#bob barnes

[fineagainnn]

This is dumb, but get his ass Elias

[senka-mesecine]

A Shed Painted Pink, Occasionally Blue.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

―

3559 words, 19813 characters. A commission for @stoicbutthighfive

―

When his momma was knocked up with him, his pa' painted the ol' shed pink.

Half of it anyhow.

Was in the time before regular trips to the Doc or what they call ultrasounds nowadays and he 'supposed part of them wasn't terribly certain if he'd come out a boy or a lil' girlchild (or perhaps one of each) so just as precaution and as part of a greater guessing game, his old man, not having had his choice of whitewash paint or the full spectrum of color took the only lone bucket he had on hand and painted the interior of a small shed adjoined to the house pink, covering rough-patch walls and bare brick, intendin' to create a makeshift nursery for his woman the best he knew how, makin' small repairs as he went along --- once he ran out of old, stale fuschia paint, during a rare trip down from the mountain, he acquired a hue of blue and fished the choppy job, covering the walls he hadn't with the first concocted, rosy shade, leavin' the hooch a damn mess, some walls pink, some walls blue, so regardless of what momma gave birth to, their assessment in decor wouldn't be wrong, as such, for the first three or four years of his life he grew up in this chaos of a woodshed accommodated for a babe's and a mother's needs, until the color naturally chipped and faded, leavin' behind the grimy impression of untended, moist walls with way too many caked on layers chipping off. His folks weren't careless or stupid. They was just poor. Unless they're exceptionally resilient, poor people tend to die early too and those who die early don't always go makin' 'round decisions that are meant to be logistically in a good taste sense. Barnes doesn't know why that particular anecdote crosses his mind during a smoke break.

Why it crosses his mind now, when he catches you actin' so strange.

And you have been.

In the past few weeks anyway.

There was talk of transfers. Never clear talk, of course, the name of no particular location is ever dropped, no exact region, village or city; could've been a nurse at Cam Ranh airbase or saddled with a gig at Landing Zone Willy where you'd check on Cherries being flown in during their first actual helicopter flights that weren't a drill or exercise, makin' sure they don't puke up their cafeteria lunch. He couldn't stand when sumn' was parading itself like those Black Ops motherfucker secret recon types. He was always more of a straightforward kind that does the job outright, without the bullshit of subterfuge if possible --- sure, you 'n him did it. And yes, in every other situation, Barnes was the strict believer in rubber and contraceptives, 'specially during a time of active service and war where extra distractions were unessecary. He was in-country ten years and if he allowed every Gook whore carried disease, gonorrhea and unwanted pregnancies borne by Boom-Boom girls out in some bar slow down the progress of what he was doin' out here, then he would've lasted maybe two years tops in the 'Nam and no more. If he was home in Appalachia, he would've ditched the condom altogether, but not here. Not now. With you, it was different. You were different. Of course some selfish impulse was involved. He wanted you the fuck outta here and STAT. Naturally, you wouldn't listen when you were told once, twice, so extreme measures had to be employed with all extreme cases. He remembers the nights it happened like it was yesterday. You bemoanin' the lack of rubber on him. How you weren't on the new pill thing all the female personnel was swearing by and him lyin'. His exact words bein' 'Ion' believe in that shit.'

Ion' believe in your ass dyin' an early death, was more like it.

Ion' believe in you gettin' blown to smithereens.

Me findin' your blown off hand in a bush by the river and your face without no face to identify.

Your patch of scalped hair hangin' off of the rifle butt of some jumped up Zipperhead pretendin' he's Cherokee on a conquest.

He finds you in your hooch alone clearing out your desk, understanding fully that the reason for your moods was him as you packed your duffle bag that's seen better days, throwing in whatever basic belongings you possessed out here, squatting down beside your cot, appearing as angry as a rainsoaked wildcat. A change of fatigues, notes, booklets, journals, hygienics, combs, paperwork --- you never even look up at him when he halts by the doorway and leans on its threshold frame with a shoulder, not bothering to make himself known. He knew you knew that sooner or later he'd visit to see your ass off, the same way he knew that you understood he didn't regret any of this. In fact, he did it on purpose with this very outcome in mind. You didn't listen when he told you with mere words. When he told you 'Go on and git'. Back home, when sumn' don't listen, they suffer worse fates than this.

