#platoon headcanons

[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.

[amber-the-city-vampire]

~Seargent Barnes~

By @senka-mesecinemesecine

staff seargents wife

~Reader bringing home a baby deer~

~Home birth~

~Trophy collecting

~The good children of bad men~ fluff

~Close Quarters~ fluff

~Opens season~ Branes finds u married to another man

~scorched earth~

~Finds lost hiker~

~You havnt written~

~Free fire zone~ someone makes a mive on you infront of him

~Barns thoughts while your in Coma~

~Bride kidnapping~

~Finds a plane crash survivor~

~The ghost of ia Dang~

~Reader escaping Hill Barns~

~Living inside someones locket~

~Letters from Home~

~Date~

~Hiker in the shed~

~Barnes has to pull you aside~

Barnes killing for you

~finders keepers~

~You and his daighters~

~Reader getting handsy~

NSFW CONTENT (most barnes stuff is f up so idk where to put most stuff)

Barnes being a bully during s*x

Hill country

Rough sex

Walking on reader touching themselves

Breeding kink

[dreary-coast]

i was re-reading the ask about what video games the platoon guys would play and saw your tag about catholic!rhah and im so interested to hear more about that

So this will be a bit of a rambling piece from me, I haven’t had any real asks in a long time and I was excited about this one. I want to preface this by saying I have absolutely zero connection to catholicism and catholic teachings and know very little about it, but I have some analysis of Rhah through his interactions with others in the film that leads me to headcanon it.

Sooo this idea actually came from a fun conversation I had in the discord server with @senka-mesecine and I don’t even remember what the details were or how it came about, but I had fun just tossing ideas back and forth.

I was just enthusiastic about the idea of Rhah potentially growing up in a strict catholic household. I like to think of him as an Italian American man (the last name he has literally being Italian) whose family are very in touch with their roots, hence his passionate and poetic personality being adopted from that. Italy’s most prominent religion is catholicism, so it would make sense for him. He ALSO in fact wears a cross around his neck in several scenes in the film, which alludes to it directly.

Finding his religion again as a source of comfort during the war was what I thought of, since in that case as a soldier you really couldn’t have anything else. He smokes, drinks, indulges himself and overall lives a lifestyle FAR from his religion, he is the antithesis to traditional teachings, but some part of him naturally searches for his religion when he needs comfort.

The people around you will die, the landscape changes, the world keeps spinning, but you can always hold out for hope that there is a heaven in his case. He says to Chris after Elias dies and just before the Barnes “I am reality” spiel that he hopes there is a heaven so that Elias up there. Something about it is comforting to him, thinking that Elias is probably enjoying being free of life’s burdens and drifting about, doing what he loves and generally feeling good. Rhah craves that kind of thing badly, his whole balance of love and hate and saving his soul (which is revealed in a deleted scene rip) is VERY in tune with biblical ideals. In Leviticus 19:18 it literally states that “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD.” And Rhah’s entire speech about love and hate is very reminiscent of it.

He’s really earthy and gritty, and desperately needs some kind of reassurance to him that his efforts and his life isn’t a waste, and his religious roots sort of provide that.

It’s also implied he deals with some kind of substance problem when he steals substances from the pocket of a dead Vietnamese soldier, as was the case with many American soldiers in the war, which also might be a foundation of him generally just needing some kind of comfort or relief.

Again, this is just the work of analysis and headcanons lol

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Yandere Headcanons~ Robert Barnes

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(Pretty self explanatory but all of these hcs will be set in Vietnam. And please let me know if you’re interested in more content like this because it’s my first time writing hcs like these and if they suck I would like to know lol)

- It’ll take you a while to realize that Barnes likes you; let alone that he’s obsessed with you, and even then, you’ll probably be on the fence: up until he makes a move that just can’t be seen as platonic, paternal, or professional. 

- From the moment you arrive at his camp, Barnes treats you the same way he treats everyone else. He’s indifferent towards you and barely pays you any mind; you even find yourself questioning whether he favors or dislikes you more than the rest of the infantry purely because of how little he interacts with you. You’re torn between believing that he thinks of you as dead weight and believing that you’re just not doing anything wrong enough to warrant his attention. 

