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Summary
“C—Christ, Gene,” Babe choked out, the words scraping past his fangs. “Y—you’re bleeding.”
Eugene stared at him, his arm frozen in midair. The warm blood trailed down his wrist, a stark, throbbing contrast to the bitter chill in the room. He couldn't move; every instinct he had was screaming at him that the soldier standing in front of him wasn't just a wounded boy from Philly anymore.
“Can I?” Babe whispered.
“What?”
“Can I?” he repeated, taking a single, silent step forward. “Please, Gene... I—I need it.”