A/N: Well. I don't know if this is what Camreyn had in mind, but it's kinda longer than my usual one shots, and I think it displays more angst and care between these two. God, I love 'em. Hard not to when you write or read something like this.

Please Read and Review! Thank you.

NO SLASH.

Disclaimer: You know it's not mine. And you know it never happened. Don't sue.

"Did you hear about that poor bastard in the jeep?" Heffron's posture made him look older. It was that of a veteran. He was no Toccoa man, but he'd been through Bastogne. He'd been around long enough for the Toccoa men to take him in and melt him into their group. Guarnere had helped with that. His heart winced. He still ached for Guarnere.

"What happened?" Ramirez was lying in the grass, squinting up at him because the Austrian sun was real light.

"Riding along that road where all the Germans are traveling, right? So he's in this jeep, can't remember if he was leaving duty or coming on, and this other truck loses a barrel or somethin' and the jeep goes off into a ditch." Ramirez lowered his gaze. "Heard he was only 10 points short too, the poor bastard." Heffron stuck his cigarette back in his lips and shook his head. He was squinting too.

"Hey Liebgott," the boy from Philly called, as the Jew strode past. Liebgott stopped and turned to face the younger man. "'Ja hear about the accident?"

"What accident?"

"On the German road – some poor guy got it in a jeep accident. 10 points short, can you believe that?" Liebgott's eyes widened despite the sun. His breath caught. His heart slowed or stopped, he wasn't sure which it was. He fled. He sprinted off without a word to Heffron, who looked back to Ramirez and shrugged.

The Jew had never run like that. He didn't stop to look if he had passed officers, didn't salute, didn't talk to any of the other guys he knew. They watched him run, wondered what fueled his speed. He didn't realize when he became alone. He didn't notice the town fade into wilderness, didn't realize that the shapes around him were trees. He couldn't breathe. His stomach tightened and his heart was either racing or gone completely, pulled out of his back just like a jump. His boots obliterated the dirt paths, and he didn't even hear it. How long had it been? Why hadn't anybody fucking told him? What if it had been hours? Why was he even running to the road? Surely, they had taken the body away by now.

A short line of trucks and cars came into view, all lazing down the dirt road, stopping for American military inspection. He couldn't see any of the soldiers yet. The vehicles were in the way. He quickened, if that was even possible. The light was pale and broken, falling through the forest canopy. He couldn't feel his legs. They just moved. He didn't know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He was going to explode. He was going to kill himself. He felt like collapsing. Yes, that's what he needed to do.

"Liebgott?"

The Jew ran into him, into the man that should have been dead. Webster dropped his pad and pen, the wind knocked out of him. He staggered but straightened again. Liebgott was suddenly on him for some reason. The other man's arms were wrapped around him, body pressed against him, head on his shoulder. And Webster didn't know what to make of it. Especially when he realized that Liebgott was crying.

"What's going on?" Webster said warily. Liebgott clung to him, sniffled, barely whimpered. He hadn't been the same since the camp. He wasn't so cold anymore or hard. He was loosened somehow. And when he had cried in the back of that truck, Webster hadn't said anything. He hadn't offered comfort when there was no comfort to give. He had looked away, just like everybody else. He'd given Joe the respect he deserved, preserved the Jew's dignity. Because those tears had been dignified. They had been human. And Webster had been relieved to see Joe's human side. It had even made him ache for a split second.

"The jeep," Liebgott whispered, hands still tight fists in Webster's back. He was shaking inside. Webster could feel it. But he didn't understand. "The accident." The tears were quiet. They snaked down the curves of Joe's face at a smooth pace. He was tired of this. He hadn't cried in years. This was the second time in a few weeks. He hated coming undone. He was a soldier, damn it. And he didn't see any of the others cry over someone else. Fuck, not even Malarkey cried when Muck and Penkala got it in Bastogne. Tears were for solitude. And darkness. Not for this road under the pale tree light.

"Jesus," Webster breathed. It clicked. He didn't know what to say. Except, "It wasn't me." His blue eyes searched the empty space.

"No shit," Liebgott whispered. But he didn't let go. His heart slowed against Webster's. And even through the cloth, Webster could feel it.

"It – it wasn't me." Liebgott didn't answer again. He just clung. Webster's arms finally came around him, stiff at first, and then loose. And he closed his eyes. And he felt it. Someone cared. Someone would wear his dog tags if he died. Someone would go on a killing spree to avenge his death. He smiled. Liebgott already hated the Germans enough.

The little French girls from the convent were singing again. Singing – as Webster and Liebgott stood on the road together and didn't mind the line of traveling Germans.

"It was Janovek," said Webster. He wasn't even all that sad. Sure, Janovek had been a good guy. Webster had liked him. But they hadn't exactly been friends. Not like this. Liebgott didn't reply, but he was quieting down now. His breathing was evening out. His heart had come back. His tears were dissipating. But he didn't let go. He didn't even loosen. He held onto Webster. And Webster held onto him. And somehow, Liebgott felt like everything could go back to the way it had been, to the right way. And he could be okay again. "10 points short."

"How many are you?" said Liebgott.

"Four." The Jew laughed.

"Jesus." Webster smiled.

For some reason, they remembered Holland. Perhaps without the knowledge that they both remembered simultaneously. It seemed like an age ago, before Bastogne, before 4 months in a hospital where half of the surrounding men were damaged beyond humanity. They remembered the day that decided all that – the day they were both wounded.

