In Case I Die With Your Last Name
"You havin my last name a bad thing?"
Joseph Liebgott x Reader
~ Tangled up with Lieb and his dogtags in the middle of Carentan. (that's it thats the description)
HAPPY VE DAY!!!
(🪖 BoB Masterlist here ♤ )
tw: firefight, blood, war, aggressiveness
gifbytragicsiblings
You didn't plan to be tangled up with Joseph Liebgott.
Your first impression of him was running his mouth how you didn't know what you were doin' then him throwing hands with Guarnere.
That was enough for you to avoid him, save for a few back talk when Lieb was getting under your skin (which was always) and duck your head when his eyes find yours.
You brush shoulders with him, wind back in the same damn spot where he was but hell that was war right?
You're either here nor there just in the middle of hell and the men you trained with since Toccoa.
And well here you we're and your grand plan to avoid Joseph Liebgott.
You were struck dumb, rifle in hand, looking at the pharmacy across the street , you didn't know why you stopped running then he hauled you off. Barking about something, his usual 'Are you stupid?' 'Goddamn fuck!' or whatever it was 'cause your ears rang.
A shell cracked somewhere too close, throwing brick dust off the side of the building, and before you could decide whether to drop or run, his hand was already fisted in the front of your jacket.
Dragging you like the whole damn world depended on it.
You felt your heart smash against your chest.
“Move, move, move!” he snapped.
“I am moving!”
“You’re standin’ there like a goddamn signpost!”
He yanked you down behind the wall with him just as the street spat dirt and stone where your boots had been.
You hit the ground half on top of him. The breath nearly knocked out of you as you held your helmet down.
The ground rattled and you panted.
His helmet knocked yours as both of you half stumbled your rifle jammed between your ribs. His dog tags swung out in the middle of half failing; trying to get up and half both of you tryna avoid each other, your dog tags came loose at the same time where he grabbed you, and somehow the two chains caught together in a shining, stupid knot between both your throats.
For one hot, panicked second, neither of you could move.
You we're reeling from the fact that one, you we're nearly hit and two, it was Liebgott that pulled you back.
He was over you, half shielding you from the street, one hand on the wall behind your head.
Liebgott stared down at the tangled chains.
Then at you.
Then back down. His fingers already yanking at the chains.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You grabbed me.”
“Yeah, because you were about to be blown to bits, you're welcome!"
“I had it handled.” No, actually you didn't.
“You had shit handled.”
Another burst of fire snapped across the street.
Both of you ducked lower. You tried moving away from his chest.
The tags jerked tight.
“Jesus, take ’em off,” Joe hissed as you swatted his hand away panicked as you tried to work the knot free but your hands shook.
You both knew you had to get moving or your both getting blasted next.
“You take yours off!" She shouted over the noise.
“I’m trying!” he barked, your hands moving in a frantic tandem.
“You’re pulling mine.”
“Because you’re in the way!"
“You’re always saying that.”
“Yeah, and you keep proving me right.” He looked at you then, his fingers still half around the chain half on yours.
Your fingers shook while you dragged the chain over your head. Not from fear. That was what you told yourself. Just adrenaline. Just noise. Just the street splitting apart around you and Joe Liebgott’s breath too close to your cheek as you moved towards him as he took off his dogtags.
And not because every time he got near, something sick and twisted opened low in your stomach.
Not because his hand was still braced near your waist, keeping you tucked behind cover like he meant it.
He became painfully aware how close you both we're his eyes snapping up to yours, searching.
You shoved the feeling down hard.
For two seconds, you were both crouched there, hunched over like idiots in the middle of a firefight, trying to untangle government-issued metal while France blew itself to hell around you.
“Quit yanking,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“How 'bout you stop yapping.”
“Try being useful.”
His mouth twitched, even there.
Even with the bullets.
It made you furious.
It made your stomach twist again.
The knot finally gave. Two chains fell apart into your palms, slick with sweat and dust.
“Here,” you said, shoving one at him.
