Chapter Text
Years and years later Eugene would hear the words from a historian, who was wide-eyed and desperate to know what it had been like, what it had really been like. He clung to every word he said, picked them apart like a puzzle.
Twenty-six hundred Eighth Air Force men died, the man said. More than all the US Marines lost in the entire war.
Eugene knew this. But it wasn't even the half of it.
Wasn’t even the beginning of it.
November 1943
The South of England
For Eugene, it’s difficult to pinpoint when exactly everything starts. If he was in the mood to be existential, he could go back to Sarajevo thirty years ago, or to Poland in 1939, or even to Pearl Harbor. He could say it began when he left university with the plan to find a job in a hospital, took a left turn to a red cross station and instead ended up at some craggy RAF base buried in the folds of the English countryside.
But really, he knows precisely when it begins. It began on a day that had been quiet, with no new patients and an infirmary with rows and rows of empty beds. A day in late November when the clouds were thick and white, and hung low and heavy with the promise of snow. The land below was all hills that looked like ocean waves, the grass browned and layered under frost. Ancient stone walls crisscrossed the countryside, interrupted only by the occasional skeletal tree.
Eugene stood outside the infirmary, smoking a rare and treasured cigarette. The tobacco was harsh in his lungs, but the sort one could lean into. He watched a brown cow on the horizon chew lazily on a clump of dried grass, it’s tail swishing lazily. Eugene nearly envied the creature, it’s obliviousness and lack of responsibility. He exhales a cloud, watches it tangle in the icy air and dissipate. The cow’s ears flicked as it moved it’s head towards the east. Eugene frowns, but a moment later he hears it too- the low buzz of engines. Eugene tenses, there’s no way to know if the aircraft are German, British, or American by the sound of their engines alone. If there is, Eugene is oblivious to it. He tilts his head back and the clouds are so low that the fleet is nearly on top of him before he’s able to decipher the familiar wing patterns of the B-17s and P-51s. Hundreds of metallic birds, knifing open the sky and clouds. They fill the air with the roar of their engines until it’s all Eugene can hear and he’s just about drowning in it, until it’s all there is. He turns, the wind pushing his hair in his face as droves and droves of planes cut open the sky.
He throws down his cigarette with a sigh. He was hoping they’d be British, but he knows to count his blessings when they come.
The bombers continue north towards their base a few miles away, whilst the fighters land at the airstrip across from the infirmary, which functioned more like a field hospital. Eugene takes a moment to watch, fascinated by the way the planes practically float to the ground, suspended for a moment in the air before the wheels kiss the ground and the entire plane jolts with the impact, the pilot bouncing in his seat. The ground crews rush to inspect the plane and help pull the pilot out, and it’s only when they do that Eugene curses- the man’s leg is almost entirely off.
When he makes it back into the infirmary, it’s madness. Nurses and doctors are running around, throwing together a cocktail of bandages and morphine and ushering in the pilots already coming in on gurneys, their faces tight with pain. There’s a large clump of people gathered around one in particular and he shoves his way through to the pilot with most of his leg gone.
Eugene can’t help the intake of breath. It isn’t pretty, and he was used to burns and bullet holes, shrapnel in the legs and shoulders, pneumonia and lungs ruined by faulty respirators, not limbs that were hanging on by a few tenuous strands of tendon. There’s quite possibly more blood than he’s ever seen in his life, it covers the gurney and his uniform and everyone so much as near him. Amazingly the pilot is still awake, eyes lost and unfocused, caught in a dense fog of shock. The pilot is muttering something that sounds horribly like, “I gotta get up.”
A nurse knocks Eugene’s shoulder and he’s jolted back to himself like a puppet whose strings had been yanked tight. Eugene shakes his head and calls for anesthetic, for an operating room to be prepared. They wheel the man in just as the lights are flickering on and Eugene is dunking the scalpel into antiseptic, muttering a prayer.
“Can it be reattached?” A nurse asks, her face pale as the man passes out. Other nurses are already cutting away his pants, yanking off his respirator, lifevest, parachute and jacket.