"Liebgott!" The bullets hissed all around him, smoke streaks in the air, the grass bristling in the wind. He didn't know how he got to the Jew alive, what possessed him to get up and run, but he reached the other soldier. He lay his hand on Liebgott's shoulder, turned him around to lie on his back, looked at him with hell's noise pounding in his ears. "Are you okay?" he yelled.

They remembered, but this time, it was without regret or resentment. Webster had gone on the last patrol. He'd taken Liebgott out of it. They could forget about Bastogne.

He stared up into Webster's frightened blue eyes and didn't know what to think for a moment. His head spun, and he wondered if he really had been hit or not. He didn't feel anything. How had Webster gotten to him? Where had the Harvard boy even come from? Webster touched his neck. "You're hit."

And suddenly everything became pale, cast in the patchwork sunlight. They understood that they had made it this far, to Austria, to the end of the war. And for the first time in 3 years, the danger was gone. They were free. Webster shut his eyes again and sighed. He squeezed Joe a little tighter. He was free. They both were.

He looked at his fingers. They were red with Liebgott's blood. Wounded in the neck. Oh, my God. His breath hitched for a moment. How bad was it? Was Joe dying? Right here? Right now? He looked at the Jew, waiting for an answer, as if Liebgott could know whether or not he would live. And Joe looked at him. Their eyes met and stayed for a held breath, before Liebgott struggled up and stood again. He patted Webster on the shoulder and ran off, back to wherever he needed to be. And Webster watched, blood still warm on his skin.

"It really is over," said Webster.

"Yeah," Liebgott confirmed. "That's why you can't get yourself killed in a stupid accident, Web." The Harvard boy let his blue eyes shine out, holding fast to his only friend in this whole Goddamn army. "We're goin' home." Liebgott wiped his eyes and returned his arm to Webster, straightened a little. He was okay. And Webster's heart burst.

But maybe this wasn't the first time they had come together. Maybe this wasn't the first time they had put away their identities as soldiers and men. Maybe they had done this before. Maybe they knew what they were doing. They remembered.

"Web." The Jew choked. Webster turned around to see Liebgott quivering, as alone as any man's ever been. A tear fled down Liebgott's face. He looked at Webster with eyes shaking and shining and speaking every word there ever was. The camp was burned into his mind, the rumor that there were more all over Europe, that some were worse. And Webster looked back at him, blue eyes helpless. Finally, the Jew stepped forward and into Webster's arms. And the Harvard boy said nothing. He just held his friend. And let him cry.

"I could've been them," Liebgott sobbed, fingers curled into Webster's sleeves. The writer had always thought the cabby was too thin. "I could've been them."

"But you weren't," said Webster. "You're not." His whisper was gentle.

"I should be." Liebgott's was quieter. And Webster didn't know what to say.

Liebgott's eyes were shut. And Webster's fluttered open and closed, open and closed – like butterfly wings. They were quiet. They were trying to find sanity. They were trying to hear it, trying to hear each other. But all Liebgott could hear was his own hand moving over Webster's back, smoothing out wrinkles and leaving new ones in their wake. And Webster had stopped listening a long time ago. Now, he only listened to himself, to his own thoughts that came spilling out in black cursive, in letters and journals. He committed Joe to memory. He wrote about this in his mind. He didn't need paper. He knew that scent – the Jew's scent. It didn't have a name. He decided to call it familiarity.

"Webster." The Harvard boy turned to look over his shoulder at whoever called him. "Webster." It was Liebgott, searching the sad sea of men, gun slung over his shoulder. Webster didn't answer but instead dipped his head and began to slide his way through the crowd toward the Jew. No one spoke. It was just the sound of their boots and their breaths and their quiet pain that wasn't bad enough for morphine. Webster found Liebgott.

"Hey." Liebgott's voice was soft. He embraced the writer, who was vaguely surprised. But the world had turned its back on them for now. He didn't push Liebgott away. "You made it," said the Jew.

"Yeah," said Webster absently. Liebgott let go and looked at him. "Jackson didn't." His comrade gave him a sympathetic gaze.

"Yeah," he murmured, dropping his eyes. He patted Webster on the shoulder. "Just glad it wasn't you."

Webster's blue eyes stared. Maybe they had done this before.

"Joe," he whispered.

"Yeah." The Jew was just as quiet.

"Go to hell." Liebgott smirked.

"Fuck you too." Webster pressed his eyes shut for one more moment and breathed in tight, hands gripping Liebgott's clothes. And Liebgott echoed him. Part of them wished they didn't have to stop. The same part.

Someone slammed on his car horn. Webster grinned and shook his head.

"Fucking Germans." Joe smiled.

"Hell yeah." Webster was the one to let go this time. He looked at Joe warily, as if waiting to see whether or not the other soldier was really okay. Liebgott wiped at his cheeks again in case any tears were left and then looked to Webster shyly. His eyes were pink, the shade of watered-down blood, and he gave Webster a weak smile. Their hands were still holding to the other's arm.

"I'll see ya," said Webster. The German honked again.

"Yeah," Joe whispered with a single nod. And Webster took a step back and another one until his hand slipped through Joe's and right out. He turned away and ambled back. Joe watched, unmoving. The sunlight wasn't warm today. Webster gave him a fast glance and small smile once re-stationed at his post. Joe returned the gesture. He took out a cigarette and his lighter and lit it, tucked the lighter away, inhaled, pulled out, exhaled. "Fuck." He turned away and began the journey back, this time at a slow enough pace to realize when trees turned into civilization. It was a quiet walk.