The Feminine Urge To Write About The Late 60s, The Hippies, The Vietnam War, Parris Island And The Vibe

the feminine urge to write about the late 60s, the hippies, the vietnam war, parris island and the vibe in the air during that time

𝓦𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ୨ A Barnes x reader fic ୧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯

» a/n: later than i planned, but here it is! god i hate school. but anyways enjoy <3

Pitching An Idea (if You Like) With Absolutely Insane Baby Fever But Barnes And His Wife With Their First

inspired by the song "Wild Horses" by TRS.

7:21am, in a cabin, somewhere in rural South Carolina.

The white lace curtains blow in the humid air lazily and through the window the summer sun beams into the bedroom, shining light on the old wooden floor, then the bedframe, then the mattress, then your face.

Something was missing. It wasn't the gun kept in the nightstand drawer, it wasn't the watch or the wedding ring in a ceramic bowl on the nightstand either. You turns your head, the space beside you in the bed is empty. The wrinkles on the sheet show that once someone slept here. You outreach a hand towards the sheet, feeling no warmth. He had been gone long before you awoke.

You saw him through a window as he headed back home along the dirt path, frowning absentmindedly. He had slung a pheasant on a rope around it's neck over his shoulder. The bird had a warm brown feathery colour, it's head shades of glimmering navy and berry red. It hit against his shoulder blade limply with every step he took, like rapping knuckles on a door. Barnes was always awake before you. During his tours in Vietnam there was a 6 am sharp wake time you'd be sorry if you missed. All that routine had drilled into him and left a mark. Even without an alarm he was mechanically set to wake up at the crack of dawn, everyday, without fail.

He was the Sergeant of a platoon, he had men depending on him. He had to show up; to set an example. Yet things had changed now. Never again would the rattle of a machine gun or whizz of a bullet disturb him throughout his day. No, those terrors had shapeshifted now, transforming into nightmares, plagues that fevered his mind when the sky was dark and he was thousands of miles away from their origin. Hand on a weapon metal-made and heated from rapid use, cool jungle air in his nostrils mangled with the scent of blood and death. Although he left Vietnam, Vietnam would never leave him.

⋆

As Barnes entered the house, the sounds of early morning greeted him. The sound of a knife hitting a cutting board, the whining of a kettle near boiling, the humming of a woman. His footsteps were heavy on the old floorboards, creaking loudly. This noisiness wasn't a problem, he had no one to hide from anymore. His enemies had won the war and he had retreated back to his origins. Or had he? Some days Barnes wondered if this was real, or if he was bleeding out and dying somewhere back in the jungle; coping with his near end by envisioning a heaven. A cabin in seclusion, a wife making breakfast, a child's crib in a room down the hallway.

He sat at the table, coming out of his wandering mind back to reality. He plopped the pheasant down on the table. "That'll be t'night's dinner." He declares casually, crossing his ankles over underneath the table.

⋆

You sat on the front porch, in a rocking chair built from spruce wood with carved details in it. The initials of you and Barnes had been carved on the middle of the back rest carefully with a miniature chisel and mallet. A gift, for the arrival of a newborn. In your cradling arms, wrapped in fine white cotton, a babe no more than nine months rests, close to the warmth of your core.

The view of a valley breaking out from a forest lies in front of your porch. There are strong, wild winds bouncing and whirling and running through the plains, but the tall pines either side of the porchway protect you from the elements. The grass of the valley falls and rises rhythmically with the melody of wind, like a sea of green blades, like nature's lungs ascending and descending. And then there, like rogues in leagues of their own, a herd of horses emerges from the horizon, making their way into clear view.

Wild horses. Beautiful, strong, dark, mottled, light, bold, patterned. Flowing unbrushed manes and muscular necks. There were maybe a dozen of them, all staying close to each other's vicinity among the swaying grass.

"Look, Bobby." You whispered under your breath, following the shapes of grey and brown and white animals in the distance.

Barnes was leaning against the railing, away from you and your new child. He had a Marlboro red tucked between his lips, the smoke blowing in the opposite direction to you, intentionally. He had picked up the habit of smoking not in the near proximity of the child, as to your satisfaction. He had already turned his head towards your view. It was rare to spot wild horses, even in the middle of the sticks where the laws of society were replaced with the laws of the land. There were no men shouting conversation, but rather a bobcat's yowl. No late night callers cry, but rather a horned owl's signature tune.

Both, in silence, you and Barnes watched the horses graze. A small speckled foal followed by it's mother's side, young slender joints carrying it in an unsteady, fresh stride.

Your face turns to Bobby, an expression of endearment underlined. He too was watching the foal, an animalistic reminder that life goes on.

⋆

Late at night, lying by your side, Robert can't find it in him to fall asleep. Late night shifts of watching over the sleeping platoon, being the only one depended on to keep watch had been ingrained into him to an almost institutionalised level.

Now, it was different. He was not squatted amongst verdant bushes with ragged soldiers scattered out of sight in turning, tossing slumber. He didn't wear a uniform of army green, his surroundings didn't smell like rain-wet vegetation and the smolder of gun smoke. The room smelled like the lavender sitting in a vase on the nightstand. Moonlight invited itself into the room through the window, shining through the silhouette of a window. Barnes turned his head slowly, seeing a familiar crescent moon in the middle of the midnight sky. Funny, how it was the same moon he'd been gazing at all his life, even overseas when he was deployed. The moon had been there since before he even existed, and it'd be there long after he's gone.

He holds you closer, kissing your forehead. You'd never know this, you were fast asleep in his trusted embrace.

⋆

Barnes watched from the comfort of a dust-red armchair you sat on the floor, kneeling beside your infant, hands under their elbows as they used their stubby legs to support their weight. You glanced up, making sure Bobby was watching. He was. Barnes smiled rarely with his mouth. His smile was a hidden one, in the twinkle of his eyes as he watched on.

Clumsily, one foot fell in front of the other. You lingered, letting the babe walk unsupported. Towards their father. He smiled. Everything was so simple right now. Your face was illuminated by the midday sun shining through the window behind him, your child was taking their first steps. When the child reached him, in about four stumbling steps, he reached down, picking them up and propping the infant on his knee. They giggled, looking at Barnes' face. How funny it was, to be loved unconditionally. To this babe Barnes was their father, nothing more. Not a killer branded by war, not a Frankenstein pariah.

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dailyydreamer

1 month ago