#bel it KILLED me not to talk about this i'm not even kidding it MURDERED me straight into the GROUND

[blood-mocha-latte]

HAPPY HOLIDAYS @ep6bastogne!!! i was your secret santa :)))

i got a little bit (read: very very very much) carried away with your insanely good prompts, and have written a three part fic for your gift, one part of which will be published today! you asked for modern baberoe angst, and i did my best to meet those standards ;)

read part two HERE :))

read it FULL FIC on ao3 here <3

i.  turn on the laugh track everyone knows you're a wreck you're never this quiet, your smile is cracking you just haven't found what you're looking for yet

4 December

He wakes up, heart trying to break through his ribs, and kicks out in a panic. It’s hot, and sweat seems to boil on his forehead as he finds the sheets under him, kicking out a second time, lungs rattling against his spine.

He manages to throw off the heavy comforter, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. He blinks blearily at the wall, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the icy hand that lands on his lower back.

“Where’d you go?” Eugene murmurs, voice sleep-thick and accent heavy, and Babe turns to look over his shoulder, breath still shaky. 

“Dream.” He says, by way of explanation. Gene’s hand, as freezing as it ever is, leaves his back and he almost misses it. “Just… the comforter.” He stares at the wall of Eugene's bedroom for half a heartbeat, blinks, and stands up. “‘M gonna walk around for a moment. D’you need anything?” Gene rolls onto his stomach, settling into the warm spot that Babe left behind. 

“I can get rid of the blankets, ‘f you want.” He says into Babe's pillow, already dropping off again, and Babe’s chest floods with equal parts warmth and near-embarrassment. “‘M plenty warm.” 

Contrary to his words, he burrows further into the bed. Babe can’t help but huff a laugh. It makes his chest hurt.

“Nah.” He says, and has to clear his throat at the roughness that settled there. “Nah, it’ll be good for me to move around. You need the sleep, anyways.”

Gene’s response is a small huff into the mattress. Babe hurts at the sight of him, and tugs the comforter down over his bare ankle before he leaves the bedroom.

He hasn’t been over at Gene’s a lot, since… everything, but he still remembers which floorboards to step on to avoid making noise. He still remembers where the coffee pot is, where to find the mugs and the cereal and the butter knives. 

He just needs the mug and the coffee pot, but he checks the cutlery drawer just to make sure he’s right about the knives.

(He is.)

Either Gene or one of his roommates had gotten the coffee ready the night before, so all Babe has to do is push the button on the machine and lean back against the kitchen island. He watches the glass pot and avoids thinking.

It’s been weeks, and the one thing Babe’s certain of is that the dreams are usually better, with Gene. Not as vivid. The main problem, it seems, is that Eugene is capable of freezing to death in the Sahara Desert and Babe doesn’t sleep with blankets. Not anymore.

To be fair, he doesn’t do a lot of things anymore.

The coffee machine beeps, and it blinks him back to the present. He grabs a mug from the cabinet — clearly Gene’s, from the words that proclaim it as a part of Beck’s Cajun Cafe, which Luz had gotten him last Christmas — and fills it so that it almost spills over the lip. 

He leans back against the island, afterwards, not wanting to sit down. He taps his fingertips against the ceramic of the mug. 

Last Christmas. Huh. He wonders what he’ll get Gene this Christmas, if he’ll get him anything at all.

He remembers enough to know which floorboards creak in an apartment he slept at one night out of twenty, but he’d forgotten how light of a sleeper that Ralph Spina tends to be.

“Hey,” Spina says, in question, and Babe just about has a heart attack, coffee splashing over the lip of his mug.

“Fuck.” Babe greets back, looking around for the paper towels. He finds them next to the stove, which. Seems unsafe. But hey, he ain’t a doctor. Spina shuffles over to the counter, dropping into one of the barstools. 

