Chapter Text
Babe didn’t pay much attention to Doc Roe, not at first. Of course, he appreciated the medic and his work, knew with quiet confidence that if ever anything happened to him, Doc would be there, but the truth was that the small, dark-haired boy from Louisiana never really factored much in his thoughts.
Until Bastogne. Babe isn’t sure what caused the change, what brings the medic more and more to mind as the days drag on. Perhaps it’s the physical conditions, the cold and the hunger and the constant, uneasy boredom. Perhaps it’s the shelling; almost every day someone is wounded – sometimes the wounds are minor, sometimes grievous – and the sight of Doc sprinting past his fox-hole, medical bag in hand, becomes all too familiar. Or it might be Spina, who was always much freer with his conversation than Roe, and who has begun to regale Babe with grisly tales of his own work on the battlefield. Whatever the cause, Babe often finds his thoughts drifting to Doc, with his red-cross armband and his blood-covered jacket. Eyes drifting to him as he sits silently while everyone else talks and laughs, listening to the conversation but never part of it. Babe notices his hair, unnaturally dark and thick like an animal’s, and the way his nose is a constant shade of angry pink. He thinks of Doris, whose nose was always pink, too, and remembers the way it used to brush his cheek, just as his own nose traced her jaw and breathed in her scent. For a moment – just a moment – Gene takes her place, soft skin switched for hard stubble, rosewater switched for sweat and blood and sulfa… Babe shakes his head, surprised and somewhat ashamed at himself, and tries to bury these thoughts.
The morning is cold – well, colder than usual – and Babe is more grateful than ever of his gloves. Spirits along the line are high, considering the circumstances; Joe Dominguez’s ‘rancid-ass beans’ are just as rancid as ever, but they are also more plentiful than usual, and the men silently thank whoever’s scrounging abilities have blessed them with this bounty. Babe can’t decide whether to savour his portion or to cram it into his mouth as quickly as humanly possible, and he stares at the beans, conflicted.
“I don’t think Hitler’s in your beans, Babe.” Skip Muck’s voice comes from somewhere above him.
He decides to go with Option #2, and tips the whole lot straight down his throat. Skip thumps down heavily next to him, completing the circle.
“What a shame. For a minute there I thought we could all go home.” Malarkey has gone with Option #1 and appears to be inspecting each bean individually before he eats it.
“Keep dreamin’ buddy. At this rate Hitler’ll die of old age before we ever jump into Berlin.”
“Not if we die of old age first.”
The good-natured chatter continues, but Babe barely notices it. Instead, not for the first time, his attention is focused on Gene, who sits a small way off from the rest, smoking and staring into the distance.
“Was he always like that?” Babe asks no-one in particular.
“Who, Doc?” Malarkey swivels to eye Gene. “Like what?”
“I dunno. Off by himself. Has he always done that, you know, since Toccoa?”
Malarkey shrugs and returns to his beans. “It’s a medic thing.”
“Didn’t they tell you that at basic?” Skip looks at him. Babe shakes his head. “A medic can’t get too close to the men, ‘cause then he can’t do his job properly. Hard to think straight when you’re elbow deep in your friends’ intestines.” He laughs and elbows Babe genially.
The logic of it hits Babe immediately. He’d always thought the Cajun boy was just a natural loner, but the thought of him isolating himself on purpose makes Babe’s heart ache.
“What about Spina? He’s friends with everybody.”
“Yeah, but that’s Spina. You could lock him in a box at the bottom of the ocean and he’d find a way to make friends with the fish.”
Babe continues to watch Gene. He shouldn’t be alone, he thinks, not here. Absurdly, he resolves to make friends with the medic. Right now. He pushes himself to his feet before he can think better of the idea, forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. Part of him is screaming, this is dumb, and he isolated himself for a reason and you should leave him to it, and he doesn’t want to be your friend. But another part of him, stronger but far less articulate, propels him forward.
He asks Gene for a light, even though he knows he has one in his jacket pocket. For a horrible moment he wonders if Gene knows it too, but Gene offers up his own lighter without hesitation, holding it still in front of Babe’s cigarette until the flame takes. “Thanks.”
“How’re your feet?”
“Oh, you know, good. They hurt, but whose feet don’t?” Babe laughs weakly and takes a drag, wondering what madness possessed him to try and start this conversation.
“You keeping ‘em dry?” The look of authoritative concern Gene gives him makes the knot in his stomach tighten. He wills it away, wishing he could understand why it was even there in the first place.
“Yeah… yeah, I…” He swallows. “How– How’re your feet, Gene?”
“What?”
“Well, you know, you’re always askin’ everybody how they are, but no-one ever asks you how you are, so… so… I’m askin’.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. But it was too late to back out now.
“I’m fine, Heffron.” Gene’s eyes are lit up with wry amusement. “Thanks for asking.”
“Okay. Good… Okay. Well I’ll uh, I’ll see you around, Doc.”
As he wills the flush to fade from his cheeks, Babe reflects that all the nervous stammering and butterflies were worth it to bring that faint smile to Gene’s lips.