thewordofweb | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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He nods, figuring that if he's ever going to stay in one place, then he'd rather do it where Liebgott's nearby. He tries not to think about Haguenau and watching him when he couldn't sleep in the middle of the night. He's sure the relief shows on his face, though. "That would be good," he says, tone infused with relief and a hint of fondness at having a place to stay.

"So, where are you taking me, then?"

"I'll take you to the homestead. It's home, sort of. Was. Getting used to it again." He's put all of the left over papers and things back where he found them but he still feels like he's got to come clean. "Listen, Web...This..." He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. "It ain't your first time, either."

It feels a bit like being shot again. Suddenly, a rush of adrenaline and blood, a confusion that sits in his mind. "What do you mean?" he asks, warily. "I don't remember anything about this place, how could I have been here before if I can't remember?" He's breathing heavier, wondering about the implications. "Joe, do you remember? Both times?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I remember. Luz doesn't. Most people don't." He shrugs. "It ain't much to write home about. Don't worry."

That knot slowly growing in his stomach begins to unwind, grateful that he hadn't done anything too regrettable during his last time here, but he despises not remembering. There's a cold grip of panic when it comes to the lack of memory, but then something occurs to him. "My journal," he says, eyes widening as the epiphany hits. "I would have written in a journal, at least once or twice per week. Did I do anything like that?"

Shit. Joe bites the inside of his lip and shoves one hand back through his hair. There's no way he's going to keep this up. Dimly, he wonders why he'd want to.

"Yeah," he says, voice a little raw. "You did."

His gaze slides to Joe's fingers before he tears his eyes away, knowing that he needs to bury those thoughts down because the war might not be here, but that doesn't change things. "Maybe I can read it," he suggests. "It could tell me a little about what I did here last time, or..." Or maybe he shouldn't let that influence him.

Frustrated, exhausted, and hungry, Webster pushes both hands through his hair. "Maybe you should just keep showing me around, for now."

"Or what?" he says, cursing himself for doing it. "C'mon. I'll show you your old bedroom and fix you something to eat. I'll dig your diary out later. There's a bunch of our old stuff still lyin' around."

"Or maybe it's a better idea not to weigh myself down with actions of a past self," he says. "Maybe I shouldn't be repeating every step," Webster says, feeling like his shadow has leapt out in front of him and he's left to follow in those footsteps. "Lip and Luz. Are they in the same place? With their girls?"

"Lip's got a whole big house of his own with all those kiddies and his wife," says Joe, happier to be on safer ground. "Far as I can make out, Luz spends a lotta time climbing through windows. He's still courtin'."

"I should drop by and say 'hey' sometime," Webster says, charmed by the notion of Lipton having a family of his own here, which is so much of what everyone wants after the war. He's thought about it for himself, of course, in that far-off way that people imagine things.

Fantasy, to get through the harder nights. "Then I'll make sure not to interfere with Luz for the next while."

"Girl's about a thousand foot tall," he says, finding an easy grin as they arrive at the Homestead. "Too skinny too, if you're askin'. C'mon. Your old room's right next to mine.

"Your type was, what? Curvier in the chest?" Web says, straining to remember old conversations with Joe. They're not too far away, but the trouble is that the shock of his arrival has stripped everything away. "I assume Jewish."

"Yeah," says Joe, and he can't quite keep the same bounce in his voice. "Somethin' like that. There's a girl around here named Helen. You should meet her...again. She's swell."

He tries not to let that hit him, tries not to let it sting that everyone seems to have found a place for themselves here and he's coming in late, all over again. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Webster smiles, forcibly, and nods. "I'd like to meet anyone you're that fond of," he says. "Even if I can't remember them."

"They're all goin' to be real glad to see you, Webster," says Joe and claps Web on the shoulder. He lets his hand linger for just a moment before he leads through his room, neat and ordered and opens the adjoining door into Web's. "This was you before."

For a while, at least.

He stands in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the room and trying to find something familiar. Nothing. Nothing strikes him and it makes him angry, angry enough to want to scream, but he subdues it, tries to breathe calmly. "I don't recognize anything," he says, voice small.

"God damn it," he swears, wanting to punch something. "What the fuck is this place? How can I have been here before?"

"Believe me, if I knew that, I tell you," says Joe, sitting down on the edge of Webster's bed, cradling his head in his hands. "What can I tell ya? It's situation normal - all fucked up over here. We gotta make do and mend. We'll figure it out. Don't we fuckin' always?"

Webster knows why he's upset.

He doesn't get why Joe looks like he's had something taken away from him. He can't drift inwards, feeling stuck in place by the same panic that grips him, and he breathes out shakily, only moving when he feels worried that Joe might think him cold or detached if he doesn't. "Liebgott," he gets out, standing above him and feeling awkward. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding, trying to pull himself together. This would be easier - so much fucking easier - if only he didn't remember so much. If only he didn't have a memory of fucking in this room and loving it. "Yeah, Web. I'm fine."

Webster isn't sure he believes him, but he doesn't exactly have much choice. His eyes trace over Liebgott's face, searching for evidence of the lie, but nothing's there. Maybe he'd imagined it? Maybe Liebgott really is fine. He seems to have everything together here. He's got Lip and Luz, this Helen woman.

"I don't suppose any of my clothes are still here," he wonders, wandering to the drawers, not sure he wants to open them.

"Everything's in boxes," says Joe, taking a deep breath and attempting to let it go. He leans back on his elbows. "In the closet. Like someone was half expecting us back. Lip, probably. He's worse than my Ma."

Webster moves his attention to the closet, digging through some boxes and finding t-shirts and pants that would fit him perfectly. Even his name is scribbled on them. There's some stuff, though, that doesn't look like his and he wonders who's things have been bundled in with his own.

Webster's fingers linger on his jacket, turning slightly to face Joe. "Can I have some privacy?" he asks, slightly embarrassed. "I'm going to change so I don't sweat myself to hell."

"Shit, yeah. Yeah, of course," says Joe, on his feet almost immediately, and the weight of everything he's not saying is sticking in his throat, aching. "I'll be in the kitchen, okay? You come find me."

Webster nods, feeling disconnected from his self and everything around him. When Joe's gone, he strips away every inch of him that reminds him of being a soldier, laying things out on the bed carefully and cautiously, as if he needs to keep that life secure and set in one place, even as he puts on the costume for another.

Breathing slowly, he dresses in a blue t-shirt and set of dark sweatpants, electing to go without boots to give his feet a mercifully needed break. When he's done, he checks his appearance in the mirror before heading out to the kitchen. "There's a door," is what he says. "Between two rooms. Your room and mine?"