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softguarnere · 8 months

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It Will Have Been Worth It

David Webster x reader

Soulmate!au in which the first words you ever hear your soulmate say appear on your skin when you turn thirteen

A/N: Out of everything I've ever written for this fandom, this fic has been one that has given me the most trouble. According to my notes, I started it on October 31st of last year 😬 None of my ideas for it felt right when I had them on paper, and I eventually just left it sitting in my drafts. Randomly got inspiration for it a few days ago, and now it's done! Better late than never, I guess A very special thank you to @brassknucklespeirs (welcome back babe, I missed you!!!!) and @liebgotts-lovergirl who both chatted with me about this fic last fall when I started it, and who both helped me with ideas all those months ago 💕 As usual, this is written for the fictional depictions from the tv show - no disrespect to the real life veterans! Warnings: alcohol, mentions of war, the author using every impressive high school vocab word she could possibly remember

Just because David has a large vocabulary doesn't mean that he's in total command of it at all times. Throwing around words that make other people furrow their brows as they try to ascertain what he means brings him some sense of satisfaction, but he also has a habit of flashing his arsenal of expressions when he's particularly nervous, hoping to throw off whoever has made him feel as if he's lost his footing. And when he's had a few drinks? Forget about it – all the words he once had at his disposal are suddenly either strung together to form nonsensical sentences or are nowhere to be found.

Is he pretentious? Perhaps, although he would argue that there's much more to the story. An elementary school teacher taking a liking to a poem he wrote when he was eight and exclaiming, "David, I think that you could be a great writer some day!" may have started him down that path, but he ultimately blames the words that appeared on his skin when he was thirteen.

He used to love looking at his parents’ soulmate tattoos. "What a lovely name" on his mother's wrist and "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" on his father's. It always seemed so romantic to him, the thought that those had been the first words that his parents ever heard each other say, and that they got to flaunt those beautiful lines that they had given each other.

"If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it" appeared on the inside of his forearm on his thirteenth birthday. A beautiful line, really.

It's haunted him ever since.

"Make sure that you give your soulmate a tattoo that's just as pretty." His father had winked at him and slid him a piece of birthday cake – strawberry with vanilla buttercream frosting, he still remembers – unaware of the panic he had just set off in David's chest. Because that was the first time he had realized that, yes, he was responsible for giving his soulmate a poetic tattoo. His own is a beautiful turn of phrase. Whoever his soulmate is, they deserve a line that looks just as pretty on their own skin. It’s a duty that he comes to take very seriously.

Every person he meets, Webster makes sure to compose an amiable greeting for them, just in case. He’ll quote Shakespeare if he finds they’re particularly attractive, invoking his parents’ first meeting, since you never know. So what if some people push hard sighs through their nose whenever he opens his mouth to speak? He’s a student of literature; producing striking sentences is half of his job.

And, he reminds himself, one day he’ll find his soulmate, and he won’t have to worry about creating turns of phrase that are unequaled and unforgettable – except for his novels, of course. But whatever words he provides for his soulmate’s mark, he’s determined to make them as dazzling as the bright light thrown from a suncatcher on the clearest summer day.

. . .

It’s at seventeen that he learns that not everyone finds their soulmate. The library is quiet, save for the sounds coming from the diligent scratching of pencils, the turning of pages, and the soft breathing of focused students. He turns a page in his own book and is confronted with the staggering statistic that only twenty percent of people are recorded to find theirs.

“That’s less than one fourth of the population!” He exclaims to himself without meaning to, disrupting the tranquility of the study space and garnering several peeved looks for his outburst. A seemingly unnecessary one to everyone else, but justified in his own mind.

Twenty percent! He’s still aghast as he gathers his own books and escorts himself from the library. The cool breeze blowing through the late afternoon can’t even distract him from the train of thought that has now run off the rails, chugging along through his mind with no sign of stopping.

Because now, come to think of it, people get married all the time, soulmate tattoos or not. And there’s no law or anything stating that you have to marry your soulmate once you meet them; they’re simply the person who would be the best suited for you. You could go about your lives as nothing more than just friends – or worse, nothing at all, even if you did find each other.

To say that the conclusions reached that afternoon astound him would be an understatement of epic proportions. He’s never quite the same after that. But it doesn’t stop his extraordinary expressions.

. . .

War breaks out. He leaves college for the experience. He volunteers for the paratroopers because, even though they’re new, they’re the best. If he wants to write about war – or write anything good, really – he’ll have to get his hands dirty with experience so that the sentences that stain his pages can be clean, clear, concise, and indelible to his readers. Honestly, it’s not until he hears one of the other men in his company point out that the new migrations and travel opportunities given to them by the conflict may well improve their chances of finding their soulmates that he realizes that statistic he once read will soon be incorrect.

For a brief and terrifying moment, Webster – as he is now called amongst his fellow soldiers – thinks that maybe Joe Liebgott is his soulmate, and that he’s responsible for giving him a really awful line. Webster had made an offhanded comment about the quality of the eggs one morning at breakfast, and the Californian had given him such a perplexed look that Webster’s panic led him to believe that the cab driver must have “What do they season their eggs with around here? Sawdust?” somewhere on his person, and that the reason he remained so quiet around him was due to not wanting Webster to hear him speak so that they would never know if they were actually soulmates. Luckily those fears had been laid to rest when Webster caught a glimpse of the words “Cabbie, if you drive any faster, I think the car will start flying” on his leg during a run up Currahee. It turned out that he simply didn’t agree with Webster’s observations on the quality of the eggs. Still, Webster remembers to be more careful with his words.

