His Cog.
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Robert Barnes x Reader.
• (Part II)
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― Part one to be found here x. A present for @atmostories 🖤 who is the original author.
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gif by @woman-with-no-name
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Bad things always come in threes.
You supposed that was the best way to describe these past few weeks.
These three weeks in precise count.
All shouting, the blur of one task bleeding into another and days stretching into infinity. Time becoming more of an abstraction than a concept with an actual, reliable, firm meaning. From 0500 in the morning until ten in the evening or for as long as duty and current circumstances demanded. Until you could practically feel the stress mounted in the back of your spine, pulsating.
Like a living thing with a heartbeat of its own, attached to your own.
Overshadowing it.
They haul in the wounded by the dozens and you’re rushed off your feet to the degree you find yourself at a loss for time to think about the hunger — about the tiredness — thirst or the pain, not a free moment between running from one makeshift wooden palette serving as a sick bed to another, emptying basins of fresh blood, bringing in clean water, heating it, pouring out the dirtied, soiled remains, washing gauze at neck break speeds, drying the thin, cotton strands of white linen off, breathlessly collecting what bandages were disinfected and bringing them back inside in piles hastily collected, crumpled up and unclassified, handing them to the main nurses, Dorrie and the Doc, often times thanking your lucky stars for the position of an Auxiliary Field Assistant and not something with even more responsibility then you were already given as you turn your gaze, briefly, from jungle rot and gangrenous flesh catheterized from a screaming, sobbing soldier’s shot straight through thigh, the accumulated, oppressive humidity in the tent mixed with the stench of sick meat, the sound of the flies buzzing outside, the removed bullet hitting the empty container with a metallic clank, the acidic, putrid medicinal antiseptics and the sun hitting the roof of the tent nearly having you lose balance and heave over once you rush out and inhale some oxygen, however hot, back into your strained lungs, feeling the emptiness of your insides churn with an acidic ache not unlike the herald of a stomach’s contents about to lurch up, a sweat drenched spine leaning up against one of the entryway pillars holding the busy, green-beige pavilion up, lids heavy, perhaps too tired to even properly produce tears anymore, nearly causing you to jump when something presses against your lips in the buzz and rush at base camp, causing you to shoot up and realize it was thin, white, bearing the scent of tobacco that has you tilting your chin dripping with dampness up — the very scent that dominated the eternity of the nicotine-happy facility out at the heel of the jungle’s perimeters, the fingers holding the Marlboro in question meaty and tan, eerily familiar, causing you to stutter wordlessly in the back of your throat once you meet a pair of blue eyes and you readjust, instinctively, inside of your own skin, startled and pierced, realizing someone's bodily frame was obscuring the sun, the scar and the lacerations zig-zagging the left side of his face giving you a reaction, not unlike a phantom pain — you know, because you cleaned those gashes yourself.
Those craters. That splintered chin. Him?
He looks at you knowingly for a split second, like someone seeing through you.
Your breath hitches in your throat, your lips firmly pressing around the cigarette.
I don’t smoke, your own words instantaneously come to mind, flashing like lightning.
You will, he responded back with a knowing, self assured smugness, while he was still in your and indirectly nurse Colleen's charge under Doctor Foreman back at the hospital. Before you can say anything, after weeks and weeks, he’s already sauntered away at a pace that could only be considered leisurely and confidently nonchalant, if not with a sense of calm determination. Accompanied by an uniformed posse that obscures him out of sight, leaving a gust of air hitched in your throat. Sergeant Barnes. Not a single mouth in that company not adorned with a cigarette hanging askew from its corners.
You catch yourself. How long has it been? Twenty one days?
Maybe more? Less?
You knew men with his scale of injures laid up for years.
-"They need hot water in there, stat!"-
Dorrie’s voice brimming with urgency echoes from the tent slit snaps you to attention and you immediately jump, wiping the cold sweat off of your brow like someone pricked in the rear with a needle, plucking the cigarette that was wordlessly pressed into your mouth before anyone could see it, quickly tucking it into the front pocket of your fatigues, nestling in there without thought. Did you look that tired to him? Was he gloating by self referencing? How many days was it again, your grasp on memory due to overworking was loosening. Was he in pain at all these days? How was he getting along?
You don’t have time to give yourself a single answer.
Throwing yourself back into the fray.
—
The thing about brief and unexpected encounters was simple;
A person spent more time pondering them; far longer than their actual duration was.
