thewordofweb: (jawline:  by emiliglia)
The crucible of a group of men putting you through the fire to earn their belonging is one of the hardest battles that Webster has had to fight, this war. It seems strange, given the lack of bloodshed and fired bullets, but it's also been the hardest to come back in and fight to earn back respect once thought settled away after Toccoa. Still, when Joe Liebgott offers a hand out to Webster, he knows that the battle is won and this private war has been put away.

He throws his bag onto the truck, reaching out for Joe's hand when it all fades away suddenly, leaving Webster to struggle and reach for something that isn't there. The truck is gone, the men are gone, and most of Webster's things are gone, save for what he's carrying on him.

Alarm grips him tight as he tries to remember basic training, but the commanders never spent their time shouting to prepare them for this. Tropical forest behind him, and the open ocean before him, including several boats docked at harbor. Looking out, it's like he's on the coast again, but looking back makes him think he's landed somewhere in the Pacific, into a whole new theatre of warfare.

Webster turns cautiously, as if anticipating an ambush at any moment now.

His voice is stuck in his throat, not sure he wants to call attention to himself. His hand drifts to his gun to make sure it's still loaded, just in case, because he's been thrust away from one war and pushed into a seeming other, but this time, he's without Easy Company.
thewordofweb: (here's looking at you kid: by ?)
I awoke this morning in the strangest of moods and positions. I really should never have expected to find my voice stolen, as if I had been cast in the role of the poor lost boy to an evil witch's plan. At first, it had been nothing, but as the day grows on, I grow lonely and still silent, not liking how it's begun to drive me mad. Instead of lingering around people, I've taken all my things to the dock and have begun to arrange fishing lures in order to have a good night at sea.

I won't panic. At least, not yet. This place has such a habit of doing things beyond the pale of normal that I need to wait it out. I'm not a girl, Joe's not acting strange. I can handle my voice being thieved from me for a small amount of time. That, I can do.
thewordofweb: (bleh by riceball)
In the grand tradition of love-lost, I've found myself a drink, a dark and dank area, and a good block of hours in which to spend my time devoting a love letter to a strong drink that's never going to love me so much as I'm going to use it and then throw it away in minutes, like a wad of tissue that's served its purpose. The scotch is strong at the jazz club and the music is incessantly annoying, giving me a headache, but it's better than drinking alone and it's better than drinking with someone who knows me.

God forbid we have to talk, then. So instead, there is this. And maybe I let my eye wander here and there, where it will. Maybe I just can't help myself and maybe I'm looking to punish myself, as though Joe's vanishing is all my fault. What does it matter, really? All I know is that I have a good strong drink and the weather outside is frightful, so there's no going out to sea.

There's just being here.

[For Chase]

Dec. 7th, 2009 09:40 pm
thewordofweb: (bleh by riceball)
The snow has begun to fall in such a way that I've been driven back to civilization. It's put me right back where I started and now I wake up to a daily reminder of all the things I've lost. It's like the weather is telling me that no matter how hard I try and escape this, how fast I try and put the past behind me, it's always there when I open a new door.

Sweets is long gone, an annotated footnote in my past, but I think that being driven back to where I started is a sign that I need to go back to square one with other things, as well. This is how I've found myself across from the woman, unsure of seeing a female for my issues, but I need to talk to someone.

"Have you gone over Dr. Sweets' notes?" I ask, after a long silence becomes unbearable.

[Homeplot]

Jul. 30th, 2009 04:20 pm
thewordofweb: (sleeping beauty's repose; by ?)
The bed is no longer beneath my heavy body and I find out all-too-quickly when the heavy thunk of my ass on the floor is the loudest sound in the room. I groan and wish that this wasn't the way I'd woken up today, but it's not as if it's the first time. I slowly sit up and rub a hand over my face, shifting my Harvard t-shirt while peering blearily up at a sun-kissed room. "Goddammit, Joe," I complain under my breath, struggling to grasp at the beddings and haul myself back into bed. "What'd I do this time to earn the elbows?"

Because I'm sure I haven't tried to kiss him with morning breath or did something else entirely unapprovable. Hell, I'm sure that I haven't even had a disapproved dream. I squint slightly and open my eyes to look up at Joe before noticing...

"Oh shit," I exhale and swallow hard. "Joe," I insist desperately, now launching onto the bed. "Joe, wake up. Wake up, Lieb," I say, panic roughing the edges of my voice as I push at his shoulder.
thewordofweb: (coy)
My palm is rubbing idly at my neck as I step out of the bedroom and make sure to close the door gently behind me as I go. Joe's gotten enthusiastic again with his mouth and it results in a mark and that would be fine if not for the fact that Malarkey and Martin most definitely don't exactly know about us. It'd be too easy to keep on with the deceit, but I'm growing more than tired of sneaking around and trying hard to get caught (or to not get caught, depending on my whim of the day).

