The On Base Matrimony.
Robert Barnes x Reader.
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2590 words, 14617 characters. A commission for @stoicbutthighfive
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O'Neill has heard the rumors, sure.
Problem about rumors O'Neill has heard is that people seldom believed that shit.
Hell, he had this reputation for over-exaggerating, bragging or flat out fabricating things purely to contradict people, be a smart mouth or irritate them and much like the boy who cried 'wolf!' whenever he had something legitimate to say, people brushed it off as some of that 'crap Red had to spew' and something that, in general, is best let in through one ear and let out the other. Maybe why it was so irritating and tense carrying around a sensitive, polarizing and quite bewildering piece of intel that was undoubtedly true as were all things relating to Bob, but which he had no way to outright prove or confirm, feeling a bit like a messenger who had something crucial to declare without nobody there to sincerely listen or accept his report; then again, it isn't every day a guy walks into the barracks and casually drops a bomb like 'Did you all hear Sergeant Barnes got hitched to some broad?' and have people not stare at him like he's motherfucking off his rocker. He tried telling Sanderson, for starters, them being the first two people who arrived and took their respective places around the makeshift table that served as their regular poker den but that asshole was usually to inebriated and out of it to listen. Secondly, he gave it a shot with Bunny and Junior, O'Neill chewing something in his mouth with great distinction as he contentedly attempted to relay the story, feeling somewhat smug, of course, while he told that the Sarge is back from his nuptials and nobody knows, except him and now, in their privileged position, the two of them as trusted trustees. How could he not feel smug? He knew some shit and nobody else did and he could very well pick and choose who he shares it with, maybe with a favour or two in return. Now, he could feel the all importance of being the direct news source of a piece of gossip more salacious than the color of Raquel Welch's panties visible from the first row at the last USO show.
It happened in War Zone C.
Somewhere around the Tay Ninh Province, not even fifty clicks from here.
You got lowered at a checkpoint in an army chopper; you and a handful of nurses, Red Cross workers, journalists and those Donut Dollies. Took a special permit, apparently, for you to be able to enter an active combat zone in the first place as a civilian, but back then, Bob being a man of few words, Red hasn't put two and two together just yet that it was the Sarge you were here for. Took being nosy to start getting to the bottom of the matter, of course and Sergeant Barnes', rather, Bob's separate bungalow was naturally so tidy, so unnervingly clean, so devoid of any personal affects that usually permeated the mess of other living quarters that snooping on the man was genuinely a chore and of course O'Neill understood that if anyone else tried this shit they'd be hit with a code red extramarital beat down or a court martial at worst, but he figured, Bob tolerated him as much as Bob could tolerate a person, so standing in the middle of his hooch, looking around anxiously in the man's absence wasn't as much of a risk for him as it would've been for some overly curious cherry with a death-wish or even someone who had the jurisdiction and the right to conduct a routine inspection, like that shit-for-brains Wolfe. Thing was, Barnes was acting questionably lately, O'Neill concluded; well, questionably in the sense that he often went off to do something privately rather than perpetually, sleeplessly scour the horizon with seemingly lidless eyes day and night and that, for a man like Barnes, was strange. The singular focus of anything but the war was out of the fucking norm for the guy. Sure, O'Neill could expect a greenhorn cheesedick like Gardner or Taylor to sneak off to write to grandma back home, but Barnes, of all people? Red never even particularly discovered if that son of a bitch had anyone to write to or if he would even care to if he had, being one of those Lifers singularly dedicated to nothing but fighting the good fight.
Maybe why discovering clean pieces of paper in a lone drawer was such a surprise.
Nothing written on them, just the fact that they were there.
In the company of an old ballpoint pen, clearly having been used.
A stack of empty manilla envelopes too, neatly folded, with unnerving precision.
Shit, Sarge might just be putting together a hit-list, the intrusive thought comes unbidden into Red's mind as he shifts his weight nervously from one leg to another like the ground beneath his boots alone was threatening to burn him alive if he wasn't careful enough, feeling the onslaught of sweaty bullets lining his forehead spill down the bridge of his nose, the ash residue on his cigarette hanging low enough to be on the verge of tumbling unto the bare ground floor just as his shaking, neurotic fingers are on the verge of reaching a printed, separate document tucked away among the collection of clear, unused stationery with his eyes briefly flicking over the monochromatically printed words that said 'certificate of...'