Finally, you look at him, head snapping up from your packing.

You've been crying.

Cryin' pretty tears.

-"Yes, I'm pregnant, before you ask."-

You seethe, wiping the edge of your nostrils and sniffling a little, your forehead wrinkling in what he can only describe as abject hatred; sure, he knew all 'bout that emotion. Familiarized himself with like one does with an old compatriot. Seen it plenty of times on plenty of faces. Truth of the matter was, he'd rather you hate him for the rest of your waking life if it meant havin' a life to begin with after this 'stead of bein' carried outta here on a stretcher one day. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks sideways, to your belongings stuffed into your luggage on the bare ground, deciding to let you say what you needed to say here today.

-"And yes, Robert, it's yours."-

You snipe, spittly flying.

Eyup.

He knew that already --- counted on it.

Frankly, he wouldn't give a single shit even if it wasn't his.

It would mean you'd fly on out of here regardless and that was just 'bout fine by him.

Fact was, he'd report your dalliances and whorin' personally.

Same way he did in this case.

Report himself as the perpetrator.

-"I don't got stepping around with everyone, before you say anything."-

He rolls his eyes at that one, still not looking at you, deep in thought, feelin' his own mouth purse, giving you your stage; you seemed to misunderstand that it didn't bother him none if you went from bunk to bunk, spreadin' your lil' cunny like a piece of butter on toast. He didn't want you here. He wanted you somewhere Stateside, waterin' some country garden riddled with gardenias and your biggest daily problem bein' ponderin' which way to turn the antenna to get the best signal for your television box. Maybe furnish a pink or blue nursery all of your own. You stand up, fists clenched, face determined, one of those justice seeking visages that wanted to make the world right, one wounded soldier at a time. -"You did this on purpose."- You grumble, approaching him, neglecting your duffle bag, the periphery of his gaze allowing him to catch a glimpse of your ire-glazed stare searching for eye contact from him. He chooses not to give it. -"Was it some sort of 'mark your territory' type of thing the soldiery does?"- You demand. You been readin' too many novels. Lucky for you, you'll be able to read a great many more back home soon 'nough. -"Did you and the boys make a bet to see who can knock up the women at camp first? Is that it!?"- You hiss, hands instinctively flying to the slight curve of your stomach hidden by the hem of your olive green fatigue jacket with the last button undone to hide the fluttering, impeding roundness of your condition and make it seem like you were merely walkin' 'round the base all casual, deflecting the heat. There it was. Sumn' he left behind. -"To push them out of the boy's club and remind them of their place!?"- At that point, you are halfway hollerin' at your superior officer; you ought have been countin' your lucky stars he came out here today not wearin' his uniform jacket, rather that he was standin' in a nonchalant sense himself, merely in a tank top intended for leisure hours and bein' more or less at ease where standard issue, hierarchical formality was concerned. Had he presented himself in an official capacity, he'd have you court martialed for talking to him like that and doubly cement the fact that you'll never step on an army base ever again.

That still very well could be arranged, hun.

-"Aw, shiet, you can get rid of it when you fly back to the world."-

He jabs with intentional, tactical cruelty, hoping to God that you'll despise him.

Might make leaving here all the easier.

If there's nothing tethering you to this fucking shithole.

He looks at you, really looks at you, the pain in your eyes palpable.

Your mouth opens and closes in partial shock.

-"Get rid of ---"- -

You begin and then trail off, the words lost inside of your throat as you stand there, protective and baffled; he did imagine you would scrape the remnants of him clean the first given opportunity and never look back again --- wasn't unheard of. Nurses solving the aftermath of their affairs, fuck ups and on-base shanenigans behind closed doors, in a lab so their sweethearts and husbands back home don't find out what they've been up to, you bein' no different, feelin' used and done dirty, your resentment pushin' you to liberate yourself to anything tyin' you to some soldier you had a tumble with for a few nights. He planned on that. Relied on it like a well played hand of poker. That you would manage the fallout at some discreet army hospital and that they'd validly detain you for recovery, refusing to prolong your contract due to health concerns. Sign you up as unfit to perform your duty, at least for a while, maybe even sending you home for moral reasons, buying him enough time to get you out of the country and keep you out, whether you liked it or not. He's killed before. Motherfuckers ranging from age nine to age ninety nine. What's one more death then? If he gets to know that somewhere out there, you were alive and well? He'd only be killin' a seedling of himself and pieces of himself were never of much value. The world didn't need another Barnes, even if it meant erasing a part of you along with himself.

