Chapter Text
You hadn’t realized it was him until several minutes into your interaction.
Your neck still ached from countless hours banging out his hand indents in the Pelican’s instead of doing your little secret murals because the Master Chief insisted on standing and needed to hold onto something. As a civilian engineer you didn’t know why he couldn’t just sit with the soldiers, but even you who spent most of your time down in the labs repairing and cleaning Pelicans and old Mjolnir noticed the way the soldiers and the top brass treated The Master Chief.
The foot soldiers whispered in god-like awe.
“I heard the Master Chief is 7 feet tall.” A soldier named Blake says in hushed excitement. She just made the height cut off at 5’7. She had to sit for you to braid her short hair under her helmet.
“No, he’s taller.” Your otherwise stoic manager Maddison says wistfully. You’re rankless but you still need to report to someone.
“Really ! You saw him?”
The Brass treated him like the weapon he was made into.
“We don’t have time for detours.” The Admiral Rothfeller states coolly. You shrink further up in the rafters, your mousing cats still like the cute predators they were as the three of you watched, halfway through a painting hidden up high after hammering out Spartan grip dents.
“Ma’am. I do.” The Master Chief stated back. You could only see his shadow and the faint glimmer of his gold visor in the dim light. He had spent the last leg of the last campaign evacuating civilians, taking extra time for them to gather cultural artifacts.
Something you could appreciate.
She levels a sharp look at him.
“Your time is our time.” She says simply, then dismisses him.
As for you?
Well you never interacted with him personally.
It struck you as funny that you had spent countless hours fixing up this man's helmet and had never seen his face.
Until now.
It’s why you hadn’t know at first.
You had heard a quiet grunt of pain walking past one of the seldom used spaces deep into the miles long warship, rubbing your neck and letting out your own complaints. It had instantly set you on edge and you had walked into the dusty lab to see a large man sitting down, a shell of a gauntlet on his hand and clearly causing him pain.
It made you pause in sympathy from your own pain even as you puzzled out why he was here and not at medical.
“Do you need a hand? You're on the right track but you need to torque the joint with a smaller tool before electrical recalibration.” Your compassionate voice is a bit tinny through the welding mask and respirator underneath, and PPE shrouds your figure.
The man stops to look at you.
You poof up like a cat and try to play it off.
He has piercing gunmetal blue eyes, and a scarred face. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his expressions but you swear you can see consideration, gratitude, and frustration as he grips a tool too small for him and too unwieldy for a hand thick with scar tissue and healed breaks.
Looks like this poor fellow caught a needler to the hand at some point.
He stares at the engineering patches, and the distinct lack of any rank stripes. His eyes spark with recognition but it’s gone so quick it could have been imagined. Besides, you certainly don't recognize him, so how could he know you?
You do something similar.
He’s huge, and would be bigger standing. There are big soldiers in the ranks who have altered hand gear so your mind doesn't immediately jump to him being a spartan.
“I’m alright. As you were.” He says, like you were any other soldier. If the sudden stillness of anything to go buy he realizes his misstep. Then again, how often did this guy interact with the civilians on board? There was something about him, you could swear this hand mechanism looks familiar.
And also incredibly damaged.
“Let me help. Please? Don’t make this an arm wrestling contest.” You coax. You figure a mix of humor, firmness, and gentleness would work
It does.
His lips twitch upwards.
He finally extends his arm out on the table and you gasp. The mechanisms had pierced the biosuit and had gotten stuck in the top layer of his skin.
“Why didn’t you go to the medics?” You whisper breathlessly. He frowns at his marred hand. He moves to block your view, the nasty gash on his left cheekbone turning away from you and you can tell it's for your consideration more than his insecurity.
“I’ve had worse.” He grumbles.
He doesn't want to upset you.
“Luckily, I won’t make you. You’re welcome.” His lips twitch again and he relaxes. It’s funny that a civvie engineer could make this battle hardened soldier do anything.
But you're prodding him right now to let you do something.
And he’s letting you.
“I’ll have to cut off part of the suit.” You warn and he goes still. You pull off your gloves to reveal your much smaller hands. You have a bright scrunchie around your wrist, your mothers wedding ring, and intricately painted nails. Civvies got a bit more flexibility with dress code. And no one saw as you were normally fully covered as per the safety code.