The titular depiction of that alone is enough to make him jump.
But, he supposes the sight of Bob's own leaning figure in the doorway, casually fiddling with a cigarette produced from his pocket is the final nail in the coffin; he doesn't even seem angry to have caught someone rummaging through his things ---- didn't even particularly seem to have a reaction. It was all more akin to a strange, cool indifference that was so quiet and aloof it inherently appeared shit-your-pants daunting, what with the man not even bothering to lift up his gaze or face to assess him with his eyes and the fact he's caught him red handed. No, instead, Bob was unflinchingly focusing on the wrapping on his tobacco, as soundless as ever. If a vein didn't pop in Red's head there and there, surely, it never would.
He recovers his footing the only way he quickly knew how.
By trying for the sardonic levity of a half-joke.
-"So, uh, Bob-o, who you writing fan mail to, huh?"-
He quips hoping to God in heaven it'll somewhat lighten the mood.
Or at least irritate him enough to where he won't momentarily strangle him.
Barnes never raises his face, popping instead the now smoothened cigarette filter into his scarred mouth, hands on his hips, gaze fixed, seemingly, to the tip of his own boots; O'Neill's cue to start fumbling and immediately produce a lighter as was their usual ritual, pretending he wasn't scared shitless as the man slowly circled him, seemingly deep in thought. Certificate of what, the intrusive thought returns knocking in curious alarm.
-"Something I don't know? Writing to, uh, Ann Margaret?"-
He jests, flicking the zippo dangerously close to the tiger's deceptively calm jaw.
Within a second, the tip engulfs in a swift wave of embers and smoke.
Barnes's eyes move upwards, towards him.
O'Neill feels the piss freeze up inside of his bladder.
-"Look, Sargerooney. Didn't mean to snoop, aright!?"-
He hastily tucks away his lighter, sensing his own hands tremble like leaves.
Pining to endear himself back into his good graces by using a teasing nickname.
Putting his arms up in a gesture of defeat that was anything but feigned.
You just don't feign these things with Bob of all people.
-"Nobody's telling me nothing and a guy's gotta find out some way, huh?"-
Red whines once Barnes takes a step forward, his face enveloped the mist of nicotine.
He puts up his index finger and vigorously shakes it for emphasis.
-"And nuh-uh, you keep such a tight ship around here I can't even dig up a stray needle! Give me a break!"-
He pleads at that point, Barnes close enough to glare him down like one of those well-trained killer bloodhounds that holds you by the scuff of the throat for a few moments before ripping it to pieces, the nervousness he feels big enough where he leans hard unto the wood of the small standing cabinet behind him, his weight pressing unto the pull-out drawer and with a sickening crack, promptly breaking it off of its hinges with a thud, the unused envelopes, clear pieces of paper and the sole document of the bunch tumbling unto the ground, scattered among their boots. There it was. The offending proof of what Bob was up to, in plain black and white.
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Certificate of Marriage. November, 1967. Tay Nihn Province, Vietnam. Robert E. Lee Barnes.
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O'Neill's breath hitches.
Your name was right underneath the Sarge's.
-"Geeze Louise! You tied the knot!?"-
-"Eyup. 'Suppose I did?"-
Is all Barnes casually responds, smoke billowing out through flaring nostrils.
Like a fire breathing dragon without a care in the world.
Vaguely challenging the dissent, but too smugly cool to actually commit to it.
Never crossed his mind to tell his best man, John, huh?
Now, the real question was, who were you and where he met you.
How?
"Who's the girl? Huh? Who's the girl, Bob-o?"-
He starts crowding the man verbally, moping, yes --- demanding answers.
All he gets is needle-point stare that pierces right through him.