His hair is sticking up in all directions, beard scruffy. The bruises under his eyes are smudged purple, and his hoodie has a stain at the stretched out collar. He looks, Babe thinks, more like Crazy Joe McClosky than a paediatrician.

“You look like shit.” Spina offers, and Babe shrugs a shoulder, turning on his heel to grab another coffee mug. He glances at the clock on the microwave. Almost four in the morning.

“Yeah, well.” He says, pours a second mug for Spina. “Guess it’s the time of the year.” Spina grunts.

“Tell me about it.” He mutters, reaching out a hand as Babe shuffles back around the kitchen island, giving him the coffee. “Goddamn, I don’t even work ER.” Babe hums. It’s absent.

“I’ve never seen Gene so knocked out.” He says dryly, plopping down into the stool next to him. “I mean, I could still twitch and he’d wake up, but he’ll fall asleep afterwards. Which, progress.” Spina huffs, blows on his mug.

“You’re datin’ someone with more restless energy than a goddamn hamster.” He tells his coffee. Babe shrugs, takes a sip of his own.

“Yeah,” He says, “‘cept we’re not dating.” Spina blinks at him, but otherwise seems unbothered. He slouches in his stool.

“Shit, really?” He asks, and then seems to backtrack. “I mean, I knew you weren’t, like, going out last month, but I thought that since…” He trails off, shrugs with his coffee. It sloshes in its mug. Babe just shrugs.

He stares at the kitchen counter. November hadn’t counted, for… whatever him and Gene are. Have become. November isn’t a part of them. 

“Nah.” He says. “We’re just… stress relief, I guess.” Spina shoots him an unbelieving look over his coffee, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“Jesus,” He mutters, shifting in the barstool. “And here I was thinkin’ my life is complicated. You’re playing 4D chess in a twelve dimension world, my friend.” Babe snorts, braces his elbows against the counter. 

“It ain’t that bad, in all honesty.” He says, and his skin seems to burn. He shivers to throw off the sensation, tries to forget the comforter that’s now wrapped around Gene. “Just… hectic. But, hell. ‘Tis the motherfucking season.”

Spina grins at him, and it’s wry. “Yeah.” He agrees. “‘Least you don’t gotta worry too much about Gene, then. If you two are just friends. No Christmas obligations.” Babe huffs. When he brings his mug back to his lips, the coffee tastes like ash.

“Think he’s goin’ back down to Louisiana, anyways.” He says. “The week of. He’s been tryin’ to get time off.” Spina shrugs.

“Hope he does.” He says. 

“Yeah.” Babe says back. He doesn’t really, though. He doesn’t want to think about having to sleep in his own room again, where it’s cold and there’s no blankets and both of those things are his own fault, but there’s no Gene, either. Spina leans forward, trying to find the microwave clock around Babe, and huffs.

“Alright.” He says, smacking his palms flat against the counter and standing up. “Time for work.”

“Godspeed.” Babe says dryly. Spina snorts.

“‘Tis the season,” He repeats, downing the rest of his coffee and putting the mug in the sink. “Lots of little kid sniffles. Hell, maybe if I’m lucky, someone will come in with the flu.” 

Before Babe can reply, he turns on his heel, makes his way back to his bedroom. The floorboards creak under his feet, he either doesn’t know which ones not to step on or doesn’t care. Babe stares after him for a moment, thinking, before finishing off his own coffee and heading back to Gene’s room.

Eugene’s still asleep, when he gets there, wrapped in the sheets and comforter and whatever extra blankets he’d picked up along the way, face still buried in Babe’s pillow.

Well. It's Genes pillow. But Babe uses it.

He tugs the comforter back down over his ankle again when he passes Gene, as it’s ridden back up, and turns the corner of the mattress to find his jeans.

He’s just in boxers (which he thinks may be Eugene’s) and whatever white t-shirt that was on his floor yesterday morning, so he just does up the pants and finds his shoes. He thinks he’s being rather stealthy, but Gene still stirs in the bed, pushing up onto his elbows and squinting at Babe.

