Western au...of sorts.
The morning is surprisingly warm in comparison to what he's accustomed too. The hot Texas sun beaming soft light rays through the frayed cloth of the tent, filling the small space with bright light. His underclothes, The thick knit pants he'd most certainly need back in the Colorado cold are dabbled in sweat from lying under his wool blanket.
Texas is a real bitch, but it's nice to wake up without feeling impending frostbite on his toes.
Instead he wakes abnormally warm from the swelter of the sun and the big bulk of body pressed to his front. The smooth curve of back against his chest. It's too hot for contact but his mind is nearly starving for it. Panic rolls in his gut because the warmth is almost too inviting.
He sits himself up, half asleep and a little woozy but quick, reminding himself that it's been weeks since he's even had human contact. He's just a little lonely is all. He attempts to focus more on his need to piss than his need to stare at the body beside him. Pathetic.
—
He lifts himself onto his sore feet, doesn't bother pulling on boots as he crouches his tall frame out of the cloth tent opening. Hastily unfolding the slat that runs down the side.
If he thought the sun was bright in the tent he had another thing coming. Heavy light floods his eyes like waterboarding, scorching his mind. Bright white making his eyelids shut on instinct. Should've figured that the forest clearing would have ample lighting.
He stumbles forward, eyes clamped shut in short strides until his pupils can adjust enough to not feel blinded.
The embers of last nights fire still glowing soft orange in ashen grey. Just enough to be easily pulled back into flame with some dried leaves and a few more strips of fallen Birch.
—
The coffee is thick like syrup and bitter as hell but coffee is coffee. Steve sips from A tankard and allows canned beans to simmer on the flame.
He assumes that it's around Six, enough time to pack up and get to Austin by nightfall.
He moves carelessly into the tent for his knapsack, sweeping it from the dirt with his fingers and sending curls of dust up into the air. That sinuous body still asleep on the wool blanket that's been laid out. Mouth open and cuffed hands laid out over his head. There's angry red lines and scratches around the skin where the cuffs have rubbed the skin raw and Steve can't keep that sympathetic ache in his chest at bay.
He delivers a soft kick with his toes to the prisoner's leg. Just hard enough to rouse him from sleep, eyes shooting open and looking around the tent like he's lost.
“I got a little coffee left, better get to it before it gets cold.” There's something sickening about the offering. Because while, yes, he has plenty of extra coffee that he'll never drink by himself it's just not like him to be sharing with a criminal. He's not sure what's suddenly making this guy so special.
That man- Barnes, sits up and rubs the his hands over his eyes. Smearing the dirt of his face into streaks with the sweat on his palms. Yawning and looking somehow innocent in comparison to what's up inside his head. It's like this big horrible joke that this guy, tall and young and handsome is a damn monster.
With that thought, Steve steps out of the tent into the warm air, sun heating up by the minute.
—
By the time Steve is mostly dressed Barnes has drinken down the remains of the coffee. Chugging down the last drops like it's the best damn thing he's ever had.
Steve separates the beans into separate bowls and they eat in companioning silence. The only sound heard being the soft chirp of morning blue Jays and Barnes's fiendish slurping. By no means does look malnourished but he sure eats like it. Downing the whole bowl in the time that it takes Steve to eat half of his own.
—
They're packed up and headed out within the half hour. Steve carrying the supplies on his horse with Barnes chained to the saddle, following in stride to keep up with the slow trot.
How pliant and willing the guy is, is a bit surprising. How easily he follows along, quiet and uncomplaining except for the occasional wince from his sore wrists. A light drip of blood streams down his palm.
—
Steve stops at a riverbank on the pretense of cleaning up. Mentally denying the pity he has for Barnes's poor wrists. He doesn't give a damn but he removes the cuffs anyway. “Wash up in the river, but you get out of my sight and I'll cut your damn feet off. Drag you there.”
In response Barnes's lips turn up into this smug grin, half cocked and nearly prideful, voice soft and deep, and somehow sweet as he replies with an obedient, “Yessir,”
Steve scrubs the used dishes in the river water, allowing the remnants of their breakfast to wash off into the stream.
—
Next thing he knows he's paying no mind to the dishes, idly scrubbing them with his palms and trying to keep his eyes away from the big naked form toeing into the stream.
He expected rolled up pant legs and maybe that rag of a shirt stripped not the entirety. Now it's like the sun is in his peripherals. Thick glowing lines of muscle wading through water, flowing like the stream.
It's hard to focus on mundane tasks when you've got a brahma in human personification stumbling around the water near you. Thighs thick and defined, back muscles pulled tense and an ass that makes his head hurt.
This is wrong on so many goddamn levels.
Never in his life had he expected himself to be physically unable to look away from a big guy splashing water against himself. Long fingers wringing his dirty hair out and combing it back against the nape of his neck. The soft arch of his spine shifting and bending with his movements. Cut muscles moving under his skin in curls and pulls.
He's not really sure if he wants more to take over the job of scrubbing him clean or to just drown him in the river.
—
He feels fucking suffocated, like the life's being siphoned out of him when Barnes, long and beautiful, bends over with obvious intention. No rational human being with average flexibility needs to bend themselves in half to clean their own feet but that's exactly what he's doing. Shamelessly tucking in on himself like goddamn cat in heat.
Steve forces his eyes away, demands his attention back on his dishes.
He feels like he's invading something, like an intruder which is so incredibly wrong. Although he's about ninety percent sure that Barnes's well aware of what he's doing. Still bent over out of the corner of Steves eye, splashing water and scrubbing himself.
Steves eyes lock onto the shiny steel tankard, the small patch of rust forming against the handle. It's real damn hard to not look over that presence shifting around to his left.
“Where we headed?” Barnes's deep voice asks.
Steve looks over but keeps his eyes up, just looking at Barnes's face and nothing below that. He's facing towards him now and Steve would be a damn bad liar if he said that this was easy.
“Austin” He responds, voice dull on purpose. Lacking in emotion because it's either that or he's gonna jump that bastard then and there.
—
Barnes doesn't respond with anything but a soft grin, pulling his water dripping palms over his face to scrub over his eyes. The shift is just long enough for Steve to give him a once over.
And goddamn he has never regretted a decision more in his life.
The guys like a stack of bricks. He's like the stuff of Steves nightmares. He just might be a goddamn angel.