dick pauses for a beat. “Do you get to keep the dog this time?”
And “Fuck you,” Lew says, and kisses him again, makes sure to get his hands tangled in Dick’s red hair and pull a little, this time.