- But then something happens and suddenly he’s on your ass like a red ant. You probably unknowingly cause it; though it’s more in the realm of “you went to talk to him about something one on one” rather than “you did something that justified being chewed out”. 

- It kind of feels like you’re back in grade school: like you raised your hand in class for the first time and accidentally caused the teacher to remember you exist; leading to them calling on you whenever they want an answer. You’re still unsure of whether it’s an improvement or not. 

- Suddenly, you’re the most busy member of your team: ordered to do jobs, perform duties, report to him, stay by his side while you’re walking in the jungle, etc. It’s slightly jarring the first few times it happens but you chalk it up to the fact that you’re a nurse and that he considers you to be more competent than the rest of your division; which is honestly pretty flattering coming from him. 

- That being said: you’ll probably notice his eyes on you a lot; even when he’s in the stage of “ignoring you”. They’ll range from quick glances to lengthy stares, ones that have you turning away; as though you’re the one who was looking for too long. You tend to assume that it’s a coincidence or that he’s watching you perform your duties; maybe even that you’re doing something wrong, but in actuality, he’s silently picking you apart and keeping an eye on you; making sure that no ones getting too close. 

- You don’t question it when he begins to take an obvious “interest” in you. He’s your sergeant; one of the most experienced people in the infantry, and you’re one of the weakest yet also one of the most valuable. It’s common sense for him to look after you, it’s even common sense for him to run you ragged from time to time: he needs to make sure that you’re safe but also that you’re capable of looking after yourself; you trust his judgment even if you don’t necessarily like where it gets you. 

- You’ll either love him or hate him; or you’ll remain conflictingly in between. 

- At times, he’ll push you harder than anyone else: making your life unnecessarily difficult and experimenting with just how far he can stretch you out until you snap. 

- There are moments of roughness coupled with moments of softness. He’ll push you to walk faster, to stop taking breaks and to do whatever he tells you; to work yourself to the bone. And then, when you can’t take anymore, he’ll show you mercy: telling you to take a break, steadying you in his arms, picking you up when you’ve fallen down. You’re too exhausted to think about how he’s the one who brought you to this state in the first place; all you can think about is how grateful you are for his “kindness”. 

- A part of this treatment is testing to see if you’re truly the person he believes you to be; if you’re worthy of these feelings he’s built up for you. But another part of it is making you reliant on him, making you believe that he’s really the only thing that’s keeping you alive. 

- He’ll stop you from stepping into traps, kill venomous snakes at your feet, show no emotion on his face at the sight of a decomposing body, tell you to keep watch as he ducks into a trench that you wouldn’t even touch with a ten foot pole. He shows you just how vulnerable you are; and how experienced he is, and the anxiety of it all will draw you closer to him; which is exactly what he wants. 

- He wants you desensitized to his behavior, he wants you used to his mood swings so that you don’t see past his actions. He doesn’t want you to question him when he lashes out or when he does the opposite and acts uncharacteristically caring. Once you are, his behavior begins to change; though it’s doubtful that you’ll even notice. 

- He alternates between acting softer and acting meaner. One moment, he’ll be tenderly checking you over for injuries or regarding you with a sort of subtle favoritism; as though he’s more of a friend than your superior. And the next, he’ll intimidate you into doing something: oftentimes something that isolates you from the rest of the infantry; like questioning whether or not you have a job to be doing when you momentarily stop to talk to another soldier. 

- Which leads us to the jealousy aspect of his obsession. 

- The thing about Barnes is that most of his troops are scared of him and that he isn’t afraid to throw his weight around. If he sees that you’re getting close to someone, he’s fully prepared to step in and take care of it in one way or another. 

- Most of his threats will be hidden behind a veil of professionalism; though there’ll be an undeniable passion behind his actions. He’ll take a soldier aside and do whatever he has to to get it into their skull that they should leave you alone: threats of write ups, violence, death threats, murder. He can get away with pretty much anything and you’ll be left to wonder why someone who was once a friend can now barely look you in the eyes when you say hello to them. 