Your jaw visibly clenches.

-"This is my job. How do you think this makes me look!?"-

You murmur bitterly, pointin' at yourself for emphasis with both hands.

Fearin' gossip and condemnation, was that it?

See, that's precisely why you had no business bein' here.

You were in the 'Nam, caring about hearsay and basic daily scuttlebutt.

You were too soft for this place.

Too stubbornly naive.

-"Leagues better than the rest of 'em poor lumps of shit, I reckon."-

He retorts simply.

-"You're leavin' and they're forced to stick 'round. Who's winnin' out then?"-

He adds less with the sardonic edge he originally intend inside of his own mind and more with the paternalistic sheen of someone explain' a child how the world really works; he knew for a fact many of these boys would give their front row teeth to be sent a notice that they'll be flown outta here. And here you were, mopin' 'bout your career and what people you'd never see again would say 'bout you during the idle hours of a poker match. It was 'bout to be a slaughterhouse out here any day now and there was no career left to be had anymore. They were bein' used as live human bait and cannon fodder to lure out an entire NVA battalion hiding out in those jungle perimeters out there. If you didn't haul ass now, while he was givin' you a way out, via however crude a method, you'd be chow for the worms and you didn't even seem to realize it or. That, or you were somehow willfully convinced something like that could never happen to you of all folks.

Idealists.

Every world conflict watered its fields with their clueless blood.

-"You think I wanted to leave?"-

You whisper desperately.

Anger subsidizing to give way to sadness.

The corners of your eyes prickled with the moisture of suppressed tears.

Barnes does a circle around the wooden beam that held the bunk's roof up.

Nah, he ain' never gon' see you again and he didn't want the last thing he remembered of you bein' cryin'.

-"I want your ass to leave."-

He shoots you down calmly; as bluntly as he could.

-"But why?"-

You whimper, hands reaching for him, perhaps pleadingly, perhaps to ground yourself or attempt to shake some sense or sympathy into him and he doesn't linger --- he reacts, grabbing you by the elbow and dragging you forward without warning, straight across the threshold and out of the wooden bungalow, feeling his own lips press into a tight firm line as he bypassed the odd cheesedick cherry givin' him the odd, frightened look. You wanted to know why!? He'd fuckin' show you why. The trip to the infirmary isn't long, but it comes with enough whimpering and struggling on your part as you're dragged behind him to feel double the duration it should as he walks with wide paces. You ought to know the reality of death by now, bein' a nurse 'n all. But you were one of those greenhorn nurses. The wide-eyed type. Freshly flown in. Barely a few months service on you. Occasionally dabbing the foreheads of lovestruck men and givin' them their pain medicine, you didn't know shit 'bout what can happen to people out here. You didn't know 'cos the Doc and the senior medical staff shield folks like you for as long as they can, givin' you the easy work. The filtered work. Washin' bandages and changin' water. You really fuckin' think he wanted the mother of his unborn child, the woman he loved end up like some of those sons of bitches did!? He halts inside a cool tent filled with ice boxes, fans and loudly humming General Electric Lo-Thinline accimilization machines that served as brief, temporary transit for corpses and carcasses before a chopper arrives for them to fly them out, which by itself could be a logistical nightmare, 'specially at the height of monsoon season, limiting this limbo they're in to a mere night at best before they have to be transferred lest they become a nest for airborne disease and move down the entire platoon. He swiftly yanks off the white sheet a human shaped ghost on the table is covered by to reveal the frame of where the outlines of a person's face used to be, the middle of it fleshy, red and hollowed out, the front of it entirely collapsed in on itself, like something someone scooped out with a spoon, leaving behind only an empty, meaty middle.

Grenade.

You instinctively cover your eyes with a gasp of horror.

What injuries the women sustained were no better either.

