Author's Note: Well, a lot of the OC's are soldiers or nurses in this fandom, so I thought I'd try a civilian on for size. A seamstress, to be exact, living in Aldbourne. From what I understand in my readings, paratroopers of the 101st were often quartered with civilians during training. Winters and Welsh being two of them. You will learn more as I go on so try not to be too critical...if I miss anything by chapter five, then you can jump on me for being unrealistic. But until then, let me be the mean writer and unfold things slowly. If this ever makes it past the first chapter, that is...
disclaimer - I own nothing of Band of Brothers and no disrespect is intended toward the men of Easy Company. This is merely fiction and is based on the fictional portrayal of Joe Liebgott.
If you care to ask me if I deserve him, I can tell you, most honestly, that I don't.
I was not anything extraordinary before he arrived on my doorstep with wings of blood wrapping around a long gash in his uniform. I was no bird of paradise, no exotic rose. I am a seamstress. Quiet and demure is my place in life and I keep it well. And where he is made of fire and fights in the street late into the night, the countryside pooling in secret currents of his blood, I am of early mornings and watery breakfast tea. There is no common ground on which we stand and yet he invites normalcy into the doldrums of my life to stay. It should be that he is the epicenter of disaster. The pebble thrown into the placid lake, if you will. The equilibrium which I have tirelessly worked to sustain all my life has been upset and yet…I can't bring myself to care.
And the ripples drift onward.
Toward another horizon.
He is my tomorrow.
Early September;;
It is late when I wake this morning. The alarm clock still sleeps at my bedside. It is a knock that slips through the quiet house like a breath of wind and rouses me from dreamless sleep. But it is no gentle rap on the door that lures me into the kitchen, dressed only in a moth-eaten robe and a pair of bleary eyes. It is as if all Hell has been unleashed on my doorstep and it would be a lie, a terrible lie, to say I am not afraid.
I am awake now, very awake. What lonely woman in her right mind would not be fearful of an unexpected visitor insisting so raucously on entrance into her home? I can think of none. With trembling hands, I slide the bolt lock from its sheath to open the door. Before my fingers dare curl around the knob, I take a quick look through the handmade gauze curtains draped over the window. For privacy, I could say. Mostly it is to scatter the appearance of poverty which I work so hard to keep away from the world.
It is not their business if I am poor.
Outside, a figure is being pelted by the pouring rain. Nothing strange here. It is always raining in England, in Aldbourne. The sky knows nothing if not the sated feeling of water coursing through its belly. What is strange is that the figure, made vague by the fog sticking to the windowpane, is not merely a man. A soldier. Not British either. The khaki of his uniform is stained dark with water and his thick hair lies plastered to a gently sloping, milk-pale forehead. My heart stammers over the perfect words to describe him. Beautiful is not enough. What should such a man want with me?
Of course, I think, silly girl. It is so blaringly obvious as I regard the large gash in the fabric of his uniform above the heart. Ghost stains of blood surround it in varying forms. From insignificant droplets to unsightly smears. It will be a bugger for certain. Scrubbing such a blemish out after it has dried and caked itself so deeply into the heart of the fibers will be no easy task.
Yes, he must want a mend, a wash and a starch. Easy enough.
Years of such practice with the needle and intimate knowledge of how to use it has peeled my eyes for discrepancies in clothing. A poor stitching. A terrible patchwork. Uneven sleeves. I have made it my life's work to build clothes up from the first spool of thread the way an architect would erect structures founded upon the ground. My grand churches are wool dresses for the women of Aldbourne. It is simple work, but grueling in its requirements for patience for some. I do not mind it, for it offers peace of mind and solitude in return for suffering the long hours of hunching over in poor light, searching for the place that the needle shall slide in.
And all of this has lead me to define people by what they wear. Their social stature, their character, their intentions. Even their habits can be read as if from a book of cloth if translated correctly. Of course, not everything is written into the folds of a new dress or tucked away into freshly mended pockets. But there are some things that cannot escape scrutiny. Not if you know where to look.
Another terrible beating upon the door. A nervous hand travels to my lips, where they part and allow the teeth behind them to gnaw on bone-thin fingers. The nails are uneven and chewed nearly to the quick from such countless hours of worry. Not enough food. Not enough gas for the lamps. Not enough blankets for winter. Never enough.