- Though you might secretly think otherwise, Barnes doesn’t “delude himself” into thinking that he measures up to most of the men in your infantry. It’s part of why he thinks he has to win you over through manipulation. He’s older, scarred, intimidating: he’s not some eighteen year old pretty boy who got drafted before they could grow a decent beard, and he’s convinced that that’s what you’re interested in. 

- Although, he’ll certainly have his moments of trying to court you like a normal person; though he tends to be a bit tipsy during them. He’ll get you alone; whether purposefully or not, and he’ll make a sort of subtle move: getting up close to you, saying something somewhat suggestive, tugging delicately at your clothes; as though he’s inspecting them, or trailing his finger down a scar of yours. 

- You’ll probably be surprised or assume he’s drank too much and question him; leading to him assuming you’re turning him down which perpetuates the idea that you wouldn’t fall for him naturally and drive him to execute his more devious plans. 

- It honestly doesn’t matter if you express an interest in him prior to him “taking you”, he’ll abduct you just to be sure that you’re willing to remain with him forever; though his actions would be a little more on your terms rather than a full fledged kidnapping. 

- Obviously, situations vary, but I don’t think it would take him incredibly long to snap. He knows how to play his cards right when it comes to something truly important and it’s part of his job to know when the “time is now” so he’ll take you when he knows he can perfectly pull it off. 

- You probably won’t realize what’s happening at first; mainly because he’s conditioned you into blindly trusting him. Sure, you’ll get the occasional pit in your stomach as he leads you deeper into the jungle but you won’t piece together what’s occurring until it’s too late. 

- Barnes is not an affectionate person, his affection is rough and callous: sharp tugs, a slightly too hard grip that’s so abrupt that it causes you to gasp, a shove forward, a pull at your clothes. He’s not lovey dovey and the softest he’ll be is when you’re hurt; he might even surprise you with how gentle he can be in those situations. 

- He tends to get even worse once you’re alone together: he no longer has to hide his intensity or try to manipulate you subtly; he can openly use his power against you and go against the conduct he used to have to abide by. 

- But, even as more of his true personality is being revealed, it’s highly unlikely that he’ll confess exactly why he’s chosen to take you. You’ll probably question whether he even cares about you or if he considers you expendable; constantly wondering why you were chosen and what he wants to happen between you. 

- Nothing is done against your will, well, not in terms of sex or romantic advances. He can turn the blind eye to that sort of thing but he isn’t keen on doing it himself. He’s in it for the long run and he has enough patience in him to wait until you actually want to. 

- That being said: he will do what he has to to break you down and ensure that nothing takes you away from him. Killing someone in front of you, holding your face close to a corpse or a gun to your head, pulling you somewhere to make you approach something dangerous, making you kill something, making you dig through someone or somethings guts as a punishment, etc. 

- In doing so, he proves just how quickly you would die if you were out there on your own. He wouldn’t really mock you about this but he would hammer it in; explaining all the ways you could die or get injured and the many outcomes that could befall you if he wasn’t around. 

- That being said: a part of him is amused to see you so determined to get away from or hate him. He knows you’ll never be successful; though he may worry, so it’s really just entertainment for him; and it proves that he choose you and your stubborn ass for a reason. 

- He admires you; which for him is quite the honor. He sees you as someone who’s got a good mix of attitudes: a good head on your shoulders along with a pretty face. You hadn’t been too afraid of him and he saw a twinge of himself inside you; the good parts of him, which had him convinced that you were the perfect partner for him. 

- He might just confess this to you if he gets tipsy enough. Maybe not everything but enough to finally make you realize why he’s taken you away; a cryptic few sentences that have you understanding that he wants you and that this was no mistake or coincidence. That's probably when you’ll get a bit mean. 

- He’s surprisingly patient but his patience can wear thin depending on how much stress he’s under and how much you test him. 

- He isn’t particularly bothered by your anger or hatred; he almost finds it amusing. You can yell and beat on him all you want but it won’t do anything: he’ll remain frustratingly stoic, only choosing to grab hold of you and restrain you once he thinks it’s enough. 