Joe snatched it, already looking over the wall instead of at the tags. “About time.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For almost hanging me?”
“For not leaving you tied to me.”
“Would’ve been the worst death in the company.”
He slipped the chain over his head without looking.
You did the same.
There was no time to check.
Somebody yelled up the line. Liebgott was already moving, crouched low, rifle in hand, mean as anything, like his hands hadn’t just been tangled with yours.
Like his face hadn’t been inches away. Like he hadn’t looked scared for half a second when he pulled you down.
“Come on!” he barked. “Unless you wanna write the Krauts a thank-you note!”
You hated him.
You followed.
The mistake did not matter until later.
Not to you, anyway.
Not while Carentan was still spitting smoke and men were stumbling out from behind walls with their ears ringing, their mouths dry, their hands still locked around rifles they had forgotten how to lower.
Not while someone was yelling for ammo. Not while somebody else was cursing about a jam.
It felt like forever and no time at all.
Then you were sitting against a low wall, dirt in your teeth, hands shaking now because everything was over and your body had decided it was allowed.
Joe was across the road with Luz and Malarkey, cigarette between his lips, face filthy, jaw tight. Alive. Loud. Annoyed. His usual mean, restless self.
You hadn’t noticed.
He hadn’t noticed either.
Talbert did.
Of course he did.
Floyd Talbert had the kind of eyes that caught things people didn’t mean to show. He was wiping grime off the side of his face with the back of his sleeve when his gaze snagged on Liebgott’s chest.
He frowned.
Then his eyes cut to you.
Then back to Joe.
A slow, terrible grin started at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey Joe.”
Joe didn’t look over, shifting his weight, his fingers fidgeting with the cigarette. “What?”
Talbert pointed with two fingers. “That your new name?”
Joe finally turned, his eyebrows furrowed. "What. Wait huh?"
Talbert’s grin widened. “Your tags.”
Joe looked down.
Your name sat against his dirty jacket.
Plain as day.
For once, Joseph Liebgott had nothing ready.
The cigarette stayed pinched between his lips, unlit and forgotten.
You looked down because everyone else did.
And there it was.
LIEBGOTT JR. JOSEPH D.
Resting against your chest.
Your stomach dropped.
Not fear this time.
Worse.
Your fingers closed around his tags.
The metal was warm from your skin now.
That feeling came back, deep and awful.
You shoved it aside.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not him.
Not the guy who called you dead weight when you ducked too slow. Not the guy who smoked too much and was always judging from the corner. Not the guy who had grabbed you out of the street before the blast took you apart.
Not him.
But he looked up, eyes caught yours and you just scowled.
Easier that way.
Talbert laughed under his breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Luz’s head snapped up. “What?”
Malarkey leaned over, saw the tags, and immediately made a noise like he’d been handed a gift from God.
“Oh, that’s rich.”
Joe’s eyes cut to them. “Shut up.”
Luz was already grinning. “Hold on. Hold on. You two exchanging souvenirs now?”
“We got tangled,” you snapped.
Well, that didn't sound right.
Talbert’s brows lifted, gesturing his hands between the two of you. “Did you?”
“With the tags,” you argued, yanking his dogtags. You tried not to look at Lieb who watched you, his eyes dragging from your fingers sliding across the chain then back to your eyes.
“Sure.”
Joe pointed at him. “Tab.”
Talbert raised both hands, still smiling. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were gonna.”
“Was I?”
“You got that stupid face.”
Luz leaned closer to read the tags on Joe’s chest and nearly lost it. “Jesus Christ, Liebgott, you’re wearin’ her name.”
Joe ripped the tags off his chest and shoved them under his shirt so fast he nearly strangled himself.
“Problem solved,”
“Not really,” Malarkey said, nodding at you. “She’s still got yours.”
You looked down again.
Joe’s name lay under your fingers.
His eyes went there too.
The whole street seemed too loud and too quiet at once.
His name sat under your fingers.
For a second, nobody said anything. Not even Luz.
