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Ten minutes ago, David had wrested the scotch bottle from Luz's sleep-loose fist and taken himself on a tour through the house. Half the battalion had already pillaged anything that looked valuable -- namely, anything shiny -- and even the hallway carpet has been pulled up in a few corners. He kicks through personal items that litter the floor and trail out past open doorways: yellowed postcards, clothes, picture frames, tarnished makeup compacts.
At the back of the house, there's a narrow flight of stairs that he very nearly falls down but doesn't, and he ends up in a small sub-basement room lined almost all around with bookshelves except for an open roll top desk and a couple chairs in the corner. Most of the shelves are half empty, holding only the ghosts of volumes outlined in dust. He staggers around, plowing lines through it with his fingers, removing random books and barely looking at the covers before tossing them to the side. A long time ago he would've cringed to even think about books, or any property, really, being treated so carelessly. But a long time ago was also before he signed those papers in that army office, and anyway it doesn't matter now.
"What the hell are you looking for in here?" someone says, and David jumps, barely managing to hold onto the scotch.
Liebgott is leaning against the doorframe, angled slightly away from the room as if he hasn't quite decided whether he's coming or going. Among other things, he has a strange knack for materializing when David is getting into a self-flagellating mood.
"Nothing," he answers. He clears his throat. "Just looking, I guess." Lieb looks clean and calm. It's also obvious that he's been drinking. Something in the way his shoulders sit. David wonders if Liebgott can tell the same about him. "Who cut your hair?"
"Did it myself."
"How?"
"See, there are these things called 'mirrors'." David turns away to take a swig. Lieb changes tack: "See, there are these things called 'jokes'. Ever heard of them?"
"Never in my life," he says tiredly. "Although, I don't know, do the past three years count?"
The desk set is only a few steps away but with his seemingly waterlogged limbs, getting there poses some difficulty. He manages to land on one of the chairs, unintentionally skidding it back a few inches. At least now he can sag against the wall and pretend it's because he's bored and not because he drank way too much.
"Moping around by yourself. It figures you'd be a sad drunk." Liebgott shakes his head. He's still hanging around the doorway. David expects him to leave but apparently he invites himself in instead, swinging the other chair around and sitting on it the wrong way like an insolent student. When he pillows his chin on his forearms, he looks young again and it makes David ache.
He clinks the bottle against Liebgott's elbow and proceeds to take a long pull that appears to mildly impress Liebgott. "I learned a few useful things in school," he tells him, wiping his mouth.
"You had to pay to learn that?" Liebgott asks dryly. "They teach you how to wipe your ass too?"
"No, actually, that's part of the second year curriculum. I didn't stay long enough."
Liebgott laughs. His eyes are bright, kind of swimming. David imagines hooking his thumb on those crooked teeth. "Did you like it?"
"Did I like it?" he repeats, like he's trying to decipher a foreign language.
"Yeah," Liebgott over-enunciates, "did you like it there? At school? At Harvard?"
"I don't know. Parts of it, I guess...just like anything else." The main hall at Widener library with its high ceilings. Sitting at the windowsill in his room in the morning, watching fog slowly ghost over the lawn. Reading late into the night with only the bedside lamp on, the one that may as well have been a candle for how much light it actually emitted, and listening to the muted noises of people down the hall getting ready for bed. The memories feel several generations removed, possibly incorrect -- did he even have a windowsill broad enough to sit on? Maybe he's just missing the quiet of it all.
"Why?" he asks when he remembers to be suspicious.
"I was making conversation, goddamn. Take it easy. Not everything's a trap." Liebgott has the audacity to look annoyed.
David laughs, loudly. It's nice to know he's still capable of that. "Lieb. You're the one setting the traps and baiting me into them half the time, come on."
"Yeah, well, you're just an easy target. Can't help it."
"Why, because I give a reaction?" Judging by Liebgott's eyeroll, the answer is obviously yes. "Why else?"
"Why else what?"
"Why else am I an easy target? Can you -- is it something identifiable?"
The question comes out unbidden. Basically he's sticking his head into a guillotine that's attached to a frayed rope. Part of him has evidently decided now is a good time to solicit personality tips from someone who holds the rare, incisive power to pick out your deepest insecurities after only about two conversations. Liebgott is scrutinizing him like a repairman trying to identify what the hell is gumming everything up; he does it for so long and so candidly that David starts to feel phantom pin-pricks under his skin. Even though Lieb can cut him down in a second, there's still a kind of narcissistic pleasure in the moments just before.
"I don't fuckin know," Lieb finally says, irritated. At himself, possibly. "There's just a," he waves his hand, "you know. That French shit."
"Je ne sais quoi?"
"Sure. And see -- stuff like that."
David blinks. "Oh god. You can't be serious."
"You asked me a question and I'm answering your question," Liebgott shoots back. "And while we're at it, you get this look sometimes."
"A look," David echoes flatly.
"Like when you wanna correct someone about something. Like it's real soul crushing for you to know that people are walking around misinformed about shit."
"A fucking look, are you -- right, so my face makes me an easy target."
"I mean, yeah, it kinda does. Sorry, Web." Liebgott huffs out a laugh, seemingly spurred by a private joke. He's examining the loose threads on his shirt, the inner serged seam exposed from where he'd rolled up his sleeves.
David blurrily thinks of the time he had laughed along with everyone else because Hashey asked where 'Norwegia' was -- "you know, where Norwegians are from?" -- but Cobb had very specifically called David a condescending asshole. On one hand, fuck Cobb, but on the other hand, he was probably voicing a shared sentiment. Maybe David does have a look.
"Right," he says again, and it comes out so morose that he grimaces.
