Summary: What if Webster had never been wounded in the leg? This is what may have happened if he hadn't been. Winters wasn't the only one in Paris…
Disclaimer: All bull shit. No harm intended to the real BoB. Hanks and Spielberg are Divine.
Dans l'Obscurité
"I can't fucking believe this," said Liebgott, shivering.
"Shut up, it's the Eiffel Tower," said Webster. His back was to the Jew; he was standing at one of the sides, staring out in wonder at the city laid out below him. They had reached the top.
"Jesus, do you know how much fuckin' trouble we'll be in if they catch us?" Liebgott rubbed his hands up and down his arms, wandering aimlessly.
"Since when did you give a fuck about that?" said Webster, voice distant as his eyes floated over each star.
"It's not like we asked."
"What difference does it make if we're sleeping at our post or up here? Either way, we're not doing anything."
"But if we're at our post, we'd be there if they call us." Webster hushed him. Liebgott stepped alongside him at last. "Since when do stars make noise?"
"I was hushing you, not them."
"I know. What kind of noise do they make that you need to hear them?"
"None. I just don't want you on my conscience." Liebgott smiled. "We'll probably never come back to Europe again, Liebgott, if we even survive the war. If this was my only chance to see Paris, I wasn't about to let it go by." Liebgott nodded to himself absently, rolling back and forth on his feet.
"We'll make it," he said.
"Make what?"
"Make it out of the war," said Liebgott. "And you can come back to Europe if you want to, Web. Whenever you want to."
"Yeah," said Webster. "We'll see." Liebgott pursed his lips and looked away from him, to the stars instead. He didn't like to think about death; it was usually around him anyway. Webster never talked about it either, but when he did, he was more realistic than he was optimistic. They stayed quiet for a while, breathing into the chill that wasn't cold enough to make it white. "How's you're neck?"
"Eh," said Liebgott. "It's okay. Not a big deal. Can't believe Winters took my ammo." He shook his head and sighed.
"You would have shot them," said Webster. He smiled at the Jew, and the Jew grinned back before looking away.
"Yeah? Well, no one would have missed them."
"Winters would have, apparently." Liebgott straightened and brandished his lighter and a smoke from his left-breast pocket.
"Should have kept my mouth my shut when he gave me the order. Then, I could have pulled a Spiers before I ever brought 'em near headquarters."
"And they would have kicked your ass for it once they found out," said Webster, flashing a smile for an instant and looking away from the Jew. Liebgott shrugged with the lighter in hand.
"So the fuck what?" he said through his lips pursed around his cigarette. Webster shook his head. The smoke was gray in the air, rippling heavenward. Webster sighed.
"Sometimes I think I'm in the middle of a dream."
"Yeah? Would that be such a bad thing?" Webster barely shrugged.
"I don't know. I can't imagine what it would be like to not know Easy Company. It's been too long now."
"Well, it's not that hard, Web. It's only been, what, 2 years? A little more? The rest of your life before that was totally empty of all us crazy mother fuckers." He took two puffs, holding the smoke in his fingers as naturally as any other soldier. It was almost graceful, Webster thought. He tried to draw a man once, holding a cigarette. He decided after a good fifteen minutes that he should stick to writing about it instead.
"I've never felt this way about any other group of people before," said Webster, his voice now hushed. Paris had dimmed like a theater, and the curtain drew back to reveal Van Gogh's Starry Night.
"What do you mean?" Liebgott had turned serious now, drawn in by Webster's tone of voice.
"I've never been close to people like this," said Webster. "I could never have friendship like this with anyone. Civilians, I mean."
"Web," said Liebgott, "None of us know a whole lot about each other. It's not like some the folks back home. We learn somethin' new everyday, you know? About each other, I mean. We don't do a whole lot together. It's not like there are ever any fuckin' Kodak moments around here."
"I would die for you," said Webster. "For every man in Easy Company. We all would for each other. That's not something we have with anyone else from home. And it doesn't matter if we know every little fuckin' detail about each other. All that matters is we've been through hell." He turned his head to look at Liebgott at last. "Together." The Jew gave him a hard stare, cigarette smoking in his fingers and wind blowing kisses at his hair. Webster looked back to the city again, and for a moment, neither moved nor spoke. Liebgott inched nearer Webster and lay a hand on his shoulder. Webster, to his surprise, tensed.
"Why don't you like to be touched?" Liebgott asked, voice tender in a way that it never was.
"Why don't you?"
"I never said I don't." His hand remained unmoving.
"It's not right," said Webster. "You know how it is back home."
"Hey," said Liebgott. "This ain't fuckin' America." He moved in and placed his arms around Webster, chest against the Harvard boy's back. He felt Webster exhale but didn't see the blue eyes close. It had been so long. Webster had quietly longed for a hug. Every time he had sat in the back of a truck, surrounded by the men who made him warm inside, he had longed for any small touch. He had waited silently to feel love. He hadn't been hugged in years, it seemed. Not even by his mother, anymore…. He was a man, and men shook hands. Maybe he was just too sensitive. Perhaps he was needy. He bowed his head and didn't feel Liebgott let go for a long time. No one could see that far up the Eiffel Tower in the dark.