Until now.
He inhales sharply, almost noticeably as your hand rests on his forearm. You know it’s soft from being in gloves and meticulous lotion to prevent dryness from the mechanic work.
You struggle to prevent leaning into the heat he emits. The warmth, the pressure feels so good .
He leans in a way that brings him more to your level, for easier access and to make you feel safer and your heart swells.
Glimmering nails distract him as you cut away. You can feel the tenseness melt from him as your engine warmed hand rests on his thick forearm. How often are soldiers like him treated this gently? The medics do good work but considering the swirling rumors of kidnappings and illicit experiments they’re not overtly trusted. Strict fraternization and nepo rules prevent fellow soldiers and their higher ups from romantic relationships, or even close friendships. The high turnover rate of soldiers means many try to prevent bonds too. And everyone was typically armored up or at least in full body suits on off-time in case they were called to action, and because the ships tended to be colder.
You swallowed heavily.
Touch-starvation it was then.
Skin hunger, even.
When was the last time this soldier was treated kindly?
When was the last time you were?
Your throat closes up behind your mask. Your home-moon hadn't been like this. A world full of artistry that survived by selling high quality crafts to the wealthy. It was full of love, of community. Dancing, singing, hugs, cheek kisses hello and goodbye, hair braiding, hand holding, linking arms.
You missed it.
His eyes flutter minutely, his jaw drops every so slightly as your fingers massage the muscle groups in his arm to get the mechanics loose.
You’ve seen this specific malfunction of the thumb joint before. It's ironically the same in the grip of the Spartan who keeps messing up the Pelicans high up supports and being a literal pain in your neck as you twist up there to fix it.
There is no sound but your breathings and the cutting.
You introduce yourself. And your job.
“I was just banging out some last minute repairs in the Pelicans. I got a lot more to do but that's what I get for being a world-less civvie refugee.” You sigh. “All that college for this.”
“What else do you do?”
You blink.
“ I uh, I like to dance in the rec, and paint. And I manage the ship's mousers.” You grin, not that he can see it with the mask on. “The troops tend to bring in a lot of debris on their equipment. Critters, and food for them. My two cats handle it down there so rats don’t run over my toes while I'm working.” you laugh quietly. Getting approval for those two cats was quite the endeavor. A civvie whose records were destroyed in a glassing of her home-moon and then again when her previous job’s ship went down in a covenant attack did not inspire trust.
Pets were not allowed on board so It was only jointly working with Roland to prove how bad the rodents were to the ships wires and for sanitation when your idea was approved.
They gave you funds to acquire mousers. You picked two barn cats from your relocated surviving family, black cats rescued when no one else wanted them.
They were your greatest source of comfort.
He looks like he has never heard of such a thing. It was such an ancient strategy to use on an advanced ship full of famous scientists like Doctor Halsey.
“Cats?” his brow furrowed in confusion. God, when was the last time this guy even had a pet, if ever? So many soldiers were glassing orphans, put into UNSC orphanages and groomed to be soldiers as soon as they were old or tall enough. There would be a distinct lack of pets. At least the Covvies waited for you to finish college before they sterilized your home.
Your heart softens further.
“Yep. Want to meet them after this?” you offer.
He’s confused and curious. He looks at you like a puzzle. You take off the welding mask, only for the face-mask, hair covering, and prescription safety glasses to still cover your face. You tilt your head at him like your cats do for you, and his lips twitch again.
Despite being covered, you’re quite expressive.
“What about you?” You politely ignore how he doesn’t take you up on your offer to see your kitties. “What do you do?” you ask, like you’d do for anyone else.
This seems to be a novelty for him.
His face has the most expression you’ve seen on it. His jaw drops in surprise, and then realization.
“You know that I’m a soldier.”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?” His question is deep, his eyes searching. There is a strange, bright flicker of amazement in his gunmetal blue eyes.
You pause to look at him.
He is very still again.
“No. Should I? You seem like any regular handsome soldier to me.” You half-joke, hoping to help ease his tension.
He smiles.
It’s awkward and he’s clearly unused to it, but it looks amazing on him. Your heart stutters.
