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senka-mesecine · 28 days ago

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beseech You about fluffy Barnes, It's such a rarity to read something like this, I love you madly, you're the reason I'm opening my phone'

Close Quarters.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

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wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

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The patrol culminates in rain and thunder.

At 0200 the drenched, tired reconnaissance team wordlessly halts in the bosom of the overgrown bush fenced off from all sides by colossal tree trunks as a natural borderland, rain coming down hard, pelting and pawing at the foliage, the thumping sounds of a shower downpour dancing pins and dots on the grass leaving a haze of heated mist behind, the greenery, needles of water ricocheting off the meaty surface of Monstera and overgrown, towering Alocasia leaves when the signal is silently given sometime after three hours of continuous movement westwards, through the valley about to be hit with the prelude to the early monsoon season announced by a cacophony of crickets, frogs, the squeaking of Tokay gecko lizards and the repetitive chirping of the Blue Eared Barbet bird, one hand held up to signalize; the Lieutenant and Sergeants raising their arm to the square, palm forward, fingers and thumb extended; you've slept in the wild during the rain before, sure, hauling equipment, backpacks, the fatigues on your own exhausted spine, the air so humid and stifling even at this late hour, almost like the pitch black, cloud-heavy sky overhead was pressing down on the warm oxygen, trapping it between the jungle and the atmosphere not unlike a hydraulic press, that the quiet past-midnight storm was almost welcome in a strange way --- a rare bit of fresh, breathable air in an oven --- washing you down like an overly heated piece of plate gets sprayed down by a hose from somewhere overhead. He never slept. Part of you wondered how that was even humanly possible. Or at least, nobody has ever seen him do it; no doubt, he viewed it like some act of inherent, profound vulnerability he didn't wish to be outright witnessed by human eyes; a soft-belly man with shut off senses with his tender neck bared and exposed to the world, unbecoming, like somebody asking to be jumped --- you wouldn't put it past Robert Barnes to sleep hidden, in the rare off chance he did get shut eye once his usual battle-pumped adrenaline wore off, somewhere up in a tree like a panther or a tiger maintaining watch over perimeters in the night with unblinking eyes as blue and as fluorescent as a hunting tom-cat's gaze, or in some forest cave not unlike a wild hog, emerging only once the break was done, without anyone knowing where he was in the brief second it took for them to turn their heads.

He ain' never sleep, Rhah Vermucci's fervent, impassioned words come to mind.

Does a machine need sleep? Huh!? Yeah, bah, only once its battery is bepelted and once it's depleted, you just replace 'em and the machinery keeps'on runnin' smooth as can be, day in, day out. That's Barnes! Lids open, body upside down, like a nocturnal bat! Yeah.

You were offended by those words then; silently, privately.

Like any and every man's lover undoubtedly would anyhow.

Gaze framed with lashes dripping with the salt of sweat and rainwater searching for Barnes's form in the chaos of wilderness even now as you found some tucked away place, intending to catch your Z's, or at least pretend to and rest your eye lids and your body on the bare, wet soil, your oily green, knee-length rain coat the only thing between you and the elements as your rucksack stayed firmly attached to your shoulders by its belted straps, knowing he was somewhere close by, M16 in tow, inspecting perimeters while everyone else in the infantry settled down in their own respective chosen resting corner, about to lay low until the first crack of dawn. Maybe why you shiver so suddenly when you catch the sound of barely audible movement sashay from behind your back, thinking for a second that you stupidly, carelessly laid down on a snake's hovel, a red ant's nest or a VC hole, tactically covered by shrubberies and branches, ready to bayonet you from underground. No, no. Barnes. It was him. On a hip. Already settled next to you as your heart hammered away fast. His presence as quiet as the air itself. The sleek fabric of his raincoat occasionally flashing with a dim sheen faced with the distant flash of lighting, elbow leaned up against the thick, vein root of a Banyan tree that served as natural roofing against the rain, his firearm wrapped in protective cloth against the moisture propped up beside him like an extended limb, watching you as you instinctively turned your position, facing him; wasn't the first time you lounged in close quarters like this either, under the cover of night, when nobody was likely to see or question why two soldiers were having each other's backs; the schedule of one resting and the other keeping vigil an intended pairing of practicality. The first time he ever did it was startling but you didn't question it --- you assumed it was the nature of things that the strongest in the unit naturally paired up with what was the weakest link, an auxiliary nurse hauling equipment, slow and often overburdened, to avoid the needless casualty of being shot during an unexpected ambush. The second time he's done it? The third? How about the fourth? You came to expect it almost; this knowledge that when you'd halt and put down gear, Barnes would be close by, appearing wordlessly like a shadow in the abyss, halting and putting down gear too, magnets moving and dragging the other along.

You shuffle on your side, suppressing a sigh and a groan.

Underground, soil-covered stones, pebbles and roots digging into your body.

Cheek against the ground still radiating the extinguished anvil of daytime's warmth.

Fetal position intending to make you small on purpose; the less noticeable, the better.

