#🤝= outsider who's distractedly writing in their head at all times

[softguarnere]

Friends That I Barely Know

David Webster x reader

A/N: Two fics within 24 hours? Who am I? I'm procrastinating, actually, all of these assignments that I have to finish over break that are crushing me. School policy says that we're not technically allowed to be assigned work over breaks and holidays, but since I was given assignments to do on what was supposed to be my time off, I'm extremely bitter and feel justified in writing for BOB instead of writing about a book I did not understand :) I started this fic when I was going through a Webster phase, and it was just supposed to be a short reunion piece that took place during The Last Patrol, but then it got waaayyyy out of hand. My bad. (As always, this is written for the fictional depiction from the show -- no disrespect to the real life veterans!) 💕🕊️

Warnings: the usual HBOWar stuff: language, blood, war, death, some angst, more clumsily written romance from yours truly (read: someone very inexperienced with romance)

Webster is nothing if not a writer.

At least, that's how he sees it. He spends more time than the average person narrating things in his mind as they happen, taking note of small details, stringing together sentences that he words and re-words until they're just right so he can put them on paper when he has the chance. And in all that, he's spent a lot of time writing about you.

He's mentioned you in letters to his parents, describing your beauty, your fearlessness in combat. But in his head he knows how he would write your speech cadence, how he would describe the endearing way you stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth when you concentrate -- all of it. Yes, he could probably write the other people in E Company just as well, but he could devote pages upon pages of spilled ink to you. Because, he realized at some point after the D-Day jump, he's in love with you.

Being separated from the rest of Easy is hard. Webster is fine, really -- or for the most part -- and doesn't need to be taking up space in the hospital when there are people with worse injuries. At least, that's what he keeps trying to explain to the nurses, who probably think that he's going crazy with the way he keeps trying to get out of bed and the way he keeps talking about rejoining his company.

The only thing keeping him in check is writing. Even when there's no paper, just writing in his head, readying the words that wait for the moment they can be preserved on paper. And most of that writing is about you.

He wishes it were to you, but most of the letters he tries to send to anyone in E Company have been returned, or lost. He tries to tell himself that this is normal, that this is just what happens in wars, and that something isn't horribly wrong.

Finding out that he will be returned to Easy feels like a crushing weight has been taken off his chest. Returning to the friends he trained with back in Toccoa feels like returning home after being lost. The thought of seeing you, though -- the thought makes him almost giddy.

A giddiness that soon hardens into something too familiar when he's told to find second platoon. He tries not to feel the eyes and the scoffs that follow him from truck to truck as he tries to find a place with his company -- his company, who are all acting like they've never seen him before in their lives.

Rejection. He can name the sour feeling in his stomach because he felt it enough times during childhood. But much like the way that the rest of Easy is treating him, the feeling had become an afterthought that he had hoped to never come face to face with again.

"You must have liked that hospital," Liebgott is saying. "because we left Holland four months ago."

Why does he feel like he's on trial, having to build a defense for himself? "Well I wasn't there the whole time. There was rehabilitation, then the replacement depot --"

"Well, I'm not sure why you didn't bust out and try to help us in Bastogne, Web." Liebgott sniffs.

"I don't know how I would have done that."

"That's funny. Because Popeye found a way. So did Alley, right? Back in Holland." Beside him, Heffron nods in agreement; he won't even look at Webster. "And (Y/L/N) --"

"(Y/N)?" Cold dread floods Webster's stomach. You had been hurt and he hadn't been there.

Jackson shifts as the truck moves, like he's trying to put distance between himself and Webster, even if it means leaning into the man on his other side. "Sergeant (Y/L/N) is fine now."

"Sergeant?"

"Christ, Web," Liebgott scoffs. "You missed just about everything, and somehow you still seem shocked."

Not shocked, Webster wants to correct him but doesn't. He's just surprised by all the news coming his way all at once. And surprised that he hasn't seen you, especially if you're okay and a sergeant. Shouldn't you be with the platoon?

