Carver barely reacts to the blood. It feels pure compared to everything that came before. He shivers and presses unthinking into Pope's hand, breath hitching. He doesn't want to cry but then suddenly he is, quietly. Too exhausted to fight it back, to do anything but shiver and press against his commanding officer. "I'm filthy," he murmurs. "My uniform's ruined."

It bothers him more than it should. That indignity among so many others.