“How did this even happen?” Eugene mutters instead of replying. Pilots didn’t just lose limbs and still fly the plane all the way back. There're a lot of bad jobs in the world, but cutting off a man’s leg had to be one of the worst he thinks, wiping down the blade of the bone saw.
Eugene’s mind settles, the scent of antiseptic strong enough to drown out that of blood and the commotion and the frantic tangle of languages. The bright fluorescence and his own pounding heart melt into a single pin prick, a needle knife edge of focus and Eugene shifts into another part of himself and nothing else matters but this.
His grandmother said God put everyone on this planet for a reason, and as Eugene lowers the saw, he wonders if he’s the luckiest or unluckiest man to ever walk the earth.
Babe had a gift. That was what everyone said. It was what Captain Winters said when Babe climbed out of his cockpit at the end of each mission, his plane dotted with bullet holes and the glass cracked and splintered like a spiderweb. It was what Liebgott said when Babe took out four Messershcmdits in half an hour. It was what Army command told him, and the British pilots who flew with him, and the bomber crews who watched with stunned eyes at the way he flew, like he’d been born inside a plane.
But as the runway made its appearance in the distance, his plane coughing on the last dregs of fuel still in the belly of her engine, it didn’t feel much like a gift.
His grip was knuckle tight on the controls and sweat poured down his face and slipped over his goggles, the air that came through his respirator was thin and tasted of gas. There was a cold dread clawing at his throat that had been working it’s way up from his gut for the better part of an hour. He dipped below the low clouds, weighed down with the promise of coming snow. Beneath him the small English town is spread out like a patchwork quilt. The fields beyond were crisscrossed with stone walls and trees. Pale faces gazed up at him from the town, the breaths leaving their throats as the plane hacked open the clouds at a speed entirely too fast.
The sprawling runways and fields of the RAF base approached and Babe watched the plane a ways in front of him- Bill’s plane, which was a mess of bullet holes and part of the canopy had shattered completely. The left side of the plane was crumpled like a sheet of aluminium, a trail of coughing grey smoke followed in its wake.
Babe’s grip further tightened as Bill descended in front of him, the plane jolting horribly when he all but crashed into the runway, skidding a lurching halt at the end of the runway. For everything Bill was- brash, reckless, and protective, he’d never been a messy flyer. There was no way to make it as a pilot otherwise. The awful landing had Babe sweating, fear and worry lancing up his shoulders like cold water.
Babe circled above for a few minutes, waiting for his chance to land. As soon as he saw Luz’s plane come to a halt he dove in, his stomach dropping away from him in a rush. The grey pavement filled his vision entirely. It was seconds before the plane’s outstretched wheels kissed the runway, reaching out like a child for their mother, that Babe realized he was going much, much too fast.
His mind spun, the intense dogfight had left him disoriented and pale to the point that now he’d gone and forgotten the basics. The things which normally came as naturally as breathing. His heart stuttered as he yanked up on the controls, hoping to pull out and circle around again and come in at a slower speed. Unfortunately, he did this just as the wheels hit the ground and the plane wobbled horribly, the nose aimed towards the ground before settling and Babe yanked the controls again, pointing them straight down the runway instead of left into the fields and parked Jeeps. Wide-eyed faces watched him as he sped down the concrete, eating up too much of the runway much too fast.
“Shit.” Babe wrenched the controls as close to his body as possible, his muscles shaking with the effort and his back arching off the chair and pushing at the safety belts as the plane blessedly slowed and came to a halt, only feet from a parked Spitfire.
Babe collapsed into his seat, his body turning to boneless jell-o. For a moment all he could do was blink at the control panel, the plane still humming around him. His chest heaved as he worked to get in enough oxygen and he tore off the respirator, inhaling great lungfuls of real air. It was like surfacing from the bottom of the sea.
His ground crew was already bustling around the plane, looking for damage on their baby. Once the engine was off and the respirator disconnected, the plane no longer became the pilot’s, instead the ground crew took over. Babe could see them glaring at him as they thumbed the bullet holes.