I lean back against the door for a moment before pushing myself off it, intending to get breakfast while Joe is still in bed and I've yet to put myself together for the day. I've still got bedhead and the stubble on my cheeks to prove that I'm very much not awake.
thewordofweb: (markings on your cheek: by ?)
There is a spring in Webster's step on this fine morning. He's got coffee for Skinny and he's got new sketches and storyboards and he's got on his very finest of silk shirts and purple ties. When he gets to the shop, he's even grinning at the children in the corner instead of muttering in German under his breath asking when they're going to leave.

He sets the coffees down on the counter and grins wider than before. "I sold five thousand copies," he announces with delight, as if that's why he's walking looser than before and why he looks like he's shaken off a dozen burdens. He even crouches to affectionately rub his hands over Rosie's ears, telling her how good a dog she is before returning to his feet to mark off inventory and sales.
thewordofweb: (glow; by zed_pm)
My day hasn't exactly been anything incredible thus far. I'm not sure exactly what I expected of twenty-four. There's no great milestones that come with this day and I'm not getting large checks from my family nor am I getting a large celebration of any kind, which is for the best because large crowds still make me entirely too uncomfortable. My nose is in a book as I push my way into the back of the Homestead and head into our room, dropping the clothes I've laundered down and still reading while putting graded papers on the desk and turning to hang up my light coat.

It's just another day. That suddenly I'm older does mean something. It means I'm grateful to be alive in order for it to happen, but I never did expect fireworks. Eventually, I mark the place in my book and duck into Joe's room to check my hair in his small mirror, fixing it with a wrinkle of my nose at my distaste over the way it's been curling in the heat.
thewordofweb: (hint of grin)
I nearly didn't make it down to the boat today. I'd gotten up, done my chores around the house and said my goodbyes to Joe and Sophie, but then I'd gotten caught gaping at my reflection and what was undoubtedly some plan to foil my mood in the form of a gray hair. At thirty-two, I really shouldn't be spouting hair that shade, and yet, there it is.

I'd already been having issues. After all, boyfriend who's forty, relationship hitting ten years, the same routine over and over again on the Island. What are you even supposed to do? How are you supposed to live your life with any kind of...well, anything. Call it a midlife crisis, but I was having the most uncomfortable time when it came to this. Honestly, I just want to strike out, do something different, be somewhere else.

The only else I have though, is the boat. I drop my things down at the base of the dock to start loading it up, trying not to catch my reflection in surfaces, lest I see something new, like a wrinkle.
thewordofweb: (here's looking at you kid: by ?)
After the strange personality happenstance and the obituary and the fight that came after that, I've come around to thinking that I'm long overdue for a nice bit of respite. Surfing, sunning, fishing from a dock (considering I'm trying to respect Joe's wishes by not going out too deep), and sticking around friends. Today's plans involve checking on Mathias and I'm heading in the direction of his place with a bag filled with the provisions for surfing.

And possibly a quarter of the cookies Joe baked off while he was feeling...'under the weather' so to speak. It's a good day, though. For all my recent emotional turmoil, it's a decent day and maybe today I can convince Mathias to drop me by and meet this new girlfriend of his.

After all, he'd been ever so eager to talk about her before. "Mathias!" I call warmly as I arrive. "You in?"
thewordofweb: (this constant change: by ?)
There are very few things that I like about being a woman. My back aches, Joe calls me all manner of nicknames, and I feel awkward when I catch Skinny and Grant eyeing my rack. Still, the one thing I do like is the leverage I know have over the boys, and specifically, over my one. I'm lucky enough to know a very fine woman and after a year's time, we've traded back and forth on favors that I've lost count of where we stand.

Still, she's the expert. Joe's continued attendance at the Catscratch proves it. I hurry and hustle, ceasing my jog when it starts to hurt and slow down to approach Helen at the club. "Helen?" I greet with a demure smile. "Hi. Got an hour?"
thewordofweb: (not so pleased)
The obituary had been burning a hole in my pocket for weeks now. The couple of them. I'd been keeping them from Joe, tucked away in secret places he would never look, thinking I would tell him everything over dinner one night, some throwaway mention as I brushed my thumb against his palm, a soft '...so about our future, I may not be in it?' That's not going to happen. First came that fucking uniform and then Joe got his brain near-stolen.

So I've left it. I left it amidst the piles of his homework and I went to find Blair to try and find some absolution over my being such a coward. Now, I have to go back. It's been hours and if he hasn't found it, then I'm in trouble from being gone during dinner. If he has found it, well, I don't know what to expect, but I don't think it's going to be good.

I lean my head on the door for what feels like eternity. It's only five minutes. I count quietly, one-one-thousand...

This is going to take as much bravery as any jump and I push the door open and close it behind myself, just standing there and waiting to see what's going to happen.
thewordofweb: (bleary)
I haven't wanted to get up for days. The truth is, after returning from the sea without answers, I hadn't wanted to do much of anything, but I need to keep functioning. I still don't stray very far from the Homestead and have set out to sit on the swing in the gazebo, sketchbook open and pencil taking to drawing my sister's features, my brother's profile, Cam's curious hands when he gets a present. It's enough to tie me to a tether back home, to some thought that I didn't go out on the ocean in an effort to die.