Shall I let him in? It seems a foolhardy and unfounded risk to take in such desperate times...
His fist pounding on the door tells me I should. My palm clamps around the doorknob and the partition falls away, leaving me completely vulnerable to this man's dark gaze. His eyes narrow and dilate almost simultaneously, contradicting what he is really thinking and the sort of intimidating appearance he wishes to make most clear to me.
"I guess it's the custom around here to keep people waiting in the rain, huh?" He's scowling. This is never a good sign.
"I am sorry, sir," I reply. "I'm afraid you've caught me on a late morning."
He examines my state of dress. Or lack thereof. "You don't moonlight as some hussy, do you?" His head pokes around my shoulder. "You ain't…got a john in there?"
The response to such crass accusations is immediate. My hands fly to the collar of my robe and I clutch it to me a little tighter. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
He laughs. As if to himself, but he is allowing me to listen in on his private thoughts. Perhaps he is like many men of the army – no manners to speak of and no girl to tame their wild tempers. "Of course you don't. What the hell was I thinkin'? I can tell just by lookin' at you. You ain't the type."
I'm not quite sure what to deduce from this fellow's character. He most certainly isn't polite. That, at least, is as clear as day. The rest of him, however, is yet to be determined. He is a shadow upon my wall that I wish to make human. Sew into a skin that I can recognize. Silhouettes wear only their anonymity…I cannot read what isn't entirely human.
And the fact that he is only silhouette, the reflection of night stealing into the arms of morning, makes me want to crawl inside of myself. Like a crab climbing into his shell. Safety from the unknown. What if this man is some sort of violent rogue? Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from informing him of the lack of male presence in this household.
"Aren't you going to let me in?" He asks, tearing me out of my thoughts. I blink and gray light wanders back into my line of sight. He is blocking some of it from me, the diluted sun. Certainly a mere shadow.
"Of course, sir," I reply, opening the door a little wider. "I do apologize for making you wait in the rain."
He doesn't say anything. Not a refutation of misplaced apology or even an acceptance of it, like most would offer at the very least. He simply charges through, a one man stampede, and before I can even return the door to a secure condition, I hear the legs of a chair skidding across the floor. He has certainly made himself comfortable. And without even batting those pretty eyes of his.
I turn and find him picking at the silk wedding dress I left, abandoned in mangled disarray, on the table in a fit of exhaustion the night before. His brow is furrowed, as if it is such a foreign thing beneath his fingers, and he is sifting through the layers of lace trim and pearl-colored buttons. It is the first fine dress I have made from scratch in months since rationing began. A young woman in London waits ever so patiently for the raiment that she will wear on the happiest day of her life.
Happy, because he must be well-to-do. When he came to order the garment, a package of materials under his arm, he was kind, gentle of manner and wore evening finery in the afternoon. He left a small pocket of money on my table in the wake of his departure. Three pounds and one shilling. The usual man at the market was doubly surprised to not only see me twice in one day (I had just completed my weekly shopping trip earlier that morning), but with such money that he had not seen on my person since I was a little girl begging him for sweets on market visits with my mother.
That seems not so long ago. Now that I think on it.
The man at the door has grown bored with the silk dress. He sighs and leans back in my derelict little chair that is situated before a rickety table (a book on the history of British parliament hoists up one leg that is shorter than all of the others). Silence grows old between us. I can feel its aging whiskers brushing against my terrorized nerves. My strange visitor seems in no rush to have his clothes mended. In fact, he seems in no rush to do much of anything but bask in a little quiet for once. A soldier's life, I am to understand, is no tea party. I cannot imagine what it must be like so I do not attempt sympathy; I know it shall be ill-taken and surely unrequited even if I should have liked to try.
His dark gaze turns on me so suddenly that when I feel the shift of its focus and find it on me so suddenly, like a specter in the dark, I am practically torn out of my skins in fright. "So?" He says tersely, no more a question than anything he's addressed to me since I met him not ten minutes before.
In many ways, though it would behoove me to keep such dangerous thoughts to myself, he exudes an animal strength. A powder-keg intensity that, if a match strikes too close to it, it will explode without warning. It is not selective. It will consume anything that stands in its way.
"Pardon?"