Babe took one more deep breath before unbuckling the safety belt and tearing off his goggles and helmet. His red hair was matted with enough sweat that it looked like he’d dunked his head under water. Babe grips at the glass of the cockpit and wrenches it open, a cold wind ruffling through.
The plane behind him lands with a low roar as Babe stands on legs that feel more like uncooked noodles than bone and muscle, when Julian pushes him back down with a firm grip.
“What the fuck?” Babe hisses, his hands still shaking with adrenaline, the endorphins moving through him like a drug. It kept him alive, but Babe knew that in half an hour he’d be too tired to stand. Too tired to argue with Julian.
Babe was the youngest pilot in the squadron, but somehow Julian never failed to make him feel old. He tries to stand again and Julian pushes him back.
“Jesus Christ let me go!” Babe yells, his voice high and tight. “I gotta see if he’s okay!”
Julian purses his lips. There’s a canteen of water in his hands. The rest of the ground crew watches as he whispers, “You don’t wanna see it, Babe.”
“To Hell with that, he’s my best mate. I gotta go.” This time when Babe climbs out Julian doesn't try to stop him, only watches him go with a twisted expression, the plane still running and the first flakes of snow just beginning to fall.
Babe sits outside the operating room for nearly three hours. He misses the debriefing and report, which he knows he’ll be in trouble for later. At least Major Winters was pretty lenient.
Babe chews his fingernails down to the skin, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he can’t chew his nails anymore he paces up and down the hallway, like an animal in a cage. At some point a nurse comes by and convinces him to take off his gear, which he hadn’t even realized was still on. She brings him water. Joe Toye and George Luz stop by, their faces paleing by what the nurse has to tell them and the relative silence coming from the operating room. At some point Captain Nixon arrives, but is unable to stay for long. The three of them watch the sunset through the windows, masked by a wall of clouds and a ferocious snow storm. Babe is thankful to not be in the sky.
Babe chews his lip, finally sitting down. If he stops moving though, his mind wanders back to a few hours earlier over the english channel. He was another plane in the combined fleet of bombers and escort fighters that filled the sky like starlings. They were on their way back from a run over northern France. There was a ball of warmth in his stomach, a comfortableness in the endless ocean and the hundreds of men around him. All the targets had been hit, the fighters hadn’t had to do much apart from look pretty and get out of the bombers' way. It was when the beaches of France slipped from view and the heavy clouds of fog settled over the channel that things went to hell and a handbasket.
A dozen Bf-109s had descended from the sky like hawks, the clouds wicking off their wings as the sky was filled with the pop of gunfire from every direction. Babe’s heart climbed into his throat, and that heady thrill that came with combat found him and set his blood on fire.
Often, it was easy to forget that there were men in those planes. That there were men all around him, hurtling in metal tubes through the sky. It was normally so easy to forget, to disconnect, but for a moment, when the messerschmidt dropped from the sky in front of him, and fired point blank Babe didn’t forget for a single moment that Bill was right there.
He didn’t forget this as he rolled out of the way, the belly of the plane towards the horizon as Babe’s vision swam in and out of focus at the sudden movement. The dark water of the ocean was spread out beneath him like an endless roll of fabric, waves crashing against one another in a spray of salt. From the corner of his eye he saw a massive B-17 crash into the sea, the plane thrown apart on impact as Babe’s own plane rattled with the force of the messerschmidt screaming past.
Babe pulled out of the roll and pushed forward on the throttle. The simplest rule of dogfighting was this; you didn’t want the enemy behind you or on top of you which meant you had to have altitude on your side.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the left side of Bill’s cockpit had been crushed like a tin can from where the wing of the messer had skimmed its side, Babe’s jaw nearly dropped- that was the kind of shit you pulled with bombers, not the tiny P-51s. The move had been costly, the german plane had gone crashing into the sea. By some miracle, Bill was still flying the plane.