“Time?” He asks, voice croaky, and Babe just shrugs, waving his hand absently towards the door of the bedroom, out to where the kitchen is.

“‘Bout four.” He says, finding his shoes kicked haphazardly under the bed. “I’m gonna head off.”

Gene huffs, face dropping back down into his pillow. “‘Kay.” He tells it, voice muffled. “Good luck.”

Babe wrinkles his nose at him, confused, but the rumpled blankets that is Gene isn’t moving anymore, and Babe thinks he might have fallen back asleep. He shoves his feet back into the shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, makes sure his fly is closed, smoothes back his hair, and turns on his heel.

Before he leaves the room, he turns back one more time. For science. “See you later,” He says, and when Gene doesn’t move, tacks on, “fuckbuddy.”

Eugene groans. He hates it when Babe says that.

Babe laughs, opening and closing the door behind him. 

--

The thing about him and Gene is that he doesn’t really remember how it started. 

Not in the way one wakes up in the morning with whiskey stale on their breath and a nagging feeling of forgetting something. Not even in the way of doing something for so long that it becomes muscle memory.

If he had to guess, it would probably be because Babe doesn't want to look too hard at it. At them.

Maybe like how in a dream, one can't focus too much on a singular detail or they'll wake up. 

Maybe Babe doesn't want to think too hard about what they're doing because if he does, it might all fall apart. 

--

The Christmas season is marked in Philadelphia by a number of things, but one of Babe's favourites are the lights that wind around the metal staircase that lead down from Gene’s apartment, twinkling red and green and half of the bulbs burnt out. Snow dusts the street and the cars parked on it, another addition to the small reminders of dawning holidays. 

He runs his fingers across the wire of the lights as he skips down the icy steps, other hand in his pocket. When he exhales, his breath explodes across his face in white fractals, blown away by the wind. 

His own apartment is only four or five blocks down from Gene’s, and in the early hour his only adversary is the biting cold that stings across his cheeks and neck. He shoves both hands into his pockets when he makes it down the staircase, turning on his heel to the left.

He sleeps at Gene’s maybe once a week, now. Less frequently, in the past, but since…

Well, November doesn’t count.

He’d chosen the wrong type of shoes to walk in the greying, half frozen sludge that skims across the streets, and it soaks through the soles of his sneakers in no time at all. It makes him slip more against the pavement, little to no traction against the old brick.

Him and Eugene began to sleep together a little over a year ago; when Gene had started residency at the urgent care clinic in South Philly and Babe had been working at the auto repair shop since he’d graduated.

Gene still works at the urgent care clinic in South Philly, but Babe’s situation has become more… complicated.

As if on cue, a car horn honks — the first warning of someone trying to get to work, and Babe speeds up slightly in an attempt to avoid the majority of the incoming flood of traffic.

He likes sleeping over at Eugene’s, anyways. The sex is great — which is a given, looking at how long they’ve been doing this — but Babe just also… likes Gene’s place. Likes his creaky floorboards and coffee machine. Likes sleeping with Gene, who wakes up at the drop of a hat but falls back asleep just as easily.

And Gene must like him staying over, anyhow, because otherwise Babe would have woken up at his own apartment.

A Honda Civic speeds down the road, and Babe only barely manages to avoid the wave of slush from the gutter that it dredges up in an icy spray over the curb. He’d consider shouting at the car, but it’s already gone and his feet are fucking freezing. 

He makes it back to his own apartment in a little bit under half an hour, and trods up the undecorated staircase that leads up to his building with little excitement. His shoes squeak against the smoothed over cement that leads its way to their door.

It’s unlocked, and Babe thinks if one of them is gonna get murdered, that’ll probably be why.

“Hey.” He greets as he hits open their door, peeling off his soaking shoes and socks in the entryway. Bill is stretched out across the couch, foot dangling over the side of the armrest, and he raises a hand absently, eyes on the TV.