When he can be, actually. Which is not when he’s been drinking.

The British pub is loud with the sounds of servicemen singing and laughing well into the night. The general consensus that they’re finally going to be thrust into combat soon has filled many men with a renewed zest for life, and from the sounds and sights all around, people are relishing the nights like these while they can. And who can blame them?

“What did they even teach you at Harvard?” Hoobler wants to know as Webster downs a shot. “I mean, as a literature major, and all.”

“Is it just reading?” Skinny Sisk questions. “’Cause if so, then anyone with a library card can probably get a degree.”

Webster purses his lips, his glass returning to the table with a harsh slam that announces the displeasure that he’s trying to keep out of his voice. “Ha ha ha. Very funny.”

“I was being serious,” Hoobler clarifies. “You know, just out of curiosity, and all.”

“How do you even use a literature degree?” The conversation has caught the attention of Joe Toye and George Luz at the next table, and they turn to join Webster, Hoobler, and Sisk, suddenly very interested in the academic intricacies of studying literature.

“Well, I’m studying literature because I want to be a writer,” Webster admits.

“And write about what?”

Webster makes a vague gesture, trying to encapsulate their environment, the lives they’ve lived since enlisting, the world itself – everything. “War,” he says instead, an understatement.

“Hey!” Luz says brightly. “You could review books. There’s an idea.”

Toye cocks an eyebrow. “Is there money in that?”

“You could review Hitler’s book,” Luz continues. “Really tear it apart on it’s word choices, and all that.”

“Hitler can read? Who knew!” Skinny asks, making everyone laugh.

“What do you think he even would read? In all his spare time, I mean, when he’s not invading countries and forcing men like us out of our homes to come and stop him.”

All eyes immediately turn to Webster, expectantly awaiting an answer. The literature student freezes with a bottle of beer halfway to his lips.

“What?” He asks.

“It was a question, Professor,” Toye says. “You gonna answer it?”

“You were serious?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Despite himself, Webster can feel his eyebrows shoot up, betraying his surprise. “How would I know?”

“Well, in your expert opinion,” Luz suggests.

Skinny nudges Hoobler. “He just doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know.”

Heat rushes to Webster’s face, and it’s not entirely from the warm glow of the alcohol. If it weren’t for the dim lighting of the pub, the tips of his ears would probably be glowing a bright pink with his ignominy.

“They didn’t teach me that at Harvard,” he says.

Hoobler smirks. “Uh huh. Sure.”

“Awe, come on!” Webster exclaims. “I’m just trying to fight a war. I am not prepared to make speculations about Hitler’s literary preferences!”

“Excuse me,” a new, much sweeter voice cuts in. At once, all the men’s defenses are down as they turn to see two prepossessing women standing at the edge of their group. They look familiar, somehow, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting and the alcohol, Webster would swear that he’s seen them in passing before. “Hi, I’m Evelyn, and this is my friend (Y/N).”

The second woman, seemingly a little shyer, offers them a small wave and a smile as her friend takes the lead. Perhaps it’s the darkness playing tricks on Webster’s eyes, but he could swear that she’s looking at him, and that she suddenly looks a little fidgety as the introduction goes on.

“We’re with the Red Cross,” Evelyn continues, her words providing explanation as to her familiarity. Then, implausibly, she fixes her gaze directly on Webster. “(Y/N) here has been watching you for a while, so I decided it was high time that we came over and introduced ourselves.” She leaves the obvious unspoken – because war is an uncertain thing and it’s better to die with no regrets than to always wonder what could have been.

Me?! The other paratrooper’s eyes flick between (Y/N) and Webster as he stands, his friends struck with the same sense of wonder. With Skinny or Tab, this sort of scene is not infrequent, but nothing of the sort has happened to Webster – if he’s being completely honest, not even in college.

He clears his throat. So focused on willing his hands not to feel sweaty through sheer force of will, Webster extends his for a shake, not even bothering to watch his words.

“Hello. I’m David Webster,” he says, noticing how soft your hand is in his. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You beam at him. “If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it.”

He freezes. Behind him, he can feel his friends tense up as well. “Oh my God,” he whispers, for it’s all he can do. The words that he’s been waiting his entire life to hear have just come out of your mouth – and he’s just recited what must be the blandest line in the history of soulmate tattoos!

Webster rolls up his shirt sleeve and reveals his tattoo, the beautiful line staring up at him in confirmation. Air vacates his lungs, leaving him breathless as his heart pounds in his chest.

You begin to roll up your own sleeve, and Webster winces at the anticipation of seeing his introduction on your arm. But when the ink on your arm is exposed, you glance up at him, something like a smirk playing at your lips.

“Oh my God,” Webster says again, wanting to kick himself, and for a completely different reason this time.

“It was the first thing that I ever heard you say,” you tell him.

Evelyn gasps, then slaps a hand over her mouth, though it does no good to contain the giggles that still pour out. The other Easy Company men crowd around, trying to catch a glimpse of your arm.

There in the pub, in front of everyone, the first words that you, Webster’s soulmate, ever heard come out of his mouth stain your arm, making several people laugh: I’m just trying to fight a war. I am not prepared to make speculations about Hitler’s literary preferences!

At least now he doesn’t have to waste the rest of his life being so cautious with his words.

#david webster #david webster x reader #band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers x reader #soulmate au #my writing

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