There was a burst of enemy fire from behind him and Babe cursed, climbing at a near 90-degree angle into the clouds. His stomach fell away, the ocean fell away and became sky and clouds. Blackness edged at his vision and he took measured breaths to clear them. To his relief, the German fell for it. Babe knew the P-51 could climb higher and faster than the clunky Bf-109, but one look at his fuel gauge and his stomach plummeted while his plane soared, the skin of the water growing smaller and smaller. He only had one chance to do this. He sent a prayer to God, could practically feel Him holding him in his hands at this altitude. Babe was close enough to the sun he thought he could kiss it.
At the top of the climb Babe’s mind settled as he grinned, and he cut the engine.
The word fell silent, and all he could hear was his own rattling breath and the German behind him.
Babe fell, swapped the view of the sky for the sea and watched as the German pilot realized what had happened, the fear clouding his face before his engine cut as well and didn’t start again. Babe fired, and the german plane spun like a corkscrew towards the open maw of the sea.
The door to the operating room cracked open, yanking him from his memories. The three exhausted pilots all stood as an enervated doctor exited, his white coat stained with blood and heavy bags hung under his eyes. Babe swallowed.
The doctor looks at all of them at the same moment that Babe asks, “Is he okay?”
“What happened?” Joe demands.
While George, for all his optimism asks, “Is he still kicking?”
The doctor looks at them in turn, a furrow between his brows as his gaze lingers on Babe.
“He’s alive.” The doctor announces and the tension in Babe’s shoulders unwinds. “But he’s hurt real bad, won’t see another day of combat.”
“How hurt?” Joe’s eyes narrow.
The doctor runs a hand through his hair. “We had to amputate his leg.”
“Jesus!” Babe exclaims. “His leg ?”
Neither George nor Joe seem fazed, they’d seen Bill being wheeled in, the state he was in. The news was merely confirming their fears. The joking smile at the corner of George’s lips falter, then falls apart all together.
The doctor nods solemnly, and he seems genuinely sorry. “He won’t fly again. He’s going home.”
Home . Philadelphia. Babe sits down beside the pile of his gear and runs a hand over his face. He sees brown streets and American flags, Bill as a kid staring up at the blue sky as they smoked on the fire escape, the smell of Geno’s carrying all the way to Front Street. Home was Ma's cooking and Babe making a face at his first bite of Bill’s sub-par rigatoni. It was dirty streets and dirtier kids and the steeple of Independence Hall over it all. The words he won’t fly again circling in his head.
George and Joe pat his back and thank the doctor before quietly turning away. Their footsteps are loud in the hall.
Babe rubs his eyes, he isn’t crying but he feels like he should be. All he can see is him and Bill as kids, running through the city with stolen candy and arguing over whether rigatoni or shepherd’s pie was better. He remembers Bill laughing and dragging a heartbroken Babe home from the bar, sees him in his pilot’s uniform and the first time he gets in a plane, sees the messerschmidt coming from the clouds and the cold dread that settles in his stomach like a rock.
A hand rubs up and down his back and when he looks up the doctor is sitting beside him, not saying anything but staring at the floor with that hundred-yard stare like he’s seeing but not really looking. But Babe looks at him.
The doctor glances up. His eyes are a deep grey, and there’s a patch of stubble along his jaw. He’s young, right around Babe’s age.
“He’s going home. He’s safe now.”
Jesus, when had safety become a luxury? He leans into the doctor, this stranger, who for a brief moment just holds him. He holds him because he knows. He feels this everyday damn day and it’s supposed to just be part of the job.
When the darkness outside settles despite the storm and the blackout curtains are pulled down tight over the windows, Babe moves away and mutters, “Sorry about all that.”
The doctor waves him off. “Don’t worry.”
“Can I come back and see him?”
“Sure.” He says, standing up. “He’ll be someplace else but I can’t tell you where yet.”
Babe stands as well. “Thank you. For saving him.”
He only smiles, sad and small before walking down the hallway with his bloody sleeves and tired eyes and Babe looks towards the ceiling towards the clouds and sky and where heaven should be. He felt like a child whose comfort object had been ripped away. He blinks, pretends the fluorescent lights are the sun.