-"That's Mrs. Barnes to your ass."-
Bob retorts, correcting him, tone dangerously low and oh, O'Neill could see how things were. This was some sort of mail-order wife situation, huh? One of those correspondence programs funded by the higher ups bleeding heart types up in Washington. Good for personnel morale and shit. Like they did in the wild West with Pioneers, early Settlers and news advertisements. This cocksucker got to ship himself in a woman behind everyone's back, real nice and quiet and he couldn't even get days off to go see Patsy after being crammed in this jungle for six months. He was losing his marbles out here. What surprised Red was that Barnes would ever do any of these things, though. Maybe the easiest way he could meet someone, he figures, by doing it the way he does everything else. Ordering for it. Now, you actually flying out here. You must've been a real piece of work too. That, or straight off your rocker to come looking for a husband in an active war zone. Red scoots down, hastily collecting the scattered papers, envelopes and most importantly, the marriage certificate, smoothing the stack out like it's a handful of rare loot collected out of some Gook's chest. Initially, he hesitates, not knowing where to place, so he carefully lowers it on Barnes's bunk, right alongside the drawer O'Neill practically ripped off of its hinges in fear. Barnes just watches him with an unsurprising, remote disdain. Some groombride, huh? Bun won't believe this. He'll make him and Junior do laundry duty for a week in exchange of this particular piece of gossip. Well, mostly Junior. -"Oh, c'mon, Bob, that ain't fair and you know it!"- O'Neill pleads, feeling his own brow furrow up in distress. Married!? He got married!? And here Red thought this cocksucker disappeared for a couple of days for an annual check up of the damage he sustained on his face; a clean up job and all. Injections for the muscles up at some specialized hospital in Saigon they fly out Lifers too to keep them in one piece. Fuck knows what. -"You get to have a full blown ball 'n chain you're dragging around in the short few days you're gone and I don't even get a break every once in a while!? Not fair! Huh!"- He admonishes judgmentally, watching Barnes nonchalantly inhale the cigarette falling askew in his mouth like he was halfway amused at this point, his nose wrinkling with an aloof sort of delight . Sure. Delight. Not unlike a mean-ass dog that just dug a hole in the garden to hide its bone.
Tight-lipped about you, was he?
-"Ain' nothin' fair 'bout it, Red."-
Barnes retorts simply. Too simply.
Like he knew it wasn't right not to tell anyone he tied the knot and didn't quite care regardless.
-"So, how'd you meet the missus, huh!? How'd you meet!"-
Half-way charmed with excitement, halfway accusatory, O'Neill pries.
Met with momentary silence and that glare, he tries again.
Did he as a bare minimum earn the right to be treated for a beer sometime, sheesh!?
-"I at least deserve the fresh scoop!"-
Red verbally digs met with nothing but a stubborn brick wall.
He fidgets with excitement then, shifting his weight from one leg to another once more.
The realization hitting him like a stray bullet lodged in the back of his skull.
Oh, fuck, she must've been something for Barnes to want to ship her in.
-"Got a picture, huh?"-
He gleefully rubs his hands together in an imp-like eagerness, swearing he spotted something nameless and twinkling in Barnes' eyes rolled in vexation relent when faced with all the tactical nagging as he turned his head away from him. He did not, in fact, grab him by the collar to strangle him and that alone was a good sign.
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-"Chickenshit, that's like...something made up, man! You're pulling stuff out of your ass!"-
Bunny's phlegm practically ricochets from the red, swirling dust in front of the lined up wooden latrine cubicles when Red tells him and Junior the story --- all of it --- yelling at each other over the whirling, buzzing sounds of helicopters arriving on the nearby open field, relaying the intel as he knew it from Barnes' own mouth and in part as he pieced it together from context and clues and as figured, nobody believed it. In fact, Bun downright seemed like he was a victim of a very dumb prank and Junior was frankly convinced it is all some conspiracy theory to get them both embroidered in the task of performing menial labour in return of this classified information. The Sarge? Their Sarge? Being part of a matchmaking pen pal program aimed at servicemen who have been in the fray for over a decade and gaining a wife out of it who was then flown in-country, in Tay Ninh, so they could meet in person, make it official under military jurisdiction and avoid the hassle of having a proxy marriage? Seems like you never knew a person entirely, even when you thought you knew them. Bunny's incredulously knit brow weighing his credibility visibly relaxes and his puckered mouth parts, the toothpick he was chewing in it nearly plopping open as he vigorously points with the tip of his button nose into the distance, grabbing Junior, who annoyedly whines at the contact, by the forearm.
There, on the ridge overlooking the base was a chopper.
It only takes half a second to spot the outline of a dress fluttering on the wind.
A patch of swept hair concealed by the robust metal plating of the flying vehicle.
Undoubtedly, feminine hair.
And an arm, guided by none other than Bob, ushering you into the Huey.
Bidding the new Mrs. Barnes goodbye.
It was one of those days Bunny profoundly regretted not having his camera on him.
One of the days O'Neill felt more smug than ever before.