- He honestly doesn’t physically hurt you all that much; he prefers holding you still, and though you might accidentally get hurt by the tightness or roughness of his hold, he never hits, kicks, or harms you besides maybe a hair pull or a rough grip.

- If you’re being particularly mouthy or trying to get a rise out of him, he’ll grab you roughly by the face so that his hand is covering your mouth and his fingers are digging into your cheeks; asking if you’ll be quiet before he lets go and allows you to huff and rub the tender flesh.

- Most of what keeps you in line are the threats on your life or others. If you come across a village, he reminds you that they would never bother to help you and that if they did, he’d be forced to kill them all. 

- You’re stuck there with him until he decides that you’ve actually fallen for him and even then, your life will never be normal. You’ll either live in that jungle or Vietnam, or you’ll finally make your way back to the states and live in solitude as his wife. 

- He firmly believes that everything will work out in time. That you’ll get over everything and that you’ll learn to accept your new life. Pain and tears are temporary; he would know, isolating yourself is just a phase, and anything else you can think of will lose it’s charm soon enough. 

- In the mean time, he’ll extend an olive branch and make sure that you take care of yourself: urging you to eat, drink, etc. He isn’t too phased though. After all, he’s done worse in order to make people respond in similar ways. 

- Though it may not seem like it, he does love you and doesn’t enjoy hurting you. He’d never be able to move on from you and pick someone new. He’d feel the weight of your absence if he were to lose you and he’d grow even more evil than before. 

- You’re really his only weakness which means there’s very little for you to exploit in order to potentially get away. The only thing I can really think of is him getting injured in someway and needing your help to pull through; during which you could possibly just leave him to die. 

- But, because there’s very little chance of that happening, there’s very little chance of you getting away. He’ll break you one way or another and over time, you’ll begin to question whether he’s completely evil, whether he’s all that bad, whether he really is responsible for keeping you alive and safe. You’ll learn to act right whether on your own or through punishment and then you’ll truly be his....

[itmakesastatement]

Dating Elias Grodin~

A/N: this wasn’t requested lol, I just like writing for him. Also sorry if this is terrible, this is my first post on this blog

________________________________________

Ok first of all he’s the most down to earth BF ever

And an amazing listener too

He first realized he was in love with you when he realized how lonely he got without you and he knew he had to do something about it

So the next day, he gets your favorite food, some flowers, and some nice wine and tells you to meet him at the park

You walk up to see the picnic he set up for the two of you

Towards the end of the picnic, he asks if you’d be willing to date him

And of course you say yes because who wouldn’t

During y’all’s relationship, he’s so sweet and considerate

Always tries to wake up before you to try and make you something to eat

But he also loves sleeping in with you

Lazy days are his absolute favorite, just you laying on him while you both lay on a hammock

His dates mostly consist of hikes, swimming, little stay at home dates and stuff like that

Elias isn’t the biggest fan of crowds

You’re also definitely gonna be introduced to the surviving members of his squad, and they hype your relationship up like nothing else

Pray you never run into any of Barnes’ squad or Elias might just lose it

Surprisingly enough, he can be a bit of a hothead and you’ve had to hold him back a few times

There’s also no way he got out of the war with no lasting trauma, so sometimes he really just needs you to hold him and help him calm down

Also,,, cuddling while high,,,, that is all

If you have any little siblings, kids, little cousins or nephews or nieces, he is absolutely amazing with them, any and all babies love him

He also isn’t the biggest on pet names but their are a few here and there, like babe, hun, and sweetheart

Also completely random but i feel like he loves taking baths with you, he’s lowkey a clean freak after the war and loves relaxing with you

Man also m o a n s over your cooking, he spent months eating MREs so it always feels so special to him

Also he completely plans on marrying you, you make him feel stable and loved, he couldn’t ask for more

He wants kids but if you don’t, he completely understands, though he does always have a small part of him that wants little copies of you and him running around

________________________________________

[senka-mesecine]

Happy Valentine's day! Sending with a lot of love💕 I wonder what the platoon boys would be doing this time of year👀

Thank you for remembering me - Happy Valentines to you too and everyone else reading. Much love. 💕