His entire countenance relaxes into a smile, but even a gesture that is intended for ease is made nerve-wracking by the look stuck in his eyes. "What…" he laughs. "Don't tell me you didn't get your morning post yet either?"
Rude fellow, isn't he? Assuming, too. A very disagreeable pair of traits. I clear my throat nervously and wade through the dissipating haze of silence to find the only tea pot I own. It's been used recently, the cracks and fissures lined in tea stains, but I'm sure he won't mind. "I'm afraid I have not. Would you like some tea, sir?"
"Tea is for pussies, I'm afraid," he replies. It is no feeling that makes it known that he is mocking me. It's straight fact.
I can feel his eyes on my gaunt figure, lying hidden underneath the protective shield of clothing, though I am not surprised that he sees the evidence of how terribly skinny I am in the sharply sculpted angles of my face. It lies in shadow beneath the light, some made dark by slightly protruding bones.
He clicks his tongue thoughtfully, running his teeth over his contemplations as if to taste them. "Looks to me like you live on boiled water."
Another knock at the door sounds like a bomb falling throughout the small kitchen. I race toward my only reprieve from this tireless insult factory, only to find myself facing a new threat. The morning post.
"Ah, Miss Gray! Top of the morning to you my dear! Though," the postman pauses for a moment, assessing the color of the sky. Still gray. Still pouring its heart out. "Perhaps you must be content with the bottom. Not a very pretty picture is it?"
He hands me my letters. One of them is addressed to my father in capped letters, as if typed. Not at all personal. "If a child never sees the sun, will he ever miss it?" I reply.
"Ah, our little village philosopher. Ever quick with those eye-openers of yours!"
"Aw, fuck," comes a voice from behind me. It shakes with more laughter. "You've got to be kidding."
He leans in, tipping his hat forward in an attempt to not appear nosy. The unfurling crevices of a pensive scowl betray his good intentions and I bring the door a little closer to me to keep the obscurity of my pest.
The postman hums disapprovingly, though he goes about it so discreetly that I can't blame him. I, too, am not at all fond of the idea of such a man sitting at my table as if he is the head of the house. "Good day to you."
He is off before I can compose the proper farewell, ducking beneath the cover of rain as if it will ward off the chill. A request for him to join me for a cup of warm tea at the local tea room lodges in my throat as I watch him tread through a fresh quagmire down the lane. His boots are waterlogged and stained with mud and his clothes can boast no better shape. The poor fellow must be soaked through.
No, it is selfishness that wishes him back here. The entreaty dies in vain. I want to escape my brutish company, perhaps give reason for him to recall why he is here and take his leave. Perhaps if I am forward, make it known that he is not as welcome to do as he pleases in a stranger's home…yes, that should do.
I turn, only to find myself face to face with my tormentor. He certainly is foreboding when he is standing, for he has the advantage of a taller stature. He towers over me. And he knows this well, turning the full effect of his intimidation on me. The moon eclipsing the tiny star.
"Look, lady. I'm tired. I've been traveling for two fucking weeks on a boat full of stinking ass men and all I want to do right now is lie down on a proper bed and get some shut eye. Is that too much to ask?"
"This is not an inn, sir," I reply. "I'm a mere seamstress. I believe you are confused…"
He tears the first letter out of my hand, the one with the impersonal font, and waves it in front of my face like a flag. I want to tell him that I am no simpleton, that I can, like most civilized people, read.
"The letter. Now."
I hurry to open it. Who knows what he might resort to if I do not? Violence. Cruelty. Anger. There is no knowing.
"To a Mr. Alfred Gray," I recite the print aloud, more to myself than to him. "Due to our lack of sleeping facilities, it has been arranged for Private Joseph D. Liebgott of the 101st Airborne Division to be quartered in your home for the remainder of his training in Aldbourne. We thank you for your cooperation and support of our troops."
The words taper off as the message rings loud and clear. A sign from God above could have been no clearer, in fact. I look up from the official document and catch the unwavering stare of the man I know nothing about, not even his name, and come to realize I have been called upon to provide house and home to a complete stranger. He smiles a little. A complacent smirk plays upon his full lips like deft fingers chasing piano keys.
The letter falls from my slack fingers and sways slowly into the old floorboards.
Oh dear indeed.
Footnotes: Don't worry. Joe won't always be so rude.