How long has it been since you’ve had a crush? The touch dopamine must be getting to you. You cradle his arm in his hand as you finally free it.
“There! All-” You cut yourself off in horrible realization.
At this angle you can see exactly why this gauntlet is so familiar to the impression left in the dropship.
It’s because it’s the same one .
The piece sticking out from the thumb joint leaves the same imprint behind.
“What's wrong?” He asks, and for all that he’s only known you for half an hour his face reads like he cares for you as a person.
Like you had for him.
“Cat got your tongue.” He jokes at you. A better joke than yours too!
“You’re the Master Chief.” You state numbly.
Oh.
So that's how he recognizes you. You were the one to remove the debri.
Silence.
He pulls his warm hand away from you.
Any casualness he had evaporated. His expression became so closed off it was like staring into his golden visor again.
“Thank you for your time, Ma’am. I need to go.” He moves to leave.
“How serendipitous!” You grin under the mask. “I had something to ask you.”
He pauses.
“What is it?” He asks. He gives you another searching, suspicious look. You can imagine a lot of people want many things from him.
“Can you come with me down to the ship repair bay? I need your help fixing something.”
He’s so stunned he turns to look at you, the wariness dropping off and something like thoughtfulness coming back. You can’t imagine he’s been in the repair bay often, or that people have the nerve to ask things of him even if they want things from him.
Rarer still, for the things people want from him to be innocuous.
You lead him down to the bay.
You are right to think he’s bigger standing, and in fact he’s so much larger than you it’s almost comical. It’s a quiet trip and you can feel his eyes boring into your back.
You should be intimidated.
You had been.
But after seeing how human he looked struggling to hold a too small screwdriver you couldn't find it in yourself. Briefly you wonder if he's still having trouble with his armor from the Accident a few months back. It was half the reason you got promoted in the first place, to help correct some of the damage.
He ends up having to hand you a tool from a shelf, as while it’s fine for a regular soldier it’s too tall for you, there are no step-stools, and you don’t feel like climbing the unstable shelves.
You lead him to the drop ship and climb nimbly up the hand holds, the tool tucked into your overalls. The holds were small enough where he can’t grip them but allows you to unleash your inner koala.
Like this, you are taller than him, and it is interesting to look at him from this angle.
It feels more balanced.
There is a shimmer of amusement as he watches you move, turning to consideration when you hang awkwardly in front of the huge hand dent he left in the metal.
He recognizes it as his.
Good.
“You’re a real pain in my neck, you know that? Laying in all these ships and banging out your hand dents. But…” you sigh thoughtfully. Your leg swings like the pendulum in a grandfather clock and you watch his curious eyes track the movement.
“I know what it’s like to live in a place not built for me.” You admit. His eyes flash to the tool that he had to get for you. “They never put hand-holds on these ships for you guys, did they.” It's a statement, not a question.
“They didn’t.” He confirms.
“As an engineer, I resent this shoddy craftsmanship, and you’ll be helping me fix this mistake. We’ll get your measurements and make grips good enough for you.” You proclaim, and are awarded with a little smile from him.
“I will?” His eyebrows quirk up in amusement. “At your command, ma’am.”
You laugh. It’s not the first time he’s called you ma’am but he’s treating you like a commanding officer when this right now its a partnership among equals.
“None of that, you can just call me by my name.” You say, taking the measurements for his hand.
This close, you can hear his gentle breathing, see the flicker of his eyelashes. He still can’t see any expression from you.
But he can see your gentleness, the considerate way you angle his wrist.
The Chief listens to you drawl on about engineering and artistry tactics. You don’t expect answers or anything from him, and for that, he willingly gives you his opinion.
“Need better grips on SMG’s. I crush the handles too easily in the heat of battle.” He reveals.
“Not sure if I can do anything for you there, bud. They’ve only just let me start on Mjolnir armor.”
His lips twitch again and you can’t ignore the rush of victory you feel. You’ve only met him an hour ago and already want to do this again and again. Not too unusual for someone who likes to meet people and figure out what makes them tick , but this is…different, somehow.
He’s trusting you right now.
With his face, with his vulnerability. And you really want to earn it.