---

― Chris Taylor falls into what can only be called melancholiac tendencies; if he was prone to partying with the boys just a day before, he retreats into himself and some lonesome place around camp on this particular holiday. If he was keen on jiving to music and letting off some steam with booze and weed, he grows more solitary and introspective, taking to pen and paper and genuinely speaking, if you're not aware of his feelings for you, he might legitimately spend the day writing 'what if' love letters to you --- things he'd say, things he feels, things he thinks, things he feels are far too high stakes and risky to say, things he holds a secret, things he'd want you to know if you were an item, things he's embarrassed to say out loud to anyone, journaling all the weight of his emotions into a confession he might never send to you, opting to burn it instead, unsure if he feels any better for it or worse. Is he relieved or agitated? Is he being galant to leave you alone and unbothered or is he chickenshit? Valentines Day somewhere in the deep bush of the Cambodian border ends with him sitting by a small fire at dusk all by himself, gazing into it, burning the papery remains of all his verbalized, written down care for you.

― Thing is, O'Neill wants to be a romantic, but he probably feels he cannot because the clique he's in is so macho, militant and downright chauvinist that they undoubtedly never let him live it down if he just openly wooed you on this day and actually gave you something like he actually wishes to deep, deep down, so to overcompensate himself for being stuck between a rock and a hard space, O'Neill spends Valentines Day being insufferable, nagging, suggestive and passive aggressive towards you, wiggling his eyebrows whenever you pass, halfway trying to schmooze you, halfway poking at you, irritating you, bugging you and genuinely doing anything so you'd fucking notice him or at least make sure to remember he's here and buzzing around you like a fly. He might even ask you, in a veiled attempt to bring up the subject, whether you have anyone special for Valentines and if you're expecting a letter from some schmuck asshole back home or from another platoon just so he could highlight that today is indeed a special day, and would you look at that --- he so happens to be here too. He thinks he's being slick, but everyone notices he's a lovesick puppy for you.

― Bunny is in the same macho-militant clique as O'Neill is, but the difference is that his unhinged nature renders him immune from peer pressure or judgement purely because he doesn't care for judgement, seeing how it bounces off from him like it would off of anyone detached from empathy and he's the type of person who makes said clique the way it is in the first place, so, oh, you'll get a Valentines Day gift from him alright, you better believe it; but it'll be on the grotesque, questionable or grizzly side, as is to be expected from Bunny. Is this a pig's heart in a box? Luckily, too small to be a human's (perish the thought). Is this a wisp of his hair and...human nails? Why is he giving you a molar attached to a neck chain? Who's...molar is that? Did he really just ink a rendition of your face stuck unto a model of a naked body unto his own skin? Oh, he named his firearm by you. Sweet. See, in Bunny's world, these are all genuinely, in a weird way as wholesome of a gesture as a gesture gets, but to everyone else, it'll be strange at best and spine-chilling at worst. Now, would he expect something back from you? Sure. You better at least let him hit it from behind today, geez.

― Rhah Vermucci feels Valentines Day is one of those Capitalist inventions meant to empty a sucker's pocket trying to appease some broad who's already emptying said sucker's pocket every other day of the year too without giving anything back; suffice to say, he is cynical about it, the way he is cynical about most of society's comings and goings. But, that doesn't mean he still wouldn't do something for you, albeit in a roundabout, concealed manner that wouldn't give him away for the man of double standards he can sometimes be, the gift he leaves you with anonymously being oddly and surprisingly...wholesome and even pretty damn romantic. You have no idea how however left this for you in your tent acquired a small statuette of Venus or a tiny Cupid out in the middle of a nowhere warzone or when or where they picked a jungle flower, but you're genuinely touched by the gesture. Of course, Rhah might scoff at your secretive mooning over the present and whatever cheesedick left it for you as typical nonsense to his friends, but something about how fixated and impassioned he is towards everything you do gives him away as your secret admirer to everyone who knows better. King is probably nearby giving him the amused stink eyes.