Then Joe got up, Tab watched him, crossed the few steps toward you, boots crunching over brick and glass.
“Take ’em off,” he demanded, looking down at you.
You lifted your chin. “You first.”
It was always like this with both of you, daring each other, not backing down, you thinkin' it was his pride, him thinkin' it was your ego.
No one relented.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You are. You got that look.”
“You always say I have a look.”
“Because you always do.”
He reached for the chain at his own neck, then stopped when a sharp whistle cut through the street.
“Easy! On your feet! Move it out!”
The order snapped through everyone at once.
Men started shifting, grabbing rifles, hauling each other up, dragging ammo, checking wounds with shaking hands.
Joe looked down the street, then back at you.
“Later,” he said.
Your breath caught. “Later?”
“We’re not doin’ it here.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re in the middle of the street.”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, sharper now.
“No, I mean it.” His voice dropped so only you could hear. “You wanna stand here with your helmet strap caught, your rifle hangin’ off you, both hands busy playing with chains while some Kraut decides he ain’t finished? Be my guest. I ain’t watchin’ you get shot over tags.”
You went still. Startled.
His eyes flicked over your face, fast and angry and worried. His lips parted once, his eyes shadowed by the helmet and the grit.
Your eyes narrowed trying to read his face.
Then he looked away, like he hated that you’d seen it.
“We switch when we’re off the road,” he muttered. “When we ain’t being watched by half the company.”
Talbert who heard some softened and stepped back. Still alert but Luz wasn't done yet.
“So romantic,” Luz said. “Safety first.”
Joe turned on him. “That makes no sense."
“Not particularly.”
“Then shut up.”
You should have taken the tags off anyway.
You didn’t.
Joe looked back at you. His name was still caught in your hand, your thumb pressed over the stamped letters.
“Temporary,” he said.
“Obviously.” you bit back.
“Don’t get attached.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
And before you could hold back or stop your damn mouth you said, "Don't want them on in case I die with your last name."
And hell you almost said something to take it back, to not make it weird but he said something that made you balk.
"You havin my last name a bad thing?" He snapped too quick, like he meant it, you couldn't tell.
Your gaze softened, turning the words in your head. Shit, you thought, your fingers absentmindedly finding its way to the stamp of his name against his dog tags.
You didn't even know anymore, whatever this hell of a tangle of feelings was about.
He looked down at his boots then, his jaw ticking, like he was irritated with what he said. He tucked his cigarette in his pocket. fidgeting with the flap once.
Neither of you moved.
Then he blinked once fast, then slowly, like he was thinkin' about it, but then he noticed.
His eyes saw your fingers against his last name, his shoulders drooped a little. His eyes shifted from your smart mouth to your eyes, slow, he tilted his head.
He didn't say anything, didn't take what he said back and you didn't know if that was worse, because the feelings in your chest started getting bothersome.
You felt your heart skip a few beats, you looked away but then you see a hand in front of you, knuckles split near to the bone, bruised, fingers caked with asphalt and blood.
You stared at it.
“I can get up.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Sometime before Christmas.” He urged you with his fingers, curling once, beckoning you to shut up and take it.
You took his hand.
He hauled you up too fast, too close. Your eyes locking with his. Like both of your stubborn will only led you both closer. Your shoulder hit his chest, and for half a second, the tags hidden under his shirt pressed between you.
Your name.
His heartbeat.
Your ruined common sense.
Joe looked down at you.
The hard line of his mouth cracked just a little.
Then it was gone.
“Watch your ass next time,” he muttered dropping your hand.
“You watch yours.”
“I always do.”
“You don’t. That’s why I keep ending up near you.”
His mouth twitched.
“Yeah, right.” he scoffed, "Last I recall, I hauled your ass outta there."
You let out a scoff back tearing your eyes off his. Every smart retort you had died in your throat.
The words still ringing in your head, you can't seem to forget what he said or that look on his face.
When the line started moving again, he stayed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours twice.
And all the way out of Carentan, his name kept tapping against your chest like a second pulse.