“Was startin’ to think you moved out while I was asleep.” He says, scratching absently at his chest. “You’ve been gone for so goddamn long.” Babe snorts.

It’s been less than a day since he left the apartment, and when he pads into the kitchen area, his empty cereal bowl is still in the sink. He huffs. “‘Love you too, Guarno.” He mutters, picking up the plastic tupperware and shoving it into the overflowing dishwasher. He pokes at it gingerly, trying to get it to start. It doesn’t, and he waves a hand at it, dismissive.

“How’s the Doc?” 

“Fine. Tired. Goddamn Christmas season, huh? Ice and cold and terrible people.” Bill sighs.

“You gotta stop spending time with Roe.” He says, shoving his palms under him and shoving up against the couch cushions. “He’s ruining your sense of whimsy.” Babe snorts.

“To be fair, we don’t do much talking.” He says, and Bill groans. “Where’s Toye?”

“Somewhere.” Bill says, vaguely, which is just Bill-talk for no fucking clue. “With Luz, probably. Why? I don’t think he’ll be easily regaled by your tales.” Babe wrinkles his nose.

“Regaled.” He repeats. “You gotta stop spending time on the documentary channel. It’s rotting your brain out of your head.”

“Awe, fuck you.” Bill says, good-natured. Babe just snorts another laugh and opens the fridge. It’s mostly just leftovers and a bottle of ketchup that Bill keeps watering down. “You… you have a good time?” 

Babe pulls out half a cheesesteak, wrapped in tinfoil and shoved in the fridge door. He peels back the foil just enough to smell it, suspicious. “Sure.” He says, not really listening. “How old is this?”

Bill grunts, reaching over the arm of the couch to grab his crutches. “Dunno.” He says. “When was the last time we saw Compton?”

Babe peels the foil back further. There’s mould growing on the edge of the bread, and he holds the sandwich up to eye level to squint at it. At least three months, then. He turns on his heel to find a plate and a knife.

He’s cutting the mould off of the cheesesteak with a butter knife when Bill says, words accompanied by the thud of his crutches against the cheap wood floors, “ya plannin’ on going back over there tomorrow?” Babe's hands still only slightly, and he goes back to sawing at the bread.

“Probably not.” He says. “Gene has a shift at three.” 

“So after that?”

“He don’t get off until three the next day.” Babe peels back the bread. The cheese looks fine, mostly. A little discoloured. Bill whistles.

“Damn.” He says, and Babe grunts. “You couldn’t date someone with a sensible schedule?”

“We’re not dating.” 

The meat looks mostly fine, too. Babe drops the knife in the sink with the clatter and pads back out of the kitchen, passing Bill on the way. He sits in the sofa chair next to the couch, a spring digs into his back. He sends a half-hearted prayer to Saint Nicholas that the cheesesteak won’t kill him and digs in. 

He can feel Bill’s eyes on him. “Yeah.” Bill says, from behind him. His crutches thunk against the floors. “I know, Babe.”

Babe grunts around the sandwich. He thinks that Bill might go back into his room, but he can’t tell. He can’t bring himself to care, anyways.

10 November

He can hear Lip shouting for him, and screams back as loud as he can. Then, when there’s no answer, he screams again. 

The metal is hot against his leg, fucking searing, and the rocker panel of the car keeps his arm and chest pinned under it. He swears, frantic, looking around. Everywhere around him is black, the same darkness, smelling of oil and grease and everything else. His breaths are coming in more and more shallow, every one punched out of his burning chest.

“Lip!” He screams again. His voice is hoarse, it hurts to yell. He hopes that Lip will find him before he can’t breathe at all. “Lip! I’m in here, I’m in here, I can’t fucking move—”

Lip shouts his name again, louder this time, and Babe reaches out frantically with the one arm he can move, grasping around, futile. His open palm comes into contact with the deflated tire of the Mustang, and he hits against it, frantic. 