Maybe it was a good way to pass the night and all.
The weariness so intense it ironically rendered one incapable of resting.
You wondered why he came out here so soon, when you didn’t recommend him for release? When you knew he lied on the numeric rating of his pain score deliberately. Perhaps he was just the adrenaline chasing type, always where the action was. Even if it could goddamn kill him.
The sundown offering little relief against the heat’s unleashed anvil after a ten hour shift tending to the wounded, the heavy duty waterproof canvas fabric having a way to keep the warmth inside, trapping it there, rendering the air inside humid — an oven door left open to fill the air with a numbing, toasty sensation you couldn’t shake laying on your bunk containing nothing but a bare mattress — all need for blankets, coverings and additional gear stripped, leaving you with nothing but your bedroll doubling as a pillow backrest and eyes pinned to the nylon roof of the dome of what served as sleeping quarters, crickets and the low rumbling of frogs the only companions on the other side of the PVC-coated, ripstop barrier, your legs burning with ache as you stretch them out, hoping to gain some form of relief and finding next to none once your toes hit the edge of the bunk, giving you little space for comfort, Dorrie’s chatter outside of your shared tent blending into the backdrop of dusk — the occasional snort or giggle mingling with thrilling of the twilight’s sparrows. She made friends easily, didn’t she? Like the difficulties of the day washed off of her with an invisible hose. Where she found the energy, you wouldn’t know. Maybe the smiles directed at her helped. Maybe the smiles she gave back, a sort of mutually symbiotic charging, you figure, embracing your own upper torso, the muscle burn impossible to ignore as you touch a lump here and there, underneath your fatigues, hoping nothing swelled with overexertion only for your fingers to land on your front pocket and feel the long, thin shape tucked away beneath the fabric, fumbling to unbutton the damn thing and fish out what you forgot inside. The cigarette. You turn it in your fingers tentatively, lifting it up to eye level, the orange, flickering light of a nearby kerosene lamp painting the thing with a rosy, hooded hue. You weren’t a smoker. In truth, you had nothing against it in others necessarily, you just weren’t keen on it yourself, turning your cheek on your bedroll, facing the slit of the tent, watching Dorrie’s companions, two eager looking, smiling cherries from the 25th, both adorned with a smoke each, her own index finger and thumb balancing a half finished butt. Maybe — maybe there was something prophetic to Sergeant Barnes’s words directed at you back at the hospital? You ponder it, caressing the white filter of the nicotine stick idly. Perhaps you would start smoking, whether you liked it or not. If not to alleviate stress, then to alleviate loneliness; joining everyone else in their habits. Having something in common.
Something clenches in your chest at the prospect, though.
You cannot explain why.
The chatter in front of the tent quells and your lids grow heavy as you slumped on your side.
The world shrinks into the claw of your lowered, fluttering lashes.
And you stir on your hip, hands nearly boneless.
A dormant, hazy, semi-lucid part of your brain convinced you were still at the back of the crowded, bouncing army truck that transported you out here, into the heart of the bush, taking dusty country roads through the rice fields and mud for as long as the nose could smell, swaying left and right in crammed up space, your knees pressed awkwardly between a hard pair of thighs, unable to move, making you realize you were on the precipice of dreaming half-awake.
Regaining awareness only once Dorrie steps back inside, clicking her tongue.