The order to move out drags him from his contemplation and into the present moment. (Because he can be present when he really tries; he's just very good at day dreaming and it's a habit.) The feeling of being judged sticks to him like paste all the way into the CP, but then at least the arrival of the new lieutenant takes some of the focus off him. Being relieved that the new replacement -- an actual replacement -- is taking the same flak as him shouldn't make him feel better, but he can't help it.

"We'll find a place for you, Webster," Lipton assures him.

And then it happens.

"Find a place for who?" Even after four months, he would know the sound of your voice anywhere. It's different, somehow, like the war has dulled some of it's shine, but it's still you. And then you walk into the room with Lieutenant Speirs and freeze, just like his heart does upon seeing you.

Back in Toccoa you had been a bright and shiny new-recruit, always smiling and laughing when you didn't have to be serious during training. But now the grime of Haguenau has settled onto your face, just like everyone else, and you look so serious.

Webster has pictured your reunion a thousand times. Any time that he needed strength back in the hospital, he would imagine seeing you among the company, how you would look up and catch his eye, break into a smile, and how the two of you would run to each other -- friends, reunited at last. (And then after that, he would finally tell you everything, because he knew back in the hospital exactly what he wanted to say. Maybe that sweet reunion would lead to something more than friendship.)

Instead, you stare at him with a blank face, like you can't believe what you're seeing. His heart fumbles, finally picking up the pace, and it begins to race; he's grateful that his ribcage holds it in place, or else it would have run to you without him.

"Webster?" You finally ask.

"(Y/N)," he breathes.

"Sergeant (Y/L/N)," Lieutenant Jones says, standing up even straighter than before. Webster could smack the guy on the back of the head for making it so formal, but he doesn't.

Your expression shifts. From beneath your helmet, he can see your eyebrows furrow in thought. You don't look happy; it's like a storm is clouding your face, making it hard to recognize you. "What are you doing here?"

"I just got back from the hospital," he answers for the hundredth time that day. "I'm waiting to see what platoon I'll --"

"No. I mean here."

"What does that mean?"

"(Y/N)," Speirs interrupts. "We're needed elsewhere. We need to go.”

“Right. Sorry, Captain.” You fix Webster with one last stern look, then grab some papers from Sergeant Lipton and follow Speirs from the room. Webster feels like he’s stuck until he hears the last of your footsteps echo away.

What are you doing here? Well, that certainly hadn’t been how he hoped you would react. And from the glances and pitying looks being thrown to him by others in the room, they weren’t expecting that kind of response either.

“Captain?” Webster says finally, both for the purpose of breaking the awkward silence and for piecing together more of what he has missed. “What happened to Captain Winters?”

“He runs the whole Battalion now,” Lipton says. There’s no elaboration. If Webster wants an explanation, he’ll have to find it elsewhere, because everyone starts in on a conversation about a patrol across the river – a conversation that’s he’s not included in, and that makes him feel awkward and guilty for hearing it, like he’s once again a child eavesdropping on his parent’s late night dinner parties, wishing that he were old enough to join in instead of observing from the fringes.

At least they tell him which platoon to join before he leaves.  

--

The news that you will be on the patrol just feels like one more trick of the universe to keep the two of you apart. No, not even a trick. From what information Webster has managed to glean from the others and piece together, some higher power must have it out for you, what with everything you have had to go through the past four months, and now this added to it.

Having rich parents gets you a lot of things in life. Webster learned that quickly over the years. Positions, memberships, almost anything. That was why he was so determined to not rely on their money and status once he joined the army. For once, he wanted to know what it was like to be just like everyone else. He sometimes felt like a journalist, stepping into a role and going undercover to get the inside scoop. But he enjoyed being amongst the other men and feeling like one of them. Not like his life before the war, where even when he was among people from similar backgrounds, he felt like he was only being tolerated.

So far he has spent the war decidedly not chasing any promotions or volunteering for things that might get him noticed. He doesn’t want to stick out, but he also doesn’t want to be left behind; there is a grey area that he has learned to operate in in order to survive the military. Now, though . . . Now is different.