Strategically crawled in between the grass and the foot of the strangler fig, all tangled, hanging, branch-supporting roots and thick curtains of hanging, Spanish moss, face to face with each other, you only barely withhold a gasp when his unfolded sleeping roll slides over you like a wing, shrouding you in total darkness for all but a second, having him cover you in it in one swift movement while his other hand never let go of his firearm, pulling the camping blanket over your head, adjusting it over your hair covered by the hood of your raincoat, tightened and tied into place by an elastic thread, the rain pelting down on the compression straps of the waterproof nylon instead of your body while he lay there as wet as the jungle itself; his head wrapping drenched and darkened along with the whisps of hair peeking through its edges, scattered across his covered forehead, scarred, leathery skin covered in a soaked gleam, the corner of his jaw, starting from his temple, down his cheeks, dripping with the drizzle. Yet he cared, you figured, in his own way, that even though you were already soaked to the bone you don't continue being bolted down by the rain for the rest of the night if he had any say in it, creating a makeshift refuge of relative dryness and shelter; a solitary island in the darkness --- wordless ways he looked out for you.

-"Thank you."-

You mouth without making sounds, the words merely oxygen.

Barely audible.

He knew what you meant; you continuously thanked him the same every time.

And his eyes always followed the movement of your lips, reading signs.

Mutual silences being an ingrained way of communication out in the jungle.

Now laying so very close you practically feel his breath on your face.

A hair's inch between you as he scoots nearer on his side.

The tip of his nose nearly pressing into yours.

No moon outside, no source of light.

Regardless, you nearly see yourself reflected in the center of his stare.

He doesn't kiss you even though his presence is right there, going by the mantra of all business, no pleasure, at least not while in the open bush, ever the consummate professional and disciplinarian, the discoloration of his meaty, full mouth where once upon a time the shrapnel of a bullet hit his face visible, a layer of flesh peeled off from the edge of his lower lip like the skin off a bruised peach, revealing the dark layer of crust that formed the crater of a wound and you watch him and he watches right back, taking in your face, lids hanging low and the blue of his eyes steady on the horizon of his sockets, having you cornered in from all sides by the protective wall of the looming tree, his sleeping roll blanketing you over, effectively hiding you, and his own body, the tips of two noses slowly brushing each other in the mimicry of a caress, not unlike one of those Eskimo kisses, the contact leaving a wet imprint on your face --- not quite an embrace, but close enough, torsos pressed together to the degree you could feel the low rumbling of his insides, the rhythm of his breathing, in and out, in out, heart hitting a steady beat, filling your nostrils with the musk of him, thigh against thigh, hip against hip; the outdoors forged aroma of sweat and tobacco smoked while at base, the freshness of rain, something almost leaf-like, briefly reminiscent of pine even though there wasn't a single one in sight this side of the continent, his closeness calm and steady, yet heavy, like a living rock covering you, keeping you safe as you nestled, using the hollowness of a muscular shoulder you knew was covered in scars underneath layers of fatigue and equipment as a pillow --- a warm, wet place to carefully, tenderly lean the outline of your hooded, sweat soaked scalp, his raincoat crinkling slightly as you set down your head to be able to gaze at him at even closer proximity until two faces were almost one, the side of your cheek smushed against the scarred, left side of his, fitting together like a solved puzzle, feeling every crater, every nook, every cranny, every dent imprinted on your own skin certain to leave faint, pale sleeping marks by you by morning, making you reflections of each other; a closeness held at back only by the presence of the ground your heads were on. Even now, Barnes's lids never flutter shut even in the make belief of sleep while all his other senses were alert; no, his eyes always open. Always scrutinizing. Always searching yours, stern, serious, focused, intense.

The distant sound of thunder rumbles on and you knew he intended to watch.

You knew he intended to wordlessly, quietly watch while you recuperated.

Sleeping bag off of his shoulder and every hour of rest out of his eyes ---

Purely so you could have yours.

In absolute gratitude, your lips touch the mangled scar of his, not kissing, never breaking that protocol bit of contract, not out here anyway where a moment of negligence could come with a high cost, but merely lingering, a parted caresses as you close your weary eyes, feeling instant relief once you do, fully awake, ears on alert, limbs ready to jump at any moment, but your eyes subsiding in their burning sensation on the precipice of being awake and being asleep, halfway rested and halfway aware, even if it was for a minute, ten, half an hour, under the defensive hill of blankets he's made for you, shielding you, not unlike an umbrella, as the relentless rain kept crashing down hard and heavy, beating against his body as rigid and as unmoving as a boulder while you lay there, soundly, the windows of your lids blissfully closed, mouth against his face prickled with the faintest sensation of a fresh shave around his scars, feeling the warm, tender flesh cushioned beside you, laying watch; your own personal guard.

No, Barnes never slept.

At least not when anyone was likely to see.

Observing you do it instead, leaving you with the knowledge that when you wake?

Hit with the earliest cracks of a dawn bedashed with the aftermath of a storm?

He'd still be here watching.

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