-"Oh! Just what I was looking for before bedtime! Could go for another one!"-
Her voice perks up and you fidget on the mattress, blinking her way, unsure what it was she meant — only then do you realize, gasping, that you nearly fell asleep, cradling a single cigarette along the buttoned down line of your sweat stained fatigue shirt. You jolt ever so slightly, like someone caught in the act of something illicit. Like someone who was just caught napping next to a lover. You nearly snort at your own self, but you never do, instead doing nothing but trying to rid your eyes from the prickly sand of sleep. -"You gonna smoke that or —"- She trails off, pointing an index finger at you, a single eyebrow twisted upwards questioningly. She just had a smoke. For the fair share of evening. Not that you wanted to be unkind, but — -"Wha — this? — no."- You shake your head, stumbling over your words, rubbing your burning eyes vigorously, clearing your throat decidedly, too tired to be combative and too exhausted to have a filter just yet. You feel the wave of selfishness flood you like a tidal wave. -"No."- You murmur, not even quite sure why yourself. Not like you intended to light up any time soon, but the words come forth like a flood before you’re able to stop them — push them back inside. -"I mean, I’m not going to smoke it."- You explain sheepishly, re-asserting yourself more clearly, with an apologetic undercurrent, clutching the nicotine stick with your calloused, work strained fingers to showcase you weren't going to share it either --- watching her expression go sour against the light of the lamp. The jacket she’s freshly discarded and peeled off on her bed is slung back on, right across her tank top like she intended to head back out there, into the night. -"Geez. Really gonna make me walk across the eternity of the base in search of a smoke past dark after a ten hour long shift. Amazing!"- She grumbles as you lean up on your elbows, watching her practically slam the tent slit up behind her with an angry swipe, stomping away in wide strides towards the campfire surrounded by men on a night watch boiling coffee. -"You’re not even a smoker."- Is the last you hear her begrudgingly seethe through gritted teeth as you look down towards your own lap with a pang of regret, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket where it’ll attract no attention, giving it a good, protective pat with the open palm of your hand. What if I want to keep something of his? I treated him when nobody else wanted to. I’m allowed a meaningless keepsake — the voice of your subconscious rings out only to disappear as quickly as it sprang up, its echo lingering in the back of your mind like a fading afterthought.
You didn’t even know him outside of his medical record, your logic reminds.
You turn the other side, intending to catch some Z’s.
No more dreams and half dreams that night, regardless of how much you wished it.
—
The aftermath of tending the wounded always walked hand in hand with dirty laundry.
Piles and piles of blood stained fatigues, grimy bunksheets, bedrolls stained with vomit or dried bear smears, the odd pair of trousers entirely soiled mid-operation that filled the capacity of the mobile laundry unit to its maximum, doubtlessly leaving you with up to four to five hours of extensive work inside of a virtual furnace, sweat practically cascading down your neck and disappearing somewhere in the drenched, darkened collar of your short sleeved shirt — no contracted service out in the jungle — it was washing everything manually or no way at all, you thought, saddled with the morning-to-noon duty and in a way glad to be at least busy and out of the way, throwing everything in open furnaces attached to a heated, portable boiler, preparing to slam the colossal steam disinfector shut with a loud, metal thud, in spite of the machine keeping all the dirty fabric insulated, the smell being oppressive as you sift through uniforms marked with faded name tags, worn plates that have seen slightly better days and markered on intended initials to differentiate every piece of gear from another as you placed your wrist against your open mouth and nostrils to avoid hurling — Taylor, Grodin, Vermucci, Huffmeister, Barnes, O’Neill. Barnes. You halt for a second, going back, almost like all nausea instantly faded in spite of the smell being no less oppressive, grabbing the particular uniform from a mountain of others, feeling the coarse, rough fabric or a spare button jacket in your swollen, reddened hands, choosing to place his piece of attire carefully into the washer, giving a pat, like it was a living, sentient thing, a reverie interrupted only a pair of Cherries bypassing the laundry house with a whistle, hands in pockets, causing you stir, throwing your head over your shoulders, tucking a moist strand of hair back under the utilitarian durag that held your hair, tied, out of way, wondering if they just saw what you did. No, they couldn't have. -"Hey! Hey, babe! You got a smoke!?"- One of them shouts your way in stride, making a gesture against his mouth, two fingers pressed against his leering lips, mimicking having a cigar between them. You instinctively tap your breast pocket, about to lie. -"No. Sorry."- You shrug, apologetic, feeling and positively confirming that the cigarette Sergeant Barnes gave you was still there as you watch the pair disappointingly waving you off like they didn't expect you to be a good sport anyway — the tension in your arms dropped; you’re relieved, exhaling, limbs feeling idle and fidgety once you finally shut the circular lid of the 2-ton capacity disinfector equipped with a 3-kilowatt generator set closed, feeling your own hands shake with exhaustion, the only available shade cast by the machine itself, leaving you in an isolated island of glaring sunshine. You could — yeah, you consider it. Spotting the nearby wall of the laundry room, isolated and solitary enough and a narrow patch of dirt pressed between buildings of the barracks and the bunk room. Maybe you could go for a real, actual smoke there? Huddle in? Just have a guilty little drag? See how it feels like? Perhaps it would really take some of the tension off? Relax you?
You feel the lighter you acquired in your pocket, pulling it out and flicking it.
The machine whirls and does its work behind you as you hide away between two buildings.
Fishing the crumpled cigarette out and taking it in, putting it into your mouth.