It’s only then that Babe realizes he never got his name.
Eugene washes off his hands in the basin, under all the blood his skin is cracked and red, rubbed raw by the potent soup. The blackout curtains are pulled back, flooding the ward with natural light. Outside the snow held tight to the land, and the sky was an oyster-grey that hid the sun. The floor of the hospital seemed intent on dragging Eugene down into it, and he wanted to let it do so, so long as it let him sleep.
When he looks up from the pink water circling the drain, Renée is glaring at him with enough venom that Eugene’s stomach twists unpleasantly. He shakes off his hands (there’s no towels, those are all being used as spare bandages) and turns towards her. “Renée?”
“When was your shift supposed to end?” She snaps.
Eugene wipes his hands on his white lab coat and mumbles, “Two hours ago.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Well Spina isn’t here yet.” He tries. Spina was the other head doctor, he tended to work opposite shifts of Eugene.
“No, he got here two hours ago. He’s in the operating room.”
Eugene hisses. How could he not have known? “On who ?”
She shrugs. “Some ground crew kid playing with a gun.”
“Jesus.” He runs a hand through his hair and moves towards the surgical ward when Renée pushes him back, her expression stern and not unlike his french grandma.
“You are going to go back to your room and sleep. You look like a walking ghost.”
“I’m fine.”
“ Non .” She pushes him towards the door. “If I see you back in this ward before seven hours have past I will personally sedate you. Now go .”
Eugene stumbles out into the hallway and glares at the door Renée slams behind him. He mumbles some choice words in French when a dry laugh makes him look up.
“She kicked you out too?”
He finds the pilot from yesterday (the one with both his legs), leaning against the wall. He’s wearing his uniform with the A-10 jacket, but he isn’t logged down by the parachute and lifevest, and his red hair shines cleanly where it’s no longer clumped together with sweat and grime. Eugene takes a moment to look at him without the panic of the surgery hanging over them both. The pilot is tall and gangly, with a sloping nose and warm eyes, his smile crooked and big enough that it splits his narrow face in two. Eugene doesn't want to stop looking.
He swallows, gathering himself. “What are you doing here?”
The pilot leans off the wall. “I wanted to go see Bill but the nurse said they ain’t allowing visitors yet. I told ‘em you said I could come, but I didn’t know your name so they didn’t believe me.”
Eugene looks back at the shut door. Bill was in a different ward then the one he’d just exited, and if he was lucky he wouldn’t run into Renée at all. He was tired enough that he considered telling the pilot to just return to the base, Eugene was fighting to keep his eyes open at all. The exhaustion was settled deep into his bones and stretched him thin. He wore it like a heavy coat.
Still, he welcomed the distraction the pilot was giving him, the excuse not to sleep. He knew if he returned to his room, the blackout curtains pulled down so the room was dark as night, that his mind would throw up image after image of all the blood under his nails and the way the men screamed in his arms. The way they died no matter what he did.
Eugene cocks his head down the hall as he fishes out a cigarette. “He probably ain’t awake yet, but I’ll take you to him.”
“Gee, really? You’re a lifesaver.” The pilot falls in step with him as Eugene lights the cigarette, the nicotine flushing out the stress of the past sixteen hours. “I’m Babe, by the way.”
Eugene frowns around this cigarette, tucking his lighter away. “Pardon?”
“Right, sorry.” The pilot laughs. “Forget that can be off-putting. It’s an old nickname because I’m the youngest of six and two years younger than Bill so everyone calls me the baby of the family and one day that became Babe, and it stuck like molasses. My real name’s Edward, but it don’t sound right no more. Most of the guys don’t even know my real name, so you gotta keep it secret.”
Eugene smiles to himself as they turn a corner. “I’ll guard it real safe, Edward.”
“Hey! That doesn't mean you can go around calling me that. What’s your name anyways- and how’d you become a doctor? You can’t be much older than me.”
“Eugene.” He says, exhaling a cloud of smoke and Babe just stares at him for a moment and Eugene doesn't know if he wants him to look away or keep looking.
