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Winter in the Bois Jacques is a hell unlike any Chuck has ever experienced. So damn cold his blood feels like it’s turning to ice in his veins. It's a struggle to force himself to crawl out of his foxhole for patrols when every part of his body is frozen. He’s really starting to wonder if the weather will kill Easy Company before Kraut shells even get the chance. Sure as hell seems like it sometimes. He tries to stay optimistic for his men, to keep their morale up, but even that’s starting to feel like a lost cause. He’s slowly reaching his breaking point and, when he looks at the other fellas, he thinks they are too. Bastogne is taking its toll on all of them. Day by day, Chuck watches as Joe’s cheekbones get sharper and Babe’s eyes become more and more shadowed. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He aches with the knowledge that there isn’t more he can do for them, except to offer a brief respite. There's an understanding that hangs unspoken between the three of them that his foxhole is always open. It’s the only thing he can give.That’s why he never says anything when Babe slips into his foxhole in the dead of night to curl up against his side. It usually happens when Babe is plagued by particularly bad dreams. The kind that leave drying tear tracks that cut through the grime on his cheeks. Chuck doesn’t ask what ghosts are haunting him—doesn’t need to. He just leans their helmets together and waits out the darkness, trying to quietly soothe Babe’s pain and guilt away. He spends those long nights pretending not to hear Julian’s name whispered between shuddering breaths. Sometimes it’s Joe who joins Chuck, huddling against him, shaking like a leaf from the cold. Chuck has tried offering Joe his own meager k-rations a few different times in hopes of putting some meat on the skinny bastard. But, for whatever reason, Joe always turns him down. Joe shoots him a strange look every time—like he can’t figure out what Chuck’s motive is. Chuck doesn’t know how to explain that he hates being able to feel the hard knobs of Joe’s spine even through layers of clothing, so he stays quiet. Simply lets Joe take whatever warmth he can in this frozen place.It’s when both Babe and Joe are beside him that Chuck feels the most at peace—or whatever passes for peace out on the line. When Babe presses a kiss to his knuckles or Joe’s face burrows against the side of his neck, Chuck could almost be happy. He keeps the tarp spread out over his foxhole on those nights to give them the illusion of privacy. It becomes a place where they can freely express their relief, through kisses and simple human contact, that each of them has survived yet another day in hell. Though he will never say it aloud, Chuck desperately needs these shared moments. They’re the only things keeping him sane anymore.As long as he has these two men by his side, he thinks, maybe hell doesn’t seem so bad.