Some of them younger even than yourself.

Smarter than yourself.

Having been here longer than yourself.

He reaches over and forcibly grabs your chin, turning it towards the carcass.

You'd learn this lesson today, once and for all.

-"You look at it."-

Barnes commands gruffly against the AC's hum.

When your chin fidgets left and right in his grip, he squeezes harder.

Pulling you towards the stretcher housing the mangled, ammonia-reeking dead.

-"I said 'look!'"-

He repeats himself, feeling his own throat practically vibrate with a growl.

You whimper like an injured animal, eyes pressed shut tentatively opening.

The place where your throat met your jawline trembling under his fingers.

-"You hankerin' to be in his place!?"-

Barnes shakes you a little, grunting against the shell of your ear as his hand encompassed the full lower part of your face and neck like a vice, sensing the warm droplets of your soundless tears pepper the surface of his knuckles, trickling further down his arm. -"'Cos that's war."- He explains flatly, understanding you've seen corpses before; sanitized, no doubt, cleaned up, stiff, already at peace, no different from meaty dummies the fine folk in white lab coats get to do their practice work and internships on. But, this was reality. Reality. You don't find this in a medical text or a school book. They won't put this in the brochure when they recruit you. Come and try to make decent the dead that have no faces, no limbs, no insides left. Come and tell the boy with the blown off top of his skull why it hurts so much. Do you really blame him? For knocking you up? -"He ain' even twenty 'n one and they'll have to give his momma a closed coffin funeral and lie to her why."- Barnes simmers, observing your horror filled eyes squeeze shut once more in a final attempt to self soothe, lashes fluttering wild; the excuse often given for such extreme injuries on the dead and as to why their relatives and families back home could not see any remains was often jotted down to the humidity of the weather and the realistic duration of a long flight pushing the decomposition to quicken, which was in effect lying by not lying. Nobody should be told that their child in the coffin was missing a face. Barnes grabs the sheet and quickly covers the pallid, deformed body. Now, you would be a good girl and board that chopper tomorrow morning, 0400 sharp and quit bullshittin' him. What you did to the kid was entirely up to you so long as you never set foot on this soil ever again, lest you end up under a sheet of your own, marked with your initials and serial number, ready to be carried out post-haste, before you rot barely protected by the canvas roof of a tent erected in the middle of a cleared out jungle. At this point, you're outright sobbing into your own chin, sniffling and gasping, eyes still firmly closed. He lets go of your face and you immediately turn your head and your entire body, away from the line up of dead men, a hand covering your nose and mouth to block out the smell. You had to see what you had to see. He could spend have of the forenoon just demonstrating the fucked up ways all of these people perished until you come to your senses.

He was like the poor man from the anecdote about his pa', ma' and the pink shed.

Barnes had very limited means right now.

Very little time.

He had to do what he could.

-"And there's dozens of motherfuckers just like him, sacks of shit and broads both!"-

He points vigorously at the covered cadaver with his index finger and if you thought female casualties died deaths any less harrowing you had another thing coming; his eyes flicking to your belly and the natural way your palms covered in the sheen of cold, clammy sweat reached down to shield the softness there, as if fearing the phantom edge of a flying Bayonet wielded by the arms of an NVA skirmisher ready to impale you. Shimmering eyes fill, for the first time since this conversation started with something fearful, something tender, something humbled and in that moment, you seem halfway like a lost child yourself that was overdue in going home. Your lower lip trembles as you speak and the back of your hand comes up, wiping the moisture accumulated there, pallid visage contemplating some sobering fact of life as you gaze at him, almost pleadingly, sweat trickling down your forehead in spite of the unnatural, artificially-induced chill of the mortuary tent's interior, all of these people having died this morning and by tonight at the latest, they'd be taken away.

They lied to your ass at the recruitment center when they said this would be glorious work. The type where you get to put on a red lipstick, peacock yourself 'round in front of eager, hungry hound-dogs and pretend to be Florence Nightingale.

Well, he was here to rectify that and all the ways they've gone n' cheated you.

-"I love you. Help me."-

You mutter, beggin', bleatin' like a lamb, scared like he's never seen you scared before.

In that moment, he wish you'd keep the child.