Only to fish it back out, twirling it between your fingers slowly.
Leaning your head against the wall, closing your eyes.
Maybe this was your comfort.
People made comforts of all sorts of unlikely things out here.
Pin up posters, correspondence with people they never met, weed, alcohol, heroin.
Was a parasocial fondness for a token a former patient gave you quite so bad?
No, you figured it wasn’t, pressing the cigarette back between your lips unlit, intending to hold it there for a while in relative silence, interrupted only by the churning of the portable washer, merely savoring it, the faint aroma of nicotine, not intending, you supposed, to go any further with it, finding the sensation oddly calming, if nothing else, interrupted only by a shift of air, the soundlessness, the sudden chill running up your spine — you snap your eyes open to see a form leaning against the wall of the laundry room’s building, a singular match hanging askew from the precipice of his mouth. Barnes. Your back jolts off from the surface of the wall where you slanted over in the half shade and you find yourself dusting yourself off, adjusting your fatigues, like someone caught in the act. -"You smokin’?"- He drawls casually, head tilted. -"Sergeant Barnes! I was just —"- The stutter that leaves your lips is something fierce, the deep abiding embarrassment sinking into your gut like a searing rock; you prayed to god he isn’t perceptive enough to realize you kept something of his for weeks as he approaches, each footstep simultaneously inaudible yet inexplicable heavy as he crosses the distance between you — he hasn’t been this close since you were treating him back at the hospital. -"Smokin’ this here?"- He effortlessly snatches the cigarette out of your mouth before you can even blink, holding it up to your eyes, giving it an amused stare; a half grin curving his scarred lips you recalled in bandages, peppered with gauze, now bare and fleshy, obscured only by the match in his mouth. –"Yes, sir."- You murmur quietly, averting your gaze, feeling all the warmth seep out of your cheeks exerted with a morning full of work. He was going to crush it in his hand, wasn’t he? -"This a pet of yours now or sumn’?"- He obviously teases, but you can’t tell if the edge he does it with is necessarily cruel or playful. Maybe a bit of both, having no time to decide once he picks the match out of his mouth and drags it along the concrete surface of the nearby wall, lighting it, pressing the tiny flame against the filter, enveloping it in a pillar of smoke. You yelp, feeling like a child bereft of its only toy. -"No, please! That’s mine!"- You plead with more urgency than intended, instinctively reaching out to grab him only for him to grip his wrist with his fingers, causing you covering your mouth in distress once the deed was already done, your heart clenching painfully in your ribcage. You nearly went and pawed at your superior officer. Robert Barnes didn’t seem angry. Only bemused. You weren’t certain if that was better or worse. Better, perhaps. Hopefully.
-"Reckon you been fixin’ to hold unto this shit for the remainder of your contract."-
He coos, the smoke unfurling through his nostrils like two flaring chimneys.
The filter is dotted with embers as the cigarette burns.
A profound, inexplicable sadness fills you.
Yeah. You did plan on holding unto it.
Tapping it inside of your breast pocket.
Doing so whenever things got difficult, unbearable.
He spits the half smoked tobacco out along with his phlegm unto the red dust soil. The heel of his boot promptly stepping on it, squashing next to where you stood paralyzed. He exhales the remainder of the nicotine fumes straight into your face as you hold your breath. His stare alight with humor, nose close enough to touch the side of your cheek as the noise from the nearby laundry room rattles on and on, the embarrassment you felt flaring your face up like a fever burning you up from the inside, the pressure in your gut building and travelling lower and you tell yourself its the loneliness of your time here, the lack of human physical contact --- your fingers coil defensively, so do the toes in your footwear. He looks you up and down, touching you, tilting you chin with an index finger, measuring you up, you supposed. You saw now, in part, why he used to intimidate the girls back at the hospital so much. Why he was handed off to you.
Why did you not mind, though?
Not truly.
-"Like that would save your ass."-
Barnes murmurs, giving you a long, hard glare over the shoulder before striding off.
You gaze down at the half smoked butt in the copper dirt, suppressing tears.
What would save your ass if small attachments didn’t then?
—
Pouring out used water.
Heating and bringing in a fresh basin.
Cleaning and dressing wounds --- listening to the sobbing. The grunting.
Fighting back the sickness and the occasional nausea that would hijack your senses.
Disinfecting the aftermath of operations, the tools, the equipment; rinse-repeat.
Pouring out used water; heating and bringing in a fresh basin.
