Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sharing a foxhole with the quiet medic from Louisiana was a privilege most of the men fought for. Unbeknownst to the medic of course.

Babe had quickly figured out that when it came to choosing a foxhole buddy, Gene was a favorite — mostly because he was quiet, which was a rarity among the men, but also because he was known to scrounge up special treats for whoever he was sharing a hole with, whether it was a spare blanket to share, a cup of hot coffee, or — wonder of wonders — a chocolate bar. No one could figure out where Gene got them, but every now and then the man would show up with a frozen bar of chocolate cradled in his hands.

Babe had taken to calling dibs on a foxhole with Gene ever since Holland. He told himself that it was because he liked the comfortable silence, and the sleep that came with it; that it definitely did not have anything to do with the way Gene shivered like a leaf when he slept, or the way he stopped shivering only when Babe sidled up against him. It had nothing to do with Gene’s hands, the way they rubbed at his tired eyes, or fiddled with the meager supplies in his medic bag, or gripped the edge of the blanket. Nothing to do with the longing Babe felt to reach out and hold those hands in his, to rub them between his own and share some of his warmth, some of his heat.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

Babe studied the medic sleeping across from him. He was curled up as small as he could manage, his hands buried in his threadbare blanket, his nose it’s perpetual shade of pink. Babe had often thought there was something graceful about him, a bit like a deer. Elegant, nimble, soft. Not an ounce of predator in him.

Gene was made to be a medic. Try as he might, Babe couldn’t picture him as anything else. His compassion, his fierce protectiveness, his instinct to heal. Those things hadn’t magically appeared when he strapped on that red cross. Babe knew from late nights spent curled together, sharing stories and memories of home, that it came from deep within Gene. Saving people was in his blood.

It made Babe’s chest swell with pride but he couldn't help but worry a little, too. What if Gene’s instinct ran a little too deep? What if it replaced his instinct to survive when it came down to his life or someone else’s? What if one day the one calling for medic was be the dark-haired medic himself? They’d all make sacrifices, sure. They’d run into hell for each other, had done just that on more than one occasion. But Gene. Gene would pull you from hell with his bare hands and go in your place if he could.

The thought made Babe vaguely sick to his stomach. If there was one thing he learned in his years of Catholic school it was that Saints don't belong in hell.

He thought back to the first time he’d seen Gene in action. Operation Market Garden.

Van Klinken had been hit, probably wasn’t even still alive, though Hoobler claimed he was. Buildings were exploding, bricks and bullets flying in all directions, and there was Gene, running headlong in the wrong direction. And then, moments later, he was running back, dragging an unconscious Van Klinken behind him. How the hell he’d managed to move a man twice his size nearly fifty yards was beyond Babe. Let alone how he’d managed to do it without getting blown to hell.

Then, of course, there was the time Babe had seen him go forty-eight hours without stopping to eat, drink, or sleep. He was always moving — running between foxholes, scrounging for supplies, checking on the men after an especially gruesome shelling. When he wasn’t elbows deep in a fellow soldier, he was trying to get to one, risking his life by running straight through an exploding forest in the process.

Babe had, on more than one occasion, and without Gene’s awareness, abandoned the safety of his foxhole to follow him through the chaos. It was the most terrifying thing Babe had ever experienced, and it nearly paralyzed him with the shock of it. But then he’d pinched himself, reminding himself that Gene needed him, needed someone to make sure he didn’t die while trying to keep others alive.

Somehow, the thought of losing Gene made him feel like the world was ending. An image sprang to his mind of Gene lying in the snow, clutching a gurgling wound bleeding too much too quickly, his lips paler that his face as he lay dying in the snow.

And then Babe's world was spinning.

An overwhelming sense of some unknown terror had seized his chest, tightening until there wasn’t any air at all, and he couldn’t breathe. What little breath he could manage came in great heaving gasps, loud enough to wake men foxholes away. He sat ramrod straight in their hole, clawing at his throat, unable to call for help.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Nothing was working, and the world was spinning, and he still couldn’t breathe.