Send him the odd picture perhaps --- the background outline of a nursery freshly painted.

In some nice place, good place, clean place.

That is, should he live long enough to receive such correspondence.

A man could hope.

-"I have done."-

Is all Barnes says as he grabs you by the elbow and leads you out of there before your knees could buck.

You had a chopper to catch.

[redriflez]

i dont think that barnes necessarily feels guilty for the act of killing elias, but he feels guilty for not feeling guilty. he wants to think what he did was wrong but in his mind it was the right course of action, and he hates himself for thinking so

[redriflez]

i dont think that barnes necessarily feels guilty for the act of killing elias, but he feels guilty for not feeling guilty. he wants to think what he did was wrong but in his mind it was the right course of action, and he hates himself for thinking so

[senka-mesecine]

The On Base Matrimony.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

―

2590 words, 14617 characters. A commission for @stoicbutthighfive

―

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.

―

Certificate of Marriage. November, 1967. Tay Nihn Province, Vietnam. Robert E. Lee Barnes.

―

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.

―

-"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.

[senka-mesecine]

Orpheus and Eurydice.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

―

3258 words, 18091 characters. A commission for @stoicbutthighfive

―

''Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?''

Ovid, Metamorphoses.

―

Barnes’ father was a drinkin’ man.

Hell, Barnes’ grandpappy was a drinkin’ man too.

If his great-grandpappy was fathered by anyone time remembered at all, that sonofabich doubtlessly kept the bottle as company as well.

Probably drank raw Strychnine and snake venom, that one.

He figured, everyone ‘round these parts, in these remote, isolated places tucked away behind woods and mountains, places bypassed by the main circuit of highways, where no paved roads went, where train tracks were no longer set in an orderly, maintained fashion, risking the being stolen by shit-for-brains smuggling iron pipes and where stop signs ceased to be, where the nearest goddamned Piggly-Wiggly was sixty miles away and where electrical poles halted their long stateside march was a drinkin’ person. Ain’ no other type of stimulation to be had, unless one excluded the shit hopheads cooked up in the deep hills and snorted up their nostrils. Women drank. The men drank. When he was barely a few crates tall, he even knew children who drank, their evening soup often infused with a pinch of gin for flavour, supposedly to make them go to sleep easier and cause no mischief to their already exhausted nan barely up on her feet by the late hours tending to several offspring, grand-offspring and a handful of tired, grouchy menfolk back from logging or the mines. He knew you knew too. That you never begrudged. His habits bein' what they were. You never sought to change him. He supposed you were wise like that. A tiger cannot erase its stripes. You could only love him as he is, you once said, for as long as love stretches, like a hefty spoonful of butter on a piece of bread.

So, he returns from his shift and the ritualized agreement between you and him is often center stage. His steaming hot supper freshly awaits on the set wooden table --- meat he hunted, some vegetables from the garden you kept, homemade bread; a small shot glass of whiskey on the side poured by your hand.

And another for you.

You weren't a drinker. You'd crinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when faced with a gulp of anything necessarily harder than a commonplace 30ml. shot --- typa' shit folks up in these mountains casually down by dozens to cure toothaches with. But you promised without anyone asking you to, every now and again, if he drank, you'd do it too. If he inebriates himself under the table, you'd go right down there too. First, he threw away all his bottles in anger. Told you you were a fool. Smashed them up right against the outer shed wall. Was willing to haul them all into the woods in a wheelbarrow and bury them into a ditch like they did during Prohibition. Poured straight whiskey into a nearby creek until it turned copper colored. Rust in the water. Shit got him unsettled. Were you deliberately tryin' to agitate him, was the question? Some sort of reverse psychology bullshit like shrinks do in them military hospitals where they evaluate if you're fit for service? Was that it? The thought of you hurtin' yourself. Your pretty pink insides mangled by the venom of moonshine continuously washin' you clean like pure bleach 'till you can barely hold down a lunch without regurtating it back up along with chunks of damaged liver lining. Did your ass even know what bein' a drinkin' man was like? You itched to be where he was? Out of what? Love? He meticulously eyes the glass you left for him along with a matching glass for you as you settled down a basket of pure white bread laid out on equally pure white napkins, the contrast stark compared to his soot stained hands as he takes a chunk and rips off the outer crust, chewing it, admitting even to himself, that it was out of cold, bubbling rage that he was masciating with as much distinction as he was and so he'd keep his jaw occupied lest it mumbles obscenities while you poured the warm stew with a polished ladle into the deep plates, your hand instinctively reaching, seemingly in the direction of the whiskey cup; a mistake in direction on his part, his temper simmering to a boiling point beneath the surface of some great, big plateau of ice that shifted like a tectonic plate every now and again, being hard to lodge back into place once it was nudged and moved from its usual resting place. You were merely adjusting the plastic covering beneath all the pots and trays, straightening it out.