“Speaking of ‘they’…I’d like to thank you for helping to save some of those cultural artifacts even though command wasn’t too pleased. It means a lot to me as an artist to see those things valued.” You murmur.
“Anytime.” His voice matches yours.
You finish the schematics.
“I’ll submit this to my boss and hopefully get this show on the road. Save us both some trouble.”
He nods.
The cats choose that exact moment to skitter in. The two black cats differ. One is long and slim with amber eyes, the other is stout and poofy, sky-blue eyes gleaming like jewels. They both have collars with the UNSC symbol, trackers, their names, and where to return them. You’d know because you made the collars yourself.
“Oh!” You crow. “The amber-eyed one is Penny, and the blue-eyed one is Bluebell. Would you like to pet them?”
His eyes are wide.
His mouth spreads into a bemused almost-smile.
The kitties aren’t shy. Penny leads the way as she always does as you lower the Chief’s hands. Bluebell is content to watch. You curl his fingers open like a blooming flower and deposit treats in his palm.
He seems to hold his breath.
Penny sniffs, then rubs her jaw across his fingertips. Her muzzle is thankfully clean of rat blood. Bluebell walks over the instant she senses food and immediately begins eating. Her claws are not clean of rat-blood. He watches them with obvious awe as they eat from his palm.
“Pet them with your other hand.” You whisper helpfully. You fight the urge to press into his side, with him squatting and you stooped over.
“How?” He rumbles.
You give him a look.
“Haven’t you pet a cat before?” It’s meant to be rhetorical but he nods .
Really?
Never ?
A travesty!
You demonstrate and point how gentleness was key, behind their ears and under their chins. His hand is slow, achingly gentle as he is aware of his strength especially in comparison to these little creatures.
They purr thunderously.
“You know, cats are great judges of character.” You say casually. He looks at you with that awkward, bemused contentedness. He looks honored, as he should.
The Chief ends up criss-cross applesauce on the floor of your repair bay, with two delighted cats curled in his lap. He pets each with one hand and shows no sign of stopping. You’re almost jealous but amusement and happiness win out.
You put together the modification upgrades report, but you have one last question.
You clear your throat awkwardly.
“Not to pry, but, why didn’t you go to Doctor Halsey with your injuries?”
His face darkens like a storm cloud, and he almost looks scared . A million emotions are gone in a flash and his hands pull away from the cats, who chirp in complaint. You wince. Many of the soldiers join young right from or even during high school, and are indoctrinated not to ask questions but a civilian perspective and a college education means you aren’t blind to the incredibly suspicious look of the UNSC higher command and the brewing tension. What could possibly be bad enough to have the Chief scared is something you’re not touching even with all the PPE gear in the world. All you can hope is that it doesn’t blow up the lower ranks and contractors too.
“It’s late. Thank you for your help, and the introductions.” He pets the cats one last time. “Good night.”
“Good night. See you again soon!” You call, trying to hide your disappointment. Again, he seems to find whatever you said or did to be interesting, because he turns to rake his gaze over you. Perhaps it was the ‘see you again’ part when you hadn’t even shown him your full face.
Your lips twitch at that idea.
He shows you his face, making you one of the only people on board who knew it.
And your face, which every civvie, contractor, and most soldiers knew due to your social engineering, was a mystery to him.
Ironic.
"Wait!" You call suddenly. You jump down and trot to him. "Can I check your hand one last time? I'd love to paint your nails sometime too but that's not necessary."
He smiles, eyes flickering to the colors of your nail beds and holds out his palm.
You gently take his in both of yours, and it's big, calloused, scarred, and oh so carefully still for you. You sweep your thumb over his palm and you feel his chest still. He lets you twist it this way and that, and your sure you've got everything and make sure he knows you have some ideas for improvement too.
"I guess this is goodbye." You say sadly.
You go to pull away when his hand turns slowly and takes yours in his.
You watch silently as he turns it this way and that, looking at the faded nicks and burns, paying careful attention to your nails, the ring, the bracelet, the Luelle tattoos.
"Just checking." He says, and smiles, gently squeezing your hand. You feel no fear despite knowing his strength. "Thank you. I will see you again."
Coming from him, it sounds like a promise .