Beside him, Gene started awake, in motion before his eyes were even fully open. He launched himself across the hole, hands flying across Babe to assess the damage, eyes widening in confusion and concern when he found no physical wounds.

“Heffron, you okay? What’s wrong? Babe?”

Babe couldn’t form the words to tell Gene what was happening, wouldn’t have been able to anyway, because he didn’t know. Instead, he grabbed Gene’s hand and squeezed, and focused on trying to breathe.

In and out.

In and out.

He focused on the sound of Gene’s voice in his ear, the sensation of his hand rubbing soothing patterns along his back, grounding him. The feeling of Gene, right there next to him, real and tangible. It was something to hold on to in the white noise of his panic attack. Gene's voice kept Babe above the tide of fear rising within him, threatening to pull him under and drown him in that foxhole in Bastogne.

In and out.

In and out.

Then, suddenly, it was over, and he could breathe again. He leaned back against the dirt wall of their hole and gulped the air that now flowed freely through his lungs, his eyes fixed on where his fingers were still laced with Gene’s.

He couldn’t look at Gene yet, though he could feel his eyes on him.

The force of his realization had overwhelmed him, threatened to, still, if he wasn’t careful. Jesus. How had he not known, how had he not seen this coming, how had he not recognized-

“I love you.”

He looked at Gene, who looked back at him with wide eyes.

Once the words started, they just kept coming.

“I’ve loved you for a while now. Granted it took me this long to figure it out because apparently, I’m an idiot who can’t sort out his own goddamned feelings. I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, god, that’s the last thing I want, so if you want I’ll shut up about it and never bother you again, I swear. But Gene… I don’t know how much time I have left, who knows, maybe I’m only offering you an hour or two, but hell even if I only have five minutes, they're yours. Just say the word.”

Gene’s mouth was hanging slightly open, his cheeks as pink as his nose. He glanced down at their linked hands.

“Gene, say something.”

“Babe, I… you…” Gene glanced up at him, his eyes alive in a way Babe had never seen before. “Yeah. Me too.”

For the second time that night, Babe’s heart stopped. “Wait, what?”

Gene chuckled, but his face was sincere. “I love you.”

“Really?” Babe squeezed Gene’s hand.

Gene squeezed back. “Really. Why else did you think I always picked you to share a hole with every chance I got uh? Had to make sure you were safe.”

Babe could only stare, speechless.

Gene let out a small laugh, one that reminded Babe of his ma’s wind chimes back home. Gene was home, he realized. Had been for a long time.

The world was in upheaval. Everyone displaced, everyone scattering to find even a foothold in the ever-shifting world of war. And yet, somehow, the two of them had managed to find their place, together. Home, security, love. They had it all right there, where their hands met, fitting together like they were made to.

Babe moved towards Gene, the timidity that had colored his earlier words now completely gone. There was no room for uncertainty, not with Gene, not anymore. Babe untangled their hands so he could wrap his arms tightly around Gene, lifting them both to their knees, bodies pressed tightly against each other.

Babe could feel the cool of Gene’s pink nose pressed tightly into his neck and shivered as a kiss was pressed gently into soft skin.

Gene’s helmet had fallen off in his haste to get to Babe, and soft black tufts were tickling his cheek. He pressed a kiss to the side of Gene's head and reveled in the feeling of it — the freedom of affection, without fear. Well, mostly. They would have to be careful. Their love was the purest Babe had ever felt, but he knew it was looked on by many as wrong. As if it were dirty or sinful — something to be ashamed of.

Almost unconsciously, Babe tightened his arms around Gene.

He could never be ashamed. Not of Gene, who was a better man than all of them combined. Gene, who he was convinced could only be an angel, disguised as a blood-covered medic in that frozen wasteland of hell.

Gene, who loved him back.

Babe buried his face in Gene’s hair and whispered those words again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Babe grinned, as something dawning on him. “Hey, Gene… you called me Babe.”