― Lt. Wolfe is the only one out of the bunch that would openly give you a Valentines Day present, but not just that --- he'd give every woman present on base a Valentines Day present too. The identically same one. Every nurse, secretary, cook, cleaning lady and hooch madam irregardless of age; Everyone. Might think it is good for morale and a collectivist attitude. He is much akin to those corporate bosses back in civilization who make sure to exclude no lady, simply because one gets the impression he seeks up suck up everyone, gain allies and score points wherever and with whoever he can by being helpful, making it difficult to know who from the bunch he has actual feelings for, if anyone. Naturally, the other men at base might snicker and covertly laugh at his attempts because there is something undeniably head college boy about his behaviour and Wolfe's purely democratic approach to the situation could either weirdly charm you or leave you confused whether he cares for you or is simply trying to be a good, 'by the book' Lieutenant. He himself probably feels this is a good way going about actually awkwardly giving you something without making himself a target for too much ridicule; something he circumvents by simply including every other woman too.

― Man, King doesn't care. If he has a boo? He's giving her something. Doesn't matter if she's present at base, somewhere nearby or half the planet away --- she's getting remembered by him, baby --- and no amount of peer pressure, gossip, snide talk, being looked down upon or mockery could prevent him from doing that, because as he'd be the type to claim that all of these boys want to do the thing he's doing right now when you peel back their layers of bullshit and self-delusion, but it is their own pride that prevents them and in a way, he has to feel a bit sorry for them. So, yes, he spends Valentines Day openly and happily penning letters, trying to write poetry however fraught with grammatical errors (although, for this special day he might ask a trusted friend to proofread the thing) he might hand make a present, send her records, spend his paycheck on whatever tourist trinket in acquired in passing, but considering the shit circumstances and limited means for a gift one is faced with out in the bush, he'd legitimately go above and beyond to be thoughtful and he could be one of the rare men within the platoon who gets a gift back as well. He's probably the happiest and most smiley of the bunch during the day too and many, many days afterwards.

― Dreamcatchers, charms, bracelets, precious rocks and stones, a nazar, amulets he made on his own, necklaces meant to protect, small vials of bottled dried, fragrant flowers to place under your pillow, God's Eyes, something carved from a piece of something he swears is a chunk of meteorite that crashed into the jungle and other various trinkets Elias would personally hand craft and gift to you are part of the unique staples intended for you for Valentines and they somehow feel extremely meaningful and personal; more so than just a casual 'I like you' or 'I care for you'; coming from Elias, however jovially or playfully he might give you these things to play himself off as nonchalant, it halfway feels like an engagement or receiving a promise ring from someone. In fact, him flat out giving you a promise ring isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility either. There's no sense of half measures or lukewarm intentions with him. He is very serious even if he has a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that might occasionally cheat and insinuate otherwise to someone who doesn't know him very well. There is a gravitas to what you receive from him; the type that makes you think long and hard about the future weeks after Valentines is already over.

― Barnes does nothing on Valentines because he continuously does things for you all year 'round that are intended to make your life in this hellhole easier, and if you're away from him, back in the world, the case is much the same. He could be ten thousand miles away, but he believes it is a man's place to take care of his woman, paycheck and all. But, if you're near, he doesn't wait for a specific time of the year. The quiet devotion is constant and wordless with him, like a quiet yet eternally persistent current that shapes rocks. He protects you. Gives you his share of rations without comment. Makes sure you're warm. Tends to your wounds whether you want him to or not. Gives you the last drop of water from his canteen. Carries you on his back for miles when you're unconscious. Steps up for you. Makes sure nobody gives you a hard time without you even knowing. It is this complex web of acts of service that ensure that even in an active warzone you're as okay as a person can be okay, which is a big privilege. You make it out alive even if he has to take a bullet for you, which he just might without even being a thing with you. You probably think he is a brute, which he is and it takes years of maturity for the scope of his care for you to actually ripen in your mind so you'd realize this man actually saved your life several times in a row. Perhaps it is precisely on Valentines Day that Barnes pulled you out of a burning hooch and synched off half of the upper layer of skin on his arm, condemning himself to a lifetime of even more pain so you'd be unharmed --- and that is his gift to you.

[senka-mesecine]

―

Tom Berenger (SSgt. Barnes) behind the scenes of Platoon (1986).

[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.