The Mustang had crumpled suddenly, the back left lift stand giving out while Babe was trying to figure out what was wrong with the transfer case. The right one had buckled shortly after, and, in a panic, Babe had tried to kick off on the creeper, only effectively kicking it out from under him. 

The Mustang let out a great, trembling, shaking groan, and dropped down all at once, all around him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his ribs hurt, he can feel his heart in his throat and in his toes at the same time. There’s something wet running down his face; he can’t tell if it’s oil or tears. 

He throws both hands out in front of him, like they can stop the four-thousand pounds of car that are about to collapse on top of him, like he can bring back the shitty LED lights that are supposed to be easily seen, like he can—

“Lipton—” He yells again. He can hear the metal across the bottom of the car creaking. “Lip! Bill? Someone fucking—”

He kicks out his legs at the same time the Mustang makes another loud, metallic, screeching, and a hand grabs onto his ankle and pulls, pulls—

He’s crying, and he’s well aware of it, and he still can’t fucking see anything, face streaked in grease and oils and tears and whatever else, and Lipton’s hands are on his shoulders, dragging him further away from the Mustang.

They drop, unceremoniously, a few yards away, and Babe blinks rapidly enough that he can start to see the lights again, eyes burning. He trembles, trying to push away from Lip, realises that there’s probably fuel and whatever else in his eyes, and Lip’s palm comes up and cuffs him carefully across the cheek, getting him to hold still. 

“S’alright.” Lip mutters, and his voice is hoarse. The hand not on Babe’s face is tight around his bicep, and Babe squeezes his eyes shut again, before they can begin to burn worse. “S’alright, boy. Everything’s alright.”

--

4 December

All of Babe’s blankets are in the corner of his room in a pile, and for a while, he even contemplated stripping off the fitted sheet and throwing that away, too. 

He wakes up facedown, in the middle of his mattress and slightly nauseous, and thinks about Gene wrapped up in the comforter, all black hair and bare feet. It comforts him, some.

He sits up on his elbows, slightly shaky, and scrubs a hand down his face. His face is clammy, his palm more so. He blames it on the cheesesteak.

The reason for his rousing becomes clear when he hears Toye, voice low and rough and unintelligible through his bedroom door, say something to Bill. He rolls over onto his back, grimacing when his knee twinges — it rarely does, anymore, but sometimes it acts up — and stares up at the ceiling.

He looks over to his side, turning his cheek into the fitted sheet of his bed, and reaches out to grip at his phone, dragging the screen closer to his face. Almost three in the afternoon.

He stares blearily at the home screen of his phone for half a second before dropping it again, pressing his hands flat against the mattress and pushing himself up off of the bed. 

Toye and Bill are arguing about something or the other in the front room, so Babe pulls his t-shirt over his head from the back collar and throws it absently over his dresser, searching for something cleaner.

He wonders if Gene is awake. Gene can sleep like the dead (and does, Babe would know), but he doubts that even something so beating and exhausting as ER’s in December would keep him down for that long. 

He wonders if he should text him, and decides against it.

They're only friends, after all. Not even best friends, at that, because Babe’s best friend is Bill and Gene’s is Renèe Lemaire. 

Friends. Casual friends. Casual friends don't text each other after napping all day in the middle of a mattress with only a fitted sheet and waking up both freezing and burning to death. 

Just friends.

He finds a Philly Eagles shirt crumpled up in the corner of his sock drawer and shrugs it on. It's stretched at the collar and faded to all hell, but it'll do and he pushes out of his room and back to the front room without much more preamble.

“Hey,” He greets Toye and Bill, when he does. They've ceased their shouting at each other for the moment, apparently putting aside their differences to face the common foe (the recliner, which tends to stick) and neither of them look up to greet him. 

Toye has his cast-ridden leg stretched out beside him, propped on the low-to-the-ground coffee table. Bill’s own knee brace is tossed on the couch; he's terrible about wearing it. Babe leaves them to it and wanders into the kitchen, absently scratching at the back of his leg.