“His German is just as good as mine,” Liebgott had spat as they made their way out of the briefing. And before Webster really had time to consider what he was doing, he was marching up to Winters and asking to be the translator on the patrol. And, to his relief –

“Liebgott,” Winters had called as you and the man in question start to walk by. Good, Webster thinks. There’s no need for three translators on the patrol. You’ll be safely on this side of the river . . . But then he catches what Winters is saying, and it’s not to you. “You aren’t needed for the patrol tonight.”

Webster’s heart drops. Liebgott nods, thanks Winters, and shoots Webster a wink before leading you off, throwing an arm around your shoulder as you go. Once again, your expression contorts into one of confusion and hurt as you cast him a horrified look before allowing Liebgott to lead you away.

Liebgott’s arm stays around your shoulder as you walk out of sight. You two had always gotten along, but when had that happened? (Or had it happened?) Just one more thing that he had missed in four months. His heart feels even heavier.

He had just been trying to help you, but he’s left standing in the street, feeling like he’s just done some sort of irreparable damage.

--

“Jackson, listen to me! You’re not gonna die!” Doc Roe is trying to reassure the boy on the table while simultaneously keeping him still and examining his wounds. The room around him has descended into pure chaos as he tries to help the boy in front of him, which is not the ideal condition to work under.

The German prisoners are yelling, Easy men are having to hold back their fellow soldiers from rushing them. People are trying to help Doc Roe and to hold Jackson down while others still stand towards the corners of the room, eyes wide as they try to take it all in and decide what to do.

Your gentle fingers card themselves through Jackson’s hair while you whisper reassurances to him. Under better circumstances, Webster could pen whole verses about your duality – how you can fearlessly take charge in combat, but also be a gentle beacon of hope for soldiers who need it in their final moments.

“Jackson, you’re gonna be alright buddy,” Webster tries to reassure the boy on the table as he convulses. “It’s gonna be okay. Just stay still – “

The lies drip from his tongue until the second that the nineteen-year-old goes still in front of everyone. The already foul mood in the room becomes even heavier. You help Roe and a few others take the body away, and then you disappear.

There is no sleep for anyone. Not on a night like this. The first rays of sunlight streak themselves across the sky soon after anyway, and then everyone is crowding themselves into a room to meet with Winters. Webster barely takes in anything that’s said, he’s so busy trying to read your guarded expression.

Everyone leaves the room in a slightly better mood than when they entered, the promise of a good day of rest ahead of them. There’s a bunk somewhere calling his name, and Webster knows that he should get some sleep, but after everything that has happened, he really just needs a minute alone to register it all. He’ll probably crash at some point later in the day.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a hand latching onto his elbow, bringing him to a halt. Other soldiers push their way out of the room as they head towards the beds that they claimed as their own, but you tilt your head down a hallway. Something heavy rests in your eyes. You don’t look disappointed or angry anymore. Defeated and tired, maybe, but no longer like you want to slap him for just existing.

Webster follows you down the hallway, painfully aware of the echoing of his and your footsteps as they trail off from the sounds of the others. You push open a door at the end of the hallway and nod, beckoning Webster to enter before you shut it behind you.

The bedroom is small, but at least the bed looks decent, compared to some of the bunks with paper thin mattresses with the springs poking out that he saw some of the others lounging on yesterday. But then again, after what he read about Easy experiencing in Bastogne, anything other than a whole in the ground probably feels like sleeping in a palace. He’s about to wonder aloud whose room this is when it hits him – Sergeant (Y/L/N); getting your own room is now one of the perks of your new rank.

He draws a breath to speak, but you beat him to it. Once you've closed the door, you keep your hand upon it, leaning heavily onto it and not meeting his eyes when you ask, “What are you doing here? Why did you come back?”

There’s that question again. Maybe it would hurt less if you stomped on his foot and ran off laughing. Always too expressive for his own good, he can’t keep the hurt out of his voice when he quietly replies, “The hospital let me go.”

“No, I mean – “ You turn abruptly, and the first thing that he notices are the tears brimming in your eyes. You wipe at them, but to no avail. “Christ. Why did you let them? You would have been better off staying there.”

“Did you not want me to come back?”