Too late, though, the words are already out of his mouth before he can stuff them back in there.

-"You ain' drinkin' that shiet at the table."-

He grumbles as he announces his opinion on the matter, breaking the silence, soundin' like his old man layin' down the law even to his own ears as his stare flickers, if only briefly, to the wooden cabinet where a decanter, now half emptied, stood on a shelf of dusty, chipped China that was saved for special occasions that never arrived; a trinket his momma brought into the house as a dowry back in the day. You halt, clearly surprised at his miscalculation --- he dared even say, a little amused on his behalf. Like you were about to say 'For an avid drinker, you're sure as heck pondering other people drinking and whether they should be doing it or not a whole lot.'

And here you was, merely fixing the faded gingham patterned tablecloth.

Polymer.

Easier to immediately wipe off after he returns from the mine to dine freshly having descended with a layer of dirt on his person and places his elbows on the damned thing.

-"I'm not?"-

You tilt your head where you stood, a little endeared, it seemed.

-"And why?"-

You inquire, this time around, your hand truly reaching for the offending slop drink, slowly, almost challengingly, like you were meanin' to play the thinning strings of nerves for a tune. Robert stares at your fingers like they're spider legs crawling off of a leaf in the jungle and unto a greenhorn private's neck. He halfway expects a bloodcurdling scream upon the contact to break through somewhere in the great ether. Sumn' ought to have brewed you a cold sweet tea and send you out to sit on the porch as punishment.

-"Good for digestion. Keeps a person sharp. Relaxes them when it has to. Just a bit of fun, regardless of what city slickers and puffed up doctors say."-

You continue, the small shot glass now raised, its ember coloring deepend by the reflected light of the nearby corner lamp hitting the translucent vessel --- the way you utter the term 'city slickers' an intentional playful jab, quipping at how folks further down these hills referred to anyone who wanted to leave them bereft of their liquor. Robert leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. Sure. Look at you. Tryna be funny, playin' a man with a short fuse, thinkin' you won't get righteously burned. Well, it wasn't funny. But why? Why wasn't it funny? Why wasn't it funny when it was you? He feels a bit like a kicked hunting hound, bein' told his favourite chewin' bone is about to be submerged in liquid shit instead of bein' given to him. -"Plus, everyone does it."- You remark,additionally, clearly teasing him with barely concealed sarcasm and he catches himself hankerin' to be awfully sentimental when he nearly bursts forth with a line like 'You ain' everyone.' Instead, he composes himself and crosses his arms charred black across the stained work suit with rolled up sleeves he still had on him from the shift. Twelve hours down there every day would cause a latter day saint aint to reach for a booze, but then again, it didn't bother him none. Fact was, he found the insular, strangulating darkness a familiar sight; not quite so different from a foxhole or a Gook's tunnel. Not why he drank. More of a habit, in a sense. Sumn' you learn. Like duck huntin' or skinning a deer. You weren't taught like he was on the other hand and he wasn't 'bout to let you teach yourself and your grown ass age.

-"Well, you ain' doin' it."-

Awful paternal of him even as he drawls, fixin' you a glare, hopin' you'll crumble under it and set the drink down. He'll be damned if he doesn't wash your mouth with soap over the sink and make you puke it back up.

He didn't want the crap inside of you.

Ruinin' you.

He pushes the thought somewhere deep down, where not even he could find it.

