Pope

Oh, fuck. Carver shivers, eyes closed tight, but he does what he's told. Works his belt open and lifts his hips to work his pants down before he can think better of it, think about it at all. "I don't want to see them," he murmurs, not quite pleading, but very quiet. He prays the others don't hear. He prays that Pope understands what he's asking, that it's easier when Pope's on top of him like this. Blocking the enemy from sight.