“Of course I wanted you to come back! Every day after they took you to the hospital, I wanted you to come back. Then your letters stopped coming and mine started getting sent back unopened because we were moving around so much, and I worried for you. But then with everything that happened in Bastogne, I told myself that at least you were safe. At least you were warm and had food and were away from the line. If it had to be one of us, I was glad to be the one living through that hell because you got to be safe.”

With every word, his heart feels heavier. “You didn’t think I could handle Bastogne?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Your sigh comes out as more of a strangled cry, and now the tears that you’ve been trying to hold back stream down your cheeks in angry rivulets. “Not all of us are writers, and I can’t make the words do what I want them to. I’m trying to say that I’m glad it was me, because if something had happened to you, or if I had to see you miserable, it would have broken me. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. But knowing that you were okay gave me a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.”

“So that’s what you meant when you asked why I was here?”

“Now you’re in just as much danger as me.”

For as good as Webster might be with words, he can’t find the right ones for this. Instead, he takes a tentative step towards you. He’s only just started to open his arms when you charge towards him, barreling into his arms and wrapping yours around him as you let out a sob into his shoulder.

As close as you had been earlier in the war, as tight as your friendship was and as open as you were with each other, Webster has never actually seen you cry. Something about it is very vulnerable; it’s like you have handed him your exposed heart and he has to show you – wants to show you – that you can trust him to hang onto it.

“It’s okay, (Y/N),” he whispers, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “I’m not in danger.”

“You’re in a war zone,” you sob.

“We’re in a war zone,” he corrects gently. “We’re here together. You don’t need to worry about me, okay? Nothing is going to happen to either of us. We’ll be fine.”

“You can’t promise that.” You’re right. Making promises in a place like this is like that old saying about telling God your plans to make Him laugh. Webster isn’t trying to tempt the cruel, cold hand of fate; he’s just trying to comfort you. Still, his father always taught him that a man is only as good as his word, and Webster always carries a full arsenal of those. He will use as many of his best ones as he can to show you that his intentions are good.

“It’s not a promise – it’s a piece of hope. Do you know why we’ll be fine?”

You shake your head against his shoulder.

“Because now we have each other,” he explains. “I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine. Just like we used to.”

“Some good that did. I let you get shot in the leg.”

Webster freezes. “That wasn’t your fault, (Y/N).” God, have you been blaming yourself for that the whole time? Is that why you wanted him away from the line – to guarantee that he wouldn’t be hurt on your watch? “Nothing that happened was your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You pull back a bit, still keeping your arms around him, but leaning away enough that you can look into each other’s eyes. “I wish we had reunited differently.”

He does too, but he doesn’t want to make you feel worse, especially when he’s starting to understand your actions. Gently, he wipes away a fresh tear that’s running down your cheek. “It’s alright. All these months, I’ve just wanted to run to you and hug you, and I got to in the end.”

You hesitate, and he feels his face heat up as he wonders if he chose the wrong words. Instead, you bring your hand up to his cheek. He sees you swallow back your tears and sees your breath hitch.

“Well I’ve wanted to do this.” You lean in slightly, then pause, like you’re asking for permission. Webster’s own heart stumbles as he realizes what’s happening, and he nods, and then closes his eyes as he leans in for your lips to settle over his.

The kiss is salty from your tears, but it’s more tender and welcoming than anything he’s experienced before. When you pull away, your eyes are cast down.

“Sorry, I – “

“Don’t apologize,” he assures you, unable to help the smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve wanted it too.”

Your smile is watery, and the sound you make is somewhere between a giddy laugh and another sob, but you lean into his shoulder again, hugging him tight. “God, David. I’m happy you’re back, truly.”

David. For so long he’s been nothing but Webster. It’s as if you’ve restored some piece of who he was in a past life. But he’s not that man anymore. When you call him David, it’s as if he’s been re-christened into something new – something better, something more than he once was.

“I’m glad I’m back, too. And that we’re together.” When you look up at him again, he caresses your cheek, and his heart feels full when you lean into his touch; he’s imagined things like this before, yes, but it’s sweeter to actually experience it. “And don’t worry about me, okay? We have each other now.”

“We have each other again,” you agree.

After all, what more can someone in a war zone ask for than to have somebody who cares about them by their side, watching their back?