Touching your breast pocket in times of stress.
Or in moments of idleness, habitually so.
Finding it alarmingly empty.
You discover him looking at you at times --- Sergeant Barnes --- his glassy blue eyes like a scope cast from underneath a scarred brow meeting yours from halfway across the field of the basecamp; how anyone could have an eyesight that disturbingly good and keen, even in the army, spotting you from forty-fifty feet away, was beyond understanding but you'd catch him looking without looking away once caught, instead, you'd be the one occasionally pushing down a ball of accumulated mucus while hauling out a pile of sheets brown and moist with jungle rot leaking unto the fabric through a freshly popped and infected blister, staring down at your own dust covered boots, the in-need-of-washing material obscuring your view, the pathway towards the laundry house and distance it took to get there from the medical tent, anywhere but at him, certain he was still watching you even when you've already decided to place your attention someplace else for the sake of your own sanity, convinced he was staring a hole into your back, into your skull, into your general self judging by the way a shiver would run up and down your spine every time you'd turn away. Did he dislike you...ever since the exchange? Well, it was a question if he ever liked you at all --- everyone thought him a challenging patient. By the looks of him, he seemed like a challenging Sergeant too. In turn, he must've thought you a fool. A grown woman with a child's mind in his opinion, no doubt. When he said you'd start smoking back at the hospital, he meant it in the literal sense, you chastise yourself. You developing your own escapist vices like everyone else because the drudgery of your months served would become that unbearable you'll need something to blow off some steam with, even if its just a cigarette, the occasional bit of boozing in free time, but you shake your head now, hauling the washing into the machine, feeling he must've thought you uppity; a stick up your ass. Like you were too good to sit and smoke with the rest of the 25th's Auxiliary detail, with the other nurses, the military personnel, the soldiers, holding unto naive folly instead. As much as you knew him so far you could almost imagine him chastising you 'You intendin' to walk outta here as clean as a whistle? Pure as the driven snow? Unlike the rest of us?'
He sits on a collapsed log on the perimeters of the wilderness, jungle to his side.
Dewy, sunlit dust heavy in the air and his back is hunched over.
Index finger pressed against the side of his eye.
Gaze far and away, cigarette half smoked between his fingers.
You nearly startle yourself, not noticing him initially, pouring out blood from a basin.
He looks at you quietly, like someone aggrieved.
You might've seen that look before.
At the hospital.
Your words, as a result, you find, come forth instinctively.
-"A-are you in pain, sir? Good morning."-
You try, your legs turning to iron; he merely waves his hand dismissively.
-"Eh."-
Is all you get out of his as his cheeks hollow, dragging in the smoke hard.
More of a grunting sound than an actual answer.
But, it said enough.
He was hurting and he shouldn't have been here.
Any medical practitioner believing in ethics would've said the same.
-"You overstated your NRS to get an early release, though its beyond me why. You rated yourself a three when I know your pain level was realistically closer to a crippling strong eight."-
You set your emptied basin down sheepishly, approaching him anxiously and daring to slowly squat down beside him, fearing you'll come off as preachy and bracing yourself to be brushed off --- you were alone, the base camp still in a vague state of inactivity, with only just the occasional sentry point waiting for a daytime shift; you weren't likely to put him on the spot in front of others. That wasn't your intent. -"It’s a miracle you can function at all, Sergeant, all due respect, least of all as efficiently as you do daily."- You comment as tenderly and as diplomatically as you could muster, finding something about his eyes grow oddly vulnerable for a second, strangely childlike, undeniably sad, yes, like something not supposed to be witnessed, making you goddamn near uncomfortable how much like a boy he looked when he was somber; how the years rolled off of his face within an instant. You clear your throat, uneasy. If Barnes of all people was reacting like this when he had the bravado he had in the hospital when his injuries were still fresh, then he must've been truly in agony. -"Forgive me."- You murmur sympathetically while the fluttering smoke of his cigarette coils between you, fearing you overstepped a boundary addressing him at all; the fact he hasn't gotten up or shouted you down, well, it was encouraging. -"There’s nobody around, you can tell me. It’s part of my job. I...I can administer an Oxycodone now and another one later."- You offer discreetly, knowing he was too proud to take it without coaxing --- heck, knowing he was too proud to take it even with coaxing, being the type to just suffer through debilitating pain for no reason other than the fact that he simply could --- you envisioned him the kind of man who would have to be held down by a medical staff consisting of three or four people needed to administer a mandatory injection and even then someone would end up with a broken nose. He flicks the crumpled, depleted butt of his cigarette into the red dust and tilts his head sardonically; the sad child from a minute ago all but tucked away, out of sight. -"Get me another smoke and I reckon I might tell’ya why I’m here when I ought to be laid up, outta commission."- He quips, seemingly smug and self content and you couldn't believe he found it in him to joke when he was obviously hurting, nonetheless, some phantom memory in your legs has you standing up, no arguing, about to do as you're ordered --- Barnes's eyes travel up with the rest of you.