The reason that it had taken so long for Lip to find him, Babe had learned afterwards, in the hospital with tear streaks cutting humiliating tracks through the oil on his face, is that a fire had started in the back room of the auto shop.

He opens the fridge. There’s nothing new, but Babe didn’t think there would be. It’s more out of habit than anything else, and he closes it just as quickly as he opened it.

“Could it be a screw?”

“Nah, nah, it ain’t no screw, Joe, ‘cause if it was a screw, it would be workin’, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know, Bill, guess I left my fuckin’ brain with George—”

“Ah, Christ, and isn’t that a tragedy? Luz’ll drop it, for sure—”

Babe moves back out of the kitchen and moves to the front door, picking up his left shoe. It’s still wet and cold, but not soaking, so he cuts his losses and shoves it and the other on, leaving his socks on the floor.

He wonders, vaguely, if he should grab his coat before he leaves, and even spares a short glance at the heavy, quilted coat that hangs limply next to the door. But his skin still burns, and he forgoes it, opening the front door.

“Be back later!” He shouts over his shoulder, and the response is a nonsensical shout from Bill and a grunt from Toye. He snorts and closes the door behind him, shoving his hands back into his jeans pockets and skips back down the steps to the street.

The cold bites into his skin, and he regrets just wearing a t-shirt and jeans but doesn’t want to go back into the apartment, so he turns on his heel and begins walking left, exhaling hard through his nose.

He doesn't have a problem with their apartment, per se; having two roommates to Gene’s one can be frustrating, but Bill and Toye are two of his best friends. They're just… loud.

Besides, the one thing that he had realised after he'd gotten out of the hospital, with minimal scrapes and bruises to Skip Muck and Alex Penkala’s third degree burns; with occasional, stupid nightmares to Joe Toye’s leg, broken in eighteen places and Bill’s sprained knee, black and blue and swollen, is that their apartment is… crowded. Cluttered.

Like it's going to collapse on top of him.

He shivers and pretends it’s because of the cold, and after a block and a half, ends up in front of a corner shop that's signage proudly declares itself one of sole caterers of fresh catfish in Philly.

He stares at the sign for a moment, then at the glaring red OPEN marker, and pushes through the door.

--

6 December

“I just think you're sort of freaking out, is all.” Babe says, and picks up a glittery pink pen, curious. It has shiny, turquoise feathers at the end of it. From behind him, Joe Liebgott snorts and hits him lightly on the ass with the shopping cart. 

“I don't freak out.” He says, putting extra emphasis on the extra two words, which does nothing but further convince Babe that he is freaking out. “He’s just weird about this shit. I'd like to get him somethin’ nice.”

“Yeah, but Web doesn't give two shits about Christmas, Joe. I think it would just make him think you were dying, or something.” Liebgott waves Babe away absently, pushing the cart past him. 

The only reason that Babe had agreed (i.e. was forced by Bill) to go shopping with Liebgott was because he'd made the mortal mistake of getting up at a reasonable hour. Gene was at work, and Babe was hungry, and Bill’s leg hurt, and Liebgott hates shopping alone. 

So. Here he is.

“Just get him a book, or something.” Babe says, dodging the cart when Joe pushes it forward again. “Vonnegut?” Joe snorts.

“If you can find a book that Web doesn't have, I'll get it, but it would probably have to be in library of fucking Alexandria.” He says. “I'd be better off just writing something.”

Babe doesn't say anything, mostly because he's pretty sure that Web would love it if Joe wrote something. Instead, he crosses into another aisle and picks up a plastic snow globe, turning it over in his palm.

Over the crackling speakers, Mariah Carey is singing about something or the other. The artificial lighting in the store is making his head hurt. Babe feels… almost normal. 