"Oh Jesus Christ, don't do this," Lieb groans. "Don't make me do this."
"What? I'm not making you do anything," David counters, gesturing toward the door with an open palm.
"Forget it. Even if I left, the thought of you in here would make me wanna kill myself anyway."
David hums. He concentrates on spinning the bottle around on its bottom edge because it's a hell of a lot easier than doing anything else.
"Alright, shit. Fuck. You're fine. Okay? You have their trust, the actual important part." Liebgott pinches out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lights up. "Do we all need to come worship at the altar of Webster before you're convinced?"
David closes one eye and peers through the mouth of the bottle. A giant looking in on an ocean. "It wouldn't hurt to see some of you on your knees, sure," he answers before finishing off the rest of the scotch.
All he gets in response is silence, an oppressive one that makes him feel like he's underwater, and he belatedly realizes that he might've insinuated something without quite meaning to. The concept of restraint has become less rigid with drink, is now a slippery eel that's hard to grasp. Liebgott studies him; brings his cigarette up and takes a considering drag and slowly exhales to the side.
"See, there are these things called 'jokes', Lieb," David says eventually. Maybe he's sobering up a bit; a restless energy is staticking at his muscles, as if the kettle whistling of mortars is going to sound at any second. They need to get out. "Listen, are there more bottles anywhere? There's gotta be, right?"
"Are you kidding?" Liebgott asks after a brief pause. "This place was gutted about five minutes after we got here. Captain Nixon is probably taking a bath in whatever's left at this point."
He's still got an intense look but the tone is same ol' Liebgott, that weird mix of scornful, dry, and resigned. The tone of someone who's used to worst case scenarios, or at least never surprised by them. He would probably have the same reaction to getting a parking ticket as he would getting his leg blown off -- puff at his cigarette, flick his eyes up to the sky, ah I fuckin knew it.
David scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. Shit."
"Actually, y'know, I think Captain Speirs took a bunch."
"Speirs! That's the person you wanna filch stuff from? You need an exorcism."
"Eh," Liebgott shrugs. "Live a little. What's one more suicide mission to top things off."
"You're possessed, that's the only explanation. Is there a priest around this time of night?"
"Fuck you. You gonna go all spiritus sancti on me now?"
Lieb smiles crookedly, and goddamn if that doesn't do something to David. A whole lot of somethings. Whatever the combination is -- that smile, or the rough Latin, or the cigarette hanging by his side, or merely existing in the same room alone for this long -- it doesn't matter because the cryptogram has been unlocked, a switch has been flipped. Like stumbling in the dark for years and suddenly stepping into a sun-filled room. Any and all things that had to do with Liebgott were mostly bottled up until now; now it's been uncorked and the elixir cannulated directly into his veins. He reels with it.
Liebgott says something. What the fuck were they even talking about? "What?" he manages.
"I said, are you okay," Liebgott repeats, somehow both exasperated and concerned. "You look like you're gonna vomit all over yourself. Hey," he says loudly, when David just blinks at him. "Knock it off god dammit."
"I'm fine," David finally voices. Liebgott has one hand raised like he's about to slap him. "I'm fine, Jesus, don't fucking hit me."
"You're okay."
"Peachy. Calm down." He grips his own thighs as an anchor and encounters another hand. Liebgott is already touching David's knee, caging it in with his fingers. It's quiet enough to hear the soft buzz of electricity from the lone ceiling bulb. He closes his eyes, exhales through his nose. Robbing Speirs is starting to feel less dangerous than this. "Maybe we should go back."
Liebgott just grunts. He says, "I thought of something else," as he takes his hand back, like he hadn't even heard David. There's an unfamiliar undercurrent in his voice.
David swallows. "About what."
"About why you're an easy target."
"Oh my god, you know what, I rescind the question. The topic has expired."
Liebgott ignores him. "Shut up and come here a second."
"What?" David says again, cracking his eyes open. "I'm right here."
"Just come here. Closer."
Reality seems wrapped in a layer of fog. He still feels like he's come upon some vast knowledge all at once, a secret of the universe meant for him alone. If he moves any closer, who the hell knows what would happen. He might even float out of this fucking chair solely by the power of his own pounding heartbeats. At least in the plane there was a carabiner keeping him tied to earth. Here he has nothing -- only Liebgott's stare pinning him down like a bug in a bell jar.
Somehow David numbly sits up and scoots to the edge of the seat. Digs his elbows into his knees as he leans forward. "What."
They're so close that he has to switch back and forth between which of Liebgott's eyes he's focusing on. The dim lighting makes them look almost black. Despite that, he notices when Lieb's gaze drops down to his mouth, and then he knows.
Liebgott mumbles, "Your fuckin face, Web."
"You already said that one," says David hoarsely, and suddenly the bell jar is lifted, he's escaped, and it's easy, then, to lean in a little more and kiss him.
Later, he'll say he barely remembers, what with all the scotch, but that's a lie. He remembers how Liebgott was prepared for it, nudging David's mouth open as smooth as he would anything. He remembers Liebgott turning his head, saying, "Wait, wait," against the corner of David's mouth, before pulling them both down to the floor. He remembers Lieb lying on top of him, breathing hard, and how his dog tags kept hitting David's face until Liebgott put them in his own mouth, biting down as he touched David's eyebrow and then smeared his thumb over his cheekbone. Mostly he remembers putting his hand to the back of Lieb's head, at the hinge of his neck, and spidering his fingers along the curve of skull there. It felt almost too intimate to know that shape. If he wasn't lying down, he thinks he might've keeled over from the weight of it; from the wonder and fear of holding something so fragile.