Letters Home
Joseph D. Liebgott x f!reader
This fanfiction is based on the television series Band of Brothers and is written purely as a work of fiction. It is in no way intended to represent or reflect the real lives, personalities, or experiences of the actual men who served during World War II. No disrespect is intended toward them or their memory, and any resemblance to real individuals is not deliberate.
Word count: 1.6k
The barracks were silent in a way that felt unnatural in wartime.
Not peaceful silence, but the kind that felt borrowed. Temporary. Like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for the men to come back and mar the quiet again.
Most of Easy Company had gone to the pub. Loud voices, cheap English beer, the kind of laughter that only existed when tomorrow was still far enough away to ignore.
Y/n didn't join them. She rarely did.
She preferred the barracks when it was like this - half empty, dim, the air still thick with boot polish and damp wood. It meant she could exist without performing. Without dodging questions she didn't want to answer.
She pushed the tent flap and stepped in. And stopped. Someone was already there.
Sleeves rolled up, hunched over the small wooden desk, pen scratching steadily across paper like it had somewhere urgent to be. Smoke curled up around the figure from the cigarette idling in his left hand.
Joseph Liebgott.
Of course.
She hesitated at the door without meaning to. That was the problem with him lately - she never knew what version she was going to get.
Most of the time it was fast insults with a sharp tongue and eyes that landed on her too precisely like she was an easy target.
But now? Nothing. Just quiet concentration, mouth slightly open as he silently mouthed along with what he was writing. He didn't look up, and that made her uneasy.
She sat on the edge of her bunk, arms splayed out behind her. "Well," she said lightly as she rolled her neck. "Didn't take you for the romantic type, Liebgott."
The pen stopped. Not immediately, but like he was deciding whether she was worth the interruption. Then he looked up slowly.
His expression shifted into his usual mask - irritation dressed up as ease.
"You always have somethin' stupid to say, or is today special?" he replied with a sigh.
Y/n smirked as she pulled a crushed packet of cigarettes out of her breast pocket. "Depends. Who's the lucky lady? Or ladies. A long list of broken-hearted admirers back home?"
That earned a short exhale through his nose. "Yeah," he said as he went back to writing. "Real funny."
Y/n narrowed her eyes slightly. Something was off. He didn't usually drop it that fast.
She watched him a moment longer, then nodded towards the paper, taking a drag of her smoke. "So, which one is it?"
Liebgott looked up at her. Then down to the letter again briefly like he was trying to decide whether to answer truthfully or not. Looking back up at her, he finally said, "My ma."
Her heart stopped for half a second. "...Your mother?" she repeated, confusion gracing her features.
He looked at her again, eyebrows lifting like she'd said something stupid. "No, I'm writing to the Archbishop of Newark," he said dryly. "Yeah, my ma."
She blinked once, then leaned more towards him in her bunk. "That's...actually kind of sweet," she admitted before she could stop herself.
"Don't start," he said.
"I'm not starting anything."
"You are," he muttered. "I can hear it in your voice."
She watched him a while longer. "What are you telling her? That you're surviving? That the English girls will all cry when you're finally shipped out?"
"Something like that," he muttered, lips twitching up slightly at the corners. Then, after a beat, "Mostly I tell her that I'm well fed and not freezing to death so she stops writin' like I'm already buried."
Y/n looked across the barracks at the boots lined under beds before drawing her cigarette to her lips and nodding slowly. "Sounds like she worries."
"She's a mother," he said simply. "That's her job."
A silence settled between them. Not hostile for once. Just there.
Y/n looked away first, scanning the other bunks out of habit. One hand picking a thread on her coat and the other still holding the smoke.
Joe watched her for a moment longer, then his voice changed slightly. Less sharp, more curious, "How come I never see you write letters?"
That caught her off guard and her eyes shot back to his immediately. "What?"
He tilted his head and raised a brow at her. "You heard me."
"I heard you," she replied. "I just don't see how it's any of your business."
"It isn't," he replied easily. "But you didn't answer."
Y/n searched his eyes for a moment, hesitating. Then shrugged slightly. "No one to write to."
Joe frowned. Not teasing or amused. "That's bullshit," he said automatically.
"It isn't."
"You've got family."
Y/n went still as something in her chest tightened. That word. Family. Like it really meant anything.
"It's not that simple," she said quietly.
His tone shifted again. More serious, more direct than she was used to coming from him.
"What about your parents?" he asked.
There was a pause as he searched her face for the answer.
Then she said, in an even tone, "My father is alive."
Joe waited but she didn't continue. So he did.
"And?"
She exhaled slowly through her nose. Then, quieter than before, "And he was a drunken abusive piece of shit. Still is, probably. Haven't seen him in two years." She shrugged.
The pen in Joe's hand stopped completely. He didn't speak immediately but Y/n studied him as he mulled over what she said. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice. His eyes dropped to the table.
When he looked up, his eyes were softer. And in a low voice, he said, "Your ma?"
"Run off when I was young," she replied in an equally low voice. Eyes downcast.
The silence stretched on for a few seconds before Y/n looked at him again. His jaw clenched tight and hands in fists on the table, knuckles turning white.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at her now in a way that felt heavier than any of his usual teasing.
"Alright," he said finally.
Then, after a beat, he began writing something on a fresh piece of paper. Brows pulled in tight.
"You're gonna write to my family."
Y/n blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"My ma," he clarified, like it was obvious. "My sisters too."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because they'd like you," he said immediately, holding the slip of paper out to her.
"You sound very sure."
"I am," he said simply.
"Why?"
"Because they have terrible taste. They like me," he said, nudging the paper towards her.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not serious."
"I'm as serious as a heart attack, baby," he said with a smirk. "They'll think it's badass that there's a girl in the company. Especially one that doesn't take shit from any of the men."
She rolled her eyes at the nickname because that was easier than acknowledging that her stomach was doing backflips. That wasn't what she expected at all.
"Why are you doing this for me? You don't even like me," she whispered, searching his eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I don't like most people."
"That's not what I meant."
He slowly exhaled through his nose. Then, sharper than before, "You think I'd waste my time doin' this if I didn't care whether you had someone to write home to or not?"
The words hung there for a second. He seemed to realise what he'd said at the same time she did. His jaw tightened. "I mean -" he added quickly, looking anywhere but her. "Don't get dramatic. I'm not adoptin' you or anything."
Eyes narrowed, she asked, "What's the catch?"
Frustration flickered across his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "There is no catch."
She raised a single eyebrow. "There usually is with you."
"That says more about how you see me than how I am."
That shut her up. He stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. "Take the paper," he said more quietly. "Or don't. I don't care."
His tone sounded like irritation trying very hard not to be seen as concerned. Their fingers brushed as she took the paper and her whole body felt like it was on fire. She could feel the blush rising up her neck.
"Don't make it weird," he muttered, already turning away.
She blinked as she glanced at the chicken scratch of an address scrawled on the paper. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
She eyed him with a puzzled look on her face.
"You're loud in your head," he said without even glancing at her.
That earned a small chuckle from her. He turned to look at her, eyes twinkling. "You don't have to write them," he said. "But they'll write back if you do."
"And maybe if you write them, they'll stop botherin' me so much."
Y/n let out a short breath that might have been a laugh had she allowed it. Her hand curled around the piece of paper, fingers brushing his for a moment too long. "Okay, Liebgott," she said with a small smile. "Thanks."
He smiled in return. Not a smirk. But a proper smile that brought out his dimples. Y/n felt the blush rising up her neck to her face. He was beautiful. It's a pity he was an asshole. Most of the time.
"They're worse than me," he said with a wink. "So good luck."