“Eugene.” Babe repeats like he’s testing out the word, seeing how it sits on his tongue and rolls out of his mouth. He grins just as they step into another ward, and Eugene shivers like someone’s placed a cold hand on his back.
The ward was considerably emptier than the last with only a few nurses bustling around. It was hollowed and soundless as a cave, with the same void-like suction that leached off one’s energy. Eugene couldn’t explain it, there were flowers and it was bright, the sheets were clean and nobody was yelling, but Babe’s grin slid off his face when he spotted Bill near the end of the row, nearest the window. Babe stops walking like he’s reached the end of a length of rope and can’t go any further. His eyes go blank, and Eugene sees the pilot he saw yesterday- exhausted and half in shock, trying to wrap his head around it.
Babe blinks, takes a slow step forward. Then a couple more. He steps across all the way across the ward to the bed. Bill is pale, nearly the same color as the sheets and the clouds outside. There’s an IV drip pumping fluid into his arm. He’s out cold, and Eugene doesn't expect for him to be waking up properly for another day or so. For a man who’d always seemed larger than life, Bill looks small amongst the sheets. He looks like a ghost, only a small sliver of the man Babe has grown up with.
Babe takes off his cap, wringing it in his hands before turning to Eugene. “He’ll be okay, right?”
Eugene nods. “Anyone who can fly a plane with their leg half-off isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
Babe gives a small smile that makes Eugene’s gut twist as he turns back to his friend. “When will he wake up?”
“Tomorrow or the next day I expect.”
“Can I come back?” Babe asks with the earnestness of a child, like he’s afraid Eugene will actually say no.
“Sure. He ain’t going nowhere.”
“Will you let me know if he wakes up?”
“Of course.” Eugene isn’t exactly sure how he is supposed to find Babe. He nods anyways.
The tensenes in Babe’s shoulders slackens and he nods, fitting the cap back over his orange hair. He smells of army soap and motor oil.
“Thanks, Gene. I appreciate it.” He adds on his way out.
Eugene watches him go, and forgets about the cigarette in his hands until it singes his fingers and he drops it on the linoleum. He stomps it out and glances at Bill, and wonders what he’s like, why Babe cares so much. Perhaps he’s spent too much time distancing himself, and he knows better than to get friendly with a fighter pilot because fighter pilots don’t come back. It’s suicide signing up for the AAF. It makes Bill look lucky.
He kicks aside the cigarette before leaving and thinks, you better wake up .
Babe comes back the next day at the same time, although this time he’s already beside Bill’s bed instead of waiting in the hallway. Eugene didn’t realize that he was hoping Babe would come back until he saw him, safe and sound whilst composing a letter. He frowned as he wrote, his eyebrows drawn as the pen stilled before he resumed his scribbling. Eugene steps across the room and checks Bill’s IV drip, Babe looks up when he does and the careful concentration melts into a jaunty grin.
“Hey, Gene!”
“Hello, Edward.” He says, flicking the IV bag as the drip resumes.
Babe makes a face. “What did I say about calling me that?”
“Frankly ‘Babe’ sounds just as ridiculous.”
“I can’t win with ya.” Babe flops back in the chair, raising his arms as if in defeat. “I’ll never argue with a doctor again.”
Eugene checks Bill’s pulse then scribbles something onto his clipboard. “Has he woken up yet?” Babe asks.
Eugene shakes his head. “Not that I know of. One of the nurses might know.”
Babe shakes his head and gestures towards the letter. “I thought I’d write his Ma, I figured the very official letter from Captain Winters might freak her out a bit. Maybe she’ll send him flowers. It might brighten up the place.”
“There’s flowers here in the spring.” Eugene offers, although he doubted Bill would be here in the Spring, as soon as he was strong enough he’d be shipped back to Philadelphia. “It’s not as gloomy as the winter.”
Babe looks out the window at the characterically grey English sky. The cow is still out there, although this time there’s a second one with her.