“You could get him a watch,” He offers to Liebgott, nodding to the glass cases towards the back of the shop. Liebgott waves a hand dismissively, pushing the cart forwards again, leaning his elbows on the bar of it. 

“Does Web seem like someone that has any idea what time it is, ever?” He asks, and Babe shrugs, hands going back to his pockets. 

“Web doesn't seem like someone who would date you.” He says absently, and Liebgott looks like he's somewhere in between telling Babe to go fuck himself and agreeing with him. In the end, he just jerks the cart to hit Babe again.

“Christ,” He says, and looks like he's halfway to just giving up, which Babe would encourage. “You're not doin’ any better. You have any idea what you're getting the Doc?” 

Babe shrugs. He still thinks that whatever Liebgott could possibly get for Web would just unsettle him. They don't seem like the type of people to be all… filled with the Christmas spirit, and all.

“We're not dating,” He says, in reference to Gene. Liebgott turns to squint at him over his shoulder.

“I know.” He says. “I'm not stupid, Doc can do much better than a Philadelphian frog.” Before Babe can even open his mouth to protest, Liebgott moves on. “But, you know, he's been good to you. Through all the… the shit that happened last month. And he has to be a good fuck, seeing as it's been, what, a year?”

Babe absently wonders how much of a mess he has to be for Liebgott to know almost everything about him. Then he decides that Liebgott probably only knows because he knows everything Webster knows, and Webster knows everything that Hoobler knows, and Hoobler knows everyone. He decides to blame Bill anyways.

“What the hell would I even get him?” He asks under his breath, almost to himself, and Liebgott snorts a wry laugh. 

“Do I look like I know what I'm doing?” He retorts.

-- 

10 November

Babe hasn't left the goddamn hospital yet, and everything's starting to crush in on him again. 

He's sitting in the gift shop, face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and knows the owner of the ice-cold hand that brushes his wrist immediately. 

“Is anyone out of surgery yet?” He asks, voice hoarse, and Gene kneels down in front of him, pulling his hands away from his face. He looks almost haggard; the corners of his mouth pulled down, eyes near-sunken and dark. 

“Muck is in recovery,” He says, and his accent is thick with exhaustion. Babe can't be faring much better. “Penkala is still under, but he shouldn't be as bad as Skip. Not as many skin grafts, at least.”

Babe almost faceplants into his hands again, but Gene tightens his grip on his wrists. His eyes are dark, near piercing.

“Toye’s femur was bad enough that amputation was considered, but it's set now and looking better. Guarnere’s knee is looking like it’s just a bad sprain, so long as he stays off of it.” He says, and Babe tugs a hand away from Genes to scrub at his face.

“Anyone else?” Gene leans back on his heels, starts counting on his fingertips.

“Lip’s got a concussion, but it ain't bad. You'd think he'd caught grenade fragmentation, from the look on Speirs’ face when we told him. Perconte’s got a few second degrees, but they don't look too bad. Wynn’s the same. Everyone else is mostly doin’ fine.” Gene pauses, like he wants to say something else. “They’re worried about you, though.”

Babe huffs. He rubs at his eyes until black spots burst against them, then drops his hand back to his lap. “I'm fine.” He says, voice rough.

He's got a cut across his left brow, but it didn't need stitches. He sprained his ankle, when the rocker panel had first dropped, and had been coated in oil and fuel and grease until he'd managed to scrub down in one of the hospital showers, but he's fine. He's not hurt like the others are. He was just… stuck. Not even for ten whole minutes.

Gene looks at him like he doesn't believe him. “Edward,” He says carefully, the blue of his eyes so dark they're nearly black. “Lipton told me that you couldn't see—”

“I had fuel in my eyes.” Babe tells him, looking somewhere over Gene’s shoulder. “It— Lip helped me wash them out with a water bottle and they're okay now.”

Gene watches him. Not like he doesn't believe Babe; more like he's trying to solve Babe, like he's a puzzle. 

