I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.

Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death.

Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.

The trees were exploding. In all of his 28 years, Eugene Roe could quite honestly say he'd never seen a tree explode until those mortar rounds struck the snow-capped pines above the hastily dug foxholes. He could also say he'd never seen snow before Easy Company traveled into Bastogne. He could also say he'd never hated anyone until the Germans opened fire; relentlessly. None of that mattered that much as Doc scrambled out of his designated ditch, responding to the first gut-wrenching cry of:

"MEDIC!"

Roe sprinted full tilt through the trees, barreling past hidden soldiers and flashes of machine guns. He dodged and weaved through screaming bullets, completely unaware of the danger; aware only of the man writhing on the ground in his shell-shocked companion's arms. A near fatal run-in with a stray artillery round blasted Roe off his feet and propelled him backwards until he skidded to a stop against a weather-beaten tree trunk. Lithe as a cat, Eugene flipped himself over onto his knees and scrambled to his feet. Ignoring the warm trickle of blood flowing down his face and under the right shoulder of his fatigues, he sprinted back to the screaming, wounded man. Heffron held him, a panicked coloring smattering his face as he repeated the mantra that Doc Roe heard quite often on the battlefield: "you're okay you're alright you're okay you're alright." He looked up in desperation as the Cajun slid into the slushy mud of the foxhole.

"Thank God Doc," Heffron breathed as if Eugene's inevitable appearance could somehow make everything alright. Even the wounded man seemed to lessen his shrieks in the presence of the good doctor. The men treated Eugene as almost a good luck talisman—as an angel of mercy. He reminded himself bitterly of what he really was—an agent of death.

"Wadda we got?" Eugene's deep lilt was marked by an unnatural calmness uncharacteristic of a soldier who had just sprinted clear across the battlefield.

"I—uh, we—we were j-just watching the line," Heffron sputtered. Doc placed a hand on Eugene's arm. That touch coupled with the doctor's even gaze calmed Babe. "A round came outta nowhere Doc. He got hit. Damn replacements."

"What's his name?"

"I—uh—"

"Never mind, I know it. Matthews. Hey, look at me son," the panicked man locked eyes with Eugene. "You're alright. I got you."

He then got to work. In a flurry of motion, Roe tore away the fabric surrounding Matthews' torso. Bullets continued to fly as he worked. Babe watched in awe as the unfazed medic examined the completely torn away abdomen and exposed intestines. A cry of "INCOMING!" snapped Heffron out of his reverie. Diving backwards into the foxhole, he frantically looked up and out at the doctor.

"DOC! GET IN!"

But Doc Roe did not move from the man who was already so obviously doomed. He threw himself on top of the man, ignoring the blood that smeared across his entire body and shielded his patient.

"DOC!" Heffron screamed; horrified as he watched the impending death of the best medic that Easy Company had. The world exploded in front of Babe's eyes. And then all was quiet. The German artillery had, for the time being, been exhausted but the damage was done. After a brief moment, Babe bolted out of the foxhole, stomach lodged in his shoes. But there he was, face bloodied but whole, frantically trying to save a man who was already dead under his fingertips.

"C'mon. Come ON," Doc intoned deeply. His entire arm was thrust into Matthews' still ribcage up to his elbow, massaging the frozen heart. He started muttering in a mixture of French and English—the same words over and over. A prayer that Babe heard at night coming from the medics' foxhole. The voice was steady and musical, but Doc Roe's eyes betrayed the emotions that many doubted he had. His eyes were wild and mournful. And at that moment, Babe saw behind the calmness and perfection. At that moment, Babe did not see a miracle worker. He saw a man.

-b.o.b-

You lost eight men today Eugene. Doc Roe tossed back and forth in his foxhole, brow furrowed as the nightmare escalated. You fucking failure. It should have been you. They're dead because of you. You let them DIE.

With a strangled yelp, Eugene forced himself awake. Breath catching in his chest, Roe frantically clawed his way out of the foxhole, unwilling to wake Ralph with his momentary panic attack. Shivering in the intense cold, Roe stumbled down the rows of trees, clutching his chest and wheezing. Tears prickled behind his pained eyes, but they would never fall. After all, Doc Eugene Roe could honestly say he'd never cried since he was given that armband that sealed his fate. Images of the dead flew past Eugene's eyes relentlessly. Doc Roe could remember every single soldier who had died underneath his hands. He fell to his knees and ripped his helmet from his hair, relishing the pain that motion elicited from his un-bandaged wounds. He was no doctor. You're not even good enough to be a goddamn army medic. The bitter voice in his head taunted yet again. He vaguely noticed that the voice inside his mind was his own. His hysterics gradually increased to the point where he was drawing in no breath at all. Frantically, shaking, Eugene pulled a pistol he'd acquired on his last supply run from his left boot. He resolutely pressed it against his temple and forced the calm mask back upon his face. He squeezed the trigger. A sudden, unexpected impact threw him into the fresh snow, quashing the breath from his lungs.

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