-"But, you do it."-

You retort, not unkindly; more like a statement of the obvious. Eyup. He did do it. Didn't mean you were goin' to. Did you have a Vietnam to drown? Did you spend twelve hours in a mine shaft below ground? Did your pappy drink this stuff 'stead of water? What reason had you to go 'round gettin' plastered, you damned woman? The conclusion comes unbidden into Robert Barnes' mind:

You.

You was the reason, he thinks about himself. You big, scarred lumberin' piece of shit.

She's offerin' to turn drunkard so you wouldn't be lonesome in your condition and so your ass would see how it feels when sumn' you'se soft on goes destroyin' themselves.

He stands up from his chair, looming over the set table for two, feelin' sumn' fierce set into the tightening of his teeth; some unseen determination. The mangled side of his face flaring up in pain whenever he was this riled up. You give pause, for once, looking at him with, dared he say, a little bit of trepidation? The small liquor glass slightly shaking within your fragile grip, the whiskey inside of it visibly trembling. What'd you expect? Shackin' down with a boozer? He reaches for the glass and wrings it from your grasp, spilling a little on the table. You struggle, if only feebly, before he downs the liquor in one fell swoop, never taking his eyes off of you.

-"Bob! No!"-

You whimper, hand instinctively reaching forward, your leaning thighs pushing against the edge of the table and causing the set plates to clink against the cutlery, but by the time you have his wrists from across the set supper left out to steam and cool, he's already had his shot. You seemed crestfallen. You should've felt lucky he didn't crush the glass in his bare hands. -"Don't."- You whisper, pleadingly, your fingers tightening around his arms, the soot that stained them marking your own skin, leaving you with greasy dark spots. See? You were only gon' dirty your own purdy self. From the inside out. He'd rather put a bullet in you and then himself if that meant perservin' you clean. Healthy. Good. Hell. He'd rather grab you by the elbow and haul you off of this mountain himself, on foot. Leave you at the nearest motel down in the valley and ensure you never climb up here again to play nursemaid and well-being councilor to some deformed lump of shit. His eyes fix you down like a pair of nails and he gulps, swallowing the alcohol, hoping you see and make note of it, making sure there was no way to avoid how much he meant it. You weren't going to drink just because he was. No. His face was jet black with soot, after all; was nowhere for you to be lookin' but his eyes even as your own welled up with the tension of suppressed tears. What he was itchin' to say now he'd say only once. -"You hankerin' to walk down to path to hell with my ass!?"- He takes hold of your forearm, giving it a squeeze of warning, the liquor he drank heating his insides and his intent. When you don't answer, he lets out a sound of warning, shaking you a bit so you'd come to your senses. -"Mhmm!?"- The hum emanating from the back of his throat filled with shit from those subterranean holes is demanding, tense, coarse and coaxing a shine of sadness out of those doe eyes. You sniffle, witholding a sob as he reprimands you, lashes fluttering wildly. One drained glass of whiskey on the table is set back down with a decisive thud and another quite entirely forgotten. The whole house seems to echo from the sound in his ears, infinitely louder than it actually was. He sees your body visibly jolting in anxiety.

Beaut, you were here cryin' over nothin'.

Over a scarred soldier workin' the mines and having took to drinkin' as a chronic time killin' habit ever since before The 'Nam.

Could've gone 'n done better for yourself.

-"There ain' no comin' back from where I walk, so don't you try and be smart and follow me, girl."-

He seethes at that point, figurin' sumn here had to drop the sugary sweet talk and introduce a clarifying whiff of reality.

He didn't even figure he'd come back alive from the war and he felt like one of those gangrenous limbs stuck unto a pile of other gangrenous limbs to create a full fucked up human man or one of those circus freaks they haul in every spring to entertain folks visiting Tent Revivals in between sermons and preachin', but now that he was here by some chance, like those cripples who keep dragging themselves around after being shot in the spleen, surviving by some freak, accidental miracle, he imagined that alcohol will do the work Vietnam couldn't and your ass had to be prepared for that. And then you say it. Something stupid.

-"I'll always follow you."-

You manage, maintaining his gaze, a tear now sliding down your cheek.

Wrong; you ought to have been sayin', motherfucker, you're a drunk dog and I'm leavin' you.

