A/N: This is a drabble I wrote today – more Liebgott and Webster. Please Read and Review. No Slash. Thank you!
Disclaimer: Band of Brothers is the property of HBO, Spielberg, Hanks, and everyone else involved. The real soldiers of Easy Company were not involved in the writing of this story. This never happened, and no harm was meant to the real men.
Room 12, Second Floor
"What are you writing?" Liebgott asked, tipping the bottle on his lips.
"Poetry. What are you drinking?" said Webster.
"Ah, just some of that German shit I bought at the liquor place a couple days back. What'd I give for some Bourbon." Webster's face cracked into a smile.
"You drink Bourbon?
"Yeah," said Liebgott, shrugging the bottle. "Poetry?"
"Sure, if you'd like to call it that."
"You're the one who said it." Webster heard the alcohol slosh back and forth in the bottle. He stayed bent over his journal, pen moving and eyes following. The light was dim in their bedroom, only a soft glow on the curtains and the cream walls. It was the room in the far right corner on the east side of the house on the second floor. They had it all to themselves.
"You been writing all this time?" the Jew asked.
"Not poetry. Letters mostly."
"You got a girl?" Liebgott smiled. Webster guessed four more drinks until the bottle was done.
"No," he said. "My parents." Liebgott's smile faded. Drink #1.
"Yeah," he said. "I got parents."
"Where are they?" Webster's voice was quiet now. His pen had stopped.
"Home." Drink #2. "I never wrote to 'em much."
"Why not?" Liebgott shrugged.
"What the hell was I supposed to write?" Webster lowered his eyes.
"The truth," he said. Liebgott scoffed into a smile.
"Fuck." Drink #3. "The truth." He flopped onto his side of the bed at last. Webster was in the corner.
"Yeah. The truth." Drink #4.