“Say, Gene, where ya from?” Babe asks, already onto the next topic. He’s leaning forward in his chair, his feet angled towards Eugene.
Eugene lifts back the blankets and shaked his head at the dirty bandages, he doesn't miss Babe’s sharp intake of breath.
“Louisiana.” He pulls out a roll of bandages and begins unrolling the ones off the stump of Bill’s leg. “Small town, little ways from New Orleans.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to New Orleans.” He says, voice tight with his eyes glued to what’s left of Bill’s leg and the ugly stitches and sutures keeping it together. “He’s gonna be alright, right?”
Eugene doesn't look at Babe. Can’t bring himself too. His hands work methodically but gently, cutting away the bandages that stick before carefully rewrapping it with the clean ones. The bandages are the color of clouds, or frost.
When it’s done he finally brings himself to look at Babe, who isn’t looking at Bill at all. He’s looking at Eugene like he’s seeing him for the first time. It steals the breath from his lungs and makes his head spin.
It’s right about then that Eugene realizes he’s in trouble.
He dosen’t rightly know what he’s doing, but Babe is back the next day after a lesson learning about basic controls and such, as well as new maneuvers. The pilots are given an hour of free time in the middle of the day when they aren’t flying missions over occupied territory, and Babe’s squadron is on two week rest. He doesn't know if he’s grateful for it, but the anxiety of going back into the air weighs heavily on him.
When he enters the ward this time, the nurse doesn't try to stop him and he goes straight to the end where Bill is. His smile grows when Bill turns to look at him, he’s sitting up in the bed amongst a mountain of pillows and he doesn't look as small as he did the days before.
When Babe reaches his bed he isn’t really sure what to say, so he just stands there, gaping like a fish until Bill gives a dry laugh and says, “Get over here, kid.”
Bill ruffles his hair and Babe pretends not to grimace. He’s just glad to see him awake, the shock of nearly losing his best friend, brother, really- had him reeling. He thought he’d finally found his footing in life, a solid piece of ground to stand on and it had all been ripped away in a matter of minutes. Bill pushes him back to get a good look at him, like a grandmother who hasn’t seen her grandson in years. Bill narrows his eyes, but upon finding no scratch or bruise nods in approval and slaps Babe’s arm much too hard for someone in a hospital bed.
“Look, Bill, I’m real sorry-”
“For what?” Bill laughs. “Shooting down that Kraut? I just about shit myself when I saw you cut the engine like that at the top of the climb. Thought you were fucking suicidal before I realized what stunt you were pulling and then I nearly shit myself again.”
Babe shakes his head. “I coulda gotten him, but I froze when he came out of nowhere like that, if I hadn’t done that you might not be in this bed right now.”
“Look, Babe. You can’t go around thinking like that. You’ll get grey hairs.”
“Like yours?”
“Punk.”
“Bastard.”
Eugene clears his throat above them. Babe beams at the sight of him. It goes straight to Eugene’s dumb heart.
“Hey Bill, ya met Gene, yet? He’s the one who stitched your leg together.”
Bill looks up at Eugene then back towards Babe. “Yeah, I know ‘im. We’re well acquainted.”
“He woke up yesterday after you left.” Eugene scribbles on that clipboard of his again. “He was real groggy.”
“How the Hell do you know each other?” Bill glances between the two, his voice sharp.
Eugene wraps up a roll of bandages, clipping them into place. “Edward’s been stopping by everyday.”
Bill turns to Babe, whose face has gone red and he starts laughing. “ Edward ?”
“Ah, shaddup Bill.”
“Should I go tell him your middle name too?” Bill howls, and turns to Eugene. “It’s Aodgha-”
“Alright!” Babe says standing up. “Don’t even know why I hung around for you bastard, I gotta go catch Liebgott and see if he’s still got a game of gin rummy going.”
Eugene and Bill watch him go, Eugene biting back a smile.
“He ain’t ever played gin rummy in his life.” Bill says fondly.
Eugene watches Babe until he’s completely disappeared, shaking his head. “Aodghan, huh?”
Bill just laughs.