It's still not much to convince me, though. I still feel...lost. My head rests despondently on the side of the swing and I drift aimlessly as I find myself swinging around.

It's not much. It's not enough to take my mind off 'five miles' and 'never came back'.
thewordofweb: (fuck you too: by ?)
By the time Joe is out like a light, I've got a mild window of opportunity to go before he wakes up and I want to be there at his side. I'm hoofing it like it's Currahee all over, but it's as important as then to me. By the time I reach the Officer's Club, my fist is pounding on the door with urgency and I won't stop until I get a result.

"Major Winters!" I call out, anxious and firm at once. "Major Winters, I need to talk to you! Now!"
thewordofweb: (share of burdens: by ?)
Grant's been right. The one thing that I've been putting off doing right now is the one thing I need to do, but the guilt has been swarming me something terrible. How can I help it? Joe spent the worst day of his life here (maybe second worst) and I'd been a shadow after that, never leaving his side if I could help it. And then because of one small trip to the bookcase, I was gone for nearly two days straight.

I had gone to the kitchen to see the damage and now that the sun is low enough in the sky, I'm back in front of my door, ready to head into the bedroom (mine, his...ours, I suppose). I said I loved him and then days later, I just vanished. I still don't know if I can even bear to tell him what's really going on.

All I do manage is opening the door and taking two steps in, hanging my head and swallowing down the lump in my throat, trying to keep myself on the precarious precipice so I don't fall off and lose my composure. "I'm back," I say, hushed, avoiding eye contact. I don't think I can look at him and not lose it. I really don't.
thewordofweb: (smoker's sin: by circa77)
After everything, I can't believe that the one thing I reserve the most cowardice for is something I won't even face the consequences of until later on tonight or tomorrow. Whenever Joe starts picking up and finds it. I'm so fucking terrified that I've found myself on Blair's doorstep with my hand on her door, knocking as lightly as I can in the event I disturb Serena.

"Blair, prinzessin, it's me. I need to see you," I beg in a guttural and low tone, desperate as it gets.
thewordofweb: (whine: by paleopirates)
The truth of the matter is simple if you care to break it down into words that could belong in any book. I found the information on the bookshelf and I vanished in a fit of pique. Then I came back and neither Skinny or Grant could help me. And I still am too chickenshit to talk to Joe about it. I've barely just told him I love him, how can I possibly manage to ask him if he's willing to be enough for me to give up the rest of my life on the ocean for him?

Beyond that, I feel weary and broken. I've been spending the days to myself and even now as I go to fetch supplies to stock up the Homestead, my eyes are red and my cheeks are pale and wan, the result of too many hours spent shouting at the sea, screaming to a God who never listened before, shedding angry tears and feeling hopeless.

I just want to get in and out and as I descend the stairs past offices and beds, I just pray that no familiar faces can see my startlingly unfamiliar one.
thewordofweb: (I'm gonna go thataway: by ?)
There are very few promises that I forget and I would never in my life let one out of my sight that involved getting to see the majesty of aquatic life from the base of the very floor beneath us. Calvin O'Keefe was most definitely going to regret making the offer, because I know more than anything I refuse to let it go.

That's why I've managed to put together a small picnic basket of treats and I've found my way to where he's currently living, a cheerful smile on my face. "Calvin, it's David Webster," I announce, biting down on my lip to prevent all my exuberance from flowing through. "Ready for a seaward adventure?"

[For Bill]

Apr. 4th, 2009 06:08 pm
thewordofweb: (share of burdens: by ?)
The Catscratch Club is not the best place to write memoirs, but I find the ambiance distracting enough, encouraging enough to put down words on the page. I've got a drink in front of me, a cigarette going, and my notebook turned open to a page where I edit out the words before me, recalling my time in Buchloe, just before Landsberg.

Joe is upstairs doing...well, whatever he does up there. I don't priviledge myself to ask because I do trust him and by the time I finish my drink and enjoy the music, he's usually done and we can head home. I see no purpose in going upstairs myself. I wouldn't exactly enjoy the parade of flesh on display, whether female or male.

So I'm far more inclined to write. It's what I like and it passes the time.
thewordofweb: (who wears short shorts: by outoficons)
I'm still reeling at the fact that somehow, some way, I've been convinced to give field hockey a go. Not only does my masculinity smart slightly, but the fact that a young girl has me wrapped around her finger does, too. "Prinzessin," I drone as I lean heavily on the stick and glance Blair's way, begging with my eyes.

"Honestly, don't you need some kind of sideline support instead of a player?" I beg. "I'm very good at watching. I can even demean the other players for you loudly. I've been getting lessons in how to be a complete jackass and they shouldn't go to waste."

Because field hockey...of all things. I'm never going to live it down. If nothing else, I'm going to give Skinny Sisk a damn aneurysm from laughing too much.
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