-"The way I know you'd follow me too."-

You add instead with a strange, final solemnity and that point he lets go of you and pushes the chair to the side with a huff, letting it scrape along the wooden floorboards, nearly tumbling over as he sauntered away from the neglected supper, running an exasperated soot covered hand through the vestiges of his grimy headscarf tied at the nape of his neck, yanking it off in agitation to scratch at his own hair and scalp, caked in greasiness and the salt of sweat, throwing the piece of fabric on a nearby chair where the laundry usually stood, either to be cleaned or folded. You didn't know what you were sayin' and you sure as heck didn't know what you were askin'. You read that in one of those fancy books you kept on the shelf he made you, all this crap about never givin' up on sumn'. That Greek stuff. Stories. He forgot the name. Sumn' or other about a woman dyin' and some poor motherfucker goin' to hell to retrieve her from the Devil, except it seemed this time 'round you were the one takin' the active role and tryin' to retrieve him from the bottom of the bottle. Down South, that was called bein' plain ol' delusional. The Devil always wins. Didn't you know that? Maybe some places in the world He didn't win, but out in the hill country, he sure did. And you lived out here, with him, not in some flower garden in some booklet or other, where happy endings were simply a given people were expected that they were owed by default of simply inhabiting some nice place endowed with all the amenities his home didn't have. This wasn't Memphis and it sure wasn't Atlanta out in Georgia. Folks out here drank and when they drank they drank themselves to an early death. His pa' wasn't even forty when he died. His grandpa was thirty eight. Wouldn't surprise him none if his great grand-pappy came out of the womb already partially inebriated 'cos his momma soothed her maternal pains with with sweet cherry liquor while her belly was up to her teeth, bringing forth a babe with a chip on his shoulder and angry at the whole wide world before he could even waddle or walk properly. They fought in every war he could name and they consumed every sort of bullshit known to mankind and that was the type of family tree you climped up on, intendin' to make a home within its crooked branches, misguided, lost lil' sparrow that you were. A nightingale singin' a purdy twilight song, far too sweet and fragile for the world you choose to inhabit. A nest here would be a bitter thing.

He'd leave you a widow if he continued following in those legacies, the notion hits him and it makes him want to curse, so he does.

Nearly spits too, right on the carpet.

-"Shiet."-

Robert paces around the room with heavy, loud footsteps, feeling not unlike something wild that was caged, murmuring to himself with a grunt of abject displeasure, halting only when you walk around the table with the remaining whiskey glass none of you drank yet, the sense of urgency and desperation coloring your every gesture and expression. You hold it up for emphasis; he looks at the pisswater like it was something that could taint the very pads of your fingers. Instinct wanted to have it slapped out of your hand there and then and promptly step on it too with the flat heel of his dry mud caked boots until the crushes the remnants into shimmering, powdery dust. Plain scare you out of your intent, if anything. If nothing else helped. If I stumble, don't your ass dare to turn 'round to check on me. Keep walkin'.

He might've browsed through your books.

Might've caught on to a thing or two.

Then again, he could've understood such notions even without readin'.

-"If I was drowning myself in this, I know you'd do something about it. I know that because I know you."-

You explain, the sincerity and earnestness in your tone catching him unawares, causing him to still completely, the way he had the habit when catching the sound of something coming from deep inside the wilderness --- small game or a the snapping of a twig --- his state of alertness complete. Oh, he'd do something about it alright, if you were here getting intoxicated every day. He reaches out with black hands, wiping the remnants of moisture still clinging to your cheek with deliberate slowness, leaving a pitch finger stain behind along with the caress, oh so similar to warpaint, holding the side of your face for a moment, ponderin' how you'd need a wash after this conversation, to rinse yourself clean of him. I love you to bits, he yearns to say. I love you like a snake loves its clutch.

-"I'd burn down the motherfucking distillery they brewed that bullshit in."-

He admits bluntly --- not so different you and I, darlin', walking into the abyss for the other, he thinks to himself then, the golden, untouched whiskey between you two consumed by none of you.

[ald0-raine3]

Modern High School AU Barnes🥹✌️

I don’t know how he got his scars in this universe because he got them pre-enlisting in the Army but hashtag yolo

Next is Elias 🤑🤑

[ald0-raine3]

This is not a hit on TikTok so I hope yall like it🔥🔥🔥