“I got off an hour and a half ago,” He says, and Babe almost winces.

“Sorry.” He mutters. Gene started working his new schedule only a week or two ago, Babe can't imagine working over twenty-five hours in a single shift.

“No.” Gene says vaguely, jerking his head over his shoulder. “I mean that I'm off. I'm gonna take you home.” 

Babe blinks. “Oh,” He says. “To your place?” The corner of Gene's mouth quirks up. It's not a happy gesture.

“No.” He says. “To your apartment. Guarnere and Toye are staying overnight. I can walk you home?” 

It's not phrased like a question, but Gene asks it like it's one. Babe blinks down at Gene’s fingers, which are still carefully wrapped around Babe’s wrist, and nods before he can catch himself. “Okay.” He says. “Alright. Take — take me home, okay?”

--

9 December

He knocks on the door of Gene's apartment, and prays in the frantic seven seconds before the door opens that Gene’s actually home.

But he is, and he swings the door open, and when Eugene sees him he blinks and steps back half a pace. 

“Hey.” He says. He looks good, because of course he does; it's Gene. He's barefoot, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and black sweatpants, the tip of his nose and the shells of his ears a bright red. It makes Babe's chest hurt, but that doesn't count for anything. Everything makes Babe’s chest hurt.

“Hi,” Babe says back, and awkwardly holds up the plastic bag in his left hand. It swings in the air, and Gene’s eyes land on it. 

(So blue they're almost black.)

“I brought stuff.” Babe tells him, and wonders if this was a bad idea. Probably. “Uh, food stuff. Seafood stock, roux, tomatoes, peppers, catfish—”

Gene blinks at him. “For courtbouillon.” He says, and Babe nods, relieved.

“Yeah.” He says. “I, uh. I think you talked about it one time, after we…” He gestures vaguely, and feels the back of his neck start to burn. “Uh. Anyways, I figured…”

He trails off a second time, and holds the bag up a little higher. “I googled the ingredients.” He mutters, scuffing the carpet outside of Gene’s apartment with his heel. “I don't know if it's like how your Ma makes it or whatever, but if you ain't able to go home…”

He clears his throat, and prays to God that his flush can be passed off as from the cold, like Gene’s is. He holds the bag out to Gene. “There.” He says.

Gene takes it, face indecipherable. He looks down at the bag, cradled in the crook of one of his arms, and huffs.

“When’d you even think of this?” He asks, and steps further into the apartment at the same time. Babe takes it hesitantly as his invitation inside, and shuts the door behind him.

“Was on a walk.” He said vaguely. “Saw a shop that sold fresh catfish, and remembered you saying something about catfish and soup, so. Yeah.” He clicks his tongue, awkward. His chest hurts.

Gene sets the bag down on their kitchen island, and turns back to Babe, eyes going to cross over his sternum, almost a defensive gesture. Babe clears his throat.

“I know that we're only…” He gestures at Gene, then himself, “but I figured — I dunno. Happy early Christmas, maybe? If you want me to leave—”

“Edward,” Gene interrupts him, a little bit louder than Gene usually is, and Babe looks up as the other crosses the small space between the door and the kitchen. He stops a few inches away, mouth opening slightly like he's trying to gather his words. “It's… this is great.” He smiles, a careful quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks. It — this means a lot, to me.”

Babe blinks at him. His chest still hurts. “Okay.” He murmurs. “Okay.” He says again, clearing his throat a second time. “Should I, uh—”

“Yeah.” Gene says, then tilts his head slightly, as if reading his thoughts. Babe sometimes worries that Gene can read thoughts. He hopes not. Him and Gene are just… just friends. “Yeah, stay.” 

As if to convince him not to leave (Babe doesn't want to, anyways), Gene leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Babe’s mouth before stepping away and moving backwards towards the kitchen. 

Babe blinks. He tries to remember if they've ever done that before. He doesn’t think so. 

He follows Gene to the kitchen.