They land on your face.
You shift the weight of your body awkwardly from one leg to another.
-"Like old times, beaut."-
He observes and the words nearly knock the wind out of your lungs.
You scamper, intent on quickly finding Dorrie.
Coaxing a cigarette or two out of her.
Did he just call you ---
-"R-right away, Sergeant!"-
You stutter in confirmation, turning on your heel, halfway walking, halfway running, stumbling upon a bitter-faced, visibly irritated Dorrie changing the bandage on a foot hit by shrapnel, agreeing, no, being cornered into emptying the latrines of the soldiers at sick beds for a full week in exchange of an untouched box of Marlboros and an old lighter, oh, how sorry you were for bothering her, how much you wanted to apologize --- it was an unfair trade, perhaps --- but in that moment, you're not sure what washes over you; wouldn't be the first time you'd go about fetching smokes for Sergeant Barnes, but you figure, as you rush back out to find him where you left him, catching him standing up as straight as an arrow, headed back to the barracks by the looks of it, no indicator of physical struggle at all, if having a cigarette or a full pack would help him alleviate the pain he was hiding he was having in the first place, then so be it. You dig in your boot heels into the dust halting in front of him purposefully, handing him the tobacco pack and the lighter for keeps. -"Sir."- You announce, tone clipped as he reaches over, taking the offering, his expression seemingly gratified; the seams of his mouth pressing into the scarred left side of his cheek in what could only be called a half-smirk. -"Mmmh-hmm!"- The pleased sound rumbles from somewhere in the back of his throat as he takes the entire package, fishing one cigarette out and tucking the rest into his breast pocket, lighting himself a smoke with the metal zippo; you should've politely made yourself scarce by then, with mission accomplished, but a fair trade was a fair trade; you wanted to know just why he prematurely re-upped back into field service, semi-expecting an answer that seemed typical of him --- War's my life. There's sons of bitches in need of killin', you envision his Southern drawl as vividly as the daylight coming down hard all around you, so best have sumn' 'round who knows how. All you do is catch your breath, wiping the sweat accumulated on your brow, watching him take a drag, then another, every movement measured and slow. Then finally, blue eyes blink up and look at you. It hits you; he must've been very handsome at one point in time, before the injuries, because under this sharp morning light, he almost seemed, well...striking.
-"Eyup! Sumn’ had to look after you."-
He admonishes casually at long last, taking his time.
Flicking the zippo, inspecting whether it was to his liking, you supposed.
What...what was he saying exactly?
-"An’ I ain’ gon’ let the one who gone 'n took care of my ass kick the bucket."-
The gravitas of those words hit you, leaving you stunned for words.
For a second all you can do is look down towards the ground.
Yearning to disappear into a sinkhole beneath your feet.
Swallowed by the jungle roots hidden beneath forever.
-"Oh."-
Is all you manage to utter.
-"Sir."-
You lift up your head, speaking barely above a tiny, meek little whisper.
For you? To keep you out of harm's way? As pay back for your hospital treatment?
Your brain already firmly registers the notion, but the verbalized part lags behind.
The speed of your foggy, hazy thoughts refusing to coincide with your tongue.
You could hardly believe or even accept what you were hearing.
-"What, are you saying you came out here prematurely because of —"-
You gulp, emboldened, perhaps in a flash of madness, trailing off sudden, catching sight of Sergeant O'Neill and Sanderson in tank tops respectively exiting the barracks in tow, heading for the center of basecamp for a morning briefing and Sergeant Barnes taking this as a sign to join them, the awakening of camp activity leaving you to push your conclusion back into the cavern of your mouth from whence it sprang out and Barnes throws you nothing but a smile --- the man actually smiles - teeth bared and the sight of it fully reaching his eyes before he turns on his heel, cigarette in his mouth and leaves you to stew in the notion that it was, in part, for you. He did it because of you.
